102 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
§lfe gftai'tmrim §mmL 
Through the Parsonage Windows. 
m. 
The curtain rises to-day on a panorama of the Stinking 
Water Valley and the buffalo hunter's camp. It is what 
mio-ht be termed a dull day, and the valley lies as if asleep 
under the haze of a half-cloudy, half-sunny atternoon. 
There is no sign of life about the camp except the light 
rift of smoke climbing lazily upward from the sod 
chimney; yet by going close up you might hear something 
like this : "Guess we have got a cinch on you this time 
We're nine to your seven, and our sell," or, Tt s a good 
policy never to send a bov to mill when you can go your- 
self. Play some of your surplus trumps on^^that ace. 
Come, now, no remgging. Cough up that jack." _ 
For three weeks the voUev of talk similar to this, witli 
the exception of from midnight till 9 o'clock next morn- 
ing, had been well nigh continuous. For three weeks the 
buffalo had given us a wide berth, and as to following 
them across those treeless divides in the dead of winter, it 
was not to be thought of; hence, seven-up and pitch had 
raged with unabated fury, _ , , , 
It was 2 o'clock before the first sign of hfe showed 
about the camp, and then the ParsoH came out, yawned 
and stretched, and looked away across the creek at the 
opposite hills. Yes, the Parson had been playing seven- 
up but let me sav at once that he was by no means ot 
the "through bre'ds." My average ran about one-half 
day at the cards to three days rambling m the hills, while 
there were men in the camp who could play seven-up for a 
week without going out to get a fresh breath of air.^ ihe 
atmosphere inside had grown so close and stuffy with 
tobacco smoke that I could stand it no longer, and I was 
off for a ramble. , , r t. i. 
The camp w^as built just at the top of the first bench 
above the creek bottom. The timber along the creek 
extended to the foot of this bench, so that there was a 
good wind-break on the south. The abrupt hills rising 
on the north broke the winds from that side. I took my 
way down through this timber tow^ard the creek. Near 
the stream was an old beaver slashing some half an acre 
in extent. There had been a fine grove of ash trees from 
6 to 12 inches in diameter which the beaver had cut some 
years before. The trees, for some reason, were left as 
tliey fell, criscrossing each other in all directions, much 
resembling a windfall in the Northern forest. We had 
located the camp at that point with an eye to the in- 
exhaustable supply of dry wood this slashing would fur- 
nish. 
The sun, though partly obscured by haze, still shed a 
warm glow down into the timber, so that it was com- 
fortable lazing about. Seating myself on a fallen tree, I 
fell to speculating en the wonderful patience these ani- 
mals must have had to cut all that timber in their slow, 
tedious way and as far as I could see, to no purpose. They 
are credited with great intelligence, but this did not look 
like well-judged effort. I had often noted their trails 
leading off into Avoods, and following them would find one 
or more trees cut and left as they fell, when other trees 
were standing on the creek banl< that would have fallen 
into the water where they could have been utilized. 
The beaver is about as stupid in looks as any animal 
I ever saw, and a great deal of his work seems to point in 
the same direction; but try trapping them once, as I 
did, and a surprising intelligence is made manifest, 
though occasionally they will make most unaccountable 
blunders. 
I had come to the wild West for the express pur- 
pose of hunting buffalo. Being neither a great capi- 
talist nor foreign prince, I was thrown on my own re- 
sources, and "joined drives" with a party of pot-hunting 
frontiersmen to make it possible for me to stand the 
expense. 
Now bare your swords, oh, ye critics! 
There were as high as eight men in our party at 
times, including teamsters, and during the winter we 
killed about sixty buffalo. Of these the Parson ac- 
counted for nearly half. "The nigger luck of that boy" 
is the way the others explained it. But before you 
strike, my dear old humbug of a critic, let me draw a 
comparison. 
Cotemporary with my buft'alo hunt the Grand Duke 
Alexis came to this country for the same purpose. He 
had plenty of money to pay his own expenses, hence the 
Government turned over the army to be used as escort 
and to drive the buffalo to his gun. In three weeks they 
killed five times the buffalo that we did, while we paid 
our tithes toward the expense. 
The buffalo we killed went into the dinner pots of 
the settlers along the frontier, while the hides were 
sold and turned into shoes and stockings for the children 
of the same people. The buft'alo killed by the Duke's 
party were mostly left where they fell without even 
skinning. My part of the profit was "nit," except what 
I saved_ in expenses by joining the party, rather than 
organizing one of my own. 
Now let the critic judge well and strike where the 
guilt lies, if guilt there be. It seems almost out of place 
to call up such things, but criticism has been so harsh 
and often unreasoning of late years that one must don 
his armor when he starts afield, even with fountain pen. 
Finding all the streams along which we traveled peopled 
with beaver, I had inquired among the men for steel 
traps, but found there was none in the caravan. One 
man knew of a settler who had five, and I hired him to 
ride one hundred miles on horseback and bring them. 
They were expensive traps, but the sport I had with 
them more than evened up. With the traps I got a New- 
house Trappers' Guide, and it is about the only book I 
ever got any practical information out of concerning any 
field sport. 
From it I got the idea of cutting a small tree or bush 
and inserting it top down through a hole in the ice just 
above a dam, where the deep water is. The beaver, to get 
the entire bush, would come to the butt to cut it off. By 
•Dlacing the butt in shallow water next the shore with a 
trap under it, the beaver would be likely to be caught 
|vhen it to cwj; the tree, I got ppe the first \lm 
I tried it, but never made the trick work again, for they 
invariably cut the tree several feet below the trap. 
Another suggestion I got from Newhouse was to make 
a break in a dam which was sure to bring a beaver to 
repair it. In this way they were very likely to spring 
the trap with breast or hind foot and not get caught. 
A beaver caught by the fore foot is sure to twist (or 
bite?) the foot off, if it can get to land, and thus escape. 
The fore foot of a beaver is not much larger than a 
man's thumb, while the hind foot of a full-grown one 
is nearly as large as a man's whole hand. The hind 
foot is wedge-shaped, and when wet the jaws of a trap 
will throw it out on striking it as a green tough log will 
throw out an iron wedge that is being driven into it. 
There is little hope of holding a beaver in a steel trap 
except it be kept in the water. To do this a long pole is 
cut and the smaller branches trimmed off about an inch 
from the stem. This is then driven, small end first, as 
far as it will reach out into the creek, often lo feet. The 
chain ring is then passed over the butt of the pole which 
in turn is fastened to bush or stake on the bank. When 
the trap springs the beaver starts for the bottom of the 
stream; the ring slips down easy enough, but when it 
starts back is caught on the hooks and the beaver is 
soon drowned. I drowned one 6 feet under water in this 
way. 
At one time I Used a green willow pole for a trap 
stake, and an enterprising beaver came along, and cut 
it off and carried it away, leaving my trap without an 
anchor. I was fortunate in not getting anything into 
the trap, thus saving it from loss. . 
On this particular afternoon I wandered down along 
the creek bank until I came to some peeled sticks that had 
been pushed up through the air hole in a beaver den. 
The beav»«-=^ build, or dig, their dens as a muskrat does. 
Starting cfle bznk below the water, they gradually 
rise above it to make tneir nears. ^=t:ally there is an 
air hole above the nest through which they push the 
sticks after they have peeled the bark .from them. 
The Stinking Water has its origin in numerous springs 
that rise at the foot of the bluffs along its course. In- 
deed I note. by the map, that it is now called Spring 
Creek. In winter the overflow from these springs freezes 
during the night and forms small glaciers. On bright, 
warm days the ice melts fast, and together with the over- 
flow from the springs, flows into the stream, raising it 
rapidly and causing tides. Thus, the creek begins to 
rise in the evening, and in the morning it will begin to 
fall again, the water loosened during the day having gone 
out during the night. After a very sharp, frosty night 
the stream will be nearly dry by noon next day. When 
I discovered the den the creek was in this condi- 
tion. 
The entrance of the den was above water, and by 
hanging to the bushes head down I could look up into it. 
It was dark inside, but after a time I thought I could see 
a beaver lying in it. I had no revolver with me, but there 
were plenty at camp. Most of them were .44cal. Reming- 
tons, but I had a fine little .22cal. Smith & Wesson, which 
I took as being the handiest to use inside the den. The 
old chap was still at home when I returned, and hang- 
iiig head down, I carefully located what I thought was 
his head and fired at it. 
Well, I got a tremendous slap in the face from his great 
scaly paddle of a tail, and a jet of water shot into my 
face, neck and hair that nearly drowned me, while the 
beaver made his way 20 yards through the shallow water 
and mud in the bottom of the creek to a deep pool, where, 
of course, he disappeared, before I could recover. Two 
weeks later I caught him in the same den with a steel 
trap. I found my .22cal. bullet buried just the width of 
itself in the thick gristle at the root of the tail. I 
had mistaken ends. 
This den extended into the bank about 6 feet, and at 
the end tliere was a circular cavity as large as a 50- 
gallon cask coming to within a foot of the surface of 
the ground. It seemed a little strange that this fellow 
should come back to his den after the treatment I had 
accorded him, as I had noticed that they deserted dens 
and even dams on very slight provocation. 
At another place where I had located a den, I got an 
old axe and spade from camp and dug it out. Cutting a 
long pole, I ran it into' the hole. I then measured 
distance and direction on the surface and dug down from 
the top, after having plugged the hole with a log to 
prevent the animal's escape. When I got down to the 
hole I again had recourse to the pole, measuring distance 
and direction and digging down as before. This I re- 
peated four times, and when I came to the beaver it was 
at least 40 feet from the bank of the stream. It proved to 
be a two-year-old, at which age they are about two- 
thirds grown. But the light fades and a curtain of gloom 
falls athwart the stage. The Parson. 
Sam^s Boy.— XL 
Winter Bird Food* 
CoNCORDviLLE, Pz— Editor Forest and Stream: It is 
gratifying to a "gunshj^" woman who once ventured into 
the columns of Forest and Stream to oppose the im- 
portation of the foreign starlings— and who, finding no 
champions of her cause, felt so completely frozen out 
that until now she has never dared do more than read 
the paper once a week— to note the place of honor on 
the editorial page given to a commendation of the Lacev 
bill. 
Since T feel less like an intruder to-day, I would like 
to add that I often turn first to the Natural History notes 
and do thoroughly enjoy the records of observers and 
easy interchange of opinion. Mr. Wilbur F. Smith notes 
a late and early phoebe indeed. While it is not unknown 
to find one lingering near Philadelphia in the winter 
months, still, it is an experience to remember. As for 
food on the snow, I have seen snowdrifts speckled 
thickly with small gnats, not of course noticeable ex- 
cept on close inspection, and also have seen the living 
flies in swarms in midwinter. Yet there must be many 
hungry days did a phoebe not adapt its diet to circum- 
stances, trying a few poke berries or other ffOBt-preserved 
dainties when all dse fails, 
Peach Daant. 
Polly was in the habit of entertaining her brother with 
relations of her doll's adventures, none of which he 
ever witnessed; and of the richness and variety of that 
young lady's wardrobe, which were invisible but to the 
eye of faith, for to other vision she never wore but one 
dress, and that soiled and much the worse for wear. In 
emulation, Sammy began to give rein to his imagination 
and told marvelous tales of a boy friend of whom Polly 
Avas never able to get sight. 
"I seen Peach l3aunt to-day," he would begin, when 
Polly, after apologizing for Malviny's not wearing her 
"new pink caliker and Leghorn bunnit," doubled her in 
the middle and set her against the orchard wall. 
"Peach Daunt ! What a funny name I" said Polly. 
"Well, I can't help it. It's the name they give him. 
Oh, you'd orter see the clo'es he's got! He's got a blue 
cwut wi'_ yaller buttons — gold, I guess, they be " 
"Malviny's got a string o' gold beads 'at goes twicte 
'raound," Polly interrupted. 
"Sho! I'll bet they hain't nothin' only yaller thorn 
apples!" Sammy scoffed. "Peach Daunt's buttons is 
gold." 
"Malviny got threw aouten a waggin an' broke her 
neck, an' has tu wear 'em tu cover up where the darktef 
mended it." 
"Sho ! Peach Daunt don't want no ol' beads ! He 
could have a peck on 'em if he did. But you'd orter see 
the candy! Bull's eyes, an' sticks, an' hearts, an' 
lozengers, more 'n you could shake a stick at !" 
"Mr. Clapham gives me an' Malviny candy," said 
Polly, elevating her chubby nose. 
"Clapham!" said Sammy, scornfully, "Peach Daunt's 
father keeps store to Vergennes, bigger 'n forty o' Clap- 
ham's ol' stores; an' he sells hogsits full of candy every 
day! He'd sooner give away a han'ful 'an sell it." 
"My, I wish 't I could go there," Polly sighed, with 
watering mouth. "Don't Peach Daunt never give you 
none?" 
"Lots," Sammy answered, thoughtlessly. 
"Why don't you never fetch me none?" she asked, re 
proachfully; and Sammy, unable to explain such un- 
generous conduct, shifted to a less feminine subject. 
"But my sakes, you'd orter see his gun!" 
"Not a real bang-gun, he hain't got?" Polly asked, 
incredulously. 
"Yes, sir, ju' like daddy's, only not so big, just right 
for a boy tu handle, an' cap-lock, an' all curlequed off 
wi' brass trimmin's, an' you can shoot at anything with 
it." 
"Oh, Sammy! Don't you wish you had one?" 
"M-m-m-m!" he groaned at the suggestion of such a 
wild dream. "You'd orter see all the squirrels he gits; 
pidjins an' pa'tridges. Oh, piles on 'em 1" 
" 'F I'd orter why don't I; why don't I see him?" Polly 
asked. 
"He don't never come no furder 'n Stunny Brook, he 
won't," said her brother, awkwardly, parrying this reason- 
able question. 
"Why, I go there fishin' 'long wi' you lots o' times. 
What is the reason I can't when he comes?" 
" 'Cause there's a lynk hantin' 'raound there, an' he'd 
scare you awful,'' Sammy said, forced to evolve a new 
creature from his imagination to guard his unreal hero. 
^^A. lynk? What sort o' critter be them?" Polly asked. 
"Oh, gre't big sorter cats, some like a painter, an' some 
not," he answered, in some doubt to describe a beast of 
which he had only a vague idea. "Oh, they're awful 
ugly, I tell ye I" 
"Did you an' him see the lynk?" 
"Guess we did ; lots o' times, an' heard him holler. Oh, 
awful !" said Sammy. 
"I sh'd thought you'd shot him," said Polly. 
"Peach Daunt wa'n't huntin' lynks, an' more 'n that, 'f 
vou don't Idll 'em fust lick, they'll kill you. I guess 
Peach Daunt da'sn't." 
"I sh'd think you'd git daddy tu shoot him," Pollv 
said. "He hain't feared o' nothin', an' he can kill 
anything." 
"My sakes, no!" Sammy gasped, and adroitly shifting 
from dangerous ground, again began enlarging upon the 
wxinderful possessions of his mythical friend, until Polly 
was quite consumed with envy of her brother's grand 
acquaintance, and walked slowly home, pouting and 
speechless. 
But at dinner she suddenly recovered speech, and piped 
up shrilly above the clattfer of crockery and knives and 
forks, to Sammy's consternation. "Oh, say, daddy, Sammy- 
he see a wink down t' the woods, a gre't aw'l ugly wink !" 
"A what?" Sam Lovel demanded, staring at the little 
girl over a mouthful of potato poised midway on its 
passage to his lips, and Aunt Jerusha quit blowing her 
saucer of tea to ask: 
"What on airth is that precious child a-talking abaout?" 
Sammy turning hot and cold in quick succession, groped 
with his foot among the others beneath the table for 
Polly's, but did not find it, and she repeated with loud 
confidence, "A wink, a gre't awf'l ugly wink! Didn't you, 
Sammy ?" 
"I never said I seen a wink." he declared, doga:edlv, 
more indignant at being charged with a misnomer'' tha'n 
ashamed of the falsehood, "I said a lynk!" 
"You seen a lynk. Sammy?" asked his father with 
open incredulity. "Oh. sho, naow !" 
"I don't care, I did !" Sammy stoutly protested. He 
determined to stand by this creation of fancy at all 
hazards, but trembled to think what he should do if he 
were called on to defend his more audacious invention of 
Peach Daunt. The sight of a wild beast in the verge of 
the great forest was not a stark improbability ° but 
clandestine meetings there with a fabulous boy was too 
absurd a story to impose upon the credulity of his 
elders. 
"Where d' you see him, on the ground or up a tree""" 
his father asked, 
"Runnin' 'long the graound an' cHmbin up a tree " 
Sammy answered, taking two chances of bein? right 
"Wal. naow. that seems kindef reasonable but I wues^ 
it was a coon," said w^am. inter^stPd ;fWh^t for a lnnk;> 
