354 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



gazing upward at the evening star, and hear the soft dip of 

 the paddle as the boat shot noislessly across the lake. 



"But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, 

 The maid and her lover so true, 

 Are seen at the hour of midnight damp, 

 To cross the lake hy a fire fly lamp, 

 And paddle their white canoe. " 



Verily it is worth a trip to stand upon a spot that makes 

 us lose our head, ana forget for a time that we live in a 

 matter of fact world, and dwell for a time in an ideal 

 country, where the castle of Spain is but a common coarse 

 edifice. The lake is but twelve miles from Suffolk and 

 twenty-two from Norfolk, In the interior of the swamp 

 it is perfectly healthy and entirely free from miasmatic 

 diseases. Some years before the war, a speculator built a 

 hotel in the center of the swamp, with the intention of 

 making a summer resort, but by the first of August the 

 landlord, the guests, waiters, and all hands had cleared 

 out bag and baggage, for the mosquitoes, gad-flies, gal- 

 linipers, and yellow flies attacked the inmates in countless 

 swarms, and soon routed them. I was shown the site of the 

 hotel, it lies on an elevated plateau, but there is no sign 

 left of it now; it was either burned or taken down, proba- 

 bly the latter. The swamp is but little hunted, the dark, 

 forbidding exterior keeping the majority of "kid glove" 

 sportsmen out; none save the resolute tourist, or enthusi- 

 astic sportsman ever penetrated to the center; one has to 

 make up his mind to rough it, but to the true huntsman 

 this is all the better; so, to those who want true sport I will 

 say, that they can shoot as many turkeys, partridges, and 

 ducks as to satiate the most inveterate hunter that ever 

 pulled trigger. The Fall is the best time by far; any time, 

 in fact, after the middle of October, when several frosts 

 have fallen, and the mosquitoes and flies have disappeared. 

 This is the favored land of reptiles. Water moccasins 

 grow to an enormous length, and are in immense numbers. 

 The shingle getters are sometimes bitten by them; out lib- 

 eral potations of whisky will always cure the patient. 

 These moccasins will always run if they can, and only 

 when trod upon will they strike their fangs. Terrapins 

 are as numerous as the snakes, and can be caught in any 

 numbers; they make delicious soup. Frogs ("bloodhounds," 

 as the boys call them,) lead a happy life here, and die of 

 old age in the swamp. They are a jovial set, even if they 

 have discordant voices; they keep late hours, and all night 

 they talk, halloo, gossip, whoop, make stump speeches, 

 and sing hymns, to their own very great satisfaction, at 

 least, until the "wee sma' hours ayont the hoal." If some 

 wicked fairy of the swamp, or some witching Circe, who 

 was wont to transform men into strange shapes, like that 

 fascinating and ancient coquette did to Ulysses Argonauts, 

 were to suddenly appear to me, and, waving her magic 

 wand around my head, ask me out of pure politeness what 

 animal or shape I would be metamorphosed into, I would 

 unhesitatingly ask her "ladyship" to turn me into a frog, 

 which, being done, I would have a courtship and an opera 

 every night on my own account — two things in this world 

 that I most delight in. Oh, those frogs! Would that 

 I could understand their language. They evidently dorrfc 

 like to be intruded upon. Many a time when there was 

 nearly a silence in the swamp, and when sentimental frogs 

 were gazing at the moon, silent in their reverie, have I blun- 

 dered into their privacy, and such a tremendous uproar 

 would be invoked as would make me shake in my boots. 

 Tiny voices would squeak — vixenish voices— shrill voices 

 of waspish wives — the hoarse, expostulatory tones of the 

 old patriarch who resented the intrusion— fierce, abrupt 

 cries of the town's guardian, who, like our own city police, 

 were mad as hornets at being awakened from their sleep 

 by untoward commotion— and the quavering voices of wan- 

 dering lovers, who had evidently been sitting up long after 

 all good frogs had retired to rest, and who no doubt were 

 afraid that all this turmoil would wake the old folks, and 

 bring the house over their ears. A Frenchman would here 

 be in his element. Such glorious fellows, fully twelve 

 inches long, that could be knocked in the head in every 

 branch. I skinned a pair of 1—, (I beg pardon) well, dash 

 it all, of legs, and, frying them, found that they were dain- 

 tier eating than Spring chicken. 



Before the war this place was the great resort for fugi- 

 tive slaves, and when once in the recesses of the swamp they 

 never were retaken. The shingle getters, mostly blacks, 

 were friendly towards them, and supplied them the luxu- 

 ries in barter for their game. Indeed, many of them were 

 employed in cutting timber, and no questions asked, as 

 they would work for half price. In many instances these 

 fugitives reared families in the swamp, the abundance of 

 game rendering that an easy matter. 



The Dismal Swarnp, though a vast spot in the centre of 

 a beautiful country, is not wholly valueless . Its timber 

 trade is lucrative, and the "Land Company" have made 

 enormous profits out of shingles. This is the great source 

 of profit from the swamp, and is a regular business, well- 

 conducted, with a heavy capital employed. The workmen 

 live in comfortable shanties, built on the high ground. 

 They are mostly negroes, with white foremen. The shin- 

 gles made from the cypress are the most durable, and the 

 very best made. The cypress grows frequently 130 feet 

 high, and is as straight as the mast of a vessel. It splits 

 readily, and the wood, soft when green, hardens when dry. 

 The laborers are a well-fed, happy, careless set, and the 

 sounds of their fiddles and banjos make the gloomy woods 

 re-echo with their jovial strains. In their cabins I found 

 they were well-supplied with bacon, meal, potatoes, game, 

 and whiskey. It is a picturesque sight to see the long lines 

 of carts, each drawn by a mule, piled high with shingles, 

 moving in single file over the rough corduroy road to the 

 landing. It is absolutely necessary to have these roads 

 made, and they are always repairing them, and the soil is 

 always sucking the logs down. In many instances in these 

 clearings the shingle getters have to walk from shanty to 

 shanty on a plank scaffolding, made like a rustic bridge 

 across a small stream. 



Many years ago a devastating fire occurred in the swamp, 

 that destroyed all the made shingles and burnt down thou- 

 sands of magnificent trees. The fire lasted about a month, 

 and those who worked in the swamp had to fly to the 

 neighborhood of Lake Drummond for safety. 



In the year 1725 Col. William Byrd made a minute sur- 

 vey of the Dismal Swamp, and in his journal speaks of 

 the almost unparalleled difficulties his party had to encoun- 

 ter. Sometimes his progress would be but two miles a 

 day, The said survey was made in accordance to the 

 wishes of the Governor of Virginia, to investigate the feasi- 

 bility of draining t,he swamp. His report was favorable, 

 and a petition was forwarded to His Majesty, King George 



the Third, by his loyal subjects of Virginia, praying that 

 a company be allowed to form for that object, they bearing 

 the expenses and taking the reclaimed land as payment, 

 and also asking that in consideration of their great expense 

 they should be excused from paying quit rent and taxes for 

 fifty years, the company binding themselves to finish the 

 work within ten years. What answer the third Georgus 

 gave to this petition the historian does not inform us. Her- 

 cules 5 task of cleaning the Augean stables was child's play 

 compared to it, still it might be done, and can be done. 

 Yes, anything can be done; and if Napoleon ever said a 

 true thing it was when he uttered the immortal sentiment, 

 ' '■Impossible! • e'est le mot d ^un feu. " 



A trip to the great swamp is made by everybody nowa- 

 days, and from Richmond, Norfolk, and the surrounding 

 cities, the belles and beaux make up parties to go. Last 

 Summer Commodore Rogers invited the elite of the city of 

 Norfolk to visit the swamp, and see it in all its glorious 

 beauty of tangled vines, waving reeds, and radiant jessa- 

 mines; and the expedition, led by the little steam launch 

 of the Commodore's flagship, and followed by thirteen 

 others, steamed gallantly towards their destination, with 

 flags flying, voices laughing, and bands playing, and when 

 Lake Drummond was reached the martial strains o£ the 

 flagship's band floated grandly over the water with an un- 

 utterably sweet sound, that lingered in the ears long after- 

 wards. The trip, in a pecuniary point of view only, did 

 not .pay, for of the fourteen launches that started out thir- 

 teen had their propellers broken by striking against snags 

 and logs. 



1 will end my long letter by giving some good advice, 

 which, if followed by the sportsman, pleasure-seeker, or 

 tourist, will give them unalloyed satisfaction, fine sporting, 

 and yield to me many thanks from unknown lips. If there 

 is any set of young men with money to spend, and who 

 desire to have a good time in shooting, fishing, and sight- 

 seeing generally, let them first go to Norfolk, and make 

 that city their base of supplies, always remembering that 

 the early Fall is the best time to start. At Cobb's Island, 

 four hours' ride from Norfolk, they can have splendid 

 sport in shooting ducks and bay birds; or let them write 

 to McKeon, at Cobb's Island, Va,, and make arrangements 

 with him to guide them to Hog's Island, twelve miles from 

 Cobb's, where the wreckers live — a rough set — but hospi- 

 table and honest. McKeon is an excellent guide, and also 

 an entertaining companion, who can while many a weary 

 hour away with o'er true tales of the traditions of Cape 

 Charles, its shipwrecks and its dangers. After getting 

 tired of slaughtering the brants, shufflers, and red-heads, 

 go back to Norfolk and take a deer hunt with Capt. Blow 

 at Tower Hill, in Sussex county, and while there ask the 

 Captain to get Gillem's and Thornton's hounds, call the 

 neighbors together, and have such an old Virginia foxhunt 

 as they never saw before. Then go to Suffolk, hire a guide, 

 cook, and lay in provisions, and take a week's sauntering in 

 the Dismal; and then, Messieurs, you will have taken a trip 

 that cost but little, but was as full of varied charms to 

 those who love nature and the manly sports, as a costly 

 journey to the canons of Colorado, or to the Yosemite 

 Valleyitself. I know whereof I speak. 



And now a few remarks of this great swamp and I am 

 done. To health seekers and invalids, I must add that 

 there is a pleasure resort, known as the Salt Sulphur 

 Springs, situated on the Seaboard and Roanoke Railroad, 

 three miles east of Suffolk, Va., and fourteen miles south- 

 west of Portsmouth and Norfolk, the mean temperature 

 being 60°, thus permitting outdoor daily exercise all the 

 year round. I believe that these springs would be bene- 

 ficial in a great degree to invalids who could not stand a 

 journey so far South as Florida, and they would have the 

 help of a mild Winter, and also the medicated waters of 

 Lake Drummond. I could write further on this subject, 

 but those desiring more light can get direct information 

 fom Col. William P. Moore, Suffolk, Va. 



In conclusion, I beg leave to say that I have no interested 

 motive whatever in writing this article. I have but one 

 desire, and that is to point out to the gentleman sportsman 

 and amateur hunter a section where they can have the most 

 diversified sport and pleasure. Simply this and nothing 

 more. And if this article will lead others to get as much 

 pleasure as I have received by my narrated wanderings, 

 then I will be content. Alexander Hunter. 



-♦♦♦- 



For Forest and Stream. 

 NOT BAD FOR INJUN. 



No 



OLD JOE COOP, the famous moose hunter, whom 

 Hardy has celebrated in his "Fields and Forests of 

 Acadia," was well known to me when I was a boy, and that 

 acquaintance revealed to me other sides of Joe's character 

 than Capt. Hardy found space to. portray in his interesting 

 and instructive pages. He appears there only as the bold 

 and skillful hunter, which he certainly was; but there are 

 a few touches to show the peculiarities which made him a 

 character almost unique. Joe was especially possessed of 

 a certain ironical humor, which albeit not without parallel, 

 is rare among Indians. An instance is afforded in a cele- 

 brated dictum of his, which indeed amounts, taken in all 

 its bearings, to a positive stroke of philosophy. He was 

 getting away from a fur trader after the disposition of sun- 

 dry packs of beaver, mink, and otter, and the imbibition 

 of sundry tumblers of John Company's fire-water, and 

 reeled against and nearly capsized a white frequenter of the 

 locality. "Hillo. Joe," shouted the half angry settler, 

 "guess you got too much rum to-day." Joe swayed to a 

 brief stand-still, as he surveyed the "speaker in contempt 

 for the want of experience implied in his remark, and then 

 in his deep, chest tones axiomatically responded, "Hugh ! 

 too much lum, jus' 'nough," and wended deviously on, like 

 a man who had no time to waste with such an evident shal- 

 low-pate. . 



A shrewd observer, Joe early learned to appreciate the 

 white estimate of Indian character; and it was upon this 

 that the play of his irony was always directed. And there 

 is one instance extant of his having turned it to practical 

 account which is worth recording. He had been on an un- 

 successful moose-hunt for days, and at last found himself 

 near nightfall, at the foot of the Cobequid mountains; out 

 of food, far from the timber, and no human habitation 

 near, Indian or otherwise, save that of a certain notoriously 

 inhospitable hunks, whom I shall call Flint, because that 

 wasn't his name, and because I like to call niggard souls 

 hard names, anyhow. But notwitstanding his reputation, 

 Joe decided on trying the churl. So he walked down and 

 entered, just as Mrs. Flint was lighting the candle, and 

 "settin' the table for supper." 



"Mr. Flint," said Joe, "me wantum stop all night . 

 bush, no wigwam, bimeby snow, hugh." 



"Gut enny munny?" demanded Flint. 



"No got." 



"Can't stop, then." 



"You no talkum too quick— me got urn deer dis after- 

 noon; pay um you deer meat." 



This put a different face on affairs, and Flint entered 

 into a negotiation by virtue of which Joe became entitled 

 to supper, lodgings, and Flint to the deer's hide and half 

 the meat, for such was his unconscionable greed. The 

 deer, Joe explained, he had been unable to bring in, owing 

 to lateness and fatigue— "berry fat deer; Joe's back mos' 

 broke walk so far" — but he had hung it up on a certain big 

 maple tree, near which was a certain big rock, and Flint 

 could take horse and sled in the morning and "bring um 

 in no time," when the agreed upon division should be 

 made. 



Flint was perfectly familiar with the locality described 

 by Joe, and after breakfast he started with his two sons in 

 search of the deer. Joe saw them out of sight over the 

 hill, then picked up his rifle and started also, to resume 

 the chase of the hitherto unsuccessfully followed moose; 

 for the deer was only an evolution from the depths of Joe's 

 inner consciousness. 



Months passed ere the twain met again, this time in a 

 different locality. 



"Look-a-here, Joe," said Flint, "I couldn't never find 

 that deer o' yourn. I rayther spect there warn't any, any- 

 how, 'n I want you fer t' pay me fer them meals 'n 

 lodgin'." 



"Pay um sometime or nebber," said Joe. "You tink 

 you make um mighty big bargain dat time, 'cause Joe half 

 starb and half froze. You find um tree?" he continued. 



"Yes, yes," was the eager reply. 



"You find um big stone?" 



"Yes, found it, too." 



"No find um deer?" 



"Couldn't see hide ner hair on't, n sarched 'n sarched 

 most all day." 



"Well, dat two trut; only one lie. Dat not bad for Hin- 

 jun," summed up Joe as he turned and walked away. 



N. W. Beckwith. 



Hantsport, Nova Scotia, December 20th, 1875. 



«*••*» 



For Forest and Stream. 

 A BUFFALO HUNT IN ARCHER COUNTY, 

 TEXAS. 



LET me gi^e you a sketch of a hunt in which I have 

 just participated. On the 4th inst. your correspond- 

 ent and one other, mounted on mustangs, and two more 

 in a wagon, took our departure for the hunting grounds- 

 object, fun and meat, principally the latter. The first 

 camp was at Montague Village, forty miles; second camp 

 was at 'Squire Nichols' place, half a mile south of Cam- 

 bridge, in Clay county. The 'Squire 

 "Lives all alone, 

 In a little brown house he calls his own," 



and has nothing to keep him company, except a half a 

 dozen cats— we thought he had enough to start a first-class 

 sausage factorv. Well, as we said, we camped at the 

 'Squire's, and through his courtesy we made down a bed 

 on his floor, which was on mother earth's warm (cold) bo- 

 som. Blankets being scarce we tried an experiment, (Lord 

 forgive us, we won't try it again), and that was sleeping 

 four in a bed. I sav sleep, but we did'nt, and that's what 

 we are growling about. We remember while a hoy that 

 on Christmas and such occasions we went to sleep three in 

 a bed, but never thought of four large, healthy, full-grown 

 men sleeping together. Morning found three of us the 

 happy possessors of one blanket apiece, and the fourth 

 man had been frozen out, and was sitting by a fire, nod- 

 ding to the tune of "Hard Times." At Henrietta we got 

 another Nimrod, whom we called "our man Friday." This 

 made five in all. The first was about fifty years old, and 

 was known as Uncle Joe; the next was his son, aged twen- 

 ty-five; then a fat, lazy- looking genius that played the 

 part of Murphy's boarder— i. e., never missed a meal or 

 paid a cent, and was good for nothing but to watch the 

 wagon and eat his rations; then ye reporter, who of course 

 was all right, and our man Friday, who was a little, 

 Frenchy -looking fellow, but a good man in camp. Our 

 animals corresponded with the men— some good, some in- 

 different. Borrowing the 'Squire's horse and gun we pro- 

 ceeded westward. At the Little Wichita River we killed 

 a turkey, and now said, "farewell bacon, we'll live on 

 turkey." But alas! vain hope. We longed for the bacon 

 we left behind before we got any more turkey. The re- 

 cent prairie fires had devastated the country, and turkeys, 

 deer and all game was run out of that section. On the 

 west side of the river we met a hunting party returning 

 from the buffalo range. Never saw men as hungry for to- 

 bacco in our life. Thevhad been out fer some time and 

 were out of the weed. We made our next camp at a lake 

 in the midst of the burnt region, making supper on corn 

 dodgers straight, and realizing the serious fact that it waa 

 a poor hunter that could not kill his own meat. VY hue 

 sitting around the fire telling tales of blood and thunder, 

 we were aroused by the clattering of hoofs on the opposite 

 side of the gulley, and instantly every man was heard to 

 say "Indians!" In less time than I write it every man was 

 at the wagon, with his gun in his hand. The noise ceased 

 just as suddenly as it commenced, and now we were sorely 

 puzzled. All was quiet for several minutes, and our eyes 

 were intently fixed on the ears of our favorite camp mule. 

 Old Pete, who worked those attachments (ears) backward 

 and forward like a jib sail on a nervous day. Soon we heard 

 splashing in the lake below us, and forthwith we started sin- 

 gle file down the glen, like Poe, "this mystery to explore. 

 Just as we thought that we would each perform deeds oi 

 valor that would immortalize us in the pages ot history, 

 and would be handed down by the red man, in tradition i, 

 to ages yet unborn, we heard the lowing of cattle, and py 

 the light of the rising moon saw the reflection ottnc 

 bruteSon the placid surface of the lake. They had been 

 driven there to quench their thirst, and our fright was now 

 turned to jesting. We went back to camp, crawled into 

 our blankets, and dreamed of stampeding cattle, m- 

 r3i*iTm etc 



Sunrise'the -next morning (which, by the almanac, was 

 Sunday, but to us was the same as any other day) lounu 

 us on the road. We took dinner at a pond of red watei 

 and then drove to Harold's* Ranche on north fork ot Ui- 



* Great stock raiser. 



