How The Picture of an Express Wagon Written for “Fur News and Outdoor World,” December, 1924 We had just received a new catalog from a mail order house. Wife and I decided to take advantage of some of the bargains that we needed most. Well as you might expect when we got our order made out and mailed, our spare money was all gone. A few days later our little boy Robert, who is not quite three years old yet, gets ahold of the catalog, and after leafing it over for some time he brings it to me and says: “Pa, I do want to order this little wagon.” I looked at the picture which was printed in colors, and sure was attractive, and said: “Robert, you don’t want that little wagon, the snow is so deep, and the weather is so cold you could not play out doors with it if you had it.” He looked at me and said: “I do want that little wagon.” I said: “Robert, my money is all gone.” He replied that he had some in his bank. His mother hearing the conversation remarked that he had about two dollars in his bank, “and,” she continued, “if you could manage to get enough to go with it, you had better take it and buy the wagon. The two dollars surely would do him a lot more good invested in a wagon than it would lying in his bank. Money is no good if you can’t use it.” I figured this was good advice, and now it was up to me to do my part. Being a hunter and trapper it did not take me long to figure how to get the money. It started
snowing on the morning of February 13th
and soon there was seven or eight inches of
light dry
snow. This was ideal for weasel hunting, so I went to the granary and
picked
out two No. 91 double-jawed jump traps and put them in my pack-sack
with the
No. 2 fox trap which I always carry when hunting foxes or bobcats.
Next, wife
packed my lunch while I filled my 12-gauge I was soon in the woods which are only about 400 yards south of our house. Here I hit an old road and followed it west about a mile to the head of Jones Run. Then I turned south down a little ravine, over old hemlock logs and sand rocks until I reached the big spring, and the remains of a curious old fireplace, which I have never been able to obtain any record of, even the oldest settlers know nothing of who built it. Here I stopped a few minutes to rest and think of the days gone by. I first visited this place when I was a boy. Then it was a beautiful spot. The mountains were covered with virgin timber, with patches of mountain laurel, and rhododendron mixed through it. There were big white conglomerate boulders scattered along the mountain sides and in the ravines. It sure was a place to interest a boy like me, who loved to roam the forest. This country has long since been stripped of its timber, and the ravine has had its watercourse changed in many places by man in the operation of taking the timber out, but it still is a pretty place to see. Putting away the thoughts of youth I went wandering down the old railroad grade. Still my mind was more on the changes that had taken place than on my job of hunting weasels. I had gone but a short distance when I noticed a lot of tracks ahead. I first thought they were fox tracks, but when I reached them I found they were made by a cottontail rabbit and his pursuer, a large weasel. They had been in every direction, back and forth, and the chances of finding the weasel looked rather slim, so I walked on down the grade. I had gone about one hundred yards, when I noticed a small place off to my right where the snow was all packed down, and a narrow trail lead from it to a clump of briers. I stepped over to investigate. The weasel had run bunny down and killed him, and then dragged him into the briers and left him with his hind quarters sticking up out of the snow. Having had a lot of experience with weasels I figured this one was an easy mark. I set my gun down and went to work. Cleaning the snow away I gathered up some pieces of wood and built a nice little house over the remains of bunny with an entrance just wide enough to set my trap in. Then I broke off a small bush and fastened my trap to it. Now I was ready to make the set. I tore off part of the rabbit to take with me for other sets. I set the trap in the entrance - far enough back so it would not snow under, and pulled some of the fur from the rabbit and covered the trap over nicely, then I put a piece of wood up to the entrance leaving a hole just big enough for a weasel to get through. Picking up my outfit I started in search of more signs. It was a cold morning and rather cloudy when I started out, but now it was breaking away, and the sun was coming out. This I appreciated very much, as I had got mighty cold while making the set. After traveling a half mile or more I left the railroad grade and went up to the ‘old wagon trail’ which leads to the State Highway at the mouth of the run. After walking along this trail for some time Sweep (my hound) made a sudden dash and went past me. He had winded a fox, which had crossed the trail a few rods ahead. I called him back and kept him with me until I reached the tracks, which were good and fresh. Sweep was mighty anxious, and after thinking the matter over I told him to go: He did. You would have thought by the sound that he had bumped into a hornets’ nest and that they were giving him a boost up the mountain side. Jack, my Airedale, seemed to think he ought to get into the chase, but I scolded him and finally got him quiet. I stayed there an hour or so ‘til 1 was sure the fox and hound were circling over in Flynn Hollow, which is a branch of Jones Run. I went down to the forks and up Flynn Hollow to a little clearing where an old lumber camp had been. I stopped to listen and could plainly hear Sweep crossing the hollow above me. I stood where I was until he had reached the top of the mountain and was nearly out of hearing, then I decided to watch where they had crossed the hollow. I started on, walked a hundred yards or so and stopped for breath and was surprised to hear Sweep coming down the mountain side behind me. I turned and ran for the clearing, and reached it the same time Sweep did. The fox had gone through, so I went over to the old camp foundation, tore off some pieces of boards, fixed me a seat and sat down. The sun was shining bright. It was thawing me. I had a fine place to watch and eat there about two and a half hours. No fox or hound came back, so I got up and ventured to find what had become of them. After traveling a mile and a half I found they had crossed Jones Run and gone towards Byron Brook. I followed their trail from here about three miles, up hill and down, through laurel, briers and all kinds of going ‘til I found where Sweep had crossed the trail and gone back towards Jones’ Run. I wanted to know what had become of the fox, so I followed the dogs back track. I did not go far before Sweep came to me. Now I was sure he had holed the fox, and hustled on. Within about a mile I found where Sweep had eaten a rabbit. After looking around a little I discovered that the rabbit had been run down by another large weasel, and that he had a path that led from the rabbit to a hole under a log. There were some limbs and trash lying against the side of the log which formed a natural pen. I took a trap from my sack, fastened it to a small limb and set it in the pen nearest the end towards the hole. I covered it with fur and put a good sized piece of meat in the other end and blocked the entrance with sticks and snow. This completed the set. The sun had gone down. I was in a little ravine that led to the Hard Scrabble Hollow and about two miles from home, and within one-half mile of a road that leads to home. Thinking I could spare another half hour I hit the tracks and followed on. It was soon so dark I had to give up the fox chase and go for home, which I reached about 8 o’clock. After helping Wife finish up the chores I ate about three good meals and went to bed. The morning of the 14th, after getting everything ready, I hit the trail again. It had snowed two or three inches during the night and was still snowing. After traveling about one-half hour I reached trap No. 1 in Jones Run and found I had caught a fine large brown weasel. After skinning him and putting the skin in my pack-sack I followed the old wagon trail out to the main road, followed this about a mile, then cut across northwest over the hills towards trap No. 2. When I reached Byron Brook I found another trail where a weasel had been chasing a rabbit. I spent about twenty minutes trailing them and found where the chase had ended-another bunny was dead. I took him by the hind legs and dragged him to a nearby stump. Here I made another set, and then went on across to trap No. 2. Here I found another large brown weasel securely fast in my little jump trap. After taking care of him in the usual way I started for home. It was 3 o’clock and still snowing. The snow was now about fourteen inches deep, which made it hard walking, and it wasn’t far from dark when I reached home. The next morning I went down the Hard Scrabble road until I hit the cross trail, and followed this over to trap No. 3 in Byron Brook. Another brown weasel had met his fate. While taking care of this one it started snowing, and I never saw it snow harder in my life than it did for the next half hour. When it had quit snowing I had reached the top of the mountain and was getting mighty tired. The snow was so deep it was hard to travel, so I decided to hit my old hunting trail, which I soon succeeded in doing. I followed this north about a mile and a half, and was swinging east around the head of Byron Brook when I struck a fresh weasel track crossing the trail. It had been made since the snow squall and I knew it was pretty fresh, so ventured to follow it. I had gone no more than 100 yards when I holed it. Making a pen and placing some bait in it I set trap No. 4 (not size 4) and made for home. The next morning, which was the 16th, I was a little slow in getting started, as it was Saturday and a good supply of wood and water had to be put in store for wife’s convenience. After getting everything ready I followed my back track to trap No. 4, which I found had “lain down on the job.” The weasel had eaten part of the bait and gone back in the hole. On examination I found the trap pan would bear the weight of a weasel without springing. Taking it from the pen I worked it a while and got it limbered up so it worked with ease, then I set it back and went on down the trail to the place where I had come up the mountain the night before. From here I went across to the west brink, and then down the mountain side over large boulders, and through between them; over and under fallen trees, through laurel and blackberry briers. This is the natural home of the snowshoe and’ the porcupine, and the lure of Bruin and the bobcat. Then I hit the old wagon trail in Jones’ Run near the mouth of Flynn Hollow. I had gone but a short distance when I noticed some fresh tracks below me in the old railroad grade. I scrambled down there through the brush and snow. The tracks had been made the day before during the snow squall. After hunting around a short time I succeeded in finding where another of the little flesh eating devils had slain its prey. Set No. 5 was now soon made and I was on my way towards home. The clouds had broken away and the sun was shining bright, the weather was settled -- and so was my mind. Weasel trapping was no easy task with the snow above my knees -- it was genuine hard work. If I could get one more I would quit. After wallowing in the snow for two more hours I reached home tired enough to take a day off. Sunday, the 17th, I rolled out of bed about 9 o’clock, did my chores, and loafed around ‘til noon, then I took a small lunch and my daughter’s camera and started for the finish, back by the way of the hunter’s trail to trap No. 4. Here was caught high up by both hind legs a small female brown weasel, dead and frozen stiff. Now for a picture. This was soon taken and I was on my way to Jones’ Run. It was cold and cloudy. Having a track broken it was much easier traveling than it was the day before. I hit a good pace out the ridge and down the mountain side. Trap No. 5 was soon in view gripping a nice white weasel. It was another female, small in size, but not too small to kill a large cottontail. After killing the weasel I laid it on some dark wood at the front of the pen, then took the rabbit it had slain and put it on a log nearby. Now I took another picture, and was ready to call it quits. There is a bounty of $1.00 on a weasel, and this together with the pelts would net me at least $7.50. This was enough to buy the express wagon for Robert -- the main object in view. The author was the father of Robert W. Gibson, Jane A. Brownell and Lola G. Burrell; all of the Newfield/Gold area. He owned the round barn farm from about 1941 until he died, then it was turned over to his son, Robert. n |