172 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Aug. 9, 1913. 
The Genuine and True 
Being “ The Guide’s ” Biography of a Sportsman Friend 
of some boys over at Ashe Cove who organized 
a gun club, and when they were ready for the 
“pigeon”, they said: “All right, Uncle Pen,” 
and Uncle Pen, after taking in a fresh chew, or 
maybe digging a splinter out of his thumb, 
would pull the trap. 
Well, there were the birds a hundred yards 
down the beach peacefully feeding again. We 
repeated the stalking process and approached to 
within shooting distance. This time I was a 
little cooler and Frank had resolved to hit that 
cap or die. I got what I called a pretty fair 
aim and gave the signal. Frank struck and the 
old gun went off with a roar. The birds rose, 
leaving two dead and four fluttering on the sand. 
I dropped the gun and we rushed forward to 
secure the cripples. Frank wanted me to shoot 
them over, but I refused. I told him he might 
try them with the air rifle, but the proper way 
was to wring their necks. I remember how my 
legs trembled when I bent over to wring a 
cripple, and how the blood from a broken wing 
stained the back of my hand. The birds picked 
up, I dropped them into my pocket right on top 
of my cigarette papers and a couple of dough¬ 
nuts. 
I loaded up again. Frank wanted to try 
them this time. But, no sir, I had tasted blood 
and I realized my power. Frank said he would 
not strike the cap any more if I did not let him 
try it once; he said he wasn’t any striking ma¬ 
chine anyway. Finally by telling him that the 
gun kicked pretty badly and other things, he 
gave in and we went after the remainder of 
the flock. Our shot were No. 2, a trifle large 
for peep, still the gun made just as much noise 
and we were satisfied. 
The birds were feeding again, a little wilder 
this time, but we got near enough and blazed 
away. Only two this shot. We picked them 
up, the others flying over toward Flag Island. 
We hung around an hour or two without seeing 
any more, so after counting over our “bag” sev¬ 
eral times we drew the charge from the gun 
and got it safely into our den, ready for an¬ 
other day. 
We remained down under the wharf and 
cleaned the birds, washing them in salt water, 
then we shouldered the air rifle proudly and 
started for the house. My folks could hardly 
believe their eyes when they saw the result of 
our trip, and were only too glad to cook them 
into a stew with potatoes and dumplings. I 
remember while eating them my grandfather 
asked for a taste. “Seems to me,” he said with 
a twinkle in his eye as he spat out a couple of 
No. 2s, “that you had to shoot them over con¬ 
siderably.” I didn’t say anything, and his eye 
twinkled again. He’d been there before. 
Morning and Evening. 
De breeze come a-singin’ at de break o’ day; 
“On yoh way, chile; on yoh way; 
It’s time to be a-stahtin’ out an' lookin’ foh to see 
Whut dis day is gineter bring aroun’ foh you an’ me. 
It may be sumpin’ lucky an’ it may be sumpin’ sad, 
But you’s got to take wliut’s cornin’ if it’s good or if 
it’s bad— 
On yoh way, chile; on yoh way.” 
De breeze it come a-singin’ at de close of day; 
“On yoh way, chile; on yoh way! 
You mebbe gathered blossoms an’ you mebbe stubbed 
yoa toe, 
You learned yoh little lesson an’ you got to learn some 
mo’, 
But de sun has made his journey, he is dozin’ in de west; 
Dar’s a time foh bein’ busy an’ a time foh takin’ rest, 
On yoh way, chile; on yoh way!” 
—Washington Star. 
O N March 28, 1913, at Jacksonville, Fla., there 
occurred the death of a genuine and true 
sportsman in the person of Capt. Ethan 
Osburne Hurd, of Cincinnati, Ohio. Captain 
Hurd and his wife had been spending a couple 
of months visiting among the islands of the 
Gulf of Mexico for the benefit of the captain’s 
health, but the climate seemed not to agree with 
his condition, and they had started for home, 
getting as far as Jacksonville, where his death 
occurred. 
It was the writer’s good fortune to be guide 
and manager for Captain Hurd and his wife, 
Mrs. Anna C. Hurd, for very many years, when 
on the annual hunting and camping trip which 
they took each autumn in the Northwest. These 
two seemed to find great delight and compan¬ 
ionship in wilderness, mountain and desert, and 
for three months each fall, with the most com¬ 
plete camp outfit ever got together, campaigned 
in the hunting fields of the Northwest in the 
most ideal manner. 
Captain Hurd’s choice of the hunting was 
to drive over the breezy prairie after prairie 
chickens with plenty of good dogs, which he 
always had. He did not take pride in the ex¬ 
cellence of his shooting, and the writer has often 
accused him of shooting in the air on purpose 
to make the hunt last longer to get the neces¬ 
sary supply. That he could shoot well was 
proved by the fact of getting six chickens at a 
rise with a repeating shotgun on several occasions. 
With a complete supply of the things neces¬ 
sary for such a trip, we often camped forty 
miles from any settlements for long periods. 
On these trips he always employed all the help 
in the way of cooks, camp helpers, duffle hand¬ 
lers and freight teams that could possibly be 
needed. Always mindful of the comfort of 
those around him, did a rain storm find any un¬ 
prepared, out from his hidden store came water¬ 
proof coats, caps, boots and the like for all the 
needy. 
A few instances will suggest something of 
his natural tendencies. We were camped on the 
Roseu trail near Twin Lakes in Northwest Min¬ 
nesota. There was a man and his wife doing- 
camp work. The man got to feeling bad, and 
we thought might be threatened with typhoid, 
and the hunt was turned toward the nearest 
settlement for a team to take them to their 
home fifty miles away. The captain paid full 
wages for all time and expense of return, and 
we camped alone for some time. 
Captain Hurd was a very liberal giver in 
case of necessity, as the guide had numerous 
occasions to know, and he literally obeyed the 
injunction, “Let not your left hand know what 
your right hand does.” His charities were his 
own affairs. 
The latter part of each campaign was spent 
in exploring lake and stream by canoe, and in 
this way the writer spent more time alone with 
Captain Hurd than he ever did with any other 
person. In this way one gets to know another 
better than one can in any other way. He was 
absolutely fearless, and stormy water inspired 
only pleasurable excitement, while the threat of 
a stormy night in an open canoe seemed to give 
no special concern. 
He was a reader of Forest and Stream 
during all the years the writer was in touch 
with him. It was a regular visitor to all our 
camps and came over mountain trails, through 
swamps and wilderness, by stage or by special 
messenger along with the rest of the mail. He 
was a believer in the higher ethics of sportsman¬ 
ship and practiced as well as talked it. With 
him to believe a thing was right, was to do it. 
He never talked the gentlemen and practiced the 
savage. 
The captain was a great hand for details, 
and there were provisions for almost any emer¬ 
gency. One day we were driving out in the Big 
Horn Mountains. We had a rifle along for 
■dangerous game, but it was a misty day and 
the gun was wrapped in its waterproof case. 
A wolf crossed our path, offering a fine chance 
for a shot, but before the rifle could be undone, 
the wolf was away. I remarked that by careful 
attention to details we had saved a twenty-dollar 
rifle, but had lost a hundred dollar wolf. Seven¬ 
teen years after the rifle came to me, a memento 
from Mrs. Anna C. Hurd, in as good order as 
when it came from the factory. 
He was also a lover of poetry, though not 
so much the jingle and rhyme as the soul of it. 
Below are some verses we improvised for the 
dedication of our first camp of the season along 
the old St. Paul and Pembina trail in Minnesota 
in the year 1895: 
TENTS ARE UP. 
The tents are up along the ridge, 
And Nomads are in camp. 
The sun has crimson’d all the west 
And Venus trim’d her lamp. 
The pale full moon is rising there 
Beyond the poplars tall; 
The evening breeze is whispering 
Old tales it told last fall; 
And peace serenely fills the heart. 
As fades the sunset glow; 
While Fancy plumes, her wings for flight 
To scenes of years ago. 
Time-tinted scenes of years agone 
On memory’s canvas spread; 
Thy softer tints still softer grown, 
Thy harsher hues all fled. 
How restful, too, this whispering breeze 
In ears of lover true! 
How like love’s tale this moonlight sheen. 
So old, yet ever new! 
And through its shimmering is seen 
Fond mem’ry’s bidden guest; 
Some day a-field or night in camp. 
That looms above the rest. 
Perhaps some little noted view, 
’Mid other beauties shown, 
That proves the gem of rarest hue, 
By wandering back alone. 
Th'e flush of dawn, the morning air. 
The setter’s joyous bark, 
The flutter of the startled grouse. 
The flower-spangled park. 
Thus may these gems that mem’ry brings 
Have pow’r to please always— 
This retrospect each outing brings 
Of other outing days. 
And may her pictures never fade 
Or colorless be found, 
’Til Eternity goes fowling 
And Time comes fluttering down. 
