284 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
^MarCH SI, ib«6 
phrase to attract my notice, but I afterward found many- 
more. However, to use another Yankee phrase, "this is a 
great Boo for such a small colt," as I only intended when 
I began to disclaim any Irish origin for the native speech 
of New England, and to express my admiration for Mr. 
Robinson's exquisite portraiture of it, and my continued 
delight in reading his truthful and graphic sketches. 
Von W. 
POSSUM TOM, 
The trees were gaunt and the fields were brown, but 
there was sunshine and the droning of bees and the sing- 
ing of birds abroad in the land. It was only the tenth of 
the year, but no day in June is more lovely and fair — 
more brilliant withal, or more floods the world with the 
delight of mere living. 
I knew it was too warm to think of hunting, but the 
dogs were wild for a run, my pony stood at the gate, and 
I knew that birds could be found for the seeking, so I ex- 
changed my corduroy coat for a jacket of canvas, and 
was soon on my way to the coverts. At noon, repentant 
and weary, I betook my lunch and the pointers to a spring 
that I knew for an hour of rest. Uncle Peter, an old 
colored friend, who was out hunting rabbits with three 
curs and a musket, paused in the act of kneeling to drink 
to greet my approach, and graciously invited me to 
"squentch" my thirst before he "riled up de water." In 
return for his "manners" I offered him part of my 
"smack," and rejoiced to see the relish with which he 
partook despite his modest avowal that he "wa'n't er bit 
hongry." 
When our pipes were produced I found my tobacco had 
been lost or forgotten, and Uncle Peter by dusting his 
pockets only managed to scrape up enough crumbs to 
half fill the hole in his corncob, but before he had half 
finished this he heard in the distance a familiar halloo to 
a hound, and exclaimed: 
"Dat's Possum Tom yellin' at dat dog, Mars' Will! You 
des wate a minit; he's got de bes' stingy green en enny 
nigger I kno's, an' I'se gwine ter hobble ober dar an' git 
yer sum'," and with this the old fellow set forth on his 
mission of mercy, soon after returning with a twist of 
home raised tobacco that bettered his praise in the smok- 
ing. 
After contentedly puffing a moment or two I began 
speculating about the man who could raise such tobacco, 
and inquired: 
"Who is this Possum Tom, Uncle Peter? Where does 
he live?" 
. "He's one er our niggers; hain't yer Deber heayr my 
Mars' J ohn talkin' ebout 'im? Yer hain't? I sho is s'prised 
at dat, 'caise hit look lack Mars 1 John don' never git tired 
er miratin' 'bout dat nigger." 
"Tell me about him, Uncle Peter." 
"Wal, sah, dat Tom's de lacklies' young nigger on de 
plantashun, an' dat's what mecks me say what I do, dat 
yer can't tell nutbin' 't all 'bout chilun what dey gwine 
ter be by 'n' by when dey git grow'd up — dat wus de 
'onrest leetle chap eber I see. He wus dat puny an' 
sleepy lookin' dat ole marster call 'im 'Possom, an' de 
name dun hung ter 'im eber since; an', muni he was er 
sight ter ketch possoms too, 'twell Lou — dat's 'is wife — 
chored 'im er hun'in' 'urn 'long in de f us' fall arter he 
had 'er. 
"Lou's er monst'us fine 'oman, but I 'lowed dar wus 
gwine ter be trouble in dat cabin fum de start; an' sho 
'nuff dar wus, an' heaps ob it. 
"Yer see, Tom wa'n't nufin mo' 'n er boy when he up 
an' mar'ied, an' wa'n't no ways set'led in ''is min' 'bout 
wh'er he want Lou er Jane, er ginger-cake gal libin' ober 
dar on de Riber Place. De berry day he had Lou I wus 
down at de quarters whar he 'us wuckin' nailin' bo'ds on 
'is house tryin' ter git hit kivered 'g'inst de wed'in' dat 
nite; an' whilst I 'us dar dat nigger Jane cum er prancin' 
through de quarters lack er Morgan filly. Tom seed 'er, 
he did; an' des es soon es he clap eyes on 'er he drap eb'ry 
thing an' sorter r'ar up on 'is feets an' look'd at 'er, an' 
look'd at 'er, 'twell she 'us plum' out er sight beyant de 
hill, an' den he gin er long whis'le an' 'low'd, kinder ter 
hisse'f : ' 'Fore Gawd, I b'l'eves I orter had dat nigger.' 
"Dat settle hit; I kno'd dar 'us guine ter be trouble fur 
sho', an' hit wa'n't no s'prisement ter me when I foun' out 
'fo' de sum'er 'us gone dat Tom 'us guine possum huntin' 
mos' eb'ry nite, an' dat too down on de Riber Plantashun. 
"Wal. der f us' thing yer kno' Lou she got jub'us, an' dar 
wus er fite, an' Tom he sich er leetle feller, he got de wu'st 
ob it; but nem' mine, stid erstop'in' 'im he des went hun- 
tin' mo' 'n eber. Dhen dey had mo' fites an' wus fites, 'twell 
dey raise sich er 'sturbment on de place dat Mars' John had 
ter teck er han' an' up an tell 'em dat de nex' time dey 
fite he guine ter move 'em clean erway frum de quarters 
an' out inter de woods whar ders guin' ons c'u'dn' scan'Iize 
nobody but de owls an' de jay-birds. 
"Dat settle de fitin' so fur es I kno', do Lou say she lay 
she stop 'im yit; an' de nex' time he went huntin' she 
tuck an' meek er pile outin 'is Sunday clothes an' burn 
iem up ter de las' string. 
"Tom 'us dat outdun at dat, he didn' kno' what ter 
do; an' Mars' John he gin Lou sich er talkin' ter dat hit 
'us way long de nex' fall fo' she eben squeak'd, do dat 
nigger 'us huntin' wus'n eber now dat de varmints 'us 
sho' 'nuff fitin' ter cat. I 'low'd she wa'n't lyin' so low fur 
nothin'; an' dat she was studyin' ter fling 'im on 'is back 
by 'n' by. 
•'Sho' 'nuff, one nite when hit wus des col' 'nuff fur er 
leetle fire do de house wus all open, an' I wus Bettin' by 
de chimbly corner cleanin' out Mars' John's gun an' 
talkin' ter 'im 'bout de pa't'edges he dun kilt dat day, I, 
heayrd Tom at de back do' callin' right easy lack: 'Unc 
Peter, Unc' Peter.' 
"I des say right erway ter myse'f , 'Dar, Lou dun crimp 
dat nigger dis time, sho'r.' 
"I started ter go ter de do', but Mars' John he call out: 
'What yer want, Tom? Unc' Peter's busy.' 
"I wants ter see yer, Mars' John. Step ter de do', 
please sah,' Tom 'turned de answer. 
" 'Ef yer want ter see me, Tom, cum heay,' Mars' John 
say. Tom didn' cum an' didn' say no mo'; so Mars' John 
kep' on readin' de book an' clean furgot dat nigger 'us dar 
'twell by 'n' by he heayr 'em erg'in: 'Mars' John, please, 
sah, step heayr des er minit.' 
" -Unc' Peter, go an' see what dat nigger wants,' Mars' 
John say, widout eben lookin' up frum de book 'twell I 
cum back, an' he ax me what de matter, I wus dat 
tickled dat I mos' c'u'dn' talk, but I did meek out sum- 
how ter keep my face straight long 'nuff ter tell 'im Tom 
'us out dar des es necked es he cum in de world an' ax 'im 
fur Gard's sake ter cum ter de do'. 
"Mars' John jump up at dat an' grab er car'age robe 
out'n de hall an' fling hit 'roun' dat shibprin' nigger 'fo' 
he eben ax 'im what de trouble. Tom's teef 'us chat'rin' 
'twell dey soun' lack de hail on de roof, but he say bes' 
he c'u'd: 'Mars' John, I started possum huntin' des now 
down on the Riber Plantashun. Dot made Lou mad an' 
she run an' cotch up wid me yonder by the gin house an' 
she flung me down an' tuck an' strip de las' rag off 'n me, 
an' wen' home an' shet de do' an' pull in de latchstring, 
an' I des can't 'suade 'er ter lemme in de house.' 
" 'You go home, Tom, an' tell dat 'oman ter let yer in 
dat house,' Mars' John say, an' den he went back in de 
liberry an' laff lack he hurt hisse'f. 
" 'Bout 'n hour, I s'pec', I wus guine 'roun' shet'in' up 
de house, an' when I cum ter de back do' I c'u'd heayr 
Tom down at de quarters beggin'; 'Lou, oh, Lou! fur de 
Lord's sake lemme in, I'se mos' fre'z',' 
"I wus skeerd dat nigger 'ud ketch 'is death out dar in 
de col', so I call Mars' John ter cum an' lis'en. Soon <s 
he heayrd Tom beggin' an' er pleadin' whid dat 'oman he 
'us dat mad hit skeerd me. He neber say er wurd, but 
he grab er big hick'ry stick frum out'n de rack an' pi'ched 
out in de dark; me er fol'rin' close behin' 'im es I dar'd 
ter keep 'im frum fin'in' out I wus dar. When he got ter 
de house he hit-, dat do' one rap wid de stick, an' I heayrd 
Lou hit de flo' when she jump out de bed when he say: 
" 'Open dis do', Lou, an' let Tom in! Do yer want 'im 
ter die out heayr in de col' ? ' By dis time Lou had de do' 
open an' she 'turn de answer: 
" Tse willin' ter let 'im in, Mars' John, but he ain't 
guine ter sleep wid me dis nite.' 
" 'Hit don' meek no differ' wid me nigger whe'r I 
sleeps wid you er no; all I wants is ter git ter de fire,' I 
heayrd Tom say, an' den I slip back ter der house 'fo' 
Mars' John fin' out I bin dar.' 
"Dat chored Tom er huntin', 'cep'in' rabbits in de day- 
time. He seed he c'u'dn' hole er lite ter dat 'oman cum- 
in' er guine, an' he des went ter wuck an' settled down 
'twell now dar hain't nufin' 'bout 'im ter 'mind yer ob 'is 
good-fur-nufin' days 'cep'in' des de name — Possum Tom." 
Will Scribble. 
Greenbriar, Ala. 
ON THEIR WAY EAST. 
The "Forest and Stream" Red Hunters. 
Chicago, 111., March 13. — It was a singular party which 
tepped off from the Wisconsin Central train last Wednes- 
day morning, and one which attracted a great deal of 
attention from the passers-by. This was the little band 
of Blackfeet Indians, on their way to the Sportsmen's 
Exposition at New York, in bond, so to speak, in the 
hands of Eorest and Stream Publishing Co. from the 
Secretary of the Interior, who has granted to that repre- 
sentative sportsmen's journal the privilege of showing 
all good white hunters the ways of the red hunters of the 
West. 
It would have disappointed any man disposed to carp or 
sneer at an Indian, because he is an Indian, to see those 
native Americans. Self-confidence and dignity are un- 
mistakable and command respect under any color and 
of any color. It was impossible to avoid feeling impressed 
by the positive dignity of the Piegan leader, Bear Chief. 
One felt at once that he was in the presence of a man of 
consequence and power of character. Possibly some 
young white clerks who never rode a horse, or some rich 
young men who never earned a dollar, may have smiled 
at Bear Chief because he was an Indian. Yet by what 
right could they smile? Had they themselves ever proved 
themselves more manful? Have they ridden down the 
buffalo, or fought hand to hand, man against man, in 
contests where defeat meant death? Bear Chief is a 
fighter and is chief because he has proved himself a man. 
The tall and dark man (he stands 6ft. 1-Ain.) who came 
down the platform carrying the black-eyed baby was 
William Jackson, of the Piegans, interpreter for the 
party. Billy Jackson sported no long hair and wore no 
buckskin, but none the less he too is a fighter with a 
record which my clerk and my rich man's son will probably 
never care to ( qual. Billy was at the ripe age of 14 when 
he first became a U. S. scout and trailer. He was 18 
when the Custer fight occurred, and was one of Reno's 
fourteen scouts in that battle. When the Indians drove 
back Reno's three companies of troopers from the river 
bank they left these scouts, cut off in a little willow patch. 
Herfi they lay and fought till dark. It was here that 
Charlie Reynolds, chief of scouts, was killed. Out of the 
fourteen scouts Billy was one of the four who got out 
alive. Since then he has been in the Riel rebellion and 
all the rest of the good fighting in the North, but you 
wouldn't know that to look at or talk with him. 
Billy Jackson's wife, the very comely young woman 
who walked at his side and pulled the baby's shawl from 
off her head so she could get plenty of air, was Na-to-ka, 
among her own people what tne beautiful daughter of an 
old and wealthy family is with us. Na-to-ka would dis- 
appoint sadly any observer who was looking for a looped 
and windowed ugliness. Her face was smooth and pleas- 
ant, her hair smooth as a seal's head, her garb neat and 
after the fashion of the settlpments. 
Jack Monroe, with the party, has been heard of before 
as a mighty hunter and trapper of the St. Mary's country. 
His home is near the top of the Continental roof, where 
you can send a twig to the Atlantic or the Pacific, as you 
like, by water route. J. W. Schultz, who traveled with 
the party as far East as Chicago, is known to the readers 
of Forest and Stream as a guide and.hunter in the Black- 
foot region. 
Least, but by no meins last, was the baby, Na-toyi, 
daughter of Billy Jackson and Na-to-ka — the fattest, 
sleekest, j oiliest, cutest little tot of a girl baby that ever 
struck Chicago or any other city. I had thought myself 
beyond such folly, but I confess I fell in love with Na-to- 
yi. Her twinkling black eyes, her chubby cheeks and 
curly dark hair were too much for me; and about every- 
one else who has seen this baby — she is only aO 
months old — has surrendered at once in similar fashion. 
It was a cold and snowy Chicago day when we went out 
into the street, but Na-to-yi's bare legs kicked comfortably, 
and the snowflakes lay white on her curly pate. Then f ol ka 
wondered what sort of creature this crowing lit ole 
beauty was. At the hotel she owned the house in twenty 
minutes, and an hour later had a retinue waiting 
at her door. At Lincoln Park, where she went to have 
her first look at the elephant and the lion and the 
monkeys, with her parents and friends, to whom all this 
was also new, she owned the animal house and tried to 
shake hands with the elephant, which ever after she calls 
to mind with slow and ponderous noddings of her own 
little noddle — a quick instance of the Indian readiness at 
sign language. At the dog show, where the party went 
that night, the baby again owned the house and received 
the attention of all the officials of the Maecoutah Kennel 
Club, as well as those of countless well-clad ladies who 
thronged the aisles and asked to be allowed to "hold the 
baby." 
The hot air and the rich odors of the white men's many 
dogs in assembly proved too much for Na-to-ka, the 
Indian woman, who became faint and had to be led into 
fresher air. She revived in time to see the performing 
dogs and monkeys, and at these both she and the dignified 
Bear Chief laughed heartily in wonderment and glee. I 
aeked Bear Chief what his people would say if he told 
them he had seen a dog turn a handspring, and he re- 
plied: "They will tell me I am lying." 
Bear Chief was even more quiet and reserved than was 
natural for him, and inquiry developed the pitiful cause 
of this. Within three days he had lost two of his own 
children, and the last thing he had done before starting 
on his long journey to the East to meet his friend on 
Forest and Stream in New York was to hand over into 
the bands of his people the dead body of his baby, to be 
buried after he had gone. Indians are human, and this 
would have saddened any human parent. Bear Chief 
apologized for being silent and sad, but said his "heart 
was very heavy." Well it might be, though I could only 
admire the determination of the man, who put aside his 
own grief, and started on such a journey to keep the 
promise he had made to his friend. The Indian religion 
seems not to offer much consolation for the future state. 
We spoke to Bear Chief such sympathy as we could, and 
told him that now his children would never be cold or 
hungry again, and that they were happy where they 
were now. Bear Chief was silent for a time; then through 
the interpreter he said that these thoughts had not before 
come to him. "This talk is good," he said, "and it 
makes my heart much lighter." He sat around 
for quite a time in silence, and at length spoke 
to the interpreter, asking if be would ask me 
to have this talk written out and sent to his 
people, out at his home in Montana, where his women 
were mourning for the children that had died. I told 
him this should be done, and again he was silent for quite 
a while, but at length arose, came up to me, smiled, and 
shook my hand heartily. The language was plain, and I 
own I was touched by the whole incident. We sent out 
the letter, in care of the mission at the Blackfoot reser- 
vation, and I wish some comfort may come of it, at least 
in the news that Bear Chief has found friends in the land 
where he is visiting. 
En Route to New York. 
March 14 — The Forest and Stream Indians are a 
surprise and a delight. We begin now to be better ac- 
quainted, and are trading hunting stories and general 
information. It is rather a fascinating experience, for 
me at least. I find the red hunters by no means so 
savage. They have learned much of the ways of the 
white people already. Polite themselves, they dread 
impoliteness and shrink from being stared at, though Bear 
Chief looks neither to the right nor to the left. The 
baby, Na-to yi, owns the sleeping car and the entire 
dining car service. Last night she met a little white girl in 
the car, and at once proceeded, by force of arms, to swap 
dolls with her, willy-nilly. Na-to yi's doll being of ging- 
ham, with a rag face, she realized the advantages of a big 
bisque doll with flaxen hair, and insisted on a trade. To 
this the white youngster objected, and we had a race war 
which for a time was hard to quell. It occurs to me that 
whether or not the visitors to the camp of the Forest 
and Stream red hunters understand the ceremonies and 
customs they will see shown there, they cannot, any of 
them, fail to understand this Indian baby and her bright, 
self-confident and cheering, happy ways. It is an easy 
guess that Na-to -yi will own Madison Square Garden next 
week, and it shall go hard if she do not also go back 
home with the entire scalp of Father Knickerbocker 
dangling at her belt. E. Hough. 
909 Security Building, Chicago. 
INTIMATIONS OF SPRING. 
At no time of the year does the lover of nature long for 
the woods and streams as about the end of March. It is a 
month before the season opens for trout, but the days are 
warm enough to melt the snow from the exposed places, 
although it freezes slightly at night. 
You rise in the morning and think what a glorious day 
to be at that particular stream not 1,000 miles distant ; 
the trouble is that you know the snow lies deep in the 
shady nooks and the pools are not yet entirely clear of 
ice. On going to your business you try to forget all about 
it, but as this is usually the dullest time in the year, you 
find yourself late in the afternoon sitting far back in the 
revolving chair with your feet on the desk, smoking and 
thinking of bygone times with rod and gun. 
When at last you go home, you tell your wife that you 
are badly run down and need a holiday about as much as 
anybody ever did. She has seen it coming upon you for 
a week, but as it is not the first time, she has wisely con- 
cluded to let it run its course; for it is a real fever, with 
only one cure. 
After supper you start and look about the house for 
your sporting duds, put the old rod together to try its 
spring and elasticity, fix the reel on the seat (although you 
know perfectly well it fits the rod), and closely examine 
your fly book. Perhaps you find that your boots need re- 
pairing and some of the tacks are lost; for I never wear 
rubber, but instead a leather, laced boot, lOin. high, with 
hob nails in the sole to prevent slipping on the mossy 
rocks. Rubber boots are a nuisance first, last and all the 
time. If you have to walk any distance they sweat and 
blister the feet, and when wading those wild, rocky 
streams you are in constant danger of stepping in a hole 
and getting the boots full of water, to say nothing of the 
risk of drowning. With a pair of leather boots I am com- 
fortable when walking on a hard road, sure of foot when 
wading, and with a dry pair of socks when finished I am 
in better condition at the end of a hard day's fishing than 
I could possibly be with rubber boots on. 
But to return. When your things are put away you go 
downstairs and relate old experiences for the benefit of 
