mUdaar ^ctmtwn and £fadg. 



Game Protection, Fish Culture, Natural History, Preservation of Forests, Rifle Practice, Yachting, Boating, 



the Kennel, and Sports of all Kinds. 



Terms, Four Dollars a Year. J 

 Ten Cents a Copy. f 



NEW YORK, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 28, 1876. 



( Volume 7, Number SI 



) 17 Chatham St. (City Hall »qr.) 



AT THE LAST. 



Selected. 



r 



THE stream is calmest when It nears the tide 

 And the flowers are sweetest at the eventide, 

 And birds most musical at close of day, 

 And saints divinest when they pass away. 



Morning is holy, but a holier charm 

 Lies folded close in Evening's robe or balm, 

 And weary man must ever love her best, 

 For Morning calls to toil, but night to rest. 



She comes from Heaven, and on her wings doth bear 

 A holy fragrance, like the breath of prayer; 

 Footsteps of angels follow in her trace, 

 To shut the weary eyes of day in peace. 



All things are hushed before her as she throws 

 O'er earth and sky her mantle of repose; 

 There Is a calmer beauty and a power 

 That Morning knows not, in the Evening honr. 



Until the Evening we must weep and toil— 

 Plow life's stern furrow, dig the weedy soil— 

 Tiead with sad feet our rough and thorny way, 

 And bear the heat and burden of the day. 



Oh! when our sun is setting may we glide, 

 Like summer Evening down the golden tide; 

 And leave behind us, as we pass away, 

 Sweet, starry twilight round our sleeping clay. 

 ~«^*. 



For Forest and Stream. 



the §ochg c^autjtmn ^nnq^ 



AGAIN, in the heart of the grand old mountains, and 

 yet as glad to behold them, as enthusiastic in our 

 admiration and as extravagant in our expressions as if we 

 had passed our existence on some vast prairie, and had 

 never seen anything in the mountain line greater than a 

 good-sized haystack. The Rocky Mountains are at all 

 times beautiful and interesting, but in the sleepy autumn, 

 when the crispy leaves are falling and the sympathetic 

 wind mournfully sighs and whispers through the dying 

 wood, then do they appear to the best advantage, present- 

 ing a picture of solemn grandeur and imposing sublimity 

 that is intensely impressive and never to be forgotten, even 

 by the most indifferent observer. From the plains are 

 seen three distinct rauges of mountains, running parallel 

 with each other, designated as the foot hills, the mountains 

 proper, and the snowy range. The former claim our at- 

 tention first, being the first interruption of the great plains. 

 These mountains are several thousand feet above the sea, 

 and would be dignified as such, were it not for the mighty 

 giants just beyond, who frown upon them from their diz- 

 zy heights. The intermediate range attains an elevation 

 of ten and twelve thousand feet, and is generally covered 

 with forests of pine and cedar, while here and there bleak 

 and desolated spots are visible, the result of extensive fires 

 and violent gales. Just now they are truly beautiful, na- 

 ture having wrought; for them during the past month 

 a mantle of many colors, seeming like some vast, 

 quilt of patch work, as if to shield them from the frozen 

 breath of their mighty neighbors. The snowy range -the 

 highest and grandest of the Rocky Mountain system- 

 towers far above all others, grim sentinels whose granite 

 ribs and shoulders are blackened with the wounds and 

 scars of a thousand storms, whose bald and wrinkled 

 heads are white with the snows of ages. Indeed, there is 

 a fascination about them that we are unable to explain, 

 and we never grow weary of watching them, and last eve- 

 ning at sunset, just as the sun had imprinted a glorious 

 kiss upon the snowy brow of a neighboring peak, it seemed 

 to melt the snow into rivers of gold and silver, the face of 

 the majestic mountain being suffused with crimson blush- 

 es, as if shocked at the audacity of ths "god of Day." 

 The license allowed one's imagination on such occasions 

 has a decidedly refreshing and benificent effect; at least 

 such is our experience. 



The autumn months are unquestionably the most perfect 

 of the year in the mountains, the mornings being cool and 

 invigorating, warm and comfortable during the day, while 

 the evenings are perfectly charming, clear and bright, with 

 an atmosphere so rare and pure that one never gets enough 

 of it, and praises its virtues as he would those of a fine old 

 wine, and such it is— the "wine of life." Those who vis- 

 it the mountains for health or pleasure during the summer 

 months generally hasten away at the approach of autumn, 

 and by so doing make a great mistake, as the stimulating 

 qualities of the air are greater and more beneficial in the 

 autumn than at any other season, while the mountains are 

 saore attractive. A great many English and Scotch Nim- 



rods annually seek the mountains in the autumn, whiie not 

 a few of their own ranches and parks that are stocked 

 with game, notable among whom is the Earl of Dunraven, 

 who is a frequent and daring hunter in these parts. This 

 gentleman on one occasion visited the great National Park 

 in the Yellowstone region, under the guidance of the wtll- 

 known scout Texas Jack. They were gone two months, 

 killing a number of white and black-tailed deer, antelope, 

 elk, and a few cinnamon bear, while grouse and other 

 wild fowl were to be found everywhere in abundance. 

 They reported trouting as the be6t in the world, frequent- 

 ly catching them for sport and throwing them back into 

 the stream, many of them weighing as high as three or 

 four pounds. Their party was a picturesque one, clad as 

 thei were in-foreign hunting suits, with Texas Jack in the 

 background dressed in a gorgeous suit of fancifully bead- 

 ed buckskin, "the observed of all observers." Those who 

 visit this beautiful valley for the first time, after a long and 

 tedious journey through vast deserts of sage brush, and 

 over range after range of snow-capped mountains, are not 

 only charmed with the delightful change but completely 

 captivated with the unsurpassing loveliness and physical 

 characteristics of this remarkable basin. The scenery 

 around Salt Lake is grand and impressive, reminding us 

 of Geneva, the jewel of Switzerland. To the west a 

 range of lofty mountains bound in ice rise almost perpen- 

 uicular from out its briny depths, casting their long dark 

 shadows over the silent sea of Zion, while to the east 

 stretches a vast plain, extending from its saline beach to 

 the base of the Wasatch range, in whose deep gorges and 

 weird canyons can be seen great drifts of snow, that even 

 in midsummer are unsusceptible to the influence of a 

 scorching sun. Situated as it is in the vety heart of the 

 mountains, it is difficult to believe that a valley so rich and 

 beautiful, dotted with picturesque hamlets and thriving 

 villages, was, until recently, a bleak and barren waste of 

 sage brush and greenwood ; and when we consider how 

 comparatively recently the pioneer band of Mormons en- 

 tered this desert, and the great disadvantages they labored 

 under and hardships endured, we wonder at the great 

 transformation, and cannot but applaud their energy and 

 perseverance. They are indeed a persevering people, and 

 hold on with a determination that is remarkable, building 

 temples a id founding colonies in the States, only to have 

 them destroyed and themselves driven westward, with lit- 

 tle means and few friends, enduring untold hardships on 

 the plains, fording rivers, scaling mountaius, fight'ng In- 

 dians in a land comparatively unexplored, uutil finally they 

 start anew in the midst of a desert in the wilds of Utah. 

 Nothing but a religious zeal approaching fanaticism could 

 have induced anyone to attempt to do what they have ac- 

 complished, with a prospect so discouraging and uncer- 

 tain. But their energy has been rewarded, and we see to- 

 day a prosperous people in many respects, and in lieu of 

 their primitive log cabins and dugouts we find thriving 

 cities, and instead of a desert, a vast garden, producing an 

 abundance of fruit and cereals. 



To those who would for a time exchange the cares of a 

 city life for that of a hunter and trapper, we would advise 

 an autumn trip across the wonderful plains, the home of 

 the buffalo, antelope, coyote and savage, and ere you tire 

 of this, a cozy nest in some of the natural parks just under 

 the range, where in glorious seclusion and elegant leisure 

 one could pass the time in hunting and fishing. Add to 

 this the numerous lakes and trout streams, ever shady, and 

 teeming with fish and fowl; the matchless parks, walled in 

 by towering mountains and stocked with deer and other 

 game j the dark and dismal canyons into which the sun- 

 light never enters; the natural mineral baths, hot and cold 

 soda fountains, and you have a country possessing a great- 

 er number of attractions than can be found in any other 

 locality. Frank L. Thayer. 



Salt Lake, Nov., 1876. 



-*«♦- 



A curious little scientific toy has made its appearance in 

 the opticians' windows, and, we should think, might rival 

 in popnlarity the old gyroscope. It consists of a tiny wind- 

 mill enclosed in a glass bulb of about three inches diam- 

 eter, which revolves without any apparent motive power. 

 The secret of the mystery is that the four vanes of the mill 

 are blackened on one side, and coated with bright foil on 

 the other. The bright side reflects the radiant heat of sur- 

 rounding objects, and the dark side absorbs it. The en 

 closing bulb being partially exhaus ed of air, the difference 

 of temperature creates a sufficient' current to cause the 

 vanes to move. The contrivance is called Crookes's Rad- 

 iometer, from an erroneous idea which its inventor had 

 that its motion was due to the force of rays of light. 



For Forest and Stream. 

 MY FIRST GHOST. 

 ■ * — — ' 



BY N. W. BECK WITH. 



I WAS a boy, a small one too, twelve years of age. 1 

 had been placed at an academy twelve miles from 

 home. Being so near, I had formed the habit of walking 

 home — there was neither rail nor coach, but much piny- 

 woods, in those days — every Saturday (which was a half- 

 holiday at our school) to return on Monday. Bright and 

 early my setting out on Monday had to be, since it was im- 

 perative to report to the head-master at halfpast eight, or 

 come to grief for the delinquency. 



It was midwinter on the occasion in question. On the 

 road, and near three miles from home, lay a village, where 

 lived a cousin of mine— a boy nearly two years my senior. 

 I used to reach this village abont mid-afternoon, and of 

 course, always stopped at aunt Sally's for a bowl of bread 

 and milk. Equally of course, if "Plum" had anything 

 new, my stay was apt to lengthen until after supper, when 

 he would accompany me part of the remainder of the 

 lonely road home. Sometimes— times without a parallel 

 in memory's lengthening record — when our joint supplica- 

 tions had obtained him the permission to go all the way, 

 and stay all night, then the grand repetition, at my house 

 of all Hie precedent jollification, the second supper — and 

 what boy after a three-mile walk ever refused it?— the tear- 

 ing through the house at our own sweet wills, for privileged 

 beyond most youth were we, for each was an only child; 

 the swim among the "picture books" tumbled on the carpet; 

 the out-door dash for a "coast" down hill by moonlight; 

 the nut roasting and "make-believe" smokes in the kitchen ; 

 and the final nestling away in the cozy little bed, there to 

 chat each other to sleep; then to waken for a still more 

 cozy chat in the long, grey, winter dawning. Ah met 

 why do I linger? Long years ago they closed those gentle 

 blue eyes, and laid that noble head, heavy with its cluster- 

 ing cuils of gold, beneath the burning sod of Hayti. Smit- 

 ten down in youth's full flush of promise, by the dread 

 yellow fever; they buried far away from me the only 

 mortal that ever I called brother. 



One bright starlit night, we parted at the top of a wind- 

 swept hill which stands half way between the two villages. 

 In a steep decline, through a long, dark vista of swaying 

 pines and firs, my way ran straight for nearly half a mile, 

 where it was cut off— absorbed, so to speak— by the cleared 

 main-road which led to my own home. Now, on this oc- 

 casion, "Plum" had got a new book, a wonderful, a terrific 

 book, Mrs. Shelley's Frankenstein, to wit, and that very 

 afternoon and evening we had devoured it to the utmost, 

 sparing scarcely the fly leaves. Of course it formed the 

 topic of our wayside chat; our conversation taking a specu- 

 lative turn, and debating the possibility of cur "building" 

 such a giant, but one that should be "good" of course, 

 when we grew up to be men. Yet, so far as I remember, 

 all thought of the unearthly tale had left my mind, as I 

 "let out" my pace down the long sighing hollow, intent 

 only upon reaching home as soon as might, be. To the 

 right the wood road I followed Wag cleared for some extent 

 upward from its junction with the main-road. Lo! as I 

 neared the open corner, a colossal spectre, a thousand 

 times more hideous than all my fancy had made of Frank- 

 enstein's demon; standing with out flung arms, and forward 

 foot, ready to intercept whomsoever should attempt to 

 pass. I haulted instanter. I often hear gentlemen expati- 

 ate upon an "unaccountable" and altogether "unmanage- 

 able" propensity to "walk right up" to the terror exciting 

 object, that controls them under similar circumstances; 

 whereby they always luckily discover what it is, save their 

 reputation for courage,'and proceed on their way rejoicing. 

 I am not of that class. I may further add, that in an 

 unusually checkered experience through much adventure by- 

 field and flood and service among many races of men, I have 

 never met that type of human being yet. I never saw a 

 recruit, for example, who was not apt to exhibit a deucedly 

 near "unmanageable" propensity to "walk right" away 

 from a battery, when ordered up to the charge, as fast as 

 legs could carry him; or a raw tar who didn't look like 

 betaking himself to the run, when the enemy's ports belch 

 out in flame and smoke, as he glides up abeam for the good, 

 old fashioned ding-dong set-io. So I retrograded slowly- 

 walking backwards with stealthy steps— and watching* 

 fixedly for any movement on its part. Heavens! how 

 gruesome it became during those long moments of suspense 3 

 The skeleton lankiness of those far reaching arms, and Of 

 that out-flung leg; the long, narrow robe of glittering 



