AN OUTING ON THE PESHTIGO. 



Frank K. Root. 



THE memory of one particular 

 trip to the woods is especially 

 vivid in my mind. We have 

 talked it over more than once, my 

 "compagon du voyage' and I. We 

 were in campr on the Peshtigo early 

 in June — not too early to enjoy nature 

 in that northern latitude, for she was 

 even then arrayed in all her spring- 

 time loveliness. Not too early for 

 the birds, for they were there when 

 we arrived — many species and va- 

 rieties of them keeping the air full of 

 song from sunrise until sunset. Then 

 the whippoorwills would tune up and 

 serenade us until far into the night. 



Last, but not least in quantity or 

 quality, were those sociable little 

 birds, the mosquitos and black flies. 

 My companion, the lawyer — ' Hon- 

 orable Kounselor " I shall call him — 

 remarked that they were thicker 

 than the wicked little insects that 

 live on the outside of the dog. For 

 my own part I should say that in- 



stead of mosquito their name was 

 legion. I merely mention the fact of 

 their presence as one of the features 

 of the summer landscape we were 

 not too early for. 



They did not spoil our fun, though, 

 by any means. Far from it. Our 

 smeared faces by day and our nets 

 by night kept them at bay. The 

 " dope" with which we smeared was 

 designed by the Honorable Koun- 

 selor, and stands in our annals a 

 monument to his genius. It is sim- 

 ply a mixture of equal parts of vase- 

 line and tar oil of the " tarrest " 

 kind. It proved so offensive to the 

 mosquitos that they would not go 

 near any feature covered with it ; 

 and the black flies were neatly 

 drowned before they could get in 

 their murderous work. I can recom- 

 mend this mixture to brother anglers 

 as being most effective. Nearly all 

 th^ other doses I have tried the 

 mosquitos would feed on with appar- 



