“I believe they did, Jean. At least your father loved Carrie Green just as fondly as young men love in story books. I had a best girl, too, in those days, and we often spoke of them, and what we would do after we got married.” “And did you marry your best girl, too?” she eagerly inquired. “No, Jean,” I said, and a wave of memory flashed over my mind and I paused to look down through that memory to the vista away off in the distance. “Did you quarrel?” she asked, her eyes showing how much she was interested. “No, Jean—she died.” “You poor man!” she cried. “Did it almost break your heart? Oh, I can feel all you felt when your sweetheart died, for there can be no greater sorrow than to be homesick—to wish so earnestly for the ones you love best on earth—to long for your mother’s breast—that you may lay your aching head down and close your eyes and think only of how dear she is to you. Oh, I’m so glad you told me of your dead sweetheart, for you know how it feels to be sad and sorrowful, and can sympathize with a homesick girl!” WHY HE QUIT HUNTING My friend Stevenson visited me a few weeks ago, and during our conversation I asked him what luck he had during the last hunting season. He looked at me shame-faced and said: “I don’t hunt any more. I gave it up two years ago. I don’t believe it’s the kind of pleasure a civilized man needs. I prefer to live for other things—for joys that give pain to no other living thing. I’ll tell you about that last hunt. We were out on the Hogback mountain and three of us had been standing at the head of the Cramer Hollow while one went down along the point and drove the game into the ravine. While we were standing there looking down the hollow I noticed something moving through the brush far down the ravine. I whispered to the others and we all watched the thicket closely with eager, alert eyes. “Pretty soon two small deer stepped into view—a spike buck and a little doe. Silently we drew up our guns and all aimed at the unsuspecting little creatures. How eager we were to kill. Every man tingled with eagerness and excitement. Not a shadow of mercy flitted across our souls. We were savages and barbarians eager for blood! Why? We had gone hunting for the pleasure of killing something. We needed a change. We had been tied to our business for several months and felt worn-out and low spirited, so we went out to the woods to take on new life by taking the life of some innocent creature that loved life as well as we. The sight of blood would appeal to the old savage nature that still lingers in the human heart like typhoid germs in an old well.