APRIL 14, 1906.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
587 

that they would take the matter into their own 
hands and send me to a school they knew about 
in St. Joe, Missouri. They gave me a pocket 
ful of money, and shipped me on a batteau which 
pulled out early in September. The fare down, 
by the way, was three hundred dollars, but I was 
dead-headed through. It was a long and tedious 
trip, especially in the lower part of the river, 
where the current was slow and head winds 
delayed us. We arrived in St. Joe late in the 
fall, and I went at once to the place selected for 
me, a boarding school which also took in 
day scholars. Right there my troubles began: 
While a few of my schoolmates liked me and 
were very kind, the most of them abused me and 
made fun of me, calling me ‘low down Injun’ 
and many other names which hurt. I stood it as 
long as I could, until, in fact, they began calling 
‘me coward. Me a coward, when I'd already been 
in two battles where men were killed, and done 
my share of the shooting! Well, when they 
called me a coward, I just waded in and gave 
three or four of them a good pounding, although 
I was in no way used to that style of fighting. 
After that they left me alone, but all the same 
they hated me. 
“T had not written my father where I was, as 
I had planned a little surprise for him. When 
the Christmas vacation came, I started to pay 
him a visit. I went for some distance on a 
train, and thought that a grand experience. 
Then I got on a stage, and one evening was set 
down a couple of miles from his home. I went 
on, inquiring my way, and about dusk I came 
in sight of his house, a very nice, trim, white- 
painted one, surrounded by fine fruit and other 
trees. Some one was coming along the road, 
and I saw that it was my father. When he 
recognized me, he ran and threw his arms 
around me, and kissed me, and said that he 
loved me best of all. I didn’t understand what 
he meant by best of all, but I soon learned. 
After asking me all manner of questions, how I 
had come, how my mother and all his friends 
were, he stood silent for some little time, lean- 
ing on my shoulder, and then he said: ‘My 
boy, I hoped you would never learn what I 
have to say, at least not until after my death. 
But now I must tell you all: In that house 
yonder is a woman to whom I am married, and 
there are a boy and a girl, our children. I can 
introduce you there only as a friend, as the son 
of an old-time Montana friend. Oh, shame on me 
that I have to say such a thing! Will you come?” 
“*Ves,’ I said, ‘I will go with you,’ and we 
went in. 
“She was a very kind woman that, and the 
children, younger than I, were, as well as she, 
very good to me. I couldn’t help but like them, 
and at the same time I felt very sad about it 
all. I believe that I cried about it nights after 
I had gone to my room and to bed. 
“My father and I had many talks in private, 
and he told me over and over again that he 
loved me best; that I was first in his thoughts. 
Of course, I could not remain there long; the 
situation was too trying. In the last talk we 
had there, he asked me if I intended to tell my 
mother what I had learned, and I replied that 
I had no intention of doing so. And so we 
parted, and I returned to school. To this day 
my mother does not know anything about his 
other life. He comes and stays with us, some- 
times for a whole summer, and she loves him so, 
that I am sure it would kill her to learn what 
he has done, as it would also kill the other 
woman to know it. And he is my father. I love 
him, too. I cannot do anything but love him, 
no matter what he has done.” 
I may add that the old gentleman was true to 
his word. So long as he was able, he con- 
tinued to visit his Montana son and wife, and 
when he died, we found that his will, executed 
several years previous to the time Berry visited 
him, bequeathed the greater part of his property 
to the first and favorite son. He was a man of 
good education, and interested in everything that 
pertained to the west. He entered the service 
of the American Fur Company when it was 
organized in 1822 or 1823, and rose to be one 
of its prominent factors. For many years he kept 
a diary of the daily occurrences in his active 
life, which included much regarding the Indians 
he met, their customs and traditions. He was 
preparing them for publication when they were 
destroyed in a fire which burned down his house. 
That was a loss which many of us regret. 
WALTER B. ANDERSON. 
[TO BE CONTINUED. | 




INA\ 
URAL IEUISTIORY 

Pennsylvania Weasels. 
In an article in your issue of March 3 Mr. 
Joseph Kalbfus, in criticising my article on 
weasels in ForEST AND STREAM of Feb. 10, begins 
by saying that it “seems to me strange that any- 
one should attempt to make statements so easily 
refuted,’ and ends by declaring “I think, there- 
fore, it would be well for the gentleman writing 
the article in your issue of Feb. Io to investigate 
a little more thoroughly before attempting to de- 
fend the weasel. I would suggest that he make 
his investigations in a country where the weasel 
will have a chance to kill game or poultry, and 
I would like to hear from him after such investi- 
gation is ended.” 
As the gentleman has invited me to reply I 
will do, so. 
First, as to my investigating more thoroughly 
as to killing game. If Mr. Kalbfus had read my 
article carefully he would see that I stated I had 
observed weasels for many years, had employed 
men who had worked in the woods in the aggre- 
gate at least 50,000 days, which is 137 years, and 
had never known one of them to find either a 
grouse or a rabbit killed by a weasel. I will now 
say that I have traveled our woods for over sixty 
years, and, being for many years a large buyer 
of furs, have seen a great many hunters and have 
yet to see the man who ever saw any game killed 
by weasels. I have never known one to kill 
young birds or to destroy eggs, while I have seen 
red squirrels do it and have been told of the same 
by others who also had seen them in the act. We 
have a great abundance of rabbits—great north- 
ern hares—and until lately ruffed grouse were 
plentiful. We do not have quail nor cottontail 
rabbits. I do not say that weasels never kill game 
or poultry, but give my experience of over sixty 
years, and what I have been able to learn by ex- 
tensive inquiry of others, and I feel sure that in 
Maine they do very little harm to either game or 
poultry or to birds of any kind. 
There are in the country immediately back of 
us a great many persons who keep large flocks 
of hens, both for the eggs and to raise chickens 
for market. I have never kept poultry myself, 
but since reading Mr. Kalbfus’ article, I have 
made inquiry as to their experience with weasels 
of those living in several towns who have kept 
large flocks for many years. The first man had a 
large flock; Jet them run loose; lived only twenty 
yards from edge of woods, and once killed a mink 
in his barn, but never had a hen killed by either 
mink or weasel. No. 2, a farmer over fifty years 
old, lived where he was born. They had always 
kept a large flock of poultry, were about 100 yards 
from woods; had never known a weasel to touch 
a chicken; had once killed a mink in the act of 
killing a hen, though his house was about a mile 
from the nearest water. No. 3 was sixty years 
old, always kept a large flock running loose near 
woods. He remembered that when a boy some- 
thing supposed to be a weasel had killed three 
small chickens. No. 4, who lives in another town, 
raises chickens for market; sells from 150 to 200 
yearly; has been in business thirteen years; lives 
with woods near on two sides. Has trouble with 
rats and had killed many of them; has never 
been troubled by weasels and never knew of any- 
one who was. All my inquiries confirm my be- 
lief that in Maine weasels seldom trouble poultry 
or game of any kind, 
In reading Mr. Kalbfus’ article, I am surprised 
to find that the Pennsylvania weasels are so 
much more numerous than they are in Maine, 
and not only so much more bloodthirtsty but are 
able to contain so much more. The Mr. Hugh 
Malloy, whom he quotes, states that in the last 
twenty-five years he has killed more than 1,700 
weasels. This is an average of sixty-eight each 
year for twenty-five years. In setting traps in 
Maine for nearly twice that time I have only 
about forty. One fall my partner and I had over 
300 traps set on six different townships and I 
have often had from 50 to 100 setting. Ifa man 
in Maine should catch five or six weasels in a 
fall in his mink and sable traps, we should call 
it a large catch. However, I will not dispute his 
statement as it seems as likely to be truthful as 
several other statements which precede it. But 
the statement of this same Mr. Malloy as to the 
capacity of Pennsylvania weasels surprises me. 
He says: “In 1903 one weasel killed for Matheas 
Schwobe, 3d, Freeland, Pa., in one might nine- 
teen full-grown Leghorn chickens. I took the 
chickens home and cooked them, the weasel hav- 
ing drawn every particle of blood frotn each 
body.” I have quoted this word for word, but 
the italics are mine. I asked Mr. Oscar Fickert, 
one of the largest poultry dealers in Bangor, who 
handles many thousands yearly, as to how much 
blood he judged a full-grown Leghorn would 
have. His estimate was four ounces. Now, if in 
order to be sure and put it low enough, we call 
it half that, or two ounces, this for nineteen 
chickens makes thirty-eight ounces that these 
nineteen chickens contained, and it is expressly 
stated that the weasel drew out every particle. 
While some weasels are larger than others, our 
weasels average about four ounces, so that a 
Pennsylvania weasel can contain at one time over 
nine and one-half times his own weight. This 
would be equal to a man weighing 150 pounds 
