Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1927-06-25
The Girl.


~ ARLETT worked his way up
l. slowly. gun at rest, but eyes
searching eagerly. A rabbit
- crossed his path, but sped on
It's way unnoticed. A partridge
whirred and in a wild spot a turkey
gobbled a warning to members of his
flock
But evidently they We're not the
game Bartlett was after. A pheasant
in his bag did not seem to awake en-
thuSiaSm, for another was heard
| drumming in the distance and the
| sportsman did not look that way.
Then fully half a mile along the
| slope, he saw a girl, and his eyes
frightened and his steps quickened-
only to dull and lag after few mo-
ments. A man had emerged from the
shadow of a rock. His head was bent
and he seemed to be winding some
thing. OF course. A camera. They
were taking pictures.
| "Jackass; serves you right" accused
| Bartlett to himself. only one day
before you go away to do a man S
work, and here you are like a love
sick kid. climbing miles over rocks
to see a girl you don't know. What
| if you did happen to meet her once
on a hunting trip among these very
| rocks and help her down to the near
| est house because of a sprained ankle?
| Did she give you the least encour-
agement to--didn't she say she's
rather hobble on alone? Didn't she
dismiss you CURLY when the house
was reached? No--yes-sure. Did
you learn her name? No. Didn't you
try to say foolish things to her with
out the least response? Yes. Well,
a. NnndnNfG
Look at her. Take your fill. See how
she's chatting with the man now
the only one, you know. Can't you
see it? There, her hand is on his
shoulder and her lips-turn away
your head, you moke. Don't you
dare go a step farther in that direc-
ton. He hasn't a gun, but he'd crack
you over the head with the camera,
and serve you right. Sure, don't you
remember there's a mother crying
| her eyes out for an extra hour or
two before her son struts away to
glory-half a hundred friends wait
| ing to say good-by with admiration
| in their eyeS-and a jolly sister, all
pulled up with pride over her
| hero? Pish!"
In his self disgust anger and dis
| appointment. Bartlett spoke aloud
though with full consciousness of no
| listener within half a mile. lie had
| wheeled sharply at the words "uirn
your head" and now with a "one-
| two-three, one-two three. face the
| firing squad, you boob" he covered
| his steps to the concealment of big
| rocks and soon after swung into a
| bit of the stunted growth that scan
| THY patched the mountain slope.
"One- two three, on you march, you
| boob" he ordered Mind the paltry
excuse of going off for little last
| hunt among the rocks and the guile
| less pheasant that perched on the
muzzle of your gun and pleaded to
| be shot-sure, and you were so mud
died as to be uncertain whether the
devoted bird didn't even claw the
trigger and shoot itself. Only for that
you might go home g&meless. Now
open your eyes and brain like a
hero and do bit of hunting you
can speak about. Shoot a mouse for
the cat or snake for humanity,
| without another fellows girl befog-
Cling your mind. Go after that pleas
ant you heard drumming. Put some
pep into the hunt, like you used to-.
Beyond the stunted growth the
slope grew more rocky and broken
| with deep gashes and even ravines