April 21, 1887.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



273 



He ceroid not have gone far. "Samwell! Sara well 

 Lovel!" she called softly, running out toward the road. 



"Was you a callin' rue, Huldy?" a low voice answered 

 out of the dusk. 



"Won't ye come an' hlow the horn tu call 'era hum, 

 Samwell? the' can't none on 'em in there blownothin' — O, 

 Sam!" 



The tall form of her lover came out of the gloom, and 

 the big sister was in the strong arms that had just brought 

 home the little sister. 



The search of the rescue party was prolonged a little 

 before Sam's blasts on the conch shell were tossed far 

 and wide from echoing mountain to echoing hill to call 

 them home. 



"Sam," said Huldah, half an hour later, "you haint 

 never tol' me whether no you got that 'ere fox f" 

 "I haint never bed no chance!" he answered. 



Rowland E. Robinson. 



A COON HUNT. 



I CAN scarcely recall in what year I became a member 

 of Seneca Club. It was a. long time ago, however, 

 and as years press upon us, and the tell-tale gray hairs 

 grow more and more numerous, we do not like to think 

 of how many years ago, but rather remember the good 

 times as if they were of yesterday. After all, "life is but 

 a shadow," and when one who has enjoyed more than a 

 fan share of the rational sports and pastimes that are 

 vouchsafed to man in this beautiful world, the remem- 

 brance of them seems like a delightful dream. The old 

 sportsman, who has killed ducks on the waters that have 

 made the counties of Harford and Baltimore in Maryland 

 famous for sport, can remember when the great tract, ex- 

 tending from Maxwell's to Carroll's Island, was owned 

 by the Cadwallader family. As years passed away place 

 after place was sold, until Maxwell's, with its grand old 

 mansion and splendid shooting points, remained the only 

 property of the General on these waters. On the south 

 side of Grace's Quarter is the Saltpetre River, which flows 

 into the Gunpowder at this point, and on the west bound- 

 ing the same property is the Dundee. How well I re- 

 member, years ago, the myriads of canvasbacks and red- 

 heads that swarmed in these waters, to feed upon the 

 delicate celery grass. It was indeed a sportsman's para- 

 dise. 



On the upper Dundee, on a small farm, and a most ex- 

 cellent shooting point, lived a gentleman of the name of 

 Watkins. He was of a Quaker family, but a thorough 

 sportsman and an ardent hunter. He was fond of horses 

 and dogs, and while he shot many ducks his favorite 

 pastime was fox hunting; but the acme of his enjoyment 

 was a real old-fashioned coon hunt. He was a very tall 

 man, thin, wiry and muscular, and could probably take 

 in more ground at a long step than any other man in the 

 country. There was not a hole nor a hollow, a swamp, 

 woods or brier patch for miles around that he was not 

 perfectly familiar with; and he could thread the tangled 

 woods or leap from tussock to tussock in the oozy swamp 

 by night as well as by sunlight. The negroes the country 

 round looked on him* as a kind of oracle, and when Massa 

 Watkins arrived every darky's face beamed with pleas- 

 are; and when a c<3on hunt was proposed the entire darky 

 community went mad with joy. On these expeditions 

 his retinue was generally a small army of darkies, each 

 one of them armed either with an axe or a half-starved, 

 ragged cur— "de best dog, sak, dat ebber treed a coon." 

 Watkins always had a small pack of fine beagles, and two 

 or three wonderful coon dogs. I can see now the flying 

 clouds obscuring the light of the glorious moon, the vision 

 of this tall, lanky figure, lantern in hand , striding through 

 the tangled swamp as easily and certainly as though the 

 hall of his house. His shouts, as he urged on his dogs, 

 resounded in the air, and behind him trailed a line of 

 negroes, floundering among the briers and mud, vainly 

 endeavoring to keep up with the tall hunter, who moved 

 like a spectre before them. 



I do not remember how long ago I made my debut at 

 Seneca, but the memory of the gra"nd old tiines I have 

 spent there with my friends, the collector of the port and 

 the flour merchant," will linger with me, never to be for- 

 gotten. It seems to me it was in early November that I 

 went for the first time to the club to have some duck 

 shooting and meet my fellow members. After a good 

 day's shooting, toward evening, we three started from 

 the blind for the house, Joe bringing up the rear with a 

 load of ducks on his back. As Ave reached the little 

 clump of cedars, a faint sound of h-o-nk! honk! came to 

 us on the wind. 



"By gracious, George, here come some geese;" and the 

 two veterans stood at a ready, awaiting the approach of 

 the advancing line, which were now plainly visible. As 

 they passed overhead the guns were fired, as it seemed to 

 me, simultaneously, and down came, fluttering and 

 stumbling over and over, a noble goose near the spot 

 where we stood. Both parties, of course, claimed the 

 prize. The Collector was "perfectly confident that it 

 was the third goose from the end, and the identical one 

 he fired at." George was equally confident that he had 

 killed it, and to prove it had the goose firmly by the neck; 

 and they walked toward the house disc ussing warmly 

 the ownership of the property, which I made up my 

 mind could only be settled by a "game of draw." 



"Now, George," said the Collector, "it is perfectly 

 absurd to suppose that you could have killed that goose 

 at such a distance with that gun of yours. I saw him 

 give way to my shot, and it is my goose." The Collector 

 finished his glass of apple toddy and called lustily for Joe 

 to come and clean his gun, preparatory to their start for 

 home. Joe had been gone only a few minutes from the 

 room, when he suddenly returned and inquired of the 

 Collector, in the most innocent manner, "Massa B., shall 

 I draw the loads from your gun?" 



I saw a triumphant smile wreathe the countenance of 

 the flour merchant. 



"What the devil do you mean, Joe. by loads in my 

 gun?" 



"Why, Massa B., there are two loads in your gun; one 

 of the barrels has snapped." 



You should have heard the shout of laughter that broke 

 from the flour merchant. B. was so confident that he 

 had killed that goose that he would have sworn to it. I 

 wonder if Bob H. and many other old friends do not still 

 twit "the grand old man" about that goose. Years have 

 passed away, and the Collector has become a little feeble 

 by the wear and tear of ruthless time, but he is yet full 

 of pluck, and the judges' stand knows him well, and 



Saratoga, Monmouth and Prospect Park would seem a 

 blank without him. I trust that many years of happi- 

 ness may yet be spared to my genial friends, the Collec- 

 tor and the flour merchant. 



I waved them good-by as they whirled away up the 

 road; they were soon lost in the deep shade of the woods, 

 and I returned to the gun room to toast my feet and to 

 read awhile to pass away the time. A friend had loaned 

 me a book called "The Wildfowler;" it contained some 

 weird stories of hunting, pirates and smugglers on the 

 wild Irish coast. I became very lonesome, and I was 

 very glad when Aunt Susan brought my candle and time 

 had come for bed. I do not know why it is, but I am 

 always restless the first night in a strange bed. And my 

 rest was disturbed by unpleasant dreams of robbers and 

 violent struggles. I was suddenly awakened by what 

 seemed to me the most unearthly sounds; dogs barking 

 and yelping, and muffled cries and imprecations. I sat 

 upright in the bed and listened, and I could plainly hear 

 the tumult near the house. I fancied at first that the 

 house had been surrounded and I was to be robbed. I 

 got out of bed and looked for the window. The clouds of 

 the day had vanished, and the moon shone out glori- 

 ously. In front of the house stood a large oak tree, whose 

 thick and scarred trunk bad been rooted in the earth for 

 centuries. Around this tree were prancing and bustling 

 a half dozen figures, some with lanterns and others armed 

 with queer, quaint weapons, and mixed up in the throng 

 were half a dozen howling dogs. Both men and dogs 

 seemed bent on tearing down the old oak. After tearing 

 around for some time the uproar suddenly ceased and 

 men and dogs formed in line, and much to my relief 

 marched up the road and were lost in the gloom. I could 

 not fancy what it all meant, and went back to bed, slept 

 but little. 1 was greatly relieved when Joe came to my 

 room and announced "five o'clock, sir," and I got up and 

 dressed and came down for breakfast. Calling Joe into 

 the room I inquired "what in the misclnef was all that 

 row and confusion in front of the house last night?" 

 "Why, sir," said Joe, "dat was Massa Watkins coon hunt- 

 ing. They treed the old coon in the big oak, but he fooled 

 them again and got away." My fears of robbers were 

 groundless, and a coon hunt had been the cause of my 

 tribulation. 



Some weeks after this episode and after I had become 

 more at home at Seneca, Joe came to me, after a fine 

 day's shooting and inquired if I would like to go on a 

 coon hunt that evening. A number of darky boys had 

 prepared for a hunt that night and were to meet at the 

 corner of the road, not far from our house. I consented 

 to go, making up my mind to keep in the road and out 

 of swamps and brier patches. There were five darkies in 

 the party with their dogs — and such dogs; no two alike in 

 color, size or breed, but each one pronounced by its 

 owner "the greatest coon dog in the country." The dogs 

 were hied out and after a time their yelping and barking 

 and the activity of the hunters assured me that a coon 

 had been started. From the numerous lights and shouts 

 I became convinced that the party was much larger than 

 before. I hurried up to the road again to intercept them. 

 I was right, Watkins was out with his pack. The same 

 coon had been got on by both and they now had him treed 

 in a medium-sized chestnut just at the bend of the road, 

 near where we had commenced operations. A wide deep 

 ditch full of water was on the one side of the tree and 

 the road on the other. It would be impossible to picture the 

 scene presented on this spot, and even now I can scarcely 

 write for laughing, at the remembrance of it. Watkins 

 had two or three small darkies among his retinue, and 

 these, together with the dogs, were prancing and tearing 

 around the tree, the darkies hollering and the dogs yelp- 

 ing, each of the darkies giving orders, and all the dogs 

 and darkies working every one on his own hook. Just as 

 I arrived on the scene a small nigger had attempted to 

 chuib the tree and in his hurry losthis grip and tumbled 

 to the ground. The dogs, eager for the fray, mistook him 

 for the coon, and had pounced upon him in a bunch, and 

 the men were kicking them off, while the little nigger 

 with torn pants was crying at the top of his voice and the 

 dogs were yelping as they scattered. The only serene indi- 

 vidual in the crowd was a little ungainly cur of Dick 

 Brown's. This dog had caused nearly all the trouble by 

 his impetuosity, and his activity always kept him clear of 

 well directed kicks that were certain to land on some 

 one's shins or on some other innocent dog. This cm sat 

 upright on his haunches at a safe distance, his ears cocked 

 up and with one eye watching if any one was intent on 

 kicking him, and the other on the lookout for a chance to 

 create some excitement. He was a perfect picture, and 

 while Dick considered him a prodigy, eveiy one else 

 looked upon him as a nuisance. 



But now Watkins brought order out of chaos, and com- 

 menced to go at matters systematically. Owing to the 

 flying clouds the night was not bright as it had been, and 

 a pine torch took the place of the moonlight. By this 

 flashing light I could see Mr. Coon as he sat curled up in 

 the fork of a long branch, his eyes shining like two 

 radiant coals. The first orders were to cut down the tree, 

 but to this I immediately entered my protest, as lumber 

 was much too scarce an article in that vicinity, a,nd we 

 could not afford to lose a fine tree. There was no other 

 plan but for one of the smaller darkies to climb the tree 

 and shake the coon off among the dogs. After much 

 pushing, in which nearly all hands joined, the darky 

 was raised high enough to obtain a "firm holt" and up he 

 went. I wish you could have seen the circus below as 

 that darky neared the branch on which the coon was 

 sitting. Of course every fellow wanted "his dog" to have 

 a "fan - chance," and as every dog was on his hindlegs, 

 jumping and yelping just under the coon, the darkies 

 were busy among them to keep them at a fair distance 

 when the coon should strike the ground. It so occurred 

 that just as the darky up the tree was giving the branch 

 a vigorous shake Dick was trying to keep off the dogs, 

 and down came the coon, plump on Dick's head and 

 shoulders. Down went Dick, out went the torch, and in 

 an instant you could not tell which was Dick, the coon, 

 or the dogs— all were mixed up in a cloud of dust and in 

 most unutterable confusion. Rushing into the melee 

 Watkins dropped his lantern and there was but faint 

 light to show the scrimmage. There were snarls and 

 spits from the coon, yelps from the dogs, cries and oaths 

 from Dick. Then all was comparatively silent. 



All this scene took but a very short time for its enact- 

 ment, but I assure you I never witnessed such a sight 

 and I nearly exploded with laughter. You never saw 

 such a mixe*d up lot of dogs and niggers. But Watkins's 



lantern was soon lighted, and the torch blazed out again, 

 when they began to hunt around for the remains of the 

 coon. Mr. Coon was not to be found; in the muss he had 

 slipped off into the ditch, and swimming down in the 

 darkness, escaped. A few bunches of hair lying around 

 bespoke his narrow escape. Dick was a picture of dis- 

 tress; his cap was torn to shreds, his coat about his 

 shoulders gave evidence of the sharpness of the old coon's 

 claws, the blood flowed freely from wounds on his head 

 and neck. His dog, which had been among the first in 

 the scrimmage, was limping away upon three legs, his 

 other leg having suffered severely from the sharp teeth 

 of the coon, as he endeavored to rescue his master. 



All this row occupied but a few minutes, and as the 

 coon was gone, the crowd marched away for new con- 

 quests. But I had experienced enough of coon hunting, 

 and as I retraced my steps to the house, I had to lean on 

 Joe to avoid falling to the ground for laughing. Of all 

 the funny scenes that I ever beheld this was the most 

 ludicrous. That dog of Dick's was the counterpart of 

 many bustling fellows that are eternally getting them- 

 selves and other people into "hot water," and then calmly 

 Survey the scene from a safe distance. I understood that 

 this same coon had evaded the vigilance of Watkins on 

 two former occasions, and he vowed he would have him 

 yet. And he kept his vow; the old coon had to come 

 down, his scars showing of his many encounters and 

 hair-breadth escapes. I threw myself into the rocking 

 chair, and with a hot punch at my side and a good cigar, 

 I revolved, for hours, the scenes of that coon hunt. And 

 now, if I have imparted to you but a faint idea of its ludi- 

 crousness, I feel confident you will have a good laugh, 

 and I am content. C. 



NOTE AND COMMENT. 



BEING EXTRACTS FROM A LETTER PILE. 



TF the old man who first taught me to shoot was on 

 J. earth yet, he should receive the same kindly greeting, 

 but he has long ago been gathered to his fathers. He not 

 only gave me instruction, but loaned me his old Queen's 

 arm to hunt with, and I'll never forget that my first vic- 

 tim was a red squirrel, nor how, with the aid of a younger 

 brother to head off and make him stand still, I brought 

 to bag my first rabbit. Bless you, such a thing as shoot- 

 ing a rabbit on the run, or a bird on the wing, never en- 

 tered my head in those days. That was way back in the 

 forties. Notliing has given more delight than my first 

 gun, made from a U. S. carbine barrel, stocked, mounted 

 and trimmed by the local gunsmith in a far away down- 

 east village, I have owned some pretty fair guns since 

 that date, but none that I valued so highly. Boy and gun 

 together were a pretty strong combination, and I am 

 afraid sometimes for mischief — H. 



I came out March 5. Was in the woods alone five 

 months. Saw 27 earibou during that time, all in sight of 

 camp. Shot two when I was standing in .the camp door- 

 way. I could probably have shot most of all those I saw, 

 but I only wanted enough for my own use. I like to see 

 them about and to study their w ays. I started to come out 

 to the settlement Feb. 17, and got only two miles when 

 my lame legs failed, and I fell in the snow and lay there 

 till next morning before I coidd stand. Got back to camp 

 late next day. Had a slow fever ten days. It was the 

 hardest time I ever experienced, and I nearly perished. 

 No blanket, no fire and a cold storm driving. Two hunt- 

 ers came along March 4 on their way to the settlement, 

 and I was recovered enough to start next day in their 

 company ; and by going slow and resting often I managed 

 to snowshoe out. I am still suffering from the lying out 

 but feel rather proud of pulling through, as at sixty years 

 pluck is greater than vitality. — C. 



There was a time when I intended to jot down many of 

 the pleasant experiences I have had in years of sport in 

 nearly all parts of this country and abroad. But I threw 

 down the pen in despair, feeling that I was not equal to 

 the occasion. How often I have wished that I possessed 

 the wonderful power that centered in that man Herbert. 

 I have read many sporting sketches and works, but I 

 never met a writer who could describe a sporting scene 

 like that man. or paint the beauties of nature with so 

 vivid a pen. In "My Shooting Box" and "Warwick Wood- 

 lands," you can hear the locks click and the guns crack, 

 and see the birds flutter on the ground. I knew him 

 pretty well and met him often, as I roamed around Florida 

 and Warwick in Orange county, N. Y. , with my old friend 

 K. on our shooting tramps; and I often wondered how so 

 much intellect could be buried under so rough an exter- 

 ior. He was a wonder. We shall never read such de- 

 scriptions again. — C. 



I wish you would, on your own hook, from time to time 

 give the right names and classifications of our birds and 

 beasts. Here in Virginia I believe that not more than 

 one in ten of the men who pretend to study scientific sub- 

 jects knows that a bat is not a bird, and all of them call 

 the night hawk bull bat. Of course, a man who studies 

 nothing but Greek and Latin is expected to be an ignor- 

 amus on all subjects of natural history, and that he 

 doesn't know B. from a bull's foot surprises no one. I 

 wish, also, you would publish a sportsman's grammar, 

 giving the correct plural of our game birds, etc. I ob- 

 serve that many of your correspondents write of snipes, 

 woodcocks, soras, etc. ; and evidently the average Amer- 

 ican thinks that every noun in the plural number must 

 have an s at the end of it, and I am afraid that we shall 

 soon be hearing of flocks of sheeps. — W. A. W. 



I think I may honestly claim to be an enthusiastic 

 sportsman, and for some kinds of hunting I like the right 

 kind of a dog and a shotgun; but there is the most real 

 pleasure to me in hunting something that can be hunted 

 with a rifle.— W. 



Among all the good things that Forest and Stream 

 has done, there is nothing better than its taking out of 

 field sports the everlasting swigging and boozing that 

 seemed to be inseparable from fisliing and shooting forty 

 years ago, or from the reports of such outings then.— R. 



FOR the small sum of $25 per year, the Travelers? will insure you 

 for $5,G0O in case of death by Accident and $25 a week in case of 

 disabling injury.— Adv. 



