224 



FOREST AND STREAM, 



[March 17, 1894. 



DIXIE LAND.— II. 



[From a Staff Correspondent.] 

 The Welsh Rarebit and the Quail Shoot. 



As WE were saying about the Welsh rarebit at Little 

 Rock, Mrs. Irwin announced that if Mr. Irwin and I 

 would come back from our quail shoot at some sort of 

 decent hour in the evening, she would do us the favor of 

 building for us, in her new chafing dish, and in her own 

 parlors, a Welsh rarebit which would make our hair curl, 

 or words to that effect. We promised faithfully to be 

 there, and the story of how we weren't there has a great 

 deal to do with our quail shoot. 



"When Col. Felton of Chicago, and his friend, Mr. 

 Jacus of Buffalo, were here last winter," said Mr. Irwin, 

 "we got fair shooting one evening about three miles out 

 of town, but I don't think there are so many birds there 

 this winter. We will go down to Mr. Pemberton's planta- 

 tion, about ten miles down the river. I haven't seen the 

 old gentleman for some time, but he has invited me to 

 come, and I have been wanting for a long time to go out 

 and call on him, It's a longish drive over a sand road, so 

 we'll have to start early in the morning." 



A Mysterious Voice. 



It was a little after 4 A. M. when we ate breakfast at a 

 neighboring all-night restaurant and began our journey 

 in the misty gloom of the winter morning. We jogged 

 along slowly with nothing to entertain us until just about 

 half an hour before dawn, when we were passing a little 

 clump of negro cabins gathered along the roadside. Here 

 we were startled by hearing a deep voice, apparently of 

 one in sore distress, which came from one of the tumble- 

 down shanties. There was no light in the cabin, and it 

 was barely gray dawn outside, all of which made the 

 sound of the deep-toned voice the more mysterious and 

 thrilling. 



"Hold on, Mr. Irwin, there's some one getting hurt in 

 there," said I. "Let's stop and take in the fun." So we 

 pulled up, not ten feet from the gate near which the cabin 

 stood, our wheels making no noise on the damp sand. 



"Oh, Lawd! oh, bressed Lawd!" said the deep voice, 

 most dismal and gruesome in the uncanny twilight. Not 

 another sound came from the house, not a motion as of 

 one coming to the aid of the sufferer. We held our breath 

 in expectation. 



"Oh, Heavenly Father!" resumed the voice, and then 

 fetched a groan you could have heard forty rods. Seeing 

 something peculiar on Mr. Irwin's face, I sat still. The 

 voice broke out into an incoherent, jumbled chant, a sing- 

 song of half barbaric but certainly fluent exhortation ° 



"Send Dy powah." chanted the voice, "roun' de worl'! 

 Make de nan' o' grace an' chasetisemen' felt everywhah! 

 Yea, everywhah let light done shine throo' ther veil er 

 'niquitousness. Pejuce Dy token, Lawd, an' make these 

 yer people feel ther sign!" 



"Get up, Bill!" said Mr. Irwin, irreverently, and we 

 drove on. "Do you know what that old fellow was 

 doing?" 



"Why, I reckon he was praying," I replied. 

 "No he wasn't. He was just rehearsing his prayer." 

 "Meaning — ?" 



"Don't you see that building there with the spire on it, 

 just back of his cabin? Well, that's a nigger church and 

 this old fellow is no doubt the preacher. It's safe to say 

 his wife and about eight or ten children are asleep yet in 

 that same cabin, and he gets up early to practice on his 

 prayer while there's no one around. These niggers are 

 the greatest grand-stand workers on earth. When this 

 old fellow lights in among 'em at their next meeting 

 he'll have a prayer so fervent and fluent that he'll be 

 congratulated on it, and if you heard him you'd think 

 every word was spontaneous and sincere. They've got 

 to have religion and they got to have it their own way, 

 and I reckon our friend there believes there is no excel- 

 lence without great labor." 



This was a new experience for me, and so odd and 

 unreal that I can shut my eyes and see the whole dim 

 scene again, and hear the musical intoning of the old 

 black hypocrite in his matutinal ' 1 'rass'lin' " as plainly 

 as if he were at hand. 



More Negro Nature. 



Three-quarters of an hour later we had another experi- 

 ence of negro nature. We drove down into the sandy 

 flat along which the Arkansas River rolled its turbid 

 flood just a little while after daybreak, having timed our 

 trip so as to catch the first boat of the ferry by which we 

 were at this point to cross the river. The ferryboat, a 

 truly nondescript craft, operated by steam generated in 

 a risky-looking donkey engine, was operated by a negro 

 captain and crew. Unfortunately the boat, the captain 

 and the crew were all on the other side of the river from 

 us, a quarter of a mile away, and there they stayed, 

 while for nearly an hour we got along as best we could 

 in the morning wind that swept up the valley. All our 

 hails were answered to the effect that the boat was 

 "Comin' right away, boss," and when finally it did churn 

 itself across those niggers thought they had been hurrying. 

 At the Plantation. 



Across the river we had only a mile and a half of our 

 journey to compass, and this we found led through a 

 wide bottom covered on the one hand with great trees 

 and upon the other with wide cotton fields. At the divid- 

 ing line stood Mr. Pemberton's plantation house, or rather 

 houses, for there was quite a group of smaller buildings 

 about the residence house. Many negroes and some dogs 

 were on the outposts as we drove up, and dominating 

 these appeared the tall form of the planter himself. 



"Come in, come in," said he, "and sit by the fire. Have 

 you had your breakfast?" We told him we had, and that 

 all we needed was his consent and company for a try at a 

 few of his birds. 



"Well, you'll have to eat another breakfast," said he, 

 and Miss Pemberton insisting likewise, we yielded and 

 did so very cheerfully. This gave me a chance at four 

 square meals and the Welsh rarebit that day, so I had 

 some hopes of being able to get the best of my awful ap- 

 petite. 



"Sit down now and take it easy," said Mr. Pemberton 

 after breakfast. "The niggers have put your horse up 

 and there's no hurry about going out to kill those birds. 

 They'll be there when we get ready, and lots of 'em. 

 You're never going back to town this day, I'll tell you that 

 right now." 



"Oh yes, we must," said Mr, Irwin, "my wife will be 

 expecting me back." 



"Well, she won't see you," said our host, calmly, as he 

 lit his pipe with a splinter at the open fire. "You needn't 

 think we haven't got any meat and bread in the house, 

 because we have got a* little, and you're welcome. You 

 haven't been out here for three years, and your friend 

 never was here at all before. He mustn't come all the 

 way from Chicago down here for a little shooting, and 

 then go back the first day he gets here. He'd say we 

 turned him out. No sir, you'll never get away till to- 

 morrow, and maybe not then." 



Mr. Irwin smiled at me and gave up the unequal fight, 

 though still verbally protesting he must go. "Well, how 

 are birds, anyhow?" he asked. 



"Thousands of 'em," said Mr. Pemberton, "and I'm 

 mighty glad you came. I've got two of the best dogs on 

 earth— you can't beat 'em anywhere in the world. My 

 pup Pat has the finest nose a pointer ever did have, and 

 Grover— you know he's a brother to your dog Jack, that I 

 gave you — well, he's so much better than Jack that I feel 

 sorry for you. If you came here oftener than once in 

 three years, I might give you a good dog, some day." 



"That's all right," said Mr. Irwin, "my dogs have run 

 all the way out from town this morning, but I'll bet you'll 

 want to tie yours up before mine get through with them." 

 And so on, and so on; for these two always had wordy 

 wars, the "old man," as Mr. Irwin called him— for Mr. 

 Pemberton was in the three score neighborhood, though 

 still very erect and vigorous — being an unmerciful guyer, 

 as I learned later. 



I ventured to ask how far out we would need to walk 

 that morning, and Mr. Pemberton replied: 



"Walk? Why, we won't walk at all. Young man, 

 where were you raised? We'll ride to our shooting, and 

 we'll ride when we shoot. Didn't you ever see any good 

 shooting from horseback? Well, we'll give you a touch 

 of that if you like." 



Sure enough, after a time the colored boys brought 

 three fine saddlers up to the gate, and filling our pockets 

 with shells, and taking along a further supply in a saddle- 

 horn bag, we set out at a canter through the wood. 



"Isn't the old gentleman a fine horseman?" said Mr, 

 Irwin to me, as we both fell back together. 



"I was just about to mention it," said I, looking at the 

 easy erect figure on the big black ahead of us. Indeed, I 

 do not think I ever saw a better horseback figure in my 

 life, and since I returned to the city I have often looked 

 with pity at some of the fancy boulevard equestrians 

 wondering how they would feel if the unconsciously grace 

 ful and masterful seat of such a born horseman should 

 appear among them. 



Among: the Birds. 



We were only about half a mile from the house when 

 we struck our first bevy, and soon all four of the dogs 

 were roading and pointing running birds on a cotton field. 

 From that time on until evening we were hardly out of 

 sight of the game at any time for longer than a few min- 

 utes. Quail shooting I consider to be the most enjoyable 

 and sportsmanlike of any American sport with the shot- 

 gun, and here we had it in quality not to be surpassed 

 anywhere on earth. True enough I found Mr. Irwin's 

 assertion that up till that time I had never known what 

 quail shooting was. No Northern shooter can form any 

 just idea of the sport, and I confess I was astonished. 

 Here was a country perfectly level, mostly of grass- 

 bordered cotton fields, with corn, sedge and thicket in 

 abundance, but with none of the exasperating features of 

 the Northern tall cover. In the North you find your bevy, 

 say, in the open, and it takes to the timber; then you have 

 hard finding and hard shooting. Here nearly all shooting 

 was in the open and consequently very easy, for a quail is 

 not a hard bird to hit when you get it out where you can 

 see it. All the surroundings were easy and pleasant, and 

 there were birds, birds, birds everywhere! I never 

 saw so many. We kept track of twenty full, big bevies, 

 though there may have been more, and as the day was in 

 January, and as we began at about 10 or 11 in the morn- 

 ing and stopped before dusk, it may be imagined what 

 the stock of game was. All alternation of shots over 

 points was forgotten, for the four dogs kept us all as busy 

 as we liked. And four mighty good dogs they were, too, 

 with not a poor nose in the lot, and displaying all those 

 steady qualities which a dog will acquire from hunting 

 where there is plenty of game to take the edge off his 

 eagerness. Everything was perfect, and I think mortal 

 man will never have any more fun than we did. For the 

 first time I saw some of the Southern method of shooting 

 from horseback, and my belief in the powers of a 

 good shot to make a bag that way rose very rapidly. Mr. 

 Pemberton told me that when he was inform (he had had 

 an attack of grip) that he thought he could kill practically 

 as many birds from the saddle as he could from the 

 ground. In this shooting, of course, much depends on 

 the horse. A well-trained horse is perfectly quiet and 

 undisturbed by the shooting. The dogs are trained in 

 retrieving to stand up with their front feet on the saddle 

 skirts and deliver the game without the rider dismountin 

 at all. 



It would be impossible to describe in detail a day's 

 shooting like this, for there would be too much detail, too 

 many finds, too much good work, too many fine shots, to 

 remember, let alone describe. I know we did not work 

 to make a great bag, but we had a magnificent bag that 

 evening none the less, about 75 birds, if I remember. Mr. 

 Irwin accounted for the most of the birds. Mr. Pember- 

 ton and I found the weather pretty warm, and along in 

 the middle of the day took it easy, doing more talking 

 than shooting, I fear. It was Mr. Pemberton's especial 

 delight to chaff Mr. Irwin, and if the latter ever missed a 

 shot, woe to him. 



"Well, Joe Irwin," he would hear, "I tell you what I 

 think. I think you'd better put up your gun and go back 

 to the house and send one of the nigger boys out to take 

 your plaqe. Why, if I shot as poor as you do, I'd be 

 ashamed to leave town, I would indeed. Seems to me like 

 you shoot poorer every year I know you." 



The humor of this was that Mr. Irwin really was shoot- 

 ing very well indeed, as he always does, he being one of 

 the best field shots I ever saw, and moreover possessed of 

 the ardor and tirelessness which do so much toward 

 "making a good bag." But Mr. Irwin was not alone the 

 subject of our jovial host's berating. 



"Walk in there and shoot, you newspaperman," he 

 would say to me when one of the dogs had a point. "I'll 

 bet you can beat Joe Irwin, though there's no glory in 

 that. Shoot now, and if you miss that bird we'll throw 

 you in the river." 



Of course under such circumstances one had to kill his 

 bird, and this being done, it was a pleasure to hear the 

 old gentleman say with a suppressed snort of laughter: 



"Humph! Well you did happen to hit one, didn't you. 

 I'm glad of one thing, and that is that your paper didn't 

 send a blame little dude down here to represent it. Say, 

 aint most all newspaper men dudes?" 



I assured Mr. Pemburton that Forest and Stream 

 didn't have a dude on the staff, which seemed to please 

 him a great deal, but didn't take the edge off from his 

 appetite for fun. For instance, when we stopped at a 

 small and very reluctant well at one of the bottom cabins, 

 I asked him if the water had any malaria in it. 



"Full of it," said he, cheerfully, "plumb full of it. If 

 you drink any of it you'll have the shakes before you get 

 to town. Better not drink any." Though all the time 

 he knew I was bathed in perspiration and perishing of a 

 thirst which not even an actual chance at malaria would 

 have deterred. 



And so our pleasant day wore on, full of fun and jollity, 

 and points and kills, and with a bag which toward even- 

 ing was heavy enough, in all conscience, for the most 

 sanguine or sanguinary sportsman. In the twenty bevies 

 of which we kept track there were probably 300 birds at 

 least, for the bevies had not been broken up and were 

 very large. Of course, we put up many birds the second 

 and third time, and in fact had the whole country full 

 of scattered birds. Two-thirds of our day was put in on a 

 little strip of country, perhaps three-quarters of a mile 

 long by half a mile wide. 



All this part of Arkansas is full of cockleburrs, which 

 grow in rankness and profusion unknown in the North. 

 It was easy to understand the local preference for the 

 pointer over the setter. Indeed, it would have been 

 fairly inhumane to put a setter into some of the burr 

 patches we shot over, to say nothing of the labor of 

 combing him out at night. 



As my friend had predicted, we did not leave for town 

 that night, Mr. Pemberton rebelling at all mention of it. 

 We ate a supper which I wish I could duplicate in 

 Chicago, and at about the time Mrs. Irwin was getting 

 her chafing dish ready for the Welsh rarebit which should 

 console two hungry shooters, the said two hungry shooters 

 were basking in the warmth of Mr. Pemberton's fireplace, 

 with no messenger to explain their delinquency. 



In the morning we put in a little time along the road 

 on our host's plantation, and picked up a few more birds, 

 Mr. Pemberton accompanying us well on our way. We 

 could not induce him to take a bird for his own use. "I 

 could always get all I wanted," said he, "but they're not 

 good to eat. Same way with a duck. A duck is too 

 muddy-tasting for me to eat. If you want something fine 

 just take a young cottontail rabbit." Accordingly, the 

 last we saw erf our hospitable friend, he was making off 

 at a hard gallop across the fields, the saddle skirts of his 

 big black saddler covered with cottontails we had shot 

 along the thickets. And all I hope is that I may some 

 day hand him up another, and see the smile of supreme 

 content with which he will receive his favorite game — 

 cottontail, in the midst of millions of quail! 



Mr. Pemberton told us that the country we shot over 

 was not long ago full of deer, turkey and bear. The 

 former were pretty well cleaned out, and for bear, he 

 thought one would have tj go to the rougher hill or 

 swamp country of the State. We had many a story of the 

 old bear-hunting days. 



Mr. Irwin and I were eighteen hours behind our en- 

 gagement when we drove up to the Richelieu that day, 

 to discover Mrs. Irwin sitting with the ruins of a Welsh 

 rarebit about her and a look of reproach upon her face. 



E. Hough. 



909 Security Building, Chicago. 



IN WEST VIRGIN 1A COVERS. 



Wheeling, W. Ya.— The close of the year found our 

 covers depleted of quail. Last night whole coveys were 

 found under an icy crust that they could not break 

 through. In fact they were practically exterminated. A 

 few solitary birds were heard whistling about the fields 

 last summer. In the fall we failed to find more than one 

 covey. Captain Booth, of the steamer Hudson and I 

 hunted the Tomson and Johnson farms, the largest in- 

 dividual estates in the valley, and failed to find a single 

 quail. Years ago these magnificent farms yielded from 

 thirty to sixty birds in a day's hunt. Imagine our feel- 

 ings, as we sat on a rail fence after the day's tramp with 

 a couple of tired and disgusted dogs at our feet, and re- 

 called former hunts in the halcyon days. Our day's hunt 

 yielded but a solitary pheasant;" the Captain killed him in 

 the willows at the river's edge, a very unusual occurrence, 

 I endeavored to get a few birds to winter but did not 

 succeed. Mr. G. 0. Smith, of this city, purchased nine 

 dozen Western quail at his own expense. I am marking 

 their condition from day to day with jealous eye; and call 

 back the old dog as he breaks from heel into their stubble 

 home. Poor old fellow, he does not seem quite to under- 

 stand why I am not willing to let him hunt pheasants in 

 the woodland, as we occasionally pass down the wood 

 road, and refuse to let him hunt quail in the stubble. 

 However, I think the old fellow will find me willing to 

 follow his lead, when the sere and yellow leaf is falling 

 again, Some day I will take down the old gun, and with 

 a smile of expectant pleasure will whistle for you— old 

 dog, and you will come bounding to me with shining 

 eyes, and fairly cover me with caresses, and then scatter 

 the chickens right and left as you merrily lead the way 

 to the stubble field. You will stop just at the edge of the 

 field to wait for me; and you will trail slowly a little 

 ways, then with head to the wind you will make one of 

 your grand casts; and half-way around the field you will 

 turn and come toward me, and stop with one foot raised 

 and foam falling from your jaws, and there you will 

 stand until I come up. The old gun will crack sharplv on 

 the open air; two birds will fall (of course, not less), "and 

 you will bring them and lay them gently in my hand. 

 What joy will be ours on that day, old dog, until the 

 twilight from the sinking sun has disappeared and all 

 nature hushes down to sweet repose. 



Squirrels and rabbits are very scarce here. Pheasants 

 are fairly plenty, and seem to be holding their own. I 

 love to stroll down through their haunts, the old wood 

 road. There is a wild, weird beauty about these winter 

 woods until nature awakens them. Oak, hemlock and 

 beech deeply shade the road, and from the great trees of 

 this primeval forest swaying grapevines swing to and fro 

 in the shadows. Here and there evergreen trees dot the 



