C.S. Weaver, HERO of the Hunting Season

Happy October to all of the Family Trails readers. One of the goals here at Family Trails is to remember….to remember where we came from while we work, and play, and raise families as we face forward with courage for the trail on which we are traveling.

Descending from great-grandparents who raised 10 children provides lots of information for a family blog, and the most special information is family birthdays. This month we can celebrate and remember William Kiser Weaver, born October 27, 1888. This is a portion of an article from the Daily Home, 1981(?). I love his facial expressions! Exactly the way I remember Uncle Kiser! This copy of the article is from my scrapbook, and regrettably, I don't have a date of the paper. I also glued the second half of the article with too much glue, so some of the print is illegible. In a later post, I will try to  provide the text from this article about Uncle Kiser. It is full of his quotes and fun facts about the Weavers growing up in Talladega. 

Now on to more Annual Weaver Hunting Excursions!

There is not a date or a named hunt ("ninth annual" or "tenth annual") anywhere in this article or hand-written in the margins like the others have. There is also no mention of the author of the article. But it still may be the most fascinating of the articles Grandfather Weaver saved!  Notice how the writer "calls out" the other hunters in the area! Embarrassing!

 Before I begin retyping this article, I think it is time to consult the old trusty Webster's for the definition of "catamount."

Catamount: a large tawny cat of the wild; mountain lion, panther, puma; short for "cat-a-mountian".
A large powerful tawny-brown cat formerly widespread in the Americas but now reduced in number or extinct in many areas.

C. S. Weaver, HERO

Of the Hunting Season. Bagged Some of All That Inhabits Forest and Field.

The prominence with which C. S. Weaver loomed up as the hero of the hunting season Friday Morning eclipsed all the attainments of this season's sport in forest and field, and caused alternating streaks of green and yellow to overspread the countenance of the crack shots of the city. 

Thursday morning (Thanksgiving) Mr. Weaver with his trusty (rusty?) single-barrel shot gun hied himself away from his south side store to the fields east of Talladega in company with W. J. Waters, and Jno. I Hubbard (name unclear), to enjoy a day of sport. The hunt was prolonged throughout the day and into the night, and was an eventful one, as the results will show, and to hear Mr. Weaver tell about it, is thrilling to the core. Especially so is that part of the narrative where he tells of when old "Troup" scents the track of a giant catamount, which was brought home as the prize trophy of the hunt. The music of old "Troup's" voice, as it leaped from craig to craig and echoed and re-echoed on mountain-side and up and down the hollows on the banks of the winding Cheaha, was the grandest melody that ever quickened the vibrations of Mr. Weaver's ear so attuned to music and melody. But to follow Mr. Weaver through fields and wilderness is a task too difficult for the sporting editor of the HOME.

The main point, the only thing that ever counts with a suspicious public, is what the hunter brings back. Mr. Weaver returned to the city Friday morning early, and as he walked up the street from the L. & N. station, followed by a crowd of men and boys, his "rusty" single-barrel gracefully reposing upon his shoulder. Here is an inventory of what was strapped on his shoulders and protruding from his game bag:

One large, fierce catamount.

Three 'possums (alive).

Twelve squirrels.

Seven partridges.

Six rabbits.

For two hours after his arrival Mr. Weaver told the wonderful story of the day to scores of interested listeners. Everyone wanted to hear, and finally wearied from a talking and handshaking reception as fatiguing as a presidential campaign, he escaped home in his delivery wagon.

But Mr. Weaver's achievement has its dark side. While he was flushed and elated with the results of his hunt, there were others, the famous hunters of the town , those who have held the post office and drug store crowds spellbound with the stories of their feats afield, who were crestfallen. They realized they could never talk again; for in the future they will have to bring home the game. The crack shot of the Gun Club can never more explain "why he missed it." They have not mentioned hunting since Friday, none of them, Judge Camp, Dr. Welch, Dwight Boynton, F.B. Bowie, T.W. Bethea, Walter Parker, A.W. Argo, none of them have anything to say on the subject of hunting. An amendment to the game law if an extra session of the legislature is called is being seriously considered by the game warden.

Now here is an article written by C.S. Weaver himself , and hand-written in the margin is either 1914 or 1919. But we can be sure  that this is the 14th annual hunt! He was either 54 or 59 years old.

Weaver's and Water's Annual Hunt

To those who are fond of outdoor recreation and sportsmanship, and to the ones who are so kind as to ask me so often about our "annual hunt," I want to tell you that we are just back from the wilds of  Kentuck in the spurs of Talladega mountain near Pulpit Rock, where we have just had our 14th annual hunt.

We had a glorious week, the weather was ideal, the scenery was grand, and the exercise was strenuous pulling out of the gorges of the lofty peaks. Our party has grown to be so numerous until we have not space to mention their names, we had sportsmen and visitors from Lineville, Buckeye, Dearmsville, Anniston, Lincoln, Talladega, McElderry, Munford, and Hopewell. We killed 149 squirrels, 21 partridges, six doves, six rabbits, one possum, and one snipe, giving a total of 184.

Uncle Charlie was at his best and we ate all those squirrels with the relish of youth. J.M. Butterworth, a violinist, called at our camps two nights and played his fiddle for us which added much to the enjoyment of the occasion. we were all convinced that he had but few equals and no superiors when it comes to making music with the bow. 

To you who read this I want to extend to you a cordial invitation to go with us next November.

C.S. Weaver

(Picture insert above is of a Snipe.) Hmmmm.. what would I rather have tossed on my back? A snipe or a catamount!

Wouldn't it be great to know which dog is Ole Troup!

I hope you have enjoyed this Weaver Wednesday's edition of Family Trails.  Do you remember the old song,"Going on a Bear Hunt"? The lyrics, "…Can't go under it! Can't go around it! Gotta go through it!" That is the way I feel about these scrapbooks! I'll just keep going through them….