Dec. 20, 1888.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



431 



l>een grazing that morning. "Lord, ain't it hot! Wish I 

 had a drink of that 'thugelum' or whatever you call it." 



Just at that moment Rusticus's lamentations were in- 

 terrupted by the sudden and violent baying of dogs in a 

 titinearby; in an instant all weariness was forgotten, 

 and with eagerly strained eyes and fingers nervously 

 twitching gun hammers, we pressed on. The baying 

 grew more and more excited; "Look out over there," 

 yelled Joe from the other side of the bushes, "she'll break 

 out certain somewhere near you." Hardly had the words 

 been uttered when noislessly and without warning, a doe 

 bounded out from the swamp, and clearing a few logs of 

 decayed wood, reached the open about forty yards ahead 

 of us and began to settle down to some pretty hard run- 

 ning. Up went my companion's gun, two reports fol- 

 lowed, and the deer, turning a complete somersault, fell 

 over dead. Hastily running up, Rusticus cut the throat 

 of his game, and the first meat of our hunt was brought 

 to bag. It proved to be a young doe of not over three 

 years, that would have weighed about a hundred pounds. 

 We took the hams, saddle and skin, and portioning them 

 out as burdens among the three, began our long march 

 home. Just before getting in Joe and I had a shot at a 

 buck that was galloping through the pines some three 

 hundred yards away, but our bullets did not touch him. 

 We found Bondclipper and the Captain in camp ahead of 

 us: they had killed nothing and were green with envy at 

 our success. Poor Bondclipper was suffering from that 

 most trying affliction of the tenderfoot, a galled heel, but 

 he would insist on wearing high-top boots when starting 

 out in the morning, and although they are quite the thing 

 for a backwoodsman, and make one feel most picturesque 

 and dangerous, it must be confessed that they are not so 

 comfortable as every day shoe*, especially when one is 

 just a bit tender from lack of exercise. 



That night we had a royal supper: the ribs of our doe 

 were broiled on the coals, and several cans of vegetables 

 stewed up into a sort of olla podrida. Then I made some 

 real frontier flapjacks, gaining much renown by my dex- 

 terity in turning them in the air with that peculiar twist 

 of the pan that is only acquired after long experience in 

 the West. I quite pride myself upon my camp cooking, 

 and can broil a piece of bacon equal to the chef of a grand 

 hotel, while my bread will weigh as much as any man's 

 bread, I care not who he is. Alex. M. Reynolds, 

 [to be continued.] 



OLD-TIME CHRISTMAS UNDER CANVAS 



IT was many and many a year ago— so many years ago 

 indeed that all the young men of the period have 

 turned gray or passed in their checks— that I spent a 

 Christmas under the Southern Cross. It was not the first 

 Christmas that I spent in that laud of gold and gum 

 trees. The Christmas of 1851 found me in Melbourne on 

 my way to Forest Creek, and the Christmas I propose to 

 tell you about fell five years later, when the glamor of 

 gold digging had ceased to enthral me. 



It would tax my memory severely to recall the in- 

 cidents of the intervening Christmases, but the memory 

 of this one stands out distinctly. I suppose the reason is 

 that I then awoke suddenly from the romance of gold 

 digging to more practical views of life, and that the short 

 period of transition stands out in sharp contrast to that 

 which went before and that which came after. 



My five years' career as a gold digger had transformed 

 me from a thoughtful student of eighteen years of age to 

 a hard-handed son of toil with sinews of whipcord. I 

 had been through all the usual vicissitudes of a gold 

 digger's life, had had royal luck, followed by trips to 

 Melbourne, where I spent the proceeds as royally; had 

 had long runs of ill luck, until I had been sometimes 

 driven to clear and work out deserted claims, getting a 

 little gold, which was immediately spent in testing some 

 new ground; had had several brushes with bushrangers, 

 and always come out straight, and although I certainly 

 never paused to think of the matter, I had as keen an 

 enjoyment of life perhaps as any one under the sun. I 

 saw just as much romance in the shadows as in the 

 lights cf the picture, and would not have had the bush- 

 rangers or any other feature of the scene eliminated on 

 any consideration. The simple explanation of this is 

 that I was young, in vigorous physical health, breathing 

 a pure atmosphere, living beyond the restraints of Jaw, 

 and conventionalities of society, buoyed up by possibili- 

 ties of immense wealth to be wrung from nature at any 

 moment, and with a consciousness of having developed a 

 capacity to adapt myself to the conditions of my environ- 

 ment. 



The last eighteen months of my life as a gold digger 

 were an unbroken period of ill luck. My mate had been 

 a lieutenant of cavalry in the Austrian army , who. taking 

 sides with Kossuth in 1818. had had some difficulty in 

 getting out of the Fatherland with his head on; but he 

 had kept that straight and brought his young wife away 

 with him, and she, too, having adapted herself to the 

 new surroundings and become a notable housekeeper (or, 

 shall I say tentkeeperV) and bread and fancy baker, our 

 camp life was somewhat less rugged than that of most of 

 our neighbors. But, as I said before, luck had been dead 

 against us for eighteen months. Once in that period we 

 had secured a pound of gold for a fortnight's work, but 

 that all vanished before we struck another paying claim. 

 Then we went at old holes; generally got the ounce of 

 gold necessary for food, and if we got two ounces we at 

 once went and sunk a new shaft. 



There came a rush to a hill where the bottom was a 

 hundred feet deep, with twenty feet of basalt and several 

 layers of conglomerate to dig through, and below that a 

 clay which had to be timbered. The pioneers of the rush 

 were supposed to have struck it good, and so for the first 

 time we took credit from the store and went in to sink a 

 shaft in the great rush. This occupied about six weeks, 

 and proved a failure, leaving us about a hundred dollars 

 in debt. Under these circumstances it was, of course, no 

 good to go fossicking in old holes for a mere living. We 

 must incur further debt in the effort to extricate our- 

 selves. Sometimes we managed to pay off a little, but 

 there was no settlement, and six weeks before Christmas 

 of 1856 the debt stood at a hundred and fifty dollars, and 

 I began to think seriously. 



And so one day in the first week of November, as we 

 returned from our day's work four miles from camp, I 

 threw down my pick and shovel and turned to my mate 

 with the somewhat startling remark, "There, Frank, I 

 have done my last day's work at gold digging." 



The young wife could not believe it, and would not be 



reconciled to my resolve. We had been nearly three years 

 together and owed a great deal to each other, and I was 

 like a member of the family, while all outside were aliens 

 and strangers. Frank and I ate our supper, lighted our 

 pipes and puffed away in silence for a long time without 

 further reference to the subject. "Well, Charley," said 

 he at length, "I know you too well to suppose that any- 

 thing will turn you from your purpose, but you've hit 

 me hard. Then there's the store debt, too; how shall we 

 do about that?" 



"I have thought of that of course," I said, "and my 

 proposal is that we see Sinclair in the morning, and have 

 the whole debt transfered to your account, leaving me 

 to account to you. With neither money nor clothes I 

 cannot of course go to Melbourne. My first step will be 

 to earn thirty or forty pounds; fifteen for my debt, and 

 another fifteen or twenty to take me to Melbourne. The 

 debt I hope to clear off by Christmas. The nearest work 

 is on the Simson road about twenty-four miles off." 



And so it was settled. The next day was Sunday and 

 we made it a day of rest, with the exception that I got 

 up betimes and felled a hardwood tree, Frank and I 

 carrying home the fuel between breakfast and dinner. 

 Frank was very gloomy, I felt so too, but I spoke so con- 

 fidently of returning with fifteen pounds for Christmas 

 that at last the wife brightened with the happy idea 

 that Frank might join me to clear off the debt, and get a 

 few pounds to start afresh with. 



"No," said Frank excitedly, "I did not come to this 

 country to work for wages. I have had five years of 

 hard luck at gold digging, and have seen men take out 

 fortunes from holes alongside of mine. My luck will 

 come some day, and I will never wilfully get out of the 

 way and miss it." 



And so the next morning I was astir betimes, struck 

 my little tent, and made my pack ready for the start; 

 and a goodly pack it was for a march of twenty-four 

 miles — tent and blankets, frying pan and kettle, axe, 

 adze and spokeshave; tea, sugar and a loaf of bread. 



Frank and I talked but little at breakfast, but the little 

 wife talked without intermission, and among other mat- 

 ters made a promise that one of her beautiful young roosters 

 should be slaughtered for the Christmas dinner. 



The sun was but just rising as I shouldered my pack. 

 I had made it up into two rolls, lashed together with 

 ropes, which served as shoulder straps, and this I think 

 the best way of carrying a heavy pack — half before and 

 half behind. You can walk upright with it, but it is 

 necessary to use the hand to relieve the pressure on the 

 chest. Jogging along at a steady three-mile-an-hour 

 pace with but few stoppages, I covered the distance in 

 between eight and nine hours, and finding that workmen 

 were in demand I soon had the kettle boiling and tea 

 made, and after a meal and a smoke set out in quest of 

 poles and pegs for my tent and a little firewood. I had 

 everything snug an hour before sunset, and having given 

 so much evidence of my intention to go to work I got 

 crowbar, sledge hammer and blasting tools from the con- 

 tractor and opened an account with a hindquarter of 

 mutton. 



I turned in early and was the first astir in the morning, 

 cooking and eating my breakfast under the twinkling 

 stars and starting for my work just as the dawn broke 

 and before there was any movement in the camp. 



About half past eleven I came in to dinner, and then 

 back again to work until I was the last toiler left on the 

 field, but I toiled on as long as I could see, measured my 

 day's work and found I had earned four dollars, and then 

 as the stars came out I threw my tools over my shoulder 

 and went home to cook my supper. 



This was the regular routine. Up to the 23d of De- 

 cember one day was the exact counterpart of the other, 

 with the exception of Sundays. On these days I devoted 

 a few hours of the morning to collecting fuel, and in the 

 afternoon strolled round and made the acquaintance of 

 the Poles, Hungarians, Cornishmen, sailors, and others 

 of the heterogeneous population of the cainp, who had 

 been brought together by hard luck, and who were doing 

 little to redeem their condition here, for the prices of 

 provisions were very high. At least I ate mutton and 

 damper for two dollars a day, and the average earnings 

 of the camp was, I learnt, not more than two and a half 

 dollar?. 



On the 22d of December at noon I went to the contract- 

 or's foreman and asked for £15 on account, and as he was 

 not to be convinced that I had earned so much in excess 

 of my store bill of some £13 odd, we devoted the after- 

 noon to measuring up my pile of rock, which gave a balance 

 of £16 10s. in my favor, as I knew, for I had measui-ed up 

 every day and called for my store bill weekly. The fore- 

 man went over his figures again before he would pay me, 

 for he said no other man had ever earned such wages on the 

 road, but I got the money, and at break of day threw my 

 blanket over my shoulder and set out to rejoin my expect- 

 ant friends with a light heart. 



Never did truant receive warmer welcome, and it is no 

 reflection on human nature to say that I was the more 

 welcome for the money I brought with me. The transfer 

 of the £15 to the little wife's pocket relieved her of much 

 unpleasantness, and the little balance provided the means 

 for keeping up a merry Christmas. 



In the morning I observed that the little wife was per- 

 meated by a melancholy which she could not shake off, 

 and which I was at a loss to account for, until she beck- 

 oned me out, and calling her chickens asked in a trem- 

 bling voice which should be sacrificed. I suggested one 

 after another, but there were grave objections to each in 

 turn, and when at la3t I asked "but why not have roast 

 beef for dinner and leave the chickens alone;" her heart 

 was relieved of its burden. 



We enjoyed the day to the utmost, and were kindly and 

 considerate, with the feeling that it was our last day to- 

 gether, that to-morrow we should part probably never to 

 meet again, but we did not let the reflection damp our 

 enjoyment of the passing hour. There was good cheer, 

 good liquor, and on Frank's part glad forecasts of the day 

 when his luck should turn and enable them to go back to 

 Europe and spend their remaining years in ease and 

 comfort. 



The next morning I threw my blanket over my shoulder, 

 embraced Frank, gave a last pressure of the hand to his 

 little wife, who could not keep back the rising tear, and 

 set out on my road back to my camp. For more than a 



Quarter of a mile I was in sight of my friends' hut, and 

 knew by a subtle instinct that they would stand and 

 watch as'long as I was in sight. I neared the saddle of 

 the hill. I reached ita top; a few steps down the descent 



and I should be lost to their gaze. I felt a powerful 

 yearning to turn round for a last salute, I knew that they 

 too were yearning for it, but I resisted the impulse and. 

 went straight on, whispering to myself, "You have 

 chosen your path. There must be no looking back." 

 ****«••» « 

 Nearly three and twenty years later — that is on the 

 lOch of August, 1878 — my camp was pitched in the Him- 

 malayas, at an elevation of ten thousand feet. I had 

 come down four thousand feet to it in the morning, hav- 

 ing spent a few days hunting between the forest limit 

 and the snow line, and when I turned into my cot at 

 night it was with the assurance that when I once fell 

 asleep it would take a great deal to wake me before 

 morning; but contrary to all my experience I not only 

 awoke in the middle of the night, but out of a deep sleep 

 I sprang up in bed as wide awake as ever I was in my 

 life, speaking Frank's name as I arose. "Are you here 

 Frank?" I asked again. All was still, all was dark. 

 When I started up in bed it was with the clear conviction 

 that my old Australian friend Frank was in my tent. I 

 had seen nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing; but 1 had 

 clearly and distinctly apprehended his presence as by the 

 exercise of a new sense. 



Years had passed and my old friends, although not ob- 

 literated from my memory, were buried deep in it, and 

 perhaps for years had rarely come to the surface, but now 

 the memory of the past was revived with clearness, and 

 I recalled our struggles together, our final parting, and 

 speculated on how Fortune had dealt with them in these 

 later years. At length I resolved to know, if possible, 

 and caused an advertisement to be inserted in the Mel- 

 bourne Argus, calling for information of Frank or his 

 wife; for something impressed me with the conviction 

 that Frank was dead. 



Months passed without a reply, but as Christmas time 

 drew round again 1 received a letter from the little wine 

 telling me that "Poor Frank died the tenth of August 

 last, sanguine and unfortunate to the last." 



Wanderer. 



THE CHARMS OF BEAUFORT. 



(Continued from page 385.) 



IT is lonesome here when one first comes. Very soon, 

 though, this wears off. Every one seems to consider 

 it his or her duty to make it as pleasant as possible, and 

 summing it all up we have so enjoyed our stay that in 

 spite of drawbacks it has been prolonged three weeks 

 beyond our original calculations. Before leaving Aiken 

 with friends who like myself longed for a breath of 

 moist salt air, we were told that in Beaufort we would 

 contract rheumatism from the dampness, fevers from the 

 malaria, and he devoured by mosquitoes, fleas and other 

 vermin. But we took the chance and came, and the 

 hour in which we are to regret our temerity has yet to 

 come. We have not seen nor heard nor felt a mosquito 

 or flea; it is not damp here, and as for malaria, this is 

 the one place South that I know of where people flock to 

 avoid it. Within forty-eight hours after arrival every 

 vestige of every cold had vanished, and up to date with 

 no sign of return. 



The city is a collection of handsome two and three- 

 storied mansions, each with broad piazzas to every floor, 

 all suirounded by large trees and gorgeous gardens. 

 "Befo' the wah," when "Cotton was king" and labor was 

 cheap, Beaufort was the summer home of the many 

 wealthy planters, whose plantations on Port Royal, Paris, 

 Cane, Ladies', St. Helena and other adjacent "Sea 

 Islands" produced the famous long staple cotton. To the 

 residents in those days, Beaufort — with its various re- 

 sources of boating, sailing, ci - abbing, fishing, bathing, 

 hunting and shooting; the freedom from contact with 

 perplexing business cares and the worries of the outer 

 world, its one mail a day and no telegraph nor telephone, 

 its balmy, temperate climate — was a home, where luxury 

 reigned. Malaria was unknown, typhoid, pernicious and 

 other fevers, diphtheria and other diseases due to climate 

 and dirt were never thought of; and consumption was the 

 rarest of all. Many people afflicted with lung troubles 

 came here from other places, and recovering health and 

 strength, remained. 



Situated as it is it must be healthy. Except frr cisterns 

 the old times had no fresh water in the vicinity : now 

 several artesian wells add to the resources, their water 

 being very wholesome. The rivers, so-called, Beaufort, 

 Broad, Coosaw, etc., and the creeks are but arms of the 

 sea, and the strong tides scour away all sewerage. There 

 were a few freshwater swamps 6n the island, but since 

 the earthquake these and others on adjacent islands have 

 drained away and dried up, leaving ugly-looking dead 

 cypress and myrtle stumps. The deadly rice field is un- 

 known. Every day by noon there comes in a fresh sea- 

 breeze, wdrich tempers the heat and refreshes greatly, 

 w r hile it drives away all miasmatic gases. Twenty miles 

 from here, on the mainland, fever is certain, death proba- 

 ble, as the result of very short sojourn. 



Before the war there were no strangers in Beaufort. 

 Every one was cousin, aunt or uncle to every one else; if 

 one came to them from the outsid? world, he or she was 

 a guest; and all vying in hospitality, the properly-intro- 

 duced stranger ceased at once to be a stranger. There 

 were few stores, no hotels, no railroads. Now as the 

 new-comer with his gripsack approaches a familiar-look- 

 ing "bus" on whose sides are the legends "Madison Avenue 

 and Wall Street," or "Fulton Ferry," the first salutation 

 he hears is, "I say, boss, doncher wanter boy to tote yer 

 sample case?" and his fellow passengers to the hotel are 

 most unmistakably "commercial travelers." The cousin- 

 ship still exists, but the survivors are few. In the business 

 portion of the town the names on the signs are those of 

 foreigners. The rush of trade at the diygocds and other 

 stores is of colored people; the streets are filled with 

 them, forty or fifty dark faces to one white. 



Unfitted by birth and education for the struggle, the 

 old race is dying out; their property, fine old mansions 

 and plantations, have been lost through confiscation and 

 sold for taxes, at most insignificant figures; the planta- 

 tions cut up into little negro farms, and nnw owned by 

 those who from poverty became rich t hrough the purchase. 

 Broad cotton fields lie abandoned weed covered. Old 

 mansions are tumbling thrcugh decay. Yet stricken 

 down as they are, showing to the last their former char- 

 acter, the grandeur of which we can judge as we do of 

 ancient Rome by the ruins. The people remain the same 

 hospitable, highly cultured people. The war hit this 

 place very hard. The appreciation of calamity is gov- 

 ' emed greatly by the laws of perspective: the stranger's 



