536 
peared, and our craft ridiculously small 
and lonely in all that waste of waters. 
The mercury must have touched zero 
that night. At all events, no open water 
was to be seen next morning. Our shar- 
pie lay locked in a glassy sheet of ice — 
ice that reached across to Fire Island and 
the Inlet, and proved to be almost a half 
inch thick when we tested it with an oar. 
The succeeding four or five days were, I 
think, the coldest I ever remember. Each 
day the ice grew solider about us; our 
water cask froze in the cockpit; potatoes 
and a variety of other eatables were 
ruined despite our precautions, and even 
inside the sharpie’s cabin we had diffi- 
culty in keeping warm. For two or three 
days, or until the ice was strong enough 
to bear us, we kept a skiff channel open 
to Oak Island. What we should have 
done without that little island I hardly 
know. We ra^i races across the hard- 
packed sand ; we dug soft clams ; we pick- 
ed up drift wood to help out our fast van- 
ishing coal and, without any malice afore- 
thought, investigated the several cottages 
and their immediate surroundings. It 
was in the bourse of one of these casual 
inspections that I made a most valuable 
discovery, but I kept it from Pete for 
some time. 
I 
\Y/ ITH the thickening of the ice we 
” ventured across to the beach. Vis- 
iting a veteran “beacher,” we were 
pressed — Oh, Joy ! — to stay to supper. It 
is needless to say we stayed. As a mat- 
ter of fact, we needed that meal. It’s 
comfortable plenty was one thing; it’s 
FOREST AND STREAM 
psychological effect another. The de- 
pleted condition of our own stores was 
brought home to us with sudden em- 
phasis. We realized that something must 
be done to augment them or we should 
shortly become daily pensioners on the 
bounty of the beach. Fortunately, part 
of our problem was solved for us the 
very next day — incidentally, we made 
more friends. 
I was engaged in the menial task of 
washing dishes, Pete having reached that 
deplorable state where he pretended to 
see no use in washing a plate that had 
to be used again. “For the love o’ 
Mike !” Pete explained from the cockpit. 
“There’s a bunch of ice boats or some- 
thing chasing around the beach. Come 
have a look. I can’t make the darned 
things out.” One, two, three — a very 
fleet of the tiny craft was approaching 
along the ice. It was my first introduc- 
tion, as well as Pete’s, to those wonder- 
ful little “scooters” which every life- 
saver and bayman owns and which, next 
December, 1921 
to wife and children, is his dearest pos- 
session on earth. With an occasional 
thrust of the stout ice hook, they slipped 
over the glassy surface at an astonishing 
rate of speed. Half way to us they 
stopped as though by common consent, 
and from each boat a man stepped out 
and began to chop in the ice. “Eels, 
Pete !” I said with conviction, “nice, fat, 
juicy eels for breakfast; but those boats 
are something new to me ; let’s tramp 
over and have a look.” 
We were that day initiated in the art 
of spearing eels. We supped on stewed 
eels that evening, prepared according to 
the directions of a Life Saving savant 
who, furthermore, furnished the eels. 
There are many ways of saving life. 
More than one swallow, however, is 
needed to make a summer, and by the 
same token no man can live by eels, and 
eels alone. We had exhausted some of 
our original stores ; others had been 
ruined by frost and water; our plan to 
add to them had been spoiled by the ice. 
In a word we were up against it; punch- 
ing new holes in our belts each day; 
wondering which of us would succumb 
the first and what might be his tenderest 
cut. Arrived at this lamentable state of 
morale, we sought the advice of our Life 
Saving friend (great fellows, these Life 
Savers, in a pinch) with the most pleas- 
ing of results. “Shucks !” Why hadn’t 
we mentioned our troubles before? It 
was no trick to slip across to the “main” 
and load a scooter down to the guards. 
We’d make the trip next day ! 
( Continued on page 560) 
A HUNT WITH A SQUIRREL DOG 
JACK’S KEEN EYESIGHT AND ACUTE HEARING WERE 
OF MORE VALUE TO HIM THAN HIS SENSE OF SMELL 
T HERE is now and then a dog of 
no special breeding that has de- 
veloped remarkable skill in the 
hunting of some particular kind 
of game. The finest bird dog that I ever 
knew had an ancestry that was more 
than half shepherd dog. This dog, when- 
ever possible, would flush the bird from 
such a position as to give the gunner 
the most advantageous shot. Such a dog 
is often self-taught. He has in him a 
natural instinct for hunting, possesses 
keen sight, great intelligence, and is 
brought up in a locality where he can 
frequently gratify his desire for hunting. 
This kind of a dog sometimes knows 
more about the habits of the game that 
he hunts than his master or the man who 
is hunting. I once had a most interesting 
experience with a dog of this descrip- 
tion, a wonderful squirrel dog. 
Near the end of October of the year 
in which I was eighteen my parents gave 
me permission to visit for several days 
an uncle and aunt, an elderly couple who 
lived on a small hill-farm near the foot 
of a range of the Alleghenies. They 
lived alone and always gave me a warm 
By CHARLES LOSE 
welcome when I went to see them. Their 
farm was cultivated by their son Oliver, 
who, with his wife and one child, lived 
in his own house a few rods down the 
road. Since I wanted to do some squirrel 
hunting during my visit, my father let 
me take his double-barreled, muzzle- 
loading shotgun, and he furnished me 
with a large powder-horn filled with 
black powder, a good supply of shot and 
a tin box of waterproof caps. Wads 
for the gun were made of soft paper 
which I carried in a small game sack. 
The gun was a hard shooter, but it 
would kick like a steer if not properly 
loaded or if not held firmly against the 
shoulder. I was not unused to the gun, 
having hunted each fall and spring since 
I was fifteen, but without ever having 
killed at one time more than two red 
squirrels and one gray squirrel. Before 
I started on my trip my father gave me 
much advice about hunting squirrels and 
teased me not a little about the size of 
the bag I would bring home. It ought 
to be at least six squirrels, he said, so 
that my mother could have her first ex- 
perience at making a meat pie out of the 
game that I had killed. I started with 
the determination to kill the required 
number of squirrels, even if I had to 
hunt every minute of daylight. 
I reached my uncle’s house late in the 
afternoon after a long tramp over a 
dusty road that ran sometimes between 
and sometimes over the hills. My aunt, 
who knew of my coming, had a fine sup- 
per awaiting me, and after doing it ample 
justice I went down the road to call on 
my cousin Oliver. He told me that the 
woods were very dry for squirrel hunt- 
ting, but that squirrels were quite plen- 
tiful and that with the aid of his dog 
Jack I might do fairly well. In order 
that Jack should not start out at day- 
light next morning hunting on his own 
account he was tied in the woodshed, 
and when I went out to see him I was 
much taken with his appearance. He 
looked not unlike a Scotch collie, al- 
though his coat, which was white and 
tan, was somewhat shorter than that of 
a collie. He was a comparatively young 
dog and evidently full of life and vigor. 
In a few minutes the dog and I were 
warm friends, and I wished that the 
