May 4, 1895.] 
FOREST AND STREAM, 
8 43 
the part of Johnny. I was in command of one of the 
■many Gibraltar guards; and when inspecting the prisoners 
in the guard room, there was poor Johnny a prisoner for 
being "drunk in the streets on the previous evening." 
How great the fall! From the exalted position of hunts- 
man of the Calpe hounds to being a prisoner in the guard 
room. 
The whirligig of time again brought me to old Ireland. 
Now I had a gunner brother at my elbow to share my joys 
and sorrows. I cannot easily forget a sad downfall to his 
pride. We had been in full gallop in a certain park; he 
on a battery horse, I on a wild thoroughbred. He came 
to a sudden stop, to try and open a strong wooden gate, 
when his horse tried to clear it and stuck on the gate, 
beautifully balanced on the top, both hind and forelegs 
being well off the ground. How to extricate him we 
failed to perceive. Unhappily, my brother's commanding 
officer appeared on the scene, and his words of censure at 
a Government horse being thus treated were strong and 
to the point. It was not until we had acted on the advice 
•of a country farmer— "Take the gate off its hinges"— that 
we were able to remove the horse from his pedestal and 
continue the chase, wiser but sadder men. 
We had another memorable mishap; being out with 
harriers, we had several long runs and continued hunt- 
ing until late in the evening. We were far from a road, 
the banks were new and high, the horses tired. We dis- 
mounted to lead over a bank, particularly high and with 
deep ditches. My brother was the first to lead to the top 
of the bank, when his horse swerved, knocked my 
brother into the ditch and fell on him. The man lay so 
completely under the horse that he could not be seen or 
heard; some time elapsed before neighboring farmers 
could be assembled to pull the horse out of the ditch. 
When this was accomplished, to our complete surprise 
and joy, we found that the brother was unhurt, being 
untouched by the horse, who lay against the clearly cut 
sides of the new and dry ditch, instead of resting upon 
the man beneath him. 
Another lesson was here taught, "Never lead your 
horse if you can ride him." 
This lesson is life - long: "Stick to the ship while it 
remains afloat." Mic Mac. 
NOTES FROM CAMP NESSMUK. 
His father shut him up rather curtly, and they moved 
off. Not a negro about the place could t e hired to tote 
my outfit. At last I sought out Frank, the white man of 
Mracke, a tall and bony quarryman who lived in a board 
shanty near the kiln. 
' Say, Frank, why is it that none of these darkies will 
go into the sugar- tree hollow in broad daylight?" 
lie ruminated a while, and then answered seriously: 
"I dunno as I'd do it myself." 
"But what the mischief is wrong about that hollow? 
I've been there twenty times and never saw anything big- 
ger than a fox." 
He was reluctant to say more, and only muttered 
something about a catamount, which I knew was an 
evasion. 
"Pshaw; you an old hunter, and afraid of catamounts!" 
"Well, I'll tell you. The niggers say that the devil 
lives in that hollah, an' I jis' kinder believe it myself." 
That settled it. I was all forenoon getting my outfit 
into Spook Hollow, for the way was rough, and a hot, 
tiresome job it was; but once my belongings were there, I 
knew that they were safe from molestation. It is to one's 
advantage sometimes to have the Old Boy around. 
Horace Kephart. 
COLCHOOLOOLOO. 
Baird, Shasta County, Cab — Editor Forest and Stream: 
I send you a portrait made by my son, Edmund C. 
Stone, of the old Indian chief Colchoolooloo. During 
Colchoolooloo's youth the habits and customs of his tribe 
were literally those of the stone age of man. They had 
never seen a white man or a horse. They used no im- 
plements of any description made of iron or other metal. 
Their knives were constructed of obsidian, and their axes 
were simply heavy pieces of slaty rock cleft so as to 
leave a sharp edge and used without any handle. When 
the Indians wanted to cut down a large tree for a canoe 
or other purpose, ten or twenty sat around the tree and 
hacked at it with their sharp-edged rocks till it fell. In 
A MARCH OUTING WITH FUR CATCHERS 
Trapping Rats and Minks. 
The honJcof northward-flying geese had been coming at 
intervals from the depths of the upper air for a fortnight,' 
and the sharp seluoeep of ducks' wings had been heard in 
visions for a longer time than that; and the spring vaca- 
tion was actually come. Before the geese began flying 
Holmes and I began dreaming about a vacation outing, 
and we were dreaming still. There seemed to be no place 
where our coming was awaited. Vaca'tion began at mid- 
night precisely, according to a resolution of the faculty 
duly entered and recorded in the faculty book, and the 
midnight train passed through the town at that identical 
hour, and it was the train we expected to take, go wherever 
we would. As the finishing touch was given to the last 
batch of examination papers, Holmes came in, smiling. 
"I have it," said he. "Let's go to the boys. I have just 
received a letter from Ora, who, .with Al, is out trapping, 
and he writes they are having lots of fun with the ducks." 
And so it was then and there agreed that to the boys and 
the ducks we would go. 
Dear me! How easy it is to go on an outing, and espe- 
cially a March outing, in one's mind, and how very, very 
hard it is to go in the body. The dear ones, how they did 
exclaim, and warn, and protest! "At this season of the 
year!" exclaimed the miss. "And at your age!" said the 
madam. "And it will be certain to rain or snow!" 
affirmed the miss. "And with your back!" persisted the 
madam. 
Ah, that back! Thereby hung a tale — t-a-l-e — mind 
you. That very morning I had clapped on that wretched 
back a porous plaster as big as my two hands, and the 
miss and the madam didn't know it. Nay more, at that 
very moment it was harder, very much harder, for me to 
get up when I was down than to get down when I was up; 
but they didn't know that, either. The truth is, I wanted 
to go, and when a man wants to go an-outing, what truth 
wili he not conceal? What can stay him? 
And so Holmes and I went, and in duo time we came 
up with the boys in St. Jo county, Michigan. We found 
them trapping fur on a beautiful stream which takes its 
rise in a beautiful lake, and which discharges its waters 
into the beautiful and historical St. Joseph. Must I. can 
I, write the name of that beautiful stream that we are to 
descend in search of fur and feather? Hog Creek — hog 
with only one g. "God made the creek all right enough," 
said one of the boys, ' but somebody else must have 
named it." 
All streams are crooked, and we found our pretty creek 
with the plebeian name no exception. Its general course 
was westerly, but its truly icy waters ran now this way 
and now that; now north and now south; now west, and 
it is not too much to say that sometimes the stream turned 
upon itself and sped along toward the rising sun as if 
bound on reentering Hoe Lake and running its merry 
round once again. The fleeting waters skirted uplands 
covered with oak thickets, leafless and dead -looking; 
wheat fields showing the faintest flush of green; through 
marsh lands, where downy catkins prophesied of the com- 
ing spring, and where weeds and grass, dead beyond the 
hope of rtsurrection, told the story of the spring that had 
been. 
Books there are in the running brooks to those who can 
read them, but how different the reading in winter from 
what it is in summer. The summer voyageur floats idly 
down in ambush all the way. A cloak of green conceals 
him from sharp eyes, whether wild or tame. And the 
same green that cloaks him cloaks them. He bears the ■ 
birds singing in tree top or bush thicket, and now and 
then sees one flit spark-like across some open space. He 
hears the pit-a-pat and scrimble-scramble of tiny feet, and 
knows that the little four-footed beasts are close at hand. 
He knows, too, there are nests, cunningly wrought and 
filled with speckled eggs or with hard-breathing and un- 
sightly young birds, amid these thickets; but he sees them 
not. They are safely hidden from sharper eyes than his. 
But now, on this March day, the veil is rent and the secret 
places are laid bare. The curiously wrought nests, all 
frayed and torn, are everywhere to be seen flapping in 
the wind, but their builders and last summer's tenants 
are no longer here. In lieu' of them the red-winged 
blackbird is seen, and if there be a gleam of sunshine the 
redwing will sing his sweet little three-noted song. 
Whether the day be sunshiny or cloudy, the chickadees 
and the titmice are sure to engage the outer's attention 
as they flit from stem to trunk in search of their "daily 
bread." 
The waterways are the ways the world over for finding 
the living things. But it is not the birds alone that live 
along these ways, as some of us happen to know who have 
been there i in mosquito time. And O, brother of the 
angle! let me whisper a word in thy ear. As I live, there 
are bass here! As we come plowing around this sharp 
bend I see the deep, somber pool next yonder bank, and I 
can imagine its potentialities. You can't fool me. At 
this very moment there lies asleep, close to the bottom at 
the deepest part of that pool, as lovable a family of the 
micropteri as ever pleased the fancy of a Henshall. And 
six weeks hence — m — m! O fisherman! Thou whom the 
gods did mercifully make to be half a vagabond,.and who 
canst dream thy outing days away with no other thought 
than that the world will get along quite as well without 
thee, what possibilities are here in store for thee and 
me! 
But it is not with" fin we have to do on this outing, nor, 
for that matter, with feather. We came duck hunting, it 
is true, but the ducks are non est — not here, as they never 
are when I go. The boys had had all the fun there was, 
and so not unwillingly I give my attention to the fur 
bearers and to the fur catchers from this on. 
The fur-bearing animals that came to our trappers' 
traps were such small deer as muskrats and minks. We 
make camp at noon of our first day back in the heart of 
an oak thicket, around which the March wind howled, 
and where we are to abide till the next day. After the 
dinner is over, the trappers skin the animals taken out of 
the traps in the morning, and after stretching the pelts 
over frames, hang them up to dry. . This clone, they take 
to their boats and go up and down the creek for a mile 
or more each way, setting their traps as they go for the 
nocturnal wanderers. Ora takes the left bank and Al the 
right, and as Ora's boat is the wider and therefore the 
less apt to tip over, I go with him. Each trapper has 
about fifty small steel traps to handle, to each of which 
is appended a light ohain about 18in. long, with a ring in 
the e»d, through which a email stake can be stuck down 
I.— Mincke.* 
I had been camping alone in the Ozaiks,rotfrcm choice, 
but because my comrade had been calh d home by the ill- 
ness of his child, and there was nothing left me but to go 
it alone. So I wandered from hill to hollow seeking a 
more bountiful crop of mast, and meeting with only 
tolerable success. There were no deer, even the fquirrefs 
had nearly all migrated to the richer bottoms of the Gas- 
conade, and turkeys were so scarce or so vigilant that I 
got but few. At the end of a week I longed for a good 
hotel dinner and a quiet chat with the folks in the town. 
Then I could take the early morning train for some other 
hunting ground. 
And Saturday night I was loafing in front of the little 
tavern, gossiping with young and old, feeling that coun- 
try society, at least, was not half bad. The villagers were 
affable and nice in their quaint, slow way. Everything 
was drowsily good-natured. The sounds were mellow, 
the air soothing. I turned in early, and slept like a 
child. 
But alas for the dream of rural peace and innocence ! 
That night there occurred, just outside my window, what 
was afterward described as "a case of tar and feathers 
that turned into a shootin' match." I have no heart to 
tell that story. My nerves are fairly reliable, but they 
were tried by the sights and sounds of that dreadful night; 
nor was it soothing to have an actor in the tragedy, with 
eyes bleared by drink and excitement, draw a diagram 
of the situation with the point of his bowie upon the 
breast of my thin flannel shirt. I submit that such a pro- 
cedure, at two o'clock of a cold, dark morning, is not 
strictly according to Hoyle. 
Bye and bye I sat in the train, staring out into the 
pitchy night, and wondering if day would never 
break. 
It broke at last, and as the black curtain slowly rose 
from the hills I came to myself and realized that a plan 
must soon be formed as to where the fortnight should be 
spent. One place after another suggested itself, some for 
deer, others for turkeys, some with a chance for both. 
But I no longer cared to kill. Let me get away from men 
and the thought of them, and be alone with the trees, 
and birds, and the autumn wind— in the fragrant woods, 
where all is clean, where even the little tragedies are 
fairly fought, and no scars of infamy are left upon the 
innocent. 
The train sped down the pretty valley of the Meramec. 
Before me were the well-remembered hills of Mincke. 
Why not camp there ? Every stone and bush and tree 
for miles around would welcome me, for we were old 
friends. It was quickly arranged, and soon I was left 
with my traps before the old limekiln, which, with a few 
cabins or shacks, make all there is of Mincke station. 
A colored man stood at the other end of the platform, 
and I hailed him: "Hello, Billy. I'm going to camp at 
the upper fork of the sugar-tree hollow, just this side of 
the spring that runs out from the roots of a young elm — 
you know where it is. Help me over with my things, 
a,nd here's a large, elegant piece of silver." 
The negro stared, as though not comprehending me. 
Finally he Btuttered: "You— you's not gwine ter camp 
ober in dat hollah?" 
"Certainly. Why not?" 
His voice sank to a whisper: "Oh, boss! I wouldn't do 
dat." 
"Why; what's the matter with that hollow?" 
He mumbled something that escaped me, and shuffled 
off. 
"Here! Won't you carry my pack?" 
"No, sah. I won't go into that hollah." 
What ailed the fellow? I soon found another darky 
loafing about the kiln, and offered him the same induce- 
ment, but again met with a flat refusal. 
"Why, Sam, what is the matter with that hollow?" 
He poked his toe into the ground uneasily, and replied, 
after a long pause ; "Well, I reckon it's jis' kinder juber- 
ous." 
Nothing further could be got out of him; but his son, a 
lank youngster in tattered burlaps volunteered Hib infor- 
mation; r «Tbat nullah's da-a-ang@ q*||" 
+ Local pronunciation, Minky, . m 
COLCHOOLOOLOO— A WINTUN CHIEF. 
the series of axes in the National Museum illustrating the 
evolution ot the modern axe of white men, the first of the 
series representing the most primitive form of axe is one 
of these sharp-edged rocks which Colchoolooloo gave me 
a few years ago. 
In those early years of his life Colchoolooloo must have 
been quite a famous warrior among his people. He is a 
large man and robust, with a large head and feathers, and 
an indescribable something about him that always com- 
mands respect. He has shown us several scars where he 
has been struck by the arrows of the enemy in the en- 
counters of his tribe with the Modocs and other hostile 
Indians. Although he has no crutch to shoulder, he 
enjoys as much as any white veteran going over the 
story of the battles he was engaged in, and showing how 
fields were won in Indian warfare. He tells with special 
pride of an encounter with the Stillwater Indians, in 
which he was struck in the side with an arrow, the ob- 
sidian point of which remained in his chest for several 
years. 
Colchoolooloo was, in his day, the most skillful bow and 
arrow maker of his tribe. His bows were made, like 
Robin Hood's, of yew, and were backed with prepared 
salmon skins, which keeps them elastic for years. The 
bows of his making are among the finest specimens in the 
world for power and durability. 
But Colchoolooloo now is an old man, feeble and infirm 
and broken-hearted. When he was a boy his people were 
numerous and happy, and roamed over this beautiful 
canon of the McCloud in the enjoyment of undisturbed 
possession of the land. Since then he has seen white 
men come in and drive his people before them. He has 
seen the white men take possession of the fields and 
homes and even graveyards of his tribe; and, worst of all, 
he has seen his people dwindle away at the approach of 
white men till he is almost left alone of those who remem- 
ber the happy and prosperous days of his tribe. He will 
probably not survive many more winters, and when he 
goes the earth will close over one of the last and best of 
his race. Livingston Stone. . 
The Forest and Stream is put to press each week on Tues- 
day. Correspondence intended for publication should reach 
Witt* the laltil by Monday, and as much earlier as practicable. 
