And it _was_ resky in that den-- For I think she juggled three cubs then, And a big "green" lion 'at used to smash Collar-bones for old Frank Nash; And I reckon now she haint forgot The afternoon old "Nero" sot His paws on her:--but as for me, It's a sort-of-a-mixed-up mystery. Kindo' remember an awful roar, And see her back for the bolted door-- See the cage rock--heerd her call "God have mercy!" and that was all-- For ther haint no livin' man can tell What it's like when a thousand yell In female tones, and a thousand more Howl in bass till their throats is sore! But the keeper said as they dragged her out, They heerd some feller laugh and shout: "Save her! Quick! I've got the cuss!" ... And yit she waked and smiled on us! And we daren't _flinch_--for the doctor said, Seein' as this man Jones was dead, Better to jes' not let her know Nothin' o' that for a week or so. How to Hunt the Fox [Illustration] The joyous season for hunting is again upon us, and with the gentle fall of the autumn leaf and the sough of the scented breezes about the gnarled and naked limbs of the wailing trees--the huntsman comes with his hark and his halloo and hurrah, boys, the swift rush of the chase, the thrilling scamper 'cross country, the mad dash through the Long Islander's pumpkin patch--also the mad dash, dash, dash of the farmer, the low moan of the disabled and frozen-toed hen as the whooping horsemen run her down; the wild shriek of the children, the low melancholy wail of the frightened shoat as he flees away to the straw pile, the quick yet muffled plunk of the frozen tomato and the dull scrunch of the seed cucumber. The huntsman now takes the flannels off his fox, rubs his stiffened limbs with gargling oil, ties a bunch of firecrackers to his tail and runs him around the barn a few times to see if he is in good order.