Mabch 27, 1884.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



163 



All at once the Judge paused aud, with a. comforting tone 

 in his voice, asked: 



"What do you most desire?" 



"Light," promptly responded the Professor. 



"With the assistance of your legs 1 will soon bring you to 

 it," was the laughing reply of the Judge. 



"Look forward yonder and to the left and you will see the 

 opening. " The last words of the Judge were fairly drowned 

 by his impetuous charge through the bushes, and the joyful 

 Professor followed close in the rear. A few moments later 

 we stood in the opening, and beneath the glaring sunshine, 

 gazing at the beautiful green of the beaver grass and the 

 scattered clumps of alders. 



"There are trout there!" shouted the Judge, as he pressed 

 forward into the meadow*. 



"Slosh, clug, plug, ugh!" from the Judge, as he floundered 

 iu the meadow half knee deep in the water, for the banks of 

 the little creek were in many places on a level with the water, 

 and the roots of the grass were covered as in a freshet. The 

 joints of our rods were soon together, and we were on the 

 soft springy margin of the creek castingfor trout, and taking 

 them too. 



The creek here is from two to four feet wide, and about 

 the same depth, occasionally spreading out into a shallow 

 pond. From the narrow and deep channels under the edge 

 of the sod, we lifted some very pretty though small trout. 

 Following the stream downward you soon pass from the 

 beaver meadow into the cedars, and thence out again into 

 tangled thickets of black alder, and almost every rod of the 

 creek contains trout, small, but increasing in size as you 

 journey toward the lake. The adventurous trapper has been 

 here after the beaver, whose haunt we discover in the decay- 

 ing dams over the creek, and cut logs along its bank. We 

 found the trapper's little hut, and in a reverent attitude — for 

 the door was so low he had to enter on his hands and knees 

 — the Judge explored the interior, finding beaver teeth and 

 hoops for stretching the skins. 



This main branch of the creek was fished by the now 

 wearied Judge and Professor for perhaps a mile from the 

 first beaver meadow where they struck it, with constantly 

 increasing numbers and size of fish. But the sun is gliding 

 rapidly into the w T est, and our legs are weary with riding the 

 black alder. The Judge calls a halt. There is at least a 

 mile more of creek between us and the lake, and extremely 

 slavish walking on its banks. The Judge takes his bearings, 

 decides about where the boat ought to be, and boldly plunges 

 through the grass, black alder and swamp, to the rolling 

 ground a hundred yards away. The Professor soon follows, 

 and as the Judge disappears over a hill he shouts: 



"Hold on, Judge, you have certainly made a mistake. You 

 are bearing too far to the west." 



The Professor's legs were tired aud he wanted to halt the 

 Judge till he could catch up. The Judge pulled bis specta- 

 cles down, sighted through one glass at the sun, swept the 

 woods to the north with a quick glance, looked into the com- 

 pass and only said, "I am right," and rolled on. The Pro- 

 fessor smiled sadly, but with confidence in the Judge, pressed 

 on. On, on, up hill, down hill, through the ground hem- 

 lock, which now and then clutches your feet like a vise, the 

 unwearied Judge strides. The Professor is in despair, and 

 on the point of calling a halt to rest, when the Judge pauses 

 at the«foot of a hill and calmly wipes his steaming brow, un- 

 til the Professor comes up, or rather down, into the ravine. 

 That was a beautiful little ravine in which they halted, 

 stretching backward and upward into the hills, apparently 

 losing itself in the deeper shadows beyond. It was somewhat 

 open where they stood, and a few rods below we could hear 

 the gurgle of the brook which they had left a half mile back. 

 It had doubled on them. Down through the middle of this 

 ravine there came a little tiny brook of clear, sweet, spring 

 water. Just below were a few lily- pads, and just above an 

 old limb of a tree lay on the seemingly innocent soil. 



"Well, I am going to cross above there," said the Judge. 



"I am going to cross right here," said the Professor. "A 

 straight line is the shortest distance between two points." 



The Judge moved off. The Professor lingered a moment 

 to make up his mind and then started. One, two, three 

 steps, and the Professor found himself in the yielding mud 

 up to one knee and with a grunt of disgust backed out. Just 

 at that moment there came a voice from above. 



"Ho! Professor, come here, I am in a tight place." 



1 'It seems rather loose around where y r ou are, Judge, what 

 is the matter?" innocently asked the Professor, for the Judge 

 had not seen him back out, nor heard his expletive. 



"Well," said the Judge with more emphasis than the occa- 

 sion would seem to warrant, "I am here, and can neither 

 advance nor retreat. In front the bottom has entirely dropped 

 out, and the old limb in the rear is so small and smooth that 

 I am afraid to attempt to turn back." 



"Well, what are you going to do about it?" said the Profes- 

 sor with a chuckle, for he always enjoyed seeing the Judge 

 in a dilemma. "Are you going to camp there for the 

 night?" 



The Judge's only reply was, "Cut me a pole and throw it 

 to me and I will bridge the rest of the way across." With 

 these words the Judge flung the hatchet with a spiteful 

 force, not at the Professor, but at the solid earth behind him. 



Very leisurely the Professor picked up the hatchet, and 

 more leisurely began to select a suitable grub; for was he not 

 tired, and was not the Judge calmly awaiting his actions? 

 Did not the Professor know that the Judge would not get 

 away from him? 



"Hurry," said the Judge, "it is getting late, and I am tired 

 of standing here." 



The Professor hurried a little, but he knew the Judge would 

 not leave in a hurry, and so he kept trimming the pole. In 

 order that it might more safely support the Judge's weight, 

 the Professor had left here and there a projecting limb a foot 

 long. 



"It is ready, Judge," said the Professor. 



"Reach me the end easy," said the Judge, "easy, or you 

 will push me off." 



There was no malice in the Professor's heart, and he did 

 reach the end easy to the Judge, and in doing so slipped off 

 the end of the limb with one foot and was half knee deep in 

 the mud. He was just opening his mouth to let escape some 

 of the emotion swelling within, when there was a desperate 

 plunge, a grunt of anger and disgust, a splash, a groan, and 

 then— perfect quiet. One of the projecting limbs had caught 

 the Judge's leg when he threw the pole forward, and obe- 

 dient to the impulse he followed. The Professor looked for- 

 ward, and in amazement broke out: 



"What on earth are you doing there?" 



"Doing nothing. It's already done," said the irate Judge 

 The Professor took in the situation, saw it was impossible 

 for him to go any deeper without bisecting himself, f©r 

 he had caught on his pole with one leg. Then the Professor 



was too full to hold in longer; the woods rang with his 

 hearty laugh. Then he forgave the Judge his exaggerated 

 story about the squirrel rifle and the "buck ague," forgave 

 his omissions, that he wounded the huge buck, that he did 

 put powder behind every ball— all these things the Professor 

 forgave, and remembered them against the Judge no more. 

 The Professor laughed till he was so weak he could hardly 

 stand, and the tears came into his eyes. Finally he gasped 

 out: 



"Why don't you get out?" 



"I want to bring my shoe with me." was the panting an- 

 swer of the Judge. He pulled and panted, and grunted and 

 groaned, but with no appreciable effect. The Professor was 

 in the background applauding, encouraging, laughing till his 

 sides ached. 



"I am coming, I am coming," shouted the Judge after a 

 second attempt. "I am coming with my shoe on, too," and 

 something of the Judge's hearty good humor began to beam 

 on his face. A long and steady pull and he stood with both 

 feet on the pole, dripping with mud and water, and sweatiug 

 at every pore. A moment more and he stands safely on the 

 other shore, and the Professor, laughing at his sorry plight 

 and murmuring to himself, "The wicked stand in slippery 

 places," cautiously r follows the Judge's path without his mis- 

 fortune. 



A brisk walk of half an hour brings us to the brow of a 

 hill, and away across the tops of the cedars gleams the water 

 of Beaver Lake. But such a half mile of swamp as lies be- 

 tween us and the boat! The Judge plunges boldly in and 

 the Professor follows close behind. The cedars stand so close 

 together that the Judge can with difficulty press his 220 

 pounds through, and the tough dead limbs come so near to 

 the ground that he cannot crawl under. Now, the Profes- 

 sor forges ahead, and part of the time squeezing between the 

 cedars and part of the time on hands and knees, he worms 

 his way along. The Judge groans and then he gives a sigh 

 of relief, for here two or three cedars have fallen down and 

 knocked others with them, and the Judge mounts their trunks 

 aud walks with comparative ease. The Professor has wormed 

 his way on hands and knees ahead, and then another lament 

 from the Judge salutes his ear. 



"I don't believe I can get through," says the Judge with a 

 comical smile, bordering on the pathetic. 



The Professor lookedup. and there, fifteen feet in the air, 

 was the Judge, swaying to and fro on the last partially fallen 

 cedar and looking in despair at the Professor on his stomach, 

 crawling through the seemingly thicker cedars, and satisfied 

 with his 125 pounds of avoirdupois. He was in too close a 

 place to speak. He gave an encouraging smile to the Judge 

 and then crawled on, for he had caught a glimpse of the 

 water just beyond. Hot, exhausted by' his toil, hounded by 

 the demoniac mosquito, he sank on the mossy margin of the 

 lake and waited for the Judge. He soon came, but had mis- 

 calculated as to the location of our boat. It was at least a 

 quarter of a mile to the west of us. What was to be done? 

 The Professor sat still in quiet contentment, for that was 

 the Judge's problem. He quickly began its solution. 



"Shades of my fathers," said the Professor, when he 

 turned his head a few moments afterward to look at the 

 Judge, "is it possible that this is the learned Judge, the elo- 

 quent advocate, the cultured and genial gentleman whom I 

 so frequently meet on the streets of our city and at our col- 

 lege commencements? It cannot be." 



Such were, or ought to have been, the communings of the 

 Professor as he gazed on the Judge, There he stood in the 

 margin of the lake. His woolen shirt, bound at the throat 

 and thrown back, exposed a breadth of breast inviting to the 

 mosquito. His face was damp with sweat and red with the 

 toil of his journey. His shoes lay on the moss, and his jean 

 pants were rolled* high above his knees. He reminded the 

 Professor of a Greek gymnast ready for the race. He soon 

 disappeared around thecurve of drooping cedars to the west 

 of us, his legal heels grinding the loose pebbles of the shallow 

 waters into the yielding sands. The time slips rapidly away, 

 and the Professor looks longingly across the lake to the 

 northern shore, beyond which lies the camp. A quarter of 

 an hour passes, and the Judge in the little Wawa glides 1 

 around the little curve of cedars and into the shore, where 

 sits the wearied Professor. 



He entered the bow of the boat, stepping across the body 

 of the much-slandered deer — for one of the balls had hit just 

 where the Professor aimed — and taking the paddle, joined 

 his to the Judge's lusty stroke. The boat shot forward 

 toward the distant shore, and in a few moments we were 

 out of the calm and into the ruffled waters. It then became 

 apparent to the Judge and the Professor that the waves were 

 much higher than they supposed. An uneasy look swept 

 over the face of the Judge, and a thought of home, of wife, 

 of children came gliding into the mind of the Professor. It 

 was cold, quite cold, down in those deep blue waters, for a 

 crest of an angry wave spit its foam on the hand of the Pro- 

 fessor as he bent to his oar. 



"Judge, can you swim?" at last said the Professor, coolly. 



"Not a stroke," said the Judge, with an unusually kind 

 tone in his voice. 



"Can you?" was the next question from the Judge. 



"Like a fish," was the laconic reply of the Professor as he 

 bent to his stroke. 



"Suppose my oar should break," said the Judge, gently; 

 "we would be in a bad fix then. But I believe," with a 

 more hopeful tone in his voice, "I could make it with the 

 pole for a paddle." 



The Professor made no reply, but looked ahead to the 

 rising waves and to the bluff beyond them. 



"Ugh!" said the Judge, as a vicious wave casta pint of 

 water into his lap over the boat's side. Now, the Judge is a 

 Presbyterian, and as their custom is, does not take kindly to 

 water, especially to large bodies ; but the Professor is a genu- 

 ine Baptist, and prefers even a lake to a bowl. These facts 

 may account for the pensive mood of the usually jubilant 

 Judge, but the reader must decide that. 



After a perilous half hour's struggle the yellow of the 

 sands gleamed through the boiling waves, and the Judge 

 was his genial self again, and I am not sure that he did not 

 fling a quotation from Blackstone and some law Latin at the 

 angry waves. 



In a few moments the Judge, Professor and deer were in 

 camp, and the greetings to our friends from Munising, who 

 had arrived in our absence, Mr. E. C. Cox and Ira Weller, 

 being over, the Judge proceeds to broil the steak. Now, it 

 is one of the idiosyncrasies of the Judge to talk to the pots 

 and pans when he is cooking by himself. The Professor had 

 left the camp-fire a few moments before, but unexpectedly re- 

 turned. The Judge was talking to himself even more warmly 

 than usual, and the Professor thinks that these were about 

 the words : ' 'That may be all right for a Baptist Professor — 

 be still, won't you" — this last with a vicious punch at the 



steak, which was curling on the griddle— "but for a liberal 

 Presbyterian who takes his drop at a time, that lake was a 

 little too deep for comfort, and — " here the Professor 

 coughed, and the Judge looked up, and with an innocent 

 simplicity the Professor asked, 



"Isn't supper about ready?" 



"Yes, it is ready," said the Judge, with rosy cheeks; and 

 he placed the fragrant steaks on the table. 



It was a custom of the Judge and the Professor, after the 

 day's toils were over, to light'the candles, and retire to their 

 couch, and have some of the delights of conversation and 

 literature. The evening of this busy day was no exception 

 to the rule. For, perhaps, an horn - they read with only an 

 occasional remark. The Professor saw the Judge giving 

 now and then a vicious slap at some imaginary fly under his 

 part of the coverings? but without much success. He finally 

 became impatient, and began to turn down the covers as if 

 he were going to annihilate some stubborn juryman. He 

 gave an earnest look through his glasses and, with a yell 

 that would have made a Comanche Indian blush with shame, 

 he bounded— literally bounded — from the bed , striking the 

 sloping side of 1he tent. 



"A snake! a snake!" he cried, and with an energy born of 

 natural disposition and close confinement, he attacked it 

 with a loose, tent pin, and in a moment a harmless little gar- 

 ter snake was wriggling its last on the sands of our tent 

 floor. The delights of literature were over for that evening. 

 The Professor laughed till his strength was exhausted; 

 laughed himself to sleep. But the Judge had a troubled 

 sleep, aud moaned, aud in the silent hours of the night gave 

 the clothes a most vigorous kick, muttering as he did so, 

 "Darn the snake!" 



IN THE WOODS, AND OUT. 



TXTHY it seems but yesterday that passing down this 



t T path I heard the tuneful wings of busy bees circling 

 along the misty morn to forage on the blossoming fields. 



The woods were vocal with songs. The air was ladened 

 with perfume from the flower-crowned hills. 



Far, far below, the fog hung in the valley like a lake. 

 Cool, shady r groves were on the distant shores, and now and 

 then glad echoes ferried the robin's simpls song across the 

 silent deep to me. This, thought I, as [ looked away toward 

 the blue hills, around me, is nature's walled city. Builded 

 like unto the city with its twelve great gates, that lies away 

 out eternity w T ard. 



And yet* I know that to these courts autumn would come 

 and demand the scepter of summer. 



Well do 1 remember on a September evening, when the 

 crimson banners of sunset were streaming from'the western 

 sky, how I watched great flocks of birds drifting through 

 the defiles out to the south to join a sorrowing queen that 

 had deserted the halls of day; deserted because' the heralds 

 of autumn were telling of the barbarians coming. And oh! 

 what changes were wrought ! The landscapes were decked 

 in brown aud gray; the forest was despoiled of its dress; 

 flowers were buried in unmarked graves 'and when the un- 

 leashed whirlwinds of the equinox rolled all that was beauti- 

 ful into drifts of mouldering ruin, nothing but a specter of 

 the vernal scene was left to me. 



But then I soon fell into line with autumn and became as 

 one of the family. I heard the rattling nuts among the 

 limbs; I saw the gray r squirrel grow sleek and fat; I watched 

 the wild goose sailing out of the north, and by and by it 

 dawned upon me, what would one do without the music of 

 fall? 



Had I not twenty years ago shouldered my three-dollar 

 shotgun and enlisted in the cause? And have I not every 

 season since tramped hill and plain, through meadow and 

 brake, through sunshine and storm, now shooting over a 

 staid old dog in the stubble, now wasting lots of powder 

 practicing on grouse in the thickets, and agaiu cheering on 

 the noisy chase among the hills? Well, come to think about 

 it, the fall is the musical season of the year. But the autumn 

 is gone, and I am looking on the winter's trail. The cold 

 north wind is roaring along the bare ridges and bleak downs. 

 I hear the allied tempests marshalling along the scraggy 

 cliffs, aud roaring through the rocky gorge, dance lightly 

 over the waters of the lake, and driving through the wood- 

 land with sober pace, awake the genie of the place to chant 

 old winter's symphony. And now again, I hear them mask- 

 ing all their forces on the border of the thicket, and now the 

 whirlwind charges up the dizzy heights beyond the little 

 chapel, and eddying through the guttered fields goes coast 

 ing down the gentle slopes toward the southern horizon. 



What a vast brotherhood these wintry winds are! I bear 

 their rustling wings on every hand. How they torture the 

 clouds; how they stir the very depths of the laboring sky ! 

 Hush! I hear them here and there — aud see them never. 



Hark! I hear the woodman's axe in the valley. One, two, 

 three, and now a thousand echos take up the measure of the 

 master stroke, and labor's melody swells into a grand chorus 

 to cheer the toiler to the end of day. For sixty years the 

 bright axes of this craft have spangled ! liese slopes^ for sixty 

 years the woodman's axe and husbandman's plow have been 

 devastating the primal beauties of these hills and vales; and 

 I now see away in the vista guttered fields and vast tracts of 

 brush, that hear no more the moan of laboring axe, but are 

 simply r the home of the wild fox. and Industry's offering at 

 the altar of Folly. The master stroke has an echo away on 

 the borders of civilization, and unless there is a cessation of 

 the music, a century's reparation will be but as a drop in the 

 sea from the sum of our losses. 



Save the forests while yet we may. 



Down in the fastness of his thicket home I hear the grouse 

 beat a tattoo. How vain is he when he spreads his dapple 

 wing before the chary flock, and yet, with all his vanity, 

 the music of his wing adds a charm to the solitude, nor mars 

 one item of the woods' solemnity. Who has the heart to slip 

 among the shadows and shoot this bird upon the ground or 

 tree, and give not even one chance to his nervous wing to 

 stretch away in flight before the vengeful gun ? 



Hush! 1 hear a quail piping a note of warning to his 

 mates. And now I see them racing through the dead grass 

 of the pasturage. I mark one down. There will he lay, and 

 count with fluttering pulse the snail-paced flight of danger's 

 hour, and will only feel from danger free when, in the "twi- 

 light hour, the wary cock calls to the scattered covey and 

 leads it to the sheltered bivouac. 



Ah, Bob! I wasted many a pound of shot before I became 

 very successful in cutting you down. But I never cut you 

 when you were down. You know it was a square heel and 

 toe race, and you know that for several years you won, be- 

 cause I insisted on shooting with both eyes shut. 



My footstep startles the rabbit from his nest among the 

 greenbriers, and he drifts away as noiseless as the light of 



