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FOREST AND STREAM. 



[March 19, 1885. 



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REMINISCENCES OF CAMP ARMISTEAD. 



DOUBTLESS to niauy of your older readers, as to my- 

 self, the columns of Fobest and Stream often call 

 up scenes and events almost forgotten, and faces whose linea- 

 ments have nearly faded from "memory. Not infrequently 

 upou its printed pages has the well-remembered name of 

 some old-time friend or companion assured me that not as 

 yet had he paid his obolus to the grim ferryman, and some- 

 times a simple phrase or epithet has borne me back into a 

 past peopled with, pleasant memories. I remember how, 

 when I read MeLelland's snipe story, published some years 

 ago, the words "laughing Marion" recalled the happy face 

 of my long-syne schoolmate. Marion L., to whom I was eer- 

 taiu that he alluded. It is, however, to a contribution from 

 • ' Arkansas" published during the past year, giving an account 

 of "one limit of the Capon Club at Camp Armistead, in the 

 valley of Virginia, that I am indebted for a "memory of joys 

 that are past," and Forest aKd Stream for these "reminis- 

 cences. For many a happy day have I too spent at Camp 

 Armistead, and many a time have I breasted the steep sides 

 of old Hanky. But when last I stood upon his bare fore- 

 head the dogs of war had been uncoupled, and from far 

 northward down the wide valley of the Shenaudoah I heard 

 their fierce bayings on the red field of Antietam. Since that 

 memorable day I have, revisited Camp Armistead only in 

 memory, and only through the dim glasses of retrospection 

 have I seen the happy faces that once gathered around its 

 camp-fire. 



There was Shep M., who always shot "by the eye of faith" 

 and— never hit auy thing; and Sam W. with his happy 

 laugh. Alas! the one sleeps beneath the sod of the valley, 

 and much I fear the other's laughter has long since lost its 

 infectious music. There was Capt. Mark and Cousin JDick 

 — every one called him Cousin Dick — who never made an 

 enemy nor ever lost a friend; and Bob C, sans p&w et suns 

 reproche, whose young life crimsoned the sea-rippled sands 

 of Roanoke. And Peyton, noble old Peytou, who next to 

 his wife and children loved his dogs. Tliere, too, was Gar- 

 rett W., ' 'whose wit was humor and whose humor wit;" and 

 Jim G., the story-teller of the camp, with his petrified smile 

 that some were so uncharitable as to call a grin. And old 

 Whack, too, glorious old Whack, who always knew all 

 about if "you know," or it was not made of iron or steel, 

 nor had ever sported horn, hoof or feather; who was always 

 so full — net of whisky, for Whack never tasted a drop in 

 'his life — but of nicotine, that it was hard to tell which were 

 the better colored, he or the meerschaum he was always 

 smoking. Nor must I forget old Mrs. Mac, whom "Arkan- 

 sas" mentioned as occupying the Armistead house. At the 

 time of which 1 write she lived in a cabin some half a mile 

 east of camp, and was quite a sportsman in her way. It 

 would, however, have been very straining on the imagina- 

 tion to think of her ever having followed the chase a "Dian 

 of the silver bow, " while like 



•'Fairly Fair, 

 Her girdle showed her middle gimp, 

 And gowden glist her hair." 



For hers was not that lithe spiritual beauty that Ary Sckef- 

 fer loved to paint, and it were risking little to say that cor- 

 sets had been an unknown quantity in the equation of her 

 life. Neither do 1 think that her vanity had ever hidden her 

 amplitudes in nainsook flummery or frills and furbelows. 

 She had fed upon the ozone of the mountain air, and fattened 

 upon the phosphates of the yellow maize, and when draped 

 in the close folds of her shooting jacket of faded prints, she 

 towered like some "tall admiral" high above the puny 

 statures of her lowland sisters. In sooth, had a sportive cy- 

 clone dropped her among the tiny surf sprites of some modern 

 seaside resort, she would have been a very "Triton among 

 the minnows. " 



When our drivers were out she often ' 'went on duty" in her 

 yard, her armament consisting of a long singlebarrel, whose 

 capacious maw would have put to shame old Kit North's 

 niuckle-mou'd Meg. One day while occupying a stand near 

 her cabin I saw the end of tnat old gun sticking up over the 

 top of the hill that rose between us, and shortly afterward I 

 heard its smothered sneeze, followed by "sic him, Tige. 

 Hold fast to him. Tige." And then the ble'at of the captured 

 deer told me that old Mrs. Mac had my venison, and I wished 

 her — well, back among the bogs of iier forefathers. Upon 

 another occasion at that same stand 1 pitched up my Rich- 

 ards at a ^spike buck as he came full tilt down the steep 

 mountain spur, and as he did not fall gave him my second 

 barrei after he had passed me. The last shot was, however, 

 a useless expenditure. The shot in my first barrel had clum^ 

 pered, and at a distance of thirty-five yards had bored a hole 

 behind the shoulder that I could run my arm through. His 

 momentum had literally deadheaded him down the steep 

 ridge some forty or fifty yards. When old Mrs. Mac came 

 over to learn the result of my shots, 1 told her that I had 

 gotten a nice fat old hare this time. Her eyes, however, f ail- 

 ing upon the deer, she said if I didn't know a cotton-tail rab- 

 bit from a spike- buck 1 had better go home to my mammy. 

 Then she asked me if I was not hungry, and how long it had 

 been since I was weaned, and several other entirely irrele- 

 vant questions. I was right glad when she went away. 



Ah, I was younger then, in heart as well as years, than I 

 am now. 



Eheu fugaoes, Postume, Postume, 

 Lamintur anni. 



But, thank heaven, although Time has whitened my scanty 

 locks, not yet for me is "the grasshopper a burden," but still 

 for me the blue sky is blue and the green earth beautiful, 

 and for me the birds still sing and the winds and waters 

 make music. 



But a truce to such reflections. Let us back to Camp 

 Armistead, and while the darkness deepens in the valley, 

 where our camp-fire burns brighter with the fast falling 

 night, let us listen to a story of the Crawford hunt that Gar- 

 ret W. is telling to those who are gathered around it. It was 

 of old Uncle Dabney Carr, "the white-haired old patriarch," 

 as he called him, that his story ran. How once upon a time 

 the old man had asked him to "drive us down a mealy nose 

 from Alick's .Nob, friend Garrett;" how some of the thought- 

 less boys had drawn the shot from the old man's gun, and 

 then came a great buck, ten-pronged and with a spoor like 

 an elephant's, and jumped into the pool by which he was 

 standing, and shook his antlers in Dabney's face and pawed 

 the water all over him, and then went rattling down stream 

 over the smooth stones, with his flag up and not a single 

 shot-hole in his dun hide. And how it almost broke the old 

 man's heart, that must, he said, have been as big as a flour 

 barred if it half filled the case he carried it in. 



Peace to your ashes, old friend; for your feet have long 

 trod the happy hunting grounds, and oftimes, while listening 

 to the swelling chorus of the chase, I have fancied that you, 

 too, leaned and listened, 



"From yon blue heavens above us bent," 

 to that music of "horn and hounds" you loved so well. 



But now across the camp-fire's blaze, as they busied them- 

 selves over the platters, come the voices of our colored con- 

 tingent. It is Joe who speaks, "1 don't bTeve er word on 

 it, Unk Samp." 



"You dunno what you bTeve," replies Samp, "time you 

 git ole ez I is, you'll bTeve er heap more n you know," then 

 turning to one of our party, "Tell us er bout it ergin, Mars 

 Peyton." 



Joe was only an ordinary everyday cornfield negro, but 

 our old colored friend Sampson was a character. In his 

 youth Samp had owned a portly "old Virginia gentleman." 

 but mint juleps and peach and honey had been too much for 

 the old F. F. V., and the orchard had died long ago, with 

 the yellows, and the mint was growing green over the old 

 master's grave, and Samp was an orphan, made one by the 

 old master's last will and testament. In other words Samp 

 was an old issue, ante-bellum free negro. Together with his 

 freedom and his old master's blue-brass-button-swallow-tail- 

 coat, old Samp had inherited all of the dignity of his aristo- 

 cratic belongings. Add to this dignity a self-conceit so 

 easily lifting itself up by its own boot straps, that it never 

 permitted him to acknowledge his ignorance upon auy sub- 

 ject, and bred a vanity that was forever airing the spotted 

 green and gold of its peacock plumage. Besides this Samp 

 had hardly a speaking acquaintance with truth, in the 

 abstract or otherwise; while, strange to tell, he would readily 

 give credence to any absurdity he might hear, and seemed 

 the more readily to believe any story the less he understood 

 about it. It follows, therefore, that there was no such word 

 as "jest" in Samp's lexicon, and that he was as little liable 

 to take a joke as if he had in his youth been vaccinated with 

 laughing gas. 



"Well, Samp," said P.. in reply to Samp's appeal "to tell 

 us about it ergin, Mars Peyton." "I don't mind telling it 

 over again to you, but some of these boys seemed disposed 

 to smile when I told it yesterday." 



"But I knows it fur a fack, Mars Peyton," interrupted 

 Samp, "i knows it fur a fack, sir, you did kill dat deer er 

 mile." 



"O, no," said P., "1 only said that I was on one ridge and 

 the deer was on another, and that to get to him after! shot 

 him, I had to make my way down into and around the head 

 of the ravine, so that I must have traveled nearly a mile." 



"Jess so," said Samp, and then turning and addressing the 

 camp, "I tells this yer boy Joe, gentermens, dat Mars Pey- 

 ton kill dat deer er mile, an' he say he don' bTeve it, but ef 

 Mars Peyton had ter go er mile ter git ter dat deer, don' it 

 stah ter reason dat bullit had ter go er mile too? Jess-so, you 

 see, gentermens'?" he continued, laying the forefinger of his 

 right hand into the palm of his left, "de contractions ov de 

 yerth des drawed dat bullit down inter dat holler au' den de 

 extractions ov de yerth des drawed it up ergin on tother side 

 twell it git eben wid dat deer, an' den it des bored him right 

 fru, sir." And Samp, sighting along the forefinger of the 

 right hand, thrust it through a hole formed by the forefinger 

 and thumb of the left. 



"The first instance on record [of the trajectory being on 

 the lower side," said Sam W. 



"Jess so," said Samp, and then continued, "I tells you alls 

 gentermens, you des hole dat long gun ov Mars Peyton's 

 lebel an dat bullitt boun' ter hit surnfin," and turning to our 

 story teller, ''aint what I tells you so. Mars Jeems?"' 



"Yes," says Jim, "it's just as plain to my mind that Peyton 

 killed that deer a mile as that old Mrs. Mulrooney's* pig 

 turned to a 'possum." 



But it is growing late and the camp-fire burns low, and 

 although Samp stands expectant to learn the relation between 

 a pig turning to a 'possum and the feat of killing a deer a 

 mile, Jim will not tell his story to-uight; for the tired hunt- 

 ers are seeking their beds, and soou the stars alone will keep 

 watch over Camp Armistead, silent save when some heavy 

 sleeper sounds his basso-profundo, or whimpering hound 

 follows "over bank, brush and scaur" the phantom deer of 

 his troubled dreams. Tuckaitoe. 



THE INOFFENSIVE CANUCK. 



Editor Forest and Stream; 



1 cannot refrain from adding a few words in support of 

 my old friend "Stanstead," concerninff the French Canadian 

 poacher, and I can heartily indorse "Caribou" iu his truth- 

 fully depicted character of the same, in your issue of March 

 5. I do not wish to cast a slur on the French Canadian; I 

 solely refer to the poachers. My own experience with them 

 is identical with "Stanstead," andin proof of their law-break- 

 ing propensities, I will cite an instance. 



Two years ago last April a couple of French Canadians, 

 who folowed the profession of guides in summer when they 

 they could get sportsmen, crossed over from the Province of 

 Quebec into Maine and took up their quarters near the head 

 of the Magalloway River. They remained there a little over 

 a week, and duriug that time slaughtered in the deep snow 

 and crust six moose — out of this number five were cows 

 and four had twin calves in utero. They did not carry out 

 the meat, but left it to rot; all they brought away was the 

 skins. The same parties are now hiding in Maineto escape 

 arrest for having killed a moose in August across the border 

 in Canada. They eke out an existence by guiding during 

 July, August and September, when their chief delight is in 

 floating for deer. As soon as fall sets in they commence with 

 their nets and seines upon the spawning beds, which practice 

 they follow up in spring again, as soon as the ice clears out 

 of the lakes. During the winter they bring their cunning to 

 bear in trapping fur-bearing animals and all sorts of game 

 from the partridge to the moose. 1 was informed upon "good 

 authority that one of the same men caught a two-year bull 

 moose in a bear trap which he had set in a deer runway, but 

 did not discover his catch till the carcase had decayed. 



This class of poachers, and their name is legion, follow 

 this role of wholesale slaughter and extermination, not from 

 a love of the sport (if I may be allowed to use the term in 

 such a meaning), but do it for a living, for filthy lucre, as 

 they are too lazy and indolent to follow agricultural pursuits, 

 or any honest mode of making a living. 



I cite this one example; I could quote many, but this is 

 sufficient to show the game inspectors of Maine, that the un- 

 assuming Canuckis not so harmless as supposed and that 

 their pernicious habits must be checked if we wish to keep 

 the State of Maine what it is at present — a paradise for 

 sportsmen. H. B. 



Boston, March 10,'.1885 



IN GOSHEN'S HOLE. 



I^HE sun was high in the heavens before we were astir in 

 - the morning, and the programme for the day was to 

 be an antelope hunt on the flat. Grill: and Graham had 

 saddled their horses and started away immediately after 

 breakfast, leaving Tuck and Doc to put the camp iii order 

 when they too started for the end of Box Elder Creek. 

 Riding in the shelter of the trees, an hour brought them to 

 the open country where the creek sinks. 



A few hundred yards beyond a bunch of range cattle were 

 grazing iu the tall grass among the sage brush, and still be- 

 yond them was a band of perhaps a hundred antelope quietly 

 feeding. We tied our horses, and under cover of the cattle 

 slowly decreased the distance between ourselves and the 

 game. On approaching quite near to the cattle they became 

 uneasy, moving about in a manner which was bound to put 

 the antelope on their guard, for they often take their cue by 

 noticing the movements of the cattle, and leaving even when 

 they cannot divine the reason. 



Now we were obliged to get down on all fours and crawl 

 under cover of the sage brush until we were in shooting dis- 

 tance of the antelope. Lying quietly and submitting to the 

 inspection of the curious cattle until* they were satisfied that 

 we were not after them, they resumed their feeding, and all 

 was quiet. Slowly on hands and knees we lessened the dis- 

 tance between us and the antelope. After an hour's tedious 

 work we _ were beyond the friendly shelter of the sage brush, 

 and nothing to hide our movements if we even raised our 

 heads. Presently they commenced to move about in au un- 

 easy, restless manner, as though they were suspicious of 

 some hidden danger. There was nothing for us to do but 

 wait or "turn loose" and take the desperate chances of hit- 

 ting something at a long and uncertain distance. 



We had both read that old hunters frequently attached a 

 flag or cloth to a stick with which to attract 'the attention 

 and curiosity of the antelope, but whether it was a white 

 flag or a red one we had forgotten or could not agree upon ; 

 so we compromised the matter by making use of Tuck's red 

 and white bandanna handkerchief, but whether the colors 

 were not blended in proper proportion or whether the ante- 

 lope wanted their colors "straight," it was a signal failure, 

 so down came the sign. 



Meanwhile the cattle had strung out and were heading for 

 the creek to get their morning and mid-day drink, and we 

 were in hopes the antelope would follow them. We eon- 

 eluded that rather than he any longer on the frozen ground 

 to chance a few shots, and firing, we caused a commotion 

 in that little bunch. They circled arouud and came to 

 within two hundred yards of us before they saw us. Then 

 stringing out, away they went up the side of a far-off hill, 

 not one of them touched by lead. 

 Jump, jump, jump, 



Through the tall, rank grass, oh, lope: 

 And I would that my gun could reach you. 

 Though it will some time, I hope. 



And the graceful 'lopes lope on 



To their shelter beyond the hill. 

 But oh for the touch of a solid ball 



And the sight of a Tope that is still. 



They had approached the top when Doc, without, any 

 idea of accomplishing anything, gave them a parting shot. 

 Up went a big buck — down he came, and remained on the 

 hillside, while his companions passed on and vanished in 

 the whichness of the whither. 



Unable to measure accurately, we agreed to call the kill- 

 ing distance of the last shot six hundred yards, and what 

 was our surprise w r hen dressing the antelope to be unable to 

 discover any mark of a bullet. We brought up one of our 

 saddle horses, and reached camp by the middle of the after- 

 noon, and submitted our victim to the inspection of Griff 

 and Graham, who had had an unsuccessful day's hunt. 

 They carefully examined hide, hair and flesh of our ante- 

 lope, but no mark of bullet could they find. Graham, in a 

 tone of jealousy probably caused by our better luck, averred 

 that our buck had died of heart disease, and vowed he 

 would never dine off of meat that had died iu that way. "I 

 don't think I owe my stomach any such grudge as that," 

 Came the business sun of the next morning bright enough, 

 cold enough, with just enough of frost in the five-mile breeze 

 to make locomotion comfortable among the canons. The 

 brown of the bluffs made a fine background for the gieen of 

 the pine aud cedar. Hurrying .clouds cast their shadows 

 over hill and level, and with the breeze in our faces, Tuck 

 and Doc, in light marching order, started for two black- 

 tailed deer. Our figures were modest. Only two was the 

 number we wanted. Supposing we were to strike a bunch 

 of six or eight? We would probably be like the money - 

 making banker or merchant, who commenced life with a 

 hoped-for fortune of a million dollars as the goal of his ambi- 

 tion, and reaching that, was desirous of doubling it before 

 retiring and enjoying his success. 



Passing over the middle of the first spur, which jutted out 

 into the open, we were descending among the sage brush on 

 the opposite side, when Tuck whispered down close, ' 'There 

 go three deer crossing at the head of the canon." Quickly 

 we dropped down among the sage brush, which fortunately 

 was high and thick enough to afford ample hidiug places 

 from which to watch the movements of the deer. They were 

 now in plain sight, about four or five hundred yards from 

 us and toward the head of the canon, slowly crossing to the 

 other side. Two bucks and a doe, they loomed up in mag- 

 nificent form, pretty as a yellow wagon with a spring seat; 

 every movement full of unconscious grace, with such a 

 measure of reserved power, that we were strongly inclined to 

 let them escape us and we return to camp. There was, how- 

 ever, a much stronger inclination not to do anything of the 

 kind, so we waited and watched. Down the hillside and out 

 of sight into a deep gully they went, and up again on the 

 further side they slowly traveled, and in such a direction as 

 not to materially increase the distance at which we first dis- 

 covered them. 



Presently they rounded a point of rocks and were lost to 

 view. Now was our time to cross the gully below us and 

 trail them if they were still on the move, Reaching the 

 bottom of the gully we continued up under its shelter for 

 some distance beyond where we saw the deer tracks crossing 

 before we ventured to climb the opposite side. The point of 

 rocks where the deer disappeared was now our objective 

 point, and we were where we could see beyond it. The deer 

 were yet on the move, apparently headed for a large cedar 

 tree growing by the side of a washout some little distauce 

 above them. We were at the rocky point before again 

 venturing a look for our game. They were slowly nearing 

 the big eedar, reaching which, sure enough they stopped. If 

 they laid down our course was simply to move forward on 



