If the sketch which follows, depicting a general outline of incidents which entered into the experience of a "Greenhorn," on his first deer hunt in the wilds of Michigan, shall have the effect of driving the work-encumbered denizens of the city into some reasonable consideration for his own wellbeing, by taking for himself such recreation as will yield him the greatest possible benefit, the object of it will have been accomplished. After a fellow has spent say thirty years of his life with his nose at the grindstone, it is not astonishing that it comes to strike him at last as being somewhat monotonous, and then when he comes to look at the results and sees little but cavernous eyes, sunken cheeks, attenuated frame, and a general slaughter of the vital energies, it is well that he began to think, "What is to be the end of all this anyhow? Does it pay? and, if not, what is the remedy?" When a man has reached this crisis, and asks himself seriously these questions, there is hope for him, and happy will it prove if he can profit by my experience, so he may enjoy himself to the full limit of his capacity; and his capacity will require no stinted draught, particularly if he has been a constant reader of Forest and Stream, for while yet in the toils his tastes and inclinations will have been so shaping and developing as to prepare him to receive the maximum amount of enjoyment and satisfaction the moment he breaks the monotony and enters upon the rejuvenating process. In my case I went into early training. It commenced with the first issue of Forest and Stream, and it still continues. Thursday nights my watch is slow, and from the moment I take my seat before my wide open grate, with slippers and cigars until bed time, I let the world wag. I am drinking in new life, shaking hands with Thad. Norris, holding high carnival with Major Sarasota, and courting old Al. Fresco as I would my “Gum Drop”. Wife says we must make that “party call” tonight. "Not much," say I; "here's mettle more attractive! Well, I read my Forest and Stream through; then turn again to your new title page on the outside of the cover, study that grand old head, which is the Daniel Webster of all mooses, then to the camp, the rods, the guns. 0h! I wish I were there; but then— not any of this for me. Oh! no, the delicious reality is too far beyond my reach. It is all very nice to know that there is such a fountain of perpetual youth, and that the mysteries of the Forest and the Stream can be enjoyed by some, so that we can read about them and get the crumbs as it were from the rich man's table, or to borrow a smile, we can look at the blackened frames next morning after the fireworks are over, and so enjoy the fireworks second-hand like. Now, it so happens, that in one of these reveries, the post carrier brings a letter posted "Wild Cat," Michigan. Of course that's from Elisha ('Lish for short), lumberman, merchant, notary, constable, sportsman and brother-in-law. Let's see what he has to say; some patent business probably, as usual. What! do I read aright? Why, the boy says: "Dear Greenhorn, if you want some sport, come here at once; lots of deer, plenty of bear, clouds of turkey, wild cats quantum sufficit, and as for partridges, quail, jack rabbits, and all such small insects, they overrun the country, begging for a front seat in a pot-pie. Come quick. Bring "Bird" (that's my wife) and stay eighteen months. Gentle reader: (Original but not copyrighted) were you ever struck by lightning? If so, you can probably imagine the thrill that shivered my timbers the moment the full force of this thing struck me. Here was the grand opportunity of a life time; but how can I? Oh! The tantalizing cuss! he knows it's impossible. Of course it is. But the vision haunts me; like Banquo's ghost, it will not down. I imagine I see the handwriting on the wall — he "who hesitates is lost." Well, I hesitate! I am lost! I resolve. I will go. There ! It is done. I will telegraph so that I can't back out, and a message goes instantaneous. Are there any skeptics in your large family that don't believe in the virtue of a good resolution? Let them try it and see. My resolution is scarce an hour old, and here is a new man already. Why, the new life bursts out all over; the tension of a long strain is off; the whole frame springs upright; the true manhood steps forth and asserts the privilege of a hitherto imprisoned birthright, which else might have gone, like Esau of old, for a mere mess of pottage. So it is fixed. I go. Now to business. Let's see; I must have a Winchester and a— well, never mind. I will tell you just what I did take, and then let you know in the end how the items respectively served my purpose, as follows, viz: A Winchester rifle, a heavy blue flannel shirt, a tightly knit cardigan jacket, a pair of rubber boots, a few pairs of extra heavy woolen socks, a Holabird shooting coat, an old soft felt hat, and a sheath knife, all together ...
