Aug. 3, 1895.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



93 



from the shore, which shows that the same action which 

 formed the front hills nearest the lake must have thrown 

 up those half a mile inland at some distant period. 

 What countless ages of time must have elapsed since the 

 formation of the rock and the growth of the timber as it 

 appears to-day. It is a wonder how vegetation and trees 

 can grow to such perfection upon such light drifting 

 sand. During the long drought of six weeks the natural 

 supposition would be that everything in the shape of veg- 

 etation would dry up; but, upon investigation, after dig- 

 ging down six inches from the surface, the sand is found 

 as moist as if a recent rain had fallen. Owing to the 

 absence of heavy dews this seems hard to account for. 



Yesterday it was blowing a gale from the northwest 

 and a big sea was running, washing away the shore and 

 driftwood at a great rate. Vessels were under reefed 

 canvas making for their harbors. This was the heaviest 

 blow since we came here. To-day the sea has been down 

 and the beach is as smooth as a pavement. A few gulls 

 are hovering about, once in a while dashing down upon 

 some luckless fish. A part of our company have gone 

 home and it seems lonesome without them. In a short 

 time we will fold our tents and go homeward also. 



Owing to the stormy weather the boys have caught no 

 fish. They had a shot at some snipe, but owing to the 

 shot being coarse they failed to bag any (so they say). 

 Saw a nice flock of ducks pass this evening; the boys said 

 they were mallards. Squirrels are reported coming 

 north, which our boys regard as a pleasing outlook for 

 game. The woods near us are full of oak and beechnut, 

 so they think the squirrel hunt very favorable in the near 

 future. We heard an old partridge drumming yester- 

 day, also this morning. Claeabel. 



SHE GOES ALONG. 



I.— Our Day Out. 



Frey's Pond, Michigan, situated among the hills of 

 Newaygo county and distant from our home some ten 

 miles, is perhaps the most natural trout water of this 

 section. It is fed by springs innumerable. Cold, clear, 

 sparkling, they hurry down the hillsides and bubble from 

 beneath the giant pines and hemlocks. Getting an early 

 start one June morning we were there, my wife and I, 

 while the gray mists of early dawn were still upon the 

 waters. 



It had been a drive long to be remembered — a morning 

 beautiful in promise of a glorious day; every roadside 

 thicket was joyous in songs of praise; robin, thrush, blue- 

 bird and all the songsters of nature's choir rejoicing in 

 the return of the season of house-building, designed to be 

 the happiest of all seasons. 



It was our "day out." We were intent upon the 

 capture of any and all fish that should come our way. 

 But "alas for human hopes," on our arrival at the pond 

 we made the discovery that our fly-book containing lures 

 from cow-dung to professor and our whole. stock of 

 hooks were left at home. Of course, my wife remembered 

 laying it on the side-board, so we wouldn't forget it; it 

 was still there; and we were as she observed in a "beauti- 

 ful mess" with a nice lunch. Rods, lines, reels and bait, 

 and trout breaking the water into glistening circles right 

 before us — we had not a solitary hook ! 



"Well," I ask as I see her untying Mollie, "what are 

 you going to do about it?" 



"Do? You get in here and I'm going to find a fish hook 

 if there is one in this country." 



I obey. We drive homeward nearly three miles; and 

 meeting a "barefoot kid" we inquire if he is possessed of 

 the article we need. He answers "Yep, got two of em, 

 good big uns." We borrow them, and as we are now in 

 sight of French Lake my wife suggests that we try the 

 bass, as the hooks were truly "good big; uns," too large 

 for trout. We find a boat, and tying Mollie in the shade 

 of some dwarf-pines, we arrange the hooks in a gang, 

 and in response to her command I am in pursuit of a 

 meadow frog for bait. A desperate chase finally secures 

 two fine specimens of the Rana Pillustris and we are 

 ready. 



After a few trial casts I find she needs but little coach- 

 ing, and we are soon skirting the lilypads that fringe the 

 shore. We are sure they are here, and I cpution her to 

 cast close against each grassy bog. She is using more line 

 now, and improving in making the back cast, and drops 

 the bait gently beside a half-sunken log, and is bringing 

 it in with the jerky motion of the live article. As she 

 lifts the tip for another cast there is a big ker-splash, the 

 water flies in both our faces, and while we wonder just 

 what has happened the line goes out with a whizz — and 

 she is excitedly telling me to "Pull out! I've got a regular 

 whale." I shove the craft over into deep water and cau- 

 tioning her to keep the little finger on the spring, watch 

 the circus. The old fellow fights for all he is worth. 

 Twice he rises full length above the water, vainly trying, 

 like the Irishman, to "let go;" but the big hooks have 

 him, and she soon brings him into the net. On the pocket 

 scales he registers SJIbs. We agree that he is big enough 

 to eat. 



Our day resulted in fourteen strikes, seven of which 

 were landed. Total weight, I5|lbs., rough dressed. 



This day afforded us an opportunity to study the oft- 

 repeated question of how bass take bait. The sky was 

 clear and water simply transparent, Watching the bait 

 while paddling I saw several strike, and each after the 

 same pattern. As the bait would touch the water and 

 was drawn toward the boat one would rush from hiding 

 and darting ahead of the bait would turn and take it 

 "head on" always. This fact has aided me in arranging 

 gangs for heavy bait-casting, and may be taken for what 

 it is worth. 



We return home in time for my wife proudly to exhibit 

 "her catch" to admiring friends, generously giving me 

 credit for forgetting the fly-book. Bless herl The advent 

 of two youngsters has made her outing days few and 

 far between, still we do go occasionally; and she knows 

 the holding grounds in all our adjacent lakes. It helps 

 to keep the roses on her cheeks; and to others and others' 

 wives we add — "Go thou and do likewise." 



J. H. Brayman. 



II.— In Camp with a Friday Hoodoo. 



When the "Kickers" started on their camping trip in 

 1 894 there was concealed in some part of the outfit a large, 

 able-bodied and very active Hoodoo. 



To bpgin with, my wife has a strongly rooted objection 

 to beginning any undertaking on Friday; and that pro- 



verbially unlucky day had been decided on to start for 

 camp. As first kicker-in-chief of the party, she came 

 near breaking up the whole scheme on that account, and 

 at one stage of the game flatly refused to go on that day. If 

 the others of the party wanted to tempt Providence well 

 and good, they could go if they wanted to; but she most 

 emphatically would not. It took the combined eloquence 

 of the rest of the crowd to overcome her scruples. She 

 finally gave in, however, and went with us under pro- 

 test, predicting all sorts of dire calamity in consequence. 

 Somebody would get drowned, maybe all of us, the fish 

 would not bite or it would rain all the time, etc. As the 

 sequel proved none of these things happened. No one 

 was drowned, though I did fall in two or three times, 

 but that is an annual occurrence and is taken as a matter 

 of course. It scarcely rained at all, and the fish did bite 

 once in a while, though candor compels me to add the 

 fishing that year was way below the average. 



A series of accidents did befall, however, that made 

 converts of the scoffers and we are now all firm believers 

 in the Friday superstition. We had scarcely gotten in 

 camp when our ill luck, largely aided by the aforesaid 

 Hoodoo, got in its deadly work. First came the hurricane 

 that nearly wrecked the camp, an account of which was 

 iven in a former article. Then came the theft of our 

 am, our large beautiful ham, the pride and glory of the 

 Kickers; it was no common razor-back ham, by any 

 means; but a great big aristocratic "Beechnut" bam, sent 

 by our commissary department from St. Louis. This we 

 had had boiled in the highest style of the art by our 

 "chef;" and as evening drew near, all bristling with 

 cloves, it was borne in honor to the dining tent, followed 

 by the entire strength of the party in procession, and 

 there left to cool off during the night. We had planned 

 to make an early start in the morning to a distant part of 

 the lake and remain all day, and the ham was to be the 

 piece de resistance of our midday lunch and breakfast 

 and supper as well. Along about 3.30 A. M., George, 

 who fills the post of alarm clock in ordinary to the party, 

 got up to arouse the camp to action, likewise to slake an 

 ever-present thirst. In pursuit of this intention he repaired 

 to the dining tent, raised the flap and there a sight met 

 his gaze that produced a blood-curdling yell. This quick- 

 ly brought us all in fear and trembling to our tent flaps 

 to learn the cause of his wild alarm. There stood George 

 swinging his hands in despair; and all he could say in 

 response to our anxious inquiries was: "The ham is 

 gone! the ham is gone! " Alas! it was too true, our ham 

 was indeed gone; nothing remained but the empty dish 

 with its imprint in grease of that symphony in perk. I 

 think I felt sorrier on George's account than my 

 own; for, poor fellow, he has such a grand hunger at all 

 times, and cold boiled ham is his pet weakness. All 

 through the remainder of the trip George would every 

 once in a while heave a prodigious sigh and bemoan the 

 fact that he had not sat up with that ham all night. 



The next misfortune befell George himself. In order- 

 ing our season's supply of tackle, he had included for 

 himself one of Abbey & Imbrie's finest productions in the 

 way of reels, and felt justly proud of it. One day he 

 rowed to the little store near the hotel on the lake for 

 some trifle, and left his tackle in the boat. He was not 

 gone two minutes, but in that time some thief abstracted 

 that reel, together with a fine new silk line that was 

 on it. 



The next loss was of the fly-book, filled from cover to 

 cover with "dreams in feathers," as our poet put it, and a 

 dozen or two of new leaders, etc., as well. Whether it 

 fell overboard, or its cunning contents induced some fish 

 to take it all at once, we will never know; but it disap- 

 peared very mysteriously one bright Sunday morning 

 while George and I were busily engaged in marketing for 

 our Sunday dinner of frogs' legs. Some people were 

 mean enough to suggest that we dropped it while break- 

 ing the Sabbath in pursuit of the elusive batrachian, and 

 that it served us right. But we indignantly deny that, 

 for on discovering our loss we searched every inch of that 

 frog pasture most thoroughly. 



Then came the loss of our supply of smoking tobacco, 

 which was the most serious of them all; for it was every 

 ounce of our favorite brand within fifty miles of camp. 

 We very foolishly had it all in one large tin box, and un- 

 wisely took it in the boat with us one day, knowing all 

 the time, too, that a dark cloud of disaster lowered above 

 us. We were partly selfish, too, for we were keeping it 

 for our individual use and making Phil smoke out of a 

 package of inferior goods; but then he couldn't tell the 

 difference anyhow. It happened this way. George was 

 having a dispute with a very whale of a fish, and I in my 

 solicitude was rendering such assistance as I could, stand- 

 ing by with the landing net and offering from time to 

 time really valuable suggestions. In the excitement 

 somebody kicked the tobacco box and of course it went 

 overboard, and then there was weeping and wailing and 

 gnashing of teeth. George blames me for that; but I 

 don't believe it. They always blame me for sueh things 

 anyhow on principle. George in his despair forgot all 

 about his fish, and let it get away from him— the biggest 

 bass in the lake, and the one we intended taking the 

 Natchaug prize with. 



After losing our ham we lived on fish for a while, but 

 finally drew lots to see who would row to town, ten or 

 twelve miles, and buy another one. I was always lucky 

 and got the prize, and started out on the hottest day of 

 the trip. George generously offered to go with me and 

 did, but put in the whole of that twenty-five mile trip 

 holding on to a trolling line. Said his back was not feel- 

 ing very strong that day. He weighed about 200 when 

 he started, but increased to a ton before we got back. 



This hana, though not to be compared to the first one, 

 was pretty good and we determined to guard it carefully. 

 In consequence of his known affection for pig meat, 

 George was deemed the most fitted for this duty, and we 

 appointed him guardian without a dissenting voice. He 

 took it to bed with him every night and I think used it 

 for a pillow. It generally shrunk some before morning. 

 Toward the close of its career, when George's appetite 

 had in a measure become satiated he, became careless and 

 grossly betraying his trust he left it in the dining tent 

 one night. Need I add that that ham bone was missing 

 in the morning? 



These are but a few of our misfortunes. Those of 

 minor consideration were too numerous to mention. 

 Toward the last few days of our outing George always 

 said his prayers before getting into a boat; and as for 

 Phil he wouldn't get into a boat at all, but did his fishing 

 from the shore. Who the Jonah was we have not yet 



found out; but when we do we intend to kill him. My 

 wife has never ceased to say, "I told you so," and I think 

 she is secretly glad that her predictions that Friday would 

 prove an unlucky day came true, W. R. Hall. 



Omaha, Nebraska. 



ANOTHER PARK IN IDAHO. 



Mr, D. D. Banta's "Outing in Island Park," published 

 in Forest and Stream of Jan. 26, prompts me to pen 

 these lines. After reading his story I felt as though I had 

 got to "speak right out loud in meeting" or burst. Like 

 him, I have been charmed by Idaho's wild grandeur. I, 

 too, have seen Teton Peak, away in the distance, gleaming 

 in the clear sky. 



In the spring of 1892 I rented my farm, and it was my 

 intention to take my family in a covered wagon and spend 

 the summer camping in northern Iowa and southern Min- 

 nesota. I sent to St. Louis for a camping outfit, and, not 

 wishing to start on the road until the grass was good, in 

 the meantime went to Idaho with the view of taking some 

 desert land in the Squaw Creek Valley in Oneida county. 



I got to Soda Springs in the night, and not knowing 

 that I could get accommodations at the Squaw Creek 

 Station — a place that is now called Bancroft, and at which 

 place I intended to take up land — I stayed over night at 

 Soda Springs, sixteen miles below Bancroft. 



The next morning, June 3, 1 looked out of the window 

 at the foot of the bed, and the snow was falling thick and 

 fast. I went to the office and every one was hugging the 

 stove, and if ever I was blue in my life it was just then. 

 There I was, a stranger in a strange land, looking for a 

 farm up in the Rocky Mountains; and when, as I thought, 

 people ought to have been hoeing potatoes I was being 

 most beautifully snowed in, and I was seized with that 

 uncomfortable feeling that "catches a man under the fifth 

 rib, as it were," when he begins to dream that he has been 

 "sucked in." However, a good warm breakfast and a 

 pair of rubbers that I bought at a store bolstered up my 

 spirits somewhat; and about 10 o'clock A. M., when a 

 freight train came along, 1 jumped aboard and was soon 

 in Bancroft. When the train moved on I found the sta- 

 tion, and I was glad; for if I had had the same success in 

 finding the station that I had in finding the "town," I 

 would only have found myself, alas! alone in the sage 

 brush. 



I stepped into the station and met Mr. Brainard, the 

 irrigation company's agent, who soon invited me over to 

 his house. I supposed we were taking the shortest cut 

 across lots, but Mr. Brainard said we were walking down 

 Main street, and aa we went along dodging the sage 

 brush he said that "right over there was to be a hotel, 

 and right along here business blocks, probably on both 

 sides, and over there is to be a park. This corner lot 

 here is to be reserved for a bank, while all around over 

 there are to be residences." Eheu! eheu! (I borrow the 

 word Eheu from "O. O. S." I don't know what it means 

 and I don't care. It is a sort of a wild yell that I like.) 

 Eheu! eheu! 



We entered the house and his amiable wife made me 

 feel at home, and after a while I let a slight word drop 

 as to our prevailing snowstorm. "Oh," said he, "this 

 will not amount to anything; itis breaking away now; by 

 noon there will not be a flake of snow on the ground." 

 And sure enough there was not. The sun was shining 

 bright and warm, and illumined the mountains green 

 and grand in the clear June sky, and my feelings went 

 up, up, up. And both being sportsmen we soon felt like 

 old friends. 



This valley runs nearly north and south, and if I re- 

 member rightly is forty miles long; it is about eight 

 miles wide, and terminates about eight miles north of 

 Bancroft. Several sti"eams coming in from the mountains 

 at the head of the valley form the Portneuf River, and 

 right here is a little Mormon settlement called Chester- 

 field. The Portneuf follows the northwestern side of the 

 valley for six miles and then turns west into the moun- 

 tains, and finally empties into the Snake River. All 

 along the river before it leaves the valley there are 

 numerous little ponds and marshes, and I was pleased to 

 learn that some geese and thousands of ducks and curlew 

 used these waters for a breeding place, and that the 

 Portneuf was an excellent trout stream. 



The next day Mr. Brainard took me in his buggy and 

 started for Chesterfield to let me see what irrigation would 

 do. We had gone but a short way from the station when 

 I saw a gray streak of something going through the sage 

 brush. 



"Hold on," said I, "look! look!" 



"That's a jack-rabbit," said B — . "Let drive at it." 



I was carrying a shotgun across my lap, and bringing 

 it to shoulder I sent a charge after the flying rabbit. 

 The shot struck ahead of it, and it circled back toward 

 the buggy. . The other barrel sent its heels into the air. 

 Mr. B — asked me if I had ever seen one before, and I 

 told him that fourteen years before I had lived in the 

 Republican River Valley in southwestern Nebraska, and 

 had shot lots of them; but it had been so long since I had 

 seen one that it looked as large as a dog. "Whoa," said 

 B — , "there is another one." And I pulled out of the 

 buggy and was sneaking along in the sage brush, when 

 something happened that I was not looking for at all, for 

 just ahead of me and all around me there arose with a 

 booming of wings a flock of sage hens, and as I saw their 

 heads and their long necks and large gray bodies above 

 the sage brush, it took my breath, and while Mr. B: — was 

 yelling to me to "shoot! shoot!" I never raised the gun. 

 I went back to the buggy expecting that Mr. B— would 

 think me the most blisterabie sort of a tende rf oot, and 

 so I explained to him that not thinking about sage grouse, 

 and expecting to jump the rabbit at every step and then 

 to have those grouse make such a blamed racket and 

 shake the bushes all around, I did not know whether I 

 was going to be torn to pieces or just swallowed whole. 



The grouse lighted on the side of a ridge, and going 

 there I carefully worked in among the sage brush, and 

 as the birds took wing a few at a time, I stood still and 

 admired them as they sailed. They had been running 

 and were now getting up at long range, so I let drive 

 with both barrels and got one. 



Soon we came to Chesterfield, which comprises per- 

 haps six houses scattered along the north end of the val- 

 ley. Here we saw large fields of alfalfa and wheat and 

 oats, and all looking well in spite of the late snowstorm. 

 When we came to the west side of the valley we followed 

 the stream to where it turned into the mountains, and 

 that was a ride to make a sportsman happy. 



