Camp Cookery. 
What a noble stew that was that Mr. Mershon 
made! It was the best ,,stew I ever tasted. I 
think one reason why it was so good was be¬ 
cause it was a spiritual stew, for they can be 
made so perfect. For ’one thing, there is never 
a lack of ingredients where, “as in the case at 
bar,” all one has to do is to reach forth into 
the circumambient atmosphere of fancy to grasp 
whatever next is needful. Nevertheless, dear 
Mershon, friend of many years, whom I have 
never seen, it is 'not for the carping ones to 
say: “But that is simple—cooking in your mind, 
with phantom parsnips and angel mutton chops, 
peri pork and cherubim potatoes; for all those 
necessary things are ready at hand in the camp 
of the chimera.” For, while this may be true, 
one must know when to reach for each, and 
which to put first in the pot and which next, and 
just what words to say while the pot simmers 
and what incantation to perform when it is done. 
And who among all the sons of men knows 
these subtle and elusive things so well as you? 
Indeed, when it was done and I piled some of 
it on my plate and ate it all and smacked my 
lips and looked for more, and the others had 
eaten it all, the greedy pups, and turning away 
disconsolate, I said in my heart: “That man 
Mershon was once a hired girl, the same as I 
was.” 
I may have been mistaken, but as we say down 
here I “misdoubt” it. And what if I am not? 
Cannot we sympathize, each with the other, in 
our misfortune and strengthen ourselves in the 
stern resolve that, even if we do sneak out to 
the kitchen now and then to cook a little, for 
the sake of old times, we will never let anyone 
know it? 
I would fain gain my consent to respond to 
the invitation which came with the stew, and 
contribute my mite to the lore of camp cookery, 
but the camp-fire experiences of many years 
have taught me a cunning once foreign to my 
nature, and if I chance to know how to com¬ 
pound flapjacks of merit which strong men 
clamor for with threats and cajolery, I do not 
say so much about it as of yore, but rather try 
to endure the tawdry imitations of others; for, 
verily, it is not all of camping to cook, even if 
one can “cook with his eyes shut.” The things 
I turn out in camp during recent years are dif¬ 
ferent. Ostensibly for sustenance they are meant 
for repose—and I get it. Here is a sample—if 
you will have something. Generically, it may be 
called bread, but the Greaser who corrupted me 
called it tortillas. It is made when something 
filling is required blank quick; and it is raining; 
and there is only a skillet, not even a Dutch 
oven ahd no angel ingredients; and you desire 
to do something that will, once for all, put an 
end to the belief that you can cook. 
First build your fire, and build it big so the 
rain will not put it out, for if it does you will 
look around for somebody to hit—you will be 
so mad and wet. By this time your lazy com¬ 
panions will have erected the tent and you go 
in there. For the next few minutes, with a pan 
of flour and some water, salt, lard and baking 
powder, you act exactly like a man making bis¬ 
cuits. It is now all nice and spongy, and if you 
were in Mershoniland you would reach out into 
a zephyr and grab a biscuit cutter and a roller 
and a greased pan, but you are not, and what is 
more, “there ain’t going to be” any biscuits. For 
here is where you begin to get in your work. 
You go to the fire with the skillet, having in it 
a tablespoonful or two of lard, and when it is 
smoking hot you proceed to drop therein craftily 
fashioned pieces of flowery dough about the size 
of a plug of tobacco. When they are brown and 
puffed up on one side you turn them over and 
let them brown on the other, if you are a person 
of ordinary intelligence. They are then ready to 
administer. George Kennedy. 
A Land of Plenty. 
From the writings of the earliest explorers 
much is to be learned about the vast numbers 
of wild animals found in primitive times over 
parts of what is now the United States. Not 
long ago I came across an example of this which 
was new to me. 
La Salle, in the narrative of his navigation of 
the lakes and his description of routes westward 
from the lakes, says: 
“All the country between the lakes of the 
Illinois (Lake Michigan) and Lake Erie, for a 
space of a hundred to a hundred and twenty 
leagues, is only a chain of hills from which 
many rivers run down to the west into the lake 
of the Illinois, to the north into Lake Huron, 
to the east into Lake Erie and to south into the 
Ohio River. The sources of these rivers on the 
summit of these mountains are so near to one 
another that in three days’ time we passed twenty 
or twenty-three larger than that of Saurel or 
Richelieu. The top of these hills is flat and is 
covered with perpetual swamps which, being 
thawed, gave us plenty of exercise. 
“There are also some dry prairies and some 
very good lands filled with an incredible num¬ 
ber of bears, stags (elk), roes (Virginia deer) 
and wild turkeys against which the wolves wage 
a fierce war, and which are so little wild that 
we have several times been in danger of not 
being able to defend ourselves against them ex¬ 
cept by firing at them.” 
This would seem to mean that they were 
afraid of being run over by these wild animals. 
It is, of course, not to be supposed that they 
feared attacks by the bears. 
A little further on, speaking of the possibili¬ 
ties of the country, he says: 
“The little buffalo calves are easy to tame and 
might be of great use [to us; i. e., to the French] 
as well as the slaves, for which these people (the 
Illinois Indians) are accustomed to trade and 
which they force to work for them.” 
G. B. G. 
The Forest and Stream may be obtained from 
any newsdealer on order. Ask your dealer to 
supply you regularly. 
After Gray Geese in Australia. 
Early in the summer every year a curious 
migration of geese takes place at the south of 
Australia. Off the northeast coast of Tasmania 
there is a little group of islands known as the 
Cape Barren Islands. To these islands every 
winter the gray or Cape Barren goose resorts to 
breed. After the young are strong enough to 
fly long distances, the whole of the geese set 
off north, cross Bass’ Strait and land on the 
mainland of Victoria where they spend the sum¬ 
mer. Some thousands of these fine game birds 
make this trip yearly and spread themselves all 
over the western Victorian plains. 
The gray goose is one of our finest game birds 
both in a culinary and sporting sense. Its color 
is a pretty slaty gray and it has red legs and a 
curious green hood on its bill, which give it a 
really smart appearance. It is smaller than the 
domestic goose and not so clumsily made, but 
its average weight is about ten pounds, and 
twelve-pound geese are not uncommon. Its legs 
are rather long and it stands erect, much like 
the Indian runner duck. It is a wild, shy bird 
and a very fast flyer, so that it is not to be 
picked up without a little trouble. 
Every year, however, I have a try for them, 
and I always count the expedition as one of the 
most enjoyable of the year. I have just re¬ 
turned from this summer’s jaunt, and as the 
three of us got seven geese among us as well as 
smaller game, the excursion was pronounced a 
thorough success. We set out on a Thursday 
morning for a long fifty-mile drive which was 
to land us at the close among the geese. We 
had a fast pair of horses and the roads were 
good, so that although the three of us, with our 
guns and other impedimenta made no light load, 
we reached our destination long before dark. Un¬ 
fortunately, though the middle of summer, the 
day was wet and windy and rather cold, so that 
when we got out of the buggy we were stiff and 
not very comfortable. We were to camp in an 
old deserted hut that fortunately had a fire¬ 
place in it. So the cook of the party soon had 
a cheerful blaze going and the billy boiling for 
tea. By the time we had negotiated tea and at¬ 
tended to the horses and other little matters, it 
was dark. Soon, however, a brilliant moon 
arose and flooded the broad, silent plain with 
light. We were in the midst of great sheep 
stations of from 20,000 to 50,000 acres each in 
extent and divided into paddocks of about 1,000 
acres each. Except at the homestead there were 
no houses and no sign of human life. As far 
as the eye could reach in every direction, noth¬ 
ing could be seen on the broad, gently-undulating 
treeless plains but sheep. 
As the moon rose, the wind dropped, and 
there was a stillness that could almost be felt 
as we three set out across the plain. Our desti¬ 
nation was a shallow, saltwater lake of about 
500 acres, which was a favorite haunt of the 
geese. The gray goose, I may explain, does not 
swim unless compelled to. It frequents lakes 
and lagoons, but contents itself with feeding 
