FOREST AND STREAM 
901 
THROUGH NICOTINE’S HAZE 
Memory Pictures Framed in 
Brier-Root—Colonel Park’s 
“Cannon”—One Black- 
snake, a Professor and 
A Panic 
By Will C. Parsons 
Y ESTERDAY, a temperature like unto 
April; to-night, a roaring nor’ easter 
with a drop of 47 degrees! 
Yesterday, a smiling sky, the limpid lilt of the 
song sparrows. To-night, the chill-giving trem¬ 
olo of a screech-owl and the weird chords of 
the telegraph wires, whose strings are twanged 
by the frosty fingers of the snow laden gale. 
Outside, cold, cold cold; inside, the cheerful 
glow of the lamp, the singing of the fire, and 
the blue smoke lazily drifting from a well draw¬ 
ing brier-root. 
The photographs of camps in Michigan, and 
along the Wisconsin state line; of faithful dogs, 
long since gone to happier hunting grounds, dim, 
then fade, and through the curling, drifting to¬ 
bacco-clouds, come other pictures of friends and 
scenes framed in the mystical root of the brier. 
That water-color of Old Bess on the shelf 
takes on an image that flickers, fades and then 
grows sharp, until all semblance to a four-footed 
friend is gone, and in its place appears the mo¬ 
tion picture of the night the forest fire was 
fought on Lake Mamie. 
Again, through the blue haze comes another 
picture—this time a face— 
How many readers of the Forest and Stream 
knew Colonel Horace Park, soldier, nature- 
student, trap-shot, fish hatchery expert,—gentle¬ 
man? 
I can see him now, leaning over the counter 
in the old “hang out” where he catered to the 
taste of every hunter, fisherman, rifle-shot and 
small boy within twenty miles of the city, as he 
gave his judgment on what fly to buy, how much 
shot to use, and whether the ducks were on the 
“pond” or in the marshes. What has become 
of that famous fly of his, the “chippy,” that 
was resplendent in yellows and reds, and simply 
lured the goggle-eyes, and the blue-gills to their 
doom? Perhaps it has another name now, and 
has been toned down, but be that as it may, the 
combination proved a winner in the little stream 
that flows from Beaver Lake to Lake Superior, 
within sight of the Pictured Rocks, where we 
camped at one time. The trout seemed to be 
fairly enamoured of that fly—also of a very 
frayed brown hackle that had seen much better 
days. 
Another picture—the old pond-hole where 
years and years ago convicts quarried the stone 
for the then, new, state house. In some manner 
or other (I sometimes suspect the Colonel as 
the cause) that deep, green, limestone water- 
filled hole had some of the biggest and laziest 
big mouths in it I ever saw. The Colonel and I, 
taking samples of every lure in the store tried 
time after time, at all hours and under all 
weather conditions, to fasten on to some of 
those old wallopers. But nay! Then we found 
the reason—-too much natural food; also an un¬ 
hung scoundrel who shot them with an old 
army musket, from a convenient fork of a lean¬ 
ing tree. 
If I remember correctly, that shooting busi¬ 
ness was stopped! 
Another picture starts to reel. This one shows 
the work shop in the rear at the time “Jimmy” 
was loading shells, and dropped some pipe sparks 
in a tray filled with wood powder. 
In seven seconds, or less, that was the most 
“depopulated” store in High Street. The darky 
porter dived through the basement window, tak¬ 
ing iron bars, sash and all. Afterwards, we 
proved by scientific measurements he should not 
have been able to do it, considering him ana¬ 
tomically. 
Colonel Park was a splendid mechanical gen¬ 
ius and was forever turning out specimens of 
his skill. In some manner he had acquired an 
old Queen’s Arm with a muzzle capacity of a 
small keg. He conceived the idea of building a 
single breech loader with which to “skin ’em” at 
the traps. In those days, glass balls and live 
pigeons were used. He made the gun all right, 
and I think the state of Ohio has the weapon 
now in the relic room at the State House. The 
muzzle was reinforced at the muzzle end with 
a band of steel, and the whole gun was about 
as hard to lift and point as a fence post. The 
colonel made light of it, however, and he was 
generally put back at the 26 yard line with plenty 
of elbow room all about him. For a minute 
after that old fusee had belched forth its con¬ 
tents, it was hard to say which was the worse 
shattered—the feather filled glass ball, or the 
ear drums of the other contestants. 
It was loaded with shells bought from the 
Government for use in a rapid fire gun of the 
period. They were of brass and about 3 or 4 
gauge. I fired that gun once. It was at an in¬ 
coming butter-ball duck. I was planted on a 
big walnut stump in a swamp down near the 
starch factory and it was dark before the work¬ 
men had scraped me clean enough to go home 1 
The Colonel smiled as I slid into the store. 
“Did you get the duck?” he asked. I killed the 
duck all right, but I didn’t get him. The duck 
I got was spelled in finality—“ing.” 
Colonel Park spent his last days at the fish 
hatchery at Put-in Bay—his last working days, 
I mean. 
Vale, Colonel, gentle-MAN! 
I wonder where Professor Morrill is now? 
The last time I heard of him he was doing bac¬ 
teriological work somewhere in the East. 
Through the smoke wreaths I see his kindly, 
beardless face; the lines about his eyes as he 
smiled; the long tailed black coat he always 
wore. He was the only man I ever saw who 
could dig out a wood-chuck, unearth a plant in 
a swamp, or chisel a trilobite from the rocks in 
a creek without getting dirty. 
He was clean, physically, morally. He was 
rightly named. 
Ah, Professor, you little know the good seed 
you sowed when you least expected any harvest! 
Do you remember the little incident of the 
black snake and its appearance at church? 
I’ll have to tell this one on you. One glorious 
spring Sabbath, the Professor was on his way 
to church, with an eye out for things natural. 
A fine black snake, shiny as ebony came athwart 
his gaze, and, having no specimen case at hand, 
said reptile was carefully pinned in the rear 
pocket of that long coat. Deep was the good 
man’s attention in the words of the pastor, when 
the snake found an opening and ran out about 
a foot of sinuous sleekness. Some young girl 
who ought to have been looking at the minister, 
but who was not, saw the spectre. Followed, 
an exodus, not in the Good Book. 
