222 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[March 23, 1901* 
— ® — 
Some Boyhood Memories* 
I. — In Close Quarters. 
It had been my first day's experience at one end of a 
crosscut saw in the woods. The day had been a long 
one. We were cutting beech timber. The party I was 
working with '"had been there before" and had allowed 
me to "push" as well as "draw" the saw all day, while he 
was fairly "riding" and laughing inwardly. 
By nightfall this would tire out almost any one, and 
as for me, a sixteen-year-old boy — well, I was done up. 
To make matters worse, I had poisoned myself with poison 
ivy (Rhus toxicodendron) during the day and was suffer- 
ing severely. 
We were stopping at a log house, the owner of which, 
an old bachelor, was away, leaving us two boys to do our 
own cooking and run the place ourselves. Boy-like, we 
lived on fried eggs, fried bacon and bread which the 
bachelor had left. 
Since my early childhood it had been my unfortunate 
luck, whenever greatly overheated or exhausted, to break 
out with nettle rash or Urticaria, as we doctors call it. 
The day's work in the woods, the food we had eaten, the 
poison ivy and all brought on me during the night the 
worst attack I had ever had. F'ace, hands and entire 
body were swollen and puffed up frightfully. Getting out 
of bed in the middle of the night. I lighted our home- 
made candle and awakened my friend, Saxon, by my 
grunting and scratching. 
He advised me to go down stairs and rub myself with 
.flour, and, as I was ready for suggestions, I went at 
once, dressed in nothing but an undershirt. 
The house we were in consisted of but two rooms down 
stairs— a sitting room and a kitchen; the stairs came down 
between the two; to the right there was a door into the 
sitting room, while to the left the stairway opened directly 
into the kitchen. As I came down the stairs, candle in 
hand, rather a spooky looking, long-legged and half- 
naked boy, I glanced into the sitting room and saw. the 
bachelor's bulldog lying on the floor. This dog was a 
large white bulldog, covered with scars, one eye gone, no 
ears, no tail and was the only dog I have ever met that I 
did not make friends with. We had taken a dislike to 
each other from the first, he growling and snapping, and I 
kicking and abusing him at every opportunity. 
As I saw him through the open door, however, having 
no use for him in my then negligee attire T quietly 
reached in and closed the door. All would have been 
well had this door been secure. As it happened, however, 
some one had kicked a lower panel out of the door, and 
later had nailed a thin piece of board, such as cloth 
comes wrapped around, vertically over the opening, leav- 
ing a crack 2 inches wide on either side. 
_The_ kitchen was one of those old-fashioned affairs 
with big fireplace, barred door, overhead rafters and everj'- 
thing imaginable hanging on the walls and ceiling. The 
flour was kept in a large bin about 8 or 10 feet long by 
wide and 3 deep, with a good lid, this lid being on 
hinges and raising back against the wall. 
I placed my candle on the floor opened the bin. secured 
some flour, removed my shirt and had barely commenced 
to rub the flour on my itching skin when I heard the 
dog at the door. Having no idea he could get in, boy- 
Jike. I commenced to "sic" him on. The more he growled 
and bit at the edges of the crack, the more I angered him, 
until finally, after he had worked himself into a fury. I 
noticed that the board over the hole was not securely 
fastened. _ I quickly dec'ded to give a final rub and make 
for upstairs. Grabbing up the candle, I saw the board 
give way at the lower end, his ugly head' already through 
the opening, his one red eye gleaming hatred at me, his 
tongtte out, mouth frothing and already bleeding from 
rough contact with the door. 
Knowing that I must go right bv his door to get up- 
stairs, I realized instantly that I could never make it. One 
swift glance around the room and I likewi'^e realized that 
I could not get out the door and window being barred. 
There was nothing in the room that I could get on to 
except where he could easily reach me. I might hang from 
the ceiling from some of the plunder there, but the ceiling 
was low. and it was a poor place at best. All this and 
more went through my brain in a flash. There I was stark 
naked, unable to get away and with nothing with which 
to defend myself. 
He was coming rapidly through the hole now, madder 
than ever, and I saw in a moment he would be on me. 
What was I to do? There was only one thing to do — ■ 
I jumped into the flour bin, and as he bounded across the 
room T closed the lid down above me. 
Mad ! Well, wasn't he mad ! 
He evidently thought he had me in fine shape, too. He 
fairly roared in his anger. He jumped on top of the 
bi n, and then, horrors of horrors, he began raising up 
the lid by standing on the floor and pushing upward 
against the overhanging: edge. Several times he raised it 
up an jnch or two. I felt his hot breath on my face, and 
say. didn't I get hot and cold by turns, until the perspira- 
tion stood out all over me. As I floundered in the flour 
I came across an iron hook about 18 inches long, which 
had evidently been used for stirring up the flour. With 
this I struck at him every time he raised up the lid. being 
powerless to hold the lid down, as I had noth'ng to hold 
on to. Every time I struck at him his fury increased, and 
as his fury increased my terror became greater. 
I gotii^ed him in the tnngne, tore his lins, prodded his 
eye, and all T accomplished was to make him worse. He 
was crazv — he was a devil incarnate ! 
I called loiid'v for helo. b"t how could Saxon hear 
when T wa« bur'Vd in a flour bm? The r.icket. however, 
fina'lv awakened h'm. and when T heard him coming and 
calline- to the dog mv terror was greater than ever. I 
was afraid he wotild onen the bin. 
v|^<r3;n T called a= loi'dlv as T could and vjh'-n he 
reali^pd that I was in f>ie flour bin he fait-lv r'^'^ed on 
th** floor an'^ vp'lpd hissinor flip ^q^^ on la"crhing and 
lavrrh'ms fl-, though it was snmethinfr to h^i^rh at. 
UTv cojnd't'^ bv thi^ time had become desrver^te. 
What wilh close qu^rterSj, poor yentilatlon, perspiKt^ 
tion and flour, I was covered with dough and could 
scarcely see or hear, and breathing was becoming almost 
impossible. 
Saxon finally drove the dog out of the house and helped 
me out. I was covered with dough. Eyes, ears, nose and 
mouth were all plugged, while a layer half an inch thick 
was all over my body. Saxon scraped me with a shingle 
and later used the broom on me as I lay under the pump. 
There was dough in my hair for days. 
I have never had nettle rash since! C. P. A. 
AsHEVILLE, N. C. 
n.— Old Sanger's Boat. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
In taking a retrospect of one's life and calling to mind 
some of the good times had in boyhood days, one cannot 
help but observe what a deal of pleasure he derived from 
sports then, even with very crude materials; and it some- 
times seems to me that none of the modern appliances 
used by sportsmen, which he may now use, will produce 
near as much downright, first-class enjoyment for him 
as did that old-fashioned rifle or shotgun, or that rough, 
home-made boat which he used away back in the long ago. 
And in looking over my own life I often think of the 
good times had with three companions, all of us neighbors 
and schoolmates then, in a boat owned by a man named 
Sanger, and called by us as well as by many others, Old 
Sanger, who lived near a pond nestled among the big hills 
up in northeastern Connecticut. He was the owner of a 
scow about half as Avide as it was long, built of rough 
inch pine boards, unpainted, and the thwarts, or seats, as 
we called them, nailed on the top of the sides, and pro- 
pelled by paddJes worked out of chestnut planks and 
having very thick blades. That craft was the only one 
on the pond, consequently it was in great demand. The 
whole boating affair was about as ungainly as any one 
could imagine. 
The price for the use of the whole business — scow, 
paddles and rope with stone attached for anchor — was 
12 cents per day; for half a day or less. 6 cents, and if 
either of the paddles were lost or broken, which some- 
times happened, 10 cents extra. Not much of a sum. but 
it seemed b'g to us then, but by dividing up the expense 
it made it quite light for each. 
The pond, or lake, as it is now called, is a beautiful sheet 
of water, having sandy or gravelly shores, then mostly 
surrounded with forests of both hardwood and pine. 
Along its western shore has been laid out an extensive 
park, where, during summers past at popular gather- 
ings, many noted men of the country did each his share 
of the customary speech making and hand shaking. 
Among the many notables that I have seen there dur- 
ing my vacations were two of the Presidents ; the present 
incumbent, then a United States Senator, was also there. 
On the opposite or east shore of the lake, where there 
used to be an almost unbroken wildwood, are now many 
handsome and costly summer residences, with grounds to 
match, and now on the lake, instead of Sanger's lone 
scow, are to be seen many craft — yachts, rowboats and 
canoes, the greater portion of them of the latest design: 
also boathouses and bathing houses are there, thus ma- 
king the place a well-known summer resort. 
Although in recent years I have on several occasions got 
good catches of bass from the lake with rod and reel, as 
it was stocked with them several years ago and now 
affords good bass fishing, somehow the sport, although of 
a much higher order, didn't seem to bring such really 
imalloyed enjoyment as that I had when, in company with 
my three companions, without ceremony I yanked pouts, 
kivers and perch out from among the lilypads and into 
the scow with a worm-baited hook and a coarse line at- 
tached to an alder pole. 
Of our gang who nearly fifty years ago patronized that 
boat and pond, one, George, is now a noted stock raiser, 
an M. D., and is also surgeon-general in one of the East- 
ern States; another, Jim. is an eminent divine in Paw- 
tucket, R. I. ; another. Little John, is a capitalist in the 
city of Providence, and the writer — well, he is down 
in Jersey. But no doubt each of the others, as well as 
myself, when taking a retrospect of life, will occasionally 
call to mind the jolly good times we had together on 
the pond away back in our bovhood days, while paddling 
in or fishing from or diving off the seats of Old Sanger's 
boat. A. L. L. 
MlLLHORST, N, J. 
Ill,— Another First Trout. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
I ran across a pile of back numbers of Forest and 
Stream a short time ago, and noticed several articles en- 
titled "My First Trout." They reminded me of a youth- 
ful experience of my own, which I think was extraordi- 
nary. The first trout I killed was literally killed, and in 
a way that I believe never was duplicated. He did not 
die for want of water. 
I have not told a fish story for many years. It is 
painful for me to listen to the thrilling fancies that are 
usually served up under this head, "The Grand Rush," 
"The Music of the Reel," "Giving Him the Butt," etc. 
Nevertheless the spirit moves me to drop you a line. 
At this harsh and inclement period of the }'ear, which 
in our northern climate is a close season, without any 
law to make it so, we will sometimes indulge in what 
Ne'ghbor Cheney calls "winter fishing." Our thoughts 
turn longingly to the time when 
"The green grass grows all around," 
and nature with lavish hand spreads before us a thousand 
charms. 
Then we can be happy and grow strong in mind and 
body, whether the fish will bite or not. 
But T started to tell you of "my first trout," and you 
are probably ready to call me to order for not talking to 
the question. 
More than fiftv years ago I was a small boy in New 
England, and before it took two figures to indicate my 
age I acquired the habit of following the brook and sittmg 
on the grassy bank wa'ting for a bite. I guesc I was 
born so and cou'dn't heln it. My ea'"n'est rec^llect'ons 
are that I went to school and went fishing. You can 
imagine which T en toyed mo^t. 
I remember one occasion when I was instructed to come 
right hopoe as soon as sclrool ^as out, but idtaa of the 
boys were going fishing that afternoon and asked me to 
go along. My- moral sense being very slightly developed, I 
yielded to the temptation. Unfortunately I fell into the 
brook, and if the water had been a little deeper perhaps 
my brief career would have ended then and a modest 
fisherman been lost to the world. About dusk I sneaked 
home, went in the back way, told mother I didn't want 
any supper, wasn't hungry, guess'd I'd go to bed. At 
this moment my father laid down his pipe and took a 
hand in the game. Can you imagine a more wretched 
spectacle than I presented as I stood there with head 
down, wet and dirty, before my stern parent? My cross 
examination began. I made a very poor witness at that 
time (and always have since). I had not heard of the 
statute that protects a man from criminating himself, I 
was convicted and sentenced in short order and the 
penalty applied at once. Father took me by the hand, we 
went upstairs over the woodshed, where I took my first 
lesson as to respect for law, and it was a good one. 
I used to think there were tyrants in those days, 
I might relate many other incidents of my early days 
of equal interest and importance if it were not for the fact 
that I am fully determined to tell you about "ray first 
trout." 
Shortly after I gave up wearing of girls* clothes and 
the dignity of pantaloons was on my mind, I was allowed 
to fish in the shallow stream that ran through the meadow 
a few rods back of our house, 1 did not commence with 
a bent pin, a piece of sheep twine and an alder branch, as 
niost all distinguished Waltonians have done. I got a 
nice, straight birch pole in the woods (there were no 
rods in our section then), trimmed it carefully and peeled 
the bark half-way up from the butt. I secured a good 
linen line, a real fish hook and a bit of tea lead for sinker. 
My worms were not carried in a tomato can, as is the uni- 
versal custom now. Tomatoes, as well as the cans, were 
unknown so long ago. I had a flat tin box with a hinged 
cover (old style tobacco box), that would slip in my 
pocket, and to complete the outfit my mother presented 
me with a small covered basket with a handle over the 
top. My rig was rather neat for a boy in those ancient 
days. 
The denizens or aborigines of the little stream where I 
began to learn the gentle art were dace, redfins. shiners 
and occasionally a small rock bass. Twice a week during 
the open season I carried home an assortment of brain 
food for the family. I had s«mi trout that were caught 
by the big boys who went away up in the mountains for 
them, but my nerves had never danced with excitement 
over the tug of a trout. Ambition, however, kept my 
blood warm, and at last opportunity knocked at my door. 
We usually had school every day in the week, but one 
memorable Saturday there was no session, so I had the 
whole day to myself. I started early and planned to fish 
up the brook half the day and then turn and work to- 
ward home. 
About noon I was at least a mile and a half above 
where I had ever fished before. My basket was two-thirds 
full of the usual small fry, but no trout. I had hoped to 
get one, but was disapopinted, I sat down and ate my 
lunch and then resolved to try once more a little further 
up. I soon came to a considerable pool that looked 
promising. It had a sandy bottom, which shelved off 
gradually into a deep, swift current toward the other 
bank. I was about to cast into the deep water when I 
noticed a small boulder about 2 feet from the shore and a 
fish lying on the opposite side of it, head up stream, of 
course. I could only see his head and tail where they 
projected above and below the stone. I felt sure that 
that was a trout. I put on a fresh worm, dropped in 
above him and let it float slowly down. It almost touched 
his head, when he made a rush for deep water. I fished 
for him a long time, but it was no use — he would not 
bite. I went up stream a few steps and then turned to- 
ward home. When I came to the pool again there was 
rny fish at his old place. I .said to myself if you won't 
bite I will try another way. I wound my line around the 
pole, put the butt over the stone about the middle, and 
when I had it just right gave a grand shove. My fish 
turned on his side and floated down stream, wiggling his 
tail feebly. I dropped my pole, rushed into the water 
and grabbed my prize. It was a half-pound trout. I 
sat down on the bank and stud'ed him. 
The supreme satisfaction of that moment I think has 
never been equaled during my life. 
Mr. Kipling, in the story of his "first salmon," in- 
dulges in a fine frenzy. "His three feet of living silver 
quivering in the air," and "The remorseless reel, gather- 
ing in the thread of life, inch by inch." are in his choicest 
vein, but the emotions of a young enthusiast with his first 
trout are indescribable and cannot be communicated. No 
more fishing for me that day. I made tracks for home by 
the shortest cut. 
When I dressed the fish I found his backbone broken 
about two inches below the head. S. D. R. 
IV, — A Hunt in the Backwoods of Tennessee. 
It was a night in autumn; after the colored leaves had 
fallen, all the trees were freshly bare, save the pines, which 
stood in verdant splendor amidst the wreck of summer's 
foliage. The moon shone brightly, outlining even the 
frost on the long worm fence, and on the huge dead chest- 
nut in the east. 
The dogs were in trim for a raid, and the great wild- 
cat of the laurel swamp was known to be stirring, for 
his weird cry had been heard, just after nightfall, far 
away on the pine-lined ridge which leads into the south 
from the valley. 
In our party of three, one carried an axe, one the old 
oxhorn, and I the long rifle, freshly primed. We soon 
left the valley and brgan to climb the ridge at the unper 
end of the swamp. Then the dogs were urged to go. With 
much excited waving of tails they took to the scrub oak 
wh'ch covered the noint. After a few moments' suspense, 
with wild and thrilling bay, the trail of the great cat was 
found. It was warm, and soon the lonely pine-clad hills 
were reverberating the thunderous notes from the thmats 
of nine of the best cat hounds in all that region. With 
the old hunting yell we drove them on. For the first 
two miles they swept forward _ with the speed and roar 
of an avalanche, then in a basin formed by surrounding 
hills, the trail tumed backward, the hounds came round 
like nine men-of-war at sea, and we cried frantically and 
joyfully, "He's circling," Soon the baj-bapfc musii'C 
