104 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Sept. 1, 188?. 



did so, with one loving glance at Mm whom she still held 

 dear, her troubled spirit passed to the great hereafter, 

 peaceful in the knowledge that her son had come back to 

 her. 



The mountain on which Kinneho built his fire was 

 Kineo, and the one on which he found Maquaso is known 

 as Big Squaw. Another legend is that Mount Kineo is 

 the body of a big cow moose which was slain by a mighty 

 Indian hunter and afterward became stone. Her calf 

 was killed among the islands of Frenchman's Bay. 



There is a tradition, too, of a great battle between the 

 Mohawks and Penobscots, which was fought in the nar- 

 rows between Sugar Island and the mainland, and in 

 which the former vanquished their enemy. "We had be- 

 come so absorbed in the prospect that we almost forgot 

 that we had nearly a dozen plates yet unexposed. Will- 

 iam brought us all down from the sublime to the ridicu- 

 lous by declaring that he could see the sun sluning on the 

 Colonel's red head up at the Northeast carry, but the 

 Scribe's opinion was that if the glistening spot which we 

 saw was any part of the Colonel's physiognomy it was his 

 nose. 



We never could find out what the Colonel was colonel 

 of. Likely he was a colonel of the Kentucky variety. We 

 exposed our plates and then packed the cameras and 

 went back down the path. William regretted that he 

 had not procured the photograph of a black fly, but he 

 had reminders enough of them on his person. The next 

 forenoon saw us all on the steamer, homeward bound. 

 Bill and Cy accompanied us to Greenville, and in a 

 Bmoothly shaven, neatly dressed man, who came on to 

 the boat with a bear skin under his arm, we almost failed 

 to recognize our friend John Quilty, our host at Camp 

 Bruin. The boat stopped once in mid lake to take aboard 

 a woman and little girl who were brought out in a canoe 

 from a clearing on the shore. 



As we stepped ashore at Greenville William brushed 

 the last black fly from the end of his nose ; we took a 

 farewell look at the lake, shook Cy and Bill and John by 

 the hand and seemed our seats in the train. 



The morning after we were back in Boston. 



As the Scribe takes his pen to indite the last words of 

 this chronicle, his eyes rest on the wall above his desk, 

 where are arranged the head of a buck, from whose 

 branching antlers are suspended shot pouches and pow- 

 der flasks, and the horns of a caribou, on which hang a 

 creel and an old fishing hat wound around with leaders 

 and decorated with gaudy flies. Below them are guns 

 and rods, a landing net and the camera tripod, and a 

 paddle whose blade is inscribed with the names of lakes 

 and streams in whose waters it has many a time been 

 dipped and over whose surf aces it has propelled the light 

 canoe. 



As as the Scribe gazes on these souvenirs of many 

 happy days, the rustle of the trees outside changes to 

 the voice of the wind in the forest, and the rumble of the 

 vehicles over the pavement becomes the sound of the 

 falling water. The smoke of his cigar rises about him 

 and he is lost in revery, in which the fancies begotten of 

 the nicotic influence of the tobacco blend with the remi- 

 niscences of the past," and his retrospection is as if the 

 god of the woods and the waters had. cast his spell about 

 him, and transported him by magic from the streets of 

 the city to the green aisles and shady banks of forest 

 and stream. W. A. B. 



Cambridge, M ass. 



TOUGH LUCK IN THE TUCKISEEGEE. 



TWO Government scientists, Dr. C. Hart Merriam, of 

 the Division of Economic Ornithology, and Dr. Gan- 

 nett, of the Geological Survey, are spending their vaca- 

 tions in the mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina, 

 where the floods rage, the moonshiners hold each his fort, 

 and fleas and rattlesnakes break the monotony. In a 

 recent letter to his father, Dr. Merriam gives this account 

 of one night's adventure: 



"If lean keep my hands off myflea bites long enough, I 

 will tell you what an exciting time we had yesterday. After 

 leaving the moonshiner's cabin in the morning, we 

 reached the junction of the Tuckiseegee and the Little 

 Tennessee, and began working up the latter, right in the 

 midst of mountains. We went along all right on the 

 western banks of the Tuckiseegee about five miles, when 

 our horses were suddenly frightened and plunged madly 

 into the roaring river, here more than 300ft. wide. The 

 bed of the river was very rocky, with the narrows just 

 below where it rushes through with great fury, and 

 where man or beast would be dashed to instant death. 

 The horses plunged over the rocks and swam the deep 

 places above the rapids and finally reached the other side. 

 Finding a steep mountain slope with no place possible to 

 climb up, they turned down stream toward the cascade. 

 I forgot to say they shook us off on the banks of the river 

 before entering the water. I undressed at once — quick 

 work, as I had on nothing but trousers and a flannel shirt. 

 The buckboard turned over and caught against a large 

 rock about two rods above the rapids. By this time I was 

 in the river, working hard to cross in spite of the fearful 

 current. I saw a man rushing bareheaded down the op- 

 posite bank, but could not hear what he said. Finally I 

 got across and reached the horses. The man said he 

 lived in a log cabin at the head of the river, and was 

 afraid I would be sucked down by the current and 

 drowned; that more people were drowned in this river 

 than in any other he knew of. We freed the horses and 

 with great difficulty got them ashore on the steep slope, 

 then picked up the things from under the seat that hap- 

 pened to catch on the rocks. I lost my coat, money, etc. 

 We tore tore off the top of the buckboard, and with great 

 effort turned it right side up. Luckily, our three valises 

 were still on behind the seat, where we had fastened them 

 by clothes lines. 



"It was getting dark very fast, so we hauled the buck- 

 board up the river about ten rods and fastened it to a tree 

 on shore lest the river might rise still more in the night — 

 as it did. We then led the horses along the steep slope 

 through a dense thicket of rhododendrons over large logs 

 and sharp rocks — a lovely place for a naked man after 

 dark 1 The man told me I ought to have on boots, as this 

 steep rocky bank was alive with rattlesnakes and that he 

 killed one here this morning. Comforting information ! 

 The horse stumbled and fell and got up and plunged 

 ahead in the tangle of grape vines, bushes and fallen 

 trees. 



"At length we reached the path leading to his cabin and 

 modesty kept me from going further. He said he would 

 take care of the horses for the night and I took to the 



water again, taking with me a pole to help in the swift 

 current which I was not long in entering. I was very 

 tired and had a hard fight for a long time. When in the 

 middle of the swiftest place my pole broke, and for a 

 while it seemed as if I could not hold out any longer, but 

 I worked up stream and finally crept up on a rock to rest. 

 I was very thirsty and took a deep drink, then slipped 

 off into the water again and pushed ahead in the dark- 

 ness. For a long time it was hard to say whether I would 

 get across or not. It required all my strength to keep 

 from being washed down into the cascades below. But I 

 climbed upon another rock, so exhausted that I trembled 

 all over and my knees knocked together. I shouted to 

 Gannett, but the roar of the river drowned my voice. 

 Then I struck out again and finally got into the stiller, 

 deeper water nearer shore, climbed up among the bushes 

 and got into the road. 



"My feet and ankles were badly cut by the sharp stones 

 and my body scratched by the stiff branches of the thicket 

 on the other shore. The road was all sharp stones, which 

 made me double up to walk on. I had been in the water 

 two hours and a half. Not only was it dark, but it now 

 began to rain and I began to feel sick, for 1 had not eaten 

 anything but half a biscuit and a few prunes and crackers 

 for two days. I could not find Gannett, could not find 

 my clothes; but when I started up the road over the sharp 

 stones and met Gannett, he had taken my gun and clothes 

 up to the bend where he could see the light in the cabin 

 across the river where he thought I had gone. It was so 

 dark he could not see across, and the river roared so loud 

 he had not heard me. I leaned on his shoidder and 

 hobbled away to my clothes — i. c, shirt, pants and shoes; 

 then we walked on and on in the rain and darkness for a 

 mile and a half, when we reached a small log cabin occu- 

 pied by a man, his wife, a cat and a baby — the latter was 

 only two weeks old. 



"We told them our trouble and asked to stay for the 

 night. The man said Ms wife was not able to get us any- 

 thing to eat and he had but one room, but he would not 

 turn us out in the rain, so we stayed. We found some 

 good, cold spring water here and filled up on it, s s our 

 crackers and. prunes had gone down the river. There 

 were two beds in the room, side by side. Gannett and I 

 got into one and the man, wife and baby in the other. 

 The fleas were not long in discovering that we had 

 brought a colony from down the Tuckiseegee, so they 

 began visitmg, and as all were hungry and grew hungrier 

 as they visited, they made themselves at home and 

 lunched on us freely all night long. The ram pattered 

 on the shingled roof, the baby cried, the fleas marched 

 up and down and gnawed our weary persons, and we had 

 a splendid time. Our host remarked that this rain would 

 raise the river and we wovdd lose our buckboard unless 

 it was lashed fast to the bank, wMch luckily it was. In 

 the mormng they gave us pork and potatoes, the first 

 potatoes I had tasted since we began our journey in the 

 mountains. 



"After breakfast we walked down the river to the scene 

 of the disaster. The water had risen about 20in., and the 

 man on the other side motioned us not to try to cross, but 

 to go up the river and go round. We could see that he 

 and another man were chopping a roadway for the buck- 

 board, and were trying to rescue it and our baggage from 

 the fierce and muddy Tuckiseegee. So we walked to the 

 cabm where we had spent the night, and found there 

 was a bridge eight miles above. We filled up with good 

 cold spring water and started. My feet were cut and 

 swollen and very tender, but we pushed on and crossed 

 the bridge about noon." 



Addresa all communications to the Forest and Stream Pub. Co. 



NOTES FROM THE BUNK HOUSE. 



SUPPER was over, and the boys strolled down to the 

 bunk house. TMs edifice stands about forty yards 

 from the randi house and is where the hands— quorum 

 pars mm — sleep. 



The bunk house, although it is a joy to many of its 

 inhabitants, is not a thing of beauty, but it is built of 

 hewn logs, is well daubed with mortar, and has a board 

 floor. It is thus tight, warm and dry, and these are 

 solid advantages wMch — in our minds at least — make up 

 for the absence of paint, plaster, paper and other luxu- 

 rious fittmgs of a house. The bunk house is about twenty 

 feet deep by thirty long, and is eleven logs high at the 

 eaves and only twelve at the ridge pole. A door and 

 window in the front give light, air and entrance, and 

 through the west end of the house is cut another door, 

 low and small, which leads into the ranch storeroom, in 

 whose dark and cobwebby recesses are hidden the grub 

 and all sorts of necessary supplies. 



The roof of the bunk house is very unlike the roofs 

 of your Eastern houses. Its ridgepoles are two stout pine 

 logs nine inches in diameter and thirty-five feet long. 

 These lie side by side, supported at their ends by the 

 walls and in the middle by another stout log whose lower 

 end passes through the floor and stands on a great flat 

 stone on the ground. Across its upper end rests a short 

 squared log, long enough to support both ridge poles. 

 The foundation for the roof consists of slender straight 

 fourteen-foot poles, lying at right angles to the ridge 

 pole, and projecting beyond the walls of the house a foot 

 or two. One series of these poles extends from the front 

 ridge pole to the front wall, and one from the back ridge 

 pole to the back wall. After these straight poles have 

 been laid as close together as possible over the whole 

 length of the house, a lot of hay is pitched upon the roof 

 and spread evenly upon it. TMs is to keep the dirt from 

 shakmg down between the poles. When the hay is in 

 position, the roof is covered to a depth of from four to 

 eight inches with dirt well packed down. In old times, 

 we used to think that a good dirt roof would turn any 

 rain that ever fell, but of late years we have had springs 

 when the rains were so heavy and continuous that the 

 dirt got wet all the way tMough, and when tMs takes 

 place little muddy torrents come trickling tMough the 

 roof in a dozen different places. To keep dry under such 

 circumstances one needs a tent inside the house, and a 

 tent on stilts at that. Our bunk house, however, is always 

 dry. 



From this description you will have but a very sketchy 

 idea of the interior of the bunk house. Let me see if I 



can improve it by telling what it contains. The furniture 

 is useful rather than ornamental, but the walls have 

 plenty of adornment, such as it is. Behind the door— to 

 the left as you enter — is a shelf on which rest a couple of I 

 water buckets and the wash basins used by the men. An- 

 other shelf runs across the west end of the building, 

 loaded with a varied assortment of bottles, kegs, cans and 

 boxes, which I know of my own knowledge contam horse 

 medicme, axle grease, ammumtion, nails, matches, wolf 

 poison, small tools, and a good many other things. Be- 

 neath tMs shelf is a row of nails driven into the logs and 

 extending across the west end and half across the north 

 side. These nails are made useful in a variety of ways: 

 Number 1 supports a couple of cross-cut saws; 2, a couple 

 of lanterns; 3, more lanterns al ariat and a tin funnel; 

 5, a bridle and a pair of spurs; 6, a blacksnake wMp and 

 a string of gopher scalps; 7, a rope and a dried muskrat 

 skm; 8, an old pair of buckskm breeches; 9, ahorse collar 

 and a cotton shirt; 10, a horse collar and a sack, contents 

 unknown; 11, a couple of dried coyote skms and a coat; 

 12, a side saddle; 12, 13 and 14, coats, trousers and slick- 

 ers in various stages of dilapidation. Then comes a pair 

 of elk horns, from which hang ropes, straps, hats and an 

 mflatable rubber bed; on another pair of elk horns are 

 four or five rifles and a couple of shotguns, hair ropes, 

 ammunition belts, butcher knives and six-shooters. Be- 

 tween the door and windows are two small mirrors, and 

 below these, two or three cigar boxes, screwed to the wall, 

 or supported by rough brackets, contain the sMaple toilet 

 articles — they are not many — belongmg to the hands. On 

 the floor agamst the walls 3tand three beds with hay 

 mattresses, on wMch are the blankets of the men who 

 occupy them. TMee or four trunks are to be seen; there 

 are three chairs, and a rough bench defaced by much 

 whittling. All the hands and many a stranger cowboy 

 and chance guest have carved their mitials here m rough 

 monogram. On it branding irons have begn tried. The 

 stove, wood-box and a small table complete the furniture 

 of the room. A Western man might say that it wore an 

 air of rough comfort; an Eastern man would probably 

 agree that it was very rough. But we get along with 

 necessaries here; Down East I suppose you have luxur- 

 ies. But if we do not have much luxury or elegance in 

 the bunk house, we have at least freedom and lots of 

 comfort. And freedom is worth more than style. I tell 

 you after one has been riding after horses all day, say 

 from 3 o'clock in the morning till 8 or 9 at night, or has 

 been pitcMng hay or riding a mowing machine for ten 

 or twelve hours, he feels like stretching out and taking it 

 easy from supper till bed time. Style is all very well, 

 but give me comfort, and that's what we have in the 

 bunk house. 



After we get to the bunk house, of course, the first 

 thmg done is to fill the pipes. Then after supper I gener- 

 ally sit on the door step and look out over the httle valley. 

 There is almost always something to be seen that is 

 worth looking at; at least I think so. It's pleasant even 

 to watch the young calves at their foolish play, but now- 

 adays there are always lots of birds, and jacks, and 

 prairie dogs, and somehow I like to watch them. The 

 dogs are always busy, getting grab and visiting round, 

 and calhng to each other from the tops of the Uttle piles 

 of dirt that they heap up at the mouths of their holes. 

 The jacks hop around very busily in the dusk of the 

 evening and appear to be all legs and ears. The black 

 birds chatter to each other and seem to have a great deal 

 to say, but they go to bed early. 



Less than a mile to the west of us rises a high mountam, 

 and after the sun has disappeared behmd it, we can see 

 the shadows creep along over the level land to the east- 

 ward, and then up the sides of the opposite bluffs twelve 

 miles away. It is ahnost dark with us when the last 

 hngering rays give their good-mght kiss to those distant 

 hills. Then on the mountams near us it is pretty to 

 watch the play of the light. After the wall of rock be- 

 hind the house has hidden the sun from us, a dozen peaks 

 are bright with the sunshme. To the southwest is a deep 

 gorge tMough which pours a wide sheaf of light, and I 

 never tire of watching the shadows cliinb up the red 

 granite precipice on the further side of tMs. Each detail 

 of the outline of the shading mountain is distinctly 

 visible, and when the shadows have mcreased so that 

 only the Mghest pmnacles of rock are tipped with flame, 

 I always hold my breath a little, and then sigh as the 

 light goes out. 



Even after the sun is hidden from us, the air for a long 

 time is full of swallows and night hawks, and I like to 

 watch them. They fly so easily that you can well under- 

 stand their traveling thousands of miles to get away from 

 the winter. Sometimes the night hawks, after soarmg 

 about, squeakmg somewhat like an English snipe, will 

 dart down nearly to the ground, and as they turn to go 

 up again utter a curious booming cry. The swallows, of 

 which we see so many, are now trymg their wings for 

 their southern flight. Durmg the greater part of the day 

 they are scattered far and wide, hunting for food; but at 

 the approach of sunset they collect near their home — for 

 they build their nests and rear their young in. crevices in the 

 great red precipices behmd the house — and spend an hour 

 in seemingly aimless flights hither and thither through 

 the upper air. At such times they do not seem to fly as 

 mdividuals, but in a body, or, perhaps it is more true to 

 say, in a loose flock, wMch appears to obey the signal of 

 some leader. At all events, the members of the flock 

 never leave it, but all continue to perform their graceful 

 evolutions until it is too dark to distingmsh them any 

 longer. 



These swallows, besides bemg so airy and swift-winged, 

 are most beautiful in their colors, I once found one 

 lying by the side of the road to the stable, after a very 

 heavy rain and hail storm, and took it into the bunk 

 house with me. It had probably been knocked down and 

 hurt by the rain and hail, but though it was disabled, it 

 was still alive. Its under parts were all pure white, and 

 its hack was a most beautiful green and purple and black, 

 shining in some places like a peacock's neck and in others 

 like a cock pigeon's. I put the little fellow on a chair by 

 the stove when we went to bed, and the next mornmg he 

 seemed to be all right agam and began to fly around the 

 room, and at last when the door was opened out he darted 

 and we saw no more of him. 



Last night I was sitting on the step of the bunk house 

 after supper, smoking and watcMng the light as it faded 

 from the valley, though the highest peaks on the western 

 mountams were still bright. It was getting dusky where 

 I sat when I saw through the bars of the fence about the 

 ranch house some yellow aminal come trotting down the 



