36 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 



sisted of something like a hundred trees of shell-bark 

 hickory, straight of stem and tall. It belonged to Glen 

 Van Rensselaer, a man of middle age then, who watched it 

 as well as he could in the nut season ; but we boys always 

 had a sentinel out when foraging, and his shabby old silk 

 hat in the distance was a signal to gather the plunder and 

 leave, in order to avoid confiscation of the results of our 

 labor. There had not been frost enough to drop the nuts, 

 and several of us who were strong and active climbed the 

 trees and shook the limbs while smaller boys gathered 

 the nuts. A sentinel had just called, "Here comes Glen!" 

 when there was a scream and a thud, and a poor little 

 Irish boy, named Ryan, was lying on his back. We were 

 crying around him when Mr. Van Rensselaer arrived on 

 a run to catch us. The boy's head was bleeding and his 

 brain protruding, but he breathed. We gave him water, 

 and a passing hand-car on the railroad took him down to 

 John Morris' rope-walk, where his people lived. He died 

 next day. Most of the boys were shy of the nut orchard 

 that fall. The place is now filled with cottages, but the 

 name is retained. The "Indian orchard" is also gone, 

 and not an apple tree is left to hold the nest of a flying- 

 squirrel or a woodpecker. 



West of the nut orchard some acres of pasture were 

 plentifully sprinkled with hawthorn bushes, which, by the 

 way, were called "thorn-apple bushes," and among these 

 were many of the big paper nests of the bald-faced hornet. 

 What fun it was, with John as the leader, to advance in 

 line, a cedar bush in the left elbow and as many stones as 

 the forearm would hold against the body and a big stone 

 in the right hand. "Fire!" cried John, and the stones 

 flew in rapid succession; and when all were gone the 

 enemy was upon us. Then how we retreated, swinging 

 the bushes about our heads, and how an occasional yell 



