from the same opening, following on the trail of the deer. He had
nearly crossed the narrow road in hot pursuit and was about springing
into the thicket beyond, when an accidental turn of his head brought
our hero suddenly to his attention. He stopped, as if struck by a
spell of enchantment.

Whiz! the ball flew. The very instant it struck, the bloodthirsty
monster fell dead. When John reached the spot, there was scarcely the
quiver of a limb, so well had the work of death been accomplished. Yet
the wolfish face grinned still a savage, horrible defiance.

"Here, Cæsar", he exclaimed, in a boastful tone, "do you know that
this old fellow lying here, won't get the drink out of the veins of
that dainty creature he was so thirsty for? No! nor ever cheat any
sweet little Red Riding Hood into thinking him her grandmother? This
is the last of him. Didn't I do the neat thing, Cæsar?"

Cæsar threw his head on one side, with an air of admiration and gave a
low whinny, that betokened a state of intense satisfaction at the
whole transaction.

It may appear frivolous to those who have read with unwavering
credulity the olden tales of the prowess and achievements of knights
errant in the days of chivalry, that one should stop to relate such a
commonplace incident as the shooting of a wolf, and above all, that
the hero of this narrative, should betray, even to his horse, such a
decided emotion of self admiration for having performed the feat. Such
a trifle would not indeed be worth mentioning in company with the
marvellous deeds and mysterious sorceries of the old romaunt, but this
being a true story, the hero young, and this the first game of the