THE TRAVELS OF A HUNTING KNIFE. 



DR. A. J. WOODCOCK. 



October, 1888, was an ideal month for 

 the sportsman in the lake region of North- 

 ern Wisconsin. I was stopping in Minoc- 

 qua and passed most of my time on the 

 Juliette, a beautiful steam launch, as the 

 guest of her captain, S. W. Ray, a good 

 hunter, a dead shot, and a pleasant com- 

 panion. Our favorite cruising ground was 

 East Kanaquesaque and Big Tomahawk 

 lakes. One morning the captain had a load 

 of freight to run over to the head of Big 

 Tomahawk, and a hunting party and 2 

 canoes to take across the East lake to where 

 the thoroughfare comes in from the Arbor 

 Vitae chain. 



About a week later we made the same 

 trip with the outfit of a land hunter. On 

 our return we had passed the Arbor Vitae 

 thoroughfare when 2 signal shots rang 

 out over the lake. We lay to and 

 answered the signal. Presently 2 ca- 

 noes appeared, containing, as it proved, the 

 same hunting party we had towed out the 

 week before. Joe Ross, the leader of the 

 party was the handsome, herculean son of 

 a Wisconsin pioneer. His partner, Uncle 

 Johnny Smith, was a short, grizzled veteran 

 of the camp, canoe and trail. These old- 

 timers, in season, annually ranged the for- 

 est in some part of the Northern wilder- 

 ness. That year they had induced the lum- 

 ber merchant of their town to accompany 

 them. He was a good fellow, but unused 

 to the ways of the woods. They were all 

 hungry and quickly disposed of the remains 

 of our lunch, after which Uncle Jimmy 

 told us the following story: 



"After you cast us off, Cap, we made a 

 good run up to our old camp ground, for 

 Joe and I have packed and paddled our way 

 into these yere woods a heap o' times 'afore 

 the blasted railroad filled 'em with green- 

 horns. We showed our new pard here 

 how to make a woodland cooking range 

 out of green hemlock logs, and build a 

 framework for our waterproof wickiup 

 cloth. Joe ketched him some bait and 

 showed him whar to fish, and told him to 

 finish the camp, pick plenty of hemlock 

 browse off the trees we had felled for the 

 fire and make the bed 'fore he went to 

 fishin' 



"Well, we lit out for the old runways 

 that we knowed so well. A good many 

 years ago the Chippeways built a wattled 

 brush fence, that run V-like for miles with 

 gaps for the deer to pass. Every once in a 

 while the Injuns would make a drive, and 

 then, you bet, the deer ketched it. Joe and 

 I got onto their game and have worked 



261 



it a many a time since. We soon found 

 that the woods had been beat up all sum- 

 mer, the deer badly skeered and a good deal 

 of the old fence burnt up. 



"We didn't get no deer and when we got 

 back to camp everything looked all right 

 except the fire. It was putting up a heavy 

 smoke and givin' out mightly little heat. 

 I grabbed an axe and soon had a green 

 hemlock fire and supper ready. It was a 

 cold night and I made a small fire in the 

 wickiup, mostly coals that I carried in. 



"We turned in and didn't know nuthin' 

 for no one knows how long, when all to 

 once the 3 of us waked up a burnin', an' 

 a chokin', an' a cussin', an rolled and 

 tumbled into the open air. Our new pard- 

 ner here had made our bed outen the dry 

 hemlock browse that the fishin' towerists 

 had used last summer. Fat pine couldn't 

 a'ketched quicker or acted wusser. We was 

 bad burned 'fore we sensed what was the 

 matter and got out of the wickiup. 



"Joe an' I grabbed aholt of the burning 

 tent cover and yanked off what was left of 

 it. We then jumped into the blazing bed- 

 ding, kicked it out of the fire and rolled and 

 stamped the flames out. Turning to the 

 feller that hed been entertainin' of us, tur- 

 rible cam like, Joe said, 'Whar is thet 

 amminition?' 



"I don't know/ says he; 'it wus under 

 the bed.' 



' 'Back, boys,' cried Joe, 'back for your 

 lives.' An' you bet we slid. 



"Joe jumped the wrong way; he landed 

 right in the burning browse, raked up the 

 amminition boxes an' flung 'em clean away. 

 'Bout all we saved was the amminition an' 

 our guns. We toughed it out fer a week, 

 but I tell you, Cap'n, it's a puttering time 

 we've had of it. If ther'd been any deer 

 round yere, we'd stayed ; but bein' as there 

 ain't we're going down the road a piece and 

 go in where 'the kentry ain't beat up so, 

 an' our new pard, he's a goin' home to send 

 us a new outfit." 



Soot blackened and with clothing burned 

 full of holes, truly they looked as if they 

 had been having "a puttering time." The 

 end of Uncle Jimmy's story found us at 

 the wharf. We went up to the hotel and 

 our new friends retired to their rooms. 



Never before was the difference that 

 clothes make in a man so forcibly brought 

 home to me as when the hunting party 

 came down to supper. The lumber mer- 

 chant was in his natural element. He not 

 only shone, but showed that he felt it, and 

 celebrated his escape from the woods with 



