The boys followed a trail through the woods. Their friend, the guide and caretaker of the camps, had told them about it, advising them to follow it, as they might see some game along it. This they were now hoping for, keeping a bright lookout in every direction. As they tramped along, the sudden rattle of a dried bush on the right of Tom attracted his attention. He looked in time to see a white streak darting along. “A rabbit!” he cried and fired on the instant. “Missed!” yelled Bert, as the echoes of the shot died away. “No, I didn’t!” cried Tom. “You’ll find him behind that stump.” And, surely enough, when the other boys looked, there was the rabbit neatly bagged. He was needed for food, too, for they had no fresh meat at this camp, and already they were beginning to tire of the canned variety. Except for the determination to each bring back a deer’s head, and the pelt of a bear, our four boy hunters had made up their minds not to be wanton shots. They wanted to get enough game for food, and the head and skin for relics, after using such of the meat as they needed of the bear and deer. “Of course we four can’t eat all that meat in the short while we’ll be in the woods,” Tom said, “but we can give it to Sam, so it won’t be wasted.” Tom and his chums had the right idea of hunting, and had no desire to slaughter for the mere savage joy of killing. “Another rabbit and a few partridges and we’ll have enough to keep the kitchen going the rest of the week,” Bert said, as Tom put the bunny in his bag. “Then all we’ll have to look for will be a bear or a deer.” But even small game was scarce, it seemed, and though several shots were tried at rabbits at a distance, and though some partridges were flushed, no further luck resulted. It was growing dusk when Tom suggested that they had better return to camp, and they retraced their steps. However, the rabbit was a large one, and, made into either a stew or potpie, would provide the main dish for their next day’s dinner. Early in the morning the boys were on the move again. They hunted around the cabin, planning to come back to it at noon for the hot rabbit dinner, and this they did. The only luck they had was that Bert and George got some fine photographs. But not a rabbit nor a bird fell to their guns that day. Tom scared up a fox, and took several shots at it, hoping he might carry home the skin. But if Reynard were hit he showed no signs of it, and went bounding on through the woods. “We’ll make a regular hunt of it to-morrow,” decided Tom, as they sat about the cheerful fire in the cabin that night. “We’ll get an early start, take our lunch, a pot to make some coffee over an open fire, and we won’t come back until dark.” “That’s the talk!” cried Bert.