702 
FOREST AND STREAM 
MY LEETLE CABANE 
By William Henry Drummond 
over a vast plowed field. Looking around and 
making sure that I saw him, he backed in his 
tracks a dozen steps and then disappeared from 
view as absolutely as if the black plowed field 
had swallowed up his white body. We kept on 
toward the spot where he was last seen, and after 
some five minutes’ plodding over the soft up¬ 
turned earth, Master Nero arose out of a dry- 
ditch just in front of us and quietly resumed 
his point. Coming up with the dog, two great 
coveys of partridges arose, my friend made a 
right and left shot out of the flock to the right 
and I took a bird with each barrel of the left 
covey. 
The trait of reporting causes a dog to be 
■freer and easier on his point, he is less like a 
cast-iron statue, more like a reasoning being. 
As Nero and I advance on a running covey, 
he lifts his ears, looks up at me and takes in the 
situation “like a little man,” pointing now here, 
now there, and ringing the game in between us 
if necessary. 
A reporter really seems to go through a chain 
■of reasoning something like this, “Here is 
game, but where is my master? Of myself I 
can do nothing. Here’s for it. I’ll go hunt him 
.up, for it takes both of us to do the shooting.” 
Frequently when Nero makes game I hide to 
see him go through his motions. Gradually he 
stiffens into a solid point then looks around, 
first one side, then the other. No master in 
sight. Then he slowly backs out of it, step by 
step, a dozen steps or so; next he turns round 
as slyly as a snake, then sneaks away, and in 
another moment is in a full gallop toward where 
he last saw me. I always meet him with a pat 
on the head and a “Bravo, Neroi” It seems to 
me that the advantage of a reporter it at once 
apparent, whether it be on the wide prairies of 
the West, in the hill country of the East, or 
in the dense coverts of New England. What 
a comfort and luxury to have a dog who 
will come in and report game and then lead 
you quietly to it. How many forced marches 
in the alder swamps one might save, and how 
lazily he could saunter along the ridges, leisure¬ 
ly waiting for the report of his faithful four- 
footed friend. Americans are never satisfied 
with anything short of the best. If we have not 
the reporter in America, we have not the best 
possible pointing dog. 
Is not the subject worthy the attention of our 
dog breeders and dog lovers? Why not import 
the reporting pointer and cross with our best 
pointers of English blood? 
I ’M SITTIN’ to-night on ma little cabane, 
more happier dan de king, 
An’ ev’ry corner’s ringin’ out wit’ musique de 
ole stove sing 
I hear de cry of de winter win’, for de storm- 
gate’s open wide 
But I don’t care not’ing for win’ or storm, so 
long I was safe inside. 
Viens ’ci, mon chien, put your head on dere, let 
your nose res’ on ma knee—- 
You ’member de tarn we chase de moose back on 
de Lac Souris 
An’ de snow come down an’ we los’ ourse’f till 
mornin’ is bring de, light, 
You t’ink we got place to sleep, mon chien, lak 
de place we go here to-night. 
Onder de roof of de leetle cabane, w’ere fire 
she’s blazin high 
An’ bed I mak’ of de spruce tree branch, is lie 
on de floor close by, 
O! I lak de smell of dat nice fresh bed, an’ I 
dream of de summer tarn 
An’ de spot w’ere de beeg trout jomp so moche 
down by de lumber dam. 
But lissen dat win’, how she scream outside mak 
me t’ink of de loup garou, 
W’y to-night, mon chien, I be feelin’ glad if 
even de carcajou 
Don’t ketch hese’f on de trap I set to-day on 
de Lac Souris 
Let heem wait till to-morrow, an’ den if he lak, 
I geeve hem good chance, sapree! 
I see beeg cloud w’en I’m out to-day, off on de 
nor’-eas sky, 
An’ she block de road, so de cloud behin’, don’t 
get a chance passin’ by, 
An’ I tink of boom on de grande riviere, w’en 
log’s fillin’ up de bay, 
Wall! sam as de boom on de spring-tam flood, 
dat cloud she was sweep away. 
Dem log’s very nice an’ quiet, so long as de 
boom’s all right, 
But soon as de boom geev way, L’enfant! It’s 
den is begin de fight. 
Dey run de rapide, an’ jomp de rock, dey leap 
on de air an’ dive, 
Can hear dem roar from de reever shore, jus’ 
lak dey was all alive. 
Copyrighted and published in Forest and Stream 
through courtesy of G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York 
and London. 
An’ dat was dey way wit’ de cloud to-day, de 
res’ of dem push aside, 
For dey’re cornin’ fas’ from de cole nor’-eas’ an’ 
away t’roo de sky dey ride 
Shakin’ de snow as along dey go, lak grain from 
de farmer’s han’ 
Till to-morrow you can’t see not’ing at all, but 
smoke of de leetle cabane. 
I'm glad we don’t got no chimley, only hole on 
de roof up dere, 
An’ spark fly off on w’ole of de work, so dere’s 
no use gettin’ scare, 
Mus’ get more log! an’ it’s lucky too, de wood 
pile is stannin’ near, 
So blow away storm, for harder you go, de 
warmer she’s cornin’ here— 
I wonder how dey get on, mon chien, off on de 
great beeg town, 
W’ere house is so high, near touch de sky, mus’ 
be danger of failin’ down. 
An’ worser too on de night lak dis,’ ketchin’ dat 
terrible win’, 
O! leetle small place lak de ole cabane was de 
right place for stayin’ in. 
I s’pose dey got plaintee bodder too, dem feller 
dat’s be riche man, 
For dey’re never knowin’ w’en t’ief may come 
an’ steal all de t’ing he can 
An’ de monee was kip dem busy too, watchin’ it 
night an’ day, 
Dunno but we’re better off here, mon chien, wit’ 
beeg city far away. 
For I look on de corner over dere, an’ see it 
ma birch canoe, 
I look on de wall w’re ma rifle hang along wit’ 
de good snowshoe, 
An’ ev’ry t’ing else on de work I got, safe on 
dis place near me. 
An’ here you are too, ma brave old dog, wit’ your 
nose up agen ma knee. 
An’ here we be stay t’roo de summer day, w’en 
ev’ry t’ing warm an’ bright 
On winter too w’en de stormy win’ blow lak 
she blow to-night 
Let dem stay on de city, on great beeg house, 
dem feller dat’s be riche man 
For we’re happy an’ satisfy here, mon chien, on 
our own leetle small cabane. 
