NTSW YORK, THURSDAY. APRIL 19, 1877. 



For Forest- and Stream. 

 THE MOUNTAIN LAKE. 



BY C. EDGAB BUFFC5I. 



"TTT-HILE o'er my office books I baud , 



V V Or write out bills and lettt-rs, 

 Off to the woods my fancies wend, 

 Freed from these irksome fetters. 

 Again we dip the oar, 

 "Waters and woods explore. 

 I see dim. golden mountains shine, 

 All hazy with a light divine; 

 O, will those scenes once more be mine— 

 .Shall I behold them more ? 



The curving beach of moistened sand, 



With wild deer ioot-tracka printed, 

 Tue cliff by eagles' pinions fanned, 

 Dark forest moonlight tinted 1 



Shadowed by rocks, storm hewn, 

 Beneath the midnight moon 

 The lonely lake in beauty lies. 

 And mirrors back the starry skies, 

 And echoes to the loou's weird cries. 

 The laughter of the loon I 



When early sunlight tips the hills 



With blushing color glowing, 

 The lake's cold bosom stirs and thrills, 

 Soft wiuds the mists are blowing; 

 And through its silver sheen 

 The frowniug crags are seen. 

 Till upward, rolliug through the air, 

 White clouds disclose a landscape fair. 

 Bright waters f-amed in green are there. 

 In woods and meadows green. 



Once more in thought "my lines are cast" 



Withiu these "pleasant places;" 

 W.th friends of yore I lire the past, 

 And see their happy faces. 



On fragrant bougbs we lie, 



Or cast the whirling fly: 

 Make music with the spinning reel, 

 As with the rod the trout we feel. 

 Or make the 6peabing rifle peal. 



And hear the echoes die 1 



In sylvan camp among the trees. 



With bed of soft, dry r 

 Where we, extended at o 

 Defied life's cares 



The pure cold-water spring. 



The stones set in a ring ; 



Whore at the comiug of the night 



Our fire blazed with its cheerful light, 



Each one lelt "king in his own right," 



As happy ae a king, 



Thoi 



oft it 



my fancies tend 

 This cold and dreary weather, 

 And once again, my dearest friend. 

 We roam the woods together. 

 I see the sunshine gleam 

 On mountain, pond, and stream; 

 And all these in my visions shine. 

 Dim, golden, with a light divine, 

 And lam glad this dream is mine. 

 And is not all a dream I 



Quail §hootinQ (^xtmordimrg. 



"/^VPTICS, come in! You are the very person I want to 



V^ see. You said you wanted to go quail shooting. 

 Now, if you are of the same mind, meet me at Depot to- 

 morrow morning at 6 o'clock with about fifty or sixty shells 

 loaded with No. 8 or No. 9 shot, and I will take you where I 

 know there are two or three bevies of quail. I am going to 

 Work a new dog I had sent to me, and can't therefore promise 

 much sport, as 'Pat' is untried on quail, so far as I am con- 

 cerned. And 'Larry,' my reliable, is laid up with the dis- 

 temper. Your dog, you tell me, is unbroken, and we, as a 

 matter of course, will not wont him to spoil a day's shooting 

 by taking him along." 



"All right, my boy! I will be with you, although I'm 

 afraid you will be disgusted with me, fori am somewhat in- 

 disposed, and unfit for a day's tramp." 



So we agreed. 



True to our appointment, we boarded the train the fol- 

 lowing morning for a twenty-five mile ride on the rail- 

 road. The morning was hazy, threatening cold, and the 

 leaden skies unpromising, but we were hopeful, as "Old 

 Prob." had been consulted in an early edition of the morning 

 paper, and assured us there would be no rain that day. 



Wo bowled along rapidly, until at length the polite con- 

 ductor informed us that the next station was where we 

 were to alight, and we gathered our traps as the whistle 



sounded shrill in the morning air at our destination. 

 Alighting on the platform I was much surprised and no 

 little amused to see standing near the station a Son of Erin 

 whom I had known as a city friend of the farmer with whom 

 we were going to make our headquarters for the day, and 

 who lived about a mile from the station. 



Our Milesian friend was bedecked in all the paraphernalia 

 of the natty sportsman. A canvas shooting suit — leggins — 

 and game bag too. A speckled mongrel setter, who looked 

 as though his mother had been scared by a Dalmatian dog, sat 

 in the mud at his feet. 



His firearm was a muzzle-loader, and its age not quite in 

 keeping with the new style of his garments. He looked al- 

 together, as he stood dramatically leaning on the muzzle of 

 his cocked gun, as though he were determined to dress and do 

 the character he had assumed at all hazards : no joke intended. 



Tall and angular, with shoulders stooped, his coat (made 

 for a heavier man) bagged behind, while his new game-bag 

 with its wealth of netting and fringe bagged in front. A 

 spectacle ! Man, gun, and dog, all in a row on dress parade. 

 There was blood in his eye as he returned the amused stare 

 of the passengers with a deep frown, and in stentorian tones 

 warned the shivering cur at his side not to stir, on pain and 

 penalty of death. As the train passed on he deftly threw his 

 gun to a position of "right shoulder shift" as his features re- 

 laxed into a smile of recognition of me as an acquaintance 

 whom he was was glad to meet; he spit on his hand and ex- 

 tended it, which I did not affect to see, but approached him 

 and indulged in some exclamations of surprise at his sports- 

 manlike proclivities, which he assured me were of no recent 

 growth. I shortly said : 



"Cornelius, how is the quail shooting this morning? " 



' 'Ha ! it's beautiful, an' there's dead loads of it. In the 

 big rag weed-field beyant, there is more nor two hundred 

 burds this minit," answered he. 



"Ah ! how many bevies did you put up this morning? " I 

 asked as we started toward the house. 



"Bivies ! divil a bivy," answered he; "but they were 

 leppin up all over the field. If 'Fagin' there could spake, 

 he'd till you a quare story of the shutin we've had this 

 momin'." 



"Have you killed any?" I asked, as I took hold of his 

 game-bag, in which I felt only a flask and a package of lunch. 



Pushing my hand away he spiritedly answered in a loud 

 voice — "Killed any? Indade did I thin— and plinty; sure I 

 knocked down eight or nine of thirn this mornin' — and once 

 a fine double shot at that; I pulled both barrels at a fellow 

 that was flyin' more nor eighty yards away and knocked him 

 stiff, but didn't the bugger hide in the grass afther I killed 

 um. Fagin an' me lucked for more nor a quarther of an 

 hour for um." 



"Where are the others you killed, Corney?" I asked, when, 

 with a look of pity and contempt for my ignorance, he re- 

 joined : 



"Where are they ? Why dear man, the grass an' wades are 

 so thick over there that a checken howk could not find a burd 

 that ud dhrop dead in it. 1 11 show you where I thramped 

 and kecked great places aroun' for to find the burds I killed 



"Fagin's a droll name for a setter. Is he of pure breed ?" 

 I ventured to ask; quietly observing that the object of my 

 attention was a rather thick, heavy set dog, with ears some- 

 what short, hair thick, and sprinkled with liver upon a dirty 

 white ground: head large, nose short, tail long and much in- 

 clined to curl; but innocent of feather; a regular nonde- 

 script, with a suspicion of the setter in him, and a stronger 

 suspicion that his ancestry included dogs of many kind and 

 degree. He was covered with burrs, which he continually 

 tried to rub off against the fence-boards as he ran along. 

 Any space that was uncovered with burrs was supplied with 

 mud, which was in streaks, as though he had been held down 

 by Corney and beaten with a muddy stick for some real or 

 imagined unsetterlike behavior. 



With a confident and assuring air he answered, "Pure! 

 indade is he ! He's out of the purest stock of setthers in 

 Ameriky. He's a wee bit durty now, " continued he apologeti- 

 cally. "I bate the hay then in the road up there, and cum 

 near smudtherin' um in the mud, for a euttin' me wid his 

 teeth when I tuk hum be the ear fur barkin' at the farmer's 

 hogs." 



"Is he pretty well broke? and does he point well and 

 stanchly ?" I asked. 



"Well troth now," he replied thoughtfully and cautiously, 

 with the air of a man whose principles would not allow him 

 in a moment of calmness to overstate facts, "he is purty 

 well broke, an' he pints fairly- fur a young dog. But he's not 

 intiTely larned to it yet, fur he 'pints purty crucked some- 

 times." 



"Ah ! does he? Well, young dogs will do that," I said, and 

 in order to further draw him out added, "He'll get over that 

 when he gets more experience. He gets his work in a little 

 crooked, does he ?" 



"He does occasionally; now yesthurday I was mad enough 

 at um to keck the stuffin out of um. Faith I did keck um 

 too. He pinted a burd to the forrad of um, and was as 

 purty and as sthiff as a poker. Ah ! dear man, you should 

 ha' sane um. 'Me fine misther quail,' says I, 'I'll just sand ye 

 a little on the groun'; it'll make Fagin thrue on his pint.' 

 There's no betther way to make a dog thrue to his pint than 

 to kill burds fur um on the ground," he assured me. "Well, 

 I was luckin for the burd in the grass about six yards ayant 

 the dog's nose; and blast me but the thafe flew from 

 in unther Fagin's belly, and scairt the life out o' me, and got 

 away too," said he, bursting into a forced laugh. "An' 

 didn't the blackguard dog turn round and luck at me as ould 

 fashioned as ye plase. Will he get over that cruckedness in 

 his pint, dye' think ?" 



"Oh, undoubtedly, he'll be all right when he gets up to his 

 work. Does he charge ?" I asked. 



"Charge !" said he, his eyes flashing as though that was 

 a piece of work he was in the habit of enforcing upon the 

 attention of the dog. "Oh yis; but sometimes he don't 

 charge as he shud. Now yestherday, I tuk um up to a thicket 

 where I drew some burds into, an' I towld um to charge ! 

 but divil a fut would he stir in. Well, I'm too ould a hauler 

 of dogs to let oney one of thim git the besht o' me. So I 

 tuk um be the neck, an' I dragged the beggar all through the 

 brush, shoutin' to um to charge the whiles, an' be'gorra 

 me gun caught in a faggat an' went off as I was pullin' um, 

 an' came near shutin the farmer's boy, who was followin' me 

 to carry the game. But that's no objiction to the dog, as 

 I'm towld them pure bred setthers in this country don't like 

 to charge through briars like the pinter. But in an open 

 field the curse is all right man ! When the gun goes off in 

 an open field the devil wouldn't howld um. Sure there's not 

 a field but he'd charge all over it than less nor five minits 

 whin the gun goes off! An' he's the buy that 'ud- have 

 the air filled wid burds quicker nor tin min cud shoot thim. 

 Til show you what a dog he is if you stay out wid me 

 to-day." He looked back and saw Optics trudging his 

 weak and weary way through the mud, and said, "Who's yer 

 frind that walks so slow ? he's a callin' for you to howld on. 

 Sure he's no hunter." 



"Ohyes he is," I answered; "he's a famous wing shot; and 

 he's a very distinguished surgeon too, and opthalmologist." 

 That word had a convincing effect upon him. "And more- 

 over he is ambidextrous, both as a surgeon and sportsman. 

 Can make the most delicate operation on the eye with the 

 scalpel in either hand, or kill his bird neatly in the air at 

 long range; throwing his gun to either shoulder gracefully, 

 as suits his whim or convenience." 



"Well, well! he's a decavin fellow, aint he now?" said 

 Corney at this. 



"He is indeed," I replied; "and by the way, his gun is one 

 of the finest I ever saw; get him to show it to you. He's 

 not very well to-day, but he has good wind and will keep 

 going." 



"Has he good wind ?" repeated Corney, recovering some 

 of his wonted self assurance and wit. "Thin he'd betther 

 swop some of his good wind fur a dacint pair of legs whin 

 he goes a huntin' wid ye. But sorra, if he shutes like 

 you say, he'd kill plenty th' day if he'd thramp a little 

 fasther. Is his dog a gude won? I don't like the luks of 

 um at all. " 



"Now, Corney, don't run down that dog, he's mine. Al- 

 though I've never worked him much, yet he's an Irishman 

 like yourself, and a decent enough dog," I answered. 



'•Well now, I'd take the blackguard for to be an Irishman 

 sure ! for didn't the bugger begin fightin Fagin as soon as 

 the baggage masther chucked um off the car ! Is he broke ?" 

 he asked. 



"He worked on chicken pretty well in Iowa, but have 

 never tried him on quail" I replied. 



"Chicken!" said he, "chicken! thin Fagin's the buy to 

 work on chicken. Sure I've seen him stan' pintin a chioken 

 fur more nor an hour in my yard, an' if I'd tell um to 

 charge, he'd niver rist till he'd tear it to blazes." 



"You've had a good deal of experience, Corney, with set- 

 ters have you?" I said. This flattered him somewhat, and 

 he assured me he had, and had owned and bred some of the 

 finest stock of that kind in Ireland, but since comiug to this 

 country the business of contractor had so engaged his life 

 that he was rather rusty on matters pertaining to dogs and 

 field sports; but he was going to give his old and favorite pas- 

 times more attention, and suggested that wo should hunt a 

 good deal together. I inwardly determined wo should— not. 



