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[JuLy 27, 1907. 










The Boy Behind the Man. 
Newport, Ky., July 15—Editor Forest 
Stream: “Want to buy a gun, Johnnie?” 
“Sure; if daddie’ll let me, an’ I can rake the 
price.” , 
[he first person was Lou Johnson, a shifcless, 
happy loafer of the neighborhood, and the sec- 
ond, myself, a younger edition of the same 
caliber, who spent one-third of his time “chor- 
ing’ on the farm and the remainder hunting 
and fishing on the Ohio River just below. As 
he svoke, Lou handed me the gun to look at, 
and I involuntarily threw it to my shoulder to 
see “how it came up.” Right there I fell and 
that gun was as good as mine. Of a verity it 
had the sweetest drop to its quaint little stock 
that ever came under my eye, and it fitted my 
arm and shoulder like a No. 8 glove on a 7% 
and 
‘ 
hand. I was too young to recognize the pedi- 
siee and title of the curious old arm, but I 
did know positively that it suited me at once 
and perfectly. I take it to have been a muzzle- 
loading military carbine, perhaps an Enfield, of 
somewhat lighter and more shapely design, with 
a heavily rifled barrel of about .50 caliber and 
about 22 inches in length. It was perfectly 
balanced and its neatly fitting stock made it a 
dream of joy in the heart of the small boy. It 
was in good condition, too, and unlike the more 
clumsy musket, its hammer was small and neat 
and it used an ordinary sized percussion cap. 
“How does she shoot, Lou?” I anxiously in- 
quired. 
“Don’t know. 
feller down the road. 
we'll try her.” 
I flew to the house, brought the powder-horn 
and shot bottle, and we had her loaded 
just right. Then I set up a shingle, stepped off 
thirty paces and worked a beautiful pattern in 
it in No. 8 shot so. closely and evenly dis- 
tributed over its surface that only a very small 
bird indeed would have escaped being hit. That 
was good enough for me, so I brought things 
to a head right off. 
“What do you want for her, Lou?” 
“Well, she stands me just three dollars and a 
half, but it’s pretty dry talkin’ an’ I need. the 

Just got her. Traded to a 
Got any powder an’ shot, 
soon 
money, an’ you can have her for two, if you 
want her.” 
I hurried back to the house, but rake and 
scrape as I would, with contributions, too, from 
daddie and mammie, all I could scare up was 
one dollar and fifty cents, and I came back to 
Lou rather crest-fallen with the three half- 
dollars looking lonesome in my hand. 
“Tt's! all I couldy vet Lou. Isard emourne 
fully; “Dad wouldn’t give me any more.” 
“Well, Johnnie, I guess you want the gun 
about as bad as I want a drink, so give me the 
one-fifty, an’ we'll call it square.” 
And thus the priceless little weapon 
my own at last. 
Daddie looked at it askance. ‘Looks like a 
sawed off Enfield. Pretty good for bullets. We 
had ’em in the —th Mounted Rifles back in 
Canada before J brought you out to this coun- 
try, but for shot, well—I guess you might use 
it to kill bugs.” That was all the satisfaction 
I was able to obtain from him at that time. 
I begged him to withhold judgment and 
pleaded with him to go for a short hunt and 
give my gun a chance, and then I’d show him. 
After some coaxing and artful representations 
in line with his own inclinations, perhaps, he 
consented. Bright and early at daybreak next 
morning, daddie took his six-foot paddle and 
I the gun and ammunition, and we paddled up 
along the shore of the broad Ohio above my 
home, the mighty current and daddie’s strong 
arms at the paddle doing their level best against 
each other, but he was a master hand, and no 
Indian ever excelled him with the single blade. 
became 

Our boat was one of those flat-bottomed Ohio 
River plank skiffs that on that stream prevail 
as a type from its headwaters to its mouth. It 
rowed well, but to paddle best, daddie always 
took his seat in the extreme bow, faced her 
round stern first and paddled her in that 
position, putting me forward with the gun. 
Crouching on the last thwart of the boat with 
the broad sternsheets ahead of me to kneel on 
and shoot, it was, save in looks, ‘an ideal 
arrangement for that kind of sport. 
We had proceeded alongshore some little 
distance, and I had become deeply engrossed in 
a study of my newly acquired darling and its 
many perfections, conning over in my mind 
every screw and bar and spring, gently cock- 
ing, lowering and re-cocking the diminutive 
hammer, when daddie’s low spoken ‘Mark; 
ahead!” and the indescribable thrill and tremor of 
the plant skiff as his steadying paddle brought it 
to a standstill, awakened me out of my day dream 
of ecstasy. I glanced up, and right ahead, com- 
ing directly down stream toward us, flying some 
twenty-five or thirty feet high, like a living, 
breathing projectile came a giant shelldrake, 
his long neck and curiously hooked saw bill 
stretched straight out before him, the brilliant 
head and flashing eye slightly cocked to one 
side, watching us as he came gallantly on, and 
his beautiful colors flashing in the sunlight. It 
formed one of those thought pictures which is 
fixed forever on the human mind. 
In an instant he was almost overhead and 
coming faster even as the scare grew. upon him, 
and daddie and I fairly shook the boat in our 
tremble of excitement. The next instant, though, 
Johnnie recollected himself, the little “saw-off” 
slipped to a quick sight, both eyes open, and 
the feathered bunch of animation just slid down 
an abrupt incline and struck the water with a 
resounding splash, and it was all over. 
“That was a good shot, Jack, and the new gun 
seems to shoot where you hold,” was his quiet 
commentary-as he gathered the lifeless duck 
into the boat. 
“Where'd I hit him, daddie?” ; 
Gently pushing aside: the: feathers disclosed 
that a single tiny pellet had pierced the armor 
of the breast plumage. 
While I was impartially dividing admiration 
between the orange, white, fawn, black and blue- 
gray markings of the bird, and the mechanical 
author of its untimely downfall, daddie said: 
“There’s a sprigtail sitting on the bank right 
ahead.” 
I hastily reloaded, and again came the noise- 
less, stealthy approach, buf this duck proved not 
so easily come at. We had reached a point 
within perhaps sixty yards of him when daddie 
whispered: “Look sharp; he’s going .to fly,” 
and the next moment the prophecy was ful- 
filled. With a derisive quack! the sprig jumped 
and started out quartering past us down stream. 
“Wait till he comes opposite. He’ll be closer 
then, and give him a good long lead, too. He’s 
under fifty yards now.” 
Closer the duck swung in to pass us on the 
outside, the little gun following his course in 
a wide circular path, always pointing just ahead 
of him, until just opposite us, when. the duck, 
though less than forty yards away, evidently 
considered himself as past the danger, the gun 
cracked, a long swath of pellets skipped the 
water all about him, and he pitched down with 
his head under water and the fly all out of his 
wings. While I was reloading, daddie paddled 
over to the duck and I picked up the second 
victim of our joint prowess just as the conch 
note came over the water calling us home to 
breakfast. ~ 
“The little gun seems to suit you pretty well, 
Jack; I guess she’s worth all the money,’ was 
daddie’s final verdict on my pet. 
JouHn S. Roesuck, Jr, 
== 

Tadpoles, Trout and Ducklings. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
There has been so much criticism of modern 
magazine natural history, and so many fascinat- 
ing anecdotes of animals, mice and men have 
been .perforated, that I hesitate appreciably be- 
fore submitting my own notes to the authentic 
columns of ForEsT AND STREAM. 
In these mountains, where for more than a 
quarter of a century I have abided, there is al- 
ways an abundance of natural phenomena within 
easy distance, and when I do overcome my dif- 
fidence sufficiently to note them, you and your 
readers may rely serenely upon the integrity of 
my contributions. 
Whether I chronicle aerial, terrestrial, aquatic 
or subterranean incidents, although they may 
lack novelty, fascination and other sensational 
intoxicants, as far as they go my bulletins are 
accurate records of natural activities which are 
garnered up and called history. 
Just why the annals of anything upon earth, 
or within eyeshot of the planet should be his- 
tory, or why there is any other than natural 
history, I shall omit examining into at this 
juncture, further than to observe that I con- 
ceive of no unnatural or other kind of history. 
It is true the eccentricities of mankind some- 
times appear alien to natural precedent, but this 
is merely because we do not concede the di- 
versity of human enterprise and activity. Man 
is always digging up some old, neglected thing 
or other that.appears new to us for a day or so. 
There is such a quantity of material from 
which to select in this region that at this 
moment I am confused -by clamoring entities 
that fight for intellectual supremacy and brain 
room, and I now hesitate between recording the 
details of the destruction of California by ore 
smelters in the mountains, the extraordinary 
versatility of the weather this year, the pro- 
found announcement of my friend, Mr. Stott, or 
the notable individuality and character of fishes 
in their development and display in my ponds. 
As for the smelters, located at the headwaters 
of the Sacramento and tributaries, amid some 
of the finest forest of the sierras, a photograph 
of the region in process of destruction would 
alone appeal to the indifference of American 
commercialized conscientiousness. It would ap- 
pear that California is being concentrated into 
ingots of copper and clouds of sulphuric acid, 
the latter product being only utilized in blast- 
ing the realm, under the bedimmed vision of 
vandal population and improvident government. 
As for the weather, that is immaterial, incon- 
sequent, irrelevant and merely transient. 
The profound announcement of Mr. Stott, is 
the discovery that the subterranean laboratories 
of nature, where gold is being constantly 
evolved by vast chemical acticity, throw off 
waves of energy that he can now register, meas- 
ure and trace to their nucleus or central station. 
This discovery, Mr. Stott contends, implies no 
less than that, by simple mechanical methods, 
all deposits of gold may be readily located and 
exhumed, and that the metal will become as 
plentiful and ordinary as iron. 
Mr. Stott’s sincere. purpose and ambition is 
to burst the “gold standard” of the money 
mongers, destroy the power of Wall street and 
that of the old lady of Threadneedle street, Lon- 
don. I believe with Mr. Stott that this will be 
a good thing. The exaggerated valuation and 
rapid acquisition of gold money by men with 
avidity and talent has been exhaustively ex- 
ploited. The gambol has been shown. Mr. 
Stott and I now demand other exhibition of 
financial genius. Beyond this I am not author- 
ized to tell all that Mr. Stott knows about this 
business. Some of his theorems are so intri- 
cately blended with scientific, and particularly 
with geological matter, that they are almost too 



