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In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 


| A right nice little lad he was, too, with 
pleasant ways. It’s a mistake t’ think 
that there ain’t no more man-nibbling 
alligators in Florida. Folks just plain 
ferget that out here it’s different. 
Why, say, I see Seminoles come in, 
frum miles t’ this westward, polin’ their 
cypress canoes through th’ sloughs— 
an’ they’re as wild and as spookly as 
ever they was a hundred years ago. 
You just ought t’ see ’em when they 
catch real sight of th’ dredge! They’ve 
been wonderin’ what it was fer miles. 
An’ it don’t seem to mean much when 
they do ex-amine it—they know th’ 
’Glades is dryin’ up, but they never 
hitch it up to us an’ th’ dredges. 
“Them Indians don’t waste much love 
on a white man, fer all you may say. 
Act as if they had as much blood as 
a toad. That’s another reason why I 
wouldn’t want to go pesticatin’ around 
on hammocks at night. Th’ Seminoles 
think all this country belongs to them 
—an’ you’ll never get it out of their 
heads that anything else is true. What 
you goin’ out there for—wild-cats? I 
see you got your 22 along?” 
Sonnyboy had taken all this in 
with widening eyes. The hammocks at 
night! Indians, none too friendly, 
bleak loneliness, alligators, heading 
saw-grass, over sands, along slimy 
sloughs and into hammocks, on their 
desperate flight to water and the canal 
—and wild-cats! 
“Maybe we’d best not go out there, 
Father,” he whispered to me, as we re- 
turned to the car for our fishing tackle. 
I turned upon him sharply. 
Was that fear in his voice—was it? 
Father-pride came to the fore and, 
as is so often the case, was mixed with 
selfishness, with premature reasoning. 
I did not want a son of mine to be 
afraid of the night, of quite “tame” 
Seminole Indians, of alligators. It was 
characteristic of me that I did not take 
a great many things into consideration 
—my own familiarity with the ’Glade 
country, from several previous expe- 
ditions there—and Sonnyboy’s youth. 
“No,” I said; “no—we won’t turn 
back. This was our destination. We'll 
make camp out on a hammock. I want 
you to see the country. Are you— 
afraid?” 
“Not—not exactly,” he stammered, 
his cheeks reddening, “but from what 
he said, it’s not such a nice place to 
camp. And he knows—he works out 
here.” 
“Nonsense,” I said; “half of that is 
talk—just plain talk. He’s doing it 
on purpose. We'll be safe enough. 
This isn’t South America or Africa. 
We’re within a few miles of a big city. 
You saw Seminoles on the pier. The 
most they want is supplies and some 
Bimini liquor. You’ll never make much 
of an outdoorman— a true sportsman 
” 
It will identify you. 
—if you get a cold chill every time a 
native tells a fake story.” 
He was hurt. 
And I could read that hurt in his 
face. It was not until afterwards that 
I regretted my impetuous remarks. 
They were as uncalled for as they were 
cruel. But I did want to get him over 
that lurking fear of the dark which I 
knew persisted and was a heritage of 
goblin-story days. The hammock night 
would be a constructive lesson. How 
could I foresee what was to actually 
happen! (To be continued) 
THE FISHERMAN’S 
LUNCH 
(Continued from page 30) 
be startled out of his sleepy and monot- 
onous exercise. It takes two hours 
of careful casting to reach the head 
of the Flow-ground. Here the paddler 
must use his skill and strength to guide 
between rocks and sunken logs, if the 
stream is low; to conquer the strong 
current if the water is high. 
And now we have reached the spot 
for the lunch. The river comes dash- 
ing down through a deep gorge, strikes 
a hard and wooded bank, by a turn 
almost at right angles form a deep 
pool—straightens itself out in a second 
pool, and then flows on its westward 
way. Just in the elbow of this turn 
an island is formed—a slight elevation 
covered with spruce and birch. Against 
the upper side two big logs have 
lodged, brought down by the spring 
freshets, and forming comfortable 
seats for the fishermen. And here the 
lunch is always taken—“a table in the 
wilderness.” Before the logs, stones are 
gathered for a fireplace. On either end 
of the logs, azalea bushes have grown, 
and so often the table is decorated with 
their bright blossoms. Purest water 
is dipped from a spring that flows from 
the bank a few steps to the right. The 
fire is started with birch bark and the 
dry twigs of the spruce, and fed with 
wood lodged by the stream. Water 
from the spring, one of the coldest of 
the Adirondacks, is brought to boil, 
then the coffee is poured in and al- 
lowed to boil up three times, and we 
have a beverage that no home table 
can offer. If the flies will only let us 
alone we shall eat and drink and take 
our rest and feast our eyes. Up 
through the gorge with its avenue of 
dark hemlock and spruce and its bor- 
der of tall ferns, and then down the 
stream where a giant pine stands lone 
sentinel over its lesser brethren, the 
eye wanders like a bee taking its store 
from every point. And each day like 
this stores strength and refreshment 
for the long days of work. 
It is not easy to turn from this place 
of rest and delight to the ride down 
Page 38 
