1^6 
FOREST AND ^ STREAM, "^f 
a club and some molasses candy — but instead of com- 
menting on it I annex it hereto to speak for itself: 
"Le Sueur,_ Minn., Feb. 4.— Special— Henry Brilcut, 
of Lake Prairie, west of here, had a close call for his life 
last night. 
"He and Miss Bernice, eldest daughter of William 
Woesthocker, who lives near St. Peter, have lately be- 
come betrothed, and he was on his way last evening to a 
betrothal party at the home of his lady love, carrying with 
him a large basket of popcorn and a bundle of cakes of 
molasses candy in the manufacture of which he particu- 
larly excels. Most of the way lay through thick woods 
along the river, and he had not gone a mile when, to his 
horror, he was attacked by a pack of seven large gray 
timber wolves. Cutting a club to have ready for defense 
if the worst should come to the worst, he took to his 
heels and ran for his life, dropping his basket of popcorn, 
which impeded his flight. For a mile and a half he ran 
at the top of his speed, but by that time he was com- 
pletely exhausted, and the ravenous animals close at his 
heels. 
"Too tired to run any more, he sprang into the branches 
of a small tree close at hand, dropping his club and the 
molasses candy, and having the lower part of his legs 
quite badly torn by the claws of the wolves just before 
he got high enough to be out of reach. Almost imme- 
diately, however, he laid hold of a rotten branch, which 
broke beneath his grasp, and he fell into the snow, at the 
mercy of the beasts below. 
"Determined to sell his life as dearly as possible, he 
sprang to his feet, and, as he did so, saw a strange sight 
around him. When the molasses candy had fallen from 
his hands, the wolves had sprung upon it, torn the pack- 
age open, and every animal had seized a piece and tried 
to eat it. The candy, slightly warmed by the heat of their 
mouths, had given way to the pressure of the white teeth 
into it, but had refused to let them be withdrawn, and 
every wolf, his mouth stuck tight together, as helpless as 
a muzzled dog and frightened at the strange situation, 
was rolling about in the snow, uttering mournful whines 
and tearing at his jaws with his fore paws. 
"When Brilcut had recovered from the amazement which 
at first overwhelmed him, he killed all the wolves with the 
club and proceeded on his way to the party, where he 
promised Miss Bernice a fine silk dress from the proceeds 
of the wolf scalps." 
If Little Red Riding Hood had only handed out a block 
of taffy to that old wolf as it lay ensconced in her grand- 
mother's bed, how diflrerent would have been the history 
as heard in the nursery. 
I don't know who this individual may be who concocts 
these rabbit-scythe and wolf-taffy stories, but he certainly 
is a "good one," and his fame should extend round the 
world. Charles Cristadoro. 
Mm 
WW' 
AND OUN 
Life in the Woods. 
Ill,-— The Gorge. 
Beaver Lake and vicinity was one of our favorite spots 
'for making "drives." There were several places in this 
neighborhood where if deer were started from a certain 
direction they were almost always sure to follow run- 
ways, and once started on them the physical formation of 
the country was such that they were compelled to pass 
given points or turning back meet their pursuers. It 
was a practice of ours to send members of our party 
around on trails to get to the most advantageous spots 
for shooting, and then, after enough time had elapsed, 
one or more of those left behind would start in and make 
the "drive." I have nothing to say for or against this 
method of hunting, but for the sake of adding my expe- 
rience to that of others, I will state that I have as 
often shot deer on a fair and square still-hunt alone as I 
have succeeded in capturing them by using this strategy. 
Our favorite "drive" in the Beaver Lake region we 
called the "Gorge." The reason for the name was ample. 
High above the waters of the lake rose a ledge the sides 
of which were one hundred feet or more perpendicular 
in some places, and formed of barren rocks. This ledge 
was of an average width of thirty rods or more, and start- 
ing from a rather hilly country beyond it extended about 
one-third of a mile along the lake. The_final approach 
to it was broad and easy, but along its sides were only 
two places where man or beast could descend with any 
safety until the other end was reached. Here it ran out 
by two narrow gulleys, guarded on each side and in front 
by high masses of rock. These gulleys passed out, one to 
the end of the lake and the other to a broad stretch of 
level country along the Pembine Creek. The Colonel 
had discovered the place, and at first glance his military 
training had told him it was the key to the position. He 
was right. On that ledge, in the thick hazel brush, the old 
bucks, in early fall, loved to hide away and sun their 
fat sides in supreme laziness. Later, on that ledge, the 
fawns, when bereft of the motherly does, were wont to 
gather. It was indeed a famous resort. 
It was a wild, lonesome sort of a place in the Gorge, 
which was really the outlet proper. Rough rocks as large 
as houses laid around promiscuously, as if Vulcan or 
some other god of mythology had been at play there and 
tossed them about as the small boy does his snowballs. 
On one side toward the lake were dark swamps, through 
which the outlet of the lake bubbled with a mournful 
sound as it sped away to join the river in its flight to 
the Great Lakes. The pine trees stood thick and tail 
there, and made weird uncanny sounds as they swayed to 
and fro and in places rubbed against one another. It was 
always cold there. The air always moved between the 
rocks with a chill, damp draught, and bird or squirrel 
seemed seldom to invade its precincts. I noted all these 
things one early morning, as, perched upon a rock, I 
waited and listened and watched with all my eyes. The 
minutes rolled by and no sound broke the silence. When 
suddenly what was that? A twig snapped. Between the 
trees I saw something move. It must be the Colonel 
coming on the "drive," but no; out steps a half grown 
fawn with dainty tread, with head thrown up and ears 
turned back. I let him come. I count him mine. With 
throbbing heart I aim as best I can and press the trigger, 
but before the crack of the rifle is heard a leaning tree 
lets forth a direful, curdling squeak, and the deer, with 
lightning quickness, is gone. A bullet with a crash that 
sets the echoes speeding far and wide, flies after him. 
Again I count the minutes and when the rest come to 
ask my luck, I tell them they will surely find a dead deer 
a little way back in the ravine. However, they look, I 
look, and we all look, but in vain. I hit a tree and that 
was all. The old hunters say: "Charlie, hereafter be- 
ware of squeaking trees." 
But that was only once. Another morning finds me 
at the same place, cold and shivering as before. Two 
shots, not far distant, ring out upon the air; and the ting- 
ling of expectation warms me in an instant. I wait and 
wait and wait. From the ravine on the left comes one of 
$Ue drivers, but at a sign stands motionless to await the 
advent of the others. The two from the other "stands" 
soon appear, and they, too, wait for the Colonel. We 
have nearly given up, when suddenly from between the 
rocks, with the velocity of an express train, there dart 
three deer running as only scared deer can. A quick 
aim, the gun speaks out, the smoke settles around in an 
impenetrable cloud, but above the noise I hear someone 
say, "There goes one down," and my heart bounds with 
joy. Then bang, bang, bang, bang, on my right, and as 
the smoke clears away I see the two fawns darting by 
the two on my right, and mid a parting trio of shots from 
us all they escape without a hair harmed. 
But this is only one of many experiences at the 
"Gorge." One morning we put -the Old Trapper and 
Mack on the stands, and I began the drive. Very soon 
I hear Mack's gun crack twice, and not long after the 
.45-90 of the Old Trapper spoke in no uncertain tones. I 
hurry along and find my friends holding a jubilee over 
a big fat doe. We dress and hang her up, when the Old 
Trapper, returning from the brook where he had washed 
his hands, exclaims : "Boys, where did this blood come 
from?" Looking along the ground we find every sign of 
a wounded deer having passed along and escaped unno- 
ticed into the swamp beyond. We take the track, and 
while the others follow along I run around and gain the 
other side and just in time, .for as I reached the other 
end out jumped a deer. Hurriedly I shoot and miss and 
then, realizing the folly of shooting blindly even at point 
lalank range, I take more aim and at the second shot the 
deer turns a somersault and falls dead. It was a nice 
buck fawn, and had been shot in the hind leg just above 
the gamble. Investigation showed that it was one of the 
two which Mack had shot at, at long range, early in the 
"drive," and supposed he had not touched. On another 
day the Colonel, not having had much luck, took one of the 
"Gorge" stands and we drove out a nice young buck. 
When we reached his stand the Colonel was looking in 
vain for the track or some signs of blood. He had only 
a snap shot, and had about given up, when we stumbled 
on the spot and found plenty of hair and blood, which 
led to our getting the deer and carrying him in triumph 
into camp. 
But my crowning success at the "Gorge" occurred 
quite unexpectedly on this morning, and fulfilled the 
Colonel's prophecy of the night before. I had been mak- 
ing drives all the morning for the others, and so the Old 
Trapper and the Colonel finally agreed, on our way to 
camp, to "drive" the Gorge and give me a chance for a 
shot. So I started for the stand. The sun shone warm 
and bright, and as I moved slowly through the open 
pine woods I could see how sharply my shadow was cast 
before me on the ground and against the trunks of the 
trees and the big rocks. I wanted to reach the top of a 
small rocky knoll that stood near the outlet of the 
Gorge, and I knew that in order to do it it would be 
necessary for me to move very cautiously and still. 
Finally, after much toil, I reached its baseband com- 
menced the ascent, walking as carefully as if treading 
on eggs. All was still save the call now and then of an 
angry bluejay. Not a breath of air moved. The dry 
leaves that hung on the little birches around were 
motionless. Step by step I slowly advanced. My head 
reached the level of the top of the knoll. A few inches 
further and I could see my shadow commencing to show 
on the trees in the gulley beyond. A few more steps and 
I would be in the coveted place, when, with a crash that 
sent the blood racing through every vein in my body, a 
bunch of gray and white flashed before my eyes, moving 
almost squarely in front of me, and in the very bottom of 
the Gorge. The old Winchester swung to my cheek. An- 
other flash of gray and the old gun belched forth with a 
roar that set the echoes chasing one another around the 
rocks. Another flash, and again the old gun spoke, then 
all was still save the beating of my heart, which s^eemed 
almost as loud as the echoes of the shots. The smoke 
hung round me so that I could see nothing. I then ran 
to the further side of the knoll and peered out from 
the smoke, but still could see nothing. I began to grow 
cold and sick at heart. I was ready to toss my gun on 
my shoulder and return to camp, when slowly there 
raised from the ground, about twelve rods away from 
me, first an enormous pair of horns, and then the head 
and neck of a big buck. Quickly the blue barrel was 
brought to bear on him again, and as the gun cracked his 
head dropped to the ground, and by the time I reached 
him the deer was lifeless. A hurried examination showed 
one bullet hole in one ham ranging forward, and another 
through the backbone about a foot behind the shoulders, 
and the last one through the neck. A minute or two to 
stick him, and I was back on my stand to wait for the 
"drive" to be finished, for this deer I had started, and 
there was a show for some to come from the other direc- 
tion, but none came. 
In the course of twenty minutes I heard the welcome 
whistling of the boys. I called them to me and told them 
I thought I had wounded a deer, which I wished them_ to 
help me look for. The Old Trapper, lighting his pipe, 
followed my directions, and soon found blood. In a 
moment or two he stumbled on the deer. "You didn't 
fool me any," was the first thing he said. "I knew well 
enough you had a deer, but I didn't expect to find an ox." 
The buck, after hanging in the woods about ten days, 
weighed 207 . pounds. Had he been fat he would have 
pulled the beam at not less than 240. He had a peculiarly 
large and broad pair of horns, and these, with his head 
and neck, look down on me from the post of honor in 
the dining room. But this was not all of that eventful 
day. After we had dressed and hung up this monarch, 
the Colonel and myself started for camp, while the Old 
Trapper went to look at his traps along the creek. While 
on the way down I remarked to the Colonel that I had 
heard three shots, and we were both of the opinion that 
Mack also had been having some fun. 
When we reached camp Mack was inside. His face 
shone like a burnished tin pan. The pleased look had 
settled all over him, and he was wiping out his new gun, 
a Marlin, as if his life depended on the job. The minute 
I stuck my head inside the camp he thrust out his hand 
and said, "Shake." "Mack," says I, "you have killed a 
deer." "Yes, he has," echoed the Colonel. "You bet 1 
have," answered Mack. It had been Mack's ambition to 
kill a big buck. He had prowled for one in vain. He 
had stood on runways while others drove for him, but 
none ever came. He had watched, as the evening 
shadows crept through the woods, and had sat around 
their feeding grounds until almost frozen, but no_ big 
buck had he seen. But now his wish had been realized, 
and he was happy. 
I have two maxims which I constantly think of when 
deer hunting. The first is, "The unexpected always hap- 
pens." The second is of a similar nature, "All things 
come to him who waits." To me they have been proved 
many, many times. Well, the unexpected had happened 
to Mack. He had gone over to the lumber camp to get 
our mail, and also a small piece of salt pork and some 
potatoes. He was returning homeward with the above 
mentioned luxuries strapped to his back, and when within 
a quarter of a mile or so of camp, lured by the brightness 
and warmth of the sunshine and general beauty of the 
day, he had planted himself on a big log to rest and look 
around a bit. Mack had been hunting every minute of 
the time and had had his nerves all tuned up. His eye.s 
and ears had been open all the time, but luck hadn't been 
coming his way. For a long time after he_ sat down his 
eyes roamed around without seeing anything to attract 
particular attention, and he began to get sleepy. Sud- 
denly something moved the bushes on the edge of a little 
swamp on his right. They stirred in an unnatural man- 
ner. Mack was all alert, and when out walked a big buck 
not far from him and walked along as unconcerned as 
if there was no man nearer to him than Oshkosh, he was 
not a bit excited (so he says). Carefully he drew a bead 
on the big fellow's shoulder, and fired. Again and again 
the .44-40 spoke, and at the last shot down fell Mr. Deer. 
Mack baptized his new knife in the deer's throat, and 
then hurried to camp for help, and had just arrived when 
we came in. All three immediately hurried back to the 
spot, and in short order the buck was hanging in a tree. 
He weighed over 180 pounds, and a curious fact about 
him was that one eye had been put out, apparently only a 
short time before he had been shot. Evidently it nad 
been done in a fight, for his neck and ears were covered 
with fresh scratches. If he could have spoken, he might 
have told us, "You ought to see the other fellow." How- 
