dor. it, 1896.] 
PDREST AND STREAM, 
SU 
tie of matches, a trick learned from my old preceptor, Port 
Tyler. Said Port: "You don't never want to goa-shootin' 
nur a-flshin' with yer matches loose in yer pocket, nor in 
one o' them metal match boxes; they leak, an' if ye get 
callght in a raiti or tumble in the crick yer matches are all 
wet when ye want 'em most." I'he lesson had been firmly 
implanted by a neglect to follow it on one occasion, and 
here was proof of the wisdom of the old woodsman. At 
such a time, when wet, cold and hungry, one good match 
was worth a king's ransom, and I had it, Dead wood was 
plenty, and the little breeze which kept the mosquitoes 
from the open sloo was not felt in the underbush. Before 
the fire we stripped and spread our clothing on poles cut 
for the purpose, and then — there is a dim remembrance 
of three fellows trying to keep their bodies in the smoke 
and theit eyes out of it. 
This was a mosquito paradise, for them. For us the 
term might be reversed, and it would require the pen of 
Dante to describe the place. Still, most readers of FOR- 
EST ATJD Streajsi have sat in smudges and have wondered 
whether it were nobler in the mind to suffer the stings 
and poisons of tormenting 'skeeters or by smudging end 
them. "Smoke follows beauty," is the adage; but when 
sitting in a smudge of dry fungus we old campaigners 
know that we are not beautiful because the smoke dodges 
Us. Sometimes it is a question whether the insects are not 
to be preferred to smarting eyes, but eventually the ayes 
have it, and more smudge is made. 
Our lunch was saved and there was plenty of it— but 
the bread was soaked too much to use, the pies which 
Mrs, Neaville had put in the basket had disintegrated, 
and the ham and chicken had been eaten. We slapped 
mosquitoes and roasted fish and shifted to keep in the 
smoke. When the fish were cooked we ate supper. 
"Where's the salt?" asked Frank. 
Henry looked up and quietly said: "Frank, look in the 
basket; you'll find the salt tied up in a rag; bring us 
some;" and he never cracked a smile while his brother 
held up the soaked rag, looked at it, and threw it down. 
"I never like salt on fish," said Henry, "it makes me 
think they're not fresh." Frank arid 1 ate fresh fish and 
made no comment. After dinner Henry took his felt hat 
and went to the sloo and brought it up full of water. 
Said he: "I always want a drink after a fish dinner, and 
of all the drinks in this world there's nothing like Missis- 
sippi River water; it's rich, food and drink too, and there's 
no better place to get it than from Swift Sloo! Boys, here's 
funi" 
It was desirable to get our clothes on at the earliest mo- 
ment, so that there would be a minimum of cuticle 
exposed to the enemy, and after dressing we could dry the 
garments from the inside as well as by the fire, so we 
dressed and dragged the boat ashore, turned it over and 
slept the sleep of the just under it, leaving the hordes of 
mosquitoes to sing us a lullaby on the outeide, while only 
a few of them found entrance from the ground. 
Frank said: "I've had enough of this, and I'm going to 
get upl" And it was morning— broad daylight! The dawn 
had been obscured by the neavy timber and the over- 
turned boat. A breakfast which somehow was much like 
the supper, in the presence of fresh fish and the absence of 
salt and everything else, was satisfactory to all but Frank. 
He said; "If I only had a cup of coffee I wouldn't care." 
"Frank," I replied, "you are not an epicure. There is 
no more delicious breakfast known than roasted cvappie 
cooked without salt and washed down with water from 
Swift Sloo. Your palate is not educated; coffee just now 
— hot coffee, I mean — would spoil the combination; you 
don't want coffee, nor anything else." 
"Coffeel" fcxolaimed Henry, "why, coffee would spoil 
the iaste of those delicate crappies, which all epicures eat 
without salt." And then he added: "Coffee would queer 
the whole show," a remark which made me ask if he had 
gone off with Charley Guyon, Montpleasure and the 
others on their trip into Iowa, and he admitted that he 
had been the treasurer of the troupe. How little things 
serve to show what will "queer" a larger thingi I asked: 
"Henry, what was it that 'queered' our trip?" And he 
simply answered: "Frank." 
Don't think that Frank was any sort of a "hoodoo" be- 
cause we guyed him in this way. He was a good, honest 
boy, but had no taste for camp life — hunting, fishing and 
mosquitoes. He afforded plenty of sport to bis brother 
and I because he was green at these things. He wanted 
to know what there was interesting in seeing a mink kill 
a muskrat. 
Henry replied: "Why, you bloomin' idiot, you might 
live in the woods for fifty years and never see such a 
thing but once. 
"Well," drawled Frank, "after you've seen it what does 
it amount to? You knew that mink killed muskrats and 
what more is there to it?" 
Henry was dazed at this practical question, and no one 
replied to Frank. What could you say? If a man has 
no liking for a thing, what can be said to prove that he 
ought to like it? We could only feel sorry for a fellow 
who had no care to observe animals in a state of nature 
when they were unaware of the presence of man. If a 
man doesn't care for literature, science or art, there's 
no use talking to him about them. This may be illus- 
trated by the following story: Two feUows had journeyed 
from New York to see Niagara Falls, of which they had 
heard much. As they came in sight of the mighty cat- 
aract one said: "There, Jim! them's the falls!" The 
other asked: "Is them the falls?" and added: "Them's 
nice falls; now let's go and get some beer." That, I 
think, puts the case fairly — ^perhaps as strongly as that of 
"casting pearls before swine," but not in such an offen- 
sive manner. If Henry Neaville was ahve to-day he 
would spend a week to ^ee that solitary animal, a mink, 
capture and kill his prey in the manner one did when we 
were fishing near Swift Sloo. Frank had no interest in 
such things. 
We cut a stiff pole, and with om* remaining oar poled 
and paddled back to the tree top, where Frank capsized 
the boat in order to look at the wounded pelican. After 
a survey of the bottom we found the spot where the rifle 
lay, and I undressed and brought it up at the first dive, for 
the water was not more than ttft. deep, there was no mud 
to cover the gun in the swift water, and it lay within 3Et. 
of where the boat upset, We then saw where a board 
had lodged in the last freshet, and as our loose seats were 
gone I proposed to replace them with the board. 
"Bat you have no saw. How are you going to cut that 
board to make two seats?" asked Frank. 
I showed him how to cut a board off square with a 
pocket knife by taking the measure and following the 
mark with the point of a knife. Then slightly bending 
the board at the mark and drawing the knife in the cut, 
taking care not to bend it too much ; the fibers separated 
with a snap under the point of the knife and we had two 
seats with ends as square as if sawed. It was done so 
cjuickly that he was surprised and I showed him how a 
small tree cotildbe cut by a sharp-piointed knife if the 
tree could be bent so as to strain the fibres, and he very 
ungrammatically remarked: "Well, I'm be blowed!" 
Henry Neaville was one of those rare fellows who are 
charming companions in camp— one of those cheerfdl 
men who never grumble no mattei* what happens. It 
might rain and wet him to the skin when there was no 
chance to make a fire, he might lose his fishing tackle 
when no more could be had and he would joke about it. 
He would be happy when it was a choice between being 
eaten alive by mosquitoes or being smothered and blinded 
by smoke. Mark Tapley could not have been jollier 
under adverse circumstances than was Henry Neaville. 
I was with him a year and a half later in camp in north- 
ern Minnesota with a surveying party and saw him come 
in with both feet frozen so badly that I feared amputa- 
tion might be necessary, and as I dressed his feet after- 
ward when they were swollen almost to bursting he said: 
"If you should have to cut these feet off just box 'em up 
and send 'em back to Potosi and write father to tell the 
girls that I'm not dancing this winter." That I loved 
such a cheerful companion is not strange; any sportsman 
would have taken him to his heart, for if there is a dis- 
agreeable quality in a man it will show itself in camp, 
If he is cranky, cross or grumbly it will come out in 
time, and if he is a hog who will take the choice corner 
of the tent every time, or the best fish in pan, it is soon 
known, and right here let me say I have met many such: 
men who seemed to think that no one was wet and cold 
but themselves, nobody tired and hungry except their 
own carcasses; one trip with them is always enough. 
They are the fellows who will shoot across you at your 
birds, throw out their lines alongside yours if they see 
you have a nibble, and in many ways, beside bragging of 
their personal prowess, make themselves disagreeable. 
You've ail met 'em and dropped 'em. I will tell you 
more about Henry two weeks later. 
We drifted down Swift Sloo and poled and paddled to 
the landing, made the boat fast, and marched through the 
partly deserted villages of Lafayette and Van Buren 
to picturesque Potosi. Mr. Kaltenbach, who had been 
postmaster for some twenty years then and who recently 
died in ofiice, the oldest postmaster known to the service, 
hailed us with: "Hello! boys, did you get so many fish 
that you couldn't carry 'em?" Bat Henry told him that 
several wagons were on the way with our catch. John 
Nicholas and Bill Patterson wanted to know if we forgot 
to spit on our bait, but they got no reply. We had en- 
joyed the trip, that is, Henry and I did — it was not cer- 
tain about Frank, and it was useless to try to explain it to 
people who measure your fun by the amount of game 
brought back, a most false measure and one that should 
come under the supervision of the State "sealer of weights 
and measures." 
In the fall Pete Loeser, who you will remember came 
from Albany with me, sent an invitation to go up some 
fifteen miles to Fenimore Grove and shoot prairie chick- 
ens, Henry went along and was enthusiastic about the 
sport, which could not be had in the heavily timbered dis- 
trict near Potosi. 
Oa the drive to Lancaster Henry learned that I had 
never seen a prairie hen alive, and he gave me an account 
of the habits of the bird and how they went in flocks 
like quail, and while scattered about feeding would rise 
by dozens, by twos and threes and single birds, affording 
a chance to use both barrels and often to load again be- 
fore the last bird took wing. Said he: "I've heard you 
talk about partridge shooting, but it beats that all hollow. 
Why, the partridge is not to be named the same day 
when we talk of prairie chickens," Sach talk naturally 
raised my expectations of great sport with a new and un- 
tried game bird which was said to excel the ruffed grouse 
as an object of pursuit, and when we met Pete and he 
said, "The tay vos yust ride, und dere was t'ousands of 
bra'rie shickens in de wheat stubble und de cornfields," 
we were elated. 
We had no dog, but we spread out at proper distances 
to take in cross shots without interference, and walked 
the birds up. The ease with which they were dropped 
surprised me after being wrought up by Henry's extrava- 
gant talk. On our return with big bags of this fine bird, 
Henry asked what I thought of the sport and I summed 
it up in about this style: "Henry, the prairie chicken is a 
fine large bird and a good game bird, but as a bird to 
shoot it is easier than the little quail; it flies in the open, 
and in such a way that a duffer could hardly miss it if 
within range. It doesn't compare with woodcock shoot- 
ing in a thicket as a test of skill, and as for partridge, 
I tell you that there is a feeling of triumph in downing a 
wary old bird, which starts like a rocket and puts a tree 
between you and himself before he has gone 10ft,, if the 
tree is there, that the killing of 100 prairie chickens can- 
not equal. Come with me some day and try them back 
of the river bluffs toward Cassville, and if you don't agree 
with me when we return I'll eat my hat," [Since this 
was written I have read the excellent article on ruffed 
grouse by Mr. Waters in last week's paper, and he and I 
agree on this point, ] 
Since that day I have shot prairie chickens in Kansas and 
in other States, and still adhere to my opinion concerning 
the merits of the two birds from the sDacdpoint of a sports- 
man whose object is to bag a difficult bird regardless of 
whether he gets two or twenty. For the table I prefer 
the dark-meated prairie fowl, but that is another question. 
Also I would say chat up to that time I had never seen 
nor heard of the practice of treeing partridges with a dog. 
It is only in sparsely settled districts where this can be 
done, and it was many years after that I had practical 
knowledge of this method of shooting. About the thickly 
settled districts of New York, where I learned to shoot, 
the ruffed grouse would never take to a tree for a 
yelping spaniel; they crouched for a spring at the ap- 
proach of man or dog, and often the thunder of their 
wings was the first intimation the gunner had of 
their presence, and he was lucky if he could flesh his 
shot before the swift bird had put a tree between them. 
It was largely snap shooting, and, as I have said, the feel- 
ing of triumph in dropping one under such conditions 
was great, and there were men in that day and there are 
men to-day who will agree to every word of this. At the 
risk of calling down a host of antagonists who wiU go for 
my scalp, I will say that the grandest game bird of 
America is the ruffed grouse, called "partridge" in New 
York and NewEagland, £^nd "piheasant" in Pennsylvania 
and the South. The wild turkey is a wary bird and car- 
ries more meat about hia person, but an experience in! 
shooting both makes me put the turkey in the second! 
place. , 
This talk has led nle from Henry Neaville, whom 1 
wanted you to know, but a Vagabond pen wandered froM 
the subject. I will tell you something of him later on; 
for he and I joined a party of Government surveyors d 
year later that explored a portion of nol'thern Minnesota; 
but before we get to that I must, in the natural order of 
events, tell you about a winter spent in trapiping for fuir 
with Autoine Gardapee, whom you met in the first part 
of this article. Henry was my intimate companion on the 
surveying trip and afterward; we had so much in com- 
mon that we could not keep apart if we had tried. 
In gathering information about my old-time friends I 
was pleased to find that Hon. J. W, Beaton is still living 
in Potosi. During the time of which I write he published 
a weekly paper there and was afterward a member of the 
State Senate for several terms. He writes me as follows: 
"Bill Patterson is living at Portland, Ore. All your other 
friends are dead except Thomas Davies, who went with 
you on the surveying trip. Henry and Frank Neaville 
went out with Company C, 2d Wisconsin Infantry, after- 
ward part of the famous 'Iron Brigade.' Henry was 
made a Corporal and Frank was First Sergeant. Frank 
was killed at Bull Run Aug. 28, 1863, and Henry was 
killed at Antietam nineteen days later." 
"The neighing troop, the jaashing blade. 
The bugle's stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 
The din and shuut are past; 
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal. 
Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 
The rapture of the flght." 
Fbbd Matheb. 
GEORGE DAWSON'S LETTERS. 
Lansing, Mich,, Sept, 26.— I have just returned from a 
visit to my old home in the State of New York. Before I 
started for the East I read Mr. Fred Mather's article on 
George Dawson, and it reminded me of a circumstance. 
When I was a lad, living on a farm near Bdtavia, N. Y., 
the Albany Journal was one of the papers which came to 
our house regularly for many years. Mr. Dawson was at 
that time in the prime of life, and every season fo* many 
years he took his outing in the Adironrtacks. Every week 
while he was in the woods the Journal would contain a 
lengthy article giving a detailed description of his doings, 
and I need not tell you that I looked very anxiously for 
the coming of the Journal, which would tell me all about 
Paul Smith's, and the big trout, and the wonders of life 
in the big woods. Every week for some years I would 
cut out these articles, roll them together and put them 
away, with the expectation of some day making a scrap 
book. But the war came upon us and I left my home, 
and when events brought me home again I was a bigger 
boy and had other hopes and aspirations, and I drifted 
away, never to return nor to know what a pleasant reality 
my early home life had been. 
During all of these years I have often thought of that 
big roll of clippings, and when I was at our old farm- 
house home a few weeks ago I hunted the house high and 
low, from cellar to garret, in hope of finding the articles, 
but it was all in vain; I could get no trace of them. To 
be candid — it seemed to me but yesterday that I could 
pick them up, read them over ana carefully roll them up 
again and put them away in the big drawer, but thirty- 
five years have passed since then. Do you wonder thait I 
want to thank Mr. Mather for his articles, and to say to 
him that I enjoy reading them very much? 
Mr. Genio C. Scott, another of Mr. Mather's fishing 
friends, was also an early time acquaintance of my own. 
This was some years before he wrote "Fishing in Amer- 
ican Waters," and he was making notes at the time for 
his book. I spent three days with him at Silver Lake, in 
western New York, about that time, and I well remember 
the talks we had about the book and what he was going 
to say in it. One thing about his fishing I shall never 
forget: at Silver Lake the fishing in those days was all 
done by trolling except an occasional cast with a crab 
after bass, but Mr. Scott insisted upon standmg up in the 
front end of the boat and with a heavy bass rod and 
small spoon cast among the lilypads for hours, and I do 
not recall that he took a single fish. He laughed about 
his bad luck and said that the only trouble was that the 
fish at Silver Lake were not educated and did not know a 
good thing when they saw it. So Mr. Mather has again 
freshened my memory and taken me back to pleasant 
days in early life. I wonder how many men in this 
country can appreciate the articles which Mr. Mather is 
writing, and araw upon memory for something of actual 
fact to illustrate the days that are past and gone. 
Julian. 
Some Iowa Fishins* 
Chakles City, la.— Pike fishing has proven exception- 
ally good below the dam on the Cedar River this the first 
few days in October, the writer and one other party hav- 
ing secured fourteen wall eyed pike weighing 42ilb8. The 
five largest weighed as follows: 7t, 6^, 4, 3^ and Slbs., the 
other nine averaging 21bs, apiece. 
Seven miles above here, on Sept. 30, Dr. Sitzer caught 
six of the largest small-mouthed black bass taken (at one 
time) from these waters in years, the lot weighing Ibilbs,, 
the largest one 4jlbs. 
While fishing three miles below this place, some few 
weeks ago, one young man of the party caught a monster 
snapping turtle, with a strip of brass securely fastened 
through a hole in the back part of the top shell. When 
removed and cleaned the following inscription was found 
upon it: "A. W. Cook— 1866," This was the name of a 
prosperous farmer (long since dead) who lived only a short 
ways from where this fellow was caught. 
A few years ago, while fishing in Spirit Lake, Iowa, I 
caught a croppy that weighed 2lbs. 2oz. Will some one 
of the many readers of Forest and Stream state about 
how large croppies grow? y. v. S. 
The Forest awd Stbkam »» put to press each loeeh on Tuetday, 
Oorreapondence intended for publication thoiUd reaah ua at ihf 
laUti MQnday, and at muoh ^rlitr a$ praQtioabl4. 
