176 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Pete, The Dog Without a Pedigree 
By Nessmuk.* 
Many years ago, along in the forties, there 
was an immense tract of wild land between Ly¬ 
coming county and the State line to the north¬ 
ward, and this land was so rocky, sterile and 
broken that it seemed unlikely ever to be settled 
on as farming land. As to any value for lumber¬ 
men, why there was practically little timber save 
hemlock on 'the tract, and at that time, hemlock 
was worthless. Wherefore the entire tract was 
left in the hands of nature and the tax collec¬ 
tor, who usually sold a few thousand acres every 
year for taxes, the same being sold and re-sold 
again as the would-be speculators grew sick of 
their non-productive possessions. But it was 
very fair deer pasture and bear range, though 
the best hunters seldom went there, because it 
was so remote and inaccessible for teams that all 
packing in and out must be done on foot, and 
it was more than deer was worth to pack it out. 
That was the verdict of the average Pennsyl- 
vanis still-hunter, who was wont to consider 
himself disgraced if he spent time on a hunt that 
didn’t pay. 
I, taking a very different view of the matter, 
it is no marvel that the “Block House Woods” 
became my favorite stamping ground. It was 
here that I could bury myself in the forest for 
weeks at a time without seeing a human face or 
hearing the crack of a rifle, save my own. True, 
it was a tough all day job getting there and 
making camp for the night; but once there, I 
was free as the bluejays that pecked about the 
camp and talked to each other in the most musi¬ 
cal jargon of the stranger who came there to 
feed them crumbs and meat- There was little 
small game in this region, and the sombre hem¬ 
lock forest seemed to repel all song birds. I 
never saw nor heard a blue bird, thrush nor 
robin in those gloomy reaches. Jays, wood wrens, 
pileated woodpeckers and red squirrels, with an 
occasional pine marten or a stray hare com¬ 
prised all the minor animals to be found there. 
The large mountain cat, a species of lynx some¬ 
times attaining a weight of 60 lbs., was more 
plentiful than desirable. He was bold and im¬ 
pudent to a degree, and would climb small trees 
and steal venison within ten feet of my sleepy 
head. Sometimes a solitary raven came flopping 
over the tops of the hemlocks, croaking dismally. 
But he always had his knapsack packed for a 
more genial region, and did not stop. 
My objective point was in the wildest part of 
this forest at the “Chesnut Shanty,” a very com¬ 
fortable cabin, built years before by an old trap¬ 
per who nosed out his location as a promising 
ground for bear and marten, of which more 
anon. To reach it I usually hired a man to 
take me as far as wheels would reasonably go 
and then slung the knapsack for a hard four 
hours’ tramp. If I happened to get a little off on 
compass points, which I was apt to do in cloudy 
weather, the four hours might mean six, with 
added weariness. To make such tramps pleas¬ 
urable one must needs be young, hardy and an 
eager hunter, all of which I was in those days. 
* From posthumous manuscript (written about 1880 .) 
I prided myself on going light, but could never 
reduce the duffle for a week’s hunt much below 
25 lbs. For two weeks I allowed about 51 lbs. 
more. Not a heavy load, you will say. But try 
it for a half day, up and down steep mountain 
spurs, through tangles of laurel, shin-hopple and 
briar patches, over and under fallen logs and 
all the debris of swamp and forest. I’ll wager 
you would welcome a glimpse of the low roofs 
that covered the Chestnut Shanty. 
But “’Tis not in mortals to command suc¬ 
cess,” and i’t has happened on one or two hunts 
that I hunted faithfully all the week and came 
into camp at dark on Saturday with the same 
bullets in the gun that I had driven carefully 
home on Monday morning. Better hunters than 
I am had the same bad luck without being in the 
least discouraged thereby. 
It is thirty-six or thirty-seven years ago that 
on a bright November day I climbed over the 
tail-gate of Farmer B.’s light wagon and swung 
the knapsack for a weary tramp to Chestnut 
Shanty. It was within an hour of sundown, 
when, reeking with perspiration, I deposited knap¬ 
sack and rifle in the shanty and proceeded to 
make a lively fire against the huge hemlock 
trunk that served for a back log. 
And all that afternoon I had been thinking 
how grateful a modest nip of old Bourbon would 
be from the little flask that I knew was riding 
safely rolled up in my blanket. And so, when 
the fire was doing its best and the camp kettle 
was swimmering and singing sweetly, I unrolled 
and spread ‘the blanket, lay down on it with the 
knapsack for a pillow and drew the cork from the 
little flask with a sense of luxurious ease and 
perfect contentment. For a few minutes I in¬ 
dulged the pleasure of anticipation and then 
placed the flask where I thought it would do 
most good. Great heaven! There was no taste 
of whisky about it, but on the contrary a sick¬ 
ening flavor of rain water. I held the flask to 
the light and discovered a huge bloated angle 
worm floating about in the tepid water. And I 
had packed this piece of concentrated villainy 
twelve miles, to my own confusion! I did not 
swear; there are griefs too great for words, but 
I was nearly heart-broken. And I remembered 
with bitter regret that I had been fool enough 
to leave the ready-packed knapsack under the 
very noses of Ben and Lewey, the two red¬ 
headed, onion-eyed practical jokers, who never 
missed a chance of “hanging it on to” me, as they 
graphically expressed it. Ah, well, I suppose 
there are men in Wall Street who could lose a 
hundred thousand dollars with less feeling of 
vexation and disappointment than that iittle joke 
cost me. I know I lounged all the evening on 
the fresh browse, watching the bright camp-fire 
beyond and thinking what a fine addition to the 
picture would be a couple of well-s'tretehed red- 
haired scalps slowly drying by the fire light. I 
never got even. 
On the following morning I was out at early 
daylight, and hunted as long as I could see the 
sights on the rifle, but the leaves were too dry 
and noisy. I did not get a shot. And on the 
next day it was still worse. The bright sun 
and gentle west wind dried the leaves into a 
rustling forest carpet, which, although I hunted 
in moccasins, permitted the deer to hear me more 
than a hundred yards distant. And the second 
day was even as the first—a blank. 
The beautiful weather and glorious autumn 
hues were some compensation for poor hunting, 
but a man is not a cow to eat leaves, and when 
cne is, at much trouble and travel, in a deep 
lonely forest, a little venison seems about the 
right thing. And so I was glad when, on the 
third night in camp, there came a steady, light, 
warm rain, that made the leaves like wet paper, 
and early in the morning I was again out on 
Chestnut Ridge, with a fair show for a success¬ 
ful day’s hunt. And it was on this day that I 
made the acquaintance of Pete — an acquaintance 
that ripened into friendship, much to the advan¬ 
tage, I think, of both dog and man. I had been 
hunting all the forenoon with no success, and had 
taken to a log for rest and the chance of a stray 
deer, when a slight rusling in the leaves caused 
me to turn quickly but quietly, and there I saw 
a strange animal coming in on my trail that I 
scarcely recognized as a dog. But a dog it was, 
and, at first sight, a most unpromising cur he 
looked. Thin to emaciation, bow-legged, low on 
the ground, long-bodied, with a head too large, 
and muzzle disproportionately long and strong, 
a dingy, faded, red coat which covered a skin 
that seemed only a loose bag for holding a lot 
of looser bones, and he carried a pair of mis- 
mated ears, one of them standing “cocked” 
While the other lapped meekly over the side of 
his head and in two parts, having evidently been 
torn in a fight; also, his muzzle was marked 
with scars in a dozen places, and his chest waS 
simply immense for a dog of his size. Jt was 
safe to infer that a lack of courage was not 
among his failings, and there were points about 
him that any hunter would be sure to note. A 
dingy, worn streak around his neck showed that 
his days had been largely spent at the end of a 
rope, doubtless because he was given to wander¬ 
ing off on independent hunting trips, and he was 
“orderly” or he would have gnawed his rope. 
That he was a plucky, indefatigable hunter was 
certain, else he would not be found lost and 
starving in the depths of such a forest, and I 
judged that he had not fagged through follow¬ 
ing a bear too long and too far. Had it been 
a deer the race would have been on better 
ground, and would have ended in time for him 
to back-track himself out. Anyhow, there he 
was, a gaunt, hollow, starving canine reality, 
And, as he planted himself on his haunches and 
looked me appealingly in the face with a pair of 
full, intelligent brown eyes, I felt that no hunter 
with a heart in him could go back on such a 
dog, though it cleaned out the last crumb in his 
knapsack. Grudgingly, I took out the frugal 
lunch in my pocket and fed him by small in¬ 
stalments — to make it go further. The morsels 
vanished like snowflakes in a camp-fire, and he 
looked hungrier than before. 
