200 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[March 10, 18«4. 



CALIFORNIA NOTES. 



Our winter in northern California has been very wet 

 thus far. It has rained, upon an average, about three 

 days out of every week. The winter duck shooting has 

 been poor, in consequence, as the birds haunt the overflow, 

 leaving the regular ducking grounds untenanted. Quail 

 shooting was as good as usual, early in the season, but 

 has been very poor since New Years. As the close season 

 is now at hand, the birds will escape further molestation, 

 which will give all the better sport next year. 



Our two years' close season for deer did great good 

 throughout the State. It gave them a much needed rest; 

 and last fall a hunter could go out any day, with a fail- 

 prospect of coming home with a good buck. 



Many deer were slaughtered unlawfully, but as the law 

 stopped, the marketing of the carcasses and skins, it 

 stopped the depredations of the market-hunter and the 

 skin-butcher, and so saved thousands that would have 

 been otherwise killed. 



If a law could only be devised that would adequately 

 punish the wanton fool, who goes into the mountains 

 and shoots down deer indiscriminately, just to prove his 

 skill with the rifle, and leaves the carcass to rot, how it 

 would delight the heart of the true sportsman. 



And, by the way , speaking of wanton slaughter reminds 

 me of something else. What should a man do, who 

 catches boys in flagrante delicto, shooting harmless song- 

 birds — and rare ones at that? Some of your readers may 

 remember that about a year ago I wrote an article about 

 the American dippers or water ousels that haunted Auburn 

 ravine every winter. Well, this fall they came back about 

 their usual time, and some two weeks thereafter I caught 

 two boys coming up the road which skirts the stream, one 

 of them carrying an old muzzleloading shotgun, with the 

 barrel tied to the stock with twine, and the other a string 

 of harmless birds, six of which were water ousels. Was 

 I angry? Oh! No! But what could I do? The boys were 

 too young to be prosecuted, and as the gun had not burst 

 and killed at least one of them, what was there to do? 



And so even the harmless ousels go, and we seem to be 

 powerless to prevent it. It makes one sick of their kind, 

 to dwell upon the subject. Oh! that every man could 

 have a little feeling in his heart for the dumb creatures, 

 and not go on his way, taking precious life in wantonness! 

 When abroad in the woods and fields I often think of 

 those fines of Wordsworth's: 



Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, 

 Could field or grove, could any spot of earth 

 Show to his eye an image of the pangs 

 Which it hath witnessed— render back an echo 

 Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod! 



The sportsmen of the Pacific slope deeply regret the 

 absence of Forest aind Stream from our great Midwinter 

 Fair. Great numbers of them, the scribe among the 

 other unfortunates, were unable to visit Chicago, and 

 hoped they would be able to form its personal acquaint- 

 ance this winter in San Francisco. Our Fair is a magn'fi- 

 cent showing of Western pluck and daring, and in many 

 things is better worth visiting than was the great one at 

 Chicago — so say our visitors — but there, I won't say 

 another word, as some one would be sure to say, "There, 

 there's that infernal Californian, bragging as usual!" 



Just one thing more and I am done! How pleased I 

 am that everything is settled regarding powders! Here I 

 bfed been struggling along the best I could in my humble 

 Western way, trying by actual experiment in the field to 

 determine the best kinds and quantities of powders to use 

 in different kinds of shooting, and here come Messrs. 

 Tenner, Von Lengerke and various other more modest 

 men who cover their identity, like myself, under different 

 noms de plume, and settle the whole matter. If any man 

 can arise from a perusal of all this ballistic lore without 

 being thoroughly convinced of the superiority of good, 

 old-fashioned black powder, it must be because he has a 

 mental squint. 



You will never catch me using "chained wild beasts" 

 to kill quail with. I've been shooting for forty years with 

 black powder, and I am glad that I won't have to be 

 tempted to make any further experiments with anything 

 else. "Old friends are best. King James used to call for 

 his old shoes; they were easiest for his feet." 



Talking about wild beasts has reminded me of a story 

 that I must tell before I close. "I'll tell the tale as 'twas 

 told to me." A rancher over in the lower foothills of 

 Nevada county was awakened the other night by a racket 

 in his barn shortly after he had retired. There was a cow 

 and a week-old calf in the stable end of the barn, and no 

 other occupants. The man heard the calf bellow, fol- 

 lowed by a furious pounding and thrashing, mixed with 

 loud snorts from the cow. He jumped up and hurried on 

 his outer garments, lighted a lantern and ran for the barn. 

 The man came from Pike county, Missouri, and is a most 

 s 'amoozin' old cuss," as Artemas Ward used to say about 

 his kangaroo, and I will let him tell his story in his own 

 words. Said he; 



"Hit out fur the barn at a powerful smart gait, an' 

 opened the door an' looked in, an' the ole cow kim at me 

 a-chargin'. I jest slammed the door in her face an' stuck 

 in the pin, an' went to the main door an' went in. I 

 looked over the manger an' spoke to her, kin' o' soothin' 

 like, but she was powerful mad an' skeered up. She had 

 the calf in a corner behin' her, an' wus a-switchin' her 

 tail an' a-shakin' her head, an' every now an' then a- 

 turnin' to kinder grunt at her cab? an' gi' it a slat wi' her 

 tongue, kind o' encouragin' like, an' then she'd charge 

 for'ard agin. Wal, I cuddn't see what ail' the critter 

 anyhow, when all at once I heered suthin' a-spittin' like 

 right over my head, an' I hilt the lantern up an' I seed 

 two o' the dad burndest great green eyes on one o' the 

 beams over where I was a-stannin' at ever I seed in my 

 life. I didn't stay thar long, I tell ye, but scooted out the 

 door, slammed it behint me an' put a brace agin it, an' 

 put out fur the house. I rousted my boy out of bed to 

 hoi' tne lantern an' got my old Winchester down, an' see 

 'at thar was plenty o' catridges in her, an' we went back. 

 I hung the lantern on the tines o' a pitchfork, pushed it 

 through the crack o' the door an' pulled my hat down 

 over my eyes an' got down on my hams, so 's to hev the 

 light over my head, as I could see better that-a-way. By 

 an' by I got a good bead on the critter an' turned loose. 

 The thing cum down kerchuck on the punshins in a 

 snarl an' then went ter turnin' han'springs. The ole cow 



started in a-charging agin; the boy got skeered up an' 

 dropped the lantern an' run, an', fur a fac', I got in a 

 right smart chance of a hurry to git back to the house 

 myself. I waited a while till I cuddn't hear nothin' but 

 the snorts of the cow an' then lit a cannle an' went back. 

 I peeked in an' seed suthin' a-lyin' still on the punshins, 

 an' I went in an' thar lied the biggest mountain lion 'at 

 ye iver seed, as dead as a doornail, wi' a bullet through 

 his head." 



It seems that the cougar leaped in through a small 

 opening made in lieu of a window in the back of the 

 stable, with the intent of having veal for supper. He was 

 charged so furiously by the cow that he could not escape 

 by the way he came and took refuge on the beams over- 

 head. The calf was torn somewhat upon one shoulder, 

 but not severely. Akefar. 



Auburn, Cal. • 



DANVIS FOLKS— XXIV. 



Dark Days. 



Sam's chores were done betimes next morning, and his 

 breakfast was hardly eaten when he announced an 

 abrupt departure by saying that he had an errand at the 

 village. 



"What be ye in sech a tew for?" Huldah asked. "You 

 haint aout o' terbacker, I know, fer the's nigh a paper full 

 in the sutler way , an' it haint a week sence you got a paound 

 o' paowder an' four paounds o' shot." She could think of 

 no other possible errands that demanded such immediate 

 attention. She followed Sam to the door and laid a hand 

 on his arm. "What is 't, Sam? The's suthin' a-pesterin' 

 on you, I know by your looks. Why don't you tell what 

 't is? Haint your wife the one you 'd orter tell yer troubles 

 tu?" 



"No man ever had a better one," he said, earnestly. 

 "It haint nothin' much. Don't ye cross no bridges till ye 

 come tu Vnij Huldy," and he hurried away at as swift a 

 pace as ever took him to a runway, barring the exigencies 

 that demanded running. He wished it was night, that 

 he might run now, but it would not do, for every old 

 woman on his route would sally forth to know if he was 

 going for the doctor and delay him with no end of ques- 

 tions. 



When he entered Bascom's store he was startled to see 

 how bare it had become since he saw it last. Half the 

 shelves were empty, and the tempting display of the 

 counters had shrunk to a forlorn array of odds and ends. 

 A sharp-eyed stranger was prowling softly about with a 

 note book and pencil in hand, and Bascom was lounging 

 near, in apparently careless attendance: 



"Why, good mornin', Lovel. Glad to see you. Mr. 

 Whitney Mr. Lovel. My friend, Mr. Whitney, is helping 

 me take account of stock. Lovel 's a particular friend of 

 mine, Whitney. Greatest fox hunter in the country." 



Mr. Whitney nodded, looked suspiciously at Sam and 

 went on noting down memoranda. 



"Say, Lovel," Bascom continued, hurriedly, "I want to 

 go fox hunting with you, or rabbit hunting. That suits 

 me better. What do you say to going some day next 

 week?" 



"I don't never hunt rabbits," Sam answered, with a 

 preoccupied air. "Break my dogs never tu f oiler 'em. 

 I'd like tu see you a minute, Mr. Bascom." 



"Certainly, certainly, step this way. Well, then, call it 

 foxes, though I never could kill a fox; I aint sharp 

 enough for them," and he led Sam to the dingy little 

 counting room, whither the lynx eyes of Whitney fol- 

 lowed them till the door closed upon them. 



"What can I do for you, Lovel?" Bascom asked with 

 solicitous good humor. 



"Look a here, Mr. Bascom," said Sam in a low, re- 

 strained voice, and dashing at his subject as a bashful 

 man does when he dare not hesitate. ' 'I want you tu gi' 

 me some s'curity fer what I've signed wi' ye on them 

 bank notes. It's run up tu nine hunderd dollars an' 

 up'ards, an' ef anything should happen it 'ould knock me 

 gaily west." 



"Why, certainly, Lovel, I'll be glad to secure you. 

 What do you say to a lien on the stock in the store?" 



"Why, seems 's 'ough it looks kinder slim," Sam said 

 doubtfully. 



"Well, perhaps, I've had a big trade lately, but it's 

 worth a good deal more'n nine hundred. I shall be get- 

 ting in my winter's stock next week, though, an' I can 

 fix you then so you'll feel easy enough." 



Sam shook his head. "I guess I'll take a lien on what 

 you've got. an' you c'n gi' me another when you git your 

 new goods in." 



"All right, Lovel. I'll attend to it right off, to-mor- 

 row." Sam's countenance fell. "You see I can't attend 

 to it to-day on account of helping Whitney. To-morrow 

 will do just as well, won't it, Lovel?" 



"I'd a good deal druther hev it made out tu-day." 



"Then, again," continued Bascom, "the town clerk and 

 the 'Square have both gone to V'gennes. Went by early 

 this morning and we couldn't get the papers made out." 



"Wal, I s'pose I'll haf ter wait," said Sam, turning to 

 go. "You don't blame me none, Mr. Bascom? I haint 

 got nothin' but the farm an' the's three ol' folks dependin' 

 on me, an' it 'ould be awf'l tough if anything should hap- 

 pen." 



"Why, of course, but you need n't be uneasy. But say, 

 if you are," and he sank his voice to a whisper, "why 

 don't you deed the farm back to your father?" 



"No. sir," and Sam's face flushed, "I haint no slink ef I 

 be a dumb fool." 



"O, there's no harm in your doing that if it would 

 make you feel any easier. That's all it would be for, any- 

 way. But do as you like. Come down in the morning 

 and we'll fix the lien." 



He followed Sam to the outer door and looked after 

 him with something of concern in his restless eyes, and 

 then saying to himself, "If he will be a blasted fool he 

 must take his chances with the rest," he returned to his 

 uneasy lounging. 



That night he was speeding behind Hamner's best horse 

 toward the lake on his way to Canada, a fugitive from 

 Danvis, where he was never seen again. 



On his way to the village next morning, Sam was met 

 by the ill tidings already running like wildfire along the 

 quiet roads, that Bascom's store was closed, everything in 

 it attached by distant creditors, and he gone, no one knew 

 whither. Sam went on to receive complete assurance of 

 the rumor, and then returned to his home, bearing the 

 burden of a heavy heart. His white, set face frightened 

 Huldah when he entered the kitchen. 



"Be you sick?" she asked anxiously; but he did not an- 

 swer till she had followed him into the bedroom. Then 

 seating himself on the bed, he drew her to his knee, and 

 with desperate rapidity told her the whole story of his 1 

 wretched entanglement with the unscrupulous adven- 

 turer. She listened to the end without speaking, and 

 then holding his face with both hands close to hers, she; 

 said: 



"Sam, why didn't you tell me afore? I don't blame ye 

 one mite fer nothin' but that. You hed orter ha' tol' 

 me, an' mebby I wouldn't ha' let ye, for I allers mistrusted 

 that Bascom. He was tew clever an' tew false-eyed." 



"Yis," said Sam, "tew dumb clever an' cute for sech a 

 dodunk as I be. He kep' me a-thinkin' it 'ould be all' 

 right tu-morrer, tu-morrer, wi' his promises. On'y yis- 

 t'd'y he promised faithful tu gi' me security, an' naow all 

 he hed is 'tached up an' he's gone an' lef ' me tu face the 

 music alone. Ev'ything we've got is jes the same as gone. 

 Them bank fellers tu V'gennes don't show no marcy." 



"Mebby father '11 help us, so 's 't we can save the farm," 

 said Huldah. 



"I wouldn't ask him no more'n I'd eat my head off. He 

 never thought none tew much on me, an' naow he'll think 

 less on me. He'll tell you tu come hum wi' Bub, an' le' 

 me go tu the 01' Scratch." 



"No, Sam, he knows I wouldn't never leave you, jest as 

 well as you du," said Huldah, fervently stroking his 

 frowsy, flaxen poll. "We're young an' tough an' we've 

 got one another an' aour boy, an' what's the hul worl' 

 compared? Don't you be downhearted." 



"I know it all. But what hits me the hardest is what's: 

 goin' tu become o' father an' Uncle Lisher an' Aunfc Jeru- 

 shy. They're all on 'em 'most past cuttin' the' own fod- 

 der. An' what ef we sh'd be sick er suthin'? The'd be 

 nothin' fer 'em but tu go on the taown. It's like a chunk 

 o' lead in my heart." 



"They shan't never," she said, with suppressed vehe-' 

 mence, "we'll work aour fingers tu the bone fust. But 

 there'll be a way aout somewheres. If s rook us sudden 

 an' we've got tu think." 



"I've tried tu, but my head's all in a whirl an' my idees, 

 is all in a whew, like dry leaves in a whirlwin'." 



"Well, we'll think it aout some way," said Huldah 

 hopefully. 



"The sheriff '11 be here tu rights," said Sam, "fer 

 them bank fellers is sharper on the scent of a dollar 'an 

 Drive on the track of a fresh-started fox. I'd ruther take 

 a wus lickin' 'an ever I got yit 'an tu see him a levyin' 

 on the stuff an' the land that gran'ther cleared on the 

 fust pitch 'at was made in Danvis. He could ha' settled 

 at the lake ef he hedn't ben so feared o' fever 'n' aig. 

 Mebby ef he hed, an' I'd ha' ben raised there, I shouldn't 

 ha' ben sech a tarnal fool. But then agin, mebby I 

 wouldn't ha' faoun' you. Anyhaow, the sheriff can't 

 take you an' Bub away from me. Wal, I s'pose I mus' 

 go tu werk, ef it is lunsome business, a duin' fer you do'i 

 know who. But it's better 'n rnumpin'. Duin' anythin' 

 is. But fust off I've got tu tell father an' Uncle Lisher, 

 an' if s abaout the toughest job in the hul business." 



"Wal, an' I'll talk it over wi' Aunt Jerushy," said 

 Huldah. 



"What a coward I be," Sam exclaimed. "Lord, I 

 wish 't I c'ld run off inf the woods an' hide, er lay daown 

 an' sleep an' never wake up tu remember nuthin'." 



"O, no you don't nuther. You wanter live an' see 

 what kin' of a hunter the baby's goin' tu be?" said his 

 wife. 



At length, facing the painful duty of inflicting pain, 

 Sam called his father into the shop and in the fewest 

 possible words, unsparing of self-condemnation, as a 

 penitent of his own scourge, he told the ill tidings to thei 

 two old men. Uncle Lisha heard them with an attention 

 divided by his work, after the first few words, listening 

 while he entered the bristles in the awl holes with un- 

 trembling hands and drew the waxed ends with slow,i 

 strong pulls. When Sam concluded he said: 



"Wal, good airth aa' seas! The' haint no use o' cryin'i 

 over spilled milk. I guess the' won't none of us die! 

 afore aour time comes." 



Timothy Lovell, although appalled by the calamity 

 which threatened to break up the household wherein he 

 had found such quiet contentment, offered only the mild; 

 reproof: 



"You wan't ezackly preudent a-signin' wi' a man you. 

 didn't know no' better," which he tempered by saying,, 

 "But you meant well an' hedn't no idee but what 't 'ould 

 come all right." 



Sam waited a little, giving them opportunity to say! 

 more, but they did not avail themselves of it, and for the 

 ease of his mind he went forth to find some work to lay 

 his hands to. His first look abroad revealed the well- 

 known figure of the constable, rocking and swaying up 

 the road, in his thorough-brace sulky, a species of car-: 

 riage used by no other person in the community, save by 

 the doctor. 



The officer hitched his well-known white horse much 

 too conspicuously in front of the house and then began to 

 levy on the personal property in a disagreeably calm and 

 businesslike manner. Sam had always liked Constable 

 Beers and had v >ted for him at every March meeting for 

 years, but he hated him now, and swore that he should 

 never have his vote again. He, however, relented when 

 the constable, having made his rounds, turned to him and 

 said with a sigh of regret: 



"Darn it all, Lovel, the' haint pus'nal prop'ty 'nough tu 

 half satisfy the claim, an' I've got tu 'tach the land. I'm 

 tormented sorry, but I've got tu du my duty. You musu't 

 lay up no hard feelin's agin me as twix man an' man." 



"I didn't know but you luftedtu, same as butchers lufs- 

 ter kill critters," said Sam. "They haint nuthin' agin the 

 critters, but they like the business." 



"Wal, then I don't," said the constable, and then in a 

 loud whisper, though no one was in ear shot, "if you had \ 

 any idee this was comin' why in tunkot didn't you deed 

 the land back tu your father?" 



"Proberbly, 'cordin' tu most folkses idee, 'cause I was a 

 dumb fool." Rowland E. Robinson. 



A Stray Carrier Pigeon. 



Central Lake, Mich., Feb. 19. — The Detroit Journal 

 reports the arrival of a carrier pigeon with a silver band 

 marked "G. H." around its neck at the hotel at Ottawa 

 Beach. It was probably lost in the late storm. It makes 

 its home with the hotel keeper, who sends messages by 

 it from the woods to Lis house. Whose is it? Kelpie, 



