FOREST 



243 



for the present, and promising to come around again in a 

 day or so, I got under way again, Capt. Willard owns 

 quite a tract of land here, I believe, and is offering it at 

 verv favorable terms to actual settlers. The location is 

 all 'that can be asked, and the land is probably strong 

 enough for fruit tree3. It certainly is, if one will avail 

 liimself of the quantities of excellent manure that may be 

 taken from the bay in the shape of grass, sea-weeds, fish, 

 and oyster shells for lime. But that requires manual labor, 

 both in the preparing and in the distribution, which the 

 ■easy way of the country is to shut up a hundred head of 

 ■cattle in a quarter-acre field for a week or two at night, and 

 ;as the land becomes sufficiently "trod," as they express it, 

 sine cow-pen is moved along to another quarter-acre, and 

 illic process repeated on indefinitely through the season. 

 jSls the country people put it, "The best way to enrich 

 Hand is to put it under a cow's tail." 



Xeaving Captain W. on the wharf, we sailed a mile 

 of more further on, and rounding another long point I 

 was at last in front of my old home. There was the 

 lit tie hammock where I had grubbed and chopped, hoed 

 and sweated for so many hours. There was the little frame 

 house I had twice erected, for it was blown down, or 

 rather up, by a gale, while in processes of erection the 

 first time, and in which Mrs. " X " and my little girl had a 

 .most wonderful and narrow escape from death. I never 

 saw the use of a Saratoga trunk before, but this one caught 

 rthe rafters as they came down, and kept them from falling 

 rapon them, as she had the presence of mind to drop upon 

 fche floor beside it when she saw everything sailing around 

 loose. The. house was much smaller now, for it was shorn 

 ©f both its verandahs, having been, I afterwards learned, 

 by another gale. I made a mistake in building too 



near the beach, and in a too exposed location. I wanted 

 plenty of air, and I got it. Then, closedown by the beach, 

 was the palmetto house of dear, kind-hearted, old Joe 

 Woodruff. It looked rather w T eather beaten, but a little 

 hack of it. through the scrub, I could make out another 

 newer and brighter looking structure of the same kind. 

 And while I looked, I saw old Joe liimself come down the 

 path from it towards the beach to take a look at us. So 

 .there was, at least, one old friend left to welcome us back 

 tto Sarasota. I ran close in to the edge of the bank, cast 

 lanGhor, and our voyage of over 500 miles was an accom- 

 plished fact, in spite of the ill-omened croakings of number- 

 less officious advisers in Pensacola and elsewhere; and not 

 only was the journey out completed, but I felt myself to be 

 Wry nearly, if not quite a well man. To be this, when 

 compared with what I was when I set out, was worth the 

 trouble and danger, if there was any, of a voyage of 

 double or ten times the distance. I just felt good. In love 

 with the whole world, if they were willing, and if they 

 were not, why, I didn't care. I was tolerably fat, and very 

 ragged and saucy; could even up well on the whole three — 

 fat, ragged and saucy. As I knew I must be unexpected, 

 I took my time in furling sails and making everything 

 ?nug, so as to let Mr. Woodruff look us over, and consult 

 with his wife as to who we might be. I completed every- 

 thing at last, and putting all hands into the skiff pulled to 

 the landing. As I stepped out, it dawned upon him all at 

 once who I was. "Great Heavens! if this isn't really 

 Major S. Where did you come from?" and more, and 

 more, of astonishment and greeting. After a little expla- 

 nation we adjourned to the house, Mrs. "X" preceeding 

 rae, as he was sure his wife would know "the Major" 

 at the first glimpse. But she knew Mrs. "X" almost as 

 promptly, and the cordial greetings were soon over. 

 After a lengthy comparison of notes as to what had be- 

 fallen each other, and everybody el&e during the past seven 

 years, we began planning the campaign against the game 

 and fish for the next ten days. I was in a hurry to get 

 back into my old haunts, even if only to see if both were 

 as plenty as in the "good old times," and it was decided 

 that I should go over to Big Sarasota Island before light 

 the next morning and still hunt for deer, while Mr. 

 Woodruff should take his canoe, and with my little boy 

 for company, try his luck for red fish in the pass. 

 [To be continued.'] 



^♦-» * — — 



THE BLACK 



For Forest and Stream. 

 SPRITE. 



SOME incident of yesterday or of to-day may bring 

 out from the hidden recesses of one's memory a scene 

 of by-gone days, or a story of earliest childhood recollec- 

 tions, and when that scene or story has aught to do with 

 things not of this earth, but of spirit realms, then does the 

 reverie hold a double spell. There is a charm, a fascina- 

 tion, about the ancient legends of haunted castles, of spirit 

 scenes, that seizes the attention of a child and follows him 

 to manhood. How often did I, when a boy net ten years 

 old, steal away of a winter's evening to the kitchen, to 

 listen to the ghostly tales as told by the servants, of their 

 native Irish lands? And as often did I, dreading the hour 

 of bedtime, draw nearer to the lamps and lire, and look 

 more furtively behind me into the dark corners of the 

 room. The Emerald Isle, rich in its romantic history and 

 mythical beliefs, imparts to its native born a strange, 

 weird faith in spirits, and many is the storj r of ghost and 

 goblin handed down from generation to generation. But 

 "while most of those stories have faded from my memory, 

 there was one told by a frank young Irishman, who bore 

 the name of the lordly Shannon, that will never sink from 

 sight. It was told with a vividness and reality that not 

 many years after came back to me with fearful force, in- 

 creased ten-fold by the time and place, as with a friend I 



was returning from a coon hunt one autumn night. The 

 story that Shannon rehearsed to me I tell to you, believe it 

 or not, as you may; but when you hear my own experi- 

 ence, which is as true as there is a sky above, you may per- 

 haps pardon me if, on that autumn night, being but fifteen 

 years of age, I thought my hour had come, as I stood a 



palsied witness to a combat of human strength with 



I dared not name it then. That imp of darkness chose a 

 fitting place close by a haunted bridge tc wreak its ven- 

 geance on mankind. The time, too, w r as propitious— past 

 midright— and the moaning winds added a doleful dirge 

 to that wordless, almost noiseless battle. It is more pleas- 

 ing to recall a battle with a beast of mortal tangibility than 

 with a spirit in beastly form, that no hand could touch, no 

 weapon kill. 



But before I recount the terrors of that hour let me first 

 go back to the story that Shannon told, that you may bet- 

 ter understand m* own. All the old fireside stories, you 

 know, used to commence with "once upon a time," and so 

 did Shannon's, thus: — 



"Once upon a time in the county where my father lived, 

 and where his father lived before him, there was a haunt- 

 ed wood, and it was haunted by an evil spirit. It was a 

 low, swampy piece of woods, and extended a long way, 

 and strange lights and noises used to be coming from cer- 

 tain parts of it. A road ran through the woods, but it got 

 to be so bad that hardly any one would dare to go on it 

 after dark. Well, one night a great uncle of mine was re- 

 turning home from taking some cattle to market; he was a 

 drover and traveled a good deal about the country on foot. 

 Well, as I said before, he was afoot, tired, and a long way 

 from home, and it was late at night. He had nothing with 

 him but the whip he drove his cattle with to defend him- 

 self, yet to save a long distance he made up his mind to 

 take a short cut through the woods, hoping he would not 

 meet the spirit. But if he should meet it, as he had al- 

 ways been a good man, he trusted it would not hurt him. 

 He had got about half through the woods, when all at 

 once a little black thing like a dog jumped out from the 

 bushes. He did not think of the spirit at first, but only 

 that it was a dog, and so spoke to it. Upon that the spirit 

 — for it was an evil spirit — jumped against his legs and 

 then against his chest. He kicked at it, but could not hit 

 it; he could not touch it with his hands, yet all the time it 

 kept springing against his chest and it felt like a bunch of 

 down or feathers, and not like a body at all. He soon 

 commenced to grow weak, to get faint; he could hardly 

 breathe, the thing seemed to be all around him, to choke 

 him; he could not cry out, he could not speak. He could 

 feel something pressing him on every side, yet he could 

 see only the black thing, so like a little spaniel, all the 

 time. It would jump on to his chest and seem to rest 

 there for a second; he would try to squeeze it with his 

 arms, but could find nothing, yet he could see it there all 

 the while. At last, and in a final struggle he threw up his 

 arms, and in doing so cracked with a loud report the whip 

 he held. At the noise the spirit sprung from off him and 

 yanished in a ball of fire. My uncle, from weakness, did 

 not find his way home till morning, and when he reached 

 home he was like a corpse, white and thin, and he took to 

 his bed and never left it for a long time." 



Such was the story told to my your g head that caused 

 the cold streaks to run down my back, and made me fear 

 the darkness for a week, as though filled with jumping, 

 black-coated spirits and vanishing fire balls. Five years 

 had cast a mantle over the story and caused it to be almost 

 forgotten, or at least if not forgotten to be looked upon 

 with unbelieving eyes until one night. Did I believe it 

 then? Hear my story, and then ask yourself if, in my 

 place and at my age. you, in that midnight hour, would not 

 have changed your faith? It was a clear, cold night late 

 in autumn, when the coons had deserted the ripened corn- 

 fields, and were scouring the beech and oak groves for the 

 nuts which the frosts had started from the trees and burrs, 

 that two old eoon hunters and I a young one, traveled Bar- 

 bouis Mountain with a brace of well trained coon dogs. 

 We hunted many a beech nut grove, many a patch of oaks, 

 passed many an open knoll where not unfrequently a Mep- 

 hitis chinga fell a victim to our prowess with clubs and 

 stones; and if I remember rightly the aforesaid M&pMtis 

 did not always „waste its sweetness on the desert air. We 

 skirted an ancient cemetery which lay half hidden in the 

 woods. We heard the distant murmur of the Connecticut, 

 the startling screech of the little mottled owl, the rough, 

 deep hoot of the great-horned owl, and at times the clear, 

 eager voices of our dogs when they had treed some 

 prowling coon. And I recollect there came such voices 

 from the vicinity of the Devil's Den that, had we not 

 known that a drove of hogs were revelling in a grove of 

 oaks, we might have thought the imps of his Satanic maj- 

 esty were holding high carousal in that mountain cave. At 

 last the hunt was over and we separated, L., with the dogs, 

 returning to his own home not a long way off, while F. 

 and myself struck out for our's, some two miles away. 

 The moon, which till past midnight had cheered and light- 

 ed our way, now disappeared behind the gathering clouds, 

 and we slowly picked our way through the pastures till we 

 reached the road, when we proceeded at a faster pace. In 

 almost every old New England town there is or was a 

 hauuted house, or path, or spot, and the region through 

 which we were traveling was particularly pleasing and rich 

 in ghostly residences, there being no less than two haunt- 

 ed houses, which we had to pass, and a haunted railroad 

 bridge, under which we had to go. There is no need to 

 take the time and space to tell the why and how each place 

 was haunted; sufficient be it to know that a good reason j 



was assigned to each, and that spirits had been seen and 

 heard, at least so rumor said. A brook ran parallel with 

 and close by the road which passed beneath the bridge, 

 where strange noises, groanings, the rattling of chains, 

 and hustling of feet had been heard by the very person 

 who told me of the haunted Irish woods. We neared the 

 bridge of sighs and spirits, the stride of the man and the 

 pattering footsteps of the boy sounding dead and hollow 

 on the freezing earth, and seeming to invite the company 

 of any spirit that dwelt near by; and though no invitation 

 was intended or extended, yet one was accepted, for from 

 out the darkness, almost from out the shadow of the bridge, 

 there sprung a form blacker than the night, and as quiet 

 as the realms of death. So near the haunted bridge the 

 story of that Irish drover flashed upon me like lightning, 

 and almost as blighting in its stroke, for that form looked 

 in the darkness like that of a very small black dog, but it 

 was no dog. My companion— but here in the moment be- 

 tween the appearing of that form and its attack, permit 

 me to describe the man who fought it. Tall and muscular 

 he was the very embodiment of human strength, while his 

 life in California, whither he went during the gold excite- 

 ment of '49, had accustomed him to danger, whether from 

 the wily Indian, or the mountain lion, and many is the ex- 

 citing tale I have listened to of those adventurous days. 

 He there perfected himself in the use of the rifle, and was 

 the best field shot in those regions. In a word he was the 

 leading hunter of the camps. But skill or strength in man 

 avails him little against an enemy he cannot hit, against a 

 form that comes from darkness, and vanishes in darkness. 

 One terrible moment of suspense to me, and 

 the battle commenced. The moon peered for an 

 instant through an opening in the clouds, and 

 the scene it lighted up is before me now as clear and vivid 

 as on that night. The man's face to me had a deathly white- 

 ness, whiter, perhaps, from the contrast with the coal black 

 beard and hair; his head was bare, the hat flying midway 

 the road, having fallen in the struggle, and cold drops of 

 perspiration stood out upon his forehead. At a wandering 

 glance I took in all. I saw that black, soft form leap 

 against his legs; saw him jump and kick in vain; it was at 

 him in front, behind, and yet he could not check the onset. 

 I saw more in that short moment of flickering moonlight; 

 saw the bridge, its cold granite gleaming white with frost 

 work, our tomb, I thought; I saw the tall trees and the 

 little brook shimmering beneath them, and I thought I saw 

 a black body with white crown and plume cross the road 



below us, and then I saw no more a black cloud shut 



out the light. The wind came and went with a shriek 

 that sounded like the wailing of a spirit, and it might have 

 been, for a form darted past me and vanished with the 

 gale. The contest ceased. I heard the quick, labored 

 breathing of my companion, and soon his voice in broken 



accents, "its gone " How long that trial lasted I know 



not, but it seemed hours to me, but whether hours or min- 

 utes, I never care to live over again that scene. There 

 may not be evil spirits which haunt this world, but since 

 that autumn night I have my own belief. Let unbelievers 

 laugh, but put them in my place that night, with the story 

 of the Irish spirit, and the haunted houses and the haunt- 

 ed bridge so near, and nearer yet that darting imp of 

 blackness, and depend;upon it nine out^of^ten would wish 

 themselves at home. I knew not until that night that once 

 before my companion had met with a like attack, and so 

 knew with what he had to deal. 



Towards morning we reached our home, and told our 

 strange adventure which, though it was believed, was 

 thought very ^ mysterious. Now, the above is no fancy 

 sketch, no dream that vanished with my sleeping hours, 

 but a simple tale of actual facts which the passing of that 

 bridge last night, the cold, whistling wind, and the season 

 of the year recalled to mind. I do not write this to add to 

 ghostly legends, but only to add a little chapter to the 

 knowledge of our animal creation; and*here, before an ex- 

 planation comes, though it will be an explanation in itself, 

 let me finish the sentence of my companion as his voice 

 reached me in the darkness — "d-n that muskrat; I could'nt 

 hit him, and I'm almost winded." The old tremor left me; 

 that terrible thing was only a little, soft, brown -coated 

 muskrat. I have never seen an account of a muskrat at- 

 tacking human beings, but my companion assured me that 

 once before he had been set upon by one, while o<: this 

 last *.ime I was a witness; and I must confess that I wish 

 at the time I had known what it was — but better late than 

 never. How can you account for this bold freak in an 

 animal generally so innocent and timid? 



Mont Clare. 



Disease in the La.undiiess iiAbK^r.— The panic which 

 has been created by the new outbreak of small-pox has led 

 to attention being directed to what is termed "centers of 

 infection," and there is a natural desire to root out these 

 "centers," or at least reduce their number to the utmost 

 extent possible. There is probably no more active engine 

 for the dissemination of disease than the laundry. Indeed, 

 under existing arrangements, there is reason to fear that 

 cleanliness is often more deadly than dirt. When, as is 

 the case in ninety-nine households out of a hundred, the 

 washing is "put out," the owners of the articles sent to the 

 laundry are, as a rule, utterly reckless as to the conse- 

 quences of the general mingliug of the linen belonging to 

 several families, which takes place when the laundress is 

 engaged in active business. Nor do they care to ascertain 

 whether, as is often the case, there is infectious disease in 

 the very house to which their garments and bed furniture 

 are sent. It is not surprising under these circumstances 

 that smallpox and fever often make their appearance mys- 

 teriously in households where thev are as unexpected as 

 unwelcome. The most perfect drainage arrangements, the 

 most admirable system of ventilation, are of no avail to 

 prevent the disease that is introduced into the house by 

 means of the laundress basket,— Pall Mall Gazette, 



