Aug. 8, 1898.] 
FOREST AND SfREAM„ 
10*7 
"That reminds me." 
How the liOp-Eared Hound was Fooled. 
Up among the green hills of Vermont two country ball 
nines were contending for supremacy one hot afternoon 
in an old pasture. Among the assembled spectators was 
a sad-faced lop-eared "houn' dog" which had previously 
been investigating the contents of a woodchuck hole. 
He had worked his passage in until no dog was visible, 
but a steady stream oE dirt shooting out like the blast 
from the blow pipe of a sawmill proclaimed that the inves- 
tigation was still on. Becommg tired of this, the hound 
was sitting down watching the home team getting "done 
up," when suddenly, without warning, he shot across the 
field with a trajsctory as flat as a .33-40 and with nearly 
the same velocity. The cause was soon apparent. Several 
little girls were coming up through a hollow and one was 
just tall enough for her brown hat to show through the 
fringe of grass on the rising ground in front. When the 
hound came near enough for the supposed woodchuck to 
merge into a hat with a girl under it he stopped an in- 
stant with a look of horrified surprise, A yell arose from 
the assembled farmers who had seen the incident, and this 
so mortified the hound that he made straight for home 
and was invisible for several days. Bah-ko-ne gad. 
Coon Skin Currency. 
Time was when coon skins alius had their vally in trade 
at the store an' 'most any shoemaker shop in Bullskin 
township. Prob'ly old One Lisha also knowed their use- 
fulness for makin' whang luther, which is the best kind 
for strings and mendia' gears. You bet they was a kind 
of circulatin' medium nobody couldn't corner, mainly 
because speckilaters had to ketch the coons first, which 
animals don't circulate in Wall street, N. Y. Since the 
crime of makin' better money, coon hides is demoneytized 
an' coons is gettin' a heap harder to ketch, which is 
natural. 
Wampum was a fashionable kind of circulatin' money 
the Indians had plenty of, and it has been demoneytized 
too. Wampum is a little long kind of sheila, about as 
scarce as hen's teeth, which they look a good bit like. 
Ssratchin' gravel on the ridge huntin' wampum has gone 
out of fashion entirely, but most likely both wampum an' 
coons would be easier to get if they was recognized as 
money again. Maybe there are some other things be- 
sides wampum an' coon hides that would do for new 
kinds of money and would be easier to get, especially in 
bad huntin' weather an' in summer, when the fur is no 
good. We've long been wantin' more money on the 
ridge, and we jine in demandin' free coinage of every- 
thing suitable, specially coon skins and other precious 
hides. Then life will be wuth livin' again in Bullskin 
township, Fiatt county, Pennsylvany. Yours truly, 
Deacon. 
MEN 1 HAVE FISHED WITH. 
v.— George Dawson. 
VI.— Maj. George S. Dawson. 
In writing the third article of this series it was re- 
corded that at one time John Atwood and I went trouting 
in a small stream back of Kinderhook Landing, on the 
river, a place some eighteen miles below Greenbush. This 
trip led to my first fishing trip with George Dawson, who 
was a man twenty years my senior, and it came to pass 
in this way. About 1850 my people moved across the 
river into Albany, and I was a student in the ''Classical 
Institute" of Prof. Charles H. Anthony, on Eagle street. 
Among the scholars was George S. Dawson, eldest son of 
George Dawson, who at that time was assistant editor of 
the Albany Evening Journal. Young George heard of 
that trip and told his father about the catch of trout in 
that stream, and it led to an interview. Mr. Dawson 
wanted to go, and we would take an early train for Kin- 
derhook station, on the B, & A. R. E , and if the distance 
was too far to the brook he would hire a horse to take the 
three near the stream, for George S. would go. This 
seemed a reckless bit of extravagance to a boy whose 
whole expenditurps for fishing had been a few pennies 
for hooks and lines and of leg muscle to get to the fishing 
places. 
The only thing that serves to fix the time of year is 
the memory that pond lilies were in bloom; the cat-tails 
were just pushing up their curious blooms, and had not 
burst to scatter their seeds, and the black-cap rasp- 
berries were ripa. It must have been early in July, for 
the swallows were skimming the meadows, and had not 
begun to congregate on the telegraph wires. These 
things are recalled by Mr, Dawson's wish to take home 
the pond lilies, our picking berries near the railroad sta- 
tion, and young Dawson's doubt of my statement that 
swallows could gather on wires charged with 
electricity. What a thing is a man's memory, and by 
how slight a cord is it tied to the past! The exact 
year is forgotten, but it was before 1854, probably three 
years before. Mr. Dawson carried a short hand-made 
rod of some kind of wood, with ring guides, the first 
thing of the kind I had seen, and that gave me the im- 
pression that he must be a very superior angler, especially 
as he said that his father had brought expensive rods for 
trout fishing from Scotland, but they had been lost. This 
was a revelationl "Expensive rods" — he called them 
"rods" — and the idea of paying money for such things 
when we could cut an alder pole and thought it expensive 
to buy fish hooks and lines, but, like the Irishman's owl 
which he had bought for a parrot, I said nothing, "but 
kept up a devil of a thinking." If money had been more 
plentiful in boyish pockets it is doubtful if its expendi- 
ture would have been in the direction of "fish poles," 
which could be cut anywhere and thrown away after 
use. This was a bit of dilettanteism in angling that hardly 
seemed consistent with our primitive ideas of using only 
those things which nature furnished, always excepting 
hooka and lines. His hooks were also a revelation. We 
used only Limericks of large size, and boys usually pre- 
fer big hooks because they look so strong, and they fear 
that a big Gab. may break a small hook. Mr. Dawson's 
•hooks wpre small and the wire was slim, but they were 
long in the shank, something like the hook now known 
as the "New York trout," if not the same, and the most 
wonderful thing about them was that they were neatly 
put on gut snells, another new thing. He rigged my line 
with one of the smallest hooks and discarded the sinker, 
which before seemed to be an indispensable part of a fish- 
ing outfit, and he showed us how to fish down stream and 
how we must keep a good distance apart. We fished with 
worms, and the slim, long-shanked hooks were perfect, 
because they did not break a small worm, and allowed 
the use of a generous bait on the long wire. How I 
treasured a dozen of these hooks which he gave me, and 
how some boys looked at them with envy, and others 
sneered at them, saying, "A big fish would bite 'em in 
two," are things well remembered. 
The stream was small, in places one could jump across 
it; then it would widen out, sometimes in deep holes and 
at others in shallow rifiies, through meadows most of the 
way and often fringed with alders, which troubled the 
angler to use his rod. In the latter case trout would be 
hauled in as on a hand line. There was no landing net in 
the party. At this time the existence of such an imple- 
ment was unknown to us boys; we hauled in a fish, un- 
hooked it, and either strung it on a twig and carried the 
string or let the fish hang in the water to keep alive. 
This day the latter mode was not practicable, The trout 
in this stream did not run very large, perhaps from 4 to 
6oz. ; but the new kind of hooks, the absence of a sinker 
and the consequent ability of the fish to fight, made it 
the grandest event in all my fishing and one ever to be 
GEORGE DAWSON. 
remembered. The day was perfect: a light breeze, the 
sun not too bright, and the fish taking the bait freely. 
Crawling through the brush or skipping the places where 
it was too thick to get a short rod and line in the water, 
we worked slowly down stream. I had let my hook drift 
under a log in a hole on the other side of the stream when 
a trout struck it hard. We had not arrived at that point 
in fine angling when reels were used, and the strike 
caught me with my tip lowered, and there was a struggle 
which soon ended in the line being fast to some immov- 
able thing and a strong pull parted it, and for the first 
time the biggest got away. This has happened to 
others. 
Surely it is hard to tell, at this late day, whether grief 
over the loss of a big fish overtopped the grief of losing 
one of those marvelous hooks, but that grief in solid 
chunks was abundant in a little clump of swamp willows 
is certain. The gut snell was frayed and hnd parted in 
the middle as if chafed over something rough; and after 
bending on a new hook I came upon young George near 
a little foot bridge, on which most of his clothing lay in 
a wet state. 
•'What's the matter, George?" 
' 'Fell in. How many you got?" 
"Nine, nice ones; but I just lost an old whopper and one 
of those hooks your father gave me. How many have you 
got, and how did you fall in?" 
"I only caught three; the fish get scared as soon as they 
see you and scoot away. I was after one that started 
down stream, and stepped on a slippery stone and just 
plunked in, that's all." 
After pointing out to him that trout must not be chased 
in order to make them take the hook, he was reminded 
of what his father had told him about not letting the fish 
see him, but in his anxiety to get a worm under a trout's 
nose all rules had been forgotten. The morning's work 
had brought on a first-class appetite on my schoolmate as 
well as on me, and Mr. Dawson had the material to alle- 
viate and cure that gnawing sensation if he could be 
found. Leaving all my traps and fish at the foot bridge, 
I started down stream to find Mr. Dawson. Soon behove 
in sight, coming up stream, and he had a string of about 
twenty fine trout. "It's getting near midday and the 
fish are not biting well, so we might as well rest and eat 
a bite," said he, "and then by the time we are through 
and walk back to the station the freight train will be 
along and we will go back in the caboose, as the agent 
said, for if we wait here for more fishing we will not get 
home to-night, as the fish will not be on the feed again 
before an hour or two of sundown." 
proverbial measure of fisherman's luck, and that lunch ! 
Did you ever strike anything so fine?" His regiment, in 
June, 1864, was in the Second Brigade, First Division, 
Second Corps, Army of the Potomac; while mine was in 
the Fourth Brigade of the same division and corps. 
While we lay in the trenches at Cold Harbor I sent him a 
note asking if he was catching many trout now, and he 
answered, in effect, that his regiment caught something 
else in the charge on June 3, and to the best of his knowl- 
edge the Seventh Artillery had some of the same brim- 
stone. The oflicial records show that the Second lost 215 
oflficers and men killed, wounded and missing in that 
terrible assault on the impregnable works at Cold Harbor^ 
mainly in the charge on the morning of June 3, 1864. 
My message had the desired effect, it showed that my 
schoolmate had lived through the storm and was still on 
duty. Twelve days later our brigades were halted near 
each other preparatory to forming for the battle which 
took place next day, and he sought me out. In the few 
minutes' chat he ran over several incidents of school days 
and referred to good old Prof. Anthony and our trouting. 
That day's fishing was firmly fixed in his mind. I never 
fished with him again and do not know that he ever went 
fishing after that time. In later years, while fishing with 
his father, we often talked of the Major, and he was a 
favorite subject with the elder George, but no reference 
to his fishing, except on that one occasion, was ever 
made. 
A bugle call broke our conference, and with a hurried 
grip of the hand Capt. Dawson said: "I think we will in- 
trench here and besiege Petersburg, and then we can 
visit often. Good-bye" 
There was a siege of Petersburg after the assault on 
the enemy's works on June 16, but Capt. Dawson took no 
part in it. A rifle shot just above the left knee, which he 
thought only a flesh wound and which the surgeon 
termed "a thirty days' scratch" — meaning a furlough for 
that length of time — took him off the field; and twenty- 
four hours later, while on his way to the Second Corps hospi- 
tal at City Point, he was strong enough to hold in bis lap 
the head of a poor fellow whose leg had been amputated. 
Whether the wound was more serious than was at first 
supposed, or because of the jolting in the ambulance, his 
leg was amputated shortly after reaching the hospital, 
and he was sent by steamer to Washington, where he re- 
mained four months before he was allowed to be taken 
home. Shortly after reaching Washington his commis- 
sion as major was received. "That's good," said he; 
"when my leg gets a little better I'll be mustered in as 
major, and then I can join my regiment as a mounted 
oflScer; for a fellow with one leg is of no use in the 
line, and I want to see this war fought to the end." 
Poor fellow! he died on Dec. 6, nearly four months 
after receiving his wound, aged twenty-six and a 
half years. The post mortem showed that the 
bone was injured above the amputation, and in 
army parlance he is still "awaiting muster." As a 
schoolboy he was very bright and studious, and although 
several years my junior he helped me out in my studies 
and "exams." many times. After leaving school he 
entered the service of Weed, Parsons & Co., publishers, 
and was a member of the Tenth Regiment, N. Y. Militia, 
before the war. Early in the war he offered his services 
as a private, but was rejected because of a defect in one 
eye from an accident in childhood, but he was bound to 
go in some capacity, and after the Second Artillery left 
Albany there was a vacant first lieutenantcy, and he got 
the appointment and joined the command at Staten 
Island, before it left the State, and was afterward made 
captain. No less a poet than Alfred B. Street wrote 
quite a long poem on "George Seward Dawson, Major 
Second New York Artillery, died from wounds received 
before Petersburg, June 16, 1864." After his death the 
Governor of the State forwarded to the bereaved father a 
brevet commission for his son (in memoriam) of lieuten- 
ant-colonel, "for gallant and meritorious conduct before 
Petersburg, Va." His regimental comrades bore witness 
to his soldierly qualities in a set of resolutions sent to his 
father, and Post No. 63, Department of New York, 
Grand Army of the Republic, of Albany, is named 
"George S. Dawson," after the young soldier whose life 
of promised usefulness was, like so many others, brought 
to a sudden end, but cannot be considered wasted. 
Capt. George S. Dawson, Second New York Artillery, 
stationed in the defenses of Washington, near Alexandria, 
in 1863, came to visit me when my regiment occupied the 
forts from Tennallytown on the Harper's Ferry road to 
Fort Da Russy, near the Seventh street road, and we had 
a grand review of the schoolboy days and of the only 
fishing trip that we ever had together. Said he: "Thaj; 
day will ever be remembered, for in my case it filled th 
George Dawson, while a trenchant political writer, was 
also fond of depicting life in the woods and on the 
streams. With pleasure I renewed my acquaintance with 
him in later years, when peace reigned in the land, and 
by invitation accompanied him to the Adirondacks when 
both were familiar with the use of the fly in luring the 
trout. He was born in Falkirk, Scotland, in 1813, and 
came with his parents to America five years later. He 
had no early schooling, but learned the printer's trade be- 
fore he was thirteen, and educated himself. Then he went 
to Rochester and worked for Thurlow Weed, editor of an 
anti-Masonic paper, and in 1836 Dawson became editor of 
the Rochester Democrat- Weed was afterward editor of 
the Albany Evening Journal, and in 1846 Dawson joined 
him as assistant editor. Weed retired in the stirring days 
of 1862 and Mr. Dawson took his place as editor and pro- 
prietor of the Journal, then as now one of the leading 
papers of the State of New York, and it soon became 
known that the pen of the new man was a most vigorous 
one. His love of nature was a most prominent tarait, and 
fishing was his favorite means of enjoying this love. 
Once while on the way to the Adirondacks with him I re^ 
marked; "The woods to me is a place to loaf." If I had 
read Whitman then I would have added, "and invite my 
soul," but only added, "A couple of hours' fishing mornr 
ing and evening is all I want; if the fish bite good it is 
well; if not, the trying for them suffices." 
*'My boy," he replied, "that is just exactly my own 
notion, and I have a dislike for the companionship of the 
bustling, busy angler who fishes as long as he can see to 
do it, morn, noon and dewy eve, in the hope of getting 
the last trout in the water. Such a man makes a labor of 
fishing; I go to the woods for rest and other attractions, 
purer, higher and more ennobling than the mere act of 
taking fish." 
He put these same words down in a notebook, and 
while in camp wrote an account of the trip to the Journal 
and used them in its columns in June, 1873, now before 
me. 
Once in writing of "how really garrulous are the silent 
men of meditative mood," and relating how, when in the 
woods, their faces would be illuminated by the passing 
thoughts while they were really communing with distant 
