302 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[April i6, r^8. 
Fruits of Uncle Gid's Christmas 
Tree* 
"You want tu quit a-watchin' for 'em, if you want tu 
licv 'em come," said Uncle Gid Corbin, as for the twen- 
tieth time that Christmas morning Aunt Milljr went to 
the window, wiped the steam from a pane with her 
apron, carefullj^ adjusted her spectacles, and searched 
the two blue lines which marked the freshly beaten road 
to where they blended in one, on the crest of the furthest 
ridge. 
"Wal, I do' know but what you're right, father. The' 
hain't nothin' in sight as fur's I can see. There, posi- 
tyvely, I will not look ag'in." She fortified herself with a 
final searching glance, and turning her back resolutely 
upon the shining outer Avorld. waddled briskly across the 
kitchen, whose furniture celebrated every step of her 
progress with lively acclaim. 
"Land sakes!" she sighed, as much with the effort 
of squatting before the oven door of the stove as from 
the suggested possibility. "What if they shouldn't come 
arter all." 
With corrugated brow and set lips she made feints 
at the hot latch with her bare hand, then sheathing it in 
the corner of the ever useful apron she flung the door 
open, letting out a steaming fragrance of baked meat 
that Uncle Gid craned his neck to get a fuller snifll; at, 
and such a crackling of seething fat that Gabriel, the 
hound, scrambled out backward from his warm bertli 
in considerable alarm, 
"They've got tu come," said Uncle Gid, leaning fur- 
ther forward and sidewise to catch a ghmpse of the 
source of the savory odor. "You 'n' I can't eat ali 
you've fixed up in a fortni't. ^ By hokey! it they git a 
smell o' that coon a-roastin' they'll haf tu! I'm good 
min' tu o'p'n the aoutside door an' let some on't drift 
tow-wards 'em." 
"Wal, it doos mos' seem 's 'ough the' wouldn't ha' 
been so much come so providential all for nothin'," said 
Aunt Milly, as she drew the dripping pan so far out 
to baste its contents that nearly the whole length _ of 
the raccoon, sweating fat at every pore and beginning 
to blush with a delicate bloom of brown, was displayed 
to her husband's admiring ej'es. He heaved a sigh of 
satisfaction and began filling his pipe, feeling as great 
a desire to smoke as if he had partaken of a feast. 
"What you goin' tu call it?" she asked, as she shoved 
back the pan and closed the door. "They might spleen 
ag'in coon." 
"They can't a-lookin' at -it an' a-smellin' on't, an' 
folks 'at spleens ag'in good game don't desarve no 
victuals," said he, adding, after some reflection, "but we 
might call it turkey." 
"Good land! a four-legged turkey! Hain't you ridic- 
'lous, wi' your four-laigged faowls an' your four-year- 
old child'en a-nussin," Aunt Milly chuckled. 
"Wal, you needn't laugh, mother, for I seen a tew- 
headed chicken onct, an' I d' know why a turkey 
couldn't jest as well hev' a extry pair o' laigs. But we 
can call it a pig if you'd any druther." 
"Only it hain't got no skin on," she objected. 
" 'Tain't nob'dy's bus'ness if we skin aour pig," he 
asserted; "I'd livser 'n tu singe 'em, as I seen Pete 
Frenclaman his'n. Yes, sir, laid his coshaw, as he called, 
ontu a scaffil, an' lit some straw 'n under it, an' jest 
scorched the brussels oft on't. You never see sech a 
iQokin' thing — blacker 'n Tony's face. I sh'd think 
'twas coshaw!" 
"What's that, anyway?" Aunt Milly asked. 
"Oh, I s'pose that is French for pig," Uncle Gid 
answered, and then to the hound, who came and nuzzled 
his hand for a caress: "Why, sartin, ol' dawg, the' 
wouldn't ha' been no coons nor no honey if it hedn't 
'a' been for him. Course his Uncle Gid knows that, 
an' so doos his Aunt Milly;" and Gabriel acknowledged 
the recognition of his service with rapid beats of his 
tail that swept the sand into little windrows on the clean 
scoured floor. 
Aunt Milly's face lighted up suddenly with a happy 
thought that flashed upon her. "Le's we call the coon 
a coshaw!" 
"By hokey, we will!" Uncle Gid declared, enthusias- 
tically; "if they can't stomerk it by that name, the' 's 
three pa'tridges for 'em, one apiece, if that boy raly 
has took tu solid victuals, an' you an' me '11 go it on 
coshaw. What is that 'ere noise?" he demanded, with 
a quick change of tone, as the mellow janghng of Boston 
bells became audible above the monotony of his voice, 
the shrill song of the kettle and the muffled sputtering 
of the raccoon in its hot prison. 
"Jung-jang, jung-jang," sang the sixteen big and little 
hollow, bronze globes, each wide mouth smiHng blandly 
as it rolled back and forth, as a sweet morsel, the iron 
pellet which was its tongue. 
"Le' me look, mother; if you look it won't be them!" 
cried Uncle Gid, forestalling his wife's advance toward 
the window with such celerity that Gabriel became ex- 
cited, for he seldom saw his master move so quickly, 
unless to take the rifle from its hooks. But now, to 
the hound's disappoinment, he stooped to the window 
and carefully regarded the approaching brown horse, 
the bread-tray shaped sleigh, and its occupants, and then 
as they recognized him through the misty panes, and 
smiled and nodded greeting, proclaimed joyfully: 
"Wal, by hokey! it is them — Nancy an' Nathan an' 
that 'ere baby. I say for 't he is a lunker er less they've 
got him turribly bundled up." 
He donned his cap, and as he hurried to the door, 
put on his coat with the collar turned in, which Aunt 
Milly plucked at unsuccessfully while she bustled behiiid 
him in a fidget of nervous excitement, and Gabriel 
pressed so closely in the rear as to threaten the down- , 
fall of both in his struggle to be foremost. Then, just 
as "the door opened, the jung-jang of the bells became 
slower, then broke in scattered drops of musical sound, 
then ceased before it, and there arose a less musical, but 
jas Joyous, and louder, clamor of two i&mm'xm voices 
both asking questions at once, and never answering one, 
for that must come later; and there was also the clear, 
shrill treble of the child's voice beginning the relation 
of his wonderful journey, and asking unanswei'able 
questions; and Gabriel welcomed the guests with so- 
norous trumpet blasts; while the two men, being unable 
to exchange an intelligible word, grinned dumbly at 
each other in amused helplessness. Then the boy was 
unloaded into the embraces of his grandmother, and 
Nathan, tall, strong and good-natured, diffusing a 
wholesome odor of the chips and shavings made in his 
craft of carpenter and joiner, lumbered out of the huge 
bread-tray and pulled Nancy out of the entanglement of 
the buffalo skins, and. got her on her feet — a comely, 
buxom young matron, having something of her father's 
height, something of her mother's breadth, and a wifely, 
motherly face, aglow with health. 
So at last Uncle Gid and his son-in-law were given 
an opportunity to shake hands with each other, after 
which they drove to the stable with their feet hanging 
outside the sleigh, and made the horse as comfortable 
as possible, in the company of the cow and the small 
flock of poultry to whose use the equine abode had long 
been devoted. 
When they entered the house the uninterrupted flow 
of the women's conversation had subsided into two 
nearly distinct currents, and was almost intelligible to 
their husbands; yet as its subjects were mainly mar- 
riages, births and deaths, it did not interest the men so 
much that they did not find more entertainment in tlieir 
own chat in the corner behind the stove. Nathan was 
not a hunter, but he listened attentively to Uncle Gid's 
stories of the chase, and said "gosh" with discriminating 
emphasis at the proper points. He sometimes went fish- 
ing, and now related experiences, in which Uncle Gid 
expressed no unbelief; also both smoked, so there were 
various bonds of sympathy between them. 
The little boy, with a slice of bread and honey, sat 
on the floor in a state of bedaubed contentment, which 
the hound, lying far under the stove, did not fully share 
in, being made to impersonate the horse in a rehearsal 
of the late memorable sleighride, his tail serving as reins. 
An eavesdropper might have gathered from the med- 
ley of voices, accompanied by the continuous shrill tenor 
of the tea kettle and the bass of the stove draught, some- 
thing like this of the double dialogue: 
Aunt Milly; "An' don't you believe, Nancy Sherman, 
it wa'n't scarcely six months arter Miss Hale was laid 
in her grave, not more 'n seven anyway, 'fore the Squire 
up an' married Susan Taylor." 
Nancy: "You don't say!" 
Aunt Sally: "Yes, sir. Some thought it was kinder 
craoudin' the mourners; btifl s'pose he felt for the want 
of a companion." 
Nancy: "Wal, wal! I see 't the Hale place was fixed 
up dreadful scrumptious as we come by, but I hedn't no 
idee!" 
Aunt Milly: "Yes, indeed; an' they went over the 
lake tu her folkses on their weddin' taower." 
Nancy: "I want to know!" 
Aunt Milly: "An' naouw, if they ain't got a baby." 
Nancy: "Mother Corbin, for all this livin' world!" 
The Boy: "Doe long, bonny; doe long, me tell you! 
Bell say d' long, d' long, too." 
Uncle Gid: "See that young un! Wal, as I was a- 
tellin', I was stan'in' a listenin' tu the dawg tunin' of 
her up, away west on me, an' me a-lookin' that way wi' 
all my eyes, an' gun a-ready, when all tu onct I hear 
a bush crack right behin' me, an' I turned my head 
s-l-o-w, an' by hokey! if there wasn't that tarnal fox, 
not ten rod off." 
Nathan: "Gosh!" 
Uncle Gid: "A Hst'nin' tu Gab'el." 
Nathan: "Gosh!" 
Uncle Gid: "An' I swung the ol' churn ontu him, 
s-l-o-w, an' got a bead 'twixt his eyes, an' onhitched an' 
plummed him right through," 
Nathan: "Gosh!!!" 
Uncle Gid: "Come tu, I'd forgot my knife, an' hed 
tu lug him clean hum tu skin him." 
Nathan: _ "Gosh!" 
Uncle Gid: "Jest for the notion I weighed him, an' 
he weighed Just twelve pounds and a half." 
Nathan: "Gosh! ezactly what a pickerel weighed 'at 
I ketched on a tilt-up last week." 
Uncle Gid: "I hain't no sorter doubt on't. Jes' look 
a' that young un, will ye? An' I didn't know 't he was — ■ 
mother, you .tell 'em what I said 'baout feedin' Bub, 
yest'day." 
And then, after a prelude of chuckles more visible than 
audible, except in the sympathetic creaking of her chair. 
Aunt JVIilly told how absurdly Uncle Gid had under- 
rated the limits of their grandson's gastronomic range. 
Besides amusing her audience, he story served to re- 
mind her of the raccoon in the oven, and opening the 
door she released a cloud of savory odor. 
"My land!" Nancy cried as she inhaled it. "'Whatever 
you're a-cookin', it smells dreadful good. What is't, 
mother?" she asked, cj,iriously observing it during the 
process of basting. 'Tain't turkey — it don't look like a 
pig; what is't?" 
"Wal," Aunt Milly answered, prodding the thicker 
parts with a fork, "it is a — it is a — land sakes! what is 
the name on't, father?" 
Uncle Gid looked intently into the bowl of his pipe 
as he answered, laconically: "Coshaw." 
"Good land; yes, it's coshaw. Why can't I never 
think on't!" said Aunt Milly. 
"Coshaw! coshaw!" her daughter repeated. "Wal, T 
never heard o' them afore. Jest yu look at it, Nathan." 
While Nathan examined it Uncle Gid became more 
absorbed in the contemplation of his pipe, and so con- 
tinued till Nathan declared: 
"Wal, it beats me, if it hain't a lamb, or a pig, or 
suthin. What sort of a critter is't? It 'pears tu be a 
quaderyped." 
"No, 't wa'n't the name 't was gi'n tu us." Aunt 
Milly shook her head in slow negation. "It's a coshaw, 
an' it come tu us for Chris'mas, an' that's all we can 
tell ye abaout it now. If you don't like it there's 
pa'tridges— father ketched three yest'day. D'ye druther 
hev' 'em 'br'iled er roasted?" • 
"It don't make no diff'rence tu me," said Nathan. "Ac- 
cordin' tu the looks and smell on't I do' want nothin' 
better 'n that 'ere — what d'ye call it?" And Ms wife 
quite agreed with him. 
Nevertheless Aunt Milly broiled the partridges, and 
added a finer fragrance to the appetizing odor that per- 
vaded the kitchen. But these were as nothing to their 
substantial resources — the roasted raccoon, the broiled 
partridges, the baked potatoes, the hot johnny-cake and 
biscuits, the cider apple sauce, the honey, and the pump- 
kin pies. Of all the dishes that furnished forth the 
crowded board the prime favorite was the mysterious 
roast, though none suft'ered neglect. 
Discoursing while they feasted. Uncle Gid told of hunt- 
ing the partridges, and just missed disclosing the find- 
ing of the coons; and Avhen Aunt Milly explained how 
they came by honey she nearly let the cat out of the bag, 
or rather the coon out of the tree that yielded the honey; 
yet the tniinitiated were still none the wiser. 
As has been at least once reported of a social gather- 
ing, it may truly be said of this, that "all did ample 
justice to the bountiful repast" — even little Gideon, ele- 
vated on the family Bible to a working height, plied 
knife and fork so manfully that his grandfather's heart 
was filled with pride, while his female progenitors fore- 
told such woeful retribution as ever is prophesied to 
overtake greedy little boys; but as usually happens in 
such cases, the prediction was not fulfilled. 
"Du let the boy eat; it'll du him good," said his 
reckless father. 
"If you hain't jest like a man!" Aunt Milly said, re- 
gretfully. 
"If I hain't, I don't scarcely s'pose your darter 'd 
married me," Nathan retorted, and went into the wood- 
shed in search of a stick suitable for the manufacture of 
a toothpick. 
As with a professional eye he scanned the interior 
architecture he discovered a fresh raccoon skin nailed 
upon the boards in an obscure corner. 
When he re-entered the kitchen he remarked casu- 
ally: "I found aout one thing 'baout -that 'ere coshaw. 
It hed rings raound its tail, ju' hke the critters 'at I've 
hearn folks call coons," 
There was a period of silence, and no one acknowl- 
edged feeling the worse for the discovery. 
Rowland E. Robinson. 
Some Yukon Notes,— IIL 
{Cantinited /rem page 368). 
While game is scarce along the upper Yukon, fur, 
as far as our observations went, is plentiful. Coming 
up the river on the ice we saw the tracks of thousands 
of foxes, and scores- of lynxes, wolverines and martens. 
Otters and beavers are said to be abundant in some lo- 
calities, but we saw none, though the Indians frequently 
offered us beaver skins for sale or barter. Wolves are 
more common in the neighborhood of Dawson than 
on the upper river. It seemed not improbable that the 
vast number of dead horses along the Skagway trail 
would attract wolves to that neighborhood this winter, 
but I was only able to learn of two being killed — one 
trapped and one shot near Lake Bennett. 
Coming up the river Ave did not see half a dozen wolf 
tracks in 400 miles. The wolves follow the caribou closely, 
and are not common at any distance from the large herds. 
Between the Pelly and Dawson, however, their tracks 
were frequent on the ice, and a man in charge of the 
beef raft frozen in in this stretch of river is said to have 
been considerably alarmed by their boldness. 
At the time we recovered our lost boats we determined 
to build a cabin as a cache for our supplies. While 
looking for a suitable location for this off the direct line 
of travel up the river I found a sheep camp on a penin- 
sula between a slough and one of the lesser channels of 
the Yukon. This camp was the point at which a band 
of sheep, driven overland, had been slaughtered _ and 
shipped on rafts to Dawson. Several horses had either 
died or been killed at this place, and their carcasses and 
the offal from the sheep had in time past attracted the 
various carnivorous animals of the neighborhood to 
the spot. 
From present indications I could see_ that a wolf or , 
two, as well as several lynxes, wolverines and foxes, 
were still in the habit of paying occasional visits to the 
spot, to recall no doubt over dry bones and unnutritious 
hair the memory of past banquets _ ^ 
Somewhere in my outfit was a half ounce of strychnine, 
purchased in Juneau, and I determined to try its effect 
on this select gathering. Accordingly on my return 
to camp I hunted up the poison, melted some lard in 
an old plate and mixed the strychnine with it, and finally 
after the stuff had cooled cut it up into caramels lin. 
square by J^in. thick. 
Just before dark Mac and I walked down to the sheep 
camp, but for some unimportant reason we decided 
not to put out the poison that night. Instead we left 
the plate and its contents out in the middle of the slue 
buried under 5 or 6in. of snow. 
That night there was a light fall of snow — half an inch 
oj- so — ^just enough to decisively eliminate old footmarks 
from any problem of tracking next day after attending to 
small matters about camp I thought I would go down to 
the sheep camp and perhaps put out some of the bait. 
When I reached the spot where the poison was I found 
that some time in the night previous to the snow flurry 
a wolf following up our trail had come across it and in- 
vestigated. If he had eaten any of the poisoned bait 
he left no token to indicate the fact. The plate seemed 
to contain as many pieces as before, and as I had not 
taken the precaution to count them I could not be sure 
that any had been taken. However, the wolf had dug 
down through half a foot of snow, and I reasoned that 
his curiosity would hardly be satisfied by sight and smell 
alone. I followed up the partly obliterated tracks he 
had made on leaving, and saw that after the first few 
rods he had broken into a gallop. The tracks were two 
and two in groups, something more than 4ft. apart. I 
saw that the wolf was making toward an open channel 
between two islands, and the fact that he was on the 
jurnp and after water convinced me that he had taken" 
poison. A little distance further on I saw where he had 
back-tracked on his water trail, and then where he had 
gone a second and third .time over the same course. 
When I had traversed a few hundred yards of the slue 
my attention was attracted by the coarse, raucous note 
