Dec. 14, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
747 
hammer, shot right through the head. In a 
house not far away lived a woman who was 
termed by Uncle Esek “Ole Miss Lewis, whar 
has er heap uv trouble wid hawks and sich.” As 
they came near her place a hen hawk alighted 
in the top of a big persimmon tree some seventy- 
five yards from a barn, and grandpa, who wanted 
to add to his reputation in Jimmy’s mind, said: 
“You all lie low now, and I will creep up and 
get him.” Jimmy and Uncle Esek obeyed and 
went down in the grass like lizards. It seemed 
like a long time before grandpa’s rifle cracked, 
but when it did the big bird seemed to try to 
rise in the air, and then came tumbling through 
the tree, clawing savagely at this limb and that. 
When Jimmy ran up to the place with his dog 
the mortally wounded bird was as savage as 
could be, and Uncle Esek finished it with a blow 
-on the head with a stick. Jimmy took the hawk 
hy the heels and ran to “Ole Miss Lewis” with 
It. She was delighted and declared that the next 
day she was going to make a big chicken pie for 
grandpa and him, and in fact, for all the family. 
Into the woods the trio went, and everything 
seemed to go grandpa’s way, for a squirrel 
The Caribou 
B Y prowling around we discovered southerly 
two or three miles from camp an open hill, 
whence we could see half a dozen small 
lakes and bogs. Three does were feeding on a 
marsh a mile east of us, but no stag was to be 
seen. On top of a high ridge three or four 
miles southeast we could just see the edge of 
a big flat open country, which we resolved to 
hunt over later. Soon three small stags worked 
out on to the big bog below us. a mile distant. 
Going down toward them we jumped another. 
Crossing the brook we came upon a doe. fifty 
flashed into a hollow limb, not many feet above 
the ground. The limb seemed to have been 
struck by lightning, for it was split and the 
squirrel ran in it in such a way that its head 
showed through a narrow opening not over half 
an inch wide. Up went grandpa’s rifle, his trusty 
right forefinger touched the slender trigger, and 
the squirrel collapsed. Jimmy was helped up 
the tree and contrived to get the squirrel out. 
Grandpa had shot him through the eye. In 
Jimmy’s mind his grandpa’s admiration for that 
old flint lock was more than shared. 
By and by they came to a young poplar tree, 
its leaves nearly all fallen, in which there was 
an exceedingly big squirrel’s nest. Uncle Esek 
begged for Jimmy’s gun, saying, “I know’s er 
gemmun whar makes hit er pint ter shoot in 
dem sort uv nesses, fur diffunt animals lays up 
in dem nesses; jus’ quiles up an’ goes ter 
sleep.” Uncle Esek blazed away, while Jimmy 
and grandpa watched. Some leaves drifted off, 
but very quickly the nest shook and something 
began to drop on the ground. Uncle Esek went 
to the foot of the tree and at once said, “Hit’s 
blood a-droppin’. T lay you a wager T got sumpn 
Pictures and Text by the "Judge.” 
feet away, drinking, but she dashed through 
the stream with a great splashing before I 
could get her picture. 
Then we saw two young stags and a doe 
feeding down across the bog, and leaving Bob, 
I crawled along through the moss like a 
serpent, holding the camera ahead of me ready 
for a picture; finally I gained the shelter of a 
tiny shrub, into the top of which I pushed the 
camera, waiting for the deer to come across in 
front of it. At fifty feet the doe became un¬ 
easy and I could see the hair raising upon her 
dat time. Yo’ jes’ watch.” And sure enough 
out tumbled a great big ’possum and hit the 
ground with a thump. Uncle Esek’s eyes seemed 
to stand out from his head like a sand fiddler’s, 
and it was a pure joy to see him pick up that 
animal dearer than any other in all this world 
to the darkey stomach. Uncle Esek did not want 
to shoot any more. He had seen “ole Marse” 
show off with the trusty flint lock, and all his 
stories had been proved, and after knocking 
about a little bit more, they decided to go home. 
As Jimmy was striding along with gun on shoul¬ 
der, a rabbit ran lightly across in front, and at 
the edge of a little patch of reeds actually sat 
up and very coolly “washed de face,” as Uncle 
Esek put it. Jimmy laughed so much he could 
not shoot, but let the rabbit go. Presently an¬ 
other rabbit was jumped. There was a little 
“patch of cotton” nearby and into this the rabbit 
ran and “squatted.” Uncle Esek said: “Rab¬ 
bits sholy has sense. Dey knows dat the frosted 
cotton smells high an’ drowns de scent and dat’s 
why dey goes inter de cotton patch an’ lays 
low.” Grandpa admitted that there must be 
something in this. 
shoulders, but the stags remained indifferent, 
and I exposed the film. At the click of the 
shutter she saw me, but I remained frozen until 
her curiosity had overcome her fear, and she 
advanced cautiously toward the tiny bush 
through which I was peering at her. At the 
second click she jumped and started away, ac¬ 
companied by the stags. 
At a distance of 100 yards out upon the 
marsh the stags resumed feeding, but the doe 
turned sharply and cut straight across the wind 
at a swinging trot, her head high and her funny 
little tail cocked straight up in the air in a 
comical fashion. Although going through soft 
moss, which gives down six inches at every 
step, she had a most elastic trot, springing right 
up smartly into the air at every stride. Upon 
finally crossing our scent in the wind she made 
one fine buck jump and started down the breeze 
at top speed. 
Later we saw more does and young stags 
in velvet. Fifteen deer in all for the day, but 
no worthy trophy. Often we would espy 
among the green spruces and tamaracks fring¬ 
ing the bog. what seemed surely to be the 
white throat of an old stag; but a look with 
the glasses invariably converted it into the 
trunk of a birch, or the dead and whitened 
roots of an old pine. From “stag” to “snag” 
requires but momentary use of the binoculars 
and the shifting of a single letter, but when 
the change is called for a hundred times daily, 
it does becomes tiresome. 
While Bob was fleshing out the head skin 
of our first stag one morning he discovered an 
old buckshot embedded in the thick hide of 
the neck. “An Indian’s work,” said he, “no 
white man shoots at stags with buckshot.” 
Bob, however, credits the Indian trappers 
BACK TO GLENWOOD. 
Barrens of Newfoundland III. 
