212 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Published Weekly by the 
Forest and Stream Publishing Company 
Chas. A. Hazen, President 
W. G. Beecroft, Secretary. Charles L. Wise, Treasurer. 
22 Thames Street, New York. 
CORRESPONDENCE:—Forest and Stream is the re¬ 
cognized medium of entertainment, instruction and in¬ 
formation between American sportsmen. The editors 
invite communications on the subjects to which its pages 
are devoted, but, of course, are not responsible for the 
views of correspondents. Anonymous communications 
cannot be regarded. 
SUBSCRIPTIONS: $3 a year; $1.50 for six months; 
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This paper may be obtained of newsdealers throughout 
the United States, Canada and Great Britain. (Foreign 
Subscriptions and Sales Agents—London: Davies & Co., 
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Entered in New York Post Office as Second class mat¬ 
ter. 
THE OBJECT OF THIS JOURNAL 
will be to studiously promote a healthful interest 
in outdoor recreation, and to cultivate a refined 
taste for natural objects. 
—Forest and Stream, Aug. 14, 1873 
A WINTER DAY. 
Over the soft gray fringe of slender twigs, 
which tops the swamp, the red ball of the sun is 
slowly rising, to begin his journey over the low 
arc which he covers during the short winter 
day. The air is very cold, but still, and looking 
toward the sun, one can see myriads of tiny float¬ 
ing particles of frozen moisture, which glitter 
like snowflakes in the bright rays, yet form only 
the thinnest haze in the atmosphere. Each twig 
and grass blade and weed stalk and fence rail 
is whitened by crystals of frozen moisture— 
jewels more brilliant than any that ever came 
from the mine—whose sparkling changes every 
instant, as the sun touches them at a different 
angle. 
It is wonderfully still. There is no sound of 
bird or beast; nothing but the sharp squeaking 
of the crisp snow under foot, or its occasional 
breaking as the dog runs back to meet us and 
then starts on again. But suddenly there comes 
faintly on the quiet air the mellow music of dis¬ 
tant hounds, which quickly dies away. 
As the day goes on, the temperature will rise; 
perhaps the snow will begin to melt, little birds 
will come out from the sheltered places where 
they have been huddling for warmth, and will 
hurry across the white fields, or alight in a close 
flock in some tree, perhaps merely to rest in the 
sun, perhaps to seek for food at the ends of the 
twigs or among the crevices in the bark of the 
larger branches. 
As we make a long round on foot, we may read 
in the snow the story of some of the happenings 
of the night. Up among the rocky and brush- 
grown hills following a stone wall that runs 
through a grove of cedars, is seen the track of a 
fox made last night. When he passed along he 
was no longer looking for food, but had started 
away from his hunting grounds, back to some 
safe place where he might rest during the day, 
lying at ease in the sun, sheltered from the wind, 
and waiting until appetite should move him to 
start out on another search for food. 
Before his footsteps have been followed far, it 
is plain that this will be a busy day for him. He 
has stopped, looked around, and has then changed 
his easy trot to a long gallop, and a little further 
on are found the tracks of two hounds, which 
will keep him going for the day. It was their 
musical clamor that we heard faintly as we first 
started out this morning. 
Turning back, and coming down the hill, we 
pass on the other side of the swamp behind the 
barn, and here among the tall weed stems that 
project high above the snow, are many traces of 
the winter birds, that are always here but so sel¬ 
dom seen in the bitter weather. The light snow 
is trampled in all directions by tiny tracks, and 
is strewn with the torn fragments of seed vessels 
of the weeds. Passing through the corner of the 
swamp, we come suddenly on the old dog, for¬ 
gotten for the last few moments, standing frozen 
on the track of a ruffed grouse, which shows 
plainly in the snow. A moment later, far ahead, 
but plainly heard and distinctly seen through the 
naked tree stems, the great bird rises from the 
ground, and scales off toward another piece of 
woods. The season is closed and we are without 
a gun, yet, as our direction is that which he has 
taken, we follow him. Passing under the naked 
branches of the great oak and crossing the road, 
the woods are entered, and here everywhere are 
signs that the gray squirrels have been at work 
unearthing the nuts providently buried at a more 
clement season. Their tracks — or, perhaps, it is 
the track of only one—lead in many directions, 
and every few yards the snow has been scraped 
away and a little hole dug, from which no doubt 
a nut of chestnut, or hickory, or beech, has been 
taken. Further along in another swamp, now- 
hard and frozen, over which one may walk with 
comfort, are the tracks of Brother Rabbit, who 
has wandered here and there with devious foot¬ 
steps, apparently without aim, but no doubt with 
a very clear notion in his head of what he wished 
to do. The dog is kept in and the tracks fol¬ 
lowed, until suddenly the rabbit is seen to have 
taken the alarm at something, and with six-foot 
jumps has made his way toward some distant 
cover, whither we shall not follow him. 
Toward evening, another round is taken; by 
the pond, where rosy-cheeked children are skat¬ 
ing merrily, up through the hollow into black 
cedar gorges, where the light is dim and now and 
then a snow-clad sapling stands like a ghost, lurk¬ 
ing in the sombre winter twilight. 
Across the already darkening sky in a scat¬ 
tered flock the crows are faring homeward to 
some inland roost from their feeding grounds 
along the shore, silent so far as we can tell, for 
they are far away. Nearer at hand a sharp- 
shinned hawk is hunting through the tops of the 
woods, flying swiftly but aimlessly. Soon he, too, 
must abandon his quest. 
Passing out of the wood and into the road, we 
come upon a great birch tree standing by the 
wall, on whose catkins white-throated sparrows 
and blue snowbirds and tree sparrows have been 
feeding, scattering their fragments over the 
snow beneath the tree. The sun is just dropping 
below the horizon, and here in the shadow of 
the woods has been long out of sight, and now 
the birds in little groups on softly fluttering 
wings, are making short journeys along the 
hedgerow, seeking some thick clump of bushes 
or the close-set foliage of some cedar in which 
to pass the night. 
Clambering to the top of a high rocky knoll, 
we look off toward the west and see the abso¬ 
lutely unclouded sky, which the sun has just de¬ 
serted, red below, and then yellow, and then 
green, changing to blue and then almost to black 
as the eastern horizon is reached. The first stars 
are just looking down from the windows of the 
heavens. Every feature of the landscape toward 
the west stands sharply outlined against the bril¬ 
liant sky. We recognize each hill and valley and 
undulation, and even each individual tree and its 
relation to surrounding objects. 
The air is as cold and clear and dry and still 
as when the day began. The tramp over hill and 
valley, through field and wood, has made the 
blood flow joyously through the veins. 
IN DEFENSE OF THE JIMMY PIPE. 
Dr. Kelly, having heard from some other doc¬ 
tor that fish were purveyors of cancer, has gone 
his eminent confrere one better and assailed the 
joy of the fishermen and hunter by asserting that 
our beloved old “Jimmy Pipe” is a thing to be 
shunned. Here is his learned dissertation: 
"It is wrong for a man to smoke a pipe so that 
the stem gets hot and constantly burns his lip 
until cancer develops. We do know that smokers 
develop cancer of the lip and only women that 
have smoked a pipe have developed cancer of the 
lip.” 
We, who know the joys and consolation of old 
Jimmy and a good, mellow tobacco, on a fishless 
day, when the black flies and mosquitoes are 
seeking to crawl through the rings of smoke that 
float gracefully upwards in the ambient atmos¬ 
phere, feel that no cancer can produce greater 
suffering than can the smallest and most fero¬ 
cious of the order dipt era and are willing to trust 
old “Jimmy Pipe” to the utmost. As we write 
this defense and cuddle Jimmy in our disengaged 
hand, perhaps rubbing him on our nose to bur¬ 
nish his smoke browned cheek, we feel con¬ 
strained to say that this Dr. Kelly knows not the 
joy of the pipe, else he would not have said: 
"The stem gets hot and constantly burns his 
lips.” When did a jimmy pipe ever burn our 
lips? Never—a cigarette perhaps—but never our 
beloved old Jimmy. We know of some poor 
tobaccos that burn our tongue, as the smoke 
streams through the stem of a virgin pipe, but 
never, never, have we known the stem of old 
Jimmy to heat our lips—as to women getting can¬ 
cer through pipe smoking—be that as it may, we 
plead ignorance for we know not the woman who 
smokes a pipe. 
