Feb. 23, 1895. 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
145 
about the little plantation of Bobo and live like a lord, in 
defiance of the rest of the world (though I don't know 
about the coffee!) The lord of this manor, unconscious 
of the fact, lives as a patriarch of old, the protector of 
many, the head of a large flock — a type, as I have said 
before, of the only aristocracy America can afford. The 
"first families" of the cities, who dress and act and live 
and marry, and die by rule of three and never know the 
larger lines of an actual breadth and nobility of character 
— those little men, those little men! They make me sick. 
The hope of America and American character, is not in 
them. Rather look for it in the places where its trees 
grow big, and the wild fowl come. 
As I reflected on the easy condition of life in this land 
of plenty, I called to mind by contrast the black prairies 
of Dakota and of Kansas, where life to those who make a 
living from the soil is often such a struggle. Even there, 
in November, snow and ice had covered many a farm 
where half the year the farmer worked in order to live 
through the other half, raising but one crop of one sort, 
forced to buy everything he used. I could recall wide 
strips of country once settled where the shocks are now 
empty, the stoves kept unwarmed, the farm untrod, ex- 
cept by the antelope. Of course, all that country must 
some day support its population, but there is easier 
country, where the land costs less, and where you don't 
have to' burn hay or corn, about which the American 
people seem yet to know but little. When I told 
my Mississippi friends about twisting hay to bum 
in a storm at twenty below zero, they shivered and 
looked about them contentedly. ' 'I reckon those negroes 
of mine would better stay here, and not go to Oklolioma 
or Kansas," said Mr. Bobo, grimly. 
PLANTATION COURT OF APPEAL. 
After dinner, Mr. Bobo seems to hold a sort of open 
court, in the big room where the wide fire place is. A 
negro rapped at the door. 
"Well, what do you want?" Mr. Bobo asked. 
"Well, sah, Mr. Bobo, sah, my boy done cut his foot 
'bout off wid an axe, a' I wants a doctah, sah, mighty 
bad." 
"Write him an order for a doctor, quick, Jim," said 
Mr. Bobo to his manager. "I'll come over and see the 
boy pretty soon." 
Another knock, and enter just within the door another 
negro. 
"Well, what is it, Pete?" asked Mr. Bobo, turning 
around in his chair. 
"Well, sah, Mr. Bobo, sah, I wants ten dollars pow'ful 
bad, sah." 
"Well, you know yon can't have it, don't you?" Giggle 
on the part of the nigger, who resumes. "I like it 
mighty well, sah, w'en my folks we needs a heap o' 
things," 
"Oh, you only want to get into debt, that's all you 
want. Haven't you got any meal?" 
"Yes sah, a few." 
"And bacon?" 
' 'Umph — humph . ' ' 
"Well, what do you want?" 
"Well, sah, my oldis' gal need er pair shoes pow'ful 
bad." 
"Well, why don't you go over in the field, all your 
family, and pick up potatoes for the potato man?" You 
can earn six bits a day there, if yon work, and that's 
money you've got earned and paid for. Go to work and 
get your own shoes, and don't come to me for them. 
You've got the chance to earn the money and do it easily, 
and that's the best thing for you." 
Exit negro, shaking his head. 
"Will he go to work for the money?" I asked. 
"No," said Mr. Bobo, "he'd do without the shoes It's 
easier Oh, these people!" 
FACTS ABOUT THE BEAR CHAMPIONSHIP. 
To me the pleasure of novel surroundings and new 
country has more charm than the actual hunting part of 
a trip to such country. But I suppose there are a great 
many who want to know all about the bear we killed, 
and how many Bobo ever killed, how many are left, and 
what is the shortest way to kill those that are left. As 
to what Mr. Bobo did, and as to his claim which I set up 
for him as champion bear hunter of the world, I will 
quote his words on that subject as he spoke that first 
night. 
"When I first visited this country," said Mr. Bobo, "a 
friend and I came in on a hunt. We were in a dug-out, 
and had come down the river some distance. The over- 
flow was on then, and all this high ridge was covered 
with game. We tied up and went out a little way from 
the boat. My friend saw a deer and killed it, and then 
we killed two more in a few minutes. I walked down the 
ridge and saw a small bear, and I shot it, and then I saw 
another, a very large one, and I killed it, too, and a mo- 
ment after I killed a third. We hunted about fifteen 
minutes and then had to stop, for our boat would hold 
no more meat. 
The next year I came here and settled, and after that 
the limiting was always at hand. The first week I came 
here I killed thirteen bear. In one hunt of five days I 
killed 2,100 lbs. of meat, I have killed 1,200 lbs. of bear 
meat in two hours and fifteen minutes. 
304 BEAR IN ONE YEAR. 
"In one year I killed 304 bear, 52 deer, 13 panther, my- 
self. You could kill bear then like hogs. There was good 
meat, and the bear were everywhere. So far as I know, 
that is the largest number of bear ever killed in one year 
by any one man. 
* 'How many bear I ever killed in all, I have no manner 
of idea, but many hundreds, surely. I have killed a many 
a one that I never even skinned. I have a sort of weak 
stomach for cleaning a bear, and if no one was around to 
do that, very often I would ride away and leave the bear 
lying. 
"I never sold any meat or hides but once. There was 
a lot of bear hide knocking around the place, and a Jew 
peddler came along and offered me §3 a piece for the lot. 
He gathered up 180 in all, and I let him have them. 
"I have killed seven bear in one day, and six the day 
following, and very often three or four in a day. Once I 
killed in three days fourteen, three and six bear. My dogs 
are always good, and if we jumped a bear we were about 
sure to get. him. Felix Payne and I kept count one year. 
and we jumped 151 bear and killed every one before 
we made a lose." 
Such was the environment into which the Forest and 
Stream luck had brought me. It began to look to me like 
bear. E. Hough. 
HERMIT WAYS. 
Edwin P. Brown, the miser hermit, of Westport Har- 
bor, Mass., is dead. He was starved and frozen to death 
in his lone cabin in the wild woods. He was aged about 
sixty-five. *y 
I had known him ever since I was a boy, twenty-five 
years ago. He purchased a small lot of open land in the 
wild wood far from the public road, and built a stone 
hut about 10x12, with one window and door. He was 
not friendly to visitors. He worked for the farmers in 
the neighborhood, and almost always carried with him 
an old single barrel gun, which he secreted in the weeds 
in the field where he was working. The lock would be 
wrapped in a big wad of old rags to keep dry the percus- 
sion. He wore the same suit summer and winter, which 
was composed of probably a thousand patches of every 
color and filth enough to hold them together. With all 
of this nastiness, his premises about his cabin and the 
foot-paths leading to it were kept most scrupulously 
clean. If you should drop a match stick on the ground 
he would tell you to pick it up and carry it away with 
you, or correct you if you should spit on the grass. The 
grass was mowed often, and the bushes along the paths 
cut, with everything as neat as a lawn. 
He always believed in keeping his woodpile as large as 
his cabin, but was sparing in the use of it. His food 
consisted of salted herrings, crackers, cheese, and tea. 
He used neither tobacco nor liquor. 
He had two old guns, and sometimes used to carry 
them both around with him, and while not afraid of guns 
in his own hand, he was frightened to a crazy frenzy if 
some one else should shoot in his hearing. I remember 
one instance when he was mowing a marsh for my fa- 
ther, my brother and I not thinking, started in for a pis- 
tol match, using a 22 cailber, and shooting in an oppo- 
site direction. He was some three hundred yards away, 
and came running up to the house screaming and yelb'ng 
that we had shot him. If a person should shoot at a sea 
fowl across the bay, and he should see the smoke before 
hearing the report, he would run quickly to one side to 
dodge the bullet which he imagined was shot at him. 
One time a thunderstorm came up while he was mow- 
ing and he came running up to the house, and told us 
that the lightning had struck his scythe, and would have 
killed him had he not jumped to one side. It was not an 
uncommon thing to hear him in the night during a 
thunderstorm, bombarding the sky with his old guns as 
fast as he could load and fire. 
In the fall he used to bury one of his old guns in the 
ground "to give it a rest," and dig it up in the spring 
and shoot a lot of gravel from it to "smooth it out in 
good shape." 
I have seen him shoot at geese just as fast as he could, 
as long as he could see them in the sky, and then claim 
that the last one in the row was dangerously wounded 
and going off to die. He was careful about shooting 
around the beaches, if there was a vessel in sight from 
shore for fear of killing some one on board. 
He was a hard working and honest man, but his mind 
was unbalanced — I hear it was caused by a love affair. 
He was intelligent and apparently well* educated, and 
quite rational on some things. 
He had accumulated and deposited in the saving bank, 
I understand, about §2,000. and had $40 in Ms pocket 
when found dead in his shanty. 
He would receive no favor from any one. If he used 
your grindstone to sharpen his ax, he would insist on 
paying for it; if you would not take anything for it he 
would leave a few coppers on the frame. He wouldn't 
even accept a ride on the road with you unless he could 
pay you something. 
It is said that he used to live in Wisconsin. No one 
ever knew what caused him to live such a life, and he 
carried the secret to the grave. J. W. Babbitt. 
Danvers, Mass. 
SPORT IN IRELAND. 
Having recently occupied some space in Forest and 
Stream on the subject of Canadian fishing, "past and 
present, ' ' some brief notes may be of interest on a some- 
what similar subject — viz., sport, "old and new," in the 
South of Ireland. 
At the outset, I may say that, while I have arrived at 
that point of vantage in a life-time, middle age, I look 
back to early days, spent with fox-hounds and harriers, 
or with rod and gun, in Southern Ireland, as among the 
happiest. 
It would require longer time and space than is now at 
my disposal, to refer to all these sports in detail. Per- 
mit me on this occasion to say a word about the gun and 
snipe shooting in particular. " Unhappily, I can but show 
rapid deterioation in this sport, in the lapse of time. Oh! 
for those days of happy boyhood, when I could, without 
quitting the snipe region, leave the paternal roof -tree at 
early dawn, walk steadily till "dewy eve," without let 
or hindrance, without "smell dog" or other encumbrance, 
one's only care being to regulate the search for snipe, so 
that each bog or ravine should be taken down-wind, an 
essential thing in snipe-shooting. We found it of im- 
portance, too, to shoot without setters or pointers. The 
noise made by their movements, through long grass or 
marsh, would, to the watchful snipe, give, timely notice 
of the approach of the gunner. A retriever is, however, 
a useful appendage to pick up duck or snipe which might 
fall beyond arm's length, in a deep pool or stream. 
And what splendid shooting we had! Comparatively 
easy side shots, the snipe coming round to the wind in- 
stead of flying straight away with their peculiar well- 
known twist, as they would have done had we gone up- 
wind. Those happy days were before Captain Boycott 
appeared on the scene; before the sport, or want of sport, 
of tenant eviction on the one side, and landlord hunting 
on the other. Peace and plenty reigned supreme, and 
there was harmony and good will among all classes. 
Those days were also before the days of breech-loading 
guns, choke bores, or hammerless ejectors. There was the 
old song before starting for a day's snipe shooting, to 
ensure being properly equipped, "powder, shot, caps and 
wads." The word "luncheon" was at times added, but 
it was unnecessary; for you could not pass a friendly 
farm house, at the hour of noon, without being asked to 
partake of the family dinner, and what a sight it was! 
father and mother, sons and daughters, serving men and 
women, sitting beside the long table, with heaps of smil- 
ing "prates," and not merely "prates," and "point" — - 
the "point" at the red herring for the head of the family, 
or at the flitch of bacon on the rafters but bacon and cab- 
bage "galore," the height of good living, with milk in 
mugsfull to wash down the abundant dinner. After 
refreshment of this kind, to vary the day's amusement 
there was, perhaps, an invitation from the farmer to see 
a bit of coursing. The brace of grayhounds was brought 
out, and the hare, whose form had been spotted pre- 
viously, was found, and showed the well-known question- 
able and short-lived sport, — the "hurrish hurrish, she's 
dead, not unlike the Chinaman's idea of toboganning, 
"whish! walkee back a milee." 
You then proceed on your snipe beat, and you must have 
been a poor shot, wanting in savoir fair, or energy, or 
knowledge of country, if you failed to bring home ten or 
twelve couple of snipe, with two or three brace of wild 
duck, mallard or teal. 
The knowledge of country is an important factor in the 
success of such a day's shooting — a false step on a "shaky 
bog" might produce disastrous results. I have viyid 
recollections of my experience in "shaky bogs". During 
a shoot with an elder brother, we saw two rival sportsmen 
making for the line of bogs we had in view, and, in order 
to cut them out, we resolved on taking a direct route 
through a treacherous swamp, when we came upon a 
questionable spot, a possibly concealed "shaky bog." Be- 
ing the younger brother and the lighter weight, I was de- 
tailed to try and gain firm land beyond by soft and quick 
steps, from tuft to tuft of grass I had gone but a step or 
two when, suddenly, I found all foothold gone, and a 
rapid sinking of body in the slimy mire, with an equally 
rapid sinking of mind, as, out of reach of friendly 
brother's hand or gun, there was apparently no rescue 
from this bottomless abyss. In this extremity, a happy 
thought, at once acted on, took the place of dull despair. 
I then threw myself forward on my gun. That in itself 
was not enough to prevent continuous sinking, but, with 
the slight support of the gun, I was enabled, from that 
point, to carry out a series of corkscrew movements with 
my body, till, at last, after long and no slight exertions, 
I rolled out, not "clean out," of my mud bath. How I 
recovered my gun, memory fails to record . Of one thing 
I am certain, that one rival sportsman, by my mishap, 
secured range and wind of our pet bogs, and we returned 
home, one of our party to be numbered among the "un- 
washed" of the land. 
| It was shortly after this that I was stationed with my 
company of infantry at a small town, Kinsale, on the 
southern coast of Ireland. Here there was abundant 
scope for both woodcock and snipe shooting; but there 
was. however, but one proprietor of all the shooting lands 
which he strictly preserved. He had, unfortunately, a 
deadly hatred of soldiers, and invariably refused all their 
applications for permission to shoot on his premises. My 
Captain, as good a sportsman as he was a polished gentle- 
men, asked me to accompany him on a visit to the old 
landlord. Dressed in our Sunday best, we used our every 
argument with the old gentleman. In order to secure 
permission to shoot over his lands, at length, having pro- 
longed our interview beyond reasonable limits, we ob- 
tained the eagerly wished for permission, with the clear 
understanding that no hares were to be shot, woodcock 
and snipe being, like ourselves, "birds of passage." 
On the following day, it did not take long to prepare 
for a battue, in the- woodcock coverts. After our morn- 
ing parade in Barracks, we had a general parade of 
every man in the company at the covert side, and soon 
the woods resounded with "Hi cock!" Hi cock!" mark 
that bird!" "cock forward!" etc. Unhappily one gunner, 
whose nervous system was, I imagine, affected by these, 
to him, strange noises of the soldiery beaters, had forgot- 
ten the instructions not to shoot a hare, and, at an early 
stage of our proceedings, took steady aim at an old jack 
hare, and balled him over, amid the shouts of the beaters. 
This breach of contract soon came to the ears of our land- 
lord, our permit was cancelled, we returned to barracks 
wiser but sadder men. and thus ended our first lesson in 
shooting hares without leave. 
% On another occasion, when stationed in another small 
town in the South of Ireland, Yougall, reference to the 
contour ordinance survey map of th« country conveyed 
to me important information as to the whereabouts of 
every snipe bog within twenty miles of barracks, and 
many bag of snipe I filled in this country, hitherto not con- 
sidered good for sport. Moreover, it was not, as a rule, 
necessary to obtain a permit, the snipe bogs not being 
preserved. In one of my "walks abroad," in "breaking 
new ground," I had just opened fire in a perfect bit of 
country, nearly opposite the Manor House of the locality, 
when the loud voice of the keeper warned me off those 
lands which, he informed me, were strictly preserved. 
In soft undertone, however, quite unlike his previously 
commanding voice, he requested me not to mind him. 
"Go on shooting, your honor. There is a very likely spot 
just in front of you," and so there was. Here I filled my 
bag, and half a crown rewarded the faithful (?) keeper. 
Such occasions as this, even at that early period, in 
shooting the country at one's own sweet will, with a con- 
tour map as one's only guide, we were, I admit, liable to 
find ourselves on a bit of pet preserved land. 
I cannot easily forget one occasion when, with a keen 
and kindly sportsman, whose only fault was his extreme 
deafness, I was beating down wind on a perfect piece of 
snipe ground, with no ill-will in my heart toward man, 
woman, or child. A bird got up in my direct front, and 
flew toward my friend , who was on my left. I fired, and 
hit the bird, falling in an adjoining field, the fence of 
which was the boundary of a property which was strict- 
ly preserved. My friend, with his accustomed courtesy 
( he is the most courteous of men, the most gentle of gen- 
tlemen), at once got over the fence to pick up for me my 
bird, while I was busy with "powder, shot, caps, and 
wads," in going through the tedious loading motions. 
Before he had picked up the dead bird, an angry landlord 
appeared on the scene, and a volley of strong adjectives, 
apparently gathered from the four quarters of the globe, 
without the aid of dictionary, and with no choice diction, 
