Miss Patience took her seat, ran her fingers over
a few octaves, and if “Moses in Egypt” was not
perfectly executed, Moses in Hardscrabble was.
The music ceased. “Miss,” said Cash, the moment
he could express himself, so entranced was he by
the music,—“Miss Doolittle, what was that instrument
Mo Mercer showed me in your gallery once,
that went by a crank, and had rollers in it?”

It was now the time for Miss Patience to blush;
so away went the blood to her cheeks, with confusion;
she hesitated, stammered, and said, “if Mr.
Cash must know, that it was a-a-a-yankee washing
machine.”

The name grated on Mo Mercer's ears as if rusty
nails had been thrust into them; the heretofore
invulnerable Mercer's knees trembled; the sweat
started to his brow as he heard the taunting whispers
of “visiting the Capitol twice,” and seeing
pianos as plenty as woodchucks.

The fashionable vices of envy and maliciousness
were that moment sown in the village of Hardscrabble;
and Mo Mercer, the great and confident, the
happy and self-possessed, surprising as it may seem,
was the first victim sacrificed to their influence.
Time wore on, and pianos became common, and
Mo Mercer less popular; and he finally disappeared
altogether on the evening of the day a yankee
pedler of notions sold, to the highest bidder, “six
patent, warranted, and improved Mo Mercer pianos.”

p398-037 PISCATORY ARCHERY. [1]

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

In treating of the most beautiful and novel sport
of arrow-fishing, its incidents are so interwoven

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

with ten thousand accessories, that we scarce know
how to separate our web without breaking it, or
destroying a world of interest hidden among the wilds
of the American forest. The lakes over which the
arrow-fisher twangs his bow, in the pleasant springtime,
have disappeared long before the sere and yellow
leaf of autumn appears, and the huntsman's horn
and the loud-mouthed pack clamour melodiously
after the scared deer upon their bottoms. To explain
this phenomenon, the lover of nature must follow
us until we exhibit some of the vagaries of the great
Mississippi; and, having fairly got our “flood and
field” before us, we will engage heartily in the sport.

If you will descend with me from slightly broken
ground through which we have been riding, covered
with forest trees singularly choked up with
undergrowth, to an expanse of country beautifully
open between the trees, the limbs of which start out
from the trunk, some thirty feet above the ground,
you will find at your feet a herbage that is luxuriant,
but scanty; high over your head, upon the trees, you
will perceive a line marking what has evidently been
an overflow of water; you can trace the beautiful
level upon the trees as far as the eye can reach. It
is in the fall of the year, and a squirrel drops an
acorn upon your shoulder, and about your feet are
the sharp-cut tracks of the nimble deer. You are
standing in the centre of what is called, by hunters,
a “dry lake.” As the warm air of April favours
the opening flowers of spring, the waters of the
Mississippi, increased by the melting snows of the
north, swell within its low banks, and rush in a

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

thousand streams back into the swamps and lowlands
that lie upon its borders; the torrent sweeps along into
the very reservoir in which we stand, and the waters
swell upwards until they find a level with the fountain
itself. Thus is formed the arrow-fisher's lake.
The brawny oak, the graceful pecan, the tall poplar,
and delicate beech spring from its surface in a thousand
tangled limbs, looking more beautiful, yet most
unnatural, as the water reflects them downwards,
hiding completely away their submerged trunks. The
arrow-fisher now peeps in the nest of the wild bird
from his little boat, and runs its prow plump into the
hollow that marks the doorway of some cunning
squirrel. In fact, he navigates for a while, his bark
where, in the fall of the year, the gay-plumed songster
and the hungry hawk plunge midair, and float
not more swiftly nor gayly, on light pinioned wings,
than he in his swift canoe.

A chapter from nature: and who unfolds the great
book so understandingly, and learns so truly from its
wisdom, as the piscator? The rippling brook as it
dances along in the sunshine bears with it the knowledge,
there is truthfulness in water, though it be not
in a well. We can find something, if we will, to
love and admire under every wave; and the noises
of every tiny brook are tongues that speak eloquently
to nature's true priests.

We have marked that, with the rise of the waters
the fish grow gregarious, and that they rush along
in schools with the waters that flow inland from the
river, that they thus choose these temporary sylvan
lakes as depositories of their spawn; thus wittingly

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

providing against that destruction which would
await their young in the highways of their journeyings.
It is a sight to wonder at in the wilds of the
primitive forest, to see the fish rushing along the
narrow inlets, with the current, in numbers incredible
to the imagination, leaping over the fallen tree
that is only half buried in the surface of the stream,
or stayed a moment in their course by the meshes
of the strong net, either bursting it by force of numbers,
or granting its wasteful demands by thousands,
without seemingly to diminish the multitude more
than a single leaf would, taken from its foliage.
We have marked, too, that these fish would besport
themselves in their new homes, secluding themselves
in the shadows of the trees and banks; and,
as the summer heats come on, they would grow unquiet;
the outlets leading to the great river they
had left would be thronged by what seemed to be
busy couriers; and when the news finally spread
of falling water, one night would suffice to make the
lake, before so thronged with finny life, deserted; and
a few nights, perhaps, will only pass, when the narrow
bar will obtrude itself between the inland lake and
the river that supplied it with water. Such was the
fish's wisdom, seen and felt, where man, with his
learning and his nicely wrought mechanisms, would
watch in vain the air, the clouds, and see “no signs”
of falling water.[2]

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

Among arrow-fishermen there are technicalities,
an understanding of which will give a more ready
idea of the sport. The surfaces of these inland lakes
are unruffled by the winds or storms; the heats of
the sun seem to rest upon them; they are constantly
sending into the upper regions warm mists. Their
surfaces, however, are covered with innumerable
bubbles, either floating about, or breaking into
little circling ripples. To the superficial observer
these air-bubbles mean little or nothing; to the arrow-fisherman,
they are the very language of his art;
visible writing upon the unstable water, unfolding
the secrets of the depths below, and guiding him,
with unerring certainty, in his pursuits.

Seat yourself quietly in this little skiff, and while
I paddle quietly out into the lake, I will translate to
you these apparent wonders, and give you a lesson
in the simple language of nature. “An air-bubble is
an air-bubble,” you say, and “your fine distinctions
must be in the imagination.” Well! then mark how
stately ascends that large globule of air; if you will
time each succeeding one by your watch, you will
find that while they appear, it is at regular intervals,
and when they burst upon the surface of the water,

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

there is the least spray in the world for an instant
sparkling in the sun. Now, yonder, if you will observe,
are very minute bubbles that seem to simmer
towards the surface. Could you catch the air of
the first bubble we noticed, and give it to an ingenious
chemist, he would tell you that it was a light
gas, that exhaled from decaying vegetable matter.
The arrow-fisherman will tell you they come from
an old stump, and are denominated dead bubbles.
That “simmering” was made by some comfortable
turtle, as he gaps open his mouth and gives his
breath to the surrounding element.

Look ahead of you: when did you ever see an
Archimedean screw more beautifully marked out
than by that group of bubbles? They are very light,
indeed, and seem thus gracefully to struggle into the
upper world; they denote the eager workings of
some terrapin in the soft mud at the bottom of the
lake. In the shade of yonder lusty oak you will
perceive what arrow-fishermen call a “feed;” you
see the bubbles are entirely unlike any we have noticed;
they come rushing upwards swiftly, like handfuls
of silver shot. They are lively and animated
to look at, and are caused by the fish below, as they,
around the root of that very oak, search for insects
for food. To those bubbles the arrow-fisherman
hastens for game: they are made by the fish he calls
legitimate for his sport.

In early spring the fish are discovered, not only
by the bubbles they make, but by various sounds
uttered while searching for food. These sounds are

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

familiarized, and betray the kind of fish that make
them. In late spring, from the middle of May to
June, the fish come near the surface of the water
and expose their mouths to the air, keeping up, at
the same time, a constant motion with it, called
“piping.” Fish thus exposed are in groups, and
are called a “float.” The cause of this phenomenon
is hard to explain, all reasons given being unsatisfactory.
As it is only exhibited in the hottest of
weather, it may be best accounted for in the old
verse:

There are several kinds of fish that attract the attention
of the arrow-fishermen. Two kinds only
are professedly pursued, the “carp” and the “buffalo.”
Several others, however, are attacked for
the mere purpose of amusement, among which we
may mention a species of perch, and the most extraordinary
of all fish, the “gar.”

The carp is a fish known to all anglers. Its
habits must strike every one familiar with them, as
being eminently in harmony with the retreats we
have described. In these lakes they vary in weight
from five to thirty pounds, and are preferred by arrowfishermen
to all other fish. The “buffalo,” a sort of
fresh-water sheep's-head, is held next in estimation.
A species of perch is also destroyed, that vary from
three to ten pounds; but as they are full of bones

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

and coarse in flesh, they are killed simply to test
the skill of the arrow-fisherman.[3]

The incredible increase of fishes has been a matter
of immemorial observation. In the retired lakes and
streams we speak of, but for a wise arrangement of
Providence, it seems not improbable that they would
outgrow the very space occupied by the element in
which they exist. To prevent this consummation,
there are fresh-water fiends, more terrible than the
wolves and tigers of the land, that prowl on the finny
tribe with an appetite commensurate with their plentifulness,
destroying millions in a day, yet leaving,
from their abundance, untold numbers to follow their
habits and the cycle of their existence undisturbed.

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

These terrible destroyers have no true representatives
in the sea; they seem to be peculiar to waters tributary
to the Mississippi. There are two kinds of
them, alike in office, but distinct in species; they
are known by those who fish in the streams they inhabit
as the “gar.” They are, when grown to their
full size, twelve or fifteen feet in length, voracious
monsters to look at, so well made for strength, so
perfectly protected from assault, so capable of inflicting
injury. The smaller kind, growing not larger
than six feet, have a body that somewhat resembles in
form the pike, covered by what look more like large
flat heads of wrought iron, than scales, which it is
impossible to remove without cutting them out, they
are so deeply imbedded in the flesh. The jaws of
this monster form about one-fourth of its whole
length; they are shaped like the bill of a goose,
armed in the interior with triple rows of teeth, as
sharp and well set as those of a saw. But the terror
is the “alligator gar,” a monster that seems to combine
all the most destructive powers of the shark and
the reptile. The alligator gar grows to the enormous
length of fifteen feet; its head resembles the alligator's;
within its wide-extended jaws glisten innumerable
rows of teeth, running down into its very throat in
solid columns. Blind in its instinct to destroy, and
singularly tenacious of life, it seems to prey with
untiring energy, and with an appetite that is increased
by gratification. Such are the fish that are made
victims of the mere sport of the arrow-fisherman.

The implements of the arrow-fisherman are a
strong bow, five or six feet long, made of black

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

locust or of cedar, (the latter being preferred.) An
arrow of ash, three feet long, pointed with an iron
spear of peculiar construction. The spear is eight
inches long, one end has a socket, in which is fitted
loosely the wooden shaft; the other end is a flattened
point; back of this point there is inserted the barb,
which shuts into the iron as it enters an object, but
will open if attempted to be drawn out. The whole
of this iron-work weighs three ounces. A cord is
attached to the spear, fifteen or twenty feet long,
about the size of a crow quill, by which is held the
fish when struck.

Of the water-craft used in arrow-fishing, much
might be said, as it introduces the common Indian
canoe, or as it is familiarly termed, the “dug out,”
which is nothing more than a trunk of a tree, shaped
according to the humour or taste of its artificer, and
hollowed out. We have seen some of these rude
barks that claimed but one degree of beauty or
utility beyond the common log, and we have seen
others as gracefully turned as was ever the bosom of
the loving swan, and that would, as gracefully as
Leda's bird, spring through the rippling waves. To
the uninitiated, the guidance of a canoe is a mystery.
The grown-up man, who first attempts to move on
skates over the glassy ice, has a command of his
limbs, and a power of locomotion, that the novice
in canoe navigation has not. Never at rest, it seems
to rush from under his feet; overbalanced by an

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

overdrawn breath, it precipitates its victim into the
water. Every effort renders it more and more unmanageable,
until it is condemned as worthless. But
let a person accustomed to its movements take it in
charge, and it gayly launches into the stream; whether
standing or sitting, the master has it entirely under
his control, moving any way with a quickness, a pliability,
quite wonderful, forward, sideways, backwards;
starting off in an instant, or while at the
greatest speed, instantly stopping still, and doing all
this more perfectly than any other water-craft of the
world. The arrow-fisher prefers a canoe with very
little rake, quite flat on the bottom, and not more
than fifteen feet long, so as to be turned quick. Place
in this simple craft the simpler paddle, lay beside it
the arrow, the bow, the cord, and you have the whole
outfit of the arrow-fisherman.

In arrow-fishing, two persons only are employed;
each one has his work designated—“the paddler”
and “bowman.” Before the start is made, a perfect
understanding is had, so that their movements
are governed by signs. The delicate canoe is pushed
into the lake, its occupants scarcely breathe to get it
balanced, the paddler is seated in its bottom, near
its centre, where he remains, governing the canoe in
all its motions, without ever taking the paddle from
the water. The fisherman stands at the bow; around
the wrist of his left hand is fastened, by a loose loop,
the cord attached to the arrow, which cord is wound
around the forefinger of the same hand, so that
when paying off, it will do so easily. In the same
hand is, of course, held the bow. In the right, is

[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]

[figure description] (398-049).[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

carried the arrow, and by its significant pointing, the
paddler gives directions for the movements of the
canoe. The craft glides along, scarcely making a
ripple; a “feed” is discovered, over which the canoe
stops; the bowman draws his arrow to the head;
the game, disturbed, is seen in the clear water rising
slowly and perpendicularly, but otherwise perfectly
motionless; the arrow speeds its way; in an instant
the shaft shoots into the air, and floats quietly away,
while the wounded fish, carrying the spear in its
body, endeavours to escape. The “pull” is managed
so as to come directly from the bow of the canoe;
it lasts but for a moment before the transfixed
fish is seen, fins playing, and full of agonizing life,
dancing on the top of the water, and in another instant
more lies dead at the bottom of the canoe. The
shaft is then gone after, picked up, and thrust into
the spear; the cord is again adjusted, and the canoe
moves towards the merry makers of those swift ascending
bubbles, so brightly displaying themselves
on the edge of that deep shade, cast by yonder evergreen
oak.

There is much in the associations of arrow-fishing
that gratifies taste, and makes it partake of a refined
and intellectual character. Besides the knowledge
it gives of the character of fishes, it practises one in
the curious refractions of water. Thus will the
arrow-fisherman, from long experience, drive his
pointed shaft a fathom deep for game, when it would
seem, to the novice, a few inches would be more
than sufficient. Again, the waters that supply the
arrow-fisherman with game, afford subsistence to

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

innumerable birds, and he has exhibited before him
the most beautiful displays of their devices to catch
the finny tribe. The kingfisher may be seen the
livelong day, acting a prominent part, bolstering up
its fantastic topknot, as if to apologize for a manifest
want of neck; you can hear it always scolding and
clamorous among the low brush, and overhanging
limits of trees, eyeing the minnows as they glance
along the shore, and making vain essays to fasten
them in his bill. The hawk, too, often swoops
down from the clouds, swift as the bolt of Jove;
the cleft air whistles in the flight; the sporting fish
playing in the sunlight is snatched up in the rude
talons, and borne aloft, the reeking water from its
scaly sides falling in soft spray upon the upturned
eye that traces its daring course. But we treat of
fish, and not of birds.

Yonder is our canoe; the paddle has stopped it
short, just where you see those faint bubbles; the
water is very deep beneath them, and reflects the
frail bark and its occupants, as clearly as if they
were floating in mid-air. The bowman looks into
the water—the fish are out of sight, and not disturbed
by the intrusion above them. They are eating busily,
judging from the ascending bubbles. The
bowman lets fall the “heel” of his arrow on the
bottom of the canoe, and the bubbles instantly cease.
The slight tap has made a great deal of noise in the
water, though scarcely heard out of it. There can be
seen rising to the surface a tremendous carp. How
quietly it comes upwards, its pectoral fins playing
like the wings of the sportive butterfly. Another

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

moment, and the cold iron is in its body. Paralyzed
for an instant, the fish rises to the surface as if dead,
then, recovering itself, it rushes downwards, until the
cord that holds it prisoner tightens, and makes the
canoe tremble; the effort has destroyed it, and without
another struggle it is secured.

When the fish first come into the lakes, they move
in pairs on the surface of the water, and while so
doing they are shot, as it is called, “flying.” In
early spring fifteen or twenty fish are secured in an
hour. As the season advances, three or four taken
in the same length of time is considered quite good
success. To stand upon the shore, and see the arrow-fisherman
busily employed, is a very interesting
exhibition of skill, and of the picturesque. The little
“dug out” seems animate with intelligence; the
bowman draws his long shaft, you see it enter the
water, and then follows the glowing sight of the fine
fish sparkling in the sun, as if sprinkled with diamonds.
At times, too, when legitimate sport tires,
some ravenous gar that heaves in sight is made a
victim; aim is taken just ahead of his dorsal fin;
secured, he flounders a while, and then drags off the
canoe as if in harness, skimming it almost out of the
water with his speed. Fatigued, finally, with his
useless endeavours to escape, he will rise to the surface,
open his huge mouth, and gasp for air. The
water that streams from his jaws will be coloured
with blood from the impaled fish that still struggle
in the terrors of his barbed teeth. Rushing ahead
again, he will, by eccentric movements, try the best
skill of the paddler to keep his canoe from

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

overturning into the lake, a consummation not always
unattained. The gar finally dies, and is dragged
ashore; the buzzard revels on his carcass, and every
piscator contemplates, with disgust, the great enemy
to his game, the terrible monarch of the fresh-water
seas.

The crumbling character of the alluvial banks
that line our southern streams, the quantity of fallen
timber, the amount of “snags” and “sawyers,” and
the great plentifulness of game, make the beautiful
art of angling, as pursued in England, impossible.
The veriest tyro, who finds a delicate reed in every
nook that casts a shadow on the water, with his
rough line, and coarser hook, can catch fish. The
greedy perch, in all its beautiful varieties, swim
eagerly and quickly around the snare, and swallow
it, without suspicion that a worm is not a worm, or
that appearances are ever deceitful. The jointed
rod, the scientific reel, cannot be used; the thick
hanging bow, the rank grass, the sunken log, the far
reaching melumbrium, the ever still water, make these
delicate appliances useless. Arrow-fishing only, of
all the angling in the interior streams of the south-west,
comparatively speaking, claims the title of an
art, as it is pursued with a skill and a thorough
knowledge that tell only with the experienced, and
to the novice is an impossibility.

The originators of arrow-fishing deserve the credit
of striking out a rare and beautiful amusement, when
the difficulties of securing their game did not require
it, showing that it resulted in the spirit of true sport
alone.

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

The origin of arrow-fishing we know not; the
country where it is pursued is comparatively of recent
settlement; scarce three generations have passed
away within its boundaries. We asked the oldest
piscator that lived in the vicinity of these “dry
lakes” for information, and he told us that it was
“old Uncle Zac,” and gave us his history in a brief
and pathetic manner, concluding his reminiscences
of the great departed as follows:

“Uncle Zac never know'd nothing 'bout flies, or
tickling trout, but it took him to tell the differance
'twixt a yarth-worm, a grub, or the young of a
wasp's nest; in fact, he know'd fishes amazin', and
bein' natur-ally a hunter, he went to shooten 'em with
a bow and arrer, to keep up yearly times in his
history, when he tuck inguns, and yerther varmints
in the same way.”

eaf398.n1

[1] The writer would mention, as a preliminary, that in speaking
of fishes, no scientific names are used; he refers to some
that are familiar, the carp, for instance, of others that he believes
are not yet classified by naturalists. As far as possible,
the technical names peculiar to the sport described are used,
as they are always more characteristic than any other.

eaf398.n2

[2] It may not be uninteresting to naturalists to be informed,
that these fish run into the inland lakes to spawn, and they
do it with the rise of the water of course. These overflows
are annual. A few years since the season was very singular,
and there were three distinct rises and falls of water, and at
each rise the fish followed the water inland, and spawned: a
remarkable example where the usual order of nature was
reversed in one instance, and yet continuing blindly consistent
in another. It is also very remarkable that the young fish,
native of the lakes, are as interested to mark the indications of
falling water as those that come into them; and in a long
series of years of observation, but one fall was ever known
where the fish were in the lakes.

eaf398.n3

[3] The carp to which we allude is so accurately described
in its habits in “Blane's Encyclopedia of Rural Sports,” when
speaking of the European carp, that we are tempted to make
one or two extracts, that are remarkable for their truthfulness
as applied to the section of the United States where arrowfishing
is a sport. In the work we allude to we have the
following:

“The usual length of the carp in our own country (England)
is from about twelve to fifteen or sixteen inches; but
in warm climates, it often arrives at the length of two, three, or
four feet, and to the weight of twenty, thirty, or even forty
pounds.” Par. 3448. Again, “The haunts of the carp of stagnant
water are, during the spring and autumn months, in the
deepest parts, particularly near the flood-gates by which water
is received and let off. In the summer months they frequent
the weed beds, and come near to the surface, and particularly
are fond of aquatic plants, which spring from the bottom and
rise to the top.” Par. 3453. We find the fish retains the same
distinctive habits in both hemispheres, altering only from the
peculiarities of the country.

p398-055 PLACE DE LA CROIX. A ROMANCE OF THE WEST.

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

There is much of beautiful romance in the whole
history of the early settlements of Florida. De Soto
and Ponce de Leon have thrown around the records
of their searches for gold and the waters of life, a
kind of dreamy character that renders them more
like traditions of a spiritual than of a real world.
They and their followers were men of stern military
discipline, who had won honours in their conquests
over the Moors; and they came hither not as emigrants,
seeking an asylum from oppression, but as
proud nobles, anxious to add to their numerous
laurels, by conquests in a new world. The startling
discoveries,—the fruits, the gold and the natives that
appeared with Columbus at the court of Isabella,—
gave to fancy an impetus, and to enthusiasm a power,
that called forth the pomp of the “Infallible Church”
to mingle her sacred symbols with those of arms; and
they went joined together through the wilds of
America. Among the beautiful and striking customs
of those days was the erection of the cross at
the mouths of rivers and prominent points of land that
presented themselves to the discoverers. The sacred
symbol thus reared in solitude seemed to shadow
forth the future, when the dense forests would be

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

filled with its followers instead of the wild savage;
and it cheered the lonely pilgrim in his dangerous
journeys, bringing to his mind all the cherished
associations of this life, and directing his thoughts
to another world. In the putting up of these crosses,
as they bore the arms of the sovereign whose subjects
erected them, and as they were indicative of
civil jurisdiction and empire, the most prominent
and majestic locations were selected, where they
could be seen for miles around, towering above
every other object, speaking the advances of the
European, and giving title to the lands over which
they cast their shadows. Three hundred years ago
the sign of the cross was first raised on the banks of
the Mississippi. From one of the few bluffs or high
points of land that border that swift running river,
De Soto, guided by the aborigines of the country,
was the first European that looked upon its turbid
waters, soon to be his grave. On this high bluff,
taking advantage of a lofty cotton-wood tree, he
caused its majestic trunk to be shorn of its limbs;
and on this tall shaft placed the beam that formed
the cross. This completed, the emblazoned banners
of Spain and Arragon were unfurled to the breeze,
and, amid the strains of martial music and the firing
of cannon, the steel-clad De Soto, assisted by the
priests in his train, raised the host to heaven,
and declared the reign of Christianity commenced
in the valley of the Mississippi. The erection of
this touching symbol in the great temple of nature
was full of poetry. The forests, like the stars, declare
the wonderful works of the Creator. In the silent

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

grandeur of our primeval woods, in their avenues
of columns, their canopies of leaves, their festoons
of vines, the cross touched the heart, and spoke
more fully its office than ever it will glistening
among the human greatness of a Milan cathedral,
or the solemn grandeur of a St. Peters. Two
hundred years after Ponce de Leon mingled his
dust with the sands of the peninsula of Florida, and
De Soto reposed beneath the current of the Mississippi,
the same spirit of religious and military enthusiasm
pervaded the settlements made by both
French and Spanish in this “land of flowers.”
Among the adventurers of that day were many who
mingled the romantic ambition of the crusaders with
the ascetic spirit of the monk, and who looked upon
themselves as ambassadors of religion to new nations
in a new world. Of such was Rousseau. It requires
little imagination to understand the disappointment
that such a man would meet with in the forest, and
as an intruder of the untractable red man. The exalted
notions of Rousseau ended in despondence,
away from the pomp and influence of his church.
Having been nurtured in the “Eternal city,” he
had not the zeal, and lacked the principle, to become
an humble teacher to humbler recipients of
knowledge.

Disregarding his priestly office, he finally mingled
in the dissipations of society, and in the year 1736,
he started off as a military companion to D'Arteguette
in his expedition among the Chickasas.
The death of D'Arteguette and his bravest troops,
and the dispersion of his Indian allies, left Rousseau

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

a wanderer, surrounded by implacable enemies, he
being one of the few who escaped the fate of battle.

Unaccustomed to forest life, more than a thousand
miles from the Canadas, he became a prey of imaginary
and real dangers. Unprovided with arms, his
food was of roots or herbs. At night the wild
beasts howled round his cold couch, and every
stump in the daytime seemed to conceal an Indian.

Now it was that Rousseau reviewed the incidents
of his past life with sorrow. He discovered, when
it was too late, that he had lost his peace of mind,
and his hopes of future existence for a momentary
enjoyment. Wasting with watching and hunger,
he prayed to the Virgin to save him, that he might,
by a long life of penance, obliterate his sins. On
the twelfth day of his wanderings he sank upon the
earth to die, and, casting his eyes upward in prayer,
he saw, far in the distance, towering above every
other object, the cross! It seemed a miracle and
inspired with strength his trembling limbs; and he
pressed forward that he might breathe his last at its
foot. As he reached it, a smile of triumph lighted
up his wayworn features, and he fell insensible to
the earth. Never, perhaps, was this emblem more
beautifully decorated or more touchingly displayed
than was the one that towered over Rousseau.
From indications, some fifteen years might have
elapsed since the European pilgrim had erected it.
One of the largest forest trees had been chosen that
stood upon the surrounding bluffs; the tall trunk
tapered upward with the proportion of a Corinthian
column, which, with the piece forming the cross,

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

was covered with ten thousand of those evergreen
vines that spread such a charm over the southern landscape.
It seemed as if nature had paid tribute to the
sacred symbol, and festooned it with a perfection and
beauty worthy of her abundance. The honey-suckle
and the ivy, the scarlet creeper and fragrant jasmine,
the foliage enameled with flowers, shed upon
the repentant, and now insensible, Rousseau a shower
of fragrance. Near where he lay, there was a narrow
and amply-worn footpath. You could trace it, from
where it lost itself in the deep forests, to where it
wound round the steep-washed bank until it touched
the water's edge. At this point were to be seen
the prints of footsteps; and traces of small fires were
also visible, one of which still sent up puffs of smoke.
Here it was that the Choctaw maidens and old
women performed their rude labour of washing. In
the morning and evening sun, a long line of the
forest children might be seen, with clay jars and
skins filled with water, carrying them upon their
heads, and stringing up, single file, the steep bank
and losing themselves in the woods; with their half-clad
and erect forms, making a most picturesque
display, not unlike the processions figured in the
hieroglyphical paintings of Egypt.

Soon after Rousseau fell at the cross, there might
have been seen emerging from the woods, and following
the path we have described, a delicately
formed Indian girl. In her hand was a long reed and
a basket, and she came with blithe steps towards the
river. As she passed the cross, the form of Rousseau
met her eyes. Stopping and examining him,

[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]

[figure description] (398-061).[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

with almost overpowering curiosity, she retreated
with precipitation, but returned almost instantly. She
approached nearer, until the wan and insensible face
met hers. Strange as was his appearance and colour,
the chord of humanity was touched, the woman forgot
both fear and curiosity, in her anxiety to allay
visible suffering. A moment had hardly elapsed
before water was thrown in his face and held to his
lips. The refreshing beverage brought him to consciousness.
He stared wildly about, and discovered
the Indian form bending over him; he sank again
insensible to the earth. Like a young doe the girl
bounded away and disappeared.

A half hour might have elapsed, when there
issued out of the forest a long train of Indians. At
their head was the young maiden surrounded by
armed warriors; in the rear followed women and
children. They approached Rousseau, whose recovery
was but momentary, and who was now unconscious
of what was passing around him. The
crowd examined him first with caution, gradually,
with familiarity; their whispers became animated
conversation, and, finally, blended in one noisy confusion.
There were among those present many
who had heard of the white man and of his powers,
but none had ever seen one before. One Indian,
more bold than the rest, stripped the remnant of a
cloakfrom Rousseau's shoulder; another, emboldened
by this act, caught rudely hold of his coat, and as he
pulled it aside, there fell from his breast a small gilt
crucifix, held by a silken cord. Its brilliancy excited
the cupidity of all, and many were the eager

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

hands that pressed forward to obtain it. An old
chief gained the prize, and fortunately for Rousseau,
his prowess and influence left him in undisputed
possession. As he examined the little trinket, the
Indian girl we have spoken of, the only female near
Rousseau, crossed her delicate fingers, and pointed
upward. The old chief instantly beheld the similarity
between the large and small symbol of Christianity,
and extending it aloft, with all the dignity of a cardinal,
the crowd shouted as they saw the resemblance,
and a change came over them all.

They associated at once the erection of the large
cross with Rousseau; and as their shout had again
called forth exhibitions of life from his insensible
form, they threw his cloak over him, suspended the
cross to his neck, brought, in a moment, green boughs,
with which a litter was made, and bore him with all
respect toward their lodges. The excitement and
exercise of removal did much to restore him to life;
a dish of maize did more; and nothing could exceed
his astonishment on his recovery, that he should
be treated with such kindness; and as he witnessed
the respect paid the cross, and was shown by rude
gestures, that he owed his life to its influence, he
sank upon his knees, overwhelmed with its visible
exhibition of power, and satisfied that his prayer for
safety had been answered in the perfection of a
miracle. The Choctaws, into whose hands the unfortunate
Rousseau had fallen, (although he was not
aware of the difference,) were not the bloody-minded
Cherokees, from whom he had so lately escaped.
Years before, the inhabitants of the little village, on

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

their return from a hunting expedition discovered
the cross we have described; its marks then were
such as would be exhibited a few days after its erection.
Footsteps were seen about its base, that from
their variance with the mark left by the moccasin,
satisfied the Indians that it was not erected by any
of their people. The huge limbs that had been shorn
from the trunk bore fresh marks of terrible cuts,
which the stone hatchet could not have made.

As it is natural to the Indian mind, on the display
of power they cannot explain, they appropriately,
though accidentally, associated the cross with a
Great Spirit, and looked upon it with wonder and
admiration. Beside the cross there was found an
axe, left by those who had formed it. This was an
object of the greatest curiosity to its finders. They
struck it into the trees, severed huge limbs, and performed
other powerful feats with it, and yet fancied
their own rude stone instruments failed to do the
same execution from want of a governing spirit
equal to that which they imagined presided over the
axe, and not from difference of material.

The cross and the axe were associated together in
the Indians' minds; and the crucifix of Rousseau
connected him with both. They treated him, therefore,
with all the attention they would bestow upon a
being who is master of a superior power. The terrible
and strange incidents that had formed the life of Rousseau,
since the defeat of his military associate, D'Arteguette,
seemed to him, as he recalled them in his
mind, to have occupied an age. His dreams were filled
with scenes of torment and death. He would start

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

from his sleep with the idea that an arrow was penetrating
his body, or that the bloody knife was at his
heart; these were then changed into visions of starvation,
or destruction by wild beasts. Recovering his
senses, he would find himself in a comfortable lodge,
reposing on a couch of soft skins; while the simple
children of the woods, relieved of their terrors, were
waiting to administer to his wants. The change
from the extreme of suffering to that of comfort, he
could hardly realize. The cross in the wilderness,
the respect they paid to the one on his breast, were
alike inexplicable; and Rousseau, according to the
spirit of his age, felt that a miracle had been wrought
in his favour: and on his bending knees he renewed
his ecclesiastical vows, and determined to devote
his life to enlightening the people among whom Providence
had placed him.

The Indian girl who first discovered Rousseau,
was the only child of a powerful chief. She was still
a maiden, and the slavish labour of savage married
life had, consequently, not been imposed upon her.

Among her tribe she was universally considered
beautiful; and her hand was sought by all the young
“braves” of her tribe. Wayward or indifferent to
please, she resolutely refused to occupy any lodge
but her father's, however eligible and enviable the
settlement might have appeared in the eyes of her
associates.

For an Indian girl she was remarkably gentle;
and, as Rousseau gradually recovered his strength, he
had, through her leisure, more frequent intercourse
with her than with any other of the tribe. There was

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

also a feeling in his bosom that she was, in the hands
of an overruling Providence, the instrument used to
preserve his life. Whatever might have been the
speculations of the elders of the tribe, as day after
day Rousseau courted her society and listened to the
sounds of her voice, we do not know; but his
attentions to her were indirectly encouraged, and
the Indian girl was almost constantly at his side.

Rousseau's plans were formed. The painful experience
he had encountered, while following the
ambition of worldly greatness, had driven him back
into the seclusion of the church, with a love only to
end with his life.

He determined to learn the dialect of the people
in whose lot his life was cast, and form them into a nation
of worthy recipients of the “Holy Church;”
and the gentle Indian girl was to him a preceptor, to
teach him her language. With this high resolve, he
repeated the sounds of her voice, imitated her gesticulations,
and encouraged, with marked preference,
her society. The few weeks that Rousseau passed
among the Choctaws, had made him one bitter, implacable
bitter enemy. Unable to explain his office
or his intentions, his preference for Chechoula had
been marked by the keen eye of a jealous and rejected
lover. Wah-a-ola was a young “brave,”
who had distinguished himself on the hunting and
war paths. Young as he was, he had won a name.
Three times he had laid the trophies of his prowess
at the feet of Chechoula, and as often she had rejected
his suit. Astonished at his want of success,
he looked upon his mistress as labouring under the

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

influence of some charm, for he could find no accepted
rival for her hand.

The presence of Rousseau—the marked preference
which Chechoula exhibited for his society, settled, in
his own mind, that the “pale face” was the charmer.
With this conviction, he placed himself conveniently
to meet his mistress, and once more pleaded his suit
before he exhibited the feelings of hatred which he
felt towards Rousseau. The lodge of Chechoula's
father was, from the dignity of the chief, at the head
of the Indian village, and at some little distance.
The impatient Wah-a-ola seated himself near its entrance,
where, from his concealment, he could watch
whoever entered its door. A short time only elapsed,
before he saw, in the cold-moonlight, a group of Indian
girls approaching the Indian lodge, in busy
conversation, and conspicuously among them all,
Chechoula.

Her companions separated from her, and as she
entered her father's lodge, a rude buffalo-skin shut
her in. Soon after her disappearance, the little groups
about the Indian village gradually dispersed; the
busy hum of conversation ceased; and when profound
stillness reigned, a plaintive note of the whippoor-will
was heard; it grew louder and louder,
until it seemed as if the lone bird was perched on
the top of the lodge that contained Chechoula. It
attracted her ear, for she thrust aside the buffalo-skin,
and listened with fixed attention. The bird
screamed, and appeared to flutter, as if wounded.
Chechoula rushed toward the bushes that seemed to
conceal so much distress, when Wah-a-ola sprang

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

up and seized her wrist. The affrighted girl stared
at her captor for a moment, and then exclaimed,
“The snake should not sing like the birds!” Wah-a-ola
relaxed not his hold; there was a volcano in
his breast, that seemed to overwhelm him as he
glared upon Chechoula with blood-shot eyes. Struggling
to conceal his emotion, he replied to her question,
by asking “if the wild-flowers of the woods
were known only to their thorns?” “The water
lilies grow upon smooth stones,” said Chechoula,
striving violently to retreat to her father's lodge. The
love of Wah-a-ola was full of jealousy, and the salute
and reply of his mistress converted it into hate.
Dashing his hand across his brow, on which the savage
workings of his passion were plainly visible, he
asked, if “a brave” was to whine for a woman like
a bear for its cubs? “Go!” said he, flinging Chechoula's
arm from him; “go! The mistletoe grows not
upon young trees, and the pale face shall be a rabbit
in the den of the wolf!” From the time Rousseau was
able to walk, he had made a daily pilgrimage to the
cross, and there, upon his bended knees, greeted the
morning sun. This habit was known to all the tribe.
The morning following the scene between Waha-ola
and Chechoula, he was found dead at the foot
of the sacred tree. A poisoned arrow had been
driven almost through his body. Great was the
consternation of the whole tribe. It was considered
a mysterious evidence of impending evil; while not
a single person could divine who was the murderer.
“The mistletoe grows not upon young trees!” thought
Chechoula; and for the first time she knew the full
meaning of the words, as she bent over the body of

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

Rousseau. She attended his obsequies with a sorrow
less visible, but more deep than that of her
people; although the whole tribe had, in the short
residence of the departed, learned to respect him,
and to look upon him as a great “Medicine.” His
grave was dug where he had so often prayed, and
the same sod covered him that drank his heart's
blood. According to Indian custom, all that he
possessed, as well as those articles appropriated to
his use, were buried with him in his grave. His
little crucifix reposed upon his breast, and he was
remembered as one who had mysteriously come, and
as mysteriously passed away. A few years after the
events we have detailed, a Jesuit missionary, who
understood the Choctaw language, announced his
mission to the tribe, and was by them kindly received.
His presence revived the recollections of
Rousseau, and the story of his being among them
was told. The priest explained to them his office,
and these wild people, in a short time, erected over
the remains of Rousseau a rude chapel; his spirit
was called upon as their patron saint, and Chechoula
was the first to renounce the superstitions of her
tribe, and receive the Holy Sacrament of Baptism.
In the year 1829, a small brass cross was picked out
of the banks of the Mississippi, near Natchez, at the
depth of several feet from the surface. The crucifix
was in tolerable preservation, and was exposed by
one of those carvings of the soil so peculiar to the
Mississippi. The speculations which the finding of
this cross called forth, revived the almost forgotten
traditions of the story of Rousseau, and of his death
and burial at the Place De La Croix.

p398-070 WIT OF THE WOODS.

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

Originally the wild turkey was found scattered
throughout the whole of our continent, its habits
only differing, where the peculiarity of the seasons
compelled it to provide against excessive cold or heat.
In the “clearing,” it only lives in its excellent and
degenerated descendant of the farm-yard. In the
vast prairies and forests of the “far west,” this bird
is still abundant, and makes an important addition
to the fare of wild life. It is comparatively common
on the “frontiers;” but every passing year lessens
its numbers, and as their disappearance always denotes
their death, their extermination is progressive
and certain. In Louisiana, Alabama, South Carolina,
and the southern states, there are fastnesses, in
which they will find support and protection for a
long time to come. The swamps and lowlands that
offer no present inducement to “the settler,” will
shelter them from the rifle; and in the rich productions
of the soil they will find a superabundance of
food. The same obscurity, however, that protects
them, leaves the hole of the wildcat in peace; and
this bitter enemy of the turkey wars upon it, and
makes its life one of cunning and care. Nor is its
finely flavoured meat unappreciated by other destroyers,
as the fox and weasel select the young for an
evening repast, according to their strength. The

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

nest, too, may be made, even the young bird in peace
may have broken its shell, and frightened at its own
piping note, hid instinctively away, when the Mississippi
will rise, bearing upon its surface the waters
of a thousand floods, swell within its narrow banks,
and overflow the lowlands. The young bird, unable
to fly, and too delicate to resist the influence of the
wet, sickens and dies. Upon the dryness of the
season the turkey-hunter builds his hopes of the
plentifulness of the game.

The wild turkey-hunter is distinct and peculiar.
The eccentric habits of the bird, its exceeding wildness
is sympathized with, and enjoyed only by a
class of persons, who are themselves different from
the ordinary hunter. As a general thing, turkey-hunters,
if they are of literary habits, read Izaak
Walton, and Burton's “Anatomy of Melancholy,”
and all, learned or unlearned, are enthusiastic disciples
of the rod and line. The piscator can be an
enthusiastic admirer of the opera, the wild turkey-hunter
could not be, for his taste never carries him
beyond the simple range of natural notes. Here he
excels. Place him in the forest with his pipe, and
no rough pan ever piped more wilily, or more in
harmony with the scenes around him. The same
tube modulates the note of alarm, and the dulcet
sound of love; it plays plaintively the complaining
of the female, and, in sweet chirps, calls forth the
lover from his hiding-place; it carols among the
low whisperings of the fledgling, and expresses the
mimic sounds of joy at the treasure of food that is
found discovered under the fallen leaf, or hidden

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

away in the decayed wood. And all this is done so
craftily, that ears, on which nature has set her stamp
of peculiar delicacy, and the instinct, true almost as
the shadow to the sunlight, are both deceived.

It is unnecessary to describe the bird, though we
never see it fairly represented except in the forest.
The high mettled racer that appears upon the course
is no more superior to the well fed cart-horse than
is the wild turkey to the tame; in fact nothing living
shows more points of health and purity of blood
than this noble bird. Its game head and clear
hazle eye, the clean firm step, the great breadth of
shoulder, and deep chest, strike the most superficial
observer. Then there is an absolute commanding
beauty about them, when they are alarmed or curious,
when they elevate themselves to their full
height, bringing their head perpendicular with their
feet, and gaze about, every feather in its place, the
foot upraised ready at an instant, to strike off at a
speed, that, as has been said of the ostrich, “scorneth
the horse and his rider.”

The wild turkey-hunter is a being of solitude.
There is no noise or boisterous mirth in his pursuit.
Even the dead leaf, as it sails in circuitous motion
to the earth, intrudes upon his caution, and alarms
the wary game, which, in its care of preservation,
flies as swiftly before the imaginary, as before the
real danger. Often, indeed, is the morning's work
destroyed by the cracking of a decayed limb under
the nimble spring of the squirrel. The deer and
timid antelope will stop to gratify curiosity, the
hare scents the air for an instant, when alarmed,

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

before it dashes off; but the turkey never speculates,
never wonders; suspicion of danger prompts it to immediate
flight, as quickly as a reality.

The implements of the turkey-hunter are few and
simple; the “call,” generally made of the large
bone of the turkey's wing, and a sure rifle complete
the list. The double-barrel fowling-piece is used
when the game is plentiful, and requires little or no
science to hunt them, aim being taken at the head.
A turkey, wounded elsewhere than in the brain, although
a rifle ball may have passed through its
body, seems to retain the power of locomotion in
the most remarkable manner, and will, when thus
crippled, run long enough, unless pursued by a dog,
to be lost to the hunter.

Where turkeys are plentiful and but little hunted,
indifferent persons succeed in killing them; of such
hunters we shall not speak. The bird changes its
habits somewhat with its haunts, growing wilder as
it is most pursued; it may therefore be said to be the
wildest of game. Gaining in wisdom according to
the necessity, it is a different bird where it is constantly
sought for as game, from where it securely
lives in the untrodden solitude. The turkey will
therefore succeed at times in finding a home in
places comparatively “thickly settled,” and be so
seldom seen, that they are generally supposed to be
extinct. Under such circumstances, they fall victims
only to the very few hunters who may be said to
make a science of their pursuit. “I rather think,”
said a turkey-hunter, “if you want to find a thing
very cunning, you need not go to the fox or such

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

varmints; take a gobbler. I once hunted regular
after the same one for three years, and never saw
him twice. I knew the critter's `yelp' as well as I
know Music's, my old dear dog; and his track was
as plain to me as the trail of a log hauled through a
dusty road. I hunted the gobbler always in the
same `range,' and about the same `scratchins,'
and he got so, at last, that when I `called,' he would
run from me, taking the opposite direction to my own
foot-tracks. Now the old rascal kept a great deal
on a ridge, at the end of which, where it lost itself
in the swamp, was a hollow cypress tree. Determined
to outwit him, I put on my shoes heels foremost,
walked leisurely down the ridge, and got into
the hollow tree, and gave a `call,' and boys,” said
the speaker exultingly, “it would have done you
good to have seen that turkey coming towards me
on a trot, the fool looking at my tracks, and thinking
I had gone the other way.”

Of all turkey-hunters, our friend W— is the
most experienced; he is a bachelor, lives upon his
own plantation, studies, philosophizes, makes fishing
tackle, and kills turkeys. With him it is a science
reduced to certainty. Place him in the woods
where turkeys are, and he is as certain of their bodies
as if they were already in his possession. He understands
the habits of the bird so well, that he will,
on his first essay, on a new hunting-ground, give
the exact character of the hunters the turkeys
have been accustomed to deal with. The most
crafty turkeys are those which W— seeks,
hemmed in by plantations, inhabiting uncultivatable

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

land, and always in more or less danger of pursuit
and discovery, they become, under such circumstances,
beyond any game whatever wild. They seem
incapable of being deceived, and taking every thing
strange, as possessed to them of danger, whether a
moth out of season, or a veteran hunter, they appear
to common, and even to uncommon observers,
annihilated from the country, were it not for their
footprints occasionally to be seen in the soft soil
beside the running stream, or in the light dust in
the beaten road.

A veteran gobbler, used to all the tricks of the
hunter's art, one who has had his wottles cut with
shot, against whose well-defended breast has struck
the spent ball of the rifle, one, who, although most
starved, would walk by the treasures of grain in the
“trap” and “pen,” a gobbler who will listen to
the plaintive note of the female until he has tried
its quavers, its length, its repetitions, by every rule
nature has given him, and then perhaps not answer,
except in a smothered voice for fear of being deceived.
Such a turkey will W— select to break
a lance with, and, in spite of the chances against him,
win. We, then, here have the best specimen of
wild turkey-hunting, an exhibition of skill between
the perfection of animal instinct, and the superior
intellect of man.

The turkey-hunter, armed with his “call,” starts
into the forest, he bears upon his shoulder, the
trusty rifle. He is either informed of the presence
of turkeys, and has a particular place or bird in
view, or he makes his way cautiously along the

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

banks of some running stream; his progress is slow
and silent; it may be that he unexpectedly hears
a noise, sounding like distant thunder; he then
knows that he is in close proximity of the game,
and that he has disturbed it to flight. When such
is the case his work is comparatively done.

We will, for illustration, select a more difficult
hunt. The day was towards noon, and the patient
hunter has met with no “sign,” when suddenly a
slight noise is heard, not unlike, to unpractised ears,
a thousand other woodland sounds; the hunter listens,
again the sound is heard, as if a pebble was dropped
into the bosom of a little lake. It may be that woodpecker,
who, desisting from his labours, has opened
his bill to yawn—or, perchance, yonder little bird so
industriously scratching among the dead leaves of
that young holly. Again, precisely the same sound
is heard; yonder, high in the heavens, is a solitary
hawk, winging its way over the forests, its rude
scream etherealized, might come down to our ears
in just such a sound as made the turkey-hunter listen;
again the same note, now more distinct. The
quick ear of the hunter is satisfied; stealthily he entrenches
himself behind a fallen tree, a few green
twigs are placed before him, from among which
protrudes the muzzle of his rifle. Thus prepared,
he takes his “call,” and gives one solitary cluck, so
exquisitely, that it chimes in with the running brook
and the rustling leaf.

It may be, that a half a mile off, if the place is
favourable to convey sound, is feeding a “gobbler;”
prompted by his nature, as he quietly scratches up

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

the herbage that conceals his food, he gives utterance
to the sounds that first attracted the hunter's attention.
Poor bird! he is bent on filling his crop; his
feelings are listless, common place; his wings are
away; his plumage on his breast seems soiled with
rain, his wattles are contracted and pale,—look, he
starts, every feather is instantly in its place, he raises
his delicate game-looking head full four feet from
the ground, and listens; what an eye, what a stride
is suggested by that lifted foot! gradually the head
sinks; again the bright plumage grows dim, and
with a low cluck, he resumes his search for food.
The treasures of the American forest are before him;
the choice pecan-nut is neglected for that immense
“grub-worm” that rolls down the decayed stump,
too large to crawl,—now that grasshopper is nabbed,
presently a hill of ants presents itself, and the bird
leans over it, peering down the tiny hole of its entrance,
out of which are issuing the industrious insects,
with wondering curiosity. Again that cluck
greets his ear, up rises the head with lightning swiftness,
the bird starts forward a pace or two, looks
around in wonder, and answers back. No sound is
heard but the falling acorn, and it fairly echoes, as
it rattles from limb to limb, and dashes off to the
ground. The bird is uneasy, he picks pettishly,
smooths down his feathers, elevates his head slowly,
and then brings it to the earth; raises his wings as
if for flight, jumps upon the limb of a fallen tree,
looks about, settles down finally into a brownstudy,
and evidently commences thinking. An hour may
elapse, and he has resolved the matter over; his

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

imagination has become inflamed, he has heard
just enough to wish to hear more; he is satisfied that
no turkey-hunter uttered the sounds that reached his
ear, for they were too few, and far between, and there
rises up in his mind some disconsolate mistress, and
he gallantly flies down from his low perch, gives
his body a swaggering motion, and utters a distinct
and prolonged cluck, significant of both surprise and
joy. On the instant the dead twigs near by crack
beneath a heavy tread, and he starts off under the
impression he is caught; but the meanderings of
some poor cow inform him of his mistake. Composing
himself, he listens, ten minutes since he challenged,
when a low cluck in the distance reaches his
ears.

Now, our gobbler is an old bird, and has escaped
with his life by a miracle several times He has
grown very cunning, indeed. He don't roost two
successive nights on the same tree, so that daylight
never exposes him to the hunter, who has hidden
himself away in the night, to catch him in the morning's
dawn. He never gobbles without running a
short distance at least, as if alarmed at his own
noise. He presumes every thing suspicious, and
dangerous naturally, and his experience has heightened
the instinct. Twice, when young, was he
coaxed within gunshot, but got clear by some fault
of the percussion caps. After that, was he fooled by
an idle school-boy, who was a kind of ventriloquist,
and would have been killed, had not the urchin's
gun been overloaded. Three times did he only
escape death by heedlessly wandering with his

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thoughtless fellows. Once was he caught in a
“pen,” and got out by an overlooked hole in its
top. Three feathers of his last year's tail, decayed
under the weight of a spring-trap. He is, in fact,
a very “deep” bird, and will sit and plume himself,
when common hunters are about, tooting away,
but never so wisely as to deceive him twice.
They all reveal themselves by overstepping the modesty
of nature, and woo him too much: his loves are
more coy, far less intrusive. Poor bird! he does
not know that W— is spreading his snare for him,
and is even then so sure of his victim, as to be revolving
in his mind whether his goodly carcass
should be a present to a married friend, or be served
up in savoury fumes from his own bachelor, but hospitable
board.

The last cluck heard by the gobbler fairly roused
him, and he presses foward; at one time he runs
with speed, then stops as if not yet quite satisfied;
something turns him back; still he lingers only for a
moment in his course, until coming to a running
stream, where he will have to fly; the exertion seems
too much for him. Stately parading in the full sunshine,
he walks along the margin of the clear stream,
admiring his fine person as it is reflected in the sylvan
mirror, and then, like some vain lover, tosses his
head, as if to say, “let them come to me.” The
listless gait is resumed, expressive that the chase is
given up. Gaining the ascent of a low bank, that
lines the stream he has just deserted, he stops at the
foot of a young beech; in the green moss that fills
the interstices of the otherwise smooth bank is hid

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away a cricket; the turkey picks at it, without catching
it; something annoys him. Like the slipper of
Cinderella, to the imagination of the young prince,
or the glimpses of a waving ringlet, or a jewelled
hand to the glowing passions of the young heart, is
the remembrance of that sound, that now full two
hours since was first heard by our hero, and has been,
in that long time, but twice repeated. He speculates
that in the shady woods that surround
him, there must wander a mate; solitary she plucks
her food, and calls for me; the monster man, impatiently
of his prey, doles not out his music so
softly or so daintily. I am not deceived, and by my
ungallant fears, she will be won by another cluck.
How well-timed the call. The gobbler entirely off
his guard, contracts himself, opens wide his mouth,
and rolls forth, fearlessly, a volume of sound for his
answer. The stream is crossed in a flutter, the toes
scarce indent themselves in the soft ground over
which they pass. On, on they plunge, until their
owner's caution again brings them to a halt. We
could almost wish that so fine a bird might escape,
that there might be given one “call” too much, one
that grated unnaturally on the poor bird's ear; but not
so; they lead him to his doom, filling his mind with
hope and love.

To the bird there is one strange incongruity in
the “call,” never before has he gone so far with so
little success; but the note is perfect, the time most
nicely given. Again he rolls forth a loud response,
and listens, yet no answer, his progress is slow. The
cluck again greets his ear; there was a slight quaver

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attached to it this time, like the forming of a second
note he is nearing his object of pursuit, and, with
an energetic “call;” he rushes forward, his long neck
stretched, and his head moving inquiringly from
side to side. No longer going round the various
obstacles he meets with in his path, but flying over
them as if impatiently, he comes to open ground,
and stops.

Some six hundred yards from where he stands
may be seen a fallen tree, you can observe some
green brush that looks as if it grew out of the very
decayed wood; in this “brush” is hidden away the
deadly rifle, and its muzzle is protruding towards
the open ground. Behind it is the hunter, flat upon
the ground, yet so placed that the weapon is at his
shoulder. He seems to be as dead as the tree in
front of him. Could you watch him closely, you
would perceive he scarcely winks for fear of alarming
his game. The turkey, still in his exposed
situation, gobbles on the instant the hunter raises his
“call” to his lips, and gives a prolonged cluck, loud
and shrill, the first that could really be construed by
the turkey into a direct answer. The noble bird,
now certain of success, fairly dances with delight;
he starts forward, his feathers and neck amorously
playing as he advances; now he commences his
“strut;” his slender body swells, the beautifully
plumage of his breast unfolds itself, his neck curves,
drawing the head downward, the wattles grow scarlet,
while the skin that covers the head changes like
rainbow tints. The long feathers of the wings brush
the ground, the tail rises and opens into a

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semicircle, the gorgeously coloured head becomes beautifully
relieved in its centre. On he comes, with a
hitching gait, glowing in the sunshine in purple and
gold. The siren cluck is twice repeated; he contracts
his form to the smallest dimensions; upwards
rises the head to the highest point; he stands upon
his very toes, and looks suspiciously around; fifty
yards of distance protects him from the rifle: he
even condescends to pick about. What a trial for the
expecting hunter! how does he recollect that one
breath too much has spoiled a morning's work!
The minutes wear on, and the bird again becomes
the caller; he gobbles, opens his form, and when fully
bloomed out, the enchanting cluck greets his ear;
on he comes, like the gay horse, towards the inspiring
music of the drum, or like a gallant bark beating
against the wind, gallantly but slowly.

The dark cold barrel of the rifle is now not
more silent than is its owner; the game is playing
just outside the very edge of its deadly reach; the
least mistake and it is gone. One gentle zephyr,
one falling twig, might break the charm, and make
nature revolt at the coyness apparent in the supposed
mistress, and the lover would wing his way full of
life to the woods. But on he comes, so still is every
thing that you can hear his wings as they brush the
ground, singularly plain, while the sun plays in conflicting
rays and coloured lights about his gaudily
bronzed plumage.

The woods ring in echoing circles back upon you,
the sharp report of the rifle is heard; out starts,
alarmed by the noise, a blue jay, who squalls as he

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passes in waving lines before you, so suddenly wakened
was he from his sleep. But our rare and beautiful
bird, our gallant and noble bird, our cunning
and game bird, where is he? The glittering plumage,
the gay step, the bright eye, all are gone, without
a movement of the muscles, he has fallen a headless
body to the earth.