FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Feb. 10, 1894. 



A BANQUET. 



An Incident of Surveying: Life. 



After repeatedly pressed invitations, the ladies had 

 consented to come over to dine with us next day, provided 

 we would send the skiff to bring them across the river. 

 I pondered. "This brings on more talk," was the channel 

 into which my otherwise unoccupied brain turned. 

 Ladies would not deign to partake of our ordinary, every- 

 day, morning, noon and night bill of fare. That would 

 be inviting them to do too much. Something must be 

 done and that right quickly. My troubled conscience 

 took me into the store past which my route back to Camp 

 Zenora led me. Next came a strip 'of brown paper and 

 a pencil, when, by dint of more pondering, the following 

 memorandum (verbatim) resulted: Meat, 2 cans beef, 

 apples (for baking), 2 cans tomatoes (to stew), 1 can pine- 

 apple, 1 cocoanut and 1 dozen oranges for ambrosia, 

 cheese (for maccaroni), potatoes, 2 dozen eggs. 



The ferryman landed me a mile above camp, when my 

 tribulations began in earnest. The oranges broke out of 

 the sack. Ditto cocoanut, to say nothing of the five cans, 

 which a paper sack was too frail and my pockets too small 

 to retain with safety. In a fit of desperation, I removed 

 my overcoat from off my back, spread it on the ground, 

 and tumbled oranges, cocoanut and canned goods into it 

 tumultuously. Then catching it up by the four corners, I 

 proceeded, trying, the while, to keep my grip on the other 

 corner during my efforts to regain control of the three 

 that were escaping it. 



Next morning came. The cook was sick and obliged 

 to call in an assistant in the person of Aunt Alexander, 

 whose shanty stands circumscribed by a small clearing a 

 few paces beyond a stone's throw from Camp Z. The 

 axman, too, had to be pressed into service until it was 

 time for him to start across for the company. 



I staid in camp to direct— to "keep house," so to speak 

 —and to make the ambrosia. We could not find the 

 cocoanut grater, hence the need of a hatchet, a big nail 

 and an empty tin can. The axman was provided with 

 these and "started off right;" then I left him to make the 

 cocoanut grater while I hid the old shoes in a corner and 

 washed off the soap dish. 



Pulverizing the cocoanut on our new grater was a 

 most attractive occupation, at the same time detracting 

 from the symmetry of my fingers; but I got through 

 with it and made a fine bowl of ambrosia in a milk crock, 

 for be it known we are advancing with the times and 

 keep a cow and a new calf pen in camp now. 



The ladies came and were seated in our several chairs, 

 while we sat on the bed. They tried to draw us into 

 conversation, but we were too much engrossed with the 

 weighty affairs of housekeeping to have any mind for 

 trivial topics. In fact— more is the shame — that conver- 

 sation came to be a sort of "yes'm," "no'ni," "I reckon 

 so" affair, when, fortunately, dinner was announced. 



If a cook ever sets two chickens on a small dish with 

 no gravy and too much onion not cooked enough in the 

 dressing before me, when I am iu a low chair by a high 

 table, with company — feminine company— all around it, 

 and a dull knife and a short fork to carve with, and no 

 spoon to get out dressing with, and both chickens turned 

 the wrong way for carving and cooked so soft that the 

 breast won't slice when I can not carve anvhow, that 

 aforesaid cook would better take the precaution to be 

 very tolerably sick, he would. 



But I'm equal to most emergencies, and blundered 

 through. The cook hadn't cooked any raaccaroni, had 

 overlooked the tomatoes, and brought both cans of beef 

 on the table in the cans. He hadn't put enough butter in 

 the dish, which made the guests think we were short. 

 Some of the ladies wanted water, and I had to confess 

 that we had but three glasses, and hence Nos. 4 to 10 (in- 

 clusive) would have to be content with tin cups. They 

 kindly consented, though it was apparent that they couldn't 

 quite appreciate the situation. 



The axman was sent out with the beef to put it in a dish. 

 He lost his memory and forgot to bring it back— the beef, 

 or memory either. 



''Change the plates, Hughes!" 



He did. In spite of the fact that the poor darky had 

 never waited on ladies before and was somewhat lost, he 

 finally got out with the plates and chicken dish and back 

 with a crumb wiper and a plate of cake that one of the 

 lady guests had kindly provided us with. Also in the 

 course of time clean plates came, and Hughes was con- 

 vinced that it was proper to take out the corn bread and 

 rice, though potatoes and the fated beef that he had brought 

 in at the last moment (on being reminded of it) had to be 

 endured through the next course. 



A long delay followed, and was finally ended by the 

 arrival of Hughes with clean knives and forks. 



"We don't need those, Hughes," I tried to say kindly, 

 though I was mad at him for taking up so much valuable 

 time to wash them when we didn't need them. But right 

 here is where I made a gross mistake. I soon found that 

 we did need them, but it was too late to recall them. 



A further delay. 



Softly approaching the front of the tent, Hughes mo- 

 tioned me out with an air combining stealth with a certain 

 style of self-satisfaction possessed by one on the point of 

 conveying a piece of startling news to the ear of an intent 

 listener. 



"De cook wants ter see yer," he whispered. 



I went to the cook tent, where I found that his disabled 

 majesty had sufficiently regained his health to be able to 

 sit upright beside my crock of ambrosia, where he was 

 getting ready to souse a heathenish kitchen spoon into 

 the top of it, over which I had taken so much pains to 

 round up a snow white mound of cocoanut. 



"Mus' I put it in de saucers out hyer?" he queried with 

 assumed innocence. 



"Look here," I thought to myself, "this thing is begin- 

 ning to weaken my nervous system." Then I replied to 

 the cook in impressive rhetoric, and the belated crock 

 was forthwith conveyed to the table. 



"All's well that ends well," they say. The ambrosia 

 was a success, if some did have to use cups instead of 

 saucers. 



True, there were some obstacles in the way of satisfac- 

 torily disposing of the spiritual food (the ladies worried 

 one or two slices of orange into subdivisions of a politely 



palatable size, then gave up in despair — the more timid 

 among _ us in their efforts to dissect the inconveniently 

 large slices, splattered pineapple juice and cocoanut grat- 

 ings over the lady sitting on either side). With ambrosia 

 'tis always thus. I, however, solved the problem. To eat 

 ambrosia and yet comply with the latest regulations and 

 by-laws on etiquette your requisite is tact. Quietly select 

 a slice of orange. Don't make a fool of yourself by at- 

 tempting to cut it, but simply fold it. It is still too big, 

 but that doesn't matter. Just keep your eye open. When 

 everybody else is looking down in a fruitless attempt to 

 cut a slice in quarters with a spoon with a flexible handle, 

 you slip your folded slice between your teeth and chew 

 right fast. This opei-ation may be repeated until all the 

 slices are disposed of. 



I will close the scene with a few friendly suggestions, 

 First, never ask ladies to dine at your camp. Again, if 

 you should ask them and they accept, open the ceremon- 

 ies by informing them that they are in camp— that camps 

 are not houses; never were and never will be — that camp 

 fare is for working men, not for ladies, but you hope 

 they can endure it for about twenty-five minutes; that 

 you have six goblets, six knives and six forks on your 

 property list, but that three goblets are broken, one knife 

 is retained behind the scenes for kitchen use, one fork 

 and two spoons are lost and another fork has one and 

 one-half teeth broken out and that you haven't the house- 

 keeper's standby— a next-door or over-the-ally neighbor 

 that you are trying to get even with for that quart of 

 flour and a nutmeg that she borrowed seven weeks ago 

 and forgot to return. Lastly, have the same kind of dinner 

 and servants' attendance that you have every day, for if 

 you go to putting on style, the thing won't work out right. 

 Lastly-but-not-leastly, if your cook gets sick you have the 

 heartfelt sympathy of Tripod. 



Mississippi; 



HOW THE SLEEPERS GOT EGG NOGG. 



The south bound Chicago & New Orleans limited had 

 stopped for orders one afternoon at a small town in Mis- 

 sissippi, a day or two before Christmas. 



The passengers gladly availed themselves of the oppor- 

 tunity to move about a little in the soft, pure air, for the 

 day was an ideal one, and the earth, flooded with the 

 bright, warm sunshine, was especially delightful to those 

 of us who hailed from the ice-clad North. 



The town was typically Southern, but most picturesque 

 and fascinating to Northern eyes. The streets fairly 

 swarmed with negroes— big, little and middle-sized— the 

 women clad in bright-hued garments, the men in every 

 degree of artistic raggedness. They had come to town to 

 do their Christmas shopping. Standing about everywhere 

 were their rigs — and such rigs, and such cattle! each a 

 masterpiece — from an artist's point of view. Mules, oxen 

 and horses, little and big — and of every age, sex and 

 previous condition of servitude. These were harnessed to 

 inconceivable carts by a confused jumble of ropes, straps 

 and chains, knots serving in place of buckles or snaps. 

 Most of these vehicles had brought in wood, cotton or 

 produce to exchange for Christmas goods at "de sto'." 

 The platform at this station held a score or more of 

 loungers, and among them was a typical white-haired old 

 "daddy," bent with age and rheumatism, basket on arm, 

 leaning on the traditional cane — rapt and serene. With 

 him ensued the following: 



Tourist— What have you in your basket, uncle? 



Uncle (expectantly, doffing his hat)— Aigs, sah. 



T. — How many? 



U.— 'Bout er dozen, sah, I reck'n. 

 T.— How much do you ask for them? 

 U. — Fo' bits, sah. 



T.— Fifty cents? Isn't that a little high, uncle? Why 

 (at a venture), they are selling at the store over there for 

 twenty-five. 



U. (sadly)— No, sah, thutty cents! Dat's wot dev git fo' 

 dem— an' dey won't gimme mo'n twainty cents. * I done 

 heerd as how aigs wuz sca'ce, an' I done f otch dese in— 

 an' I gwine ter git fo' bits fer dem, or I done gwine ter 

 tote 'm back home. 



"Y' see, sah," he continued, with a far-off look in his 

 eyes and totally unconscious of the knot of tourists and 

 idlers gathered about him, indeed, more as if he was 

 thinking aloud than addressing any one in particular, 

 "y' see, sah, I 'lowed ter git sum Kisinus gif's fo' de liT 

 g'anchil'n— dah's Pete— he 'mos' fo', an' he (with a 

 chuckle of pride)— he want er gun— but liT Rose— tell 

 you, she t'ink heap o' her ole g'andad— Lor' ! she fat an' 

 smoof like er baby 'possum — she put up her lip an' got 

 tear in her eye when my gal hoi's her up dis maw'n' ter 

 shake de ole dad 'day-day' wif her liT han's." Then, 

 after a pause, remembering himself, he shook his old 

 head and said, decidedly: "No, sah, dey can't git 'dese 

 yer aigs f'm me less 'n to' bits, dey can't!" 



Just then a brisk, prosperous looking young fellow- 

 passenger edged forward, and with incisive broken-like 

 accent exclaimed: "That's right, old man, hang on to 

 them. Don't let 'em get away from you. You're dead 

 right, daddy, 'aigs is sca'ce' just now, and it's a bull 

 market! Let me see 'em," he said, peering into the 

 basket. "Wha-a-t? Fine eggs like that for fifty cents a 

 dozen? Don't you do it, uncle! Why, up in Chicago at 

 the Auditorium you'd get a dollar a dozen for them. 

 Here you, John Henry," to the grinning buffet porter 

 standing by, "can you make egg nogg?" "Yes, sir-ee, 

 boss; I don't take no back seat fer nobody on egg-nogg, 

 and got a big punch bowl in de buffet, too." "Got any 

 milk?" "No, sah, t but kin git it next stop." "All right, 

 get an extra gallon," and taking the basket from the arm 

 of the bewildered old darky who had vainly endeavored 

 to follow the quick, snappy talk, the brisk young man 

 placed in his open palm a shining silver dollar just as the 

 conductor shouted "All aboard!" 



At the sight of the dollar each Ethiopian optic in the 

 crowd grew as big as the coin still visible in the old man's 

 hand, and as we were hurrying aboard one inquired with 

 bated breath of the porter if he "know'd dat gemman." 

 "Oh," said that functionary easily, "dat's the She-Kawgo 

 gemman wot builded de World's Fair." At this each eye 

 in the group became more distended if possible, and a 

 gaze of unparalleled intensity was focussed upon the 

 young gentleman in the well-fitting brown tweed, while 

 the mouths of the party grew positively alarming in their 

 cavernous suggestion. All except the old man, who stood 

 dazed n precisely the same attitude as when left by this 

 fin de Steele Santa Claus. And thus they remained gazing 

 speechless until we lost sight of them as the train moved 

 on. 



After the night had fallen "Mr. Santa Claus," as we 

 had jestingly dubbed him, produced from his traveling- 

 bag a bottle of smooth old Monogram and in due course 

 appeared a brimming punch bowl of royal egg-nogg, pre- 

 sided over by the beaming "John Henry." A mixed 

 committee on invitation was sent into the rear sleeper, 

 and soon the men therefrom appeared, followed later by 

 every lady in the car, not even excepting two tailor-made 

 girls who had hitherto maintained a most frigid, touch- 

 me-not expression. Formality was forgotten and all was 

 jollity and good feeling, and especially was every phase 

 of the little incident of the afternoon gone over and dwelt 

 upon at length. It was the "one touch of nature." When 

 the cups had been filled and handed around by the de- 

 lighted porters, one of the party arose, and in a few well 

 chosen words pledged a Merry Christmas to the old 

 darky's "Santa Claus." "And," added the gentle voice of 

 a sweet-faced old lady, "may his every Christmas be as 

 happy as he has made the hearts of the poor old grand- 

 father and those two dear little black children." 



. L. J. M. 



MY FOUR PET SHOTS. 



i. 



Thirty years, and a trifle more, have gone down the 

 dusty way of time since the first outbreak of the hunting 

 spirit which has ever been my best and constant love- 

 but the scene is fresh before me. A summer day; a 

 twelve-year-old boy; a .22 singlebarreled Frank Wesson 

 "tip-up" pistol; a flock of puddle ducks a hundred yards 

 away, floating on the surface of the mill pond; an over- 

 powering temptation ; a shot, vaguely into space ; a 

 stormy interview with Mistress Brady, the blacksmith's 

 wife; a dollar, mulcted from the prized hoard in my 

 savings bank, and the first of my shots became a memory. 

 II. 



Eight years passed. The great war was over; a people 

 made restless by the turmoil of stirring events were press- 

 ing hard against their western boundary, and the railroads 

 were pushing out into a vast region, almost as bare of 

 settlement as in the day when Coronado pierced to its 

 heart in search of fabulous Quivira. The dreams of a 

 boyhood filled with Bonneville and Mayne Reid, were 

 about to be realized, as I rode with a party of hunters out 

 from the terminus of the building railroad down into the 

 buffalo country, in that day, quite as often, the Indian 

 country. Southward we went, across the Smoky Hill, 

 the Arkansas and the Cimarron, far into the nameless 

 waste now known as Oklahoma. There were some fifteen 

 in the party, my especial friend and protector being a 

 grizzled Scot named Brister, a veteran of the plains, with 

 shoulders as broad as his native dialect, and a head in 

 proportion to both. 



When we made anything like a permanent camp it was 

 the custom to send out small parties of three or four on a 

 side hunt, rarely going far from camp, and coming in 

 when' a wagon load of skins had been secured. 



On one of these occasions we were riding across the 

 plain, Brister in the lead and I closely behind, heading for 

 a slight rise crowned with scanty brush, from which we 

 could get a look over the country beyond, when, as we got 

 within easy reach, our horses threw up their heads and 

 looked earnestly onward with pointed ears and open nos- 

 trils. Suddenly Brister wheeled his horse, calling out to 

 me, "Inja-a-ans, la-ad, ro-on for ca-amp!" As we dashed 

 off, a couple of arrows went by and a wild yell told that 

 the chase was on. We were better mounted, or had 

 stronger reasons for getting ahead, and outran them all 

 but one fellow on a gray pony, who kept well up on the 

 left flank, until I felt a slight shock as an arrow ripped 

 through my trouser leg and dug into my saddle, slightly 

 cutting the skin above the knee, and almost immediately 

 another flashed by in front. iFhis had to be stopped, and 

 a couple of shots, unsteadily delivered from our galloping 

 horses, turned him off in a wide sweep to rejoin his party. 

 It was a mad race for camp, but we got there first; the 

 two men we had left behind running out and opening fire 

 as soon as they saw the coming outfit, which brought our 

 pursuers to a stop and held them while we got our ani- 

 mals down into an angle of the coulee by which we were 

 camped, so disposed that four men could defend it and 

 pretty well prevent an enfilading fire. 



For several hours a livery skirmish kept up, several 

 Indians racing by, one after the other, and sending a few 

 arrows over our heads, but there was plenty of powder 

 and lead in the rifle pit, and after several casualties the 

 fun was pretty well stopped, with the exception of my 

 friend on the white pony, who continued to dash by at 

 intervals. Each time he got a couple of shots, but nothing 

 seemed able to touch him. I harbored some resentment 

 for this fellow, and four times I fired at him as he swept 

 by, missing him cleanly each time; then I concluded I 

 was giving him too much room, and as he came by for the 

 fifth time I sighted close in and as my Sharp .45 spoke out 

 he developed a sudden curvature of the spine, slipped 

 down, a limp man, on the off side and parted company 

 with his gray pony forever. A wild charge from the 

 whole band followed to keep us from the body, but the 

 rattling fire of four rifles was too much for them in the 

 open and they broke and scattered over the plain. Our 

 position was too strong, and toward night we got safely 

 back to the main camp. 



On my library wall, under a rack of rifles, hangs a 

 splendid collar of elk teeth— a memory of that dead Kiowa 

 brave. 



in. 



More years have gone by — few of them without their 

 weeks of life in the glorious Rockies. Again in camp, 

 among the western foothills of a gigantic chaos of eruptive 

 rock, pifion, juniper, agave and sahuara. 



My companion was a loved comrade of many a hunt; as 

 gallant a soldier as ever dismounted his troop and led it 

 up the mountain side in a bold dash at some Apache 

 stronghold, and as true a sportsman as ever laid eye along 

 a well-browned barrel; long since gone into the silent 

 night where taps and reveille alike are unheard by his 

 dulled ear. 



Game was scarce where we were; a set of bad weather 

 had kept us in camp, and as meat was running low, I 

 started out one morning alone to try and pick up a black- 

 tail somewhere in the mountains behind us. Several miles 

 up the trail I picketed my horse and went on afoot. It 

 was a hopeless quest. Nothing was to be found. The 

 bitter wind which blew on my left increased as I went 

 higher. Presently down came a rattle of sleet, and in 

 five minutes the landscape was hidden in a drifting fog of 



