
4 ‘ad ee 

suddenly comes upon her maiden stand, as staunch and 
firm as any old hand at it. After admiring her a short time 
she becomes a little nervous and seems ata loss to know 
what is expected of her. A simple ‘steady, Gyp,” is all 
that is necessary, and there she stands a perfect picture. I 
step forward, and oon flush a bevy of some thirty birds, 
but do not shoot, as they are only about a quarter grown. 
The pup seems bewildered, a single word is sufficient. 
“Down charge, Gyp, good dog, good dog.” T am amply 
paid for all my trouble in bringing up and house-breaking 
her. She is a success, and I am satisfied. The birds all 
struck forvery thick cover, where we found it impossible 
to follow them. So we spent the remainder of the day, all 
shooting well and in luck, with the exception of Dale, who 
only had some five or six shots all day long, it being too 
much exertion for him to climb fences or beat runs, conse- 
quently we were always ahead of him, and of course had 
the shooting all to ourselves. Just before dark we started 
on the back track, stopping only once where we had put 
up our first bevy in the morning, expecting to find them 
out feeding. We had no sooner struck in the stubble be- 
fore Fred came to a dead stop, a lemon and white setter 
hunted by Rea backed him beautifully, and Gyp came up 
on the other side and stood like an old’un. What asight 
to look upon! Either of us would have given considerable 
for a photographer for just five minutes. Whir! whir! 
—Bang! bang! off go the bevy, minus two. It being too 
dark to cover any more, or to follow them, we let them go 
on and start for home, sorry that we can’t have longer days. 
The next morning we were at it again, but can only have 
some two hours’ shooting, as we start for New York in the 
afternoon. We hardly get into cover, before our dogs 
are standing and we spring a fine bevy and get two. Now 
our sport commences. ‘‘Fred” stops, Harry’s gun comes 
up,and down comes a fine one. ‘“Gyp” makes game,up jump 
two, one quartering to the right and one straight from me, 
I knock down both in fine style, and in a short time up get 
two more. I cover both and drep them, but can only find 
one, and cannot spare time to look carefully for the other, 
so am compelled to leave it to find the rest of the party, 
who have done nothing, with the exception of Harry, who 
had killed all his birds, as Rea said, ‘‘in fine style.” We 
find it time to stop; we can hardly leave the birds 
but boats and cars have a mean way of starting on time 
(sometimes), so we have to bid the birds a long farewell, 
regretfully ‘tis true, but manfully. By twelve o’clock we 
returned to our quarters, a brace of tired, wet, and hungry 
sportsmen, but with teelings considerably alleviated by the 
result of our bag. Some sixty quail, three pigeons, and 
one gray squirrel footed the score, and we are in hopes of 
another trial next season, when we can have more time and 
make better connections. We made many very pleasant 
acquaintances, and found them all warm, genial and hos- 
pitable fellows, and we were exceedingly sorry to leave 
them. Toany and all of your readers we advise them to 
try Cambridge for quail, or as they call them down there, 
partridge, and we can heartily recommend the Bramble 
House, kept by our fellow sportsman Vernon Rea. 

NE RESON 
- — 9 
LOOSE LEAV®S FROM: A SURVEYOR’S 
JOURNAL. 
eR 
“INJUN WHISKEY.’’ 
We were following a gig path around the rapid, when 
we came in view of a rough log shanty, evidently thrown 
up in laste and ready to be vacated at a moment’s notice. 
This was a whiskey trader’s camp, farin the woods, miles 
from any settlement, and though there was a severe United 
States penalty against either giving or selling an Indian 
intoxicating liquors, yet more than one individual I wot 
of made small fortunes by doing the latter. Old Antonio 
—a Kanuck—was one of the most successful of these for 
several seasons. He sold whiskey that probably cost him 
~ not over ten cents per gallon (made up of high wine, water, 
oil of vitrol, and he only knew what else) to the poor In- 
dian for a dollar, took their maple sugar (large quantities 
of which, and of a good quality, are made by the squaws 
in the spring) at three cents per pound, thus getting 334 
pounds of sugar for ten cents. After making up-a load of 
sugar, with perhaps a bale or two of furs, &c., he would 
ship them cown the river on an easily constructed raft to 
the settlements, fifty or sixty miles below, where the sugar 
was freely bought from eight to ten cents cash, or twelve 
cents in trade—a pretty good profit. 
As we were passing, we noticed four or five of the red- 
skins laid out by the side of the shanty, evidently oblivious 
of all passing events—dea‘l drunk, sure. But one young 
and rather good-looking fellow, that probably had no 
sugar or mink skin to barter (and their credit is not of the 
best) was sober. He came up to me (the rest of the boys 
had gone by), and with-a leer of the most supreme con- 
tempt on his face, pointing to the recumbent bodies, he 
said: ‘“‘Gausch darn fool, Injun drunk; give Injun fippunce 
buy cracker; Injun hungry.” 
[ looked at the poor fellow, and an idea struck me,rather 
a demoralized one I must confess, and hardly to be approved 
of by the Evangelical Alliance. I had heard of the sudden, 
almost lightning-like effects of Indian whiskey, and I want- 
ed an occular demonstration. Here I had the material be- 
fore me. Though not a chemist myself, it is with great 
satisfaction that I look upon a successful chemical experi- 
ment, when there is no danger or personal inconvenience 
to myself connected therewith. I took out asixpence, and 
looking the Indian in the eye, said: “If I give you this you 
_ will buy whiskey and get drunk like those fellows there,” 
I 
He replied: ‘‘Me honest Injun, no drink; me hungry In- 
jun.” ‘Well, here then,” giving him the coin, ‘‘ you go 
in there and get some’ crackers; don’t you buy whiskey.” 
Thus, you see, I gave him the benefit of the doubt (if doubt 
there was), and quieted my conscience. He seized the 
piece with chuckling avidity. I pretended to go on by the 
shanty, but I noticed a window on the farther side, around 
to which I whipped as soon as he had entered the door. It 
gave me a clear view of the only room in the place, at the 
back end of which was a rough slab bar, and behind that a 
bloated specimen of a half-breed, ready to deal out the 
liquid—what shall I call it? 
It was a sight to see that Indian walk up to that bar, and 
with all the air of a Wall street millionaire (before the 
crash) plank down his coin. The barkeeper set on the 
counter an old-fashioned smooth glass tumbler, holding, I 
should judge, about half a pint, then raised from below 
and placed beside it a black half-gallon bottle or jug. The 
Indian, taking it in both hands, filled the tumbler to the 
brim. “‘Pretty good drink,” I thought, ‘means to get his 
money’s worth in quantity, at any rate.” With both hands 
again he then carefully raised up the glass, his eyes glisten- 
ing with eager anticipation; viewed the liquid first on one 
side, then on the other, then on top, then underneath, gave 
a grunt, tipped back his head, placed it to his lips and did 
not remove the glass until the last drop had disappeared 
down that cavernous throat. ® 
Then spoke the barkeeper, who evidently knew Indian 
character, and from many an experience what would hap- 
pen. “‘Now git out, out with ye!” The Indian gave a 
grunt of deep satisfaction, turned around, paused a mo- 
ment (and even then the drunken leer was visibly spreading 
over his countenance), started for the door, stopped, reeled 
twice, caught against one side of the door, bore over to- 
ward the other, caught again, gave another reel and a 
swing, and in a twinkling he was around thé corner and 
down among the others—gone! My life, is it possible! 
Several of the boys watching my motions had come back 
and joined me at the window. 
We went around, and we poked, we kicked that Indian; 
we pulled his hair, his ears, his nese. He was drunk, dead 
drunk, too drunk ,to grunt—clean gone. 
“Boys,” I said, ‘‘I want to see some of that whiskey.” 
Wewentin. I called for ‘something to drink.” The pro- 
prietor brought out a cut-glass decanter. ‘‘No,” I said, “‘I 
want some out of that big black bottle.” ‘Oh no,” he re- 
plied, ‘‘that is Injun whiskey, this is first rate, best corn, 
cost me 28 cents a gallon.” ‘No, but? I want the other, 
and it was only his fear that we might be deputy United 
“States Marshals, or kick up a row, that finally, with many 
apologies and protestations, he brought it out. I poured 
certainly not over a teaspoonful into a tumbler and filled it 
about one-third full of water. It turned it the color of old 
lead. I tasted it, and like a fool, let a small portion pass 
down my throat. Christopher Columbus! it was red hot 
lava; a potato right from the pot was nothing to it. It 
scorched, it burned and seared all the way down, and after 
it got there 1 drank tumbler after tumbler of water, but it 
would not wash out. It lasted me, that fire, all the day. I 
had had enough of Indian whiskey, being thoroughly con- 
vinced that between my internal organs and that element 
there could be no affinity. 
No wonder it laid out those fellows so suddenly. I 
should have thought they would never have waked up. Is 
it longer a matter of astonishment that the Lo’s are passing 
so rapidly from the face of the earth? JACOBSTAFF. 
i 
OYSTER: PLE. 
el EGS | 
UVENAL’S writings seem to show that as early as A. 
D. 60, the Romans enjoyed the oyster. Sallust 110 
years afterwards, is loud in his praises of the bi-valve, 
though slightly indifferent to the early Briton, as he 
remarks. ‘‘These wretched Briton’s, after all there is 
something good about them, they produce oysters.” 
It was Sergiws Orata the Coste of that early period, who 
went regularly into the oyster business, for as Pliny says 
‘the did not do it because he loved oysters, but because 
there was money in it.” The Romans not only eat them 
off the half shell, but cooked them, for says athenmus 
“They are eaten raw and sometimes roasted, they had, too 
a custom of seathing them with mallows and docks, (per- 
haps like our cellery) and with fish, which was esteemed as 
very wholsome.” How to cook oysters has, however, run 
through the strange phrases. In the twelfth century, (it 
was indeed a dark age) they absolutely used the oyster for 
dessert. Here is a receipt for cooking the cherry stone 
or blue point of that period. ‘‘Shyl him (shell your oyster,) 
and seeth him in wyne and inbare (their) own*broth.” So 
far so good, and not at all objectionable. ‘‘Take almandes 
blaunched, grind him and ayle (mix) with floer of rys (rice) 
and do (put) the oyster thereinne. Cast in powder of gyn- 
ger, moult (much) sugar, macy’s (mace) and seeth it not too 
thicke.” Wecannot exactly recommend this for an oyster 
stew. 
Rules and regulations in regard to catching oysters are, 
too, of old date, for in the time of Henry II (1154) a com- 
pany of free dredgers paid annually to the crown the sum 
of twenty-three shillings and fourpence for the right of 
getting them. 
We have so far sketched quite lightly some of the oyster 
history, but here comes in an important question. Some 
years ago a subject agitated the whole people, and that was, 
how much lager beer it would take to intoxicate; now the 
question of to-day ishow many oysters will it take to satisfy 
ahungry man. If Vitellius, the great Roman emperor 
whetted his' appetite with 1200 oysters, what amount of 
‘a customer. 



real nourishment is there in an oyster, sufficient for a normal 
blessed man with an ordinary stomach? ‘For his daily nour- 
ishment a man of fair size and strength, employed in usual 
labor, requires a quantity of food equal to twelve ounces 
about of nitrogenised matter. According then to this calcu- 
lation, a man to do a day’s work on oysters alone, would 
want to eat somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred 
good big oysters. Perhaps some of our native Indians, 
who in old days existed on oysters alone, consumed this 
quantity, for how account otherwise for the enormous 
heaps of shells they have Jeft as evidences of their oyster 
devouring capabilities, on the banks of many of our estu- 
agies. 
There is a sad and wierd story of an oyster eater, which 
still floats around the wharves of Baltimore, where oyster 
hoats do congregate. One morning, twas yearsago, the sloop 
Martha Mary came from some oyster bed on the Chesapeake 
laden gunnel deep with prime oysters, and was moored 
safely along a Baltimore wharf. The skipper pleased with 
the prospects of his voyage, lounged on the wharf, awaiting 
There came to this Captain, a lean lank and 
sallow faced man, who said with a cavernous voice, ‘I 
would eat some oysters?” ‘‘Plenty on board there!” was 
the bluff reply. ‘‘But I would pay for what I eat” inter- 
posed the stranger. ‘‘All right, go aboard, eat your fill, for 
a quarter,” cheerily replied the skipper, for in those early 
times oysters were worth not more than fifteen cents a 
bushel. ‘‘Willingly,” said the thin man producing with 
alacrity the old Spanish quarter with the pillars on it, the 
coin of that time, and drawing a large rusty oyster knife 
from his pocket. Then the thin man opened the hatch of 
the little vessel and dived below. 
The Captaln went to his breakfast. The meal over, he 
returned to his sloop deck. Below he heard the measured 
click of an oyster knife. He thought little about it, only said 
“he has a good appetite.” Oysters were not rapid of sale 
that day, as two more oyster smacks had came in, and 
purehasers were slack. ‘Makes no matter” said the Cap- 
tain, ‘‘the weather is cold, them oyster is sound, and they 
will keep in prime order for a week.” That Captain went 
to dinner. Again he faced his little vessel’s deck, and still 
he heard the monotonous, incessant ‘‘click,” ‘‘click,” from 
below, working away with mechanical regularity, Anxious- 
ly then that Captain strode along, and was full of fear. 
As the sun set, still the click of the oyster knife was heard. 
In terror the Captain fled from his smack. Next morning 
early, as he approached the wharf, still his affrighted ear 
heard the click- He could stand it no longer. Rushing 
below, scattering aside whole heaps of empty shells, he found 
the lean, lank and cadaverous ‘man, still opening away at 
the very bottom of the vessel. ‘‘They was good,” said the 
cadaverous man, swallowing with artistic flirt a singularly 
large oyster, ‘“but scarce as salty as I like em, ef I had had 
a cracker, or just adash‘of vinegar, mebbe I might have 
engyed em more. See here, Capting, its jesta case of 
knife with me. This ere oyster knife, and he held up the 
attenuated blade, worn now to the size of a small pen knife 
“warn’t good steel or I might have hed my fill,” and saying 
this he slowly and deliberately climbed up the hatchway, 
and still lank and lean disappeared in the distance. This is 
the story of the oyster fiend, as whispered about in a low 
voice among professional oyster openers of Baltimore, and 
just as it was told to SHREWSBURY. 
el 6 pes 
POTATO PADDING. 
eee plated 
Gay says: 
‘Leek for the Welsh, to Dutchman butter’s dear, 
Of hardy Irish swain potato 1s the cheer.” 
Peter Cicca, in 1558, calls the potato papas, while Clusins 
some forty odd years later calls it taratoufli. Now one 
Thomas Harrist, in 1586, calls our Murphy openawk. Lord 
Bacon says potado roots, and thus severely writes about it: 
“Tf potado roots be set ina pot filled with earth, and then 
the pot with earth be set likewise within the ground some 
two or three inches, the roots will grow much greater then 
than ordinarily.” ; 
South American Indians called the potato papas, arracha 
and battata, which is quite comfortably near our rendering 
of it, though before we got to it quite, and settled down on 
it permanently it ran through the mutations of datato,batata, 
patata, potata and pottate. Inthe Pennsylvania Gazette of 
1756 (Benjamin Franklin being the high-toned, enterprising, 
spirited and accomplished. editor) there is an advertisement 
as follows: ‘‘Just imported, and sold by John Troy, mas- 
ter of the Snow Polly, a parcel of choice Irish potatoes, and 
a few good servant men and women at Mr. Sim’s wharf, 
near Market street.” 
It is difficult to state whether the elegant gentleman who 
lost his heart and his head in Queen Bess’ time, did abso- 
lutely introduce the potato into England and Ireland. Sir 
Walter Raleigh’s claims are, however, fair, There is an 
old Cork ballad as follows: ; 
“By Raleigh *twas planted in Youghal so gay, 
And Munster potatoes are famed to this day.” 
In 1619 potatoes were in England perhaps something 
like pineapples are to-day, worth a shilling a pound; even as 
late as 1796 potatoes—early ones—were sold in London at 
five shillings a pound. 
There are lots of pleasant associations clustered around 
potatoes. The boyish escapade, the Robinson Crusoe life 
in the fields, where for three mortal daysa wild urchin 
lived on pototoes roasted stealthily at night in the ashes of 
a smouldering fire, the camp life, where the potato was 
cooked by the camp fire, and such finer remembrances of 
the potato, as the wonderfully cooked potato of the Café 
Procope (a cafe Oliver Holmes loved) and the delicate mor- 
sels of Saratoga Lake. What says the rustic verse? 
“The sweetest devarishin that’s under the sun, 
Tr to sit by the fire till the p’rates are done,” 
Peacr Brow, 
