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the middle of November when I reached 
the camp, walking from Iron River. 
“T soon caught onto the work, but it 
was mighty lonesome being alone all 
day on the landing. We had only two 
teams hauling, making three trips a 
day, and landing on the ice, so I didn’t 
need any help. 
“The company I worked for had the 
reputation of furnishing the poorest 
line of grub of any company on the 
river, and they certainly worked hard 
to maintain it. We had beans, salt 
pork, molasses and vinegar, and once 
in two or three weeks, they’d send up 
a small chunk of fresh meat. They 
also gave us a dope they called coffee, 
which was a great cure for insomnia. 
“Our cook was not what is generally 
known as a ‘chef.’ In the summer he 
was employed by the company on one 
of their lumber barges, whether as cook 
or deck hand, I could never find out— 
if cook, the perils of the deep were 
greatly increased. 
“He used to make what he called 
vinegar pie, the boys called it shoe-pac 
pie on account of the crust. He’d mix 
vinegar and molasses until it formed a 
kind of paste, then he’d bake it in a 
pie tin with a bark or crust on the 
bottom. After one of these pie grenades 
had stood around for a few days, until 
the vinegar and the tin got friendly, 
it was something one of these epicures 
wouldn’t call loudly for the second time. 
“But I want to tell you about the 
prunes. They weren’t the kind you see 
teday, nice big fat ones, these came in 
a big barrel or cask, they were small, 
dried up, and coated with a kind of 
sugar. I think they called them Turk- 
ish prunes. 
“One day the cook showed me one of 
those prunes under a_ microscope 
dinkus he had, and say! that blooming 
prune was alive with little white 
worms. I kind of lost my longing for 
prunes, and they finally got so bad that 
the Catholic boys in the camp refused 
to eat them on Fridays! 
“When the company heard of this, 
they cut off our supply of fresh meat, 
as the meat was costing them twelve 
cents a pound, and the prunes five or 
six. 
“One Sunday one of the boys asked 
me why I didn’t catch some brook trout, 
as I had plenty of time, besides being 
on the river all day. 
“When he found out I knew nothing 
about the fish or fishing, he told me 
how to catch them through the ice. He 
gave me a line, sinker, and a couple of 
hooks, and when I got to the river next 
morning, I started chopping holes in 
the ice in places where the stream nar- 
rowed, and the water was deepest. I 
cut four or five holes, and started fish- 
ing. As we had no fresh meat in camp 
I used salt pork for bait—nothing do- 
It will identify you. 
ing. Then I tried bread, but that 
would soak up and drop off the hook. 
“That night as I lay on my bunk, I 
happened to think of the prunes, and 
next morning the cook gave me a 
handful. 
“After I’d_ finished scaling and 
stamping the first two loads of logs, I 
took the stone out of a prune, and 
baited the hook. 
“In about ten seconds I caught my 
first trout, and say! I couldn’t put 
prunes on that hook fast enough to 
satisfy those fish. 
“I could see them through the hole 
fairly fighting over that bait. 
“In half an hour the prunes were all 
gone, but I had twenty-six trout, run- 
ning from eight to twelve inches long. 
“I kept that fishing up all winter, 
and three or four times a week I’d lug 
a bag full into camp for the crew. 
“Well, the boys quit eating prunes, 
and the company probably thought we 
were very fond of them, as I used 
them all up for bait.” 
So spoke my old friend Joe, who has 
at home an old battered napkin ring, 
which he tells me was given to him 
years ago by his Sunday school teacher 
for being truthful and honest. 
An Audacious Hawk 
By R. B. GorTScHIUS 
I ALMOST question the wisdom of 
telling this experience, lest it tax 
beyond endurance the credulity of my 
fellow-sportsmen. But, as I believe it 
is the unusual, which generally holds 
interest around the camp-fire, in the 
evening after a hard day’s hunt, and 
prompts us to another pipe before we 
all turn in, I am going to pass this ex- 
perience along. 
All forms and conditions of wild life 
have habits peculiar to themselves— 
customs to which they closely adhere— 
but no one, who has followed for many 
years the habits of our silent and all 
but invisible population, will question 
the integrity of the man, who from 
time to time brings back at the end of 
his day’s hunt, or ramble in the woods, 
a tale somewhat out of the ordinary. 
I always doubted a racoon’s ability to 
drag a good-sized dog to water, and 
there drown him, until I saw it done. 
Never did I do other than smile, when 
I heard tales of woodchucks at times 
climbing trees, until one day I shot one 
from the limb of a straight trunked 
tree, some thirty feet above my head. 
—These experiences, or at least the 
latter one, are exceptions to the rule, 
but prove that for reasons best known 
to themselves, our friends of the moun- 
tains, woods, and open plains, do at 
times leave the beaten path. 
But let me relate this experience 
with the hen hawk— 
Page 432 
