AN HOUR IN THE WOODS. 



N. H. COVERT. 



Last fall I was of a party of lovers of 

 the forest and the stream, who believe 

 camp life the perfection of happiness, at 

 least for a short time. In September we 

 camped on the left bank of the Little 

 Beaver, a few hundred rods from the small 

 village of Achor, Ohio. It was an ideal 

 camping place, as well as' an historical 

 spot. Our tent was placed on a grassy 

 mound which sloped down to the level of 

 the stream, beyond which were the woods. 

 They covered a high hill, the side facing 

 us resembling an African jungle. The 

 level top was covered with large timber' 

 having little or no underbrush. This made 

 an ideal wood in which to hunt. It was 

 there, the natives told us, the first white 

 man had built his cabin. The early set- 

 tlers were surprised one night by an In- 

 dian attack. They sprang from their beds, 

 secured their muskets, rammed them 

 through the crevices in the walls, and 

 ; : eagerly waited for the Indians to get well 

 in range. The savages" came down like 

 a tornado, a very unusual Indian ma- 

 ■"!" nceuvre, but they knew they outnumbered 

 .^ the settlers 10 to one. As they neared the 

 £•■■ cabin a bright light appeared in the heav- 

 ens, a streak of fire was seen to emerge 

 from the clouds, and a meteor fell within 

 ioo yards of them. Before the settlers 

 could realize what had taken place, not an 

 Indian could be seen. They had retreated 

 as swiftly as they had come, at the 

 appearance of the terrifying phenom- 

 enon. 



On our first morning out I arose early 

 to have a few hours' hunt before break- 

 fast. I shouldered my gun, and as the 

 first ray of the September sun shone 

 above the Eastern horizon, I entered the 

 woods. The silence was broken by the 

 rustle of leaves, the cutting of the grey 

 and pine squirrels, and the deceptive 

 drumming of the ruffed grouse sounding 

 so far and yet so near. I was startled by 



the dropping of a piece of hickory nut 

 from the branches of a large tree under 

 which I stood. In an instant all the hunt- 

 ing blood within me was aroused. I 

 picked up the piece of shell and on exam- 

 ining it, found it to be the cutting of a 

 grey squirrel. As I stood perfectly still 

 other pieces fell, and by looking at them 

 I satisfied myself that a grey was on the 

 tree. I stepped back a few yards to get 

 a better view. In the top of the tree I 

 saw a small black object swaying in the 

 wind. I was not positive it was a squir- 

 rel, and to get a better view I started to- 

 ward the other side of the tree. I had 

 taken but a few steps when right at my 

 feet there was a flutter and a whirr. A 

 grouse arose and darted away in rapid 

 flight. I quickly drew my double barrel 

 on a level with my eye, touched the trig- 

 ger, and away sped 2>V\ drams of No. 7 

 shot, in close pursuit. It caught the bird 

 just as it was about to disappear behind a 

 clump of dogwood. Through the smoke 

 I saw a few feathers leave the grouse, 

 which struggled hard to set its wings, as 

 it fell to the ground and died. It was a 

 large one. After placing it in my game 

 sack I again looked up at the black ob- 

 ject on the top of the hickory tree and I 

 clearly saw the outlines of a grey squirrel, 

 lying close to the swaying branch, with 

 his tail gracefully curled up over his back. 

 I pointed the gun at him, touched the 

 trigger, and it snaoped. I had forgotten 

 to load the ris-ht barrel after shooting the 

 grouse. But there were not many seconds 

 between the click of the right and the roar 

 of the left barrel. The squirrel left his 

 aerial swing and lay dead at my feet. As 

 I picked him up and placed him beside the 

 grouse in my game sack another sound 

 greeted my ears. The boys were calling 

 me to breakfast by hammering on a skil- 

 let, with a potato masher. 



The Cannibal Chief — You say you are 

 going to give me a batter pudding today 

 for dinner? 



The Cannibal Chef — Yes, your excel- 

 lency. We found a stranded baseball nine 

 near by yesterday. — Yonkers Statesman. 



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