FOREST AND STREAM 
709 
Madame Liberte’s Winter Buck 
A Boreas River Legend 
By Peter Flint. 
and Beethoven float on the air—vve sportsmen are 
glad that they should derive pleasure from these 
sources. As for me, personally, there is no 
orchestra to he compared with the splashing, 
laughing, tinkling sound of the water-fall in its 
own natural setting—to me it is sublime! As far 
as music is concerned, I know only two tunes 
myself, one being the “Star Spangled Banner,” 
and the other—isn’t. Far be it from any of the 
men who love to go afield to say that our art 
and music loving friends shall not enjoy their 
preferred pastime at their own time and pleas¬ 
ure, and I am just as firmly of the belief that 
sportsmen, as a class, are entitled to the privi¬ 
lege of enjoying themselves in their own way. 
The hunting instinct was born and bred in me, 
I must confess, loving the woods and everything 
pertaining to nature, and I feel that I can say 
that I have done as much for the protection and 
propagation of fish and game in this State as al¬ 
most any man in the State, so that I do not at¬ 
tempt to reap where I have not sown, but I am 
convinced that there are two sides to this ques¬ 
tion, and that the side of the sportsman has not 
been properly put before the people. The ele¬ 
ments and vermin have done more for the devas¬ 
tation of our covers of desirable game birds 
than have all the acts of man put together, and 
I hope that the Audubon Society and the Society 
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals will 
devote some of their valuable time and attention 
to the education of the people toward eliminating 
the destructive vermin which over-run our 
covers. If they will do this, inside of five years’ 
time note the increase of our native game birds, 
which will come just as surely as the vermin are 
destroyed. 
So let’s be fair, one with another, and let those 
of us who do hunt, do so without the fear of 
unwarranted criticism or blame for conditions 
for and over which we have no control. Game 
can be made as plentiful as ever, if we will all 
enter into an active campaign to “Destroy 
Vermin.” GEORGE B. CLARK. 
WHO KILLED POOR COCK ROBIN? 
Bourbon, Ind., Nov. 17, 1914. 
Editor, Forest and Stream: 
I noticed in the Nov. 14 number of your good 
magazine an article in which a New Jersey man 
paid $100 and costs for shooting a robin red¬ 
breast. This reminded me of an instance which 
•happened some years ago in Fayette, Ohio. A 
man by the name of Binns had some very fine 
early cherries and the birds were taking them 
to the extent that he thought there soon would 
be none left. So Mr. Binns proceeded to remedy 
matters by shooting a robin; the effect was that 
some one had him arrested much to the delight 
of some of the schoolboys who liked to tease 
him, and every time they saw Mr. Binns on the 
street they would repeat this rhyme. “Who 
killed cock robin?” 
“I did,” said Mr. Binns. 
“’Twas I that knocked him off his pins.” 
I am always interested in the exceptionally fine 
articles which appear in your magazine and don’t 
feel that I could get along without Forest and 
Stream, so kindly advise me in time to renew 
before my subscription expires- 
L. D. RUSSELL. 
It is a typical domestic scene in a winter 
lumbering camp, that I am going to depict. Out¬ 
side, the drifted snow lay deep in the roads. 
Carefully dug trenches led to the old log barn 
and various rude outhouses where horses, cattle, 
sheep, pigs, and chickens were sheltered from 
the rigors of the northern Adirondack storms, 
as well as the predacious forays of bear, lynx, 
foxes, raccoons and owls. The mail stage that 
connected that remote region with the outside 
world on two stated periods each week in the 
year arrived about two hours late, the horses 
dripping with perspiration from their ten-mile 
struggle with the soft snow drifts, and the 
driver declared with considerable emphasis that 
he wouldn’t stir another step until the roads 
were “ploughed out.” 
The camp was at the farm house of a French- 
Canadian who had formerly been strong man 
on the barrows at the big blast furnace out 
Champlain way and earned, as he proudly avered, 
“Two dol’ an’ af hevery day.” Let us call him 
M’sieu Liberte—that will do for a name, as well 
as any other and perhaps it will not be so very 
far from his true title. 
As “pattemaster,” it was his duty to “order 
out” neighboring taxpayers at the request of 
Uncle Sam’s insistent minions and make some 
impression on those drifts which had been al¬ 
lowed to become wet and heavy with the thaw. 
An aboriginal snowplough was then construct¬ 
ed, by lashing a well known farming implement 
to the rear of a heavy lumber bob-sled, and 
with half a dozen healthy Canucks standing 
aboard to keep it down, this primitive engine 
went to work on the deep snow, stopping at the 
ten-foot drifts to allow the shovelers to cut down 
these embankments that closed its way. 
Back in the great kitchen preparations were 
being made to feed the multitude, and handsome 
Madame Liberte had much difficulty in dodging 
about among the hulking Canadians who sat 
about the big cook stove. In vain she intimated 
that there was plenty of space “in de bah room 
dere,” where Leon was officiously waiting behind 
the small counter ready to deal out any compound 
from port wine to blackberry brandy, that human 
ingenuity, aided by the “Barkeeper’s Guide” 
and a few added “extras” could produce from 
the wine cellar of this famous backwoods hos¬ 
telry, a large but solitary barrel of only fair 
whiskey, carted in 40 miles the fall before, and 
which had been “layed to” pretty closely all 
winter. Besides this, the monthly pay day was 
still some days distant and cash was mighty 
scarce, owing to frequent pilgrimages to this 
bar, mighty bouts at penny-ante, “Peed” and 
“pokaire,” not to mention such frivolities as two, 
or three kitchen “tunks” a week, where those 
who danced must be liberal, for Naturelment, 
il faut donner quelque chose au musicien. 
Noting the small receipts at the bar that morn¬ 
ing, Madame, who combined English thrift with 
French tact and economy, then tried the argu- 
mentum ad hominem, as follows: “Say, I ’shamed 
hef you big feller hall sit ’round stove ce matin. 
Why you no go hout on de mount back de pon’ 
an’ shoot dat beeg, buck dere in deer yard? My 
man say he weigh t’ree hunderd.” Madame put 
the question to each man in the house, but every 
one had some excuse or other to offer. The 
boots of one leaked, another had an “awful cold,” 
a third was actually afraid he would get lost. 
This last excuse, coming from a lumberman, was 
too much for Madame and she declared in 
spirited Gallic language that she would not cook 
any more pork for dinners “wit’ dozen lazy 
mans loafin’ ’raound de kitchen,” and that if 
no one else would get a deer she would go her¬ 
self. This was advanced ground, as women 
were not expected to use firearms then. 
Her solitary still hunt in those days of her 
wild youth personally related to me, was as fol¬ 
lows : 
“Wall; I put hon one ole pair pants hunder 
mah skirt, an pull long woolen stockin’ offer 
mail shoe. Den I strap hon mah ole man's snow 
shoe, tak dat ole gun, some powdaire, shot and 
caps and start hoff wit’ a latte day big dat puppy 
dere. How dem mean feller laffs w’en I starts 
hoff. Wall, I says, ‘you feller git de dinner, I 
mak de hunt mahsef, you see.’ 
“I knowed hall bout de lan,’ cause I peek berry 
summer tarn much half bushel day. Bimby, I 
come to yard an’ see grat beeg track. Dat puppy 
he runned and barked dredful. I come fas’ 
as could. Dere was hawful beeg buck standin’ 
hon flat rock fitin’ dat dog wit’s horns and foots. 
Den I trembles so can hartly stan’. Bimby, I 
feels better. Dem feller shan’t laff no more 
at wimmen huntin’, I say mahsef. I puts a let 
slug in de ole gun hon top de load, like my mans 
tale me wen see beeg game he do. Den I puts 
hon a fresh cap, cocks de gun and walks up 
close- De buck him swing ’raound sideway. I 
shoot. Wall, he jump strat hup, den he fall 
mos’ on leetle puppy, but dat deer stone dead, 
him shot clean t’rough shouldaire. 
“I tells puppy stay dere an’ watch an’ I gits 
back to camp. I say: ‘You lazy feller, you 
jus’ take dat back track and bring in dat venison 
fer you dinner, I tale you I get.’ 
“Wall; dey hall went, an’ I jus’ laf mahsef 
mos’ to death, de way dey hall comes puffin’ in 
wit’ dat 250 pounds buck trough de wet snow. 
Dey nevaire set nottin’ more ’bout wimmen 
shootin’ deer; dey jus’ eat all dat deer up and 
next tarn dey got venison theirsel’.” 
STATE ASSOCIATION REPRESENTA¬ 
TIVES INVITED TO INTERSTATE 
MEETING. 
Pittsburgh, Pa., Nov. 21, 1914. 
Editor “Forest and Stream”: 
In accordance with a resolution adopt¬ 
ed at their annual meeting of 1912, the 
directors of the Interstate Association 
would be pleased to have the president, 
or some duly accredited representative, 
of the several state associations and prom¬ 
inent gun club organizations, attend their 
annual meeting in 1914 and give them the 
benefit of their views on trapshooting. 
Said meeting will be held on the third day 
of December, at 1 0 o’clock in the fore¬ 
noon, at the office of the association with 
The Corporation Trust Company, 15 
Exchange Place, Jersey City, N. J. 
THE INTERSTATE ASSOCIATION, 
E. Reed Shaner, Secretary. 
