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RECREATION. 



"big Ike" among the country churches; but 

 when this editorial of yours is circulated 

 by means of our semi-weekly edition among 

 his country constituents I believe he will 

 call a halt on his dastardly work of killing 

 game out of season. Yours truly, 



J. R. Horton, City Editor. 



WILD LIFE SWEPT AWAY. 



The last fox is gone. The Brown boys 

 killed him yesterday. Six men, armed with 

 the latest patterns of breech loading guns, 

 combined with 4 hounds, managed to get 

 the last fox of the litter. How my heart 

 went out to him as he passed close by me, 

 hobbling on his 3 remaining legs, the blood 

 dripping from his poor stump. He had 

 lost one foot by the cruel trap, and was 

 closely pursued by the hounds. In a few 

 moments I heard 2 reports of a shot gun 

 and one of the boys exclaimed, "Lewis has 

 got him." 



Now his ghastly carcass, thrown care- 

 lessly in a small tree-top, grins at every 

 passer, a grim reminder of what was once 

 so beautiful, so full of life and grace. My 

 thoughts turn back to last spring, when I 

 discovered him and his 6 little brothers and 

 sisters gamboling near their burrow on the 

 hillside. Their old mother lay stretched 

 out near them, with her eyes half closed, 

 dozing in the warmth of an April sun, but 

 keeping a sharp lookout for danger. The 

 little fellows played like kittens around their 

 mother, racing and chasing each other. It 

 was the prettiest sight I ever saw. How 

 proud the old mother looked ! It made me 

 think of my wife and me as we watch our 3 

 boys in their play, with such joy in our 

 hearts. If they should be taken away from 

 us what a void would be left in our hearts ! 

 And to think of those 7 little foxes, all 

 dead and gone, their little lives snuffed out 

 by that big 2-legged animal called civilized 

 man, fills my heart with sympathy for their 

 mother. 



Dear old Recreation! I have just re- 

 newed my subscription and have received 

 the first copy of the new year. How eager- 

 ly we all look for your coming ! How my 

 little boys all look for the pictures ! They 

 know every wild animal by sight. They 

 say, "There is a mama deer; there is a 

 papa deer," etc. The eldest boy, 8 years 

 old, can tell the tracks in the snow of al- 

 most every animal at large in these parts. 

 He learns them as easily as I did in the 

 years gone by. He can identify nearly all 

 the different trees, something he could 

 never hope to learn at school. I know a 

 college graduate here who recently sold a 

 piece of woodland, and the only trees he 

 knew were the pine and a white birch. He 

 did not know an oak from a basswood, nor 



an elm from a sugar maple, nor their value. 

 He consequently sold the land for a mere 

 song. 



I have just read Mr. Russell's article on 

 moose snaring in Nova Scotia, and note the 

 writer's remarks on the hard time the wild 

 animals have in their struggle for life. I 

 live on the banks of the Batten Kill river, 

 one of the best trout streams in the State. 

 On the first of May the fishing commences. 

 Formerly it was easy enough to catch a 

 nice mess of trout, but for the last 2 years 

 it is difficult to get a mess. Visitors from 

 far and near come here to fish. They hire 

 guides, pay $2 a day, and furnish all 

 the whiskey the guides will drink. They 

 get boats and float down the river. Nearly 

 every day this last season one of their boats 

 went down stream and most of the parties 

 got good strings of trout. We think they 

 get them by unfair means, for we who live 

 here can scarcely get a rise. 



As soon as the fishing ceases the hunting 

 begins, and the grouse, woodcocks and 

 squirrels have to take it. We have 2 or 3 

 men here who are expert wing shots. They 

 clean up everything that runs or flies, then 

 take them to town, sell them, and spend the 

 money for whiskey. 



The last 2 years there has been a brood 

 of grouse raised near my house and they 

 saw me so often they got quite tame. These 

 men have both years killed every one of 

 these birds. The same with the grays. On 

 the hill, in a large hickory tree, we used 

 to see last fall 2 beautiful gray squirrels 

 nearly every day, as we went by to work. 

 I would not shoot them, but liked to sea 

 them and have them near. One day we 

 missed them, and on looking around under 

 the tree 2 empty shells told the story. 



So it goes with all our wild creatures. I 

 might go on and tell how I saw the rabbit 

 and the weasel track in the snow, how I 

 followed on until I found where the weasel 

 had caught poor bunny, and how he drank 

 every drop of blood. Not even one stained 

 the snow. 



I could tell how the hunters kill the 

 coons, skunks, and foxes, how the hounds 

 relentlessly chase the deer, how they occa- 

 sionally get one, and go on through the en- 

 tire list. But I will close with the kind 

 wish that your good work may go on until 

 the coming generation shall learn to reason 

 and to desist from their deadly work of 

 wiping from the face of the earth all that 

 swims, flies or walks. 



C. H. Cufut, Arlington, Vt. 



A BIG FLIGHT IN THE TULES. 



DR. R. F. MILLAR. 



One evening my cousin S. and I drove 

 to Tule basin, 10 miles from our home, in- 

 tending to spend the following day shoot- 

 ing ducks. It was at the time of year when 



