368 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Aprh. 97, 189». 



DANVIS FOLKS.-III. 



Among Old Friends. 



It was with devout thankfiilness that Uncle Lisha and 

 his wife found that the time which had seemed so long to 

 them had wrought few changes among old friends and 

 familiar scenes. If they could but have taken up the 

 broken thread of their far-spent life in the old brown house 

 and shop, the measure of present contentment would have 

 been full. Yet they inherited, in some measure, the 

 adaptability to change which has come through restless 

 generations of pioneers, to the Yankee race, and they were 

 content to be the welcome inmates of the Lovel's hospita- 

 ble home. 



It was pleasant to be so near the old home, and it com- 

 forted them to know that human hfe had quite gone out 

 •of it when they foi-sook it. The capricious November 

 weather having fallen into an unexpected mood of mild- 

 ness on the day after their arrival, they walked down to 

 the old place and found it little changed since they had last 

 seen it, except by the air of complete desertion that per- 

 vaded it. 



They pushed open the unlatched door and entered with 

 an awed sense of being the ghosts of their- former selves, 

 yet apparitions that would affright no one, nor scarcely 

 disturb the squirrels that hoarded their stores in the gar- 

 ret, nor interrupt the woodpecker's tattoo on the gable 

 clapboards, nor awaken the woodchuck from his long nap 

 under the flooring of the shoi). Upon this floor, that was 

 indented with his own and innumerable other heel-marks, 

 the old cobbler saw the rubbish of leather scraps almost as 

 he had left it, hut for the blue mold that had gathered on 

 it, quite overpowering with mustiness the odor of tannin 

 and wax that once pervaded the dingy little den. 



Thence the twn went into the house part, in which their 

 married life had begun, where children had been born to 

 them, where they had toiled and grown weary and 

 rested, whose low-browed rooms were hallowed by days 

 and years of happiness and sorrow and the slow healing 

 of bereavement. 



In the kitchen, from the blank fireplace, with its ashes 

 of the last fire they had kindled there already showing a 

 green film of moss, the crane stretched out to them its 

 naked, sooty arm, whether interrogating or supplicating 

 seemed not clear to them. Out of the smoky ceiling the 

 empty iron hooks reached toward them as if asking the 

 old burdens of crooknecks and dried apples. Amid them 

 the empty stovepipe hole stared down at the unworn patch 

 of floor the winter stove had covered, in silent reproach. 

 Their own hushed voices sounded hollow and unnatui'al. 



In vain they strove to rehabUitate the rooms in imagi- 

 nation with their old furniture; they could not make 

 them homehke nor bring any warmth of their old life to 

 dispel the pervading smell of unused, unpainted wood, 

 except once when Aunt Jerusha opened the kitchen cup- 

 board and there came out of it a faint, embalmed odor of 

 loaf cake and gingerbread that made them both hungry. 



Groping in the furthest corner of the upper shelf for 

 some forgotten relic of the old life, her fingers touched 

 some soft, yielding fabric, and then drew forth a rudely- 

 fashioned little rag doll, whose ink-marked featm-es had 

 almost faded into the dingy hue of the homespun linen 

 face. With fond, speechless wonder they looked upon it 

 for a moment, and with one accord went over to the east 

 window, where, with eyes dimmed with something more 

 than age, they saw the scarlet sumach bobs shining out of 

 the wilderness of the little hillside graveyard through the 

 haze of the calm autumnal day. For a brief space the 

 deserted house seemed again to be their home, and the 

 scurry of the squirrels overhead, the patter of a little 

 child's feet. Thankful to leave it with the impression of 

 such a presence, they went out, closing the door reveren- 

 tially behind them. 



Tliey went down the tangled, untrodden path to the lit- 

 tle gate, that was still held shut with a chain •weighted 

 with a rusty plow-point. Here they were suddenly con- 

 fronted by G-ran'ther Hill, as erect as when they had last 

 seen him, though leaning a Uttle more hea,vily on the 

 staff that so often emphasized his words. 



"You tarnal ol' critters," he whistled hoarsely through 

 a smile as grim as toothless jaws could show, while he 

 stretched forth a cordial hand to them. * 'Be ye a tryin' 

 to ressurreck yourselves, er what be ye duin' a hantin' 

 raound here where ye'd ortu staid? Didn't I tell ye, Lisher 

 Peggs, 'at the rattlesnaikes 'ould chaw ye, an' the fever 

 'n'aig 'ould shake ye, an' the In jins 'ould skelp ye tiU ye'd 

 wish't ye'd st.aid where ye was'i Hey? Didn't I? Didn't 

 I know? An' don't you know now 't I knowed? "What?" 

 as Uncle Lisha attempted to explain that he had not been 

 beset by any such enemies. ' 'You tell me th' didn't no 

 enaikes bite ye? You could't feel 'em a chawin' yer ol' 

 so' luther hide. But they did. An' I'll bate it killed 'em, 

 erless they got sick o' the taste on yer, which I shouldn't 

 blame 'em none. Yis, ye did hev fever an' aig, an' didn't 

 know it f 'm the nat'ral rattlin' o' your ol' bones. An' ef 

 the Injins didn't skelp ye 'twas cause they got sick o' the 

 job an' gin it up. Take off yer hat an' lemme see what 

 luck they hed a peelin' yer ol' bal' skelp. Wal, then what 

 did ye come back f er? Seddaown on that lawg 'f ye haint 

 got 'bove sech settin'. They du say the' haint no lawgs on 

 them perraries, an' tell me," and he seated liimself on an 

 elm trunk that years ago had defied Uncle Lisha's efforts 

 to_ spUt it, and, with an impatient gesture, waved his 

 friends to a place beside him. 



Aunt Jerusha dusted a place for herself with her checked 

 copperas and white home-made handkerchief, while Uncle 

 Lisha carefully parted the tail of his coat and sat down. 



"Ahem," he cleared his throat to explain. "The fact 

 on't is, I got sick on't an' so did Jerushy." 



"You— got— sick— on't!" cried the veteran with ineffable 

 contempt, "an' sneaked off. Wal, I'm 'shamed on ye, fer 

 disgracin' yer State. A Green Maountain Boy a-gettin' 

 sick on't an' a-sneakin' back hum'. Why, man aUve, 

 don't ye s'pose we got sick on't tu Ben'n't'n an' almighty 

 sick on't, tu, wi' the Hessians a-pepperin' on us, an' the 

 sun a-blazin' daown hotter'n Tophit? But we didn't sneak 

 off. No, sir, we stuck her aout, an' we hcked 'em. That's 

 haow we done in them times." 



"Lemme see," said Uncle Lisha, searching his memory 

 for some missile to cast at his contemner, "haow was't tu 

 Hubbart'n? Yis, an' tu Ticonderogue when Burgwine 

 come?" triumphantly hurhng a second question before the 

 first had fau-ly struck. 



The'veteran glared at him a moment before he growled 

 lioarsely, "Lisher Peggs, be you a nat'ral horned id jit, er 

 don't ye know nothin'? Don't ye know 'at Hale sneaked 

 oft" wi' his rig'ment, an' left Warner an' Francis tu stan' 

 the hull bilin' o' Hessians wi' their'n, an' they was tew 

 many fer us tu stan' agin, an' we hed tu run in spite o' 

 Warner's cussin', which it was nigh 'baout as hot as the 

 Hessians' firin' an' Francis was daown, an' Warner rim 

 hisself, an' when Seth Warner run 't was time fer most 

 folks tu scratch gravel. Hubbar't'n, hump, 'f I'd stayed 

 there I'd ben killed, an' who 'd there ben tu fight tu Ben'- 

 n't'n? An' 'baout Ti," he continued more calmly, "why, 

 ye see, Sinclair let 'em git their cannern top o' Sugar 

 Loaf, 't wan't none e' my duin's, an' then the' wa'n't noth- 

 in' for 't but tu clear aout, er get took, an' the' haint no 

 use o' that." 



"Jes' so," said Uncle Lisha, beaming triumphantly on 

 his adversary, ' 'an' no more the' wa'n't no use in us a- 

 stayin' aout West an' dyin' jest aout'n stinkin' pride. An' 

 so we gin up sensible, jest as you did tu Hubbar't'n an' 

 Ti." 



"An' ye done almighty well, Lisher, so ye did," said 

 Gran'ther Hill, heartily, "an' I'm glad ye hed sense 'nough 

 tu. But," he added, emphasizing each word with a tap 

 of his staff on Lisha's shoulder, "don't fergit I tol' ye so." 



"Day 'fore yeste'day," Uncle Lisha said, turning the 

 conversation into a pleasanter channel, "we come past ol' 

 Fort Ti, an' it most seemed 's 'ough I could see you an' 

 Ethan Allen an' 'mongst ye, a marchin' up to 't in the gray 

 o' the mornin', an' a-takin' of it, though it don't look wuth 

 a-takin' er a-keepin' naovv." 



"An' by the Lord Harry, you'd ort tu seen us," cried 

 Gran'th r HiU, who at once began for an unnumbered 

 time the recital of the exploit, in which he took greater 

 pride than in any other wherein he had borne a part. 

 ''It's many a year sen I seen the ol' fort," he said in con- 

 clusion, long before which his listeners had grown rest- 

 less, "an' they say it has gone tu rack an' ruin, which it 

 is a shame tu the nation we took it for an' gin it tu. But 

 this grubbin', tradin' generation haint no pride in things 

 't was did in the days when the' was men. They'll brag 

 on 't Fou'th o' Julys an' 'lections as ef they'd did it the' 

 selves, but they haint no pride in nothin' but makin' 

 money an' gittin' 'lected, an'Il fence sheep pasters an' 

 onderpin haousen wi' the' gran'thers' gravestones 'f 

 they're handier 'n cobblestuns an' querries, damn em," 



"Le's gwup tu Samwil's," said Uncle Lisha, breaking 

 the silence that followed this outbreak of indignation. 

 ' 'He's got some cider 't 's turrible good for the time o' 

 year," and he arose to lead the way, 



"You. don't say?" cried Gran'ther Hill, getting to his 

 feet with wonderful alacrity. "Wal, I guess I will, for I 

 be got kinder dry talkin' an' it seems as 'ough a mug o' 

 saound cider 'ould tech the dry est spot." 



In his haste to put this cure for thhst to proof, he was 

 presently leading his companions, stepping out briskly to 

 the air of ' 'The Road to Boston" performed by the violent 

 outputting and indrawing of breath that now served for 

 the whistle long since mustered out of his toothless jaws. 

 The quick step soon brought them to Sam's door, with 

 Uncle Lisha scant of breath and moppiug his brow with 

 his bandanna, though Amxt Jerusha had borne the forced 

 march wonderfully well. 



The veteran beamed upon him a grim smile of doubtful 

 approval. "You must iia' ben a good sojer, Lisher," he 

 said. "You don't keep step wuth a soo markee, but ye 

 never could ha' run ef you'd a wanted tu." 



Entering, they found Sam stretching yesterday's fox- 

 skin upon a board, while the baby, between his knees, 

 played with the danghng brush. 



"Mornm', Cap'n HiU," said Sam heartily, and Huldah 

 came out of the pantiy, brushing flour from her hands on 

 her white baking apron and offered one, rosy through 

 its dusty bloom, to the ancient guest. 



"Take a seat, Cap'n Hill," she said, shoving the great 

 splint-bottomed chair tavvard liim and cuffing the feathers 

 of its patch- work cushion into hospitable softness. 

 "How 's all the folks up tu your haouse? yom- son's wife 

 an' the child'n, be they well? Sed daown in the rockin' 

 chair, Aunt Jerushy, an' Uncle Lisher, you take t'other 

 arm chair. They're well, be they?" 



"Well? Wall, I guess they be by the rumpus they 

 make, wus'n a hull tribe o' Injins. M'rier stan's it 

 better 'n I could er would. By the Lord Harry, I wish't 

 I c'ld bring up them young ims. Fust thing I'd skin 'em. 

 Gi' me that boy o' yourn, I know he's a boy by his actions 

 a touslin' that aire fox-tail; ef 'twas a rhuster feather, he 

 might be a gal. Gi' me that aire boy Huldy Pur 'nt'n, an' 

 I'll make ye suthin' tu be praoud on. See the leetle sar- 

 pint wrastle that fox-tail, an' smell on 't 's ef 't was a 

 posy. He's got hunt in him, I teU ye, jelluck a haouu' 

 pup. It's tew bad tu hev him grow up a tarnal, unman- 

 nered, consaited fool, aU young uns does nowerdays, but 

 he will 'f he haint gin tu me. I don't know o'. nob'dy 

 else left fit tu bring up a young un, tu hck 'em an' larn 

 'm 's they'd ortu be." 



"I do' know, Cap'n," said Sam, smihng proudly on his 

 first-born and dragging him a httle to and fro by the 

 brush, stUl grasped by the chubby, dimpled hands, "I 

 guess we don't want' him skinned jest yet, he haint 

 prime." 



Granther Hill acknowledged the joke with a chuckle. 

 "Don't ye wait till he sheds his fur, er the cub won't be 

 wuth shucks. Come 'ere, bab'," and he took from his 

 pocket a steel tobacco box, bright with wear in spite of a 

 mottle of rust specks. "Come 'ere an' see the pooty- 

 pooty," shaking the box, which with its inclosed bit of 

 hard nail rod tobacco made an inviting rattle. 



The baby's blue eyes grew round with pleased wonder 

 and he tugged at the fox skin to take it with him to the 

 newly offered toy, but when he could, not crept back be- 

 tween his father's knees. 



"Jiillook o' that," cried the old man, "he won't leggo 

 a fox skin for terbarker in a box 'at was in Ben'nt'n bat- 

 tle, an' was hit by a Hessian bullet, an' saved my laig, ef 

 it didn't my life." And he exhibited a dent in the cover. 

 "I teU ye that boy's a horned hunter. What ye named 

 him, Sam? Gin him a good, short, hones' name aouten 

 no go betweens, er hev ye named him all the names o' 

 all yer relations, 'cordin' tu naowerdays fashin? Aour 

 yovmg uns was tellin' o' one o' them Noakes boys 'at 

 goes tu school, 'at when the master ast his name up an' 

 answered, 'Guy Azro Joab Jethro Uncle James Ferris 

 Noakes.' What ye think o' thet fer a name? One good 

 sohd chunk o' fust name was 'nough fer Geo'ge Wash- 

 in t'n an' Ethan AUen, an' Seth Warner an' Josier Hfll, 

 by thunder. But I most f ergot my ar'nt. Naow, what I 



want 's a mug o' cider tu m'isen my mortal clay, which 

 I've dried up a gabbin'." 



"I gin him a invite, thinkin' he'd be welcome," said 

 Uncle Lisha in an apologetic undertone. , 



"Why, sartainly," said Sam; "Huldy, won't you get me 

 a. pitcher whilst I light a hght?" 



"I didn't need no invite on'y tuknow you hed it. When 

 cider haint free plunder tu neighbors, aU the good ol' 

 times must be gone by." He smacked his lips as he heard 

 from the cellar the squeak of the tap, the responsive rush 

 of the cider into the pitcher, running up the gamut from 

 emptiness to fulness in a hospitable tune which, he re- 

 marked with satisfaction, was not cut short when the tap 

 was redriven, by a hollow sotmd portending drouthiness in 

 the immediate future. After tasting the proffered glass 

 with an approving smack, he withheld his lips to bestow 

 the ambiguous compliment that every Yankee is in due 

 politeness bound to give his host's cider in every season 

 from its sparkling youth to sour age. 



"That aire 's mighty good cider for the time o' year." 



Warmed with a second glass, he looked over its rim at 

 the baby stUl playing with the fox skin. "A reg'lar homed 

 hunter, julluk his father. I'd ortu take an' bring 'em both 

 up an' larn 'em tu shoot, fer the'd ortu be some huntei's a 

 growin' up. Himters makes sojers, an' the'll be need on 

 'em sometime. It does beat aU natur what cussed fDolish 

 idees folks hes come tu hev abaout huntrn' bein' low 

 daown an' goo' fer nothin'. Don't they know 't huntin' 

 was haff folkses Uvin' in ol' times an' larnt 'em tu fight 

 Injins as well as other varmints? When I was a boy, a 

 boy went a huntin' 's soon 's he could kerry a gun, an' hed 

 tu rest it agin a tree tu shoot, an' when the time come he 

 was all ready tu be a sojer. Look a' Ethan AUen an' Seth 

 Warner an' Peleg Sunderlan' an' Remember Baker an' 

 Bob Cockrun an'," straightening himself in his chair and 

 striking his breast with his list, "wal, I won't caU no 

 names, but look o' the huU biUn' o' Green Maountain boys, 

 ev'ry man jack on 'em a hvmter by spells. Be they men 

 fer these creeturs tu stick up the'r new fashined noses at? 

 Look a' the boys, yis, an' the' growed up yotmg fellers, 

 naow. Don't half on 'em know one eend of a gun f'm 

 t'other, an' turn aout tu trainin' wi' sticks an' brooms. 

 S'pose the' come a war, where 'd we be? Er jest a wolf? 

 I wish't tu the Lord the' would a wolf come an' kinder 

 wake up the blasted folks. Guess they'd find aout the's 

 some use in knowin' haow tu shoot a gun." 



"I'm half thinkin', Cap'n HUl, the' is a wolf hengin' 

 raound on the maoimtains. I've seen some signs 'at looks 

 that way," said Sam, fastening the stretched skin with the 

 last nail. 



"Sho'. Th' haint nuther," Gran'ther HUl growled in- 

 credulously, "you wouldn't know wolf sign 'f you'd seen 

 it," 



"Wal, mebby," Sam admitted, "butlmore'nhalf b'lieve 

 th' is," 



"Wal, ef th' is, someb'dy's sheep 'U ketch it 'fore spring, 

 fer the' haint no deer. Ef he'd on'y kiU tew or three o' 

 Joel Bartlet's, wotildn't th' be a weepin' an' waihn' an' 

 a-gnashin' o' teeth? An' him a-thinkin' a man wi' a gtm 

 on his shoulder 's goin' stret tu Tophet. Er 'f he'd kiU an 

 ol' breedin' yoe fer yer father, Huldy, He's turrible sot 

 agin huntin', an' thinks the devil owed him a gretch an' 

 paid it in a huntin' son-in-law. My sakes, wouldn't it set 

 'em a-hummin'?" He cackled a dry, cracked laugh as he 

 looked out the window across the fields to the quiet home- 

 steads and imagined the commotion into which the ad- 

 vent of a wolf would throw them. Suddenly the chuckle 

 ceased, the senUe mirthfulness of his visage faded into a 

 blank stare of consternation. 



"I swear," he whispered hoarsely to himself, but so 

 loudly that other ears were reached, ' 'ef there haint thet 

 Pm-'nt'n womerh a-comin' wi' her gal a-towin' of her. (I 

 wish 'twas the womern 'at got lost, an' they hedn't never 

 faoxmd her). Wal, I got tu be a-goin'," he decliired, and 

 rising in flurried haste departed in spite of aU hospitable 

 entreaty, with as much precipitation as he had qijaiifed the 

 disastrous field of Hubbardton. Rowland E. RoeBsson. 



INDIANS AND THE BIG GAME.— II. 



Beaver Ckeek, Wyo,, April, 1898.— Editor Forest and 

 Stream: Three yeai's ago there was a hide butcher's par- 

 adise from twelve to foi-ty miles below here on Green 

 River; but Uke the old adage, what was fun for the boys, 

 was death to the frogs; and it was sure death to the game 

 here. It was an unusually hard winter. The snow com- 

 menced early and lay deep on the ground, consequently 

 the elk and deer were crowded va. a mxich smaUer space 

 of country than usual on the winter range. Then the 

 slaughter commenced and continued untU the poor crea- 

 tures could move back toward their summer range. If 

 we had had another simUar winter succeeding it, I think 

 the elk here would have been in the same predicament as 

 the buffalo on the plains to-day. 



No one took any steps to prevent it by law with the ex- 

 ception that the raUroad company was prohibited ship- 

 ping to a certain extent. But popular f eehng was so strong 

 against the hide butchers that it had a tendency to check 

 the destruction. Besides the seasons have been favorable 

 for their protection, and if they coidd be protected from 

 the destroyer in the future, all would be weU. 



I passed over the ground in the spring, after the hide 

 slaughterers had got through with their work. The scene 

 that was presented before me would make most any true 

 sportsman feel like hanging somebody. There were dead 

 elk carcasses in every direction, many with their hides 

 taken off, and plenty that had not been used even so far 

 as that. Large numbers had been kiUed on the river 

 while it was frozen over. When the ice went out it left 

 many lying along the bank, while bunches of carcasses 

 had dammed up the sloughs in places. It was reported 

 that one party alone had taken (300 hides. One person 

 told me he knew of the same man seUing over 1,000; of 

 course he bought from other parties. 



One man boasted to me what a fine killing he had made 

 on a bunch of elk, and tried to impress upon my mind 

 what a fine shot he was. I saw the place where he killed 

 them. The carcasses stiU lay there. He ran a bunch be- 

 tween 40 and 50 head out of the wiUows on the river bot- 

 tom on to the side of a hill into the deep snow in March; 

 and there they were at his mercy. He did not have any. 

 They were far enough apart to get the hides oft", and that 

 was aU. He claimed to have killed about 300 the same 

 ■way. At that time of year and being a hard winter, the 

 hides were almost worthless, and to make them more so 

 they were thrown on to the snow vdth the flesh side up, 

 so that they were aU curled up to about the size of a open 

 newspaper. 



