June 25, i8g8.J 
FOREST AND ^STREAM. 
517 
Habits. 
Although not a climbing fish, like that peculiar perch 
of India which ascends trees, yet the crappies are often 
found in tree tops, when the trees have fallen into the 
water. Here they find protection and food; the limbs 
are the abode of snails, crustaceans and worms of 
various kinds as well as of small fishes, for the crappies 
are omnivorous in their tastes. The preference of the 
small-mouth fof- clear and colder waters has been 
alKtded to, but as many lakes have both grassy and mud- 
dy spots, they afford homes for both species. 
I have taken the small-mouth crappie in spring holes 
while standing on the ice, but they were dipped up with 
a net, and I don't know if they would take a hook in 
winter. This was in Grant county, Wis., in 1857, and we 
wanted fish for the table. This is told in detail in "Men 
I Have Fished With," p. 309. There were black bass 
there at the time,' and thejr sometimes lie dormant in 
winter, while the pike and the perch feed the year 
round. I have fished through the ice with small min- 
nows for bait, and Avhere crappies were plenty, but 
never took one, ^ This, however, does not prove that 
they do not feed in winter. 
[to be continued.] 
Shiftless Jim Tracey/* 
"Shiftless Jim Teacey " the townspeople called 
him; though why a man who always paid his bills, had 
every appearance of being well fed and whose clothes 
were scrupulously neat, if plain, should be called "shift- 
less" might not be apparent to one not acquainted with 
the ethics of New England village life. 
• True, Jim did not devote any considerable portion of 
his time to manual labor, in the general acceptance of 
the term, but he worked steadily through haying and 
harvesting time, and usually had a' good contract for 
cutting ofif a wood lot in the winter. Still he was 
"Shiftless Jim." 
Jim lived on a small farm bordering on the lake. The 
house was at some distance from the main road, and. 
was seldom visited by the neighbors. Here Jim kept 
"bachelor's hall," and here came the few friends whO' 
never thought of him, much less referred to him as 
"Shiftless Jim." ... • 
From the nearby city visitors frequently came to spend 
a day or two with Jim, usually taking back with them 
any surplus garden truck that he could spare. These 
people came to shoot or fish with Jim; and herein 
lay the secret of his reputation for shiftlessness. That 
an able-bodied man should spend the entire spring in. 
slopping up and down the trout brooks; the fall jn 
tramping the side hills and valleys behind a bird dog; 
the summer days in whipping over the bass reefs and the 
evenings thereof in floating about the bay in his canoe,, 
with pipe and dogs for companions, instead of sitting 
indoors and reading the Christian Advocate or the 
Weekly Free Press by the light of a vile smelling kero- 
sene lamp, could be attributed to but one thing by the 
pood people of Shelburne — "shiftlessness." 
Ah, Shiftless Jim! Little did they realize the wealth. 
of knowledge brushed aside each day or trodden be- 
neath their cowhide boots. Birds sang their joyous 
carols to ears that heeded not; flowers raised their 
dainty heads to eyes that looked beyond and saw only 
the growing crops. The breath of nature; that subtle- 
ether springing from untainted Mother Earth and all her- 
wealth of verdure, through which w-e are iiiost nearly- 
brought to see, to feel, the guiding hand, permeated be- 
ings with souls of clay, untouched by the spark whichi 
would have put them in sympathy with nature's mar- 
velous book, always outspread before tliem. 
This sympathy had Shiftless Jim; and having this; 
power of appreciation he necessarily had a desire for its. 
gratification. Jim lived so much in the woods that he- 
came to know their secrets thoroughly— and the woods-, 
have secrets which they guard most jealously. He knew 
where all the birds rested, where all the wild flowers; 
grew, and in just what pools the big trout made their 
homes. He knew where the foxes had their burrows;; 
where the bees stored their wealth of golden honey, and! 
the study of all these things seemed as necessary toi 
Jim's life as the taking of food for the nourishment ©£ 
his body. 
In all Shelburne there was but one person who could!' 
understand Jim's love for the woods life. This was. little 
Ned, Squire Dexter's son. The squire himself was liard. 
and grasping, worshipping his earthly possessi>©ias as- 
had his father before him, and respecting his fellow mem 
according to their thrift. No need to quote his opinion, 
of Jim Tracey. But little Ned inherited from some 
remote ancestor a love for the birds and flowers, and on 
Saturday afternoons, when his weekly tasks were done, 
he would stroll ofl^ into the woods alone and lie stretched 
full length on his back for hours, watching the birds, and 
bees and squirrels. 
There he first met Jim, and through their mutual lik- 
ing for wild things they became great friends. They 
spent many afternoons together, and Jim- took great 
delight in sharing his knowledge with one who cotild 
appreciate it. He showed Ned where the first sprig of 
arbutus blossomed in the spring, and later where and 
how to catch the wary trout, and when summer came 
took him out on the lake in a real canoe. To Ned, Jim 
was the most wonderful man in all the world. 
Shelburne had made unusual preparations for the ob- 
servance of Decoration Day. A memorial service was. 
to be held in the modest little church at 10 A. M., then 
there w^as to be an outdoor meeting on the common,, 
after which a procession would form and march to the- 
cemetery, where the graves of the soldier dead would, 
be decked with tender tributes of flowers. Squire Dex- 
ter was the orator of the day, and had been hard at work 
for weeks preparing an address which should do suffi- 
cient credit to the leading citizen of the town. 
Shelburne, as usual, was early astir on that morning,, 
the men folks to get their chores done, and the -sAromen' 
to gather what few old-fashioned flowers fhey had been 
able to coax into an early blossoming. One of the 
earliest risers was Mrs. Griggs, who owned a house and 
a few acres of land adjoining Squire Dexter's farm. She 
was the widow of a veteran of the civil war, with a 
scanty pension; and how to make both ends meet was a 
serious problem with Mrs. Griggs. But she worked 
cheerfully from morning till night tilling her little piece 
of land and tending her large flock of bens. 
On this particular morning she had finished her num- 
erous household duties, looked after the hens, and went 
around to the front yard to pick the little bunch of 
lilies of the valley which was to be her floral tribute 
to the memory ofiier brave husband. 
Could there be a more bitter disappointment? The 
entire flower bed had been trampled down and not a 
blossom remained. Beside the ruins stood the destroyer 
— one of Squire Dexter's cows. Mrs. Griggs was sorely 
grieved. She had watched over the little stalks ever 
since they had first showed their tender shoots above the 
earth, with but one end in view; had seen the tiny buds 
grow into full formed blossoms. Now they were ruined, 
and Mrs. Griggs could see but one chance of replacing 
them, and that almost a hopeless one. Squire Dexter 
had flowers in plenty. She would drive home his cow, 
explain the damage she had done, and, close as the 
squire was, he might offer to make good her loss. 
Squire Dexter was hard at work putting the finishing 
touches to his oration when Mrs. Griggs called. He 
listened to her only long enough to learn that the prop- 
erty destroyed was nothing more valuable than a few 
flowers: 
"Oh, bother your old flower bed!" snapped the squire, 
"Don't you see I'm terribly busy. I'll run down to- 
morrow and see about them." 
Mrs. Griggs retired meekly and went home al- 
most heartbroken. She gathered up the few sprays 
of blossoms which had been broken off, but 
not trampled on, and tried, with the addition of much 
green stuff, to make a presentable wreath or bouquet, but 
it was impossible. She could not take such a shabby- 
looking offering to the cemetery — not in company with 
ber neighbors; yet she could not bear to let the day 
pass without a visit to her husband's grave. She might 
go alone. Yes, that would be best. She waited until 
the townspeople were gathered on tl^e common, listen- 
ing in open-mouthed wonder to the squire's grandilo- 
quence. Then she carried her humble tribute to the 
bleak little churchyard with its unkept walks and mil- 
dewed headstones, and placed it with a tearful prayer 
above the resting place of all that had been brightest in 
her life. 
As she neared her home two mud-bespattered figures 
stepped from the woods directly in front of her and with 
•every evidence of confusion bowed a guilty good morn- 
ing to her. The younger one had a trout basket slung 
over his shoulder, and the older carried a large roll of 
birch bark. Both had trout rods, and their purpose 
was evident. 
"I should think they would look shamed," said Mrs. 
Griggs to herself, indignantly, "goin* off troutin' on 
Memorial Day. Just like that Jim Tracey, but wouldn't 
Ned catch it if the squire knew; I hope he'll grow up. 
just as worthless as Jim is — serve his father right; the: 
mean old thing." 
Ned had been present at the short interview between 
his father and Mrs. Griggs, and was deeply pained 
at the outcome of it. After Mrs. Griggs had gone, he: 
went out into the garden and thought seriously of pick- 
ing a bunch of flowers and taking them to. her, although' 
he knew this would be little better than stealing. If 
he only knew where there were some wild flowers. But: 
the arbutus was all gone, and it was doubtful if he 
could find enough violets to answer his purpose. 
At the sound of a low whistle Ned looked up. There 
stood Jim with trout rod and creel. 
"Thought you might be able to slip out while the 
governor was making his speech," said Jim. 
"Oh, I wouldn't dast to," replied Ned. "Not to go' 
fishin'. But if I knew where I could get some wild- 
flowers," he added, "I'd run away in a minute." Then 
he told Jim all about Mrs. Griggs' loss, and how much 
he wanted to do. something to help her out of her 
dilemma. 
Jim scratched his head thoughtfully for several sec- 
onds: 
"Now I know where there's some flowers, Ned," said 
he. "I go to see them every spring, but I've never taken 
a living soul there yet. Nor never picked one of them 
myself. It's pretty early for them, but if they're out, 
they're the handsomest things you ever saw. When- 
your father starts for the common you get into some old 
duds and come down to the old oak tree just this side of 
Haines' big swamp and maybe I'll take you in there." 
When the squire had arrayed himself in his black 
broadcloth suit and the most uncomfortable of stiff 
collars, he and Mrs. Dexter set out for the common. 
Ned was missing, but there was no time to hunt up- 
youngsters, and he was left behind. The exercises went 
off very smoothly, and the squire's oration was delivered 
with such a display of vocal effort and awkward ges- 
tures as greatly to impress his hearers. Then the pro- 
cession was formed and marched to the cemetery. 
Mrs. Griggs, through partially closed shutters, watched', 
it pass. The minister, with Squire Dexter, led the way.. 
"Then came the old soldiers and quite an imposing line: 
lof townspeople and school children, each bearing a: 
wreath or bouquet, and many with small American flags 
How miserable her tribute had been compared with a.n 
this splendor. She sat beside the window with a heavy 
"heart. This was the most depressing Memorial Day — 
always a sorrowful occasion for her — she had ever 
known. Before long the procession returned, and as 
they passed the Griggs place everybody seemed to stare 
at the house in the most unaccountable manner. Could 
they see her peering out through the blinds? Or was it 
because her absence had been noticed! That would 
scarcely attract so much attention. They had seen the 
little bunch of lilies. That was it. 
Oh, the shame of it! Better to have left her husband's, 
grave bare than to have placed upon it so poor a re- 
membrance. As soon as the procession was out of sight 
she started for the cemetery again; this time to remove- 
the decoration, which now seemed more shameful than 
ever. As she approached the spot she noticed a figure 
seated beside it. It was the schoolmaster. 
"Oh, Mrs. Griggs," he exclaimed, in surprise, "I 
Stayed behind to admire them. I never saw this variety 
"before, though the yellow ones, the pubescinSj are quite: 
common. These are extremely rare, and I had no idea 
they grew about here. I hope you will tell me where 
you got them." 
Mrs. Griggs hardly heard him, her attention being 
wholly given to the narrow mound of earth, on which, 
beside the little knot of liHes, was a rudely-fashioned 
basket of birch bark containing a great armful of the 
most beautiful flowers; each with three flaring white 
petals and suspended beneath them a pouch of deep, rich 
pink. Mrs. Griggs had never seen anything like them, 
had never seen anything half so beautiful, she thought. 
"I'm sure I don't know where they came from," she 
said. "I never saw anything like them, and I don't even 
know what they are.". - 
"They are a variety of the lady's slipper, cypripedeum 
cantabile, or showy orchis, they are called, and they are 
one of the very rarest of our wild flowers. I would very 
much like to see them growing." 
"Perhaps, if you ask Mr. Tracey> who lives dowtl on 
the lake shore, he might know something about them," 
said Mrs. Griggs, who had been rapidly thinking over 
the happenings of the day. 
"Oh, Jim! wasn't it great?" exclaimed Ned the next 
time they met. "Everybody noticed them, and the school- 
master told us a whole lot about them in school. I 
can't remember what he called them. I'm afraid though 
that Mrs. Griggs 'spects us. She's tried to speak to 
me two, three times, but I kept out of her way. I 
couldn't get down to tell you before 'cause I had to stay 
in the last two Saturdays for running away that day. But 
I'm glad we did it, if I did lose two half holidays. Ain't 
yott, Jim?" 
Jim appeared to be terribly interested in something out 
on the lake. 
"I know where there's an old woodcock got three 
young ones," he said. "Let's take Dash and go over 
there; maybe we can see her fly off holding one of them 
between her knees. It looks awful funny." 
PIarry Morse. 
An Artist of the Old West, 
.A BREATH from the past comes with the sculptured 
representations of American animals from the hand of 
Mr. Edward Kemeys, a breath from the past of the old 
plains, which, with their first inhabitants, are gone for- 
ever. It was the rare fortune of this rare man to tread 
the prairies and the molmtains of the West in the old 
days, before the buffalo were gone, and while all the 
creatures native to the mountains were to be found in 
abundance. The long and patient and loving studies of- 
those days gave Mr. Kemeys the intimate knowledge of 
wild animals which alone was needed to supplement 
his love of them and his acquaintance with the principles 
of his art. It is no compliment to call Edward Kemeys 
the Barye of America, for his methods were as different 
from Barye's as America is from France, and the work 
of no one genius resembles that of another genius, 
Rather, if you wish to be alike accurate and complimen- 
tary, call Mr. Kemeys the "Old Hunter," his own favor- 
ite title, which carries him back to the days when the 
Sharps rifle was the ordnance of the range, and the west- 
bound wagons carried bundles of butcher knives for the 
skinning. Not for skinning, but for study, did this 
American sculptor, then a young man, join the wagon 
trains of the robe hunters who pushed out into the plains. 
Buffalo he killed in numbers, but lovingly, talking to 
them, as he did when he killed the grizzly bear, and 
promising them another life. This life they have re- 
ceived. Their bulk, their ponderousness, their pathos of 
helplessness, all showed for themselves In the figures of 
the buffalo in repose. One maj^ have svien the same sight 
at many a water hole in the old days. The wild action 
of the chase for these great creatures, the daring and 
skill and strength of the red men who hunted them in 
the way of tlieir fathers, may equally well be noted in the 
reproduction of the group known as "The Chase," a 
bas relief which has all the quality of the open air. It 
is one thing to study buffalo in the parks, and Indians 
behind a gate, but those who knew both before the 
plains were gone can tell the difference between such 
acquaintance and that vouchsafed the man who saw 
both at home more than a quarter of a century ago. 
To-day Mr. Kemeys dreams of those old days, dwells 
upon them. He came to Chicago to be nearer to the old 
days. His ambition in life has been to perpetuate them, 
if tliat may be, in a series of enduring bronzes which 
shall show the wild animals and the wild men of the 
West, as they actually were at the period of their natural 
existence, in that balance of nature which the coming 
-of the white man has destroyed forever. His work is 
parallel with the literature fit to be called historj^, and 
likeness of it belongs very fitly in the columns of a 
journal with purposes such as those of Forest and 
Stream, to which he extends the courtesy of its repro- 
duction. Photographs of sculptured figures lose much 
■of the original force of line, and the engraving is apt 
to lessen this still more, but even so, the readers of 
Forest and Stream may have an inkling of the treas- 
ures of the studio of Mr. Kemeys (which is located at 
'Bryn Mawr, near Chicago). Examples of Mr. Kemeys' 
work are in the possession of wealthy sportsmen both in 
this country, France and England, and in the latter 
-countries he is accepted, as he is in America, as the 
unique 'and foremost exponent of his chosen line of 
:art, from which he does not care to depart, and into 
which he throws the devotion of a lifetime. Readers of 
Forest and Stream will take interest in the fact that 
trophies of bronze and clay are not more numerous in 
Mr. Kemeys' studio than trophies of horn and hide. 
The sculptor himself might be a figttre tor an athlete or 
a sportsman, and he is not only an ardent but a skillful 
follower of the sports of the field, and a fine shot with 
rifle or gun. He is grayer now than when he saw the 
buffalo, but he will be always young, and in his hands 
he holds many things which shall be also young and un- 
changed as the years go by. 
E. Hough. 
The Forest and Stream is put to press each week on 
'Tuesday. Correspondence intended for publication 
should reach us at the latest by Monday, and as muGh 
arlier as practicable. 
