A MODEST BAG. 



423 



ing scenes, but one picture took the prize. Doc, George, Frank, the Agent, or the Dea- 



The way one or 2 married ladies looked at con will visit Parlin's next summer. Wher- 



it was a caution ! I won't mention what ever they do go to commune with Nature, 



George said when he saw it, but neither their wives will go with them. 



A MODEST BAG. 



COMANCHE JOE. 



Last fall, early in the spring of the year 

 '63, Roy Johnson and I took a hunting 

 trip in the Rocky mountains. Our first 

 game was a giraffe. This I overshot 

 about 'steen yards, and the brute got it 

 in the neck. A little later we discovered 

 a flock of flies browsing on a hillside, just 

 beyond the horizon. Roy at once threw 

 up his gun and let drive. I chewed soap 

 until I was able to follow his example. 

 We recovered the bullets by chasing them 

 3^4 miles and catching them in our hats; 

 there were no flies on them. 



The next day, while playing euchre to 

 see who should cut firewood, we heard a 

 loud trumping. Looking down, we saw, 

 just at our feet, a herd of 40 elephants fan- 

 ning mosquitoes to sleep with their ears. 

 They took no notice of us. but by firing 9 

 shots at th in ranid succession from my 

 rifle I succeeded in attracting their at- 

 tention. When they charged, Roy drew 

 his cap pistol and snapped it at them, kill- 

 ing 3 and checking the rush of the others. 

 We used the hides of the 3 Roy killed for 

 handkerchiefs and expressed their trunks 

 home. 



That night I was awakened by loud yell- 

 ing. Looking out from ...the tent, I was 

 horrified to see 31 Indians riding in hot 

 haste toward our little encampment. I 

 grabbed my revolver, and, though it was 

 not loaded, fired 6 shots as a bluff, knock- 

 ing 3 Indians from their saddles and 

 wounding a pony. As the survivors 

 turned to flee I trained a mount-in howit- 

 zer on them and downed them all; how, 

 is a question. 



My partner was aroused by the shots, 

 and rushed out of the tent. Mistaking 

 him, in the darkness, for an Indian, I split 

 his head open with a sharp cry, killing 

 him instantly. When he found the blood 

 had stained his new canvas spats, he got 

 mad and went home. The last I saw of 

 him he was trying to lasso a jack rabbit 

 with the Oregon State line. 



When I returned to t' bosom of my 

 family and narrated my adventures, my 

 father said I had improved wonderfully, 

 though I was a good liar when I left 

 home. 



THE FALL MIGRATIONS. 



MARY DRUMMOND. 



A rush of wings through the darkening With gladness and freedom and music 



night, v gone, 



A sweep through the air in the distant Another migration is passing on. 



No long, dark lines o'er the face of the 



moon ; 

 No dip of wings in the Southern lagoon. 



height. 



Far off we hear them, cry answering cry; 

 'Tis the voice of the birds as they South- 

 ward fly. 



From sea to sea, as if marking the time, 

 Comes the beat of wings from the long, 

 dark line. 



O strong, steady wing, with your rhythmic 



beat, 

 Flying from cold to the summertime heat ; 



O keen glancing eye that can see so far, 

 1 Do you guide your flight by the Northern 

 star? 



The birds from*the North are crossing the 



moon, 

 And the Southland knows they are coming 



soon. 



No sweet, low twitter, no welcoming 



song; 

 These are birds of silence that sweep along. 



Lifeless and stiff, with the death mark on it, 

 This fall migration, on hat and bonnet. 



And the crowd goes by, with so few to 



care 

 For this march of death of the fowls of 



the air. 



A bier for dead birds — has it come to that — 

 Must this be our thought of a woman's 

 hat? 



— Exchange. 



