AT CALICO CAMP. 
By Rogert Curzon. 
Far up among the New Hampshire Hills in 
a bend of the Cocheco lies Calico Camp, one of 
my favorite little nooks. Why I ever gave it 
that name I really can’t remember, but probably 
from some connection in my mind with the 
cotton mills on the same river. When I am 
out on one of my long solitary rambles I like 
to get into these quiet, out of the way corners, 
and, if they suit me, I stay a few days. Some- 
times I visit it again and again, until I feel a 
sort of ownership and cultivate an acquaint- 
ance with all the little wild inhabitants. And 
Calico Camp, as I have already said, is one of 
my special favorites. 
A boisterous little brook joins the Cocheco 
here. Its banks are thickly fringed with alders 
and the higher up you go the more placid it 
becomes, until just before its source in a cold, 
hill-surrounded bog it spreads into quite a 
respectable little pond. This seems to be the 
home of a family of wood ducks, and I usually 
lay them under contribution for a supper or 
two. 
The edge of the river as it sweeps around the 
land is girt with jagged, perpendicular, granite 
rocks. This ledge crops out again among the 
hills behind the bog, where it is full of trap 
veins. Just back from the edge of the river is 
a good thick wood of white pine with an under- 
growth of mountain laurel. In a little hollow 
among these bushes I made my camp. [I first 
came to it in the evening just before sunset, 
when the flowers were in bloom. Here in the 
deep shade of the hills they seemed to positively 
light up the place. Even after I had caught 
up my fire and the coffee was being boiled and 
an occasional flame leaped up, the masses of 
blossoms sent back a ruddy flash as if smiling 
to be out of the night beyond. And among the 
dark stems below the fireflies tripped in their 
torch dance while the katydid plied his striden 
little fiddle. : 
With the early streaks of dawn a concert be- 
gan that would shame the most accomplished 
of human musicians. The orchestra of Calico 
Camp is composed of four different kinds of 
thrushes. A solo by the wood thrush soon be- 
comes a duet as the olive-backed wakes up ; the 
tender tones of the hermit are soon woven in 
with them in an incomparable medley, while 
the veevy’s trill seconds them all and blends 
with the mass of tender harmony till the sun is 
well above the eastern hills. 
At breakfast time the chickadees and red 
squirrels generally pay me a visit. Both live 
harmoniously in an old canoe birch that over- 
hangs the mouth of the creek. But why the 
squirrels, such mischief makers usually among 
bird nests, have let this particular family ot 
chickadees alone will always be a mystery t 
me. There is truce between them, though, an 
I have seen old mother squirrel cuddling new 
babies within six inches of the knot hole that 
seemed almost too full of infant black caps. 
But she is the plague of the life of an old king- 
fisher that seems to have taken a particular 
fancy to one sturdy stub of the old birch that 
overhangs the shoal water just at the mouth of 
the brook. No sooner does he spring his rat- 
tle here than he is promptly chased away and 
he can only occupy the coveted spot by stealth 
and in deep silence. 
Up among the pines a pair of sharp skinned 
hawks have their nest, and all day long there is 
war between them and the blue jays. The 
partridges also live up this way too, and I often 
see the old hen with her agile little chicks 
about the edges of the laurel patches or in the 
alders by the brook. It’s seldom more than a 
glimpse, however, before the watchful parent 
flutters about in well-simulated tameness while 
the wee ones seem to almost melt away among 
the leaves and underbrush, so quick is their 
disappearance. I often find the nest and egg- 
shells in some cosy spot where the delicate 
Linnea borealis and the beautiful striped 
oxalis fringe it about among the green moss. 
I am among the rocks on the edge of the 
river where I go for my noon-tide swim ; there 
is a jutting ledge under which a pewee builds. 
One year, quite late in the season, she laid 
speckled eggs for the second brood. Though 
