[Dsobmbbb 29 1881. 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



427 



less lunatic. They like a still born "on time," and they 

 have firm belief in its power to cure " all the ills that flesh 

 is heir to." 



The best grouse shooting that I know of in IN ewf ound- 

 land is found along the southern coast, the more distant and 

 inaccessible the locality, the better are the prospects of sport. 

 Generally speaking, the barrens or moors are not far distant 

 from the fisherman's house, where you will have to put up. 

 He will probably tell you that the " partridges," as he calls 

 them, are numerous ; Mike, his boy, "saw a power of them 

 the other day as he was after the cows." You will perhaps 

 ask him, "Are the barrens far off V " Oh, not far at all ; 

 you have only to go through a few scattered trees, and you 

 are ou the grounds at once." Now you must take this state- 

 ment with a large grain of salt. You will find that the word 

 "scattered" has a very peculiar meaning in this colony. 

 When you are fishing, for instauce, my friend Pat McGrath 

 will casually observe that " there are a few scattered flies 

 about." In that event, prepare yourself to be eaten alive by 

 rnusquitos. And when he tells about scattered trees, expect 

 a stiff climb of a mile or so through thick bush and fallen 

 timber. Generally speaking, however, there is a path from 

 the little settlement to the barrens, perhaps a road. As a 

 rule, the Newfoundland fishermen are the most hospitable 

 people in the world to strangers. They live very isolated 

 lives and they are always pleased to see new faces. All who 

 visit this country are struck with their old-fashioned polite- 

 ness and civility. Their very isolation, which produces 

 their primitiveness and simplicity, also develops their re- 

 markable ingenuity. They build their own houses and their 

 schooners aud boats. Of course the stranger sportsman, in 

 return for hospitality and civility, will make himself gener- 

 ally agreeable, tell his best stories, exhibit any ingenious 

 instruments he may have about him, sing without much 

 pressing, and, if he can, p:ay the flute or the fiddle, I will 

 promise him not only that the whole population turn out en 

 masse in the morning to assist him in his sport, but that all 

 possible political power and prestige will be at his feet. He 

 may fiddle himself into the local Parliament and become 

 problematically a Premier, possibly the Chairman of the 

 Board of Works! 



After all this roundabout talk, perhaps, my gentle reader, 

 you are getting just a trifle impatient ; you want to get on 

 the barrens and have a shot at the birds. But bide a 

 wee bit ; before I let you go a step further. I 

 must ask you a few questions. Can you shoot fairly on 

 the wing? Can you walk well? I mean, can you, as 

 Paddy says, " hould out ?" Are you the happy owner of a 

 good setter or pointer, and will he "hould out?" Answer 

 me all these queries satisfactorily and honestly, and 1 will 

 promise you, not a big bag, probably only ten to twelve 

 brace of grouse for a long day's tramp and very straight 

 shooting powder, but in that long clay you will have had as 

 genuine wild sport as you ever had in your life. And now, 

 my friend, let us climb the hill together, keepins the dogs 

 well to heel. The ascent is what English sportsmen call a 

 "pumper." We stay a moment to draw breath at tb.3 top. 

 The view is worth looking at. Below us lies the bay with 

 its fleet of fishing boats aud the purple islands, and through 

 the clear, pure air, twenty miles way, we catch the gleam of 

 white houses; and on the opposite shore, the dark, fir-clad 

 hills and the wild barrens and marshes, clothed in their sum- 

 mer verdure. Before us is a vast, gently-undulating plain, 

 rising here and there into low, rounded hills, sometimes 

 spreading out into long, level, dry marshes, which, in the 

 distance, look as bright and green as a newly mown meadow. 

 Clothe this moorland here and there with arctic mosses and 

 with clumps of low, stunted spruce ; intersperse it every- 

 where with wild flowers and low berry-bearing shrubs, with 

 purling streams and pools and endless lakes, and you will 

 have a" good general idea of a Newfoundland barren, stern, 

 wild and bare, but not without beauty. And now— 



Hie out, good dogs ! Away they go with a rushing gal - 

 lop, right and left across the wind. Suddenly Bang's lashing 

 tail becomes stiff, and with head outstretched and rigid body, 

 he slowly creeps up wind until at last he stands, as motion- 

 less as if carved in stone. Grouse is hid behind o. low hill ; 

 instantly, as he mounts the ridge and catches sight of Bang, 

 you see him transformed into another statuesque canine, back- 

 ing his companion. And now keep cool. Don't mind Mike's 

 ejaculation, "Come on, Captain, begor! Bang have 'em." 

 Walk; saunter up slowly, if you have any regard for ihe 

 steadiness of your dogs ; if they see you exciled they will 

 assuredly copy your example. When you get up to Bang, 

 he begins slowly and cautiously to move ahead ; while you 

 have been walking up, the birds have moved away from 

 him, not far. but stillfurther off than he thinks the correct 

 thing, so he cautiously crawls a few yards forward. Keep 

 close to him. Suddenly he stands again, with his body stiff 

 aud rigid, while, if you look at his eyes, you will notice them 

 almost out of his head with wils excitement, Just as you are 

 wondering where on earth the birds can be hid in the bare 

 ground before you, suddenly there is a whirr of wings, and 

 a dozen brown'birds are in the air about you. Down goes 

 the old cock with your right ; shot right through the back 

 belies with wings outstretched, while two yards further to 

 the left lies another noble bird "A great shot, Captain," 

 says Mike ; "I never see the like ; you're as quick as light- 

 enin.'" "Well, Mike, it was not a bad shot ; but did you 

 mark down the covey ?" " Mark em ! They're gone seven- 

 teen mile down into the green woods beyond there." ' Well, 

 never mind, pick up the birds " So, slowly, Bang goes for- 

 ward and points the old cock whose head Mike carefully 

 smooths out, and puts into the loops of the game-bag, while 

 the dog is now at a dead point on the other rooster. You 

 fondle the good dogs a bit, and let them smell the birds; then 

 on you go, as proud and happy a man as there is m the uni- 

 verse. Probably, notwithstanding honest Michael's flattery, 

 the shots were as easy ones as ever were fired ; but the 

 shooter dearly loves to be praised; and for tbis pari 

 kind of encomiums commend me to a Munster man. To hear 

 Tramore when I had made a villainous miss at a bird rising 

 within ten yards of me on the open, or Ned Molloy telling 

 Bat Malone as he made some wonderful chance shots in thejr 

 presence at very wild birds, killing two with the right barrel 

 as they crossed, and my companion and I bringing down two 

 more at awful long distances, all three quite random shots. 

 With cool and deliberate mendacity Ned says: "That's the 

 way the're doin' it all day, Bat." "Begob, then, Ned, it's 

 time we went home ;" and off they go with half a dozen 

 grouse slung on their long gun harrels, each with a raw and 

 bloody head, showing that Bat had killed them all on the 



Well, to pursue our day's sport. On the next rounded, dry 



hill, Grouse sets, and it is Bang's turn to back. You get 



your two barrels well in, and Mike marks down the remain- 

 ing ten birds, in what he calls a "big tuck." This is a low 

 clump of stunted spruces not more than two or three feet 

 high. You keep the obedient dogs into heel and make 

 straight, for it. The birds in this dense cover rise by twos 

 and threes, and if your shooting is straight you will probably 

 bag half a dozen birds, and Mike's keen eye will mark down 

 the stragglers that- escape your deadly breech-loader. After 

 meeting a few more birds it will probably be time for lunch. 

 Of course you have a camp kettle to make the tea which all 

 Newfoundland fishermen are immoderately fond of. Mike 



ill probably tell you about some "Mulligan-Tawney r ' the 

 Doctor had here, 'onst wid him, the most illigant soup he 

 ever tasted." You will find your trusty follower a good 

 trencher man ; but you must help him, and press him to eat. 

 It, will always be, "After you, Captain, sure I have lashin's;" 

 whilst all the time he would eat the whole concern, and then 

 beg in again. In manners, he is one of nature's gentlemen ; 

 but with a far more robust appetite than falls to the lot of 

 of most so-called gentlemen in tbis dyspeptic age. 



Now follow my advice and take two good hours' rest. The 

 birds are not on the move, and both you and your dogs will 

 be the better for the spell. Except in the hours of the very 

 early morning, between five and six in the evening is the 

 most killing time of the day. By that time you will find all 

 coveys you started iu the morning, or rather what is left of 

 them, back to their old haunts ; and you will be sure to get 

 some good chances. Probably you will feel tired and make a 

 clean miss or two, but Mike will duly swear on all such occa- 

 sions either that "he seed a whole fistful of feathers come 

 out of the bird," or else that "you shot his tail away entire- 

 ly." By sundown you will be back to your comfortable 

 quarters with a good bag of birds, and, bye and bye, in easy 

 costume and slippers, when "you have judicious drink, and 

 greatly daring, dined," you will, with your after-dinner pipe, 

 agree with me that there is no finer sport in America or Eu- 

 rope or anywhere else than your day's shooting in New- 

 foundland. 



St. John's, Neiofoundland, November, 1881. 



SPORT AS BBAIN-FOOD— II. 



WHILE fishing, hunting, boating and riding through the 

 wilderness on my well-trained Indian pony, I still 

 kept up my literary engagements, writing with an ease and 

 freedom I had not known for years. My home was fre- 

 quently visited in the summer time by the leading sports- 

 men of the day. George Dawson, of the Albany Journal ; 

 General Spinuer, then a Congressman ; Seth Green, always 

 a knight of the pliant rod, and many, many more of the old 

 Walton Club made Eagle's Nest regular visits every summer. 

 Alfred B. Street, the poet ; Church, the artist, and other 

 noted men made me annual calls when they went to the 

 forest for fresh brain inspiration. 



But when I wintered there, my trappers, my library and a 

 mail brought in on snow shoes once a week, were my only 

 company. Of music I had plenty. The scream of the 

 panther," the howling wolves and the hoot of the great white 

 owl, made the weird portion — the winter gales sung a loud 

 chorus. 



Talking of panthers, I was out one spring morning, having 

 with me a large white bulldog, imported from England and 

 kept as a watchdog. It was between my house and Blue 

 Mountain Lake, and though I never knew him to do it be- 

 fore, the dog took a fresh trail and ran off as if Satan had 

 kicked him on end. 



A minute afterward I beard him barking furiously. 



I had my double-barreled rifle with me and made lively 

 tracks to where he was. There, up a scrubby beech, about 

 twenty feet from the ground, was an old she panther and 

 two half-grown ones. They glared at the dog, whose hair 

 fairly stood on end, he was so anxious to get at them. 



Taking careful aim, I drew a bead between the eyes of the 

 old panther, and in a second a ball, 32 to the pound, conical, 

 went through her head and she came down all in a heap. 



The dog pitched for her throat and got a couple of ugly 

 scratches from her claws in the death throe, but he didn't 

 mind that. He opened a gap as wide as a New York Alder- 

 man's mouth in her throat in a hurry. 



Reloading the empty barrel, I proceeded to lay one of the 

 cubs beside the mother in the same way. Reloading again, 

 so as to have a spare shot on hand in case of a miss, number 

 three was added to the list. 



As this was before breakfast, I thought it a fair morning's 

 work and went back to the house, whence some of my men 

 soon went to skin the beasts and take their scalps, worth ten 

 dollars apiece at the county seat, Lake Pleasant. 



But I promised you that poem, if rhyme such as mine is 

 entitled to be called poetry, which I doubt. It was published 

 in the Weekly Mercury, then edited by Caldwell, Southworth 

 aud Whitney. 



MY MAPLE. 



I have watched It since last winter, 



That grand maple near the door. 

 Standing Just beyond the cabin, 



By the lake's white-sanded shore— 

 Watched it whue Its qulVnng tranches 



Were all laden down with sleet, 

 And the tempest, without mercy, 



'Gainst Its rugged hosom beat. 



And when the kindling sunshine 



Came to melt the ice away. 

 And the breath of Spring so genial 



Camo with many a welcome ray- 

 When the " snow-drop's " head was lifted 



TJp In beauty at Its toot, 

 And the grass began to brighten 



O'er Its halt-uncovered root. 

 And 1 watched It In Its budding. 



Saw the little leaves come out ; 

 Saw chem day by day expanding, 



.As Dame Nature went her route ; 

 Saw them weave their woof o£ shadows 



Twtxt the sun and ground below ; 

 Saw them spread their web of shadows 



On the wavelet's glassy floss. 



fes, 1 watched It till Us fulness 

 nid.the naked trunk and limbs; 

 Tfll It hid the feathered songsters, 



WhUe they sung their matin hymns. 

 1 have watched It In Its beauty, 



m lta waving sea of green, 



Till the tips of many branches 

 Wear a gold and scarlet sheen. 



I.Ike a golden crown of glory 



To a faithful servant given, 

 When he resteth from his labor 

 In the quiet hour ol even. 



Looks the yellow crown of Autumn 

 ■ On my favorite maple tree, 



And of all the season's changes 

 This Is brightest far, to me I 



So a Christian who has battled 



With the tempest In his youth, 

 So a Christian who has conquered 

 By the mighty power of Truth, 

 Who has seen his Spring and Summer, 



For the Winter hath no dread. 

 For he knows ChrLst's Spring will bring him 

 Resurrection from the dead. 

 Hoping this is proof to the readers of Fokkst and Stream 

 that wild life and sport is brain-food, I close with the best 

 wishes of the season, Ned BrrHTLTNB. 



WITH A HUNTING KNIFE. 



Chkistmas, 1881, 



THIS keen-edged dagger, gleaming bright, 

 I ask you, friend, henceforth to wear, 

 In memory of this Christmas night. . 

 The dainty foot thy hand will clasp, 

 A timid, antlered deer once graced, 



Whose anguished look and dying gasp, 

 I still can see, I yet can hear. 

 He oft the mazy forest traced, 



Through bosky dingles often fled, 



Or from the hill-crest, sunset dyed, 

 Marked where the winding river led. 



By Uchened rocks and woodland glades, 

 Through sunlit vales and scented meads. 



And the halt-latticed canyon shades, 

 Where loitering south winds gently Blghed 



Among the river's margin reeds. 



He saw the deeply blushing day 



Fly from the kisses of the night, 

 And through the lonely forest way, 



'Neath rising, guiding stars he went 

 (FleeMooted phantom of the wood I) 



To where the arching grapevines bent 

 Above his resting place Horn flight. 



Within the greenwood's solitude. 



When perfumed clover cups at morn 



Held dewy gems of priceless worth, 

 When snowy blossoms of the thorn 



Grew rosy with the flush of dawn- 

 When summer, with a loving hand, 



A flow'ry girdle close had drawn 

 Around the scented zone of earth, 



He wandered safe through ail the land. 



But when the autumn's changing hues 



Tinted the wood and hill and vale, 

 And earlier fall the evening dews. 



And song birds went and snow birds came, 

 The hunters, merry, lithe of limb, 



Eoatned all the land in search of game, 

 And shyer grew the tutted quail, 



And mute the pheasant's vesper hymn. 



Then, seeking far, a huntsman found 



A fountain on a rocky steep, 

 And round about upon the ground 



The dainty trace of timid feet ; 

 And broken twigs and trampled grass, 



His eager, searching eyes did greet. 

 And one salt-whitened rock, worn deep, 



Told where the deer did often pass. 

 The low breeze whispered through the wood ; 



A distant, grouse called to his mate, 

 Then in the coppice where he stood 



A deer gave voice. A moment more 

 A noble buck sprang hill In view. 



A rifle shot^-and wounded sore 

 The red deer leaped, alas ! too late— 



The grass was stained with crimson dew. 



O, Time ! bring back those Joyous days 



The bracing, keen, autumnal air. 

 The mossy, leal-strewn forest ways, 



The blushing, frost-kissed golden rods, 

 The grapes like ripened opals falling, 



The chestnuts dropping from their pods, • 

 Maple and birch in raiment rare, 



And shy quails from their coverts calling. 



Bring back my dear four-footed friend, 



The brown-eyed dog whose love for me 

 No chiding coldness e'er could end j 



Truer than half the Mends I've known, 

 That kind, mute favorite 'neath the ground, 



whose faithful dust is still my own. 

 Ah! cruel, mocking Memory, 



Bring back my old Siberian hound I 

 I'd give the dross the world calls wealth 



II for a moment I could stand, 

 Young and aglow with ruddy health, 



Again upon that steep hill slope. 

 Drinking " the wine of mountain air," 



While skies from gray to hues of hope, 

 Change 'neath empyrean splendors grand, 



Waiting with dog and gun for deer. 

 Swr.m/mto, Cal. , XMft, 1SS1. EtSM WABN15K. 



The Temgraph Brings rs the Stoet of a Newfoundland 

 dog, which accompanied its master and mistress every night 

 to the door of the Ring Theatre iu Vienna, and waited for 

 their coming out. On the night of the burning of the 

 theatre he accompanied them as usual to the entrance. He 

 is still stationed there waiting so patiently for those who 

 will never more come to meet him, and cannot be induced to 

 leave the spot or even to take food or water. 



