260 With Rod and Gun in New England 



CHAPTER XIV. 



Dee^-Stai^i^g i]M the JVIai^e Forest. 



By <J. PARKER WHITNEY. 



This subject has so many aspects, varying so in effect upon the appli- 

 cation and receptiveness of the stalker, that it is not likely that one's views 

 may be fully shared by another. Still, it will be readily conceded that the 

 enjoyment does not wholly consist in the killing of the deer, although that 

 is the primary object, but, as in fishing for trout, the auxiliaries are the 

 great and attractive features. 



Whatever season it may be, the Maine forests are lovely, and it is 

 difficult to say when they are most so. One might say it is in the early 

 spring, when the buds of the deciduous trees are expanding and the ferns 

 and brakes unfolding, or when full-fledged, or in the decadence, when the 

 autumnal tints appear, or in winter, when garnished with wreaths of snow. 



Most stalkers will concede that at no time of the year are their rambles 

 more agreeable than when the ground is half carpeted with the yellow, 

 brown and crimson leaves which mark the opening of the hunting-season. 



The period of falling leaves is exceptionally charming. As the leaves 

 fall they exude the various odors of their species, so that one with closed 

 eyes may tell the character of the prevailing trees. I have often thought 

 of the pleasure I should take if I were blind, in walking among the local- 

 ities I am familiar with, when the pleasant recognition of well-known trees 

 would guide my steps. 



To my taste, the late fall and first half of the winter disputes with any 

 other season, and I am not sure if I do not prefer the rough and changing 

 time of winter at the lakes, with its accompaniments, to any other. At 

 least the summer is too short and the scene must lap over. Tell me not of 

 orange groves and flowers, and vines with clinging clusters, but of the 

 winter forest in its kaleidoscopic beauty, and of the lakes in their broad 

 mantles of ice and snow. The singing of the wind around the tree-tops 

 and the whirling flakes have more charm for my accustomed sight and ear 

 than the cooing of the dove in midsummer bower. 



There is a wholesomeness and vitality about the Maine forests in win- 

 ter which is not found elsewhere. The cold, the ice, the snow, the chang- 

 ing rough weather, invite to the robust recreations of skating, ice-boating, 

 tobogganing and snow-shoeing. They heighten the comforts of indoors. 



