Deo, 28, 1896,] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



8^8 



hornet took him in the forwead, an' 'fore he got by they 

 stung his boss— an' he went, I tell ye. 



"An' 'fore we got away one on 'em gin it tu aour boss 

 jest as we got ready tu start, an' the way that 'ere 

 kettle baounded an' rattled an' we a hangin' ont' the seat 

 an' the ol' hoss a humpin' hisself for all he was wu'th, if 

 it wa'n't a circus — wal." 



A chapter of description was condensed in that con- 

 cluding word, and Uncle Jerry did not spoil the picture 

 by adding another touch . 



"Bees is cur'us critters," he began again, after a few 

 minutes of meditative puffing. "I got terribly bothered 

 oncte on the saouth eend o' Shellhaouse Maountain. I'd 

 ketched a bee an' got tu work an' got his line right up a 

 holler int' the woods, an' he'd be gone jest five minutes 

 every time, but the' was a place I'd lose him an' couldn't 

 find the tree ner foller him one inch furder. He never 

 fetched a bee back with him. I fussed with him all day 

 an' when I went hum at night I tol' my neighbor, or 

 Uncle Pa'sons. He was an ol' bee hunter, an' says he, 'I 

 c'n find 'em in ten minutes, I bet ye.' 



"So next morhin' he put up a bite o' suthin' t' eat an' 

 went 'long wi' me an' he fussed wi' that pleggid bee all 

 the forenoon, an' all he c'ld du was tu git up ontu a ridge, 

 an' he said it was one o' Barnses tame bees an' no use in 

 follerin' on 't no furder, an' so he eat his grub an' went 

 hum, but I wouldn't give it up yit. 



"I got the bee in the box an' kerried it up on the ridge 

 an' let him go, an' the fust time he come an' went I got 

 his line right stret along the ridge, an' didn't go ten rod 

 'fore I faound the tree, a big cbes'nut oak. "We hed a 

 time a-takin' on 't up, for the' was a snarl o' bees an' they 

 was uglier 'n sin. But we got over a hunderdweight o' 

 honey. It was 'cause the swarm was so rich 'at that 'ere 

 bee worked so slow an' come back alone, but I never see 

 one travel so crooked. Suthin' 'baout the laidges, I 

 s'pose." 



"Another cur'us thing is if you kerry bees past the' tree 

 they won't come back tu the box. 



"Twicte I got scairt a-bee huntin'. Once was when I 

 went tu 'the Patrimony' wi' Sol Mead tu take up a bee 

 tree. It was an all-killin' hot day, an' we daowned the 

 tree an' slabbed off a piece where the honey was, an' was 

 a-takin' on't aout when all tu oncte Sol he was took sick, 

 an' I tell you he was awful sick. I kerried him off an' 

 laid him 'n under a tree, an' he kep' a-growin' sicker, an' 

 I reckoned he'd die sartain an' folks 'Id say I killed him. 



"But he made me go an' finish taken' up the honey, an' 

 I did, an' the' was a whole lot on't which I wished the' 

 wa'n't none. A tree full o' honey an' a dyin' man on my 

 hands tu oncte was more'n I wanted. But I got the honey, 

 took keer on an' it an' Sol int' the waggin an' started the 

 percession. He begin tu git better 'fore we got hum an' was 

 all right nex' day. I cal'late 'twas the heat an' the smell 

 o' the mad bees a fumin' up int' his face 'at ailded him. 



"T'other time I was alone, linin' some bees on Shell- 

 haouse, an' 't was gittin' late an' I'd got tu quit, when I 

 hearn the awfulest yowlin' right daown the wood rwud 

 I was cal'latin' tu go. Fust I thought 't was a woman who 

 was lost, an' then I knowed it wa'n't, but some sort of an 

 annymil. Mebby it was a painter, but more likely it was 

 a lynk, but I wa'n't hankerin' arter a lynk fight wi' 

 nothin' but a bee box an' a jack-knife for weepyns, an' I 

 jest hypered right over the maountain best foot for'ard. 

 Last I hearn the critter was yowlin' right where I quit 

 off, but I didn't stop to listen much till I got int' the lots. 

 The' was a lynk killed in the west part o' the s taown the 

 week arter, but mebby it wa'n't mine. 



"Yoush'ld like tu go a-bee huntin', hey? "Wal, 't ain't 

 much use nowerdays, the's so many tame ones tu bother 

 a feller. An' I guess y' eyes hain't good 'nough. Nigh- 

 sighted, hain't ye? An' it hain't ev'y dodunk 'at c'n 

 hunt bees. But come nex' summer, we'll try it a hack if 

 you wantu." 



Uncle Jerry's words are not encouraging to one whom 

 he evidently considers a "dodunk," and summer seems far 

 off as one looks across the dun, flowerless fields to bleak, 

 gray woods, and I doubt if we ever "try 'em a back." 



Rowland E. Robinson. 



Fehr.'sburqh, Vfc. 



A CHRISTMAS ON THE RIO GRANDE. 



Away off in the cow country, out on the range where 

 cattle are left to shift and find for themselves, they are 

 said in the quaint vernacular of the ranchmen to 

 "rustle." Just so, one December in the last decade, when 

 I found myself foot-loose on the Texas prairie, with my 

 hat chalked wherever I listed to travel, catching some in- 

 spiration of the locality and occasion, I felt as if I too 

 had been turned out to rustle, for the field was vast and 

 the pasture rich. I sniffed the keen air of unlimited ad- 

 venture afar off and all around, yet was unable to formu- 

 late any definite plan of campaign; so, like a long-horn 

 yearling just from the branding pen, I kicked high and 

 started incontinently for the uttermost border. 



The Christmas tide was at its flush when we approached 

 Laredo. Christmas lights were burning all along the Rio 

 Grande. High over every Mexican hovel (hakels 

 they are called) lanterns, suspended on tall poles, threw 

 out their fitful gleams into the starlit night. They 

 blazed from every shadowy hilltop, symbolizing the Star 

 which Scripture tells us hung over the manger where 

 Christ was born, guiding thither the "wise men of the 

 east," some few of whom, I may venture parenthetically, 

 were possibly included among my fellow passengers on 

 the arriving train. Inside the hovels the squalid inmates 

 devoutly rehearsed some crude expression of the Passion 

 Play in commemoration of the Nativity, after the custom 

 introduced into the country by the Spaniards, and by 

 them taught to the natives. The personages of the play, 

 as presented in due form, represent the Shepherds and 

 the Magi, the archangel Michael, and also Satan, Lucifer 

 and Beelzebub, with a full caste of supernumeraries. 

 The head demons attempt to prevent the shepherds from 

 presenting their offerings to the child Christ, and a scrap 

 ensues between the trio and the archangel, which results 

 in a touch-down for Michael amid general rejoicing. 

 This religious drama is locally known as "The Pastors," 

 and is pretty generally celebrated at Christmas tide by 

 the Mexican residents on the American side of the Rio 

 Grande as well as on the other, the greasers comprising 

 even now, at this late day, a very considerable portion of 

 the population. 



Until 1850 theTre were no American residents in Laredo, 

 and there was no settlement between it and San Antonio, 

 153 miles distant. I he whole intermediate country was 

 overrun with desperadoes, horse thieves and Indians.but 



when Fort Mcintosh was established some degree of pro- 

 tection was afforded and the town began to improve. In 

 the course of the next thirty years the population in- 

 creased from 2,000 to 4,500, of whom some 250 were Amer- 

 icans; and in 1881, with the advent Of railroads, a new 

 development began, Laredo has now 12,000 population, 

 and 75 per cent, of the increase is American, Neverthe- 

 less, the native fiestas, or holiday sports, have been scru- 

 pulously kept up all the time, and it is only within the 

 year 1895 that public sentiment has abolished the popular 

 bull rinp:. Hereafter curious visitors must cross the river 

 to the Mexican town of Nuevo Laredo to witness a bull 

 fight. But for the rest— the cock fights, dog fights, horse 

 races, mule races, foot races, sack races, fireworks, pup- 

 pet shows, theatrical performances, fandangos and pic- 

 nics—they Btill stand. The Feast of the Nativity to the 

 devout pelado would be inane without them. 



It was early morning, cold and fdggy, when we were 

 driven in a modern bus from our cohifortable Pullman 

 to the Commercial Hotel, kept by Victor Calvayroe, pro- 

 prietor. Anticipations of a blazing fire and grateful 

 warmth had sustained our spirits throughout a long and 

 cheerless ride from the depot, but the moment we were 

 dumped upon the hard cement floor of the old stone 

 maison, where no fire had ever burned, whose walls reeked 

 with dampness, and whose dismal emptiness of all 

 furniture except a deal table and high desk (it was the 

 office) was barely revealed by the flicker of a wretched 

 lamp, we felt as if we had landed in a crypt. We heard 

 the sepulchral rattle of our heavy trunks upon the pave- 

 ment like coffins from a hearse, and when the upholstered 

 and varnished bus departed, it seemed as if all comfort 

 drove off with it. The experience was all the more dole- 

 ful because we, in common with all verdant visitors from 

 the North, expected to find figs, oranges and bananas in 

 perpetual fruitage, and a summer climate all the year 

 round. 



The Commercial Hotel, like all the old Mexican buildings 

 in town, was originally built on three sides of a square; 

 one story high, with thick walls and flat cemented roof; 

 but an American architect had added a second story of 

 wood with a gallery around it, well adapted to ten months 

 of the year,but woefully deficient in comfort in midwinter. 

 There were many rooms, but no chimneys. Cooking wss 

 ^done in a detached kitchen. In frigid weather when 

 stoves were set up the pipes were thrust through a broken 

 -pane in a window or skylight. After four hours' patient 

 Waiting for daylight breakfast was 'announced, but the 

 dining room was cold, the food was cold, and copious 

 draughts of frigid air from open doors swept the apart- 

 ment. French and Mexican culinary art combined to 

 produce the most execrable abominations of overcooked 

 and imperfectly disguised dishes that the human palate 

 was ever called upon to identify or determine. The 

 menu sent down to the Apostle Peter in a sheet was clean 

 in comparison. For a three-dollar-a-day house the ex- 

 perience was altogether the worst I ever had. Subsequent 

 meals I found in a fairly good restaurant. 



Breakfast over, I took a turn down the street in front 

 of the hotel, and discovered in the fog a shadowy figure 

 leaning against a corner of the building, muffled in a big 

 blanket shawl, with a stupendous felt sombrero pulled 

 down over his face. He looked like the villain in a play, 

 but Beeming to be an early riser I allowed he must be a 

 gentleman, and approaching him deferentially accosted 

 him in English. Without moving a muscle he remarked 

 laconically, "Mucho frio." Not caring to argue the mat- 

 ter, I sauntered back to the hotel office and leaned in the 

 doorway. Half a dozen bullet holes in the jamb attracted 

 my curiosity, and I was in the act of sizing up the caliber 

 with the end of my little finger when the negro porter 

 volunteered the information that a man was shot a fort- 

 night before just where I stood by the barber opposite. 

 Then I asked if I could get shaved right then by the same 

 barber, and he said I could. I also ascertained that the 

 victim was "only a greaser," and that there were a good 

 many of the same sort in town, and that they chiefly fol- 

 lowed the occupation of the man I had seen on the cor- 

 ner. Later on, while wandering about town with a resi- 

 dent, I noticed a small mob at a corner. It looked like a 

 football rush, and I was pulling my friend over across the 

 street to investigate; but he held me back, saying, "We 

 don't pay attention to such things here." The next day I 

 read in the Two Laredos (the morning paper) that two 

 Mexicans had been stabbed there and one of them killed. 

 It was simply a case of aguardiente. 



By this time the whole town was alive, and an under- 

 tone of festivity pervaded the place like the hum of 

 electric wires on a telegraph pole. Groups and throngs 

 were everywhere. Merchandise stalls and gambling 

 booths stood in the main plazas. Pens were put up for 

 the exhibition of horses, cattle and sheep. Bands of 

 music made the streets noisy. In the distant suburbs an 

 immense amphitheater loomed up, inclosing the bull ring, 

 where bull fights always took place twice a week during 

 the holiday period, enlisting the best blood and fiercest 

 talent of old Mexico. The bull ring is an immensely 

 strong wicker inclosure, formed of 3in. saplings closely 

 interlaced and reinforced by stakes driven into the ground 

 at close intervals. There are two exits, or rather an 

 entrance and an exit, by the first of which the bull enters. 

 The moment he appears he is saluted with "bravos" from 

 the gaudy assembly surrounding the arena, and all wait 

 impatiently to see what he will do next. If stolid and 

 the clatter and glitter have failed to excite him suffi- 

 ciently, manifold expedients are employed, and if he 

 does not then show game he is ignominiously removed 

 and another substituted. In these fiestas the exhibition 

 is one of agility rather than bloody cruelty. There 

 are no matadors, as in old Spain, with the disem- 

 boweling of horses and dragging out of dead 

 victims. The bull is only teased into irascibility with- 

 out great torture, and there is actually much more 

 danger to the picador, his opponent, than to the animal 

 itself. The picador gives big odds, and his play is to 

 decorate the bull's frontlet with little steel-pointed 

 rosettes of gay ribbon, which must be planted exactly 

 between the eyes and on either cheek, while he dexterously 

 avoids the bovine thrusts and lunges. The feat is seldom 

 perfectly accomplished, and it naturally elicits the wildest 

 applause when wholly successful. The suppleness of 

 some of the performers is truly wonderful, and the mar- 

 vel is that they are not repeatedly thrust through and 

 gored by the bull's impetuous charges. 



During the continuance of these fiestas there is much 

 drinking of mescal, gambling and boisterous hilarity, but 

 there is less disorder than one would expect to see in a 



frontier town. The remarkably cold weather of that 

 Christmas (1883) nearly brought the festivities to a stand- 

 still, but milder temperature followed, and the programme 

 was in a fair way of being carried to a satisfactory con- 

 clusion when suddenly one of those terrific sandstorms, 

 which occur periodically in the Rio Grande basin, 

 tumbled over the booths, filled every one's eyes 

 with dust and blew the whole holiday business 

 into irrevocable smithreens, This catastrophe inconti- 

 nently equelched the lively mood into which the native 

 greaser had been temporarily stirred. For the rest of the 

 year he will mope on the sunny streets or in the shade, 

 and with eyes half closed take little heed of the march of 

 improvement which is filling the town with business, 

 swelling its population and making it the most important 

 emporium on the Mexican boundary. All this will make 

 but little difference to him, so long as he can get his 

 cigarette and mescal, his frijoles, and full allowance of 

 sleep. Only when called upon to vote will his aspirations 

 take momentary flight. Then will he arise from his well- 

 worn seat by the wayside to find himself an important 

 factor in politics — sometimes on one side of the Rio 

 Grande, sometimes on the other. But, whichever repub- 

 lic wins his permanent allegiance in the end, he will 

 always favor the largest amount of liberty and the small- 

 est amount of work. Charles Hallock. 



CLOSE QUARTERS WITH A GRIZZLY. 



"We were following the trail up Swift Current. "We 

 had thirty horses. This included our pack train and 

 riding horses and our wagon horses, which we could not 

 leave alone with the wagons below. The personnel of our 

 outfit was interesting: Two special Indian Commissioners, 

 a hunter, Jack Monroe, a packer, Joe Brown, an agency 

 surveyor, a Chinese cook, George Taylor, and an escort of 

 eight men from the agency — four half-breeds of influence 

 and four of the full-blood Indian head men. "We were 

 on a Government errand, not a hunting trip, and I, who 

 was to have my initial experience in the Rocky Mountains, 

 was taken along as an unofficial appendix. My new gun 

 was of the "Winchester make, "take down," ,45 70 caliber. 

 One of the Commissioners carried his old Sharps single- 

 fire ,45-70, and, barring three old-fashioned Henry car- 

 bines of .44 caliber carried by the Indians, these constituted 

 our armament. I had also my 5£lb. feather weight 

 Francotte shotgun. 



The day was crisp and clear. The trail followed the 

 appropriately named Swift Current River lying below us 

 at the left, and on the right the hills sloped gradually to 

 the top of the divide between Swift Current and Kennedy's 

 Creek. On the opposite side of the stream the heavy 

 timber rose steeply to the snow, which glistened brightly 

 in the morning sun at the gray and rocky summit of the 

 great divide. The slopes on the right were diversified by 

 small timber and openings, the timber consisting of 

 quaking asp, service berry and scrub pines or fir, the 



ONE OF THE INDIANS. 



openings carpeted with long grass, the cured and succulent 

 fodder of the country. The morning had opened frosty 

 and we had put on our overcoats and wore gloves. My 

 gun lay in its scabbard beneath my left thigh. 



Jack Monroe had suggested that I should head the 

 cavalcade, as the trail was a clear one, and I might have 

 a chance at deer or elk. The horses moved along at a 

 walk and needed no attention. The bracing air filled 

 my lungs, and I greatly enjoyed the beauties of the land- 

 scape and the various forms of animal life which from 

 time to time presented themselves. The blue-gray waters 

 of the river tumbled roaring and splashing down on 

 their way to the Saskatchawan or broadened out into 

 miniature lakes with sluggish current and deep blue 

 color. Far ahead of us, but seemingly quite close, were 

 the gray, beetling fronts of the Rocky Mountains, the 

 backbone of a continent. "We could see in the river bot- 

 tom, where the beaver of years ago had built their houses, 

 the cut off stumps showing their patient labor, and at 

 times causing us to marvel as to how they could handle 

 trees so large. Birds flew up in front and at our side, the 

 sharptail grouse, the dusky grouse and the Rocky Moun- 

 tain ruffed grouse. Occasionally a Lanner falcon would 

 shoot by, hardly recognized before becoming a speck in 

 the distance. The noble war eagle poised, a mere speck 

 in the sky above, the next instant might fall like a shoot- 

 ing star to seize an unlucky kid or rabbit. My sure-footed 

 nag carried me slowly along the trail, absorbed in dreamy 

 enjoyment of the novel sights and sounds. The hoof- 

 falls of the train behind, or the occasional shouts of 

 packers or Indians as they drove back the horses stray- 

 ing from the trail in orossing the open spots, were the only 

 sounds to indicate that man was there. 



I was about 100yds. in advance of the outfit when I 

 rounded a small grassy knoll, and found myself gazing 

 with unnatural stare at a grizzly bear. He stood on the 

 side slope about half-way up, and not more than forty 



