3 82 



RECREATION 



of the waters and realize the tremendous 

 power of their mass. The noise is like the 

 constant booming of a battery of great mod- 

 ern rifles, while the waves rebound upon 

 themselves to gather new impulse for re- 

 peated assaults. The scars of the battle are 

 there in the deep seams and fissures and the 

 occasional great hollow caves. 



On Monhegan, if anywhere, you can real- 

 ize to the full the glamour and the loneliness 

 of the ocean; its changing moods of peace* 

 and war; its wonderful lights and shadows, 

 its exuberant and sparkling joy, and its pro- 

 found and fathomless melancholy and mys- 

 tery. 



High up near the centre of the island is 

 the lighthouse whose intermittent beam 

 gleams out over the surrounding waters with 

 the going down of the sun. Just below it on 

 the line of a narrow footpath that leads in 

 a winding way to the shore is the peaceful 

 little graveyard, its size and silent inhab- 

 itants proportioned to the number of people 

 of the island. In here one may learn of some 

 of the tragedies that attend the lives of those 

 who live at the mercy of the sea. 



There is a pervading atmosphere of con- 

 tent and comfortable living about the little 

 homes, and a cheerful friendliness of man- 

 ner about the people that make a visit to 

 Monhegan a period of delightful rest. No 

 strenuousness here, instead a deliberateness, 

 a seeming certainty of work and purpose in 

 keeping with the inevitableness of the sea it- 

 self. 



Much of the land is covered with a thick 

 growth of stunted spruce trees, while the by- 

 paths are bordered with wild rose bushes and 

 the low-growing blue berries. 



There are three horses on the island. Two 

 are new arrivals — for a long time there was 

 but one, and his chief duty was to graze pla- 

 cidly on the uplands, eyeing a chance passer 

 with mild and genial curiosity. 



The visitor here is impressed with a sense 

 of being set apart from the world and its 

 keen struggle, its selfishness and greed ap- 

 pear away off there in the hazy distance. 

 Here men seem to live their lives as they 

 will, the fight is mainly with the elements, 

 and these they need meet only in their more 

 peaceful moods. It is a very far cry from 

 the city's turmoil, and to a fresh eye and 

 mind tired with the tire of the crowd, offers 

 a brief session of engaging contrast and a 

 loosening of the taut nerves. 



In very few places is there a stronger ap- 

 peal made to the sense of the picturesque. It 

 is an ideal hunting ground for the man or 

 woman who is looking for things to paint. 

 The rocks, the sea, the changing skies, and 

 boats offer a constant succession of varied 

 subjects, while the fisher folk, with their 

 souwesters and great boots, afford an always 

 pleasant and genial human interest. 



James B. Carrington. 



A WHIRL WITH GROUSE. 



Editor Recreation : 



On the evening before Thanksgiving, in 

 1 901, I dismissed my scholars with a short 

 "good-bye till Monday," and hurriedly lock 

 ing my schoolroom door, set off with a 

 whoop of joy for home. What was the cause 

 of my joy? Enough to stir any sportsman's 

 heart a-working at the double roll. I was to 

 try to kill my first ruffed grouse in two years. 

 I say try, advisedly, because they do not al- 

 ways drop, as some people tell us. 



A three-mile walk took me home to Dad 

 and Bun, impatiently awaiting me for a start. 

 I soon squeezed into some heavier clothing to 

 keep out the November wind, and we were 

 off. 



We supped and fed our horses in Washing- 

 ton, Pa., some seventeen miles from home, 

 and then hit the road again for Dave W — 's, 

 where we arrived at 3.45 on Thanksgiving 

 morning. 



Horses stabled and dogs housed, Dad and 

 Bun soon heeded the call of Morpheus. Not 

 for me ! I must at least see one of the "game 

 bird kings" first — i.e., the ruffed grouse at 

 home. Dave and I sat by the wood fireplace 

 and burned some tobacco while awaiting day- 

 light. 



After a delicious breakfast of fried chicken, 

 corn cakes and sorghum, we started for the 

 woods. Rock oaks, poplars, and beeches were 

 there in abundance, seeming to vie with each 

 other in straightness and girth of trunk, while 

 the underbrush was plentifully spotted with 

 the red of the dogwood berries and the purple 

 of the wild grapes and gum berries. These 

 fruits promised us fat grouse hidden, some- 

 where. I drew first blood. Nell roaded some 

 fifty yards away, and I, thinking it a rabbit, 

 was about to mount a stirrup, when between 

 me and Nell — whir-r-r ! went a grouse. I took 

 a quick shot at him at about fifty yards and 

 saw him dive sidewise into the brush. Know- 

 ing him to be winged, I ran toward him a 

 few steps. When I came in sight of the spot 

 where he had hit, there stood good old Nell 

 pointing the old fellow. I started toward 

 Dave, who had shot twice in quick succession. 

 On the way to him I jumped a rabbit, and my 

 gun tore two of as pretty holes in the ground, 

 just where he had left, as you ever saw. 



When I had reached Dave he was bleeding 

 his second rabbit, but was kicking himself 

 because he had missed his first grouse that 

 day. He had marked it down in a swampy 

 creek bottom among some dead willows, and 

 we went down to look for him. When we 

 were twenty yards away he rose with a roar 

 and went straight across Wheeling Creek. I 

 stood in Washington County and killed that 

 bird in Greene County ! (The creek is the 

 county line.) It was the longest shot I ever 

 made. 



By this time it was noon, and we climbed 

 the point to Uncle Dave's. 



