Feb. 23, 1907.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
295 
« 
Deer Stalking in a Cuban Jungle. 
The day was warm, and I had just dropped 
languidly into the hammock for an after-luncheon 
siesta, when one of the men of the house ap¬ 
peared on the piazza with his rifle and ammu¬ 
nition box. Instantly I sat up. “Where are you 
going?’’ I demanded. “Deer stalking. The sol¬ 
diers get a deer nearly every day.” “Then I am 
going, too,” I said. I looked away across the 
railroad, and beyond the old Spanish block house 
toward the young American town of Ceballos, 
and there up the dusty, red road came several 
khaki-clad boys from the 14th Infantry that 
Uncle Sam has stationed here to “hold the lid 
down in Cuba.” “Oh, don’t go with them. Let 
me go. I’ll be quiet,” I pleaded—and I meant 
to be. So we started, the man with his rifle over 
his shoulder and I with a jarver—a basket made 
of palm-fiber and a machete—for I wanted to 
get some ferns. 
Down through our young orange orchard we 
went to the dry bed of the tiny river—the river 
that during the rainy season runs flush, and 
sometimes overflows. This made a splendid 
path through the jungle, for the bottom was 
hard sand, and the boughs overhead made a nice, 
cool shade, so that walking was a pleasure, only 
when great dams of driftwood forced us up into 
the tangled undergrowth on the banks. Gladly 
we would slide down into the sand again, for 
the woods are a regular jungle, a perfect net¬ 
work of tangled vines twining from tree to 
tree, impenetrable, save as one cuts a way 
through with machete, or follows an ancient 
Cuban path. Parasites are these vines, and they 
in turn bear up great masses of parasites. It 
is this, and the loads of orchids on the trees, 
that makes, for the northerner, the Cuban woods 
so marvelous. Here and there, royal palms 
thrust their slender, straight boles up, up through 
the tangled mass, to the open sky beyond, to 
wave their tuft of plumes above the confusion 
and riot, and give character to the scene. Great 
trees we passed loaded down with large scarlet 
blossoms; mighty silk cotton trees, and forest 
giants in the deadly grasp of the creeping vine—- 
that terrible parasite of the Cuban jungle. Like 
a bad habit, this vine has its beginning in a 
small way. Pliable it is, but strong of fibre. At 
first it simply clings to the tree, but gradually 
it winds itself about and climbs and twists, until 
its ever tightening pressure chokes the life out 
of its victim; then with new roots that it has 
all this time been sending downward it nourishes 
itself, until it actually blends together around 
the tree it has attacked, and throwing out great 
branches, becomes itself a monarch of the forest. 
Everywhere one looks he sees parasite feeding 
on parasite; and if it were not so beautiful and 
strange it would give one an uncanny feeling. 
But uncanniness has no place here. The sky 
is so gloriously blue, and the sunlight filters 
down through the dense foliage like golden shafts 
of light; a thousand indistinguishable odors of 
woody things fill the air, and the faint perfume 
of the wild orange trees, that all along the bank 
hang out their brilliant lamps, make too much 
for reality to give place to the unreal. 
Through the glory of it all we tramped, see¬ 
ing now and then great masses of deer tracks 
in the moist sand, but more often only trees and 
vines and sky—and T, forgetting my promise to 
be quiet, talked and laughed, until the snapping 
of twigs and a glimpse of grayish-fawn crea¬ 
tures, bounding out of sight up a pathway, 
brought me to a realization of the business of 
the day. 
But the spirit of the true huntsman had not 
been absent from my companion. With rifle at 
shoulder he sent a shot after the disappearing 
deer, and was off in pursuit and out of sight in 
a twinkling. A second shot rang out. and a joy¬ 
ful shout followed which told me it had been 
a lucky one. 
Away I went slashing madly at the vines that 
caught my skirt in their thorny grasp. Good 
service I did with the machete, and flew along 
in the direction of the answering shouts. Soon 
I came up and found the deer. “It is small, but 
plump, and will be heavy before we get home,” 
said the huntsman. “Do you suppose you could 
help carry it?” 
I stopped my excited jumping around to 
answer “certainly,” but I was too eager over our 
success to remember the rough roads by which 
we should be obliged to return home. 
Nothing daunted, we set out with our prize, 
slung from a pole supported on our shoulders, 
and crossing the river forced our way through 
the tangle to a place that looked like a clear¬ 
ing. We found ourselves at the rear of a great 
sugar cane plantation, and skirting this we made 
our way to Tres Sebas where the Fiske Com¬ 
pany, of New York, have planted the largest 
orange grove in the world. Now we were, on 
familiar ground, and following the fence bound.- 
ing the grove we bore our burden until we 
reached a cross country road which took us 
through the guinea grass to the road leading to 
our own home, at which place, later on, with 
aching shoulder and weary feet, but with the 
lightest of light hearts, we joyfully entered the 
gateway and rested from our labors. 
Maude Benson. 
Hunting Deer in Wisconsin. 
Last November seven of us camped on a 
tributary of the famous trout stream, the Prairie 
River, in Wisconsin. The branch on which we 
camped, we named the Redwater, on account of 
color of the water, and our camp Redwater 
Camp. Our tent was a 12x16 wall, with fly. 
We have a sheet-iron cooking stove and a small 
heater besides. We board up inside walls with 
YOUNG RACCOONS. 
Courtesy New York Forest Commission. 
inch boards and fill 'in between boards and tent 
with hay, making the tent very warm. 
The first deer killed was on the second day 
of the season by Irve Hamlin. He was on the 
tote road a mile east of camp. Hearing a rifle 
shot south of him, he stood still, when in a 
moment he caught sight of a buck and doe 
coming on the jump. He fired one shot before 
they got in the road, and two more as they 
crossed. One shot broke the doe’s hind leg, 
but the other shot missed the buck. 
Next day I was sitting on a log eating my 
lunch, when I saw a fawn coming up the run- 
way within twenty feet of me, when I killed him. 
He was so small, I carried him to camp. Per¬ 
haps he lost his mother when young. The boys 
declared I coaxed him up with fried cakes. 
The next lucky man was the Surveyor, who 
shot a fine large doe. Then Rube, the engineer, 
shot a 200-pound buck as he was coming to 
camp just at dusk. It was so dark he could not 
follow him, but next morning several of us 
followed the trail across a spruce swamp and 
found the buck dead. 
Next came Elmer with a nice buck, killed a 
mile south of camp. 
One day near the close of the season I under¬ 
took to drive for the Professor, there being a 
nice tracking snow; he took his stand at the 
foot of a small lake in an old lumber road; I 
started an old doe and two fawns. The fawns 
turned off before getting in sight, but he 
dropped the doe in her tracks. I took the 
fawns’ tracks, and in following them twenty 
rods, jumped them out of their beds. They 
started north for Poplar Lake; I circled, headed 
them east for Long Lake, saw them twice and 
finally headed them down the old runway on 
the doe’s tracks. Pie fired four shots, and when 
I reached him he was looking for blood. The 
fawns took me through the worst blown down 
cedar swamp I was ever in, and as I am kind 
of an old cripple, it was slow work. West of 
camp there was a fresh deer track going south 
and making a mark in the snow as if dragging a 
rope, but no blood. Although wet and tired, I 
soon saw him lying by a log watching his back 
track. When my .38-55 cracked, he only 
scrambled twenty feet and was my venison. 
The Professor had wounded him in the flank. 
The day before we came home I started out 
early while it was snowing. The Professor 
started two deer just east of camp. After fol¬ 
lowing them a short distance, two timber 
wolves came in ahead of him and took the deer 
away. The Surveyor saw, as he thought, 
some dry limbs over a log. The points were 
so wide he thought they could not be horns, 
but on trying to get a nearer view, saw an 
enormous buck dash into the brush; he fired, 
but missed. I was north of him following two 
fawns. The buck came in ahead of me and 
took my fawns with him. I left them, and on 
my way to camp struck two fresh tracks. I 
crept to the edge of the bluff over which they 
had gone, and looking down, saw a deer lying 
there. I took aim, and when the rifle cracked, 
he jerked his head, but did not move. I drew 
up to fire again, but before I could do so, he 
stretched out, dead. I went down and dressed 
him, undertook to pull him up the hill, but 
finding I could not, left him and started for 
camp. After some hot coffee the Surveyor and 
Professor started with me to bring in the deer. 
The former took his rifle, as he was short one 
deer. On the way up he shot a fine buck. 
We killed in all thirteen deer, none of them 
over one and a half miles from the tent. One 
day I found some blood on the snow; on look¬ 
ing a rod or so away, I found a large, white 
hare still warm with his throat cut by a white 
weasel. I dressed the hare and there was not a 
drop of blood in him. From the tracks he had 
not run a rod, only showed a few short jumps. 
Lloyd Breck. 
Merrill, Wis. 
The Flashing Ax. 
Here’s to the flashing ax 
That cleared a glorious way 
For the men who fought and wisely wrought 
A road for an empire’s sway. 
Hark to the mighty crash— 
Its echoes are sounding still— 
That brought the trees to the sturdy knees 
Which were backed by an iron will. 
Hark to the children’s cry, 
In fancy heard to-day. 
When the red man yelled and 
The rifle held the ruthless foe at bay. 
Rifle, and ax, and spade, 
Honor, and trust in God— 
These were the tools that made 
The road that a nation trod. 
Thus have the men of the West 
Sprung from a gallant page, 
And the power to hew, to dare and do 
Is their priceless right of heritage. 
Proud should the children be 
That their fathers’ sires were men 
Who mapped a line from brine to brine 
With a flashing ax for a pen. 
Then here’s to the flashing ax, 
And the men of mettle true; 
May its blade so bright be a beacon light 
To the boys that belong to you. 
Willi/ - M Telford Duncan. 
