258 



RECREATION. 



To-morrow, then, we will gird our loins 

 and take the 20 gauge featherweight and 

 smokeless shells. An incense to Diana, 

 and swift death to Bob White shall float 

 in the aroma of burnt powder and flying 

 feathers that will be grateful in your nos- 

 trils, my four-footed companions! When 

 they bring in the little dead Bob Whites, 

 so tenderly that not a feather will be ruf- 

 fled, homage to the little "Rikki tikki tav- 

 vi," their eyes and wagging tails will say 

 in dog language, too plain to be misun- 

 derstood, 



"What fools we were yesterday in wast- 

 ing our time! This is sport!" 



But that is just what I am not sure of. 

 Indeed, I am not at all sure. I have more 

 than enjoyed the afternoon. It has been 

 most pleasant; yet I have not killed a bird. 

 I shall not be sorry that a dozen quails do 

 not lie dead on the verandah. I have had 

 hunting without a gun that had its zest, 

 nay, its exquisite pleasure, that paralleled 

 if it did not surpass the exultant thrill that 

 echoes the dull thud of arrested flight, fol- 

 lowing a shot which makes even the shoot- 

 er marvel. No pang of regret will 

 dull the exultant glow as the difficult 

 double kill is recalled, one falling at the 



first barrel on the rise, and the other bird 

 dropping 50 yards away, just as the bird 

 reached the edge of the thicket, an almost 

 impossible feat for the delicate 20 gauge. 



I shall eat my supper with keen zest all 

 the better, mayhap, for the prospect of the 

 morrow. I shall sleep soundly, without 

 the soreness of the march or the fatigue 

 of the gun and the burden of shells; with- 

 out chagrin over false point or bitterness 

 of bad shooting. In dreams the beat of 

 the wings of the flying Bob White shall 

 roll like muffled drum beats, and the 

 quail's piping calls from hillock to hillock, 

 from hedge to hedge, that linger where 

 Pan no longer blows on reed and flute, will 

 echo with sweetest music. More than once 

 I shall wake to reassure myself that Bob 

 White has made for me good hunting 

 without a gun, but always with Prim, and 

 Lance, her son! 



" The woods were made for the hunter of dreams 



'the brooks for the fishers of song; 

 To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game 



The streams and the woods belong. 

 There are thoughts that moan from the soul of pine 



And thoughts in a flower bell curled; 

 And the thoughts that are blown with scent of the fern 



Are as new and as old as the world." 



WE WILL NOT EAT YOUR CORN. 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY C. S. BUTTERS. 



