Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

This is demonstrated by the schooling which a recruit undergoes on entering an English cavalry regiment. He has to ride on a “numnah” at first, after such preliminary lessons as to how to lead a horse, etc. Next he is placed on a “stripped” saddle, without stirrups--meanwhile riding with only a “biddoon”--and is put to jumping obstacles some two feet high, with his reins tied and his arms folded behind his back. If such discipline as this is not calculated to inculcate the doctrine of both balance and grip one can scarcely say what is. This course is found so severe that many a man who enlists with the idea that he is a crack rider begins to doubt it before he is through the school.

As, however, was said at the beginning of this paper, it is impossible to lay down arbitrary rules for all cases. Any one who has tried it can vouch for the extraordinary difference between riding in an English hunting-saddle and, say, a McClellan army saddle. A follower of the old-fashioned hunting seat would be much put about to follow hounds in one of the peaked wooden saddles, excellent in their own line as they may be. In all truth the saddle has more to do with the formation of a seat than is usually supposed. An uncomfortable saddle makes the unfortunate rider twist and writhe in vain endeavor to find an easy spot. A jogging horse that won’t walk, and an uneasy saddle which seems to be galling one in a dozen places at once, is enough to make a man eschew equestrianism for the rest of his life. It is a man’s fault if he cannot find a saddle to suit him, and in selecting one it should be remembered that as a rule the more comfortable the saddle the better the seat. It is great folly to try to save a few pounds extra weight at the expense of comfort. A large roomy saddle is certainly more comfortable to a rider, and generally easier for the horse, which, unless the work to be done is exceptionally long and wearisome, will never notice the slight increase in weight.

In the same way everything should be as large and roomy as possible without being clumsy. The stirrups should be large and heavy enough to slip easily from the feet in case of accident; the reins broad enough to hold firmly, and the bit or bits solid enough to give the horse something to play with.

One thing should always be borne in mind, which, alas! people are too apt to forget. A horse is not a machine. He is a sensible, affectionate, willing animal, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred wishing to do his best for one. He is, therefore, entitled to as much kindness and sympathy as possible, and no one will be worse for remembering the old, well-worn saying, put in the horse’s mouth: “Up hill worry me not, down hill hurry me not, on level ground spare me not.”

THE SOFT LIGHT BEAMED.

The soft light beamed, with glow benign,
O’er purpling hill-tops fringed with pine,
As seated snugly, side by side,
We drifted with the glist’ning tide,
Adown the classic Brandywine.

We heard the lowing of the kine--
We saw the trees their boughs entwine,
And o’er the meadows newly mown
The soft light beamed.

I held her dimpled hand in mine,
And from each dainty, curving line
I read her fate--till, bolder grown,
I dared to join it with my own;
While from those eyes, so deep, divine,
The soft light beamed.

_Howell Stroud England._

MEMORIES OF YACHT CRUISES.

BY THE LATE CAPTAIN R. F. COFFIN.

Continued from page 517.

~Note.~--~Outing~ for November will contain a richly
illustrated article on “The Cruise of 1888,” in consequence of
which the next article by the late Captain Coffin will appear in
~Outing~ for December.

In 1878 the cruises of the New York and Atlantic Yacht Clubs occurred at the same time, and while at Greenport the Atlantic Club had a regatta with the New York Club as spectators. The two clubs, however, did not fraternize to any greater extent then than they do now. Both have always inclined to conservatism, the Atlantic particularly so, and among the list of eighteen starters in this regatta, there is not a single New York Club yacht, and, in fact, the New York squadron was got under weigh for New London before the Atlantic race had ended, the two fleets meeting in Gardner’s Bay. Very many owners in the New York Club have found it to their interest to join the Atlantic, but comparatively few of the distinctively Atlantic Yacht Club members have joined the New York. Still, as the years have gone by, the relations between the New York and Atlantic clubs have become more and more friendly, and if there is any club in this neighborhood that the old and aristocratic club could be induced to fraternize with, it would probably be the Atlantic.

On this particular occasion, however, the courses of the fleets on leaving Greenport diverged, the Atlantics going to Newport, the New Yorks to New London. Practically, the Atlantic Club disbanded at Greenport, only six of the yachts going on to Newport. Commodore Kane was a great favorite at the Pequot House, and the proprietor and guests went to the extreme of courtesy to do honor to the club while it tarried there. This cruise, like that of the previous year, was a great success.

To those who know the gentlemen--the announcement of the correspondents with the fleet on this cruise, that divine service was held on board the _Estelle_--Mr. John Oakey officiating as chaplain, and Alexander Taylor, Jr., and John R. Dickerson leading the choir--is an assurance that the service was interesting and impressive.

At this time the sloop _Thistle_, the same yacht now owned by Mr. William Zeigler, belonged to Mr. E. C. Palmer, president of the Louisiana State Savings Bank and a member of the Boston Yacht Club. She was considered to be the fastest sloop in Boston. She has been much altered since then and doubtless much improved, but she would stand no chance at all to-day with the crack sloops of the “Hub,” which is a convincing proof, if any were needed, that Boston yachtsmen have been moving in the past ten years.

The _Active_, the _Regina_ and the _Vixen_, at that time the three fastest sloops of the New York Yacht Club, were selected to polish off the _Thistle_ when she was encountered in the harbor of New Bedford. I was fortunate enough to receive an invitation to sail on the _Thistle_ during that race. The _Thistle_ was beaten, but she was miserably equipped, not half manned, and sailed in the most lubberly manner. In elapsed time she was only about a minute behind the _Vixen_ and _Active_, but was beaten about thirteen minutes on corrected time by the _Vixen_. Had she, however, been as well equipped and handled as the New York yachts she would have beaten them, I think, and that was the general opinion. After all, what are any of these yachts compared with the yachts of to-day? I think that to yachts of this class we have added at least a knot an hour in speed, and to the larger craft, such as _Gracie_, _Fanny_, _Shamrock_ and _Titania_, fully two knots are added, and these are, withal, safer yachts than their predecessors.

The New York Yacht Club managed to get back from Vineyard Haven to Newport, and then it disbanded. As usual, a race had been arranged, but there were not sufficient entries and the thing was given up.

SLOOP FANNY, NOW THE PROPERTY OF JOS. P. EARLE, ESQ.]

The Atlantic Yacht Club, I think, made its first visit to Black Rock in 1879. After a rendezvous at Whitestone as usual on a Saturday afternoon, the fleet sailed thence to Glen Cove. Next day, for a wonder, not one of the twelve chaplains of the club was available, and the usual divine service had to be omitted. What then were the yachtsmen to do? Glen Cove was dreary enough, and there was a fine breeze blowing from the southwest. At that time Mr. Fish was the commodore, and after consultation with the owners he found that a majority of them were in favor of disregarding the traditions of the club as to Sunday sailing, and at noon he hoisted the signal for the fleet to get under way. Whether or not this was its first visit to Black Rock, I know not, but matters were found so pleasant there that I believe it has been the rendezvous of this club ever since. The George Hotel there is a splendid hostelry, in the season always full of guests; the harbor, though small, is good, and the anchorage close to the shore and handy for the embarkation of ladies. So since this year the club leaves Whitestone on the afternoon of some Saturday and sails to Black Rock, where on Sunday there is divine service on board of one of the schooners, which is attended by a great majority of the hotel guests. This service on board a flush-decked yacht enclosed with awnings is peculiarly impressive. The Rev. Dr. Thomas has usually been the officiating clergyman, but the club has many other chaplains that can be called upon in an emergency. Its list of chaplains comprise the following well-known divines: Revs. A. A. Willets, of Philadelphia, whose club connection dates back to 1866; J. T. Duryea, D.D., of Boston (1868); H. M. Gallaher, of Brooklyn (1868); C. H. Hall, D.D., Brooklyn (1869); G. F. Pentacost, Brooklyn (1870); W. H. Thomas, Cambridge, Mass., and E. Murphy, Brooklyn (1871); E. Van Slyke, Syracuse, N. Y. (1873); H. M. Scudder, D.D., Brooklyn (1874); G. H. Hepworth, New York (1875). For eleven years after this the club did not add to the list, but in 1886 it elected R. Heber Newton, D.D., of New York, and its latest addition to its chaplains was Joshua Reynolds, Jr., of Brooklyn, elected May, 1888.

SLOOP VIXEN, NOW THE PROPERTY OF W. C. LOVING, OF BOSTON.]

The Atlantic Club has never desired to leave Black Rock sufficiently to induce it to break through its rule with respect to sailing on the Sabbath. After the lunch which follows the sermon, the guests find an afternoon at the hotel on shore pleasant. For those who so desire, there are very pleasant drives, and in the evening there is music at the hotel and companionship sufficiently pleasant to detain the boats at the landing to a late hour.

Black Rock is easily accessible from the city, and guests who cannot join on Saturday may come up by the late train on Sunday.

In those days, nine years ago, neither the Larchmont, New Rochelle, nor the American yacht clubs had established their headquarters on the Sound, and possibly the rendezvous of the future when a club is about to start on a cruise will be at one of these congenial anchorages. The American Club, as being farthest east and as affording the best anchorage, will doubtless be the favorite, but the Atlantic Club has strong affiliations with the New Rochelle members and may make that its first rendezvous in place of Whitestone, and start thence to Black Rock. It will hardly, in any event, neglect the George Hotel, with which so many pleasant memories are associated.

As to this particular cruise in 1879, there is not much to tell, as it was very tame and monotonous. The yachts on their passages from port to port had exceedingly light airs. They visited New London, Greenport, Newport, New Bedford, and Martha’s Vineyard, the old, old route, and there the fleet disbanded. Why on earth cruises are not continued, returning from this point direct to the place of departure, or making stoppages on the way, I have never been able to discover. Bound East there is generally no weather at all, or if there is, it is accompanied by “dirty” weather. A beat back to Black Rock would show what the yachts really could do.

This was the year that Commodore Thomas had command of the New York Yacht Club fleet, and the big _Rambler_ was his flagship. A fleet of over twenty yachts left Glen Cove, and went to New London and thence to the Manhansett House, Shelter Island, where a grand reception awaited the yachtsmen. There was an illumination and fireworks in the evening, and this was followed by a ball which continued until after daybreak.

It is not possible, as far as I know, to vary the route, and yet I think some change might be made. This year, as usual, the yachts went from Shelter Island to Newport and thence to New Bedford. Here the New Bedford people arranged a regatta that was a great success; six schooners and six sloops starting and filling four classes. The _Vision_ and _Niantic_ (now the _Hildegard_), at that time, were the crack sloops of the New York Yacht Club, and their close match in this race will be remembered by all who were present. The _Niantic_ was sailed by her owner, the late Mr. R. M. Huntley, and was admirably handled.

There is no port which the yacht fleet visits where the welcome is so cordial as in the old whaling city of New Bedford. On this occasion, the mayor and the prominent officials visited the flagship, and extended a welcome to all the yachtsmen. In the evening, a number of citizens passed through the fleet with a band and tendered a serenade. There were also fireworks and all sorts of jollifications, and all hands left with regret the next morning.

SLOOP GRACIE, NOW THE PROPERTY OF MESSRS. FISKE BROS.]

The reach down the Vineyard Sound, while the fleet was _en route_ for Oak Bluffs, was one not easily forgotten. There was a cracking breeze from the southwest and the schooner _Dreadnought_ was the first vessel through Quick’s Hole, followed by the _Wanderer_, after which came the _Rambler_. All three had all balloons pulling, and the _Rambler_ easily established her claim to be the fastest sailing vessel in the world with a free wind. She went through the _Wanderer’s_ lee as if that vessel had been anchored, and was coming up with the _Dreadnought_--which was doing full thirteen knots--hand over hand, but, when just at her taffrail, the head of the _Rambler’s_ mainmast went just above the rigging. Her racing career was over for the rest of the cruise. She ran into Vineyard Haven to clear away the wreck preparatory to returning to the city, and the _Dauntless_ became the flagship, with Vice-Commodore John Waller in command. The next day the fleet returned to Newport and disbanded.

A YACHTING SONG.

Keen is the clear, free air,
Sharp with a salty tang,
Far o’er the waters blown--
Blown on the winds that fly.
Up with the topsail, there!
Gray have the shore-lines grown,
Dim where the mountains sprang
Bold, as we turned toward Skye.

Never a flaw in the breeze,
A fair and favoring gale,
Never a guy-rope wrong,
Never a sheet awry!
Over the summer seas,
Gay as a lover’s song,
Merrily on we sail
Up to the Straits of Skye.

Let them prate of their joy,
Footing firm on the earth;
Oh, they may prate who will,
Ours is the joy, say I!
Bliss of the buoyant boy,
Tremble and throb and thrill--
Sound of the wild sea’s mirth,
Loud on the Strand of Skye!

_Clinton Scollard._

CANADIAN FISHING SKETCHES.

BY HIRAM B. STEPHENS.

II. SPEARING FISH AT THE LACHINE RAPIDS.

The Lachine Rapids are well known to many American tourists, as they are included in a circuit of tourist travel adopted by large numbers, viz.: from Niagara Falls through Lake Ontario, the Thousand Islands, the Rapids of the St. Lawrence, down to the ancient city of Quebec, and on to the mysterious Saguenay. The average tourist’s knowledge of the Lachine Rapids is confined to the personal experience of running them in the steamboat. But few realize that this is historic ground, trod by “the pioneers of France in the New World;” that Champlain endeavored to ascend these rapids in a small boat two centuries and a half ago, and that La Salle built a fort or house here which is still standing, though fast falling into decay. Here have been Champlain, Maisonneuve, Frontenac, Joliette, and La Salle himself, all of whom have left their indelible records, not alone in Canadian history, but in that of America.

The Lachine Rapids rush madly past, whitening with foam in their ceaseless career. The old name of the rapids was the “Sault St. Louis.” The Catholic mission here has been famous; it was situated on the south shore, and has changed its home several times, till now it is located in the Indian village of Caughnawaga. In this village lived La Salle some twenty years previous to the “massacre at Lachine,” perpetrated by the Iroquois on the night of the 4th August, 1689, when, in not more than an hour, over two hundred persons were butchered. In Caughnawaga lived Charlevoix, the author of the celebrated “Histoire de la Nouvelle France,” and his desk is still to be seen there in the _Presbytère_. Not many months ago, the writer was called upon by two dusky Indians, and asked by them to translate a certain parchment. It was dated early in the seventeenth century, written in old Norman French, and signed “~Louis Roy~.” It was the deed of the _seigneurie_ to the mission, which these Indians had carefully preserved, without any safe deposit company, through all their wars and massacres, their fires and revolts. But I am not to write historical notes and must cease, much as the subject interests.

Above the villages of Lachine (so named by La Salle, who thought of going to China from this point) and Caughnawaga, the St. Lawrence is wide and forms what is known as Lake St. Louis. This lake narrows very much at the two villages. A few miles below, the river, taking a turn, rushes over a bed of rocks and boulders, forming the Lachine Rapids, and then widens out into Laprairie Bay below, and passes on more peacefully to the good city of Montreal.

The south shore from the Lachine Rapids down past and below Laprairie Bay, is an excellent fishing-ground, and deserves a few notes which it has never yet, to the writer’s knowledge, received in any important publication.

The fish which can be secured here are sturgeon, bass, dory, carp, and mullet of different kinds, and the eel. There are also bream, shad, and a fish known as the _loche_, and at times whitefish and small perch. The Indians of Caughnawaga devote much of their time to fishing. These Indians, by the way, have intermarried with the surrounding French Canadians to such an extent that the blood is far from pure, if there be even one pure-blooded Indian remaining, except an old squaw 107 years old, who still smokes her pipe and is somewhat active. But theirs is a commercial pursuit and not for any love of sport. They use nets principally, and in the spring spear the carp and eels in large numbers. Apart from their fishing pursuits, their chief means of livelihood lies in running timber rafts down the rapids. The majority of them speak French, and some of them English. Their squaws are engaged in the making of Indian “curiosities” for sale to tourists.

A visit to the village is interesting in more ways than one. The locality is not an inviting one, as it is rocky and somewhat barren, and if the original intention in placing the Indians here was to instruct them in agricultural pursuits, no more unsuitable locality could have been found. They could drill, and that is all, for there is nothing but solid rock. The houses are all of stone, as might be supposed, with quaint little windows. In some of them the old irons still remain, placed there in colonial days. There is one long street, the houses being built on each side at varying distances. The church is a plain building, very simply appointed, free from the gorgeous elaborateness of more modern Roman Catholic churches, and contains some curious old pictures, more curious than valuable. Last summer, while the floor of the church was being altered, a quantity of bones were discovered; but the Indian workmen were not disturbed, continuing their work, and probably relaying the floor without paying any further attention.

The _pappooses_ are worth seeing. They are so old-fashioned and wise-looking that one is tempted to think they are born with all the knowledge and wisdom they ever possess, and merely require time for the purpose of acquiring a larger growth. They never cry, and would probably starve to death without a single whimper. With their dark complexions, jet black eyes and severe expressions, they very much resemble scheming imps of darkness.

The rapids are delightful as an experience of steamboat travel, and a more exciting episode is a descent of them on a raft of timber, and a still more exciting and certainly foolhardy event is to run them in a canoe, as has been done on several occasions. It is, however, regarded in much the same light as an attempt to swim through the Niagara rapids. It is exciting enough, and yet not too dangerous to persons of cool temperament to take what is known as a “dug-out” and a French-Canadian _pêcheur_ and have a day’s bass-fishing in the rapids. The “dugout,” somewhat out of date now, is merely a log hollowed out to form a canoe, and it is fully as treacherous as a bark canoe. No paddle is used; a pole is the arm of progression, and it is really wonderful with what skill one of these French-Canadian fishermen will take you from eddy to eddy, in and out between the rocks and across mad currents. The crude boat seems to be part of himself. Other boats are used ordinarily of a safer description, made more like a punt, from which one can throw a fly with some security and with little fear of taking a “header” and being swept toward the ocean. The bass fishing is excellent, and splendid sport can be had during the proper season. Dory (pickerel) can be caught here with the minnow, and though they are not game-fish, they are excellent eating.

But _the_ sport at the foot of the Lachine Rapids is spearing fish, _i. e._, sturgeon, carp and eels.

In June the large red-finned carp, known locally as the “_carpes des rois_,” weighing from three to fifteen pounds each, ascend the river; the eels are present in large numbers, and the sturgeon come in-shore to feed.

A flat-bottomed boat is secured and an arrangement for the light put in place. This usually consists of an open basket made of a few strips of hoop-iron. In this pine and cedar knots are burned, emitting a pleasant odor and a somewhat fitful glare over the water. Another means of lighting is to split cedar rails in long, thin strips six or eight feet in length, and make them into bundles, a boy in the boat holding them at the required position over the water. The boat is allowed to float broadside on down the river over the best places, the torch of pine burning with its crackling noise. The spear usually consists of either five or seven barbs and those used by the French-Canadian fishermen are frequently made by themselves out of hammered iron, and are clumsy instruments, which when they strike a fish sometimes almost cut it in two.

The best plan is to have one made out of No. 4 wire, or buy one of the light steel spears; and with a light ash handle about one inch in diameter and ten feet in length, an exciting time can be had, especially if one has never been out before. One misjudges the distance so as the boat floats on, and is fortunate if no upset occurs. A waving weed is mistaken for a huge eel, and a frantic dart ends only in disappointment, or an eel is thought to be a useless weed, and annoyances ensue at the mistake. But the art or knack is soon learnt, and then the enjoyment is keen. Round about, on the same purpose bent, are other boats, each with their blaze of light, like some huge red Cyclops.

The night is dark and one floats on, darting at each successive finny denizen, missing some and lifting many a fine fellow with the cruel barb into the boat _sans cérémonie_. A huge eel, four feet in length, is speared and with some difficulty hauled into the boat, and his wriggling form gives one the shudders.

Then a large sturgeon that appears to weigh thirty pounds is seen lazily moving his tail and merely maintaining himself against the current. _C’est un gros_--“He’s a big fellow,” and every one is stilled into expectancy. The spear is held in the water till the time for striking is come--down goes the spear, and as you press on it you feel the points are crushing through bone and flesh and are firmly fixed. There is a cruel joy or satisfaction as you thus fix the spear in him; he turns, and you hold on like grim death; the boat swings end on in the struggle; you have to go with the current and the fish, resisting as firmly as you can. And so the struggle continues; your boatman has been gradually poling nearer and nearer to the shore. The water is only two feet deep here, and shouting to you to look out, the boatman is in the water and has the sturgeon by the gills, and with a few steps is on _terra firma_. You follow, regardless of wet feet, and find you have speared the largest one of the season, so far. Your spear has to be cut out, so firmly are the points imbedded, and the sturgeon’s sufferings are over. He is weighed, and tips the scales at 65½ pounds.

This is picturesque work--the swarthy, indistinct forms in a circle of flickering light, looking for all the world, with their spears, like attendants of some fresh-water Neptune. The boats float slowly down stream, the shores are invisible in the gloom, and all is still. A splash, and another fish is secured, and so the night draws on. There is an end to all things, and the evening’s spearing is over.

One drives back to the village hotel in the quaint town of Laprairie, or else “bunks” with a friendly French-Canadian, paying him _trente sous_ for the accommodation. In many cases no charge will be made, but some gratuity ought to be given, and for this nothing is better than tobacco.

The fish congregate on these shallows as the water is not deep, and therefore is of a higher temperature, which in the spring months attracts them.

An _al fresco_ lunch on one of these islands at the foot of the Lachine Rapids is a delightful experience on a bright blue sunny day, so happily frequent in the valley of the St. Lawrence. The rushing of the waters and the rustling of the leaves in the trembling silver maples is a sweet chorus of music, ever changing and ever harmonious; the _coup d’œil_ up the rapids is unequaled in interesting beauty, and there is a sense of communing with Nature entirely different in spirit and feeling to that in the solitudes and hearts of the great forests.

One reads everywhere the records of past winters and of winters to come in the ruggedness of the entire landscape, in the hardy look of the timber, in the robustness more than tenderness of the herbage and signs of latent strength conserved to contend with the mighty snows. The present is the more enjoyable by very reason of this knowledge; and the lunch is a royal repast, made so by the royal appetite which the ozone of the woods and waters always produces. We enjoy our lunch of fish chowder, baked beans, strong tea, and such extras as may be in supply, and look upon these magnificent rapids, the “last escapade” of the St. Lawrence in its eternal march to the sea.

I have written of the spring months and their wealth of fishing. But there are the duck, the _outardes_ and the snipe to be shot in the fall, when Nature is donning her winter suit and the days are getting shorter and more sombre, when there is a change that renders one thoughtful and pensive, except in the excitement of the chase.

One ponders over this mighty St. Lawrence, one of the grandest highways of the globe. “Its history, its antecedents are unparalleled. The great lakes are its camping-grounds; here its hosts repose under the sun and stars in areas like that of states and kingdoms, and it is its waters that shake the earth at Niagara. It is a chain of Homeric sublimities from beginning to end. The great cataract is a fit sequel to the great lakes; the spirit that is born in vast and tempestuous Superior takes its full glut of power in that fearful chasm.”

ONE MAN’S WORK FOR CYCLING.

BY HOWARD P. MERRILL.

No man has ever given such an impetus to any recreative sport as Henry E. Ducker has given to cycling. Almost wholly by individual efforts, he has brought cycling to the foremost position it now holds in America. In his own town he has raised an obscure club to a position of such prominence as to be almost without a rival in the whole country. It was Ducker who inaugurated the tournaments which have without doubt done most toward giving bicycling its present pre-eminence. And it is this same Henry E. Ducker who is now quickening the whole cycling world by his latest and most daring project of an Annual World’s Cycling Tournament, under the auspices of the Buffalo International Fair Association, the first meet of which gathered in the “Queen City” on the shores of Lake Erie, ten thousand wheelmen, besides making the event one of the most notable in the history of cycling. But, though his name be familiar to the whole world of sport, there is no widespread knowledge of the individual man.

It is, therefore, the purpose of ~Outing~ in this article to present to cyclists and all lovers of sport a short but compendious sketch of this giant among wheelmen.

Henry E. Ducker was born in London, England, forty years ago, and came to New York with his parents in 1853. In 1863 the family removed to Springfield, Mass., where he lived until June, 1887. Early in life Mr. Ducker learned the printer’s and bookbinder’s trade. While still a youth he became foreman of the large establishment variously known as the Clark W. Bryan Company and the Springfield Printing Company, and for five or six years he was the superintendent of this establishment. In June, 1887, he went to Buffalo to accept the superintendency of the printing department of Gies & Co. Within the past few months he has devoted himself entirely to cycling, and now expects to make it the work of his life.

Mr. Ducker, from his boyhood, has been an ardent admirer of all athletic sports--boating, shooting, fishing, skating and baseball, but he has a special passion for cycling.

Mr. Ducker’s cycling career dates from May, 1880, when he purchased his first bicycle--a “Harvard”--and in that year he rode 800 miles. In 1881 he rode 1,183 miles; in 1882, 1,218 miles; in 1883, 1,030 miles; in 1884, 1,087 miles. Since 1884 he has preserved no records. He kept his “Harvard” until 1883, when he changed to a “Sanspareil.” During 1885 he again changed his machine, this time to a “Victor.” Later, he adopted an “Expert Columbia” for his mount, which he rides to-day, and he has in addition a Columbia tandem. Gifted with an enthusiasm as exhaustless as his energy he quickens all with the same love for cycling that possesses him. Thus every member of his own household has been made an enthusiastic cycler.

Mr. Ducker’s prominence as a cycler dates from the organization of the Springfield club, which he, together with several other gentlemen, called into life.

Every cycler in the world has heard of this Massachusetts cycle club,[1] and its fame is due solely to the enterprise and push of its founder. The first meetings of the club were held at his house and were well attended. Never in the club’s history has the percentage of attendance at club meetings been larger than during its first year. As chairman of the entertainment committee, Mr. Ducker, in the fall of 1881, arranged with a committee from the local post of the G. A. R. to give bicycle races in connection with the Grand Army field-day. He supplemented these with a very successful evening exhibition of fancy and trick riding at the local skating rink, and it was the prosperous issue of this enterprise that started the bicycle “boom.”

* * * * *

The following year Mr. Ducker was inspired with the idea of giving a tournament, or race meeting, similar to the trotting fixtures. He was elected president of the Springfield Bicycle Club, and after mapping out a program, boldly announced that a one day’s tournament would be given, at which $1,200 in prizes would be distributed. The tournament was advertised far and wide, and wheelmen came from all over the United States to attend this innovation in racing events. The tournament was a grand success, and the Springfield club cleared over $800. Record-breaking, which has always been the characteristic of the Springfield or Ducker tournaments, dates from this event. Frank Moore, of England, who was under the care of ~John S. Prince~, astonished everybody by putting the mile at 2m. 57¼s., and made what was then considered wonderfully fast time for five miles. He gave all the starters (among them ~George M. Hendee~, in his first year of racing) a start of thirty seconds, and broke the record of 16m. 10¾s., making a new record of 15m. 47¾s. Moore was the lion of the town, and perhaps the proudest moment of Mr. Ducker’s life was when he distributed the prizes at the rink, and announced that two records had been made. The racing was done on the mile track.

The success of this first tournament aroused the citizens of Springfield as much as Mr. Ducker, and the bicycle club had large additions to its membership. Moore’s records had whetted Mr. Ducker’s appetite, and he started to have a special racing track built.

When the three days’ camp and tournament of 1883 were announced, everybody was on the _qui vive_. This was the year in which “Doodle” Robinson posed as England’s fastest amateur rider. He was, however, pitted against Geo. M. Hendee and ignominiously defeated. Mr. Ducker had now raised the Springfield people to such a pitch of enthusiasm that, on the second day of the tournament, all the banks and principal manufactories, many of the stores, and even the public schools, were closed. Nearly every one of Springfield’s 33,000 inhabitants caught the infection. The days of 1883 and 1884 seem almost like a dream. It appears incredible that one man should have so completely dominated a whole city. In those days Ducker was a king in all but the name; he had but to express a wish and it was instantly executed.

The tournaments of 1884 and 1885 only showed slight diminution in popularity. But in 1886, owing to the non-appearance of the Englishmen, who had been announced, the tournament was not so well patronized.

Mr. Ducker has been the uncompromising advocate of the rights of the racing bicyclers. Single-handed, he gamely fought the League on the makers’ amateur issue. He even carried the war to England and nearly won the N. C. U. over to his standard. He has always believed that the racing men have rights, and, therefore, has done everything to promote their interests. The racing men, however, are not the only ones who have been befriended by him. He is generosity personified, and though he has been in many disputes, his bark is worse than his bite.

The money expended in tournaments and cycle exhibitions during Mr. Ducker’s administration in Springfield amounted to upward of $60,000. These large expenditures have given rise to the silly charge that Mr. Ducker went into cycle racing for the money to be made out of it. How far from the fact this imputation lies may be judged by this. The Springfield Bicycle Club, on one occasion, after a very profitable meet, presented Mr. Ducker with five hundred dollars in recognition of the time and labor expended by him in behalf of cycling. On his removal to Buffalo he was presented with a dinner set of 150 pieces, and these are the only two instances in which he “made” anything. His work was for the club, and not for himself. If there was any profit, so far as he was concerned, it went into the club’s treasury.

Mr. Ducker attributes his success in promoting tournaments to the cordial and unqualified support of the Springfield Bicycle Club. Whatever he suggested was cheerfully carried out, and whatever work he laid out was taken up with a will and faithfully performed. An indefatigable worker himself, he influenced others to perform herculean tasks. Without the Springfield Bicycle Club Mr. Ducker’s fame would probably not be as widespread as it is, and without Ducker the Springfield Bicycle Club would not to-day rank as the leading cycle club of the country. The one was the indispensable complement of the other.

R. JAMES. F. WOOD. E. P. BURNHAM.
]

Mr. Ducker is essentially an originator. Whatever tends to make a successful race meeting when traced back, nine times out of ten, will be found to have its impetus from him. The arranging of programs, track building, timing, scoring, novelty races, all bear his stamp. Everybody concedes that the Springfield tournaments were models; everything was managed with clockwork precision, and rarely was there a hitch in the program. So great was their reputation that Mr. Ducker has often been called upon to furnish details and even personal assistance for other meetings, and he has received letters asking advice from Switzerland, Germany, and even Australia. His motto has always been: “The best is none too good,” and as a result of strict adherence to that rule, the Springfield track holds to-day a large proportion of the existing records.

His ideas on track building were the result of personal observation and study. Good side-paths in the country were the means of awakening and guiding his attention. It occurred to him that if a path could be built of nearly the same materials, the problem of good tracks would be solved. That he successfully followed up this idea as well as the accuracy of his reasoning, the Springfield track, and, more recently, the Buffalo track indisputably prove.

In 1885 and 1886, Mr. Ducker was chief consul of the Massachusetts division, L. A. W., and his work in that office speaks for itself. He was also for two years a member of the racing board of the L. A. W., and representative for Massachusetts. He was for five years president of the Springfield Bicycle Club, of which he is a life member; he is a member of the Massachusetts Bicycle Club of Boston, the Ixion Club of New York City, the Ramblers of Buffalo and the N. C. U. of England. In connection with the Springfield tournaments, Mr. Ducker founded the _Springfield Wheelmen’s Gazette_. It was intended at first only as a tournament “boomer,” but it made such a hit, that he yielded to the public demand for its permanent publication. Upon his removal to Buffalo, the _Gazette_ was sold to Darrow Brothers, of Indianapolis. While in Mr. Ducker’s control it was a crisp, sparkling sheet, and commendable from a literary standpoint. He was also the publisher and editor, in connection with Henry Goodman, of “The Wheelmen’s Reference Book.”

Mr. Ducker’s cycling correspondence is simply enormous. His private office is the headquarters for cycling information of every kind, and in Springfield it was constantly besieged by newspaper men.

Until within a few months, Mr. Ducker has worked regularly at his business, consequently his cycling work has been done after business hours. He is of medium height and inclined to stoutness. He is of light complexion, with sandy, curly hair and heavy imperial and mustache. Nature has not endowed Mr. Ducker with a very good voice, having oversupplied him with tones of the upper, entirely to the neglect of those of the lower register. But his voice is no handicap to his ability to talk. He is an enthusiastic conversationalist, and can convert the most skeptical to his optimistic way of thinking.

For the past few months, Mr. Ducker has given his entire attention to the World’s Tournament at Buffalo, which is his latest project. The management of the Buffalo International Fair Association, recognizing Mr. Ducker’s abilities, secured his services by most liberal offers of support. And Mr. Ducker’s first official act was to appoint his friend G. M. Hendee as starter.

A full report of events as they shall become a matter of record in connection with the Buffalo meet, will appear in later issues of ~Outing~.

It now remains for us to recall a few of the names of the noted cyclers who, under the management of Mr. Ducker, visited Springfield during his prominent connection with the cycling history of that most noted of American cycling clubs.

In the year 1886, W. A. Rowe defeated George M. Hendee and Fred Wood, of England, for the world’s championship. Rowe is, of course, very well known to the cycling world by his wonderful record, holding as he does all from a ¼ mile to 22 miles. These have been, however, made at record trials, _i. e._, against time and not in races. Recently Rowe visited England, but he has twice been unsuccessful in holding the title of the world’s champion as against Richard Howell.

M. V. J. Webber, or “Alphabet” Webber, was one of the fast English amateurs who raced at Springfield in ’85. He made 21 miles within the hour during a race. It was a 10-mile race, but he was anxious to keep on, and was allowed to do so with the result above mentioned. He has been off the path since his return to England.

George Weber was America’s champion Star rider, but he died in ’85. He was a plucky rider, and though he did not secure many first places in track riding, he was unconquerable in road racing and hill climbing. He won the great 100-mile road race in the spring of ’85.

Richard Howell, of England, professional, is undoubtedly the world’s champion. Indeed, he has for a long time been called “King of the Wheel.” His recent defeats of Rowe have put his right to the title beyond dispute. He has rarely been beaten and is a marvelous rider, having a spurt that cannot be approached. He was the first to do a mile in 2m. 31 1-5s. It was a trial against time and was made just after the ’85 tournament at Springfield.

Percy Furnivall, while on the path, was England’s fastest amateur rider, holding the amateur championship of England for two years. He raced at the ’85 Springfield tournament and won every event in which he started. He was to have raced against Hendee, at that time America’s champion amateur, but Hendee was “spilled” and prevented from racing.

R. A. Cripps was another English amateur who raced at Springfield in ’85. He was first-class as a tricycle rider.

Another English professional of note who has appeared on the Springfield track is Fred Wood. He was formerly Howell’s great rival. In ’86, Wood was the only scratch man in a mile handicap at Hartford, and won, his time being 2m. 33s., the fastest mile ever made in a _race_ in America. The race was run on a trotting track, and if it had been the Springfield track the time would have been nearer 2m. 31s. Wood made 2m. 35s. at Springfield the following week.

E. P. Burnham is what is known as a “luck” rider, for in several races he has been first through accidents to others. He is, however, a good rider, and very hard to beat on a tricycle. He has been off the track for two years. H. G. Crocker is a _protégé_ of Burnham, and is one of America’s best riders.

William M. Woodside is known as the Irish champion, and is a member of W. J. Morgan’s American Racing Team. Woodside has sometimes been styled the champion of America, but has never really held the title. He is best known by his having done so much “donkey work” in races, _i. e._, he has set the pace for others and thus sacrificed his own chances for a position. He is a professional rider.

John Shillington Prince is also a professional. He was the first to put the mile record down to 2m. 39s., which performance was shortly afterwards equaled by Sanders Sellers, the fast English amateur, who defeated Hendee in 1884. Prince has also posed as America’s champion rider. He formerly gained much prominence when he was racing against John Keen, England’s old war-horse.

Of course, numerous other prominent riders have taken part in the Springfield tournaments. Lewis B. Hamilton was a very popular amateur, and was known as the Yale College rider. Robert James, professional, and Reuben Chambers, amateur, are Englishmen who have appeared several times. In ’85, R. H. English performed as an amateur, but is now a professional, while at the same time W. A. and G. H. Illston, both amateurs, were in America for the Springfield tournament. Space fails us to mention all the prominent riders whose names have been on the programs of the Springfield tournaments, but the few we have mentioned will convince the unprejudiced reader of the omnipotence in the bicycling world of Henry E. Ducker.

[1] An article on this club appeared in ~Outing~, Vol. II., page
337. Another is now in preparation.--~Ed.~

WILD DUCK SHOOTING.

BY W. G. BEERS.

Among the memorable events of my youth I can scarcely recall any rival to the days spent on foot and in canoe hunting wild duck. It was the master passion of the boyhood of many I know, becoming in later years a passion to master. It was the acme of enjoyment in the days when one was light-hearted and _débonnaire_, and went whistling through birthdays with that enviable serenity so few of us manage to retain.

Wild duck! With the last fall of leaves and the first fall of snow, their quack was music to the ear. Steeped to the lips in classics, one wondered if there were no duck on the coast of Campania, that Tiberius tired of the pleasures around him and sighed in vain for more; or if there were none in Assyria, that Sardanapalus sought to have new amusements invented; or if there were no real ones where Loelius and Scipio made them on water with flat stones.

The first wild duck one kills, like first love, or one’s first proof-sheet, causes a sensation that is never duplicated. The history of its mysterious and ecstatic thrill through the veins, its wild rush through the soul, never knows a repetition. The duck may be in the “sere and yellow,” stricken in years, scraggy on the crown, weak in the wings, tough to your teeth as parchment--aye, indeed, with one foot in the grave and the other shot off, and have long ago ceased to scud between earth and sky for mere fun--just as the first love may have been nearly old enough to have been your mother, and with no more love in her eyes than an oyster; or as the first proof-sheet may have been an immature production to which you are now thankful you did not append your name. But in the heyday of life a vivid imagination throws a halo around our achievements, and though other duck, like other love, may turn out more “tender and true,” yet there lingers about the memory of the first experience an inexpressible charm which no gross soul can know.

I do not think I shall ever forget the first wild duck I shot. It was impressed upon me in a manner too striking. During the school holidays a few of us undertook to dispose of our superfluous energy by a pedestrian pilgrimage around the Island of Montreal, and as a dose for the game we might encounter, we managed, by coaxing a big brother, to muster a single-barreled gun and liberal supply of ammunition. There was a strong suspicion of rust down the barrel, and a disabled look about the hammer, but the owner declared it was good enough for boys, with that sublime faith manifested by watermen who let boats to inexperienced lads, that Providence takes special care of people who cannot take care of themselves. A well-worn inscription on the butt was ominously deciphered as “_Memento mori_.” I’ve seen more defective guns since--but they had burst.

We started from the Place d’Armes, and when we reached “the Cross,” at Hochelega, held a council of war about loading the gun, as a scared squirrel had just darted under a fence and roused our thirst for blood. Opinions conflicted as to whether the powder or shot should be put in first, as one dogmatic adventurer, whose experience in squibs and fire-crackers entitled him to respect, declared with the positiveness of error that the shot should have the preference. Better reasoning, however, prevailed, and to make assurance doubly sure, down went a double charge of powder. “It’s not near full yet,” sneered young Dogmatism. I hoped not; but to make assurance trebly sure, up came the flask again and down went more powder. I remember one of the group, whose characteristic caution provoked us throughout the trip, suggested mounting the gun in an embrasure in the fence, laying a train of powder to the nipple, and testing its safety at discreet distance; but there was a display of fear in the proposal that we, as of Saxon blood, could never countenance, and so we strangled it at birth. It is a memorable fact, that may go some way to sustain the belief that I have mentioned above, that, as if prompted by instinct, the gun refused to go off on several occasions, in spite of repeated cleanings of the nipple, coaxing with grains of powder and fresh caps. We were unable to “distill the soul of goodness” in this apparently evil and obdurate circumstance; so the charge was withdrawn, the barrel cleaned, and to make assurance quadruply sure, the powder was poured down with even more liberality than before.

The third day we reached the upper end of Ste. Anne’s, near the old French fort. At that time the village was even a quieter spot than now, where never a speculator had looked with greed upon the soil; its greatest stir made by the visits and voices of the boisterous voyageurs; its rapids sacred to the memory of the poet Moore, and the soft refrain of his “Canadian Boat Song.” Moreover, its surroundings made it a perfect paradise for wild duck.

We were marching along, when some one’s sharp eyes espied a solitary black duck feeding close to the shore, about thirty yards away. Suddenly it rose with a frightened flutter. With considerable difficulty I had managed to cock my gun. I raised it to my shoulder, with a strong fear that it would go off, and an inward prayer that it wouldn’t, took accurate aim by pointing in the direction of the bird, and shutting my eyes--with the Latin inscription brought at that moment vividly before me, as if the letters had elongated from the butt to the barrel--I thought of my past sins and pulled the trigger.

Once I participated in a railroad accident when a locomotive almost telescoped our car; but it was an insignificant impression to the condensed crash and astonishing concussion that followed the snapping of the cap. As if weary of well-doing, the old gun went off with a vengeance, blowing the stock off the barrel with a retrograde movement that met my shoulder on the way with a deliberate intention to dislocate, sent the hammer into the air, singed the hair from around my eyes closer and more speedily than I have ever been professionally shaved on my chin, and gave the trusting hand that was supporting the barrel a shake of extreme familiarity--a left-handed compliment--that was reflected up my arm and down the spinal column until it bred my deepest and most heartfelt contempt. Like Richard, when about to fight for his kingdom, I was depressed, and

“Had not that alacrity of spirit
And cheer of mind that I was wont to have.”