March 21, 1896.] 
FOREST AND STREAM, 
231 
ently he passed a muskrat house that he was sure must be 
the one upon which he had left his companion, for it was 
the largest in the neighborhood, and the weeds in front 
were pressed fiat where the boat's prow crushed them 
down, and in further proof of its identity a piece of 
paper that had held Joseph's luncheon lay on the shelving 
verge, one sodden half anchoring the other that fluttered 
in the light wind. 
Uncle Lisha checked the boat's headway with a back- 
ward stroke and headed toward the house, calling out as 
he approached it, with his face over his shoulder, in a de- 
precatory tone: 
"There, naow, Jozeff, you needn't try tu hide ye. You 
can't skeer me wi' your f oolin'. Git right up an' git right 
in here." 
There was no response, and as the bow grounded with 
a soft, semielastic bump he called again, rather impa- 
tiently, at the same time getting upon his feet and facing 
about: 
"Come, naow, quit your f oolin' an' git in here." 
His face became blank with amazement as he peered 
over the top of the muskrat house and saw only the naked 
slope of its further wall. 
"Good airth an' seas, has the critter got asleep an' rolled 
off an' draownded hisself?" he cried in real alarm, then 
took an oar and gently prodded the shallow water on all 
sides, but met only the soft resistance of the oozy bottom. 
"Shaw, he couldn't never," he assured himself. '"Tain't 
deep enough, an' he'd ha' left his gun. But what on airth 
can ha' become on him? If he'd ha' waded ashore he'd 
S 
i 
ha' left a track in the ma'sh like a tew-year-ol' steer, an' 
he couldn't git through the mud, anyways. The' hain't 
been no boat come along 'at he da'st go in. Where in 
tunket has the critter gone? Jozeff! Jozeff! Jozeff !" he 
lifted up his voice and called, first accenting and prolong- 
ing the first syllable, then the second, and then both, but 
there came no answer save the mocking echoes repeating 
his call from the woods. 
"Con-dumb the tarnal fool! Wha' 'd he wanter go tu 
roost on a mushrat haouse for anyhaow, julluk a cussed 
mudhen?" the old man growled in a tremulous voice when 
he had taken breath after futile listening. "And wha' 'd 
I ever let him for? I'd give all my ol' boots an' shoes tu 
see him a settin' in this 'ere boat ag'in. Yis, sir, I 
would." 
He looked long and carefully all around far and near, 
and then shoved off into the channel and resuming the 
oars pulled lustily toward the camp. 
Rowland E. Robinson. 
Massachusetts Ferreters Fined. 
Southboro, Mass., March 10.— Editor Forest arid 
Stream: A most unusual occurrence took place in the 
First District Court in Westboro, Mass., on Tnursday, the 
5th inst. A few days previous Southboro officers arrested 
eight lawless men for killing rabbits with the aid of fer- 
rets. When surprised at their work they had six dead 
rabbits and two ferrets in their possession. Judge Bates 
gave them the limit— $20 for each rabbit— which is pretty 
dear meat for the scaUawags, and it ought to teach them a 
good, wholesome lesson. For years parties from Marlboro 
have raided Southboro covers with ferrets until the "cot- 
tontail" population was nearly extinct, and in spite of all 
local officers could do they have escaped arrest, as the law 
reads they must be taken in the act— an almost insurmount- 
able handicap. The law should read that anyone caught in 
the woods with a ferret should be fined $100 and denied 
the right of defense. However, all true sportsmen here- 
abouts are very thankful for this unexpected "pull," and 
are heartily congratulating officers and judge. 
J. W. B. 
THE CARLIN GROUSE. 
"In somer, when the Bbawes be sheyne, 
And leaveB be large and longe, 
Hit is full naerrle in fayre forest 
To hear the fouly's songe." 
"Yes," quoth Mr. Legality to that excellent gentleman 
himself, "yes, there is much truth in the old ballad, and 
it is just as true to-day as it was when Robin Hood roved 
the woodland glade and added to the forest's music the 
twang of string and the whisper of stinging arrow." 
This soliloquy was inspired by the clear air and mellow 
sunshine of an October morning. Mr. Legality was stand- 
ing on his front piazza in order to collect a few lungfuls 
of morning air therewith to sharpen his appetite for 
breakfast. The sunlight filtered through the shade trees 
and started the steam from the glistening asphalt pave- 
ment, that steam whose savor is inseparably connected in 
the city man's memory with the many sounds and smells 
of a warm morning in town. Those few lungfuls of 
atmosphere spoiled Mr. Legality's industrious intentions for 
that day. He thought of his office in the sixth story, and 
how the flies would buzz there toward noon, and how the 
whizz and clang of the trolley cars would wake into ex- 
asperating vibration every nerve in his jaded brain, and 
then he thought of a certain range of dark swamps of 
cedar and high knolls of beech and maple, joined by 
straggling lines of undergrowth and brambles; a wood of 
hollow, hill and glen, through whose midst ran a broad, 
clear stream that sparkled over rocks and boulders and 
caught the woodland shadows with its ripples. He 
thought of the cool shade and the cool springs, and above 
all thought of the burst of the whirring grouse, of echo- 
ing shot, of deadly aim and floating feathers. He thought, 
I say, of all these things, and his thoughts literally ran 
away with him. "That office doesn't see me to-day," was 
his final decree. He repeated this statement to his wife 
at the breakfast table, and having finished that meal he 
kissed his charming lady good-by and hied him to the 
railway station, bearing in his hand hie light-weight gun 
and closely "tagged" by his invaluable friend and ally, 
Trump, this latter gentleman being a sturdy pointer of an 
orange and white complexion. 
A ride of half an hour and a short walk brought this 
goodly pair to the rustic habitation of one Timothyseed, 
this same Timothyseed being a peculiar fellow, given 
rather to the sports than to the labors of the field. This 
trio, having become much acquainted in days of yore, 
were soon fully accoutered, and got them to the merry 
green wood to see what cheer they might find. 
About 10 o'clock they reached the range of woods be- 
fore referred to, and struck into a thicket of beech under- 
gro wth. Luck was with them, for they had gone but a 
short distance when the unerring Trump began to give 
evident signs that there was an "indescribable some- 
thing" in the air. "Birds ahead," quoth Seed. "Now, 
Legality, you walk along the edge of the cover and take 
the first bird that breaks across the open for the next 
piece of woods, and I will try my luck in the brush." 
And now Trump after a few more undecided steps came 
to a pause; then a few more steps, another pause — and 
then he settled into that pose so widely known and so 
justly admired, "a dead point." "Careful, old boy! 
Steady 1" Whir— whir! "Mark!" A brood of seven 
grouse got up from a tangle of blackberry vines and 
buzzed off through the dense cover. 
Mr. Timothy tried a snap shot at the only visible mem- 
ber of the bunch and was rewarded by a thud and flutter 
among the leaves. His shot was quickly followed by a re- 
port from Mr. Legality. "Dead bird!" "Tried to cross 
the open, eh?" "Yes, but I caught him at it." "That's 
right; I have one too." The two sportsmen got together 
and indulged in a small period of mutual and self- ad- 
miration. "I made a first-rate shot if I do say it." "You 
must have; I didn't make a bad one myself. Guess I 
have my shooting clothes on to-day." "Pretty fair be- 
ginning. Looks as though we might take home quite a 
bag. Two here and five more just ahead." Every shooter 
understands this kind of talk, and knows the way one 
feels when he kills the first bird he flushes in the morn- 
ing, and how he sees himself in imagination returning 
home about twilight with a heavy, heavy bag. 
After a little of this mutual "aiming ahead" the hunt- 
ers set out to secure the remainder of the brood of grouse. 
These latter, however, had apparently no desire to be se- 
cured, and proceeded to exhibit many of those niceties of 
character that most grouse seem born with. In vain the 
sportsmen chased and maneuvered. The only results 
were occasional whirs of invisible wings or the faintest 
possible glimpse of a brown streak in the air. Of course 
they shot at the "whirs" and shot at the "streaks," and 
half hopefully "sought dead" after every shot "just to 
make sure they hadn't hit him." At last it seemed as if 
the birds had all crawled into some woodchuck burrow 
or hied them to a happier land "far, far away," for not a 
feather could be flushed. So the sportsmen determined 
to hie them also and leave this untoward remainder to 
their meditations. They walked about a half mile up 
stream and struck the margin of a cedar swamp. Here 
as before they soon found birds, but they rose wild, three 
crossing to woods beyond the stream, and two cutting 
ahead into the swamp. These latter the sportsmen pur- 
i 
sued and flushed again, saluting them noisily, but unsuc- 
cessfully. 
Now there was a moderately steep bluff bordering the 
swamp on the east, running through the swamp and 
across an open pasture to another piece of woods beyond. 
Where this bluff crossed the open it was thickly covered 
with stunted hemlocks and cedars. This was a favorite 
place with the grouse, and thither the two flushed in the 
swamp betook themselves. Mr. Timothy mounted the 
bluff to cross the open on the one side. Mr. Legality 
walked upon the open ground below. Mr. Trump took 
the cover. They walked a short distance when whir- 
whir from the cover. Legality looked up in time to see 
a bird flashing over his head and trying to give him a nice 
open shot. "Bang! bang!" Well, some other noises fol- 
lowed the report, but they were neither echoes nor thuds 
of falling game. These sounds came from the mouth of 
Mr. Legality and described tersely and vehemently cer- 
tain innate qualities which he considered himself pos- 
sessed of. "Another bird ahead, look sharp!" came from 
Mr. Timothy, and sure enough whir came a second grouse, 
apparently trying to see how closely he could imitate his 
predecessor. He imitated well, and Mr. Legality imitated 
himself. As the report of his second erring barrel died 
away an expression dawned on his face that caused Mr. 
Timothy to utter involuntarily to himself the closing line 
of the old ballad of "Chevy Chase," "God bring us all 
good ending." He described himself over and over again, 
told how much money he had wasted on dog, gun and 
paraphernalia, and finally off ered his whole sporting outfit 
for sale at rock-bottom prices. 
Timothy was used to this sort of thing, and after mak- 
ing a modest monetary offer, merely as a matter of form, 
he proposed they should cross the stream and seek out the 
three grouse that had betaken themselves that way. So 
a shallow place was found and the three companions were 
poon splashing to the other side. This was a more open 
stretch of woods, with considerable ground hemlock clus- 
tering about stumps and decaying logs. For sometime 
they hunted in vain, and were getting a little dispirited 
when Mr. Trump struck a trail. He led forward slyly as 
a cat, stepping noiselessly, stopping for an instant, draw- 
HOLDING THE MIRROR UP TO NATURE. 
Judge Clinton, of Port Angeles, Wash., and hunting party on the shore of a lake in the Olympics. Elk killed wherei shown. 
Photo, by a son of Judge Clinton, sent to us by Piseco. 
