l70 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[[March 4, igog. 
In the Land of the Espartillo. 
Artemisa, Cuba.^ — Editor Forest and Stream: Sitting 
on my porch to-day looking over the immense savannas 
of espartillo (prairie grass) stretching away for ten miles 
to the blue range of mountains forming the backbone of 
the Province of Pinar del Rio (and known as the Sierra 
de Los Organos), and reading my Forest and Stream 
and enjoying every word of it, the idea came to me, why 
don't you Iry tO' do something for those who have done 
so much for your pleasure? So here goes. 
A friend and myself left New York on the Ward Line 
steamer Mexico. We were a jolly crowd, and after the 
first day were favored with smooth sea and lovely moon- 
light nights. Three and one-half days from New York 
we passed between the Morro and Punta forts which 
guard the entrance to Havana Bay, and jiist at daybreak 
glided in over a glassy sea, and cast anchor near all that 
remains of the once stately Maine. The picturesque old 
city looms up grand and strange to those who see it for 
the first time, and to m.e each return brings forth some 
new and pleasant impression. As the Ward Line ships 
do not dock, a tug came out and transferred us, bag and 
baggage, tO' the Aduana or Custom House, where the 
polite manners of the officials and the lack of "roping off" 
give an agreeable contrast to New York methods. Since 
the war great improvements are noticed on every side, and 
with our protection and guarantee Cuba is^ to-day almost 
a part of the United States. Three rriillion- dollars in the 
treasury in two years is not such a bad record for the new 
republic. Public schools are being established all over the 
island, good roads extend in every direction, and Cuba is 
fast arising from the ruins of the late war. 
We spent a few days in Havana riding on the many 
excellent electric car lines, and patronizing the neat little 
rubber-tired cabs that will take two a mile for 15 cents. 
One thing that attracted my attention was the large num- 
ber of Americans engaged in renting furnished rooms, 
and who seem to all be doing well. 
There is a boom on now in the suburbs reached by the 
new car lines, and some fortunes have been made in the 
Vadado, the beautiful villa section fronting the sea west 
of the citv, and new towns and streets are laid out along 
the heights following the line of the Marianao electric 
railroad. 
We leave Havana and its cool fruit ices with regret, 
and take the Western Railroad at 7 A,. M. from Cristina 
station, and find it a most enjoyable ride. Out from 
Havana we climb past beautiful white, broad-porticoed 
quintas nestling among the deep green of the orange and 
bananas, with the great royal palms towering over all and 
dominating the landscape. One might forget everything 
seen in Cuba, but never the royal palms. On many of the 
great old sugar and colfee estates the palms were planted 
in four rows from the entrances to the palatial dwellings, 
and the effect of these towering rows of great gray trunks 
crowned with feathery foliage which seem to meet far 
down the vista, is something you must see to appreciate. 
On our train rushes, stopping often at little flower-em- 
bowered stations, and two hours from Havana we reach 
Artemisa. Here the vegetation changes, and we realize 
that we are in the heart of the Vuelta Abajo, or tobacco 
region. The soil is a bright red, and the plant a vivid 
green, forming a beautiful contrast. 
Artemisa is a hustling little town, and most of the citi- 
zens are employed in the tobacco industry. We find our 
rig waiting, and set out for our ranch, eight miles dowfi 
the stone highway. The Spaniards evidently knew how to 
build roads, and this splendid calzada would be an exam- 
ple to our road makers at home. Running from Havana 
to San Cristobal, 75 miles, it is beautifully crowned and 
raised over all low lands, passes over streams on stone 
culverts, and is shaded by great algaroba, mango, almond 
and ceiba trees. Every kilometer is a numbered stone 
post, and every three kilometers a road worker has his 
house, he being held responsible for his section ; and this 
is the ideal way to care for a road. As we ride along we 
note the effects of the war in the ruins of wayside inns 
and graveyards, and a fine old church rears its roofless 
walls near the little .town of Mangas. The character of 
the soil changes again, and on both sides of the road are 
great abandoned ranches which were before the war filled 
with cattle, horses, mules and sheep. Our ranch lies on 
thie slope of the hill, s half mile back from the highway, 
and as we pass in we hear the sweet notes of a hunting 
horn and soon a pack of eight American hounds go yelp- 
ing down the trail of a deer, followed by three horsemen, 
one with a Winchester rifle, one a double muzzleloader, 
and the other a single breechloader. Deer are plenty here, 
and often we taste venison; but the only other animal, ex- 
cept the wild dog and pig, is the jutia, a kind of opossum, 
and very savory eating. 
The country people are simple and unsophisticated; but 
poor, indeed, is the "guajiro" who will not invite El 
Americano to get down and take a cup of coffee. Coffee 
is the great beverage here, and they take it morning, 
noon and night, and between times ; black as ink, but 
clear and fragrant. The coffee is toasted black, ground 
to a powder and placed, a teaspoon to a cup, in a flannel 
bag, sewed to a tin ring with wire handle, and then hot 
water is poured throtigh as many times as necessary. 
This is a simple way,, and the coffee is always good. 
Until the American occupation, drinking of liquor 
was not carried to excess, but the price at which the 
Cuban cane brandy, or "aguardiente" (S cents a quart 
|)Ottle), could be obtained, was a great temptation, 
With Palma came internal revenue taxes, but alcohol 
could not be taxed, as it is burned extensively in 
heating lamps, so they resorted to an ingenious ex- 
pedient, of forcing all low-priced alcohol to be mixed 
with camphor, and the disgust of the topers when they 
tried to drink the camphorated alcohol, was very 
amusing. 
Ducks, cranes and many kinds of water birds are num- 
erous, and every night the peculiar piping cry of the 
"yaguasa," a handsome little duck, can be heard. Be- 
fore leaving New York, I bought a handsome little 
hammerless single-ejector gun of a well-known make, 
and I would like to warn shooters not to take a 
spring-ejector gun far from a gunshop. Many is the 
time I have had to hunt up a stick to drive out a shell 
that was a little tight, or if I wanted to change a loaded 
shell it usually refused to eject. Also the hammer did 
not always rebound, so the firing pin would lock the 
gun shut, and I would have to go home and take it 
apart. I fear I am making this too long; but I hope 
it will induce others abroad to let us hear from them, 
and, brother sportsmen, should any of you appear here, 
you will meet with a warm welcome. 
Albert C. Gallup. 
The Passing of a Weather Prophet. 
In these scientific days the business of prophesying 
has fallen into decided disrepute. Yet it by no means 
follows that there are any fewer prophets than of 
old, but instead of ascending to the housetops, as then, 
to proclaim their warnings to an awe-struck world, they 
maintain a gloomy silence, or deliver themselves in 
whispers occasionally to sympathetic ears. The fact 
is, ridicule has quite unnerved them. But there are a 
class of prophets whom it has not unnerved, and proba- 
bly never will, and these are the weather prophets. 
They are just as numerous — just as vociferous — just as 
cocksure as ever. Ridicule unnerves them not, neither 
does failure cause them to doubt the gift they believe 
to be in them. I cannot account for this, except on the 
ground of the extraordinary fascination of the weather. 
We are all subject, more or less, to this (as witness 
the conversation of ninety-nine out of every hundred 
persons who meet during the day), but there is a 
certain type of rural mind, to which it is more power- 
ful even than religion is to another type. Some may 
dispute this, but they will admit, at least, that when 
weather prophesying takes hold of a man, he becomes 
a stranger to toleration, and so carried away is he with 
conceit in his own opinions that he will die — yes, die — 
rather than admit them to be in error. 
A striking example of this was recently brought to 
my attention, and I feel I should be lacking in my duty 
if I did not publicly record it. To be brief as possible, 
then, consistent with historic accuracy: 
The Christmas holidays had passed, and life in the 
little village under the mountains (which has been in- 
troduced before, though not by name, to the readers 
of Forest and Stream) had lapsed into its regular mid- 
winter lethargy. Yet not quite so, for since Christmas 
the weather, which before was cold and rough, had 
become mild and gentle. This put a spirit of activity 
and sociability into the people quite unusual at that 
season. So that instead of hibernating in their houses, 
they came abroad to look after this or that and have 
a pleasant word with one another. The climax was 
reached one day toward the end of January, which was 
so mild that old man Sim Jenkins, the weather prophet, 
was observed making spring preparations. That even- 
ing Tim Mulcahy mentioned the fact at Jake Kiimmel- 
wasser's, which started a lively discussion on the 
weather. In the midst of it who walked in but Sim. 
"Phew! why don't you put out that stove, Jake?" 
he exclaimed. "One 'd think it was one o' them old- 
time winters." : . _ 
"Meppe," said Jake, "de vinter ain'd over so soon 
alretty." ' 
"It's over," said Sim, dogmatically. "Yes, sir, over 
and past — to all intents and purposes. I ain't a govern- 
ment expert but I know a thing or two about the 
weather. Yes, sir-ee." 
- Wirt Zaender, who occupied his usual armchair, looked 
admiringly at the prophet, but did not lessen his dis- 
tance from the, stove. Jake Kiimmelwasser heaved a 
sigh" (which might have been of pity, or weariness) and 
smoked in silence. ■ 
. Tim Mulcahy got up and looked out the window. 
"Yes, sir-ee," repeated Sim. 
"Sim," said .Tim, returning and placing his back 
demonstratively before the stove, "there's two things 
I'd never vinture to predict anything about — a woman 
and the weather!" 
"I guess not," retorted Sim; "nor about any thing 
else. Prophecy, my friend, ain't a gift that's picked 
up on the pike. However, Tim, I'll allow it's a putty 
hard thing for any one to predict about a woman. 
She's a plumb unsartin critter — that's so. _ But it's dif- 
ferent with the weather — when you know it — when you 
know it." 
"You t'ink you know it — hein?" queried Jake, with a 
gly look, between puffs. 
"J don't think it — I know I know it, so far as mortal 
man kin know natur', which the weather is a product 
thereof. For over fifty years I've made it my constant 
study, for when I was a young man it was revealed 
to me, as I may say (I'm givin' you inside facts) that 
I had a gift that way. And why not? Is there any- 
thing more necessary than a knowledge of the weather? 
Tell me that. Nothing, sartin' sure. Why,, then, 
shouldn't an all-wise Providence endow some of his 
critters with a special gift in regards to it? I ain't 
braggin'. No. nary a brag. But I can't set here and 
hear you, Jake Kiimmelwasser, or any other man, in- 
sinooate that I'm sailin' under false colors — no, sir-ee." 
"And so you b'lieve the winter's over?" said Tim 
Mulcahy, after a pause. 
"Such is my confident belief, sir," replied Sim, loftily. 
"Thin it's rather strange you don't live up to it." 
"Live up to it — what do you mean, sir?" 
"I mean," said Tim, "I notice you still cling to that 
deerskin vest." 
"Oh, pshaw!" scoffed Sim. "Mere force of habit, sir 
— mere force of habk." 
"Weather prophets are a wise lot," observed Tim, 
sententiously. "They predict an early spring, but they 
don't change their habits." 
This was more than Sim could stand. Up he jumped, 
exclaiming: "Say, Mulcahy, if you, or any other man, 
thinks that Sim Jenkins ain't got the courage of his 
opinions, watch!" With that he pulled off his coat and 
then the deerskin vest (which was indeed a comfortable 
garment, lined with red flannel and buttoning right up 
to the neck). Resuming his coat, Sim, in a state of 
nervous excitement, went on: "Now, gol darn your 
picture, what have you got to say? No, sir-ee, you 
can't bluff me. And now, Jake, you just hold on to 
that vest till I ask for it; and if any one inquires about 
the weather, say that Sim Jenkins says the winter's 
over— d' you hear? — over!" 
Without another word, he made for the door. 
"Sim," cried Tim, "sure you're not goin' home like 
that! Don't you hear the storm risin'? Come back. 
'Twas all a joke, man." 
But before he could say more, the old man had 
banged the door behind him. 
The three friends sat for a while around the stove 
listening to the whistling of the wind and the swish of 
the snow against the window and thinking of poor 
Sim, who had a tramp of over a mile before him. At 
length Tim got up and, opening the door, peeped out. 
"It's a blizzard, if ever I seen one, boys," he said, re- 
turning to his seat, and all three shook their heads. 
The next day they heard that Sim was down with 
an attack of pneumonia. Tim hastened off to see him, 
taking the vest along, but he tactfully left this with 
Mrs. Jenkins. 
"This storm ain't in the order of natur'," said Sim, 
hoarsely, as Tim took his hand. 
"I never knowed a winter that was hard afore 
Christmas and after, too. I was right in thinkin' it 
was over, for that reason and others." 
"To be sure you were," said Tim; "but don't bother 
about it. Just hurry up and get well." 
Sim heaved a profound sigh. "I don't think I'll need 
that vest any more, Tim," said he. 
It was evident the old man was weary of life now 
that the weather had betrayed him so shamefully. 
His disease rapidly grew worse, and within a week 
the end came. As usual, the ruling passion was strong 
in death, and poor Sim's last words were: "The winter's 
over." Francis Moonan. 
Massachusetts Fish and Game Interests. 
Boston, Feb. 27.— The hearing on ex-Senator Lus- 
comb's bill to allow fishermen to take "menhaden for 
bait," which was appointed for the 24th inst., has been 
postponed to a date not yet fixed. Officers of the Old 
Colony Club, which has several times fought off the 
American Fisheries Company in its efforts to re-enter 
Buzzard's Bay for seining, say that this bill is a mis- 
chievous one. In their efforts to defeat it they will 
have the sympathy and co-operation of sportsmen 
generally. 
The hearing on the hunter's license bill will occur 
on March 8, and is sure to bring together a large num- 
ber of men, some of whom are strongly in favor and 
others who will line up solidly against it. 
I hear that the sportsmen's clubs of Springfield, 
where the bill originated, and Greenfield, will have the 
assistance of the Protective Association of Eastern 
Massachusetts, with headquarters at Reading, in their 
efforts for the bill. A fear that the bill, if enacted, will 
tend to increase posting of land by owners, will deter 
some from giving it their support. The Massachusetts 
Fish and Game Protective Association has not passed 
any vote for or against the measure, and its members 
are not all agreed as to the wisdom of passing such 
a law. So far as it relates to unnaturalized residents, 
the writer has heard no one express a hostile opinion! 
I believe there is a unanimity of sentiment in favor of 
requiring a license fee of ten dollars from all that class 
of people who carry a gun afield. 
The State Association is doing a grand work in send- 
ing out food for quail (and other birds) to all those 
who apply for it, \_ ' Central, 
