422 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Deo. 22, 1887. 



far (tPkriBtims 



Address all communicates to the Forest and Stream Pub. Co. 



THE GRAY PINE.* 



PART ONE. 



LIKE most of those who have inherited the hunting 

 instinct of our progenitors and were horn where no 

 large game exists, it was once my great ambition to kill 

 a deer. It had been outlived, not gratified, for though 

 year after year I went to the Adirondacks for this sole 

 purpose, it' was never my fortune to kill a deer, nor but 

 once to even get a shot at one. 



If one was started it always took any runway rather 

 than that on which I was stationed, or went over the 

 mountains to some pond or stream miles away and so 

 escape or fall a prey to the hunters of some other 

 party. 



My last attempt was made late in October, 185-, when 

 though we were enjoying the most delightful autumn 

 weather in the Champlain valley, there were sharp pre- 

 monitions of approaching winter in the narrow valley of 

 the Adirondacks which was this year to be my hunting 

 ground. The deciduous trees had struck their colors and 

 the faded banners of scarlet and purple and gold were 

 trailing upon the earth, sodden with autumnal rains, or 

 tossed here and there by fitful gusts of the shifting winds; 

 and more than one snow storm had grizzled the "black 

 growth of the mountain sides and blanched the treeless 

 peaks with the whiteness they were to wear for many a 

 month to come. 



The night after my arrival at the little farmhouse where 

 I was to stay, several of the neighbors dropped in, and a 

 hunt was planned for the next day. Sim Woodruff, the 

 most inveterate woods-haunter and hunter among them, 

 drawled out in a low monotone. "The's tew three deer a 

 keeping up in the basin 'n under Aowl's Head, they ha'n't 

 been mislested this fall, 'n' the' ha' no daoubt o' startin' 

 on 'em any day, 'n' gittin' a good race. They'll water tu 

 the river, sartin, 'n we c'n man every identicle runway, 

 'n' sonieb'dy nuther is cock sure to git a shot." 



Silas Borden the shoemaker said, " 'T'ain't no way sar- 

 tin 'at a deer started aouten the basin won't water t' 

 Thompson Pawnd." He spent more of his time in fishing 

 and "a studyin' inter aoudoor things" than in making and 

 mending his neighbors' footgear, and his opinions in 

 matters of woods-lore was not to be lightly taken. But 

 Sim said sententiously, "They'll water tu the river !" 

 The shoemaker said no more in support of his opinion, 

 but sat gazing meditatively into the glowing slit of the 

 stove hearth, and so it was presently settled the party 

 should meet here at Uncle Harvey Hales' the next morn- 

 ing, and then man the runways on the river, while Sim 

 took the dogs to the basin lying under the rocky knob, 

 known as Owls' Head, and put them out there. 



As my host was lighting me to bed after the last caller 

 had departed, I said, "Do, if you can, Uncle Harvey, put 

 me on a rim way to-morrow where I can get a shot. This 

 is the fifth year that I've been trying to get one some- 

 where in this region, and haven't suceeded yet !" 



"If you don't git a crack at a deer to-morrah, it won't 

 be my fault," he said as he set the candle on the little oil- 

 cloth covered stand and seated himself on the edge of the 

 bed. "I'm a goin' t' put you t' the Piffles, 'n' it's the best 

 runway on the river. The fif year, hey? Wal, they say 

 't the's luck in odd numbers, 'n' like 'nough your 'n 'ill 

 change this time. 'F you c'n shoot at a deer 's well 's you 

 can 't a patridge, y'r all right, for I've seen yer cut their 

 heads off. But" — and his gray eyes twinkled under 

 their grayer shaggy brows— "like's not ye can't— the's a 

 differ'nce." 



"Well," I said with more confidence in my voice than 

 in my heart, "all I ask is the chance, and if I miss a good 

 shot, you won't be troubled with me another fall." 



"Then I hope you'll kill a deer to-niorrah," he said 

 heartily, for I'm alius glad t' hev ye come." In those 

 days the region was not thronged as now with tourists 

 and pleasure seekers, and the people were glad of a visitor 

 for simple friendship's sake, and a few days of com- 

 panionship with one from the outer world, of which they 

 saw so little. Now and then in summer some ardent 

 angler from abroad braved the torments of the black flies, 

 or an artist came to gather fresh sheaves from an un- 

 reaped field; in fall a few hunters and an occasional 

 cattle buyer from the valley of the lake, and in winter a 

 fur buyer or two were almost the only visitors in all the 

 year. 



"Wal," said Uncle Harvey, rising and snuffing the 

 candle with his fingers, "good night, sleep good!" 



This injunction I obeyed, between Aunt Natty's dried 

 roseleaf -scented sheets and under the carpetlike coverlet 

 till daylight came in at the little window and turned the 

 gloom to gray, and the voices of the gathering hunters 

 and the wliimpering and impatient yelping of Sim's 

 hounds awoke me. Half an hour later when we were 

 straggling along the road, some one asked, "Where's 

 Site? thought he was agoin'." Sim, who led the party and 

 •was being led by the dogs straining at their leashes before 

 him, answered over his shoulder, "Sile! I'll bet a cookev 

 the plegged critter 's apullin' foot for Thompson Pawnd,'" 

 and he looked toward the round peak of Owl's Head now 

 detaching its dark gray outline from the scarcely lighter 

 gray of the overcast sky, as if he half expected to make 

 out somewhere under the curtain of the woods the form 

 of the little shoemaker breasting the mountain ridge 

 beyond which lay the lonely pond. "Let him go an' be 

 darned! I shouldn't wonder 'f the pawnd was all froze 

 over!" which seemed not unlikely, for the road was hard 

 as a rock and the swift current of the river running here 

 beside it was edged with bristling borders of ice, and 

 little spiky rafts of it were drifting along, tinkling 

 against shores and mid-stream boulders. One or two of 



* John H. Sears, in his "Notes on the Forest Trees of Essex, Clin- 

 ton and iranklm Counties, N. Y.," says, of the strange supersti- 

 tion concerning the gray or scrub pine (Finus banhsiana): "This 

 tree is known as the 'unlucky tree' by the people in this part of 

 the country. The more observant ones call it a cross between the 

 pine and the spruce. I met several men of good general educa- 

 tion, who were convinced of the danger arising from this tree and 

 who cited eases of its malignant influences. It is considered 

 dangerous to pass within 10ft. of its limbs, and more so to women 

 than to men. It is equally dangerous to cattle: so that whatever 

 ill befalls a man, his family or his cattle, if there is one of these 

 trees on his land it must be destroyed, burned down bv wood 

 being piled around it, for no one would venture to cut it down "— 

 Bulletin of the Essex Institute, Vol, XIII., 1881. 1 lv * 



the hunters had dropped out to the runways they were 

 assigned to, when Sim struck out of the road and acrosB 

 the narrow fields and soon vanished with his hounds in 

 the haze of woodside saplings and branches. One after 

 another took the station allotted to him by Uncle Harvey 

 till only he and I were left. Crossing a rude bridge that 

 spanned the river and going half a mile further up the 

 right bank we came to the Riffles, where he placed me, 

 and after giving a few concise directions went on to his 

 stand above. Here at the Riffles running down a steep 

 slope and across the narrow intervale to the naked brink of 

 the river, was the clearing of a deserted farm bordered on 

 either side with a brushy fringe of second growth, backed 

 by the great trees of the old woods. Half way up the 

 slope, desolate and forsaken, with no path leading to 

 them, stood a small house with unglazed windows, and a 

 ruinous log barn. My stand faced a long straight reach 

 of the river where it broke into a foaming rapid over 

 stony shallows, running nearly eastward till under the 

 root-netted bank at my feet it turned again en its devious 

 northward course through the valley. The old woods of 

 beech, maple and birch came down with a sudden sweep 

 from the dark evergreens of the heights, and a crinkled 

 seam in the even gray of their tops marked the way of a 

 mountain rivulet that just opposite gave its small contri- 

 bution of noise and water to the roar and rush of the 

 river. The tenantless farm was like an unmarked grave 

 that one might come upon in the heart of the woods, and 

 made the place no less "woodsy and wild and lonesome" 

 than if the ancient trees still shaded its unfilled acres. 

 For a while I was satisfied with the sense of complete 

 isolation; with listening to the ever-changing yet monot- 

 onous voice of the river singing its untranslatable song to 

 the hushed wilderness; with looking at the noble sweep 

 of the mountain slopes and the given outlines of their 

 rocky steeps; and then with studying the shapes of the 

 great yellow bircheB that bent their shining and maned 

 trunks steadfast and silent over the turmoil of the waters 

 while the little branches waved and nodded as if beating 

 time to the river's song. Then the near rocks mottled 

 with many-colored lichens and mosses that kept foothold 

 above the well-defined limit of high water. And then I 

 suddenly remembered why I was here, and that Sim must 

 have the dogs out by this time, and my ears were soon 

 aching with the effort to catch out of the river's uproar 

 the shriller clamor of the hounds. 



Many times in the next hour it seemed to me that I 

 heard it rising above the everlasting soughing surge of 

 the Riffles, while I stood with strained nerves and rifle 

 ready, only to be as often disappointed, when the fooling 

 puff of wind died, and the river went on with its endless 

 song. For a while a mink amused me, stealing along the 

 other shore alert, shy and inquisitive, then diving for 

 a minnow, then swimming away lithe and silent as a 

 snake. A raven came down like a great dusky flake out 

 of the lowering sky and lodged on a dead treetop; then 

 presently a flock of snow flakes wavered toward the earth , 

 and with a savage blast of north wind down came a pelt- 

 ing snowstorm. I stood at my post till the river banks 

 were so white that the stream for all its foam looked 

 black, and the barrel and sight of my rifle were loaded 

 and clogged with snow faster than I could clear them, 

 and then I began to look around for a shelter of some 

 sort. The house was too for from the runway which I 

 was loth to get out of range of, but twenty rods back 

 from me in the north edge of the clearing stood a solitary 

 evergreen. To this I retreated, and facing the river backed 

 in among the thick lower branches. These and the dense 

 top gave me considerable protection from the storm, now 

 raging so furiously that a deer might have passed unseen 

 within ten rods of me. 



The sheltering tree, which at first I had taken for a 

 spruce, I now noticed was of a kind that I had never 

 before seen. It seemed to be, if such a thing were pos- 

 sible, a hybrid of the pitch pine and one of the spruces; 

 its leaves too short for a pine, too long for a spruce, and 

 wearing not the healthy, lusty dark green of either, but 

 a hue of unwholesome gray. Though evidently old, it 

 was low and stunted, as though it could draw no suitable 

 nourishment from a soil that fostered other trees. The 

 long branches writhed out in snaky curves from the 

 lichen-scabbed trunk, and toward the ends were clasped 

 by pairs of hooked cones like the warty claws of some 

 unclean bird, and they hissed, rather than sang, as do 

 the branches of the evergreens to the stroke of the wind. 

 The bare earth about its roots showed no undergrowth of 

 flowering woodland plants, but only some frost-bitten 

 fungus, black and foul with decay. A strange, uncanny 

 tree, I thought, a fit canopy for witches when they hold 

 their wicked meetings, and it may have been a fancy 

 begotten of storm and solitude, but I began to feel as if 

 some unholy spell was creeping over me. Just then the 

 storm lulled; the wind almost ceased its howling, and the 

 snowfall slackened, so that the rush of the waters again 

 became the dominant sound, and the long foamy reach 

 of the river reappeared. Then out of the voices of stream 

 and forest came the unmistakable cry of a hound, hardly 

 assured before a great buck splashed into the upper end 

 of the Riffles, and came down them toward me. My 

 heart beat wildly, but sank when, midway in the rapids, 

 he turned to the shore and began to climb the further 

 bank. It was a long shot for me. but my only chance, 

 and I took it. Aiming a little above and ahead of him, I 

 fired and missed. He did not lower his flag, but halted 

 an instant when he had gained the top of the bank, 

 looking toward the point from which the thin report had 

 come to him— halted long enough to have given me 

 another shot if I had been armed with a double barrel or 

 a repeater. 



My powder flask was not returned to its pocket when 

 he vanished. The hound, at fault when he came to the 

 water, pottered along the shores trying every place but 

 the right one, and giving no heed to my calls and ges- 

 tures, and I was tco "cat-footed" to wade the icy stream 

 and put him on the trail. While my spirit was yet in 

 the very depth of humiliation, Uncle Harvey came down 

 from his stand, having heard the shot and nothing more 

 of the hound after he had reached the river. "Did ye 

 kill him?" he asked, though he must have known by my 

 looks that I had not. Then, "Where was he?" and "where 

 was you?" I pointed out the spot, where a broken toppled 

 maple leaned over the Riffles, at which the deer had gone 

 out of the river, and Bhowed him the tree under which I 

 stood. "Hniph!" after looking over the distance with 

 two or three calculating glances, "Le's go hum. You've 

 had yer shot," and more out of humor than I had ever 

 seen him, he sharply called the hound, and tucking his 



rifle under his arm led the way toward the road. As we 

 passed the strange evergreen I asked , glad of something 

 else than shooting to talk of, "What kind of tree is this 

 that I stood under when I fired ? It is something I never 

 saw before." He stopped and looked at it, at first care- 

 lessly, then with more attention. "G-od !" with an ex- 

 pression of horror and disgust, "was you a stan din' under 

 that tree ?" 

 "Yes; why not?" 



'T a no wonder 't ye missed! It's more a wonder 't yer 

 gun didn't bust er suthin' an' kill yer! Why, man alive, 

 that 'ere "b an Onluclcy tree! come 'way from it," and he 

 hurried on, giving me no time to ask another question till 

 we were in the road. We are all superstitious, but he 

 was one of the last men whom I would have taken to be 

 foolishly so, and my curiosity was much excited. 



"Tell me about the tree, Uncle Harvey," I said, "I 

 never heard of it before." 



"It's what I tell ye, an onlucky tree, 'at no man. much 

 less a women is safe to go anigh! I wouldn't stand' 

 under that 'ere tree ten minutes fat half o' York State! 

 I didn't know 't the' was one o' the cussed things left 

 here, 'r I'd ha' burnt it 'fore naow. I c'n tell ye no end 

 o' hurt an' trouble they've made; no end on 't! Why, 

 Sim Woodruff, his father was a choppin' one, not knowin' 

 what it was more'n you did, an' his wife a stannin' 

 lookin' on with her young un in her arms, an' a chip flew 

 an' took her in the eye an' put it aout, an' he cut his foot 

 so 's 't he was laid up all winter; an' the baby took a on- 

 accaountable sort of a sickness an' died. An' there was 

 Dan'l Frost lay daown 'n' went tu sleep 'n underneath one 

 one day when he was het an' tired a traoutin', an' got up 

 sick an went hum 'n' died in less 'n a week. 'N there, 

 halting and pointing to a blackened stump that stood 

 near the roadside in the center of a patch of frost- 

 withered ghostly fire weed, "I c'n tell ye a sight wus 

 story 'baout one 'at stood right there, but," lowering his 

 voice as we moved on, "I can't tell ye naow, for we're a 

 comin' tu M'nroe Beadle 'n his relations was consarned in 

 't." When this hunter joined us a few minutes later, 

 Hale briefly told him that I had missed a deer, and why, 

 adding, ' 'We mus' go an' burn the blasted thing the fust 

 chance we git." Burning, it seemed, was the only 

 effectual way of destroying these dangerous trees. 



Facing homeward we came to one after another of our 

 party, and toward nightfall reached Uncle Harvey's. 

 However much some might have been at first disposed 

 to laugh at me, when the old man explained the cause of 

 my ill-success, no one had a jibe for me, but all congrat- 

 ulated me on having had no worse luck than a miss, and 

 I thought the tree or the strange superstition concerning 

 it had served me a very good turn. 



At dusk Sim came in and was glad to find his favorite 

 hound toasting his ribs under the stove. The other dogs, 

 he said, had started another deer and run it over Owl's 

 Head, since when he had neither seen nor heard them. 

 Presently, without knocking, as every one entered there, 

 came Silas Borden, looking tired, but well satisfied, and 

 told us that he had killed as ' 'nice a barr'n doe as ever 

 run the woods, over tu Thompson Pawnd. Maje an' the 

 pup run her, an' they're daown tu my house, Sim. Miss 

 Borden she's fed 'em up good. Tur'ble good womern tu 

 dawgs, Miss Borden is, when the's venison brung hum. 

 Golly blue! if I didn't hev a tougher aluggin' on't ov' the 

 ridge." Then he related with all the minuteness of de- 

 tail that hunters never tire of giving or listening to, the 

 incidents of his solitary hunt, mapping on the stove 

 griddle with the stump of a match his course and that of 

 the deer and hounds, and his position when the deer 

 came to the pond, and it was bedtime when his story was 

 ended. 



The next day was a stormy one of sleet and snow and 

 wild wind that no one who need not woidd go abroad in, 

 while I sat by the roaring stove in the first stages of a 

 severe cold, and taking frequent draughts of Aunt 

 Nabby's "pennyr'y'ltea." Uncle Harvey told me the 

 "wust story of the onlucky tree." 



Rowland E. Robinson. 



AMONG THE BONIN ISLANDS. 



IN Forest and Stream, No. 13, Vol. XX., April 26, 

 1883, there appeared a sketch of adventures among 

 the Bonin Islands, to which this letter will serve as a 

 sequel. As I cannot flatter myself that many of your 

 readers will have remembered much of the story, I will 

 briefly recall the original. The incidents described oc- 

 curred in 1853, when, a young midshipman on my first 

 cruise, I was member of a surveying party, sent from the 

 sloop of war Plymouth, then anchored in the harbor of 

 Port Lloyd, Bonin Island, to survey a detached group 

 of islands some thirty miles to the southward, the object 

 being to find a suitable harbor to provide a coaling 

 station for the line of steamers of the Pacific Mail Com- 

 pany, then projected from San Francisco to Japan and 

 China. There were two lieutenants, now admirals, one 

 midshipman, and about thirty men in the party, and we 

 had a launch and a large cutter. 



Our party made headquarters at Coffin Island, the 

 rather sombre name being that of one of its discoverers, 

 Captain Nathaniel Coffin, of Nantucket, who, while on a 

 whaling voyage in the Transit, in 1823, put in for fresh 

 water, and unaware of previous visits, took possession 

 and gave it his name.* 



♦The group, however, in the Pacific Ocean, lat. 37° N , long. 142° 

 E., had been more than once discovered and claimed before, the 

 Japanese having in 1675 first visited and named them Bunin- 

 shimo (Uninhabited Islands). This discovery was made in the 

 usual form; a disabled junk drifted among the islands, and its 

 crew, on their return to Japan, reported^'mild climate, fertile 

 country, inexhaustible lumber, incredible quantities of fisn and 

 crabs, the latter from 4 to 6ft. long, and excellent water. Japan 

 needed a penal colony, and this group was selected, Ogajawari, a 

 powerful Damio, being the projector of the scheme. After a few 

 years this enterprise failed, then for nearly a hundred years there 

 is a lapse of history. In 1760 the experiment was tried over again 

 by a descendent of Ogasawari, and again it proved a failure. Now 

 it maybe that, during this long period, and thence up to 1823, 

 when Coffin took possession, somebody else did, but I can find no 

 evidence to that effect. So our claim to its discovery is apparently 

 good as against any country but Japan. 



After Coffin, though, the group became the scene of many dis- 

 coveries, taking possession and letting go again. 



In 1825 the English whale ship Supply, and in 1827 the British 

 man-of-war Blossom, Captain Beechy, R. N., took possession, the 

 latter strengthening his claim by firing a salute to the English 

 flag he hoisted, a ceremony omitted by the whalers for want of 

 guns. 



In 1829 the English founded a colony at Port Lloyd, "consisting 

 of five white men and twenty-two Sandwich Islanders, male ana 

 female." Among the white men were two Americans. Nathaniel 

 Savory and Alden Cbapin, both New England men. The business 

 of the colony was turtle catching and farming, Nathaniel Savory 



