FOREST AND STREAM. 



IJan. 7, 189.2. 



of danger, and a half dozen times more did I ply that 

 contemptible flint. Away she went, unharmed, at last. 



O, the agony of boyish disappointment ! 



Had I been on my feet I should have flnng the faith- 

 less gun in a vain attempt to break those graceful little 

 legs which carried her so swiftly from sight. Moodily 

 enough and with a heart of lead I strolled homeward, 

 set the wretched gun in the corner, and when morning 

 came and showed the trees around the cabin alive, with 

 pinnated grouse I stepped to the door and drew up the 

 old shotgun ; she " went" at the first pull. 



Will some philosopher who may. perchance, idle away 

 a few moments in reading this perfectly true narrative, 

 please tell me about this singular gun — Was she " be- 

 witched?" Obin Belknap. 



Vai/ley, Wash ington. 



MY FIRST DEER HUNT. 



SO you want to know all about the first deer I ever 

 killed, do you, and how I came to be so passionately 

 fond of outings and the sports connected there withy The 

 love of out-door life in the woods, along the streams and 

 on the lakes was born in me. I sometimes think there 

 must be a strain of wild blood in the family somewhere 

 and it has cropped out in me. The first real excitement 

 about deer that I remember was when I was 11 years old; 

 father came in the house one evening and remarked, 

 "I'm going deer hunting to-morrow." My, what an ex- 

 citement. Father going deer hunting! It was in Steuben 

 county, N. Y., and it appeared that for several days they 

 had been running deer on the pine-covered hills above 

 Campbelltown. None had been killed, but some were 

 seen every day, and two of my uncles hearing of it had 

 become excited and they and father had planned to go on 

 the morrow. Father ran some bullets, filled the powder 

 horn — we were a simple folk in those days— cleaned out 

 the long-barreled smoothbore and was all ready for an 

 early start in the morning. After breakfast, eaten by 

 candlelight, we, father, mother, brother, sister and self, 

 were off. Were we all going? alas, no. We were to be 

 left along the way at one of my uncle's, while father 

 went and shot the deer. Of course he would bring a 

 deer back. I no more doubted that than I doubted my 

 existence. How long that day was. It was really a 

 short dark winter day and cold too for that locality. 

 Night came on and about 8 o'clock the hunters returned. 

 Did they have a deer? Not much, had not even seen one. 

 The only person of the fifty or more men out that day 

 who had seen a deer was the negro who with a cow bell 

 did the tracking. The hunters were nearly frozen and 

 ravenously hungry. After warming up and eating the 

 belated supper, we loaded ourselves into the sleigh and 

 went home.* We made father rehearse again and again 

 every detail of the hunt. The negro with the bell and 

 the deer track he actually saw deeply interested us. 



The years went by and one lovely fall morning a party 

 of four boarded the early freight train at Battle Lake, 

 Minn., for a ten days' outing on the Leaf and Crow Wing 

 rivers. Jim, Jeff, George and myself were the four. We 

 had two good boats, two mess chests, tent, bedding and 

 other dunnage for a comfortable time. Jim was a veteran 

 in deer hunting, having taken many trips from Chicago 

 into (northern Michigan and Wisconsin, and done some 

 tall killing. Jeff also had shot deer in Michigan and out 

 on the plains. George and I had not only never shot a 

 deer, but I had never seen a wild deer in the woods. 



Reaching Wadena we procured teams to carry us and 

 our baggage to the crossing of the Leaf River, about three 

 miles distant. There was a full moon, and as its silver 

 sheen fell over river and meadow and wooded bluff 

 crowned by sombre pines, it was almost too beautiful to 

 be of earth. 



Early the next morning we were off. The same glori- 

 ous weather, the same beautiful river and scenery, clear- 

 ings being less and less frequent, the pine trees growing 

 thicker and nearer the river. The only stop we made 

 was for dinner, although we halted once or twice at 

 places where Jim or Jeff thought they saw "signs" on the 

 shore. During the afternoon Jeff shot four ducks which 

 he started up from the river ahead of the boat. "We'Jl 

 have them baked for our Sunday dinner,"said Jim. Both 

 Jim and Jeff began to grumble about the weather. "If 

 it keeps dry and warm like this we'll get no deer," In 

 fact, the newly fallen leaves made stillness impossible in 

 the woods. As night drew on we looked for a good place 

 iu the pines for our Sunday camp, but could find. none. 

 At length we found a nice pi ace among the hard wood and 

 pitched our tent. We had taken the precaution as we 

 came by some hay stacks in the afternoon to secure enough 

 for our beds. After fixing our camp we crossed the river 

 into some pine "slashings" hoping to start adeer, but none 

 were to be found. 



Sunday seemed more like a midsummer day than a 

 late fall one in northern Minnesota, and Monday was a 

 repetition of the same, only we had the excitement of 

 following a wounded deer for awhile. Jeff had been 

 absent from camp quite a while. Suddenly we heard his 

 heavy Marlin ring out, once, twice, three times, then all 

 was still for a long time. At length Jeff appeared, all ex- 

 citement, "Boys, I've shot and wounded the largest buck 

 I ever saw!" he exclaimed. Seeing how incredulous we 

 looked, he continued, "Look there, see that." That, was 

 a tuft of grass wet with blood. "Come help me track 

 him." So we -went. We readily found the place where 

 Jeff was when he shot, "I was lying here under these 

 trees half asleep and wondering if the weather would 

 change, when I looked up and saw the deer right yonder; 

 as I threw up my rifle he saw me and wheeled off. I shot 

 and he stumbled, but he recovered himself and went on, 

 while I sent two more bullets after him." Traces of blood 

 were found here and there, but we finally lost the trail in 

 a great marsh, and returned to camp without the deer. 



We no w decided to move on down into "better country,'" 

 as Jim phrased it. We went on a few miles to where the 

 Leaf joins the Crow Wing, and here we established our 

 camp again. The next morning we started out, separating 

 and beating the low ground that formed the peninsula 

 between the two rivers. Jim and George went along 

 near the Leaf, I was near the Crow Wing, and Jeff some- 

 where between. I sauntered along, stopping now and 

 then, wondered where the others were, and if there were 

 any deer in the woods. I came to a rise in the ground 

 and went up the slope into the grand pine woods. Just as 

 I did so I heard a rifle ring out again and again. I looked 

 qnickly to my left and saw George shooting at a deer 

 running along through the open pine woods. I then saw 

 my first deer in the woods. How it did run as George 



was emptying the magazine of his rifle at it. Just; then I 

 beard a crashing behind me, and turned just as two deer 

 broke from the low ground and came dashing up the 

 slope. They saw me as I turned and at once separated, 

 one going to the right and one to the left. I threw up 

 my gun and fired at the one on the right, and great was 

 my astonishment to see the deer jump high in the air, 

 turn a complete summersault, ond then lie still on the 

 ground. I had killed my first deer. There was no mis- 

 take about it. I ran to where he lay, and if ever I felt 

 mean in my life, it was then as I stood by that beautiful 

 animal stretched out there with its" legs slightly 

 quivering and its wide-open eyes looking so reproachfully 

 at me. Just then I heard a shot on the other side of the 

 slope, followed quickly by a second, and knew that Jim 

 had sighted a deer. George had now joined me and, 

 leaving my deer lying there, we went over the ridge and 

 found Jim standing by a deer he had just shot. Jeff now 

 came up, and there "was general congratulation and a 

 triumphal march back to camp, 



Jpff had started the deer from a willow thicket on the 

 1ow t ground. "But," he said, "I'm going home if I've 

 only come out here to be beaten by a fellow who was 

 never on a hunt before and never saw a live deer in his 

 life." He did not carry out his threat, however. We put 

 in two more days there, but the weather grew continu- 

 ally warmer and the woods drier. Finer weather for 

 camping could not be desired, but it spoiled the deer 

 hunting entirely, We concluded to break camp and 

 move on down the Crow Wing. This is quite a large 

 stream and very picturesque. In some places there are 

 rapids over which it required considerable skill to run our 

 heavily loaded boats. We ran them all in safety, only 

 Jim and I were hung up once in midstream on a boulder. 

 Fortunately we ran square on, so did not capsize. The 

 day was very warm. While we were resting at noon, 

 Jeff and I proceeded to investigate the river for speci- 

 mens of agates and shells. In our enthusiasm we parti- 

 ally undressed, and I shall ever remember the look on 

 Jeff's face as, having waded out to a large boulder, he 

 stood upon it calling to me to come, and as I started his 

 feet slipped and down he sat in the water up to his chin. 



There being no promise of change of weather, we de- 

 cided to go on down the river until we came to where 

 there was a railroad station, when we would start for 

 home. The dusk of the following evening found us haul- 

 ing our boats from the river, and at midnight we boarded 

 fche westbound express and were home in time for break- 

 fast. And I had killed my first deer. 



Jim is now the popular landlord of the far-famed Pros- 

 pect Souse, Battle Lake, Minnesota; George is proprietor 

 of the boat houses and fleet of boats on the same lake. He 

 has not killed a deer yet, although he has gone after one 

 every fall since. Jeff and I are here in Detroit City; he is 

 the county attorney now and I am pastor of one of the 

 churches. The world is not so very big after all. A year 

 ago last fall, while Stephens and I were at Gushing, a 

 siding on the Little Fails cut off of the N. P. R. R., for a 

 week after deer, the evening we broke camp to come 

 home it was bitter cold and the snow coming down thick 

 and fast. We not wishing to remain out in the storm 

 until the train came along, took refuge in a logging 

 c imp, and here we found George, who with two other 

 gentlemen, had been out for ten days. Last fall Stephens 

 and I went on the same cut off at Curtis's siding for a 

 week, and while in camp learned of a large party camped 

 about three miles from us. 



One forenoon we walked over where we judged the 

 camp to be. After a rough walk we found it, and who 

 should be there but Jim with six of his friends. They 

 had been there nearly two weeks, but had poor success, 

 only one deer haviug been killed. We took dinner with 

 them, and Jim rehearsed "The killing of my first deer" 

 for their benefit. I believe Jeff and Jim are planning to 

 get off together this fall, going up in the Red Lake coun- 

 try somewhere, while I shall probably go some place 

 where the deer abound with my outing chum and all- 

 around friend Stephens. And by the way, before I had 

 ever met Stephens he had met Jeff, and Jeff had told 

 him of our trip down the Leaf and Crow Wing, and how 

 '•I killed my first deer," so when Stephens and I became 

 acquainted one of the first things he said was, "I've heard 

 of you before, and how you killed the first deer you ever 

 saw at the first shot." Myron Cooley. 



Detroit City, Minnesota. 



REMINISCENCES OF A SNAP-SHOT. 



SMALL boy of 12. Small sawed-off muzzleloader of 

 unknown caliber, weight 'steen lbs. Dime's worth 

 of powder, pound of shot, an old newspaper lor wads, 

 and Saturday when school kept not, and pocket full of 

 caps, at 5 cents a box. Two hard-boiled eggs — salt and 

 pepper forgotten, of course — two slices of bread (hard as 

 bricks at lunch time), a black-handled jack-knife, a piece 

 of string — also left at home with the salt and pepper — and 

 a determination to bring back a bear or two with No. 8 

 shot. A dozen instructions from mother to be careful, a 

 howl from younger brother at not being taken along, a 

 hole in toe of one shoe, ditto in trousers, three matches 

 in pocket (wet with sweat when called to be used), a 5-cent 

 fish line — also forgotten and left behind — a pair of cloth 

 suspenders sewed on, and a determination to take a swim 

 before coming home. 



A creek, with a little slough filled with cat-tails and 

 lots of things a boy don't know the name nor use of, but 

 also contained a few woodducks; a little path to it, and 

 the boy crawling snakewise along it; ashot ahead of him, 

 and an antiquated German returning up the path with a 

 couple of ducks and a muzzleloader 10ft. long. Disgusted 

 child and happy German. 



A pond a mile above, frequented by one solitary crane; 

 another sneak, mindless of clothing; Mr. Crane surprised 

 in act of impaling a frog or some such creature; a shot 

 point blank; Craney gives a yell, or something sounding 

 like it, and quietly sails away; boy can't sail, so he goes 

 to the meadows, shoots at a few small fry, without suc- 

 cess, looks for his fish line with ditto, goes down the 

 creek to his old swimming hole, gets some of the mud off 

 his skin, dips his scanty clothing and hangs k to dry, 

 while he sits in the sun and gets burned from head to 

 foot, puts it on and goes home the back way, with noth- 

 ing to show but an empty gun and a wet jacket. 

 Finale: A spanked kid. A Senior Snapper. 

 Kansas. 



The Velvet Train of the Monon Route between Chicago and 

 Cincinnati offers the best and most luxurious service obtainable 

 between those points.— Adv. 



MY FIRST REPEATER. 



IT was in the old Nutmeg State, and back in the forties, 

 say forty-six. My father and mother were making a 

 journey in the "far West," supposed at that time to be 

 located in the neighborhood of Ashtabula, or somewhere 

 on the "Connecticut Reserve,'" We children had been 

 left in the care of Patience, one of the best of old New 

 England housekeepers, a class of whom the present day 

 6ees only now and then a type. My father had a double- 

 barreled shotgun and numerous samples of smaller 

 arms, and I had early developed a passionate fondness 

 for such tools; that was before the days of revolvers, 

 even of the "pepper-box" style. 



Rummaging about the cabin of the old ship Meteor I 

 had found in an arm-chest a ru3ty boarding pistol, 

 originally flint-locked, but at this time minus lcck and 

 pan; and as it had been deemed harmless and a safe play- 

 thing for a se ven-y ear-old boy I had been permitted to 

 u^e it for my own pleasure. 



The morning of the glorious Fourth awoke the old hill- 

 sides and the sound shore with the echoes of booming 

 signal cannon, guns and small arms, accompanied by a 

 boy chorus of crackers, and aroused the sprouting 

 patriotism in my breast. 



Before the sun I had risen and, escaping from the 

 vigilance of Patience, was early out among the boys in 

 all the glory of my empty pistol, and yet I was not happy 

 after the first few minutes: crackers were tame and quiet 

 and I longed to fill a larger place and have a larger 

 share in the din of the dawn of Independence Day. 

 Taking a hint from some observations of the process 6f 

 blasting rocks, and getting surreptitious possession of a 

 horn of powder, I put a load in my pistol, and lighting 

 it off with the main fuse of a pack of firecrackers and 

 holding it above my head, "just like the big boys," off it 

 went with as much noise as if it had lock and all things 

 complete. I experimented with two loads, one above 

 the other, separated by a good oakum wad and with my 

 cracker fuse leading to the lower charge, and got two 

 successive reports, "for all the world like a regular 

 double-barrel". Elated with my success, I tried four 

 charges, and with military promptness and regularity 

 they went one, two, three, but No. 4 seemed to hang fire 

 for a long time (two or tiiree seconds are a long waiting 

 time to a seven-year-old), and I was just bringing the 

 pistol into position for examination, perhaps I blew in it 

 or at it, when, well, if I remember rightly, that harm- 

 less plaything went off the wharf and into the river and 

 I ran bellowing home. It was still early; a small boy 

 can get into a good deal of mischief in a very short time. 

 Breakfast was just ready, the morning's milk had just 

 been brought in and the 'big bright tin pail stood warm 

 and foaming on the kitchen table. Patience, good soul, 

 foregoing her usual privilege of scolding, took me in 

 hand, washed my burnt cheek and closed eye with new 

 milk and with a cambric needle carefully removed the 

 last speck from my face and sent me off to my grand- 

 father, who was a physician. There I spent three weeks 

 of that glorious summer weather in a darkened room, 

 miserably trying to console myself with imaginary 

 cruises along the shores and over the fields until I was 

 released from duress; and if the old doctor could speak 

 out from his long rest we would doubtless hear the oft- 

 repeated warning, "That a gun is dangerous without 

 even a lock, stock or barrel." Nutmeg. 

 St. Louis. 



A BOY'S TROUBLES. 



TO BE born of " poor but respectable parents " is noth- 

 ing of which one should boast. Most writers of 

 autobiography have had that experience. The being 

 poor is at times very inconvenient and hard to bear, but 

 to be poor and without fishing tackle is more than a 

 boy of spirit can endure patiently. The question to be 

 solved is a weighty one and the writer has his manner 

 of solving it indelibly imprinted upon his memory. 



Nearly seventy years ago, a descendant of " poor but 

 respectable parents," I found myself old enough to go a 

 fishing, but without tackle. One cent would buy a hook 

 and a small piece of licorice at the country store ; that 

 matter was easily arranged, now for a line. We had a 

 good crop of flax and small as I was I had assisted to 

 bleach and prepare the lint and sister Fannie would , in 

 consideration of my services in passing the warp ends so 

 she could take them through the reed, spin for me a 

 double and twisted line. All ready now except the bait. 

 You may think I am going to dig worms ; not a worm ; 

 the white grub from the decaying wood was the only 

 bait we knew and being fully equipped with alder pole 

 this youthful "Izaak" went forth to capture his first 

 trout. 



It was not necessary to go out of my mother's sight, 

 for in front of our house a bridge crossed the East Oswe- 

 go creek, ten miles from its entrance into the Susque- 

 hanna river, and that was the place where I was to cast 

 the " line." 



Between the planks of the bridge I could survey the 

 stream underneath and to my great delight I saw among 

 the number of fish, enjoying the shade of the bridge, one 

 really noble trout. Then dropping my book over the 

 upper railing and watching it through the crack I soon 

 drifted it near the place where it should be, and to my 

 great delight the trout seized it, when, sans ceremony, 

 he came to the surface, but not to stop, for never since 

 the days of Tenbrook has there been such speed made 

 as with pole over shoulder, I covered the space between 

 the bridge and house, to find a happy mother. 



More than sixty-five years ago I left the scene of my 

 youthful pleasures. Sometimes I visit friends and re- 

 latives that remain there, but never do I see the old 

 bridge without thinking of my first trout. G. L. 



It is sometimes difficult to select an acceptable present, 

 something that will give real pleasure. For the spfirtsyiwn 

 there is nothing more pleosi/u/ than a book which deeds villi Ms 

 faro rite topic, lie enjoys its perusal, and the sa tisj 'action it yices 

 him, is a lasting one. Forest and Stream's free illustrated 

 catalogue gives the intending purchaser & wide range of Sel-ec- 

 tio n and offer s many suggestions which at this season of the 

 yewr ore. wry timely. 



Names and Portraits of Birds, by Gurdon Trumbull. A 

 book particularly Interesting to guauers, for by Its use they can 

 identify without question all the American game birds which 

 they may kill. Cloth, 320 pages, price $2.50. For sale by Forest 

 amd Strum. 



