Terms, Five Dollars a Year. / 

 Ten Cents a Copy. f 



NEW YORK, THURSDAY, DEC. 11, 1873. 



I 



Volume I, Number 18. 

 103 Fulton Street. 



For Forest and Stream . 

 THE ST. JOHN. 



FROM the far, untrodden fastness 

 Of the moss-hang everglade, 

 From the distant springs that babble 



jit the cypress darkened shade: 

 From pools and rippling lakelet-;. 



Human eye ne'er gazed upon, 

 ^Flowing into golden sunlight, 

 Rolls the beautiful St. John . 



Winding far thro' virgin forests, 



Where drink unfrightened deer, 

 By broad and reedy marshes, 



Where the heron knows no fear: 

 Mid groves of tropic richness, 



Ttfe ir verdure never gone, 

 Flashing as a royal river, 



Rolls the beautiful St. John. 



"C in' a land of endless summer, 

 Where flowers grace each day, 



And bright-hned birds are singing 

 An unceasing roundelay; 



Whose waves are never fettered 

 nail of ice laid on, 



Reflecting only summer skies, 

 Flows the beautiful St. John. 



Lingering like a truant schoolboy, 



idling on by vine and flower, 

 Caressed by light and shadow; 



Caring not for clay or hour. 

 Seeming loath n>#ave its birthplace, 



Turning back, then flowing on, 

 Tracing lines of grace and beauty, 



Dallies softly the St. John. 



Crowing broader, flowing bolder," 



Wave tossed as an inland sea, 

 The streamlets of the woodland 



In a mighty union free; 

 Then a noble path for commerce, 



That ships float proudly on, 

 The welcome of the ocean surf 



Receives the great St. John. 



Bat for plaguery chills and fever, 



And such agitating shake*; 

 Bat for scorpions, et cetera, 



And wily rattlesnakes; 

 But for the bold mosquito. 



And the pizin moccason ! 

 I'd sadly learn to leave thee, 



Thou miasmous St. John. 



L. W. L. 



— ♦ — 



Editor Forest and Stream: — 



I send you a short account of moose hunting and trout 

 fishing, as pursued in Lower Canada in winter, and ray 

 personal experience of camping out during the severe 

 month of February, 'when the thermometer marked twenty 

 and thirty degrees below zero, and the snow lay deep on 

 the lakes and mountains. 



At, Malciiriier, some fifteen miles from Quebec, we reach 

 the farthest settlement north of the St. Lawrence. Here 

 commence those vast forests and mountain ranges that 

 extend themselves to the Hudson's Bay. Throughout its 

 Li is intersected with numberless lakes and 

 rapid shallow rivers. In this primeval wilderness abound 

 the lordly moose and caribou of our northern climate, while 

 every lake ;md stream is filled with that fish so dear to ang- 

 lers— the trout. The smaller fur-bearing animals are also 

 numerous. 



The few remaining Indians in autumn strike far into the 

 interior, to return in the spring laden with the proceeds of 

 their rifles and traps. Occasional parties from Quebec 

 under the guidance of some Indian, make short excursions 

 to the lakes, and return with glowing accounts of the abun- 

 dance of game and the wild and beautiful scenery every- 

 where met with. These trips are usually made in summer 

 or early autumn. Few have the courage to face the cold 

 or the imaginary hardships to be endured in winter. I call 

 them imaginary, for without a few of them wherein would 

 it the plefts trild camp life? 



The stars are still shining brightly, though a faint glim- 

 mer of dawn appears on the horizon. We are up, and has- 

 tily completing our preparations for an early start The 

 big 'mare stands ready at the door harnessed to the berline 

 which is to covey us and our traps to "Roche Platte, some 

 ten miles, before we assume in place our snow shoes and 

 packs. We lay in a good breakfast as foundation for the 

 long journey before us, and then, lighting our pipes and 

 bidding all good-bye, bundle into the sleigh. We wrap 

 the buffaloes well around us, for the cold is intense this 

 early morn, and giving the old mare a touch with the ^hip 

 we commence to glide over the hard frozen road at a good 

 rapid pace. Our traineau, heavily loaded, follows behind. 

 Phew, how the sharp wind pinches this morning ; but we 

 are prepared for it, and only draw our capuchon closer 

 over our heads, and defy it to do its best. We are a merry 

 party. Mr. Neilson, my kindest of hosts, Pat Cassin, our 

 guide and hunter, as genial a fellow as ever drew breath, 

 with an inexhaustible fund of dry humor, and your humble 

 servant, We make rapid headway, and soon come in sight 

 of St. Michel Mountain, whose summit we are destined to 

 reach before many hours. The rising sun just tips it, and 

 reflects back from its white coverlet of snow a glittering as 

 of a huge diamond set in a dark green ground of spruce. 



Our road is well defined over the plain by balises, con- 

 sisting of small evergreens set out on each side at regular 

 intervals; otherwise, the severe storms that sweep over it 

 would completely obliterate all traces of it, and thereby 

 destroy all communication between the few settlers at 

 Roche Platte and the settlements. The snow at this season 

 is five to six feet deep on a level, and where it drifts it is 

 fifteen and twenty feet. 



The drive at last comes to an end, and we draw rein be- 

 fore Ned's. We are met with a noisy but cordial welcome, 

 and with the assistance of himself and sons we are soon 

 ready to take up our packs and march. Here on a river 

 point our host has built himself a log house, and cleared 

 the few acres that are adapted for cultivation. 



Our snow shoes are buckled on, our packs adjusted, and 

 we take up our line of march towards the clouds above. 

 Now comes the tug of war. Mountain climbing, at no 

 time an easy matter, now rendered doubly arduous on snow 

 shoes, which admit of little foothold, or, I should perhaps 

 say, too much foothold. We tug and pull and perspire, 

 but advance slowly. The point of my snow shoes catches, 

 and I make a dive headforemost into a depth of ten feet of 

 snow, and am extricated with some difficulty by my com- 

 panions after being almost suffocated. After three hours' 

 hard labor, and a few more mishaps, we reach the top, and 

 call a halt to rest and admire the panorama spread out be- 

 low us. Far to the south we see the tall tin spires of the 

 churches in Quebec glistening in the sun. The ice-bound 

 St. Lawrence, the Isle of Orleans, and the numerous habi- 

 tants' hamlets dotting its shores, while at our feet winds 

 the Jacque Cartier in its tortuous course along till lest be 

 hind some mountain that rears its snow-capped head high 

 above the others. 



Pat now warns us to be moving, so lighting our pipes we 

 reluctantly follow on. Our road now is only marked by an 

 occasional blaze on a tree, which Pat keeps unerringly in 

 view. High mountains encircle us on all sides. We meet 

 with a great many fresh tracks at Lake Michel, which our 

 coming have doubtless disturbed and started off. We skirt 

 the lake to its discharge, and crossing it strike upward 

 again. Another halt is called at Lake Tontari, near our 

 last summer's camp, to prepare the noonday meal. We 

 scrape the upper snow off the lake, and secure enough 

 water to boil our kettle. A fire is kindled on some logs 

 from an old chicot, and we are soon enjoying a hearty 

 meal. The poles only of our old camp project themselves 

 above the snow, which must be here some seven feet in 

 depth. This lake is some four miles in length, and in sum- 

 mer affords the finest fly fishing I have yet found. I have 

 taken in one evening from three to four dozen trout, aver 



aging a pound in weight, some few running as high as two 

 pounds. The lake is surrounded by mountains which rise 

 abruptly on two sides from the water's edge. The echo 

 here is perfect. A person speaking slightly above an ordi- 

 nary tone of voice will have his words distinctly repeated 

 once from the opposite side. At night, in camp, it was a 

 great source of amusement. 



As darkness set in we reached Etienne's cabin, far up in 

 the mountains, beside a noisy, turbulent stream, the outlet 

 of a small lake which .we have just passed. We find even - 

 thing prepared for our arrival— wood cut, a fresh bed of 

 balsam boughs laid, and the snow cleared /from inside the 

 stockade. We are at one of the winter hunting camps of 

 Etienne Groslouis, a Lorette; Indian, with whom we had 

 made arrangements for our visit early in the season. He is 

 now far up the Tuilerie River hunting moose. 



The cabin is constructed of birch bark, stretched over 

 poles, with sides and back of split balsam. It is open in 

 front before the fireplace, which in turn is surrounded b a 

 paling. This serves to keep the snow from caving in. The 

 site is badly selected; it is in a gorge of the mountains, 

 through which the winds whistle, sending the sparks from 

 our fire high into the heavens. How it crackles and blazes, 

 sending out such cheery warmth this cold night and diffus- 

 ing a pleasant glow that lights up all the surroundings. 

 We settle ourselves down before it, and former trips and 

 adventures are once more rehearsed, and our prospect f ei- 

 ther morrow's sport discussed at length. 



This morning it is commencing to snow, and the sighing 

 winds through the spruce, and the distant roaring of the 

 mountains, foretell a heavy storm. Nothing daunted, we 

 make things snug about camp, and prepare ourselves for a 

 day's fishing on the lake. Phew, how the storm sv. < eps 

 over its open surface. I cut a couple of holes through five 

 feet of slush and ice, dropped in my lines, and then con 

 structed myself a shelter from my buffalo, which I tied be- 

 tween two stakes fastened in the snow, and put myself to 

 leeward. We succeeded in taking some dozen before the 

 rapidly increasing storm drove us to seek refuge in camp. 

 We spent the balance of the day smoking, eating, and lis- 

 tening to the howling storm without. Two whisky jacks 

 are driven into camp, and now sit on the palisades over the 

 fire watching our every motion with curious eyes. What 

 cunning, thieving rascals they are; leave anything eatable 

 out of your sight for a moment, and they pounce upon it, 

 but are off the moment they are observed. 



Clear and intensely cold this morning— thermometer 

 down to about twenty degrees below zero. You require to 

 handle rifles very gingerly with bare hands. I am off to a 

 lake below us to look for moose. Can I succeed in finding 

 a yard we may anticipate sport. The moose at this season 

 travels but little. The deep snow, with that fearful crust, 

 confines them to their feeding ground, and soon bring them 

 to bay when pursued, when they fall an easy victim to the 

 rifle of the hunter. 



What a death-like stillness pervades evervthing after the 

 storm of yesterday. The only sound that disturbs it is the tap 

 of an occasional woodpecker; otherwise, apparently devoid 

 of all animal life. I travelled over a considerable extent 

 of country to-day, but no sign of moose. The Indians 

 hunting caribou in the early part of the winter has, I think 

 driven them further to the north of our present 'position.' 

 Mr. N. and Pat devoted themselves to fishing, but with 

 poor success. To-morrow we are going to try a lake 

 below us, formed years ago by a beaver dam, on the dis- 

 charge of the lake near us. It is growing colder, and we 

 are compelled to cut more wood for the night. I am too 

 tired to work, and reluctantly follow Pat with the traineau 

 to draw it in as fast as he cuts it. He selects an old birch' 

 and his lusty blows soon lay it low, and cuttino- it into 

 lengths of four feet I roll them on the train, and straddling 

 the logs reach camp safely, my dragging feet preventing it 

 obtaining too great momentum. 



