I Nov. 16, 1882. 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



SOS 



in only about, a dozen birds additional. On the fork of a 

 large dead free, called a "rampike" by my companions, we 

 p.aw a liuge snowy owl. The bird is called in Newfound- 

 land the "while owl." ft is the iVyctea nirm. it had upon 

 the limb, in its claws, ii grouse, which if had begun to rend, 

 when i e.'ive it. one of mv barrels. Strange to say, the weal 

 stupid thing did not fall, though T knew T must have riddled 

 it; but, rising, it. Hew with its prey in its claws, lighting 

 upon a bank of snow. 1 ran up to w it Hi m twenty paces, 

 and gave, it another charge, which did not kill the bird, 

 however, but only prevented its flight. 



"You might fire at one of these fellow., tor a week/' said 

 lay companions, "and not kill him." When we went up 

 we found the snow stained with blood and the. owl clinging 

 still to its prey, and when one of us approached it with »ur 

 hand it would open and snap its beak that you might hear 

 the noise made a gunshot awav. It was only with great 

 difficulty I took the grouse out of the bird's claws, and then 

 I beat the head of the huge thing' against a tree, as I wanted 

 to get its skin, But I could not kill it; this way aud was 

 Obliged to tie a piece of small cord with all my strength 

 around its neck, l! then suffocated in about live minutes. 



We had to cross several morasses aud tracts covered with 

 heath in summer, and over these the. wind whistled, biting 

 fiercely, and the drifts blew blindingly. The trader led the 

 way through the fearful storm and the rest blindly followed. 

 It was with a feeling next to rapture that I entered a dense 

 patch of forest where the pines and the firs grew tall and 

 afforded shelter, and in its very midst we stopped by the 

 side of a cozy looking tilt. J. E. Collins. 



Tob.onto, Canada. 



AMERICAN HIGH-PRESSURE. 



[From an after-dinner speech, l)y Herbert Spencer.] 



It seems to me that in one respect Americans have di- 

 verged too widely from savages. I do not mean to say that 

 tb&y are. in general unduly civilized. Throughout" large 

 parts of the population, even in long-settled regions, there 

 is no excess of those virtues needed for the maintenance of 

 stcial harmony. Especially out in the West, men's dealings 

 do not yet betray too much of the "sweetness and light," 

 which we are told distinguish the cultured man from the 

 barbarian. Nevertheless, there is a sense in which my asser- 

 tion is true. You know that the primitive man lacks powei 

 of application. Spurred by hunger, by danger, by revenge, 

 he can exert himself energetically for a time; but his energy 

 is spasmodic. Monotonous daily toil is impossible to him. 

 It is otherwise with the more developed man. The stern 

 discipline of social life has gradually increased the aptitude 

 for persistent industry, until among us, and still more among 

 you, work has become, with manv a passion. This contrast 

 of nature has another aspect. The savage thinks ouly of 

 present satisfactions, and leaves future satisfactions uncared 

 for. Contrariwise, the American, eagerly pursuing a future 

 good, almost ignores what good th« passing day offers him; 

 and when the future good is gained, he neglects that while 

 striving for. sunn- still remoter good. 



What I have seen and heard during my stay among you 

 has forced on me the belief that this slow change from hab- 

 itual inertness to persistent activity has reached an extreme 

 from which there must begin a counter change — a reaction. 

 Everywhere I have been struck with the number of faces 

 which told in strong lin-s of the burdens that bad to be borne. I 

 have been struck, too, with the large proportion of gray-haired 

 men, and inquiries have brought out the fact that with you 

 the hair commonly begins to turn some ten years earlier than 

 •with us. Moreover, in every circle 1 have met men who had 

 themselves suffered .from "nervovs collapse due to stress 

 Of business, or named friends who had either killed them- 

 selves by overwork, or had been permanently incapacitated, 

 or had wasted long periods in endeavors to recover health 



I do but echo the opinion of all the observant persons 1 

 have spoken to, that immense, injury is being done by this 

 high-pressure life — the physique is being undermined, * That 

 subtle thinker and poet whom you have lately had to mourn, 

 Emerson, says, in his essay on the gentleman, that the first 

 requisite is that he shall be a good animal. The requisite 

 is a general one — it extends to the man, to the father, to the 

 citizen. We hear a great, deal about "the vile body," and 

 many are encouraged by the phrase to transgress the law of 

 health. But nature quiety surpasses those who treat thus 

 disrespectfully one of her highest products, and leaves the 

 world to be peopled by the descendants of those who are 

 not so foolish. 



Beyond these, immediate mischiefs there are remoter mis- 

 chiefs. Exclusive devotion to work has the result that 

 amusements cease to please ; and, when relaxation becomes 

 imperative, life becomes dreary from lack of its sole interest 

 — the interest in business. The remark current in England 

 that, when the American travels, his aim is to do the great- 

 est amount, of sight-seeing in the shortest lime, 1 find 

 current here also. It is recognized thai the satisfaction of 

 getting on devours nearly all other satisfactions. When 

 recently at Niagara, which gave us a whole week's pleasure, 

 I learned from the. landlord of the hotel that most Americans 

 come. one day and go away the next. Old Froissart, who 

 said of the English of his day that "they lake their pleas- 

 fires sadly after, their fashion," would doubtless, if lie lived 

 now, say' of the Americans that they lake their pleasures 

 hurriedly after Ihcir fashion. In large measure with us, 

 and still more with you, there is not that abandonment, to 

 the moment which is requisite for full enjoyment ; aud this 

 abandonment is prevented by the ever-present sense of 

 multitudinous responsibilities. So that, beyond the serious 

 physical mischief caused by overwork, there is the further 

 mischief that it destroys what value there, would otherwise 

 be in the leisure part of life. 



Nor do the evil* end here. There is the injury to posteri- 

 ty. Damaged constitutions reappear in children, and entail 

 on them far more of ill than great fortunes yield them of 

 good. When life has bren duly rationalized by science.it 

 Will be seen that among a man's duties care of' the body is 

 imperative, not only out of regaidfor personal welfare, hut; 

 also out of regard for descendants. Uis constitution will be 

 considered as an entailed estate, which he ought to pass on 

 uninjured, if no! improved, to those who follow; and it will 

 be held that millions bequeathed by him will not, compen- 

 sate for feeble health and decreased ability to enjoy life. 

 Once more, there is the injury to fellow citizens, taking the 

 Shape of undue disregard. of competitors. I hear that a 

 great trade)' among you deliberately endeavored to crush 

 ©nt every one whose business competed with his own; and 

 manifestly the man who, making himself a slave to accu- 

 mulation,' absorbs an inordinate share of the trade, or profes- 

 sion he is engaged in, makes life harder for all others en- 

 gaged in it, and excludes from it many who might other- 



wise gain competencies. Thus, besides the egoistic motive, 

 there are. two altruistic motives which should deter from 

 I his excess in work. 



The truth is, there ueede a revised ideal of life. Look back 

 through the past, or look abroad through the. present, and 

 we And that the ideal of life is variable, and . depends on so. 

 cial conditions. Every one knows that to be a successful 

 warriorwas the highest aim among all^aucient peopled of note, 

 as it is still among many barbarous peoples. When we re 

 member that iu the Norseman's heaven the time was to be 

 passed iu daily battles, with magical healing of wounds, we 

 see how deeply rooted may become the conception that 

 lighting is man's proper business, and that industry is tit 

 only for slaves and people of low degree. That is to say, 

 when the chronic struggles of races necessitate perpetual 

 wars, there is evolved an ideal of life adapted to the require- 

 ments. We have, changed all that in modern civilized soci- 

 eties, especially in England and still more in America. 

 With the decline of militant activity, and the growth of indus- 

 trial activity, the occupations once disgraceful have, become 

 honorable. ' The duty to work has taken the place of the 

 duty to fight; and in the one case, as in the other, the 

 ideal of life has become so well established that scarcdy 

 any dream of questioning it. Practical business has been 

 substituted for war as the purpose of existence. 



Is this modern idea to survive throughout the future? I 

 think Hot. While all other things undergo continuous 

 change, it is impossible that ideals should remain fixed. 

 The ancient ideal was appropriate to the ages of conquest 

 by mau over man, and spread of the strongest races. The 

 modern ideal is appropriate to ages in which conquest of 

 the earth aud subjection of the powers of nature to human 

 use is the predemiuant need. But hereafter, when both 

 these ends have in the main been achieved, the ideal formed 

 will probably differ considerably from the present oue. 

 May we not foresee the nature of the difference? I think we 

 may. Some twenty years ago a good friend of mine and a 

 good friend of yours," too. though you never saw him, .Tnbn 

 Stuart Mill delivered at St. Andrew's an inaugural address 

 on the occasion of his appointment to the Lord Reatorship. 

 It contained much to i.e admired, as did all he wrote. There 

 rau through it, however, the tacit assumption that life is for 

 learning and working. I felt at the lime that I should have 

 liked to take up (he opposite thesis. I should have liked to 

 contend that life is not for learning, nor is life, for working, 

 but learning and working are for life. The primary use of 

 knowledge is for such guidance of conduct, under all cir- 

 cumstances, as shall make living complete. All other uses 

 of knowledge are secondary. It scarcely needs -saying that 

 the primary use of work is that of supplying the mate 

 rials and aids to living completely, and that any oilier uses 

 of work are secondary. But in men's conceptions the 

 secondary has in great measure usurped the place of the 

 primary. The apostle of culture as it is commonly con- 

 ceived," Mi - . Mallhew Arnold, makes little or no reference to 

 the fact that the first use of knowledge is the right ordering 

 of all actions; and Mr. Carlyle, Who is a good exponent of 

 current ideas about work, insists on its virtues for quite 

 oilier reasons than that it achieves sustentalion. • 



We may trace everywhere m human affairs a tendency to 

 transform t lie means into the, end. All see that the miser 

 does this when, making the accumulation of money his sole 

 satisfaction, he. forgets that money is of value only to pur- 

 chase satisfactions. But it is less commonly seen" that the 

 like is true of the work by which the mono}' is accumulated; 

 thai industry, too. bodily or mental, is but a means, and 

 that it is as irrational to pursue il to the exclusion of that 

 complete living it subserves, as it is for the miser to accu- 

 mulate money and make no use of it. Hereafter, when this 

 age of active material progress has yielded mankind its 

 benefits, there will, I think, come a better adjustment of 

 labor and enjoyment. Among reasons for thinking this, 

 there is the reason for the process of evolution throughout 

 the organic world at large brings an increasing surplus of 

 energies that are not absorbed in fulfilling material needs, 

 aud points to a still larger surplus for humanity of the 

 future. And there are other reasons, which I must pass 

 over. In brief, I may say that we have had somewhat loo 

 much of the "gospel of work." It is time to preach the 

 gospel of relaxation. 



This is a very unconventional after-dinner speech, Es- 

 pecially it will be thought strange that in returning thanks 

 I should deliver something very much like a homily. But 

 I have thought. I could not better convey my thanks than by 

 the expression of a sympathy which issues in a fear. If, as 

 I gather, this intemperance in work affects more especially 

 the Anglo-American part of the population — if tflere results 

 an undermin'ngof the physique, not only in adults, but also 

 in the young, who, as I learn from the daily journals, are 

 also being injured by overwork — if the ultimate consequence 

 should be a dwindling away of those among you who are 

 the inheritors of free institutions and best adapted to them; 

 then there will come a further dillleully in the working out 

 of that great future which lies before the American nation. 

 To my anxiety on this account you must please ascribe the 

 unusual character of my remarks. 



AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL FRAGMENTS.-V. 



BEING EXTRACTS FROM AN ElUTOK'S COniiKSPONDENOU. 



* * * 1 have hunted over twenty years of my life as a 

 profession, in the wilds of Northern Maine. I hunted alone 

 and camped alone many years; have followed hunting lines 

 sixty-five miles long with traps all the way, which took all 

 the week days — I did not hunt Sundays — through the season. 

 I have killed seventy-three black bears, between fifty and 

 sixty moose and several hundred Canada lynx, beside oari 

 bou, red deer, otter, fishes, fox, mink, martin and other 

 game. I trapped forty-nine lynx in one season. 



I have caught tons of brook trout, both summer and 

 winter, from nine, pounds down. I am familiar with all the 

 northern counties of Maine bordering on the Canada line. 

 The mountains, brooks, rivers and ponds are well-known to 

 me. I have sold much villus of living and dead animals and 

 specimens of natural history to Professor Agassiz for the 

 Cambridge Musenm. 



As Anniversary.— November ft.— By the way, this is 

 a Sort of anniversary day with me. .lusi" twenty-five years 

 ago to-day I shot a glossy, short-legged black bear, the. meat 

 of which weighed live hundred pounds. And always on 

 the tenth of November I take an extra nip, and go back ("in 

 my mind's eye, Horatio") to that bark camp on the rattling, 

 rushing Second Fork. Ah, adpn mea ! Do we grow old, 

 as it were? When shall I see such another? — Nessmuk, 



^Haturxl ]§i§iotg. 



A RUFFED GROUSE SKETCH. 



WHAT A NATURALIST 



SAM and 1 had been hunting ruffed 

 a. week, and Sunday had final ly 



rest for the week ahead." It was a gloria 

 tie quaint village in Wagner count v, Pi 



grouse eVfery day for 

 'it us to" a halt to 



abbath in a lit- 

 We sat on the 

 stone slab at the kitchen door of the old farm house, aud 

 smoked our pipes in contentment, watching the ycllovt 

 leaves as they la/.by fcig-isagged doW) to the ground from 

 the limbs of the half bare maples, and the aiil.iopiibull.er- 

 flies slowly Hilling from one decayed apple to another under 

 the trees in the orchard close by. " The old blue dove on the 

 eaves of the. barn cooed occasionally in a quaint, Sunday 

 way as he basked in the November sunshine', and the hens 

 were half asleep in the holes where they had been dusting 

 themselves an hour before, in front of the bam door. Belle 

 and Carrie were curled up in the grass near us, dreaming of 

 grouse Unit never Hushed wild; and everything was still. 

 The sound of the church bell down in the village seemed far 

 away, and mellowed as though in harmony with the eslor 

 of the beech and maple woods through which ils vibrations 

 reached us. 



"Sam!" said I, "Those grouse down by the rock cut will 

 be in the frost grapes this morning, and I'm going down 

 across the lot to see if I can get near them. Don't let the 

 dogs follow me." 



The dry leaves, a foot d«ep, along the fence by the grape- 

 vines seemed to rustle louder than they ever did' before, as I 

 cautiously climbed over tin; rails, but no grouse was near 

 to be frightened, and although expecting the sudden dash 

 and whir every moment, I got near to the further side of 

 the little patch of vines without starting a bird, and sitting 

 down in the leaves with my back against a mossy boulder, 

 refilled my pipe and waited. In a few minutes there was a 

 pattering of vary light footsteps in the leaves back of me. 

 Nearer and nearer they came, stopping for a second and 

 then proceeding again, coming my way all of the while. 

 Suddenly a surprised "peet" on' the right caused me to 

 slowly turn my eyes in that direction, and there, within six 

 feet, was a splendid male grouse, with crest erect and tail 

 half spread, looking curiously at me. I kept stiller than 

 half a mouse, and the old fellow satisfied himself thai, I vras 

 harmless. He came a few steps nearer, clucking all of the 

 while, and mounting a stone, spread his tail to its fullest ex- 

 tent, and with crest and tail ere it, with ruff displayed, and 

 with wings drooping to his feel, he turned two or three 

 times around, like a turkey gobbler. Then composing 

 himself again lie took another good look and walked around 

 in front. 



At that moment another grouse, a younger one, had come 

 around the rock by which I was sitting,"and he too went 

 through the same performance, but not in such line style. 

 Both birds then walked on a way, watching me all of the 

 while, and soon four more grouse came in sight. They 

 walked within three rods, but paid me no attention, and 

 busied themselves picking up fallen frost grapes. Suddenly 

 there was a rush overhead and a grouse alighted in the vine's 

 just above me and commenced picking at a bunch of grapes. 

 his smooth plumage with the dark markings on the sides 

 seeming more beautiful than anything I had overseen. Once 

 in a while he looked down at me over his shoulder, erected 

 his crest and gave an interested "peet, peet," and then 

 went on picking grapes again. 



In a short time eleven grouse were in sight, moving about 

 as gracefully as could be, putting their little feet lightly 

 down on the dead leaves, aud all engaged in hunting for 

 food. One of them flew up to the one already in the vines, 

 and then nearly all followed, and commenced picking the 

 grapes that hung in scattered clusters. 



All of this while I had remained perfectly quiet, bill my 

 position was fast becoming uncomfortable. Ait edge o"f 

 rock was boring into the middle of my back; another sharp 

 piece had done its level best to penetrate the back of my 

 head, and a jagged stump had worked just as far into my 

 leg as it could possibly get without amputating the leg, and 

 I had to move. The grouse all seemed alarmed at me. 

 They sal straight and motionless among the, vines, but none 

 flew. For sevetal minutes they remained in this position. 

 aud knowing that I was discovered I arose, expecting to see 

 all dart off at once. This they did not do, however, but 

 started slowly one at a time, and sailed off only a few rods 

 into the woods. 



How different the scene the next day, when with fast 

 ranging setters we. found them down in the ravine and sent 

 bounding into the ferns, with feathers flying, three or four 

 of the proudest of the flock, "Mark Wkst. 



BREEDING QUAIL IN CONFINEMENT. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



A number of communications have appeared iu your 

 recent issues on the breeding of quail in confinement which, 

 while containing many valuable suggestions as to their 

 Bare, have iu no case given exact information as to the age 

 to which they were reared, in my experience, out of a 

 considerable number of attempts, only three broods reached 

 the age of from five to six weeks, and of these three, two of 

 our common quail, Orty.r rirtjinitinu*, and oik of the valley 

 quail, l.oph'/rty.r nih'fornin.nus, none; survived the period 

 stated, though up to that time all had apparently been in the 

 best condition and had received all attention. In a number 

 of cases, which I have personally investigated, where these 

 birds were said to have been "raised." I have found thai 

 they were put out intentionally when a few weeks old. or the 

 boxes were so arranged that the young birds could escape 

 into the fields when they were strong enough to scramble 

 over a low board. 



My experience with the ruffed grouse has been naieli the 

 same as with quail. The dillisulty of raising birds belong- 

 ing to this family is very great, and it would be interesting 

 to know if any of your correspondents have succeeded in 

 carrying them safely to malurityunder conditions of domes- 

 tication! ARTni'u Erwin Brown. 



BOOUHHOAI GMOura, Philadelphia, Nov. 13,1882. 



Edttor lunrst , < it.! Stream: 





Several of us were seated about the stove a 



the hotel at 



Havt's Corners, New York, a short time since. 



talking over 



the day's quail shouting and the subject of qua 



il in general. 



Adam Sheridan, the proprietor of the hotel. 



said that he 



tried to breed quail iu confinement for some 



time without 



