254 With Rod and Gun in New England 



a 



the boughs asserted themselves and prompted frequent changes of position. 

 We were cold. Our tent was of the " A " form, the only kind we knew, 

 and we had closed the front. A tent of that shape does not reflect the 

 heat on the sleeper, and John got up and opened it, but it was little better. 



I resigned myself to the cold, as an inevitable thing in camping, and 

 had no idea that any one knew more of woodcraft than John Atwood, for 

 when I had suggested that I could kill a red squirrel that sat on a fence as 

 we came down, he said: "You must not shoot now, it would scare the 

 deer" ; surely John was an ideal woodsman. 



All these things ran through my brain while trying to sleep. The pistol 

 was near my head ; it was a single-barrelled horse-pistol, flint-lock and 

 muzzle-loading, and had in it four buckshot for deer, and a lot of No. 8's, 

 for small game. John was asleep, and I was cold. Would morning never 

 come? I crept out softly and put more wood on the fire, and warmed my- 

 self a little. The moon was full and overhead. Pshaw! It was only 

 midnight, and I doubted if morning would ever come. I walked out into 

 the woods, first seeing that the priming in the pan of the pistol was in 

 order, if a bear should cross my path! If one did, it would be my bear, 

 and then I was puzzled to know if I should have the skin made into an 

 overcoat for myself, or into a rug for mother. 1 crept behind a large oak 

 to watch for big game. After the noise of my footsteps in the crunching 

 snow had subsided, the stillness was oppressive. The clouds sailed under 

 the moon without a sound. The moon cast strange shadows on the snow 

 in the woods, forming strange shapes, and my next sensation was one of 

 fear. If I turned back to camp, all the bears, panthers and wolves in the 

 forest might be upon me, and I resolved to go home in the morning. 

 Camping was all right to read about, but I knew more about it now. I 

 was on the point of firing the pistol and calling John, when another thought 

 came. What if there were no monsters actually near, and John should 

 laugh at me and tell the story. That thought prevailed ; the dread of 

 ridicule gave me courage, and now, half a century later, I am willing to 

 say that a similar feeling has sustained me when death was in the air, in 

 the shape of singing bullets and shrieking shells. "What will mother 

 say"? or, "what will my comrades say"? has kept many a man to his 

 post, when it would have been pleasanter to be away from it. So I gripped 

 the pistol, and retreated to camp in good order, facing around occasionally 

 to see if the enemy was pressing me, and prepared to fight if he was. 



My approach aroused John, and I assured him that I had only been 

 out to look at the night, and see if any game was around. He yawned, 

 and said: "There's no game here that stirs at night, except rabbits and 

 skunks, and the snow makes so much noise that they 'd hear you a mile 

 off. Put some wood on the fire and turn in. I heard you go out, and then 

 you stopped walking for a long time ; what were you doing " ? 



