Poetry

This is a poem Dad wrote about a group he hunted with many years ago.

The Three Point Hunt Club 1948

Lansdowne, Eden Grove and Lyndhurst

The season opened with a roar,
Roy was not too far from the door,
Gerald was out there, without fail,
Half a mile farther down the trail.

We knew his style, even with his luck,
He'd need some help to hang up a buck.
Tom put out the dog, then hurried back,
Because he had heard three loud cracks.

Stan got excited, like as not,
Too soon he left his spot,
They hung that buck beside the trail,
That night they carried him in on a rail.

Roy stayed all week to see one rump,
For he's the best man in the camp.
Ford said the canoe he would take,
And try his luck at the other end of the lake.

On our way up we chanced to stop,
We heard five shots close to his spot,
Gerald and Stan were willing a hand to lend,
For after all, he is our friend.

They hurried down, there was no snow,
Ford thought that he had missed a doe.
He had his luck,
For sure enough, they found his buck.

They hurried back, right on the dot,
For the best man was in his spot.
Now Tom and Ford to hunt some more,
Began to paddle down the shore.

Make no mistake,
For they were headed down the lake.
They were in time, quick like a duck,
Tom shot a mate for Ford's buck.

The second day we couldn't brag,
Tom was the only one to see a flag.
Next morning it was very black,
The water sure ran down our back.

Stan got two shots coming back to lodge,
But he couldn't find where the bullets lodged.
He thinks the critter must have dodged.

Next morning he went back where he was before,
He shot a five point, not a four.
We dragged him out, it was a chore,
Then we had to hunt some more.
We needed five, we had only four.

The boys said let's run one more swale,
And that's where Roy saw the tail.
Tom was farther up the hill,
He finished that doe with just one pill.

Percy never got out with his new knife,
His dear was sick, we mean his wife.

The big fellow, he don't like to tramp,
But he's still the best man in the camp.
We had good luck, that we all knew,
Because we used a Linkanoe.

Stan Kelsey

Members of the hunt camp were:
Ford Earl
Percy Earl
Gerald Cross
Tom (Slack)?
Roy (Burtch)?
Stan Kelsey

The Linkanoe mentioned came from the Link Manufacturing Co. in
Gananoque, Ontario where Stan worked between 1941 and 1952.
The canoes were designed to be taken apart for transport in
aircraft. Stan bought one and later assembled it permanently.
They manufactured cedar strip boats and canoes, Link Trainers
(which were used to train airplane pilots for the military) and
later school furniture.
More information about Link Manufacturing at:
Link-Manufacturing
http://www.starksravings.com/linktrainer/linktrainer.htm

I received this email from Steve Edwards regarding the Link Plant in Gananoque:

Ganaoque Canada was initially established to facilitate the sale of Link Trainers
to the British Royal Airforce which at the time (1937/1938) required that procurement
activity be restricted to locations within the British Empire. An initial order of several
hundred trainers were manufactured there for the British Airforce - I don't know how
many total trainers were built there but I'm aware of three facilities
(1) Ganaoque Canada,
(2) Binghamton New York and
(3) Jackson Michigan (produced under license to Link by the Sparks-Wirthington company).
I have read that somewhere between 10,000 to 12,000 trainers of various similar models
were produced between 1935 and 1945 before being superceded by the next generation model.
You may find the following web site of interest - it provides more details about the Gananoque
facility - this article says that 5,000 trainers were produced there but I have yet to locate records
that specify these quantities - but I'm still looking for records.
http://www.thousandislandslife.com/BackIssues/Archive/tabid/393/articleType/ArticleView/articleId/561/Gananoquersquos-Link-to-Victory.aspx

These are re-constructed Link Trainers:

"/>../RiverEdge

I Am Smiling

Dad's Hunting Poem

     I discovered this poem on January 13, 1995. This just happened to be Friday the 13th. It was in a wooden box that has sat on my dresser for at least ten years. Why I never found it before or how it got there will always be a mystery. Dad must have given it to me and I tucked it away. It is eight typed pages which he typed himself. Someone has corrected his spelling but other than that I will copy it as I have found it.

    It is about the deer hunting group that he hunted with while we lived in Sharbot Lake, Ontario. The members of the gang were all Bertrims except him. They were Nate, Bruce, Stan, Claude and Len. I believe they were all brothers. Their names are mentioned on the last page and he calls himself , I the Egg. I have never heard him use this expression and have no idea what he meant by this. I do know that he sometimes felt like an outsider with so many from one family.

    As it starts out, he tells about the year 1963 and what took place as they went to the camp on the Saturday before opening day of the deer hunting season that year. He mentioned about camping seven years in a tent before building the hunt camp. This was probably the first time they used the camp to hunt from since building it. He mentioned the newly painted floor on the first page.

    To get to their camp they had to cross Loon Lake by boat and then walk to the camp. I was only there once and it seemed like about a mile. I heard him mention a rough road that they used to bring in supplies by Jeep. Now the road is apparently much better and they can probably get to their camp a lot easier than when this poem was written.

    Some of the gang are gone but I hope the camp is still being used by those who remain. When Dad went hunting at Sheldrake Lake I was not interested in deer hunting and so never gave him any reason to think that I would like to go with him. I would like to visit again but could not find it on my own. It has been over thirty years since I was there with Dad, my first wife Bev, my brother Murray and my sister Joyce. We went in the summer by boat as I described above. Since then I have become very interested in hunting and have been hunting moose and deer for about fifteen years.

    As I type this poem out I will add explanations of things that seem to need explaining or I may add my thoughts as I come to certain items.

    Here then is Stan Kelsey's poem about his experiences in the hunt camp in November, 1963.

It was six men of Sharbot who were hunting inclined.
Who went and built a camp not in the pine,
Tired of camping seven years in one spot,
They built their camp on another lot.
Now one day late in '63,
The six went out not just three.

"I remember the big tent they used to camp for the seven years that he mentioned.
Many times it was erected in our yard to dry after a hunt. He had made it while living in
Lansdowne to hunt with another group from there."

Some walked in others rode,
For me I figured that was good.
But when we reached Sheldrake Lake,
Someone said, "You and Len the boat shall take."
We loaded some things from the dock,
Bruce sat in six Red Cap.
We started out it didn't take long,
We may have been singing the wood-pecker song.

"Some of them walked in with the Jeep and he and Len took the boat across the lake to the portage.
Red Cap was a brand of beer and they probably drank it on the way. I don't know what he meant by
the wood-pecker song unless he meant the thing Woody Woodpecker used to say in the cartoon."

We reached the camp and opened the door,
And there was that newly painted floor.
We left the camp to reach the bend,
Or else a helping hand to lend.
And then we met them just past the bay,
They were singing songs and feeling gay.
And that was just the first day.

We reached the camp no one was drunk,
And that is when I got the hunch,
That we were quite a sober bunch.

Next morning no one awoke till dawn,
Because it was Sunday morn.
Someone said "Do we hunt today?".
But we remembered the day,
And kept it wholly to ourselves.
So when the sun went over the hill,
Some were in bed still.
But over all 'twas nil,
Someone must have found a still.

"At first it sounds like they didn't drink very much that weekend but the last line changed my mind."

Monday was a different score,
It was still dark when we left the door.
Some went fast and some went slow,
But we all got where we wanted to go.
Now I went south it was a chore,
To go where I hadn't been before.
Now it was open in the middle,
But I don't like playing second fiddle.

Now Bruce and Stan and Len,
Went back to where they had been,
Nate went to the top of the hill,
He sat down and was quite still.
First thing he did was draw a line,
On the left down through the pine.
Then someone down toward partridge creek,
A great big buck up did kick,
He crossed the flats like a ghost,
And headed straight for Nate's post.
When the buck reached the crest of the hill,
Nate he got renewed hope,
For he was looking down a scope.

The buck went down (yes down the slope),
'Twas then that Nate lost all hope.
Then after roar of gun and smoke,
Nate thought it was surely a joke.
Now Nate went to where he saw the last jump,
And that is where he saw the hump.
With kick and snort and things,
'Twas like a duck that had been winged.
With one quick squeeze; that was all,
The buck was down didn't have to fall.

Now Stan was up on the second watch,
Setting there beside a rock.
And he heard the fracas in the notch.
Now we all heard the same as him,
And that is when Bruce and Len moved in.

Now I was down at the crotched oak,
Wondering if it was a hoax.
When I heard two shots down at the camp,
Between the shots a pause and so,
'Twas Claude we left there you know,
For he is the one that missed the doe.

He may have missed the doe but he got the buck.

About that time the dye was cast.
I started down the trail quite fast.
And when I saw the camp door,
I knew what I had went down for.
I looked for Claude to see what luck,
And that is when I saw the buck.

Now Claude was new in that land,
He said "Would you give me a hand".
We dressed that buck with a high fever,
Because that's where we saved the liver.

Then went to camp to rest,
Or maybe to be refreshed.
After a snack,
Filled up a knapsack, with a vim,
And headed up the trail again.
To meet the boys with the buck,
For I was sure they had some luck.

Met them coming with that ghost,
They all sat down to give a toast,
Now all I did on that there tramp,
Was carry a couple guns to camp.
While they fumed, sweat and swore,
Until we reached the camp door.
We reached the camp not too late,
We knew that night we'd celebrate.

Went out next morning with renewed thrill,
But all we did was went up and down the hill.
Went to camp and lounged around,
And that's when Bruce decided to be a hound.
Now Nate and Claude like two little elves,
Went out to pick a watch for themselves.

Now Stan went out along the road,
And took a watch next to Claude.
Now I went out and sat on a log,
To watch Len start out with the dog.
Now when they passed beyond some trees,

The dog kept closer to the shore,
We was surprised to hear his gun roar.
He fired three shots along the hill,
And that was Burce's only thrill.
The deer, thinking 'twas a joke,
Headed straight for the crotched oak.

With blazing guns among the trees,
The doe gave a sigh of relief,
And dropped a red tear on a leaf.
The doe crossed the road with a bump,
And that is when Stan saw the rump.
With one quick shot that went karthud,
Because we found where it hit the mud.

Now that there dog I'll tell you what,
Had pierced it's ear; like as not.
We looked over there and here.
But all we found was just one tear.
Now some would think from the look on our face,
That we were sore at the whole human race.
Now that's not so we never fight,
But someone had to go out that night.

Now Len was homesick for his doe,
And Stan and Nate was also.
The rest stayed here,
They weren't worried about there dear.
But they came back in Wednesday night,
Then once again took up the fight.

Next morning it was very wet,
Both in the east and in the west.
The hunting wasn't just the best.
At noon the rain came to an end,
And Nate went up the road to the bend.
I stopped off where Claude had been,
And Claude started out to dog with Len.
And Bruce and Stan went around the end.
That's where the lake begins.
No one was too far apart,
Even from the start.
Now from the baying of the hounds,
No deer tracks they had found.

For fear they'd get lost Nate did wait,
But they came out right in sight.
So that day was just a hoax,
But Nate found a place in the oaks.
When we got back we were telling jokes.
Now Len is always the supper cook,
And not too bad for his looks.
Now Friday morning 'twas a shame,
To watch the rain on the window pane.
We all went out between the showers,
But only stayed a couple hours.
Then went back out to hunt some more,
But only stayed out 'till four.
Nate and I met at the door,
We fired a couple shots or more,
Then Nate said, "Let's go."
And I said, "What for."
He said, "To kill a doe."

Now down the road there is a log,
And that is where we met Claude.
Nate said, "Up the hill you had better go."
For Bruce had just wounded a doe.
We hurried along down to the spruce,
And that is where we met Bruce.

Bruce said, "Who had the luck?"
We hinted Claude had wounded a buck.
Now past the spruce we all know,
Is where Claude missed the doe.
And that is where I had to go.

Now Nate along the road did walk,
And parked himself beside the oaks.
Now in them oaks there sat an elf.
He was up there as a lookout.
Now we know, why he has such luck,
When he is watching for a buck.

Now while he stood on bended knee,
A ten point buck came up to see,
That little elf up in the tree,
That buck went down upon his knees,
And right there a finger squeezed.
It didn't do no good to play,
We dragged him out that very day.

It was a big buck not a fawn,
Bruce said let's have a hootenan.
We all had fun, not much labour,
But we might have been kicked out by the neighbours.
We hit the rum just like a king,
And then the scotch just like zing,
And then we started in to sing.
About midnight we all had wings,

Right there and then we hit the springs.

Next thing I heard was the stove rattle,
And someone putting on the kettle.
Now it rained all day on the Jewish Sabbath,
No one even saw a rabbit.

Now Len and Bruce had the excuse,
They had to go home to make a deuce.
We all knew that wasn't so,
But they were lonesome for their doe.
Now that's the best dear to find,
That's why they left us behind.

Then Sunday morn before the dawn,
They headed for the hydro line.
I watched them go out of sight,
And knew they wouldn't be back that night.
Now after two more hours in bed,
I got up and scratched my head.
What I had to do I must confess,
For the camp was in a mess.
After dishes and stove were clean,
I went back to bed to dream.

When I awoke it was much later,
I needed a drink,
But there was no water.
Now Bruce had left a little wine,
So I took that to save mine.

The wood box was picked quite clean,
So I went out some wood to glean.
When I finished the box looked better,
So I went down to the lake for water.
Made two trips no more,
For that's a long way to the shore.

Now some may think that ink was free,
To go on such a writing spree.
But when you know it is a flop,
It's easier to start than it is to stop.
Monday morn I awoke and found,
That I must go out without a hound. (Do you see a dog?)
But with my luck you all know, (I don't see a dog.)

I didn't even see a doe.

"This was a line from a cartoon of that era. (Do you see a dog? I don't see a dog.)"

So after lunch was o'r,
I went and looked out the door.
Then when I looked back,
The floor was very black.
So I had to mop the shack.
But after the mop I had hung,
I headed up the hill with my gun.

Now when I reached the mountain brow,
I broke off a spruce bough.
When I sat down to rest,
I was looking at a big bees nest.
Now while I sat there half asleep,
I heard the roar of that there Jeep.

Now they opened it up on the corduroy,
To make the hill, that heads toward the sky.
So I headed to camp to have a peek,
But all I saw was that there Jeep.
So I headed up the hill once more,
I moved about from place to place,
But I saw no one face to face.
I wondered if it was our place.

Then later on when they came in,
I listened to all their chin.
How they got out and back in.
But they would of come if they'd had to swim.

Thursday after the morning watch,
Claude and I want through the notch.
Right down by the bobcat watch.
Walked out through the fern,
That's what we call the burn.
Now Nate and Stan while we spoke,
Was headed for the mountain oak.

We headed left out through the pine,
And then we saw a porcupine.
I fired three shots to say the least,
And then we headed straight east.
We crossed two dams and straight ahead,
We saw two fresh tracks in the mud.
So we knew we had some wood folk,
Heading straight for the big oak.
So we listened to right and left,
Then we knew the boys had left.
They had used the time all up,
Following around a mongrel pup.

Now while we sat around the fire,
We blew the story up higher,
To find out what we'd do tomorrow.
Then Nate by word of mouth,
Said he would go to the slaughter house.

Now Stan went over near the notch,
And Claude stayed at the camp watch.
And I went to the little beaver ponds mouth,
And sat there quiet as a mouse.

Then because I thought 'twas wise,
Headed for that old beehive.
Rounded the end in a wind,
And then I saw a porcupine.
At him I took a whack,
Right after that I saw a buck track.
Then just around the turn,
A doe track and then a fawn.

But when I reached the slaughter house,
No one was there not even a mouse.
'Twas claimed by Claude the doe and fawn,
Passed right by our outhouse.
The buck passed closer to the lake,
Splashing water in his face.
Next morning the boys went over the hump,
To head off the tag-alder swamp.
When I came through by the old bees nest,
I knew I had no time to rest.
To get through the alders is a mess,
The night before would of been the best.

Then we knew our only fate,
To run out the spruce at the lake.
I hope by now you all know,
That is where Claude missed the doe.
Claude started out like he did before,
Sounded like a lion roar.
When half way through down in the slash,
I heard a deer jump in the brush.
About that time I was in the groove,
But that deer never made a move.

Then in a little while I heard,
Claude and Stan come down the road.
Then I whispered, I couldn't shout,
"There's a deer in there, he didn't come out."
Claude went back around the hump,
And headed straight toward the camp.

When Claude came opposite the buck,
He had to move, then he lost his luck.
'Twas then I tiptoed out to Stan,
It might have been too late,
For him to head out to Nate.
Then Nate ran back very stout,
And that is when the buck came out.

The buck came out between the trees,
Nate's first shot put him to his knees.
The second shot took off one peg,
The third shot took off another leg.
The seconds he was down were few,
Then he went on the other two.
Across the road and up the hill,
And there is where he had the spill.

The ground he tore up wasn't hard to see,
'Twas like a bulldozer on a spree.
Now Nate was right up on his toes,
Headed the buck off on the nose.
He didn't get up after that,
For Nate had a close-up shot.

Now that is hunting at it's best,
A bigger buck than all the rest.
We didn't need to hunt no more,
He killed him right at the camp door.
Next morning all in good time,
We headed for the hydro line.

Some men think that work's a curse,
But they are thinking in reverse.
The worst thing in any mans life,
Is to be out of work and without a wife.
Now if you can put this all together,
Don't expect me to do another.

If your wondering who keeps order.
You can find their names in the right hand border.

Nate
Bruce
Stan
Claude
Len
I. THE. EGG.

I. THE. EGG.
Stan Kelsey (My Dad)

If this had been written day by day,
Wouldn't have went so far astray.
But it is quite true just the same,
Or I wouldn't have signed my name.
November 19, 1963
J. S. Kelsey
(James Stanley Kelsey)

I'm Safe

Home

My humble attempt at writing verse

Big Pine Massacre

Four Old Hunters

This is a poem Dad wrote about a group he hunted with many years ago.

The Three Point Hunt Club 1948

Lansdowne, Eden Grove and Lyndhurst

These are re-constructed Link Trainers:

Dad's Hunting Poem