File:Musings by camp-fire and wayside (1902) (14780039271).jpg

Identifier: musingsbycampfir00gray (find matches)
Title: Musings by camp-fire and wayside
Year: 1902 (1900s)
Authors: Gray, William Cunningham, 1830-1901
Subjects:
Publisher: Chicago, F. H. Revell
Contributing Library: NCSU Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: NCSU Libraries

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bythe middle in my right hand. I was in black, fromhat to moccasins, and stood motionless. How wasI to bring my gun to bear? On the least movementon my part, he would have been out of sight in thedense thicket at a single bound. I began to liftthe gun so slowly as to show no motion, and thusvery gradually brought it up, and then with a quickmovement fired. He was helplessly wounded, not killed. As Iadvanced upon him, he fixed his large, lustrous,frightened eyes upon me, and I ended his life with q8 Musings by Camp-Fire and Wayside another shot. There he lay in all his purity andbeauty. I was smitten to the heart with remorse.I considered that he had lived the pure and inno-cent life of Nature, had never harmed any one oranything, and there he lay, the victim of an invaderand murderer. This ended my hunting, a favorite sport of morethan half a century, and which had the doubleattraction that it led me deep into the solitudes ofNature, with their unfading freshness and unfailingcharms.
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THE BOATHOUSE Natures Intelligence THE Mississippi reaches out the DesplainesRiver to dispute with Lake Michigan forthe rainfall that is due to the lake—parallelsthe lake shore. When at home I spend many Sun-day afternoons in the woods and glades which liealong this river. There is nothing merry or musicalin this prairie stream. It is small enough to beyoung, rash, and happy; but it is slow and solemnas a Sabbath afternoon of my boyhood. It flowswithout a ripple or a dimple between its banks ofblack loam, and really does not appear sufficientlyspirited to kiss a pebbly margin, even if one randown fresh and sweet out of the woods to meet it.The scenery has no points. It lies down flat, witha dogged determination to cast no reflections onthe character of the river. But it is better for aSunday afternoon than that wild city down there onthe lake, where they squeeze the juice out of menas if they were lemons, and toss the rinds away.And then I find no end of pleasant companions inwalks

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