212 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 



In the morning I started to run my line. Two days 

 would do it easily if the weather was good, but rations 

 for three was a wise provision. A rifle and ammunition 

 for a dozen shots was also needed. Matches in a vial, 

 blankets, some strong twine and a belt axe completed 

 the outfit, except the snowshoes, which were slung on 

 the back in case of need, for the crust might soften or 

 fresh snow might fall, and snowshoes were now in the 

 same category as the traditional pistol in Texas. This 

 made a fairly good load for a novice, and it was increased 

 by several skins before noon. 



Night came; and as I ate supper by a little fire and 

 crawled under my blankets with my feet to the fire and 

 the upper half of my body in the hollow of a big tree 

 there came a sense of loneliness that is indescribable. 

 Perhaps there was some fear, but as near as I can recall 

 it the main feeling was one of helplessness. The night 

 was still, cold and clear. The stars shone through the 

 top of the leafless, hardwood trees. I looked over the 

 rifle. It was a big and tolerably accurate one; the cap 

 was sound and "Pshaw!" I thought, "a man armed as I 

 am is the most dangerous animal in these woods; now 

 go to sleep." That was truly philosophical, but philos- 

 ophy and sleep are not identical. Not a twig or an 

 acorn dropped within hearing that escaped my over- 

 sensitive ear. The fire was replenished several times, 

 and it seemed as if day would never come. 



If I lost consciousness for a moment that night it 

 must have been the briefest of moments. Camping out 

 with Port Tyler and the boys was one thing, but this was 

 another. Every owl that ventured a remark seemed to 

 be making reference to me. If a rabbit ran on the hard 

 snow and cracked his joints as a call or challenge I heard 

 it but then the fact is I was not sleepy. No man can 



