THE CHARM OF CHEMO 



429 



popg over Ihc hot coals, while the moulh 

 waters in anticipation of the well-buttered, 

 savory morsel to come, amid the stories and 

 jokes of bygone days. What if the mouth 

 and teeth do get a little black, the tooth- 

 someness is enough to compensate, and 

 then, too, there are no electric lights and 

 shining shirt fronts to illuminate, and 

 besides you have the satisfaction of knowing 

 that you all look alike. 



One of the recent laws of Maine prohibits 

 people from going into the woods and hunt- 

 ing without a license (which costs $15) and 

 the employment of a guide. But this law 

 does not apply to natives or residents of the 

 State, and thereby hangs a tale, an amus- 

 ing incident. 



My brother had become very much 

 prejudiced against the State that would pass 

 such a law, before he knew that it did not 

 apply to natives of the State, and called 

 "old K — " (the man at Augusta who was 

 responsible for the law) and all his followers 

 by very unbecoming names. The guides 

 had formed into a union and demanded 

 three dollars a day for their services, and 

 would do no cooking at that; these were 

 dubbed by A — as "yeller dogs," and he 

 would not have one "tagging around after 

 his heels," and the game wardens were no 

 better and ought to be shot, etc. 



One bright morning a canoe drew up to 

 the little stone wharf in front of our tents 

 and a very pleasant-appearing fellow with 

 a slouch hat and a shooting iron in his 

 holster came up and inquired the way to the 

 spring. A — came on the scene, showed 

 him the spring and kindly loaned him a cup, 

 and upon returning with the cup of water 

 the stranger sat down to eat his lunch and 

 have a pleasant little chat with A — . After 

 awhile the conversation naturally drifted 

 around to the game laws, and as this was 

 A — 's sore spot he was not backward in 

 expressing his views and bestowing his 

 "yeller dog" epithets promiscuously. This 

 was all taken good-naturedly by our pleas- 

 ant visitor and, no doubt, good weight given 

 to it. His lunch completed, he returned to 

 the canoe and then came back and handed 

 A — his card. "John Doe, Game Pro- 

 tector, Great Works, Maine," was what 

 A — read, and I am not sure but that he 

 would be standing there now in that same 



spot, in that same attitude of one who had 

 been indiscreet, had not the footsteps and 

 the "thanks" and "good-day" of the 

 stranger not awakened him. During all 

 the performance, D — , my wife and I 

 had been the audience, and an interested 

 one it was, I assure you. We now had 

 our inning and a joyous one it was, too. 

 I dare say that A — knows more about 

 the game laws of Maine now than he did 

 before, and perhaps has a little more respect 

 for the game wardens, for that one, the only 

 one that it has ever been my privilege to 

 meet, proved himself a gentleman in every 

 respect. 



Our outing came to an end only too soon, 

 and as I sit in the school room of one of our 

 colleges and, at times, think over those 

 three days on the shores of the beautiful 

 Penobscot Bay, digging clams, fishing off 

 that jutting point of rocks for the cunners 

 and torn cods, or strolling along the beach 

 gazing at the distant" blue of the White 

 Islands in the distance; or, again, of those 

 ten days at Chemo, in the rough wilderness, 

 with God's blue canopy overhead and the 

 songs of the birds ringing in my ears, my 

 heart leaps for joy with the expectation of 

 a similar trip next year. 



And may I say in closing to those of the 

 eternal busy kind, who know not of the 

 fountain of youth to be found in the 

 country, in the woods, near the waters of 

 our peaceful lakes nestled among the 

 mountains and forests: Get thee out of the 

 rush of business for a few days, find your 

 way into the forest and seat yourself on 

 some moss-covered log and listen to the 

 merrymaking of the birds and squirrels as 

 they light on the twigs, almost within arm's 

 reach, and wonder what you are, or scramble 

 over your very toes in their hilarity; or listen 

 to the low, musical hum of the insect life all 

 around you, when the caw-caw of the dis- 

 tant crow seems almost sacrilege. Again I 

 say, get thee out and forget the place where 

 the dollars come from and think of how 

 happy those birds, those squirrels and those 

 insects are, which do not know what a dol- 

 lar is, and you will be loath to return to the 

 humdrum of life, but wish that you could, 

 like Rip Van Winkle, go to sleep there only 

 to awake in the great hereafter where all is 

 rest and peace. 



