102 
Massachusetts crack, who took some pains 
to prove to him that the modern steel- 
jacketed Spitzer bullet in a cartridge, 
shot out of a Government .30 or some such 
high-power rifle, is the medicine for big 
game. Charlie has had almost no experi¬ 
ence with that sort of thing. But when a 
man like Hinman says so, he believes it. 
Charlie will insist on wool inside, outside 
and every side. He doesn’t care much about 
the color, but condemns black. —“Apt to 
mean bear to a moose.”—Don’t wear a 
black hat or clothes. Dead grass or gray 
is much better.—“That belt’s a leetle shiny 
in the buckle—bad.” 
We are going calling, and two or three 
pairs of socks are good in the frosty mor¬ 
ning. Moccasins or rubber-soled hunting 
shoes are all right, but must be big. Uncle 
Ned has a pair of brown sneakers along. 
You may see their use later on. 
Here we are at the permanent camp. We 
can make it comfortable and cosy, for we 
may return to it often. Tomorrow morning 
if weather permits we may not be here, 
for tonight we move along up the lake by 
canoe.—“Be a little careful about eatin’ 
tonight, so your tummy won’t roll round 
noisily tomorrow. Sounds silly, eh?- Well, 
I’ve often been bothered to death callin’ 
when my sport’s eaten too many cranber¬ 
ries or sich.” 
D ARKNESS comes along soon after 
sundown in the fall. Your supper 
has tasted so good that you were in 
danger of overeating, your pipe is on, and 
a few soporific stories go the round. It 
was on one of these occasions that Charlie 
explained to Brown the presence between 
his eyes of what appeared to be a buckshot 
wedged in the skull. 
“Oh, that shot?” says old Charlie with 
a wink at me. “Well, you see I was call¬ 
in’ moose onc’t ’mong some small spruce, 
an’ I got an answer from each side. Well, 
I had on’y one cartridge with me, ’cause I 
forgot to fill my pocket, and them two 
moose they come up quick. The first one 
that come I shot him dead, but t’other one 
came up afore I had a chanct to scoot, 
so I shinned up the tallest spruce—’twan’t 
over twenty feet high, and the danged 
thing bent right over an’ landed me right 
on the live bull! Well, sir, I give a yell 
an’ a jump an’ the spring o’ the spruce 
took me clean up over and let me down on 
a Perfect Set of Antlers. 
the ground t’other side, an’ the bull he was 
right onter me! So I gives another big 
jump, not lettin’ go o’ the spruce top, an’ 
over I goes agin an’ bang down on the 
moose that’d follered me. 
“Well, sir, if I jumped that spruce onc’t, 
I bet I done it fifty times, ’till my strength 
give way and I landed square on that 
bull’s back, right back of his horns! O’ 
course I let go the spruce an’ grabbed the 
horns an’ the mane, an’ that bull he took 
off through the woods an’ barrens an’ 
swamps an’ lakes. Now, look-a here, mis¬ 
ter, that was some ride, an’ don’t you forget 
it! Well, sir, that bull he run with me a- 
hangin’ onto him, spite o’ hell, all day an’ 
all night an’ inter the nex’ day. 
“Now my dad he was kinder anxious 
about my not cornin’ home the night be¬ 
fore, an’ he took his old gun loaded with 
buckshot an’ went up on the medder. Pret¬ 
ty soon he heared an awful noise an’ crash- 
Shed Horns—Sportsmen Do Not Find 
Them Often, But They Can Be 
Picked Up in the Right Country. 
in’, an’ he knowed it must be an old geester 
of a bull moose, an’ he gets down an’ waits. 
’Twa’n’t no time at all before that old bull 
he bust out’n the woods an’ across the med¬ 
der, hell-bent for election, with me a-hang- 
in’ onter his horns and peekin’ through ’em. 
Well, my dad he didn’t waste no time, but 
he jist up an’ let her go Gallagher. An’ 
by gosh, sir, that bull he fell dead right 
thar. One o’ them buckshot hit me an’ 
stuck right in the middle o’ the forehead, 
an’ I pitched up in the air and right bang 
down a-top o’ dad, an’ knocked him fizzle- 
end up’ards! Well, sir, that’s how I got 
this ’ere shot!” 
T HE laugh, the bump of a fresh log 
on the fire, and the cry of a barred 
owl all seem to blend into oblivion, and 
the first thing you know you feel a firm 
hand on your shoulder. The touch is elo¬ 
quent, and you need no words to tell you 
that Charlie thinks the morning favorable. 
A glance at your ticker (a cheap one; 
don’t take heirlooms into the woods) shows 
that the world is wagging along towards 
half past four—early indeed, but we de¬ 
cided to stay here last night and move up 
the lake in the morning, so we have to be 
stirring. 
Brr! How cold and dark! Overhead 
nothing but winking stars. A small fire is 
already blazing and over it hangs the pot, 
which contains that wonderful hunting pab¬ 
ulum, peameal soup. You drink as much 
of it as you can and as hot as you, can. It 
is prepared with bacon and will stand by 
you as nothing else does. You shove a 
piece of chocolate and a biscuit into your 
pocket. 
Of course your tiny emergency store of 
salt is always in your jeans. Your keen 
sheath-knife hangs from your belt, pref¬ 
erably at the small of your back, where it 
will not catch on the landscape if you have 
to negotiate thick jungle. Your extra cart¬ 
ridges are in a loop or in your pockets 
bound together with a rubber band, so that 
they shall not be noisy. Your sweater 
and everything else you have that is warm 
will be donned, for the paddle up the lake 
is cold, and the waiting on the fog colder 
still. Don’t forget your compass or your 
waterproof matchbox (hard rubber is best, 
metal ones sink too quickly). 
There is a certain half-feverish luirry 
about the preparations. All is solemn. 
You are still far from the hunting country, 
but you speak in low tones, which cease 
altogether as your canoe moves down the 
lake. There is a mist on the waters, and 
the starlight turns it into a silvery mantle. 
As we approach the further shore, two 
miles from camp, the paddles rest and we 
sit in profound silence, listening for pos¬ 
sible calls. But it is too early yet. All 
we hear is the “who’s who” of a “cat- 
owl” and the far-off call of a loon on a 
distant lake. 
Here is the bog, separated from the lake 
only by a fringe of maples. Carefully we 
step ashore, pull up the canoe, and follow 
Charlie through the high hardbacks stiff 
with frost and noisy as straw (at least 
it seems so to us, trying to be noiseless) 
to the slight rise from which we are to 
call. Each man gets into the most com¬ 
fortable position that he can, for the vigil 
may be long. The tenderfoot is likely to 
remain standing if there is cover; other- 
