102 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Feb. 27, 1890. 



DUNGENESS — A WINTER HOME.-II. 

 'pHE next day Frank S., Frank C. and I saddled up and 

 X were off quite early to Stafford, whence we rode 

 down to the Old Quarters, where still stand many lone 

 chimneys, the hearths of one time slave cabins. 



Old Stafford before the war was owner of four hundred 

 slaves, who came to his beck and call, and worked in the 

 fields over which we hunted. Four thousand acres were 

 then in cotton. What a glorious sight it must have been, 

 and what a life the old man led, planting and picking 

 his cotton, tending his vast domain, feasting his guests, 

 or attending the meets of the Camden Hunting Club, 

 riding after the deer, or sitting at the regular hunting 

 dinners, and rising to offer a toast. The club was com- 

 posed of gentlemen who owned plantations near by on 

 the mainland, and offered in turn the hospitality of their 

 homes and their hamaks, swamps and woods for the pur- 

 suit of deer. The rules of the club were strict, and sure 

 was the penalty or fine for breaking any of them. Mr. 

 Dilworth told me he once asked old Stafford if he re- 

 membered when they fined him that basket of cham- 

 pagne. "You bet I do," he answered, "but," hitting his 

 hand on his pocket, "cotton's a dollar and a half a pound, 

 so what did I care." The list of fines kept in the back of 

 the old books was very strange reading. First came "Mr. 

 Floyd, six bars of lead for not wearing a red coat." "Mr. 

 Dilworth [J. D.'s father], two boxes of percussion caps, 

 only one spur;" and "Mr. Stockton, one hundred cigars 

 for missing a deer at 40yds." Many were the other fines, 

 and many more names appeared in the records of the 

 hunts. Stafford, living as he did on an island, was not so 

 frequently a participant of the hunts as the others. J. D. 

 S.'s father was probably the one most often present, and 

 in reading over the books, dated 1832 to 1837, 1 see he was 

 also the best shot, seldom if ever missing a deer. When 

 the meets were held on Cumberland Island the hunters 

 were rowed across the sound in barges manned by their 

 own slaves, and accounts were given of boat races, each 

 plantation owning its launch and training a crew. But 

 I am wandering in the past glory of the South, and we 

 must come back to the decay of what was once a thriv- 

 ing settlement of negro quarters. 



Passing through the old quarters we entered an avenue 

 of live oaks, which led thence to the beach, a distance of 

 perhaps half a mile. We followed this until we came to 

 a sandhill, and riding to the top of it, gained an ex- 

 tended view of beach, ocean and little narrow lakes. 

 From the nearest lake a bunch of ducks rose and flew 

 rapidly up the beach, alighting in another lake not far 

 off. I rode up opposite to where they had settled, and 

 dismounting tied my horse to a palmetto root behind a 

 high sandbank. In vain I tried to crawl upon the ducks. 

 I could not shoot low enough to kill them it seemed, for 

 long before I could get near enough to shoot they would 

 be gone. 



The lakes or ponds formed a continuous chain for over 

 two miles. They averaged probably 2ft. deep and 50yds. 

 wide, were bordered on one side by myrtle trees and on 

 the other by the beach. Two small creeks a few feet 

 wide and very shallow drained the water, which was 

 fresh, into the ocean; a rich grass somewhat resembling 

 water-cress grew in the water, and this was what the 

 ducks fed upon. 



The two Franks each took separate blinds and I an- 

 other, but after a tiresome wait with only one high wing 

 shot we decided to give it up. 



Glancing through my note book, I see it was Jan. § 

 that an ambition of my life was satisfied. Frank S., 

 Frank C, and I were the only hunters who went from 

 Dungeness. At Stafford we were joined by J. D., who 

 very kindly volunteered to jump a deer for us. "Frank," 

 he said, "you take G. and Frank S. to those stands by 

 Hickory Hill, and I will drive this side of the swamp 

 where we are sure to start a deer." Frank was hardly 

 placed and I had not even gotten down off my horse, be- 

 fore the dogs set up that quick yelp. When they were 

 about half a mile from where I stood, I heard a shot ring 

 out near where Frank S. was stationed. I rode over 

 rapidly and found him standing proudly over the first 

 deer he had seen. He was very happy, for it had been a 

 magnificent shot at 60yds., the deer running rapidly, and 

 six out of the nine buckshot were in the body. J. D. rode 

 up while we were discussing the shot and congratulating 

 Frank. "Ha, ha I" he exclaimed, "you didn't blood 

 him," and leaning down he dipped two fingers in the 

 deer's blood and painted Frank's face. Oh! don't draw 

 back, if you ar'n't blooded you never will kfll another." 

 When the painting was finished Frank resembled some 

 wild Indian. I could not help laughing and poking fun, 

 but I would have been willing to take the coat of crimson 

 paint for the honor. 



As J. D. knelt upon one knee busily engaged in dress- 

 ing the deer, he all of a sudden raised his head, then 

 jumped to his feet and told me to run to a rising mound 

 100yds. "There is another deer coming," he yelled, "the 

 dogs are bringing him round." I waited fully five 

 minutes and was walking back toward him, when he 

 hallooed, "Why don't you shoot?" I turned quickly and 

 not 50yds. off was a deer running at full speed. My gun 

 was at my shoulder in a jiffy. First one barrel, then the 

 other, but the deer kept right on. I followed as fast as I 

 could, pulling out an empty shell and putting in a new 

 one. Just as the deer bounded over a hill at over lOOyds. 

 I fired, this time in sheer desperation, for it was impos- 

 sible to kill at that distance. I kept on to see the run he 

 would take to the woods beyond, but just over the top 

 of the hill the deer stumbled over dead. I gave a yell, 

 "T'-ve got him," and in a moment had the others by my 

 side. Which of the first two shots hit him I will never 

 know, but he ran 200yds. after he was hit. J. D. took 

 even greater pains to paint my face, for he wanted to 

 give Frank a chance to laugh at me and also to let him 

 see me as others saw him. 



It would have been hard to tell which of us two was 

 the happier, for they were the first deer either of us had 

 ever shot at, and to have such good fortune was indeed 

 mighty lucky. Thus was my ambition satisfied. 



The day was well spent, for we were no sooner home 

 from the morning hunt than we were off in a sailboat to 

 a point where several lakes offered excellent feeding 

 places for ducks. The wind being fair we reached the 

 point quickly, and while Will, Andrew and I went on 

 shore, the others remained in the boat. The way was 



rather roundabout, but we trusted Will to find the path, 

 and after many scratches from briers and several falls 

 from grapevines and roots, we came in sight of a pretty 

 lake. Pine trees rose out of the water at one end, thence 

 on both sides to the other end oaks and palmettos grew 

 close to the water. Andrew and I remained quietly 

 among the pines while Will crawled on a bunch of ducks 

 he saw at the other end. He was gone hardly ten min- 

 utes when we saw the flock rise out of the 'water, and 

 with that he shot. From where we stood we could not 

 see any birds fall, but did see Will wading out into the 

 lake up to his waist. Supposing he had killed some, we 

 made our way up one side to meet him where he crossed. 

 When opposite we called to him, and then went down 

 to the water's edge. He was still wading around for I- 

 tbink-I-got-one duck; we thought it was a canard, but 

 not the kind he was after. At last, some 20yds. off in 

 the water he found one duck, a blue-winged teal. It 

 was then quite late, and as we would not get any more 

 shots, we turned back, taking a short cut. We had not 

 gone far before we came to a low spot, 30yds. wide and 

 full of water from recent rains. Will, being wet, offered 

 to carry us across, so taking a gun in each hand I put 

 both arms around his neck. When nearly across he 

 stumbled over a hidden log, but recovered only to strike 

 a second. He then tried to run and save me, but I saw 

 he was going to fall and made a spring for the shore like 

 a frog. But it was no go, I was too heavily weighted, 

 and one foot catching him around the neck we both fell 

 flat, I on top. Both went under, and a dripping sight we 

 appeared to Andrew, who stood on the other side, just 

 making the wood echo with his yells of laughter. I sat 

 on the bank and roared, for even if I was drenched the 

 comical side of it all appeared uppermost, Andrew did 

 not care to risk a wetting all over, so waded in and came 

 across wet but to the waist. A trio of damp, chilly boys 

 rode home in the sailboat that night a little the worse for 

 wear, but just so much richer in experience. Thus a 

 week slipped by as though it had been a day. 



Monday morning we set out in the yacht for the sea 

 fishing banks. The pilot gave us the course, and when 

 out an hour and a half, with no land in sight, he started 

 to heave the lead. A heavy sinker, a foot long and hol- 

 lowed at one end, was attached to 15 fathoms of line. 

 For nearly two hours he swung this trying to fetch coral 

 bottom. Several cakes of soap were used in sticking 

 pieces in the hollow end of the sinker, to show the kind 

 of bottom the lead struck on. At last, fast in the soap, 

 we found a little piece of coral. Then the yacht was 

 stopped and baited hooks sank rapidly to catch the first 

 fish and win the pool. My hook had hardly reached the 

 bottom before I had a fish, and Will, who was fishing by 

 my side, started to pidl in at the same time. Just after 

 I threw my fish on deck his followed, for he could not pull 

 in quite as fast as I did, having caught two. We had 

 hoped to catch red snappers, but it was too early, and so 

 we had to be satisfied with blackfish. For an hour and a 

 half I enjoyed better fishing than I had ever had in my 

 life. The captain, pilot, crew and ourselves, all had lines 

 out, and we jerked them in two at a time. I must con- 

 fess I got tired toward the last, for a pound sinker on 12 

 fathoms of line grows heavy after hauling it in fifty times. 

 The ocean was as calm as a mill pond, and but for a swell 

 was 



" As idle as a painted ship 

 Upon a painted ocean," 



The sun was sinking rapidly, and the pilot advised us 

 to start home; so taking on the dory which we had an- 

 chored as a mark (the bank in places was only lOOyds. 

 wide), we steamed away. On the return trip we counted 

 our catch and found 275 fish, which made quite a respect- 

 able string. Some weighed over 21bs. , but the majority 

 averaged from 1 to Hlbs. It was almost dark before we 

 got the red lights of Fernandina's lighthouse in range, 

 and four bells sounded as we made fast to Dungeness 

 Dock. 



It was in the afternoon of a cloudy day soon after, that 

 six of us took the yacht bound for a quail hunt. We 

 stopped at St. Mary's, Georgia, the next oldest town (so 

 they claim) in the United States. It is a deserted place 

 now; but once a stream of life flowed backward and for- 

 ward along what are now beautiful grass-grown streets, or 

 more truly avenues, lOOyds. wide. Many of the houses 

 were falling in ruins, and one I noticed was thatched and 

 moss-grown. Large village pumps stood in the center of 

 the streets and old live oaks clustered about the wells. 

 A few whites, but a majority of negroes, greeted us at 

 the wharf and stood looking at me with staring eyes as 

 I took a photograph of them. The warehouse at the 

 clock had long since been deserted, and on the shelves 

 where once silks and satins found resting places, mice 

 now held high carnival. Connecting with the office was 

 a little brick building, built for the safe, but now a hiding 

 place for rattlesnakes. The glory of the spot seemed to 

 have been in the past. Without visiting the cemetery 

 the most interesting spot would have been overlooked. 

 We entered the cemetery over a stile. Epitaphs told of 

 the illustrious departed, and crumbling gravestones 

 showed that the families, which once had gathered near 

 and offered to the dead their last tribute, had either for- 

 gotten them or followed to the land we know so little of. 

 The earliest inscription bore a date of 1790 odd, and that 

 which to me told the saddest story, I copied. It ran 

 thus: 



Here rests what was mortal of Sam'l Burr, Esq., age 43. In 

 search of health, far from his endeared home, death arrested his 

 progress on the 2d day of April, 1831. 



Quietly he fell asleep in the Christian hope of immortality and 

 glory forever. 



O vanity of man at hi& best estate. Traveler, pause and drop a 

 tear at the early grave of one so highly worthy and deeply 

 lamented, and learn wisdom for eternity. 



What food for thought in that inscription alone. How 

 did the old place look in those days of 1831? Then the 

 planters were kings, ruling each his principality, expect- 

 ing no more then- downfall than their slaves expected 

 freedom. 



A few rain drops fell as I was still kneeling before a 

 crumbling stone, scraping the dirt from its base, and I 

 reluctantly turned back. The whole scene was wild and 

 everything was in keeping; the gray moss which hung in 

 profusion from the trees was a fitting shroud for the old 

 city of the dead. Much as I Avished to linger, the pur- 

 pose for which we landed, namely, to get old Cray Pratt 

 and his dog, being accomplished, we went aboard the 

 yacht and steamed up the river some sixteen miles to 

 camp. With oak and fat wood (pine full of pitch) we 

 built a roaring fire on the river bank. Its flames caught 



some moss hanging from .a tree above, and running 

 among the branches, lit up the woods and river. 



Old Pratt's face fairly shone when he stood on the log. 

 which we were burning in half, and told in his quaint 

 way his hunting tales; and how once he got drunk on 

 champagne one Saturday, and the following Saturday 

 when working in a hot field, the wine still in his system, 

 made him terribly drunk again. The tree could not bear 

 him up in his tale, for just then burning through, it sent 

 old Pratt sprawling on the ground. But the hours had 

 crept by. 



"And then while round us shadows gather faster. 

 And as the firelieht fell." 



we went quickly to bed, each one with a hope for the 

 morrow. 



We did not rise early, for we heard rain beating upon 

 the deck: but when I had turned over from my first 

 awaking, and had just fallen to sleep again, Pratt called 

 us all, saying, "The rain has stopped and it looks like it 

 was clearing." 



Nine sportsmen started out, all prepared to slaughter 

 the quail. The place was excellent (for the birds), a 

 growth of grass cover all through the woods and adja- 

 cent swamps gave sure safety when once the birds were 

 flushed. As scouts we scattered in a long line and fairly 

 swept the woods. The dog, Hec by name, and a Hec of a 

 dog by nature, ran sniffling about ahead of us, and twice 

 I believe ran over a covey of two or three birds. But he 

 did not stop, having some other business in mind. Cray 

 got one bird after letting two of the others shoot. It was 

 very discouraging to tramp among the pines and palmet 

 toes in water and bog and flush no game. The old man 

 at last grew mad at his dog's actions, and called him 

 names which do not bear repeating. I very nearly went 

 with three of the party when they turned back after go- 

 ing a mile, but could not be outdone by Pratt, who was 

 sixty-six at his last birthday. I had always thought the 

 pine woods of Georgia were alive with game, but one 

 learns much from experience. 



After walking around for miles we made for the yacht, 

 got steam up and went down the river to Port Henry. 

 The St. Mary's Biver h the boundary line of Florida and 

 Georgia, so having hunted all the morning in Georgia we 

 decided to try Florida for the afternoon. We flushed a 

 number of birds, but the dog spoiled the fun, Cray not 

 being able to control him. After killing five we stopped, 

 for it was late, treasuring, however, the place in our 

 minds for a future visit. We reached home for dinner, 

 bringing six little quail as the result of nine guns and a 

 day's shooting. And so another week sped by. 



One bright morning shortly after, I rigged my split- 

 bamboo and tried my luck from the little wharf. Unfor- 

 tunately I started rather late, but during the fall of the 

 tide I caught 23 trout, some weighing 31bs. I had rather 

 good sport, but they played only half -spiritedly and did 

 not right like their fresh water brethren. 



That afternoon we thought to start the buck, in Gray 

 Field Scrub, which I had shot at and missed a day or two 

 before. Not ten minutes elapsed, after we had whistled 

 the dogs in, before they jumped him. I saw him come 

 out of the woods ahead of me, and gave chase through 

 a run into New Field, taking a shot off Coony's back 

 just as I saw him dissappear. The dogs were not far be- 

 hind and in the thick brush gained. They gave tongue 

 for over a mile through the scrub and brought him round 

 to where I had ridden in half-way to the beach. For an 

 instant only I saw the white tail and raised my gun to 

 fire, but saw no more. I got back through the brush as 

 fast as possible to give Will warning, and got out into 

 Gray Field just in time to see the buck going across and 

 also to see Will take aim and fire. Heels over head he 

 fell, pierced through the heart by a rifle bullet. It was 

 as pretty a shot and sight as I had ever seen, the deer 

 leaping brush and log, the pack of hounds not 200yds. 

 behind, and then to see him fall and the dogs one by one 

 run up still yelping as we threw the deer up behind the 

 saddle. Will was very happy at his 80yds. shot and in 

 the fullness of his heart presented me with the antlers, 

 which now adorn my room and tell to me the story of the 

 deer I missed and Will killed. 



A few rainy days kept us in and around the house a 

 good deal, until we grew tired and decided the first clear 

 day to go up the river again after quail. The day came 

 shortly and after lunch we all went aboard the yacht 

 and steamed off. At Port Henry the yacht only slowed 

 up long enough for some of us to go ashore and then 

 went on up the river to take the rest of the party for a 

 sail. 



We flushed a good many birds, but the shooting was 

 poor, for out of all we only killed seven. In places the 

 cover was very thick, coming up to one's shoulders, 

 making the finding of dead birds difficult. 



The old man who farmed the place came down to the 

 wharf while we were waiting for the yacht. He was 

 bent of back, gray hair showed beneath his old slouch 

 hat, his clothes were patched in places with new pieces 

 of cloth, which made the rest look worse. But beneath 

 his battered coat beat a kindly heart, and under the 

 slouch hat his memory treasured many an experience 

 only years could give. He had come from New York 

 State, broken in health, seeking new life and strength. 

 Florida was not the place he thought it would be, "but I 

 have only one fife to live," he said, "and the mistakes I 

 have made can never be rectified." The sun had just 

 gone down when we saw the yacht come round^the bend 

 and I stepped on board. 



Away to the west heaven's night lantern rose out of a 

 long wide marsh. One light showed where St. Mary's 

 was, and then we sailed out on to the sound. I climbed 

 into the rigging, and sat upon the cross-piece, looking 

 seaward, as we went out of the harbor for a moonlight 

 sail. Straight into the silvery rays we steered, casting 

 from either side a glistening shower. A full square- 

 rigged ship, all sails set, met us, and as we passed close 

 by appeared to stand, right out of the water, a viaion of 

 the sea. We could hear the captain giving orders to 

 come about on another tack, and then as she turned the 

 sails moved around, first one set, then the other. Up 

 where I sat the tossing waves swung me as a pendulum, 

 to and fro. At length we turned backward and again 

 landed from a pleasant cruise. G. F. Blandy. 



Names and Portraits of Birds, by G-urdon 1'rumbuu. a 

 book particularly interesting to gunners, for by its use they can 

 Identify without question all the American game birds which 

 they may kill. Cloth, 220 pages, price $3.50. For sale by Forest 

 and Stream. 



