CRUELTY TO COUNTRY NEIGHBORS. 



MRS. H. P. PIPER. 



I live on the outskirts of a small town, 

 and many of the farms adjoining have 

 patches of woodland The wild creatures 

 that live in the woods make their way into 

 our gardens and shrubbery and are greeted 

 by us according to our character. Some of 

 us greet them with dog and gun. 



One rainy Sunday I saw a large fox 

 squirrel in the shade trees in front of the 

 house. He was a most beautiful creature ! 

 His grace and agility made the dull day 

 seem bright, and were quite as refreshing 

 as a sermon. For several summers in suc- 

 cession a white robin slept in a shrub near 

 the walk. 



Last autumn an owl came at dusk, to 

 watch me cover my flower beds from frost. 

 He sat on the low branches overhead and 

 he moved about the grounds with me as if 

 superintending the work, turning his head 

 to inspect it before following to another 

 part of the garden. 



The block in front of us has dense shrub- 

 bery, and. one day I saw on the fence across 

 the street a covey of quails. The man liv- 

 ing there keeps a bird dog and he was after 

 the beautiful creatures. The birds crossed 

 the street and came into our lot, hiding in 

 the rose hedge at the foot of the lawn. I 

 went into the street and walked over the 

 dainty trail they had left in the dust. The 

 dog could not find the scent for several 

 days, but one day I saw him and his owner 

 on the next lot to ours, hunting for the lost 

 trail. I went out and stopped the hunt. 

 The next day I saw the birds in the garden, 

 making themselves quite at home. There 

 were 17 of them. Three seemed full grown 

 and the rest younger. I was careful not to 

 disturb them. One day I was working at 

 my window and hearing soft sounds of rust- 

 ling and whispering, I was delighted to see, 



in a pear tree in front of the window, a 

 row of beautiful brown birds craning their 

 necks to see me work. They pushed and 

 hustled one another along the branch until 

 14 little heads in a row all turned bright 

 eyes to peer through the screen at me. I 

 do not think I ever felt prouder of an au- 

 dience in my life. Unfortunately, the man 

 across the street had a gun as well as a 

 dog. One day when I was away from 

 home he came with both dog and gun. 

 When I returned at night only a few feath- 

 ers and a drop or 2 of blood remained of 

 my beautiful, trusting visitors. Not a nice 

 act for a neighbor ! I felt almost as if he 

 had murdered a child of mine. 



There are corn and wheat fields near us, 

 and I hear the emails calling "Bob White." 

 Once I whistled in reply to them and en- 

 ticed a large flock into my garden. The 

 same man with the gun heard me whistle, 

 followed the little visitors a mile and came 

 back with 5 of them hanging by their slen- 

 der legs. I felt like a guilty accomplice 

 that time. I had allured the dear little 

 things to their death ! Now I hear the 

 quails whistle their call, but do not answer 

 it. "Bob White" brings a constriction of the 

 heart. I remember the little slaughtered 

 ones I saw in that man's hand. I said 

 something of what I felt when he stopped I 

 to show me his spoils, but his reply was, 



"If I had not got them someone else 

 would. They are made to be shot." 



How do we know they were made to 

 be shot? Perhaps they are intended to 

 make the fields more joyful ; perhaps more 

 fruitful. I have not invited any more wood- 

 land visitors to come and be murdered. If 

 Mr. Man with the gun wants game he may 

 tramp the fields and woods for it; I shall 

 not lure it within his reach. 



NIGHTFALL. 



A. N. KILLGORE. 



The sun is sinking down the Western sky. 

 Dim shadows lengthen o'er the trembling 



rill. 

 The night-bird 'gins to voice his mournful 



cry 

 And quiet rests the wheel of yonder mill. 



O'er distant field of yellow plumed grain 

 The crow flaps heavily with discordant 



sound; 

 While cattle amble down the dusty lane, 

 Past lonely, marble covered burial ground. 



And now, the W^est takes on a rosy hue, 

 The cricket loudly chirps his noisy tune, 

 Pale stars begin to sparkle in the blue 

 Like diamond settings for the crescent 

 moon. 



The sun has sunk behind yon purple hill, 

 Beacon lights are gleaming from the town; 

 Save for the evening wind, all else is still 

 And night has drawn her sable curtain 

 down. 



36 



