64 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Feb. 18, 1886. 



admirer of the great chief whose face adorned the wall. At 

 parting he promised to visit us and spend a night in camp, 

 a promise which unforeseen duties afterward compelled him, 

 much to our regret, to retract. Twelve weeks later, he stood 

 on the scaffold beside Louis Kiel, and saw the sun of the 

 northwest rebellion set in the gloom of unaccomplished pur- 

 poses and the price paid to the uttermost, of treason to a 

 crown. 



It was three o'clock and 'after before we were again back 

 to the lake, where after dinner with our friends we set out 

 for camp in the teeth of the wind which was still blowing 

 hard up the lake. It took three hours to make the landing 

 in front of the tent, and by the time we were housed the 

 Colonel and Captain were on hand to hear the tale of the day's 

 adventures. Sabbattis too, in wonderment at the deserted 

 camp which he had discovered in the forenoon, dropped in 

 to learn the cause. It was the first visit from the old man 

 which we had received since our unlucky expedition for lake 

 trout, a failure which he cudgeled his brains in vain to ex- 

 plain. That trout were plenty in the lake was evidenced by 

 the stories of Sabattis and others who had taken large num- 

 bers together with quantities of yellow bass, (if. salmoides), 

 through the ice in winter, but why We so signally failed to 

 take any of the former we could not understand. 



In regard to the latter, it has become an accepted dogma in 

 a certain school of anglers, that the black bass hybernate 

 during the winter. While this, within certain limits, may 

 be true as regards the small-mouth, it can hardly be said to 

 apply to the big-mouth variety. Changes of feeding ground 

 in our northern lakes after they have become ice bound, to- 

 gether with the fact that few bass anglers fish in the winter, 

 has led many to a hasty and erroneous conclusion, formed 

 largely from the habits of the small-mouth, which is identi- 

 cal with our big-mouth bass, remains in the state of activity 

 throughout the winter, and his congener of the north partakes 

 of his nature and habits. Big-mouth bass are frequently 

 taken through the ice by pickerel fishermen, in shallow 

 water, a fact which proves their activity in winter, while the 

 number of those who fish during that season in deep water, 

 is so limited, that much experience tending to prove the 

 non-hybernation of the big-mouth, has never been made pub- 

 lic. One of the principal reasons for this may be, that few 

 of the winter fishermen follow the sport at any other season, 

 and of these, there is rarely one who has ever read a fine 

 upon the subject, or given the habits of fishes a thought. It 

 may, however, be safely set down as a fact that the big- 

 mouth can be taken in all seasons of the year, and let no one 

 be surprised when some angler reports toFoKEST and Stream 

 a fine string of small-mouths caught in January. 



On the following Sunday afternoon, while the tide of dis- 

 course in the tent was at the flood, there was a hesitating 

 footstep heard without, a rap on the pole of the tent nearest 

 the water, then a light tread of one approaching the head- 

 quarters, and in a moment the face of Truthful "James was 

 peering in the tent door. Was it he, or a phantasy conjured 

 up by the Colonel's cheese? We clasped the outstretched 

 hand, it was solid flesh, the prodigal had returned. Now we 

 could understand the meaning of the flight of that calf. 

 Some warning from a wandering bird perhaps, or a pre- 

 monition of coming evil it might have been, but it was ap- 

 parent that our bovine did'nt intend to linger about a camp 

 where prodigals were liable to drop in unannounced. We 

 suspected that Truthful James had been wasting his sub- 

 stance on guides and was filled with the husks of summer 

 boarding places, but we forbore interrogating him, and he 

 was given the chief seat at the table, and with Sabattis for 

 his oarsman, he haunted his old fishing grounds during the 

 remainder of our stay. Once more the camp responded to 

 the inspiration of his presence, and we were soon living over 

 the olden days as though there had been no interval between 

 the first careless hours which joined us here, and the later ones 

 which reunited us in what was once the elysium of perennial 

 bass. Wawayanda. 

 [For Auri Sacro Fames (in last issue) read Auri Sacra Fames.] 



THE COON'S HAUNTED HOME. 



NO one had been in Burton's Woods at night, but once — 

 and that was at the beginning of the war — since old 

 man Burton died some fifty years" ago. It was the one place 

 in Old Virginia that had supported through half a century 

 of peace and prosperity and war and privation an aristocratic 

 ghost and its long line 'of pale-faced descendants. 



Exactly what old man Burton had done to oblige him and 

 his deceased olive branches to haunt the forest, no one ever 

 could tell, but if what both the white and colored folks said 

 was true — and most sincerely they believed it was— the 

 woods at night were filled with spectre Burtons most terrible. 



Now I myself don't believe that old gray-wooled Uncle 

 Jordan, the oldest slave on the plantation, who started the 

 story, ever saw the spirit of his master come hobbling along 

 with his ghostly gouty foot through the old woods. But 

 Uncle Jordan came one night into the store at the head of 

 the Neck, as if he had been shot out of a cannon, and almost 

 scared every darky there white for life by shouting out: 



"Fo' de Lor', chil'en, if deoleman Burton ahcom'tu right 

 smart, I seed 'im mesel a-shinen wif de blue flame bic' in de 

 ole woo' so'?" 



If a bomb had exploded it could not have created a greater 

 panic. Uncle John Wise, old Jordan's son, dropped on the 

 floor and crawled under the counter, and young Jeems-Gor- 

 don-Burlon-Cecil-Mason junior to John Wise, as he called 

 himself, the twelve year old grandson of old Jordan, was 

 seized with such a fright that his two big ears, that it was 

 said he used to turn under for a pillow when he went to 

 sleep, wiggled with terror. The other darkies crowded 

 together in a dark corner where nothing could be seen but 

 the whites of their eyes and their chattering teeth. Then it 

 came out that old Uncle Jordan had come out for a stroll 

 that piping hot night, and that when he stopped by the edge 

 of the wood to wipe his face and "wonda if it wou' eva 

 again snow," he saw old man Burton's ghost come limping 

 toward him down the old wood road. 



Like wildfire the news of what Uncle Jordan had seen ran 

 through the county, and for months after the hero of old man 

 Burton's ghost was besieged by questioners. Jordan, how- 

 ever, stuck to his story with a religious conviction, so that 

 it was believed by every man, woman and child as gospel 

 truth. From that time out the long belt of timber-land that 

 walled in the Burton plantation from the rest of the world 

 was given a wide berth by every one. The wood road with 

 which it was traversed became obstructed with fallen tree- 

 tops and moss-covered logs. A dense underbrush of young 

 pines and holly sprung up, and the tall trees became fes- 

 tooned with vines and creepers, whose stems throbbed and 

 moaned when the wind struck them, and whose leafy ten- 

 drils, like a canopy, shut out the sunlight. The wood 



always in the low ground became damp and mouldy and tall 

 rank grasses and canes fringed its briery outskirts. 



No longer did the booming of the axe against a hollow 

 gum tree, and the rumbling of the wood cart awaken the 

 vibrations of the forest. No longer did the mocking bird 

 stop to listen to the quaint carroling of the light-hearted 

 wood choppers. The forest was as silent as the grave, save 

 when some rogue of a fox barked on the track of a cotton 

 tail, or the eagles who had been duck hunting all day on the 

 adjoining breakwater came screaming home to their nests in 

 the tall, dead oaks. Then when the winter winds blew, the 

 pine tops gave back as echoes the roaring of the distant surf 

 and made people shudder and like to crowd round the fire. 

 Of course, under such conditions Burton's woods became a 

 safe harbor for game and ground vermin. There the night- 

 partridge, as the woodcock is called down South, sucked his 

 julep in peace; and when the snows came the quail huddled 

 for shelter in the brush heaps safe from the tracking pot- 

 hunter. And the stories about the coons in Burton's woods! 

 Why, they would almost set the hounds a-barking a mile 

 off; but as often as the conversation started on coons, it in- 

 variably ended in ghosts, so that the family of coons lived 

 and prospered as all well-regulated coon families do. The 

 wood had come to be dreaded with such an overwhelming 

 fear, that no one could be induced to penetrate its shadowy 

 recesses. It was so horrible a place, that Dr. Willis's 

 standing offer of $5, posted at the store, for any one to go 

 there coon hunting, though very tempting, was a perfectly 

 safe one for the doctor. 



Thus time crept on. The old folks died and young folks 

 took their place. Then came the war and the departure of 

 the white men to join the Southern army. Northern troops 

 invaded the county I write about, and one of the first 

 things two of the officers did was to begin to chaff Dr. 

 Willis about old man Burton's ghost, which they at once 

 heard all about. Right, jolly, good fellows were the Major 

 and the Captain, so that one night they inspired the timid 

 Doctor with sufficient courage to promise to take them a- 

 coon hunting in Burton's woods. When the news of the 

 proposed expedition got about, the greatest excitement pre- 

 vailed and all the old darkies tried to dissuade the foolhardy 

 hunters. It was a dark, drizzly night, just such a one when 

 coons and ghosts are said to like to get about, when the 

 three, equipped with an axe and a bag of light wood, started 

 from the store to the haunted fore&t. Besides the coon dog. 

 Dr. Willis's bulldog Grip was taken along, an animal of 

 undoubted courage and one that had been known to face 

 the most obstreperous bull in the county and throw him; so 

 he was boasted about as a dog that knew nothing of fear. 

 In the cornfield adjoining the wood the hound led off on a 

 coon trail and was soon heard barking in the woods where the 

 coon had treed. The hunters were making their way to the 

 place, along one of the old wood roads, when Grip, who was on 

 ahead, uttered a low growl and came running toward them 

 with his tail between his legs. Then the astonished and 

 now thoroughly terrified hunters saw a great burning object 

 descend an old rotten tree and come toward them. The 

 hunters faltered, but the plucky Major picked Grip up and 

 flung him toward the bright figure whom they described 

 always afterward as resembling a red hot cylinder stove — 

 and then they took to their heels and fled. Through green 

 brier thickets which tore their clothes and scratched them 

 till the blood flowed, tumbling over logs and into ditches 

 and bumping up against trees, they went crashing on. The 

 crowd at the store heard them coming and a few of the 

 bravest ones stuck their heads out of the door, breathless with 

 excitement, while the rest shivered with terror. Not a word 

 was said until "junior to John Wise" asked from behind a 

 barrel if "ole man Burton ha' yet com' in sight?" 



"Gu' Lor,' chile," replied his father, "dun' say tha' but I 

 know he's sbua to com'." 



These terrifying words produced a chorus of moans and 

 groans, and all the darkies had just begun praying with all 

 their might, when Grip aud the tree hunters tumbled up the 

 store steps and fell headlong and panting into stich a crowd 

 of scared darkies as has never been seen before or since in 

 Old Virginia. But old man Burton, as the fiery spectre was 

 generally supposed to be, must have climbed the tree again, 

 for he certainly did not follow the hunters. The story of 

 what they had seen and the fight that had caused their de- 

 moralized retreat, only went to confirm every one in their 

 belief that the woods were the roosting place of ghosts, or 

 such brave soldiers as the Major and Captain would not have 

 been frightened so badly. Shortly after this the Northern 

 troops were withdrawn from the outlying county, and 

 from that time forth|for many years the spectre Burtons and 

 the coons carried on their revels in the haunted woods with- 

 out let or hindrance. But the talk of the pranks of the 

 Burton wood goblins was kept alive by strange sights and 

 noises in its impenetrable fastnesses. The good wife of the 

 old Methodist parson who filled the dual role of preacher 

 and storekeeper, saw globes of fire hop out of the wood and 

 roll like ten-pin balls down the road, and yet not one of 

 these good people ever suspected that the ghosts of the Bur- 

 ton tribe were nothing more or less than "fox-fire," which in 

 some marshy localities in the Southern States is startliugly 

 brilliant and curious to contemplate; and the noises, the 

 scraping of the trees against each other when the wind blew 



BOB WHITE. 



AFTER all what is there in the whole line of field sports 

 that equals the autumn shooting of the Atlantic States 

 as it used to be twenty-five or thirty years ago? We may 

 talk of excitement and skill and courage and scenery, of 

 bounding bucks and charging bears, of beetling cliffs and 

 roaring brooks,, but there is nothing to which the memory of 

 the old time sportsman more fondly returns than "the happy 

 autumn fields" in "the days that are no more." Is there a 

 veteran of the dog and gun who reads these lines that does 

 not remember what a fever the first sight of autumn leaves 

 used to stir within his veins? Does he not even now feel a 

 strange, restless yearning when he sees the ripe pumpkins 

 shining among the shocks of corn, the maple reddening upon 

 the hill and the butternut yellowing in the vale? Andean 

 he forget the change that came over the old dog when the 

 bright crimson of the gum tree began to blaze along the low- 

 lands and the prickly burrs of the chestnut to open amid its 

 golden leaves? In summer he tapped out a lazy welcome 

 with his tail at his masters approach without raising his 

 head or opening perhaps more than a single eye. But in 

 October he jumps up at his approach, cocks his head first 

 one way and then the other, and with glistening eyes and 

 anxious whine tries to fathom his master's intentions. Right 

 well he knows that autumn has come and that any moment 

 he may be whistled off to the field. 



Bob White was the leading spirit that lent such a charm 

 to the autumn fields. The ruffed grouse and the woodcock 



added untold loveliness to it, but both could have been more 

 easily dispensed with than Bob. The first genuine quail 

 hunt I ever had seems still the brightest because all was so 

 new and wonderful and the dogs behaved so well. I was a 

 mere child of twelve, and though for two or three years I 

 had been worrying squirrels and rabbits, robins and high- 

 holders with a long single-barreled gun, I had never seen a 

 pointer or setter work in the field, and the few quails, wood- 

 cock and "pheasants" that I had started were always gone 

 before I could recover from the surprise caused by their 

 sudden burst from cover. 



It was the first of November, and as the sun's first rays 

 began to kindle the russet tops of the white oaks and shine 

 on the bare twigs of the red oak, we started out over the 

 fields. Along a tangled wood that sloped away toward a 

 little brook where I had speared many a sucker, lay an old 

 field overgrown with weeds and briers, where I had shot at 

 many a rabbit, and part of this was now a buckwheat stub- 

 ble sparkling with frost. 



The action of the dogs changed at once upon reaching the 

 field. There was no more of the wild exuberance of joy with 

 which they started from the house. They no longer raced 

 aud barked and tried to jump over their masters' heads; but 

 with noses raised to the breeze and tails carving elliptical 

 cones out of space, they settled each to a rolling canter, beat- 

 ing from side to side, crossing each other's track at Quite 

 regular intervals, occasionally slackening speed and taking a 

 delicate sniff of the breeze as they approached some clump of 

 briers. 



Fine dogs they were, too, and as I look over the long list 

 of dogs with which 1 have hunted since then I can remem- 

 ber no superiors and few equals. My companions, two gen- 

 tlemen who had been kind enough to let me go with them, 

 will, if still living, smile when they read these lines. But it 

 will be a smile of sadness as they think bow short-lived are 

 such friendships as those between the sportsman aud his 

 faithful dogs. 



Old Sancho had crossed and recrossed the stubble several 

 times, and finally went galloping down the edge of it where 

 it bordered on the old field of briers. When' nearly at the 

 end of it he suddenly stopped aud wheeled half around, 

 stood still for an instant, and then, with lightly swinging 

 tail, walked slowly over into the weeds aud briers. Here he 

 stopped for a moment and looked around at his master with 

 a mingled expression of triumph aud tremendous responsi- 

 bility, then crawled along with thievish tread aud gradually 

 stiffening tail. Don, a hundred yards away on the stubble, 

 had caught sight of Sancho's first step and backed him with 

 as firm a point as though he had himself taken the scent of 

 game, and now came crawling slowly along behind him, 

 stopping when he stopped and moving on again when Sancho 

 moved. 



Sancho suddenly stopped again, but there was a slight 

 wavering in the tip of his tail and an unsteadiness about his 

 head for a few seconds. Then crouching low he took three 

 or four steps as carefully as a sneaking cat, then suddenly 

 halted again and stood as firm as a rock. 



"Now he has them sure,'' said his master. 



But scarcely had he finished when the quivering of San- 

 cho's rigid tail changed suddenly into a wavering motion. 

 Slowly he turned his head an inch or two, crept stealthily 

 along a few feet, then suddenly became as stiff as an icicle, 

 and with eyes fixed in a wild stare at. the dead rag weed a 

 few feet ahead, head beut a little on one side, one forefoot 

 upraised, stood as if carved out of stone. And full seventy 

 yards behind him with head just visible above the weeds 

 stood Don, quite motionless and looking as wise as if he had 

 himself found the game. 



We moved slowly up beside Sancho, but nothing moved. 

 Ahead of him was nothing but rag weed and briers. From 

 the brown old oak came the harsh cry of the bluejay, the 

 high-holder squealed fiorn the gum tree, from the cedar came 

 the piping of the robin and from overhead the melancholy 

 "peep" of the bobolink as in his altered suit he bade fare- 

 well to his summer home, but there was neither sight nor 

 sound suggestive of quail. 



Another step forward, and there was a sudden flash of 

 whirring wings in the weeds and the air fifteen feet ahead of 

 us was filled with bustling life, whizzing for the timber with 

 arrowy speed. Quickly my gun came to my shoulder and 

 dimly along its barrel I caught a glimpse of buzzingbrown — 

 that is I thought I did. Confidently I pulled the trigger, 

 but the brown went on without shedding a feather and ten 

 yards further on whirled over at the report of a gun on the 

 other side of the dog. In a moment more we were alone 

 with the dogs and the only sign of game was a few feathers 

 drifting back upon the breeze. The dogs both lay down 

 while we loaded and when sent ahead picked up three quail 

 which my friends had killed. 



After entering the timber in search of the scattered bevy 

 the dogs quickly changed their pace. Instead of the wide 

 ranging canter wo saw in the field they took a trot and 

 ranged much less, quartering the ground and testing every 

 bush with their keen noses. Don was soon missing, and 

 after some search, was found standing as if in full run he 

 had struck an invisible bank of clay and stuck fast in it. 

 His master gave two or three kicks in the grass ahead of 

 him, nothing moved, and Don stdl kept his point, standing 

 almost in a sitting position with head bent downward. His 

 master gave another kick nearer to the dog and almost from 

 under his nose sprang a bird which wheeled over the man's 

 head and vanished behind the scarlet crown of a dogwood 

 tree, through which went two charges of shot, sprinkling 

 leaves and twigs helow\ But we heard nothing drop and 

 saw no feathers floating on the air. 



For two hundred yards or more around we then beat the 

 ground in all directions, but the dogs made not another point. 



"They are lying close and holding their scent," said on 

 of the men. 



"Yes," said the other "let's give them half an hour or so 

 and try that next stubble." 



This seemed strange to me at the time. But many a lime 

 since I have seen quail lie so close that the best dogs would 

 walk right over them, and their power of withholding scent 

 seems beyond question. The only doubt is whether such 

 withholding is voluntary or not — a point hardly worthy of 

 discussion. 



After spending about half an hour in beating two other 

 stubbles, we returned to the scattered bevy in the wood. 



"Let's call them and get them running first," said one of 

 the gentlemen. Sitting down on the fence he gave the 

 autumn call of the quaifa few times and soon from several 

 directions and from the same ground that the dogs had before 

 so carefully hunted came the tender doi-ee, cloi-ee. cloi-ee, 

 cloi-ee. When we reached the place from which came 

 these sweet notes both of the dogs were pointing in a mo- 

 ment and each upon a different bird. 



