382 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[June 13, 1684. 



r (he Sparfettfmi %onri$L 



UNCLE LISHA'S SHOP. 



n. 



ONE night -when the November wind was growling among 

 the stunted firs that crest old "'Tater Hill," already 

 grizzly with more than one snowfall, the brotherhood of 

 hunters and fishers, story-tellers and listeners came stumbling 

 along the rough frozen roads and across the frosty fields to 

 Lisha's shop. The little box stove was no louger cold ; its 

 red jaws grinned defiance at approaching winter, and its 

 cheeks blushed with a ruddier glow than the summer's rust 

 had given them, and its warmth heightened the odors of 

 tannin, wax and moldy boots that always hold their own in 

 the atmosphere of the cobbler's shop.' The firing of the 

 stove would have unseated two visitors if a couple of sap 

 tubs with a board laid across them had not made room for 

 twice as many, and this was now the coveted first place for 

 the coldest comers to sit in and thaw out their chilled mar- 

 rows and their wells of conversation. To this extent had 

 Sam Lovel been warmed when he opened his lean jaws and 

 said with a sigh of pent-up satisfaction, "Ah, wal, Lisher, 

 I ketched a-nuther bear t'day." 



"Dew tell!" said Lisha, drawing hard on the waxed ends 

 with which he was closing up a ripped boot-leg. "Wal, 

 Sam, was he 's heavy 's ole Cap'n Powerses hog was? 

 'Killed tew hogs terday,' sez 'e, 'both on 'em good ones, but 

 one on 'em was a sollaker, I tell ye — weighed ninety!' Was 

 ye' bear 's heavy 's that, Sam?" 



"Wal," Sam asked, "haows three bund'ed an' seventy- 

 seven? That's his heft ezackly." 



"Real weight or guess weight?" some one asked. 



"Why, real weight, 'f course, an' no guessin' 'baout it." 



"Where 'd ye weigh him?" 



"T' hum." Sam replied shortly. 



"Sho!" sneered the doubter, "ye haint got no scales nor 

 bolances! Haow could ye weigh 'im t' hum?" 



' ' Wal, naow, I did weigh 'i m fair an' hones', an' he weighed 

 jist ezackly what I tell ye. I c'n lift jist three hund'ed an' 

 fifty paound, an' 1 couldn't lift him inter j-e-s-t twenty-seven 

 paound. Naow 'f that don't make three hund'ed and seventy- 

 seven, I haint got no 'rethmytic." 



A long young man, whose arms and shanks seemed to 

 have lengthened beyond his means to keep them clothed, 

 venturedto say as he looked admiringly upon his new buck- 

 skin mittens, too precious to be taken off his hands, but 

 kept opening and closing and turning on them just before 

 his eyes, "The's a painter a hantin' on Hogs Back, I dew 

 raly b'lieve, I hearn the gol darnedest yollupin' up there 

 t'other night, julluck a womern a hollerin', 'n' I hollered, 

 'n' it arnswered, an' comiu' nigher, n' then I started my boots 

 fer hum, l tell ye!" 



"Sho! Sho! Peltier, yew git aout!" Lisha roared, for he 

 thought it his exclusive right to see and hear all strange 

 things first, " 'Twan't nothin' but a big aowl, 1 bet ye!" 



"Twan't no aowl," cried Peltiah, clapping his mittened 

 palms together with a resounding smack, " 'twas a anny- 

 mill! Guess 1 know a naowl when 1 hear 'im!" 



"Wal, mebby 'twas a lynk. A lynk '11 git up a c'nsid'able 

 'f a skeery yowkV, 'n mebby 'twas tew ole tomcats a fightin' 

 up 't ye' west barn. D'ye ever hear, boys," Lisha continued 

 without waiting for any reply from Peltiah, "baout Joel 

 Bartlett's Irishmun 't he sent up inf the aidge o' the parster a 

 choppin' one day? Didn't ye, none on ye? Wal, up he went, 

 and bimeby he come a runnin' back scairt half ter death, an' 

 hollerin' 'niurther! O, murther! it's a painter 1 seen, sure 's 

 me name 's Pat Murphy!' 'Show!' sez Joel, 'haow 'd he look, 

 Patrick?' 



" 'Wal,' sez Pat, 'he was yolly, sur, an' he had a long tail 

 on 'im.' 



" Wal, naow, Patrick, wa'n't it aour ole yaller tomcat?' 



" 'Be gob, sur, it moight,' sez Pat, an' he lit his pipe an' 

 went back to his choppin' 's contented 's if the' hedn't never 

 ben a painter in V'mont." 



Peitiah's panther being thus contemptuously disposed of, 

 the conversation turned for a time to owls. 



"Aowls," said Lisha, as he rolled a waxed end upon his 

 aproned knee, "'11 make a turable onairthly an' skeery noises, 

 p'tic'ly big aowls, which the's more 'n one kind on 'em, hoot 

 aowls* an' white aowls 'n I d' know wdiat aowls. I've bed 

 'em make my hair stair right stret up, sence I was older 'n 

 Peltier is, tew." 



"Wal, I don't keer a darn what ye say," said Peltiah, after 

 breathing through the back of his right hand mitten to as- 

 sure himself for the hundredth time that it was genuine 

 buckskin, '"twant no aowl 't I heard, 'twas a nannymill! 'FI 

 hed me a rifle I'd go a huntin' on 'im," but he could arouse 

 no interest in his panther further than the offer from Jonas 

 Gove of his rifle for half the bounty if the panther was 

 killed, or a half a dollar a day for the use of the weapon, 

 which was declined. 



Tom Hamlin said that he had heard "a dozen gret aowls a 

 hootin' an' a shoutin' as he come along." 



"Yaas, Tawmus," said Solon Briggs, who was weather- 

 wise as well as otherwise, "so'd 1, an' the's goin' to be some 

 kind o' fallin' weather 'fore long, you see 'f the' haint." 



"Wal, vas," Tom assented, "most alius the' is arter they 

 hoot so. "Haow d' y' 'caount for it, Sole?" 



"Waal, I'll tell ye, Tawmus. I've meddytated on 't c'n- 

 sid'able an' my idee 'a this"— crossing his legs and putting his 

 right forefinger into the palm of his left hand— "D'ye ever 

 have the rheumatiz?" 



"Yas, I've hed 'cm." 



" 'N' wa'n't they wus "fore a storm?" 



Tom nodded repeatedly, and said "they was wus." 



"Waal, naow then," Solon coutinued, "the aowls 't we 

 hear is big aowls, an' nat'ally they're old aowls, 'n' they've 

 got the rheumatiz, an' when the's a storm a-comin'_on the 

 rheumatiz begin to rack 'em, an' they holler aout. Haint that 

 re'son'ble neow, and"— looking around upon the company 

 and bringing down his finger with a clinking smack upon his 

 palm— "and phillysoffycable, so to speak?" 



"P'haps," said Lisha, as he rasped his knife upon the sand- 

 stone, "somebuddy could tell us suthin' 'baout shootin' 

 aowls; haow is it, Jozeff?" he asked, looking between his 

 shago-y eyebrows and the* top of his spectacles at a thickset 

 fellow who was taking his ease in a further corner of the 

 shop. . ,,. , 



"Naow, Lisher," said Joseph, "yeou keep on tellm yer 

 stories an' lemme 'lone, if yeou pleass." 



"Jozeff," said Lisha in a terrible voice, shaking his knife 

 at the unwilling story-teller, "yeou tell 'baout ye shootin' the 

 aowl, er I will !" ... ,.. 



"Wal then," said Joseph, slowly getting into a sitting 



posture and knocking the ashes from his pipe, "I guess 

 you'd make it wus 'n I would, 'n' so I'll tell it. Ye see,' the' 

 was a big aowl come, gol blast him, an' kcrried off half a 

 •dozen, I d' know but more, no mebbe baout that 'maount o' 

 M'ris' chickins, an' I tole M'ri, I did, 't I'd fix him 'fore he 

 knowed it. So next night, 1 guess mebbe next night arter, 

 one er t'other anyhaow, I looked aout the winder an' I seen 

 him a sittin' on a close pos' an' I got my gun, I did, an' hid. 

 M'ri open the winder kinder easy, an' I poked the gun aout 

 an' onhitched on 'im, I did; but somehaow the gun wa'n't 

 loaded fur aowls, er I was too fas', er suthin, an' I never 

 teched 'im ! Shot over, I s'pose. any way I thought I did. 

 Wal, next Monday night when theclosewas all a hangin' 

 aout, he come agin, he did, an' sot on the same close pos'. 

 1 hed the ole gun already, an' M'ri opened the winder agin, 

 an' I ran 'er aout, an' took dead aim a foot below th' aowl, 

 fur sez I to myself, sez I, I won t overshoot this time, sez 1, 

 an' 1 let flicker, an' I be darned if I didn't miss him, but, by 

 gosh ! I blowed my harnsome shirt 't hung right below 'im 

 all to flinders, I did. It tickled M'ri t' think 't 1 made sech 

 a good shot, an' I spec' she tole on it. I didn't, not fust, 1 

 don't b'lieve, V Lisher, darn his ole picter, he got holt on it." 

 When the laugh subsided, Joseph added, "Wal, 'twa'n't a 

 bear, 'n' he didn't tear my insides aout, if my shirt did git 

 tore!" 



Uncle Lisha tossed the mended boot to its owner, who 

 sat nursing the stockinged foot to which it belonged, and 

 laying aside his tools arose and took off his apron, which 

 was a signal to his visitors to depart, find so they faded 

 away in the starlit night. Awahsoose. 



Vermont. 



LASSOING A MAN-EATER. 



I SPENT the month of February in Nassau, New Provi- 

 dence, with two most congenial companions. While I 

 am not much given to keeping an elaborate diary, still I 

 could not refrain on this occasion from making a few notes 

 of the events of each day. The following is just as it was 

 written at the time and is merely a note book jotting: 



"Johnson, what is that dark object between us and the 

 lighthouse?" I asked as something caught my eye bobbing up 

 and down on the waves. 



"That, sir, is a dead cow, sir; they towed it out from 

 Nassau this morning, sir, and it won't be long before the 

 sharks have it eaten up too, sir." 



Sure enough, scarcely were the words out of our skipper's 

 mouth before I saw a black fin slowly glide around the 

 floating carcass, then a flap of a great tail out of water, and 

 we could see the man-eater at his breakfast. 



"Quick! Johnson. Steer for it." 



Nearer we came, and standing on the boat's thwart, I 

 counted seven sharks, some feeding, some circling about and 

 others fighting; at least they seemed to be quarreling over 

 the choice morsel that had fallen into their jaws. Oh, for a 

 gun, revolver, or even a large hook of some' kind. Here was 

 a chance to gratify a long-cherished wish. How many times 

 the Judge had said: "I don't take any stock in this fishing 

 for salt-water fish with a long hand line over the side of a 

 boat, but I would like to catch a shark. " Now here was 

 just the opportunity and we had nary a thing to make the 

 capture with. By this time we had made the carcass fast to 

 the boat's stern with a light line, and the anchor had been 

 dropped to prevent our being carried out by the tide. We 

 sat in silence and watched these tigers of the deep for per- 

 haps an hour. By that time they had eaten the entire head 

 and a large part of the body. They seemed to care not a bit 

 for us, now rubbing against the frail boat's sides, again dash- 

 ing with head out of water clear on top of the cow. Some 

 of them were monsters fully fourteen feet long, others were 

 not more than one-half that length. The little fellows would 

 watch their chance, when the big ones had taken their bite 

 and retired, to rush in, make a grab and scoot, and all this 

 time we sat and looked on and could do nothing. Once the 

 Judge remarked : 



"Billy, you have the reputation of always being loaded, 

 or at least carrying a shooting-iron. Now I am sorry to be 

 disappointed in you. " "Frequently a man has a tough repu- 

 tation, Judge," I replied, "but he is the victim of circum- 

 stances. Now I will admit I look hard and tough, but I am 

 not the cowboy in every sense of the word, though I get the 

 discredit of it." 



At first we were rather afraid of the great jaws and wicked 

 eyes, but the old saying, "familiarity breeds contempt," was 

 again illustrated. I picked up a small sponge hook such as 

 the sponge hookers of these islands use in bringing up 

 sponges from the bottom. The staff was broken, so it was 

 only four or five feet long, but it was strong enough to hit 

 one a smart rap on the head with, and after rapping a few 

 of them 1 had the monsters well stirred up. 



I had spent a winter on a cattle ranch in Texas some years 

 before and there learned to throw the lasso, and the thought 

 came to me that I might rope a shark. They had no horns 

 certainly to throw the rope over, but I once could pick up a 

 steer's foot when said steer was under tolerably fair head- 

 way, and why not get a noose around a shark? 



The wind had nearly died out. Nassau lay two or three 

 miles to the southward, as sunny and white as always. Had 

 there been breeze enough we would have anchored the de- 

 funct bossy and sailed 'to the town so near and yet so far, 

 and got a gun or spear, and returned and filled the boat with 

 sharks. But, of course, the wind had failed us, besides we 

 would in all likelihood have found the cow very much 

 wasted upon our return. 



I took the main sheet, fastened one end to the mast and 

 cpuickly made a noose in the other. I noticed that a number 

 of the sharks came at a good speed, and as they neared the 

 cutter they would turn nearly belly up, and grab a chunk 

 from the under side. If it was not readily detached they 

 would grab again for a fresh hold and frequently would lift, 

 the entire body nearly clear from the water. 



I knew it would be no use to try for one of these under- 

 handed chaps, but waited for one to tackle the outside hold. 

 I had not long to wait. Some ten or fifteen rods away I 

 saw one coming that I knew meant business. There was a 

 sort of a ten-pounds- of-rouud-steak-and-give-it-to-me-quick 

 expression about his countenance that I particularly liked. 

 He was not as large as some of them, but would do for a 

 starter. On he came, with no bashfulness or diffidence 

 noticeable, and dropped his jaw or else raised his head and 

 left the lower jaw where St was, I cannot say which, as I 

 was becoming just a trifle excited. At any rate, about the 

 time he had his head nearly two feet out of water and had 

 made up his mind to grab right then, the rope was thrown 

 and, as good luck would have it, struck in the proper place, 

 and his head was well in it as I straightened it out with a 

 good strong jerk; the noose tightened eight or ten inches be- 

 hind his gills and then the fun commenced, also the ex- 



citement. Just imagine you were there. I yelled as 

 the rope fetched up with a savage yank that seemed 

 about to take the mast out of the craft, but it 

 did the business, as it tightened it so that Mr, Shark had no 

 other wind than that tied up in him. He pitched, tugged, 

 plunged, twisted, reared, snorted and squirmed. He didn't 

 skip a note, and after he had finished all of these common- 

 place maneuvers, he put in a few on his own hook (this is 

 not a pun). Though the rope was fastened to the mast near 

 the center of the boat, the terrific exertions of the choking 

 shark sent us whirling in every direction. After awhile he 

 began to show signs of having'enough of everything except 

 stale air and strength, and as he quieted down we pulled him 

 alongside and belabored his head with a club and I out with 

 my knife and stuck it into him where I thought it would do 

 the most good. He gave up completely. 1 think the life was 

 choked out of him. With a strong pull and a pull all to- 

 gether we brought him over the side and into the boat, We 

 did not care to be on too familiar terms with him at first, as 

 he might have' been playing "possom and come to, and one 

 swish of that tail would have taken us oil' our pins. 



After the deed was done, we shook hands, the Judge and 

 I, and thought how we could crow over Jack, who, as 

 usual, was„afraid it was going to blow and had us put him 

 ashore that morning after we had started. Our next move 

 was for shore, to glory over our fellow men. "Now. John- 

 son, let go that bovine remnant, up anchor and for Nassau. 

 This beats 'groupers.' No such fishing have they had here 

 this winter." The light breeze slowly fills the sail, and we 

 glide toward the town, and all impatience, whistle for a 

 stronger pufl', but whistling don't always bring it, so we had 

 to wait. It seemed as though we would never reach the 

 stone steps ruaiked by the flagstaff in the distance, but with- 

 out many more tacks we are there. Jumping ashore, a dar- 

 key is sent after a donkey cart, and the loungers alwa3 r s 

 found on the wharf lend a willing hand — expecting the pen- 

 nies, of course — to haul the captive ashore and onto the cart. 

 Then the triumphal march begins. It is led by the Judge 

 and myself, arm in arm, followed by the sleepy burro, draw- 

 ing the cart, on which was laid the eleven feet and eight 

 inches of shark; and as the papers say, "citizens on foot" 

 brought up the rear, said citizens consisting of a string of 

 twenty or thiry negroes in usual Nassau winter costumes, 

 i. e., pants, part of a shirt and a hat. We proceed up the 

 narrow street into the hotel yard, and halt attlie doorway of 

 the Royal Victoria, unload* the freight on the greensward 

 beneath the "gumber limber tree, sah." 



We are the heroes of the season, as we modestly relate 

 the story of the shark. I let the Judge tell it, his reputation 

 for truth being better than mine. Johnson and the dead fish 

 verify his statement and uo impertinent questions are asked. 

 But where is Jack? The Judge intimated that he is prob- 

 ably in the shade keeping his "skin from cracking." We 

 easily found him and dragged him forth. 



"Jack," said the Judge, "what kind of fish do they catch 

 here?" Without a moment's hesitation he named the same 

 old string that we had heard from every darkey on the 

 island from one to six times. "Margate fish, hamlet fish, 

 mutton fish, yellow snapper, runner, grunt, hind," and ended 

 as ever, "dar be de grouper." 



"Well, sol have understood," replied his Honor, "come up 

 here, we have caught a grouper." The story was gone over 

 again, and we had a jelly cocoanut with Jack. So much for 

 ODe of the most enjoyable of the many happy days at Nassau. 



1 have now against the wall of my den the backbone and 

 tail, also the polished jaws with their six rows of serrated 

 teeth of the man-eater, and they bring back to memory the 

 svmny island with its white city set in verdure, its cleau 

 blue green waters and coral reefs, fruits and darkies, and 

 plants, and there comes over me a wish to catch another 

 shark ere I grow too old. Wm. B. Mekshon. 



East Saginaw, Mich. 



HOW OLD M1STIS KILT ER BAR. 



ONE bright Sabbath morning in the early spring, after 

 eating a late breakfast, I lighted my pipe and strolled 

 down to the border of the little lake, near which stood my 

 modest domicile. There, squatted d la Turk upon two 

 cypress logs toggled together and projecting into the lake, I 

 found my ancient colored friend Stephen Slaughter. Sitting 

 there upon this quiet Sabbath morning engaged in kneading 

 cotton lint into a ball of dough, at peace with the whole 

 world and without a single care for the future, he was doubt- 

 less happier than a billionaire would ever dare to be. 



Albeit never disposed to censure my fellow man for indulg- 

 ing, even upon the Sabbath day, in any of those innocent 

 pleasures or recreations that serve to lighten the burdens of 

 life, and although in the present case 1 felt a sympathy with, 

 and condoned the sin, if any, of the peaceful occupation in 

 which my old friend was preparing to engage, yet envious 

 perhaps of the happiness and contentment that shone in 

 every linament of his dusky face, and hung in every fold of 

 his tattered raiment, 1 began to lecture him upon its evil. 

 He looked down shamefacedly, and listened in silence until I 

 made an end of my sermon, by asking him if he was not 

 aware that he was breaking One of the sacred precepts of 

 the Decalogue. Pretending not to understand the meaning 

 of my language, he looked around him, as if examining th« 

 stability of his seat, and replied very quietly that he did not 

 think "deni logs were gwine ter break." 



Feeling that my lecture was a failure, I sat down on the 

 bank near him, and soon began to take an interest in his un- 

 sportsmanlike proceedings. The game he was preparing to 

 eusnare is a habitant of the waters of the South and West, 

 known by the name of buffalo— a scaly, sucker-mouthed 

 fish, often attaining a weight of from twenty to forty pounds. 

 They are rather a coarse fish and full of bones, but not un- 

 palatable when caught at the proper season. Our colored 

 friends sometimes jerk or dry them in the sun, but when 

 cooked after uudenioiug this operation the aroma exhaled is 

 not exactly that which is wafted from orange groves or the 

 "Gardens of Gull." My old friend's manner of capturing 

 these "butlers,'' as he called them, was as follows: To the 

 end of a short line, which was attached to the extremity of a 

 stout pole, he fastened several large hooks so as to have their 

 bearded points project all around from a common center. 

 This he called a grab. Upon the same line, above the larger 

 hooks, he tied several small hooks, and these he baited with 

 the dough into which I had found liim kneading the cotton 

 lint. The float upon his line, when the hooks were lowered 

 into the water, informed him of a "nibble,' when a quick 

 jerk of the heavy pole drove the large hooks of the grab into 

 his unsuspecting victim and he was lifted out of his element 

 by main strength, and without either compunction or senti- 

 ment on the part of his captor. 



Steve, after having baited his hooks and dropped them 



