NoVKMBKB 10, 1881. J 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



287 



bring a little snipe gun into 'he woods in quest of the king of 

 the forests, the beast before which tdl others quail, from the 

 Atlantic 'o the Mississippi, and then to lire away at this lordly 

 game as I would pull trigger ou a woodcocn I One bird 

 missed, up flip* another. But where shall I find another 

 bear, when I have been all my life getting up will this first 

 one? Then, if I liad only shot him, what yarns I would spin 

 to my sporting friends— 



"Le voici encore! Herehe is again!" sounded George's 

 voice, loud and clear, through' the forest, and cut short my 

 reverie. 



My heart stilled and my brain steadied in an instant. Again 

 I sprang forward. " I may get him yet ; I may retrieve my 

 fortunes," thought I, as I dragged, crawled and pushed my- 

 self ahead through the underbrush. 



George hears me crashing along, and shouts from the 

 mountain-side, " He's ruakin' down by the lake. Right 

 ahead o' yer. Look out for him." 



I scramble ou, impelled by one single strong desire — to 

 get one good fair shot at that bear. 



I keep on and on. Not a word from George. At my 

 right, through the haves 1 catch bright glimpses of the lake 

 sleeping in the sunlight. I slacken my pace. All is silent, 

 as a sanctuary. " Well, the bear is off, and George with him. 

 I'll keep on slowly, cool off, and perhaps get my 'second 

 wind ' that we read about, whatever that may be." Sothink- 

 ing, I sling myself up on a fallen cedar that lay breast-high 

 across my route, swing my legs over, sit and rest for a mo- 

 ment, then leisurely drop down on the other side. 



" Knar-r-r-r-r /" And from under a cedar only seven 

 paces away a mass of blackness springs for me, sudden and 

 swift. 



I have not time to take a step. Had time allowed, there 

 is no opportunity. The fallen cedar is at my back ; I am 

 pinioned between its branches. But no th>>ught of retreat 

 or dodging ente rs my mind. There is time but for one single 

 impulse, and that is — shoot. My gun is in my right baud, 

 both barrels full cock. Instantly I pit cti it to my shoulder, 

 yet in this instant the whole forest scene, with the on-dash- 

 ing black brute in the centre, is accurately and indelibly 

 photographed on my Bight. I see the beast, h aping on all 

 fours, hind quarters high, fore-shoulders low, head down and 

 askew, snout turned to right, lip curled up like-a snarling 

 dog, teeth chattering, and black eyes gleaming with a devil- 

 ish light. On comes the monster with his vibrating, grunt- 

 lag gr >wl, Knarr-r-r-r ! As the gun swings up to my face, 

 I glance along the barrels, and see the snapping teeth of the 

 leaping brute within four feet of my gun muzzle. I fire. 

 The beast falls forward with a heavy thud at my feet. 



1 lower my gun and, with finger on the left trigger, press 

 the muzzle against the monster's head. Ho moves not. 

 Every fibre of my being thrills with a wild, intense delight. 



"Dead!" I yell, with savage glee. 



And from up the mountain-side comes George's answering 

 shout, "Bravo, mon frerel" 



And now comes George himself, crashing and bounding 

 down the steep, and swinging his axe aloft He jumps over 

 our fallen foe, embraces me, dances about like a true French- 

 man, shorn Ing, "Bravo, mon frere! bravo, mon frere! 

 Nous avons vaincu noire ennemi. Sacre ! You old black 

 devil, you! Voici — here you are, mort. Aha!" and grasp- 

 ing me with both hands, words fail us, and we give voice to 

 the wild joy of victory in one long " Halloo !" that wakes 

 the slumbering echoes of the summer lake. The veneer of a 

 thousand years of civilization dropped from us like a gar 

 ment, and the original savage, the fighting animal, the true 

 man within, laughed with a zest that civilization knows 

 not of. 



Jim hoars our shout from down the lake, catches its mean- 

 ing, gleefully hallooes in reply, and paddles swiftly to us in 

 the pir >gue. 



" Here he is, Jim," quoth I. " Voici l'ours." 



Jim peers over the shaggy brute, looks up, takes off his 

 hat, and bowin« toward me, says, with the air of a diplomate 

 offering a sentiment at a royal banquet, '• C'est bien bou, 

 monsieur, heaucoup de pouvoir a votre bras, et meme plus a 

 votre fusil." 



Taking Bruin by the paws, we slid her down the bank. 



"She'll weigh about four hundred," said Jim, reflectively, 

 as we lifted her into tlje pirogue. " But then they're dread- 

 ful lean in summer. Late in the fall, now, she'd go another 

 hundred, sure." 



Jim picked up his axe out of the pirogue, stepped ashore, 

 and hewed a smooth blaze on the trunk of a large cedar that 

 leaned furthest out over the lake. 



"We're in no hurry now, sir," said he. "And'tisn't 

 every day as a gentleman kills a bear. So I thought that 

 mebbe you might like to write something about it here. 

 And if ever you comeB this way agin, you'll know jest where 

 you shot her. And if you never happen on the lake any 

 more, well, other gentleman and guides and trappers will be 

 along, and I'd like to have them know what we done here 

 this day. Bo mebbe you'll put our names down with yours 

 on the tree, sir." 



With a smile at Jim's naive request, I wrote with lead- 

 pencil on the smooth tablet of cedar this inscription : 



BEAR POINT. 



SHOT A REAR AUOUST21, 1S7D. 



W. W. Thomas, Jr., 

 George Ball, 

 James Ball. 



I read it to Jim. He was delighted. Poor fellow, he had 

 never learned to read. 



We paddled to a shaded bit of pebbly beach, the bow of 

 the dug-out almost submerged by the added load. Here the 

 guides'laid Bruin across two logs and, whetting their hunt- 

 ing-knives, commenced to strip off her black jacket. 



The skin was stripped off at. last, with claws, head, jaws 

 and teeth carefully left on. Then we salted it thoroughly on 

 the inside, rolled it up, bound it tightly together with alder 

 withes and stowed it in the bows of the dug-out. The head, 

 with ears still erect, looked backward and faced us. From 

 the carcass we cut steaks enough for the trip, and were soon 

 on our course once more, paddling down the lovely lake. 



" Ye'll excuse me. sir," said Jim, "if I call to yer mind 

 that I was a-sayin' this mornin' as how the gun is better than 

 the rod today. Then we had only birds ; now look at la 

 beigneuresse grinning at you from the bows ;" and Jim re- 

 lapsed into Bilence In the happy consciousness that he had 

 predicted the whole adventure. 



The stmdowB lengthen, and the lake grows dark along the 

 western shore. The rounded wooded hills present a peculiar 

 softness of outline and surface. The forest which covered 

 them seemed soft and yielding as tufted moss. One could 

 magine a giant hand squeezing theBe forest-clad mountains 



as easily as a sponge. This tufted softness is a marked 

 characteristic of our Northern woods. It is m si noticeable 

 iu ridges of maple interspersed wbh beech and birch. 



I troll a cast of flies. Soon I am greeted with a rise, and 

 reel in a half-pound irout. 1 take another, weighing a pound 

 and three-quarters, and as we padole past the mouth of a 

 r aring brook I hook a beauty that kives fine play, and brings 

 down the scdes to two and one-quarter pounds. 



We reach the foot of the Great Eagle before nightfall and 

 camp on a grassy plateau. Lying in our t nt we could look 

 out upon the whole expanse of tne lake and hear the water 

 rippling away through the outlet close beside us. 



After a hearty trout supper the guides soou fell asleep, the 

 stars looked down at themselves in the lake, the camp-fire 

 shot its sparks upward, and I lapsed into a dreamland where 

 bears of gigantic siz u and most grotesque shapes were jump- 

 ing at me from behind every bush. 



At earliest dawn Friday 1 was out with Jim in the pirogue, 

 casting the fly near where a clear mountain brook rolled over 

 gray stones into the bike. White wisps of mist flitted like 

 ghosts over the water and vanished up the mountain side. 

 The trout r.se briskly, and I caught two dozen before 

 George called to breakfast. 



In the forenoon Jim and 1 paddled up the western shore on 

 a voy-ge of discovery. We f >und a large brook, but its out- 

 let was too shoal for trout. We caught but one. Returniug 

 to our trout hole of the morning, I took t*o beauties at the 

 first cast, one three-quarters of a pound, the other a pound 

 and a quarter. At the next cast I hook and basket, three 

 pretty half-pounders. So >->n after a pound trout and two 

 ihubs, one a pound, the other two pounds and a half, fasten 

 at once to my three flie«, and sadly buckle and twist my little 

 ten-ounce rod before I can s-veep them into the landing-net, 

 Jim holding out of the other end of the pirogue to receive 

 them, 



The inquisitive musquito and the investigating black-fly 

 began to trouble us for the first time on the trip. 



" Would you like a smudge, sir?" quoth Jim. 



" Yes ; we'll light one when we get to c .nip. ' 



" But I'll alio v you a boat smudge sir," Jim continued, 

 shooting the pirogue ashore with one shove of his pole. 



He pulls four long strips of bark from the nearest cedar. 

 The strips are about four inches wide and three fe t long. 

 Jim lays them one upon the oiher, binds them carefully to- 

 gether with three abler withes, strikes a match, lights one 

 end of the slender bark bundle, swings it a dozen times 

 through the air, then places it at my side in the stern. The 

 lighted end projects a few inches over the wa'er ; there is no 

 flame; i he hark slowly smolders; thin wreaths of fragrant 

 smoke rise as from a censer ; ihe flies depart and muEquiloes 

 sing disconsolate beyond the charmed cloud of incense float- 

 ing from the cedar. 



" They smokes best wheu the bark is green," said Jim, re- 

 suming his pipe, " and one like that will last you ah day." 



The trout rose briskly, sometimes leaping into air to meet 

 the descending fly. The fishing was excellem, but I could 

 not get absorbed iu it. The bear was springing at me through 

 it all, and even when I was casting the fly most gingerly I 

 was shooting the bear over again. At every lull in the trout- 

 ing Jim would commence, " Well, that was a narrer squeak 

 for you, sir," or I would start in with, "H.jw big a bear did 

 you ever see, Jim ?" 



The inists of morning had not all vanished ; a few laggards 

 hung tangled in the tree-tops two-thirds way up the innun- 

 lain-side ; others came to their rescue. T he mists thickened ; 

 they fell like a pall down the mountain and hid it from view. 

 This was a natural barometer, and a falling one. A fog 

 spread over the lake, obscured the sky, and before no m the 

 pattering rain drove us to camp, not, however, till thirty 

 ruody tiout lay gleaming in the bottom of the dug-out. 



We brace up the guys of th-i tent aud lie down within, 

 tent and fire ket ping us warm and dry through a pouring 

 rain. 



While discussing the broiled breast of a bittern at dinner, 

 I hear a sudden rustling behind me, and discover two pretty 

 spruce partrb'ges tied by the legs to a tent stake. 



"I saw'em on a tree," explained George, "while you was 

 off fistiin', and snared 'em." 



"But how did you snare them ?" 



" With this," he replied, taking up au alder pole eight ffet 

 long, at the end of wliici dangled a slip-noose of twine, 

 "They always sticks out their necks to look at you ; so you 

 can slip the noose over their heads and take 'em in very 

 handily." 



We are indeed in the backwoods ; even the game 



Our larder now presented a goodly variety. There were 

 bear steaks, bittern, duck, par ridge, trout and chub. Verily, 

 oue with cud and gun need not starve iu the Canada woods. 



At sunset the rain held up a bit, and I took a dozen more 

 trout, bringing my basket for the day up to sixty- six, weigh- 

 ing forty pounds. Sixty-four of them I captured from one 

 spot in the 1 >ke— at the mouth of lhe mountain brook. The 

 guides carefully salt all the fish not needed for immediate 

 use. 



The clouds thicken with the darkness, and we fall asleep to 

 the music of the rain pattering on the tent just above our 

 noses. 



Day dawned cold and gray. The rain had ceased, but 

 great masses of cloud hung black over the lake, and rested 

 low upon the mountains. I skillfully cast the fly, but no 

 trout rises to the glittering lure. A great suspense fills the 

 air. Suddenly far up the lake a line of foam leaps across 

 the water from shore to shore. Then comes a roar like a 

 rising gale. But there is neither wind or wave. A deluge 

 has burst over the lake, lashing the water into spay, and 

 with black edge of cloud above, and white edge of foam be- 

 low, the rain column advances. A bolt of lightning darts 

 through the gloom. The crash lets lor.se the gale, and we 

 scud back to the landing before a howling thunder-storm. 



For four hours the rain fell in torrents. Lightning struck 

 the tall trees all around us ; the thunder crashed overhead, 

 echoed from the mountains and reverberated along the dis- 

 tant shores. 



We three humans, huddled together in the tent, occupied 

 but a very insignificant position in this grand commotion of 

 nature. But we heartily congratulated ourselves on our 

 tent, for it stood up bravely against the storm, and, save in 

 one little spot, where the corner of a box bad passed woof 

 and warp out of line, it never leaked a drop. 



The storm drifts away to the east. The thunder dies to 

 distant mutleriugs ; the wind drops; lhe rain ceases. A 

 strange silence pervades all nature ; a paddle dropped in the 

 pirogue sounds like the report of a cannon. 



We emerge from the tent, stand erect and stretch our- 

 selves. 



A bird twitters from the thicket. That means fair 

 weather. AV r e strike tent, bid adieu to the Lake of the Bea*, 

 paddle into the swift, glassy current of the outlet, and rapidly 

 glide down stream under a lowering sky. 



A spotted sandpiper skims over the water ahead, lights on 

 a rock in mid-river, teeters, tilts aud bobs his lithe little 

 b'idy, runs across the rock, tilts again, then flits away with 

 quickly vibrating wings. 



The current is swift, and we shoot gayly along. Now and 

 then on a rocky bar, the pirogue jars against the b ittom. 

 Soon we come to a mile of foaming rapids. George kneels 

 in the bow, his projec ed paddle in the stream, cut- 

 ting the water with its thin red blade like the oui reaching 

 submerged prow of a marine ram. Jim stands in the stern 

 ready with his setting-pole. George's eyes are intent upon 

 the river, boiling over sunken rocks, which lie in wait, like 

 foaming teeth, to devour us. Safely he pilots us onward, 

 his broad paddle moving through the water with the slow, 

 quiet morion of a trout's tail as he lazily sietns the current. 

 Suddenly George gives a broad qu ck stroke, like ibe flip of 

 atioul'atail when he darta away up stream. In the twinkling 

 of an eye, Jim follows up this motion with the setting-pole. 

 The canoe sheers aside like a frightened horse, and slides by 

 a submerged rock, only to plunge on t iward another; and bs 

 saved again by another sheer. It was quick work, bow and 

 stern, to safely snoot the rap ds. 



At a turn in the river we come upon a solid jam of old 

 cedar trees, root and logs, extending from shorn to shore. 

 This ob-taele '^e cannot get over, or under, »r through. 



Here we make the only carry on the trip. Landing on 

 the left bank, wo transport our ba.'gage through the woods 

 a short distance to where lhe Gateno flows free again, shove 

 across our dug-our, launch her, reload cargo, and are enroute 

 once more in less than half an hour. 



The brooks that tumbled into the river were swollen and 

 muddy with the recent rains. The Gateno itself was inceas- 

 iutf in vol me, aud n me but the smal'est and most fool- 

 hardy trout rose to mv fly in the rising water. 



Nine miles down stream another lake opens out before us. 

 A golden-eye duck comes flying swiftly in from the open 

 water. As she speeds past us I drop the trout rod, pick up 

 my gun, shoot the dues, and salute the lake with the same 

 discharge. 



This sheet of water is three mi'es long, yet such is the 

 pleniiuide of lakes and paucity of names in l his wilderness 

 that the only appellation yet granted to thi3 pretty lakelet is 

 "No. 3 " 



A mile down the right shore rises Sugar-loaf Mountain. 

 Fires have swept over it, and burned < ff bo'h timber and 

 soil. Its naked peak of rock, scarred md burned, lifts it-elf 

 abruptly from the lake, and lowers aloft like a giganric horn. 



Down the mountain side tumbles a brook. Near its 

 mouth, when the lake 's low and the weather hot, the big 

 trout lie and drink iu the cool flood from the hills. N 'W 

 the brook is a tawny torrent, yellow as Father Tiber, and 

 i he i rout are off in quest of clear water. At all events, they 

 are not here. 



Ou a low plateau, in a grove of giant cedtirs, we pitched 

 our tent. Sugar-loaf rose behind us; the babble of its leap- 

 ing brook ever sounded in our ears, mingling with the mur- 

 mur of 'he lake along the pebbly shore. Toward evening 

 the clouds part, and the setting sun throws a bridge of gold 

 over the water. Darkness gathers. The moon Bhinea 

 bright over the western hills. I paddle nut alone on the sil- 

 very lake Sugar-loaf towers dark and threatening in the 

 east. The smoke from our camp fire rises like a column 

 above the cedars. Not a ripide stirs the water, not a sound 

 jars the air. Sky, lake and mountain are asleeD in the 

 moonlight. I seemed poised in infinite silence. Then the 

 wild wail of the loon quivers thr ugh the air — voice of i lie 

 lonely lake. I turn the prow of my canoe, and paddle back 

 to human companionship. 



Sunday dawned bright and fair. Sinr-e trout had failed 

 us. we breakfasted off bear steak, then leisurely slam d on a 

 "Sabbath-diy's journey." Leaving Lake No. 3, we piddled 

 down a mile of currenlless river, iu whose tranquil flo d the 

 batiks reproduced themselves, on across the round basin of 

 Nn. 2, through a thoroughfare, and into Lake No. 1. 



We cross No. 1, and drift down stream to the Forks, 

 where the Gateno empties into the rapid Idallo. Here we 

 camp d, aud passed a quiet afrernoon. 



Camping out mak« s great chanaee in one's taste and appe- 

 tite. In a bouse, I abominate salt pork. After this length 

 of camp life, I crave it. Nothing else seems s > g md and 

 satisfying; rothing else can supply its place. Roast duck, 

 broiled partridge!, bear steak and fried irout — all become a 

 light, frivolous' diet, like cake, puffs and tarts. Fried salt 

 pork, aDd but slightly fried at that, is the only solid, sub- 

 stantial, filling food— the only thiug that goes to the right 

 place. 1 prefer it to all else, have even discs- ded butter, 

 and placing a dripping cut of pork on an inch-thick slice of 

 dark Canada bread, make a meal fit for a king. 



One other change. At home, I am a slave to coffee, and so 

 sure was 1 that I could not get along without it that I brought 

 an ample Btipply for the trip. My guides drank tea at every 

 meal — black, poor-look ng tea, loo. Once I took a dippi r 

 with them. This led to a second trial. My liking for it 

 increased, and now I prefer tea to any other drink, in the 

 woods. 



Next morning we found our pirogue leaking. The guides 

 turned her over on the beach, drb d ihe bottom with flaring 

 torches of birch bark, and carefully poured fnelti d pitch into 

 every crack. Our ship was tight and dry again, and on we 

 paddled down the broad and swift Idaho. 



Of all modes of travel, from the cariole to the steam-ship, 

 I know of none more deligh'ful than paddling down a river 

 through our Northern American forest. The winding 

 stream ever changes the scene before you. Now a mountain, 

 then the blue sky, fills up the vista. Expectation is ever on 

 the qui vwe. Around the next bend you may come upon a 

 moose, a duck may spring from the water, or a big trout leap 

 into the air. On you glide between green forest walls. 

 Nature is at her best along the river-banks. Rivers are not 

 only thoroughfares for men, but for light and air, and to- 

 ward the sun and the breeze presses every green thing. On 

 either side the woods come trooping to the river, dona 

 ferentes. Here the forest offers its choicest gifts. Fallen 

 trees lie their length out into the water. Pennants of moss 

 wave from their withered branches. Bushes hang their 

 brigtit leaves and flowers over the stream. Above, the 

 choke -cherry and mountain ash display their red fruit ; over- 

 topp : ng these rise the old forest giants throwing their 

 turiftie-t branches and brightest banners athwart the river. 



You recline in the canoe, borne on the current, propelled 

 by swift paddles, and without dust, or jar, or noise, slide 

 through the bright heart of the "meme greenwood." 



Thus for two days we dropped down stream, coasted along 



