1865.1 



FOREST AMjJ stream. 



283 



Address nit romniiinicnUovs to ike fnrest and Slixam rubltsh- 

 ing Co. 



LAMINGTON RIVER. 



JIIAYE since camped by far nobler streams and seen the 

 rusk and felt the stroke of more splendid fish, but no 

 days have ever so filled the lougiogsof my soid as those spent 

 on the Lamiugton River. Of course it was because I was a 

 child; but childhood is an important part of life, and if the 

 soul is indestructible, so perhaps are its impressions. And if 

 it carries to the great hereafter any of the scenes of this life, 

 will not the pictures of childhood be at least as bright as 

 1 



he Lamington was one of the branclies of the Earitan 

 River, in New Jersey, and was called a "river" by all the 

 country folks; though it was, in fact, but a creek, and when 

 I last saw it had dwindled away until it was httle more than 

 a respectable brook. For five miles or more above the old 

 village of Lamington I knew every hole and pond and ripple 

 it contained; there I spent the greater part of my school va- 

 cations, and, rain or shine, every day was most piously de- 

 voted to its worship. Its banks were lined with beech and 

 hickory along the low grounds, mingled with oak and birch, 

 and sassafras, persimmon, ash and gum trees where it grew 

 higher, and hemlock and spruce, with wintergreen springing 

 through the pine needles beneath, where it rolled still higher. 

 Here and there it opened into meadows, and wound through 

 tangles of grapevine and jungles of blackberry and thimble- 

 berry to lose itself again in deep, dark woods of hickory and 

 oak. 



Even now no part of my life seems better spent than the 

 long summer days, when I sat by its shady depths with rod 

 and line, and heard the mellow call of Bob White from the 

 neiehboring field, while the whistle of the upland plover, so 

 far-reaching yet so sweet, fell from the distant sky as he 

 passed over to the rolling uplands beyond. The chipmunk 

 that played along the old stone fence, the little red squirrel 

 that sat chattering or flirting his tail on the hemlock bough 

 overhanging the water, and the gray squirrel that made the 

 leaves crash beneath his spring in the woods behind, all 

 seemed then a part of the brook itself. So did the meudow- 

 lark, whose goldtn breast with center of jet shone from the 

 mullen top in the meadow, the robin whose piping came on 

 every wind, the bighholder showering golden hght on hia 

 way to the wild cherry trees, the kingfisher that sprang his 

 rattle on the dead limb above the stream, and the heron that 

 lit sometimes in the shadows, staring for a moment in solemn 

 surprise, craning his neck this way and that, and walking 

 thoughtfully about for a moment before concluding that he 

 was safer fuither up stream. So, too, did the woodpecker, 

 whose scarlet head and black and white coat were often 

 mirrored in the water where my cork was floating as he 

 hammered at the high dead limb above; and so, too, as much 

 as all of these, did that mysterious sound that from the 

 hemlock and laurel-clad hill beyond, on the dense, swumpy 

 jungle that I never dared penetrate, always filled with awe 

 my childish heart— the drumming of the ruffed grouse. I 

 was not yet old enough to be trusted with a gun, but I used 

 to sit there almost wild with thoughts of the days that were 

 to come, little valuing in comparison the days then passing. 



"With the exception of that faint discontent, those were to 

 me days of almost perfect bliss. Often the cork and quill 

 dived far under before it had fairly settled upon the water; 

 and big chubs came flapping out almost as fast as the baited 

 hook could be recast. Sunflsh scattered light from all their 

 brilliant scales as they thrashed about in' air; and many a 

 solemn catfish came struggling up to pierce, perhaps, with 

 its sharp spines, my too eager fingers. Many an eel, too, 

 wriggled off the hook as he came to the surface and got a 

 glimpse of the upper world; or, if he staid on, tangled the 

 line into a Gordian knot. And when was there such excite- 

 ment as when the big eel slipped from the hook upon the 

 wet grass upon the bank? What vain stamping and grab- 

 bing of grass instead of the eel as the squirming slipperi- 

 ness eluded my most desperate efforts! Seldom has sorrow 

 been more deep than when the slimy prize slid with a sad- 

 dening plump into the water. 



Who could forget such nights as those on which I went 

 bobbing for eels, when the circling lamps of the fireflies 

 glimmered around me and the stars twinkled in the glassy 

 water, while from the darkening dome above came the cry 

 of the nighthawk, and from the big tree the hoot of the owl, 

 and over the water the whistle of the woodcock's wing as he 

 passed from shore to shore through the gloom? What a 

 thrill the jerk upon the bob, or the grating of the end of the 

 pole upon the bottom of the brook then caused, and what 

 delight was mine when the writhing eel with teeth entangled 

 in the linen thread was lifted over the side of the boat and 

 fell struggling upon the bottom among a score of squirming 

 companions. Through the faUing shades of night came 

 the musky smell of the muskrat, and perhaps I could see 

 the rippling wake behind him as he clove the dark water. 

 There was companionship, too, in the night heron, whose 

 long, white plumes I could perhaps dimly see as he de- 

 scended upon the shore beside me; in the mellow voice of 

 the whippoorwill that came from the bushes or grove beyond 

 him, and in the deep bass of the bullfrogs that sounded from 

 the pond above. Little did it matter then that the old 

 country-made scow pitched and rolled and leaked or that the 

 mosquitoes bit through my summer pants. 



The mill pond contained treasures in those days. The 

 fact that it all belonged to my uncle was one entirely too big 

 for my childish mind to grasp. The long, trim form of the 

 pickerel lying in the sunny openings left among the lily-pads 

 or the wake left by his sw'if t rush as in later days he came to 

 the glitter of the revolving spoon hook, and the tug upon 

 the line as he found himself deceived by its bright promises, 

 were nothing compared with the day w^hen, after days and 

 nights of patient toil, the net was completed and we started 

 out to drag the mill pond. Though its floats were clumsy 

 blocks, its sinkers old iron nuts from the blacksmith's shop; 

 though its meshes were uneven and its "bag" wholly imagin- 

 ary, yet never in life shall I complete any work upon which 

 I shall look with such pride as I did upon that net. Never 

 again shall expectation so consume my soul as when ray 

 cousin and I first swept the pond with it, and finally got its 

 ends upon the shore and carefully drew it in, with alternate 

 chills and hot flashes gambolling along our spines, until the 

 supreme moment arrived when we could feel the fish strike 

 against the net and see the commotion in the water as the 

 net grew smaller and smaller. So intense was the strain 

 upon our nerves that when at last the "bag" was drawn 

 ashore the sight of its glistening and flopping contents was 



more like relief from some dreadful suspense than the cul- 

 mination of fulfilled hope, No string of trout hanging in 

 the light of the camp-fire by the rushing mountain stream 

 has ever since looked so grand as the half-bushel of suckers 

 and chubs, with a few sunfish larger than were ever caught 

 upon the hook, two or three eels larger than the bob ever 

 lifted, a. catfish or two, together with a pickerel that we felt 

 sure weighed ten pounds, and such a snapping turtle as we 

 felt certain had never before been seen. 



Wondrous, too, in its resources was the mill race in those 

 days. Even the smell of the water that ran away from the 

 dark, dripping wheel awoke tender sensations, and as I dan- 

 gled the line through the openings in the sawmill floor into 

 the foaming saw-dusty water beneath, the fish that came out 

 seemed better and bigger than those caught elsewhere. 

 When the mill ran long enough to stop the flow over the dam 

 and lower the pool below it, I wacfed around there with 

 spear in hand and uprolled pants, and caught many a sucker 

 lying in the shade of the big stones. That was eVen better 

 than watching for them by torchlight on the first warm 

 nights of spring in the brook at home, to catch them with 

 spear or stick as they struggled over the rippling shallows. 

 And then, too, when the water was high and a broad sheet 

 thundered on the apron of the dam, the pool below it had 

 other attractions, and such catfish and auch eels as it con- 

 tained could be caught nowhere else. 



When last I revisited this old stream, after long years of 

 absence, I found it sadly changed. The leaves of the spread- 

 ing beech were pictured as of yore in its glassy waters, and 

 the grass that overhung its banks was as long and green as 

 ever. The vine that overwhelmed the sycamore by its side 

 was still full of fox grapes and bubbling" joy of the bobolink 

 as he hovered over the nest in the meadow was as clear and 

 sweet as before. But the bright fish that shone in its waters 

 and the life that enlivened its banks and groves, all that 

 made it the first thing to which 1 ran in the morning and 

 the last by which I lingered at night— all these were sadly 

 changed. Beneath the bridge where I so often lay and 

 watched the sunfish, shiners, red fins and silver fins darting 

 from a hundred directions at the crumbs 1 dropped, I saw but 

 a few timorous minnows scatter at my approach, while 

 from the old brier-grown fence by the orchard near by came 

 the chirp of the English sparrow instead of the flute-like 

 call of Bob White. Where the big bullfrogs once shono in 

 green and gold upon the sunny slopes of mud only a lonely 

 snipe teetered his way along, and swallows and butterflies 

 gathered mud, while'the smooth surface of the pond beside 

 was unbroken by the rippling circle of a rising fish. The 

 black turtles that basked on the old log seemed fewer and 

 smaller, and the rustUng of the harmless water snakes as 

 they slid from the mass of brush or driftwood into the water 

 was quite an event. Even the little crawfish leaving a muddy 

 trail along the bottom as they shot backward under some 

 stone, the little eels, pollywogs and hah worms that wiggled 

 about in the warm shallows of the little inlets and tributary 

 spring-runs, even the skaters that played over the surface 

 and the little black water beetles that circled in the eddies, 

 all these seemed to be disappearing. T. S. Van Dyke. 



Sas Dieoo, Oal. 



UNCLE KELLUP. 



THE kindest-hearted, quietest-mannered, nicest old fellow 

 you ever met, with all the instincts of a gentleman and 

 a sportsman. But when 1 say sportsman, let it not suggest 

 the wealthy gentleman of leisure, who on the first day on 

 which the "law is ofl'" may start promptly for the woods 

 with his retinue of dogs and followers, and a thorough 

 equipment of all the modern implements of slaughter. 



No, a stern fate long ago decreed that Uncle Kellup should 

 every morning plod his way down town and up a rickety 

 flight of stairs to a musty ofiice, where he takes his position 

 on a high stool and resolves himself into a calcuJating 

 machine; repeating the same performance year in and out 

 every day of his life, excepting Sundays and legal holidays. 



For years and years he has looked forward to the time 

 when he should be able to take a long vacation and set out 

 for that hunter's paradise over the road he had so often trod 

 in his imagination; but somehow he never seems to catch 

 up with the mortgage on the little house, and the only son, 

 who should have been a prop to the old man in his age, went 

 to the bad and died with a long list of creditors. So Uncle 

 Kellup plods quietly along and always will. 



But if you would see him at his best, you should come 

 with me some evening after supper to the cottage. Let us 

 peep through the keyhole. The tea kettle is humming con- 

 tentedly, the clock ticking monotonously, old Dodger is 

 stretched at full length before the fire, and there, drawn up 

 to the table at one side, is Aunt Susan, with her knitting, 

 while opposite is Uncle Kellup, comfortably an-ayed in a 

 pair of very large slippers, while he polishes his glasses pre- 

 paratory to a perusal of the last number of Fokest and 

 Steeam before him on the table. Then he gathers up his 

 paper and looks down at Dodger for a moment over his 

 spectacles while his features are widening into an expectant 

 smile. 



And such a smile. You could see to read by it. 



At first, as he reads, a shade of dejection settles on his coun- 

 tenance, and you know he is envying .some fortunate fellow 

 the glorious time he is having with choice companions where 

 is abundant game and glowing scenery. But soon his feat- 

 urea relax again; he chuckles quietly or nods in approbation, 

 and at length breaks out in a hearty laugh, while Aunt Susan 

 looks ©n with an indulgent smile and Dodger wakes up with 

 a sharp bark and his features all wrinkled into an inquiry as 

 to what the matter is anyhow. 



So then Uncle Kellup must needs get down the old muzzle- 

 loader, and although Susan reminds him it was thoroughly 

 cleaned night before last, he takes it all apart, wipes away a 

 speck of dust, puts it together again, fondles it lovingly 

 awhile, and then takes a good, long, careful aim at a fly on 

 the ceiling. 



"Aha," says he, "my fine fellow, if you were only a quail 

 or partridge now. Hey, IJodger?" 



And then he gives Susan a sly wink as he shoulders the 

 gun, and makes a great stamping noise of preparation as he 

 moves toward the door, as if to start right off for the woods. 

 But the old dog has been fooled too many times before, so 

 now he only wags a little and stretches and yawns and 

 throws up his muzzle and yowls once or twice just to humor 

 the old man. • 



So, now, if we take advantage of the commotion to enter, 

 Uncle Kellup will greet us cordially, and soon will be in the 

 midst of that yarn about the woodchuck, or skunk, or what- 

 ever it was, and when we catch a quizzical glance from Aunt 

 Susan behind her knitting, we all slap our thighs and shake 

 our heads and roar so heartily you would never suspect we 

 had heard that story forty or fifty times before. 



Every Sunday morniug he goe.s to church, but in the 

 afternoon, especially in the autumn, when the foliage U turn- 

 ing, you will see him and Dodger trudging along some 

 country path, through the gap in the wall and across the 

 lots, till they come to an obscure bramble pasture near the 

 woods. And here they dispose themselves comfortably on a 

 mossy knoll and doze away the afternoon, listening to the 

 note of the bluejay in the woods, or an occasional crow 

 passing high over head, while in the intervals the old man 

 indulges in a confidential little chat with Dodger, reminding 

 him of what a fat, lazy rascal he is getting, and showing up 

 his many misdemeanors and shortcomings, and finally 

 smoothing it all over by remarking, "But there's no telling 

 what you might have been, Dodger, if you'd only been 

 trained." 



Then a gray squirrel comes whisking toward them along 

 the Virginia fence, and when he pauses, quite close, Uncle 

 Kellup is all excitement, shaking his stick at the dog and 

 admonishing him to "lie down, sir," although the animal 

 had not the remotest intention of doing anythmg else. Then 

 the squirrel, satisfied with bis investigations, goes scampering 

 back the way he came, with his handsome tail flaunting 

 after him, while Uncle Kellup draws a bead on him with his 

 cane and remarks to Dodger how nicely he would have 

 popped him if he'd only had the gun. But he wouldn't. 

 He wouldn't hurt a hair of its pretty little head for the half 

 of Solomon's kingdom. 



Then he suddenly realizes that the afternoon is gone, the 

 bars are down, tlie cows all home and milked, and he and 

 Dodger go trudging down the path with visions of cold 

 supper, a mild reproof from Susan, and blue Monday in the 

 distance. Jefferson Soribb. 



DIFFERENT SORTS OF OUTERS. 



ONE must be in the fashion or be a nobody. It appears 

 of late that voluntary testimony is the rule, and if it 

 please the honorable court I will step into the witness box 

 and be sworn in the case of The People vs. "The Kingfisher 

 Club," et al. 



It must be half a dozen or so of years since I first met the 

 gentlemen composing the Kingfisher Club, and they have 

 since at various times "done" the Intermediate Chain of 

 lakes pretty thoroughly, and have camped at different points 

 along our valley. My extensive acquaintance throughout 

 this region renders it extremely improbable that any mem- 

 bers of this club could have been guilty of any serious in ■ 

 fraction of the law or order, without its coming in one or 

 another way to my knowledge. 



As a brother angler and an old sportsman, heartily in 

 sympathy with the laws for the better conservation of such 

 game as remains in our once notable hunting grounds, I take 

 pleasure in stating that in all the talk I have heard about 

 this club, no whisper of any illicit practices, of whatever 

 nature, has ever reached my ears. These gentlemen, so far 

 as I have ever learned, have uniformily met their obligations, 

 and have left behind them a most credible record, and I can- 

 not believe that, had they been otherwise disposed, they 

 would have made an exception of the Intermediate region. 



This testimony is not only voluntary, but a little more than 

 that — in a sense— as I am inclined to think that Old Hickory 

 has what the Scotsman called "a scunner agin" me, since L 

 took occasion, a few years ago in your columns, to correct 

 him in a loose statement in natural history, which he had 

 imbibed while drinking in the waters of our springs and the 

 yarns of some of our smooth-spoken inhabitants, at the same 

 time. He took up the cudgels rather savagely in behalf of 

 his instructors, and I have not seen him since. I bear him 

 no ill will, remembering that he is just a little — a very httle 

 — "short in the temper," and prone at times to use hard 

 words — possibly regretted afterward. That he can use them, 

 any one one within hearing of his progress through the 

 swamps of Cedar River could testify, and this brings me to 

 another part of my subject. 



There are Cincinnatians, and Cincinnatians. I have met 

 a good many of them, and of several classes. Of these this 

 paper treats of three only, the sportsman, the "dude," and 

 the "dead-beat." .1 use the term "dead-beat," because, 

 although inelegant, it expresses concisely the idea 1 desire to 

 convey. 



But about Cedar River. That is where I met the dude. 

 He was fishing for trout. So was I. He was pottering 

 around the lower bridge, and I took the bru.sh for it and 

 tramped up stream. Just how many I caught doesn't much 

 matter at present, but the great fact which remains indelibly 

 imprinted upon my memory is that at a certain point, I was 

 standing with my back to the stream, the normal tempera- 

 ture of which is in midsummer considerably (as I think) 

 below the zero of Fahrenheit, and stepping backward, I 

 slipped, and a branch caught me just above the ankles. Over 

 I went instanter, and mortal man hath seen no prettier dive. 

 Viewed as an acrobatic performance it was a distinguished 

 success, and would have brought down the house. The top 

 of my old hat struck squarely upon the surface of the icy 

 stream, and the tenant of the tile aforesaid incontinently 

 disappeared beneath the aqueous. 



It was damp and chilly, and I emerged as hastily as my 

 dignity would permit; walked up into an open space in the 

 forest, "shucked" myself, and dried off in the broiling sun. 



Then I fished down stream to the bridge, when I again 

 encountered the dude. He met me with a stare of horror, 

 which was soon explained by his trembling utterances. 

 "W-h-y," said he, "I f-e-1-1 i-n-t-o t-h-e w-a-t-a-h." "Ah?" 

 said I. "Y-e-s, I fell into the w-a-t-a-h c-1 e-a-n u-p t o 

 m-m-m-y w-w-a-i-s-t.'' "Did you? L beat you. I fell in all 

 over." "W-h-y, arn't you a-f-r-a-i-d you'll catch c-o-o-o-l-d?" 

 "No, I guess not." "I am afraid that I s-h-a-l-1 catch 

 c-o-o-o-1 d, I t a l k s-o-o-o q-u-e-e-e-ah." 



Class 111. — (dead-beats). 



The following is a copy of a postal card received by me in 

 the summer of 1882 (I inclose the original, somewhat the 

 worse for wear but still legible): 



Cincinnati, Aug. 31,1882. — Mr. : A party of us will 



leave Cincinnati on Aug. 31, and will arrive at Russell's (if we 

 make connection with the boat at Traverse City) Friday eve- 

 ning, Sept. 1. Can joxi meet us with a wagon? If we do not 

 make connections wiU arrive Saturday next, Sept. 2. Meet 

 us at Russell's and obhge E. H. H. 



Any person desirous of learning the full name of this man 

 can obtain it by sending a stamped and addressed envelope 

 to the editor of Forest anb Stream. 



My reason for publishing his card is that he, as various 

 others had done, wrote me in order to facilitate his move- 

 ments during his summer vacation. It was a matter in 

 which I had no personal interest, but as I had before done 

 in many similar cases, I requested an honest and ti-ustworthy. 

 teamster of my acquaintance to be at the landing specified at 



