170 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Feb. 2, 1907. 
monster and belaboring its head with a big 
bough presently killed him. On another oc¬ 
casion, wishing to secure a stunned hippopotamus, 
Cumming, regardless of crocodiles, entered the 
river, and plunging his long knife into her stern 
tried to tow her ashore. The wounded Behe¬ 
moth awoke from her lethargy under this treat¬ 
ment, and with Cumming hanging on like grim 
death to her hindquarters waltzed about the 
pool, carrying her attendant with her in her 
struggles, like a mere fly. Not to be baulked, 
the hunter, as she tired, cut two incisions in her 
hide, got a leather riem from his man, passed 
it through the incisions, and, mooring his cap¬ 
tive to a tree, finished her off with a ball 
through her head. 
Few men, I suppose, have ever slam so many 
rhinoceroses as Gordon Cumming during his 
seven years of hunting. He has been known to 
shoot five during a single day, and some of his 
trophies from these monsters, in the shape of 
the long fore horns, were immense. One, se¬ 
cured from a white rhinoceros, still holds the 
record. It is in the possession of Colonel W. 
Gordon Cumming, a cousin of the celebrated 
African hunter, and measures no less than 5 
feet 2^/2 inches, having a circumference at the 
base of 22J/2 inches. His bag of lions still 
counts, as a phenomenal one. Many wagon loads 
of magnificent ivory, the fruits of his expeditions 
into the Bakwena and Bamangwato countries, 
were brought down at different times by Cum¬ 
ming and sold at Grahamstown market. Very 
few hunters indeed have had the glorious op¬ 
portunities of Roualeyn Gordon Cumming. In 
the finest hunting grounds the world has ever 
seen, at a period when the quest of great game 
was only just beginning, he roamed for seven 
long years, enjoying the most abundant and ex¬ 
citing sport that has ever fallen to the lot of 
any European hunter. Fever and hard work 
told in the end, even upon his giant strength and 
magnificent constitution. He died at Fort 
Augustus, Invernesshire, in the year 1866, having 
only attained 46 years of age. 
H. A. Bryden. 
New Publications. 
Old time readers of Forest and Stream well 
remember Mr. Lewis E. France, of Denver, 
Col., who over the signature “Bourgeois” used, 
to contribute to the Forest and Stream charm¬ 
ing anglng tales of the Colorado' parks and 
the high mountains. An enthusiastic angler was 
and is Mr. France, and one whose pen for many 
years has given pleasure to a large constituency. 
There has just been printed a little book from 
his pen entitled, “No Stranger to my Neigh¬ 
bor.” The tale is brief and simple, dealing with 
the adventures of a Mr. Godfrey Holley on a 
fishing trip to the mountains, where he hooked 
and landed a wife. It is told with all Mr. 
France’s old charm of expression, and is illus¬ 
trated by half a dozen sketches by Chas. Edgar 
Shaw. 
“The North Country” is a. charming book; 
finely illustrated with half-tone reproductions 
from photographs, telling of a summer’s journey 
in the North-of-Lake-Superior country, taken by 
Harry A. Auer, the author, and his father and 
mother. Rapid running, fishing for trout, wood¬ 
craft, humorous incidents -of portage and camp, 
combine to make the story one full of interest 
for the sportsman. It is from the press of the 
Robert Clarke Company, Cincinnati. 
Although his best work is found in his 
natural history writings, Ernest Ingersoll’s 
“Eight Secrets” is a book any youth who loves 
the country will find profitable and instructive, 
for it will serve its purpose in showing him how 
otherwise dull hours may be passed in evolving 
schemes to be worked out on opportunity. The 
scene is laid on a Pennsylvania farm and the 
boy, Archie Duncan, finds unlimited amusement 
in working out mechanical contrivances that any 
boy can manage. Incidentally he is ably assisted 
*by a neighbor’s girl, and other characters play 
minor parts in the story. Published by the Mac¬ 
millan Company, New York. 
Camp Don’t Hurry. 
VIII.—Mark Cushman. 
Several years previous to the time of this 
story, Henry and I stood on the top of a rocky 
ledge, half way up the side of one of the famous 
peaks of the Catskills. It was a bright day in 
early spring; so early that on the north slopes 
great sheets of snow remained, and in many 
places along the lower edge of the timber the 
sugar groves were plainly defined by the spark¬ 
ling bits of sunlight which the tin sap-buckets 
reflected. In the valley below us was a little 
creek. From our vantage ground we could see 
its source, a small mill-pond, and watch it run 
through meadow and pasture lands for a mile 
or two and then plunge into a deep wooded 
ravine, finally again emerging into sight just 
before it was swallowed by the muddy spring 
torrent of the Esopus. But it was not scenery 
that we were looking after. We had started in 
the early morning, climbing up the slippery 
side of the mountain, and over its top; now 
the afternoon was well advanced, and we were 
hungry. 
Contemplating the scattering row of farm¬ 
houses which dotted the road along the creek, 
like vultures we planned a descent upon which¬ 
ever one seemed nearest and most propitious 
looking. Their occupants were all strangers to 
t;s, so it was largely a matter of luck to make 
a choice, but luck was with us that day, and we 
chose wisely. Walking along the ledge, we 
found some perpendicular clefts, wide enough 
to permit of our climbing down to the steady 
slope below. Then at the gait of hungry men 
going down hill to dinner, we went straight 
to the home of Mark Cushman. 
A plain statement of the facts to Mrs» Cush¬ 
man, at the kitchen door, soon brought relief 
from our hunger and opened the way to an 
acquaintance with the family. Before we had 
finished eating Mr. Cushman came in. A 
powerful, raw-boned man, with little puckers 
running in all directions from his eyes, as if 
he was amused or just going to smile. When 
he shook hands with us it was a sort of en¬ 
veloping process and our hands went out of 
sight. He made us feel so much at home that 
when he said he guessed the log must be sawn 
through and he had better be going back to “set 
it up,” we asked to go with him. We were 
impelled partly by a liking for the man, and 
partly by a curiosity to see what sort of a saw¬ 
mill was so well behaved that it could be set 
going and then safely left to run itself, using its 
own judgment about when to stop. 
We had noticed several piles of newly sawn 
lumber around some low buildings back of the 
barns as we approached the house, but seeing 
no steam or smoke-stack, had' not suspected 
that there was a mill there; in fact, our minds 
had been running more on a ham and eggs line 
of thought. Mr-. Cushman led the way among 
a rambling group of barns, and by a small 
inclosure where a yoke of great solemn-look¬ 
ing oxen blinked stupidly as they chewed their 
cuds. Then we came to the mill-yard through 
a various assortment of ox-carts, bob-sleds and 
heavy wagons. There were none of the great 
banks of logs indicative of wholesale slaughter 
in the forest, nor the rattle of chains and shouts 
of men which are associates with such a place. 
Evidently Mr. Cushman was a lumberman of 
the moderate type. Single logs were dropped 
here and there as if by chance, and they repre¬ 
sented in variety all the species of the woods. 
Warmed by the sunshine, they were giving off 
their perfume, each according to its kind, the 
resinous pine and the pungent birch. In an 
ancient, heavily framed building whose one side 
gaped as if waiting to devour more.timber stood 
an old-time “up and down” sawmill. The saw 
having yanked its way through the whole length 
of an oak log, to within an inch of the dog 
irons, and fearing to try its teeth upon them, 
had stopped still, and was patiently waiting until 
its master should run the carriage back, and set¬ 
ting up the log, give it a new place to gnaw at. 
Older men had described this form of . mill to 
us, but to actually find one that had withstood 
the progress of invention to the extent of being 
in daily use as late as the beginning of the 
twentieth century, was surprising. 
After the board making industry was again 
put upon a going basis by the starting of this 
machine, Mr. Cushman took us to another part 
of the yard to show us what he made from the 
crooked logs. There were so many of these 
scattered about that we had asked the question 
and were told in reply that they were used to 
make “crooked flitch.” That explanation was 
not very lucid to us, until we saw some piles 
of the “flitch” seasoning. 
Planks of various thicknesses had been made 
by fastening the logs in the mill in such a man¬ 
ner that the crook in them humped up like a 
spunky cat’s back. Then without removing the 
bark,'they were slitted through from end to 
end with the saw. This process made a plank 
from which a very respectable new moon could 
have been fashioned, but which for ordinary 
.purposes, where lumber is used, must have 
been a sorry misfit. We were told that this 
timber was used by the ship builders along the 
Hudson River to make keels and ribs from, and 
that its value was set according to the crooked¬ 
ness. The rule was, the greater the crook the 
higher the price. 
The power for the mill was furnished by a 
little pond which was skirted on one side by 
Mr. Cushman’s timber lands and on the other 
by a grove of sugar maples. Near the grove 
stood a weather-beaten shed, from the loose 
joints of which thin clouds of smoke and steam 
were slowly drifting upward. As we approached 
it the smell of the lumber became less distinct 
and soon was lost in the rich odor of boiling 
sap. Inside, on a rough stone arch, several big 
flat pans were full of the simmering syrup, and 
one of them was nearly boiled to the sugaring- 
off point. Mr. Cushman dipped a little from 
each pan and let it slowly run back, watching 
the stream to see how thick or thin ff was. 
Then he poked the fire and added a few sticks 
before he returned to the mill to set up the 
log again. _ 
So we came to know and like Mr. Cushman 
and his family. In the years which succeeded 
this chance meeting we often staid there weeks 
at a time, and when the camp was started we 
took the first opportunity of visiting them, and 
urged the household to come and spend a day 
with us in fhe woods. This invitation was in 
part accepted by Mr. Cushman’s appearing one 
forenoon, while we were all lying around the 
camp discussing the important subject of 
whether we should do something or just keep 
on lying still. 
If one was looking for curious or eccentric 
chatacters, he was not looking for Mr. Cush¬ 
man. He had none of those traits, unless good 
plain common sense is rare enough to be a 
curiosity. Dignity grew upon him as bark on 
a tree, so that his modesty and strength blended 
delightfully, and he was a comfortable man to 
be with. In reply to our inquiry about his 
family, and why they had not come, he said: 
“Mother and the girls are busy getting ready 
for a church festival to-night, and John said 
he’d stay home and kinder tend to things while 
I was away. Some day next week he plans 
to come to see you, and maybe he’ll bring the 
girls. They want to come, but they think it 
would be a good deal of bother for you men 
to take care of a lot of women, but I guess 
they’ll come for all that. I’ve been waiting to 
come myself every day since you’ve been here, 
but we’ve been pretty busy getting out timber 
for a house. John’s going to get married this 
fall, and he’s bought on a piece that joins us, 
and is building a house on it.” 
“So John is to be married,” soliloquized 
Henry; “any one that we know?” 
“Well, I guess you never knew her.” Mr. 
Cushman replied. “Terribly nice girl; her 
father’s land joins us on the south. John was 
going to tell about it when' you was up to^the 
house, but he didn’t quite get his spunk up.” 
“You must be glad to have him settle so 
close by,” I remarked. 
“Yes, I wouldn’t hardly know how to turn 
the mill without John. Of course I shouldn t 
have said anything if he had decided to go away, 
