GUIDES, WHITE AND BROWN 
Some of Their Characteristic Traits and Some 
Yarns They Have Spun 
BY JAMES LEDDY PEQUIGNOT 
OULD the memories that 
cluster ’round each 
crackling camp-fire be 
half so tender were it not 
for the guides seated in 
the glare of the flames, 
.,| smoking their pipes and 
‘| spinning their yarns and 
telling all sorts of lies to 
the tenderfoot from the city? ‘I’m the big- 
gest liar of the hull d—n lot of ye,” Ed 
Ronco used to say, as he sat in front of a 
camp-fire I love to recall, in a far-away spot 
in Maine. Every night when the dishes 
were washed he would light his pipe, throw 
a fresh birch log on the fire and be ready to 
talk on any subject that might come up, and 
if he didn’t know anything about it, it is an 
even bet that none of the other guides ever 
guessed it, for in some positions his imagina- 
tion was superb. 
‘“‘Give us a bear story,” I asked him one 
night, with the following rather startling 
result: 
““Many’s the bears I have shot in the 
woods, but I’ll never forget the big one I let 
get away because he was so wise I thought 
he would some day maybe find his way into 
one of them trained animal shows you fellers 
have in the big cities. It was nigh onto five 
o’clock in the afternoon that I first saw this 
geezer, as I was paddlin’ a sport back to our 
camp-ground, and there was Mister Bear 
rummagin’ around amongst our grub, just 
like he was at home, with never a smell of 
us, and we within handy spankin’ distance of 
him—so I told the sport to keep still, and 
there we sat in the canoe and watched him. 
First, he knocked our jug of syrup off the 
table, and he rolled in it till I thought he’d 
stick to the ground. Then he waddled over 
to the flour barrel and upset that and got 
the flour stuck to the syrup until he looked 

mighty like a polar bear from Alasky. 
When he thought he was enough stuck on 
himself he walked over to our fire and rolled 
around pretty near close enough to it to get 
burned for about five minutes. Now, if he 
wasn’t making ginger cake for the little cubs 
he had left back in the woods, you can put 
me down for the biggest liar you know!” 
Many other camp-fire tales did Ed tell us, 
but I have not the space to recount them 
here. I must, however, recite one other 
story with him as the hero, for it showed us 
that he possessed a greater amount of good 
nature than we had at first given him credit 
for. There were six of us sitting on the bank 
of the river one day, when some bold spirit 
suggested a swim. The air was a bit chilly 
and the water more:so, but five of the party 
were soon preparing for a dip, one only sit- 
ting quiet and unconcerned on the bank— 
Ed Ronco—trying to make himself as small 
and unnoticeable as possible. Being caught 
in the act, “‘ The water’s too blamed cold for 
me,” he said, “but while you fellers are 
making fools of yourselves, I'll show you a 
trick or two on one of them logs out there in 
the water.”? Now, Ed was a crack log driver 
and had a reputation among the guides for 
being able to do any number of stunts on a 
log in midstream, balanced only with his 
setting-pole. ‘‘Birling’”’ was his specialty, 
and, stripping to his underclothes, he 
took up one of the canoe poles and hunted 
out a log to his liking. He worked the 
log around to where he could embark 
without wetting his feet and, shoving off, 
was soon churning the water about him 
into foam as he ran and danced back 
and forth on his log, his face shining with 
justified pride, while we shivered in the cold 
sunshine and envied him the perspiration 
streaming down his face. ‘‘Are you cold ?”’ 
he yelled; ‘‘come out here and warm up; it 
