March 34, 1894,] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



245 



jokingly remarked that the killer could draw the long 

 bow very effectively. Supposing he could. We can all 

 do a good many things we won't. 



The Judge asked his friend if cougars went paddling 

 round in the water like muskrats. Why, nobody expects 

 they do regularly. That one didn't but once. The ser- 

 pent didn't tempt Eve but once. Romulus and Remus 

 were the only boys who ever suckled a wolf so far as we 

 know. And then the Judge wanted to know if it wasn't 

 a little strange that the man should find a nicely-fashioned 

 handspike, etc., etc. As I remember the story it wasn't 

 a nice affair at all, just a plain every day old battered 

 spike providentially washed up with the drift. And to 

 further weaken the man's trust, the Judge asked him 

 what he thought about the papa cougar wading in and 

 taking his baby out of the wet. Any cougar who would 

 see his own offspring drown when he could save it ought 

 to be killed with a more ignominious weapon than a hand- 

 spike. I'm mighty sorry about all this, for I think we 

 should each try to inspire confidence in our fellow man. 



But speaking of the Judge, what a cinch he and Mr. 

 Mead have on the Green Lake canvasback business, 

 haven't they? When I read of that camp and surround- 

 ings, and tbe sport they have, I get so worked up I have 

 to take two or three tours around the block to cool off. 

 That boat, and ferry, and Mike, and cabin, and coziness 

 and comfort, and old barn with the hay in it, and ducks 

 galore, and good fellowship are just "gorjus." We can't 

 all enjoy the good things, but if the Judge will tell us all 

 about it we'll get along the best we can. 



Speaking of spelling reminds me of a word Mr. Hough 

 used and no doubt spelled correctly in his last letter. He 

 mentioned the Aransas Pass R.R., and the "intelligent" 

 compositor, who knew more and better geography than 

 Mr. Hough, set it up Arkansas Pass. Once or twice else- 

 where lately I have seen the same mistake made, and I 

 want it stopped right here. It won't probably make any 

 difference in the amount of lead the ducks take in for bal- 

 last down that way, but the spell must be broke. 



I verily believe that Mr. McCarthy has struck bed rock 

 in the matter of fighting qualities of the ouan, or ooue, or 

 oui— why no, I had it right the first time, ouananiche. 

 While correspondents have been somewhat at loggerheads 

 about the matter, they have entirely overlooked the fact 

 that an athlete can knock out a dude, that a fish trained 

 amid the dashing foam of a rock-strewn stream will out- 

 fight a pampered brother that eats and dawdles his life 

 away in the deep waters of a lake. Stands to reason. He 

 has to rustle. 



I meant to have told you how much I enjoyed that 

 sketch. "How the Sleepers Got Egg Nogg," in your Feb. 

 10. It was just a daisy. The man who wrote it lives down 

 South, "I reckon." There is only now and then a writer 

 who can hit off the darky dialect pat, and the writers are 

 seldom who can tell a story so well. 



Finally, I am with you on the "Platform Plank." 



o. o. s. 



NORTH CAROLINA MOUNTAINS. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



I wonder if all of our brethren of the rod and reel ex- 

 perience the same feeling that comes over me on any 

 bright, warm day after Jan. 1, when, it does not matter 

 how engaged my time may be, little transient visions of 

 "likely" places on some romantic trout stream will flash 

 before my vision. For years it has been thus with me, 

 and my good wife, who does not take much stock in my 

 pilgrimages to "The Land of the Sky," has learned the 

 signs of the fever so thoroughly that I am forced into 

 many a hearty laugh when deeply buried in my thoughts, 

 by her laconic remark, "Fishing again!" 



Of course the Foeest and Stream in its weekly visits 

 has much to do with aggravating the fever, and has much 

 to answer for to long-suffering wives who do not think as 

 does your correspondent Mrs. Tomlin. How I wish they 

 all did; then a fellow would not have to look so foolish 

 when he saw that strange little doubting twitch in the 

 corner of his wife's mouth when he is trying to entertain 

 her with some of his grand exploits among the trout. 

 "Seeing" alone "is believing," has, unfortunately, come 

 to stay, as connected with the statements of an angler. 



Through the columns of the Forest and Stream we 

 are constantly being invited to join (second hand) the 

 joys of life round the well-equipped camp in the West 

 and North, and to assist in the capture of some monster 

 of a landlocked salmon, ouananiche or great lake trout, 

 and I regi - et to say that that is as near as we in the South 

 ever get to the reality, for nature in her throes, long ages 

 ago, broke down the rock barriers that formed the ' 'pre- 

 adamite" lakes of the Blue Ridge and has left in their 

 places smiling valleys or "coves," as they are locally 

 termed. As far as I have been able to find out in my 

 wide wanderings in the mountain region of western North 

 Carolina, not a single lake exists. 



No well appointed club house, with cook and steward, 

 awaits the weary angler after a hard day's fishing, but 

 all the same we have our good times as well as our 

 more favored brethern round the Northern lakes; and 

 this is about the way we have it. In the first place wc 

 have several hundreds of square miles of mountain land 

 forty to fifty miles "away from the madding crowd" 

 that haunts the track of the iron horse, and through 

 these mountains rush and dash and dance dozens of 

 noble streams, chuck full of as fine mountain trout as 

 any pot-hunter or angler might desire. The very absence 

 of the luxurious club houses betokens the total absence 

 of any clubs, with their restrictions and surly keepers to 

 warn you off of a tempting piece of fishing. Too far 

 from the railroad to tempt for market-fishing, the native 

 kills what he can eat, consequently the supply for the 

 angler is never impaired. The proverbial kindness and 

 hospitality of a rather poor people furnishes you with a 

 rough, but hearty, welcome. 



The short courses of the torrents from their sources, 

 4,000ft. above sea level, to the sluggish rivers in the low- 

 lands naturally have developed strength and rare fight- 

 ing powers in the denizens of the waters, and though I 

 have killed trout in many parts of the world I have yet 

 to find any that can excel those of the "Old North State" 

 in gamy properties. But we are not entirely debarred 

 from the pleasure of the capture of nobler game fish, for 

 through the enterprise of your occasional correspondent 

 Mr. Henry Stewai-t the stream which takes its rise on 

 his property and rushes madly down some 2,000ft. in a 

 short ten miles has become literally alive with thousands 

 of rainbow trout. Well, I never caught an ouananiche, 

 but if there is anything to beat, for his size, a 1 



rainbow trout fighting for dear life at the end of 50ft, of 

 line, while you grasp the butt of a 6oz. fly-rod and steer 

 him clear of the sharp volcanic rocks that seem to reach 

 out for your line, why I would like to tackle it. It is a 

 fight to a finish with them, and they are finished by the 

 time you have them in your creel, and from the aching of 

 your right arm you fell that you are about finished too. 



To enjoy all this you have to put your "tenderfeet" in 

 your pocket and fraternize with the hardy mountaineer 

 and go camping. And we do camp sometimes, but not in 

 the approved style of some of your correspondents, with 

 living tent and cook tent, with cooks and guides and half 

 a carload of "duffle." I believe there is one tent in these 

 mountains that an enterprising livery stable man bought 

 from a party of dudes who had been chased out of it near 

 Highlands by a shower of rain. But we go it in the 

 original way, by selecting a nice dry fissure in the face of 

 cliff, called by courtesy a cave, and with plenty of hemlock 

 twigs for bedding, and an endless supply of dry driftwood 

 washed high and dry by the winter floods for fuel, we 

 fish, eat, smoke and sleep, with nothing to worry us 

 greater than the anxiety of returning in good order the 

 coffee-pot and fry-pan we have borrowed from some 

 kindly neighbors. What glorious times these are! The 

 mild climate of our Southland makes it a matter of 

 indifference if the fire does go out at night, and if the 

 eddying smoke from the camp-fire, as it curls around the 

 corners of our rock house, does make you start from a 

 sweet sleep with your lungs pretty well smoke dried, you 

 are more than recompensed by the first breath of pure 

 mountain air ladened with the perfume of the white 

 azalia, that greets you at the entrance. 



But with all this, there is one great drawback for the 

 true sportsman. There are too few anglers who go into 

 these fastnesses to enjoy your triumphs and condole with 

 you for the loss of that monster. Very few have found 

 their way in, and while an occasional party can be scraped 

 together to enjoy with you the luxuries of our "rock 

 house" and smoke, yet oftener your fishing is severely by 

 yourself, and it becomes uninteresting to relate, your ex- 

 ploits to a native who coincides with all you say, and is 

 supremely oblivious when you throw down the gnuntlet 

 for an argument. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody 

 good," so I am in hopes that the "hard times" that every- 

 one feels, more or less, may tempt some of my brethren 

 into|,this "angler's paradise," as it costs you about as much 

 per week there as you have been in the habit of paying 

 for one day's boats and guides. There's lots of room and 

 lots of trout, so come on, and be able, when you return 

 home, to say that there is something good in the South. 



B. 



CAPTAIN, COLONEL AND MAJOR. 



The Captain's Story. 

 "It has always seemed strange to me that history has 

 not done justice to the shot tower of the Confederate 

 Army. I built it. Without shot towers, bacon ruled 

 supreme. With shot towers, it abdicated in favor of the 

 Virginia partridge. Before the war my uncle brought 

 me from London a very fine shotgun made by Purdy and 

 costing forty guineas. I carried it into the struggle, but 

 the Confederacy soon got out of bird shot and if I had 

 not constructed my shot tower it would have become use- 

 less long before it escaped from Richmond. But one day 

 I procured a piece of Sin. plank, 4in. wide and 2ft. long, 

 and whittled one end of it down to a handle and bored 

 a 2in. hole in the other end. Then with a saw I cut a slit 

 lengthwise of- the board, and through the hole. In this 

 saw kerf a piece of cardboard was placed after having 

 been perforated with numerous holes of a size suitable for 

 bird shot. Between the handle and the improvised ladle 

 at the other end a series of transverse notches were made. 

 The shot tower was complete. One Confederate would 

 hold the shot tower over a pan of water while another 

 poured melted lead into the hole and upon the perforated 

 cardboard, while I, with a short stick, would scrape up 

 and down the notches causing the melted lead to "jump" 

 on the cardboard and leak through into the water in 

 the form of shot. Selah!" 



The Colonel's Story. 



"If horses had the gift of human speech, I am sure that 

 a thrilling history of the war could be told from the 

 equine standpoint. They had much to do with every 

 part of the conflict. In one of the most exciting in- 

 cidents of my part of it, they had it all to do. 



"We were at B. on a scouting expedition and, although 

 we expected an attack, it was so fierce and furious when 

 it came that almost the whole attachment was captured 

 without a struggle. Before we knew the Yanks were 

 upon us, they came galloping into town from all direc- 

 tions. Our men in charge of the horses turned them 

 loose and stampeded them, and down the street they 

 came in a panic-striken rush that nothing could have 

 stopped. A moment before I had jumped on my own 

 horse in front of headquarters thinking to do a little 

 stampeding myself down that very street, but had given 

 it up on seeing a squad of bluecoats approach. I knew 

 they would never stop those horses, though, and the in- 

 stant they passed me I dug in my spurs and took their 

 dust and followed. I was well past the Yanks before 

 they discovered that there was a 'Johnny Reb' on the 

 side of one of the horses and opened fire. They missed 

 me but hit old Joe, although he kept bravely on. Ahead 

 of us was a bayou which the flying herd skirted, but 

 which Joe and I plunged into as our only refuge. We 

 were nearly over when he began to falter, and as our pur- 

 suers were clattering down the road behind us, I slipped 

 off my side arms and slid off into the water and struck 

 out for shore, and was just able to scramble up the bank 

 and throw myself flat in the bushes and swamp grass be- 

 fore the Yanks came in sight. Poor Joe made an heroic 

 effort to follow me and succeeded in getting his fore feet 

 on the bank, where he hung for a moment with his noble 

 face so close to me that we looked into each other's souls. 

 After a moment, he sank back into the water." 



The Major's Story. 



"Yes, it's tbe Grand Passion. The powder burning pas- 

 sion. We burn it in firecrackers and toy cannons long 

 before we are able to carry a gun, and when we can no 

 longer burn it in a gun we he down and die. 



"One afternoon, in our firecracker period, Jim and I i 

 borrowed father's powder horn and went down to the I 

 'quarters' to our 'nigger mammy's' cabin and climbed up 

 on The roof where we could reach the top of the mud I 



chimney and overhear what was going on inside. Aunt 

 Liza's husband was on his knees, evidently, at the fire- 

 side, for we could hear him praying. From the other side 

 of the fireplace Aunt Liza offered up another kind of 

 incense. We could distinctly smell sausage cooking, and, 

 in tbe pauses of his prayer, we could hear old Uncle Isaac's 

 supper sputtering in the pan. He was a very religious 

 man, and we were not at all surprised to find him at the 

 Throne of Grace. It was a very fervent supplication, and 

 between our ears and our noses we concluded that he 

 must have been making a raid on the smoke house. 



"Directly he got through with his own sins, and in a 

 feeling of general amnesty he prayed: 



" 'Oh Lawd, bress de white folks.' " And just then we 

 slightly tipped the powder horn. There was a quick 

 fizzle in the fire and Uncle Isaac stopped short. 



" Wha' dat? Wha' mek dat spit en de fire?' " 



" 'Wha what? Yo brack nigger; dat's jes de way de 

 fire alias spit when hit gwinter snow.! " 



"As soon as he settled down to the white folks again we 

 gave the horn another tilt. 



" 'Dar 'tis again, Aunt Lize, don't twell me dat's case 

 hit's gwinter snow; cfem's ^em'fe' 



" 'G'wayt Yo superstitiouser old nigger yo! Yo so 

 deep in yo sins yo wa'r out dat ha'thstone on yo knees 

 wif one eye on yo Maker and de yether eye tu'n roun' fo 

 feah some one grab yo. I twell yo hit gwinter snow, 

 w'en de Are spit dat aM T ay.' 



"And somehow the old horn got away from us and 

 went down the chimney, and the next it seemed as 

 though the whole cabin shot past us. We slid down and 

 cut for the house and got behind the kitchen just as the 

 two worst scared darkies I ever saw met my father at the 

 door. 



' ' What's all this running about?' he demanded as they 

 hurled themselves upon him. 

 " 'Oh, Marse John, de devil's down en de quaters.', 

 " 'Nonsense.' 



" 'Fo de Lawd, I'se fryin' sassiges, an Unc' Isaac he 

 offerin' up he evenin' pra'r 'n' de debil jump down de 

 chimbley en grab de sassiges en hit me over de haid wif 

 de pan 'n' hook Unc' Isaac en de side wif he ho'n en bruk 

 hit off en he side, en hyar de Tid'n!" 



George Kennedy. 



WOMAN IN THE WILDS. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



Let me second the advice given by "Podgers" in his 

 recent article relative to ladies enjoying out of door sports. 

 When the summer sun is high in the zenith and its rays 

 fall almost perpendicularly upon our heads, a man will 

 exclaim, "Oh, this unbearable heat," and forthwith pack 

 a grip and hie himself away to the cooling mountain 

 breezes. Now, "Why should not the wife go also?" 



Women need little urging to take to horseback riding, 

 shooting, fishing, rowing and camp fife; and what is 

 better or more exhilarating, or will send the blood cours- 

 ing faster, or sooner bring roses to pale cheeks and luster 

 to tired eyes than a good canter, the excitement of a shot 

 at game, a row on the placid waters of a lake, or tempting 

 the wary trout with a bogus fly? 



I speak from experience. I have known the heat of the 

 city, the burning pavements and the sultry air, and until 

 I began an out-door life thought them uncomfortable 

 necessities; but now to pen me up in the city during the 

 hot summer months would be like confining the wild bird 

 of the forest in a gilded cage. 



I go with my husband everywhere. No bush is too 

 thick, no stream too deep, no forest too dark, no hill is so 

 high that I cannot follow him, and the best part is that 

 he enjoys having me go with him. With the gun, por- 

 cupines are my pet game. After work is done in the 

 morning and the others have all gone their respective 

 ways, I shoulder my little .25-20 Maynard, and start out, 

 and fine fun it is to bring a porcupine tumbling down 

 from the tree he is destroying (by peeling off the bark). 

 Sometimes I vary the sport in favor of camp meat- 

 mountain grouse, sage grouse or antelope. Fly-fishing and 

 boating are more pet pleasures, but 1 do like the gun and 

 hope soon to try my hand with my rifle on big game. A 

 hammock swung to the breeze enhances the enjoyment 

 at camp, while the occasional shower only serves to 

 brighten nature and make her more pleasing. Then the 

 glorious sunrises, the golden sunsets, and the pale silvery 

 rays of Luna as she slowly appears from behind a snow- 

 capped mountain would make every fiber of a nature-lov- 

 ing person's being quicken with a new sense of apprecia- 

 tion of all that is grand and good. 



Yes, ladies, take "Podgers's" advice, and for a Christmas 

 present accept the rod and gun, and when your husband's 

 grip is packed for the next summer's outing just remark 

 quietly, "What time did you say our train left, dear? I 

 will be ready at any hour you mention," and be ready, 

 and he will take you gladly. Then enjoy yourself. 

 Don't mind torn dresses, worn out boots, and scratched 

 and sunburnt hands and face; take such things as they 

 come, and you will find health and new pleasures, pleas- 

 ures which cannot become blase, and then you free your- 

 self from the duties of society for a while, and drink in 

 the life-giving oxygen which nature provides so bounti- 

 fully but which would be denied you in your city home. 



Mrs. D 



What the Kingfishers Would Have Done. 



Cincinnati, O., March 15.— Editor Forest and Stream: After read- 

 ing Ctiapter XXLV. of the incomparable character sketches and home 

 life of the "Danvis Folks" I was moved to exclaim, "Poor Sam Lovel," 

 and in the same breath to anathematize that smooth, oily tongued 

 rascal Bascom. I think brother Robinson made a mistake in letting 

 him get away without giving: Sam a chance to take a flying shot at 

 him with the old "ore bed." Even now (only it is too late) it would 

 afford me— and a few hundreds of other readers as I am convinced— a 

 "power o' comfort" if brother Robinson could put old Drive and Sam 

 on the trail, run him to earth, smoke him out and bring back his hide 

 as a trophy of the best hunt of his life, this "figgeratively speakin'," 

 and for a satisfactory round-up to the whole story. ' Kingfisher. 



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isaas 



