Hunting without a gun, and other papers by Rowland E. Robinson. With illus. by Rachael Robinson

•

. .ROBINSON

GEORGE G. WRIGHT

Books by
Rowland E. Robinson

Danvis Folks - - $1.25

Danvis Pioneers - - 1.25

Hero of Ticonderoga - - .75

Sam Level's Camps - i.oo

Sam Level's Boy - - 1.25

Uncle Lisha's Outing - 1.25

Uncle Lisha's Shop - - 1.25
New England Fields and

Woods - - - 1.25

ROWLAND E. ROBINSON.

Hunting Without a Gun

AND OTHER PAPERS

BY ROWLAND E. ROBINSON

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY RACHAEL ROBINSON

NEW YORK

FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING COMPANf
1905

COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING COMPANY

Forest and Stream Press
New York, X. V., U.S.A.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

HUNTING WITHOUT A GUN i

IN SEARCH OF NOTHING 6

IN THE SPRING WOODS 10

THE SAVED PLACES ' 17

LITTLE OTTER , 23

THE PATH OF BOATLESS GENERATIONS. . 39

DOWN AMONG THE FISHES — 1 57

DOWN AMONG THE FISHES — II 8 1

LANDLORD DAYTON'S SHOOTING MATCH. 114

How ELIJAH WAS FED AT CHRISTMAS. . . 128

UNCLE GID'S CHRISTMAS TREE 145

A NEW YEAR'S SWEARING OFF 168

A BROTHER-IN-LAW OF ANTOINE 181

ANTOINE ON THE RAIL 190

ANTOINE SUGARING 199

THE GRAY PINE — 1 207

THE GRAY PINE — II 220

A BEE HUNTER'S REMINISCENCES 237

V

Contents.

PAGE

BEE HUNTING 244

CLEANING THE OLD GUN 246

GIVEN AWAY 264

A LAY SERMON 275

A LITTLE STORY 277

A THANKSGIVING DINNER IN THE WOODS 283

A Vis-A-Vis WITH A PANTHER 288

A VERMONT RATTLESNAKE. 294

SAVED BY AN ENEMY 297

EARLY SPRING 305

SUMMER 308

FALL '. 312

WINTER 315

WINTER'S TALES 318

THE CROW AND THE SCARECROW 330

A CASE OF ABSENT-MINDEDNESS 331

SPORT 341

MAKING THE MOST OF IT 346

THE SHUT-IN SPORTSMAN 350

THE FARMER'S BOY 358

OLD BOATS 364

THE LAND OF MEMORY - 374

ANTOINE'S VERSION OF "EVANGELINE" . . 377

vi

ROWLAND E. ROBINSON.

ROWLAND EVANS ROBINSON was born in Fer-
risburgh, Addison county, Vermont, May 14,
1833, the youngest of four, Thomas, George,
Anne and Rowland, children of Rowland T. and
Rachael Robinson. His school education was
gained in the district school, taught in winter by
college students, in summer by school mistresses,
and for a while in the Ferrisburgh Academy, under
the instruction of Joel S. Bingham and Lucien
Chancy. Both were excellent teachers, but he was
an unwilling scholar. However, he was a great
reader, and, as the house was well supplied with
books, he made some amends for lack of study by
reading Scott's novels, history, and books of travel
and adventure.

He was fond of drawing, and had some talent
for it, but never had proper or regular instruction,
though after arriving at manhood he was for a
while with a draughtsman in New York, who took
very little pains to teach him more than what
would be useful to himself in his work, such as
whitening the boxwood blocks and making tracings

Rowland E. Robinson.

on them. Afterward he undertook drawing on his
own account, and sold a few comic drawings to T.
W. Strong, publisher of Yankee Notions; to Frank
Leslie, Harper, and others; but after an unsuccess-
ful struggle gave up and went home to the farm.

In 1866 he again tried his fortune in New York
as a draughtsman, and was more successful. He
sold comic drawings to several publications, and
drew scenes of country life for Frank Leslie's, The
American Agriculturist, Rural New Yorker, and
Hearth and Home. Besides these kinds of work,
he drew a great deal of catalogue work, fashion
plates, and so forth.

He returned to his home in Vermont in 1873
with the promise of a place in the drawing depart-
ment of the American Agriculturist, but the
promise was not fulfilled, and he did not go back.
He continued to draw on wood at his home until
wood-engraving was superseded by process work.

He was married to Anna Stevens in 1870.
Urged by her, he wrote and illustrated a paper on
"Fox Hunting in New England," and sent it to
Scribner's Magazine. Greatly to his surprise the
article was accepted, and was followed by several
others in Scribner's, The Century, Lippincott's and
The Atlantic. A series of sketches contributed to
Forest and Stream were published in book form

Rowland E. Robinson.

entitled, "Uncle Lisha's Shop," in 1888. Another
of like character, "Sam Lovel's Camps," was pub-
lished in 1890, followed by "Danvis Folks" and
"Uncle Lisha's Outing;" "Vermont: a Study of
Independence," being one of Houghton & Mifflin's
"American Commonwealth" series; "In New Eng-
land Fields and Woods," a collection of out-of-
door sketches; a story entitled, "A Hero of Ticon-
deroga," and another, "In the Green Wood," pub-
lished in 1899; another story of the same period
in the early history of Vermont entitled, "A Danvis
Pioneer."

In 1887 Mr. Robinson's eyes began to fail, and
in 1893 he became totally blind. He continued to
write, with the help of a grooved board, his wife
revising and copying the manuscript.

His father was an active worker in the anti-
slavery cause, and a warm friend of Garrison,
May, Johnson, and many other noted anti-slavery
men who always found a welcome in his house,
which was also a station of the U. G. R. R. He
was a ready and forcible writer, and his pen was
often employed in the service of the cause which
he held most dear. He was the only son of
Thomas R. Robinson, who came to Vermont in
1791 from his birthplace, Newport, R. I. He was
the youngest son of Thomas Robinson, merchant,

Ron land E. Robinson.

who was the son of Deputy-Governor William
Robinson, the son of Rowland, who emigrated to
Boston in 1675 from Long Town, Cumberland
county, England. He married Mary (Baker)
Allen the following year. He purchased a large
tract of land of the Narragansett Indians, on
which he settled near Pettaquamscutt River, where
he died in 1716.

Mr. Robinson's mother, Rachael Gilpin, born
in Maryland, was the daughter of George and
Rachael (Starr) Gilpin. Her father was a leather
merchant in "The Swamp" in New York City.
He was the son of George and Jane (Peters)
Gilpin, who lived in Alexandria, Virginia, where
he died in 1813. He was Colonel of the Fairfax
Militia in the Revolutionary War, was an aide to
General Washington, and one of his pall-bearers.
He was the son of Samuel and Jane (Parker)
Gilpin, who lived in Nottingham, Maryland.
Samuel was the son of Joseph and Hannah Gilpin,
who emigrated in 1695. Joseph was a descendant
of a brother of Bernard Gilpin, the "Apostle of
the North." •

Mr. Robinson died at Ferrisburgh, October 15,
1900.

Hunting H^ithout a Gun

HUNTING WITHOUT A GUN.

IHERE are certain advantages in
going hunting without a gun.
One sees more game and gets far
better chances for shots if he is
empty-handed than if he had a
gun at his hip, with a thumb on
the striker and forefinger nail against the inside
front of the trigger guard.

I remember with a pang how, one day last fall,
I had been waiting an hour on a runway, in just
such readiness for the coming of a fox, my heart
hammering at my ribs and the back door of my
throat as the merry music of the hounds tended
toward me, then sinking with dull thuds to ignoble
regions as the wild melody sank below the whis-
pers of the light breeze, till at last, grown tired and
thirsty, I set my gun against a tree and went down
to the brook for a drink. Then, while I was on all
fours, getting breath between sups, an aimless

Hunting JTithout a Gun.

glance down stream disclosed, at first dimly, as
in a dream, then with sickening distinctness and
reality, the fox, picking his way across the brook
not five rods away. One rainy -day, when its
soaked charges made my gun useless as a rotten
stick, as I rounded a bend of the wood-bordered
stream, I came upon the biggest flock of wild ducks
I ever saw, one-half of them dozing on a log,
inviting a raking shot, the rest, lazily swimming
in a huddle, just under the sedgy bank. My grief
at losing such chances would have been slight if my
gun had been at home, instead of being so near and
yet so unattainable, or in my hand so useless.

When you wander gunless in game-frequ&nted
tracts, there are no misses to account for to your-
self, nor any occasion for telling "wrong stories"
when you get home. If a ruffed grouse bursts with
muffled thunder from the border of your forest
path, a hare bounds into sight and out across it, or
a woodcock whistles out of the thicket before you,
each gone almost as soon as seen, your ready fore-
fingers come into line, getting the range of every
one, and you say: "I could have killed him," and
feel almost as satisfied as if you saw him rumble
to the earth. "If your finger'd been a gun," ten to
one your charge had brought down nothing but a
shower of leaves, nor done beast nor bird any harm

Hunting JTilhout a Gun.

but fright. When you had searched the under-
brush for half an hour for a feather or a tuft of
fur and found none, you would rack your brain, for
reasons why you missed, and find none but your
own unskillfulness, one which affords little com-
fort. It is pleasant, too, to come home boldly,
without fear of meeting the man or odious boy who
asks: "Where's your game?" After a bootless
tramp with a gun, if you skulk home ever so slyly,
you are sure to be accosted by one or the other, if
not till you get to your own back door.

Without a gun one may hunt in close time, when
the grouse is summoning his harem by beat of
drum, the woodcock wooing his mate at twilight
with towcrings and unwonted notes, and the wood
drake has donned his bravest attire to win his
bride, or, when wooing and honeymoon are over
and family cares have fallen upon them, and even
on Sundays, without fear of game warden or town
grand juror.

The best of all is, that without a gun one has
time — or takes it, which is the way to have it —
to look at everything about him and so see ten
times more than he does when his chief purpose
is the killing of game. Then a tree or rock or
clump of underbrush or sprangle of ferns or tuft
of sedge is not looked at, but sought to be looked

3

Hunting Without a Gun.

into and beyond; and if a sight is caught of some
strange growth, or a bird, new in itself or its ways,
one passes it by with a twinge of regret, and for-
sakes a chance that may never come to him again,
all for the craving of the game bag, as hungry as
an empty stomach, and the savage bloodthirst that
we dignify by calling it love of sport. The game
bag obliges, and one is ashamed to go home with
it empty. But without it and the gun that feeds it,
we may get more than it could hold, and that
which needs neither ice nor fire to preserve, not for
the short space of a week, but for all our days.

When my fox that day had vanished, I could
not tell how he looked nor anything of him but that
he was a fox and had given me the slip, for while
he was in sight I was only wishing for my gun, and
cursing my carelessness, and suffering in anticipa-
tion the jeers and reproaches of my companions if I
dared to tell them what had happened. His
beauty and grace, his adroit maneuvers and self-
possession, his air of thinking to himself, were as
much lost as was the chance of a shot. If my gun
had been at home and I had taken in these, he
might have carried off his skin and welcome. I
would have something more lasting to treasure up.
As it was, the ruddy ghost of that fox troubled my
sleep for a week, and the lost opportunity vexed

4

Hunting Without a Gun.

my awakening. If I had not had the gun to
frighten the ducks with the snapping of its inef-
fectual caps, I might at least have counted them
before they flew away with their beauty, were they
thirty or fifty or one thousand.

IN SEARCH OF NOTHING.

ET the gun hang on its own
hooks; and go to the wooded
hill, from behind which you first
saw the sun rise, over whose
length and breadth you have
hunted every fall and wintei
since you began to carry a gun. You know every
ridge and hollow so well that if you were led to any
part of it blindfolded you could tell where you
were after you had looked about a minute. Let
yourself drift about in these familiar woods some
autumn day in search of nothing, and the chances
are that you will find many things you never saw
before.

You are not hurried. There is time for your
nostrils to inhale all the subtle odors of the woods,
the mingled perfumes of flowers, fruitage and de-
cay. You hear voices in the sounds beyond
the environment of silence, outside sounds of
civilization and husbandry piercing but not break-
ing the stillness of the woods. From the moss

6

In Search of Nothing.

and mold at your feet to the frayed horizon
that closely encompasses you, there is enough to
keep your eyes busy for a day and then leave a
world unexplored.

I have known fox-hunters, who year after year
have ranged all the woods for ten miles about
them, and who never saw the biggest woodpecker
that lives in them, the pileated. They have heard
him calling them more than once to come and see
what a brave woodchopper he is, how he can make
the chips fly and the woods echo to his strokes. But
they had come hunting foxes, not woodpeckers,
and had no time to turn out of their way to visit
him, and he was too great a personage in wood-
pecker circles to come to them. If they desire his
acquaintance, they must come to where he is doing
business. Then he will show them his work. What
a barkpeeler he is. Wilson says that he has "seen
him separate the greatest part of the bark from a
large dead pine for twenty or thirty feet, in less
than a quarter of an hour." With hammer and
chisel in one, he can cover the roots of a tree with
its own slivers and cut a doorway to his home
almost large enough for a 'coon's pasage. He will
show them his aerial paces as he hops from tree to
tree, exhibiting then the white feathers of his
wings, and his crest that has not faded a whit since

7

Hunting fJ'ithout a Gun.

Hiawatha first dyed it. Though seldom seen, he
does not desert us, with the golden-winged and red-
headed, but stays all the year round. By the
few country folks who see him he is called wood-
cock, a name which fits him better than it does the
borer of bogs, who by ancient usage bears it.

I wonder how many times in my hunting with a
gun I had crushed the walking fern with my knees,
and torn it up with my nails as I scaled the ledge,
before I ever saw it. There are not a score of peo-
ple* of my acquaintance — hunters and woods-
haunters of all sorts — who know that it grows here
at all, far less that it is common. Having got the
secret of its hiding, one finds it on almost every
northward and westward-facing ledge from the
rocky shores of Champlain to the backbone of Ver-
mont; not everywhere, but here and there a patch
of it, looping its small fronds along a shelf of the
ancient mossy walls.

I am ashamed when I remember that I waited
till I was a big boy for a lady to come all the way
from Pennsylvania to show me the arbutus, grow-
ing almost as common as wintergreen and prince's
pine on our rocky hills. How dull my senses were
never to have caught the fragrant trail of its blos-
soms in the May woods, and to have followed it
up till I found them blushing among their own

8

/// Search of Nothing.

rusty leaves and the last year's dead ones of their
tall neighbors. Every one who cares for it knows
where it grows now, and people come in troops to
rob the woods of it for the decoration of churches
at Easter. They might better leave it in these first
temples. In the choppings, where the thin soil is
bereft of the shade of the trees, I find its leaves
withering as if scorched by fire, but like a girdled
apple tree, every sprig is full of blossom, it dies
with its crown on. Till the coming of the fair
Pennsylvanian, it had blossomed for me only in
books, and grew as far off as the Victoria regia.
As for finding it here, I should sooner have thought
of hunting for seals in the lake, for there had been
two or three of them killed in its waters or on its
ice.

Though I hardly expect to find a seal or a Vic-
toria regia within the limits of Vermont, there is
no telling what fortune there is in store for me.
If one stays beneath the star he was born under,
watching and waiting, it may, at last, prove a
lucky one.

IN THE SPRING WOODS.

LL seasons are good wherein to go
hunting without a gun, but none
better than when the arbutus is
blooming or a little earlier,
when of all flowers the liverleaf
alone has raised its head above
the mold. For then you are in duty bound not to
hunt, it being close time for all game except wild
ducks and geese and the persecuted snipe — and
ought to be for them.

The trees are waking from their long sleep,
showing it not only by the swelling buds that give
a purple tinge to all the gray woods, but by a more
living look in their trunks. Their old leaves,
pressed flat by the snow that so long has lain upon
them, thickly cover the ground and will add a
nail's thickness to the crust of the world.

Here and there on the brown carpet are tufts of
evergreen ferns, cushions of moss, blotches of the
purple green leaves of hepatica and dots of its
flowers. The sun shines down through the lattice

10

In the Spring floods.

of branches, and checks all with meshes of shadow.

The chipmunk and woodchuck have left the
darkness of the under world and are out in the sun
again. The birds that spend the year with us are
here — jays, woodpeckers, titmice and nuthatches —
all busy and noisy, and some of the migrants have
come. A hawk is cruising high above the tree-tops,
his broad sails golden brown in the sunlight, and
a black guard of crows are challenging a fox in his
own woods, or an owl in the tree that has been
his home these ten years. From her perch and
back again, a peewee makes sudden flights, gather-
ing an insect in every airy loop. A bluebird carols
in a tree-top against a sky as blue as his back, and
a flock of slate-colored snowbirds are thridding a
thicket, and filling it with their light warble and
sharp metallic chip, like the clicking of castanets.
They are not snowbirds with us, for they go
further southward when the first snow comes, and
are by no means the earliest spring comers.

There is the note of a brave defier of snow and
bitter cold — the muffled drum-beat of the ruffed
grouse. It is one of those sounds of which it is
hard to tell whether far off or near by. Get the
direction, and try if you can be an unseen witness
of his performance, for unseen you must be if you
would be more than a listener. He is not so

ii

Hunting Without a Gun.

absorbed in the calling of his dames but that he
keeps, with his sharpest of eyes, a vigilant lookout
for intruders. Doubtless in the old Indian days
the boys were set to stalking the drumming grouse,
for surely they could have had no better practice to
fit them for the kinds of warfare and hunting that
were to employ their grown up days. Stoop low
as you steal through the undergrowth and tread
gingerly on the drying leaves and dead twigs, step-
ping only to the beat of his drum, when you get in
his neighborhood. Now, you are sure you see in
the haze of underbrush the log he stands'on. Let
him drum once more and then crawl within sight of
him — but you wait in vain. The show is ended for
the present and you hear the light rustle of the
performer's receding footsteps. You may go for-
ward and examine the stage if you will, he will not
object now. It is not always, as some say, a hollow
and resonant log, but quite as often like this,
crumbling with decay, the redness of the half de-
composed wood showing in places through its
green covering of moss, noticeably where the bird
has so often stood. Sometime it is one wood,
sometime another, but perhaps oftenest pine,
where pine grows, or has grown, as that longest
resists decay. Such a one becomes time-honored
and held in esteem by the grouse, and generation

12

In the Spring Woods.

after generation of these cocks of the woods strut
their brief hour upon it and sound their spring
tattoo. Sometime a rock is put to this use; but
whatever the bird stands upon while drumming,
there is no perceptible difference to my ear in the
volume of sound produced. Your particular drum-
mer or another one is at it again not far off : "Boomp
— boomp — boomp — boomp. Boomp — boomp —
boomp. Boomp - - boompboompbrrrrrrroomp !"
Try your luck again at following him up, or hide
here where you can see the log and wait for his
return, or take your bearings so that you may crawl
within sight behind a tree next time you hear him.
If in one way or another you succeed in getting a
front seat at this drum solo, you will see the per-
former show off at his best, as if the eyes of the
world were upon him. Perhaps he fancies the eyes
of his world — the brown dames he loves — are
peering at him coyly through the screen of brush
as he swells his body, raises his ruff, erects his
spread tail and with lowered wings proudly struts
and wheels upon his log. Then he begins with two
or three beats, with short pauses between, and then
a longer pause; then more beats, increasing in fre-
quency till they become a continuous roll, in which
they end, though sometime followed by one or two
distinct beats like the beginning. But some slight

13

Hunting fJ'itlioitt a Gun.

noise or motion of yours has caught his quick
senses. He suspects, if he does not see, an unwel-
come intruder, and folding his drumsticks (off the
platter they are not his legs) he hops lightly from
the log and walks off, not straight from you, but in
a wide curve, as if he wished to get a flank or rear
view of his unbidden auditor. Presently he fades
into the gray of the brush and tree-trunks and is
gone; and you may rise and go home now. Is it
not better so than if you carried him away a carcass
in rumpled feathers, bereft of life and with it of
half his beauty?

If you wade into the woods — and it is easier wad-
ing without a gun than with it — about the time the
sugar-makers are beginning their work, you may
see that someone has been before them, tapping
nearer the sky than their augers bore, and where
the sap has a finer and more ethereal flavor. You
can see little trickles of it darkening some of the
smaller smooth branches, and if your eyes are
sharp enough, the incisions it flows from. These
are the chisel marks of the red squirrel, the only
real sap-sucker I know of, excepting the boy.
Make yourself comfortable on some patch of
ground that the spring ebb of the snow has left
bare and keep still long enough, and you may see
him stretch himself along a branch and slowly suck

H

In the Spring Woods.

or lap the sap as it oozes from the wound. Evi-
dently he enjoys it greatly, and it must be grate-
ful to his palate, for all winter, save in a thaw or
two, he has had nothing to quench his thirst but
snow, and eating one's drink is a hard and poor
way of taking it. Was he the first to discover the
sweetness of the maple, and did the Indians take
the hint of sugar-making from him? If so we are
under obligations to him, but it is hard to forgive
some of his sins. No one would begrudge him his
bit and sup if he would confine himself to nuts and
sap or now and then a stolen apple or pear, but he
is a bloodthirsty little savage, killing unfledged
birds in the nest whenever he can. The old birds
know his murderous tricks and hate him accord-
ingly. The robins and blackbirds make a good
fight against the marauder, but mostly it is a losing
one for them. If he keeps his eyes shut during
their spurts of attack he is in no great danger, and
at last gets their broods, for fledglings must be fed,
and old birds cannot always be guarding them.
When one remembers how easily the squirrel can
get at almost all the nests of the smaller birds, it is
a wonder how so many escape his raids. Of all the
birds' nests built in trees, the hammock of the oriole
seems the safest from him, but I doubt if he much
troubles the woodpeckers. He would be in sorry

15

Hunting Without a Gun.

plight if caught in the cul de sac of their holes, for
the tools that make the chips fly out of solid wood
would make short work with his flesh and blood.

When you surprise the squirrel in this murder of
the innocents you will wish your gun was at hand.

THE SAVED PLACES.

HEREVER civilization and im-
provement have, for a hundred
years or so, laid hands upon the
country which God made and
man for the most part spoils,
there is but little woodland left
but that of second growth, and this is yearly
dwindling, as some new industry arises and calls
for trees of size and kind before of little value.
Such woodlands, if they have not the grandeur and
solemnity and mystery of the primeval forest, have
beauty and their seasons of silence and some secrets
of their own to keep from the world at large.

The trees were set in their disorderly order by
the oldest and best of landscape gardners, who
plied her art before Adam delved or Eve spun, and
whose severe but kindly hand thins, prunes and
trains them. She gives them beauty, and in the
hush of noon and eventide and night, and in the
deadness of winter, such silence that one, being in
the midst thereof, may believe himself as far as he

17

Hunting Without a Gun.

would wish from his fellows. She gives them also
plants and their flowers, birds and beasts and their
nests and lairs and ways of life to hide cunningly.

For what is left us, let us be thankful — for the
trees that since the pioneer's ax laid low the giants
of the old days have grown to fair estate, and shade
a soil that no plow has rumpled, where the un-
stirred leaves may lie and moulder where they fall
and nurture moss and ferns and the shyest wild
flowers; where a hare may yet crouch, a grouse
drum, a woodcock bore the mould, and where some
trees have grown old enough to take squirrels and
woodmice, and raccoons and swarms of wild bees
to their hearts. Into such saved places it is good
for one to go, weaponed or weaponless. If he
leaves his gun at home, he may see more but have
less to show for his outing; yet what one has to
show for his hunting does not always count highest
in the long run.

One cannot go far in such woods before he will
be reminded that he is not very much apart from
his kind, though out of sight and hearing of them.
He will come upon traces of the ruthless ax, *
stumps, chips and wasted wood, and among the
sprouts, the brands and ashes of the choppers' fires,
or a rank wisp of herds' grass grown up from the
chance-sown seed of a team's baiting.

18

The Saved Places.

He may find an apple tree in the midst of the
woods, which he shall know more by its blossoms
or fruits than by its manner of growth, for it has
taken on the wild, natural ways of its companions,
and strives upward toward the sky, mingling its
lithe slender branches with those of the birches and
maples. One is first aware of it when, in blossom
time, he scents an orchard fragrance in the woods
and sees out-of-place flowers aloft with all the wild
bees about them, or when in autumn he finds the
forest leaves strewn with farm fruits. It is like
coming upon a sheep astray in the woods, only this
strayed one seems quite at home here. However
it was planted, by bird or squirrel or wood-ranging
cow, or by hunter or chopper who tossed aside the
close-gnawed core of his dessert, it is a godsend to
present generations of bees, birds and rodents, and
its racy fruit would sting delightfully with its
"bow-arrow tang" the palate of him who wrote the
history of the wild apple as only one who loved it
could.

One will find traces to lead him back far on the
trail of time. Rocks as old as the world with the
same kinds of mosses and lichens that grew on
them centuries ago. The stump of an ancient pine,
barkless, moss-covered and outwardly gray, but
with the terebinthine odor and flavor of its prime

19

Hunting Without a Gun.

well preserved in its hollow heart. When its tiny
needles first pricked the daylight, perhaps no ad-
venturer had sailed across seas to these shores.
When it was in its lusty youth what a new old
world was this! Did the great tree go where in
colonial times all good pines were supposed to go,
namely, "in the masting of his Majesty's navy?"
Likelier it went to the first sawmill built on the
nearest stream, and then to the boarding of the
thrifty settler's barn, where the broad boards, now
as gray as the parent stump, shelter to-day the
grandson's herds and crops. Many generations
of a departed race have trod this undisturbed soil,
beneath whose surface the old roots lie just as they
writhed their way so long ago, and they are sound
yet, though dead, good for kindling or a torch.
No hunter can look at nor touch them without
veneration when he remembers that they have out-
lived a race of hunters, for every hunter has fel-
lowship with all peoples and generations of
hunters. That is a "touch of nature that makes all
the world akin." The descendants of the old tree
are growing all about here and the ground is
covered thickly with their fallen leaves, a carpet of
rich color, soft and noiseless to the tread, and
making this hillside so slippery that one may go
down it much easier than climb it. If one were

20

The Saved Places.

hunting only for game that he might kill, he would
likely enough overlook the rare pine drops that
grow here, so like the tawny mat of needles out of
which they rise.

Here are goodly trees, yet they do not reach for
the unattainable sky as their ancestor did. Their
topmost shoots scarcely overlook the surrounding
growth, and they stretch their long limbs out into
the twilight of the woods so low that the green
leaves on the nether branches brush the fallen dead
ones, but they all sing the old pine's old song of the
far-away sea, and they brood such silence and
solemnity of shades and sepulchral coolness that
one feels a kind of dread creeping over him. The
atmosphere is panthery. This quality is inherited,
for just below where the last pines blotch the pas-
ture with their dark shade, the Catamount Spring
bubbles out at the foot of a great rock, and there,
eighty years ago, a girl bleaching her web of home-
spun linen, was beset by a panther and only saved
by her faithful dog.

Why should not a panther come here now ? The
woods are dark and wild enough, and not a sound
of civilization to be heard. As the daylight dies,
the shadows creep up like panthers stealing on their
prey, and no more silently than the great cat might
tread this soft footing. A twig snaps mysteriously,

21

Hunting Without a Gun.

the pines heave a mournful sigh, and as the
shadows deepen, a bit of phosphorescent wood
glares at you like eyes aflame with baleful light.
As you almost hold your breath to hear a devilish,
yell tear the heavy stillness, if your hand could but
feel the comfortable chill of the good brown bar-
rels of your helpful gun, your back would not suffer
that unacountable shiver which reminds you that it
is not always pleasant to go hunting without a gun.

22

LITTLE OTTER.

|Y boat parts from the oozy bed
where it has lain so long that the
marsh weeds overlap its gun-
wales, with a sound somewhat
like a sigh. I know not whether
it be a sough of relief or of re-
gret. Afloat again on Little Otter, I feel some-
thing of the old exhilaration that warmed my heart
when I first beheld it shining like a floor of silver
at my feet; something of the delightful trepidation
that thrilled me when, with old Mingo Niles, the
good black angel of my childhood, as caretaker and
boatman, I first adventured upon these waters.
Back through the lapse of years come to me the
childish awe of the dark water only an inch board's
thickness under foot and encompassing me all
about; the wonder at strange sights, the delight at
being here at last in the fulfilment of the vague
promise that I might "some time go a-fishing with
Mingo," in what had seemed such far-away, almost
unattainable waters as they gleamed in the breadth

23

Hunting JJ'ithont a Gun.

of their springtime encroachment on marshes and
lowland, or in summertime ribboned the green
levels with a silvern or golden or azure band. The
memory of those sensations is revived with such
vividness that I am appalled by the swiftness of
time. It was more than forty years ago, and yet
it seems that it might have been but last summer.
Can it be that in so short a time the little tow-
headed boy has come to man's estate and grown old
enough to be grizzly? Looking down into the
still waters, the gray-bearded face I see there re-
turning my questioning gaze with something of
wistfulness, something of reproach, answers, "Yes,
even so; and with youth old friends are gone, and
in the swift years old scenes have changed." I am
constrained to admit that even so it is, but breathe
a silent prayer that my heart may continue some-
what longer in youth and in the enjoyment of what
in youth delighted it. With these softening
memories upon me I have no desire to kill any-
thing, not even time, though I wish I might cripple
him as he has me, and retard his flight a little, and
am quite as happy in hunting without a gun to-
day as I would be with the most approved and im-
proved hammerless. Indeed, I would not hunt
with a hammerless gun. I wish to see how a gun
does it when I take a shot at a bird on the wing,

24

Little Otter.

or, as often happens in my
experience, how it does
not do it. If I am to hunt
with a gun, give me at
least the time-honored form
and semblance of the
weapon. Presently, I doubt
not, we shall be given
that safe ideal gun of

the Old Woman's "without "SUCH FAR AWAY UNATTAINABLE

WATERS."
25

Hunting Without a Gun.

lock, stock or barrel," and as the rapid disappear-
ance of game would indicate, presently such a gun
will be as good as any. Then we may all go hunt-
ing without any show of a gun, and enjoy the
pleasant and quiet pastime of shooting without fire,
smoke, noise — or game. So I am hunting to-day, in
close time for all fowl but those that no one but a
murderer of innocents would care to kill.

Such is my unprotected friend, the kingfisher,
who comes jerking his clatter along the channel till
he spies my harmless craft, then sheers off, distrust-
ful of all mankind. Far astern he poises in flutter-
ing steadfastness over the waterway, then drops
like an arrow fallen from the sky, throwing an up-
burst of crystal drops skyward. I hope he got his
prey; it was no fish that I care for and it will com-
fort him greatly. With such approval he might
greet my taking of the pickerel that is forever rob-
bing him of his minnows. Also unprotected, a bit-
tern starts from his damp seat among the weeds
with a guttural squawk. Then a stately heron
breaks from his statuesque guard of a minnowy
shoal and fans his way to some more undisturbed
retreat.

It must have been hereabouts that Tom Sweet
belabored with his paddle and drowned his bear,
the only bear of whose death there is any tradition

26

Little Otter.

in this neighborhood, and a memorable instance of
the success that hunting without a gun may bring,
for Tom had only come a-fishing from the back
side of the township, armed with no deadlier
weapons than his fishpole and paddle.

Rounding the bend, half-way between the
Myers Landing and the Sattley Landing, I come to
the turn of the channel that I can never forget
while I remember anything of the stream, for here
I killed my first duck, shooting it on the wing,
astonishing myself no less than Jule Dop, who
paddled the boat for me. It was enough glory for
one day to have that matchless paddler regard me
with unfeigned admiration, and he not less than
three years my elder, and, as his mother said,
"Lawge of his age an' smawt as he was lawge !"

If I might by any shot at anything, once more
have my heart warmed with such exhilarating fire
as that shot set aflame in it, I could not with
any sincerity recommend this blood-guiltless hunt-
ing, nor practice what I now uphold.

Poor Jule ! many years ago, while he was yet a
boy, he resigned this weary world and tobacco-
chewing and departed into the unknown. I doubt
not that Charon impressed him into his service, for
he would not let so good a paddler depart into eter-
nal uselessness. Poor vagabond, he was good for

27

Hunting Without a Gun.

nothing else, nor ever could nor ever would be. I
fancy that in my last voyage I shall be assured by
the noiseless stroke and undeviating course of the
craft, that Jule propels it, as I go hunting then, as
now, without a gun, in search of I know not what.
I must confess that this companionless revisiting of
old scenes is somewhat depressing to the spirits.

The yearly growth of lily-pads, wild rice, rushes
and sedges, is the same that it was forty years ago,
but I miss the old familiar trees that then bent over
the marshes from the shores that are now only
naked banks of clay, and the broad primeval for-
ests, in whose place are now only dreary acres of
stumps and scant herbage. I miss the once teeming
wild life of the marshes. I do not see one duck,
nor hear one, and few bitterns, and only one
heron ; there are not so many kingfishers, and even
the blackbirds are scarce, scant flocks of them ris-
ing in a scattered flutter out of the wild rice, where
once arose a black cloud with a startling thunder
of wings that made one's gun spring toward his
shoulder in expectation of larger fowl worthier of
its lead. Some alarmed fish break the water with
retreating wakes at my approach, and I see some
signs of muskrats, the floating remnant of their
late suppers and early breakfasts, and hear sounds
behind the green arras of rushes, splashes, plunges

Little Otter.

and smothered squeaks, that I attribute to these lit-
tle representatives of their long-departed bigger
brothers, the beavers. It is comforting to one who
loves the inhabitants of the wrld world to know
that some of them still fairly hold a place in it in
spite of all persecutions and all encroachment of
civilization. Every spring three or four hundred
or more of these fur-wearers are taken out of the
marshes of Little Otter by the trappers and
shooters, and yet there are muskrats, and the
chance of their continuance for many years to come,
for it is hardly probable that the water and the
marshes will be improved off the face of the earth
within the lives of several generations of men.

I notice as many as ever of the marsh wrens'
nests on their supports of gathered rushes, and
hear the rasping notes of these birds, always re-
minding me of those well-intentioned persons who
have neither voice nor tune, but will always be
trying to sing.

Button bushes are not worth cutting, even in
malicious spite of woody growth, and their wide
patches of scraggly, impenetrable tangle flourish
and bear balls of purple buds, white inflorescence,
and green and brown fruitage, whose bristling ro-
tundity nothing seems to assail.

There is promise of a great crop of wild rice
29

Hunting Without a Gun.

this year, but the old-time harvesters will not come
in any force to gather it, as they did in the days of
my youth. Then by the middle of September every
stalk was stripped by the hordes of ducks, and the
wet fields so cleanly gleaned by the throngs of
blackbirds that it was a wonder how a kernel was
left for next year's seeding. It is sad to think how
the few survivors of that countless peaceful army
will be harried by the more numerous army of gun-
ners, and will not have a day's, hardly an hour's,
truce given them to rest and feed in the midst of
this bounteous fare. Sometimes as one considers
the ruthless bloodthirst of his kind, he is almost
ashamed that he is of mankind, and then, consider-
ing how little better he is than the meanest of his
fellows, and how much safer he is to be one of
them than to be any wild thing, however harmless,
he is humbly reconciled.

The blue spikes of pickerel weed bristle as of
yore against the pale of rushes, and the white blos-
soms of saggitaria thrive there, above the spent
arrows of their leaves, that some time since were
shot up out of the mud and water by invisible
sprites of the under world. The white dots that
toss on my boat's wake as it stirs the border of
rushes to a rustling of their intermingling tips I
fancy at first are the breast feathers of some mur-

30

Lit tie Otter.

dered waterfowl, or possibly a drift of castaway
land blossoms; but upon examination they prove to
be what my friend the botanist tells me is a species
of buttercup — a milkman's buttercup it must be,
so white and so watery, yet nevertheless a pretty
flower.

In every little sheltered cove, or rush-locked
pool, is moored a great fleet of duckweed, with as
unstable anchorage in the shifting waves as have
the myriads of water bugs that thrid the mazes
of their dance in midchannel and among the lily-
pads. I have an impression that that motionless
green lump is a bullfrog, and slowing my stroke
until the boat lies almost abreast of him, I detect
the solemn wink of his eye, and presently he begins
to thrum the strings of his water-soaked banjo,
which his brethren hearing and quickly catching the
old air, all join in a melody of thin but resounding
bass. I am constrained to admit, much against my
stomach, that I enjoy them more so than fried
in bread crumbs, and indeed there is less grossness,
less animalism, in feasting one's ears than in feast-
ing one's stomach. The twang of the bullfrog's
chorus coming to our ears, the blush of the apple
blossoms to our eyes and their scent to our nostrils,
used to inform us that it was time to go fishing for
"pike," as we always called the pike-perch, in de-

31

Hunting Without a Gun.

fiance of correct nomenclature, as we call our com-
monest thrush, robin. The habit of using familiar
names is hard to break in the ever-present tempta-
tion to make one's self easily understood. Ask the
ordinary country boy whether there are any ruffed
grouse in such a piece of woods,, and if you get any
answer but a blank stare it will be in the negative,
possibly supplemented with the remark that he
"never heard o' no sech critter." Meet him half-
way and inquire for partridges, or come quite down
to the level of his speech, beyond that unnecessary
first "r," and he will tell you all he knows of those
familiar woods-acquaintances of his, all the more
readily if you are hunting without a gun, for he is
jealous of those who hunt with one.

Floating lazily along, without even a rod to
hinder day dreaming, my thoughts and fancies run
counter on the trail of time, back to the old, old
days when, on the shores behind the marshes, the
border of the primeval forests bristled streamward
in a great abattis of prone trees and trees slanting
in all inclines toward their final fall. Then the
moose and elk and deer came here to feed on the
succulent water plants; the woody walls tossed back
and forth the scream of the panther and the howl
of the wolf; the wake of the otter broke the stream
that, in three languages, he gave his name to, and

32

Little Otter.

such innumerable hordes of waterfowl as one can
hardly imagine now, bred here and congregated
here in their passage to and from northern and
southern homes.

Waubanakees and Iroquois prowled in the bor-
dering coverts, and neither for safety nor sport
would one have chosen then to hunt or even- to
journey here without a gun.

These waterways were the paths of the pioneers
who first adventured here, paths smooth and un-
obstructed in summer and winter, leading up into
the depth and mystery of the forest. Where the
marsh spreads widest from channel to shore, or
where the shining path stretches toward the sunrise,
those travelers caught glimpses of such unmistak-
able landmarks as Mozeobedee Wadso* and
Tawabedee Wadso** towering above this frayed
seam of almost unbroken forest. Otherwise they
saw only the undistinguishable sameness of the
fringe of willows, the lofty palisade of water
maple, ash and elm, overtopped by dark crests of
pines behind them.

The sense of loneliness and isolation must have
fallen heavily on those not born to the spirit of ad-

* Mansfield: "The Moosehead Mountain."
** Camel's Hump. "The Saddle Mountains," or the
"Mountain where one may sit and ride."

33

Hunting Without a Gun.

venture or to the alluring love of solitude. I won-
der if those voyagers were garrulous, and if many
jests were bandied back and forth among the crew
or whether they were well nigh voiceless, using
only eyes and ears and muscles. Doubtless they
lightened their hearts with jests, as Kane's men did
theirs in the midst of Arctic desolation, and were
not so lonely as I am here to-day, though I am at-
tended by ghosts of departed friends who were
once here in the flesh, and by ghosts of slain trees
and by memories — what ghosts haunt one more
than memories — of sports that are gone forever.
Sad company are they, but yet far better than none.
To have seen them and known them as they were
in the happy past is something to cherish.

All along the creek the memory of old home-
steads lingers in the names of landings, where
foundation stones, a pit that was once a cellar and
a few scraggy apple trees are all that are left to
show where men once lived. Almost as faint traces
of human occupancy as the pot shards and flint
chips that mark the sites of old Indian camps.

The same instinct of happy choice seems to have
governed the white man as the red, for I think of
four landings, bearing English names, where there
are traces of quite permanent aboriginal occupancy;
the Hazard Landing, better known now as Mud

34

Little Otter.

Landing, and better so named, as anyone will at-
test who has set foot in it — and I say it advisedly ;
the Myers Landing, where old John Myers'
locusts still flourish; at the Davis Landing, nearly
across stream from this, and most notably at the
Sattley Landing as well as what is now called

SATTLEY LANDING.

Hawkin's Landing, its former name being lost,
some of the red pre-possessors of the shores dwelt
long enough to make a yet enduring mark. All of
these were places where shore and channel wooed
one another, and the access to land or water was
easy to lazy Indians or tired white men.

Where the East Slang is bounded by stable
shores of its own, at the spot where my friend Sam
Lovel once built his camp, there is a landing that

35

Hunting Without a Gun.

never had a name in modern times, unless for a lit-
tle while old John Cherbineau was its godfather,
there is abundant proof that Sam instinctively chose
a good camping place. On a lucky day one may
find handsome arrow points there, on any day
chips of flint and fragments of pottery to show
that for reasons not all apparent now, this place
was in favor with those ancient campers-out. No
doubt they had a name for it as drowsily musical as
the gurgle of a brook or the lazy song of a wood
peewee. The Waubanakees spend no unnecessary
strength in the triviality of speech, never strug-
gling, as we do, with rough consonants, but just
opening their lips and letting the smooth words
ooze out. What a lazy, effortless sound their "yes"
and "no" have, "Onh honh," UN' dah." They
have not to stir their tongues nor pucker their lips
to utter them. One can but wish their christening
of these streams had been recognized and held to
by their successors. Such names as Peconktuk,
Wanakaketuk and Sungahneetuk certainly are bet-
ter than Great and Little Otter and Lewis Creek.
They suggest something, even though one does not
know that they mean the Crooked River, the River
of Otters, and the River of Fish Weirs.

A bumble bee comes blundering aboard my
craft, and after a brief inspection of crew and

36

Little Otter.

cargo, settles on my paddle handle. I wonder if
he can be the same old golden-coated voyager who
used to board our craft in those long ago Septem-
ber days when we came here duck shooting. His
dress and manners are most familiar, especially his
unceremonious manners. In spite of statistics, I

am willing to believe that he is our fellow voyager
and vistor of those days. Also that the hoary-
headed eagle who swings in majestic rounds above
the bluff at the creek's mouth is the same one we
used to see there in just such noble flight, scorning
this lower, creeping world, even when he deigned
for a little while to enthrone himself on the tallest

37

Hunting Jl'ithont a Gun.

of its trees. It is pleasant to fool one's self with
the belief that not all the wild life of those days is
extinct.

A family of wood ducks, the youngest well
grown and strong-winged, rise out of the marsh
with a prodigious startling splash and flutter and
squeaking, close at hand, and offer such a tempting
shot that I take aim with my paddle, and tell them
how lucky it is for them that it is close time and
that I am hunting without a gun. So hunts his
majesty of the skies over there, above the mouth of
the creek, but I warn them to beware of him, for
he has cruel weapons.

Poor, persecuted wretches,, get you into the
furthermost nooks of the marsh, hide 'behind the
thickest screen of rushes and bide there, for these
waters will be populous with men who are hunting
with guns when the first September morning
dawns.

Somehow this dispersed congregation of. ducks
convince me that I have had enough of hunting
without a gun for to-day, and I turn my prow
homeward, pondering, as the swallows skim and
wrinkle with their light touch the blue-black path
before me, on recent advice concerning the loading
of shells.

THE PATH OF BOATLESS
GENERATIONS.

RESH fields for exploration and
adventure have become few
and restricted, and if they had
not, there are many who could
not and many who would not
seek them. We who for one
reason or the other never get far from the ground
to which our pioneer grandfathers transplanted
their families, must content ourselves with hun-
dredth hand exploration and make the most of
small adventures. As we till and mow, with all
the ease a farmer may, the fields that our grand-
sires smoothed for us with infinite toil out of the
old wilderness, so we float with only the labor of
oar and paddle along the streams whereon their
way was beset with a century's downfall and drift
of bordering forest. When afoot if we lose our
way and faintly realize what it is to "get lost,"
it is in second growth woods where we can almost
feel the way of the wind or see it in the drift of
the clouds, and we recover our bearings with little

39

Hunting Without a Gun.

exercise of woodcraft. It is a greater adventure
for us to meet a raccoon than for our ancestors
to have encountered a bear; the muskrat and the
mink are rarer sights to our eyes than the beaver
and otter were to theirs, and they saw moose and
deer oftener than we see grouse and woodcock.
But we have more time to look at the little that
is left us of the wild world, and may possibly dis-
cover something that was overlooked by our toil-
ing forefathers.

With such purpose, and with a whole day to de-
vote to it, I came to the creek this morning, intend-
ing to voyage somewhere, perhaps up the South
Slang, diverging therefrom into Goose Creek, and
as far up as its narrow channel would let me, or if
another way should invite me more, down to the
mouth of Wonakaketukese and cruise along the
shore of the Bay of Vessels, or up the beauti-
ful Sungahneetuk.

But my purpose and half-formed plans were
frustrated when I found my boat was gone from
her soft bed of mud, borrowed by someone who
had not taken the trouble of asking, to ferry him-
self across to the Myers Landing. There she
was, hauled up on the further shore, not thirty rods
away, "so near and yet so far," for between us lay
impassable marsh and channel. Should I wait till

40

The Path of Boatless Generations.

the unlicensed borrower returned, or should T take
a three-mile tramp by way of the first bridge, and
follow the shore around to where she was now lying ?
It would be long waiting if my unknown benefi-
ciary should choose to come back by another route,
or not come back at all, and so of the two the

DOWN THE CHANNEL FROM MUD LANDING.

longer and more toilsome seemed the easier and
quicker way to regain possession of my boat.

Lighting my pipe and shouldering my paddle,
after a long look up and down the channel in fruit-
less quest of some friendly craft that might give
me ferriage, I took the path that boatless genera-
tions of red and white men had trod before me.
Frequently it led me under some old apple trees,

41

Hunting Without a Gun.

the ragged survivors of the orchard planted a hun-
dred years ago by the old settler, Davis. Near
them is a wild plum tree, a giant of its slow-
growing race, a foot and a half in diameter, stand-
ing patriarchal in a thicket of its sprouts. How
the old settler's children must have delighted in the
fruit of this tree — a lusty one even in their young
day — poor little souls, with nothing to satisfy the
child's craving for such fare but what nature had
impartially set for them and bird and beast. How
sweet to their palates were the red horse plums
while they were awaiting the tardy fruitage of
these seedling apple trees.

I fancy that Tom Sweet's bear was on his way
to this tree, doubtless well known to all the bears
that ranged hereabouts, or was returning from it,
overladen with a paunchful of unstoned plums,
when the valorous old fisherman overtook him in
midchannel and beat the life out of him with his
paddle. The elm Tom stripped the bark from to
make a harness for his saddle horse wherewith to
haul his trophy home, has gone the way of most of
our old trees, and I look in vain for a great elm,
with a long scar seaming its trunk, for my imagina-
tion to browse upon.

The apple trees, that for half a century have
had no care, have not lost all characteristics of

42

The Path of Boatless Generations.

civilization, but show a manner of growth very
different from the wild apple trees one finds in pas-
ture land and sometimes in the woods. The wild
tree of the pasture is more like its neglected
brethren of the orchard, scrubby and beset with
sprouts, but with no such mark of the pruning saw
as may be seen on these trees where the square-cut
stumps of limbs jut from the trunk, their ends
almost overgrown with bark and each with a
branch of later growth curving upward therefrom,
shaped like a monstrous teapot spout. Many years
have passed since their branches were thinned but
by decay and storm, or their fruit gathered but by
the squirrels.

What jolly "paring bees" it gave occasion for,
uproarious with the unrestrained fun of old-time
merry-makings, when all the young folks of the
wide neighborhood gathered at the house up yon-
der to pare, quarter, core and string the apples.
Do I hear the squeak of the fiddle tuning up for
Money Musk, the squawk of make-believe surprise
of a buxom damsel kissed in a romping game, -and
the guffaw of the swain who caught her? Or was
I only dreaming, and the sounds that caught my
ear were only the chafing of a branch, the squall
of a red-headed woodpecker, the cawing of a
crow ? Long ago the fiddler exchanged his cracked

43

Hunting Without a Gun.

instrument for a golden harp; the lads and lassies
of those days were old men and women when we
were babies, and have slept for many years beneath
the graveyard goldenrods; and their ghosts, if in-
clined to visit the scene of their junketings, would
find scarcely a trace of it, for the hearthstone is
under the turf and the chimney bricks are scattered
far and wide.

There is the swaying branch that fooled my ear,
there is the crow, sagging along in flight from
shore to shore, and there the woodpecker, trying
his luck at fly-catching. Old trees have grown too
scarce to supply his stomach's wants, or he has
discovered that it is easier to bore thin air than
wood for his food, and he seems to be having fair
success in this lighter industry. Every loop he
makes from his perch on that basswood stub,
though it is done with a jerking flight, quite awk-
ward compared with the airy swoop of the king-
bird or phebe, apparently brings something to his
maw, and he repeats his sallies with evident satis-
faction. If he learned this trick of the born fly-
catchers, I wonder if he borrowed one of his notes
of the tree toad, who must be as intimate an
acquaintance.

A golden-winged woodpecker, happy possessor
of many befitting names, flies up before me from an

44

The Path of Boatless Generations.

ant hill with a loud "yarrup" and a "flicker" of
gold and white. While I am speculating on the
possibility of his final development, with his
•groundling habits, into a woodcock, I stumble
through a thicket of willows and up starts the real
woodcock, thridding the soft fluff of leaves with
a rapid whir so different from the yellowhammer's
flight that I am convinced that my highhole's way
to woodcockery will not be made in my day. He
has rid himself in some measure of the loping
flight of the woodpecker, acquired when trees were
nearer together than now, and one stroke of the
wings would bear a bird from tree to tree, but how
and with what years of practice shall he acquire
that rapid wingbeat which surrounds the flyer with
a brown halo, an aureole, if he might attain it, how
manage those sudden shiftings of course that one
may fancy sometimes surprise even the woodcock
himself, as they certainly do him who essays to
stop them. Well, I am content that he should con-
tinue even as he is, game for those who hunt with-
out a gun, a delight to the eye that sees him beyond
any intervening gun sight, a delight to the ear and
the heart when his jolly cackle tells of the assured
arrival of spring.

While I stop to mark the woodcock's flight as he
darts away to another of his haunts, I am given a

45

Hunting Without a Gnu.

9

rare and pretty sight. Another alights on the soft
inner border of the marsh just before me, and
struts a moment with lowered wings and spread
tail, then daintily prods the mud with his bill, bor-
ing till he strikes a worm, which he brings up and
swallows. How he knew the worm was there is as
much a mystery as how the squirrel knows where in
the unmarked level of the snow to dig for a nut
and find it. He alighted silently, with as little fuss
and flutter as the ruffed grouse makes when he
alights, undisturbed, and you can hardly believe
that he is the same bird who tears his noisy way
through branches or air when rudely or warily you
intrude upon his privacy. He gives you a lesson
in silent approach when he comes to you. ' I make
a wide detour and leave the woodcock to his late
breakfast or early dinner, and do not hear him
fly away, though no doubt his quick ear has caught
my careful footfalls. Perhaps not seeing me, he
takes me for some kindlier animal than man, or
possibly he knows that I am hunting without a gun.
Above the Myers Landing the steep banks of
Little Otter are scored with frequent gullies, which
in the old times, when there were ducks, were the
coigns of vantage of gunners, who, creeping down
them, were almost sure to find a flock of wood-
ducks upon a log waiting for a raking shot, or a

46

The Path of Boatless Generations.

huddle of unsuspicious teal, or a great drove of
dusky ducks comforting themselves with wild rice,
duck gossip and aquatic sport. Those old gunners
held the obsolete idea of sport, that its object was
to get game, and perhaps they had an eye to the
flesh pots as no sportsman has now, and perhaps
had another to feather beds, for I remember
some old duck shooters who cared nothing for
a duck but for its feathers. They never squan-
dered their handfuls of powder and shot on a
single bird, rarely risked the chances of a wing shot
at flocks, but patiently waited for great opportuni-
ties of destruction, then picked up their ten or a
dozen birds and went home, happy with the result
of one wise expenditure of ammunition. The
ducks learned nothing from these infrequent les-
sons of danger; and the unscathed ones were back
in their haunts next day. But the incessant bang-
ing of latter day sportsmen has taught the few sur-
viving wildfowl to avoid the narrow limits of these
upper marshes, where it is now unsafe for even a
poor bittern or kingfisher to venture.

As I breast the further bank of one of these gul-
lies I am painfully reminded that here I was given
my first chance of a shot at ducks. Coming to the
crest of the bank it was my luck to see them before
they caught sight of me, a flock of twenty or more,

47

Hunting H'ilhout a Gun.

sitting just off the end of this point in such a hud-
dle that a blanket might cover them all. Down I
sank close to the ground, and pushing my gun be-
fore me, wormed my way through thirty rods of
ripe thistles till I was in short range of them. And
now I, who had only for a year or so been per-
mitted to use a gun, and with no greater achieve-
ment than squirrel shooting to boast of, was to
cover myself with glory and suddenly attain a
place among great sportsmen. My heart ham-
mered loudly and painfully, but I took careful aim,
remembering all I had ever heard of the danger
of over-shooting in down-hill shots, and then pulled
the trigger manfully, without a wink or a flinch,
and the miserable little thin-shelled corroded
abomination of a "G. D." cap — may the soul of
the Frenchman who made it never find peace — •
responded only with a flat click. That mischance
holds a place among the bitter disappointments of
my life; and the old pain visits my heart with the
same first sickening twinge whenever I see this
spot. I wish the old scent of the marshes and the
old indescribable aroma of autumn woods might
as easily come to my nostrils, just as of old they
arose from marsh and woodland. I catch a whiff
of them sometimes, but faint and elusive, and not
to be inhaled with the full invigorating thrill they

The Path of Boatless Generations.

gave the boy. Alas! the boy's keenness of scent
has gone with many another of his youthful
belongings.

In one of those days, when I was hunting with a
gun, I stood on the sticky shore of Mud Landing,
closely scanning marsh and channel that seemed to
have no living thing in or upon them, when all at
once they burst into teeming life. A hawk, cruis-
ing over the marsh, made a sudden swoop, when,
with a thundering roar of two hundred wings, a
great flock of wood ducks uprose from the sedges
and wild rice and at once settled in the channel, so
safe from his attack in the water deep enough to
dive in, that the baffled marsh harrier sailed sul-
lenly away. They were far out of range of my
shotgun and not to be more nearly approached
without a boat, so that all my satisfaction was in
the goodly sight of them.

This landing, the only one of the lower creek
where bank and channel meet, the marsh every-
where else separating them, was a favorite fishing
place for us boys, to whom boating was forbidden.
Here we could cast from the shore into deep water
with a delightful uncertainty of what we might
catch, and also with great expectations. It might
be that our worms would lure only pumpkin-seeds
or perch or bullheads, but there was always a pos-

49

Hunting Without a Gun.

sibility of their tempting a hungry pickerel or pike-
perch or sheepshead. These last valiant fighters
we valued only for the fun of catching, the show
they made on our strings and the "lucky bones"
which were the inner adornment of their heads,
perhaps carried by them, as by us, for luck. I have

A FAVORITE FISHING PLACE FOR US BOYS.

no knowledge that these charms ever brought us
good luck, but we felt that the chances were better
with a pair of them rattling in our trousers pockets.
We did not know that these fish were good to eat—
for our mothers had not learned that parboiling
would make them very toothsome when broiled or
fried — for after wrestling with the toughness of
the first one, all the sheepshead we caught went to
the cats.

A little farther up stream is Bowfin Bay, in
whose weedy shallows greatly abound the uncouth

50

The Path of Boatless Generations.

and worthless fish who gave it a name. If one de-
sires only the "goode tugging" that Gervaise
Markham promises to show you if you "tie a hooke
with a Frogge upon it with a string at the foote of
a Goose, and put her into a Pond," he may get as
much as he likes of it here with the same bait, a
strong hook and line and a stout pole, not a rod.
The stronger the tackle the better, for when the
bowfin is hauled in there comes with him all the
marsh growth within the line's scope. Of the edi-
ble qualities of this fish it may be said that of the
many who have tried to eat him few have suc-
ceeded, and fewer yet have been bold enough to
pronounce him good. This may be said in his
commendation, that in his infancy he is much be-
loved of pike-perch and bass, and so hardy that he
may be kept for the angler's use half the summer
in a tub of unchanged water.

Here is Potash Landing, the uppermost of the
lower creek on this bank and named for the potash
works that stood here in old times. Here in
older times the proprietor's clerk of this township
suffered the loss of the land records in his keeping,
"about forty deeds for about six thousand acors."
The mishap, which befell "the 3 day of the iom.,
1785," is circumstantially chronicled in his own
hand and spelling in the archives of the town. The

Hunting Without a Gun.

old surveyor was moving "to letill ortor crik forls"
with his "wife and five childarn and one woman
peggy smith by name and one child was all in an
open bote and it was a dark rany time." There was
nothing in the matter-of-fact account of the affair
to give one the impression that these women and
children were suffering unusual hardship in such
belated, stormy travel, but rather that it was an
ordinary circumstance of pioneer life, remarkable
only for the casualty by which "Ritings of grate
importuns" were "bornt" Wider apart than the
lapse of years which divide them is the difference
between our easy lives and theirs of toil and
privation.

It is not easy to imagine these smooth, grassy
slopes, shaggy with the wild woods that clothed
them then; these shores, bristling with the prone
and inclining trees, through which the "open bote"
came to the end of her voyage, nor easy to picture
to one's self the savage wildness of the gorge at
the falls, choked with an inextricable confusion
of floodwood that the lithe mink could scarcely
find a passage through, above the hidden current.

The drought-shrunken stream is too weak to
turn the mill wheel to-day, and the sawyer is idly
pottering about among the scant array of logs in
the millyard awaiting the slow filling of the dam.

The Path of Boatless Generations.

A footman need not take the bridge, and I cross
the dribble of waste water dry shod. The jolly
sawyer welcomes me as warmly as if I were the
owner of a thousand logs, shows me the latest
improvement of his mill, consisting of a new prop
set in the labyrinth of posts and props that keep
the log slide from tumbling down, and then takes
me into his museum, the disused grist mill, whose
inner walls are hung with an odd collection of old-
time implements and weapons. To each old farm-
ing tool and household utensil of clumsy but honest
workmanship, to flintlock musket and militia cap-
tain's sword, he sets some fanciful history of his
own invention, and the forenoon has grown short
when I set forth on my way down the left bank.
As my head gets above the crest of a ridge, some
moving objects on the slope of the next catch my
eyes, which presently make them out to be a family
of foxes, five cubs at play, and the mother watching
their pranks with evident approval and pride in
their promise of vulpine excellence. How alert
and nimble they are, how different every motion
from the clumsy gambols of puppies. While I
watch them, forecasting sport in November days,
when I shall not go hunting without a gun, and
freshening my memory of the runways hereabouts,
Madame Vixen, who does not let pride get the bet-

53

Hunting H'ilhout a Gun.

ter of watchfulness, by some sense becomes aware
of my intrusion, and speedily calls her babies in-
doors, she lingering last at the threshold to chide
me with a snarling bark. Upon closer inspection
the neighborhood of her abode does not betoken
neat housekeeping, for there is an untidy litter of
bones and feathers strewn about, lambs' legs and
turkey pinions enough to enkindle the wrath of all
the shepherds and poultry wives in town. I shall
tell them no tales of her, and pray that she may be
left to rear her young in peace, that none of them
may fall in with any but such as hunt without a
gun till fields are dun and woods are brown.

Following a path much used by cows and fisher-
men, I skirt Hemlock Point, where many years
ago I visited a party of St. Francis Indians, trap-
pers and basket-makers, who were camped here in
the shelter of the great hemlocks. The place would
not invite them to tarry in it now, for not a tree is
left to shade it, and of the beautiful hemlocks there
remains but the name. With the exception of my
friend, the sawyer, and one other, every riparian
owner on the lower creek does his worst to strip
the banks of trees, to the stream's loss of beauty
and his own of soil. I must confess to some
un-Christian satisfaction when the rotting roots of
the murdered trees loose their strong, kindly hold,

54

The Path 'of Boat less Generations.

and a rood or more of land slips into the spring
floods.

The locust trees of the Myers Landing are close
in sight now, and with the nearer prospect of get-
ting afloat, I begin to rearrange the plan of the
voyage that must be shortened to accommodate it
to what remains of the day. I stumble over the
grass-grown foundations of the old Dutchman's
house, and wonder to what quarters of the world
was scattered the dusky brood that he and his
mulatto wife reared here in the shadows of the
locusts that he planted. There is something
pathetic in the thought of those children, whose lot
was cast with the despised race of the mother,
though more of white than of negro blood ran in
their veins. I remember one of them, a comely,
sad-faced woman, harbored in middle age in the
family of a negro, whom in her girlhood she was
too proud to marry. Poor Chloe, on what shore,
far from this quiet stream you first beheld, were
you stranded by the tide of years?

I round the last thicket that hides my boat,
grasping my paddle for the long, strong push that
shall send her swishing through the marsh, and my
foot is almost raised to step on board, when I dis-
cover that she is not here. The sole occupant of
her flattened bed of rushes is a big bullfrog, who

55

Hunting JTithout a Gun.

winks at me placidly over his broad straight mouth,
uncommitted by upward or downward curve to a
smile of derision or a sad expression of sympathy.
Over there on the farther shore, in the very place
where I sought her this morning, just as far from
me now as then, lies my boat in the port to which
the honest thief has considerately returned her.
If my emotions are those of gratitude or of a
quite opposite character, I have no language
wherewith to give them expression, but if that fel-
low were within fifty yards of me at this moment,
I am inclined to believe that he would have reason
to be thankful that I am hunting to-day without
a gun.

DOWN AMONG THE FISHES.
I.

N the cool shadow of an aban-
doned scow that lay fast
aground on the bank, with her
battered bow half hidden in a
pillow of ferns, an old bass was
taking his ease of a June morn-
ing. It was just after his daintily chosen break-
fast, the pick of the swimming and flying things
around and above him — a silver-scaled, soft-finned
minnow, a delicate little spotted frog and two or
three gaudy flies, most prized because hardest to
catch. He was an aristocrat of fishes, with the cor-
nersof his mouth reaching back no further than the
middle of his eyes, the slight jutting of his under
jaw, the thin, fine scales of his bronze armor, the
nine sharp spines of the first dorsal — all betoken-
ing the blue blood of the small-mouthed bass. He
was a fish of weight — a good five pounds — in his
community, and a patriarch, to whose opinions
born of much experience most of the bass in the

57

Hunting Without a Gun.

stream deferred, and often came to him for advice
and to listen to his stories of adventure.

Just now there were none of his kind near him
save his wife, who hovered about mid-stream
vigilantly guarding the bed where her eggs, fast
glued to the fine. gravel, awaited hatching. If a
water-logged twig or chip came tumbling along the
bottom threatening to pollute the sacred precincts,
she seized it before it found lodgment and set it
adrift at a safe distance down stream. If any
perch, sunfish or ugly bullhead imprudently ven-
tured nearer than suited her ladyship, she would
rush at them with a short but terribly menacing
rush that sent them scurrying far out of sight. But
when a sucker came rooting along the bottom with
his ridiculous looking snout, he was met by a more
furious and persistent charge that drove him well
out of the neighborhood; for well she knew what
destruction that toothless mouth meant to eggs.
While she was absent in the chase, her lord, who
all the while was holding his place against the cur-
rent with a slight motion of his tail, moved a little
out stream and kept guard. It needed but a turn-
ing of his grim front toward the small fry to send
them off in swift retreat; but the great spotted
pickerel that came sculling leisurely up stream,
glaring wickedly about in supreme indifference to

58

'icn Am-Lng the Fishes.

his many enemies — friends he had not — was not
scared by any such slight demonstrations. Soft-
finned though he was, the cavernous mouth and its
glistening rows of teeth, sharp as daggers, were not
to be despised. There was no need for quarreling
with him now, for he was not notorious as a de-
vourer .of spawn, but the presence of the insatiate
destroyer of young fish, even to cannibalism, was
intolerable to all parents of fishes.

"May I ask you to pass on if you're going up
stream?" said the bass, fiercely regarding his big
enemy.

"S'posen I hain't goin' tu? If it's your mis'able
aigs you're so scared on, don't worry; I don't want
'em ; an' I'm goin' when I git ready."

"Perhaps so," said the bass, who just then saw
madame returning, and made a signal, whereupon
she boldly faced the enemy. While she thus en-
gaged his attention, her lord set the spines of his
back fin and made a furious charge, raking the
pickerel's belly till the scales rattled and blood
flowed out between them. So swift and unexpected
was the charge and the manner of delivery, that
the great fish, twice the size of both assailants,
turned and fled down the river. Congratulating
themselves upon their easily won victory, they re-
sumed their places, she, over the bed, he, under the

59

Hunting Without a Gun.

scow, whence he began a watch for something to
satisfy his appetite, which recent exercise had
sharpened. Nothing appeared but a company of
four well-grown bass on their way to the spawning
ground further up the river. In whatever haste
they might be, they must need wait on the patriarch
for advice, which he was willing enough to impart,
though they harrowed his feelings with an account
of a feast of minnows they enjoyed in a shallow
near the lake.

"Never mind," said he, cheerfully; "there'll be
something along by and by. Why do you go up
into the shallow water?"

A pert young bass took it upon himself to
answer, "Oh, we want swift, well-aerated water.
It's healthier than this sluggish stuff, and food is
plentier. Besides that, we have a better chance to
look out and see the world in shallow water."

"Yes, and the world has the same chance to see
you," the patriarch said. "You cannot make your
beds nor get yourselves out of sight of every man
and boy who passes along the banks, as well as
every mink that comes a-hunting by land or water,
and the fish-hawks and kingfishers that cruise in the
air above. Our bed is pretty much out of sight of
all these ; they can't see me through the bottom of
this old scow ; there is food enough to keep us fairly

60

Down Among the Fishes.

comfortable, and the water isn't bad, though it
don't go tearing over rocks and gravel. For me
these advantages more than offset all you get up
there, and I ought to know, for I've tried both
places. I was hatched down here, and thought it
too stupid for any fish but bowfins and billfish and
bullheads and eels, and those upstart cousins of
ours, the big-mouths.

"It is plenty good enough for the low-down fel-
lows, for all they take on such airs because men
call 'em 'game fish.' The annoyance of their com-
pany is the objection to this part of the river.
Well, as T was saying, I thought this no place for
bass of the blue blood, and accordingly determined
to select a more suitable home when I came of
proper age. My parents warned me of the dangers
that would surround, but I held to my determina-
tion to go where the salmon used to, in the old
times when they were lords of the river as we are
now, as I had heard from my great-great-grand-
father, who was told by his, as related to him by his
great-great grandfather, who had it from those
who lived in the days when red men instead of
white ruled all the land. Those were happy days
for fish, for the red men wanted no more than
they could eat, and had small means of getting even
so many. Their bone hooks and spears and bark

61

Hunting Without a Gun.

nets weren't much compared with all the con-
trivances of white men. After a time, one winter,
when we were all out in the deep water of the lake,
I found a mate — not this lady, who is much
younger than I," waving a pectoral fin toward
madame, "but one of my own age, whom I lost
long ago by a cruel death," he paused to wipe a
watery eye with the upper fluke of his caudal, "and
in the following May we came into the river and up
through the dark water to the wrinkled rapids, clat-
tering over beds of gravel. It was good to breathe
this sparkling water and to see through it, the over-
hanging trees, the green banks and the hillsides far
beyond, distorted though they were into strange
fantastic shapes, as seen through the rippled sur-
face. There were plenty of soft-finned minnows,
too, whereon to feast, and as kingfishers were the
only enemies we had seen so far, we were well
satisfied that we had decided wisely in choosing
our new home.

"We swam on and on, prospecting for a place
that should exactly suit us to make our bed in, but
being hard to please, we came at last to a kind of
fence of woven twine that reached quite across the
stream, where it ran swift, deep and narrow for a
few rods. This fence slanted up-stream from
either end to the middle, where it came to a point,

62

Down Among the Fishes.

which was further extended by a contrivance that
we did not then understand, though we learned it
later to our cost. We swam the whole length along
the top, which was kept at the surface by wooden
floats, but could discover no way of passing but by
leaping over. I was about to do this when my mate
called to me to come and see what she had found.
This was a round passage at the angle of the fence,
into which we went a little way to where it ended
in a circular bag that apparently gave us a free way
up the river. Instead of this, it opened to a sort
of chamber, formed of the same kind of stuff as the
fence. It was crowded with fish of several kinds,
all moving about in search of a way out, but ap-
parently there was none. We thought we might at
least go out where we came in, but strangely
enough we could not find the place. My mate up-
braided herself without stint for our being in such
a bad box, when, if my suggestion had been fol-
lowed and we had used our peculiar gift, we would
have leaped the barrier and gone safely on our way.
I told her there was no use in crying over lost eggs,
and the only thing for us was to find a way out of
the scrape we were in, though to tell the truth I
had little idea how it was to be done. What this
strange contrivance was we didn't know, but
guessed it was one of man's cunning devices for the

63

Hunting Without a Gun.

destruction of fish, and if so, the sooner we were
out of it the better.

"It was not an agreeable place to be in, apart
from the confinement and the prospective danger,
for the company was not of the best. There was a
big pickerel, a coarse, vulgar fellow who scared the
smaller fish nearly out of their scales and made
very free with his betters. There was an abomin-
able eel constantly wriggling about, impartially dis-
tributing his filthy slime to everything he touched,
and there were several bullheads, mighty uncom-
fortable in close quarters with their sharp horns
pricking your sides. Then there were two or three
goggle-eyed suckers, harmless looking chaps, if you
didn't know that their soft-lipped under-shutting
mouths were made on purpose for sucking up
spawn. There was a considerable number of hand-
some perch, to say nothing of ourselves, to redeem
the genial character of the company, yet it was
plain to be seen that this part of the stream was not
free from spawn-eaters, as well as otherwise un-
pleasant companions. This reflection was not likely
to be of much consolation or consequence, as it
would be the end of all things for us when the men
came who had set this trap for us.

" 'What did ye come up here for?' the pickerel
asked, in a surly tone ; but wishing to be on good

64

Do-an Among the Fishes.

terms with all fish in these last hours of life, I
answered very civilly and told him our purpose.

" 'Wai, I al'ays thought you bass folks was a
mess o' fools, a-fussin' so wi' your aigs,' he said
with a sneer on his wicked long face. 'We dump
our'n down anywheres on the ma'sh, and that's
the end on't for us; but I reckon there's as many
pickerel raised as the' is bass.'

" 'Quite enough at any rate,' I said, at which he
glared at me as if he would eat me but for the
dangerous look of my back fin, which I felt willing
enough to give him a taste of on the outside of his
mouth.

'We hang our eggs up on bushes, where they
look very pretty, but the ducks, mud turtles and
some kinds of fish make us a lot of trouble,' said
one of the oldest perch, speaking up quite modest
and polite, 'but it's the way we were taught, and
we don't know any other.'

"At that up spoke the impudent black fellow,
the bullhead, 'Ef ye wants ter have an easy job
a-takin' keer o' aigs, ye jes' dig ye a hole in the
bank an' drop yer aigs into 't, an' then back verse' f
in, wi' yer hade aout; ef anybody comes a-foolin'
'raoun', jes sting him. Dat's de way I sarves 'em.'

"The eel, who was a Canadian, said, with a cun-
ning laugh, 'De bes' way was for nobody know de

65

Hunting. Without a Gun.

way how dey was lay hees aig. Den somebody
can' fin' hees aig for spile 'em up. Dat de
way wid heel. Nobody can' tol' you if de
heel borned or if he hatch off hegg. Some tarn
one feller say he come off clam, nudder feller say
he come off ling. Heel ant tol' somebody, so he go
safe all de tarn.'

"Just then we felt the bank shaken by someone
approaching, and ourselves more shaken by fear
when we saw a man slowly, slowly drawing nearer
and carefully scanning the water and searching it
with a large hook at the end of a pole. This
presently caught in our network cage, and fixing the
hook firmly into the end of it, he slipped it off a
stake that held it and drew it to him. We all
thought our last moment had come, and to defer it
a little, crowded into the furthest corners of the
trap. The terrible man tried to loose a cord, until
out of patience with the stubborn knot, he whipped
out his knife and cut it, whereupon free outlet was
given at the small end of the funnel-shaped net.
Then drawing the larger end to him, he lifted it
well up and emptied us all pell-mell into the free
water. Dazed by this unaccountable deliverance,
each hurried away after his own fashion, the eel
and bullheads and suckers to the bottom, the perch
made quivering streaks of gold, black and red far

66

Down Among the Fishes.

away in the middle depths, my mate and I ex-
pressed our joy by a somersault in the air, and all
got away to a safe distance except the pickerel, who
hid himself in the nearest tangle of water weeds,
whence he took observations. He was a shrewd
old fellow,- whatever else might be said of him, for
when we fell in with him shortly after, he gave a
plausible explanation of our singular release. He
said that our deliverer was a fish warden, whose
duty it was to put a stop to all illegal fishing. Nets
were among the prohibited devices, and in seizing
this the warden released us. Devoutly thankful for
our escape, we pursued our journey, now over
wrinkles and shallows, through swirls of swift,
deep water, now in the shade of willows, now in the
darker shade of pines. Once we saw a mink gliding
along the bank, lithe, silent, and constantly alert
for game. Next we saw him poised motionless
over a deep pool, and after a moment shoot into
it so smoothly that the surface seemed scarcely
broken. In a moment he appeared, struggling
mightily with a perch two-thirds as big as himself,
which he presently quieted and towed to the bank,
where he fell to feeding, while the victim's fins
were yet quivering. Seeing a perch, so large, so
easily killed by a mink, we realized how dangerous
an enemy he must be to our own kind of a little

67

Hunting Without a Gun.

less size; indeed, we would not have cared to risk
an attack from him ourselves.

"We were swimming near the surface on the
lookout for flies, when a broad shadow fell upon
the water, and looking higher to learn the cause of
it, I saw a great bird with a sharp-hooked beak and
talons, rushing down upon us. We had just time
enough to change our course deeper when he struck
the water with a force that carried him quite be-
neath the surface, and threw the spray up in a great
shower. I barely escaped capture, or at least
serious injury, for one great talon tore the mem-
brane of my back fin, giving me such a fright that
I bumped my nose against the bottom in my wild
downward flight. My mate and I lay for a long
time quite still, but for the quick palpitation of our
gills, and only after a careful observation skyward,
did we venture to resume our journey.

"Continuing, we entered a deep, slow pool,
where many kinds of fish were gathered, resting
after the long journey against the current. We
knew by the steady tremor of the water and the
dull thunder continually dinning in our ears that
we were drawing near to a fall, and perhaps to the
end of our travels in this direction. One shore of
the pool was a steep clay bank, abutting against the
.current and turning the course of it along its side,

68

Down Among the Fishes.

\vhere lay the deepest water. The other shore was
a gravel beach, sloping gradually to the margin,
and so to deep water. It was a pleasant resting
place, but too populous to suit us for a long stay.
We let ourselves sink to the bottom, got in the lee
of a great stone quite protected from the force of
the current, and thought ourselves well fixed for
passing a quiet night.

UA little after nightfall we saw a bright light
approaching. On its coming nearer we discovered
that it was a torch of pine knots in an iron crate at
the end of a staff carried by a man, who was fol-
lowed by another, holding in his hand a long pole
with a sharp-pronged spear at the end. They
came stealthily down to the water's edge and
waded in, slowly advancing as they intently
scanned the illuminated water before them, while
we, suspecting mischief, as closely watched their
movements. Now their attention was drawn to a
large fish lying directly above us, but he seemed
quite unconscious of it, or was dazed by the bright
torchlight, and when we gave him a word of cau-
tion, as we swam aside to a safe distance on seeing
the spear raised and aimed at him, he remained
stationary, not moving a scale's breadth. The next
instant the weapon crushed into his skull with such
force that an outer prong came through his jaw.

69

Hunting Without a Gun.

The stricken fish struggled violently, dyeing the
water with blood as he was lifted from it. When
we got a fair look at his face, to our amazement
we discovered it to be our fellow prisoner, the
pickerel of the trap.

"The two men were presently joined by another,
bearing a large net, and the first two at once set
about drawing it, one wading to his armpits as he
encircled a good part of the pool and many of the
fish with the slowly unfolding net, and then began
hauling it up the beach. Somehow, in the wild
confusion of fish dashing this way and that, my
mate and I got caught inside this terrible net, and
dashing to and fro to escape, ran against a twine
wall, now on this side, now on that, and now into
the crowd of fish at the hinder part and now on the
shelving beach, and almost grounded on it, so that
the man with the torch grabbed me, but my thorny
back fin pricked him so sorely that he dropped me
like a thistle, where by luck I could swim, and call-
ing to my mate to follow, I rushed to the side near
the top and with a great leap cleared the upper
rope and fell safe two good feet outside, my mate
close to my caudal, both unharmed but for the
fright we were in.

"With one accord, without a look backward to
see the woeful end of our poor comrades' tragedy,

70

Down Among the Fishts.

we made such haste to get away that we were in the
swirl of bubble wreaths at the foot of the falls in
next to no time. As far as we could see in the dim
starlight, the white water came tumbling down the
ledge in a long slant, promising hard, rough work
that was best deferred till morning, so we took
lodgings with a family of our cousins, the rock
bass, who hospitably offered us refuge. We spent
the rest of the night lying at the opening of the
crevice, watching the bubbles twist and untangle as
they drifted past, or now and then a great fish
stemming the strong current up to the churned
foam and the foot of the fall, and then drifting
slowly down stream.

"When morning dawned we set forth to try the
ascent of the falls, which were like a flight of
stairs, the water pouring over each step in a broken
sheet, with shallow pools on either side that made
capital and welcome resting places for a climbing
fish. There were schools of minnows, and as we
breakfasted on them, we noticed several young fish
of our own kind not longer than our heads chasing
minnows as big as themselves, and remarked how
truly in these gallant fellows noble blood would
assert itself. However, I did not doubt that their
fire and dash were imparted by highly aerated
water in which they were hatched and bred, and

71

Hunting Without a Gun.

this made us the more desirous to raise a family in
these upper waters in spite of the dangers attend-
ing the undertaking.

"As we leaped step after step of the rough way,
I was reminded how, according to the tradition of
our old bass, the great salmon used to swarm up
the same streams and were speared by the red men
who lived here.

"Arrived at the top, we found our way more
easy, though the current ran swift over gravelly
bottom. We did not go much further before we
chose a place for our bed, where the river doubled
a low point of gravel and sand, with the channel
very shallow on this side and sloping to a good
depth on the other. We selected a spot half-way
between, and carefully cleared it of coarse pebbles;
madame deposited her eggs and we devoted our-
selves to guarding them. Now and then the cur-
rent would roll a pebble or water-soaked stick into
the bed, which had to be removed at once, or now
and then a minnow invaded the sacred precincts
and paid the forfeit of his life to madame. It was
seldom any big fish had to be driven away, though
this was easily done by both of us if one could not
accomplish it alone.

"Upon the whole, we congratulated ourselves
that we were getting on very comfortably. But it

72

Down Among the Fishes.

was the fair weather that comes before foul, when
day after day the sun shines unclouded to its set-
ting, and then there comes one day dismaller than
night, the sun making no sign more than if it were
blotted out by the black clouds. I was lying under
the bank one morning waiting for my breakfast to
come to me in some form, when it appeared in the
shape of a fine soft-finned minnow drifting by,
moving his fins only enough to keep his head to the
current. It was an offer not to be refused, so I
dashed out and seized him, then swam leisurely
back and began swallowing my captive. It was
scarcely well within my jaws when it-was smartly
jerked outward by some unseen power that in-
creased in force the more firmly I resisted, where-
upon I received such a painful thrust in my under
lip that I was fain to let go my hold on this
strangely armed minnow, but it would not let me,
piercing my lip quite through, and when I tried to
run away, holding me so that I could only swim.
The top of the water was ruffled by a stiff breeze,
so that objects above it were very indistinct. I
could see what held me, a slender string extending
from my mouth. Suspecting the cause of my
trouble, I jumped twice my length above the sur-
face, and in the quick glance afforded me dis-
covered a man on the bank a short distance up

73

Hunting Without a Gun.

stream, a slim rod in his hand, that bent and un-
bent in conformity with my movements, and I per-
ceived after falling back into the water that the
man had some way of lengthening or shortening
the string at will, which, with the spring of the
rod, kept a constant and very painful strain on my
pierced lip.

"I determined not to yield to it, however it
might hurt, and at last the man, to save the rod
from breaking, was forced to let me run out several
yards of the line. Having gained this small ad-
vantage, I turned and swam toward shore with all
my might, until I reached a sunken stick firmly
fixed on the bottom, and had just time to take a
turn of the line around a projecting end of it be-
fore he could recover the slack. He could not
budge it an inch, and I had time now to rest and
recover strength. Having done so, I braced my-
self for a grand effort to break loose. I pulled
with all the strength of every fin, but the tough
line and stout rod held.

"Until now my mate had not known of my
plight. Discovering it, she hastened to offer help
and advice. She saw at once how the sharp hook
which had gone through the lip was kept from
slipping out by a barb, but also that a slit was torn
in the lip long enough to let it out with a little

74

Down Among the Fishes.

directing. This she promptly gave, and I was a
free fish again, to my great joy and thankfulness.
The man on the bank was not so happy — finding
his tackle hopelessly foul, obliging him to break
the line wherever it would part, which proved to
be near the tip.

"As he stood ruefully regarding his beshortened
line and the blank surface of the stream and listen-
ing to jeers of a comrade who now appeared on the
other bank, he was scarcely typical of the jolly
angler nor of a contemplative man greatly enjoy-
ing his recreation. He paid me the usual compli-
ment that is given lost fish, calling to his friend
that I was the biggest bass he had ever seen, which
somewhat eased the smarting of my lip. He
mended his tackle and began fishing again in the
same place for me, though he might as well have
cast the bait in the pasture grass behind him. His
comrade discovered a bed and dropped his hook
on it, carefully concealed in a worm. My mate
went at once to remove it, but took good care to
avoid its getting inside her mouth, holding to it by
the upper end of the worm as she bore it swiftly
beyond the edge of the bed. The angler struck
smartly, and the released hook sprang harmless
high above the surface, while we two grinned to
our gill covers to see the disappointment of our

75

Hunting Without a Gun.

baffled foe. He disguised his hook with various
grubs and bugs, which he cast upon the bed again
and again, but we managed to remove them with-
out harm to ourselves, though to his great disgust,
and he went his way along to where his more lucky
comrade was having a hard fight with one of our
brethren. We swam down to the scene of the
struggle to advise, and if possible give more sub-
stantial aid to our kinsman, whom we found in a
desperate strait. The hook was fast far back in
his mouth, where all effort to loosen it by leaping
or bringing a sudden strain on it proved useless. I
told him to try my plan, but the angler prevented it
by keeping the line constantly taut. We both laid
hold of the line and pulled with might and main,
now against our distressed friend, now with him,
but could neither tear the hook from its hold nor
break the line. He was becoming exhausted, and
could only work his fins feebly, inclining more and
more to turn on his side as he was drawn gasping
to the shore.

' 'It's all up with me,' he said, going over on his
side at last, to be drawn unresisting to the shore
and gathered in by his captor, and that was the
last we ever saw of him. The victorious angler,
showing him to his comrade, unblushingly declared
him to be much smaller than the one he had just

76

Down Among the Fishes.

lost, meaning myself, when, in fact, I was not more
than two-thirds his length. They say these fishing
men always tell about the fish they lose and don't
lose, until nobody pretends to believe them — don't
know why they do, unless they think they are mak-
ing amends for the cruelty to us by this sort of flat-
tery, for every fish likes to be called big.

"A week passed without any remarkable adven-
ture. We were frequently fished for by men with
hooks, with spears and nets, all of which we had
learned to look out for, as we thought. If a man
was seen, danger was at once suspected and
guarded against, and we avoided all sorts of food
that appeared, until the coast was clear of our cun-
ning enemy.

"Once, however, I came near being fooled to my
destruction through catching a harmless-looking
drowning fly that came fluttering along the water.
Just in time I discovered that there was a slender
string attached to it, and spat it from my mouth.
Closer examination revealed a tiny hook hidden
under the wings of the sham. While I was having
a close look, it arose from the water, and after a
flight high in air, again alighted and fluttered
along above me as before. I was already well
enough aware of its character not to meddle with
it if I had not seen a man wielding a very slender

77

Hunting Without a Gun.

rush-like rod by which its movements were con-
trolled. This he continued for some time, accom-
plishing nothing, but tiring his arms and teaching
me a very useful lesson, and then he went his way.

"The eggs began hatching, and the bed was
soon black with a lively brood that required con-
stant care to protect from an increased number of
enemies. Bullfrogs, crayfish, water snakes, mud
turtles, and many kinds of fish were ready to
destroy our tiny fry. Some were easily disposed
of, but many were tough customers to deal with,
and gave us no rest nor time to get food, so that
the fishing men who continued their persecution
had a greater chance to tempt us with their lures,
our stomachs being cramped with hunger. When
they offered us live minnows or frogs, we managed
to fare pretty well by seizing the bait below the
hook, but we did not dare try this with worms and
insects offered us.

"One day, being as usual nearest the bed, I saw
a most evil-looking thing appear in the midst of
our brood, on one of which it laid hold with two
strong claws and began ravenously devouring.
My mate seized it at once and crushed it with her
jaws, thereby making the discovery that this new
enemy was a most delicious article of food, in spite
of its forbidding looks. This creature was the hel-

78

Do-a n Among the Fishes.

gramite, not often seen in these lower waters, but
one of the most voracious devourers of young fish.
Next day another appeared, and my good mate
pounced upon it without hesitation. But, alas ! for
her too great confidence, it was scarcely in her maw
when instead of the anticipated pleasant tickling
of the palate, she felt the horrid pang of a hook.
She pulled stoutly, but the pain was unendurable,
and likely to kill her on the spot, the blood flowing
from the gills and mouth. She tried to bite off the
snell, but the tough gut could not be severed. I
tried to break the line, but could not do so.

' 'I must go. Take care of yourself and do the
best you can for the young ones.' With that she
quietly submitted to her cruel fate, and was taken
from me forever. How I managed to rear one of
our helpless brood is more than I know, but some-
how I did save at least a third of them from the
multitude of foes, until they were of an age to shift
for themselves, and then left those troubled waters,
and ever since have been quite content with this
quiet part of the river, as I advise you to be.

"I have told you my experience, and now you
can choose for yourself between spending the sum-
mer in comparative safety or in constant danger."

The wise old patriarch knew pretty well which
would be their choice. As is usually the case, they

79

Hunting Without a Gun.

had decided on their course first, then asked for
advice. They thanked him and resumed their way
up the river. Not one of them ever returned, while
the old bass and his present partner lived to see
that summer's brood grown to lusty fish, raising
annual families of their own.

80

DOWN AMONG THE FISHES.
II.

NE hot day in July a great and
ancient pike was lying at his
ease in the shadow of his own
roof of lily-pads and blossoms
in as good humor with himself
and all else in his watery world
as was possible, for he had just swallowed one of
his great-grandchildren a foot long who had re-
cently done the same by a young perch who had
just dined on a plump minnow.

Having all these diners and dinners inside him
and no room for another, he was obliged, if not
quite content, to be at peace with his fellow fishes,
while he waited on digestion. Some of his lesser
kinsfolk being aware of his enforced amiability,
gathered about him in the hope of learning some
useful lesson from his long and varied experience.
Those who knew themselves to be too large for
him to swallow ventured quite near, but those who
were of a size that might find easy or even crowded
accommodations in his maw modestly took back

81

Hunting Without a Gun.

places. Even at that distance a creeping feeling
shivered along their scales when the old pike
turned a cruel eye upon them, as if calculating their
length as to that of his own stomach.

"Say, Uncle," a 5-pounder of the inner circle
remarked, by way of starting conversation out of
the channel of commonplace observations on the
warmth and clearance of the water, "I s'pose
you've had some pretty clust shaves one way
'nother?"

"Glump!" The patriarch belched out a mouth-
ful of water contemptuously. "You bet your gills,
if I hadn't kep' my eyes peeleder 'n some o' you
young fellers does I wouldn't be a-layin' here!"

"Course," said the first speaker. "But didn't
them 't was older 'n you never put you up to
things? That's what we want." And the 5-
pounder rubbed a bleeding jaw on a lily stem that
moored a purple-bottomed pad to the great root
below.

"Ah, I see!" The old pike grinned to the gills,
disclosing every one of his cruel fangs. "You've
been a-foolin' wi' some o' them cussed men's con-
traptions. Drowned 'em ! I do' know why they
can't torment what's ashore, instead o' comin' here
a-bothering us ! We don't go a-travelin' 'round on
land arter things 'at lives there. Not but what I'd

82

Down Among the Fishes.

admire to swaller one o' their young uns if I could
git a holt o' one 't would go down, but I never saw
one 't was small enough. Frogs looks like 'em, an'
that's one reason why I luf tu swaller 'em. There
is one pokin' his nose over the edge o' that lily-pad
up there," he observed casually, as his keen eyes
detected a white chin a little beyond the purple rim
of a leaf, its owner quite unconscious of the danger
lurking so close beneath it. "Now, if I was the
least mite hungry, or had an inch o' room inside of
me, back o' my mouth, I'd just bump my nose agin
the under side o' that pad an' off he'd jump, an'
then — " he opened and shut his jaws suggestively,
and at the hint a pike drifted upward from the
inner circle of the audience until he struck the lily-
pad smartly with his snout. The startled frog
sprang overboard all asprawl, and had scarcely
made a stroke before the jagged jaws closed upon
him.

"Pretty well done, nevvy!" the old pike was
pleased to remark, as the chief performer in the
brief tragedy complacently resumed his place in
the circle. "But I da' say you'd ha' grabbed him
jes' so careless if he'd 'a' come along past here,
straight-legged, wi' a string haulin' of him?"

The unblinking eyes of the successful frogger
asked, "Why not?"

83

Hunting Without a Gun.

"Course you would," chuckled his old kinsman,
"but le' me tell ye, you do' want ter tech no frog
'at goes without kickin', 'cause he's got a hook in
him, an' he's a-being towed, an', furder 'n that, you
do' wanter never tech no sort o' thing — fish, frog,
grub, worm, fly, nor bug, genawine or so seemin'
— 'at's got a string hitched to it, 'cause you may de-
pend there's one o' them men to t'other end on't
a-figurin' to ketch ye, an' If you tech his riggin'
you'll git hurt, or wus."

"That's so," he of the wounded jaw affirmed,
very emphatically. "It hain't more'n two hours
sen' I found that out to my sorrow. I was
hungrier 'n a mud turtle," he continued in reply to
the inquiring eyes turned upon him, "an' there
wa'n't so much as a drowned bug or a worm 'at
had got adrift. I was as holler as an' ol' caddis
shell, when along come a boat wi' some men in it
an' scairt me int' the weeds. I noticed they was
a-draggin' a string behind, but didn't think nothin'
on't, an' then, as I lay, I see somethin' 'at looked
like a shiner, an' when it got ag'in me I just lit out
for it. Great gars ! When I shet on to it, it was
harder'n a clam shell, an' broke one of my best
teeth short off, an' next I knowed there was a hook
snagged in my upper jaw, an' I was a-bein' yarned
along spite of all my back-finnin' an' crookin' my

84

Down Among the Fishes.

tail, an' takin' water into my mouth faster 'n I
could pump it out o' my gills. Then I see it was
that plaguey string that was a-fetchin' of me to-
wards the boat, an' I could see one o' them men
a-haulin' it in slow and steady. I changed ends,
but it wa'n't no use. I was keeled over or turned
'round every time, an' so when I was most busted
an' choked to death wi' more water 'n I could hold
I gin up an' let 'em haul me, a-cussin' my foolish-
ness every inch I went. When the man pulled me
up alongside an' both of 'em grinnin' like two
clams, it didn't seem as if there was a wiggle
left in me, an' I thought it was all up with me,
when the man h'isted me out o' the water by the
hook. It hurt so tormentedly 't I give a kick wi'
my tail, an' happened to hit the side o' the boat,
an' the hook le' go, an' back I come. You may
scale me if I didn't hustle for the bottom, an' here
I be."

The old pike grinned unsympathetically, whereat
the other with evident pique said, "Wall, I heard
the feller 't had a holt o' the string say, as I was a-
goin' down, 'That's the biggest fish I ever see, an'
I've lost him!'"

The patriarch laughed till the water boiled
around him. "You big! Oho, my gills! That's
what them men always says when they lose a fish,
if it hain't no more'n a minny."

8s

Hunting Without a Gun.

"You are about as big as they make 'em," said
another, admiring the proportions of the aged
patriarch.

"Well, I hain't exactly a minny," said the old
pike, swelling his sides a little more, "but you'd
ought to seen my grandfather."

"Bigger 'n you be?"

"Glumph! he could ha' swallered you as easy
as I could a shiner. There was lots to eat them
times, an' a pike had a chance to grow afore he
run ag'in some o' them men's devilish contrap-
tions."

"What come on him?" the younger pike
inquired.

"Oh, he got half-blind an' kinder childish when
he was about fifty year' old, an' he went an' got
ketched in a seine. Oh, them men is the worst
enemy we've got. Kingfishers an' herons an' fish-
hawks, minks an' otters, all hain't a chaw of a
minny to 'em, an' they get thicker every year. I
wish 't there'd come a flood an' drown the hull
bilin' of 'em ! They hain't got me yet, but I spect
like's not they will some time, always a-studyin'
some new devilment. Long ago, as when I wa'n't
more'n a foot long, they didn't troll wi' nothin'
more'n a rag o' red cloth an' a piece o' pork rine or
a strip o' pickerel's belly, wi' one hook, ol' hump-

85

Down Among the Fishes.

back grannies a-paddlin' log canews an' a-smokin*
their pipes slow an' comfortable.

"Then they got up shiny contraptions, some 'at
wobbled an' some 'at whirled. They didn't look
like nothin' we'd ever see' afore, but you'd wanter
ketch a holt on 'em an' find out what they was, an'
one thing you allers would find, an' that was a
hook hitched to 'em, jest as ye will now to every
consarn they drag 'round in the water. Now
they've got sham frogs an' sham minnies 'at looks
nat'ral as life, but there's hooks to 'em all, like as
not half a dozen to ketch ye by both jaws.

"There hain't only one safe way, an' that is to
steer clear of everything that's hitched to a string.
Then there's nets, an' they're made o' strings, too.
They've had a slap at me wi' most all them fixin's,
an' so's all the critters that goes for us, but they
hain't got oF Long Face yet," and the old veteran
looked wise and self-satisfied, smiling complacently
to the corners of his jaws.

"Now, say, Uncle, you tell us all about your
scrapes, won't ye?" entreated one of the. larger of
his audience.

The garrulity of age was upon the old pike, and
he needed little coaxing to become reminiscent.
So, after a few preliminary gulps to clear his
throat, he began, while those about lent attentive
ears.

87

Hunting Without a Gun.

"About the first clust shave I remember a-havin'
was when I wa'n't more'n six inches long. I was
a-swimmin' along in the ma'sh a-lookin' for a small
frog or minny t' eat, when an' oP water snake 'at
was on the same errand popped out'n a bunch o'
rushes an' grabbed me by the tail. My gills ! wa'n't
I scairt, an' didn't I dig int' the water wi' every
loose fin ! But his ol' gooms stuck like grim death,
an' he started for the shore, which if he got me
onto, he'd finish me mighty quick. I've seen 'em
since, when they'd git a fish on t' the shore where
he hadn't no holt on the water, an' they'd down
him in two skips of a water bug.

"I could see the dead weeds a-linin' the shore an'
the grass on the bank above, an' thinks, says I, 'it's
good-by, little pike.' But just then I felt his jaws
slip a little mite, an' he le' go to git a better holt,
but he wa'n't quite quick enough, an' I made my
fins fly like a popple leaf an' out I slipped, his jaws
poppin' together a scale's breadth from my tail like
bustin' in an air bladder. Afore he got over bein'
astonished I was fur 'nough away, an' you bet your
gills I kept my eyes peeleder 'an a skinned eel for
such critters till I got so big they was fearder o' me
'an I was o' them.

"About the disagreeablest feelin' I ever had in-
side of me was once when I'd got to be 'bout as big

Doicn Among the Fishes.

as you be, I come acrost a water snake 'at I
reckoned was about my fit, an' so I grabbed him by
his ugly mug jest out o' spite for the scare one of
his kind had gi'n me years afore. He tangled his
self 'round my jaws an' squirmed an' hel' back like
a good feller, but I chawed away at him, an' finally
gathered him in. He tasted wus'n a nest o' young
stake drivers, but that wasn't nothin' to the feelin'
of his tail, 'at kept a-wigglin' in my throat an' a-
ticklin' of it till sundown, an' it was in the mornin'
I ketched him; I never hankered after another sech
fish."

He spat out a mouthful of water disgustedly and
continued his story:

"Another time when I was a little feller I was
a-layin' in a shaller a-sunnin' of me, an' the' come
a blotch of a shadder a-skivin over the water, an'
stopped a piece off from me. I looked up to see
what made it, an' there right over me a bird was
a-stan'in' still in the air a-flattening his wings an'
a-lookin' down at me.

"Then all of a sudden he shet his wings an' come
down head first, quick as a raindrop. 'Thinks,' says
I, 'suthin's killed him,' an' I gin a stroke of all my
fins so't he wouldn't fall top on me, an' he jest
missed it by an inch, comin' ker slosh int' the
water, an' pretty nigh scarin' on me out o' my skin.

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Hunting Without a Gun.

Then out he went as quick as he come in, a-clat-
term' like pourin' gravel onto a rock, an' hung
himself up in the air ag'in to dry, I thought mebby,
but in a half minute down he come ag'in, an' that
time right top o' one o' my brothers, which he car-
ried off in his mouth, an' which I seen him swaller,
settin' top of a stake. Arter that I kep' shy o' him
an' his kind till I got too big for their use.

"I got chased by minks an' sheldrakes an' loons
an' big fish an' had some rmghty clust chances o'
keepin' the scales on my back, an' the wust on't
was I hadn't no sooner outgrowed one lot on 'em
'an there was anothtr waitin' for me. When I
got too big for a blue heron to spear me, one day,
when sleepin' in the sun, down come a broad shad-
der o' wings, an' afore I was half awake the claws
of a fish hawk \\as sot on my back, an' the next
minute I was a-thrashin' the air with my tail, ten
foot above the water. I wiggled an' twisted an'
snapped my jaws, but it wa'n't no use. Up I went
furder and furder, our images growin' smaller an'
smaller on the water beneath us 'til his'n looked
like a swaller an' mine like a minny, an' then
a-gittin' dizzy, I looked up an' see a bigger fowl
'an my fish hawk a-comin' for us.

"The hawk got his best flop on, but it wa'n't no
use, the big feller's shadder covered him, an' his

90

Down Among the Wishes.

claws was a-reachin' for the hawk's back. Havin'
all he could 'tend to to take care of hisself, the
hawk le' go of me an' down I went head fust, an'
then it 'peared it was me the big chap was arter,
for he gin the hawk a slap wi' his wing 'at sort o'
upsot 'em both, an' then he came a-scootin' for me.
But I struck the water a secunt ahead on him, an'
slid down, down, till my nose struck the mud, an'
he come down ker slosh right where I lit.

"He gathered himself up an' went off a-rainin'
like a cloud at every flop of his wings, till he got
to the top of a big tree, an' there he sot a-sulkin' an
hour, while I lay in the weeds a-nussin' my sore
back, an' the scars shows yet.

"Mr. Fish-hawk's gone, but you can see that
same ol' eagle 'most any day a-watchin' out from a
tall tree or a-swimmin' the sky above the top o' the
world.

"But of all critters on this created airth, on the
land or in the water, or in the air above 'em, them
men's the wust," continued the patriarchal pike,
with ^ an involuntary quiver of the fins. "They
al'ays was, when they hadn't nothin' but bone
hooks an' stone spears, an' bark lines an' nets, an'
they git wus an' wus. The more we 1'arn the more
they 1'arn, a-contrivin' new contraptions faster'n
we git the hang of ol' ones, an' the scarcer we git,

91

Hunting Without a Gun.

the thicker them pesky two-legged, gabbin',
walkin' frogs gits. Wherever the's water for a
fish to swim in, they're arter us from the brooks
that hain't deep enough to cover you fellers' backs
to the sea that's salter'n a pork rind frog, an' as
deep as from here to the sky.

"A salmon 'at come from it up here tol' me all
about it. He was spawned 'way up here, an' when
he got growed about as big as them little cusses
that Stan's back there a-gawpin', him an' his
brothers an' sisters put for the sea, where their
father an' mother come from. They uster come
back here every year, till them blasted men built
so many dams acrost the rivers an' filled the water
so full o' sawdust an' stuff a salmon couldn't stan'
it, an' now they don't come no more.

"That ol' salmon he'd been everywhere, an' seen
most everything, an' so he knowed somethin'; an'
me an' him was thick as mud, if he was a hey due.

"Wai, he tol' me how them men up an' tackled
whales. Yes, sir; an' killed 'em, too, for all they're
a hundred times bigger'n any man ever you see.
Why, he tol' me 'at he heard his gran' father tell
how 'at he'd heard it from his'n, an' so on, 'way
back, how a whale swallered a man oncte without
chawin', an' that 'ere tarnal man lay 'round inside
of him for three whole days an' nights without

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Down Among the Fishes.

startin' a hair, so the whale gin him up for a tough
cud an' hove him ashore, an' you can scale me if he
didn't walk right off an' go to preachin'.

"But there's sharks in the sea, some like us, only
bigger, an' when they git a holt of a man they chaw
him up till he can't kick, let alone, gab. Them
sharks make a reg'lar business of eatin' men, an'
I wish they'd a lot on 'em come up here.

"Wai, as I was a-sayin', them men's al'ays arter
us fish from the time we're just big enough for bait
till we're knocked out some way or 'nother, an'
that makes me think o' the first time one on 'em
tackled me.

"It was along late in the fall, when all the weeds
in the ma'sh was dead an' rusty, an' the wind had
thrashed the last wild oats, so't the ducks had to
dive to git 'em off'n the bottom, an' the wil' geese
come a-sloshin' in to stay over night an' off again
in the mornin' with the north wind a-chasin' 'em,
with both hands full o' snow squalls a-siftin' out
betwixt the fingers. Then one night it quit
a-yellin' an' whistlin' through the weeds, but the
breath on't hung over 'em cold enough to nip the
life out'n anything that didn't wear fur or
feathers. The mushrats put the last wisp o' thatch
on t' their housen an' took a good-by mouthful o'
free air that night, an' next mornin' the whole

93

Hunting Without a Gun.

crick lay quiet as moonshine, ma'sh an' channel
under a sheet of ice an inch- thick an' so clear you'd
bump your nose ag'in it if you didn't look mighty
sharp.

" 'Thinks,' says I, 'them cussed men can't go in
them boats no more, an' we sha'n't be bothered by
'em for a spell anyway, nor kingfishers, nor hawks,
nor cranes, nuther, for the' can't nothin' git at us
from above. I hadn't more'n said it afore I
heard the ice a-crackin' an' a-ringin' over my
head, an' up I went to see what all the rumpus
was. Fust thing I bumped my nose ag'in the ice,
an' whilst I lay up ag'in it along come a shadder
an' then one o' them men, a young one, a-straddlin'
'long on some iron runners, an' then down come
suthin' ker-slam right over me an' knocked me in-
sensible. I wa'n't so big as those little cusses out
there, an' didn't know much more proberbly, but
when I come to what little I did know, the little
man had got a hole chopped in the ice an' was
a-reachin' one of his hands, red as a perch's fin,
down arter me an' a-hollerin' to another one of his
own sort, 'I've stunted a good one, Jim !'

"Just as he got a holt I got a wiggle on me an'
slid out'n his fingers like an eel. The wiggle an'
the squeeze shot me off furder'n he could reach,
into deep water, an' pretty soon I got all right in

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Down Among the Fishes.

my head and body. I tell ye, I laid low arter that
'til the ice got so thick you couldn't see the sun
through it, nor scarcely daylight 'nough to ketch a
minny.

"Then they cut holes through it an' let down
hooks with live minnies on 'em, too big for me to
swaller, but many is the good pickerel an' pike I
seen go a-squirmin' an' a-strugglin' up through
them holes, never to come back ag'in. I could
hear 'em slappin' the ice a spell, but it didn't last
long in the cold, dry air up there.

"One day one on 'em got shoved back some way
arter he was froze stiff as a billfish's bill, an' I'll be
speared if he didn't thaw out an' come to as lively
as a water-bug. You bet your gills he looked out
for minnies wi' a hook in 'em arter that.

"It run along four, five year arter that winter
afore I got into another scrape with a man, an'
then it was one on 'em in a boat a-draggin' a piece
of pork an' red cloth on the end of thirty foot o'
string. I know'd the thing wa'n't no sort o' fish,
but I was just fool enough to git a holt on 't to find
out what it was; an' I found out more'n I wanted
to, for I got a hook in the thin o' my jaw. The
ol' bow-back quit a-paddlin' an' gin his pole a yank
that tore a slit in my jaw an inch long, an' lucky
for me he did, for when I buckled to an' swam

95

Hunting Without a Gun.

faster'n he pulled, the hook dropped out, an* I
showed him my tail mighty sudden.

"A few years arter that some cussed man got up
a shiny, yaller thing that looked some like a young
perch, an' lots o' our relations got fooled with 'em,
for there was two big hooks fastened to it that
hung to your jaw like a blood-sucker to a mud
turkle's leg. I seen some on 'em get yanked on
the journey to the fryin'-pan, an' I didn't try titles
wi' the brass clam shell, but by an' by some feller
fixed up a cuter contrivance that went skivin'
through the water slick as a shiner, an' looked so
temptin' 'at I jest had to shet on to it same as our
friend here did to-day, an' I got the same sass, a
hook in my jaw an' two more just ready for the
job.

"I tried to break the string, but it hel' like
death, easin' up on me when I'd git the best pull on
it an' haulin' on me every time I stopped to rest
my fins. The hole in my jaw wore pretty big, an'
just 'fore I got tuckered I happened to think o' my
oP trick o' runnin' up on the string, an' I tried it
for a last chance. The' wa'n't none too much
room, an' I didn't get a good slack till I was right
alongside the boat, an' under the man's hand.
Then I ducked my head an' dropped the hook, an*
down I went, heavin' a finful o' water int' the

96

Down Among the Fishes.

feller's face 'at left him a-winkin' an' cussin' in 2.
way 'at 'most spilte his luck for that day. I tell
you that slack-line kink is the best one I know
when a feller gits his jaw snagged; but the best way
is to steer clear of all contraptions 'at has got a
string hitched to 'em, an' thet's my rule, hungry
or mad or on a tear."

A big lout of a German carp, who had remained
unobserved while he was listening among the
weeds, now pushed forward and remarked, with an
air of superior wisdom:

"Veil, my vrents, I dells you vat vid you de
madder vas, dat you eats oudt de flesh altogeder,
de fish, de vorm ant de vrog. Now if you dakes
only de fegidable you vas not be drouble, vor you
vinds not in dat de hook effer. I vas lif here von
year, ant I vas not be gatch alretty."

"Hello, ol' Sour Kraut ! Is that you a-talkin' ?"
cried the old pike, turning himself slightly to roll
a scornful eye upon the intruder. "Wai, now, I'll
tell ye what's the matter wi' you. You're so dumb
mis'able the' don't nobody want ye enough to try
to ketch ye !"

"Vat vor de beoples pring us all de ozean agross
if ve don't vorth somedings? Dey haf you blenty
alretty !" said the carp, growing red in the gills.

"Yes," the pike grimly conceded, "an' the's
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Hunting Without a Gun.

Spaniards an' Dutchmen, an' the devil knows
what, has fetched 'emselves over here when the'
was enough better folks a-livin' here a'ready. Red
as salmon they was, an' decenter behaved 'an folks
is now. A fish could live then wi'out runnin' ag'in
forty diffunt ways o' gittin' killed."

"Dey don't know how to lif on de fegidable
like ve does. Dat de druple vas vid you !" the carp
retorted.

"Why don't you go up int' the lots an' eat
clover an' cabbages, an' leave the water to fish that
wants it? You taste o' ma'sh weeds so't the devil
couldn't eat ye, an' tough hain't no name for you.
I chawed on one o' your young uns till I got tired,
an' my mouth tasted wus'n if a family o' mushrats
had slep' in it."

"You haf not de guldivadet balate, you vild
Amerigans," the German remarked, with offen-
sive superiority.

"Now you git out o' here wi' your Dutch airs
afore I bite ye !" the old pike snapped out so
angrily and with so threatening a movement that
the carp scuttled away among the weeds, whose
swaying tops marked his ponderous progress.

"Them furreign fellers makes me sick wi' the
airs they put on," said the patriarch, as he settled
to his restful position again and the curling eddies

Down Among the Fishes.

untangled and straightened themselves into the
liquid calm.

"They don't appear to think 'at anybody can be
born here wi' any brains in 'em," said one of the
larger members of his audience.

"Wai, suh, dat hoi' Dutch was feel pooty
plump, prob'ly," an eel of Canadian birth re-
marked, as he squirmed up from the muddy bot-
tom in a swelling cloud of sediment, "but Ah'm's
tol' you 'f a feesh a'n't heat some feesh 'e aVt
good feesh heese'f. Dat's de way Ah'm's do, me,
an' Ah'm's pooty good kin' o' fish, me, Ah tol'
you !"

"You call yourself a fish?" the old pike de-
manded, glowering down at the intruder over the
side of his jaw. "Your father was a water-snake
an' your mother was a ling, you ill-begotten cuss,
an' if you don't quit a-kickin' up that wet dust I'll
come down there an' slap your jaw wi' my tail."

At this threat the eel doubled lithely up on him-
self and retreated under cover of the roily cloud,
from behind which he fired a volley of mixed epi-
thets against all the generations of pike and
pickerel that had lived since the foundation of the
world. The gills of the pike boiled with wrath,
but he restrained an impulse to dash after the in-
sulter, and shouted after him : "You nasty snake,

99

Hunting Without a Gnu.

you ! You know well enough that the' wouldn't
no decent fish dirty his scales with ye. But for all
that the's men 'at eats 'em," he added, disgustedly.

"An' that makes me think it was men we was
talkin' about when that weed-chawer come pokin'
his nose into our conversation. Well, as I was
a-sayin', I kep' clear o' hooks, but I swam into a
net oncte that snarled my gills an' would ha' been
the death on me if a mushrat hadn't got tangled
up in it clus to me an' cut himself loose an' me, too.
Then I kep' my eyes open for nets in my path, an'
many a one I dodged 'round, an' many's the fish
I've seen hung in 'em by their gills a-drowndin'
or dead as smelts, an' others in a sort o' bag that
you run into an' can't find no way out on onless by
good luck a mushrat gets in the same trap and cuts
his way out.

"But one time I was a-cruisin' 'round in the lake
an' was a-chasin' a school o' minnies along wi' a lot
of other pike an' pickerel an' wall-eyes an' some
perch, an' havin' lots o' fun, when all to oncte one of
the hind ones shouted, 'Look out! the's a seine
a-comin'.' An' when we looked back, sure enough,
there was an army o' fish a-comin', a-rollin' an'
bilin' an' a-jumpin' an' skivin' an' divin', above
'em a- line o' floats a-bobbin' along in a great half-
circle, an' below 'em a line o' sinkers a-scrapin'

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Down Among the Fishes.

the bottom so clust 'at they raked up the clams an'
pitched 'em along by the bushel. On come the
whole business, steady and sure, the floats an' lead
an' clams a-walkin' toward the slopin' beach, calm
an' serene, but all the fish in an awful flurry, a
black swarm o' bullheads a-gougin' an' a-hornin'
one 'nother an' everybody else, bass a-jumpin',
perch an' wall-eyes wi' their backs up a-rakin'
everything, bald-headed pike an' pickerel makin'
things mighty onpleasant, suckers down in the
mouth an' lookin' sorry they was there, clams wi'
their jaws sot, tumblin' an' chuckin' over one
'nother like a scowload o' stone upsot, a sturgeon
as big as a man a-slashin' 'round an' kickin' every-
body right an' left, an' three, four eels a-squirmin'
back an' to, an' slimin' the whole caboodle, an' all
scairt out o' their scales.

"I was scairt enough, but me an' a wall-eye,
with his eyes a-stickin' out so't you could ha' bit
'em off, we stood out o' the thick on 'em, seein'
now an' then a bass jump the float line an' git clear,
but we knowed we wa'n't spry enough to do that,
an' the rest on' 'em come surgin' along nigher an
nigher to the beach, where we see two men
a-haulin' on the ropes an' grinnin' like a catfish.

"Says the wall-eye to me, 'Gittin' 'round the end
is our only chance.' An' wi' that he pulled fin, an'

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Hunting Without a Gun.

I arter him till we come to one end o' the seine,
where the foot of the tommy stick was a-plowin' a
groove in the sand straight for the shore in water
so shaller 'at wall-eye's back fin was a-splittin' the
top on 't an' the gravel scratched our bellies. The
man that was pullin' the rope there kep' a-floppin'
it to scare the fish back, but me an' wall-eye didn't
mind that. Up went the rope an' tossed him up
endways, tail fust, an' down it come an' hit me a
slap in the middle o' my back, but it didn't hurt us
none, only to scare us, an' then we was safe outside
on't. We didn't pull up till we was rods away, an'
then we stopped to git our breath.

"'Pretty clust shave!' says the wall-eye, a-
workin' his gills for all they was wuth. 'Did ye
hear that man cuss when he see us come out?' He
was as big a wall-eye as ever I see, 'most as big as
I "was then, nine pounds or so, an* no doubt them
men felt bad to see us git away. We ventur'd up
behind the seine an' see bushels o' fish a-bein'
dragged ashore an' that ol' sturgeon makin' the
whole shore shake. I'd seen enough, an' I swam
straight for the crick, where there wa'n't no seine."

There was a sympathetic shiver of the audience,
followed by a silence, which was broken at last by
a greedy listener, who asked, "I suppose you had
some scrapes arter that?"

102

Down Among the Fishes.

"Not by gittin' into nets, I hain't," said the
veteran, looking at his questioner over the corner
of his mouth. "But there's al'ays somethin' turnin'
up if a feller moves 'round in the world, an' maybe
if he don't. A clam even has scrapes; for along
comes a mushrat an' carries him ashore to die, or
the waves of a big storm knocks him high and
dry, or he gits a gravel stun in his shell an' makes a
pearl 'at one o' them men tears him open to git."

"Or some oF woman wants his shell to scrape
her kettle, an' that's a pretty mean scrape!" one
of the lighter-minded and lighter-weighted pickerel
interrupted.

"You shet your head till I gi' done," the elder
said, petulantly, and then regaining his composure
in a moment of silence, continued :

"Now that nigger bullhead a-pollywoggin'
there 's a case in p'int — jest hear the critter sing."

The bullhead was swimming leisurely past near
the bottom, with a devil-may-care smile on his
broad countenance and in his twinkling little beady
eyes, and jerking his head sidewise, with every
movement of his tail keeping time to the words he
was singing to himself and chirping a creaky
refrain :

"Dar nebbe's nuffin like der bottom, karee, karee, karee;
Come down to de bottom 'long wid me."
103

Hunting H'ithont a Gun.

"Sarvent, boss, you seen any wums layin' 'roun'
heah loose, a-waitin' to be gathered?"

"We hain't a-huntin' worms for niggers," the
old pike growled. "You- go 'long about your
business, will ye?"

"Dat's just what I'se doin', boss. Pity you
wa'n't 'roun' when manners was passed !"

The bullpout wagged on his way, accelerating
his speed but little when one of the younger pike
made a feint of dashing after him.

"Don't you never touch him," the old pike
called out, sharply. "Once when I was your age,
an' thought I knew a good deal more'n I did, I
thought I'd try a bullhead. He looked as though
he'd go down easy tail fust, an' so he did, slick as
a frog, till it came to his horns. They stuck in the
corners of my mouth, an' for all I could do
wouldn't go no furder, an' what was wus, when
I got sick on't an' tried to heave him out they
wouldn't le' go. His back horn pricked my upper
jaw so I couldn't bite him, an' he choked me so I
couldn't cuss, so there wa'n't no relief for my
feelin's wi' him a-laughin' at me an' callin' of me
all sorts o' fools. I tore 'round till I was pretty
nigh tuckered, an' had about gin up 'at I was a
gone sucker, when I come along where there was
a man a-fishin' with a worm on his hook. He sees

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Down Among the Fishes.

me, an' dropped.it just before my nose, an' I'll
be scaled if that bullhead didn't open his mouth
an' take in worm, hook an' all. The man gin a
twitch an' snagged him, an' begin to pull, an' I
had to hold back with every fin I had; but he
pulled me half my length out o' water, an' I
thought he had us both, when the bullhead come
loose an' went a-flyin' over the man's head, an' not
havin' any use for either on 'em any more, I come
away. It's a pity a bullhead's got them horns, for
it's good sweet-tasted meat if you could only
git it."

"Anyhow, Uncle, you can't say but what a man
done you one good turn."

"Turned me pretty nigh wrong side out, if you
call that a good turn," growled the old fellow.
"They don't owe us no good will, but they hain't
quite so rough on us as they used to be, wi' their
nets an' seines sot for us, an' a-scoopin' of us all
the year round. They've got laws ag'in that an'
ag'in spearin' of us, for they don't want to destroy
us off'n the face of the earth; but they're bad
enough yet, an' al'ays will be.

"One of the meanest tricks they ever served
me was in the spring, years an' years ago. We'd
all been shet down under the ice for five months,
an' I tell you it looked good to see the sun a-shinin'

105

Hunting Without a Gun.

down ag'in bright an' clear through the wrinkled
water, an' the white bellies of the ducks a-swim-
min' above us, an' the mushrats cuttin' a clean
wake from shore to shore. We could see the naked
trees standin' up ag'in the sky, wi' their buds a-
swellin' an' blackbirds strung along the branches
a-singin' a song that sounded like the runnin' of
a gravelly brook, an' there was stake-drivers
standin' 'round in the coves a-thinkin' they was
a-singin', when they made a noise like an ol' pump
that won' draw without primin'.

"The sperit of the time o' year got into every-
thing, us fish amongst the rest; an' I went up into
the ma'sh to pick me out a half dozen wives. I
s'arched hither an' yon an' got up int' the woods,
where the water stood clear an' brown three foot
deeper'n last year's leaves that foxes an' 'coons
an' mink had traveled dry-footed over in the fall.
Finally I got away up in the edge o' pastures
where cattle feed in summer, an' meaders where
the stubble o' last year's mowin' bristled under a
foot o' smooth water*

"There were hundreds o' frogs lazin' 'n under
the shaller water, an' on the drift o' dead weeds,
but they wa'n't nothin' to me then, for I found
two as plump an' pretty she-pike as ever you see,
an* was a-courtin' 'em up the best I knew how, an'

106

Down Among the Fishes.

keepin' off other fellers a-comin' 'round. So we
was a-cruisin' along together in the clear water
where the sun shone warm on us, an' me, an' no
doubt them, calculated showin' off our spots to the
best, when I see a man a-pokin' along half-way to
his knees in it for all the world like an' oP crane.
When he sees us, he up an' p'inted a long iron
thing with a hole in the end on't, right straight
at us, but I never mistrusted he meant mischief
till fust I knew there come a stream o' fire an'
smoke a-pourin' out o' that holler iron with a noise
like thunder, an' the water over us was tore an'
shattered as if a whole hailstorm had been
emptied there all in a heap.

"Next I knew, I didn't know nothin'; an' the
next I was a-layin' belly up with my feelin's comin'
shiverin' back into my body. A little ways off lay
them two pretty creeturs with their shinin' scales
all tore an' blood a-tricklin' out an' stainin' the
water around 'em. Then that mis'able man came
splashin' out to 'em, an' reached down an' hove
'em onto the land, an' I hadn't no more 'n heard
'em flop onto it afore he come to me, an' was
a-shettin' one hand on my gills. I gathered all
the strength I had for a stroke of my fins all to
oncte, an' I slid through his fingers like an icicle
an' scooted a yard away. He took a step for'a'd

107

Hunting Without a Gun.

an' made a grab for me, but his foot ketched under
a root an' down he come most a-top of me, ker-
slosh ! like half an acre o' bank cavin' in.

"But I'd got right side up an' shot out from
under him easy enough, an' he had all he wanted
to do to tend to himself, for he was a-thrashin'
'round, arms an' legs, wus'n one o' them sidewheel
steamboats out in the lake, an' spoutin' water an'
cuss words as much one as t'other. The last I
seen of him he was a-stan'in' on the shore
a-drainin' an' a-drippin' from every p'int like a
wilier bough arter a summer shower."

There was a general gulp of satisfaction over
this disaster of the enemy, while the old pike
added, regretfully:

"I was tumble sorry to lose them two wives.
I found enough others, but none sech as them was.
Arter matin' time was over an' the young pickerel
was hatched out, I was a-loafin 'round on the
ma'sh one night a-lookin' at the stars shinin' down
through the still water, when I see a bigger light
that I thought at fust was the moon a-risin', till I
seen it a-flarin' an' the sparks a-flyin' up from it
an' showerin' down like a rain o' fire. Then I
seen it was in a boat, an' a man a-stan'in' up
behind with a pole in his hand, an' a-lookin' into
the water. There was another man settin' in

108

Down Among the Fishes.

t'other end a-paddlin' slow an' still, an' I begin to
'spect they was up to some mischief. They was
comin' straight toward me, an' so I started off out
o' their course, afore I thought they'd got nigh
enough to do me any hurt; but the man wi' the
pole he seen me an' let it drive right at me, full
tilt.

"There was a five-pronged iron thing on the
end of it, an' one o' the prongs just grazed my
back. If it had hit me fair it would ha' gone
clean through me, for the prongs went full length
into the bottom, so 't the pole stood slantin' in the
water, a-tremblin' with the force of the blow. All
this I seen with the back o' one eye, for I was
scairt too bad an' hurt, I didn't know how much,
to stay 'round there lookin' at things, but just
scooted till the light was glimmerin' so fur behind
me it looked like a drowndin' lightnin' bug.

"A lot o' my scales was raked off an' my flesh
was tore so the blood run, but it got well arter a
spell, an' I'd 1'arnt another lesson about them
cussed men. How many more I've got to 1'arn
afore I die, goodness knows, for there don't ap-
pear to be no end o' their wicked ways.

"Say, is that a punkin seed or a rock bass a-
comin'? Don't ye never be fools enough to
swaller any one o' the hump-backed, spike-finned

109

Hunting ll'ithout a Gun.

little scamps. I do' know what's the good o' fish
bein' built such shape anyway. Why, no, that
hain't a punkin seed nor a rockie — it is one o' them
'ere big-mouth bass 'at puts on more airs now-a-
days 'an a wood-drake in April, jest 'cause they're
some related to the black bass, 'at them men
makes such a fuss over, what for is more'n I know.

"Big-mouth and small-mouth is just as comfort-
able to swaller when they're young as a punkin
seed or rockie, an' when they git big you can't
swaller 'em, yet the men goes wild over 'em, an'
won't let one 'nother catch 'em only jest sech time
o' year an' jest sech ways, whilst they go for us all
times an' all ways. See that feller set up his back-
fin, an' stick out his under jaw as if the same water
'at held us wa'n't quite good enough for him, an'
him smellin' stronger 'n a mud-turkle, an' no more
fit to swaller 'n a thorn apple bush ! Glumph ! I
don't believe in no spike-backs puttin' on sech
airs."

The disparaging remarks were not unheard by
the big-mouth, but he only stuck out his under jaw
a little more contemptuously, and set his dorsal
fin more stiffly as he swam silently past the group
of unfriendly observers.

"Hush your noise!" the old pike sharply com-
manded, though not one of the company was mak-

110

Down Among the Fishes.

ing the slightest sound. "Do ye hear that? Well,
that's a boat a-comin', an' of course there's men in
it, an' we'd better keep shady."

The cautious dip of oars, the crack of rowlocks
and the recurrent ripple of water from the bow, in
response to the slow, regular strokes, could now be
distinctly heard, and now the boat's bottom could
be seen, and its shadow gliding steadily along the
silty bed of the creek. The patriarch sculled him-
self backward half his length with a stroke of his
pectoral fins and all his companions, save one pert
young fellow, discreetly followed his example,
backing into the marsh, till the drooping heads of
wild rice, the blue spikes of the pickerel weed and
the angular burs of sedges jostled each other and
rustled as if a stray catspaw of wind was snatching
at them out of the breathless air.

"What be you afeared of? I'm going to stay
where I can see," said young Malapert, boldly
holding his place while an oar-blade flashed above
him and launched from its tip a miniature whirl-
pool that bored so deep that the point of its hol-
low core tickled his back.

"Mebbe you'll see more 'n you want to," the
elder admonished him, but to no purpose.

1 he boat passed, and its wake spent its last
slow pulse among the rushes before a glittering

in

Hunting Without a Gun.

spoon appeared thirty yards off, drawn by a line
so slender that it was invisible at a little distance.
In spite of the sage advice they had so lately
listened to, some of the older fish were attracted by
the shining lure, and made a movement toward
it, but their younger relative being nearest, fore-
stalled them by a swift, sudden dash and seized it.
His jaws closed upon it savagely, but were met by
something as hard as his sharp teeth, and that
slipped through them till three as sharp hooks
were firmly planted in his mouth.

This strange thing, which was neither fish nor
frog, yielded so readily to his first instinctive burst
of flight that he thought for a moment he was to
bear it away as a doubtful trophy. Then began
a gradually tightening strain, that promptly
stopped his retreat, and brought him so nearly to
a standstill that he was fain to try another course.
He dashed to the right, to the left, downward till
he struck the bottom, upward till he broke the
surface into an upbursting shower, yet in no direc-
tion could he find relief from the steady, wearying
strain that never yielded enough to give an in-
stant's rest, never resisted enough to make break-
age possible.

It was no better when he made all speed in the
direction of the pull, the incessant strain con-

112

Down Among the Fishes.

tinued with but little abatement, while he came so
near the boat that he saw a slender rod bending
toward him like a bullrush in a gale, and he heard
the swift clatter of a reel that was taking in the
cobweb line faster than he could swim, and he
saw the terrible man, gray-bearded and calm-faced,
who was managing all the deadly, relentless
machinery.

Setting every fin, he checked himself so sud-
denly that he was sure something must break, but
the rod only bent a little more, and the retarded
line spun out again still unbroken. He turned and
ran straight away, then to right, to left, again
sounded the bottom, and again broke the surface,
but nothing availed to afford release nor even relief .
Breath and strength were quite spent, and his com-
rades saw him hauled unresisting alongside the
boat, then lifted into it, and a moment later heard
him thrashing the bottom in his death struggle.

"That is the last of another fool," declared the
old pike more savagely than sadly. "It's a lot o'
use givin' you chaps advice, hain't it?" and then
added more regretfully, "It is too bad to have a
lusty young life wasted that way. I wish 't I'd
swallered him two year ago."

So saying, he turned and swam majestically
away.

"3

LANDLORD DAYTON'S SHOOTING
MATCH.

S Phineas Dayton sat in his neat
bar room the morning before
Christmas, sixty years ago, he
was an ideal landlord to look
at; portly of form, genial
eyed, firm mouthed. Just now
the bulky figure and firm-set lips seemed to the
young fellow who sat on the settle opposite the
landlord's arm chair to quite overbalance all the
good humor that the eyes expressed, as the
younger man, evidently awaiting some momentous
answer, lifted frequent furtive glances from the
hands that nervously fingered the rifle resting be-
tween his knees.

A step outside attracted the landlord's attention,
and looking through the window he saw, passing
it, another young man, also bearing a rifle.

"Tom! Tom! come in here," Phineas called
peremptorily, and the other entered with a puff of
wintry air that set the advertisements of steam-

114

Landlord Dayton's Shooting Match.

boats, stage coaches and stallions on the wall to
rustling and flapping.

The newcomer, tall, blue-eyed and yellow-
haired, bade the landlord good morning, nodded
to the other and looked at both in puzzled inquiry.
The occupant of the settle, the opposite of the
other in stature and complexion, returned the nod
and glance, half-defiantly, and again tried to read
the landlord's face.

"Tom," Landlord Dayton began abruptly,
"you an' Dick has bin a-hevin' on't, nip an' tuck, for
my Dorothy, goin' on a year. Yest'd'y you ast me
for her, and to-day Dick has. You're tol'able
good boys, both on ye, an' one is about as well off
as t' other, an' I hain't a ha'penny's choice betwixt
ye. I don't believe Dorothy hes, nuther, anyways
I hain't seen her show no favor, an' mebbe she
won't hev nary one. She's a chip o' the ol' block,
an' some sot, but mebby my say so 'd move her a
leetle."

The young men blushed hotly, glaring on each
other, while the landlord studied their faces with a
twinkle of amusement in his eyes, and then
continued:

"It's nip an' tuck wi' ye, tew, on your shootin',
both on ye pooty good at it, but nary one nuthin'
tu brag on over t' other. Hain't that so?"

"5

Hunting Without a Gun.

Each assented hesitatingly, wondering what pos-
sible bearing the statement would have on the de-
cision of his fate.

"Wai, then, I'll tell ye what I'm a-goin' tu du,
an' give ye a equal chance. You both on ye start
aout wi' your rifles at 10 er-clock, percizely, an'
the one 'at comes in at dark wi' the biggest string
o' pa'tridges he'll hev my consent an' what help I
can put in tu git Dorothy. Naow, what d' ye
say?"

"What I say is," Tom broke out hotly, "what I
say is, I don't du no sech a thing! You're just
a-jokin', Mr. Dayton, a-gamblin' off your darter
on a feller's luck a-huntin' !"

"Wai, if you're afeard tu try it, I hain't," Dick
sneered.

"You ought tu know it hain't that, Dick Bar-
rett," said Tom, with a suppressed danger signal
in his voice. "It's the idee 'at goes ag'in my
grain. But you hain't in airnest, Mr. Dayton, I
know you hain't!"

"A-meanin' every word I'm sayin'," the landlord
said, shutting his mouth like a steel trap. "You
can try or let it alone, but the one 'at fetches the
most pa'tridges gits the gal, so far as I can help
him tu her."

Tom studied the determined face a moment bc-
116

Landlord Dayton's Shooting Match.

fore he answered, "I'll be in ag'in afore 10, an'
let ye know whether I will or no," and with that
went out.

"An if you'll jest set my shootin' iron inside
your bar, so 't the' won't be nobody foolin' with it,
I'll go over tu the store an' git me some paowder,
an' I'll be on hand, tu rights," said Dick, hand-
ing his rifle to the landlord and hurrying out.

The landlord placed it inside the bar, which had
a wooden grating from counter to ceiling, and then
carefully locking the door, but forgetting to take
the key from it, went away with a ponderous but
brisk step, that set bottles and glasses to clinking
merrily behind him.

No one of the three occupants of the bar room
had noticed that when Tom Hale became one of
them, the door of the dining room was drawn the
least bit ajar, and one black eye of the landlord's
niece and hired girl, Susan Crane, took a position
in it to feast on what it and its mate loved best —
the handsome, devil-may-care face of Dick Bar-
rett. Then the conversation grew interesting, and
she put the best of her little pink ears to gathering
every word of it, and when it was ended and the
bar room empty, she entered it on tip toe, hover-
ing about the now accessible bar more eagerly than
a thirsty toper, with the strong temptation to steal

117

Hunting Jl'ithout a Gun.

the gun, and quite ready to make it useless if she
only knew how. Then she was given a great start
by the sudden entrance of some one, who proved
to be Billy Cole, the lame hostler, who hopelessly
adored her, and would lay down his life for one of
her smiles.

"Oh, Billy!" she said, rapidly, in a stage whis-
per, "what d' you du tu a gun so it won't shoot
good? Quick, tell me!"

"Du tu a gun?" he repeated, staring at her
open-mouthed. "Why, you can bu'st 'em, er smash
the lock, er wet the primin', or if it's a flint lock,
loose the flint."

"No! no! not to spile it for good an' all, nor so
you could tell right off what ailded it, but some-
thin' kinder blind. Oh, tell me, Billy!"

"Wai, it depends so'thin' on what kind of a gun
it is," he explained, with exasperating deliberation.

"Oh, such a gun as Tom Hale's or — a — why,
such a gun as this;" she opened the door of the bar
and pointed at Dick's rifle.

"Why, that 'ere is a rifle; it's Tom's or is 't
Dick's — hain't it or hain't it?"

"Yes, yes; but haow du you fix it?" she said
hurriedly.

"Oh, I'd just start the sight a leetle grain," he
answered, with longing eyes on the row of bottles.

118

Landlord Dayton's Shooting Match.

"Oh, you du it, Billy, an' I'll du anything for
you — quick! I want tu come a joke on him!"

Her eagerness overcame her womanly fear of
the gun, and she placed it in his hands; then lay-
ing her own upon the bottle of Old Jamaica,
added, "An' you can have a pull at this 'ere."

Though Billy did not need this further incite-
ment to do her bidding, it had its effect in hasten-
ing his movements, and taking his jack-knife from
his pocket he knocked the back sight almost im-
perceptibly to one side. Then he replaced the
rifle and took a generous draught from the bottle
without waiting for the medium of a glass. Susan
recorked it, and was returning it to its shelf when
he arrested her with an outstretched hand.

"An' naow, jest another swaller, Suky! A lit-
tle hain't much, and twice hain't often. The ol'
man is pooty savin' o' the grog he gives away."

She gave him the bottle again with some misgiv-
ings, not lessened as the upturned bottle arose to
a sharper slant and he still held his breath in the
improvement of a rare opportunity. It was cut
short by the sound of the landlord's footsteps
pounding an adjacent floor, and the two conspira-
tors retreated, Susan to the kitchen, Billy to the
hearth, where he was ostentatiously mending the
fire, when Phineas Dayton entered the room.

119

Hunting Jl'ithout a Gun.

The ordinary balance of Billy's body on its one
sound leg was somewhat disturbed by the unusual
weight of his potations, and he came near pitching
headlong on to the blazing back log. Then in the
violent struggle to recover himself he overdid the
point, and sat down heavily on the hearth.

"What the devil be you up to naow, Billy
Cole?" the landlord demanded, coming to a sud-
den halt behind him.

"Up to nothin', Phineas," Billy answered
huskily, staring owlishly at the fire, "settin1 daown
I be, a-tryin' for tu warm my feet."

"Jes' naow it was your head you was tryin' tu
warm, an' come mighty nigh it ! Why, man alive,
you're drunk! An' where in time d' ye git your
liquor? Ah, I see!" as his eyes slowly ranged
the room and discovered the forgotten key in the
lock. "Haow dumb careless I be! Key in the
bar, hostler in the fire, an' the devil to pay
gen'rally! Say, Billy Cole, the's somebody
a-comin', an' I hain't goin' tu hev 'em see you
floppin' 'round drunk this time o' the mornin'.
You git int' your bunk."

With that he threw open the seat of the settle,
which inclosed the hostler's nightly couch, and lift-
ing him from the floor, dropped him therein and
shut down the seat in spite of the poor fellow's

I2O

Landlord Dayton's Shooting Match.

feeble resistance and more vigorous protests. This
was but just done when Tom and Dick returned,
and the latter was given his rifle.

"Coin' tu try your luck, hain't you, Tom?"
Phineas asked, cheerily.

"Wai, it's mighty mean business, Mr. Dayton,
but I be a-goin' tu," Tom answered, desperately,
at the same time making a mental reservation that
he would not abide by the terms of the match un-
less it resulted in his favor, which was hardly fair,
save as all things are so in love and war.

"Wai, then, it's 10 o'clock, an' time you tew was
off. May the best man win, but haowever it turns
aout, we'll hev pa'tridges for aour Chris'mas din-
ner, for I cal'late you'll both on you du your
pootiest."

With this Phineas opened the door and the pair
went forth, each betaking himself to his favorite
hunting ground, and inwardly wishing the other
the worst kind of luck. As he watched their de-
parture, the landlord chuckled till his fat sides
shook, and he said to himself: "I'll git a mess o'
pa'tridges anyway, an' it won't make no odds."
Then he took Billy from the box and with a sharp
admonition bundled him off on unequal, devious
legs to the stable.

Susan ran straight to her cousin with the fruits

121

Hunting Without a Gun.

of her eavesdropping, but prudently withheld her
share in the plot, for she was not sure which suitor
was most in favor with Dorothy, who was some-
thing of a flirt.

"Did you ever hear of anybody so mean as
father?" Dorothy cried, shedding tears of shame
and vexation. "A-settin' up his own flesh and
blood to be shot for, like a hen-turkey! If he don't
care no more 'n that who gits me I won't hev no-
body he wants me tu — not ary one of 'em — Dick
Barrett was fast enough for it, was he ? Well, he
won't git me if he gits a back load o' pa'tridges.
I can tell him that! An' wa'n't Tom noble, talkin'
to father the way he did ! It ought to shamed him.
Don't you b'lieve Tom will try? Oh, I wish he
would beat — only I wouldn't hev him — not for
that."

"Oh, I guess he will, an' if he don't, I guess it'll
be all right," said Susan, delighted to find how
favorably the wind blew. Yet she must put in a
word for her heart's choice, "But I tell you he'll
hafter be smart if he beats Dick. They say the'
hain't his equal nowhere for shootin'. And oh,
if he hain't han'some! Be you goin' tu tell your
mother, Dorothy?"

"The idee! She'd jest hev a conniption."

The girls interspersed the busy preparations for

122

Landlord Dayton's Shooting Match.

Christmas with frequent whispered colloquies,
while one openly wished for the triumph of her
lover, the other, secretly, for the defeat of her
beloved.

The swinging stride of Tom's long legs and
the quicker movements of Dick's shorter ones car-
ried the young men at a lively pace over the light
snow that covered the earth and still lay undis-
turbed on every twig and branch, where it had
found lodgment. They reached their hunting
grounds at about the same time. Under the river-
side hemlocks, to which Dick went, the white car-
pet of the woods was thickly embroidered with
the footprints of a pack of ruffed grouse, and
stealthy stalking soon brought him to a fair shot of
one member, making itself as motionless as one of
the knots of the log whereon it stood, and as like
them as one to another, but for the coping of
snow they bore. The immobility and the likeness
were still preserved after the sharp report rang
through the woods, and the harmless bullet cast
up a shower of snow two rods beyond the head,
which was its mark. But at the motions of reload-
ing the bird took alarm and went off like a rocket,
as did the others, after being successively missed,
and then the remainder of the pack followed far
into the depths of the woods. Thoroughly dis-

123

Hunting Without a Gun.

gusted with his marksmanship, but still hoping to
retrieve it, Dick went in pursuit of them, and after
long and careful search discovered one perched
within easy range on a branch of hemlock.

He rested his rifle against a convenient tree, and
aimed with most deliberate care, but the shot was
as unsuccessful as the previous ones. The next
chance he determined to run no risk of losing by
a shot at so small a mark as the head or neck, and
therefore aimed at the middle of the breast, which
squarely fronted him. The bird came down with
a gyrating flutter, and when Dick picked it up he
found that the ball had struck the butt of one
wing, a hit so wide of his careful aim that he at
once suspected the cause, and an examination of
the sight verified the suspicion. He did not mis-
trust that any one had tampered with his gun, and
only blamed himself for not sooner discovering
what was wrong with it. Yet, now that it was set
right, fortune did not favor him, for though he
soon got another shot and neatly decapitated the
bird, the sharpest hunting till the woods grew dark
with nightfall failed to bring him another chance.
So he took the homeward way with little dis-
position to show his meager spoils, except for a
faint hope that fortune might have been as un-
friendly to his rival as to himself.

124

Landlord Dayton's Shooting Match.

Tom began hunting on the southward slope of
a hill dotted with a second growth of white birches
and low-branched young pines, sheltered from the
breath of northern air that was sharp though
barely astir, and warmed by all the slanted sun-
beams of the winter day. Here the snow was
printed with numerous dainty tracks of grouse that
had come from the denser woods to bask in the
sunshine in the lee of the pines. In three such
sunny nooks Tom bagged as many birds.

Then at least a dozen took alarm, and with suc-
cessive bursts of mimic thunder and accompanying
showers of snow from every intervening bough
went hurtling into the cover of the woods. Tom
skulked after them, stealthy and silent as a lynx,
and finding some aperch, motionless as the
branches which held them, his bullets gave good
accounts of all so found, save one.

In other covers he found a few more scattered
birds, and when the shadows thickened in the
woods till the notch of the rear sight was blotted
out he set his face toward home, with a bunch of
nine grouse slung over his shoulder. Yet this com-
forting burden did not give him assurance of vic-
tory, for he knew that he had a doughty competi-
tor pitted against him, and had heard the report of
Dick's rifle during the day as often as his own.

125

Hunting Without a Gun.

Night had fallen when he reached the tavern,
which was aglow with firelight and candlelight, a
hospitable beacon to neighbors and wayfarers.
Some of these, gossips and strangers, were
gathered in the bar room when he entered it, after
hanging his game in a safe, secret place. The
landlord leaned against the bar, awaiting the or-
ders of thirsty guests, and Billy Cole sat on the
bunk, sadly sober now, with his lantern beside him,
in sullen readiness to answer a call to the stable.

"Hello, Tom!" Phineas hailed the newcomer,
noting with a shade of disappointment that he
carried only his gun. "Did you git more 'n you
could lug hum? An' Dick, he hain't come in yet.
I hope ye hain't shot him."

Nevertheless Dick was in the kitchen at that
moment, to which he had covertly come, hoping to
have a word with Dorothy, but fate so ordered
that Susan was first to meet him at the door.

"Why, Dick Barrett, is them all you got?" she
exclaimed in a pitiful voice that her delighted face
belied when she saw his paltry trophies. "Naow
hain't it tew bad! An' you've be'n a-huntin' all
day an' hain't hed a single maou'ful to eat. Naow
you set your gun in the corner — ugh! I wouldn't
dast tu tech it for all the world — an' you come
right int' the butt'ry an' git you a bite. Aunt

126

Landlord Dayton's Shooting Match.

Mahaly's upstairs a-helpin' Dor'thy prink — goin'
tu the duin's tu the meetin' haouse long wi' Tom
Hale, I guess — it'll take her 'n' her mother a good
haour tu fix her up. There, take right a holt an'
help yourself. The' hain't much, but it'll keep you
from starvin'."

He was hungry and grateful, and withal Susan
had never looked so pretty. Out of gratitude and
admiration a new flame sprang up in his heart, so
fervent that before his supper was finished he was
telling his love to a new sweetheart. When he pre-
sented himself before Phineas Dayton, half an
hour later, the landlord was a good deal surprised
that he should accept defeat with such equanimity,
but far more so when told that he had won the
niece and no longer desired the daughter.

"Wai, wal, if this 'ere hain't a devil of a haow-
d'-ye-du," forcing a chop-fallen smile, while the
two young fellows shook hands and exchanged
hearty congratulations. "It 'pears as if I'd sold my
birthright o' gals for a mess o' pa'tridge ! I wonder
what in time Mahaly'll say? Wal, to-morrer
we'll feast an' be merry, an' nex' day you'll hitch
the gray mare on t' the shay, Billy Cole, an' I'll go
a-huntin' hired gals. Cuss the luck f Come, gen-
tlemen, all hands walk up tu the bar an' take a
holt. It's my treat."

'127

HOW ELIJAH WAS FED AT CHRISTMAS.

AS you a-cal'latin' for to go
a-huntin' to-morrer, 'Liger?"
Aunt Charity asked, looking
under the rim of her spectacles
at her husband, who was care-
fully inspecting his rifle by the
light of the same candle whose feeble rays illumined
the counting of her stitches.

"Wai, no, I wa'n't," he answered, but after a
brief pause, continued in a tone so decided he
hoped it might forestall opposition:

"I'm a-goin' to the turkey shoot an' git us a
turkey, I be."

"Good land!" Aunt Chanty exclaimed, drop-
ping hands and knitting into her lap and staring
at the bald head now bent more intently over the
gun. "Where be you goin' to git the money for
to pay your shots?"

"Oh, I got a half-dollar I be'n a-savin' up," he
answered quickly. "But I s'pect I'm goin' to

plunk a turkey the secont shot anyway; th' ol' iron

128

Hoic I'Aljiih II 'as Fed at (Christmas.

throws a ball as true's it did the day it come aout
o' Hill's shop."

His wife drew a needle from the finished row
of stitches and scratched meditatively beneath her
sheep's head cap before venturing a doubt. "It's
forty year older'n it was then, an' so be you.
'Liger. I don't s'pose your hand's quite so stiddy
nor your eye quite so clear. Land knows, mine
hain't." She sighed gently as she opened and shut
a knotted and stiffened hand before her dim spec-
tacled eyes.

"Sho, Cherry, you're spryer'n half the gals, an'
I can read fine print wi' my naked eyes, an' my
hand's as stiddy as a rock." He drew a bead on
the center of the clock face and held the long bar-
rel on it a moment without a perceptible tremor,
and then beamed a triumphant smile on his wife.

"Mebbe, but I'm af eared you're jest a-goin' for
to heave away your money. You're 'Liger, I
know, but I'm 'feared the' hain't no ravens a-
comin' to feed ye."

"No, but a turkey, sure as guns. An' I'll tell ye
what we're a-goin' to du, then, Cherry," he con-
tinued in a confidential tone. "When I git him
dressed an' you git him stuffed an' int' the oven,
I'm a-goin' to take the wheelbarrer, or if it comes
sleddin', which the' hain't no prospec's on, the

129

Hunting H'ithout a Gun.

hand sled an' I'm a-goin' to the poorhaouse an'
borry or steal poor little Lyd Cole an' fetch her
up here to eat a Christmas dinner."

He shut the brass lid of the patch box with a
decisive snap and bestowed a close-shut but benig-
nant smile upon his wife, who returned it in softer
kind and said with a tremor in her voice, "Why,
'Liger Wait! Is that what you be'n a-plannin'
for? Wai, then, I shouldn't wonder ef you did
git a turkey, an' I hope to goodness you will.
Poor ol' Lyddy, I don't s'pose she's hed a mou'ful
o' Chris'mas turkey in her life. Deary me! I'm
'fraid I wa'n't as good as I'd ort to be'n to the
poor humpbacked little critter when we useter go
to school. But you al'ays stood up for her."

"Not none too good, I wa'n't, an' I sh'ld lufter
make up for't a leetle speck by a-givin' on her one
tol'able decent Christmas."

"An' I du b'lieve we'll be favored to," said
Aunt Chanty. "An we've got onions to go wi'
the turkey, an' them high bush cramb'ries 'at you
got up to the swamp'll jest come in complete."

"Why, Cherry," her husband laughed, "next
you'll be for goin' to the shootin' match yourself,
which in the beginnin' you wa'n't a-going to let me.
Naow I'll run me a han'ful o' balls, an' then it'll
be time to go to bed."

MQ

How Elijah Was Fed at Christmas.

He gave the long, brown barrel and the curled
maple stock another caress with the oiled rag be-
fore he hung the rifle on its hooks, while Aunt
Charity mended the fire and raked out a glowing
bed of coals ready for the ladle. She drew her
chair beside the stove and plied her needles while
she watched him at his work.

"My land!" she cried, as the shining bullets
were rapped from the mold, "if them was only
the silver they look we could buy us a turkey."

"They'll fetch us one jest the same," he said,
confidently.

"It'll be rough wheelin' for Lyddy," Elijah said
to himself, looking up at the cloudless sky as he
trudged along the frozen road the next day after
dinner with his rifle on his shoulder, and the soli-
tary half-dollar clinking against the jack-knife in
his trousers pocket. "I'll stop an' tell her to be all
ready ag'in I come arter her."

He turned in at the forlorn, treeless yard of the
poorhouse. He entered without knocking and
went straight to Lydia, where she sat, an uncouth
heap of deformity, at her accustomed window,
watching "the Pass" and sewing braided rags.
Her face, worn by heavy pain of body and spirit,
brightened a little at sight of her old friend, and
more at the sound of his cheery voice.

131

Hunting Without a Gun.

"Good morn'in', Lyddy. A-drivin' your needle
to beat the Dutch, this mornin', hain't ye? My
stars!" as she smoothed the completed center of
the rug over her knees, "hain't that a-goin' to be a
neat one! Red an' yaller an' blue an' I d'know
what all. Say," lowering his voice, "I'm a-comin'
to-morrer mornin' to take you up to our haouse to
Christmas." Lyddy looked incredulous. "Yes,
sure as shootin'. Cherry's alottin' on it, an' I'm
a-comin' for ye with a one-wheeled kerridge an'
there's goin' to be a turkey. I'm goin' arter him

naow."

For a moment the stolid hardness of her face
softened almost to an expression of happiness, and
then grew hard as she glowered furtively over her
shoulder.

"I do' know if they'll let me."

"They can't help it. I'm a-goin' to take ye.
Say, Pratt," addressing the lessee of the town
farm, who was passing through the room, "I'm
a-goin' to hev Lyddy up to aour hause for
Christmas."

"All right," the man answered, with a harsh
laugh. "You can have her for keeps, for all me.
Goin' to the shootin' match, be you, 'Liger?"

"Yes, I be. Wai, you be ready by nine o'clock,
Lyddy."

How Elijah H7as Fed at Christmas,

So he left her, happier in the anticipation of a
break in the dreariness of her life than she had
been for many a day.

As he took the highway again, the pop of a rifle
and the quick echoes bounding from adjacent walls
told that the shooting match had begun, and he
hastened his steps. Then came another report,
and its succession of echoes, and now he saw the
thin wisp of smoke drift against the blue sky above
the roofs and dissolve in the cold, still air.

"Plague on't ! They'll hev the heft on 'em shot
afore I git there," Elijah ejaculated, and verified
the adage of "More haste, less speed," for he
caught his foot in a rut and fell headlong, the
shouldered rifle measuring its length with a bang
on the frozen ground. After looking around to
learn if there were any spectators of his fall, his
next thought was for his gun, which he rejoiced
to find had suffered no apparent harm.

He reached the shooting ground in the rear of
the tavern barn without further interruption, and
found all the marksmen of the township gathered
there, himself the most renowned and conse-
quently least welcome of the company.

"Wai, Uncle 'Liger, I was a-wishin' you an'
that reachin' ol' iron wouldn't be here to-day,"
said Taft, the tavern keeper and owner of the

133

Hunting J/'illiaiit a Gun.

turkeys. "But I'll tell ye aforehand, if ye kill
more'n three a hand runnin', I won't let ye shoot
no more."

"So ye needn't. So ye needn't, Ab'am," Elijah
cheerfully conceded. "I don't want on'y one o'
your turkeys. Here's your ninepunce, but I'm
a-goin' to wait till there's a good un sot up."

The landlord gave him the change from a grow-
ing pocket of small coin, and the veteran strolled
from group to group of the onlookers, here chat-
ting with some old acquaintance, there curiously
scanning the newfangled weapon of a younger
contestant. One of these, a dapper young farmer,
too foppishly dressed for the occasion, swaggered
forward and lay down on the slanted plank, rest-
ing the heavy barrel of his telescope-sighted rifle
across the raised end and taking aim with much
fussy preparation. Then his confidence deserted
him, he dwelt long on his aim and the muzzle
gyrated dubiously, till at last he desperately pulled
the trigger, and to his own great surprise hap-
pened to hit the turkey, whereat he bragged tre-
mendously, but too soon, for in a dozen more shots
he did not make a hit. One bashful, ungainly
young fellow with a new rifle, outwardly as unfin-
ished as himself, got three turkeys at three shots,
and was then barred out by Taft, who protested,

134

How Elijah H'ds Fed at Christmas.

"By gum, I won't hev my stock o' turkeys used up
for twelve an' a half cents apiece."

After several small victims had succumbed to
swift or tardy fate, a big gobbler was set up on the
box, and Uncle 'Liger stepped forth to make his
first shot. Scorning what he called the "booby
rest," he knelt on one knee, resting his elbow on
the other, and slowly raised the long rifle to its un-
erring aim. Forty rods away on the level meadow
the great bird looked no larger than a chickadee,
but the old man saw the polished silver sight shin-
ing fairly against the black side at the proper in-
stant. Everyone was watching intently, expect-
ing to see a responsive flutter or fall of the
doomed fowl, but it remained erect and motion-
less, while beyond and a little to the left a puff of
dun grass and dirt was smitten from the frozen
ground.

"Wall, I'll be darned if Uncle 'Liger hain't
missed him clean !" exclaimed some one in a disap-
pointed tone, and not even the most jealous rival
openly derided the unsuccessful shot.

"One miss hain't nothin'," Uncle 'Liger re-
marked, quietly, and began loading with great
care, after handing Taft the price of another shot.
"That 'ere's the turkey I want, Ab'm, an' here's
your ninepunce."

Hunting Without a Gun.

But his second shot went as wide of the
mark as the first, and the third and fourth were
as unfortunate, and, alas ! his money was all gone,
and with it the last chance of providing
for to-morrow's promised feast — a disappointment
harder to bear than the mortification of defeat.

"Wai, 'Liger," said an old comrade, "me an'
you has got to give up an' be 'has beens.' '

"The ol' Scratch has got into me or the gun or
both of us. I tried her to a mark yest'day at arm's
length an' plunked the center ev'ry time."

"Folks an' guns will wear aout," said the other,
smiling incredulously.

"I noticed you held her stiddy as an anvil," said
the blacksmith, who was the repairer of all the
guns of the township, "an' I'd ruther have the ol'
gun to-day than half a dozen o' these new fashion
ones, wi' their gimcracks an' their patent loadin'
muzzles an' peek sights an' the devil knows what
all. Le' me jest look at her a minute."

Taking the gun he examined it critically, and
presently his sharp eye detected the fault that he
had suspected.

"Here's where ye got a cold shet, Uncle
'Liger," he said, laying a seared forefinger on the
back sight. "Yer crotch sight's knocked a leetle
hair aout o' line."

136

How Elijah Was Fed at Christmas.

"Thunder an' guns!" the old man ejaculated.
"That come o' my tumblin' — droppin' of her
a-comin' over here, an' I never took a notice.
What a tarnal oP gump I be. I'm glad it wa'n't
the gun's fault — not r'a'ly."

"Ner your holdin' nuther," said the blacksmith.
"Taft ort giv' ye another chance for nothin'. Say,
Abe, Uncle Tiger's sight got discumboberlated
was what ailed his shootin'. You'll let him hev
another shot, free, won't ye, now I've got it
straight ag'in?"

"No, sirree, not by a jugful; the' don't nob'dy
git no free shots here," the landlord answered,
gruffly.

"Most seems 's 'ough you'd ortu, considerin',"
the blacksmith urged, coaxingly.

"I tell ye, I won't. It hain't my business to sight
folks' rifles for 'em."

"He's a mean skunk, anyhaow," said the black-
smith, turning his back upon the churlish fellow
in disgust. "I was a-goin' to take a few more
shots myself, but I swear I won't, naow. He don't
git no more o' my money. I've got one turkey
an' we're abaout even. I wish't I had tew, I'd
give ye one, Uncle 'Liger."

"I feel some as you dew 'baout payin' on him
any more," the old man said, though in truth his

137

Hunting Without a Gun.

scruples on that score were not so great as his
pride, which forbade his asking the loan of nine-
pence. "But I du want a turkey tormentedly, an'
I feel it in my bones I could git one by tryin' ag'in.
But it's a-gittin' kinder darkish for to shoot so
fur."

The shadows were creeping from the gray
woodlands far across the tawny fields, yet the
shooting still continued in spite of the waning
light. For the most part the living target would
maintain its upright or cowering posture as the
harmless bullets whistled past it, but now and then
one would proclaim a palpable hit by a prodigious
flutter or final outstretch of lifeless head and
wings. Then a demand was made that the dis-
tance should be shortened by ten rods, to which
Taft would not accede, and so the shooting ended.
The landlord then announced that the remaining
turkeys would be raffled off in the bar room in the
evening.

Some of the successful shooters stayed to take
part in this contest, and meanwhile hung their
trophies in the back porch of the tavern, through
which Uncle 'Liger passed to take his way home-
ward across the fields. As his eye fell upon them,
it struck him that it would be very easy to take
one, and then he found himself sorely tempted to

138

How Elijah Jl'as Fed at Christmas.

do so. But he went resolutely past them all. Then
with the memory of poor Lydia's face lighted with
anticipation, appealing to him, he returned and
went slowly along the line, carefully searching for
the smallest turkey and promising to take no other.
He found it and was lifting it from its nail when
he heard approaching footsteps and voices and
skulked quickly behind a corner.

"I got kinder oneasy abaout my turkey, for fear
somebody'd hook it," said one. "'Tain't no gre't
of a fowl, but it's a turkey all the same, an' the
young uns is 'lottin' on't 'cause I promised I'd
fetch 'em one. Here it is, all right. Wai, I guess
I'll take it an' clear aout to make sure on't."

When the sound of their retreating footsteps
grew faint and Elijah returned to the place, the
selected turkey was gone. "Well, there, 'Liger
Wait, if you hain't come pooty nigh makin' a
scamp o' yourself," he said, catching his breath in
a gasping whisper, now hot with shame, now cold
with fear of himself. "Git aout o' this, you
cussed ol' fool, afore you disgrace your name an'
breed wus'n missin' ev'rything you ever shoot at."

He made haste to leave the scene of his tempta-
tion, but it was not far behind him when he began
to make excuses for his weakness.

"It wan't for me 'at I wanted the dumbed tur-
139

Hunting Without a (run.

key, nor yet for Cherry, though she'd be awful
disappointed on Lyddy's 'caount It was jest for
that poor ol' critter 'at never hes no good times ner
nothin'. Haow sh'd I know 'baout Gibson's young
ones? Lord, that would ha' be'n tew bad, an'
them settin' as much on't as Lyddy, mebbe.
What'll I du? Go that way an' tell her 'at the'
won't be no Chris'mus for her? Good land! I
can't and won't. I'll kill the ol' ruster. He's
bigger'n a young turkey. He's tougher'n I be, but
I'll set up an' bile him all night, an' she won't
know the di Pence when he's stuffed an' roasted.
Cherry'll hate to hev him killed, bein' one o' the
family so long, but she can't help it when he's
dead. I'll jest load up the ol' weepon an' git him
ag'in the moon on his roost in the ol' apple tree."

He dropped the peaked heel plate upon the toe
of his boot, carefully measured a charge from his
powder horn in the horn charger, as carefully
poured it into the muzzle, whereon he nicely ad-
justed a patch and bullet and drove them smoothly
home, then slid the rod into its brass pipes and the
long groove of the full stock, and throwing the
rifle in the hollow of his arm, pushed the cap upon
the nipple, every motion grotesquely imitated by
his elongated shadow on the moonlit turf.

He remarked the stillness of the chilly air. One
140

How Elijah Was Fed at Christmas.

cheek was no colder than the other. His jetting
breath arose straight before him. The vapor ris-
ing from the lake stood upon it like thin columns
supporting the canopy of cloud it was slowly form-
ing. It was so quiet that he raised the lappet from
his best ear and listened intently, wondering if
there was no sound adrift upon the night. He
caught one, faint and clear, like a far-off bugle
note or baying of a hound, yet neither, suspected,
but not quite identified, until a moment later it
came with a louder clamor.

"Geese, by gum! A-comin' this way. Oh, if
they only would, an' fly low."

He stepped to the cover of a bushy thorn tree
and crouched behind it, peering out sharply.
Presently the V-shaped squadron became dimly de-
fined, wedging its swift way across the blurred
depths of sky, now plowing under for a moment
a twinkling star, now letting it flash forth again,
and all the while growing into a more distinct and
darker line against the blue. Now the forked
shadow slid past along the ground, and now the
flock was straight above him, each individual out-
lined against the sky.

"They're higher'n Gilderoy's kite," he said,
bringing the rifle to his shoulder and bending back-
ward, "but I'll give 'em a partin' salute."

141

Hunting Without a Gun.

The moonlight glinted on the silver sight and
he saw it through the notch of the rear sight well
forward of one of the flankers as he pulled the
trigger. The sharp report was answered by a
blare of aerial trumpets as the slowly rising puft
of white smoke veiled the fast receding flock of
geese, and when it lifted, all had vanished.

Aunt Chanty sat by the fireside knitting and
occasionally looking at the clock and wondering
what could keep Elijah so long after it was too
dark for shooting.

"He hain't got no turkey, I know he hain't, or
he'd ha' b'en hum." Her lips moved to her
thoughts, but with no sound. "I told him he
wouldn't, at fust, I did. Wai, we'll hefto give up
a-hevin' Lyddy, an' I didn't sense afore haow I
was alottin' on it jest for her sake, poor critter.
Ah, well," she sighed heavily, and the sound
breaking in upon the monotonous treble of the tea
kettle, the droning bass of the stove draft, the tick
of the clock and click of her needles, she became
aware how still it was — still in the house, yet
stiller out of doors, from whence came no sound
whatsoever. She listened for Elijah's step crunch-
ing the frozen ground.

Suddenly somewhere from the silence burst the
clear, sharp crack of a rifle, not near enough to

142

Elijah Jl'as Fed at Christmas.

startle her by its suddenness, only setting her to
wondering at its untimeliness. Then, while she
listened in the succeeding silence, it was broken as
suddenly by a tremendous crashing fall of some
heavy but not solid body on the roof. Roof
boards and shingles cracked beneath its weight,
yet it gave back a softened thud of rebound and
then with regular muffled strokes slid down the
steep incline of crackling shingles till it fell with
another thud upon the broad, wrooden doorstep.
At the same instant a strange wild fleeting clamor
seemed to fill the air, swelling and dying in brief
passage. These startling sounds gave Aunt
Charity a great shock, but not great enough to
long overcome her curiosity. Bearing a candle in
one trembling hand, with the other she cautiously
opened the door and saw some sort of a large fowl
lying in a collapsed heap upon the step. She stooped
for closer inspection, lifting with timid fingers the
broad-billed head and feather-clad neck. As she
did so, she caught a glimpse of Elijah standing a
little distance down the path. His rifle was at a
ready, for he was maneuvering to get the ancient
rooster between himself and the moon, when Aunt
Charity made her inopportune appearance.

"Why, 'Liger, why did ye want to heave it onto
the ruff an' scare me half to death? 'Tain't no

143

Hunting JFithout a Gun.

turkey. What on airth is it? Never seen nothin'
like it afore."

He drew near, as much puzzled for a moment
as she.

"Wai, I swan," he broke forth, exultantly, as
he realized his luck, "I did git one arter all. It's
a wil' goose, Cherry, an' I bet there won't be an-
other roasted in the hull taown to-morrer. We'll
feed Lyddy like the Queen o' Sheby."

144

UNCLE GID'S CHRISTMAS TREE.
I.

AL, I do' know what to du."
The words came up in a long
sigh from the depths of Aunt
Pamela Corbin's portly bosom
as she stood with both hands
dropped helplessly, one hold-
ing an open letter, the other, the spectacles which
had aided its slow reading. "Christmas a-comin'
tu-morrer, an' Nancy an' her man a-comin' tu
spend it, an' nothin' pervided ! Wai, I say for it !"
She looked down at Gideon, tilted forward on
the front legs of his chair, and poking meditatively
among the ashes on the stove hearth with the stick
used in the last lighting of his pipe.

"Why don't ye say suthin', father?" she de-
manded, after a moment of waiting.

"Why, I hain't nothin' to say no more'n the boy
had when his father died," Uncle Gid responded,
and then reconsidering this avowal, "why, yes, I
hev, tew, for I be glad Nancy's a-comin', an' she'll
be glad tu see her father V mother, if she doos
hafter go it on pork an' beans, which I don't see

145

Hunting Jrithout a Gun.

there's nothin' for it but for her tu, an' I guess her
man can stan' it. Nathan's hearty t' eat, and the
baby's so young an' leetle it won't make no diff'ence
to him."

"Why, Gideon Corbin, what be you a-thinkin'
on?" cried Aunt Pamela. "That child was three
year ol' the tenth day o' November. A-goin' on
four year ol', an jus' the age fer candy an sech, an'
we not so much as a spoo'f'l o' honey in the
haouse! I do' know but what I feel the wust
abaout that of anything. Oh, my, if men folkes
hain't enough tu kill!"

"If you hedn't a-hed sech all-killin' luck a-raisin'
chickens," he suggested, "but the' hain't a one. If
the ol' ruster 'd du, I'd chance it on pickin' up one
some'ers afore spring, but he's poorer 'n a skate;
might's well try t' eat a tailor's goose ! An ev'y-
b'dy sol' the last turkey 'at they hain't kep' for
the'selves. Gosh, I do' know! I guess it's pork
an' beans, Milly."

"If we'd only killed the hawg last week as we
cal'lated tu," Aunt Milly lamented, "the'd ha'
been spare-rib, an' if it wa'nt for the name on't I'd
just as lives hev it as turkey."

"Livser!" Uncle Gid warmly seconded her
favorable opinion of spare-rib, "'cause you c'n du
most o' the carvin' aforehand wi' an ax. Gosh!

146

Uncle Gid's Christmas Tree.

I druther be shot than tu carve a turkey afore
folks! Yes, sir, my own folks! If I hed it my
way, I'd hev turkeys 'nough so 't each pusson 'd
hev one tu hisself, an' if he wanted any wings or
laigs, or close-hugs or pope's-noses, he'd hafter git
'em for hisself."

"Wai, I'd be thankful enough if we hed one
for all on us !" Aunt Milly sighed. "But, my land,
it don't -signify ! I must be a-doin' wi' what the' is
tu du with, for here 'tis ten o'clock. Thank good-
ness, the's ten good punkins left, an' I'll make
some punkin pies," and she began to stir herself
ponderously.

"An' I'll jist make some 'lasses candy for that
boy, an' I guess, bile him up some sweet flag in
'lasses if it hain't got tew dry."

Whereat she moved briskly about the kitchen,
while the stove with its clattering doors and danc-
ing griddles, and the table with its falling leaf
beating a tattoo against its legs, seemed to join in
her activity. The general commotion aroused
Uncle Gid from his apathetic attitude. Arising,
he unfolded his tall, bent form to more than its
accustomed height, and fixed his gaze contempla-
tively upon the long rifle, which hung in its wooden
hooks over the door.

"Wai," he said, after a little deliberation, "I

Hunting Without a Gun.

kinder guess I'll take a rantomscoot an' see 'f I
can ketch a pa'tridge. Don't s'pose the' is one,
since them shoats from Higginston ranshacked the
hull universal woods wi' the' cussed yollopin'
spani'ls. It was yip ! yopaty, yip ! slam ! bang !
whang! day in an' day aout for a week till what
pa'tridges wan't killed, was skairt tu death. By
gum, I wish't the last identical spani'l wus — wal,
no, I do' know as shot, ezackly, 'cause they hain't
tu blame for bein' borned spani'ls, but I wish't
they was turned intu 'spectable haoun' dawgs like
my ol' Gab'el. If Gab'el wakes up arter I git
away, don't ye tell him I've gone a-huntin', 'cause
it'll most break his heart tu be left ahind, an' I
don't scasely want him a-pa'tridge huntin'."

The old hound, almost hidden beneath the
stove, signified recognition of his name with lan-
guid beats of his tail on the floor.

"Consarn it, he's heard me talkin' on 't, an'
nothin'll du naow but he must go," said Uncle
Gid, with some show of mild vexation.

"Wal, mebbe I c'n ketch a pa'tridge or tew, an'
they'll look more Christmassy on the table 'an pork
and beans."

Whatever of fin, fur or feather was overtaken
by Uncle Gid's bullets he called "ketched" just as
if it had been taken by hook, trap or net.

148

Uncle Gid's Christmas Tree.

Gabriel's tail continued its languid beat while
his master took down the rifle, opened the patch
box in the stock and examined its contents,
pocketed a handful of bullets from the clock shelf,
shook the paper box of caps close to his ear and put
it in his vest pocket, held up the small powder
horn between his eye and the window before slip-
ping it into his breast pocket, then drew the clean-
ing rod and its patch out of the long barrel with a
critical ear and touch to its smooth progress, all so
quietly that the strokes of the old hound's tail were
not accelerated. But when Gideon remarked to
himself under his breath that "the ol' churn was
all right," and began tiptoeing cautiously toward
the door, Gabriel came scrambling backward out
of his warm berth with a prodigious scratching
and clattering of toe nails in a state of joyous ex-
citement, to which he gave vent in awkward, stiff-
jointed gambols and suppressed yelps. When out
of doors and assured of his master's intended
course, he at once subsided to a sobriety befitting
his years, and jogged on toward the woods with a
staid and business-like pace, now and then waiting
for Gideon, and looking up into his face to catch
his meaning when he said —

"Naow, Gab'el, you hain't sech a fool, be ye, as
tu cal'late you're goin' tu find anything you want

149

Hunting Without a Gun.

this time o' day. The' hain't been a fox stirrin'
these tew hours, an' rabbits you do' want, an' the'
hain't been a 'coon aout door for a fortni't, I know.
It's a pa'tridge I'm arter, an' you won't hunt
them." Or when Gabriel sniffed at a fox track im-
printed on the snow when the latest stars were shin-
Ing or longer ago — "Naow, dawg, you don't want
tu be a-foolin' with that. It hain't got no more
scent than moonshine."

The hound disappeared in the border of the
woods, beyond the scope of conversation, taking a
wide circuit, in which he could sometimes be heard
thrashing the underbrush with his tail, or snapping
a dry twig under foot, or sounding an irrepressible
trumpet blast when the hot scent of a fresh squirrel
track suddenly tickled his nostrils. Then he would
return for a brief interview with his master, who
was in more silent quest of game.

Now, to his intense disgust, a company of jays
vociferously heralded Gideon's cautious progress;
now a saucy red squirrel jeered at him with great
volubility from various points of observation, and
now he saw a bevy of chickadees flitting above a
prostrate trunk with greater interest in some object
just beneath them than in him. Several knots
bristled from the log at various angles. One on
top, as motionless and apparently as rigid as the

150

Uncle Gld's Christmas Tree.

others, seemed to attract Uncle Gid's attention, for
he scrutinized it intently till at last the rifle arose
slowly to his shoulder, then became motionless for
an instant, then spat out a thin streak of fire with a
spiteful crack, and the knot tumbled off the log in
a sudden but brief and final spasm of animation.

Gabriel came in at the shot in a state of excite-
ment which subsided in a contemptuous sniff at the
meager result, and afterwards kept near his master
as if to prevent his committing any further folly.
Uncle Gid pocketed the headless partridge and re-
sumed his cautious quest, though not a little an-
noyed by Gabriel's persistent attendance. This
became more annoying when the tracks of three
partridges were found freshly imprinting the snow
where the birds had wandered deviously, but still
in company, from thicket to thicket, and likely to
be so come upon in the next, if the dog did not flush
them. He seemed perversely bent on accomplish-
ing this, for he nosed along the wandering trails in
advance of his master, whose low-toned but em-
phatic commands were as unheeded as unheard.

"There, you 'tarnal ol' fool-head, you've done
it, hain't ye!" the old man's suppressed vexation
broke forth aloud, when Gabriel threshed his way
into the dead, dry underbranches of a copse of
young pines, and in the same instant the three par-

IXI

Hunting irilhont a Gun.

tridges burst up through the green tops like as
many rockets simultaneously discharged.

"Oh, if I don't give ye a whalin' when I git
a-holt on ye !" It is doubtful whether Uncle Gid's
wrath would have endured to the fulfillment of the
threat, even if the hound in his surprise had not
uttered a loud, sonorous challenge; and, as if in
c-bedience to it, the birds scaled upward in a steep
incline, and, to the old hunter's great joy, alighted
on the branches of a huge maple. Two were in
sight, craning their necks to watch the movements
of the dog, and Uncle Gid drew a bead full on the
breast of the lower one, too anxious to secure the
bird to risk a shot at the jerking head. In response
to the imperative crack of the rifle the bird dropped
like a plummet, and expired in a miniature snow
flurry of its own creation, which had scarcely
ceased when the patched bullet was driven down
upon the measured charge of powder, the cap
pressed upon the nipple, and the rifle ready for an-
other execution. At its spiteful crack the second
partridge tumbled from its loftier perch, crashing
through the branches below it, and scaring from
among them the unseen third member of the trio,
which dashed away into distance and safety.

Gabriel abandoned the exploration of the thicket
to ascertain the cause of so much firing, but the two

152

Uncle Gid's Christmas Tree.

dead birds did not seem to account for it satisfac-
torily. He searched the ground about them, then
sniffed at the boll of the maple, at first casually,
then more carefully, then eagerly and standing on
his hind legs, and sniffing at the trunk as high as he
could reach, he mingled quavering sobs of inhala-
tion with a broken whine which finally burst forth
in a prolonged trumpet blast.

"Sho, Gab'el ! You're a-foolin' or bein' fooled,"
said Uncle Gid as he pocketed his game and care-
lessly observed his companion with an amused
smile. "The' hain't nothin' up the tree naow."
But Gabriel insisted to the contrary till his master
came to him and examined the rough bark and
found it scored with fresh claw marks. There were
also a few long black and white hairs, with shorter
ones of a neutral tint and finer texture, caught in
clefts of the bark, and after a minute studying of
these signs Uncle Gid openly admitted :

"Wai, I say for 't, I do' know but what you be
right, arter all. Yes, sir, I guess the' is a coon or
coons in 't!" and when, backing slowly away from
the trunk with his steadfast gaze as slowly climb-
ing it, he discovered a hole just beneath one of the
lower branches, the guess grew to a conviction.
"Yes, sir, they come in afore it snowed, an' I'll go
right home an' git an ax," and he set forth at once,

153

Hunting Without a Gun.

while Gabriel maintained guard, assured of his
master's return by the rifle left leaning against a
tree. Half an hour later the woods resounded
with the strokes of Uncle Gid's ax regularly de-
livered on the trunk of the hollow-hearted maple
till it tottered and went down with a sweeping rush
and crash of branches and a far-echoing boom.

A bewildered 'coon came scrambling out of the
hole, closely followed by another, both met so
quickly by Uncle Gid that the stunning blows of his
ax fell upon their heads before they realized the
cause of their rude awakening. The hound gave
each limp body a shake, then thrust his muzzle
into the hole and sniffed the interior with long-
drawn inhalations, while Uncle Gid chopped into
the hollow in several places to assure himself that
it harbored no more of the family; and then, his
curiosity somehow attracted thither, he drove the
butt of the ax into the trunk at some distance
above the doorway of the 'coons' chamber.

"No, the' hain't nothin' more in 't, Gab'el, but
tew 'coons hain't to be sneezed at, an' that 'ere
youngest one'll help aout your Aunt Milly's Christ-
mas 'mazin'ly. What — in — tunket!" he exclaimed
in great surprise as he carelessly loosened a chip
and a few torpid bees fell with it on the snow.
"Honey, by hokey !" he cried out exultantly when

154

Uncle Gid's Christmas Tree.

with a few more strokes he cleft out a longer chip
and disclosed great longitudinal slabs of comb,
some turned to the color of old gold with years of
hoarding, some as bright as the virgin nuggets of
Klondike. The discovery of this most unexpected
treasure took away the old man's breath, and with
it the power to give audible expression to his sur-
prise and delight, though his face was first blank
with one emotion, then broadly illuminated with
the other. His form crooked into an interrogation
mark, then straightened to one of unworded excla-
mation, until, with his breath regained in a long in-
halation, he burst forth with slow vehemence :

"Wai, by gum, Gab'el, if this 'ere hain't a Christ-
mas tree ! Tew pa'tridges, tew 'coons, an' gobs
an' gobs o' honey. Who ever see the beat o' that
tu one haul ! Whoop ! hooray for us, Gab'el. An'
yer Aunt Milly 'd holler tew if she was here.
More honey 'n I can draw tu one jag in the brass
kittle on the han'-sled, an' 'nough sight better for
Nancy's boy 'n candy 't ever was ! Who, whoop !
Why don't ye hoot, Gab'el? Ta' care, you oP
fool-head. Keep yer nose aouten them bees, or
they'll make ye play a diffunt tune on yer hoot
horn. 'They ain't dead, but sleepeth,' as the tomb-
stuns says. Who, whoop!"

Far and near in the pearly arches of the woods
155

Hunting Without a Gun.

the sleeping echoes awoke again to repeat the
jubilant chorus of the hunter and hound, and far
away on the crest of the hill where ,the upper
breezes sang among the pines the red-cockaded log-
cock, also hunting his Christmas fare, sent back a
cheery answering cry.

156

UNCLE GID'S CHRISTMAS TREE.
II.

OU want tu quit a-watchin' for
'em, if you want tu hev 'em
come," said Uncle Gid Corbin,
as for the twentieth time on
Christmas morning Aunt Milly
went to the window, wiped the
steam from a pane with her apron, carefully ad-
justed her spectacles, and searched the two blue
lines which marked the freshly beaten road to
where they blended in one, on the crest of the
farthest ridge.

"Wai, I do' know but what you're right,
father. The' hain't nothin' in sight as fur's I can
see. There, posityvely, I will not look ag'in."
She fortified herself with a final searching glance,
and turning her back resolutely upon the shining
outer world, waddled briskly across the kitchen,
whose furniture celebrated every step of her
progress with lively acclaim.

"Land sakes!" she sighed, as much with the
'57

Hunting Without a Gun.

effort of squatting before the oven door of the
stove as from the suggested possibility. "What if
they shouldn't come arter all."

With corrugated brow and set lips she made
feints at the hot latch with her bare hand, then
sheathing it in the corner of the ever useful apron
she flung the door open, letting out a steaming
fragrance of baked meat of which Uncle Gid
craned his neck to get a fuller sniff.

"They've got tu come," said Uncle Gid, leaning
further forward and sidewise to catch a glimpse of
the source of the savory odor. "You V I can't
eat all you've fixed up in a fortni't. By hokey! if
they git a smell o' that 'coon a-roastin' they'll haf
tu ! I'm good min' tu op'n the aoutside door an'
let some on 't drift tow-wards 'em."

"Wai, it doos mos' seem 's 'ough the' wouldn't
ha' been so much come so providential all for
nothin'," said Aunt Milly, as she drew the drip-
ping pan so far out to baste its contents that nearly
the whole length of the raccoon, sweating fat at
every pore and beginning to blush with a delicate
bloom of brown, was displayed to her husband's
admiring eyes. He heaved a sigh of satisfaction
and began filling his pipe, feeling as great a desire
to smoke as if he had partaken of a feast.

"What you goin' tu call it?" she asked, as she
158

Uncle Gid's Christmas Tree.

shoved back the pan and closed the door. "They
might spleen ag'in 'coon."

"They can't a-lookin' at it an' a-smellin' on't, an'
folks 'at spleens ag'in good game don't desarve no
victuals," said he, adding, after some reflection,
"but we might call it turkey."

"Good land! a four-legged turkey!" Aunt Milly
chuckled.

"Wai, you needn't laugh, mother, for I seen
a tew-headed chicken onct, an' I d' know why a tur-
key couldn't jest as well hev a extry pair o' laigs.
But we can call it a pig if you'd any druther."

"Only it hain't got no skin on," she objected.
"Tain't nob'dy's bus'ness if we skin aour pig,"
he asserted; "I'd livser 'n tu singe 'em, as I seen
Pete Frenchman his'n. Yes, sir, laid his coshaw,
as he called it, ontu a scaffil, an' lit some straw 'n
under it, an' jest scorched the brussels off on't.
You never see sech a lookin' thing — blacker 'n
Tony's face. I sh'd think 'twas coshaw!"

"What's that, anyway?" Aunt Milly asked.

"Oh, I s'pose that is French for pig," Uncle
Gid answered, and then to the hound, who came
and nuzzled his hand for a caress : "Why, sartin,
ol' dawg, the' wouldn't ha' been no 'coons nor no
honey if it hedn't 'a' been for him. Course his
Uncle Gid knows that, an' so doos his Aunt

159

Hunting Without a Gun.

Milly;" and Gabriel acknowledged the recognition
of his service with rapid beats of his tail that swept
the sand into little windrows on the clean scoured
floor.

Aunt Milly's face lighted up suddenly with a
happy thought that flashed upon her. "Le's we
call the 'coon a coshaw !"

"By hokey, we will!" Uncle Gid declared, en-
thusiastically; "if they can't stomerk it by that
name, the' 's three pa'tridges for 'em, one apiece,
an' you an' me '11 go it on coshaw. What is that
,'ere noise?" he demanded, with a quick change of
tone, as the mellow jangling of Boston bells be-
came audible above the monotony of his voice, the
shrill song of the kettle and the muffled sputtering
of the raccoon in its hot prison.

"Jung-jang, jung-jang," sang the sixteen big and
little hollow, bronze globes, each wide mouth smil-
ing blandly as it rolled back and forth, as a sweet
morsel, the iron pellet which was its tongue.

"Le' me look, mother; if you look it won't be
them!" cried Uncle Gid, forestalling his wife's ad-
vance toward the window with such celerity that
Gabriel became excited, for he seldom saw his
master move so quickly, unless to take the rifle
from its hooks. To the hound's disappointment,
he stooped to the window and carefully regarded

160

Uncle Gid's Christmas Tree.

the approaching horse, the bread-tray shaped
sleigh, and its occupants. Then as they recognized
him through the misty panes, and smiled and
nodded greeting, he proclaimed joyfully :

"Wai, by hokey ! it is them — Nancy an' Nathan
an' that 'ere baby. I say for 't he is a lunker er
less they've got him turribly bundled up."

He donned his cap, and as he hurried to the
door, put on his coat with the collar turned in,
which Aunt Milly plucked at unsuccessfully while
she bustled behind him in a fidget of nervous ex-
citement, and Gabriel pressed so closely in the rear
as to threaten the downfall of both in his struggle
to be foremost. Just as the door opened,
the jung-jang of the bells became slower, then
broke in scattered drops of musical sound, then
ceased before it, and there arose a less musical, but
as joyous, and louder clamor of two feminine
voices, both asking questions at once, and never
answering one, for that must come later. There
\\ as also the clear, shrill treble of the child's voice
beginning the relation of his wonderful journey,
and asking unanswerable questions; and Gabriel
welcomed the guests with sonorous trumpet blasts ;
while the two men, being unable to exchange an in-
telligible word, grinned, dumbly at each other in
amused helplessness. Then the boy was unloaded

161

Hunting Without a Gun.

into the embraces of his grandmother, and Nathan,
tall, strong and good-natured, diffusing a whole-
some odor of the chips and shavings made in his
craft of carpenter and joiner, lumbered out of the
huge bread-tray, pulled Nancy out of the entangle-
ment of the buffalo skins, and got her on her feet
— a comely, buxom young matron, having some-
thing of her father's height, something of her
mother's breadth, and a wifely, motherly face,
aglow with health.

At last Uncle Gid and his son-in-law were given
an opportunity to shake hands with each other,
after which they drove to the stable with their feet
hanging outside the sleigh, and made the horse as
comfortable as possible, in the company of the cow
and the small flock of poultry to whose use the
equine abode had long been devoted.

When they entered the house the uninterrupted
flow of the women's conversation had subsided into
two nearly distinct currents, and was almost intel-
ligible to their husbands; yet as its subjects were
mainly marriages, births and deaths, it did not in-
terest the men so much that they did not find more
entertainment in their own chat in the corner be-
hind the stove. Nathan was not a hunter, but he
listened attentively to Uncle Gid's stories of the
chase, and said, "Gosh!" with discriminating em-

162

Uncle Gid's Christmas Tree.

phasis at the proper points. He sometimes went
fishing, and now related experiences, in which
Uncle Gid expressed no unbelief; also both
smoked, so there were various bonds of sympathy
between them.

The little boy, with a slice of bread and honey,
sat on the floor in a state of bedaubed contentment,
which the hound, lying far under the stove, did not
fully share in, being made to impersonate the horse
in a rehearsal of the late memorable sleigh ride,
his tail serving as reins.

An eavesdropper might have gathered from the
medley of voices, accompanied by the continuous
shrill tenor of the tea kettle and the bass of the
stove draught, something like this of the double
dialogue:

"An' don't you believe, Nancy Sherman, it
wa'n't scarcely six months arter Miss Hale was
laid in her grave, not more 'n seven, anyway, 'fore
the Squire up an' married Susan Taylor."

"You don't say!"

"Yes, sir. Some thought it was kinder craowdin'
the mourners; but I s'pose he felt for the want of a
companion."

"Wai, wal ! I see 't the Hale place was fixed up
dreadful scrumptious as we come by, but I hedn't
no idee !"

163

Hunting Without a Gun.

"Yes, indeed ; an' they went over the lake tu her
folkses on their weddin' taower."

"I want to know !"

»

"An' naow, if they ain't got a baby."

"Mother Corbin, for all this livin' world !"

"Doe long, bonny; doe long, me tell you! Bell
say 'd'long, d'long,' too."

"See that young un ! Wai, as I was a-tellin', I
was stan'in' a-listenin' tu the dawg tunin' of her
up, away west on me, an' me a-lookin' that way wi'
all my eyes, an' gun a-ready, when all tu onct I
hear a bush crack right behind me, an' I turned my
head s-l-o-w, an' by hokey ! if there wasn't that tar-
nal fox, not ten rod off."

"Gosh!"

"A-list'nin' tu Gab'el."

"Gosh!"

"An' I swung the ol' churn ontu him, s-l-o-w, an'
onhitched an' plummed him right through."

"Gosh!"

"Come tu, I'd forgot my knife, an* hed tu lug
him clean hum tu skin him."

"Gosh!"

"Jest for the notion I weighed him, an' he
weighed jest twelve pounds and a half."

"Gosh! Ezactly what a pickerel weighed 't I
ketched on a tilt-up last week."

164

Uncle Gid's Christmas Tree.

"I hain't no sorter doubt on't. Jes' look a' that
young un, will ye? Think's he's drivin' a sure
'nough hoss."

As the two men watched the child, conversation
slacked, when Aunt Milly was reminded of her
charge in the oven by the sputtering of the fat in
the dripping pan, and opening the door she re-
leased a cloud of savory odor.

"My land!" Nancy cried, as she inhaled it.
"Whatever you're a-cookin', it smells dreadful
good. What is't, mother?" she asked, curiously,
observing it during the process of basting. 'Tain't
turkey — it don't look like a pig; what is't?"

"Wai," Aunt Milly answered, prodding the
thicker parts with a fork, "it is a — it is a — land
sakes! what is the name on't, father?"

Uncle Gid looked intently into the bowl of his
pipe as he answered, laconically: "Coshaw."

"Good land; yes, it's coshaw. Why can't I
never think on't!" said Aunt Milly.

"Coshaw! coshaw!" her daughter repeated.
"Wai, I never heard o' them afore. Jest yu look
at it, Nathan."

While Nathan examined it Uncle Gid became
more absorbed in the contemplation of his pipe,
and so continued till Nathan declared:

"Wai, it beats me, if it hain't a lamb, or a pig,
165

1 Inn ting J/'itJioiit a Gun.

or suthin'. What sort of a critter is't? It 'pears
tu be a quaderyped."

"No, 't wa'n't the name 't was gi'n tu us."
Aunt Milly shook her head in slow negation. "It's
a coshaw, an' it come tu us for Christmas, an' that's
all we can tell ye abaout it now. If you don't like
it there's pa'tridges — father ketched three yest'-
day. D'ye druther hev 'em br'iled er roasted?"

"It don't make no diff'rence tu me," said
Nathan. "Accordin' tu the looks and smell on't I
do' want nuthin' better 'n that 'ere — what d'ye call
it?" And his wife quite agreed with him.

Nevertheless Aunt Milly broiled the partridges,
and added a finer fragrance to the appetizing odors
that pervaded the kitchen. But these were as
nothing to their substantial resources — the roasted
raccoon, the broiled partridges, the baked pota-
toes, the hot johnny-cake and biscuits, the cider ap-
ple sauce, the honey, and the pumpkin pies. Of
all the dishes that furnished forth the crowded
board the prime favorite was the mysterious roast.

Discoursing while they feasted, Uncle Gid told
of hunting the partridges, and just missed disclos-
ing the finding of the 'coons; and when Aunt Millv
explained how they came by honey she nearly let
the 'coon out of the tree, yet the uninitiated were
still none the wiser.

166

Uncle Gid's Christmas Tree.

As has been at least once reported of a social
gathering, it may be truly said of this, that "all
did ample justice to the bountiful repast" — even
little Gideon, elevated on the family Bible to a
working height, plied knife and fork so manfully
that his grandfather's heart was filled with pride,
while his female progenitors foretold such woeful
retribution as ever is prophesied to overtake
greedy little boys; but, as usually happens in such
cases, the prediction was not fulfilled.

"Du let the boy eat; it'll du him good," said his
reckless father.

"If you hain't jest like a man!" Aunt Milly
said, regretfully.

"Gosh!" Nathan replied, and went into the
woodshed in search of a stick suitable for the man-
ufacture of a toothpick. As with a professional eye
he scanned the interior architecture he discovered
a fresh raccoon skin nailed upon the boards in an
obscure corner. When he re-entered the kitchen
he remarked casually: "I found aout one thing
'baout that 'ere coshaw. It hed rings raound its
tail. Gosh!"

167

A NEW YEAR'S SWEARING-OFF.

ETER FOLSOM came into the
kitchen, where his wife and
daughter were busy about the
roaring, glowing stove, on
whose top the coffee-pot bub-
bled a soft accompaniment to
the shrieking and sputtering of a pan of sausages,
and out of whose elevated oven came the aroma
of baking potatoes. He glanced up at the clock
and the long-barreled fowling piece that hung be-
side it, then furtively at the stove, but not at his
wife, as he addressed her: "Is breakfast 'most
ready, mother? 'Cause if it hain't, I'll git a bite
o' suthin' an' be off, for I'm kinder in a hurry."

Mrs. Folsom set her lips firmly to the delicate
task of turning the sausages and accomplished it
before she demanded: "What be you in such a
pucker for, father ? Be you a-goin' somewhere on
business?"

Peter cleared his throat and answered rather de-
fiantly, "Wall, yes, sorter. You might say business

168

A New Year*s $wearing-0ff.

and pleasure. I'm a-goin' to give them haoun' dogs
a little ex'cise. It's the neatest mornin' 't ever
was; not a breath stirrin', an' a little speck o' new
snow, jest 'nough to kiver up ol' tracks. Seems 's
'ough I'd orter improve it, for the' won't be an-
other like it this year, bein' it's the last one in it."

His tone had become apologetic, but neither that
nor the poor attempt at a joke softened the set
sternness of his wife's face.

"I s'pected as much!" she said, with a short,
contemptuous laugh. "Wai, if that's all, you'd
better set daown an' eat your breakfus' wi' the rest
on us like a civilized bein', when it's so't ont' the
table, when the boys come in from the barn. I
should think 'at you'd got abaout old enough tu
quit a-rampin' 'raound up hill and down dale,
arter a mess o' yollopin' haoun' dogs a-distractin'
decent folks wi' their plaguey noise!"

"If some folks hain't got no ear for music, I do'
know as the haoun' dogs is tu blame for it, singin'
glory halleluyer, no more 'n the birds is for singin'
in the mornin'," said Peter, with his back to his
wife, as he washed face and hands at the sink.
"I've hearn folks find fault wi' them."

She vouchsafed no rejoinder beyond a con-
temptuous sniff.

4 'Lizabeth," he said to the daughter, while he
169

Without a Gun.

wiped vigorously on the roller towel, shaking out
some words and smothering some. "You see if
you can't find me a 'tater 'at's done, an' gi' me a
piece o' sassidge an' a cup o' coffee." Then seat-
ing himself at the table, he took up Mrs. Fol-
som's assertions at the beginning, while he awaited
the bringing of his breakfast. "You was a-sayin'
haow I was ol' 'nough tu quit huntin'. Wai, I
hain't only just turned o' sixty, an' my gran'ther
he hunted when he was in his eighty-fif year.
Father didn't hunt none, but he was able tu when
he was eighty year ol' if he'd wanted tu. That
gives me twenty year on't yet."

"The wust on't is the eggsample you're settin'
your boys — a-shoolin' 'raound," said Mrs. Folsom.

Her husband broke a Mercer potato in two
and whetted his appetite with a sniff of its fra-
grance before replying. "That idee hain't no
gre't weight, sence they don't care a button for
huntin', 'ceptin' little Pete ; he takes arter my gran'-
ther some — t'others arter their gran'ther. Tom's
all hoss, more's the pity, an' Joe's all cattle. Pete's
got dog an' gun born into him, an' you can't git it
aout on him, 'gsample or no 'gsample." He
mashed and buttered his potato while his wife
fitted another arrow to her bow and let fly.

"It's mis'able, goo'-for-nothin', low-daown,
» 170

A New Year's Swearing-Off.

lazy, loafin' business, an' them 'at follers it hain't
no 'caount. Look a' ol' Bill Leggett an' Jim
Fisher!"

He fortified himself with a mouthful of sausage
and as much potato as a quarter of his knife blade
would hold, and began speaking before his mouth
was clear of them. "I don't hold 'at a man had
ort tu hunt all the time when game's as scarce as it
is now-er-days, but take it reasonable. You don't
want tu go tu quiltin' every day, nor try tu live on
tea wi'aout no victuals. Took reasonable they're
stimerlatin' an' comfortin', an' so's huntin'. Billy
an' Jim overdoes it, but I know wuss men, an' they
be, 'at belongs to the church. An' as for me, I've
allers managed tu git a decent livin' off'm the
farm, an' go a-huntin' once in a while, tew !"

"I hope you allers will, father," said Elizabeth,
at his elbow with his coffee.

"It's a snare o' the evil one," Mrs. Folsom
said, piously, giving the last link of sausage a
spiteful jab as she transferred it from the frying-
pan to the platter. "The hymn says, 'Satan allers
finds a job for idle hands tu du.' '

"A fellow 'at's a-huntin' in airnest hain't turri-
ble idle," said Peter; then, in parenthesis, " 'Liza-
beth, won't you jest give them 'ere dogs some col'
johnny-cake. The good book tells o' Nimrod

171

Hunting Without a Gun.

a-bein' a mighty hunter afore the Lord, which, it
'pears, his doin's was approved on."

"Proberbly he didn't hev sons growed up, an'
a-growin' up, an' a darter a young woman grown.
Proberbly he didn't hev no wife, even."

"It's a hopesin' he didn't!" Peter interrupted,
fervently.

"So say I!" she cried, with equal fervor. "A
man 'at goes a-huntin' hedn't ort tu hev no wife
to worry abaout him, an' be 'shamed an' lunsome
an' bothered wi' haoun' dogs allers underfoot an'
allers hungry an' slobberin' an' into everything!
He'd ort tu be a batchelder an' a hermit, but he's
more like tu be a widderer if he's single, but then,
pussecuted women don't die fust !"

Peter ate in silence, pondering deeply, until his
sons came in, noisy and hungry, from the morning
chores, and with them the two gaunt hounds,
whimpering and careering in an excess of joy that
belied sorrowful faces. While they snatched ap-
portioned alternate rations from Elizabeth's timid
fingers and beat the skirts of their unfriendly mis-
tress with their slender, bony tails, their master
arose and put on his deep-pocketed, blue-striped
woolen frock, took down the long gun, powder-
horn and shot-pouch, and then, facing about, ad-
dressed his household.

172

A New Year's Swearing-Off.

"I do' know but what you're right, mother, an'
I p'sume tu say I be an ol' fool, an' orter quit
a-bein' one. Anyways, I been tol' on't times
enough, an' I've got sick an' tired of hevin' on't
hove in my face an' dinged intu my ears. So I tell
ye, all on ye, this 'ere's my last day. Whatever
my luck is, tu-night I swear off a-huntin' forever
an' ever more. The dogs I'll give away afore I
come hum; the gun I won't — it was gran'ther's,
an' Pete can hev it for his'n, if he's fool enough
tu go huntin' when he gits growed up an' lucky
'nough tu be 'lowed tu, in peace. Mother, Tom,
Joe, 'Lizabeth, Pete — this 'ere's the last time
you'll see me a-goin' aout \vi' haoun's an' gun.
Pete, arter you git your breakfus' .eat, if you're
a-min' ter, you can take your gun an' come up on
t' the hill. If we start a fox, an' we shall, if the'
is one, he'll run on the bare ledges. Come Scott,
come Papinew!"

He went out, followed by the four-footed name-
sakes of two then popular heroes, one of the
United States, the other of Canada, and followed
by the gaze of the family.

"Wai, I never!" Mrs. Folsom gasped with re-
turning breath.

"Father's got his dander up!" said horsey
Tom ; and Joe, stolid as one of his pet oxen, stared

Hunting J Without a Gun.

as calmly and silently, while the more sympathetic
Elizabeth cried out, pitifully:

"Poor father, it's too bad tu hetchell him so!"
and Pete bewailed the loss of his friends, the
hounds.

Though the household gods frowned, nature's
mood was benign, and she seemed to have set her-
self to making Peter Folsom's last day with gun
and hounds a pleasant one. The sky was un-
clouded, but filmed with haze, and the windless
air, through which such slight noises as the tap-
ping of a downy woodpecker or the piping of a
nuthatch came from distant woods, was so soft
that the inch of newly fallen snow took the im-
print of footsteps like a sheet of white wax.
Thereon a fox had left a record of his nightly
wandering, and the old hound Scott, reading it by
a finer sense than sight, proclaimed it with deep-
toned trumpet-blasts and Papineau gave confirma-
tion in higher key, while from woods and hills a
chorus of echoes swelled the musical confusion.
Reynard awoke from his morning nap and forth-
with betook himself to his traditional tricks on his
ancestral runways, where he was waylaid and low-
laid by Peter the elder, before Peter the younger
appeared upon the scene to exult in and envy his
father's success. The hounds were as keen for

i74

A New Year's Svearing-Off.

further work as at the beginning, and soon found
another fox full of years and cunning, which
availed him not in the end, for the father — that
he might have a worthy successor — gave the son
much instruction concerning runways, which the
latter so quickly put to use that he got the first
shot at the fox and killed it, an achievement which
his father gloried in as much as he, though more
soberly. Foxes were abroad that day, and an-
other was started who was wiser and more for-
tunate than his predecessors in steering clear of
manned runways, and at last took sanctuary in the
cloisters of the earth.

The continuous music of the hounds had called
out all the hunters within hearing of it, and they
now gathered about the hole where the hounds
were taking turns at baying and tearing at the
frozen earth. Before the company, Peter made a
final renunciation of sport, and burned his ships,
giving away his hounds to an old comrade who he
was sure would treat them kindly. Everyone won-
dered at his strange action, but he would give no
explanation, and turning his back resolutely on
his friends, he trudged bravely away, followed by
the boy, a little comforted by the trophy that
dangled from his pocket, for the parting with the
dogs, who, straining at their leashes, their brows

Hunting Without a Gun.

deeply wrinkled with puzzled inquiry, whined in
sorrowful farewell.

"If ever you hear the dogs a-comin' off'm the
hill this way," Peter said to his son, as they
crossed a long ridge in the open fields, "an' you
can git tu that 'ere thorn-apple tree by the fence
quick enough, you'll sartin git a shot at the fox.
I hain't never knowed 'em tu fail a-crossin' there
in forty-five year, an' many's the one I've laid aout
there. But, oh, Lord ! I shan't never ag'in !" He
heaved a sigh from the depths of his bosom and
turned his face from the favorite old runway,
around which clung such happy memories.

When they reached home he hung the gun on
its hooks, sadly pondering the thought that he
should never take it from them again for any
nobler purpose than shooting a corn-pulling crow
or a raiding hen-hawk — never again for a day of
glorious sport. He lingered long over the stretch-
ing of the pelts, giving his son minute instructions,
and remembering how awkwardly he skinned and
stretched his first trophy, and comparing the dex-
terity which experience had given. The house
looked strange to him without the familiar
hounds, concerning whom young Peter confided to
his sister :

"He just gi'n Scott and Papinew right aout an*
176

A New Year's Swearing-Off.

aout tu ol' John Benham. He pooty nigh cried
when he done it. I was tew mad tu — givin' away
them haoun's, the best there is in ten taowns."

"Clever ol' critters, I shall miss 'em," Elizabeth
sighed.

The first day of the New Year was patterned
after the last of the old year, as cloudless, as soft-
tinted with haze, and as windless, but for a breath
of warmer air from the south, so light that it did
not sweep away the echoes, nor its murmur disturb
their far rebound. One echo cast afar from a
gorge of the wooded hill caught Peter Folsom's
ear as he walked from the barn to the house in
the middle of the forenoon. It had a familiar
cadence, and he stopped, listening intently. Again
the mellow echo came across the wide fields, and
with it another as melodious, but higher pitched.

"It's Scott an' Papinew!" he exclaimed aloud,
and now, as they broke over the crest of the hill
in full cry, an ear less keen than his could not have
mistaken the voices. "John's fetched 'em up there
jest tu aggravate me, an' it's tew 'tarnal bad!
Sech a day tu hear a dog! Sech trackin'!" He
pressed 'his fingers on the soft snow that capped
the fence post beside him, his eyes and ears intent
on the hill crest, along which the chase now
tended, trumpet and bugle now alternating, now

177

Hunting Without a Gun.

in unison, now indistinguishable in the jangle of
their own echoes. They reached the end of the
hill, turned and drew near the foot, and Peter
soliloquized in short, eager sentences, as he looked
and listened. "There, they're comin' off 'm the
hill ! If they du, I'll bet the fox'll come tu the
thorn-apple tree ! I'll bet the' hain't nob'dy
stan'in' there! The' hain't be'n time for 'em tu!"
He moved to where he had a view of the low-
spreading tree in scraggy silhouette against the
blue-gray sky. "No, the' hain't a soul ! He'll go
by, an' git tu the west woods, an' that'll be the end
on't ! Oh, if the' was anybody I could send ! Pete !
Pete!" he called. "Oh, he's gone a-skatin'-
plague on't! If 'Lizabeth could only shoot!
Tom an' Joe wouldn't go a rod if they was here,
blast 'em, an' they couldn't hit a meetin' house
a-stan'in' still! I'd hev' jest abaout time! Th'
ol' gun is loaded for business! Oh, I swear!
Flesh an' blood can't stan' it. I've got tu go !"

He broke for the house on a run, burst into the
kitchen without slackening his pace, almost upset
his wife and daughter, in the midst of their New
Year dinner preparations, seized the gun, and was
out again and away before they recovered speech
beyond squeals and exclamation*. Running to
the door, they saw him going at top speed across

178

A New Year's Swearing-Of.

the fields, heard the eager baying of the hounds,
and the situation was made clear to them. They
saw him reach the fence and run beside it, crouch-
ing like a skulking partridge, till he came to the
thorn tree, and then standing beside it as steadfast
as its trunk. Then they saw the long gun rise
slowly to an aim, belch a cloud of smoke, and him
running into the smother before the report came
rolling down to them. They saw him come out
of it, swinging something aloft from the leaping
hounds.

Mrs. Folsom exhaled a deep sigh of relief.
"Wai, your father's got him !"

"Be you glad, mother? I be," Elizabeth asked
and answered for herself, as her mother did not,
but turned and went into the house.

Half an hour later Peter returned, meek and
shame-faced, with the hounds plodding soberly at
his heels. But there was a gleam of pride in his
eyes, as he threw his trophy from his shoulder, a
beautiful silver-gray fox.

"I reckoned you folks would kinder lufter see
the critter wi' his clo's on. I didn't let the dogs
touch him. He's the han'somest one ever I see,
an' you an' 'Lizabeth may hev what he fetches—
$50, I warrant ye. I hed tu go, mother. It hain't
no use, me a-fightin' ag'in the sperit an' the flesh,

179

Hunting Without a Gun.

an' I shall hafter go a-huntin' till I break a laig,
or git crippled wi' rheumatiz, or die."

"It's a-hopesin' the' won't nary one happen tu
ye for a good spell, father!" his wife said, her
face shining with a kindly light. " 'Lizabeth, the's
a hul col' johnny-cake on the butt'ry shelf for the
haoun' dogs. You know they wa'nt here las' night
tu git fed. Poor creeturs, they du look hungry!"

180

A BROTHER-IN-LAW OF ANTOINE.

|S Uncle Lisha was rasping with
his float at a hidden peg in the
toe of a newly tapped boot, his
unemployed eyes staring idly
out the window caught sight of
two approaching figures. They
were evidently engaged in earnest conversation,
each in turn gesticulating violently, while the other
listened intently.

"One of 'em's Ann Twine, but who t'other is,
is more'n I know," the old shoemaker solilo-
quized, while the float went wide of its mark.
"He's one o' the same breed, I know, by the mo-
tions on him, talkin' wi' his arms as much as he
does wi' his mouth. I wonder what the critters
du in the dark, or haow they make one on 'em
onderstan' when he gits blind. If one on 'em was
struck dumb he c'd keep on a-talkin' jest the same.
What a tarnal language, anyway."

Then giving the boot a final inner thrust and
pitching it aside, "There, I guess that won't hurt
more'n tu make Jozeff pick up his quates lively."

181

Hunting Without a Gun.

Antoine now entered with his companion, a man
of his own build and complexion, but younger
and dressed completely in Canadian homespun.
Uncle Lisha welcomed them with boisterous
heartiness.

"Come in, Ann Twine, come in, and come
massy vaw. Who's that you've fetched wi' ye?"

"Good morny, One' Lasha. Dis was one mah
relishin', one mah beau frere, wat you call mah
brudder-law. Hees name Jules La Roche."

"Jule, Jule?" Uncle Lisha repeated. "Why,
that's a she name, short for Julia. Haow come
one o' yer brother-in-laws tu hev it? Was the' so
many on 'em 'at the' wa'n't 'nough men's names tu
go 'raound?"

"O, we gat Jules for the mans an' Julie for de
hwomans. Dat better as fer de Yankee had Jesse
for bose of it, sem Ah'll hear sometam," Antoine
retorted, and took up the broken thread of his dis-
course. "Mah brudder-law ant hable for spoke
Angleesh, not mos' leetly mite. Ah do' know 'f
he ever goin' be hable, lak me."

Antoine continued the introduction in French
to his brother-in-law, who grinned affably, while
he heroically endured Uncle Lisha's clamp-like
grip.

"Hope I see you well? Take a cheer an' set
182

A Brother-in-law of Antoine.

daown," cried the old man, cordially. "Praw
gaddy that three-legged one; he tippy ovy toot
sweet. Dumb it, Ann Twine, he don't onderstan'
French no better'n he does English. Give him a
cheer 'at won't cast him. So he's r'ally one o' your
brother-in-laws, hey? Wai, I've wondered more'n
a thaousan' times 'at some on 'em didn't spill
aouten Canerdy oncte in a while, for it must be
pooty nigh runnin' over wi' 'em."

"Yas, one udder mans come wid it for work in
hayin' can' spik Angleesh no more as he, an' he
want haire aout, bose of it, an' he can' haire aout,
so he come gat me for haire it aout on some dat
big hoi' farmer daown to de lake. Udder man on
mah haouse wid hees hoss an' cart. He coozin
on Ursule."

uSo you're goin' to intarpret for 'em, be ye?
What you goin' tu make out on't?"

"Wai, seh, Ah don't know if Ah'll ant haire
aout mahse'f, prob'ly, w'en Ah gat dem feller all
haire aout, too. Oh, One' Lasha, Ah'll ant never
see so fool lak mah brudder-law, me."

"S-s-sh, don't talk so right tu his head ! You'll
hurt his feelin's ef you don't mad him," Uncle
Lisha whispered gustily behind a waxy palm. But
his anxiety was at once relieved, not only by An-
toine's assurances, but by the grins and nods of the

183

Hunting Without a Gun.

subject of his remarks, bestowed impartially on
both speakers.

. "O, don't you 'fred, One' Lasha. He can*
on'stan' Angleesh more as geeses, an' dat was mek
it so fool for come on de State, two of it, bose
can' on'stan' Angleesh no more as he talk aour
language. Wat s'pose prob'ly dem two fool goin'
do 'f he ant fin' me, hein?"

Then he explained in French to his brother-in-
law, "I am telling the old shoemaker what beauti-
ful moccasins you make." Whereupon the
brother-in-law grinned more complacently and
modestly thrust forth a moccasined foot.

"Sem tarn he so fool, he sma't lak ev'ryt'ing,"
Antoine continued, addressing Uncle Lisha. "He
mow mos' more as Ah can. He jes' good for all
hayin' work, pitch load, ev'ryt'ing, an' he could
rip an' bine de grain so you never see to beat it.
He could chawp de hwood lak hoi' hurrycane. O,
all kan' o' work he can do, an' he fi'le lak forty
bobolink singin', so you can' kept you foots on de
floor. O, bah gosh! Ah'll wisht he gat hees fi'le
so you can heard it play. Bah gosh, he can play
t'ree four tune all de sem tam, yas seh ! Oh, One'
Lasha" CAntoine's face assumed an expression of
awed solemnity) , "de t'ing he do mos' hard.es' was
faght. Yas, seh. He mos' more hugly Ah was."

184

A Brother-in-law of Anloine.

"Shaw, Ann Twine; you don't say so," Uncle
Lisha remarked, looking with amused curiosity at
the terrible little brother-in-law.

"Yas, he awfly mans. He leek all de mans all
'raoun' where he leeve an' wat he ant leek he scare
mos' to deat', an' w'en dey ant no more he scare
hese'f, too."

"Scairt hisself? Wai, that is cur'us. Haow
come he tu?"

"Wai, seh, dat was de tarn he have de wors'
faght he ever have. It was be awfuls, but it was
kan' o' funny, an' Ah'll was goin' tol' you dat
story. Don't you 'fred, 'cause he can' on'stan'
•what Ah'll said. I am now telling the old Bos-
tonais what a terrible fighter you are," Antoine
said in French to his brother-in-law, who thereat
swelled out his chest to its utmost extent and
looked exceedingly fierce, as he filled his pipe and
savagely smote a flint with a curved steel, shower-
ing sparks upon a bit of punk that served him in-
stead of matches for lighting his tobacco. An-
toine also lighted his pipe, though with little
chance of keeping it in blast if his story should be
long, and Uncle Lisha, following his example,
settled himself to comfortable attention with his
elbows on his knees.

"Wai, den," the former began between explo-
185

Hunting Without a Gun.

sive puffs, "Ah'll goin' tol' you. You see, up dere
in Canada, w'en mah brudder-law leeve on de
beeg river, de peop' gat some dey livin' for sol'
hwood on stimboat. Oh, dey lot of it go on de
river, en' it took lot of hwood for bile hees biler.
De peop' sol' dey hwood raght 'long for one dol-
lar V half for cord, ev'ry year, ev'ry year 'fore
bombye one man want for sol' more hwood as
somebody, so he was tol' de stimboat he'll sol' it de
hwood for one dollar V quarter, an' den dat all
de stimboat goin' give anybody.

"All de peop' was be pooty mad, but he can'
he'p hese'f. Den, after 'noder w'ile, dat feller,
Jacques Boulanger hees nem of it, took notion he
chawp hwood more cheaper, an' he do it for jes'
one dollar, an' den Ah'll tol' you, de peop' was
mad, an' oh, haow mah brudder-law he was mad.
He say he goin' leek Jacques.

"Some folks tol' it he can' leek it, 'cause Jacques
more as two tarn bigger as he was. He tol' 'em
wait leetly w'ile, dey see some day w'en he'll gat
drunk at Jacques Boulanger, den he leek it, he ant
care if he big. Wai, it ant be long, 'fore mah
brudder-law have it some w'iskey en esprit, an' he
ant mix it very weak, an' he took pooty good drink
an' he took it pooty often, an' he'll gat drunk at
Jacques Boulanger.

186

A Brother-in-law of Antoine.

"Naow, you see his Ian' an' Jacques' Ian' stan'
close apart, jes' leetly brook run 'tween it in bot-
tom of holler. Jacques' hwood behin' it one side
an' mah brudder-law hees hwood on tudder side.

"Mah brudder-law look over de brook, he'll see
Jacques walkin' aout wid hees ax for go chawp
an' dat mek him some madder, so he go aout an'
holler some swear at him, an' Jacques hear it an'
holler back some swear, too.

"Somebody hear bose of it, an' de story go dat
Jules was gat drunk at Jacques, an' was begin for
leek it, an' den lot of de folks come for see de
faght, but all stan' back so not for get hurt, bose
side de holler behin' Jules an' Jacques, an' dey was
'baout twenty rod one nudder, prob'ly.

"Den mah brudder-law holler some more
laouder an' Jacques holler back more laouder, too,
an' de echo behin' bose of it holler, too, so if dey
was ten mans on de hwood. Den mah brudder-
law trow hees cap an' jomp on it awful hugly, an'
Jacques he paoun' hees breas' of it wid hees fis' an'
say he big man, more strong anybody.

"Den mah brudder-law call him dam hoi' hog
an' jackasses an' bete puante, dat's skonk, an' great
many kan o' t'ing an' haow easy he can leek it.

"Den dat Jacques pull off some hees hairs an'
say he can heat mah brudder-law, an' den mah

187

Hunting Without a Gun.

brudder-law lif hese'f by hees traowser an' holler,
'Brooo,' an' echo come back, 'Brooo,' pooty hugly,
Ah tol' you, raght behin' Jacques, so de peop' be-
gin for be scare some, an' Jacques, too.

"Den mah brudder-law drink big drink off hees
bottle an' gat more drunker at Jacques, an' more
madder at it, an' he hopen hees maout for mek de
wors' heller he'll make yet. Bah gosh he hopen
it so wide de folks behin' see it comin' raoun' hees
head of it an' tink it goin' for crack off, an' w'en
Jacques see it raght biffore, he t'ink prob'ly mah
brudder-law goin' for swaller it, an' he start for
run, an' w'en de peop' over dar see dat big Jacques
run dey t'ink it 'baout tarn for go, too.

"Den mah brudder-law mek so awfly roar you
never hear.. Oh, it shake all de hwood for mile,
an' w'en de echo come back more laouder an' more
of it 'Brrooo, brooo, brooo,' mah brudder-law t'ink
de dev' an' forty loups gareau comin' aout de
hwood at him, so he'll jes' turn hese'f raoun' an'
run fas' he can, 'cause he ant come dar for faght
all dat hell t'ing, honly jes' man, he gat leek
already.

"Naow de peop' behin' it, see he'll runnin', dey
knew it was danger for dem an' dey'll ant wait for
see no more, but jes' run so dey never was afore.
An' one hwoman she faint 'way off so dey mos'

188

x A Brother-in-law of Antoine.

can' brought it back. So you see it was pooty scary
tarn.

"Wai, seh, mah brudder-law ant run great way
'fore soon he slip hees foot an' tumble, flop, right
in leetly holler full o' leaves, an' he ant hear no
more nowse, so he ant want for got up. Mebby
he can' prob'ly, so he jes' lay still an' go sleep all
de res' dat day.

"Dat big Jacques Boulanger, he fall, too, w'en
he runnin', an' chawp hese'f on hees ax so he can'
chawp no more hwood for tree mont', an' dat
broke up de cheap chawpin', so de peop' got dol-
lar V half for cord ag'in, an' Ah tol' you dey was
t'ink plenty of my brudder-law. Ant you t'ink
he'll do grea' deal good for jes' leek one man so
hard, hein?"

"Sartainly," said Uncle Lisha. "Sartainly, and
at the same time not hurt no one."

"Wai, naow," said Antoine, after getting his
neglected pipe in full blast, "Ah'll goin' took mah
brudder-law down on de village, for show it de
forge. He'll ant never see it w'en it goin'. They
ant gat it where he live."

So the two departed, mingling the odor of their
rank tobacco with the sweet scent of the blooming
clover, and their gabble with the voices of the re-
joicing bobolinks.

189

ANTOINE ON THE RAIL.

EAR the close of a September
day several of the frequenters
of Uncle Lisha's shop were
gathered there, not lounging
in their usual ease, but stirred
by an air of expectancy which
was explained when Solon Briggs entered and de-
manded: "Wai, what be you all a-settin' here in
solemn concave for?" and Uncle Lisha answered:
"Wai, ye see, Ann Twine's got hum from his
hayin' taower daown tu the lake, and they say
V th' critter act'ally rid on that 'ere railroad they
been a-makin', leastways he says he did, an' we
want to hear him tell on 't. He'll be up here tu
rights, full on 't an' bilin' over. I don't see what's
a-henderin' on him."

He arose and stooped to the low, long window,
and slowly searched the road through the least
dusty and least wrinkled pane. "I can't see
nothin' on him," he reported, sitting down on his
bench and fumbling among his tools with a show
cf busying himself.

190

Antoine on the Rail.

"A watched pot won't never b'ile," Sam Lovel
said; "you don't want to be a-lookin' for him."

"I don't s'pose it r'a'ly makes much odds
whether no we hear him tell on 't, or guess at it;
Ann Twine does tell sech almighty yarns," said
Uncle Lisha, "but most likely he's seen the
consarn, an' we'll git some idea o' the looks on 't
by his tellin'."

"It don't sca'cely seem 's 'ough I'd much livser
resk myself on the pleggy thing 'n I would in a
boat," said Joseph Hill, and added after some
consideration, "but then if you fell off'm on 't you
wouldn't draound, an' I don't s'pose the's no
danger of'm sinking', an' they don't hafter be
oared. I wonder what does make 'em go,
anyway."

"Why, you see, the b'ilin' water covaporates
into steam," Solon explained, "which the steam
causes the wheels to devolve, sim'lar tu a waggin,
an' it nat'rally follers the hul thing hes got tu go.
Watts invented it one time when he sot by the
stove discomposin' of a hyme, an' the tea kittle
b'iled over. The' was a piece cum in the paper
abaout it."

"You see haow 't is, don't ye, Jozeff?" Sam
asked. "Seems most as if you could go right tu
work an' make one, don't it?"

191

Hunting Without a Gun.

"They du say 't you can see the steam on't from
the top o' Tater Hill, a-skivin' along ju' like the
smoke of a chimbly dragged ag'in the wind by the
small eend," said Pelatiah Gove, slowly ruminat-
ing his cud of spruce gum.

"Folks '11 be a-flyin' next," Tom Hamlin
predicted.

"They hev done that already heretobefore,"
said Solon, "them airy knots in the berloons."

"I tell ye, I b'lieve the world's a-comin' tu an
eend 'fore long," said Timothy Lovel, his serious
face almost expressing alarm. "You know it tells
'n the Bible the'll be much goin' tu an' fro on the
airth for one sign."

"Sam Hill!" Joseph ejaculated with unusual
earnestness, "if it's got tu this year it most seems
'ough I'd jes' 's lives hev it come afore 'tater dig-
gin' as just arter. But I don't s'pose M'ri' 'd be
satisfied if she didn't git all done haouse cleanin'
fust. Hello! I b'lieve that 'ere's Antoine
a-comin'," and presently the Canadian entered
with modest consciousness of his importance as a
distinguished adventurer, yet greeting his friends
with accustomed "Hello, One' Lasha, an' all de
boy, haow ye was, tout la companie?"

There was a cordial response, and after shaking

hands with everyone he seated himself and made

192

Antoinc on the Rail.

a comprehensive survey of the company, while
he was the object of a close scrutiny.

"Wai, sah, boy, Ah'll ant see but you was all
look natchel," he declared, when he had completed
the inspection, and his eyes again dwelt on Uncle
Lisha.

"Bah gosh, One' Lasha, you'll ant get more
hoi' you was w'en Ah'll go 'way!" which was in-
deed remarkable, since Antoine had been absent
a whole month.

"Wai, I do' know but what I've kep' up my
row tol'able well," the old man admitted. "An'
you b'en pooty tough, hev ye, Ann Twine? An'
fetched hum yer pockets all full o' money, I
s'pose!"

"Wai, Ah'll ant goin' bought all of Danvit
jes yet, only half of it, Ah guess, prob'ly," said
Antoine, making conspicuous use of a brand new
red and yellow cotton handkerchief.

"We heard 'at you'd be'n a-buyin' some o' that
'ere new railroad."

"Oh, dat ant so, One' Lasha," Antoine an-
nounced, "but Ah'll was see lot of it, an' seh, Ah'll
r-r-rode on it, bah gosh! Yes, seh, Ah'll r-r-rode
on it, me!"

At this there was a general pricking of ears,
and each settled himself more comfortably to give

19.3

Hunting Without a Gun.

undivided attention while Antoine deliberated how
to begin the relation of his adventures ; he filled
and lighted his pipe.

"Wen fust Ah'll see dat rail roll goin', an' hear
all hees nowse, Ah ant t'ink Ah'll rode on him,
for hees mos' more worse he look, so hugly, an' he
roar an' holler more hugly as he look. But bum
bye Ah'll gat use of it, for see it ev'ry day where
Ah'll work on de hayin' an' ant be so 'fraid.

"More as dat, Ah'll see Airishmans, more as
forty, rode on de woggin behin' of it for to sow
gravel on top de rail roll, and' he'll ant keel it, an*
Ah'll t'ink 'f he ant keel dat Airishmans dat was
better for be keel as mos' anybody, Ah guess, me,
he ant prob'ly keel one Franchman dat was bes'
for be save!

"So w'en Ah'll gat hayin' all do', Ah'll mek off
mah min' Ah'll goin' rode on dat rail roll, so Ah'll
be able for toF all 'bout it 'f Ah live.

"Wai, seh, Ah'll go on de deeple — dat de place
w'ere rail roll stop for you git on — an' Ah'll
bought tickle — jes' same for show — fifty cen'
Ah'll pay — den Ah'll go on de w'arf an' walk
raoun' jus' sem 'f Ah don' care no more for rail
roll as 'f he was leetely w'eel-barrel.

"But Ah tol' you bum bye w'en Ah'll see him
comin' an' look jus' 'f he was goin' run raght top

194

Antoine on the Rail.

of me, an' holler 'whoop! whoop!' an' rung hees
bell lak meetin' haouse, an' smoke lak coal pit, an'
bile 'f he was goin' bus' off hees cover, 'spe-e-e-e!'
bah gosh; Ah'll willin' for sol' mah tickle for
twenty-fiv' cen', an' Ah'll run in de deeple an' peek
aout de door till dat rail roll stan' still an' de cap-
t'in come on de w'arf an' holler 'All 'board !'

"Den de deeple man push me an' tol' me 'jomp
on !' an' Ah'll run fas' for clamb on de hwood pile
behin' de injun, an' deeple man holler 'jomp on de
cart,' an' de capt'in mek motion wid hees ban' an'
Ah run, run w'ere he was, an' he push me up de
stair on de canawl boat dey call cart, an' mos' 'fore
Ah'll got hopen de door de rail roll begin for rung
hees bell sem 'f meetin's all ready, an' he beegin
cough — 'ugh, ugh!' — an' dat canawl boat jomp
so Ah'll go in on mah all four, an' de folks laught
so Ah'll pooty shem, Ah tol' you. Ah'll ant lef
mahself dar long 'fore Ah'll peek it up, an' set on
fus' seat Ah can.

"It was all cushi'n harm chair for two folks,
two row of it, wid road between of it, an' all jes'
nice he can be, winder all 'long de side an' one on
de en' mos' lak One' Lasha is, honly it gat but jus'
one — ah — feel bad."

"One what?" Uncle Lisha asked.

"Why, w'at you call it, one piece glass — ache?"
195

Hunting Without a Gun.

"Oh, good airth an' seas, pane!" Uncle Lisha
shouted.

"Yas, dat jus' de sem, Ah'll said," Antoine said,
with the utmost complacency, and improving the
interruption of his story to light his pipe.

"Wai, sah, pooty soon dat rail roll stop for
cough an' go more fas' an' fas', mos' lak litlin',
an' Ah'll t'ink he said all de tarn 'Ho, you ant
know where you was go,' an' mah heart mek
answer inside of me, 4Ah b'lieve dat so, Ah wish
you go a lit' more slow.'

"An' w'en Ah'll see all de tree run race, an' de
fence streak lak ribbin in de win', bah gosh, Ah'll
was mos' scare an' wish Ah'll ant come, but Ah'll
hang on de seat lak good feller, Ah tol' you. Den
Ah'll look see if de odder folks was scare, but
some of it was talkin'. Ah'll can' heard it, honly
see hees mout' go, an' some of it was read on de
paper, an' one hoi' hwomans was heat off hees
baskit all de tarn, an' Ah'll t'ink if dey ant scare
Ah'll ant scare, too.

"Den Ah'll look in dat leetly winder Ah'll tol'
you baout, an' dar was lot more folkses in dar;
some of it read on de paper, some of it talkin' an'
'nudder hoi' hwomans heatin' off hees baskit all de
tarn, an' dar was one mans look lak Frenchman,
an' he was look so hard at me Ah'll mek bow at

196

Antoine on the Rail.

him, an' he mek bow at me. Den Ah'll grin at it
kan o' pleasant, an' he do jus' de sem. Den Ah'll
blow mah nose of mah new hampercher, an', bah
gosh, he was pull one jus' lak it for blew his nose !
Dat mek me beegin for be mad, have mek fun at
me, an' Ah'll look pooty hugly at dat feller Ah'll
tol' you, an' he look jus' so hugly to me !

"Ah'll shake mah fis' to him, an' he was shook
hees fis' to me, and, bah gosh, Ah'll was be mad
for leek it, Ah tol' you. Ah'll t'row mah hat,
Ah'll jomp on it, Ah'll pull mah hairs, Ah'll holler
grea' deal swore, an' dat feller do jus' sem lak me,
an' bose of it faght so hard dat way lak hoi' t'under
more as fav minute; an', seh, dem folkses ant
scare 't all, but dey was laught lak ev'ryt'ing, an'
den Ah'll stop for gat mah breeze, an' den, seh,
w'at you t'ink Ah'll fan' aout. Wai, seh, dat win-
der ant not'ing but lookin' glass, an' Ah'll be'n
was'e all dat faght on mahself, Ah'll ant tarn for
be shem 'fore de capt'in come in de sloop an' hol-
ler 'Vairgenn ! Vairgenn !' and den de rail roll
holler 'Yooloop ! yoop !' an' beegin for go slow,
an' w'en he mos' stop Ah'll scrabble for de door,
an' den he stop quick 'r-r-roop !' An' Ah'll go on
all mah four 'g'in, jus' sem Ah come in — so Ah'll
go aout, an' mos' 'fore Ah'll gat on de w'arf de
capt'in holler 'All 'board!' an' de rail roll ring

197

Hunting Without a Gun.

hees bell an' beegin for cough, an' nex' Ah'll see
Ah'll ant see it, honly de smoke an' de nowse of
It, sayin', 'Got your money ! Half a dollar ! Got
your money! Half a dollar!' but Ah ant care 'f
he was, Ah'll gat mah wort' of it."

"Wai, I don't be'lieve I want tu resk myself on
the 'tarnal contraption," Uncle Lisha declared.

"It don't sca'cely seem 's 'ough I would, any-
ways, erless they'd 'gree to go slow, an' stop an'
le' me git off when I wanted tu," said Joseph.

"Look a-here, Ann Twine," said Uncle Lisha,
rising and going to the door of the kitchen, "you
go in an' tell the women folks 'bout it, if you'd
jest as livs, for I know they're dyin' tu hear on 't."

Antoine was not loth to comply, and the old
man, closing the door for a moment behind him,
whispered gustily to the company, "I'll go 'long
in an' see if he tells his story twicte alike."

198

ANTOINE SUGARING.

IS sprim Ah was took on share
de hoi' One' Lasha sugar place.
Ah'll took of Joel Bahtlett
sonny-law what hown Joel hees
farm, 'cause Joel ant had no
son 'cep' one gal, hees sonny-
law marry of some tarn ago.

He'll furnishin' noting but de tree and de
hwood. Ah'll furnishin' all de res', de spout, de
sap buckle, de bilin' kittly, an' de man, dat was
de bes'.

Ah was goin' try for mek some hones' wagein's
an' not have mah half be too smaller as hees.

Ah t'ink he was be fair 'f Ah have half, an'
Ursule, he'll help it carry sap sometam, have half,
an' den Joel sonny-law, hees nem John Orvit, fan'
hees half where he could, hein?

Ah'll ant gat no sugar haouse, only jes' shanky,
sem One' Lasha had, an' Ah'll ant had no sapora-
tor or covaporator, Ah do' know haow he call it,
come sap in one en' an' sugar in tudder.

199

Hunting Without a Gun.

Only jes' hoi' fashi'n pot-ashins kittly, hang on
pole balant on big stump for swung off fire sem as
you want it.

Sometam dey be big run, Ah was bilin' all
naght, put on de hwood all de tarn mos', an' mek
de sap "fluff" for mos' bile over, honly littly
chunk porks was stop it.

Dat was de way for mek good maply sugar, all
de chip an' bark an' moss was drop in, it not be
strain off.

Den, w'en you'll tase it, you know you'll gat
maply sugar. W'en you'll buy maply sugar, you'll
ant want loafer sugar, ant it?

W'en Ah'll be bile so, Ah'll gat lonesick some-
tarn, noboddy come see me but mah chillen, an'
Ah'll ant got no more as fourteen, Ah b'lieve.

It mek me t'ink of hoi' tarn w'en One' Lasha,
Solem Brigg, Sam Lovit, an' all of it use for come,
an' Ah weesh he come naow.

Ah hear of folks talk for took hees hwomens
campin' Ah'll ant b'lieve it, an' Ah ant want it
dey brought dey waf.

When mans goin' campin' he'll go for res'. He
ant want hees hwoman, jus' w'en he'll beegin shut
hees heye an' go sleep, he ant want his waf ponch
heem in hees side of it wid helbow, an' say, "Ah
guess we better papy de square room dis sprim,"

200

Antoine Sugaring.

or, "Ah'll gat for have some bunnit so good as
Mees dis one, dat one, he'll gat."

Ah'll ant want Mees Hudly Sam Lovit, Mees
Brigg an' all of it sat up an' oversee it mah
cookin' an' say, "Ah b'lieve dat sugar done," "Ah
b'lieve it burnin'," or if Ah mek some odder
cookin' steek up hees nose of it an' said, "Dat was
jes' what you'll spec of dese mans."

Ah b'lieve for hwomans cook to home, an' Ah'll
ant faound no faults 'f he suit me; 'f he ant, dat
vas mah privilege, don't it?

If hwomans want for have some funs, let it
weed onion, dat was funs 'nough.

If dat ant 'nough, let it go vis'tin' long to some
odder hwoman's, an' 'f he ant have funs, dey ant
no funs in talkin'. All de biscuit an' sasses dey
heat can' stop de nowse of hees talkin', w'en he'll
gat on some good vis'tin'.

Mos' mek me t'ink of it was big flock blackbird
come in tops of maply an' beegin holler, honly
blackbird saound more lak lot o' gal as hoi' sass-
heatin' hwomans. De hwomans saound more lak
forty crow w'en he'll fan' nowl or foxes.

W'en Ah was young not'ing please me but de
nowse of de blackbirds, naow Ah lak as well de
crow nowse, but Ah'll ant want hear it all de tarn.

But mah hoi' frien' ant come very often lak he

201

Hunting Without a Gun.

was w'en One' Lasha mek some sugar off. Some
of it gat too many hoi' an' too many rheumatiz
for go aout in de evelin.

Some of it gat de grass grow top of it for great
many year.

An' it mek me lonesick for sit lone by mah fire
an' smoked mah pipe, an' hear honly de haowl
hoot an' de fox barkin' way off on de hwood. All
de hoi' tarn come back of mah mind an' Ah felt
sorry all de boy ant here, or Ah ant gone 'long
wid mos' all of it.

But if dey was here dey heat mah sugar. 'F
Ah was dere Ah can' git some sugar, prob'ly, so
Ah guess it was de bes' as he was.

Sometam Ah'll try for feel better for sing some
hoi' French song on de top of mah voice, "La
Claire Fontaine," "Roulant ma Boule" :

"Rouli, roulant, ma boule roulant,
En roulant ma boule roulant,
En roulant ma boule."

Sometam Ah sing de song of Papineau, but de
hecho come from de maountain lak some voice
from Canada w'en Ah'll was boy, 'fore Ah mos'
spilt mah bloods in de Papineau war, an' mek me
more lonesick Ah'll was 'fore. Sem lak hoi' song
say, "Ah'll never ant freegit."

202

Antoine Sugaring.

One naght Ah gat mah fire fix up good an' de
kittly ant want much watch.

So Ah'll put six hegg in it for bile mah
luncheons bomby, an' Ah'll lit mah pipe an' sect
back in de shanky for comfortably visit long to
mahse'f.

It was so steel Ah can' hear not'ing but de fire
snappin' an' de sap floppin' in de kittly, and dat
was nowse ant 'sturb me so Ah gat good chance
for t'ink baout all M'sieu Mumpsin read in de
papier, w'en Ah chawpin' hees hwoodpile off, an'
Ah'll stay all naght.

Some mans in it tell haow much he gat or ant
gat, Ah do' know, for so many shoot of hees
gawn.

Ah b'lieve Ah can beat it Anyway.

One tarn Ah'll took mah hoi' G. S. R. Tower
dat was already load up, an' took mah paowders
an' mah waddin' dat was waspbee nes' dat tarn,
an' evree t'ing prob'ly dat was necessity.

Wai, seh, Ah go for hunt some patteraige an'
Ah go prob'ly two nhour 'fore Ah'll see one, an'
he was skulk in some berree bush so Ah'll mos'
can' gat sight of it. But Ah'll t'ink Ah'll gat
'nough an' Ah shot. "Whish! Boom!" Ah'll
mow road in de bush, but dat patteraige "vroop !"
he go safe.

203

Hunting Without a Gun.

Ah'll was sup-prise, for Ah know what kan' o'
man Ah was for shot, an' Ah know what kan' o'
gun G. S. R. Tower was for shot. Ah'll was sup-
prise, but Ah'll an' discourage.

Ah beegin for load agin, put on mah paowders,
put on mah wad, paoun' heem daown hard wid
hoi' iron rammy rod, den feel mah pocket for mah
bag-shot, fus dis pocket, den dat pocket, den all of
it, an' he ant dare. Den, bah gosh, it beegin creep
on me, Ah'll freegit dat bag-shot!

Wall, seh, Ah was so mad Ah put in some leetly
stone, an' Ah'll ant go far 'fore Ah'll see patter-
aige set on limb, an' Ah'll blaze 'way of it.
"Vroop !" he go safe.

Ah'll load sem way 'gin, fav, seex tarn, an' shot
jes' so many tarn all at fair mark of patteraige, an'
Ah'll ant keel one of it.

Den Ah'll go home an' prob'ly Ah'll was mad,
hein ? Seven shot an' ant got sometings evree tam.

Dat was one tam.

Tudder tam was great many while ago, w'en
dare was come pigeon in Danvit for nes' one
sprim. W'en he'll flew off an' back, de sky was
cloud of it so de sun ant shine.

Ah'll had mah hoi' G. S. R. Tower all prepare,
half full of load, an' Ah run off in de lot by de
aidge of hwood w'en Ah'll see de biggest flew come

204

./nloine Sugaring.

over, an' dey mek it so dark Ah can' see mah gawn
saght, but Ah'll pant up where he was prob'ly ten
rod t'ick an' Ah'll pull off de triggin an' de gawn
roar off an' ponch me in de graoun up of mah
ankle.

Den de pigeon beegin for rain top of me, more
of it, more of it, up to mah knee, mah wais, mah
neck, an' Ah'll beegin to climb aout of dat pile
pigeon.

Wen Ah look of de flock Ah can see de hole
Ah mek in it goin' long in de sky, an' spot of sun-
shine goin' long under it cross de fiel'. Dat was
one shot.

Everee boddee in Danvit had pigeon pot-pie for
two week.

Oh, bah gosh ! Dat hegg gat bile so hard Ah'll
mos' can' bit it, Ah'll 'fraid.

205

THE GRAY PINE.*
I.

IKE most of those who have in-
herited the hunting instinct of
our progenitors and were born
where no large game exists, it
was once my great ambition to
kill a deer. It had been out-
lived, not gratified, for though year after year I
went to the Adirondacks for this sole purpose, it
was never my fortune to kill a deer, nor but once
to even get a shot at one. If one was started it
always took any runway rather than that on which
I was stationed, or went over the mountains to
some pond or stream miles away, and so escaped
or fell a prey to the hunters of some other party.
My last attempt was made late in October, 1855,
when, though we were enjoying the most delight-
ful autumn weather in the Champlain Valley, there
were sharp premonitions of approaching winter in
the narrow valley of the Adirondacks which was this
year to be my hunting ground. The deciduous
trees had struck their colors, and the faded ban-

*See Bulletin of the Essex Institute, Vol. XIII., 1881.
206

The Gray Pine.

ners of scarlet and purple and gold were trailing
upon the earth, sodden with autumnal rains, or
tossed here and there by fitful gusts of the shifting
winds; and more than one snow storm had griz-
zled the "black growth" of the mountain
sides and blanched the treeless peaks with the
whiteness they were to wear for many a month to
come.

The night after my arrival at the little farm-
house where I was to stay, several of the neighbors
dropped in, and a hunt was planned for the next
day. Sim Woodruff, the most inveterate woods-
haunter and hunter among them, drawled out in a
low monotone: "The's tew three deer a-keep-
ing up in the basin 'n under Aowl's Head, they
ha'n't been mislested this fall, 'n' the' ha' no
daoubt o' startin' on 'em any day, 'n' gittin' a good
race. They'll water tu the river, sartin, 'n we c'n
man every identicle runway, 'n' someb'dy nuther
is cock sure to git a shot."

Silas Borden the shoemaker said, " 'T'ain't no
way sartin 'at a deer started aouten the basin won't
water t' Thompson Pawnd." He spent more of
his time in fishing and ua-studyin' inter aoudoor
things" than in making and mending his neigh-
bors' footgear, and his opinion in matters of
woods-lore was not to be lightly taken. But Sim

207

Hunting Without a Gun.

said sentcntiously, "They'll water tu the river!"
The shoemaker said no more in support of his
opinion, but sat gazing meditatively into the glow-
ing slit of the stove hearth. It was presently set-
tled the party should meet here at Uncle
Harvey Hales' the next morning, and then man
the runways on the river, while Sim took the dogs
to the basin lying under the rocky knob, known as
Owl's Head, and put them out there.

As my host was lighting me to bed after the
last caller had departed, I said, "Do, if you can,
Uncle Harvey, put me on a runway to-morrow
where I can get a shot. This is the fifth year that
I've been trying to get one somewhere in this
region, and haven't succeeded yet!"

"If you don't get a crack at a deer to-morrah,
it won't be my fault," he said as he set the candle
on the little oilcloth covered stand and seated him-
self on the edge of the bed. "I'm a-goin' t' put
you t' the Riffles, 'n' it's the best runway on the
river. The fif year, hey? Wai, they say 't the's
luck in odd numbers, 'n' like 'nough yourn 'ill
change this time. 'F you c'n shoot at a deer 's well
's you can 't a pa'tridge, y'r all right, for I've seen
yer cut their heads off. But" — and his gray eyes
twinkled under their grayer shaggy brows — "like's
not ye can't — the's a differ'nce."

208

The Gray Pine.

"Well," I said, with more confidence in my
voice than in my heart, "all I ask is the chance,
and if I miss a good shot, you won't be troubled
with me another fall."

"Then I hope you'll kill a deer to-morrah," he
said heartily, "for I'm allus glad t' have ye come."
In those days the region was not thronged as
now with tourists and pleasure-seekers, and the
people were glad of a visitor for simple friend-
ship's sake, and a few days of companionship with
one from the outer world, of which they saw so
little. Now and then, in summer, some ardent
angler from abroad braved the torments of the
black flies, or an artist came to gather fresh
sheaves from an unreaped field; in fall a few
hunters and an occasional cattle buyer from the
valley of the lake, and in winter a fur buyer or
two were almost the only visitors in all the year.

"Wai," said Uncle Harvey, rising and snuffing
the candle with his fingers, "good night, sleep
good!"

This injunction I obeyed, between Aunt Nabby's
dried roseleaf-scented sheets and under the carpet-
like coverlet till daylight came in at the little win-
dow and turned the gloom to gray, and the voices
of the gathering hunters and the whimpering and
impatient yelping of Sim's hounds awoke me.

209

Hunting Without a Gun.

Half an hour later when we were straggling along
the road, someone asked, "Where's Sile? thought
he was a-goin'." Sim, who led the party and was
being led by the dogs straining at their leashes
before him, answered over his shoulder, "Sile !
I'll bet a cookey the plegged critter 's a-pullin' foot
for Thompson's Pawnd," and he looked toward
the round peak of Owl's Head now detaching its
dark gray outline from the scarcely lighter gray
of the overcast sky, as if he half expected to make
out somewhere under the curtain of the woods the
form of the little shoemaker breasting the moun-
tain ridge, beyond which lay the lonely pond.
"Let him go an' be darned ! I shouldn't wonder
'f the pawnd was all froze over!" which seemed
not unlikely, for the road was hard as a rock, and
the swift current of the river running here beside
it was edged with bristling borders of ice, and
little spiky rafts of it were drifting along, tinkling
against shores and mid-stream boulders. One or
two of the hunters had dropped out to the run-
ways they were assigned to, when Sim struck out
of the road and across the narrow fields, and soon
vanished with his hounds in the haze of woodside
saplings and branches.

One after another took the station allotted to
him by Uncle Harvey, till only he and I were left.

210

The Gray Pine.

Crossing a rude bridge that spanned the river, and
going half a mile further up the right bank we
came to the Riffles, where he placed me, and after
giving a few concise directions, went on to his
stand above. Here at the Riffles, running down
a steep slope and across the narrow interval to
the naked brink of the river, was the clearing of a
deserted farm bordered on either side with a
brushy fringe of second growth, backed by the
great trees of the old woods. Half way up the
slope, desolate and forsaken, with no path leading
to them, stood a small house with unglazed win-
dows, and the ruins of a log barn. My stand faced
a long straight reach of the river where it broke
into a foaming rapid over stony shallows, running
nearly eastward till under the root-netted bank at
my feet it turned again on its devious northward
course through the valley. The old woods of
beech, maple, and birch, came down with a sudden
sweep from the dark evergreens of the heights,
and a crinkled seam in the even gray of their tops
marked the way of a mountain rivulet that just
opposite gave its small contribution of noise and
water to the roar and rush of the river. The ten-
antless farm was like an unmarked grave that one
might come upon in the heart of the woods, and
made the place no less "woodsy and wild and lone-

211

Hunting U'ithout a Gun.

some" than if the ancient trees still shaded its un-
tilled acres. For a while I was satisfied with the
sense of complete isolation; with listening to the
ever-changing yet monotonous voice of the river
singing its untranslatable song to the hushed wil-
derness; with looking at the noble sweep of the
mountain slopes, and the given outlines of their
rocky steeps ; and then with studying the shapes of
the great yellow birches that bent their shining
and maned trunks steadfast and silent over the tur-
moil of the waters while the little branches waved
and nodded as if beating time to the river's song.
I noticed the near rocks mottled with many-colored
lichens and mosses that kept foothold above the
well-defined limit of high water, and then I sud-
denly remembered why I was here, and that Sim
must have the dogs out by this time, and my ears
were soon aching with the effort to catch, out of the
river's uproar, the shriller clamor of the hounds.
Many times in the next hour it seemed to me
that I heard the baying of the dogs rising above
the everlasting soughing surge of the Riffles, while
I stood with strained nerves and rifle ready, only
to be as often disappointed, when the fooling puff
of wind died, and the river went on with its end-
less song. For a while a mink amused me, stealing
along the other shore, alert, shy, and inquisitive;

212

The Gray Pine.

diving for a minnow, then swimming away lithe
and silent as a snake. A raven came down like a
great dusky flake out of the lowering sky and
lodged on a dead treetop ; then presently a flock of
snow flakes wavered toward the earth, and with a
savage blast of north wind, down came a pelting
snowstorm. I stood at my post till the river banks
were so white that the stream for all its foam
looked black, and the barrel and sight of my rifle
were loaded and clogged with snow faster than I
could clear them, and then I began to look around
for a shelter of some sort. The house was too far
from the runway, of which I was loth to get out
of range, but twenty rods back from me in the
north edge of the clearing stood a solitary ever-
green. To this I retreated, and facing the river,
backed in among the thick lower branches. These
and the dense top gave me considerable protection
from the storm, now raging so furiously that a
deer might have passed unseen within ten rods
of me.

The sheltering tree, which at first I had taken
for a spruce, I now noticed was of a kind that I
had never before seen. It seemed to be, if such a
thing were possible, a hybrid of the pitch pine
and one of the spruces; its leaves too short for a
pine, too long for a spruce, and wearing not the

213

Hunting JTlthout a Gun.

healthy, lusty dark green of either, but a hue of
unwholesome gray. Though evidently old. it was
low and stunted, as though it could draw no suit-
able nourishment from a soil that fostered other
trees. The long branches writhed out in snaky
curves from the lichen-scabbed trunk, and toward
the ends were clasped by pairs of hooked cones like
the warty claws of some unclean bird, and they
hissed, rather than sang, as do the branches of the
evergreens to the stroke of the wind. The bare
earth about its roots showed no undergrowth of
flowering woodland plants, but only some frost-
bitten fungus, black and foul with decay. A

strange, uncanny tree, I thought, a fit canopy for
witches when they hold their wicked meetings, and
it may have been a fancy begotten of storm and
solitude, but I began to feel as if some unholy
spell were creeping over me. Just then the storm
lulled ; the wind almost ceased its howling, and the
snowfall slackened, so that the rush of the waters
again became the dominant sound, and the long
foamy reach of the river reappeared. Then out of
the voices of stream and forest came the unmistak-
able cry of a hound, hardly assured, before a great
buck splashed into the upper end of the Riffles, and
came down them toward me. My heart beat
wildly, but sank when, midway In the rapids, he

214

The Gray Pine.

turned to the shore and began to climb the further
bank. It was a long shot for me, but my only
chance, and I took it. Aiming a little above and
ahead of him, I fired and missed. He did not
lower his flag, but halted an instant when he had
gained the top of the bank, looking toward the
point from which the thin report had come to him
—halted long enough to have given me another
shot if I had been armed with a double barrel or
a repeater. My powder flask was not returned to
its pocket when he vanished. The hound, at fault
when he came to the water, pottered along the
shores trying every place but the right one, and
giving no heed to my calls and gestures, and I was
too "cat-footed" to wade the icy stream and put
him on the trail. While my spirit was yet in the
very depth of humiliation, Uncle Harvey came
down from his stand, having heard the shot and
nothing more of the hound after he had reached
the river.

"Did ye kill him?" he asked, though he must
have known by my looks that I had not. Then,
"Where was he?" and "Where was you?" I
pointed out the spot, where a broken topped maple
leaned over the Riffles, at which the deer had gone
out of the river, and showed him the tree under
which I stood. "Hmph!" after looking over the

215

Hunting Without a Gun.

distance with two or three calculating glances,
"Le's go hum. You've had yer shot," and more
out of humor than I had ever seen him, he sharply
called the hound, and tucking his rifle under his
arm led the way toward the road. As we passed
the strange evergreen I asked, glad of something
else than shooting to talk of:

"What kind of tree is this that I stood under
when I fired? It is something I never saw before."

He stopped and looked at it, at first carelessly,
then with more attention. "God!" with an expres-
sion of horror and disgust, "was you a-standin*
under that tree?"

"Yes; why not?"

"It's no wonder 't ye missed ! It's more a won-
der 't yer gun didn't bust er suthin' an' kill yer!
Why, man alive, that 'ere 's an onlucky tree!
Come 'way from it," and he hurried on, giving me
no time to ask another question till we were in the
road. We are all superstitious, but he was one
of the last men whom I would have taken to be
foolishly so, and my curiosity was much excited.

"Tell me about the tree, Uncle Harvey," I said,
"I never heard of it before."

"It's what I tell ye, an onlucky tree, 'at no man,
much less a woman, is safe to go anigh ! I wouldn't
stand under that 'ere tree ten minutes for half o'

216

The Gray Pine.

York State ! I didn't know 't the' was one o' the
cussed things left here, 'r I'd ha' burnt it 'fore
naow. I c'n tell ye no end o' hurt an' trouble
they've made ; no end on 't ! Why, Sim Woodruff,
his father was a-choppin' one, not knowin' what it
was more'n you did, an' his wife a-stannin' lookin'
on with her young un in her arms, an' a chip flew
an' took her in the eye an' put it aout, an' he cut
his foot so's 't he was laid up all winter; an' the
baby took a onaccaountable sort of a sickness an'
died. An' there was Dan'l Frost lay daown V
went tu sleep 'n underneath one, one day when he
was het an' tired a-traoutin', an' got up sick, an'
went hum 'n' died in less 'n a week. 'N there,"
halting and pointing to a blackened stump that
stood near the roadside in the center of a patch of
frost-withered ghostly fire weed, "I c'n tell ye a
sight wus story 'baout one 'at stood right there,
but," lowering his voice as we moved on, "I can't
tell ye naow, for we're a comin' tu M'nroe Beadle,
'n his relations was consarned in 't." When this
hunter joined us a few moments later, Hale briefly
told him that I had missed a deer, and why, add-
ing, "We mus' go an' burn the blasted thing the fust
chance we git." Burning, it seemed, was the only
effectual way of destroying these dangerous trees.
Facing homeward we came to one after another
217

Hunting Without a Gun.

of our party, and toward nightfall reached Uncle
Harvey's. However much some might have been
at first disposed to laugh at me, when the old man
explained the cause of my ill-success, no one had a
jibe for me, but all congratulated me on having
had no worse luck than a miss, and I thought the
tree or tne strange superstition concerning it had
served me a very good turn.

At dusk Sim came in, and was glad to find his
favorite hound toasting his ribs under the stove.
The other dogs, he said, had started another deer
and run it over Owl's Head, since when he had
neither seen nor heard them. Presently, without
knocking, as every one entered there without that
preliminary, came Silas Borden, looking tired, but
well satisfied, and told us that he had killed as
"nice a barr'n doe as ever run the woods, over tu
Thompson Pawnd. Maje an' the pup run her, an'
they're daown tu my house, Sim. Miss Borden
she's fed 'em up good. Tur'ble good womern tu
dawgs, Miss Borden is, when the's venison brung
hum. Golly blue! if I didn't hev a tougher,
a-luggin' on't ov' the ridge." Then he related
with all the minuteness of detail that hunters never
tire of giving or listening to, the incidents of his
solitary hunt, mapping on the stove griddle with
the stump of a match his course and that of the

218

The Gray Pine.

deer and hounds, and his position when the deer
came to the pond. It was bed time when his story
was ended.

The next day was a stormy one of sleet and snow
and wild wind that no one who need not would go
abroad in. While I sat by the roaring stove in the
first stages of a severe cold, taking frequent
draughts of Aunt Nabby's "pennyr'y'l tea,"
Uncle Harvey told me the "wust story of the on-
lucky tree."

2IQ

THE GRAY PINE.
II.

HE deserted farm at the head of
the valley was once owned by
Amos Brown, a shiftless and
thriftless farmer and as unsuc-
cessful a hunter, for though he
was a good shot and much
fonder of ranging the woods with his gun and sad-
faced hound than of tilling his sterile acres, he
"never hed no luck." Fonder yet of the social
glass, he spent many unprofitable hours in "Bell's
tarvern," and Bell had a mortgage on his farm
and a lien on his scanty stock for every cent they
were worth.

In spite of the disheartening unthrift of the
farm, the old man's only daughter kept the house
neat and comfortable, and strove bravely against
the tide of ill-fortune that soon or late seemed cer-
tain to overwhelm them. Her mother had died
when she was but a child, and she had to take a
woman's place in the little household, when the
girls of her age "down the river" were set to no
heavier tasks than baby tending and berry picking.

220

°The Gray Pine.

She was such a notable housekeeper and so hand-
some withal, that she had many admirers, and had
only to say the word to become the wife of the only
son of the most well-to-do farmer in the valley,
but for some reason she had not yet been per-
suaded to say the word. She was very patient with
her father, kind and thoughtful of his comfort,
humoring and caring for him as tenderly as if he
had been a child when he came home almost help-
lessly drunk from his visits to the tavern, and he
was so proud and fond of her that it was a wonder
he did not mend his ways for her sake.

One summer brought them great luck, so Amos
thought. An artist discovered the valley and came
to board with them for a week or two while he
sketched some of the striking and picturesque bits
of the wild scenery. He found enough close at
hand to keep his eye and pencil busy for a much
longer time, and his stay lengthened to a month.
Then he fitted up a rough studio in the old barn,
and settled down to a summer's work, paying for
his board and privileges what seemed a windfall
of wealth to Amos and his daughter, though it
was no more a week than one must pay now for a
day's entertainment at one of the summer resorts
of the region. Credit was restored at Bell's, and
the old man's convivial evenings there became

221

Hunting Without a Gun.

more frequent. But not all the ready money went
that way. Some of it brought more comfortable
furnishings and some simple adornments to the
house, and a becoming new dress and smart bonnet
made Polly so much handsomer than ever that
poor Hiram Hull's heart grew sorer every day
with the pain of misprized love.

Walter White, the artist, painted for love of art
and an ambition to make a name that he would be
prouder of than that of a rich man's only son. He
cared nothing for the gay life that most young men
of fortune lived, and unaccountably to them chose
to spend the summer days painting in this out-of-
the-way nook of the world rather than take the
foremost place he might among the votaries of
fashion. He was a man of pleasant speech and
kindly ways, and so unassuming of any superiority
to these humble but sensitive people among whom
he was sojourning that they almost all liked him,
though some said afterward that they had always
thought they saw a lurking devil in his eye, and a
marked hardness in his face. He treated Polly
with a respectful politeness so different from the
awkward courtesy of her accustomed associates
that it was a revelation of a life far removed from
hers; his speech and manners so unlike those of
any one she had ever met, made him seem like

222

The Gray Pine.

some superior being from another world, and she
could not but feel that they were very far apart.
As the summer wore away, marking its decline
with goldenrod along the waysides, and with dull
white patches of everlasting in the stony pasture,
this feeling of wide separation began to be very
painful to her, and she became aware that too often
for her peace of mind in the days to come, thoughts
of their guest were constantly recurring. In a lit-
tle while he would be gone, and her old weary life
would be resumed, and go on and on, tending
whither? she vaguely wondered. Its few possible
ways were narrow and rough at best. And worst
of all to think of, was that she and her life would
soon pass out of his and be forgotten, and she
could never forget him. She grew so sad and
moping that her father noticed how changed she
was, and dimly seeing through the thin d;sguise of
pretended gaiety she at times put on, guessed at
what she strove to hide. Some sense of parental
duty faintly illumined his befogged soul, and one
afternoon as they sat on the doorstep in the eastern
shadow of the house, he smoking and stealthily
noting that while she knitted her frequent expectant
glances were cast across the fields, he was impelled
to give her a gentle admonition.

"Polly," he began, with a sudden effort, "it's
223

Hunting Without a Gun.

dreffle foolish V onprofitable for folks tu git the'
hearts sot on folks 'at don't keer nothin' for 'em,
hain't it, naow, Polly?"

"Course it is, father," she answered, blushing as
red as the blossoms of the "posy bean" that she
had trained over the door. "Why?" with a
forced little laugh, "It's a hopesin' you hain't a ben
settin' your heart on — le' me see — wal, that rich
Widder Harmern 't owns all the iron works
daown t' Ironton; hev ye, father?"

"Oh, you git aout wi' yer nonsense, Polly," the
old man said, laughing at the absurdity of the idea.
"No, no, little gal, I hain't a-foolin'. ' It is dreffle
foolish. But I hev knowed them 'at got a notiern
't 'cause somebuddy er nuther was kinder sosher-
ble an' friendly tu 'em, 'at they sot a heap by 'em,
and mebby wanted to marry 'em, when they raly
didn't keer a soo markee for 'em, no, not one single
soo markee ! You 'n' I wouldn't git no sech a
notiern int' aour heads, little gal, but the' be them
'at 'ould, an' does. S'posin' now 'at — wall, s'posin'
'at one o' them 'ere Stinson gals daown yunder,"
pointing down the valley with his pipe, "got a
notiern 't 'cause Mr. White, f'r instance, spoke
perlite tu her, an' thanked her more fer a dipper
o' water 'n' I would for a drink o' ol' Medferd 'r
Perishville whisky" — the names of these liquors

224

The Gray Pine.

made his mouth so watery that he paused to wipe
it with the back of his hand — " 'at he was smit
with her, an' she took tu sort o' pinin' arter him,
haow tur'ble foolish an' onsenseless it 'ould be?
Naow, Polly, I ben a-thinkin' 'baout it, 'cause I
seen him a-prattlin' long wi' that 'ere lanky Stinson
gal t'other day" — Polly winced — "an' I ben
a-thinkin' 'at like 'nough you hed orter tell her
better 'n tu git any sich a idee, seein' 'at she V you
is tol'able thick."

"Pshaw! father," she burst out, contemptuously,
"he don't care no more for M'ri Stinson 'n he does
for you !"

"Course he don't. I hain't none worried 'baout
him ! I know 'em, them high duck city folks,
smooth and putty tu us here 's long we're usefle tu
'em, but when they goddone with us, we hain't no
more 'caount tu em 'n the parin's o' the' nails !
They'd be 'shamed tu be seen a-speakin' tu us
mongst their toppin' folks t' hum ! It's her 'at I'm
worried 'baout! You jist give her a kinder
p'misc'ous hint, Polly."

Feeling that he had performed his duty with
great tact and delicacy, the old man knocked the
ashes from his pipe and went straggling off to some
pottering task. Polly ran indoors, lest, if he looked
back, he should see her crying.

225

Hunting Without a Gun.

A mile away in a wild gorge Walter White sat
painting. A mountain brook poured its shattered
current over a ledge into a pool whose checkered
wavelets tossed the rafts of foam bells to wreckage
on the stony margin and in the swift rapids, and
wrinkled into fantastic crookedness the reflections
of birch and balsam and mossy rock. He was in
bad humor, vexed with himself for thinking so
often of Polly. He was troubled with the revela-
tion lately come to him, that the poor girl loved
him. But why should he be so constantly thinking
of her goodness and beauty and of how much he
would miss her when he went away? Why should
he be very sad with the thought of her wasting her
life on the besotted old father, or, at best, on a
cloddish husband? Could it be that at the sugges-
tion of this possibility a flame of jealousy burned
his heart? Then came a vague wish for impossi-
ble things, that he were only a hunter or a hill
farmer as poor and humble as any of her kind,
with her to keep his cabin or be mistress of his lit-
tle farmhouse. Why not quite forsake the world
he cared so little for? His pictures might go to
it and win fame for him, while he stayed here.
Why not build an artist's ideal home in the woods
and mountains that had been waiting for centuries
to be put on canvas — and, what? marry Polly?

226

The Gray Pine.

A cold shiver ran through him as he contrasted
her uncultivated ways, her uncouth pronunciation
and unmodulated drawl with the high bred ele-
gance of his mother and sister. And he shuddered
with disgust at the thought of drunken old Amos
Brown as a father-in-law.

Then suddenly a wicked thought thrust itself
upon him, a thought that made him feel a horror
of himself. He strove to cast it from him, but it
would return and hold argument with all the good
that was in him. No, he would not be a villain,
he would go away to-morrow out of the reach of
temptation. One wrench of the girl's heart, an-
other wrench of his — was it his heart, or only his
fancy? — and then after a few weeks' or months'
ache it would all be over, the heart-wounds healed
and both be safe and whole, and if with sad, yet
with not unpleasant memories of one another. But
how could he have pleasant memories of her, and
she dragging out a sunless life with a besotted
father, or a clod of a husband? Was not any life
better for her than either of these? No; to bear
through all her days her heavy burdens and live
a good and honorable life where her humble lot
was cast, was better a thousand times than — . He
shuddered at the thought of what she might be-
come if this devil conquered him. He would go

227

Hunting Without a Gun.

tomorrow; and with this resolve his heart grew
lighter, and he hastened to finish his sketch of the
waterfalls.

"If I could paint those foam bells as they are,"
he said, "every one with the picture it floats, and
not have to content myself with the thin half circle
and dot of white that stand for bubbles, then I
might call myself a painter ! Sail to me, little bub-
ble, and let me try." When, as if obeying his call,
one drifted toward him, a sudden foolish fancy
took him to let its fate decide his action. If it
came safely to shore, he would stay a fortnight
longer, if it burst before it reached the shore he
would go at once. He watched it intently as it
danced over the translucent crinkles of the pool,
then joined itself to a dancing mate, and the pair
came whirling in an eddy into harbor, touched the
pebbled shore at his feet and burst in one sparkle.
Alas for poor Polly!

He staid till the maples along the riverside were
blood red, and the shivering poplars shone like
flickering flames of yellow light among the dark
balsams. Then one day he packed his trunk and
went away. If at dusk the next evening Polly was
at a certain evergreen tree that stood beside the
road, so different from all the other evergreens
that they had often noticed it, she would see a light

228

The Gray Pine.

wagon driven there. If the driver alighted, plucked
a sprig of this tree and gave it to her, she might
know he had come to take her to the little lake port
where her lover was waiting.

After fidgeting about uneasily all the morning
of that fateful day, Amos Brown "kinder guessed
he'd go a-huntin' for a leetle spell," and taking
down his gun and waking the old deaf hound,
wandered off into the woods. His daughter knew
that his hunting was almost certain to take him
in a roundabout way to Bell's, and that he would
not come home till after nightfall. She longed to
kiss him and bid him farewell, for she might never
see him again, but she dared not even say good-by,
for she was choking with tears held back. So she
only gave the old hound a parting caress, and said
in a broken voice, "Ta' care o' yerself, father."

The shadows of the great western mountain
wall had fallen across the valley and half way up
the sides of the eastern range as Polly busied her-
self with her last household tasks. With more than
usual care she laid the linen cloth her mother had
woven and set her father's supper for him, prepar-
ing a favorite dish, and brewing the pot of strong
tea that he always craved when he came home
from a visit to Bell's. She had not realized till
now how desolate home would be for him without

229

Hunting Without a Gun.

her. How could she leave him so forlorn even
for her lover's sake? And an undefined dread op-
pressed her, as if the shadows of the moun-
tains had fallen, on her heart. She wondered why
the shadows ran so swiftly up the mountain sides,
chasing the sunshine toward the peaks, and the
hours flew fast as those of one condemned to death,
not dragging slow as when they bring some great
anticipated joy. A voice that would not be stilled
iterated that duty must overbear love, that she
must stay with her father. At last when the linger-
ing touch of the sunset was lifted from the highest
peak to the clouds, a great peace and rest came
over her soul, for she had made her final decision.
By the fading light she wrote in a cramped hand
an ill-spelled note for the messenger to take back
to Walter White, telling him that she had even so
late repented of her foolish promise, and would stay
with her father. She blushed with shame to think
that perhaps her lover would laugh at its blunder-
ing awkwardness, but it comforted her to feel that
he must respect her the more for writing it.

She had put on a dress of light-colored stuff
that he had praised, and when mountains and
woods and clearings were blurred together in the
dark, she went out to the appointed place. The
river sent up its constant murmur of many voices,

230

The Gray Pine.

changing their cadence with every waft of the light
breeze, yet monotonous, and always sad as the
sighs and mysterious whispers of the dark forests.
The crickets creaked with mournful monotony
their autumnal chant, and the night air was scented
with the odor of late blossoms and withering herbs
and dead leaves as she stood waiting in the black
shadow of the gnarled and scraggy evergreen.
The tree seemed to infuse a grave-like chill into
the atmosphere beneath and about it that made her
shiver, and cower and hug herself for warmth.

Amos Brown had an uncommonly jolly after-
noon at the tavern with half a dozen boon com-
panions who generously gave their time to the
drinking of the old Medford rum that he paid for;
and when toward nightfall he got upon his
unstable legs and went tacking along the road, the
landlord watching him and critically and profes-
sionally considering his case, doubted whether such
legs would of themselves be able to take their
owner home. Just then a stout, good-natured
looking young man came sauntering past. "Look
a here, Hi," said Bell, accosting him, " 'f you're
a-goin' up the rud, why don't ye kinder keep Uncle
Amos comp'ny? Seems 's 'ough he's a makin'
consid'able rail fence fur tu git hum by bedtime."

After a moment's consideration Hiram Hall
231

Hunting ll'ithont a Gun.

saw an opportunity of doing Polly a friendly ser-
vice, and the certainty of a few minutes' speech
with her that he had long been wishing for, and he
answered with a cheerful alacrity, "Wai, I snum !
I d' know but what I will !" The plump little pub-
lican felt his conscience at" ease when he saw the
strong young fellow hook his arm into the limp
elbow of the elder, and the pair disappear in the
bend of the road.

Amos was a light weight, notwithstanding the
load he carried, and Hiram towed him steadily
along in spite of the unsteady movement of his
legs, and the surge of his body. He humored him
with assent to his maudlin gabble, and when he
halted, balancing himself for a prolonged drunken
argument, he was coaxed onward by telling him
that his daughter " 'ould be a-waitin' up for him,
an' a-gettin' oneasy 'baout him." So they fared
homeward till they came to the turn of the road
below the old man's house, when it had grown so
dark that the drab tracks of infrequent wheels were
indistinct before them, and were quite blotted out
where the shadows of the wayside trees fell
thickest. Hiram stopped suddenly, clutching his
companion's arm, and pointing to a dim whiteness
that slowly uprose in the shadow of an evergreen,
gasped in a scared whisper, "What's that?"

232

Tlic Gray Pine.

"By the Lord, it's a sperit, Hirum, er less a
witch!" the old man said in a low voice when the
mysterious form became apparent to his foggy
vision. "Le' go my arm V I'll show ye 'at a bullit
'ont hurt it!"

The words were hardly spoken before the rifle
was at his shoulder and spit forth its slender
stream of fire toward the ghostly figure, and so
quickly following its spiteful crack that it seemed
a prolongation of it, came a sharp cry of mortal
agony, and the white shape sank to the earth. The
two men stood blankly staring toward each other
through the gloaming in the sudden silence that
ensued, when the frightened crickets ceased their
melancholy creak, and the night wind held its
breath, and no sound was heard but the far-away
sighing rush of the river. Then the full "hunter's
moon" came pulsing up behind the mountain crest
and slanted its rays upon them. The old man
went forward into the shadows with an undefined
horror upon him, and when presently the younger
came to him he was kneeling on the ground with
the lifeless body of his daughter in his arms. "She
was a waitin' for me, Hi," was all he said. A lit-
tle later Hiram was half aware of someone part-
ing the branches and of a face looking at them for
an instant, blank with wonder, then as white with

233

Hunting JTithout a GH::.

horror as he knew his own must be, and then van-
ishing. He afterward remembered some dim
recognition of the sound of wheels clattering away
along the road.

"Jest help me kerry the little gal up t' the
house," the old man said at last, very calmly, and
spoke no more till they had laid her on her bed,
and he had lighted a candle with a steady hand.
"I got one more favor to ask on ye, my boy. Go
daown an' ask some o' the women folks t' come up
soon 's they kin, er in the mornin' 's jest as well."
Then, with the innate hospitality of a mountaineer,
"Hev a bit o' suthin', Hirum, o' the last she ever
set for her mis'able ol' father? There's the tea
on the stone ha'th a-waitin' for me 'at killed her!
O, my God!"

After a little the heart-broken old man raised
his bowed head from his hands and looked about
for something. "Where's my gun? Oh, I know;
I'll go 'long daown wi' ye an' git it," and they went
out together.

The last that Hiram saw of him as he cast a
glance behind, the old man was standing in the
moonlit road carefully loading his rifle. "What's
he feared on 'at a bullit could hurt?" the young
man bitterly asked himself, and then a fire of
wrath flamed up in his slow soul against the lonely

234

The Gray Pine

man who had wrought as great desolation to his
own heart as to that of the father himself.

The daylight had scarcely scaled the mountain
tops and the stars above the quiet valley were just
beginning to fade with the gray sky when the
horror-stricken neighbors came up to the little
house. There was no sign of life about it but the
old hound crouching sad and silent on the door-
step. Entering they saw by the faint light of the
coming day and the candle with a "winding sheet"
dropping from its spluttering wick, old Amos
Brown lying dead upon the kitchen floor, with his
empty rifle cast away from him, and in the bed-
room poor Polly, with her hands folded across her
breast, and so peaceful a look upon her pale, beau-
tiful face, that at first they thought her only
asleep.

235

A BEE HUNTER'S REMINISCENCES.

O you like to hunt bees, Uncle
Jerry?" I asked my old friend,
who had mentioned that pas-
time with a glow of animation.
"Of course I du," he an-
swered, "anything that's huntin'
an' that comes the fust on't when the' hain't no
other huntin'. It's a pleasant time o' year tu be
a-shoolin' 'raound the aidge o' the woods an' intu
'em, an' you're like tu run ontu litters o' young pa'-
tridges an' 1'arn their ha'nts an' come ontu signs
o' young foxes bein' raised, that'll be hendy tu
know 'baout, come fall. An' it hain't every do-
dunk 't c'n hunt bees, le' me tell ye. If you think
so, you jest try it.

"A feller's got tu hev sharp eyes, an' use 'em,
an' be pooty well 1'arned in the critter's ways, an'
hev some gumption, in a gin'ral way. An' it
hain't all lazin' 'raound, nuther. I've lined bees
nigh ontu three mild, an' when a feller done that
an' fetches up ag'in a tame swarm in someb'dy's do'
yard it makes him feel kinder wamble-cropped.

236

A Kcc Hunter s Reminiscences.

"Oh, bee-huntin' hes its disapp'intments, julluk
all huntin' an' ev'ything else in this airth. Oncte
I got some bees tu workin' an' come along to-
wards night, I'd got 'em lined up clus tu where the
tree was. I knowed, 'cause the' was a dozen on
'em comin' back tu the box in no time, but it was
gittin' tew late tu roller 'em, so I set a chunk o'
comb on a rock, an' quit an' went hum, 'spectin'
tu make a short job on't next mornin'. But come
tu git hum, word hed come 'at my ol' womern's
mother, Mis' Perry, was a hevin' one o' her spells,
an' wa'n't 'spected tu live, an' so we hypered off
tu Goshen in the mornin' an' didn't git back for a
week, an' then when I went tu finish findin' my bee
tree, darned if someb'dy er 'nuther hadn't got
ahead o' me an' took up the tree, an' a big one it
was, tew. An', by grab, ol' Mis' Perry didn't die
arter all."

Uncle Jerry drew his pipe from one pocket and
from another a great oval japanned tin tobacco-
box, bearing on its cover the device of a bee-hive
and the legend, "Industry brings plenty," on which
his eye rested with an abstracted, retrospective
gaze. He continued after a pause:

"I allers thought it was Hi Perkins an' Joe
Billin's 'at got that honey, but I got square wi' 'em.
That very same day I lined a swarm stret tu a tree

237

Hunting Jl'ithout a Gun.

an' put my mark on't, an' as I went moggin' along
back towards home, on the line, I met the critters
a-workin' up on it, an' they looked cheaper'n dirt
when I told 'em 'at I'd faound the tree, for they'd
be'n a-workin' the line ever sence mornin'."

Uncle Jerry filled his pipe and found a time-
worn match out of his vest pocket, which he suc-
ceeded in lighting after repeated scratchings with
both ends on his- trousers. Then having got his
pipe in blast, he resumed his reminiscences.

"Yes, bee huntin' hes its disapp'intments an' on-
certainties, an' mebby that's what makes all sorts
o' huntin' interestin'. One time I was goin' tu
Ch'lotte, on the New Rud, an' as I druv along
past Wheeler's woods a gawpin' up int' the trees,
I see a swarm o' bees a skivin' in" an' aout of a hole
abaout twenty-five feet up a big ellum, an' thinks,
says I, there's luck for ye, a-findin' a bee tree
'thaout huntin' a minute, an' it's big 'nough for a
hunderdweight o' honey. So nex' day I took my
hired man an' each on us an ax an' hitched on t'
the one-hoss lumber box waggin an' loaded a big
brass kittle into 't, an' off we went tu take up the
tree 'fore anybody else diskivered it.

"The on'y way we c'ld fall it was right across
the rud, but hev that honey we must, and so at
it we went, hammer an' tongs, an' it hotter 'n

238

A Bee Hunter's Reminiscences.

blazes. In 'baout an haour daown she come, ker-
onch, right acrost the rud. An' haow much
honey du ye su'pose we got ?"

"Well, 50 pounds," I guessed, after considering
the size of the tree, and meaning to get within
reasonable limits.

"Not a tarnal drop ! Not one speck !" cried
Uncle Jerry. "By grab, they wa'n't bees; they was
abaout a hatf'l o' blasted yaller-jackets. An' there
we hed that tree tu git aouten the rud an' them
a-sockin' on't tu us red hot, an' whilst we was
a-choppin' an' a-boostin' an' a-fightin' hornets,
along come the fust s'lec'man an' faound the high-
way blocked up, an' that made him mad, an' he
give me Hail Columby, an' I was mad, tew, but
tew 'shamed tu say anything back, but it done me
some good when a hornet took him in the forwed,
an' 'fore he got by they stung his hoss — an' he
went, I tell ye.

"An' 'fore we got away one on 'em gin it tu aour
hoss jest as we got ready tu start, an' the way that
'ere kettle baounded an' rattled an' we a-hangin'
ont' the seat an' the ol' hoss a humpin' hisself for
all he was wu'th, if it wa'n't a circus — wal!"

A chapter of description was condensed in that
concluding word, and Uncle Jerry did not spoil the
picture by adding another touch.

239

Hunting Without a Gun.

"Bees is cur'us critters," he began again, after a
few minutes of meditative puffing. "I got terribly
bothered oncte on the saouth eend o' Shellhaouse
Maountain. I'd ketched a bee an' got tu work an'
got his line right up a holler int' the woods, an'
he'd be gone jest five minutes every time, but the'

SheUFTo'u'je

was a place I'd lose him an' couldn't find the tree
ner foller him one inch furder. He never fetched
a bee back with him. I fussed with him all day an'
when I went hum at night I tol' my neighbor, oP
Uncle Pa'sons. He was an ol' bee hunter, an' says
he, 'I c'n find 'em in ten minutes, I bet ye.'

"So next mornin' he put up a bite o' suthin' t'
eat an' went 'long wi' me an' he fussed wi' that

240

A Bee Hunter's Reminiscences.

pleggid bee all the forenoon, an' all he c'ld du was
tu git ontu a ridge, an' he said it was one o' Barnses
tame bees an' no use in follerin' on 't no furder, an'
so he eat his grub an' went hum, but I wouldn't
give it up yit.

"I got the bee in the box an' kerried it up on the
ridge an' let him go, an' the fust time he come an'
went I got his line right stret along the ridge, an'
didn't go ten rod 'fore I faound the tree, a big
chestnut oak. We hed a time a-takin' on 't up, for
the' was a snarl o' bees an' they was uglier 'n sin.
But we got over a hunderdweight o' honey. It was
'cause the swarm was so rich 'at that 'ere bee
worked so slow an' come back alone, but I never
see one travel so crooked. Suthin' 'baout the
laidges, I s'pose.

"Another cur'us thing is if you kerry bees past
the' tree they won't come back tu the box.

"Twicte I got scairt a-bee huntin'. Once was
when I went tu 'the Patrimony' wi' Sol Mead tu
take up a bee tree. It was an all-killin' hot day,
an' we daowned the tree an' slabbed off a piece
where the honey was, an' was a-takin' on't aout
when all tu oncte Sol he was took sick, an' I tell
you he was awful sick I laid him 'n under a tree,
an' he kep' a-growin' sicker, an' I reckoned he'd
die sartain an' folks 'Id say I killed him.

241

Hunting Without a Gun.

"But he made me go an' finish takin' up the
honey, an' I did, an' the' was a whole lot on't
which I wished the' wa'n't none. A tree full o'
honey an' a dyin' man on my hands tu oncte was
more'n I wanted. But I got the honey took keer
on, an' it an' Sol int' the waggin an' started the per-
cession. He begin tu git better 'fore we got hum,
an' was all right nex' day. I cal'late 'twas the heat
an' the smell o' the mad bees a fumin' up int' his
face 't ailded him.

"T'other time I was alone, linin' some bees on
Shellhaouse, an' 't was gittin' late an' I'd got tu
quit, when I hearn the awfulest yowlin' right
daown the wood rud I was cal'latin' to go. Fust
I thought 't was a woman who was lost, an' then I
knowed it wa'n't, but some sort of an annymil.
Mebby it was a painter, but more likely it was a
lynk, but I wa'n't hankerin' arter a lynk fight wi'
nothin' but a bee box an' a jack-knife for weep'ns,
an' I jest hypered right over the maountain, best
foot for'ard. Last I hearn, the critter was yowlin'
right where I quit off, but I didn't stop to listen
much till I got int' the lots. The' was a lynk killed
in the west part o' the taown the week arter, but
mebby it wa'n't mine.

"You sh'ld like tu go a-bee huntin', hey? Wai,
't ain't much use nowerdays, the's so many tame

242

A Bee Hunter s Reminiscences.

ones tu bother a feller. An' I guess y' eyes hain't
good 'nough. Nighsighted, hain't ye? An' it
hain't ev'y dodunk 'at c'n hunt bees. But come
nex' summer, we'll try it a hack if you wantu."

Uncle Jerry's words are not encouraging to one
whom he evidently considers a "dodunk," and
summer seems far off as one looks across the dun,
flowerless fields to bleak, gray woods, and I doubt
if we ever "try 'em a hack."

243

BEE HUNTING.

HAT survival of man's primitive
wildness which is termed the
sporting instinct exhibits itself
in some forms that are not recog-
nized as legitimate by those who
arrogate to themselves the title
of true sportsmen. Yet who shall say that they are
not, since they have the authority of most ancient
usage and are entered upon with as keen a zest by
those who affect them as are the so-called legiti-
mate methods by those who practice only them?

Even the fish spearer and the trapper find in the
excitement of their pursuits and in the acquirement
and exercise of skill an enjoyment quite distinct
from the acquisition of gain, and as keen as that of
the acknowledged sportsman.

They may have, too, their purely aesthetic
quality, for it is possible that the wielder of the
spear may be as contemplative as the caster of the
fly, and that a man may commune with nature as
profitably while he sets a trap as does another while
he sights a flying bird.

244

Bee Hunting.

More apt than either of these to fall into such
gentle moods one might fancy the bee hunter. His
lines are cast in pleasant places in the delightful
weather of late summer and early fall, and he
spends the golden hours of busy indolence with
bees and flowers for his most intimate associates.

He has time and opportunity to observe the ways
of wild things, and he can hardly help but grow
into some accord with nature while he breathes the
fragrance of her ripeness, hears the drowsy hum of
the bees, the faint trickle of the spent rills, caught
and lost amid the fitful stir of leaves and the fare-
well notes of lingering singers. What his craft
has trained his senses to catch and much besides, he
may use to a finer purpose than its own object.

No man needs a keener eye than he to follow
such swift, diminutive quarry, nor keener wits, and
he must be cool and resolute, for this hunting has
its spice of danger.

Who shall say that bee hunting may not become
a fine art among sports, and that in the increasing
dearth of fish and fowls and beasts of venery the
wild honey bee may not come to be legitimate game
and the hunting thereof the contemplative man's
recreation?

245

CLEANING THE OLD GUN.

ELL, the cleaning of the old gun
must not be put off longer. I am
ashamed when I even try to re-
call the length of time she has
borne this charge in her vitals.
Counting the months backward
to the happy day when my dear friend Jack, of
Michigan, went fox hunting with me, they mount
up to twelve, to twenty-four, yea, and seven more,
an army of ghosts that arise from their calendared
tombs and condemn me for this neglect of my first
loved gun.

She, of all the guns my youthful eyes beheld,
was the first who enchanted me; she, to my bashful
touch, first responded with a roar of musical thun-
der and a kick that I was proud to receive, when I
was permitted to fire her at a mark. Her I first
loaded with trembling hands, doubtful when the
heroic feat was accomplished whether powder or
shot were uppermost, or the proper wad of tow be-
tween them or underneath them.

246

Cleaning the Old Gun.

It is humiliating, even now, that five and forty
years have passed, to confess that presently was
given proof of skillful loading by later unskillful
handling. The thin copper cap, bright as a new
cent, and worth more to me, was set upon the nip-
ple, the striker drawn backward, the trigger pulled
to ease it down to its proper place, for hammer
down was the rule of safety in those days, and the
half-cock arrangement was thought to be a useless
survival of flintlock times, in whose declining years
this old gun was born in a London gunshop. My
nervous thumb slipped, down fell the hammer, the
house was shaken with the discharge, the shot was
driven like a bullet through the panel of the kitchen
door and spattered upon the ceiling of the hall.
Serene amid the uproar and its after hush, my
grandfather turned from the window where he
stood dreaming an old man's dream of the past,
and I believe he would have been little moved if
the shot had scattered in his silver locks.

"What is thee trying to do?" was all he asked,
and T had no answer nor he any reproach. He was
one of those rare old men who remember that they
were once boys, and can forgive as they desired to
be forgiven. I cannot remember how many weary
days or weeks or months went by before I dared
to take this gun in hand again. Heaven knows

247

Hunting Without a Gun.

they were long enough to count as years go now,
when I wait and wait for what will never come.

But still the old gun waits its cleaning. No won-
der that one grown accustomed to the easily and
readily apparent cleaning of the breechloader,
dreads attacking the cavernous depths of the muz-
zleloader. How shall he know when he has
pumped them with cold water, scalded them with
hot, and wiped them with the last rag, that those
hidden recesses are not entertaining rust that doth
corrupt? Only the cunning hand of the gunsmith
would reveal the condition of that dark interior.
Otherwise we could only hope for the best or fear
the worst.

I take down the old gun from the hooks whereon
in these idle hours she has hung since the days I
first knew there were guns and began to covet their
use and possession. Many changes and much rough
usage she has undergone since then when her ignit-
ing force slept in the cool flint of her comely lock,
and its flash awakened fire and thunder that burst
from her three feet and six inches of octagonal and
round barrel of seventeen gauge. Longer ago than
I can remember, her lock was clumsily changed to
the incoming percussion fashion by Seaver, of Ver-
gennes, a gunsmith who scoffed at the idea of bar-
rels ever being twisted or made in any way but by

248

Cleaning the Old Gun.

longitudinal welding of the tube. How distinctly
I remember the old man and his low-roofed shop.
Spectacled and so bent with years, he need not
stoop to his work of filing a stiff sear spring while
he gossiped of his townsmen, one of whom was
"jest a-dyin' of reg'lar ol' fashioned rum consump-
tion, poor ol' creetur." The grimy walls of his
den were arrayed with guns of all sorts, repaired
and awaiting repairs, and bunches of new steel
traps, of which he was a famous maker in those
days when the Newhouse trap was unknown. Nine
dollars a dozen was the regular price of good
hand-made muskrat traps. I doubt not he was
tinkering the militia men's muskets, perhaps in this
same shop, in the martial days of the last war with
England, when all the Champlain Valley was alert
for British invasion, and McDonough's fleet was
threatened with blockade or destruction where it
lay at the Buttonwoods in Otter Creek.

Well, it was not making or mending guns that
I set about, but the cleaning of this one, and still
she waits my tardy hand. Out with the rusty
charge. Mercy, how she kicks, and how a gun
always kicks more when fired at a target than at
game, as if she resented such futile use. But the
fact is, unless one's cheek and shoulder are butted
unmercifully one never notices a kick in the excite-

249

Hunting Without a Gun.

ment of game shooting, while in cold-blooded tar-
get shooting he feels the slightest recoil, and may
sometimes detect himself shutting his eyes in ex-
pectation of it as he pulls the trigger.

Ramrod and key are drawn, the barrel un-
hooked, the breech immersed in a half pailful of
cold water, which with frequent changes is pumped
through the barrels with a swab of tow or cloth on
the cleaning rod, till water and swab show no sus-
picion of filth. Then boiling water is poured into
the muzzle till the barrel is too hot to hold in the
naked hand, then drained, muzzle down, a few
moments, and wiped with clean swabs, changed
again and again. The first comes forth wet and
red with rust that even so quickly has formed, the
next stained with it, but only moist, and by and by,
after arm-tiring friction, the swab reappears at the
muzzle as clean and dry as when it entered, and
withal quite warm. Now an internal and external
touch of oil, and the work is done conformably to
the instructions of Frank Forrester in his "Manual
for Young Sportsmen." Happy is it for you who
now inherit the title and have entered the field
since the general introduction of breechloaders that
his prediction concerning the practicability of such
arms was not fulfilled, and that you are spared the
tedious labor of cleaning muzzleloaders.

250

Cleaning the Old Gun.

If the old gun does not look as good as new now
that she is made cleanly, she is at least seemly, and
I would not if I could obliterate the scratches and
bruises that mark stock and barrel, for they are re-
minders of half-forgotten incidents, and bring up
visions of happy days of unreturning youth. Not
one of us graybeards but looks backward with long-
ing to those care-free days, but if we could recall
one of them and live it again, would it be wise to-
do so? Would not the heaviness of these present
inevitable days be increased and made less bearable
by this brief lightening of the burden?

Seen through the mists of intervening years, how
long and bright and full of unmixed happiness they
appear to our regretful eyes, yet they were no bet-
ter to us then than these are now — never quite per-
fect, always lacking something that was to come
by and by, when we would be men and the world
our oyster. Though they have drifted far away
into the past, we have lived them and they are still
ours to fondly love and remember. Then why
should we regret them? Ah, why? But still
we do.

Who can ever forget and not wish to feel again
what he never can — the exalted thrill of his first
successful shot at any kind of game? How the
touch of this old gun with which the feat was

251

Hunting Without a Gun.

accomplished, brings to mind the killing of my first
squirrel, brought down from the top of a tall
hickory with a ball that unknown to me had been
rammed atop of the powder for larger game. I
remember, too, the scolding I got for shooting such
a charge toward the house, a quarter of a mile
away. I was so proud of the feat that a scolding
was nothing, only that it seemed to me I deserved
rather a little praise for having knocked off a squir-
rel's head with a single ball from a smooth bore.

So comes back the memory of my first partridge,
the indescribale aroma of the October woods,
luminous with gorgeous tints, the dusky form
skulking through the undergrowth, the instanta-
neous aim, the sullen roar that broke the stillness
of the woods, the moment so full of hope and
heart-sickening uncertainty till the fluttering bird
was seen and pounced upon and gloated over. I
am no more ashamed now than I was then that he
was shot on the ground, and hold that no man need
be more ashamed of fairly stalking a ruffed grouse
than a deer. Both feats call tor wariness and
woodcraft, though the last requires the more,
while shooting grouse from a tree to which they
have been put by a yelping dog needs but a keen
eye and a target-shot aim.

With us, there were no ruffed grouse then, nor
252

"TKE HOUSE A QUARTER OF A MILE AWAY."

253

Hunting Without a Gun.

wing-shooting — only "patridges," and silting or
running shots. No one whom we knew ever shot
birds on the wing, except Judge Pierpoint, of Ver-
gennes, who made great bags of ducks and wood-
cock on Great and Little Otter creeks and their
borders. That was something that only a lawyer
could achieve and boys only dream of as a possi-
bility of the future that might bring all things.

The result of my first attempt at wing-shooting
surprised me as much as the bird I fired at, a
pigeon that had repeatedly flown from one to the
other of the barns, whereon I was trying to get a
pot shot at him. At last, as he flew across me, I
let fly at him in sheer desperation, and down he
slanted in a long curve from his straight arrowy
flight, stone dead when he struck the earth. From
that day forth I was always "pulling trigger" on
flying birds, oftener wasting than giving good ac-
count of precious ammunition; but in the beginning
I had acquired the knack of aiming quickly, and it
was sometimes a bird and not I who got the worst
of it in my frequent fusilades.

This old gun gave me my first woodcock who
went whistling out of the tasseled border of the
cornfield, seen for a flash, then whistling out of
sight behind the top of a young apple tree, through
which I blazed away in the direction of his flight.

254

Cleaning the Old Gnu.

Impressed with a belief in his fall, I searched with
a faith that was well rewarded when I found him
a few rods farther on belly up among the rank
aftermath. Oh, long-past golden day of Septem-
ber, has thy like ever since shone on happier or
prouder boy?

This open confession compels the admission that
for all the small thunder I have let loose from this
and other guns in swamp and alder thicket, a few
figures would compass the score of woodcock
brought to pocket between that first and the last
that I shall ever shoot; but those I so possessed I
was proud of and duly thankful for. Woodcock
must be growing scarce here, for in the last half
dozen years of my shooting, which ended four
years ago, I did not flush many birds in all the
good summer and fall cover that I beat. Too many
guns and too little cover have almost accomplished
the downfall of his goodly race.

It was the great ambition of my generation of
boys to shoot ducks. How many weary days have
I haunted the banks of Little Otter and the East
Slang, unsuccessful but still hopeful of a shot, and
how my heart sickened when, after a long crawl
through the unheeded thistles of a creekside pas-
ture, the grand opportunity lay before me, a
huddled flock within short range. The deadly aim

255

Hunting Without a Gun.

was assured, the trigger pulled and — the gun
missed fire. With a torrent of epithets I reviled
the most innocent weapon, for the fault of some
Gallic manufacturer of percussion caps. Who that
knew them does not remember with bitterness of
spirit those little cups of copper foil shedding unre-
luctantly their thin scale of fulminating powder as
lifeless as the paper box that inclosed them, and
labeled with effrontery more brazen than them-
selves "Qualite Superieure" and the maker's initials
blazoned in large capitals "G. D.," which gave to
the vexed Anglo-Saxon a hint of supplement in
plain, if profane, English. Did we not arise and
call blessed, Ely and Cox and others of our own
blood who gave us honest caps, vital with a spark
that the hammer's strike always awoke?

Never a duck did I get till one October after^
noon Jule Dop paddled me from Sile Baily's land-
ing to 'Tint Judy Pint" in the East Slang. As
well defined as then, open before me between their
pale of brown and yellow sedge and rice, the blue-
black curves and reaches of quiet water, brightened
here and there with the reflected glory of scarlet
water maples, glints of sunshine and double of
silver cloud. Were we moving, or were shores,
trees and marsh filing past us? The sough of the

breeze made them noisier than the progress of the

256

Cleaning the Old Gun.

boat, most apparent by the ripples that stirred rush
and lily-pad far astern. Forty years and more have
flown since that incomparable wielder of the pad-
dle drifted into the mystery of the unknown. Poor
vagabond, wherever he sleeps in his unmarked
grave, peace to him, and eternally the rest which
in his brief life he ever desired.

Silently we rounded the bend below the reed
bog, and then, where the channel hugs the south
shore of Horse Pasture Point, up sprang a great
dusky duck with a prodigious flutter of wings and
a raucous quack of alarm that was cut short in mid-
utterance by my sudden shot. Down she came with
a resounding splash that drove a shower of glitter-
ing drops above the rice tops and sent circling
wavelets out to greet us. If her weight and mine
had been what they seemed to me as I lifted her
from the water, the voyage of that old scow would
have ended then and there with a surging plunge
to the oozy bottom.

The horde of ducks that were wont to congre-
gate in those marshes then had that day found
business or pleasure elsewhere, for we saw but one
other, as we rounded the broad marsh that west-
wardly borders Horse Pasture Point and drew
near the mouth of the East Slang, that uprose a
long gunshot off with a needless tumult of voice

257

Hunting JTithout a Gun.

and pinion, and flew straight away. The long bar-
rel was trained on her and the trigger pulled just
as Jule protested under breath, "Too far." But
down she plunged headlong into the quivering
sedges, and never in my life was I prouder than
when Jule's impressive lips gave me the com-
mendation, "By gosh, you're a cuss to shoot,"
though in my heart I knew it was but a lucky
chance that called it forth. Further than this my
shot was not rewarded, for an hour's search failed
to disclose her in that unmarked expanse of sedges,
weeds and rushes, and my second duck was never
but for a brief moment displayed as a trophy, but
went to the nourishment of some prowling mink or
hungry hawk. Fortune favored me that day not
only in what she gave, but in withholding an op-
portunity of spoiling my record.

As soon as the ice was out of the East Slang the
flooded marshes swarmed with muskrats, for whose
sleek brown coats, worth fifteen cents apiece, we boys
hungered, envying the trappers who took more in
a night than we in a season. How persistently we
patrolled the low shores in quest of a muskrat
swimming within range, or resting on a half sub-
merged log. Or, lying in ambush, we strove to
lure the amorous voyagers to death by simulating
their mating call, and happy were we if in a day

258

Cleaning the Old Gun.

our frequent shots gained us one welcome prize.

Then, too, in those first days of open water the
spawning pickerel were playing, and now and then
a lucky shot paralyzed one, perhaps two or three,
and in the roil our eager eyes would discover the
gleam of shining white bellies upturned to incite
us to a splashing scramble for our prey. I confess
that all this was unsportsmanlike, but it was fun,
and whoever has hunted muskrats or shot pickerel
cannot deny that skill cannot be lacking in the suc-
cessful pursuit of the one pastime, nor that excite-
ment attends the other.

John Wadso, late of St. Francis, but now with
his dusky fathers in the happy hunting grounds,
told me that a British officer whom he accom-
panied on a moose hunt, became so enthusiastic
over the sport of shooting muskrats with his rifle
that he forgot the real object of his trip, and so
devoted himself to this accidental one that he
scared every moose out of sight and range.
Furthermore, in defense of the other practice there
are real sportsmen who are not above pickerel
shooting when the law does not prohibit it.

How distinctly lies before me the scene of those
small adventures of youth, as if not forty years,
but fewer days, linked the past to this present,
youth to crabbed age.

259

Hunting Without a Gun.

The broad water rippled by the wind, flashing in
the sun and beating with rapid pulse against the
rustling drift of dead weeds, the crinkled reflection
of tree and shore, and flash of the starling's wings,
an angler casting an early worm to the unready
bullheads, a pickerel shooter stalking heron-like
along a distant shore, a trapper poling his cranky
skiff along his marshy round, now halting to inspect
a trap or gather its lifeless prey, or resting and
then passing on, haunting the shores as silently as
a ghost, save when he cast a trap and tally into his
boat or chopped a new notch in a log or hailed a
brother trapper to learn his luck.

As the day waned and the wind died, the still
water turned to gold with the reflections of the sun-
set sky, then to a black waste in the twilight of
shadows, save where the first stars were mirrored
or a muskrat's wake seamed it with a streak of
silver. Then as the shadow of the world crept up
the eastern sky, the farmstead lights began to
twinkle along the distant highway, and our own
shone out to guide us homeward.

No feat performed with the old gun is
more vividly remembered than the killing of
my first fox. I recall the even whiteness of
the snow, shadowless under the dull De-
cember sky, the first burst of the hound's

260

Cleaning the Old Gun.

music, how it came crashing nearer, while my
throbbing heart beat time to it, the glimpse of rey-
nard's tawny fur flashing through the haze of
underbrush, then disclosed for a moment after my
hasty shot, writhing in the snow, then up and off,
at first so slowly that I could almost lay hand on
him, gaining on me till, as the dogs came up and
passed me, he went out of sight beyond a ridge and
left me breathless and lamenting. When my com-
panion reached me the woods were silent but for
the voices of the chickadees that curiously attended
us. Had the dogs stopped or gone out of hearing
under the mountain side? Getting first to the
brink of the cliff my friend looked down, then
shouted back to me, "They've got him !" and we,
with .a triumphant cheer, made the woods ring with
wilder echoes than the hounds had awakened.

How small and to what little purpose were
these achievements of our youthful ambitions, and
yet how we still glory in their accomplishment. I
wonder if men who have attained greatness do. not
look back to such with a completer satisfaction
than to great and later triumphs, for success is most
complete that brings most one's own approval, and
to those was given this reward.

And now the old gun is consigned to its resting
place where it was wont to hang in its flint-lock

261

Hunting Without a Gun.

days, when I was a bibbed and aproned toddler.
I have grown garrulous over it as I recalled the
pleasures it has given me, pleasures that I shall
never taste again but in memory. Often have I
hoped to relieve them in some measure with my
boy, and share with him the triumph of his first
successful shot, but this is denied me, groping in a
fog that beclouds aim. Neither this gun nor any
other shall I ever shoot again, nor if I might, could
I find such sport as was to be had in the day of its
first use. There are too many shooters, too little
cover, and yearly the horde of the one increases,
the acres of the other become fewer, and the game
laws, game preserves and game protectors cannot
long avert the day of annihilation or such poverty
of its once populous haunts as to make the pursuit
of game a weariness to the flesh, a vexation to the
spirit.

Well, if I have not had my share I have had my
opportunity, and should be satisfied. It is a won-
der to me to find myself, without striving to reach
this comfortable state of mind, so content to be de-
prived of almost all pastimes once so dear to me.

How few have the years been since I was look-
ing forward with impatient longing to this opening
day of the season, whose sports I was among the
first to engage in and the last to relinquish.

262

Cleaning the Old Gun.

To-day I hear the continuous fusilade along the
marshes, but am not cast down .because I cannot
be there, nor envious of those to whom the day Is
all that it once was to me.

The inexorable hand of time is not altogether
unkind; it wounds, but with a later touch it heals;
it takes away, but in some way makes compensation.

263

GIVEN AWAY.

|NE day in September, many years
ago, I was hunting with very
poor success along the border of
one of the few tracts of original
forest that then remained in our
township. The glassy channel
of the Slang, a sluggish watercourse that crept
along the edge of the woods, was not wrinkled by
the wake of a solitary duck, nor did the farther
curves and reaches of Little Otter show more sign
of life. Tt seemed as if the widespread bounty of
the rice marshes offered no attraction to the water-
fowl, for I saw another hunter, a marsh hawk,
commanding a far wider range than I, beating the
broad levels with as little success.

The skirt of the old woods frayed out into a
fringe of brush and berry briers, ordinarily the
haunt of ruffed grouse, was to-day as deserted as
the marsh. Now and then a noisy jay or a silent
cedar bird flitted out of the thicket before me, and
from the marsh on my left arose at every sudden

264

Given A-icay.

sound the outcry of unseen rail, but neither thicket
or fen offered anything that I was in quest of.

Upon coming to the landing where John Cher-
bineau's log canoe lay with her nose upon the bank,
I took the path which led through the woods to the
clearing and home of the owner of the craft. Be-
yond these a wood road, much used in winter by
lumbermen and woodsmen, offered a sure and easy
thoroughfare to Louis Creek, where I hoped to
find the ducks that must be somewhere. With an
eye to a possible partridge, I cautiously followed
the path, deep worn in the mold by the frequent
feet of John and his fat old wife, till the sunlit
clearing shone before me between the dark
hemlocks.

Stumps, young saplings, raspberry and black-
berry briers held a far larger part of the defor-
ested acres than did John's potato patch and corn-
field, in the midst of which stood the little log
cabin that, with its whitewashed walls and
notched eaves, looked as little native to the soil as
its tenants. I had not gone far toward it when a
wide-brimmed straw hat appeared above the black-
berry bushes, and as it moved slowly toward me in
a halting, devious course, I discovered beneath it
the broad, unctuous visage of John's "femme."
Intent upon securing the last blackberries of the

265

Hunting Without a Gun.

season, she was not aware of me till I called out to
her, "Good morning, Marie. Where is John?"

My unexpected salutation did not startle her
from giving chief attention to the heavily-laden
bush before her, and her eyes and hands were busy
with the berries while she answered : Good
mawny! Mahman? Ah do' know 'f 'e ant peek
hees onion. Ah do' know 'f 'e ant poun' baskeet,
prob'ly. Yas, Ah hear it," and listening, my ear
caught the regular resonant strokes of splint
pounding at the farther edge of the clearing.

Gathering and vending the various kinds of wild
berries in their seasons, fishing and fish peddling,
making baskets and braiding straw hats for the
neighbors and storekeepers were the chief indus-
tries of this old couple, except when they once set
forth on a grand begging tour, outfitted with horse
and cart and a dolorous fiction of sickness and
losses by fire. But they lacked one essential^ a
numerous, helpless progeny, through which to ap-
peal to the benevolent public, for their own chil-
dren were all grown up and scattered, and they
could borrow but two of forty grandchildren, so
the enterprise failed and they retired to private
life.

"Lots of berries, aren't there?" I remarked,
with a view to the old woman's encouragement.

266

Given Away.

"Oh, sang rouge; dey ant 'mos' any," she de-
clared, in face of the evidence of laden bushes and
a basket almost full of plump, dead ripe blackber-
ries. "Dey ant honly few for beegin, an' dey all
dry up 'cep' dees lee'l place !"

I found old John, the lean and agile opposite of
his ponderous spouse, engaged in the primary pro-
cess of basket making, pounding an ash log and
stripping off the thin splints. After an exchange
of salutations, he asked:

"Ant you fan' dauk on Slang?" and when I
acknowledged my failure, he continued: "Wai,
sah, Ah got mah hoi' fusee feex over for cap lock,
an' you ant never see for beat it for keel dauk, Ah
tol' you. Hoi' Seaver on Vau'genn' he feex him,
an' las' week mah sonny-law come see me, an' he
say he shoot him on board for see how he shoot.
Ah say, 'Bah gosh, no ! we go shoot on dauk.'
Wai, sah, we fan' fav' black dauk roos' on de
water. Ah shoot on it, t'ree come dead, two go
safe. Bah gosh! It better for shoot on black
dauk he was for shoot on board, ant he? You go
on Louis Creek, hein? Wai, prob'ly you fan'
some, prob'ly you ant. Ah do' know me."

With such doubtful encouragement, I left him
grinding a grist of greenish-black home-grown to-
bacco for his blacker pipe, and as I entered the

267

Hunting tt'ithout a Gun.

shady aisle of the wood road I heard the click of
flint and steel, the imperative smack of draft-com-
pelling lips, and then the resonant clangor of the
splint pounding resumed with renewed vigor.

When this sound ceased my way was in silence
but for my own footsteps on the dry leaves of last
year and the naked tree roots uncovered and
wounded by the lumber sleds. These had left
more living signs of their passage in the rank tufts
of herdsgrass, sprung from seed scattered out of
the teams' noon fodder, and looking oddly out of
place in the shade of the ancient forest, with
orchids, sphagnum, and hobblebush for nearest
neighbors.

The soft mold and the edges of the long mud-
holes recorded the recent use of the road by some
natives of the greenwood — lineal descendants of
original proprietors whose title antedated royal
charters and grants of colonial governors. Here
was set down in plainest print the passage of a
family procession of raccoons; there, in finer type,
the nightly wandering of a fox, and the mincing
morning walk of a partridge, whom, perhaps, I
saw a little later. The clumsy, bear-like tracks of
the raccoons held right on through thick and thin,
never turning aside for puddles that the dainty-
footed fox had skirted, though he utilized for

268

Given Away.

some distance the convenience of the road, while
the partridge only picked her way across this bar of
nakedness that chanced to lie in the course of her
meandering. So each recorded not merely a frag-
ment of its life's history, but something of its traits.
With thoughts which were but a boy's thoughts,
not dwelling much on either, but more on the duck
prospects of Louis Creek, I entered the deepest
shade of the hemlocks where the raccoon family
had turned aside to their home, and the fox had
gone his pathless way into the forest depths, when
a large bird flew noiselessly downward, alighted
in the road not twenty yards before me, and at
once began rapidly picking the leaves of some low
ground plants. The bird bore the crest, the ruff,
the broad tail, and the colors of a ruffed grouse,
yet I could scarcely believe my eyes when these
proofs of its identity were forced upon me, against
the one fact of noiseless flight which was quite at
variance with my previous experience. At any rate
it was enough like a partridge to be worth shoot-
ing, and to that purpose I sacrificed the rare oppor-
tunity of observing a grouse feeding undisturbed
by the presence of an enemy. But at my first
motion, slow and cautious as it was, the alert bird
became aware of me, and burst away with a roar
of pinions that dispelled the last doubt of his per-

269

Hunting Without a Gun.

sonality, while with flurried aim my shot went wide
of the vanishing mark, and I was served as I de-
served, though I did not then recognize the jus-
tice of it.

No more grouse came to be looked at as I fol-
lowed the road which led me, in a long, irregular
curve, among trees apparently as old as the earth
they grew upon, to an old clearing, now reclothed
with a flourishing growth of gray birches and an
undergrowth. of ferns, save on the smooth circular
sites of former coal pits. In one of these scenes of
a past generation's labor, further memorialized by
a level sward of English grass and clover, a fox
had made a burrow, and the yellow earth thrown
out at the several entrances was mixed with frag-
ments of charcoal — all bestrewn with the litter of
Madame Vixen's kitchen middens. Wings and
bones of wild and tame fowl, the shanks of a lamb
and pads of a hare, showed that the provision for
her young family had been abundant and various.

Here I left the road and attempted a short cut
to my prospective hunting ground. Stooping to
avoid the numerous dead lower branches of the
birches as I waded hip-deep through the ferns, I
deviated from my intended course, but did not be-
come aware of it until I saw the sheen of water
close before me beneath a patch of open sky. It

270

IT WAS THE DEAD WATER OF AN OLD CHANNEL,

271

Hunting Without a Gun.

was not the creek, but a narrower bit of water quite
new to me, inclosed on one side by a dense thicket
of button bushes, on the other by a sloping bank
bearing an undergrowth of alders and some higher
wood, most conspicuous of which were an oak and
a lofty pepperidge. It was the deadwater of an
old channel, but its surface was stirred by some-
thing which I could not see moving upon it, and I
crept cautiously to a point that gave me a view of
almost its whole length. What I beheld nearly
took my breath away. The little lagoon swarmed
with wood ducks, some in rows on the many mossy
old logs that lay athwart and along it, some com-
fortably asleep, with head indrawn or tucked under
a wing, some preening their gay plumage, some
standing upright to stretch their wings, while the
water was alive with others, indolently swimming
to and fro, seaming the duckweed with innumer-
able aqueous paths, or nibbling the water, or
thrusting their heads beneath it, and all in aban-
donment to a perfect sense of security that it was
cruel to disturb.

No emotion of pity softened the youthful sav-
agery of my heart. It beat only with the joy of
great discovery — the chance of a lifetime that lay
before me. It beat so vehemently that it is a won-
der I even hit the pool, to say nothing of hitting

272

Given A way.

one of the uncounted dozen of ducks ranged on the
nearest log, for whom my aim was intended — yet
I saw three tumble helplessly from their perch, and
when with a roar of wings that was like a pro-
longation of the report of my gun, innumerable
ducks arose and filled the air before me, I fired
wildly into it, two more chance-stricken victims of
the aimless shot plunged back into the troubled
water. The ducks seemed unable to realize that
this safe retreat had been discovered and invaded
by a cruel, relentless foe, for they continued to
circle and hover over it till, with trembling hands,
in more haste than speed, I reloaded my gun, and,
grown cool enough to select single birds, brought
down one with each barrel.

Then the last and boldest lingerer reluctantly
departed, and the silence of desertion fell upon
the place, except as I splashed and poked about it
to secure my game ; and, with a' view to future on-
slaughts, made a path for a stealthy approach,
clearing away every sprout and dry twig that might
swish or snap a signal of alarm. There was not a
sign to show that the place was ever visited by any
one else, and I congratulated myself on possessing
sole knowledge of its existence.

Many a day thereafter I went to it alone,
guided from afar by the oak and pepperidge,

273

Hunting Without a Gun.

which, towering above the second growth, were
unmistakable landmarks, whether in leafage of
green or scarlet and brown, or in gray nakedness.
While I kept my secret, seldom was a visit unre-
warded by at least one shot at wood ducks, or later
in the season at the larger and warier dusky ducks,
which haunted the sequestered slough until it was
frozen.

But in an evil hour I disclosed it, under promise
of secrecy, to a faithless friend after an unsuccess-
ful day with him on the two creeks. It was not
long before the path was worn by the frequent
tread of other feet than mine, and ducks began to
be shy of a retreat that no longer promised rest
and safety. In two years it was common to every
gunner in the neighborhood, and worth no one's
while to visit.

As one still searches for something lost past all
hope of finding, so was I now and then drawn
thither, but never to find more than a solitary
heron standing like a gray statue in the desolate
slough, or a lone sandpiper skirting the low shore,
or perchance a muskrat channeling the duckweed
with his silent wake. I had given away my dis-
covery only to have it made worthless.

274

A LAY SERMON.

H A T E V E R the sportsman's
creed, it is profitable for him to
consider diligently the thirteenth
chapter of Corinthians, wherein
the excellence of charity is so
beautifully set forth ; for no man
more than he who goeth a-field should cherish this
virtue. He suffereth long and much, of travel, of
extortionate baggage men, uncivil conductors, and
miserable quarters, of unprofitable tramps, in
storm and heat and cold, of short hours of sleep
and early hours of waking — all this he should en-
dure in kindness; and of whom more than of him
should it be said that he envieth not, vaunteth not
himself, is not puffed up?

Let him also have charity for all his brethren,
though some of them exalt the muzzleloader above
the breechloader, or hold that it is as fair to shoot
one wary bird sitting as another, no worse to lure
a bird than a beast as big as a horse with a feigning
of its call, nor to shoot the cunningest of animals
before hounds than it is the most timid and silliest
of them.

275

Hunting Without a Gun.

Let not him who esteems no fish but the salmon
and the trout worthy the angler's skill, revile either
him who is content with the bass, the pike-perch
and the pickerel; or him who, when other fishing
fails, is happy with the perch and the sunfish in his
creel, or, at a pinch, the ignoble bullhead. The
salmon is but for the few, and the trout swims not
in every stream. Because thou art fortunate, shall
there be no fishing for the less favored ones?

He shall rejoice not in iniquity, but in the truth,
and as nearly as it is possible for a shooter or an
angler to do so. When he giveth his account of
hits, let not his memory fail concerning the misses
— and in his fish stories, let him not boast of
pounds when in truth there were only ounces. As
he hopes to be believed, so he should believe all
things. Certainly he should ever behave himself
seemly for the honor of his craft, and be not easily
provoked, for with loss of temper comes loss of
judgment and unsteadiness of hand, and the firm
control of these is the true secret of the successful
shooter and angler. Verily, if one hath not
charity, which is greater than faith and hope, he is
not the man with whom one would enjoy most a
day in the forest, or along the stream, or an even-
ing beside the camp-fire after the well-spent day.

276

A LITTLE STORY.

NE day, when spring had fairly
made its presence known by the
softness of the south wind, and
by-

"The bluebird shifting his light load of song
From post to post along the cheerless fence"

of northern fields, and by the robin tuning his pipe
where it had long been unheard, a pair of wood
ducks came flying northward, and after some care-
ful viewing from above of a certain wood-bordered
stream, settled in its waters. The male was in
brave apparel, which he had donned in the south-
ern swamp, where he had spent the winter and
wooed his mate, and her dress, though less gaudy
than his, was rich and beautiful. In fact, they
were on their wedding journey, and in search of a
summer home. The little river had just cleared
itself of ice and was flowing between brimming
banks with many water maples bending over it,
their buds grown crimson with renewing life. The
blackbirds were gurgling so joyfully in the trees,

277

Hunting Without a Gun.

the muskrats swam so boldly forth to their love-
making and food-getting, and the turtles basked in
the sunshine on the logs so lazily that it seemed
as if bird and beast and reptile might li\re here
undisturbed through all the live months with none
to make them afraid but the hawk and the mink.
Hard by was a great marsh that gave promise of
wild rice in August and September, and the four
sharp eyes of the ducks discovered a hollow tree, in
which a big woodpecker some seasons before had
chiseled a doorway to as snug a home as they could
wish. Taking all things into account, they felt
sure they could not better themselves, and at once
set about making their home.

A few days later, while they were resting from
their labors and taking a comfortable bath, they
heard an unwonted crashing among the under-
brush, and presently a boy appeared on the bank
a few rods above them. He bore an iron tube
some feet longer than himself, and after groping
down the stream a minute he discovered them and
pointed it in their direction. If they had known
anything about telescopes they might have thought
this was one, from the time it was held toward
them. But at last it belched forth fire and smoke
and thunder, and something went hurtling over
their heads with a sound as ominous as the

278

A Little Story.

whistling of a hawk's wings. They swam away
into a secret place as fast as their paddles would
take them, and left the boy there lamenting and
using some strange language concerning his inno-
cent gun.

The next day they ventured forth to feed and
bathe, but soon had their suspicions aroused by a
slight rustling in the bushes some ten rods away,
and swam away from the source of alarm with
moderate speed. They had not gone ten feet be-
fore there was fire and smoke and thunder again,
more terrific than before, for it was instantly re-
peated, and the water just behind them was torn
by a shower of the fiercest hail they had ever
known. Then uprose a hat, and under it a man,
and they heard him say, savagely, "Something or
other the luck" or "the ducks," they were not sure
which. Notwithstanding these disturbances they
kept on making ready for housekeeping.

One day, while madam was inside giving the
last touches to the nest with some feathers of her
own breast, her lord, sitting outside on a branch,
keeping watch and ward, saw a man splashing
through the neighboring marsh, and just before
him a dog. Presently the dog stood still, with one
fore foot raised and his body as rigid as the limb
on which the wood drake was sitting. Then the

279

Hunting irithout a Gun.

man walked up, cautiously, behind him, and two
little snipe flew up before the dog. The man
threw up to his face the iron tube, which all man-
kind seemed to be carrying, and before the fire and
smoke down came the two poor snipe, one killed
outright and the other fluttering through the dead
sedges with a broken wing. They were acquaint-
ances of the wood drake, and he knew that they
were intending to summer in the neighborhood of
the marsh. After the sportsman had brought
down the two birds, his iron tube seemed to be
broken close to the end nearest to him, and he was
very busy with it for a minute, so that the wood
drake began to think there would be nothing more
to fear from him.

But he soon came their way with that death-
dealing engine of his in perfect trim again. So the
drake sounded his warning note, "O-eek! O-eek!"
and madam scrambled out of the tree and they
both set forth on wing, and each urged the other to
put the best quill forward. Then there were two
flashes of lightning and two clouds of smoke and
two thunderous reports, and the drake lost the
brightest feather of his crest, and the duck a quill
from her wing, which went floating down the air
behind them.

They decided that there was no safety for them
280

A Little Story.

here, and that they would tempt fate no further,
having luckily escaped the boy, the pot-hunter, and
the wing sportsman. So they deserted the home
which promised to be so pleasant, and began anew
by a stream which ran through a Canadian forest
where no gunner ever came. There they reared a
family of fourteen, and in the fall took most of
them safely back to the South.

There were no ducks in the stream they left in
April, till October, whereas, except for the shooters
who got only two snipe and two feathers, there
might have been sixteen plump wood ducks on the
first of September.

There is a double moral to this little story; one
for the wood ducks and one for the sportsman. So
far only the wood ducks seem to have profited by it.

281

A THANKSGIVING DINNER IN THE
WOODS.

S Thanksgiving draws near, I am
reminded how we boys were
wont to spend the day in the
times when each Governor inde-
pendently exercised the right of
his sovereignty in appointing for
the feast whatever day it pleased him. Then the
holiday was likely enough to dribble through the
several commonwealths during the whole of No-
vember and over into December, so that if one's
kinsfolks were properly distributed he might have
the luck to eat three or four Thanksgiving dinners
in one year. But we wildwoods ranging boys were
lucky if we got more than the cold remnants of
one at eventide, or rather were apt to count our-
selves unlucky if we were obliged to waste a rare
holiday in idle home-staying and mere gorging.
Better a crust in the woods and contentment there-
with than a stuffed turkey in a house with continual
longing to be abroad. So if the morning was not

282

A Thanksgiving Dinner in the Woods.

too stormy, our company was pretty sure to muster
at some convenient central point, each member pro-
vided with a pocketable scant ration of bread and
butter and a little salt, and each armed with a gun
of some sort, upon which we depended for game
to eke out our stores. Sometimes good fortune
more than skill gave us a partridge or a hare, and
we feasted savagely, but if only squirrels furnished
our roast we were quite content, and scoffed at
home dainties.

Thus we met on one Thanksgiving morn-
ing, a particularly cold and sour one, with a
chilling northerly air astir and a gray, sunless sky
that boded snow, but since we had got away from
home before it snowed, and now had the freedom
of the woods for the whole day, we were not great-
ly dissatisfied. There were four of us — George,
nicknamed Apple Tree, for some unknown cause;
Charley, called Spry because he was not; Lias, re-
christened Ben Hardin, after Davy Crockett's
comrade; and another, hailed as Little Man, be-
cause his father so called him when he had grown
so tall that the pet name was ridiculous.

"Well, our ol' Gov'nor do' know much,"
George remarked. "Just look what a Thanksgiv-
ing the Gov'nor o' York State picked out last week,
right in Injin summer."

283

Hunting Jl'ithoitt a Gun.

"Guess our Gov'nor wouldn't have us Green
Mountain boys givin' thanks the same day York
State was."

"Oh, this is good enough day for us," Lias
shouted, in the joy of freedom from work.

"Oumph!" Charley grunted, as he tumbled over
a cradle knoll, and the grunt passed as a remark
that might be taken either way.

The hemlock woods were gloomy and solemn
enough to have awed any one of us had he been
alone, but as we were, we broke their brooding
silence with merry gabble and laughter, until a
frightened partridge, bursting to flight unseen and
far out of range, made us aware that game was not
to be got by such noisy stalking. Then we sepa-
rated and hunted more stealthily, each imagining
himself a Leather Stocking or a Last Mohican.
We gained nothing from it but a conviction that,
the partridge was the last of its kind to depart to
some place distant and unknown, where perhaps
all the tribe had gathered to celebrate the day in
safe sequestration.

To such remoteness, too, the hares and the squir-
rels seemed to have betaken themselves. Not one
timid, crouching form, conspicuous in winter dis-
guise on the brown floor of the woods, not one
savory tawny-coated fugitive darting up a gray

284

A Thanksgiving Dinner in the floods.

trunk or cocked on a horizontal branch, was to be
seen anywhere. Apparently the woods were de-
serted by all but us and one uneatable old horned
owl, a hermit, whom we came upon moping in the
dim shadow of an evergreen. At last Lias did by
some chance find and slaughter one red squirrel.

It was past noon, and we dressed our meager
quarry and prepared for its roasting a most dispro-
portionately generous fire on an old coal-pit bot-
tom, where there was no danger of setting the
woods afire. Poor little fellow, he looked lone-
some enough, impaled on his roasting stakes, tilted
against the great fire, and exceedingly small, con-
sidering a quarter to each of four hungry boys.
Charley grunted and gave other audible expression
to his longing for the flesh pots of home, but his
jolly brother, Lias, declared that enough was as
good as a feast, and for his part he was not meat
hungry, while I, though sharing the grumbler's
feelings, admired his brother's cheerful philosophy.

George, the bravest hunter of us all, had some
time since gone aloof from us, according to his
wont, and now we heard the unmistakable voice of
the long gun away over toward Louis Creek — the
lucky old gun which his grandfather had brought
from Rhode Island, and had killed a deer with at
Thompson's Point, and with which one uncle had

285

Hunting Without a Gun.

killed an otter in Louis Creek, and another a silver-
gray fox on Mount Philo; and still something was
sure to come down when that old gun spoke. With
one accord we lifted up our voices, and with a great
shout called George to a very small dinner. Then
we turned the squirrel, and each took a sniff at the
fragrance that made us hungrier, and sat waiting,
deploring the scarcity of game in that too thickly
settled country, and unanimously agreeing that we
would go to the wildest West as soon as we got old
enough. By and by, George silently materialised
out of the shadows of the woods, bearing two
skinny things headless and footless.

"What be they, Apple Tree?" Lias asked.

"I'll tell you when we've eat 'em," he answered.

"Mushrat, I'll bet," Charley ventured disgust-
edly, for his palate was not yet educated to that
delicacy.

"D'ye ever see a two-legged mushrat?" George
asked, exhibiting the evidence in a pair of legs and
a pair of wings to each of his trophies.

"They hain't crows, be they?" Lias asked,
suspiciously.

"You don't suppose I'd eat crows, an' I'm
a-goin' to eat some o' these," George answered,
settling that question.

So without further spoken objection the un-
286

A Thanksgiving Dinner in the Woods.

known fowl were spitted, basted with butter
scraped from our bread, while they, had timely
turns over the glowing coals. After what seemed
an unnecessarily long time, they were pronounced
done by Charley, who was always cook, and who
made the best johnnycakes I ever ate since my
grandmother's, which were baked on a board.
Then the birds were served upon birch bark, with
abundant Spartan sauce, which had been for hours
accumulating, and we fell to, tooth, nail, and jack-
knife. The first and last could not well be too
sharp for the service required, for the meat was in-
ordinately tough, and the sauce could not quite dis-
guise a certain rank and suspiciously fish-like flavor.
Nevertheless we made away with them down to the
bones, and as we polished these we demanded of
George the name of the original owners.

"Well," he answered, as he tossed a scoured
thigh bone into the fire, "they was sheldrake."

"Oumph," Charley groaned, rather than
grunted, for he was fastidious.

"Well, by grab, sheldrake is almighty good,"
Lias declared.

Dear comrades of that happy day, how are you
scattered about the wide and dreary world, and out
of it. How long ago, yet what a little while since
we feasted on flesh and fowl, and were thankful.

287

A VIS-A-VIS WITH A PANTHER.

|UR camp-fire was blazing bright-
ly, its hot breath weirdly tossing
the hemlock branches above it
while we sat around it enjoying
its genial glow and the rest that
comes so gratefully to tired men
after the fatigue and excitement of the chase. One
and another recounted his experiences of the day,
embellished with all the trivial incidents that only
the sportsman cares to tell or listen to. Ned Wil-
marth, the youngest of the party, had just told of
some curious tracks that he had seen on the sandy
bank of the stream where he was watching a run-
way for deer.

"They look like cat tracks in shape," he said,
"but are as large as my hand."

Some one suggested they might have been made
by a panther, when the conversation drifted to
facts and speculations concerning that animal,
whether its oft-repeated scream was a myth, and
whether it had ever been known, when unwounded,
to attack man.

A Vis-a-Vis with a Panther.

"Well" said Captain Burton, the most expe-
rienced hunter of the party except the guide, "I
cannot say positively that a panther will attack a
man unprovoked, though I thought one day I was
about to have it proved to me that he would."

There was a unanimous call for the story of this
experience, and a general stir of interest as the
Captain knocked the ashes from his pipe and set-
tled himself comfortably to tell it.

"You may not think it worth hearing, since I
am here to tell it, but the way of it was this: It
was a hot, droughty day in September when I was
hunting partridges. I was having such poor luck
that when I had got two birds I was so thirsty and
tired I was glad enough to come to a brook whose
current, shrunken as it was by the drought, yet ran
cool in the thick shade of the evergreens that
clothed its banks.

"I took a good draught from a rocky basin and
sat down on a mossy log to rest and smoke. I was
cheated of perfect rest in spite of the refreshing
coolness and the softness of my seat, for I had
scarcely taken the first whiff at my pipe when I be-
gan to feel an unaccountable uneasiness, a dread of
some impending evil, an oppressive sense of some
unseen, baleful presence.

"I suppose you have all experienced the same
289

Hunting Without a Gun.

feelings and generally found them unfounded in
anything tangible. No calamity befell you, no evil
presence manifested itself before you. I recol-
lected such impressions of my own, and argued
with myself that these were as baseless.

"I scanned the thicket all about me, and listened
intently. Not an animate object was visible, not
a sound was to be heard but the monotonous trickle
of the attenuated brook and the occasional stir of
the almost stagnant air among the tree-tops. In
spite of these proofs of its causelessness, I couldn't
banish uneasiness and was strongly impelled to
leave a place that seemed pervaded with an evil
atmosphere.

"Ashamed to yield to so cowardly an impulse,
and to confess myself unable to cope with mere
nervousness, I resolved to overcome it and enjoy
my promised rest and smoke. So I stretched my-
self at length on the mossy cushion of the log and
tried to lull myself to drowsiness.

"The soothing sound of the trickling water and
the sighing breeze, the lazy upward drift of the
smoke that I watched through half-closed lids, dis-
solving among the knotted branches, were making
some impression on my strained senses, when sud-
denly the monotone of the brook was broken by the
sharp clatter of a pebble and the sound of quick

290

A Vis-a-J'is with a Panther.

lapping of water, coming from a little distance
above me.

"Springing to a sitting posture and looking in
the direction, I saw an enormous panther, not more
than fifty feet from me. My movement had evi-
dently first disclosed me to him, and for a moment
he regarded me with a surprise as great as my own,
while the dribble of his interrupted draught
dripped from his thick under lip. Then his mouth
opened and closed as if shaping an unvoiced cry,
just as you have seen domestic cats do, and then he
advanced a few steps and crouched down, still in-
tently regarding me and nervously gathering his
hinder feet under him as if for a spring.

"I caught up my gun without taking my eyes
from him, and cocked both barrels. They were
loaded with No. 6 shot, insignificant and ineffectual
missiles against so formidable a beast, but they
might blind him, I thought, if I could shoot
straight and quick enough as he sprang.

"And there we sat staring at each other, I doing
my best to exert the alleged power of the human
eye to quell the wild beast; he evidently deter-
mined not to let a motion of mine escape him.

"So we remained for what it seemed to me an
interminable time; to tell the truth, I was terribly
afraid, though I believe I was cool and felt a

291

Hunting Without a Gun.

kind of curiosity as to how the affair would end.

"If I took my pipe from my mouth or brushed a
fly from my face, his eyes followed every move-
ment, though he kept quite motionless, except a con-
tinual slow lashing of his tail, while I kept my eyes
as steadily on his as their shifting glances would
let me.

"I noted the shadows slowly lengthening on the
pebbly bed of the shrunken brook, and wondered
if the panther had a purpose of holding me at bay
till nightfall put me at his mercy.

"Then a partridge came hurtling past me from
beyond the position of my unpleasant vis-a-vis, evi-
dently in affrighted flight. I could see out of the
corner of my left eye that the bird offered a beauti-
ful cross shot as he went past me. Then came an-
other and another in similar startled flight. Then
a hare scurried by, and a panting woodchuck came
shuffling down the bed of the brook without heed-
ing me, though he passed within reach of my gun
barrels.

"I was confusedly speculating on the cause of
this general alarm of the wood folk when the rid-
dle was solved by a strong smell of smoke drifting
into my face with the freshening breeze. The
woods were on fire, and the flames were sweeping
down upon me !

292

AVis-a-Vis K-///I a Panther.

"I was conscious of some satisfaction in the
thought that they must first reach my unwelcome
visitor. Almost at the same moment he seemed to
become aware of the common danger. He cast a
quick glance behind him, another on me, and arose
to his feet with the lithe, instantaneous movement
of the cat kind. He looked behind him again, and
then, with constant sidelong regard of me, began
to move slowly away, well to one side of me, just
as you have seen a tom-cat retire from a blood-
less encounter of brag and bluster. So he slid
deviously out of sight, but had hardly disappeared
when I heard him retreating with rapid leaps.

"I lost no time in following his example to the
best of my ability. I heard the flames roaring and
crackling behind me, and felt their hot breath on
my neck as I ran down the brook at the best speed
I could make. Half an hour later I was safe in the
midst of cleared fields."

"I'll bet a cooky he wouldn't never ha' teched ye
of there hedn't be'n no fire," said our guide, pok-
ing a long splinter into the fire to get a light for
his pipe.

"Considering the stake you wager," the Captain
said, when he had lighted his pipe with the same
torch, "I don't care to take the bet and have it de-
cided by my own experience."

293

A VERMONT RATTLESNAKE.

|EY? Didn't s'pose the' was any
rattlesnakes in Vermont?" said
Dan'l, as loudly as if he was
talking to himself, and turning
his best ear to me. I signaled a
negative, and he continued in
undiminished volume :

"Good land, yes! The' use' t' be lots of 'em on
the Barnum Hill, so I've hearn ol1 folks tell, and
the's been some killed there since I can remember.
"Why, one day in harvestin' I was goin' 'long
the road towards the house, an' I see what I
thought was a snake a-layin' 'crost the road, clean
acrost both wheel tracks, an', by George! when I
cum clus tew, it was a tormented great blacksnake.
I got me a stake out o' a fence an' killed it, an' it
measured six foot. That was consid'able of a
snake for this northern country."

"But it wasn't a rattlesnake," said the listener.

"Well, I was goin' to tell ye. Levi Fuller had a

piece o' wheat ready to cut an' wanted me to cradle

204

A Vermont Rattlesnake.

it for him. I was a pooty good hand with a cradle
in them days. So we ground up the cradle scythe,
an' I went at it an' he follered me up a-rakin' an'
bindin'. It was the next day after I killed that
blacksnake an' my head was full o' snakes."

"None in your boots, Dan'l?"

"No, sir; I never indulged. Well, I hadn't
cradled more 'n half way acrost the piece afore I
heard a kind o' sharp buzzin' sort of a noise just
ahead of me, an' I stood right still an' begin to
look, an', by George! there I see a snake kinked
along 'mongst the wheat, with his head raised up a
little mite, not quiled up rattlesnake fashion; but
I knew he was one, for he was all spotted, an' that
buzzin' noise kep' a-goin' all the time, the wheat
a-wigglin' right where the sound come from.

"You'd better b'lieve I backed off pretty lively,
but mighty careful. I hollered to Levi to come
there, an' I as'd him if that wa'n't a rattlesnake,
for I knew he'd know, 'cause he'd killed 'em.

"He stood off quite respectful, but he looked at
it hard. 'Yes,' says he, 'that 'ere's a rattlesnake,
sartain.'

"Well, we held a council of war, an' the upshot
was, Levi put for the house to git his gun 'at had
been loaded for woodchuck all summer, an' I staid
an' watched the snake, but the snake didn't stir

295

Hunting Without a Gun.

none to speak of 'fore Levi got back, all out o'
breath.

"We made up our minds we hadn't better de-
pend altogether on the gun, seem' we hadn't but
one charge, so I got me a good oak stake out o' the
fence, an' crep' up, whilst Levi stood ready to give
him a shot if T didn't lay him out. Well, I up
with my club an' let the snake have it right on the
head. Levi stood squintin' along the gun, with his
finger on the tricker. The' was a locus' riz up an'
went off snappin' his wings, but the snake only kind
o' flopped up an' lay stiff as a maggit."

"Killed him the first lick, didn't ye, Dan'l?"
"Good land, no ! 'T wa'n't nothin' but a butt'-
nut root — but it was the nighest I ever come to
seein' a wil' rattlesnake."

296

SAVED BY AN ENEMY.

OHN GARDENER hunted and
trapped in the Adirondacks in
the fall of 1868, following one
pursuit for sport and the other
for profit — with considerable
success in both — when he met
with a singular adventure. He lived alone in an
open-fronted log shanty on Otter Pond, in what
was then one of the wildest parts of the region —
though a smart hotel now occupies the very site of
his rude shelter, and swarms of fashionable tourists
have spoiled the neighborhood for one who loves
the solitude of nature.

The moose, shyest denizen of the forest, had
not entirely forsaken the place, for his broad foot-
prints were yet occasionally seen in the deep moss,
while the long howl of the wolf and the panther's
scream were heard often enough to account for the
scarcity of deer. Yet there were enough to afford
Gardener the moderate sport which he desired,
and a frequent oversupply of meat, for which he
found a convenient outlet on the other side of the

297

Without a Gun.

pond, where a small party of men were building a
lumbering camp for the operations of the coming
winter. These were his only neighbors — two
miles distant at that. His visits to them were not
frequent, but welcome — especially when he brought
a quarter of venison to break the monotony of salt
pork and beans. The cook of the party was some-
thing of a trapper, and therefore particularly inter-
ested in Gardener's success in fur-gathering. On
his part, Gardener was glad to do his neighbors a
good turn, and break his isolation by an occa-
sional touch with humanity, though with the rough
side of it, and having the greater need in this
respect and the more leisure, he did most of the
visiting.

Gardener's shanty was situated midway in his
line of traps, which for the most part were set for
the pine marten — misnamed the sable by our
hunters and trappers, who go still further astray
in mispronouncing the name "saple." At intervals
stronger traps were set for that notorious trap rob-
ber, the pennant's marten or fisher, and at likely
places on small streams, traps baited with fish were
set for mink, which by a caprice of fashion had at
that time become one of the most valuable fur-
bearers. The line marked by blazed trees ex-
tended so far in each direction from the shanty

298

Saved by an Enemy.

that only half of it could be gone over in a day, the
other half the next day, an arrangement by which
Gardener could attend wholly to his traps as he
went out and give his attention to hunting as he
returned to camp, making such detours as occasidn
required.

During a week of most favorable weather he
had extraordinary luck with his traps, when he
went over to the lumber camp with the half of a
fat deer. He received a hearty welcome from his
friends and as hearty congratulations on his good
fortune, which he was quite free to tell them of,
as none of them could in the least be considered as
rivals, unless it was Murdock, the cook, who did,
indeed, prick up his ears and look out of temper
when he heard the count of mink and sable. But
he soon recovered himself, and made qualified
congratulations.

"You've done consid'able well for a green hand
at trappin'," he said, as he began cutting some
slices of venison to fry with salt pork, after the
barbarous fashion of backwoods cookery. "If I
wa'n't so tormented busy I'd go over an' show you
a trick or two that's worth knowin'. But these fel-
lers' jaws keeps me a-hustlin' so 't I hain't time to
stir a rod from camp."

"Just listen to him," cried Williams, the boss of
299

Hunting Jl'lthont a Gun.

the party. "You'd think he had to hump himself
the whole time to cook for six men. Somehow he's
managed to ketch half a dozen saple an' two mink
since he's been here."

"You wait an' see the animals feed, an' then tell
me what you think of cookin' for six," retorted
Murdock, addressing Gardener. "An' them saple
an' mink come right here to be ketched."

"Off tendin' his traps two three hours every
day," Williams remarked; "but I don't care so
long 's he gets the grub ready on time."

Murdock dropped the conversation to attend to
his regular duties, and soon served up the dinner,
to which Gardener was of course invited, and
given an opportunity to see how the company bore
themselves as trenchermen. He was forced to ad-
mit that they did valiant service that made Mur-
dock's office no sinecure, but when half an hour
after dinner he left them to return to his own
camp, the cook seemed to have arrived at a period
of leisure, though he made some show of being
busy while making casual inquiries concerning
Gardener's usual hours of being at home.

A few days later it so happened that Gardener
returned from his traps two hours earlier than or-
dinary, and upon quietly approaching the shanty
surprised Murdock inside rummaging among the

300

Saved by an Enemy.

mixed confusion of its contents. He showed some
embarrassment at being detected in making him-
self so free, but gave as an excuse that, having
come over to call on Gardener, and not finding him
at home, he was searching for tobacco to solace
himself with a smoke while waiting for his host's
return, and Gardener thought little of it at the
time. He supplied his visitor with tobacco, and
the two fell to talking over their pipes of trapping
and of fur and the examining of Gardener's stock,
which already made a pack so large that he de-
clared he must soon go out to the settlements or be
obliged to make two trips. Murdock offered to
take it out for him, saying that he would be going
in a few days to get supplies for the lumber camp.
This offer was declined, but a bargain was made
for the deer skins that should be delivered at the
camp within a week. Then the fur was packed in
a neat bundle and deposited in a corner of the
shanty, supper was cooked and eaten, and after a
parting pipe the visitor departed, his host accom-
panying him to the shore and watching him on his
way till his boat disappeared in the twilight.

Gardener cut the supply of night wood that he
never neglected preparing, for he liked the com-
pany of a cheerful fire and its guardianship while
he slept. Then he stretched a couple of "saple"

301

Hunting ll'ithout a Gun.

skins, the result of the last tour of the traps, and,
after a final comfortable smoke, turned into the
blankets with his good rifle close beside him.

He had not slept very long, as he judged by the
condition of the fire, when he awoke with an inde-
finable sense of uneasiness. As he lay quite motion-
less, compelling his drowsy senses to gather acute-
ness, he became aware of footsteps moving
stealthily a short distance from the shanty, parallel
with its sides, and moving toward the front. The
slow footfalls, making frequent stops, were evi-
dently those of some large quadruped, which he at
once conjectured to be a panther, of whose presence
in the neighborhood he had seen recent signs, and
which was now no doubt attracted to the camp by
the half of a deer hanging on a sapling near by.

Gardener sat up in bed and got his rifle in hand
without making the slightest noise, and watched
intently for the animal, which, if continuing its
course, must presently come in sight from behind
the wall of his shanty. He had not much of a
mind to risk a shot at a panther in the uncertain
light, but he had as little to lose the meat, on which
the main part of the morrow's rations depended.
The night was cloudy, but not dark, for a full
moon dispersed enough light through the veil of
clouds to render near objects dimly discernible, and

302

Saved by an Enemy.

at times the flicker of the fire threw some into re-
lief against the dark background of the woods.
The burning logs had so disposed themselves that
Gardener sat in deep shadow, while the muzzle
and bead sight of his rifle were in the light, a cir-
cumstance which gave him a desirable advantage.

The night was intensely still. No sound was
heard louder than the snapping and flaring of the
fire, the sudden sinking of a brand, the occasional
flitter of a falling leaf, the far-off faint echo of a
wolf's howl, and among these the more regular
punctuations of the cautious footfalls of the yet
unseen intruder. At last there came within range
of Gardener's vision a bulky, dark object moving
clumsily and slowly, and making frequent halts for
reconnoissance in the direction of the camp, and
always keeping out of the firelight. "Nothing but
a bear, after all," Gardener thought, and was
further convinced when the creature arose on its
haunches and gazed intently toward him.

He felt no hesitation about shooting now, and
carefully drawing up one knee for a rest took a
quick yet deliberate aim at the center of the breast.
His finger pressed the trigger, it was almost yield-
ing to the touch, when there was a sudden upward
spring and swish of a great hemlock bough, twenty
feet from the ground, a lithe, tawny form was

303

Hunting Without a Gun.

launched from it in a swift descending curve upon
the clumsy figure beneath, and in the same instant
the silence of the night was rent by a yell of terror
so human and yet so unearthly that Gardener lost
his nerve, and the aimless rifle blazed its ineffectual
charge into the tree-tops.

The unexpected and human outcry of its in-
tended victim had a no less demoralizing effect
upon the panther, for it sprang away with a pro-
digious leap, vanishing as suddenly as it had ap-
peared, yet for a moment its rapidly retreating
bounds could be heard as it struck on all feet at
once, in an exaggeration of the performance of a
frightened domestic cat.

The flying figure of a man, sometimes stumbling
and falling, but never stopping, vanished almost as
quickly in the opposite direction.

Hastening down to the shore, Gardener heard
the rapid strokes of retreating oars.

Two days later he took his deer skins over to the
lumber camp, but Murdock was not there.

"He went a-pokin' off one arternoon," said Wil-
liams, "an' didn't turn up till next mornin', lookin'
's if he'd been run through a thrashin' machine.
He wouldn't tell what ailed him, an' cleared out,
hook an' line, bob an' sinker, 'fore noon. It's
almighty cur'ous."

304

EARLY SPRING.

HIS is no zephyr that comes tear-
ing up from the south, thresh-
ing the naked boughs as if it
would destroy the last bud be-
fore its chance of bursting, and
out-roaring the brooks' boister-
ous rejoicing over their new freedom, yet there is
a sweet promise in its gusty breath — a promise that
we cherish and believe in, for it has been often
given and always soon or late redeemed. These
are not musical notes that the crows utter as they
are tumbled and tossed along before the gale in
disorderly flight, but they are notes of rejoicing,
and also a promise of sweeter voices that shall
presently be heard.

There is a hopeless look in the fields hemmed
with soiled drifts and untidy with the flotsam and
jetsam of winter storms. No less untidy is the
forest, its once unsullied floor bestrewn with tatters
of bark and last year's leaves, yet we see, beyond
all dreariness of present desolation, what has been
again and again revealed to us.

305

Hunting Without a Gun.

The raccoon and the woodchuck have writ down
their faith in the coming resurrection of life with
their tracks on the solid page, and we hear it de-
clared by the trumpets of the geese and the shrill
pipes of "small fowl making noise" of rejoicing.
In the shallow pools of the meadows the blue of
heaven is reflected, the whiteness of its clouds, and
at night its stars, where by and by shall be the
bloom of violets and daisies and dandelions, and
bees shall hum to and fro between them in sweet
traffic, and fill the empty mouse nests with brown
comb.

Through the roar of the wind and the dash of
branches we catch the jubilant song of bobolink
and lark and oriole, the call of the cuckoo, the bells
and flutes of the woodland thrushes. Finer than
the angry turmoil of the brook's yellow overflow-
ing flood we hear its babble of green fields, where
happy anglers wade ankle-deep in lush grass, and
the banished kingfisher has come to his own again.

Through the dun of fields and the gray of
woodlands as through thin veils we see green grass
springing and the bourgeoning of branches;
ledges, blushing with the bloom of honeysuckles;
the brown floor of the woods dappled with moose-
flower and squirrel-cup. The birds are busy with
nest building, from his freshly swept threshold the

306

Early Spring.

woodchuck regards the growing clover, and the
chipmunk sits at his door in the sun, clucking his

y

contentment.

So often have we seen this miracle of spring
wrought, that with the eye of faith, more than of
fancy, we see it repeated, and in spite of all delays
and relapses of the fickle weather, we hopefully
await its fulfilment.

307

SUMMER.

HEN we were in the midst of the
desolation of winter with the
muffled whiteness spread far
around us, the nakedness of
trees on every side, far and
near only gray and white, and
above us the cold steel-blue of the sky, no songs
of birds, no lap of waves on shores, no tinkle of
running brooks, no cheerfuller sound anywhere
than the mournful baying of hounds awakening
the echoes among the silent hills, summer with all
its gladness and brightness seemed as far away
and unattainable as the red and golden glory that
mocked us in the sunset cloud.

Yet, like the swift, unaccountable shif tings of
a dream, we have seen the transformation from
white and gray through almost imperceptible
changes to drearier dun, to the green flush of
sunny slopes, to purpling of woods with swelling
buds, then sprinkling of tender green, then to full
leafage with tints as varied as autumn's hues, and
the broad fields, green with lush herbage, dap-

308

Summer.

pled with bloom. And again we have heard the
rush of free brooks and the wash of waves on peb-
bly shores, and the songs of all the birds, and the
droning of the vagrant bumble bee.

The summer that but a little while ago seemed
so far off is here. Sunbonnets and straw hats bob-
bing above the herdsgrass and daisies, with bobo-
links in arrested flight scolding musically over
them, give token of ripe strawberries. Busy
robins flock to the cherry trees to claim the first
fruit. The incessant chirr of the mowing machine
comes from a distant meadow, like the voice of
some gigantic locust, and, mingled with it, the old
midsummer music of the whetted scythe. The first
raspberries are ripening in the fence corners, the
apple branches stooping to the weight of growing
fruit, and the squirrels are making midden heaps
under the pear trees.

There are days and weeks of drought, when
corn leaves droop and curl, and even the sturdy
weeds wilt; the cropped pastures grow sear and
dusty under the hoofs of the hungry flocks and
herds; the babbling rivulets are silent dry gullies,
and the noisy rivers are shrunk to attenuated
threads that crawl among the boulders of their
beds with scarcely strength enough to stir their
shallow pools. Distant thunderstorms growl un-

Hunting Without a Gun.

fulfilled promises of rain. For a little while the
red, rayless sun is veiled with clouds; the shifting
breeze brings the wholesome fragrance of moist
earth, and the parched ground is tantalized with
a patter of great raindrops, and then the red sun
blazes forth again, fierce and relentless.

But one night we awake to hear the steady pat-
ter of rain upon roof and leaves, the drip of eaves,
until the thirsty earth drinks its fill, and the re-
plenished brooks overflow and comb the meadow
grass down flat and straight upon their banks.

The sportsman has his bout at the woodcock in
the swamp — doubtful sport when one considers
being smothered in the murky heat and the torrent
of mosquitoes. Yet it is good to feel the familiar
weight of the gun again, and to find that eye and
hand have not forgotten their cunning.

Along the shaded stream or rock-bound shore of
lake the angler invites the capricious bass with
various lures, or trolls for pike and pickerel in
winding, rush-paled channels where white squad-
rons of anchored waterlilies are tossed on his
boat's wake. The plash of his oars frightens a
wood duck and her half-grown brood to flight, tear-
ing out of the sedges with a prodigious flutter and
a clamor of tremulous squeaks that makes one's
heart beat as quick as their vibrant wings, in antici-

310

Summer.

pation of glorious autumnal sport. A startled bit-
tern, with an unmistakable expression of disgust
at the intrusion, springs awkwardly from the
weeds, and a great heron breaks from statuesque
repose and sags away on laboring pinions, until he
is a wavering speck against the sky.

Wandering in neighboring woods where dwarf
cornel dapples the hemlock shade with its white
blossoms and scarlet berries, the summer idler may
get a shock of the nerves by the sudden outburst of
a pack of grouse from a quiet bramble thicket, the
half-grown birds almost as strong of wing as the
old, and already shaking thunder from their swift
pinions, sounding another promise of autumn's
glorious days.

As swiftly as the spring went, the summer
passes; the bobolink has donned his sober coat and
gone; the plover chuckles his farewell to northern
uplands; the swallows congregate in grand council,
considering migration; the last flame of summer is
kindled in the cardinal-flower's bloom; presently
we shall see the first glow of autumn's many-
colored fires.

FALL.

UMMER is gone, like a tale that
is told. The thistledown drifts
down the north wind, the
bloom of the goldenrod is
faded on its browning bulbed
stalks, the constellations of
blue and white asters are thinning and fading in
the cool, damp shade of the woodside. Under
skies of cold steel-blue or somber gray, and over
naked woods and fading yellow stubble and fields
where green is growing brown with successive
frosts, the straggling legions of crows move
steadily southward, outstripped by swifter squad-
rons of wild geese making their aerial march to
the wild clangor of clarions.

All sounds proclaim the season. The woodland
echoes speak with changed voices, for they come
with fuller, less broken tone from the naked woods
and rocky hillsides than when each leaf seemed to
give back its quivering ripple of sound. The
brooks babble in muffled tones under the drift of
fallen leaves that covers them, and now clogs some

312

Fall.

tiny "Waterfall, and now sets free the dammed
current.

The mellow baying of the hound, the frequent
report of the gun, the solemn boom of falling trees
are befitting sounds; and the subdued hum of the
vagrant bumblebee, quite bereft of its roistering
summer swagger, the faint, slow creak of the

THE SERE AND SILENT MARSHES.

cricket, and the bluebird's sad song of farewell are
sounds that belong only to fall.

The sere and silent marshes are of uniform dun
hue, save where a veil is woven over them by in-
numerable spiders, and shines all day in the sun
like unmelted hoar frost. The muskrats are lay-
ing their last thatch of sedge in the roof of their
huts, unseen by day and unheard but as they stir
the dead stalks of tangled weeds along the borders
of their watery paths. A grebe wrinkles the

.313

Hunting Without a Gun.

*i

glassy channel with its wake and sinks noiselessly
beneath it as the prow of a late angler's skiff
comes nosing its course around the nearest bend.

After a few days wherein the stripped earth
dreams of its bloom and leafage and song which
seem so possible to this genial air and summer sky,
the way of the swimming waterfowl and the boat
will be a crystal-paved way for the feet of the
skater.

The grebe sounds the depths of far-away
southern streams where water plants grow all the
year round, and the angler sits by his fireside with
-pipe and glass, telling tales of his summer's fishing.
The wind moans among the naked trees and brings
from afar the sad song of the sea to the pines; it
whistles dismal tunes to the bleached grass that
such a little while ago listened to the blithe songs
of the lark, bobolink, and sparrow, whose nests its
greenness sheltered, and drifts the dead leaves
into the hollows of the frozen earth.

Then from the gray roof of the sky that rests
its arch upon the mountains, the snow descends
and covers the earth's unseemly nakedness, and
the freshness of the spring, the bloom and fruitage
of summer, and the glory of autumn are but
dreams of the past and future.

314

WINTER.

HEN the fire of youth has burned
out and the ashes of age lie in
a gray drift on the smoulder-
ing embers, one shivers in-
stinctively at the name of win-
ter. In imagination we already
see the dreary desolation of the earth, stripped of
its mantle of greenness and bloom and ripe fruit-
age, ready to don the white robe' for dreamless
sleep.

Gradually the change comes, the glory of
autumn passes away, the brown leaves drift and
waver to the earth, the summer birds fly south-
ward to lands of perennial leaf and blossom, and
leave to us but the memory of song in a desolate
silent land, when the brooks must sing only to
themselves under crystal roofs, and you only know
they are singing by the beads of elastic pearl that
round and lengthen and break into many beads as
they slip along the braided current.

There are only the moaning of the wind among
the hills and the rustle of withered leaves along

315

Hunting Without a Gun.

the dun earth. A week ago it was full of life —
now there is only desolation and death, yet so im-
perceptibly have these come that we know not
when the other ceased, and we are not appalled.
Then comes the miracle of snow, the gray sky
blossoms into a white shower of celestial petals
that bloom again on withered stem and bough and
shrub until the gray and tawny world is trans-
formed to universal purity. Where there was no
life are now abundant signs of it, the silent record
of many things. Mouse, weasel and squirrel, hare,
skunk and fox have written the plain story of their
nightly wanderings; red-poll, bunting, crow, and
grouse have embroidered the history of their
alighting and their terrestrial journeying on the
same white page. The jay of many voices
proclaims his presence, the chickadee lisps his
brief song, the nuthatch blows his reedy clarionet,
a white flock of snow buntings drift by with a
creaking twitter like the sound of. floating ice, a
crow sounds his raucous trumpet, the ruffed grouse
thunders his swift departure in a shower of dis-
lodged snow, the woodpecker drums a merry tat-
too, a fox barks huskily among the rugged defiles
of the hills, and far away is sounded the answer-
ing challenge of a hound, and under the stars the
screech owl's quavering call is heard and the

316

Winter.

storm-boding, sonorous warning of his solemn big
brother of the double crest, punctuated by the
resonant crack of frost-strained trees.

What beauty that lies hidden under summer
leaves is revealed now in the graceful tracery of
pearl enameled branch and twig, on gray trunks
embossed with moss and lichen, on bent stems of
tawny grass and frond of withered fern. How
the uncouth ruggedness of common things is
clothed and beautified by the charitable mantle of
the snow, what curves and shadows in the immacu-
late folds.

By day and by night, in sunlight and in moon-
light, a dome of purest azure, now pale, now dark,
canopies a world of purest white and purest
shadow, or earth and sky are blurred in the wild
grandeur of a winter storm. Surely the beauty
of the world lives even amid the death of winter —
it is not death, but beautiful sleep, broken at times
by spasms of terrified dreams, followed by pro-
founder sleep.

317

WINTER'S TALES.

| HERE are goings on about us
under cover of night which are
unknown to us and unsuspected
when the ground is bare, but
fully revealed when the earth is
asleep under its white blanket,
upon which the record is written so plainly that
he who runs thereon may read.

Who ever thought that wild, shy Reynard came
so near us of his own free will, till the prints in the
snow informed us of his nightly visits? Now we
see that he has been within gunshot of the house
while we were asleep, and we can trace every step
of his devious course, and almost read his thoughts
in his tracks. Here he came to the footpath
which leads to the barn, and made a full stop to
take a suspicious sniff at it before he ventured to
cross the tainted trail of his arch enemy. There
he tried the flavor of a fallen frozen apple, and
found-it not to his taste, for one small bite satisfied
him. Then he heard the squeak of a field mouse,
and turned aside to unearth or unsnow a morsel

318

Winter's Tales.

more to his liking. A waft of the hen-rcost came
to his nostrils here, and he reconnoitered that para-
dise at a safe distance. We can almost see his
sharp, wistful nose turned toward it, itching with
the tempting fragrance. But discretion got the
better of his valor and his stomach, and he veered
off. Perhaps the baying of the house dog quick-
ened his pace, for he made some flying leaps before
he again fell to printing leisurely footsteps, tending
toward the hills. Doubtless he made the same
rounds in spring, summer, and fall nights, but in
the morning there was no sign of his recent
presence perceptible to any but the hound.

We seldom see the weasel, for he has bargained
with the seasons to hide him, yet these footprints,
in regular pairs alongside the wall, only distin-
guishable by their smaller size from those of his
larger cousin, the mink, show that he is one of our
near neighbors. He ought hardly to be an unwel-
come one, though he sometimes makes sad havoc
among the poultry, for he wages constant warfare
upon the hordes of meadow mice, and is an unre-
lenting foe of the rat, more terrible than the cat.
He is braver than puss, and so slender that no rat
hole is inaccessible to him — the lithest of our four-
footed things.

In February and March we may read the record
319

Hunting Without a Gun.

of the mink's journeys along the streams, and
learn what a traveler he becomes when his heart
is set a-burning. No matter what the weather is,
frost cannot cool its ardor nor rain quench its fire
when he goes a-wooing, miles and miles away
from his home burrow.

After a thawy night we see how near to our
door the skunk has walked or cantered, deliberate
in either pace. Taking his back track, we may find
that he has been all winter so near us as the barn,
keeping house under the haymow. We would
have trod gingerly had we known that we were
delving down toward such a Chinese bomb when
we were pitching out the fodder. He seems bent
on no evil now, but walking out more to get a
breath of fresher air and to see something of the
world again by starlight. He takes a lunch of the
offal left from the butchering, or the carcass of a
winter-killed sheep, but he does not visit the hen-
roost.

We knew that Grimalkin was a night-walker,
but now we have knowledge of where he has been,
and something of his doings while he was abroad,
though it is hard to tell what took him to the
woods at this season, when birds are scarce and
their nests empty. He is nothing but a diminutive,
half-tamed panther at best, and it is likely that

320

Winter's Tales.

the wild part of him took the tamer half away for
rebaptism in the forest shadows. On his way
through the orchard he turned aside to make a
spring at a low-hung vireo's nest, and its torn bot-
tom shows that his leap was true. We think he
was fooled jumping at a bird's nest in winter, till
our friend, the bee-hunter, a cunning reader of the
book of Nature, after looking a little, says: "Per-
haps pussy wasn't so foolish, after all. You see
by the scattered litter of the nest that the wind was
blowing right to him where he turned out of his
course to come here, and it carried to him the
scent of something, probably a deer mouse, curled
up for a nap in the old nest." He has been to the
barn in the meadow to look after his stock of mice
there; and if we come upon him in this game pre-
serve of his, his old wildness will show itself in his
skulking, stealthy motions, and will glare at us out
of his green eyes as he crouches in a dim corner,
half at bay, half ready to turn tail, enough to send
a shiver down one's back. Can this savage be the
same mild-looking fellow that was purring so
gently under the kitchen stove last evening?

These tracks, near the granary, beginning and
ending so abruptly, are not those of some small
plantigrade, as one might think, but the footprints
of the handsomest as well as the most unpopular

321

Hunting Jl'ithout a Gun.

of our winter birds, the bluejay. He will steal
when he can, and his voice is discordant, but his
beauty and his presence here in winter should
atone for many tricks and shortcomings. Now,
he has only been picking up the scattered kernels
that have fallen through the floor, and perhaps
varying his scant fare with a few shreds of fat torn
from the pig's plucks hanging against the crib.

Farther afield, where the tall weeds overtop the
snow, it is printed thick with the tracks of snow
buntings, true birds of winter, wearing its livery
of sere leaf a*nd snow, with voices like the creak-
ing and tinkling of ice. They bring the far North
down to us, and make us neighbors to the Esqui-
maux and Laps, whose nets and springes they have
escaped. How lately have they seen those wild
people, and how were they getting on when last
these birds of the snow flurried past their igloos
and reindeer-skin tents?

If in the fall we saw no signs of meadow mice,
and hoped that adverse seasons had cut off their
tribe, the snow now shows so many of their shafts,
bored from below, round as auger holes, and so
many little tracks radiating from them that we
know how busily they are tunneling next the
earth, and that young apple trees are not likely
to go unscathed by them, nor fox, owl, hawk or

322

Winter's Tales.

weasel to go hungry for lack of them. Yet, when
the snow is very deep, they rarely come to the sur-
face, but carry on their work unsuspected, till
spring or a great thaw brings it to light.

Once in many winters, not in the depths of the
ice season, but near the beginning or end, we see a
puzzling track leading up some little brook, dis-
appearing here and there, as he who made it found
a way under the shell ice, always walking, or
rather waddling, with broad webbed footprints,
wide apart, and between them the narrow trail of
something dragged behind. What was it, beast or
bird? Any trapper will tell us that it was only a
muskrat who, impelled by lack of food and water,
persecution of enemies, hatred of his kind, or desire
to see something of upland life, had forsaken the
huts of the marshes and the adjacent burrows,
and come exploring this world unknown to his
people. Doubtless he saw much that was new to
him, and suffered the hardships of cold, hunger,
and thirst, like many another explorer. The rud-
der that steered him so well in his accustomed,
waters was only a drag in this dry wintry waste,
and doubtless before we saw his track some fox or
great owl had made an end of it and him.

If we find no more tracks to read in the woods
than in the fields, there are some we do not see in

323

Hunting Without a Gun.

the meadows and pastures. Here the ruffed grouse
has rayed the snow with his well-defined and un-
mistakable footprints, and left the mark of his
pinions when he took flight to a tree. We know
the very branch whereon he alighted by the clods
of snow beneath it, let fall when it exchanged bur-
dens. Little he cares for being snowed under.
Here is the mold of his plump body, where, by the
signs left, he must have lain for days, warming
himself under the snow quilt that the last snowfall
spread over him. When he had become warm
enough and hungry enough, he rent it asunder and
went hurtling to the nearest birch to fill his crop
with buds. He never leaves his couch on foot, but
bursts from it as if he had suddenly felt an inward
gnawing — or the danger of an outward one if
Reynard's nose should sniff the secret of his
hiding.

Here is the broad trail of our northern hare,
sunk but little below the surface of the lightest
snow, for he has his snowshoes always with him.
What has he been so busy about in the long winter
nights to make so many tracks? One hare will
make you think that a hundred had been here, if
you will believe what he has set down; yet he is
not a voter nor has the census taker anything to do
with him. Winter as well as autumn befriends

324

Winters Tales.

him, and powders his brown coat till he looks like
a fluffy snowball as he sits in his form under a
snow-laden evergreen. Such faith has he in his
disguise that he will let you almost lay your hand
on him before he takes to his heels. But try to
touch him, and a little avalanche goes shooting
over the snow, its course more to be seen than
itself, by the sway and jar and sudden unlading of
low branches.

A fox has made his bed on a rock and slept with
ears and nose alert if not with an eye open, ready
to start at the first sound or scent of danger. He
has left some threads of his longest fur on his cold
mattress to tantalize the hound who has worked
his slow way hither on the old trail. And here is
the track of the hunter following both these others,
and easily enough known from that of the wood-
chopper, who has gone straight to his work, only
stopping to light his pipe, as we may see by the
half-burned match and the stamp of his ax and
dinner pail close by the halted boot prints.

The gray squirrel has been out digging for
food, and by the fragments he has left — here
chips of a pine cone, there the empty shell of a
nut — we see that in every place where he went
down to the mold he found some morsel to help
him in the stress of winter. What fine sense

325

Hunting frith out a Gun.

directed him? If you think it only chance, try
how many times you will have to probe the un-
marked even whiteness before you strike either
cone or nut. His tracks and those of his saucy lit-
tle red cousin lead from one tree to another, under-
foot, and then are lost, for they have gone home-
ward or a-wandering by the air line of the
branches. We seldom see the bigger of the two
in our winter walks, for though we may hear him
barking not a furlong away, if we attempt to ap-
proach him, the crunching of our footsteps alarms
him, and he puts a whole great tree trunk or the
wall of a hollow one between himself and us. But
in any pleasant day, and in some rather bitter
ones, the little red scapegrace jeers at us and all
the world in plain sight, or unconcernedly rasps
his nut, sitting at ease on a near branch under
shelter of his tail.

There are but few tracks of birds to be seen in
the woods, for except the grouse they mostly keep
aloft, where their food is. What hewer of wood
has been here, working wholly aloft and leaving
no sign but his chips? He was a sturdy wielder
of tools, whoever he was, for the snow is covered
for a yard about the hole of a dead tree with slabs
of bark as big as one's hand and chips of wood as
big as one's thumb. That loud, quickly repeated

326

Winter's Tales.

call, cutting the air as sharply as his beak the
wood, is his, and he is the pileated woodpecker,
the greatest of his tribe who inhabit or visit these
parts.

A thaw has awakened the raccoon, and he has
turned out of his winter quarters to go waddling
away in search of old friends or of a sweetheart,
perhaps, but certainly not of food; for he steers
for the nearest coon tree or den. He had the fore-
thought to eat enough last summer and fall when
corn was green, and frogs were leaping, to last him
all winter; and there is fat on his ribs yet. Often
a whole family of raccoons go forth together on
these visits. Woe betide the one or the many, if
the trail leads to a hollow tree, and the hunter
finds it and follows it there. His ax lays low the
tree, and the unhappy brutes bite the white dust
of winter; and next day their skins are nailed to
the side of a barn.

The deer mouse can have come abroad for noth-
ing but pleasure, for he has a bountiful store of
food laid up at home. But poor fellow! There
has been a little tragedy enacted here in the silent
woods under the starlight. There were no wit-
nesses, but the story is written for us, simply and
plainly enough in blue and white. On either side
of the sudden termination of his little trail are the

327

Hunting Without a Gun.

light marks of a small owl's pinions. Not one
tiny drop of blood nor tuft of fine fur is here, but
we know that poor mousy is dead and gone, and
never will his great eyes see that home again.

Some strange and rare visitors come and go
across this tell-tale waste, leaving no token of

THE DAYS LENGTHEN AND GROW WARMER.

their brief passage save their tracks in the snow.
Few of our hunters have come nearer than that to
seeing a fisher, an otter, or a lynx. A panther,
which I never saw, showed me by the prints of his
tremendous leaps what prodigious power he pos-
sessed, better, perhaps, than if I had seen him.

328

1 1 'inter's Tales.

For a favored few, his yells added a shiver to the
winter midnight air.

Cold following a thaw makes a crust whereon
the wanderers leave no record of their journeys,
but over it come scurrying the last leaves from
trees miles away, and seeds voyage far across
it to colonize distant fields with their kind.

The days lengthen and grow warmer, and as the
earth gets bare the snow shrinks to the fences and
hollows. We can see the bounds of distant hill-
side farms traced in lines of shining silver, and
we wonder if our far-off neighbors know how roy-
ally their fields are fenced. Sun and rain blot the
page of winter, and the south wind tears it away,
and presently the wondrous story of the world's
renewed life is spread before us.

329

THE CROW AND THE SCARECROW.

NCE upon a time a Crow, ap-
proaching a Cornfield, beheld
with terror a Scarecrow of
most frightful Mien standing
in the middle of it, but coming
nearer to it and pulling a few
spears of young Corn in the Edge of the Field,
saw that it made no movement to stop his Pillage.
Then he ventured quite near it, and at last pulled
a Hill of Corn that was sprouting at its Feet,
while the Scarecrow made no movement whatever.
"What are you here for?" asked the Crow, to
which the Scarecrow replied, "To protect this
Field of Corn !"

"Ah! I see," remarked the Crow, "and If you
could but hold out your Hat to receive your
Salary, you would make an excellent Game
Protector."

330

A CASE OF ABSENT-MINDEDNESS.

N ideal October day, with the
privilege of spending it as I
pleased, brought back to me as
much of the delightful feeling
a boy enjoys under like circum-
stances as is likely to come to
one whose boyhood lies forty years behind him.
At least such revived memories of the sense of per-
fect freedom and joy of mere existence that belong
to youth alone, seemed almost present possessions.
The same dome of pearl-gray, was above me, as
wide and as lofty as then, for the sky and the sea
preserve the same immensity they wore to youth-
ful eyes, as mountains, lakes, and trees do not.
The same sun shot its warm shafts from the
crenellated battlements of the hills, far across the
cool shadows of the valley, and set the ramparts
of the west ablaze with the old glory. The
familiar, faintly pungent fragrance of ripe leaves
that would be satisfying if one could ever get
enough of it, came to my nostrils in the same old
elusive wafts. Through the ethereal sense of

331

Hunting Without a Gun.

smell the memory is most quickly awakened and
most teased, and thereat some semblance of the
fire of youth sprang up within me like a transient
flame flickering out of dull embers.

I felt something almost like a boy's confident
hopefulness, and quickened by a touch of his alert-
ness, my step grew more elastic and the gun be-
came a helpful burden. Yet, while I was trying to
believe myself a boy again, I became aware of
points of difference in my grown-up feelings from
those of my juvenile father. There were
rheumatic twinges in my joints that were never
present in his, and a heaviness in my feet that his
were never weighted with when the gun or the
fish-pole were on his shoulder, though it may be
they were not winged when they bore him to
school or to work.

These present ills did not impress me so much
as the absence of the bloodthirst that consumed the
heart of the boy. I heard the sharp insistence of
the meadowlark's metallic note not far out of my
course without desire to turn aside and kill him.
I would rather rest and listen for the sweetly
modulated drawl, so long ago interpreted for me
by my mother into plain words of defiance, "Can't
see me." Then, when his brother burst from the
grass just in front of me with a gamy whir that

332

A Case of Absent-Mindedness.

brought my gun instinctively to a ready, I merely
covered him with a sure aim and told him how
mercifully he was being spared, and was quite con-
tent with the noiseless and bloodless shot that
maintained the quickness of my eye and the cun-
ning of my hand, and which left the peacefulness
of the fair morning unbroken, and the beautiful
world unrobbed of an atom of its happy life.

I was filled with pity and disgust for the boy
who used to kill so wantonly all manner of harm-
less things, and was not a little saddened by re-
morse for his savage deeds, while my cheeks
tingled with shame at the recollection of his many
inexcusable misses. Nevertheless I made a resolve
not quite consistent with the first emotion, yet per-
haps prompted by the last, that if I was given the
chance of a shot at real game I would take ad-
vantage of it just to prove what I could do if I
would, and prevent unpleasant remarks at home.

I was at the woodside that was as gay with
goldenrod and asters as any housewife's front yard
with the gold and purple and blue of late bloom-
ing garden posies, and in their wild confusion
much more beautiful than the prim and carefully
tended marigolds, nasturtiums, and china asters.
Shining their brightest in the morning sun, and
banked against the black shade of the woods'

333

Hunting Without a Gnu.

inner recesses, they were yet outshone by the
gorgeous leaves above them of yellow poplars,
scarlet maples, and a tall pepperidge whose flat
branches were as intense in color as a cardinal
flower.

As I stood in a sort of trance of admiration, I
was aroused from it by the warning chuck of a
partridge not twenty yards before me, as I guessed
by the sound. By the time the gun was cocked, he
burst out of a tangle of withered ferns beside a
mouldering log, where no doubt he had been en-
joying a morning bath of sunshine and wood dust.
Rising in a great curve to clear the thicket of
weeds and briers that hedged the woodside, he
offered as pretty a shot as could be wished, though
it must be a quick one to catch him before he got
among the tree-trunks. I felt quite sure of him as
the trigger was pulled, and looked under the
smoke cloud very confident of seeing him tumbling
into view from behind it. But I saw nothing of
the kind, nor even a feather wavering down when
the smoke drifted upward. Listening for a crash
of twigs and a soft thud of a feather-clad body on
the mossy floor, I heard only an intermittent clit-
ter of intercepting leaves receding into the heart
of the woods. Almost beyond a doubt it was a
clear miss; and as I gaped in chopf alien amaze-

334

A Case of Abscnt-Mindcdness.

ment into the' woods, I tried to think myself glad
that it was so, and but for a momentary impulse
would not have had it otherwise. Yet, for all
that, I searched long and diligently in the line of
the bird's flight, and could not blind myself to the
fact that the finding of a cut feather would have
comforted me. After slipping a fresh cartridge
into the empty barrel, I went on and on, far be-
yond the range of any gun or the flight of a
wounded bird, carefully looking over every foot
of the ground. Well, at any rate, I had made a
little noise in the world, and let it know that I was
abroad in it ; but I was glad that only the partridge
and I knew what the noise was about.

Still following the supposed course of the par-
tridge's flight, I came to the heart of the woods
in which was preserved a good deal of the charac-
ter of the original forest that in my boyhood
covered nearly a thousand acres with almost un-
broken shade, and to my youthful imagination was
a vast and mysterious wilderness, always entered
with an expectation of discovery and adventure.

On forty acres the great hemlocks, maples, and
elms, apparently no older than they were forty
years ago, still held the ground with the mossy
and moldering trunks of their fallen elder
brethren, sprawls of hobble bush, red-beaded

335

Hunting Without a Gun.

thickets of winterberry, and patches of gray
sphagnum.

Enough was left to recall the youthful feeling,
but not to revive it. I felt neither awe nor ex-
pectancy, only an undefined sadness, perhaps for
departed youth, perhaps for the departing forest,
gone and going to return no more. There were
some hickories with twenty feet of sharded trunk
upholding their lofty tops, which I searched for
squirrels till my neck ached, and concluded that
squirrels were not worth looking for with eyes that
had lost their sharpness. Indeed, there was not
much left to me that the boy used to bring or find
here.

Going a little further, a broad gleam of sun-
light, shining in broken patches beyond the gloom,
led me through bordering water maples to the
bank of a narrow stream. I approached it care-
fully, for it was a well-remembered haunt of wood
ducks in the old days. I carefully scanned the long
reach from the green swirls at my feet to the silver
glitter of the rapids above, down to the bend
where the smoother current scarcely broke the re-
flections of the painted maples. There was the
old oak dropping its bountiful crop of acorns on
shore and stream, the wild vines festooning the
willow copses with blue-black clusters of frost

336

A Case of Absent-Mindedness.

grapes — the spit of gray sand embaying the tiny
cove that was roofed and latticed with drooping
willow boughs — all, as of old, inviting the wood
ducks to feast and rest. But not one plumed drake
or bronze-backed duck was their guest, and the
scene was lifeless save for a party of jays silently
flitting in azure glints among the foliage, for once
in their lives too busy with grapes and acorns to
be noisy.

I felt very little like a boy as I faced the con-
trast of the past with the present, and realized that
the game was gone, and with it youth and the
friends of youth, the light-hearted boys who
prowled along this bank in the summers and falls
of long departed years. I leaned my gun against
a tree, lighted my pipe, and strolled along the
bank, thinking of old times and old friends, and
renewing acquaintance with old localities.

There was the very log, slanting down-stream
from the bank into the water, off which I once
tumbled four ducks at a shot, and there was the
old bass hole, and there the stump of the tree that
we got the coons out of, the marks of our un-
skilled ax strokes kindly obliterated by the hand
of time from it and from the trunk that was now
sunken to a flat line of moldering bark and
wood.

337

Hunting Without a Gun.

I wondered if I could find the place where I
caught three mink in one lucky autumn. Yes,
there it was ; the great hollow tree with a narrow
doorway to its interior, floored with black mold
and crumbling rotten wood. It was as inviting
a half-way house for traveling mink as ever; but
there was no indication of its recent use by the
dusky wanderers, and the only sign that they had
ever frequented it was a forked bait-stick thrust
slantwise in the mold at the back side, so old that
I could almost believe it to be my own.

A tall oak of familiar aspect, overtopping a
maze of button bush, reminded me that I was not
far from the old "duck hole," a slough or old
channel of the stream so off the ordinary course
of hunters and anglers that it was known to but
few when we were boys. Then its seclusion made
it such a favorite of wood ducks and dusky ducks
that a flock of one or the other was to be found in
it almost any day till it was frozen over.

From what I could now see of its environs, they
appeared so little changed that it occurred to me
my desired opportunity might be awaiting me
there to-day. Surely it was worth trying for; and
so I began at once to make cautious approach by
the well-remembered route, with a very perceptible
rekindling of the youthful fervor of expectation

338

A Case of Absent-Mindedness.

warming my heart. Twenty minutes later I was
bending low under the white birches on the land-
ward side; now I was on hands and knees among
the rank brakes, creeping forward, step by step,
carefully removing every dry twig from before
me; and now prone on the earth hitching forward
at snail's pace by elbows and toes, just as I used to
forty years ago, only that from some unaccount-
able cause my progress seemed far less impeded
than then. Now I saw the farther edge of the
pool above the fern tops, and through the screen
of sprawling alder stems there was a glint of quick
ripples pulsing intermittently against the low
shore.

Some living thing was stirring the waters of the
windless pool, but it might be only a muskrat.
Now I was close to the alders, and raising myself
cautiously, could overlook a greater part of the
slough. Right in front of me, reaching out into
the midst of it, not twenty rods away, was the
mossy log that in the old times was the favorite
resting place of wood ducks, and so, in full fruition
of my hopes, it was to-day crowded with a rank
of gayly clad drakes and ducks in soberer attire,
some asleep, and none alert, while two or three
newcomers pushed and bickered for places at the
outer end. They were too closely packed to be

339

Hunting Without a Gun.

counted, but there could not be less than a dozen,
and by aiming low at the nearest I could not fail
to get half of them.

I felt a qualm of conscience at the thought of
such outright murder of the happy crew, uncon-
scious of danger lurking so near in this last retreat
of their persecuted tribe, but the boy and the sav-
age in me were in the ascendant for the nonce, with
the pride of bearing home such trophies of the old
man's prowess, and I hastened to act on these im-
pulses before my heart softened.

Quick, yet deliberately, now, the deadly aim —
the fatal shot. My beating heart stood still, then
sank down, down into the depth of humiliation as
I groped on the ground beside me for my gun. It
was resting harmlessly where I had left it, two
hundred yards away. I do not know whether
there was an involuntary exclamation of disgust or
a sudden motion of surprise that set them off. but
the mobile rank of water fowl burst into the air as
if a mine had been sprung beneath them, and van-
ished like wind-blown smoke.

Beginning then, I have since rigidly practiced
what before I had only preached — hunting with-
out a gun.

340

SPORT.

HO shall say in what true sport
consists when there is such
diversity of opinion concerning
it? One might think it is in the
bigness of the score, since, while
we deny excess, we are all so
prone to boast of it. Is it, as some maintain, exer-
cise of the skill required to find and bring down the
game, to lure and catch the fish? Is it in the diffi-
culties overcome, or risk of danger? Punch's Eng-
lish gentleman says to his German shooting friend,
"The fact is, I care very little for shooting if there
is not an element of danger." "Ach! Den you
zhould go shooding vid me ! Vy, it vas only lashd
veek I zhod my brodder-in-law in ze shdum-
merg." Some say the best of sport is in the inti-
mate acquaintance with nature to which it brings
one.

One sportsman cannot understand how another
finds sport only at the risk of his life. As for him-
self, he has lost no grizzly bears, nor does he de-
sire a shot at a mountain sheep or goat, enough to
endanger his neck for the sake of getting it. In-

341

Hunting Without a Gun.

*

deed, he forswears his favorite sport of deer hunt-
ing, since the chances of being shot have become as
great as those of getting a shot at the game. Safety
and comfort are essential to his sport. He would
not freeze in a blind at the risk of pneumonia for
all the wildfowl that swim, nor parboil himself and
brave the stings of mosquitoes in the murky mid-
summer atmosphere of the swamp, though wood-
cock were as plenty as the insects. Countless trout
could not tempt him to suffer all day the discomfort
of wet feet and legs in the ice-cold brook, with the
consequent chances of rheumatism.

Give him the tempered air and water of May
and June, when birds are singing and flowers
blooming, October woods, abated of the nuisance
of insect life, and perfumed with the pungent scent
of falling leaves, invigorating with air neither too
warm nor too cold, with fish and game plenty and
not too wary, and his ideal of sport is realized.

If he could, he would pursue his sport as did
Kubla Khan, in a spacious chamber, luxuriously
furnished and victualed, and borne by elephants.
Seated or stretched at ease therein, the mighty
potentate watched the flight of his falcons or the
coursing of his leopards, or let fly his arrows.
Surely this was the refinement of luxurious sports-
manship.

342

Sport.

The man who estimates his day's sport by the
size of his bag, simply disbelieves the man who pro-
fesses to be satisfied with a little or even nothing
tangible to show for his outing. How can there
be sport without the excitement of frequent shots
and the possession and exercise of skill which makes
them successful?

Another — perhaps in the minority — would main-
tain that it is not the largeness of the score, but the
interest and excitement of pursuit, and the skill ex-
ercised that constitute sport. That to obtain one
shot at wary game, to make one successful diffi-
cult shot, to hook and land one large and cunning
trout with nice choice of lure and skillful handling,
is sport in a fuller sense than easier slaughter of a
larger bag or creel.

The man who hunts foxes on foot, and shoots
them before his one or two hounds, swears by his
safe sport, and sees nothing unfair in that which
is as much despised by him who risks his limbs and
neck in riding to the pack as the drag hunt is by the
other. One counts it no sport to shoot without the
aid of a trained dog, and nothing as game that such
a dog will not stand. Another is content to stalk
his own game, and almost everything wild is game
to him. Highhole, squirrel and woodchuck help
to fill his bag, and he enjoys the gathering of them

343

Hunting Without a Gun.

in as keenly as the more ambitious sportsman does
the scientific taking of his woodcock, quail and
grouse. One is satisfied with the excitement of
shooting at flying targets, living or inanimate,
thrown from a trap; while another can see nothing
but cruelty, or better than boys' play in such
shooting.

One angler is happy "yanking" bullheads and
sunfish from quiet waters with coarse tackle and a
rod that was never made with hands, while another
would find no more sport in such ignoble pastime
than in digging the worms for bait. He must have
delicate tackle, handled with nicety of skill in a
well-fought struggle with a game fish to make fish-
ing sport for him. It must be a fine art, not the
hauling out of fish by main strength.

One sportsman will say, with fervor of convic-
tion, that "it is not all of hunting to hunt, nor of
fishing to fish;" that what makes the pursuit of fish
and game sport to him is the communion with
nature which he has with rod and gun for con-
venient excuses and agreeable adjuncts. What he
sees and hears are more to him than anything tangi-
ble he brings home.

No one can become a successful shooter or
angler without acquaintance with the habits and
haunts of the objects of his pursuit, which means in

344

Sport.

some sort the study of nature, which surely begets
love of her. One must know when, where, and on
what his game feeds; when and where it rests, and
its various haunts at different seasons. Then he
sees how admirably adapted each is to its manner
of life; how formed to obtain its food, to catch
its prey, to escape its enemies ; how colored, dull or
bright, to escape detection, yet always in some way
beautiful, as are its surroundings and the whole
great universe.

Thus one unwittingly becomes a student of
nature, and consequently her lover, until at last the
study and the love become the chief attractions of
fields, woods and waters, wherein he finds satisfac-
tion and brings home rich spoils, though they yield
little or nothing to gun and rod that now are only
pretexts for spending the day abroad.

Among the multiplicity of answers from these
and many more, we get no definite one. We must
be satisfied with that which comes nearest our own
idea of what constitutes sport, and, spreading the
broad mantle of charity over all, despise not kin-
ship with any who, by means not unfair or dis-
honorable, seek diversion in the field in fowling,
hunting and fishing.

345

MAKING THE MOST OF IT.

T is a wise and comfortable
philosophy that teaches us to
make the most of what we have,
and be content therewith ; to ac-
cept thankfully the small things
that are at hand rather than
weary our hearts with longing for the greater
things which we cannot reach.

If we cannot have the loaf, let us eat the crust,
and be assured that with a healthy appetite we shall
find it sweet and wholesome.

If the land of large game and the rivers of the
salmon are as far from us as the sunset and the
sunrise, and there are many lions in the long paths
that lead to them, there are pleasant, if narrower,,
fields and woods and bright waters nearer to us
that we have overlooked when our eyes were on the
glorified peaks and the gilded clouds.

Let us school our desires to moderation, and
learn to be satisfied with whatever these limited
hunting grounds may give us, and they will sur-
prise us with their bounty. We may study the

346

Making the Most of It.

book of nature the closer when the pages are few
and always at hand.

Gilbert White found an ample field of observa-
tion in his own parish, and Thoreau discovered
more in the fenced acres of Concord woodland and
in its tamed river than in the vast forests and wild
streams of Maine.

In truth, a man may see much of nature without
traveling far, for she will reveal herself, in some
degree, to whoever approaches as a true lover, for
many of her charms need only his clear eye to see
them, and to his quickened ear she gives the music of
her voices. She displays charms that never grow
old in all time nor stale with continual presentation
—the budding and bursting of leaf and flower,
their growth and change, the gorgeous ripening,
the dun decay, the ghosts of shrubs and trees —
specters, but never repulsive, always graceful and
virile with promise of resurrection, and over all
these changes, the sun, the blue sky and painted
clouds, or the gray and somber canopy; through
all, the perpetual shifting of light and shade.

For him who listens, without far seeking, are the
songs of the wind among the trees, of the rushing
brooks, of ripples kissing pebbly shores, of birds
that woo their mates, the shrilling and droning of
innumerable insects, all in most harmonious discord.

347

Hunting Jf'ifhout a Gun.

If we may not content ourselves with the gentle
sportsmanship which needs not blood to satisfy it,
we may at least imitate it in our moderation. The
skill to find game comes with a knowledge of its
habits, and is a finer art than the skill required to
kill it. The scarcer and warier the game, the
subtler must be the woodcraft, while a moderation
in killing is enforced that, if practiced in the days
of abundance, would have preserved the game.

One may have but little to show for his skill
with the gun and yet be the most skillful of hunters.
It is a greater achievement to see the partridge
drum, or the woodcock probe the swamp mold,
or to catch the wild duck asleep, each in its fancied
seclusion, than to bring down game from its
startled flight, as the mere marksman may by the
score in a battue. One so finding his game may
take home with him something sweeter and more
enduring than its flesh, something finer than its
plumage; may take from the mink, the muskrat
and the unseen otter a richer spoil than their fur,
in some secret of their lives, and yet, if he will,
leave them and the wild world no poorer for all
he takes.

But if, after all such philosophizing, we cannot
be content without tangible trophies, let us be
assured that a little well earned is to be valued

348

Making the Most of It.

more than cheaply gained superfluity, and so be
satisfied.

If we may not have salmon nor trout nor gray-
ling, nor so much as bass, there are pickerel and
perch and bream in the streams we know. The
fewer they are, the warier and the greater the skill
that is needed to take them, and the greater the
triumph of capture, and, between bites, the more
time for contemplation, which is a part of the true
angler's pastime, and let us be content if it is the
larger part, and so in all our recreations make the
most and the best of what is vouchsafed us.

349

THE SHUT-IN SPORTSMAN.

F all who are kept indoors by
bodily infirmity, one might
naturally think the confinement
would be most irksome to him
whose recreations are entirely
. of the outdoor world ; yet
actual observation does not furnish proof that he
bears the privation with less fortitude than fellow
mortals of different proclivities.

What substitute can he find inside four close
walls for the exhilaration of the sports of wood-
land and water? What, compared with those the
scholar finds in his books, the artist in his pictures,
the romancer in his dreams, or the poet in his
fancies? Even the man without these resources
may at least stolidly endure, one would think. But
strangely enough he who loses least chafes most.
The sportsman has the memory of past pleasures
to comfort him, and if he be of those who enjoy
most keenly, he has imagination and invention to
call to his aid. His well and long used gun — com-
panion of many a day of supreme happiness —

350

The Shut-In Sportsman.

brings back vivid recollections of many of them.
Not the least of these was the day when the deli-
cate penciling of the browned barrel was untar-
nished, the polished stock unmarred by dent or
scratch, and the whole shining masterpiece of the
gunsmith's art was redolent of the faint oily smell
that only the gun diffuses. How proud he was to
be its owner, to feel its perfect fit and balance, and
to have such faith in his ability to hit his bird every
time with such a weapon. He smiles now as he
recalls how effectually the overweening conceit was
taken out of him. For all that humiliation the un-
forgotten day was full of happiness.

The softly soughing July wind brings in at the
open window some subtle reminder of the spicy
fragrance of pine and- hemlock distilled by a Sep-
tember sun, and he sees again the asters shining in
the woodland shade, the yellow of fading wood
plants, the red glow of huckleberry leaves among
the haze of blue fruit, the feeding partridges, un-
seen till they burst upward with a roar that upset
his nerves and caused the waste of two charges.
After reloading from the brand-new spring-top
flask, the lever-charger shot pouch, and with the
wads, home-made from cardboard, all marvels of
celerity in their day, came the cautious search for
the scattered birds, with the firm resolve to keep

351

Hunting Without a Gun.

steady next time at all hazards. His good resolu-
tion was presently rewarded, when a bird that
sprang up almost in his face was cut down and
killed clean by a shot fired at just the right
moment, and so glad was he to have regained mas-
tery of himself that the whole scene is so distinctly
imprinted on memory he could go directly to the
very spot after all the years of change.

Some slight thing in some quite unlike scene,
some sound, some smell, recalls other happy days
of the past, which he lives over again and again.
Some befell where the silver channel winds through
countless acres of marsh, now when it was all in the
sameness of summer green, save where the bloom-
ing button bush, thronged with nesting redwings,
adorned it with a profusion of white blossoms ; now
when a tinge of yellow pervaded it, varied with
splashes of russet, orange and red, and the tangled
copses of button bush were islands of green, with
here and there a flame of water maple burning like
a beacon. All a-whirl about the passing boat rose
the redwings, thick as bees around a hive, with a
renewed uproar of thundering wings at the round-
ing of each bend. Perhaps it was a winter day,
when the broad level of marsh and water was a
white, silent plain to the eye, lifeless and deserted,
though there was a stir of busy inhabitants under

352

The Shut-In Sportsman.

the snow-covered thatch of the muskrat houses.
Faint and far came the echo of a hound's voice,
and following its direction, two dark specks were
seen, apparently creeping nearer, their speed in-
creasing as they grew, taking on the forms of fox
and dog. The heart beat fast to the swelling music,
till at last came the opportunity and the shot, and
triumph of success. His nerves thrill again at the
memory of it all, and he is glad to have lived in
those days, and to remember them.

The boys, who are in the first enthusiasm of
sportsmanship, are wild with envy when he tells
them of the game there was in all the woodland
and marsh when he was a boy, and of the great fish
that crowded the waters. As they bewail the fate
that brought them into the world so late, he is re-
minded how he did the same when the old men told
him like tales of the big game of their younger
days, all gone before his time, and he, too, is a
boy — not valuing present blessings, but wishing the
past returned or the future reached wherein were
all possibilities. Yes, a boy again, with his flint-
lock musket, proud of the battered weapon,
though it had tricks of sometimes missing fire and
flashing in the pan, and always kicked, due to its
being breech burnt — so it was said. Though both
eyes were shut, he always knew when it went off.

353

Hunting Without a Gun.

When his young visitors tell of a piece of old
woodland sacrificed, of some ledge shorn of its
trees, of river banks wantonly stripped of shade,
he is glad that he cannot see the devastated scenes
— it is better to dream of them as he knew them
than to awaken to their spoiled reality, and the
pain of impotent rage against the spoilers.

Can that be only the slow stir of wind-swayed
boughs, so like the changing murmur of the swift
river fretting on its gravelly bed? So like it that
he can fancy himself stealing along the bank be-
hind the fringe of willows, rod in hand, of a fine
June morning. The lush intervale grass is dotted
with the first buttercups, and the fragrance of wild
grape blossoms is in the air; a muskrat swims out
from the shore, towing a green branch to his bur-
row; a green heron flaps awkwardly from perch to
perch; under a drooping willow a bass snaps a
drowning fly with a swirl of the green water, invit-
ing the angler's cast. He is no longer a prisoner
of the sick room, but is fishing again in his favorite
stream.

In autumn, when the falling leaves scurry past
his window, in spirit he is out in the brown woods,
his nostrils almost catching the subtle, indescrib-
able aroma of ripe leaves. He hears the wood folk
astir, the rustle of their feet, their various voices

354

The Shut-In Sportsman.

speaking concerning his intrusion, and he hears
those weird, mysterious voices of the woods that
come from no living thing. In the old, old days,
when the world was young and people were not so
unbelieving, but took their fancies in good faith,
these were the voices of wood nymphs and fairies
conversing and calling one to another, not the pip-
ing of the wind and the chafing of boughs.

The swish of the first snowflakes against the win-
dow, a glimpse of snow-covered roofs, bring him
visions of the winter woods, muffled and carpeted
in white, wherein is written the latest doings of the
wood folk, where a fox had made a stealthy scout.
Here is recorded what might be taken as the story
of the midnight snowshoe sports of half a dozen
hares, if the tragic finis were not written in blood
and Reynard's fatal leap imprinted on the snow,
where there was an end to all the broad pad marks.
The partridge has set down in the neatest footprint
her devious wandering from her last roosting place
to the concluding wing-marks where she took flight
upward to breakfast of buds in a tall poplar. Squir-
rels have linked so many trees and caches of nuts
together; so many woodpeckers, nuthatches and
chickadees are seen, that one wonders how woods
so populous can be so silent, though snow-muffled
and echoless. Nothing is heard but a party of jays

355

Hunting Without a Gun.

clamoring over their latest discovery. Such clues
lead the imprisoned sportsman to the freedom of
outdoors.

There is, however, a key that opens the door to
a far wider range, with comrades who take him to
the farthest corner of the wide world. One leads
him among the familiar scenes of his youth. An-
other into the pathless gloom of northern forests,
the home of the moose and caribou, or farther to
the frozen haunts of the musk-ox, or to the wild
Northwest, where only can be seen the last rem-
nant of the wood buffalo, and to Alaska and the
Klondike. Another takes him to the Rockies and
shows him the elk in wonderful herds, the antelope,
the wild sheep, like statues carved out of the rocks
whereon they stand, or points out to him white
specks moving along the giddy crags, which are the
rare and wild white goats. Another shows him the
savage grizzly, king of American beasts. At night
by the camp-fire he listens to the wail of the pan-
ther, the long howl of the wolf, and sleeps
the restful sleep of the just. These most genial
companions hunt tigers with him in India, ele-
phants and lions in Africa, shoot foxes in New
England, ride after them to the hounds in Virginia,
catch tarpon in Floridian waters, salmon in Can-
adian rivers — in short, share with him all his

35$

The Shut-In Sportsman.

old sports, and initiate him into new ones, and by
their ready pens and cameras do all that brethren
of the gun and rod can for another to lighten his
burden of weariness and pain.

357

THE FARMER'S BOY.

O one among the lovers of nature
recalls more fondly the scenes
of childhood and youth than he
who was once a farmer's boy,
but who in youth or early man-
hood has wandered far from
the farm and the paternal roof in quest of fame
and fortune.

In all the varied scenes of the larger world he
has come to know in later life, none have the
charm of those his young eyes first beheld, and the
sounds that grew as familiar to his ears as house-
hold words.

Alps or Andes rear their peaks of eternal snow
in no loftier grandeur than did the blue hills of the
strange, far-off land of the next county lift their
tops to catch the autumnal snowfalls while the val-
leys at their feet were yet green with aftermath.
The storm-swept ocean is not more majestic in its
resistless rage than was the turbulent lake beating
its rocky rim with a fury of small waves ; nor is the

358

The Farmer s Boy.

Niagara's tremendous plunge more awful than was
the downpour of the mill dam in a spring flood.

Nowhere are there scenes of more tranquil
beauty than along this mill pond that loops pasture
and meadow land in its placid curves, or where the
quick stream comes clattering and flashing to it out
of the shadow of the woods, or where, in the heart
of the woods, the slow reaches crawl among the
shadows and never wrinkle the reflections of bank
and tree, or where noisy rapids toss the shivered
doubles amid a confusion of foam bells and scat-
tered sunbeams. Here the wood duck reared her
dusky brood, in near neighborhood to the grouse
and her callow family, and it was here, perhaps,
that the farmer's boy got his first shot at each and
knew the ecstacy of his first success, and in the pond
caught his first big fish — joys that could never be
quite repeated in a lifetime.

What a pleasant place was the hill pasture that
slopes upward in grassy undulations to the wood-
side, where the ferns grow rank in the out-reaching
shade, and sumacs and elders canopy and embower
an old wall beneath a loftier growth of scattered
hickories. Thither the boy felt himself always
drawn in the drowsy August afternoons, though
the cows were waiting at the bars, for he must
know how the broods of young grouse were grow-

359

Hunting Without a Gun.

ing, and whether the squirrels were coming out to
the nut trees yet. What a thrill ran through his
nerves when he heard the harsh barking of the
gray squirrel in an outlying hickory, the dribble of
chips through the leaves from a gnawed nut. And
what an ecstatic shock, when by ones, twos, and
threes the grouse sprang from their interrupted
feast on the drooping cymes of elderberries and
burst through the green roof of sumacs, the young
birds almost full grown and strong of flight, shak-
ing thunder from their wings. What a glorious
day he planned that should be that he could have
for his own, with the battered but precious old gun,
the squirrels, and the partridges. How could he
ever wait for it? He has learned to wait since.

There were the old woods that clothed the
ledges and ravines of the hill beyond, where he first
felt the exquisite delight of fox hunting when
leaves were in the glory of autumnal color, and cliff
and gorge rang with the wild music of the hounds ;
and where, in a January thaw, lie first tracked the
raccoon in the soft snow to his lair.

There, too, when the farm hands turned lumber-
men for the nonce, he watched the warfare against
the venerable pines and hemlocks, and beheld with
sorrow their mighty downfall. Yet it was a boy's
sorrow, not of a sort to spoil a youthful appetite

360

The Farmer s Boy.

whetted by exercise and the wholesome atmosphere
of the winter woods. Such a one he brought to the
cold dinner, served at noon around a roaring fire.
It was the sweetest meal he ever tasted, and, like
great John Ridd, he thanked God for the room
that was inside him, which was, indeed, marvelous,
considering his outward dimensions. It was the
first realization of a dream of camp life, and
needed but little imagination to people the sur-
rounding forest with terrible savages and wild
beasts.

Amid all these scenes he dreamed day dreams of
the great outer world that was to be his to conquer
when he grew to manhood, which would make all
things attainable — wealth, power, and perfect hap-
piness. Now he dreams of those blissful days of
boyhood when he was happier than he ever could
be again, and happily knew it not. No wonder
that he holds them dear, and takes a sad pleasure
in living them over in memory — a sadder pleasure
in revisiting their scenes; for, alas! how changed
are they in this world of swift change.

Woods that once seemed to him as enduring as
the stars, have utterly vanished, devoured by the
insatiate saw mill, pulp mill and engine; and the
once full streams are shrunken. The wood folk
whom he once knew so well are gone from their old

361

Hunting Without a Gun.

haunts; the flowers and plants that he alone could
find, grow and bloom no more in the sunburned,
arid ledges that once nurtured them in perpetual
shade. The leaves of nature's primer, wherein he
unwittingly learned to read her secrets, and to love
her, are torn and disfigured. But the old lessons
are not forgotten, and he loves her still, never so
fondly.

When it falls to the lot of the farmer's boy to
continue upon the paternal acres, and the boy's
tastes are preserved in the man, he will still find
days, though they be few, for the indulgence of
them. With something of youthful zest he fishes
in the stream where he caught his first fish, and
hunts the infrequent grouse and wild duck in the
old haunts that were populous with them in the
old days. He has a handsome breechloader now,
but it is not so precious a weapon to the man as to
the boy was the battered fowling piece with its
clumsy lock, altered by the neighborhood black-
smith from flint to percussion, and its mended stock
and crooked ramrod. The shoulder of the coat is
not worn through by the new weapon, as the boy's
jacket was by carrying the old. The heart does
not beat so high beneath the coat as it did beneath
the jacket when autumn leaves are underfoot and
the elusive odor of autumn woods teases the nos-

362

The Farmer's Boy.

trils, for alas! youth comes only once in a lifetime.
There are farmers' boys of another sort, who
spend their lives on a farm, who never see the
beauty that is all around them. To them a tree is
so much lumber, so many cords of wood, and noth-
ing more; a moss-grown rock is rubbish or avail-
able material, as the case may be; the brook, a con-
venience for watering stock. He would not spare
for the woodcock's sake a rod of alder copse that
the brook crawls through, any more than for
beauty's sake he would save the willow that ripples
the current with its trailing branches. His mission
seems to be to destroy, not to preserve, the beauty
of that portion of the world which has been com-
mitted to his care. He is above the weakness of in-
dulgence in field sports, which he considers a mere
pretext for useless idleness. Therefore he is quite
indifferent to the protection of fish and game, for
since he is virtuous there shall be no cakes and ale.
He may be a better and more successful farmer,
but not a wiser nor a happier man, than his brother,
who finds a wholesome, harmless recreation with
rod and gun in his own woods and streams, and
though confessing to no sentimentalism, gets
genuine pleasure from communion with nature.

363

OLD BOATS.

ROWLING along the level
shores of meadow, pasture and
woodland, I sometimes come
upon an old boat that, having
outlived its usefulness, has been
abandoned by its owner, appar-
ently with as little sentiment and regard for what
it has been as that with which a worn-out garment
is cast aside. When it was hauled ashore for the
last time at its accustomed landing by its master,
who beached it with no securer fastening, the next
spring or autumn flood crept up and dragged it
away, to drift forlorn and unguided but by the
caprice of wind and current. Whoever chooses
may approprite it to whatever use he can find for
it. Stranded or afloat, lonely, lifeless, it becomes
the familiar of all wild creatures, who learn to be
as fearless of it as of any other inert bit of drift-
wood. Muskrats board the water-logged derelict,
and wild ducks swim as its consort. After blowing
hither and yon on many idle voyages, bumping its
prow on various inhospitable steep shores, and

364

Old Boats.

scraping its sides against insulated trees till,
beached far up on the flooded lands, it found a rest-
ing place at last among floodwood and driftweeds.

One knows at first sight that' the poor craft is
no truant, brought to a chance port without help of
paddle, oar or sail, but that it came to such hap-
hazard stranding through slow neglect and final
abandonment, apparent enough in its worn and
faded paint, in its rents and patches that have
grown clumsier and more careless year by year, in
seams that gape too wide for pitch and oakum to
mend. One feels a kind of pity as he contemplates
these forsaken wrecks that once played their part in
the life of men, and gave their share in some meas-
ure to its work or pastime. Each bears some
plainly written fragments of its history whereof
imagination may fill out the chapters.

Lying broadside to, among the driftwood of
which she is a part, and a little below the lighter
line of driftweed that hems the green meadow with
a band of faded drab, is an ancient scow of primi-
tive pattern. The straight lines of her battered,
unpainted sides are not relieved by the slightest
curve from bow to stern, from gunwale to bottom ;
the rigid inch and a half pine plank would not have
yielded to such frivolity if her builder had de-
manded it, which he, of as plain stuff and angular

365

Hunting Without a Gun.

mold, certainly never did. The flat bottom slants
upward at the same angles to the broad, square
bow and stern, which can only be distinguished
from one another now by a hole for a jackstaff in
the short forward deck and various cinder marks
upon it — scars received in nocturnal warfare
against the fishes. The thwarts are gone, one
clumsy rowlock has been wrenched off, the other re-
mains with the stump of its one wooden tholepin,
that once held an awkward oar in place by a
wooden loop. One of the crosswise bottom boards
is gone, and in its place a parallelogram of green
herbage is growing, wild grasses and English
grasses, with groundnut vines binding them to-
gether, and a sprawl of five-fingers holding up a
humble offering of yellow blossoms. All the gap-
ing seams are calked with spires of grass, and moss
is gathering on the heel marks of the owners, who
long since made their last voyage in this craft.

In the days of her life she was busy and useful.
She assisted in the building of timber rafts and
then towed them to the saw mills; voyaged to the
grist mills with her owner's grain; cruised along
shore, gathering driftwood for his kitchen fire;
made trips to the lake for sand. On many another
useful voyage she pursued her slow course to the
rhythmic thump, creak and splash of oars, and

366

Old Boats.

heaved long sighs as her broad prow breasted the
waters.

Parties of hay-makers took passage on her in
droughty seasons, when the upland grass was scant,
to mow the rank marsh growth. This they carried
on poles and piled in stacks stilted above the
autumnal overflow to await hauling by teams in
winter. These marsh stacks loomed up on the flat,
shorn expanse like mammoth muskrat houses. You
may still find among the driftwood the shoes
worn smoother by long attrition than their first
rude fashioning left them.

The sober craft indulged in occasional play
spells, yet carried into them something of the staid
and business-like character of her everyday life.
In windless spring nights, when the marshes were
flooded and fish swam where the haymakers
plodded in September, she cruised over the same
ground, her way lighted by a flaring jack, full-fed
with fat pine. Behind her stood the spearman, his
intent face illuminated by the red glare, his weapon
in hand ready to spring to the deadly poise. Be-
hind, in shifting light and shadow, sat or stood the
paddler or poleman, steadily plying his chosen
implement, to whose strokes the heavy boat moved
steadily forward.

Frightened water fowl sprang to flight before it,
367

Hunting Without a Gun.

brightly illuminated for an instant, then flashed
out like sparks quenched in the darkness. A dazed
muskrat floated motionless in the full glare of the
torch, then dived with a sudden resounding splash
that startled spearman and paddler from their
silence. Lighting the broad, glittering water circle,
whose edge was gnawed at and bitten by reaching
shadows, it crept along the shore, here naked, there
fringed with unleaved trees that materialized in
gaunt specters out of the mystery of darkness.
Thus the old boat made her wandering voyage
and gathered her various fare; then with light
quenched went into the darkened homeward way.
In showery summer days, when thrifty house-
wives said it rained too hard for men to work out
of doors, and they could go fishing, the scow was
moored, bow and stern, to stakes alongside the
channel, where the crew angled in moist discom-
fort and a dreary monotony of sound, the steady
tinkle of raindrops on the black water, the thin
bass of the bullfrogs, the purr of rain on distant
woods, among which the monosyllabic discourse of
the anglers and the splash of their sinkers fell at
intervals without jarring the dull concord, while
the sharp metallic clatter of a kingfisher berated
them for their misuse of his favorite perches, the
fishing stakes. In halves of broken hay days, dur-

368

Old Boats.

ing treacherous dog-day weather, the scow went
trolling for pickerel, the channel's length from the
falls to the broad blue bay of the lake, or with
seine and elm bark ropes folded and coiled in a
great heap on her wide stern, took chief part in
seine hauling at the sandbar.

A staunch craft she has been, returning with re-
sounding stroke and uncompromising bow the
buffets of Champlain's white-capped waves. Now
all her days of work and pastime are spent. A for-
lorn vagabond, she is no one's boat — anyone's
driftwood. Some farther reaching spring flood
than that which stranded her here may set her
afloat again, to wallow, gunwale deep, through the
troubled waters, and be beached on some other
shore, or cast piecemeal, here and there, in unrecog-
nizable fragments. Wherever she voyages she will
have no navigators but the idle winds and waves
and currents.

In the shade of shore-lining trees that annually
bathe ankle-deep in the spring floods, when the
pickerel swim among their bolls and the painted
plumage of the wood drake floats double beside
their gray reflections, one stumbles upon the half-
stripped bones of an old trapping skiff. Though of
almost as primitive mold, she is of very different
pattern from the scow. Short and narrow, sharp

369

Hunting Without a Gun.

at both ends, her sides of three-lapped streaks
fastened to a few knees of natural crook, she was
as cranky as the other was steady, and more heavily
burdened with one person than the other with as
many as could find room in her. Yet the trapper,
standing upright, a little abaft midships, adroitly
humored her cranky tricks, as with his long setting
pole he drove her over submerged logs and coaxed
her through intricate passages of the flooded wood,
or with sturdy ax-strokes chopped notches for his
traps, or set them as he squatted by log, feed-bed
and house. Cruising within shot of a muskrat,
duck or pickerel, he stooped and snatched his ready
gun from the hooks that, with the leather flap that
covered the lock, still hold their places.

In memory I follow him as I saw him on his
solitary voyage fifty years ago. Now he coasted
along a low, naked shore; now circumnavigated a
low, shaggy island of button bush, now thridded
the flooded woods, always alert for promising
places to set trap in, now stopping to set one, now
to lift one aboard with its drowned victim, and
then to reset it. His course was marked by the
inconspicuous crotched tally sticks that an eye less
practiced than his would scarcely notice. Now he
braves the rapid water of the broad marsh and
channel that the season of floods has merged in a

370

Old Boats.
»
iake-like expanse. He lands on a farther shore in

some warm nook, where the April sunshine comes
and the keen April north wind does not. Here he
skins his furry cargo, while the expectant crows,
watching from safe tree-tops, await their repast,
and the thronging blackbirds gurgle above him,
and the basking frogs croak a lazy chorus around
him. Perhaps, as broken and useless as his
stranded craft, he yet lingers somewhere on these
earthly shores; perhaps has drifted to the unknown
coast, from whence no returning voyager brings
us tidings.

With the same surroundings, I find the decaying
hulk of one of the most primitive of water craft
embedded in alluvial mold and bed-embowered in
royal ferns. Quite at one with the unwrought logs
of driftwood that lie around it, is a log canoe. So
clumsily made was she, an Indian might have
fashioned a neater one with fire and stone tools,
though the maker of this had an ax, adze and
gouge of steel, in proof whereof their marks still
endure. The butt log of a great pine, out of which
a sawmill could have sliced material for a whole
fleet of small craft, went to the wasteful construc-
tion of this one boat. When there was an end of
chopping, hewing and gouging, the pile of chips
was of greater bulk than the boat.

371

Hunting Without a Gun.

In spite of her crankiness and her trough-like
model, it could be said in her praise that she was
a solid, seamless shell, needing neither oakum nor
pitch to make her water-tight, and the wholesome
odor of the freshly hewn pine, sweating turpentine
at every pore, was a pleasanter smell than that of
paint. Her sort were the commonest craft on our
waters when I was a boy, yet I do not remember
one so new that it had not taken on the weather-
beaten gray of age, so scarce and precious had suit-
able trees for making them become. I recollect
their accustomed navigators as men also bearing
marks of age and long service — old men who were
uncles to all younger generations. They were not
fishing for sport, but engaging in it as a serious
business of life, befitting their bent forms and in-
tent faces.

"Ef you want tu ketch fish, you must bait your
hook wi' necessity," Uncle Stafford would inform
us as we gazed enviously over his gunwale at the
fare of great pike lying thick on the canoe bottom.
He used a lure composed of pork rind and red ^an-
nel, but no doubt necessity sharpened his wits to a
proper judgment of the length of line and regula-
tion of the speed of the canoe. This he paddled
so noiselessly that the wary bittern was undisturbed
by its passage. In autumn he prowled as silently

372

Old Boats.

over the same course, and the canoe, nosing her
way along the same watery path, stole upon great
flocks of ducks. Then, after a long aim, the iron-
bound relic of 1812 belched out its palm's breadth
of powder, shot and tow, and a roar that shook the
shores with slow rebounding echoes. The old gun-
ner shot for the greatest count with the least ex-
penditure of ammunition, and rarely spent half a
dozen charges in a day. He was a pot-hunter, but
an abundant supply of game would have outlasted
many generations of his kind. Happy he to depart
while it still endured, with no guilt of its exter-
mination on his soul.

Like him, her last voyage ended, his old canoe
rests at peace with all things. In springtime the
muskrat fearlessly boards her, the wood duck
perches on her gunwale, the spawning pike and
pickerel bask beside her, and now, when the thin
autumnal shade blotches her weather-beaten gray
with darker patches, the grouse drums on the moss-
grown bow, the mink makes his runway along the
rotting bottom, and the fox prowls near the shell of
crumbling wood, unscared by the taint of recent
human touch. Amid such sylvan solitude as the
tree she was wrought from made its slow growth,
the old craft molders to the dust of earth, to live
again in the lusty life of other trees.

373

THE LAND OF MEMORY.

JNE who has passed the middle
milestone of his journey, and
still loves the fields for the best
they have to give, sees nothing
about him or beyond him so
beautiful as the enchanted land
of youth, which lies far behind him, half veiled in
the golden haze of memory.

Long ago he beheld in the mirage of youth and
hope scenes as fair as these, ever before him, but
ever receding as he advanced. They were never
nearer than to-morrow, then faded, then vanished.
Now he knows that he shall never find in all the
world a land so perfect as that which lies so far
behind him. He remembers it not as a land of
the fancy, but of blissful realities.

Its steadfast cold was exhilarating, its golden
sunshine never too hot, its winters never too long;
its genial springs, its balmy summers, its mellow
autumns, never too short, for the months of each
season were longer than years are now. What
greenness of fields, what profusion of flowers and
fruits, what gorgeousness of woods, what immacu-
late whiteness of snow the seasons held.

.374

The Land of Memory.

What delectable hills its woodlands climbed 10
glorified heights, from depths of sylvan shade
where illusive voices called and echoed, not the pip-
ing of thrushes nor murmur of pines nor liquid
monotone of streams, but strange and mysterious
voices, perhaps of woodland sprites. There were
never sweeter songs of birds nor dreamier lullaby
of wind-swept pines, nor more musical babble of
brooks spilled from moss-rimmed pools whose
liquid amber was streaked with silver gleams of
trout eager to catch the simplest lure.

Where the brook crept through the sprawling
alders unnumbered woodcock bored the fat mold;
where it joined the broader stream, hordes of
ducks thronged the marshes and wrinkled the
broad, slow current with their braided wakes. Be-
neath, in watery aisles, pillared with lily stems and
roofed with purple pads, pickerel, great pike and
bass swam in stately procession. There the musk-
rat built his domed lodge and kept the marshes
populous in the depths of winter with his busy, un-
seen, silent tribe, and all the year the stealthy mink
— richest prize of the young trapper — prowled
along the shores, preying on fish, flesh and fowl.

When April sun and shower steeped the woods
in the balm of spring, they boomed far and near
with the grouse's drum-beat; in autumn, with the

375

Hunting Without a Gun.

frequent thunder of his flight. Then pigeons
thronged to feasts of beech mast; squirrels barked
and chattered in every nut tree; unbroken bevies
of quail piped in the stubble fields.

Cornfields were not valued according to their
yield of grain, but according to the raccoons that
were attracted to them, and the wild, jolly night
hunts they afforded. Every upland and lowland
cover harbored a fox, and there was not a day of
the hunting season that the tuneful cry of hounds
might not be heard swelling and dying on hill crest
and in hollow. There was even a possibility of
shots at deer and bear that kept one always hopeful
of such happy chances, and there was a legendary
panther, whose gruesome presence one felt in the
silent glens where twilight and darkness alternately
brooded.

All the happy land and the pleasant waters were
an inexhaustible preserve guarded by no keeper,
placarded with no trespass signs, but as free to all
comers as to the birds of passage.

Just as it was then, the land of memory lies be-
hind you now, traversed by shadowy forms of com-
rades; but you may not enter it — only may you
look backward upon it through the mist of years
and of eyes grown dim with age. Blest Is he who
so beholds and keeps it in possession.

376

ANTOINE'S VERSION OF EVANGELINE.

One evelin we'll set by de stof-heart, a smokin'

tabacca,
As fas' as de chimley was smokin' de spreuce an' de

balsam.
M'sieu Mumsin he'll mos' mek me cry wid his readin'

a story,

Was write, so he say, by great long American feller,
Baout a Frenchmans, he'll lose of hees gal 'long 'go,

in Acadie.
You'll hear of it, prob'ly, haow one gone on one

sloop, one on anodder,
One scratter dis way, one scratter dat way, never to-

gedder,

Till bose of it hoi', an' de feller was ready for die off.
It mek me felt soble, for hear mah frien' read it,

sof'ly,
For it saoun' lak de vowse of mah mudder, w'en he

sing to me,
"Dor' p'tite," dat tam Ah'll was bebby, an lie half

sleep on hees bosoms,
One ear an' one heye hopen for lislin to what dar be

go on,
Tudder shut saoun, fas' sleep on de breas' of mah

mudder ;
It bring it all back, as Ah'll hear it an' see it dem day

tam,

377

Hunting Without a Gun.

De bump of de bin' leg an' fore leg of de chair on de

hard floor,
As she rocks me, "Dor' p'tite, dor' p'tite," all de tarn

sing mah hoi' mudder.

De humbly bee bumblin' all over de marigol' posy,
De bobolink ringing hees bells 'bove de medder

where hayin'
De mans was, an' de wheat fiel' where hwomans dress

all in blue gown
Was scoop for reap off de grain shinin' more yaller

as gold was.
On de river, a Hingin was paddle his cannoe more

lazy
An' slow as de move of de water, an' o'er de fiel' an'

de river

De blue sky scoopin' daown to de big hwood.
So it come back to mah rembler wid de nowse of de

readin',
An' mek me feel kan' o' oncomf'able happy.

Wen he'll finish hees read, Ah'll tink while Ah'll

finish mah smokin',
Haow Ah'll mek .it come off grea' deal more better

for pleasant

'F Ah was dat great long American feller dat wrote it,
For Gabriel, Evangeline an' all dar was hear of de

story,
Gabriel was dat kan' o' mans Solem Briggs was call

it philosophy.
Wen de pos' hoffice an' telegrab ant bring it no

letter,

378

Antoine's Version of Evangeline.

\\ "Vn de sloop an' de stimboat an' de railroad ant

bring it hees gal back,
Nor took heem to de place where Evangeline was be

a stoppin',
An' he fan aout he can' fan aout where she was have

been gone to,
He'll mek aout hees min' dat ev'ryt'ing come to de

feller dat waitens,
He goin' do dat. An' bombye Evangeline be comin'

to heem.
So he'll sharp off hees haxe an' beegin for chaup aout

some clearin'.
Every nowse of de win' dat he hear in de taup of de

tree blow,
Every nowse of de tree dat he chaup an' come tomble

hover,
Dey say : "Bombye Evangeline comin', bombye she'll

comin'."
De bird from de sous come, de bird from de nort'

come, dey tol' heem de sem t'ing;
De wil' geese draggin' de sky wid hees harrer in

spring tarn,
In de fall, de black string of crow pullin' de las' one

to de sea-shore,
All tol' heem dat "Bombye, hees leetly gal comin' "

from somewhere;
So he'll buil' for it up dar a nice leetly lawg haouse

all smooze off
De side, an' cover wid whitewash, an' notch all de

aidge of de shingle,
An' under de t'ree window he sow some marigol'

posy.

379

Hunting Without a Gun.

But bes' t'ing of all he feel plump of, was bed of

beautiful onion,
All summer he caffly weed it, in fall it was beeg as

tea-sasser ;
Den he pull it an' braid it, in long string an' hang it

on side of de haouse up,
Where blow by de breeze of de evelin, de pref-fume

was carry long way off,
An' w'en he look of it, he'll said : "Haow Ah'll weesh

dat leetly gal comin'
For help me heat off dat onion. Prob'ly she'll t'ink

Ah'll fregit it,
Ant rembler for love, but Ah'll love it dat gal, more

as onion,
An' mah heart grow lonesick for waitin' more as

waitin' onion for supper."

All 'lone in de dark hwood poor Evangeline wander ;
All de star an' de moon from de sky, de nort' win'

was blow off,

An' haowl lak some wolf, an' bite her wid col' toof;
De black cloud spill hees rain drop daown on her an'

mek her more col'er,
De win' haowl more wolfy an' laoud an' bite her more

harder,
An' somet'ing scareful creep toward her in ev'ry

black shadder;
An' her heart was grow lonesick for all de scare

t'ing raoun' her,
Her heart was so lonesick afore for all her long

lookin'.

380

Antoine's Version of Evangeline.

Just w'en she was ready for give up, so scare', so

tire', so honger,
She'll feel of de smell of onion, an' rise up riffresh an'

go on.
T'rough de snatch of de brier dat ketch an' tear off

her clo's off,
T'rough de switch of de bushes dat wheep her lak

forty hoi' school-mom,
'Gainst de bump of de tree dat was paoun' her lak

maul drivin' wedges,
She foller dat smell, lak haoun' was chasin' de rab-

beet;
An' bombye it brought her to clearin', an' she'll seen

light in winder.
'F you'll ever been hongry all day, an' come home for

heat some mud-turkey,
'F you'll ever be dry all a hot day, den fan de col'

spring a bubblin',
Den you know haow she feel, w'en she faint on de

door an' it hopen,
An' she fall on de harm of her Gabriel. If you'll ant,

Ah'll can tol' you.

Wai, den dey was marry, an' leeve happy togedder,
But prob'ly dey was tarn w'en dey weesh dey ant fan

one annudder.

.381

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY

PS Robinson, Rowland Evans

2719 Hunting without a gun

R63H8