Nov. 16, 1895.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



4 21 



Now came a repetition of yesterday, chopping a road 

 out to the horses and getting the bear out. The bear was 

 a large one and very fat, and it was all the strongest 

 borse could do to carry him. We arrived at Uncle 

 Jones's house about 3 o'clock with the bear, the two 

 wounded hounds and the body of old Mark, which 

 Uncle Jones wanted to bury in his garden by the side of 

 Cleo. I had to remain out in the cane until Jim Pyron 

 rode to Mrs, Beaver's and brought me another pair of 

 pants, as I had left in the woods all excepting the waist- 

 band and pockets and a ruffle around each leg at the top 

 of my boots. I was a sight to behold, and feared lest 

 my gentle Sallie Jones and the sweet widow at Uncle 

 Taylor's might not like the sight of my anatomy, and 

 thinking that Don Quixote had arisen from the dead, cut 

 short all my future protestations of undying love and 

 affection. 



Well, I fear I bore you, kind reader, with the length 

 of this rattle-brained article; so, thanking you for your 

 patience in following it so far, I bid you farewell. I re- 

 mained twelve months longer in the swamp and partici- 

 pated in many more bear hunts, as well as the killing of 

 deer and turkeys and ducks by the score. 



A. B. Wi&GtFlELD. 



when they come to Mohawk village, in Canada, they all 

 sit round with Micmac in middle and put big pot of oil on 

 fire to boil Micmac in it. Then Micmac say to Mohawk 

 chief, 'What very brave man you bet you kill children, 

 you kill squaw; you no can fight man like me.' And Mo- 

 hawk chief very mad and make cut with axe at Micmac. 

 But that Spirit turn axe one side, so it hit one Mohawk 

 on hade and kill him. Then Mohawk chief more mad and 

 make 'nother cut at Micmac; but that Spirit turn axe one 

 side and kill 'nother Mohawk. 



"Then Spirit fix all Mohawks where they sit so they no 

 can get up, and Micmac take axe and kill chief and kill 

 all other Mohawks 'cept one man. And he say, 'You go 

 to all Mohawk villages and tell what I done.' Then Mic- 

 mac come back from Canada and live here." 



I. I. Meyeick. 



A MICMAC TRADITION. 



Late in the autumn of 1862, when living in New Bruns- 

 wick, I was informed that caribou were to be found within 

 a few miles of a small station on the railroad between St. 

 John and Shediac. I obtained ten days' leave of absence 

 from military duties, hired two Micmac Indiana and 

 traveled to the station, where we passed the night at a 

 small hotel. Our baggage consisted of a frying-pan, three 

 tin vessels fitting one inside the other, some flour, salt 



?ork, tea and coffee, an axe, ammunition and blankets, 

 heee were packed on a buckboard, upon which we rode 

 to the last farm in the clearings and then walked about 

 seven miles through the bush, stopping to encanip at a 

 large beaver meadow. This was more than a mile long 

 and from a quarter to half a mile wide. A sluggish 

 stream of water ran through it, and the ground was 

 Covered with coarse tall grass and sedges. The dam, 

 which had been cut through many years before, was over- 

 grown with willows and other shrubs. 



The weather on the first day was delightfully calm atid 

 sunshiny* but the Indians appeared to expect a change, 

 for they at once commenced building a substantial hut, 

 making a cone-shaped frame of fir poles, the lower ends 

 of which formed a circle about 9ft. in diameter. This 

 was covered with sheets of birch bark, leaving an open- 

 ing as a doorway and a hole at the top of the cone for the 

 smoke to escape through. There was plenty of room for 

 a fire in the center, and we placed a deep layer of sprigs 

 from the balsam fir all round the wall for sleeping upon. 

 It was fortunate that we made the hut, for rain fell in 

 torrents during the greater part of the time we stayed 

 there and the nights were very Cold. 



I had never before encamped in the bush, and 1 found 

 the life intensely enjoyable. The grandeur and gloom- 

 iness of the forests, and beauty of the plants on the caribou 

 barrens, were a never-failing source of delight. 



We saw many tracks of caribou, but they were all too 

 old to be worth following, until nearly a week had elapsed, 

 when, shortly before sunset, we found a barreU which a 

 small herd had left, apparently not more than half an 

 hoUr previously. It was then too late to follow the tracks* 

 and early the next morning a telegraphic message was 

 brought to the camp requiring my instant return to St. 

 John, as the troops were leaving for Canada. 



The Indians had a small dog, half terrier and half 

 spaniel, that was very clever at finding and putting up 

 ruffed grouse, and I had shot a sufficient number of these 

 and Canada grouse to enable us to live sumptuously 

 during our whole time in the bush. My gun was a double 

 14-bore muzzle-loader by Beattie of London, made very 

 heavy (8ilbs. weight) in order that it might carry bullets 

 accurately. For all practical purposes it was quite as good 

 as a rifle up to 60yds. The Indians often expressed 

 surprise at the long distances at which it killed the grouse, 

 although loaded with only two drams of powder and an 

 ounce of No. 7 shot. One of them, named Stephen, had 

 a light single-barrel 14rbore, and, as his charge of 

 powder seemed very large, I measured it, out of curiosity, 

 with the top of my flask, and found it to be six drams. I 

 asked him if he always used that quantity and he replied, 

 "I put in that for rabbit and pattridge, but when I shoot 

 duck I put in leetle more." "But Stephen," I said, "your 

 gun must kick very badly." 



"Waal," he replied, "it do kick some." 

 Notwithstanding the recoil, he held it steadily when 

 firing with bullets. One day we tried a couple of shots in 

 camp at a small blaze with a black spot in it about the 

 size of a silver dollar, which the other Indian made on a 

 tree. 



Stephen judged the distance to be 70yds., while I 

 thought it not more than 60, but the ground was so cov- 

 ered with fallen trunks that it could not be paced. I 

 rested my arm on a branch, took careful aim and cut into 

 the edge of the black spot with the bullet. Stephen took 

 the same rest and sent his bullet into the exact center of 

 the spot. 



Stephen spoke good English, and one night, while we 

 lay round the fire, related the following tradition of his 

 own tribe: 



"'Bout one hunderd year ago Mohawks came from 

 Canada to make war with Micmacs, and one band of 

 Mohawks found hut in bush, where Micmac Indian live 

 with squaw and three childern. Mohawks look every 

 which way, and see that Micmac gone huntiug and 

 nobody there 'cept squaw and three childern. They take 

 them and hide them in bush. Then Mohawks hide leetle 

 way from hut, and when Micmac come back they catch 

 him and tie his hands. Then they all start back to Can- 

 ada. 



"And first night they camp Mohawk chief he say, 'I 

 alway like leetle pig for supper.' Then he take one Mic- 

 mac child and throw him on fire, and when he cook they 

 all eat him. And next night Mohawk chief say, 'I alway 

 like leetle pig for supper.' Then they cook 'nother child 

 and eat him. And next night he say same thing and 

 they eat 'nother child. And next night, when no more 

 childern, Mohawk chief he say, 'I alway like ole sow for 

 supper.' Then they kill Micmac squaw and cook and eat 

 her. 



"After that Micmac Indian very mad and one strong 

 Spirit go into him, so he might punish Mohawks. And 



AN UNSUCCESSFUL TRIP. 



The pleasure and profit of a tramp to woods or waters 

 are not always to be measured by the tangible results. I 

 appreciate the thrill of joy and the sense of well-earned 

 ownership which accompany success with the gun and 

 rod, and I do not underestimate the satisfaction derived 

 from the recollection of those supreme moments when the 

 big trout was at last landed, the whirring partridge 

 brought to earth, of the antlered buck laid low. Never- 

 theless I venture to describe a trip which my guide called 

 an unsuccessful one, but which I found to be full of such 

 things as pleasant reminiscences are made of. 



I had arrived at that somewhat unsatisfactory stage of 

 my vacation when a man finds himself counting the days 

 of freedom yet remaining to him, and although for ten 

 days I had been making strenuous efforts to get a shot at 

 a deer, I had burned no powder. Something had to be 

 done; and when my guide suggested that we go into camp 

 for a night at Train Pond, seven miles from the primitive 

 little hotel which constituted our headquarters on the St. 

 Regis River, I was soon stowing my duffle in a pack bas- 

 ket, while its mate was being loaded with provisions and 

 cooking utensils. A very knowing old white horse was 

 brought into requisition, and, with a pack basket swung on 

 each side, he followed along independently and with such 

 an obvious air of comradeship that we would scarcely 

 have been surprised if he had occasionally ventured a 

 remark. Leaving the main road a mile from the hotel, 

 we struck into an old trail, cut years before for the pur- 

 pose of getting supplies into a big lumber camp, four miles 

 away. It was largely overgrown with underbrush, and 

 the corduroy bridges were treacherous and weak with 

 age. Occasionally it was necessary to cut a passage for 

 the horse through a fallen treetop, or pause to get our 

 bearings when the trail "thinned out." But it was a 

 glorious tramp through the forest in the stillness of that 

 August noon. The sunlight sifted down through the 

 mighty trees and glorified everything it touched. The 

 air was laden with the odor of raspberries and ripening 

 ferns, and at every turn some charming bit of scenery 

 presented itself. Indications were not wanting that the 

 forest was inhabited. A red fox ran across the trail; now 

 and then a rising partridge startled the silence, and the 

 numerous deer tracks in the soft, moist places suggested 

 possibilities of a shot at any moment. Once an enormous 

 hedgehog ambled into the bushes in front of us, almost 

 oblivious of our presence and evidently relying upon his 

 defensive armor to protect him from undue familiarity. 



At length we emerged from the woods into a small clear- 

 ing thickly set with log houses. It was almost startling 

 thus to come upon a ' 'deserted village" in the midst of 

 the wilderness. The buildings were still in a good state 

 of preservation, and it will be many years before the 

 great hemlock logs of which they were constructed will 

 crumble away. Traces of former occupants and their 

 vocation were scattered about: broken axe heads, old 

 moccasins, shriveled and mice-eaten, and wooden appli- 

 ances which had been fashioned to meet some pressing 

 want. In two or three places iron hoops and staves 

 showed where the pork barrels had fallen to pieces and 

 formed salt licks, which the deer had visited until they 

 had fairly eaten holes into the earth to get the precious 

 saliae particles hidden there. A faded jack-of-spades 

 and several empty bottles led me to infer that even in 

 this out-of-the-way place some time had been given up to 

 revelry. 



Right here I wish to say that I have changed my mind 

 as to the permanent damage done by lumbermen in the 

 wilder portions of the Adirondacks. I had supposed that 

 they left the country bare and desolate where they had 

 worked, and that deer hunting could never be the same 

 as of old after the sound of the axe had profaned the 

 solitude; but, as a matter of fact, it is often an advan- 

 tage to the hunter to have been preceded by the lumber- 

 man. Little arteries of travel are established through 

 what would otherwise be an unbroken and well-nigh im- 

 penetrable wilderness, and inasmuch as the lumbermen 

 only cut the spruce trees above lOin. in diameter, the 

 wounds they inflict on the forest heal rapidly and leave 

 no permanent scars. Even the forest fires, for which 

 these men are sometimes responsible, are not an unmixed 

 evil, from the sportsman's standpoint., Ground which 

 has been burnt over makes a natural clearing. The grass 

 and shrubbery spring up when the daylight is thus let in, 

 and here the deer are sure to come and feed, offering to 

 the hunter good opportunities for that best of all sport, 

 still hunting. , , , ,• i. ^t. 



Our old horse seemed to realize that he had reached the 

 end of his journey. He cropped the grass complacently 

 and peered into the big sheds as if to decide whicb one 

 he would occupy in case of rain. He had occasion to 

 seek their shelter before he left them. Felling a tree 

 across the trail to prevent his leaving in case he became 

 homesick, we transferred the pack baskets from his 

 Bhoulders to our own and started on a two-mile jaunt 

 over a wild and picturesque trail which no horse could 

 well follow. The country grew more savage and rugged 

 as we advanced, and it took a long hour's hard tramp to 

 bring us to the little bark "lean-to" near the shore of 

 Train Pond. 



O the pungent, spioy recollections of such camps as 

 that! What tonic in the airl What Sabean fragrance in 

 the balsam boughs on which the tired hunter sleeps! 

 What savory emanations from the coffee-pot and frying- 

 pan! Who that has spent nights in a forest camp can 

 ever forget the weird charms of its surroundings? The 

 crackling, glowing fire, beyond which stands a wall of 

 mysterious gloom; the sighing of the wind through the 

 trees; the bight footfall of the midnight prowler; the laugh 



of the loon, and the discordant concert of the owls. It is 

 the memories of these things which constitute a large 

 part of the value of a forest outing and stimulate a keen 

 desire and a yearning to repeat the experience. 



Who next occupies that bark Pantheon will find — done 

 in charcoal on its interior — a bill of fare which will set 

 his appetite on edge and make him think he has forgot- 

 ten something. I believe in going well provided on these 

 short trips. Carrying in a few extra pounds of provisions 

 doesn't signify, because you never have to bring them 

 out. 



After an early supper, which would have driven a 

 boarding house into bankruptcy, we followed the trail — if 

 such it could be called— down to the pond, pulled the boat 

 from its hiding place and paddled quietly out in the hope 

 of getting a daylight shot. The pond is not a large one, 

 and is covered with lilypads from shore to shore. 

 Through this watery meadow the deer had crossed 

 and recrossed. leaving on its surface distinct trails 

 in every direction. Here was a feeding ground of 

 the choicest kind; the shores were tracked like a 

 sheep yard, and it seemed as though our blood- 

 thirsty instincts would surely be satisfied. But 

 this was not our day. The deer were off attending 

 some camp meeting of their own. and the only thing we 

 secured was a view which will abide in my memory for- 

 ever; the setting sun giving its good-night kiss to the seven 

 peaks which guard the eastern approach to this wild spot. 

 When night had fairly shut down upon us we lighted the 

 jack, and for four hours the boat glided like a ghost along 

 the shores. Once the cracking of sticks gave us hope that 

 a deer was coming down to the water, but it turned out 

 to be a pair of hedgehogs on their nocturnal rounds. 

 Whether they were quarreling or making love I could 

 not decide, but such grunting and wheezing and cough- 

 ing and snuffling I never heard before. One of them 

 crawled out on a dead spruce lying in the water and com- 

 menced gathering lilypads. A stroke of the guide's pad- 

 dle sent the boat up to him and I couldn't resist giving 

 him a punch with the gun barrel. With a vehement 

 grunt of astonishment he immediately assumed a globular 

 shape, looking more like a gigantic chestnut burr than 

 anything I can think of. By this time the jack weighed 

 several hundred pounds, the seat of the boat had turned 

 to flint, and I ceased to care whether I ever killed another 

 deer. So we returned to camp empty in every sense of 

 the word, ate another supper and turned in. 



The next morning we decided to remain over another 

 night, the only objection (always a serious one in the 

 woods) being that we had no meat. To supply this need 

 we started out for partridges, the guide with the rifle and 

 I with the shotgun. We soon flushed two birds and they 

 both came down, to the amazement of the guide, who is a 

 star of the first magnitude with the rifle, but not accus- 

 tomed to wing-shooting. Later on we put up another 

 covey, one of which fell to my gun and two more tum- 

 bled out of the trees, with their heads cut off by rifle 

 bullets. These five birds reposing in the frying-pan, with 

 an offering of salt pork laid on their saintly bosoms, made 

 the finest gastronomical sight it was ever my good fortune 

 to witness. 



When we returned to camp— and within 20yds. of the 

 same— we found fresh deer tracks on top of our own! 

 From this and numerous other signs I am inclined to 

 think that during our stay at Train Pond a large herd of 

 deer were continually following us around, but were never 

 quite able to overtake us. 



Well, we tried for them again that afternoon, and 

 floated for them until midnight. Then the very elements 

 turned against us. The rain poured down in torrents, and 

 the wind roared through the forest like the sound of a- 

 mighty waterfall. It was inspiring, but it was also damp. 

 The cold air clutched our bones and penetrated the 

 marrow, and so we started for camp over the most 

 diabolical piece of wet trail that two unlucky hunters 

 ever traversed in the dark. Slippery logs, twisted roots, 

 jagged rocks, ponds and pitfalls, which were not there in 

 the afternoon, had all come down into that trail and 

 arranged themselves with fiendish ingenuity to block our 

 passage. The distance was not great, but there was more 

 traveling done, and more fancy steps were executed, in 

 that short piece of so-called trail than I expect ever to 

 indulge in hereafter. _ 



So ended our quest of deer— in a blaze of electric glory, 

 and with peals of thunder for our applause. We went 

 home next day with all nature smiling upon us in derision, 

 and with fresh deer tracks all around us. The herd had 

 evidently lost trace of us in the night and were making 

 desperate efforts to run us down. Three days lattr I 

 found they were still pursuing me, but I managed to kill 

 two of them before they got near enough to do me any 

 bodily injury. . . - 



Now there may be certain effeminate and thin-skinned 

 sportsmen who will say that this excursion lacked the 

 elements of pleasure, To all such let me say that I now 

 remember this unsuccessful trip as the pleasantest part of 

 my vacation. Arthur F. Rice. 



Mr. Robinson's Books. 



It is surprising that Mr. Howells himself should recently have writ- 

 ten, in Harper's Weekly, as if there were a Fi ench-Canadian "dialect 1 ' 

 of English. Incidentally he referred to Mr. Maclennan's work in such 

 sort as to indicate to himself a belief that the Montreal writer was the 

 pioneer in that "dialect" field, a credit which Mr. Maclennan would, I 

 am sure, be quick to disclaim. The pioneer was, so far as I know, Mr. 

 Rowland E. Robinson, a Vermonter, whose French-Canadian Antwine, 

 in "Uncle Lisha's Shop" and "Sam Lovell's Camps," is perfectly rep- 

 resented aB to his racial peculiarities, his broken English, and his 

 individuality, which Is one of the most lively and amusing, I venture 

 to say, in American literature. 



I am the more desirous that j ustice should be done to the Vermonter 

 in this matter, because I regard him as an American writer who has 

 nothing like the honor he deserves in his own country. His books, 

 published by the Forest and Stream Company and by Houghton, 

 Mifflin & Co., disclose a variety of Yankees so interesting, so amusing, 

 so lovable, and so fond of the open sky and the fairness of Nature in 

 their own land, that one is inclined, for their sake, to love Yankees in 

 general— suspecting them to be truly kin to Mr. Robinson's delightful 

 people. He is a true humorist of rare quality, whose spontaneous 

 work may well be cherished for generations after the books of the 

 farceurs of the hour shall have vanished in the Umbo of old masks 

 and old moons.— Edward W. Thomson in the Literary News. 



^The Forest and Stream is put to press each week on Tuesday 

 Correspondence intended for publication should reach us at the 

 latest by Monday, and as much earlier as practicable. 



