The Cruise of the Marguerite. 
The middle of April found me still at Tam¬ 
pico dividing the time between tarpon and irri¬ 
gated lands. As 1 was the last straggling sports¬ 
man at the hotel when the proprietor, Mr. Poin¬ 
dexter, sought a companion for his annual vaca¬ 
tion on the Tamiahua Lagoon, it was a case of 
“Hobson’s choice.” The invitation may not have 
been flattering, but as one might say, “Don’t 
look a gift automobile in the carburetter.” 
The lagoon extends south from Tampico for 
a distance of eighty miles and is separated from 
the gulf by a strip of land which in places is 
little more than an enormous sandbar, while in 
others it is a very fertile country of low hills 
covered with extremely dense vegetation. There 
are several native settlements containing, I be¬ 
lieve, not a single white man. The lagoon it¬ 
self, consisting of a series of large lakes, sel¬ 
dom more than eight feet deep, but in most 
places about ten miles wide, is connected with 
Tampico Harbor by a deep ship canal, so in 
order to guard against vexatious delays caused 
by possible head winds, we decided to have a 
gasolene launch tow us through the canal. 
Before 5 o’clock we were drinking coffee by 
lamplight at Tampico market place and promptly 
at six everything was stowed away, the last rope 
cast off, and at a signal from Poindexter the 
launch started. Marguerite, a 30-foot sloop, built 
on Lake Michigan as a racer, went through the 
water like an eel and appeared scarcely to re¬ 
tard the speed of the little launch. At ii o’clock 
we arrived at the home of Mr. Wilson, an old 
boat builder with a history. The wind then 
being favorable, we sent the noisy launch about 
her business and made the last few miles of 
canal under sail. Soon the wind all but died 
out and we were going at a snail’s pace. Poin¬ 
dexter suggested a swim and our very clothes 
must have understood, for they fairly dropped 
off, and in no time we were almost bursting with 
joy in the deep and slightly brackish water of 
the canal. 
While we were dressing, the wind sprang up 
and it was not long before we were in the open 
lake where, selecting a point well known to Mr. 
Poindexter, we made camp and constructed a 
blind. On the lake at no great distance there 
was an immense flock of ducks. While I occu¬ 
pied the blind Mr. Poindexter took his gun and 
put out in the small boat. Only a few birds 
came my way, but it was not long before our 
two guns had brought down fifteen ducks and 
snipe, which, being enough to feed ourselves and 
the two young Mexican helpers until the next 
evening, we stopped shooting and enjoyed just 
being alive. 
After supper I walked along the shore a short 
distance. Following a cattle trail I was soon at 
the edge of a pond which, as a result of the dry 
season, was nothing more than a mud puddle 
a couple of hundred yards long, and except in 
the very middle not more than two or three 
inches deep. Walking all over the pond were 
two separate flocks of birds, one consisting of 
several hundred small Wilson’s snipe and the 
other of perhaps fifty beetlehead plover. First 
the little fellows would be startled and in a 
compact body would fly back and forth over 
the pond. Each time as they wheeled toward 
me, showing their snowy breasts, their color 
THE TIGRE HUNTER. 
suddenly changed from gray to pure white. 
After a time the larger beetleheads began execut¬ 
ing similar maneuvers. 
To see those two regiments pass and repass 
each other in wonderful curves, at one time a 
dull gray and the next instant flashing brilliantly 
white in the gathering gloom, that was a joy 
compared to which mere game killing appeared 
ridiculous, and there is no denying the fact that 
a man who constantly carries a gun is bound 
to lose all the greatest pleasure of an outing. 
WILDFOWL RISING. 
But I had promised Poindexter to be back in 
camp before dark, to be ready for a deer 
hunt. Several times I started, but each time 
stopped for a last look. Who among you has 
not taken his last cast for bass or trout until 
supper was cooked and eaten and all the dishes 
washed? Finally my conscience began to trouble 
me; I simply had to go, when—what was that? 
The bushes across the pond were surely dis¬ 
turbed by some live thing. ■ I stood perfectly 
still. Even my right arm, which happened to 
be raised to my forehead, was compelled in spite 
of protest to maintain its unnatural position; but 
the reward was not long delayed. The bushes 
were again moved and a sharp-pointed little head 
was poked into sight. Then very cautiously ap¬ 
peared the entire animal—a beautiful yearling 
doe. She walked almost to the edge of the 
pond and stopped. She did not see me, and al¬ 
though in the cross wind it was impossible for 
her to detect me by means of her delicate little 
nose, still, by means of that peculiar “sixth 
sense” so difficult of explanation, but which has 
saved the life of many a wild creature, she ap¬ 
peared to be aware of the presence of an in¬ 
truder. Flow 1 regretted my inability to tell the 
pretty creature she had nothing to fear. It is 
not always an advantage to be a lord of crea¬ 
tion. The doe evidently wanted to drink, but 
did not quite dare go as far as the edge of the 
water. She felt that in the immediate neighbor¬ 
hood danger lurked, but in what direction she 
could not determine. She seemed to be at a 
loss to know which way to turn. Her indecision 
lasted for perhaps a half minute, when sud¬ 
denly, overcome by panic, with one wild bound 
she disappeared into the thick woods, while I 
slowly returned to camp. 
In the morning I again sought the pond, this 
time armed with a camera, but the light was 
poor and the results nothing to be proud of. 
That afternoon we landed at Cavaroho, a small 
settlement on the eastern shore of the lagoon, 
where Aurelio Cruz, the storekeeper and princi¬ 
pal citizen, on being informed that I did not 
“charge,” obligingly induced his entire family 
to brave the dangers of facing my camera. 
In the evening, for the sake of a new experi¬ 
ence, I deliberately went on a fool’s errand. It 
is a fact that in practically any of the wilder 
places in Mexico there is a possibility of kill¬ 
ing a tiger or Mexican jaguar, an animal meas¬ 
uring about eight feet from tip to tip, and in 
appearance very similar to a leopard. As any¬ 
one with even the smallest knowledge of wood¬ 
craft must know, to hunt an animal of that 
character without dogs, especially in dry coun¬ 
try, is like looking for a needle in a haystack, 
only the tiger is a “needle” with the most highly 
developed senses and a power of vanishing that 
is, to say the least, discouraging. Still, when 
the amiable Don Aurelio offered to send me 
tiger hunting, who was I to refuse? At about 
6 o’clock there appeared the extremely decora¬ 
tive person with the machete. Determined to 
bag something, I used the camera with deadly 
effect, and started to mount my fiery steed, when, 
as frequently occurs in times of crisis, my mind 
seemed to recall from the forgotten past some 
similar experience. 
“Mr. Poindexter,” I demanded, “will you 
kindly ask the gentleman when I may expect to 
again see home and mother?” 
