S 8 3 
FOREST AND STREAM, 
tNov. 12, 1898. 
Just About a Boy.— XIII. 
"Say, I got a camp all fixed up fer winter up river 
V I reckon them beaver pelts is about right now— 
what yeh say, less go up 'n' git 'em?" Thus the boy 
spoke as he came into my workshop one bright Novem- 
The leaves had become only brown bits of flotsam 
that the wind played tag with, and piled into long wind- 
rows and heaps in the protected spots of ground, arid 
the trees were gray skeletons penciled against the 
sky Frost whitened the ground,; while every morning 
there was a fringe of ice along shore in the qtuet 
reaches of the river, and the air was just snappy enough 
to be like wood wine. 
"Well," I answered, "I guess there is no valid reason 
why 1 should not go, so make your plans and consider 
me a part of the outfit." 
"All right. Reckon we might juss as well hgger on 
gittin' all th' fun we kin while we're at it, so I'll take all 
my traps along— mebby we kin git some coons 'n' muss- 
rats while we're ketchin' them beaver too." 
"What do I want to take?" I asked. _ ( 
"Oh, bring yer gun 'n' shells fer ducks 'n' geese, n 
some small shot fer quail V cottontails, nen yeh better 
bring a couple o' loads o' buckshot, cos we might see a 
ki-ote— some 'round up there all right. I got 'nough 
outfit fer both of us, 'ft' we'll git supplies fer a week er 
so, nen we won't haff to come back tull we git them 
pelts, 'less we want to." 
"When will we start?" 
"In th' mornin', I guess— can't git ready much fore 
that, nen they ain't no use to hurry anyhow, an' we want 
th' best part of a day to git things fixed 'n' th'^ traps 
set. yeh know. Sav we start early in th' mornin'?" 
"All right then. I'll meet you at the landing about 
sunrise to-morrow." 
"Uh huh. So long." 
The next morning bright and early I hurried to the 
landing, where a clatter of oars on the sides of the 
boats and the sound of a merry whistle told me that the 
boy was already on hand and busy. 
"Hullo, got here, did yeh?" 
"Yes. I see you are ready." 
"Yep. Got tli ' old 'mud hen' out *n' loaded her up, cos 
I thought th/ canoes ud be a leetle touchy like fer so 
late in th' season — ice liable to come with the first freeze 
'n' it ud cut 'em all to pieces, yeh know; nen th' old 
•mud hen' 'U stand most any kind o' knockin' 'round 
'thout hurtin' her any. Git yer stuff in 'n' less be goin', 
I'll row V you steer, 'n' have yer shootin' iron ready — 
mighty apt to git some ducks this time o' day, yeh 
know." 
Five minutes later wc were leaving a long, wrinkly 
wake that spread across the quiet stream, and tinkle 1 
against the thin ice crystals that fringed the shore. The 
willows now were gaunt stripling trees, outlined like 
pen lines against the morning sky, and the blue-gray of 
the timber banked in behind them half-way to their 
tops in flattened perspective from our point of view. 
Small brown birds chirped among the bushes as they 
hunted their morning meal, but the clatter of summer 
visitors was lacking, for all the birds were gone, save 
these hardy little brown fellows, and an occasional slate- 
colored titmouse that ran up and down the larger tree 
trunks, unmindful of whether he was on the upper or 
lower side, or whether he was headed up or down — 
gravitation seemed to have no more effect on him than 
it does on thistle down. 
"Don't seem much like it did a month er so ago 'long 
th' river now, does it?" asked the boy. "Still," he 
continued, "they's juss as much to see 'n' hear as they 
was then, only it's different, an' yeh got to know how 
to look fer it — these here frosty mornin's changes 
everything juss like they take th' leaves offeu th' trees, 
don't they?" 
The boy kept up a running fire of comment on river 
life and ways until we reached his winter camp — a snug 
little half-sod, half-dugout cabin hidden away in a nook 
of the river bank. 
"Here we are," he announced, as he pushed the nose 
of the old 'mud hen' up against the soft bank and jumped 
out, 
"Less git our truck int* th' cabin 'n' git things fixed 
up fer livin', nen I want to git them beaver traps set 
sure to-night, cos the sooner we git 'em th' better, while 
they don't know we're in th' country. Yeh see these 
here beaver is mighty slick critters, 'n' they savie things 
'fore yeh know it, so th' best way is to trap 'em 'fore 
they know yer 'round — that's wiry I want ever' beaver 
trap I got set fer to-night." 
We piled our outfits into the cabin, then, taking a 
hasty lunch, loaded the traps and axe in the boat and 
were soon pulling for the beaver grounds a mile further 
up stream. On the way we stopped long enough for 
the boy to cut six poles, about io or 12ft. long, and 
strong enough to hold a struggling beaver when the 
trap had him fast. 
"Now you row 'n' I'll fix these trap poles," said the 
boy. 
I took the oars and the youngster went to work 
whittling wedges and splitting the small ends of the 
poles, after which he slipped the ring of a trap chain 
over the end and drove the wedge firmly into the 
pole, enlarging it so the ring could by no possibility be 
pulled off. 
"That's a trick I learnt from old man Hagey when he 
was trappin' 'long th' river here, an it's the best scheme 
I ever saw to work on a beaver trap — Whoa! Now 
back up to th' bank where yeh see that kind of a wore 
nlace in th' grass, 'n' be. careful yeh don't touch th' 
bank er th' bottom with th' boat, nen I'll set this trap 
fer Mr. Beaver." 
I backed the boat into position, and the boy. taking 
one of the poles, drove it deeply into the soft mud of 
the river, tipping it at a slight angle downward, and in 
such a position (hat it was entirely under water when 
he had finished, 
Then he set the powerful trap, and leaning out, placed 
it in the runway leading into the beaver hole in the 
bank, but in such , a way that the pan was about pl- 
under water; then he covered the heavy parts of the 
trap with soft river mud and was finished. 
"That one'll ketch Mr. Beaver by the front foot — 
left front foot — when he comes out, nen when he finds 
he's fast he'll plunge right fer deep water, takin' tlV 
trap with him 'n' slidin' the ring clear out to th' end o' 
th' pole. That's where he'll make a mighty big mis- 
take, cos the pole's longer 'n th' trap chain is, 'n' he 
can't git back to th' shore, nen th' trap is so heavy he 
can't swim to th' top fer more fresh air, ner he can't 
git to th' stick to gnaw it off, 'n' 'sides it's hard V dry, 
'n' he couldn't cut it anyhow 'ithout breakin' his teeth. 
Yeh see them little knots on th' pole is all long enough 
to ketch th' ring V stop him ef he should try to git 
back to shore after he gits caught, 'n' he can't hold his 
breath long 'miff to gnaw his laig off 'n' git out that 
way, 5 n' there he is — just got nuthin' to do but drownd 
hisself, cos he didn't stop to think about how he'd git 
back when he struck fer deep water. That's what old 
man Hagey told me when he showed me how to trap 
beaver, 'n' he knowed if ever anybody did— nen I've 
caught a lot of 'em that way since, 'n' T know it'll work. 
. "Some folks puts castor on sticks 'n' things to draw 
beavers to th' trap, but I think that kind o' stuff is a 
whole lot like puttin' anniss oil on fish bait — all a lot o' 
rot 'n' foolishness. I reckon it's a whole lot better to 
juss figger on bein' smarter 'n whatever you're after is, 
nen you don't need no such tomfoolery. 
"All right, less g'won to th' next place — got to set 
these other five traps to-night." 
By and by all the beaver traps were in position, and 
we went back to camp, where we soon had things in 
good shape for a comfortable stay of several days, if 
need be. 
"I'm goin' out 'n' set a lot o' these mussrat traps 
now," said the boy. "You git a bite to eat. V I'll fix 
these rat traps alone — they ain't pertie'lar work, cos a 
rat'll just purt' near fall into a trap if yeh give him a 
chance." 
About dark he came in, tied up the boat, and said: 
"I figger we'll have 'bout four er five heaver W twenty 
er thirty mussrats, 'n' maby a coon er two, by mornin'. 
less'n it comes a storm, 'n' that ain't likely. Nothin' 
moves much when it's a-srormin', yeh know, but when 
th' weather is like it is now. all these critters goes gala- 
vantin' 'round 'bout all night, so we'll have some fur in 
th' mornin' all right. 
"Less eat. I'm hungrier 'n a ki-ote 't ain't done 
nothin' but chase hisself fer a month." 
After supper I smoked and listened to the homely 
wood lore that the boy was so familiar with, until the 
fireplace glowed dull red and the boy remarked that 
"We'd better sleep some."' El Comancho. 
Gom' A-Fishing. 
The Man with the Old Tackle. 
Un<.'onsciol:slv. perhaps, some men slip into the 
"sere and yellow leaf" and only realize their fading op- 
portunities when routine halts, and life gazes over the 
widening path of the forever past. Then there is a 
sudden realization of years lost, for even years Spent 
clanging a money drawer are ofttimes really lost when 
the brevity of life's span is considered. The mind needs 
a shock sometimes to bring about this realization. 
Take, for instance, the "man with the old tackle." All 
day long the busy city has echoed with the never end- 
ing medley of noises so familiar to the man of business. 
The heavy drays had thundered past his office over the 
cobble stones of the narrow street, and his nerves had, for 
the three hundred and sixty-fifth time that year, vibrated 
and quivered with the depressing torture. Figures multi- 
plied in his mind almost unconsciously, and the regular 
routine of the daily labor seemed but the greater part of 
his being and of his life. 
He was a busy man. this "man with the tackle," and 
while accepting this as a general proposition, there was 
no special plea in the fact. The world is filled with busy 
men and women, and the dawn, the day, and the stars 
witness with wonderful regularity the procession, never 
ending, of the workers to tasks which never seem to be 
done. Narrow streets in hot, dusty cities; imperative 
business transactions, and can't get aways: all are more 
or less inseparable, but the "man with the tackle" on 
this 365th day of the year (might have been the fis- 
cal, or even an imaginary year, you know) was brought 
up standing, as it were, and his gray matter got out of 
the routine groove in a jiffy. 
"What's this," he mused, in a somewhat bewildered 
manner, as he glanced at the personal columns, "old 
Jones going on a fishing trip? That beats me. Never 
thought old Jones had it in him. Let me see." medita- 
tively, "when was the last time I went fishing?" 
"Beg your pardon, sir, Smith the* broker wants your 
opinion in regard to that sugar stock." here remarked the 
confidential clerk, interrupting, and the busy man drop- 
ped his paper, got the gray matter into shape, and cur- 
tailed his musing. 
"This has been a busy day," sighed the "man with the 
tackle" as he entered the den in which he occasionally 
entertained a friend. He threw himself on a worn 
lounge, when his eye happened to fall upon a dusty array 
of fishing rods hanging on the wall near the fireplace. 
"That makes me think of Jones; wonder where the old 
rascal's going? Wish I was going with him," he mut- 
tered, as he gazed at the rods and then glanced at a 
little cupboard in the. angle of the chimney. 
"Poor old tackle. Why, now that I come to think ot 
it, it was with old Jones I last went fishing, nearly — 
what? Twelve years ago! Twelve years since I went 
fishing? Time, thou art a mysterious' thing — and Jones 
was not old Jones then." 
Nor was the "man with the tackle," but the heavy 
black dust on the rod cases and the rusty key in the 
little cupboard, in which reposed lines, hooks, flies and 
reels, told their own stories, and of the passage of years 
— of busy years and lost opportunities. 
It was but the work of a few moments to take down 
the rods, open cases and cupboard, and the little table 
with the antique legs was littered with a medley of 
old but almost forgotten friends. Lines were mildewed, 
hooks rusty, and reels groaned and shrieked upon the 
slightest pressure. And the rods, ah, they were all 
right, save a tarnish of the bright parts, but they seemed 
disconsolate, neglected, even antiquated, and a cricket 
on the begrimed hearth sang merrily, and the mind of 
the "man with the tackle" opened up as the cricket 
sang. The tree tops waved, and the water ruffled some- 
where out of sight, but his mind's eye saw it all in the 
years agone, as the bass flirted in murmuring streams 
where the birds sang, and the ferns stealthily unfolded 
in the damp shadows. The "man with the tackle" saw 
it all and more. One of the pictures was something like 
this: 
It was a crisp, cool night. The river ran rapid over 
the rounded stones in the shallows, and silently where 
the bottom dropped away and the water moved heavily 
and deep. A dense growth of somber-toned pines came 
bristling and pungent almost to the river's edge, and 
seemed all the more somber and deep because of the con- 
trast made by the canvas tent, which glowed in places, 
reflecting the ruddy light of a camp-fire, and showing 
hospitable and cozy in the midst of the gloom. 
Far beyond, and above the shadows of the opposite 
bank of the stream, the majestic, snow-capped sum- 
mits of "God's eternal hills" broke almost fair upon the 
moonlit sky, and a few pale thin clouds drifted out of 
the glow and into the deeper colors of the heavens. 
What a night it was. All nature was magnificent and 
at peace. The deep cry of a predatory bittern echoed 
clumsily, and scared into flight a forest mouse which had 
crept near the tent. 
The camp-fire made the near shadows grotesque. 
Seated about, lounging on fragrant pine straw, were two 
young men. A third was busy about the fire with a fry- 
ing pan. A tall tin coffee pot stood near the glowing 
embers, and the fragrant steam curled from the spout. 
Plates were scattered on a red tablecloth, spread on 
the earth, and a variety of edibles were awaiting a sortie 
upon the part of the hungry fishermen. That they were 
fishermen was apparent. A long string of fish hung from 
the limb of a nearby tree, and the frying pan was adding 
rapidly to a smoking heat of the cooked article then fill- 
ing a good sized tin pan by the edge of the fire. 
"And I was the fellow with the frying pan," murmured 
the "man with the tackle" as his mind played on. 
The scene had changed. The sky was ominous with 
moisture-laden clouds. The great dark green billows 
swept heavily across the sea, and pounded into foamy 
fragrants on the brown sands. The gulls were circling on 
unsteady wings, screaming, and ever and anon plung- 
ing like feathery darts into the shallows where the min- 
nows had gathered to escape the curling swells. The 
pass was dark with roughening water, save where the 
foam eddied in the swift incoming current, and made a 
lighter blue, which faded even as one gazed. The stiff 
salt grass of the sand hills bent gracefully before the 
ardent wind, and the small brush shivered and tossed 
uneasily. The scene was wild and nature severely grand. 
The blue-black masses of cloud wrack fled like fleeting 
shadows, piling in the northeast in impenetrable masses, 
the western heavens colored with a touch of deep cad- 
mium and scarlet from the slowly rising sun. 
A solitary fisherman stood near a damp sand knoll, 
which jutted into the pass. The waves here had no ef- 
fect, the point sheltering the water beyond, and its depths 
were not stirred. The fisherman was knee deep in the 
clear water. His rod was vibrating in the stiff breeze, as 
he lightly cast his hook into the pass. No time was lost. 
The bait sank into the surface, and then the metallic 
whirl of the reel clanged sharply above the sound of the 
waters. How the line strained and the rod bent. The 
fisherman braced himself, and carefully playing his 
game, breathed sharply, and earnestly gave himself to 
the contest. Give and take. A silvery green slim ob- 
ject leaped desperately from the waves only to plunge 
like a shot beneath the surface, and once again the reel 
sang and the fisherman's face was drawn and firmly set. 
Inch by inch, and then the line came in steadily, and 
soon the lithe and beautiful creature lie gasping on the 
sands, its sides of silver flecked with the well-known deep 
green spots and clearly defined stripes, the king of the 
Gulf, a 2ft. Spanish mackerel. 
"I caught twenty that morning — such sport — such 
weather, and that was fifteen years ago." mused the 
"man with the tackle." 
The den faded once more, and the summer breezes 
sighed softly in the tops of the magnolias, and the white 
oaks in the bottom lands. The white blossoms of the 
magnolias shone like great pure stars in the deep glossy 
foliage. There was a carpet of soft grass under foot and 
the balmy sky overhead. 
The roses were in full glory of life, and the porch of 
the weather-beaten old farm dwelling was bright with the 
new color. Nature was lavish. The mosses swayed 
gently from the limbs of the trees, and the mockingbird 
and bluejay whistled sweetly in the glorious sunshine. 
On the wide gallery of the farmhouse, sheltered by the 
tender leaves and early forming fruit of the scuppernong, 
was a great old-fashioned table, heaped with the many 
good things of country cheer. Golden combed honey, 
the great yellow bowl with milk, fresh homemade bread 
and butter: simple fare, but honest. 
Swinging in a great crimson hammock between the 
trees in the front garden were several children, their 
happy voices sounding in joyous play, and dear round 
healthy faces, pink from the pleasure and exertion. A 
group of elder folk gave color to the front porch, and 
near the old gate, with its creaking hinges, gray pickets 
and medieval chain weight, a sweet-faced young matron 
stood, gazing down the tree-arched country road as it 
wound toward the river. 
"Here he comes," cries out the matron in a pleased 
voice, and now in full sight with rapid tread comes a 
man. He is clad in simple garments, wears boots, and 
over his shoulder projects a long bamboo rod. while by 
his side hangs a fine string of bass — the good old country 
sort. His face is, healthy and happy, and aa he removes 
