George Hawkins was a hunter bold,
And he was always shooting;
The rivers, lakes and marshes cold
He was forever looting.
He stopped the mallard's stately flight.
And stilled the squirrel's tail,
Silenced the horn-owl's hoot at night.
And furled the wood-duck's sail.
He hung the hide of the wary mink,
On the ridge-pole of his tent;
He strewed the woods and made them stink
With carcasses as he went.
His traps he set with so much skill
Near wind-fall, stump, and water;
He took the crafty coon at will,
And copped the cunning otter.
We knew the crack of George's gun,
It had a deathly roar;
We always knew a life was done,
A heart would beat no more.
And fishing — gosh! 'twas wasting time
To cast where George had angled,
For where he slung that lure and line
No more the fishes wrangled.
He was so skilled with rod and gun.
With steel-trap, spear, and snare,
He strewed the woods where ever he'd run
With feathers, scales, and hair.
You couldn't find a better cook
Between New York and Frisco;
He knew just every hook and crook,
With taters, flour, and Crisco.
And now I'll bet, when George is done
With earthly devastation,
That he has reeked with that old gun.
And soars to habitations,
Celestial there where Peter waits —
I know he'll gain admission;
He'll float in through the open gates
To hunt sine perdition.
— H. R. Osborn
Hunter-Trader-Trapper. October: 1921,
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