LIFE IN THE WOODS.

BY THE RANGER.

Who leads a freer, wilder, or more independent existence than the backwoods hunter? The world is all before him where to choose; he wanders over the prairies or through the forests where he likes, and fishes the lake or stream with no one to say him nay. Hungry, he gathers his fuel, kindles a flame, and cooks his venison wherever he happens to be; tired, he pitches his camp, stakes out his horse to graze, feeds his dogs, and, his pipe finished, he rolls himself in his blanket, and sleeps the sleep of the just.

It is all very well for pious, white-chokered respectability to call him "a roving vagabond;" the hunter knows that it is said enviously, and that the never-satisfied shekel collector would willingly part with half of his pelf to be able to lead such a life "under the green-wood

Like other walks in life, however, the apprenticeship must be served when young, or it will never half be learned if taken to too late, when the eye has become sluggish, the foot slow, and the arm soft for want of vigorous use.

Who can be more independent? No landlord demands his rent, no tax-collector troubles you with his unwelcome visits, nor is your water or gas turned off because the rates are not paid.

'The conventionalities of civilized life, which bind you as with steelbands, are dispensed with; for why should a man dress, to dine by himself at a camp-fire? and his morning calls are made more satisfactorily upon the deer and wild turkeys than he would pass the same time in heated drawing-rooms, twaddling over the last ball or the new opera.

A wife, man's "greatest blessing here below," would be one too many in the woods, and so the hunter is spared those little ebullitions of temper which sometimes earthly angels give way to, and he is left. with no one to quarrel with but himself, and as his life is spent in healthy toil, his mind free from carking cares, his temper is always even and good.

He cares little what happens in the outer world-Russia may torture the Pole, Prussia may bully little Denmark, England may bluster and back out, and the United States rob hen-roosts, or annex her weak neighbour's little states; what does it all matter to him? So long as the game remains plentiful he pursues the even tenor of his way unconcerned.

The world owes no trifle to the restless temperament which produces hunters and travellers; it has produced a Burton, a Speke, a Grant, and last, though equal to either, a Baker, who has now completed the discovery of the Nile. Hosts of other Nimrods might be named, who, led into wild regions less by the pursuit of science than of game, have made important discoveries.

To a man, all the pioneers in America who have gradually extended civilization, from the Atlantic coast across the Mississippi towards the Pacific, have been hunters. As their cabins have been encroached upon, and settlements have growu up too close to them, they have pushed on further towards the West, till they have crossed more than half a continent, and the settlers following in their rear have peopled it. In this way was one of the finest States in America settled, Kentucky (cane and turkey gave it its name), by Daniel Boone, the mightiest hunter America ever produced; by him Indian and panther, bear and buffalo were met and killed with equal indifference. Often for the best part of a year he wandered alone, no other white man being within hundreds of miles of him; and yet he died in his bed, and at a good old age too, after all his perils.

One of his daughters I knew, and several of his grand-children; they were near neighbours of mine in Texas for many a year, and the eldest son, Boone Damon, had the adventure with a stag I am about to relate:

Before he left Kentucky for Texas he had determined to have one more saunter through the old Kentucky hard-wood forests, where he had hunted since he was able to carry a rifle. An old neighbour had given him, as a parting present, a young, likely-looking hound; and so having tied up his old well-tried dog, he started off through the woods, followed by his new acquisition. Down one hill side and up another, across gullies and along the valley, he had wandered an hour or two without seeing any game large enough for a backwoodsman to draw “a bead" upon. At last, when about to return home, he discovered a large stag which had just stepped out of the bed of a streamlet, where he had been to quench his noon-day thirst.

Getting within range, he, to use his own word, "popped it to him," and at the crack of the rifle the stag feil. On stooping down to bleed his stag, he no sooner touched his throat with the sharp point of his hunting-knife, than he galvanized the deer, only "creased" by the bullet, into life again, and the stag bounded to his feet, throwing the hunter down, and hurling his knife, in the sudden bounce, some distance off.

Boone Damon saw at once that he was "in a tight place," for the wounded stag had got his "dander riz," and with lowered antlers and his hair upon throat, neck, back, and shoulders set all the wrong way, he charged the young hunter.

With one bound he was on him, cutting him worse with his sharp hoofs, than he did with his antlers, for the latter Boone had seized and held off him as well as he could.

Hanging like grim death to a dead nigger, Boone, in one of the pauses of the combat, looked around for his keen hunting-knife. It was several yards away, and all hope of regaining it fled.

Each time he tried to cheer his new gift, the young hound, to his assistance, the stag renewed the struggle, whilst the cowardly dog looked helplessly on and whined, too frightened to aid his master.

Boone's strength was fast failing him, the struggle had been an awful one, the deer had cut deep into his flesh, and his grasp upon the deer's antlers was growing every moment more and more feeble.

The fight had brought them to the edge of the gulley in which the

stag had been drinking, and young Boone tried to force his enemy back to the brink, so as to tumble him down it; for, though not very deep, still it might give him time to regain his knife, which might turn the tide of the battle.

Just as he got the deer to the brink of the gulley, and hope was high within him, the wary stag discovered the danger, and sprang across the rift, so as the next best thing to getting the deer to the bottom Boone rolled down himself.

The stag's blood was up, and he had no idea of relinquishing the strife until his enemy was 66 intirely kilt," and he bounded to the bottom of the gulley and renewed his attack upon the unfortunate young hunter, and inflicted numerous severe injuries before Boone could again get hold of him. At length he managed to lock his arms around the deer's neck, and pressing his head close to his breast he was enabled to prevent the stag killing him outright.

His strength, however, was fast failing him, and he felt that he could not hold out much longer, for muscle, breath, and nerve had been on a constant strain for nearly an hour.

Just as he was about to give up the game as "played out," he heard the distant whimper of a hound come floating on the breeze, and breathed a fervent prayer to heaven that it might be his old hound Musick who had somehow got loose and was hunting him up.

Nearer and nearer, louder and louder came the cry; the stag heard it too, and instinctively guessing it was assistance for his enemy, renewed his efforts to finish the contest before that aid arrived.

The good hound's cry had sent fresh strength and hope to Boone, and he fought hard to hold his own, but he had lost so much blood he was rapidly becoming faint and blind.

Thoughts, too, ere he lost consciousness had flashed like lightning through his brain--to die so young and alone in the forest, for his bones to be picked clean by the forest wolves and vultures, and nought to cover them but the autumnal leaves as they fell withered from the trees-all this passed quickly through his mind before he lost him

self.

He had, too, a vague idea that something at the last moment had sprung over his head at the deer with the bound of a panther, and then he knew no more.

When he came to himself he found his old faithful hound Musick licking his face and hands, and his late adversary was stark and stiff at his feet.

It is seldom that a hunter meets with such a severe tussle with a stag, as this of all the larger beasts generally falls the easiest, and dies with least resistance.

The wilderness hunter, however, often meets with fiercer game, which puts him to his trumps to win. A wounded wild bull, a hunted bear brought to bay, will try his nerves and straight shooting if anything will.

So, though wild life in the woods may have its dangers, they are really, except in travellers' tales, few and far between, and I for one would rather meet an angry bear or a wild bull's charge than run off the rails

in an express train; in the latter case only a miracle can pull you through; in the former, a light heart and a thin pair of breeches, to say nothing of the thousand-and-one accidents in a personal struggle, together with a good knife, and a happy-go-lucky recklessness, will generally bring you through "right side up, with care."

THE FIRST BRACE.

ENGRAVED BY E, HACKER, FROM A PAINTING BY A. COOPER, B.A.

"We have all our prejudices: every Englishman has a right to many. One of mine is to think a regular retriever positively not worth his keep to you, for general shooting, if one of your setting dogs will retrieve well; but what an important if is this! However, if you shoot much in cover, I admit that a regular retriever, which can be worked in perfect silence, never refusing to come in when he is merely signalled to, or, if out of sight, softly whistled to, is better, particularly if you employ beaters; but even then he need not be idler than one generally sees: he might be broken in to hunt close to you, and give you the same service as a mute spaniel. I grant this is somewhat difficult to accomplish, for it much tends to unsteady him; but it can be effected-I have seen it-and, being practicable, is at least worth trying; for, if you succeed, you make one dog perform the work of two, and, besides its evident advantage in thick cover, if he accompany you in your every-day shooting, you will thus obtain, in the course of a season, many a shot which your other dogs, especially in hot weather, would pass over......A very celebrated dog had an invaluable quality as a retriever. He disturbed as little ground as possible during his search, and no fresh ground returning. After running with the greatest correctness a wounded pheasant through a large cover, he would invariably return upon the same track he had taken when first sent from heel.' I confess I cannot see how this admirable habit could be taught by any one but Dame Nature. Is it not a beautiful instance of sagacity?"

Our extract is taken from Major-General Hutchinson's work on Dog-breaking, of which the fourth and a much-enlarged edition has recently been published by Murray, of Albemarle-street. It is in every way a most delightful as well as a most useful book, as since the times of Hawker there has been no such authority on the trigger.