March 31, 1887,] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



199 



pressed with it because of the remarkable charm lent it 

 by its surroundings. The day was nearing its close. The 

 westering sun shed a peculiar yellow light over its waters. 

 Away on the other side the dark pines stood with their 

 sombre shade. A profound calm, as of the primeval 

 silence, brooded over the scene. Add to this the rarity of 

 the atmosphere, the fresh air, the sweet woodsy smell all 

 around you of mosses and sweet-scented slxrabs and de- 

 caying foliage, and you may form some idea of the scene. 

 Tilting the milk can and pouring out its water into the 

 lake, I had the pleasure of seeing the lOin. bass dart 

 forth as fidl of life as when taken from the tank that 

 morning more than fifty miles away. Away they went 

 into that beautiful sheet of mountain water, where lot 

 us trust their progeny may make gentle sport for many 

 an angler besides Sam, Jerry and me in years to come. 



Turning back from the lake we made our way over 

 boulders and through bushes to the road where Jake was 

 waiting for us with the buckboard. Before mounting 

 it, however, we concluded that Sam should send Ponto 

 into a little ravine and look for birds. But a brief run 

 soon convinced as that no birds were there. It Was not 

 the right kind of ground. The signs were not favorable, 

 for the land was barren of those shrubs and berries, par- 

 ticularly the red partridge berry, which our game so 

 dearly loves. So mounting the Vehicle we rode home, 

 thinking it too late in the day for any further work. 



The next morning, Tuesday, at 8 o'clock, we took our 

 way out along the wooden railroad (built in the interest 

 of a certain factory managed by our host), each carrying 

 his lunch in his game bag, and" Jerry having his black, 

 two-quart tin coffee kettle in safe keeping. In addition 

 to Ponto we took with us another dog, native to that 

 neighborhood, and one that I should never have suspected 

 of being a hunting dog. He was the most ridiculous 

 looking animal of the dog kind I believe I have ever 

 seen; about 10 or 12m. high, 2&it. long, short, yellowish 

 hair, long ears, and forelegs that would puzzle any 

 writer, not also an artist, to describe. I called him 

 "knock-kneed," and was inclined to make sport of his 

 hunting pretensions. 



"But I tell you," said Jerry "Sport is a good dog. Yes, 

 sir! You don't believe it, maybe; but wait till we get a 

 rabbit up, and you'll see how he can get over the ground. 

 He's a good dog, Sport is, ain't you Sport?'' 



Sport wagged his tail, whined gently, and rubbed his 

 nose against Jerry's leg, for he knew Jerry for an old 

 friend. 



"That dog run?'' queried I. "Really, now, I should 

 like to see it. I think I should die laughing at the sight. 

 Why, he'd fall over his own toes. What species of dog is 

 he, anyway?" 



"He's a dash-hound," said Sam. "That's what he is. I 

 know that kind.'' 



"So called because he can't dash very much, I reckon." 



"No," said Jerry, he's what they call a beagle, and a 

 beagle is a good dog. They are good on hare." 



"Short, yellow, dog hair?" I ventured to suggest, "the 

 kind of hair that Noah's dog had." 



"Oh, you git out! Hare, I say; rabbits, then, if you can 

 understand that belter. Yes, sir; and in England I have 

 read they always like to have a few of this kind of dogs 

 in a pack of hounds because they have very fine, musical 

 voices, and serve to enliven the chase." 



"Well, well; Sport, my boy, I really wouldn't havesus- 

 pected you of wanting to sing in the choir. But since you 

 are here, why come along, sir, and welcome." 



"The only trouble with that kind of dog up here in this 

 country," continued Jerry, as we walked up the railroad 

 in the fresh, frosty morning air, all aglow with expecta- 

 tion of a fine day's sport." is that they don't like the briers, 

 and there are a good many patches of briers around here, 

 you know. You see. Sport has short hair, and the briers 

 soon cut Iris skin and he can't stand it. Then he often 

 gets tired on a hard day's hunt, and sometimes I carry 

 him in my arms." 



Thinking it was no wonder Sport liked Jerry we trudged 

 on, and soon lost our beagle. Jerry whistled and called, 

 and called and whistled, but Sport was afraid of the 

 briers and was making a long detour to avoid them. 

 After a great while he came up, panting, was soon lost 

 again and disappeared for an hour, turning up as sudden- 

 ly and mysteriously as he had vanished. He followed us 

 until about the middle of the forenoon, when we were led 

 into a seemingly endless patch of burnt timber thickly 

 overgrown with briars, into which he would not venture. 

 We saw him no more till we reached home in the eve- 

 ning. 



Before reaching the Tobehanna Creek we left the rail- 

 road, and turned into the bush to the left in the hope of 

 getting up some birds. None, however, appearing, we 

 circled around, heading for the bridge through a swamp 

 when — of course, just when we were least thinking about 

 it, with a great flapping of wings away over to the left 

 where Sam was thrashing about in the bog, a cock started 

 up from the top of a pine tree, making a great noise, and 

 sailing away with his tail feathers spread out like a fan. 



"Wha-a-t's that?" exclaimed Sam, as he gazed after the 

 first pheasant he had ever seen, the bird being too far 

 from him for a shot. 



"That? Why that's a conjunction, as the boy said when 

 he bumped his head against the post." 



"A what? Is that a pheasant? Well, I declare. I wish 

 he had been a Utile nearer to me, or I not so far away 

 from him." 



"Yes; and I wish I had stayed back where I was ten 

 minutes ago, and I'd had a bird in my bag— or maybe 

 two in the bush." 



"He's gone across the creek," said Jerry," "we'll get 

 him up again when we get over that way. Come on. let's 

 cross the bridge." 



Now, we could walk over the bridge very easily, but 

 poor Ponto! What a time of it we had with him. He 

 followed his master to the middle of the bridge, but there 

 he stopped and began to cry like a child and to shiver like 

 a leaf. Finally we got him over and started up the hill 

 for a beautiful patch of pines on the crest. What a beau- 

 tiful woods it was. The thick pines, the deep shade, the 

 mossy walks between, the sunbeams shimmering down 

 here and there — and then the deliciously fragrant smell 

 of pine and trailing vine. Tin-owing ourselves out in the 

 manner of a miniature skirmish line, we threaded the 

 mazy walks of the forest, looking here and there for 

 birds. The deep silence had been unbroken for a long 

 while, each being bent on getting the first shot. And 

 Sam was the lucky man. 



It' happened — I scarcely know whether I should tell just 



how it happened, but it is really too good to keep, and I 

 certainly cannot keep so good a thing to myself. It hap- 

 pened then, thus: I was standing in a road, an old 

 deserted bark road, looking around me, and listening 

 sharp. Away to my right I heard voices. I thought I 

 recognized Sam's as one, and called out "Hello, Sam!" 

 No answer. Again I shouted "Hello, Sam!" 

 "Hey!" 



"To whom are you talking? Is Jerry there?" 

 "No. I'm a talkiu' to my dog." 



Tramping over in the direction of the voices engaged in 

 low conversation and peeking carefully through the 

 bushes, I saw as beautiful and sweetly idyllic a little busi- 

 ness transaction as ever occurred in a woods. There was 

 Sam and there was his dog— and there too was another 

 man, not a member of our company, a backwoodsman, 

 who was in the act of taking a long twine from around 

 his neck. I watched the operation with interest, and soon 

 saw a fine pheasant dangling from the twine and speedily 

 deposited in Sam's game bag, 



"For a consideration," thought I. "Well, is Sam going 

 to set up the game on us that way? Are hunters, then, 

 like fishermen, of whom it is poetically said: 

 " 'Fishermen will fish, 



And fishermen will lie, 

 And what they cannot catch 

 They surely will buy.' 



"Hey, Jerry!" 

 "Hello!" 



"Sam's got one." 



"He has? Why, I didn't hear him shoot." 

 "He didn't shoot— with Iris gun." 



"Catch it with his hands? Throw salt on its tail? Jump 

 into the bushes and kick it to death?" 

 "Wait awhile and you'll see." 



Leaving Sam to his own reflections — I sincerely hoped 

 his conscience Would not trouble him over much — we 

 tramped on until we came out to a clearing known as 

 "Van Horn's," where was a house and barn, both de- 

 serted. Skirting the clearing we re-entered the pines, 

 when wh-i-r-r! up went a bird just ahead of me and I 

 wasn't ready to shoot. "Bah!" said I, "There it is again. 

 Why in the world didn't you shoot, you dunderhead you, 

 and not wait for a better chance? Don't you know, sir, 

 by this time that pheasants don't build nests in a man's 

 hair? Are you not aware that these birds, like Time and 

 Tide, wait for no man, and that if you want to have a 

 shot at them you must take it on the instant, aim or no 

 aim, hit or miss?" Indulging in such mental soliloquy — 

 it is wonderful how much internal talking a man does 

 when he's out a hunting — and determined that so soon as 

 another bird got up I would promptly "shoot him on the 

 spot," I soon found myself joined by Jerry and Sam. 



"You got a bird, they say?" queried Jerry. 



"Yes," said Sam, "I got one." 



"Yes," said I, "I saw you get it." 



"Did you? Fetched it down nice, didn't I?" 



"For one thing I give you credit, Sam, and that is that 

 after your interview with the Bushman you didn't fire 

 off your gun, and then shout at the top of your voice, 

 "Fetch her in Ponto! Dead bird, Ponto!" 



"Well, now, you didn't think I was going to do that, 

 did you? Any way, it's a fine bird. Just look at her; she's 

 Warm yet. That fellow must have shot her not more than 

 a half hour back." 



Here we cast ourselves down under a tree and rested on 

 a hillock covered with thick moss. 



It was not long after leaving this spot that we became 

 entangled in a great patch of briers, through which we 

 fought our way for more than an hour, getting a good 

 sweating, scaring up a few birds and not having a shot. 

 By the time we got out we found it was nearly noon, and 

 so concluded to make for "Wagner's Kim" and there take 

 our dinner. 



Now, a dinner in the woods, beside a murmuring 

 mountain stream, after such a tramp as we had, is indeed 

 no small affair. Talk about Delmonico's, and quail on 

 toast, it can't compare with a ham sandwich, a raw 

 onion, an apple, a few cakes, and as much exquisite 

 coffee as you can drink. Ah! what an appetite a man 

 has under such circumstances, and how good his dinner 

 tastes! 



Our fire was soon built. That was my part of the work. 

 I may modestly say that I pride myself on my fires. I 

 am a first-class incendiary — in the woods — and have 

 seldom failed to make a roaring fire at the first effort, no 

 matter how little or how wet my wood might be, or how 

 hard the wind might blow. While I was engaged in this, 

 Jerry was filling his two-quart bucket at the brook, and 

 pouring the ground coffee out of a paper bag into it, while 

 Sam was lying on the bank and wondering "what made 

 the water in the stream look so dark." 



"It's the hemlock makes it," answered Jerry, as he cut 

 a long pole from a bush and began to trim it, intending 

 to use it to hold the kettle over my fire. "The water 

 passes over so many hemlock roots in the bed of the 

 stream that it gets the color of tan bark. They say it is 

 very wholesome." 



In three minutes from the time when the kettle was 

 hung over the fire the coffee was done. 



And there we sat in a row on a log, three happy, care- 

 less, light-hearted men, with our lunch on our knees, and 

 enjoying our dinner grandly. Ponto lay curled up at our 

 feet resting and sleeping. 



"Now, this is what I call fine, fine!" exclaimed Sam. 

 "This is delightful. It's better than all the doctors and 

 all the medicine in the world." 



"Yes; it clears the head and rests the brain, and reno- 

 vates the whole man." 



"It's a great deal better," half soliloquized Jerry, "than 

 that old song I've got to hear so often at home in my 

 store, 'Give me a half a dozen screws.' " Now Jerry is 

 an hardware man. 



Then followed stories and yarns, and jokes, and — the 

 inevitable cigar, of course, while the second kettle of 

 coffee stood sizzling on the red hot coals. A two-quart 

 kettle filled twice makes four quarts; and four quarts 

 divided by three— I leave the patient reader to figure it 

 out, for we must be moving. 



I will not follow our wanderings in the woods during 

 the afternoon. Suffice it to say that we circled around 

 "Wagner's" till dusk, getting up a number of birds and 

 shooting two. Sam bagged both, leaving Jerry and me 

 without so much as a feather to plume ourselves on, as 

 we were met at "Wagner's" about 5 o'clock by Jake with 

 the buckboard, H, M, K. 



Easton, Pa, 



THE MOUNTAIN SERMON. 



IT WAS our first Sunday at old Barney's. The sun was 

 just rising over the mountain tops as I closed the lit- 

 tle gate and turned down the stony, grass-grown road. 

 A picturesque old road it was on that Sunday morning in 

 June. To the right the creek rippled, rippled, rippled, 

 against the pebbles that lined its banks. To the left the 

 mountains raised aloft their blue peaks in solemn, im- 

 pressive grandeur. Trees lined either side of the road, 

 and their leaves rustled lightly in the faint morning 

 breeze. The very birds among the branches chirped in a 

 subdued manner, and the bees hummed soft and low 

 among the wild flowers. The faint, far-off tinkling of a 

 cow-bell floated on the light morning ah-. All nature 

 seemed imbued with the quiet of the Sabbath. The week- 

 day bustle and fuss had ceased and nature rested. On 

 such a morning one prefers being alone. The world is 

 shut out, forgotten, and nature opens and receives one 

 kindly, and discovers her most perfect forms, her rarest 

 charms. 



I followed along the old road, stopping at every turn to 

 view the new beauties that burst upon my view. An 

 ever- varying foreground with the same background of 

 mountain peaks overtopped by the soft blue sky. 



Half an hour's walk brought me to a little rustic bridge 

 that crosses the stream, the same old rustic bridge that is 

 part of a famous picture by one of our greatest landscape 

 painters. Standing on the bridge I looked over the rail- 

 ing. Under the bridge the water ran cool and clear and 

 deep, washing among the crumbling stones of the single 

 pier, whirling into swirls and circles as it left the bridge. 

 An immense trout lay deep in the water, fanning himself 

 slowly with his fins. He, too, seemed to me to be enjoy- 

 ing his Sabbath, his week-day eagerness for prey and 

 worrying of foes laid aside on this day of rest. As I left 

 the bridge I mentally remarked: "Good bye, old fellow, 

 enjoy your day of rest; on the morrow a dainty little fly 

 will light on the still pool that will tempt even your fas- 

 tidious palate, and your cool, watery house will know you 

 no more." 



I proceeded up the creek until I came to the point from 

 which the artist had painted his picture. Standing on 

 the spot where his easel had stood a year before, I looked 

 back at the bridge. A picturesque old structure it was, 

 with its falling timber and moss-grown logs, crumbling 

 and decaying boards. For years it had been unused save 

 by an occasional foot passenger. Nature had seized it 

 for her own, and most artistically had she worked on 

 every part; not a stone, not a log, not a board that was 

 not picturesque. As I looked I reflected on the wonder- 

 ful artistic working of nature. Give to her the plainest 

 old house and how soon has she converted it into a pic- 

 turesque ruin, the straight roof bent into a graceful curve, 

 a few shingles torn off, those remaining moss-covered; 

 she has twisted the chimneys; drawn out a stone here, a 

 piece of mortar there; broken lights out of the windows, 

 trailed vines over the timber, and surrounded the crum- 

 bling gray ruin with masses of wild flowers, green 

 grasses and picturesque brambles and weeds. Throw the 

 commonest paving stone into a barren field, and how 

 soon nature clusters around it tufts of grass and graceful 

 curving vines and variegated wild flowers, until the un- 

 sightly object is hid and a spot of beauty marks the place. 



On and on I wandered along the road, taking little heed 

 how far I traveled or the time I spent. Suddenly a new 

 sound came floating on the air, the sound of' singing 

 voices, and the next turn of the road brought me in 

 sight of a picturesque church, standing by the roadside. 

 Around stood old-fashioned country wagons; horses were 

 hitched to the fences and trees. Almost mechanically I 

 walked up the path and entered. A man kindly made 

 room for me and I sat down. As I did so the singing 

 ceased, and the preacher rose in the little wooden pulpit 

 and began turning over the leaves of the Bible. He was 

 a peculiar looking man, very tall, very slim, and very 

 awkward appearing; his hands were large and thin and 

 seemed in his way; his face was unshaven, and his cloth- 

 ing anything but clerical looking. After some search he 

 found what he was looking for, then turning his eyes on 

 the congregation, he said: "Brethren, David says, 'Ye 

 mountains and hills, praise ye the Lord." " The voice was 

 low and soft, and delicately modulated, yet so distinct 

 that not a syllable was lost.' It arrested the attention of 

 even the most wandering one. 



Then he began his sermon by showing how many scrip- 

 tural events had happened among mountains, and how 

 mountains formed an important part of the Bible history. 

 Beginning at the resting of the ark on the mountain, he 

 spoke of Abraham, of Moses, of Saul, of David, and of all 

 the events that happened on mountains until Christ's 

 Sermon on the Mount, the Crucifixion on the Mount, and the 

 Ascension from a mountain. Each scene he describes in 

 words so pure and simple that every hearer could under- 

 stand, yet in language that burned Avith living fire, the 

 fire of a deep solemn earnestness that caused his counten- 

 ance to glow and the hands that at first seemed awkward 

 to fall into gestures of the most perfect grace. Then he 

 drew the contrast between a mountain life with its quiet 

 and peace, its freedom from care and with the evidence 

 of God's power and works on every hand, and a life in a 

 city, with its bustle and stir, its contentions and strife, its 

 trials and temptations. It was here that the preacher 

 rose to his grandest efforts. Such flow of language, such 

 bursts of eloquence, such depths of pathos as came from 

 that ordinary-looking man in that little mountain church 

 I never heard before, and — unless I am fortunate enough 

 to hear him — I never expect to hear again. 



When he closed there was silence, a breathless silence 

 that showed what attention had been given his words. 

 As we passed out of the church I said to one of the men: 

 "You have a wonderful preacher; what is his name?" 



The man answered: "Oh, that's not om preacher. Our 

 preacher is sick and this un took his place; he's staying 



at Sol Denny's, trout fishing; his name is ." And he 



named one of the most celebrated preachers of one of our 

 large Eastern cities. F. I. Sherman. 



Some Other Time.— "Any bearabout this neighborhood?", 

 he inquired as he got off the train and leaned an eight-kun-. 

 dred-dollar breechloader carelessly in the hollow of his arm. 

 "The woods is full of 'em," said a citizen; "one of 'em bit 

 my brother's leg off yisterday. Are you loaded fer b'ar, mis- 

 ter?" "No, sir, replied the young man, hastily boarding, 

 the train, "I'm only loaded for rabbits."— Harper's Bazar, 



Thk Travelers issued 115,476 accident policies in 1884.--.4dt>, 



