198 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Aug. 16, 1913. 
we c'ld see one on the snow, an’ lie can smell 
the tech o’ yer finger on a bait fer a week arter. 
Swallers know when it’s goin’ tu rain or blow. 
Mebby they can smell weather—I d’ know. An’ 
dumb creeturs has got senses ’t we ha’n't got, 
besides hevin’ aourn a good deal sharper ’n we 
hev. Haow does a haoun’ dog strike a bee-line 
fer hum when he’s done a-huntin’, or a cat ’at’s 
ben kerried in a bag thre mild, find her way back, 
or birds find their way thaousan’s 0’ miles back 
an’ tew year arter year, or foxes know runways 
’t they never seen ? Fer my part, I’d a good 
deal druther trust tu dumb creeturs foretellin’ 
the weather ’11 seasons ’n I would tu what I 
c’ld find aout by studyin’ melts an’ bus’s. I’d 
druther take a wild goose’s or a mushrat’s ac¬ 
tions ’an I would even your word for ’t, Solon.” 
‘‘You can b’lieve what y’r min’ tu, Sammy- 
well, but I b’lieve ’at there is sartin signs gi’n 
fer aour guidancin’, which, f’r instance, I would¬ 
n’t kill my hawgs or my beef-crutter in the old 
o’ the moon onless I wanted the meat tu shrink 
in the cookin’, ner sow my peas in the wanin’ 
o’ that lunimary ’f I wanted ’em tu grow luxu- 
berant.” 
“Wal, wal, boys,” said Lisha, who had hung 
the almanac on its nail by the window and got 
some work in hand, “nev’ mind baout the signs, 
an’ ‘nev’ mind the weather when the wind don’t 
blow.’ I’m achin’ to hear what luck ye hed arter 
’coons that day. I hearn ’t ye most all went.” 
“Ast Joe,” someone said, and Lisha asked, 
glaring at Joe between his shaggy eyebrows and 
the top of his spectacles, ‘‘Haow is ’t, Jozeff? 
Be you cock o’ the walk this time?” 
“Wal, I d’ know but what I be, ’f ye caount 
walkin’ an’ choppin’. I da’ say I done’s much 
o’ that ’s any on ’em. I ’spose ’f I don’t give 
a full ’caount on ’t, some on ’em ’ll give a fuller 
one. Wal, I went, an’ Peltier he went along 
with me, ’n’ he didn’t kerry no axe; said ’t he’d 
got a lame shoulder ’n’ couldn’t chop ’thaout 
mos’ killin’ on ’im. It got well tu rights, though, 
fer I seen ’im choppin’ cord wood nex’ day. We 
started aout baout eight o’clock er ha’-past— 
mebby ’t wa’n’t more ’n eight—I d’ know, quarter 
arter, mebby, ’11’ struck a track where three 
’coons ’d ben ’long daown in the Beav’ Medder 
swamp in the night. The tracks went a-saund- 
erin’ raound hither an’ yon, ’n’ fin’ly went off 
up on ’t the hill east, ’n’ then north—no ’t wa’n’t, 
’t was saouth—’n’ then east again ’n’ then north 
’n’ then east, an’, says I to Peltier, says I, they’ve 
went int’ the laidges, ’n’ ’t a’ no use in us 
follerin’ on ’em; but Peltier, says he, le’s us 
foller ’n’ see where they hev gone. Like ’nough 
we c’n trap ’m aout. So we follered an’ fol- 
lered, snow knee deep, till bimeby, arter they’d 
went all raound Robin Hood’s barn, they went 
towward the Beav’ Medder agin, an’ into ’t, an’ 
stopped t’ the all-tummuttablest gre’t big ellum 
in the hull swamp—the tracks did. We searched 
all raound, ’n’ couldn’t find ’t they’d went any 
furder. ’n’ so I off wi’ my cut an’ begin tu 
chop. An’ I chopped an’ chopped, ’n’ Peltier he 
stood raound encouragin’ on me ’n’ chawin’ gum 
an’ gruntin’. Every time I swatted the ol’ axe 
int’ the tree, he’d grunt—I tell ye, he grunted 
like a good feller, ’nough tu chop a cord ’n’ a 
half o’ wood. That ere ol’ ellum was jes’ ’s 
solid as ol’ pork clean tu the middle, ’n’ ’twas 
all o’ three foot through; I d’ know but three 
foot ’n’ a half—mebby ’t wa’n’t but three foot 
through—anyway, ’t was tougher ’n’ a biled 
aowl, ’n’ the’ wa’n’t no holler in the butt, ’n’ I 
toP Peltier, I .did, ’at I’d bate a cookey the’ 
wa’n’t a dum ’coon in the pleggid ol’ ellum. Wal, 
I chopped an’ chopped, till I sweat like a man 
a-mowin’, an’ I tell ye I was glad when I see 
the ol’ tree begin tu tottle an’ then come daown 
kersmash! An’ I’ll be dum’ed if it didn’t lodge 
in another ellum half as big! An’ I hed to chop 
that daown, tew, Peltier helpin’ on me, chawin’ 
gum an’ gruntin’. Wal, sir, when we got it cud 
daown, baout noon, I guess ’t was—mebby arter 
—mebby not more’n ha’-past ’leven—the’ was 
a hole most ’t the top big ’nough tu hold a 
dozen ’coons, an’ the’ wa’n’t a dum’ed one in it! 
It hed froze jest a leetle towward mornin’, ’n’ 
they’d come aout an’ gone off on the crust. But 
we hed us a heap o’ fun, didn’t we, Peltier?” 
“Honh!” Pelatiah snorted, “I do’ know but 
what you did.” 
“Wal, Samwill,” said Lisha, “it’s your turn 
naow.” 
“Oh, I didn’t du nuthin’ much. Follored 
tew int’ an old basswood stubb ’t I could mos’ 
push over, an’ got them, an’ one ’t was in there 
afore.” 
“Julluk your luck, Samwill,” said Lisha. 
“I faound a cur’us kind of a thing in the 
stub, sort of a ’coon plaything, I reckon it is. 
I brung it along tu show ye,” said Sam, taking 
out of his pocket a knot or gnarl about the size 
of a man’s fist, and worn quite smooth with 
much handling (or footing) by the raccoons. 
“Wal,” said Lisha, after this had been 
passed around and examined by all, Pelatiah chip¬ 
ping a side of it with his knife and smelling it, 
“Wal, wha’ ’d you du, Solon?” 
“I did not precipitate in the sports and aver¬ 
sions of the day.” 
“One’ Lasha, what for you ant ask it me?” 
cried Antoine. “Bah gosh! ’f Ah’ll git all a 
’coon what Ah’ll see dat tarn, Ah’ll tole so big 
story you mos’ can’ be’lieve him, sah.” 
“Wal, Ann Twine, ’sposen .you tell us what 
ye seen. I ha’ no daoubt that ’ll be all ’t we c’n 
swaller tu onct.” 
“Wal, sah, Ah ’m ’s go’n’ tole you de trute, 
jes’ sem always Ah do. Ah’ll go ’lone, ’cause 
all what Ah git Ah want heem mase’f. jes’ lak 
Sam, ant it, Sam? Ef ’ta’nt for dat, Ah’ll have 
it somebody for what you call heem—m— 
wisnit? Fus’ t’ing Ah say, Ah’ll want you rem- 
bler; Ah don’t goin’ tole you where Ah see 
what Ah’ll see, ’cause Ah ’m ’s goin’ git it some 
tarn, me. 
“Wal, sah, Ah go fin’ track one chat sau- 
vage, folia him leetly way; Ah fin’ nudder come 
wid it, bamby nudder, den nudder, den nudder. 
Ah see so much track Ah mos’ can’ co’nt it— 
ten, fifteen, twentee, prob’ly more as tree four 
tree full Ah guess so. Wal, Ah folia, folia, folia 
ver’ long way. Bamby Ah hear it nowse, mos’ 
lak big hammer ov’ dar in de forge, ony he ant 
go so fas’— Boom! Boom! —so, ’baout fas’ you 
breeze you bress. More furder Ah go, more was 
be dat nowse louder, an Ah begin mos’ be ’fred, 
me, but Ah don’ care, Ah’ll folia dem track till 
Ah come close to big laidge, an’ dat track all go 
in leetly hole jes’ mos’ too small ’nough for one 
’coon sauvage. Den Ah see what mek it dat 
nowse. Yes, sah, you b’lieve it me, de whole 
top dat laidge, big, big rock, more bigger dis 
shawp, he lif’ up ’baout two inches ver-y slow— 
so—den come daown boom! den lif’ up, den 
come daown boom! Bamby Ah’ll hear it more 
leetly nowse when rock lif’ up— Squon-n-n-h! 
lak One’ Lasha mek it when he be sleep, ony not 
so louder lak One’ Lasha. Bamby putty soon Ah 
bee-gin be not so ’fred, an’ den Ah’ll peeck in 
hole. Ev’ry tarn rock lif’ up it shine in so Ah can 
see; an’ what you t’ink Ah see? More as tree 
—honded—tausen chat r-r-raccoon—all fas’ sleep ! 
Yes, sah! Ev’ry tarn he pull his bref he swell 
up full of breeze an’ lif’ up rock. W’en he let 
it go his bref, den rock come daown— boom! 
Ah’ll see it; he so far in off Ah can’ git it. 
No, sah, Ah ant gat not one of it! Das too 
bad. Oh, too bad, too bad!” 
“Wal, I swan tu man !” said Solon, exhaling 
a long breath. “I du declar, Antwine, you’re wus 
’n Annymias an’ Sophier fer onvoracity.” 
“I move,” said Lisha, pitching away his 
hammer and tumbling his lapstone on to the 
floor, “I move ’at this ’ere meetin’ du ajourn 
afore it gits so mad ’at it up an’ kills that ’ere 
dum’ed ’tarnal lyin’ Canuck! An’ I secont the 
motion an’ it’s kerried unamous.” 
“Du you ra-ly ’spose,” the questioner whis¬ 
pered in Joseph Hill's ear as they went out into 
the moonlight, “ ’at Antwine zvas a-lyin’ ?” 
Remarkable Double Shots. 
BY NIMROD. 
(From issue of June 17, 1880.) 
I have just been reading in your last issue 
of some of the remarkable double shots made, 
and am reminded of one made by a novice who 
accompanied a party of sportsmen to Iowa a 
few years ago on a chicken hunt. 
The father of the young man came to us 
just before we were ready to start, and said if 
his son Charley would not interfere with our 
pleasure, he would like him to go with us, as 
he thought the trip would do him good. 
The first day out, after reaching our desti¬ 
nation, we were riding over the prairie and saw 
a large flock of geese arise from a pond and 
settle on the ground about one-half a mile to 
our left. We began to lay plans to capture one 
or more of them. We stationed ourselves around 
in clumps of resin weeds, and sent the driver 
with the team to the other side of the game. 
The flock arose and passed over the novice, 
and he drew up his old gun, one that we had 
been making sport of all the way out, and let 
drive into the geese, bringing down two fine 
ones. We gathered the game and then asked 
Charley why he did not let the other barrel 
loose at them. He said he forgot that he had 
a double barreled gun. 
I believe it was the first game he had ever 
killed on the wing. The geese weighed respec¬ 
tively fifteen and twelve pounds. A prouder 
young man has never been seen. He sent the 
larger bird to his father the next morning as a 
trophy of his skill. I don’t remember that 
Charley killed anything else during our week’s 
sojourn in Iowa, but if we dared to criticise 
him for a poor shot, he always responded: “I 
got those two geese just the same.” 
Much of the so-called silk nowadays is 
made of wood. Germany produces more than 
one million pounds of this cellulose silk, worth 
$1,500,000. A ton of wood worth $10 yields 
cellulose worth $20, and this cellulose yields 
silk worth $350. 
