822 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
I 
IP? Mp ar te*n m §^mt 
A New Year's Swearing-off. 
As Peter Folsom came into the kitchen, where his wife 
and daughter were busy about the roaring, glowing stove, 
on whose top the coffee-pot bubbled a soft accompani- 
ment to the shrieking and sputtering of a pan of sausages, 
and out of whose elevated oven came the aroma of baking 
potatoes, he glanaed up at the clock and the long-bar- 
relled fowling-piece that hung beside it, then furtively at 
the stove, but not at his wife, as he addressed her: "Is 
breakfast 'most ready, mother? 'Cause if it hain't, I'll 
git a bite o' suthin' an' be off, for I'm kinder in a hurry." 
Mrs. Folsom set her lips firmly to the delicate task of 
turning the sausages and accomplished it before she de- 
manded: "What be you in such a pucker for, father? Be 
you a-goin' somewhere on business?" 
Peter cleared his throat and answered rather defiantly, 
"Wall, yes, sorter. You might say business and pleasure. 
I'm a-goin's to give them haoun' dogs a little ex'cise. 
It's the neatest mornin' 't ever was; not a breath stirrin'. 
an' a little speck o' new snow, jest 'nough to kiver up ol' 
tracks. Seems 's 'ough I'd orter improve it, for the' 
won't be another like it this vear. bein' it's the last one in 
it." 
His tone had become apologetic, but- neither that nor 
the poor attempt at a joke softened the set sternness of 
his wife's face. 
"I s'pected as much !" she said, with a short, contemp- 
tuous laugh. "Wall, if that's all. you'd better set daovvn 
an' eat your breakfus' wi' the rest on us like a civilized 
bein', when it's sot ont' the table, when the boys come 
in from the barn, I should think 'at you'd got abaout 
old enough tu quit a-rampiu 'raound itp hill and down 
dale arter a mess o' yollopin' haoun' dogs a-distractin' 
decent folks wi' their plaguey noise!" 
"If some folks hain't got no ear for music, I do' know 
as the haoun' dogs is the blame for it, singin' glory hal- 
leluyer, no more 'n the birds is for singin' in the morn- 
in'," said Peter, with his back to his wife, as he washed 
face and hands at the sink. "I've hearn folks find fault 
wi' them." 
She vouchsafed no rejoinder beyond a contemptuous 
sniff. 
" 'Lizabeth,'' he said to the daughter, while he wiped 
vigorously on the roller towel, shaking out some words 
and smothering some. "You see if you can't find me a 
'tater 'at's done, an' gi' me a piece o' sassidge an' a cup 
o' coffee." 
Then seating himself al the table, he took up Mrs. Fol- 
som's assertions at the beginning, while he awaited the 
bringing of his breakfast. 
"You was a-sayin' haow I was ol' 'nough tu quit hunt- 
in'. Wal, I hain't only just turned o' sixty, an' my gran'- 
ther he hunted when he was in his eighty-fif year. Father 
didn't hunt none, but he was able tu when he was eighty 
vear ol' if he'd wanted to. That gives me twentr year 
on't yet." 
"The wust on't is the eggsample you're settin' your 
boys — a-shootin' 'raound," said Mrs. Folsom. 
Her hubsand broke a Mercer potato in two and whetted 
his appetite with a sniff of its fragrance before replying. 
"That idee hain't no gre't weight, sence they don't care a 
button for huntin', 'ceptin' little Pete: he takes arter my 
gran'ther some — t'others arter their gran'ther Tom's 
ol' hoss, more's the pity, an' Joe's all cattle. Pete's got 
dog an' gun born into him, an' you can't git it aout on 
him, 'gsample or no J gsample." He mashed and buttered 
his potato while his wife fitted another arrow to her bow 
and presently let fly. 
"It's mis'able, goo'-for-nothin', low-daown, lazy, loaf- 
in' business, an' them 'at follers it hain't no 'caount. 
Look a' ol' Bill Leggett an' Jim Fisher!" 
He fortified himself with a mouthful of sausage and as 
much potato as a quarter of his knife blade would hold, 
and began speaking before his mouth was clear of them. 
"I don't hold 'at a man had ort tu hunt all the time when 
game's as scarce as it is now-er-days, but take it reason- 
able. You don't want tu go tu quiltin's every day, nor 
try tu live on tea wi'aout no victuals. Took reasonable 
they're stimerlatin' an' comfortin', an' so's huntin'. Billy 
an' Jim overdoes it, but I know wuss men, an' they be 'at 
belongs to the church. An' as for me, I've allers man- 
aged tu git a decent livin' off'm the farm, an' go a-huntin' 
once in a while tew !" 
"I hope you allers will, father," said Elizabeth, at his 
elbow with his coffee. 
"It's a snare o' the evil one," Mrs. Folsom said, 
piously, giving the last link of sausage a spiteful jab as 
she transferred it from the frying-pan to the platter. 
"The hymn says, 'Satan allers finds a job for idle hands 
tu du. 5 " 
"A fellow 'at's a-huntin' in airnest hain't tumble idle." 
said Peter; then, in parenthesis, " 'Lizabeth, won't you 
jest give them 'ere dogs some col' johnny-cake. The 
good book tells o' Nimrod a-bein' a mighty hunter afore 
the Lord, which, it 'pears, his doin's was approved on." 
"Proberbly he didn't hev sons growed up, an' a-grow- 
in' up, an' a darter a young woman grown. Proberbly 
he didn't hev no wife, even." 
"It's a hopesin' he didn't!" Peter interrupted, fervently. 
"So say I!" she cried, with equal fervor. "A man 'at 
goes a-huntin' hedn't ort tu hev no wife to worry abaout 
him, an' be 'shamed an' lunsome an' bothered wi' haoun' 
dogs allers underfoot an' allers hungry an' slobberin' an' 
into everything! He'd ort tu be a batchelder an' a her- 
mit, but he's more like tu be a widderer if he's single, 
but pussecuted women don't never die fust!" 
Peter ate in silence, pondering deeply, until his sons 
came in, noisy and hungry, from the morning chores, 
and with them the two gaunt hounds, whimpering and 
careering in an excess of joy that belied sorrowful faces. 
While they snatched apportioned alternate rations from 
Elizabeth's timid fingers and beat the skirts of their un- 
friendly mistress with their slender, bony tails, their 
master arose and put on his deep-pocketed, blue-striped 
woolen frock, took down the long gun, powder-horn and 
shot-pouch, and then, facing about, addressed his house- 
hold. 
"I do' know but what you're right, mother, an' I p'sume 
tu say I be an til* fo'ol, atr t>'rVe'r quit a-VeTn' one. Any- 
ways, I been tol' on't times enough, an' I've got sick an' 
tired of hevin' on't hove in my face an' dinged intu my 
ears. So I tell ye, all on ye, this ere's my last day. 
Whatever my luck is, tunight I swear off a-huntin' for- 
ever an' ever more. The dogs I'll give away afore I 
come hum: the gun I won't — it was gran'ther's, an' Pete 
can hev it for his'n, if he's fool enough tu go huntin' 
when he gits growed up an' lucky 'nough tu be 'lowed tu 
in peace. Mother, Tom, Joe, 'Lizabeth, Pete — this 'ere's 
the last time you'll see me a-goin' aout wi' haoun's an' 
gun. Pete, arter you git your breakfus' eat, if you're 
a-min' ter, you can take your gun an' come up ont' the hill. 
If we start a fox, an' we shall, if the' is one, he'll run on 
the bare ledges. Come Scott, come Pappinew!" 
He went out, followed by the four-footed namesakes of 
two then popular heroes, one of the United States, the 
other of Canada, and followed by the gaze of the family. 
"Wal, I never!" Mrs. Folsom gasped with returning 
breath. 
"Father's got his dander up!" said horsey Tom; and 
Joe. stolid as one of his pet oxen, stared as calmly and 
silently, while the more sympathetic Elizabeth cried out, 
pitifully: 
"Poor father, it's too bad tu hetchell him so!" and Pete 
bewailed the loss of his friends, the hounds. 
Though the household gods frowned, nature's mood 
was benign, and she seemed to have set herself to making 
Peter Folsom's last day with gun and hounds a pleasant 
one. The sky was unclouded, but filmed with haze, and 
the windless air, through which such slight noises as the. 
tapping of a downy woodpecker or the piping of a nut- 
hatch came from distant woods, was so soft that the inch 
of newly fallen snow took the imprint of footsteps like a 
sheet of white wax. Thereon a fox had left a record of 
his nightly wandering, and the old hound Scott, reading 
it by a finer sense than sight, proclaimed it with deep- 
toned trumpet-blasts and Papineau gave confirmation in 
higher key, while from woods and hills a chorus of echoes 
swelled the musical confusion. Reynard awoke from his 
morning nap and forthwith betook himself to his tradi- 
tional tricks on his ancestral runways, where he was way- 
laid and low-laid by Peter the. elder, before Peter the 
younger appeared upon the sceng to exult in and envy 
his father's success. The hounds were as keen for further 
work as at the beginning, and soon found another fox 
full of years and cunning, which availed him not in the 
end, for the father — that he might have a worthy succes- 
sor — gave the son much instruction concerning runways, 
which the latter so quickly put to use that he got the first 
shot at the fox and killed it, an achievement which his 
father gloried in as much as he, though more soberly. 
Foxes were abroad that day, and another was started 
who was wiser and more fortunate than his predecessors 
in steering clear of manned runways, and at last took 
sanctuary in the. cloisters of the earth. The continuous 
music of the hounds had called out all the' hunters within 
hearing of it, and the}' now gathered about the hole where 
the hounds were taking turns at baying and tearing at the 
frozen earth. 
Before the company Peter made a final renunciation of 
sport, and burned his ships, giving away his hounds to 
an old comrade who he "was sure would treat them 
kindly. Everyone wondered at his strange action, but he 
would give no explanation, and turning his back reso- 
lutely on his friends, he trudged bravely away, , followed 
by the boy, a little comforted by the trophy thai dangled 
from his pocket for the parting with the dogs, who, 
straining at their leashes, their brows deeply wrinkled with 
puzzled inquiry, whined in sorrowful farewell. 
"If ever you hear the dogs a-comin' off'm the hill this 
way," Peter said to his son, as they crossed a long ridge 
in the open fields, "an' you can git tu that 'ere thorn-apple 
tree by the fence quick enough you'll sartin' git a shot at 
the fox. I hain't never knowed 'em tu fail a-crossin' 
there in forty-five year, an' many's the one I've laid aout 
there. But, oh, Lord! I shan't never agin!" He heaved 
a sigh from the depths of his bosom and turned his face 
from the favorite old runway, around which clung such 
happ3 r memories. 
When they reached home he hung the gun in its hooks, 
sadly pondering the thought that he should never take 
it from them again for any nobler purpose than shooting 
a corn-pulling crow or a raiding hen-hawk — never again 
for a day of glorious sport. He lingered long over the 
stretching of the pelts, giving his son minute instructions 
and remembering how awkwardly he skinned and 
stretched his first trophy, and comparing the dexterity 
which experience had given, 
The house looked strange to him without the familiar 
hounds, concerning whom young Pete confided to his 
sister. 
•"He just gi'n Scott and Papinew right aout an' aout tu 
ol' John Benham. He pooty nigh cried when he done it. 
I was tew mad tu — givin' away them haoun's, the best 
there is in ten taowns." 
"Clever ol' critters, I shall miss 'em," Elizabeth sighed. 
The first day of trie New Year was patterned after the 
last of the old Year, as cloudless, as soft-tinted with haze, 
and as windless, but for a breath of warmer air from the 
south, yet so light that it did not sweep away the echoes, 
nor its murmur disturb their far rebound. 
One cast afar from a gorge of the wooded hill caught 
Peter Folsom's ear as he walked from the barn to the 
house in the middle of the forenoon. It had a familiar 
cadence, and he stopped, listening intently. Again the 
mellow echo came across the wide fields, and with it 
another as melodious, but higher pitched. 
'It's Scott an' Papinew!" he exclaimed aloud, and 
now, as they broke over the crest of the hill in full cry, an 
ear less keen than his could not have mistaken the voices. 
"John's fetched 'em up there jest tu aggravate me, an' it's 
tew 'tarnal bad! Sech a day tu hear a dog! Sech 
trackin' !" He pressed his fingers on the soft snow that 
capped the fence post beside him. his eyes and «ars intent 
on the hill crest, along which the chase now tended, 
trumpet and bugle now alternating, now in unison, now 
indistinguishable in the jangle of their own echoes. 
They reached the end of the hill, turned and drew near 
the foot, and Peter soliloquized in short, eager sentences, 
as he looked and listened. "There, they're comin' off 
'm the hill ! If they du, I'll bet the fox'll come tu the 
thorn-apple tree! I'll bet the' haint nob'dy stannin' there! 
The' haint be'n time for 'em tu!" 
He moved to Where he h'a'd a view oi <Ji£ low-spreading 
tree in scraggy silhouette against the blue-gray sky, "No, 
the' haint a soul! He'll go by. an' git tu the "west woods, 
an' that'll be the end on't! Oh, if the' was anybody I 
could send! Pete! Pete," he called. "Oh, he''s gone 
a-skathv — plague on't! If 'Lizabeth could only shoot! 
Tom an' Joe wouldn't go a rod if they was here, blast 
'em, an' they couldn't hit a meetin' house a-stannin' still ! 
I'd hev' jest abaout time! Th' ol' gun is loaded for busi- 
ness ! Oh, I swear ! Flesh an' blood can't stan' it. I've 
got tu go !" 
He broke for the house on a run, burst into the kitchen 
without slackening his pace, almost upset his wife and 
daughter, in the midst of their New Year dinner prepara- 
tions, seized the gun and was out again and away before 
they recovered speech beyond squeals and exclamations. 
Running to the door, ihty saw him going at top speed 
across the fields, heard the eager baying of the hounds, 
and the situation was made clear to them. They saw 
him reach the fence and run beside it, crouching like a 
skulking partridge, till he came to the thorn tree, and 
then standing beside it as steadfast as its trunk, Then 
they saw the long gun rise slowly to an aim, belch a cloud 
of smoke, and him running into the smother before the 
report came rolling down to them. They saw him come 
out of it, swinging something aloft from the leaping 
hounds. 
Mrs. Folsom exhaled a deep sigh of relief. "Wal, your 
father's got him !" 
"Be you glad, mother? I be," Elizabeth asked and an 
swered for herself, as her mother did not, but turned and 
went into the house. 
Half an hour later Peter returned, meek and shame- 
faced, with the hounds plodding soberly at his heels. But 
there was a gleam of pride in his eyes, as he threw his 
trophy from his shoulder, a beautiful silver-gray fox. 
"I reckon you folks would kinder lufter see the critter 
wi' his clo's on. I didn't let the dogs touch him. He's 
the han'somest one ever I see, an' you an' 'Lizabeth may 
hev what he fetches, $50, I warrant ye. I hed tu go, 
mother. It haint no use, me a-fightin' ag'in the sperit an' 
the. flesh, an' I shall hafter go a-huntin' till I break a 
laig, or git crippled wi' rheumatiz, or die." 
"It's a-hopesin' the' won't nary one happen tew ye for a 
good spell, father !" his wife said, her face shining with a 
kindly light. "'Lizabeth, the's a hul col' johnnycake on 
the butt'ry shelf for the hoaun' dogs. You know they 
wa'n't here las' night tu git fed. Poor creeturs, they du 
look hungry!" Rowland E. Robinson. 
"Sport." 
Some time since Louis Benson Akin stirred up a con- 
troversy in these columns by his comments on the sub- 
ject of "Sport," taking for his particular text an account 
of a sanguinary "scrap" between hounds and a wildcat. 
My views upon this subject harmonize tolerably well 
with those of Mr. Akin, but I think it is to be said in 
justice to the other side that much apparent cruelty and 
encouragement of brutal "fun" of the dogs-and-wildcat 
type is chargeable rather to downright thoughtlessness 
than to real indifference to the sufferings of dumb brutes. 
The day after the storm I was passing down Kneeland 
street, when my attention was drawn to a crowd of some 
200 persons near the Albany Depot. I investigated and 
found the center of attraction to be a man with half a 
dozen rats in a cage. He would shake out into the snow 
one rat at a shake, and then that enlightened crowd of 
citizens of this hotbed of intellect would kick it and strike 
it, howling with delight until some one landed on top of 
the miserable thing and killed it. Was that cruelty? 
Decidedly it was, but I doubt not that it was largely of 
the "thoughtless" variety. 
Probably there were many men in that rough crowd 
who would go out of their way to help you, who would 
perhaps even risk their lives to save you from danger. 
Many of them might pet and feed a stray, hungry dog 
and feel genuine sympathy for the brute, and yet if that 
same poor dog fled in terror down the street with a "tin- 
canned tail" would laugh inordinately. Such is 
"thoughtlessness." 
The other day, while passing through Jersey City on 
a train, I saw a crowd of boys engaged in drowning a 
dog. They had tied to its neck a stone of insufficient 
weight, so that it struggled to the surface again and 
again, each time to be punched under by the howling 
young scamps, to whom this was no doubt "fun" of the 
dogs-and-wildcat variety. This scene brought to my 
mind my own infantile transgressions in the way of 
throwing trapped rabbits into the pond for the dogs to 
swim down, killing robins with a bean-shooter, and the 
like. I well recall the lecture concerning useless de- 
struction of life and the infliction of needless suffering 
which was in later years delivered for my edification by 
the good old Scotchman who taught me to tie my own 
flies and kill each trout as soon as he was caught. 
"Of all of which the moral is, "Let us be thoughtful of 
these things and let us teach the rising generation of 
sportsmen early to discriminate between manly sport and 
thoughtless cruelty." R. L. Warner. 
Boston. 
The Man with the Flint-Lock Kept Up with 
the Procession, 
New York, Dec. 20. — Editor Forest and Stream: I 
read a good deal in your columns about gun flints and 
flint lock guns. The subject is such an inteiesting one 
that I have actually found in Lexington avenue, this city, 
a splendid double-barrel flintlock shotgun and have fired 
it several times at a mark, with good success. This in- 
teresting relic is in perfect order. Its locks are like the 
movement of a watch in delicacy, and, although a muzzle 
loader, the gun makes a splendid pattern with any kind 
of shot at 35yds. Some day I'll tell your readers about 
a day with the partridges up in Sullivan county. Dr. R., 
the owner of the relic; a young attorney, with a hammer 
breech loader and black powder; another attorney, with 
a French "pin fire" 14-gauge; and a newspaper man, with 
a Baker hammerless, using "E. C." smokeless, made up 
this interesting and representative quartette. 
The Doctor, with his 16-gauge flint lock, killed his full 
share of the bird's, of which twenty fell to the four 
"guns." £ _ St&ex* 
