Catlin, the Indian historian, tells us that near Wilkesbarre, in Pennsylvania, his birth-place, was a cavern in the mountains called Rattlesnake Den; and to this cavern the snakes made an annual pilgrimage, collecting from vast distances, no matter what obstacles were in their way. Across rivers and lakes, and up mountain sides, straight to their Den they would go, and in those unapproachable caverns lie _en masse_ in a torpid state until aroused by the coming summer, when they would venture forth again and descend into the valleys. These were the times for the grand _battues_, one of which, an event of Catlin’s boyhood, is narrated by him. One of the first spring days, when the creatures creep out to sun themselves for only a few hours, retiring again at night, was the time chosen for the onslaught. The snakes were known to come forth from Rattlesnake Den on to a certain ledge of rock near their cavern; and a council of war was held as to the best approach and mode of attack. Ten years previously a similar war had been waged, when the reptiles had been almost exterminated; but of late so many accidents had occurred among the inhabitants through the fast-increasing serpents, that the farmers agreed to climb to the den and once more reduce their numbers. The boy Catlin was privileged to be of the party, and he was told to creep cautiously to an overhanging rock, whence he could see the reptiles sunning themselves on their ledge below. The rest of the party stood in readiness, club in hand. At a signal young Catlin fired a fowling-piece into their midst. There was a knot of them ‘like a huge mat wound and twisted and interlocked together, with all their heads like scores of hydras standing up from the mass.’ Into this horrible cluster he ‘let fly,’ when the party, rushing with their clubs, broke the spine of hundreds by a single blow to each, while hundreds more were saving themselves by a quick return to their den. While counting the five or six hundred slain, and holding another council of war on the battle-field, a rattle was heard of one which in the death-struggle had escaped over a ledge instead of into its cave. With a forked stick a man approached that misguided reptile and held down its head, while another brave expert seized it by the neck so close to its head that it could not turn and bite him. It was a very large snake, and young Catlin, inspired by the sudden thought, exclaimed, ‘Tie a powder-horn to its tail and fasten a slow fuse to it, and let it go back into its den.’ ‘George, you are the best hunter in the Valley of Ocquago!’ cried the man who held the snake; and forthwith the plan was agreed upon.