July 28, 1881.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



509 



so Mack with tar oil that his own wife would not have recog- 

 nized in tiiut lioid 1. 'inter Lor darling .Professor. Such were 

 his defenses ggajnsf cold and the rnoaquitoe?. But the most 

 wonderful of this equipments remain to be described— the 

 rifle that shot and the jack that showed it where to shoot. 

 The rifle, a Ballard, principally remarkable for its intricate 

 sight, which Wren designated new-fangled and treacherous. 

 But the jack— Q Muse, inspire me thatl may picture it ! A 

 Httle dark lauteru with bullseye clear as glass— indeed, it was 

 of that material; a very scientific chimney to carry off the 

 smoke, but incapable of shedding light ; a noiseless slide 

 which went with a string, and a multitude of straps where- 

 with to attach the whole to the bearer in a way warranted 

 not to make the head ache. 



Hank Swung lightly into his seat, and the companions on 

 the shore waved a hu% voyage. The paddle sped silently to 

 and fro, and the canoe glided round the point. The mist 

 was already rising from the river. No chauce for a daylight 

 shot, and the Professo* began to light up and buckle on the 

 jack. 



"We'll try the mouth of Dead Creek," said Hank; and 

 try it they did most unsuccessfully. Up and down the creek, 

 and round and round the broad hay, where its cool waters 

 mingle with the Raquette went the canoe, guided by the 

 indefatigable paddler in the stern. 



Hours passed away and not a sound of a deer. Not once 

 had they "heard the familiar splash ! splash ! among the lily- 

 pads. The Professor's legs were cramped and painful, his 

 hack was lame, his head "ached and that part of his body 

 Which sustained his weight had been padded with soft blank- 

 ets in vain. Those who have never sat. perfectly still four or 

 five hours curled up in the bow of a canoe know little of the 

 agony of a long night-hunt. The sweat boxes of our prisons 

 are painfui, but the torture is not to be compared to that 

 which an Adirondack guide puts his man through on a single 

 hunt. The guides themselves seem to be capable of remaining 

 erect in one position a'l night. They evidently glory in it. 

 But the Professor didn't. "He always started with the inten- 

 tion of sitting as immovable as Hank. A few hours invari- 

 ably destroyed his ambition. It had all departed on this par- 

 ticular occasion. He ached in every muscle. At last, in the 

 agony of despair, he laid his rifle carefully over his knees, 

 placed the palms of both hands on the boat and lifted himself 

 noiselessly into the air. But, alas ! one foot slipped against 

 the boat with a whack, and a warning " Hush !" from Hank 

 followed. Half an hour passed. Bang ! from the Professor, 

 who was endeavoring to relieve his cramped legs. " Hush!" 

 from Hank. Fifteen minutes more. A smothered groan 

 from the Professor. "Hush!" from the stern again. Ten 

 minutes. Whack ! whack ! both feet this time. 



"Are you tired?" 



"Not very" — in a heroic tone. 



" Shall we go hack ?" 



"Not without a deer, Hank" — with the air of a martyr. 



"Then I'll tell yon what, Professor, we'll get nothing here 

 to-night. Suppose we run the rapids an' try the still water 

 below. There ain't been a camp there this season." 



" I am ready." 



A few strokes sent them out into the stream, and the 

 canoe sped toward the rapids whose roar they had heard all 

 the evening. They were soon reached, the jack was uncap- 

 ped, and its light fell in a path upon the water, and just dis- 



dwilt....!™. „£ lI^JwnH Tlio oWy MB uvciCiiaL HXlU 



the night intensely dark. The thickets ot balsams and 

 spruces on the shore seemed to shed the darkness from their 

 pitchy hi ack foliage. For a moment the guide held the 

 canoe motionless, as if searching for the right opening 

 among the rocks which rose ahead. The two hunters sat 

 there silent, alone. No sound but the rushing of the rapids 

 before them. No human beings for many miles around, but 

 the two sleeping in the camp far behind. Both were aware 

 of the danger of their undertaking. Both were nerved by 

 that excitement which is half of pleasure, half of fear. A 

 moment only they rest. Then, swerving a little to one side, 

 down they go. In an inslant they are in the rapids ; rocks 

 rising all around them ; the swiftly rushing water of the 

 river, lashing itself into foam, whirling in eddies, and dash- 

 ing over sunken rocks. The canoe is somewhat checked in 

 its headlong course by the strong arm jaf him who holds the 

 paddle. Accustomed to its use from boyhood, he now has 

 need of his utmost skill. Straining his eyes forward where 

 the light of the jack shows the way, he studies the eddies 

 and rocks intently ; then by swift turns of the paddle, he lets 

 the boat safely down. The canoe, as if conscious of the need, 

 obeys the slightest motion of her master. Safely she swings 

 by the rocks. Gracefully she takes the leaps. Down, down 

 they go. The Bpray is dashed into their faces. The light 

 falls in silvery rays upon the black rocks and sparkles on the 

 white foam of the waves. Now they reach the little fall at 

 the bottom. For an instant the canoe quivers on the crest, 

 then takes the leap. How the nerves of the hunters tingle 

 as they seem poised almost in mid air. 



The boat falls gracefully into the foam, tips a little, takes 

 in a little water, and then darts out into the still pool. Lot's 

 Island Rapids are passed in safety ! 



"We'll run in shore and empty out this water," said 

 Hank. 



The Professor was silent for some moments. As they 

 neared the shore, however, he waxed eloquent over their ex- 

 ploit : 



" It was immense. A grand experience, and all over with 

 nothing worse than — " 



Thump ! That sentence was never finished. 



The bow was on a rock. The Professor sprang to his feet 

 in alarm in spite of Hank's frantic calls to sit still. The 

 latter sprang overboard the moment the boat tipped, and 

 stood a little above his knees in water. But the Professor, 

 with wild movements of legs and arms, rolled clumsily in, 

 head first, and began a fierce struggle to reach the "boat 

 again, interspersing the contortions of his body with splut- 

 ters for help. 



" O — Hank — help — drown — help ! 



"Stand up. You're on bottom. You're all right," cried 

 Hank, as he assisted the exhausted Professor to gain his 

 footing. 



" Xhank you. There — I can touch — 1 have cramp," gasped 

 the wet man, as though he was still under water. And he 

 was almost, for the water was streaming from his coat, run- 

 ning from arms and hands, dripping from his chin, his nose, 

 his eais, from every hair. The beaver hat was floating slow- 

 ly around, the jack still hanging on, but under water, and 

 considerably put out. Hank fished up the rifle. 



"It's pretty damp," said he. "I guess we won't hunt 

 any more to-night." 



A good fire was started, and the Professor, wrapped in 

 Hank's coat, Was soon steaming away like an apple pudding 

 beside it. 



With a fire," said Hank, "a man never catches cold in 

 , ■ ' is, no matter how wet he is." 



It was two o'clock when they two stretched themselves 

 beside the fire to sleep. It wus six when the rain woke 

 them. The fire was still smouldering. The Professor had 

 evidently felt damp during the night, for he had lain close, 

 and several large holes were burned in his blanket. Hank de- 

 clares that he muttered something about being warm in his 

 ;leep. 



It was nearly eight o'clock when they arrived in sight of 

 Camp, tired, wet, "hungry and cold. The rain was pouring 

 in torrents. "Hank," said the Professor, as they rounded 

 the point, ''don't say anything about it to the boys." 



MIDSUMMER DKEAM& 



T T ALF-WAT up the dark b:ue mountain side 

 - n - Adelines nesilaa, deep among tne trees, 



Where through the long, long- days tlie summer breeze 

 Rustles tne cones that. In their branches title 



To sleep in dreamy self-furguJiiluoss. 



Gray clouds sweep downw 

 Their fleeting shadows. 

 Across the valley, lazily, 



'i'hclr snow-white scarfs, t 

 With all the grace of sot 



'. i h [■!;: 



rild I 



t above the rills 

 injpli's caress. 



And drifting, dr 

 They float troi 

 Of tar away, £ 



Of Ocean's song; 

 To some sad c 



tn. so light and slow, 

 to htll-slde, as the notes 

 .ence from the Urroats 

 tter, sntt and low, 

 by Its mighty tide. 



Strange snakes and shadows cast they on the moss— 

 From ruined walls to tar-off village spires. 

 Etched by a Master-Hand that never tires; 



Dragons, haunting an old castle loss. 

 And giants grim, wllh maidens side by side. 



All there that dim antiquity hath told, 

 And more. A knight with lance and dazzling shield. 

 Ills eyes aflame, sweeps s'ernly o'er the Held, 



Fresh from his fortress, as In legend old, 



While yonder tace, so still, so ran. so cold. 



Ah! visions of what ruin in thy train ! 

 Oh, for another look I Was that a trace 

 OX recognition In that fatetul face, 



cum and merciless as Winter ram •; 

 Or Is It all a dream— a hideous dream 3 



I know her! Hush! Ob, whisper— whisper soft, 

 Or she may hear and turn again those eyes- 

 Circe's eyes— and yet— a Paradise t 



And yet again I once, and after, oft, 

 Save seen the wild rusk of yon mountain stream 



Outrivalled in Its madness ! Ah, 'tis gone ! 



It must have been a fancy, Memory plays 



Strange freaks to us I tear, in later days. 

 Forget it, please, and look not so forlorn. 

 I'm often neiwous now, at just the warn 



Ot night. Come, let us walk to greet 

 j ne sunset. | mougnt rorget and visions drown ; 

 And watch unconsciously the darkness down 

 In lowest vales slow rising up to meet, 

 The sun's last smile with half-reluctant feet, 



John Preston Tkue. 



SPORTING ATTRACTIONS OF NEW BERNE, N. 0, 



Nbw Bbbxe, N. C, July 16. 



YOUR invitation, extended in the. last issue of your valu- 

 able paper, has decided me to do at once what I have 

 long contemplated, but procrastinated doing — viz., giving 

 your readers some informaiion as to the advantages and at- 

 tractiveness of Beaufort as a good place for camping, fishing 

 and shooting. One of your correspondents last winter asked 

 for the range of the thermometer at Beaufort and 1 intended 

 giving the information asked for at that time but for above 

 failing of mine. 



Beaufort, as can be seen by reference to the map, is situ- 

 ated at the head of old Topsail Inlet, immediately fronting 

 the ocean, one and a half miles from inlet and four miles 

 from the outer bar. Although the weather has been ex- 

 tremely hot for past two weeks all over the country the high- 

 est point reached by the thermometer at Beaufort has been 

 87 deg. The almost continual breeze from the ocean is de- 

 lightful and refreshing, and no more comfortable place can be 

 found, as far as chmate goes, summer and winter, than at 

 Beaufort. A homelike and comfortable boarding-house is 

 kept by Miss Sarah Davis. Ask any commercial traveler 

 from New York or Baltimore the best" place to stop for rest 

 and pleasure in Eastern North Carolina, and he will answer 

 without hesitation, Miss Sarah Davis' at Beaufort. Her 

 terms for board are $1.50 per day ; $8 per week, or $25 per 

 month. 



Now for the sport : Fishing r and shooting are first class. 

 Trolling for bluefish and Spanish mackerel is good from 1st of 

 June to middle of October, but is best during August and 

 September. A sail of ten minutes from Miss Davis' wharf 

 will bring one to the fishing ground, and it is no unusual 

 thing for a boat to take #00 or 400 blues in a day's 

 fishing. As large a quantity as 700 have been taken 

 by one boat. The bluefish are from one to four 

 pounds in weight. My wife and I caught nearly 

 300 one afternoon last September in about two hours' 

 fishing, and could have taken many more, but we stopped 

 from being tired of pulling them. No more exciting or ex- 

 hilarating sport can be had than trolling for thesefish in 

 Beaufort inlet. I have taken twenty-eight Spanish mackerel 

 in one trip, and we often got them weighing from 6 to 10 

 lbs. each. In the fall of 1879 I caught a mackerel, or Gero, as 

 I suppose it should be called, with trolling squid, which 

 weighed 24 lbs., and measured three feet in length. This 

 was the gamest and strongest fish I ever saw taken with a 

 hook. The favorite boat for trolling is the sharpie, as they 

 are easily worked in the strong tides and breakers, aud will 

 tack quickly among the fish, which are usually in schools. 

 They are so light draft that they can go across the shoals of 

 the inlet, whei e the fish are usually feeding. Besides blue- 

 fish and mackerel fishing sheephead, sea-trout and many 

 varieties of small fish can be taken by stiU-fishing. 



The shooting at Beaufort during the fall season is all that 

 the sportsman could wish. Large quantities of birds, such as 

 curlew, willet, snipe and other species, abound on the shoals 

 and marshes near Beaufort, and a few miles in the interior 



fine quail shooting can be found, and the woods are full of 

 gray squirrels. 



On the banks separating the ocean and Sound are large 

 quantities of deer, also thousands of rabbits. I expect to be 

 at Beaufort during the remainder of the summer aud fall 

 months, and hope to meet many of your readers at Miss 

 Davis's, and shall be pleased to give any one such further 

 information as may be wanted. G. N. L 



FROM MOOSEHEAD LAKE TO THE MAIN ST. 

 JOHN. 



IN THREE PARTS — PART I. 



THERE is no wilderness excursion out of doors — looked 

 at from every point of view — more charming than the 

 one above indicated ; none, I opine, so little beset with trials 

 and tribulations, long and fatiguing "carries," the bete noir 

 of every sportsman, are scarcely frequent enough on this 

 trip to give it proper zest. From the foot of Moosehead 

 Lake to Grand Falls on the St. John, this route embraces 

 about two hundred and sixty-one miles, and the aggregate of 

 all its carries can be numbered in miles on the thumb and 

 fingers of one hand. 



For the greater part of the way, at. the proper season, you 

 have good water and a safe channel to an experienced canoe- 

 man. The best time to make the trip, so far as water is con- 

 cerned, is shortly after the spring rains are over and before 

 the water falls off too much, otherwise more or less dragging 

 will be necessitated, although it can be made at any season 

 without very great hardship. 



Taking Portland as a starting point, your route skirts 

 along the southern border of Maine till you gradually lose 

 sight of the coast, and, working your way toward the interior, 

 you reach Bangor, some sixty miles inland. Si ill clinging to 

 to the railro id as long as it holds out, you wend your way 

 northerly, each moment plunging deiper and deeper into 

 the heart of this great State, till villages disappear and scat- 

 tered houses only remind you lhat you are still within the 

 borders of civilization. Now patches of wood and green 

 squares alternate, with occasional long stretches of forest, 

 till finally you reach Blanchatd, seventy-five miles northerly 

 from Bangor, when you bid adieu to railroads and clambsr 

 aboard a spring- wagon, which takes you over a rough atd 

 hilly road twelve miles to Greenville, at the foot of Moose- 

 head Lake. This quiet village numbers some four hundred 

 souls, who devote themselves to farming, logging, fishing, 

 hunting and guiding. 



Twenty miles up the lake is Mt. Kineo, on a point of land 

 which stretches its way out into the lake. No village is here, 

 but only a commodious hotel, with a few scattered log huts 

 which guides inhabit during the spirting season. During 

 the summer, however, Moosehead has become quite a resort 

 of those who seek sport in the line of trout fishing, and this 

 i ural retreat is alive with pleasure seekers of all ages, from 

 the venerable judge to the romping school-girl ; but the lat- 

 ter spot is usually their haven of rest — few go further north 

 to linger or penetrate the deeper wilderness. There are sev- 

 eral small steamers and quite a unvy of smaller boats on the 

 lake, and one makes daily trips from Greenville to Kineo, 

 and two or three times a week to the head of the lake, about 

 eighteen miles from Kineo. This gives variety to Kineo 

 guests, most of whom during the season find their way up 

 the lake, aud perhaps get off the steamer long enough to take 

 a meal at Savage's Hotel, a email house a few rods from the 

 wharf. 



Leaving Moosehead, a portage of about two miles takes 

 you to the right bank of the West Branch of the Penobscot, 

 where river navigation begins, and now forms the principal 

 part of your journey. 



Twenty miles easterly takes you to Chesuncook Lake, 

 which you strike, near the nonh end. Now you abruptly 

 turn the prow of your canoe due north, and until you reach 

 the main St. John your course is northerly. At 'Suncook, as 

 it is familiarly called, is a small settlement of some half- 

 dozen log houses where comfortable quarters and a fair table 

 may always be found. Between here and Chamberlain Farm, 

 eighteen miles, not a solitary hut is to be seen, but at the farm 

 one will find most inviting quarters, somewhat rude, but neat, 

 with a table very satisfying to a hungry stomach. The farm 

 is on the east shore, and numbers largely in acres of some of 

 the finest land in the State. Leaving the farm you plunge 

 still deeper into the wood, and for the next fifty miles nothing 

 but a howling wilderness greets you on every side, save it he 

 a desolate, tenantless hut of bark or logs, rudely constructed 

 and long since abandoned, and which never was more than a 

 temporary abode of loggers or sportsmen. Progressing, you 

 come to Depot Farm at the lower end of Long Lake on the 

 west bank. Here is a solitary log hut with two tenants, a 

 man and a dog — and a small dog at that. 



Years ago Depot Farm was headquarters for the loggers, 

 and was then a rendezvous of much activity and note. A 

 large house afforded accommodation for thirty to fifty men. 

 The forest about was denuded of its trees, and many broad 

 acres were subdued, and grass, grain, corn and potatoes 

 yielded a bountiful supply. But after the loggers bad done 

 their work and gone, the broad farm went to waste, the house 

 was accidently burned, and nothing was left but a large barn 

 which still marks the site of former thrift. Following in 

 the wake of the downlall came John Harvey, who squatted 

 here with his wife, but she was drowned two years ago. 

 Since then he has led a hermit's life, with no company but 

 his dog, seing no human being for months at a time. 



Now we have another stretch of about twenty-nine miles 

 before we again see a human face but our own. This takes 

 us to' wtthiu three miles of the mouth of the Allegash, where 

 it unites with the St. John. Now we have reached civiliza- 

 tion, if indeed a few scattered log houses with from three to 

 seven persons deep at the door, mostly children, proves it. 

 From the mouth of the Allegash down the St. John huts 

 thicken, hovels rise up, log houses appear, and then farm 

 houses and pretty villages dot the landscape, and green fields, 

 broad pastures and inviting table-lands gladden the eye on 

 every hand. 



The dense wilderness proper on Ihis charming route is 

 mostly comprised between the first intersection of the West 

 Branch and the mouth of the Allegash, a d stance of about 

 182 miles, while the whole distance from the foot of Moose- 

 head to Grand Falls, N. B., is about 261 miles. Practically, 

 however, the entire trip is a wilderness trip. Scattered farm 

 houses and villages may afford you shelter and food, but 

 there is the limit. Stores and furnishing depols are scarcely 

 to be thought of till you reach Fort Kent on the St. John, 

 fifty-nine miles from Grand Falls, while not a respectable 

 physiciau is to be found till you reach Grand Falls, if you 

 except a country practitioner at Fort Kent. 



