224 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Afrit, 20, 1882. 



VJw fyortmim ^auriiL 



LONGFELLOW'S LAST POEM. 



Mad River, in the White Mountains. 



[Tills poem, on a well-known White Mountain stream, was corrected 

 in proof by the poet only a clay or two before his death, and la now- 

 printed in the Mar AUaatic] 



' TRAVELER. 



Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, 



Mad River. Mad Paver? 

 Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour 

 Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er 



This rooky shelf forever? 



What secret, trouble stirs thy breast? 



Why all this fret and flurry? 

 Dost thou not know that what is best 

 In this too restless world is rest 



From over ,vork and worry ? 



THE RIVER, 



What wouldst thou in these mountains seek. 



stranger from the city ? 

 Is it perhaps some foolish fi eii: 

 Of thine, to put the words I speak 



Into a plaintive ditty? 



TRAVELER. 



Yes: I would leant of thee thy song. 



With all its flowing numbers, 

 And in a voice as fresh and strong 

 As thine is, sing it all day long 

 . And hear it in my slumbers. 



THR RIVER. 



A brooklet nameless and unknown 

 • Was I at first, resembling 



A little child, that all alone 

 Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, 

 Irresolute and trembling. 



Later by wayward fancies led, 



For the wide world I panted: 

 Out of the forest dark and dread 

 Across the open fields I fled, 



Like one pursued and haunted. 



I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, 



My voice exultant blending 

 With thunder from the passing cloud. 

 The wind the forest bent and bowed. 



The rush of rain descending. 



1 heard the distant oosan call, 



Imploring and entreating; 

 Drawn onward o'er this rocky wall 

 1 plunged, and the loud water-fall 



3Iade answer to the greeting. 



And now. beset with many ills, 



A i Jilsome life I follow; 

 Compelled to carry from the hills 

 These logs to the impatient mills 



Below there in the hollow. 



Yet something ever cheers and charms 



The rudeness of my labors; 

 Daily I water with these arms 

 The cattle of a .hundred farms, 



And have the birds for neighbors. 



Men call me Mad, and well they may. 

 When, full of rage and trouble, 

 I burst my banks of sand and clay, 

 And sweep then' wooden bridge away. 

 1 rheredreeds or stubble. 



Now go and write t'uy little rhyme; 



As of thine own creating. 

 Thou seest the day is past its prime; 

 I can no longer waste my time; 

 The mills are tired of waiting. 



FAMILIAR LETTERS. 



I. — THE TRUTH OF AN OLD ADAGE, 



Dear Forest qmd Stream; 



Did you ever happen to think f 1 1 : . t in (lie old adage, "All 

 work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," "Jack''' stands 

 for every one of us? 



You probably never thought of it at all; or if at some 

 moment you did stumble over it in a careless mental 

 ramble, you probably said to yourself: ''The dear children; 

 that's so; let them play!" 



_ Of course children must play. Tt is as natural and essen- 

 tial to healthy growth, as water to a duck. Child life, the 

 world over, is one of development. Nothing so helpless to 

 be found in the realm of nature as infant man. And equally 

 true is it ihat a perfect toj sj nm-JtrisaldiTClopment physic- 

 ally, mentally and morally, of this puny, helpless babe, oro- 

 duces in the fullness of time, "God's noblest work." 



And "play" is wtal to such threefold development. Three- 

 fold, because we are more than brute. Physical strength 

 must; increase to permit the exercise of an awakened intelli- 

 gence, while the sense of right and wrong must standalert to 

 direct the increasing action of a growing life. 



The child must have play. "Mere physical development is 

 not far removed from the brute creation, 



Mental growth, with sickly "constitution" and dwarfed 

 "conscience," is likely to work only evil and sorrow until its 

 end. 



Abnormal development of the moral nature, without the 

 healthy glow of physical strength and bright intelligence, 

 means nothing but morbid fanaticism or fearful superstition. 



To such healthy, harmonious development of child life 

 then as shall produce the highest and best result, "play" in 

 proper time and char;! tial. And anything which 



mterfers with such "play" is a curse to the individual and a 

 misfortune to society. 



But how about our noble selves, dear Forest and Stream? 

 As "children of a larger growth." does this apothegm have 

 truth and value for us? Without questioa. 



Every "Jack" of us, having passed the elementary time of 

 boyhood, has entered die intermediate period of life: when 

 habits of "mind, body and estate" begin to crystallize, while 

 later on lie the time of life when the wasting of 



Nature's forces predominates; and we suppose it is in connec- 



tion with these two facts that the truth of our adage becomes 

 most plain. 



In other words, to prevent one-sided growth, to make good 

 the forces spent in real life work, wc need "play," or health- 

 ful recreation. 



Do you not see, if we stop to consider what is involved by 

 becoming "dull," the wonderful value of healthful recreation 

 is clearly revealed? 



To become, "dull," is to lose the perfect fruit of our am- 

 bitious efforts. 



It may mean failure, instead of success. 



It may mean trouble and trial for lives closely knit into 

 our own. 



A brain a little less tired; hands a little less weary; a life 

 less worn, might not have given out quite so quickly. Might 

 have achieved the prize which we just fail to reach! 



Unless fuel is renewed, fire goes out. 



Unless wear and tear of machinery is made good, the 

 machine becomes incapable of producing perfect work. 



Violation of the laws of health, constant routine of thought, 

 the whirl within a never-changing circle, the limits of a 

 beaten path, make us "dull" indeed', and we need the repair 

 and reparation which "play" alone can offer us. 



It is a matter of no small interest, you perceive, dear 

 Forest and Stream, that we And then what constitutes 

 true "play"— that is open to each and every "Jack." 



For our lives and habits are different .somewhat one from 

 another, and there can be no cast-iron rule wliich shall apply 

 with changeless measure to us all. 



It is true, however, that a principle of living which, within 

 certain limits shall introduce into each life some "play," some 

 healthful recreation, is open to us all. 



Outdoor life and sport— this is the true interpretation of 

 "play" in its best sense. 



Out in the open, pure air! Exercise driving the blood in 

 swifter and healthier flow to its fountain of life— the lungs- 

 while the pure air of heaven, breathed full and deep, works 

 its oxydization into good, red blood. 



Pores opened and the savage system of nature stimulated 

 into normal activity! New views of life, new wonders re- 

 vealed by each succeeding step ! 



New beauties as well, new depths, no thought of myster- 

 ies and glories of nature! By these the mind is diverted and 

 changed, while the heart is moved to a grateful recognition 

 of the Supreme Goodness and Wisdom which provides for 

 us these good things free to all! 



Oh, the charm of breaking away for a few hours from in- 

 door care and vexations and weariness, to the Held or dingle, 

 the river or lake! Alone, or with good fellowship! Heaven's 

 songsters ringing their cheerful and varied songs into willing 

 ears, the sweel perfume of a thousand blossoms filling the air 

 with restful, healing influence, the beauty of color' laid in 

 rarest combination, making the eves to rejoice unconsciously 

 in an ever changing panorama of fleeting light and shadow, 

 what sense is not appealed to? What heart is not "made 

 glad" unless lost to all good influences, and life is past re- 

 demption. 



To walk, to ride, to row, to fish, to shoot, with eyes open 

 to the fuller and deeper things of life, what pleasure ! 



The "Jack" who has all "play" and no "work," is to be 

 pitied, because to him is denied the fullest enjoyment of these 

 things we describe. 



Things have their proper use and abuse. Familiarity 

 breeds contempt, and satiety cloys. A life given up to 

 "sport" without an earnest principle of living, is unworthy 

 of the name. 



But if we could successfully supplement your own good 

 missionary work in this widening field, .dear Forest and 

 Stream, to the extent of bringing back the bloom to the 

 faded cheek, the light again into one dull eye, the joy and 

 vigor of renewed life to one bitter heart, this ink of ours and 

 space of yours would not be thrown away. B. 



A HOMILY ON THE GROUSE. 



IN your issue of March 30 "Ruffed Grouse" pays his 

 respects to "Nessmuk," and does it hr'the'dispi 

 manner that always demands respectful consideration. For 

 his complimentary remarks thanks. And I can agree with 

 him on some points, not all. I do not exactly assume to 

 "dispose of the grouse question." I find it an insoluble 

 mystery, and am forced to leave it as I find it. 



All the many causes suggested are trivial when brought tp 

 the crucial test of calm reason. The man who has of his 

 own choice stepped down and out of all the paths that lead 

 to wealth and position through an unquenchable love of 

 nature and forest life, cannot "bring himself to belie ve that 

 vermin, large or small, have suddenly, almost in a season, 

 nearly exterminated the hardy grouse over a section of 

 country more than three times as large as England. Pot- 

 hunting and treeing will not do either. There is no more of 

 it, proportionately, now than thirty years ago; not so much. 

 As to the snarer, he would be very destructive if he were 

 universal. But he is not. He is a pariah, whom every one 

 is down on. His snares are demolished when found by pot- 

 hunters and true sportsmen alike, and those who break the 

 game laws themselves are ready to prosecute the snarer. No 

 army of snarers has suddenly taken the field throughout the 

 Eastern, Western, and Middle States. Nor has there been 

 any sudden swarm of grouse-destroying vermin descending 

 on us like the plagues of Egypt. "As to the "traditional 

 yaller dog," he is no numerous or strong array against the 

 birds; neither is lie, if a good freer, a "yaller dog" at all. 

 In more than fifty years close communion with Nature, dur- 

 ing all of which the ruffed .grouse has been my favorite bird, 

 I have seen but three perfect treeing dog-', and neither of 

 them was a cur or a ' 'yaller dog. " One — I think the best — was 

 a red setter; one a large blue and white setter; the other a 

 black and tan cocker. In the meantime I have seen hun- 

 dreds of setters and pointers, well trained and good enough 

 to satisfy any reasonable sportsman. You can make a per- 

 fect setter by training. A perfect treer is the work of 

 Nature. 



Your correspondent speaks of the fact that not only the 

 grouse, but all other game and fish have shared the same fate 

 wherever exposed to the onward march of our peculiar civil- 

 ization. Had our civilization taken a sudden spring just be- 

 fore the hegira of the grouse, there might be some logic in 

 this. But the advance of civilization is a steady, onward 

 march, the grouse left in a season. 



One autumn I often ran on to flocks of from fifty to one 

 hundred gathered for food on the beech ridges, or flocks of a 

 dozen or more among the thorn plums and wild grapes, 

 while, returning to camp over the high oak and pine barrens, 

 I would flush at every few rods an old lonely cock, these 

 latter seeming to prefer a solitary life on the barrens. (I was 

 mostly out all day starting dogs," and seldom sighted the rifle 



on a grouse.) The next season I hunted over the same 

 ground and the grouse were gone, vanished. Occasionally 1 

 flushed an old solitary, but only one flock of less than a 

 dozen birds in a week's travel, over excellent grouse cover 

 for the most part. Where had they gone? There had been 

 no sudden rush of civilization, no accession of snarers, 

 "yaller dogs" or pot-hunters. Very few had been shot the 

 previous season — less than usual. 



If danger had been "mysteriously" communicated from 

 outside buds, the wisest and most logical course would have 

 been for the outsiders to have joined our grouse, and all to 

 have staid where there was most cover, most food, and least 

 danger. Surely the superhuman wisdom that enables such 

 shy, dumb things to telegraph danger from coverts where 

 setter and breech-loaders make grouse life a burden to out- 

 safer thickets and pine ban-ens, would not inspire our birds 

 to emigrate to more populous and dangerous localities. 



There has been mention of every possible cause for the 

 scarcity of grouse save one. 



'■Wing shots," "gentlemen sportsmen," "true sportsmen," 

 el id genus omm, have remembered to forget that grouse were 

 plenty enough until the introduction of big-bored breech- 

 loaders, bombarding and wounding the beautiful creatures, 

 over well-trained setter dogs. If I wanted to talk chop-logic 

 I would attribute the whole business to this and hold iny 

 position on it better than anyone can who takes the ground 

 that grouse have disappeared because of vermin, pot-hunters, 

 snarers and "yaller dogs." 



It is not so many years ago that a couple of gentlemen 

 sportsmen from Gotham came to this region, mainly for 

 grouse shooting. They were referred to me for information 

 as to grounds, etc. ; and, as they were fine, hearty fellows, I 

 took the old muzzle-loader and went with them as amateur 

 guide. They carried high-priced Greener ten-bores, and had 

 a fine English setter, trained specially for grouse, and a good 

 retriever. I took them a tramp of eighteen miles, through 

 alder swamps, pine thickets, barrens, etc. Much of the 

 cover was so dense that we could not see the dog twenty-five 

 yards away. This was remedied by making him wear a 

 small, light silver bell. Keeping a sharp ear out for the bell, 

 and going directly to the point where it ceased to tinkle, we 

 could easily find the dog, faithfully standing his bird. The 

 party shot at twenty-one grouse that day. They bagged six. 

 Two of the six flew some distance and" were handsomely re- 

 trieved. Of the others at least five left a misty sprinkling of 

 feathers floating on the air as they whirred away. 



The two visitors had been told that I was" a good shot, 

 and thought it strange that I did not offer to shoot once 

 during the day. One reason was that they had come 300 

 miles for a few days' sport, and I thought they ought to have 

 all they could get. But a stronger reason wa's that I wanted 

 to take note of just how the "true sportsman" did it. T 

 wanted to compare him with the much derided "pot-hunter" 

 as to his mode of slaughter; to see if it was more humane— 

 if it included more skill; and also, which disturbed and 

 killed most, birds. I. never saw two men with one dog who 

 could make more; racket in a cover than they did. When a 

 grouse was flushed they never gave him less than two barrels, 

 frequently four. And how they did load! They shot very 

 well. Out of twenty-one birds they certainly hit eleven— 1 

 think more. Of course some of the wounded hid away in 

 thickets to die a miserable death of torment. I never "saw 

 the grouse in this section get such a hazing as they got that 

 day; and but a small portion of all we flushed 'could be 

 pointed by the best of dogs. As the breech-loaders began to 

 bellow at one unfortunate, others would commence whirring 

 away in front and on each side to the number of a dozen or 

 more, and to the utter distraction of poor Dash, who worked 

 like a beaver all day without faltering. 1 don't well see how 

 a pot-hunter could have harried the birds more badly. And, 

 by the way, if Joe Smith was out that same day, and shot, 

 three sitting grouse with the army musket he used at Antie- 

 tam, and both he and the wealthy New Yorkers had their 

 birds cooked in a pot, are they all three pot-hunters, or is 

 only Joe? 



As for myself, it is utterly indifferent to me whether I am 

 called a true sportsman or a pot-hunter. Every sportsman 

 does — or should — save the last ounce of his game for food, 

 The manner of killing is to be judged by its humanity, and 

 the sportsman by his willingness to quit when he has" a fan- 

 share and his desire to preserve the game and give it protec- 

 tion and fair play. I am a -'wing shot;" I love the sport 

 and practice it on some birds, but no more on the grouse. 

 Do the best I could, three out of every five would get away — 

 sometimes more; and the sickening part of it was that they 

 went off leaving a little patch of downy, mist-colored 

 feathers floating on the air much too often. It was no com- 

 fort to lie down after a hard day's tramp, and reflect that two 

 or three bright-eyed, beautiful birds were hidden away under 

 old logs or in thickets, panting away their innocent lives in 

 fever and distress, while their murderer was breathing at 

 ease. Yes, as a ride, grouse must be taken on the wing by 

 the quickest snap-shooting. You do not shut an eye or bring 

 the gun to shoulder at all. Just point it at Ihe first glimpse 

 of him. and pull at the same time. Point the gun "as you 

 might the index finger or a stick. If you potter about aim 

 or shoulder, the bird is gone; and, any way, you will wound 

 about as many as you kill. That is the pity of it. I ceased 

 to practice wing-shooting at grouse, for these reasons, about 

 ten years ago. 



I dare say I am a pot-hunter. For instance, I start out at 

 the first glimpse of dawn, travel up and down the steep hills 

 and mountains for hours, with two raving, ill-trained, un- 

 ruly "setts" of hounds. With my clothes wet with perspira- 

 tion, I succeed in gettiug them started on the tracks of sepa- 

 rate deer. I take the most favorable point for a shot — and 

 don't get it. 



But I hear the races, the music of the dogs from the 

 start until they break over the steep mountain brow, down 

 to the runways*-or, somewhere else. 



Then, I have a half day of happy, lonesome all to myself. 

 I loiter under the shade of Norway pines. I smoke" and 

 muse. I climb the highest points and go down to 

 the deepest gullies and dells, all with an eye to the habitat, of 

 the deer, and the points for next morning's start. 



When the sun is low I start for camp. Going down, on 

 the last "bench," I run into a flock of grouse — a dozen or so. 

 They are not wild. Have not been harried. Two or three 

 jump on to logs, and, with ruffled neck-wings, await further 

 action. Several get up into low pines, and stretch their 

 necks out like pine knots. I raise the double barrel, bring 

 the bead to a point, and touch the hair trigger. A headless 

 grouse tumbles into the dim path. The Test are still. A 

 second touch, and another grouse comes gyrating down. 

 None go away. I might kill more, but I do itot. I plunge 

 down the steep mountain side to where I see a mellow, yel- 

 low glow, and quietly lay my birds on the shanty roof; "for 



