Soon after breakfast I started north, while the campers pulled out

in the opposite direction for Colorado. Terry felt lively from his

run on the plains, and I was at the ranch in less than an hour. There

were now before me twenty miles to the Laramie River, and then sixty

miles of very hard traveling over the foot-hills and mountains to Fort

Fetterman on the North Platte, where the worst part of the trip would

be over. All the afternoon, till the sun had nearly set, did I travel

over the monotonous plains without seeing a sign of human life. About

half-past five I heard a shot from my right, and, hastening over the

hill, saw a hunter fire again at an antelope which was among a small

“bunch” of cattle. Unless forced by want of water, or decoyed, these

timorous creatures seldom allow hunters to approach so near; but this

unfortunate in some way had got among the cattle, which were not afraid

of the hunter, and so it quietly stood its ground till the first

shot was fired, when it was too late to escape. The man proved to be

the owner of a ranch on the river that I was bound for. I dismounted

and helped him place the antelope, a fine young one, on his horse.

Then, leading our horses, we started for the ranch, three miles away,

anticipating with sharpened appetites the treat of fresh antelope for

supper.

In the evening I was attracted by a camp-fire across the river, and

thinking I might get more information as to trails, ranches, etc., I

crossed the river on the logs. It proved to be a freighting outfit

bound for Cheyenne direct from Buffalo. They spoke of my probably

having a very hard pull to Fetterman, and thence I would be apt to

get lost and turned about, unless I stuck to the stage road, and they

advised me not to try to strike cow ranches, as I had planned. On

recrossing the river I thought that I could get over as before, on the

logs, but I missed my footing, made a misstep, and fell in. As I sank

down into the cold water of the river, I thought before I could get out

“my name would be Dennis;” but I grasped the logs for dear life, and,

crawling and struggling, reached the shore wet as a drowned rat.

The next morning I was none the worse for my accident, or for being

obliged to sleep in wet clothing. I here made a trade with my saddle,

getting one lighter and cheaper, that would answer my purpose and save

my horse, as the former one weighed forty pounds, being a regular cow

saddle.

The morning dawned very threatening, and as I rode into the hills it

began to snow. I reached Horseshoe Creek late in the evening, making

twenty-eight miles that day in the face of a severe snow-storm. Early

the next morning I started for Lebonte Creek, twenty-two miles away,

thinking to reach there by noon, and Fetterman, twenty-two miles

farther, that night. But, as I got farther into the foot-hills, I found

it would be impossible through the snow, which in places was very deep,

so that if I got through it in two days I would be lucky.

[Illustration: THROUGH DRIVING SLEET AND SNOW.]

For some ten miles I rode, admiring the magnificent view of the Rocky

Mountains, now plainly visible, with their snow-white peaks apparently

touching the clouds, when, on dismounting to walk up a long and steep

hill, I heard a clatter of hoofs behind, and on looking down the

hillside, was astonished to see one of the gentler sex coming in my

direction. All sorts of conjectures as to who she might be crossed

my mind, and I thought of stories, read long since, of “Calamity

Jane,” “Fearless Kate, the Female Highwayman,” etc., but I was again

surprised, as she approached, to find one of apparent refinement and

culture. I was thinking just how and what to say, when she bade me a

pleasant “Good-morning, sir! Rather cool”--presumably referring to the

weather, not to myself. I soon found use of my powers of speech, and we

chatted away at a great rate. The young lady was returning from a visit

to her nearest neighbors twenty miles down the creek, and lived at a

ranch which I hoped to make by noon. The remaining twelve miles did

not seem half so long as the first ten.

At Lebonte her father made it exceptionally pleasant. I concluded

not to attempt to make the fort that day, but to accept their kind

invitation to remain till morning. In the evening, seated before the

open fire, we had a long and interesting conversation. This “Rose of

the Mountain” lives twenty miles from the post-office and nearest

neighbors, and she and her younger brother and sister have their ponies

and nature in its grandeur for their society. I made a trade with one

of her brothers, and for my watch obtained a fine Winchester rifle.

During the night a storm came up, and in the morning I was confronted

by a regular Wyoming blizzard. I put on overcoat and slicker, crossed

the creek, and pushed into the mountains. After less than five miles,

I almost wished I had remained at the ranch till the storm was over. A

very high wind, accompanied by a driving, drifting snow, retarded my

progress, so I could hardly make three miles an hour. As I got into

the mountains, the storm increased in violence, and it grew colder. I

could hardly see the trail, and but for the government telegraph-poles

connecting Fort Russell with the north, which I had used as a guide

so far, I should surely have been lost. At Wagon Hound and Bed Tick

Creek I was obliged to make a crossing, where, had the water been a

foot deeper, I should never have been able to get over. As it was, poor

Terry almost gave up, the water was so cold and deep, and at Bed Tick

I had to go three miles east to find a place where I dared to enter

the icy water. A great part of the way I had to walk, fighting against

wind and snow, till late in the afternoon, when, utterly exhausted and

chilled, I dragged weak and tired Terry into Fort Fetterman, twenty-two

miles that day, and one hundred and seventy miles of my journey ended.

[Illustration: AND LEADING OUR HORSES WE STARTED FOR THE RANCH.]

Fort Fetterman is situated on a high plateau, at the base of which the

North Platte River winds its course for miles and miles, as far as

the eye can reach, through the finest grazing country in the world,

giving a view more extensive and grand than at any other point on my

route. The storm cleared toward sundown, and during the night the

characteristic Chinook wind of Wyoming came up--a dry wind, which blew

away and absorbed nearly all the snow. When I awoke the next morning

and looked out upon the vast expanse of plains and mountains, I was

astonished to find hardly a trace of the storm, except in isolated

places high up in the foot-hills.

Fort Fetterman used to be a Government fort, but has been abandoned for

several years. It now contains two ranch hotels, several cow ranches,

a post-office, Government telegraph office, half a dozen saloons and a

general store, and is the largest place between Cheyenne and Buffalo.

It has the reputation of being the hardest point in the Territories,

being the rendezvous of all the cowboys in Central Wyoming. I kept very

quiet, and with the exception of a few disagreeable solicitations to

drink from some of them, I was not molested. I was a little concerned,

but not at all shaken in my purpose, by authentic reports from the

telegraph office, which connects with Fort McKinney, near Buffalo,

of serious disturbances among the Crow Indians, who had left their

reservation in Montana, and were only waiting for grass to make war on

the settlers in Johnson County. I concluded, however, if they were to

make a break, I would be as safe under the protection of the troops as

I would be here, where a tenderfoot was never known heretofore to live

more than ten days.

[Illustration: IN CAMP FOR THE NIGHT.]

A true story is told of a young man who was stationed here as a

telegraph operator. He belonged to the class designated dudes, whom

the cowboys love less than any other breed of tenderfeet. He was much

pleased with the country and life in the Far West, but he was not

satisfied with simply seeing the boys ride on horseback into saloons

and shoot the lights out, common everyday fights, and an occasional

lynching bee. He sighed for Indians and gore. He wanted to “spread

himself” fighting the wary redskin. Finally the cowboys thought they

would see if there was as much stuff in him as he bragged, so half a

dozen or more dressed themselves up as Indians, with paint, feathers

and tomahawks, and hid in a secluded place not far from town. In the

meantime our hero was informed that some Indians had been seen a few

miles up the river, and he was invited, if he wanted some sport, to

join in and add his great fighting ability to help the rest. So they

all started, but had hardly got out a mile or so when the secreted

pseudo-Indians commenced yelling and firing in the air. The would-be

Indian fighter, thinking they were an advanced guard of a host of

others, turned and fled with his hair on end, and did not stop till the

telegraph office was reached. He immediately wired to the Governor at

Cheyenne, “Dispatch troops at once; two thousand Indians are on us,”

and then hurried out to warn all to arm themselves for their lives.

The postmaster, whose office was in the same room as the telegraph,

directly sent another message: “Don’t deliver telegram just sent,” and

the return of the cowboys soon gave the trick away. They gave the St.

Louis tenderfoot no peace whatever. The territorial papers got hold of

the story, and one morning he packed his grip and silently boarded the

south-bound stage for parts unknown.

Early on April 9 I crossed the North Platte River. At noon I reached

Sage Creek, and after resting an hour or so, left the stage road and

struck a trail to my right, leading, as I was told, to Andrew’s cow

ranch, on South Fork Cheyenne River, fourteen miles distant. I could

see by my map a ranch in that direction, so I felt perfectly safe in

venturing away from the telegraph poles, which had been my faithful and

silent guides hitherto.

I was now leaving the mountains and approaching the sage-brush plains,

a most monotonous and dreary-looking country. For miles I plodded

along, alternately riding and walking, without seeing any sign of

human life, or anything to break the monotony of the sage-brush. About

half-past six, as I approached the river, I ran into a barbed-wire

fence, which, when followed up for a mile or so, led me to the door of

the ranch, where I dismounted and camped for the night.

I left the ranch in fine spirits. I had gone perhaps four miles when

two men overtook me, passed, then turned and came back, scrutinizing

me and my outfit as they came. As they drew up, one said: “Where did

you get that horse?” Was it a case of mind-reading, or a mere freak,

that led me to match his impertinence by saying, “Stole him.” “Yes,”

he replied, “we know you did,” drawing out at the same time a warrant

for the arrest of a horse-thief. My bill of sale for the horse and

other papers sufficed, however, to prove that I was not the thief, and

Terry carried the proof of his identity in a brand under the saddle,

though answering strangely well in other respects to the description

of the missing horse. They apologized for their mistake, and bidding

me good-day turned toward the hills in the hope of capturing the real

thief. I felt much relieved as they disappeared, for a horse-thief once

caught in Wyoming stands but little chance for his life.

After dinner at Warner’s, I turned to the left across the plains,

towards the stage road again, not seeing any stop for me nearer than

the Wyoming stage station at Antelope Springs. On the ranges adjacent

to Bear Creek and Stinking Water I came across many carcasses and bones

of dead Texan cattle, which had been unable to pull through the severe

winter, and as I turned north on the stage road I saw a lone buffalo.

The sun had disappeared behind a lofty range of the Rockies as I pulled

up at the ranch at Antelope Springs, with only ninety miles ahead of

me to Buffalo. After supper the stock-tender suddenly asked for my

rifle, and almost within a second fired down the creek, where we found

that he had killed an enormous gray wolf. He then bought my rifle for

$15.00. I was told here that sixteen miles to the northwest I could

find a cow-camp, which would not make my journey more than five miles

longer, and would save an expensive stop on the stage road. I could

see no ranch designated on the map in that direction, but supposed

that it was a new outfit. So, the next morning I turned to the left,

and followed a very narrow and almost indistinct trail till late in

the afternoon, making fully twenty-five miles, without seeing any sign

whatever of a human habitation, when, upon looking ahead of me at the

sun, now near the horizon, I found that I was traveling due west

instead of going northwest, as I should have gone. The trail had been

growing much more indistinct for the last hour, so much so that it was

with great difficulty I could distinguish it at all. Near by was a high

bluff, which I ascended, and from which I had an extended view in all

directions--north, south, east and west, as far as my eyes could reach.

Not a sign of human life met my gaze. A few cattle in the foot-hills,

that was all.

Lost!

I thought it could not be more than twenty-five miles northeast to the

stage road, but was afraid that poor Terry would not be able to make it

with ten miles more to the ranch. Besides, as darkness came on, I might

get lost and turned about worse than ever. The best and only course for

me was to camp out all night and wait till morning.

Acting on this decision, I descended into a ravine, beside a small

stream, which I found by looking at the map was probably a “dry” fork

of the Powder River, so called because during the summer months the

water dries up. Now, however, it was quite a creek, from whose cold,

clear water both Terry and I gathered much refreshment. Dry cottonwood

timber lay about in considerable quantity, and I soon had a fire. I

had been advised, if night should overtake me, to picket my horse near

what grass he could reach, with a chance of his being devoured by wild

beasts, rather than to let him run on the plains with a greater chance

of his getting away. The old frontier saying is, “It is better to count

bones than tracks.” I had about thirty feet of rope, with which I

securely fastened Terry to a scrub pine not far from the fire, where he

could partially satisfy himself with the bunch and buffalo grass that

abounds in the foot-hills. I piled on the wood for a big, rousing fire,

for as the night came on it grew very cold, though fortunately it was

clear.

The night continued to grow cold, and I found it impossible to get any

sleep with my simple coverings of overcoat and slicker. Finally I built

two fires, and lying between them at length managed to get warm, and

was just falling into a gentle sleep when my ears were greeted with the

unearthly yelp of the coyote, or timber-wolf, which soon grew louder

and nearer, till apparently I was surrounded by hundreds of them. I

started up in alarm, drawing my revolver, and assumed a position of

defense, for I momentarily expected they would close in on me. But my

being awake, and the light of the fire, kept them at a safe distance,

though the yells and cries were kept up till late in the night. To

add to my misfortune, poor Terry, frightened at the uproar, broke his

fastenings and decamped. I was not supremely happy at the serenade,

but when I saw my faithful horse disappear in the darkness, my heart

sank within me. Even if I should live through the night, how could I

get out and reach food and shelter without Terry? I hoped, however,

that I might find him the next morning, as he had grown to be very

affectionate of late, so much so that he would eat out of my hand and

follow me at my bidding. Knowing that my only safety was in keeping a

bright fire steadily burning, I piled on the wood, plenty of which was

fortunately near at hand. Toward daybreak the wolves began to disperse,

and I breathed a sigh of relief as I heard their distant yelps,

thanking God that danger from that source was now over.

As soon as the daylight enabled me to distinguish objects, my thoughts

were bent on finding Terry. I had hardly left the camp-fire when he

made his appearance through the timber, running directly towards me,

neighing, whinnying, and apparently much pleased to find me safe.

I saddled, and, breakfastless, struck out northeast by the compass,

knowing that if I kept on in that direction I was bound to reach

the road. I pushed ahead as fast as possible, but my progress was

necessarily very slow, as my route lay through frozen mud, fallen

timber and gulches. Suddenly the horse stopped at a sandy place. I

urged him with whip and spur. He would not budge an inch. I jumped off

and tried to lead him over, but he would only pull back. I remounted to

see what he would do, and much to my surprise he went round and crossed

where the water was nearly three feet deep. “There must be something

the matter with the sand,” I said to myself. To satisfy my curiosity, I

rode back on the opposite side, and as the gray tinge of the breaking

day lighted up the surroundings, I was astonished to discover, a few

feet ahead of me, the horns of a cow sticking out of the sand. It

instantly flashed across me why the horse refused to cross.

Late in the afternoon I arrived at Seventeen-mile Ranch, horse and

rider hungry, sleepy, and utterly exhausted. As soon as I lay down on

a rude bunk I fell into a sleep from which I did not awake till early

the next morning, with a little headache, but in other respects feeling

first-rate. I found that the boys at Antelope Springs bulldozed me into

leaving the road, as there was no cow-camp for a hundred miles in the

direction I had taken.

[Illustration: A MUSICAL EVENING.]

I had now seventeen miles to Powder River, and fifty from there to

Buffalo, with a stage station between at Crazy Woman Creek. I had

proceeded about two miles when I was overtaken by two cowboys racing.

Terry, plodding along at his usual gait, braced up as he heard them

coming, and started into a dead run so suddenly that I was almost

upset. He was bound not to be left behind, and surprised me by his

spirit after such a hard trip. Away we went for a mile or so, neck and

neck, till the cowboys turned to the left for their ranch down the

river. The incident gave me encouragement to think that Terry was all

right for getting there anyway.

About four o’clock I reached the post-office at Powder River, the scene

of a noted Indian massacre a few years ago. Here I was overjoyed to

find letters from Cheyenne and home, the first I had received since

starting on my trip. The postmaster informed me that I could strike

a camp eighteen miles northwest that would save me enough distance

to make Buffalo at the end of the next day, but I had had experience

enough in trying to strike cow-camps, and concluded to stick to the

road, even if it did take me a day longer. So, very early the next

morning I started on the road, in a drenching rain, for Crazy Woman,

thirty-three miles.

This was the most disagreeable day I had had during the whole trip, and

a very lonely ride. I saw nothing but a water-hole at Nine-mile Gulch.

The ranch here consists of only a bar-room divided by a curtain from a

room used for sleeping, cooking and eating, with the stables and corral

beyond. I had just entered the bar-room when I was accosted by, “Here,

stranger, come and have something. Turn out some more whiskey, Bill!”

I felt now I had come to what I had expected all along the line, an

invitation to drink, where to refuse would be to risk death; but I was

going to fight it out as long as I could. I replied, “Boys, you must

excuse me; I don’t drink.”

“What’s that? Don’t drink? You ---- tenderfoot! I never had anybody

refuse to drink with me yet, and, I tell yer, you do what I say--you

drink!” drawing his revolver and pointing it at me.

“Well, I’ll take some light drink,” I said, knowing they had nothing

but whiskey, “but I won’t drink that stuff.”

“What do you take us for? We don’t have any ---- dude drinks here. You

do as I tell yer--_drink whiskey_!”

I went over to the bar, took up the glass, and was about to drink,

when a thought occurred to me. I turned to the owner of the place, who

was turning out the drinks, and said:

“Now, sir, I come here a stranger. I propose to attend to my own

business, and when I leave pay my bills and go on my way. The reason I

don’t want to drink is that the liquor will make me crazy. If I take

one glass I shall want five, and I shall not be responsible for what

I do. I appeal to you to see I get fair play. I’ll take a cigar with

the boys, but I would rather not drink.” To which the cowboy who had

insisted on my drinking replied:

“That’s all right, stranger. If you don’t want to drink, you needn’t.

Here, have a cigar. Give him a whole box, Bill; I’ll pay for it.”

I humored them for awhile, but preferring Terry’s dumb society to the

noise and disturbance of the drunken cowboys, I soon joined him.

The storm cleared during the night and the morning broke very pleasant.

The “cow-punchers” had pulled out late at night for their ranch, and

congratulating myself that I was free from them, and had but twenty

miles more, I ate a hearty breakfast, and started for my last ride. I

was getting now into more of a farming country, where crops of oats

and wheat are very successfully raised by irrigation. The Big Horn

Mountains were plainly visible to the northwest, and together with

the foot-hills, which were covered with a green carpet of spring

grass, looked very fine. At ten o’clock I rode into Buffalo, heartily

congratulating myself upon the happy termination of a long and perilous

journey.

[Illustration]

WINTER SHOOTING IN SOUTH CAROLINA.

BY C. W. BOYD.

Notwithstanding boasted advancement in civilization, the love of

camp-life, with its unrestrained freedom and absence of care, is strong

in many a bosom, though the demands of duty and calls of interest may

lead one to suppress it. In my opinion, at any rate, there is nothing

so thoroughly enjoyable as to throw off the trammels of conventionality

and do as one pleases, without fear of restriction or comment.

When, therefore, towards the latter part of February, after a winter

spent in town, without a chance to pull a trigger, my friend C----

proposed a “camp-hunt” up the country, I was not slow to join him. I

was living at the time in the northwestern part of South Carolina, a

famous country for quail, though persistent hunting and the clearing

of heavy tracts of timber have made other game scarce. Having settled

our destination--a spot locally known as “Indian Camp,” on Fair Forest

River--and engaged the services of a teamster, with his two-horse

wagon, we set to work to make up our outfit.

This, although it may seem a simple matter to the uninitiated, requires

some experience, in order to know just what is necessary. I must own

that, although not without some knowledge in the matter, I never went

on a trip of the kind without forgetting something that I afterwards

needed. In the first place, we took a tent, a cot apiece, blanket, a

couple of camp-stools, water-bucket, cups, and cooking utensils. The

staples of our commissariat (a very important department) were bacon,

flour, lard, coffee, sugar, a few dozen lemons, and last, but not

least, a little brown jug, which C---- _insisted_ on taking, saying it

would come in handy for carrying water when emptied of its original

contents. These things, with sundries too numerous to mention, and our

guns and cartridges, completed our outfit. We took two dogs, a pointer

and a setter, each thoroughly trained.

As we had determined to go in style, the next point was to find a cook.

We were soon overwhelmed with applications, and the only trouble was to

make a good selection. We finally decided to take Barney, a somewhat

dark mulatto of gigantic proportions, a genuine Southern negro, with

thick lips, broad, good-humored face, and somewhat of a character in

his way. His accomplishments were considerable. From heeling a gamecock

to turning the jack in “old sledge” his skill was unrivaled among

his colored brethren. Not an event of importance took place in local

sporting circles of which Barney did not know, and of which he was not

_magna pars_, as Virgil puts it. Add to this that he was a first-rate

cook, and in social intercourse constantly inclined to risibility,

with a never-failing flow of conversation, and no one, I think, can

disapprove of our choice.

We arrived at Indian Camp late in the afternoon, and immediately set

about making ourselves comfortable for the night, sending away our

conveyance with instructions to return for us in a week. We pitched our

tent at the foot of a steep, wooded bluff, a few feet from a spring,

whose cold waters sprang from a cleft in the rock. We soon had a fire

of dry branches crackling and blazing in front, with a goodly oak,

felled for the purpose, to serve as a back-log. After a hearty supper

and a glass of usquebaugh, we enjoyed a pipe and talked over our plans

for the morrow, and then retired, to dream of slaughtered quail and

turkey until daylight.

With the first dawn we were up, soused our hands and faces in a

somewhat greasy tin-pan (it had been mixed up with the side of bacon

coming up in the wagon), and were soon discussing breakfast. A heavy

mist hung over us, shutting out from sight the tall cottonwoods on

the banks of the river, and the outlines of the hills beyond. This,

however, rapidly rolled away as the sun rose, leaving the landscape

clear and the weather just cool enough to be bracing. We decided to

employ our first day with quail, crossing the river, or, as it is more

generally called, creek, being about twenty yards wide, and hunting

the hillsides, where, as the weather had been very rainy lately, we

knew we would find most of the coveys. As the bottoms were in a very

miry condition, I put on a pair of rubber boots, but most sincerely

did I afterwards repent it, as, when I was tramping over the stony

hillsides, after the sun became warm, they were almost unendurable.

We “crossed the river on a hickory log,” as the song says, and forcing

a way through a dense jungle of vines and canes at least twenty feet

in height, were just emerging on the other side, when, whir! whir!

whir! came the sharp and well-remembered whistle of retreating wings.

We dashed out into the edge of a field of young wheat, just in time to

see the last brown wing settling in the distance, and our dogs, which

had preceded us, rising from a dead point. The covey had been lying so

close to the edge of the canebrake that we walked right into them, not

knowing that our dogs had pointed. There is no use crying over spilt

milk, as the country people say, and so we started in pursuit.

We had not gone half across the field when we saw my setter, that in

the meantime had half circled it, drop on the border of a patch of

brown straw, on the other side. We hurried across, but, on approaching,

were surprised to see the dog creep several yards forward, indicating,

of course, that the birds were moving, and consequently that we had

found a new covey, for after being once flushed and scattered the birds

always lie close. We moved forward cautiously, and, in my own case at

least, somewhat nervously, for it was my first shot of the season.

Suddenly--it always comes suddenly--the shock of rushing wings, and

bang, bang, bang!--bang! the three first reports almost simultaneous.

On searching the ground we succeeded in finding only one bird, much to

our chagrin, as we supposed we had made three shots without result.

This, however, was not the case, as while hunting in the direction the

flushed birds had taken, through a thicket of scrub-pine, we came out

into a new clearing, where some boys were burning brush, and there

found two more birds where they had dropped stone dead, several hundred

yards from where they had been shot. While hunting here we had the same

experience many times; in fact, I have never elsewhere seen quail that

were so hard to kill. We tramped all day, finding birds in abundance,

and towards evening had a fine bag, although the country was very

unfavorable for shooting, being extremely hilly, with numerous thickets

of scrub-pine, in which the birds would seek shelter after being

flushed. These were so dense that it was hard to get a glimpse of the

bird as he whistled away.

On my arrival in camp I found my feet badly blistered by the rubber

boots, and determined to eschew them in future for any except wading

purposes. However, after bathing my feet in cold water and whiskey

I began to feel comfortable, and did ample justice to a supper of

smothered quail, etc.

While we were cleaning our guns, an old negro named Ralph, with two

half-grown boys, made his appearance, and we derived considerable

amusement from their quaint notions and ready credulity. Even the old

man had probably never been a dozen miles from his native cabin in his

life. For a “dram” and some pieces of silver money they brought us eggs

and very tolerable butter, promising a fresh supply on the morrow.

In camp one is never troubled with sleeplessness, and we were soon

snoozing away comfortably under our canvas roof, dogs and all, except

when it became necessary to replenish the log-fire, which we had built

in front of the tent-opening to keep off the dampness.

Next day, about four in the afternoon, being tired of tramping, I

determined “to take a stand” in the heavy timber near the banks of

the river, for any sort of game that might chance to appear. I took a

seat at the butt of a huge fallen poplar, with a maple swamp on one

hand, its swelling crimson buds already showing signs of spring, and a

canebrake on the other. It was almost too early in the afternoon for

anything in the game line to be stirring. But the forest was grand,

solitary and primeval. To the mind, however, accustomed to commune with

nature, there was nothing of loneliness, for innumerable voices of the

wood cried out, and the spirit of life was busy in the wilderness, and

its unrestrained freedom seemed to lift and stimulate the soul like

old wine. Here was a splendid field for an ornithologist. Rare birds

of many species flitted about from tree to tree, or rested in the cool

shade. Conspicuous above all for brilliancy of plumage, and also the

noise they make in the world, were the many species of woodpeckers,

from the white-and-black Indian hen, as large as a spring chicken, to

the minute sapsucker no larger than a man’s thumb. These kept up an

incessant hammering and boring that resounded throughout the forest

like the noise of a gigantic workshop. Here and there, on the highest

branches of decayed trees, lazy turkey-buzzards sat, stretching

at intervals their huge wings with a slumberous effort towards

the afternoon sun, while high in the air a pair of “rabbit” hawks,

disturbed from their perch, circled with shrill cries.

Presently I heard the sharp bark of a squirrel, and a little fellow,

with his tail over his back, jumped over the ground for a neighboring

tree. I let him alone, for I knew, if undisturbed, he would be

presently followed by others; the old cautious fellows letting the

young and more rash bloods go first from the holes, from which, if the

coast seem clear, they follow. In a few minutes the woods appeared

full of them, chattering away, and jumping from tree to tree, eating

the young buds with such gusto that it seemed almost a sin to disturb

them. A sportsman or a hungry man, however, is not apt to indulge in

sentiment, and the hills were soon reverberating with the reports of

my breech-loader. C---- soon came to the spot to find out what all

the racket was about, and we managed to bag about twelve before the

others, frightened by the noise, regained their dens. Then we gave the

birds another turn, which lasted until we could not see to shoot, and

returned to camp.

Near the tent stood a small haw-tree, on whose branches we strung up

our game so as to be convenient for use. By the end of the week it was

pretty well loaded. But it did not remain so for long. On Saturday

night a party of friends from town came up to visit us, and game and

other provisions disappeared with astonishing rapidity.

We made a merry party that night gathered around the camp-fire, and

song, story and jest followed each other in rapid succession. With our

supply of lemons a huge bowl of punch was brewed.

Old Ralph, scenting the good cheer from afar, came down from his cabin

on the hill with several other darkies, and their hearts were all made

glad with a “dram.” Tired and sleepy, about two o’clock I retired. The

last thing I remember seeing as I dozed off was R---- (who I think

staid up all night), seated on a camp-stool, explaining to the darkies

how earthquakes were caused by a certain unmentionable gentleman who

resides below, moving his furniture about with other scientific facts

and theories of a like kind. In the meantime his audience sat on the

ground, presenting a circle of black faces on which the firelight

shone, revealing open mouths and eyes as large as saucers, all of which

made a _tout ensemble_ that was ludicrous in the extreme.

Next morning the weather was cloudy, and as it began to rain about

eleven o’clock, we procured a wagon, packed up our equipment, and

reluctantly abandoned our camp for the realms of civilization.

THREE DAYS’ GRACE.

The tiny slipper she had dropped

He lifted from the brookside dust,

And placed it on the dainty foot

That had so lightly held its trust.

“Ah! Cinderella,”--but she waived

His homage of the eye and knee;

Half mockingly, half tenderly--

“I am your debtor, sir,” said she.

“Ay, and I wait the payment, love!”

She flushed, then laughed back, as she sped

From stepping-stone to stepping-stone:

“Give me three days of grace,” she said.

He cleared the streamlet at a bound,

And whispered, gazing on her face,

“The favor is not mine to grant,

For all your days are Days of Grace!”

_Sarah J. Burke._

AMERICAN COLLEGE ATHLETICS.

II. YALE UNIVERSITY.

BY RICHARD M. HURD,

Author of “A History of Yale Athletics.”

Yale student life has changed much in all aspects since the beginning

of the present century, but in no respect has the advance been more

marked, or the evolution more complete, than in the department of

athletics.

The picture of the Yale student of eighty years ago, to whom the

words “physical culture” were unknown, and whose ideas of out-of-door

exercise were limited to an impromptu running or jumping contest,

a game of “one-old-cat,” or the kicking of a football, forms the

strongest contrast to the present Yale undergraduate life, with its

five branches of intercollegiate sports, its long and arduous months of

preparation for a contest, its highly organized system of management,

and its yearly expenditure of thousands of dollars. The difference

between what athletics meant to the student of that period, and

what they mean to-day, presents a more striking contrast, however,

than the change in their mere outward form. They were then passing

amusements, acting as a safety-valve for exuberant spirits; they are

now serious and absorbing pursuits scientifically studied, to which

are devoted the highest qualities of courage, skill and endurance in

their accomplishment, the greatest resources of experience, foresight

and generalship in their command, and the best organizing and business

ability in their management to be obtained in the undergraduate body.

In a word, the contrast lies between the student world of the old days,

which directed its best efforts into channels mapped out and set before

it by authority, and the body of modern students who find in all the

duties connected with athletics, the opportunities to develop by actual

experience, untrammeled by supervision, those qualities, of physique,

of organization, or of command, to which their tastes most tend.

To forge, then, the connecting links between the Yale athletics of 1800

and those of to-day, and to show how the latter have gradually grown

out of the former, will be the purpose of this article.

Regarding it as settled that the sports of our predecessors were

confined to “one-old-cat,” or the kicking of a football, the first

indication of any interest in athletics occurs in 1826, when the

corporation appropriated $300 to erect gymnastic apparatus upon an

uncovered piece of ground. About 1840 there sprang up an annual game of

football between the sophomore and freshman classes, which has survived

to the present day in the form of an annual “rush.” To call this class

scrimmage football is a decided stretching of the term, as may be

judged from the contemporary description of a game whose participants,

attired in a unique grotesqueness of style, and with faces painted

in all imaginable hues, formed wedges and phalanxes, and charged and

scrambled with a most healthy rivalry, but in whom all knowledge of

football was evidently lacking.

Turning to rowing, we find that to Yale belongs the honor of having

the oldest rowing club in America, four boats having been purchased

by the students in the spring of 1843, with the idea of rowing for

exercise and recreation, an idea hitherto unthought of. The system of

class boat-clubs prevailed at Yale until the first Yale-Harvard race in

1852 led to the formation of the “Yale Navy,” in which all the active

boat-clubs were consolidated. This first intercollegiate rowing match

originated as an advertising expedient in the mind of an enterprising

railroad man, who desired to bring into notice the Boston, Concord and

Montreal Railroad, then a new road.

[Illustration: THE CREW--CHAMPIONS, 1888.

G. R. CARTER, ’88 S.

C. O. GILL, ’89. N. JAMES, ’90 (SUBS.). G. S. BREWSTER, ’91.

R. M. WILCOX, ’88 S. W. H. CORBIN, ’89. J. A. HARTWELL, ’89 S.

S. M. CROSS, ’88 (STROKE). F. A. STEVENSON, ’88 (CAPT.).

G. W. WOODRUFF, ’89 (SUBS.). R. THOMPSON, ’90 (COX.).

]

[Illustration: WINNERS IN INTERCOLLEGIATE ATHLETIC GAMES, 1888.

G. W. WOODRUFF, ’89. H. L. WILLIAMS, ’91.

T. G. SHEARMAN, ’89. C. H. SHERRILL, ’89.

W. G. LANE, ’88 (CAPT.). W. HARMAR, ’90.

]

Of preparation for this race there was almost none, as may be judged

from the remark of a member of the Harvard crew, to the effect that

“they had not rowed much for fear of blistering their hands.” Harvard

won the race, largely owing to their superior boat, the _Oneida_, which

being probably the best of her class, deserves a description. She was

an eight-oared, “lap-streak” barge, thirty-seven feet long, three and

a half feet beam, quite low in the water, and fitted with gratings at

each end. Flat wooden thole-pins were used, a plain bar of hard wood

served as stretcher, and a red baize cushion covered each seat. The

oars were of white ash, and ranged in length from thirteen feet six

inches in the waist to twelve feet at bow and stroke.

Occasional races were rowed between Yale and Harvard at Springfield

and on Lake Quinsigamond up to 1864. These were three-mile, turnabout

races, usually rowed in six-oared barges, although sometimes

four-oared and eight-oared boats would contend with them, in which case

an allowance of eleven seconds per extra oar would be made in favor of

the smaller boats.

Baseball as an organized game was first played at Yale in 1859, but

it was not until 1864 that the formation of the Y. U. B. B. C., and

the three victories won by the first Yale nine caused it to become

a recognized college institution. Yale’s first intercollegiate game

occurred in this year, when she defeated the Agallian Club of Wesleyan

University by a score of 39 to 13 runs. For the next few years the game

continued to grow at Yale, some five or ten games a year being played,

mostly with professional clubs. Yale met Princeton and Harvard for the

first time on the diamond in 1868, defeating Princeton easily by 30 to

23.

The game at this time, it will be understood, was a “natural” sort of

game, in which the individual capacities of the players counted for far

more than either team-play or training or science. Harvard defeated

Yale in their first game, and continued to do so until 1874, when the

tide was turned in favor of Yale, largely by the able captaincy and

fine individual playing of Mr. C. Hammond Avery, who broke the chain of

eight Harvard successes by winning four straight victories over Harvard.

In 1872 a series of games, the best two in three, was substituted

between Yale and Harvard, in place of the annual game, and in the

following year the same arrangement was made between Yale and Princeton.

[Illustration: HUNDRED YARDS RUN--THE START.]

It will be seen that the chief need of the Yale nines up to this time

had been, not only a better knowledge of the game, but also greater

coolness at critical points, which faithful practice could alone give

them. The causes of Harvard’s uniform success were that baseball was

started earlier and on a more scientific basis at Harvard than at Yale,

and also because in and near Boston there were, in the early days of

baseball, many nines, professional and amateur, whose influence in the

way of example and practice tended always towards a high degree of

skill.

Returning to football, we find that, owing to a lack of grounds, the

students having been forbidden to play on the city green, the annual

game was given up in 1858, and football was dead until 1870. In this

year it was resurrected by the classes of ’72 and ’73, who were

unusually enthusiastic over athletic sports, and becoming immediately

a popular game, a match was arranged with Columbia in 1872. In this

match twenty men played on each side, a game that consisted chiefly of

kicking, bounding and batting the ball, one of the rules being, “No

player shall pick up, throw or carry the ball.” Yale was outplayed and

defeated by Princeton in the following year, the latter displaying much

science. Two years later Yale attempted to play Harvard under what were

called “modified Rugby rules,” and the other colleges under the old

rules, with the disastrous result, which might have been expected, of

being defeated by Columbia as well as by Harvard.

This brings us to the year 1876, which we will take as a starting-point

for modern athletics, and retrace our steps to the Yale-Harvard

races of ’64 and ’65. These were the races famous in Yale annals,

won by Wilbur Bacon and his crew of giants. These men were picked

out for strength, without regard to previous experience, and by dint

of tremendous efforts, combined with the best discipline, they were

transformed into very fast crews, despite their undoubtedly bad style.

The training they underwent was, as one of their number said not long

ago, “what no college crew could be asked to undergo at this time.”

During the two months before the race, in which their training lasted

in all its severity, they rose at six, walked and ran before breakfast

from three to five miles, and rowed four miles at speed both morning

and afternoon. Their diet was of the plainest, beef, mutton, toast,

rice, and weak tea being the staples, with few vegetables. The time

made by the ’65 crew, 17m. 47½s., for a three-mile turnabout race,

six-oared, broke all previous records, and was a noteworthy performance.

From 1872 to 1875 inclusive, the regattas were very large, as many as

thirteen boats being entered in one race, and were characterized by

much fouling of boats, and great dissatisfaction. Stories are told

of crews fighting each other with their oar-blades when fouled, and

whether this be true or not, it is certain that the overcrowding of

the course and the impossibility of avoiding accidents had much to

do with the withdrawal of the Yale and Harvard crews in 1876. The

Yale crew of ’72, the worst that ever represented Yale, contained the

Freshman who, as captain and stroke of the Yale crews for the four

succeeding years, was destined ultimately to bring more improvement and

prestige to Yale rowing than any other individual ever connected with

it.

It was in the early spring of 1873 that “Bob” Cook took his trip to

England to study rowing, in which, during some months spent among the

university oars of Oxford and Cambridge and the watermen of the Thames,

he largely acquired that complete mastery of rowing which has enabled

him to raise Yale to the first rank as a boating college. Among the

sacrifices that were made to enable Mr. Cook to go to England were his

being dropped a class in his studies and the pawning of a gold watch by

a Senior, now a Yale professor, in order to raise the necessary funds.

It was after the three Yale victories in the University, Freshman and

single-scull race, in 1873, that by the energy of Mr. C. H. Ferry the

sum of $16,500 was raised to build the fine boat-house that Yale now

possesses.

The year 1876, bringing as it did the formation of the Intercollegiate

Football Association, the introduction of eight-oared four-mile

Yale-Harvard races, and the presentation of the Mott Haven Cup, may be

taken as a starting-point for modern athletics. It is not so much that

there was any distinct stride in advance in this year, but rather that

with the better organization of athletic sports, better opportunities

were given for their development.

FOOTBALL SINCE 1876.

In this year the American Rugby rules and the oval Rugby ball were

adopted by the association composed of Harvard, Princeton, and

Columbia. Yale declined to join this association, but defeated every

member of it, thus being virtually champion for that year.

In the following year Yale desired to play with elevens, and the other

colleges with fifteens. No game was played with Harvard, but for the

sake of a game Yale consented to play Princeton with fifteens. The

game, which was a draw, was probably the best exhibition of football

thus far given in America. The only possible drawback was the fact that

weight and roughness were to some extent substituted for skill in the

Yale team.

[Illustration: FOOTBALL TEAM--CHAMPIONS, 1887.

F. C. PRATT, ’88 S. W. H. CORBIN, ’89. F. W. WALLACE, ’89.

S. M. CROSS, ’88. G. R. CARTER, ’88 S. W. T. BULL, ’88 S.

G. W. WOODRUFF, ’89. C. O. GILL, ’89.

W. C. WURTENBERG, ’89 S. W. P. GRAVES, ’91.

H. BEECHER, ’88 (CAPT.).

]

For the next two years football was played by fifteens, but since 1879

it has been played by elevens only. In the fall of 1878, the Yale

Faculty permitted absence from recitation on account of football, to

enable the team to play Harvard in Boston, which action put football

on the same basis as baseball, and marked an epoch in its history. The

victorious Yale team, having defeated Harvard by one goal to none, were

met at the station at two ~A.M.~ by three hundred students, who

were thus probably the first to inaugurate the present custom of a

triumphant reception to the team winning an important victory.

[Illustration: OVER THE HURDLES.]

It was largely owing to the overconfidence of the Yale team engendered

by this game, that they were defeated by Princeton a few days later.

It was the more unfortunate that Princeton should have won this game

in that it caused them to introduce the “block” game, which has done

so much harm to football in America. The “block” game consists of a

defensive style of play, whose sole object is to prevent the scoring

of the opposing team, by which the college having won the year before

may still retain the nominal glory of the championship. For the three

ensuing years the Yale-Princeton games were draws. During these years

the Yale-Harvard games were all well-fought contests, the Yale men

winning by a more thorough understanding of the game, and by the aid of

fine individual players.

[Illustration: POLE VAULTING NO. 1.--THE RISE.]

In 1881, a change in the rules was made with the idea of destroying the

“block” game, by which safety touch-downs were made to count. This rule

could be avoided, however, by making touch-in-goals, which were only

technically different from safeties.

Yale began her football season in 1882 three weeks earlier than usual,

and consequently played more practice games. In the Yale-Harvard game,

Yale forced the play, making a touch-down a few moments after play

began. The Harvard eleven, although they found themselves outmatched by

the “finest rush-line ever put on an American field,” to their credit

be it said, played the game for what it was worth and did not attempt

any “blocking” tactics. The chief feature of the Yale-Princeton game

was the long-distance kicking of Moffat for Princeton and of Richards

for Yale, which was described as resembling a game of lawn-tennis. The

most brilliant play of the game was the superb goal kicked from the

sixty-five-yard line by Haxall of Princeton.

A new system of counting by points was introduced in 1883, by which a

goal from touch-down was made to count six points, a goal from field

five points, a touch-down two points, and a safety one. Up to this

time goals from touch-downs and from field had been equivalent, and

four touch-downs had equaled one goal.

The Yale team of ’83 had a giant rushline averaging 185 lbs., while the

whole team averaged upwards of 173 lbs. In the Yale-Princeton game,

which was distinguished by many brilliant plays, Yale made a touchdown

and goal eight minutes after play began, after which no scoring was

done by either side.

The Harvard Committee on Athletics having come to the conclusion

that football was a brutal sport, before the Yale-Harvard game, only

permitted it to be played on condition that the referee should be an

alumnus, and that he should have full power to send any player off the

field for unfair play, which was not in this sense to include offside

play. These conditions were incorporated into the rules of the game at

the annual convention, it being ruled that (1) a player can be offside

but once during a game, and (2) the referee shall disqualify a man for

three times intentionally delaying the game. In scoring, the system now

in use was introduced, a touch-down being made to count four points

instead of two, and a safety two instead of one.

[Illustration: POLE VAULTING NO. 2.--CLEARING THE BAR.]

The Yale eleven of 1884 defeated Harvard by 52 to 0, her eleven being

by far the poorest she had ever turned out, ranking fifth among the

college teams. In the Yale-Princeton game a goal from touch-down

was made by Yale just three minutes after play was called. Princeton

secured a touch-down, but no goal, and with the score 6 to 4 in favor

of Yale, the game was called before time on account of darkness, thus

making it technically “no game,” and depriving Yale of the formal

championship.

[Illustration: POLE VAULTING NO. 3.--DROPPING THE POLE.]

For the season of 1885 the Football Association embraced but four

members, Yale, Princeton, Wesleyan and Pennsylvania, Harvard being

forbidden intercollegiate football by the action of their Faculty. At

Yale one of the finest elevens ever turned out was formed from almost

entirely new material, and, although defeated by Princeton by six

points to five, this material has abundantly repaid the efforts made

in its behalf by forming the backbone of Yale’s magnificent elevens

of 1886 and 1887. In the first half of the Yale-Princeton game of

1885, Yale scored a goal from the field. In the second half, Lamar, of

Princeton, made his famous run, seizing the ball on a long, low punt,

and by clever dodging obtaining a clear field for a run, he made a

touch-down between the goal-posts, thus winning the championship for

Princeton. It was a marvelous feat, and one to be long remembered.

[Illustration: THE NINE--CHAMPIONS, 1888.

N. S. DALZELL, ’91 (subs.). J. C. DANN, ’88 S., c.

J. O. HEYWORTH, ’88 (subs.). S. Y. OSBORNE, ’88 S. (subs.)

S. J. WALKER, ’88, l. f. J. F. HUNT, L.S., c.f.

C. B. McCONKEY, ’88, s. s.

H. McBRIDE, ’90 S., 1b. A. G. McCLINTOCK, ’90, r. f.

H. F. NOYES, ’89, 3b. G. CALHOUN, ’91, 2b.

A. A. STAGG, ’88, p. (CAPT.)

]

In the fall of 1886 Harvard was readmitted to the association, and

proved that she had not been idle during her year of class football

contests by displaying better football than she had ever shown

before. In one of the most exhausting games ever played, Yale

defeated her by 29 to 4. In this game Yale, according to her usual

policy, forced the play from the beginning, obtaining two goals in the

first twelve minutes’ play. The Yale-Princeton game of this year was

something more than a disappointment to the thousands from New York,

New Haven, and elsewhere, who gathered in Princeton only to be soaked

by a fierce rain and to witness an unfinished game, in which good play,

owing to the slippery ground, was impossible.

The resolutions adopted by the convention are worthy of record:

_Resolved_, 1, That this convention cannot, as a convention, award the

championship for 1886.

_Resolved_, 2, That Yale, according to points scored, should have won

the championship.

In the fall of 1887, the chief innovation was the appointment of an

umpire, in addition to the referee, whose duty it was to prevent

and punish violations of the rules of behavior. No delays of over

one minute were allowed this year. Despite the heavy rain during

the Yale-Princeton game, which rendered brilliant plays impossible,

it was a very satisfactory game, being free from delays, slugging,

foul-tackling, etc.

The Yale-Harvard game played at the Polo Grounds, New York, on

Thanksgiving Day, in the presence of some twenty thousand people, was

without doubt the finest game of football ever played in America,

and one which, owing to its freedom from disagreeable incidents, did

incalculable good in influencing popular opinion in favor of the

game. In the first half Yale scored a goal from field and one from

touch-down. The touch-down was made by the Yale centre, who, being

unguarded by the Harvard centre, instead of snapping the ball back when

the elevens lined up, kicked it a few inches forward, and, picking it

up, made a long run. Time for the first half was called just as the

Harvard back was making a run, and the Yale rushers not attempting to

stop him, he secured a touch-down too late to be counted. In the second

half Yale made a safety, and Harvard a goal from touch-down, making the

score 11 to 8 in favor of Yale. One of the Yale half-backs, however, by

a brilliant run of thirty-five yards, secured a touch-down, from which

a goal was kicked, which rendered the final score 17 to 8.

The year 1887 was a most encouraging one to all lovers of football

in the elimination of many disagreeable features and in the adequate

enforcement of the rules by two officials. The last bugbear to football

that seems to be gradually disappearing is the practice of “slugging,”

or striking with the closed fist. What might be called a stricter

attention to business necessitated by the more intricate system of

team-play, aided by the appointment of a special umpire, has almost

completely removed this stumbling-block. Two dangers remain that must

be in some way overcome before the future of football is assured, and

these are “holding in the line” and “interference.”

The different styles of play evolved at Harvard, Princeton and Yale

in this year showed a more marked individuality than is usually the

case. Harvard’s game was one of heavy rushing in its most aggressive

form, with but little kicking. Princeton, on the other hand, adhered to

their traditional game of agility, selecting their players for skill

and sacrificing strength and weight, while Yale possessed an all-round

team, capable of playing a rushing or a kicking game, and one which,

being ably generaled, suited its style of play to that of its opponent.

There were but two games of interest in the fall of 1888, owing to

the unfortunate action of the Harvard Faculty in not allowing the

Yale-Harvard game to be played in New York. In the first of these

Princeton defeated Harvard by 18 to 6, the victory being won by

superior play, against a weak rush-line. The Yale-Princeton game was

a magnificent and stubborn contest, being won by Yale by two goals

from the field to nothing. Harvard having forfeited to Yale, the

championship remained in New Haven for another year.

Football in American colleges, despite the severe crisis of 1884 and

1885, is at present in far better shape than it ever has been, and

promises to become a great national game on this side of the water, as

it has so long been on the other.

The record that Yale has made in football is too good to be omitted.

She has won 93 out of 98 games played, having lost three games to

Princeton, one to Harvard, and one to Columbia. Since 1878, Yale has

lost but one game, and that by one point. In points Yale has won, since

points began to be counted, 3,001 to her opponents’ 56; in goals, 530

to 19, and in touch-downs, 219 to 9.

ROWING SINCE 1876.

By a vote of the Y. U. B. C., Yale withdrew from the general rowing

association and challenged Harvard to an eight-oared four-mile

contest, a challenge which she promptly accepted. For this race all

undergraduates of either college and all of the graduates of either who

were studying for another degree were declared eligible. The ’76 race

was an easy victory for Yale, being won by half a minute. Mr. Cook,

the Yale stroke, set the stroke about thirty-three, and did not vary

one point in the last two miles, while the Harvard stroke was very

irregular, ranging from thirty-five to forty a minute. The boats used

in this race were of cedar, and were the first eight-oared shells used

in America. In the fall of this year a picked four from the Yale crew,

stroked by Mr. Cook, won the international and intercollegiate regatta

of the Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia.

The withdrawal of Yale from the general regatta, followed next year

by the withdrawal of Harvard, so effectually discouraged the smaller

colleges that no rowing was done by any of them for a number of years.

The Yale-Harvard races, after being rowed at Springfield for two years,

were moved in 1878 to New London, where they have since been rowed. The

advantages offered by this place in the way of its easy access from

the great cities, its clear and straight course, and the “moving grand

stand” of platform cars running along the west bank of the river, are

so strongly in its favor that it appears probable that the races have

found their permanent home.

The races of ’77, ’78 and ’79 were won by Harvard with increasing ease,

the first-named being won by seven seconds and the last by one minute

and forty-three seconds. The spectators in this year were amazed,

according to the papers, to see “how badly the Yale men rowed;” but

with this disgraceful defeat came the spur to greater effort, and for

the two ensuing years victory came to Yale.

In 1882 there occurred the famous “eel-grass” race, the most

disappointing race ever rowed in America. The Yale captain, with the

assistance of Mr. Davis, devised a new style of boat in which the oars

were separated into pairs of starboard and port, by which device so

much room was required that the boat measured sixty-eight feet, or nine

feet longer than the average racing shell. The ultimate object was to

attain a high stroke, scientific principles being sacrificed to a sort

of “get there” way of rowing forty-two to forty-eight strokes a minute.

The story of the race is soon told. Yale led at the mile-and-a-half

by a length of clear water, and at the two miles, where Yale emerged

from the eel-grass, Harvard led by six lengths. The Yale crew gave a

splendid exhibition of “sand,” spurting right up to the finish line at

a forty-five stroke, and finishing half a length behind Harvard. The

fact that they rowed every individual half-mile excepting the fourth,

when in the eel-grass, faster than Harvard, sufficiently proves their

superiority.

Under the same captain, the Yale crew adhered to the same style of

rowing in the following year, nor is it to be wondered at, considering

the fast time they made both at New London and in New Haven harbor. The

’83 crew, however, lacked the snap and life and the severe training

that alone can bring success to a crew rowing so incorrect a stroke as

they used. Harvard’s victory by fifteen lengths killed the so-called

“donkey-engine” stroke at Yale, which in itself was of more benefit

to Yale rowing than many victories. Mr. R. J. Cook again came to the

rescue of boating at Yale in 1884, and turned out the finest Yale crew

that had yet sat on the water, and one that lowered the record to 20m.

31s.

In 1885 the Yale crew, as they rowed up to the starting flag, appeared

very heavy and very ragged, owing to the difference in height. They

were a powerful set of men, averaging 175½ pounds, wretchedly trained,

four being over-trained and four undertrained, and rowing a combination

Cook and “donkey-engine” stroke. Compromises in rowing are almost

invariably fatal, and so it proved in this instance, the Yale crew

finishing, very much distressed, some sixteen lengths behind Harvard.

The Harvard crew used one of the best strokes they had ever rowed, it

being characterized by a long, smooth pull, stronger in the middle of

the stroke than at either catch or finish, and by a well-controlled

slide at both ends of the stroke.

In the past three years, owing largely to the personal efforts of Mr.

Cook, “the father of Yale boating,” in coaching a most faithful and

painstaking set of men, victory has remained with the Yalensians, and

Yale now leads Harvard in the number of eight-oared races won. The ’86

race was a comparatively easy one, Yale winning by eight lengths,

while the ’87 race was a desperate struggle, won by but four lengths.

The race of last spring will be long remembered by Yale men as the

most crushing defeat ever administered to Harvard oarsmen. The strict

adherence on the part of the Yale crew to the principles of rowing

practised in the two preceding years, backed up by great enthusiasm

and assiduous labor, turned out a crew that rowed the course in 20m.

10s., lowering the record easily without being pushed. At Harvard, the

dissensions among the members of the rowing committee, their adoption

of antiquated English ideas in regard to boats, oars, rigging, etc.,

and the curious notions of rowing held by Mr. Watson the chief coach,

turned out a crew that lost a length in the first ten strokes, and

crossed the finish line a quarter of a mile behind the Yale crew.

“Too many cooks spoil the broth,” is an old but true adage. Yale is

fortunate in possessing one Cook, who certainly makes most excellent

broth. It seems probable that, in view of the practical working of

their rowing committee, Harvard will either again seek the aid of

professional oarsmen, or select one man, such as Mr. Frank Peabody, or

Mr. J. J. Storrow, to have entire control of her boating interests.

The diet of the ’88 crew may be given as fairly representative of the

latest ideas in regard to this branch of the training. For breakfast

and supper the crew ate oatmeal, beefsteak, mutton-chops, eggs, and

stewed or baked potatoes; for dinner, roast beef, mutton, fricasseed

chicken, water-cress, potatoes, rice, macaroni, tomatoes and puddings.

Occasional ale was allowed, especially after the crew had rowed on

time, or on particularly hot days. The work of the crew occupied about

three hours a day, besides which as much work was done in pair-oars in

the mornings during the spring, as recitations would permit.

The summary of Yale-Harvard races stands: Harvard 22, Yale 17;

Harvard’s lead being obtained between 1852 and 1870, when rowing was in

its infancy at Yale.

It is interesting to notice that neither age, weight nor height have

any decided advantage among the Yale and Harvard crews, the oldest

crews having won seven times in thirteen, the heaviest five times in

thirteen, and the tallest four times in eleven.

It would thus appear that the qualities that bring success in rowing

are not merely physical, to be computed mathematically, but that the

moral qualities of pluck and endurance, added to skill and judgment,

must be equally considered in selecting a typical rowing man.

The average rowing man, physically considered, of Yale and Harvard

for the past twelve years has been a man 21¾ years old, 167½ lbs. in

weight, and 5 ft. 10½ in. in height. It is rather remarkable that the

average Yale and the average Harvard rowing man does not vary more than

a slight fraction in any of these three respects, despite the wide

differences between individual Yale and Harvard crews.

The principles of good rowing laid down by Mr. Cook in the last two

years, and re-enforced by his constant attention, have resulted in a

settled style of rowing at Yale, which bids fair to be modified only

as the needs of individual crews may require. There are a few oarsmen

who still favor somewhat the rapid stroke of the ’82 Yale crew,

basing their arguments upon the fast times made by that crew both

at New London and on New Haven harbor. The answer to be made to the

advocates of their style of rowing is that they were a set of giants,

capable of rowing forty-five strokes to the minute for four miles, a

feat impossible to modern oarsmen. It is conceivable that the rapid

stroke, so much trusted in by professionals, might with men of immense

strength, who were incapable of attaining to the finish and detail of

a crew of the present day, turn out a faster eight than the “Bob Cook”

stroke with the same men, still it is much to be doubted. While with

the present tendency towards selecting light and muscular, rather than

beefy men, there can be no question but that the fastest rowing of

which they are capable will be done by the “Bob Cook” stroke, which

with its long swing and slow slide takes advantage of every pound of

impetus, and with its slow catch gives the oarsman between every stroke

a chance to recover his breath and nerve himself for the next pull. And

this present method of selecting material is more than justified by the

magnificent rowing of the ’88 Yale crew, which in the opinion of Mr.

Frank Peabody, the Harvard coach, could defeat any crew, amateur or

professional, English or American, that should be pitted against it.

In other words, the ’88 Yale crew made the finest exhibition of rowing

ever seen in America, and may be safely said to have been the fastest

crew that ever sat in a boat.

BASEBALL SINCE 1876.

After the Yale successes in baseball in ’74 and ’75, the Yale nines

played much closer games with Harvard, although for the four succeeding

years the series of games was invariably won by Harvard.

One of the Yale-Harvard games in 1877 was remarkable in that the

Harvard nine went to the bat only twenty-seven times, each player going

out in the order of striking. Not a single hit was made off Carter, the

Yale pitcher. In 1878 Yale defeated Harvard on her own grounds for the

first time, which inspired so much over-confidence in the Yale team

that they were defeated in three straight games by Harvard. This is

but one of many instances of the truth that college nines do best when

least is expected of them, and that it is confidence unfortified by

hard work which most surely issues in defeat.

The Intercollegiate Baseball Association was formed in December, 1879,

with Yale, Harvard, Princeton, Amherst, Dartmouth and Brown as members.

Yale shortly withdrew from the association because it voted to allow

the playing of college men who had played on professional teams.

Series of games were arranged, however, with Harvard, Princeton and

Amherst, in which Yale won seven out of eight games, virtually winning

the championship. In her games with professionals Yale was singularly

successful, winning eleven out of thirteen played.

From 1880 to 1888 inclusive Yale has won the championship, with but one

exception, when in 1885 Harvard won it by ten straight victories. In

1884 Yale and Harvard were tied for first place, and the deciding game,

played in Brooklyn, was won by Yale.

The year 1885 was the most disastrous in athletics ever experienced

at Yale. The Yale nine, although possessing individual players of

merit, had no reliable pitcher, and lacked team play and discipline.

Yale’s first defeat in 1886 was in an exhibition game with Columbia,

whose brilliant team of this year defeated Harvard also. This team

was in reality a graduates’ nine composed mostly of Law School men,

and included graduates of Yale, Princeton, etc. The tie game for the

championship was played off in Hartford, between Harvard and Yale, on

the day after Yale’s victory on the water. The Yale nine, who had been

practising on the Hartford grounds while the Harvard nine watched the

race, played with great determination, and won by a score of 7 to 1.

The now famous battery of Stagg and Dann first came to the front in

this year.

After this season’s play, Harvard, Princeton and Yale withdrew from

the Intercollegiate Association and formed a triangular league. Into

this “College League” Columbia was admitted, but after a few games she

withdrew owing to various difficulties. The first Yale-Harvard game in

1887, played in New Haven, resulted in a crushing defeat for Harvard by

a score of 14 to 2. The game was quite close until the eighth inning,

in which the Yale nine completely knocked Boyden out of the box, making

eight hits with a total of twelve, and allowing every member of the

nine to make a circuit of the bases.

The baseball season of 1888 opened with a severe check to Yale’s

hopes in her defeat by Princeton in the first game played. The loss

of this game made it appear that Princeton, after having for several

years assisted Yale to the championship by winning a game or two

from Harvard, would now render a like service to Harvard. The first

Yale-Harvard game, however, was reassuring, Yale winning by 7 to 1. The

next game, played in Cambridge, being won by Harvard, 7 to 3, put an

entirely different aspect upon affairs, necessitating, as it did, in

order for Yale to win the championship, her winning the three remaining

games of the series. This difficult feat was brilliantly accomplished

by the aid of much “sand” in the Yale team. The most notable feature

was the game played in Cambridge, won by Yale, 8 to 0, in which Stagg

held the Harvard batters down to two hits. As was the case in 1886 and

1887, Yale’s chief strength this year lay in her battery, Stagg and

Dann.

Yale’s baseball record is, on the whole, most creditable, she having

won 130 out of 177 college games played. With Harvard, Yale has won 32

games and lost 30, while with Princeton Yale has won 33 and lost 11.

To other colleges than these two, Yale has lost but six games, two to

Amherst, two to Brown, one to Columbia and one to Dartmouth. In all her

games, with professionals as well as amateurs, Yale has made about 550

more runs than her opponents.

An innovation was made last fall in the matter of getting together a

university nine for practice games in the fall. During the winter the

nine practised batting daily in the baseball cage, and got in good

physical condition by gymnasium work and out-of-door running. A simple

machine, enabling the nine to practise sliding in the cage, was devised

last spring, and its results are evident in the number of stolen bases

accredited to the Yale nine in its past season’s play.

The number of annual championships in Rowing, Football, and Baseball

since the establishment of intercollegiate associations in these

branches, won respectively by Yale, Harvard and Princeton is a source

of pride to Yale men, the numbers being: Yale 21, Harvard 7, and

Princeton 2.

TRACK ATHLETICS.

Track Athletics at Yale started in 1872, about the time that the first

intercollegiate athletic meetings were being held in Saratoga. Yale

sent two representatives, born athletes devoid of instruction, to

the intercollegiate meetings of ’74 and ’75, who won a first prize

apiece each year. Fall games were started at Yale in 1875, and were an

unqualified success, the most interesting event being the running high

jump of Gale, ’78 S., who cleared 5 ft. 3 in., pronounced to be “the

finest amateur jumping ever done in America.”

It is a curious commentary on the taste of this period that the hurdle

and the one hundred yard races were regarded as tame, while a three or

a seven mile walk was considered most interesting and exciting. The

presentation of the Challenge Cup, valued at $500, now commonly known

as the Mott Haven Cup, served as a great stimulus to track athletics in

all the other prominent athletic colleges except Yale, whose apathy and

indifference to this branch was so great that from 1877 till 1880 she

sent no representatives to the meetings. In 1880 Mr. T. Dewitt Cuyler,

of Yale, established a record of 4m. 37 3-5s. in the mile run, a record

which was not broken for seven years. From 1880 on, Harvard continued

to win the cup with an unvarying regularity, with Columbia a good

second and Yale a poor third.

In 1882 one of Yale’s best runners appeared, Mr. H. S. Brooks, who won

the intercollegiate 100 yards and 220 yards for two years, doing the

100 in 10 1-5s., and the 220 in 22 5-8s.

The famous 220 yards run between Brooks and W. Baker of Harvard,

occurred in 1884, and was a magnificent exhibition of running, Baker

winning in 22 2-5s.

In 1886 the contest for the cup between Yale and Harvard was most

closely fought, resting as it did upon the decision in the 100 yards,

which was, at any rate, a very difficult decision to make. It is

hardly worth while to recount that Sherrill of Yale was cheered and

congratulated as winner, or that the decision rested with one judge,

a Harvard graduate, who alone, out of the three judges, witnessed the

finish, for Yale lost the cup. The policy of Yale men after defeat has

always been to make no excuses for failure, but to turn with greater

determination to the work of retrieving the past by victory in the

future.

Yale has had a large number of fine individual track athletes in the

past two years, among them being Sherrill, ’89, amateur champion in

1887 for 100 yards, and easy winner this year in the intercollegiate

100 yards and 220 yards; Coxe, ’87, with his records of 101 ft. 1

in. in the hammer throw, and of 40 ft. 9½ in. in putting the shot;

Ludington, ’87, who has hurdled in 16¾s.; Harmar, ’90, who has run a

mile in 4m. 32 2-5s., and Shearman, ’89, who jumps 21 ft. 7½ in. in the

broad jump, 5 ft. 8½ in. in the high jump, and pole vaults 10 ft. 3 5-8

in.

To the fact that Yale had so many crack performers in 1887 was due

her winning of the cup, aided by the fact that Harvard found very

strong competition from the other colleges in her events. Yale lost

the cup this year for the opposite reasons, having no luck in winning

events, and having but three crack performers left. As to men of medium

ability, Yale never possesses them, her success depending solely upon

her first-class men. It is a notable commentary on the system of track

athletics at Yale, that her three best performers this year won five

first prizes, and that these were the only ones taken by Yale.

Until Yale follows in Harvard’s footsteps in training carefully and

skilfully a large number of men for her athletic team she can never

hope to compete on an equality with Harvard. And this will not be

possible at Yale until greater interest is taken in this branch

of athletics, and until the cup is valued as highly as a football

championship or a Yale-Harvard race.

LAWN TENNIS.

The game of lawn tennis, first played in this country in 1875, was long

a popular game among college students before it became an object of

intercollegiate strife. In 1883, at the proposal of Trinity College,

an association was formed embracing Amherst, Brown, Harvard, Trinity

and Yale. This association has grown in numbers since that time, until

it has now eleven members, the added ones being Columbia, Lehigh,

Princeton, University of Pennsylvania, Wesleyan and Williams. The

tournaments for the first two years were held in Hartford, and for the

last three years in New Haven. In the first year of the association two

tournaments were held, both won by Harvard, but since then one annual

championship has been held every fall.

The difference in the expenses of the tournaments of 1883 and 1888,

will indicate somewhat the increased importance of this annual event,

the total expenditure in the first year being $8, while for prizes

alone there was spent last year $285. The number of college men who are

reckoned among the best players of this country, is worthy of note,

including as it does such names as Mr. R. D. Sears, Mr. H. W. Slocum,

Mr. J. Clark, Mr. G. M. Brinley, Mr. H. A. Taylor, and others.

Mr. R. D. Sears, the well-known ex-champion of the United States, only

played once, in 1884, in the intercollegiate tournament, and was then

beaten, principally owing to the poor grounds, by Mr. W. P. Knapp, of

Yale, who of all individual players has the best record in the college

tournaments, having won two first prizes in singles and three in

doubles. In the five annual championship tournaments, Yale has won five

first places and three seconds, Harvard five firsts and one second,

Trinity one first and four seconds, Columbia one first and three

seconds, and Amherst one second.

There are now in Yale five athletic organizations for the five

branches of athletics, each of which is a member of an intercollegiate

association for that branch. Each organization has its own president,

vice-president, treasurer and secretary, elected annually, of whom

the president is usually an academic senior, the vice-president a

scientific senior, and the treasurer and secretary either underclassmen

or, in the case of the boat club, a professor of the college. The

annual expenses of the various organizations are about as follows:

Football, $3,000; baseball, $4,000; crew, $5,000 to $7,000; track

athletics, $2,000 to $2,500; tennis, $250. Of these the football,

baseball and tennis associations are self-supporting, the Track

Athletic Association is very nearly so, and only the expense of

supporting the crew falls upon the students. In this the undergraduates

are assisted by graduate subscriptions, by glee-club concerts, and

by concessions from the railroads that run into New London, and from

the town itself. The Football Association, especially in lucky years,

nets the largest sum from its games, although there is usually also a

substantial baseball surplus remaining.

A scheme of uniting all the organizations, with a common treasury, has

often been proposed; but it would seem to be inadvisable owing to the

probable increased expenditure, where each organization would not let

the others surpass it in expensive uniforms or luxurious living.

To sum up what Yale has done for athletics would be entirely beyond the

scope of this article, and equally impossible would it be to calculate

what athletics have done for Yale. Suffice it to say, that Yale has

always been on the side of manly, fair and honest sport, and that

in the persons of such men as Mr. Robert Cook, Mr. Walter Camp, and

others, as well as in the devoted labors of many hundred athletes, with

the head as well as with the hand, she has always striven to advance

the science and elevate the tone of every athletic sport. While, as to

what athletics have done for Yale, leaving out of consideration the

lower purposes served of bringing glory and prominence to Yale among

American colleges, and the undoubted attraction of larger numbers of

students, athletics have turned out from Yale many hundreds not to

say thousands of men, manly and democratic in ideas, possessed of

constitutions able to endure almost any amount of work, and competent

to struggle and hold their own in whatever circumstances they may in

afterlife find themselves placed.

The saying of Mr. Robert Cook applies to other sports as well as

boating: “A successful oarsman is always a successful man.” The

qualities absolutely necessary in athletics, of self-mastery, of

patience, of perseverance, of pluck, of endurance, and of obedience,

form the best endowment to a young man about to enter life.

~Note.~--The illustrations of the different groups of

athletic, football, baseball, lacrosse, and other teams in this

series of articles on college athletics, are from photographs by

Pach Brothers, of 841 Broadway.

A RUSSIAN WOLF HUNT.

BY TOM BOLTON.

During the winter of ’82 business complications made it necessary for

me to take a journey into a wild and remote part of Russia. The house

with which I was connected had had some very unsatisfactory dealings

with one of its branches, and things had come to such a pass that a

visit from a member of the main establishment had become imperative.

It was late in January when I had to make my start, and the weather

had been unusually cold. I could travel 750 miles out of my journey

of 1,000 by rail; but the balance of the trip would have to be made

by sledges, not a very rapid or convenient mode of transportation,

though it has the advantage of enabling the traveler to regulate his

time as he feels disposed. Being extremely fond of field sports, and

knowing that the section of country I was going to visit would, in all

probability, contain plenty of game, I carried my Colt’s breech-loading

shotgun and a fine Winchester repeating rifle, with a good store of

ammunition for both.

Well, I arrived at the end of my railroad journey without any accident

or incident other than the regular daily skirmishes for meals and

hot tea at the not overclean stations. We were fortunate in having a

clear line, no snow having fallen for over a week--rather a remarkable

circumstance in Russia--so we were not compelled to dig out any

snowbanks, though this form of amusement is by no means unusual. The

morning after my arrival at Udalla I sent to make arrangements for a

sledge at the posting-station. This was soon done, and in an hour I

was clear of the town and fairly started on the second half of my long

journey.

In Russia the sledges are generally roofed over--especially those used

for traveling--somewhat after the fashion of our buggies, and are very

low, so that, provided there are plenty of rugs and furs, one can make

a trip comfortably enough, and even sleep at his pleasure. The picture

in the mind of travel of this description is of three horses abreast,

gayly dashing along in fine style; but in my case the actual facts were

very different. Before we had gone two _versts_ from Udalla, the road

became very bad, for the snow was deep on each side of the track, and

though the track itself was broken, the snow was in great lumps. Over

these the sledge thumped and banged, while the horses stumbled and

floundered along as best they could. The driver, meanwhile, consoled

himself by alternately cursing the horses, the road, and his bad luck

at having to come out, with an occasional _vogtd_ at me for a crazy

Englishman who wanted to kill something so badly that he had to go

hunting in the dead of winter; my language and _impedimenta_ giving

rise to various unfounded rumors, while every one speaking English is

put down as an Englishman by the peasantry in this part of Russia.

We reached the post-station, at the end of our first day’s travel,

long after nightfall. After a hot supper, I continued my journey all

night, taking a number of naps, but no regular sleep, because, as soon

as I began to doze, I would imagine my ribs to be a corduroy road, and

my vertebræ a troop of army mules crossing it and kicking off flies.

However, I managed to get along tolerably well, all things considered,

and had the satisfaction of knowing that my unfortunate driver was

having considerably the worse time of the two.

During the fourth day’s journey, while we were passing through a very

extensive forest, several wolves came out into the road and followed

us a mile or more, but at quite a respectful distance. Their number

was too small to cause me any uneasiness, though my driver did not at

all like their presence, and the horses betrayed their alarm by their

evident desire to hurry along. One large black fellow tried to get up

some excitement, and howled most dismally, so I made my driver stop,

while I got out my heavy Smith & Wesson revolver. Taking a rest over

my left elbow, I let fly at his shoulder as he stood sideways to me,

and had the satisfaction of seeing him stumble forwards, and take to

the timber again with his friends at his heels. My driver told me that

a sledge had been attacked by wolves on this very road a couple of

winters before, and both horses and passengers eaten up, but that the

wolves had been rather scarce since.

I had heard much about wolf-hunting as practised by the Russians of the

Steppes, viz., driving a sledge through the woods and over the plains

with a piece of meat dragging behind to attract the wolves, thus giving

the hunters in the sledge an opportunity to kill them. I had promised

myself to try this plan and have some sport in spite of the fact that

my driver told some blood-curdling tales of the fierceness of the

wolves when banded together and made desperate by hunger.

[Illustration: WE ENTERED AN OPEN SLEDGE WITH THREE HORSES HARNESSED

ABREAST.]

It was nearly night on the fifth day, before I arrived at my

destination, and, as may be imagined, I enjoyed a good night’s sleep,

as well as a much better supper than I had been having.

The following morning I had to attend to the business that had brought

me so far. I soon discovered that only prompt action would save us

heavy losses, so I at once discharged the local manager, as well as two

collectors, whose honesty I had cause to suspect. This threw much work

on my hands, so I had very little time at my own disposal. However, I

managed to make the acquaintance of a Captain Komanoff, who owned a

small estate in the neighborhood, and who was devoted to sport in all

its branches. When I mentioned my desire for a wolf hunt to him, he

laughed and said he had been on several, and had generally had good

sport. He added that he would arrange to go with me whenever I should

be ready.

In the course of ten days I had the rather complicated affairs pretty

well in hand, and as there had been a damp fall of snow, followed by

a frost, I concluded I could spare time for my hunt. Accordingly, I

notified Komanoff, and one clear, calm night we entered an open sledge,

that is, one without any top, and with three good horses harnessed

abreast, set out.

I carried my shotgun, with a bounteous supply of cartridges loaded with

small buckshot, thinking it a better weapon than a rifle to use at

night, while Komanoff had an army carbine, carrying a large-sized ball,

with which, he told me, he had killed many a bear and wolf. Each of us

was also armed with a revolver and heavy hunting-knife. The driver whom

we had engaged for the night had a couple of pistols and a knife in his

belt, and as he was a plucky fellow and had hunted (or been hunted by)

wolves before, we were pretty well prepared for anything. Ivan (the

driver) took care that we also had a small basket of lunch and a bottle

of brandy, so we were quite in the humor to make a night of it.

[Illustration: RUSSIAN WOLVES.]

The snow was well crusted over, and easily bore our horses, thus making

a hard, level surface to travel over, also reducing the chances of

a capsize, which, if one were pursued, might give the sport a very

different ending from that intended. When well out from the village

and near the edge of the timber, the bait (in this case a quarter of a

calf, well rubbed with asafœtida and bound with straw) was thrown over

and allowed to drag at the end of a stout cord about forty feet behind

us.

It was certainly a grand night, the moon being at the full, and the

reflection on the snow made objects almost as clearly discernable as

in the daytime. Far up on the northern horizon the Aurora Borealis

alternately flashed and paled, now throwing up bars and rays of violet

and gold, and again diffusing itself over the heavens in a soft but

ever-changeful glow.

We had been riding slowly along for a couple of hours, when Komanoff

remarked:

“I am afraid we shall have our trip for nothing; the wolves don’t seem

to be about to-night, and yet this wood is a famous place to look for

them.”

“Don’t be uneasy, Captain,” said Ivan; “I am going to make a circle and

cross our track again, and I think you will have some shooting yet.”

The words were hardly spoken before we heard, far off to our right,

the long-drawn, sepulchral howl of a wolf. He had evidently struck our

trail, and the veal smelled good, so he was yelling for his friends.

The team was at once stopped, while we listened and heard several more

howls in response. The horses heard them too, and at once showed their

fear by an attempt to get away, but Ivan had them well under control,

and only permitted them to walk, not wishing to blow them before the

beasts began to gather.

“I see a wolf,” said Komanoff; “look away back there on our track,

right under the moon. Ah! and there are several more; I think they will

come along now.”

Looking back, I saw several black objects coming out of the timber,

which we knew to be wolves, and the way they increased in size showed

they were following us at full speed. Every now and then several more

would dart out of the woods and join our pursuers; but not a sound was

heard, for wolves, unlike dogs, run mute. We now prepared to receive

them, and we removed our heavy outer coats so as to allow us a better

chance to shoot. The horses were allowed to trot, though it was all

Ivan could do to hold them, as they were pulling the sledge by their

bits, whilst they showed by their rolling eyes and quick backward

glances, their extreme terror.

Our friends in the rear now numbered fully twenty, and to my surprise

they came rushing boldly on, as though we were no more to be feared

than some timid deer which they had cornered.

When they had come within thirty yards I gave the foremost my right

barrel and instantly followed it with my left among the pack. I saw the

leader’s tail go up as he plunged forward on his head, and Komanoff

exclaimed that two more had dropped to my second shot. I fully expected

that the rest would scatter in all directions, but they did nothing of

the kind; they simply fell upon their defunct companions and tore them

to pieces almost before they had done kicking, and then immediately

resumed their pursuit of us.

When Komanoff saw this he looked rather grave, and told Ivan it would

be well to head for home. “For,” said he, “when they eat each other in

that manner, it’s a sign that they are starving, and should a large

pack gather, we would have a poor chance of escape.”

[Illustration: THEY FLUNG THEMSELVES ON THE OUTSIDE HORSE.]

Accordingly, Ivan let his team go along at an easy gallop. The wolves

were again coming along in hot pursuit, and were almost in range, when

Ivan uttered a shout, and the horses made a sudden swerve, so that the

sledge was nearly upset. Komanoff and I were thrown in a heap in the

bottom, his gun being discharged by his fall, fortunately without doing

any damage. Quickly recovering ourselves, we saw that a fresh and large

pack of wolves had come out of the woods, and had nearly run into us,

causing the team to bolt at full speed. I fired right and left into the

thick of them (they were only a few yards away), while Komanoff began

to empty his revolver.

This fusillade checked them for a few moments, till our original

pack had come up and joined them. Then, having devoured the slain,

they came for us again with redoubled vigor, their appetites having

evidently been sharpened by the taste of blood. As they closed upon us

we fired as rapidly as we could load, but without alarming them at all,

only a few stopping to bury the dead (in their stomachs), while the

main body tried to come up with our horses and sledge.

Komanoff now cut our bait loose, for we had had all the fun we wanted.

As the wave of wolves, as one might say, rolled up over it, we fired

into the thick of it, and, as they were in a dense mass, must have done

considerable execution. But they were only delayed a moment, and on

they came again, their long, tireless gallop soon bringing them up with

us.

It was indeed a fearful sight, and enough to shake the stoutest nerves.

There was that vast pursuing horde, crazy with hunger and wild with

lust of blood, dashing after us relentless as death. Their long black

bodies swept over the snow, the hindmost constantly leaping over the

foremost in their eagerness to press on, their eyes a-shine, with great

flecks of foam on breasts and sides, while the glimpses we caught of

their long white teeth showed us just what our fate would be should

there be an accident to team or vehicle. Komanoff turned to me and

said: “If they ever pass us and leap on the horses we are dead men.

Keep cool and shoot only those that try to pass on your side and I will

do the same on mine.”

So we dashed on for a mile or so, keeping up a rapid fire, and

shooting a number of our dusky friends. They were thoroughly in

earnest, and made repeated attempts to get at our horses, but so far

we had been able to foil them, when suddenly a big gray fellow dashed

past on Komanoff’s side (who missed him), and flung himself on the

outside horse. Ivan shot at him as he did so, but the horse swerved

and stumbled, breaking both traces before he could recover himself.

The wolf fell as the ball struck him, but our team was now almost

unmanageable, and we were liable to be upset at any moment. Fortunately

Ivan kept his head, and succeeded in turning his horses towards a

deserted charcoal-burner’s hut, which he knew, and applied his whip

lustily, so we dashed forward with renewed speed.

“I know where he is going,” said Komanoff, “but our chance is poor

unless the door be open; but it’s our only hope now, therefore be

ready to jump the instant I do. Take you the arms, while I help Ivan

with the horses.”

A short distance farther and we sighted the cabin. The door was ajar,

and as we pulled up I tumbled out the guns, robes and lunch-basket, and

with a revolver in each hand faced our pursuers.

Our sudden stop and the rapid crack of my pistols seemed to confuse the

pack, and checked them long enough to enable my companions to cut the

horses loose. They instantly dashed off through the forest, a portion

of our hungry assailants after them in hot pursuit, whilst we ran into

the house and barred the door in the faces of those that remained. In a

few seconds there was a perfect cloud of wolves round us, some of them

frantically digging at the walls, and others trying the door with their

teeth. Fortunately it was a stout one, or this story would never have

been written.

After resting a little, we found a chink or two in the walls through

which we could shoot, and again opened fire. After we had knocked over

some twenty-five or thirty of them, the survivors drew off, though they

still continued to prowl round and fight over the bones of the dead,

for all we shot were instantly devoured by their companions. Meanwhile

we had contrived to start a fire, and having eaten our lunch we lit our

pipes and waited for day to break, thinking then our savage foes would

raise the siege. In this hope we were not disappointed, for as the

morning light became clear the wolves sneaked off one by one, casting,

however, many wistful glances in our direction. We gave them a few

parting shots by way of farewell, and as soon as the sun was fairly up

we came out of our house of refuge and started on our five-mile tramp

for home.

We had not proceeded far, however, before we met a well-armed company

of men coming to look for us, as one of the horses had reached home,

and they judged from his condition, as well as the cut harness, that

we were in a scrape of some kind. We arrived home safely, and after a

good sleep were none the worse for our adventure. The other two horses,

however, never turned up, but their bones were found in the forest the

following spring not far from the hut, just where the poor animals had

been pulled down.

This experience cured me of all desire for wolf hunting, and though

I spent several months at the post, and had plenty of sport, I never

cared to see a wolf again.

HERNE THE HUNTER.

BY WILLIAM PERRY BROWN.

~Herne the Hunter~ was tall, brown and grizzled. The extreme

roundness of his shoulders indicated strength rather than infirmity,

while the severing of his great neck at a blow would have made a feudal

executioner famous in his craft. An imaginative man might have divined

something comely beneath the complex conjunction of lines and ridges

that made up his features, but it would have been more by suggestion,

however, than by any actual resemblance to beauty traceable thereon.

The imprint of strength, severity and endurance was intensified by an

open contempt of appearance; only to a subtle second-sight was revealed

aught nobler, sweeter and sadder, like faint stars twinkling behind

filmy clouds.

Some town-bred Nimrod, with a misty Shakespearean memory, had added to

his former patronymic of “Old Herne” that of Windsor’s ghostly visitor.

The mountaineers saw the fitness of the title, and “Herne the Hunter”

became widely current.

His place of abode was as ambiguous as his history, being somewhere

beyond the “Dismal,” amid the upper caves and gorges of the Nantahalah.

The Dismal was a weird, wild region of brake and laurel, walled in by

lonely mountains, with a gruesome outlet between two great cliffs,

that nearly met in mid-air hundreds of feet over a sepulchral cañon,

boulder-strewn, and thrashed by a sullen torrent, that led from a

dolorous labyrinth, gloomy at midday, and at night resonant with fierce

voices and sad sighings.

Far down in Whippoorwill Cove, the mountaineers told savage tales of

adventure about the outskirts of the Dismal, yet, beyond trapping

round the edges or driving for deer, it was to a great extent a _terra

incognita_ to all, unless Herne the Hunter was excepted.

“The devil air in the man, ’nd hopes him out’n places no hones’ soul

keers to pester hisse’f long of.”

This was common opinion, though a few averred that “Old Herne ’nd the

devil wern’t so master thick atter all.” Said one: “Why, the dinged old

fool totes his Bible eroun’ ez riglar ez he do his huntin’-shirt. Onct

when the parson wuz holdin’ the big August meetin’ down ter Ebeneezer

Meetin’-house, he stepped in. The meetin’ was a gittin’ ez cold ez

hen’s feet, ’nd everybody a lookin’ at Herne the Hunter, when down he

draps onto his knees, ’nd holdin’ on by his rifle he ’gun ter pray

like a house afire. Wal, he prayed ’nd he prayed, ’twel the people,

arter thur skeer wuz over, ’gun ter pray ’nd shout too, ’nd fust they

all knowed, the front bench wuz plum full of mou’ners. Wal, they hed a

hog-killin’ time fur a while, ’nd all sot on by Herne the Hunter, but

when they quieted down ’nd begun ter luk fer him--by jing!--he wern’t

thar. Nobody hed seed him get erway, ’nd that set ’em ter thinkin’, ’nd

the yupshot wuz they hed the bes’ meetin’ old Ebeneezer hed seed in

many a year.”

Once a belated hunter discovered, when the fog came down, that he was

lost amid the upper gorges of the Nantahalahs. While searching for some

cranny wherein to pass the night, he heard a voice seemingly in mid-air

before him, far out over an abyss of seething vapor which he feared

concealed a portion of the dreaded Dismal. Memories of Herne the Hunter

crowded upon him, and he strove to retrace his steps, but fell into a

trail that led him to a cave which seemed to bar his further way. The

voice came nearer; his blood chilled as he distinguished imprecations,

prayers and entreaties chaotically mingled, and all the while

approaching him. He fled into the cave, and peering thence, beheld a

shadowy form loom through the mist, gesticulating as it came.

A whiff blew aside shreds of the fog, and he saw Herne the Hunter

on the verge of a dizzy cliff, shaking his long rifle, his hair

disheveled, his eyes dry and fiery, and his huge frame convulsed by the

emotions that dominated him. The very fury and pathos of his passion

were terrifying, and the watcher shrank back as old Herne, suddenly

dropping his rifle, clutched at the empty air, then paused dejectedly.

“Always thus!” he said, in a tone of deep melancholy. “Divine in

form--transfigured--beautiful--oh, so beautiful!--yet ever with the

same accursed face. I have prayed over these visitations. I have

sought in God’s word that confirmation of my hope which should yet

save me from despair; but, when rising from my supplications, the

blest vision confronts me--the curse is ever there--thwarting its

loveliness--reminding me of what was, but will never be again.”

He drew a tattered Bible from his bosom and searched it intently.

He was a sight at once forbidding and piteous, as he stood with

wind-fluttered garments, his foot upon the edge of a frightful

precipice, his head bent over the book as though devouring with his

eyes some sacred antidote against the potency of his sorrow. Then he

looked up, and the Bible fell from his hands. His eyes became fixed; he

again clutched at the air, then fell back with a despairing gesture,

averting his face the while.

“Out of my sight!” he cried. “Your eyes are lightning, and your smile

is death. I will have no more of you--no more! And yet--O God! O

God!--what dare I--what can I do without you?”

He staggered back and made directly for the cavern. The watcher shrank

back, while Herne the Hunter brushed blindly by, leaving Bible and

rifle on the rock without. Then the wanderer, slipping out, fled down

the narrow trail as though there were less peril from the dizzy cliffs

around than in the society of the strange man whose fancies peopled

these solitudes with such soul-harrowing phantoms.

Thus for years Herne the Hunter had been a mystery, a fear, and a

fascination to the mountaineers; recoiling from men, abhorring women,

rebuffing curiosity, yet at times strangely tender, sad, and ever

morbidly religious. He clung to his Bible as his last earthly refuge

from his darker self, and to the aspirations it engendered as a bane to

the fatalistic stirrings within him.

He was a mighty hunter and lived upon the proceeds of his skill. Once

or twice a year he would appear at some mountain store, fling down

a package of skins, and demand its worth in powder and lead. The

jean-clad loungers would regard him askance, few venturing to idly

speak with him, and none repeating the experiment. His mien daunted the

boldest. If women were there he would stand aloof until they left; on

meeting them in the road he would sternly avert his eyes as though from

a distasteful presence. One day the wife of a storekeeper, waiting on

him in her husband’s absence, ventured to say, while wrapping up his

purchases:

“I’ve all’ays wonnered, Mr. Herne, what makes ye wanter git outen the

wimmen folks’ way? Mos’ men likes ter have ’em eroun’.”

Herne the Hunter frowned heavily, but made no reply.

“I’m shore, if ye had a good wife long with ye way up thar whur ye

live, she’d make ye a leetle more like a man ’nd less like a--a--” she

hesitated over a term which might censure yet not give offense.

“Like a beast you would say.” He exclaimed then with vehemence: “Were

the necks of all women in one, and had I my hands on it, I’d strangle

them all, though hell were their portion thereafter.”

He made a gesture as of throttling a giant, snatched his bundle from

the woman’s hand and took himself off up the road with long strides.

* * * * *

That night was a stormy one. Herne the Hunter was covering the last

ten miles between him and the Dismal in a pelting rain. The incident

at the store, trivial as it was, had set his blood aflame. He prayed

and fought against himself, oblivious of the elements and the darkness,

sheltering his powder beneath his shirt of skins where his Bible lay

secure. In his ears was the roar of wind and the groans of the tortured

forest. Dark ravines yawned beside him, out of which the wolf howled

and the mountain owl laughed; and once came a scream like a child, yet

stronger and more prolonged. He knew the panther’s voice, yet he heeded

nothing.

At last another cry, unmistakably human, rose nearer by. Then he

paused, like a hound over a fresher scent, until it was repeated. He

made his way around a shoulder of the mountain, and aided by the gray

light of a cloud-hidden moon, approached the figures of a woman, a boy

and a horse, all three dripping and motionless.

“Thank God! we will not die here, after all,” exclaimed the female, as

Herne the Hunter grimly regarded them. “Oh, sir, we have missed the

way. This boy was guiding me to the survey camp of Captain Renfro, my

husband, on the upper Swananoa. He has sprained his foot, and we have

been lost for hours. Can you take us to a place of shelter? I will pay

you well--”

“I hear a voice from the pit,” said Herne, fiercely. “It is the way

with your sex. You think, though you sink the world, that with money

you can scale Heaven. Stay here--rot--starve--perish--what care I!”

After this amazing outburst he turned away, but her terror of the night

overbore her fear of this strange repulse, and she grasped his arm. He

shook himself free, though the thrill accompanying her clasp staggered

him. For years no woman’s hand had touched him; but at this rebuff she

sank down, crying brokenly:

“What shall I do? I should not have started. They warned me below, but

I thought the boy knew the way. Oh, sir! if you have a heart, do not

leave us here.”

“A heart!” he cried. “What’s that? A piece of flesh that breeds endless

woes in bosoms such as yours. All men’s should be of stone--as mine

is now!” He paused, then said abruptly; “Up with you and follow me. I

neither pity nor sympathize; but for the sake of her who bore me, I

will give you such shelter as I have.”

He picked up the boy, who, knowing him, had sat stupefied with fear,

and bade the woman follow him.

“But the horse?” she said, hesitating.

“Leave it,” he replied. “The brute is the best among you, but whither

we go no horse may follow.”

He turned, taking up the boy in his arms, and she dumbly followed him,

trembling, faint, yet nerved by her fears to unusual exertion. So rapid

was his gait, encumbered though he was, that she kept him in view

with difficulty. Through the gloom she could divine the perils that

environed their ever upward way. The grinding of stricken trees, the

brawl of swollen waters harrowed her nerves not less than the partial

gleams of unmeasured heights and depths revealed by the lightning.

A sense of helplessness exaggerated these terrors among the unknown

possibilities surrounding her.

It seemed as though they would never stop again. Her limbs trembled,

her heart thumped suffocatingly, yet their guide gave no heed, but

pressed on as though no shivering woman pantingly dogged his steps.

They traveled thus for several miles. She felt herself giving way

totally when, on looking up once more, she saw that the hunter had

vanished.

“Where am I?” she cried, and a voice, issuing seemingly out of the

mountain-side, bade her come on. Her hands struck a wall of rock; on

her right a precipice yawned; so, groping toward the left, she felt as

she advanced that she was leaving the outer air; the wind and rain no

longer beat upon her, yet the darkness was intense.

She heard the voice of the boy calling upon her to keep near. Into the

bowels of the mountains she felt her way until a gleam of light shone

ahead. She hastened forward round a shoulder of rock into a roomy

aperture branching from the main cavern. The boy lay upon a pallet

of skins, while Herne the Hunter fixed the flaring pine-knot he had

lighted into a crevice of the rock. Then he started a fire, drew out

of another crevice some cold cooked meat and filled a gourd with water

from a spring that trickled out at one end of the cave.

“Eat,” he said, waving his hand. “Eat--that ye may not die. The more

unfit to live, the less prepared for death. Eat!”

With that he turned away and busied himself in bathing and bandaging

the boy’s foot, which, though not severely sprained, was for the time

quite painful. Mrs. Renfro now threw back the hood of her waterproof

and laid the cloak aside. Even old Herne--women hater that he

was--could not have found fault with the matronly beauty of her face,

unless with its expression of self-satisfied worldliness, as of one

who judged others and herself solely by conventional standards, shaped

largely by flattery and conceit.

She was hungry--her fears were somewhat allayed, and though rather

disgusted at such coarse diet, ate and drank with some relish.

Meanwhile, Herne the Hunter turned from the boy for something, and

beheld her face for the first time. A water-gourd fell from his hands,

his eyes dilated, and he crouched as he gazed like a panther before

its unsuspecting prey. Every fibre of his frame quivered, and drops of

cold sweat stood out upon his forehead. The boy saw with renewed fear

this new phase of old Herne’s dreaded idiosyncrasies. Mrs. Renfro at

length raised her eyes and beheld him thus. Instantly he placed his

hands before his face, and abruptly left the cavern. Alarmed at his

appearance, she ran toward the boy, exclaiming:

“What _can_ be the matter with him? Do you know him?”

“I knows more of him ’n I wants ter,” replied the lad. “Oh, marm,

that’s old Herne, ’nd we uns air the fust ones ez hev be’n in hyar whar

he stays. I ganny! I thort shore he’d hev yeaten ye up.”

“Well, but who is he?”

“Well, they do say ez the devil yowns him, not but what he air powerful

’ligyus. No one knows much ’bouten him, ’cep’n’ he’s all’ays a

projeckin’ eround the Dismal whar no one yelse wants ter be.”

“Has he been here long?”

“Yurs ’nd yurs, they say.” Tommy shook his head as though unable to

measure the years during which Herne the Hunter had been acquiring his

present unsavory reputation, but solved the riddle by exclaiming: “I

reckon he hev all’ays be’n that-a-way.”

An hour or more passed. Tommy fell asleep, while the lady sat musing by

his side. She did not feel like sleeping, though much fatigued. Finally

she heard a deep sigh behind her, and turning saw the object of her

fears regarding her sombrely. The sight of her face appeared to shock

him, for he turned half away as he said:

“You have eaten the food that is the curse of life, in that it sustains

it. Yet such we are. Sleep, therefore, for you have weary miles to go,

ere you can reach the Swananoa.”

There was an indescribable sadness in his tone that touched her, and

she regarded him curiously.

“Who are you,” she asked, “and why do you choose to live in such a

place as this?”

“Ask naught of me,” he said, with an energy he seemed unable to

repress. “Ask rather of yourself who am I and how came I--thus.”

He struck himself upon the breast, and without awaiting an answer again

abruptly left the cave. She sat there wondering, trying to weave into

definite shape certain vague impressions suggested by his presence,

until weariness overcame her and she slept.

Hours after, Herne the Hunter reentered the cave, bearing a torch.

His garments were wet, the rain-drops clung to his hair, and his face

was more haggard than ever. He advanced towards the slumbering woman

softly, and stood over her, gazing mournfully upon her, while large

tears rolled down his cheeks. Then his expression changed to one that

was stern and vindictive. His hand nervously toyed with the knife in

his belt. Milder thoughts again seemed to sway him, and his features

worked twitchingly.

“I cannot, I cannot,” he whispered to himself. “The tears I thought

forever banished from these eyes return at this sight. There has never

been another who could so move me. Though thou hast been my curse, and

art yet my hell--I cannot do it. Come! protector of my soul; stand

thou between me and all murderous thoughts!”

He drew his Bible from his bosom, kissed it convulsively, then held it

as though to guard her from himself, and drawing backward slowly, he

again fled into the storm and darkness without.

* * * * *

The gray light of morning rose over the Dismal, though within the cave

the gloom still reigned supreme, when Herne the Hunter again stood at

the entrance holding a flaring light. Then he said aloud:

“Wake, you that sleep under the shadow of death! Wake, eat, and--pass

on!”

Mrs. Renfro aroused herself. The boy, however, slept on. Herne fixed

his torch in the wall, and replenished the fire. Then he withdrew,

apparently to give the lady privacy in making her toilet.

She was stiff in limb and depressed in mind. After washing at the

spring, she wandered listlessly about the cave, surveying old Herne’s

scanty store of comforts. Suddenly she paused before a faded picture,

framed in long, withered moss, that clung to an abutment of the rock.

It was that of a girl, fair, slender and ethereal. There was a wealth

of hair, large eyes, and features so faultless that the witching sense

of self-satisfaction permeating them, added to rather than marred their

loveliness.

The lady--glancing indifferently--suddenly felt a thrill and a

pain. A deadly sense of recognition nearly overcame her, as this

memento--confronting her like a resurrected chapter of the past--made

clear the hitherto inexplicable behavior of their host. She recovered,

and looked upon it tenderly, then shook her head gently and sighed.

“You cannot recognize it!” said a deep voice behind her. “You dare not!

For the sake of your conscience--your hope in heaven--your fear of

hell--you dare not recognize and look upon me!”

She did not look round, though she knew that Herne the Hunter stood

frowning behind, but trembled in silence as he went on with increasing

energy:

“What does that face remind you of? See you aught beneath that beauty

but treachery without pity, duplicity without shame? Lo! the pity and

the shame you should have felt have recoiled upon me--me, who alone

have suffered.” He broke off abruptly, as though choked by emotion.

She dared not face him; she felt incapable of a reply. After a pause,

he resumed, passionately: “Oh! Alice, Alice! The dead rest, yet the

living dead can only endure. Amid these crags, and throughout the

solitude of years, I have fought and refought the same old battle; but

with each victory it returns upon me, strengthened by defeat, while

with me all grows weaker but the remorselessness of memory and the

capacity for pain.”

She still stood, with bowed head, shivering as though his words were

blows.

“Have you nothing to say?” he asked. “Does that picture of your own

youth recall no vanished tenderness for one who--self-outcast of

men--fell to that pass through you?”

“I have a husband,” she murmured, almost in a whisper.

“Aye, and because of that husband I have no wife--no wife--no wife!”

His wailing repetition seemed absolutely heartbroken; but sternly

he continued: “You have told me where he is. I say to you--hide

him--hide him from me! Even this”--he struck his bosom with his Bible

feverishly--“may not save him. I have prayed and wrought, but it is as

nothing--nothing--when I think--when I remember. Therefore, hide him

from me--lest I slay him--”

“You would not--you dare not harm him!” She faced him now, a splendid

picture of an aroused wife and mother. “He is not to blame--he knew you

not--he has been good to me--and--and--I love him.”

He shrank from the last words as though from a blow, and stood

cowering. Then he hissed out:

“Let me not find him. Hide him--hide him!”

Tommy here awoke with a yawn, and announced that his foot was about

well. Herne, closing his lips, busied himself about preparing

breakfast, which cheerless meal was eaten in silence. When they finally

emerged from the cave the sun was peeping into the Dismal below them;

bright gleams chased the dark shadows down the cliffs, and the morning

mists were melting. The storm was over; there was a twitter of birds,

the tinkle of an overflowing burn, and a squirrel’s bark emphasizing

the freshness of the morn. The pure air entered the lips like wine, and

Mrs. Renfro felt her depression roll off as they retraced the devious

trail of the night before.

They found the lady’s horse standing dejectedly near where he had

been left. The fog, in vast rolls, was climbing out of the Dismal,

disclosing dark masses of forest below. The flavor of pine and balsam

slept beneath the trees, every grass blade was diamond-strewn, and

every sound vivified by the sense of mighty walls and unsounded depths.

After Mrs. Renfro had mounted, Herne the Hunter swept an arm around.

The scene was savage and sombre, despite the sunlight. The intensity of

the solitude about them dragged upon the mind like a weight.

“Behold,” he said sadly, “this is my world. I can tolerate no other.”