May 17, 1902.J 
FOREST AND STREAM ^ 
and then I thought, well, I am dying anyway,, and it 
may as well be from the quinine as anything; so, without 
considering, I took it all. It must have been nearly a 
quarter of an ounce; after that I drank a little more rum. 
then I waited for a moment, and my strength came back. 
It seemed to be exactly what I wanted. 
It was then about seven o'clock in the evening, and I 
started on at once, but it was cruel work, and I fell 
asleep continually on the saddle; and presently the peon 
began to walk by my side to prevent my falling. This 
continued for a time, and finally, about 11 o'clock, I 
reached the capital. 
I had succeeded; this kept me awake till I arrived at 
the hotel and delivered the papers to Major 'Burke, who 
was sitting up waiting anxiously for them. 
He opened the package, looked at the letters and 
papers, and then said: "Can you tell me what they mean 
by this absurdity? I have attended to air these matters." 
I tried to answer, but could not speak, and the Major 
got me into bed as soon as possible, two men helping me 
•undress. I was asleep long before they put me in bed, 
and I am told that the best doctor in the capital was 
called to see me two or three times, and that he said 
the only thing was to let me sleep, though my condition 
was very serious. He didn't know about the quantity of 
quinine I had taken and while I slept this certainly did 
me good service, and when I awoke, after sleeping all 
the next day and the night following, I was as fresh and 
felt as well as when I started. 
I said I was ready to go back to camp at once, but 
Major Burke told me he proposed that I should rest 
for a week at least, and said I must amuse myself as I 
pleased ; or, if I liked, I could do some light work for him. 
I chose to do the work, of course, and saw a great deal 
of the Major. He was full of the development of his 
different mining interests, and spoke eagerly of the day 
when he would walk in to New Orleans and pay back 
the money the city officials claimed from him" though 
they had no right to it; and from day to day he worked 
enthusiastically on, and I have never known a more con- 
siderate employer or a more thorough business man. 
At the end of the week I started on my way back 
to camp, taking five days where I had come in less than 
two. I expected that now I would find my associates 
more reasonable; but in this I was mistaken; folly and 
extravagance were unrestrained, and after a few weeks 
I went away, very glad that my connection with such 
art enterprise could be terminated. 
Francis C. Nicholas. 
Old Jack. 
Back in the dim, misty, distant past loom up many 
incidents that were fraught with more than passing in- 
terest, and among them is one boyhood memory that is 
labeled Old Jack. This incident has to do with a fish. 
The largest fish I ever saw, as I now remember it, al- 
though several of my more matured senses have tried to 
convince me to the contrary in these latter iconoclastic 
days. 
It occurred in the good old days of long ago, when 
five cents was a bit of brown paper, size about 2 by 3, 
and a great deal of money for one boy to spend in a 
season on fishing tackle ; and if such extravagance was 
permitted, large and substantial returns were required. 
There was "good in everything" in those days, but the 
best of it all was fishing. 
Willow River constituted the southern boundary of 
our small farm, and was a never-f ailing source of delight. 
The hoe was heavier, clods harder and weeds tougher on 
the goodly acres abutting the clear, cool, running water; 
but I loved it even when it only afforded unsatisfied 
longings. 
My interest in the weather when a boy centered in two. 
conditions — wet and dry — for dry weather meant all 
work, and' wet much fishing. 
One June morning my stunt was hoeing corn in the 
bottom field on the river bank. The fishing fever was in 
my blood, and I felt that there was no other aim, object 
or ambition in life to compare with that of going fishing 
right then. Rain had not fallen in sufficient quantity to 
stop work for more than four weeks. A few clouds had 
gathered, and slight showers fallen, and one day it 
showered .sharply long enough for me to run to the house 
and get my fishing tackle and return to the river, but then 
out came the sun, and away went the clouds, and with 
them my hope of going fishing, for it was not wet enough 
to quit work. I know my father, who had taken shelter 
under a tree until the shower was over, was sorry for my 
disappointment, though he only laughed at me for tiring 
myself out with my long run, and bid me "Pitch in and 
make up the. lost time." 
But that morning came the clouds again, and after keep- 
ing me in dreadful suspense for an hour or two. the rain 
began in real earnest. Away I ran for my tackle, and in 
a very short time was back at the river, where I found my 
father sheltering himself under the heavy foliage of an 
old elm tree. I knew he would stay and watch me fish, 
for he enjoyed it, although he pretended, to have no 
patience with such waste of time. 
The fact that I had a new plaited horsehair line, which 
had been finished since the last opportunity offered for 
fishing, and of which I expected great things, made the 
occasion one of unusual interest. I had made the line 
myself, and was justly proud of it, for it was as smooth 
and pretty as silk, and strong enough to bear my weight. 
Many and many an evening had I bent my tired head 
over that line, after a hard day's work, and now finished, 
and absolutely perfect in my judgment, it was my greatest 
treasure. The river was low and I prepared to fish at a 
deep hole, with shoals above and below. Pickerel were 
the largest fish that we caught, and generally ran from one 
to three pounds, though occasionally one was caught 
weighing as much as five pounds. The shower of rain 
had washed many insects into the water, and the fish 
were feeding, so that in a short time I had several fine 
ones on my string. 
Finally there came an unusually hard tug at my line, 
and waiting until the fish seemed to have a fast hold, I 
started back with a long and strong pull, that usually 
landed my fish high and dry on the bank. 
The strong pole bent to a crescent shape, and the tip 
whipped the water, but no fish appeared, although I was 
pulling with all my might and main. I was fast to a big 
fellow without doubt. For a moment I held my own. and 
then came a pull, such as I had never felt, actually 
dragging me into the water's edge. 
It looked as though I had hooked a fish that was both 
able and willing to pull the whole outfit — myself included 
— into the river, and go off with it, and then I knew I 
had hooked Old Jack. 
Old Jack was, a big pickerel, variously estimated at 
from three to six feet long, that was supposed to exist 
only in the imagination of the fishermen around our part 
of the river, but more than one of us had seen him, and 
on more than one occasion he had actually been hooked, 
but had gotten away by breaking the line, or tearing out 
the hook, He was a justly famous fish, and now as I 
felt his strength it seemed to me that no one had over- 
estimated his size. 
A runaway horse was the only thing I could compare 
him to, as with every muscle braced I tried to pull him 
out. or at least to keep him from pulling me in. We 
had a lively time of it for a few moments, with no de- 
cided advantage to either side, and then my pole broke 
off just above my hands, and over I went backward. 
Springing to my feet and dashing into the water a 
few steps. I caught the broken pole before the fish could 
drag it off, and renewed the fight. By a desperate effort 
I made two or three steps back to the water's edge. 
Father was now close behind, urging me to do my 
best, but not offering to take a hand, probably realizing 
that I knew the game better than he did. 
I gained a little more, fighting every inch, and then 
the fish came up with a savage rush, leaping clear of the 
water. What a monster he was, clearly over three feet 
in length, and with a head like a feed cutter. 
The water splashed in every direction as he struck it 
again, and was off with a rush. I braced back with all 
my might to meet the strain, and was checking him 
up. when snap ! went my pole again. 
With .a quick jump I caught the piece, but as the strain 
came it broke again, within a few inches, of the line, and 
away it went into the water. 
"Oh ! too bad, too bad," cried my father. 
But I did not wait to hear more, nor was I ready to 
give up the fight. With one jerk up and down off came 
my shirt and trousers,. and in I went head first where I 
had seen the end of my pole disappear. I was a good 
swimmer, and with eyes wide open I swam wildly around 
under water, grabbing and clutching at every small object 
I could see, in hopes that it might prove to be my line. 
At last, coming to the surface for breath, I saw my 
father, usually so quiet and dignified, fairly jumping up 
and down in his excitement, and immediately he shouted. 
'"Under, boy; under!" Down I went again, feelingand 
looking, catching at straws, sticks, or any small objects 
I came in contact with. 
Again coming to the surface to breathe, only to hear 
the command, "Under, boy ; under !" And so, coming 
to the surface only when absolutely necessary to breathe, 
did I continue to dive and search for my lost fish, while 
my father commanded, and encouraged from the bank, 
until exhaustion compelled me to give it up; then all but 
heartbroken, I swam ashore. 
Tears of bitter disappointment filled my eyes at the 
loss of my big fish. 
As I dressed father tried to console me by praising the 
fight I had made,- and suggested that I might get another 
try at the old fellow with better luck next time, but my 
sorrow over the loss of my treasured line alone was too 
deep for words. 
When I went to get the fish I had caught before the 
big fellow got away, they had shrunk so small by com- 
parison that they did not seem worth carrying home, 
though when pulling them out they had seemed quite re- 
spectable game. 
I caught many more fish that summer, but not one 
that was really large, for I had Old Jack in. my eye for a 
year or more, but I never saw him again. 
Lewis Hopkins. 
A Walk Down South— XXIX. 
The mouth of the Tennessee was 687 miles away, and 
that far I had in mind to go, with some dim idea of the 
Mississippi and even Texas, but the Tennessee was long 
enough for the present to think about. Sitting there on a 
grub box on the raft I looked down the river — a great, 
placid, glassy surface moving leisurely along, cornfields on 
both sides, commanded by a little log cabin on the right 
side. Ahead there were marble quarries looking like 
snowdrifts after the spring thaw has bared most of the 
ground. There were rounded knolls covered with dark 
cedars and wiry oaks. The left bank was caving off, un- 
dermined by the current, and great chunks of dirt are 
tumbling forward on their faces. What the river gave 
long ago it is now taking again. 
One wonders why the trees are cut away along the 
banks on such a river, yet the answer is easy to guess. 
Trees cast shade and shade is not good for corn crops. 
The farmer trusts to luck that the river won't wash his 
land away, and when it does he is astonished, and, with 
magnificent amazement, hauls in rocks and brush to take 
the place of tree roots. 
Four miles away was Knoxville, and soon that beauti- 
ful city was separated from me only by the yellow murk 
of the river. It is a city built on hills. The streets all 
rise steeply from the river bank. It is clean and looks 
polished — as if there was civil pride thereabouts. 
The raft was run into the left bank and tied to some 
trees a mile above the fine bridge, and then the raftsman 
Ball went to get a measurer at the saw mills. Abe and I 
went down the river in the skiff and canoe, landing just 
above the bridge at the saw mill hoist, where I awaited 
the return of Abe, who then followed his mate, Ball, 
They soon came back with their money, and we crossed 
to the north bank, where Knoxville conies down to the 
river edge. Up the creek six rods we tied our boats — 
mine with a lock — then fifty yards away we went to Mrs. 
Care's, who keeps a "boarding house." I was chilled by 
a cold wind and downcast. The long, steady wear of the 
trip was telling heavily on me. 
The city "life," the rattle and crack of planks dropped 
in unloading a scow, the distant hum of industry which 
is felt rather than heard, the creaking as horses strained 
to their loads, the rustle — cold and hurried — of the river 
pouring by, all sounds cheerful if one is in the proper 
frame, of mind, were dismal and heavy in the heart I had. 
The two raftsmen were now gone from me in tasks of 
their own, buying and learning when they could go home 
by train. They boughts hats for children, shoes for wives, 
trousers and the like during the evening from the stores 
known to all raftsmen, but apart from those on Jay street, 
where the leading town folks purchase their necessities. 
"Come "down on a raft?'' a storekeeper would say, or 
"How many logz you bringg thees time, henh?" 
My raftsmen met acquaintances, and so I weijt to bed 
rather than participate in the pleasures raftsmen find in 
the city. 
Next day I went to see Lewis Hopkins, whose varied 
experiences afield in Tennessee have often come to the 
notice of Forest and Stream readers. The young lady 
at the post office who gave me my mail told me where I 
would find him, with an expression on her face indicating 
that she wondered what a chap like me wanted of him. 
Mr. Hopkins forgave my appearance under the circum- 
stances. 
"Do you know, Mr. Spears," he said, "it seems to me 
that for a man who's taking a walk, you're having more 
kinds of rides than anybody I ever saw — stages, wagons, 
cars, canal boats — and now you're in a yawl; and your 
descriptions of how lame and tired you got — why it actu- 
ally made me tired to read them." 
I answered letters and wrote nearly all day on the 
31st inst., and in the evening walked around town. One 
boy remarking my knickerbockers said to another. "Say. 
Pete, ayant that the biggest small boy ye ever seen?" 
I thought I had seen a negro — a real black one — but it 
was at Knoxville that I saw the "real article." She was 
in a street car. She wasn't yellow, she wasn't brown, she 
wasn't even an ordinary black. Her lips were as red as 
the two-cent stamp on a Government envelope, and that 
red was in contrast with a black so dense that where the 
electric light struck full it looked gray compared to the 
illuminated shadow's. No trace of brown was in the 
whites of her eyes. I stopped and looked after that car 
till it was out of sight. 
More than two months had elapsed since I had been in 
a city. The noise, the bright lights, the crowds of people 
stirring, made a scene curiously moving and interesting 
to me. Though I was back to Mrs. Cate's at 8:30 P. M., 
all were abed there. The river people are early risers and 
must needs go to sleep early in the day. 
At dawn the boarding house was astir. It was noted 
that the river was rising, and there was a rumor of more 
raftsmen coming. In the afternoon I went again to Mr. 
Hopkins' office, and thence to his home, through the 
college grounds. It is a noble site for an institution of 
learning, on a hill, where there are trees all 'round the 
great buildings. Rather emblematical, it seemed to me, was 
the situation — one must follow an uphill path to get an 
education, but it is a pleasant one to follow — the rougher 
the trail the more beautiful the scenery is the ru]c. 
Not more than once or twice during the months I was 
on the trail had I been within the limits of a "refined" 
home. I'll not try to describe my feelings when I found 
myself in the residence of Lewis Hopkins, 'way up on a 
hill at the corner where a fort had stood fire during the 
war days of the '6o's, with the city turmoil far below and 
the xjuiet that pervades the localities where the well-bred 
live all 'round me. I looked back on the scenes I had 
come through — the trapper's cabin up in Virginia, the 
hunter's, the Pennsylvania lumbermen, the long drawn 
trail with its rocks, stones, mud, dust, slush, its sunshines, 
shadows, glooms and gray murks, the weary miles and 
the ones nature made easy and joyous ones, the many 
moods that had flitted by in medleys, pleasures, surprises, 
discouragement, strung through by endurance from the 
start to then. It was confusing. Details of the -supper 
may be omitted all but two of them. Beefsteak that 
was memorable and apple butter. I often wondered why 
apple butter was so named; now the hostess enlightened 
me. What I had previously eaten was only a thick apple 
sauce, boiled for hours till it was all to pieces. That was 
good and "would do," but the real apple butter Was 
cooked longer, boiled till it thickened and the "pieces" 
amalgamated into a jelly which would stand alone and 
slice. Like all good things — the better 4hey are the more 
one has to work for them — the best apple butter requires 
constant attention and extreme care in the stirring to pre- 
vent burning. The result, as I saw and ate of it — as I 
see and remember it now — was delicious. 
A 16-gauge Parker was the favorite weapon of Mr. 
Hopkins. At this I had a look, and recalled it many 
limes afterward clown in Alabama, where the ducks flew 
by. Some time or other I started down to Cate's, but I 
turned into other streets and wandered around the city 
! and across the great white-arched bridge first in an agony 
of homesickness. — 
On the following day I went to the Second Presbyterian 
Church, to which Mr. Hopkins had invited me, with the 
assurance that my rugged garb was no impediment to 
the pleasure that would be felt if I came. It was so, and 
with unmarred pleasure I heard good sing'ng, _ earnest 
preaching and saw devout attention on every side. In 
. the evening I came again. ' 
On the Monday morning, Feh. 23, I paddled out of 
the mouth of the creek at 8:15 o'clock. Some of the 
boys on the hay barge called "good luck" after me. I 
saw the man whom I met in the road on my way to 
Sneedville, and also up the Holston turning over a scow, 
and had a word or two with him. 
A few miles down the river I had an opportunity to 
examine a dead buzzard. It was shot through the body 
and fell hissing to the ground. Instead of throwing, its 
head back as hawks and other mortally wounded birds 
usually do, this bird doubled its head down between its 
legs and spread its wings up like an eagle. Tt nvas a dirty 
bird, and its back showed that it roosted under other 
birds. - 
It was a cold day. Two pairs of woolen stockings did 
not keep my feet warm. Nevertheless I kept on the river 
all day long. Toward dark I found R. L. Cappocks in the 
woods that came down to the river, and there I was held 
all Tuesday by a gale of wind that was very cold, with 
flakes of snow in it. A mile or so above me was a house- 
boat, thirty feet long, twelve feet wide and seven feet 
high, in which a man lived alone. He built it at Boyd's 
