Real Life. 
No, we are not trust-fed magnates; neither do 
we belong to that class designated as “the idle 
rich,’’ my wife and I. We are simply ordinal y 
American citizens with what some might call an 
inordinate love of nature and a firm belief that 
God intended all his creatures, great and small, 
to be happy; and when we see animals at play 
a portion of their time, we know that it is a 
part of the divine scheme. 
When my wife takes up her twenty-gauge gun, 
the rabbits and gray squirrels scurry to cover. 
When it happens to be her .22 caliber rifle, I 
wonder if it lies within my power to convince 
her—whether true or not—that all those shots 
nearest the tack were fired by me. If it is the 
.25-35 carbine and we are in camp, the deer 
immediately get their wireless in operation, for 
there is no doubt that she can shoot, and any 
self-respecting young buck out for a walk on 
a fine frosty morning and meeting her is liable 
to be smitten. She can handle them, too, if 
necessary, but I am usually not far away when 
she hunts. 
Last August we went up the river and camped 
for the month in a nice cool shady place. There 
were trout there, not all mammoth in size, but 
large enough to eat. There were a bevy of 
young women in the neighborhood, and they 
honored us by calling occasionally. There was 
a nice swimming hole back of the tent, and they 
enjoyed that, too. 
This was all very nice in its way, but we were 
thinking and talking of something else, and at 
the beginning of the deer season we started for 
the tops. It is only four miles, but mostly up 
hill. Our outfit consisted of a nine by twelve 
tent, a camp kit, a two-burner oil stove, for in¬ 
clement weather, a light oak frame over which 
a canvas is stretched for a bed, a water pail, 
five gallons of oil, a lantern, bread can, a tent 
cot taken for the use of any strolling leather¬ 
stocking, and an Airedale pup six months old. 
Of course we took along some guns, among them 
a sixteen gauge gun and a .32-40 rifle, an old 
favorite. 
Arrived at our campsite of last year we pitched 
the tent, set up the bed, got the blankets and 
extra clothing out of the packing boxes, which 
were fitted with screen doors and served as 
cupboards in camp, and had everything ship¬ 
shape before dark. 
Many pleasant dreamy days were spent in 
camp, reading and smoking, or sitting under the 
trees with the pup, watching the grays, shoot¬ 
ing one only as needed. Dates were lost track 
of, and care left in the valley below. “Johnny,” 
the fourteen-year-old son of the most accom¬ 
modating farmer who lived on the farm below, 
twice a week brought up the mail, potatoes, but¬ 
ter and milk and anything we needed. 
The weather averaged fine during the entire 
fall, an occasional thunder storm breaking the 
monotony. There is something about a thunder¬ 
storm in the mountains, especially among the 
tops, that is sublime, and it is always seen at 
its best at night. A good quality fly, well tied 
in place, is a necessity at such a time. It not 
only keeps one dry, but prevents soaking the 
tent, thus making the interior damp, causing 
guns to rust and making things generally dis¬ 
agreeable. We prolonged our stay to over two 
months. 
Just beyond a wire fence, the existence of 
which is ignored by the deer family, is a pre¬ 
serve of something like one hundred thousand 
acres owned and guarded by George W. Vander¬ 
bilt, to whom gratitude is due for the existence 
of any large game that may be in this section. 
If nothing but males were shot, deer would be 
even more plentiful outside the preserve. There 
is true pleasure in the knowledge that one has 
never killed a doe, and there is not much hope 
for the chap who, having done so, is not ashamed 
of it. This practice, from the standpoint of the 
sportsman, is reprehensible, for it has depleted 
millions of acres of forest. 
Grassy Gap is about forty rods this side cf 
the camp site. From this gap a ridge runs down 
to a flat called Israel’s Camp. It was to this 
ridge I went one beautiful autumn afternoon just 
to see if my o'd friend of the season before, 
whose tracks had been invariably present in 
number, might still be found. I went down the 
side of the ridge to a thicket well toward the 
bottom, when I made for the top very slowly 
and carefully. Cautiously I parted the bushes 
as I discerned signs of his recent presence in the 
wav of horned trees and fresh tracks in the soft 
mold. 
As I neared the top, after carefully inspect¬ 
ing the surrounding open spaces, and noting a 
bed twenty-four hours old, a snort and crash 
told only too plainly that the buck had seen me 
first. 
My wife had shot the .22 so much that she 
realized the difficulty of getting a shot at every 
gray squirrel with a rifle, and as she invariably 
went for game when she carried a gun, she 
preferred the twenty-gauge. One day I told 
her I would go down Bee Branch, look the 
ground over, and if nothing transpired, stop to 
look for the turkeys she thought she had heard 
the evening before. Just before sunset I seated 
myself at the foot of a tree. I had called only 
a few times when I heard voices. It was my 
wife and Johnny. My wife had seen two fine 
turkeys coming down the side almost directly 
toward her. She pushed off the safety, but they 
turned, feeding slowly, and worked their way 
out of range. 
The next evening we went out together, tak¬ 
ing the rifles. I placed her a little below my 
stand, so that we were able to watch a larger 
amount of territory, got into position and began 
to call. Twenty minutes later we heard steps in 
the dry leaves. They would come a little way, 
then all would be quiet for a moment, then sus¬ 
picion allayed and they wou’d be heard again. 
With the advantage of sound and motion on 
our side, I am bound to confess that the wary 
old chap scored, and when I first saw him he 
was making a hasty retreat. Later my better 
half brought in a hen from that locality, shot 
at sixty-four yards with the .22. 
Last year's experience had taught us that when 
the wind was blowing it was impossible to have 
a camp-fire unless the leaves were wet, as the 
sparks and fire blew out in a dangerous man¬ 
ner, so I constructed a fireplace facing and about 
three feet in front of the tent, put up a wind¬ 
break and covered the space between both sides 
and top, and at this site we weathered two early 
snowstorms. 
After frequent calls at the big buck’s stamp- 
in ground, heretofore with disappointment, I de¬ 
cided that if he refused to meet me I would be 
equally pleased to have him make the acquaint¬ 
ance of my wife, so one beautifully clear, 
frosty morning I placed her near the top of the 
ridge, took the pup, and making him follow close 
at heel, as he had been taught, struck out across 
the head of the branch to the top of the ridge 
upon which grew the finest chestnuts in that part 
of the country. 
With all due caution the pup and I made our 
way up the trail, and when I motioned in the 
direction of a thicket, the pup understood. I 
waited at ready for ten minutes, when I heard 
a pitiful whine. Upon looking about I was 
amazed to see the pup in the forks of a tree 
twenty feet above the ground. His appearance 
was both pitiful and laughable. He had evi¬ 
dently followed a track of some sort up a dead 
chestnut which had lodged in the fork and was 
unable to turn. I spoke to him soothingly and 
sat down to let him work it out for himself, 
then we went on to where my wife was and we 
returned to camp. 
Flowery Gap, about fifteen minutes’ climb from 
the camp, is a small gap in the ridge proper, 
which is known as The Tops. On the very top 
of a knob there is a little chestnut grove often 
frequented by the deer. To the right of Clubs 
Gap trail the land is sparsely covered with laurel 
and ivy, chestnut and oak trees. There, the sign 
being plenty, I went one afternoon, and after 
waiting until the sun had disappeared behind 
the tops, I heard a stick crack and saw the ivy 
in the ravine move. At last, being unable to 
see the sights on the rifle, I slowly crept back to 
the trail, and on my way home a white flag was 
flashed in my face as a whopper dashed over 
the ridge. 
Being anxious for my wife to get a shot, I 
determined to place her at the top where she 
could overlook this point. During the afternoon 
a hunter from the settlement called, and we in¬ 
vited him to accompany us. We got placed, but 
our friend had a cold, and just at a critical 
moment was compelled to cough, whereupon 
there was a snort and crash from the bushes 
directly in front of my wife. 
One day I was walking carefully through habit, 
but not looking for deer, as I was considering 
where I should go. Glancing ahead I saw a big 
four-prong buck standing tail toward me at 
sixty-six yards. His position made the shot a 
little difficult, but I had confidence, so I fired, 
knowing full well at the report that the bullet 
