Deo. 38, 1895.J 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



687 



from the hundreds of guns in the Winchester Company's 

 store in San Francisco. She has seen service, and if the 

 deer and other victims, grouse, squirrels, pigs, skunks, 

 hawks, foxes, catamounts, etc. , etc. , were in cold storage, 

 the supply would furnish Delmonico's for quite a period. 

 I shot a deer once and killed it at so great a distance that 

 it took me fourteen hours to reach it and carry it back to 

 the point from which I shot — but this is a long story, 

 although simply true. I will reserve it for a separate tale. 

 All truths cannot be briefly stated to advantage. 



Aa appears somewhat heretofore, I was astir at 3 o'clock 

 A. M. I made a fire in the cook stove and compiled a 

 hasty breakfast; for, look you, hermits addicted to eat- 

 ing, and eating cooked provender, must through necessity 

 cater to themselves. My coffee was soon steaming (to- 

 gether with such alien ingredients as chicory, burnt 

 acorns and other refuse that some villainous purveyors 

 mix with it to make an honest dollar. In northern Cali- 

 fornia we get, at present writing, three pounds of alleged 

 coffee for one dollar. If Congress desires to elevate itself 

 in my opinion, it can do so by making a law that will 

 permit us to lynch all adulterators of common foods or 

 beverages. It can soar higher toward the top of admira- 

 tion by making another law to make it a capital crime for 

 speculators to corner and batten upon the necessities of 

 life, or common foods. These abuses cover a great deal 

 of man's inhumanity to man in this country. When a 

 mountaineer sends for miles over rough roads and trails 

 to get his little supply of necessaries, and meets with 

 swindles, impositions and thievery, his confidence in his 

 fellow man — in human nature itself — totters). 



Ah, well; I say my coffee was soon steaming, and I had 

 a couple of slices of bacon browned and a couple of honest 

 eggs (turned over) alongside. 



Speaking of eggs, I pray you take notice, reminds us of 

 chickens or hens. Then, too, there is the rooster. I have 

 a notable group of fowls. If you desire to glean a little 

 natural history and a few eggs you should have a lonely 

 hermitage, all by yourself, and raise some poultry. I 

 have also a garden. My garden fence is 10ft. high. It 

 did not incommode the hens, however, until I trimmed 

 their wings; then they had to dig under. After they get 

 through with my garden (and meantime) they roost on my 

 veranda, on top of my house, and besiege my domicile 

 perpetually. The rooster is a black knight, and he fools 

 away more time crowing to no purpose (for he has no co- 

 temporary) than any fowl I ever heard of. Blast him if 

 he don't crow all day and most of the night. If a door is 

 left open he comes into the house and crows. Some- 

 times he makes me weary, and, during moments of irrita- 

 tion, I have thrown everything at him within reach, ex- 

 cept the stove. Never touched him. I am daily tempted 

 to assassinate him with the shotgun, but that would make 

 widows of about seventeen hens and leave a host of 

 orphans, with no apparent possibility of acquiring a step- 

 father in this region. If I can kill him, however, with a 

 frying pan or one of my ballasted biscuits he is subject to 

 the vicissitudes of fate. 



Well, then, by the time I had breakfast and had fed 

 the dog and the cats — now, there's the cats. At present, 

 I have only three cats left. I have had at different times 

 — or, that is, at the same time— as many as nine oats. I 

 have been troubled at my ranch by a steady accumulation 

 of cats. I have sent surplus cats away — have carried sev- 

 eral abroad and given them to distant neighbors (in an 

 unostentatious manner), but periodically, or rather 

 of tener, my domain is oversupplied with cats still. My 

 affections cling to but one cat. I have tried to name him 

 Don Quixote, but I always call him Tom, for Bhort. He 

 is a blue, smoky -colored Maltese, and one of the sneak- 

 iest, catlike felines in existence. He has no especial ped- 

 igree, but he has a history. I will reserve his record until 

 he finishes his promising career. 



And so, after these things weredisposed of, I took 

 my rifle in hand and set out. It was yet an hour before 

 dawn, and I was confident ot getting off the premises 

 before the chickens came out. When I start out during 

 the day with axe or gun, I always head a procession. 

 The order of march is as follows: First, myself; second, 

 Sbep, the dog; then Tom, the cat; then two or more other 

 cats; the "rooster; a platoon of hens; three ducks; various 

 chickens; a sow and pigs; one gray horse; finally, scatter- 

 ing chickens. 



The horse and the hogs are not always in line, as they 

 range off on their own account frequently. I have also 

 noticed that a number of bluejays, a pair of pileated 

 woodpeckers and a kingfisher bring up the rear, or flank 

 my line of march. When I glance back at my following 

 I incline to a belief in the story of Noah and his Ark. If 

 he had only had room enough in his boat for the ele- 

 phants, giraffes, boa constrictors, anacondas and the 

 Texas steer, I would conclude that he really did make the 

 scheme work. 



These creatures court my society. Their taste is in no 

 manner to be criticised, as they have no choice. They 

 instinctively like the companionship of man, and I am the 

 only resource within their realm. They do not follow for 

 food, for the whole cavalcade of them know where to 

 look for or expect that. The instinct does not exist in 

 domesticated creatures alone. It is evident that birds of 

 many kinds follow and keep as near as permitted to 

 human habitation. And not birds alone, but every crea- 

 ture coming under my observation has shown the same 

 desire to some extent. If deer were not hunted by dogs 

 or men, they would domesticate themselves. Bears 

 would, of course, appropriate the pen, hogs and all, but I 

 believe they could be civilized and made as harmless as 

 Daniel's lions. 



It is, in my opinion, complimentary 10 human civiliza- 

 tion that dumb brutes, birds and beasts, seek the society 

 of man. Allowing that some do so for food, some for 

 protection or what not, it implies that all creation ac- 

 knowledges his superior intelligence and power and try 

 to get near it. 



Now, every once in a while it occurs to me that per- 

 haps we are not advancing in humanity. According to 

 my definition of the word it implies consideration for all 

 creation, and especially for all living creatures. We are 

 wont to refer in boastful terms to modern advance in 

 civilization, arts, sciences, enlightenment. Perhaps we 

 can advance in all these and halt, or even retrograde, in 

 humanity. 



How far have we really advanced in humanity since— 

 say since authentic history began? It is a searching 

 query. Were not the most ancient people we know of 

 humane where it profited them to be bo— or where they 

 thought it did? Do we in the present day protect any 



creature from any higher motive? Who retrieved the 

 dog from his wild state and preserved him to be the bene- 

 factor of mankind? Who the horse? Who the first 

 cattle? In the discovery and occupation of this vast con- 

 tinent has the Anglo-Saxon set up any particular monu- 

 ment to humanity? Has he not swept its native popula- 

 tion, Indians and all, into oblivion as rapidly as the 

 advance of civilization? 



Here is a chance for some humane society. Among 

 the thousands of birds and beasts of a great continent, 

 can not some new species be domesticated, foBtered and 

 passed down to posterity as a token of the humanity of 

 the nineteenth or twentieth century? 



Over 300 years ago Shakespeare caused poor old King 

 Lear, himself exposed to the midnight tempest, to ex- 

 claim: 



"Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 

 That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, 

 How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, 

 Tour loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you 

 From seasons such as these? Oh, I have ta'en 

 Too little care of this ! Take physic, pomp; 

 That thou may'st shake the superflux to them, 

 And show the heavens more just." 



The melancholy and philosophic Jacques moralized— 

 but I beg the patient reader thereof to pardon me. As I 

 glance back over the course of my pen, it looks to me as 

 though I have permitted it to wobble. I began in good 

 faith the story of a deer hunt in the remote and western 

 Sierras. I will continue, and hope to conclude my story 

 without so much subsequent deviation. I will, after 

 the manner of Polonius, give you 1 'more matter with less 

 art." 



To proceed, therefore; together with my dog, I say I 

 got off before dawn and for results, perpend: 



I selected one of the spurs which led most directly to 

 the high ridge, and after about an hour's steady climbing 

 I found myself within a couple of hundred yards of one 

 of the most prominent mountain tops of the vicinity. 



It had been a hard climb, and as I was now well in the 

 midst of the best deer ground, I sat down to reBt to recover 

 my normal respiration and quiet my nerves. It was 

 not yet light enough to shoot, and as I had an unobstructed 

 view to the east I decided to watch for the first pur- 

 pling of dawn. 



About seventy miles to the north Mount Shasta could 

 be faintly seen. The clear, cold air of October tasted 

 almost like a dram from the crystal water of Bowlder 

 Creek. The forest fires of summer had seemingly been 

 all extinguished, and the clarified atmosphere was as 

 pure as any to be found in the world. The stars, as if 

 anticipating the coming of the sun and their obliteration 

 from the sky, fairly sent out flames of glittering greenish 

 fire and seemed to exaggerate and increase in brilliancy. 



The hills about me were as silent as a quiet sea. There 

 was not a breeze to rustle in the giant pines. Even the 

 half dry foliage of the black oaks and maples had ceased 

 to rustle, and only at long intervals an acorn broke the 

 silence by falling to the ground, doubtless released from 

 its cup by some early and industrious worm. His enemy, 

 the bird, was not astir. 



In the faint light the hills in the immediate foreground 

 looked like huge waves of a yellow sea, except where 

 covered and darkened by the forest. To the north and 

 east the hundreds of mountains and ridges shaded away 

 into the darkness until, away off on the horizon, Shasta 

 broke the mighty arch with its lofty silver-gray outlines, 

 and its great flanking chains of mountains. 



Ha! the summit of the snow-covered peak grows paler. 

 Far beyond him, to the south, the sky assumes color I Its 

 dull cold gray begins to purple; the purple slowly changes 

 shade by shade, until radiating waves of yellow faintly 

 appear, deepen to orange, and then to blue and gold. 

 Almost suddenly the east is arrayed in gaudier colors! 

 The mountains are as purple as grapes, but their summits 

 are fringed with ruby and emerald, and then they blaze 

 as if crusted with molten gold. Mount Shasta in his robe 

 of snow first changes from gray to white, then glistens 

 into gilded outlines fringed with the plumes of Iris. 



Ha! there he blazes! The majestic glory of the universe, 

 the source of light and life for creation, rises above his 

 western mountain tops and flashes his herald rays of 

 power and command over the mighty Pacific and away 

 toward the celestial empire of the Orient again, where 

 there are 400,000,000 Chinamen or more. 



Ho! watching the sun rise is not looking for deer. I 

 look about in my more adjacent vicinity and observe that 

 the denizens of the mountains and the wilderness are up 

 and astir. See the gray squirrels, three — four of them, 

 and as blue as indigo in their winter furs. As I rise to 

 my feet whir-r-r-r, cuck! cuok! cuek! goes an old blue 

 grouse from that clump of firs, followed quickly by her 

 brood, nearly grown. I am discovered, the alarm is 

 given! The squirrels climb the nearest sugar pine, a 

 covey of mountain quail (as large as three or four Bob 

 Whites in one) whiz away down the ravine. The squir- 

 rels bark and chatter in their squeaky accents. Their 

 voices need lubrication. So do those of the jays, that 

 add their clatter to what is now a general hubub. 



I thought I heard the crash — thud — thud — thud of a 

 deer as it bounded away down through that thicket of 

 buck brush. If it was a deer ho is evidently of a very 

 retiring disposition and safely out of reach and sight. I 

 survey the ground about me, and yes, sure enough, here 

 are tracks. Does and fawns; there a yearling's track. I 

 don't want them. I want a buck with something on his 

 ribs besides hide. Ho, there's a track. He's a smasher 

 —same track I saw around here last fall. My talented 

 canine sniffs the track. He pronounces it fresh. Now, 

 go slow, watch close. 



My aforesaid dog is alert, and as John Gilpin said, -"So 

 am I," There is a promising thicket— scrub oak and blue 

 brush— slow now, easy there! I hear brush breaking — 

 there is something just below the big pine log there; down, 



Shep, you, down! If you break this time I'll — . 



Just about this time I see the straight blue back of what 

 must be the big buck. Ah, I saw his ears flap. But he 

 keeps low down, and I'll have to flank him by going 

 around the point. I am puzzled that I saw no horns. 

 He ought to be wearing 'em at this time o' the year. 



I sneak as softly as possible down the point and am 

 luckily to the windward. About 30yds. below is a cattle 

 trail. He is following that; I hear him. My ambitious 

 dog is excited. I can hear his heart throbbing against his 

 gizzard or ribs or somewhere. I am not exactly placid 

 myself. He's coming; now then! 



My rifle is ready. I try the set trigger as a final precau- 

 tion. It is all right. Now then, if he passes that clump 

 he's mine! 



Just at this particular instant I am jarred. A loud 

 voice above me to the left exclaims in mighty poor Eng- 

 lish, "Vat in h— 1 vill you been doing dere now, Mister?" 

 At the same particular instant a blue line-back donkey, or 

 burro, stalks into my view on the trail. I can recognize 

 a jackass at a glance, especially when he has a pack sad- 

 dle on. I did not shoot. I lowered my rifle and looked 

 up at the man who had shouted at me in such blasted bad 

 taste and grammar. He had a rifle across hisjarm in a 

 convenient kind of way, and he again shocked me by 

 observing audibly— very peculiarly audibly— "Ef you vill 

 shoot my shack vy vill you been sneakin' dot vay apout 

 me?" 



I began to convalesce, and then I began to explain. I 

 could only say, "Sir, I thought the jack was a deer. I 

 don't want the jack." I further intimated that my eccen- 

 tric canine didn't know any better than to hunt jacks, as 

 he had probably never seen one before. 



The stranger succumbed to my apologetic attitude, held 

 his gun less conspicuously, and finally came down where 

 I was. He said his name was Arizona Pete, and that he 

 "vas brosbecting all ofer ef'ryveres." He inquired the 

 nearest way out of the vicinity, and I told him how to go. 

 I went with him and his "shack" as far as my road home 

 took me, and we parted fondly. Then, preceded by my 

 faithful but erratic dog, I hied me home. 



I have been hunting since then. I have met with suc- 

 cess; but I have already been verbose. I will pause. 



Ransacker. 



TO THE ECONLOCKHATCHEE. 



At 9 o'clock on the morning of the 16th of January, 

 1895, the steam yacht Lolliboy, in command of Capt. John 

 E. Harris, gave the signal of departure and drew quietly 

 away from the St. Francis dock, Lake county, Florida, 

 with her head toward the upper St. Johns, and bearing a 

 party of tourists and explorers, who though few in num- 

 bers were not lacking in enthusiasm. Following is a ros- 

 ter of the party: Capt. John E. Harris, Mr. Chas. Knick- 

 erbocker, Mr. Clifton K. Harris, Messrs. Ed. S. Wright and 

 W. S. Smith. 



The first stage of our journey, although uneventful, was 

 not devoid of interest, particularly to those who had never 

 passed up the river by daylight. One feature that 

 attracted our attention was the numerous picturesque 

 fishing camps which dotted the river banks here and there, 

 particularly for a few miles below Lake Monroe, where 

 shad fishing is extensively carried on. 



Our progress up the river was slow, and marked by no 

 mishaps except those which befell a few ducks which in- 

 discreetly ventured so near the party as to fall victims to 

 the guns with which the party was amply provided. To 

 Mr. Charles Knickerbocker is due the credit of the first 

 contribution to the commissary, and it may be added, he 

 made many more of a like character during the trip. The 

 party was well Bupplied with ammunition, ducks were 

 abundant, and the bombardment that was kept up indi- 

 cated nothing short of entire extermination. Although 

 at no time were the feathers that were plucked from the 

 ducks over a foot deep on the steamer's deck, there was a 

 gratifying prospect that we might sleep on feathers and 

 live on roast duck during our entire cruise. 



We have not space in which to mention the numerous 

 points of interest below Lake Monroe, which we reached 

 just as the sun was about to don its night- cap. 



We lay safely moored at Sanf ord over Wednesday night, 

 during which a heavy rain prevailed, and the prospect 

 looked gloomy, but Thursday morning the rising sun soon 

 pierced the clouds and dispelled the gloom, and our hopes 

 of a pleasant trip were renewed. 



Passing out of Lake Monroe we began to realize a won- 

 derful change of scenery, and also soon became aware 

 that a stream may have more than two sides — that is, 

 reckoning by the points of the compass. The thirty miles 

 between lakes Monroe and Harney are of a character to 

 make a charming trip, the interesting features of which 

 are enhanced by the bewildering sinuosity of the stream. 

 Throughout much of this distance the river is bordered 

 with long and narrow low-lying islands, frequently 

 thickly studded with picturesque palms and grand live 

 oaks. Intervening between these islands and the high 

 lands, whose lofty pines we occasionally discern in the 

 distance, stretches mile upon mile of prairie, now par- 

 tially covered with water. Upon these vast plains is a 

 luxuriant growth of grass, which furnishes food to thou- 

 sands of head of cattle. These cattle seem equally at 

 home on dry land or in the water, hence the plausible 

 story that they are web-footed. 



Leisurely we proceeded on our way. The beauty of the 

 scenery seemed to become more and more striking as we 

 advanced until at 5 P. M, we reached a point in close 

 proximity to the north shore of Lake Harney. Here upon 

 a shell mound we found an inviting camping ground, 

 which had previously been the rendezvous of a fishing 

 party. Pitching a tent and necessary preparation for 

 cooking supper is quickly accomplished when sharpened 

 appetites furnish the stimulant. The gastronomic feats 

 that were accomplished at those open air meals were 

 wonderful exhibitions of human capacity and endurance. 



On Friday morning— bright and beautiful as only a 

 Florida morning can be — we drew out upon Lake Har- 

 ney, a beautiful body of water of perhaps five miles in 

 average diameter. At Geneva landing, on the west side, 

 we made a stop of a couple of hours, and, just to stretch 

 ourselves — a proceeding that might seem entirely super- 

 fluous so far at least as one of the party was concerned — 

 took a two-mile walk to Geneva, a pretty location in the 

 high pine woods of east Orange county. At 1 o'clock P. 

 M. we resumed our journey and an hour later once more 

 entered the channel of the river. On the upper or south 

 side of Lake Harney the river channel is much narrower 

 than below the lake, but otherwise the general character- 

 istics are about the same. Wide ranges of Florida prairie 

 dotted here and there with herds of cattle, apparently thou- 

 sands of head. Here, too, on these vast watery expanses, 

 surrounded and partially covered with tall grasses the win- 

 ter home of millions of ducks, coots, curlew, cranes, nerons 

 and other aquatic birds, which furnish to gunners, who 

 find convenient shelter in the tall grass, such sport as is 

 rarely found elsewhere, even in Florida. Here the water 

 also contributes liberally to the gratification of angling 

 sportsmen, who, if their skill is equal to the occasion, 

 may shoot ducks with one hand and catch fish with the 

 other. In fact, between fish and fowl they come near 



