204 
FOREST AND STREAM 
April, 1918 
AMID THE HILLS AND DALES OL WARWICK 
FIFTY YEARS AGO A MIXED BAG OF WOODCOCK, QUAIL, RABBITS, GROUSE, SQUIRRELS 
AND WOOD DUCK WAS AN ORDINARY DAY’S SPORT IN THESE HAPPY HUNTING GROUNDS 
By WIDGEON 
T HE engine had whistled down brakes, 
and the train had come to a grinding, 
jolting stop. With my “valise” in one 
hand and my gun case in the other, I de¬ 
scended to the station platform, where was 
congregated the usual array of village 
loungers. On the outskirts of the crowd, 
stood a fine gray horse attached to a stout 
“Jaeger” wagon, in which was seated a 
sturdy boy of about seventeen, whose 
square jaws (on which the “down” of 
manhood was just appearing) and steady 
gray eyes gave promise of the man to 
come whose word was as good as his bond 
and who never deserted a friend, John R. 
Vandervoort of blessed memory. As he 
saw me he uttered a shout of welcome, and 
soon we were shaking hands and slapping 
each other on the back as boys have done 
for generations.. The gun case and "valise” 
were placed in the rear of the wagon, and 
with me seated beside him John gave rein 
to the gray and we quickly crossed the 
bridge and up the main street of the village. 
“John,” I said, “that is a mighty fine 
horse you are driving.” “Yes,” he replied, 
“it is a colt I have raised and broken my¬ 
self, and I think he will make a good one. 
Is that your new gun? I saw you were 
handling it pretty carefully.” Thus chat¬ 
ting we passed up a wide street newly set 
to sugar maple saplings (these are now 
magnificent trees, and make a dense shade 
in summer). After driving about a mile 
John said, “I guess we will take the short 
cut over the “Ridge.” Here where we 
turned sharply to the left stood an old stone 
house, with red barns. This place had a 
peculiar interest for me, for here my great¬ 
grandfather dwelt during the war of the 
Revolution and here his heroic wife looked 
after his affairs and reared her numerous 
family during those seven long, trying- 
years while he served his country, and 
fought the invader. This was the “stamp¬ 
ing ground” of “cow boy” and “skinner,” 
and during their forays, Grandmother and 
her boys would hide the live stock in the 
secret places of the hills until the danger 
had past. In this house my father was 
born, and my grandfather lived, until he 
sold out in 1832 and moved to New Jersey. 
Quickly the nimble footed gray brought 
us to the crest of the ridge, where we 
stopped for a moment to admire the view'. 
We stood on an eminence in the middle of 
a vast amphitheatre; to the north lay the 
Cedar Swamps of the “Drowned Lands,” 
beyond them tier upon tier far as the eye 
could see, stretched the ramparts of the 
mystic Catskills, to the east and south were 
“Sugar Loaf,” “Mount Peter,” and the 
rugged “Shawangunk” range, their precipi¬ 
tous slopes glowing with all the marvelous 
tints of Autumn, while to the west “Mount 
Eve” and “Mount Adam,” cast their dark 
shadows on the plain below. 
Fifty years ago Orange County was at the 
zenith of its prosperity, and was considered 
the first county in the United States in 
dairy products. The well painted white 
homesteads and red barns dotted the hills 
and roadsides, well kept stone walls check¬ 
ered hillside and valley covered with au¬ 
tumn verdure. Here and there strewn over 
the landscape like pearls were small lakes, 
behind us in the valley, like a silver thread, 
ran the waters of the beautiful winding 
Waywayanda, and in the dale close beneath 
us, in the full glory of the setting sun of a 
perfect October day, like a gem in a golden 
setting, lay the beautiful village of War¬ 
wick, made famous by the pen of the gifted 
but ill-fated “Frank Forrester.” That pic¬ 
ture will never fade from my mind, and I 
consider it the most perfect pastoral scene 
in all America. 
C ONTINUING on our way, we soon 
passed down the northern side of the 
ridge, and rattling over the bridge were 
at our destination. Here John’s brother Fred 
came forth to meet us. The gray was quickly 
unhitched and prepared for the night in the 
huge red barn, and with the boys I was 
soon in the old stone house to meet the 
rest of the family, Mr. and Mrs. Vander¬ 
voort and their daughters Mary and Hat¬ 
tie. After a bountiful supper such as Mrs. 
Vandervoort knew well how to prepare, we 
repaired to the sitting room where I 
brought forth my proudest possession for 
the inspection of the boys. Some years 
before this, a Scotch gentleman who had 
married into our family had imported from 
England for his use two genuine Joe Man- 
ton field guns, a fourteen and sixteen bore. 
For the fourteen bore he had paid the then 
stupendous price of thirty-five pounds; it 
was a beauty and its shooting qualities 
were unsurpassed. This Scotch relative 
had died recently and at the sale of his 
effects my ever indulgent father had pur¬ 
chased this coveted gun at a round figure 
for me, his only son. 
This was the “new” gun John had asked 
about. The gun was in splendid condi¬ 
tion and was greatly admired as it passed 
from hand to hand, its locks were master¬ 
pieces and to this day work as smoothly as 
if made of rubber. It was my companion 
for many years’ sport, and was discarded 
only to make way for the breech loader. 
M R. VANDERVOORT had a large 
dairy and the boys were around 
early the next morning to attend to 
the milking; of course, I was with them 
and saw and enjoyed the marvel of a sun¬ 
rise in the hill country'. Have any of my 
readers ever sat down to a breakfast of 
buckwheat cakes, from buckwheat grown 
on your own farm? With butter from 
your own cows ? And delicious buckwheat 
honey made by' your own bees? If you 
have, you will know how that breakfast 
tasted that morning to a certain very hun¬ 
gry boy from Jersey. 
John’s father was a cold, hard task 
master, and much against his will the boy 
was required to work that day', so after 
dinner, with the new gun on my shoulder, 
I went up the lane to the “brush” lot near 
the woods. This lot was covered here and 
there with bunches of briers and coarse 
grass, an ideal place for rabbits, but I had 
no dog and wished for my own much prized 
pair of hounds. I tramped but a little 
while when with a rush a rabbit scuttled 
through the briers, and as he crossed an 
open place I killed him neatly. As I 
crashed through the briers to pick him up, 
away' went another; this one I covered 
quickly but did not stop, and was much 
disappointed to see him enter a nearby 
woodchuck hole. Picking up the dead one, 
I walked over to the woodchuck hole out 
of curiosity, and looking in, there were the 
hind legs of the rabbit I had shot at. 
Thrusting my' arm down the hole, I pulled 
the rabbit out quite dead. This put me in 
good humor; I vowed it to be my lucky day. 
