Jan. 4, 1896., 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
7 
ree, grouper, hog fish, shark or tarpon. This latter fish 
seeks those waters also, and though I did not have the 
good fortune to catch any, saw a big one weighing nearly 
lOOlbs. floating by the side of our boat. They 
appear very susceptible to the cold, and during the 
cold snap in early February, when the thermometer 
dropped to 29°, a party counted fifty dead ones floating 
in the Bay. I look for the day when Messrs. Quay, Van 
Oourtland and Hecksher will desert Pine Island and Pun- 
ta Gordo and come to Biscayne Bay for their sport after 
this king of fish. This will be, I suppose, when Mr. Flag- 
ler extends his railroad from Lake Worth, and a line of 
ships conveys tourists ^across only about 150 miles to 
NaSsau, a day's light run. 
But night has gone, and another bright day follows old 
Sol out of the sea. Mr. Tuttle with his naphtha launch 
swings up to our starboard, and lowering the gangway 
we quickly embark for a five-mile run to Miami River, 
the principal eastern drainage to the Everglades. The 
mouth of the river is 150yds. wide and of sufficient depth 
in channel to admit a boat drawing 4ft. On one side 
lives Mr. Brickell, the most noted rare reconteur in 
Florida. Opposite on the northern bank Mrs. Tuttle, 
originally of Cleveland, whose son's naphtha launch we 
had, holds sway. At their house, formerly Ft. Dallas, 
they dispense true Southern hospitality. From the huge 
CocoanUt trees which line the coral shores great bunches 
of nuts hang down beneath the Waving green palms, 
liipening all the year they fell like chestnuts in early 
autumn, but bringing the covering with them. Try 
some time to get a cocoanut from its outer sheaf and you 
won't believe all the stories you read about wild monkeys 
eating that strange fruit. Nothing short of an axe will 
do the work quickly. Loaded with nuts and oranges 
from the trees growing all around the house, we pro- 
ceeded on up the river, past its mangrove-lined banks, 
frightening sleepy alligators from their stumps or beds 
off into the clear water, past other cocoanut groves to 
where the river narrowed into a rapids some four miles 
from Ft. Dallas. Some of us walked ; the ladies in a small 
rowboat were poled up the rapids over the coral reef. 
Scarcely any earth protected our feet from the sharp 
rock, but the distance wa8 short, some 300yds. Then 
rushing at a steeper slant the river broke into foam from 
its smooth and even bed in the old Fairy Tale Swamp, 
the Everglades of Florida. Like some huge prairie the 
famous glades stretched out before Us, tree-lined at the 
shore, but widening odt in the distaflCe to What? Few 
have penetrated its wilds, but all who have tell of 
beautiful islands, clear water and unfriendly Indians, 
the remnant of the once powerful Seminoles. Un- 
friendly, I say— only such in that they will not guide a 
stranger to their happy hunting grounds. Unlike Florida 
or Georgia Crackers, they work, and live better than 
many of the white folk who look down on them as sav- 
ages. Besides corn and other vegetables, this fast-disap- 
pearing race raise their own hogs and cattle. Born 
hunters, the deer and other wild animals feed them, and 
alligator hides have brought and do still bring them good 
revenue. One year's shipment of these, I was told, num- 
bered 10,000, but for the truth of this I will not vouch. 
The storekeepers charge them an outrageous price for 
everything, and I hardly dare begin to figure how many 
hides the poor fellows have to give in exchange for the 
sewing machines they all covet. After taking a photo- 
graph of our party we all had lunch, watching mean- 
while the black bass in the clear water, but we had no 
bait. It was dark when once again the electric lights on 
the yacht welcomed us back to the cabin, where as usual 
Frank had the music box playing "Do, Do, My Huckle- 
berry, Do," or some such classic piece. 
A strange interest attached itself to those far-away 
Everglades, and almost gladly would I have been one of 
Ingraham'B party who crossed in March, 1892, with a sur- 
veyor's outfit. He started from Fort Myers on the west 
coast with five boats, but deserted two, and after three 
weeks, tattered and torn and completely exhausted, ar- 
rived at Mrs. Tuttle's place. He remained there two 
weeks, and though he was closely questioned, what he 
saw on that trip remained a secret. The penalty the 
tribe mete out to any of their number who shows a 
white man into the glades is death. They ask no help 
of Uncle Sam, and only occasionally come out to buy or 
sell. 
In Mr. Brickell's eleven-ton sloop we went kingfishing 
next day out by the Fowey Rock Light, but the wind blew 
too gently to keep our skids whirling along in the clear 
water. Mrs. C. caught one big fellow weighing about 
81bs. "We saw a great many strike at our hooks and miss, 
but with a stiff breeze to catch a boatload is no trouble, 
for they bite then with the line 40ft. astern, as fast in- 
deed as bluefish on an August day off Fire Island, near 
New York. In shape and marking they are hardly dis- 
tinguishable from a Spanish mackerel. 
To vary our sport Mr. Tuttle suggested a trip up Arch 
Creek quail shooting; so on Friday, March 1, we took the 
launch and ran up the bay to its head, Dumfoundling 
Bay, past Lemon City (five houses) to Arch Creek, another 
outlet to the Everglades. Some five miles up, beneath 
mangrove trees which grew to a height of 40 and 50ft. in 
places, we were stopped by a natural bridge of coral which 
spanned the creek, leaving only sufficient room beneath 
for a rowboat to pass. With dog and gun we pushed 
back into the pine woods for quail. What hunting I 
Palmettos to one's waist and coral knee high, against 
which my poor Bhins continually scraped, causing our 
hunting fever, with profuse perspiration, to quickly run 
away. In a half-mile walk we got up two coveys, and out 
of my six shots I killed five. The two other hunters got 
the remaining seven of a round dozen. After Tallahas- 
see, where I had hunted from a wagon during January in 
cotton and cornfields, that was about the toughest shoot- 
ing I ever saw. 
Back we steered along the moss-covered coral banks, 
with air plants growing from every tree, until after three 
hours' steady going we reached the yacht, the moon long 
since bright, also the stars, each giving a white and 
stranger light than the forest fires back in the Ever- 
glades. Glad enough, I assure you, were we for the com- 
forts of our floating home. Our table looked very pretty 
with the great bunches of roses, kept beautifully on ice 
all the way from St. Augustine. Fine fresh turkey, rich 
milk and new beets excited no less comment. But tur- 
keys, beets and milk at what a price! Sent out on an 
order from Cocoanut Grove Hotel without a definite price 
settled beforehand, the bill came later. Six turkeys, three 
pr four chickens, a bunch of beets, two gallons of milk, 
two dozen eggs; total, $66. I don't think the Waldorf or 
the Ponce de Leon can equal Biscayne Bay Hotel for its 
prices. 
Saturday we told the bay good-by and started south for 
Turtle Harbor, but on account of the wind had to put in 
at Caesar's Cove, behind Christmas Point, Here, among 
endless keys, the most famous of the pirates who infested 
that coast long held out against Uncle Sam, defeating all 
attempts at capture, until at last a whole fleet was sent 
after him. At bis very home he was finally caught and 
hanged to pay the penalty of his many misdeeds. The 
storm blown over, at 6 next morning we were oft' past 
Carysford Reef, twenty-five miles from Cape Florida, to 
Alligator Reef, thirty-five miles away. Three miles in 
ffom Alligator Reef is Indian Key, where Perrine was 
given a 60.000 acre grant for an experimental station back 
in 1830 or thereabouts; but he, with hia whole settlement, 
was killed by the Seminole Indians. Next Long Key, 
with its 30,000 cocoanut trees and pineapple plantations, 
was passed. Then came Sombrero Key Light, thirty- 
eight miles; next American Shoal Lights, twenty-six 
miles, and only seventeen from Key West, called in 
Spanish Cayo Hues or Bone Key — a run all told from Bis- 
cayne Bay of about 140 miles. All these keys or coral 
islands are shore lined with cocoanuts and mangroves, 
and inland, such as are inhabited, grow pineapples and 
early vegetables. Out to sea stretched Florida Reef, over 
100 miles long, the left bank of the Gulf Stream, and 
though the wind blew strong we sailed as in a land-locked 
harbor, but a mile or two away from the huge breakers, 
stretching a line of white foam against a cloudless sky. 
A more beautiful cruising ground there cannot be, for to 
lie at anchor out in this channel, correctly buoyed and 
lighted from Biscayne Bay to Key West, and in a naphtha 
launch run in among the keys, where the water is 
not over 2J- to 3ft. deep, opens an enchanted archi- 
pelago. In the setting rays of the sun which sank 
into the sea of the Gulf of Mexico, we glided 
to anchor off Key West beside the Spanish cruiser 
Infanta Isabel. Have you ever felt, when long 
away aod out of touch with the world, how it seems as if 
something strange and awful had happened? Sol felt, 
and in habte sought the telegraph office and some recent 
newspaper to learn if all was well. No sad news came to 
blight our cup of happiness, and when we had seen the 
little there is to be seen at Key West next day, and had 
been robbed for coal at $9 per ton, and 1| cents per. gallon 
for water, we yearned for the wind to subside in the Gulf 
and to be away to Havana. But the wind would not 
down, and another day was partly passed visiting the 
sponge market— one of the largest, we were told, in the 
world. I bought some beautiful big sponges for 50 cents 
(which would cost $2 at home) from Samson Stamp, the 
old bumboatman whom everybody who goes down there 
must know. Strange to say, Mr. Ulmo, our engineer, 
who ran the blockade all through the war, recognized 
Samson as having been a cabin boy on his ship, and, in 
remembrance of those days, great tears trickled down 
poor Samson's cheeks. 
Upon the arrival of the s.s. Olivette that night from 
Havana I went on the dock to hear the news about the 
insurrection, and quickly found myself in the midst of 
the most excited crowd I ever saw. The babble was 
deafening, and not understanding one word I wondered 
in what country I could be. Poor Cubans! many banished 
no doubt from home, they wanted to hear the latest 
whisper, if maybe they might see Cuba again. It is a 
wise precaution of Spain in putting a man-of-war to 
watch this half Cuban city of ours, for it is a short run, 
110 miles, for a filibustering expedition across to Cuba. 
And this run we took the morning of March 5, steering 
S. by W. i W. across the Gulf Stream, there 40 miles 
wide and from 4,000 to 5,000ft. deep, escorted, it seemed, 
by schools of flying fish, until at 1:30 in the afternoon we 
slipped in past the forts La Cabana, La Punta and Castle 
Morro, the latter with its telegraphic flags flying, which 
we saw hauled up at our approach. We slowed down to 
take a pilot on board, though none is really necessary for 
guidance in that deep harbor, but only to give one a 
position when at anchor. I say at anchor, though in 
reality no one anchors there. 
The harbor in Spanish Havana is quite deep and the 
tide of so small a rise and fall the drainage of the city is 
not properly carried away, but settles on the bottom, and 
not to disturb this accumulation of filth huge square red 
buoys with steel staples attached float about at various 
intervals. To these each foreign ship or yacht is moored. 
The Dungeness was the only yacht there at the time, but 
the bay seemed full of tramps and liners from Mexico, 
France,England and the United States, not to mention two 
men-of-war, both English, however. Against the stone 
wharfs were numerous steam and sail craft floating the 
yellow flag of Spain, gaining thus an advantage against 
the rest of the world. How? maybe you will ask. Well, 
as I understand the case, no foreign ship can load at the 
docks, but must do so entirely by lighters, thus giving 
those who ply that trade a livelihood, and in a certain 
way handicapping foreign commerce to the benefit of 
home industries, a sort of protection theory. 
Graham F. Blandy. 
[to be concluded.] 
A Bear Experience. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
I killed a bear once, but my bear did not act at all like 
Dr. GrinneH'8. 
My guide and I were riding along a ridge when a great 
dark animal jumped out of a ravine and ran off. It 
looked to me like a hog. My guide said, "It's a bear." I 
jumped off my horse and fired at it. 
Of course I had heard how dangerous bears are, and as 
soon as I had shot I jumped on my horse, put spurs to 
him and rode away. My guide rode after the bear, but I 
did not want to get too close to him, and I rode the 
other way. 
Now, what do you think that confounded bear did? 
He ran in a circle, and as I was galloping along, thinking 
that I was safe, I saw the bear running toward me, com- 
ing up the other side of a ravine I was approaching. In 
self-defense I had to dismount and fire at him, and he 
turned and ran off over the hill. 
Presently the guide came up and we rode slowly over 
the hill after the bear, and dosvn into the Btream bottom, 
and pretty soon we saw the beast lying down there. 
"Look out," said my guide, "he's alive." 
He wasn't though. For some occult reason he had 
lain down and died, Veritas, 
THE TALKING PINE.-II. 
The Rain Songr. 
The Talking Pine nodded in friendly greeting as I got 
out of the canoe and came up to my usual place at the 
feet of the great tree. 
"Kla-how-ya, T'solo, the wanderer; it is well that you 
came to-day, for to-day the pines will sing the rain song 
and you shall sing with us, for it is a good song and one 
to know." 
"So be it, wise one. I will learn the rain song, that I 
may know it when I am in other lands. It is a good song 
to know when the air is dry and you can get no waterfor 
your throat. I will learn the rain song of you, wise one." 
"Come, T'solo, the wanderer, and sit at my feet, where 
I can spread my arms over you and keep the rain away." 
"Now when the wind comes all the pines will sing the 
wind song and dance the wind dance before they sing the 
rain song. 
"You know, my friend, T'solo, the wanderer, that the 
wind must always come to help the pines sing, so be not 
impatient to hear the rain song until the wind can help 
us." 
So I sat down by the feet of the Talking Pine and 
smoked my pipe and waited for the coming of the wind, 
to see the wind dance and hear the rain song. 
Soon the wind came slowly out of the southwest and 
the pines began to sing and the wind sung with them— 
at first so soft I could scarcely hear it; and I asked the 
Talking Pine, "Do you sing, wise one?" 
"Yea, listen," answered he. 
Then Iheard the wind song, for it had gathered strength , 
as all the pines began to sing and I could hear it very 
plain. 
Then the pines all began to dasice and to swing their 
long arms in time with the song and to sway and sing 
until they were all mad with the dance, and I thought 
they would fall. 
The song was wild and mournful, as it always is, and 
they sing it in the language of the pines, so one must 
know their talk to learn the songs. 
I heard them calling the rain to come out from behind 
the clouds and sing with them. 
The rain rode down with the wind and some rested on 
the pines, but most of it went on down and sung with 
the flowers and the grass: for the rain, you know, is rest- 
less and cannot stay long in one place. 
The pines all love the rain and always sing the rain 
song when they see it coming on the clouds, so it will 
stop and sing with them. 
For a long time the pines and the rain sung together, 
and then the rain went away and the wind went with it, 
and the pines were left all alone. 
The wind, you know, is never tired and travels all the 
time, so the pines always call the wind to help them 
dance, and always go to sleep when the wind goes away, 
and the sun wraps his warm blanket around them. 
"It was a good dance," said the Talking Pine when 
they had finished and the wind had gone. 
"Come again, T'solo, the wanderer, and I will 'show 
you other things and sing other songs, but now I sleep." 
Then I got into the canoe and crossed the Lake of the 
Mountains and left the Talking Pine to sleep out his 
sleep until another time. El Comancho. 
A WINTER HUNT WITH JOCK DARLING. 
It was as a result of the game photographing trip last 
summer that Jock Darling and I arrangf d for our winter 
hunt. Even if the law had permitted there would have 
been no sport in killing the game we saw while photo- 
graphing those July days, but the force of association is 
strong, and one cannot live a week with game at his very 
elbow— even if it is unseasonable game— and not catch 
the hunting fever. As there was only one possible cure, 
I packed up my warmest clothes, bought some additional 
heavy underwear, loaded twenty-five .40 82 Winchester 
cartridges and started for the woods. 
I left New York by the Fall River Line the night of 
Nov. 22. The next day, Saturday, a cold, sleety rain was 
falling in Boston. At Portland it was snowing, though 
only in a half-hearted way. At Bangor there was a good 
tracking snow and plenty of it, but unfortunately it began 
to rain. 
Those who have hunted on the snow will understand 
my interest in the weather and anxiety as the hunting 
grounds grew nearer and the rain continued to fall in in- 
creasing volume. At Sherman, ninety miles north of 
Bangor, where my railroad journey ended, the rain had 
stopped, but it had left a crusted snow that boded ill for 
still-hunting. This was the next worst thing to losing 
the snow altogether, but there was a grain of comfort in 
the fact that I was still a good long distance from my des- 
tination, and that the conditions might be different there. 
As the hotel at the station was, to say the least, unpre- 
possessing, and not being on the best of terms with the 
French lumberman's "little brothers," I got a man to 
drive me over to Patten, seven miles, where there is a 
good hotel. I arrived there some time before midnight, 
and finding Jock's name on the register, went to bed 
between clean sheets in a fairly comfortable frame of 
mind. 
Sunday found us on runners, slipping along behind 
Herb Brown's black horses over a good sledding snow, 
and that night we slept in camp. 
Game Sign. 
The last part of our journey had been through an un- 
broken wilderness, unmarked even by the sleds of the 
lumbermen. While daylight lasted we had counted the 
tracks of sixty-four deer and thirteen caribou crossing the 
road, besides innumerable fox trails. At one place the 
silent evidence of the snow showed that half a duzen cari- 
bou had gotten out of the road just in time to let our sled 
pass. A man on foot would, no doubt, have run directly 
upon them, but the merry jingle of our bells gave the 
woods tramps due warning of our coming. 
It was pleasant to be assured that the game was on 
hand and moving, but more pleasant still was the fact 
that we had gotten beyond the domain of the crust, and 
that the snow was still as a blanket and soft. 
Uncle Jock's Log Cabin. 
There were no hunters in camp upon our arrival, and 
no game in evidence: but before we left we atoned for 
this by piling up around the door a pyramid of trophies 
