Forest and Stream 
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NEW YORK, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1913 
Entered as Second Class Matter at the Post Office New York, N. Y. 
VOL. LXXXI.— No. 24. 
22 Thames St., New York. 
A Half Hour With A Hunting Preacher 
T HE ability to shoot, and the ability to 
preach, are generally regarded as two 
qualities that are seldom to be found in 
the same individual. Yet, occasionally, we do 
find preachers who are almost as skilled in the 
use of the rifle as they are in the more gentle 
art of preaching the Gospel; and the fact that 
they possess attributes which enable them to be 
as accurate in their aim as they are convincing 
in their argument makes them all the more in¬ 
teresting, whether viewed from the standpoint of 
the sportsman, or the churchman. In the eyes 
of the sportsman, the preacher who can shoot 
becomes a huntsman who can preach. And in 
the eyes of the churchman, he becomes a preacher 
who can hunt. In either case, he may be re¬ 
garded as “a mighty hunter before the Lord,” 
and as such, he is fitted to arouse an interest in 
sportsmanship among churchmen, as well as an 
interest in churchmanship among sportsmen, 
threby helping to weld the two fraternities into 
one common brotherhood. All of which, is no 
doubt, as it should be. When a sportsman is 
fortunate enough to meet a preaching hunter, the 
latter is likely to have an appreciative listener; 
at least, I found it so, as I listened to the ex¬ 
periences of the Rev. Dr. Gabriel R. Maguire, 
African missionary and lecturer, at his home in 
Plainfield, N. J. 
The doctor is an Irishman by birth. Phys¬ 
ically, he is large and powerful; mentally, he 
possesses all the characteristics of the typical 
Celt, and his conversation sparkles with true Irish 
wit, and rich humor. At the mere mention of 
Africa, he became intensely interested. The large 
crocodile skin that hangs in the doctor’s hall was 
the first of the trophies to attract my attention. 
And in answer to my queries, he told how, while 
crossing the Labusi River, on the first plateau, 
he had shot the reptile, at a moment when it 
looked as though his canoe was about to be cap¬ 
sized by the infuriated creature. 
“Those fellows lie close to the surface of the 
water, with their dark snouts slightly protrud¬ 
ing,” he said, “and they are liable to charge down 
upon a canoe when the occupants least suspect 
it. That is exactly what happened in our case. 
The one whose skin you see hanging on the wall, 
took hold of the side of our canoe, and shook the 
craft almost as a terrier would shake a rat.” 
The doctor had become so enthused as he 
proceeded with his narrative, that he had risen 
to his feet, and I almost fancied I could feel 
the chair on which I sat, rocking like a canoe, 
and that I could see the small, beady eyes of the 
crocodile, glistening at me, with a look of min¬ 
gled rage and cunning. Somewhere I have heard, 
that a crocodile can be compelled to relinquish 
his hold by sticking one’s thumbs into his eyes. 
I should hardly care to try the experiment, and 
I had rather doubted the efficacy of what I had 
always considered a more or less serio-comic 
By WALTER H. DEARING 
method of repulsing the scale-armored terror of 
the African waters. And yet, absurd as it may 
seem, as I listened to the doctor’s thrilling story, 
I had an intuitive feeling that he himself had 
stuck his thumbs into the eyes of that crocodile. 
I believe no more in intuitions than does the 
MILKING THE COCANUT 
average person, but this particular intuition 
gripped me with a grip that was not to be shaken; 
I awaited with interest for the confirmation of 
my premonitory feeling, but I was doomed to 
disappointment. For, instead of sticking his 
thumbs into the crocodile’s eyes, the doctor had 
sent a bullet through its brain. As he concluded 
his narrative, I felt like one who has just had 
a narrow escape from danger. The eyes of the 
crocodile ceased to glare at me; the canoe—my 
chair—ceased to shake, and I breathed more free¬ 
ly. The doctor said that he had seen many 
crocodiles, while in Africa, but that he had never 
become quite so intimately acquainted with any 
of them 'as he had on this particular occasion. 
The natives regard them with considerable dread 
and make constant war upon them; the crocodile 
is the Africans most implacable enemy. In some 
sections of the Dark Continent it is hunted with 
the harpoon, and as a general rule, the hunting 
is done in the spring of the year during the hatch¬ 
ing season, or in the winter, when the crocodiles 
lie, half dormant, in the sunshine. The native 
huntsman conceals himself and waits for his prey 
to make its appearance, and seek its customary 
resting place; and, after it has appeared, and 
settled to sleep under the enervating rays of the 
tropical sun, he plunges his harpoon into its side. 
The moment the weapon enters the animal’s side 
—for rarely does the first wound prove instan¬ 
taneously fatal—it frantically plunges into the 
water. Quick as a flash, the huntsman then 
springs into his canoe, which is kept in readiness 
by a companion; a piece of wood attached to 
the harpoon indicates the direction taken by the 
quarry, and, with the aid of the rope, the croco¬ 
dile is dragged to the surface, and pierced by 
a second harpoon. The ropes used by the natives 
in this style of hunting are composed of many 
strands laid one against the other, and fastened 
together at regular sections. The object of this 
particular construction is to prevent the croco¬ 
dile from biting the rope in two. The doctor 
could probably have talked for hours on the 
various devices employed by the natives in hunt¬ 
ing the crocodile, but as I was anxious to hear 
more about his personal experiences, I ventured 
to interrupt him with a query concerning his 
reasons for giving up his work in Africa. In 
reply to my question, he showed to me a deep 
scar above his right hip. This scar was the re¬ 
sult of a wound received in an encounter with a 
buffalo, while crossing the first plateau, which 
is inhabited by numerous herds of these danger¬ 
ous and vicious animals. They are semi-aquatic 
in their habits, but their love for the water does 
not signify that they possess the virtue that is 
sometimes classified as next to godliness. On 
the contrary, they take as much delight in wal¬ 
lowing about in the mud as does the commoner 
garden variety of domestic pig. They are almost 
as ugly in disposition, as they are muddy in out¬ 
ward aspect. And they are as vicious 'as they 
are muddy; they will fight with less provocation 
than will any other animal; perhaps that is one 
reason why they fight among themselves. At cer¬ 
tain seasons of the year, the bulls battle for mas¬ 
tery, and it quite frequently happens, that the 
young bulls will combine for the purpose of de¬ 
throning the recognized leader of the herd. Like 
all dethroned leaders, the old bull becomes a 
rather disagreeable sort of an individual to en¬ 
counter. He looks upon the world as his enemy; 
and he is usually inclined to attack the enemy, 
before the enemy attacks him. He will even hide 
behind a bush, and wait for the unwary hunter 
to pass by—or rather, he wont wait for him to 
pass by. On the contrary, he will jump from his 
ambush, with a suddenness which often precludes 
all possibilities of escape. The man who hunts 
this morose hermit of the African wilds would 
do well to look before he leaps. 
