"Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. LX, No. ccclvi, Jan. 1880 (5)": electronic edition

The Shepherds of Colorado by A. A. Hayes

As I sat, on a summer afternoon, on the balcony of El Paso Club, at Colorado Springs, I found myself inclined to meditation. Before me, and not far away, rose that beautiful Cheyenne Mountain (Chy-ann, they call it in the West) of which poor Fitz Hugh Ludlow said: `Its height is several thousand feet less than Pike's, but its contour is so noble and massive that this disadvantage is overlooked. There is a unity of conception in it unsurpassed by any mountain I have ever seen. It is full of living power. In the declining daylight its vast simple surface becomes the broadest mass of blue and purple shadow that ever lay on the easel of nature.' I felt that I quite agreed with Mr. Ludlow, even if I failed to put the matter quite so expansively; and then my attention was diverted by a mule team, with the driver lying on his load, and just over it a sign, on which was, `Wines and Liquors'—very large—and, `for medical purposes'—very small; and I thought that it would befit a man to be on good terms with his doctor in this place, even if he belonged to the `Moderate Drinkers' Association. Next it came forcibly to my mind that a wandering writer might think himself exceptionally fortunate to find, at the base of the Rocky Mountains, a capital club with sage-green paper on the wall, if you please, and a gilt dado, and Eastlake furniture; and then I could not help thinking how little our people really know of the history, or geography, or resources, of this part of their great country.

In 1540 Coronado was sent into this region by those old fellow-Spaniards of his who were consumed with the auri sacra fames, that fierce hunger for gold, which induced them to scour the earth in search of it, just as it has sent a good many people who are not Spaniards into regions wild and desert. Eighty years before the Pilgrim Fathers landed at Plymouth he was perilously traversing the San Luis Park, and perhaps seeing the Wet Mountain Valley lying, as it does to-day, green and fertile between the two ranges; and he went away disappointed, after all. Then,in 1806, when Mr. Jefferson was President, and Aaron Burr was engaged in his treasonable conspiracy to found a new empire west of the Alleghanies, General Wilkinson ordered Lieutenant Zebulon Pike, an adventurous and persevering officer of the United States army, to proceed westward, and explore the region between the Missouri and the frontier of Mexico. He left St. Louis on the 24th of June, and camped in the foot-hills at this point on the 25th of November. Now I had made the same journey in 1879, and beaten Pike hollow, for I left St. Louis at 9.15 P.M. on a Thursday, and arrived at the same place as he at 5 P.M. on Saturday, and I would not camp for the world, but was assigned a room by a hotel clerk with eyeglasses. I sympathized with Pike in one thing, however, as must many travellers, including the Englishman who wouldn't jump the three-foot irrigating ditch because he `couldn't tell, by Jove! you know, that the blasted thing wasn't three-quarters of a mile wide.' Pike saw the great peak on the 15th of November, when he says that it `appeared like a small blue cloud.' On the 17th he `marched at the usual hour, pushed with the idea of arriving at the mountains; but found at night no visible difference in their appearance from yesterday.' And on the 25th he again `marched early, with expectation of ascending the mountain, but was only able to camp at its base.' Poor Pike! he was modest, for he called it Mexican Mountain, and left others to give it his name; and he was a brave patriot, for, after serving his country faithfully, he laid down his life for her at Toronto in 1813.

Again, in 1843, Fremont, the `Pathfinder'—now living quietly in Arizona as Governor of `the Marvellous Country'—reached the base of this peak, and wrote about it; but still, in the imagination of the average American citizen, it lay beyond the `Great American Desert,' as remote as Greenland, as mystical as the Delectable Mountains. Of white men only a few saw it—the scattered trappers and fur traders, camping, perhaps, on the Fontaine, and drinking from the Soda Spring (price nothing per glass), as they passed down from their little forts to winter on the Arkansas, and perhaps it was some of them who gave utterance to the sentiments which a Western poet has paraphrased as follows: `I'm looking at your lofty head Away up in the air, Eight thousand feet above the plain Where grows the prickly-pear. A great big thing with ice on, You seem to be up there. `Away above the timber-line You lift your frosty head, Where lightnings are engendered, And thunder-storms are bred. But you'd be a bigger tract of land If you were thin outspread.'

It was the `old, old story' which turned the tide of migration in this direction. People probably never wanted gold more than after the panic of 1857, and the reports of its finding here in 1858 caused such a stampede across the plains as has never been equalled, except in early Californian days. Events moved rapidly, and in the winter of 1860-61 a Territorial Legislature, numbering some twenty-five devoted patriots, met at Colorado City, just about where Pike and Fremont had camped. Candor compels one to state that the surroundings were not those of grandeur or pomp; rather of a stern and Spartan simplicity. The State-house is still standing. Tradition states that it contained three rooms; in one the members met, in one they slept, the third contained the bar! In the course of the proceedings a motion was made to transfer the seat of government to Denver. `And we carried our point,' said a most entertaining pioneer, with whom it was my good fortune to converse, `because we had the best wagon, and four mules, and the most whiskey. In fact,' he added, sententiously, `I rather think that we had a kind of a wagon capital most of the time in those days.'

The Colonel and the Commodore rode into Colorado City from the north one bright moonlight evening, musing on its departed glories. In the pale, glimmering light the rear view of a pretentious brick and adobe building brought faint suggestions of Syria to their minds, and the flat-roofed dwellings of Palestine. The Commodore with a pensive air drew his pencil from his pocket. Alas! another moment dispelled our visions: in this Oriental dwelling they bottle lager-beer; in a wooden building opposite they drink it (largely). I believe that `Hay and Feed' are sold in the ancient Capitol. A young lady, accompanied by a gentleman in a linen duster and wide felt hat, passed in a buggy, and was heard to ask, `Oh, ain't this real pleasant?' and a stray burro, emerging into the road, lifted up his voice in a wail that sounded like a dirge for the departed statesmen and lost greatness of Colorado City. The Commodore murmured: `Sic transit gloria mundi. I know that amount of Latin, anyhow;' and struck the horse viciously with the whip. Later on, he was seen drawing, with a savage expression on his face—an expression altogether indicative of vanished illusions.

But if Colorado City is a thing of the past, Colorado Springs is a bright and flourishing little city of the present. When one conceives, however, the intention of describing it, he is fain to ask himself, `What shall the man do that cometh after the king?' Not only has the special correspondent bankrupted himself in adjectives long ago, but, as is well known, a charming lady writer, whose praise is in all the book review columns, has established her home in a pretty vine-clad house on a pleasant street in the town itself, and made due and varied record of her impressions and experiences. The colony (for such it is, and containing now some 4000 souls) lies on a little narrow-gage railroad, starting at Denver, running at present to Southern Colorado and San Juan, and destined and confidently expected, say its friends, to establish its ultimate terminal station in one of those `halls of the Montezumas' of which we so often hear. It is a charm of this country that its residents are filled with a large and cheering, if somewhat vague, hopefulness, and there is no doubt that the station agent at Colorado Springs beguiles his leisure, when not selling the honest miner a ticket for El Moro or Alamosa, with roseate visions of dispatching the `City of Mexico Fast Express,' and checking luggage for Chihuahua and Guaymas. The little city is undeniably growing, and it has pleasant residences, well-stocked stores, water from the mountains, and a college and gas-works in prospect. An inspection of the forms of deeds of property and of the municipal regulations will satisfy the most skeptical inquirer that the sale of beer, wines, and liquors is most strictly prohibited, unless `for medical purposes,' and on the certificate of a physician. Now the Colonel knew that the town was founded by some worthy Pennsylvania Quakers, and he told the Commodore all about these regulations, and how rigid and effective they were; but he regretted to notice a tendency on the part of the latter worthy to disbelieve some of the statements made to him, especially since his visit to Colorado City. He made a remark, common to naval men, about `telling that to the marines,' and went out. In a short time he returned, and with a growing cynicism of manner proceeded to demonstrate, with as much mathematical exactness as if working up his longitude or `taking a lunar,' that the support of the number of drug stores which he had seen would involve the furnishing to each able-bodied inhabitant of a per diem allowance of two average prescriptions, one and one-half tooth-brushes, three glasses of soda (with syrup), five yards of sticking-plaster, and a bottle of perfumery. He also muttered something about this being `too thin.' During that evening he was missed from his accustomed haunts, and in the morning placed in the Colonel's hands a sketch which he said was given him by a wicked young man whom he had met in the street. It purported to represent a number of people partaking of beer in a place which bore no resemblance to a druggist's shop; but as the Colonel knew very well that such practices were prohibited in the town, he assured his friend that it must have been taken in some other place.

Colorado Springs it was that killed poor Colorado City, only about three miles to the westward, and all that is left to the latter is the selling of lager-beer in serene lawlessness, while the former is the county town, and has a court-house, and a fine school building of light-colored stone, and a hotel very pleasantly situated in view of the mountains. Down from the Divide comes the Monument Creek, joining, just below the town, the Fontaine qui Bouille, which we shall by-and-by see at Manitou, and away up in the Ute Pass. Along the wide central street or avenue (and what fine names they have!—Cascade, Willamette, Tejon, Nevada, and Huerfano), and up the grade toward the pass and the South Park, go the great canvas-covered four-mule teams, bound, `freighting,' for Fairplay, Leadville, and `the Gunnison.' But we must go five miles northwest (the Commodore would ride his burro Montezuma, and the Colonel positively refused, and took a horse), and climb Austin's Bluffs, and look out. To the north rises the Divide, nearly as high above the sea as Sherman, on the Union Pacific Railroad. Westward the great mountains seem to have taken on thousands of feet in height, and to loom up with added grandeur. Away at the south, whither the course of the Fontaine is marked by the line of cottonwood-trees, are seen the Sierra Mojada, and on a clear day, the Spanish Peaks: and to the eastward stretch, across two States, and afar to the Missouri, the great `plains.'

It was to this pleasant region that the Colonel and the Commodore, after their researches, already chronicled, among the cattle ranches farther south, had come in search of fresh fields and pastures new; and they were not long in discovering that El Paso County was famed for it sheep, and the quality of its wool product. It stretches from a point well over the range, out toward the Kansas line some seventy-two miles, and from the Divide on the north well down toward Pueblo; and there are between 150,000 and 200,000 head of sheep returned as held this year within its borders. Although in many respects the sheep business is less attractive than that of cattle-raising, it deserves attention as an important and growing industry, and it is doing very much for the prosperity of the country. There is, to be sure, something exciting, and, in a sense, romantic, about the steer and his breeding, while the sheep is a quiet and modest animal. One can fancy the broad-hatted `cow-boy' on his fleet horse, and throwing his lasso at full gallop, as feeling himself a kind of Spanish toreador, and perhaps imparting a spice of danger into the chase by flaunting a red scarf in the eyes of the lordly bull. The Mexican herder, on the other hand, plods monotonously after his flock, and all the chasing is done by his shepherd dog, while I know of but one man who was ever able to find anything alarming in the nature of this simple animal. This worthy, desiring a supply of mutton for his table, shot one of his neighbor's sheep, and was overtaken by the owner while carrying it away on his shoulder.

`Now I've caught you, you rascal,' said he. `What do you mean by shooting my sheep?'

Sternly and grimly replied the accused: `I'll shoot any man's sheep that tries to bite me!'

But the gentle sheep does not lack friends and adherents, especially in El Paso County. It may here be stated that between the flock and the herd, there is an irrepressible conflict. The sheep puts in a mild plaint to the effect that when he is nibbling away at the grass in company with his relations and friends, the steer comes in with a party and `stampedes' him, and sets him running so far away that sometimes he can not find his way back, also that the steer stands a long time in the water, and tramples about there, and makes it so muddy that he (whose cleanly habits are well known), is debarred from drinking. He further deposes that while he stays at home, on his master's range, the steer is a first-class tramp, and roams about, trying to get meals from the neighbors. To this the steer disdainfully replies that no well-bred cattle can associate with such mud-sills as sheep, and that the latter gnaw the grass so close that there would be nothing left for him in any case. It is a clear instance of `incompatibility of temperament,' and a separation has generally to be effected.

Sheep are kept in many parts of Colorado, but they have a special hold on this county, and have done a good deal in the way of dispossessing the cattle, the taking up and inclosure of water privileges tending materially to that end. This county affords a favorable opportunity for studying the life and work of the shepherd, for although there may be more sheep in some of the others, the wool from this neighborhood commands a high price, and it is claimed that the growth of grass and weeds here is particularly suitable for food.

The public lands of the United States are divided into two classes—those held at the usual price of $1.25 per acre, and those which lie in sections alternate with railroad lands, and are consequently put at $2.50. It is on the cheaper ones that the prospective sheep-owner wishes to settle, and his first object is to find that one great and important requisite—water. He examines the county map, and finds the public domain laid out in `townships' measuring six miles each way. Each township is divided into thirty-six `sections' of 640 acres each, and these again into `quarter sections' of 160 acres. Of a quarter section the whole, three-quarters, one-half, or one-quarter (the minimum) can be had in one of various ways. The sheep man finds a stream, which we will suppose to run in one of the two courses shown on the diagram, which represents a section of 640 acres. In the case of the lower stream his plan is simple. The law requires that his plots of forty acres each shall touch along one side, and plots Nos. 13, 14, 15, and 16 will give him 160 acres and a mile of water frontage. In the former case, after taking No. 1, he must take either No. 2 or No. 8 (containing no water) in order to secure Nos. 6 and 7. This land can be had in different ways. In the first place, there are sales held by the government, at which any amount, great or small, down to the minimum, and within the offerings, can be taken by the highest bidder; and portions offered and not sold can be taken subsequently at $1.25 per acre. Next, each man can `preempt' 160 acres, i.e., give notice that he is going to take it up, and receive patent at the end of either six or thirty months, for $1.25 per acre and fees. Next, again, he can occupy 160 acres under the Homestead Law, and having actually lived on it for five years, secure title, paying only fees—a fact which is respectfully commended to the attention of Socialist orators. But there may not be `offered lands' which suit our friend; and although he may have his 320 acres, and be debarred from singing, `No foot of land do I possess, No dwelling in the wilderness,' he may require much more, and find no man who wants to sell out to him. Now Uncle Sam gave the soldiers in the civil war the right to 160 acres each, only requiring them to take them up and live thereon five years, from which, up to four years, was deducted the time of their military service. Some of the boys in blue only took up portions, and the Solons at Washington then said that they should not suffer for this, and that `scrip' should issue to each one for the forty, eighty, or 120 acres which he had failed to take up. The beauty of this and other scrip, such as `Louisiana,' `Sioux half-breed,' etc., is that it can be bought, and the purchaser can locate, in forty-acre parcels, where he pleases. Thus, by paying perhaps at the rate of $3.50 per acre for scrip, our sheep man can secure plots Nos. 11 and 12, and more in that direction, also perhaps a nice spring near by, and, what he most wants, land long another water-course three to five miles away. Between, therefore, his two water frontages his sheep can roam, for no one will take up this waterless tract. Between him and his next neighbor there is a courteous understanding that each shall use half the space. Then up go his wire or post-and-rail fence around the springs; perhaps some more divergent water-courses are secured; and now `He is monarch of all he surveys, His right there is none to dispute.'

Next our shepherd must purchase his sheep, and here come in a good many honest differences of opinion as to the kind which will give the best results. Some will buy cheap `Mexicans,' expecting to breed a better quality of lambs, and then dispose of the original purchase. Others affect the California stock, which, of late years, has come into favor in some quarters. The weight of opinion, however, would undoubtedly incline our enterprising young ranchero to buy sheep on the spot in good condition, and, what is very important, thoroughly acclimated. His `bucks' (say about three to each hundred ewes) will generally be Merinos. In the autumn, we will say, then, he begins operations under favorable auspices. His cabin is very plainly furnished, and his `corrals,' or yards and sheds, properly constructed, and in readiness. For feeding in stormy weather he has enough hay safely stored away; and after due care and inquiry, he has secured an experienced and competent herder—better an American. At daylight all hands are called to breakfast, and soon after the bleating flock are moving over the range, and the herder, with his canteen slung over his shoulder, and probably a book in his pocket, has whistled to his shepherd dog and started after them. During the whole day they graze on the short grass, going once to water; and afternoon sees them brought back near to the corrals, in which, later on, they are again confined for the night. Day after day, week after week, month after month, pass in monotonous round; and then the cold weather comes, and the herder puts on a thicker coat, and reads less, and walks about rapidly, and stamps his feet for warmth. And then some day, when he is far away from the ranch, there comes on that dreaded enemy of sheep-raising —a prairie snow-storm. With but little warning the clouds have gathered, and the snow is falling in thick and heavy flakes. The sheep hurriedly huddle together, and no power can make them move. The herder may have had time go get them into a gulch, or under a bank; failing in this, there is nothing for it but to stay with them, sometimes a day and a night, and trust to getting them home when the storm is over. Not far from Colorado Springs is a gulch called the Big Corral, in which more than one thousand sheep were lost a year or two ago, having followed each other up to the brink, and fallen over into the deep snow. Nor did the Mexican herder ever return to tell the tale, for he shared their fate. It is with the snow-storm, indeed, that the dark side of the Colorado shepherd's life is associated, and the great tempest of the spring of 1878 left a sorrowful record behind it. It must be mentioned that sheds are an innovation, that some ranches have none even now, and that before they were built the sheep were exposed, even in the corrals, to the fury of the elements. Per contra, it should be said that no such storm as that of March, 1878, has been known since there were any sheep in this part of the country. On this occasion thousands and thousands of sheep perished. The snow was eleven feet deep in the corrals, and sheep were dug out alive after being buried for two and even three weeks! Their vitality seems very great, and many perish, not from the pressure of the snow, but from suffocation caused by others falling or crowding upon them. It is asserted that they sometimes, while still buried, work their way down to the grass, and feed thereon. But our shepherd has taken care to have plenty of sheds, and he knows, too, that by the doctrine of chances he need not count on such a storm more than once in ten years, and he faces the winter with a stout heart. Whenever it is possible to send the sheep out, the herder takes them, despite the weather; but when that is impossible, or indiscreet, they are fed at home.

In May comes `lambing,' and the extra hands are busily occupied in taking care of the young lambs. With their mothers, they are separated from the rest of the flock, first in small `bunches,' then in larger ones; and in October they are weaned. In June comes shearing—an easy and simple operation; and, if need be, `dipping,' or immersing the stock in great troughs containing a solution of tobacco or lime, cures the `scab,' and completes the year's programme. Our shepherd sells his wool, counts the increase of his flock after weaning, and if, as is to be hoped, he is a good book-keeper, he sits down and makes up his accounts for the year. It is hard to picture a greater contrast than that which exists between the sheep and the cattle business, the freedom and excitement of the latter bearing about the same relation to the humdrum routine of the former as does the appearance of the great herd of often noble-looking animals widely scattered over the plains, and roaming sometimes for months by themselves, to that of the timid flock bleating in the corral, and frightened at the waving of a piece of white paper. And then to think of the difference between the life of the `cow-puncher' (as he calls himself), riding his spirited horse in the company of his fellows, and that of the herder, on foot and in solitude, is enough to make us wonder how men can be found for the one, while there is the slightest chance of securing the other. And yet, there are many such men, and the Colonel and the Commodore saw and talked with them.

It was through the courtesy and kindness of Mr. J. F. Atherton, of Colorado Springs, that we were first enabled to see something for ourselves of the life and operations on sheep ranches. We drove out of the town on a bright morning, and north and east over the prairie. On the front seat sat our guide, philosopher, and friend—a young man of a dry humor, and gifted with a faculty of forcible and incisive expression. Far off in the direction in which we were going rose a high ridge which we must surmount before reaching our destination, and twenty-two miles must be scored off before we could hope for dinner at a small road-side ranch. Had the road been twice as long, the flow of anecdotes from our friend would have made it short enough. First we had a sprightly account of some of the manners and customs of the colony which we had left behind us.

`Temperance town? Not much. If a man wants his beer, all he's got to do is to sign his name in a book, and get a certificate of membership in a beer club, and then he's a share-holder—blamed if he ain't—and they can't stop him from drinking his own beer!'

`You've seen old—,haven't you? Didn't you know that they run him for Senator—just put up a job on him, you know. Blamed if he didn't think he was going to be elected. The boys got a two-wheeled cart, with a little runt of a burro in the shafts, and an everlasting great long pole sticking out in front with a bunch of hay tied to the end. (You see, the burro was just a-reaching out for that hay, and that was the only way they could get him to go.) Blamed if the old chap didn't ride round in that outfit, all dressed up in a kind of uniform with gold epaulets, and two fellows behind, one beating a big drum, and the other blowing away at a cornet. He was the worst-looking pill that you ever saw, and doggoned if he didn't put it up that he was going to be elected sure. Well, that night the boys hired a hall; and when he come out to address them, they made such a noise that you couldn't hear a word, and then, in about five minutes, there come a cabbage, and took him alongside of the head, and then eggs, and potatoes, and I don't know what. And when the election come, he had just one blamed vote, and he cast that himself.

`Rain? No; I guess not. But when I was in Pueblo last time—that's the blamedest town, ain't it?—I was caught in a storm, and it turned into hail, and before I got to the hotel, blamed if I didn't turn round three times to see who was throwing stones at me!'

With quaint narrations of this kind, made doubly comical by that manner of telling which the hearer must despair of reproducing, the miles slipped away, until the earth-roofed log-cabin came in sight at which dinner was to be had. At a short distance therefrom we saw the white tents of a party from the United States Geodetic Survey. In one of them we found the cook hard at work baking bread and cake, and engaged him in friendly converse. He informed us that in the matter of pay he came next to the chief, and from the account which he gave of the appetites of the party, we were disposed to think that he was earning his stipend. It may be that it was only because our charioteer judged all occupations by contrast with the hardships of sheep-raising, but we found him inclined to underrate the labors of the surveyors, and he told us that they `had a soft thing.'

While we were dining, a man who was sitting near us quietly remarked that he had just lost twelve hundred sheep. With the most perfect nonchalance he went on to say that he and his `pard' had only just come to the country and bought the sheep, that he was driving the wagon, and that his pard, who was behind with the flock, was ill, and lay down, and missed them. To those who know what a showing a body of twelve hundred sheep will make on the plains, this will seem rather like a fish than a sheep story, but it was quite true. Our companions made a show of offering sympathy and advice, but, in confidential converse with us, spoke with a certain lofty disdain of the `tender-feet' (Coloradoan for new-comers), and their efforts to find their lost stock. Nor did they change their tone when the poor man said that he was too tired to search any more, but would pay men to do it for him; and it was left for the Colonel and the Commodore—painfully conscious as they were that, despite their exalted military and naval rank, they were also `tender-feet'—to feel for the sufferers.

Resuming our journey, and after passing a notice of the lost sheep, and a primitive prairie post-office, consisting of a small box on a pole, in which the `cow-punchers'' letters were quite as safe as in any of Uncle Sam's iron receptacles, we met the pard, his long legs dangling on each side of a small broncho, and a calm and happy smile on his face. We made sure that he had found his little flock, and his assurance that he had not seen anything of them elicited the remark from our companions that he `took it mighty easy.' It may give some idea of the character and sparse population of this country to mention that these sheep, lost on Thursday night, were found on Sunday, thirty miles away, less some seventy killed by gray wolves and coyotes.

A few hours later, ascending the hill which had loomed up before us all day, we entered a little valley, and came to Mr. Atherton's ranch—a representative one for this region. There were a small cabin, a stable, sheds, a pump at the spring, three corrals connected by `shoots,' or narrow passages, and a curious swinging gate for throwing the sheep into alternate divisions. A more lonely place it is hard to imagine. The short greenish-yellow grass stretched to the horizon on all four sides, and not even a tree or a shrub was to be seen. Before long a few sheep came in sight, then more, then hundreds, and then the herder, in a long dingy canvas coat, walking with swinging stride. Smoke, meantime, was coming out of the iron stove-pipe in the cabin roof, and the herder was busy, as soon as the sheep were safe in the corrals, in preparing the supper. The ranchman does not feel inclined to say, with the late Mr. Motley, `Give me the luxuries of life, and I'll dispense with the necessaries.' On the other hand, he treats luxuries with pronounced disdain, but is not without certain comforts. Of the herder's homemade bread and roast mutton, on this particular occasion, no one could complain; nor is `apple-butter' to be altogether despised. Que voulez-vous? If you sigh for the flesh-pots of Delmonico, you ought to have staid in New York, or at least gotten into the good graces of the cook of the Survey party. And, after all, these things are a matter of taste and habit. A genial traveller, whose brilliant sketches used often to appear in these pages, remarked to the writer, when engaged in the discussion of a particularly good dinner: `But you know that this formality, this elaborate cooking, these courses, are all barbarism. True civilization is to be found in the Colorado Desert, where one fries his salt pork on a ramrod, and goes his way rejoicing.'

We heard rumors of ranch cabins wherein a third room was added to the one in which the occupants eat and sleep and the kitchen; but we saw them not, and were yet content. And after the knife had been duly sharpened on the stove-pipe, and the mutton carved, and the tin porringers of tea served out to all, we cultivated the acquaintance of the herder, and a remarkable character he proved to be. The first words that we heard him speak settled his nationality, for, on being told that the owner of the twelve hundred sheep wanted a man to search for them, he sententiously remarked, `Hi'm 'is 'uckeberry.' Then his conversation flowed on in a steady stream:

`I was in the British harmy. Left there? Yes; deserted. Then I was in the United States harmy twice. Used to shoot two or three Indians every day, me and two other good fellers. I didn't have no hard duty. Was the pet of the regiment. Then I was brakeman on a railroad. Oh yes, I have been in all kinds of business. I'm the champion walker for five hundred yards. Lost $700 of my own money on a bet last winter. Leadville? Yes; I've worked in the—mine. You bet it's the best one there. Lively place? That's so. I used to work all day in the mine, and spar in the theatre at night for twenty dollars per week. You bet they've got the fattest grave-yard in the country in Leadville. A pard of mine saw twelve fellers dragged out in one night. Been to Hengland lately? Oh yes, Made $1600 in two weeks. Why do I herd sheep at twenty dollars per month? Oh, just for my health. System's kind of run down. I tell you a feller can just make money in this country, but he's got to have sand,' (It must be explained that `sand`—one of the happiest and most forcible expressions in the whole vocabulary of Western slang—means dogged resolution, or what we call `grit.')

Neither the Colonel nor the Commodore approves of very early rising, but, the next morning, determining to `assume a virtue if they had it not,' they said that it was very pleasant to breakfast at 5:30. Then they saw the sheep run through the shoot to be counted, giving long leaps as they cleared it, and, as soon as the gates of the corral were opened, tumbling over each other as they rushed out to find the grass; and their last sight of the herder, as he stepped off, vividly recalled the atmosphere of Madison Square Garden and the feats of Rowell and O'Leary.

Then again we went to visit the ranch of resident of Bijou Basin—a pretty valley on the Divide—with a pleasant house in the village, and 8000 sheep in ample corrals just over the first hilly ridge. As we drove into this curious little village it seemed steeped in a sleepy atmosphere most strongly suggestive of Rip Van Winkle. Two stores out of three were closed as we passed them; and when we came back, and found one open, the proprietor rose from his bed to make a small sale. The keeper of the second also reclined on a couch of ease, and the third store—Dick's—remained obstinately closed.

`Blamed if I ever see a day seem so like Sunday,' said our cicerone. `If I had to live here, I'd just bottle up and die.'

`Dick's got some beer in his shop,' charitably suggested the second store-keeper, again gracefully stretched on his counter. `He ain't there a great deal, but he 'most always leaves the key at the blacksmith's.'

With a singular unanimity a move was made to the establishment of that artisan, whose sturdy blows on an iron wedge were the first signs of life in the place. Two villagers were watching him; the three new-comers joined them; then three residents came up on horseback, and swelled the throng. The blacksmith had no key, and Dick had gone away. The Colonel and the Commodore felt the somnolent influence coming on them; in common with six other able-bodied men, their sole interest in life seemed to be the completion of that wedge, and only the ring of the hammer saved them from the fate of the sleepers of Ephesus. Suddenly there was a cry, `Dick is coming!' and everything was changed. The blacksmith remarked that he `must wash down that wedge before he made another,' and when Dick arrived he took the key from him and opened the door. Then somebody said `Beer,' and the majority of the residents of Bijou Basin held a town-meeting in the store: Dick's coming, like that of the prince in the tale of the Sleeping Beauty, had completely broken the spell.

After a talk with our new host, and an inspection of his flocks and corrals and some of the operations in progress, we concluded that no better place could be found than Bijou Basin (where, as an exceptional thing, the family home has replaced the cabin, and the school-house is close to the ranch) wherein to rest a while, and carefully compile some figures, which the reader, unless he intends becoming a shepherd, can readily skip. They apply to the case of a man with capital, coming out, not to take up or preempt land, but to buy a ranch ready to his hand.

Such a one, capable of accommodating 5000 head of sheep, could be had, say, for $4000, comprising at least three claims three to five miles apart, also proper cabins, corrals, etc. A flock of 2000 assorted ewes, two to three years old, should be bought at an average of $3 each, say $6000; and 60 bucks at an average of $30, or $1800. A pair of mules and a saddle-horse will cost $275; and we allow for working capital $1925. Capital invested, say, October 1, $14,000.

Under ordinarily favorable circumstances, and with great care, one may expect during May his lambs, and estimate that there will be alive of them at time of weaning a number equal to seventy-five per cent, of his ewes, or, say, 1500, on the 1st of October, a year from time of beginning operations.

His gross increase of values and receipts will then be, for that year, as follows: 1500 lambs (average one-half ewes, one-half wethers), at $2 each............................................. $3000.00 In June he will shear his wool, and get from: 2000 ewes, 5 pounds each, or 10,000 pounds, at 21 cents............................. $2100.00 60 bucks, 17 pound each, or 1000 pounds, at 15 cents.............................. 150.00 2250.00 ------- ------- $5250.00 Expenses: Herders, teamsters, cook, and provisions.... $1835.00 Shearing 2060 sheep, at 6 cents.............. 123.60 Hay and grain................................ 275.00 --------- $2233.60 Losses all estimated as made up,in money): Ewes, 4 per cent. on $6000..........$240.00 Bucks, 5 per cent. on $1800......... 90.00 330.00 ------- Depreciation: On bucks, 5 per cent. on $1800.................. 90.00 2653.60 ------- -------- Net profits for first year....................... $2596.40 -------- -------- SECOND YEAR. The 1500 lambs will be a year older, and worth an additional 15 per cent. (or 15 per cent on $3000)................. $450.00 1500 new lambs will be worth, as before................ 3000.00 And there will be of wool from 2000 sheep, 5 pounds each, or 10,000 pounds, at 21 cents.............................. $2100.00 1500 lambs, 4 pound each, or 6000 pound, at 21 cents.............................. 1260.00 60 bucks, 17 pounds each, or 1000 pounds, at 15 cents.............................. 150.00 3510.00 ------- ----- 6960.00 Expenses: Herders, etc.................................. $2060.00 Shearing 3560 sheep, at 6 cents............... 213.60 Hay and grain................................. 350.00 -------- $2623.60 Losses: On ewes, 4 per cent. on $6000...... $240.00 On bucks, 5 per cent. on $1800..... 90.00 On lambs, 7 per cent. on $3000..... 210.00 540.00 -------- Depreciation: On ewes, 5 per cent. on $6000..... $300.00 On bucks, 5 per cent. on $1800.... 90.00 390.00 3553.60 -------- ------- ------ Net profits for second year........................ $3406.40 THIRD YEAR The second year's lambs will be worth an additional 15 per cent., or, say, (15 per cent. on $3000)............... $450.00 There will be 1500 lambs from original 2000 ewes, and, say, from new 750 ewes (one-half of 1500), not more than 60 per cent. in first lambing, or say, 450—in all, 1950 lambs, at $2.. 3900.00 Wool will be: From 3500 ewes, 5-1/2 pounds each, or 19,250 pounds, at 21 cents............ $4042.50 From 1950 lambs, 4 pounds each, or 7800 pounds, at 21 cents................. 1638.00 From 60 bucks, 17 pounds each, or 1000 pounds, at 15 cents............... 150.00 5830.50 --------- -------- $10,180.50 Expenses: Herders and fodder.................. $2970.00 Shearing 5510 sheep, at 6 cents.... 330.60 New corrals, etc................... 300.00 --------- $3600.60 Losses: On ewes, 4 per cent. on $6000.........$240.00 On new sheep, 4 per cent. on $4500.... 180.00 On lambs, 7 per cent. on $3000........ 210.00 On bucks, 5 per cent. on $1800........ 90.00 720.00 ------- Depreciation: On old ewes, 10 per cent. on $6000... $600.00 On bucks, 20 per cent. on $1800... 360.00 960.00 5280.60 -------- ----------------- Net profits for third year................. $4899.90 RECAPITULATION. First year's profits.............$2596.40 Second year's profits.............3406.40 Third year's profits..............4899.90 -------- Total.................... $10,902.70

This statement would probably meet with scant favor from an `old-timer,' who would confidently assert that he can `run' a flock of 5000 sheep, year in and year out, at an average cost of fifty cents per head. Such a one (and there are many of them) has perhaps lived twenty years in this part of the country, and tried many kinds of business. He is deeply attached to the soil, and knows no other home. He has spent years and years, it may be, in the mountains, prospecting and mining, and while he may like a soft bed and a tight roof and a good dinner as well as his neighbor, there have been epochs in his life when they, or any one of them, would be no nearer his reach than the joy of a Mohammedan paradise, and `he counteth none of these things dear' when his mind is set on the accomplishment of any object. When this man takes up the business of sheep-raising, he is in dead earnest. At the beginning, at least, he knows nothing, thinks of nothing, but sheep; lives among them, studies and masters every detail of their management, and institutes a rigid and searching economy. He will have good sheep, good corrals, and probably good sheds; but he will care little for comforts in his cabin, and it is well known that one of the most successful sheep men in this region began by living in a cave in the bluffs near Colorado Springs. To loneliness the old-timer is a stranger, and very possibly early habits have made him prefer a solitary life. His herder will most assuredly give good value for his wages, and will do exactly as he is told, and know that the master's eye is on him.

`Yes, he was a good herder, when he wanted to be,' remarked an old-timer, `but he liked to be boss, and so did I, and there couldn't very well be two.'

His pencil would be busy with the foregoing estimates, and if such as he were the only ones to engage in the business, then indeed might they be modified.

On the other hand, we will suppose the case of the young man in the East whose health will, he thinks, be improved by a residence in Colorado, or who fairly believes himself inclined and suited to face a life on the plains, `with all that that implies.' This ideal personage, if (and that word must be italicized in mind as well as on paper) he is wise, and wisely advised, will come out on a preliminary visit. He will live for some time on a ranch, and make up his mind how the life and the business will suit him; also, if an invalid, will he most carefully, and with good medical advice to aid him, notice the effect on his health. He will not underrate the monotony of the existence, the isolation, the dead level of the year's progress; and unless he be exceptionally constituted, small blame to him if he invite his hosts to a good dinner, propose their very good health and overflowing prosperity, bid them good-by, shake off the dust of his feet on sheep ranches, and betake himself either to some other avocation in Colorado, or to the nearest railway station where he can catch the Eastern express. But, perhaps wisely counting the cost, he remains until he has thoroughly learned the business, then leases before he buys, and then launches boldly out as a full-fledged shepherd. It will not be necessary to recall to him or his kind the old, old truth, the cardinal axiom, that there is no royal road to business success of any sort; and that in Colorado, just as in New York, or London, or Calcutta, or Constantinople, there is no hope for him without economy and industry and strict personal attention, and that, even with them, the fates may be sometimes against him.

To such a one, then, are these figures respectfully submitted, showing returns of something like twenty-five per centum per annum. Comparing them with those previously given in these pages about cattle, he sees that the latter promise him larger but more tardy returns, while the former show smaller requirements in the way of adequate capital, and his wool is a yearly cash asset. As regards variety and attractiveness, and in any æsthetic sense, the poor sheep must clearly go to the wall in the comparison, and the steer be elected to the place of honor `by a large majority.'

It may here be properly remarked that good men can almost always find employment as subordinates, and ought to learn the business quickly, and perhaps do well for themselves.

`I wanted a man to herd sheep,' said, for instance, an old-timer in the hearing of the writer, `and I met one coming out of Pueblo. He said that he would like to work for me. ``Look here,'' said I, ``I won't pay you any wages, but I'll give you 250 lambs, which you must herd as part of mine.'' He agreed to that, and worked for me three years and a half, and until he had to go away and be married, and then I bought him out. The wool had paid all expenses, and he had $2250 coming to him in cash.'

Nor would it be impossible for a hard-working man, with a very much smaller sum at his command than that assumed in the figures, to purchase a few sheep and make a beginning for himself: but, with the gradual absorption of the streams and springs, this is becoming daily more difficult.

For the Colonel and the Commodore there was small need to conjure up ideal shepherds, for they found them in El Paso County in every conceivable variety, and heard most entertaining and veracious narratives of their manners and experiences. Successful old-timers, enjoying the results of their past labors, and clad in the sober garb of civilization, laid down the law over social cigars, while youthful beginners, with doubtful prospects, sported hats with an enormous breadth of brim, and seemed to delight in garments of dubious cut and texture and extreme antiquity. In this connection, indeed, there is room for a homily, for it may surely be said that in a new country the incomers who have enjoyed the blessings of an advanced civilization in their former homes owe it to themselves to do all in their power to translate said blessings to their adopted residence. And so, when water has come, and gas is coming to the county town of El Paso, it would be well for youthful rancheros to cease emulating the attire of Buffalo Bill, and make the acquaintance, when they come thither, of a tailor and a boot-black. One of two gentlemen from the Eastern States, visiting Colorado Springs, and calling upon a lady to whom the convenances of life were traditionally dear, apologized for the absence of his companion, whose clothes suitable for such an occasion had been delayed by the expressman.

`Only hear that!' she delightedly cried. `Why, I have been meeting the sons of dukes and earls, with their pantaloons tucked in their boots.' To which the very natural reply was: `So much the worse for the sons of dukes and earls. They would not presume on such liberties in their own country, and it is high time that they were effectually taught that they shall not take them here.' Indeed, there are features of the curious irruption into Colorado of scions of the nobility and aristocracy of Great Britain which are extremely interesting and amusing, and which may justly claim future attention; but at present it may simply be remarked that sheep have no regard for noble birth, and that Piccadilly seems to furnish an inadequate preparation for a successful ranchman.

Then before our observant eyes there passed other figures and faces—two gentlemen from New England, in from a distant ranch; one, after some months' hard work, to desipere in loco at Manitou, another to drive sheep to Las Vegas, in New Mexico, at the rate of ten miles per day, through the sage-brush! Next came an Englishman bearing the name of a noble family—a university man of remarkable culture, and manners befitting his birth and education, but in garb and general appearance a veritable figure of fun. Learning that after abandoning a sheep ranch of special squalor, where he had toiled to little purpose, he had been engaged for four months in driving horses up from Texas in company with some Mexican herders, a gentleman engaged him in friendly converse, and finally asked point-blank what possessed him to lead such a life. With great gentleness and courtesy he replied that he was one of Matthew Arnold's `Philistines.' and thus the procession went on.

We were indebted at the last to a very lively and outspoken resident for some illustrations, given us `in dialect,' of the unfavorable side of the shepherd's existence. His experience of men had not been an agreeable one, and an officer of the law appeared with unpleasant frequency at the end of the vistas of ranch life which he portrayed; but the shepherd of Colorado is not the only man who finds fatal enemies in whiskey and cards, extravagance, inattention and laziness, and stupidity.

`Didn't you never here of—?' asked our friend. `He was the worst pill you ever see. High-toned Englishman; always ``blasting this bloody country, you know.'' Come here with $50,000; went away owing $20,000. How is that for high? Blamed if he cared what he paid for anything! Offer him a horse worth $40, and charge him $150, and he'd give you a check. You bet he lived high; always set up the drinks. Didn't take long to bust him. He didn't care what he paid for his sheep. Had 2500 of them, and you used to see thirty or forty Englishmen loafing on him. You bet he didn't have the trouble of selling them sheep. Sheriff did that for him,'

`Then there was——. He just put on heaps of style. Flew high, you know—regular tony. He started in with 600 sheep—just think of that; wouldn't pay for his cigars. He used to come into town in great style—four horses to his buggy. Then he come down to three; then two; then one. Then he had none, and had to stay on the ranch. Sheriff sold him up sharp. Then he kept a billiard saloon. You bet he busted on that, because, you see, he used to play with the boys and alway got beat. Then he was a-going about the streets, just everlastingly played out; and the last I see of him he was a kind of rostabout, or dish-washer, to a camping outfit. Wouldn't that just get some of his high-toned relations up on their ear?'

We thought that it undoubtedly would, and we thought, too, with a certain wonder, of the habit of some parents and friends of sending young men to this country who are either mauvais sujets, and better out of their sight, or incapacitated for competition with the keen souls whom they must meet, and then letting them shift for themselves.

But, like the recent writer on Colorado in an English magazine, we are giving `the dark side of a bright picture;' and it was only with kindly and pleasant impressions and memories of the gentle shepherds of the plains that the Colonel and the Commodore bade them good-by, and turned their steps toward the grim cañons and lofty mountains holding in their remote fastnesses those silver and golden treasures for which most of the dwellers in this land so eagerly strive. They are kindly and hospitable, these lonely ranchmen, and no one goes hungry from their doors, or lacks a sheep-skin on which to sleep; nor are the lighter graces altogether neglected. We had heard much from one of our friends, the proprietor of a large and successful ranch, of the extraordinary gifts and quaint peculiarities of his chef de cuisine, and had the honor of making the acquaintance of this gentleman. His appearance suggested the Wild Hunt of Lutzow rather than the surroundings of a peaceful kitchen; but we were bound to credit his assertion that if we `would come out to the ranch he would treat us kindly. You bet he could cook. He was just on it.' This worthy had run through his cash, and desired to negotiate a small loan. This being effected, he proceeded to invest the funds in a bouquet, which with great courtesy and gravity he presented to his `boss' just before he galloped off. We had understood that he resembled the person of whom Mr. Harte says, `He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town;' and we therefore made record of this little incident as truly pastoral.

And so, as we looked back from the Ute Pass over the plains dotted with ranches away out to Kansas, the lovely lights and shadows were altogether suggestive of the vicissitudes of their occupants' career; and as an abrupt turn shut them out, we recalled admiringly the herder's epigrammatic saying: `A man can make a lot of money in the sheep business, but he's just got to have sand!'

First Families of the Atlantic by John Habberton

It is the popular supposition that none but predestinated suicides are in the habit of seeking diversion in the fat pages of volumes known as `Pub. Docs.,' and that the value of such of these books as wander into the market is to be measured by standards avoirdupois rather than literary. Yet the report of The Award of the Fisheries Commission, in more than three thousand large pages, contains some material which is more entertaining than that of the average novel, and more instructive than many a text-book. The Commission was an outcome of the Treaty of Washington, now six years old, and its duty was to ascertain whether in the mutual concessions of fishery rights made by that document Great Britain gave more than she received, and to award her such compensation as might seem her due, in case the investigations proved that her claim was just. The fact of an award of more than five millions of dollars to Brittania has been abundantly made known by the press, without eliciting much enthusiasm from the American Public, but some of the testimony upon which a majority of the Commission based its calculations is curious and interesting enough to compensate any inquisitive tax-payer for the loss of that portion of the award which must come from his own pocket.

Among the many persons examined by the Commission were hundreds of fishermen and two specialists, the object of the examiners being to learn something of the numbers, habits, and favorite sea-side resorts of certain fish of prominent commercial standing. Although the marine jurisdiction of a country extends for only a league from the shore, the habit of drawing from headland to headland the dividing line between free and protected territory has the effect of placing under national jurisdiction most of the favoring fishing grounds on the North American coast. Cod, mackerel, and herring, like many other notable sea-side visitors, have local habitations in obscure spots, and they become objects of interest only when found reasonably near to land. During the course of the examination some marvellous fish stories and theories were offered by old sailors; but as truth is stranger than fiction, the testimony of the specialists leads all others in interest. These gentlemen—Professor Henry Youle Hind, who was called on the part of Great Britain, and Professor Spencer F. Baird, the principal witness for the United States—astonished commissioners and counsel with a mass of information which they had collected upon a subject apparently so difficult of investigation.

The fish to which principal attention was given was naturally the cod, he being the leading commercial fish of the civilized world. Besides being the most prolific of food fishes, he is large, easily taken, and quickly prepared for market, while his different parts are utilized as generally as those of his land rival, the hog. Professor Baird says that besides the muscular parts, the sounds and roes are used as food, the oil is valuable for medical and mechanical purposes, the offal is converted into a valuable manure, the bones make good fuel, while the skins serve many nations for leather and clothing. This fish, like the more prominent of his relatives, is at home only in cold water, the latitude of Cape May being his extreme southern boundary, while he lives as close to the pole as he can without risk of being frozen in. He probably exists farther south than the line indicted above, but if so, it is in cool depths too retired to admit of successful interviewing. At certain points off the Massachusetts coast he finds a sufficiently low temperature in shallow water, and at these places he is frequently seen and caught of fishermen, but his favorite American haunts are the semi-inclosed waters of the coast of Canada and adjacent islands. Fond, however, as he is of very cold water, there are temperatures which he will under no circumstances endure, even though they be but two or three degrees removed from the normal. Among these is the water that comes from melting salt ice, and slowly sinks to the level to which its specific gravity entitles it. In such water the cod will not remain; he will not go through it, even though his dinner be on the opposite side, the distance very short, and the cod very hungry. He prefers to circumnavigate such an inhospitable region if he has business on the other side, as fishermen have learned to their own exceeding profit.

There are different varieties of the cod, and the entire lack of evidence of mixed blood, and the rarity with which more than one variety is found in any given locality, prove either that the cod is a non-migratory fish, or that he regards the preservation of caste as a paramount duty. Like aristocrats everywhere, he is an omnivorous feeder. The `dredge' is considered by naturalists to be the best implement with which to obtain information upon deep-sea life, but Professor Baird says that the stomach of the cod is the best of all dredges, for it generally contains morsels of every sort of marine resident within reach. With a high-born contempt of the requirements of trade, the cod feeds largely upon herring and mackerel, but he is partial to crabs, lobsters, and most other shell-fish. As his digestion is not equal to the task of assimilating these last-named items of the ocean menu, he stows them away in the side of his stomach, and when the quantity becomes burdensome, he disposes of them according to the method to which Jonah owed his escape from submarine lodging. While not migratory by inclination, any failure or deterioration of his habitual larder will cause him to remove to the nearest resort of good livers. Years ago cod-fish were quite plentiful off Newburyport, Massachusetts, but disappeared as the Merrimack River was depleted of fish; since the restocking of the river, however, with shad and alewives, the cod has re-appeared at his old dining-place, gladdening the hearts of the fishermen, and gracing the Sunday breakfast table of the descendants of the Puritans.

The cod resorts to the shore for feeding purposes; but who that is not a cook or a scullion cares always to be in the vicinity of the dining-room? Naturally he is an off-shore, deep-water fish, for at a distance from the land he is always sure of finding those strata of cold water in which he delights. There are times when he will not leave these, even for food; but the seasons in which fresh-water fish revisit the scenes of their childhood are also the seasons when the water is cool inshore. While hot weather remains, with sea-water warm enough to lure human beings into the surf, the cod abhors the beach, and takes what food is nearest at hand, preferring, like summer lodgers elsewhere, to endure the plainest fare for the sake of cool quarters. When, however, the temperature of the water allows him to follow the shad and other fish to the shore, he never travels alone; if he is not accompanied by a family, he takes so much company with him that those who extend hospitality seines to receive him take sometimes as many as thirty thousand fish at a single haul.

The cod is wonderfully prolific, depositing from three to seven millions of eggs at a time. It not only prefers to spawn in the winter months, but in the coldest water it can find, and yet avoid an icy coverlet; a temperature of 32° is the favorite, while nothing above 40° is tolerated. The largest spawning grounds of the cod are in the vicinity of the Loffoden Islands, though the American members of the family put up with such accommodations as they can find near home. The domestic arrangements of this fish are so informal that the eggs have no special abiding-place, nor any protection whatever. Of the millions of eggs that are deposited by a single female, not more than a hundred thousand, probably not more than ten thousand, result in full-grown fish. Like the small boy who, if he could not whip a larger boy, could at least make faces at his sister, the smaller fish upon which the cod preys find delicious revenge in eating the eggs of the latter, while the mass of `low-down' inhabitants of the ocean are true to the instinct of low-downers everywhere to prey upon aristocracy, particularly upon the younger scions thereof. It is probable, too, that many of the eggs which escape the keen eyes of searchers after delicacies do not become fertilized.

The mackerel, which commercially ranks next to the cod among salt-water fishes, is also partial to a cool home, though it is found somewhat farther south than the cod. Like the last-named fish, it seeks very cold water in which to spawn, preferring that of which the temperature is but little above the freezing-point. Instead of enjoying cold water all the year round, however, as the cod seems to do, there is a possibility that the mackerel hibernates. Seeking a soft muddy or sandy bed at the approach of winter, it buries itself therein, first drawing a scale or film over each eye. Whether this film is an apology for a night-cap, or the result of a dropping of the eyelid through extreme drowsiness, or due to providential design, or development according to environment, à la Darwin, is yet to be decided, but the existence of such a covering to the eye during hibernation has been proved by examination of mackerel which have been dragged from their comfortable couches by the dredges of intrusive scientists. It is not impossible that it may yet be discovered that the film is the result of disease, and that the muddy bottom is resorted to, not as winter-quarters, but as a hospital where `earth-cure' is practiced as a specialty. Whether sick or only sleepy, however, the mackeral has an intense aversion to a cold bed, so in selecting a resting-place he avoids ground over which salt ice is likely to drift, and drizzle its chilling water downward. How the fish arrives at certainties or probabilities on this subject is something that no fellow not a mackerel can find out, but the dredge has never found one of these fish in localities where salt ice melts.

The mackeral is quite a sociable fish among those of its own blood, moving always in great families or schools. When it comes inshore from the deep sea it is always with an innumerable company, which seems to move with a sort of regimental front, and wheeling from left to right, the point d'appui being that portion of the shore, naturally the southernmost that it frequents, where earliest in the season the fresh-water fish return to their native streams. The mackeral's shoreward movements are not always due to its own hunger, but frequently to that of the tunny and other predaceous fish which are fond of fresh mackeral. The discreetness of the fish under such circumstances is highly praised by scientists, and is cheerfully recognized by the honest fishermen, who welcome the fugitives heartily upon their arrival, and care for them so effectively that when next the tooth of the tormentor threatens them it will be unfelt and uncared for. The means of welcoming the mackeral are several, seines, nets, weirs, and pounds being as effective as the hook. The success of the last-named implement is due to the plebeian habits of the fish while dining. It seldom bites, nor does it prolong the enjoyment of a choice delicacy by nibbling, but it vulgarly swallows at a single gulp whatever is set before it. Selecting its food by appearance instead of flavor, it is not wonderful that a bit of red flannel, a bright `spoon,' or even a bare fishhook may seem worth taking. What disappointed fishermen on `the Banks' are pleased to term the (qualified) fastidiousness of the fish seems to contradict this statement of the mackerel's gustatory habits, but the apparent capriciousness with which these fish appear and disappear at a vessel's side is due to temperature instead of taste. Lying at a depth of perhaps two hundred fathoms, in cool water, the fish hurry to the surface for the chopped bait which fishermen throw overboard to attract them; the surface water, however, is generally too warm to be endured for more than a few moments, and they hurry back home as soon as comfort becomes more desirable than food.

When the mackerel disappear—which they do frequently during the season, and afterward for a long time—they seek for depth rather than distance. They remain off the coast, but far this side of the Gulf Stream, throughout the warm season, but in water sufficiently deep to meet their views in point of temperature. They often lie in vast schools within a mile or less of equally numerous herring, for which fish the mackerel has a yearning throat; but while the mackerel are two hundred fathoms down, the herring are within fifteen or twenty fathoms of the surface. Between these two zones, a distance of only a few seconds, mackerel time, the water is too warm to permit even a hungry mackerel to enjoy the pleasures of the chase, so these life-long enemies remain within sight of each other in a state of truce—until the coming of cold weather.

The herring, though a small fish, is commercially attractive enough to often find its own prospects of peace and longevity seriously endangered. Its diminutive size causes it to suffer more from finny enemies than either the cod or the mackerel, and its spawning capacity is comparatively feeble—a mere trifle of thirty thousand eggs, which the mackerel exceeds by fifteen or twenty times, and the cod by a hundred or more. And yet there seems no limit to the quantity of herring. Were the demand many times as great as it is, it could easily be supplied from this side of the ocean. This is doubtless due in great measure to the peculiar security enjoyed by the spawn and the young. Instead of floating, orifice downward, like the eggs of most other fish, herring spawn sinks to the bottom, the orifices of the eggs being upward, and as it is deposited in deep water, there are but few fish that interfere with it. The young, finding no loving parent near to guide their youthful steps, sensibly remain close to their birth-place, feeding upon diatoms and the smaller crustacea, until they grow old enough and strong enough to venture abroad. Migratory only to a limited extent, it is probable that the herring changes its base only on account of annoyance from larger fish. They are caught inshore by many varieties of seines and pounds, and the hook has occasionally been tried upon them by self-sufficient city youths, urged thereto by sea-shore boys who wished to remove the conceit from their visitors. To attempt to lure with hook and line a fish which can not bite, but lives wholly by suction, and to spend long hours at the attempt, under the stimulus of some wonderful story about how many some other city youth caught in the same way, is very stimulative of one's memory of the imprecatory Psalms and of other Scripture as misquoted by the wicked.

The herring, like the other fish named, inhabits cold water, the line of Long Island Sound being its southern boundary, while it is far to the north that it must be sought in quantity. The secret of the selection of particular localities for fish homes seems explained by an examination of the course of the great arctic current. This body of cold water, starting from the Spitzbergen seas, flows westerly until it strikes the Greenland coast, when it changes its course to the southward, and carries great masses of cold water into localities the latitude of which leads one to look for a high temperature in the water. It is a branch of this current that enables the cod to live and multiply about Block Island and Nantucket Shoals, in water at 40°, while farther north bathers at the beach luxuriate in water at 70° The same current forces its way into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, which is the most profitable fishing ground in the world, and probably has something to do with the phenomenal tides of the Bay of Fundy. This current brings not only cold water, but food for the fish. This food consists of diatoms and other minute forms of vegetable and animal life. Coming into existence in a latitude higher than that of the fish that devour it, this food is swept southward by the great arctic current, and wherever it is found the waters are almost alive with fish. Professor Hind says that although the sea off Canada and the United States appears abundant in life, it is nevertheless almost a desert compared with the Northern seas, particularly on the Labrador and Greenland coasts. There the ocean at times seems to be thick with fish, and to such an extent that during a single night the temperature of the water will be materially influenced by animal life!

The profusion and seeming carelessness of nature, as well as the system of the same mysterious force, can not be better illustrated than by the facts concerning the spawning of the commercial fishes. While cod, mackerel, and herring spawn in midwater, the eggs of the last-mentioned sink, while those of the first two rise to the surface. The milt, or fecundating principle of the male, is also voided in midwater, but rises in the case of cod and mackerel, while that of the herring sinks. Eggs and milt alike are tossed hither and thither by the waves and currents before reaching their proper level. It would seem that this method, or lack of method, would lead to an early extinction of fish, yet life is nowhere else so abundant as in the ocean. The numerical relation of the eggs of fish to their apparent safety or danger, and all else connected with the natural propagation of sea fish, afford powerful arguments equally to the upholder of evolution and he of creation according to design.

The inshore feeding grounds of fishes most esteemed by commerce are not determined by mere luck, as fishermen are so fond of believing. The mouths of rivers are naturally attractive, particularly during the family reunions of fresh-water fish which have been making the grand tour. Bays with stony bottoms are the homes of some varieties of prolific crustacea dearly beloved of fish, and the motion of the water is constantly detaching this food from the rocks. In land-locked shallows are to be found numerous small fish which either make their homes there, or flee thitherward as to a city of refuge. Straits through which strong tides can not easily force their way, and currents which oppose tides, are generally full of eddies, and these present many attractions to hungry fish. An eddy is a sort of aqueous saving-bank, which absorbs whatever fish food come near it, and, like savings-bank elsewhere, it frequently yield it treasure to those whose might is their only substitute for right. In the Gulf of St. Lawrence and adjacent waters all these conditions for supplying food exist, so it is not wonderful that the Gulf is as popular a resort for fish as it is for fishermen.

Neither manifest cleanliness, healthful exercise, nor cooling environment can keep fish from cannibalistic practices. Human beings sometime love their fellows so much that they want to eat them; to the fish this wish is father of the act. A hungry cod or mackerel that finds no other food convenient has no scruples against dining off some of the tender darlings of his own family. The same lack of squeamish sentimentality saves him from any care upon the burials or scavenger question. A Dead fish, or the useless portions of the catch which are thrown overboard from fishing vessels, are promptly applied to the sustenance of the living, the lobsters and other occupants of the lower zones getting but the jackal's share of such prey. This habit of swallowing dead fish sometimes leads to undesirable results, particularly for the mackerel. In attacking any choice morsel he always begins at the larger end; but when the object happens to contain a spinal column with ribs attached, which has been thrown overboard by a cleaner, any subsequent attempt to dislodge the useless portions shows the incompatibility which exists between two sets of similar bones in the same fish, for the newer set becomes unduly searching, and exhibits a painful reluctance to departing. Offal that is not put to family uses goes to lobsters, starfish, and other residents of the bottom, but many a sea-flea lunches on it en route; and if these tiny creatures are allowed their own way, they leave nothing but bones, which in turn are entirely absorbed by sea-urchins.

Herring, cod, and mackerel are commercially interesting, principally as dried or salted fish; but the increasing demand for fresh fish, and the improved methods that have been devised for preserving and shipping in fresh condition, are causing study of other sea fish which are abundant and of fine quality. Among these is the mullet, which, though scarcely known by name at the North, is said by Professor Baird to be largely consumed, both fresh and salted, in Virginia, the Carolinas, and Florida. It is larger, fatter, and sweeter than the mackerel; the supply seems to be inexhaustible; and it is so generally a shore fish that it is always taken with seines, the only vessels required being ordinary row-boats from which to lay the seines. Professor Baird believes that when its merits are known, the mullet will be a formidable market rival of the mackerel. The blue-fish will be pursued more eagerly than ever, now that it has earned the reputation of being the most destructive of and among food-fishes. Fortunately for inshore fish at the North, the blue-fish generally goes South to get its growth, and seldom returns. The merits of the halibut are beginning to be known elsewhere than on the coast, and it is to the interest of the cod-fish trade that it be caught in large quantities, for it fights the cod, while the odds of size are overwhelming in favor of the halibut. The disappearance of the cod from any locality is more likely to be due to the halibut than to any other predaceous fish.

Disappearances of sea fish from their long-time homes occur frequently, and for reasons unknown to man. The herring have left the coast of Sweden, where once they were numerous, and the big-eyed or chub-mackerel, which thirty years ago was common on our coasts, is now so rare that Professor Baird has been unable to obtain it for his collection, although he has offered $25 for a single specimen. Whether the merits of this fish have suddenly become known to marine epicures, or whether the chub-mackerel has found a deep-sea larder which is better stored than his old one was, must for the present be matter for conjecture. Perhaps tunny-fish, sharks, porpoises, dogfish, and other lordly fellows with discriminating appetites might throw some light upon the subject if they could be interviewed. At one time the tunny had driven the cod entirely away from the vicinity of Block Island, but the tunny himself having become attractive to oil men and purveyors to manufacturers of fish guano, the cod hurried back to the family homestead. Professor Baird believes that the demand for tunnies, dogfish, sharks, etc., by the factories which will turn them into oils and manures, will have the effect of increasing the number of food fishes by lessening that of their enemies. `Grand, gloomy, and peculiar,' like other great slaughterers, these predaceous fish also resemble their human prototypes in being comparatively few in number, and in keeping themselves prominently before the eyes of those who are eager to destroy them.

Extensive as the fisheries are, and interesting as they have become to scientists and statesmen, their monetary value is startlingly small compared with that of some other food-producing industries. The total value of all the sea fisheries of the United States, excluding whales and shell-fish, but including the whole catch by American fishermen in Canadian waters, is less than $15,000,000 per year, while that of oysters alone is $30,000,000. Any single item of animal food produced on the land is more valuable than all the fishes, although in all the cities and many small towns meat is more costly than fish. The cause may probably be found in the custom of despising whatever is plentiful and cheap. Until lately any boy could supply his family table with fish if there was any stream or pond convenient; so any but the rarer fish have been considered plebeian food. There are many well-to-do Eastern families to-day who know only the salted mackerel and the dried cod, and this while the markets of the larger cities offer of fish a variety such as can be found in no other food department, excluding not even that of winter game. Between devices for securing low temperature and dry air, it is now possible to preserve fish in their fresh condition for months, so that, though taken only at the season in which they are best, they may be purchased in any month of the year. Professor Baird tells of seeing in an immense New York Refrigerator `a cord of cod-fish, a cord of salmon, a cord of Spanish mackerel and other fish, piled up just like cord-wood; dry, hard, and firm, and retaining their qualities for an indefinite time.' By dryness it should not be understood that the fish has been cleaned and dried, for it is in its natural shape and condition, as if just caught. When the public becomes generally aware that such excellent food material can be had so cheaply, the business of fish-taking will doubtless increase greatly, for the supply at present is limited only by the demand.