482 
felt ashamed for even the suggestion of a boast. I walked 
up another stray bird from this covey that the dogs had 
overlooked, and he was added to our bag. 
Down below the gin, by the long wagon bridge, Beulah 
came to a beautiful point on the edge of the cotton field. 
Her nose was toward a bunch of broom-sedge, and she 
was in the open field as rigid and motionless as an image 
of stone, her left fore foot gracefully uplifted. We stood 
for a moment contemplating the picture in admiration, 
then hastened to her. When the birds arose, two guns 
spoke. Each said only one word, and two Bob Whites 
lay on their backs in the cotton. She would not believe 
that she had a hand in the execution, but I had shot only 
once, so there was no doubt. Soon we saw a dove alight 
between the cotton rows, and walked him up. This time 
only one gun was fired. It was not mine. The dove was 
brought in by Prince. Another covey was found in a 
switch cane brake on the hillside, a hard place in which 
to shoot. After they were scattered one flushed in front 
of bar and flew over her head. She wheeled and fired 
just as he was about to disappear over a knoll, changing 
his horizontal to a downward course. "Bully for you !" 
I shouted. I hope she will forgive me; I could not 
help it. 
Prince came to a stand in the switch cane, examined 
something and then went on. I could see that it had 
speckles on it, and thought it was either a dead sapsucker 
or a king snake. The latter it proved, only there were 
two of them. It was quite a warm day for early March, 
but they seemed to have little energy, and let me pick 
them up without making much resistance. Each was 
about three feet long. We were nearing the house and 
our hunt was about over, so I concluded to take them up 
and let the ladies have a look at them, after which they 
were liberated. (I am a son of Coahoma.) On our way 
to the house a rabbit and a robin were added to our bag, 
■the latter by my companion's gun. When our pockets 
were emptied there were seven quail, a dove, a rabbit and 
a robin, and what an appetite we had for dinner! 
Hie-On. 
Mississippi. 
The Fire Fiend in Maine. 
Never, since the terrible fire of Miramichi, nearly 
eighty years ago, has Maine experienced so terrible a 
scene of devastation as the past two weeks has witnessed. 
All over the State the conflagration has raged, from 
northern Aroostook to Washington county, southward 
to Castine, and westward from northern Somerset and 
Franklin counties to the verj' outermost boundaries of the 
State. Immense tracts of fine standing timber have been 
destroyed, farm buildings, and in several sections whole 
villages have gone down before the fiery tempest that no 
human power could quell. 
The causes for this wholesale destruction are not hard 
to find. For fifty-one days we have had no rain what- 
ever, unless we except a few light local showers that 
scarcely wet the surface of the ground. An unheard of 
thing at this season, when our rivers are usually swollen 
to overflowing, and our special danger is from possible 
freshets, while a drouth in spring is something unheard 
of before in our well watered State. 
Every one at all familiar vnth our Maine woods knows 
that the soil in its dusky recesses where the sun never 
shines, is composed of layer upon layer of decomposed 
pine needles, the deposit of uncounted centuries, some- 
times two or three feet in depth, and when dry making a 
perfect fire-trap. The few unquenched coals of a deserted 
camp-fire, even the unburned end of a cigar carelessly 
flung upon the ground during a dry season will keep 
alight, and burn underground sometimes for weeks un- 
seen and unsuspected, feeling its evil way in the darkness 
until some chance opening gives it the opportunity to 
spring forth, full armed, like some devouring monster, 
upon the helpless growth above. 
In the spring this "duff," as it is called, is usually so 
saturated with the rains and melting snows that there is 
little chance for fire to run in it to any distance, but now, 
under the influence of the dry, warm atmosphere, it has 
become like tinder, ready to catch and carry the smallest 
spark, whether from the farmer's burning brush pile or 
from a passing locomotive. With the discarded tops of 
trees left by lumbermen, and themselves extremely dry 
and resinous, it only needed the high winds of the last 
week to fan the fires here and there into a conflagration 
that for extent and fierceness has no parallel in the ex- 
perience of the oldest inhabitant of the State. 
Here in the vicinity of Moosehead Lake the fires, while 
close at our doors, have, by almost superhuman exertions 
on the part of the inhabitants, been kept at bay, so that no 
buildings have been destroyed, but in some of the adjoin- 
ing towns many have been made homeless in a few hours 
by its furious assaults. In Shirley, a small village a few 
miles below us on the B. & A. road, the fire approached 
so near that the inhabitants fled for their lives, with the 
burning breath of the tempest scorching their very faces. 
But when all hope of saving the town was over, suddenly 
the wind changed, the flames leaped to the right and were 
off in another direction, leaving the astonished people to 
return to the smoke-blackened but unburned homes that 
they had never expected again to enter. 
Dreadful and widespreal is the devastation of the for- 
ests, which it will take a century's growth to restore, but 
the timber lands of our State are owned largely by rich 
corporations to whom the loss, great as it is, will not in 
most cases spell ruin. It is the individual mill owner 
and his employes thus thrown out of work, and the home- 
less farmers, who have seen the patient toil of years go 
up in smoke and flame, upon whom this blow will fall 
most heavily. It is pitiful to see old men and women, 
worn with the cares and burdens of a life of hard work 
and pinching economy, who, in the morning sat in cheer- 
ful contentment beneath the roof that they had spent so 
many toilsome years to rear as a home for their old age, 
find themselves at night homeless, shelterless, and stripped 
of everything but the bare acres that even the fire was 
powerless to destroy. 
"Nothing but rain, a steady, soaking rain of several 
days can save us !" 
That was the cry upon every lip, and anxious eyes 
watched day and night for some sign of that longed-for 
friend. But the June skies were cloudless, and the sun 
Bhone down pitilessly upon those scenes of desolation 
until on Monday night, the 8rh, the clouds that had been 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
all day long tantalizing us with alternate promises and 
disappointments, really began to pour their hoarded treas- 
ures upon the scorched bosom of the earth. 
Never was there sweeter music than the patter of those 
blessed drops upon the shingled roofs of those who, for 
days, had lived in constant peril from the fires upon either 
hand, and far and wide, in city home and outlying farm- 
house, went up one glad united cry of thanksgiving for 
this priceless gift from the very hand of God Himself. 
It seemed as if the dumb earth itself sent up its wordless 
thanks for this great deliverance, as every blade of grass 
and humble herb lifted up its head and looked heaven- 
ward as it drank in the grateful moisture. 
It had been a race, men said, between the wind and the 
rain for the life of the State, and, thank God ! Ihe rain 
had won. It will take many years to heal the wounds 
that we have received in this terrible encounter with the 
fiercest of all the elements, but it has taught us a lesson 
in regard to the importance of strangling a forest fire at 
its birth, before it grows a giant that no human power 
can wrestle with. And hereafter, it is safe to say that not 
a A'oice in all the State, from the northern boundary of 
Aroostook to Casco Bay, will be raised in protest against 
the appropriation made by our Legislature of 1903 to pro- 
vide fire wardens to protect those forest lands that are at 
once our pride and one of the chief sources of our pros- 
perity as a people. H. G. Rowe. 
G«EENViLi.E, Moosehead Lake, Me., June 9. 
Shooting and Fishing on the Hudson 
The Hudson River, several hundred years ago, must 
have been an ideal hunting ground for the sportsman, 
and an enticing and beautiful resort" for the angler. 
Deer and bear were undoubtedly plentiful in the forests 
bordering its shores, and the drumming of the old 
cock partridge on the mountain sides was a sound as 
familiar then as the blasting in a rock quarry is to-day. 
Many ducks fed and bred in the marshes and creeks 
extending up the river from Croton to Albany, while 
the water probably teemed with that gamiest of fish, the 
striped bass. But as civilization gradually spread itself 
along the beautiful shores of the noble river, and as 
men with rods and guns increased, the game and fish 
commenced rapidly to disappear, until now only the 
faintest remnant remains. 
Although both ducks and bass are far from numer- 
ous, we have spent many a pleasant day on the broad 
bosom of the Hudson; Croton Point Cove and Haver- 
straw Bay more than once have been the scene of an 
exciting scull after a flock of "coot," ruddy, or black 
ducks. 
With our 37-foot steam launch and duck boat towing 
astern, guns, ammunition and fishing tackle on board, 
we would sally forth bright October mornings, the 
Veteran, myself, Al and Ben, for a good day's outing 
on the river. The latter was our engineer, and al- 
ways proved a constant source of fun and amusement. 
He was a small man, bent and shriveled by age, for he 
had seen seventy summers or more, yet a better engi- 
neer never pulled open the throttle of an engine. He 
was clean, neat and careful about all his work, and 
ever ready to go out for a cruise at any time of day. 
Poor old Ben, he has now passed over a river greater 
and broader than the one on which he spent so many 
of his last days doing the two things he loved best to 
do on earth: run an engine and fish. 
When we went ducking we took the fishing tackle 
with us, so that if luck was not in our favor we could 
try our hand at the bass, perch and porgies. When we 
went fishing we took our guns and cartridges and 
towed the duck boiat,^ in case we should come upon a 
flock of wild fowii and so we were always prepared 
for anything that would turn up. 
One clear, mellow morning in the fall we started 
out with lunch basket added to the outfit and ready to 
make a day of it on the river. 
"Everything on board, Al?" asked the Veteran, when 
our belongings had been stowed aw-ay in the easy little 
Buttercup. 
"All right, ga'ahead, Ben." The bells jingled and 
churning the wafer into foam, we backed out from the 
dock and turning around, headed for the reef off Cro- 
ton Point. The' river was calm and mirror-like, except 
where, here and there, a gentle breeze stirred the 
smooth surface. The mountains colored in rich brown, 
red and yellow, sent long, deep reflections into the 
water, and distant sounds came distinctly to the ear, as 
on one of those clear, transparent March days. The 
air was fresh and cool while we were in motion, but 
come to a standstill, and the warm breath of summer 
could yet be felt. About half way over to the reef 
we espied a lonely sea-crow some distance ahead of 
the boat. "You might as well go after him," said the 
Vetei-an, "seeing you have never shot a specimen of thi? 
beautiful chicken-billed water fowl. Come, come, Al, 
he'll be half a mile down the river if you don't hurry 
up a little." Al nervously pulled the duck boat along- 
side as we came to a stop, while I got in and crouched 
behind the screen. Swiftly we sped toward the unsus- 
pecting old "mud hen," for Al was a good sculler and 
soon had me within easy range of our prospective 
quarry. 
"Look out, Al," I said, as we approached nearer 
and nearer. "In another minute we'll run him down 
and I want to have the fun of shooting him." 
"Scare him," answered Al; "maybe he'll fly." 
"Shoo!" I cried, waving my arms, for we were right 
on top of the senseless creature. I knew the Veteran 
was laughing over the performance, and I was bound 
to get even with the sea-crow. Finally he arose from 
the water and flew and half flapped off, until about 
thirty yards away he was met by a charge of No. 7 
shot, which abruptly ended his career. 
The launch steamed down, picked us up, and we 
steered for the reef. Picking out a good place near the 
lower end, we let go anchor, set the camp stools in 
the stern and commenced to bait up our bass rods. 
This task was one I far from relished, for we used 
great big sand worms that were wiggling, squirming 
creatures, not very pleasant to put on a hook. How- 
ever, it had to be done, so here goes, and after several 
struggles I fastened a nice fat one on securely and cast 
the tempting lure over the stern. 
Ben was roosting on a camp stool, busily engage**. 
Jt/NE 20, 1903. 
in casting out his line and hauliijg it in again. Sud- 
denly he gave a jerk, and swearing softly to himself, 
reeled in a plump sea porgy. Whenever Ben fished 
and was especially pleased or displeased with his catch, 
he would give vent to his feelings with a low, muttered' 
oath, much to our amusement. 
The perch and porgies bit well, but no bass had' 
taken hold as yet. A pair of either of the former 
put up a good fight and often deceives the angler, wiio 
thinks he has a bass. After we had been here a couple 
of hours, the fish stopped bitin.c: and the Veteran or- 
dered a move. We pulled up the anchor and started 
for the Farms, in Haverstraw Bay, which was another 
good fishing ground. 
The Hudson is certainly a beautiful river, and in ittany 
parts retains something of its old wildness'. One of 
the most picturesque stretches is Haverstraw Bay, Ijor-; 
dered on the east by Croton Point and low, roiling 
hills, and on the west by high, rugged mountains. 
Reaching the Farms, which, by the way, is the name; 
given to a large oyster bed situated near the .center' 
of the bay, we let go the anchor and brought out our 
fishing tackle again. 
"'Here goes for a bass," said the Veteran, putting a 
dainty morsel of shedder crab on his hook, and throw- 1 
ing out a long cast. "That ought to fetch one," he 
added. _ And so it did, for a few minutes later, instead 
of reeling in the old-timed porgy or perch, a brilliant, 
silvery pound bass came swinging into the boat. 
"That's a fine one," said Ben. "Mebbe there's more 
around. Al, hand me them sand worms; I guess I'll 
try both kinds o' bait ter once." 
_ To watch Ben fish was as good as a play, ..and this 
time, after arranging his tackle with the utrsrost care, 
he stood up on the seat and gave a terrific cast, send- 
ing the bait flying through the air. Plunk! it struck 
the water. "Now I'm ready fer ye," he said, pulling 
up the camp stool and sitting down with a grunt of con- 
tentment. 
Watching out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly saw 
his line jerked sharply, and then Ben commenced reel- 
ing in at a great rate. "I got ye this time," he mut- 
tered, betwen soft curses of excitement. "Al, let's have 
the net," he continued. "Oh, pshaw! Ben," said Al, dis- 
paragingly, "that's no bass." And to the former's dis- 
comfort and my disgust, Al's statement proved true, 
for instead of a bright, shining bass he brought in a 
huge, wriggling eel. Ben turned to Al as he pulled 
the squirming, yellow creature over the gunwale of the 
launch. 
"Hand me them pipe tongs, Al, please," he said to 
that worthy, who promptly fished out a pair of villain- 
ous-looking iron tongs. "This is the rig for these fel- 
lers," he said, making a fruitless grab at his unwel- 
come catch. "I'll squeeze ye," he muttered, and open- 
ing the tongs wider, snatched again for the wily eel's 
head. Finally, after several unsuccessful attempts and 
a good deal of quiet swearing to himself, Ben managed 
to seize him firmly, and soon gave him the coup de 
grace. 
It was now nearly noon, but still the fish kept on bit- 
ing, and now and again some one would catch a small 
bass. Something tugged at my line and then com- 
menced shaking it like a dog shakes a stick. I knew 
what this meant, a-.d after reeling in the big two-pound 
eel I turned birr over to Ben for further care. 
Lunch time at hand, we made a good meal of boiled 
hard-shelled crabs, and five or six of these sweet and 
delicious shellfish combined with fresh home-made 
bread and butter, greatly relieves the hungry angler's 
appetite. 
Toward the middle of the afternoon we put the fish- 
ing tackle away and steamed down the river. Half way 
•between the Farms and the Point the Veteran discov- 
ered a flock of ducks ahead, and with the aid of the 
glasses distinguished them to be nine fat little ruddies 
dancing and bobbing on the water. "We'll both go 
[after these," he said to me, as the launch stopped, and 
Al pulled the duck boat alongside. "You sit well for- 
Iward and I'll get in behind you." When we were all 
arranged in the boat we slipped under the stern of the 
Buttercup and made for the unsuspecting flock. 
"My goodness!" said Al suddenly. "Here comes a 
steamboat up behind us and there's a rowboat ahead 
that's going to get right between us and those ducks," 
'he continued excitedly. 
"Well, get to work, Al, and scull harder," answered 
ithe Veteran. "Maybe we can beat them yet." Al 
puffed and panted as he sent the duck boat surging 
along, but we crossed the rowboat's bow, and the 
steamer was still a good distance behind. "You take 
a sitting shot," whispered the Veteran, "and then we'll 
give them three barrels when they get up." About 
forty yards from the ducks he said, "Now give it to 
them," and raising up I fired, knocking two over, while 
the remaining seven arose with a whirr from the 
water. Bang, bang! and five came tumbling out of the 
air to the Veteran's right and left, while I managed to 
bring one down with my left barrel. Eight ruddy 
ducks lay floating on the water, but the ninth eluded 
our parting salute and skimmed away. 
"Those are the first good ducks we have killed in 
some time," said the Veteran, and we were all very 
much elated over our success, for such an opportunity 
was a rare one. The launch came along and we con- 
tinued on our way. Beyond the Point Al, who had 
been keeping a lookout for ducks, pointed to the left 
and said, "Just look at that for a bunch of ducks!" 
And there appeared what looked like a flock of twenty 
or thirty big coot. 
"Hush!" said Al nervously, "they'll hear that bell 
sure if you ring it." 
"Well," answered the Veteran, laughing at Al's ex- 
treme caution in not frightening the flock, "Ducks as 
wild as that had better get up and clear out, for nobody 
will get near them. You go after these," he said, turn- 
ing to me, and needless to say I promptly obeyed the 
order. 
Al kept telling me not to get excited as we neared 
the ducks, and when niy heart was fairly thumping with 
that malady, I heard him say in the most disgusted 
voice behind me, "Oh, pshaw! they ain't any ducks at 
all, only net corks." ' ■ 
"What?" I said, raising up and peering over the 
screen. Sure enough there was a large bunch of corks 
