252 



RECREATION. 



out leaf hunting do not pass any plant with- 

 out examining a leaf. Some of the most 

 despised weeds are the most delicate. The 

 cockleburr. for instance, has an exquisite 

 leaf, and the sagitaria looks like a bit of 

 fine pen work. A hop vine is a treasure 

 before the bugs eat the leaves. They are 

 3 to 7-lobed and beautifully veined. 



Any amateur photographer who once 

 tries this work will be buying paper by the 

 gross and pulling leaves off from every- 

 thing green. I think Gene. Porter would 



be enthusiastic about this phase of pho- 

 tography if she should try it. No camera 

 is needed, no developing. There is noth- 

 ing to do but pick off and print. My only 

 grievance is that I can't afford paper large 

 enough to print some of the immense yet 

 delicate leaves I find. 



On some leaves one can cut off part of 

 the midrib, but it takes careful work. 



I use solio, chloro, or any gelatine paper, 

 though others may do as well. 



A DEAFENED DOE. 



H. T. GRAY. 



For many years I have hunted and fished 

 in Franklin county, N. Y., on Deer river, 

 the Twin lakes and the Little Salmon, on 

 the St. Regis, and on Lake Duane. I 

 have sometimes carried trophies of the 

 chase to the hotel and again have returned 

 unrewarded, but never can I forget the 

 day on Deer river when I shot my first 

 deer. 



In those days both hounding and jacking 

 were allowed, and one evening my guide, 

 Tom Todd, had paddled me down the 

 windings of the St. Regis, while my jack 

 had searched the shores for the burning 

 twin lights. The river was, however, high" 

 from the recent rains, and no deer could 

 be induced to come beyond the shelter o£ 

 the bushes which lined the banks. I lo- 

 cated 2 or 3 during the night — so close I 

 could hear them tramping the low bushes 

 beyond the river's edge. In one instance 

 I so angered a big buck that he pawed the 

 ground and whistled furiously at my light; 

 but he would not show himself from the 

 shelter of the thick undergrowth. 



The next morning dawned bright and 

 clear. A canoe was loaded on a wagon, 

 and Tom and I were driven from Ayers to 

 a point on Deer river. There we took the 

 water, while the dogs were being put out 

 on the mountain beyond. I could hear 

 them bay as they took the scent and fol- 

 lowed it, lipping lustily onward. Tom pad- 

 dled me up the river to a point favorable 

 for seeing the deer making for the shore. 

 We landed and took a position behind 

 some low, scraggy bushes, from which we 

 commanded a view of the slash, and, 

 nearer, a clump of woods. 



Instructing Tom to watch, I spread a 

 rubber blanket on the bank, stretched my 

 self on it, my rifle by my side, and began 



reading a book. Trusting to the watchful- 

 ness of my good guide, I speedily became 

 interested in the story. Occasionally lis- 

 tening, I found there was absolute silence 

 in the wilderness, and remarked that 

 the deer had "gone to the Twins," 2 large 

 ponds over the mountains. I read until 

 noon, with no sign of a deer. I ate a little 

 luncheon and resumed my reading, finish- 

 ing my book about 3 o'clock. I then de- 

 cided to watch awhile myself. I examined 

 my rifle to see it was in readiness, crouched 

 behind a bush, and began to eagerly scan 

 the river's banks, the edge of the woods 

 and the slash beyond. 



Soon Tom made a slight movement, and 

 a low whisper reached me: "Keep quiet! 

 There's a deer coming out of the woods." 

 Turning my eyes in that direction I saw a 

 young doe step from the shelter of the 

 wood and begin feeding in a little hollow. 

 I fired, and was amazed to see the deer 

 violently shake her ear and continue feed- 

 ing. Then quickly followed 5 or 6 shots 

 as fast as my repeating Winchester could 

 send them. The deer quietly fed on, undis- 

 turbed by the fusilade. I had but one 

 cartridge left in the magazine, and was 

 desperate. Was it a spirit deer on which 

 I was wasting my shots? Why could I 

 neither hit her nor drive her back Ho cover? 

 I arose to my feet, took steady aim, fired 

 my last charge, and the doe fell dead. 



Tom immediately went over to where 

 she lay and brought her to my stand. 

 When we examined her we found that the 

 first shot had cut her ear. I could only 

 infer that at the same time I must have 

 deafened her. That would explain her 

 indifference to my continued firing. My 

 last shot had pierced her heart. 



Miss Wunder — Why did the Newriches 

 stop compiling their family tree? 



Miss Gabby — The Arizona branch had too 

 many ropes on it. — Baltimore American. 



