34^ 



RECREATION. 



marked its path through the swamps, but 

 though followed a mile or more the deer 

 was not seen again. Moral: Keep on 

 shooting while there's a kick left. 



Although the forest life at that season 

 and in that place is limited, we early risers 

 had many opportunities of observing some 

 of Nature's children. Nothing gave me 

 more pleasure than to listen to the calls 

 from the inhabitants of the woods as they 

 found the day approaching. 



The first to be heard were the Canada 

 jays, their short, yawny call notes making 

 you think they were only half awake, per- 

 haps a right assumption. Then their 

 cousins, the blue jays, irrepressible, gaudi- 

 ly attired scoundrels, set up a series of 



feeble notes, followed by a series of them. 

 Looking up we saw a flock of American 

 crossbills, accompanied by a pair or 2 

 of the white winged variety. A flurry of 

 wings that startles us tells of a ruffed 

 grouse getting down from his roost to 

 skirmish for a meal. There in front, 

 among the upturned roots, glides an er- 

 mine, his white fur in clear contrast with 

 the hardened ground and dead leaves. H •■* 

 is out for his breakfast, and woe betide the 

 unfortunate rabbit, squirrel or bird that 

 he finds within his reach. He is no sooner 

 gone than a raven soars past, his head 

 turning first to one side and then to the 

 other. He sees me, and a hoarse gutteral 

 croak tells the fact as plainly as printing. 



WHITE WINGED CROSSBILLS. 



screams that woke the chipmunks and 

 squirrels. These decided instantly to get 

 out from their nests and have a scamper 

 after one another over the frozen leaves, 

 making as much noise as a moose. 

 Next we would hear the low, cheerful, con- 

 tented notes of the chickadees, and the in- 

 dustrious tap-tap-tap of the downy wood- 

 peckers; while the blows of the pileated 

 woodpeckers away in the deep forest 

 sounded like a gang of choppers at work. 

 Above, in the bare trees, we heard a few 



A twitter at my back makes me turn my 

 head, and after some search a solitary red- 

 poll is seen out on the branches, hunting 

 his insect fare. A flock of snowflakes rush 

 down the wind like a blizzard, then turn- 

 ing like a well trained battalion they 

 alight on the frozen ground, calling to 

 one another in their lively, cheery notes. 



When the hunt closed we took home 

 about 500 pounds of meat, as well as a fair 

 bag of ruffed grouse and hare. Better 

 than all, we carried a color in our faces, 



