S84 
FOREST AND STREAM* 
[May if), tgoo. 
Letter to a Chum, 
BY SIDNEY EDWARDS. 
Graniteville, S. I., May lo.— Dear Jim: Sorry you 
couldn't come down last week; the snipe were on — thick. 
Dick and I went out four days hand running and we had 
the best sport ever. You know 'Dick Hawkins, the ruddy 
Englishman with the two liver and white pointers, who 
lives right back of our old house? Well, when we went 
out the first day — it was Monday — we hadn't more than 
struck the lower edge of the drain on the old Crocheron 
place when the old dog, Marc, began to think he was a 
statue in liver and white marble, and finally having 
found a proper pedestal came to the conclusion that_ he 
was, and stiffened. My dog was out in the next field 
exercising meadow larks (you know it takes an hour or 
two to get his edge off) and we didn't disturb him. 
Guess came up behind us and backed the old dog, and 
Dick and I walked up to shoot. We walked past the dogs 
and were getting a little nervous from the tension, when I 
saw Dick lower his gun. He snorted disgustedly and 
walked over to a "nigger-head" and kicked out the biggest 
old tabby cat I've seen in many a day. She'd been sound 
asleep, I guess, for she was mightily scared when she 
made her bolt for a neighboring barn. Talk about 
pneumatics! Whj', she blew that tail of hers up in a 
second to the size of her body and went floating over the 
meadow like a big, long balloon — more like one of Profes- 
sor Langley's oblong aero-balloons, if that's what he calls 
'em. Talk about only hitting the high places ! She never 
touched the ground till she lit in the farmyard, and then 
only long enough to get a purchase for a lo-foot jump into 
the barn window. 
"Nice bird dogs," I said to Dick, with an accent on the 
bird. "Wait till Laddie comes down and I'll show you 
a discriminator — birds or nothing; no bird, no point." 
"Yes," says Dick, looking over at my dog. (He was 
extended like a Futurity winner, and giving a low flying 
lark the time of his life.) 
"Only you've got it hindside before — no point, no 
birds." 
i wasn't sore, because I knew Dick felt badly over his 
dog's break. 
But, say I When we turned 'round, what do you think? 
There were those two mutts standing in the same old 
posish, looking like leaves out of poor Tracy's_ sketch 
book, and old Marc's eyes simply bulging out of his head. 
"Good heavens !" says Dick, and that's as far as he got, 
for right up from under a little bunch of nigger-head, not 
10 feet from Marc, jumped two snipe. Wouldn't that 
unnerve you? 
I revived in time to fire one shot, just to tell them 
that we saw them, but Dick got down on his knees and 
hugged the old dog, and said the same old things — you 
know 'em, "Man's faithful servant" ; "The more I see of 
men the better I like dogs" ; "Wouldn't take $i,ooo of any 
man's money for him," and so on. 
I looked over at my kiyoodle, thinking perhaps he was 
ready for work, but he seemed to be going with such verve 
that I thought another seven furlongs wouldn't hurt him. 
I've never seen a bird sweat, nor heard of such a thing, 
but I'll bet that lark was ready for something like it. 
Dick got up from his canine shrine after a moment and 
we went on. We went to the end of the drain up to where 
the rose briars begin to get thick, and had about given it 
up when Guess posed again and Marc supported her. 
This time there was no side show, and we killed two out 
of the three that flushed. 
And, by the way, to me — and I've hunted some, you 
know, Jim — the old English snipe is the hardest bird to 
hit that flies— hit, not kill, you mind. "No, no," I hear 
you say. "the Mauser-like teal" and "a thicket partridge" 
and "a birch-growth woodcock" and all your other old 
cinches — but what's the use of getting into a discussion? 
I said harder for me. The others may be harder for you. 
An English snipe always reminds me of the switchback 
down at "Cooney's Island." I'll bet the man who invented 
the switchback was a snipe hunter, and stole his idea from 
the bird's flight. What do you think? 
Well, to get along with the hunt. We worked out the 
rose briars and got up twelve birds, of which I killed 
six and Dick four — dogs working like clockwork, includ- 
ing Laddie, who had learned "Flee as a Bird" by heart. 
I took eight shells to mine, Dick killed straight — first 
barrel kills. Twelve birds up to this point, only out an 
hour, and on Staten Island too, a part of the Greater 
City and only fifty-five minutes from the City Hall. Say ! 
I wouldn't leave this happy home for any one. And yet 
you urban chumps say we're full of malaria and mos- 
quitoes, and that there isn't anything on the island worth 
having but unlimited opportunity for golf, an atmosphere 
of Standard Oil smoke and an English accent. Why, say, 
come down here next Sunday after church, and I'll show 
you 'most every wild song bird that comes into the 
xemperate zone. I'll show you every wild flower that is 
born to blush seen and give its sweetness to the world, and 
if you won't tell about it I'll exhibit to you twelve pairs of 
woodcock with half as many nests — and all this within a 
half-hour from my own home, which isn't in the woods by 
any matter o' means. 
"But I am digressing," as the bull said when hie stopped 
running after the picador and charged the man with, the 
vendue flag. 
After the rose briars, we came out on the turnpike, 
stopped in at Herman Danner's Hotel, at Bull's Head, 
worked that out, got shots at two old crows and downed 
them. Came out and went into that piece of salt meadow 
that laps on the fresh meadow of the Crystal Water Corn- 
pan}'. I had a fight with Dick over whether English ever 
come to salt meadows unless it has been very dry, and he 
said "Yes." Had found as many on salt as fresh 
meadows, irrespective of wet or dry season. _ Didn't get 
anywhere with the discussion until Laddie pointed on the 
fresh meadow and Marc and Guess on the salt. Dick 
killed his bird and I allowed mine to escape; could have 
killed him you know, but — he's better off as he is. 
It's been "kinder mejum" weather, not wet nor dry, and 
so the birds didn't prove anything, or rather proved every- 
thing. Dick was satisfied and so was I, and altogether it 
was the best thing that could have happened, because 
we've been at odds on this question for years. 
But I weary you with this lengthy letter. Dick's bird 
was the last ' casualty of the day, and we went home 
satisfied with the day's fun. Snipe season's off now, you 
know, l>ut wlivn those woodeock get ripe ui August, you 
must imne dowtu They're so hard for you to kill that 
I won I ask you to do anything harder than kill my 
winged birds. 
Remember me to Mrs. Jim :md the children. 
Sincerely, Jack. 
Uncle Nathan'- Harrington. 
Nathan S. Harrington, one of the best knoAvn sports- 
men of New England and a pioneer fox hunter, bird 
shooter and trout fisherman, of Worcester, died on May 6 
in his eighty- sixth year. Of his life the Worcester Spy 
writes appreciatively : As Uncle Nathan he was known to 
every sportsman in Worcester. For two years his mar- 
velously strong constitution withstood the attacks of 
disease, and his sturdy muscles and powerful lungs gained 
in long tramps in pursuit of birds, trout or foxes in every 
nook and corner of Worcester county have battled royally 
against the advances of infirmity. During this time he 
received almost daily calls from sportsmen, and his eyes 
have sparkled as Uncle Nathan has lived over again the 
experiences of some successful shoot or at least adven- 
turous fox hunt. 
He was the nestor of Worcester county fox hunters, 
and his fame as an authority on foxes has been spread 
abroad by numerous stories about his experiences or ob- 
servations in the sportsmen's papers of the country. He 
was a sportsman of the old school, a man of most genial 
and cordial manner, one of the truest natures as a friend 
and withal an adherent of a code of hunting and fishing 
etiquette inviolable and irreproachable. He was known 
as a sportsman of the truest kind, and his example in the 
brush and the runways has for years been the code for 
the younger school of hunters and fishermen. 
Uncle Nathan had a fund of stories of the chase, and his 
love of the hounds, the setter and the rod remained a 
ruling passion if his life, even during the past five years, 
during which he was unable to follow the sport. No fox 
hunter had a good run or an unusual experience in the , 
brush or along the brooks that believed his pleasure com- 
plete until he related his story to the appreciative and 
genial Uncle Nathan and heard" a similar story in return. 
Twenty-five years ago, while fox hunting at Five Points, 
Mr. Harrington stumbled and fell, gun in hand, and the 
weapon was discharged. The charge of buckshot intended 
for the running fox entered Mr. Harrington's foot, and 
amputation was necessary. Even thus crippled he fol- 
lowed his hounds or dog. He killed his last fox when 
eighty years old, and two years ago waS at the annual 
fall hunt of Worcester Fur Company at the Shoemakers 
on the first day, and on Asnebumskit Hill the second 
day. For the last two years he has remained at home 
and held sportsman's court, receiving calls from friends 
who called to tell and to listen. 
Nathan S. Harrington was born in Shrewsbury, Jan. 
29, 1815. At the age of sixteen years young Nathan en- 
tered the gun factory of Ethan Allen at Grafton as an 
apprentice. He passed some time there, and showed 
marked ability for the work. Nine years later he came to 
Worcester and went to work in the factory of the Allen & 
Thurber Pistol Manufacturing Company. Mr. Harring- 
ton had a contract under the company, and had charge 
of the old "Allen pepper box revolver," with as many 
barrels as chambers, and the young man made money. 
It was about the time of the gold fever in California, and 
the pistols were in demand in all parts of the country, and 
the business grew to immense proportions. 
A few years later Mr. Harrington built a small shop by 
enlarging an ell of his house, and began the manufacture 
of jointed fishing rods, at that time a new thing and 
much in demand. At first Uncle Nathan bought bamboo 
rods and cut them up, putting in ferrules and joints and 
turning them out as a novelty, and they were much in 
demand. The shop remains, iDut of recent years little 
work has been done where once there was a large business. 
Since he was a young man Mr. Harrington has car- 
ried the rod and gun for sport, and has been successful 
as a hunter and fisherman. He has owned some of the 
best fox hounds in New England, and has the reputation 
of having killed more foxes with a gun ahead of the 
hounds than any man in New England. For sixty years 
he has followed the hounds and frequently killed as many 
as twenty foxes in a season. 
He was an authority on Worcester county runways, and 
familiar with every nook and corner of W orcester county. 
Many beginners have of recent years gone to Uncle 
Nathan for points on the best covers for partridges, the 
best brooks for trout and the runwaj^s where the fleet- 
footed fox is sure to travel in a given district when once 
the hounds have him afoot and going over the hills. His 
hounds Loud and Bat were the most famous of a score 
or more owned by Uncle Nathan, and the blood of both 
these courses through the veins of more than one hound 
of the pack of Worcester Fur Company. He was always an 
adherent of the lone-hound-and-that-a-slow-goer theory 
which is held by many of the old school who despise the 
speedier hounds of to-day. 
He was one of the organizers and a charter member of 
the Worcester Fur Company, and for a number of years 
was one of its officers. Since Uncle Nathan's foot was 
shot away by accident he has killed as many as nine 
foxes in a season. 
During the past winter Uncle Nathan has been as 
young as in the fifties in spirit, and has listened with 
delight to stories of the hunt. And sportsmen always 
have loved to pour their stories into the appreciative ears 
of the veteran of them all. He was_ beloved by every 
hunter who ever knew him'. His genial disposition and 
cordial manner, which has always had the marks of pure 
sincerity, have made him friends throughout the fraternity 
of New England. 
His picture hangs on the walls of the club rooms of 
Worcester Fur Company, the gift of Hon. Joseph H. 
Walker to the club. It shows him clad in his familiar 
fur hunting suit in which for years he stood and listened 
to the hounds. The last gift of the club to Uncle Nathan 
was a photograph album containing a score or more pic- 
tures of his hunting and fishing friends. This was given 
him on his eightieth birthday, and was the most esteemed 
treasure of his declining years. 
The FoKESi AND Stream Is put to press each week on Tuesday. 
Correspondence intended for putslication should reach us at A« 
latest by Monday aad a* much earlier «■ practicabla. 
Charlestown, N. H,, May 11. — Editor Forest and 
Stream: It is often said that "this world is really a very 
small place," and it is sometimes astonishing how somt: 
utterance in some part of it will touch a spring that, like 
an electrical message, awakens some memory in a far 
distant one. Mr. Burnham's letter in this week's number 
of Forest and Stream has had that effect on me, and re- 
calls to my recollection vividly the name and person of 
Elijah Simonds, the old village blacksmith, who. lived 
here when I was a boj^ ; and who, I think, died here, some- 
where about 1835 or '36. His old red shop stood on the 
main street, right opposite to where I am now writing, 
and I well recall a half-day, stolen from school, when I 
w^as about eight or nine years old, when my father sent 
me to the shop with a paper pattern, from which the old 
man was to forge a pair of barn-door hinges — for we could 
not buy such things then ready made at any hardware 
store. My mechanical instincts so interested me in the 
forging that i forgot all about school, and spent the whole 
forenoon watching the old blacksmith. It was not long 
after that that he came to my father's office for some 
surgical operation or examination, I forget just what, and 
I wondered at the huge muscles of his hairy chest and 
brawny arms and shoulders. I think he must have been 
the grandfather referred to, for he could hardly have been 
the great grandfather of a man only two years my 
senior. Be this as it may, he was a marked character, and 
my strongest recollection of him is of an incident verging 
on the tragic at the moment, and the consequences of 
which were really so. 
There was then in the village an old cast iron 6-pound 
field piece, captured from Burgoyne at the Battle of Ben- 
nington, by Gen. Stark, the right to the possession of 
which was disputed by the inhabitants of Springfield, Vt., 
on the oppisite side of the ri^'er. This old gun was 
usually stolen in alternate years by the young men 
of each town from each other, and was used to fire a 
salute at daylight on the Fourth of July, and on the occa- 
sion to which I refer, had been recaptured from Spring- 
field by the Charlestown boys by a night iora.y on the 
2d or 3d. 
Now Old Simonds, as the boys called him, did not like 
to be waked up early, and some time on the night of the 
3d he spiked the gun with- a rat-tail file, so that the 
salute was impossible. This was, I think, in 1833 or '34. 
My father's house stood at the corner, where the 
Claremont road branched off from the main street, and 
in the triangle where the two -roads joined lay an old 
granite millstone, used by the other blacksmith for tir- 
ing wheels. Soon after breakfast, on the morning of the 
Fourth, my attention was drawn to a crowd of men and 
boys, collected around a big fire at this stone, and on 
going out to see what was the cause, I found the old gun 
in the fire, being heated to take the temper out of the 
file, so that it could be punched in or pulled out. While I 
stood there, down the road came Simonds in his old 
wagon, probably from the grist mill, and as the boys had 
judged from the evidence o"f the file that he was the 
culprit, he was at once w^aylaid and charged with the- 
crime of spiking the gun. He was foolish enough td 
draw a pair of pistols, upon which he was immediatelj!^ 
seized, his pistols torn from him by a young man them 
studying medicine with my father, and since an eminent 
physician in Massachusetts, now dead, and the old mars 
was pretty severely kicked and beaten. The law soora 
settled the fines and damages for assault and battery, but 
the real tragedy was to follow at the close of the day. 
The old file was got out of the gun and preparations were 
made for an extra salute at sunset on the hill adjoining 
the cemetery, back of the village. My father and I had 
gone down to the river for an evening swim, when we 
heard the first gun from the hill, followed almost in- 
stantly by a second report, when my father said : "Those 
shots are too near together; there must be some accident,"' 
and before we could get our clothes on, down the hill! 
came a man on full run, for my father to hurrj' up to 
the town hall, which he did at once, .stopping on the way 
for his instruments and bandages. Whether the vent of 
the gun had been injured in getting out the file, or the 
man who "thumbed the touch hole" got his thumb 
burned, we never knew — the point Avas disputed — ^but the 
two men who were ramming down the second cartridge — 
John Densmore and Parker Woods, by name — had each 
one arm blown off below the elbow, and I shall never for- 
get that candlelight scene of amputation and bandaging in 
the old town hall. 
So nearly as I can remember, the old man who had'l 
been the acting cause of the catastrophe, did not long, 
survive it. After his death his old shop was destroyed! 
and his house pulled down and a new one built on the 
site of it hy the man who purchased the property. The old! 
cannon was duly stolen the next year by the Springficldl 
boys, heavily loaded, dropped crosswise into a cleft in ai 
ledge, fired with a slow match and blown to smithereens, 
and thus perished a Revolutionary relic. 
As my recollections of the old man must be of a date 
between 1830 and '35, it is possible that he may have 
gone to the Adirondacks at some date previous to 1821, 
when the trapper of Mr. Burnham's story was born, and 
moved back to Charlestown, instead of dying there. 
He was a skillful workman, but not very fond of his 
shop, which was often closed, and a story used to be told 
of a verbal skirmish between him and the wife of the 
postmaster, who was celebrated for her ready tongue. 
The postmaster, in those days under Andrew Jackson, 
was a genial old fellow, who owned a large amount of 
land, and was very apt of a summer afternoon, after the 
noon mail was distributed, to lock up the office and go 
down to the meadows to look after his hay and corn. He 
had done so one day beforft Mr. Simonds found it con- 
venient to go to the post-office, and the latter repaired to 
the postmaster's house in search of him, and not finding 
him, began to blow up his wife for the neglect of business 
and absence from the office. The lady heard him and re- 
torted as follows: "It's all very fine, Mr. Simonds, for 
you to talk of absence from business, but if I had a setting- 
hen which I did not want to be disturbed, I would set her 
on your anvil." 
I began this letter with a truism about the _ smaU 
size of the earth, and the communication between its in- 
habitants, and I have just received, a fre$h illustration of 
its accuracy. A few days sinqe my daughter sent a bunch 
