Dec. 11, 1890.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



411 



the deacon's line mansion, imprimis, the handmaiden, 

 Hannah Sprague, rosy, blushing and neat; item, one 

 bandbox; item, one hair trunk. That was all. 



Goody Brown, who had mis-kept the deacon's house 

 for a year, and whom Jonas irreverently styled an "old 

 gnawpost," was discharged at once, and the tidy, quiet 

 Hannah installed as mistress of the house. No plumper, 

 whiter hands were ever seen mixing bread or working 

 butter; no prettier turned arms or ankles ever gladdened 

 the eye of a deacon (supposing deacons ever notice such 

 trifles, which they probably don't), and no lonely deacon's 

 ear was ever cheered by the dulcet notes of Old Hundred 

 from a sweeter voice than Hannah's. 



Why spin it out? I am not writing a novel, and the 

 reader has already guessed the sequel. 



At the end of a year people had begun to surmise tha t 

 Hannah Sprague was "setthr her cap for the deacon," 

 when, one fine June morning, the deacon and Hannah 

 put a sudden stop to all further scandal or surmise by 

 standing up in church and being duly married. People 

 talked, of course; they always will. Slatternly mothers 

 with frowsy daughters who would have jumped at the 

 chance of sharing the deacon's bed and board, declared 

 that it was a shame; "a young gal like that to marry a 

 man old enough to be her father, 'cause he had property!" 

 Three old maids of the most husky and primitive pattern 

 left the church and went over soul and bones to the 

 Wesleyans, because they "couldn't conscientiously coun- 

 tenance any sich venal proceeding;" the truth being 

 that each one of them had been making a dead-set at the 

 deacon any time for the last ten years. On the whole, 

 however, the marriage made less talk than such mar- 

 riages usually do in a country town, and the deacon took 

 it all so meekly. His youthful, pretty wife took to her 

 new honors so naturally, and everything went on so 

 much after the old style, that, after the conventional 

 nine days were past and each had had his or her say on 

 the matter, people began to see that it was not such a 

 misalliance after all. For my part, I think the marriage 

 was a right and proper one for both parties. If the 

 deacon could become the possessor of such a nice, thrifty 

 piece of calico through being able to support, protect and 

 care for her, it was a fair reward for a life of probity, 

 industry, and self-denying economy. And. on the other 

 hand, if the habits of industry, prudence, cheerfulness 

 and virtue, which had been instilled in the soul of the 

 pretty Hannah, could win a virtuous, upright, truth- 

 loving man for a helpmate— a devoted, doting, well-to-do 

 husband and a most comfortable home— I, for one, think 

 the investment not such a bad one. 



I know such things are of a past age — people don't 

 marry for money or position nowadays — not at all. The 

 accomplishments taught at modern boarding schools are 

 doubtless of a nature to add to the comforts of a home 

 and the happiness of a husband in a far greater degree 

 than any old-fashioned out-of-date skill in the vulgar 

 matters of cooking or prudent housewifery. Frederick 

 Augustus is above a low hankering for well-brewed 

 coffee with his morning steak, and Laura Matilda, fresh 

 from boarding school, doesn't own to an appetite at all. 

 Pity that they could not subsist on sentiment and moon- 

 shine, and that the appetite should recur sometimes 

 when there is not even bread wherewith to satisfy them. 



The deacon and his young wife were not troubled with 

 sentiment — or the want of bread. He was a shrewd 

 matter-of-fact man, and she proved herself a smart, 

 capable woman. The quiet, but resolute and decided 

 manner in which she assumed control over all household 

 matters was well calculated to silence opposition or com- 

 plaint had there been any, but there was none. The 

 husband was but too glad at being relieved from the 

 cares of indoor arrangements, and as the wife never 

 meddled with outdoor affairs or offered anything that 

 looked like hen-pecking it was no wonder they got on in 

 a pleasant, amicable manner. 



Five years after the date of the marriage one of those 

 little accidents which are usually ludicrous, but some- 

 times serious, happened to the good deacon while work- 

 ing overhead in the tannery. He had taken up a rough 

 loose floor and was replacing it with a better, when, hap- 

 pening to step on the end of a board he was suddenly 

 dumped into one of his own vats — not necessarily a serious 

 affair, as the vat was nearly full of water and hides, but, 

 unfortunately, the adze with which he was working 

 preceded him, and when he scrambled out of the vat the 

 blood, was spouting from a ragged gash in the neck — 

 spouting in dark purple jets which kept time in ghastly 

 unison with the pulsing of the heart. 



Long ere the doctor could be summoned the deacon 

 was gone and Hannah Needham was a widow; a widow, 

 but not childless, for, in little more than a year after her 

 marriage, Hannah had given birth to a female infant, 

 which I, the present veracious narrater, recollect hav- 

 ing seen when it was a few weeks old, and thinking it 

 decidedly the reddest, ugliest little squab my eyes had 

 ever rested on. And this little squalling, ill-looking 

 lump of humanity had grown up to be the rosiest, 

 freshest, smartest young woman in all the country round- 

 about. It seemed but yesterday since she was a little 

 chubby thing of six years, and now she was setting up 

 for herself as a belle and heiress: dressing, doubtless, 

 with an eye to masculine approbation and playing the 

 deuce with such soft-hearted spoons as Ned, who was 

 evidently "head over heels" in love with her. 



Deacon Needham had, like a thoughtful, prudent dea- 

 con al he was, made a will, in which he had left his 

 young wife the use of the property during her "natural 

 life," to revert at her decease to the younger Hannah. 

 There were no churlish restrictions in the will, but the 

 young widow had been left free to manage her affairs — 

 matrimonial or other — in any way she might choose. 

 Like a sensible young widow as she was, she had chosen 

 to remain single, and had managed the large farm and 

 tannery so well as to have improved the value of the very 

 pretty estate left in her charge. Now, it was but reason- 

 able to suppose that the young and handsome widow 

 would have any number of chances to change her state 

 and name, and^, sooth to say, numerous wooers, most of 

 them respectable and some of them wealthy, had paid 

 suit to her charms during the first six years of her wid- 

 owhood. They had all, however, been steadily and per- 

 sistently refused, until at last people came to understand 

 that the widow rather preferred her independence and 



Eower as mistress of the Needham estate to the soft 

 landishments of any masculine whatever. It was un- 

 derstood likewise, for the widow had intimated as much, 

 that any likely young fellow who succeeded in winning 



the younger Hannah to wife would have the use of the 

 estate during the life of the blooming "relict," with the 

 most sanguine prospect of reversion. In the country, 

 where few of us ever get very rich, this made the youth- 

 ful Hannah rather an heiress, and, as nature had made 

 her a beauty beyond all dispute, it is little to be wondered 

 at that she should cause a commotion beneath the vests 

 of rural Brummeldom. 



Thus stood matters at the time Ned and myself were to 

 start westward on a hunting tour. We had arrived at 

 home from the Rock Shanty on Wednesday, and were to 

 set out on the following: Monday for an all-winter hunt. 

 So, to make sure that Ned was all right and ready, I 

 stepped over to his mother's on Sunday evening. He was 

 not at home, but as his sister Kate said, "Over to the 

 widow's, as usual." Over to the widow's I went, and I 

 found not only Ned, but one Mr. Enoch Daniels in the 

 field. Enoch was a Vermonter and a most inveterate in- 

 ventor; he had a penchant for patents and had taken out 

 three of them before his twenty-first birthday, one of 

 which had netted him several hundred dollars. Some 

 nations have a genius for painting: others for music; 

 others for poetry or sculpture. History will decide that 

 the New Englander has a genius for machinery — the in- 

 tricacies of belts, eccentrics and drums; the complications 

 of cogs and the perplexities of pinions are to him a sim- 

 ple sum in addition, while he reduces the multiples and 

 multipliers of speed and the rule of three. He can poetize 

 too, after a hard, dry fashion, can your genuine Yankee; 

 but poetry is not his forte; his specialty is edge tools and 

 machinery. 



It happened that Enoch had invented and patented a 

 "power wheel," as he called it, and his ostensible business 

 at the widow's was to dispose of a "right" to use one of 

 his wonderful wheels in the tannery, a project which 

 Jonas Sprague, who had grown to look on himself as 

 part and parcel of the tannery, had been induced to look 

 upon with favor. So Enoch had made his appearance 

 on the previous Friday with a two-horse load of imple- 

 ments and "fixin's," had gone to work forthwith and 

 was fairly installed at the widow's until the job should 

 be completed. As Enoch's "folks" were old acquaint- 

 ances of the Spragues and known to be respectable, pious 

 people, it was no wonder the widow received him kindly 

 and invited him to make her house his home so long as 

 he might sojourn in the country, an offer he was not 

 backward in accepting, and one which was evidently 

 much to his taste, whatever Ned Miller might think of it. 

 The latter did not appear to view the arrangement at all 

 favorably, but sat sulky and sullen in the corner while 

 the two Hannahs joined Mr. Daniels in singing "Green- 

 land's Icy Mountains," "Days of Absence" and "When 

 Shall We Three Meet Again." Undoubtedly the course 

 of true love wasn't running any too smoothly with 

 Ned, and I am sorry to say I took a malicious pleasure in 

 joining the party for the purpose of playing into Enoch's 

 hand, to the confusion and distress of Ned, who scowled 

 most savagely at all of us and was in a detestable state of 

 jealousy that greatly amused the widow, who, I could 

 see, with difficulty kept from laughing outright. I could 

 not help thinking that he was not only savagely jealous 

 of Enoch Daniels, but also looked on my visit with dis- 

 trust. I, who, as he ought to have known, would not 

 relinquish the rifle and tomahawk for any angel in calico 

 that ever wore gaiters. What did I care for his inamo- 

 rata? Had I not lived within two miles of her for years 

 without caring a straw for her beyond the natural and 

 involuntary admiration we all feel for a handsome young; 

 woman? What was the love-sick spoon thinking of? 

 Not of hunting, certainly; for it was with difficulty that 

 I could get him to converse abcut our intended hunt at 

 all. Nevertheless, he contrived to put in a sulky appear- 

 ance early on Monday morning, and, "with much heart- 

 felt reluctance be it said," put his traps on board the 

 stage, followed them himself, took a rather lugubrious 

 leave of his friends, and started off much as though he 

 were going to the gallows. 



THE STORY OF TWO SHOTS. 



A BOY of fourteen, alert, but too full of life to move 

 slowly and cautiously, is walking along an old road 

 in the woods, a road that winds here and there with 

 meanderings that now seem vagrant and purposeless, but 

 once led to the various piles of cordwood and logs, for 

 whose harvesting it was hewn. 



Goodly trees have since grown up from saplings that 

 the judicious axe then scorned. Beeches, whose flat 

 branches are shelves of old gold; poplars, turned to 

 towers of brighter metal by the same alchemy of autumn, 

 and hemlocks, pyramids of unchanging green, shadow 

 the leaf -strewn forest floor and its inconspicuous dotting 

 of gray and russet stumps. 



How happy the boy is in the freedom of the woods: 

 proud to carry his first own gun, as he treads gingerly 

 but somewhat noisily over the fallen leaves and dry 

 twigs, scanning with quick glances the thickets, imagin- 

 ing himself the Last Mohican on the warpath , or Natty 

 Bumpo scouting in the primeval wilderness. 



Under his breath he tells the confiding chickadees and 

 woodpeckers what undreamed of danger they would be 

 in from such a brave, were he not in pursuit of nobler 

 game. 



Then he hears a sudden rustle of the dry leaves, the 

 quit! quit! of a partridge, catches a glimpse of a rapidly- 

 running brown object, that on the instant is launched 

 into a flashing thunderous flight. 



Impelled by the instinct of the born sportsman, he 

 throws the gun to his shoulder, and scarcely with aim, 

 but in the direction of the sound, pulls trigger and fires. 



On the instant he is ashamed of his impulsive haste, 

 that fooled him into wasting a precious charge on the 

 inanimate evergreen twigs and sere leaves that come 

 dropping and floating down to his shot, and is thankful 

 that he is the only witness of his own foolishness. 



But what is that? Above the patter and rustle of fall- 

 ing twigs and leaves comes a dull rebounding thud, 

 followed by the rapid beat of wings upon the leaf-strewn 

 earth. With heart beating as fast he runs toward the 

 sound, afraid to believe his senses, when he sees the 

 noble grouse fluttering out feebly his last gasp. 



He cannot be sure that it is not all a dream that may 

 vanish in a breath, till he has the bird safe in his hand, 

 and then he is faint with joy. Was there ever such a 

 shot? Would that all the world was here to see, for who 

 can believe it just for the telling? 



There never will he another such a bird., nor such a 



shot, for him. He fires a dozen ineffectual shots at fair 

 marks that day, but the glory of that one shot would 

 atone for twice as many misses, and he need not tell of 

 them, only of this, whereof he bears actual proof, though 

 he himself can hardly accept it. till again and again he 

 tests it by admiring look and touch. 



Years after the killing of grouse on the wing has be- 

 come a matter-of-course occurrence in his days of upland 

 shooting, the memory of this stands clearest"and best. 



Sixty years later the old wood road winds through the 

 same scene, by some marvel of kindliness or oversight, 

 untouched by the devastating axe, unchanged but by the 

 forest growth of half a century and its seemly and decor- 

 ous decay. A thicker screen of undergrowth borders the 

 more faintly traced way. The golden-brown shelves of 

 the beech branches sweep more broadly above it, the 

 spires of the evergreens are nearer the sky and the yel- 

 low towers of the poplars are builded higher, but they are 

 the same trees and beneath them may yet be seen the 

 gray stumps and trunks mouldered to russet lines, of 

 their ancient brethren who fell when these were sap- 

 lings. 



The gray-bearded man who comes along the old wood 

 road wonders at the little change so many years have 

 made in the scene of the grand achievements of his 

 youth, and in his mind he runs over the long calendar to 

 assure himself that so many autumns have glowed and 

 faded since that happy day. How can 'he have grown 

 old, his ear dull to the voices of the woods, his sight 

 dim with the slowly but surely falling veil of coming 

 blindness, so that even now the road winds into a misty 

 haze just before him, and yet these trees be young and 

 lusty? 



As they and the unfaded page of memory record the 

 years, it was but a little while ago that his heart was 

 almost bursting with pride of that first triumph. Would 

 that he might once more feel that delicious pang of joy. 



Hark! There is the quit! quit! of a grouse, and there 

 another and another and the patter-rustle of their retreat- 

 ing footsteps, presently launching into sudden flight, 

 vaguely seen in swift bolts of gray, hurtling among gray 

 tree trunks and variegated foliage. 



True to the old instinct his gun leaps to his shoulder, 

 and he fires again and again at the swilt target. But the 

 quick eye no longer guides the aim, the timely finger no 

 longer pulls the trigger, and the useless pellets waste 

 themselves on the leaves and twigs. 



The woods are full of grouse, as if all the birds of the 

 region had congregated here to mock his failing sight 

 and skill. On every side they burst away from him like 

 rockets, and his quick but futile charges in rapid succes- 

 sion are poured in their direction, yet not a bird falls, 

 nor even a feather wavers down through the still October 

 air. His dim eyes refuse to mark down the birds that 

 alight nearest; he can only vaguely follow their flight by 

 the whirring rush of wings and the click of intercepting 

 branches. 



He is not ashamed of his loss of skill, only grieved to 

 know that his shooting days are over, yet he is glad there 

 is no one near to see his failure. He makes renunciation 

 of all title to the name of a crack shot, too well knowing 

 that this is no brief lapse of skill, but the final, inevitable 

 falling off of the quick eye and sur-e hand. 



Slowly and sadly he makes his way to where the shaded 

 path merges into the sunny clearing. There, from the 

 cover of the last bush, a laggard bird springs as if thrown 

 from a catapult, describing in his flight an arc of a great 

 circle, and clearly defined against the steel-blue sky. 



Again the gun springs instinctively to the shoulder, the 

 instantaneous aim is taken well ahead on the line of 

 flight, the trigger pressed in the nick of time, the charge 

 explodes, and out of a cloud of feathers drifting and 

 whirling in the eddies of his own wing-beats, the noble 

 bird sweeps downward in the continuation of the course 

 that ends with a dull thud on the pasture sward. 



The old sportsman lifts his clean-killed bird without a 

 thrill of exultation, he is only devoutly thankful for the 

 happy circumstance which made successful the last shot 

 he will ever fire, and that not as a miss he may remember 

 it. 



Henceforth, untouched by him, his gun shall hang upon 

 the wall, its last use linked with the pleasant memory of 

 his last shot. Rowland E. Robinson, 



DUCKS ON THE POTOMAC, 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



I made a little flying trip on Nov. 28, of about 9 miles 

 down the Potomac, as far as Broad Creek, to look for 

 ducks and quail. The only ducks that were at all plen- 

 tiful were the butterballs (Charitonetta albeola) and they 

 were as wild as deer. I saw only two black mallards, or 

 black ducks (Anas dbscura), and about a half dozen stiff- 

 tails, or pintails [Dafila acuta). No decoys were on the 

 river between Washington and Fort Washington for the 

 reason that the ducks had.'all been driven off by the big^ 

 guns, steam launches and Sunday shooting. The unlaw- 

 ful means, however, had been temporarily withdrawn on 

 account of the cruise of the Maryland police boat as far 

 up the river as Fort Foote, in search of these type of law- 

 breakers. A fine king rail, "as fat as butter," fell to my 

 gun in Broad Greek. The head was shown to Mr. Ridg- 

 way, ornithologist of the National Museum, so there is 

 no doubt about the identification, although I have rarely 

 seen the species in this locality. Quail were moderately 

 common, but they had been forced into the marshes, and 

 I saw a gunner wading after them with rubber boots 

 and picked up one of his dead birds with the help of my 

 boat. This is an unexpected development in quail shoot- 

 ing and one which I should not enjoy. T. M. 



Washington, D. C. 



The Fkee Lunch Man Again.— Golden City, Mo., Dec. 

 3. — The following was clipped from last week's Lamar 

 Democrat: "A number of farmers are advertising by 

 signs posted on their fences, 'No shooting allowed on this 

 farm.' In some part3 of the county the owners of the 

 land have a monopoly of the fowls of the air and the 

 fishes of the stream. In strange contrast with this sign 

 is that of a farmer living near Verdella; it is as follows: 

 'Shooting allowed on this farm. Warm dinner at 12 

 o'clock'." If there are any reserved seats in Heaven 

 that granger will have one with an extra cushion on it. 

 — R. W. A. 



A Book About Indians— The Forest and Stream will mail 

 free on application a descriptive circular of Mr. G-rinnelTs book, 

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

 and specimen illustrations from the volume.— Adv. 



