334 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[May 18, 1689, 



'ht jl^wfew/att Satirist 



SALMO FONTINALIS. 



TT/'HO shall dare to sing thy praise, 



Haunter of cool sjaterways? 

 Who thy virtues may rehearse 

 In the manacles of verse? 

 Monarch of the forest hrook 

 From Kootenai to Pemacook; 

 Royal in thy port and bearing. 

 Haughty, self-contained and daring, 

 Eye of the hawk, and speed of deer, 

 Palate of the connoisseur, 

 Leopard's grace and lion's heart- 

 All complete in every part — 

 Chaste as Dian, wise as Pallas, 

 Princely Salmo fonttnalis! 



Living rainbow of the stream, 

 Incarnated artist's dream, 

 Animate jewel of the water, 

 Humming bird and butterfly's daughter, 

 Flashing shaft from Phoebus' quiver, 

 Meteor of the lake and river, 

 Aqueous bird of Paradise, 

 Ruby, diamond, pearl of price- 

 Words, abashed, scarce do their duty 

 Charactering thy matchless beauty; 

 Gorgeous gem in Nature's chalice, 

 Beauteous Salmo fontitnaHsl 



When the blackbird woos his mate, 

 When hemlocK aisles reverberate 

 To the pheasant's booming drum 

 And the cicada's shrill hum, 

 I, thy lover, seek thee still. 

 Track the thicket, breast the hill, 

 Thread the treacherous morass, 

 Climb the rugged mountain pass. 

 Brush the dew from brier and brake 

 All toil endure, for thy sweet sake. 

 Till at last, O joy! I find thee 

 Where the water-fairies hind thee. 

 Enchanted in thy crystal palace, 

 Loveliest Salmo fontinalis! H. P. TJ. 



THE VOICES OF THE SEASONS. 



ONE threatened with the loss of sight very naturally 

 begins to reckon how far his other senses may be 

 depended upon to acquaint him of what may be going on 

 about him. If he is a lover of nature, a close or only an 

 ordinary observer of it, he will be assured, as he recalls 

 its voices, that if he were deprived of all senses but (hat 

 of hearing, this one sense would inform him of the 

 presence of each season if it did not apprize him of its 

 coming. 



The caw of returning crows, the swelling rush of un- 

 bound brooks, the nightly, monotonous, rasping note of 

 the Acadian owl, would tell him certainly of the coming 

 of tpring. lie would know by the crackling croak of the 

 frogs, the hyla's shrill chime, the diffusive ringing of the 

 toads, by the beat and roll of the ruffed grouse's muffled 

 drum, and by the querulous wdiistle of the woodchuck 

 warmed to new vitality, that the soft breath of spring 

 was rilling the earth with life, that the squirrel cups were 

 blossoming in sunny woodside nooks, buds of arbutus 

 beginning to blush under their rusty leaves on southern 

 slopes of woodland ledges, and willow catkins were yel- 

 lowing the swamps. 



In sweetest fashion of all, the birds wotdd tell the story. 

 Indeed, if he had ever noted their coming, he might now 

 almost name the day of the month when he heard the 

 twitterof the firstswallow, the flicker's heartening cackle, 

 the jingle of the bobolink's song, the swell and fall of the 

 plover's wail. 



The wind would stir the new leaves to tell him they 

 were out, and the patter of the rain upon them would 

 strengthen their testimony with a sound unmistakably 

 different from its leaden pelting of naked boughs and 

 dead fields. The busy hum of bees overhead would tell 

 of the blossoming of fruit trees, when the pendulous 

 flowers of the locust were sweetest, and when, in July, 

 the tiny bells of the basswood knolled perfume to call all 

 the bees to the woods. 



He would know when summer burned hottest by that 

 very voice of heat, the shrill cry of the cicada, and by 

 the troubled notes of parent birds, anxiously watching 

 the first adventures of their chirping young in a world 

 rimmed by a wider horizon than the brink of the rest, 

 and at nightfall by the crickets creaking in full chorus 

 with earnest, tireless monotony. 



A little later would be heard the click of ripe apples 

 through the leaves and their rebounding thuds upon the 

 ground; at dusk, the screech owl shivering out his grue- 

 some cry in the old orchard as if he, "for all his feathers 

 was acold" with the chill of the first autumnal evenings, 

 and from lonely woods would come the similarly quaver- 

 ing but more guttural, wilder and more lonesome call of 

 the raccoon. 



The absence of the earlier migrants would as noticeably 

 mark the season as the hail a,nd farewell of others passing 

 southward in the night time; the startled chuckle of the 

 plover, with hardly a hint in it of his springtime wail; 

 the scaipe of the snipe; the woodcock's whistle: the bit- 

 tern's squawk, voicing all his ungainliness; the quick, 

 sibilant beat of wild ducks' wings and the note of many 

 a winged traveler whose identity can only be guessed at. 

 One may know when October days have come by the 

 gentle alighting of falling leaves, the incessant nut- 

 rasping of the squirrels, the busy stir and low, absorbed 

 notes of the jays in the beeches, the irregular patter of 

 dropping mast, the chipmunk's clucking good-by to the 

 outer world, and an occasional clamor suddenly uprising 

 from a great army of crows on its winged retreat to more 

 hospitable climes. 



Too soon one hears the scurry of wind-blown leaves 

 along the earth and the clash of naked branches, the pur 

 of the first snow falling on frozen grass and dry leaves 

 and its light beat on roof and pane. The latest migrat- 

 ing wild geese announce their passage with a musical 

 confusion of clarion notes, and jays, hairy and downy 

 woodpeckers, nuthatches and chickadees come from the 

 woods and abide near the habitations of men, each with 

 well-known note making one aware of his presence. I 



With the snow come great flocks of snow buntings, late 

 familiars of the Esquimau and Lap, the white bear and the 

 reindeer, and all the animate and inanimate savagery of 

 the frozen north. Their creaking twitter reminds one of 

 the creak and tinkle of moving ice, their voice a voice of 

 winter, unmistakable though faint. 



There are winter days, or hours in winter days, when 

 one's ears might make him believe that night w-as brood- 

 ing over the earth, so hushed are all the voices of nature 

 in a silence deeper than pervades even any night of 

 spring, summer or fall, for the silence of such anight will 

 now and then be broken by insect, reptile or nocturnal 

 bird or nightly prowling beast, or be emphasized by the 

 low murmur of a distant stream. But now, not a bird 

 note nor stir of withered leaf, nor smothered plaint of 

 ice-bound brook, no sound of anything, animate or inani- 

 mate, disturbs the deathlike quietude which as unequivo- 

 cally if not as imperiously as his voices proclaim the ab- 

 solute sovereignty of winter. The sullen roar of the 

 winds in leafless woods, the hiss of driving snow, the 

 crack and shiver of ice may be heard in early spring and 

 late fall, but this dead stillness is a sole prerogative of the 

 stem king's reign. 



When an unseasonable rain falls on the snow, freezing 

 as it falls, there is presently a hollow rattle of drops on 

 the new-made crust, and every ice-sheathed branch and 

 twig creaks and tinkles in the wind till the trees drop 

 showers of gems that you can almost hear the glitter of. 

 Sometimes when one sets foot on such a crust it seems as 

 if the whole surface of a great field sank slightly, with a 

 sudden resentful crash atthe crunch of the first footfall. 

 One's first impression is that he has sprung some im- 

 mense natural trap, and he holds his breath for an 

 instant in dazed expectation of catastrophe. Another 

 characteristic sound of winter is the settling of "shell 

 ice.' ; when after a great thaw and flood, followed by 

 sudden cold weather, the new ice falls to the level of the 

 subsiding waters. It drops with startling suddenness, 

 but with a prolonged musical ring very different from the 

 short, flat crack of snow crust, while splinters of the 

 broken edges slide down the sloped border and far across 

 the lowered level, jingling and clinking as they glide like 

 scattered handfuls of silver coin. 



In the neighborhood of great frozen lakes is often 

 heard one of the wildest sounds of winter and the most 

 unearthly, the booming of the ice, caused by its cracking 

 or by its contracting and expanding, or as some maintain, 

 by air beneath it. At first a thin, tortured cry arises, 

 faint and far away, growing louder in swift approach ^ 

 rising at times almost to a yell, and mingled with hollow 

 groans, now suddenly ceasing for an instant, now as 

 suddenly bursting forth, then falling and dying away in 

 such a wail as it began, far off in the direction opposite 

 to that from whence it arose. It is as if tormented spirits 

 were fleeing through the air, fleeter than the wind, as in- 

 visible, with voices as pervasive. 



The sharp, clear, resonant crack of trees under stress 

 of severest cold, like the breaking of an over-strained 

 cord, and the duller snapping of house timbers, tell of still 

 starlit nights, when the whiskers of the wandering fox 

 are silvered with his breath, and in such nights the great 

 horned owl hoots a prophecy of storm. 



Its fulfillment is heard in a gusty south wind driving a 

 pelting slant of rain against weatherboards and windows 

 and uj)on the snow till the rush of free brooks falls upon 

 the ear once more. 



The outlawed crow proclaims his return to such scant 

 forage ai the bare fields may yield. The great owl's 

 least, cousin sharpens his invisible saw in the softer- 

 breathing evenings. Some morning the first robin pipes 

 his greeting, then from high overhead floats down the 

 heavenly carol of the bluebird, the song sparrow sings 

 blithely again and phebe calls, and we know, though we 

 only hear of it from them, that spring is here once 

 more. Rowland E. Robinson. 



Ferrisbubgh, Vt. 



THE MAGIC SPELL. 



VI/ HAT is the magic spell that makes camp life attrac- 

 t T tive to so many men? It is easy to account for in 

 youth; but the boy who has fallen in love with it, carries 

 the passion unabated into maturer years and even clown 

 into old age. The rich and the poor, those engrossed in 

 business, in public life, in professional cares— men in all 

 vocations long to steal away for a few weeks' holiday and 

 sojourn in the woods, by the broad lakes and running 

 streams, to sleep in the open bark shanty over fragrant 

 hemlock boughs, snuffing the smoke of camp fires, that 

 delicious perfume which once enjoyed is never forgotten. 

 Is it a remnant of that old wild nature not yet eradicated 

 from the blood by the enervating influences of civiliza- 

 tion, and testifying to some former more intimate alliance 

 between man and the outer world than subsists to-day ? 

 I do not allude here to the love for fishing or shooting; 

 these are kindred pleasures, which, however, are not 

 necessarily associated with the liking for camp life, and 

 may exist apart from it. I have known men who cared 

 for neither of these, who were yet passionate enthusiasts 

 for the simple pleasures of the camp. 



I recall a visit I once paid to a camp belonging to a 

 couple of old men, who had for many years been in the 

 habit of occupying it for a few weeks every season. It 

 was a plain bark structure built against a large rock, the 

 side of which answered for a. fireplace. A bed of green 

 boughs covered with gray blankets was on one side. 

 Some rough benches, a birch bark table, cooking utensils, 

 cups and tin plates, with some fishing traps hung on the 

 wall, comprised the fm'niture. The shanty was open on 

 one side, and looked down on the waters of the lake, 

 across an open reach which extended for a mile or more 

 to the surrounding forest, and back of that appeared the 

 tops of some blue hills. The proprietors were absent, off 

 probably on some of their usual fishing excursions, and I 

 failed to see them. But that picture of plain, simple, 

 high living has dwelt in my memory, and I love to think 

 of the old men preserving in declining years that youth- 

 ful passion unabated, that taste for the pleasure of out- 

 door life which doubtless helped to keep their hearts and 

 feelings young, despite gray hairs and failing strength — 

 a brotherhood of kindred minds cemented by the com- 

 panionship of many years, spent on these waters and by 

 the glow of that camp-fire. 



It is several years since I was last in the Adirondacks , 

 but at one time I used to spend some weeks every sum- 

 mer on its lakes and streams. From youth up a lover of 

 camp life, I have had in my time abundant opportunity t 

 to gratify my passion and have wade acquaintance with • 



some rougher forms of it than most campers for pleasure 

 would care to experience. This, however, had not sub- 

 dued the liking, only educated it, and by the time I first 

 visited the North Woods I had formed a clear idea as to 

 what would best please my taste in that line. I recog- 

 nized at once the rare combination of water and forest, 

 so distributed as to make travel easy and delightful, and 

 wooded glades that afforded an ideal playground for 

 those who loved to go a- camping. 



Nor these alone, but every landscape fair 



As fit for every mood of mind, 

 Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern was there." 



At first with guides I traversed the watery regions of 

 the Raquette, Fulton Chain. Long Lake, Tupper Lakes and 

 the Saranacs, and was familiar with the regular routes in 

 those sections, together with some byways and nooks 

 that lay off the beaten tracks. My experience with 

 guides had been various, and I had discovered that even 

 the best are not suited to every man's taste, and that the 

 personal peculiarities of your guide must harmonize with 

 your own. We all know what unexpected traits will 

 reveal themselves when in camp in a friend, whom we 

 thought we had known intimately for years, and what 

 caution it is necessary, therefore, to exercise in selecting 

 a companion for the Woods. 



Similar considerations have to be regarded in choosing 

 a guide. The standard requisites are well known, and the 

 better class of guides study to please their employers, and 

 doubtless succeed in most cases, especially with novices. 

 The taste, however, in this, as in other matters, becomes 

 critical and fastidious. But I found one who suited me 

 par excellence. He was an Indian half-breed. Born in 

 Canada, I believe, most of his life had been passed in the 

 wilderness, and he knew little of cities or of city conven- 

 tionalities. In winter he earned his living by trapping 

 and lumbering. To education derived from books he 

 could make little claim; but he was learned in woodcraft 

 and forest lore. He knew where fish were still to be 

 found, and was always willing to diverge from the direct 

 road to visit some trout hole or hidden brook, and was 

 content to stay by it as long as there was any show of 

 luck, even if it entailed the abandonment of all attempts 

 to get back to camp and compelled a bivouac in the open 

 air for the night. His talk was of hunting, fishing, trap- 

 ping, boats and boating; and somehow it never grew 

 wearisome. He had at times a marvellous capacity for 

 silence, and could keep his tongue still for hours at a time. 

 His crowning merit was a distaste for hotels. This dis- 

 tinguished him from all other guides I have known. 

 Why it was I don't know, but he appeared to have little 

 use for them except as stores where our stock could be re- 

 plenished. When on a trip whose terminus was a hotel, 

 he often seemed to me to devise some occasion for delay 

 on the road— tempt me with a good fishing hole or what 

 not— ;SO that we would tarry until too late, have to sleep 

 out in the woods and not reach our destination until 

 morning. What little knowledge I possess of woodcraft 

 I owe mainly to him. After employing him two seasons 

 I lost sight of him. He probably returned to Canada, as 

 he used to say he would if the hotels continued to increase 

 in number. 



Growing tired of wandering over the wilderness, I lat- 

 terly ceased hiring a guide and settled down on Raquette 

 Lake, rowing my own boat, and camping either on its 

 shores or those of neighboring waters, accompanied by a 

 friend or some chance companion. This lake offers 

 attractions for such a mode of life which appear to me 

 superior in many respects. Its shores are miles in extent, 

 the location is central, a number of streams empty into 

 it, opening communication in a variety of directions. 

 Many of the neighboring lakes and ponds are accessible 

 by short carries, and the bass, now so abundant, afford 

 good fishing all the season through. So far as sport is 

 concerned, fly-fishing for bass with light tackle is not 

 much inferior to that for trout, and a two-pound bass 

 affords, on a 7oz. rod, as nrach fun as any reasonable 

 man need want. The scenery round the lake, while not 

 strikingly picturesque, is at least beautiful, and the varied 

 outline of the shore is an element that distinguishes it 

 advantageously from many others. For a good camping 

 site I have always considered it an indispensable feature 

 to have a long stretch of open water in front. This gives 

 scope for that play of light and shadow caused by sun- 

 shine and cloud which affords constant variety. One 

 never tires of such a place, where the landscape seems to 

 undergo constant transformation from hour to hour. 

 Even in bad weather a site affording such a perspective is 

 robbed of half the usual monotony. Ibis. 



The revised and abridged edition of the A. O. U. Check List of 

 North American Birds, including the additioos and changes made 

 in the supplement, will be sent post f roe on receipt of oOcts.— Adv. 



DOMESTICATED WOOD DUCKS. 



DAYTON, Ohio, May 14.— Mr. William Kiefaber of 

 this city has had very pleasant experience in raising 

 wild ducks in his own yard. Early last year a friend sent 

 him a pair of California wood ducks hatched from a set- 

 ting of wild duck eggs that had been incubated under a 

 Brahma hen. The duck laid eggs that were hatched by a 

 hen in the fall, and shortly after the holidays Mr. Kie- 

 faber gave a dinner party to his friends with roast wild 

 duck as the chief dish. 



The parent ducks are glossy black, with a tint of brown 

 on the drake's breast, and they are as large as ordinary 

 mallards. They do not take kindly to confinement, there- 

 fore one wing "of each is clipped, and their coop is made 

 of pickets 20ft. high. The eggs are clear white, but not 

 so large as ordinary duck eggs. Mr. Kiefaber has dis- 

 tributed the eggs this spring, and several broods will be 

 raised. 



Four years ago Phil Wenz, a hunter who lives down 

 the river a few miles, received a pair of wild ducks from 

 a friend at Oswego, New York, and he also has been suc- 

 cessful in raising them, and finally has crossed the breed 

 with his common barnyard ducks. Last year he raised 

 150 of these half-breed wdld ducks that would weigh 51bs. 

 dressed. In the seasons before that he had a great deal 

 of trouble to keep the young ducks, and several entire 

 broods flew away with the wild ducks that fed along the' 

 river. 



