160 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 



and of jolly times in camp with Port Tyler, until he forgot 

 his infirmities and told stories of fishing in salt water and 

 of shooting bay birds on Long Island, which were un- 

 known sports to me. He became enthusiastic and final- 

 ly said: "I'll sing you a hunting song which I learned in 

 England/' and after crooning for the key sang in a rich 

 baritone, a little shaky with age, the following, which I 

 never heard before nor since: 



Some love to roam over the dark sea's foam, 



Where the shrill wind whistles free. 

 But a chosen band, in a mountain land, 



Oh, a life in the woods for me. 

 The deer we mark thro' the forest dark, 



And the prowling wolf we track, 

 Our right good cheer is the wild boar, here; 



Then why should the hunter lack? 



Billy Raynor, the exquisite tenor, came honestly by 

 his voice, that was certain, and I induced the old gentle- 

 man to sing it until both words and tune are as familiar 

 to-day as then. A tolerably musical ear told me long 

 ago that if I ever attempted to sing the police would pull 

 the house on the suspicion that there was a dog fight in 

 the back room, and therefore whenever asked if I can 

 sing I quote the Hon. Bardwell Slote and reply: "Those 

 who have heard me say I can't." But in my house is a 

 young lady and a piano, and on the wall of my den hangs 

 a banjo of the vintage of 1860, and its strings seem to 

 have treasured up the air of that hunting song so that the 

 piano sympathizes with it, and the young lady sings the 

 words occasionally to the accompaniment of the afore- 

 said implement of torture. There was a sort of "yo, ho" 

 chorus which is forgotten. The second verse ran: 



