104 
FOREST AND STREAM 
March, 1922 
THE OUTLAW OF HEMLOCK HOLLOW 
HOW THE COLONEL TOOK A HAND IN THE CHASE AND WROUGHl 
VENGEANCE ON THE MASKED ROBBER OF WOODS MILL 
T he little village of Woods Mill, 
squeezed in among the hills of 
the old Nutmeg State, boasted of 
the usual whitewashed church 
and inspiring steeple, a village black- 
smith and a general store — to which was 
attached the post office, where the once- 
a-day mail and the every day gossip was 
distributed — officially and indiscrimin- 
ately. 
In the spring, the tumbling waters of 
the Shepaug lured 
the disciple of the 
singing reel. In the 
summer, the drone 
of bees, the per- 
fume of the curing 
hay, and the shaded 
woods road walks 
and bridle paths 
spelled rest and con- 
tentment for the va- 
cationist, and in the 
glorious autumn the 
whole country side 
decked its hills — 
painted its foliage 
and spread its table 
for the red-blooded 
sportsman. The 
thunder of the wily 
grouse, the whistle 
of the woodcock and 
the voices of beagle 
and hound strummed 
the music dear to 
the ear of the hunter, and so I had lived 
for many years at an old farmhouse in 
the village, while I fished and loafed 
and gunned to my heart’s content. 
The Township Poor Farm was located 
about two miles from the village center 
on the main highway and one of its in- 
mates was an elderly gentleman who 
went by the title of Colonel, whose cus- 
tom it was to make a daily trip to and 
from the Post Office. Erect of carriage, 
white of hair, wearing a long-frocked 
coat, black tie and white-bosomed shirt, 
he was always immaculate in the thread- 
bare uniform of that company of brave 
gentlemen now fast fading into a mem- 
ory of old southern days. 
\’illage gossip had it that he came 
from “off Virginia- way” and that he 
had “rich relations” in New York City, 
but that there wasn’t room for him in 
the city house and that he was moved 
up and quartered on the Poor Farm as 
the air was so much better in the coun- 
try, and that was really what he always 
had been used to. 
Rumors of an occasional visit from 
relatives helped out the general assump- 
tion that the Colonel had seen better 
days, but many of his oft-repeated mem- 
ories of bygone splendor were held to be 
but visions formed in an old man’s brain, 
and so the Colonel dropped into his place 
as one of the Town Farm inmates, along 
By EDWARD RUSSELL WILBUR 
with the three ol* four other unfortunates 
who shared its comforts and its charity. 
From a courteous salute and a passing 
of the time of day — our friendship came 
to permit of a visit to the Post Office in 
company, and at last one day while cross- 
ing the hills on an afternoon in late 
summer I came out onto the road at the 
Poor Farm gate and found the Colonel 
just carrying in an armful of wood for 
the kitchen stove. No lord of the manor 
could have been more gracious in his 
welcome than was this blue-blooded old 
wood carrier- — -and though the ugly 
shadow^s of the Poor Farm rode behind 
him I was invited to “be seated, sah, and 
rest awhile in the shade of my beautiful 
trees.” 
We spoke of Virginia, her hills and 
dales and I was hoping the conversation 
would lead him back to the days when 
he was young, when the unmistakable 
sharp, shrill challenge of a game cock 
broke the summer silence. “Why,” said 
I, “that sounds like the real thing.” The 
beauty and gameness of the fighting cock 
had always appealed to me, and in the 
answering glint of the old man’s eye I 
knew I had found a kindred spirit. 
“That, sah,” said the Colonel, “is my old 
friend Stonewall, a game cock of an old 
strain of fighting fowl kept pure, sah, to 
my certain knowledge from away back 
befo’ de wah, sah. If you would like 
to just step this a way, sah, I should en- 
joy showing him to you.” 
Out beyond the lilac bushes in the rear 
of the house we came to a pen and wire 
runway from which, at the Colonel’s call, 
stepped the most magnificent game cock 
I had ever seen. As he jumped up onto 
a nearby box, his golden hackle and bril- 
liant saddle plumage glistening in the 
sun, the old war horse pealed forth his 
shrill cry of defiance. Evidently Stone- 
wall and the Colonel were close friends 
and I knew that my unqualified admira- 
tion and understanding of this nohle ' 
bird’s good qualities, as a fighting ma- 
chine, drew me closer into the old gen- ; 
tleman’s inner circle of friends. 
TOURING that summer i spent many 
hours in the shade of the maples 
listening to the tales of the days when 
every gentlemen knew the ethics of the 
pit and the race 
course — of g a m e s ; 
where the stakes '! 
W'ere high — of the-| 
c h a s e — of the old 
“c o r n liquor” and 
of “our own ladies, 
sah ! God bless em.” 
The Colonel told 
me that Stonewall i 
was about as pure 
a specimen of the 
old Belmont Brass 
Backs that he had I; 
ever seen — a trio of 
them having been 
saved by an old 
negro who hadi 
served the family ! 
for many years. 
It was very evi- 
dent that while both ' 
Stonewall and the 
Colonel shared the 
hospitality of the 
alms house, they both enjoyed that per- 
sonal superiority of blood and pedigree 
which had kept them unsullied from any 
blight the ugly shadow could throw 
across them. 
I left the little village in mid-summer 
promising myself to return when the 
days of the painted leaves and the wood- 
cock’s pilgrimage should come again, 
and my parting remembrance was of a 
graciously lifted hat from an old gray 
head — and a God speed from the old 
feathered battler Stonewall. 
A summer of discontent, heat, dust 
and business cares passed none too 
quickly, and once more I was making 
ready for a vacation amongst the hills. 
Old Dan and Dixie were ready for 
the grouse and woodcock covers — and in 
addition I had purchased as fine a pair 
of Walker, fox hounds as I had ever 
seen, in fact a brace of hounds with a 
reputation, and I was looking forward 
to some glorious runs at the time when 
the frost-covered hills bid good morning 
to the sun. 
At last over the winding tracks of the 
railroad that follows the beautiful She- ' 
paug River, my -dogs and I looked from 
the car windows through the falling 
leaves at the country that promised so 
much of sport for us both. The Colonel 
on his evening walk to the Post Office 
bade me a hearty welcome in passing 
A white blanket lay on the Valley of Shepaug 
