352 



RECREATION. 



explode. Cursing the Dominion Cart- 

 ridge Company, whose ammunition 

 can not be relied on, I again raised 

 the hammer, and that time sent the 

 bullet through the bear's shoulder. As 

 her hair bristled with anger, she ap- 

 peared larger than she really was, 

 which accounted for my shooting a 

 little high, but the bullet had the 

 effect of bringing her to the ground 



helpless. I walked up within close 

 range, and while she bellowed, 

 snapped at her side, and clawed the 

 moss, I put her out of misery with a 

 load of buckshot. 



After much difficulty, we managed 

 to load her on the other horse and re- 

 turned to camp, where we received a 

 hearty welcome, as the outfit had sev- 

 eral weeks been without fresh meat. 



GREEN RIVER. 



W. C. LEWIS. 



On the mountain high lies the deep, cold snow, 

 Though the sun shines hot in the valley below ; 

 There a small brook ripples and laughs with glee, 

 As it starts on its way to the distant sea. 



Soon another joins in the merry race, 

 And they clasp each other in close embrace ; 

 Now the merry and swift little mountain rill 

 Has become a stream that could turn a mill. 



It frolics merrily all the day, 



As it hurries along on its tireless way, 



Till as twilight falls it goes fast asleep 



In a great, dark pool that is silent and deep. 



In the pebbled depths of the silent pool, 

 Where the shadows lie on the water cool, 

 And the wandering moonbeams glimmer and hide, 

 There the great fierce salmon slowly glide. 



And down where the broken boulders lie 

 By Cyclops thrown, from the hills on high, 

 Where the water eddies and tumbles about, 

 There is the home of the silver trout. 



Full well do I know the exquisite bliss 

 Of a maiden's first, shy, trembling kiss ; 

 Of a mother's love for her dear firstborn, 

 Of a soldier's pride on victory's morn ; 



But the bending rod and the whirring reel 

 And the thrill that an angler alone may feel, 

 Bring a keener joy than the poets sing — 

 A joy that behind it leaves no sting. 



