FOREST AND STREAM. 



403 



Rose and claims her hand just as the first notes of the 

 music fall upon the ear. Before Fitz Poodles recovers 

 from his astonishment, his wished for partner is gliding 

 round and round the riuk with his hated rival. He grinds 

 his teeth savagely beneath his blonde mustache, and the 

 blood mantles under his fair skin to the roots of his yellow 

 hair. But he has no resource, so he breathes a wish that 

 Will may come to grief in some of his skillful evolutions, 

 for he is jealous also of his rival's proficiency as a skater. 

 The fates are kind to Will, however, as they always are to 

 the brave and skillful, and no such calamity occurs. 



Fitz Poodles is intensely disgusted. He unbuckles his 

 skates, and having refreshed himself with a glass of 

 brandy and water, lights his short clay pipe, and sets 

 out for his barracks, leaving the field to his rival, as well he 



may. 



Shortly after, the odious chaperon, blue with cold, 

 wraps her furs about her and steps into her sleigh to be 

 driven home. Rose promises to leave immediately, but 

 . declines a seat in the sleigh. As she emerges from the 

 dressing room with her skates on her arm she bestows a 

 side glance on Will, who, apparently all unconscious, is 

 doing the figure eight in the centr) of the rink. But he 

 is far from being unconscious, and counts the seconds after 

 the door closes behind her until he thinks a sufficient time 

 has elapsed to prevent the gossips connecting his departure 

 with that of the young lady. He darts down the rink at 

 lio'htning speed, not slackening his speed in the least as he 

 nears the platform, but clearing it at a bound lands at the 

 door of the dressing room. In a twinkling his skates are 

 unstrapped, and he is out at the door. A well known fig- 

 ure is just disappearing around a corner. He walks rapid- 

 ly on with a nervous, eager tread, the crisp snow crushing 

 beneath his feet in the frosty atmosphere. He draws 

 nearer and nearer, but the one of whom he is in pursuit 

 never turns her head, though she well knows whose are 

 the footsteps behind her. Soon he comes up with her, 

 and receives a shy greeting. He takes the skates from her 

 arm, and so they -walk homeward together, saying little 

 perhaps, but thinking much. 



But the Cupid of high latitude does not confine himself 

 solely to rinks during the season of ice and snow. He 

 also spreads his wings and shoots his arrows, on bright, 

 sunshiny winter days, on the glossy surface of crystal 

 lakes, lying in meadows or embedded among fir-clad hills. 

 Such a lake I see before me now. It is some three miles 

 in length, by one in breadth. Save at one cleared spot the 

 dark fir trees come down the hillsides to the very edge of 

 the iee. It is a clear, bright, bracing winter's day, and the 

 ice is hard and smooth as glass, reflecting, as in a mirror, 

 the surrounding woods and the skaters gliding over it. 



Rose is well provided with chaperones today. She is 

 accompanied by her two brothers, an uncle and a cousin, 

 the latter a wordly-wise young lady, with a horror of flir- 

 tations, to which, owing to her plain features and not over 

 agreeable manners, she is never a party. She has a holy 

 horror of admirers who are not eligible, and Will is as poor 

 as a church mouse. He was just behind the party on the 

 road to the lake, but made a short cut through the woods 

 and was on the ice before them. With such a body-guard 

 around his ladylove his chances look poorly enough, but 

 he does not despair. "Brave heart," you know. The 

 old gentleman does not skate, but stands upon the bank 

 and draws such comfort as he may from his cigar. He at 

 least is out of the way. But the cousin and the two broth- 

 ers do skate, and move off together. Will is never far 

 away, and does not lose sight of them for a moment. Fi- 

 nally the party encounters one of Fitz Poodles' brother 

 officers, whom rumor reports to be looking for a rich wife. 

 He has been deucedly unlucky in horseflesh of late, and 

 the "aged" has refused to pony up anything beyond his 

 usual allowance. Miss Palaver has money and is not in- 

 sensible to the blandishments of the "tall military gent," 

 as the small boys describe Captain Nocash, and she ac- 

 cepts his proffered escort, leaving Rose to her brothers 

 and— her fate. 



Rose turns towards the head of the lake and skates 

 quickly on, with her brothers on either side, and but a few 

 rods away. Soon the ring of skate-irons is heard behind 

 them, and ere many minutes elapse Will is beside the girl 

 he loves. They skate steadily on without exchanging a 

 word, leaving all the other skaters behind them. Finally 

 one of the brothers halts and motions to the other. He hes- 

 itates a moment, then wheels to the right about. Consid- 

 erate brothers! 



The lovers are now left to the enjoyment of their own 

 society. Will extends his hand and Rose rests in it the tips 

 of her gloved fingers. They shoot on until the head of the 

 lake is reached. No one is near, and we are fain to believe 

 that Will seized the opportunity for "breaking the ice." 

 At all events the faces of both were unusually rosy as they 

 rejoined the other skaters near the landing: and Will car- 

 ing nothing for the cold looks of the party he had invaded, 

 accompanied Rose to her own door. 



They are not married yet, but they will be some day I 

 am sure, for they are as true as steel to each other, and 

 cold as ice to the rest of the world. 



Charles A. Pilsbtjry. 



' —Nothing is more sad thai, a landscape without birds. 

 The well known forest of Fontainebleau, so varied in its 

 aspect, so majestic in its wooded glades, is always melan- 

 choly; not the song of a single bird breaks the silence. 

 Destitute of water, for the sandy soil drinks up all the rain, 

 having no spring nor stream, it is deadly for the bird, which 

 flies away as from a land under a curse. Under the first 

 impression you admire it, but by degrees the feeling of 

 sadness oppresses you, and at last renders you insensible to 

 its beauties. . 



For Forest and Stream. 

 COAXING A DRUMFISH. 



A CRUISE OFF THE AFRICAN COAST. 



* 



A CRUISE on the west coast of Africa in the olden 

 time, when the "ebony trade" was brisk, was almost 

 without incident to relieve its dull monotony, and, looked 

 back to in after days, the three long years seem almost a 

 blank. Cruising, we but stood up and down, backward 

 and forward, under easy sail or low steam, and while from 

 aloft the lookout scanned the horizon, and wearied his eyes 

 in watching the strip of white that to the eastward marked 

 the sandy beach of a desert coast, to us on deck invisible, 

 we killed our time as best we might with pipes and books, 

 with chess and chat, taught our docile parrots new tricks 

 and phrases, or lazily dozed away the hours— the weary 

 hours of mid-day calm. 



Exercise seemed impossible. The great red sun drove 

 his ardent rays through and through our well worn awn- 

 ings, the white decks steamed, the paint work blistered, 

 and the black lines of pitch lost their tape-like symmetry 

 and oozed meltingly into little tacky puddles, the brass rails 

 glowed with the fervent heat, and even the great shark, 

 lying perchance deep under our counter, seemed to pant and 

 gasp, and turned loathingly from the chunk of pork, which 

 in seeming innocence dangled listlessly by his very nose. 



Rolling gently to an fro on the ever breathing sea, sails 

 flapping, ropes rattling, yards creaking, ladders squeaking, 

 we exist and wait for air. Presently a little puff from the 

 northwest, again another, then a gentle breeze; the tired 

 mercury sinks in its tube and life again comes to us, for 

 the sea breeze has made. Now we look for a prize. There 

 is a river breaks the contour of that strip of sand to the east- 

 ward — the noble Congo — and somewhere up in its myste- 

 rious fastnesses are trim vessels, laden with human flesh 

 and blood for freight, watching the chance to slip out. 

 This late strong sea breeze is what they need, and taking 

 the chances of the distant cruiser's failing to discover her 

 in time, out one slips. Pressing along with the northwest 

 wind, keeping from going to the northward— the speck to 

 leeward, which her captain's trained eye sees at once is an 

 enemy, keeps him from running off — and so, with all can- 

 vass spread, he hugs the wind and trusts to his heels. 



Sail ho! from aloft, and we crowd on all sail in pursuit. 

 No sleepiness now. We must bring her within gun shot 

 ere she crosses our bow, or we lose her. Rapidly we near 

 each other on converging lines, but night, too, is approach- 

 ing fast, and in that latitude there is little twilight. It was 

 in her captain's calculations, and for this moonless night, 

 so near at hand, he has patiently awaited. 



Onward comes the slaver, seemingly rushing to certain 

 destruction ; but the breeze grows fainter, our heavy can- 

 vass flaps to the mast, while the swift-heeled clipper, with 

 her light cotton topsails swelling against the buntlines, 

 plump and full like a Breton ' 'swell front" house, darts out 

 from our very grasp, and driving off with the trade wind 

 disappears in the darkness, a fading pyramid of spectral 

 white, and until she reaches the shores" of Cuba with her 

 starving, sick, tortured, and festering mass of humanity, 

 she is safe; and then, with an honored flag at her peak, she 

 claims the immunity which that flag, rightfully carried, 

 should always give. 



Such was our general fortune. At long intervals better 

 luck awaited us, and a captured cargo involved upon us a 

 trip to Monrovia, where we were welcome visitors to the 

 lazy darkies, who, in white jackets and indolence, are 

 civilizing Africa by teaching the natives how not to do it. 

 Distributed among them as field hands, and taught to raise 

 manioc and prepare cassava enough for their own needs 

 and their master's, our poor Africans are not perceptibly 

 better off than in slavery. 



But I am wandering from my intentions, and will en- 

 deavor to make amends by changing the topic td one more 

 in consonance with the columns of Forest and Stream. 

 I propose to tell you of the capture of a "drum fish," and 

 to show you how we worked it so that the fate of the other 

 "drum fisherman," poetically recorded in one o*f your late 

 numbers, did not befall me. 



We were lying in the harbor of Benguela, a little white- 

 washed, dirty Portuguese city in the sand, to the south- 

 ward of St. Paul de Loando. It was a hot and suUry 

 night, following a hotter clay, during which we had drifted 

 into port. Stretched about the decks, in light and airy cos- 

 tumes, aud in uneasy postures, we rolled and shifted to the 

 full extent of our Loando mats in vain search of a softer 

 plank or cooler spot. Save for the occasional sound of a 

 well beaten "torn torn," or the higher screech of some na- 

 tive songster, perhaps serenading some dusky inamorata, 

 or more likely working off the effects of New England 

 rum, all was silent both on shore and sea, when suddenly, 

 from the depths beneath us, an unearthly groan startled us 

 from repose. Beginning low, it gradually rose in volume 

 and cadence till the whole ship seemed to vibrate; then it 

 died away, and we speculated. Again it boomed upon our 

 ears, and with a ventriloquial effect, for the sailor on the 

 forecastle and officer on the poop were each equally sure 

 that the sound was just beneath him. And so thfough the 

 long night we were entertained with this subaqueous con- 

 cert, than which a forty horse power steam frog could not 

 have done better. The breakfast hour brought its usual 

 assemblage of wisdom, and many were the oracular opin- 

 ions and Bunsbian explanations of the night's phenomena, 



Bumboat Tom was brought into our councils, and eluci- 

 dated the mystery. "Oh, sar, dat was larshe fcesh, sar; 

 he very larshe, very bono for eat him, sar; malo for catch 

 him; we call him drum fish, sar." 



Tom said that they were plentiful, that they fed only at 

 night, and that the proper bait for them was sardines. I 

 made up my mind that on another night I should make 

 closer acquaintance with this musical genius, and to that 

 end cultivated the armorer and captain of the fore top. 

 The former forged me a fine, large hook, well tempered, 

 and big enough for a halibut, and the latter, with a little 

 wrench he had, laid me up a long"strong line from a dozen 

 of the best that I could procure— wire laid in for a fathom 

 from the hook, guarded against sharp teeth. At supper 

 time Tom brought me a pail of live "sardines." He called 

 them so, but they were a foot long, and more like chubs. 



Night came, and I could hardly wait for the sound that 

 was to signalize the approaching fray. Presently it began, 

 and slipping over the port gangway I took possession of the 

 dinghy which lay moored at the booms, and in company 

 with Johnny Shea, a tight little foretop boy, who was al- 

 ways my right hand in my shooting and fishing trips, I 

 prepared for action. Seeing everything clear, I lowered 

 away over the boat's quarter, and way down below the 

 dancing sparks that the ripples produced in the phospho- 

 rescent sea my line became a beam of light, flashing as car- 

 ried to and fro by the struggles of my lively bait. I had not 

 long to wait. 



Suddenly a mass of light appeared from under the ship, 

 turned into fire as it surrounded and encompassed my hook, 

 and then came a pull, not a tug or jerk, but as though my 

 hook had caught firmly in the coral reefs, the bottom 

 slowly settling away from me. Quickly I hove out a bight 

 of the line, that he might gorge; the bait, then trembling 

 with anxiety I struck. 



"Have you got him, sir?" screamed Johnny. 

 Got him ! I might as well have got a locomotive. John- 

 ny's cry brought a row of heads above the hammock rail, 

 and the officer of the deck f Drgot dignity and gave me an 

 encouraging word; but I hardly heeded them. Twenty 

 fathoms of that line flew through my cut and bleeding fin- 

 gers before I realized that I was in for it. Then, the first 

 mad rush over, he pointed seaward, and struck out more 

 slowly but irresistibly, and fathom after fathom he took 

 my line; half gone — two thirds— and no let up. I hove a 

 turn around the shank of the brass row lock, and while I 

 eased away as slowly as possible Johnny bent the end of 

 his line to mine, and I had another hundred feet. I didn't 

 play that fish — it was all business, and he had the manag- 

 ing of it. Would he never stop? At last! I risked check- 

 ing him, and, heaving a second turn around the row lock, 

 held on. As I did so the pull nearly at right angles started 

 the boat, and slowly her stern slewed into the direction of 

 the strain. This suggested a plan, and quickly as possible 

 I jumped forward. Johnny cast off the painter, and assist- 

 ing with an oar pointed the boat, and then, with the boy at 

 the helm, and I with a turn around the stem head, easing 

 off as required, we started on a grand old ride, and surely 

 old Neptune, with his dolphin team, was no better off. 

 His steeds were tame; ours was not. But weight tells, and 

 our heavy boat soon tired him; the line slackened, and then 

 a swishing curve showed that he had taken a new depar- 

 ture, and for a time, freed from our weight, with increased 

 speed he dashed across our bows. But a stroke of the oar, 

 as the line tautened, brought him in line ahead again, and 

 he had another straight forward pull before him. He did 

 not seem to fancy this, but turned and came slowly toward 

 the boat, as though willing to risk the future to avoid the 

 present pain. I rounded in my line, and still he came till 

 alongside, but too deep for us to strike him, and at the up- 

 ward pull he again shot off, and so for a good half hour 

 more we worked. Once we had him alongside, and Johnny 

 struck him with the gaff, but, as might have been expected, 

 this only startled him, and with spasmodic vigor he made 

 one more grand struggle for life. But it was not to be. 

 The great hook was buried deep in hie vitals, and his 

 strength was going fast. Finally the end came, and he lay 

 exhausted and quiet by our side, while we each slid our 

 gaffs beneath him ; then a quick upward stroke together 

 and the trouble began again. Only for a moment, though, 

 for with gaffs and line, and, when we could reach, our 

 hands and arms and legs, we somehow twisted him into 

 the boat, which, by our united v, eights, was careened near- 

 ly to the water's edge. And then, used up, we sat and 

 gazed at our conquest, for the silvery sheen of his side, 

 and the phosphorescent drops which clung to his scales, 

 marked even in the darkness his grand proportions, and wo 

 were two proud and happy boys. Our united weights 

 would perhaps reach two hundred pounds, and there, gasp- 

 ing and g>oani?ig on the thwarts, lay a magnificent fish 

 greater than we two together. Six feet five inches from 

 tip to tip, and broad in fair proportion, a shapely gamey 

 fish of at least three hundred pounds, gave fair promise, 

 which he well fulfilled, of glorious chowders, broils, and 

 fries; and two hundred men can testify to the delicious 

 quality of his flesh. 



As we rowed back to the ship— for, whether towed or 

 drifted I cannot say— we found ourselves a good half mile 

 away, I cetainly felt more pride in my achievement than 

 any event had ever before caused me. Once since, 

 though, when I brought a noble three pound brook trout 

 to my basket, I have felt the same sensation, and for this 

 last pleasure I am indebted to Piseco. 



