A NIGHT IN A FISHING HUT. 



W. ROGERS. 



In the latter part of November, some 

 years ago, when I was still far from my 

 camp, darkness began to fall on a night 

 which threatened to be cold and stormy. 

 I had been rowing steadily the greater part 

 of the day, and was ready for supper and 

 rest. I looked about for some place which 

 might afford me shelter, or a convenient 

 spot for my overnight camp. A short dis- 

 tance ahead of me a long, low point broke 

 the usually regular shore line. For a little 

 distance from the water's edge it was l&re 

 of trees, and on this clear space, but close 

 to the dark background of forest, I saw a 

 cabin. I was somewhat familiar with the 

 spot ; I knew the cabin and its owner, and 

 twice before I had stopped there for a few 

 minutes' rest, or to eat my mid-day meal. 

 A few strokes of the oars ran my boat 

 on the smooth shingle of the point, and, 

 jumping out, I turned toward the shanty 

 and hailed. A man, standing in its door- 

 way, answered, and moved toward me.. 

 This was Hank, or "Soldier Hank," as he 

 was sometimes called by the fishermen, 

 guides and woodchoppers of that wild and 

 sparsely settled country. The dwellers in 

 those woods seldom spoke of him, and 

 when, infrequently, they passed his cabin, 

 they did so without hail or salutation, and 

 with quickened stroke of oar or paddle; 

 and, if daylight had passed, they preferred 

 the discomfort of lying out, to the shelter 

 of his roof. They said he was "strange," a 

 "curious fellow," who talked and hollered 

 at night, and one said "he had heered he'd 

 done suthin' unlawful," but added, quickly, 

 that he "didn't know the rights of it ; mebbe 

 twas on'y talk." Beyond a taciturnity un- 

 usual even in the woods, where men ob- 

 serve much and say little, I had noticed 

 nothing singular about him in the brief 

 conversations I had had with him. 



As he came near me I held out my 

 hand. "I'll stop the night with you, Hank," 

 I said. He nodded, not noticing my out- 

 stretched hand, and, stooping over the 

 boat, began lifting out my traps. "Go in- 

 side," he said, "there's a fire, an' don't 

 stumble over the cheers." 



I turned to the open door and entered. 

 Groping about in the thicker darkness of 

 the room, I found a bunk, on which I threw 

 myself and waited for Hank. He soon 

 came, laden with my things, which he 

 threw on the floor, and. lighting a small 

 lamp, began to prepare supper. Having 

 cooked my meal, he seated himself before 

 the stove, with his back to me while I ate; 

 and when I pushed back from the table, he 



rose to clear away the things. This done, 

 he returned to his chair, where he sat silent, 

 leaning slightly forward, his elbows on his 

 knees and chin resting on his hands. He 

 was a man below the average height, and 

 slender, his face lean and dark, with a strag- 

 gling grey beard; a man of about 50 years, I 

 thought. His eyes were dark and restless, 

 and he moved in a quick, silent way. He had 

 come from Pennsylvania, where he had 

 hunted and trapped before the war, and 

 from which State he had enlisted. Wound- 

 ed, and discharged with a pension, he had 

 wandered to this spot. 



I filled and lighted my pipe, and drew 

 a chair near him, by the stove, thinking to 

 chat a little, before turning in. He took 

 no notice of my approach, save by hitching 

 his chair a little to one side, and so we sat; 

 I casting about in my mind for some proper 

 subject of talk. Not finding one, I asked 

 questions relating to himself. 



"Don't you ever get lonesome here, 

 through the winter, Hank?" I asked. "Do 

 you ever see anyone?" 



"No," said he, "not often, but I don't 

 know as I git lonesome, egsackly. I kin 

 most always find suthin' to do daytimes, 

 fishin' an' shootin' an' putterin' 'round, an' 

 thin I ginally git to bed pretty airly, when 

 it's quiet. I got an' accordeon under the 

 bed thar, an' I play onto it at night, when 

 the wind blows like it does now, hard an' 

 noisy like, A feller give it to me 7 year 

 ago, an' learned me to play it, only one 

 tune, though. That was the same year that 

 he" — he broke off abruptly and looked be- 

 hind him toward the door and began again, 

 absently. "I got a Bible under the bunk, 

 too. Times I read that; not on windy 

 nights though — not then ; on'y in still nights 

 when ye can't hear nothing unless ye listen 

 close; little sounds, crackin' an' rustlin' 

 like; no harm in them sounds, an' nights 

 like them I read the Bible, in th' old 

 test'ment. That's the best part o' the 

 book; they let a man stan' up fer his rights, 

 an' ef enny man tries to put on ye, why he 

 jes' takes his chances an' that's all they is 

 to it ; ye got a right to keep fer yerself, 

 'cordin' to th' old test'ment." He stopped 

 and listened to the increasing tumult of 

 the wind, "Seems to me I haint talked as 

 much as this fer a year; seems as if I'd 

 got ter talk to-night. Ye've been alone 

 some_ at night," he went on, with a half 

 question in his voice, "with no human bein' 

 near ye? In the woods an' on the water, 

 when it was bio win' hard, too, p'raps, have 

 ye?" 



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