Oct. 26, 1895.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



366 



through regular stands or places where they always run 

 when pursued. The hunter takes his stand at these places 

 and if he is a good shot and quick about it he kills his 

 deer; if not, he misses him. As the deer is always on the 

 run with a pack of good hounds at his heels, you can 

 readily see that it takes a good shot with a rifle to kill 

 one. What a vast difference between this mode of hunt- 

 ing and pot-hunting or bushwhacking the poor creatures 

 at a water hole, as they do in the swamp country. I will 

 give a description of one or two water-hole ''murders" in 

 my next. Also of a canebrake bear fight, which is sport 

 right. But when it comes to hunting with dogs and giv- 

 ing any kind of game a chance, I am in for it heart and 

 soul. Now, until we have a heavy frost that will make 

 bear hunting a pleasure instead of a burden, I will leave 



you. A. B. WlNGFIELD. 



two ocean Pass. 



"What is the name of this creek, Woody?*' asked the 

 Boss. "I don't know," replied the old guide, and then 

 got off his horse and studied the country for several min- 

 utes through the field glass. We had left our camp on 

 the Buffalo Fork of the Snake River this same Friday 

 morning after three days spent unsuccessfully hunting 

 elk and deer. The game bad not yet come down this far; 

 the weather had been rainy and stormy, and we had not 

 even found any fresh signs. 



It was as unlucky a trip as ever was made on a Fri- 

 day's start. Early in the day one of the pack horses was 

 taken sick and had to be left to his fate, while his owner, 

 Phillips, had been obliged to return to where old Beaver 

 Dick, a squaw man, was camped with hia family, to pur- 

 chase another animal. Then Woody, our chief guide, in 

 trying to make a short cut from the Buffalo Fork to the 

 Yellowstone, had got lost. Not that we did not know 

 where we were, but we certainly were not whefe W6 

 should have been, and when during the afternoon ouf 

 party, consisting of three sportsmen, three guides, a 

 packer, a cook, twenty-two saddle and pack horses, and 

 a dog, came suddenly upon a stream flowing through a 



WOODY'S CAMP. 



canon some hundreds of feet deep and quite impassable 

 even for Western horses, the conversation above related 

 took place. 



It was a beautiful day; the air, clear and transparent, as 

 is usual in the West after such a storm as we had experi- 

 enced at Buffalo Fork, felt invigorating, and neither man 

 nor beast seemed to mind the fatigue of climbing one 

 pine-clad rocky ridge after the other. The scenery in the 

 valleys was park-like in character, while from the higher 



more familiar to Woody. We crossed Pacific Creek sev- 

 eral times during the morning, the trail— an old elk trail 

 — following the easy places. At noon we reached Two 

 Ocean Pass. It is so called because on the northern side 

 of the pass a stream of snow water, in numerous cascades, 

 rushes down the precipitous side of a mountain, to divide 

 at its base, which is a level valley or pass, and here quite 

 swampy, sending part of its water to the Pacific Ocean by 

 way of Pacific Creek and the Snake River, while the other 

 part, forming Atlantic Creek, is discharged into the Yel- 

 lowstone, and by way of the Missouri and Mississippi 



"Pooh, dat an't noting. Ah'll gat brudder-law in Can- 

 ada was more strong of his jaw as dat. One tarn he run 

 away wid hees hoss an' it broke loose of hees woggin, an' 

 he touch hoi' of de line wid hees toof an' hang on de wog-- 

 gin wid bose hees han' of it, an' seh, dat hoss run more as 

 mile 'fore he stop it up. Come, gat ready for heat you 

 suppy. Fetch de bread an' de onion, Sam," and he 

 whisked the frying-pan from the Are to the flat rock that 

 served as table, then poured the water from the potato 

 kettle and set it beside the ran. 



"I ruther guess, Samwil," said Ijncle Lisha, as he arose 



TWO OCEAN PASS. 



finally into the Atlantic Ocean. So level is the valley here 

 that for a couple of hundred yards there does not appear 

 to be any fall or current to either stream, but the water 

 looks stagnant, 



While we were admiring the scenery and taking photo- 

 graphs the men were tightening the lash ropes of the 

 pack horses, and all too soon we were on our way again, 

 following Atlantic Creek to the Yellowstone, upon the 

 banks of which we pitched our camp in the evening, near 

 the picturesque cliff known as Hawks' Rest. One more 

 day brought us to our objective point, the headwaters of 

 Bridgers' Creek. There," in the Sierra Shoshone, we en- 

 joyed for two weeks such sport with the rifle among the 

 most magnificent mountain scenery as does not often fall 

 to the lot of the sportsman at the end of the nineteenth 

 century. P. F. 



UNCLE LISHA'S OUTING. 



II.— A Relighted Camp-Fire. 



Sam drove away to the nearest farmhouse to find keep- 

 ing for the horses, and after a while came stumbling out 

 of the gathering gloom into the light of the camp-fire, to 

 which his nose guided him as well as his eyes, for 

 Antoine's cookery diffused a far-reaching savory odor to 

 direct and hasten the steps of a hungry man. 



The camp had already taken on the cheerful aspect of 

 an established abiding place, blankets and boxes having 

 been stowed inside the tent. In front of it Uncle Lisha 

 and Joseph sat, comfortably smoking their pipes as they 

 quietly watched Antoine prancing around the frying-pan 

 and potato kettle, while nis shadow sprawled along the 

 ground and leaped from trunk to branch in ever-varying 

 grotesqueness of form and motion. 



"Git a put-uppance fer the hosses, did ye, Samwil?" 

 Uncle Lisha asked, making room for Sam on the fireside 

 log. 



"Yes, I got 'em turned aout tu paster arter some 

 coaxin'," Sam answered, seating himself in the proffered 

 place with a sigh of satisfaction. "But I du hope we c'n 

 keep Antwine away f'm there, fer I'm afeared if he hears 

 much o' the ol' feller's talk 'at owns the place he'll lam 

 tu lie. Why, he tol' me, a lookin' as honest as the coop- 



BEAVER DICK AND FAMILY. 



points, where an unobstructed view could be had toward 

 the west, the Alps of the United States, the Teton range, 

 formed a picture once seen never to be forgotten. 



Late in the evening we went into camp, "Woody's 

 Camp," we called it, and as we killed some grouse during 

 the afternoon, supper was rather more enjoyable than it 

 had been of late. 



It wa8 almost dark, yet when we were on our way 

 again the following morning and in an hour or so passed 

 Ennis Lake or Spotted Lake, the country was once 



er's caow, haow 'at he was a patchin' the ruff of his barn, 

 to-day, an' somehaow er nother he begin tu slip, an' kep' 

 a slippin', an couldn't stop himself no way, till jest as he 

 went over the eaves, feet fust an' face daown, ho ketched 

 a holt o' the aidge o' the shingles with his teeth, an' there 

 he hung till they fetched a ladder, an' he dumb daown." 



"What ye think o' that, Antwine?" Uncle Lisha asked 

 the Canadian, who was cocking an alert ear while his 

 eyes were intent upon the sputtering frying-pan. 



Antoine blew away the smoke with a contemptuous 



and moved toward the supper, " 'at you might let An- 

 twine g'wup there if you hain't feared for t'other feller." 



As they smoked their after-supper pipes and planned 

 the morrow's campaign, in every lull of conversation 

 they could hear the quacking and splashing of the host 

 of ducks feeding in the marsh, and now and then the 

 pulsing whistle of swift wings as a belated flock came in 

 from the lake, and then the restful sounding splash as the 

 newcomers settled upon the water to join the feasting 

 horde. And when the tired campers fell asleep on the 

 bed of cedar, these sounds still ran throush their dreams, 

 a thread of reality woven into the misty fabric. 



Rowland E. Robinson. 



ON A GRAY DAY. 



Chicago on a rainy day! Is there any place on earth 

 that is more dismal? 



Perched up here in Hough's den, away above the tops 

 of the buildings that stretch toward the gray distance in 

 uneven ranks that conjure up memories of the Bad Lands 

 for me, though Hough says they remind him of the Yel- 

 lowstone Park in winter when he sees the steam jets come 

 puffiiDg out of the roofs. Hough is built that way any- 

 how, and can see more that is romantic in the common- 

 place than I can. 



The whole business, the weather and light maybe more 

 than anything else, remind me of another scene and an- 

 other day that are past and gone to the shadows. 



There is a lake in the other scene, and there are great 

 pine trees that the wind whispers and talks to. There 

 are ranks and ranks of the pines, green in the foreground, 

 blue in the background, and purple where they bank up 

 against the snows of the white-blanketed mountains. 



They all whisper and tell of good things that they hide 

 in their depths. They tell of the streams that hold the 

 biggest trout, pools that are shaded by great banks of 

 dainty maidenhair ferns and overhung with great water- 

 worn rocks, and which reflect the tree trunks until they 

 seem to be a hundred feet long and all upside down. 

 Other things, too, the pines tell if you listen, for they al- 

 ways talk to the lake in rainy weather. 



The rushes that grow between the pines and the lake 

 tell tales too, but their talk is not the talk of the pines, 

 but of the waters and the birds that come to the waters 

 and rustle among the reeds and the lily-pads. The rushes 

 know all about how the muskrats build their houses and 

 how the mink dives alter fish and how they pull a young 

 duck down and cut its throat. The rushes on this lake 

 have seen this done many times and they know all about 

 it, and they whisper of it too. 



Then there is the stream that comes bawling down 

 through the woods on the other side; it talks too, and 

 tells of the doings of the mountains away up where it is 

 born. 



The stream knows how the mountains cover their heads 

 with a white blanket and sit in council, and how the 

 white goat stalks over the upland parks. It can tell how 

 the fearless bighorn climbs the slippery cliff and has seen 

 his flying leap across the glacier's crevasse. 

 I I made friends with the pines and the rushes and the 

 stream a long time ago, and they have told me nearly all 

 of the things that they know. 



When I came to the stream to fish it told me where the 

 trout hide, and I can always find them there. It whis- 

 pered and gurgled as it went along to the lake, and some- 

 times it laughed or sung a wild war song as it came to the 

 rocks that try to bar the way. Sometimes it was sleepy 

 and rested in a quiet pool for a little while, then hurried 

 on, but it always whispered to me and I learned its 

 secrets. 



When my canoe parted the rushes they whispered too, 

 and told me where the ducks were feeding and how to 

 get around to them, while the wind danced along and 

 made music on the dry stems so the ducks could not hear 

 me come. 



They pointed with waving fingers to the drifting lily 

 roots that the water rats digjjp and told me where they 

 lived, and sometimes they caught a floating beaver stick 

 and held it so I could tell where to look for the fur I 

 should need when winter came. 



The lake don't tell many tales, for it is still and deep, 

 and only hides things that come to it, and it is always 

 gray like the sky is to-day. Sometimes it talks of the 

 bass and the trout that hide in its deep shadows, and 

 sometimes it gets angry and roars so I cannot tell what it 

 says, but it is always gray like the sky. 



