772 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[May 18, iI 
C. W. BEEBE. 
Curator of Ornithology of the New York Zoological Park. 
through a thicket of pines to make the shoot¬ 
ing interesting, but was stopped by a preuty 
shot. The next bird was near me, but went 
right toward my companion on the flush. He 
dusted it with the right, but go no result from 
the left, and we took its direction for future 
reference. 
Three birds flushed wild from a bit of thick 
underbrush we beat out, offering my companion 
one impossible shot, which he made, and one 
easy shot, which he missed. The third crossed 
my’ bows, scared, but safe. The covey was a 
fairly large one, but we could not find another 
bird, although we beat about in all directions 
for half an hour or more. Whether the race 
with the little dog had caused them to divide, 
or whether they were lying close, with scent 
retained, we could not discover, and as it was 
birds and not proving theories that was then 
of interest, we concluded to seek other fields. 
On the way we came upon one of the many 
springs of cold, clear water with which that 
beautiful country abounds, gushing out from 
the base of a great rock surrounded by syca¬ 
more and walnut trees. Watercress grew lux¬ 
uriantly in the stream, and we concluded to 
“bide a wee.” With both hands full of the 
delicious cress and my back comfortably sup¬ 
ported by a sloping tree trunk, I felt that I 
had much to be thankful for if I could not 
shoot. I was reminded of and told this inci¬ 
dent : 
Many years ago, when the game of whist 
was a social pastime, a friend and I were im¬ 
mensely flattered at the receipt of an invitation 
one evening to play whist with two old gen¬ 
tlemen—inveterate and highly scientific play¬ 
ers. We had an idea that our own game was 
not wholly without merit, and went forth with 
the confident feeling that we would at least 
make it interesting for the amiable old sports. 
Well, we played, or, to put it modernly, we 
also played. My companion, in addition to 
playing whist, sang at times for the entertain¬ 
ment of his friends. 
\fter about a dozen games, every one of 
which they had won by a score of from 3 to a 
clean sweep, and when we were wishing the 
house would catch fire or some other calamity 
intervene in our behalf, the elder of our 
opponents laid his cards down, and, addressing 
his partner, said: 
“Colonel, did you ever hear my young friend 
[indicating my partner] sing?” 
“No, sir,” was the reply. “I have never en¬ 
joyed that privilege.” 
“Well, he can sing.” 
And they calmly resumed their machine-like 
playing, while we fell to furiously trumping 
each other’s ace, and returning their leads. 
Though invited, and even urged, we played 
there no more. 
That was a great hour we spent loafing by 
the spring, drinking cool water and eating 
succulent cress. The air was crisp, the sun 
shone from a cloudless sky, and but little of 
the sombre conditions incident to autumn were 
in evidence. Down the valley for miles, sur¬ 
rounded by cultivated fields, we could see the 
comfortable houses and barns of the prosper¬ 
ous farmers, many with grand forest trees 
sheltering them, thin blue lines of smoke rising 
straight from the chimneys to a great height. 
The mountains across the valley, probably 
fifteen miles distant, looked scarcely two. 
Dark green at the base, blue midway, and pur¬ 
ple on the heights, with an iridescent sheen 
over all, they made a background for the beau¬ 
tiful landscape grand beyond description. Fol¬ 
lowing with the eye the range of mountains as 
it stretched away in the distance, an almost 
unbroken bulwark of protection to the beauti¬ 
ful valley, it was wonderful to see how the 
colors changed, and blended. Dark defiles, in 
sombre colors, were surrounded by sun-bur¬ 
nished slopes. Long stretches of blue merged 
into a purple, the line of demarkation invis¬ 
ible, and finally all blended into the blue of the 
distant sky, going out in a faint, uncertain 
shimmering line. 
Far away on a hillside, an occasional puff of 
white steam and the faint ring of steel marked 
the spot where a small army of men labored 
quarrying the world-famous Hawkins county 
red marble, furnishing the only variety in the 
beautiful pastoral. And this grand and beauti¬ 
ful picture on the “blue day” I started to tell 
about. 
We resumed the hunt after so long a time, 
the little dog redeemed herself, and Charlie 
kept the pace. As for myself—an old lady on 
the witness stand being pressed in cross ex¬ 
amination, refused to answer a question. The 
examiner appealed to the court. “Do I have 
to, jedge?” the old lady wailed, and when told 
she did, said: “Well, I don’t think I had orter 
haf to. It don’t do me no manner of credit.” 
And that's my case. 
There is one, sometimes two, days about 
the middle of each week’s outing when my 
shooting is from bad to the very worst pos¬ 
sible. This I account for by the fact that the 
muscles brought into constant use handling a 
gun are not used much at other times, and so 
they get over-taxed and rebel. I made up for 
this day later on, and as I cannot tell the entire 
story of our outing, will quit shooting until I 
get to that other day. 
When we got back home that evening there 
was a stranger partaking of the Doctor’s hos¬ 
pitality—a young German, who had wandered 
in from no one knew where, and had only been 
able to let the good man know that he was 
hungry and wanted to stay over night. They 
had each and every one tried to talk to him, 
but an occasional word of English was all he 
knew. “Uncle Bill was the last one to give it 
upw,” the Doctor explained, “as he seemed to 
feel certain that if he only shouted loud enough 
he would eventually be understood. I tried 
him with English, good, bad and patois; also 
some Spanish I picked up years ago, and at 
last, with a few quotations from my Materia- 
Medica, but the only real understanding _we 
have come to has been reached by the sign 
language route.” 
We first saw the young man at supper, and 
a more dejected looking individual could 
scarcely be imagined. Drooping like a badly 
wilted flower, he busied himself with the con¬ 
tents of his plate, but ate very little. It was 
a plain case of acute nostalgia. From the 
door of a vine-clad cottage on a hillside in the 
fatherland he was looking down upon the 
beautiful river Rhine, as it wound along be¬ 
tween sloping banks of purple vineyards, and 
his heartstrings were pulling as though they 
would part soul and body. 
“Haben sie nicht guten appetit?” I inc 
using a little of the poor stock of Geri 
had managed to acquire many years ag* 
all but forgotten. His head came up \ 
jerk. 
“Was! Ach, Gott!” He almost sh 
Then without regard to my inquiry anc 
tears streaming from his eyes, he pourt 
upon me such a flood of talk as only a 
sick exile could have accumulated. Ij 
swamped at the outset, but nodded and : 
at every pau.se he made for breath, ai 
him unload. When finally relieved 0 
greater part of his burden, he ate a j 
supper, stopping every few moments tj 
barrass me further with talk I could only 
the meaning of. After supper, by hard 
and every one helping, we got his story, i 
was briefly this : 
A victim of wanderlust, he had left his 
in Germany and landed in New York w 
his possessions in a generous carpet bag. 
dering uptown, he had become greatly 
ested in the tall buildings, and was co 
the stories to see how high they were, 
so engaged, a pleasant young man, who 
some German, joined him and told hirj 
high building just around the corner. | 
went to see it, and it was the highe 
“Now,” said the new found friend, “that 
ing is so high that no man can cou 
stories right the first time. Everybod 
it.” 
Here our friend took the floor and illu 
the events which immediately followed, 
fully setting down an imaginary gri 
started in at the bottom to count, 
with one hand and holding on to his h; 
the other. “Eins, zwei, drei,” he c< 
slowly and carefully on up to “d 
zwanzig,” then turning in triumph, he j 
us the utter bewilderment he had felt j 
friend and bag gone. 
The next transaction, which relieved | 
the little money he had in his pocket, w< 
not interpret so clearly. We finally ( 
that it was started by a request to make 
for a gentleman who owed a small de 
persistent second gentleman, there prese 
that while trying to accommodate ther 
became greatly excited over an allege 
away horse bearing down upon them aj 
deavoring to escape, ran over our j 
knocking him down and causing him ij 
his money, which, in some mysterious r 
entirely disappeared before he got to 1 
About many things the young nu 
vague and uncertain, but on one point J 
clear: as fast as he could get the m< 
travel—by any work that came to ha 
was getting as far away from New Y 
possible. 
We were awakened next morning 
frightful row in the backyard, which 
vestigation proved nothing more than 
Bill trying to tell the German youth 
was a “fine day.” Lewis Hoi 
BLUE-GRAY GNAT-CATCHER. 
From a painting by R. J. Sims. 
