556 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Dec. 22, 1894. 
grasp it, when down it goes again. "Back water I Hard 
a-starb'rd!" says Ed, and I bring the canoe around to the 
new course. There he goes! I urge the canoe after the 
fleeing jug and it goes down again just out of reach. 
"Hold her," says Ed, and I back water hard to wait for 
the jug again. "Port, hard !" from Ed sends me after our 
prize again, and this time I get the pesky thing within 
reach of that long arm that sticks out like a bowsprit 
over the bow. "Steady, I've got him; dandy, too," chirps 
Ed, as he tumbles aft and gets the fish alongside, where I 
soon get the landing net under him, and he tumbles in 
over the side, flirting about a bucketful of water over us 
as he does so. We have a six-pounder for our first prize, 
and baiting up chuck the jug back after another. 
A hundred yards further down stream three jugs begin 
doing a ghost dance about the same time and we capture 
two more fish. 
Thus we drift along mile after mile, lazy and monot- 
onous enough at times, exciting at others, picking up 
a nice fish here and there, at which Ed utters an oc- 
casional "ugh!" that means he is satisfied. 
About eight miles below camp he says, "Let's klatawa, 
I want to eat," and as I have just tightened my belt, I 
answer, "Nowitka," so we load the jugs and point her 
nose for the shady side of the stream on an eight-mile 
journey that means a very late dinner. Ed makes a 
good picture as he works the bow paddle with an easy, 
graceful and noiseless dip, swinging along mile after mile 
like a machine, and about as tireless, too. 
Our catch for the trip amounts to about 401bs. of good 
catfish, which won't last very long among a healthy, 
hungry crowd like us. 
Ed remarks sotto voce, as he rakes a live coal on the top 
of a fresh pipeful, "Nothing very 'sporty' 'bout this lay- 
out, but it's a skunkum way to get fish when you don't 
feel like working hard for 'em." He sized it right, too. 
Billy, nicknamed "Poo Gee," from his favorite adjective 
reports a "gick-a-loo-den" time among the squirrels, but 
has only three skins to show for his day's fun. Billy 
always was peculiar anyway, especially in his ideas of 
sports afield; he would rather watch a squirrel from 
some hiding place, "just to see what it's going to do 
next," than to shoot it. He never brought in a very 
big bag, but he could always find just the game he 
went after, even if everybody else said there wasn't any 
"within a thousand miles." I wonder how Billy could 
tell. El Comancho. 
MY VACATION. 
The man of wealth takes his vacation when he pleases; 
the professional man takes his whenever he can get it, 
and thanks his lucky stars that he gets any. It is not 
hard to imagine which of them enjoys their outing the 
most. Fortunate man, the writer was able to get away 
from the sick and the ailing this fall, owing to the need 
of a professional friend for something to do that would 
take him into the country; and not being blessed with a 
love of field sports, this sui generis assumed the burden of 
my work and seemed to enjoy the novelty, while I, for- 
sooth, with several hundred cartridges and a cylinder 12 
gun, bade good-bye to wife and babies and departed for a 
town in West Virginia, where there was a genuine old- 
time sportsman's welcome waiting for me. Hereafter is 
the tale of my week of rest; what his was, is, as Kipling 
says, another story. 
In years gone by it was a habit of mine to go to Vir- 
ginia each fall, and there, in company with some choice 
companions, spend a few days following dogs without 
much pedigree but with lots of field sense, and during the 
time spent in the Old Dominion not only regain exhausted 
strength, but return home with a better opinion of man- 
kind in general; the hospitality was so generous, the life 
so full of pleasure and so free of care, the sport so excel- 
lent, everything combining to makethevacationa"thing 
of joy." Then it all changed ; the old families went away, 
others richer in money but very much poorer in hospital- 
ity came in to take their places; the farms where I had 
hunted each season a welcome guest, were posted to all 
but a favored few; the game itself, as if disgusted at the 
new order, was not as it was in the old days, and for two 
years past this one reason, with others of a weightier 
nature, has prevented anything like an extended leave of 
absence from heme. Hereabouts we are cursed with lots 
of game laws without means of enforcing the same, and 
being so close to Baltimore, our country is overrun with 
hordes of ruthless men who kill everything with fur or 
feathers that they can get a shot at, and boast of their bag 
as though it was something to be proud of. But to come 
back to West Virginia. 
All through Jefferson county the residents are more 
careful of their game supply than in any other section I 
have ever shot over; it is not strange that with this sort 
of protection and the natural topographical condition of 
this part of the State, the best supply of Bob White is 
practically inexhaustible, and the entire county is a great 
game preserve. Every farm is posted, and the posting 
means business, for every land owner has no fear of 
prosecuting trespassers, and does it conscientiously when 
they start in, hence very little hunting is done by the 
idle Jof the neighborhood, if there be any such, and 
strangers need not apply unless vouched for by some one 
of responsibility, then the doors are opened wide. The 
country is a grand, open, rolling arena, full of picturesque 
views, and dull would be the man who could shoot here 
and not feel the influence of Dame Nature as he passes 
from one beautiful picture to another in search of his 
game. 
Though only slightly acquainted with the gentleman 
under whose hospitable roof I stayed, the free-masonry 
of sportsmanship made us both warm friends before the 
clock had struck very many times after my arrival, and 
as I came to know him more thoroughly it was not hard 
to see why his wife fell in love with him. There was an- 
other, a sort of Damon to my friend's Pythias, a scholarly 
gentleman whom it was a pleasure to know, and with 
these two I went afield; there was another I had almost 
forgotten, shame be to me for forgetting Belle, she of the 
soft blue coat, the long pedigree, the great brown eyes 
and best of all such grand field qualities. Ah, me, we 
read of such dogs, but rarely find them outside of books; 
this was a reality, however, and no one but the departed 
Tracy with his magical pencil could do her justice. We 
go hunting with dogs and half the time fail to realize 
how much of our enjoyment depends upon their work; 
and after seeing the marvelously clean and clear cut 
work of this dog I can appreciate the truth of the sug- 
gestion made by an old sportsman when he said, "Give 
me a $400 dog and a $10 gun rather than a costly weapon 
and a cheap dog." 
Now to the shooting. Tuesday came and duly equipped 
we three men and the dog with another handsome young 
Gordon bitch walked out of the town limits about a mile, 
and in a stubble next to the broad pike, a small covey 
rose wild, out of which we got two birds later; one over a 
stylish point of Belle, the only one the dogs found so 
scattered was the entire covey; the other bird was walked 
up. Here I saw a sample of the kind of men with whom 
I was in company; when Belle struck this bird, I was 
invited to step up and take the shot, a courtesy offered 
many times times afterwards and I am afraid too often 
taken advantage of. 
The next covey was found in an adjoining field in some 
tall grass and a beauty it was. Both dogs stood hand- 
somely and a trio of birds fell when the covey rose. Here 
we were joined by two other gentlemen; and not having 
dogs, they were also invited to take their turn as our dogs 
pointed. Hunting over this farm we passed over ground 
where no less than five coveys had been located besides 
those we did find and not a feather could we strike; it 
was rather warm, one dog, the Gordon, became sick and 
Belle was just recovering from a severe cut in one foot, 
so that having enough birds to give us a taste each it was 
decided to return home shortly after lunch and hunt 
another direction the next day we went after birds. 
Wednesday had been appointed for a grand rabbit hunt 
in what was known as "Scrabble Woods." About three 
o'clock on the morning of that day, two gentlemen from 
some distance back in the country, drove up to our house 
and naturally when we found who they were it was an 
easy task to get up and join them about the stove. These 
were two brothers by the name of Henry and two better 
men never stepped in shoe leather. Full of fun, fond of 
hunting, especially Bre'r Rabbit, it did not take long to 
get acquainted and time flew until the hour arrived to 
start. It was something of a drive to get to our destina- 
tion but it was well worth a longer drive. 
Picture a piece of pines and scrub oak and rocks and 
general rough country, wild as though man was unknown, 
a stretch perhaps three miles long and half as wide, full 
of a picturesque kind of place called "sink holes," and the 
reader can get a sort of idea as to "Scrabble Woods." 
This was a notorious place for bunny and we struck 
enough trails to warrant the fact of game being there; 
but we were handicapped somewhat in having two of my 
pack with us, both straight-legged dogs and good samples 
of chain lightning; the other three were bassets and too 
slow where my dogs were too fast, so such rabbitts as 
were started were run into sink holes before a gun could 
do much damage. 
Later in the day we got into a section where the dogs 
had a better chance and killed six before we took up for 
home. Inquiry at the place where we left our horses de- 
veloped the fact that thirty-five rabbits had been killed in 
this woods the day before by a party from Martinsburg, 
which was some excuse for our bad luck; there being no 
law on rabbits in this county they are hunted from Sep- 
tember to March, and only the numerous places of refuge 
save them from extermination. 
Thursday my friend and I had it all to ourselves, our 
other friend being unable to get away from his business; 
his dog was quite sick so Belle was our only dependence, 
and nobly did she get down to her work. Our first point 
of departure was a large stubble where at least one covey 
was known to be, and Belle struck it almost before we 
were ready for it; we took five birds from this covey 
and while looking for stragglers the bitch roaded up to 
another which paid toll and dropped into a small woods; 
these were followed up and some found, but the large 
ma jority seemed to have evaporated. Taking to the field 
again to look up one bird marked down,we found another 
tremendous covey that also went to the woods, and then 
such sport as we had. The leaves were too dry to permit 
first-class work from the dog, but the amiable Doctor was 
a grand cover shot, and in such fast company he would 
be a chump who did not keep up his end. The result was 
a fine bag of some of the largest birds it has ever been my 
good fortune to see, and when we halted to rest and 
counted eighteen of these beauties it was moved and car- 
ried by unanimous vote to quit and go home; enough was 
as good as a feast. 
Friday was a very warm day and men and dog played 
out very soon, the great feature of the morning being a 
point made by the bitch on a bird in a fodder shock, 
which we held until we tore the shock to pieces, the bird 
flushing when the last bundle of fodder was turned over, 
and being killed by a quick snap shot just as it curled 
over the nearby fence. Some may say she stood the foot 
track of the bird, but she never did stand such tracks, 
and it seems to me well worthy of record that such a 
staunch point was made in rank fodder on such a hot day. 
Saturday was a dies non on account of rain, but the 
next Monday was an ideal day, thoUgh still warm, and 
on starting out both my companions gave me fair warn- 
ing that they were after me and that it would be necessary 
for me to shoot like Dr. Carver to get in the game at all. 
One of these gentlemen being one of the best shots I have 
ever hunted with and the other by no means "a slouch," 
this was laying out a large-sized contract, but what 
matters the bag if the sport is good? Both dogs showed 
up this morning fit to run a race for money, and after 
drawing one or two promising fields blank both dropped 
to a grand covey that split as they rose, and flying high 
and wild finally crossed the road and dropped into a 
woods; from this covey we took six fine big fellows and 
leaving the remainder started across the same field from 
which we had flushed them, and here the blue bitch 
roaded up to another smaller covey, the black backing in 
great shape. We could not see just where they went 
but took the direction and soon began finding them in a 
rather thick clearing, and if the truth is told no one 
covered himself with glory. While we were working in 
this cover the tail end of a blizzard set in and such birds 
as were found in the open went off like rockets. Still we 
got one now and then until having an even dozen, and 
a storm seeming imminent our way was taken home- 
ward and my vacation was over. The tale is not gory, 
no enormous bags were made, but the satisfaction of 
such hunting in company with royal good fellows, good 
dogs and a reasonable number of birds in a grand coun- 
try is not that the summum bonum of sport? 
So much for this vacation; if the reading of these 
words give some one who did not have an outing a little 
pleasure the object of the writer is fulfilled. 
Biwcott Cmr, Md SAMOEL J. FORT, M.D, 
UNCLE RUSTY AND OLD SILE.— !. 
A Backwoods Correspondence. 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
I was fishing Marcy Brook late one afternoon in August. 
It was a gray day — and even at that altitude, intensely 
close. But the trout were feeding and I could not leave 
them, and so hurried on despite the hour and the approach- 
ing storm, even further up the brook to fish the flume. 
Eeaohing the flume I became absorbed in casting, and 
was only awakened from my reverie by the water dripping 
from the edge of my old felt hat. I looked up between 
the walls of rock that closed in about me, and saw the 
black masses of clouds sailing past. Then a blinding 
flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, and down came 
the rain. I unjointed the rod and pushed into the woods. 
Then it was that I realized I had fished too late. The 
position of the opposite peak told me my camp at the 
Upper Ausable was a good five miles below, and there 
was scarcely half an hour's daylight left. I must make 
the best of it. Suddenly there came another ugly flash — 
a crackle of thunder, and the rain f ell in white sheets, 
through which the nearest trees glimmered like ghosts, 
their giant arms beating about them as the wind roared 
through the forest. Then I remembered a deserted 
trapper's shanty up a little brook that tumbled into th9 
big stream a few yards above, and after floundering over 
a succession of wind slashes, I reached the brook, and just 
at dusk found the shanty. 
It looked cheerless enough as it stood there half buried 
in a tangle of wild blackberries and fallen spruces. 
Hedgehogs and the smaller rodents had played havoc 
with the dirt floor, burrowing under the logs, and the 
water streamed through two great cracks in the soggy 
bark roof. I succeeded in finding a dead stump, and 
soon had a rousing fire going in the dry corner of the 
cabin. After this things looked brighter, and even the 
old shell of a shanty seemed cosy. Before long the rain 
ceased, and a chipmunk, curious to fathom the mystery 
of the fire and my being'there, scampered over the roof, 
shaking down little bits of bark as he ran. There are two 
things that I always try to keep in the pockets of my 
fishing clothes — one, plenty of matches wrapped in water- 
proof paper, and the other — salt. I went down to the 
brook and dressed my fish, and as I sat toasting myself 
before the blaze, there came stealing over me that feeling 
of satisfaction that only comes after a hard day's fishing, 
when you look back and remember the wet, and the time 
you tumbled and barked your shins, or how you lost your 
biggest fish, and as I gave a half-pounder a final turn 
over the coals, my eye caught a scrap of paper sticking 
out from between two logs close to the roof. It proved 
to be a bundle of letters, for the most part mouldy and 
water soaked, yet still legible. Upon examination one 
half were signed "Sile." These were in pencil, evidently 
labored scrawls preparatory to a final letter in ink, an 
operation that must have consumed a considerable amount 
of time. Those from Connecticut were carefully stowed 
away in their original envelopes bearing the following 
address: Uncle Sile Prouty, 
Dewoyville, 
Hamilton County, 
New York. 
Alone as I was, I need not tell you that old weather 
beaten package proved a godsend. 
I shall never forget my delight as I read letter after 
letter. They must have belonged to an old trapper named 
Prouty who once lived in Deweyville — dead these twenty 
years? Those who knew him, I am told, said he was a 
queer character, and that he spent most of his days in 
the woods alone with his dog "Drive," hunting and trap- 
ping. To this boon companion he would talk for hours 
at a time, as they wandered together far back to some 
forgotten pond after some wary old buck, or followed a 
brook a-fishing throughout the long drowsy day as it 
flashed and chattered along in the warm sunlight. To 
return at dusk to their shanty at Little Otter Pon 1 and 
over the embers discuss the day — for so long had they 
been alone together that to the old trapper the dog too 
had a language, Isreal Lukens when a boy remembered 
seeing old Sile — his hair grew over his ears in straight 
bunches and reached an inch or so below the collar of 
his coat, and under his mink skin cap, which he invari- 
ably wore, his keen gray eyes illumined a face full of 
good humor and seamed by exposure. Often he would 
come out of the woods and return to his cabin in the 
settlement. Then after a period of domesticity, longing 
for adventure and the hardships of a trapper's life, he 
would suddenly leave his home and, taking his dog with 
him, bury himself in the wilderness for months. There 
was a story that he once had a partner, that they had 
been boys together in tnese mountains, but that later in 
life his partner had settled in Connecticut. 
That eventful night in the cabin has lingered long in 
my memory, and the curious correspondence I have 
always kept, and give it to you word for word. 
F. Berkeley Smith. 
Slle's Letter to Uncle Rusty. 
When I come to think you never been to my shanty — 
er stopped even over night, it actily sets m' blood a bilin 
— makes me mad, ez the feller said. 
I thought you'd be along this winter, an' me an' my 
dog old Drive used to go up to th' top er thet pine knoll 
thet sets off um to one side th' pon' en wait f er ye. The dog 
said he see ye once, but you wuz too fur off to yell to. I 
mistrusted yew'd sheered off too much to th' east to find 
my shanty, but th' dog said arter a month er so when we 
used to set up nights discussin' it thet arter all he bTieved 
it wan't you he see, an' 'lowed he wuz gittin blind an' 
thet he warn't no good no more, an' that he cudn't see a 
deer ez fur off ez he used to by a durn sight, en thet he 
warn't wuth his keep, an' thet I'd better drive him off. 
Goll, I felt sorry for the cuss, ho took it so bad. Then 
he owned up, tellin' me that when he see I felt so lone- 
sum en disapp'inted at yer not comin', that he'd be dad- 
dinged ef he could hold aout any longer an' see me so 
miser abul — so he jes riz his ears an' made aout you wuz 
er comin' an' thet he see ye, an' thet there warn't time to 
let ye know. Arter thet I used to tend my traps an' cut 
some timber, an' go home an' set over my mink cakes an' 
milk gravy an' mope. The dog said it wuz the fust time 
he ever see me lose my grip. Goll, he said it wuz pitiful 
to see me. Then I begun to git peaked — bimeby I got so 
peaked an' puny it wuz all I could do to git raound an' 
tend what traps I hed sot back er the shanty. The dog 
he'd turn to en help me git the hides off 'em, an' when 
