212 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[March 14, 1896. 
hi Mfi ar ^ m i mt S am ^ 
UNCLE LISHA'S OUTING.-XV. 
Talk Around the Camp-fire. 
The company had been sitting around the fire forborne 
time in meditative silence, Antoine especially in such 
deep thought that the pipe between his set teeth had gone 
out for lack of draft. He was raoking his brain for the 
invention of a change in the bill of fare, which had be- 
come monotonous with continual repetitions of roast 
duck, fried duck and stewed duck till each variation 
needed a good deal of Spartan sauce to make it palatable. 
At last he spoke, without removing his pipe from his 
mouth or his gaze from the fire. 
"Cheekin pie was good, an' Ah'll b'lieved dawk pie was 
good, but Ah'll a'n't tas'e. 'F Ak'll gat hoven or bake 
pans an' somet'ing for mek crus', an' board for roll it, an' 
peg too, an' some pepper we'll freget for brought, an' 
t'ree, four necessity t'ing, Ah'll can't rembler, Ah bet you 
head Ah'll was mek you pieto-morry you can' heat'nough 
of it, prob'ly. Ah'll got de dawk." 
"It kinder seems," said Joseph, his mouth watering for 
the prospective feast, "as it looks naow, you'd hafter 
make us a pie aouten clear duck, but I d' know fer sar- 
tain." 
"You might spare him some feathers for crust," Sam 
suggested. 
" Wal, M'ri' couldn't, though I da' say they'd make tor- 
able light top crust." 
"Ann Twine's pie is some like the feller's soup 'at I 
hearn tell on," said Uncle Lisha, fumbling absent-mind- 
edly on the log beside him for a shoe-peg. "He was a- 
travelin' an' got short o' money, or mebby he was a reg'lar 
beggar, I do' know, but ary way, he stopped tu a haouse 
an' ast for somethin' tu eat, an' they wouldn't give him 
nothin'. So he ast 'em if they wouldn't lend him a kittle 
a spell an' a spwun, so 's 't he c'ld make hisself a kittle o' 
stun soup, an' so they did just tu see what he'd du. Wal, 
he built him a fire side o' the rwud an' sot a kittle o' watex- 
a-b'ilin', an' he took an' washed a stun 'baout 's big as his 
fist an' popped it int' the kittle, an' sot an' watched it b'ile 
a spell, an' then he dipped up a spoo'f'l an' tasted on't. 
" 'It's proper good,' says he, 'but it's kinder fraish, an' 
I wish 't I hed a leetle grain o' salt tu put into 't,' an' 
they went and fetched him a han'f '1 an' he put that in. 
" 'That's a gre't improvement,' says he, a-tastin' ag'in, 
'but it wouldn't hurt it none if the' was a hunk o' meat in 
't; any sort of a scrap 'at you was a-goin' tu heave away. 
I hain't partic'lar.' An' so they fetched him a good hunk 
o' meat an' he hove that int' the kittle, an' then says he, 'I 
s'pose you'd jes' 's live 's I'd pull one o' them 'ere turnips 
over there? This 'ere soup 's goin' tu be putty strong o' 
stun if it don't ha' some vegetables in 't.' 
"So he went an' got him a turnip, an' whilst he was 
abaout it he got an onion, an' he cut 'em up an' chucked 
'em in. An' when he got it b'iled he eat 'nough tu last 
him tew days, an' says he, a-rubbin' of his stomaerk, 
'The' hain't nothin' 'at makes better soup 'n a good stun, 
wi' a few leetle additions, an' I'm muchobleeged tu ye for 
the use o' your kittle,' say he. 
"Dat was mek me rembler of one man Canada," said 
Antoine, scooping up a coal with the bowl of his pipe and 
pulling at it with resounding smacks. 
"I'll warrant ye," said Uncle Lisha, "I never knew 
nothin' 'at didn't." 
Antoine gave no heed to the remark, but at once began 
bis story when his pipe was in blast. 
"You see, dar was one mans a'n't very good up, an' 
he'll a'n't gat not'in' for heat on his haouse 'cep' one pea 
for all his waf an' ten chillens. He tol' hees whomans for 
put de pot on de stofe an' full him up wid water an' put 
dat pea on it. Den bambye w'en he beegin fo' bile he 
look on de pot an' see dat pea jomp raoun' all 'lone, he 
say, 'Dat leetly pea was look lonesick, an' Ah'll goin' see 
'f Ah can fin' somet'ings for hees company.' 
"So he go in de naght to 'nudder man's barn, where 
dey was keel big critter an' hang it for cold off, an' he 
was cut good chonk an' take it on his haouse an' t'row it 
in de pot 'long to de pea w'en his waf he'll a'n't see. Bam- 
bye w'en de pea was bi'e plenty an' his waf beegin tas'e 
for heat, he say: 
" 'Bah gosh, Ah'll a'n't never see so pealak dat for mek 
soup, me.' An de mans tol' him: 
" 'You'll a'n't never gat raght kan' o' pea 'fore,' " 
"I guess it must be the water in your tew soups 'at 
makes me think o' the way that 'ere little Wat Palmer 
got a pint o' rum aouten Hamner here a spell ago," said 
Sam, as he broke a dry branch across his knee and slowly 
fed the fire with the pieces. 
"It wa'n't good rum, I'll bate ye," said Uncle Lisha. 
"Wal, sech as it was, he got it aouten Hamner for 
nothin', which is more 'n most c'n du, an' he got drunk 
as a bee on't an' then tol' haow he done it." 
"Wal, haow 'd he come it on him?" 
"Wal, Wat he was dre'f Mly dry an' not a red cent in his 
pocket nor nob'dy tu treat him. So he gits him tew pint 
bottles jest ezactly alike an' fills one on 'em wi' water an' 
sticks that intu one cut-tail pocket an' the empty one int' 
t'other an' marches up to Hamner's bar 's promp' 's a 
major an' calls for a pint o' the best rum. Bein' so promp' 
Hamner cal'lated 'at of course he was goin' tu pay ri' 
daown, an* so he drawed the spirits an' handed it over to 
Wat, an' he tucked it in his pocket, and says he, 'Mr. 
Hamner, you jest chalk this daown ag'in me an' I'll pay 
for 't the nex' job o' fiddlin' I git,' and Hamner said not 
by a jugful, he wouldn't, an' if Wat wa'n't goin' tu pay 
for 't then tu jest hand it right back. Wat, he begged 
hard, but it wa'n't no use, the money or the liquor Ham- 
ner would hev', an' so Wat gin |him the bottle o' water a- 
partin' with 't as 'ough 't was his heart's blood, an' off he 
went wi' the rum, an' in an haour was drunker'n a hatter, 
an' Hamner poured the water intu his barrel, never mis- 
trustin', but a-ticklin' himself 'at he'd saved ninepunce, 
an' so he hed, r'al'y. But it bothered him haow Wat hed 
got so all-fired drunk." 
"Wal, seh, boy, if de folks dat was went to Hamny a'n't 
gat more as pant water in de barrel rawm, it won't hurt 
dem." 
"Wal," said Joseph, "it kinder seems as 'ough another 
pint o' water was a leetle mite more'n Hamner's rum 
ould stan', accordin' tu my rec'lections o' the taste on't, 
bu* I d' know, mebby it will." 
The company became sUeot again, each busy with hie 
own thoughts, till Antoine began to sing as if to himself 
what may have been an improvisation, but was more likely 
a free translation of an old song. 
All tam w'en de leaf turn yeller 
It mek it kan o' lonesick, me, 
For t'ink w'en Ah'll was leetly feller 
An' go sleep on mab mudder's knee, 
"Dor, dor, dor, petit! Dor, dor, dor, petit 1" 
Same hoi' song she sing to me. 
Den de folkseB an' de medder, 
An' de ribber an' de tree, 
Beegin swimmin' raoun' togedder 
W'en mah mudder sing to me, 
"Dor, dor, dor, petitl Dor, dor, dor, petit!" 
So he sing his song to me. 
Long tam 'go Ah'll lef mah mudder, 
An' mahse'f beelong to me, 
An' de whomans was anudder 
Rock mah chillens on her knee. 
"Dor, dor, dor, petitl Dor, dor, dor, petit!" 
Sem mah mudder sing to me. 
Antoine pocketed his pipe and yawned sleepily, "Wal, 
dis a'n't mek any dawk pie. Ah'll b'lieved Ah can mek it 
jus' as fas' 'f Ah go sleep," and he made his way into the 
tent, whither the others presently followed, Sam linger- 
ing last to scan the patches of starlit sky between the 
branches and forecast the morrow's weather. 
Then, while the dying fire snapped itself out and the 
dancing shadows sank into the universal gloom, the 
tired hunters were lulled to sleep by the slow wash of 
waves and the low song of the cedars. 
Rowland E. Robinson. 
A DAY IN CENTRAL IOWA. 
Vinton, la., Feb. 26. — Editor Forest and Stream: I am 
full, and not wishing to explode I turn for relief to the 
columns of Forest and Stream, 
I went out this morning to mend fence and was whack- 
ing away at it when I thought I heard a sound over in the 
cornfield that made me drop the tools and turn my ear 
that way mighty quick. "Yes! That's it, ducks! ducks!" 
And I pitched into that fence, giving it a whack here and 
shoving a stick in there, and all the time trying to think 
where the cartridges were and wondering if that "chip of 
the old block" had used them all up on rabbits. And then 
I began to think that I did not wish to shoot any ducks 
after all, I would, sooner think that this summer they 
would be paddling along the shore of some Northern lake 
with their families of little ones. So I wandered over to 
where the horses were grazing, and while I listened to the 
boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo-lwo of the prairie chickens, one 
milks colt after another came up and I rubbed their noses, 
pulled their ears, pinched them in the ribs with my 
thumb and asked them what they were good for anyway. 
Then just as I got to the house over went a flock of ducks 
quacking and gabbing to each other, and I leaned up 
against the corner of the house and sort of went to pieces 
— couldn't saw wood or do any work after that. Several 
flocks went over, and one flock of forty geese. 
It was bright and warm, the thermometer indicating 
62° above zero. The outside doors were open. Now and 
then an adventurous bee or blue-bottle would come buz- 
zing around, and every time I would yell ducks out would 
come my wife on a run, for she is full of it too. 
It has been one of those dreamy spring days that makes 
one glad to be alive, with not a breath of air stirring, and 
nothing to be seen moving around the numerous farm- 
houses in sight. But the air is full of sounds. On the 
creek bottom the crows are calling and lazily flying from 
tree to tree. All day the prairie chickens have been 
crowing. In some cedar trees in the yard some bluejays 
are squalling and chattering. 
And now comes the mellow lowing of cattle from some 
distant field. I hear chickadees and the everlasting Eng- 
lish sparrow. I see my thirty-six bronze turkeys and the 
seventeen gobblers are bunched together, a number of 
them weighing over 251bs. , and with tails spread they are 
strutting around and reflecting their bronze in the sun, 
and when I say "gobble" they come in heavy on the 
chorus. I keep a few geese just to hear them talk, and 
they are picking grass and holding a very animated con- 
versation. I keep a few ducks just to hear them quack, 
and their quick eyes and ears tell them that others are 
passing over, and they are shaking out their wings and 
are very noisy. And so too I keep some Guinea fowls 
just to hear them yell, and I can hear them to-day all 
right, and so can any one else within ten miles or less. 
The doves are cooing and carrying straws to their nest 
boxes, and I am so glad that I am alive. 
During the forepart of last December a flock of ten 
blackbirds came to my place. This was some time after 
the straggling flocks had gone, and I think they came 
from the far regions of the North. These birds have been 
here ever since, feeding with my stock, and it has been 
cheerful to see them and hear them sing. They have red 
on their wings, the tops of their beads are brown and 
they are speckled all over with the latter color. To-day 
I miss them; have they taken the fever and gone? 
The last day of December a mourning dove was in my 
corn crib, and I have known these birds to stay here for 
a short time into January. But never before during my 
forty-one years of life have I known a flock of summer 
birds to live through a winter in the North. 
Bat while my eyes and eaTS have been taking in all this 
to-day, my mind has been away up in Minnes jta, wan- 
dering along the shores of those wooded lakes I know 
what they are like, I have been there; but I wonder 
where the snow line is, and if these ducks will reach 
those lakes to-day. 
Well, I am somewhat relieved now; but I would be 
glad to say to Kelpie, who lives in northern Michigan, and 
to Mr. Cooly, who lives at Detroit Lake, Minnesota, that 
the waterfowl are on the way to their breeding grounds. 
Mount Tom. 
In Mr. Holyoake's recently published volume on public speaking, 
ha gives the folio wiug instances of ho w these august luminaries were 
accustomed to allude to each other: "The Times calls its neighbor, 
the Morning Chronicle, 'that squirt of filthy water,' and the Chronicle 
calls the Post 'that slop pail of corruption.' The Standard describes 
the Globe as 'our blubber-headed contemporary," the Morning Post 
assails the Courier as 'that spavined old hack,' while the Morning 
Advertiser hurls its wrath against the Times as 'that bully of Berk- 
shire and braggadocio of Printing House Square.' The Times, not to 
be outdone, CTumanced one of its leaders on June 18, lgi}3| With 'The 
Liberal Liars.' "— London Truth, 
EDUCATION, NOT INSTINCT. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
"A nuthatch put a nut into a knot hole on a limb the 
better to break the nut. It may have been instinct or 
luck that prompted this nuthatch to use a knot hole for 
his vise, but it looks like brains" ("Nuthatch," Forest 
and Stream, Feb. 8, 1896). That Nuthatch should really 
think the nuthatch had brains is remarkable. It looks as 
if Nuthatch had brains too, and not ordinary ones 
at that. He is almost Indian in that respect, for Indians 
gave birds supernatural powers, the ability to think, and 
language or ability to convey ideas to one another. Once 
in a while, say every two weeks on an average, somebody 
writes like Nuthatch did to the Forest and Stream, tell- 
ing of something remarkable a bird did, then winds up 
with "It looks like brains," "Marvelous development of 
instinct," "Wonderful intuition," "Something akin to 
thought," but never a once so far as I know has any one 
said straightforwardly that a bird "thought." "Did it 
think?" is common enough, but no "It thought." 
"Instinct?" a bluej ay would say. "Instinct beeheud! 
Say, you ought to hear Grandpop Cut Wing tell about 
warning that old big buck over on Metcalf Mountain eight 
cold seasons ago. I s'pose he did everlastingly holler and 
laugh. Then the Indians, long before you whites came, 
used say evil things of us, as you do, for warning our 
brothers of your approach. Instinct! Eheu-u-u!" 
The cowbird is a lazy tough by instinct — all instinct, of 
course. Mr. M. A. Walton says that the mother cowbird 
takes the young cowbird from nest to nest of other birds, 
evidently telling what lots of labor other birds have to do, 
and telling the pupil that it must not do such things if it 
wants to keep in good cowbird society. Mr. Walton tied 
a bit of copper wire around a young cowbird's leg, which 
had been raised in a yellowbird's nest by the yellowbirds, 
but was daily visited by a female cowbird. The female 
cowbird at last disappeared with the young cowbird. The 
following year Mr. Walton saw the cowbird with a copper 
bracelet going from nest to nest in company with another 
cowbird. "probably the mother" (Forest and Stream, 
Vol. XXXVIII., p. 271). Thereafter [.that young cowbird 
was, of course, instinctively adverse to building nests. 
Bert Titus, a 12-year-old lad, was fishing in the Hudson 
near Albany. A catbird came to a nearby rock and began 
to cut up such capers as attracted the boy's attention. 
Then the bird flew toward a clump of bushes, back again, 
then toward the bush. The boy's instinct told him that 
the bird wanted him to go to the bush and so went, and 
found a 3ft. snake making for the catbird's nest. The 
boy killed the snake, as the bird's instinct (inherited from 
its ancestors presumably) had told it he would (Forest 
and Stream, Vol. XIX., p. 485). Down in South Africa 
is a bird very fond of honey, hence its name of honey- 
bird. To get the honey the bird shows "marvelous intui- 
tion." It finds a bee tree and with coaxing like a cat- 
bird's entices a man to it. Then the man and bird enjoy 
a feast together. Some one not instinctively acquainted 
with the bird thinks it is sick and pays no attention to it, 
but if he is told of the bird's habit he follows it because 
then his instinct has been developed. If another honey- 
bird should appear, the guide ceases guiding till the rival 
is driven away. Why do honeybirds do tbis? It is in- 
stinct, of course, because it is not possible for a bird to tell 
another bird how its greatgrandfather found a man eat- 
ing honey and then was told by "natural inward impulse" 
to take the man to another bee tree it knew about (For- 
est and Stream, Vol. XV., p. 127). It is preposterous to 
suppose these birds told one another about men liking 
honey ; fairly silly, in fact. 
Last summer chimney swifts had a nest in a chimney 
of my house in Northwood, N. Y. Eventually the two 
young instinctively flew after the mother had done every- 
thing instinct suggested to make them — ordered, begged 
and dared them to, flying herself to show how easy it 
was. They flew more and more every day, till along 
about migrating time the three were flying almost con- 
stantly all day long, often with visitors from neighboring 
chimneys and barns (s v/allows). The mother led in these 
mad instinctive flights, and her twistings and turnings 
were calculated (by instinct) to make the young birds 
hustle. If a man expects to take a long walk at some 
time in the future against time, the first thing he does is 
to exercise every day, more and more, till the time when 
he walks "in earnest." The man knows that unless he 
exercises he won't be able to stand the strain when the 
time comes. Experience may have told him this or 
perhaps other athletes. I have read somewhere that the 
parent storks of Europe keep their young on the move 
for weeks before going South to beyond the Mediter- 
ranean. And that the young birds are killed if evidently 
too weak to stand the journey. (I don't believe the last 
about the killing because it puts a stork on a level with 
the barbarous man who kills his deformed children.) 
Then there is the deep, dark, insolvable instinct of mi- 
gration; the impulse that enters the (what?) of our "sum- 
mer birds" and impels them to go to the south, some 
unerringly ioto lighthouses at night and others to be lost 
at sea. Their (what?) rises like a man's chest and they feel 
that they must go when the days grow cooler and the 
nights cold, as in the "mellow days of autumn," when 
they remember the warmth and joys south "toward the 
sun." Is there any sign of approaching winter in the 
weather that we notice and birds do not? Migration is 
more regular than the seasons, because birds know cold 
is coming. They know instinctively, because straggling 
birds — robins, for instance — are seen north at times all 
winter long. These robins — young birds most likely — 
look for their beautiful summer homes, not believing the 
old birds and instinct when they told them it was no 
longer pleasant there. 
The sudden appearance of birds new to a locality is 
often the cause of comment by naturalists. "Ten years 
ago there was not one seen. I saw a small flock nine 
years ago. A few more came the next year. Five years 
ago there were hundreds, but a year later they were fewer 
in numbers, and I have seen only seven this year. Where 
have they gone to?" No story is commoner on the pages 
of ornithological history than this. They come, go, and 
are gone. Of course it is the "wandering instinct" (dis- 
tinguished from migration). A feathered Columbus alone, 
perhaps with a hardy band, had set sail in the sea of air, 
braving the unknown west, looking for the wealth of th§ 
