0±S WILD SPOKTS m THE SOUTH. 



As nearly as I can remember, it was as follows. I can't 

 rei^eat the Avords, only the ideas. They were pleasant ; 

 he was a poetical fellow, that Doctor, when it grew late 

 in the evening. 



Beyond Little Tapper's Lake, some three or fonr miles 

 fm^ther on in the wilderness, toward the Racqnette, hes 

 Little Rock Pond, a mere dot of glass set in the emerald 

 woods that stretch for miles away in every direction, mi- 

 broken by human thrift and nnmarked by the fruits of 

 that primal curse that caused the thorns and the thistles 

 to be brought forth. Connecting these two sheets of 

 water is a narrow stream so insignificant that it joyfully 

 runs its way nameless and unknown. The hills stand 

 back on firmer bottom, and the little valley bordering 

 the river is filled with succulent grass, reeds, swamp 

 alders, and rose-trees that blossom and bud for the wild 

 game alone. Here Stalknecht and I had a camp and 

 were spending a month together, keeping house in the 

 only decent manner there is of livmg in this free country, 

 where the servants are all a little better than their mas- 

 ters. (Poke was violently oj^posed to Irish servants, y 



Hank, my guide, and I one night paddled our boat up 

 this stream to its source in Hock Pond, and when dark- 

 ness had come we lighted our jack-light, and, setting it 

 in the bow of the boat, he took his seat in the stern with 

 the paddle, and I mine in the bow with my double-bar- 

 relled rifle, and we commenced to descend the stream. 

 A jack-light is so arranged that it throws a bright light 

 in front of the canoe, while it leaves the boat in utter 



