Item

Fought With Wolves

Beacon
Jan 4/1906
Fought with Wolves. Desperate encounter near St. Andrews. Hilarious parody by Armstrong of lurid accounts of wolves in the vicinity with a pro Scott Act twist.
Don’t tell me that there are no wolves in Charlotte county, remarked a well-known resident of the rural districts to the Beacon a few days ago. I had an experience with them going from St. Andrews not long since that I will not forget in a hurry. I had been in town buying holiday supplies and enjoying myself and had postponed by departure until well on in the night. I had not gone far on my journey when I began to see wolfish shapes all about me. They made no noise but crept stealthily after me, stopping when I stopped and quickening their pace when I tried to escape from them. Try as I would I seemed unable to get out of their sight. M actions emboldened them, and at last one, bigger, bolder and uglier than his fellows, leaped upon me and bore me down. Ina twinkling I was surrounded by snapping, snarling fiends. To my frightened vision they assumed all sorts of monstrous shapes. The one that held me by the throat was a terrible monster. His fangs dripped with bloody froth as he tore at me. His breath fairly overpowered me, while his blood-shot cruel eyes threw baleful glances at me that caused my frightened tongue to cleave to the roof of my mouth. I tried to scream for help but my feeble cries were drowned by the weight of the brutes that held me down. They trampled over me, ripped my clothing in tatters, dragged at my ears and bit me in a score of places. I felt that my last hour had come. I thought of my wife and children waiting expectantly for me and my promised Christmas gifts at home. I wondered how they would get along without me. I even wondered what my friends would say when they found my mangled body and what tune the band would play as they planted the fragments. All the sins of my life, and they seemed to be legion, came trooping up before me. The thoughts of my family gave me fresh strength and hope and I fought as I had never fought before to escape from the clutches of the blood-thirsty pack. My struggles were successful and I had the satisfaction of seeing my foes retreating one by one into the forest. When I awoke my sled was lying across my body and the empty flash of Scott Act whiskey, which I held by the neck in a deathlike grip, bore mute yet eloquent testimony, to the desperate struggle I had made to over come it. “Don’t tell me, please, that there are no wolves in Charlotte County because I know better. (cf. not by a jugful)