Terms, Fivft Dollars a Year. 
Ten Cents a Copy. 
NEW YORK, THURSDAY. JUNE 8, 1876 
Volume <», Number 18. 
17 Chatham Bt.(CltyHallSqr.) 
For Forest and Stream. 
cffoose (/Zullitig in ejfflira ^qotiH. 
I REMEMBER it was a cold Thursday morning about the 
middle of September, 1871, I packed myself, guns, 
and camp equipage on board the one-horse express wagon 
which caried the bi-weekly mail from Kentville to Cheater 
on the Atlantic coast. Our route was due south, through 
New Rosa and the Chester barrens, a narrow strip of burnt 
and barren land connecting the big moose and caribou 
country of Western with the more famous hunting grounds 
of Eastern Nova Scotia. At the head of Chester Basin, 
that beautifully pellucid, oak-fringed, and island-dotted 
bay, upon whose shores it is fablod the famous Captain 
Kidd cached his ill gotten treasure, we meet the coach from 
Halifax, going iu the direction indicated by the admirable 
Greeley as the road to good fortune. A change is soon 
made, and a rapid drive of an hour and a half brings us 
to Mahone Bay. We have passed Gold River, dear to the 
salmon fisher, and the pretty stream of Petite Rivifire and 
Mahone Bay—all now, alas! suffering from a good law ill 
enforced. At Mahone Bay we leave the mail coach, which 
pursues a circuitous route to Bridgewater via Lunenburg, 
wliile wo again take a single trap and cut across to the 
broad La HSve, upon whose slaty banks stands the thriv¬ 
ing milling and fishing town of Bridgewater. The La 
Helve River is celebrated for its salmon, and though much 
impeded by mills they still continue to offer fair sport to 
the angler in its waters. I had the pleasure of killing the 
first fish of the season in the last week in March, 1875, and 
met two more in a pool below Mr. Davidson’s Dam, con¬ 
taining about 25 yards square of clearwater. Our boat 
was moored to the ice, a horse trot was going on two miles 
down stream, and about twelve miles intervened between 
us and the green waters of the ocean. Here it may not 
be out of place to mention my firm conviction that the 
So.lrao salar, having spawned, repair to deep water inside 
the twenty mile bank, all along tlic southwest coast of 
N. S., there feeding on young fish, sand eels, and shrimp, 
and when prompted either by the effect of the proximate 
Gulf Stream or their natural procreative impulse as the 
sun gains power with lengthening day, repair to the coast. 
The first river they aBcend is the Medway, where Saul, the 
Indian, generally kills a few in the last week in February, 
below the Tumbling Dam, where there is nearly always 
open water Thence they progress north and east along 
the coast, entering the La HHvenext. The Gold River is 
gained. Crossing Chester Bay they reach Tngram River, 
Indian River, and so on to the east of Halifax, Tangeer, St. 
Marys, and at last, in or about July 1st, Margaree, on the 
northeast side of Cape Breton. They seem to visit the 
rivers debouching into deep bays— i. e., East River and 
Saekville River—much later than those which flow out on 
a holder coast. Those going southwest from the Medway 
enter Clyde River and Tusket, and so round Cape Sable 
seriatim. We next, about the last of April, find them in 
the Annapolis, and about the 7th of May they reach tile 
Gasperean. Salmon River in Colchester is next gained, 
then the Cumberland streams, and about the loth of June 
the St. John, N. B., fishermen begin their harvest. I have 
always thought that the heavy fish caught in the wiers on 
the hay shore of Kings county were the St. John River 
fish “feeling round” the Bay of Fundy, as they correspond 
in weight, (18 to 30 pounds and over) proportions, and gen¬ 
eral appearance, and the interval elapsing between their 
netting here and the arrival of their congeners at St. John 
would be about the “traveling rate” already indicated on 
the Atlantic coast. 1 advance this theory subject to correc¬ 
tion by older and better observers of nature. 
But revenons: Sunday will be here in two days, and I 
must get to camp for the day of rest. I hire my trusty 
Indians at Bridgewater—John, caller, and Louis, camp- 
keeper—and on we go all night by express. We cross the 
Medway, after eighteen miles drive, at Mill Village, a 
splendid salmon river, much fished and much cursed by 
Jogs, log-driving, (which crushes spawners and tears up 
the ridds) mills, dams, and sawdust. But the West Iudics 
must have lumber, shooks, and staves, and the banks off 
the shore send the cod. Ah! why do people forget that, 
in proportion as our rivers team with fry, our deep sea 
banks yield their finny treasures! 1 Liverpool is reached in, 
I think, ten miles. Here Mr. Appleton gives us breakfast, 
and starts us off Wednesday. We pass the five streams of 
Port Le Bear; then Mitchell’s Brook, celebrated for its sea 
trout; Port Mouton is next reached, with its dazzling 
white sand head and broad sedge flats, clouded later on in 
autumn with sea and black ducks, grebe, brant, and geose, 
etc. At Port Joli we change horses, and meanwhile I have 
a look at the curious Indian mounds where the arrow 
maker once plied his trade. 1 find plenty of “chips” an d 
fish bones, but the axes, arrow-heads, and queer-looking 
harpoons have all been picked up long ago. The nags 
come thundering down that awful corkscrew hill. I thank 
fortune that I am still on terra firma. An opposing ram¬ 
part of rock-bordered road having checked the impetus of 
our steeds, I mount the box for our last stage. Granite 
boulders, whin-rock, bog and barren as far as the eye can 
see—when will all this nothingness be found auriferous? 
No trees to tempt the lumberman, no soil where the horny- 
handed son of toil may plant his potato patch. Surely He 
has not made all these things for naught 1 We dash across 
Tom Tigny Bridge and pull up at Dunlap's. Before long 
we have agreed with Mr. D. to haul our stuff in as far as 
Beaver Dam Camp, and off we trudge due north upon the 
old Indian path whicli crosses to the Bay of Fundy side, 
the patient, head yoked oxen doing nearly three miles an 
hour. We reach camp at nightfall, aud the hunt has be¬ 
gun. Here is one of tbe heaviest (certainly the most mas¬ 
sive I ever visited) of ail the “beaver works” of Nova Sco¬ 
tia. Sable River ia, at times, a very heavy stream; but the 
cunning engineers have put forth all their ingenuity, and 
succeeded usque ad deliciae votoram. On Saturday evening 
Louis called about half a mile from camp; but we came 
back early, as there was no moon, and the wind was in¬ 
clined to breeze up. We found in the morning before 
starting on a ramble (which is never indulged in on gain¬ 
ing good hunting ground) that a moose had come during 
the night and walked over the spot on which we had 
called. We did not expect luck here, as it was considered 
too near the settlement, and John sagely observed, “wait 
till you see wbat I’ll show you at Blue Hill.” 
Aud now begun our bad luck. The equiuox set in with 
a will, and for three days it poured in bucketsful and blew 
a gale, raising the many brooks to such a degree that we 
were delayed five days, during which time a few partridg¬ 
es were shot and much provision and tobacco disposed of. 
On Friday we went onwards, all carrying onr fair loads, 
and reached the “Hawk’s” nest, nine miles. Here we de¬ 
termined to call. An osprey has, as long as the oldest In¬ 
dian can remember, built her nest here, eighteen miles 
from’the sea. Her old pine rampike has since blown down, 
and she has betaken herself to another about half a mile 
west from her former locus. It blew on Friday evening, 
but on the following morning, while John had gone back 
for that portion of our luggage which the heavy going had 
compelled ns to leave, I called a fine bull. He came from 
the westward, crossed the path about one hundred yards 
off, directly between me and Louis, who was at camp 
cooking breakfast, and so escaped a shot, He remained 
aboutfor some time, but he had got a whiff of the smoke, 
and went off “barking"—their custom when alarmed or 
suspicious. On Sunday we reached the top of Blue Hill, 
over which the Indian path pursues its N. N. E. direction 
to Bear River. By this path the contingent of Liverpool 
Indians marched on their way to Annapolis to join in the 
attack on that fort, and participate iu the massacre of 
Bloody Creek, A. D. 1711. John and Louis have told me 
that their great grandfather (their father Is living, aged 
eighty-six) who married a Salinove (probably a De la Hali- 
neaux) was one of the band. The French then disputed 
the ownership of this province, and Liverpool and its en¬ 
virons was their headquarters. Arrived at Blue Hill Camp, 
sixteen miles from Dunlap's, wo made things snug, and 
got ready for a week’s good hunt, whereby to atone for 
past inactivity. The camp was good, provisions were 
plenty; it was indeed a day of rest, and here, on the very 
path o'er which in past times the dusky savage had sped 
to his deed of rapine and murder; his descendants and I 
smoked the pipe of contentment and peace. We walked 
about among the giant beeches which crown the summit 
of this singular hill, thinking to find “mooin” climbing for 
his favorite beech nuts. I was extremely struck with the 
enormous size of the pine butts, which still remained to 
bear witness to the labors of the lumbermen of a past gen¬ 
eration. Many of these would square 3 feet C and 4 feet. 
Then, as we sat after dinner enjoying our pipe, the birch 
partridge (Tetrao •umbellatus) would come to pick up the 
fragments of potato about our camp. The moose-bird or 
mohawk, a species of shrike, came and greedily devoured 
or cached our donations of fat, even venturing into camp 
to attack the butter. Evening closed with a gorgeons sun¬ 
set. We listened to the song of the hermit thrush or 
swamp robin, as it died away. The “murmuring pines 
and the hemlocks” gave forth now and then their peculiar 
sighing, shuddering sound, as if dreading the frosty air of 
night, and soon all was still. We sat listening for the 
sounds of an autumn night till about ten o’clock, but not 
a single cow was calling—an omen of fair weather—not 
an owl was heard! We had scarcely composed ourselves 
for sleep, when big rain drops were heard upon our split 
pine roof, and before we could realize the change a most 
terrific thunder storin broke over us. The lightning was 
extremely vivid, and its lurid glare lit up the woods in a 
manner wierd and sepulchral, conjuring up most awful 
shapes in every gnarled trunk or knotted windfall, while 
the thunder claps followed one another in deafening suc¬ 
cession. The Indians hastily left camp, dreading the 
proximity of some tall pines, and took shelter further 
down the hill beneath soma broad-topped birches. I re¬ 
mained in camp, truly awed by this most magnificent dis¬ 
play of nature’s pyrotechuy, which, however, was gone as 
suddenly as it came. Subsequent experience has allowed 
me that it is not unusual for these storms to occur 
three or four times a week. The surrounding country be¬ 
ing beaver meadows or low rocky barrens, the charged 
clouds are naturally attracted by the lofty hill, and fre¬ 
quent lightnings play around its top. 1 observed mauy 
trees which had been struck, and found that the hackmatne 
or larch suffered most from lightning, its tall, tapering 
head acting as a conductor. One bolt, which we distinctly 
heard fall on this occasion, we subsequently found had 
struck a larch, shivering the top, and the electric current, 
pursuing a spiral course to tbe ground, had followed the 
roots (which grew near the surface, and at right angles to 
the stem, hence hackmatac knees) and laid them bare for 
a diameter of twenty feet. 
A four A. M. on Monday we took some tea and biscuit, 
and giving Louis my rifle to carry, I shouldered my West- 
ley Richards smooth-bore, aud followed John to Cow- 
Moose Rock, a mile from camp. As soon as day appeared 
the low call with which the practiced Indian always com¬ 
mences (for, “maybe bull quite handy”) goes forth—soft, 
smooth, seductive, ending with an alluring decadence. 
This had not been oft repeated—about once in twenty 
minutes—before Master John signals from his tree, “Diiun 
witcha gOOyfit”—moose cornin’. I tako my Riley from 
Louis, and tolling him to hand me the cock-gun for the 
flying shots, remain with bated breath, and—I always own 
the truth—a thumping heart cluck, cluck, clucking in my 
throat, woTse than an old hen with ducklings in Iho water. 
Meanwhile onr moose comes on, at firet sounding like dis¬ 
tant chopping. His confident "Wuu-fth” gets nearer and 
nearer, and now we hear the horns as they brush aside the 
yielding boughs. How ho passes through a spruce thicket. 
We see the tops sway outwards, as with protruded mouflie 
and antlers laid back on his withers, palms to the rear, the 
monarch of the glen forces his way through the sturdy 
trees. A slight whiff of air—why docs he stop? The 
knowing fellow sniffs the breeze. He walks round to lee¬ 
ward. No nolBe, no rush, no crash; but we know ha is 
