80S 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



I Due. 14, 18«5. 



UNCLE LISHA'S OUTING. 



VI. -A Way Station. 



Tangles of hobble bush sprawled over the russet carpet 

 of hemlock leaves, gaily flecked with variegated rattle- 

 snake plantain, overtopped by yellowing sarsaparilla, and 

 here a crowded cluster of scarlet berries, still upheld on 

 their withered stalk, marked the place where the fiery 

 bulb of tbe Indian turnip was hidden. There were moss- 

 covered cradle-knolls and moldering trunks of the old 

 trees whose uprooting had formed them, with trees 

 already old growing upon them. Great mats of sphagnum 

 were m the hollows between and all were the character- 

 istics of the undisturbed floor of the ancient forest. 



For all these Sam had a keen eye, noting the difference 

 of forest growth here from that of his own hill country 

 and speaking of it to his companion, but never of the 

 beauties of nature, for, with the deep and tender feeling 

 of the true lover, he could not prate of the charms of his 

 mistress to tbe common ear. 



Antoine enjoyed them with an undefined touch of the 

 same feeling, but more than the symmetry or majesty of 

 a tree he saw the axe helves in the hickory, the baskets 

 in the ash, the plank in the hemlock and pine, and the 

 medicinal virtues of the prettiest plant were more to him 

 than its beauty. 



Ten minutes' leisurely walking brought them to a clear- 

 ing of a few acres where some young cattle were pas- 

 tured. They left off grazing on the approach of the 

 strangers, whom they curiously regarded tor a moment 

 and then scampered into the woods in a flurry of alarm. 

 A small log house stood in the middle of the clearing with 

 a pole-fenced garden patch in front wherein some cab- 

 bages flourished in the virgin soil in spite of poor tending. 

 A few bean stalks drooped their frost-bitten leaves over 

 the clattering remnant of dry pods, and the withered 

 cucumber vines, linking together the dropsical over- 

 looked fruit, showed with what rampant growth and 

 how riotously they had gadded abroad under the summer 

 sun and showers. 



A thin wreath of smoke trailed upward from the low 

 chimney, diffusing a pitchy, pungent odor even to wind- 

 ward in the light breeze, and the merry notes of a fiddle, 

 accompanied by the sound of jigging feet, came through 

 the open door. 



"Bah gosh, de smell an' de nowse was kan' o' Frenchy, 

 don't it?" Antoine remarked as they drew nearer; but he 

 started backward with an exclamation of astonishment 

 when, still unperceived by the inmates, he cautiously 

 peered in at the door. "On, dey was too da'ks color mos' 

 for mab rellashin," he whispered as he fell back to Sam's 

 side, "Dey was nigger!" 



Sam stole forward and looked inside. Sitting with his 

 back toward the door was a lithe figured and very black 

 negro, energetically playing a fiddle, which divided his 

 attention with a taller and more strongly built marl of 

 the same race, who was putting his whole soul into the 

 elaborate execution of a jig, occasionally exhaling his 

 breath in a gusty puff that was almost a deep-toned 

 whistle, while the fiddler expressed his delight in the per- 

 formance by frequent squawks of laughter. 



Presently the aancer finished with a grand flourish and 

 a final bump of his quivering heels and slouched across 

 the room to refresh himself with a draught of water from 

 a pail that stood in the corner, while his comrade hugged 

 his instrument under his arm and recked to and fro in a 

 spasm of delighted laughter. 



"Oh, ah, oh, Lord,"', he gasped, "if that don't knock 

 the spots out'n all the dancin' ever I ever did see. Oh, 

 oh, yah, yah! oh, Lord." 



"Wal, yas, honey," said the other modestly, as he 

 dropped heavily into a creaking splint-bottomed old chair, 

 '"at's er de way dey wu'ks de heel an' toe down in ol' Fir- 

 ginny. Now, I'se gwine fus' to sing ye dat' ar' liT song 

 ag'in, so's you can ketch de chune wid you wiolin," and 

 he began to sing in a deep sonorous voice, beating time 

 with his palms upon his knees, while the other felt for 

 the air with uncertain touches of the fiddle strings. 



"De coon fas' 'sleep in de holler ob be gum, 



Whodar? Whodar? 

 Brer Fox come a-scratchin' 'roun' de do 1 ob his home, 



Who dar knockin' at de do'? 

 De coon cock he eye an' he listen wid he ear, 



Whodar? Whodar? 

 Who dat a-wantin' ob somebody byar? 



Who dar? who dar a-knockin' at de do'? 

 Dat's me, Brer Coon, so prepar' for to die, 



Whodar? Whodar? 

 Coon equirt 'bacca juice plum in he eye, 



Whodar? Who dar, knockin' at de do' ? 

 'Titers in de aahes; cawn b'ilin' hot, 



Whodar? Whodar? 

 Come ter yer supper, table all sot, 



Whodar? Who dar, knockin' at de do' f 

 Brer Fox run' blin', smash he head 'g'in' de tree, 



Whodar? Whodar? 

 O, you ain't de man I'se wantin' for to see, 



'Tain't me, 'tain't me, knockin' at de do'." 



"Yas, sah," the tall negro remarked, when the song was 

 ended and cordially applauded by his friend, "w'en dey is 

 'bout fawty niggahs jes' a-shoutin' dat ar, yer could jes' 

 set an' listen at 'em all night." 



Unwilling longer to play the eaves-dropper, and loth to 

 leave such entertaining company, Sam stepped forward 

 and knocked on the door post. 



"Good mornin'," he said. " 'Scuse me for interruptin', 

 but me an' my friend stopped tu see 'f we c'ld git a drink 

 o' water. This 'ere crik water 's p'isen, I b'lieve." 



Both negroes had arisen suddenly when Sam knocked, 

 the taller with an alarmed, alert look, as if in quick con- 

 sideration of a way of escape, the other with an abashed 

 yet half defiant air. The first seemed assured of no evil 

 intention by a glance at the visitor's quiet, good-humored 

 face, and stepped backward with a questioning smile on 

 his own no less good-humored visage. 



"Water? Course you can hev' some water. My stars! 

 haow you did scare me," said the violinist, emphasizing 

 each sentence with a chuckle. "Didn't s'pose anybody 

 was in a mild o' here. No, sir. An' me an' my cousin 

 was sort o' keepin' hyouse whilst the ol' woman an' the 

 coon 's gone. My brother hain't been tu see me afore, I 



do' know the time when, an' we alius hev' to hev' a little 

 fun when he does come. O, I forgot you wanted some 

 water. 'Tain't the best water in the world," he apologized, 

 as he brought a brimming dipper of milky-looking water, 

 "but it's some wet." 



Sam sipped with gingerly lips, but found it better than 

 the clearer, weedy-tasting creek water, and gave it as cor- 

 dial approval as one could who had been accustomed to 

 the crystal springs of the mountains. 



"Ha' some, Antwine? It's pooty good water fer the 

 time o' year," iiut Antoine would not be prevailed onto 

 help him with this excuse for their call. 



"This feller an' mee," Sam explained, indicating his 

 companion by a sidewise nod, "come up the Slang a duck 

 huntin,' an' he kinder wanted tu see the haouse where he 

 faound his father, so we come over. He didn't know but 

 what he'd find some more relations here." 



"Wal," said the negro, chuckling as he cast a quick 

 quizzical glance at Antoine and jerking his head emphat- 

 ically, "he is kind o' dark complected, but he don't 

 look like any o' aour folks 'at I remember. I don't claim 

 no relationship, but mebby he does." 



"Oh Sa-cree, cochon noir!" Antoine growled explo- 

 sively. 



"The' hain't nothin' stuck up 'bout me, an' if he c'n prove 

 it I'll own it," continued the negro, giving no evidence if 

 he comprehended that he was called a holy black pig. 



Another person now quietly appeared at the door, a 

 placid faced middle-aged man in red flannel shirt sleeves 

 that contrasted oddly with his broad-brimmed hat and 

 sober-hued waistcoat of unmistakable Quaker cut. His 

 sudden appearance did not seem to surprise the negroes, 

 whom he accosted pleasantly, while he saluted Sam and 

 his companion with more reserve, regarding them with 

 some wonder. 



"Well, James," he said to the master of the house, "so 

 thee's got company, has thee? And who might thy friends 

 be?" 



"That's more'n I c'n tell ye, Mr. Bartlett. Only one on 

 em's arter a drink o' water an' t' other 's lookin' for his 

 relations." 



"I guess you don't remember us, Mr. Bartlett," Sam 

 said, rising from his broken-backed chair and extending 

 his hand as he smiled on the puzzled face of the Quaker. 

 "Me an' this man shantied an your land here one 

 spring, four, five year ago. We was a trappin' mushrat. 

 Peltier Gove come tu see us an' hired aout tu you. My 

 name's Samwil Lovel an' this 'ere's Antwine." 



"Why, dear me, yes," said Friend Bartlett, his face 

 brightening with recognition as he shook Sam's hand. 

 "I thought I'd seen thee somewhere. And this man too. 

 Why, his father and mother lived in this very house a 

 whole year." 



"Oh, yas, yas," cried Antoine. "Ah'U fan' it here, an' 

 Ah'll ant 'spec' more Ah'll was for fin' it in mah soup, 

 me. He live 'long to me naow, an' he smaat lak boy, an' 

 so was mah mudder." 



"That's clever," said Friend Bartlett, and then to Sam, 

 "And Peltier, how's he? He an' Lowizy are married, I 

 s'pose." 



"Wal, Peltier's abaout so," Sam answered soberly, 

 "but he hain't merried. Lowizy 's dead." 



"Thee don't say. Wal, that's sad, to be sure," Friend 

 Bartlett said in a grieved voice. "Poor child, poor child. 

 It will grieve my wife to hear it, for she set great store 

 by Lowizy. And Peltier was a stiddy, clever young 

 man, poor boy. He must be greatly cast down." 



After some further conversation with Sam he turned 

 to the negroes and his eyes fell upon the fiddle. "Well, 

 James, thee has been entertaining thy visitors with 

 music, has thee?" He bent over the instrument curiously 

 and-touched the strings with one cautious finger, with- 

 drawing it with a start and an abashed face as they gave 

 forth a resonant chord. "Well, it's rather a pleasant 

 sound to worldly ears, I dare say," he remarked, and 

 then in a low voice to the man whom he called James, 

 but who was Jim to the world's people, "thee should 

 be careful about attracting strangers to thy house, James, 

 while Robert is with thee." 



. "I hadn't no idee the' was a livin' soul within a mild o' 

 here, Mr. Bartlett; no, sir, I hadn't," Jim protested, with 

 many an emphatic jerk of the head. "They popped 

 right on tu us as if they'd riz right aout o' the' airth. I 

 hain't none afeard o' the tall feller, but I do' know 'bout 

 that gabbin' Frenchman," and he cast a suspicious glance 

 at Antoine, who, unconscious of unfriendly scrutiny, was 

 leisurely whittling a charge o£ tobacco for the waiting 

 pipe between his teeth. 



"I come down to fix up the fence a little and look at 

 the young cattle," Friend Bartlett explained to the com- 

 pany, as he went to the door and picked up his axe which 

 he had set down there. 



"Friend Sam well, I'd like to speak with thee a little 

 about Peltier," hesitating over tbe untruth of the pre- 

 text. "I feel clear to trust thee," he said in a guarded 

 voice when Sam had followed him apart to a comfortable 

 leaning place on the fence, "but I ain't quite so clear in 

 my mind about thy companion." He paused a little, ab- 

 stractedly hewing the withered leaves off a sunflower 

 stalk. "The fact is, that tall colored man is a fugitive 

 from slavery, and might be in danger if some folks knew 

 he was here." 



"I 'spected where the critter come from," said Sam, 

 "but ye needn't be af eared o' me tellin' on him, Mr, Bart- 

 lett, an' I don't b'lieve Antwine would either, not tu 

 mean no harm. All 'at ails him is he's tew full o' his 

 gab." 



"Well, Samwel, thee must caution him. It would be 

 sad if anything should happen to hinder this poor man's 

 getting to Canada." 



"I guess the' hain't no danger o' that," Mr. Bartlett. 



"More than thee thinks, perhaps." Friend Bartlett 

 glanced cautiously toward the house before he added, "I 

 feel free to tell thee that strangers have been seen not 

 many miles off that we mistrust are looking for him." 



"Du you b'lieve it?" Sam asked in surprise. The Quaker 

 nodded. "Wal," Sam drawled out, "I ruther guess they 

 won't ketch none o' their stray black sheep up this way — 

 not if I c'n help it." 



"Thank thee, Samwel; but I think if nobody lets out 

 the secret they won't be apt to discover his hiding place. 

 Try to keep thy companion's tongue bridled for a few 

 days. Now, I won't binder thee any longer," and the 

 Quaker moved slowly toward the house. 



"Come, Antwine," Sam called, "le's be a-moggin'," 

 and Antoine coming forth, the two began to retrace their 

 way to the landing. 



"Farewell," Friend Bartlett called after them, "thee 

 tell Peltier what I told thee and remember me in kind- 

 ness to him, will thee?" Rowland E, Robinson. 



THE LOST MAN. 



In looking over a collection of photographs taken last 

 summer while on a New Brunswick fishing trip, I have 

 come upon one that revives queer memories. I am going 

 to send the photograph and the story to Forest and 

 Stream, so that its readers may puzzle over the matter as 

 I have done. 



The thing happened in a corner of the wide, little known 

 wilderness which forms the larger part of the province 

 of New Brunswick. Under the pilotage of that greatest 

 of all New Brunswick guides, Mr. Henry Braithwaite, of 

 Stanley, three of us bad started from Boiestown on our 

 way to Little Sou'west Lake, a good sixty mile walk. We 

 were accompanied the first thirty miles by a portage team, 

 drawing our outfit on a sled with broad wooden runners. ' 

 That is the only vehicle which, in the summer time, can 

 stand the terrible vicissitudes of the Dungarvon portage. 

 Even that stanch craft is often in danger of shipwreck. 

 Some of you know what a thirty mile portage is, over a 

 very old and long unused lumber road, full of fallen trees, 

 up steep hillsides, across quaking bogs, where the horses 

 frequently break through, leg-deep. Well, there had been 

 no team in ahead of us before that season. We knew of 

 just two men who had gone ahead of us, and they were 

 an Indian from Rivier du Loup and Mr. Dave Douglass, 

 two assistants of our guide. We could plainly see where 

 they had branched off the road at a certain point for a 

 short cut through the mountains. It was a wilderness so 

 little disturbed that we knew the pedigree of every foot- 

 print we saw. 



When we crossed the Dungarvon, on the afternoon of 

 the second day out, the team went ahead while the three 

 fishermen caught a few trout, and Risteen and Atherton 

 each gathered in a frisky grilse. These were merely inci- 

 dental, however, and in an hour we followed the team, 

 catching up with it where the road ended entirely, at an 

 old lumber camp, the last outpost of even that barbaric 

 relative of civilization. Beyond, away up to the Resti- 

 gouche on the north and across to St. John waters on the 

 west, stretched the grim and unmapped wilderness, while 

 to the east the settlements on the Intercolonial Railway 

 were nearly 100 miles away. 



Douglass, who was to meet us at this camp, did so. The 

 Indian was building a canoe on a lake twelve miles north. 

 In the morning the teamsters were to retrace their pro- 

 fane steps out to the settlement thirty miles south of us. 

 The accomplished Braithwaite cooked a special supper. 

 Seven pounds of grilse and uncounted potatoes, as well as 

 other edible things, disappeared in the manner customary 

 on such occasions. Fitty yards away was a little tinkling 

 stream. The day died slowly, as it always does inlatitude 

 47 early in July. It was nearly 9 o'clock before it got too 

 dark to see to read. An argument as to whether it was 

 yet too dark to see to shoot was settled by Risteen, New 

 Brunswick's medal-winning rifleman, who fired at a dis- 

 tant stub and bit it. As the teamsters wished to start 

 back early in the morning, we turned in as soon as it was 

 dark, occupying the long-deserted bunks of the lumber- 

 men of other days. The fire outside flickered and fizzed. 

 In two minutes after I lav down I was asleep. 



Some time in the night, I do not know when — it was 

 after the moon rose, and that happened at 10:80—1 was 

 awakened by Risteen, who crept back into the bunk, say- 

 ing that a lost man had come into camp, that he had 

 eaten a big supper and that neither the men nor himself 

 could make anything out of him. I was too sleepy to 

 take much interest in the matter, but the next morning 

 we all took a hand at trying to help the unexpected visi- 

 tor find out where he was at— and we all got left. He 

 was a grizzled, skinny old chap, who might have been 

 70, and was more likely 60. He had a two weeks' 

 growth of beard. He was tall and bony, and strong con- 

 sidering his age. "How had he stumbled on us?" "O, 

 he heered the gun go off just as he was layin' down 

 beside the run." "Where was he going?" "To Grand 

 Falls, and thought he must be about there." "But, great 

 goodness, man, Grand Falls is on the St. John River, 

 seventy miles in a straight line, and a hundred from 

 here, the way you'll have to go." 



This information did not seem to disturb the man 

 much, and in fact nothing else did. How long had he 

 been out? He did not remember, but he had been in the 

 American war. He had with him no matches, no com- 

 pass, no blankets, no food. He was not hunting, or pros- 

 pecting, or cruising. If he could get to Grand Rapids he 

 bad friends there. He had refused to come into the 

 camp, but slept all night on the ground by the fire. He 

 did not seem specially hungry. He ate his breakfast 

 without comment, but took off his hat and said grace by 

 himself. His sole earthly possession was a rusty axe, 

 which he said he had picked up in some stream he had 

 crossed, and it was plain that the axe had lain in the 

 water a long time. What had he had to eat yesterday? 

 A quail. Now there is not a quail in that region. He 

 spoke with an uncertainty of utterance which made it 

 difficult for him to pronounce his own name intelligibly. 

 It sounded like Dorns or Torrance. He was not sociable, 

 and the only wish he expressed was that the teamster 

 would not swear. He was utterly wrong on the points 

 of tbe compass, but did not seem to care much about 

 that. The fact of being far astray in an absolutely un- 

 peopled wilderness did not arouse a word of alarm or re- 

 gret. While breakfast was being cooked I took his pho- 

 tograph — a thing he did not like. He sits in the fore- 

 ground with his hat off. He went away with the team- 

 sters on their return journey, and as he left us he turned 

 and looked us all over. He did not express a word of 

 thanks or interest. He seemed to be all the time in a 

 sort of trance. As he stood looking at us he said, as 

 though talking to himself, "Is there any man here that 

 knows me, or do I know any man here?" Then he turned 

 and swung off down the portage at a good gait. 



Afterward we learned that the poor old fellow went 

 out to the settlement with the steamer, where no one 

 knew him, and where the keenly -observant inhabitants 

 insisted he had never been before. He tendered his rusty 

 axe as part payment for lodging and breakfast at a set- 

 tler's house. Reaching the settlement on Sunday, he 

 went to the little church and nearly created a row by oc- 

 cupying the whole time in an interminable, incoherent 

 address and prayer. The next morning he started off up 

 the bank of the Southwest Miramichi River all alone, 



