GEORGE W. SIMPKINS. 



77 



deer," for, like Falstaff over the dead body of Hotspur, I 

 intended to "swear I killed him myself." So the trophy 

 was preserved and taken to Albany, and for many years I 

 did more lying about killing that buck than a dealer in 

 garden seeds does in his spring catalogue. 



Simpkins said: "A little lie like that never hurts any- 

 body. Most all young hunters lie a little about their 

 game." At first it hurt me to lie about it especially to 

 Old Port Tyler, who wanted all the details but the story 

 soon assumed the veracity of history. In later life I killed 

 many deer, but they somehow never assumed the impor- 

 tance of the only one I ever lied about. I wrote John At- 

 wood about it, quoting from "As You Like It:" "Which 

 is he that killed the deer?" and winding up by telling him 

 that he didn't know a thing about the jump of the deer, 

 for they couldn't make over fifteen feet at a jump. 



A quarter of the doe which Dickinson killed was given 

 me to carry. I was put on the road home, while the rest 

 went another way. Stopping at Kellam's about sun- 

 down, his wife gave me supper; and, leaving the rifle, I 

 took a shotgun and shouldered the venison for home, 

 down the mountain. An unearthly scream came from a 

 distance, and my pace quickened. Again the horrible 

 scream was given closer by, and with an open pocket knife 

 and a cocked gun I jumped down the hill, leaving tracks 

 that surprised men who saw them next day. Getting 

 over a rail fence near the house the knife pricked my wrist, 

 and it seemed as if the animal had me. I was faint with 

 fright, and it was some time before Mrs. Simpkins could 

 learn the cause. Her husband came about midnight and 

 heard her story as he was about to get in bed. He 

 dressed, called Gunner, took his rifle and started up the 

 hill. Kellam and he put the dog out, but old Gunner 

 soon came back, cried, got between his master's legs and 



