July 4, 1896.] 
FOREST AND STREAM, 
S 
Our Tide to Ronda was interesting in the extreme; 
every one we met seemed astonislied at seeing us without 
guides and cavalry escorb, as there were many malo 
gente in this part of the country — the headquarters of 
Andalusian smugglers. At various intervals we passed 
through small Moorish towns, which hang, as it were, on 
the sides of naked rocks. The Moors sought, in these 
almost inaccessible mountains, retreats where they might 
be secure from attacks of the Christians. They have since 
become the haunts of robbers and smugglers. 
The first view of Ronda is rather disappointing, an 
irregular town standing on high ground, encompassed 
with a double inclosure of rocks, We passed over the 
old bridge of St. Miguel, built over a deep chasm in the 
rock on which the town stands. It is, however, only 
from below the bridge near the mills that the pictur- 
esquenes of the scene becomes unrivaled. The arch 
which joins the Tayo hangs some 600ft, above. The river, 
heard, but not seen, in the cold shadows of the rooky 
prison, now escapes, dashing joyously into light and lib- 
erty, the waters boil in the bright, burning sun, and flow 
in a gentle stream through the most beautiful valley of 
orange groves. There is but one Ronda in the world — 
the cascade when fuH is splendid. 
The Alameda is picturesquely situated. The Plaza del 
Toros and Dominican caverns are well worth seeing, and 
there is a peculiar old stairway, cut in solid rock, the 
"Casa del Rey Moro," by which we descended to the 
river below from the Alameda above; an old man with a 
lighted candle led us, saying at eaehstep, "Poquiio poco'" 
— "step by step." Jhe climate of Ronda is considered the 
best in southern Spain, owing to the refreshing breeze's 
from the surrounding mountains; hence the proverb "En 
Ronda los hombres a oclientd" — "men live to be eighty." 
Women too have fresh and ruddy complexions. 
We could spare but one day at Ronda, and soon were 
en route to Malaga yia Casarabonela, over wild mountain 
paths. It is said that "those who ride these mountain 
routes must indeed rough, it; attend carefully to the prov- 
ender, for, however satisfactory the banquet of Alpine 
scenery, there is more food for the painter than for the 
body." 
Casarabonela, five leagues from Ronda, is in a lovely 
valley at the end of a long chain of mountains. Here, for 
the first time, we found orange groves and vineyards in a 
high state of cultivation, and the ride through these was 
most enjoyable. Here we put up at the only venta in the 
place. 
Besides the usual nightly unsuccessful hunt after the 
domestic hoppers, we had, when about to start next morn- 
ing, an equally interesting hunt; for our horses, which 
we had carefully attended to on the previous evening, 
were now conspicuous by their absence. 
Bleeding freely seems to be quite the thing of the 
country. The barber's sign is connected with the bleed- 
ing process. He, instead of asking whether you wish to 
be shaved or have your hair cut, first asks you how many 
ounces of blood you wish taken. Aware of this, imagine 
our disgust on finding that evil-disposed persons had taken 
our horses and bled them "within an inch of their lives," in 
order that they might bleed us freely — make us "pay oui' 
footing" at the venta. There was no redress; we had to 
lead our horses for many miles over the mountain roads; 
they were too weak to carry us. 
We had another mishap on this day, owing, I suppose, 
to necessary Sunday traveling; torrents of rain came on 
and we spent not a "bad quarter of an hour," but twelve 
bad hoiu-8, plodding along the worst road, with the knowl- 
edge that on arrival at Malaga we had not in our saddle 
bags a change of clothing in which to appear in that 
fashionable city. On arrival we put up at the Fonda de 
1' Alameda, and on getting out of our wet and dirty clothes 
had to get into bed. Now, however, came the dilemma: 
we had had no food since early dawn, dinner could not 
be sent to our bedrooms, we must go to the table d'hote. 
How to do this we failed to perceive until a friendly 
waiter came to the rescue; he lent us a couple of suits of 
his livery, and it was a sight to behold the way Mrs. 
Grundy "turned up her nose" in disgust as two liveried 
servants (?) sat down at table beside her daughters. 
Happily we soon met a friend, who introduced us as two 
"British officers from 'G-ib.' " She was thus prevented 
from having a "fit," and she could, if she wished, learn 
the lesson that "it's not the coat that makes the man," 
Oh, the luxury of that hotel, after the discomfort of the 
venta and fonda of the country, with their inhabitants, 
men, women, children, and — . Our horses, too, were 
here refreshed after the bleeding process and the rough 
riding. Malaga is the chief port of Granada, the position 
is admirable. The convent. La Trinidad, and the noble 
Moorish Caatle, built in 1379, are all worth seeing (the 
Alameda is, of course, the fashionable resort). There is a 
splendid specimen of a Moorish horseshoe gateway. 
Time and space fail in which adequately to describe 
Granada, the capital of the province, with its unique Al- 
hambra, its ever- flowing fountains, its "Gate of Judg- 
ment," its watch-tower and silver-tongued bell. There 
are numerous Moorish buildings, all under the shadow of 
the snowy Alpujanas, with the Sierra of Alhama in the 
distance; all this and much more than this is a scene for 
painters to sketch and for poets to describe. There is 
but one Granada and but one A.lhambra on earth. Fain 
would we linger in these parts, but we must turn our 
backs to poetry and the picturesque and return to the 
prosaic routine of duty in the fortress of Gibraltar. 
There is nothing to notice in the return journey to Mala- 
ga, except that at that place we found ourselves in a not 
infrequent position of the "gay and festive" sub, viz. : 
short of funds. It was a question to us which was better, 
the chance of imprisonment for debt at Malaga, or of im- 
prisonment without debt at our next stopping station, 
Marbella, which had the bad name of being infested with 
robbers. Happily a fellow countryman appeared on the 
scene at Malaga in the person of the British Consul, Mr. 
Marks, and lent u.s five sovereigns. Never before or 
since has the "needful" been more needed. We saddled 
and sallied forth with full purse and light hearts, en 
route to "Gib.," via Marbella and Estaphona, the shore 
road — about eighteen leagues. How we enjoyed this 
day's riding slowly along the sea coast, with its charming 
scenery, every valley with its orange groves, then in full 
blossom, the vine-clad hills beside us, sloping down to 
the Mediterranean Sea. The sun was sinking fast as we 
entered the village of Marbella aforesaid. 
Suddenly six or seven men, armed with stilettos (long 
knives), rushed upon us, unhorsed us and led us, weary 
{md sad and worn into a temporary prison, in order to 
extract blood money from our kinsfolk after prolonged 
imprisonment. (This has mofe than once since been ac- 
coTuplished with British officers,) 
From practical experience I can say that prison life has 
not all the charms of the modern hotel. 
Oar only course, however, was to "rest and be thank- 
ful" in this dismal, dirty hole. 
If our next of kin could but see us in this place, how 
freely would he bleed to secure our freedom. 
Success comes at last, if we but wait for it. The day 
and hour arrived when our sentinels were off their guard 
— ^some through drink, others through sleep— and during 
a dark night "on saddles and off" was effected without 
word of command. 
The clicking of knives and the volley of oaths caused us 
the more to hasten our retreat. 
Once more we breathed freely, and in two days after 
this mishap we made our entry into Gibraltar, without 
the expenditure of blood. MiOMAO. 
Frederioton, New Brunswick. 
ON NEWFOUNDLAND MARSHES. 
BY THE KID. 
I HAD always kept in touch with the sportsmen of the 
country through the columns of the Forest and Stream, 
and dreamed of the day when I would not be ' 'chained to 
business." Early in the spring of '94 I was awakened 
from my dream by a letter from my brother. Dr. S. T. 
Davis, of Lancaster, Pa., author of "Caribou Shooting in 
Newfoundland," inviting me to accompany him on a hunt- 
ing expedition in the White Hills of Newfoundland of six 
weeks' duration. What! I leave business for six weeks! 
I guess not. "Yes. you can," said my wife, to whom I 
had been reading the letter, "You have been faithful to 
business for ten years, and a good vacation would add 
many years to your life. The Doctor is an old cam- 
paigner, and you will be in good hands." I always 
believed my wife was in league with my elder brother. 
However, that settled it. 
On the 29th day of September, 1894, I met at the Astor 
House, New York, my brother and that veteran prince of 
sportsmen, A. C. Kepler, of Lancaster, Pa. Six hours 
later we sailed out of the harbor on the steamship Portia, of 
the Red Cross line, Capt. Ash, who was ice pilot on the 
Bear during the expedition which rescued Greely and his 
companions. 
After a stormy passage of one week we reached St. 
J ohns, N. F. , forty-eight hours late. Five days' delay was 
caused here waiting for the Costal steainer going north. 
Two weeks in all from the time we left New York, one 
lovely Indian summer morning found us steaming in and 
out the coves around the rocky islands into the harbor at 
Pilley's Island, where we met our guide. Rich, Lebuff, 
Kind-hearted, jovial Capt. Taylor, of the Virginia Lake, 
asked us to remain on board and take dinner with him 
while the steamer was unloading. Dinner over, we trans- 
ferred our baggage to the steam launch Nipkin, placed at 
our disposal through the kindness of Mr. Herbert, of 
Pilley's Island. At 3 P. M. we started on our twenty-five 
miles' sail up Hall's Bay, at the head of which stood the 
cabin of our guide. Hall's Bay reminds one of an Amer- 
ican river. It is narrow and high mountains rise on all 
sides. The trees had put on the golden garb of autumn. 
The entire panorama was bathed in the resplendent glory 
of the setting sun. Far away to the southeast oiit guide 
pointed to the White Hill range and remarked reverently, 
"There you will find plenty caribou, please God." Twc- 
thirds of the way up darkness overtook us and we were 
glad to retire to the cozy cabin and listen to the hunting 
yarns of our guide until great herds of deer paraded be- 
fore me, and I wondered if I would get the 'buck ague" 
and miss everything I fired at, and tried to imagine what 
a wild Newfoundland caribou would look like. Such 
were my thoughts, though I wisely kept them to myself. 
That night we spread our blankets on the floor of our 
guide's cabin, expecting to start about 5 A. M. for our 
camp, twenty-five miles further on, but at 4 A. M. a ter- 
rific rainstorm set in, which did not abate until s unset. 
Next morning we awoke at 3 A. M, and by 5 were ready 
for our march. Each carried his gun, 251bs. of personal 
baggage and a few rounds of ammunition. By our side 
stood our five faithful men, each with 751b8. of duffle on 
his back. 
Old man Goodyear, sixty-eight years old, was our cook. 
Many delieious caribou steaks did he set before us and he 
was still nble to pack his 751bs. Martin Williams, blue- 
eyed and blond-whiskered, a skillful man, whose hands 
prepared all our specimens, but who could not boil a ket- 
tle of water without burning it, so he says. James 
Sanders, short and stocky, always faithful to his duty. 
Indian Jim, twenty-three years old, 6ft. 2in, in height. 
Woodcraft has no tricks that he did not know. Sly as a 
fox, agile as a panther and strong as an ox; always hope- 
ful that we would "find big stag by un by, sir." Last of 
all, Richard Lebuff, a French-Canadian, hunter and 
trapper, who knew all the haunts of caribou and never 
failed to show you deer, but you must do the rest. As 
none of our men carried guns, twenty-five miles over bar- 
rens, rocks and swajmps was no small matter for a tender- 
foot, and at 12 M., when we "boiled the kettle," I was 
ready to call it a day. But I did not come to Newfound- 
land to kick, so I held on, The last three miles over 
marsh, into which you sank to the ankle, I believed I 
wished I was at home then, and my courage had not 
reached a point that I could believe I would be able to kill 
a caribou. After a supper of hard tack, tea and bacon 
my spirits revived somewhat, but I soon sought my bed 
of pine boughs. 
The next day it was raining, and though we saw nine- 
teen deer we got no shots. At daybreak Indian Jim came 
running, crying "Deer on the marsh." And there was a 
rush to get out, and Kepler and the Doctor each soon had 
a doe in camp. I reserved my fire just to see how the old 
hands did it; besides I did not care to have them around 
when I killed deer. . 
Lebuff and I started down the marsh to watch a cross- 
ing half a mile from camp. He climbed a tree and 
scanned the country with a field glass. All at once he 
began to slide down that tree as though it had been 
greased, exclaiming, "There is a big stag down on the 
marsh coming this way." We ran down the marsh half 
a mile to meet him. If any one thinks running in a New- 
foundland marsh is fun let him try it^ — every step to the 
ankle in muck and often to the knee. At this point we 
had to get down on all fours in the wet marsh and crawl 
to a clump of bushes, where we could see that he was 
coming directly toward us, but still a mile away, coming 
slowly, cropping grass as he came, shaking his great 
horns in the air; truly a monarch and a sight calculated 
to give a young hunter the "buck ague," 
This interval enabled me to get my wind, which, was 
very much out of repair after running nearly a mile. 
The guide cautioned me to be calm. "Don't shoot until 
I tell you." But his warning was not needed, for I can 
truly say I was never more calm and determined in my 
life, If I kill that stag my reputation will be made; 
if I missed it was no disgrace, being the first deer I ever 
tried to shoot. When he came within a hundred yards I 
arose on one knee and took a careful aim. "Wait," said 
the guide, "until he turns his head, then shoot for the 
shoulder, aiming well in front." When within GOyds. he 
paused on the brink of a little brook, took a mouthful of 
moss, shook his antlers, sniffed the air and turned his 
head to the left to go down the bi-ook. That was the 
fatal movement; I pulled the trigger and the buUet crashed 
through his shoulder, passed through his heart, dropping 
him on his side like a flash. Lebuff, my faithful guide, 
jumped to his feet, grasping rae by the hand, exclaimed, 
"He's down, he's down. Ain't that bully? Ari old hunter 
could not do it better." As we ran toward the fallen deer 
I slipped another cartridge in my gun, and asked Lebuff 
if I should give him another. "No," he answered, "he 
vvill never get up again." Sure enough he never did. 
There lay the great gray stag I had come so many miles 
to slay. 
I felt doubly repaid for my long journey. Then, I must 
confess, I did feel a little bit like "buck ague" as I thought 
of the pride I would experience in after years when head 
and antlers would grace the walls of my home. I then 
could look at them with a thrill of satisfaction and think 
that I, who had been nick-named the kid of the party and 
cautioned about "buck ague," should be the flrst to bring 
down the antlered monarch of the White Hills. I don't 
think I would have called Queen Victoria my aunt just 
then, and though I afterward killed larger deer with finer 
horns, this incident will ever remain a green spot as the 
memories of the pleasant days spent in the wilderness filt 
by. 
I want to say something about female caribou, horns. 
We saw during our three weeks' stay in the White Hills 
954 deer by actual count, and had many opportunities to 
observe that peculiar trait. We found that horns are the 
exceptions and not the rule. I one day fell in with twen- 
ty-one deer — two stags (one an old warrior, and a young 
fellow) and nineteen does, three of which had horns. 
I killed the old stag and one beautiful, almost snow-white, 
barren doe, whose head and antlers look down from the 
wall while I write. 
One day while lying in. ambush with Indian Jim a bar- 
ren doe passed within 20ft. of us. She had but one horn, 
which grew perpendicular from her forehead, and was 
th^ exact shape of an old-fashioned wooden spoon. We 
both noticed it and talked about it, and I had just raised 
my gun to kill her when a magnificent stag, with a loud 
snort, broke from cover within 50yds. and stood gazing at 
the doe. For all I know that doe is still roaming over 
the dreary swamps and barrens of Newfoundland; but 
the stag was added to my trophies of the hunt. 
J. W. Davis. 
BuKLiNQTON, New Jersey. 
HOW I SAVED SOME CHERRIES. 
I have twelve cherry trees of different varieties that 
ripen at different times, and I have also a variety of 
cherry-eating bu-ds. The birds took the early fruit be- 
fore it was ripe. In the trees next about to ripen I put 
strings, pieces of cloth and strips of tin hanging on the 
flexible branches. The birds sat on these limbs and ate 
cherries, while the tins jingled under them, and at last 
stripped the trees. The next trees in succession I covered 
with large sheets of cheese cloth, but the next day I found 
three or four birds under the cloth and several on the 
outside eating the cherries that rested against it. This 
was last year, and but few cherries were saved. 
Having more leisure this summer I started earlier, and 
leaving all but two trees for the birds, directed all my 
efforts to protect these. First I put a dinner bell in one 
of the trees, with a string attached running to the rear 
of the house, from which it was rung at short intervals 
during the day. This was effective for a short time only, 
I then took a sheet of zinc about 4ft. square and hung it 
in the tree. Resting against it was a long piece of iron, 
which, when pulled by a string attached to it, fell back 
against the zinc, making a loud report. This too soon 
lost its terror for the birds. 
Then put a stuffed hawk, well exposed, between the two 
trees I was trying to save. The kingbirds fought this 
dummy for a day or so, but it made little im- 
pression on the other birds. As a last resort, I bought 
some large cannon firecrackers, exploding them two or 
three times a day under the trees. This, with the boom 
of the zinc between the firecrackers, had the desired effect 
of keeping the birds away without injury to them. 
In this way I saved about two bushels of cherries from 
the two trees, whQe the birds got at least four from the 
other trees. It may be easier to buy cherries, but then 
never did cherry pies taste as did those made from the 
cherries the birds didn't get. But I would rather do with- 
out cherries than lose the birds and their songs. 
E. R. W. 
The Copperhead. 
The description of the copperhead given by Coahoma in 
reply to Forked Deer's inquiry is all right as far as it goes. 
Forked Deer can make no mistake when he meets this 
nasty little snake, A rattlesnake wUl get out of man's 
way (except in the month of August) if he is given an 
opportunity, but a copperhead will fight every time. 
When he is approached he pugnaciously coils up and the 
horseshoe-shaped spot on his head takes on a metalio cop- 
pery color, and he is mad all over, probably at the fact 
that any one has dared to disturb him. At this time he 
emits an odor not unlike freshly-cut cucumbers. I do not 
know if any of these snakes are found in California, but 
if Forked Deer ever comes East he may satisfy his curi- 
osity by simply trusting to his sight and smell. Any trout 
fisherman of the New England or Middle States can assure 
Forked Deer that the copperhead does exist. ANCiLBB,. 
