286 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[NOTBMBBB 10. 1881- 



Our tent, was in form like a shed — a roof and two sides, 

 but emirely open in front. 1 was seven fe'twide, seven 

 deep, and seven high in front sloping down to l he ground be- 

 hind. M-de of the lighe-t duck, it weighed but a few 

 pounds, and when not in use wus rolled up and shoved into 

 a bag twenty-four by ten inches, It was pitched on two up- 

 right poles, and stretched tight hh a drum, aud held iu posi- 

 tion by tide and front guys of rope. 



This was our "house in the bush." Jim cuts wood for the 

 fire; George, spruce boughs for our bed. Tent is pitched, 

 fragrant bed laid, fire crackling, and supper cooking before 

 darkne-8 comes on We eat by the light of the flames, the 

 forest gloom leigh'ened by the bright circle around. 



The guides chat wiih each other in French, and with me 

 in the sime longue as long us I understand hem, only chang- 

 ing to Euglish when the expression of niy face shows that 

 they have got beyond my depth in French. 



My compauionsfurnhh a go d illustration of the vigor and 

 tenscily of the Frein h language, and its power to hold its 

 o«n and increase i ven when brought into contact with the 

 English. Jim and George Dal I are of pure English stock. 

 Ttieir parents were the children of British soldiers and their 

 British wives, members of a military colony settled by Eng- 

 land in this wilderness. The colony received many privi- 

 leges, and its original members drew rations from the Eng- 

 lish Government as long as they lived. 



But the Acadian French settled around this colony of 

 Britons. The two languages came into competition, and to- 

 d <y the Fi ench is victorious, while the English has almost 

 disappeared. My gu des. the grandsons of Briiiatt soldiers, 

 abhou^h speaking English, prefer French, and always use it 

 when talk ng to each other; while the children ot Junes, 

 who married an Acadian, neither speak nor understand a 

 word of our language, but use Freneli exclusively. 



Some fresh logs are thrown upon our birchen andirons ; 

 the great soggy back-log glows aotw, and ihe flames crackle 

 and leap on high. We he back on the fragrant boughs of 

 the spruce, our feet to the fire that flares the whole wi ith of 

 the open tent, and fa 1 asleep, watching the sparks course 

 upward past the tull dark tree-tops, and lose themselves 

 amid the siars of heaven. 



The song of a bird awoke us. It was still dark ; a dismal 

 fog filled the forest. No sign of day was given to the eye, 

 but the wild bird's song told us surely the day has dawned. 



It was a plaintive little twittering— a lone voice of the 

 lonely wood— that ushered in this August day. How differ- 

 ent from the full chorus of a thousand songsters that heralds 

 the dawn of a day in spring ! 



Soon adull gray light began to filter down through the dark 

 gr*y fog. Then the song ceased. Dawn had como to our 

 dimmer eyes. 



The cheerful fire had turned into a feathery mass of white 

 ashes, where one live coal glowed like a fiery eye. Over 

 this George builds a- cob-house of chips, and is soon rewarded 

 with a blaze. I take a plunge into the stream, and before I 

 am fairly dressed, G orge calls to breakfast — buckwheat 

 cakes smoking hot, fried salt pork, and a steaming cup of 

 coffee. We sit on a log, or stump, or box, and, with tin 

 plate in lap, make a royal meal. 



"Will ybu have some map'e syrup on yer cakes, sir?" 



"Of course I will; but where did yon get this luxury?" 



'• O ■, we reduces it, sir, with water from our block o' 

 maple -ugar.'' 



Del ciou3 syrup it was, too ; and the buckwheats were no 

 fancy, fragile, hotel affaiiB. Each cake was just the bigness 

 of the frying-pan, and half an inch thick ; light and palata- 

 ble they were, though, and in the woods, I am sure no one 

 could cherish any animosity toward them on account of their 

 size. 



«e struck camp, packed our traps, pushed the pirogue 

 over the fallen tree, where it had hung all night, and po'efl 

 down steam. It was but twenty minutes past seven. The 

 river f g broke in rifts over >e id, and tie warm blue sky 

 looked through. The brook grew ileeper; our dug-out s ill 

 prated on the ba>s, but We pushed her over without jumping 

 into the water, aud poled on d y shod and thankful. Soon a 

 large brook pours iu on our right, and with its add^d volume 

 we g ide smoothly along. 



Now tbe current becomes sluggish, the water dark and 

 deep. We int r an alder s a amp, through which the stream 

 winds aud twists, like "Ihe sinuous Songo." The alder 

 bushes protrude into the water fiom either bank, their long 

 stems interlock, and ttieir branche- form a plaited leafy bar- 

 rier across our pathway, the brook, which runs under the 

 thicket, aud vanishes as completely as if it ft iwed into ihe 

 bowels of the ejrth. Puddle and pole are useless: we lie 

 flat on our b cks, catch hold of the net-work of branches 

 oveihead, and pull the pirogue through ihe jungle that chokes 

 the livulel. We grope our way slowly. The boughs grate, 

 rub and scratch • ver ihe ea>toe and ourselves, ih ir letves all 

 dripping wiih tbe morning mist. L was tbe blindest sail 1 

 ever took. Better a ■' dungeon o' log" on the upi n sea. 



bo we crawl on for a mile, thieading the labyrmih of an 

 aid r swamp, then witti a cheer shoot out into a rippling 

 rivet thrice the s z ■ of our brook. The broad current lapses 

 between peb ily beaches, a stately forest rises troin either 

 bank, wooded moun ains tower athwart the vista of the 

 stieam, andoveb ad sm les the clear blue sky, into which 

 the last r >gg' d vestiges of ihe fog are dissolving. 



We stand erect iu the canoe, stretch our n cks and arms, 

 devoutly thankiul for a clear sky aud an op i n stream. Then 

 we run the pirogue ashore on a gravelly bar, cast overboard 

 a cargo of leave-, twigs and broken alder branches bail out, 

 dry ourselves in tie sun, and shove off down the Gateno 

 River, ditti uliies past and fair s.iliug ahead. 



The water was cle.r as crystal, yet of a tawny color, like 

 dark anther, Ii ri| pled lighi yedow over pebbly bars, swirled 

 dark, deep and brown rouud the broad crescent of a curving 

 pool, then rippled on again. Our catioe slid a'ong on its 

 glasBy current through a primeval forest. The regular plash 

 of the setting-poles into the water and their sharp grate 

 agaii 8t the gravel bottom were the only soundB that broke 

 the resful calm. Soon Jim ch tuts a quaint French song, and 

 the p les Bwing iu time to the tune. We glide through a 

 wide intervale, c >vered with rich tall grass and dotted with 

 stately elms, which rise like Corinthian columns from the 

 plain. 



N 'W our river strikes a spur of the mountain, is d< fleeted 

 to the north, ripp es through a stretch cii forest, then opens 

 out. into a swampy lev. 1, overgrown with tall rank reeds and 

 grasses, through which the passing brCLze waves like a run- 

 ning fire. 



Jim ceases singing. The guides noiselessly stow the poles 

 away aud lake to the paddles. 



"Art; you t cady, sir ?" asks Jim. 



" Kea'.y for what?" 



" There might be a moose along here, sir, or a caribou, 

 perhaps." Out spiingB my gun. "They comes down to 



pluces like this iu the summer, and wades out into the water 

 up to their necks, and browses round on the grass and lilies 

 and the like o' that, sir ; aud if you paddle along quet like, 

 mebbe you'll get on to 'em, but if they hears yer pule strlkfi 

 the bottom, never a one '11 you Mt whatever — they'll be off 

 befote ever you comes in sight. Hut we'll soon come to a 

 handy chmce for 'em now, sir, in a boga/t to yer right." 



" And whit's a bogan ?" 



" That's an Injun name, sir ; but mebbe you've heird it 

 called logan, or perhaps poke-logan. They's all Injun names 

 for a place where the dead water backs up out of a river, and 

 makes a kind o' shall r pond like up into the grass and swamp. 

 But look out, sir," added Jim, dropping bis voice to a whis- 

 per' "we're right on to it," 



The pirogue drifted slowly past the mouth of a shallow 

 lagoon, covered with lily-pads, fringed with reeds, and 

 skirted by the forest. We intently watched every obp et as 

 it slid into view by the narrow mouth of the login. Every 

 instant I expected to see a branching pair of antlers rise with 

 a splash as a moose bounded trom water into cover. But the 

 logan was passed without sight or sound. 



Is ii merely a coincidence that the sheet of water the In- 

 dian calls logan we name lagoon, from the Ita'ian lagune? 



As there are no moose, Jim and George take their poles 

 again, and our long hollow log is propelled steadily through 

 the still water of the broadening, currentless river. 



Rounding a point, we come suddenly upon a bittern 

 pei died in an alder bush at the edge of the water, beak and 

 neck raised in a perpendicular, and Btifi* as a skewer. He 

 looked so oddly, standing bolt-upright, with his beak point- 

 ing to the zenith, that, although we passed within three feet, 

 we made no effort to catch him. I soon regret'ed that we 

 had not added him to our supplies for the pot, so we backed 

 the canoe to rectify our error. 



"It's a young 'tin,' quoth Jim; "he can't fly; that's why 

 he was a-prayin' with his hill up. This pole is the boy for 

 him. Jest you look here and see me take him in." 



But even as he spoke the bittern sprang out of the bush 

 and flew up stream. I at once shot him on the wing. Jim 

 had turned his back on Ihe bittern in disgust the instant he 

 flew, and looking at me as I raised my gun and fired, ex- 

 claimed, " Mou Dieu, monsieur, what kind of a gun is that 

 as goes off before you take aim? Was it an accident, sir, 

 or did you fire at anything?" 



" Look ahead," I answered. 



Jim turned around, and now saw the bittern lying dead 

 ou the water close by. 



He picked him up with a mystified expression, and look- 

 ing at me, asked, " Did you kill him, sir?" 



"Yes." 



"When you fired then ?" 



" Of course." 



"And the bird a-flyin' through the sir all the time! Well, 

 sir, I never saw that thing done before, and you're the 

 greatest hunter for a gentleman that ever came to these 

 Takes.'' 



Imagine, my sporting friend, you who can cut down a 

 dozen woodcock in cover without missing a shot, how remote 

 those lakes must he where shooting on the wing was never 

 heard of, and bringing down one lubherly bittern in the open 

 is sufficient to establish one's reputation as a great humeri 



We soon saw a flock of shelldrake swimmiug on the river. 

 As we drew near, they scampered away over the gla-sy sur- 

 'ace at great speed, using their wings as paddh s, and spla-h- 

 ing ihe water into spray. Each oue left a double wake be- 

 hind him, and all together they looked like a fleet of minia- 

 tuie side, wheel sleameis racing down river, all steam on, 

 safety-valve tied down, and paddles whirling around in 

 sm king haBte. 



They will not go far. It is "out of sight out of mind" 

 nilh a sheldrake. So we paddle cautiously down stream 

 close to the busby left bank, sme of finding our game where- 

 ever their fears left them. Reaching a bend in the stream we 

 lie down level with the gunwale The long dug-out swings 

 round the point as idly as a drifting log. Th re are the 

 shelldrake swimming in mid-river. They eye our log sus- 

 piciously; 'bey doubt, they fear, they draw together for an- 

 other caiiiper. Tnis was the sportsman's opportunity lor a 

 raking shot. I stop three of ihem deal with a shot trom the 

 right barrel, and drop a fourth with the left as the flock scuds 

 away out of danger. 



As we pick up our game, Jim remarks, "The gun is better 

 than the rod to-day, sir." 



True enough. For though I had cast my most tempting 

 flies over many a goodly pool as we glided down stream, not 

 a from had yet risen to the lure. 



As we pu-m on, the river-b inks grow lower, the woods 

 more open, glimmerings from a distance shoot betw> en the 

 tree trunks, little vistas penetrate the forest, rill at last, 

 rounding a turn, the broad expanse of Great Eatrie Lake 

 bursts upon our vie a — a broad sheet of silver wa'er nine 

 miles long, lying in the tap of wojded mountains, basking 

 beneath a summer's sun. 



Looking at my watch I find it is but twenty minutis past 

 ten, only three hours since we pushed off from our camp, 

 yet we had run many miles of brook and river, and experi- 

 enced enough of pleasure and adventure to fill an ordinary 

 week. 



But one thing we had not seen on the whole route, a single 

 good camp ground— a fact to which Jim repeatedly called my 

 attention, and which he well knew showed the wisdom of he 

 last night's choice. We pulled ashore on the bank of this 

 lake, stretched our limbs, took a lunch, bailed out, and soon 

 were en mute again. Selecting an attractive cast of large 

 flies, I trolled them far astern to entice, if might be, the 

 monarch of the lake into our frying-pan. 



I< was a breali less summer day us we paddled down the 

 Gt eat Eagle. The lake lay like a mirror among the virgin 

 hills We could see nine miles over its glassy surface, to 

 where a notch in the wooded hill crest betrayed the outlet. 

 Mountains clad and plumed with forest primeval rolled up 

 in giant undulations on every hand. No civil zed habita- 

 tion liad ever desecrated thissolitude. It had ever been free 

 from the sound of the hammer as the Temple of Solomon. 

 All around us, stretching away league on league, waB a vast 

 uuhrokeu wilderness. In its heart smiled the lake, brim- 

 med by the eternal hills, filled with the hush and heat of a 

 summer noon. 



George and Jim, bnw and stern, kept their paddles dip- 

 ping in perfect time; the regular whish of the keen blades 

 through the water alone broke the noontide calm, and 

 seemed at last the monotonous lullaby of the l»zy day. I 

 was getting drowsy; my h ad dooped ag inst the pack be- 

 hind. Jim rolled up i ho end of the bufl'alo-skin for a pil- 

 low, and I dozed to sleep. 



"What's that black on the beach yonder?" It was 

 George's voice that spoke. I was wide-awake in a twink- 

 ling, and glancing in the direction of his raised paddle, saw 



a black speck over a mile away on the narrow strip of beach 

 between woods and water. 



Can it be ? — yes, it moves — a bear ! Glorious ! 



The black dot passes d >wn to the edge of the lake, pauses, 

 moves along the shore, runs out upon a low sand--pit, and 

 appear a silhouette against th - br gtr water beyond. " See 

 the cub with her !' whispers Jim. But the cub stands mo, 

 tionless— a tuft of tall grass, while the bear vanishes over 

 the cape. 



Tne guides dip their paddles deep and strong ; the pirogue 

 glides swifily, noiselessly over the mirror of water. Not a 

 word is 8 iid. 1 proceed to get ready. My only fire-arm was 

 a 7^-pound 12-gauge double-bemlied shot-guu— a light, 

 hanay pi> cc for snipe and woodcock. I had brought it with 

 me hoping to make an agreeable diversion in the fish and 

 pork diet of camp life, in case we should fall in with duck 

 or partridge. 



As I was loading cartridges with Nos. Sand 8 shot at home 

 a few days before, I thought,, What, if I should see a moose, 

 or bear, or caribou?— so 1 loaded eight shells with nine buck- 

 shot each. The shot were as large as pistol bullets, three of 

 them exactly chambered in a No. 13 shell. I carefully 

 placed them in three layers of three shot each, with a thin 

 wad between each layer. 



I drew my gun out of its case, slipped in a couple of the 

 buck-shot cartridges, and put four more in my pocket. 



We were now close to the hither side of the cape. George 

 lies down in front ; Jim paddles silently in the stern ; pirogue 

 moves ahead inch by inch toward the point of the cape; 1 sit 

 with gun full cock across my knees, my neck craned out, 

 scanning every object on the further shore as it comes into 

 view over the low sand-spit. 81owly we draw on round the 

 cape ; the whole further shore lies before us, but no bear. 

 All was as silent as the suushiue. 



Ab we sit speechless the chattering of a squirrel sounds 

 from the forest. Instantly the guides nod to each other, and 

 dip their paddles. Noiselessly the pirogue touches the 

 beach. George picks up his axe and steps ashore; I follow 

 with my bird gun. The squirrel still chatters angrily from 

 the depths of the wood; George bieathsnot a whisper, hut 

 his face is wreathed in the pleasantest and most fantastic 

 grimances, and he points continually toward the chattering 

 with his axe. 



A few stealthy steps, and we gain the edge of the woods. 

 We peer in— nothing bear-like to be seen. Cautiously we 

 press the branches aside, and silently creep on. 



As we pass from the sunny lake into thedeep gloom of the 

 woods 1 recollect I am in my shirt sleeves, aud consider for 

 a moment the probable resistence a thin woolen hunting shirt 

 would offer to the claws of a bear. 



The forest we had entered was a dense growth of cedars, 

 mixed with spruce and pine. The trees stood close together, 

 with low branches, and were plentifully interspersed with 

 windfalls, lying breast-high on rotton branches, and forming 

 an admirable natural abatis against our advancing column of 

 two armed with axe and shot-uun. 



George moves on hke a shadow straight for the squirrel 

 that still chatters and scolds and swears from the depths' of 

 the cedar jungle. I veer to the right. We worm ourselves 

 between the th ck trunks, anil under the ticker branches. 



A low "Shi" catches my ear. I turn toward George. 

 "Here he is!" is written all over his face. He points 

 directly ahead, then shakes his axe, aDd points and points 

 again. 



1 look, stretch up and look, crouch down and look, but 

 see nothing save the tree trunks. 



George grows impatient. He thinks I do not understand 

 him. 



" Le voici 1 Here he is!" he hisses. But Bruin hears as 

 well as I. "Non le voila ! There he goes I" 



1 hear a whine and a grunt thaL remind me of a menagerie, 

 and ihrough the thick cedar trunks and the dead branches of 

 a fallen pine catch a flitting glimpse of shambling blackness. 



1 fire a snap shot, as 1 would ata woodcock darting ihrough 

 the aider tops. Ttie smoke hangs under the thick bianches, 

 and shuts out all before me. 



"He's down! Nous J'avons!" yel's George. The report 

 of the gun has broken the spell of the forest silence, aud 

 Gtorge t hangts fiom a serpent to a tiger. 



" No," he cries ; "he's off again. Fire I" 



1 fire my left barrel ihrough the smoke with " eye of faith," 

 and cramming in a couple of fresh cartrdges, George and I 

 rush on, if any mode of progress through a tangled cedar 

 swamp can be called a rush. We kick aud wrest off the dry 

 dean branches, scramble over the fallen pi e ; but the bear ? 

 Nowhere a sign of him. Nothing but forest and silence. 



George ke ps on ; I do my best to folio vv. He glides along 

 like a cat, in one hand an Uplifted axe, de-cending now and 

 then io sever an opposing bough. He geis over the ground 

 two feet to my one. 



" Le voila, qui B'en va! There he goes again! Venez! 

 Come on!" cries George; and I perform the speedi st c lin- 

 ing on of which I am capable. Sioa' enough it is, though. 

 Every few steps the tangled tiranch s of a tailed cedar must 

 be burst through, but on I press and scramble aud tumble 

 and crawl till George is reached. He stands on a prostrate 

 tree, axe upraised, head bent forward and to one side— an 

 admirable statue of alertness. 



' ' Ecoutez ! Listen ! " he whispers, 



A moment's stillness. Then a crackling, loud and near, 

 up the hillside. George j-unps through the thicket, and 

 springs up the slope like a fl ish. 



Follow him ? 1 could as easily flit up to heaven without 

 wings. So 1 scramble on through the level swamp. It is 

 said "blood will tell ;" 1 can swear that, weight will. The 

 burden of my two hundred pounds handicapped me in this 

 swamp race with a bear Every tDicket I crawled through, 

 every windfall 1 scrambled over, told on me, till at laai I 

 was forced to halt. With perspiration bursting from every 

 pore, and breath only canght in gasps, I leaned against a tree 

 and imagined the feelings of the losing horse in a race. My 

 heart beat loudly as the drumming of a partridge, the whole 

 forest seemed to reverberate with its quick thud, thud, thud, 

 and the blood leaped to head and temples till my brain was 

 in a whirl. 



While the trees were dancing before my reeling sight, I 

 thought, "What an unlucky wight am II After twenty 

 years of small game shooting, to at last actually meet a bear 

 in his haunts in the forest, get within thirty yards of him, 

 on the point of gratifying one of i lie pet ambitions of my life, 

 and then to bang away a couple of shots like a fool with the 

 buck ague, while my noble quarry coolly makes off, and I 

 am left empty-handed 1" 



Worse than that, the brute runs away so slowly that 

 George sees him again and »g»in — keeps up with him, in fact. 

 Alas, my " too, too solid flesh I" Were I a light, nimble 

 fellow like George, I might have shot a bear — yes, a half- 

 dozen times over. And then my gun. What a fool, to 



