FOREST AND STREAM. 



[JtTLY U, 1888. 



SAM LOVEL'S CAMPS.— XII. 



THE cobwebs of mist on tbe marshes bad not caugbt a 

 sunbeam when tbe camp was astir next morning, 

 for tbe smoke of its fire arose earlier than the sun, that 

 bad only gilded tbe treetops above it w hen breakfast was 

 ready. Tbe meal was eaten in unwonted silence. There 

 were no plans proposed for the day's sport, for there was 

 to be no sport, and no one attempted to joke, for though 

 the prospect of getting home was pleasant to men who 

 had seldom been so long away from it, there was some 

 heaviness of spirit attending the last of these days of 

 carefree life, days without beginnings and endings of 

 chores, nor filled with worry nor weary toil, days of 

 band to mouth living and such primitive unthought of 

 to-morrow as tbe heart of the best-tamed mail loves and 

 yearns for when its last drop of old, wild blood awakes as 

 it sometimes will, and tingles through his civilized veins. 

 This unebmmated atom still holds us to kinship with 

 nature, and though it may not be the best part of us, 

 without it we should be worse than we are. He who 

 loses all love for our common another is indeed a wretched 

 being, poorer than the beasts. 



When breakfast was eaten the frying pan, kettle and 

 tin plates were cleaned as they had not been before since 

 leaving the home cupboards, for they were soou to under- 

 go tbe inspection of housewifely eyes, that the glamor 

 of a hundred pickerel would not blind to the imperfec- 

 tions of man's careless or unskillful scullionry. 



"I tell ye what," said Joseph Hill, as he scraped away 

 with a clam shell at the bottom layer of a week s accu- 

 mulation of burned grease, "I'ser agoin' tu tell M'ri 'at we 

 hedn't got no soap, an' tbe water here is hard, 'nough 

 out an' tew much, but it's hard an' won't take a holt o' 

 grease, no morn it does yer stomerk." 



"The way 'at oliogernous grease conjoles in a dish when 

 it ketches it away f'm hum is suthin' beyond my misap- 

 prehension," said Solon while be swabbed a plate with a 

 stick of firewood. "It's suthin' 'at nothin' but the female 

 mind o' womern c'n rassle with. Dum the dishes! Let's 

 sink 'em in the crik, accidental." 



"Then we'd ketch it wus," said Joseph as be began 

 scouring bis frying pan with a stone. "I drutber send 

 this an' stay myself, 'an tu go bum wi'eout it. M'ri's 

 allers telhn' bow 't her gran'tber, I don't know but 't was 

 her gran'mother, fetched it from C'nnect'cut an' cooked 

 basswood leaves in 't in tbe scase year.* Sam Hill, you 

 take it, grease an' sut an' all, an' leave me here!" 



Antoine,on his knees scouring knives and forks by thrust- 

 ing them into the earth, said: 



"Wal, Ab don' care for me, 'cause you see, boy, Ab'll 

 was be de cook an' Ab'll ant risponsibilitee for de clean, 

 hein, Solem, ant it?" 



"Wal," said Sam, wiping out the kettle with a handful 

 of leaves and packing a dirty shirt and a pair of socks in 

 it, "I haint responsible tu nobd'y." 



"But your time's a comin', young man. an' vou wanter 

 be gittin' ready for t. H. P. is the fust letters of her 

 name, an' she haint thick under the nail an won't be 

 when the's a L. sot tu 'em. You'll see!" said Joseph, and 

 his words had a portentous ring as be delivered them into 

 tbe frying pan held close before his face while he anxiously 

 inspected its interior. "I r'aly du b'beve 'at I c'n see iron, 

 leastways I've got daown tu signs o' the fust breakfus. 

 If folks only hed sense 'nough tu du the cookin' on sticks 

 an' coals an' hot stuns an 1 eat offrn chips an' birch bark, 

 they 'Id take more comfort in livin, seems 'ough they 

 would. If they didn't hev .quite so much present enj'y- 

 ment, they wouldn't hev so much dread o' the futur'. 

 Anyways, I wish't this dum'd oP fryin' pan hed staid in 

 C'nnect'cut if M'ri's gran'tber an' gran'mother 'd hed tu 

 eat the' browse raw. Seems 'ough I did, most." 



To Sam occurred the happy thought of taking the 

 dishes down to the lake shore. There, with tbe abund- 

 ance of sand and water, the labor of cleansing went on 

 more satisfactorily to tbe men, but greatly to the discom- 

 fort of as many sandpipers. These flitted back and forth 

 past them on down-curved wings or stood atilt in the 

 shallow verge, jerking out cries of alarm with every beat 

 of their wings or tilt of their slender bodies. 



About the middle of the forenoon, Sam looking up- 

 stream from the camp, where he was busy packing blan- 

 kets and outfit and more odds and ends than he remem- 1 

 bered bringing, descried a boat in the furthest bend. At 

 first it seemed stationary, with oars rising and falling in 

 purposeless strokes, bke a great waterbug waving its 

 antenna? for the mere sake of motion. But it was draw- 

 ing nearer; the red flannel back of tbe rower's vest could 

 now be made out, and the rise and fall of his straw hat 

 and the thump, squeak and splash of his oar could be 

 heard, and the surge of the water before tbe broad bow 

 of the scow. And then forsaking the long curve of tbe 

 channel and sti-iking right across tbe marshy cape, that 

 is half water and half weeds, it headed for the mouth of 

 the creek. Sam was certain enough of the rower's iden- 

 tity to shout to his comrades that tJuncle Tyler was com- 

 ing. 



They went to meet him at the landing, when gaping 

 with his deaf stare at his course, though he who is known 

 as Time was steermg for him, he sent the scow ashore 

 with a final stroke. Time's salutation shouted at the top 

 of his voice was, "Any of you fellers got any ter barker 

 fer this oF critter? He begged tbe last mossel 't I bad an 

 hour ago." 



Uncle Tyler took his pipe from tbe seat beside him, 

 knocked the ashes out on the gunwale and came rheu- 

 matically ashore with bis left hand extended. 



"Good gosh a'mighty! I sent up tu the store for some 

 by Sargent's boy, but he forgot it! That tarnal boy can't 

 never remember nothin' an' I'd orter knowed better'n tu 

 sent by him." 



"I'm dum'd glad it wa'n't you 'at forgot for oncte," 

 said Joseph, who by a lucky chance had at the first at- 

 tempt hit upon the right pocket and banded over his last 

 depleted paper of long-cut. Uncle Tyler was soon com- 

 forting himself with what most mitigated bis chronic 

 unhappiness, a pipeful of what it pleased him to call 

 "borrered ter barker." 



"Naow hurry up an' be spry," he said, "for I'd orter 

 be tu bum a workln' in my gardin." 



Time explained that he had come to steer for Uncle 



*A season when all crops failed and the early settlers of Vermont I 

 were reduced to pitiable straits, was long remembered as the scarce 

 year, ' 



Tyler and to get his own boat which be was willing to 

 steer up the creek if some one would row it. As for 

 bis rowing that was out of tbe question, for it made him 

 sweat to row. Sam freely offered him the services of 

 Solon or Joseph, either of whom would certainly do their 

 share of sweating at the oars. 



"Them fellers?" asked Uncle Tyler, who could hear 

 some things much better than be could others, and now 

 glared balefully on his companions in tbe previous voy- 

 age hither, "Good gosh a'mighty! They'll row ye int' 

 the woods or cross lots wi' the' hawin' an' geein'! Do' 

 know one eend of a brout f'm t'other!" 



"Haow is anybody tu, special in the case o' one o' these 

 'ere femalme boats which one end 's the fact smile o' t' 

 other?" Solon demanded, for he would rather suffer the 

 pains of rowing than such disparagement of his skill and 

 knowledge. But Joseph did not resent it, and only said 

 regretfully: 



"I'm 'feared you're right, Uncle Tyler. We can't row. 

 We wanter awf'l bad, but we can't; leastways, I can't 

 wi'aout studyin' on 't more. Ha' some more terbarker, 

 won't ye?" 



It has not been told who rowed that boat up the Little. 

 River of Otters, nor whether it ever reached its home 

 port. 



Brother Foot's camp-meeting tent had been taken down 

 and packed, and with all their other effects and the box 

 of salted fish put on board the scow, and they were ready 

 to depart; but Sam bad forgotten something, which 

 obliged him to revisit tbe site of the camp. He was 

 ashamed to tell it was only for a last look. 



The downfall of noontide sunlight splashed the floor of 

 the woods with gold around silhouettes of branches, 

 twigs and leaves, bent over the rocks and crinkled along 

 the last year's leaves they were laid upon. Between 

 leaves, branches and tree trunks, were shown, in frantic 

 shapes, patches of sky and lake and aU tbe sunbt outer 

 world. Birds sang blithely of their happy life, and 

 mingled with their songs came from far away sounds of 

 t he lite and stir of the world, and yet this place seemed 

 lifeless. 



How lonesome and forsaken it was. The carpet of old 

 brown leaves worn by frequent footsteps down to the 

 black mould of dead years, strewn with tobacco paper, 

 broken pipes and fish bones, the cast-away ridge pole of 

 the tent lying like a fallen roof tree athwart the matted 

 bed of cedar twigs whereon they had dreamed dreams 

 pleasanter than life, so deserted now that a chipmunk 

 ventured to explore it. It seemed to Sam almost bke the 

 ruins of a house wherein he had dwelt for years. 



For old acquaintance sake he tried to light his pipe in 

 the ashes of the fireplace, but the last ember was dead 

 and only exhaled a faint ashy odor. 



"But I'm comin' agin!" he said, and as be hurried down 

 tbe steep footpath a vbeo sang behind him as if to call 

 him back. Rowland E. Robinson. 



Ferris burg h, Vermont. 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE SERPENTINE. 



(Concluded from page 510.) 



THE next day we didn't wake as soon as we ought to 

 have done. For my part I never do; and consistency 

 is to be commended, as the copy book headings say. But 

 after breakfast we found our way down to the river, and 

 also discovered our Siwash dugout was missing. It was 

 a derelict to commence with, and having its character to 

 keep up, it had also gone in for consistency. But we 

 borrowed a boat from a settler, who confessed it was 

 rather leaky. This should have put us on our guard, for 

 rather leaky, with the accent on the rather, is what even 

 a Welshman might confess himself to be on St. David's 

 day. 



We rowed up stream, and we paddled and drifted down 

 for miles, with varying luck. That is for general con- 

 fession. As to particular, there's the rub. This blessed 

 boat sprung leaks like spring onions. But for bailing it 

 would have sunk every fifteen minutes, and we had noth- 

 ing but an old frying-pan without handle to bail with. 

 Did you ever go ducking under such circumstances? 

 Every ten minutes we lay by and all hands to the punips. 

 As for the noise of the waterfall, read Wordsworth's 

 "How Does the Water Come Down from Lowdore?" and 

 you'll get a faint, a tery faint idea of it. Our lucid in- 

 tervals worked something this way. 



Fortunately the Serpentine is a very serpentine river. 

 Cautiously rounding a bend we see certain continuations, 

 wagging as nothing but ducks' tails and ladies' trains, 

 which have "weight for the wagging," can wag, round 

 the next turn. Ladies luckily are out of the question, so 

 ducks it must be. And ducks it is, sometimes mallards, 

 sometimes butterballs, and sometimes others of inter- 

 mediate size, with Mr. Drake always in tbe rear. We 

 creep down warily, not generally too warily, to where he 

 lay; but the water in the boat wearily creeps up. But 

 before we reach tbe next bend the question arises: 

 "Ducks or a ducking?" The river is 16ft. deep, and none 

 of us is born to be hanged, nor innocent enough to stand 

 trial, so we decide to bail out. Immediately the frying 

 pan is brought into requisition, whir-r-r go the finest, 

 fattest mallards that ever were eggs. Our agony is ex- 

 cruciating and our score that time a duck egg. But 'twas 

 not ever thus. Luckily they fly short, generally only 

 over the intervening land, to the next bend, and we come 

 across them again with more success, t. e., less water 

 ballast. 



I have confessed that one of us was a dog. Sorrowfully 

 I add another confession. He wasn't the only puppy, 

 because another of us was a boy. Hereby hangs a tale, 

 which proves tbe proposition. On one occasion, drifting 

 round a bend in more than half ballast, we saw three or 

 four mallards within 20yds. of us. Up jumped the boy 

 to his feet and fired wildly. He missed his fire, and more 

 by good luck than good management we missed our 

 water. How the boat righted I cannot tell. I incline to 

 the behef that, after all, one of us was born to be hanged. 

 It must have been the boy. We did not see another duck 

 for a quarter of a mile. 



Multitudes of little streams (sloughs) run into the Ser- 

 pertine, Exploring some of these, we were sure to come 

 across two or three beaver dams. We never found the 

 family at home, so, leaving our cards, we backed out. On 

 several occasions our proceedings aroused the suspicions 

 of enormous eagles, who kept theu* eyes upon us. Possi- 

 bly we raised their ire, for their wings expanded and 

 raised them higher. 



Drifting past some willows that crowned a dyke which 

 some enterprising squatter bad raised along his river 

 front, we heard an immense rustling of wings. I believe 

 the boy was afraid to fire lest he should kill an angel; 

 bke tbe other boy who carried home a large owl, and 

 cried, "See! see! father's shot a cherubim!" We could 

 see nothing for the bushes; but when we cleared them we 

 spied within rifleshot an enormous pair of wings lazily 

 wafting a large body with legs across the prairie. It was 

 a crane, without doubt; for it would require a crane to 

 lift those continuations. 



At the lower bridge we were glad to leave our boat and 

 walk back by the road through Surrey Center. The 

 ladies met us on the ridge, and we crossed the Serpentine 

 Flats, not to be too flattering, in pretty fair company, 

 with eager anticipations of mid-day lunch. 



The richest land in the Lower Fraser district unfortun- 

 ately, when not dyked, is subject to flooding. On the 

 Fraser itself this occurs in June, being occasioned by the 

 melting of the snow in tbe mountains. In the Serpentine, 

 however, which has a low-lying watershed, the flooding 

 comes only in the winter or rainy season, being caused by 

 inability of tbe winding river, when backed up by the 

 tide, to carry off tbe surface water. There is no better 

 sport, from November to March, than while paddling in 

 a canoe from one clump of willows to another, over the 

 submerged flats, the ducks being plentiful especially dur- 

 ing a cold snap, which drives them up from the bay. 

 Steps are being taken, however, to stop this flooding, by 

 straightening the course of the river; and if, as the Gov- 

 ernment propose to do, a dyke with flood-gates be con- 

 structed across the estuary, tbe finest land in B. C. will 

 be workable aU tbe year around. 



A little boy was recently drowned trying to raft across 

 a submerged part of the' road by the bridge, and a local 

 poet recorded the circumstance in the following verses, 

 which are quoted as illustrative of the literary culture of 

 the neighborhood: 



TEDDY WADE. 

 Deep lie the waters in the vale, 



The Serpentine is out; 

 And not a yard, "but you may sail 



And tack and turn about. 



The cypress swamp is dark and still, 



Save bhiejay's screech so harsh: 

 A lonely crane, all legs and bill. 



Stands dreaming in the marsh. 



Ahove the flood, the willows bend, 



As though by sorrow swayed, 

 Reminded of the mournful end 



Of little Teddie Wade. 



His parents' elde3t horn was he, 



A "bright and clever boy; 

 Just getting old onough to he 



His father's help and joy. 



One day he sent him to Holmroyd 



To horrow Buck and Bright, 

 And never feared nor felt annoyed 



To see him not at night. 



To stay till morn he might be presse d, 



As he would often do, 

 A well-known and a well-loved guest: 



The oxen knew him too. 

 The morning came, but never more 



Came Teddie home again, 

 Until there entered by the door 



A melancholy train. 

 They found him 'neath the swollen tide 



Laid in the river bed, 

 They left him by his own bedside, 



All that was mortal— dead. 

 In Christ Church yard, in mother earth, 



He sleeps upon the breast 

 Of Mother Church, by second birth, 



With all the saints at rest. 

 And when the floods came o'er the land 



And winter 'gins to fade, 

 While standing sadly on the strand, 



We think of Teddie Wade. W. J. W. 



On our present excursion we narrowly escaped a far 

 worse tragedy. Our boy's escapade in the boat has already 

 been recorded. But this was destined to be surpassed, 

 affording a warning to all sportsmen wben they set off 

 on an excursion to leave all two-legged puppies at home. 

 In order to prevent accidents it was from the first an 

 estabbsbed rule at Holmroyd, to keep all weapons loaded. 

 This was always understood, and was found very con- 

 venient in sudden alarms of a hawk or a wildcat being 

 seen in tbe vicinity. Of course no sportsman ever handles 

 a gun without looking to see if it be loaaded ; and no 

 gentleman touches another man's shooting irons without 

 "By 'r leave." But the boy picked up in my absence my 

 favorite .45-bore six shooter. It is well sighted, both fore 

 and aft, and he must needs try it by pointing at one of 

 the ladies. Possibly, two or three generations ago, there 

 was a gentleman in the family, and the influence of his 

 breeding suggested that pointing a weapon at a lady was 

 not exactly '-good form" for him nor good for 'em. So 

 be immediately slewed round to a window, sighted an 

 object outside, and puUed the trigger. There was a bang 

 and a shriek. The revolver kicked up and hit him in 

 the mouth, unfortunately not knocking his head off, or 

 the average of B. C. intelligence would have been by so 

 much the higher. And an area of half an inch diameter 

 less of pane in the window was not altogether wasted, 

 but was counterbalanced by a certain amount of pain in 

 a boy's bead. But boys require a deal of kilbng or the 

 supply of men would run short; and be was little worse 

 in body, though, I trust, much improved in mind by the 

 circumstance. And the revolver justifield its owner's 

 literary tastes by proving itself an accompbshed head 

 hitter. Still, it was a narrow escape. 



The remainder of the afternoon was expended in ex- 

 ploring the neighborhood. But I have already trespassed 

 too much upon your forbearance, and you must by this 

 time be weary of my uninteresting gossip. I had intended 

 lugging in a real panther story, for the truth of which I 

 can vouch; but there is no room. If the circulation of 

 the Forest and Stream be not sensibly diminished by 

 the publication of my articles, may I send it at some 

 future time. A Yorkshire Haligonian, 



New Westminster, B, C. 



