68 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 



"He is a farmer who lives up in Warren county, on the 

 border of the great woods. His farm is on the Schroon 

 River, where there are plenty of fish, and the woods are 

 full of game of all kinds. He married a distant relative 

 of mine whom you never met, but who spent some months 

 with us before you can remember." 



Here was a prospect of fun! Fishing and shooting, 

 with the chance of seeing a real live deer! There was a 

 stuffed buck in the State Geological Hall in Albany, but 

 it appeared to be ridiculously small to my notion, for I 

 had read that "A monstrous buck came crashing through 

 the underbrush," while the little animal, a trifle moth- 

 eaten, that stood, stuffed and looking unhappy, was not 

 as big as our brindle cow. 



This was in the spring of 1849 recalled by one of 

 mother's letters now before me and I would be sixteen 

 years old when August came. From a public library 

 Cooper's "Deerslayer" was borrowed, and John Atwood 

 and I studied it carefully. It was excitingly interesting, 

 and we held our breath when the cap was lifted from the 

 old pirate, Hutter, in his ark, and he was found to be 

 scalped when they thought he was only drunk, and the 

 whole story of Indian fighting, capture and escape from 

 torture so took possession of us that the book was finished 

 before it occurred to John to say: "It's a mighty good 

 story, but I'll be durned if it tells much about killin' deer. 

 I thought it was a-goin' to tell a feller how to find 'em, an" 

 how to shoot 'em, an' it's all about killin' Injens. I don't 

 want to kill any Injens they never hurt me none but I 

 would like to get a crack at a deer. You got to have a 

 good rifle an' take 'em jes back of the fore shoulder, right 

 in the heart, or they'll run off an' die. You couldn't kill 

 a deer! You'd git scared if you saw one. I don't believe 

 Ole Port Tyler could kill a deer, 'less the deer stood still, 



