4 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Jan. 28, 1886. 



CAMP FLOTSAM. 



XXI. — CROW LARK. 



THERE was every promise that our quest on Crow Lake 

 would be rife with, sport. The sky was slightly 

 overcast, and the wind from the southwest was sending a 

 fine ripple, over the water. This was not all; here were uo 

 fished out waters, for ours were the only oars which had 

 disturbed the lake in more than a year. The guide was an 

 unknown tiling, the hotel strangely absent, and the ubiq- 

 uitous sardine box and tomato cau had never been trans- 

 ported to its shores, No one but a woodsman or a camper 

 can appreciate or understand the thrill of joy which so pos- 

 sesses one upon his finding a by-way where he has the forest 

 and lake to himself, where his uprising and down sitting go 

 unnoticed — and where no other craft than his own vexes the 

 waters. In such retreats all about him sings of 

 "Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, 

 Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise," 



until he imagines himself dwelling in a realm the like of 

 which this weary world has never seen, and which a 

 Prophet Warrior said , "Sleeps only under the shadow of the 

 sword." 



And, indeed, it was a region of beauty into which we 

 had entered — one sufficient to entice the angler to lay aside 

 his rod and dream away the day in watching the shadows 

 drift over the water and chase each other over the distant 

 hilltops of forest out of sight, or listening to the lap of 

 waves upon a beach where no one comes. 



It was, perhaps, because our senses were dulled and the 

 barbaric instinct to destroy was strong within us, that we 

 broke the quiet of the lake with a vulgar cast into a pool 

 formed by two projecting rocks, which were overhung with 

 pine. And our savagery had its reward, for a splendid 

 bass took the Lord Baltimore at the surface and, feeling the 

 answering strike, threw himself clear of the water, and, 

 with every fin aquiver in fright, took a headlong plunge, 

 and dashed for the shadow of the boat. But the quick 

 movement of the oarsman left the fish astern, when it again 

 broke water and started back for the pool. Three times it 

 made a circuit of the little basin before it wearied, then 

 yielding to the continuous strain of the rod, came alongside, 

 where, "as if in shame, it darted under the boat. With line 

 in hand it was led forth and then lifted over the side, as 

 grand an old three-pounder as ever drew down the scales. 

 But the fight was gone from that pool, and after a few 

 fruitless casts we turned down the rocky shore on the west. 

 From the base of a high rock, which stood back a couple of 

 rods from the shore, a spring was sending a bright dashing 

 stream downward to the lake. Just off the mouth of this we 

 struck and landed another small-mouth of something over a 

 pound, which was returned to the water, and then headed 

 the boat toward the southwest, where, in a depression in the 

 hills, we thought that we might find the outlet to the lake. 

 It was a long pull, but as we approached, the cleft in the 

 hills widened, and the lake ended in a narrow marsh. We 

 followed along the shore over to the eastern side, where it 

 looked so fishy that we were again tempted to try a cast. 

 As we approached a point which ran out on the right, we 

 were greeted with a strike which made us think for a mo- 

 ment that, the flies had caught on a submerged rock. We 

 were soon undeceived, for the line began to cut the water, 

 and there was a lively movement toward the open lake. We 

 brought the game to on the port side with a steady pull, and 

 looked for a leap, but none came. Instead, there was a 

 slow, heavy pull backward, which nearly doubled the rod 

 before it was checked, when all the movement at the other 

 end of the line suddenly ceased. We knew that we were 

 still fast to something, and began to imagine lake bullheads 

 and all sorts of ignoble things. A gentle~stirup set the old 

 headstrong movement under way once more, and again we 

 had to call halt by main strength. Do what we might we 

 could not get the fish alongside. It was the longest, 

 strongest, most stubborn and dead pull eontest that we had 

 ever had with a bass. Again and again we tried to bring 

 the fish within reach, but without success. We had played 

 it long enough to tire a dozen, so throwing the tip of the rod 

 backward, we stripped off the line from the reel until it 

 came within reach, and then began to bring in the game 

 with long, steady pulls. Alongside it came, and lo ! a three 

 pound big-mouth rose from the water. As with thumb in 

 his mouth we lifted him over the side, the cause of the long 

 fight was explained. There was more weight on the leader, 

 and as we drew it in, a two-pound-and-a-half small-mouth 

 was banging on the tail fly. It was a magnificent catch, 

 and our best score for the summer. 



Suddenly from behind the point which we had believed 

 was the main land on the east, a strait opened toward the 

 south lined with rocks, which rose almost perpendicularly 

 for fifty feet above the water, and half a mile beyond 

 widened into another lake as large as the one behind us. 



On the right, with a profile as perfect as though carved by 

 human hands, a great stone face looked toward the east. 

 Thirty feet above the water, and twelve feet from forehead 

 to chin, it had rested there for unknown aeons, smiling in 

 the sunlight and frowning before the storm, with a troubled 

 look upon it as though the ages, in their silent flight, had 

 propounded problems which it could not solve, but on which 

 it must ponder forever. High on the left, in the granite 

 walls, half a dozen tomb-like openings yawned over the lake 

 below, like the graves in the vision of the Prophet, which 

 could never be satisfied. The lower lake was a marvel of 

 quiet beauty; shut in by the mountains, save on the narrow 

 bay to the south. Where its waters found an outlet, after 

 many windings, to the St. Lawrence, there was many a 

 nook where the camper could find isolation from his race, 

 and live unmolested with none but the wild beings that in- 

 habit the forest for his companions, and where the glare of 

 his camp fire would be seen by no human eye. 



It was late in the afternoon before we completed the cir- 

 cuit of the lower lake. When we reached the strait, on our 

 return, the mist was rising from the water and lying like a 

 death cloth over the silent face above, and enveloping the 

 shores in a cold, gray shroud. We crossed the upper lake 

 and drew the boat up on the sloping beach, near the spring 

 which we had passed in the morning, and prepared to 

 bivouac for the night. It was midsummer, and there were 

 no indications of a storm or bad weather, so we contented 

 ourselves with a spread upon tbe hillside, with the boat near 

 by for a covering, in case of necessity. The camp fire was 

 soon under way, the coffee prepared, a hoe cake baked in 

 the ashes, the fish cooked, and, supplemented by a lump of 

 butter from our provision basket, we partook of our lonely 

 supper. Then lying on the blankets we watched the night 

 come on and the gloom gather over the forest, saw the great 

 stars come out, one by one, listened to the loons on the 

 ^vater, and the melody from the woods about, and wondered 



whether we had not attained the climax of our summer 

 pleasure. It was a solitary camp, and void of the spell 

 which companionship always brings, but we were under the 

 grander spell which the lake, the forest and the woodland 

 throws about the fugitive from civilization, and, rolled in 

 our blankets, we went over the carry into forgetfulness. 



The sun was shining brightly when we awoke, and re- 

 kindling the fire, we prepared breakfast, thinking mean- 

 while of what should be the order of the day. Crow Lake 

 had been well explored, and its fishiug -tried, so we deter- 

 mined to retrace our course to the camp on Heart Lake, and 

 then to work over into Opinicon, a larger lake to the west. 

 The luggage was again packed in the boat, and we bade a 

 sad farewell to the pretty lake. Near the iulet we were 

 treated to another exhibition by the loon that had greeted 

 us on our entrance the morning before, while its mate 

 grandly sailed about a few rods away. It was considerably 

 after noon before we had worked through the rushes which 

 lay between the two lakes, and were in sight of the first 

 night's camp. The little tent was still standing on the point 

 of rocks, so it was evident that our friends were somewhere 

 in the neighborhood. When we reached it we found that 

 the berry picking was over, and that everything was in 

 readiness for a break up, and we preferred' to forego the 

 Opinicon rather than attempt finding our way back and 

 getting over the carry alone: so, in company with the others, 

 we turned our prow toward the old camp. 



It was a toilsome journey to the carry, and over it to the 

 stream above. The boats were lifted up the perpendicular 

 bank, and the rest scrambled after as best they could into 

 the woods above. The luggage was carried to the landiug 

 where the Sabbath Breaker was lying, as she was left two 

 days before, during which time not a foot had pressed the 

 rocky path over the carry. For an hour or more the party 

 halted, lounging upon the rocks carpeted with velvety 

 moss, and shadowed by the pines which overhung the gorge. 

 The song of the breeze in the treelops was blended with the 

 sound of the dashing waters which rushed, rose and fell over 

 the barrier of rocks and logs, and then took a leap down- 

 ward and disappeared amid a cloud of spray. The forest 

 about was silent and deserted ; delicate vines ran along the 

 ground and clambered over the fallen trees, aad hung from 

 the rocks in graceful festoons. On the right a thread of 

 water, glimmering like silver between the trees, marked the 

 course to Loughborough. But the scribe of the expedition 

 did not linger over the beauties about him; his eyes were 

 heavy from the smoke of the smudge and the long morn- 

 ing's pull in the sun, and he spread himself upon a rock and 

 was soon dreaming a mid-summer day's dream, mingled 

 with up-floating visions, such as had often come in the quiet 

 of the meadows of the bygone, when tired boyhood sank 

 among the daisies and was hushed to sleep like this, by the 

 hum of bees and the merry ring of the mower's rifle. But 

 his slumber was broken and his dreams brushed away by 

 the call of the boatman to get off, and the Pizen Ann was 

 out of the creek and into the lake before the cobwebs were 

 out of his brain. 



A good home breeze was blowing up the lake, and we 

 soon put the Sabbath Breaker astern. We held our way 

 straight for the upper outlet, for it was Saturday night, and 

 there was a probability that some mail had found its way in 

 and was awaiting us; and a newspaper, a couple of weeks 

 old, is a most delightful companion in camp for a Sunday 

 forenoon. Besides helping one to lose all track of the day 

 of the month, without which feat half the pleasure of an 

 outing is lost, there is a deal of philosophy to be learned 

 between the lines in the stale columns. Here you read of 

 the unexpected demise of Peter Crabb, the great philanthro- 

 pist and millionaire, and learn that a void has been created in 

 commercial, railway and social circles, which will not soon 

 be filled. That was two weeks ago; and while you read, 

 Peter's heir is counting the shekels of his ancestor, and a 

 lively contest is going on over the election of Peter's suc- 

 cessor to the Presidency of the Underground Railroad. 

 Financial circles abhor a vacuum too, and Peter is not going 

 to be missed after all; two weeks have settled that. 



Within the same period the unaccountable disappearance 

 of Mr. Jenkins, concerning which suspicion of foul play 

 has been entertained by his friends, and for whom the 

 morgue has been searched daily, has ceased to be a wonder, 

 for Jenkins was an eminent financier, and yesterday was 

 registered at the Southern Hotel in Montreal. How little of 

 all that the columns contain outlive in memory the damp- 

 ness of the sheet ; of what little moment it is to the world 

 whether the individual lives or perishes; whether he be a 

 citizen or a fugitive. The void is no more than that left on 

 the beach when one has lifted a pebble and tossed it into the 

 depths, where it will be seen no more. 



Among the sparse mail we found a Forest and Stream, 

 to deprive us of which in camp would be a calamity only 

 to be equaled by the loss of our rod. Much as we may prize 

 it in summer on the shaded verandah, iudispensable as it 

 may be by the fireside of winter, the heart is made glad as 

 though with wine, as it listens by the glare of the camp fire, 

 to the revelations of the great Apostle gathered from half a 

 world. It is like reading Tasso beneath Olivet, or Ossian 

 by the moon of the Northern ocean. 



It was night before we left the outlet and parted from our 

 companions to the north. During the last few days the 

 moon had been approaching her full, and as we shot from 

 the dark, narrow creek into the broad sheet of water which 

 laid between us and the tents, there was a golden ripple on 

 the lake, and the wavelets were shouldering each other to 

 catch the first kiss from over the eastern treetops. A mile 

 down in front we could see the two tents gleaming in the 

 moonlight against the blackness of the pines — a bright, 

 Tadiantspot — the only place that we could call home. 

 Slight and frail as it was, we could not but reflect that the 

 four low walls had been adjudged by the wisdom of a thou- 

 sand years to be a castle to its occupants, and that the bond 

 sealed at Bunnymede was a living fact even here. 



Nothing had been disturbed during our absence; the camp 

 fire was soon blazing bright, and a supper of coffee, fried 

 bacon and potatoes disposed of . after which we rolled into 

 the blankets, and dreamed a long dream of peace. 



Wawayanda. 



December Woodcock. — A correspondent of the Adver- 

 tiser says he saw a meadow lark about Christmas last sitting 

 near the side of the road back of the Letchworth place. He 

 also knew of a pair of woodcock which remained in this 

 vicinity until the 1st of January. Two of Auburn's sports- 

 men were hunting partridges the middle of December and 

 found woodcock signs which were not more than a day old. . 

 So the fall flight in this vicinity must have been very late. — 

 Auburn (if, T.) Advertiser. 



Address all communications to the Forest and Stream Publish- 

 ing Co. 



EVENING HARMONIES. 



IT" -is proverbial wisdom that tube healthy, wealthy and 

 wise, one must sleep and wake with the birds. The old 

 saw is founded, perhaps, on a belief that the lineage of man is 

 traceable through a remote ancestry of feathered bipeds; but 

 granting this to be true, it is not unlikely that the prehistoric 

 owls may have formed a branch of our family, and that 

 they may have bequeathed to us both wisdom and a love 

 of the hours of darkness. Another old proverb informs us 

 that "the early bird catches the worm." A modern reply to 

 which is the statement, as yet undisputed, that "it served 

 the worm light for being up so early." However, the pro- 

 verb is a true one. He who rises "to see the sunshine of a 

 spring morning joyously welcomed by all the busy firlds 

 aud forests, does indeed gain much. But if he goes to his 

 slumbers when the deeper shades of twilight come softly 

 over the landscape, he loses sight of Nature just as she 

 arrays herself in mood most bewitching. 



In the bright sunshine of daytime, the sight is charmed by 

 the varied forms and colors that greet it and by pleasant 

 scenes of every kind, but in the evening the eye may rest. 

 It is no longer dazzled by brightness; but it throws wide its 

 windows, and the few dim rays which enter form a faint 

 and visionary picture that only soothes the weary sense. It 

 is otherwise with hearing. Night is the time to feast the ear. 

 In the day we are so intent on looking that we forget to 

 listen. 



Tender melodies are sweetest when heard in the quiet 

 of evening. A swelling camp meeting refrain, echoing 

 through the dark forest glens, sung by a throng of worship- 

 pers in the flickering light of a pine knot blaze. The melt- 

 ing notes of a guitar, coming faintly over the water out of 

 the darkness to the campers on the shore of a mountain lake. 

 In the dimness of evening each sound comes to us, lull of its 

 own message. It gently touches the silver cords of life and 

 they echo back the harmony the spirit feels. 



Our evenings from Mav to November arc a festival of 

 melody. It is one ef the first signs that spring has come, 

 the spring of bursting buds and emerald hillsides, w;hen 

 from every marsh and lake the chorus of the hylas arises. 

 That which the reptiles begin the insects prolong, till the 

 final chirp of the last October cricket. A night in dog-days 

 is perhaps best for hearing the insects in full voice. Locusts, 

 grasshoppers and crickets keep ,up a hum so monotonous 

 that the ear soon ceases to notice it. Innumerable Katy- 

 dids make vehement accusations of Katharine; the only 

 answer to which is the unjust advice from the dark- winged 

 bird rushing around in search of moths, to ' 'chastise poor 

 William." 



After a long, hot summer day, everything seems to welcome 

 the approach of night. The toilers in Nature's workshop 

 go one by one to rest, and the nocturnal beasts and birds 

 come forth. They are few in number, however, when com- 

 pared with the bustling life of daytime. 



One of the first of evening birds is the hermit thrush. 

 When the sun is low in the West, from the deep recesses of 

 the forest comes his sad plaintive notes, so clear, so 

 mournful, and so full of hidden meaning, it seems impossi- 

 ble that jt could have come from the throat of a bird. He 

 is not properly a nocturnal bird, but sings at twilight or in 

 the quiet dusk before a rain. He is an instance of Nature's 

 harmony. His song would be out of place in the hot 

 meadow, where the bobolink carols his gay medley; but 

 when the shadows have spread to the hilltops and a quiet 

 hush broods o'er the land, when body and spirit, weary with 

 toil, welcome with half regret the twilight's fall, then comes 

 from the enchanted woodland this sweet, sad song, a requiem 

 for the dying day. Far unlike this song is that typical noc- 

 turnaL sound, the too-hoo of the owl. It is a low bugle 

 note thrice repeated ; and we hear it, now here, now there, 

 as the round-eyed fellow wings his silent way through the 

 forest. With what a down and fluff are the owl's pinions 

 invested! His warfare is the night attack, and he rows with 

 muffled oars. 



To know the full sweetness of the evening hour, one must 

 spend it for weeks together in the fields and woods, and 

 make his nightly couch with at most a canvas shelter over 

 him. He who roams about in the dimness of evening finds 

 a new world of sight and sound open to him. The familiar 

 paths and scenes seem strange and uncanny. The imagin- 

 ation places beast or bird or reptile in the shadow of every 

 bush. The rustle of a toad is a matter in which we are in- 

 terested ; for may it not be an extremely large snake instead 

 of a toad? How surely does darkness beget fear! The most 

 harmless things suffice to give us a little start. One unac- 

 customed to evening strolls, may be quite alarmed to see two 

 balls of fire glaring at him from a thicket and hear the 

 bushes rustled by an unknown beast, just as the sensational 

 story writer depicts it. If he braces up his courage and finds 

 his supposed enemy to be a peaceful calf or a sheep, he is 

 apt not to rehearse his adventure when he returns to camp; 

 nor will his heart beat quite so fast when next he disturbs 

 the repose of flock or herd, . 



When one tires of seeking for Nature's treasures m the 

 darkness, let him recline on some mossy knoll and per- 

 chance they will come to him. A bat may zig -zag over his • 

 head; a flock of sharp-winged night hawks hunt moths near 

 by, or a herd of cattle, grazing in the cool of the night, 

 may wander about him, while he listens to the luscious 

 sound of their rough tongues cropping the tender grass. 

 Nor are his eyes and thoughts confined to earth. In the 

 darkest of clear nights, the constellations are celestial eyes 

 returning one's own gaze. 



To one fond of reverie the sky is always a good place lor 

 wool-gathering, but to watch a thunder stoma on a dark and 

 sultry August night is indeed much more than wool-gather- 

 ing. The far away flashes over the western hills warn us 

 of its approach, and soon we hear the low mutterings of the 

 distant thunder. It seems to move faster as it nears us and 

 its black fury creeps up toward the zenith, blotting out the 

 stars one by one. Behind the dark veil the forked brilliancy 

 gives us vivid glimpses of sky and earth and approaching 

 tempest; while the crashes of rattling musketry and echoing 

 artillery tell in ponderous voice the fierce battle of the ele- 

 ments. , , 



Such scenes are tieeply, truly sublime; but they are less 

 •0 pical of the true spirit of evening than the faint mystic 

 vuices that come to the listener on the still summer nights* 



