HUNTERS WHO HAVE BUCKFEVERED 

 flock of wild geese that had lit in the pond in the 

 cow pasture that day he had no gun, If you 

 had pressed your nose against the pane and 

 peeped through the window of a little log hunt- 

 frig camp on an island near Sandy Hook, say 

 about eight p. m., on a November evening forty- 

 two years ago, you would have candle-lighted 

 three young men sitting around an old cook 

 stove. Two of the men were pulling on old clay 

 pipes, and each was at peace with the world as 

 far as I know. Let me introduce you to them. 

 In the opposite picture that guy standing by the 

 stove but usually sitting down in the easiest 

 chair (an old cracker box) to be found in camp, 

 and absorbing the most heat, is my friend Bill 

 Garrison, whom 1 brought along on his first deer 

 hunting expedition in the Kankakee swamps, 

 Leave it to "Bill." He always grabs the big- 

 gest potato in the dish and the huskiest wedge 

 of pie on the plate, and always gets the softest 

 seat in camp. The tall, lanky, leather-faced 

 gink sitting on the woodpile behind the stove, 



73 



