Hozu I Learned to Love and Not to Kill. 



mirror, there was not a whisper even in the 

 tallest pines. Suddenly, afar across the 

 lake, from the deep recesses of some lonely 

 bay, came a long, low, melancholy cry of 

 a loon, the saddest, wildest cry in all the 

 world. Heard usually at evening when the 

 wind is hushed, this cry was always to me 

 the most pathetic sound, and I longed to 

 comfort the poor lonely bird. Soon after, 

 there was the report of a gun, another and 

 another, and then silence for a long time. 

 I waited for half an hour, and there were 

 no noises until I heard the soft scraping of 

 canoe prows on the sands and knew that 

 the Indians had come back to camp. I 

 sprang up and went down to meet them, 

 and alas ! even as I feared, there was 

 Shingibish holding up the dead loon by the 

 neck, and calling out Mang-mang (the name 

 of the loon in Ojibway) in evident oride at 

 his success. 



I looked sadly at the beautiful bird, 

 smoothed the white feathers on his ruffled 

 throat, and then turning to Shingibish I 

 said : " Bad luck come to us now, Shingi- 

 bish (diving duck), because you killed your 

 brother." 



It turned out even as I said, and on the 

 next day in a storm of wind and rain, my 

 canoe went to pieces on the rapids, and the 

 few remaining luxuries of our provisions 

 were lost beyond recovery. Never after 

 that did they kill a loon, though on great 

 Saganaga Lake they laughed at us and dived 

 about us by hundreds. 



There away north of Lake Superior, in 

 the dense forests of Minnesota and Canada, 

 is a region as yet hardly explored. Dark 

 pines and balsams cover the rocky hills and 

 mountains, and great lakes of crystal clear- 

 ness shine out everywhere between — 

 linked in an endless chain that stretches 

 from the Lake of the Woods to Superior, 

 the greatest of them all. 



Here it was, in the heart of these deep 



forests, that I was to learn my most beauti- 

 ful lessons about birds and animals, for 

 here with only a small white tent for a roof, 

 and a few Indians as companions, I lived 

 many days with the wild creatures of the 

 woods. I call them wild creatures, but in- 

 deed they were not wild at all, so unused 

 to harm and the cruelties of men and boys, 

 that they hardly knew fear. Every day, 

 when we spread our cloth for dinner in 

 camp, came the little birch birds to perch 

 on the pans and hop jauntily among the 

 dishes — they had never been hurt by any 

 one, why should they be afraid? Squirrels, 

 too, came to dine with us, and I have had 

 the younger ones sit upon my outstretched 

 foot, to nibble at a morsel snatched without 

 fear from our frugal board. They have 

 never been stoned, and shot and hunted to 

 death, why should they not be gentle and 

 tame and trustful as God made them ? 



Here the ruffed grouse would perch in a 

 tree quite secure until you picked them off 

 with your hand, and the little spruce birds 

 were quite as friendly as a trained canary. 



So I established a sort of fellowship with 

 the wild things of the woods, and learned 

 a new and wonderful pleasure in finding 

 myself no longer a fearful enemy to these 

 pretty creatures. I lost all my old desire 

 to kill, for I saw into the homes of little 

 birds and timid animals, and it seemed aw- 

 ful enough and barbarous beyond words, 

 to bring ruin to these charming little fami- 

 lies. And so must it be with any one of 

 you who will but take the pains to go and 

 see the wild creature in its home places. 



All of you can not perhaps reach the far 

 away places of which I have been speaking, 

 but you can learn the delight of friendship 

 with dumb creatures anywhere in your 

 home woods. When once you have felt 

 this delight, you will throw away your guns, 

 I know, and instead will carry a crust of 

 bread or an apple to the woods. 



W. M. Chauvenet. 



