470 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[J as. 1, 1891. 



people who have done this successfully. "We have pre- 

 viously referred to Dr. John Law, of Leadville, Colorado, 

 whose establishment is well known and reasonably profit- 

 able, so much so that he is constantly increasing his 

 facilities. He does not sell eggs and fry, but only mar- 

 ketable trout. Mr. P. P. B. Hyerson narrates, in the 

 Transactions of the American Fisheries Society for 1690, 

 his successful experiment with trout in Arkansas. Mr. 

 Geo. A. Starkey, of Troy, and Mr. Charles Dickerman, of 

 New Hampton, N. H., sell adult trout, and the former 

 believes the business can be made profitable if conducted 

 on a large scale. We know of one man who has a thriv- 

 ing business of small proportions in the sale of brook 

 trout in this city; but he does not seek to compare notes 

 with experts in trout culture. We have no expectation 

 that the evidence brought forward by Mr. Byers or the 

 testimonials to the adequacy of fishculture methods con- 

 veyed to the ends of the earth by an independent press 

 will suffice to soften the asperity of critics who will deny 

 the unequivocal success with shad and whitefish, and dis- 

 parage the grand achievements with trout and salmon. 

 But intelligent people everywhere will distinguish sharply 

 and clearly between the men who have labored by scienti- 

 fic and practical methods to establish a system of fishcul- 

 ture which has won the praise of the world and those 

 who dispute the universal verdict while advertising some 

 occult processes peculiar to themselves. 



The interest in the habits of that game little bird, the 

 woodcock, increases and notes printed to-day bring out 

 a new suggestion. Is it not possible that, in talking 

 about the "whistle" of this bird, the advocates of what 

 may be called the wing and the vocal theories are refer- 

 ring to different sounds? We know a number of men, 

 who, when they talk about the woodcock's whistle, refer 

 to the twittering sound which it makes when flushed, 

 and which, as Mr. Brewster says, has been compared to 

 the note of the kingbird. That the bird makes, or can 

 make, a whistling noise with its wings, as do some of the 

 clucks, is we presume beyond question, but to get at the 

 truth, it would be well for the debaters first to settle as 

 clearly as possible what they themselves mean when 

 they speak of the woodcock's whistle. 



STILL-HUNTING. 



A WINTER IN MICHIGAN.-IV. 



BY NESSMUK. 



I got on much better for the rest of the winter, although 

 still very weak and utterly unfit for anything requir- 

 ing exertion or likely to subject me to exposure. I had a 

 fancy to try for the clearings as I got better, but old 

 Peter declared it so decidedly imprudent, and refused so 

 emphatically to go with me or furnish ponies until the 

 sugar season was over that I concluded to wait. 



The sugar season came at last, and a part of the band 

 moved down to an extensive tract of sugar maples within 

 six or seven miles of my shanty and commenced opera- 

 tions. They had a merry time of it; the season was an 

 unusually favorable one, and big kettles, little kettles, 

 tin pots, pails and pans, were in great demand for collect- 

 ing sap, boiling down, and sugaring off. 



One pleasant afternoon a pony was sent to me with an 

 invitation to ride over to their camp for a visit — an invi- 

 tation which I gladly accepted, and the visit proved an 

 interesting one. They were very busy, and had ten or a 

 dozen kettles, large and small," seething and bubbling 

 over hard wood fires. Their mode of reducing the sap to 

 sugar did not differ in the least from that practiced by 

 the white settlers, save in the utter disregard of cleanli- 

 ness exhibited by them. The young Indians were con- 

 tinually scouting the woods with their little half-starved 

 curs, and any unlucky coon, hare, squirrel, or even a 

 muskrat, which fell into their hands, was sure to be 

 skinned and thrown into the boiling sap for cooking, 

 without further dressing or cleaning. This rather cooled 

 my appetite for warm sugar, and tended also to prejudice 

 me slightly against Indian cookery — a prejudice which 

 much after observation has only confirmed. They are, 

 almost without an exception, most disgustingly filthy in 

 all their personal habits. 



I hung about the bright cheerful fires until late at 

 night, going from tire to fire, chatting with such of them 

 as spoke English and refusing liberal offers of sugar: but 

 at last Peter, who acted as cicerone, said it was time to 

 sleep and led the way to old Blackbird's tent, where we 

 went to spend the night. The tent was a large one with 

 a dull, simmering fire in the center, a big smoke-hole at 

 top, and a loose, ragged blanket by way of a door. The 

 fire gave out much smoke and very little heat, the ragged 

 blanket ventilated the structure most efficiently, and 

 what with young Indians, dogs, young and old, smoke 

 and filth, the whole affair was well calculated to knock 

 the romance out of Indian life effectually. My own lit- 

 tle den of a shanty was bad enough considered in the 

 light of a domestic institution, but it was warmth and 

 comfort compared to this. 



For an hour or two I tried to delude myself into sleep, 

 but the tent grew smokier and colder as night waned, 

 until I was fain to take my blanket and seek the nearest 

 fire, where, seated on a piece of dry bark, I nodded and 

 dozed the night away. The Indians treated me kindly. 

 Such as they had, and the best they had, was offered 

 freely; at parting they pressed me to accept of divers 

 small fawn-skin sacks filled with dried berries, corn, 

 beans and nuts, which, to an invalid who had passed 

 through a long spell of sickness with no vegetable food 

 other than "hard tack," were most grateful. 

 Just as I was on the start for a return, a pretty little 



squaw, whom I had spoken to the day before without 

 eliciting any answer save the unmeaning Indian stare, 

 came up and presented me a small, tastily worked doe- 

 skin pouch filled with cranberries, saying in very good 

 English : "Here, you take these and stew them with sugar ; 

 they are good in fever — birch is best for ager." And 

 she dodged into a tent, laughing loudly, as did all the 

 squaws, who seemed to think whipping out the ague a 

 capital joke. Perhaps it is. 



A few days after my visit to the sugar camp a warm 

 south wind stopped the flow of sap, and the Indians to 

 the number of twenty returned my visit, making them- 

 selves at home jovially, ransacking the shanty, examin- 

 ing my hunting kit with eager curiosity, and stuffing 

 themselves with dry ship biscuit until I dared not treat 

 them to warm toddy for fear they might burst. The 

 nymph who gave me the cranberries was of the party, 

 and had lost all her reserve — showed a desire iu fact to 

 be rather communicative. "Her father was no Indian," 

 she said, "not he. He was a British officer in Canada, 

 and her mother was Peter's sister. She could live with 

 white folks if she chose, but she did not choose. Her 

 father was not ashamed of her: he had taken her at one 

 time to Detroit and sent her to school for a year where 

 she learned to read, but she did not like it. What 

 did she want to read or write for? What good was 

 it? She did not like the white girls, or their moth- 

 ers. They had made her wear a dress like them- 

 selves, with corsets, and belt so tight that it hurt her 

 to breathe, and shoes which pinched her feet. What 

 did she care for such things, or for the pale, sickly girls 

 at school who laughed at her, and who were too feeble to 

 carry a bucketful of water or an armful of wood? She 

 was not going to be pinched up or kept indoors by them, 

 and so when the band came down to trade at Pontiac, 

 and she heard of their whereabouts, she ran away and 

 joined them, to be free again and go where she pleased. 

 Afterward, her father came all the way from Maiden to 

 Port Sarnia for the purpose of finding her and taking her 

 back again; the band had left Port Sarnia before he ar- 

 rived, and he followed them to River au Sable, where he 

 found them, but she had utterly refused to go with him, 

 although he promised to take her to England and give 

 her any quantity of nice clothes. She did not want the 

 clothes, nor to go to England; she chose to be free — to go 

 and come when she pleased; to gather berries and dress 

 skins; to go in a canoe and catch bass and mascalonge. 

 It would kill her to live as white women lived." This 

 and much more she told me, with flashing eyes and a 

 voluble earnestness that carried conviction of its truth- 

 fulness. As I watched her expressive face and native 

 beauty, I could not help a misty speculation which crossed 

 my mind as to how such a spicy piece of calico — I beg her 

 pardon; blanket — would perform as mistress of my 

 hunting establishment. Beautifully, no doubt, so long as 

 one might be content to lead the nomadic life of a 

 strolling band of Chippewas, but that sort of thing would 

 hardly answer for the clearings. 



One would hardly like to introduce an Indian beauty 

 to a respectable white mother and sisters as a neAvly 

 acquired relative, or to receive a visit from a dozen or 

 two of breech-clouted, blanketed vagabonds, each with a 

 backload of baskets and moccasins for sale — not in a civ- 

 ilized town, at least. Nevertheless, the pretty Ta-wis-na- 

 gatch-ee would have been worth half a dozen white 

 beauties to a man willing to forswear all civilized clear- 

 ings for the term of his natural life— but I digress. 



It was in April when, the sugar season being over, the 

 remainder of the band came down from Muskrat Lake, 

 and all prepared for a journey down the river. They had 

 been rather successful in the winter hunt, the squaws had 

 improved their time in making moccasins, fancy baskets, 

 pouches, etc., and the whole tribe were jubilant at the 

 prospect of much trade. The trip down the river was a 

 merry one for the Indians, but to me it was a cheerless 

 succession of chilly days and chillier nights. I was free 

 from ague or fever, but very weak, and coughed almost 

 incessantly, and I rather thought old Peter right when he 

 told me, "Bimeby fall come agin, then you die." 



It was on a cold, raw afternoon that we landed at the 

 bay, and I sought food and shelter in the little tavern 

 from whence I had started the previous October for a 

 grand hunt. The hunt had fizzled down, down to the 

 small end of nothing, and I. with just the breath of life 

 in my body, was trying to reach home once more — prob- 

 ably to make a die of it. He who has been forced to play 

 the "give up game" among strangers, and has sought his 

 home with little hope of anything better than finally 

 closing his eyes among friends, can easily imagine my 

 feelings when, having given my Indian friends every- 

 thing save what clothes I needed for present use, I turned 

 my face feebly homeward. 



At Grand Haven I looked for letters and papers from 

 home, but they had been forwarded by order to Muskegon , 

 and I did not care to go back for them. I had not heard 

 from home since the previous October, some six months 

 back, and like the matrimonial experience of Mr. Bum- 

 ble, "it seemed an age." 



From Grand Haven to Grand Rapids, thence to Kala- 

 mazoo, and I was once more behind the iron horse, speed- 

 ing homeward at the rate of thirty miles an hour. Two 

 days of puffing, whistling, plashing confusion, during 

 which the little pallid, and not over-well-or-cleanly- 

 dressed hunter got unceremoniously jostled by flunkeys, 

 waiters and baggage smashers, a quiet ride of 25 miles on 

 a side-cut, and I left the cars to get on board the rickety 

 stage which was to put me down at my mother's door. 



All through the spring and early summer I crawled 

 feebly about, racked with a distressing cough , and unable 

 to gain tone or strength; but the man who has been 

 toughened by years of exposure in the open air, whose 

 lungs and muscles have been braced and hardened by 

 exercise in the mountains, and who has a strong constitu- 

 tion, does not die so easily. In July I began to mend, 

 and in company with two or three friends, ventured on a 

 visit to a favorite camp on the headwaters of Pine Creek. 



Blessed be the pine-crowned mountains with their bal- 

 samic breezes and crystal trout streams. If there be any- 

 where on earth a Gflead wherein the worn invalid may 

 find a balm and a physician it is there. The trip which 

 had been projected for a few days extended to as many 

 weeks, and I returned home almost a well man; bought 

 a light double-barreled rifle, overhauled my neglected 

 hunting kit, replaced what was missing, got my off-hand 

 shooting up to a respectable pitch, and just a year from 

 the time Ned and I camped at the rock shanty, I again 

 unslung my knapsack and wakened the echoes with 



cheery blows as I cut wood for a camp-fire at this very 

 spot. 



And Ned Miller? Married the blushing Hannah of 

 course. I saw him a few hours after my return home, 

 and knew he was a benedict at a glance, for he. was 

 smoking a penny clay, and the inevitable dinginess en- 

 compassed him as a halo— a dinginess that may escape 

 masculine observation; but ask any shrewd spinster in a 

 mixed assemblage to single out the benedicts from the 

 eligible; she can do it as by intuition. 



Ned and I did not meet very cordially; I had good 

 reason to think his desertion the cause of much suffering 

 to myself, and something hard would rise in my throat 

 when I tried to feel friendly and forgiving in spite of me. 

 However, as Ned came often to see me and we talked 

 matters over I came not only to forgive but to sympathize 

 with him. He had led his inamorata to the altar on 

 Christmas Eve, starting on a bridal tour immediately 

 thereafter. On his return he found to his consternation 

 that another wedding had come off during his absence, 

 and one that he little dreamed of. 



Mr. Enoch Daniels, the man of many patents, had gone 

 and done it! Married the elder Hannah, relict of Deacon 

 Needham, deceased, and was in fact a sort of father-in- 

 law to Ned— a relationship that I fancy did not inspire 

 Ned with any great amount of respect. However, the 

 widow had a perfect right to marry whom she pleased, 

 so Ned took his pretty young wife home to his mother's 

 snug fifty-acre farm, and Mr. Daniels took charge of the 

 Needham estate, including the buxom relict, all of which 

 he managed and still manages, as a temperate, thrifty 

 Yermonter should do. As for Ned, he got a present of a 

 fine young horse from the widow and his wife a nice 

 "setting out" in furniture, besides the two best cows on 

 the farm, which is all they are likely to get at present, as 

 the widow — I beg her pardon — Mrs. Daniels, has already 

 presented her husband with three healthy boys and is 

 herself more buxom and healthy than ever. 



Something more than a year after Ned's marriage, as 

 he and I were celebrating the advent of his first boy in 

 my little snuggery over some old Glenlivet, Ned asked, 

 "Do you happen to know how confoundedly old Sam 

 Hoover fooled us at the Eock Shanty more than a year 

 ago?" 



"I didn't really; as how?" I answered. 



"Why," said Ned, "he had a snug cabin built and his 

 traps set about the head of Bear Pun, at the very time he 

 told us a cock and bull story about there being no game 

 in the woods. He leave the woods because he couldn't 

 find deer! Why he was just going out to the clearings 

 after provisions, and we were just green enough to save 

 him the trouble by emptying our knapsacks for his 

 benefit. He killed over fifty deer in that range before 

 the season was over, besides taking I don't know how 

 many bear. If I ever — ." But here a red-headed urchin 

 broke in upon us, to notify Ned that "Miss Miller wanted 

 him right away; suthin the matter with the baby." Arid, 

 seizing his hat, the bran new father broke for home like 

 a quarter horse; another melancholy instance of a prom- 

 ising young hunter spoiled by matrimony. 



But I have talked you into drowsiness, and it is past 9 

 o'clock. Let us mend the fire and draw our blankets 

 about us; on the morrow we will hunt the ridge from 

 here to the head of Bear Run, where, if we but hunt care- 

 fully and patiently, we may chance to eat venison with 

 our bread at supper. 



COWBOY REMINISCENCES. 



[Concluded from Page U51.1 



FOUR of us were on a camp-hunt near the headwaters 

 of the Brazos River in Texas. There were "English 

 Jack," the "Captain," Raymond and I — all cowboys from 

 the same ranch. We had taken advantage of that period 

 of inactivity that extends between the fall round-ups and 

 drift line riding, and were engaged in putting up our 

 winter's supply of meat. The country swarmed with 

 deer, antelope and turkey, and in addition to these there 

 were a few bears, but though we potted the former in- 

 offensive beasts to our heaTts' content bruin always man- 

 aged to give us the slip, and had it not been for the abun- 

 dance of tracks we might have supposed his species ex- 

 tinct among the mighty canons that sheltered somehow 

 his shaggy hide. One morning a day or two before the 

 time set for our return home Raymond shouldered his 

 rifle, and whistling to his hound Bose, strode out of 

 camp, remarking that he would "try one more whack at 

 them bears," and that "if they were in them canons they 

 sure had to come out that day." 



That night my pardner did not return to camp, and 

 the next morning all of us set out in different directions 

 to look for the missing member, feeling sure that he had 

 met with some accident. Nor were we wrong. After 

 six hours of fruitless search I was returning to camp to 

 exchange my nearly exhausted steed for a fresh one, 

 when I heard a faint hail from a hillside, and spurring 

 my pony to the spot rode upon my missing comrade. He 

 presented a ghastly sight, being literally covered from 

 head to foot with congealed blood, while his neck and 

 face were scarred and scratched to such an extent as to 

 be almost unrecognizable. It was not necessary to ask 

 many questions — he had evidently found the bear. At 

 the bottom of a sink near by lay a large she bear, her 

 head battered almost to a jelly and still clasping in her 

 fatal hug the dead body of the hound Bose. I did not 

 waste anytime talking, indeed my pardner was too much 

 exhausted from joss of blood and exposure; and aiding 

 him to mount my horse I walked by his side, supporting 

 him as he rode into camp. It was fully three days be- 

 fore the wounded man was able to talk, and quite a fort- 

 night ere he was convalescent. The long claws of the 

 bear had cut deep furrows on his back and sides and one 

 stroke had made a gash on the cheek that Raymond will 

 carry to his dying day as a reminder of his adventure, 

 one of the most gallant of all combats between unarmed 

 man and beast. 



It seems that after leaving camp he proceeded at once 

 to a valley, in which we had often noticed bear sign in 

 great abundance, but where, owing to the rocky nature of 

 the ground it had been impossible, even with the aid of 

 the hound, to follow any of the numerous trails. That 

 morning, however, was peculiarly favorable, owing to a 

 slight rain on the night previous, and Bose successfully 

 trailed a most promising lead into a high rocky canon. 

 Keeping the hound that always ran silently close to him, 

 Ray moved cautiously through the maizes of jungle and 

 rocks, and after some time of stealthy advance, on round- 



