Burnell Reid

Before the great fire in the late twenties, Centreville was a thriving town. Situated in the heart of New Brunswick's potato belt, this farm centre sported a bank, a theatre and many modern retail features which were rare for small towns.

As a boy growing up on a farm near Centreville in the forties and fifties, my recollection was that the village was similar to most others in the area. Although the town was missing the bank, theatre, and other landmarks which were destroyed in the fire, we still had the essential facilities.

These included a drug store, several small retail stores, the post office, a barber shop, a lumber mill, a feed mill, and the highly unique Sherwoods Store.

Farming in the post-war years was little more than subsistence for many of our farmers. Not that it wasn't a good life for the average person, because it really was. Included in that good life was a healthy respect for people, a solid disciplined home atmosphere, and a country spirit of good will toward our neighbours.

The fact that we were relatively poor in relation with some other parts of the Country, was really of little consequence to us. We had our families and a cohesive community.

Most of our everyday necessities were provided at home. Mum and our hired girl made most of our clothes, which was quite a chore. My three sisters and myself were active youngsters in school and the Baptist Church. With the concerts, plays, Christmas and halloween, there were always extra needs to consider.

One of the positive features of living on a farm in those days was the food. I recall with mouth-watering memories the late August vegetables. There were small new potatoes, new peas, beans and probably a small roast of home grown beef to complete the special meal. Some Sundays we even had home made ice cream, made of course with real cream. That was a meal fit for a King.

The meat consumed by our family was the very best that we knew how to grow. It was nourished and fattened to perfection by my father. A pig in the spring and a beef in the fall, were the normal requirements for a farm family. Some of the beef was frozen in burlap bags and buried in our ice-house when freeze-up occurred. We even had our very own lake, which supplied the ice.

Many of the other family requirements were available in Sherwoods store. This establishment was one of the major fixtures remaining from the great fire of years gone by. It was a relatively large building with a cement side walk built up at the front of the store. Along the front of the side walk were several hitching posts, some of which were still used in the forties. The south end of the walk ended with a two to three foot drop-off. Some of the more daring town boys would jump their bicycles over this drop-off in the summer, sometimes with poor results. "Damn fools," would be the comment of the older folks.

In the north end of the building, "Judds Studios," proudly displayed their photos of local families, weddings and graduations. If I recall correctly, even our own family made the honour a few times.

Once inside the store, you could find practically everything imaginable. Dad and I would head for the counter with the big cheese round. The clerk would cut off a pound or so of true "rubbery" cheddar, and we would each have a sample before leaving for home. To this day I still enjoy a mild cheddar, even though it never seems to taste as good as it did then.

There were clothes of every description, from winter coats to dress socks. Some of those things must have been there for fifty years. I remember one day a mouse ran out from under a pile of blankets which we had been pawing through. Bur nobody took too much notice of small things like that. After all, the mouse had to be somewhere!

On the front counter was an old scale, used for everything which needed to be weighed, from cheese to horse-shoe nails. There was a candy counter which, of course, attracted my attention. Most of the time I had no money to buy candy, but when I did, the people who worked there were more than generous. I still remember the maple buds, which were high on my list. During the War years there just wasn't any good candy, but after about nineteen forty six, you could buy a good bag of those wonderful buds for a dime, which would last even me all day.

Even jewellery was displayed in this store. I remember the first present I ever bought my Mother. It was a broach of some description, and when I gave it to her, she thanked me and said it was beautiful. I replied that it should be beautiful since it had come from Sherwoods store and had cost fifteen cents!

This was also the store where we traded our eggs for flour and sugar. Dad would take a basket of eggs to the store and come home with other merchandise for the family. I remember when we were able to buy our first post war bananas. They came from Sherwoods store and were paid for with eggs. They were delicious. This great country store was a highlight of the town through the forties, fifties and well into the sixties. The owners of the store grew old, and the tastes of the customers perhaps outgrew the inventory. The store deteriorated, both the building and contents. I remember coming home one summer, and there were no lights on in Sherwoods store. Somehow it didn't seem like the same place.

Now, near the turn of the century, there is even a bank in Centreville. The town is growing more quickly than most other New Brunswick communities. But there still seems to be something missing when I revisit my old home town.

I think it must be Sherwoods store.

Burnell B. Reid

EAST WIND

Frank was leaning against the garage with a fish basket in one hand and a rain jacket in the other.

"That wind is blowin’ from the west boys, that means that the trout will be takin’ today."

Every summer Dad and Frank , both busy farmers, would take a half day or two and head for the woods to fish trout. After about my tenth birthday, they would include me in their plans. This trip, mid July of 1946 ,was my first and I was more than a little excited.

Instead of waking at 6 A.M., my usual time to help with the milking, I was tossing and turning most of the night and certainly got less sleep than a ten year old requires. I must have caught a dozen or so trout by the time Mum called me. The daily chores were finished and breakfast of oatmeal porridge and toast eaten in record time. I was eager to be heading for the trout stream.

There was a saying among fishermen, "Wind in the east, fish bite least. Wind in the west, fish bite best." This had prompted Frank’s remark that the trout would be biting today. Actually I found out much later in life that this phenomenon originated from fishermen along the coastal waters of the Atlantic and the inland Miramichi areas. But to me at that time it was great news.

My first task was to dig the bait. The dirt was flying and I found worms galore under the edges of Frank’s manure piles. We each had a full can packed with dirt to keep the night crawlers hard for the day. For my birthday dad had given me a fish bag .It still had the Sherwoods Store smell and looked good enough to wear every day.

"When you fill that pretty bag with trout, you won’t want that thing in front of you too long after that. The smell will soon get you down, especially on this hot day". But Frank’s remark went unheeded and the bag stayed tightly tied around my waist. I was ready.

We loaded Frank’s 1941 ford with food, lemonade and fishing gear and were on our way. Our destination was near Juniper, N.B. on a small river called "Chichtehawk." Frank and Dad were very familiar with this area of the province, for they had fished in these parts for many years. For me this was my first fishing trip and everything was new and exciting.

After crossing the Florenceville bridge, we headed up the St. John river past the site of the future McCain plant, through Bristol and on toward Juniper.

Shortly after the town of Glassville, we turned into an old road which led to a farm house and several other rundown buildings. An old man came storming out of the house in his red long johns with something in his hands which looked to me like a gun. Frank jumped out of the car shouting, "Hold on there Zeke, we’re friends."

"Who the devil are ya’ anyway?"

" Oh its you Frank. Thought it might be them Kinneys. They ain’t comin’ in here no more. Last time they made off with my new shovel and I swear one of my hens was missin’."

" Now Zeke, we’re just going to do a little fishin’ and Blair’s boy here is in for the first time."

"Well now ain’t that nice. Come on out here you two and let’s have a look at that boy."

Well, this old man was something else! He scared me half to death, for the 22 rifle was waving around and his underwear was gaping in the front. I thought he must be crazy. Frank was watching me and was practically bent over with laughter.

"Easy with that rifle there Zeke. You don’t want to shoot the boy before he catches his first trout now do ya?"

Zeke finally slowed down , and even invited us in to have a piece of his favorite corn bread.

"We should be going Zeke. We got about three miles to walk before the fishing starts. I suppose everything is fished out down at the forks."

" Oh yeah, them Kidneys has cleaned that pond and probably everything down river. Your best bet is to go wherever you went last time."

"You remember that mess we hauled out of here last year Zeke, if we can do that again, the boy will have something to remember."

"You bet. They was some good trout that you gave me."

We unloaded the car and packed up the things to take in with us. After umpteen warnings from Zeke about getting lost and taking enough food for the boy, Frank was leading us to my first big fishing experience.

The first mile or so went quickly and then we were in the deep part of the woods. Frank said we were following an old road, but for the life of me I didn’t see any. What he was following was a mystery . Yet he plowed on and all at once we came to a clearing.

"This used to be an old logging camp, believe it or not."

" Yes, I remember we came in here once and a bear had broken out the windows and practically tore the place down," remarked my father.

That’s all we need , I thought. An old bear with cubs to drive us all up a tree. Then we’ll never get fishing. "Don’t worry Burnell, the bears have mostly left this area," said Frank.

What was "mostly" supposed to mean? It would only take one!

"You two fine men cut into the river here and walk up about half a mile. You can fish down to here and probably will have a basket full by then. Make sure you mark your place when you hit the river, so you can recognize it when you get back down."

"What are you doing Frank, going up further," asked Dad?

"Yep. There is an old beaver pond up there a ways that might just have some dandy trout in it."

"O.K. We’ll head down to the river now and meet here to go back to the house about four o’clock. How’s that?’

"Good plan. Be sure to mark your exit point and I’ll see you later".

Frank was off. His old hat was pulled down over his eyes, his fish basket was strapped to his waist ,and he had a determined look in his eye.

Dad led the way through a stand of hardwoods and down into a low swampy area that had me wondering where on earth we were going. But, like Frank, he must have known where he was, because he suddenly stopped and said," Well I suppose we should cut ourselves a fishing pole or two." (Good idea, I thought!)

There were several willows in the area which made good fishing poles, and Father gave me one which seemed to be just about right. We wound a few feet of fishing line around the end of the poles, tied a sinker a few inches from the end of the line and added a sharp barbed hook.

"Now all we need is water" said my guide.

"Right, but where might that be" says I.. .

"Follow me. See that big beech tree over there?"

I actually saw the big tree over there, and for the first time that afternoon, felt that we just might get to fish after all. I could now hear the babbling of the Chichtehawk and could imagine the big trout rushing toward me.

The water was a pleasant sight and I stopped and started to thread a worm on my hook. "Hold on there," said dad. "We got another half mile to go before we try the river."

Well, we walked and we walked until I thought we would never stop to fish. Over brush, old dead falls, through swampy areas and finally dad turned and said "now this is it".

For the next hour, with dad’s instructions, I managed to catch three trout. They were small pan trout about six inches long, and would taste good over an open fire. Dad had better luck, but would not tell me how many he had. The water in this area was fast and very cold. Of course we had no waders and I was wet, practically from head to toe. But the sun was out and the fish were biting and all was well with the world.

But things can change quickly. The sun disappeared, big clouds rolled up, and before we knew it, we were in the midst of a thunder storm.

"Better come up here under this tree", shouted Dad.

I climbed up from the bank and ran in under the great spread of the giant pine. The rain was pelting down, the lightning was crashing around us, and I was cold. Through all of this sudden misery, I vaguely remembered something in school about lightning striking the tallest trees in the forest.

"Dad, could this be the tallest tree in this woods?"

"It probably is. We’re some lucky to find this beauty in this storm."

I thought it rather unwise to share my profound knowledge of how we might be electrocuted at any second!. For one thing I was wet, cold and miserable, and was content to stay in this shelter even if lightning did strike!

But it didn’t, and we left the lair and surveyed the landscape after the gods had quieted.

"About time for a sandwich, don’t you think?"

I realized with that brilliant suggestion, that I was indeed starving. We had a peanut butter sandwich and a drink , then headed back to the river.

Things had drastically changed. The water was brown. "It will clear in a short while." said Dad.. "In the meantime we should head down river to the faster water ."

We started down river through some rough underbrush and managed to get even wetter. All at once, a brown speeding object appeared right in front of me. It was a deer, and a few seconds later two more small fawns broke out ahead of me. "See the deer," I shouted..

"They must have been laying down in the brush to escape the storm." Dad replied..

After a few minutes we cut back to the stream and started to fish again. We tried everything possible to catch a trout, but they just were not there. "They’re here all right but the devils have been spooked," chimed Father, who seemed to read my thoughts.

"Let’s move on down the river then." So we plodded on down the river with soaking wet clothes, a few little trout in the bag, and with great expectations. (As only fishermen can have)

"Damn," exclaimed Dad. "I lost my watch. Wonder what time it is?"

" Thought you said you could tell time by the sun," I offered.

"Sure I can, but where the devil is it?"

We rejoined the river and found this time that the trout had awakened. "Got one." I

roared. "Just look at this beauty."

"I got one too." echoed Dad. And for about a half hour we caught fish as fast as we could bait the hook.

Then, all of a sudden they were gone. The river was like a cistern. No fish. "We must have caught them all, dad."

"Not a chance, there must be another storm coming. We should head on back."

Like back where? I had no idea where we were. Who cares when you’re catching fish!

"Did you see that old beech on our way down?"

On our way down where? What was he talking about? I was fishing!

"I think I might have seen it, but I’m not sure" I didn’t want to confess my ignorance to my father. "Do we have to go now?"

"Roll up your line and cut the end off your pole, and let’s get out of here before the storm hits." Reluctantly, I complied and used Father’s jack knife to lob the end off the alder.

Now what? "I think we passed our big tree, so we can head up river."

Good plan, thought I. Perhaps a small prayer might help, for I have no idea!

Thunder! Oh just great! I’m cold now, guess what it’s going to be when another sheet of that icy stuff hits us again. Oh well, I must have close to a dozen great trout in here. So who cares about cold.

Then it hit.

Before we could get under anything resembling shelter, we were practically drowned. The lightning was flashing and the thunder rolling. Finally we crawled under an old pile of brush and, at least escaped the high wind that came with the storm.

We cowered there for what seemed like hours, before the large black clouds moved on and the rain stopped.. Lord I was cold! "That temperature must have dropped twenty degrees." said my "all-knowing" father.

"Seems so." I chattered.

But all at once my temperature shot up, for not ten feet in front of me stood the biggest bear I had ever even imagined!

"Dad," I croaked..

"I see it " he whispered. "Just stand perfectly still and I will try to get his attention over here."

The bear had his beady eyes locked with mine, and I now knew the meaning of cold fear.

Dad was some distance to my right and shouted at the big bruin. The bear then stood up on his hind legs, showing me his great size and turned his attention to dad.

"Now listen son. Unstrap your fish bag, and then throw it to the left of the bear. Move very slowly so as not to spook him. Make sure you throw it past the bear so it will distract him.. I don’t see any cubs, so we should be all right."

Well maybe he would be all right, but I was terrified.! Could I throw the bag far enough?

I slowly untied the fish bag, not even thinking about the precious trout inside, and rolled it up for the throw. This could be my last if it isn’t good!

Meanwhile the bear’s eyes are roaming from Dad to me, like he was trying to decide who to kill first! When I thought he was looking at dad, I fired with all my ten year old might and threw the fish bag just past his head.

That seemed to do the trick, for the big bruin turned around and headed for the bag, like a big dog fetching a stick. His nose went for the bag, and I could tell he was really interested in my trout. My trout!

"Dad, do you think we can get that animal away from my trout?"

"Are you crazy? Get over here and let’s vamoose while the gettin’s good..

After making sure that the bear was not following, we slogged up river until we found the old beech tree. Then we cut up the hardwood ridge to meet Frank. He was waiting for us.

"Well now, here comes two great fishermen ," he chuckled. "Hope you had as good luck as I did.." He opened his basket and I looked in. There must have been fifty trout.

"My you did do well," said dad. "I didn’t do too bad myself."

He opened the top of his fish bag and said, "take a look.."

"Wow, I cried . I didn’t know you had that many."

"Well now, how about you son?"

"I’m afraid that’s a sad story," said dad. "You see there was this bear which seemed to take a liken to Bob’s trout, and we were in no position to argue."

On the way back to the farm, we related the whole bear story to Frank. He laughed and thought it was real funny. I was still miffed about losing those beautiful fish, but rather happy that we escaped the bear. "You should have seen them, Frank. Some were at least a foot long."

Zeke was still in his drawers, and was sympathetic to my bear story. "Them bears has been a menace fer years around here. I remember the time---

So, after many bear stories, and some hot tea and cornbread, we said good-bye to Zeke and motored back home to do the night chores.

I was milking my second cow, when Dad suddenly said, "I still can’t figure out why those trout suddenly stopped biting just before that last storm."

Heavens, don’t they teach Dad’s anything? I continued to squirt the milk into the bottom of the pail and as casually as I could, echoed Frank’s earlier observation.

"There’s no mystery to that dad. Didn’t you notice that the wind suddenly swung around to the east?"

Burnell B. Reid

BURNING POTATO TOPS AND STRAW

In the nineteen forties, there were a number of small farms in our settlement. Most families were mixed farmers, meaning we grew potatoes for our main crop, enough grain to feed the livestock, and managed our cattle and hogs to augment farm income and feed the family. As a boy growing up on one of these farms near Centreville, New Brunswick, I vividly recall one of the many fun rituals we enjoyed, the burning of the potato tops.

After potatoes are harvested in the fall, the remains of the dead tops are left on, or between the potato rows. These tops are normally too bulky to plough under the soil, but the chemicals they contain make excellent fertilizer. A few good frosts, and a sunny day or two will dry the tops, and they can then be burned.To make the process easier, we would rake the tops into windrows, with a regular horse drawn machine and, after another day or two of drying, the potato tops would be ready for burning.

Dad would try to pick a warm night when the wind was light, and, if we were real lucky, the sky would be clear with a harvest moon. The torches were tree branches or sticks, wrapped in burlap cloth and soaked in kerosene. There was not too much risk of spreading the fire because the potato field was freshly dug and most of the foliage had been removed.

We would dress warmly and carry the torches to the field just after sunset. When the torches were lit, we would go from row to row,lighting the dry tops and watching the flames. The smell of the fire and the night air produced an unbelievable atmosphere.Sometimes we would have hot dogs or marshmallows on sticks to roast if time permitted.

Another fall ritual was the burning of the straw pile.For the uninitiated, straw is the residue from the harvesting of grain. Prior to the mid-fifties, most grain was harvested with a machine called a binder. This machine would cut the grain, collect it in bundles, tie the bundles, and drop them in rows. The bundles would then be "stooked" (stood up in groups to dry) and subsequently loaded on wagons which transported them to the thrashing machine. This machine then separated the kernels of grain from the refuse, and the grain was bagged while the straw blown out the back.

The thrasher would be set up in the barnyard, and the straw blown into the barn for the winter. The straw from the oat crop was used for the purpose of bedding down the livestock, but the straw from barley or wheat had many barbs, so was normally blown into a pile where it could be burned.

On our farm, the straw pile was blown near our cedar swamp, which usually was quite wet, thus ensuring that the fire would not spread. Again a calm night was chosen for the burning, and all precautions were taken before the fire was lit.

The burning of a good sized straw pile could be seen for miles, and often the neighbours would drop in to say hello and sometimes bring along some form of "goodies" for the children.

After the fire died down, there was usually pop or hot chocolate back at the house. We would be tired and the clothes sometimes reeked of gasoline fumes and smoke, but Mother took it in stride and probably did an extra washing the next day.

This was a family outing, and we children looked forward to it each year. But, we grew older and all too soon the ritual was passe. We had other things, grown up things, to do and places to go. Technology altered many potato farm processes, and the "Combine" replaced the"binder." Straw is now bailed in the field and the thrasher is all but forgotten.

The land still lays silent where we once lived. The clap board houses, along with other modern and up- to- date residences, still dot the farming community. Many of the fun things we experienced as children still are valid, but the burning of potato tops and giant straw piles were something special. Now they are good memories in a sea of nostalgia.
Bernie Reid

Rembrance Day

November always triggers distant memories for me, for each November 11 we pay tribute to those who fought and died in the two great wars.

As a three year old child when WWII broke out, I obviously did not realize the gravity of the world's dilema. Nor, even in 1945, did the impact of our allied success in turning back the Nazi regime, fully register. It was sometime later that the evidence of the world conflict manifest itself to me and to our community.

Some of our service men and women did not return home.

For a boy growing up on a New Brunswick farm in the forties, life consisted of a series of normal routines.We lived like most other people in our farming community. We were neither rich nor poor, for we had little to compare with the outside world.

Our independence was fairly unique, for other parts of the western world were suffering from lack of the necessities of life, such as food and clothing. Our parents were aware of these facts, but we children carried on as if the life we lived was the same for all.

Yes, we had ration cards, and knew that our parents had limited money to buy goods. Our Mothers knitted extra mittens and prepared "War boxes" for the boys overseas. But we were told that these little inconveniences would soon end; that our troops would soon be coming home; and that things would then be back to normal. (whatever that was supposed to be!)

One of my early recollectioms was of my father bent over the old family radio listening to Gabrial Heater. Most night after the chores were done, we would join Dad around our big floor radio and listen to the war news. Mr Heater was one of the prime sources of war information in our part of the world. He had a great deep voice and I can still hear him, "Things look bad over Tokyo tonight."

Just how bad things over Tokyo were, I really had no idea

at the time. I was more interested in boy things and our livestock, and could have cared less about Tokyo. After all, we had lots to eat, and our family was a happy unit.

Our town of Centreville was used as a training ground for an Army unit, and we were often treated to small parades and loud band music in the village. But again, I thought this was routine

and enjoyed it for what it was. Being in the army must have been fun! The facts were slightly different. Some of these reserve soldiers would see active duty overseas and return with medals. Others would see active duty and occupy an early grave in a foreign land.

And now as a senior citizen after a 25 year peacetime military career, the significance of such a sacrifice has become

much clearer to me. We must honor those veterans and hope and pray that future generations are spared such tragedy.

On November 11 wear a poppie.

Talk to a veteran.

Above all remember that Nov. 11 is special
Burnell Reid

SCRAMBLED EGGS IN THE WAGON

It was the day before my twelfth birthday, otherwise I may not have remembered this rather unusual story.

Mother and Dad were seated in our little one-seater wagon, behind the engine which was a horse named "Noble".

Noble was a very nervous and temperamental animal. There were days, in fact, that you should not attempt to walk into his stall. Dad certainly was not afraid of him, but I always had the greatest respect for those flying hoofs and his head, which could swing around at you just at the wrong time.

The long mile into Centreville was to be a routine shopping run, in which our fresh eggs would be exchanged for more mundane ingredients such as sugar and flour. On this journey however, the promise of a birthday present was uppermost on my mind .

By 1948, the war years were behind us and new and improved products were becoming more prevalent in some of the stores. Our family problem was, that there was just not enough money to buy the things which we all desired.

This was not unique, or restricted to just our family, for our whole community was a collection of small farms with similar problems. We were mixed farmers who strived to make ends meet by growing potatoes and raising livestock.

On this day as I watched my parents disappear down the lane to the main road, my thoughts turned inward to what they might buy me for my twelfth birthday.

There were twelve dozen fresh, highly polished eggs in a large wicker basket sitting on the seat between them. "I sure hope they get a good price for those eggs." Now what could they possibly get me for my twelfth?

"Probably just some school clothes. Oh well, I could use some new pants. Maybe some candy."

Meanwhile, Noble was trotting along the road leading into town. About half a mile toward destination was a fairly steep winding hill that descended toward an iron bridge over the "presque-Isle" creek. Just prior to reaching the top of the hill, Wally perkins' noisy Chevy Coupe suddenly appeared. Noble jumped, and took off like a shot toward town. Unfortunately, about halfway down the hill, the straps that held the four- wheeler from running into the horse, let go. Things happened quickly.

Noble felt the wagon on his heels and panicked. He surged forward, which made the next bump even worse, and then he really took off. Down the hill they went with Dad hollering "Woah", working the reins, and trying to keep the horse on the main road. Mum was screeching "Blair!" and holding on as best she could.

Eventually, the wagon ran off the side of the road, dumping the contents on the lawn of the Hamlin family.

Fortunately, Mother and Dad landed in some rather soft dirt which helped break the fall. When the dust had cleared, and the people who lived nearby had determined that nobody was seriously hurt, the two stunned passengers climbed up to the road.

What a mess! There were eggs everywhere: in every pocket, in Mum's purse, in their hair, and scattered about the surrounding ditch. "Get the pan Lucy, we got enough scrambled eggs for the whole darn neighbourhood," says one of the group. By now everyone was relieved that disaster was averted, and the good humour was more than welcome.

The hyper horse, Noble, was unhurt and rounded up by some village residents without incident. The wagon however, required major repair.

After a quick trip to the local Doctor, Mother returned home with only bruises and a rather squelched ego. Father was left with messy clothes, a wagon to repair and a pocket full of change covered in egg-yoke.

My immediate worry was that there would be no birthday present. After all, there had been no time to shop after the horse and wagon incident. That crazy horse was to blame.

As it turned out, my fears were unfounded, for that next morning after a good breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs, I was presented with my very first watch. Mum said that it had been sitting in her drawer for weeks.
Burnell Reid

HUNTERS LUCK

The woods has always been an attraction for me. You might say that it started when I was about twelve years old. Our New Brunswick farm, located close to the border of the state of Maine, contained a prime woodlot. From a very early age until I left home, many pleasant hours were spent tramping the ridges and swampy areas. Hunting became a passion. The ruffed grouse, and occasional glimpses of the beautiful white-tailed deer, helped to maintain my enthusiasm.

Now, some thirty years later, Dave and I were concluding three days of deer hunting in the wilds of the New Brunswick woods. This section of the country had, in the past several years, yielded many thrills and prizes for us.

Like the time a black bear crossed our path and ended his journey on the front of a Volkswagen "Beetle" driven by an American woman. Her guide had made a deal with us to sell this beautiful beast for purposes of decorating her cottage with yet another trophy! ($20 cash, complete with gall bladder!)

But that was then.

This venture had so far been disappointing. We had not bagged even a partridge, or seen other animals which might have peaked our interest. But luck can be kind just when you think all hope has faded for success.

My plan for this last afternoon was to stay on the lower plane, while Dave scouted the ridgeline. This proved to be a lucky decision on my part.

While sitting astride an old sun-warmed log and reclining against an adjoining maple, I had the time and just enough reserve energy to reflect on other times and other places.

For me, a walk in the hardwood forest during the fall season when the air is crisp and clear, when all nature seems to be in harmony, when colours of red, yellow and green stare back at you during the morning sunrise, or when the stillness of a sunset triggers the imagination and you hear the movement of night creatures who are beginning to test their nocturnal senses, when you know that day has passed, and that you are out of place on this hallowed ground. You realize that you must now find your way home without the aid of natural light showing familiar land marks.

Fear ! There is none worse than comes from the realization that you are lost. The mind plays horrible tricks and you conjure up visions of such proportions as to cause panic, sweating and yes, even nausea. As light fades, the inner senses sharpen to sound and smell, and as you stumble through the wood, unsure of your direction, suddenly a partridge flushes right in front of your face! You shout in surprise, anger and fear. The blood rushes to your extremities and you nearly faint with anxiety. Then a welcome peace breaks over you and you laugh with relief and wonder why on earth you were so afraid!

Such were the thoughts of this tired hunter when reflections of history temporarily overtook the present situation in an otherwise quiet place.

As I happened to glance over my right shoulder, my reverie was abruptly interrupted. Two white flags were waving from about 100 yards away. By the time I realized that the flags belonged to two white tailed deer, and I was able to retrieve my 30-30 carbine, those deer were all over me! I reacted as fast as I knew how and threw lead in all directions until my seven shot "model 94" was dry. I breathed for the first time in about a minute and surveyed the area for damages. There was not a sound, or anything in sight. I reloaded and stepped up on a small grade to have a better look. Again there was nothing.

Suddenly, right beside me, a 150 pound buck reared up on his hind legs and fell over backwards down the hill. it was his misfortune to have absorbed one of my "area" shots just behind the left ear!

When Dave appeared, I was standing by my prize with a rather proud and contented look. "Sounded like World War Three," he remarked. "What happened to all the other pieces of lead?"

" Oh, I just wanted to scare the other deer away. One was enough for me! Besides, you wouldn’t want to haul more than one animal out of here would you?"

The return to town was now more enjoyable. We had enjoyed the companionship and the majesty of the forest. We had been lucky and succeeded in our hunting expodition, and perhaps best of all we had produced yet another hunting saga for those who might care to listen.

Burnell B. Reid

E MAIL Burnell Reid

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