Forest and Stream. 
A Weekly Journal of the Rod and Gun. 
Tkrms, f4 a Year. 10 Ore. A Copt. 
Six Months, $2. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, JUNE 27, 1896 
I VOL. XLVL-No. 26 
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NEW YORK LIFE BUILDING 
Present Entrance on Leonard Street 
SNAP SHOTS. 
Count Henry de Puyjalon, whose sketch, "My PaBtor," 
in our issue of May 23 attracted much attention, to-day 
contributes another story of life in the far north, and 
others are in hand for early publication. These word pic- 
tures of man and other animals in Labrador are doubly 
interesting as revealing to us that there is poetry and sen- 
timent even in the homely lives of the dwellers in that 
bleak land of desolation, if only one possesses the insight 
to perceive it and the skill to tell it. Count dePuyjalon's 
is an interesting personality. Of a family belonging to 
the old French noblesse, he was born in France, entered 
the army, and was at one time honorary aid-de-camp to 
the King of Denmark. In his youth he traveled a great 
deal, going as far north as Siberia, and had by a series of 
misfortunes lost his private fortune when the Franco- 
Prussian war broke out. He was severely wounded while 
serving in the army of the Loire. When the war was over 
he crossed the seas to Canada, and as he was fond of soli- 
tude and anxious to prosecute his study of natural history 
and geology, he took to the woods and gradually drifted to 
Labrador, -where he has resided almost continually ever 
since, exploring the country, studying its geology and nat- 
ural features, hunting, trapping and fishing. Although a 
thorough man of the world, of very polished manners and 
very well educated, he is never happy except when in his be- 
loved Labrador, and especially when camp8d out in the 
woods, either in summer or winter. His wife has not hesi- 
tated to f o 11 ow h im to the bleak coast of Labrador and to stay 
in a lonely lighthouse, of which he was a keeper for a 
while, in the Mingan archipelago, a position to which he 
got himself appointed better to study the habits of the sea- 
birds and seals. The original manuscripts of Count de 
Puyjalon's contributions to the Fokest and Stream are 
written in French, being translated for us by Mr. Craw- 
ford Lindsay, of Ontario. 
Every season is the sportsman's own, and June itself is 
one of his months. For the simple pursuit of game is by 
no means all there is in the world as seen through the 
sportsman's eyes. If that were indeed the whole of field 
sports we should have little to record of it in print, and 
few of us would care to read what might be written. He 
has not crossed the threshold of sport who has not felt the 
fascination of the sights and sounds of nature, nor can 
one who has eye and ear for the manifold charms 
of the outdoor world go afield in January or in June 
without finding abundant entertainment and reward. 
For the sportsman June holds out manifold attractions. 
The quail's whistle is heard from the fields of the farm, 
and if one knows the familiar haunt he may come almost 
to familiar terms with Bob White as he perches daintily 
on the old wall where the pink of the wild roses gives 
color to the gray stones. In the mountain woods road, 
now almost reclaimed by the genii of the place, one 
comes upon the dusting beds of the partridge, and per- 
chance is greeted by the heavy wing beat of the bird 
itself and catches a glimpse of its receding form. These 
are but homely incidents of a day in the country, and yet 
in them is found a satisfaction many a graybeard would 
go far to make his own. 
GEN. BRISTOW. 
Gen. Benjamin Helm Beistow, soldier, statesman and 
jurist, died on Monday morning at his residence in this 
city. 
He was born in Elkton, Ky., sixty-four years ago, and 
was educated at Jefferson College, Pennsylvania. After 
reaching manhood he practiced law in Kentucky until 
the breaking out of the war, when he entered the Union 
Army as lieutenant-colonel. He tcok part in the capture 
of Fort Donelson and was wounded at Shiloh. Later he 
became colonel of the 8th Kentucky Cavalry. While still 
in the army he was elected to the State Senate of Ken- 
tucky. He was afterward United States District Attorney 
for the district of Louisville, and in 1870 was appointed 
Solicitor General of the United States. In 1873 he was 
nominated Attorney- General of the United States, but was 
not confirmed. In 1874 he was appointed Secretary of 
the Treasury, and his administration of that Department 
is remembered for his warfare on the whisky ring. In 
1878 he came to New York and, as the head of the firm 
of Bristow, Peet & Opdyke, practiced his profession here. 
He was for a term president of the Bar Association. He 
was a member of many clubs, and at the timeof his death 
was President of the Boone and Crockett Club. 
Gen. Bristow was a keen sportsman, and had spent 
much time in the West hunting big game. He was deeply 
interested in the preservation of the Yellowstone National 
Park, and on many occasions used his influence to bring 
about legislation looking to this end. 
Gen. Bristow's eminence in whatever he undertook is 
sufficiently well known. What may not be so generally 
known is the strong personal charm which he possessed. 
To the physique of a giant and the courtly manners of a 
gentleman of the old school were united the gentleness 
and tenderness of a woman. Few men have about them 
so much that is lovable, and the grief felt at his loss by 
his close associates will be understood by all who have 
ever been brought in contact with him. 
THE RANGE IN WINTER. 
There comes a time on the range when the sun is as 
bright as in midsummer, but has no power to temper the 
bitter cold. The gray soil, which in July seems to suck 
in the heated rays and to give them out again, making the 
dry air dance and quiver, is now hard frozen, and in the 
ravines lie banks of snow swept from the prairie and 
piled up here in masses hardened by wind and frost, over 
which the horses pass, barely marking them with their 
hoof prints. In the arch above, blue as a summer sky, 
two mock suns keep company with the real one, but they 
give light alone, not warmth. A bitter wind sweeps over 
the plain. 
Horses and cattle which six months ago were short- 
haired and smooth now wear long shaggy coats that are 
ruffled or flattened by every breeze, and their brands are 
hidden under the heavy covering. The antelope which 
in summer are scattered out in little groups — two or three 
old does and their kids, and little clusters of bucks and 
yearlings — are now associated in herds, hundreds together. 
Prairie dogs, wild ducks, curlews and plover have long 
since disappeared. The hares that were gray are white 
now. Great brown war eagles and fierce hawks perch 
on the points of the bluffs and watch for their prey. The 
raven croaks discontentedly as he. flies across the plain. 
Down in the stream bed near the aspens the willow 
grouse feed in packs of hundreds, and amid the sage 
brush are hundreds of their greater cousins, the sage 
grouse. Flocks of snow birds and gray-crowned finches 
sometimes whirl over the plain, like wreaths borne by 
the wind from distant snow banks. 
Even at this bitter season the lonely figure of the range 
rider is seen, but now more infrequently than at the time 
of the round-ups. Not willingly does the most callous 
ranch boss now send out one of his boys to face the dan- 
gers that the fierce breath of winter brings over the sum- 
mit of the Continental Divide. Yet some riding has to 
be done and some lives must be sacrificed. It is no light 
matter though that takes the rider abroad at this season. 
He will not go in for the mail nor go visiting, nor will he 
go hunting, except when the promise of good weather 
seems very certain. And when he sets out for a ride, he 
does not slight his preparations, as often he may in sum- 
mer. He knows well the perils of a winter ride — what 
it may mean to be lost in a winter snowstorm, when 
in an instant all landmarks are swept from view; when 
at once all sense of direction is lost; when th9 wind, whirl- 
ing and eddying about every knoll and through every 
ravine, seem3 to come successively from every point of 
the compass and cannot be depended on for a guide; 
when one's horse cannot be relied on to keep the direc- 
tion, and continually trie^ to turn tail to the blast. So the 
rider prepares himself. He puts on a cap with ear flap3, 
or ties down the brim of his broad hat over his ears; he 
dons extra trousers and shirts until, instead of being a 
slender man, he seems stoutly built, and waddles as he 
walks. His feet are covered with arctics or with German 
socks. Trie saddling of his horse is a slow process now, 
since to do it he must remove the huge mittens he has 
assumed, and many times during the task he is obliged to 
stop to warm his stiffened fingers. Perhaps when the 
horse is saddled the rider goes into the house for a final 
warming up and a pipe, and then at last comes out again, 
mounts and rides away. 
Whether his ride be long or short, it is fast, except 
when from time to time he dismounts and, after pulling 
the ice from muzzle and bit, leads his horse as he runs 
along to start his blood to circulating once more. If the 
weather continues fair he will reach his destination with 
only a little suffering to mark the ride in memory, but it 
may not continue fair. Perhaps as he swings along at a 
short easy gallop he sees hanging over a distant prairie 
swell a little cl n ud of mi9t, which disappears as he passes 
down into the hollow, and when he reaches the next hill 
is seen again and nearer. Well for the rider then if some 
ranch is near, or if he is in a country that he knows so 
well that he can travel it with shut eyes, so that he may 
find some shelter before the storm is upon him. 
Little by little the more distant landscape is blotted out 
and the cloud rolls nearer and nearer until it is close to 
him, and at last on a sudden it seizes bim with stinging 
grasp, and the day has changed from brilliant sunlight to 
gray twilight. The blast blows fiercely, bearing on its 
wings a million icy particles which cut the skin like tiny 
scourges, and which the horse will not long face. Nothing 
can be seen save the ground at the horse's feet, for the fly- 
ing poudre is impenetrable by the sight. Unless he can 
find a shelter or a lee th« rider must turn and travel with 
the wind. The roar and whistle of the storm, the whirl- 
ing clouds of flying snow and the intense cold tend to 
confuse and stupefy both man and horse, and yet as they 
stumble on over the prairie both need their wits now as 
perhaps never before. 
Perhap3 as they are so groping their way along, stung 
by the flying ice flakes, pushed about and beaten by the 
power of the gale and stiffened by the cold, they may 
hear strange moans and cries in the air about them . 
Drifting along before the storm with heads held low 
comes a bunch of cattl9, seeking some shelter from the 
bone-piercing wind. Strung out one after another — por- 
haps ten, perhaps one hundred — they move steadily if 
slowly along. Low moans come from them which may 
be cries of pain or perhaps calls to one another of encour- 
agement or companionship. Long jets of white steam 
shoot out from their ice-laden muzzles toward the 
ground. Particles of ice and snow cling to their long, 
shaggy hair. The tired, half -frozen calves bawl in shrill 
remonstrance and bunt their mothers to induce them to 
stop, but only when her calf falls and cannot rise again 
does a cow pause and stop behind to die with her little 
one. Out of the gray storm they have come ; into its 
whirling mists they disappear, and their muttering voices 
sound fainter and more faint and at last are drowned in 
the rush and tumult of the gale. 
If the rider knows his country he will in his drifting 
bring up somewhere at house or behind some shelter 
where he may wait until the storm shall have ceased, 
and then resume his way, perhaps unharmed or perhaps 
losing hands or feet from his exposure; or, if hopelessly 
confused and lost, he may ride on and on until at length 
overcome by fatigue and stupefied by the cold, he yields 
to the desire for restand fails asleep for the last time, So 
many have slept. 
i 
