794 
FOREST AND STREAM 
ly wakened sleeper. Quickly recovering himself, 
he stepped from the canoe, seized a share of the 
luggage, and under the unrestrained chaffing of 
his friend joined the little procession that was 
headed for camp but six or eight rods away. 
Presently, seated on one of the long benches 
either side of the dining room table, he attacked 
a substantial breakfast of deer meat, fried pota¬ 
toes, biscuit, doughnuts and coffee, and so- 
strangely hearty was his appetite and so reckless 
was he in satisfying it, that even the stolid 
Aeneas was moved to comment: 
“There,” he said as they left the table and re¬ 
treated to the easy chairs in the big room in 
which a cheerful, open fire was burning; “I guess 
your liver will sit up and take notice after a few 
more meals like that.” Whereupon Bill uneasily 
examined the contents of his suit case to satisfy 
himself that his supply of artificial digestants 
had not been overlooked in the packing. 
(To be continued.) 
WILD LIFE IN A BIG CITY. 
Editor Forest and Stream'. 
Your January cover, showing two snowy owls, 
was interesting. Few city readers ever see such 
forms of the wild life but it is interesting to 
note that even in this big center of population, 
with eight million people living within a radius 
of twenty miles, one runs across evidences of the- 
presence of the wild in nature. Thus on Janu¬ 
ary 16th while walking about dusk in Riverside 
Drive Park, I saw perched on a limb only about 
ten feet above the pathway, a very good speci¬ 
men of the screech owl (Megascops asio). After 
looking at him for a few moments I tapped on 
the trunk of the tree with a cane and the owl 
with the noiseless, velvety flight peculiar to the 
species, sailed to another bush about fifty feet 
away and perched himself on a limb. I have an 
idea that he lives by day in the great stoiie but¬ 
tress that forms a supporting wall of the park 
driveway. By the way, have any of your read¬ 
ers noted the scarcity of sparrows in New York 
this winter? The starlings also seem to have 
deserted us. Is the automobile responsible for 
the disappearance of the sparrows or have they 
merely shifted to another locality? 
Old Camper. 
New York, January 17, 1916. 
The Irresistible Impulse of the Average Amiable Greenhorn to Shoot at Small Objects Is Not 
Easily Discouraged. 
decayed, yielding sawdust that composed the sur¬ 
face of an old mill yard somewhere along the 
banks of the West branch, and watched the brisk 
transfer of their baggage by the expectant 
guides, into the two canoes in which they were 
to conclude the journey to camp. A minute or 
two later Bill gingerly took his seat on a cushion 
at the bow of one, not however without some 
apprehension of disaster; rested his back against 
a thwart; extended his legs, and was then shot 
out from the bank by the deft paddle strokes of 
the guide with a smoothness and celerity that 
astonished him. Cautiously turning his head he 
observed Aeneas similarly accommodated in the 
second canoe that silently glided along at the rear. 
There was a peculiar enchantment in the silent 
trip up the West branch that bright, October 
morning, that lulled Bill’s senses and deadened 
them to all recollections of the past. Like a dis¬ 
embodied spirit he seemed to be crossing the bor¬ 
ders of another world wherein was suggestion 
only of perpetual delight. As the canoe swept 
on to the soft, rhythmical accompaniment of the 
dipping paddles, his mind acquired a state of deep 
content. For a time he found interest in the 
long, wooded arcades through which he passed, 
that were here in shadow and there flecked with 
the divided sunlight that dropped from the now 
thatchless roof on timbered walls and liquid floor. 
Soon the walls retreated and became dim: deep, 
lengthening shadows shut out the vista before 
him; the dip—dip—dip of the paddle grew 
strangely faint and fainter still; light faded from 
his vision; and back to the tireless guide, in the 
deep stillness of the forest, there was wafted a 
sound that has caused many a tired Pullman 
traveler to plot murder in his soul and to wish 
for the day: the rasping, villainous cadences of 
a chronic snorer. 
For a half hour longer the canoe silently glided 
ahead, past undercut banks from which doomed 
trees still tenaciously rooted, leaned far out over 
the water; round sharp bends that stubbornly 
maintained the tortuosities of the channel; past 
miniature coves sprinkled with lily pads, and 
along the well washed edges of tiny, natural 
meadows gray with a crop of coarse, withered 
grass. Still the recumbent figure in the bow 
anomalously murmured, gurgled, strangled, and 
gasped like the proverbial soul in torment, though 
blest with the peace of profound repose only 
broken at last by the shout of Aeneas, as the two 
canoes almost together touched the shingle of 
the sloping bank before camp. 
“First call for breakfast in the dining car,” he 
facetiously yelled at the torpid Bill who, roused 
to consciousness by the uproar, rose to his feet 
and gazed about in a manner that indicated both 
the surprise and momentary confusion of a rude¬ 
