A PLAIN TALE OF THE WOODS. 



23 



It was a new leg camp, which had never 

 been occupied. The smell of the woods 

 poured from every log. A large fireplace 

 made of rough stones and piled high with 

 well seasoned cedar filled one end of the 

 room. In an instant the fire was burning 

 and in a few minutes the whole camp was 

 lighted by the cheerful blaze. We threw 

 off wet wraps and basked in the generous 

 heat. 



A little later, in the dining camp, we 

 did justice to a menu which included 

 trout, biscuit, and coffee. We began to 

 know and appreciate the appetite which the 

 life in the woods always brings. After 

 supper we sat around the cheerful fire in 

 the privacy of our own camp and discussed 

 the events of the day. 



The next morning my second day's edu- 

 cation began. I learned from Joe that all 

 who are at any time found within the 

 boundaries of Maine are divided into 2 

 great groups : sportsmen and natives. The 

 sportsmen only summer in Maine. The 

 natives are able to live in Maine both 

 winter and summer, because the sportsmen 

 come with their money and summer in 

 Maine. Again, the sportsmen are divided 

 into 2 classes, the dead game type and 

 the tomato-can type. The dead game sports- 

 man lives in the woods and all that in 

 them is. He does things for himself, lives 

 the life of the woods, and rejoices therein. 

 The tomato-can sport lingers near the 

 camp, wears the clothing of civilization 

 and, if he fires a rifle, uses the ignominious 

 tomato-can as a target. I must prove that 

 I had within me the making of a dead game 

 sportsman or lose caste at once. 



Just back of the camo, in a wild gorge, 

 flowed a mountain stream, with a deep 

 pool. To that I went with my new fishing 

 equipment and whipped the pool, the bushes, 

 the pile of logs at the side of the pool, 

 and caught the back of my hat. My 2 

 hours of practice did not go unrewarded, 

 for one trout of kindergarten age rose to 

 my fly, was hooked and landed. Time 

 after time I practiced at the pool until I 

 could sometimes cast the fly as I wished. 



Joe took me out on the lake in a canoe 

 and I fished while he paddled, but I had 

 indifferent success. It occurred to me that 

 the correct method of fishing might be 

 learned by observation, so I asked Joe to 

 take the rod while I took the paddle. I 

 soon found that I had other work in hand 

 than watching the fishing. Joe had made 

 the canoe obey the slightest movement of 

 the paddle. Under my direction it went 

 where it listed. By using the paddle on 

 both sides of the canoe, I could approxi- 

 mate the result I wished ; but how to di- 

 rect the canoe by using the paddle on only 

 one side was a mystery. One day I stole 

 away from the camp and, putting the canoe 



into the lake, practiced until I had at least 

 rudimentary ideas of paddling. 



One morning there was a drizzling rain. 

 A cheerful fire and a novel made the storm 

 far from unendurable, but by the middle 

 of the afternoon the day dragged, so we 

 decided to go somewhere. Clad in warm 

 wraps we started for the lake. My wife 

 took the bow of the canoe and the rod, 

 while I took the stern to demonstrate my 

 newly acquired skill with the paddle. We 

 soon tired of fishing, and paddled down 

 to the end of the lake to a large bush-piled 

 mound, the home of a colony of beavers. 

 We wished that one of the beavers would 

 come out, so we might brag that we had 

 seen both deer and beaver. We let the 

 canoe drift out into the lake while we 

 watched the clouds which were continually 

 forming around the top of a mountain to 

 the West. After a time the sunset rays 

 broke through the clouds, promising better 

 things for the morrow. We drifted on 

 and watched the great, silent woods as 

 they slowly changed from light to dark 

 and grew hazy and indistinct in the dis- 

 tance. A crazy loon far down the lake 

 filled the huge stillness with his uncanny 

 laughter. I recalled my sensations when 

 as a boy I must pass a graveyard in the 

 night. An animal was swimming not far 

 from the canoe. Confident in my newly 

 acquired knowledge of woodcraft, and re- 

 calling a pond of my* boyhood days, I 

 gravely announced that it was a muskrat. 

 With a crash which aroused the echoes 

 across the lake, it suddenly dived. We 

 were too startled for the moment to realize 

 that we had seen a beaver. It is a good 

 thing to be an amateur. It is a good thing 

 not to have seen the whole world and 

 the glory thereof. We went back to camp 

 with a greater feeling of pride in having 

 seen our first beaver than a more hardened 

 veteran of the woods might experience in 

 having killed a moose. 



One morning Joe said, "Don't you want 

 to camp out?" We wished everything that 

 was our due, and were ready to accept any 

 invitation. An hour later we left camp. 

 Joe, axe in hand, carried a large leather 

 pack which contained the food and cooking 

 utensils. I was carrying my first pack, 

 which was made largely of a huge roll of 

 blankets. My wife and Mrs. H., whose 

 acquaintance we had made in camp, led the 

 way and made the pace. A rough trail 

 through the woods, with a noisy stream on 

 our right, took us, after an hour, to a 

 •dam, a relic of the old logging times. It 

 was a huge structure which had in its 

 youthful days successfully checked a moun- 

 tain stream. It had been assaulted annually 

 by acres of floating logs, but had valiantly 

 held its place. Now its only value was as 

 a footbridge, or perhaps some tramp 



