, rolls himself in his blanket and sleeps soundly
till morning. If the weather is unpleasant it makes but little difference.
He knows exactly what to do. In a short time he constructs a frail but
ample shelter; and then, with his feet towards the fire, sleeps sweetly
regardless of the storm. His animals have no more need of shelter than
have the bears and the buffaloes.

This is the _ordinary_ life of the hunter. There are, of course,
exceptions when calamity and woe come. A joint may be sprained, a limb
broken. Fire may burn, or Indians may come, bringing captivity and
torture. But the ordinary life of the hunter, gratifying his natural
taste, has many fascinations. This is evidenced by the eagerness with
which our annual tourists leave their ceiled chambers, in the luxurious
cities, to encamp in the wilderness of the Adirondacks or the Rocky
mountains. There is not a restaurant in the Palais Royal, or on the
Boulevards which can furnish such a repast as these men often find, from
trout which they have taken from the brook, and game which their own
rifles shot, have cooked at the fires which their own hands have kindled.
A gentleman who spent a winter in this way, in the green and sheltered
valleys of the Rocky mountains, writes:

"There was something inexpressibly exhilarating in the sensation of
positive freedom from all worldly care, and a consequent expansion of the
sinews, as it were, of mind and body, which made me feel as elastic as a
ball of India rubber, and in such a state of perfect ease that no more
dread of scalping Indians entered my mind, than if I had been sitting in
Broadway, in one of the windows of the Astor House. The very happiest
moments of my life have been spent in the wilderness of the Far West, with
no friend near me more faithful than my rifle, and no companion more
sociable than my horse and mules.

"With a plentiful supply of pine logs on the fire, and its cheerful blaze
streaming far up into the sky, illuminating the valley far and near, and
exhibiting the animals, with well filled bellies, standing contentedly
over their picket-pins, I would sit enjoying the genial warmth, building
castles in the air. Scarcely ever did I wish to exchange such hours of
freedom for all the luxuries of civilized life. Such are the fascinations
of the life of the mountain hunter that I believe that not one instance
could be adduced of even the most polished and civilized of men, who had
once tasted the swee