BIO 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[July 17, 1890. 



SUMMER SKY AND SEA. 



THE great wind that has been tumbling white, froth- 

 ing billows shoreward all day long, has, with the 

 approach of evening, sighed itself out and stolen away to 

 sea. The bay has resumed its quiet, and only a soft 

 heave remains on its smooth broad breast, where still 

 and dreamy shores are mirrored. All noise and sound is 

 hushed in tins sweet, gentle time of day, before the dusk 

 has made its presence felt; and the fishing village lies 

 still and apparently deserted, as we slip from the shelter 

 of the one solitary dock, borne by the ebbing tide, and 

 the sail barely filled by a soft, slow wind. To the east, 

 where evening is gathering, looms our goal, the silent 

 and peaceful cabin, lonely on its green marsh island, 

 mirrored in the still, smooth plain of water, that is broken 

 only here and there by dun-colored patches where long 

 tangled grasses lie motionless or submerged sand bars 

 hide their yellow backs. The only sign of toil or life is 

 the long irregular line of gloomy black buildings far on 

 the southern sea level. But with the long line of smoke 

 hanging motionless in the evening air and stretching like 

 a great streamer for miles and miles, even they are soft- 

 ened by the dying sun that flashes blood-red in the win- 

 dows and tips the surrounding stunted swamp cedars 

 with flame. 



Now and again, as our craft ripples slowly on, some 

 fish rises suddenly and breaks from the water, falling 

 back with a sharp, resounding crash, and leaving only a 

 ripple, that slowly widens into immensity before subsid- 

 ing: or perchance a gull, homeward bound, sails lazily 

 overhead, pausing an instant to look down, then, with a 

 laugh, wheeling till the white pinions flash like a sun- 

 tipped cloud. All else is silence, so we hold our course 

 over shallows where bright-tinted weeds sway, over deep, 

 hurried channels and through winding, placid waterways. 

 The village is fading in the distance and we can see the 

 solitary form in front of the shanty awaiting our arrival. 

 As we round the point the flag comes from the staff, even 

 as the sun sinks behind the western woods. One last 

 hot, burning glance comes through the green laced 

 boughs, then the dusk steals swiftly over sea and land. 



Then Matt's cheery voice sings out with a welcome that 

 cannot be mistaken, hearty and honest as the man him- 

 self, and on the air floats the fragrance of coffee, a good 

 omen to us. As soon as the repast is ended , out come 

 pipe and weed, and a goodly company and true, goodly 

 not in numbers, but in friendship, gathers before the 

 cabin to watch the falling of night and listen to her soft 

 language. Around us the rushes are beginning to whis- 

 per mysteriously, while the tide that is coming back from 

 the sea, rich and fresh with the delight of its embrace, 

 murmurs and sobs in every nook and around every tim- 

 ber. Out in the gathering gloom fish are beginning to 

 leap, good token for the morrow. The great bay has 

 darkened, but in a vast circle around us innumerable 

 lights begin to twinkle and tremble over the black waters. 

 To the south, the twin stars of the Highlands waken and 

 send their watchful red beams over the troubled sea that 

 stretches between them and us, while to the north, a dull, 

 throbbing glare in the sky tells where the great city lies, 

 heated and noisy, with its multitudes and their feverish 

 haste after pleasure or money, with all its sins and sor- 

 rows, blare and empty show. Around us, the sea, cahn 

 and strong and pure; and nature, sweet and gentle to 

 those who love her truly, tells magic tales with the voices 

 of the wind and billow, and with her touch heals all the 

 wounds that daily life has struck, banishing all sorrow. 



So we sit and listen dreamily while the waves tell of 

 strange things. Of old forgotten wrecks, rich with the 

 crystallized life of the sea; of still, grass-bound channels, 

 where great watchful fish lie still, winnowing the current 

 with fins ever ready to dart away. Of old times, cen- 

 turies ago, when no fisherman's hut broke the solitude of 

 the marshes and no summer cottages breasted the sea. 

 But the tides came and went as they do now, and annu- 

 ally through the inlet came great schools of sea-run fish, 

 and the rushes and banks were as beautiful and dreamy 

 then as now. Perhaps it was a night like this, two cen- 

 turies since, that a high-pooped, bulky ship dropped 

 anchor near the inlet. The trembling moonlight touched 

 on the shining muzzles of frowning cannon and on piles 

 of gleaming cutlasses and muskets, and on wicked, dark 

 faces in fantastic head dress. If the old Dutchmen, 

 quietly nodding in their observatory, miles away on the 

 sandbar, had seen them, if they had followed the row- 

 boat that was lowered from the side of the ship and 

 marked the motley crew to the shore, where, in silence 

 they labored long with shovel and pickaxe, and buried 

 something large and bulky and heavy, they might have 

 been richer than a dreamer's wildest vision. If they had 

 marked the spot many an unfortunate from Montauk to 

 the Palisades would have been saved an unsuccessful 

 search and a back-ache. For the strange craft belonged 

 to the blood-stained man who has ever since been tinged 

 with the romance that envelopes a stormy and wild 

 life, that Captain Kidd who closed his wicked career on 

 the gibbet. The magic of the night is over us, and all 

 the surroundings inspire visions. Yon fog bank might 

 well be the spectre of the old pirate, haunting the grave 

 of his ill-gotten gains. But with the fog bank comes a 

 cold night breeze that is very substantial and warns us 

 inside and to our bunks, where soon everything is still 

 and asleep. s 



Of course it seems hardly an instant until the alarm 

 clock awakes us all. One last sleepy yawn and out we 

 tumble into the air. A liberal application of cold rain- 

 water awakes the senses fully, aided by a cup of steam- 

 ing coffee, and then we are out on the still dark waters, 

 lhough impenetrable night yet reigns, there is that in- 

 describable something in the air that tells of the day- 

 break approaching. Softly, as if bent on some evil 

 design we slowly and carefully pull out into the stream, 

 and let the anchor glide gently and noiselessly to the 

 bottom. Then the reel turns swiftly as the leaded line 

 speeds into the water, armed with its long leader and 

 shrimp-baited hook. Now comes the test. The tide is 

 right, and there is a nervous pause and a hush of expec- 

 tation, as we wait for the first weakfish of the season, 

 iwo, three, five minutes pass, and no strike. We 

 whisper to one another in disappointment, for they must 

 come now or not at all. My companion, with ready 

 hngers on rod and reel, looks around at me, when— whirr' 

 down goes my tip like lightning. For an instant there 



is a mighty surge as my line follows the fish to the sur- 

 face; a glittering something leaps into the air fifty feet 

 away, then my rod straightens out, and I have lost the 

 first fish. Now the "buck fever" is on us. Eagerly, with 

 quick fingers, another bait is adjusted, and, after what 

 seems an eternity of waiting, the line rests on bottom 

 again. Then suddenly the figure in the stern straightens 

 out, his rod begins to spring and bend and — something 

 has leaped at my hook like lightning, and my rod is 

 doubled up under the boat. But this time he is 

 fairly hooked, and as my companion lands his 

 fish, mine comes to the surface, now leaping and 

 thrashing till the water is white with foam, then 

 surging through the water with gills angrily red 

 and fins erect, while all the tints of rainbow and sunrise 

 combined play on his lordly sides. Away, away from 

 the boat, until the rod bends, till further yielding seems 

 impossible, while the line cuts the water like a knife, and 

 swishes and quivers like an overdrawn bow-string. Now 

 he shakes his head savagely, then darts straight away, 

 while rod and arm in unison now yield, and then re- 

 cover, inch by inch, and every inch is stubborn fight. At 

 last he slowly turns and tries to circle round the boat. 

 As he comes nearer and nearer, be reserves his strength, 

 and suddenly makes one fierce and mighty effort ; dashing 

 the tide with his great tail be turns, with each muscle 

 tense, and plunges like lightning down, down, until his 

 shining sides are lost in the black depths, whence a 

 bubbling wake rises to show where he disappeared. It 

 was his last grand, giant effort and well nigh successful: 

 but the slim rod yielded barely in time, and the hook 

 holds fast, while the cruel tireless strain on the line breaks 

 his strength. The reel, that shrieked at the beginning of 

 that savage downward leap, while the handle was but a 

 blurr of light, now speaks slowly and more slowly, until 

 at last the great fish is overcome, and gradually yields 

 with gasping mouth. One last despairing effort and then 

 he lies in the boat, spent but beautiful, with violet and 

 crimson, purple and gold playing over his silver-mailed, 

 black-spotted sides. A prize fairly won and satisfying as 

 a laurel wreath to the victor in the games. 



But there are more down below, and we must seize for- 

 tune as she smiles. Every instant comes a fierce, head- 

 long rush at the line, then one is brought almost to the 

 boat, only to leap away and break from the hook at the 

 last moment; again (and frequently) a thud on the bottom 

 boards proclaims one well landed, 



Almost unobserved day has slowly drawn the curtains 

 from the eastern sky, and shore and hut have become dis- 

 tinct and stand out black against the lit background. 

 Then, as the turning tide swings us around, a fiery globe 

 lifts itself from the distant sea, and day has fairly come. 



Great flaming clouds hang over the sea level, and 

 slowly break and drift away like sunlit puffs of white 

 smoke: flocks of snipe, flashing now white, now black, 

 scurry past us, whistling shrilly, while far away toward 

 the inlet there black shining objects break the broad, 

 glassy sheet of water, and the snorting and splashing 

 tell of porpoises gathering an early breakfast. As the 

 fish have stopped biting, we may go shoreward for the 

 same object, as verily we have 'earned it, and as the 

 smoke, curling into the still air gives redolent promise of 

 substantial award awaiting us, for Matt, good-natured 

 and thoughtful as always, has made a jolly breakfast, 

 which is rendered still more enjoyable by a last glance at 

 the mass of iridiscent fish in the boat. J. "W". Mtji/ler. 



SLIDE ROCK FROM MANY MOUNTAINS. 



VII. — THE LOST SHEEP. 



THE indefinite is twin brother to the inaccurate. 

 Therefore when I say that my friend has the gift of 

 slumber you may understand, not that he is the eighth 

 sleeper, but merely that on the particular morning of a 

 particular day he kept his couch late. 



And to remove any trace of laziness about this friend 

 I will tell you who he is. He is a doctor and a man of 

 science. He is the editor of a newspaper and he speaks 

 the truth. Tbe combination is said to be unique in 

 America, and will surely point him out, for of course it 

 would embarrass him to baldly tell his name. 



But my friend slept, aud I left him in order to seek for 

 game with Dick as a companion and helper. 



The horses were rounded up and a choice of mounts 

 was made. The blind roan (blind but of one eye) was my 

 usual horse, but he had a nature so sociable that he 

 would squeal and whinny for his mates when he found 

 himself alone, and this amiable trait unfitted him for the 

 chase. Then there was the chestnut, but our best packer 

 told me that the chestnut was "skin poor" and "rash," 

 and that only yesterday he had been nearly "packed 

 loose" by that very animal. The "blue" was a tried 

 hunter, but he had a pace of his own, slow to majesty, 

 and you could only induce him to keep even that pace 

 by hard, continuous labor, So I took the little bay and 

 prospered, 



Dick went with me because he was a fine hunter and 

 a fine fellow. Besides, our Indian, the only other available 

 comrade, had, after an unusually enormous supper, 

 dreamed the night before that "the man with the 

 windows" (for thus in Chinook he spoke of my spectacles) 

 had shot him, and he therefore was a little shy of my 

 society for the time. 



Dick and I rode from our mountain camp down the 

 creek and down the river. We examined various pas- 

 tures and "licks," and we became pleasantly weary and 

 rather eager for game. The river here, near its source, 

 is a swift mountain torrent, dashing among smooth 

 granite boulders and cutting away the alternate sides of 

 its narrow trough where the soil proves softest. This 

 makes a series of steep banks, at times cliffs of massive 

 stone, at times inclines of slide rock and at times again 

 acres of dirt bank, 100 or 200ft high, and set at as acute 

 an angle as the soil can stay in place. I do not call this 

 the angle of repose in the geological sense, for it is not of 

 repose. Even when undisturbed the surface keeps 

 tumbling in small masses from top to bottom, and when 

 one tries to walk along the face of such a bluff he longs 

 to be a fly. & 



These clayey banks seem to contain a mixture of those 

 salts called by the general name of "alkali," and at cer- 

 tain spots deer and sheep are wont to come to nibble and 

 lick this, to them, savory appetizer. At these spots too 

 the animals paw and scrape the dirt with their front 

 hoots, so that the amount of excavation may be very 

 great, reaching in some cases to the removal of hundreds 

 Ot tons pt earth, 



We sat down to consider. Of course to consider prop- 

 erly you must be calm, and to be calm you must smoke. 

 It was here that the grim truth, that I had left my own 

 tobacco in camp, burst upon me. Now, my own tobacco 

 is tempered to the mildest capacity and manufactured 

 expressly for tbe use of ladies and infants. I could of 

 course borrow Dick's tobacco, but Dick is a strong man, 

 with corresponding tastes. Once I had tried this plan uf 

 borrowing, but the result was not a calm only, but an 

 over-calm, almost a qualm. The loss of this needed 

 smoke disturbed me, out after reflecting on where our 

 best chances would be we pulled ourselves together and 

 went on. 



We rode west up the trail, winding along the top of the 

 bluffs, on the south bank of the river. To the left rose 

 forest-clad hill and cliff, to the right lay the river and, 

 beyond that, a mountain front of varied character, with 

 a strong leaning to the precipitous. Dick, like most 

 trained hunters, has a quick discerning eye. He can dis- 

 tinguish the outline and color of game when very distant. 

 I myself can at times hardly find these objects when they 

 are pointed out. The coats of sheep and deer harmonize 

 so well with their surroundings, that when they are far 

 off and my eye once loses them, it is often impossible for 

 me to catch them again, unless by chance they show the 

 white patches on their sterns or should happen to move. 

 Let them but wink an ear and I see it. 



On this occasion it was my pride to see the game be- 

 fore Dick did, for, as our horses walked along, two ewes, 

 glimpsed between the trees that fringed our bluff, took a 

 couple of steps along the face of the slide rock on the 

 other side of the river. "There they are!" whispered I, 

 and we pulled up short, just in time* to avoid being seen, 

 and tied our horses. The ewes stopped and, at that dis- 

 tance, I could not distinguish them, so here Dick's eye 

 came to the rescue. 



We came to the conclusion, though it was hard to tell 

 certainly so far off, that the animals were sheep and not 

 black-tail does. The long ears of the doe can easily be 

 mistaken for the short horns of the mountain ewe, and 

 both have a similar gait in walking, and similar shape 

 and size. But the ewe stands a little lower and is of a 

 tawnier color, as tbe coat of the deer at this season is of 

 that steel gray shade, called by hunters the "short blue." 

 We crept forward as far as we well could to a point of 

 rocks. Below to the river the ground was open and 

 shelving, but along the bottom there was quite a tangle 

 of timber on each side of the stream. An Indian, per- 

 haps, would have tried to get closer, for Indians are said 

 to seldom shoot at over 50yds. distance, but these soft 

 shod fellows have a capacity for swift, stealthy approach 

 and tireless waiting that the booted hunter of the supe- 

 rior race can hardly rival if he cares to. We thought 

 we could get no nearer without being seen and must 

 try our chances from where we were. I turned up 

 my sight to the ninth notch, Now I use a patent sight 

 which does not give you any deceitful numbering on the 

 standard, but leaves you to guess the distance and adjust 

 the elevation to it without any confusing ciphers. As 

 this is a suspicious world I will state that I have received 

 no inducements from the patentee to recommend his 

 sight and therefore conceal the name. 



With sight prepared for a distance somewhere between 

 two hundred yards and a quarter of a mile, I looked for 

 the sheep and again found them invisible, or only to be 

 seen when the sun glinted on their coats, but at last I 

 counted five animals and the field-glass showed them all 

 to be ewes— I selected one and fired. Dick said the 

 ball struck four or five feet too high, but the ewes had a 

 long open cliff to travel over and were not so much 

 startled by the report as to rush along without occasional 

 halt, so I turned back one notch on the sight and took 

 two more shots, neither of which could be seen to strike 

 the ground. Far up on the mountain we soon counted 

 four white sterns of the flying sheep, but there had been 

 five, and Dick suddenly cried out, "There she is ! lying 

 down. You've hit her." 



Sure enough the glass showed an ewe with a blood- 

 spattered shoulder lying as if simply resting among the 

 rocks where she had stood. Of course she was severely 

 wounded or she would have run away, but exactly how 

 severely we could not tell. We saw her rise and take a 

 step or two and then lie down again, and that told us, both 

 that the shoulder was not broken and that she was very 

 bard hit. After we had lain still for some time to see 

 whether the ewe's wound would speedily prove mortal, 

 we had to confess that there seemed no immediate pros- 

 pect of that issue. The animal nibbled a little grass un- 

 concernedly and seemed easy in her mind. We then 

 carefully descended over the open bluff to the most ad- 

 vanced spot attainable, and both hunters and hunted 

 watched each other. We could now do one of two things 

 —leave the ewe where she was and see whether she would 

 drop from her perch before night, or cross the stream so 

 as to get within reasonable range and finish her up. The 

 first course was the wise one. We took the second. 



We struggled through the thicket to the river's bank 

 and the sheep got up. I took a hurried shot and the ball 

 went a trifle too high. She ran a few steps and stopped 

 in that position so usual with game and so vexing to the 

 hunter; to wit, with her forequarters hidden by a tree and 

 the rear half of her body alone visible. Now,* an animal 

 shot well back in the body is, of course, mortally 

 wounded, and if left alone may lie down and not rise 

 again; but if pursued, it will show an amount of spepd 

 and endurance entirely surprising. Our ewe already had 

 her death wound, and I could hardly hope to stop her 

 effectively as she stood, but my evil genius prompted me. 

 I fired and shot her through the body. The sting was a 

 spur to her, and she sprang off like a race horse. 



Dick and I crossed the river, most of tbe way on boul- 

 ders above water. An important fraction of the passage, 

 however, was done by wading, and I got over with mocca- 

 sins soaked and trousers wet to the knee. We climbed 

 up to the sheep's trail, saw the blood spots on each side 

 of her track, followed her over places meant only for 

 sheep or rolling stones, and finally came empty-handed 

 back to the river as night was gathering. Then we had 

 to recross. A friendly log bridged much of the distance, 

 but seTeral steps had to be taken on the tops of boulders 

 that showed smooth and slippery under the rushing 

 water. A combination of wet moccasin, swift water and 

 slimy rock is distinctly hostile to a good balance, and I 

 went down twice. 



Up to this moment I maintain that my temper under 

 adverse conditions had been perfect. A* malignant ewe, 

 who refused t$ run off at first and save ixie trouble, had 



