MY FIRST VISIT.
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It was a fine October evening when I was sitting on the back
stoop of his cheerful little bachelor's establishment in Mercer street,
with my old friend and comrade, Henry Archer. Many a frown of
fortune had we two weathered out together; in many of her brightest
smiles had we two revelled—never was there a stancher
friend, a merrier companion, a keener sportsman, or a better fellow,
than this said Harry; and here had we two met, three thousand
miles from home, after almost ten years of separation, just the same
careless, happy, dare-all do-no-goods that we were when we parted
in St. James's street,—he for the West, I for the Eastern World—
he to fell trees, and build log huts in the back-woods of Canada,—I
to shoot tigers and drink arrack punch in the Carnatic. The world
had wagged with us as with most others; now up, now down, and
laid us to, at last, far enough from the goal for which we started—
so that, as I have said already, on landing in New York, having
heard nothing of him for ten years, whom the deuce should I tumble
on but that same worthy, snugly housed, with a neat bachelor's menage,
and every thing ship-shape about him?—So, in the natural
course of things, we were at once inseparables.
Well—as I said before, it was a bright October evening, with
the clear sky, rich sunshine, and brisk breezy freshness, which indicate
that loveliest of the American months,—dinner was over,
and with a pitcher of the liquid ruby of Latour, a brace of half-pint
beakers, and a score—my contribution—of those most exquisite of
smokables, the true old Manilla cheroots, we were consoling the
inward man in a way that would have opened the eyes, with abhorrent
admiration, of any advocate of that coldest of comforts—
cold water—who should have got a chance peep at our snuggery.
Suddenly, after a long pause, during which he had been stimulating
his ideas by assiduous fumigation, blowing off his steam in
a long vapory cloud that curled a minute afterward about his
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temples,—“What say you, Frank, to a start to-morrow?” exclaimed
Harry,—“and a week's right good shooting?”
“Why, as for that,” said I, “I wish for nothing better—but
where the deuce would you go to get shooting?”
“Never fash your beard, man,” he replied, “I'll find the ground
and the game too, so you'll find share of the shooting!—Holloa!
there—Tim, Tim Matlock.”
And in brief space that worthy minister of mine host's pleasures
made his appearance, smoothing down his short black hair, clipped
in the orthodox bowl fashion, over his bluff good-natured visage
with one hand, while he employed its fellow in hitching up a pair
of most voluminous unmentionables, of thick Yorkshire cord.
A character was Tim—and now I think of it, worthy of brief
description. Born, I believe—bred, certainly, in a hunting stable,
far more of his life passed in the saddle than elsewhere, it was not
a little characteristic of my friend Harry to have selected this piece
of Yorkshire oddity as his especial body servant; but if the choice
were queer, it was at least successful, for an honester, more faithful,
hard-working, and withal, better hearted, and more humorous
varlet never drew curry-comb over horse hide, or clothes-brush
over broad-cloth.
His visage was, as I have said already, bluff and good-natured,
with a pair of hazel eyes, of the smallest—but, at the same time, of
the very merriest—twinkling from under the thick black eye-brows,
which were the only hairs suffered to grace his clean-shaved countenance.
An indescribable pug nose, and a good clean cut mouth,
with a continual dimple at the left corner, made up his phiz. For
the rest, four feet ten inches did Tim stand in his stockings, about
two-ten of which were monopolized by his back, the shoulders of
which would have done honor to a six foot pugilist,—his legs,
though short and bowed a little outward, by continual horse exercise,
were right tough serviceable members, and I have seen them
bearing their owner on through mud and mire, when straighter,
longer, and more fair proportioned limbs were at an awful discount.
Depositing his hat then on the floor, smoothing his hair, and
hitching up his smalls, and striving most laboriously not to grin till
he should have cause, stood Tim, like “Giafar awaiting his master's
award!”
“Tim!” said Harry Archer—
“Sur!” said Tim.
“Tim! Mr. Forester and I are talking of going up to-morrow—
what do you say to it?”
“Oop yonner?” queried Tim, in the most extraordinary West-Riding
Yorkshire, indicating the direction, by pointing his right
thumb over his left shoulder—“Weel, Ay'se nought to say aboot
it—not Ay!”
“Soh! the cattle are all right, and the wagon in good trim, and
the dogs in exercise, are they?”
“Ay'se warrant um!”
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“Well, then, have all ready for a start at six to-morrow,—put
Mr. Forester's Manton alongside my Joe Spurling in the top tray
of the case, my single gun and my double rifle in the lower,—and
see the magazine well filled—the Diamond gunpowder, you know,
from Mr. Brough's. You'll put up what Mr. Forester will want,
for a week, you know—he does not know the country yet, Tim;—
and, hark you, what wine have I at Tom Draw's?”
“No but a case of claret.”
“I thought so, then away with you! down to the Baron's and get
two baskets of the Star, and stop at Fulton Market, and get the best
half hundred round of spiced beef you can find—and then go up to
Starke's at the Octagon, and get a gallon of his old Ferintosh—
that's all, Tim—off with you!—No! stop a minute!” and he filled
up a beaker and handed it to the original, who, shutting both his
eyes, suffered the fragrant claret to roll down his gullet in the
most scientific fashion, and then, with what he called a bow, turned
right about, and exit.
The sun rose bright on the next morning, and half an hour before
the appointed time, Tim entered my bed-chamber, with a cup of
mocha, and the intelligence that “Measter had been up this hour
and better, and did na like to be kept waiting!—so up I jumped,
and scarcely had got through the business of rigging myself, before
the rattle of wheels announced the arrival of the wagon.
And a model was that shooting wagon—a long, light-bodied box,
with a low rail—a high seat and dash in front, and a low servant's
seat behind, with lots of room for four men and as many dogs, with
guns and luggage, and all appliances to boot, enough to last a
month, stowed away out of sight, and out of reach of weather. The
nags, both nearly thorough-bred, fifteen two inches high, stout,
clean-limbed, active animals—the off-side horse a gray, almost
snow-white—the near, a dark black, nearly chestnut—with square
docks setting admirably off their beautiful round quarters, high
crests, small blood-like heads, and long thin manes—spoke volumes
for Tim's stable science; for though their ribs were slightly visible,
their muscles were well filled, and hard as granite. Their coats
glanced in the sunshine—the white's like statuary marble; the
chestnut's like high polished copper—in short the whole turn-out
was perfect.
The neat black harness, relieved merely by a crest, with every
strap that could be needed, in its place, and not one buckle or one
thong superfluous; the bright steel curbs, with the chains jingling
as the horses tossed and pawed impatient for a start; the tapering
holly whip; the bear-skins covering the seats; the top-coats spread
above them—every thing, in a word, without bordering on the
slang, was perfectly correct and gnostic.
Four dogs—a brace of setters of the light active breed, one of
which will out-work a brace of the large, lumpy, heavy-headed
dogs,—one red, the other white and liver, both with black noses,
their legs and sterns beautifully feathered, and their hair, glossy
and smooth as silk, showing their excellent condition—and a brace
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of short-legged, bony, liver-colored spaniels—with their heads
thrust one above the other, over or through the railings, and their
tails waving with impatient joy—occupied the after portion of the
wagon.
Tim, rigged in plain gray frock, with leathers and white tops,
stood, in true tiger fashion, at the horses' heads, with the fore-finger
of his right hand resting upon the curb of the gray horse, as
with his left he rubbed the nose of the chetsnut; while Harry, cigar
in mouth, was standing at the wheel, reviewing with a steady and
experienced eye the gear, which seemed to give him perfect satisfaction.
The moment I appeared on the steps.
“In with you, Frank—in with you,” he exclaimed, disengaging
the hand-reins from the turrets into which they had been thrust,—
“I have been waiting here these five minutes. Jump up, Tim!”
And, gathering the reins up firmly, he mounted by the wheel,
tucked the top-coat about his legs, shook out the long lash of his
tandem whip, and lapped it up in good style.
“I always drive with one of these”—he said, half apologetically,
as I thought—“they are so handy on the road for the cur dogs,
when you have setters with you—they plague your life out else.
Have you the pistol-case in, Tim, for I don't see it?”
“All roight, sur,” answered he, not over well pleased, as it
seemed, that it should even be suspected that he could have forgotten
any thing—“All roight!”
“Go along, then,” cried Harry, and at the word the high bred
nags went off; and, though my friend was too good and too old a
hand to worry his cattle at the beginning of a long day's journey—
many minutes had not passed before we found ourselves on board
the ferry-boat, steaming it merrily toward the Jersey shore.
“A quarter past six to the minute,” said Harry, as we landed at
Hoboken.
“Let Shot and Chase run, Tim, but keep the spaniels in till we
pass Hackensack.”
“Awa wi ye, ye rascals,” exclaimed Tim, and out went the high
blooded dogs upon the instant, yelling and jumping in delight about
the horses—and off we went, through the long sandy street of Hoboken,
leaving the private race-course of that stanch sportsman,
Mr. Stevens, on the left, with several powerful horses taking their
walking exercise in their neat body clothes.
“That puts me in mind, Frank,” said Harry, as he called my attention
to the thorough-breds, “we must be back next Tuesday for
the Beacon Races—the new course up there on the hill; you can
see the steps that lead to it—and now is not this lovely?” he continued,
as we mounted the first ridge of Weehawken, and looked
back over the beautiful broad Hudson, gemmed with a thousand
snowy sails of craft or shipping—“Is not this lovely, Frank? and,
by the by, you will say, when we get to our journey's end, you
never drove through prettier scenery in your life. Get away, Bob,
you villain—nibbling, nibbling at your curb! get away, lads!”
And away we went at a right rattling pace over the hills, and
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through the cedar swamp; and, passing through a toll-gate, stopped
with a sudden jerk at a long low tavern on the left-hand side.
“We must stop here, Frank. My old friend, Ingliss, a brother
trigger too, would think the world was coming to an end if
I drove by—twenty-nine minutes these six miles,” he added, looking
at his watch, “that will do! Now, Tim, look sharp—just a
sup of water! Good day—good day to you, Mr. Ingliss; now for
a glass of your milk punch”—and mine host disappeared, and in a
moment came forth with two rummers of the delicious compound, a
big bright lump of ice bobbing about in each among the nutmeg.
“What, off again for Orange county, Mr. Archer? I was telling
the old woman yesterday that we should have you by before long;
well, you'll find cock pretty plenty, I expect; there was a chap by
here from Ulster—let me see, what day was it—Friday, I guess—
with produce, and he was telling, they have had no cold snap yet up
there! Thank you, sir, good luck to you!”
And off we went again, along a level road, crossing the broad
slow river from whence it takes its name, into the town of Hackensack.
“We breakfast here, Frank”—as he pulled up beneath the low
Dutch shed projecting over half the road in front of the neat tavern—
“How are you, Mr. Vanderbeck—we want a beef-steak, and a
cup of tea, as quick as you can give it us; we'll make the tea ourselves;
bring in the black tea, Tim—the nags as usual.”
“Aye! aye! sur”—“tak them out—leave t'harness on, all but
their bridles”—to an old gray-headed hostler. “Whisp off their
legs a bit; Ay will be oot enoo!”
After as good a breakfast as fresh eggs, good country bread—
worth ten times the poor trash of city bakers—prime butter, cream,
and a fat steak could furnish, at a cheap rate, and with a civil and
obliging landlord, away we went again over the red-hills—an infernal
ugly road, sandy, and rough, and stony—for ten miles farther to
New Prospect.
“Now you shall see some scenery worth looking at,” said Harry,
as we started again, after watering the horses, and taking in a bag
with a peck of oats—“to feed at three o'clock, Frank, when we
stop to grub, which must do al fresco—” my friend explained—
“for the landlord, who kept the only tavern on the road, went West
this summer, bit by the land mania, and there is now no stopping
place 'twixt this and Warwick,” naming the village for which we
were bound. “You got that beef boiled, Tim?”
“Ay'd been a fouil else, and aye so often oop t' road too,” answered
he with a grin, “and t' moostard is mixed, and t' pilot biscuit
in, and a good bit o' Cheshire cheese! wee's doo, Ay reckon.
Ha! ha! ha!”
And now my friend's boast was indeed fulfilled; for when we
had driven a few miles farther, the country became undulating,
with many and bright streams of water; the hill sides clothed with
luxuriant woodlands, now in their many-colored garb of autumn
beauty; the meadow-land rich in unchanged fresh greenery—for
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the summer had been mild and rainy—with here and there a back-wheat
stubble showing its ruddy face, replete with promise of quail
in the present, and of hot cakes in future; and the bold chain of
mountains, which, under many names, but always beautiful and
wild, sweeps from the Highlands of the Hudson, west and south-wardly,
quite through New Jersey, forming a link between the
White and Green Mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont, and
the more famous Alleghanies of the South.
A few miles farther yet, the road wheeled round the base of the
Tourne Mountain, a magnificent bold hill, with a bare craggy head,
its sides and skirts thick set with cedars and hickory—entering a
defile through which the Ramapo, one of the loveliest streams eye
ever looked upon, comes rippling with its crystal waters over bright
pebbles, on its way to join the two kindred rivulets which form the
fair Passaic. Throughout the whole of that defile, nothing can
possibly surpass the loveliness of nature; the road hard, and smooth,
and level, winding and wheeling parallel to the gurgling river,
crossing it two or three times in each mile, now on one side, and
now on the other—the valley now barely broad enough to permit
the highway and the stream to pass between the abrupt masses of
rock and forest, and now expanding into rich basins of green meadow-land,
the deepest and most fertile possible—the hills of every
shape and size—here bold, and bare, and rocky—there swelling up
in grand round masses, pile above pile of verdure, to the blue firmament
of autumn. By and by we drove through a thriving little
village, nestling in a hollow of the hills, beside a broad bright pond,
whose waters keep a dozen manufactories of cotton and of iron—
with which mineral these hills abound—in constant operation; and
passing by the tavern, the departure of whose owner Harry had so
pathetically mourned, we wheeled again round a projecting spur of
hill into a narrower defile, and reached another hamlet, far different
in its aspect from the busy bustling place we had left some
five miles behind.
There were some twenty houses, with two large mills of solid
masonry; but of these not one building was now tenanted; the roof-trees
broken, the doors and shutters either torn from their hinges,
or flapping wildly to and fro; the mill wheels cumbering the stream
with masses of decaying timber, and the whole presenting a most
desolate and mournful aspect.
“Its story is soon told,” Harry said, catching my inquiring glance—
“a speculating, clever, New York merchant—a water-power—
failure—and a consequent desertion of the project; but we must
find a berth among the ruins!”
And as he spoke, turning a little off the road, he pulled up on the
green sward; “there's an old stable here that has a manger in it
yet! Now, Tim, look sharp!”
And in a twinkling the horses were loosed from the wagon, the
harness taken off and hanging on the corners of the ruined hovels,
and Tim hissing and rubbing away at the gray horse, while Harry
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did like duty on the chestnut, in a style that would have done no
shame to Melton Mowbray!
“Come, Frank, make yourself useful! Get out the round of beef,
and all the rest of the provant—it's on the rack behind; you'll find
all right there. Spread our table-cloth on that flat stone by the
waterfall, under the willow; clap a couple of bottles of the Baron's
champagne into the pool there underneath the fall; let's see whether
your Indian campaigning has taught you any thing worth
knowing!”
To work I went at once, and by the time I had got through—
“Come, Tim,” I heard him say, “I've got the rough dirt off this
fellow, you must polish him, while I take a wash, and get a bit of
dinner. Holloa! Frank, are you ready!”
And he came bounding down to the water's edge, with his New-market
coat in hand, and sleeves rolled up to the elbows, plunged
his face into the cool stream, and took a good wash of his soiled
hands in the same natural basin. Five minutes afterward we were
employed most pleasantly with the spiced beef, white biscuit, and
good wine, which came out of the waterfall as cool as Gunter could
have made it with all his icing. When we had pretty well got
through, and were engaged with our cheroots, up came Tim Matlock.
“T' horses have got through wi' t' corn—they have fed rarely—
so I harnessed them, sur, all to the bridles—we can start when you
will.”
“Sit down, and get your dinner then, sir—there's a heel-tap in
that bottle we have left for you—and when you have done, put up
the things, and we'll be off. I say, Frank, let us try a shot with
the pistols—I'll get the case—stick up that fellow-commoner upon
the fence there, and mark off a twenty paces.”
The marking irons were produced—and loaded—“Fire—one—
two—three”—bang! and the shivering of the glass announced that
never more would that chap hold the generous liquor—the ball had
struck it plump in the centre, and broken off the whole above the
shoulder—for it was fixed neck downward on the stake.
“It is my turn now,” said I—and more by luck, I fancy, than by
skill, I took the neck off, leaving nothing but the thick ring of the
mouth still sticking on the summit of the fence.
“I'll hold you a dozen of my best Regalias against as many of
Manillas, that I break the ring.”
“Done, Harry!”
“Done!”
Again the pistol cracked, and the unerring ball drove the small
fragment into a thousand splinters.
“That fotched 'um!” exclaimed Tim, who had come up to announce
all ready—“Ecod, measter Frank, you munna wager i' that
gate[1] wi' master, or my name beant Tim, but thou'lt be clean bamboozled.”
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Well—not to make a short story long—we got under way again,
and, with speed unabated, spanked along at full twelve miles an
hour, for five miles farther. There, down a wild looking glen, on
the left hand, comes brawling, over stump and stone, a tributary
streamlet—by the side of which a rough track, made by the charcoal
burners and the iron miners, intersects the main road—and up this
miserable looking path—for it was little more—Harry wheeled at
full trot.
“Now for twelve miles of mountain, the roughest road and
wildest country you ever saw crossed in a phaeton, good master
Frank.”
And wild it was, indeed, and rough enough in all conscience—
narrow, unfenced in many places, winding along the brow of precipices
without rail or breast-work, encumbered with huge blocks of
stone, and broken by the summer rains! An English stage coachman
would have stared aghast at the steep zigzags up the hills—
the awkward turns on the descents—the sudden pitches, with now
an unsafe bridge, and now a stony ford at the bottom—but through
all this, the delicate quick finger, keen eye, and cool head of
Harry, assisted by the rare mouths of his exquisitely bitted cattle,
piloted us at the rate of full ten miles the hour—the scenery,
through which the wild track ran, being entirely of the most grand
and savage character of woodland—the bottom filled with gigantic
timber trees, cedar, and pine, and hemlock, with a dense undergrowth
of rhododendron, calmia, and azalia, which, as my friend informed
me, made the whole mountains in the summer season one
rich bed of bloom. About six miles from the point where we had
entered them we scaled the highest ridge of the hills, by three
almost precipitous zigzags, the topmost ledge paved by a stratum of
broken shaley limestone; and, passing at once from the forest into
well cultivated fields, came on a new and lovelier prospect—a narrow
deep vale scarce a mile in breadth—scooped as it were out of
the mighty mountains which embosomed it on every side—in the
highest state of culture, with rich orchards, and deep meadows, and
brown stubbles, whereon the shocks of maize stood fair and frequent—
and westward of the road—which, diving down obliquely to the
bottom, loses itself in the woods of the opposite hill-side, and only
becomes visible again when it emerges to cross over the next summit—
the loveliest sheet of water my eye has ever seen, varying
from half a mile to a mile in breadth, and about five miles long,
with shores indented deeply with the capes and promontories of the
wood-clothed hills, which sink abruptly to its very margin.
“That is the Greenwood Lake, Frank, called by the monsters
here Long Pond!—`the fiends receive their souls therefor,' as
Walter Scott says—in my mind prettier than Lake George by far,
though known to few except chance sportsmen like myself! Full
of fish—pearch of a pound in weight, and yellow bass in the deep
waters, and a good sprinkling of trout, toward this end! Ellis
Ketchum killed a five-pounder there this spring!—and heaps of
summer-duck, the loveliest in plumage of the genus, and the best
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too, me judice, excepting only the inimitable canvass-back. There
are a few deer, too, in the hills, though they are getting scarce of
late years. There, from that headland, I killed one, three summers
since; I was placed at a stand by the lake's edge, and the dogs
drove him right down to me; but I got too eager, and he heard or
saw me, and so fetched a turn; but they were close upon him, and
the day was hot, and he was forced to soil. I never saw him till
he was in the act of leaping from a bluff of ten or twelve feet into
the deep lake, but I pitched up my rifle at him—a snap shot!—as I
would my gun at a cock in a summer brake—and by good luck sent
my ball through his heart! There is a finer view yet when we
cross this hill—the Bellevale mountain—look out, for we are just
upon it—there! Now admire!”
And on the summit he pulled up, and never did I see a landscape
more extensively magnificent. Ridge after ridge the mountain
sloped down from our feet into a vast rich basin ten miles at least
in breadth, by thirty, if not more, in length, girdled on every side
by mountains—the whole diversified with wood and water, meadow,
and pasture-land, and corn-field—studded with small white villages—
with more than one bright lakelet glittering like beaten gold in
the declining sun, and several isolated hills standing up boldly from
the vale!
“Glorious indeed! Most glorious!” I exclaimed.
“Right, Frank,” he said; “a man may travel many a day, and
not see any thing to beat the vale of Sugar-loaf—so named from
that cone-like hill, over the pond there—that peak is eight hundred
feet above tide water. Those blue hills, to the far right, are the
Hudson Highlands; that bold bluff is the far-famed Anthony's
Nose; that ridge across the vale, the second ridge I mean, is the
Shawangunks; and those three rounded summits, farther yet—
those are the Kaatskills! But now a truce with the romantic, for
there lies Warwick, and this keen mountain air has found me a
fresh appetite!”
Away we went again, rattling down the hills, nothing daunted at
their steep pitches, with the nags just as fresh as when they started,
champing and snapping at their curbs, till on a table-land above the
brook, with the tin steeple of its church peering from out the massy
foliage of sycamore and locust, the haven of our journey lay before
us.
“Hilloa, hill-oa he! whoop! who-whoop!” and with a cheery
shout, as we clattered across the wooden bridge, he roused out half
the population of the village.
“Ya ha ha!—ya yah!” yelled a great woolly-headed coal-black
negro. “Here 'm massa Archer back again—massa ben well, I
spect—”
“Well—to be sure I have, Sam,” cried Harry. “How's old
Poll? Bid her come up to Draw's to-morrow night—I've got a red
and yellow frock for her—a deuce of a concern!”
“Yah ha! yah ha ha yaah!” and amid a most discordant chorus
of African merriment, we passed by a neat farm-house shaded by
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two glorious locusts on the right, and a new red brick mansion, the
pride of the village, with a flourishing store on the left—and
wheeled up to the famous Tom Draw's tavern—a long white house
with a piazza six feet wide, at the top of eight steep steps, and a
one-story kitchen at the end of it; a pump with a gilt pine-apple at
the top of it, and horse-trough; a wagon shed and stable sixty feet
long; a sign-post with an indescribable female figure swinging
upon it, and an ice house over the way!
Such was the house, before which we pulled up just as the sun
was setting, amid a gabbling of ducks, a barking of terriers, mixed
with the deep bay of two or three large heavy fox-hounds which
had been lounging about in the shade, and a peal of joyous welcome
from all beings, quadruped or biped, within hearing.
“Hulloa! boys!” cried a deep hearty voice from within the bar-room.
“Hulloa! boys! Walk in! walk in! What the eternal
h—ll are you about there?”
Well, we did walk into a large neat bar-room, with a bright
hickory log crackling upon the hearth-stone, a large round table in
one corner, covered with draught-boards, and old newspapers,
among which showed pre-eminent the “Spirit of the Times;” a
range of pegs well stored with great-coats, fishing-rods, whips,
game-bags, spurs, and every other stray appurtenance of sporting,
gracing one end; while the other was more gaily decorated by the
well furnished bar, in the right-hand angle of which my eye detected
in an instant a handsome nine pound double barrel, an old
six foot Queen Ann's tower-musket, and a long smooth-bored rifle;
and last, not least, outstretched at easy length upon the counter of
his bar, to the left-hand of the gang-way—the right side being more
suitably decorated with tumblers, and decanters of strange compounds—
supine, with fair round belly towering upward, and head
voluptuously pillowed on a heap of wagon cushions—lay in his
glory—but no! hold!—the end of a chapter is no place to introduce—
Tom Draw![2]
eaf144.n1[1] Gate—Yorkshire! Anglice, way!
eaf144.n2[2] It is almost a painful task to read over and revise this chapter. The “ten years
ago” is too keenly visible to the mind's eye in every line. Of the persons mentioned
in its pages, more than one have passed away from our world forever; and even the
natural features of rock, wood, and river, in other countries so vastly more enduring
than their perishable owners, have been so much altered by the march of improvement
Heaven save the mark! that the traveller up that immortal failure, the Erie railroad
will certainly not recognize in the description of the vale of Ramapo, the hill-sides
all denuded of their leafy honors, the bright streams dammed by unsightly mounds
and changed into foul stagnant pools, the snug country tavern deserted for a huge
hideous barnlike depot, and all the lovely sights and sweet harmonies of nature defaced
and drowned by the deformities consequent on a railroad, by the disgusting
roar and screech of the steam-engine.
One word to the wise! Let no man be deluded by the following pages, into the
setting forth for Warwick now in search of sporting. These things are strictly as
they were ten years ago! Mr. Seward, in his zeal for the improvement of Chatauque
and Cattaraugus, has certainly destroyed the cock-shooting of Orange county. A
sportsman's benison to him therefor!
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Much as I had heard of Tom Draw, I was, I must confess,
taken altogether aback when I, for the first time, set eyes upon
him. I had heard Harry Archer talk of him fifty times as a crack
shot; as a top sawyer at a long day's fag; as the man of all others
he would choose as his mate, if he were to shoot a match, two
against two—what then was my astonishment at beholding this
worthy, as he reared himself slowly from his recumbent position?
It is true, I had heard his sobriquet “Fat Tom,” but, Heaven and
Earth! such a mass of beef and brandy as stood before me, I had
never even dreamed of. About five feet six inches at the very utmost
in the perpendicular, by six or—“by'r lady”—nearer seven,
in circumference, weighing, at the least computation, two hundred
and fifty pounds, with a broad jolly face, its every feature—well-formed
and handsome, rather than otherwise,—mantling with an
expression of the most perfect excellence of heart and temper, and
overshadowed by a vast mass of brown hair, sprinkled pretty well
with gray!—Down he plumped from the counter with a thud that
made the whole floor shake, and with a hand outstretched, that
might have done for a Goliah, out he strode to meet us.
“Why, hulloa! hulloa! Mr. Archer,” shaking his hand till I
thought he would have dragged the arm clean out of the socket—
“How be you, boy? How be you?”
“Right well, Tom, can't you see? Why confound you, you've
grown twenty pound heavier since July!—but here, I'm losing all
my manners!—this is Frank Forester, whom you have heard me
talk about so often! He dropped down here out of the moon,
Tom, I believe! at least I thought about as much of seeing the man
in the moon, as of meeting him in this wooden country—but here
he is—as you see—come all the way to take a look at the natives.
And so, you see, as you're about the greatest curiosity I know of
in these parts, I brought him straight up here to take a peep!
Look at him, Frank—look at him well! Now, did you ever see,
in all your life, so extraordinary an old devil?—and yet, Frank,
which no man could possibly believe, the old fat animal has some
good points about him—he can walk some!—shoot, as he says,
first best!—and drink—good Lord—how he can drink!
“And that reminds me,” exclaimed Tom, who with a ludicrous
mixture of pleasure, bushfulness, and mock anger, had been listening
to what he evidently deemed a high encomium—“that we
hav'nt drinked yet—have you quit drink, Archer, since I was to
York?—What'll you take, Mr. Forester? Gin?—yes, I have got
some prime gin! You never sent me up them groceries though,
Archer—well, then, here's luck! What, Yorkshire, is that you?
I should ha' thought now, Archer, you'd have cleared that lazy
Injun out afore this time!”
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“Whoy, measter Draa—what 'na loike's that kind o' talk?—coom
coom now, where 'll Ay tak t' things tull?”
“Put Mr. Forester's box in the bed-room off the parlor—mine
up stairs, as usual,” cried Archer. “Look sharp and get the traps
out. Now, Tom, I suppose you have got no supper for us!”
“Cooper, Cooper!—you snooping little devil,” yelled Tom, addressing
his second hope, a fine dark-eyed, bright-looking lad of ten
or twelve years—“Don't you see Mr. Archer's come?—away with
you and light the parlor fire, look smart now, or I'll cure you!
Supper—you're always eat! eat! eat! or, drink! drink!—drunk?
Yes! supper—we've got pork! and chickens—”
“Oh! d—n your pork,” said I, “salt as the ocean I suppose!”
“And double d—n your chickens,” chimed in Harry, “old super-annuated
cocks which must be caught now, and then beheaded, and
then soused into hot water to fetch off the feathers; and save you
lazy devils the trouble of picking them. No, no, Tom! get us
some fresh meat for to-morrow; and for to-night let us have some
hot potatoes, and some bread and butter, and we'll find beef—eh,
Frank.? and now look sharp, for we must be up in good time to-morrow,
and, to be so, we must to bed betimes. And now, Tom,
are there any cock?”
“Cock!—yes, I guess there be—and quail, too, pretty plenty!—
quite a smart chance of them, and not a shot fired among them this
fall, any how!”
“Well, which way must we beat to-morrow? I calculate to
shoot three days with you here; and, on Wednesday night, when
we get in, to hitch up and drive into Sullivan, and see if we can't
get a deer or two! You'll go, Tom?”
“Well, well, we'll see any how; but for to-morrow, why, I
guess we must beat the 'Squire's swamp-hole first—there's ten or
twelve cock there, I know—I see them there myself last Sunday;
and then acrost them buck-wheat stubbles, and the big bog meadow,
there's a drove of quail there—two or three bevys got in one,
I reckon; least wise I counted thirty-three last Friday was a week—
and through Seer's big swamp, over to the great spring!”
“How is Seer's swamp? too wet, I fancy”—Archer interposed—
“at least I noticed, from the mountain, that all the leaves were
changed in it, and that the maples were quite bare.”
“Pretty fair, pretty fair, I guess,” replied stout Tom, “I harnt
been there myself though, but Jem was down with the hounds arter
an old fox t' other day, and sure enough he said the cock kept
flopping up quite thick afore him—but then the critter will lie,
Harry—he will lie like h—ll, you know; but somehow I concaits
there be cock there too; and then, as I was saying, we'll stop at
the great spring and get a bite of summat, and then beat Hell-hole;
you'll have sport there for sartin! What dogs have you got with
you, Harry?”
“Your old friends, Shot and Chase, and a couple of spaniels for
thick covert!”
“Now, gentlemen, your suppers are all ready.”
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“Come, Tom,” cried Archer, “you must take a bite with us—
Tim, bring us in three bottles of champagne, and lots of ice, do you
hear?”
And the next moment we found ourselves installed in a snug
parlor, decorated with a dozen sporting prints, a blazing hickory
fire snapping and sputtering and roaring in a huge Franklin stove;
our luggage safely stowed in various corners, and Archer's double
gun-case propped on two chairs below the window.
An old-fashioned round table, covered with clean white linen of
domestic manufacture, displayed the noble round of beef which we
had brought up with us, flanked by a platter of magnificent potatoes,
pouring forth volumes of dense steam through the cracks in
their dusky skins; a lordly dish of butter, that might have pleased
the appetite of Sisera; while eggs and ham, and pies of apple,
mince-meat, cranberry and custard, occupied every vacant space,
save where two ponderous pitchers, mantling with ale and cider,
and two respectable square bottles, labelled “Old Rum” and
“Brandy—1817,” relieved the prospect. Before we had sat down,
Timothy entered, bearing a horse bucket filled to the brim with ice,
from whence protruded the long necks and split corks of three
champagne bottles.
“Now, Tim,” said Archer, “get your own supper, when you've
finished with the cattle; feed the dogs well to-night; and then to
bed. And hark you, call me at five in the morning; we shall want
you to carry the game bag and the drinkables; take care of yourself,
Tim, and good night!”
“No need to tell him that,” cried Tom, “he's something like
yourself; I tell you, Archer, if Tim ever dies of thirst, it must be
where there is nothing wet, but water?”
“Now hark to the old scoundrel, Frank,” said Archer, “hark to
him pray, and if he doesn't out-eat both of us, and out-drink any
thing you ever saw, may I miss my first bird to-morrow—that's
all! Give me a slice of beef, Frank; that old Goth would cut it an
inch thick if I let him touch it; out with a cork, Tom! Here's to
our sport to-morrow!”
“Uh; that goes good!” replied Tom with an eructation, which
might have preceded an eruption of Vesuvius, and which, by the
apparent gusto of the speaker, seemed to betoken that the wine
“had returned pleasant—“that goes good! that's different from
the damned red trash you left up here last time.”
“And of which you have left none, I'll be bound,” answered
Archer, laughing; “my best Latour, Frank, which the old infidel
calls trash.”
“It's all below, every bottle of it,” answered Tom: “I would n't
use such rot-gut stuff, no, not for vinegar. 'Taint half so good
as that red sherry you had up here oncet; that was poor weak stuff
too, but it did well to make milk punch of; it did well instead of
milk.”
“Now, Frank,” said Archer, “you won't believe me, that I
know; but it's true, all the same. A year ago, this autumn, I
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brought up five gallons of exceedingly stout, rather fiery, young,
brown sherry—draught wine you know!—and what did Tom do
here, but mix it, half and half, with brandy, nutmeg, and sugar, and
drink it for milk punch!”
“I did so, by the eternal,” replied Tom, bolting a huge lump of
beef, in order to enable himself to answer—“I did so, and good
milk punch it made too, but it was too weak! Come, Mr. Forester,
we harnt drinked yet, and I'm kind o' gittin dry!”
And now the mirth waxed fast and furious—the champagne
speedily was finished, the supper things cleared off, hot water and
Starke's Ferintosh succeeded, cheroots were lighted, we drew
closer in about the fire, and, during the circulation of two tumblers—
for to this did Harry limit us, having the prospect of unsteady
hands and aching heads before him for the morrow—never did I
hear more genuine and real humor, than went round our merry
trio.
Tom Draw, especially, though all his jokes were not such altogether
as I can venture to insert in my chaste paragraphs, and
though at times his oaths were too extravagantly rich to brook repetition,
shone forth resplendent. No longer did I wonder at what
I had before deemed Harry Archer's strange hallucination; Tom
Draw is a decided genius—rough as a pine knot in his native woods—
but full of mirth, of shrewdness, of keen mother wit, of hard horse
sense, and last, not least, of the most genuine milk of human kindness.
He is a rough block; but, as Harry says, there is solid timber
under the uncouth bark enough to make five hundred men, as men
go now-a-days in cities!
At ten o'clock, thanks to the excellent precautions of my friend
Harry, we were all snugly berthed, before the whiskey, which had
well justified the high praise I had heard lavished on it, had made
any serious inroads on our understandings, but not before we had
laid in a quantum to ensure a good night's rest.
Bright and early was I on foot the next day, but before I had half
dressed myself I was assured, by the clatter of the breakfast things,
that Archer had again stolen a march upon me; and the next moment
my bed-room door, driven open by the thick boot of that worthy,
gave me a full view of his person—arrayed in a stout fustian
jacket—with half a dozen pockets in full view, and Heaven only
knows how many more lying perdu in the broad skirts. Knee
breeches of the same material, with laced half-boots and leather
leggins, set off his stout calf and well turned ankle.
“Up! up! Frank,” he exclaimed, “it is a morning of ten thousand;
there has been quite a heavy dew, and by the time we are
afoot it will be well evaporated; and then the scent will lie, I promise
you! make haste, I tell you, breakfast is ready!”
Stimulated by his hurrying voice, I soon completed my toilet, and
entering the parlor found Harry busily employed in stirring to and
fro a pound of powder on one heated dinner plate, while a second
was undergoing the process of preparation on the hearth-stone under
a glowing pile of hickory ashes.
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At the side-table, covered with guns, dog-whips, nipple-wrenches,
and the like, Tim, rigged like his master, in half boots and leggins,
but with a short roundabout of velveteen, in place of the full-skirted
jacket, was filling our shot-pouches by aid of a capacious funnel,
more used, as its odor betokened, to facilitate the passage of gin or
Jamaica spirits than of so sober a material as cold lead.
At the same moment entered mine host, togged for the field in a
huge pair of cow-hide boots reaching almost to the knee, into the
tops of which were tucked the lower ends of a pair of trowsers,
containing yards enough of buffalo-cloth to have eked out the mainsail
of a North River sloop; a waistcoat and single-breasted jacket
of the same material, with a fur cap, completed his attire; but in
his hand he bore a large decanter filled with a pale yellowish
liquor, embalming a dense mass of fine and worm-like threads, not
very different in appearance from the best vermicelli.
“Come, boys, come—here's your bitters,” he exclaimed; and, as
if to set us the example, filled a big tumbler to the brim, gulped it
down as if it had been water, smacked his lips, and incontinently
tendered it to Archer, who, to my great amazement, filled himself
likewise a more moderate draught, and quaffed it without hesitation.
“That's good, Tom,” he said, pausing after the first sip; “that's
the best I ever tasted here—how old's that?”
“Five years!” Tom replied; “five years last fall! Daddy Tom
made it me out of my own best apples—take a horn, Mr. Forester,”
he added, turning to me—“it's first best cider sperrits—better a
d—n sight than that Scotch stuff you make such an etarnal fuss
about, toting it up here every time, as if we'd nothing fit to drink
in the country!”
And to my sorrow I did taste it—old apple whiskey, with Lord
knows how much snake-root soaked in it for five years! They may
talk about gall being bitter—but, by all that's wonderful, there was
enough of the amari aliquid in this fonte, to me by no means of
leporum, to have given an extra touch of bitterness to all the gall
beneath the canopy; and with my mouth puckered up, till it was
like any thing on earth but a mouth, I set the glass down on the
table; and for the next five minutes could do nothing but shake my
head to and fro like a Chinese mandarin, amidst the loud and prolonged
roars of laughter that burst like thunder claps from the huge
jaws of Thomas Draw, and the subdued and half respectful cachinnations
of Tim Matlock.
By the time I had got a little better, the black tea was ready, and
with thick cream, hot buck-wheat cakes, beautiful honey, and—as
a stand-by—the still venerable round, we made out a very tolerable
meal.
This done, with due deliberation Archer supplied his several
pockets with their accustomed load—the clean-punched wads in
this—in that the Westley Richards' caps—here a pound horn of
powder—there a shot-pouch on Syke's lever principle, with double
mouth-piece—in another, screw-driver, nipple-wrench, and the spare
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cones—and, to make up the tale, dog-whip, dram-bottle, and silk
handkerchief in the sixth and last.
“Nothing like method in this world,” said Harry, clapping his
low-crowned broad-brimmed mohair cap upon his head—“take my
word for it. Now, Tim, what have you got in the bag?”
“A bottle of champagne, sur,” answered Tim, who was now employed
slinging a huge fustian game-bag, with a net-work front,
over his right shoulder, to counterbalance two full shot-belts which
were already thrown across the other—“a bottle of champagne,
sur—a cold roast chicken—t' Cheshire cheese—and t' pilot biscuits.
Is your dram bottle filled wi' t' whiskey, please, sur?”
“Aye, aye, Tim! Now let loose the dogs—carry a pair of
couples and a leash along with you; and mind you, gentlemen,
Tim carries shot for all hands; and luncheon—but each one finds
his own powder, caps, &c.; and any one who wants a dram, carries
his own—the devil-a-one of you gets a sup out of my bottle, or a
charge out of my flask! That's right, old Trojan, is n't it?” with
a good slap on Tom's broad shoulders.
“Shot! Shot—why Shot! do n't you know me, old dog?” cried
Tom, as the two setters bounded into the room, joyful at their release—
“good dog! good Chase!” feeding them with great lumps
of beef.
“A vast! there Tom—have done with that,” cried Harry;
“you'll have the dogs so full that they can't run!”
“Why, how'd you like to hunt all day without your breakfast—
hey?”
“Here, lads! here, lads! wh-e-ew!” and followed by his setters,
with his gun under his arm, away went Harry; and catching up
our pieces likewise, we followed, nothing loth, Tim bringing up the
rear with the two spaniels fretting in their couples, and a huge black
thorn cudgel, which he had brought, as he informed me, “all t' way
from bonny Cawoods.”
It was as beautiful a morning as ever lighted sportsmen to their
labors. The dew, exhaled already from the long grass, still glittered
here and there upon the shrubs and trees, though a soft fresh
south-western breeze was shaking it thence momently in bright and
rustling showers; the sun, but newly risen, and as yet partially enveloped
in the thin gauze-like mists so frequent at that season, was
casting shadows, seemingly endless, from every object that intercepted
his low rays, and chequering the whole landscape with that
play of light and shade, which is the loveliest accessory to a lovely
scene; and lovely was the scene, indeed, as e'er was looked upon
by painter's or by poet's eye—how then should humble prose do
justice to it?
Seated upon the first slope of a gentle hill, midway of the great
valley heretofore described, the village looked due south, toward the
chains of mountains, which we had crossed on the preceding evening,
and which in that direction bounded the landscape. These
ridges, cultivated half-way up their swelling sides, which lay mapped
out before our eyes in all the various beauty of orchards, yellow
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stubbles, and rich pastures dotted with sleek and comely cattle,
were rendered yet more lovely and romantic, by here and there a
woody gorge, or rocky chasm, channelling their smooth flanks, and
carrying down their tributary rills, to swell the main stream at their
base. Toward these we took our way by the same road which we
had followed in an opposite direction on the previous night—but
for a short space only—for having crossed the stream, by the same
bridge which we had passed on entering the village, Tom Draw
pulled down a set of bars to the left, and strode out manfully into
the stubble.
“Hold up, good lads!—whe-ew—whewt!” and away went the
setters through the moist stubble, heads up and sterns down, like
fox-hounds on a breast-high scent, yet under the most perfect discipline;
for at the very first note of Harry's whistle, even when
racing at the top of their pace, they would turn simultaneously,
alter their course, cross each other at right angles, and quarter the
whole field, leaving no foot of ground unbeaten.
No game, however, in this instance, rewarded their exertions;
and on we went across a meadow, and two other stubbles, with the
like result. But now we crossed a gentle hill, and, at its base,
came on a level tract, containing at the most ten acres of marsh
land, overgrown with high coarse grass and flags. Beyond this, on
the right, was a steep rocky hillock, covered with tall and thrifty
timber of some thirty years' growth, but wholly free from underwood.
Along the left-hand fence ran a thick belt of underwood,
sumach and birch, with a few young oak trees interspersed; but in
the middle of the swampy level, covering at most some five or six
acres, was a dense circular thicket composed of every sort of thorny
bush and shrub, matted with cat-briers and wild vines, and over-shadowed
by a clump of tall and leafy ashes, which had not as yet
lost one atom of their foliage, although the underwood beneath
them was quite sere and leafless.
“Now then,” cried Harry, “this is the `Squire's swamp-hole!'
Now for a dozen cock! hey, Tom? Here, couple up the setters,
Tim; and let the spaniels loose. Now Flash! now Dan! down
charge, you little villains!” and the well broke brutes dropped on
the instant. “How must we beat this cursed hole?”
“You must go through the very thick of it, concarn you!” exclaimed
Tom; “at your old work already, hey? trying to shirk at
first!”
“Do n't swear so! you old reprobate! I know my place, depend
on it,” cried Archer; “but what to do with the rest of you!—
there's the rub!”
“Not a bit of it,” cried Tom—“here, Yorkshire—Ducklegs—
here, what's your name—get away you with those big dogs—
atwixt the swamp hole, and the brush there by the fence, and look
out that you mark every bird to an inch! You, Mr. Forester, go
in there, under that butter-nut; you'll find a blind track there,
right through the brush—keep that 'twixt Tim and Mr. Archer;
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and keep your eyes skinned, do! there'll be a cock up before you're
ten yards in. Archer, you'll go right through, and I'll—”
“You'll keep well forward on the right—and mind that no bird
crosses to the hill; we never get them, if they once get over. All
right! In with you now! Steady, Flash! steady! hie up, Dan!”
and in a moment Harry was out of sight among the brush-wood,
though his progress might be traced by the continual crackling of
the thick underwood.
Scarce had I passed the butter-nut, when, even as Tom had said,
up flapped a woodcock scarcely ten yards before me, in the open
path, and rising heavily to clear the branches of a tall thorn bush,
showed me his full black eye, and tawny breast, as fair a shot as
could be fancied.
“Mark!” holloaed Harry to my right, his quick ear having
caught the flap of the bird's wing, as he rose. “Mark cock—
Frank!”
Well—steadily enough, as I thought, I pitched my gun up!
covered my bird fairly! pulled!—the trigger gave not to my finger.
I tried the other. “Devil's in it, I had forgot to cock my
gun!” and ere I could retrieve my error, the bird had topped the
bush, dodged out of sight, and off—“mark! mark!—Tim!” I
shouted.
“Ey! ey! sur—Ay see's um!”
“Why, how's that, Frank?” cried Harry. “Could n't you get a
shot?”
“Forgot to cock my gun!” I cried; but at the self same moment
the quick sharp yelping of the spaniels came on my ear. “Steady,
Flash! steady, sir! Mark!” But close upon the word came the
full round report of Harry's gun. “Mark! again!” shouted Harry,
and again his own piece sent its loud ringing voice abroad. “Mark!
now a third! mark, Frank!”
And as he spoke I caught the quick rush of his wing, and saw
him dart across a space, a few yards to my right. I felt my hand
shake; I had not pulled a trigger in ten months, but in a second's
space I rallied. There was an opening just before me between a
stumpy thick thorn-bush which had saved the last bird, and a dwarf
cedar—it was not two yards over—he glanced across it!—he was
gone—just as my barrel sent its charge into the splintered branches.
“Beautiful!” shouted Harry, who, looking through a cross glade,
saw the bird fall, which I could not. “Beautiful shot, Frank! Do
all your work like that, and we'll get twenty couple before night!”
“Have I killed him!” answered I, half doubting if he were not
quizzing me.
“Killed him? of course you have; doubled him up completely!
But look sharp! there are more birds before me! I can hardly keep
the dogs down, now! There! there goes one—clean out of shot of
me, though! Mark! mark, Tom! Gad, how the fat dog's running!”
he continued. “He sees him! Ten to one he gets him!
There he goes—bang! A long shot, and killed clean!”
“Ready!” cried I. “I'm ready, Archer!”
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“Bag your bird then. He lies under that dock leaf, at the foot
of yon red maple! That's it—you've got him. Steady now, till
Tom gets loaded!”
“What did you do?” asked I. “You fired twice, I think!”
“Killed two!” he answered. “Ready, now!” and on he went,
smashing away the boughs before him, while ever and anon I heard
his cheery voice, calling or whistling to his dogs, or rousing up the
tenants of some thickets into which even he could not force his
way; and I, creeping, as best I might, among the tangled brush,
now plunging half thigh deep in holes full of tenacious mire, now
blundering over the moss-covered stubs, pressed forward, fancying
every instant that the rustling of the briers against my jacket was
the flip-flap of a rising woodcock. Suddenly, after bursting through
a mass of thorns and wild-vine, which was in truth almost impassable,
I came upon a little grassy spot quite clear of trees, and covered
with the tenderest verdure, through which a narrow rill stole silently;
and as I set my first foot on it, up jumped, with his beautiful variegated
back all reddened by the sunbeams, a fine and full-fed wood-cock,
with the peculiar twitter which he utters when surprised. He
had not gone ten yards, however, before my gun was at my shoulder
and the trigger drawn—before I heard the crack I saw him
cringe; and, as the white smoke drifted off to leeward, he fell
heavily, completely riddled by the shot, into the brake before me—
while at the same moment, whir-r-r! up sprung a bevy of twenty
quail, at least, startling me for the moment by the thick whirring
of their wings, and skirring over the underwood right toward
Archer. “Mark, quail!” I shouted, and, recovering instantly my
nerves, fired my one remaining barrel after the last bird! It was
a long shot, yet I struck him fairly, and he rose instantly right upward,
towering high! high! into the clear blue sky, and soaring
still, till his life left him in the air, and he fell like a stone, plump
downward!
“Mark him! Tim!”
“Ey! ey! sur. He's a de-ad un, that's a sure thing!”
At my shot all the bevy rose a little, yet altered not their course
the least, wheeling across the thicket directly round the front of
Archer, whose whereabout I knew, though I could neither see nor
hear him. So high did they fly that I could observe them clearly,
every bird well defined against the sunny heavens. I watched
them eagerly. Suddenly one turned over; a cloud of feathers
streamed off down the wind; and then, before the sound of the first
shot had reached my ears, a second pitched a few yards upward,
and, after a heavy flutter, followed its hapless comrade.
Turned by the fall of the two leading birds, the bevy again
wheeled, still rising higher, and now flying very fast; so that, as I
saw by the direction which they took, they would probably give
Draw a chance of getting in both barrels. And so indeed it was;
for, as before, long ere I caught the booming echoes of his heavy
gun, I saw two birds keeled over, and, almost at the same instant,
the cheery shout of Tim announced to me that he had bagged my
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
towered bird! After a little pause, again we started, and, hailing
one another now and then, gradually forced our way through brake
and brier toward the outward verge of the dense covert. Before
we met again, however, I had the luck to pick up a third woodcock,
and as I heard another double shot from Archer, and two single
bangs from Draw, I judged that my companions had not been less
successful than myself. At last, emerging from the thicket, we
all converged, as to a common point, toward Tim; who, with his
game-bag on the ground, with its capacious mouth wide open to
receive our game, sat on a stump with the two setters at a charge
beside him.
“What do we score?” cried I, as we drew near; “what do we
score?”
“I have four woodcock, and a brace of quail,” said Harry.
“And I, two cock and a brace,” cried Tom, “and missed another
cock; but he's down in the meadow here, behind that 'ere stums
alder!”
“And I, three woodcock and one quail!” I chimed in, naught
abashed.
“And Ay'se marked doon three woodcock—two more beside you
big un, that measter Draa made siccan a bungle of—and all t' quail—
every feather on um—doon i' t' bog meadows yonner—ooh! but
we'se mak grand sport o' t!” interposed Tim, now busily employed
stringing bird after bird up by the head, with loops and buttons in
the game-bag!
“Well done then, all!” said Harry. “Nine timber-doodles and
five quail, and only one shot missed! That's not bad shooting,
considering what a hole it is to shoot in. Gentlemen, here's your
health,” and filling himself out a fair sized wine-glass-full of Ferintosh,
into the silver cup of his dram-bottle, he tossed it off; and then
poured out a similar libation for Tim Matlock. Tom and myself,
nothing loth, obeyed the hint, and sipped our modicums of distilled
waters out of our private flasks.
“Now, then,” cried Archer, “let us pick up these scattering
birds. Tom Draw, you can get yours without a dog! And now,
Tim, where are yours?”
“T' first lies oop yonner in yon boonch of branchens, ahint t' big
scarlet maple; and t' other”—
“Well! I'll go to the first. You take Mr. Forester to the other,
and when we have bagged all three, we'll meet at the bog meadow
fence, and then hie at the bevy!”
This job was soon done, for Draw and Harry bagged their birds
cleverly at the first rise; and although mine got off at first without
a shot, by dodging round a birch tree straight in Tim's face,
and flew back slap toward the thicket, yet he pitched in its outer
skirt, and as he jumped up wild I cut him down with a broken
pinion and a shot through his bill at fifty yards, and Chase retrieved
him well.
“Cleverly stopped, indeed!” Frank halloaed; “and by no means
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an easy shot! and so our work's clean done for this place, at the
least!”
“The boy can shoot some,” observed Tom Draw, who loved to
bother Timothy; “the boy can shoot some, though he doos come
from Yorkshire!”
“God! and Ay wush Ay'd no but gotten thee i' Yorkshire, measter
Draa!” responded Tim.
“Why! what if you had got me there?”
“What? Whoy, Ay'd clap thee iv a cage, and hug thee round
to t' feasts and fairs loike; and shew thee to t' folks at so mooch a
head. Ay'se sure Ay'd mak a fortune o' t!”
“He has you there, Tom! Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Archer.
“Tim's down upon you there, by George! Now, Frank, do fancy
Tom Draw in a cage at Borough-bridge or Catterick fair! Lord!
how the folks would pay to look at him! Fancy the sign board
too! The Great American Man-mammoth! Ha! ha! ha! But
come, we must not stay here talking nonsense, or we shall do no
good. Show me, Tim, where are the quail?”
“Doon i' t' bog meadow yonner! joost i' t' slack,[3] see thee,
there!” pointing with the stout black-thorn; “amang yon bits o'
bushes!”
“Very well—that's it; now let go the setters; take Flash and
Dan along with you, and cut across the country as straight as you
can go to the spring head, where we lunched last year; that day,
you know Tom, when McTavish frightened the bull out of the
meadow—under the pin-oak tree. Well! put the champagne into
the spring to cool, and rest yourself there till we come; we shan't
be long behind you.”
Away went Tim, stopping from time to time to mark our progress,
and over the fence into the bog meadow we proceeded; a
rascally piece of broken tussocky ground, with black mud knee-deep
between the hags, all covered with long grass. The third
step I took, over I went upon my nose, but luckily avoided shoving
my gun-barrels into the filthy mire.
“Steady, Frank, steady! I'm ashamed of you!” said Harry;
“so hot and so impetuous; and your gun too at the full cock;
that's the reason, man, why you missed firing at your first bird,
this morning. I never cock either barrel till I see my bird; and,
if a bevy rises, one only at a time. The birds will lie like stones
here; and we cannot walk too slow. Steady, Shot, have a care,
sir!”
Never, in all my life, did I see any thing more perfect than the
style in which the setters drew those bogs. There was no more of
racing, no more of impetuous dash; it seemed as if they knew the
birds were close before them. At a slow trot, their sterns whipping
their flanks at every step, they threaded the high tussocks. See!
the red dog straightens his neck, and snuffs the air.
“Look to! look to, Frank! they are close before old Chase!”
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Now he draws on again, crouching close to the earth. “Toho!
Shot!” Now he stands! no! no! not yet—at least he is not certain!
He turns his head to catch his master's eye! Now his stern
moves a little—he draws on again!
There! he is sure now! what a picture—his black full eye intently
glaring, though he cannot see any thing in that thick mass
of herbage; his nostril wide expanded, his lips slavering from intense
excitement; his whole form motionless, and sharply drawn,
and rigid, even to the straight stern and lifted foot, as a block
wrought to mimic life by some skilful sculptor's chisel; and, scarce
ten yards behind, his liver-colored comrade backs him—as firm, as
stationary, as immovable, but in his attitude, how different! Chase
feels the hot scent steaming up under his very nostril; feels it in
every nerve, and quivers with anxiety to dash on his prey, even
while perfectly restrained and steady. Shot, on the contrary,
though a few minutes since he too was drawing, knows nothing of
himself, perceives no indication of the game's near presence, although
improved by discipline, his instinct tells him that his mate
has found them. Hence the same rigid form, stiff tail, and constrained
attitude, but in his face—for dogs have faces—there is none
of that tense energy, that evident anxiety; there is no frown
upon his brow, no glare in his mild open eye, no slaver on
his lip!
“Come up, Tom; come up, Frank, they are all here; we must
get in six barrels; they will not move—come up, I say!”
“And on we came, deliberately prompt, and ready. Now we
were all in line: Harry the centre man, I on the right, and Tom
on the left hand! The attitude of Archer was superb; his legs,
set a little way apart, as firm as if they had been rooted in the
soil; his form drawn back a little, and his head erect, with his eye
fixed upon the dogs; his gun held in both hands, across his person,
the muzzle slightly elevated, his left grasping the trigger guard;
the thumb of the right resting upon the hammer, and the fore-finger
on the trigger of the left hand barrel; but, as he had said, neither
cocked! “Fall back, Tom, if you please, five yards or so,” he said,
as coolly as if he were completely unconcerned, “and you come forward,
Frank, as many; I want to drive them to the left, into those
low red bushes—that will do—now then, I'll flush them—never
mind me, boys, I'll reserve my fire.”
And, as he spoke, he moved a yard or two in front of us, and under
his very feet, positively startling me by their noisy flutter, up
sprang the gallant bevy—fifteen or sixteen well grown birds,
crowding and jostling one against the other. Tom Draw's gun, as
I well believe, was at his shoulder when they rose; at least his
first shot was discharged before they had flown half a rood, and of
course harmlessly—the charge must have been driven through
them like a single ball; his second barrel instantly succeeded, and
down came two birds, caught in the act of crossing. I am myself
a quick shot, too quick if any thing, yet my first barrel was exploded
a moment after Tom Draw's second; the other followed,
and I had the satisfaction of bringing both my birds down
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handsomely; then up went Harry's piece—the bevy being now twenty
or twenty-five yards distant—cocking it as it rose, he pulled the
trigger almost before it touched his shoulder, so rapid was the
movement; and, though he lowered the stock a little to cock the
second barrel, a moment scarcely passed between the two reports,
and almost on the instant two quail were fluttering out their lives
among the bog grass.
Dropping his butt, without a word, or even a glance to the dogs,
he quietly went on to load; nor indeed was it needed! at the first
shot they dropped into the grass, and there they lay as motionless
as if they had been dead, with their heads crouched between their
paws; nor did they stir thence till the tick of the gun-locks announced
that we again were ready. Then lifting up their heads,
and rising on their fore-feet, they sat half erect, eagerly waiting
for the signal.
“Hold up, good lads!” and on they drew, and in an instant
pointed on two several birds. “Fetch!” and each brought his
burthen to our feet; six birds were bagged at that rise, and thus
before eleven o'clock we had picked up a dozen cock, and within
one of the same number of fine quail, with only two shots missed.
The poor remainder of the bevy had dropped, singly, and scattered,
in the red bushes, whither we instantly pursued them, and where
we got six more, making a total of seventeen birds bagged out of a
bevy, twenty strong at first.
One towered bird of Harry's, certainly killed dead, we could
not with all our efforts bring to bag!—one bird Tom Draw missed
clean, and the remaining one we could not find again—another
dram of whiskey, and into Seer's great swamp we started—a large
piece of woodland, with every kind of lying. At one end it was
open, with soft black loamy soil, covered with docks and colts-foot
leaves under the shade of large but leafless willows, and here we
picked up a good many scattered woodcock; afterward we got into the
heavy thicket with much tangled grass, wherein we flushed a bevy,
but they all took to tree, and we made very little of them—and
here Tom Draw began to blow and labor—the covert was too thick,
the bottom too deep and unsteady for him.
Archer perceiving this, sent him at once to the outside; and
three times, as we went along, ourselves moving nothing, we heard
the round reports of his large calibre. “A bird at every shot, I'd
stake my life,” said Harry, “he never misses cross shots in the
open!”—at the same instant, a tremendous rush of wings burst from
the heaviest thicket—“Mark! partridge! partridge!” and as I
caught a glimpse of a dozen large birds fluttering up, one close upon
the other, and darting away as straight and nearly as fast as bullets,
through the dense branches of a cedar brake, I saw the flashes of
both Harry's barrels, almost simultaneously discharged, and at the
same time over went the objects of his aim; but ere I could get
up my gun the rest were out of sight. “You must shoot, Frank,
like lightning to kill these beggars—they are the ruffed grouse,
though they call them partridge here—see! are they not fine
fellows?”
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Another hour's beating, in which we still kept picking up, from
time to time, some scattering birds, brought us to the spring head,
where we found Tim with luncheon ready, and our fat friend reposing
at his side, with two more partridge, and a rabbit which he
had bagged along the covert's edge. Cool was the Star champagne;
and capital was the cold fowl and Cheshire cheese; and
most delicious was the repose that followed, enlivened with gay
wit and free good humor, soothed by the fragrance of the exquisite
cheroots, moistened by the last drops of the Ferintosh qualified by
the crystal waters of the spring. After an hour's rest, we counted
up our spoil; four ruffed grouse, nineteen woodcock, with ten
brace and a half of quail besides the bunny, made up our score—
done comfortably in four hours.
“Now we have finished for to-day with quail,” said Archer,
“but we'll get full ten couple more of woodcock; come, let us be
stirring—hang up your game-bag in the tree, and tie the setters to
the fence; I want you in with me to beat, Tim—you two chaps
must both keep the outside!—you all the time, Tom; you, Frank,
till you get to that tall thunder-shivered ash tree; turn in there,
and follow up the margin of a wide slank you will see; but be
careful, the mud is very deep, and dangerous in places!—now then,
here goes!”
And in he went, jumping a narrow streamlet into a point of
thicket, through which he drove by main force. Scarce had he got
six yards into the brake, before both spaniels quested; and, to my
no small wonder, the jungle seemed alive with woodcock—eight or
nine, at the least, flapped up at once, and skimmed along the tongue
of coppice toward the high wood, which ran along the valley, as I
learned afterward, for full three miles in length—while four or five
more wheeled off to the sides, giving myself and Draw fair shots,
by which we did not fail to profit; but I confess it was with absolute
astonishment that I saw two of those turned over, which flew inward,
killed by the marvellously quick and unerring aim of Archer,
where a less thorough sportsman would have been quite unable to
discharge a gun at all, so dense was the tangled jungle. Throughout
the whole length of that skirt of coppice, a hundred and fifty
yards, I should suppose at the utmost, the birds kept rising as it
were incessantly—thirty-five, or, I think, nearly forty, being flushed
in less than twenty minutes—although comparatively few were
killed, partly from the difficulty of the ground, and partly from their
getting up by fours and fives at once. Into the high wood, however,
at the last we drove them; and there, till daylight failed us, we did
our work like men! By the cold light of the full moon we wended
homeward, rejoicing in the possession of twenty-six couple and a
half of cock, twelve brace of quail—we found another bevy on
our way home and bagged three birds almost by moonlight—five
ruffed grouse, and a rabbit. Before our wet clothes were well
changed, supper was ready, and a good blow-out was followed by
sound slumbers and sweet dreams, fairly earned by nine hours of
incessant walking!
eaf144.n3[3] Slack—Yorkshire. Anglice, moist hollow.
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So thoroughly was I tired out by the effects of the first day's fagging
I had undergone in many months, and so sound was the
slumber into which I sank the moment my head touched the pillow,
that it scarcely seemed as if five minutes had elapsed between my
falling into sweet forgetfulness, and my starting bolt upright in
bed, aroused by the vociferous shout, and ponderous trampling—
equal to nothing less than that of a full-grown rhinoceros—with
which Tom Draw rushed, long before the sun was up, into my
chamber.
“What's this—what's this now?” he exclaimed; why the d—l
arn't you up and ready?—why here's the bitters mixed, and
Archer in the stable this half hour past, and Jem's here with the
hounds—and you, you lazy snorting Injun, wasting the morning
here in bed!”
My only reply to this most characteristic salutation, was to hurl
my pillow slap in his face, and—threatening to follow up the missile
with the contents of the water pitcher, which stood temptingly
within my reach, if he did not get out incontinently—to jump up and
array myself with all due speed; for, when I had collected my
bewildered thoughts, I well remembered that we had settled on a
fox-hunt before breakfast, as a preliminary to a fresh skirmish with
the quail.
In a few minutes I was on foot and in the parlor, where I found a
bright crackling fire, a mighty pitcher of milk punch, and a plate of
biscuit, an apt substitute for breakfast before starting; while, however,
I was discussing these, Archer arrived, dressed just as I have
described him on the preceding day, with the addition of a pair of
heavy hunting spurs, buckled on over his half-boots, and a large
iron-hammered whip in his right hand.
“That's right, Frank,” he exclaimed, after the ordinary salutations
of the morning.
“Why that old porpoise told me you would not be ready
these two hours; he's grumbling out yonder by the stable door,
like a hog stuck in a farm-yard gate. But come, we may as well
be moving, for the hounds are all uncoupled, and the nags saddled,—
put on a pair of straps to your fustain trowsers and take these
racing spurs, though Peacock does not want them—and now,
hurrah!”
This was soon done, and going out upon the stoop, a scene—it is
true, widely different from the kennel door at Melton, or the covert
side at Billesdon Coplow, yet not by any means devoid of interest or
animation—presented itself to my eyes. About six couple of large
heavy hounds, with deep and pendant ears, heavy well-feathered
sterns, broad chests, and muscular strong limbs, were gathered
round their feeder, the renowned Jem Lyn; on whom it may not
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
be impertinent to waste a word or two, before proceeding to the
mountain, which, as I learned, to my no little wonder, was destined
to be our hunting ground.
Picture to yourself, then, gentle reader, a small but actively
formed man, with a face of most unusual and portentous ugliness,
an uncouth grin doing the part of a smile; a pair of eyes so small
that they would have been invisible, but for the serpent-like vivacity
and brightness with which they sparkled from their deep sockets,
and a profusion of long hair, coal-black, but lank and uncurled
as an Indian's, combed smoothly down with a degree of care entirely
out of keeping with the other details, whether of dress or
countenance, on either cheek. Above these sleek and cherished
tresses he wore a thing which might have passed for either cap or
castor, at the wearer's pleasure; for it was wholly destitute of brim
except for a space some three or four inches wide over the eye-brows;
and the crown had been so pertinaciously and completely
beaten in, that the sides sloped inward at the top, as if to personate
a bishop's mitre; a fishing line was wound about this graceful and,
if its appearance belied it not most foully, odoriferous head-dress;
and into the fishing line was stuck the bowl and some two inches
of the shank of a well-sooted pipe. An old red handkerchief was
twisted ropewise about his lean and scraggy neck, but it by no means
sufficed to hide the scar of what had evidently been a most appalling
gash, extending right across his throat, almost from ear to ear,
the great cicatrix clearly visible like a white line through the
thick stubble of some ten days' standing that graced his chin and
neck.
An old green coat, the skirts of which had long since been
docked by the encroachment of thorn-bushes and cat-briers, with the
mouth-piece of a powder-horn peeping from its breast pocket, and a
full shot-belt crossing his right shoulder; a pair of fustian trowsers,
patched at the knees with corduroy, and heavy cowhide boots completed
his attire. This, as it seemed, was to be our huntsman; and
sooth to say, although he did not look the character, he played the
part, when he got to work, right handsomely. At a more fitting
season, Harry in a few words let me into this worthy's history and
disposition. “He is,” he said, “the most incorrigible rascal I ever
met with—an unredeemed and utter vagabond; he started life as a
stallion-leader, a business which he understands—as in fact he does
almost every thing else within his scope—thoroughly well. He got
on prodigiously!—was employed by the first breeders in the country!—
took to drinking, and then, in due rotation, to gambling, pilfering,
lying, every vice, in short, which is compatible with utter want
of any thing like moral sense, deep shrewdness, and uncommon
cowardice.
“He cut his throat once—you may see the scar now —in a fit of
delirium tremens, and Tom Draw—who, though he is perpetually
cursing him for the most lying critter under heaven, has, I believe,
a sort of fellow feeling for him—nursed him and got him well; and
ever since he has hung about here, getting at times a country
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[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
stallion to look after, at others hunting, or fishing, or doing little jobs
about the stable, for which Tom gives him plenty of abuse, plenty
to eat, and as little rum as possible, for if he gets a second glass it
is all up with Jem Lyn for a week at least.
“He came to see me once in New York, when I was down upon
my back with a broken leg—I was lying in the parlor, about three
weeks after the accident had happened. Tim Matlock had gone
out for something, and the cook let him in; and, after he had sat
there about half an hour, telling me all the news of the races, and
making me laugh more than was good for my broken leg, he gave
me such a hint, that I was compelled to direct him to the cupboard,
wherein I keep the liquor-stand; and unluckily enough, as I had
not for some time been in drinking tune, all three of the bottles
were brimful; and, as I am a Christian man, he drank in spite of
all that I could say—I could not leave the couch to get at him—
two of them to the dregs; and, after frightening me almost to
death, fell flat upon the floor, and lay there fast asleep when Tim
came in again. He dragged him instantly, by my directions, under
the pump in the garden, and soused him for about two hours, but
without producing the least effect, except eliciting a grunt or two
from this most seasoned cask.
“Such is Jem Lyn, and yet, absurd to say, I have tried the fellow,
and believe him perfectly trustworthy—at least to me!
“He is a coward, yet I have seen him fight like a hero more than
once, and against heavy odds, to save me from a threshing, which I
got after all, though not without some damage to our foes, whose
name might have been legion.
“He is the greatest liar I ever met with; and yet I never
caught him in a falsehood, for he believes it is no use to tell me
one.
“He is most utterly dishonest, yet I have trusted him with sums
that would, in his opinion, have made him a rich man for life, and
he accounted to the utmost shilling; but I advise you not to try the
same, for if you do he most assuredly will cheat you!”
Among the heavy looking hounds, which clustered round this
hopeful gentleman, I quickly singled out two couple of widely different
breed and character from the rest; your thorough high-bred
racing fox-hounds, with ears rounded, thin shining coats, clean
limbs, and all the marks of the best class of English hounds.
“Aye! Frank,” said Archer, as he caught my eye fixed on them,
“you have found out my favorites. Why, Bonny Belle, good lass,
why Bonny Belle!—here Blossom, Blossom, come up and show your
pretty figures to your countryman! Poor Hanbury—do you remember,
Frank, how many a merry day we've had with him by
Thorley Church, and Takely forest?—poor Hanbury sent them to
me with such a letter, only the year before he died; and those,
Dauntless and Dangerous, I had from Will, Lord Harewood's huntsman,
the same season!”
“There never was sich dogs—there never was afore in Orange,”
said Tom. “I will say that, though they be English; and though
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[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
they be too fast for fox, entirely, there never was sich dogs for
deer”—
“But how the deuce,” I interrupted, “can hounds be too fast, if
they have bone and stanchness!”
“Stanchness be d—d; they holes them!”
“No earthstoppers in these parts, Frank,” cried Harry; “and as
the object of these gentlemen is not to hunt solely for the fun of
the thing, but to destroy a noxious varmint, they prefer a slow, sure,
deep-mouthed dog, that does not press too closely on Pug, but lets
him take his time about the coverts, till he comes into fair gunshot
of these hunters, who are lying perdu as he runs to get a crack at
him.”
“And pray, said I, “is this your method of proceeding?”
“You shall see, you shall see; come get to horse, or it will be
late before we get our breakfasts, and I assure you I don't wish to
lose either that, or my day's quail-shooting. This hunt is merely
for a change, and to get something of an appetite for breakfast,
Now, Tim, be sure that every thing is ready by eight o'clock at the
latest—we shall be in by that time with a furious appetite.”
Thus saying he mounted, without more delay, his favorite, the
gray; while I backed, nothing loth, the chestnut horse; and at the
same time to my vast astonishment, from under the long shed out
rode the mighty Tom, bestriding a tall powerful brown mare, showing
a monstrous deal of blood combined with no slight bone—
equipped with a cavalry bridle, and strange to say, without the
universal martingal; he was rigged just as usual, with the exception
of a broad-brimmed hat in place of his fur cap, and grasped in
his right hand a heavy smooth-bored rifle, while with the left he
wheeled his mare, with a degree of active skill, which I should certainly
have looked for any where rather than in so vast a mass of
flesh as that which was exhibited by our worthy host.
Two other sportsmen, grave, sober-looking farmers, whom Harry
greeted cheerily by name, and to whom in all due form I was next
introduced, well-mounted, and armed with long single-barrelled
guns, completed our party; and away we went at a rattling trot,
the hounds following at Archer's heels, as steadily as though he
hunted them three times a week.
“Now arn't it a strange thing,” said Tom,” “arn't it a strange
thing, Mr. Forester, that every critter under Heaven takes somehow
nat'rally to that are Archer—the very hounds—old Whino
there! that I have had these eight years, and fed with my own
hands, and hunted steady every winter, quits me the very moment
he claps sight on him; by the etarnal, I believe he is half dog
himself.”
“You hunted them indeed,” interrupted Harry, “you old rhinoceros,
why hang your hide, you never so much as heard a good
view-holloa till I came up here—you hunted them—a man talk of
hunting, that carries a cannon about with him on horseback; but
come, where are we to try first, on Rocky Hill, or in the Spring
Swamps?”
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“Why now I reckon, Archer, we'd best stop down to Sam Blain's—
by the blacksmith's—he was telling t' other morning of an
etarnal sight of them he'd seen down hereaway—and we'll be there
to rights!—Jem, curse you, out of my way, you dumb nigger—out
of my way, or I'll ride over you”—for, travelling along at a strange
shambling run, that worthy had contrived to keep up with us,
though we were going fully at the rate of eight or nine miles in an
hour.
“Hurrah!” cried Tom, suddenly pulling up at the door of a neat
farm-house on the brow of a hill, with a clear streamlet sweeping
round its base, and a fine piece of woodland at the farther side.
“Hurrah! Sam Blain, we've come to make them foxes, you were
telling of a Sunday, smell h—ll right straight away. Here's
Archer, and another Yorker with him—leastwise an Englisher I
should say—and Squire Conklin, and Bill Speers, and that white
nigger Jem! Look sharp, I say! Look sharp, d—n you, else
we'll pull off the ruff of the old humstead.”
In a few minutes Sam made his appearance, armed, like the rest,
with a Queen Ann's tower-musket.
“Well! well!” he said, “I'm ready. Quit making such a
clatter! Lend me a load of powder, one of you; my horn's leaked
dry, I reckon!”
Tom forthwith handed him his own, and the next thing I heard
was Blain exclaiming that it was “desperate pretty powder,” and
wondering if it shot strong.
“Shoot strong? I guess you'll find it strong enough to sew you
up, if you go charging your old musket that ways!” answered Tom.
“By the Lord, Archer, he's put in three full charges!”
“Well, it will kill him, that's all!” answered Harry, very
coolly; “and there'll be one less of you. But come! come! let's
be bustling; the sun's going to get up already. You'll leave your
horses here, I suppose, gentlemen, and get to the old stands. Tom
Draw, put Mr. Forester at my old post down by the big pin-oak at
the creek side; and you stand there, Frank, still as a church-mouse.
It's ten to one, if some of these fellows don't shoot him
first, that he'll break covert close by you, and run the meadows for
a mile or two, up to the turnpike road, and over it to Rocky hill—
that black knob yonder, covered with pine and hemlock. There are
some queer snake fences in the flat, and a big brook or two, but
Peacock has been over over every inch of it before, and you may
trust in him implicitly. Good bye! I'm going up the road with
Jem to drive it from the upper end.”
And off he went at a merry trot, with the hounds gamboling
about his stirrups, and Jem Lyn running at his best pace to keep up
with him. In a few minutes they were lost behind a swell of
woodland, round which the road wheeled suddenly. At the same
moment Tom and his companions re-appeared from the stables,
where they had been securing their four-footed friends; and, after
a few seconds, spent in running ramrods down the barrels to see
that all was right, inspecting primings, knapping flints, or putting
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on fresh copper caps, it was announced that all was ready; and
passing through the farm-yard, we entered, through a set of bars,
a broad bright buckwheat stubble. Scarcely an hundred yards
had we proceeded, before up sprang the finest bevy of the largest
quail I had yet seen, and flying high and wild crossed half-a-dozen
fields in the direction of the village, whence we had started, and
pitched at length into an alder brake beside the stream.
“Them chaps has gone the right way,” Tom exclaimed, with a
deep sigh, who had with wondrous difficulty refrained from firing
into them, though he was loaded with buckshot; “right in the
course we count to take this forenoon. Now, Squire, keep to the
left here, take your station by the old earths there away, under the
tall dead pine; and you, Bill, make tracks there, straight through
the middle cart-way, down to the other meadow, and sit you down
right where the two streams fork; there'll be an old red snooping
down that side afore long, I reckon. We'll go on, Mr. Forester;
here's a big rail fence now; I'll throw off the top rail, for I'll be
darned if I climb any day when I can creep—there, that'll do, I
reckon; leastwise if you can ride like Archer—he d—ns me always
if I so much as shakes a fence afore he jumps it—you've got the
best horse, too, for lepping. Now let's see! Well done! well
done!” he continued, with a most boisterous burst of laughter—
“well done, horse, any how!”—as Peacock, who had been chafing
ever since he parted from his comrade Bob, went at the fence as
though he were about to take it in his stroke—stopped short when
within a yard of it, and then bucked over it, without touching a
splinter, although it was at least five feet, and shaking me so
much, that, greatly to Tom's joy, I showed no little glimpse of
daylight.
“I reckon if they run the meadows, you'll hardly ride them,
Forester,” he grinned; “but now away with you. You see the
tall dark pin oak, it has n't lost one leaf yet; right in the nook there
of the bars you'll find a quiet shady spot, where you can see clear
up the rail fence to this knob, where I'll be. Off with you, boy—
and mind you now, you keep as dumb as the old woman when her
husband cut her tongue out, 'cause she had too much jaw.”
Finishing his discourse, he squatted himself down on the stool of
a large hemlock, which, being recently cut down, cumbered the
woodside with its giant stem, and secured him, with its evergreen
top now lowly laid and withering, from the most narrow scrutiny;
while I, giving the gallant horse his head, went at a brisk hand-gallop
across the firm short turf of the fair sloping hill-side, taking a
moderate fence in my stroke, which Peacock cleared in a style that
satisfied me Harry had by no means exaggerated his capacity to act
as hunter, in lieu of the less glorious occupation, to which in general
he was doomed.
In half a minute more I reached my post, and though an hour
passed before I heard the slightest sound betokening the chase,
never did I more thoroughly enjoy an hour.
The loveliness of the whole scene before me—the broad rich
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sweep of meadowland lying, all bathed in dew, under the pale gray
light of an autumnal morning, with groups of cattle couched still
beneath the trees where they had passed the night; the distant
hills, veiled partially in mist, partially rearing their round leafy
heads toward the brightening sky; and then the various changes of
the landscape, as slowly the day broke behind the eastern hill; and
all the various sounds of bird, and beast, and insect, which each
succeeding variation of the morning served to call into life as if by
magic. First a faint rosy flush stole up the eastern sky, and nearly
at the self-same moment, two or three vagrant crows came flapping
heavily along, at a height so immeasurable that their harsh voices
were by distance modified into a pleasing murmur And now a little
fish jumped in the streamlet; and the splash, rifling as it was,
with which he fell back on the quiet surface, half startled me.
A moment afterward an acron plumped down on my head, and,
as I looked up, there sat, on a limb not ten feet above me, an impudent
rogue of a gray squirrel, half as big as a rabbit, erect upon his
haunches, working away at the twin brother of the acorn he had
dropped upon my hat to break my revery, rasping it audibly with
his chisel-shaped teeth, and grinning at me just as coolly as though
I were a harmless scare-crow.
When I grew tired of observing him, and looked toward the sky
again, behold the western ridge, which is far higher than the eastern
hills, had caught upon its summits the first bright rays of the yet
unseen day-god; while the rosy flush of the east had brightened
into a blaze of living gold, exceeded only by the glorious hues
with which a few slight specks of misty cloud glowed out against
the azure firmament, like coals of actual fire.
Again a louder splash aroused me; and, as I turned, there floated
on a glassy basin, into which the ripples of a tiny fall subsided,
three wood-ducks with a noble drake, that loveliest in plumage of
all aquatic fowl, perfectly undisturbed and fearless, although within
ten yards of their most dreaded enemy.
How beautiful are all their motions! There! one has reared
herself half way out of the water; another stretches forth a delicate
web foot to scratch her ear, as handily as a dog on dry land; and
now the drake reflects his purple neck to preen his ruffled wing,
and now—bad luck to you, Peacock, why did you snort and stamp?—
they are off like a bullet, and out of sight in an instant.
And now out comes the sun himself, and with him the accursed
hum of a musquitoe—and hark! hush!—what was that?—was it?
By Heavens! it was the deep note of a fox-hound! Aye! there
comes Harry's cheer, faintly heard, swelling up the breeze.
“Have at him, there! Ha-a-ve at him, good lads!”
Again! again! those are the musical deep voices of the slow
hounds! They have a dash in them of the old Southern breed!
And now! there goes the yell! the quick sharp yelping rally of
those two high-bred bitches.
By heaven! they must be viewing him! How the woods ring
and crash!
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“Togather hark! Togather hark! Togather! For-ra-ard, good
lads, get for-a-ard! Hya-a-ara way!”
Well halloaed Harry! I could swear to that last screech, out of
ten thousand, though it is near ten years since I last heard it! But
heavens! how they press him! Hang it! there goes a shot—the
squire has fired at him, as he tried the earths! Now, if he have
but missed him, and Pan, the god of hunters, send it so, he has no
chance but to try the open.
“By Jove he has! he must have missed! for Bonny Belle and
Blossom are raving half a mile this side of him already. And now
Tom sees him—how quietly he steals up to the fence. There! he
has fired! and all our sport is up! No! no! he waves his hat and
points this way! Can he have missed? No! he has got a fox!—
he lifts it out by the brush—there must have been two, then, on
foot together. He has done well to get that he has killed away, or
they would have stopped on him!
Hush! the leaves rustle here beside me, with a quick patter—
the twigs crackle—it is he! Move not! not for your life, Peacock!
There! he has broken cover fairly! Now he is half across the
field! he stops to listen! Ah! he will head back again. No! no!
that crash, when they came upon the warm blood, has decided him—
away he goes, with his brush high, and its white tag brandished
in the sunshine—now I may halloa him away.
“Whoop! gone awa-ay! whoop!”
I was answered on the instant by Harry's quick—
“Hark holloa! get awa-ay! to him hark! to him hark! hark
holloa!”
Most glorious Artemis, what heaven stirring music! And yet
there are but poor six couple; the scent must be as hot as fine, for
every hound seems to have twenty tongues, and every leaf an hundred
echoes! How the boughs crash again! Lo! they are here!
Bonny Belle leading—head and stern up, with a quick panting
yelp! Blossom, and Dangerous, and Dauntless, scarcely a length
behind her, striving together, neck and neck; and, by St. Hubert,
it must be a scent of twenty thousand, for here these heavy Southrons
are scarcely two rods behind them.
But fidget not, good Peacock! fret not, most excellent Pythagoras!
one moment more, and I am not the boy to balk you. And
here comes Harry on the gray; by George! he makes the brush-wood
crackle! Now for a nasty leap out of the tangled swamp!
a high six-barred fence of rough trees, leaning toward him, and up
hill! surely he will not try it!
Will he not though?
See!—his rein is tight yet easy! his seat, how beautiful, how
firm, yet how relaxed and graceful! Well done, indeed! He
slacks his rein one instant as the gray rises! the rugged rails are
cleared, and the firm pull supports him! but Harry moves not in
the saddle—no, not one hair's breadth! A five foot fence to him is
nothing! You shall not see the slightest variation between his attitude
in that strong effort, and in the easy gallop. If Tom Draw
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saw him now, he could have some excuse for calling him “half
horse”—and he does see him! hark to that most unearthly yell!
like unto nothing, either heavenly or human! He waves his hat
and hurries back as fast as he is able to the horses, well knowing
that, for pedestrians at least, the morning's sport is ended.
Harry and I were now almost abreast, riding in parallel lines,
down the rich valley, very nearly at the top speed of our horses;
taking fence after fence in our stroke, and keeping well up with
the hounds, which were running almost mute, such was the furious
speed to which the blazing scent excited them.
We had already passed above two-thirds of the whole distance
that divides the range of woods, wherein we found him, and the
pretty village which we had constituted our head quarters, a distance
of at least three miles; and now a very difficult and awkward
obstacle presented itself to our farther progress, in the shape of a
wide yawning brook between sheer banks of several feet in height,
broken, with rough and pointed stones, the whole being at least five
yards across. The gallant hounds dashed over it; and, when we
reached it, were half way across the grass field next beyond it.
“Hold him hard, Frank,” Harry shouted; “hold him hard, man,
and cram him at it!”
And so I did, though I had little hope of clearing it. I lifted him
a little on the snaffle, gave him the spur just as he reached the
brink, and with a long and swinging leap, so easy that its motion
was in truth scarce perceptible, he swept across it; before I had
the time to think, we were again going at our best pace almost
among the hounds.
Over myself, I cast a quick glance back toward Harry, who by
a short turn of the chase had been thrown a few yards behind me.
He charged it gallantly; but on the very verge, cowed by the
brightness of the rippling water, the gray made a half stop, but
leaped immediately, beneath the application of the galling spur; he
made a noble effort, but it was scarce a thing to be effected by a
standing leap, and it was with far less pleasure than surprise, that
I saw him drop his hind legs down the steep bank, having just
landed with fore-feet in the meadow.
I was afraid, indeed, he must have had an ugly fall, but, picked
up quickly by the delicate and steady finger of his rider, the good
horse found some slight projection of the bank, whereby to make a
second spring. After a heavy flounder, however, which must have
dismounted any less perfect horseman, he recovered himself well,
and before many minutes was again abreast of me!
Thus far the course of the hunted fox had lain directly homeward,
down the valley; but now the turnpike road making a sudden turn
crossed his line at right angles, while another narrower road coming
in at a tangent, went off to the south-westward in the direction
of the bold projection, which I had learned to recognize as Rocky
Hill; over the high fence into the road; well performed, gallant
horses! And now they check for a moment, puzzling about on the
dry sandy turnpike.
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“Dangerous feathers on it now! Speak to it! speak to it, good
hound!”
How beautiful that flourish of the stern with which he darts away
on the recovered scent; with what a yell they open it once again!
Harry was right, he makes for Rocky Hill, but up this plaguey lane,
where the scent lies but faintly. Now! now! the road turns off
again far westward of his point! He may, by Jove! and he has
left it!
“Have at him then, lads; he is ours!”
And lo! the pace increases. Ha! what a sudden turn, and in the
middle too of a clear pasture.
“Has he been headed, Harry!”
“No! no! his strength is failing!”
And see! he makes his point again toward the hill; it is within
a quarter of a mile, and if he gain it we can do nothing with him,
for it is full of earths. But he will never reach it! See! he turns
once again; how exquisitely well those bitches run it; three times
he has doubled, now almost as short as a hare, and they, running
breast-high, have turned with him each time, not over-running it a
yard.
See how the sheep have drawn together into phalanx yonder, in
that bare pasture to the eastward; he has crossed that field for a
thousand! Yes! I am right. See! they turn once again. What
a delicious rally! An outspread towel would cover those four leading
hounds—now Dauntless has it; has it by half a neck.
“He always goes up, when a fox is sinking,” Harry exclaimed,
pointing toward him with his hunting whip.
Aye! he has given up his point entirely; he knew he could not
face the hill. Look! look at those carrion crows! how low they
stoop over that woody bank. That is his line. Here is the road
again! Over it once more merrily! and now we view him.
“Whoop! Forra-ard, lads, forra-ard!”
He cannot hold five minutes; and see, there comes fat Tom,
pounding that mare along the road, as if her fore-feet were of hammered
iron; he has come up along the turnpike, at an infernal
pace, while that turn favored him; but he will only see us kill
him, and that, too, at a respectful distance.
Another brook stretches across our course, hurrying to join the
greater stream along the banks of which we have so long been
speeding; but this is a little one; there! we have cleared it
cleverly. Now! now! the hounds are viewing him. Poor brute!
his day is come. See how he twists and doubles. Ah! now they
have him! No! that short turn has saved him, and he gains the
fence—he will lie down there! No! he stretches gallantly across
the next field—game to the last, poor devil! There!
“Who-whoop! Dead! dead! who-whoop!”
And in another instant Harry had snatched him from the hounds,
and holding him aloft displayed him to the rest, as they came up
along the road.
“A pretty burst,” he said to me, “a pretty burst, Frank, and a
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good kill; but they can't stand before the hounds, the foxes here,
like our stout islanders; they are not forced to work so hard to
gain their living. But now let us get homeward; I want my
breakfast, I can tell you, and then a rattle at the quail. I mean to
get full forty brace to-day, I promise you!”
“And we,” said I, “have marked down fifteen brace already
toward it; right in the line of our beat, Tom says.”
“That's right! well, let us go on.”
And in a short half hour we were all once again assembled about
Tom's hospitable board, and making such a breakfast, on every
sort of eatable that can be crowded on a breakfast table, as sportsmen
only have a right to make; nor they, unless they have walked
ten, or galloped half as many miles, before it.
Before we had been in an hour, Harry once again roused us out.
All had been, during our absence, fully prepared by the indefatigable
Tim; who, as the day before, accoutred with spare shot and lots
of provender, seemed to grudge us each morsel that we ate, so eager
was he to see us take the field in season.
Off we went then; but what boots it to repeat a thrice told tale;
suffice it, that the dogs worked as well as dogs can work; that
birds were plentiful, and lying good; that we fagged hard, and
shot on the whole passably, so that by sunset we had exceeded
Harry's forty brace by fifteen birds, and got beside nine couple and
a half of woodcock; which we found, most unexpectedly, basking
themselves in the open meadow, along the grassy banks of a small
rill, without a bush or tree within five hundred yards of them.
Evening had closed before we reached the well known tavern-stand,
and the merry blaze of the fire, and many candles, showed us,
while yet far distant, that due preparations were in course for our
entertainment.
“What have we here?” cried Harry, as we reached the door—
“Race horses? Why, Tom, by heaven! we've got the Flying
Dutchman here again; now for a night of it!”
And so in truth it was, a most wet, and most jovial one, seasoned
with no small wit—but of that more anon!
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When we had entered Tom's hospitable dwelling, and delivered
over our guns to be duly cleaned, and the dogs to be suppered, by
Tim Matlock, I passed through the parlor, on my way to my own
crib, where I found Archer in close confabulation with a tall raw-boned
Dutchman, with a keen freckled face, small 'cute gray eyes,
looking suspiciously about from under the shade of a pair of straggling
sandy eyebrows, small reddish whiskers, and a head of carrotty
hair as rough and tangled as a fox's back.
His aspect was a wondrous mixture of sneakingness and smartness,
and his expression did most villainously belie him, if he were
not as sharp a customer as ever wagged an elbow, or betted on a
horse-race.
“Frank,” exclaimed Harry as I entered, “I make you know
Mr. McTaggart, better known hereabouts as the flying Dutchman,
though how he came by a Scotch name I can't pretend to say; he
keeps the best quarter horses, and plays the best hand of whist in
the country; and now, get yourself clean as quick as possible, for
Tom never gives one five minutes wherein to dress himself—so
bustle.”
And off he went as he had finished speaking, and I, shaking my
new friend cordially by an exceeding bony unwashed paw, incontinently
followed his example—and in good time I did so; for I had
scarcely changed my shooting boots and wet worsteds for slippers
and silk socks, before my door, as usual, was lounged open by Tom's
massy foot, and I was thus exhorted.
“Come, come, your supper's gittin' cold; I never see such men
as you and Archer is; you're wash, wash, wash—all day! It's
little water enough that you use any other ways.”
“Why, is there any other use for water, Tom?” I asked, simply
enough.
“It's lucky if there aint, any how—leastwise, where you and
Archer is—else you'd leave none for the rest of us. It's a good
thing you han't thought of washing your darned stinking hides in
rum—you will be at it some of these odd days, I warrant me—why
now, McTaggart, it's only yesterday I caught Archer up stairs, a
fiddling away up there at his teeth with a little ivory brush; brushing
them with cold water—cleaning them he calls it! Cuss all
such trash, says I.”
While I was listening in mute astonishment, wondering whether
in truth the old savage never cleaned his teeth, Archer made his
appearance, and to a better supper never did I sit down, than was
spread at the old round table, in such profusion as might have well
sufficed to feed a troop of horse.
“What have we got here, Tom?” cried Harry as he took the
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head of the social board; “quail-pie, by George—are there any
peppers in it, Tom?”
“Sartain there is,” replied that worthy, “and a prime rump-steak
in the bottom, and some first-best salt pork, chopped fine, and three
small onions; like little Wax-skin used to fix them, when he was
up here all last fall.”
“Take some of this pie, Frank;” said Archer, as he handed me a
huge plate of leafy reeking pie-crust, with a slice of fat steak, and
a plump hen quail, and gravy, and etceteras, that might have made
an alderman's mouth water; “and if you do n't say it's the very
best thing you ever tasted, you are not half so good a judge as I
used to hold you. It took little Johnny and myself three wet days
to concoct it. Pie, Tom, or roast pig?” he continued; “or
broiled woodcock? Here they are, all of them.”
“Why, I reckon I'll take cock; briled meat wants to be ate
right stret away as soon as it comes off the griddle; and of all
darned nice ways of cooking, to brile a thing, quick now, over hot
hickory ashes, is the best for me!”
“I believe you're right about eating the cock first, for they
will not be worth a farthing if they get cold. So you stick to the
pig, do you—hey, McTaggart? Well, there is no reckoning on
taste—holloa, Tim, look sharp! the champagne all 'round—I'm
choking!”
And for some time no sound was heard, but the continuous clatter
of knives and forks, the occasional popping of a cork, succeeded by
the gurgling of the generous wine as it flowed into the tall rummers;
and every now and then a loud and rattling eructation from
Tom Draw; who, as he said, could never half enjoy a meal if he
could not stop now and then to blow off steam.
At last, however—for supper, alas! like all other earthly pleasures,
must come to an end—“The fairest still the fleetest”—our
appetites waned gradually; and notwithstanding Harry's earnest
exhortations, and the production of a broiled ham-bone, devilled to the
very utmost pitch of English mustard, soy, oil of Aix, and cayenne
pepper, by no hands, as may be guessed, but those of that universal
genius, Timothy; one by one, we gave over our labors edacious, to
betake us to potations of no small depth or frequency.
“It is directly contrary to my rule, Frank, to drink before a good
day's shooting—and a good day I mean to have to-morrow!—but I
am thirsty, and the least thought chilly; so here goes for a debauch!
Tim, look in my box with the clothes, and you will find
two flasks of curaçao; bring them down, and a dozen lemons, and
some lump sugar—look alive! and you, Tom, out with your best
brandy; I'll make a jorum that will open your eyes tight before
you've done with it. That's right, Tim; now get the soup tureen,
the biggest one, and see that it's clean. The old villain has got
a punch bowl—bring half a dozen of champagne, a bucket full of
ice, and then go down into the kitchen, and make two quarts of
green tea, as strong as possible; and when it's made, set it to cool
in the ice-house!”
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In a few minutes all the ingredients were at hand; the rind,
peeled carefully from all the lemons, was deposited with two tumblers
full of finely powdered sugar in the bottom of the tureen;
thereupon were poured instantly three pints of pale old Cognae;
and these were left to steep, without admixture, until Tim Matlock
made his entrance with the cold, strong, green tea; two quarts of
this, strained clear, were added to the brandy, and then two flasks
of curacao!
Into this mixture a dozen lumps of clear ice were thrown, and
the whole stirred up 'till the sugar was entirely suspended; then
pop! pop! went the long necks, and their creaming nectar was
discharged into the bowl; and by the body of Bacchus—as the
Italians swear—and by his soul too, which he never steeped in
such delicious nectar, what a drink that was, when it was completed.
Even Tom Draw, who ever was much disposed to look upon
strange potables as trash, and who had eyed the whole proceedings
with ill-concealed suspicion and disdain, when he had quaffed off a
pint-beaker full, which he did without once moving the vessel from
his head, smacked his lips with a report which might have been
heard half a mile off, and which resembled very nearly the crack
of a first-rate huntsman's whip.
“That's not slow, now!” he said, half dubiously, “to cell God's
truth now, that's first rate; I reckon, though, it would be better if
there wasn't that tea into it—it makes it weak and trashy like!”
“You be hanged!” answered Harry, “that's mere affectation—
that smack of your lips told the story; did you ever hear such an
infernal sound? I never did, by George!”
“Begging your pardon, Measter Archer,” interposed Timothy,
pulling his forelock, with an expression of profound respect, mingled
with a ludicrous air of regret, at being forced to differ in the least
degree from his master; “begging your pardon, Measter Archer,
that was a roommer noise, and by a vary gre-at de-al too, when
Measter McTavish sneezed me clean oot o't' wagon!”
`What's that?—what the devil's that?” cried I; “this
McTavish must be a queer genius; one day I hear of his frightening
a bull out of a meadow, and the next of his sneezing a man
out of a phaeton.”
“It's simply true!—both are simply true! We were driving
very slowly on an immensely hot day in the middle of August, between
Lebanon Springs and Claverack; McTavish and I on the
front seat, and Tim behind. Well! we were creeping at a foot's
pace, up a long, steep hill, just at the very hottest time of day; not
a word had been spoken for above an hour, for we were all tired
and languid—except once, when McTavish asked for his third
tumbler, since breakfast, of Starke's Ferintosh, of which we had
three two-quart bottles in the liquor case—when suddenly, without
any sign or warning, McTavish gave a sneeze which, on my honor,
was scarcely inferior in loudness to a pistol shot! The horses
started almost off the road, I jumped about half a foot off my seat,
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and positively, without exaggeration, Timothy tumbled slap out of
the wagon into the road, and lay there sprawling in the dust, while
Mac sat perfectly unmoved, without a smile upon his face, looking
straight before him, exactly as if nothing had happened.”
“Nonsense, Harry,” exclaimed I; “that positively won't go
down.”
“That's an etarnal lie, now, Archer!” Tom chimed in; “leastwise
I don't know why I should say so neither, for I never saw no
deviltry goin on yet, that did'nt come as nat'ral to McTavish, as
lying to a minister, or”—
“Rum to Tom Draw!” responded Harry. “But it's true as the
gospel, ask Timothy there!”
“Nay it's all true; only it's scarce so bad i' t' story, as it was
i' right airnest! Ay cooped oot o' t' drag—loike ivry thing—my
hinder eend was sair a moonth and better!”
“Now then,” said I, “it's Tom's turn; “let us hear about the
bull.”
“Oh, the bull!” answered Tom. “Well you see, Archer there,
and little Waxskin—you know little Waxskin, I guess, Mister
Forester—and old McTavish, had gone down to shoot to Hell-hole—
where we was yesterday, you see!—well now! it was hot—hot,
worst kind; I tell you—and I was sort o' tired out—so Waxskin, in
he goes into the thick, and Archer arter him, and up the old crick
side—thinkin, you see, that we was goin up, where you and I
walked yesterday—but not a bit of it; we never thought of no such
thing, not we! We sot ourselves down underneath the haystacks,
and made ourselves two good stiff horns of toddy; and cooled off
there, all in the shade, as slick as silk.
“Well, arter we'd been there quite a piece, bang! we hears, in the
very thick of the swamp—bang! bang!—and then I heerd Harry
Archer roar out `mark! mark!—Tom, mark!—you old fat rascal,
'—and sure enough, right where I should have been, if I 'd
been a doin right, out came two woodcock—big ones—they looked
like hens, and I kind o' thought it was a shame, so I got up to go to
them, and called McTavish to go with me; but torights, jest as he
was a gittin up, a heap of critters comes all chasin up, scart by a
dog, I reckon, kickin their darned heels up, and bellowin like mad—
and there was one young bull amongst them, quite a lump of a bull
now I tell you; and the bull he came up pretty nigh to us, and
stood, and stawmped, and sort o' snorted, as if he did'nt know right
what he would be arter, and McTavish, he gits up, and turns right
round with his back to the critter; he 'd got a bit of a round jacket
on, and he stoops down till his head came right atween his legs,
kind o' straddlin like, so that the bull could see nothing of him but
his t'other eend, and his head right under it, chin uppermost, with
his big black whiskers, lookin as fierce as all h—l, and fiercer;
well! the bull he stawmped agin, and pawed, and bellowed, and I
was in hopes, I swon, that he would have hooked him; but jest then
McTavish, starts to run, goin along as I have told you, hind eend
foremost—bo-oo went the bull, a-boo-oo, and off he starts like a
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strick, with his tail stret-on-eend, and his eyes starin, and all the
critters arter him, and then they kind o' circled round—and all
stood still and stared—and stawmped, 'till he got nigh to them, and
then they all stricks off agin; and so they went on—runnin and
then standin still,—and so they went on the hull of an hour, I'll be
bound; and I lay there upon my back laughin 'till I was stiff
and sore all over; and then came Waxskin and old Archer, wrathy
as h—l and swearin'—Lord how they did swear!
“They 'd been a slavin there through the darned thorns and briers,
and the old stinkin mud holes, and flushed a most almighty sight of
cock, where the brush was too thick to shoot them, and every one
they flushed, he came stret out into the open field, where Archer
knew we should have been, and where we should have killed a
thunderin mess, and no mistake; and they went on dammin, and
wonderin, and sweatin through the brush, till they got out to the
far eend, and there they had to make tracks back to us through the
bog meadow, under a brilin sun, and when they did get back, the
bull was jest a goin through the bars—and every d—d drop o' the
rum was drinked up; and the sun was settin, and the day's shootin—
that was spoiled!—and then McTavish tantalized them the worst
sort. But I did laugh to kill; it was the best I ever did see, was
that spree—Ha! ha! ha!”
And, as he finished, he burst out into his first horse laugh, in
which I chorused him most heartily, having in truth been in convulsions,
between the queerness of his lingo, and the absurdly grotesque
attitudes into which he threw himself, in imitating the persons
concerning whom his story ran. After this, jest succeeded
jest! and story, story! 'till, in good truth, the glass circling the
while with most portentous speed, I began to feel bees in my head,
and till in truth no one, I believe, of the party, was entirely collected
in his thoughts, except Tom Draw, whom it is as impossible for
liquor to affect, as it would be for brandy to make a hogshead drunk,
and who stalked off to bed with an air of solemn gravity that would
have well become a Spanish grandee of the olden time, telling us,
as he left the room, that we were all as drunk as h—l, and that we
should be stinkin in our beds till noon to-morrow.
A prediction, by the way, which he took right good care to defeat
in his own person; for, in less than five hours after we retired,
which was about the first of the small hours, he rushed into my
room, and finding that the awful noises, which he made, had no
effect in waking me, dragged me bodily out of bed, and clapping
my wet sponge in my face, walked off, as he said, to fetch the bitters,
which were to make me as fine as silk upon the instant.
This time, I must confess that I did not look with quite so much
disgust on the old apple-jack; and in fact, after a moderate horn, I
completed my ablutions, and found myself perfectly fresh and ready
for the field. Breakfast was soon despatched, and on this occasion
as soon as we had got through the broiled ham and eggs, the wagon
made its appearance at the door.
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“What's this, Harry,” I exclaimed, “where are we bound for,
now?”
“Why, Master Frank,” he answered, “to tell you the plain
truth, while you were sleeping off the effects of the last night's re-gent's
punch, I was on foot inquiring into the state of matters and
things; and since we have pretty well exhausted our home beats,
and I have heard that some ground, about ten miles distant, is in
prime order, I have determined to take a try there; but we must
look pretty lively, for it is seven now, and we have got a drive of
ten stiff miles before us. Now, old Grampus, are you ready?”
“Aye! aye!” responded Tom, and mounted up, a work of no
small toil for him, into the back seat of the wagon, where I soon
took my seat beside him, with the two well-broke setters crouching
at our feet, and the three guns strapped neatly to the side rails of
the wagons. Harry next mounted the box. Tim touched his hat
and jumped up to his side, and off we rattled at a merry trot, wheeling
around the rival tavern which stood in close propinquity to
Tom's; then turning short again to the left hand, along a broken
stony road, with several high and long hills, and very awkward
bridges in the valleys, to the northwestward of the village.
Five miles brought us into a pretty little village lying at the
base of another ridge of what might almost be denominated mountains,
save that they were cultivated to the very top. As we paused
on the brow of this, another glorious valley spread out to our view,
with the broad sluggish waters of the Wallkill winding away, with
hardly any visible motion, toward the northeast, through a vast
tract of meadow-land covered with high, rank grass, dotted with
clumps of willows and alder brakes, and interspersed with large
deep swamps, thick-set with high grown timber; while far beyond
these, to the west, lay the tall variegated chain of the Shawangunk
mountains.
Rattling briskly down the hill, we passed another thriving village,
built on the mountain side; made two or three sharp ugly
turns, still going at a smashing pace, and coming on the level
ground, entered an extensive cedar swamp, impenetrable above
with the dark boughs of the evergreen colossi, and below with half
a dozen varieties of rhododendron, calmia, and azalia. Through
this dark dreary track, the road ran straight as the bird flies, supported
on the trunks of trees, constituting what is here called a
corduroy road; an article which, praise be to all the gods, is disappearing
now so rapidly, that this is the only bit to be found in
the civilized regions of New York—and bordered to the right and
left by ditches of black tenacious mire. Beyond this we scaled another
sandy hillock, and pulled up at a little wayside tavern, at the
door of which Harry set himself lustily to halloa.
“Why, John—hilloa, hillo—John Riker.”
Whereon, out came, stooping low to pass under the lintel of a
very fair sized door, one of the tallest men I ever looked upon; his
height, too, was exaggerated by the narrowness of his chest and
shoulders, which would have been rather small for a man of five foot
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seven; but to make up for this, his legs were monstrous, his arms
muscular, and his whole frame evidently powerful and athletic,
though his gait was slouching, and his air singularly awkward and
unhandy.
“Why, how do, Mr. Archer? I had n't heerd you was in these
pairts—arter woodcock, I reckon?”
“Yes, John, as usual; and you must go along with us, and show
us the best ground.”
“Well, you see, I carn't go to day—for Squire Breawn, and Dan
Faushea, and a whole grist of Goshen boys is comin' over to the
island here to fish; but you carn't well go wrong.”
“Why not—are birds plenty?”
“Well! I guess they be! Plentier than ever yet I see them
here.”
“By Jove! that's good news,” Harry answered; “where shall
we find the first?”
“Why, amost anywheres—but here, jist down by the first bridge,
there's a hull heap—leastwise there was a Friday—and then you'd
best go on to the second bridge, and keep the edge of the hill right
up and down to Merrit's Island; and then beat down here home to
the first bridge again. But won't you liquor?”
“No! not this morning, John; we did our liquoring last night.
Tom, do you hear what John says?”
“I hear, I hear,” growled out old Tom, “but the critter lies like
h—l. He always does lie, d—n him.”
“Well, here goes, and we'll soon see!”
And away we went again, spinning down a little descent, to a
flat space between the hill-foot and the river, having a thick tangled
swamp on the right, and a small boggy meadow full of grass,
breast-high, with a thin open alder grove beyond it on the left. Just
as we reached the bridge Harry pulled up.
“Jump out, boys, jump out! Here's the spot.”
“I tell you there aint none; d—n you! There aint none never
here, nor haint been these six years; you know that now, yourself,
Archer.”
“We'll try it, all the same,” said Harry, who was coolly loading
his gun. “The season has been wetter than common, and this
ground is generally too dry. Drive on, Tim, over the bridge, into
the hollow; you'll be out of shot there; and wait till we come.
Holloa! mark, Tom.”
For, as the wagon wheels rattled upon the bridge, up jumped a
cock out of the ditch by the road side, from under a willow brush,
and skimmed past all of us within five yards. Tom Draw and I,
who had got out after Harry, were but in the act of ramming down
our first barrels; but Harry, who had loaded one, and was at that
moment putting down the wad upon the second, dropped his ramrod
with the most perfect sang-froid I ever witnessed, took a cap
out of his right-hand pocket, applied it to the cone, and pitching up
his gun, knocked down the bird as it wheeled to cross the road behind
us, by the cleverest shot possible.
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“That's pretty well for no birds, anyhow, Tom,” he exclaimed,
dropping his butt to load. “Go and gather that bird, Frank, to save
time; he lies in the wagon rut, there. How now? down charge,
you Chase, sir! what are you about?”
The bird was quickly bagged, and Harry loaded. We stepped
across a dry ditch, and both dogs made game at the same instant.
“Follow the red dog, Frank!” cried Archer, “and go very slow;
there are birds here!”
And as he spoke, while the dogs were crawling along, cat-like,
pointing at every step, and then again creeping onward, up skirred
two birds under the very nose of the white setter, and crossed quite
to the left of Harry. I saw him raise his gun, but that was all;
for at the self-same moment one rose to me, and my ear caught the
flap of yet another to my right; five barrels were discharged so
quickly that they made but three reports; I cut my bird well down,
and looking quickly to the left, saw nothing but a stream of feathers
drifting along the wind. At the same time old Tom shouted on
the right—
“I have killed two, by George! What have you done, boys?”
“Two, I!” said Archer. “Wait, Frank, do n't you begin to
load till one of us is ready; there'll be another cock up, like enough.
Keep your barrel; I'll be ready in a jiffy!”
And well it was that I obeyed him, for at the squeak of the card,
in its descent down his barrel, another bird did rise, and was making
off for the open alders, when my whole charge riddled him;
and instantly at the report three more flapped up, and of course
went off unharmed; but we marked them, one by one, down in the
grass at the wood edge. Harry loaded again. We set off to pick
up our dead birds. Shot drew, as I thought, on my first, and pointed
dead within a yard of where he fell. I walked up carelessly, with
my gun under my arm, and was actually stooping to bag him, as I
thought, when whiz! one rose almost in my face; and, bothered
by seeing us all around him, towered straight up into the air.
Taken completely by surprise, I blazed away in a hurry, and
missed clean; but not five yards did he go, before Tom cut him
down.
“Aha! boy! whose eye's wiped now?”
“Mine, Tom, very fairly; but can that be the same cock I
knocked down, Archer?”
“Not a bit of it; I saw your's fall dead as a stone; he lies half a
yard farther in that tussoc.”
“How the deuce did you see him? Why you were shooting
your own at the same moment.”
“All knack, Frank; I marked both my own and yours, and one
of Tom's beside. Are you ready? Hold up, Shot! There! he
has got your dead bird! Was not I right? And look to! for, by
Jove! he is standing on another, with the dead bird in his mouth!
That's pretty, is it not?”
Again two rose, and both were killed; one by Tom, and one by
Archer; my gun hanging fire.
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“That's nine birds down before we have bagged one,” said
Archer; “I hope no more will rise, or we'll be losing these.”
But this time his hopes were not destined to meet accomplishment,
for seven more woodcock got up, five of which were scattered
in the grass around us, wing-broken or dead, before we had even
bagged the bird which Shot was gently mouthing.
“I never saw any thing like this in my life, Tom! Did you?”
cried Harry.
“I never did, by George!” responded Tom. “Now do you think
there's any three men to be found in York, such darned etarnal
fools as to be willing to shoot a match agin us?”
“To be sure I do, lots of them; and to beat us too, to boot, you
stupid old porpoise. Why, there's Harry T—, and Nick
L—, and a dozen more of them, that you and I would have no
more chance with, than a gallon of brandy would have of escaping
from you at a single sitting. But we have shot pretty well to-day.
Now do, for heaven's sake, let us try to bag them!”
And scattered though they were in all directions, among the
most infernal tangled grass I ever stood on, those excellent dogs
retrieved them one by one, till every bird was pocketed. We
then beat on and swept the rest of the meadow, and the outer verge
of the alders, picking up three more birds, making a total of seventeen
brought to bag in less than half an hour. We then proceeded
to the wagon, took a good pull of water from a beautiful clear
spring by the road-side, properly qualified with whiskey, and rattled
on about one mile farther to the second bridge. Here we again
got out.
“Now, Tim,” said Harry, “mark me well! Drive gently to the
old barrack yonder under the west end of that woodside, unhitch
the horses and tie them in the shade; you can give them a bite of
meadow hay at the same time; and then get luncheon ready. We
shall be with you by two o'clock at farthest.”
“Ay! ay! sur!”
And off he drove at a steady pace, while we, striking into the
meadow, to the left hand of the road, went along getting sport such
as I never beheld, or even dreamed of before. For about five hundred
yards in width from the stream, the ground was soft and miry
to the depth of some four inches, with long sword grass quite knee-deep,
and at every fifty yards a bunch of willows or swamp alders.
In every clump of bushes we found from three to five birds, and as
the shooting was for the most part very open, we rendered on the
whole a good account of them. The dogs throughout behaved
superbly, and Tom was altogether frantic with the excitement of
the sport. The time seemed short indeed, and I could not for a
moment have imagined that it was even noon, when we reached
the barrack.
This was a hut of rude unplaned boards, which had been put up
formerly with the intent of furnishing a permanent abode for some
laboring men, but which, having been long deserted, was now used
only as a temporary shelter by charcoal burners, hay-makers, or like
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ourselves, stray sportsmen. It was, however, though rudely built,
and fallen considerably into decay, perfectly beautiful from its romantic
site; for it stood just at the end of a long tangled covert,
with a huge pin oak tree, leaning abruptly out from an almost precipitous
bank of yellow sand, completely canopying it; while from
a crevice in the sand-stone there welled out a little source of crystal
water, which expanded into as sweet a basin as ever served a Dryad
for her bath in Arcady, of old.
Before it stretched the wide sweep of meadow land, with the
broad blue Wallkill gliding through it, fringed by a skirt of coppice,
and the high mountains, veiled with a soft autumnal mist,
sleeping beyond, robed in their many-colored garb of crimson, gold,
and green. Beside the spring the indefatigable Tim had kindled
a bright glancing fire, while in the basin were cooling two long-necked
bottles of the Baron's best; a clean white cloth was spread
in the shade before the barrack door, with plates and cups, and
bread cut duly, and a travelling case of cruets, with all the other
appurtenances needful.
On our appearance he commenced rooting in a heap of embers,
and soon produced six nondescript looking articles enclosed—as
they dress maintenon cutlets or red mullet—in double sheets of
greasy letter paper—these he incontinently dished, and to my huge
astonishment they turned out to be three couple of our woodcock,
which that indefatigable varlet had picked, and baked under the
ashes, according to some strange idea, whether original, or borrowed
at second hand from his master, I never was enabled to ascertain.
The man, be he whom he may, who invented that plat, is second
neither to Caramel nor to Ude—the exquisite juicy tenderness of
the meat, the preservation of the gravy, the richness of the trail—
by heaven! they were inimitable.
In that sweet spot we loitered a full hour—then counted our bag,
which amounted already to fifty-nine cock, not including those with
which Tim's gastronomic art had spread for us a table in the wilderness—
then leaving him to pack up and meet us at the spot
where we first started, we struck down the stream homeward,
shooting our way along a strip of coppice about ten yards in breadth,
bounded on one side by the dry bare bank of the river, and on the
other by the open meadows. We of course kept the verges of this
covert, our dogs working down the middle, and so well did we
manage it, that when we reached the wagon, just as the sun was
setting, we numbered a hundred and twenty-five birds bagged, besides
two which were so cut by the shot as to be useless, six which
we had devoured, and four or five which we lost in spite of the excellence
of our retrievers. When we got home again, although
the Dutchman was on the spot, promising us a quarter race upon the
morrow, and pressing earnestly for a rubber to-night, we were too
much used up to think of any thing but a good supper and an early
bed.
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Our last day's shooting in the vale of Sugar-loaf was over; and,
something contrary to Harry's first intention, we had decided, instead
of striking westward into Sullivan or Ulster, to drive five
miles upon our homeward route, and beat the Long-pond mountain—
not now for such small game as woodcock, quail, or partridge;
but for a herd of deer, which, although now but rarely found along
the western hills, was said to have been seen already several times,
to the number of six or seven head, in a small cove, or hollow basin,
close to the summit of the Bellevale ridge.
As it was not of course our plan to return again to Tom Draw's,
every thing was now carefully and neatly packed away; the game,
of which we had indeed a goodly stock, was produced from Tom's
ice-house, where, suspended from the rafters, it had been kept
as sound and fresh as though it had been all killed only on the
preceding day.
A long deep box, fitting beneath the gun-case under the front
seat, was now produced, and proved to be another of Harry's notable
inventions; for it was lined throughout, lid, bottom, sides and
all, with zine, and in the centre had a well or small compartment of
the same material, with a raised grating in the bottom. This well
was forthwith lined with a square yard, or rather more, of flannel,
into which was heaped a quantity of ice pounded as fine as possible,
sufficient to cram it absolutely to the top; the rest of the box was
then filled with the birds, displayed in regular rows, with heads
and tails alternating, and a thin coat of clean dry wheaten straw
between each layer, until but a few inches' depth remained between
the noble pile and the lid of this extempore refrigerator; this space
being filled in with flannel packed close and folded tightly, the box
was locked and thrust into the accurately fitting boot by dint of the
exertion of Timothy's whole strength.
“There, Frank,” cried Harry, who had superintended the storage
of the whole with nice scrutiny, “those chaps will keep there as
sound as roaches, till we get to young Tom's at Ramapo; you cannot
think what work I had, trying in vain to save them, before I hit
upon this method; I tried hops, which I have known in England to
keep birds in an extraordinary manner—for, what you'll scarce believe,
I once ate at Ptarmigan, the day year after it was killed,
which had been packed with hops, in perfect preservation, at
Farnley, Mr. Fawke's place in Yorkshire!—and I tried prepared
charcoal, and got my woodcock, down to New York, looking like
chimney sweeps, and smelling—”
“What the h—ll difference does it make to you now, Archer,
I'd be pleased to know?” interposed Tom; “what under heaven
they smells like—a man that eats cock with their guts in, like
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you does, need'nt stick now, I reckon, for a leetle mite of a
stink!”
“Shut up, you old villain,” answered Harry, laughing, “bring
the milk punch, and get your great coat on, if you mean to go
with us; for it's quite keen this morning, I can tell you; and we
must be stirring too, for the sun will be up before we get to
Teachman's. Now, Jem, get out the hounds; how do you take
them, Tom?”
“Why, that d—d Injun, Jem, he 'll take them in my lumber
wagon—and, I say, Jem, see that you don't over-drive old roan—
away with you, and rouse up Garry, he means to go, I guess?”
After a mighty round of punch, in which, as we were now departing,
one half at least of the village joined, we all got under
way; Tom, buttoned up to the throat in a huge white lion skin
wrap-rascal, looking for all the world like a polar bear erect on its
hind legs; and all of us muffled up pretty snugly, a proceeding
which was rendered necessary by a brisk bracing northwest
breeze.
The sky, though it was scarcely the first twilight of an autumnal
dawn, was beautifully clear, and as transparent—though still somewhat
dusky—as a wide sheet of crystal; a few pale stars were
twinkling here and there; but in the east a broad gray streak
changing on the horizon's edge to a faint straw color, announced
the sun's approach.
The whole face of the country, hill, vale, and woodland, was
overspread by an universal coat of silvery hoar-frost; thin wreaths
of snowy mist rising above the tops of the sere woodlands, throughout
the whole length of the lovely vale, indicated as clearly as
though it were traced on a map, the direction of the stream that
watered it; and as we paused upon the brow of the first hillock,
and looked back toward the village, with its white steeples and
neat cottage dwellings buried in the still repose of that early hour,
with only one or two faint columns of blue smoke worming their
way up lazily into the cloudless atmosphere, a feeling of regret—
such as has often crossed my mind before, when leaving any place
wherein I have spent a few days happily, and which I never may
see more—rendered me somewhat indisposed to talk.
Something or other—it might with Harry, perhaps, have been a
similar train of thought—caused both my comrades to be more taciturn
by far than was their wont; and we had rattled over five miles
of our route, and scaled the first ridge of the hills, and dived into
the wide ravine; midway the depth of this the pretty village of
Bellevale lies on the brink of the dammed rivulet, which, a few
yards below the neat stone bridge, takes a precipitous leap of fifty
feet, over a rustic wier, and rushes onward, bounding from ledge
to ledge of rifted rocks, chafing and fretting as if it were doing a
match against time, and were in danger of losing its race.
Thus we had passed the heavy lumber wagon, with Jem and
Garry perched on a board laid across it, and the four couple of
stanch hounds nestling in the straw which Tom had provided in
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[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
abundance for their comfort, before the silence was broken by any
sounds except the rattle of the wheels, the occasional interjectional
whistle of Harry to his horses, or the flip of the well handled
whip.
Just, however, as we were shooting ahead of the lumber wain,
an exclamation from Tom Draw, which should have been a sentence,
had it not been very abruptly terminated in a long rattling
eructation, arrested Archer's progress.
Pulling short up where a jog across the road, constructed—after
the damnable mode adopted in all the hilly portions of the interior—
in order to prevent the heavy rains from channelling the descent,
afforded him a chance of stopping on the hill, so as to slack his
traces. “How now,” he exclaimed; “what the deuce ails you
now, you old rhinoceros?”
“Oh, Archer, I feels bad; worst sort, by Judas! It's that milk
punch, I reckon; it keeps a raising—raising, all the time, like—”
“And you want to lay it, I suppose, like a ghost, in a sea of
whiskey; well, I've no especial objection! Here, Tim, hand the
case bottle, and the dram cup! No! no! confound you, pass it this
way first, for if Tom once gets hold of it, we may say good-bye to
it altogether. There,” he continued, after we had both taken a moderate
sip at the superb old Ferintosh, “there, now, take your
chance at it, and for Heaven's sake do leave a drop for Jem and
Garry; by George now, you shall not drink it all!” as Tom poured
down the third cup full, each being as big as an ordinary beer-glass.
“There was above a pint and a half in it when you began,
and now there's barely one cup-full between the two of them.
An't you ashamed of yourself now, you greedy old devil?”
“It doos go right, I swon!” was the only reply that could be got
out of him.
“That's more a plaguy sight than the bullets will do, out
of your old tower musket; you're so drunk now, I fancy, that you
couldn't hold it straight enough to hit a deer at three rods, let
alone thirty, which you are so fond of chattering about.”
“Do tell now,” replied Tom, “did you, or any other feller, ever
see me shoot the worser for a mite of liquor, and as for deer,
that's all a no sich thing: there arnt no deer a this side of Duck-seedar's.
It's all a lie of Teachman's and that Deckering son of a
gun.”
“Holloa! hold up, Tom—recollect yesterday!—I thought there
had been no cock down by the first bridge there, these six years;
why you're getting quite stupid, and a croaker too, in your old
age.”
“Mayhap I be,” he answered rather gruffly; “mayhap I be,
but you won't git no deer to-day, I'll stand drinks for the company;
and if we doos start one' I'll lay on my own musket agin
your rifle.”
Well! we'll soon see, for here we are,” Harry replied, as after
leaving the high-road just at the summit of the Bellevale mountain,
he rattled down a very broken rutty bye-road at the rate of at least
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eight miles an hour, vastly to the discomfiture of our fat host,
whose fleshy sides were jolted almost out of their skin by the concussion
of the wheels against the many stones and jogs which opposed
their progress.
“Here we are, or at least soon will be. It is but a short half
mile through these woods to Teachman's cottage. Is there a gun
loaded, Tim? It's ten to one we shall have a partridge fluttering
up and treeing here directly; I'll let the dogs out—get away Flash!
get away Dan! you little rascals. Jump out, good dogs, Shot,
Chase—hie up with you!” and out they went rattling and scrambling
through the brush-wood all four abreast!
At the same moment Tim, leaning over into the body of the
wagon, lugged out a brace of guns from their leathern cases; Harry's
short ounce ball rifle, and the long single barrelled duck gun.
“'T roifle is loaden wi a single ball, and 't single goon wi' yan of
them green cartridges!”
“Much good ball and buck-shot will do us against partridge;
nevertheless, if one trees, I'll try if I can't cut his head off for him,”
said Archer, laughing.
“Nay! nay! it be-ant book-shot; it's no but noomber three; tak'
haud on 't, Measter Draa, tak' haud on 't. It's no hoort thee,
mon, and 't horses boath stand foire cannily!”
Scarce had Fat Tom obeyed his imperative solicitations, and
scarce had Tim taken hold of the ribbands which Harry relinquished
the moment he got the rifle into his hands, before a most
extraordinary hubbub arose in the little skirt of coppice to our left;
the spaniels quested for a second's space at the utmost, when a tremendons
crash of the branches arose, and both the setters gave
tongue furiously with a quick savage yell.
The road at this point of the wood made a short and very sudden
angle, so as to enclose a small point of extremely dense thicket between
its two branches; on one of these was our wagon, and down
the other the lumber-wain was rumbling, at the moment when this
strange and most unexpected outcry started us all.
“What in t' fient's neam is you?” cried Timothy.
“And what the devil's that?” responded I and Archer in a
breath.
But whatever it was that had aroused the dogs to such a most
unusual pitch of fury, it went crashing through the brush-wood for
some five or six strokes at a fearful rate toward the other wagon;
before, however, it had reached the road, a most appalling shout
from Jem, followed upon the instant by the blended voices of
all the hounds opening at once, as on a view, excited us yet
farther!
I was still tugging at my double gun, in the vain hope of getting
it out time enough for action. Tom had scrambled out of the
wagon on the first alarm, and stood eye, ear, and heart erect, by
the off side of the horses, which were very restless, pawing, and
plunging violently, and almost defying Timothy's best skill to hold
them; while Harry, having cast off his box-coat, stood firm and
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upright on the foot board as a carved statue, with his rifle cocked
and ready; when, headed back upon us by the yell of Lyn and the
loud clamor of his fresh foes, the first buck I had seen in America,
and the largest I had seen any where, dashed at a single plunge
into the road, clearing the green head of a fallen hemlock, apparently
without an effort, his splendid antlers laid back on his neck,
and his white flag lashing his fair round haunch as the fleet bitches
Bonny Belle and Blossom yelled with their shrill fierce trebles close
behind him.
Seeing that it was useless to persist in my endeavor to extricate
my gun, and satisfied that the matter was in good hands, I was
content to look on, an inactive but most eager witness.
Tom, who from his position at the head of the off horse, commanded
the first view of the splendld creature, pitched his gun to
his shoulder hastily and fired; the smoke drifted across my face,
but through its vapory folds I could distinguish the dim figure of
the noble hart still bounding unhurt onward; but, before the first
echo of the round ringing report of Tom's shot-gun reached my
ear, the sharp flat crack of Harry's rifle followed it, and at the self-same
instant the buck sprang six feet into the air, and pitched head
foremost on the ground; it was but for a moment, however, for
with the speed of light he struggled to his feet, and though sore
wounded, was yet toiling onward when the two English foxhounds
dashed at his throat and pulled him down again.
“Run in, Tom, run in! quick,” shouted Harry, “he's not clean
killed, and may gore the dogs sadly!”
“I've got no knife,” responded Tom, but dauntlessly he dashed in,
all the same, to the rescue of the bitches—which I believe he loved
almost as well as his own children—and though, encumbered by
his ponderous white top-coat, not to say by his two hundred and
fifty weight of solid flesh, seized the fierce animal by the brow-antlers,
and bore him to the ground, before Harry, who had leaped
out of the wagon, with his first words, could reach him.
The next moment the keen short hunting knife, without which
Archer never takes the field, had severed at a single stroke the
weasand of the gallant brute; the black blood streamed out on the
smoking hoar-frost, the full eyes glazed, and, after one sharp fluttering
struggle, the life departed from those graceful limbs, which
had been but a few short instants previous so full of glorious energy—
of fiery vigor.
“Well, that's the strangest thing I ever heard of, let alone seeing,”
exclaimed Archer, “fancy a buck like that lying in such a
mere fringe of coppice, and so near to the road-side, too! and why
the deuce did he lay here till we almost passed him!”
“I know how it's been, any heaw,” said Jem, who had by this
time come up, and was looking on with much exultation flashing in
his keen small eye. “Bill Speer up on the hill there telled me jist
now, that they druv a big deer down from the back-bone clear down
to this here hollow just above, last night arter dark. Bill shot at
him, and kind o' reckoned he hot him—but I guess he 's mistaken
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—leastwise he jumped strong enough jist neaw!—but which on you
was 't 'at killed him?”
“I did,” exclaimed Tom, “I did by —!”
“Why you most impudent of all old liars,” replied Harry—while
at the same time, with a most prodigious chuckle, Tim Matlock
pointed to the white bark of a birch sapling, about the thickness of
a man's thigh, standing at somewhat less than fifteen paces' distance,
wherein the large shot contained by the wire cartridge—the best
sporting invention by the way, that has been made since percussion
caps—had bedded themselves in a black circle, cut an inch at least
into the solid wood, and about two inches in diameter!
“I ken gay and fairly,” exclaimed Tim, “'at Ay rammed an
Eley's patent cartridge into 't single goon this morning; and yonder
is 't i' t' birk tree, an Ay ken a load o' shot frae an unce
bullet!”
The laugh was general now against fat Tom; especially as the
small wound made by the heavy ball of Harry's rifle was plainly
visible, about a hand's breadth behind the heart, on the side toward
which he had aimed; while the lead had passed directly through,
in an oblique direction forward, breaking the left shoulder blade,
and lodging just beneath the skin, whence a touch of the knife dislodged
it.
“What now—what now, boys?” cried the old sinner, no whit
disconcerted by the general mirth against him. “I say, by gin! I
killed him, and I say so yet. Which on ye all—which on ye all
daared to go in on him, without a knife nor nothen. I killed him,
I say, anyhow, and so let's drink!”
“Well, I believe we must wet him,” Harry answered, “so get
out another flask of whiskey, Tim; and you Jem and Garry lend
me a hand to lift this fine chap into the wagon. By Jove! but this
will make the Teachmans open their eyes; and now look sharp!
You sent the Teachmans word that we were coming, Tom?”
“Sartin! and they've got breakfast ready long enough before
this, anyways.”
With no more of delay, but with lots more of merriment and
shouting, on we drove; and in five minutes' space, just as the sun
was rising, reached the small rude enclosure around two or three
log huts, lying just on the verge of the beautiful clear lake. Two
long sharp boats, and a canoe scooped out of a whole tree, were
drawn up on the sandy beach; a fishing net of many yards in length
was drying on the rails; a brace of large, strong, black and tan
foxhounds were lying on the step before the door; a dozen mongrel
geese, with one wing-tipped wild one among them, were sauntering
and gabbling about the narrow yard; and a glorious white-headed
fishing eagle, with a clipped wing, but otherwise at large,
was perched upon the roof hard by the chimney.
At the rattle of our arrival, out came from the larger of the cottages,
three tall rough-looking countrymen to greet us, not one of
whom stood less than six foot in his stockings, while two were
several inches taller.
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Great was their wonder, and loud were their congratulations
when they beheld the unexpected prize which we had gained, while
on our route; but little space was given at that time to either; for
the coffee, which, by the way, was poor enough, and the hot cakes
and fried perch, which were capital, and the grilled salt pork, swimming
in fat, and the large mealy potatoes bursting through their
brown skins, were ready smoking upon a rough wooden board,
covered, however, by a clean white table cloth, beside a sparkling
fire of wood, which our drive through the brisk mountain air had
rendered by no means unacceptable.
We breakfasted like hungry men and hunters, both rapidly and
well; and before half an hour elapsed, Archer, with Jem and one
of our bold hosts, started away, well provided with powder, ball,
and whiskey, and accompanied by all the hounds, to make a circuit
of the western hill, on the summit of which they expected to
be joined by two or three more of the neighbors, whence they proposed
to drive the whole sweep of the forest-clad descent down to
the water's edge.
Tim was enjoined to see to the provisions, and to provide as good
a dinner as his best gastronomic skill and the contents of our portable
larder might afford, and I was put under the charge of Tom,
who seemed, for about an hour, disposed to do nothing but to lie
dozing, with a cigar in his mouth, stretched upon the broad of his
back, on a bank facing the early sunshine just without the door;
while our hosts were collecting bait, preparing fishing tackle, and
cleaning or repairing their huge clumsy muskets. At length, when
the drivers had been gone already for considerably more than an
hour, he got up and shook himself.
“Now, then, boys,” he exclaimed, “we'll be a movin. You Joe
Teachman, what are you lazin there about, d—n you? You go
with Mr. Forester and Garry in the big boat, and pull as fast as you
can put your oars to water, till you git opposite the white-stone
pint—and there lie still as fishes! You may fish, though, if you
will, Forester,” he added, turning to me, “and I do reckon the big
yellow pearch will bite the darndest, this cold morning, arter the
sun gits fairly up—but soon as ever you hear the hounds holler, or
one of them chaps shoot, then look you out right stret away for business!
Cale, here, and I'll take the small boat, and keep in sight
of you; and so we can kiver all this eend of the pond like, if the
deer tries to cross hereaways. How long is 't, Cale, since we had
six on them all at once in the water—six—seven—eight! well, I
swon, it's ten years agone now! But come, we mus'nt stand here
talkin, else we'll get a dammin when they drives down a buck into
the pond, and none of us in there to tackle with him!”
So without more ado, we got into our boats, disposed our guns,
with the stocks toward us in the bows, laid in our stock of tinder,
pipes, and liquor, and rowed off merrily to our appointed stations.
Never, in the whole course of my life, has it been my fortune to
look upon more lovely scenery than I beheld that morning. The
long narrow winding lake, lying as pure as crystal beneath the
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liquid skies, reflecting, with the correctness of the most perfect
mirror, the abrupt and broken hills, which sank down so precipitously
into it—clad as they were in foliage of every gorgeous dye,
with which the autumn of America loves to enhance the beauty of
her forest pictures—that, could they find their way into its mountain-girdled
basin, ships of large burthen might lie afloat within a
stone's throw of the shore—the slopes of the wood-covered knolls,
here brown, or golden, and interspersed with the rich crimson of
the faded maples, there verdant with the evergreen leaves of the
pine and cedar—and the far azure summits of the most distant
peaks, all steeped in the serene and glowing sunshine of an October
morning.
For hours we lay there, our little vessel floating as the occasional
breath of a sudden breeze, curling the lake into sparkling
wavelets, chose to direct our course, smoking our cigars, and chatting
cozily, and now and then pulling up a great broad-backed yellow
bass, whose flapping would for a time disturb the peaceful
silence, which reigned over wood, and dale, and water, quite unbroken
save by the chance clamor of a passing crow—yet not a
sound betokening the approach of our drivers had reached our
ears.
Suddenly, when the sun had long passed his meridian height,
and was declining rapidly toward the horizon, the full round shot
of a musket rang from the mountain top, followed immediately by
a sharp yell, and in an instant the whole basin of the lake was filled
with the harmonious discord of the hounds.
I could distinguish on the moment the clear sharp challenge of
Harry's high-bred foxhounds, the deep bass voices of the Southern
dogs, and the untamable and cur-like yelping of the dogs which the
Teachmans had taken with them.
Ten minutes passed full of anxiety, almost of fear.
We knew not as yet whither to turn our boats' head, for every
second the course of the hounds seemed to vary, at one instant they
would appear to be rushing directly down to us, and the next instant
they would turn as though they were going up the hill again.
Meantime our beaters were not idle—their stirring shouts, serving
alike to animate the hounds and to force the deer to water, made
rock and wood reply in cheery echoes; but, to my wonder, I caught
not for a long time one note of Harry's gladsome voice.
At length, as I strained my eyes against the broad hill-side, gilt
by the rays of the declining sun, I caught a glimpse of his form
running at a tremendous pace, bounding over stock and stone, and
plunging through dense thickets, on a portion of the declivity where
the tall trees had a few years before been destroyed by accidental
fire.
At this moment the hounds were running, to judge from their
tongues, parallel to the lake and to the line which he was running—
the next minute, with a redoubled clamor, they turned directly
down to him. I lost sight of him. But half a minute afterward,
the sharp crack of his rifle again rang upon the air, followed by a
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triumphant “Whoop! who-whoop!” and then, I knew, another
stag had fallen.
The beaters on the hill shouted again louder and louder than before—
and the hounds still raved on. By heaven! but there must
be a herd of them a-foot! And now the pack divides! The English
hounds are bringing their game down—here—by the Lord!
just here—right in our very faces! The Southrons have borne
away over the shoulder of the hill, still running hot and hard in
Jolly Tom's direction.
“By heaven!” I cried, “look, Teachman! Garry, look! There!
See you not that noble buck?—he leaped that sumach bush like a
race-horse! and see! see! now he will take the water. Bad luck
on it! he sees us, and heads back!”
Again the fleet hounds rally in his rear, and chide till earth and
air are vocal and harmonious. Hark! hark! how Archer's cheers
ring on the wind! Now he turns once again—he nears the edge—
how glorious! with what a beautiful bold bound he leaped from
that high bluff into the flashing wave! with what a majesty he
tossed his antlered head above the spray! with how magnificent
and brave a stroke he breasts the curling billows!
“Give way! my men, give way!”
How the frail bark creaks and groans as we ply the long oars in
the rullocks—how the ash bends in our sturdy grasp—how the boat
springs beneath their impulse.
“Together, boys! together! now—now we gain—now, Garry,
lay your oar aside—up with your musket—now you are near
enough—give it to him, in heaven's name! a good shot, too! the
bullet ricochetted from the lake scarcely six inches from his nose!
Give way again—it's my shot now!”
And lifting my Joe Manton, each barrel loaded with a bullet
carefully wadded with greased buckskin, I took a careful aim and
fired.
“That's it,” cried Garry; “well done, Forester—right through
the head, by George!”
And, as he spoke, I fancied for a moment he was right. The
noble buck plunged half his height out of the bright blue water,
shaking his head as if in the death agony, but the next instant he
stretched out again with vigor unimpaired, and I could see that my
ball had only knocked a tine off his left antler.
My second barrel still remained, and without lowering the gun,
I drew my second trigger. Again a fierce plunge told that the
ball had not erred widely; and this time, when he again sank into
his wonted posture, the deep crimson dye that tinged the foam
which curled about his graceful neck, as he still struggled, feebly
fleet, before his unrelenting foes, gave token of a deadly wound.
Six more strokes of the bending oars—we shot alongside—a
noose of rope was cast across his branching tines, the keen knife
flashed across his throat, and all was over! We towed him to the
shore, where Harry and his comrades were awaiting us with another
victim to his unerring aim. We took both bucks and all
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hands on board, pulled stoutly homeward, and found Tom lamenting.
Two deer, a buck of the first head, and a doe, had taken water
close beside him—he had missed his first shot, and in toiling over-hard
to recover lost ground, had broken his oar, and been compelled
inactively to witness their escape.
Three fat bucks made the total of the day's sport—not one of
which had fallen to Tom's boasted musket.
It needed all that Tim's best dinner, with lots of champagne and
Ferintosh, could do to restore the fat chap's equanimity; but he at
last consoled himself, as we threw ourselves on the lowly beds of
the log hut, by swearing that by the etarnal devil he 'd beat us both
at partridges to-morrow.
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The sun rose broad and bright in a firmament of that most brilliant
and transparent blue, which I have witnessed in no other
country than America, so pure, so cloudless, so immeasurably distant
as it seems from the beholder's eye! There was not a speck
of cloud from east to west, from zenith to horizon; not a fleece of
vapor on the mountain sides; not a breath of air to ruffle the calm
basin of the Greenwood lake.
The rock-crowned, forest-mantled ridge, on the farther side of
the narrow sheet, was visible almost as distinctly through the medium
of the pure fresh atmosphere, as though it had been gazed at
through a telescope—the hues of the innumerable maples, in their
various stages of decay, purple, and crimson, and bright gorgeous
scarlet, were contrasted with the rich chrome yellow of the birch
and poplars, the sere red leaves of the gigantic oaks, and with the
ever verdant plumage of the junipers, clustered in massy patches on
every rocky promontory, and the tall spires of the dark pines and
hemlock.
Over this mass of many-colored foliage, the pale thin yellow light
of the new-risen sun was pouring down a flood of chaste illumination;
while, exhaled from the waters by his first beams, a silvery
gauze-like haze floated along the shores, not rising to the height of
ten feet from the limpid surface, which lay unbroken by the smallest
ripple, undisturbed by the slightest splash of fish or insect, as
still and tranquil to the eye as though it had been one huge plate
of beaten burnished silver; with the tall cones of the gorgeous
hills in all their rich variety, in all their clear minuteness, reflected,
summit downward, palpable as their reality, in that most perfect
mirror.
Such was the scene on which I gazed, as on the last day of our
sojourn in the Woodlands of fair Orange, I issued from the little
cabin, under the roof of which I had slept so dreamlessly and deep,
after the fierce excitement of our deer hunt, that while I was yet
slumbering, all save myself had risen, donned their accountrements,
and sallied forth—I knew not whither—leaving me certainly alone,
although as certainly not so much to my glory.
From the other cottage, as I stood upon the threshold, I might
hear the voices of the females, busy at their culinary labors, the
speedily approaching term of which was obviously denoted by the
rich savory steams which tainted—not, I confess, unpleasantly—the
fragrant morning air.
As I looked out upon this lovely morning, I did not—I acknowledge
it—regret the absence of my excellent though boisterous
companions; for there was something which I cannot define in the
deep stillness, in the sweet harmonious quiet of the whole scene
before me, that disposed my spirit to meditation far more than to
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mirth; the very smoke which rose from the low chimneys of the
Teachmans' colony—not surging to and fro, obedient to the fickle
winds—but soaring straight, tall, unbroken, upward, like Corinthian
columns, each with its curled capital—seemed to invite the soul of
the spectator to mount with it toward the sunny heavens.
By-and-bye I strayed downward to the beach, a narrow strip of
silvery sand and variegated pebbles, and stood there long, silently
watching the unknown sports, the seemingly—to us at least—unmeaning
movements, and strange groupings of the small fry, which
darted to and fro in the clear shallows within two yards of my feet;
or marking the brief circling ripples, wrought by the morning swallow's
wing, and momently subsiding into the wonted rest of the
calm lake.
How long I stood there musing, I know not, for I had fallen into
a train of thought so deep that I wa sutterly unconscious of everything
around me, when I was suddenly aroused from my reverie by
the quick dash of oars, and by a volley of some seven barrels discharged
in quick succession. As I looked up with an air, I presume,
somewhat bewildered, I heard the loud and bellowing laugh
of Tom, and saw the whole of our stout company gliding up in two
boats, the skiff and the canoe, toward the landing place, perhaps a
hundred yards from the spot where I stood.
“Come here, darn you,” were the first words I heard, from the
mouth of what speaker it need not be said—“come here, you lazy,
snortin, snoozin Decker—lend a hand here right stret away, will
you! We've got more perch than all of us can carry—and Archer's
got six wood-duck!”
Hurrying down in obedience to this unceremonious mandate, I
perceived that indeed their time had not been misemployed, for the
whole bottom of the larger boat was heaped with fish—the small
and delicate green perch, the cat-fish, hideous in its natural, but
most delicious in its artificial shape, and, above all, the large and
broad-backed yellow bass, from two to four pounds weight. While
Archer, who had gone forth with Garry only in the canoe, had
picked up half a dozen wood-duck, two or three of the large yellow-legs,
a little bittern, known by a far less elegant appellative
throughout the country, and thirteen English snipe.
“By Jove,” cried I, “but this is something like!—where the
deuce did you pick the snipe up, Harry—and above all, why the
deuce did you let me lie wallowing in bed this lovely morning?”
“One question at a time,” responded he, “good master Frank;
one question at a time! For the snipe, I found them very unexpectedly,
I tell you, in a bit of marshy meadow just at the outlet of
the pond. Garry was paddling me along at the top of his pace,
after a wing-tipped wood duck, when up jumped one of the long-billed
rascals, and had the impudence to skim across the creek under
my very nose—`skeap! skeap!' Well, I dropped him, you may
be sure, with a charge, too, of duck shot; and he fell some ten yards
over on the meadow; so leaving Garry to pursue the drake, I landed,
loaded my gun with No. 9, and went to work—the result as you
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see; but I cleared the meadow—devil a bird is left there, except
one I cut to pieces and could not find for want of Chase—two went
away without a shot, over the hills and far away! As for letting
you lie in bed, you must talk to Tom about it; I bid him call you,
and the fat rascal never did so, and never said a word about you,
till we were ready for a start, and then no master Frank was to
the fore.”
“Well, Tom,” cried I, “what have you got to say to this?”
“Now, cuss you, do n't come foolin' about me,” replied that
worthy, aiming a blow at me, which, had it taken place, might well
have felled Goliah; but which, as I sprang aside, wasting its energies
on the impassive air, had well nigh floored the striker. “Dont
you come foolin' about me—you knows right well I called you, and
you knows, too, you almost cried, and told me to clear out, and let
you git an hour's sleep! for by the Lord you thought Archer and I
was made of steel!—you could n't and you would n't—and now you
wants to know the reason why you warn't along with us!”
“Never mind the old thief, Frank,” said Archer, seeing that I
was on the point of answering, “even his own aunt says he is the
most notorious liar in all Orange County—and Heaven forbid we
should gainsay that most respectable old lady!”
Into what violent asseveration our host would have plunged at
this declaration, remains, like the tale of Cambuscan bold, veiled in
deep mystery; for as he started from the log on which he had been
reposing while in the act of unsplicing his bamboo fishing pole, the
elder of the Teachmans thrust his head out of the cabin nearest to
us—“Come, boys, to breakfast!”—and at the first word of his welcome
voice, Tom made, as he would have himself defined it, stret
tracks for the table. And a mighty different table it was from that
to which we had sat down on the preceding morning. Timothy—
unscared by the wonder of the mountain nymphs, who deemed a
being of the masculine gender as an intruder, scarce to be tolerated,
on the mysteries of the culinary art—had exerted his whole skill,
and brought forth all the contents of his canteen! We had a superb
steak of the fattest venison, graced by cranberries stewed with
cayenne pepper, and sliced lemons. A pot of excellent black tea,
almost as strong as the cognac which flanked it; a dish of beautiful
fried perch, with cream as thick as porridge, our own loaf sugar, and
Teachman's new laid eggs, hot wheaten cakes, and hissing rashers
of right tender pork, furnished a breakfast forth that might have
vied successfully with those which called forth, in the Hebrides,
such raptures from the lexicographer.
Breakfast despatched—for which, to say the truth, Harry gave
us but little time—we mustered our array and started; Harry and
Tom and I making one party, with the spaniels—Garry, the Teachmans,
and Timothy, with the setters, which would hunt very willingly
for him in Archer's absence, forming a second. It was scarce
eight o'clock when we went out, each on a separate beat, having
arranged our routes so as to meet at one o'clock in the great
swamp, said to abound, beyond all other places, in the ruffed grouse
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or partridge, to the pursuit of which especially we had devoted our
last day.
“Now, Frank,” said Harry, “you have done right well throughout
the week; and if you can stand this day's tramp, I will say for
you that you are a sportsman, aye, every inch of one. We have got
seven miles right hard walking over the roughest hills you ever
saw—the hardest moors of Yorkshire are nothing to them—before
we reach the swamp, and that you'll find a settler! Tom, here,
will keep along the bottoms, working his way as best he can;
while we make good the uplands! Are your flasks full?”
“Sartain, they are!” cried Tom—“and I've got a rousin big
black bottle, too—but not a drop of the old cider sperrits do you git
this day, boys; not if your thirsty throats were cracking for it!”
“Well! well! we won't bother you—you'll need it all, old porpoise,
before you get to the far end. Here, take a hard boiled egg
or two, Frank, and some salt, and I'll pocket a few biscuits—we
must depend on ourselves to-day!”
“Ay! ay! Sur,” chuckled Timothy, “there's naw Tim Matlock
to mak looncheon ready for ye a' the day. See thee, measter
Frank. Ay'se gotten 't measter's single barrel; and gin I dunna
ootshoot measter Draa—whoy Ay'se deny my coontry!”
“Most certainly you will deny it then, Tim,” answered I, “for
Mr. Draw shoots excellently well, and you—”
“And Ay'se shot mony a hare by 't braw moon, doon i' bonny
Cawoods. Ay'se beat, Ay'se oophaud[4] it!” So saying, he shouldered
the long single barrel, and paddled off with the most extraordinary
expedition after the Teachmans, who had already started,
leading the setters in a leash, till they were out of sight of
Archer.
“They have the longest way to go,” said Harry, “by a mile at
the least; so we have time for a cheroot before we three get under
way.'
Cigars were instantly produced and lighted, and we lounged
about the little court for the best part of half an hour, till the report
of a distant gunshot, ringing with almost innumerable reverberations
along the woodland shores, announced to us that our companions
had already got into their work.
“Here goes,” cried Harry, springing to his feet at once, and
grasping his good gun; “here goes—they have got into the long
hollow, Tom, and by the time we've crossed the ridge, and got upon
our ground, they'll be abreast of us.”
“Hold on! hold on!” Tom bellowed, “you are the darndest
critter, when you do git goin—now hold on, do—I wants some rum,
and Forester here looks a kind of white about the gills, his whatdye-call,
cheeroot, has made him sick, I reckon!”
Of course, with such an exhortation in our ears as this, it was impossible
to do otherwise than wet our whistles with one drop of the
old Ferintosh; and then, Tom having once again recovered his good
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humor, away we went, and “clombe the high hill,” though we
“swam not the deep river,” as merrily as ever sportsmen did, from
the days of Arbalast and Longbow, down to these times of Westley
Richards' caps and Eley's wire cartridges.
A tramp of fifteen minutes through some scrubby brushwood,
brought us to the base of a steep stony ridge covered with tall and
thrifty hickories and a few oaks and maples intermixed, rising so
steeply from the shore that it was necessary not only to strain every
nerve of the leg, but to swing our bodies up from tree to tree, by
dint of hand. It was indeed a hard and heavy tug; and I had
pretty tough work, what between the exertion of the ascent and
the incessant fits of laughter, into which I was thrown by the grotesquely
agile movements of fat Tom; who, grunting, panting,
sputtering, and launching forth from time to time the strangest and
most blasphemously horrid oaths, contrived to make way to the
summit faster than either of us—crashing through the dense underwood
of juniper and sumach, uprooting the oak saplings as he
swung from this to that, and spurning down huge stones upon
us, as we followed at a cautious distance. When we at last
crowned the ridge, we found him, just as Harry had predicted,
stretched in a half-recumbent attitude, leaning against a huge gray
stone, with his fur cap and double-barrel lying upon the withered
leaves beside him, puffing, as Archer told him, to his mighty indignation,
like a great grampus in shoal water.
After a little rest, however, Falstaff revived, though not before
he had imbibed about a pint of applejack, an occupation in which
he could not persuade either of us, this time, to join him. Descending
from our elevated perch, we now got into a deep glen, with a
small brooklet winding along the bottom, bordered on either hand
by a stripe of marshy bog earth, bearing a low growth of alder
bushes, mixed with stunted willows. On the side opposite to that
by which we had descended, the hill rose long and lofty, covered
with mighty timber-trees standing in open ranks and overshadowing
a rugged and unequal surface, covered with whortleberry, wintergreen,
and cranberries, the latter growing only along the courses
of the little runnels, which channelled the whole slope. Here,
stony ledges and gray broken crags peered through the underwood,
among the crevices of which the stunted cedars stood thick set, and
matted with a thousand creeping vines and brambles; while there,
from some small marshy basin, the giant Rhododendron Maximum
rose almost to the height of a timber tree.
“Here, Tom,” said Harry, “keep you along this run—you'll
have a woodcock every here and there, and look sharp when you
hear them fire over the ridge, for they can't shoot to speak of, and
the partridge will cross—you know. You, master Frank, stretch
your long legs and get three parts of the way up this hill—over the
second mound—there, do you see that great blue stone with a
thunder splintered tree beside it? just beyond that! then turn due
west, and mark the trending of the valley, keeping a little way
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ahead of me, which you will find quite easy, for I shall have to beat
across you both. Go very slow, Tom—now, hurrah!”
Exhorted thus, I bounded up the hill and soon reached my appointed
station; but not before I heard the cheery voice of Archer
encouraging the eager spaniels—“Hie cock! hie cock! pu-r-r-h!”—
till the woods rang to the clear shout!
Scarce had I reached the top, before, as I looked down into the
glen below me, a puff of white smoke, instantly succeeded by a
second, and the loud full reports of both his barrels from among the
green-leafed alders, showed me that Tom had sprung game. The
next second I heard the sharp questing of the spaniel Dan, followed
by Harry's—“Charge!—down Cha-arge, you little thief—down to
cha-arge, will you!”
But it was all in vain—for on he went furious and fast, and the
next moment the thick whirring of a partridge reached my excited
ears. Carefully, eagerly, I gazed out to mark the wary bird; but
the discharge of Harry's piece assured me, as I thought, that further
watch was needless; and stupidly enough I dropped the muzzle
of my gun.
Just at the self-same point of time—“Mark! mark, Frank!”
shouted Archer, “mark! there are a brace of them!”—and as he
spoke, gliding with speed scarcely inferior to a bullet's flight upon
their balanced pinions, the noble birds swept past me, so close that
I could have struck them with a riding whip.
Awfully fluttered was I—I confess—but by a species of involuntary
and instinctive consideration I rallied instantly, and became
cool. The grouse had seen me, and wheeled diverse; one darting
to the right, through a small opening between a cedar bush and a
tall hemlock—the other skimming through the open oak woods a
little toward the left.
At such a crisis thought comes in a second's space; and I have
often fancied that in times of emergency or great surprise, a man
deliberates more promptly, and more prudently withal, than when
he has full time to let his second thought trench on his first and mar
it. So was it in this case with me. At half a glance I saw, that if I
meant to get both birds, the right-hand fugitive must be the first,
and that with all due speed; for but a few yards further he would
have gained a brake which would have laughed to scorn Lord Kennedy
or Harry T—r.
Pitching my gun up to my shoulder, both barrels loaded with
Eley's red wire cartridge No. 6, I gave him a snap shot, and had
the satisfaction of seeing him keeled well over, not wing-tipped or
leg-broken, but fairly riddled by the concentrated charge of something
within thirty yards. Turning as quick as light, I caught a
fleet sight of the other, which by a rapid zig-zag was now flying
full across my front, certainly over forty-five yards distant, among
a growth of thick-set sapplings—the hardest shot, in my opinion,
that can be selected to test a quick and steady sportsman. I gave it
him, and down he came too—killed dead—that I knew, for I had
shot full half a yard before him. Just as I dropped by butt to load,
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the hill began to echo with the vociferous yells of master Dan, the
quick redoubled cracks of Harry's heavy dog-whip, and his incessant
rating—`Down, cha-arge! For sha-ame! Dan! Dan! down
cha-arge! for sha-ame!”—broken at times by the impatient oaths of
Tom Draw, in the gulley, who had, it seems, knocked down two
woodcock, neither of which he could bag, owing to the depth and
instability of the wet bog!
“Quit! quit! d—n you, quit there, leatherin that brute! Quit,
I say, or I'll send a shot at you! Come here, Archer—I say, come
here!—there be the darndest lot of droppins here, I ever see—full
twenty cock, I swon!”
But still the scourge continued to resound, and still the raving of
the spaniel excited Tom's hot ire.
“Frank Forester!” exclaimed he once again. “Do see now—
Harry missed them partridge, and so he licks the poor dumb brute
for it. I wish I were a spannel, and he'd try it on with me!”
“I will, too,” answered Archer, with a laugh; “I will, too, if
you wish it, though you are not a spaniel, nor any thing else half
so good. And why, pray, should I not scourge this wild little imp!
he ran slap into the best pack of partridge I have seen this two
years—fifteen or sixteen birds. I wonder they're not scattered—
it's full late to find them packed!”
“Did you kill ere a one?” Tom holloaed; “not one, either of
you!”
“I did,” answered Harry, “I nailed the old cock bird, and a
rare dog he is!—two pounds, good weight, I warrant him,” he
added, weighing him as he spoke. “Look at the crimson round
his eye, Frank, like a cock pheasant's, and his black ruff or
tippet—by George! but he's a beauty! And what did you do?”
he continued.
“I bagged a brace—the only two that crossed me.”
“Did you, though?” exclaimed Archer, with no small expression
of surprise; “did you, though?—that's prime work—it takes a
thorough workman to bag a double shot upon October partridge!
But come, we must go down to Tom; hark how the old hound keeps
bawling!”
Well, down we went. The spaniels quickly retrieved his dead
birds, and flushed some fifteen more, of which we gave a clean account—
Harry making up for lost time by killing six cock, right and
left, almost before they topped the bushes—seven more fell to me,
but single birds all of them—and but one brace to Tom, who now
began to wax indignant; for Archer, as I saw, for fun's sake, was
making it a point to cut down every bird that rose to him, before he
could get up his gun; and then laughed at him for being fat and
slow. But the laugh was on Tom's side before long—for while we
were yet in the valley, the report of a gun came faintly down the
wind from beyond the hill, and as we all looked out attentively, a
partridge skimmed the brow, flying before the wind at a tremendous
pace, and skated across the valley without stooping from his
altitude. I stood the first, and fired, a yard at least ahead of him—
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on he went, unharmed and undaunted; bang went my second
barrel—still on he went, the faster, as it seemed, for the weak
insult.
Harry came next, and he too fired twice, and—tell it not in Gath—
missed twice! “Now, Fat-Guts!” shouted Archer, not altogether
in his most amiable or pleasing tones; and sure enough up
went the old man's piece—roundly it echoed with its mighty
charge—a cloud of feathers drifted away in a long line from the
slaughtered victim—which fell not direct, so rapid was its previous
flight, but darted onward in a long declining tangent, and struck
the rocky soil with a thud clearly audible where we stood, full a
hundred yards from the spot where it fell!
He bagged, amid Tom's mighty exultation, forward again we went
and in a short half hour got into the remainder of the pack which
we had flushed before, in some low tangled thorn cover, among
which they lay well, and we made havoc of them. And here the
oddest accident I ever witnessed in the field took place—so odd,
that I am half ashamed to write to it—but where's the odds, for it
is true?
A fine cock bird was flushed close at Tom's feet, and went off to
the left, Harry and I both standing to the right; he blazed away,
and at the shot the bird sprung up six or eight feet into the air, with
a sharp staggering flutter. “Killed dead!” cried I; well done
again, fat Tom.” But to my great surprise the partridge gathered
wing, and flew on, feebly at first, and dizzily, but gaining strength
more and more as he went on the farther. At the last, after a long
flight, he treed in a tall leafless pine.
“Run after him, Frank,” Archer called to me, “you are the
lightest; and we'll beat up the swale till you return. You saw
the tree he took?”
“Aye! aye!” said I, preparing to make off.
“Well! he sits near the top—now mind me! no chivalry,
Frank! give him no second chance—a ruffed grouse, darting
downward from a tall pine tree, is a shot to balk the devil—it's
full five to one that you shoot over and behind him—give him no
mercy!”
Off I went, and after a brisk trot, five or six minutes long, reached
my tree, saw my bird perched on a broken limb close to the
time-blanched trunk, cocked my Joe Manton, and was in the very
act of taking aim, when something so peculiar in the motion of the
bird attracted me, that I paused. He was nodding like a sleepy
man, and seemed with difficulty to retain his foot-hold. While I
was gazing, he let go, pitched headlong, fluttered his wings in the
death-struggle, yet in air, and struck the ground close at my feet,
stone-dead. Tom's first shot had cut off the whole crown of the
head, with half the brain and the right eye; and after that the
bird had power to fly five or six hundred yards, and then to cling
upon its perch for at least ten minutes.
Rejoining my companions, we again went onward, slaying and
bagging as we went, till when the sun was at meridian we sat down
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beside the brook to make our frugal meal—not to-day of grilled
woodcock and champagne, but of hard eggs, salt, biscuit, and
Scotch whiskey—not so bad either—nor were we disinclined to
profit by it. We were still smoking on the marge, when a shot
right ahead told us that our out-skirting party was at hand.
All in an instant were on the alert; in twenty minutes we joined
forces, and compared results. We had twelve partridge, five rabbits,
seventeen woodcock; they, six gray squirrels, seven partridge,
and one solitary cock—Tim, proud as Lucifer at having led the field.
But his joy now was at an end—for to his charge the setters were
committed to be led in leash, while we shot on, over the spaniels.
Another dozen partridge, and eighteen rabbits, completed our last
bag in the Woodlands.
Late was it when we reached the Teachmans' hut—and long
and deep was the carouse that followed; and when the moon had
sunk and we were turning in, Tom Draw swore with a mighty
oath of deepest emphasis—that since we had passed a week with
him, he'd take a seat down in the wagon, and see the Beacon
Races. So we filled round once more, and clinked our glasses to
bind the joyous compact, and turned in happy.
eaf144.n4[4] Oophaud, Yorkshire. Anglice, uphold.
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Once more we were compelled to change our purpose.
When we left Tom Draw's, it had been, as we thought, finally
decided that we were for this bout to visit that fair village no more,
but when that worthy announced his own determination to accompany
us on our homeward route, and when we had taken into consideration
the fact, that, independent of Tom's two hundred and fifty
weight of solid flesh, we had two noble bucks, beside quail, partridge,
woodcock, and rabbit, almost innumerable to transport, in
addition to our two selves and Timothy, with the four dogs, and
lots of luggage—when we, I say, considered all this, it became apparent
that another vehicle must be provided for our return. So
during the last jorum, it had been put to the vote and unanimously
carried that we should start for Tom's, by a retrograde movement,
at four o'clock in the morning, breakfast with him, and rig up some
drag or other wherein Timothy might get the two deer and the
dogs, as best he might, into the city.
“As for us,” said Harry, “we will go down the other road,
Tom, over the back-bone of the mountain, dine with old Colonel
Beams, stop at Paterson, and take a taste at the Holy Father's potheen—
you may look at the Falls if you like it, Frank, while we're
looking at the Innishowen—and so get home to supper. I'll give
you both beds for one night—but not an hour longer—my little cellar
would be broken, past all doubt, if old Tom were to get two
nights out of it!”
“Ay'se sure it would,” responded Timothy, who had been listening,
all attention, mixing meanwhile some strange compound of
eggs and rum and sugar. “Whoy, measter Draa did pratty nigh
drink 't out yance—that noight 'at eight chaps, measter Frank,
drank oop two baskets o' champagne, and fifteen bottles o' 't breawn
sherry—Ay carried six on 'em to bed, Ay'se warrant it—and yan
o' them, young measter Clark, he spoilt me a new suit o' liveries,
wi' vomiting a top on me.”
“That'll do, Timothy,” interposed Archer, unwilling, as I
thought, that the secret mysteries of his establishment should be
revealed any further to the profane ears which were gaping round
about us—“that'll do for the present—give Mr. Draw that flip—
he's looking at it very angrily, I see! and then turn in, or you'll
be late in the morning; and, by George, we must be away by
four o'clock at latest, for we have all of sixty miles to makes to-morrow,
and Tom's fat carcase will try the springs most consumedly,
down hill.”
Matters thus settled, in we turned, and—as it seemed to me,
within five minutes, I was awakened by Harry Archer, who stood
beside my bed full dressed, with a candle in his hand.
“Get up,” he whispered, “get up, Frank, very quietly; slip on
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your great-coat and your slippers—we have a chance to serve Tom
out—he's not awake for once! and Timothy will have the horses
ready in five minutes!”
Up I jumped on the instant, hauled on a rough-frieze pea-jacket,
thrust my unstockinged feet into their contrary slippers, and followed
Harry, on the tips of my toes, along a creaking passage,
guided by the portentous ruckling snorts, which varied the profundity
of the fat man's slumbers. When I reached his door, there
stood Harry, laughing to himself, with a small quiet chuckle, perfectly
inaudible at three feet distance, the intensity of which could,
however, be judged by the manner in which it shook his whole person.
Two huge horse-buckets, filled to the brim, were set beside
him; and he had cut a piece of an old broomstick so as to fit exactly
to the width of the passage, across which he had fastened it, at
about two feet from the ground, so that it must most indubitably
trip up any person, who should attempt to run along that dark and
narrow thoroughfare.
“Now, Frank,” said he, “see here! I'll set this bucket here
behind the door—we'll heave the other slap into his face—there he
lies, full on the broad of his fat back, with his mouth wide open—
and when he jumps up full of fight, which he is sure to do, run you
with the candle, which blow out the moment he appears, straight
down the passage. I'll stand back here, and as he trips over that
broomstick, which he is certain to do, I'll pitch the other bucket on
his back—and if he does not think he's bewitched, I'll promise not
to laugh. I owe him two or three practical jokes, and now I've
got a chance, so I'll pay him all at once.”
Well! we peeped in, aided by the glare of the streaming tallow-candle,
and there, sure enough, with all the clothes kicked off him,
and his immense rotundity protected only from the cold by an exceeding
scanty shirt of most ancient cotton, lay Tom, flat on his
back, like a stranded porpoise, with his mouth wide open, through
which he was puffing and breathing like a broken-winded cab-horse,
while through his expanded nostrils he was snoring loudly
enough to have awaked the seven sleepers. Neither of us could
well stand up for laughing. One bucket was deposited behind the
door, and back stood Harry ready to slip behind it also at half a
moment's warning—the candlestick was placed upon the floor,
which I was to kick over in my flight.
“Stand by to heave!” whispered my trusty comrade—“heave!”
and with the word—flash!—slush!—out went the whole contents
of the full pail, two gallons at the least of ice-cold water, slap in
the chaps, neck, breast, and stomach of the sound sleeper. With
the most wondrous noise that ears of mine have ever witnessed—a
mixture of sob, snort, and groan, concluding in the longest and
most portentous howl that mouth of man ever uttered—Tom started
out of bed; but, at the very instant I discharged my bucket, I put
my foot upon the light, flung down the empty pail, and bolted.
Poor devil!—as he got upon his feet the bucket rolled up with its
iron handles full against his shins, the oath he swore at which
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encounter, while he dashed headlong after me, directed by the noise I
made on purpose, is most unmentionable. Well knowing where it
was, I easily jumped over the stick which barred the passage. Not
so Tom—for going at the very top of his pace, swearing like forty
troopers all the time, he caught it with both legs just below the
knees, and went down with a squelch that shook the whole hut to
the rooftree, while at the self-same instant Harry once again soused
him with the contents of the second pail, and made his escape unobserved
by the window of Tom's own chamber. Meanwhile I had
reached my room, and flinging off my jacket, came running out
with nothing but my shirt and a lighted candle, to Tom's assistance,
in which the next moment I was joined by Harry, who rushed
in from out of doors with the stable lanthorn.
“What's the row now?” he said, with his face admirably cool
and quiet. “What the devil's in the wind?”
“Oh! Archer!” grunted poor Tom, in most piteous accents—
“them d—d etarnal Teachmans—they've murdered me right out!
I'll never get over this—ugh! ugh! ugh! Half drownded and
smashed up the darndest! Now aint it an etarnal shame! Curse
them, if I doos n't sarve them out for it, my name's not Thomas
Draw!”
“Well, it is not,” rejoined Harry, “who in the name of wonder
ever called you Thomas? Christened you never were at all, that's
evident enough, you barbarous old heathen—but you were certainly
named Tom.”
Swearing, and vowing vengeance on Jem Lyn, and Garry, and
the Teachmans—each one of whom, by the way, was sound asleep
during this pleasant interlude—and shaking with the cold, and
sputtering with uncontrollable fury, the fat man did at length get
dressed, and after two or three libations of milk punch, recovered
his temper somewhat, and his spirits altogether.
Although, however, Harry and I told him very frankly that we
were not merely the sole planners, but the sole executors, of the
trick—it was in vain we spoke. Tom would not have it.
“No—he knew—he knew well enough; did we go for to think he
was such an old etarnal fool as not to know Jem's voice—a bloody
Decker—he would be the death of him.”
And direful, in good truth, I do believe, were the jokes practical,
and to him no jokes at all, which poor Jem had to undergo, in expiation
of his fancied share in this our misdemeanor.
Scarce had the row subsided, before the horses were announced.
Harry and I, and Tom and Timothy, mounted the old green drag;
and, with our cheroots lighted—the only lights, by the way, that
were visible at all—off we went at a rattling trot, the horses in
prime condition, full of fire, biting and snapping at each other, and
making their bits clash and jingle every moment. Up the long
hill, and through the shadowy wood, they strained, at full ten miles
an hour, without a touch of the whip, or even a word of Harry's
well-known voice.
We reached the brow of the mountain, where there are four
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cleared fields—whereon I once saw snow lie five feet deep on the
tenth day of April—and an old barn; and thence we looked back
through the cold gray gloom of an autumnal morning, three hours
at least before the rising of the sun, while the stars were waning in
the dull sky, and the moon had long since set, toward the Greenwood
lake.
Never was there a stronger contrast, than between that lovely
sheet of limpid water, as it lay now—cold, dun, and dismal, like a
huge plate of pewter, without one glittering ripple, without one
clear reflection, surrounded by the wooded hills which, swathed in
a dim mist, hung grim and gloomy over its silent bosom—and its
bright sunny aspect on the previous day.
Adieu! fair Greenwood Lake! adieu! Many and blithe have
been the hours which I have spent around, and in, and on you—and
it may well be I shall never see you more—whether reflecting the
full fresh greenery of summer; or the rich tints of cisatlantic
autumn; or sheeted with the treacherous ice; but never, thou
sweet lake, never will thy remembrance fade from my bosom, while
one drop of life-blood warms it; so art thou intertwined with memories
of happy careless days, that never can return—of friends,
truer, perhaps, though rude and humble, than all of prouder seeming.
Farewell to thee, fair lake! Long may it be before thy rugged
hills be stripped of their green garniture, or thy bright waters[5]
marred by the unpicturesque improvements of man's avarice!—for
truly thou, in this utilitarian age, and at brief distance from America's
metropolis, art young, and innocent, and unpolluted, as when
the red man drank of thy pure waters, long centuries ere he dreamed
of the pale-faced oppressors, who have already rooted out his race
from half its native continent.
Another half hour brought us down at a rattling pace to the village,
and once again we pulled up at Tom's well-known dwelling,
just as the day was breaking. A crowd of loiterers, as usual, was
gathered even at that untimely season in the large bar-room; and
when the clatter of our hoofs and wheels announced us, we found
no lack of ready-handed and quick-tongued assistants.
“Take out the horses, Timothy,” cried Harry, “unharness them,
and rub them down as quickly and as thoroughly as may be—let
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them have four quarts each, and mind that all is ready for a start
before an hour. Meantime, Frank, we will overhaul the game, get
breakfast, and hunt up a wagon for the deer and setters.”
“Do n't bother yourself about no wagon,” interposed Tom, “but
come you in and liquor; else we shall have you gruntin half the
day; and if old roan and my long pig-box wont carry down the
deer, why I'll stand treat.”
A jorum was prepared, and discussed accordingly; fresh ice produced,
the quail and woodcock carefully unpacked, and instantly
re-stowed with clean dry straw, a measure which, however, seemed
almost supererogatory, since so completely had the external air
been excluded from the game-box, that we found not only the lumps
of ice in the bottom unthawed, but the flannel which lay over it stiff
frozen; the birds were of course perfectly fresh, cool, and in good
condition. Our last day's batch, which it was found impossible to
get into the box, with all the ruffed grouse, fifty at least in number,
were tied up by the feet, two brace and two brace, and hung in
festoons round the inside rails of the front seat and body, while
about thirty rabbits dangled by their hind legs, with their long ears
flapping to and fro, from the back seat, and baggage rack. The
wagon looked, I scarce know how, something between an English
stage-coach when the merry days of Christmas are at hand, and a
game-huxter's taxed cart.
The business of re-packing had been scarce accomplished, and
Harry and myself had just retired to change our shooting-jackets
and coarse fustians for habiliments more suitable for the day and
our destination—New York, to-wit, and Sunday—when forth came
Tom, bedizened from top to toe in his most new and knowing rig,
and looking now, to do him justice, a most respectable and portly
yeoman.
A broad-brimmed, low-crowned and long-napped white hat, set
forth assuredly to the best advantage his rotund, rubicund, good-humored
phiz; a clean white handkerchief circled his sturdy neck,
on the volumnious folds of which reposed in placid dignity the
mighty collops of his double chin. A bright canary waistcoat of
imported kerseymere, with vast mother-of-pearl buttons, and a
broad-skirted coat of bright blue cloth, with glittering brass buttons
half the size of dollars, covered his upper man, while loose drab
trousers of stout double-milled, and a pair of well-blacked boots,
completed his attire; so that he looked as different an animal as
possible from the unwashed, uncombed, half-naked creature he presented,
when lounging in his bar-room in his every-day apparel.
“Why, halloa Guts!” cried Archer, as he entered, “you've
broken out here in a new place altogether.”
“Now quit, you, callin of me Guts,” responded Tom, more testily
than I had ever heard him speak to Harry, whose every whim and
frolic he seemed religiously to venerate and humor; “a fellow
doos n't want to have it `Guts' here, and `Guts' there, over half a
county. Why now it was but a week since, while 'lections was a
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goin' on, I got a letter from some d—d chaps to Newburg—`Rouse
about now, old Guts, you'll need it this election!”'
“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Harry and I almost simultaneously, delighted
at Tom's evident annoyance.
“Who wrote it Tom?”
“That's what I'd jist give fifty dollars to know now,” replied
mine host, clinching his mighty paw.
“Why, what would you do,” said I, “if you did know?”
“Lick him, by George! Lick him, in the first place, till he was
as nigh dead as I daared lick him—and then I'd make him eat up
every darned line of it! But come, come—breakfast's ready; and
while we're getting through with it, Timothy and Jem Lyn will
fix the pig-box, and make the deer all right and tight for travelling!”
No sooner said than done—an ample meal was speedily despatched—
and when that worthy came in to announce all ready,
for the saving of time, master Timothy was accommodated with a
seat at a side-table, which he occupied with becoming dignity, abstaining,
as it were in consciousness of his honorable promotion,
from any of the quaint and curious witticisms, in which he was wont
to indulge; but manducating with vast energy the various good
things which were set before him.
It was a clear, bright Sabbath morning, as ever shone down on a
sinful world, on which we started homeward—and, though I fear
there was not quite so much solemnity in our demeanor as might
have best accorded with the notions of over strict professors, I can
still answer that with much mirth, much merriment, and much good
feeling in our hearts, there was no touch of irreverence, or any taint
of what could be called sinful thought. The sun had risen fairly,
but the hour was still too early for the sweet peaceful music of the
church-going bells to have made their echoes tunable through the
rich valley. A merry cavalcade, indeed, we started—Harry leading
the way at his usual slap-dash pace, so that one, less a workman
than himself, would have said he went up hill and down at the
same break-neck pace, and would take all the grit out of his team
before he had gone ten miles—while a more accurate observer
would have seen almost at a glance, that he varied his rate at
almost every inequality of road, that he quartered every rut, avoided
every jog or mud hole, husbanded for the very best his horses'
strength, never making them either pull or hold a moment longer
than was absolutely necessary from the abruptness of the ground.
At his left hand sat I, while Tom, in honor of his superior bulk
and weight, occupied with his magnificent and portly person the
whole of the back seat, keeping his countenance as sanctified as
possible, and nodding, with some quaint and characteristic observation,
to each one of the scattered groups of country-people, which
we encountered every quarter of a mile for the first hour of our
route, wending their way toward the village church—but, when we
reached the forest-mantled road which clombe the mountain,
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making the arched woods resound to many a jovial catch, or merry
hunting chorus.
Mounted sublime on an arm-chair lashed to the fore-part of the
pig-box, sat Timothy in state—his legs well muffled in a noble
scarlet-fringed buffalo skin, and his body encased in his livery top-coat—
the setters and the spaniels crouching most meekly at his
feet, and the two noble bucks—the fellow on whose steaks we had
already made an inroad, having been left as fat Tom's portion—
securely corded down upon a pile of straw, with their sublime and
antlered crests drooping all spiritless and humble over the back-board,
toward the frozen soil which crashed and rattled under the
ponderous hoofs of the magnificent roan horse—Tom's special
favorite—which, though full seventeen hands high, and heavy in
proportion, yet showing a good strain of blood, trotted away with
his huge load at full ten miles an hour.
Plunging into the deep recesses of the Greenwoods, hill after hill
we scaled, a toilsome length of stony steep ascents, almost precipitous;
until we reached the back-bone of the mountain ridge—a
rugged, bare, sharp edge of granite rock, without a particle of soil
upon it, diving down at an angle not much less than forty-five degress
into a deep ravine, through which thundered and roared a
flashing torrent. This fearful descent overpast, and that in perfect
safety, we rolled merrily away down hill, till we reached Colonel
Beam's tavern, a neat, low-browed, Dutch, stone farm-house, situate
in an angle scooped out of a green hill-side, with half a dozen
tall and shadowy elms before it—a bright crystal stream purling
along into the horse-trough through a miniature acqueduct of hollowed
logs, and a clear cold spring in front of it, with half a score
of fat and lazy trout floating in its transparent waters.
A hearty welcome, and a no less hearty meal having been here
encountered and despatched, we rattled off again, through laden
orchards and rich meadows; passed the confluence of the three
bright rivers which issue from their three mountain gorges, to form
by their junction the fairest of New Jersey's rivers, the broad Passaic;
reached the small village noted for rum-drinking and quarter
racing—hight Pompton—thence by the Preakness mountain, and
Mose Canouze's tavern—whereat, in honor of Tom's friend, a
worthy of the self-same kidney with himself, we paused awhile—
to Paterson, the filthiest town, situate on one of the loveliest rivers
in the world, and famous only for the possession, in the person of
its Catholic priest, of the finest scholar and best fellow in America,
whom we unluckily found not at home, and therefore tasted not, according
to friend Harry's promise, the splendid Innishowen which
graces at all times his hospitable board.
Eight o'clock brought us to Hoboken, where, by good luck, the
ferry boat lay ready—and nine o'clock had not struck when we
three sat down once again about a neat small supper-table, before a
bright coal fire, in Archer's snuggery—Tom glorying in the prospect
of the races on the morrow, and I regretting that I had brought
to its conclusion
MY FIRST WEEK IN THE WOODLANDS.
eaf144.n5[5] Marred it has been long ago. A huge dam has been drawn across its outlet, in
order to supply a feeder to the Morris Canal—a gigantic piece of unprofitable improvement,
made, I believe, like the Erie Railroad, merely as a basis on which for
brokers, stock-jobbers—et id genus omne of men too utilitarian and ambitious to be
content with earning money honestly—to exercise their prodigious 'cuteness.
The effect of this has been to change the bold shores into pestilential submerged
swamps, whereon the dead trees still stand, tall, gray and ghostly; to convert a
number of acres of beautiful meadow-land into stagnant grassy shallows; to back
up the waters at the lake's head, to the utter destruction of several fine farms;
and, last not least, to create fever and ague in abundance, where no such thing had
ever been heard tell of before.
Certainly! your well devised improvement is a great thing for a country!
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ON A SECOND VISIT.
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On a still clear October evening Frank Forester and Harry
Archer were sitting at the open window of a neat country tavern,
in a sequestered nook of Rockland County, looking out upon as
beautiful a view as ever gladdened the eyes of wandering amateur
or artist.
The house was a large old-fashioned stone mansion, certainly not
of later date than the commencement of the revolution; and probably
had been, in its better days, the manor-house of some considerable
proprietor—the windows were of a form very unusual in the
States, opening like doors, with heavy wooden mullions and small
lattices, while the walls were so thick as to form a deep embrasure,
provided with a cushioned window-seat; the parlor, in which
the friends had taken up their temporary domicile, contained two
of these pleasant lounges, the larger looking out due south upon
the little garden, with the road before it, and, beyond the road, a
prospect, of which more anon—the other commanding a space of
smooth green turf in front of the stables, whereon our old acquaintance,
Timothy, was leading to and fro a pair of smoking
horses. The dark-green drag, with all its winter furniture of gaily
decorated bear-skins, stood half-seen beneath the low-arched wagonshed.
The walls of the room—the best room of the tavern—were pannelled
with the dark glossy wood of the black cherry, and a huge
mantel-piece of the same material, took up at least one half of the
side opposite the larger window, while on the hearth below reposed
a glowing bed of red-hot hickory ashes a foot at least in depth, a
huge log of that glorious fuel blazing upon the massive andirons.
Two large deep gun-cases, a leathern magazine of shot, and sundry
canisters of diamond gunpowder, Brough's, were displayed on a
long table under the end window—a four-horse whip, and two fly-rods
in India-rubber cases, stood in the chimney-corner; while
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revelling in the luxurious warmth of the piled hearth lay basking
on the rug, three exquisitely formed Blenheim spaniels of the large
breed—short-legged and bony, with ears that almost swept the
ground as they stood upright, and coats as soft and lustrous as
floss silk.
On a round table, which should have occupied the centre of the
parlor, now pulled up to the window-seat, whereon reclined the
worthies, stood a large pitcher of iced water; a square case-bottle
of cut crystal filled, as the flavor which pervaded the whole
room sufficiently demonstrated, with superb old Antigua Shrub;
several large rummers corresponding to the fashion of the bottle;
a twisted taper of green wax, and a small silver plate with six or
eight cheroots, real manillas.
Supper was evidently over, and the friends, amply feasted, were
now luxuriating in the delicious indolence, half-dozing, half-day-dreaming,
of a calm sleepy smoke, modestly lubricated by an occasional
sip of the cool beverage before them. If we except a pile of
box-coats, capes, and macintoshes of every cut and color—a travelling
liquor-case which, standing open, displayed the tops of three
more bottles similar to that on the table, and spaces lined with velvet
for all the glass in use—and another little leathern box, which,
like the liquor-case, showed its contents of several silver plates,
knives, forks, spoons, flasks of sauce, and condiments of different
kinds—the whole interior, as a painter would have called it, has
been depicted with all accuracy.
Without, the view on which the windows opened was indeed
most lovely. The day had been very bright and calm; there was
not a single cloud in the pale transparent heaven, and the sun,
which had shone cheerfully all day from his first rising in the east,
till now when he was hanging like a ball of bloody fire in the thin
filmy haze which curtained the horizon, was still shooting his long
rays, and casting many a shadow over the slopes and hollows which
diversified the scene.
Immediately across the road lay a rich velvet meadow, luxuriant
still and green—for the preceding month had been rather wet, and
frost had not set in to nip its verdure—sloping down southerly to a
broad shallow trout-stream, which rippled all glittering and bright
over a pebbly bed, although the margin on the hither side was
somewhat swampy, with tufts of willows and bushes of dark alder
fringing it here and there, and dipping their branches in its waters—
the farther bank was skirted by a tall grove of maple, hickory,
and oak, with a thick undergrowth of sumach arrayed in all the
gorgeous garniture of autumn, purples and brilliant scarlets and
chrome yellows, mixed up and harmonized with the dark copper
foliage of a few sere beeches, and the gray trunks apparent here
and there through the thin screen of the fast-falling leaves.
Beyond this grove, the bank rose bold and rich in swelling curves,
with a fine corn-field, topped already to admit every sunbeam to
the ripening ears. A buckwheat stubble, conspicuous by its deep
ruddy hue, and two or three brown pastures divided by high fences,
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along the lines of which flourished a copious growth of cat-briers
and sumachs, with here and there a goodly tree waving above
them, made up the centre of the picture. Beyond this cultured
knoll there seemed to be a deep pitch of the land clothed with a
hanging wood of heavy timber; and, above this again, the soil
surged upward into a huge and round-topped hill, with several
golden stubbles, shining out from the frame-work of primeval forest,
which, dark with many a mighty pine, covered the mountain to the
top, except where at its western edge it showed a huge and rifted
precipice of rock.
To the right, looking down the stream, the hills closed in quite
to the water's brink on the far side, rough and uncultivated, with
many a blue and misty peak discovered through the gaps in their
bold broken outline, and a broad lake-like sheet, as calm and brightly
pictured as a mirror, reflecting their inverted beauties so wondrously
distinct and vivid, that the amazed eye might not recognize the
parting between reality and shadow. An old gray mill deeply embosomed
in a clump of weeping willows, still verdant, though the
woods were sere and waxing leafless, explained the nature of that
tranquil pool, while, beyond that, the hills swept down from the rear
of the building, which contained the parlor whence the two sportsmen
gazed, and seemed entirely to bar the valley, so suddenly, and
in so short a curve, did it wind round their western shoulder. To
the left hand, the view was closed by a thick belt of second growth,
through which the sandy road and glittering stream wandered
away together on their mazy path, and over which the summits of
yet loftier and more rugged steeps towered heavenward.
Over this valley they had for some time gazed in silence, till
now the broad sun sank behind the mountains, and the shrill whistle
of the quail, which had been momently audible during the whole
afternoon, ceased suddenly; four or five night-hawks might be
seen wheeling high in pursuit of their insect prey through the thin
atmosphere, and the sharp chirrup of a solitary katydid, the last of
its summer tribe, was the only sound that interrupted the faint rush
of the rapid stream, which came more clearly on the ear now that
the louder noises of busy babbling daylight had yielded to the stillness
of approaching night. Before long a bright gleam shot through
the tufted outline of a dark wooded hill, and shortly after, just when
a gray and misty shadow had settled down upon the half-seen land-scape,
the broad full moon came soaring up above the tree-tops,
pouring her soft and silver radiance over the lovely valley, and investing
its rare beauties with something of romance—a sentiment
which belongs not to the gay gaudy sunshine.
Just at this moment, while neither of the friends felt much inclined
to talk, the door opened suddenly, and Timothy's black
head was thrust in, with a query if “they did n't need t' waax
candles?”
“Not yet, Tim,” answered Archer, “not yet for an hour or so—
but hold a minute—how have the horses fed?”
“T' ould gray drayed off directly, and he's gane tull t' loike
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bricks—but t' bay's no but sillyish—he keeps a breaking oot again
for iver—and sae Ay'se give him a hot maash enow!”
That's right. I saw he wasn't quite up to the mark the last
ten miles or so. If he don't dry off now, give him a cordial ball
out of the tool-chest—one of the number 3—camphire and cardamums
and ginger; a clove of garlic, and treacle quantum suff:
hey, Frank, that will set him to rights, I warrant it. Now have
you dined yourself, or supped, as the good people here insist on
calling it?”
“Weel Ay wot, have I, Sur,” responded Timothy; “an hour
agone and better.”
“Exactly; then step out yourself into the kitchen, and make us
a good cup of our own coffee, strong and hot, do you see? and
when that's done, bring it in with the candles; and, hark you, run
up to the bed-room and bring my netting needles down, and the
ball of silk twist, and the front of that new game-bag, I began the
other night. If you were not as lazy as possible, friend Frank,
you would bring your fly-book out, when the light comes, and tie
some hackles.”
“Perhaps I may, when the light comes,” Forester answered;
“but I'm in no hurry for it; I like of all things to look out, and
watch the changes of the night over a landscape even less beautiful
than this. One half the pleasure of field sports to me, is other
than the mere excitement. If there were nothing but the eagerness
of the pursuit, and the gratification of successful vanity, fond as I
am of shooting, I should, I believe, have long since wearied of it;
but there are so many other things connected intimately with it—
the wandering among the loveliest scenery—the full enjoyment
of the sweetest weather—the learning the innumerable and all-wondrous
attributes and instincts of animated nature—all these are
what make up to me the rapture I derive from woodcraft! Why,
such a scene as this—a scene which how few, save the vagrant
sportsman, or the countryman who but rarely appreciates the picturesque,
have ever witnessed—is enough, with the pure and tranquil
thoughts it calls up in the heart, to plead a trumpet-tongued
apology, for all the vanity, and uselessness, and cruelty, and what
not, so constantly alleged against our field sports.”
“Oh! yes,” cried Harry; “yes, indeed, Frank, I perfectly
agree with you. But all that last is mere humbug—humbug, too, of
the lowest and most foolish order—I never hear a man droning
about the cruelty of field sports, but I set him down, on the spot,
either as a hypocrite or a fool, and probably a glorious union of
the two. When man can exist without killing myriads of animals
with every breath of vital air he draws, with every draught of
water he imbibes, with every footstep he prints upon the turf or
gravel of his garden—when he abstains from every sort of animal
food—and, above all, when he abstains from his great pursuit of
torturing his fellow men—then let him prate, if he will, of sportsmen's
cruelty.
“For show me one trade, one profession, wherein one man's
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success is not based upon another's failure; all rivalry, all competition
triumph and rapture to the winner, disgrace and anguish to the
loser! And then these fellows, fattened on widows' tears and orphans'
misery, preach you pure homilies about the cruelty of taking
life. But you are quite right about the combination of pleasures—
the excitement, too, of quick motion through the fresh air—the
sense of liberty amid wide plains, or tangled woods, or on the wild
hill tops—this, surely, to the reflective sportsman—and who can
be a true sportsman, and not reflective—is the great charm of his
pursuit.”
“And do you not think that this pleasure exists in a higher degree
here in America, than in our own England?”
“As how, Frank?—I don't take.”
“Why, in the greater, I will not say beauty—for I don't think
there is greater natural beauty in the general landscape of the
States—but novelty and wildness of the scenery! Even the
richest and most cultivated tracts of America, that I have seen,
except the Western part of New York, which is unquestionably
the ugliest, and dullest, and most unpoetical region on earth, have
a young untamed freshness about them, which you do not find in
England.
“In the middle of the high-tilled and fertile cornfield you come upon
some sudden hollow, tangled with brake and bush which hedge in
some small pool where float the brilliant cups and smooth leaves of
the water lily, and whence on your approach up-springs the blue-winged
teal, or gorgeous wood-duck. Then the long sweeping
woodlands, embracing in themselves every variety of ground, deep
marshy swamp, and fertile level thick-set with giant timber, and
sandy barrens with their scrubby undergrowth, and difficult rocky
steeps; and above all, the seeming and comparative solitude—the
dinner carried along with you and eaten under the shady tree, beside
the bubbling basin of some spring—all this is vastly more exciting,
than walking through trim stubbles and rich turnip fields,
and lunching on bread and cheese and home-brewed, in a snug farm-house.
In short, field sports here have a richer range, are much
more various, wilder—”
“Hold there, Frank; hold hard there, I cannot concede the
wilder, not the really wilder—seemingly they are wilder; for, as
you say, the scenery is wilder—and all the game, with the exception
of the English snipe, being wood-haunters, you are led into
rougher districts. But oh! no, no!—the field sports are not really
wilder—in the Atlantic States at least—nor half so wild as those
of England!”
“I should like to hear you prove that, Archer,” answered Frank,
“for I am constantly beset with the superiority of American field
sports to tame English preserve shooting!”
“Pooh! pooh! that is only by people who know nothing about
either; by people, who fancy that a preserve means a park full of
tame birds, instead of a range, perhaps, of many thousand acres, of
the very wildest, barest moorland, stocked with the wariest and
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shyest of the feathered race, the red grouse. But what I mean to
say, is this, that every English game-bird—to use an American
phrase—is warier and wilder than its compeer in the United States.
Who, for instance, ever saw in England, Ireland, or Scotland,
eighteen or twenty snipe or woodcock, lying within a space of
twelve yards square, two or three dogs pointing in the midst of
them, and the birds rising one by one, the gunshots rattling over
them, till ten or twelve are on the ground before there is time to
bag one.
“English partridge will, I grant, do this sometimes, on very warm
days in September; but let a man go out with his heavy gun and
steady dog late in December, or the month preceding it, let him
see thirty or more covies—as on good ground he may—let him see
every covey rise at a hundred yards, and fly a mile; let him be
proud and glad to bag his three or four brace; and then tell me
that there is any sport in these Atlantic States so wild as English
winter field-shooting.
“Of grouse shooting on the bare hills, which, by the way, are
wilder, more solitary far, and more aloof from the abodes of men,
than any thing between Boston and the Green Bay, I do not of
course speak; as it confessedly is the most wild and difficult kind of
shooting.
“Still less of deer stalking—for Scrope's book has been read
largely even here; and no man, how prejudiced soever, can compare
the standing at a deer-path all day long, waiting till a great
timid beast is driven up within ten yards of your muzzle, with that
extraordinary sport on bald and barren mountains, where nothing
but vast and muscular exertion, the eye of the eagle, and the cunning
of the serpent, can bring you within range of the wild cattle
of the hills.
“Battue shooting, I grant, is tame work; but partridge shooting,
after the middle of October, is infinitely wilder, requiring more exertion
and more toil than quail shooting. Even the pheasant—the
tamest of our English game—is infinitely bolder on the wing than
the ruffed grouse, or New York partridge; while about snipe and
woodcock there exists no comparison—since by my own observation,
confirmed by the opinion of old sportsmen, I am convinced that
nine-tenths of the snipe and cock bagged in the States, are killed
between fifteen and twenty paces; while, I can safely say, I never
saw a full snipe rise in England within that average distance.
Quail even, the hardest bird to kill, the swiftest and the boldest on
the wing, are very rarely killed further than twenty-five to thirty,
whereas you may shoot from daylight to sunset in England, after
October, and not pick up a single partridge within the farthest, as
a minimum distance.”
“Well! that's all true, I grant,” said Forester “yet even you
allow that it is harder to kill game here than at home; and if I do
not err, I have heard you admit that the best shot in all England
could be beat easily by the crack shots on this side; how does all
this agree!”
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“Why very easily, I think,” Harry replied, “though to the last
remark, I added in his first season here! Now that American field
sports are wilder in one sense, I grant readily; with the exception
of snipe-shooting here, and grouse-shooting in Scotland, the former
being tamer, in all senses, than any English—the latter wilder in
all senses than any American—field-sport.
“American sporting, however, is certainly wilder, in so much as
it is pursued on much wilder ground; in so much as we have a
greater variety of game—and in so much as we have many more
snap shots, and fewer fair dead points.
“Harder it is, I grant; for it is all, with scarcely an exception,
followed in very thick and heavy covert—covert to which the thickest
woods I ever saw in England are but as open ground. Moreover,
the woods are so very large that the gun must be close up
with the dog; and consequently the shots must, half of them, be
fired in attitudes most awkward, and in ground which would, I
think, at home, be generally styled impracticable; thirdly, all the
summer shooting here is made with the leaf on—with these
thick tangled matted swamps clad in the thickest foliage.
“Your dogs must beat within twenty yards at farthest, and when
they stand you are aware of the fact rather by ceasing to hear their
motion, than by seeing them at point; I am satisfied that of six
pointed shots in summer shooting, three at the least must be treated
as snap shots! Many birds must be shot at—and many are killed—
which are never seen at all, till they are bagged; and many men
here will kill three out of four summer woodcock, day in and day
out, where an English sportsman, however crack a shot he might
be, would give the thing up in despair in half an hour.
“Practice, however, soon brings this all to rights. The first
season I shot here—I was a very fair, indeed a good, young shot,
when I came out hither—not at all crack, but decidedly better than
the common run!—the first day I shot was on 4th of July, 1832, the
place Seer's swamp, the open end of it; the witness old Tom Draw—
and there I missed, in what we now call open covert, fourteen
birds running; and left the place in despair—I could not, though I
missed at home by shooting too quick—I could not, for the life of
me, shoot quick enough. Even you, Frank, shoot three times as
well as you did, when you began here; yet you began in autumn,
which is decidedly a great advantage, and came on by degrees, so
that the following summer you were not so much nonplussed,
though I remember the first day or two, you bitched it badly.”
“Well, I believe I must knock under, Harry,” Forester answered;
“and here comes Timothy with the coffee, and so we will
to bed, that taken, though I do want to argufy with you, on some of
your other notions about dogs, scent, and so forth. But do you
think the Commodore will join us here to-morrow?”
“No! I don't think so,” Harry said, “I know it! Did not he
arrive in New York last first of July, from a yachting tour at four
o'clock in the afternoon; receive my note saying that I was off to
Tom's that morning; and start by the Highlander at five that
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evening? Did he not get a team at Whited's and travel all night
through, and find me just sitting down to breakfast, and change his
toggery, and out, and walk all day—like a trump as he is? And
did not we, by the same token, bag—besides twenty-five more
killed that we could not find—one hundred and fifteen cock between
ten o'clock and sunset; while you, you false deceiver, were kicking
up your heels in Buffalo? Is not all this a true bill, and have you
now the impudence to ask me whether I think the Commodore will
come? I only wish I was as sure of a day's sport to-morrow, as I
am of his being to the fore at luncheon time?”
“At luncheon time, hey? I did not know that you looked for
him so early! Will he be in time, then, for the afternoon's shooting?”
“Why, certainly he will,” returned Archer. “The wind has
been fair up the river all day long, though it has been but light;
and the Ianthe will run up before it like a race-horse. I should not
be much surprised if he were here to breakfast.”
“And that we may be up in time for him, if perchance he should,
let us to bed forthwith,” said Frank with a heavy yawn.
“I am content,” answered Harry, finishing his cup of coffee, and
flinging the stump of his cheroot into the fire. “Goodnight!
Timothy will call you in the morning.”
“Goodnight, old fellow.”
And the friends parted merrily, in prospect of a pleasant day's
sport on the morrow.
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It was not yet broad daylight when Harry Archer, who had, as
was usual with him on his sporting tours, arisen with the lark, was
sitting in the little parlor I have before described, close to the chimney
corner, where a bright lively fire was already burning, and
spreading a warm cheerful glow through the apartment.
The large round table, drawn up close to the hearth, was covered
with a clean though coarse white cloth, and laid for breakfast, with
two cups and saucers, flanked by as many plates and egg-cups,
although as yet no further preparations for the morning meal, except
the presence of a huge home-made loaf and a large roll of rich
golden-hued butter, had been made by the neat-handed Phillis of the
country inn. Two candles were lighted, for though the day had
broken, the sun was not yet high enough to cast his rays into that
deep and rock-walled valley, and by their light Archer was busy
with the game-bag, the front of which he had finished netting on
the previous night.
Frank Forester had not as yet made his appearance; and still,
while the gigantic copper kettle bubbled and steamed away upon
the hearth, discoursing eloquent music, and servant after servant
bustled in, one with a cold quail-pie, another with a quart jug of
cream, and fresh eggs ready to be boiled by the fastidious epicures
in person, he steadily worked on, housewife and saddler's silk, and
wax and scissors ready to his hand; and when at last the door flew
open, and the delinquent comrade entered, he flung his finished job
upon the chair, and gathered up his implements, with,
“Now, Frank, let's lose no time, but get our breakfasts. Halloa!
Tim, bring the rockingham and the tea-chest; do you hear?”
“Well, Harry, so you've done the game-bag,” exclaimed the
other, as he lifted it up and eyed it somewhat superciliously—
“Well, it is a good one certainly; but you are the d—dest fellow I
ever met, to give yourself unnecessary trouble. Here you have
been three days about this bag, hard all; and when it's done, it is
not half as good a one as you can buy at Cooper's for a dollar, with
all this new-fangled machinery of loops and buttons, and I do n't
know what.”
“And you, Master Frank,” retorted Harry, nothing daunted—
“to be a good shot and a good sportsman—which, with some few
exceptions, I must confess you are—are the most culpably and wilfully
careless about your appointments I ever met. I do n't call a
man half a sportsman, who has not every thing he wants at hand
for an emergency, at half a minute's notice. Now it so happens
that you cannot get, in New York at all, anything like a decent
game bag—a little fancy-worked French or German jigmaree machine
you can get anywhere, I grant, that will do well enough for
a fellow to carry on his own shoulders, who goes out robin-gunning,
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but nothing for your man to carry, wherein to keep your birds cool,
fresh, and unmutilated. Now, these loops and buttons, at which
you laugh, will make the difference of a week at least in the bird's
keeping, if every hour or so you empty your pockets—wherein I
take it for granted you put your birds as fast as you bag them—
smooth down their plumage gently, stretch their legs out, and hang
them by the heads, running the button down close to the neck of each.
In this way this bag, which is, as you see, half a yard long, by a quarter
and half a quarter deep, made double, one bag of fustian with
a net front, which makes two pockets—will carry fifty-one quail or
woodcock, no one of them pressing upon, or interfering with, another,
and it would carry sixty-eight if I had put another row of loops in
the inner bag; which I did not, that I might have the bottom vacant
to carry a few spare articles, such as a bag of Westley Richards'
caps, and a couple of dozen of Ely's cartridges.”
“Oh! that's all very well,” said Frank, “but who the deuce can
be at the bore of it?”
“Why be at the bore of shooting at all, for that matter?” replied
Harry—“I, for one, think that if a thing is worth doing at all, it is
worth doing well—and I can't bear to kill a hundred or a hundred
and fifty birds, as our party almost always do out here, and then be
obliged to throw them away, just for want of a little care. Why, I
was shooting summer cock one July day two years ago—there had
been heavy rain in the early morning, and the grass and bushes
were very wet—Jem Blake was with me, and we had great sport,
and he laughed at me like the deuce for taking my birds out of my
pocket at the end of every hour's sport, and making Timothy smooth
them down carefully, and bag them all after my fashion. Egad I
had the laugh though, when we got home at night!”
“How so,” asked Frank, “in what way had you the laugh?”
“Simply in this—a good many of the birds were very hard shot,
as is always the case in summer shooting, and all of them got more
or less wet, as did the pockets of Jem's shooting jacket, wherein he
persisted in carrying his birds all day—the end was, that when we
got home at night, it having been a close, hot, steamy day, he had
not one bird which was not more or less tainted[6]—and, as you know
of course, when taint has once begun, nothing can check it.”
“Ay! ay! well that indeed's a reason; if you can't buy such a
bag, especially!”
“Well, you cannot then, I can tell you! and I'm glad you're
convinced for once; and here comes breakfast—so now let us to
work, that we may get on our ground as early as may be. For quail
you cannot be too early; for if you don't find them while they are
rambling on their feeding ground, it is a great chance if you find
them at all.”
“But, after all, you can only use up one or two bevies or so; and,
that done, you must hunt for them in the basking time of day, after
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all's done and said,” replied Frank, who seemed to have got up
somewhat paradoxically given that morning.
“Not at all, Frank, not at all,” answered Harry—“that is if you
know your ground; and know it to be well stocked; and have a
good marker with you.”
“Oh! this is something new of yours—some strange device fantastical—
let's have it, pray.”
“Certainly you shall; you shall have it now in precept, and in
an hour or two in practice. You see those stubbles on the hill—in
those seven or eight fields there are, or at least should be, some five
bevies; there is good covert, good easy covert all about, and we
can mark our birds down easily; now, when I find one bevy, I shall
get as many barrels into it as I can, mark it down as correctly as
possible, and then go and look for another.”
“What! and not follow it up? Now, Harry, that's mere stuff;
wait till the scent's gone cold, and till the dogs cann't find them?
'Gad, that's clever, any way!”
“Exactly the reverse, friend Frank; exactly the reverse. If you
follow up a bevy, of quail mark you, on the instant, it's ten to one
almost that you don't spring them. If, on the contrary, you wait
for half an hour, you are sure of them. How it is, I cannot precisely
tell you. I have sometimes thought that quail have the
power of holding in their scent, whether purposely or naturally—
from the effect of fear perhaps contracting the pores, and hindering
the escape of the effluvia—I know not, but I am far from being convinced
even now that it is not so. A very good sportsman, and true
friend of mine, insists upon it that birds give out no scent except
from the feet, and that, consequently, if they squat without running
they cannot be found. I do not, however, believe the theory, and
hold it to be disproved by the fact that dead birds do give out scent.
I have generally observed that there is no difficulty in retrieving
dead quail, but that, wounded, they are constantly lost. But, be that
as it may, the birds pitch down, each into the best bit of covert he
can find, and squat there like so many stones, leaving no trail or
taint upon the grass or bushes, and being of course proportionally
hard to find; in half an hour they will begin, if not disturbed, to
call and travel, and you can hunt them up, without the slightest
trouble. If you have a very large tract of country to beat, and
birds are very scarce, of course it would not answer to pass on; nor
ever, even if they are plentiful, in wild or windy weather, or in
large open woods; but where you have fair ground, lots of birds,
and fine weather, I would always beat on in a circuit, for the reason
I have given you. In the first place, every bevy you flush flies
from its feeding to its basking ground, so that you get over all the
first early, and know where to look afterward; instead of killing off
one bevy, and then going blundering on, at blind guess work, and
finding nothing. In the second place, you have a chance of driving
two or three bevies into one brake, and of getting sport proportionate;
and in the third place, as I have told you, you are much surer
of finding marked birds after an hour's lapse, than on the moment.”
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“I will do you the justice to say,” Forester replied, “that you
always make a tolerably good fight in support of your opinions; and
so you have done now, but I want to hear something more about this
matter of holding scent—facts! facts! and let me judge for myself.”
“Well, Frank, give me a bit more of that pie in the mean time,
andI will tell you the strongest case in point I ever witnessed. I
was shooting near Stamford, in Connecticut, three years ago, with
C— K—, and another friend; we had three as good dogs out,
as ever had a trigger drawn over them. My little imported yellow
and white setter, Chase, after which this old rascal is called—which
Mike Sandford considered the best-nosed dog he had ever broken—
a capital young pointer dog of K—'s, which has since turned out,
as I hear, superlative, and P—'s old and stanch setter Count. It
was the middle of a fine autumn day, and the scenting was very
uncommonly good. One of our beaters flushed a bevy of quail very
wide of us, and they came over our heads down a steep hill-side,
and all lighted in a small circular hollow, without a bit of underbrush
or even grass, full of tall thrifty oak trees, of perhaps twenty-five
years' growth. They were not much out of gun-shot, and we
all three distinctly saw them light; and I observed them flap and
fold their wings as they settled. We walked straight to the spot,
and beat it five or six times over, not one of our dogs ever drawing,
and not one bird rising. We could not make it out; my friends
thought they had treed, and laughed at me when I expressed my
belief that they were still before us, under our very noses. The
ground was covered only by a deep bed of sere decaying oak leaves.
Well, we went on, and beat all round the neighborhood within a
quarter of a mile, and did not find a bird, when lo! at the end of
perhaps half an hour, we heard them calling—followed the cry back
to that very hollow; the instant we entered it, all the three dogs
made game, drawing upon three several birds, roaded them up, and
pointed steady, and we had half an hour's good sport, and we were
all convinced that the birds had been there all the time. I have
seen many instances of the same kind, and more particularly with
wing-tipped birds, but none I think so tangible as this!”
“Well, I am not a convert, Harry; but, as the Chancellor said,
I doubt.”
“And that I consider not a little, from such a positive wretch as
you are; but come, we have done breakfast, and it's broad daylight.
Come, Timothy, on with the bag and belts; he breakfasted before
we had got up, and gave the dogs a bite.”
“Which dogs do you take, Harry; and do you use cartridge?”
“Oh! the setters for the morning; they are the only fellows for
the stubble; we should be all day with the cockers; even setters,
as we must break them here for wood shooting, have not enough of
speed or dash for the open. Cartridges? yes! I shall use a loose
charge in my right, and a blue cartridge in my left; later in the
season I use a blue in my right and a red in my left. It just makes
the difference between killing with both, or with one barrel. The
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blue kills all of twenty, and the red all of thirty-five yards further
than loose shot; and they kill clean!”
“Yet many good sportsmen dislike them,” Frank replied; “they
say they ball!”
“They do not now, if you load with them properly; formerly
they would do so at times, but that defect is now rectified—with
the blue and red cartridges at least—the green, which are only fit
for wild-fowl, or deer-shooting, will do so sometimes, but very rarely;
and they will execute surprisingly. For a bad or uncertain
rifle-shot, the green cartridge, with SG shot is the thing—twelve
good-sized slugs, propelled with force enough to go through an inch
plank, at eighty yards, within a compass of three feet—but no wad
must be used, either upon the cartridge, or between that and the
powder; the small end must be inserted downward, and the cartridge
must be chosen so that the wad at the top shall fit the gun,
the case being two sizes less than the calibre. With these directions
no man need make a mistake; and, if he can cover a bird
fairly, and is cool enough not to fire within twenty yards, he will
never complain of cartridges, after a single trial. Remember, too,
that vice versâ to the rule of a loose charge, the heavier you load
with powder, the closer will your cartridge carry. The men who
do not like cartridges are—you may rely upon it—of the class
which prefers scattering guns. I always use them, except in July
shooting, and I shall even put a few red in my pockets, in case the
wind should get up in the afternoon. Besides which, I always take
along two buckshot cartridges, in case of happening, as Timothy
would say, on some big varmint. I have four pockets in my shooting
waistcoat, each stitched off into four compartments—each of
which holds, erect, one cartridge—you cannot carry them loose in
your pocket, as they are very apt to break. Another advantage of
this is, that in no way can you carry shot with so little inconvenience,
as to weight; beside which, you load one third quicker, and
your gun never leads!”
“Well!” I believe I will take some to-day—but don't you wait
for the Commodore?”
“No! He drives up, as I told you, from Nyack, where he lands
from his yacht, and will be here at twelve o'clock to luncheon; if
he had been coming for the morning shooting, he would have been
here ere this. By that time we shall have bagged twenty-five or
thirty quail, and a ruffed grouse or two; beside driving two or three
bevies down into the meadows and the alder bushes by the stream,
which are quite full of woodcock. After luncheon, with the Commodore's
aid, we will pick up these stragglers, and all the timber-doodles!”
In another moment the setters were unchained, and came careering,
at the top of their speed, into the breakfast room, where Harry
stood before the fire, loading his double gun, while Timothy was
buttoning on his left leggin. Frank, meanwhile, had taken up his
gun, and quietly sneaked out of the door, two flat irregular reports
explaining, half a moment after, the purport of his absence.
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“Well, now, Frank, that is”—expostulated Harry—“that is just
the most snobbish thing I ever saw you do; aint you ashamed of
yourself now, you genuine cockney?”
“Not a bit—my gun has not been used these three months, and
something might have got into the chamber!”
“Something might not, if when you cleaned it last you had laid
a wad in the centre of a bit of greased rag three inches square and
rammed it about an inch down the barrel, leaving the ends of the
linen hanging out. And by running your rod down you could have
ascertained the fact, without unnecessarily fouling your piece. A
gun has no right ever to miss fire now; and never does, if you use
Westley Richards' caps, and diamond gunpowder—putting the
caps on the last thing—which has the further advantage of being
much the safer plan, and seeing that the powder is up to the cones
before you do so. If it is not so, let your hammer down, and give a
smart tap to the under side of the breech, holding it uppermost, and
you will never need a picker; or at least almost never. Remember,
too, that the best picker in the world is a strong needle headed
with sealing wax. And now that you have finished loading, and I
lecturing, just jump over the fence to your right; and that footpath
will bring us to the stepping-stones across the Ramapo. By Jove,
but we shall have a lovely morning.”
He did so, and away they went, with the dogs following steadily
at the heel, crossed the small river dry-shod, climbed up the wooded
bank by dint of hand and foot, and reached the broad brown corn
stubble. Harry, however, did not wave his dogs to the right hand
and left, but calling them in, quietly plodded along the headland,
and climbed another fence, and crossed a buckwheat stubble, still
without beating or disturbing any ground, and then another field
full of long bents and ragwort, an old deserted pasture, and Frank
began to grumble, but just then a pair of bars gave access to a wide
fifty acre lot, which had been wheat, the stubble standing still knee
deep, and yielding a rare covert.
“Now we are at the far end of our beat, and we have got the
wind too in the dogs' noses, Master Frank—and so hold up, good
lads,” said Harry. And off the setters shot like lightning, crossing
and quartering their ground superbly.
“There! there! well done, old Chase—a dead stiff point already,
and Shot backing him as steady as a rail. Step up, Frank, step up
quietly, and let us keep the hill of them.”
They came up close, quite close to the stanch dog, and then,
but not till then, he feathered and drew on, and Shot came crawling
up till his nose was but a few inches in the rear of Chase's,
whose point he never thought of taking from him. Now they are
both upon the game. See how they frown and slaver, the birds are
close below their noses.
Whirr—r—r! “There they go—a glorious bevy!” exclaimed
Harry, as he cocked his right barrel and cut down the old cock bird,
which had risen rather to his right hand, with his loose charge—
“blaze away, Frank!” Bang—bang!—and two more birds came
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fluttering down, and then he pitched his gun up to his eye again,
and sent the cartridge after the now distant bevy, and to Frank's
admiration a fourth bird was keeled over most beautifully, and clean
killed, while crossing to the right, at forty-six yards, as they paced
it afterward.
“Now mark! mark, Timothy—mark, Frank!” And shading
their eyes from the level sunbeams, the three stood gazing steadily
after the rapid bevy. They cross the pasture, skim very low over
the brush fence of the cornfield—they disappear behind it—they are
down! no! no! not yet—they are just skirting the summit of the
topped maize stalks—now they are down indeed, just by that old
ruined hovel, where the cat-briers and sumach have overspread its
cellar and foundation with thick underwood. And all the while the
sturdy dogs are crouching at their feet unmoving.
“Will you not follow those, Harry?” Forester inquired—“there
are at least sixteen of them!”
“Not I,” said Archer, “not I, indeed, till I have beat this field—
I expect to put up another bevy among those little crags there in
the corner, where the red cedars grow—and if we do, they will
strike down the fence of the buckweat stubble—that stubble we
must make good, and the rye beside it, and drive, if possible, all
that we find before us to the corn field. Don't be impatient, and
you'll see in time that I am in the right.”
No more words were now wasted; the four birds were bagged
without trouble, and the sportsmen being in the open were handed
over on the spot to Tim; who stroked their freckled breasts, and
beautifully mottled wing coverts and backs, with a caressing touch,
as though he loved them; and finally, in true Jack Ketch style,
tucked them up severally by the neck. Archer was not mistaken
in his prognostics—another bevy had run into the dwarf cedars from
the stubble at the sound of the firing, and were roaded up in right
good style, first one dog, and then the other, leading; but without
any jealousy or haste.
They had, however, run so far, that they had got wild, and, as
there was no bottom covert on the crags, had traversed them quite
over to the open, on the far side—and, just as Archer was in the act
of warning Forester to hurry softly round and head them, they
flushed at thirty yards, and had flown some five more before they
were in sight, the feathery evergreens for a while cutting off the
view—the dogs stood dead at the sound of their wings. Then, as
they came in sight, Harry discharged both barrels very quickly—
the loose shot first, which evidently took effect, for one bird cowered
and seemed about to fall, but gathered wing again, and went
on for the present—the cartridge, which went next, although the
bevy had flown ten yards further, did its work clean, and stopped
its bird. Frank fired but once, and killed, using his cartridge first,
and thinking it in vain to fire the loose shot. The remaining birds
skimmed down the hill, and lighted in the thick bushy hedge-row,
as Archer had foreseen.
“So much for Ely!” exclaimed Harry—“had we both used two
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of them, we should have bagged four then. As it is, I have killed
one which we shall not get; a thing that I most particularly hate.”
“That bird will rise again,” said Frank.
“Never!” replied the other, “he has one, if not two, shot in
him, well forward—if I am not much mistaken, before the wing—
he is dead now! but let us on. These we must follow, for they are
on our line; you keep this side the fence, and I will cross it with
the dogs—come with me, Timothy.”
In a few minutes more there was a dead point at the hedge-row.
“Look to, Frank!”
“Ay! ay!” “Poke them out, Tim;” then followed sundry
bumps and threshings of the briers, and out with a noisy flutter
burst two birds under Forester's nose. Bang! bang!
“The first shot too quick, altogether,” muttered Archer; “Ay,
he has missed one; mark it, Tim—there he goes down in the corn,
by jingo—you've got that bird, Frank? That's well! Hold up
Shot”—another point within five yards. “Look out again, Frank.”
But this time vainly did Tim poke, and thresh, and peer into the
bushes—yet still Shot stood, stiff as a marble statue—then Chase
drew up and snuffed about, and pushed his head and fore-legs into
the matted briers, and thereupon a muzzling noise ensued, and
forth with out he came, mouthing a dead bird, warm still, and bleeding
from the neck and breast.
“Frank, he has got my bird—and shot, just as I told you, through
the neck and near the great wing joint—good dog! good dog!”
“The devil!”
“Yes, the devil! but look out man, here is yet one more point;”
and this time ten or twelve birds flushed upon Archer's side; he
slew, as usual, his brace, and as they crossed, at long distance,
Frank knocked down one more—the rest flew to the corn-field.
In the middle of the buckwheat they flushed another, and, in the
rye, another bevy, both of which crossed the stream, and settled
down among the alders. They reached the corn field, and picked
up their birds there, quite as fast as Frank himself desired—three
ruffed grouse they had bagged, and four rabbits, in a small dingle
full of thorns, before they reached the corn; and just as the tin
horns were sounding for noon and dinner from many a neighboring
farm, they bagged their thirty-fourth quail. At the same moment,
the rattle of a distant wagon on the hard road, and a loud cheer replying
to the last shot, announced the Commodore; who pulled up at
the tavern door just as they crossed the stepping-stones, having
made a right good morning's work, with a dead certainty of better
sport in the afternoon, since they had marked two untouched bevies,
thirty-five birds at least, beside some ten or twelve more stragglers
into the alder brakes, which Harry knew to hold—moreover,
thirty woodcock, as he said, at the fewest.
“Well! Harry,” exclaimed Frank, as he set down his gun, and
sat down to the table, “I must for once knock under—your practice
has borne out your precepts.”
eaf144.n6[6] This is a fact—thirty birds were thrown away at night, which had been killed
that same day.
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[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
Luncheon was soon discussed, a noble cold quail pie and a spiced
round of beef, which formed the most essential parts thereof, displaying
in their rapidly diminished bulk ocular evidence of the extent
of sportmen's appetites; a single glass of shrub and water
followed, cheroots were lighted, and forth the comrades sallied, the
Commodore inquiring as they went what were the prospects of
success.
“You fellows,” he concluded, “have, I suppose, swept the ground
completely.”
“That you shall see directly,” answered Archer; “I shall make
you no promises. But see how evidently Grouse recollects those
dogs of mine, though it is nearly a year since they have met; don't
you think so, A—?”
“To be sure I do,” replied the Commodore; “I saw it the first
moment you came up—had they been strangers he would have
tackled them upon the instant; and instead of that he began wagging
his tail, and wriggling about, and playing with them. Oh!
depend upon it, dogs think, and remember, and reflect far more
than we imagine—”
“Oh! run back, Timothy—run back!” here Archer interrupted
him—“we don't want you this afternoon. Harness the nags and
pack the wagon, and put them to, at five—we shall be at home by
then, for we intend to be at Tom's night. Now look out, Frank,
those three last quail, we marked in from the hill, dropped in the
next field, where the ragwort stands so thick; and five to one, as
there is a thin growth of brushwood all down this wall side, they
will have run down hither. Why, man alive! you've got no copper
caps on!”
“By George! no more I have—I took them off when I laid down
my gun in the house, and forgot to replace them.”
“And a very dangerous thing you did in taking them off, permit
me to assure you. Any one but a fool, or a very young child,
knows at once that a gun with caps on is loaded. You leave yours
on the table without caps, and in comes some meddling chap or
other, puts on one to try the locks, or to frighten his sweetheart, or
for some other no less sapient purpose, and off it goes! and if it kill
no one, it's God's mercy! Never do that again, Frank!”
Meanwhile they had arrived within ten yards of the low rickety
stone wall, skirted by a thin fringe of saplings, in which Archer
expected to find game—Grouse, never in what might be called exact
command, had disappeared beyond it.
“Hold up, good dogs!” cried Harry, and as he spoke away went
Shot and Chase—the red dog, some three yards ahead, jumped on
the wall, and, in the act of bounding over it, saw Grouse at point
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beyond. Rigid as stone he stood upon that tottering ridge, one
hind foot drawn up in the act of pointing, for both the fore were
occupied in clinging to some trivial inequalities of the rough coping,
his feathery flag erect, his black eye fixed, and his lip slavering;
for so hot was the scent that it reached his exquisitely fashioned
organs, though Grouse was many feet advanced between him and
the game. Shot backed at the wall-foot, seeing the red dog only,
and utterly unconscious that the pointer had made the game beyond.
“By Jove! but that is beautiful!” exclaimed the Commodore.
“That is a perfect picture!—the very perfection of steadiness and
breaking.”
They crossed the wall, and poor Shot, in the rear, saw them no
more; his instinct strongly, aye! naturally, tempted him to break
in, but second nature, in the shape of discipline, prevailed; and,
though he trembled with excitement, he moved not an inch. Grouse
was as firm as iron, his nose within six inches of a bunch of wintergreen,
pointed directly downward, and his head cocked a little on
one side—they stepped up to him, and, still on the wall-top, Chase
held to his uneasy attitude.
“Now then,” said Harry, “look out, till I kick him up.”
No sooner said than done—the toe of his thick shooting-boot
crushed the slight evergreen, and out whirred, with his white chaps
and speckled breast conspicuous, an old cock quail. He rose to
Forester, but ere that worthy had even cocked his gun—for he had
now adopted Archer's plan, and carried his piece always at half
cock, till needed—flew to the right across the Commodore; so
Frank released his hammer and brought down his Manton, while
A— deliberately covered, and handsomely cut down the bird at
five-and-twenty yards.
Grouse made a movement to run in, but came back instantly
when called.
“Just look back, if you please, one moment, before loading,” said
Harry, “for that down-charge is well worth looking at.”
And so indeed it was—for there, upon the wall-top, where he had
been balancing, Chase had contrived to lie down at the gunshot—
wagging his stern slightly to and fro, with his white fore-paws
hanging down, and his head couched between them, his haunches
propped up on the coping stone, and his whole attitude apparently
untenable for half a minute.
“Now, load away for pity's sake, as quickly as you can; that
posture must be any thing but pleasant.”
This was soon done; inasmuch as the Commodore is not exactly
one to dally in such matters; and when his locks ticked, as he
drew the hammers to half-cock, Chase quietly dismounted from his
perch, and Shot's head and fore-paws appeared above the barrier;
but not till Archer's hand gave the expected signal did the stanch
brutes move on.
“Come, Shot, good dog—it is but fair you should have some part
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of the fun! Seek dead! seek dead! that's it, sir! Toho! steady!
Fetch him, good lad! Well done!”
In a few minutes' space, four or five more birds came to bag—
they had run, at the near report, up the wall side among the
bushes, and the dogs footed them along it, now one and now another
taking the lead successively, but without any eagerness or
raking—looking round constantly, each to observe his comrades' or
his master's movements, and pointing slightly, but not steadily, at
every foot, till at the last all three, in different places, stood almost
simultaneously—all three dead points.
One bird jumped up to Frank, which he knocked over. A double
shot fell to the Commodore, who held the centre of the line, and
dropped both cleverly—the second, a long shot, wing-tipped only.
Harry flushed three and killed two clean, both within thirty paces,
and then covered the third bird with his empty barrels—but, though
no shot could follow from that quarter, he was not to escape scot
free, for wheeling short to the left hand, and flying high, he crossed
the Commodore in easy distance, and afterward gave Forester a
chance.
“Try him, Frank,” halloaed Archer—and “It's no use!” cried
A—, almost together, just as he raised his gun, and levelled it a
good two feet before the quail.
But it was use, and Harry's practised eye had judged the distance
more correctly than the short sight of the Commodore permitted—
the bird quailed instantly, as the shot struck, but flew on
notwithstanding, slanting down wind, however, toward the ground,
and falling on the hill-side at a full hundred yards.
“We shall not get him,” Forester exclaimed; “and I am sorry
for it, since it was a good shot.”
“A right good shot,” responded Harry, “and we shall get him.
He fell quite dead; I saw him bounce up, like a ball, when he struck
the hard ground. But A—'s second bird is only wing-tipped, and
I don't think we shall get him; for the ground where he fell is
very tussocky and full of grass, and if he creeps in, as they mostly
will do, into some hole in the bog-ground, it is ten to one against the
best dog in America!”
And so it came to pass, for they did bag Forester's, and all the
other quail except the Commodore's, which, though the dogs trailed
him well, and worked like Trojans, they could not for their lives
make out.
After this little rally they went down to the alders by the stream-side,
and had enough to do, till it was growing rapidly too dark to
shoot—for the woodcock were very plentiful—it was sweet ground,
too, not for feeding only, but for lying, and that, as Harry pointed
out, is a great thing in the autumn.
The grass was short and still rich under foot, although it froze
hard every night; but all along the brook's marge there were many
small oozy bubbling springlets, which it required a stinging night
to congeal; and round these the ground was poached up by the
cattle, and laid bare in spots of deep, soft, black loam; and the
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innumerable chalkings told the experienced eye at half a glance,
that, where they laid up for the night soever, here was their feeding
ground, and here it had been through the autumn.
But this was not all, for at every ten or twenty paces was a dense
tuft of willow bushes, growing for the most part upon the higher
knolls where it was dry and sunny, their roots heaped round with
drift wood, from the decay of which had shot up a dense tangled
growth of cat-briers. In these the birds were lying, all but some
five or six which had run out to feed, and were flushed, fat, and
large, and lazy, quite in the open meadow.
“They stay here later,” Harry said, as they bagged the last
bird, which, be it observed, was the twenty-seventh, “than any
where I know. Here I have killed them when there was ice
thicker than a dollar on all the waters round about, and when you
might see a thin and smoke-like mist boiling up from each springlet.
Kill them all off to-day, and you will find a dozen fresh birds
here to-morrow, and so on for a fornight—they come down from
the high ground as it gets too cold for them to endure their high
and rarified atmosphere, and congregate hither!”
“And why not more in humber at a time?” asked A—.
“Aye! there we are in the dark—we do not know sufficiently
the habits of the bird, to speak with certainty. I do not think they
are pugnacious, and yet you never find more on a feeding ground
than it will well accommodate for many days, nay weeks, together.
One might imagine that their migrations would be made en masse,
that all the birds upon these neighboring hills would crowd down
to this spot together, and feed here till it was exhausted, and then
on—but this is not so! I know fifty small spots like this, each a
sure find in the summer for three or four broods, say from eight to
twelve birds. During the summer, when you have killed the first
lot, no more return—but the moment the frost begins, there you
will find them—never exceeding the original eight or ten in number,
but keeping up continually to that mark—and whether you
kill none at all, or thirty birds a week, there you will always find
about that number, and in no case any more. Those that are killed
off are supplied, within two days at farthest, by new comers; yet
so far as I can judge, the original birds, if not killed, hold their
own, unmolested by intruders. Whence the supplies come in—for
they must be near neighbors by the rapidity of their succession—
and why they abstain from their favorite grounds in worse locations,
remains, and I fear we must remain, in the dark. All the
habits of the woodcock are, indeed, very partially and slightly understood.
They arrive here, and breed early in the spring—sometimes,
indeed, before the snow is off the hills—get their young off
in June, and with their young are most unmercifully, most unsportsmanly,
thinned off, when they can hardly fly—such is the error, as
I think it, of the law—but I could not convince my stanch friends,
Philo, and J. Cypress, Jr., of the fact, when they bestirred themselves
in favor of the progeny of their especial favorites, perdix virginiana
and tetrao umbellus, and did defer the times for slaying
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them legitimately to such a period, that it is in fact next to impossible
to kill the latter bird at all. But vainly did I plead, and a
false advocate was Cypress after all, despite his nominal friendship,
for that unhappy Scolopax, who in July at least deserves his nick-name
minor, or the infant. For, setting joke apart, what a burning
shame it is to murder the poor little half-fledged younglings in
July, when they will scarcely weigh six ounces; when they will
drop again within ten paces of the dog that flushes, or the gun that
misses them; and when the heat will not allow you even to enjoy
the consummation of their slaughter. Look at these fellows now,
with their gray foreheads, their plump ruddy breasts, their strong,
well feathered pinions, each one ten ounces at the least. Think how
these jolly old cocks tower away, with their shrill whistle, through
the tree-tops, and twist and dodge with an agility of wing and
thought-like speed, scarcely inferior to the snipe's or swallow's,
and fly a half mile if you miss them; and laugh to scorn the efforts
of any one to bag them, who is not a right out-and-outer! No chance
shot, no stray pellet speaks for these—it must be the charge, the
whole charge, and nothing but the charge, which will cut down
the grown bird of October! The law should have said woodcock
thou shalt not kill until September; quail thou shalt not kill till
October, the twenty-fifth if you please; partridge thou shalt kill in
all places, and at all times, when thou canst! and that, as we know,
Frank, and A—, that is not every where or often!”
“But, seriously,” said the Commodore, “seriously, would you indeed
abolish summer shooting!”
“Most seriously! most solemnly I would!” Archer responded.
“In the first place because, as I have said, it is a perfect sin to
shoot cock in July; and secondly, because no one would, I am
convinced, shoot for his own pleasure at that season, if it were
not a question of now or never. Between the intense heat, and
the swarms of musquitoes, and the unfitness of that season for
the dogs, which can rarely scent their game half the proper
distance, and the density of the leafy coverts; and lastly, the difficulty
of keeping the game fresh till you can use it, render July
shooting a toil, in my opinion, rather than a real pleasure; although
we are such hunting creatures, that rather than not have our prey
at all, we will pursue it in all times, and through all inconveniences.
Fancy, my dear fellows, only fancy what superb shooting we
should have if not a bird were killed till they were all full grown, and
fit to kill; fancy bagging a hundred and twenty-five fall woodcock
in a single autumn day, as we did this very year on a summer's day!”
“Oh! I agree with you completely,” said Frank Forester, “but
I am afraid such a law will never be brought to bear in this country—
the very day on which cock shooting does not really begin, but is
supposed by nine tenths of the people to begin—the fourth of July,
is against it.[7] Moreover, the amateur killers of game are so very
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very few, in comparison with the amateur caters thereof, that it is
all but impossible to enforce the laws at all upon this subject. Woodcock
even now are eaten in June—nay, I have heard, and believe
it to be true, that many hotels in New York serve them up even in
March and April; quail, this autumn, have been sold openly in the
markets, many days previous to the expiration of close time. And
in fact, sorry I am to say it, so far as eating-houses are in question,
the game laws are nearly a dead letter.
“In the country, also, I have universally found it to be the case,
that although the penalty of a breach may be exacted from strangers,
no farmer will differ with a neighbor, as they call it, for the
sake of a bird. Whether time, and a greater diffusion of sporting
propensities, and sporting feelings, may alter this for the better or
no, I leave to sager and more politic pates than mine. And now I
say, Harry, you surely do not intend to trundle us off to Tom
Draw's to-night without a drink at starting? I see Timothy has
got the drag up to the door, and the horses harnessed, and all ready
for a start.”
“Yes! yes! all that's true,” answered Harry, “but take my
word for it, the liquor case is not put in yet. Well, Timothy,” he
went on, as they reached the door, “that is right. Have you got
every thing put up?”
“All but t' gam' bag and t' liquor ca-ase, sur,” Tim replied,
touching his hat gnostically as he spoke; “Ay reckoned, ple-ease
sur, 'at you 'd maybe want to fill t' yan oop, and empty t' oother!”
“Very well thought, indeed!” said Archer, winking to Forester
the while. “Let that boy stand a few minutes to the horses' heads,
and come into the house yourself and pack the birds up, and fetch
us some water.”
“T' watter is upon t' table, sur, and t' cigars, and a loight; but
Ay'se be in wi you directly. Coom hither, lad, till Ay shew thee
hoo to guide 'em; thou munna tocch t' bits for the loife o' thee, but
joost stan' there anent them—if they stir loike, joost speak to 'em—
Ayse hear thee!” and he left his charge and entered the small parlor,
where the three friends were now assembled, with a cheroot
apiece already lighted, and three tall brimming rummers on the
table.
“Look sharp and put the birds up,” said Harry, pitching, as he
spoke, the fine fat fellows right and left out of his wide game
pockets, “and when that's done fill yourself out a drink, and help
us on with our great coats.”
“What are you going to do with the guns?” inquired the Commodore.
“To carry them uncased and loaded; substituting in my own
two buckshot cartridges for loose shot,” replied Archer. “The
Irish are playing the very devil through this part of the country—
we are close to the line of the great Erie railroad—and they are
murdering' and robbing, and I know not what, for miles around.
The last time I was at old Tom's he told me that but ten days or a
fortnight previously a poor Irish woman, who lived in his village,
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started to pay a visit to her mother by the self same road we shall
pass to-night; and was found the next morning with her person
brutally abused, kneeling against a fence stone dead, strangled
with her own cambric handkerchief. He says, too, that not a week
passes but some of them are found dead in the meadows, or in the
ditches, killed in some lawless fray; and no one ever dreams of
taking any notice, or making any inquiry about the matter!”
“Is it possible? then keep the guns at hand by all means!”
“Yes! but this time we will violate my rule about the copper
caps—there is no rule, you are aware, but what has some exception—
and the exception to this of mine is, always take off your
copper caps before getting into a wagon; the jar will occasionally
explode them, an upset will undoubtedly. So uncap, Messrs.
Forester and A—, and put the bright little exploders into your
pockets, where they will be both safe and handy! And now,
birds are in, drinks are in, dogs and guns are in, and now let us
be off!”
No more words were wasted; the landlord's bill was paid, Frank
Forester and Timothy got up behind, the Commodore took the front
seat, Harry sprang, reins in hand, to the box, and off they bowled,
with lamps and cigars burning merrily, for it was now quite dark,
along the well-known mountain road, which Archer boasted he could
drive as safely in the most gloomy night of winter as in a summer
noon. And so it proved this time, for though he piloted his horses
with a cool head and delicate finger through every sort of difficulty
that a road can offer, up long and toilsome hills without a rail between
the narrow track and the deep precipice, down sharp and
stony pitches, over loose clattering bridges, along wet marshy levels,
he never seemed in doubt or trouble for a moment, but talked and
laughed away, as if he were a mere spectator.
After they had gone a few miles on their way—“you broke off
short, Archer,” said the Commodore, “in the middle of your dissertation
on the natural history and habits of the woodcock, turning a
propos des bottes to the cruelty of killing them in midsummer. In
all which, by the way, I quite agree with you. But I don't want
to lose the rest of your lucubrations on this most interesting topic.
What do you think becomes of the birds in August, after the moult
begins?”
“Verily, Commodore, that is a positive poser. Many good sportsmen
believe that they remain where they were before; getting into
the thickest and wettest brakes, refusing to rise before the dog, and
giving out little or no scent!”
“Do you believe this?”
“No; I believe there is a brief migration, but whither I cannot
tell you with any certainty. Some birds do stay, as they assert;
and that a few do stay, and do give out enough scent to enable dogs
to find them, is a proof to me that all do not. A good sportsman
can always find a few birds even during the moult, and I do not
think that birds killed at that time are at all worse eating than others.
But I am satisfied that the great bulk shift their quarters, whither I
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have not yet fully ascertained; but I believe to the small runnels
and deep swales which are found throughout all the mountain tracts
of the middle States; and in these, as I believe, they remain dispersed
and scattered in such small parties that they are not worth
looking after, till the frost drives them down to their old haunts. A
gentleman, whom I can depend on, told me once that he climbed
Bull Hill one year late in September—Bull Hill is one of the loftiest
peaks in the Highlands of the Hudson—merely to show the prospect
to a friend, and he found all the brushwood on the summit full
of fine autumn cock, not a bird having been seen for weeks in the
low woodlands at the base. They had no guns with them at the
time, and some days elapsed before he could again spare a few
hours to hunt them up; in the meantime frost came, the birds returned
to their accustomed swamps and levels, and, when he did
again scale the rough mountain, not a bird rewarded his trouble.
This, if true, which I do not doubt, would go far to prove my theory
correct; but it is not easy to arrive at absolute certainty, for if I am
right, during that period birds are to be found no where in abundance,
and a man must be a downright Audubon to be willing to go mountain-stalking—
the hardest walking in the world, by the way—purely
for the sake of learning the habits of friend Scolopax, with no hope
of getting a good bag after all.”
“How late have you ever killed a cock previous to their great
southern flight?”
“Never myself beyond the fifteenth of November; but Tom
Draw assures me, and his asseveration was accidently corroborated
by a man who walked along with him, that he killed thirty birds
last year in Hell-Hole, which both of you fellows know, on the
thirteenth of December. There had been a very severe frost indeed,
and the ice on that very morning was quite thick, and the mud
frozen hard enough to bear in places. But the day was warm,
bright, and genial, and, as he says, it came into his head to see
`if cock was was all gone,' and he went to what he knew to be
the latest ground, and found the very heaviest and finest birds he
ever saw!”
“Oh! that of course,” said A—, “if he found any! Did you
ever hear of any other birds so late?”
“Yes! later—Mike Sandford, I think, but some Jerseyman or
other—killed a couple the day after Christmas day, on a long southern
slope covered with close dwarf cedars, and watered by some
tepid springs, not far from Pine Brook; and I have been told that
the rabbit shooters, who always go out in a party between Christmas
and New Year's day, almost invariably flush a bird or two there
in mid-winter. The same thing is told of a similar situation on the
southwestern slope of Staten Island; and I believe truly in both
instances. These, however, must, I think, be looked upon not as
cases of late emigration, but as rare instances of the bird wintering
here to the northward; which I doubt not a few do annually. I
should like much to know if there is any State of the Union where
the cock is perennial. I do not see why he should not be so in
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Maryland or Delaware, though I have never heard it stated so to be.
The great heat of the extreme southern summer drives them north,
as surely as our northern winter sends them south; and the great
emigrations of the main flight are northward in February and March,
and southward in November, varying by a few days only according
to the variations of the seasons!”
“Well, I trust they have not emigrated hence yet—ha! ha!
ha”' laughed the Commodore, with his peculiar hearty deep-toned
merriment.
“Not they! not they! I warrant them,” said Archer; “but that
to-morrow must bring forth.”
“Come, Harry,” exclaimed Forester, after a little pause, “spin
us a shooting yarn, to kill the time, till we get to fat Tom's.”
“A yarn! well, what shall it be?”
“I don't know; oh! yes! yes! I do. You once told me something
about a wolf-hunt, and then shut up your mouth all at once,
and would give me no satisfaction.”
“A wolf-hunt?” cried the Commodore, “were you ever at a
wolf-hunt; and here in this country, Harry?”
“Indeed was I, and—”
“The story, then, the story; we must have it.”
“Oh! as for story, there is not much—”
“The story! the story!” shouted Frank. “You may as well
begin at once, for we will have it.”
“Oh! very well. All is one to me, but you will be tired enough
of it before I have got through so here goes for
A WOLF HUNT ON THE WARWICK HILLS,”
said Archer, and without more ado spun his yarn as follows.
“There are few wilder regions within the compass of the United
States, much less in the vicinity of its most populous and cultivated
districts, than that long line of rocky wood-crowned heights which—
at times rising to an elevation and exhibiting a boldness of outline
that justifies the application to them of the term `mountains,'
while at others they would be more appropriately designated as
hills or knolls—run all across the Eastern and the Midland States,
from the White Mountains westward to the Alleghanies, between
which mighty chains they form an intermediate and continuous
link.
“Through this stern barrier all the great rivers of the States,
through which they run, have rent themselves a passage, exhibiting
in every instance the most sublime and boldest scenery, while
many of the minor, though still noble streams, come forth sparkling
and bright and cold from the clear lakes and lonely springs
embosomed in its dark recesses.
“Possessing, for the most part, a width of eight or ten miles, this
chain of hills consists, at some points, of a single ridge, rude, forest-clad
and lonely—at others, of two, three, or even four distinct and
separate lines of heights, with valleys more or less highly cultured,
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long sheets of most translucent water, and wild mountain streams
dividing them.
“With these hills—known as the Highlands—where the gigantic
Hudson has cloven, at some distant day, a devious path for his eternal
and resistless waters, and by a hundred other names, the Warwick
Hills, the Greenwoods, and yet farther west, the Blue Ridge
and the Kittatinny Mountains, as they trend southerly and west
across New York and New Jersey—with these hills I have now
to do.
“Not as the temples meet for the lonely muse, fit habitations for
the poet's rich imaginings! not as they are most glorious in their
natural scenery—whether the youthful May is covering their rugged
brows with the bright tender verdure of the tasselled larch, and
the yet brighter green of maple, mountain ash and willow—or the
full flush of summer has clothed their forests with impervious and
shadowy foliage, while carpeting their sides with the unnumbered
blossoms of calmia, rhododendron and azalia!—whether the gorgeous
hues of autumn gleam like the banners of ten thousand victor
armies along their rugged slopes, or the frozen winds of winter
have roofed their headlands with inviolate white snow! Not as
their bowels teem with the wealth of mines which ages of man's
avarice may vainly labor to exhaust! but as they are the loved
abode of many a woodland denizen that has retreated, even from
more remote and seemingly far wilder fastnesses, to these sequestered
haunts. I love them, in that the graceful hind conceals her
timid fawn among the ferns that wave on the lone banks of many a
nameless rill, threading their hills, untrodden save by the miner, or
the unfrequent huntsman's foot—in that the noble stag frays oftentimes
his antlers against their giant trees—in that the mighty bear
lies hushed in grim repose amid their tangled swamps—in that their
bushy dingles resound nightly to the long-drawn howl of the gaunt
famished wolf—in that the lynx and wild-cat yet mark their prey
from the pine branches—in that the ruffed grouse drums, the woodcock
bleats, and the quail chirrups from every height or hollow—in
that, more strange to tell, the noblest game of trans-atlantic fowl,
the glorious turkey—although, like angels' visits, they be indeed
but few and far between—yet spread their bronzed tails to the sun,
and swell and gobble in their most secret wilds.
“I love those hills of Warwick—many a glorious day have I passed
in their green recesses; many a wild tale have I heard of sylvan
sport and forest warfare, and many, too, of patriot partisanship in
the old revolutionary days—the days that tried men's souls—while
sitting at my noontide meal by the secluded well-head, under the
canopy of some primeval oak, with implements of woodland sport,
rifle or shot-gun by my side, and well-broke setter or stanch hound
recumbent at my feet. And one of these tales will I now venture
to record, though it will sound but weak and feeble from my lips, if
compared to the rich, racy, quaint and humorous thing it was, when
flowing from the nature-gifted tongue of our old friend Tom Draw.”
“Hear! hear!” cried Frank, “the chap is eloquent!”
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“It was the middle of the winter 1832—which was, as you will
recollect, of most unusual severity—that I had gone up to Tom
Draw's, with a view merely to quail shooting, though I had taken
up, as usual, my rifle, hoping perhaps to get a chance shot at a
deer. The very first night I arrived, the old bar-room was full of
farmers, talking all very eagerly about the ravages which had been
wrought among their flocks by a small pack of wolves, five or six,
as they said, in number, headed by an old gaunt famished brute,
which had for many years been known through the whole region,
by the loss of one hind foot, which had been cut off in a steel trap.
“More than a hundred sheep had been destroyed during the winter,
and several calves beside; and what had stirred especially the
bile of the good yeomen, was that, with more than customary boldness,
they had the previous night made a descent into the precincts
of the village, and carried off a fat wether of Tom Draw's.
“A slight fall of snow had taken place the morning I arrived,
and, this suggesting to Tom's mind a possibility of hunting up the
felons, a party had gone out and tracked them to a small swamp on
the Bellevale Mountain, wherein they had undoubtedly made their
head-quarters. Arrangements had been made on all sides—forty
or fifty stout and active men were mustered, well armed, though
variously, with muskets, ducking-guns and rifles—some fifteen
couple of strong hounds, of every height and color, were collected—
some twenty horses saddled and bridled, and twice as many sleighs
were ready; with provisions, ammunition, liquor and blankets, all
prepared for a week's bivouac. The plan prescribed was in the first
place to surround the swamp, as silently as possible, with all our
forces, and then to force the pack out so as to face our volley. This,
should the method be successful, would finish the whole hunt at
once; but should the three-legged savage succeed in making his
escape, we were to hunt him by relays, bivouacking upon the ground
wherever night should find us, and taking up the chase again upon
the following morning, until continual fatigue should wear out the
fierce brute. I had two horses with me, and Tim Matlock; so I
made up my mind at once, got a light one-horse sleigh up in the
village, rigged it with all my bear-skins, good store of whiskey,
eatables and so forth, saddled the gray with my best Somerset,
holsters and surcingle attached, and made one of the party on the
instant.
“Before daylight we started, a dozen mounted men leading the
way, with the intent to get quite round the ridge, and cut off the
retreat of these most wily beasts of prey, before the coming of the
rear-guard should alarm them—and the remainder of the party
sleighing it merrily along, with all the hounds attached to them.
The dawn was yet in its first gray dimness when we got into line
along the little ridge which bounds that small dense brake on the
northeastern side—upon the southern side the hill rose almost inaccessibly
in a succession of short limestone ledges—westward the
open woods, through which the hounds and footmen were approaching,
sloped down in a long easy fall, into the deep secluded basin,
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filled with the densest and most thorny coverts, and in the summer
time waist deep in water, and almost inaccessible, though now
floored with a sheet of solid ice, firm as the rocks around it—due
northward was an open field, dividing the wolf-dingle from the
mountain road by which we always travel.
“Our plot had been well laid, and thus far had succeeded. I, with
eleven horsemen, drawn up in easy pistol shot one of the other, had
taken our ground in perfect silence; and, as we readily discovered,
by the untrodden surface of the snow, our enemies were as yet undisturbed.
My station was the extreme left of our line, as we faced
westward, close to the first ridge of the southern hill; and there I
sat in mute expectancy, my holsters thrown wide open, my Kuchenre
üters loaded and cocked, and my good ounce-ball rifle lying
prepared within the hollow of my arm.
“Within a short half hour I saw the second party, captained by our
friend Garry, coming up one by one and forming silently and promptly
upon the hill side—and directly after I heard the crash and shout
of our beaters, as they plunged into the thicket at its westward end.
So far as I could perceive, all had gone well. Two sides, my own
eyes told me, were surrounded, and the continuous line in which
the shouts ran all along the farther end would have assured me, if
assurance had been needful, for Tom himself commanded in that
quarter, that all was perfectly secure on that side. A Jerseyman,
a hunter of no small repute, had been detached with a fourth band to
guard the open fields upon the north; due time had been allotted to
him, and, as we judged, he was upon his ground. Scarce had the
first yell echoed through the forest before the pattering of many
feet might be heard, mingled with the rustling of the matted boughs
throughout the covert—and as the beaters came on, a whole host of
rabbits, with no less than seven foxes, two of them gray, came
scampering through our line in mortal terror; but on they went unharmed,
for strict had been the orders that no shot should be fired,
save at the lawful objects of the chase. Just at this moment I saw
Garry, who stood a hundred feet above me on the hill, commanding
the whole basin of the swamp, bring up his rifle. This was enough
for me—my thumb was on the cock, the nail of my forefinger pressed
closely on the trigger-guard. He lowered it again, as though
he had lost sight of his object—raised it again with great rapidity,
and fired. My eye was on the muzzle of his piece, and just as the
bright stream of flame glanced from it, distinctly visible in the dim
morning twilight, before my ear had caught the sound of the report,
a sharp long snarl rose from the thicket, announcing that a wolf was
wounded. Eagerly, keenly did I listen; but there came no further
sound to tell me of his whereabout.
“`I hit him,' shouted Garry, `I hit him then, I swon; but I guess
not so badly, but he can travel still. Look out you, Archer, he's
squatted in the thick there, and won't stir 'till they get close a top
on him.'
“While he was speaking yet, a loud and startling shout arose from
the open field, announcing to my ear upon the instant that one or
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more had broken covert at some unguarded spot, as it was evident
from the absence of any firing. The leader of our squad was clearly
of the same opinion; for, motioning to us to spread our line a little
wider, he galloped off at a tremendous rate, spurning the snowballs
high into the air, accompanied by three of his best men, to stop the
gap which had been left through the misapprehension of the Jerseyman.
“This he accomplished; but not until the great wolf, wilier than
his comrades, had got off unharmed. He had not moved five minutes
before a small dark bitch-wolf broke away through our line, at the
angle furthest from my station, and drew a scattering volley from
more than half our men—too rapid and too random to be deadly—
though several of the balls struck close about her, I thought she
had got off scot free; but Jem McDaniel—whom you know—a cool,
old steady hand, had held his fire, and taking a long quiet aim,
lodged his ball fairly in the centre of her shoulders—over she went,
and over, tearing the snow with tooth and claw in her death agony;
while fancying, I suppose, that all our guns were emptied—for, by
my life, I think the crafty brutes can almost reason—out popped
two more! one between me and my right hand man—the other, a
large dog, dragging a wounded leg behind him, under my horse's
very feet. Bob made a curious demi-volte, I do assure you, as the
dark brindled villain darted between his fore legs with an angry
snarl; but at a single word and slight admonition of the curb, stood
motionless as though he had been carved in marble. Quickly I
brought my rifle up, though steadily enough, and—more, I fancy, by
good luck than management—planted my bullet in the neck, just
where the skull and spine unite, so that he bounced three feet at
least above the frozen snow, and fell quite dead, within twelve
paces of the covert. The other wolf, which had crept out to my
right hand, was welcomed by the almost simultaneous fire of three
pieces, one of which only lodged its bullet, a small one by the way—
eighty or ninety only to the pound—too light entirely to tell a
story, in the brute's loins.
“He gave a savage yell enough as the shot told; and, for the first
twenty or thirty yards, dragged his hind-quarters heavily; but, as
he went on, he recovered, gathering headway very rapidly over the
little ridge, and through the open woodland, toward a clear field
on the mountain's brow. Just as this passed, a dozen shots were
fired, in a quick running volley, from the thicket, just where an
old cart-way divides it; followed, after a moment's pause, by one
full, round report, which I knew instantly to be the voice of old
Tom's musket; nor did I err, for, while its echoes were yet vocal
in the leafless forest, the owner's jovial shout was heard—
“`Wiped all your eyes, boys! all of them, by the Etarnal!—
Who-whoop for our side!—and I'll bet horns for all on us, old
leather-breeches has killed his'n.'
“This passed so rapidly—in fact it was all nearly simultaneous—
that the fourth wolf was yet in sight, when the last shot was fired.
We all knew well enough that the main object of our chase had for
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the time escaped us!—the game was all afoot!—three of them slain
already; nor was there any longer aught to be gained by sticking
to our stations. So, more for deviltry than from entertaining any
real hope of overtaking him, I chucked my rifle to the nearest
of the farmers, touched old Bob with the spur, and went away on
a hard gallop after the wounded fugitive, who was now plodding
onward at the usual long loping canter of his tribe. For about
half a mile the wood was open, and sloped gently upward, until it
joined the open country, where it was bounded by a high rugged
fence, made in the usual snake fashion, with a huge heavy
top-rail. This we soon reached; the wolf, which was more hurt
than I had fancied, beginning to lag grievously, crept through it
scarcely a hundred yards ahead of me, and, by good luck, at a spot
where the top rail had been partially dislodged, so that Bob swept
over it, almost without an effort, in his gallop; though it presented
an impenetrable rampart to some half dozen of the horsemen who
had followed. I was now in a cleared lot of some ten acres, forming
the summit of the hill, which, farther on, sunk steeply into a
dark ravine full of thick brushwood, with a small verge of thinly
growing coppice not more than twenty yards in width, on tolerably
level ground, within the low stone-wall which parted it from the
cultivated land. I felt that I was now upon my vantage ground;
and you may be sure, Frank, that I spared not the spurs; but the
wolf, conscious probably of the vicinity of some place of safety,
strained every nerve and ran, in fact, as if he had been almost unwounded;
so that he was still twelve or fourteen paces from me
when he jumped on the wall.
“Once over this, I well knew he was safe; for I was thoroughly
acquainted with the ground, and was of course aware that no horse
could descend the banks of the precipitous ravine. In this predicament,
I thought I might as well take a chance at him with one of
my good pistols, though of course with faint hopes of touching
him. However, I pulled out the right hand nine-inch barrel, took
a quick sight, and let drive at him; and, much to my delight, the
sound was answered by the long snarling howl, which I had that
day heard too often to doubt any more its meaning. Over he
jumped, however, and the wall covering him from my sight, I had
no means of judging how badly he was hurt; so on I went, and
charged the wall with a tight rein, and a steady pull; and lucky
for me was it, that I had a steady pull; for under the lee of the wall
there was a heap of rugged logs into which Bob plunged gallantly,
and, in spite of my hard hold on him, floundered a moment, and
went over. Had I been going at top speed, a very nasty fall must
have been the immediate consequence—as it was, both of us rolled
over; but with small violence, and on soft snow, so that no harm
was done.
“As I came off, however, I found myself in a most unpleasant
neighborhood; for my good friend the wolf, hurt pretty badly by
the last shot, had, as it seemed, ensconced himself among the
logs, whence Bob's assault and subsequent discomfiture had
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somewhat suddenly dislodged him; so that, as I rolled over on the
snow, I found myself within six feet of my friend, seemingly very
doubtful whether to fight or fly! But, by good luck, my bullet
had struck him on the hip-bone, and being of a rather large calibre,
had let his claret pretty freely loose, besides shattering the bone,
so that he was but in poor fighting trim; and I had time to get
back to the gray—who stood snorting and panting, up to his knees
in snow and rubbish, but without offering to stir—to draw my
second pistol, and to give Isegrin—as the Germans call him—the
coup de grace, before he could attain the friendly shelter of the
dingle, to which with all due speed he was retreating. By this
time all our comrades had assembled. Loud was the glee—boisterous
the applause, which fell especially to me, who had performed
with my own hand the glorious feat of slaying two wolves in one
morning; and deep the cups of applejack, Scotch whiskey, and
Jamaica spirits, which flowed in rich libations, according to the
tastes of the compotators, over the slaughtered quarry.
“Breakfast was produced on the spot; cold salt pork, onions, and
hard biscuit forming the principal dishes, washed down by nothing
weaker than the pure ardent! Not long, however, did fat Tom
permit us to enjoy our ease.
“`Come, boys,' he shouted, `no lazin' here; no gormandizin'—
the worst part of our work's afore us; the old lame devil is
afoot, and five miles off by now. We must get back, and lay the
hounds on, right stret off—and well if the scent an't cold now!
He's tuk right off toward Duckcedars'—for so Tom ever calls
Truxedo Pond—a lovely crescent-shaped lakelet deep in the bosom
of the Greenwoods—`so off with you, Jem, down by the road, as hard
as you can strick with ten of your boys in sleighs, and half the
hounds; and if you find his tracks acrost the road, don't wait for
us, but strick right arter him. You, Garry, keep stret down the
old road with ten dogs and all the plunder—we'll meet at night, I
reckon.'
“No sooner said than done! the parties were sent off with the
relays. This was on Monday morning—Tom and I, and some
thirteen others, with eight couple of the best dogs, stuck to his
slot on foot. It was two hours at least, so long had he been gone,
before a single hound spoke to it, and I had begun well nigh to
despair; but Tom's immense sagacity, which seemed almost to
know instinctively the course of the wily savage, enabling us to
cut off the angles of his course, at last brought us up somewhat
nearer to him. At about noon, two or three of the hounds opened,
but doubtfully and faintly. His slot, however, showed that they
were right, and lustily we cheered them on! Tom, marvelling the
while that we heard not the cry of Jem's relay.
“`For I'll be darned,' he said, `if he hasn't crossed the road
long enough since; and that dumb nigger, Jem,'s not had the sense
to stick to him!'
“For once, however, the fat man was wrong; for, as it appeared
when we neared the road, the wolf had headed back, scared
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doubtless by some injudicious noise of our companions, and making a
wide ring, had crossed three miles below the spot where Jem was
posted. This circuit we were forced to make, as at first sight we
fancied he had headed altogether back, and it was four o'clock
before we got upon his scent, hot, fresh, and breast-high; running
toward the road, that is, due eastward from the covert whence
he had bolted in the morning. Nor were our friends inactive; for,
guided by the clamors of our pack, making the forests musical, they
now held down the road; and, as the felon crossed, caught a long
view of him as he limped over it, and laid the fresh hounds on.
“A brilliant rally followed—we calling off our wearied dogs, and
hasting to the lower road, where we found Garry with the sleighs,
and dashing off in our turn through all sorts of bye-paths and
wood-roads to head them once again! This, with much labor, we
effected; but the full winter-moon had risen, and the innumerable
stars were sparkling in the frosty skies, when we flogged off the
hounds—kindled our night fires—prepared our evening meal, feasted,
and spread our blankets, and slept soundly under no warmer
canopy than the blue firmament—secure that our lame friend would
lie up for the night at no great distance. With the first peep of
dawn we were again afoot, and, the snow still befriending us, we
roused him from a cedar-brake at about nine o'clock, cut him off
three times with fresh dogs and men, the second day, and passed
the night, some sixteen miles from home, in the rude hovel of a
charcoal burner.
“Greater excitement I cannot imagine, than that wild, independent
chace!—sometimes on foot, cheering the hounds through
swamp and dingle, over rough cliffs and ledges where foot of horse
could avail nothing. Sometimes on horseback, gallopping merrily
through the more open woodlands. Sometimes careering in the
flying sleigh, to the gay music of its bells, along the wild wood
paths! Well did we fare, too—well! aye, sumptuously!—for our
outskirters, though they reserved their rifles for the appropriate
game, were not so sparing with the shot-gun; so that, night after
night, our chaldron reeked with the mingled steam of rabbit, quail,
and partridge, seethed up à la Meg Merrilies, with fat pork, onions,
and potatoes—by the Lord Harry! Frank, a glorious and unmatched
consummée.
“To make, however, a long tale short—for every day's work,
although varied to the actors by thousands of minute but unnarratable
particulars, would appear but as a repetition of the last, to the
mere listener—to make a long tale short, on the third day he
doubled back, took us directly over the same ground—and in the
middle of the day, on Saturday, was roused in view by the leading
hounds, from the same little swamp in which the five had harbored
during the early winter. No man was near the hounds when he
broke covert. But fat Tom, who had been detached from the party
to bring up provisions from the village, was driving in his sleigh
steadily along the road, when the sharp chorus of the hounds
aroused him. A minute after, the lame scoundrel limped across
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the turnpike, scant thirty yards before him. Alas! Tom had but
his double-barrel, one loaded with buck shot, the other merely prepared
for partridge—he blazed away, however, but in vain! Out
came ten couple on his track, hard after him; and old Tom, cursing
his bad luck, stood to survey the chase across the open.
“Strange was the felon's fate! The first fence, after he had
crossed the road, was full six feet in height, framed of huge split
logs, piled so close together that, save between the two topmost
rails, a small dog even could have found no passage. Full at this
opening the wolf dashed, as fresh, Tom said, as though he had not
run a yard; but as he struggled through it, his efforts shook the
top rails from the yokes, and the huge piece of timber falling across
his loins, pinned him completely! At a mile off I heard his howl
myself, and the confused and savage hubbub, as the hounds front
and rear, assailed him.
“Hampered although he was, he battled it out fiercely—aye,
heroically—as six of our best hounds maimed for life, and one slain
outright, testified.
“Heavens! how the fat man scrambled across the fence! he
reached the spot, and, far too much excited to reload his piece and
quietly blow out the fierce brute's brains, fell to belaboring him about
the head with his gun stock, shouting the while and yelling; so
that the din of his tongue, mixed with the snarls and long howls of
the mangled savage, and the fierce baying of the dogs, fairly alarmed
me, as I said before, at a mile's distance!
“As it chanced, Timothy was on the road close by, with Peacock;
I caught sight of him, mounted, and spurred on fiercely to
the rescue; but when I reached the hill's brow, all was over. Tom,
puffing and panting like a grampus in shoal water, covered—garments
and face and hands—with lupine gore, had finished his huge
enemy, after he had destroyed his gun, with what he called a stick,
but what you and I, Frank, should term a fair-sized tree; and with
his foot upon the brindled monster's neck, was quaffing copious
rapture from the neck of a quart bottle—once full, but nowwell
nigh exhausted—of his appropriate and cherished beverage.[8] Thus
fell the last wolf on the Hills of Warwick!
“There, I have finished my yarn, and in good time,” cried Harry,
“for here we are at the bridge, and in five minutes more we shall
be at old Tom's door.”
“A right good yarn!” said Forester; “and right well spun, upon
my word.”
“But is it a yarn?” asked A—, or is it intended to be the
truth?”
“Oh! the truth,” laughed Frank, “the truth, as much as Archer
can tell the truth; embellished, you understand, embellished!”
“The truth, strictly,” answered Harry, quietly—“the truth, not
embellished. When I tell personal adventures, I am not in the
habit of decorating them with falsehood.”
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“I had no idea,” responded the Commodore, “that there had been
any wolves here so recently.”
“There are wolves here now,” said Archer, “though they are
scarce and wary. It was but last year that I rode down over the
back-bone of the mountain, on the Pompton road, in the night time,
and that on the third of July, and one fellow followed me along the
road till I got quite down into the cultivated country.”
“The devil he did!”
“How did you know he was following you?” exclaimed Frank
and the Commodore, almost in a breath.
“Did you see him?”
“Not I—but I heard him howl half a dozen times, and each time
nearer than before. When I got out of the hills he was not six hundred
yards behind me.”
“Pleasant, that! Were you armed? What did you do?”
“It was not really so unpleasant, after all—for I knew that he
would not attack me at that season of the year. I had my pistols
in my holsters; and for the rest, I jogged steadily along, taking
care to keep my nag in good wind for a spirt, if it should be needed.
I knew that for three or four miles I could outrun him, if it should
come to the worst, though in the end a wolf can run down the
fastest horse; and, as every mile brought me nearer to the settlement,
I did not care much about it. Had it been winter, when the
brutes are hard pressed for food, and the deep snows are against a
horse's speed, it would be a very different thing. Hurrah! here we
are! Hurrah! fat Tom! ahoy! a-ho-oy!”
eaf144.n7[7] In the State of New York close time for woodcock expires on the last day of
June—in New Jersey on the fourth of July—leaving the bird lawful prey on the 1st
and the 5th, respectively.
eaf144.n8[8] The facts and incidents of the lame wolf's death are strictly true, although they
were not witnessed by the writer.
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Blithe, loud and hearty was the welcome of fat Tom, when by
the clear view halloa with which Harry drove up to the door at a
spanking trot, the horses stopping willingly at the high well known
stoop, he learned who were these his nocturnal visiters. There was
a slight tinge of frostiness in the evening air, and a bright blazing
fire filled the whole bar-room with a cheerful merry light, and cast
a long stream of red lustre from the tall windows, and half-open
doorway, but in an instant all that escaped from the last mentioned
aperture was totally obstructed, as if the door had been pushed to,
by the huge body of mine host.
“Why, d—n it,” he exclaimed, “if that beant Archer! and a hull
grist of boys he's brought along with him, too, any how. How are
you, Harry, who've you got along? It's so etarnal thunderin'
dark as I carnt see'em no how!”
“Frank and the Commodore, that's all,” Archer replied, “and
how are you, old Corporation?”
Oh! oh! I'm most d—d glad as you've brought A—; you
might have left that other critter to home, though, jest as well—
we doosn't want him blowin' out his little hide here; lazin' about,
and doin' nothin' day nor night but eat and grumble; and drink,
and drink, as if he'd got a meal sack in his little guts. Why, Timothy,
how be you?” he concluded, smiting him on the back a
downright blow, that would have almost felled an ox, as he was
getting out the baggage.
“Doant thee noo, Measter Draa,” expostulated Tim, “behaave
thyself, man, or Ay'se give thee soomat thou woant Ioike, I'm
thinking. Noo! send oot yan o't' nagers, joost to stand tull t'nags
till Ay lift oot t'boxes!”
“A nigger, is it? d—n their black skins! there was a dozen here
jest now, a blockin' up the fire-side, and stinkin' so no white man
could come nearst it, till I got an axe-handle, half an hour or so
since, and cleared out the heap of them! Niggers! they'll be here
all of them torights, I warrant; where you sees Archer, there's
never no scaceness of dogs and niggers. But come, walk in boys!
walk in, anyhow—Jem'll be here torights, and he's worth two
d—d niggers any day, though he's black-fleshed, I guess, if one
was jest to skin the etarnal creatur.”
Very few minutes passed before they were all drawn up round
the fire, Captain Reade and two or three more making room for
them, as they pulled up their chairs about the glowing hearth—
having hung up their coats and capes against the wall.
“You'll be here best, boys,” said Tom, “for a piece—the parlor
fire's not been lit yet this fall, and it is quite cold nights now—but
Brower'll kindle it up agin supper, for you'll be wantin' to eat,
all of you, I reckon, you're sich d—d everlastin' gormandizers.”
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“That most undoubtedly we shall,” said Frank, “for it's past
eight now, and the deuce a mouthful have we put into our heads
since twelve.”
“Barrin' the liquor, Frank! Barrin' the liquor—now don't lie!
don't lie, boy, so ridic'lous—as if I'd known you these six years,
and then was agoin' to believe as you'd not drinked since noon!”
“Why, you old hogshead you! who wants you to believe anything
of the kind—we had one drink at Tom's, your cousin's, when
we started, but deuce the drop since.”
“That's just the reason why you're so snarlish, then, I reckon!
Your coppers is got bilin', leastwise if they beant all biled out—
you'd best drink stret away, I guess, afore the bottom of the biler
gits left bare—for if it does, and it's red hot now, boy, you'll be a
blowin' up, like an old steamboat, when you pumps in fresh water.”
“Well, Tom,” said Archer, “I do not think it would be a bad
move to take a drop of something, and a cracker; for I suppose we
shall not get supper much short of two hours; and I'm so deuced
hungry, that if I don't get something just to take off the edge, I
shall not be able to eat when it does come!”
“I'll make a pitcher of egg nog; A——drinks egg nog, I guess,
although he's the poorest drinkin' man I ever did see. Now,
Brower, look alive—the fire's lit, is it? Well, then, jump now and
feed them two poor starvin' bags-a-bones, as Archer calls dogs, and
tell your mother to git supper. Have you brought anything along
to eat or drink, boys—I guess we have n't nothin' in the house!”
“Oh! you be hanged,” said Harry, “I've brought a round of
cold spiced beef, but I'm not going to cut that up for supper; we
shall want it to take along for luncheon—you must get something!
Oh, by the way, you may let the girls pick half a dozen quail and
broil them, if you choose!”
“Quail! do you say? and where'll I git quail, I'd be pleased to
know?”
“Out of that gamebag,” answered Harry, deliberately, pointing
to the well filled plump net which Timothy had just brought in and
hung up on the pegs beside the box-coats. Without a word or syllable
the old chap rushed to the wall, seized it, and scarcely pausing
to sweep out of the way a large file of “the Spirit,” and several
numbers of “the Register,” emptied it on the table.
“Where the h—l, Archer, did you kill them?” he asked, “you
did n't kill all them to-day, I guess! One, two, three—why, there's
twenty-seven cock, and forty-nine quail! By gin! here's another;
just fifty quail, three partridge, and six rabbits; well, that's a most
all-fired nice mess, I swon; if you killed them to-day you done right
well, I tell you—you won't git no such mess of birds here now—
but you was two days killin' these, I guess!”
“Not we, Tom! Frank and I drove up from York last night, and
slept at young Tom's, down the valley—we were out just as soon
as it was light, and got the quail, all except fifteen or sixteen,
the ruffed grouse and four rabbits, before twelve o'clock. At
twelve the Commodore came up from Nyack, where he left his
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yacht, and joined us; we got some luncheon, went out again at
one, and between that and five bagged all the cock, the balance, as
you would call it, of the quail, and the other two bunnies.”
“Well, then, you made good work of it, I tell you, and you wont
do nothin' like that again this winter—not in Warwick; but I won't
touch them quail—it's a sin to break that bunch—but you do n't
never care to take the rabbits home, and the old woman's got some
beautiful fresh onions—she'll make a stew of them—a smother, as
you call it, in a little less than no time, Archer; and I've got
half a dozen of them big gray snipe—English snipe—that I killed
down by my little run'-side; you'll have them roasted with the
guts in, I guess! and then there's a pork-steak and sassagers—and
if you don't like that, you can jist go without. Here, Brower, take
these to your mother, and tell her to git supper right stret off—and
you tell Emma Jane to make some buckwheat cakes for A—! he
can't sup no how without buckwheat cakes; and I sets a great store
by A—! I doos, by G—! and you need n't laugh, boys, for I doos
a darned sight more than what I doos by you.”
“That's civil, at all events, and candid,” replied Frank; “and
it's consolatory, too, for I can fancy no greater reproach to a man,
than to be set store on by you. I do not comprehend at all, how
A— bears up under it. But come, do make that egg nog that
you're chattering about.”
“How will I make it, Harry—with beer, or milk, or cider!”
“All three! now be off, and don't jaw any more!” answered Archer—
“asking such silly questions, as if you did not know better
than any of us.”
In a few minutes the delicious compound was prepared, and, with
a plate of toasted crackers and some right good Orange County
butter, was set on a small round stand before the fire; while from
the neighboring kitchen rich fnmes began to load the air, indicative
of the approaching supper. In the mean time, the wagon was unloaded;
Timothy bustled to and fro; the parlor was arranged; the
bed-rooms were selected by that worthy; and every thing set out
in its own place, so that they could not possibly have been more
comfortable in their own houses. The horses had been duly cleaned,
and clothed, and fed; the dogs provided with abundance of dry
straw, and a hot mess of milk and meal; and now, in the far corner
of the bar-room, the indefatigable varlet was cleaning the three
double guns, as scientifically as though he had served his apprenticeship
to a gunsmith.
Just at this moment a heavy foot was heard upon the stoop, succeeded
by a whining and a great scratching at the door. “Here comes
that Indian, Jem,” cried Tom, and as he spoke the door flew open,
and in rushed old Whino, the tall black and tan fox-hound, and
Bonnybelle, and Blossom, and another large blue mottled bitch, of
the Southern breed. It was a curious sight to observe by how sudden
and intuitive an instinct the hounds rushed up to Archer, and
fawned upon him, jumping up with their fore-paws upon his knees,
and thrusting their bland smiling faces almost into his face; as he,
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nothing loath, nor repelling their caresses, discoursed most eloquent
dog language to them, until, excited beyond all measure, old
Whino seated himself deliberately on the floor, raised his nose toward
the ceiling, and set up a long, protracted, and most melancholy
howl, which, before it had attained, however, to its grand climax,
was brought to a conclusion by being converted into a sharp
and treble yell! a consummation brought about by a smart application
of Harry's double-thonged four-horse whip, wielded with all the
power of Tom's right arm, and accompanied by a “Git out, now,
d—n you—the whole grist! Kennel! now, kennel! out with them,
Jem, consarn you; out with them, and yourself, too! out of this, or
I'll put the gad about you, you white Deckerin' nigger you!”
“Come back, when you have put them up, Jem; and mind you
don't let them be where they can get at the setters, or they'll be
fighting like the devil,” interposed Archer—“I want to have a chat
with you. By-the-bye, Tom, where's Dash—you'd better look out,
or the Commodore's dog, Grouse, will eat him before morning—
mine will not quarrel with him, but Grouse will to a certainty.”
“Then for a sartainty I'll shoot Grouse, and wallop Grouse's
master, and that 'ill be two d—d right things done one mornin';
the first would be a most d—d right one, any how, and kind too! for
theu A— would be forced to git himself a good, nice setter dog,
and not go shootin' over a great old fat bustin' pinter, as is n't worth
so much as I be to hunt birds!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted the Commodore, whom nothing can, by
any earthly means, put out of temper, “ha! ha! ha! I should like to
see you shoot Grouse, Tom, for all the store you set by me, you'd
get the worst of that game. You had better take Archer's advice,
I can tell you.”
“Archer's advice, indeed! it's likely now that I'd have left my
nice little dog to be spiled by your big brutes, now aint it? Come,
come, here's supper.”
“Get something to drink, Jem, along with Timothy, and come
in when we've got through supper.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the knight of the cut-throat; “I've got some
news to tell you, too, Tom, if you'll wait a bit.”
“D—n you, and your news too,” responded Tom, “you're sich a
thunderin' liar, there's no knowin' when you do speak truth. We'll
not be losin' our supper for no lies, I guess! Leastways I won't!
Come, Archer.”
And with a right good appetite they walked into the parlor;
every thing was in order; every article placed just as it had been
when Frank went up to spend his first week in the Woodlands;
the gun-case stood on the same chairs below the window; the table
by the door was laid out with the same display of powder-flasks,
shot-pouches, and accountrements of all sizes. The liquor stand was
placed by Harry's chair, open, containing the case-bottles, the rummers
being duly ranged upon the board, which was well lighted by
four tall wax candles, and being laid with Harry's silver, made
quite a smart display. The rabbits smoked at the head, smothered
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in a rich sauce of cream, and nicely shredded onions; the pork
chops, thin and crisply broiled, exhaled rich odors at the bottom;
the English snipe, roasted to half a turn, and reposing on their neat
squares of toast, were balanced by a dish of well-fried sausages, reclining
on a bed of mashed potatoes; champagne was on the table,
unresined and unwired, awaiting only one touch of the knife to release
the struggling spirit from its transparent prison. Few words
were spoken for some time, unless it were a challenge to champagne,
the corks of which popped frequently and furious; or a request
for another snipe, or another spoonfull of the sauce; while all
devoted themselves to the work in hand with a sincere and business-like
earnestness of demeanor, that proved either the excellence
of Tom Draw's cookery, or the efficacy of the Spartan sauce which
the sportsmen had brought to assist them at their meal. The last
rich drops of the fourth flask were trickling into Tom's wide-lipped
rummer, when Harry said,
“Come, we have done, I think, for one night; let's have the eatables
removed, and we will have a pipe, and hear what Jem has got
to say; and you have told us nothing about birds, either, you old
elephant; what do you mean by it? That's right, Tim, now bring
in my cigars, and Mr. Forester's cheroots, and cold iced water, and
boiling hot water, and sugar, out of my box, and lemons. The shrub
is here, and the Scotch whiskey; will you have another bottle of
champagne, Tom? No! Well, then, look sharp, Timothy, and send
Jem in.”
And thereupon Jem entered, thumbing his hat assiduously, and
sat down in the corner, by the window, where he was speedily accommodated
with a supply of liquor, enough to temper any quantity
of clay.
“Well, Jem,” said Archer, “unbutton your bag now; what's
the news?”
“Well, Mr. Aircher, it be n't no use to tell you on't, with Tom,
there, puttin' a body out, and swearin' it's a lie, and dammin' a
chap up and down. It be n't no use to tell you, and yet I'd kind o'
like to, but then you won't believe a fellow, not one on you!”
“In course not,” answered Forester; and at the same instant
Tom struck in likewise—
“It's a lie, afore you tell it; it's a lie, d—n you, and you knows
it. I'd sooner take a nigger's word than yours, Jem, any how, for
the d—d niggers will tell the truth when they ca n't git no good by
lyin', but you, you will lie all times! When the truth would do the
best, and you would tell it if you could, you ca n't help lyin'!”
“Shut up, you old thief; shut up instantly, and let the man speak,
will you; I can see by his face that he has got something to tell;
and as for lying, you beat him at it any day.”
Tom was about to answer, when Harry, who had been eagerly
engaged in mixing a huge tumbler-full of strong cold shrub punch,
thrust it under his nose, and he, unable to resist the soft seductive
odor, seized it incontinently, and neither spoke nor breathed again
until the bottom of the rummer was brought parallel to the ceiling;
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then, with a deep heart-felt sigh, he set it down; uttered a most appalling
eructation; and then, with a calm placid smile, exclaimed,
“Tell on, Jem.” Whereupon that worthy launched into his full
tide of narrative, as follows.
“Well, you sees, Mr. Aircher, I tuk up this mornin' clean up
the old crick side, nigh to Vernon, and then I turned in back of old
Squire Vandergriff's, and druv the mountains clear down here till
I reached Rocky Hill; I'd pretty good sport, too, I tell you; I shot
a big gray fox on Round Top, and started a raal rouser of a red one
down in the big swamp, in the bottom, and them sluts did keep the
darndest ragin' you ever did hear tell on. Well, they tuk him
clean out across the open, past Andy Joneses, and they skeart up in
his stubbles three bevies, I guess, got into one like! there was a
drove of them, I tell you, and then they brought him back to the
hills agin, and run him twice clean round the Rocky Hill, and when
they came round the last time, the English sluts war n't half a rod
from his tail no how, and so he tried his last chance, and he holed;
but my! now Mr. Aircher, by d—n you niver did see nothin' like
the partridges; they kept a brushin' up and brushin' up, and treein'
every little while; I guess if I seen one I seen a hundred; why, I
killed seven on 'em with coarse shot up in the pines, and I dared n't
shoot exceptin' at their heads. If you'll go up there now, to-morrow,
and take the dogs along, I know as you'll git fifty.”
“Well, if that's all your news, Jem, I won't give you much for
it; and, as for going into the mountains to look after partridges,
you don't catch me at it, that's all!” said Harry. “Is that all?”
“Not by a great shot!” answered Jem, grinning, “but the truth
is, I know you won't believe me; but I can tell you what, you can
kill a big fat buck, if you'll git up a little afore daylight!”
“A buck, Jem! a buck near here?” inquired Forester and Archer
in a breath.
“I told you, boys, the critter could n't help it; he's stuck to
truth jest so long, and he was forced to lie, or else he would have
busted!”
“It's true, by thunder,” answered Jem; “I wish I may n't eat
nor drink nother, if there's one bit of lie in it; d—n the bit, Tom!
I'm in airnest, now, right down; and you knows as I would n't go
to lie about it!”
“Well! well! where was't; where was't, Jem?”
“Why, he lies, I guess, now, in that little thickest swamp of all,
jist in the eend of the swale atween Round Top and Rocky Hill,
right in the pines and laurels; leastways I druv him down there
with the dogs, and I swon that he never crossed into the open
meadow; and I went round, and made a circle like clean round
about him, and d—n the dog trailed on him no how; and bein' as
he's hard hot, I guess he'll stay there since he harbored.”
“Hard hit, is he? why, did you get a shot at him?”
“A fair one,” Jem replied; “not three rod off from me; he jumped
up out of the channel of Stony Brook, where, in a sort o' bend,
there was a lot of bushes, sumach and winter-green, and ferns; he
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skeart me, that's a fact, or I'd a killed him. He war n't ten yards
off when he bounced up first, but I pulled without cocking, and
when I'd got my gun fixed, he'd got off a little piece, and I'd got
nauthen but fox-shot, but I hot him jist in the side of the flank; the
blood flew out like winkin', and the hounds arter him like mad, up
and down, and round and back, and he a kind o' weak like, and
they'd overhauled him once and again, and tackled him, but there
was only four on them, and so he beat them off like every time, and
onned again! They could n't hold him no how, till I got up to
them, and I could n't fix it no how, so as I'd git another shot at
him; but it was growin' dark fast, and I flogged off the sluts arter
a deal o' work, and viewed him down the old blind run-way into the
swale eend, where I telled you; and then I laid still quite a piece;
and then I circled round, to see if he'd quit it, and not one dog tuk
track on him, and so I feels right sartain as he's in that hole now,
and will be in the mornin', if so be we goes there in time, afore the
sun's up.”
“That we can do easily enough,” said Archer, “what do you
say, Tom? Is it worth while?”
“Why,” answered old Draw instantly, “if so be only we could
be sartain that the d—d critter warn't a lyin', there could n't be no
doubt about it; for if the buck did lay up there this night, why
he'll be there to-morrow; and if so be he's there, why we can get
him sure!”
“Well, Jem, what have you got to say now,” said the Commodore;
“is it the truth or no?”
“Why, darn it all,” retorted Jem, “harn't I just told you it was
true; it's most d—d hard a fellow can't be believed now—why,
Mr. Aircher, did I ever lie to you?”
“Oh! if you ask me that,” said Harry, “you know I must say
`Yes!'—for you have, fifty times at the least computation. Do you
remember the day you towed me up the Decker's run to look for
woodcock?”
“And you found nothing,” interrupted Tom, “but wood”—
“Oh shut up, do Tom,” broke in Forester, “and let us hear
about this buck. If we agree to give you a five dollar bill, Jem,
in case we do find him where you say, what will you be willing to
forfeit if we do not?”
“You may shoot at me, by G—d!” answered Jem, “all on you—
ivery one on you—at forty yards, with rifle or buckshot!”
“It certainly is very likely that we should be willing to get
hanged for the sake of shooting such a mangy hound as you, Jem,”
answered Forester, “when one could shoot a good clean dog—
Tom's Dash, for example--for nothing!”
“Could you though?” Tom replied, “I'd like to ketch you at
it, my dear boy—I'd wax the little hide off of you. But come, let us
be settling. Is it a lie now, Jem; speak out—is it a lie, consarn
you? for if it be, you'd best jest say't out now, and save your bones
to-morrow. Well, boys, the critter's sulky, so most like it is true—
and I guess we'll be arter him. We'll be up bright and airly,
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and go a horseback, and if he be there, we can kill him in no time
at all, and be right back to breakfast. I'll start Jem and the captain
here, and Dave Seers, with the dogs, an hour a fore us! and let
them come right down the swale, and drive him to the open—Harry
and Forester, you two can ride your own nags, and I'll take old
Roan, and A—— here shall have the colt.”
“Very well! Timothy, did they feed well to-night? if they did,
give them tbeir oats very early, and no water. I know it's too bad
after their work to-day, but we shall not be out two hours!”
“Weel! it's no matter gin they were oot six,” responded
Timothy, “they wadna be a pin the waur o't!”
“Take out my rifle, then—and pick some buckshot cartridges to
fit the bore of all the double guns. Frank's got his rifle; so you
can take my heavy single gun—your gauge is 17, A——, quite too
small for buckshot; mine is 11, and will do its work clean with
Ely's cartridge and pretty heavy powder, at eighty-five to ninety
yards. Tom's bore is twelve, and I've brought some to fit his old
double, and some, too, for my own gun, though it is almost too
small!”
“What gauge is yours, Harry?”
“Fourteen; which I consider the very best bore possible for
general shooting. I think the gunsmiths are running headlong
now into the opposite of their old error—when they found that fifteens
and fourteens outshot vastly the old small calibres—fifty years
since no guns were larger than eighteen, and few than twenty;
they are now quite out-doing it. I have seen late-imported guns of
seven pounds, and not above twenty-six inches long, with eleven
and even ten gauge calibres! you might as well shoot with a blunderbus
at once!”[9]
“They would tell at cock in close summer covert,” answered
A——.
“For a man who can't cover his bird they might,” replied Harry;
“but you may rely on it they lose three times as much in force as
they gain in the space they cover; at forty yards you could not kill
even a woodcock with them once in fifty times, and a quail, or English
snipe, at that distance never!”
“What do you think the right length and weight, then, for an
eleven bore?”
“Certainly not less than nine pounds, and thirty inches; but I
would prefer ten pounds and thirty-three inches; though except,
for a fowl-gun to use in boat-shooting, such a piece would be quite
too ponderous and clumsy. My single gun is eleven gauge, eight
pounds and thirty-three inches; and even with loose shot executes
superbly; but with Ely's green cartridge I have put forty BB shot
into a square of two and a half feet at one hundred and twenty-five
yards; sharply enough, too, to imbed the shot so firmly in the fence
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against which I had fixed my mark, that it required a good strong
knife to get them out. This I propose that you should use tomorrow,
with a 1½ oz. SG cartridge, which contains eighteen buck-shot,
and which, if you get a shot any where within a hundred
yards, will kill him as dead, I warrant it, as an ounce bullet.”
“Which you intend to try, I fancy,” added Frank.
“Not quite! my rifle carries eighteen only to the pound; and
yours, if I forget not, only thirty-two.”
“But mine is double.”
“Never mind that; thirty-two will not execute with certainty
above a hundred and fifty yards!”
“And how far in the devil's name would you have it execute, as
you calls it,” asked old Tom.
“Three hundred!” replied Harry, coolly.
“H—ll,” replied Draw, “do n't tell me no sich thunderin' nonsense;
I'll stand all day and be shot at, like a Christmas turkey, at
sixty rods, for sixpence a shot, any how.”
“I'll bet you all the liquor we can drink while we are here,
Tom,” answered Harry, “that I hit a four foot target at three hundred
yards to-morrow!”
“Off hand?” inquired Tom, with an attempt at a sneer.
“Yes, off hand! and no shot to do that either; I know men—
lots of them--who would bet to hit a foot[10] square at that distance!”
“Well! you can't hit four, no how!”
“Will you bet?”
“Sartain!”
“Very well—Done—Twenty dollars I will stake against all the
liquor we drink while we're here. Is it a bet?”
“Yes! Done!” cried Tom—“at the first shot, you know; I
gives no second chances.”
“Very well, as you please!—I'm sure of it, that's all—Lord,
Frank, how we will drink and treat—I shall invite all the town up
here to-morrow—Come!—One more round for luck, and then to
bed!”
“Content!” cried A——; “but I mean Mr. Draw to have an
argument to-morrow night about this point of Setter vs. Pointer!
How do you say, Harry?—which is best?”
“Oh! I'll be Judge and Jury”—answered Archer—“and you
shall plead before me; and I'll make up my mind in the meantime!”
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“He's for me, any how,”—shouted Tom—“Darn it all, Harry,
you knows you would n't own a pinter—no not if it was gin you!”
“I believe you are about right there, old fellow, so far as this
country goes at least?”—said Archer—“different dogs for different
soils and seasons—and, in my judgment, setters are far the best
this side the Atlantic—but it is late now, and I can't stand chattering
here—good night—you shall have as much dog-talk as you like
to-morrow.”
eaf144.n9[9] N.B.—Since this was written the fashion has changed again, and the English gunsmiths
are building all seventeens and eighteens—too small, I think, for general work,
and for this country especially.
eaf144.n10[10] When this was written strong exception was taken to it by a Southern writer
in the Spirit of the Times. Had that gentleman known what is the practice of the
heavy Tyrolese rifle he would not have written so confidently. But it is needless
to go so far as to the Tyrol. There is a well known rifle-shot in New York, who can
perform the feat, any day, which the Southern writer scoffed at as utterly impossible.
Scrope on Deerstalking will show to any impartial reader's satisfaction, that
stags in the Highlands are rarely killed within 200 and generally beyond 300 yards'
distance.
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It was still pitch dark, although the skies were quite clear and
cloudless, when Harry, Frank, and the Commodore re-assembled on
the following morning in Tom's best parlor, preparatory to the stag
hunt which, as determined on the previous night, was to be their
first sporting move in the valley.
Early, however, as it was, Timothy had contrived to make a
glorious fire upon the hearth, and to lay out a slight breakfast of
biscuits, butter, and cold beef, flanked by a square case-bottle of
Jamaica, and a huge jorum of boiled milk. Tom Draw had not yet
made his appearance, but the sound of his ponderous tramp, mixed
with strange oaths and loud vociferations, showed that he was on
foot, and ready for the field.
“I'll tell you what, Master A—,” said Archer, as he stood with
his back to the fire, mixing some rum with sugar and cold water,
previous to pouring the hot milk into it—“You'll be so cold in that
light jacket on the stand this morning, that you'll never be able to
hold your gun true, if you get a shot. It froze quite hard last night,
and there's some wind, too, this morning.”
“That's very true”—replied the Commodore—“but devil a thing
have I got else to wear, unless I put on my great coat, and that's
too much the other way—too big and clumsy altogether. I shall
do well enough, I dare say; and after all, my drilling jacket is not
much thinner than your fustian.”
“No”—said Harry—but you do n't fancy that I'm going out in
this, do you?—No! no! I'm too old a hand for that sort of thing—
I know that to shoot well, a man must be comfortable, and I mean
to be so. Why, man, I shall put on my Canadian hunting shirt
over this”—and with the word he slipped a loose frock, shaped
much like a wagoner's smock, or a Flemish blouse, over his head,
with large full sleeves, reaching almost to his knees, and belted
round his waist, by a broad worsted sash. This excellent garment
was composed of a thick coarse homespun woollen, bottle-green in
color, with fringe and bindings of dingy red, to match the sash about
his waist, From the sash was suspended an otter skin pouch, containing
bullets and patches, nipple wrench and turn-screw, a bit of
dry tow, an oiled rag, and all the indispensables for rifle cleaning;
while into it were thrust two knives—one a broad two-edged implement,
with a stout buck-horn haft, and a blade of at least twelve
inches—the other a much smaller weapon, not being, hilt and all,
half the length of the other's blade, but very strong, sharp as a
razor, and of surpassing temper. While he was fitting all these in
their proper places, and slinging under his left arm a small buffalo
horn of powder—he continued talking—
“Now”—he said—“if you take my advice, you'll go into my
room, and there, hanging against the wall, you'll find my winter
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shooting jacket, I had it made last year when I went up to Maine,
of pilot cloth, lined throughout with flannel. It will fit you just as
well as your own, for we're pretty much of a size. Frank, there,
will wear his old monkey jacket, the skirts of which he razeed last
winter for the very purpose. Ah, here is Brower—just run up,
Brower, and bring down my shooting jacket off the wall from behind
the door—look sharp, will you!—Now, then, I shall load, and
I advise you both to do likewise; for it's bad work doing that same
with cold fingers.”
Thus saying, he walked to the corner, and brought out his rifle,
a heavy single barrel, carrying a ball of eighteen to the pound,
quite plain but exquisitely finished. Before proceeding, however,
to load, he tried the passage of the nipple with a fine needle—three
or four of which, thrust into a cork, and headed with sealing wax,
formed a portion of the contents of his pouch—brushed the cone, and
the inside of the hammer, carefully, and wiped them, to conclude,
with a small piece of clean white kid—then measuring his powder
out exactly, into a little charger screwed to the end of his ramrod,
he inverted the piece, and introduced the rod upward till the cup
reached the chamber; when, righting the gun, he withdrew it,
leaving the powder all lodged safely at the breech, without the loss
of a single grain in the groovings. Next, he chose out a piece of
leather, the finest grained kid, without a seam or wrinkle, slightly
greased with the best watch-maker's oil—selected a ball perfectly
round and true—laid the patch upon the muzzle, and placing the
bullet exactly in the centre over the bore, buried it with a single
rap of a small lignum vitæ mallet, which hung from his button-hole;
and then, with but a trifling effort, drove it home by one steady
thrust of the stout copper-headed charging rod. This done, he
again inspected the cone, and seeing that the powder was forced
quite up into sight, picked out, with the same anxious scrutiny that
had marked all of his proceedings, a copper cap, which he pronounced
sure to go, applied it to the nipple, crushed it down firmly, with
the hammer, which he then drew back to half-cock, and bolted.
Then he set the piece down by the fireside, drained his hot jorum,
and—
“That fellow will do his work, and no mistake”—said he—
“Now A—, here is my single gun”—handing to him, as he spoke,
one of the handsomest Westley Richards a sportsman ever handled—
“thirty-three inches, nine pounds and eleven gauge. Put in
one-third above that charger, which is its usual load, and one of
those green cartridges, and I'll be bound that it will execute at
eighty paces; and that is more than Master Frank there can say
for his Manton Rifle, at least if he loads it with bullets patched in
that slovenly and most unsportsmanlike fashion.”
“I should like to know what the deuce you mean by slovenly
and unsportsmanlike”—said Frank, pulling out of his breast pocket
a couple of bullets, carefully sewed up in leather—“it is the best
plan possible, and saves lots of time—you see I can just shove my
balls in at once, without any bother of fitting patches.”
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“Yes”—replied Harry—“and five to one the seam, which, however
neatly it is drawn, must leave a slight ridge, will cross the
direction of the grooving, and give the ball a counter movement;
either destroying altogether the rotatory motion communicated by the
rifling, or causing it to take a direction quite out of the true line;
accordingly as the counteraction is conveyed near the breech, or
near the muzzle of the piece.”
“Will so trifling a cause produce so powerful an effect?” inquired
the Commodore.
“The least variation, whether of concavity or convexity in the
bullet, will do so unquestionably—and I cannot see why the same
thing in a covering superinduced to the ball should not have the
same effect. Even a hole in a pellet of shot will cause it to leave
the charge, and fly off at a tangent. I was once shooting in the
fens of the Isle of Ely, and fired at a mallard sixty or sixty-five
yards off, with double B shot, when to my great amazement a workman—
digging peat at about the same distance from me with the
bird, but at least ninety yards to the right of the mallard—roared
out lustily that I had killed him. I saw that the drake was knocked
over as dead as a stone, and consequently laughed at the fellow,
and set it down as a cool trick to extort money, not uncommon
among the fen men, as applied to members of the University. I
had just finished loading, and my retriever had just brought in the
dead bird, which was quite riddled, cut up evidently by the whole
body of the charge—both the wings broken, one in three places,
one leg almost dissevered, and several shots in the neck and body—
when up came my friend, and sure enough he was hit—one pellet
had struck him on the cheek bone, and was imbedded in the skin.
Half a crown, and a lotion of whiskey—not applied to the part, but
taken inwardly—soon proved a sovereign medicine, and picking out
the shot with the point of a needle, I found a hole in it big enough to
admit a pin's head, and about the twentieth part of an inch in depth.
This I should think is proof enough for you—but, besides this, I
have seen bullets in pistol-shooting play strange vagaries, glancing
off from the target at all sorts of queer angles.”
“Well! well!”—replied Frank, “my rifle shoots true enough for
me—true enough to kill generally—and who the deuce can be at
the bother of your pragmatical preparations? I am sure it might be
said of you, as it was of James the First, of most pacific and pedantic
memory, that you are “Captain of arts and Clerk of arms”—at
least you are a very pedant in gunnery.”
“No! no!” said A—; “You're wrong there altogether, Master
Forester; there is nothing on earth that makes so great a difference
in sportsmanship as the observation of small things. I do n't
call him a sportsman who can walk stoutly, and kill well, unless he
can give causes for effects—unless he knows the haunts and habits
both of his game and his dogs—unless he can give a why for every
wherefore!”
“Then devil a bit will you ever call me one”—answered Frank—
“For I can't be at the trouble of thinking about it.”
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“Stuff—humbug—folly”—interupted Archer—“you know a
d—d deal better than that—and so do we, too!—you're only cranky!
a little cranky, Frank, and given to defending any folly you commit
without either rhyme or reason—as when you tried to persuade
me that it is the safest thing in nature to pour gunpowder out of
a canister into a pound flask, with a lighted cigar between your
teeth; to demonstrate which you had scarcely screwed the top of
the horn on, before the lighted ashes fell all over it—had they done
so a moment sooner, we should all have been blown out of the
room.”
By this time, the Commodore had donned Harry's winter jacket,
and Frank, grumbling and paradoxizing all the while, had loaded
his rifle, and buttoned up his pea-jacket, when in stalked Tom,
swathed up to his chin in a stout dreadnought coat.
“What are ye lazin' here about?”—he shouted—“you're niver
ready no how—Jem's been agone these two hours, and we'll jest
be too late, and miss gittin' a shot—if so be there be a buck—which
I'll be sworn there arn't!”
“Ha! ha!”—the Commodore burst out—“ha! ha! ha!—I
should like to know which side the laziness has been on this morning,
Mister Draw.”
“On little wax skin's there”—answered the old man, as quick as
lightning—“the little snoopin' critter carn't find his gloves now;
though the nags is at the door, and we all ready. We'll drink, boys,
while he's lookin' arter 'em—and then when he's found them, and 's
jest a gittin' on his horse, he'll find he's left his powder-horn or
knife, or somethin' else, behind him; and then we'll drink agin,
while he snoops back to fetch it.”
“You be hanged, you old rascal”—replied Forester, a little bothered
by the huge shouts of laughter which followed this most
strictly accurate account of his accustomed method of proceeding;
an account which, by the way, was fully justified not twenty
minutes afterward, by his galloping back, neck or nothing, to get
his pocket handkerchief, which he had left “in course,” as Tom
said, in his dressing-gown beside the fire.
“Come, bustle—bustle!” Harry added, as he put on his hunting
cap and pulled a huge pair of fen boots on, reaching to the midthigh,
which Timothy had garnished with a pair of bright English
spurs. In another minute they were all on horseback, trotting
away at a brisk pace toward the little glen, wherein, according to
Jem's last report, the stag was harbored. It was in vain that during
their quick ride the old man was entreated to inform them where
they were to take post, or what they were to do, as he would give
them no reply, nor any information whatever.
At last, however, when Forester rejoined them, after his return
to the village, he turned short off from the high road to the left,
and as he passed a set of bars into a wild hill pasture, struck into a
hard gallop.
Before them lay the high and ridgy head of Round Top, his
flanks sloping toward them, in two broad pine-clad knobs, with a
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wild streamlet brawling down between them, and a thick tangled
swamp of small extent, but full of tall dense thornbushes, matted
with vines and cat-briers, and carpeted with a rich undergrowth of
fern and wintergreen, and whortleberries. To the right and left of
the two knobs or spurs just mentioned, were two other deep gorges,
or dry channels, bare of brushwood, and stony—rock-walled, with
steep precipitous ledges toward the mountain, but sloping easily up
to the lower ridges. As they reached the first of these, Tom motioned
Forester to stop.
“Stand here,” he whispered, “close in here, jest behind this
here crag—and look out hereaways toward the village. If he
comes down this runway, kill him, but mind you doos n't show a
hair out of this corner; for Archer, he'll stand next, and if so be he
crosses from the swamp hole hereaways, you'll chance to get a
bullet. Be, still, now, as a mouse, and tie your horse here in the
cove!—Now, lads”—
And off he set again, rounded the knob, and making one slight
motion toward the nook, wherein he wished that Harry should keep
guard, wheeled back in utter silence, and very slowly—for they
were close to the spot wherein, as they supposed, the object of their
chase was laid up; and as yet but two of his paths were guarded
toward the plain; Jem and his comrades having long since got with
the hounds into his rear, and waiting only for the rising of the sun
to lay them on, and push along the channel of the brook.
This would compel him to break covert, either directly from the
swamp, or by one of the dry gorges mentioned. Now, therefore,
was the crisis of the whole matter; for if—before the other passes
were made good—the stag should take alarm, he might steal off
without affording a chance of a shot, and get into the mountains to
the right, where they might hunt him for a week in vain.
No marble statue could stand more silently or still than Harry
and his favorite gray, who, with erected ears and watchful eye,
trembling a little with excitement, seemed to know what he was
about, and to enjoy it no less keenly than his rider. Tom and the
Commodore, quickening their pace as they got out of ear-shot, retraced
their steps quite back to the turnpike road, along which
Harry saw them gallop furiously, in a few minutes, and turn up,
half a mile off, toward the further gulley—he saw no more, however;
though he felt certain that the Commodore was, scarce ten
minutes after he lost sight of them, standing within twelve paces of
him, at the further angle of the swamp—Tom having warily determined
that the two single guns should take post together, while the
two doubles should be placed where the wild quarry could get off
encountering but a single sportsman.
It was a period of intense excitement before the sun rose, though
it was of short duration—but scarcely had his first rays touched the
open meadow, casting a huge gray shadow from the rounded hill
which covered half the valley, while all the farther slope was laughing
in broad light, the mist wreaths curling up, thinner and thinner
every moment from the broad streamlet in the bottom, which here
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and there flashed out exultingly from its wood-covered margins—
scarcely had his first rays topped the hill, before a distant shout
came swelling on the air, down the ravine, announcing Jem's approach.
No hound gave tongue, however, nor did a rustle in the
brake, or any sound of life, give token of the presence of the game—
louder and nearer drew the shouts—and now Harry himself began
to doubt if there were any truth in Jem's relation, when suddenly
the sharp quick crack of Forester's rifle gave token that the
game was afoot—a loud yell from that worthy followed.
“Look out! Mark—back—mark back!”
And keenly Archer did look out, and warily did he listen—once
he detected, or fancied he detected, a rustling of the underwood,
and the crack of a dry stick, and dropping his reins on the horse's
neck, he cocked his rifle—but the sound was not repeated, nor did
any thing come into sight—so he let down the hammer once again,
and resumed his silent watch, saying to himself—
“Frank fired too quick, and he has headed up the brook to Jem.
If he is forward enough now, we shall have him back instantly,
with the hounds at his heels; but if he has loitered and hung back,
`over the hills and far away' is the word for this time.”
But Jem was in his place, and in another moment a long whoop
came ringing down the glen, and the shrill yelping rally of the
hounds as they all opened on a view together! Fiercer and wilder
grew the hubbub! And now the eager watcher might hear the
brushwood torn in all directions by the impetuous passage of the
wild deer and his inveterate pursuers.
“Now, then, it is old Tom's chance, or ours,” he thought, “for
he will not try Forester again, I warrant him, and we are all down
wind of him—so he can't judge of our whereabouts.”
In another second the bushes crashed to his left hand, and behind
him, while the dogs were raving scarcely a pistol-shot off, in the
tangled swamp. Yet he well knew that if the stag should break
there it would be A—'s shot, and, though anxious, he kept his
eye fixed steadily on his own point, holding his good piece cocked
and ready.
“Mark! Harry, mark him!”—a loud yell from the Commodore.
The stag had broken midway between them, in full sight of
A—, and seeing him, had wheeled off to the right. He was now
sweeping onward across the open field with high graceful bounds,
tossing his antlered head aloft, as if already safe, and little hurt, if
any thing, by Jem Lyn's boasted shot of the last evening. The gray
stood motionless, trembling, however, palpably, in every limb, with
eagerness—his ears laid flat upon his neck, and cowering a little,
as if he feared the shot, which it would seem his instinct told him
to expect. Harry had dropped his reins once more, and levelled
his unerring rifle—yet for a moment's space he paused, waiting for
A— to fire; there was no hurry for himself, nay, a few seconds
more would give him a yet fairer shot, for the buck now was running
partially toward him, so that a moment more would place him
broadside on, and within twenty paces.
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“Bang!” came the full and round report of A—'s large shot-gun,
fired before the beast was fifteen yards away from him. He
had aimed at the head, as he was forced to do, lest he should spoil
the haunches, for he was running now directly from him—and had
the buck been fifty paces off he would have killed him dead, lodging
his whole charge, or the best part of it, in the junction of the
neck and skull—but as it was, the cartridge—the green cartridge—
had not yet spread at all; nor had one buckshot left the case!
Whistling like a single ball, as it passed Harry's front eight or nine
yards off, it drove, as his quick eye discovered, clean through the
stag's right ear, almost dissevering it, and making the animal bound
six feet off the green sward.
Just as he touched the earth again, alighting from his mighty
spring, with an aim sure and steady, and a cool practised finger, the
marksman drew his trigger, and, quick as light, the piece—well
loaded, as its dry crack announced—discharged its ponderous missile!
But, bad luck on it, even at that very instant, just in the
point of time wherein the charge was ignited, eighteen or twenty
quail, flushed by the hubbub of the hounds, rose with a loud and
startling whirr, on every side of the gray horse, under his belly and
about his ears, so close as almost to brush him with their wings—
he bolted and reared up—yet even at that disadvantage the practised
rifleman missed not his aim entirely, though he erred somewhat,
and the wound in consequence was not quite deadly.
The ball, which he had meant for the heart, his sight being taken
under the fore-shoulder, was raised and thrown forward by the motion
of the horse, and passed clean through the neck close to the
blade bone. Another leap, wilder and loftier than the last! yet still
the stag dashed onward, with the blood gushing out in streams from
the wide wound, though as yet neither speed nor strength appeared
to be impaired, so fleetly did he scour the meadow.
“He will cross Frank yet!” cried Archer. “Mark! mark him,
Forester!”
But, as he spoke, he set his rifle down against the fence, and
holloaed to the hounds, which instantly, obedient to his well-known
and cheery whoop, broke covert in a body and settled heads up and
sterns down, to the blazing scent.
At the same moment A— came trotting out from his post, gun
in hand; while at a thundering gallop, blaspheming awfully as he
came on, and rating them for “know-nothins, and blunderin' etarnal
spoil-sports,” Tom rounded the farther hill, and spurred across the
level. By this time they were all in sight of Forester, who stood
on foot, close to his horse, in the mouth of the last gorge, the buck
running across him sixty yards off, and quartering a little from him
toward the road; the hounds were, however, all midway between
him and the quarry, and as the ground sloped steeply from the
marksman, he was afraid of firing low—but took a long, and, as it
seemed, sure aim at the head.
The rifle flashed—a tine flew, splintered by the bullet, from the
brow antler, not an inch above the eye.
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“Give him the other!” shouted Archer. “Give him the other
barrel!”
But Frank shook his head spitefully, and dropped the muzzle of
his piece.
“By h—ll! then, he's forgot his bullets—and had n't nothen to
load up agen, when he missed the first time!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared once again the Commodore—“ha! ha!
hah!—ha! ha!” till rock and mountain rang again.
“By the Etarnal!” exclaimed Draw, perfectly frantic with passion
and excitement—“By thunder! A—, I guess you'd laugh
if your best friends was all a dyin' at your feet. You would for sartain!
But look, look!—what the plague's Harry goin' at?”
For when he saw that Forester had now, for some reason or
other, no farther means of stopping the stag's career, Archer had
set spurs to his horse, and dashed away at a hard furious gallop
after the wounded buck. The hounds, which had lost sight of it as
it leaped a high stone wall with much brush round the base of it,
were running fast and furious on the scent—but still, though flagging
somewhat in his speed, the stag was leaving them. He had
turned, as the last shot struck his horns, down hill, as if to cross
the valley; but immediately, as if perceiving that he had passed
the last of his enemies, turned up again toward the mountain, describing
an arc, almost, in fact, a semicircle, from the point where
he had broken covert to that—another gully, at perhaps a short
mile's distance—from which he was now aiming.
Across the chord, then, of this arc, Harry was driving furiously,
with the intent, as it would seem, to cut him off from the gulley—
the stone wall crossed his line, but not a second did he pause for it,
but gave his horse both spurs, and lifting him a little, landed him
safely at the other side. Frank mounted rapidly, dashed after him,
and soon passed A—, who was less aptly mounted for a chase—
he likewise topped the wall, and disappeared beyond it, though the
stones flew, where the bay struck the coping with his heels.
All pluck to the back-bone, the Commodore craned not nor hesitated,
but dashed the colt, for the first time in his life, at the high
barrier—he tried to stop, but could not, so powerfully did his rider
cram him—leaped short, and tumbled head over heels, carrying
half the wall away with him, and leaving a gap as if a wagon had
passed through it—to Tom's astonishment and agony—for he supposed
the colt destroyed forever.
Scarcely, however, had A— gained his feet, before a sight met
his eyes, which made him leave the colt, and run as fast as his legs
could carry him toward the scene of action.
The stag, seeing his human enemy so near, had strained every
nerve to escape, and Harry, desperately rash and daring, seeing he
could not turn or head him, actually spurred upon him counter to
broadside, in hope to ride him down; foiled once again, in this—
his last hope, as it seemed—he drew his longest knife, and as—a
quarter of a second too late only—he crossed behind the buck, he
swung himself half out of his saddle, and striking a full blow,
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succeeded in hamstringing him; while the gray, missing the support
of the master-hand, stumbled and fell upon his head.
Horse, stag, and man, all rolled upon the ground within the compass
of ten yards—the terrified and wounded deer striking out furiously
in all directions—so that it seemed impossible that Archer
could escape some deadly injury—while, to increase the fury and
the peril of the scene, the hounds came up, and added their fresh
fierceness to the fierce confusion. Before, however, A— came
up, Harry had gained his feet, drawn his small knife—the larger
having luckily flown many yards as he fell—and running in behind
the struggling quarry, had seized the brow antler, and at one strong
and skillful blow, severed the weasand and the jugular. One gush
of dark red gore—one plunging effort, and the superb and stately
beast lay motionless forever—while the loud death halloo rang over
the broad valley—all fears, all perils, utterly forgotten in the strong
rapture of that thrilling moment.
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“Now then, boys, we've no time to lose,” said Archer, as he
replaced his knives, which he had been employed in wiping with
great care, in their respective scabbards, “it's getting toward
eight o'clock, and I feel tolerably peckish, the milk punch and biscuits
notwithstanding; we shall not be in the field before ten o'clock,
do our best for it. Now, Jem,” he continued, as that worthy, followed
by David Seers and the Captain, made their appearance, hot
and breathless, but in high spirits at the glorious termination of the
morning's sport—“Now, Jem, you and the Captain must look out a
good strong pole, and tie that fellow's legs, and carry him between
you as far as Blain's house—you can come up with the wagon this
afternoon and bring him down to the village. What the deuce are
you pottering at that colt about, Tom? He's not hurt a pin's value,
on the contrary—”
“Better for 't, I suppose, you'll be a tellin' me torights; better
for that all-fired etarnal tumble, aint he?” responded the fat chap,
with a lamentable attempt at an ironical smile, put on to hide his
real chagrin.
“In course he is,” replied Frank, who had recovered his wonted
equanimity, and who, having been most unmercifully rallied by the
whole party for leaving his bullets at home, was glad of an opportunity
to carry the war into the enemy's country, “in course he is
a great deal better—if a thing can be said to be better which, under
all circumstances, is so infernally bad, as that brute. I should
think he was better for it. Why, by the time he's had half a dozen
more such purls, he'll leap a six foot fence without shaking a loose
rail. In fact, I'll bet a dollar I carry him back over that same wall
without touching a stone.” And, as he spoke, he set his foot into
the stirrup, as if he were about to put his threat into immediate
execution.
“Quit, Forester—quit, I say—quit, now—consarn the hide on
you”—shouted the fat man, now in great tribulation, and apprehending
a second edition of the tumble—“quit foolin', or by h—l
I'll put a grist of shot, or one of they green cartridges into you stret
away—I will, by the Etarnal!” and as he spoke he dropped the
muzzle of his gun, and put his thumb upon the cock.
“I say quit foolin', too,” cried Harry, “both of you quit it; you
d—d old fool, Tom, do you really suppose he is mad enough to ride
that brute of yours again at the wall?”
“Mad enough!—Yes, I swon he be,” responded Tom; “both of
you be as mad as the hull Asylum down to York. If Frank arn't
mad, then there aint such a word as mad!” But as he spoke he
replaced his gun under his arm, and walked off to his horse, which
he mounted, without farther words, his example being followed by
the whole party, who set off on the spur, and reached the village in
less than half an hour.
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Breakfast was on the table when they got there—black tea, produced
from Harry's magazine of stores, rich cream, hot bread, and
Goshen butter—eggs in abundance, boiled, roasted, fried with ham—
an omelet au fines herbes, no inconsiderable token of Tim's culinary
skill—a cold round of spiced beef, and last, not least, a dish of
wood-duck hot from the gridiron.
“By George,” said Harry, “here's a feast for an epicure, and I
can find the appetite.”
“Find it”—said Forester, grinning, who, pretending to eat
nothing or next to nothing, and not to care what was set before him,
was really the greatest gourmet and heaviest feeder of the party—
“Find it, Harry? it's quite new to me that you ever lost it. When
was it, hey?”
“Arter he'd eat a hull roast pig, I reckon—leastwise that might
make Harry lose his'n; but I'll be darned if two would be a sarcumstance
to set before you, Frank, no how. Here's A—, too,
he do n't never eat.”
“These wood-duck are delicious,” answered the Commodore,
who was very busily employed in stowing away his provant. “What
a capital bird it is, Harry.”
“Indeed is it,” said he, “and this is, me judice, the very best way
to eat it, red hot from the gridiron, cooked very quick, and brown on
the outside, and full of gravy when you cut; with a squeeze of a
lemon and a dash of cayenne it is sublime. What say you,
Forester?”
“Oh, you wont ketch him sayin' nauthen, leastwise not this half
hour—but the way he'll keep a feedin' wont be slow, I tell you—
that's the way to judge how Forester likes his grub—jest see how
he takes hold on 't.”
“Are there many wood-duck about this season, Tom?” asked
Forester, affecting to be perfectly careless and indifferent to all that
had passed. “Did you kill these yourself?”
“There was a sight on them a piece back, but they're gittin'
scase—pretty scase now, I tell you. Yes, I shot these down by
Aunt Sally's big spring-hole a Friday. I'd been a lookin' round,
you see, to find where the quail kept afore you came up here—for
I'd a been expectin' you a week and better—and I'd got in quite
late, toward sundown, with an outsidin' bevy, down by the cedar
swamp, and druv them off into the big bog meadows, below Sugar-loaf,
and I'd killed quite a bunch on them—sixteen, I reckon,
Archer; and there was n't but eighteen when I lit on 'em—and it
was gittin' pretty well dark when I came to the big spring, and
little Dash was worn dead out, and I was tired, and hot, and thunderin'
thirsty, so I sets down aside the outlet where the spring
water comes in good and cool, and I was mixin' up a nice long drink
in the big glass we hid last summer down in the mudhole, with
some great cider sperrits—when what should I hear all at once but
whistle, whistlin' over head, the wings of a hull drove on 'em, so
up I buckled the old gun; but they'd plumped down into the crick
fifteen rod off or better, down by the big pin oak, and there they
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sot, seven ducks and two big purple headed drakes—beauties, I tell
you. Well, boys, I upped gun and tuck sight stret away, but just
as I was drawin', I kind o' thought I'd got two little charges of
number eight, and that to shoot at ducks at fifteen rod was n't nauthen.
Well, then, I fell a thinkin', and then I sairched my pockets,
and arter a piece found two green cartridges of number three, as
Archer gave me in the Spring, so I drawed out the small shot, and
inned with these, and put fresh caps on to be sarten. But jest
when I'd got ready, the ducks had floated down with the stream,
and dropped behind the pint—so I downed on my knees, and crawled,
and Dash along side on me, for all the world as if the darned dog
knowed; well, I crawled quite a piece, till I'd got under a bit of
alder bush, and then I seen them—all in a lump like, except two—
six ducks and a big drake—feedin', and stickin' down their heads
into the weeds, and flutterin' up their hinder eends, and chatterin'
and jokin'—I could have covered them all with a handkercher, exceptin'
two, as I said afore, one duck and the little drake, and they
was off a rod or better from the rest, at the two different sides of
the stream—the big bunch warn't over ten rods off me, nor so far;
so I tuck sight right at the big drake's neck. The water was quite
clear and still, and seemed to have caught all the little light as was
left by the sun, for the skies had got pretty dark, I tell you; and I
could see his head quite clear agin the water—well, I draw'd trigger,
and the hull charge ripped into 'em—and there was a scrabblin'
and a squatterin' in the water now, I tell you—but not one on 'em
riz—not the darned one of the hull bunch; but up jumped both the
others, and I drawed on the drake—more by the whistlin' of his
wings, than that I seen him—but I drawed stret, Archer, any ways;
and arter I'd pulled half a moment I hard him plump down into the
creek with a splash, and the water sparkled up like a fountain
where he fell. So then I did n't wait to load, but ran along the
bank as hard as I could strick it, and when I'd got down to the spot,
I tell you, little Dash had got two on 'em out afore I came, and was
in with a third. Well, sich a cuttin' and a splashin' as there was
you niver did see, none on you—I guess, for sartin—leastwise I
niver did. I'd killed, you see, the drake and two ducks, dead at
the first fire, but three was only wounded, wing-tipped, and leg-broken,
and I can't tell you what all. It was all of nine o'clock at
night, and dark as h—l, afore I gathered them three ducks—but I
did gather 'em—Lord, boys, why I'd stayed till mornin' but I'd a
got them, sarten. Well, the drake I killed flyin' I could n't find
him that night, no how, for the stream swept him down, and I
had n't got no guide to go by—so I let him go then—but I was up
next mornin' bright and airly, and started up the stream clean from
the bridge here, up through Garry's backside, and my boghole, and
so on along the meadows to Aunt Sally's run—and I looked in every
willow bush that dammed the waters back, like, and every bunch of
weeds, and brier-brake, all the way, and sure enough I found him—
he'd been killed dead, and floated down the crick, and then the
stream had washed him up into a heap of broken sticks and briers,
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and when the waters fell, for there had ben a little freshet, they
left him there breast uppermost—and I was glad to find him—for I
think, Archer, as that shot was the nicest, prettiest, etarnal,
damndest, long, good shot, I iver did make, anyhow; and it was so
dark I could n't see him.”
“A sweet shot, Tom”—responded Forester—“a sweet pretty
shot, if there had only been one word of truth in it, which there is
not—do n't answer me, you old thief—shut up instantly, and get
your traps; for we've done feeding, and you've done lying, for the
present at least I hope so—and now we'll out, and see whether
you've poached up all the game in the country.”
“Well, it be gettin late for sartain,” answered Tom, “and that'll
save your little wax skin for the time; but see, jest see, boy, if I
doos n't sarve you out, now, afore sundown!”
“Which way shall we beat, Tom”—asked Harry, as he changed
his riding boots for heavy shooting shoes and leggins—“which
course to-day?”
“Why! Timothy's gittin' out the wagon, and we'll drive up the
old road round the ridge, and so strike in by Minthorne's, and take
them ridges down, and so across the hill—there's some big stubbles
there, and nice thick brush holes along the fence sides, and the boys
doos tell us there be one or two big bevies—but, d—n them, they
will lie!—and over back of Gin'ral Bertolf's barns, and so acrost
the road, and round the upper eend of the big pond, and down the
long swamp into Hell hole, and Tim can meet us with the wagon at
five o'clock under Bill Wisner's white oak—does that suit you?”
“Excellently well, Tom,” replied Harry, “I could not have cut
a better day's work out myself, if I had tried. Well, all the traps
are in, and the dogs, Timothy, is it not so?”
“Ey! ey! Sur,” shouted that worthy from without, “all in, this
half hour, and all roight!”
“Light your cigars then, quick, and let us start—hurrah!”
Within two minutes, they were all seated, Fat Tom in the post
of honor by Harry's side upon the driving box, the Commodore and
Frank, with Timothy, on the back seat, and off they rattled—ten
miles an hour without the whip, up hill and down dale all alike,
for they had but three miles to go, and that was gone in double
quick time.
“What mun Ay do wi' t' horses, Sur?” asked Tim, touching his
castor as he spoke.
“Take them home, to be sure,” replied Harry, “and meet us
with them under the oak tree, close to Mr. Wisner's house, at five
o'clock this evening.”
“Nay! nay! Sur!” answered Tim, with a broad grin, eager to
see the sport, and hating to be sent so unceremoniously home,
“that winna do, I'm thinking—who'll hug t' gam bag, and carry
t' bottles, and make t' loonchun ready; that winna do, Sur, niver.
If you ple-ease, Sur, Ay'll pit oop t' horses i' Measter Minthorne's
barn here, and shak' doon a bite o' hay tull 'em, and so gang on
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wi' you, and carry t' bag whaile four o' t' clock, and then awa back
and hitch oop, and draive doon to t' aik tree!”
“I understand, Tim,” said his master, laughing; “I understand
right well! you want to see the sport.”
“Ayse oophaud it!” grinned Timothy, seeing at once that he
should gain his point.
“Well! well! I do n't care about it; will Minthorne let us put
up the beasts in his barn, Tom?”
“Let us! let us!” exclaimed the fat man; “by G—d I'd like
to see Joe Minthorne, or any other of his breed, a tellin' me I
should n't put my cattle where I pleased; jest let me ketch him
at it!”
“Very well; have it your own way, Tim, take care of the
beasts, and overtake us as quick as you can!” and, as he spoke,
he let down the bars which parted a fine wheat stubble from the
road, and entered the field with the dogs at heel. “We must part
company to beat these little woods, must we not, Tom?”
“I guess so—I'll go on with A—; his Grouse and my Dash
will work well enough, and you and Frank keep down the valley
hereaways; we'll beat that little swamp-hole, and then the open
woods to the brook side, and so along the meadows to the big bottom;
you keep the hill-side coverts, and look the little pond-holes
well on Minthorne's Ridge, you'll find a cock or two there anyhow;
and beat the bushes by the wall; I guess you'll have a bevy jumpin'
up; and try, boys, do, to git 'em down the hill into the boggy bottom,
for we can use them, I tell you!” and so they parted.
Archer and Forester, with Shot and Chase at heel, entered the
little thicket indicated, and beat it carefully, but blank; although
the dogs worked hard, and seemed as if about to make game more
than once. They crossed the road, and came into another little
wood, thicker and wetter than the first, with several springy pools,
although it was almost upon the summit of the hill. Here Harry
took the left or lower hand, bidding Frank keep near the outside at
top, and full ten yards ahead of him.
“And mind, if you hear Tom shoot, or cry `mark,' jump over into
the open field, and be all eyes, for that's their line of country into
the swamp, where we would have them. Hold up, good dogs, hold
up!”
And off they went, crashing and rattling through the dry matted
briers, crossing each other evenly, and quartering the ground with
rare accuracy. Scarcely, however, had they beat ten paces, before
Shot flushed a cock as he was in the very act of turning at the end
of his beat, having run in on him down wind, without crossing the
line of scent. Flip—flip—flap rose the bird, but as the dog had
turned, and was now running from him, he perceived no cause for
alarm, fluttered a yard or two onward, and alighted. The dog, who
had neither scented nor seen the bird, caught the sound of his wing,
and stood stiff on the instant, though his stern was waved doubtfully,
and though he turned his sagacious knowing phiz over his
shoulder, as if to look out for the pinion, the flap of which had
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arrested his quick ear. The bird had settled ere he turned, but Shot's
eye fell upon his master, as with his finger on the trigger-guard, and
thumb on the hammer, he was stepping softly up in a direct line,
with eye intently fixed, toward the place where the woodcock had
dropped; he knew as well as though he had been blessed with human
intellect, that game was in the wind, and remained still and
steady. Flip—flap again up jumped the bird.
“Mark cock,” cried Forester, from the other side of the wood,
not having seen any thing, but hearing the sound of the timber doodle's
wing somewhere or other; and at the self-same moment bang!
boomed the full report of Harry's right hand barrel, the feathers
drifting off down wind toward Frank, told him the work was done,
and he asked no question; but ere the cock had struck the ground,
which he did within half a second, completely doubled up—whirr,
whirr-r-r! the loud and startling hubbub of ruffed grouse taking wing
at the report of Harry's gun, succeeded—and instantly, before that
worthy had got his eye about from marking the killed woodcock,
bang! bang! from Forester. Archer dropped butt, and loaded as
fast as it was possible, and bagged his dead bird quietly, but scarcely
had he done so before Frank hailed him.
“Bring up the dogs, old fellow; I knocked down two, and I've
bagged one, but I'm afraid the other's run!”
“Stand still, then—stand still, till I join you. He-here, he-here
good dogs,” cried Harry, striding away through the brush like a
good one.
In a moment he stood by Frank, who was just pocketing his first,
a fine hen grouse.
“The other was the cock,” said Frank, “and a very large one,
too; he was a long shot, but he's very hard hit; he flew against
this tree before he fell, and bounded off it here; look at the
feathers!”
“Aye! we'll have him in a moment; seek dead, Shot; seek,
good dogs; ha! now they wind him; there! Chase has him—no!
he draws again—now Shot is standing; hold up, hold up, lads, he's
running like the mischief, and won't stop till he reaches some thick
covert.”
Bang! bang! “Mark—ma-ark!” bang! bang! “mark, Harry
Archer, mark,” came down the wind in quick succession from the
other party, who were beating some thick briers by the brook side,
at three or four fields' distance.
“Quick, Forester, quick!” shouted Archer; “over the wall, lad,
and mark them! those are quail; I'm man enough to get this fellow
by myself. Steady lads! steady-y-y!” as they were roading
on at the top of their pace. “Toho! toho-o-o, Chase; fie for shame—
don't you see, sir, Shot's got him dead there under his very nose
in those cat-briers. Ha! dead! good lads—good lads; dead! dead!
fetch him, good dog; by George but he is a fine bird. I've got
him, Forester; have you marked down the quail?”
“Aye! aye! in the bog bottom!”
“How many?”
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“Twenty-three!”
“Then we'll have sport, by Jove!” and, as he spoke, they entered
a wide rushy pasture, across which, at some two or three
hundred yards, A— and fat Tom were seen advancing toward
them. They had not made three steps before both dogs stood stiff
as stones in the short grass, where there was not a particle of
covert.
“Why, what the deuce is this, Harry?”
“Devil a know know I,” responded he; “but step up to the red
dog, Frank—I'll go to the other—they've got game, and no mistake!”
“Skeap—ske-eap!” up sprang a couple of English snipe before
Shot's nose, and Harry cut them down, a splendid double shot,
before they had flown twenty yards, just as Frank dropped the one
which rose to him at the same moment. At the sound of the guns a
dozen more rose hard by, and fluttering on in rapid zigzags, dropped
once again within a hundred yards—the meadow was alive with
them.
“Did you ever see snipe here before, Tom?” asked Harry, as
he loaded.
“Never in all my life—but it's full now—load up! load up! for
God's sake!”
“No hurry, Tom! Tom—steady! the birds are tame and lie
like stones. We can get thirty or forty here, I know, if you'll be
steady only—but if we go in with these four dogs, we shall lose
all. Here comes Tim with the couples, and we'll take up all but
two!”
“That's right,” said A—; “take up Grouse and Tom's dog,
for they won't hunt with yours—and yours are the steadiest, and
fetch—that's it, Tim, couple them, and carry them away. What
have you killed, Archer?” he added, while his injunctions were
complied with.
“One woodcock and a brace of ruffed grouse! and Frank has
marked down three-and-twenty quail into that rushy bottom yonder,
where we can get every bird of them. We are going to have
great sport to-day!”
“I think so. Tom and I each killed a double shot out of that
bevy!”
“That was well! Now, then, walk slowly and far apart—we
must beat this three or four times, at least—the dogs will get them
up!”
It was not a moment before the first bird rose, but it was quite
two hours, and all the dinner horns had long blown for noon, before
the last was bagged—the four guns having scored, in that one meadow,
forty-nine English snipe—fifteen for Harry Archer—thirteen
for Tom Draw—twelve for the Commodore, and only nine
for Forester, who never killed snipe quite so well as he did cock
or quail.
“And now, boys,” exclaimed Tom, as he flung his huge carcase
on the ground, with a thud that shook it many a rood around—
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“there's a cold roast fowl, and some nice salt pork and crackers, in
that 'ar game bag—and I'm h—ll now, I tell you, for a drink!”
“Which will you take to drink, Tom?” inquired Forester, very
gravely—“fowl, pork, or crackers? Here they are, all of them!
I prefer whiskey and water myself!” qualifying, as he spoke, a
moderate cup with some of the ice-cold water which welled out in
a crystal stream from a small basin under the wreathed roots of the
sycamore which overshadowed them.
“None of your nonsense, Forester—hand us the liquor, lad—I'm
dry, I tell you!”
“I wish you'd tell me something I do n't know, then, if you feel
communicative; for I know that you're dry—now and always!
Well! do n't be mad, old fellow, here's the bottle—do n't empty it—
that's all!”
“Well! now I've drinked,” said Tom, after a vast potation, and
a sonorous eructation; “now I've drinked good—we'll have a bite
and rest awhile, and smoke a pipe; and then we'll use them quail,
and we'll have time to pick up twenty cock in Hell-hole afterwards,
and that wont be a slow day's work, I reckon.”
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“Certainly this is a very lovely country,” exclaimed the Commodore
suddenly, as he gazed with a quiet eye, puffing his cigar the
while, over the beautiful vale, with the clear expanse of Wickham's
Pond in the middle foreground, and the wild hoary mountains
framing the rich landscape in the distance.
“Truly, you may say that,” replied Harry; “I have travelled
over a large part of the world, and for its own peculiar style of loveliness,
I must say that I never have seen any thing to match with
the vale of Warwick. I would give much, very much, to own a
few acres, and a snug cottage here, in which I might pass the rest
of my days, far aloof from the
Fumum et opes strepitumque Romæ.”
“Then why the h—l do n't you own a few acres?” put in ancient
Tom; “I'd be right glad to know, and gladder yit to have you up
here, Archer.”
“I would indeed, Tom,” answered Harry; “I'm not joking at
all; but there are never any small places to be bought hereabout;
and, as for large ones, your land is so confounded good, that a fellow
must be a nabob to think of buying.”
“Well, how would Jem Burt's place suit you, Archer?” asked
the fat man. “You knows it—jist a mile and a half 'tother side
Warwick, by the crick side? I guess it will have to be sold anyhow
next April; leastways the old man's dead, and the heirs want
the estate settled up like.”
“Suit me!” cried Harry, “by George! it's just the thing, if I
recollect it rightly. But how much land is there?”
“Twenty acres, I guess—not over twenty-five, no how.”
“And the house?”
“Well, that wants fixin' some; and the bridge over the crick's
putty bad, too, it will want putty nigh a new one. Why, the house
is a story and a half like; and it's jist an entry stret through the
middle, and a parlor on one side on 't, and a kitchen on the t' other;
and a chamber behind both on 'em.”
“What can it be bought for, Tom?”
“I guess three thousand dollars; twenty-five hundred, maybe.
It will go cheap, I reckon; I don't hear tell o' no one lookin' at it.”
“What will it cost me more to fix it, think you?”
“Well, you see, Archer, the land's ben most darned badly done
by, this last three years, since old 'squire 's ben so low; and the
bridge, that'll take a smart sum; and the fences is putty much gone
to rack; I guess it'll take hard on to a thousand more to fix it up
right, like you'd like to have it, without doin' nothin' at the house.”
“And fifteen hundred more for that and the stables. I wish to
Heaven I had known this yesterday; or rather before I came up
hither,” said Harry.
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“Why so?” asked the Commodore.
“Why, as the deuce would have it, I told my broker to invest six
thousand, that I have got loose, in a good mortgage, if he could find
one, for five years; and I have got no stocks that I can sell out;
all that I have but this, is on good bond and mortgage, in Boston,
and little enough of it, too.”
“Well, if that's all, said Forester, “we can run down to-morrow,
and you will be in time to stop him.”
“That's true, too,” answered Harry, pondering. “Are you sure
it can be bought, Tom?”
“I guess so,” was the response.
“That means, I suppose, that you're perfectly certain of it. Why
the devil can't you speak English?”
“English!” exclaimed Frank; “Good Lord! why do n't you ask
him why he can't speak Greek? English! Lord! Lord! Lord!
Tom Draw and English!”
“I'll jist tell Archer what he warnts to know, and then see you,
my dear little critter, if I doos n't English you some!” replied the
old man, waxing wroth. “Well, Archer, to tell Heaven's truth,
now, I doos know it; but it's an etarnal all-fired shame of me to
be tellin' it, bein' as how I knows it in the way of busines like. It's
got to be selled by vandoo[11] in April.
“Then, by Jove! I will buy it,” said Harry; “and down I'll go
to-morrow. But that need not take you away, boys; you can stay
and finish out the week here, and go home in the Ianthe; Tom will
send you down to Nyack.”
“Sartain,” responded Tom; “but now I'm most darned glad, I
told you that, Archer. I meant to a told you on 't afore, but it clean
slipped out of my head; but all 's right, now. Hark! hark! do n't
you hear, boys? The quails has n't all got together yit—better
luck! Hush, A—, and you'll hear them callin'—whew-wheet!
whew-wheet! whe-whe-whe;” and the old Turk began to call most
scientifically; and in ten minutes the birds were answering him
from all quarters, through the circular space of bog meadow, and
through the thorny brake beyond it, and some from a large ragwort
field further yet.
“How is this, Frank—did they scatter so much when they dropped?”
asked Harry.
“Yes; part of them 'lighted in the little bank on this edge, by
the spring, you know; and some, a dozen or so, right in the middle
of the bog, by the single hickory; and five or six went into the
swamp, and a few over it.”
“That's it! that's it! and the 've been running to try to get together,”
said the Commodore.
“But was too skeart to call, till we'd quit shootin'!” said Tom.
“But come, boys, let's be stirrin', else they'll git together like;
they keeps drawin', drawin', into one place now, I can hear.”
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No sooner said than done; we were all on foot in an instant, and
ten minutes brought us to the edge of the first thicket; and here
was the truth of Harry's precepts tested by practice in a moment;
for they had not yet entered the thin bushes, on which now the red
leaves hung few and sere, before old Shot threw his nose high into
the air, straightened his neck and his stern, and struck out at a high
trot; the other setter evidently knowing what he meant, though as
yet he had not caught the wind of them. In a moment they both
stood steady; and, almost at the same instant, Tom Draw's Dash,
and A—'s Grouse came to the point, all on different birds, in a bit
of very open ground, covered with wintergreen about knee deep,
and interspersed with only a few scattered bushes.
Whir-r-r-r—up they got all at once! what a jostle—what a hubbub!
Bang! bang! crack! bang! crack! bang! Four barrels
exploded in an instant, almost simultaneously; and two sharp unmeaning
cracks announced that, by some means or other, Frank
Forester's gun had missed fire with both barrels.
“What the deuce is the matter, boys?” cried Harry, laughing,
as he threw up his gun, after the hubbub had subsided, and dropped
two birds—the only two that fell, for all that waste of shot and
powder.
“What the deuce ails you?” he repeated, no one replying, and
all hands looking bashful and crest-fallen. “Are you all drunk?
or what is the matter? I ask merely for information.”
“Upon my life! I believe I am!” said Frank Forester. “For I
have not loaded my gun at all, since I killed those two last snipe.
And, when we got up from luncheon, I put on the caps just as if all
was right—but all is right now,” he added, for he had repaired his
fault, and loaded, before A— or fat Tom had done staring, each
in the other's face, in blank astonishment.
“Step up to Grouse, then,” said Archer, who had never taken his
eye off the old brown pointer, while he was loading as fast as he
could. “He has got a bird, close under his nose; and it will get
up, and steal away directly. That's a trick they will play very
often.”
“He haint got no bird,” said Tom, sulkily. And Frank paused
doubtful.
“Step up, I tell you, Frank,” said Harry, “the old Turk's
savage; that's all.”
And Frank did step up, close to the dog's nose; and sent his foot
through the grass close under it. Still the dog stood perfectly stiff;
but no bird rose.
“I telled you there war n't no quails there;” growled Tom.
“And I tell you there are!” answered Archer, more sharply than
he often spoke to his old ally; for, in truth, he was annoyed at his
obstinate pertinacity.
“What do you say, Commodore? Is Grouse lying? Kick that
tussock—kick it hard, Frank.”
“Not he,” replied A—; “I'll bet fifty to one, there's a bird
there.”
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“It's devilish odd, then, that he won't get up!” said Frank.
Whack! whack! and he gave the hard tussock two kicks with
his heavy boot, that fairly made it shake. Nothing stirred. Grouse
still kept his point, but seemed half inclined to dash in. Whack!
a third kick that absolutely loosened the tough hassock from the
ground, and then, whirr-r, from within six inches of the spot where
all three blows had been delivered, up got the bird, in a desperate
hurry; and in quite as desperate a hurry, Forester covered it—
covered it before it was six yards off! His finger was on the
trigger, when Harry quietly said, “Steady, Frank!” and the word
acted like magic.
He took the gun quite down from his shoulder, nodded to his
friend, brought it up again, and turned the bird over very handsomely,
at twenty yards, or a little further.
“Beautifully done, indeed, Frank,” said Harry. “So much for
coolness!”
“What do you say to that, Tom?” said the Commodore, laughing.
But there was no laugh in Tom; he only uttered a savage
growl, and an awful imprecation; and Harry's quick glance warned
A— not to plague the old Trojan further.
All this passed in a moment; and then was seen one of those
singular things that will at times happen; but with regard to quail
only, so far as I have ever seen or heard tell. For as Forester was
putting down the card upon the powder in the barrel which he had
just fired, a second bird rose, almost from the identical spot whence
the first had been so difficultly flushed, and went off in the same
direction. But not in the least was Frank flurried now. He dropped
his ramrod quietly upon the grass, brought up his piece deliberately
to his eye, and killed his bird again.
“Excellent—excellent! Frank,” said Harry again. “I never
saw two prettier shots in all my life. Nor did I ever see birds lie
harder.”
During all this time, amidst all the kicking of tussocks, threshing
of bog-grass, and banging of guns, and, worst of all, bouncing up of
fresh birds, from the instant when they dropped at the first shot,
neither one of Harry's dogs, nor Tom's little Dash, had budged
from their down charge. Now, however, they got up quickly; and
soon retrieved all the dead birds.
“Now then we will divide into two parties,” said Harry.
“Frank, you go with Tom; and you come with me, Commodore.
It will never do to have you two jealous fellows together, you wont
kill a bird all day,” he added, in a lower voice. “That is the worst
of old Tom, when he gets jealous, he's the very devil. Frank is
the only fellow that can get along with him at all. He puts me out
of temper, and if we both got angry, it would be very disagreeable.
For, though he is the best fellow in the world, when he is in a rage
he is untameable. I cannot think what has put him out, now; for
he has shot very well to-day. It is only when he gets behind-hand,
that he is usually jealous in his shooting; but he has got the deuce
into him now.”
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By this time, the two parties were perhaps forty yards apart,
when Dash came to a point again. Up got a single bird, the old
cock, and flew directly away from Tom, across Frank's face; but not
for that did the old chap pause. Up went his cannon to his
shoulder, there was a flash and a roar, and the quail, which was
literally not twelve feet from him, disappeared as if it had been
resolved into thin air. The whole of Tom's concentrated charge
had struck the bird endwise, as it flew from him; and, except the
extreme tips of his wings, and one foot, no part of him could be
found.
“The devil!” cried Harry, “that is too bad!”
“Never mind,” said the Commodore, “Frank will manage him.”
As he spoke, a second bird got up, and crossed Forester in the
same manner; Draw doing precisely as he had done before; but,
this time, missing the quail clear, which Forester turned over.
“Load quick! and step up to that fellow. He will run, I think!”
said Archer.
“Ay! ay!” responded Frank, and, having rammed down his
charge like lightning, moved forward, before he had put the cap on
the barrel he had fired.
Just as he took the cap out of his pocket between his finger and
thumb, a second quail rose. As cool and self-possessed, as it is
possible to conceive, Frank cocked the left hand barrel with his
little finger, still holding the cap between his forefinger and thumb,
and actually contrived to bring up the gun, some how or other,[12] and
to kill the bird, pulling the trigger with his middle finger.
At the report a third quail sprang, close under his feet; and, still
unshaken, he capped the right hand barrel, fired, and the bird
towered!
“Mark! mark! Tom—Ma-ark Timothy!” shouted Harry and
A— in a breath.
“That bird is as dead as Hannibal now!” added Archer, as,
having spun up three hundred feet into the air, and flown twice
as many hundred yards, it turned over, and fell plumb, like a stone,
through the clear atmosphere.
“Ayse gotten that chap marked doon roight, ayse warrant un!”
shouted Timothy, from the hill side, where, with some trouble, he
was holding in the obstreperous spaniels. “He's doon in a roight
laine atwixt 't muckle gray stean, and you hoigh ashen tree.”
“Did you ever see such admirable shooting, though?” asked
A—, in a low voice. “I did not know Forester shot like that.”
“Sometimes he does. When he's cool. He is not certain; that
is his only fault. One day he is the coolest man I ever saw in a
field; and, the next, the most impetuous; but when he is cool, he
shoots splendidly. As you say, A—, I never saw any thing better
done in my life. It was the perfection of coolness and quickness
combined.”
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“I cannot conceive how it was done atall. How he brought up
and fired that first barrel with a cap between his thumb and fore-finger!
Why, I could not fire a gun so, in cold blood!”
“Nor could he, probably. Deliberate promptitude is the thing!
Well, Tom, what do you think of that? Was n't that pretty shooting?”
“It was so, pretty shootin',” responded the fat man, quite delighted
out of his crusty mood. “I guess the darned little critter's
got three barrels to his gun somehow; leastwise it seems to me, I
swon, 'at he fired her off three times without loadin'! I guess I'll
quit tryin' to shoot agin Frank, to-day.”
“I told you so!” said Harry to the Commodore, with a low
laugh, and then added aloud—“ I think you may as well, Tom—for
I don't believe the fellow will miss another bird to-day.”
And in truth, strange to say, it fell out, in reality, nearly as
Areher had spoken in jest. The whole party shot exceedingly
well. The four birds, which Tom and the Commodore had missed
at the first start, were found again in an old ragwort field, and
brought to bay; and of the twenty-three quail which Forester had
marked down into the bog meadow, not one bird escaped, and of
that bevy not one bird did Frank miss, killing twelve, all of them
double shots, to his own share, and beating Archer in a canter.
But that sterling sportsman cared not a stiver; too many times
by far had he had the field, too sure was he of doing the same many
a time again, to dislike being beaten once. Besides this, he was
always the least jealous shot in the world, for a very quick one;
and, in this instance, he was perhaps better pleased to see his
friend “go in and win,” than he would have been to do the like
himself.
Exactly at two o'clock, by A—'s repeater, the last bird was
bagged; making twenty-seven quail, forty-nine snipe, two ruffed
grouse, and one woodcock, bagged in about five hours.
“So far, this is the very best day's sport I ever saw,” said Archer;
“and two things I have seen which I never saw before; a whole
bevy of quail killed without the escape of one bird, and a whole
bevy killed entirely by double shots, except the odd bird. You,
A—, have killed three double shots—I have killed three—Tom
Draw one double shot, and the odd bird; and Master Frank there,
confound him, six double shots running—the cleverest thing I ever
heard of, and, in Forester's case, the best shooting possible. I have
missed one bird, you two, and Tom three.”
“But Tom beant a goin' to miss no more birds, I can tell you,
boy. Tom's drinked agin, and feels kind o' righter than he did—
kind o' first best! You'd best all drink, boys—the spring's handy,
close by here; and after we gits down acrost the road into the big
swamp, and Hell-Hole, there arn't a drop o' water fit to drink, till
we gits way down to Aunt Sally's big spring-hole, jest to home.”
“I second the motion,” said Harry; “and then let us be quick,
for the day is wearing away, and we have got a long beat yet before
us. I wish it were a sure one. But it is not. Once in three
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or four years we get a grand day's sport in the big swamp; but for
one good day we have ten bad ones. However, we are sure to find
a dozen birds or so in Hell-Hole; and a bevy of quail in the Captain's
swamp, shan't we, Tom?”
“Yes, if we gits so far; but somehow or other I rather guess
we'll find quite a smart chance o' clock. Captain Read was down
there a' Satterday, and he saw heaps on 'em.”
“That's no sure sign. They move very quickly now. Here
to-day and there to-morrow,” said Archer. “In the large woods,
especially. In the small places there are plenty of sure finds.”
“There harn't been nothing of frosts yet, keen enough to stir
them,” said Tom. “I guess we'll find them. And there harn't
been a gun shot off this three weeks there. Hoel's wife's ben
down sick all the fall, and Halbert's gun busted in the critter's
hand.”
“Ah! did it hurt him?”
“Hurt him some—skeart him considerable, though. I guess
he's quit shootin' pretty much. But come—here we be, boys. I'll
keep along the outside, where the walkin's good. You git next
me, and Archer next with the dogs, and A— inside of all. Keep
right close to the cedars, A—; all the birds 'at you flushes will
come stret out this aways. They never flies into the cedar swamp.
Archer, how does the ground look?”
“I never saw it look so well, Tom. There is not near so much
water as usual, and yet the bottom is all quite moist and soft.”
“Then we'll get cock for sartain.”
“By George!” cried A—, “the ground is like a honeycomb,
with their boreings; and as white in places with their droppings,
as if there had been a snow fall!”
“Are they fresh droppings, A—?”
“Mark! Ah! Grouse! Grouse! for shame. There he is down.
Do you see him, Harry?”
“Ay! ay! Did Grouse flush him?”
“Deliberately, at fifty yards off. I must lick him.”
“Pray do; and that mercifully.”
“And that soundly,” suggested Frank, as an improvement.
“Soundly is mercifully,” said Harry, “because one good flogging
settles the business; whereas twenty slight ones only harass a
dog, and do nothing in the way of correction or prevention.”
“True, oh king!” said Frank, laughing. “Now let us go on
for, as the bellowing of that brute is over, I suppose `chastisement
has hidden her head.”'
And on they did go; and sweet shooting they had of it; all the
way down to the thick deep spot, known by the pleasing sobriquet
of Hell-Hole.
The birds were scattered everywhere throughout the swamp, so
excellent was the condition of the ground; scattered so much, that, in
no instance, did two rise at once; but one kept flapping up after
another, large and lazy, at every few paces; and the sportsmen
scored them fast, although scarcely aware how fast they were
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killing them. At length, when they reached the old creek-side, and
the deep black mud-holes, and the tangled vines and leafy alders,
there was, as usual, a quick, sharp, and decisive rally. Before the
dogs were thrown into it, Frank was sent forward to the extreme
point, and the Commodore out into the open field, on the opposite
side from that occupied by fat Tom.
On the signal of a whistle, from each of the party, Harry drove
into the brake with the spaniels, the setters being now consigned
to the care of Timothy; and in a moment, his loud “Hie cock!
Hie cock! Pur-r-r—Hie cock! good dogs!” was succeeded by the
shrill yelping of the cockers, the flap of the fast rising birds, and
the continuous rattling of shots.
In twenty minutes the work was done; and it was well that it
was done; for, within a quarter of an hour afterward, it was too
dark to shoot at all.
In that last twenty minutes twenty-two cock were actually
brought to bag, by the eight barrels; twenty-eight had been picked
up, one by one, as they came down the long swamp, and one Harry
had killed in the morning. When Timothy met them, with the
horses, at the big oak tree, half an hour afterward—for he had gone
off across the fields, as hard as he could foot it to the farm, as soon
as he had received the setters—it was quite dark; and the friends
had counted their game out regularly, and hung it up secundum
artem in the loops of the new game bag.
It was a huge day's sport—a day's sport to talk about for years
afterward—Tom Draw does talk about it now!
Fifty-one woodcock, forty-nine English snipe, twenty-seven quail,
and a brace of ruffed grouse. A hundred and twenty-nine head in
all, on unpreserved ground, and in very wild walking. It is to be
feared it will never be done any more in the vale of Warwick. For
this, alas! was ten years ago.
When they reached Tom's it was decided that they should all
return home on the morrow; that Harry should attend to the procuring
his purchase money; and Tom to the cheapening of the
purchase.
In addition to this the old boy swore, by all his patron saints, that
he would come down in spring, and have a touch at the snipe he
had heerd Archer tell on at Pine Brook.
A capital supper followed; and of course lots of good liquor, and
the toast, to which the last cup was quaffed, was
LONG LIFE TO HARRY ARCHER, AND LUCK TO HIS SHOOTING BOX,
to which Frank Forester added
“I wish he may get it.”
And so that party ended; all of its members hoping to enjoy
many more like it, and that very speedily.
eaf144.n11[11] Vendue. Why the French word for a public auction has been adopted throughout
the Northern and Eastern States, as applied to a Sheriff's sale, deponent saith
not.
eaf144.n12[12] If I had not seen the whole of this scene with my eyes, and had I not witnesses
of the fact, I would scarce dare to relate it. From the cutting the first bird to atoms,
all is strictly true.
-- --
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-- --
TOM DRAW'S VISIT TO PINE BROOK.
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The long cold winter had passed away and been succeeded by
the usual alternations of damp sloppy thaws, and piercing eastern
gales, which constitute a North American Spring; and now the
croaking of the bull-frogs, heard from every pool and puddle, the
bursting buds of the young willows, and, above all, the appearance
of the Shad in market, announced to the experienced sportsman,
the arrival of the English Snipe upon the marshes. For some
days Harry Archer had been busily employed in overhauling his
shooting apparatus, exercising his setters, watching every change
of wind, and threatening a speedy expedition into the meadows of
New Jersey, so soon as three days of easterly rain should be followed
by mild weather from the southward. Anxiously looked
for, and long desired, at last the eastern storm set in, cold, chilling,
misty, with showers of smoky driving rain, and Harry for two entire
days had rubbed his hands in ecstasy; while Timothy stood
ever in the stable door—his fists plunged deep in the recesses of
his breeches' pockets, and a queer smile illuminating the honest
ugliness of his bluff visage—patiently watching for a break in the
dull clouds—his harness hanging the while in readiness for instant
use, with every crest and turret as bright as burnished gold; his
wagon all prepared, with bear-skins and top-coats displayed; and
his own kit packed up in prompt anticipation of the first auspicious
moment. The third dark morning had dawned dingily; the rain
still drifted noiselessly against the windows, while gutters over-flowed,
and kennels swollen into torrents announced its volume and
duration. There was not then the least temptation to stir out of
doors, and, sulky myself, I was employed in coaxing a sulky cigar
beside a yet more sulky fire, with an empty coffee cup and a large
quarto volume of Froissart upon the table at my elbow, when a
quick cheery triple rap at the street door announced a visitor, and
was succeeded instantly by a firm rapid footstep on the stairs, accompanied
by the multitudinous pattering and whimpering of spaniels.
Without the ceremony of a knock the door flew open; and
in marched, with his hat on one side, a dirty looking letter in his
hand, and Messrs. Dan and Flash at his heel, the renowned Harry
Archer.
“Here's a lark, Frank,” exclaimed that worthy, pitching the
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billet down upon the table, and casting himself into an arm-chair;
“Old Tom is to be here to-day to dinner, and wants to go with us
to the Snipe Meadow. So we will dine, if it so please you, at my
hose at three—I have invited Mac to join us—and start directly
after for Pine Brook.”
“The devil!” I responded, somewhat energetically; “what, in
this rain?”
“Rain—yes, indeed. The wind has hauled already to the westward
of the south, and we shall have a starlight night, and a clear
day to-morrow, and grand sport I'll warrant you! Rain—yes!
I'm glad it does rain; it will keep cockney gunners off the meadows.”
“But will Tom really be here? How do you know it? Have
you seen him?”
“Read—read, man!” he responded, lighting the while a dark
cheroot, and lugging out my gun-case to inspect its traps. And I
in due obedience took up the billet-doux, which had produced this
notable combustion. It was a thin, dirty, oblong letter, written
across the lines upon ruled paper, with a pencil, wafered, and
stamped with a key, and bearing in round school-boy characters the
following direction:—
for Mr. Harrye Archere Newe Yorke Esqre
69 Merceye streete.
Internally it ran—
Olde friende
havin to git some grocerees down to Yorke, I reckons to quit
here on Satterdaye, and so be i can fix it counts to see you tewsdaye for sartain.
quaile promises to be considerable plentye, and cocke has come on most ongodly
thicke, i was down to Sam Blainses one night a fortnite since and heerd a heape on
them a drumminge and chatteringe everywheres round aboute. if snipes is come
on yit i reckon i coud git awaye a daye or soe down into Jarsey wayes—no more
at preasente from
ever youre olde friende
Thomas Drawe
i shall looke in at Merceye streete bout three oclocke dinner time i guesse.
“Well! that matter seems to be settled,” answered I, when I
had finished the perusal of this most notable epistle. “I suppose
he will be here to the fore!”
“Sartain!” responded Archer, grinning; “and do you for once,
if possible—which I suppose it is not—be in time for dinner; I
will not wait five minutes, and I shall give you a good feed; pack
up your traps, and Tim shall call for them at two. We dine at
three, mind! Start from my door at half-past five, so as to get
across in the six o'clock boat. Hard will be looking out for us,
I know, about this time, at Pine Brook; and we shall do it easy in
three hours, for the roads will be heavy. Come along, dogs. Good
bye, Frank. Three o'clock! now don't be late, there's a good lad.
Here Flash! here Dan!” and gathering his Macintosh about him,
exit Harry.
Thereupon to work I went with a will; rummaged up gun,
cleaning-rod, copper caps, powder horns, shot-pouch, and all the
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et ceteras of shooting, which—being always stowed away with so
much care at the end of one season, that they are undiscoverable
at the beginning of the next—are sources of eternal discomfiture to
those most all-accomplished geniuses, hight sportsmen's servants:
got out and greased my fen boots with the fit admixture of tallow,
tar, beeswax, and Venice turpentine; hunted up shooting jacket,
corduroys, plaid waistcoat, and check shirts; and, in fact, perpetrated
the detested task of packing, barely in time for Timothy,
who, as he shouldered my portmantean, and hitched up the waisthand
of his own most voluminous unmentionables, made out in the
midst of grins and nods, and winks, to deliver himself to the following
effect—
“Please sur, measter says, if you ple-ase to moind three o't
clock—for he'll be dommed, he said, please Measter Forester, av
he waits haaf a minit—”
“Very well, Tim, very well—that'll do—I'll be ready.”
“And Measter Draw be coom'd tew—nay but Ay do think 'at
he's fatter noo than iver—ecod Ayse laff to see him doon i' t' mossy
meadows laike—he'll swear, Ayse warrant him.”
And with a burst of merriment, that no one pair of mortal lips
save Timothy's alone could ever have accomplished, he withdrew,
leaving me to complete my toilet; in which, believe me, gentle
reader, mindful of a good feed and of short law, I made no needless
tarrying.
The last stroke of the hour appointed had not yet stricken when
I was on the steps of Harry's well-known snug two-storied domicile;
in half a minute more I was at my ease in his study, where,
to my no small wonder, I found myself alone, with no other employment
than to survey, for the nine hundredth time, the adornments
of that exquisite model for that most snug of all things, a
cozy bachelor's peculiar snuggery. It was a small back room,
with two large windows looking out upon a neatly trimmed grassplat
bordered with lilacs and laburnums; its area, of sixteen feet
by fourteen, was strewn with a rick Turkey carpet, and covered
with every appurtenance for luxury and comfort that could be
brought into its limits without encumbering its brief dimensions.
A bright steel grate, with a brilliant fire of Cannel coal, occupied
the centre of the south side, facing the entrance, while a superb
book-case and secretaire of exquisite mahogany filled the recess
on either hand of it, their glass doors showing an assortment, handsomely
bound, of some eight hundred volumes, classics, and history,
and the gems of modern poesie and old romance. Above
the mantel-piece, where should have hung the mirror, was a wide
case, covering the whole front of the pier, with doors of plate glass,
through which might be discovered, supported on a rack of ebony,
and set off by a back-ground of rich crimson velvet, the select
armory, prized above all his earthly goods by their enthusiastic
owner—consisting of a choice pair of twin London-made double-barrels,
a short splendidly finished ounce-ball rifle, a heavy single
pigeon gun, a pair of genuine Kuchenreuter's nine-inch duelling
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pistols, and a smaller pair by Joe Manton for the belt or pocket—
all in the most perfect order, and ready for immediate use. Facing
this case upon the opposite wall, along the whole length of which
ran a divan, or wide low sofa, of crimson damask, hung two oil
paintings, originals by Edward Landseer, of dogs—hounds, terriers,
and all, in fact, of canine race, mongrels of low degree alone excepted—
under these were suspended, upon brackets, two long duck
guns, and an array of tandem and four-house whips, besides two
fly-rods, and a cherry-stick Persian pipe, ten feet at least in length.
The space between the windows was occupiedby two fine engravings,
one of the Duke of Wellington, the other of Sir Walter in
his study—Harry's political and literary idols; a library centre
table, with an inkstand of costly buhl, covered with periodicals and
papers, and no less than four sumptuous arm-chairs of divers forms
and patterns, completed the appointments of the room; but the
picture still would be incomplete, were I to pass over a huge tortoise-shell
Tom Cat, which dozed upon the rug in amicable vicinity
to our old friends the spaniels Dan and Flash. It did not occupy
me quite so long to take a survey of these well-remembered articles,
as it has done to describe them; nor, in fact, had that been
the case, should I have found the time to reconnoitre them; for
scarcely was I seated by the fire, before the ponderous trampling of
Old Tom might be heard on the stair-case, as in vociferous converse
with our host he came down from the chamber, wherein, by
some strange process of persuasion assuredly peculiar to himself,
Harry had forced him to go through the ceremony of ablution, previous
to his attack upon the viands, which were in truth not likely
to be dealt with more mercifully in consequence of this delay. Another
moment, and they entered—“Arcades ambo” duly rigged for
the occasion—Harry in his neat claret-colored jocky-coat, white
waiscoat, corduroys and gaiters—Tom in Canary-colored vest, sky-blue
dress coat with huge brass buttons, gray kerseymere unmentionables,
with his hair positively brushed, and his broad jolly face
clean shaved, and wonderfully redolent of soap and water. The
good old soul's face beamed with unfeigned delight, and grasping
me affectionately by the hand—
“How be you?” he exclaimed—“How be you, Forester—you
looks well, anyways.”
“Why, I am well, Tom,” responded I, “but I shall be better
after I've had that drink that Archer's getting ready—you're dry,
I fancy—”
“Sartain!” was the expected answer; and in a moment the pale
Amontillado sherry and the bitters were paraded—but no such d—d
washy stuff, as he termed it, would the old Trojan look at, much
less taste; and Harry was compelled to produce the liquor stand,
well stored with potent waters, when at the nick of time McTavish
entered in full fig for a regular slap-up party, not knowing at all
whom he had been asked to meet. Not the least discomposed,
however, that capital fellow was instantly at home, and as usual
up to every sort of fun.
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“What, Draw,” said he, “who the devil thought of seeing you
here—when did you come down? Oh! the dew, certainly,” he
continued, in reply to Archer, who was pressing a drink on him—
“the mountain dew for me—catch a Highlander at any other dram,
when Whasky's to the fore—aye, Tom?”
“Catch you at any dram, exceptin' that what's strongest. See
to him now!” as Mac tossed off his modicum, and smacked his
lips approvingly; “see to him now! I'd jist as lief drink down so
much fire, and he pours it in—pours it in, jist like as one it was
mother's milk to the d—d critter.”
“Ple-ase Sur, t' dinner's re-ady”—announced Timothy, throwing
open the folding doors, and displaying the front room, with a beautiful
fire blazing, and a good old fashioned round table covered with
exquisite white damask-linen, and laid with four covers, each
flanked by a most unusual display of glasses—a mighty bell-mouthed
rummer, namely, on a tall slender stock with a white spiral line
running up through the centre, an apt substitute for that most
awkward of all contrivances, the ordinary champagne glass—a
beautiful green hock goblet, with a wreath of grapes and vine
leaves wrought in relief about the rim—a massy water tumber
elaborately diamond-cut—and a capacious sherry-glass so delicate
and thin that the slender crystal actually seemed to bend under
the pressure of your lip; nor were the liquors wanting in proportion—
two silver wine-coolers, all frosted over with the exudations
from the ice within, displayed the long necks of a champagne flask
and a bottle of Johannisbergher, and four decanters hung out their
labels of Port, Madeira, brown Sherry, and Amontillado—while
two or three black, copper-wired bottles, in the chimney-corner, announced
a stock of heavy-wet, for such as should incline to malt.
I had expected from Tom's lips some preternatural burst of wonder,
at this display of preparation, the like of which, as I conceived, had
never met his eyes before—but, whether he had been indoctrinated
by previous feeds at Harry's hospitable board, or had learned by his
own native wit the difficult lesson of nil admirari, he sat down
without any comment, though he stared a little wildly, when he
saw nothing eatable upon the table, except a large dish of raw oysters,
flanked by a lemon and a cruet of cayenne. With most ineffable
disdain he waved off the plate which Tim presented to him,
with a G—d d—n you, I arnt a goin to give my belly cold with no
such chillin' stuff as that. I'd like to know now, Archer, if this
bees all that you're a goin to give us—for if so be it is, I'll go
stret down to the nigger's yonder, and git me a beef steak and
onions?”
“Why not exactly, Tom,” responded Archer, when he could
speak for laughing—“these are merely for a whet to give us an
appetite.”
“A d—d queer sort of wet, I think—why I'd have thought that
ere rum, what McTavish took, would have been wet enough, till
what time as you got at the champagne—and, as for appetite, I
reckon now a man whose guts is always cravin—cravin—like yours
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be, had better a taken somethin dry to keep it down like, than a
wet to moisten it up more.”
By this time the natives, which had so moved Tom's indignation,
were succeeded by a tureen of superb mutton broth, to which
the old man did devote himself most assiduously, while Mac was
loud in approbation of the brouse, saying it only wanted bannocks
to be perfection.
“D—n you, you're niver satisfied—you aint”—Tom had commenced,
when he was cut short by “The Sherry round—Tim”—
from our host—“you 'd better take the brown, Tom, it's the strongest!”
The old man thrust his rummer forth, as being infinitely the
biggest, and—Timothy persisting in pouring out the strong and
fruity sherry into the proper glass—burst out again indignantly—
“I 'd be pleased to know, Archer, now, why you puts big glasses
on the table' if you don't mean they should be drinked out of—to
tantalize a chap, I reckon”—down went the wine at one gulp, and
the exquisite aroma conquered—he licked his lips, sighed audibly,
smiled, grinned, then laughed aloud. “I see—I see”—he said at
last—“you reckon it's too prime to be drinked out of big ones—and
I dunknow but what you're right too—but what on airthe is we to
drink out of these—not water, that I know! leastways, I niver see
none in this house, no how.”
“The green one is for brandy—Tom!” McTavish answered.
“Ey, ey!”—Tom interrupted him—“and they makes them green
I guess, so as no one shall see how much a body takes—now that's
what I does call genteel!”
“And this large plain one”—added Mac, looking as grave as a
judge, and lifting one of the huge champagne glasses—“is a dram
glass for drinking Scotch whiskey—what they call in the Highlands
a thimblefull—”
“They take it as a medicine there, you see, Tom”—continued
Archer—a preventive to a disease well known in those parts, called
the Scotch fiddle—did you ever hear of it?”
“Carnt say”—responded Tom “what like is 't?”
“Oh, Mac will tell you, he suffers from it sadly—didn't you see
him tuck in the specific—it was in compliment to him I had the
thimbles set out to-day.”
“Oh! that's it, aye?—the fat man answered—“well I don't care
if I do”—in answer to Harry's inquiry whether he would take some
boiled shad, which, with caper sauce, had replaced the soup—“I
don't care if I do—Shads isn't got to Newburgh yet, leastways I
harnt seen none—”
Well might he say that, by the way, for they had scarce appeared
in New York, and were attainable now only at the moderate rate
of something near their weight in silver. After the fish, a dram of
Ferintosh was circulated in one small glass, exquisitely carved into
the semblance of a thistle, which Draw disposed of with no comment
save a passing wonder that when men could get apple-jack,
they should be willing to take up with such smoky trash as
that.
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A saddle of roast mutton, which had been hanging, Harry said,
six weeks, a present from that excellent good fellow, the Captain
of the Swallow, followed, and with it came the split-corks—“By
heavens,” I cried, almost involuntarily—“what a superb champagne”—
suffering, after the interjection, something exceeding half
a pint of that delicious, dry, high-flavored, and rich-bodied nectar,
to glide down my gullet.
“Yes”—answered Harry—“yes—alack! that it should be the
last! This is the last but one of the first importation of the Crown—
no such wine ever came before into this country, no such has followed
it. We shall discuss the brace to-day—what better opportudity?
Here is McTavish, its originator, the best judge in the land!
Frank Forester, who has sipped of the like at Crockie's, and a place
or two beside, which we could mention—myself, who am not slow
at any decent tipple, and Thomas Draw, who knows it, I suppose,
from Jarsey Cider!”
“Yes, and I knows it from the Jarsey champagne tew—which
you stick into poor chaps, what you fancies doosn't know no better—
give me some more of that ere mutton and some jelly—you
are most d—d sparin of your jelly now—and Timothy, you snoopin
rascal, fill this ere thimblefull agin with that Creawn wine!”
Wild fowl succeeded, cooked to a turn, hot claret duly qualified
with cayenne in a sauce-boat by their side—washed down by the
last flask of Mac's champagne, of which the last round we quaffed
sorrowfully, as in duty bound, to the importer's health, and to the
memory of the crowned head departed—the only crown, as Harry
in his funeral oration, truly and pithily observed, which gives the
lie to the assertion that “uneasy lies the head that wears a
crown.”
No womanish display of pastry marred the unity of this most
solemn masculine repast, a Stilton cheese, a red herring, with Goshen
butter, pilot bread, and porter, concluded the rare banquet. A
plate of devilled biscuit, and a magnum of Latour, furnished forth
the dessert, which we discussed right jovially; while Timothy,
after removing Harry's guns from their post of honor above the
mantel-piece to their appropriate cases, stole away to the stable to
prepare his cattle.
“Now, boys,” said Harry, “make the most of your time. There
is the claret, the best in my opinion going—for I have always prized
Mac's black-sealed Latour far above Lynch's Margaux—yes even
above that of '25. For Lynch's wine, though exquisitely delicate,
was perilous thin; I never tasted it without assenting to Serjeant
Bothwell's objection, `Claret's ower cauld for my stamach,' and
desiring like him to qualify it `wi a tass of eau di vie.' Now this
wine has no such fault, it has a body—”
“I don't know, Archer,” interrupted Tom, “what that ere
sarjeant meant with his d—d o di vee, but I know now that I'd a
d—d sight rayther have a drink o' brandy, or the least mite of apple-jack,
than a whole keg of this red rot-gut!”
“You've hit the nail on the head, Tom,” answered I, while Harry,
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knowing the old man's propensities, marched off in search of the
liquor stand—“It was brandy that the serjeant meant!”
“Then why in h—l did d't he say brandy, like a man—instead of
coming out with his d—d snivelling o di vee?”
“Why, Tom,” said I, in explanation, “he admired your favorite
drink so much, that he used the Frendh name as most complimentary;
it means water of life!”
“What, he watered it too, did he? I thought he must be a d—d
poor drinkin' man, to call things out of their right names—precious
little of the raal stuff had he ever drinked, I reckon, watered or
not—o di vee! D—n all such Latin trash, says I. But here 't
comes. Take a drop, doo, McTavish, it's better fifty times, and
healthier tew, than that eternal d—d sour old vinegar, take a drop,
doo!”
“Thank you, no” answered McTavish, well contented with his
present beverage, and after a pause went on addressing Archer—
“I wish to heaven you 'd let me know what you were up to—I'd
have gone along.”
“What hinders you from going now?” said Harry. “I can rig
you out for the drive, and we can stop at the Carlton, and get
your gun, and the rest of your traps. I wish to the Lord you
would!”
“Oh! oh!” Tom burst out, on the instant, “oh, oh! I wont go,
sartain, less so be McTavish concludes on going tew—we carnt do
nothing without him.”
It was in vain, however, that we all united in entreating him to
go along—he had business to do to-morrow—he was afraid of getting
his feet wet, and fifty other equally valid excuses, till Harry exclaimed—
“It's no use, I can tell you Donald's bluid's up, and
there's an end of it—”
Whereat McTavish laughed, and saying that he did not think,
for a very short-sighted man, snipe-shooting up to his waist in water,
and up to his knees in mud, was the great thing it is cracked up
to be, filled himself a pretty sufficient dose of hot toddy, and drank
to our good luck. Just at this moment, up rattled, ready packed,
with the dogs in, the gun-cases stowed, and store of topcoats, capes,
and bear-skins, all displayed, the wagon to the door.
“I need not tell you, Mac,” cried Archer, as he wrung the gallant
Celt by the hand, to make yourself at home—we must be
off, you know;”—then opening the window, “hand in those coats,
Timothy, out of that drizzling rain—I thought you had more
sense.”
“Nay then, they're no but just coom fra under t' approns,” responded
Tim, not over and above delighted at the reflection on his
genius—“they're droy as booans, Ayse warrant um.”
“Well! hand them in then—hand them in—where's your coat,
Tom?—that's it; now look here, buckle on this crape of mine over
your shoulders, and take this India rubber hood, and tie it over
your hat, and you may laugh at four-and-twenty-hours' rain, let
alone two. You have got toggery enough, Frank, I conclude—so
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here goes for myself.” Whereupon he indued, first a pea-jacket of
extra pilot-cloth, and a pair of English mud-boots, buttoning to the
mid thigh; and, above these, a regular box coat of stout blue
dreadnought, with half a dozen capes; an oil-skin covered hat,
with a curtain to protect his neck and ears, fastening with a hook
and eye under the chin, completing his attire. In we got, thereupon,
without more ado. Myself and Timothy, with the two setters,
in the box-seat behind, the leathern apron unrolled and buttoned
up, over a brace of buffalo robes, hairy side inward, to our middles—
Harry and Tom in front, with one superb black bearskin drawn
up by a ring and strap to the centre of the back rail between them,
and the patent water-proof apron hooked up to either end of the seat—
the effeminacy of umbrellas we despised—our cigars lighted, and
our bodies duly muffled up, off we went, at a single chirrup of our
driver, whose holly four-horse whip stood in the socket by his side
unheeded, as with his hands ungloved, and his beautiful, firm, upright
seat upon the box, he wheeled off at a gentle trot, the good
nags knowing their master's hand and voice, as well as if they had
been his children, and obeying them far better.
Our drive, it must be admitted, through the heavy rain was nothing
to brag of. Luckily, however, before we had got over much
more than half our journey, the storm gradually ceased, as the night
fell; and, by the time we reached the big swamp, it was clear all
over the firmament; with a dark, dark blue sky, and millions of
stars twinkling gayly—and the wind blowing freshly but pleasantly
out of the nor-norwest!
“Did I not tell you so, boys?” exclaimed Archer, joyously pointing
with his whip to the bright skies—“we'll have a glorious day
to-morrow.” Just as he spoke, we reached the little toll-gate by
the Morris Canal; and, as we paused to change a fifty cent piece,
what should we hear, high in air, rapidly passing over our heads,
but the well known “skeap! skeap?” the thin shrill squeak of
unnumbered snipe, busy in their nocturnal voyage; and within an
hour thereafter we arrived at our journey's end, where a glass all
round of tip-top champagne brandy—a neat snug supper of capital
veal cutlets, ham and eggs, and pork steaks and sausages, finished
the day, and tired enough we went to bed early and dreamed.
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“What sort of a morning is it, Timothy?” asked I, rubbing my
eyes, as I sat bolt upright in bed on the irruption of that fidus
Achates, some half hour before sunrise, into my little dormitory;
“What sort of a morning is it?”
“A varry bonny mornin, Measter Frank,” responded he; “there
was a leetle tooch o' whaite frost aboot midnaight, but sin' t' moon
set, there 's been a soop o' warm ra-ain, and it's dooll noo, and saft
loike, wi' t' wind sootherly—but it's boon to be nooght at all, Ayse
warrant it. T' Soon 'll be oot enoo—see if he beant—and t' snaipe
'll laie laike steans. Ayse a wa noo, and fetch t' het watter—t' ve-al
cootlets is i' t' pann, and John Van Dyne he's been a wa-aiting iver
sin 't got laight.”
“That's not very long, then,” answered I, springing out of bed,
“at all events; for it's as dark as pitch now; bring me a candle, I
can't shave by this light; there! leave the door into the parlor
open, and tell John to come in and amuse me while I'm shaving.
Is Mr. Archer up?”
“Oop? Weel Ay wot he is oop; and awa wi' Measter Draa, and
t' lang goons, doon to t' brigg; to watch t' doocks flay, but Van
Dyne says t' doocks has dean flaying.”
“Yes, yes—they 'se quit sartin,” answered a merry voice without,
and in stalked John, the best fowl-shot, the best snipe-marker, the
best canoe-paddler, and the best fellow every way, in New Jersey.
“How are you, John?—any birds on the Piece?”
“Nicely!” he answered, to my first query—“nicely,”—shaking
me warmly by the hand, and, after a pause, added, “I can't say as
there be; the Piece is too wet altogether!”
“Too wet—aye? that's bad, John!”
“Lord, yes—too wet entirely; I was half over it with the canoe
last week, and didn't see—no not half a dozen, and they was
round the edges like, where there wasn't no good lying? there
was a heap o' yellow legs, though, and a smart chance o' plover.”
“Oh, d—n the plover, John; but shall we find no snipe?”
“Not upon neither of the Pieces, no how—but there was heaps
of them a flyin' over all last night; yes! yes! I guess Archer and
I can fix it so as we'll git a few—but, do tell, who's that darned
fat chap as I see goin' down”—
Here he was interrupted by the distant report of a heavy gun,
followed almost upon the instant by a second.
“Ding!” he exclaimed, “but there's a flight now! arn't there?
I guess now, Mr. Forester, I'd as well jist run down with old Shot,
leastwise he'll fetch um, if so be they've fallen in the water.”
“Do! do!” cried I, “by all means, John; and tell them to come
back directly; for half the breakfast's on the table, and I'll be
ready by the time they're here.”
By the time I had got my jacket on, and while I was in the act
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of pulling up my long fen boots before the cheerful fire, I perceived
by the clack of tongues without, that the sportsmen had returned;
and the next moment Harry entered, accompanied by Fat Tom in
his glory, with no less than two couple and a half of that most beautiful
and delicate of wild-fowl, the green-winged teal.
“That's not so bad, Frank,” exclaimed Harry, depositing, as he
spoke, his heavy single-barrel in the chimney-corner, and throwing
himself into an arm-chair; “that's not so bad for ten minutes'
work, is it?”
“Better a d—d sight,” Tom chimed in, “than layin snoozin till
the sun is high; but that's the way with these etarnal drinkin men,
they does keep bright just so long as they keeps a liquorin; but
when that's done with, you don't hear nothin more of them till noon,
or arter. D—n all sich drunken critters.”
“That's a devilish good one,” answered I; “the deuce a one of
you has shaved, or for that matter, washed his face, to the best of
my belief; and then, because you tumble out of bed like Hottentots,
and rush out, gun in hand, with all the accumulated filth of a
hard day's drive, and a long night's sweat, reeking upon you, you
abuse a Christian gentleman, who gets up soberly, and dresses himself
decently—for idleness and what not!”
“Soberly!” answered Tom; “Soberly! Jest hear, now, Harry,—
Soberly!—jest like as though he hadn't a had his bitters, and
d—d bitter bitters, too!”
“Not a drop, upon honor,” I replied; “not a drop this morning?”
“What?—oh! oh! that's the reason, then, why you're so 'tarnal
cross. Here, landlord, bring us in them cider sperrits—I harnt had
only a small taste myself—take a drink, Frank, and you'll feel slick
as silk torights, I tell you.”
“Thank you, no!” said I, falling foul of the veal cutlets delicately
fried in batter, with collops of ham interspersed, for which
my worthy host is justly celebrated—“thank you, no! bitters are
good things in their way, but not when breakfast treads so close
upon the heels of them!”
“Tak a soop, Measter Frank—tak a soop, sur!” exhorted Timothy,
who was bearing around a salver laden with tumblers, the decanter
gracing his better hand. “Tak a soop, thou'lt be all t'
betther for 't enoo. Measter Draa 's i' t' roight o' 't. It's varry
good stooff Ay'se oophaud it.”
“I dont doubt that at all, Tim; natheless I'll be excused just
now.”
I was soon joined at the table by the fat man and Archer, who
were so busily employed in stowing away what Sir Dugald Dalgetty
terms provant, that few words passed between us. At length
when the furor edendi was partially suppressed: “Now then,
John,” said Harry, “we are going to be here two days—to-morrow,
that is, and to-day—what are we to beat, so as to get ground for
both days? Begin with the long meadow, I suppose, and beat the
vlies toward the small piece home, and finish here before the door.”
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“That's it, I reckon,” answered the jolly Dutchman, “but you
knows pretty nigh as well as I can tell you.”
“Better, John, better, if I knew exactly how the ground was—
but that will be the driest, won't it?”
“Sartain,” replied the other, “but we'll get work enough without
beating the ground hereaways before the house; we'll keep
that to begin upon to-morrow, and so follow up to the big meadow,
and to Loises, and all along under the widow Mulford's, if it holds
dry to-day; and somehow now I kind o' guess it will. There'll be
a heap o' birds there by to-morrow—they were a-flyin' cur'ous, now,
last night, I tell you.”
“Well, then, let us be moving. Where's the game-bag, Timothy?
give it to John! Is the brandy bottle in it, and the luncheon?
hey?”
“Ay, ay! Sur!” answered Tim; “t' brandy 's t' big wicker
bottle, wi' t' tin cup—and soom cauld pork and crackers 'i 't gam
bag—and a spare horn of powder, wi' a pund in 't. Here, tak it,
John Van Dyne, and mooch good may 't do ye—and—hand a bit,
man! here 's t' dooble shot belt, sling it across your shoulder, and
awa wi' you.”
Every thing being now prepared, and having ordered dinner to be
in readiness at seven, we lighted our cigars and started; Harry,
with the two setters trotting steadily at his heels, and his gun on
his shoulder, leading the way at a step that would have cleared
above five miles an hour, I following at my best pace, Tom Draw
puffing and blowing like a grampus in shoal water, and John Van
Dyne swinging along at a queer loping trot behind me. We crossed
the bridges and the causeway by which we had arrived the previous
night, passed through the toll-gate, and, turning short to the right
hand, followed a narrow sandy lane for some three quarters of a
mile, till it turned off abruptly to the left, crossing a muddy streamlet
by a small wooden bridge. Here Harry paused, flung the stump
of his cheroot into the ditch, and dropping the butt of his gun,
began very quietly to load, I following his example without saying
a word.
“Here we are, Frank,” said he; “this long stripe of rushy fields,
on both sides of the ditch, is what they call the long meadow, and
rare sport have I had on it in my day, but I'm afraid it's too wet
now—we'll soon see, though,” and he strode across the fence, and
waved the dogs off to the right and left. “You take the right hand,
Frank; and, Tom, keep you the ditch bank, all the way; the ground
is firmest there; we've got the wind in our favor; a little farther
off, Frank, they wont lie hard for an hour or two, at all events;
and I don't believe we shall find a bird before we cross the next
fence.”
Heads up and sterns down, off raced the fleet setters, beating the
meadows fairly from the right hand fence to the ditch, crossing each
other in mid course, and quartering the ground superbly—but
nothing rose before them, nor did their motions indicate the slightest
taint of scent upon the dewy herbage. The ground, however,
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contrary to Harry's expectations, was in prime order—loose, loamy,
moist, black soil, with the young tender grass of spring shooting up
every where, bright succulent and sweet; tall tufts of rushes here
and there, and patches of brown flags, the reliques of the bye-gone
year, affording a sure shelter for the timid waders. The day was
cool and calm, with a soft mellow light—for the sun was curtained,
though not hidden, by wavy folds of gauze-like mist—and a delicious
softness in the mild western breeze, before which we were
wending our way, as every one who would bag snipe, must do,
down wind. We crossed the second fence—the ground was barer,
wetter, splashy in places, and much poached by the footsteps of the
cattle, which had been pastured there last autumn. See, the red
dog has turned off at a right angle from his course—he lifts his head
high, straitens his neck and snuffs the air, slackening his pace to a
slow, guarded trot, and waving his stern gently—Chase sees him,
pauses, almost backs!
“Look to, Frank—there's a bird before him!”
Skeap! skeap! skeap!—up they jumped eighty yards off at the
least, as wild as hawks; skimming the surface of the meadow, and
still by their shrill squeak calling up other birds to join them, till
seven or eight were on the wing together; then up they rose
clearly defined against the sky, and wheeled in short zigzags above
the plain, as if uncertain whither they should fly, till at length they
launched off straight to the right hand, and after a flight of a full
mile, pitched suddenly and steeply down behind a clump of newly
budding birches.
“I knows where them jokers be, Mr. Archer;” exclaimed Van
Dyne.
“In h—ll, I guess they be,” responded Master Draw; “leastwise
they flew far enough to be there anyhow!”
“No, no! Tom, they've not gone so very far,” said Archer, “and
there's good lying for them there, I shall be satisfied if they all go
that way. To ho! to ho!” he interrupted himself, for the dogs
had both come to a dead point among some tall flags; and Shot's
head cocked on one side, with his nose pointed directly downward,
and his brow furrowed into a knotty frown, showed that the bird
was under his very feet. “Come up, Tom—come up, you old sinner—
dont you see Shot's got a snipe under his very nose?”
“Well! well! I sees,” answered Tom; “I sees it, d—n you!
but give a fellow time, you 'd best, in this etarnal miry mud-hole!”
and, sinking mid leg deep at every step, the fat man floundered on,
keeping, however, his gun ever in position, and his keen quick eye
steadily fixed on the stanch setter.
“Are you ready, now? I'll flush him,” exclaimed Harry, taking
a step in advance; and instantly up sprang the bird, with his
sharp, thrice-repeated cry, and a quick flutter of his wings, almost
straight into the air over the head of Tom, striving to get the
wind.
Bang! Draw's first barrel was discharged, the snipe being at
that moment scarce ten feet from the muzzle, the whole load going
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like a bullet, of course harmlessly!—his second followed, but,
like the first, in vain; for the bird, having fairly weathered him,
was flying very fast, and twisting all the time, directly up wind.
Then Harry's gun was pitched up, and the trigger drawn almost
before the butt was at his shoulder. Down went the bird; slanting
away six yards, though killed stone dead, in the direction of
his former flight, so rapidly had he been going, when the shot struck
him.
“Mark! mark!” I shouted, “Harry. Mark! mark! behind
you!” As three more birds took wing, before the red dog, and
were bearing off, too far from me, to the right hand, like those
which had preceded them. I had, when I cried “mark,” not an
idea that he could possibly have killed one; for he had turned
already quite round in his tracks, to shoot the first bird, and the
others had risen wild, in the first place, and were now forty yards
off at the least; but quick as thought he wheeled again, cocking
his second barrel in the very act of turning, and sooner almost than
I could imagine the possibility of his even catching sight of them,
a second snipe was fluttering down wing-tipped.
“Beautiful, beautiful, indeed,” I cried involuntarily; “the
quickest and the cleanest double-shot I have seen in many a
day.”
“It warnt so d—d slow, no how,” replied Tom, somewhat crest-fallen,
as he re-loaded his huge demi-cannon.
“Slow! you old heathen! if you could shoot better than a boy
five years old, we should have had three birds—I could have got
two of those last just as well as not, if you had knocked the first
down like a christian sportsman—but look! look at those devils,”
Harry went on, pointing toward the birds, which had gone off, and
at which he had been gazing all the time; “confound them, they're
going to drum!”
And so indeed they were; and for the first time in my life I beheld
a spectacle, which I had heard of indeed, but never had
believed fully, till my own eyes now witnessed it. The two birds,
which had been flushed, mounted up! up! scaling the sky in short
small circles, till they were quite as far from this dull earth, as the
lark, when “at heaven's gate he sings”—and then dropt plumb
down, as it would seem, fifty feet in an instant, with a strange
drumming sound, which might be heard for a mile or more. Then
up they soared again, and again repeated their manœuvre; while at
each repetition of the sound another and another bird flew up from
every part of the wide meadow, and joined those in mid ether; till
there must have been, at the least reckoning, forty snipe soaring
and drumming within the compass of a mile, rendering the whole
air vocal with that strange quivering hum, which has been stated
by some authors—and among these by the ingenious and observant
Gilbert White—to be ventriloquous; although it is now pretty
generally—and probably with justice—conceded to be the effect of
a vibratory motion of the quill feathers set obliquely, so as to make
the air whistle through them. For above an hour did this wild
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work continue; not a bird descending from its “bad eminence,”
but, on the contrary, each one that we flushed out of distance, for
they would not lie to the dogs at all, rising at once to join them.
“We have no chance,” said Harry, “no chance at all of doing
any thing, unless the day changes, and the sun gets out hot, which
I fear it wont. Look out, Tom, watch that beggar to your right
there; he has done drumming, and is going to 'light;” and, with
the word, sheer down he darted some ninety yards from the spot
where we stood, till he was scarce three feet above the marsh;
when he wheeled off, and skimmed the flat, uttering a sharp harsh
clatter, entirely different from any sound I ever heard proceed from
a snipe's bill before, though in wild weather in the early spring
time I have heard it since, full many a day. The cry resembled
more the cackling of a hen, which has just laid an egg, than any
other sound I can compare it to; and consisted of a repetition some
ten times in succession of the syllable kek, so hard and jarring that
it was difficult to believe it the utterance of so small a bird. But
if I was surprised at what I heard, what was I, when I saw the
bird alight on the top rail of a high snake fence, and continue there
five or ten minutes, when it dropped down into the long marsh
grass. Pointing toward the spot where I had marked it, I was
advancing stealthily, when Archer said, “You may try if you like,
but I can tell you that you wont get near him!” I persevered,
however, and fancied I should get within long shot, but Harry was
quite right; for he rose again skeap! skeap! and went off as wild
as ever, towering as before, and drumming; but for a short time
only, when, tired apparently of the long flight he had already taken,
he stooped from his elevation with the same jarring chatter, and
alighted—this time to my unmitigated wonder—upon the topmost
spray of a large willow tree, which grew by the ditch side![13]
“It's not the least use—not the least—pottering after these birds
now,” said Harry. “We'll get on to the farther end of the meadows,
where the grass is long, and where they may lie something
better; and we'll beat back for these birds in the afternoon, if Dan
Phœbus will but deign to shine out.
On we went, therefore, Tom Draw swearing strange oaths at the
birds, that acted so darnation cur'ous, and at myself and Harry for
being such etarnal fools as to have brought him sweatin into them
d—d stinkin mud-holes; and I, to say the truth, almost despairing
of success. In half an hour's walking we did, however, reach
some ground, which—yielding far more shelter to the birds, as
being meadow-land not pastured, but covered with coarse rushy
tussocks—seemed to promise something better in the way of sport;
and before we had gone many yards beyond the first fence, a bird
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rose at long distance to Tom's right, and was cut down immediately
by a quick snap shot of that worthy, on whose temper, and ability
to shoot, the firmer ground and easier walking had already begun
to work a miracle.
“Who says I can't shoot now, no more than a five-year old,
d—n you?” he shouted, dropping the butt of his gun deliberately,
when skeap! skeap! startled by the near report, two more snipe
rose within five yards of him!—fluttered he was assuredly, and
fully did I expect to see a clear miss—but he refrained, took time,
cocked his gun coolly, and letting the birds get twenty yards away,
dropped that to his right hand, killed clean with his second barrel,
while Harry doubled up the other in his accustomed style, I not
having as yet got a chance of any bird.
“Down, charge!” said Harry; “down, charge! Shot, you villain!”—
for the last bird had fallen wing-tipped only, and was now
making ineffectual attempts to rise, bouncing three or four feet
from the ground, with his usual cry, and falling back again only to
repeat his effort within five minutes—this proved too much, as it
seemed, for the poor dog's endurance, so that, after rising once or
twice uneasily, and sitting down again at his master's word, he
drew on steadily, and began roading the running bird, regardless
of the score which he might have been well aware he was running
up against himself. During this business Chase had sat pretty
quiet, though I observed a nervous twitching of ears, and a
latent spark of the devil in his keen black eye, which led me to
expect some mischief, so that I kept my gun all ready for immediate
action; and well it was that I did so; for the next moment
he dashed in, passing Shot, who was pointing steadily enough, and
picked up the bird after a trifling scuffle, the result of which was
that a couple more snipe were flushed wild by the noise. Without
a moment's hesitation I let drive at them with both barrels, knocking
the right hand snipe down very neatly; the left hand bird, however,
pitched up a few feet just as I drew the trigger; and the
consequence was that, as I fancied, I missed him clean.
“There! there! you stoopid, blundering, no-sich-thing—there!
now who talks of missing? That was the nicest, prettiest, easiest
shot I ever did see; and you—you shiftless nigger you—you talks
to me of missing!”
“Shut up! shut up! you most incorrigible old brute!” responded
Harry, who had been steadily employed in marking the missed
bird, as I deemed him. “Shut up your stupid jaw! That snipe's
as dead as the old cow you gave us for supper, the last time we
slept at Warwick, though from a different cause; for the cow, Jem
Flyn says, died of the murrain or some other foul rotten disorder;
and that small winged fellow has got a very sufficient dose of blue
pill to account for his decease! So shut up! and keep still while
I take the change out of these confounded dogs; or we shall have
every bird we get near to-day flushed like those two. Ha! Shot!
Ha! Chase! Down cha-a-arge—down cha-a-arge—will you? will
you? Down charge!”
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And for about five minutes, nothing was heard upon the meadows
but the resounding clang of the short heavy dog-whip, the
stifled grunts of Shot, and the vociferous yells of Chase, under the
merited and necessary chastisement.
“Down charge, now, will you?” he continued, as, pocketing his
whip, he wiped his heated brow, picked up his gun, and proceeded
to bag the scattered game. “There! that job's done,” he said,
and a job that I hate most confoundedly it is—but it must be done
now and then; and the more severely, when necessary, the more
mercifully!”
“Now that's what I doos call a right down lie,” the fat man
interposed. “You loves it, and you knows you do—you loves to
lick them poor dumb brutes, cause they can't lick back, no how.
You, Chase, d—n you, quit mouthing that there snipe—quit mouthing
it, I say—else I'll cut cut the snoopin soul of you!
“So much for Tom Draw's lecture upon cruelty to animals—
that's what I call rich!” answered Harry. “But come, let us get
on. I marked that bird to a yard, down among those dwarf rosebushes;
and there we shall find, I'll be bound on it, good shooting.
How very stupid of me not to think of that spot! You know,
John, we always find birds there, when they can't be found any
where else.”
On we went, after a re-invigorating cup of mountain dew, with
spirits raised at the prospect of some sport at last, and as we bagged
the snipe which—Harry was right—had fallen killed quite dead,
the sun came out hot, broad, and full. The birds were lying thick
among the stunted bushes and warm bubbling springs which covered,
in this portion of the ground, some twenty acres of marsh
meadow; and as the afternoon waxed warm, they lay right well
before the dogs, which having learned the consequences of misdemeanor,
behaved with all discretion. We shot well! and the sport
waxed so fast and furious, that till the shades of evening fell we
had forgotten—all the three—that our luncheon, saving the article
of drams, was still untasted; and that, when we assembled at seven
of the clock in Hard's cozey parlor, and shook out of bag and pocket
our complement of sixty-three well-grown and well-fed snipe, we
were in reasonable case to do good justice to a right good supper.
eaf144.n13[13] I am aware that this will be difficultly believed even in the United States. But I
will not, on that account, fail to record so singular a fact. Not a week before I saw
this myself, I was told of the fact by a gentleman, since an Alderman, of New York;
and I am now ashamed to say doubted it. Michael Sanford, of Newark, N J.. was
along with me, and can certify to the fact.
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Breakfast concluded, the next morning we pulled our fen boots
on, and on the instant up rattled Timothy, who had disappeared a
few minutes before, with the well-known drag to the door, guns
stowed away, dogs whimpering, and sticking out their eager noses
between the railings of the box—game bags well packed with lots
of prog and of spare ammunition.
Away we rattled at a brisk pace, swinging round corner after
corner, skillfully shaving the huge blocks of stone, and dexterously
quartering the deep ravine-like ruts which grace the roads of
Jersey—crossing two or three bridges over as many of those tributaries
of the beautiful Passaic, which water this superb snipe-country—
and reaching at least a sweep of smooth level road parallel to a
long tract of meadows under the widow Mulford's. And here,
mort de ma vie! that was a shot from the snipe-ground, and right
on our beat, too—Aye! there are two guns, and two, three, pointers!—
liver and white a brace, and one all liver.
“I know them,” Harry said, “I know them, good shots and
hard walkers both, but a little too much of the old school—a little
too much of the twaddle and potter system. Jem Tickler, there,
used, when I landed here, to kill as many birds as any shot out of
the city—though even then the Jersey boys, poor Ward and Harry
T—gave him no chance; but now heaven help him! Fat Tom
here would get over more ground, and bag more snipe, too, in a day!
The other is a canny Scot,—I have forgot his name, but he shoots
well and walks better. Never mind! we can outshoot them, I believe;
and I am sure we can outmanœuvre them. Get away! get
away, Bob,” as he flanked the near-side horse under the collar on
the inside—“get away you old thief—we must forereach on them.”
Away we went another mile, wheeled short to the left hand through
a small bit of swampy woodland, and over a rough causeway,
crossing a narrow flaggy bog, with three straight ditches, and a
meandering muddy streamlet, traversing its black surface. “Ha!
what's John at there?” exclaimed Harry, pulling short up, and
pointing to that worthy crawling on all fours behind a tuft of high
bullrushes toward the circuitous creek—“There are duck there for
a thousand!”—and as he spoke, up rose with splash and quack and
flutter, four or five long-winged wild-fowl; bang! went John's long
duck-gun, and simultaneously with the report, one of the fowl
keeled over, killed quite dead, two others faltering somewhat in
their flight, and hanging on the air heavily for a little space; when
over went a second into the creek, driving the water six feet into
the air in a bright sparkling shower.
The other three, including the hit bird, which rallied as it flew,
dived forward, flying very fast, obliquely to the road; and to my
great surprise Harry put the whip on his horses with such vigor
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that in an instant both were on the gallop, the wagon bouncing and
rattling violently on the rude log-floored causeway. An instant's
thought showed me his object, which was to weather on the fowl
sufficiently to get a shot, ere they should cross the road; although
I marvelled still how he intended to pull up from the furious pace
at which he was going in time to get a chance. Little space, however,
had I for amazement; for the ducks, which had not risen high
into the air, were forced to cross some thirty yards ahead of us, by
a piece of tall woodland, on the verge of which were several woodcutters,
with two or three large fires burning among the brush-wood.
“Now, Tom,” cried Harry, feeling his horses' mouths as
he spoke, but not attempting to pull up; and instantly the old man's
heavy double rose steadily but quickly to his face—bang! neatly
aimed, a yard ahead of the first drake, which fell quite dead into
the ditch on the right hand of the causeway—bang! right across
Harry's face, who leaned back to make room for the fat fellow's
shot, so perfectly did the two rare and crafty sportsmen comprehend
one another—and before I heard the close report, the second
wild-duck slanted down wing-tipped before the wind, into the flags
on the left hand, having already crossed the road when the shot
struck him. The fifth and only now remaining bird, which had
been touched by Van Dyne's first discharge, alighting in the marsh
not far from his crippled comrade.
“Beautiful! beautiful indeed!” cried I; “that was the very
prettiest thing—the quickest, smartest, and best calculated shooting
I ever yet have seen!”
“We have done that same once or twice before though—hey,
Tom?” replied Harry, pulling his horses well together, and gathering
them up by slow degrees—not coming to a dead stop till we had
passed Tom's first bird, some six yards or better. “Now jump out,
all of you; we have no time to lose—no not a minute! for we must
bag these fowl; and those two chaps we saw on Mulford's meadows
are racing now at their top speed behind that hill, to cut in to the
big meadow just ahead of us, you may rely on that. You, Timothy,
drive on under that big pin oak—take off the bridles—halter the
horses to the tree, not to the fence—and put their sheets and hoods
on, for, early as it is, the flies are troublesome already. Then mount
the game-bags and be ready—by the time you're on foot we shall be
with you. Forester, take the red dog to Van Dyne, that second
bird of his will balk him else, and I sha'nt be surprised if he gets
up again! Pick up that mallard out of the ditch as you go by—he
lies quite dead at the foot of those tall reeds. Come, Tom, load up
your old cannon, and we'll take Shot, bag that wing-tipped duck,
and see if we can't nab the crippled bird, too! come along!”
Off we set without further parley; within five minutes I had
bagged Tom's first, a rare green-headed Drake, and joined Van
Dyne, who, with the head and neck of his first bird hanging out of
his breeches pocket, where, in default of game-bag, he had stowed
it, was just in the act of pouring a double handful of BB into his
Queen Ann's musket. Before he had loaded, we heard a shot
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across the road, and saw the fifth bird fall to Harry at long distance,
while Shot was gently mouthing Draw's second duck, to his unutterable
contentment. We had some trouble in gathering the
other, for it was merely body-shot, and that not mortally, so that it
dived like a fish, bothering poor Chase beyond expression. This
done, we re-united our forces, and instantly proceeded to the big
meadow, which we found, as Harry had anticipated, in the most
perfect possible condition—the grass was short, and of a delicate
and tender green, not above ancle deep, with a rich close black
mould, moist and soft enough for boring everywhere, under foot—
with, at rare intervals, a slank, as it is termed in Jersey, or hollow
winding course, in which the waters have lain longer than elsewhere,
covered with a deep, rust-colored scum, floating upon the stagnant
pools. We had not walked ten yards before a bird jumped up to
my left hand, which I cut down—and while I was in the act of
loading, another and another rose, but scarcely cleared the grass
ere the unerring shot of my two stanch companions had stopped
their flight forever. Some ten yards from the spot on which my
bird had fallen, lay one of these wet slanks which I have mentioned—
Chase drew on the dead bird and pointed—another fluttered up
under his very nose, dodged three or four yards to and fro, and
before I could draw my trigger, greatly to my surprise, spread out
his wings and settled. Harry and Tom had seen the move, and
walked up to join me; just as they came Chase retrieved the snipe
I had shot, and when I had entombed it in my pocket, we moved on
all abreast. Skeap! skeap! skeap! Up they jumped, not six
yards from our feet, positively in a flock, their bright white bellies
glancing in the sun, twenty at least in number, Six barrels were
discharged, and six birds fell; we loaded and moved on, the dogs
drawing at every step, backing and pointing, so foiled was the ground
with the close scent; again, before we had gathered the fruit of
our first volley, a dozen birds rose altogether; again six barrels bellowed
across the plain, and again Tom and Harry slew their shots
right and left, while I, alas! shooting too quick, missed one! I
know what I aver will hardly be believed, but it is true, notwithstanding;
a third time the same thing happened, except that instead
of twelve, thirty or forty birds, rose at the last, six of which came
again to earth, within, at farthest, thirty paces—making an aggregate
of eighteen shots, fired in less, assuredly, than so many minutes,
and seventeen birds fairly brought to bag. These pocketed,
by twos and threes Van Dyne had marked the others down in every
quarter of the meadow—and, breaking off, singly or in pairs, we
worked our will with them. So hard, however, did they lie, that
many could not be got up again at all. In one instance I had
marked four, as I thought, to a yard, between three little stakes,
placed in the angles of a plat, not above twenty paces in diameter—
taking Van Dyne along with me, who is so capital a marker that
for a dead bird I would back him against any retriever living—I
went without a dog to walk them up. But no! I quartered the
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ground, re-quartered it, crossed it a third time, and was just quitting
it despairing, when a loud shout from John a pace or two behind
warned me they were on wing! Two crossed me to the right, one
of which dropped to John's Queen Ann almost as soon as I caught
sight of them, and one to my left. At the latter I shot first, and,
without waiting to note the effect of my discharge, turned quickly
and fired at the other. Him I saw drop, for the smoke drifted, and
as I turned my head, I scarcely can believe it now, I saw my first
bird falling. I concluded he had fluttered on some small space, but
John Van Dyne swears point blank that I shot so quick that the
second bird was on the ground before the first had reached it. In
this—a solitary case, however—I fear John's famed veracity will
scarce obtain for him that credit, or for me that renown, to which
he deemed us both entitled.
Before eleven of the clock we had bagged forty-seven birds;
we sat down in the shade of the big pin oak, and fed deliciously,
and went our way rejoicing, toward the upper meadows, fully expecting
that before returning we should have doubled our bag.
But, alas! the hopes of men!—Troy meadows were too dry—
Persipany too wet—Loise's had been beat already, and not one
snipe did we even see or hear, nor one head of game did we bag;
the morning's sport, however, had put us in such merry mood
that we regarded not the evening's disappointment, and we sat
down in great glee to supper. What we devoured, or what we
drank, it boots not to record; but it was late at night before the
horses were ordered, and we prepared for a start.
After the horses were announced as ready, somewhat to my surprise,
Harry took old Tom aside, and was engaged for some time in
deep conversation; and when they had got through with it, Harry
shook him very warmly by the hand, saying,
“Well, Tom, I am sincerely obliged to you; and it is not the first
time either.”
“Well, well, boy,” responded Tom, “I guess it 'taint the first
time as you've said so, though I don't know right well what for
neither. Any how, I hope't won't be the last time as I'll fix you
as you wants to be. But come, it's gittin' late, and I've got to
drive Hard's horse over to Paterson to-night.”
“Oh, that will not be much,” said Harry. “It is but nine miles,
and we are twenty from New York.”
“Any how, we must take a partin' drink, and I stands treat. I
showed Beers Hard how to make that egg nog. Timothy—Timothy,
you darned critter, bring in that ere egg nog.”
This was soon done, and Tom, replenishing all the glasses to the
brim, said very solemnly, “this is a toast, boys, now a raal bumper.”
Harry grinned conscious. I stood, waiting, wondering.
“Here's luck!” said Tom, “luck to Harry Archer, a land-holder
in our own old Orange!”
The toast was quaffed in an instant; and, as I drew my breath, I
said,
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“Well, Harry, I congratulate you, truly. So you have bought
the Jem Burt Place?”
“Thanks to old Tom, dog cheap!” replied Archer; “and I have
only to say, farther, that early in the Autumn, I hope to introduce
you, and all my old friends, to the interior of
MY SHOOTING BOX.
