RECREATION. 



by several bulldogs that had inter- 

 viewed him. 



During the summer, he slept, from 

 choice, on the mat at the front door. 

 Nothing could cross the lawn in safe- 

 ty after the lights were out. One 

 night when I was away from home, 

 he ran a man into a barn and kept 

 guard at the door an hour. My 

 neighbor, who saw the performance, 

 preferred not to interfere, so the in- 

 truder made his escape. 



When I moved to Montana, 5 

 years ago, I gave him to a friend in 

 Gowanda, N. Y., where he still lives, 

 loved by all our old friends. For 

 nearly a year after I left he made 

 daily trips to the train, looking for 

 the return of his old master. The 

 man who owns a faithful dog has a 

 friend indeed. I would be just as 

 glad to see my old dog again as I 

 would to see the dearest human friend 

 I left behind. 



TWO PICTURES. 



A. L. VERMILYA. 



On the walls of my cosy, book strewn den 

 Are two pictures, neatly framed ; 



One is "A Glimpse of a Fairy Glen," 

 The other "Good Luck" is named. 



One shows a tent in a woodland nook, 



With the sun just going down 

 O'er the mountain top, where the light- 

 shafts look 



Like the spires of a distant town. 



And grouped round the camp fire's cheer- 

 ful glow 



As they watch the fading day, 

 Are men, telling stories of long ago, 



Or smoking their pipes of clay. 



You can almost feel the >air grow chill 

 As the cool breeze sweeps along ; 



You can almost hear the lone whip-poor- 

 will 

 As he chants his plaintive song. 



In the other view is a placid stream, 

 Where the sun-kissed waters glide 



'Tween the grassy banks where the lilies 

 dream, 

 As they rock on the silv'ry tide. 



In a boat fast moored to the nearer shore. 



Are two bright eyed little girls; 

 They have gathered of blossoms a goodly 

 store, 



Which they toss where an eddy swirls. 



From the bank a man casts a dainty fly 



Far out on the river cool, 

 For the bass that lurk where the green 

 weeds lie 



In a shady, crystal pool. 



These are the pictures that bring to me 



In my den on 'the city street, 

 The sound of the whisp'ring maple tree, 



And the wildwood odors sweet. 



Which is the better? Ah, who shall say? 



I have never made the choice ; 

 Both breathe of a mellow autumn day, 



Such as maketh the heart rejoice. 



