THE GAME HOG. 



Ryland Benford. 



The game hog, he of the outlaw name, 

 Dines at ease on his slaughtered game. 

 He never thought, by the brookside cool, 

 To put small trout back into the pool, 

 But left them there on the bank to spoil — 

 Oh, this makes the blood of a sportsman 



boil! 

 But what, indeed, does the glutton care? 

 He never knows when he has his share. 

 To him the woods with their odors sweet 

 Mean but a place to secure some meat. 

 When after deer this destroyer goes, 

 He shoots at all the fawns and does; 

 For he's such a hog that he does not wish 

 To spare a deer, or squirrel, or fish. 

 Through winter's snow or 'neath sum- 

 mer's sun 

 He prowls about with his dog and gun, 

 And tries to slay all the fish and game, 

 To make a bag and a poacher's name. 

 But no honest sportsman will call him 



"pard," 

 And Recreation will soak him hard. 

 He must turn about; he must mend his 



ways, 

 Or be shunned by men all his future days. 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY H. A, BEASLEY. 



FEEDING THE SQUIRREL. 



"What does this nation need?" shouted 

 the impassioned orator. "What does this 

 nation require, if she steps proudly across 

 the Pacific — if she strides boldy across the 

 mighty ocean in her march of trade and 

 freedom? I repeat, what does she need?" 



"Rubber boots," suggested the grossly 

 materialistic person in a rear seat. — Balti- 

 more American. 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY ADAM AIRTH. 



ON THE CROW RESERVATION. 

 186 



