122 THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 
That thus invades our sacred haunts, 
And seems to mean us harm? 
Perhaps ’twas he our comrades slew 
About that hen roost barn.’’ 
The deer have fled far thru the woods 
Out o’er the rugged hills, 
The bear in some choke cherry patch 
Recks not of future ills. 
Now, higher thru murky, smoky air, 
That blood-red sunrise glows, 
And pours its radiance thru the woods 
And morning’s freshness goes. 
Then hied me back thru forest glades, 
And quick descend the hill, 
The gun beneath my arm was slung, 
But I cared not to kill. 
“IN THE SIXTIES” 
By I. A. M. 
Yes, it happened ‘‘away back in the sixties’’ when I was a very 
small child, but it is so plainly impressed upon my memory that I 
will try and recount the occurence as I remember it. 
My parents then lived only a few miles from Salem, the capital 
city, on my grandfather’s homestead, in one of the first good houses 
built in Oregon, the timbers for which were hewn with an implement 
called a broad ax, and the lumber all planed by hand. It was no 
uncommon occurrence then for my father or uncle to go out with the 
old ‘‘musket’’ or rifle and bring in from one to three deer, captured 
on our own little farm of ‘‘six hundred and forty acres,’?’ much of 
which was a perfect jungle. But I am digressing from my story. 
It was late in the evening after we youngsters were in our trundle 
beds that we heard an unusual racket among our chickens. (They 
insisted on roosting across the road in a big hollow tree about fifty 
yards from the house.) My father went to investigate and soon found 
the cause of the commotion. A large tawny cougar was sprawled on 
the limb as near the chickens as possible, trying to decide which was 
the choicest one for a meal. Father called and my little brother went 
to the door and he asked to have mother load the old musket (muzzle 
loader) and bring it quickly. But, alas, when she proceeded to do so 
the ‘‘shot pouch’’ was empty, not a bullet to be found. But her 
resources were not exhausted, for there was always lead in the house 
(for moulding bullets). but no time for moulding them, so she used 
her wits and quickly chopped up slugs of lead and loaded the old gun 
with them. 
As soon as my father got the gun he shot at the big beast, but 
either missed it entirely or wounded it so slightly that it was able to 
jump from the tree and land on the hillside. It then ran up the hill 
about fifty yards, my father following and loading the old gun with 
slugs as he ran. It again took to a tree, this time to a big oak; he 
fired at it with better result, as he hit it broadside. But to his sur- 
prise, it leaped from the tree and started directly toward the house 
(presumably attracted by the light), where my mother stood in the 
