Dec. 28, 1901,] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
511 
with their jackets off," as Tim expressed it, In the center 
sat a great earthenware pitcher filled with f(3arning beer. 
Around the table, of course, were set plates, with knives 
and forks and glasses. Mrs. Kiimmelwasser presided 
with carving knife and fork in her hands. "Setzen sie 
sich. Sie sind willkommen," she observed with great 
affability, as if playing the hostess instead of the land- 
lady, incited thereto no doubt by the unwonted character 
of the spread. 
Wirt and Tim did not require to be told twice. 
"Bedad, ma'am," saM Tim, "this is a great thrate." 
"Ya," assented tbe lady, with candor; "vat you call it, 
hixury-ness — ain'd it?" 
"Looxuriancc." corrected Tim. who among these 
"Pennsylvania Dootch," as he called them, prided him- 
self not a little on his knowledge of EngUsh. 
Wirt kept his eyes riveted on the dish at the head of 
the table, and had no time for idle remarks. 
Jake now waddled in and took his seat at the foot of 
the table, with the exclamation : 
"Ha! vat you say. Tim — vat you say, Virt?" 
"It's all right," answered Tim, "all right." 
Wirt turned his head for one brief instant to smile 
beatifically at the speaker, and then resumed his jealous 
gaze upon the beefsteak and onions. He seemed to be in 
mortal fear that it would be spirited away vOr somehow 
escape him. 
Once Mrs. Kiimmelwasser began to carve it did not 
take her long to put her guests in the way of doing busi- 
ness, so to speak. 
After all plates had been filled, complete silence reigned 
for awhile — that is to say, there was no conversation, 
though there was a fearful clatter of knives and forks and 
other sounds incidental to feasting. At length Jake hav- 
ing taken the edge off his appetite, asked Tim: "Did you 
effer git beefste'ks in Ireland alretty, Tim?" 
"Beefsteaks in Ireland, did you say? Why, man, they 
grow on the bushes in Ireland 1" 
"Dey must be pooty tough, Tim," said Jake, with a 
twinkle in his eye. 
"Some av thim," answered Tim, "but we sind thim to 
Germany, where they fetch a high price." 
With merry passages like this the supper proceeded. 
Wirt never joined in, devoting himself strictly to busi- 
ness. In the quantity of food he got away with, he sur- 
passed himself, and that is saj'ing much; yet it is 
doubtful whether he really enjoyed it, seeing that while 
his desire was boundless his capacity was limited. It may 
be questioned here by some epicurean philosopher whether 
a man can continue to desire food after he has 
filled himself; we know not how this may be generally, 
but we are quite sure that Wirt's desire was as insatiable 
as the sea. 
Gradually the edibles melted away, till there xyere only a 
few potatoes left. It is needless to say also that the beer 
was not neglected. When the last of this had been con- 
sumed the convives lay back in their chairs in a state of 
perfect contentment — all, that is, except Wirt, who sat 
upright, regarding the empty dishes with a mournful 
expression. 
At the suggestion of Mrs. Kiimmelwasser a move was 
made for the bar, where the three friends took their cus- 
tomary seats around the stove. The kettle was still 
steaming and singing, which caused Tim to remark : 
"Look at all that fine wather escapin' in shteam — ain't it 
a pity?" 
Jake understood the hint, and in a surprisingly short 
time had mixed three smoking glasses of rum, finely 
flavored with cloves, and passed them round. Tim drained 
his glass without much ceremony, then filled his old clay 
pipe (the which he would swear he preferred to the best 
cigar in the world), lit it and took the cat on his knee. 
"Did I ever tell yez the story of Casey's wildcat?" he 
said, regarding his companions. 
Jake answered,"Nein — I don't recollection," while Wirt 
shook his head. 
"Well, that's strange, bekase the story's a remarkable 
one. But better late than never. You must know, thin, 
that I had a frind av the name av Casey whin I boorded 
at the Widdy O'Rafferty's. He was marrit and lived a 
little ways out on the swamp road; a dacent, honest, 
simple crayture. One mornin' he comes to me in a great 
state of excitement and says, says he: 'Tim, there's wild 
geese in the swamp.' 'Well, and fwhat av it?' says I. 
'Ain't they got a right to be there?' 'To be sure,' says he, 
'but I've been thinkin' that mebbe you might like to go 
gunnin' for them.' 'Casey/ says I, 'I've somethin' else 
to do besides goin' on a wild goose chase.' 'Fwhat?' 
says he, 'are you goin' afther deer?' 'I'm not,' says I; 
'I'm goin' to work.' 'Well, thin,' says he, 'mebbe you 
might be afther lindin' me your gun?' 'Fwhat for?' says 
I. 'Fwhy, to shoot one av the geese, av coorse,' says 
he. Fwhin I heard him say this I thought I'h have died 
laughin'. 'Fwhat are you laughin' at?' says he. 'Oh, at 
a little remimbrance,' says I. 'Well,' says he. gettin' a 
bit hot, "will you or won't you lind me the gun?' I didn't 
want to offend him, for he was my frind, as I said, and 
besides the humor av the thing took me. 'Casey,' says 
I, 'I'll lind you the gun on one condition.' 'Fwhat's that?" 
says he — 'that I'll give you one of the geese if I shoot 
two?' 'No,' says I, thryin' to keep myself from explodin' 
agin, 'it's not that, Casey, but it's this: That you won't 
hould me responsible for accidents.' 'Tim, do you mane 
to insult me?' says he; 'do you take me for a kid?' 
"Wid that I gev him the gun, though my conscience 
throubled me. And all the mornin' as I wint about my 
work I couldn't keep out av me head the thought av 
Casey brought home on a litther. And I imagined I 
heard the lamintin's and upbraidin's av his widdy and the 
cries av his poor orphan childer. 'Tim,' says I to myself, 
'you're little short av a murderer. You're sartinly a fool. 
Fwhat business had you puttin' a deadly weapon in the 
hands of that overgrown child? His blood'U be upon 
your head.' 
"I got so worked up that I quit in the afthernoon 
and decided to go in sarch av Casey. I first called at 
his house. He wasn't there, and his wife knew nothin' 
av him. I thin wint down to the swamp and began 
whistlin' wid my fingers in my mouth, and hollerin' 
'Casey!' but the only answer I got was the cawin' av an 
auld carr'on crow that was perched on a blasted pine. I 
whistled and hollered till I was black in the face, but no 
sign av Casey. Thin I had a thought that made me 
iieart lep into me mouth, Fwhat makes that auld carr'on 
crow sit there? I thought: fwhy ain't she scared? It's 
around there somewhere '11 be Casey's dead body! 
And agin I heard the lamintin's and upbraidin's av the 
widdy and the cries av the orphan childer. 'Tim,' says I. 
'it you don't swing for your part in this day's doin's it 
won't be bekase you don't deserve it/ Wid a heavy 
heart, thin, I set out to explore, and left no pai-t of the 
swamp unsarched. Siveral times I kem near bein' s^yal- 
lowed up in a hole, but :ne sure footin' (for as I often 
tould yez I was born in the bog av Wilkinstown) saved 
me. I had me nains for me labor. Not a thrace av 
Casey high or low. This gev me a little hope, but thin 
agin I reflected that though I din't get swallowed up he 
might have. 'The miserable eejit,' says I; 'sure he hadn't 
sinse enough to know a bog hole from a tnountain!" 
Though I said this I felt sore at heart for him, for he 
was me frind, and whin I thought av the widdy and 
orphans I was ready to wring me hands. 
"By and by night began to come on — black and dismal, 
boys,' like a funeral over the mountains — so I gev up me 
sarch and turned for home. There was a bare chance left 
that Casey wint into the woods, but I couldn't bring me- 
self to believe it, for I knew that the poor man had a 
mortial fear av bears. I passed his house on me way 
back and saw the woman at the dure, nursin' her young- 
est child and lookin' anxious. 'Good evenin', Mrs. 
Casey,' says I, 'has Mike come home yit?' 'No,' says she, 
'and I'm afeard that some harm has come to him. Oh, 
Tim, Tim, fwhy did you lind him that ,gun?' 'Don't be 
alarmed, ma'am,' says I, thryin' to give the crayture the 
courage I didn't feel. 'He'll turn up all right. I guess.' 
I couldn't bear to stand there watchin' her sufferin', so 
I left her, sayin' I was goin' down to the village to make 
inquiries. I met two or three min who'd been in the 
woods and asked thim if they'd seen anythin' av Casey, 
but they said no, so I wint home, feelin' that it was all 
over wid him. 
"I couldn't ate any supper, and hung around the dure 
outside. The night was fine, wid a bright moon sailin' 
in and out among the clouds. I could hear an owl cryin' 
on the mountains, and it sounded like the banshee. 
Back'ards and for'ards I walked before the dure thryin' 
to console meself wid the pipe, but I felt too much like a 
murdherer to dhraw consolation from anythin'. The 
widdy (Mrs. O'Rafferty, I mane), the kind sowl. kem out 
more than once to coax me in for a bite, hut, 'No, 
ma'am,' says I, 'I don't desarve bite or sup. I don't de- 
sarve to live. It's afther murdherin' me frind I am,' says 
1. Av coorse she knew all about it, so she only tould 
me to talk sinse and hope for the best. 
"Along towards 9 o'clock just as the moon kem out 
from behind a cloud, I thought I seen a figure comin' up 
the road that looked like Casey, only it was half white. 
'It's his ghost.' says I, and began to thrirable. In a 
minute the figure disappeared, as the moon wint behind 
a cloud. But whin the moon kem out agin I seen the 
figure not twinty yards away bearin' down on me. Me 
hair stood on ind, and I thried to cry out, but me vice 
failed me. Naythur could I stir from the spot where I 
was, but stood there like a man frozen stiff. 
"Prisently up walks the figure and thin I knew it was 
Casey, sure enough. He had his coat off and carried me 
gun on his shoulder. 
'■ 'Good evenin', Tim,' says he, 'I've brought back your 
gun and thank you kindly. I had a grand day.' 
"Whin I heard the sound av his vice I knew all was 
right, and me first impulse was to fling me arums around 
him, but I resthrained meself, remimberin' the fright he 
gev me, and didn't show him any welkmn. 
" 'Fwh}'- don't you spake?' says he. 
" 'I see no occasion,' says I, 'for a flow of language.' 
" 'You're mad,' says he, 'bekase I didn't bring you the 
goose?' 
" 'Fwhat goose?' says I. 
" 'The wild goose,' says he. 
" 'Oh, the wild goose,' says I. 'To be sure. I suppose 
the gun missed fire, or didn't carry far enough.' 
" 'None av your jibes, Tim,' says he, kind of sassy. 'If 
I didn't shoot the goose I did somethin' that mebbe our 
cilibrated woodsmen mightn't be afther doin'. 
" 'And, musha. fwhat was that?' says I. 
" 'I got a wildcat,' says he. 'So there's for you, Tim 
Mulcahy.' 
" 'You got a wildcat,' says I. 'Shot her, you mane?' 
" 'No,' says he, 'I raught her!' 
"'You caught her!' says I. 'Alive?' 
" 'Alive!' says he. 'But she tore the coat av me back.' 
"At this I thought the man had gone crazy. 
" 'Casey,' says I, 'come into the light till I have a look 
at you.' 
"We intered the house, where the widdy was sated at 
the fire wid a few av the boys. They all jumped up and 
shook hands wid Casey and congratulated him on his 
deliverance. 
" 'Fwhat the divil sort av a joke is this?' says he. 
"I thought it proper to explain the situation to him, 
but he only seemed the more offinded. 
" 'Tim,' says he, 'you're always thratin' me as if I was 
a kid, and I won't have it. Mebbe,' says he, scornful as 
you plaze, 'a kid could go into the woods and ketch a 
wildcat!' 
" 'Casey, me poor man,' says I, frekkened for him, 'you 
need to go to bed and rest. You'll feel betther to-mor- 
row. 
" 'Fwhat do you mane?' says he, 'Is it thryin' to guy 
you are?' 
"Now, my idee was that he'd screwed up his courage 
and gone into the woods, where he seen a wildcat and got 
frekkened out av his sinses. So I detarmined to humor 
him. 
" 'Casey/ say« I, thin, 'don't get fexcited. For fwhy 
should we guy you? Sure we're all your frinds. Tell us 
about the wildcat. How did you 'ketch h^r?' 
" 'Well,' says he. wid a snap, 'I overp'owered her, if 
you want to know.' And not another word ^could we 
get out av him. except that the cat was at home in the 
chicken coop, where any one that liked could see her. 
"Wid that he started for home and us afther him — the 
widdy cpmin', too, to comfort the poor wife,'' for we all 
thought the man was ravin' mad. 
"Whin we rached the' house, 'Hould o*,' says Casey, 
till I get the lanthern.' 'Now, Casey,' saysf I, fwhat'? the 
use? We know the cat's there, so come along in like a 
good man and go to bed, In troth, you need a rest 
afther your hard day thrampin' in the woods, not to spake 
av your encounther wid tlie cat.' 'But,' says he, 'I want 
yez to see for yourselves. I don't want no jokes about 
this matthcr hereafter.' 'Oh, all right,' says I, beginnin' 
to be a bit puzzled, 'get the lanthern.' 
"Fwhat could it all mane? It was ividint the man had 
caught somethin', but fwhat? Curiosity sayzed on us all. 
"In a Uttle while Casey returned with the lanthern, and 
led us round to the back av the house, where the chicken 
coop was. Whin I stood fornist it me heart began to 
bate, but I took a long breath and thried to conthrol me- 
self. 
" 'Hould down the light.' says I. 
'"Casey held down the light and there in the corner 
av the coop was a cat sure enough — but such a cat — the 
misherablest lookin' object — mere skin and bone and all 
covered wid scratches and mud. 
" 'Oh, dear, oh, dear!' says I. 'The poor crayture!' 
" 'Let me look,' says the widdy, who'd hung back, 
afeard. 
"I made way for her, and took the light from Casey. 
As soon as the widdy put her face to the coop the cat 
jumped up and began to me-aw and rub her sides agin the 
wires. 
" 'The saints presarve us!' cried the widdy, claspin' her 
hands. Thin lookin' up at Casey, says she: 'Mr. Casey, 
did I undershtand you to say that you overpowered that 
cat?' 'Yis, ma'am,' says he. 'Thruly,' says she, 'you're 
a wonderful hunter.' 'Fwhat do you mane, ma'am?' says 
he, misdoubtin' her accent. 'I mane,' says she, that 
you've overpowered me poor auld Tom that's been lost 
in the woods and is as tame — as tame as yourself, Mr. 
Casey,' says she. 
" 'You're mistaken, ma'am,' says he, but the bouldness 
had left his vice. 'Any cat that could fight like that must 
be wild!' 
" 'Fight like that!' cried the widdy, repatin' him. 'Gin- 
tlemin, look at the fighter! Mr. Casey,' says she, 'I'm 
tould you wint out gunnin' for wild geese. You're lucky 
that somebody didn't mistake you for one! Come, open 
the dure and let out me cat!' 
"Poor Casey! I was his frind, and I felt sorry for him. 
But, Lord, boys, how we did laugh!" 
And as Tim said this he leaned back in his chair and 
laughed reniiniscently. 
"I suspicion," said Jake, "der ket followed Casey home?" 
"I never could find out," answered Tim. "It was al- 
ways a sore subject wid Casey. But me thaory is, that 
Casey kem upon the cat ready to give up the ghost, as 
we say, and not doubtin' it was a wild one — for the man 
was as innocent as a child about everythin' pertainin' 
to the woods^not doubtin', I say, it was wild thought it 
a grand chance to redeem his riputation for having' 
missed the geese, and so threw his coat over it and 
fetched it home. But it may be that you're right, Jake, 
and that Casey's a bigger liar than I thought. Anyhow. 
I'll freely admit that a gun, or a fishin' rod in the hands 
av a fool has a very demoralizin' effect." 
"Ya, ya," assented Jake, with several wags of the head, 
"Dot remembers me, vhen I pelonged to der schuetzen 
verein " 
When Wirt, who had been all attention during Tim's 
story, heard his landlord beginning thus he p.^'omptly half 
filled his mouth Avith tobacco, stretched out his feet and 
leaned his head on the back of his chair. 
Tim also got into a more restful position, with his 
hands joined across his stomach, but in his civil way he 
remarked, though a little wearily, "Go on, Jake — I'm 
listenin'." 
Jake immediately, with great earnestness and volubility, 
and a world of gesture, began to tell one of his- stories 
about the immortal schuetzen verein. For ten or fifteen 
minutes he kept on, every minute becoming more ab- 
sorbed and energetic; then he suddenly stopped short 
and observed his audience. Both were sound asleep. 
Jake gave a snort of disgust. 
"Werfe nicht deine Perlen vor die Schweine (cast not 
your pearls before swine)," he said, sententiously, and 
getting up went behind the bar. 
Bull Moose in Camp* 
Portland, Me., Dec. 11. — I was called from my camp 
one afternoon during my Maine vacation in October 
last by guide, who was calling, "Get your camera." 
On going out upon the piazza I saw a good sized spike- 
horn bull moose, standing contentedly about forty yards 
from the door, between us and the river, in the position 
shown in the photograph. I went back into the camp, 
got my camera, set it up on the tripod on the piazza, 
focussed it, and made a two-second exposure, all the time 
expecting to see the subject make a break, and spoil my 
"sitting." But he acted as if he wanted another trial 
and seemed in no hurry to leaVe. After a few minutes 
he turned deliberately, went through the bushes and down 
the bank as though intending to cross the river. Instead 
of so doing he returned and deliberately walked up to 
within twenty-five yards of the piazza where we were 
standing, undisturbed by our movements or conversation, 
or the antics of a couple of pet cats in the door yard. 
Having satisfied his curiosity, he strolled slowly down the 
tote road, occasionally stopping to look back. As down 
river was in the direction of possible danger for even so 
young a moose. as he, my guide circled around to get in 
front of him and drive him back over the ridge behind 
the camp. This was finally accomplished only by much 
waving of hats and throwing of clubs, much as one might 
drive a neighbor's cow out of one's garden. 
His behavior would not have been unusual in August, 
or even in early September, but for late October, in a 
region where there was much hunting of an extremely 
noisy variety it seemed a curious freak. 
Had I been sure of his apparent willingness to con- 
tribute to the success of amateur photograp'ny, I might 
have been tempted to try for a profile, but I have no 
reason to find fault with such opportunity as I had. The 
day was lowering, with occasional rain, and the time about 
half-past two in the afternoon. 
Ch.as. D. Smith. 
All communications intended for Fokest and Stream should 
always be addressed to the Forest and Stream Putilishing Co., ape} 
pot to gny individual connected with the paper, 
