

536 

FOREST AND STREAM: 
[Oct. 5, 1907. 

Daddie and I.—IV. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
On the inside curve of the first big southern 
bend of the Ohio River above Cincinnati, stands 
a large pleasure resort, perhaps one of the 
greatest in the Central States. Its humble 
predecessor many years ago was a picnic ground 
of a more primitive type and was then called 
Parker’s Grove. Across the river on the Ken- 
tucky side then lay the hamlet of Four Mile, a 
rural settlement which Jent no small portion of 
its individual title to many of the institutions 
around about. There was Four-Mile Bar, a 
wide stretching shoal that was always a terror 
to the navigators of this inland highway; Four- 
Mile Creek, after fifteen or sixteen miles of 
slovenly drainage service through the up-river 
bottom land, debouched into the Ohio opposite 
the vast bar, which it no doubt largely helped 
to form; Four-Mile Pike led to and past both, 
hence its common name. 
The river here, as at most shallows, spread 
out to great width, and the lake-like sheet of 
water at that time formed a sort of half-way 
house or nightly resting place for countless 
swarms of wildfowl on their migratory course 
Ducks and geese were habitual visitants, and 
once in a great while came Colymbus glacialis, 
or the great northern diver, as the common loon 
is more correctly called, straying over the east- 
ern mountains or traversing the Ohio and Mis- 
sissippi rivers from the Gulf. His rare and un- 
canny cry often aroused apprehension in the 
minds of the younger and more ignorant of the 
simple folk who lived in those benighted parts, 
and when its lonely, quavering call came floating 
over the water, usually just after twilight, while 
the bird was invisible, it hardly ever failed to fill 
its hearers with superstitious dread. Nobody 
ever saw the awesome visitor arrive; he was 
never seen to leave; one saw him there, and that 
was all. 
One gloomy, cloudy morning in September a 
bunch of the Four Mile inhabitants were loiter- 
ing about the sawmill and lumber yard. They 
had gathered for the customary morning chat 
and the usual country joke and rural gibe went 
merrily around. Everybody had a good time, 
and notwithstanding many a sharp dig, they 
were all friends and nobody’s feelings were hurt. 
“Wha—ar loon!” came ringing across the 
water in high-pitched, long-drawn. tremul] 1s 
cadences, not much unlike the querulous wailing 
of an ailing child. Again it came, just the same 
call repeated over and over at long intervals 
from somewhere in the wide water up the river. 
It was nothing but the now rarely recurring cry 
of a loon, but to the unsophisticated it might 
well seem the last despairing note of some lost 
soul in purgatory. 
The advent of campers and pleasure resorts 
had even then made those waters less populous 
with feathered life, and the huge diver was some- 
thing of a rarity even to the group of cronies 
sprawled upon the last few courses of a lumber 
stack in old Cornelius Willison’s yard; so that 
when his call sounded once more from some 
unseen lurking place, it gave rise to some 
comment among the loungers, and old man 
Gander was moved to observe: 
“Jus’ lis’en to that plague-fetched loon. Bet 
he’s hidin’ over yander behin’ that fur dike.” 
Then he slowly extracted from his hip pocket 
a huge twist of hillside navy, as the strong, 
home-grown tobacco of the neighborhood was 
known, and proceeded with his jack-knife to 
hack off a chew of it as large as a good sized 
apple, which he hastily and furtively crammed 
into his capacious mouth; but he was too late. 
for old man Willison saw the stealthy move- 
ment and with twinkling eyes reached out his 
hand before Uncle Sammy could replace it. 
This proceeding promptly drew from ‘fH. P.” 
as Oliver Hazard Perry was familiarly known, 
the deserved criticism: 
“Why don’t you raise yer 
Corneil, or else buy you some 2” 
Cornelius Willison was a man of simple ideas, 
though liberal parts. His massive physique, the 
calm courage and strength of purpose, the 
homely, kindly countenance, the same generous 
and forgiving disposition, and even though he 
own. terbakker, 

could not write his name, all proclaimed him 
cast in the same mold as the immortal Abra- 
ham Lincoln, A likeness of one would have 
served for both. He was a man of great natural 
ability, and by hard work, supplemented by keen 
foresight and sound business judgment, had ac- 
quired a comfortable competence of this world’s 
goods. Past seventy-five, he was sole owner of 
the lumber and coal yard and had a controlling 
interest in the turnpike road with its numerous 
and profitable toll gates and bridges. Prosperity 
had not changed him and he was still the same 
simple, kindly friend and neighbor who, more 
than fifty years before, from somewhere east of 
the mighty Alleghanies, had trudged bravely into 
that out-of-the-way village with his axe upon his 
shoulder, his wife by his side, and no shoes on 
their way-worn feet; the same man who, with 
sturdy strokes of his axe, had hewed for thém 
both all the comforts which he now enjoyed in 
his old age. His reply to the half-earnest, half- 
humorous stricture of the agonistic H. P. was 
gentle, yet convincing: 
“Because it’s easier and cheaper to sponge off 
you fellers, you hook enough of mine anyhow. 
Believe this is some now. No ‘’tain’t; mine’s 
better. But you can’t tell whar that loon is, Sam 
Gander; nobody can’t tell. He hain’t over by 
Four-mile dike, that’s certain; ’cause I kin see 
that fur an’ he hain’t thar. I'll tell you whar he 
is,’ and the old man looked round as who should 
dispute him and then, ignoring his own dictum, 
“He’s right over thar behind old Parker’s P’int. 
If I hed my spy-glass, reckon I could see him 
now.” 
“You just got done sayin’ nobody can’t 
tell, Corneil, so how do you know?” said the 
persistent Perry, glancing about in triumph as 
one who seeks the multitude’s applause. 
“TI don’t,” was the unruffled answer. “I only 
guessed, and guessin’ ’s free to everybody; but 
here comes the Captain an’ that huntin’ boy of 
his. Bet if anybody kin find that bird, Johnnie 
kin. Just watch him when he hears it.” 
The new-comers joined the good-natured, ban- 
tering circle and shortly afterward, as if by pre- 
arrangement, the bird repeated its cry: 
“W ha——ar loon!” 
The far-reaching, insistent call acted upon the 
boy’s sensibilities like a soldier’s call to arms. 
“What's that?’’ he said, listening intently, then 
looking round upon the amused faces. 
“That’s a loon, Johnny,” said the irrepressible 
H. P. “He’s lost an’ wants you should tell him 
whar he is. Can’t you hear what he says? Talks 
just like Corneil. Says, ‘Whar loon?’ Whar do 
you say he is right now?” But no answer was 
needed, for just at that moment from a boat, 
that on account of the hazy weather, appeared 
hung betwen sky and water, came two puffs of 
white smoke rolling off down the wind, followed 
some seconds later by the deep boom, boom of 
a heavily loaded ten-gauge gun. A moment after 
the sounds reached the attentive listeners, two 
long gun shots from the boat, a great dark bird, 
with large, down-curving wings, was seen to 
splash out of the water, rise to a heavy flight a 
few feet above the surface, and slowly flap his 
clumsy way down stream toward the indentation 
back of Parker’s Point, where he sagged down 
into the smooth shallow water behind the point 
and was soon placidly swimming about as though 
nothing unusual had occurred, his long neck and 
snake-like head ever twisting here and there, 
either watching for an enemy or searching out 
his food supply, the countless swarms of min- 
nows that swam about; while now and then he 
sent forth his melancholy, yet perhaps derisive 
call. 
“°’Tain’t no kind o’ trouble to see whar loon 
is now, is it?” queried the knowing one. 
“No,” remarked the earnestly attentive young- 
ster as he fidgeted uneasily with his hands. “but 
gosh, ain’t he a monster big one! Let's go after 
him, Daddie,” and as if by preconcertion, every- 
body laughed. 
“Why, son, he’s not good for anything and you 
couldn’t get him if he was, so what's the use 
going to all that trouble, especially this red hot 
day?” was the unsatisfying response. 
“Well, I never saw one before, and I’d like to 
see what he looks like close. Maybe he’s good 
to eat,” said the still unsatisfied boy; “let’s go 
after him anyway, Daddie; I’ll do every bit of the 
rowing, and you can do all the shooting. I got 
five or six loads an’ I guess that ought to be 
enough, if I load her heavy enough. Come on!” 
But the elder sportsman was not to be per- 
suaded and the general laughter only increased 
his determination not to be drawn into any such 
wild goose chase as the one proposed, 
“Well, then, can’t I go after him, myself?” was 
the final plea. 
“I suppose so,’ rather doubtfully, “but he’ll 
dive so fast and so far that you will never be 
able to get anywhere near him, and if he is badly 
frightened he'll fly out of the neighborhood.” 
“That was my George that shot those two loads 
at him just now, an’ he must a scared him right 
smart, the way he flew. Must a been sumpin’ 
the matter with old Danger, or he’d a got him, 
sure,” said Uncle Sam, thus proudly laudatory 
of both his boy and his gun; but nobody paid any 
attention. 
Johnnie was already out of hearing, running 
up the road at top speed toward home, whence 
he presently emerged carrying his old musket in 
one hand, a pair of heavy oars slung over his 
shoulder, and the bottles of powder and shot 
protruding from his breeches pockets; and he 
was running still. Down the precipitous river 
bank he went, jumping from one smooth stone 
to another, until, panting, he dropped his oars 
into the flat-bottomed skiff that lay moored to 
the shore, and across whose square transom was 
roughly . painted the legend, ‘Pinafore,’ mute 
tribute to a departed popular fancy. 
Stopping a few moments to carefully load his 
antiquated weapon, he cast off the boat’s painter, 
thole-pinned the oars and started upon the chase, 
while the now fully interested men, watching 
him from the board pile, called after him many 
suggestions and directions which, however timely 
and useful, were, if heard at all, disregarded. 
“Better go above him, Johnnie, ’cause he’ll 
dive up stream,’ admonished old Corneil; but 
the boy gave no sign, and with long, precise 
strokes steadily pursued his way toward the open 
water below the whimsical game. 
“Now jess look at thet consarned boy,” said 
the old man disappointedly, “ef he hain’t that 
contrairy.”’ 
Daddie only smiled and Uncle Sam said quietly: 
“Let him alone. He knows what he’s about.” 
“That might be,’ said H. P., “but ’tain’t at 
all likely he’ll ever get within a half mile of him, 
anyhow; them critters is awful slick divers.” 
“He’s nearer than that now,’ was Daddie’s 
convincing commentary, and the boy rowed now 
more carefully on. 
Landing his boat about a quarter of a mile be- 
low, he pulled her ashore, and, grasping his gun, 
slipped along through the weeds and bunch grass, 
skirting the beach in the direction of the little 
cove or bay wherein the wily quarry was still 
serenely disporting. itself, apparently oblivious 
to impending harm. It soon began, however, to 
take notice more and more, and although the 
youthful hunter stalked it with all the patient 
cunning of our aboriginal forebears, it stopped 
feeding every once in a while and gazed long 
and sharply riverward. It was swinging in small 
circles out near the middle of the little indenta- 
tion behind the point, which was about a hun- 
dred yards in width, and the water smooth and 
shallow. 
Stealthily the little nimrod dragged himself 
along until he came to a strip of beach that was 
clear of cover save a clump of willows that grew 
at the water’s edge just beyond and appeared, to 
the anxious observers upon the opposite bank, to 
be within a long gunshot of the bird. Making 
a short detour to the rear, Johnnie got behind 
this clump, bringing it between himself and the 
loon. Then he crawled carefully down across 
the naked beach until he reached its shelter. The 
wary bird was fully fifty-odd yards away and 
moving suspiciously toward the open river. No 
time was to be lost; the old gun came up in an 
instant, hung wavering for a second over the 
slender neck, and at its crashing report there was 
a long line of shot pellets skittering across the 
water toward a few widening ripples marking 
the spot where the alert diver had just disap- 
peared, while a swiftly moving V-shaped wake 
skived out through the shallow water of the 












































































































































