* CHAPTER XXIX. 



George T. Pease lives in a log shanty, in 

 the heart of the great Wisconsin pine 

 woods, five miles west of Wausaukee 

 station, on the Milwaukee & Northern 

 j Railroad. A beautiful little lake stretches 

 out in front of his door, in which numer- 

 ous black bass make their home, and 

 several brooks meander through the wil- 

 derness not far away, all of which abound 

 in the sprightly, sparkling brook trout. Deer 

 roam over the hills far and near, and when 

 the first " tracking snow" comes, in the van of icy 

 winter, their hoof-prints may be found within a 

 hundred yards of the cabin any morning. Pease is 

 a genial, kind-hearted old man, in whose humble 

 quarters the true sportsman is always welcome. 

 Reared in these woods, and bred in the pure atmos- 

 phere that abounds here, a hunter by trade and 

 from necessity, he is a simple, honest child of nature. 

 With the exception of four or five years spent in 

 the service of his country, during the war of the 

 Rebellion, he has lived and hunted in- this region 

 since the days of his boyhood, and his gray hairs 

 bespeak for him the respect men always feel for the 

 honest old woodsman. 



I spent several days hunting with him in Novem- 

 ver, 1885, and the intervening nights or a large 



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