in silent derision for they seemed to 
know my gun was empty. 
In due course I reached home, and 
proceeded on the way to the market 
boat with my load of produce, and did 
not reach home again until late in the 
evening, by this time the wounded 
finger began to pain me severely, but 
I thought it did not amount to any¬ 
thing. But after a sleepless night, 
when morning came and I found how 
badly swollen and inflamed it was, I 
changed my mind. Going to the smoke¬ 
house I obtained some hickory ashes, 
from this the partner of my joys and 
sorrows, made a strong Lye in which 
the finger was immersed for an hour 
and more, and when I lifted it from 
the Lye a string-like substance like 
gelatine, of a bright pea green color, 
hung down from each tiny orifice of the 
wound, and a physician has since told 
me, that the Lye treatment no doubt 
warded off a case of blood poisoning, 
and perhaps saved my life. 
A few days later I returned to Craw¬ 
ford’s woods, with plenty of shells this 
time, and again killed thirteen squir¬ 
rels. It seems a strange thing, that 
while I have several times killed 
thirteen in an outing, I have never 
been able to exceed that number. 
For many happy years I enjoyed the 
splendid shooting in Crawford’s woods 
practically alone. Like Robinson Cru¬ 
soe, I was monarch of all I surveyed, 
and if at long intervals, I heard a 
distant shot, or met another squirrel 
hunter, it gave me some such shock, as 
I imagaine friend Robinson felt when 
he first saw that memorable footprint 
in the sand. 
As the years passed the number of 
shooters increased, until in time the 
shooting became so poor that I gave it 
up, and then the aged owner of the 
woodland died, and in the settlement 
of his estate, it was sold. Portable 
saw mills were brought in, and under 
the steady whine of the saws, this 
magnificent tract of timber steadily 
disappeared until all that was left, was 
a ghostly chaos of hideous stumps and 
brush and another hundred years will 
pass, before those rugged hills will be 
crowned again with their ancient glory. 
SPRING TRAPPING IN 
THE NORTH COUNTRY 
(Continued from page 488) 
did and no sooner had we got things 
in shape than it started to “spit,” a 
sort of half rain and snow. As if we 
didn’t have enough water lying around 
already! Well, the next morning 
things surely looked miserable. Dur¬ 
ing the night it had turned colder and 
about three inches of snow had fallen, 
weighing down the small trees and 
A Letter of Interest 
to Every Camper 
Corn Products Refining Co., 
New York City. 
Gentlemen: 
Mazola, a one-pint can, was in my grub box when 
I started a transcontinental motor trip two years ago. 
It remained the same under all climatic conditions, 
being affected by neither heat nor cold. 
On extremely cold mornings in the Rockies, 
Mazola flowed freely, in greasing the pan for hot-cakes, 
making doughnuts, biscuits, etc. 
On our way home from the Coast in the summer, 
Mazola retained its sweetness and purity in spite of the 
terrific heat that we encountered on a desert where 
we camped two days. Other fats and shortenings be¬ 
came offensive to the smell and sight. 
Mazola comes in a neat, compact can. It was al¬ 
ways obtainable. We even found it on the shelves of 
a supply store of a desert town. Crossing the desert 
we saw many empty cans with the familiar yellow label, 
mute testimony that other travelers also valued 
Mazola. 
Mazola is essential to the camping motorist, who 
finds it difficult at times to provide edible and pleasing 
combinations under trying conditions. 
I opened and used a part of a can of Mazola, then 
tucked it away among other canned foods and forgot it 
for fourteen months. I found the can grimed and 
stained, but I used the Mazola for a salad and found it 
to be as sweet as when I bought it. 
Very truly yours, 
Mrs, Charles W. Tyler. 
Mrs. Charles W. Tyler, 
914 E. 4th Street, 
South Boston, Mass. 
Page 515 
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