FOREST AND STREAM 
hook, he could be located by his feeble flapping 
back some where in the “bresh.” 
’Lige carried his rifle. In fact, the rifle and 
’Lige, “were as one flesh.” Back in the woods, 
out of any sight of mine, a quail was calling. 
“I’ll bob-white yer, dad burn yer yelpin’ hide,” 
the big fellow remarked, and, raising his rifle, 
poised it a moment and let drive. Later he 
plunged into the heavy thicket and returned with 
a headless bird in his hand. Poor sportsman¬ 
ship, you say? Well, perhaps, but at that distance 
he made a crackerjack shot. And besides that, 
’Lige and I needed the meat. Now “holler,” you 
scatter gun chaps! 
That old rifle of ’Lige’s carried timber clear 
up to the muzzle, and was some gun to hold in 
shooting position for very long. He could shoot 
it, all right. So could I, with a rest. ’Lige 
didn’t know beans about the “flop” of a barrel, 
at that! His load was the usual one—cover the 
ball lying in the palm of his hand with powder. 
When on the run, or for a quick shot upward, 
he did not use patches, but poured the powder 
down into the barrel, and then spat a bullet into 
the nozzle. Never was the gun capped when he 
did the expectoration act, for ’Lige was far from 
a doctor and he knew the value of carefulness. 
Neither did he “set” the gun until the moment 
of shooting! 
After the “bob-white” episode, ’Lige took me 
to see a “rock house,” as they call the natural 
limestone caverns down there. He said the bats 
remained in there during the day and came out 
at night. “They look like big hornicks nes’s,” 
was the way he put it. We gathered a lot of fat 
knots for torches, and I crawled in. The bats hung 
in bunches, looking for all the world like bananas, 
and foolishly I singed the lower end of one 
group. Instantly the cavern was filled by a mass 
of squeaking, flapping bats and, out went the 
torch! 
Departed also, to wit, one tabby wildcat that 
had gone in there for a siesta. Tab and ’Lige 
met “head on” at the mouth of the cavern. The 
surprise was mutual, and the cat disappeared, 
leaving ’Lige just about hickory shirt enough to 
dust the main spring of a lady’s watch. 
The boss of the saw mill, on one of his in¬ 
frequent trips to the land of street cars and 
gas lamps, had picked up a very fair coach dog, 
that developed into one of the finest and gamest 
“varmint” hounds I ever ran behind. This dog 
accompanied us through Mammoth Cave one 
time and my back aches yet when I think of lug¬ 
ging old Spot down those ladders, and especially 
on our trip through the “Corkscrew.” Down in 
Dismal (rightly named, for the sun hardly ever 
hit the bottom of that gorge) Spot struck a trail, 
and was soon barking at the foot of a big tulip 
tree. By sliding around, ’Lige and I saw a big 
she-coon high up in the branches. 
“Ping!” said the rifle. “Crash!” echoed a fall¬ 
ing body, and as the dog and the ring-tail 
mixed it on the ground, ’Lige hurriedly reloaded 
and said, “Hit her too fur back!” 
By this time the coon and dog had rolled into 
a deep branch, and to save Spot from drowning— 
for he wouldn’t break his hold—we took a hand 
and killed the coon. Then we examined the tree 
and shot four half-grown young ones. My, that 
was a backload! And to promote the hilarity 
of the occasion ’Lige remarked, as we grunted 
up the steep sides of Dismal, “This ’s a likely 
place fur rattlers!” 
log showed. The other four bullets are going 
yet, I guess. 
Down one of the numerous “branches” lived 
two sisters. They were young, and “pippins.” I 
had .met them when they came to the post to 
trade wild honey for thread, and I wonder the 
bees didn't get ’em, they were so pretty and 
sweet. I put on my store clothes and piked about 
two miles one evening to call upon the two 
beauties. What did their sure-shooting, but mis¬ 
informed, old father do, but ring in his spinster 
who saw in me a possible relief expedition to 
help out his cracker line. 
On the way back to the post a pole-cat insisted 
in trotting along just ahead of me, and, to make 
matters worse, a prowling dog “stirred him up.” 
altogether my evening was spoiled, and I had to 
air those store clothes of mine for about two 
weeks before the Swedes would consent to be 
neighborly any more. Every time I think of 
spending money foolishly I think of blowing some 
of it for a me-ow-lodeon. 
This Bear Was Killed Near Ft. Bragg, Cal., in June Last; After it Had Played Havoc Among 
the Hogs That Are Herded on the Hills. It Was Sold to a Local Butcher for $14. 
sister on me! I never saw the honey girls at 
all, and as long as I stayed (and I cut that visit 
to the quick of backwoods etiquette) I had to 
sit there and listen to that old maid and her 
melodeon. And what do you suppose she played? 
I’ll tell. It was “Blessed be the tie that binds.” 
I made up my mind that I’d be—oh well, never 
mind—if I wanted any ties in my haberdashery, 
and I beat it, much to the anger of the old man, 
One day ’Lige and I had been fishing. ’Lige 
was not what you would call an expert caster, 
nor did he “play” his quarry. But he, like the 
bed-bug of the song, “got there just the same,” 
and he knew what the fish “honed for.” When 
he thought it was time to take the poor, finny 
chap in out of 'the wet, he gave him a yank like 
a yard engine shunting a string of “boxes” on 
an up-grade spur, and if the victim flew off the 
