APRIL 7, 1906.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
541 

through the woods for-the Bell lot without looix- 
ing for grouse as usual. We had barely climbed 
over the stone wall around the lot, when Colonel 
came to a point. Going up to the dog and look- 
ing closely in front of him, I saw the cock flat 
on the ground, his eyes blinking in the bright 
sunlight. Noticing that a small dead branch 
was directly under the bird, I stepped on it, but 
although it moved the bird’s body, he did not 
start. The “supreme moment” was becoming 
almost painful when the animated rocket shot 
upward only to meet the leaden hail from J.’s 
second barrel. We had gone but a few feet 
further, when Colonel suddenly stopped, his head 
turned around in our direction. He had nearly 
passed a bird before the scent had struck him. 
This one was reduced to possession without 
trouble. And so we worked on over the lot, 
bringing to bag in all five birds and missing two. 
Not a great kill, yet I doubt if any woodcock 
shooting was ever set on a finer stage. The 
little overgrown pasture, nearly surrounded with 
the blazing woods, basking in the golden sun- 
shine of that glorious autumn morning; old 
Mansfield for a background, rising boldly into 
the clear blue, clean cut like a cameo; and the 
actors, two friends devoted to the sport of the 
gun, with their well-trained dog. Would not 
this scene often return to the thoughts of any 
of us? 
In his introduction to “Sam Lovel’s Camps,” 
Mr. Robinson tells us that the Yankee dialect 
in the forms of speech he has so delightfully pre- 
served for us is changing and passing into 
disuse. Yet one still hears in Vermont many of 
the expressions used by our Danvis friends. 
In fact, we hear some so often that their 
peculiarity passes unnoticed. But the characters 
Mr. Robinson created for us in the little village 
of Danvis? Are there such people to-day, and 
could we find such a community? 
There are still in northern New England 
“neighborhoods,” as they are fittingly called. 
where old-fashioned flowers still bloom in the 
gardens; where old-fashioned manner and 
customs to quite an extent prevail; and where 
the old-fashioned virtues are still in style. Here 
are still found that mutual dependence and 
“neighborly kindness,’ which we so much ad- 
mire. Although the rural mail route may pass 
the door of the farmhouse, the lives of the 
people seem to have been barely touched by the 
influences without their little community. Like 
the streams which rise among their hills, they 
have not yet reached and mingled with the great 
currents flowing toward the centers of the world. 
It was luckily in one of these “neighborhoods” 
that we placed our camp, and we were straight- 
way adopted as old residents by its people. 
Nearly every evening we received a call from 
some one of the farmers living nearby. They 
invariably brought us a present—a bottle of 
maple sugar, a bag of apples, a can of jelly, or 
pickles. If a brood of grouse had been raised 
in their woods, or a cock been flushed from their 
corn fields, they told us about it and just where 
they thought we would find them. They seemed 
to feel that they were under obligation to us 
to make our outing a success. Of course, those 
who were not strangers to the gun were the 
most frequent of our visitors. One of them, a 
fox-hunter, had the light hair, blue eyes and 
long legs of Sam Lovel. He also had Sam’s 
honesty and dry wit. He hunted birds some, as 
well as foxes, and did not pot them either. If 
our stay had been longer our little house might 
have rivaled Uncle Lisha’s shop as a loafing 
place and sportsman’s exchange. 
One evening as we were returning campward 
after a rather unsuccessful day’s hunting, we 
passed a farmhouse where a chicken-pie supper 
was in progress, given for the benefit of the 
local cemetery. The owner of the farm, a 
jocose giant of the John Dart type, hailed us 
and asked us to “‘join the meetin’.” As our one 
woodcock did not promise much for two hungry 
men, we accepted the invitation. While we 
were eating our “half peck of pie,” as_J. 
described the portion allowed each one, we 
were often reminded of other Danvis friends by 
those who sat around the two long tables. But 
we looked in vain for the irrepressible Antwine. 
His place, however, was very well filled by a 
stuttering Irishman, the greatest fox-hunter in 
the country, of whom it was said that, “‘although 
the sight of a fox might make Pat’s tongue 
stick, his gun never hung fire.” After supper 
our friend, the Sam Lovel fox-hunter, told us 
a story on his rival which well illustrates how 
the Irish wit will assert itself under the most 
trying circumstances. Pat had returned home 
after an all-day’s chase very tired and very 
hungry. The good Aunt Jerusha of the house- 
hold set before him for his supper hot biscuit 
and a large quantity of new honey. Pat ate all 
that he wished and immediately retired for the 
night. He, however, was soon disturbed by 
symptoms of a coming sea-sickness. He pulled 
on his clothes and came to the kitchen, where 
the solicitous Aunt Jerusha prescribed and pre- 
pared for him a cup of hot pepper tea, and then 
herself went to bed. 
Pat took his tea by the kitchen stove, but he 
continued to feel worse and soon staggered to 
the back door to vomit. Hearing him come in, 
Aunt Jerusha called and asked him if the tea 
had settled his stomach. Pat answered: ‘“Ye- 
ye-ye-yes, I g-g-guess it s-s-settled it ab-b-bout 
a f-f-foot.” 
The Last Night in Camp. 
BY FRED L. PURDY. 
NESTLED among the tall trees of a river valley 
in New York State’s wilderness is a little cabin. 
Before the open fire-place in the one large living 
room two men sit, dreamily gazing at the leap- 
ing log flames. About them are scattered hunting 
paraphernalia of all kinds, from boots to guns. 
On the table well-thumbed volumes show signs of 
sudden neglect. Pipes, dripping ashes, strew the 
wooden mantel. The boiling kettle drones lazily. 
It is the last. evening of the last day in camp. 
To-morrow—back to the world. 
Charlie, the merchant, rises, stretches, sighs 
and moves to the west window. His eyes wander 
afar to the mountains beyond the river, lit by the 
lights of heaven, In the. gathering gloom he 
marks the place where the trail to the pond bends 
between the hills. Beyond he measures. the reach 
to the dry swamp, where the big deer hide. 
Around the lessening ‘horizon he follows the out- 
let’s flow until it joins the river with a rush— 
and then he sighs again. 
“I wish we could stay longer!” 
plaintive note of regret in his voice. Leslie, the 
editor, hears but does not answer. He is seeing 
things in the fantastic movements of the flames. 
Charlie picks up his gun, looks over the sights 
and then slowly pushes an oiled rag through the 
barrel. Then he sits down and gazes again into 
the fire, 
Leslie stirs and sighs. He, too, rises and, from 
the north window, peers afar to Hardwood Island 
and Pine Ridge. With his eyes he follows the 
cranberry swamp to the old lumber camp and on 
beyond to Silver Brook and the raspberry patch. 
“Tt’s tough to go back to the desk,’ he says. 
His voice is no more joyous than that of the mer- 
chant and his words bring no response. 
Leslie lifts his mud-stained hunting boots, 
cleans and greases them and hangs them on a 
hook—for a year. Then he drops again into the 
chair before the fire. The kettle sings its song 
louder and louder. An hour slips by—an hour in 
which the long tramps, the wading of streams and 
climbing of hills, the shots that meant meat, and 
the weary but happy faring toward the open grate 
in the evening—were all silently reviewed and 
weighed and. measured, and measured and 
weighed and reviewed, by the dreamers before 
the fire. 
Leslie turned to the man-made satchel and took 
from it a man-made linen collar. He looked at 
it more than casually. He encircled his bronzed 
neck with it and shuddered. 
“Did you ever think that there must be a hell?” 
he asked, reflectively. “Else there would be no 
hereafter for the man that invented the stiff, linen 
collar.” 
The merchant 
notice. 
“The collar fiend does not deserve the measure 
of torment that has been completely won by the 
inventor of the boiled shirt,” he replied. 
There is a 
showed symptoms of taking 
Then they gazed into the fire and lost them- 
selves in thought. 
“Well, we must pack up, I suppose,” 
merchant at last. 
“Yes, we must pack up,” 
editor. 
And they continued to stare at the fire. 
The moments flew by and outside the gloom in- 
creased, The mountains across the river were no 
longer discernible and the shadows in the woods 
were deep and dark. By the flicker of the fire 
the merchant sought his razor, while he ran his 
tanned fingers through his facial undergrowth. 
Finding the desired instrument of human tor- 
ture, he—sat down and again gazed into the 
flames. 
The editor yawned and reaching for the drink- 
ing cup, interrupted the song of the kettle by fill- 
ing the cup with hot water. He, too, was think- 
ing of the mowing that civilization ‘demands of 
man’s face. Then he—fixed his eyes on the fire. 
RéSeno use,’ said the merchant, finally and 
desperately. “Here goes.” 
He arose with determination and began the 
work of preparation for the departure. Lamps 
were lit, sweaters were doffed and the razors 
were applied. Then came the packing. It was a 
busy hour or more unbroken by words. Buckles 
clicked, straps creaked and the kettle sang. In- 
w ardly the merchant and the editor groaned. 
Morning came only to emphasize the regret. 
Stiff collars chafed necks, stiff hats pinched 
heads, stiff shoes crowded feet and stiff shirts 
held. unwilling bodies as in a vise. The sun was 
shining in the sky, but there were clouds over the 
hearts of the two men. That world there in the 
wilderness was beautiful, but the other world— 
that was different. The wilderness world was 
made by God—the city world was made by man. 
Who would not feel a pang on being compelled to 
leave the grandeur and freedom of the one to 
mingle with the pinched soul of the other? 
It was almost time for the wagon that was to 
carry them over the mountain road to the man- 
made railroad. They listened for the chug of the 
wheels and hoped that noise would not offend 
their ears. They hoped the wagon-man had for- 
gotten his orders. 
They dragged their grips and great coats out 
of the cabin, and listened again. Chug-chug! 
There it is. The wagon is lurching through the 
woods. 
Side by side, the merchant and editor turned 
and looked far off on the mountains across the 
river, a-glitter in the early winter sun. They 
must soak their souls full of the scene, for they 
would not see it again for a year—perhaps they 
would never see it again. 
“You sports better git spry, if we want to catch 
that train!” 
The driver’s words fell upon the merchant and 
the editor asa bludgeon. They tumbled into the 
wagon and the rough journey from paradise back 
to the world was begun. 
said the 
dreamily echoed the 

New Haven, Conn., Feb. 27.—We _ have 
watched with considerable interest the various 
numbers of your paper that have so far been 
issued in the new form, and to us they have ap- 
peared most attractive. FoREST AND STREAM has 
always been a good paper, but in the new dress 
it certainly deserves and will no doubt secure an 
increased prosperity. We are simply writing this 
to congratulate you, and you have our very best 
wishes for the future. 
THE MARLIN FIREARMS Co. 
By M. H. Martin, President. 
Tuat ever delightful American weekly, ne 
EST AND STREAM, established Aug. 14, 1873, ‘ 
studiously promote a healthy interest in xb Ae 
recreation,’ comes to us in a new form. For over 
thirty years its page has been nearly the size of 
the Field page. In its issue for Jan. 6 the page is 
reduced to quarto—that is, to about one inch less 
in depth than our Fishing Gazette page. I like 
the new shape, and wish Forest AND STREAM 
continued and increased prosperity. It has al- 
ways aimed at a high standard in sport of all 
kinds.—London Fishing Gazette. 
