290 



RECREATION. 



for nothing is more touching than suffering 

 endured in dignified silence, and dignity is 

 one of the strongest characteristics of wild 

 animals ; a dignity and stoicism which 

 they share with the Indian, both, no doubt, 

 learning it from Nature herself. 



I approached quietly, bound to dispatch 

 the poor brute with all speed, and hoping 

 for a chance to get near for the coup de 

 grace, a long shot not being my long 

 suit. In fact, it was one of the jokes of 

 the Circle X outfit that a jack rabbit sat 

 and let me fire 9 shots at him at 20 paces, 

 then, tiring of the sport, loped away un- 

 scathed. 



I dismounted, dropped the lines over 

 the pony's head, and drew near my quarry, 

 which, no doubt, having scented me afar, 

 rose to his feet. Then I saw that my 

 shot in the dusk had disabled him so he 

 could hardly hobble away on 3 legs. 

 I sent a bullet after him which made him 

 pause irresolutely a moment. Then he 

 turned and made for the middle of a small 

 sheet of ice, where he sank. 



"Dead," thought I, feeling like a mur- 

 derer as I ran over to make sure. I was 

 very green then ! 1 pulled the wolf by his 

 sound hind leg to test him. Instantly the 

 creature turned, snarled and snapped at 

 me, showing every tooth in his head in 

 fierce protest. Couldn't I leave a fellow to 

 die in peace? He dashed with all his re- 

 maining strength up the hill, I after him, 

 bound he should not get away this time. 

 Why he did not fly at me on the ice I have 

 never understood, unless it w<as that his 

 vigor was almost gone and he saved it for 

 one final dash for life and freedom. 



He had disappeared by the time I reached 



the top of the rise, so I went back and got 

 the pony and rode after him, to find him 

 crouching sadly by a sage bush, his tongue 

 lolling out, the life almost gone, only the 

 pathetic eyes looking at me, watching every 

 movement as I flung myself from my horse 

 and approached him, dreading to complete 

 my work, yet realizing that it was kinder 

 to end his life. 



Will I ever forget the last look he gave 

 me as I raised my gun to shoot? I dropped 

 it unsteadily, he turned his head slowly 

 away and his gaze seemed to travel to the 

 splendid freedom and loneliness of the hori- 

 zon. I felt truly in the presence of Death, 

 standing motionless as his fine spirit passed 

 to the heaven of the animals — not far from 

 the heaven of mortals, I hope. He rolled 

 over with one short yap, and after a few 

 convulsive kicks, lay still. 



I stood over the body, admiring the 

 strength and suppleness of the legs, the 

 breadth of chest, showing that wonderful 

 endurance he had displayed. 



At last I coaxed my broncho near, and 

 with a good deal of difficulty and my lariat, 

 which was my inseparable, though so far 

 useless companion, I raised the wolf across 

 the saddle. Then, walking, I led the pony, 

 who objected strongly to his new burden, 

 reaching the ranch by noon. There my 

 trophy excited much admiration, which was 

 salve to my oft-wounded vanity, for the 

 frontiersman's wit is not of the gentlest, 

 and the most recent tenderfoot is a fair 

 mark for gibes and sarcasms. 



The skin, as you see, came out well. 

 Fine head isn't it ? But I had it mounted with 

 the eyes closed, for I could never face him 

 with the memory of that look between us. 



THE REGATTA. 



IVAN 



We have heard the roll of the signal gun ! 

 Our fleet is off in the race for a run 

 With the gulls and the wind and the wave I 

 The surf nymphs rave 

 At the prow and beckon us on ! 

 On to the sea and the echoing buoy ! 

 No landsman's coward "Ahoy" 

 We'll heed ! We're off, and the mate is 

 Joy! 



SWIFT. 



The halyards hiss and the sheets 



Outflate. The straining spar competes 



With the helmsman's ardor lent 



To the tug of the gale unspent ! 



The deck is a desert, fore and aft, 



And the sailor's will is the will of the 



craft ! 

 Lie low ! Sweep on, while high is the sun ! 

 We've heard our signal gun ! 



The poetess of passion, having cornered 

 the editor, started to read the "little thing" 

 which she had brought for his considera- 

 tion. 

 "I am aflame," she began, "aflame with the 



fire of love. 

 In my bosom, tumultuous, seething 

 there- " 



"Just a moment, please," he interrupted, 

 "till I give the signal for our fire drill." — ■: 

 Chicago Record-Herald. 



