64 
FokES'T ANJb STREAM. 
[Jan. 2^, i't)£)i . 
John Gomez* 
It was in 1884 that i first met old John, i had been 
making a canoe cruise through the Ten Thousand Islands, 
and the time was about the first week in April. I was 
camped at Cape Roman, where I met an old fisherman 
He landed at my camp one morning, where we had a 
short conversation. I do not remember what we talked 
about, nor does it matter. But I do distinctly remember 
that I looked my visitor over with a great deal of interest. 
A short, stocky built man, his clothing consisting of 
irousers and shirt, supplemented by an old cap that had a 
decided air of being home made. Short, curly hair, quite 
gray, and the brightest, clearest eye I had ever seen, a 
soft pleasant voice with a peculiar foreign accent and 
somewhat broken by the loss of his teeth. As he talked 
with me, he looked me in the face with a frankness that 
was refreshing, after noting the shifty eyes of the most 
of the men I had met in that section. He stopped but a 
few minutes. When asking for tobacco 10 fill his pipe, he 
stepped in his boat and pulled away. 
The next day it set in to rain, and for two weeks there 
was more rain than sun. About the end of that time I 
had w^orked up to Palm Hammak, well in among the 
islands. It had been raining quite heavily. I was somewhat 
M'et and considerably depressed, when turning round a 
little point I saw a skiff anchored near the shore. Smoke 
was curling up from a sand box on the stern, and stand- 
ing knee-deep in the water alongside was my Cape Roman 
fisherman. He saw me as quickly as I saw him. and 
swinging an old black coffee pot, he yelled, "Coffee! 
Coffee!" 1 paddled alongside, and was soon sipping hot 
coffee, black as ink and strong enough to float a bullet. 
The fisherman was old John Gomez, and that was the 
beginning of an acquaintance of which I was and am 
still rather more than proud. 
Old John was very reticent at first, but after several 
years' acquaintance he opened out quite freely. He has 
told me many very interesting stories of his adventures, 
telling them in such a modest way that they always_ car- 
ried conviction in the telling. Some of these stories I 
have already told to Forest and Stream readers. I may 
tell some more when the mood takes me. I have missed 
no opportunity to learn all I could of his past life from 
others, and although parts of his life would not sound 
well in a Sunday school book, still I believe he was in the 
main truthful and honest. That his was an eventful life 
no one can question; would it could be faithfully written. 
His was a fitting end to such a life. Able to live alone, he 
was certainly able to die alone. May the sand rest lightly 
on him. S. D. Kendall. 
A Word About Forest and Stream* 
Oakland, Jan. 6. — Editor Forest and Stream: It has 
been many a long day since I have thus headed a letter; 
but as I sat by a bright, coal fire in the grate and alter- 
nately watched the flames shoot upward and their the 
rain as it came pouring steadily down upon the roofs of 
the adjacent houses, the spirit moved me to commune 
\vith those old friends of mine that, although never 
seen in the flesh, and known only through your columns, 
-,v:-»uld still be hailed as old and long tried friends, should 
late ever bring them more nearly within my ken. 
From where I sit writing I can hear the guns of the 
hunters, who even in this inclement weather are har- 
assing the ducks in the bay that makes up between 
Oakland and the Alameda shore; and it brings vividly to 
mind manv an exciting day's sport I have enjoyed in that 
most fascinating pursuit ere old age had stiffened my 
joints and made the attractions of a cozy, comfortable 
fireside superior to duck hunting in a storm. Indeed, as 
others have written before me, the lust For blood grows 
weaker with the approach of age, and I confess that I 
now take as much pleasure in going down on to the 
Eighth street bridge, which spans the estuary a couple 
of blocks from my residence, and watching the canvas- 
backs, pintails, widgeons, cranes, etc., there, where, pro- 
tected by the strong arm of the law, they paddle and 
wade about in perfect security not a stone's throw away, 
as I ever did in seeing a pile of their blood-stamed car- 
casses lying in the bottom of my hunting boat. 
More than a quarter of a century ago, when m Mason 
Valley, Nev., I began sending a fugitive letter now and 
then to the Forest and Stream; and to the best of my 
recollections not a week has passed since then when it 
has failed to arrive at my door direct from the hand of 
the publishers, or that its contents did not assuage the 
galling of the chains of business. 
Only an hour ago I was looking over some of the old 
files of the dear old journal, and came upon an illustrated 
page that aroused old-time memories of the most tender 
and affecting character. In the center stood an upright 
bear carrying over his shoulder long stalked floral 
offerings of the wilderness, and underneath the well- 
known signature of Awahsoose, while running around it 
in a border forming wreath, were the written signatures 
of grand old Nessmuk, J. A. Henshall, Elliot Cones, 
Al Fresco, Corp, Lot Warfield, Podgers, Kingfisher, 
Jacobstaff, and a host of others who were weekly con- 
tributors in those days, but many of whom have since 
laid down forever the gun, the paddle, and the pen, and 
crossed over the shadowy range to those Elysian Fields 
of the blest, where I have faith to believe they gathered 
to greet Mather and Robinson, who so quickly fol- 
lowed them. , . ,. , J t J 
We are all, I think, inclined to sigh for the good old 
days gone long years ago, and to judge the present 
through old prejudices; but few of us would hesitate to 
say that the Forest and Stream has steadily improved, 
and that its course has been constantly upward, both m 
its mechanical and mental attributes. It was always an 
advocate of the highest form of sport, but of late years 
it seems to me to have laid more stress than ever before 
uibtiK: that noblest theme of all— the preservation of the 
surviving remnants of our once glorious heritage. Even 
the Singing Mouse, thorough sportsman that he is, never 
fails to sound with trumpet tones the alarm of useless 
slaughter or to stay as far as in him lies the westward 
moving tide of our fast vanishing game. 
No doubt the bright galaxy of writers that now adorns 
vour pages will be as tendely remembered twenty-five 
years hence as are those of whom I have written; but it 
seems to me that with some of the later ones there is a 
skepticism apparent that was, to say the least, less obstru- 
sive in those'days. This was most forcibly illustrated at the 
time you invited your readers to give any evidence they 
could regarding the power of a weasel to follow a trail 
by scent. In reply, several of your correspondents 
(myself included) sent accounts of incidents that it was 
understood came under their personal observation, bear- 
ing directly upon the subject. How authentic the other 
accounts were I. of course, have no means of knowing, 
but of ray own article I can only say that, in my case, tlie 
incident occurred exactly as it was described; and I saw 
no grounds for doubting the veracity of the others, but 
I noticed that a later writer seemed inclined to view the 
circling of a half-grown rabbit in its flight as a rehash 
of an oldtime fable, evidently forgetting that there is a 
vast dift'erence between a half-grown cottontail and a 10- 
pound jack rabbit. But I am getting old and irritable; 
so, with a long life to Forest and Stream, I close. 
Yours, as of old, ■ Forked Deer. 
George A. Boardman. 
From the CdMts, Me., Times, Jan. 18. 
It is with profound grief that the Times records the 
decease of this eminent citizen. Mr. Boardman passed 
peacefully into pleasant dreams, at his home on Lafayette 
street, last Friday morning. In our sense of personal 
sorrow which the event brings, all readers will share. 
His weekly articles contributed to this paper during 
the past five years on, scientific, ethical, educational and 
political subjects would fill a volume. His last article 
was published in the issue of Dec. 20, on the subject of 
"Wars of the Century." He was also a contributor to 
other papers and magazines, especially the Forest and 
Stream, for many years and imtil two weeks before his 
death,- and the constant demand for his writings attested 
their merit and the interest they aroused. 
It will require more than a single article to portray 
Mr. Boardman's life, work and qualities, all of which 
were of a kind to induce respect, confidence and friend- 
ship. His life was in the daylight, and he was esteemed 
GEORGE a. boardman. 
From Forest and Stream, Aug. 5, 1899. 
of all acquaintances. At an outing of prominent citizens, 
three years ago, it was decided by a unanimous vote that 
George A. Boardman, of all men who had resided in the 
St. Croix Valley, had best enjoyed the blessings and 
fruition of human life. Successful in business, fortunate in 
family relations, contented in his studies, broad and keen 
in intellect, varied in accomplishments, stainless in char- 
acter, observant of affairs, with ample wealth, he was 
passing his declining years with a happiness that be- 
fited a naturalist, Christian and noble man. He was the 
last of the aggregation of great business men of the 
last generation who won fortune from the lumbering 
industry here. 
Mr. Boardman was born in Newburyport,. Mass., Feb. 
5, 1818, his ancestors coming from Yorkshire, England, 
and settling in Newburyport, May 10, 1637. He came to 
Calais with- his parents in 1828, and left school to go to 
work at the age of 13. and at 21 was a partner with Hon. 
William Todd. He conducted the largest lumber busi- 
ness on the St. Croix River until 1871, when he retired 
from active business to enjoy the fruit of his labor in 
travel and in pursuit of his favorite study. He had been 
a noted naturalist and an authority on ornithology for 
nearly fifty years. His private museum comprised the 
finest collection of mounted birds in New England, if 
not on the continent. 
He had studied the fauna of Maine as no other field 
naturalist has ever done, and passed twenty winters in 
Florida and other southern lands in pursuit of his favorite 
studies He was a life member of the Natural History 
Societies of Boston. Mass., and London, England, a 
lifelong friend of Profs. Baird and Coues, of the Smith- 
sonian Institution at Washington; Dr. Brewer, of 
Boston. Charles Hallock, of New York. Among his 
other scientific and literary friends were: Rev. Dr. Be- 
thune, the eminent therologian; Senator Geo. F. Ed- 
munds; Walter Brackett, _the cekbraied painter of fishes; 
Rev. James Smith, of Philadelphia; Prof. Bailey, of 
Fredericton, N. B.j Dr. l.eith Ageisms, Judge Ritchie, of 
New Brunswick; Henry Ward Beecher, and scores of 
other eminent personages. 
Readers of the Times will remember the beautiful trib- 
ute which Mr. Boardman wrote in memory on his friend 
James Murchie ' whose death occurred last May. One 
paragraph of that fine obituary aptly applies to the 
wri.er's own life: "There was manifested none of the 
decrepitude or petulance of old age. When last I saw 
him, his face was sunshiny, for his 86 years had always 
been maturing goodness. The length of his life is neither 
magical nor mysterious, when we consider certain habits 
and dispositions which he possessed. He lived simply 
and loved simplicity, he was unostentatious, industrious, 
frugal and democratic. Temperate in all things, he was 
a latter day Puritan, an improvement on the old 
Puritan in that it adds cheer to a loyal devotion 
to the right. Pi is great age was beautiful simply 
because his youth had been so; his October was lie 
natural result of his May. His latter days had a riiagnin-' 
cent maturity because in his younger days he haJ al- 
ways sought that which was good. He was like one ot 
those glorious maples that we see in October, that nature 
crowns as the resplendent monarch of the surrounding 
forest." 
— ^— 
Midwinter Bird Notes. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
The usual routine of midwinter bird life in this locality 
appears unchanged. I have not had opportunity for 
special jaunts among the thickets, and so cannot speak- 
positively as their denizens, but there is no doubt in my 
mind that such a visit would reveal most of my oldtime 
friends, whose retiring habits keep them away from the 
beaten track of the casual observer. 
The call of the meadowlark. with its curious ventrilo- 
C(uial effect, comes floating up on every puff' of air that 
fans your face when you pass among the meadows and 
fields — a charming little musical voice, full of remi- 
niscence. 
Along the roadside a quick eye will catch a glint of 
white feathers far ahead, as a party of juncos, disturbed 
by the ringing puck! puck! of horse hoofs on frozen 
ground, flick away in jerky flight among the nanny 
bushes. A number of hawks seem resident this winter, 
sparrow and hen hawks being quite in evidence. 
One still, clear morning a few weeks ago, while pass- 
ing over the road that skirts the West Meadows, jusr 
back of Gravesend Bay, I was admiring the bold oiit- 
lines of the cedars that still guard the sandy ridge of its 
further shore, and thinking of the boys that used to 
gather hawks in that same old grove when the flight wa.s 
on in late September. Even as I looked there was flap- 
ping of broad vans, and a huge hen hawk launched into 
flight from the midst of the cedars. The day was so per- 
fectly still that the bird seemed as though he might be 
the ghost of one of my old victims. He sailed silently 
overhead, so close that I saw the gentle flutter of the 
fluffy plumage along his sides, and as he . glared down 
upon me I realized from his savage expression that he 
must have identified me as the slayer of his great-great- 
great-grandsire long ago, which, indeed, was not at all 
unlikely. 
I have long been curious as to where our winter birds 
obtained their supply during hard, frosty weather, in the 
absence of snow. In the case of our redhead wood- 
peckers, the mystery is solved. Time and again T see 
them chipping the ice in the drinking trough, swallow- 
ing the sparkling bits as they hammer them off. It is 
amusing to see the English sparrow glean after them. 
I've seen these sparrows eat snow when thirsty, but 
how our other winter residents quench thirst in winter 
when snow is a rarity and hard the rule, is beyond 
me. 
Several "Canada specials" of geese went by on the 
"Air Line" last autumn, and other wildfowl traffic was 
fairly good. It is rather early yet to figure on spring 
business, but I assume the returns will be satisfactory. 
In a month or two D. V. I will further advise you. 
WiLMOT ToWNSEND. 
Bay Ridge, N. Y. 
A Sleeping Buck. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Since I came to this country to spend a couple of 
years I have been a regular reader of Forest and 
Stream. In a recent number I read a story of a sleeping 
doe. Perhaps your readers may be interested to heajr- of 
a sleeping buck. 
A couple of years ago I had a cousin, Senfft, at tny 
home in Silesia, on the opening of the season 
for buck shooting, viz.. May i. We had been driving 
through the woods for several hours, my cousin missing 
two bucks, and had turned back, when suddenly my 
cousin stepped out of the carriage. Supposing he had 
seen a deer, I drove on a couple of hundred yards before 
I drew up. This is done to make the deer believe that 
with the retreating carriage all danger for him vanishes. 
I then turned round to observe mv cousin. He was 
standing behind a tree on the spot where he had left me, 
and was acting strangely. He woifld raise rifle tn 
shoulder, but instead of the expected report, I saw him 
lower it and raise his field glasses to his eyes. After hi^ 
had gone through these performances several times I 
saw him step cautiously into the woods. A few mo- 
ments later I heard him shout for me for all he was 
v/orth; and mingled with his voice came another strange 
noise I had never heard before. I hastened to the snot 
with my double-barreled rifle and found my cousin hold- 
ing a buck by his horns, both yelling at the tops of their 
voices: but it was impossible to say .whether the burV 
danced round the man or the man roimd the buck (a 
buck of the deer species most generally met in Germany 
