3° 



RECREATIOX. 



I raised my gun, drew it firmly to my 

 shoulder, that he might not notice the re- 

 coil, and fired. The reeoil. as is always 

 the case when you shoot at a mark, was 

 apparently about twiee as heavy as when 

 like shells are shot at game; but my un- 

 stableness was not a eircumstance to the 

 gyrations of the suffering hat. 



It jumped up about 6 inches at the crack 

 of the gun. and a cloud of dust hovered 

 about it. 



Each of us proceeded at once to retrieve 

 his hat and examine the damage done. A 

 hasty glance assured me mine had only 

 suffered the loss of a bit of nap. in _' or 3 

 places, and there were but 3 or 4 almost 

 invisible punctures. 



Turning to watch Joe, I found he was 

 just taking his hat from the post. Lifting 

 it down he looked at it a moment as though 

 rather surprised. Giving it a shake, he 

 started a cloud of dust and small bits of 

 cut felt, which seemed to increase his 

 amazement. Going to the fence he leaned 

 his gun against it, stepped back and 

 grasped the hat on each side of the brim 

 in both hands. 



He proceeded to shake it again, stepping 

 aside to see the bits of cut felt showering 

 to the ground. Then he turned it over, 

 looking at first one side and then the other 

 in the most puzzled manner. He raised it 

 above his head to look through the breaks 

 and form some estimate of the damage 

 done. I was near enough to see that al- 

 most as much blue sky showed through, as 

 on either side of the hat. 



A prettier pattern I had never seen, and 

 I was proud of the old gun. Not a square 

 inch of felt but had its quota of perfora- 

 tions: while from some of the angles of 

 the crown pieces ranging in size from a 

 pea to a gun wad had been cut clear away. 



Joe wore the air of a man both hurt and 

 disappointed, and was apparently too full 



for utterance. It suddenly occurred to him 

 that he had shot at a hat also, and there 

 might be some consolation in viewing the 

 ruin he had wrought. He reached out his 

 hand without a word, and understanding 

 his motion and glad of an opportunity to 

 compare hats, 1 handed him mine. 



Side by side he held them, one in each 

 hand, and looked them over carefully. 



He shook my hat, struck it smartly 

 across his knee, again looked it all over. 

 and, with an abstracted air, returned it 

 to me. Dusting out the inside of his hat 

 lightly, so as not to detach any more loose 

 felt, he put it on, picked up his gun, and 

 started off without a word having been 

 said. We had walked as much as half a mile, 

 he apparently in deep thought, when he 

 said, " Did you shoot both barrels?" 



" No," said I. " only one." 



"Which one?" 



" The left." 



" Choked, isn't it? " 



" Yes, a little." 



He walked on in silence for a few mo- 

 ments and then said, " You didn't load that 

 shell with tacks, or shingle nails, did you?" 



" No," said I. >l it was loaded with shot." 

 We hunted together for some time longer, 

 but the relative shooting qualities of our 

 guns was never again discussed. 



The only time Joe referred to the shoot- 

 ing qualities of either gun in my hearing 

 was once when we met some countrymen, 

 and engaged them in conversation. 



They brought up the question of our 

 guns and asked Joe which was the better. 



Glancing around and finding me appar- 

 ently engaged in conversation with one of 

 the party, he said: 



" Mine is the best gun. but his " — nod- 

 ding in my direction — " shoots so far he 

 has to soak his shot in salt to keep the 

 game he kills from spoiling before he gets 

 to it." 



THE HUNTER'S FAREWELL. 



WM. JACKSON. 



The leaves have fallen from the trees, 



The prairie grass is brown. 

 The cry of wild fowl on the breeze 



Foretell's grim Winter's frown. 



The wild game leaves the mountain heights, 



The bands of elk are shy. 

 The rosy, trembling Northern lights 



Stream in the evening sky. 



We'll put the rod and gun away, 

 Our camping tents we'll fold, 



For winter soon will hold full sway; 

 Another year has rolled. 



The Indian, too, has ceased to roam 

 His lodge with skins is warm; 



The hunter seeks a Southern home; 

 All fear the winter's storm. 



Adieu our guide, one handshake more, 



For you have led us true; 

 Without your skill, and mountain lore 



Our trophies would be few. 



