iS^ov. 30, 1901.1 
'FOREST ^ AND c STREAM? 
A2B 
"i told you we ought to have broken camp last week," 
this frotn Jack, who secretly rejoiced because of an evil 
prophecy fulfilled. "I knew such weather couldn't last. 
We're in for it now, and no mistake." 
"How about that buck," I began, but he interrupted me. 
' He'll have to v^^ait, that's all," he asseverated. "I'm 
going home." 
, "But how beautiful the woods are," cried the Doctor. 
"It s worth being snowed in to see such a sight." 
I heartily voiced the Doctor's sentiments, for truly the 
forest looked very lovely in its new winter mantle. It 
was a new world upon which we gazed, and the fast- 
ialling snow was rapidly changing the picture before our 
very eyes. The branches of the pines and hemlocks hung 
drooping beneath their unaccustomed load like great white 
plumes; even the stunted jack pine took on an added 
beauty of its own; contending for second honors with the 
more stately spruce; a muffled stillness seemed to en- 
velop the wilderness like a heavy pall shutting us off 
from the rest of the world, and our voices sounded loud 
and unnatural. 
"One of us will have to go to Hale's for the team," said 
Jack. 
"Let me go," Jim quickly responded. "I hate breaking 
camp." 
Hale's place was five miles away on the Peshtigo River. 
He was our nearest neighbor, and had agreed to haul our 
outfit to the Junction when we were ready to leave. So 
soon as we had finished our breakfast Jim wasted no time 
in argumg, but set out on his journey accompanied by the 
Doctor, a self-invited companion. 
The breaking up of camp is never a very delectable 
task, and in the present instance was attended with more 
than the usual discomforts of mind and body. The snow 
got mto everything and melted before we could brush 
It off, consequently all of our belongings were more or 
less in a state of humidity. We made but slow progress, 
and Jmi and the Doctor returned with Hale and his team 
before we had the tents down. 
.''Guess you'll have to put up to my place to-night," 
said Hale when the wagon was loaded and ready to start. 
1 11 have to git the runners on the box afore I kin make 
the trip to the Junction. Ef we don't git a blizzard out'n 
this I'll miss my guess a lot." 
This prophecy was not conducive to gaiety. We were 
glad to assent to his proposition, however, as he had 
ample accommodation for us a this place, and it was with 
a feeling of thankfulness that we gathered before the big 
fireplace that night and listened to the fierce wind howling 
about the cabin walls. A tent would have been a poor 
shelter in such a storm. By the next morning our snow 
storm had developed into a full-fledged blizzard— a blus- 
tering nor'wester. Jack sulked in his bunk, morose and 
uncommunicative, puffing at his pipe like a veritable 
Wouter van Twiller, and occasionally arousing himself 
from his dejection long enough to consign the weather to 
regions whtre snow is not supposed to abound; Jim em- 
ployed the time in vain recriminations, the burden of his 
song being, "Three hundred miles from home and 
Thanksgiving Day to-morrow ! What will my wife say?" 
The Doctor entertained me with wonderful stories of his 
experiences in Dakota during one winter, where, he in- 
formed me, such a storm as was now raging outside would 
be considered a mere flurry— a boisterous zephyr. In this 
wise did we pass the long, gloomy day. 
Thanksgiving morning dawned clear and cold. When 
Hale had shoveled the snow away from the door, we were 
glad to step outside and breathe the fresh, bracing air. 
The light, fluffy snow was piled up in great drifts on 
all sides, and fitful gusts of wind whirled it about and 
sent it flying in our faces and down our necks. Winter 
had come upon us with a rush. It was an abrupt change 
from balmy Indian summer to cold mid-winter weather. 
"No use tryin' to make the Junction to-dav," Hale in- 
formed us. "Ef we could git thar afore dark 'twouldn't 
do no good, 'cause the cars'll be stalled. They ain't no 
injine puffin' could keep a-goin' in this vere weather, an' 
that's what." 
"Don't know as it makes much difference," Jack 
growled, "so long as we get home before Christmas. Our 
wives will mourn us as dead, but of course that won't 
matter." 
"Their joy will be all the greater when you finally ap- 
pear," I assured him. "Can't we do something to while 
away the time?" 
"When I came down with Jim for the team," the Doc- 
tor replied, "I saw some turkeys walking around here. 
Why can't we get up a turkey shoot — an old-fashioned 
Thanksgiving turkey shoot? It would be just the thing 
to relieve the monotony. What do you all say?" 
"Great idea," Jim declared. "I second the motion." 
"There might be some sport in it," I added. "What 
do you say, Jack?" 
"Anything to kill time," the latter responded. "Bring 
on the turkey, Doctor." 
"You have some turkeys, haven't you?" the Doctor in- 
quired, turning to Hale. 
"Yep. Four or five," Hale made answer. 
"Where are they?" 
"Hard tellin' jest now. See that onusual big snow bank 
over thar near the barn?" 
;'Yes." 
"Waal, that's the hen house — that's t'say ther's a hen 
house somewhar thar'bouts. Like's not the turkeys is in 
thar — that's t'say ef they ain't over in that other big drift 
whicht was oncet the corn crib whar they was fond o' 
roostin'. I reckon we'll find 'em in one o' them places 
alive cr friz to death. Want t' dig 'em out?" 
"Of course," the Doctor cried enthusiastically. "Get 
us another shovel and we'll help." 
"You'll excuse me. won't you?" Jack requested as Hale 
went in search of the other shovel. "I'm troubled with 
rheumatism, you know, and shoveling never was in my 
line." 
"There's no sense in all of us trying to work with one 
shovel," I added. "I think I'll go inside with Jack. He 
• might get lonesome. Call us when you're ready." 
"You fellows are quitters," Jim declared. "I am going 
to see this thing through to a finish. Come on, Doctor." 
Heedless of Jim's scorn, Jack and I sought the warmth 
of the cabin, where we hugged the fire and smoked our 
pipes in unsociable silence. In the course of an hour or 
two Jim burst into the room, closely followed by the 
Doctor. They looked like two snow men. 
Well, we found the turkeys," Jim announced in breezy 
tones. "We'll thaw out a bit while we make arrangements 
for the shoot." 
"Were the turkeys alive?" I asked. 
"Oh, yes I" he replied. "They were a little numb from 
the cold, naturally. We're going to use the liveliest of the 
bunch for the shoot." 
"What are the rules for this shooting match, anyhow?" 
Jack inquired. 
"The turkey belongs to me," the Doctor promptly an- 
swered. "Jim loaned me the money to buy him. He cost 
one fifty. I am going to charge fifteen cents a shot at 
sixty yards until one of you kills the bird. To the victor 
belong the spoils." 
"But you have to kill the turkey," Jim added. "A mere 
wound doesn't count. By virtue of my loan I get five 
shots for nothing." 
"We don't want to take unfair advantage of you," the 
Doctor continued. "The turkey is pure white, so I shall 
stand off to one side and call your shots — that is, whether 
you are too high or too low." 
"That sounds like a fair proposition," I remarked to 
Jack. 
"I'll bet you a dollar I kill the bird," was his only reply. 
Of course I was obliged to take the bet. 
"Get your rifles ready," said Jim. "The" Do'ctor will 
place the turkey. He has asked me to keep score and col- 
lect for the shots in advance." 
The Doctor hurriedly left us, and we got down our 
rifles and sallied forth to exhibit our skill as marksmen. 
I was doubly anxious to kill the turkey and win Jack's 
bet, because of his air of self-assurance, but there was 
that in his manner which warned me I would have to 
shoot my best in order to accomplish my purpose. As 
we emerged froni the cabin we caught sight of the Doctor 
wallowing through the snowdrifts some distance ahead 
of us with the turkey under his arm. 
"That fowl is the deadest live thing I've seen in some 
time," Jack observed. 
"It's the cold," Jim informed him. "It makes it all 
the easier for you. He won't flop around so much." 
The Doctor paused and looked back at us. 
"It's just sixty yards to this stump." he shouted. 
"It's the longest sixty yards I ever saw," L shouted in 
answer. "How did you measure it?" 
"I just paced it off. It's exactly sixty yards." 
"It's all right," Jim interposed. "The snow makes the 
distance deceptive. It really isn't quite sixty, I should 
judge. He didn't count right." The Doctor placed the 
turkey behind the stump, leaving nothing but its head and 
neck exposed, and withdrew to one side-. 
"Blaze away whenever you're ready," he called to us. 
I fired first. 
"Too high," the Doctor announced. 
Jack laughed, struck an attitude and raised his rifle to 
his shoulder. 
"Four feet too low," was the Doctor's report on Jack's 
shot, and it was my turn to smile. 
When we had each fired three times without scoring 
our interest became aroused. 
"I don't understand it," I paused to remark. "It must 
be the snow." 
"It's the color of the turkey," Jack disagreed. "I can 
hardly see the blame thing. He hasn't moved an inch 
since the Doctor stuck him up there." 
"All the less reason for your poor shooting," Jim re- 
plied. So far he had taken no part in the affair, but stood 
off to one side, keeping score on the back of an envelope, 
and incidentally favoring us with advice. 
Jack and I fired a dozen shots apiece, and still the 
turkey went unscathed. By that time I had become sus- 
picious of the Doctor's coaching, and without commenting 
on the fact ceased following his directions; but aim as I 
would, I was either "too high or too low, or just a trifle 
too much to the right or left." And then Jim stepped 
forward and announced that we had had our chance and 
that he would now show us how to shoot. He fired twice 
without giving us a practical demonstration of his skill, 
and just then Hale called to us from the barnyard: 
"Say, ef you boys want that thar turkey fer dinner," he 
shouted, "you'll have to bring him in right away. It'll 
take an hour t' thaw him out — that's t' say, ef they's anv- 
thin' left t' thaw." 
Jack and I exchanged meditative glances, 
"What in thunder does he mean?" Jack inquired, sus- 
piciously. 
"Give it up," Jim responded, and hastened to add: 
"Let me have just one more shot. I've got the range 
now, I think." 
He took quick aim and fired. 
"You killed him that time," the Doctor shouted. "Hit 
him just below the neck." 
He held up the turkey and started toward us. 
"With his whiskers and that queer-looking fur cap, the 
Doctor resembles some sort of a retriever," Jack ob- 
served. 
Jim received his prize from the Doctor's hands with un- 
natural modesty. 
"Let's have a look at him," Jack requested. "For a 
freshly killed bird he's the stiffest propoition I ever ran up 
against." 
"I don't believe Jim hit him at all," I asserted. 
"Yes I did," Jim retorted. "I plunked him square in 
the gizzard." He raised the feathers and showed us where 
the bullet had entered. "Hale is waiting for the turkey," 
he went on. "We can settle the question later as to who 
shot the bird." 
He hurried away in the direction of the barnyard with- 
out giving us a chance to examine the turkey. 
"Something tells me that we are a couple of simple- 
minded suckers," Jack murmured in my ear as we fol- 
lowed the Doctor into the cabin. 
"Ditto, hic,'[ I assented. "There wasn't a drop of 
blood on the bird. Did you notice ?" 
"I did. And Ave fell for a dollar eighty apiece," he 
sighed. 
In due course of time ^Hale's "missus" summoned us to 
partake of our Thanksgiving dinner. 
"Sorry to hev kep' you waitin' so long," she apologized, 
"but that turkey was froze solid. I swan I jest thought 
he never would thaw." 
Jim turned red and the Doctor began to fidget about 
and look uncomfortable. Jack, who had insisted upon 
carving, winked at me and smiled grimly. 
"Is that why you punched him so full of holes?" he 
asked, turning to Mrs. Hale. 
"Fer ever sakes! You don't think I done that, do 
you?" she questioned in reply. "Jest as ef you men folks 
didn't shoot the poor bird all t' pieces yer own selves, an' 
him dead's a door hail the hull time. I declare t' good- 
ness I don't see why you done it." 
Jack rose to his feet and glared accusingly at Jim and 
the Doctor, like a judge about to pronounce sentence, 
"Of all the scheming, foxy, nervy bunco-steerers, you 
two are the limit," he declared. "Doctor, I am surprised 
at you. How many times did I hit that bird?" 
"I couldn't swear to a single shot except Jim's, "the 
Doctor unblushingly replied. "You see, the stump was 
hollow and I set the bird inside of it, and the bullets must 
have gone right through the stump, bird and all," 
"Well, just ante up some of that dollar eighty I paid 
you, then. You can't convince me that this wasn't a put 
up job, you know." 
"Don't give up a cent. Doctor," Jim interposed, strug- 
gling to keep from laughing. ' "Why should he?" he 
added, turning to me. 
"Why should he?" Jack broke in in scornful tones. 
"Why should he? Why. because we shot that turkey full 
of holes before you fired your rifle once, that's what for. 
Laugh, if you want to. What you holding in for ?" 
"The agreement was that one of you was to kill the 
turkey," Jim rejoined. "How could you kill a dead bird? 
It had been frozen for hours," and Jim gave way to his 
mirth. 
"That's what I call a skin game," Jack began. 
_ "A mere friendly bit of fun," the Doctor interrupted. 
"Come, we'll leave the matter to Hale. If he says refund, 
why, we'll refund." 
Thus appealed to. Hale thrust his hands in his pockets, 
threw his head back and gazed reflectively at the rafters. 
"How much did your shootin' cost you ?" he asked, after 
a moment's pause, 
"Three sixty," Jack and I replied, in unison. 
"Waal, this is Thanksgiving Day, ain't it?" he con- 
tinued. "I wouldn't a-knowed it ef you boys hadn't hap- 
pened 'long here to-day, cause I ain't celebrated Thanks- 
giving since my old man died, fifteen years ago it was. I 
fer one am thankful you had yer turkey shoot, an' it 
seems t' me," he lowered his eyes and gazed at Jack and 
me, "seems t' me I wouldn't say too much 'bout that 
thar three sixty. I'd fergit it, and jest be thankful it 
wasn't more. Ef it hadn't been fer the missus here you'd 
be shootin' yet, I reckon. And that reminds me, j edging 
from her looks, that the turkey's gittin' cold." 
"He's right. Jack," said I. "It is on us, and a good 
one, too. Carve the turkey." Fayette Dublin. 
Animals and Men. 
It goes almost without saying that animals and men have 
always dwelt together here on the earth since the very 
long time ago when both first had an existence. Of 
course I do not mean that they were from the first as 
well acquainted with each other as some of them are 
now— that the primitive man had a well trained and 
lovable nding horse which carried his master around 
with evident pride— that he had a friendly dog so closely 
attached to his skin-clad person, and a domestic cat so 
in love with the little ash-heap which then constituted 
his fire-side, that neither of them could be driven away 
even with a club. I only mean that the same localities 
which were occupied by man were also frequented by 
numerous representatives of the wild animal creation- 
and that when the animal left its den, lair or nest, and 
the man left his cave, grotto or hole-in-the-ground, the 
two were liable to meet. In this sense, each dwelt "in 
the presence of" the other. 
I think it equally clear that the first or original rela- 
tionship between animals and men was one of hostility. 
Neither party loved the other, and in fact had at first no 
occasion to. Primitive man wanled clothing and food, 
and doubtless got both by the chase. The carnivorous 
animals (which were largely dominant) wanted food, and 
a specimen of genus homo, served rare, was, as we may 
reasonably believe, as acceptable to the tiger-taste then 
as now. Possibly it was then first acquired, and by con- 
stant use has become little short of an inherited instinct. 
Out of this relationship of mutual hostility, there 
have been evolved three very singular developments: 
1. The talkability of animals as a part of the once 
current belief of mankind. 
2. The institution or cultus which we now know as 
"Tcteniisra." 
3. The investment of certain selected animals with a 
sacred character. 
Now, so far as I am aware, there is no existing human 
record, nor any extant reliable tradition which shows, 
or even tends to show, the origjn or beginnings of any 
one of the characteristics of animal life involved in these 
three phases of development. An inquirv as to their 
origin involves many matters of interest, but m making 
such an inquirj,-, our only guide is (i) conformity to 
collateral facts which are known, and (2) reasonable 
probability. 
Let us take first the question of talkability. What 
can be safely said as to it? 
In the slow evolution of humanity from a state of 
savager}' — and probably during the era of barbarism- 
there was a time when a belief in the power of animals 
to make intelligible use of human language was a part, 
and a somewhat important part, of the common thought 
of the race. And so common was this belief that intelli- 
gent and instructive conversations between animals and 
men were not regarded as matters of wonder or even 
surprise. They_ talked with each other, or were so repre- 
sented, on subjects of common interest, as freely and 
as sensibly as men with men. Nor was it a sign language 
that is said to have been used, but veritable human 
speech. 
These conversations, also, as usually narrated, had this 
noticeable feature,— they were strictly characteristic of 
