Nov. 3, 1895.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



37 7 



surely we progressed, and by noon had made some ten 

 miles. While off duty I had, by using the troll, caught 

 quite a number of "trout," as the black bass is called in 

 Florida, and with these delicious fish we had quite an 

 enjoyable dinner. We had tied up to an old tree which 

 leaned far out over the water, and were lying around the 

 deck taking a rest before starting again. Jim, one of the 

 crew, was flat on his back directly under the trunk, ap- 



arently asleep. Suddenly there was a slight rustle over- 



ead, and a water snake of goodly dimensions slid off the 

 tree and came down plump on to our black friend's 

 stomach. He slowly opened his eyes and looked around 

 to see what had roused him from his slumbers and saw 

 the snake. I think the next instant he was whiter than 

 he will ever be again. All the color seemed to forsake 

 his face, and his eyes started from their sockets. He lay 

 still for one moment, as if deprived of all power, and 

 then with a yell of fear went head over heels overboard 

 and the snake with him. 



The rest of us were convulsed with laughter, knowing 

 that if the reptile did bite him it could not harm him, and 

 when we rushed to the side and saw the darky swimming 

 one way and the snake the other, for dear life, it capped 

 the climax, and we rolled on the deck, while the woods 

 re-echoed with our shouts of merriment. 



Jim was still shaking with fear when we pulled him 

 aboard, and affirms to this day that it was a rattlesnake 

 as big around as his leg and 6ft. long. "I tell yer I seed 

 hit, en' hit was a rattlesnake. I reckon I aught ter know 

 one when I sees hit." was his constant reply to our asser- 

 tions as to the harmlessness of the reptile. 



Daring the afternoon we crept slowly up the "Crooked 

 Waters," which is a translation of the Indian name of 

 the river, and as the sun touched the tree tops we reached 

 Simmons's Landing, where we had decided to tie up for 

 the night. 



A few palmetto logs forming a rude dock and a road 

 leading out through the cypress swamp were the only 

 evidences of the vicinity of human habitation. While 

 supper was being prepared, John L. and myself, taking 

 our guns, strolled off up the road and soon came out from 

 the swamp into the pine woods. This is the "upland" of 

 the State, and the dominant growth is the long-leafed 

 pine. Little underbrush prevails. The woods are so open 

 that one can drive a wagon anywhere at will. 



Soon we arrived at the habitation of the worthy Sim- 

 mons, which I assure you is not palatial, and were heart- 

 ily greeted, though not in the most respectful manner, by 

 five or six gaunt deerhounds, which acted very much as 

 if they would be most happy to devour us whole. 



Their savage barks soon brought to the door of the 

 cabin a tall, angular, sallow-faced woman, who when 

 Bhe saw us seized a fishing-pole and caressed her pets af- 

 fectionately with it until they fled howling under the 

 house. In reply to a question as to the whereabouts of 

 her husband she ejaculated, "He's gone ter git some light 

 'ood knots. He 'lowed as how he was a-goin' a-fire-hunt- 

 in' ter-night— git away, Dave, drat ye!" the latter part of 

 the speech being addressed to one of the dogs which had 

 summoned up courage enough to sneak out from his hid- 

 ing-place to again growl his defiance. ' 'Come in an' take 

 a cheer, won't ye?" said our kind hostess, but we declined, 

 and started off in quest of her worthy husband. 



Guided by the sound of his axe, we soon found him 

 busily engaged in hewing off resinous splinters from a 

 prostrate pine. His gun, a long Kentucky rifle, leaned 

 against the stump, powder horn and bullet pouch beside 

 it on the ground. He ceased his labors on our approach, 

 and greeted us with "Good evening, gentlemen," and a 

 stare from his steel-gray eyes. He was a man of some 

 50 years of age, tall and broad-shouldered, and as straight 

 as an arrow, with a strongly marked face and high fore- 

 head, surmounted with a mass of iron-gray locks. He 

 wore a full beard of the same hue. We told him who 

 we were, and that with his permission we would like to 

 accompany him on his intended hunt. 



"Well, gentlemen," said he, "yer see deer they's 

 mighty curious critters, an' when I fire-hunts I'd a leetle 

 ruther go by myself; but I reckon I have to take 

 yer along to-night. Don't reckon we'll kill nothin', 

 though. Hit alwa's gives me bad luck, 'peers like, to go 

 with anybody." 



We thanked him for this not very hearty acquiescence 

 to our request, and promising to be back by dark hurried 

 back to camp. An hour later we were again on our way 

 to Simmons's, where we arrived just as he was ready to 

 start. His orange grove was our destination. He had 

 planted cow peas between the rows of trees, and the deer 

 were in the habit of entering almost nightly to feed on 

 them. 



Off we went through the dark. All was still as death, 

 save when some lonely owl broke the silence with his un- 

 earthly hoo-hoo-hoo-aaaa, like the laugh of some veritable 

 demon of the lower regions, to be answered by a chorus 

 of limpkins, equally fiendish in their discord, or the croak 

 of a heron flying overhead. Our guide plodded on in 

 silence, and we following spoke only in whispers. 



Leaving the pine woods we plunged into tbe depths of 

 the hammock on high land next the river, which is cov- 

 ered with a dense growth of hardwood trees. 



We followed close to Simmons, by his injunction mak- 

 ing as little noise as possible, and soon came to the edge 

 of the clearing in which his grove was located. 



Here he paused and kindled the fat pine splinters in the 

 pan he carried. This was a common sheet iron frying- 

 pan fastened to a wooden handle some 6ft. long. 



When a good blaze was started we went on again, very 

 slowly now, he looking right and left for our expected 

 game. Suddenly he stopped and said in a hurried whis- 

 per, "Look yonder!" We looked in the direction indi- 

 cated, and saw a huge black mass, with fiery red eyes, not 

 more than 50ft. from us. 



"Shoot quick, fellers, that's a b'ar!" said Simmons. 



There was a common report, as we both fired, aery of 

 rage and pain, a crashing and rushing through the brush— 

 and our quarry was gone. 



"Dinged if you hain't missed him," from Simmons. 



But when we came to investigate we found blood, and 

 from the quantity that was scattered over the ground and 

 bushes we judged bruin was quite badly wounded. Sim- 

 mons put his lips to the hunting horn which hung by his 

 side, and blew several long and lusty notes. 



"Nancy '11 let the pups loose when she hears that, and 

 maybe we'll tree the varmint after all." 



Simmons resumed the music, and the cries of the 

 hounds, in answer, proved that Nancy had understood 

 his language. 



I Soon the dogs came up with a rush, and taking up the 

 fresh trail made off through the darkness with the long, 

 loud cries so musical to a hunter's ears. 



We followed as best we might. It was no easy matter 

 to penetrate the dense, luxuriant forest, and bruised shins 

 and rent clothing were a natural sequence, but we little 

 cared for them at that moment. The cry of the dogs 

 suddenly changed into a short, quick, angry bark. 



"Treed surer'n shootin'," yelled Simmons. This gave 

 us new impetus, and brambles and saw palmetto were un- 

 heeded for the next few moments. 



We were filled only with one thought, actuated with 

 one impulse. To get that bear was the only thing worth 

 attaining in life. 



I had the good fortune to be first upon the scene. Sim- 

 mons was close at my heels and still carried his flaming 

 pan. It turned out afterward that John had become 

 hopelessly entangled in a mass of grapevines and briers 

 into which he had run in his impetuosity and the dark- 

 ness, and from whose meshes he did not escape in time to 

 act in the ending scene of the tragedy. 



I shall never forget the picture I saw. The wounded 

 bear backed up against a huge live oak, surrounded by 

 the yelping hounds, too well used to such warfare to risk 

 a close encounter, the wicked firelight illuminating a 

 small circle, and beyond on every side the dense, inky 

 blackness, A shot from my Winchester, and the scene 

 changed like magic. 



Down came the bear with a thud, the dogs closed in, 

 and for a moment there was pandemonium. 



Simmons rushed up knife in hand, leaving the pan to 

 take care of itself on the ground, and cuffing the dogs 

 right and left, plunged the keen blade deep into the 

 sable throat, and the huge mass that had but lately been 

 a formidable enemy was still, and the dogs could worry it 

 with impunity, This we allowed them to do, for it was 

 the crowning of their victory, and they soon tired of it, 

 finding no resistance was made. John had come up in 

 the meantime with disappointment written on his face 

 and bemoaning his hard fortune. Bruin was soon de- 

 nuded of his shaggy coat and quartered; and taking a 

 generous hunk and the hide with tis we retraced our 

 steps, having previously hung up the remainder out of 

 reach of the "varmints," as S. called them. 



By 3 o'clock the next morning we were tip and on our 

 way. The moon had risen and shed a light soft and mel- 

 low on the sleeping woods, and all was hushed save the 

 swash of the poles and the noise of the ripples about the 

 bows. 



I lay on the deck and looked with rapture and wonder 

 on the scene. There is nothing so beautiful as a cy- 

 press swamp by moonlight — these gray-bearded giants 

 of tbe forest in peaceful serenity taking their rest. 



But one cannot always dream, and so I found it, for I 

 had to relieve John, who was not troubled by poetic visions 

 and proceeded to turn in in the cabin and indulge in a 

 series of terrific snores. 



Daylight came, and with it life. All nature seemed to 

 awake. The birds made the air rich with their music, 

 insects hummed melodiously to and fro, the old cypresses 

 nodded good morning to each other and took up again 

 their burdensome moaning and waving of long arms. 



We tied up and prepared our morning meal, bearsteak, 

 bacon, cornbread and coffee, and after a refreshing bath 

 in the black waters proceeded on our way, arriving at 

 our destination a few hours later. 



I, for one, shall never regret my trip up the Ocklawaha 

 on a pole. T. E. Oertel. 



"LOBSTERIN"' IN CAPE BRETON. 



One day at the "lobster factory" watching the process 

 of canning — the boiling of the squirming, crawling mass, 

 the picking of the meat from the shell, the packing and 

 soldering in airtight cans for the London market — we re- 

 ceived an invitation from the champion "lobsterer" to 

 make the round of his pots with him next morning. 



We started at 6:30 A. M., a less unearthly hour than 

 that chosen by the net and line fishermen for their de- 

 parture; but the lobster pots are set nearer home, along 

 shore and in the harbor, wherever there is sandy bottom 

 near rocks with patches of alga? growing on it. Mcll- 

 vaine's partner is away for the day, and he has chosen for 

 his helper a sturdy young fellow from the crew of an 

 American "seiner" lying m the harbor waiting for the fog 

 to lift outside. The wind is fresh from sou' west, raising 

 a choppy sea even in tbe harbor, with a promise of rollers 

 outside, while beyond the lighthouse cliff and Green 

 Island hangs a dense, ominous-looking bank of fog that 

 has maintained its position since sunrise in the teeth of 

 half a gale. 



It was necessary first to visit the seiner that the new 

 hand might get his oilskins, and the crew, crowding to 

 the rail, quickly detected the landsman in the boat, and 

 thought to frighten him. 



"Ain't a-goin' outside, I hope, Tom," spoke up one. 



"You're boun' to Davy Jones's locker if ye dew," said 

 another. 



"Tremendous sea outside, one of our fellers has just cum 

 in," put in a third. 



"Don'fc get lost in the fog, Tommie, boy," said a fourth. 



"Goin' to drown him?" with a significant nod at the 

 landsman, but the dory was soon away from them. There 

 are ten of there "seiners" in port. Last week there were 

 sixty in at one time, and a beautiful show they made 

 with their white sails set, alow and aloft, to dry. 



The mackerel fleet has had hard lines this year. "We 

 left Portland four weeks ago," says Tom, "an' have made 

 just twenty-five bails." 



"How many before you are full?" we asked. 



"Five hundred," he replied, "and we shall go home 

 near empty." 



They sail ''on the lay," poor fellows, for a share in the 

 proceeds. Our men pull against wind and wave out to 

 the pots, which are set by compass in a line beginning at 

 the mouth of the harbor and extending for miles along 

 shore. 



Inside the bar it is smooth water compared to outside, 

 and Mcllvaine remarks to his mate that they will lift the 

 pots inside first, as wind and sea may go down with the 

 sun. 



Each pot is marked by a buoy bobbing up and down in 

 the white caps; something else is playing tnere too — seals 

 — six black heads with almost human countenances riding 

 the rollers with as frolicsome a spirit as a group of school- 

 boys. 



There are black ducks too, and a cloud of sea gulls over 

 the rocky inlets. 



"Pull or row?" asks Mcllvaine of his mate. 



" Row," replies Tom promptly. He takes the middle 

 thwart and the oars. Mcllvaine the stern, boat hook in 

 hand. The dory is thea let drift stern first upon the buoy 

 which Mcllvaine catcher with his hook, and then by the 

 rope attached hauls the pot up hand over hand, and rests 

 it on the thwart. This pot is a half cylinder of lath with 

 netting at each end, drawn inward, with a hole in the 

 center so arranged that while the lobster readily enters, 

 attracted by the cods' heads fixed in the center, be never 

 succeeds in finding his way out. Lengthwise of the trap 

 is a hinged door, which Mcllvaine opens, displaying five 

 fine crustaceans, two with their claws locked in a battle 

 royal over the cods' heads. The fisherman seizes them, 

 quite indifferent to their claws, which to a landsman seem 

 sufficiently formidable, and transfers them to his boat, 

 inserts a fresh cod's head, closes the door, and lets the pot 

 go by the hoard, working quickly, for the man with the 

 oars has much to do to hold the boat against wind and 

 wave. 



We are in the outer folds here of the great bank of fog 

 which has hung over the spot since morning, neither 

 advancing nor retreating, though half a gale has been 

 blowing. 



It is a magician, this Cape Breton fog, forever acting 

 a mystery play, with the ocean, cliffs and somber forests 



THK LOBSTKR FACTORY AT LOUISBOURG. 



as a support. We have seen it lie all day, a gray wall far 

 out at sea, and then toward sunset envelop the land, 

 suddenly without warning. One moment we are in a 

 gray blankness of vapor, while, not a ship's length ahead, 

 it is bright sunshine. Suddenly, as we peer seaward, a 

 spectral form looms up, grows more and more real, and 

 then breaks gloriously into sunshine a ship under full 

 sail, every shroud taut and every rag of canvas drawing. 



By and by the pots have all been lifted in harbor and 

 the men debate whether to go outside or not. There is a 

 heavy sea out thers — we can hear it boom on the cliffs 

 like distant artillery, and the wind freshens and the fog 

 thickens with the going down of the sun. They decide 

 to go in, and hoisting sail the little craft flies over the 

 water with such hearty good will that in half an hour 

 she is safely moored at the canning factory's dock. Her 

 master has seventy-five lobsters in the boat, for which he 

 receives at the rate of $1.10 a hundred. For the finest 

 lobsters for her table, our landlady pays but 5 cents apiece. 



C. B. T. 



TRUE SPORTSMANSHIP. 



Every now and then somebody breaks out with an 

 opinion as to what is sportsmanlike and what isn't. 

 There is a discussion of that sort in progress in these 

 columns at present, and, with leave, I will shy my castor 

 into the ring and turn loose some of my own views on 

 the subject. 



In the first place, I wish to say that much that has 

 been written on these points is rubbish. Some one whose 

 experience of fishing and shooting covers perhaps half a 

 dozen years, and twice as many townships, thinks him- 

 self entitled to lay down laws for men who have fished 

 and shot over half the United States, and often under 

 conditions of which he, with his limited opportunities, 

 has never dreamed. 



My own notion is that the true test of sportsmanlike 

 conduct lies less in the act than in the motive which 

 prompts the man who holds the rod, who pulls the 

 trigger. 



If I need a grouse or a duck, and if the bird is sitting, 

 whether on ground or water, I am not unlikely to shoot 

 it without allowing it to fly, because in this region the 

 bird will probably escape me if I do not. The conditions 

 are such that the chances are generally in its favor. If I 

 did not need it I should not shoot at all. 



Now, I never shot a quail sitting, but I might under 

 some circumstances, and this reminds me of one of Ross 

 Browne's stories. 



He was traveling with a party. All freight and sup- 

 plies had been "packed" over the Sierra Nevada at the 

 cost of one dollar per pound. In shooting for the pot the 

 captain ordered that no one should kill fewer than four 

 quail at a shot. 



One man fired at a bunch and secured but three, but 

 excused himself for this crime by saying that there were 

 but three pellets of shot in the gun. 



I believe in giving to the game every reasonable chance, 

 but I wish to reserve a few for myself. 



One crank wants everybody to fish with the fly and 

 nothing else. That may be correct, if one fishes solely for 

 sport and does not need the fish. Otherwise it is bosh. 

 Another man despises the shotgun and cuts the heads 

 from his birds with the rifle, which requires much less 

 skill than the cutting down with a charge of shot of a 

 ruffed grouse darting through a tangled brake. 



No, gentlemen, the old farmer who, with his muzzle- 

 loader, carefully pots his half dozen of birds sitting, 

 or catches with bait a moderate string of trout, and 

 goes home when he thinks he has enough, is a better 

 sportsman than he— whatever the measure of his success 

 — who wantonly fishes to increase the sum of bis "count," 

 and shoots mainly to make a bigger score than his 

 neighbor. 



"Them's my sentiments," Kelpie. 



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