Skpt. 19, 1896.] 
FOREST^ AND STREAM, 
229 
It was soon apparent why woolen mittens were an essen- 
tial part of the outfit. As they became wet they were 
warm, even with ice on the outside of them, just as a 
boy's foot will be warm after the iirst chill when his boot 
is full of ice water if his stocking is of wool. But 
continual freezing to an icy spear handle is hard on a 
mitten. 
I watched Garry begin sounding under the hole and 
then increase the circle until the spear handle was at an 
acute angle with the ice, throwing the spear strongly into 
the mud and then withdrawing it. He brought up 
sticks, brush and an occasional eel which soon stiffened 
on the snow. "How can you tell whether it's an eel or a 
stick?" 
"That's easy enough, try it." 
He chopped me a new hole and X made a thrust. 
"Harder," said he, "shove it hard or the barbs won't snap 
on 'em," and I sent the spear into the mud. An eel? No, 
a stick I After landing several sticks something was 
struck that wiggled and sent little thrilling pulsations up 
the staff, and then I knew all that is to be known about 
spearing eels through the ice. It is not a high class sport, 
but it gives a boy an excuse for an outing in winter and 
is a healthful exercise. This thing of exercise is better 
imderstood to-day than when I was a boy, and men who 
go out with rod and gun are not thought to be idle, good- 
for-nothing fellows, as they were thought to be half a cen- 
tury ago. Not that I was not an "idle, good-for-nothing 
fellow," who preferred a day's shooting or fishing to a 
week's confinement in school, but I am speaking in a 
general way, excepting "pre&ent company." 
About noon Garry flung the spear in the snow and said: 
"I'm hungry, what do you say?" 
Now that the matter was mentioned, there did seem to 
be something lacking, and without giving it that prof ound 
consideration which Garry gave to questions, I answered 
him in his own simple style: "So 'm I." AH the morn- 
ing I had been as silent as he; in fact, when a fellow gets 
shut up with such short answers as are here recorded 
there is nothing for him to do but to shut up. But how I 
did want to talk about the habits of eels, what they found 
to eat in the mud and other things. Away up the pond, 
a quarter of a mile away, a man was chopping wood. 
The sound of his stroke did not reach us until his axe was 
raised again. I asked father about this when I got home, 
but 1 did not intrude the question on Garry. He did not 
then encourage talk. 
We went ashore by a spring and made a fire. Garry 
opened the basket and brought out bread, butter and sau- 
sages. Just how he could cook the last was a mystery, 
and they could not be eaten raw. Bolognas were un- 
known then, as this was before the German invasion and 
the era of limburger, schweizerka^e, bolognas, pretzels and 
lager beer. I gathered dry fire wood and watched. He 
dragged two long limbs and rested one end of each upon 
a low stump. This was table and chairs. Then he took 
birch twigs and ran them lengthwise through the sau- 
sages and stuck them up before the fire. The ground be- 
ing frozen, he held them nearly erect by pieces of wood 
and there they fried in their own fat, the birch twigs im- 
parting no bad flavor. A tin cup of water from the 
spring served for both, and if a hungry boy astride a 
branch of a tree with a big birch chip for a plate did not 
do full justice to his appetite then, he never did. 
Many a dinner did I eat after that one, but this was so 
exceptionally good that it stands out in bold relief. Dur- 
ing weary months in military prisons the odor of those 
sausages came in hungry dreams. The white bread from 
Jonas Whiting's bakery and the butter from Dennison's 
farm were often remembered in days when such remem- 
brance was more substantial than anything in sight. 
That dinner is memorable for another thing. It opened 
up a human mind. John Atwood had said: "Garry Van 
Hooser never talks because he doesn't know anything to 
talk about. He just knows enough to weigh a pound of 
tea and say, 'Yes 'm, fifty cents.' " When I told John a 
little of this trip he was incredulous. The eels were in 
evidence, however, he couldn't deny them. 
After we had destroyed the dinner and Garry had 
lighted his pipe, he remarked between puffs: "When 
spring comes we will go down in the dead creek and shoot 
ducks, I often go there alone, but have felt that I wanted 
some one to be with me, some 'one to talk to at times. I 
went down there once with John Atwood, but he talked 
all the time and scared the ducks away. Now you don't 
break in when a man is thinking, and we've had a good 
time. I don't know what you were thinking about when 
we were spearing, but I thought that if it is true that this 
world is round and turns over every day, how is it that 
the water does not spill out of the holes we cut in the ice, 
and why the weight of the trees does not pull 'em out of 
the ground when they're upside down. I don't say that I 
don't believe it, but I can't understand it; and men that 
know more than I seem to believe it, but they can't tell 
just how it is. I jaever had much schooling, and this 
thing has bothered me for years. It keeps me awake 
nights and bothers me daytimes. If I ask about' it they 
make fun of me. Now you've had a good education and 
I want to know what you think about this thing, and if 
you don't know how it is don't tell that I asked about it; 
for there's a lot o' fools that don't know the first thing 
about this business, and don't care, that are always 
ready to make fun of a fellow who does want to 
know." 
This was the longest speech that I had every heard 
Garry make up to that time. I explained the rotation of 
the earth as well as I understood it, and afterward gave 
him what literature bearing on the subject I could find, 
and his reserve was thrown off. He was a different man 
to me, and I soon liked his simple, honest ways, his stu- 
dious mode of looking into things and his philosophical 
conclusions. Every man's mind is a study, a curiosity, if 
you will, if you have time and inclination to look into it. 
It is curious because it differs from yours. 
After his long speech, delivered between puffs on his 
pipe, and my explanations, there was a period of silence. 
Then he asked: "Did you ever trap any rabbits?" 
"No; I've shot a few, but never trapped any. Why?" 
"What time do your folks have breakfast?" , 
Without seeing any intimate connection between the 
trapping of rabbits and the hour when our family broke 
their fast, I replied: "In summer at 7 and in winter at 8. 
What's that got to do with catching rabbits?" 
"I was thinking that you'd have time to tend the traps 
if you could get up about 6 o'clock. Then you'd be back 
in time to get breakfast and go to school. There's lots o' 
rabbits up in the woods back o' the rye field, and I've got 
six box traps stored in the old barn there. If you'll see 
to 'em every morning we'll go over there now and set the 
traps before we go home. What d' you say?" 
"Tell me all about it, and I'll do it. It must be heaps 
o' fun. Come on." 
We crossed over to the rye field— a field so well known 
to every boy as the ball ground, where no one drove us off, 
but which had been a pasture since my recollection — and 
carried the traps into the woods. Garry had got some sweet 
apples and we set a trap here and there where rabbit signs 
were thickest. 
"When you come to a trap in the morning," said he, 
"if it is still set you want to see that the bait is there and 
the cord or the spindle is not frozen so that it can't work. 
If it has been sprung you want to go slow and find out 
what's in it. If it's a skunk he'll let you know when you 
touch it with your boot, and then you want to tie a long 
string to the cover and let him walk out. If it's a rabbit, 
put in your hand and take it out." 
"Won't it bite?" 
"No, they never bite. The best way to kill them is to 
hold their hindlegs in your left hand, and hit 'em with a 
stick in the back of the neck." 
"I don't believe I could do it. I can shoot one, but I 
know I could never do that." 
"Yes, you could; it's easy enough. But if you are afraid 
to do it that way, take a bag, put the mouth of it over the 
trap, dump them into it, and bring them down to me." 
That seemed the best way. I was not afraid to kill a 
rabbit by shooting it — Garry did not understand me — ^but 
the bag scheme let me out and it was settled in that way. 
We went back to the mill pond, gathered our basket of 
eels and went home. I promised to let Garry know how 
many rabbits I had and to let him do the killing. 
Next morning I was up very early. There had been a 
light, drizzling rain during the night, and now there was 
a hard crust on the snow which crunched under foot and 
made a great noise. The first trap was approached with 
a quickening pulse, and my heart was beating high as it 
was neared. Alas I it was unsprung and the cord was 
frozen faft. The crust did not tell if the trap had been 
visited, but the apple was untouched. All the traps were 
in the same condition, but I fixed them so that they 
would spring, and on the way home reported the facts to 
Garry. 
"You needn't have gone to them this morning," said 
he, "for you might have known that a rabbit would not 
go out and get aU covered with ice in a rain like that one 
last night." 
I might have known, but with a head filled with the 
excitement of a first visit to rabbit traps, with the expecta- 
tion that at least one rabbit might be found in each, I 
never thought that they might prefer dry hides to my 
traps. 
The next night was clear and crisp, and oh, how cold 
that morning was! The stars seemed to echo my tread 
on the crackling crust as I trudged along. The first trap 
was unsprung and my faith in taking rabbits in box traps 
was shaken. Old tracks, made before the crust was 
formed, were abundant, and there was "sign" on the 
crust where no tracks could be seen. Surely there were 
rabbits there, if they could only be caught. These were 
the thoughts when the second trap was sighted. It was 
sprung! The rapid puffing of an early freight train on 
the railroad below did not exceed the beating of my 
heart. Cold as it was, a perspiration broke out all over 
me. Pshaw ! Perhaps the string had broken or the trig- 
ger had slipped from the notch! 
I stood for a moment like one in a dream. Could it be 
that the trap actually held a rabbit? I went up to it and 
kicked it lightly with my boot. There was no indication 
of an ' 'essence peddler" in the air j and I peeped in. There 
was the game crouched in the far end. I let the trap 
down and for a few moments enjoyed my triumph. I 
was a mighty trapper! Me! 
This Was long before the deer episode related in No. 
VII. , and a rabbit was the largest game that I aspired to. 
Heart never beat faster over a first grizzly or bighorn 
than mine did then. As I have said, I had shot an occa- 
sional rabbit; but this early morning tramp over crusted 
snow seemed somehow to make the event seem like the 
life of a real woodsman. A great part of Greenbush was 
asleep, and here was I in the forest with its largest game 
in my power! 
I carefully adjusted' the bag over the trap and then 
opened it. There was a thud in the bottom of the bag, 
and then a glimpse of something gray and a sound of 
"zip, zip," and if that was really a rabbit it was gone. 
The unexpected had happened. That was all I knew, and 
there was a period of depression such as always follows 
intoxication. After pulling my scattered senses together, 
I reset the trap and went on. The third trap held a rab- 
bit, and with the last failure in mind great care was exer- 
cised in arranging the bag. No mistake this time ! I knew 
how to hold him. I knew how, but somehow the same thing 
happened again. The second time the unexpected oc- 
curred, and some old philosopher has said that this is the 
only thing that ever does occur, I was despondent and 
demoralized, especially when the next two traps were 
f ovmd empty. As the sixth and last trap was sighted, the 
fact that it was sprung started no heart pumping. I was 
cooler now that I had seen just where the last rabbit got 
out. The bag had been tight around the trap until the 
traps was opened; the top and front end were nailed to- 
gether, and the bag left a hole on each side when the 
trap was opened. Twice was enough. The mistake should 
not occur again. Remembering what Garry had said 
about a rabbit not biting, I put in a hand and brought the 
trembling animal out in some way, either by the ears or 
the hindlegs; memory fails to recall how, but it does 
bring back the pitiful cries that rang through the woods. 
This troubled me, but I hardened my heart and dropped 
the game in the bag, and started for home with my prize, 
in triumph not unmixed with other feelings. 
With bag on shoulder I stopped at the foot of the hill 
to drink the strong sulphur water of Harrowgate Spring, 
of wjiich Col. Raymond and I were* so fond, as told in 
sketch No. VIII. Here the events of the morning were 
reviewed in cold blood. Hardly two hours had passed, 
but the crowded events made it seem ten times as long. 
The little creature was still now, probably wondering 
what would come next. After pondering for a while on 
the escape of the two rabbits and taking another swig of 
Harrowgate, the recollection of those pitiful cries came up 
in full force. Then I seemed to realize that they came 
from a poor, terrified and harmless thing that I was tak- 
ing to be killed without the excitement of the hunt. I 
peeped into the bag. Two large eyes and a trembling 
form were in the corner. Somehow the grip on the 
mouth of the bag was loosened, the bottom was turned 
up and a white lump of cotton in a field of gray went 
bobbing off into the brush. 
When I entered Tom Simmonds's store I said to Garry: 
"Here's your bag; I haven't got any rabbits and don't 
want any. I'll go up and spring the traps after school; 
it's time for breakfast now." 
It was months afterward before I told him the whole 
story, and he said: "Well, I don't know as I'd like to 
kill a rabbit if it cried like that. The fact is I built the 
traps some two years ago, and after some such scrape 
as yours I left them in the barn. Some boys like to trap 
rabbits, but I don't care anything about it; I only thought 
you might like it." 
I am not so chicken-hearted as this story makes me out. 
I have been a trapper for fur, will tell you about this a 
few weeks later, and I never had the slightest feeling of 
pity for a bloodthirsty mink, marten or other animal of 
that class. I have killed them in steel traps, found them 
frozen to death in them, and have seen where they left a 
leg behind, and never felt more pity for these merciless 
brutes than I do for an oyster when I eat it alive. Some- 
how the very helplessness of a rabbit appeals to a fellow, 
and its pk'ntive cries — . I give it up! I let that vrxbhit 
go that morning by the waters of Harrowgate and t'fct ia 
all there is of it. I have tried to make a story of it and 
failed. 
Once or twice after the eel spearing scrape Garry rsked 
me to fish with him, and the other boys wondered at it. 
Some years later we shot ducks, yellow-legs and rail along 
the dead creek, an inlet on the island below Douw's 
Point, and above the hilly dwelling of "der Yawcum 
Stawts wot lives on de Hokleberic."* 
This creek is now filled up and is known no more except 
as a low, marshy spot. We had a good day once; two 
mallards, a wood duck and some half a dozen rail. 
A very good day it was, for ducks were wild and not 
plenty, when Garry crawled up to a flock and got three. 
Coody retrieved them, but unfortunately they proved to 
be tame ducks, and the owner came down on Garry. I 
was below and kept still, hoping for a shot if anything 
came my way. After waiting a while a mud hen got up 
below me, flying low, and I shot. I missed the mud hen, 
but hit Garry in the back of the leg, and he promptly 
yelled. He had paid the man for his ducks and then 
went around back of me, hidden by the brush, and was 
just in time to intercept a few shot that the mud hen 
failed to get because of its haste. The shots, some half a 
dozen, were only under the skin in the calf of his leg, 
and I had no trouble in taking them out with a pocket 
knife. 
Said Garry: "It's lucky that I was below the bird or 
your lead would have gone in deeper." 
"What were you doing down below me and how did 
you get there? I didn't see you. I thought you were up 
above squaring it with the man for his tame ducks. I 
suppose he wanted twice what they were worth." 
"No," said Garry, "he won't charge much; he trades 
with us, and will bring me the ducks and settle to-morrow. 
I wouldn't like to take up a lot of tame ducks; the boys 
would laugh. Now, see here! If you will promise never 
to tell that I shot into a flock of tame ducks I'll give you 
my word that I won't say a word about your shooting me 
in the leg. Is it a go?" 
' 'It's a go !" Gai ry is dead and it's a long time ago. As 
both stories are told now for the first time, I don't see 
that any harm Ls done to him. Neither of us meant to do 
it, and after all the intention, in a shooting case, is always 
carefully considered by a jury, 
Garry was short and stout, wore his face without hair, 
and his teeth were stained by tobacco. I should think he 
might have been born about 1825, but while I knew of his^ 
death and attended his funeral, I have pressed every but- 
ton in memory for an approximate date, but the wires 
seem to be crossed and I can't say between which of the 
epochs from which I date things his death occurred. 
These epochs are: first, goine: West in 1854; second, com- 
ing back like the Prodigal Son in 1859; third, entering the 
army in '62 and returning in '65. Mr. Garret M. Van 
O'Linda thinks he died in 1861, and that seems likely. 
I only know that he married about three weeks before 
he died. It was like this: I was in Greenbush one day. 
Here a wire seems to straighten out in memory and in- 
distinctly buzzes: "Then it was after 1860, for you were 
■often there then," and then the circuit is broken. I went 
into his store and he invited me into the back room. 
"I want your advice," said he, "and I ask it because I 
am only a raw countryman and you have more knowl- 
edge of the world than I have." 
This almost took my breath. If he was contemplating 
the opening of a grocery in opposition to Tom Simmonds 
and Mat Miller it was useless to consult one like me, 
whose only object in life so far had been to get what fun 
he could out of it, and whose knowledge of business was 
nil. Of course I did not formulate all this then — I was 
merely surprised, and asked: "What's up, Garry?" 
He thought a moment and then said: "I am thinking 
about getting married, and am in doubt whether it is the 
best thing to do or not. What do you think?" 
If memory reflects my mind at that time, I did not 
think. Here was a man who was shy of men and boys, 
one whose business compelled him to talk to women and 
girls, but whose shyness cut the conversation to the strict- 
est business limits, I was astounded 1 Pulling my scat- 
tered wits together, I said: "Why, Garry, I never heard 
of your keeping company with a girl; who is she?" 
He told me, but it was no one that I had ever heard of. 
Said he: "She is the nicest girl I ever saw, and she comes 
to the store every day and I can talk to her by the hour. 
She is not a bit like tne other girls that come in. I. wish 
you could see her." 
That settled the marriage question. Of course, I had 
nothing to say and he didn't expect I would have, but he was 
compelled to confide his secret to a human being of some 
kind and the one before him served his purpose. 
In after years whenever a box trap was stumbled on in 
the woods it brought up the picture of Garry Van Hoesen, 
the shy, sensitive fellow who longed for human sympa- 
thy, but from a lack of aggressiveness or an excess of dif- 
fidence, self- consciousness, or whatever you please to call 
it, seemed lonesome in this great bustling world. If I'd 
* This is a phonetic spelling, as the Albany Dutch spoke it when 
they referred to Joachim Staats, who lived on the Hogleberg, or 
"hog'abacfc." the only hUl on the island, just bacli of the landing 
known as Staata's dock. 
