FOREST AND STREAM* 
For Forest and Stream, 
A QUEER STORY. 
——«- 
[from the german.] 
BY E. C. G. 
S once I wandered thro’ the sunny dell, 
I saw so queer a thing, which I will tell: 
I met a hunter near the forest lake, 
He rode now fast, now slow, yet wide awake. 
The sportive deer were grazing by his side, 
Why shot he not, this hunter in his ride? 
liisbngle rang thro 1 all the sombre dell- 
Now say, what did his merry blast foretell ? 
But as I wandered further o’er the lea, 
Another queerer thing I there did see: 
A maiden in a dainty little frock, 
So idly in her fisher-boat did rock, 
While far below the sportive fishes played, 
Not one did fear the dreamy little maid! 
Her voice in sweetest song did rise and swell— 
Now say, what did her happy lay fortell? 
But as I homeward crossed the darksome wold. 
The queerest sight of all it did unfold! 
A lovely steed did thro 1 the forest stray, 
While on the lake an empty boat did sway. 
And as I came anear the branching oak, 
I heard two voices which the silence broke; 
But whose they were, I did not wait to see! 
And what they said? It can be nought to thee! 
For Forest and Stream . 
SMOKE. 
A POST-PRANDIAL POEM. 
HEN you’re w eary, 
Night or day, 
Smoke a cheery 
Yard of clay; 
When I’m smoking, 
Musing, joking, 
There is no king 
Half so gay. 
Lying lazy 
Far from crowds, 
Weaving hazy 
Mental shrouds. 
W T etching furling 
Smoke upwhirling, 
Softly curling 
To the clouds. 
Minds are lifted 
From mere mirth, 
Thoughts then sifted 
Have more worth; 
I am thinking, 
As the shrinking 
Sunset sinking 
Fires the earth, 
Thoughts that sages 
May have had 
In their pages, r 
Grave and glad; 
Thoughts thus seething, 
Like smoke wreathing, 
Sadness breathing, 
Makes me sad. 
Cigar ended— 
Twilight broke; 
Night descended, 
Thus I spoke: 
All that’s jolly, 
Wisdom, folly. 
Melancholy, 
End in smoke. J. Brander Matthews, 
Lotos Club. 
SKETCHES IN FLORIDA. 
THE BIRDS OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 
T HIS is a lovely day. The sun is bright and the air 
balmy—neither too warm nor too cool. I am writing 
by the open window. Everything is as still as if it were 
the Sabbath. Far out in the Bay is a boat, in which sits a 
man, lazily fishing. A querulous crow flies by, hoarsely 
croaking, and the white wing of a gull gleams distantly in 
the sunlight. The old flag is gently floating in the soft 
south wind. The sky is blue, the waves are bright and 
glancing, and a general sense of laziness seems to pervade 
the air, and one feels like leaning on the sill and gazing out 
on the quiet beauty of the scene forever. In the distance, 
above the belt of dark-green trees, is the lighthouse, with 
its pure white tower pointing heavenward, like a tall 
church spire, and its blessed star of hope on the summit. 
Right below it and cresting the sand hills of Anastasia 
Island, is the long line of evergreen, with an occasional 
palm-tree, whose feathery fronds wave above the general 
mass of foliage, the very emblem of grace. To the south 
are the storehouses and buildings for the workmen engaged 
in erecting the new lighthouse, which, when completed, 
will stand one hundred and- eighty feet above the water, 
.with a light of the first order visible twenty-eight miles at 
sea. To the north extend the long line of breakers with 
their white capped crests surging over the bar. Further 
north yet, the snow-white sand of the beach and the inter¬ 
minable line of verdureless “dunes” glisten in the sun. 
Nearer are the wide marshes, so infested with rattlesnakes 
that cattle cannot graze there. Here and there a few 
clumps of scrub relieve the brownish yellow of the marsh. 
Nearer yet is the Bay, shimmering in the sun. On the 
shore, near the sea-wall, the tide is down. A little grey- 
coated sand piper comes tripping along the beach “peeking” 
softly to itself, as if it enjoyed the sun, and perches upon a 
warm stone dressing its feathers. Then comes the sea-wall 
—a monument of governmental patronage and the favorite 
Sabbath evening promenade of Minorca’s dark-eyed 
beauties. At its terminus, far to the north, loom up the 
massive towers and frowning battlements of Fort San 
Marco, the pride of “the ancient city.” How peaceful the 
scene, for peaceful looking it is, notwithstanding the old 
fort glooms in the distance with racks full of g;reat cannon 
balls and field pieces on the parade in the foreground. The 
day was so lovely that, having a few hours’ leisure, I 
thought I would go and see “the birds,” s'o I called on the 
Colonel, who is a capital sailor, and finding him dise’flg&ged, 
we started in his skiff, (y’clept by tlie jokers “tlie Snorting- 
Sea horse,”) and sailed up the Bay about a mile beyond the 
town, passing the old Fort and running in among the bayous 
which intersect the wide marshes. 
Have you ever heard of the birds? I copy a slip.from the 
St. Augustine Irens which will explain the matter:— 
“We witnessed a novel and beautiful sight a few days 
ago at tlie farm of Mrs. H., situated on the North 
River, about two miles above the city. Mrs. H.; ‘in 
the course of a few months, has succeeded in taming the 
wild birds that fly about the place. While we were in the 
bouse Mrs. II. went out to the door and called to the 
birds, which were then, in the middle of the day, in the ad- 
joiug forest. In a few moments a dozen or more blue birds 
and mocking birds came flying around her. Slie then came 
into the bouse and handed each of our party a raisin, which 
we were requested to hold out in our Angers, We remain¬ 
ed still for a few minutes, when the birds hopped in at the 
door, flew upon our hands, and picked the raisins from our 
fingers. We were astonished and could not help wonder¬ 
ing the more when we were informed that none of these 
birds bad been caged, but were thus tamed by tlie gentle¬ 
ness and art of this lady.” 
As it may interest some of your readers, and conduce, 
perhaps, to both pleasure and profit, and aid the cause of 
the feathered tribes by inducing some of our gentle and fair 
friends to aid in their civilization and domestication, I will 
give the result of my trip, which will show the power of 
continued gentleness and kindness with these beautiful 
denizens of our woods. 
After a pleasant drive of a mile or two, over sandy roads 
and through a thick chapparal, we arrived at the little farm 
but found its occupants absent, so we missed seeing the 
birds, which, as it afterwards turned out, would have been 
the case evon had Mrs. H. been at home, for her feathered 
visitors were of those varieties which migrate from the 
north and had not yet returned. We were driving back, a 
good deal disappointed, when on the road we met the old 
lady and her son, so we stopped and held some pleasant 
talk. I told her I had a dear friend in the distant north 
who had read of her birds with interest and was anxious to 
know how she tamed them. I added that my friend loved 
the birds but could not succeed in winning them in their 
wild state to feed from the hand as she had done. Mrs. H. 
seemed much pleased at this and smilingly began to tell 
me how it had been brought about. She is a placid look¬ 
ing old lady about sixty-five, but young and active for her 
years. She and her son, a young man of twenty-five, had 
bought a tract of land about two miles north of this city, 
(St. Augustine.) put up a shingle house, and there they 
lived. They are farmers, sell berries, corn, potatoes, 
poultry, etc., and thus obtain a comfortable livelihood. 
Their house is on the edge of a bayou leading to the North 
River, just between the marshes and the woods on com¬ 
paratively high ground, a pretty site with a fine outlook 
towards the sea. They were very lonely there, however, 
*no near neighbors and but few passers by. 
“It all came of my being so lonely,” said Mrs. II., and I 
give her own words as nearly as I remember—“for the sake 
of company I began to make friends with the birds, though 
the beginning of our friendship was rather accidential, too. 
I always threw out the crumbs from the table, and as I did 
so I noticed a great many birds would come and pick them 
up. They were so pretty and trusting, I thought it would 
be a pleasant tiling to liave them round me, so I determined 
to make a regular habit of feeding them every day, and I 
began to throw my crumbs and hgndsful of grain far from 
the house towards the grove, each day a little nearer and 
nearer ’till I got them right ’round the door. All this time 
I was very careful not to frighten my little friends. I had 
no children about the house, and did not keep either a dog 
or cat, so the quiet could not be broken—there was nothing 
to alarm or startle, and the birds soon became fearless. 
Then,” she added, “my son noticed what I was doing and 
joined me, and by degrees, the birds learned to know him 
and trust him as they did me. After they had been feeding 
’round the door for some time, I put some of the 
crumbs in my hand and held it perfectly still. Then they 
hopped up and began to eat from my fingers. I knew I 
bad their hearts then. Finding I never tried to catch them 
they came into the house, twittered about and fed without 
fear. I now began to call them, and as the little creatures 
knew this meant food, (for I never disappointed them,) they 
learned to know my voice and came readily at my call.” 
Mrs. H. informed me that this continued for some time, 
when strangers heard of it, and began to drive out to see 
her pets, perfect quiet was enjoined, and the touching or 
catching of any bird was carefully prohibited. The little 
creatures were perfectly fearless, coming at her call, no 
matter who was there, and fluttering and twittering about 
her. Many people had been there and seen it. and, said 
she, “I have received many letters inquiring my method 
of so completely taming wild wood birds, but there is noth¬ 
ing about it, no charm, only kindness and perfect freedom 
from harm or annoyance.” The birds went north in the 
spring, and this had been the first year Mrs. II. tried feed¬ 
ing them, and accident and loneliness had brought about 
this pleasant friendship. “I do hope it won’t be broken 
off,” she added earnestly, “I want tlie birds to come back. 
I have learned to love them, so I could not hear them to 
forget me.” 
Such was her story. I assured her that many, if not all 
— . . . ^ 
her birds would return, aiid very likely bring their little 
ones with them, that such were their habits, and if mv 
friend came to this hind of flowers, we would he sure to re¬ 
member and come to see both herself and her birds. I 
must not forget to add that I asked her what kind of birds 
were her guests. “I can hardly tell you,” she said, “there 
are so many that I do not know; but I see plenty of mock¬ 
ing birds amongst them, blue jays, blue birds, robins, and 
little brown birds, which are very sociable.” By these last 
I recognized the friendly little sparrows so familiar to us at 
home. She also told me they expected to build a new 
house, and she wondered if the birds would consider that :t 
safe home and come there too. 
So we parted, she to her lonely home and we to the bar¬ 
racks. But the memory of that scene returns pleasantly to¬ 
me—the quiet road-side shaded by the tall Florida pines— 
the rougli-castajind shaggy horse—and the gentle old lady 
sitting among her baskets with her son by her side. I seem 
to see now her face lit up and shining with sweetness and 
peacefulness as she talked of her pets. That countenance 
radiant with the beauty of a severe kindly spirit—that gen¬ 
tle voice I vividly recall; and as I do so, I do not wonder 
that the very birds of the air learned to trust and love lier. 
For all this told a story that even they could not fail to 
read. 
But I have not taken my friend there yet, nor do I know 
whether the hope of the good old lady has ever been re¬ 
alized, and her friends (the birds,) returned to brighten 
and cheer her declining years, and meet their kindly wel¬ 
come. Long before I shall be able in this everchangino- 
army life to revisit “the ancient city,” the old lady will 
doubtless have gone to her rest. May the birds, as in the 
sweet nursery tradition of “the Babes in the Woods,” hover 
over her grave and lovingly scatter leaves above her peace¬ 
ful breast, Monmouth. 
^ t ^_— 
\ THE GAME OF NORTH CAROLINA. 
Editor Forest and Stream:— 
PRESUME no State in the Union posesses the facilities 
for enjoyment, in the w r ay of fishing and gunning, &c., 
that the old North State does. From early autumn until 
spring, her inland waters, the Albemarle, Pimlico and Cur¬ 
rituck Sounds, as well as the Neuse, Roanoke, Chowan, 
Tar, and Cape Fear Rivers are covered with countless thous¬ 
ands of swan, geese, duck, brant, &c., w T hile along the 
Neuse River (and I speak particularly of this river from the 
fact that I live in New Bern upon it, and know the 
country) can be found thousands of deer. 
To use the expression of an old hunter down the 
river, “there is a deer for every acre of land.” Back a few 
miles the bears are so plentiful, that they have become a 
serious annoyance to the planters, the young pigs being 
picked up to a certainty if they stray into the pocosins late 
in the evening, and the corn fields on their borders possess 
peculiar attractions for bruin. 
As to fish, well hold your breath, we catch more millions 
of all kinds, than you in some of your Eastern States do 
thousands. Trolling for blue fish, the “temnodon saltator” 
is the sport in Beaufort Harbor during the months of Sep¬ 
tember, October and November. 
With one boat and four lines, two years ago, I myself with 
three other gentlemen caught 493 fine fellows, in about five 
hours. I think it the most exciting sport in the world, 
with a fast sailing clinker built sloop-rigged open boat, 
sailing back and forth in the inlet just on the edge of the 
breakers, with the ravenous blue fish snapping at your 
spoon, sometimes taking it before it fairly touches the 
water, with three other jolly fellows, all pulling for dear 
life to heat your score, every fellow with a six pounder 
almost certainly, and at times to have ten to twelve pounds 
of animated fish fast hold of your hook, making your muscles 
crack to pull him in, all constitutes what to my mind is 
the u ne plus ultra" of sport. 
I have known three ladies and one gentleman to take 
with hook and line 290 trout and drum in less than three 
hours, while fishing in this Harbor, their boat anchored in 
one spot, near the railroad wharf. Sixteen miles below 
New Bern and five miles south west of the Atlantic and 
North Carolina railroad, is a chain of four lakes, or rather 
the beds of what were lakes (as they have been pretty 
thoroughly drained), the largest of which, Lake Ellis, is 
about five miles across in every direction, while the others 
are somewhat smaller. These lakes are the resort of thous¬ 
ands of wild geese and black ducks, very few of any other 
kind being found there. 
A few weeks ago I determined to pay them a visit, so 
sending my j^acht Julia around to Slocum’s Creek, which 
runs up very near the railroad, and receives the waters 
from these lakes, through an artificial canal some six or 
seven miles long, we took the cars for Havelock station, 
the nearest point to Lake Ellis, which we reached about 2 ?■ 
M. The Station Agent had secured the services of “Sparks” 
a genuine North Carolina collard staffer , together with his 
cart and critter, for the transportation of ourselves and 
traps. Sparks is a case. I don’t think he could possibly 
speak without cursing. He swore at, and about everything. 
The bars were his particular objective point, ever since he 
got treed by one. Wild cats (by the way there are plenty 
around the lakes) came in for a genero&s share of his atten¬ 
tion. But my breech-loading gun was a little two much for 
Sparks. He noticed something peculiar about it, and 
asked to be allowed to examine it. As I passed the gun to 
his hands, I pressed the lever, and as it touched his palm, 
the gun to his eyes broke in the middle. Astonishing 
was depicted upon every feature of his face, while his 
