Oh, much I love the spring-time, when the nesting birds are here, And much I love the summer days also, when brooks are bright and clear. Greatly, too, I prize the winter season, with its fireside chat and cheer, But sweeter, fairer far to me, is Autumn’s bracing, splendid weather! When the spicy, frost-bit, gold-hued forest leaves are falling, When the fearless, dusky, brownish bob-white quail is calling, Calling boldly from the stubble-field to his timid scattered coveys in the thickets near, So right off I get my “shooting-iron,” and my doggie I untether! And away, away we blithely stroll together, O’er the russet lawns, and on adown unto the fenlands, to our hearts so dear. And when arrived there soon, Some rapid, random shots I take At the frightened ducks that squawking leave the lake, And my doggie on the run, And the direful booming of my gun, Sets my heart a-beating, beating, For old Death himself might think that I were cheating, cheating Him out of half the “sanguine kills” that he himself would joy to make. _POT-HUNTING BESIDE THE PLATTE_ Oh, what fun! Oh, what fun! With my doggie and my gun Tramping, tramping, strolling in the sun! “_Quack! squack!_” Look there! Look! Just above yon sluggish meadow-brook. Six fat mallards up and off in flight. Willie--Willie Greener! What delight! Willie, watch me knock them left and right. _Crack--crack_--sounds my good “repeater.” _Crack--crack_--she may be an old shot-eater, _Crack--crack_--did I miss the whole blamed bunch? Oh, no; just “salted down six” for lunch. Willie--Willie Greener! Talk about your handsome double gun! But my beloved “pump,” why she just beats the band for fun. Colorado laws protect (?) the quails! But we make it warm for snipes and rails. _“Quack! squack!”--crack--“squack”!_ Heavens! did I miss that “jack”? Doggie--doggie--ain’t it funny We so seldom now can find a bunny? _“Honk--conk--honk”--pop-pop--pop-pop-pop--pop._ Great Scots! Watch those wild geese drop and flop. My Muse! My Muse! By George, I think that we had better stop Before George Shields, of “brittle brush sensation,” Gets our photos (blushing photos!) painted for his Recreation. _THE ANTELOPE HUNT_ In the country of Bijou, Just in sight of mountains capped with snow, Stalking the “prong-horns” on the plain, Once each year I go again. The sun is up. His glorious smile Illumes each ridge and dim defile. The scent of sage and desert flowers Makes dainty, sweet, these morning hours. Forth leaps my steed; my pulses start. By zephyrs cool my cheeks are fanned. Away! Away! and with glad heart I roam my own, my native prairie land!