22 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Feb. a, 1888, 



THE ROCK CLIMBERS. 



VI.— CLIFF DWELLERS. 

 TTARD is the task to hobble the light muse, 

 Or tie her with the picket rope of truth 

 Fast to the stake of fact; and hence the use 

 Of license called "poetic" by those bards 

 Who sometimes have no other sense besides 

 To pass 1 them current. Yet keep well in mind 

 That truth is various. What to me may seem 

 Common, for others' eyes may catch the glint 

 Of stars unseen or moon by cloud-bank dimmed. 

 And if my tale show lurid tints or else 

 Too grayly pale, it but portrays too well 

 A nature that reflects mere passing shades 

 Of changing sky and sun. Now to begin. 



Four men we Were. Part native to the land , 



Part meeting here from either ocean come. 



To lose in wilderness of lake and wood, 



In lifting sweeps of endless billowy slopes, 



The weariness that grows so heavy 'mid 



The throb and rattle of consuming life. 



The month's October, and the chosen spot 



St. Mary's Lake. Wordsworth's melodious lines 



Tell of a still St. Mary's Lake, whereon 



The shadowed swan floats double. Not so here: 



For in the gorges of the frowning range 



That walls these waters, Indian legends say 



The god of storms begets his mutinous brood, 



And sends them forth, whitening the blue with foam, 



Bending the stubborn trees and on the slopes 



Whirling the piled-up stones like grains of sand. 



Mythology apart, the legend's true. 



The snow was falling when we pitched our tent 



Where the rough river leaves its basined home 



For the far north. We had, upon our way, 



Spent days of travel over rolling hills— 



Covered with grass, and dotted here and there 



With sedgy ponds— once populous with herds 



Of buffalo; now lifeless as the sea. 



And then we passed through groves of tangled shrubs, 



Willows and aspens, haunts beloved of moose. 



Whose bleaching antlers were remembrancers 



Of winter sojourn. We had pitched our tent, 



I said, in driving snow, and the next day 



Was cold and lowering, but, as night wore on. 



There came the blessed wind they call "chinook," 



For when this northern land lies locked in ice 



Till winter seems forever settled here. 



And warmest blood grows thick, with sudden change 



The snowgoes off; the frost-bound streams dissolve 



At the mild breath of airs from the warm sounds 



That fringe the broad Pacific, or perchance 



From orange groves and vineyards planted 'round 



Cities well named from angels and from saints 



By the sun-loving Spaniards in the south. 



Far eastward fly, in dark, disordered ranks. 



The scattered squadrons of the broken storm, 



And the fair day laughs at our vanished fears. 



Now for the fish! Here in the rushing stream 

 The brook trout grows larger than I dare tell. 

 Yonder, on shoals above the outlet's head, 

 Swarm lakers huge and fierce as numerous. 

 So from its hiding place we drag a boat, 

 Mule, horse and men together straining hard 

 For the good end. And, when the brave scow floats, 

 With simplest tackle I essayed to catch 

 The river dwellers, but essayed in vain; 

 For no trout came or only came to mock. 

 Then, with the strong line noosed about my neck, 

 We trolled the shallows. As the old boat sped 

 Berserker fervor warmed, my aging veins. 

 Again the panting crimson led the blue 

 By half a length on smooth Quinsigamond, 

 And the stout captain called his stra ining men 

 For one more spurt to the hot finish. "Whoa! 

 Cfo easy there! The fish won't bite a bait 

 Humming like that," cried out my wiser friend 

 Whose arms, pulling for supper, did not feel 

 The warm impulse that racing memories bring. 



But fast or slow, the victims still forebore 



To tug my hook, though one who knew the spot 



Assured me that they swarmed along our track. 



But, gorged with plenty, scorned my tempting pork. 



Well, we came not for trout; although in truth 



As a side issue, fiBh were thought of, too. 



To serve as whetstone for the appetite 



When mountain goat and bighorn, moose and bear, 



Formed the substantial dishes of our meal. 



Again we moved our vagrant camp to where, 



In aspen thickets hidden close, a plain 



Spread grassy from the foothills to the lake 



Whose whispering waves lapping the shingly beach 



Murmur continuous, as upon that shore 



Still further north, called by its native sons 



Manitoba, "The ever speaking God." 



Around us now loomed crowds of clustering peaks, 



Flat-top and Singleshot and Kootenai, 



And all the host unnamed. Far up were seen 



Ice banks and glaciers green with borrowed light, 



Or what seemed glaciers, though the white man's foot 



Had never gone so far; and we but saw 



The ice above, the turbid stream below 



That issued thence. Here was the home of goats, 



Sole tenants of the inaccessible. 



Around their haunts impenetrable woods, 



Then piles of talus heaped on broken walls, 



Rising, step after step, in giant stairs 



With sliding slopes between, and, at the last 



One mighty precipice without a break 



To the bare summit. Many a blustering day 



We spent in looking for the fleeces white 



Amid the rock piles. Oftentimes deceived 



By spots of snow, or glistening rocks, or trunks 



Bleached by the storm, till the correcting glass 



Proclaimed the error. Yet somehow I think 



A hunter can tell game as miners gold— 



For, when a miner sees some yellow glint 



He surely takes for gold yet hesitates, 



The metal's base. The honest ore when found 



Never leaves room for doubt. At last one day 



When my companion stopped to cheer my toil 



With stories of the wit of grizzly bears- 

 How one Mike Kelly fired his breechloader, 

 A weapon then scarce known, at bruin's side, 

 But, at the brute's approach, dropped his new gun 

 And climbed a tree. Perched safe and airily, 

 He saw the shrewd bear pick the rifle up, 

 Open the lever, squint the barrel through, 

 And, disappointed at its emptiness. 

 Wave at his enemy a beckoning paw 

 To throw a cartridge down and have fair play. 

 Thus resting then, my comrade's piercing eye, 

 Even while he spoke, had caught a glimpse far off 

 Of moving specks which scarcely could bo snow; 

 For snow, when moving, rarely clambers up 

 Or stops to graze; and so at last assured 

 Of the goat's presence, we went back to camp 

 To rest us and prepare the next day's war. 



Eai'ly we started. Long and hard we rode. 

 Then spied a goat couched in a lofty niche 

 Of the high wall. To capture him was now 

 Our heavy task. Two separate squads set out 

 And struggled, stumbling, sliding, panting on. 

 O'er loosened shale that glided off beneath 

 The footstep's pressure and on slippery grass. 

 Round bold escarpments, wet with melting ice. 

 Twisting and straining up the dizzying slant 

 Of the long glacis. Once a hanging mass, 

 Long frozen to the tall cliff's beetling edge, 

 But softened by the sun, let go its hold 

 And down came roaring in its echoing fall; 

 Swelling and doubling like the batteried crash 

 Of raging armies; each opposing crag 

 Alive with thunder. 



But the day sped on, 

 The stolid goat, weary of soUtude, 

 Climbed higher yet, to my companion's grief. 

 "Sad were his musings, and expressed in song." 

 Or was it he? I seem, on taking thought, 

 To recollect 'twas I who failed to reach 

 The aspiring hermit, and forthwith composed 

 The faint despairing ode I here subjoin. 



To Aploceras. 

 Aloft he stood, collected and serene. 



I watched him, three miles distant, with a glass, 

 'Tis three miles vertical, of course, I mean, 



For no intelligence could be so crass 



To think upon the rugged lower mass 

 An Aploceras ever could be seen, 

 But on bare pinnacles where all the green 



Could not half feed one label-loving ass. 

 "Oh! goat," I cried, "to keep my body warm, 



Lend me the coat nature on thee bestowed, 



Thou need'st it not, for from thy high abode 

 Far, far below thee thou canst watch the storm." 

 The goat smiled softly, shrugged his awkward form, 



Slufted his cud, and answered, "You be blowed." 



But other fortune waited on my friend. 

 Low fell the westering sun, and long the road 

 To sheltering camp; but, ere I started back, 

 My soul was cheered. The gloomy spirit fled. 

 And the lament changed to a triumphant song. 



Hark! The report. The mountains ring, 

 There speeds the ball that spoils the spell, 



Far Kootenai is answering, 

 And Singleshot rolls back the swell. 



Good news, good news the echoes bring 

 When cracks the rifle of Grinnell ! 



The goat was won— a prey of noble size, 

 Not seven feet 'round, though such, of ampler girth, 

 May climb the Selkirk Mountain's glacial heights. 

 But the soft fleece spread out a generous robe 

 And the long, narrow head and sabre horns 

 Made a rare trophy for the hunter's wall. 

 Labor and danger and enduring hope 

 Repaid, fulfilled by hard-earned victory. 



H. G. DtJLOG. 



SAM LOVEL'S CAMPS.-VII. 



THE young day was not out of it swaddling clothes of 

 mist, when Antoine began repairing the damages 

 that the scow had suffered last night, and the spiteful 

 whacBs wherewith he drove home the nails were not 

 more downright and emphatic than the French and Eng- 

 lish curses which he bestowed on heavy boots and slip- 



Eery eels. When the started plank was in place again, 

 e drew the boat into its daytime rushy seclusion and set 

 about getting breakfast. 



He had privately made the eel ready for the pan and 

 so divided it that its snakelike form was not easily recog- 

 nizable. It was served up smoking hot and relished and 

 praised by all the hungry campers. 



' 'You put in your best licks a-cookin' this ere fish, An- 

 twine," said Joseph; "it's tumble sweet an' rich, an' it 

 seems 's 'ough you'd picked aout half the bones or mebby 

 more'n half, for I haint ben bothered scacely any sortiii' 

 on 'em aout. I've hearn tell o' some oF fishin' critter 'at 

 c'ld put his hunks o' fish int' one corner o' his maouth an' 

 let the bones run aout o' tother corner, an' keep right on 

 fillin' up comf'able, but I haint no sech knack, an' git 

 hungrier eatin' ri' deown bony fish— do' know 's I raly git 

 hungrier, but it takes me a tumble spell tu git satified." 



"That ol' feller's maouth must ha' ben built arter the 

 fashion o' Sile Blakely's," Sam said. "They uster say the 

 top of his head 'ould ha' ben an islan' if 't hedn't ben for 

 his ears. One June trainin' tu Hamner's, that big John 

 Dart sot nex' tu him tu dinner, an' arter dinner, when 

 they was all settin' raound smokin' an' gabbin', Dart says 

 he, "I thought Sile was crazy the way I seen him eatin'.' 

 'What made ye think so, John?' says Sile. 'Why,' says 

 Dart, 'I thought 't you was pokin' your victuals int' your 

 ear, till I'd watched you a spell 'n see 't you was on'y 

 stickin' 'em int' the corner o' your maouth.' But this is 

 mighty good fish. What ye done tu them little parch tu 

 make em so good?" 



"Bah gosh! you'll spose_Ahll goin' tol' evreebody all 

 haow Ah'tl cook ma feesh? wal, Ah guess no, me. 

 Prob'ly 'f you an' Zhozeff an' Solera fan aout all haow 



Ah'll make it ma cook, you'll ant want me some more 

 ! t all! Den you'll said, 'Antoine, Ah guess dey wan' seen 

 you up to Danvit pooty bad; goo'-bye.' No, seh! Ah'll 

 ant so fool lak dat for spile em up ma trades!" 



"I du b'lieve, Antwine," said Joseph, casting a longing 

 lance at the last savory morsel in. the pan, "'at if you'd 

 a' tackled that 'ere bowfin you'd ha' made it cock r'yal, 

 e'namost fit for President Van Buren t' eat." 



"It was a dumn'd sight tu good for the oF Locofoco 

 cuss as you cooked it," said Sam, who was a staunch 

 Whig, "I wish t' he hadn't nothin' better er raw bowfin t' 

 eat!" 



"No, seh! Ah'll can' mek dat kan feesh fit for be good. 

 Ah'll hown it up dat! But you'll all gat done for heat 

 'ant it? Den Ah'll goin' tol' you somet'ings mek you feel 

 good of it in you stomach," and Antoine regarded his 

 friends with a bland smile, while he ground between his 

 palms a grist of tobacco. "You'll rembler haow you'll 

 bruse me for heat mud-turkey, ant it?" 



"Antwine!" said Sam in a voice expressive of deep dis- 

 gust, "you don't pretend to say 'at you've ben afeedin' us 

 on mud turkle?" 



"Ant you'll rembler," said Antoine, waving away the 

 question with the hand unencumbered with tobacco, "ant 

 you'll rembler haow you'll mek me fooled Peltiet wid 

 mash rrrabit, hein?" Sam nodded a reluctant assent. 



"Wal seh, was dat any more wus for me fid j r ou mud 

 turkey?" And Sam shook as slow and reluctant a negative 

 and added with a sigh of resignation, "Wall, it was good 

 if 'twas mud turkle." 



"Bah gosh!" said Antoine, getting to the other side of 

 the fire-place as he filled his pipe and scooped a coal from^ 

 the ashes with the bowl, "it was a grea' deal more wusser 

 as dat. It was snakes!" 



"Antwine!" said Sam, rising to his feet, while Joseph 

 and Solon sat apart growing pale with qualms of their 

 revolting interiors, "if I ever b'lieved a word t' you say, 

 the' 'Id be a Canuck fun'al." 



"What for ant Peltiet mek Yankee fumeral? You'll 

 long 'nough Sam for mek it good one, probly two of it. 

 Cut you off, you'll mek fun for two day. Sermon so long 

 you was evreebodee go sleep an' have it good tarn, hein? 

 Wal, seh, Sam, you'll ant goin' keel me for teached you 

 snake was good for heat ant it? You wait Ah'll tol' you 

 what kan snakes he was be. He'll ant striked snakes, no 

 seh. He'll ant be addler snakes, no seh. He'll ant be 

 common kan watry snakes, but he kan watery snakes, 

 what you call snakes. He was be heels! Dah, Sam, 

 you'll ant wan' keel me naow for do you so good. 

 Probly you'll wan' kees me, but Ah'll ant let it, cause 

 Ursule be mad 'f Ah'll have somebodee kees me cep him." 



"I'd ort tu kill you, Antwine, but the dum'd eel was 

 good, an' I knowed 't you was lyin', I alius know that 

 whenever you speak, I haint no more dependence on ye 

 'n oF Amos Jones hed on his two boys when they was 

 helpin' on him tend mill. 'Joab,' says he, 'hev ye tolled 

 this grist?' 'Yes, sir,' says Joab. 'Jethro,' says he, 'hev 

 ye tolled this grist?' 'Yes, sir,' says Jethro. 'You both 

 lie so like thunder I can't b'lieve a word ye say, 'n' t' 

 make sure on 't I'll toll it myself,' an' the oF critter 'Id 

 scoop aout another thirteenth." 



"Lookin' at it phillysophicably," said Solon, "it haint 

 sartin 'at we haint beholden tu Antwine for overcomin' 

 our nat'ral antiquity tu eels, which they nes long boon a 

 populous food of human mankind. Abur bein' prejudi- 

 cial tu 'em haint exclusive proof at they haint good. 

 Haint that so, Jozeff ?" 



"I haint quite settled on that pint," said Joseph. Not 

 knowin' 'at I was eatin' eel, I liked it— wal, I could eat 

 it. Naow 'at I know it is eel, I b'lieve I'll try that last 

 lunsome piece in the pan, an' see 'f my stomach goes agin 

 it," and so saying he began upon the remaining morsel, 

 picking the few and easy bones with critical deliberation. 

 Then wiping his lips with the backs of alternate hands, 

 and his hands on the legs of his trousers, while he re- 

 garded Antoine benignantly, "I do' know ezactly whether 

 it's in the eel or the cookin', but it is sartinly good, an' 'f 

 you'll du the ketchin' an' the cookin', I'm willin' t' du 

 what eatin' I can in my feeble way. The ketchin', mind 

 ye, Antwine. Sam Hill ! Haow the 'tarnal critter went 

 scootin' mongst aour laigs. Ugh! I'd liveser handle a 

 snake !" 



"What dat nowse?" Antoine asked, turning an atten- 

 tive ear toward the creek. 



The regular squeak and splash of approaching oars was 

 presently heard by all, and they went down to the land- 

 ing with the hope of getting some news of the upstream 

 world, or with a curiosity to know who was passing. In 

 those days the sluggish current of Little Otter slept day 

 in and day out among its rushes, undisturbed by oar or 

 paddle of fisherman, and the infrequent boat that awoke 

 it to a ripple was worth looking at. Our friends had seen 

 no craft but their own since Uncle Tyler's departure till 

 now. 



The dumpy figure now approaching in a scow propelled 

 by slow, laborious strokes, often withheld while the 

 rower turned his head to mark his course, had a familiar 

 look to Sam and Antoine, and when abreast of the land- 

 ing he beoame aware of them, and his gaping face was 

 lighted up with a grin of pleased recognition, they per- 

 ceived it was their last spring's adversary of the trapping 

 grounds. 



"Hello! Danvis, who'd ever ha' thought o' seein' you 

 here; 'n here's Peasoup, tu! Hello Peasoup!" 



Antoine silently congratulated himself on his discre- 

 tion in not having disclosed to Solon and Joseph that this 

 was the antagonist whom he had vanquished m the great 

 fight, which he had more than once told them of, for the 

 man carried himself most unseemly for a conquered foe, 

 and Antoine was quite ashamed of him. 



"Wal, I'm glad t' see ye," the newcomer said, heading 

 his boat for the landing and bringing her into it with a 

 swash, "but I never thought o' seein' you this time o' 

 year, though I was a thinkin' on ye when I come past 

 the East Slang." 



"Yes, we hed consid'able fun up there last spring," 

 Sam said, "one way 'n' 'nother, a spearin' an' a—" he 

 was at a loss to name another sport without referring to 

 possibly unpleasant topics. 



"A trappm' an' chawin' gum, an' bathin'," said the 

 newcomer, helping Sam out and shutting the eye near- 

 est him in a long tight wink that comically distorted that 

 side of his face. 



"Wal, yes, so we did, come tu think on't," and then, as 

 if to think of it long might not be pleasant, and with a 

 desire to change the subject, Sam asked, "Fish in' much 

 nowadays?" 



