AFTER THE ANTLERS.

ON THE CATALUCHE.

Whip-poor-wills whistled their shrillest that June night, and the air was ablaze with millions of fire-flies. A grand scene was revealed when the round, yellow moon came creeping up from behind the ragged ridge that walls the eastern bank of Cataluche. The pines along the summit of the ridge, stood out like black skeletons. A light, almost as bright as day, flooded the shut-in valley, casting dark shadows on the stony ground under the giant forest trees, silvering their tall tops, and whitening the bare, mast-like pines, standing girdled in the fields of sprouting corn. The valley was resonant with the roar of the river. A refreshing evening breeze swept the porch of the old farm-house, carrying with it a sleepy influence which knocked the props out from under the drowsy eye-lids of our party, and caused one after another to steal away to bed.

The more enterprising and enthusiastic anglers were out and fishing before breakfast; but after that meal we all went. We pursued every bend of the romantic stream, catching trout at every cast of our flies. One day in particular is to be remembered. A soft, warm shower had fallen, and then cleared brightly by 9 o’clock. The best of breezes, one from the south, was blowing through the hemlocks. The current of the stream was slightly riled; thus everything being propitious forthe sport. From one pool alone, ten gold and pink-spotted trout were taken that morning. It was a spot where a steep cliff, festooned with vines, lifted itself from the water on one side. On the other, was a wide curve of the bank, and along it grew azaleas and rhododendrons under the pines. The Rhine-wine colored waters lay dark in this picturesque basin; and from them were lifted trout after trout, beguiled by the treacherous fly. Between four and five hundred fish were brought in that evening.

There are many other streams in the Great Smoky mountains about equal in excellence to Cataluche. Among these are the Ocona Lufta, Forney, Hazel and Eagle creeks in Swain county. Soco is a natural trout stream; but, flowing as it does through the Cherokee reservation, its waters have been so whipped by the aboriginal fishermen that it can not be recommended to the angler. On its banks the angler, starting from Waynesville, will travel to reach the Ocona Lufta. The waters of the Ocona Lufta, even at its mouth in Tuckasege river, are of singular purity, and through some portions of its course, from racing over a moss-lined bed, appear clear emerald green. Above the Indian town the valley grows narrow, and prosperous farmers live along its banks. The forests are rich in cherry and walnut trees, and all necessary water power is afforded by the river. Joel Conner’s is a pleasant place to stop.

Forney creek empties into the Tuckasege at some distance below Charleston. The ride to its mouth will interest even the most practical of travelers. At times, the waters create a tumultuous uproar over a broken channel; then with startling silence they run smooth and swift for a hundred yards, and, making a bold sweep around a craggy mountain, disappear as though the earth had swallowed them. There are several islands in the stream; and at one place there is a twin pair lying close together in a channel wider than usual. Wild duckswill often be seen keeping their unwavering flight around the bends; and frequently from the water edge of a clump of alders, spice-wood and thunderberry bushes, a blue heron, with lank neck outstretched, will sail lazily out over the river. The mail man, mounted on a cadaverous horse, with leather mailbags upon his saddle, is apt to meet the tourist; but, differing from the general run of the natives, he travels on time and is loath to stop and talk. Not so with the man who, with a bushel of meal over his shoulders, is coming on foot from the nearest “corn-cracker.” At your halt for a few points in regard to your route, he will answer to the best of his ability; and then, if you feel so inclined, he will continue planted in the road and talk for an hour without once thinking of setting down his load. The fishing in Forney creek is excellent. It is in a rugged section, and at its mouth the scenery is wild enough to hold forth fine inducements. Hazel and Eagle creeks empty into the Little Tennessee in a still more lonely and less inhabited section, a number of miles below the mouth of the Tuckasege.

The Nantihala river is prolific in trout near its pure sources; and, along its lower reaches, is alive with other fish, among which the gamey black-bass is enough to allure the angler. A man may be an expert bass fisher, but a veritable failure at trouting. When one discovers this fact, with a sound pole, long line and reel, try the minnow and trolling-hook at the mouth of the Nantihala. In the Tuckasege his efforts may be rewarded with a salmon. A number of these royal fish were placed in this stream a few years since, and are now frequently landed. Nearly every creek that empties into the Tuckasege teems with trout. Among these are the north fork of Scott’s creek, Dark Ridge creek, and Caney Fork, all in Jackson county. A gentleman of undoubted veracity, who has whipped nearly every stream in the mountains, pronounces the DarkRidge creek to be the best of any he ever cast a fly in. Its head-waters can be struck by turning from the State road about seven miles from Waynesville, and pursuing a left-hand, unfrequented road, into the wilderness. There are no farms along its banks. Great, silent forests, in which the locust and hickory attain enormous size, embosom it. Its edges are wild with tangled rhododendron and kalmia; its waters, small in volume, but cold and crystal.

Fourteen miles south of Webster, the county-seat of Jackson, is the most stupendous waterfall of the mountains. It is said that on certain evenings, when that dead quiet, prophetic of a storm, dwells in the valley, the dull roar of the falls can be heard eight miles down the river. It is on the Tuckasege, about 20 miles below its sources. There are three ways to reach it; two from above, on either bank, and one from below, on the west bank. The one way by the east bank is exceedingly arduous. To approach it from the west bank, the traveler journeys up the Cullowhe road from Webster. It is a delightful ride, over a picturesque highway, to where the river is struck at Watson’s. By dismounting there, you can follow, without difficulty, on foot down stream to the desired point. This latter approach is preferable to the one undertaken by our party. We left the highway about three miles below Watson’s. It is a rough walk of two miles to the waters, half a mile below the falls. There is no trail to follow, and it requires some activity to scale the rocks, jump the logs, and crawl through the thickets. Hard by the river, over a cliff 200 feet high, Rough-running brook pours its waters in rain and mist. If a certain guide’s story is to be believed, over this cliff, three deer, closely followed by an eager pack of hounds, once plunged unwittingly.

Along this part of the river the trout are thick and hungry enough to afford all the sport you wish; and, if there is a dark sky and dark water, it will be a gala-day. The scenery of thefalls is as interesting as the fishing. On the left rises a gray, granite cliff, perfectly plumb with its base, 150 feet above the river. It is somewhat mantled with green vines and mosses, and a few shaggy cedars cling to its front. On the right, the cliff is less precipitous, and on it the forest and its undergrowth springs dense and rank. In front pours the water, a great sparkling cloud. For 60 or 70 feet down, it is a perpendicular, unbroken sheet; then a projecting ledge catches and breaks it into two columns, to fall through the last 25 feet of space. The frowning cliffs, primeval pines, gigantic boulders, and the vista of blue sky sighted through the cañon, form a picture of striking sublimity. If you do not object to getting wet from the mist and rain created by the cataract, you can stand on a great rock in the whirling pool and fish for trout and salmon, with success, for hours. The cliff on the right can be scaled by a boy or man, and the river ascended for a mile to Watson’s house on the road. However, before reaching the road, the upper falls are to be passed. Here the scene is different. For several hundred feet the waters pour over a bare mountain’s face, whose slant is several degrees from a perpendicular. At its base the stream widens out, for there are no cliffs to hem it in, and huge boulders being absent, a level, little lake lies buried in the forests. A fine point from which to view this fall is half way up the mountain on the opposite side of the river.

Fair fishing is still to be found in the Cullasaja. It can be reached from either Franklin or Highlands. In a beautiful valley, close by the bank of this stream, stands the homestead of a pioneer settler of the country, Silas McDowell. It is only a few years since he ended his pilgrimage. In his old age he took great delight in narrating his early experiences in the wilderness. The first trout fishing expedition undertaken by him in 1839, and told by him to the writer, will serve as an illustration of what the primitive angler had to encounter.

One bright morning, he, with two young companions, started up the Cullasaja. As a matter of course, they had excellent sport, and met with no adventure, until, in the ravines of Lamb mountain, a magnificent, antlered buck, startled by their sudden appearance, leaped up from behind a cliff and started up the stream. There was no outlet for him on either side, for the walls of the gorge are perpendicular. A short distance ahead, a cliff, over which the water tumbled, would stop his career. They had no guns with them, and, although the game was securely bagged, their only way to kill him was with stones. They pushed on pelting him with these. At length, maddened with the stoning, the old stag turned and rushed by them, breaking the narrator’s fishing rod as he passed. Just then he fell between two large boulders, and one of the young men, springing on the animal’s back, soon dispatched him with his knife. They sank the carcass in the cold, rushing water; fished until noon, catching several hundred trout, and then returned home to send two servants with a pack-horse after the game. The return of the servants was expected that evening, but it was not until the following afternoon that they appeared. They related that they had found the deer, but it was dark before they were ready to start. Thinking it was best to wait for the moon to rise, they placed the deer on a large, flat rock in mid stream, and then laid down beside it to sleep until that time. An unusual sound awoke them, and by the moonlight they saw an immense panther crossing the foot-log toward them. He had scented the fresh meat, and was about to investigate, but on the unexpected awakening of two human beings, he fled, as much startled as they were. The night was intensely cold, and finding it impossible to start, and also being afraid of wild animals along the lonely way, they remained on the rock until the sun had risen and warmed their numbed bodies. Thus they accounted for their long absence.

A few miles from Brevard, the headwaters of the French Broad, and farther south, on the Jackson county side, the streams hidden in the wilderness of the Hog-back and emptying into the Toxaway, and the head-waters of the Chatooga, can be recommended to the followers of Isaak Walton. The writer does not know from actual experience of any trout inhabiting the Linville waters, but there are sign-boards on the banks prohibiting fishing.

Close on the Mitchell and Watauga county boundary, is the Elk river, a famous trout stream. The best approach is from Tennessee, up the narrow-gauge railroad, through Carter county, to the Cranberry mines. From the old forge to Louis Banner’s, or Dugger’s, the distance is eight miles. The road winds upward along a clear, dark stream, rushing over light-colored rocks. Steep mountain sides, heavy with wild, brilliant forests, darken the highway with their shadows. In the morning and evening, the woods are filled with melodious birds. Logging camps are numerous in this neighborhood, the solitudes resounding with the crash of falling timbers and the songs, or more likely the oaths, of the lumbermen. Besides catching trout in the Elk, there is a good chance for killing deer along its margin, or in some of the vast hemlock forests in which the high valleys of the southwest corner of Watauga are embosomed. In Ashe county, the tributary creeks to the North fork of New river rise amid picturesque mountains, and teem with trout.

OCHLAWAHA VALLEY, FROM DUN CRAGIN.

Rise! Sleep no more! ’Tis a noble morn;The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,Under the steaming, steaming ground.Behold where the billowy clouds flow by,And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!Our horses are ready and steady.—So, ho!I’m gone, like the dart from the Tartar’s bow.Hark! Hark! Who calleth the maiden MornFrom her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?The horn,—the horn!The merry sweet ring of the hunter’s horn.—Barry Cornwall.

The Smoky chain, whose summit bears the long boundary line of North Carolina and Tennessee, attains its culmination between the deep, picturesque gaps of the French Broad and Little Tennessee, and is known as the Great Smoky mountains. For the distance of sixty-five miles it forms a mighty barrier, affording, with the exception of the Big Pigeon, no passage-way for mountain waters, and broken, except toward its southern end, by no gaps less than 5,000 feet in altitude. Nineteen peaks of over 6,000 feet in altitude, and 14 more within 400 feet of these figures, connected by massive ridges and interspersed by peaks butlittle lower than those just mentioned, make a marked cluster of massive mountains.

Clingman’s dome, 6,660 feet high, the most elevated summit in the range, is 372 feet higher than Mount Washington of the White Mountains, and only 47 feet lower than the loftiest peak of the Appalachian system. From its dome-shaped summit, in close communion with the clouds, and encircled by a dense grove of balsams, high above the line of scrubby oak and beech, and higher still above the majestic forests of cherry, locust, chestnut and the walnut, which clothe its lower slopes, the observer, as from the basket of a balloon, looks down upon a varied world spread wide and rolling beneath his feet. To the north lies that level and fertile portion of East Tennessee, watered by the French Broad and the Holston. Villages dot the plains; and, afar, the crests of the Cumberland mountains and their spurs form with the transparent sky a purple horizon. On the other hand, the lofty heights of the Bald, Black, Blue Ridge, Balsam, Cowee and Nantihala ranges, with lapping ends and straggling summits, make a distant, circling, boundary line to a central ocean of rolling mountains. Directly south, one obtains a wide-spread prospect of the most wild and picturesque portion of the eastern United States—that land embraced by the counties of Swain and Macon—the once romantic habitation and hunting ground of the Cherokee Nation. Here lies the fertile valley of the upper Little Tennessee, and its picturesque but almost uninhabited lower reaches; the emerald green Ocona Lufta with its rich lands; the Indian reservation on the banks of the Soco; the beautiful Tuckasege, and the narrow and wildly romantic vale down which courses the Nantihala.

A noticeable feature of these mountains is their smooth, bald summits; not a sterile baldness like that of ranges higher or in more rigorous climates, but only bald as far as concerns the growth of trees and underwood. Atmospheric forces haveplayed their parts on the pinnacles. What once must have been sharp crowns of rock, have, with time, storm, and frost, become rounded hillocks. Due, perhaps to the sweeping winds, the dense balsam forests—the characteristic tree of the loftier heights of the Smoky, Black, Balsam and Blue Ridge—stop around the brows of the extreme tops, leaving, oftentimes, perfectly level tracts of treeless land, in some instances of 1,000 acres in extent. The soil is a black loam. A heavy sward, green, even in winter, covers these meadows. On them, around occasionally exposed surfaces of rock, the scarlet, blossom-bearing rhododendron, and clumps of heather, similar to that on the Scottish hills, are found. Every spring, thousands of cattle, branded, and sometimes hung with bells, are turned out on these upland pastures. It is an unequalled grazing land. Water wells forth even from the extreme higher edges of the forests, and on every slope are crystal streams.

The same striking difference, between the slopes of the Blue Ridge, is seen in the Great Smoky mountains. On the Tennessee side, the soil is sterile, in comparison with the North Carolina side. Bare, rocky faces are exposed to a stronger sun-light; the streams flow through slaty channels, heaped with gigantic boulders, and a sultry air pervades at the mountains’ base; still, flourishing forests cover the winding hollows, secluded coves, and even the craggy heights. One notable mountain cluster, the Chimneys, terminate in sharp, thin spurs of rock, differing in this particular from all the peaks of the Alleghanies south.

The North Carolina side is a luxuriant wilderness, where, not content with spreading overhead an unbroken roof of branches, brilliant with a foliage like that of tropical forests, Nature has carpeted the ground with mosses and grasses, and planted in vast tracts impenetrable tangles of the rhododendron and kalmia. These tangles are locally called “Hells,” with aproper noun possessive in remembrance of poor unfortunates lost in their mazes. There is no better timbered country in the United States. The wild cherry, of large growth, is found here in abundance, and other hard woods of a temperate clime attain majestic heights. The arrowy balsam shoots up to 150 feet, and the mast-like cucumber tree dangles it red fruit high above the common forest top.

The valleys are cleared and filled with the pleasant homes of hardy mountaineers. These farms, to the careless observer, appear to be the only marks of civilized life on the Smokies; but high above the main traveled roads, amid vast forest solitudes, beside small mountain streams, and in rich coves under sheltering ridges, are located many quiet cabins with no approach except by trail ways and known only to the tax-collector and cattle-herder.

Some of these trails, or poorly-worked roads lead the unsuspecting tourist into thickly-settled localities. Such a surprise awaits him if, at the cañon of the Cataluche, he leaves the highway leading from Haywood county to Knoxville. It is the most picturesque valley of the Great Smoky range. The mountains are timbered, but precipitous; the narrow, level lands between are fertile; farm houses look upon a rambling road, and a creek, noted as a prolific trout stream, runs a devious course through hemlock forests, around romantic cliffs, and between laureled banks.

But, to the observer from Clingman’s Dome, the clearings on the slopes of the Smokies are hidden from the eye. On all sides stretch wild, black forests, funereal in their aspect, wakened only by the cry of the raven, or the tinkle of the bell of some animal lost in their labyrinths. The great wildernesses of the deciduous trees lie below, mantling the ridges and hollows. In vain the eye endeavors to mark their limit: it is blanked by the misty purple into which the green resolves itself. Here, for thebear, deer, wolf, and panther, appears the natural home. Nowhere is there a more perfect roaming ground for these animals; but the hound, rifle, and trap, brought into active use by the Indians and mountaineers, have greatly thinned out the game; still, no better hunting is to be found east of the Mississippi.

Swain county, along the Graham county line, appeared the least inhabited section; and when, in the early part of October, we contemplated a deer drive, the above information regarding the skirts of the Great Smokies tended to drift us down the Little Tennessee. Our approach lay from that point in Haywood county which was then the terminus of the Western North Carolina Railroad, via Waynesville, Webster, and Charleston. We were mounted on stout horses, and were dressed in a manner anything but conspicuous; still, a party of four men, each with a Remington rifle or a breech-loading shot-gun, strapped for easy carrying across his back, forms a cavalcade of striking interest to denizens of mountain ways and the citizens of quiet villages.

Had we paid any attention to the opinion that, in the wilderness, we would be taken for revenue officers, and, as such, shot on sight by blockaders, we would have ridden uneasily. There is bravery in numbers, and then we knew better than to give countenance to such fears. Blockading, or “moonshining” as it is sometimes called, because the distiller works by the light of the moon, is not as prevalent in these mountains as is generally supposed; and, besides, it is growing less with every year. That an unobstrusive stranger stands in danger of being shot down by a blockader on suspicion of any kind, is a bug bear, in spite of its prevalence, almost too absurd for consideration. For the commission of a crime of this nature, it would take a strange combination of circumstances: a distiller with a murderous cast of mind; a tourist representing himself to be a UnitedStates officer, and the presence of an illicit still. Now, the blockader, like the majority of drinking men, is a good-natured fellow, who, while he deems himself a citizen of the United States, confounds natural with civil liberty, and believes he has the right to manufacture, drink and sell whisky in whatever manner he pleases so long as he does not interfere with the private rights of his neighbors. The tourist is generally a voluble fellow, anxious to make friends as he travels, and showing stronger inclination to have his bottle filled than to burst copper boilers or smash any barrels of mash. The still is hidden in retreats where a stranger would be as likely to stumble upon it as he would to finding the philosopher’s stone.

The tourist, traveling the lonely mountain highways, need have no fears as to the safety of his person or his pocket. It is true that murder cases are often on the county dockets, but these are the results of heated blood, and not of cupidity. Honesty is a strong trait of the mountain people.

Charleston, the county-seat of Swain,—a pleasant little village, whose existence dates only from the formation of the county in 1871,—is situated by the Tuckasege river, and at the foot of Rich mountain. It is in the midst of a new country. The two most conspicuous buildings, standing directly opposite each other at one end of the village street, are the new and old court-houses. The former is a substantial brick structure, likened by a wag, who draws his comparisons from homely observations, to the giant hopper of a mill, turned upside down. The old, frame court-house has its upper story used as a grand jury room, and its lower floor, as formerly, holds the jail. The dark interior of the “cage,” used for petty misdoers, can be seen under the front outside stairs, through a door with barred window. An apartment fitted up for the jailer is on the same floor, and, by a spiked, open slit, about six inches by two feet in dimensions, is connected with the “dungeon.” For its peculiarpurposes this dungeon is built on a most approved pattern. It is a log room within a log room, the space between the log walls being filled up with rocks. It is wholly inside the frame building. Besides the opening where the jailer may occasionally peek in, is another one, similar to that described, where a few pale rays of daylight or moonlight, as the case may be, can, by struggling, filter through clapboards, two log walls, spikes, and rocks, to the gloomy interior. A pad-locked trap-door in the floor above is the only entrance. The daily rations for ye solitary culprit, like all our blessings, come from above—through the trap-door. Here, suspected unfortunates of a desperate stripe awaiting trial, and convicted criminals, biding their day of departure for the penitentiary or gallows, are confined in dismal twilight, and in turn are raised by a summons from above, and a ladder cautiously lowered through the opening in the floor. This invitation to clamber is always responded to with alacrity by the occupant below. As Swain county is particularly fortunate in having few crimes committed within its borders which call for capital or very vindictory and exemplary punishment, the dungeon is seldom put in use.

Along the main thoroughfare, and on the few side streets, are neat white dwellings; well-stocked stores, where a man can buy anything from a needle to an axe; and two good village hotels. Like all communities, they have churches here, and possibly (for the writer does not speak on this point from observation) on some grassy knoll, under the silence and shadows of noble forest monarchs, may be found a few head-marked graves forming the village cemetery.

The post-office is a good place, at the arrival of the mailhorse, to survey and count the male population of Charleston; or, after papers and letters are distributed, to meet, in the person of Postmaster Collins, an intelligent man who will vouchsafe all information desired on matters of local and countyinterest. In the middle of the day, you can sit on the counter in any of the stores and discuss politics or religion with the merchant, who, in his shirtsleeves, and perched on a pile of muslins and calicoes with his feet on a coal-oil barrel, smokes a pipe of home-cured tobacco, and keeps his eyes alternately on the ceiling and the road, as though expectant along the latter for the white or Indian customer.

Here we heard how a few years since a deer was hounded into the river, and then in deep water was easily lassoed by a native, towed to shore, and, rendered docile through fright, was led like a lamb through the village street. This story heightened our ardor to be on the hunt; so, leaving the village early on a foggy morning, we that day accomplished thirty-five miles of travel and arrived at our destined quarters on the height of the Smoky mountains.

The character of a river can not be known by a single view of its waters. One must follow it for miles to know its peculiarities, and wherein its picturesqueness differs from other streams. The mountain rivers are admirably suited for investigations of this nature. The levelest and oftentimes the only accessible way for a road is close along the streams. The Little Tennessee is, through many of its stretches, looked down upon from winding highways; but it is not until the traveler leaves Charleston and strikes the banks some few miles below, that the grandeur of its scenery is manifest. Here begins the close companionship between river and road, that is not broken until by the impetuous waters the heart of the Smoky mountains is cut asunder.

The scenery is similar to the French Broad, but the scale is considerably enlarged. There is a greater volume of water, and a wider reach between the banks; the mountains, whose wood-adorned fronts rise from the sounding edge of the current, are loftier in height, and in some places, like that beforethe farm house of Albert Welsh, present a distinctive feature in their steep, rocky faces. In the vicinity of the mouth of the Tuckasege, some charming pictures are to be found. Take it at the hour preceding an October sunset, when the shadows thrown by wall and forest lie dark and heavy on the slopes and levels; when the sunlight is strong, and an evening serenity pervades the scene: the steep mountains flame with the gorgeous coloring of autumn, mingled with the changeless green of the pines; crimson vines gleam in the sunlight smiting the cliffs which they festoon; and, in shadow, at the feet of the mountains, “like some grave, mighty thought threading a dream,” glides the silent river.

ON THE LITTLE TENNESSEE.

Occasionally, the stream makes a long, straight sweep; then again, abrupt bends throw it in zigzag course. A few flocks of teal and wood ducks, apparently even wilder than when in marsh-water, rose occasionally from placid faces of the river. They were out of gun-shot at the start, and before settling, never failed to put the next lower bend between them and their disturbers. The mountains so encroach on the river that little arable land is afforded; houses are consequently far apart, in some places miles of road being devoid of a clearing.

Eagle creek rises in Ecanetle gap. A narrow trail winds on the wild banks along its waters. At its mouth we turned from the Little Tennessee, and for ten miles pursued this trail without passing a house. The forest was lifeless and unbroken throughout. Twilight came as we traveled,and just after it became dark enough to see a phosphorescent log that glowed, like a bed of burning lime, across our path, through the laurel appeared a vista of cleared land embosomed in a dark forest. The starlight revealed it. In the center stood a double log house, with a mud-daubed stone chimney at each low gable, above which flying sparks made visible a column of smoke. The two doors were open, and through these streamed the lights from the fire-places. No windows marred the structure; but chinks, through which one might easily stick his rifle to blaze away at a wild turkey in the corn field, or at a revenue officer beyond the fence, made the exterior of the hut radiant with their filtration of light. Several low outbuildings were in the enclosure.

As Sanford’s horse struck against an intact row of bars which closed the trail, the savage yelping of a body of unseen dogs startled the quiet of the scene. In an instant a bare-headed woman, with a pan in her hand, appeared at one door, and at the other a bushy-headed man leaned outward.

“How are you?” yelled Sanford. “Do Jake and Quil Rose live here?”

“Shet up, ye hounds, ye!” addressing his dogs; then to us, “I reckon they do. Who be you uns?”

By that time both doors were crowded with young and old heads, and two men came toward us. After a parley, in which we explained who we were, and the object of our visit, the bars rattled down, our horses stepped after each other into the clearing, and in succession we grasped the hands of the Rose brothers.

“Ef yer hunters,” said one, “we’re only too glad to see ye; but at fust we didn’t know whether ye war gentlemen or a sheriff’s posse, the road-boss or revenue galoots. Now lite, go to the house, and take cheers while we stable the nags.”

As directed, we entered one of the two rooms of the cabin,leaving behind us the night, the quieted dogs and the October chill that comes with the darkness. A hot log fire, leaping in the chimney place, around which were ranged four children and a woman preparing supper, threw on the walls the fantastic shadows of the group, and enabled us to mark every object of the interior. On the scoured puncheon floor furtherest from the chimney, were three rough bed-steads, high with feather ticks and torn blankets. Against the walls above the bed-steads were long lines of dresses, petticoats and other clothing. No framed pictures adorned the smoky logs, but plastered all over the end where rose the chimney, was an assortment of startling illustrations cut from Harper’s Weeklies, Police Gazettes, and almanacs, of dates (if judged by their yellowness) before the war. A few cooking implements hung against the chimney. Over half the room reached a loft, where one might imagine was stored the copper boiler and other apparatus of a still, slowly corroding through that season immediately preceding the hardening and gathering in of the corn. A table, with clean spread on it, and set with sweet potatoes, corn-dodger, butter and coffee, stood in the center of the room. At this board, on the invitation of the brother known as Quil, we seated ourselves to a repast, rude to be sure, but made delicious to us from a long day’s travel. The wife of the mountaineer, as if out of respect to her visitors, and following a singular custom, had donned her bonnet on sight of us; and, keeping it on her head, poured out the coffee in silence, and, although seated, partook of no food until we had finished.

In the lines preceding these, and in those which immediately follow, the writer has attempted to present to the reader a true picture of an extreme type of mountain life,—that of a class of people, hidden in mountain fastnesses, who, uneducated and unambitious, depend for scanty subsistence upon the crops of cramped clearings and the profits of the chase. Their state ofperfect contentment is not the singular, but natural result of such an uncheckered existence.

The Rose brothers, are known as men good-natured, but of desperate character when aroused. They have been blockaders. Living outside of school districts, and seemingly of all State protection, they refuse to pay any taxes; having only a trailway to their door, they pay no attention to notices for working the county roads. Thus recognizing no authority, they live in a pure state of natural liberty, depending for its continuance upon their own strength and daring, the fears of county officers, the seclusion of their home, and their proximity to the Tennessee line. Only one and a half mile of mountain ascent is required to place them beyond the pursuit of State authorities. One of them once killed his man, in Swain county, and to this day he has escaped trial. They are men of fine features and physique. Both wear full, dark beards; long, black hair; slouch hats; blue hunting shirts, uncovered by coats or vests, and belted with a strap holding their pantaloons in place. High boots, with exposed tops, cover their feet and lower limbs. They are tall and broad-shouldered. Thus featured, figured, and accoutered, they appeared to our party.

All the children had been covered with feather beds, when we six men and two women formed a wide circle before the fire that evening. Naturally, our conversation was on hunting, and Kenswick opened the ball by inquiring about the state of deer hunting.

“We allers spring a deer when we drive,” responded Jake.

“Do you never fail?”

“Never; but sometimes we miss killin’ ’im.”

“They must be thick around here,” remarked Sanford.

“Not so powerful. Why, just a few ye’r ago, Brit Mayner killed nine in one day. He couldn’t do hit now.”

“Why?”

“Gittin’ scurce; every man on the Smokies owns dogs, an’ they’re bein’ hounded to death.”

“How about bears?” asked Kenswick.

“Gittin’ scurce, too. We generally kill eight or ten now in the season agin twenty a short time back.”

“When is the best season for bear,” began Kenswick, but Sanford, who had stepped to the door, interrupted him.

“Oh,” said he, “let information about bears rest until we hunt for them, and let me ask if that is a wolf I hear howling. Listen!”

“By George!” exclaimed Kenswick, “it does sound rather wolfish.”

“Hit’s one, shore enough,” returned Quil. “We hear ’em every winter night from the door.”

“They must do damage to your sheep.”

“Reckon they do; but not much worser ’en dogs.”

“How do you destroy them?”

“Trap ’em, an’ shoot ’em.”

“Will they fight a pack of hounds well?”

“Prime fighters, you bet! But, dog my skin, I got the holt on one the other day that he didn’t shake off!”

“Hold of one! How was that?” two of us asked together.

Jake threw a rich pine knot on the fire; Kenswick ceased puffing his pipe for an instant; Sanford came from the door, and, leaning against the chimney, stuck one of his feet toward the blaze; Mrs. Jake Rose with her sister-in-law exchanged compliments in the shape of a tin snuff box, in which the latter dipped a chewed birch stick and then rubbed her teeth; and Quil began:

“This day war four weeks ago when I went down on Forney creek to see Boodly about swoppin’ our brindled cow-brute fer his shoats, want hit?” nodding to his wife.

She nodded.

“Wal, I hed my rifle-gun an’ the dogs fer company, countin’ on gittin a crack at some varmint along the way. On Bear creek, the dogs trottin’ by my side got ter snuffin’ in the rocks an’ weeds, an’ all o’ a sudden, barking like mad, broke hell-bent through the laurel and stopped right squar’ at the branch. Thar was cliffs thar, and the water, arter slidin’ down shelvin’ rocks fer a piece, poured over a steep pitch. I clumpt hit up an’ down the bank, lookin’ sharp fer deer-signs, but seed nuthin. Then thinks me ter myself, I’ll cross the stream, an’ call the dogs over. The nighest way to cross war across the shelvin’ rock above the fall. I waded in thar. Do ye know, the blamed thing was so slick and slimy that my feet slipped, an’ I cum down ker splash in the waters. I tried to clutch the rocks, but couldn’t, an’ as quick as ye can bat yer eyes, over the short fall I went, strikin’ bottom on sumthin’ soft an’ ha’ry.”

“A wolf?” some one asked.

“Yes, dog my skin! Hit was the dry nest of a master old varmint under thet fall. He war as fat as a bar jist shufflin’ out o’ winter quarters, an’ he only hed three legs. One gone at the knee. Chawed hit off, I reckon, to get shet o’ a trap.”

“What, will they eat off the leg that is fastened to free themselves from a trap?” asked Kenswick, excitedly.

“In course they will, an’ so’ll a bar,” continued Quil. “But I didn’t find this all out until arterwards. Thar I war astraddle o’ thet varmint’s back, an’ my fingers in the ha’r o’ his neck.”

“That’s a pretty stiff story, Quil,” remarked Sanford.

“Stiff or not, hits the truth, so help me Gineral Jackson!”

“Go on, go on!”

“Wal, the wolf snarled and struggled like mad, but I hed the holt on ’im. I didn’t dar’ to loose my holt ter git my knife, so I bent ’im down with my weight, and, gittin’ his head in the water, I drowned ’im in a few minutes. Then I toted and drugged ’im out to the dogs.”

“Was it an old sheep-killer?” I asked.

“Thet’s jist what he war. He hed been livin’ nigh the settlement fer months, till he war too fat ter fight well.”

Quil’s story was a true one, with the exception that in the narration he had taken the place of the actual hunter. After it was finished, conversation lagged, and hanging our coats for screens over the backs of chairs, we jumped upon and sank from sight into the feather beds.

Early the following morning, some little time before daylight had sifted through the chinks of the cabin, when all out-doors was wrapped in the gloom of night, and but one premature cock-crow had sounded in my ears, I heard the feet of the occupant of an adjoining bed strike flat on the floor, followed by the noise of thrusting of legs into pantaloons. Then there was a noise at the chimney-place, and soon a fire was in full blaze, crackling and snapping in a spiteful way, as it warmed and filled the room with its glow. As soon as this light became strong enough, and I was sufficiently aroused to distinguish objects about me, I saw that Quil Rose was up and stirring; and, a minute after, I perceived the white, night-capped head of the lady of the house shoot, like a jack-in-the-box, up above the bed-clothes. I thought of Pickwick and the lady in curl-papers, so I laid quiet. It is curious in what a short space of time a mountain woman will make her toilet; for that covered head had not appeared above the bed more than one minute before Mrs. Rose was in morning dress complete, even to her shoes; and quietly rolling up her sleeves, was making active preparations for an early breakfast.

Corn-meal, water, and salt were soon stirred up for the dodger; the small, round skillet with cover (Dutch oven they call it) was set over a bed of coals; the tea-kettle was singing on the fire, and some chunks of venison boiling in the pot.

While Mrs. Rose was thus engaged, one by one we begancrawling out, but not before Quil had come to my bed, stooped down at the head, thrust his hand under, and lo! by the light of the snapping logs, we saw him draw forth a gallon jug without a handle.

“I reckon we’ll have a dram afore breakfast,” said he, with a jolly twinkle in his eye, and smack of his lips, as he poured out a glass of liquor as clear as crystal, and handed it around.

“Hit costs us jist one dollar a gallon, an’ I’ll ’low hit’s as pure as mounting dew,” remarked the head of the family, as he drained off a four-finger drink.

By the time we were dressed, breakfast was ready, and we moved around the neatly-spread table. Coffee and buttermilk were poured; the corn dodger was broken by our fingers, and these, together with stewed-apples and venison made up our morning’s repast.

“The sooner we’re off now, the better,” said Quil, as he took down his rifle from the buck-prongs fastened in the cabin wall, and drew his bullet-pouch and powder-horn over his head and arm.

We stepped from the cabin’s door into the gray light of the morning. The peaks of the Smoky, through which winds Ecanetle gap, were black in shade, while the jagged rim of mountains, toward the east, was tipped with fire, and above was an azure sky without a speck of cloud upon its face. Below us, as seen from the edge of the rail fence, looking far down across red and yellow forests, the fogs of the lower valleys, lying along the stream, appeared like great rivers of molten silver. This effect was caused by the sunlight streaming through the gaps of the mountains, upon the dense masses of vapor. The glory was beyond description.

The kindled Morn, on joyous breezes borne,Breathed balmy incense on the mountains tornAnd tumbled; dreamy valleys rolledIn Autumn’s glowing garments farBelow; and cascades thunderedSparkling down the cedared cliff’s boldFaces: peaks perpendicularShot up with summits widely sundered.

The best time to visit this country is in October. The tourist who, after several months’ sojourn among the mountains, leaves for his lowland home, loses, by only a few weeks, the most pleasant season of the year. In this month is fully realized the truth of Shelley’s words:

“There is a harmonyIn autumn and a lustre in its sky,Which through the summer is not heard nor seen,As if it could not be, as if it had not been!”

The skies are intensely blue, seldom streaked with clouds, and the rain-fall is the least of the year. The atmosphere is free from the haze, that through a great part of the summer pervading the air, renders the view less extended. In it one can distinguish tree-top from tree-top on the heights thousands of feet above him; and the most distant mountains are brought out in bold relief against the sky. The days are mild and temperate.

Then it is that Autumn begins to tint the woodlands. Strange to say, although the forests on the summits are the last to bud and leaf in the spring, their foliage is the first scattered underfoot. Along the extreme heights on the northern slopes, the foot-prints of Autumn are first perceived. This is not because of stronger sunlight or deeper shade, but is due to the difference of forest growth between the north and south sides of the ranges. She earliest changes to a dull russet and bright yellow the upland groves of buckeye and linn, above whose margin the balsams remain darker and gloomier by the contrast; and touches into scarlet flame the foliage of the sugar-maple scattered widely apart amid the sturdier trees.

As the days go by, in the valleys the buckeye drops its leaves; the black-gum, festooned by the old gold leaves of the wild grape, gleams crimson against the still green poplars; thehickory turns to a brilliant yellow amid the red of the oaks; of a richer red appears the sour-wood; the slender box elder, with yellow leaves and pods, shivers above the streams; the chestnut burrs begin to open, and drop their nuts; acorns are rattling down through the oak leaves, while on the hill-sides from the top of his favorite log, the drum of the pheasant resounds, as though a warning tattoo of coming frosts.

On the farms the scene is all animation. Although some corn-fields have already been stripped of their blades, leaving the bare stalks standing with their single ears, others are just ripe for work, and amid their golden banners, are the laborers, pulling and bundling the fodder. Stubble fields are being turned under and sown with grain for next year’s wheat. The orchards are burdened with rosy fruit; and at the farm-houses, the women are busy paring apples, and spreading them on board stages for drying in the sun.

At this time the cattle, turned out in the spring to pasture on the bald mountains, are in splendid condition, and no more tender and juicy steaks ever graced a table than those cut from the hind quarters of one of these steers. The sheep, just clipped of their wool (they shear sheep twice a year in these mountains) afford the finest mutton in the world. But let us return to the hunt.

There was a sharp tingle of frost in the atmosphere. Our breath made itself visible in the clear air, and even Kenswick’s naturally pale face grew rubicund.

“I’ll swear,” said he, blowing upon his fingers, “this is colder than I bargained for. A man must keep moving to keep warm. No stand for me this morning. I’m going in the drive. Why, I’d freeze to sit still for even half an hour waiting for a deer.”

“Hit’s powerful keen, I’ll ’low,” returned Quil, “but hit’ll be warmer directly the sun done gits up. You cudn’t standthe drive no how, an’ yer chances wud be slim fer a shot. Ef ye want to keep yer breath, and the starch in yer biled shirt, ye’d better mind a stan’. Yeh! Ring; Yeh! Snap; Hi! boys.”

At the latter calls, three hounds came leaping around the corner of the cabin, joining the four which were already at our heels. It was a mongrel collection of half starved curs. Two of them, however, were full blooded deer dogs. Their keen noses, clear eyes, shapely heads, and lithe limbs, put us in high hopes of the successful result of the day’s hunt. By tying ropes around the necks of the two old deer dogs, Quil carried into execution his proposition to “yoke up” the leaders; and, forthwith, explained that, at the instant of springing the first deer, he would loosen one hound, whom three of the other dogs would follow. The next plain scent he would reserve for the remaining leader and two followers.

Some of the old hunters of the Smokies have reduced dog training to a fine art. They keep from three to eight hounds, who in a drive, hold themselves strictly to their master’s orders. None of them need to be “yoked,” or leashed, and simply at his word, when a scent is sprung, one hound so ordered will leave the pack and follow alone, and so on, giving each hound a separate trail. This plan of training the hounds does not prevail to as great an extent as it did a few years since when the game was more plenty.

Brushing through the wet weeds and rusty, standing stalks of blade-stripped corn, we climbed a rail fence and entered a faint trail along the laureled bank of a trout stream. This stream we crossed by leaping from rock to rock, while the hounds splashed through the cold waters. The forest we were in was gorgeous under the wizard influence of autumn; chestnut and beech burrs lay thick under foot, and the acorn mast was beingfed upon by droves of fierce-looking, bristled hogs, running at large on the mountain.

The long blast of a horn, and a loud barking, arrested our attention, and soon after we were joined by a short, thick-set young man, whom Quil introduced as Ben Lester. He was the picture of a back-woods hunter. The rent in his homespun coat strapped around his waist, looked as though done by the claws of a black bear. His legs were short, and just sinewy enough to carry him up and down ridges for 40 miles per day. A good-natured, honest, and determined face, bristling with a brown moustache, and stubble beard, of a week’s growth, surmounted his broad shoulders. His hands were locked over the stock of a rifle as long as himself. The ram’s horn, that signaled us of his presence, hung at his side, and three well-fed, long-eared hounds, were standing close by him; one between his legs.

The plan for the hunt was as follows: Lester and the Rose brothers were to do the driving, taking in a wild section, lying far above and north of the Little Tennessee; we four city boys were to occupy drive-ways, and watch for, halt, and slay every deer that passed. Lester volunteered to show me to my proposed stand. He proved himself to be an intelligent and educated fellow, but of taciturn disposition. I succeeded in starting him, however, and it was this way he talked:

“November is the prime time for hunting deer, but this month is very good. You see, the deer, owing to the thinness of hair, are red in the summer. As the weather gets cooler, their hair grows longer, and their color gets blue. If you shoot a deer in the deep water before the middle of October, he’s liable to sink, and you lose him.”

“Why is that?”

“His hair is what buoys him up. He’d sink like a stone, in the summer or early fall.”

“Where are the most deer killed?”

“On the river. Sometimes they steer straight for the water. If the day is hot, they’re sure to get there in a short time. On cool days, they’ll sometimes race the hounds from morning till night; and then, as a last hope, with the pack on their heels, they’ll break for the river.

“Do the hounds follow by the ground scent?”

“No. The best hounds leap along snuffing at the bushes that the deer has brushed against.”

“When, where, and on what do they feed?”

“Here, I know, where the deer have become timid on account of so much driving, they doze in the day-time, and feed at night. The heavy woods along the upper streams afford excellent coverts for their day dreams. In summer picking is plenty; in winter they brouse on the scanty grass, the diminished mast, and the green but poisonous ivy.”

“Poisonous ivy?”

“Yes. It is singular, but it has no effect on them. It will kill everything else. Why, one buck, killed here several winters since, had been living on ivy, and every dog that fed on his entrails was taken with the blind staggers and nearly died.”

“What’s a slink?”

“A year-old deer. When past a year old, the male deer is called a spike-buck. It is said that, with every year, a prong is added to their antlers, but it’s a mistake. I never saw one with more than six prongs; and in these mountains there’s a certain deer, with short legs, known as the ‘duck-legged buck,’ that has been seen for the last fifteen years, and in some unaccountable manner, on every drive he has escaped. Now he has only six prongs.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“Yes; once five years ago, and again last fall.”

“Did you ever hear of a stone being found in a deer?”

“Yes, the mad stone. People believe it will cure snake-bite and hydrophobia. Here’s one. It was found in the paunch of a white deer that I shot this fall was a year ago; and, mind you, the deer with a mad-stone in him is twice as hard to kill as one of the ordinary kind.”

“A fact?”

“Yes. Five bullets were put in the buck that carried this.”

The stone he showed was smooth and red, as large as a man’s thumb, and with one flat, white side. The peculiar properties attributed to it are, in all probability, visionary. The idea of its being a life preserver for the deer which carries it, savors of superstition.

“Now,” said Lester, coming to a halt on the ridge; “here’s your stand. You must watch till you hear the dogs drop into that hollow, or cross the ridge above you. In such case, the deer has taken another drive-way, and it’s no use for you to wait any longer. Start on the minute, as fast as you can go it, down this ridge a quarter of a mile to a big, blasted chestnut; then turn sharp to the right, cross the hollow and follow another leading ridge till you strike the river. You know where the Long rock is?”

“Yes.”

“Well, make right for it, and stand there.”

He disappeared with his hounds, leaving me alone in a wooded, level expanse. It was then full morning, and the ground was well checkered with light and shadow. My seat was a mossy rock at the base of a beech tree, and with breech-loading shot-gun, cocked, and lying across my knees, I kept my eyes fixed on the depths of forest, and waited for the bark which would announce the opening of the chase.

Soon it came,—a loud, deep baying, floating, as it seemed, from a long distance, across steeps, over the trees, and gathering in volume. One of the deep-mouthed hounds had evidentlysnuffed something satisfactory in the dewy grasses or on the undergrowth. His baying had been reinforced by several pairs of lungs, and the drive was under full head-way. Now it would be faint, telling of a ravine, rhododendrons, and trees with low umbrageous branches; then would come a full burst of melody, as the noses of the pack gained the summit of a ridge, or swept through an open forest. But, all in all, it grew louder. It was still far above me, on the spurs of the Smokies, and seemed bearing across the long ridge on which I rested. Then again it turned, and, in all its glorious strength, swept below me, through the deep hollow. My excitement reached its climax just then, for suddenly there was a discord in the music, and every hound was yelping like mad.

“Yip, yip, yip!” they rang out.

The quick barks told a new story,—the hounds had sighted the game, and, for the moment, were close on its haunches. It was manifest that the drive-way I was on was not to be taken. The guide’s instructions for seeking the river were now to be followed. Starting on a quick pace through the woods, I traveled as directed, and was soon on the leading ridge. One rifle shot startled the forest as I ran; and, in the evening, at Daniel Lester’s pleasant fireside, by the Little Tennessee, Kenswick told the following story:

Jake Rose had selected for him an excellent stand; admonished him to keep his eyes peeled, his gun cocked, and not take the “buck-ague” if a deer shot by him. He heard the chorus, and watched and panted. Suddenly, under the branches of the wood, appeared a big, blue buck, making long leaps toward him. Just as he was about to pass within 20 steps, Kenswick jumped out from behind his tree, and yelled like a Cherokee. The buck stopped, as though turned to stone, in his tracks, and gazed in amazement at the noisy Kenswick, who already had his gun at his shoulder. He tried to draw a bead, but hishands shook so, that he could not cover the animal by a foot. The buck snuffed the air, made a leap, and was away as Kenswick, in utter despair, pulled the trigger, and sent a ball from his Remington whistling through the oak leaves.

“Why!” he exclaimed, in the excitement of telling it, “look at my arm.” He held it out as steady as a man taking sight in a duel. “Isn’t that steady? Now why the devil couldn’t I hold it that way then?”

“Buck ague,” answered Ben Lester, quietly; and then the old and young hunters, around that fireside, laughed uproariously.

The barking of the hounds, like my pace, stopped for a moment at the report of Kenswick’s gun. Ten minutes after, I was on the Long rock on the bank of the Little Tennessee. This stand merits a description, for from it probably more deer have been killed than at any other single point in the mountains of Western North Carolina. It is at the Narrows. Here, in the narrowest channel of its course, from below where it begins to merit the name of a river, this stream, of an average width of 150 yards, pours the whole drainage of the counties of Swain, Jackson, Macon, one-half of Graham and a small portion of Northern Georgia, between banks eighty-five feet apart. The waters are those of the rivers Tuckasege, Cullasaja, Nantihala, Ocona Lufta, and the large creeks Soco, Scott’s, Caney Fork, Stecoah, Forney, and Hazel, heading in the cross-chains of the Balsam, Cowee, Nantihala, and Valley River mountains, and on the southern slope of the Great Smoky.

For 100 yards the stream shoots along like a mill-race. Brown boulders, the size of horses, coaches and cabins, are piled at the edges of the current. At the entrance to the Narrows, a line of rocks forms a broken fall of several feet. Over it the waters are white, and the trees wet with spray. Above its roar, no rifle shot, or hound’s bay can be heard a few feet away.Long rock is a dark boulder projecting into the river, at its very narrowest point, 100 yards below, and in full sight of the white rapids. The hunter leaves the road, jumps and clambers over a succession of immense boulders, and at length seats himself on Long rock. The water, close at its edge, is forty feet deep. A steep mountain, following the river round every bend, showing square, mossed rocks under the heavy autumn-tinted forests on its front, rises close along the river’s opposite edge. A few sand-bars, below the stand, reach out from the mountain’s foot. There is one narrow band of sandy bank directly opposite the stand. Projecting boulders shield it from the rush of waters. On this sandy bank the deer, if frightened when swimming down mid-stream, will climb out, affording just the shot desired by the hunter. If not frightened, they will pass on to the smooth-water sand-bars below, and then, leaving the water, disappear up the mountain.

The drive-way, for which Long rock is a stand, comes down to the river a few yards above the fall described. There are no rapids on the Tennessee, but what can be swum by the deer. In many instances, to cool his body and baffle the hounds, he keeps the center of the stream for a mile or more, sometimes stopping in the water for hours before resuming his course. The hounds, when the deer is in sight, follow him in the water, and generally succeed in drowning him before he reaches the bank.

A deer in the water can be easily managed, but, as seen by the following anecdote, there is considerable danger in venturing in after one. Still living in the Smoky Mountain section of the Tennessee, is an old hunter, by name, Brit Mayner. In the days when his limbs were more supple, he was brave, even to foolhardiness, and, on one occasion, as told by a participant in the hunt, he came near losing his life. A deer had been run to the river, and in mid-stream was surrounded by the hounds.Through the great strength and endurance of the deer, the hounds were kept in the water until Mayner, becoming impatient, decided to settle the fight by his own hand. He divested and swam out. At his first pass at the deer, the hounds took umbrage, and fiercely attacked him. It was deer and dogs against man. All were in earnest, and it was only by his expertness as a swimmer that Mayner escaped being drowned.

That morning I reached the river, and covered the stand. The sun’s rays, striking the open water, were bright and warm. Only a slight breeze was blowing, and the frostiness of the air had disappeared. There was no shadow over the rock; and, sweating from my rapid run, to make myself comfortable I threw off my coat, vest and shoes.

A position on the deer stand, when one must keep his eyes on the running water, is most tiresome, even for a few hours. The hunter on Long rock can, however, study his surroundings without much imperiling his reputation as a sportsman; for, unless he turned his back entirely on the upper stream, it would be impossible for a deer to reach his point unnoticed. The white rapids, the mountains around the distant bend, the rich-colored wooded slopes on both sides, the sound of waves dashing against the banks, and the swash of water among the piles of rock, has, in all, something to make him a dreamer, and pass the hours away uncounted.

An hour passed, and then I noticed a dark object amid the white foam of the rapids. A moment later it was in the smooth, swift-flowing waters, and bearing down the center of the current. My blood jumped in my veins as I saw plainly the outline of the object. There was the nose, the eyes, the ears, and, above all, a pair of branching antlers, making up the blue head of what was undoubtedly a magnificent buck.

When he was within 50 yards of Long rock, I jumped to my feet, hallooed at the top of my voice, took off my hat andwaved it aloft. The buck saw me. I dropped my hat and leveled my gun. He tried to turn and stem the current, but it was too strong, and bore him to the sand-bank, directly opposite my stand. What a shot he would have made in the water! His feet touched bottom, and then his blue neck and shoulders appeared, but not before the report of my gun rang out. True, my hand trembled, but, with a fair bead on his head, I had made the shot. Through the smoke, I saw him make several spasmodic efforts to draw his body out of the water, and then, still struggling, he fell back with a splash.

As I stood there, in my stocking feet, and feeling a few inches taller, I had no doubt that the deer was dead, but I was all at once startled by the danger I was in of losing him. The current before the sand-bank kept moving his body, and I saw plainly that in a few minutes it might drift him into swifter waters, where he might sink. To lose the game, at any hazard, was out of the question. In a twinkling, my pantaloons and shirt were off, besides the clothes of which I had previously denuded myself, and a second after, I had plunged head-first into the Tennessee.

The current bore me down stream like an arrow, but an accomplishment, picked up in truant days, came in good stead, and with a few, strong strokes, I reached and climbed out on a sand-bar, at some distance below where I had made the plunge. As I rose to my feet, I was dumb-founded to see an antlered head rise from behind the rocks where lay the supposed slaughtered deer. Then the whole blue form of a buck appeared in view, and leaped from sight, up the rocks, and under the trees on the mountain’s steep front. The sight chilled me more than the waters of the Tennessee. It was the very buck I had shot.

I hurried up the bank, clambered over the cold rocks, and reached the sand-bar where my game had fallen. It was bare!I could not convince myself of its being a dream, for there were the imprints of the hoofs. I picked up the shattered prong of an antler. It had been cut off by a charge of buckshot. The mystery of the fall and subsequent disappearance was explained. My shot had hit one of his antlers and simply stunned him for a moment. Just then a voice rang from the rocks across the river:

“Are ye taking a swim?”

“No, just cooling off,” I answered.

It was Ben Lester who spoke, and with him was Sanford and the dogs.

“Where is the deer that came this way? What luck have you had? Why aint you here watching?” yelled Sanford.

I did not stop to answer his volley of questions, but plunged into the river, and reached the opposite bank. Then, dressing myself, I explained.

“Well,” said Lester, as I finished, “no more could have been expected.”

“Why?” I asked rather indignantly; for, although I fully realized that I had proved myself a miserable shot, I did not like being accused of it in terms like these.

“No one could have done any better,” he answered.

“No better?”

“Not a bit. It was the duck-legged buck!”

“Are you sure?” I asked, feeling like a drowning man sighting a buoy; for here lay the shadow of an excuse for my failure.

“Of course. I saw him leave you. I’ll bet my last dollar that he has inside of him a mad-stone as big as your fist!” Then shaking his head, and talking half aloud to himself; “Strange, strange, strange! Fifteen years old, and still alive!”

I did not attempt to scatter his superstition by telling that in reality I had hit the buck, and that it was wholly due to my poor marksmanship that he escaped. Sanford then told howhe had topped a doe at his stand and killed her,—the only game secured that day. In the afternoon the Rose brothers brought it with our horses, as we had directed, to the house of Daniel Lester.

Lester’s is an unpretentious, double log house, situated in the center of a tract of cultivated hill-side land on the north or east bank of the Little Tennessee, thirty-three miles from Charleston, North Carolina, and three miles from the Tennessee state line. It is approached by a good wagon-road from Charleston, or from Marysville, Tennessee, the head of the nearest railroad. The view from the door-way is of exquisite beauty, especially towards evening when the wine-red October sun is sinking amid the clouds beyond the mountain summits at the far end of the river, and pours a dying glory over the scene. Daniel Lester is a man of prominence in the county. His is a North Carolinian hospitality, and we will always hold in pleasant remembrance our short stay at his humble dwelling.

The most pleasant time of the hunt is the evening of the hunt, when darkness has fallen, all the party is within the same doors, a rousing fire roars and leaps in the great, open chimney, and flings its light in every face, the faucet of the cider-barrel is turned at intervals, chestnuts are bursting on the hot hearth-stones, and after every man in his turn has recounted his day’s experience, the oldest hunter of the group tells his most thrilling “varmint” stories, till the flames die down to glowing coals, and midnight proclaims the end of the day in which we were after the antlers.

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