March 27, 1890. j 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



187 



or dry; who never loses his temper or grows "grumpy" 

 after an unlucky day or a run of bad weather, is a jewel, 

 and one whose single companionship is worth more than 

 a half dozen "good fellows," whose good fellowship fails 

 them in the stress of disappointment or disaster. Such a 

 man— in fact, two or three such men— it has been my 

 happy fortune to camp with, and the highest praise my 

 pen can tender them is to express the hope that they have 

 found in my society one-half of the satisfaction that I en- 

 joyed in theirs. 



What equals the solemn majesty of night? And when 

 viewed from the bow of a hunting skiff that, silent as its 

 own shadow, glides across the bosom of some solitary 

 hill-encircled, forest-fringed pond, dimly gleaming as an 

 opal in the faint light of a far away moon — itself a pale 

 crescent high hung in the blueblack heavens and scarce 

 outshining the stars — the solemnity of that majesty tills 

 the soul. 



How still the air is, how absolutely silent the night! 

 The soft patter of the rabbit, the scrape of the hedge- 

 hog's quill, the very flutter of some uneasy bird, per- 

 chance disturbed by "a tough little worm in his ten- 

 der insides," all these sounds are caught and analyzed by 

 the hunter's ear with a clearness and accuracy that is 

 surprising, and the footfall of the deer himself venturing 

 to feed among the lily pads along the shallow shore half 

 a mile away comes with startling suddenness to rouse 

 the flagging hope and sharpen all the senses of his would- 

 be murderer. 



With what a ghostly gliding then the little skiff wins 

 its silent way toward the spot, and he in the bow with 

 bated breath and tense-strung nerve, eyes outstrained 

 and mouth and ears both opened for every warning, 

 grasps his gun with determination not to fire too soon, 

 and has already counted the game his own, when the 

 waiting silence is fairly torn asunder by the startled 

 whistle of the alarmed buck, the light flashes, there is a 

 sudden deafening roar, echoing and re-echoing from crag 

 to crag, a second whistle, the beat of rapid retreat within 

 the sheltering fringe of woods, followed by disappointed 

 growls, the iow laughter of the guide, and then silence 

 again . 



How the deer can multiply in the North Woods, in 

 spite of bounds and hunters, jack light, June law break- 

 ing and the score of other dangers which threaten them, 

 is beyond explanation. Perhaps they do. 



One way of extermination we tried. Imagine, if you 

 will, a pond half a mile wide by a mile long, set in the 

 very heart of the forest. About its margin lie scattered 

 boulders, relics doubtless of the glacier period, green 

 with moss and lichens. Its silent waters gleam like 

 burnished steel beneath the rays of a noon day sun as we 

 launch the weather-worn dugout, and hunter and guide 

 seat themselves, each upon a handful of branches, in bow 

 and stern. No word is spoken, for all arrangements 

 have been made upon the trail half a mile back, and the 

 single click of the rifle hammer as it rises to full cock is 

 the only sound that breaks the silence of nature. 



The paddle of the guide never leaves the water, as it 

 turns and turns in his deft hands, and the old log canoe, 

 like some preadamite lizard, slowly swerves with hardly 

 a ripple toward the center of the little lake. Eagerly 

 four sharp eyes are searching the shore line, not with 

 hasty motions of the body, but with all the caution such 

 hunting demands. In the pure air and full glory of the 

 sunlight every bit of beach, rock, fallen tree, bed of 

 rushes or tiny bay shows sharp and clear with the border 

 of shadowy green forest beyond. Suddenly the dugout 

 jars, as if it had touched'a hidden snag, and turns as 

 sharply as its ponderous length will permit toward the 

 lower end of the pond, and he in the bow sees something 

 that doubles the pace of his heart beats, control them as 

 he may. There, |upon a bit of shingle, nearly a hundred 

 rods distant, but so plainly seen that the ear listens for 

 the sound of hoof beats, stands a deer feeding. A beau- 

 tiful picture he is, fittingly framed by this wild spot, and 

 as he slowly moves, now stamping to rid himself of some 

 galling insect, now raising his stately head to listen and 

 look, and again pausing to feed daintily, but not hungrily, 

 upon the soft water grasses at his feet; he is in truth a 

 noble animal. 



Slowly but surely the old canoe holds its course, and 

 the rifle, ready for instant use, rests its deadly muzzle 

 upon the strained and broken bow, quietly waiting. The 

 deer seems nervous yet with all his motion— and. now he 

 half trots up and down the little beach— he never looks 

 out across the pond. If fear assails him it is of something 

 within the leafy fastnesses and shadows of the wdod, not 

 of the fate that steadily glides toward him upon the 

 placid waters. 



Nearer and still nearer, until as the quarry suddenly 

 raises his head with a half whistle the paddle pauses, the 

 canoe moves more and more slowly, and a whisper so low 

 that it almost fails to reach the ear it is meant for, the 

 guide says "shoot!" 



The steel tube rises steadily to the hunter's shoulder, 

 his head drops to its stock, his eye catches a bit of the 

 red just behind the fore shoulder through the sights, and 

 as the deer half turns toward the sheltering shadows 

 behind him the sharp crack of the gun rings wdldly 

 out. 



The same instant, and while the smoking muzzle still 

 hides the shore the guide shouts, "You've got him! Good 

 shot! Forty-five rods if it's an inch!" and with a half 

 pang of remorse the hunter, now all of a tremble, sees 

 the deer lying still and dead upon the shore. 



Another scene memory clearly paints upon the forest 

 leaves of a dead and gone summer. Another pond, so 

 seeming small that one might almost dig a well and hide 

 it therein, yet many rods across, walled about by great 

 hills that cast their shadows from shore to shore at 

 morn and eve. The sky, pearly white, shot through with 

 long lances of reflected glory from the setting sun, and a 

 few far off clouds of purple and gray. A lonely twilight 

 thickening along the pond through which the tamaracks 

 on the opposite shore seem to draw closer together for 

 whispered converse; a low tinkle of bird notes from over 

 head, and an undertone of frog song from the lily pads 

 along the verge. Near the center of the bit of water a 

 boat and two motionless figures, over whom slowly and 

 silently the pall of night is gently falling. Suddenly a 

 dry branch snaps in the gloom of the further bank, the 

 man in the bow stirs, and the same instant the flash of 

 his Marlin gleams, and its sharp voice rings clearly out. 

 Then with a sigh the soft silenee of the woods falls again; 

 hut the deed is done, his eye was true, Ids band steady, 

 and the deer lies dead. F. E. H. 



CATS AND DOGS, AND THINGS. 



" T^ROGS is toads, and I know it," was the axiomatic 

 X reply always made by Ignotus when I would press 

 him to share in the banquet which a little patience and 

 red flannel had provided from the pools of Acequia 

 Grande. Allow me to paraphrase this immortal utter- 

 ance by saying, "Cats is fools, and I knows it." An 

 acquaintance of over thirty years with the North Ameri- 

 can Felida — from the "mountain lion," large as a good- 

 sized ma- tiff, down to the little Mexican "ocelot," not 

 much larger than a flying squirrel, to say nothing of 

 domestic cats of all varieties, Persian, Maltese, Angora, 

 tiger, Manx, Lusitanian and "jist common"— ought to 

 furnish ample grounds for positive opinion. But the fact 

 has been more "borne in upon me" in the last few months, 

 during which time I have been studying the psychical 

 (if the proof reader or compositor makes that "physical" 

 I'll murder him) development of a couple of Creole kit- 

 tens, presented me by a small Acadian friend. From 

 their color, I have named them respectively Ginger and 

 Chalk; Chalk being of the sterner and Ginger of the 

 softer sex. For two thoroughbred, unadulterated, simon 

 pure, brass-bound, copper-riveted, hand-forged, stub-and- 

 twist fools, I'll back them against all creation. Thomp- 

 son's colt, who "swam the river to get a drink," was 

 wisdom incarnate compared to them, while a wooden 

 jumping-jack would blush for shame if he thought he was 

 as big a fool as they. 



For instance, one would suppose that the mere stress 

 of hunger or common animal instinct would teach them 

 to eat, when the food was within their reach, but it does 

 not. About five times a day on an average I am dis- 

 turbed by their piteous whining, and leaving whatever I 

 am at I carry them a plateful of provender and set it 

 down before them. They look at it in a dazed way, then 

 up in my face and redouble their yawp. I seize Chalk 

 by the scruff of the neck and thrust his nose into the 

 provender. He seizes a morsel and "pitches in" as 

 though he had been starved for a week. By the time I 

 have done the like good office for Ginger, Chalk has 

 bolted his piece and is yowling agonizingly for more. An- 

 other clutch of the neck, another thrust of the nose into 

 the plate, and by this time Ginger "wakes the melan- 

 choly lay," and I attend to her. So it goes, till finally 

 their hunger is appeased and their howling stops. If I 

 leave the remainder of the food till their appetite awakes 

 again, then instead of helping themselves they sit by the 

 plate and howl lugubriously till I again come out and 

 play the wet nurse to them. "Why don't I let them 

 alone till they learn to eat of their own accord?" Well, I 

 am not deaf and I have such things as nerves. Tried it 

 once till they drove me to the verge of insanity. Since 

 then I prefer the lesser of two evils. 



Like all then- tribe, they are fond of milk, but they 

 came to grief the other day through their lack of sense. 

 A pail of whitewash happened to be sitting where they 

 could get at it, and I suppose they reasoned, with cat 

 logic, "Milk is white, this stuff is white, therefore this 

 stuff is milk," and they tucked away a pint or so before 

 they were discovered. A sicker lot of cats than they 

 were for a few days you never saw. But do you suppose 

 they gained wisdom by experience? Not they ! When 

 fairly recovered I put the same pail where they could 

 reach it again. Again they went for it, and, if I had not 

 interfered, the same results would have followed. I sub- 

 mit that a cat that can't tell the difference in taste be- 

 tween whitewash and milk is a fool. 



My puppy— a full-bred mongrel— though not much 

 larger than either, is a holy terror to them, and makes 

 their life a perpetual torment. He tumbles them over 

 upon their backs, mauls them around, drags them over 

 the yard by their ears or tails, and they meow piteously, 

 but haven't sense enough to get out of his way, or cour- 

 age enough to turn upon him, and give him a royal lick- 

 ing. This they could do easily enough, for, like all pup- 

 pies, he is an arrant coward, and one scratch from their 

 claws would send him to his kennel, yelping with pain 

 and fear. Even now I can hear Ginger's plaintive whine 

 of il Qui-i-it th-a a-tr and there is hardly an hour of the 

 day that isn't burdened with their querulous complaints. 



And then, you can't teach them anything. It took 

 just one day to convince the pup that the kitchen was 

 forbidden ground— six months had not been sufficient to 

 impress that fact upon the cats. If I fire them out at 

 8:30, cuffing their ears soundly in the process, still, when 

 the door is next opened at 8:31, in they pop, as confidently 

 as if they knew they were heartily welcome. (I have 

 never "heaped coals of fire on then- head," but one or 

 two applications of hot water, not too hot, you know, but 

 just hot enough, has had no effect). It' took me about 

 three days to teach the pup that he had a name, and must 

 come when called, but with the cats, I have given up in 

 despair. In fact, they seem to know nothing, learn 

 nothing, and can be taught nothing. I don't believe a 

 cartload of cats would furnish enough gray brain matter 

 to fill the hollow of a mosquito's tooth. 



They are cold-blooded, too. A cat has no more affec- 

 tion than a cypress fence rail. They love to be petted, 

 but that is pure selfishness. Some writers credit them 

 with an affection for place, if not for persons, but I am 

 convinced that a cat returns to her home, not because 

 she loves it, but because she is too big a fool to under- 

 stand that she can get her own living anywhere else. 



In short, patient study of the beast only strengthens 

 my conviction that "cats is fools and I knows it." 



By the way, those who took the trouble to follow the 

 fortunes of "My Chickens," as reported some time ago in 

 Forest and Stream, may be interested in some further 

 details of their welfare. The poor remnant, left by the 

 murderous possum, I re enforced with two dozen more, 

 and built for them a commodious coop, which I fondly 

 imagined I had made vermin-tight. Care was taken to 

 shut them up carefully every night, and I had begun to 

 look with gastronomic eye upon them, and consider 

 whether they were not almost ready for the gridiron. A 

 few mornings ago when I went to let them out I found 

 all but seven lying dead on the floor, each with a small 

 hole neatly bored in the back of his head. Close inspec- 

 tion revealed where the marauder had. dug under the 

 foundation, burrowing through dirt at least six inches 

 deep. About the middle of that same day I heard a great 

 fuss among the survivors, and going to the chicken yard 

 I found the solitary rooster standing at bay and pluckily 



confronting a large mink, who had come back in broad 

 daylight to finish bis nefarious work. He was so absorbed 

 in his fell designs that he gave me time to get my rifle 

 and balance accounts with him. I think 1 shall give up 

 chicken raising as a bootless job, for I can't afford to feed 

 Louisiana possums and minks with choice Plymouth 

 Rocks worth a dollar a pair. H. P. II, 



"A FIRE OF POPLAR." 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



Permit me to express the pleasure 1 experienced in 

 reading No. 11 of the series of "Out-Door Papers," "A 

 Fire of Poplar." One can, no doubt, become greatly in- 

 terested in a well and entertainingly written paper on a 

 subject of which he knows very little. Yet it is more often 

 (if you will pardon a homely metaphor) like the [eating 

 of the solid part of an insipid food for the sake of the 

 delicate sauce with which it is served. But when, apart 

 from its literary excellence and the fact that it was written 

 in a part of the world not unknown to the reader, an 

 article treats of a subject with which the latter has been 

 intimately associated for a quarter of a century: when it 

 assimilates and places before him in exquisite shape 

 thoughts that have often drifted vaguely through his own 

 mind, together with others that perhaps he had not 

 brains enough Eo conceive, but which his experience en- 

 ables him to readily understand; when it awakens a flood 

 of old memories from which the disagreeable pasts have 

 long ;since been distilled in Time's retort, dull indeed 

 must be his soul if no responsive chord is struck. 



The "Fire of Poplar" reminds me of camps from the 

 Miramichi to Baskahegan, of "cold bites" wlien we could 

 not get the fire to go, and of hot lunches on cold days, 

 when we chanced to strike a bonanza in wood. I have 

 only to close my pyes to see again the low flat "banks of 

 the Gaspereaux," with their labyrinthine fringes of 

 alders, and the rugged hills of northern Maine, where 

 broke the apron string of the rock-sower. With these 

 are associated memories of droves of caribou, big bucks, 

 whose footprints a two-year-old steer could hardly 

 enlarge, grouse, hrant, togue, together with a liberal 

 sprinkling of porcupine, and lots of spruce and pine lum- 

 ber and hemlock bark; so much of dross will mix itself 

 up with the better parts of one's thoughts. 



We cannot all write like the" author of "Out-Door 

 Papers," but we can be thankful that we have had the 

 training necessary to the understanding of her work. 

 "Let every man worship at the shrine of his choosing." 

 But for the Northerner who has roughed it either alone 

 or with lumber gangs and surveying parties, the "Fire of 

 Poplar" is a thing of beauty; a joy for — a long time. 



MoDonald's Point New Brunswick. L. I. FLOWER. 



Evening Grosbeaks in Connecticut.— In its remark- 

 able migrations the past few months, the evening gros- 

 beak (Coccothraustes vespertina) did not neglect Connec- 

 ticut, and has thus won a place among the birds of the 

 State. Two were killed here March 6, by Mr. Arthur S. 

 Bailey, one of which, an adult male, he sent me to-day. 

 The other specimen was 'eaten by his cat, and a wing, 

 which she was considerate enough to leave, is that of a 

 female or young male. Mr. Bailey tells me that nine or 

 ten of these grosbeaks were seen several times in the 

 vicinity of his house the last week in February. They 

 came early in the morning and were feeding on the buds 

 of the maples. He shot into them March 4, but none 

 were secured. The flock returned in forty-eight hours, 

 when the two birds referred to were killed; the others 

 disappeared and were not seen again. They were not 

 wild and had a "low, twittering -note" when feeding. 

 One-half of the flock seemed to him to be bid males. 

 Portland is in the lpwer Connecticut valley and only 

 thirty miles from Long Island Sound.— John H. Sa<3Fe 

 (Portland, Conn., March 22). 



Early Migrants.— Kingston, Kenty County, N. B., 

 March 17. — The first wild geese seen this spring passed 

 over this place on March 6. It is unusual for geese to 

 put in an appearance so early in these parts. So far we 

 have every indication of an early spring. — S. 



Club Election. — On Saturday, March 15, a regular 

 meeting of the association comprising the United Hunt- 

 ing, Fishing|and Camping Clubs of Western Pennsylvania, 

 was held at the rooms of the Pittsburgh Rod and Gun 

 Club. In spite of the bad weather a large number of the 

 delegates were present eager to discuss future camping 

 grounds and to talk over the old ones. Several clubs 

 have applied for admission and will be acted upon at our 

 next meeting. The secretary was instructed to prepare 

 a book of last year's camping for this year's reference, 

 and urged to get it completed as soon as possible, as 

 many members desire articles advertised in the book. 

 The following officers were elected: President, Wm. 

 Scaudrett; Vice-President, Geo. Weaver; Treasurer, Hon. 

 B. C. Cbristy; Secretary. J. W. Hague; Directors, Dr.W 

 G. Schirmer, S. H. Pollock, F. L. Neely, T. S. Coats, 

 Wm. Lagrande, Orrie Sims, A. M. Cutter, G. H. Taylor, 

 Christ Kestner. The State ornithologist, Dr. B. H. War- 

 ren, of West Chester, Pa., was present, and made an ex- 

 cellent address, and advised several changes in the game 

 laws, and complimented the association upon the good 

 work done in protecting game and fish. Rev. W. H, 

 Law, of the "Snow" island, Mich., also made an address, 

 which was well received. The association is prosperous, 

 new clubs joining and more applying, indicating a good 

 outing year.— J, W. Hague, Secretary, Pittsburgh, Pa, 



No Wonder it is Popular— The appointments of the famous 

 New York and Chicago Vestibule Limited, via the New York 

 Central and Hudson River Railroad correspond in elegance and 

 luxury with tuose of a first-class familv hotel. The convenience 

 of arriving at Grand Central (Station, largest and finest passenger 

 station in America, and the only one in the city of New York is 

 another advantage enjoyed exclusively by patrons of the New 

 Y r ork Central. This great four-track trunk line is unsurpassed 

 for safety, comfort, and the speed of its splendid trains.— Ade. 



A Book About Indians— The Forest and Stream will mail 

 free on application a descriptive circular of Mr. Grinnell's book 

 "Pawnee Hero Stories and Folk-Tales," giving a table of contents 

 aud specimen illustrations from the volume.— Adv. 



6U Hints and Hews for Sportsmen. A book of 340 pages' 

 Send for table of contents. Price §1.50, postpaid, from this office- 



