Oct. U, 1889.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



263 



si-ti'-da-rit, which means "See! The Hawk." When 

 going into battle he would ride straight out to strike his 

 enemy, and the Comanches who were looking at him 

 would say, "See! The Hawk." So that became his name. 



They traveled a long time until they came to the Paw- 

 nee ground. As they were traveling along, they came to 

 afield where were growing corn, beans and squashes. 

 The Pawnee said to the old man: " Gi*andfather, look at 

 that field. There are the things that you have desired to 

 eat." He got off his horse and went into the field, and 

 pulled some corn, some beans and some squashes, and 

 took them to the old man, and gave them to him. The 

 old man supposed they were to be eaten just as they were, 

 and he tried to bite the squashes. This made the Pawnee 

 laugh. When they came to the village, the Pawnees 

 were very glad to see him who had been lost so long. He 

 told the people that he had brought these Indians to eat 

 of the corn and other things; that they were his kinsfo] k. 

 He told them, too, about the young man who had killed 

 himself. His relations went out into the fields, and gath- 

 ered corn and beans and squashes, and cooked them for 

 the Comanches. 



They slayed there a long time at the Pawnee village. 

 When they w r ere gettiug ready to return, the Pawnees 

 dried their corn, and gave a great deal of it to th« Co- 

 manches, packing many horses with it for the Indians at 

 home. Then the Comanches started south again, and 

 some of the Pawnee young men, relations of Kut-a'wi- 

 kutz, joined him, and went back with them After they 

 had returned to the Comanche camp, the old grandfather 

 died, happy because he had eaten the things he wanted 

 to eat. 



Soon afte" this, Kut-a'wi-kutz started back to the Paw- 

 nee village, and some young men of the Comanches joined 

 him. Some time after reaching the village he went south 

 again, accompanied by some young Pawnees, but leaving 

 most of the Comanches behind. He had arranged with 

 the chiefs of the Pawnees that they should journey south, 

 meet the Comanches on the plains and make peajpe. 

 When he reached the Comanches, the whole village 

 started north to visit the Pawnees, and met them on 

 thejr way south. When they met, the two tribes made 

 friends, smoked together, ate together, became friends. 



After they had camped together for some time, some 

 Comanches stayed in the Pawnee camp, and some Paw- 

 nees in the Comanche camp. Kut a'ici-kiitz was called 

 by the Pawnees Comanche Chief. He would have re- 

 mained with the Comanches, but when he went back 

 with them his wife fell sick. The Comanche doctors 

 could not help her, and he wanted to take her north to 

 see the Pawnee doctors, but the Comanches would not 

 let him. They kept him there, and his wife died. Then 

 he was angry, for he thought if he had taken her north 

 her life might have been saved. 



So he left the Comanches, and went and lived with the 

 Pawnees, and was known among them always as Co- 

 manche Chief, the Peace-Maker, because he made peace 

 between the Pawnees and Comanches. He was chief o" 

 the Ski'-di band, and a progressive man of modern times 

 He sent his children East to school at Carlisle, Pa. 



Comanche Chief died Sept. 9, 1888. 



EN ACADIiL 

 i. 



TTOT shines the sun o'er the quivering land, 

 No wind comes up from the sea, 



Silent and stark the pine woods stand, 

 And the mock-bird sleeps ia the may haw tree. 

 Where, overhung with, brier and vine 

 Thy placid waters slip and shine 

 And dimple 1o rhy lover's view- 

 La belle rivuh-e cle Calcasieu. 



Under the bonding cypress trees, 



Bedecked with pendulous cool gray moss 

 That woos io vain the recreant breeze 

 And silently mourns its loss, 



With drowsy eye, in my little boat 

 I dreamily lie, and lazily float 

 Lulled by the thrush's soft Te-nte— 

 On '*Z,»7)'filte riviirc dc Calcasieu." 



A heron stands, like a ghost in gray, 



Knee-deep 'mongst the bending water lilies, 

 And yellow butterflies lightly play 

 'Midst the blooms of fragrant amaryllia; 

 The swift kingfisher winds Ms reel, 

 Saying his grace for his noonday meal, 

 And a hawk soars up to the welkin blue 

 O'er "ia helU riviere de Calcasieu." 



Across the point, where the ferry plies, 

 I hear the click of the boatsman's oar, 

 And his Creole song, with its quavering rise 

 Re-echoes soft from shore to shore; 



And this is the rhyme that he idly sings 

 As his bont at anchor lazily swings, 

 For the day is hot, and passers few 

 On La belle riviere cle Calcasieu. 



"I ain't got time for make merry, me 



I ain't got time for make merry; 

 My lilT gall waitin' at de River of Death 

 To meet her ole dad at de ferry. 



She gwine be dere wid de smile on her face, 

 Like the night she died, when all de place 

 Was lit by the moonbeams shiverin' troo 

 La belle riviere de Calcasieu. 



"O sing dat song! O sing dat song! 



I ain't got time for make merry! 

 De angel come 'fore berry long, 

 And carr' me o'er de ferr j I 



He come wid de whirlwind in de night- 

 He come wid the streak of de morning light- 

 He find me ready— yass, dass true- 

 By La belle rive dc Calcasieu. 



"Den who got time for make merry, eh ? 



Den who got time for make merry ? 

 De fire burn up de light 'ood tree, 

 De bird eat up de berry. 



Long time ago I make Voudoo, 

 An' I dance Calinda strong and true, 

 But de Lord he pierce me troo and troo 

 On La belle rive de Calcasieu." 

 Louisiana. h. p. Ukford. 



ON THE NORTH CAROLINA COAST. 



NOT over a day and a half's journey from Old Point 

 Comfort and Norfolk, Va., there is found not only 

 the finest wildfowl shooting in America, but also a primi- 

 tive people, isolated from the world on an out-of-the-way 

 island, who have as distinct a personality as the soft- 

 voiced Acadians of Louisiana or the uncouth mountaineers 

 of East Tennessee. 



Every Northern sportsman who ever took a shy at the 

 waterfowl at Currituck or shot over the blinds at Albe- 

 marle and Croatan sounds, or sailed his vacht in the 

 stormy waters of old Pamlico, has met the Goose Creek 

 Islanders of eastern North Carolina, and found them as 

 different from the average American as a Corsican from 

 a Frenchman. Their idiom, their idiosyncracies, their 

 carriage, their peculiar color, their expression, or rather 

 lack of expression, all combine to make these islanders a 

 race apart. They live and marry among themselves, 

 and thus keep their individuality separate and distinct. 



The Goose Creekers are all sportsmen of the Rip Van 

 Winkle type, for they hate honest labor as does a Zin- 

 gari gypsy, and the advent of the rich Northern sports- 

 men means to them food, drink and raiment, and they 

 look upon these amateur sportsmen as the Niagara hack- 

 men upon the verdant tourists and bridal couples— beings 

 that are like an eel, to he skinned alive. Not that these 

 islanders are dishonest. Far from it. They make admir- 

 able guides, and would scorn to steal; nor yet are they 

 like Autolycus in the "Winter's Tale"— "a snapper up of 

 unconsidered trifles," No: honesty is their best trait, 

 and yet in their own manner they generally contrive to 

 make away with all they want. They spend the summer 

 in fishing, catching terrapin, collecting bird eggs; any- 

 thing, in fact, that they can sell or trade off at a country 

 store, and they can turn their hands to any craft except 

 steady work. Fall and winter are their harvest months, 

 and how they subsist will be told in this article. 



There were ftrar of us, a sight-seeing, duck-hunting 

 quartette, comprising Messrs. Charles Hallock, William 

 Wagner, one of the finest wing shots of America, George 

 Ransdell, an old Black Horse cavalryman in the war 

 days, who had spent the last quarter of a century roam- 

 ing over the frontiers of the Far West and Mexico, and 

 myself. A goodly company of Bohemians and sports- 

 men, who confidently went forth in the North Carolina 

 sounds to slay vast quantities of waterfowl and to enjoy 

 the pleasure that only a coterie of choice spirits can find 

 in out of the way places far from the swirl of the "mad- 

 ding crowd." Most men have a touch of the savage in 

 their composition or a tinge of the old Norse blood in 

 their veins, and take keen delight in severing themselves 

 from all the luxuries and charms of civilized life and 

 roughing it in a way that a tramp would despise. 



It takes some thirty hours to reach Pamlico Sound 

 from Norfolk by way of a steamer. Half of the time the 

 route is through narrow canals that connect the Curri- 

 tuck, Chowan, Albemarle and Pamlico sounds. The 

 scenery is flat and unpicturesque, and consists entirely 

 of swamps and pine barrens. Reaching Pamlico Island 

 in due time, the steamer's whistle blew the warning 

 signal and a boat put out from the place to meet us; its 

 owner was the ex-lighthouse keeper, who, when the 

 light was abandoned by the Government, found, like 

 Othello, that his occupation was gone, and he still re- 

 mained at his old quarters, simply because he was too 

 lazy to move away. It was a small boat that came 

 dancing over the waves, sufficient, perhaps, to have 

 carried "Caasar and his fortune," but certainly not cap- 

 able of holding four men, one dog, a small arsenal of 

 guns, boxes of previsions, several hundred pounds of 

 ammunition, eight bags of decoy ducks with their weights 

 attached, a half-dozen trunks, besides any number of 

 traps, not counting a huge demijohn— a cure for snake 

 bites, and the only cure, for any accident, sickness or 

 mishap that might befall us. 



Tiie wind was blowing great guns, and the whole sound 

 as far as the eye could reach was full of white caps, and 

 it was with great difficulty that the little craft could be 

 made fast to the leeward side of the steamer, as we looked 

 down from the gangway and watched the lantern rise 

 and fall in the swell of the billows, some 8ft. from the 

 crest to the trough, then arose a protest from us all. 



"I am not prepared to leave the world yet," remarked 

 the Professor, as we nicknamed Mr. Hallock. "Davy 

 Jones won't get me in his locker to-night if I can help it.'"' 

 "I'm rather timid of water anyway," said Wagner, 

 whom we dubbed Major Clam because being a silent 

 man he rarely opened his mouth except to take a drink, 

 "I was on a yacht once "in Lake Erie, and it was over- 

 turned and all hands lost on board, I'd just as leave com- 

 mit suicide at once as to get in that cockle shell." 



"Are youuns a coming?" cried the voice of the boatman, 

 commencing in a high tenor, and then sinking in a low 

 stomach note as the boat dropped from the crest deep in 

 the hollow of a rolling wave. 



"As for me." remarked Old Boreas, so called because 

 Ransdell was always blowing his money about, "as for 

 me, if you catch me inside of that coffin, then I'm a big- 

 ger fool than all the three wise men of Gotham who went 

 to sea in a bowl." 



The result was that the captain of the steamer launched 

 the life boat and six stalwart rowers soon landed us on 

 the island. 



It was a barren sand bank in a wide waste of waters, 

 and as we scrambled ashore we were prepared to see the 

 ex-keepers wife, and even a whole tribe of children, but 

 the crowd of Goose Creek Islanders who stood crouched, 

 leaned, reclined and slouched around the tower and 

 house rather astonished us. They did not show any ex- 

 travagant delight in the meeting; they welcomed us with 

 a nod and a grunt, that was all. Their appreciation of 

 rest was most patent, every man of them leaned or 

 reclined against something, half a dozen or so were prop- 

 ing up the tower, apparently to keep it from falling, 

 another squad braced up the house, while others ballasted 

 their boats made fast to the shore, by lying at full length 

 on the seats. 



The typical Goo3e Creek Islanders are tall, most of 

 them are fully six feet when they stand erect, a thing 

 they rarely do except when yawning. Their hair is gen- 

 erally of that color known as carrotty, and combed every 

 Sunday morning in honor of the day, their foreheads are 

 receding, their organs of vision are protruding, and of 

 that kind called out West the jackass rabbit eye; in color 

 it is a dull blue; a sparkling black or clear hazel is rarely 

 seen. The said eyes are generally as destitute of expres- 



sion as Banquo's ghost, except, indeed, when their glance 

 rests upon a roll of money or handful of coin, and then it 

 is curious to watch them light up, and really scintillate 

 for the nonce. The nose is nondescript, and the mouth 

 is a real catfish one, like little Jack Gibbs' in the nursery 

 ballads, who had 



"A rainy new moon for a mouth." 



The cheeks sire lank and covered with a sparse beard , 

 that grows in detached spots like clumps of wire grass in 

 a run down field. The jaws are the best feature and are 

 strong and firm, denoting tenacity, and if not courage, 

 at least the absence of fear. The visage is always of a. 

 lead or saffron color. No one yet ever saw a rosy-cheeked, 

 fail- faced islander. Their sickly hue is caused by genera- 

 tions of chills and blood tainted with malaria. Ague 

 fever is the cross all have to bear, from the toddling child 

 to the tottering grandsire. "Chills is bad," is the common 

 and pathetic expression, as the unfortunate stricken one 

 retires to some dark corner and alternately shivers and 

 roasts. Their throats are long, and the Adam's apple 

 especially predominant. They always stoop, simply for 

 the reason that it is too great an effort to hold the back- 

 bone erect. That part of the body known as the abdo- 

 men is very long, a wise provision of nature, intended to 

 allow a large storage of food within. The limb3 are 

 lengthy and the hand enormous, with knuckles as big as 

 door-knobs. Clothe these figures in a mixed costume, of 

 sportsman's cast off garments of the finest material and 

 the native's coarse butternut fashioned by the housewife 

 at home, and the man will stand before you. 



Take Tim Cignal, for instance. Tim was one of the 

 crowd that awaited us, and the only one that abideth with 

 us, to our sorrow. Tim wore a fashionable billycock hat, 

 dogskin jacket, over which his homespun coat hung, fine 

 corduroy breeches, with two gigantic brogans at their 

 feet. Tim would have had his feet encased in India rub- 

 ber boots, only no sportsman had ever yet appeared on 

 the North Carolina coa9t whose pedal extremities took up 

 as much real estate as Tim's. 



They all have a lazy, drawling pronunciation that 

 never includes what they consider a. superfluous letter, 

 thus for example, outing is outin', coming, meeting, 

 going, is coinin', meetin', goin', and so on. 



While we busied ourselves in housing our stores and 

 traps, not an islander moved; they kept their gaze fixed 

 on vacancy, inert and motionless, except that their jaws 

 moved regularly < and they spit ever and anon a long 

 stream of tobacco juice from between their closed teeth. 

 This was an art to be accomplished only by long practice: 

 an amateur may discharge his nicotine saliva any way, 

 but only the expert can expel it with his jaws clenched 

 tight. 



At last the ex-keeper, who had self-elected himself as 

 host and custodian of our stores, stepped out on the porch 

 and gave the invitation, "Boys, walk up and reef yer 

 sails." The motionless figures were touched into life and 

 motion, as were the denizens of Tennyson's sleeping 

 palace, when the kiss of the Prince dissolved the charm. 

 They all arose as one man and actually hurried in, and 

 imbib tl in a way to make the famous Major and Judge 

 blush with envy. 



To make a long story short, the islanders remained 

 with us for three days, eating, drinking and loungingy 

 and cleaned out our whole large stock of wet and dry 

 groceries, and then all with the exception of Tim launched 

 their boats, spread their sails and departed for their 

 island home. 



The morning after we arrived all our party started off 

 on a reconnoissance, visiting many points in the vicinity; 

 the result of our observations was that the black brant 

 were fairly plentiful, and the ducks, such as the bald- 

 pates, mallard, shufflers, widgeons, sheldrakes, black 

 ducks, sil ver backs and redheads were scarce. 



We decided upon three points to place our decoys, and 

 returning home spent several hours in loading shells and 

 in getting our hunting paraphernalia in order. 



The next day was more like a summer than a winter 

 one, and we only killed enough ducks to fill up the yawn- 

 ing chasms in the stomachs of the perpetually hungrv 

 crowd at the lighthouse. 



The morning after the weather changed, and as a stiff 

 breeze was blowing we had very good luck, but we shot 

 no brant. Our party spent several hours in constructing 

 a cedar blind about a mile from shore, and hoped to have 

 fine sport after the brant should have gotten used to the 

 green-looking stockade on their feeding grounds. 



"It 'pears like it' gwine to storm," said Tim, who had 

 constituted himself our body guard, though he never did 

 anything but louuge around, and Tim could hold his own 

 agaiust any man on this plane for lounging. "Ef the 

 win' do blows then the ducks will come to sho' right 

 smart, and you uns kin have all the shootin' you wants." 



A happy inspiration struck Major Clam. "I'm going 

 to build a Potomac River sinkbox," he said, "and if the 

 ducks come this way I'll be ready for them." 



The boat house on the island had been blown down by a 

 high wind, and the materials were all there. First the 

 Major made a coffin-like trough, or rather a burial-case 

 some 7ft. long, by 2ft. deep and some ,30in. wide. This 

 box was corked and pitched until it was perfectly water- 

 tight. Then the wings or flooring made of pine planking 

 some 12ft. wide were attached to the trough by hinges, 

 and the affair was complete. Of course this device could 

 only be used in calm water. 



Several days passed before it could be utilized, for as 

 Tim had prophesied, a severe storm had raged, and in 

 consequence the ducks had been driven from the deep 

 waters of the sound into the shallows around the island. 

 We started off before day towing the blind behind us, 

 and a hard enough pull we had to reach our destination, 

 Porpoise Island, about three miles distant. We anchored 

 the blind about 100yds. from shore, and Major Chm being 

 the finest shot as well as an expert in that particular 

 kind of shooting, scrambled in and stretched himself at 

 full length in the case with his No. 10 lying across his 

 body. The trough sank with his weight to the level of 

 the water, but the platform floated buoyantly and well 

 sustained the box an inch or so above the surface, suf- 

 ficiently high indeed for keeping the water from trickl- 

 ing in. Then we arranged the decoys around him and 

 paddled back to shore. 



Of course the Major's sole business was to lie motion- 

 less and shoot the waterfowl as they circled around the 

 decoys, our part in the programme was to remain on the 

 beach and collect the dead ducks, and follow up and kill 

 the cripple I ones, 



