by Joe Cone
Cambridge,
Mass.
1100 words
Author of “Heart and Home Ballads”, “Old
Nutmeg”, “The Yankee Tramp”, Etc.
Probably there never was a boy born in the
rural districts of New England who did not possess a love for hunting and trapping.
There is something about the rugged and historical locality which suggests the
outdoor life, and New England literature has ever teemed with pictures of the
scout, the Indian, the hunter and the trapper. Frank Folger was a boy keenly
alive to all the joys of outdoor life. During school hours his mind would
wander from his books to the long lines of tumbled-down walls where burrowed
the rabbits and woodchucks, or along the shaded streams where lurked the
cunning mink and otter. Even the general illustrations in his history and
geography were neglected for those which pictured hunting scenes and forest
expeditions. And so his grandfather, with whom he lived, for Frank’s own father
was dead, promised him a small gun and half a dozen steel traps when he should
become fifteen years of age.
Frank’s home was in the beautiful
Connecticut valley a few miles back from the broad and winding river of the
same name. Near his grandfather’s house a smaller stream wound down between the
wooded hills and joined the larger one several miles below. Game was plentiful
along the banks of the smaller river, and Frank counted the days and hours till
his fifteenth birthday should arrive. It came at last, however, and with it the
gun and steel traps. During each vacation that followed Frank entered into his
favorite pursuit with a zeal known only to true sportsmen, and scores of mink,
muskrat, ‘coon and polecat skin adorned the walls of his grandfather’s barn.
By and by Frank began to thirst for larger
game. A goodly sized otter had been seen in the region of Pickerel Lake, about
five miles distant. and upon hearing the news the young trapper was filled with
enthusiasm. His grandfather smiled at the thought of his trapping an otter, and
was loth to have the boy go away so far by himself, but he persisted, and
finally the old gentleman yielded.
Pickerel Lake was a wild spot, surrounded
by heavy woodland and almost impenetrable underbrush. Here and there close to
the water’s edge were patches of bog which were honeycombed by innumerable
muskrat ditches. The first day Frank left home at daybreak, but after loitering
around the shores of the lake all day he returned, tired, but in no way discouraged.
The next day he left an hour earlier, taking two of his largest traps with him.
These he carefully concealed in two of the most prominent muskrat channels.
This day passed much like the first, and the third day availed him of nothing.
Then his grandfather urged him to abandon the idea of trapping an otter, while
his associates teased him not a little over his “wild goose chase”.
“If you kin get an otter into a steel trap,
my boy, you kin do suthin’ your granddaddy never could do,” said the old
gentleman, with a look of admiration t the young hunter. “An’ your granddaddy wuz
no mean trapper in his day, either,” he added.
One morning as Frank neared the lake he
heard a loud splash and rushing to the bank he saw a large wake spreading over
the glass-like surface.
For a long time he stood, motionless, with
ready gun, his eyes glancing here and there expecting to see the animal rise again,
but was not rewarded. When the otter came to the surface again it was a long
way off and close to the shore. Several days went by in which time Frank was
making a study of the surroundings and of the habits of the game of which he
was in search.
“Grandfather,” said he one day, “I’m going
to ask a favor of you which I am certain you won’t grant.”
“Why waste words then? But what is it,
Frank?”
“I want to live at Pickerel Lake for a few
days,” said the boy.
Frank’s grandfather laughed heartily, then
after a moment’s serious deliberation he told him he might go on one condition.
“What is it?” Frank inquired anxiously.
“That if you don’t get him in two days you
will return an’ give up otter hunting.”
So it was agreed. Frank had passed one
whole day and night by the side of the lake and the last day was just begun. He
crawled on his hands and knees from his rude hut at daybreak and was within
thirty yards of the water’s edge. A deathlike stillness was upon all nature. He
rested his gun across a bog and waited. A half hour dragged by and visions of
failure crowded his brain. Still he lay there, cramped and uncomfortable; it
was his last chance. By and by he heard a light swish down the shore on his
right. Then almost in front of him, a dark object crawled from the muddy edge
to a bog and sat upright. In its mouth wriggled a large fish. He couldn’t have
told if it was a large muskrat, a brown dog or an otter, owing to its color
being so much like the surroundings, but he knew it was something; something to
shoot at. His blood warmed, and his body quivered. A mist seemed to gather in
the direction of the object, but he managed to squint along the shining barrel.
A moment later the woods rang with the report of his beloved gun. Above the
smoke he saw the animal spring into the air then disappear. With a few bounds
he reached the shore just in time to see his prey struggling for the edge of
the water. It was the otter plainly enough, and thoughts of losing him filled
his brain. As his gun was but single-barreled it look as tho’ such would be the
case. Then suddenly the otter brought up with a jerk and thrashed furiously
about the muddy shore. Frank uttered a cry of joy, for he saw the animal had
floundered into one of his steel traps. Otherwise he must have lost him. After
a hard fight, in which both became smeared with mud and water, Frank dispatched
the big fellow and started with him on his long journey homeward. It was a hard
tramp, but the welcome he received from his grandfather and the twenty dollar
bill he received from the furriers made it a pleasant thing to remember.
Joe
Cone
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