Aug. 25, 1887.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



89 



done this before "the rain descended and the floods 

 came." It rained, not in drops, but in sheets and torrents 

 of water, which transformed the already muddy road 

 into a mire, through which we splashed along. We 

 pinned the two rubber focus cloths around the youngster 

 for additional protection. 



m When we arrived at the Branch we jointed our rods 

 and fished below the pitch, where we had good luck the 

 day before, but the trout were not in a biting mood, and 

 we did not get a rise. 



There was about as much water in the air as there was 

 in the stream, and the deluge showed no signs of abating, 

 but if the rain wet us, it also put a damper on the ardor 

 of the black flies. We continued to cast till a shout from 

 Bill apprised us that the rear of the procession had ar- 

 rived. 



We launched the canoes as quickly as possible, put our 

 luggage aboard, shouted "good-bye" to Morris, and then, 

 seizing the paddles, started down stream. We were a lit- 

 tle dubious as to how our stock of dry plates and un- 

 developed negatives would be, but we stowed them away 

 as snugly as possible. We were afraid they woidd all be 

 wet plates, but they came out all right, as we afterward 

 proved. The rain still continued to pour in torrents of 

 very wet water, but we did not mind it much, as we pad- 

 dled swiftly along between the wooded banks stretching 

 away on either hand, without a break in the thick wall 

 of vegetation which came to the water's edge. As we 

 rounded a bend a brace of black ducks rose from the 

 water and took a beeline down stream till they disap- 

 peared over the tops of the trees. We had about a mile 

 of dead water before we sighted the rocks at the head of 

 the lower falls, which are also called the "long" falls. 

 Here we had a mile carry to make, not a pleasant pros- 

 pect on such a day. 



There is a winter road on the right bank, but thinking 

 we could get down over the rocks and fish as we went 

 along, we landed on the left bank. The guides went 

 Sown to the head of the pitch to reconnoitre, as they had 

 never been down Seeboomook when the stream was so 

 high. The water went foaming over the first pitch and 

 turned a sharp angle into a little cove behind a big rock. 

 It was a risky bit of water to run, but after carefully 

 studying the problem Cy determined to go through. Bill 

 said "if Cy could he could." We stood on the rocks be- 

 low and watched them, and it was a thrilling sight to see 

 the frail craft leave the smooth, dead water, and boldly 

 enter the boiling, frothing current, which, it seemed, 

 would dash them to pieces on the rocks or capsize them^ 

 but they went through safely without shipping a drop. 

 The guides stood up, holding the paddles with grasps of 

 iron, and as the canoes shot into the smooth water of the 

 cove below, we gave them a cheer of encouragement. 

 They then went to survey the next stretch of bad water 

 and we went on ahead, casting our flies from the rocks 

 wherever there seemed a likely place for trout. The fish 

 were obdurate, and our success was so poor and the 

 traveling so difficult that the other three left the Scribe 

 to fish alone. They signified their intention of getting 

 around the carry as quickly as possible and disappeared 

 in the woods. The Scribe continued down the rocks but 

 made slow progress, as they were slippery and steep and 

 separated by inlets, making it necessary, in many places, 

 to go around through the woods, a vexatious thing to do 

 with a jointed rod. Finally it became impossible to pro- 

 ceed in this way and he un jointed his rod preparatory to 

 taking to the woods. 



The rain still fell, but not as copiously as before, and 

 the sun was struggling to break through the clouds. 

 Looking up or down stream, there were rocks and rapids 

 and falls as far as one could see. The guides were some 

 distance above just carrying the canoes over a large rock 

 round which the water was very rough. After going 

 back for the luggage they paddled across a little bay to 

 another rock from which they dropped the canoes over 

 the next pitch. The three who had gone on ahead were 

 nowhere to be seen. 



The Scribe pushed his way through the alders, which 

 were so thick on the banks as to be almost impenetrable, 

 and went on through the woods. The forest was stern 

 and savage in the extreme ; wilder and rougher than we 

 had yet seen on this trip. The trees were large and 

 thick. There were living trees and dead trees and trees 

 in every stage of decay. Progress was blocked by logs 

 and fallen trunks, some of which were prostrate on the 

 ground, while others had lodged against the standing 

 timber at every angle and in every conceivable position. 

 Long mossy ridges showed where some monarch of the 

 forest had fallen years and years before, and logs appar- 

 ently sound would crash under a footstep. Occasionally 

 an abattis of tangled branches and sharp, broken limbs 

 effectually barred the way and necessitated a detour. 



The trees, living and dead, were draped with festoons 

 of gray moss, the usnea lichen, and the foliage was so 

 dense that the fight was dim, and the eye could pene- 

 trate but a short distance into the grim, shadowy depths. 

 The footfalls made no sound on the soft, mossy floor of 

 the forest, and as the Scribe slowly fought his way not a 

 sound was to be heard. It was the very incarnation of 

 solitude — a place where one instinctively glances about 

 him on the lookout for some unknown and unseen danger; 

 where one would expect to meet the more savage beasts 

 —the surly bear, the grim wolf or the crouching panther. 

 But as Tboreau said: "The howling wilderness seldom 

 howls except in the imagination of the traveler," and the 

 Scribe saw no sign of life, not even a black fly. No sound 

 was heard save the distant water, now and them Occa- 

 sionally a slap in the face from a wet branch would send 

 the drops down my neck in streams. Thoreau character- 

 ized it as the "damp and shaggy wilderness." Damp it 

 certainly was on this particular occasion, and the term 

 "shaggy" is peculiarly appropriate. It was a lonesome 

 place and a lonesome journey, but all things have an end, 

 and I came into an old winter road, hardly distinguish- 

 able from its surroundings, leading to a small clearing on 

 the bank just at the foot of the falls. As I emerged from 

 the shadow of the trees I saw my three comrades grouped 

 around a fire, which served the double purpose of drying 

 then- clothes and keeping away the bloodthirsty flies' and 

 mosquitoes, for it had stopped raining and the little pests 

 were out again on the warpath. 



We had not long to wait before Cy and Bill came down 

 over the last pitch and we embarked for the last stage of 

 the day's journey. "Bill," said Lloyd, "are there any 

 more falls?" "Falls!" exclaimed the guide. "No, the 

 water has got the life all chawed out of it coming through 

 there, and it's dead water now all the way to Luce's," and 



he chuckled at his joke. Wo had five miles of dead 

 water to paddle over before reaching Luce's, and we 

 stopped but once, to inspect a logging camp on the right 

 bank. The general scenery was the same as it had been 

 above Seeboomook, long stretches of dark water between 

 thickly wooded banks. 



Three miles down we passed the mouth of Russell Brook; 

 this leads up to Russell Pond, which used to be good ground 

 for moose and caribou. 



Two miles from there we came in sight of Luce's build- 

 ings and made a landing on the steep clay bank from 

 which the road leads up to the house about a quarter of a 

 mile. Bill and the Scribe waited to see to the canoes and 

 luggage, while the others went directly to the house. A 

 couple of canoes and half a dozen batteaux were on the 

 bank, and while we were getting out the things we 

 wished to carry to the house, another canoe containing 

 two men, appeared, coming up stream. Its occupants, 

 an Indian and an Irishman, proved to belong to the West 

 Branch drive, and had come from Chesuncook Lake for 

 some supplies. They reported having seen a moose the 

 day before at 'Suncook, as they abbreviate the name. 

 When the Scribe entered the room which serves as sitting 

 room and office, his eyes beheld a spectacle which was a 

 sight for gods and men. In a huge box-stove a rousing 

 wood-fire was already burning, and around it were 

 William. Lloyd and Harry, divested of everything 

 except their drawers and shirts, and even these were 

 soaked through. By some means they had succeeded in 

 getting thoroughly drenched, while the guides and the 

 Scribe came through comparatively dry. The proverbial 

 drowned rat was dry in comparison with them. Their 

 clothing hung steaming behind the stove, and the gar- 

 ments they had on clung tightly to their limbs. 



When dinner was announced the clothing Avas not dry 

 and the three members in deshabille were obliged to ap- 

 ear at the table as they were. Probably few people 



ave been edified by the sight of a dignified drygoods 

 and carpet dealer seated at the head of a table and 

 dressed for dinner in a pair of wet drawers and a 

 flannel shirt, which may nave been white in the "days 

 of long ago." The Scribe sat opposite such an apparition 

 and the table was flanked by two similar ones. The Scribe 

 did his best to furnish the requisite amount of dignity for 

 the repast, but he wishes that William's wife might have 

 seen her liege lord and eldest son on that occasion. The 

 meal over, we returned to our seats around the big stove, 

 lighted our pipes and cigars and chatted and told stories. 

 The Scribe made an attempt to photograph the group, 

 but could not get light enough. The account of an ad- 

 venture with a bear, narrated" by Mr. Luce, will warrant 

 repetition. 



"It was two years ago this spring," he began, "that we 

 had quite an adventure here one night. I had gone to 

 bed, and abou 11 o'clock one of the boys came up, knocked 

 at my door, and told me to get up and come down-stairs 

 as there was a bear in the buttery. I dressed, took my 

 rifle and went down. Sure enough there was the bear. 

 The door was closed but we could hear him in there eat- 

 ing something. We planned to attack him. I was to re- 

 main in the room and the boy was to go around one end 

 of the house, while an Indian, who was here, was to head 

 him off in the other direction. Then if he escaped from 

 me through the window, one or the other of them would 

 stand a chance of killing him. Each man took his post, 

 but the bear became alarmed in some way and I threw 

 open the buttery door just in time to see him disappear 

 through the window. I yelled to them to look out fo r- 

 him, but it was so dark outside that they could not see 

 his black hide. At he ran around the house he knocked 

 over the Indian and disappeared in the darkness. I don't 

 know which was the most frightened, the bear or the 

 Indian. We went back indoors and discussed the proba- 

 bility of his returning. We didn't much think he would, 

 but thought we would watch a while, and, sure enough, 

 in a short time we heard him clambering in the buttery 

 window again. He was more wary this time, and before 

 we could get at him he again became frightened. As he 

 went away the second time, though, he ran by the wood- 

 pile where the ground was strewn with white chips, and 

 as his black body showed against them, the boy drew a 

 bead on him and fired right through the window, carrying 

 away sash and all. It was a pretty shot, and he dropped 

 in his tracks, dead. There was some corned beef in the 

 buttery and that was what he was after. He was prob- 

 ably just out of his den after his long hibernation through 

 the winter and was hungry. He was a big fellow." 



W. A. B. 



THE AMATEUR FISHERMAN. 



XT IS Lowell who says that we all have a trace of gyp- 

 X sey blood in our veins, and to its nomadic influence 

 he attributes all the mysterious impulses toward wander- 

 ing that come to us with the milder skies and greener 

 landscapes of spring. Perhaps no man is more suscept- 

 ible to this magic trace of another and earlier existence 

 or more quick to respond to its promptings than the ama- 

 teur fisherman. I have such a man in mind as I write 

 this. His nominal calling is that of an insurance agent, 

 but his real occupation is that of a fisherman. The dire 

 necessity of finding constant answers to that ever-urgent, 

 never-solved conundrum, "What shall we eat, and what 

 shall we drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed?" 

 consumes the greater portion of his time. For fifty weeks 

 in the year he deals with policies and renewals and death 

 rates and dividends, and laboriously and uncomplainingly 

 gathers premiums, in order that the president and direct- 

 ors of his company may pull down their houses and build 

 greater, and that their wives and daughters may array 

 themselves in foreign silks and laces. He dwells on the 

 certainty of dying only that he may make his own living 

 the more secure. He induces you to take out a policy by 

 showing you the importance of providing against sudden 

 and unforeseen contingencies, and the utter mutability of 

 all things human in order that he may apply the commis- 

 sions to carrying out certain plans which he has made for 

 next year and the year after. And in all this he is logical, 

 inflexible, unanswerable. 



But for the other two weeks. Should you meet him on 

 the lake or the river during the fishing season you would 

 never know him. This man, who in one of those abstruse 

 calculations in which insurance men delight, scrupulously 

 exacts the odd cent where nine-sixteenths of it falls on 

 his side, now stands ready to place anything at your dis- 

 posal, even to the half of his tackle. He is bubbling over 

 with good humor and good fellowship, his only table of 

 expectations being that which relates to the fishing and 



fishing weather. The sunshine and the fresh clear water 

 mellow and temper his whole nature till it is as pliant 

 and elastic as a split bamboo. 



But if in all this I have conveyed the impression that 

 the man whose occupation is that of an amateur fisher- 

 man derives no real enjoyment from his calling save in 

 the brief two weeks he filches from black Care, I have 

 been sorely misapprehended. On the contrary, when 

 the first sunny days of March hang out coy signals of yet 

 distant spring, he begins to look over his box of tackle, 

 testing his lines, arranging his flies, and satisfying him- 

 self that all the details of rod and reel are in perfect work- 

 ing order. He furbishes up his fishing suit, inspects his 

 rubber boots and takes the first opportunity to drop into 

 a tackle store where he buys a score of things which he 

 knows he will never find any use for, but which are 

 always " handy to have." From total indifferentism on 

 the subject of the weather, as the season advances he 

 becomes the most careful observer of the clouds and the 

 winds. He plans his trip for months beforehand, and 

 draws from it a three-fold enjoyment— the anticipation, 

 the realization, the recollection. True, his piscatorial 

 pilgrimage was made too late in the season last year , 

 just as it was made too early in the season the year 

 before. 



But there is a happy faculty possessed by your true 

 fisherman which enables him to forget whatever there 

 may have been of the disagreeable in his experience, 

 while his good luck is treasured up forever in his memory. 

 The trip when he caught that terrible cold that lasted for 

 three months afterward, the upsetting that he got into 

 November water, and the time when he toiled all day 

 long and caught nothing, are all conveniently blank in 

 his memory. But he can tell you to the quarter of an 

 ounce and to the fraction of an inch the weight and 

 measure of his largest bass and all the particulars of his 

 capture. And when, after a run of misfortune such as 

 none but a true fisherman coidd withstand, he chances 

 upon a fortunate day, he finds unutterable delight in all 

 the subtle influences of air and wave and sky, and drinks 

 in deep content. If unsuccessful, then he has so much 

 more to hope for from the future. For so long as to-mor- 

 row hangs her glittering promise in the sky, so long will 

 he continue to look for better luck. 



There must be a moral somewhere in these pages, for I 

 had one when I began, and now I am unable to find it. 

 Let those who enjoy morals look it up and make the appli- 

 cation for themselves. Meanwhile I have only to add : 

 Blessed is the man (likewise the woman) who has some 

 good, safe hobby of his own, a creature that will neither 

 shy nor bolt, but one on whose broad and kindly back he 

 can mount when the toils and annoyances of life press 

 him too closely and for a few brief hours amble smoothly 

 and happily away from care. . Jay Beebe. 



Toledo, O., Aug. 20. 



A WAR STORY. 



I TOOK occasion some time ago in an article on fishing 

 to express my utter want of appreciation of the suc- 

 culent qualities of that pond shark of a fish called a pick- 

 erel, and added that I had eaten cat and pickerel and 

 preferred the former. As some of my readers may, 

 naturally enough, think me a man devoid of taste or pos- 

 sessed of rather queer notions, and as I always stand 

 ready to give a reason for the faith that is in me, "I will 

 a tale unfold, naught extenuate nor set down aught in 

 malice." This is a war story, though a short one; 1 am 

 free to confess that war stories would probably be show- 

 ered down like grapeshot on the editor's devoted head on 

 the smallest provocation, and that there must be a strong 

 distinction made between shooting fur and feather and 

 our fellow creatures. 



Many a long year ago, the Gardes Lafayette, or Cin- 

 quante-Cinquieme, commonly called the 55th N. Y. S. Y., 

 was encamped at Tennallytown, enlisted for the war. It 

 was supposed to be a French regiment, with a liberal ele- 

 ment of Dutchmen, Americans and other nationalities. 

 It was from its stunning uniform of the Zouave pattern 

 supposed to be a regiment of officers, and as every high 

 private had a double row of buttons running down his 

 manly chest, sentinels were kept busy all the time salut- 

 ing. Duryea's Zoos gazed at us with unqualified admira- 

 tion; Ellsworth's Avengers and Billy Wilson's Pets were 

 biusting with envy; while the Infant Purdies — Les En- 

 fants Perdus — were simply nowhere. 



Amid all this fascinating and brilliant array of soldiers 

 Capt. W. and myself, simply Seventh Regiment boys, 

 found ourselves surrounded from the beginning and heavily 

 weighted from the outset. So it came to pass that as I in a 

 measure understood their lingo, I was posted up as to 

 what was going on, and it was therefore with due gravity 

 and decorum that a French corporal made his appearance 

 before my tent, saluted, and handed me a courteous re- 

 quest from the French Captain of the Skirmishers to come 

 up to his tent and manger le chat. Returning a prompt 

 acceptance of the gracious missive I went in to Capt. W.'s 

 tent and explained matters to him, but I added that I had 

 heard the Frenchman say "we would be afraid to come," 

 and therefore I had accepted the invitation on sight. ' 'My 

 dear Lieutenant, perfectly right; the honor of the Seventh 

 is at stake, confound it," he added in a burst of enthusiasm, 

 "I can eat anything that Frenchman can." So we donned 

 our accoutrements and started off. Both of us had a few 

 days before seen an enormous Tabby cat, a sort of a tor- 

 toise shell, playing around the French captain's tent, and 

 as we had missed him from his accustomed place, we 

 shrewdly suspected he was to be offered up as a sacrifice. 



Nerve and politeness were my captain's habitual quali- 

 ties, of striking physique, over 6ft. ; he was a man it did 

 you good to look at. We saluted the little Captain of 

 Zouaves with oriental politeness, sat down with great 

 composure and looked, or tried to, as if dining off of cat 

 was of every day occurrence. 



"As to what part of the oat would you prefer, Mes- 

 sieurs?" 

 "C'la m'est egalt" 

 "Second joint, mon Lieutenant?" 

 "Oui, Capitaine." 

 "A piece of ze breast?" 



W.'s face was a study. Here was a mess served up 

 and no retreat. Internally wishing our host in a much 

 hotter place than poor pussy had ever been in we set to 



Iwork; laughing and chatting with imperturbable good 

 humor, we feasted off of poor Tabby, washing him down 

 with Rhine wine and regretting we had not laid in a 

 supply of cats for a return feast. Then smoking with 



