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or fifty others working around eamp on his numerous 
contracts. 
Pedro's kris or knife was a very handsome one, and 
the only one I ever saw him use; he valued it highly be- 
cause it had belonged to his father, and his father's father 
before him, and although I have several times heard him 
offered what to him must have seemed a fabulous price 
for it, he would never consider the offer for an instant, 
his invariable reply being, "Ah, no quierro." This venera- 
tion for the family heirlooms is very general among the 
Moros, and it is one of their marked characteristics. 
Lomocdi was the kris bearer, and it was his duty to 
always remain within reach of Pedro, so that the latter 
had but to stretch out his hand to find his kris ready to 
it should occasion arise that he needed it. Then came 
another little fellow whose name I never knew, because 
on his first appearance in camp he was dubbed by the 
men "grande barriga" on account of his aldermanic 
paunch, and was never afterward called anything else. 
His duty was to carry the buyera, the box containing the 
ingredients for a mouthful of betel, or, as the Moros call 
it, buyo. These ingredients are four in number — the nut 
of the buyo palm, fresh betel leaves, a sort of lime made 
from powdered shells, and some leaves of native tobacco, 
which I think are soaked in water or some other liquid. 
These are carried in small metal boxes which are often 
made of silver beautifully inlaid and carved, and which 
are in turn kept in a larger box of the same design, 
usually suspended from the neck of an attendant. The 
proper method of chewing buyo is as follows : One of the 
nuts is split in quarters lengthwise, and one of these 
quarters wrapped in two or three betel leaves ; this is then 
rubbed across the teeth and gums several times and then 
stowed away in the cheek. Then a very little of the lime 
is scooped up on the end of the thumb nail — and be it 
said in passing, to have your nails as long as possible 
is quite the proper thing in Moroland, and is considered 
a mark of rank, as no one can do manual labor and have 
long finger nails — and conveyed to the tip of the tongue, 
which in turn carries it to the nut and leaves already in 
the cheek ; lastly a piece of the tobacco is rubbed over the 
teeth and gums and sent to join the rest, and all you have 
to do is to chew it. I tried it once when I couldn't well 
get out of it, but never again, thank you; it nearly took 
all the skin off my mouth. Tabasco sauce and cayenne 
pepper are mild and soothing in their effects compared 
with it, but among the Moros everyone uses it, men, 
women, and children being addicted to the habit. 
The third of Pedro's attendants was a cunning little 
fellow scarcely more than a baby, who had nothing to do 
but hold the umbrella when it was not in use, although 
sometimes, when Pedro brought his rifle into camp with 
him, Lomocdi carried that and the baby carried the kris. 
Pedro was a mighty shrewd old fellow, and nobody's 
fool, and some of his remarks are well worthy of record. 
One chilly, rainy afternoon he came into camp with a bad 
cold and went to the doctor to get something to relieve it. 
The doctor, who was always ready to help out our Moro 
friends, gave the old man a big dose of quinine with a 
stiff drink of whiskey on top of it, which of course 
warmed him up and made him feel better at once; so 
when the effects began to wear off a little, he sought his 
friend Pershing and got another drink, and later came to 
my tent, where he got still another, and then announcing 
that he had a swarm of bees in his head, he departed for 
his house, which stood over the hill just outside of camp. 
Now, on a box in the front part of my tent just as you 
came in there always stood a bottle of whiskey, a jar of 
water, and two< tin cups, one for the Moros and one for 
my other friends, as I used to encourage Pedro and 
other Dattos of my acquaintance to make themselves per- 
fectly at home in the tent, the only restrictions being that 
they must neither sit on my bed or spit on the floor, quite 
a necessary rule in a country where everyone chews betel. 
Pedro had often seen one of my brother officers come in, 
pour out a drink of whiskey, say, "How !" and toss it off. 
He came into the tent one morning a day or two after he 
had had his first drink of whiskey, and without saying 
a word walked over to the stand, poured himself out a 
drink as he had seen others do, and after gulping it down, 
wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and looked at me 
in a triumphantly wicked manner, as much as to say, 
"Ain't I learning American ways, though?" Just to hear 
what he would answer, I shook my head at him in a sor- 
rowful manner and said, "Oh, Pedro, Pedro ! You know 
your good book (the Koran) says that you mustn't drink 
strong water, and I am surprised at you. Where do you 
expect to go when you die if you go on in this way?" 
He grinned at me in a sheepish sort of a way, like a 
small boy caught in his mother's jam closet, shifted un- 
easily from one foot to the other, and then replied : "Now, 
see here, mi capitan, the good book is all right, of course, 
as far as it goes, and will do very well for the women 
and children to follow closely, but you and I as men of 
the world know that a little whiskey is never going to 
hurt anyone, and what difference does it make, so long 
as no one sees me take it, and the pandita (priest) don't 
find it out?" 
Another time we were sitting in my tent, and the con- 
versation drifted along until we found ourselves discuss- 
ing the Christian and Mohammedan religions. I was 
greatly surprised to find how well posted Pedro was on 
the subject of Christianity, and rather suspect that one of 
the many missionaries the Spaniards sent through the 
country from time to time had been trying to proselyte 
him. Finally, after looking at the two religions from every 
point of view, Pedro closed the discussion by saying that, 
in his opinion, there was very little difference between 
them, after all. Said he: "Mi capitan, the only differ- 
ence between my religion and yours, is that I read my 
good book from right to left, while you read yours from 
left to right; otherwise our two religions are precisely 
the same." 
The Moros, while being ostensibly Mohammedans, are 
intensely superstitious, and believe in all sorts of evil 
spirits, witchcraft and spells, and, as far as I could dis- 
cover, pay quite as much attention to worshipping and 
keeping the many devils in which they believe propitiated 
and in good humcr, as they do to their legitimate religion. 
In every one of their houses I entered, I found books on 
witchcraft, magic, and the interpretation of dreams, and 
no Moro would ever think of going into battle Without his 
anting-anting (charms to keep him from danger) wrapped 
in the iolds of his sash. 
I tried on a number of occasions to get Pedro to dis- 
cuss this subject with me, but never succeeded in getting 
him to say very much about it, other than that it was well 
to be on the safe side, and that it didn't pay to take 
chances. As he put it, "Of course I know that Allah is 
Allah, and that there is no God but God, but I don't know 
that there are no evil spirits and witches, so I keep on 
the safe side, and while I worship God as the pandita 
tells me to, I also try to do what I can to keep in favor 
with the Bul-bul and the others at the same time." 
I asked him one day why it was that the Moros black- 
ened their teeth, and he said that the only animals 
in Moroland that had white teeth were dogs and monkeys, 
and that if a man was going along the road at night and 
should meet_ the' Bul-bul, and the latter saw his teeth 
gleaming white in the darkness, he might think it was a 
dog, and so, as no one would like to be taken for a dog 
by the Bul-bul, they blackened their teeth in order that 
there might be no mistake. 
One day someone gave Pedro a pair of low patent- 
leather shoes about three sizes too small for him, but into 
which he managed to squeeze his feet. Naturally they 
hurt him, but he couldn't seem to understand why. I 
told him that they were too small for him, but this he 
wouldn't admit. I finally got him to take them off, how- 
ever, and of course he was relieved at once. That night 
when he went home he carried the shoes slung around his 
neck by a piece of string, and the next morning when he 
came into camp without them, I asked him where they 
were, and was informed that upon reaching home the 
night before, his pandita had examined them and found 
that they were inhabited by a devil, so they had burned 
them up. 
It was_when the cholera came to Moroland that Pedro 
was in his glory. He had borrowed a rifle and some am- 
munition from me, and morning and evening he would go 
out and fire three shots in the air on each side of his 
house in order, as he said, to scare the cholera devil and 
make him afraid to come into the inclosure. All the 
Moros did this, and while the cholera lasted you could 
hear the banging of guns and canons at all hours of the 
day and night. We thought at first that the firing was a 
salute to some dead Datto or Sultan, but later learned 
that it was done to scare or kill the cholera devils which 
the Moros believed hid in the grass and gulleys awaiting 
a chance to get into the fbrts and inclosures. 
When I asked Pedro how he explained the fact that 
although the Sultan of Cardingillian, one of our friends, 
had been very careful and thorough in firing off his rifle 
and lantakas each day, the cholera had nevertheless 
come into his house and killed him, he sadly shook his 
head and replied that Cardingillian had always been a 
v^ry poor shot, or that possibly the cholera devil had been 
hiding in a ravine and so escaped. Then he went on to 
tell me how only the morning before he, Pedro, had 
actually seen one of the cholera devils hiding in the long 
grass close to his house and had fired at it, and was sure 
that he had hit it, because it had flown away screaming. 
Just before Christmas came I asked Pedro what one 
thing he most desired in all the world, and he replied 
without hesitation that his chief ambition in life was to 
own a revolver ; so I promised to get him one, but before 
I could do so I was sent home sick. A few months ago 
1 received a letter written by one of the interpreters, but 
dictated by Pedro, which read as follows : 
"My very respected son" (Pedro adopted me early in 
our acquaintance), "I am well and I hope you are well 
I have not yet received the revolver. When you left here 
I had only two wives, and I know you will be glad to 
learn that now I have three. Please send the revolver. 
If you want me to get. you any ancolds or sarongs or 
krises I will do so. Do not forget to send me the revolver. 
Your father, (Signed) Ahmi Deringbam." 
I sent him the revolver. Ahmi Commissario. 
H Memories of Old New York. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
It has occurred to me, an octogenarian sportsman of the 
old school, a whilom contributor to sporting journals and 
magazines of three score years and more agone, that some 
reminiscent lines of those times might interest your 
readers in contrasting the old and new ways of sportsmen, 
and the conditions then and at present in vogue. There 
was no leisure class then, nor any moneyed class, either, 
for that matter; every one was busied in one way or the 
other in making a living. Indeed, as a matter of fact, ac- 
cording to a little pamphlet still extant in some of our 
older libraries, there were not more than 200 men in the 
city of New York reported to be worth $100,000; but still 
there were many ardent sportsmen in counting rooms and 
among professional men, hence economy, both of time and 
of money, was an important consideration with them. 
Fortunately, however, for the gunner and for the fisher- 
man of this vicinity, he did not have to go far afield in 
search of game, as Connecticut, Long Island, and the Jer- 
sey meadows and stubble fields afforded him ample sport 
in the way of feathered game, while both the Hudson and 
East rivers abounded in game fish of several varieties. 
Indeed, the sportsmen of New York city who could afford 
but a few hours from his daily work could usually count 
upon a fair bag, without ever leaving Manhattan Island, 
both of woodcock and of quail, or might fill his creel 
from the waterj about Hell Gate, where striped bass were 
constantly troljed for, weighing, as reported in a noted 
old fisherman's note-book, from 10 to 25 pounds. As to 
the prevalence of feathered game on Manhattan Island 
in the late '30s, I recall that when a pupil at Huddart's 
great school in Bloomingdale (now 77th street, but then 
far out in the country), our teachers coming out to school 
every morning in a stage wagon. Not so, however, Henry 
William Herbert, better known to your readers as Frank 
Forrester, who always drove out in his dog-cart, in which 
were apt to be stowed away a brace of Irish setters and 
shooting accoutrements, ready for an afternoon's sport on 
the upper end of the island. Strange as it may appear to 
your present readers, Frank Forrester was a pedagogue, 
and one of the finest classical scholars of the country, an 
artist of acknowledged merit, an Oxonian, the son of the 
Dean of Manchester, scion of one of England's noblest 
families ; as a classical teacher, the idol of his pupils. To 
him I owe the development of whatever sporting proclivi- 
ties I may possess; as they certainly were initiated in his 
839 
■ rT,-.,^--^^^.-^,., „ .-■ _ 
class-room, interpolated as were his lectures with a fun- 
ning fire of sporting lore and anecdote, for, although he 
exacted thorough preparation, still he was sportsman be- 
fore all, and an intelligent question in that line was sure 
to draw forth a wealth of valuable information. 
The modern sportsman often possesses scientific knowl- 
edge which he is apt to apply to the investigation of pro- 
jectiles and explosives, and to his initiative and applica- 
tion do we owe the many and great improvements in our 
sporting implements; thus our "Joe Mantons" and "West- 
ley Richards" have gradually given way to the breech- 
loader, to the hammerless gun and to the chokebore ; but 
it was only after a hard struggle that the old sportsman 
was induced to lay aside his cherished double-barreled 
fowling piece and accept the new-fangled breechloader, 
which he had at first characterized as a mere plaything 
more dangerous to the man at the breech than to the 
object at which it was aimed. Indeed, it was only when 
he realized that he was being cutshot and outclassed that, 
however unwillingly, he adopted the new arm; yet his 
"Joe Manton" and his "Westley Richards" will always 
have a niche in his sanctum sanctorum. 
The breechloader has passed through many changes and 
improvements since its inception, and before reaching its 
present perfect condition ; but the evolution was wonder- 
fully rapid from the rickety old German and French 
movements and pin-fire to the present central-fire, and the 
old sportsman was about half right when he proclaimed 
that in its early stages it was a murderous machine. 
Awkward and burdensome as were our old-time imple- 
ments, it is doubtful if the sportsman of to-day derives 
a moity of the pleasure from the care of his scientifically 
constructed implement that his predecessor did in the 
necessarily personal manipulation of his old muzzleloader, 
for the older sportsman's day was not ended by any 
means when he came in from the field until he had de- 
tached his barrels from the stock, washed and swabbed 
them out, had unscrewed, the nipples with his nipple 
wrench, and assured himself that they were clean, had re- 
filled his great powder-flask with a pound or more of 
powder, as likewise his shot-pouch; inspected his percus- 
sion-cap box, satisfied himself that his great leather boots 
(there were no rubber boots in those days) were properly 
dried and greased. Yet this was to him simply a labor 
of love, as then, with slippered feet upon the hob, 
pipe in mouth, he glanced with complacency at his fowling 
piece in the rack, bright and glistening, and pendant ac- 
coutrements ready for the morrow's foray. The modern 
sportsman is apt to be dilettante, as he has naught of this 
to do; he scarcely has to search even for the game, which 
is often preserved, and his servant or his game-keeper 
cares for gun and accoutrement. 
Doubtless the old sportsman would be outshot nowa- 
days at the traps, but he might reflect with some satisfac- 
tion that our crack pigeon shots do not as a rule shine 
in the field. As there were no traps in the old days, 
neither were there any public kennels, and but very few 
private ones, almost every sportsman owning and boast- 
ing of his brace of setters or pointers, albeit of uncertain 
pedigree. Indeed, the very best dog that I ever shot over, 
and I have shot over a good many in various parts of the 
world, was picked up a puppy on a public road, a derelict. 
After training him, I found him as nearly perfect as possi- 
ble, equally good on quail, woodcock or English snipe. 
So much for pedigree. The Hackensack meadows were 
then alive with English snipe in spring and autumn, 
affording the very best practice for dog and gun ; in fact, 
the sportsman who could average a good bag of English 
snipe needed no pigeon trap for practice, nor pedigree for 
his dog. 
Wildfowl shooting always possessed great fascination 
for sportsmen, young or old, being eagerly availed of in 
the old days by those who could afford the time and 
money, as it required a considerable expenditure of either 
or both, especially of time, there being no railway along 
either our Long Island or our Jersey shores; conse- 
quently it, necessitated long, tedious drives through deep 
sand barrens in order to reach the eastern end of Long 
Island or the Jersey shores, while to reach Peconic or 
Shinnecock bays involved a two days' wagon ride. Al- 
though there is still a large migration in spring and 
autumn over those bays, at the time of which I write it 
was inconceivably great. In the early spring myriads of 
swan, geese, and brant, and an endless variety of snipe^ 
came north from their southern feeding grounds, bound 
to the Arctic regions, returning with their young during 
summer and autumn, thus affording fine sport. And even 
at present, despite the breechloader and the pot-hunter 
and the unsportsmanlike spring shooting of the fowl on 
their way to their breeding grounds, the migration still 
affords fairly_ good sport ; indeed, I have recently heard of 
a case in point where a member of one of the Peconic 
shooting clubs left New York by early train, reached the 
club house by eleven o'clock, got into his shooting togs 
by noon, and was back by afternoon train in his New : 
York club in time for dinner with a bag of 67 large bay 
snipe. I also recall that somewhere in the '80s Messrs, 
Wagstaff and Remseii, noted sportsmen, shot from their 
sunken sand boxes in Shinnecock Bay 105 : geese in three 
days' shooting, taking no heed, of course, of the swarms 
of broadbills and black duck passing their stands in tanta- 
lizing procession. Old gunners will recall with pleasure 
their sport at South Oyster Bay, at Amityville and there- 
abouts, and will also remember the Vanderwater House, 
and Gelston Smith's old house, and the Hoff brothers' 
where, out of batteries, they bagged the black duck, broad- 
bill, and sheldrakes. 
Bay snipe in endless variety and number always at- 
tracted the summer gunner young and old to the meadows 
along our coasts, but the Quogue stands were always 
favorites with the New York sportsmen, and were espe- 
cially noted from the fact that Governor (afterward 
General) Dix presided over them with autocratic sway. 
Indeed, his wonderful prowess with his old muzzleloader 
was, and is still, the burden of many a Quogonian lyric 
recounting gubernatorial exploit. Barnegat Bay then vied 
with the waters of Long Island Sound as a nesting place 
of the wildfowl during their annual migration, and 
afforded perhaps better sport owing to its inaccessibility 
its shallow waters, and its sand spits being literally alive 
with fowl. Nor did the comparatively little destruction 
by native gunners tend to diminish their numbers ma- 
terially or to disturb them. Swan, geese, brant, and ducks 
endless in variety and numbers would in foggy weather 
