A Joy Hunter

Now comes the glory time of year

        The red and yellow fall;

When “Bob White” o’er the barren field

        Sends forth his cheery call.

When nuts are dropping to the ground

        And squirrels by the score

Are darting here and there to find

        Their coming winter’s store.

I hear the merry partridge drum

        His well known autumn tune;

And ducks are herding from the chill

        Within some warm lagoon.

This is the time when game abounds

        Upon the lake or hill,

And hearing “Bob White’s” cheery call

        Just sets my heart a-thrill.

I like to take my gun and shells,

        My game bag o’er my back,

And wander daily, all alone,

        The woodlands’ voiceless track!

I like to steal upon the duck

        And watch it dive and play;

I like to hear the squirrel scold

        And see him run away.

I like to take my gun along

        For old-times sake, that’s all

I wouldn’t shoot a living thing,

        Nor still the “Bob White’s” call.

My game slung across my back?

        Most useful, if you please;

I bring it homeward full of nuts

        From off the kindly trees.

Aug. 31, 1910