Oct. 16, 1890. 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



247 



miles, but the great forest trees arched overhead, and a 

 foaming, noisy brook kept us company by the road side. 

 The bed of this mountain stream was tilled with stones 

 and boulders of all shapes and sizes, and occasionally the 

 fallen trunk of a tree bridged it over. It was a genuine 

 mountain trout brook, and its gurgling and splashing as 

 it rusbed and tumbled down the rocky channel in its 

 haste to reach the river, was nature's welcome to us on 

 our entrance to her domain. What music it was to ears 

 which for a year had listened only to the sounds of the 

 stream of humanity flowing in a city's streets. How cool 

 and shady and pleasant under the great trees, as the 

 rustling branches added their voice to the song of the 

 brook. 



On the northern shore of Pleasant Pond, half hidden by 

 the trees under which it is built, is a log camp, and here 

 we found a resting place. The limpid water laves the 

 shore a few steps from the door, and stretches away in 

 long blue reaches around wooded points and into quiet 

 coves, toward the range of high, rugged mountains which 

 guard it on the east. 



The water of this pond is remarkably translucent, and 

 the eye can penetrate its depths to a distance of twenty- 

 five or thirty feet and plainly distinguish objects on the 

 bottom. On this day, as the sun's rays were reflected 

 from the calm surface, it was like a huge plate mirror, 

 and as we rowed over its shimmering expanse and gazed 

 down into the pure clear element, it seemed almost like 

 floating through space. 



The trout which swim in Pleasant Pond are as beautiful 

 as its waters, and I have never seen their like elsewhere, 

 like its water they are silver, and shine and giisten, 

 rivaling the white metal, as if they caught and retained 

 some of the sunlight which penetrates their haunts. In 

 shape they are Tike other trout, but the spots, which 

 sparkle and add beauty to other trout, are nearly invisible. 

 The spots as well as the lateral line show but faintly on 

 their silver sides. They are invariably of a length of ten 

 or twelve inches, none being caught much larger or 

 smaller. Their flesh is of a reddish-golden color, of a 

 deeper shade than that of other trout. 



We had fished this pond before but with indifferent 

 success, and we did no better this time. The beauty of 

 the place, however, was compensation, and the sky and 

 the water, the woods and the mountains, were a contin- 

 ual pleasure. 



One fine morning we drove back down the road 

 to the river. In the valley the fog was lifting as the 

 sunlight shot through it, and as we turned into the river 

 road, wraiths of gray mist were curling from the surface 

 of the water, and the hills on the other side were dim and 

 hazy. Not far from the junction of the roads is the 

 Great Carrying Place, where, in the olden time, the red 

 men made the portage from the Kennebec across to Dead 

 River. Arnola's expedition crossed at the same place. 



The road followed the windings of the river and wound 

 around the curves, now through the woods where only 

 the sound of the rushing water told of its proximity, and 

 again through "dug ways" in the steep banks, wherein 

 places we hung over the flood, and the only course was 

 straight ahead. 



The hills flanked the river on both sides, and rose ab- 

 ruptly from the current which flowed at their feet. At 

 last we saw the forks of the river, where waters of Dead 

 River mingle with those of the East Branch, a forest- 

 covered point thrusting itself between them, as if to 

 indicate the direction in -which they should henceforth 

 flow together. A quarter of a mile beyond the "meeting 

 of the waters" is the Forks Hotel, and after a night at 

 this hostelry, whose excellence is a surprise to the trav- 

 eler who visits this out of the way place for the first time, 

 we set out on foot to walk four miles through the woods 

 to Moxie Stream and the fall of the same name. We 

 had been over the road, which is nothing but a logging 

 path, before, and so went alone, carrying our rods and 

 one camera and having no doubt of our ability to find the 

 way; but we came to a field where there was a number 

 of diverging paths none of which were well defined. We 

 took one which seemed to be the right one, and kept on 

 for a mile or more, till it disappeared entirely in the forest. 

 We had thought before we came to the end of it that we 

 were wrong; it bore away too much to the right, and loo 

 far up the side of the mountain, and we had missed sev- 

 eral landmarks which we expected to see. The day was 

 very hot and we sat down on a log to rest and consult as 

 to the best way out of our difficulty. A team had been 

 engaged to convey us. to Moose River that afternoon and 

 our time was limited; we wanted to go to Moxie and we 

 did not want to return to the hotel and confess our in- 

 ability to find the way. It would consume too much 

 time and require too much extra exertion to return to the 

 place where paths diverged; so we had two alternatives — 

 to return to the Forks and not go to Moxie, or take a short 

 cut through the woods to the right road. After cooling 

 off in a measure and consulting our compass, we laid 

 our course and plunged into the bushes and down the hill 

 for the other path. 



The sun by this time was beating fiercely down. The 

 underbrush was so thick we could hardly force our way 

 through, and we could only see a short distance in ad- 

 vance. 



We pushed along as rapidly as we could, clamber- 

 ing over fallen timber and thrusting aside the branches 

 which impeded our progress, all the while descending 

 tow T a*d the valley of the East Branch. But the woods 

 seemed to grow more dense and there was no sign of the 

 path we sought. 



It did not seem possible that we had gotten so far up 

 the mountain side, and several times we stopped to exam- 

 ine the compass and make sure that we were going on the 

 right course toward where the trail ought to be. We 

 were not lost, for there, far below us,, was the East 

 Branch, and we could see the hills rising from the other 

 side of the valley, across the green foliage which sur- 

 rounded us; but there was no sign of a trail, and the for- 

 est was as unbroken as if man had never been there be- 

 fore. Down again we plunged still further, and came 

 suddenly upon an old corduroy wood road, almost oblit- 

 erated by the vegetation which had sprung up among the 

 decaying logs. It was not the path, but anything in the 

 shape of a road was a welcome sight to us just then, and 

 we stepped gingerly along the rickety and slippery way 

 till we saw what appeared to be a break in the forest 

 ahead of us. 



In a moment more we stepped through the bushes into 

 a well-defined tote road, whioh we recognized at once as 



the one that leads to Moxie Fall. We had become 

 pretty well fatigued, but the fact that we were now on 

 the right road gave us new life, and we resumed our 

 walk with renewed vigor. 



It was a rough winter road, but was much better than 

 no road at all, and at last we were rewarded by the sound 

 of the water and soon afterward saw the rapids of Moxie 

 Stream flashing in the sun. Moxie is a wild, rocky stream 

 which flows over innumerable rapids and falls, which 

 churn its dark wine-colored water into a foaming, seeth- 

 ing mass, over which the forest trees cast their shadows. 



On our previous visit in the autumn the water had been 

 so low that we waded across where there was now a boil- 

 ing torrent. We adjusted our tackle and fished down, 

 Stopping to expose a few plates, till we came to the fall, 

 oyer which the stream drops 95ft. into an amphitheatre 

 of great granite cliffs and then struggles on three miles 

 to the East Branch.* Below the fall the banks are over 

 100ft. high and almost perpendicular. We took a picture 

 of the fall from the top of the cliff directly over the 

 chasm and then climbed down over the bank a few rods 

 below. 



We had to slide part of the way, and secure a grasp 

 and foothold wherever we could, but presently we found 

 ourselves at the bottom looking up at the fall, which had 

 the appearance of dropping directly from the sky. The 

 water falls into a basin of rock, from which it flows over 

 another fall of some 20ft. 



We were below this second fall. The great stone walls 

 towered above us and everything was wet with spray. 

 Delicate ferns and grasses nodded from crevices where" a 

 little soil had collected, and the place was deliciously 

 cool and inviting after our tramp through the woods. 

 "We reclined luxuriously on a mossy bank, the great 

 precipice above us with its fringe of pines and birches, 

 and the swift water at our feet, and appreciated in full 

 "the shadow of a great rock in a weary land." 



We caught a few fish and exposed two more plates, 

 and then looked up at the steep bank and sighed, as we 

 thought that the only way out was up the same £>ath by 

 which we had descended. 



The ascent was much more difficult, but by passing 

 the rods and camera from one to another, and lending 

 one another a helping hand, we arrived safely at the top 

 and struck into an almost imperceptible trail, which led 

 us to the road and back to the hotel. 



WwLiiM Austin Brooks. 



DOWN THE CREEK. 



WHATEVER the season, it is a place of delight. The 

 creek itself is no sluggish stream crawling be- 

 twixt muddy banks. In winter it is a bold blue torrent, 

 brawling rarely over pebbles and around boulders. 

 Spring makes of it almost a river, Bwirling and boiling 

 from hill to hill. Heats of August shrink it to a bare 

 thread of bright water, stealing in long runnels through 

 the water-worn grooves in its limestone bed. Sometimes 

 they take most curious shapes. Here is a capital W 

 written in limpid wavelets upon a stretch of solid stone. 

 Where the channel falls it is no trouble to step across it." 

 About every half mile comes a "lake," where gravel 

 beds, fallen timber and dead leaves have built an alluvial 

 dam and spread a long bright pool, wherein frogs and 

 fish and muskrats disport themselves the summer through. 



Oddly enough, when the woodbirds go bathing, they 

 prefer the dancing ripples to the still shining of the pools, 

 instinct, perhaps, tells them of the greedy fish and big 

 hungry turtles that lie in wait in the depths. See that 

 pair of woodducks wheedling and chattering about ttie 

 half-dead sycamore that bends over the stream. Mrs. 

 Duck made her nest in the soft rotten wood at top of 

 it. She has just hatched out a dozen balls of yellow 

 down and is setting about getting them down to the 

 water. Once there, they will swim like ducks indeed. 

 But flying is as yet beyond them, and the nest is 20ft. in 

 air. Look close and you will see the mother bird poised 

 with half -spread wings just outside the nest. Slowly, 

 cautiously, with low cautious cries her mate pushes one 

 of the ducklings quite upon the middle of her back, gives 

 a sharp satisfied quack; and at once she sails down, settles 

 herself in mid- stream, dives gently and leaves her baby 

 sitting on the water without in the least knowing how he 

 got there. With a shake of the wings and a quack that 

 says "Take care!" she is off to the nest, and keeps it up 

 till all her little ones are launched. As she brings the 

 last a cruel thing happens. Right below her flock there 

 is a swift up-swirling of water. Something brown and 

 unwieldy comes almost to the surface, then sinks like 

 lead and takes with it the plumpest, downiest of all the 

 yellow darlings. Inside a minute another is dragged 

 down, and another, and still another. The snapping tur- 

 tle, which, once he has taken hold, "never lets go until it 

 thunders," is greedy to day. Anyway he has a weak- 

 ness for ducklings. He would eat the whole dozen of 

 them if the distracted parents did not hurry them ashore. 



There they will not be in very much better case. Foxes 

 live in the caves all along the bluffs. Minks, too, and 

 weasels and coons. Any night you may hear them splash- 

 ing about in the water for mussels, crayfish and such 

 small deer. Master Fox is no fisherman, but in many 

 ways an antic fellow. Ic delights him no little to find a 

 safe sunny rock overhanging a glassy pool, where he can 

 bask in broad daylight or stand on tiptoe and play with 

 his tail, nod his head, and seem to laugh outright when 

 his image in the water repeats each motion. He is dainty 

 in his drinking, will cross the creek a dozen times to lap 

 and lave him in its coolest spring. As each lake has its 

 bluff, each bluff has its spring. If its waters gather in 

 plow-land they are apt to be warm and still. If they 

 drain grass or woodland and come out under 50ft. of 

 rock they will be cool and sweet as moonlight over snow. 

 Here is the Fox Spring par excellence. It gathers in the 

 big South wood, whose edge you see fringing the too of 

 the bluff. 



The bluff faces north—a sheer wall of blue limestone, 

 seamed and broken into huge ledges. In the cleft of one 

 a young, hickory has got root, and springs straight and 

 tall six feet beyond the top. All manner of wild vines 

 grow in other clefts: grape vines, wild ivy, poison oak, 

 trail down almost into the water, The glory of it, though, 

 is its ferns. The trailing rock-fern runs all over the face 

 of it; each seam and cleft is a, thick fringe of maiden hair, 



knee high wherever it gets good root. At the foot it 

 springs into a veritable fairy forest, gemmed here and 

 there with the coral of Indian turnip and Solomon's 

 seal. 



All the rocks about the spring that sunshine never 

 touches are beset with lichens and" liverworts, green and 

 gray. Twenty feet away, in a mass of mould that was 

 once a fallen tree, is a black berrv clump, bent to earth 

 with rich fruit. Eat your fill of it, and carry home a 

 good few. What if you have no basket? Berries like 

 these grow only where dew and fairies are plenty; and 

 here are sycamore leaves as wide as your two hands. 

 Pin a mat of them together with their o wn leaf stalks, 

 bend a willow twig about the edge, and heap it with ber- 

 ries half as long as your finger and meltingly sweet. 

 Then wreath the basket about with yellow love vine and 

 feathery grasses, set it out in the dew to-night, and morn- 

 ing will show you that the day of miracles is not wholly 

 past. 



Drink of the Fox Spring before you leave it. There is 

 no such wa,ter in three counties. You may use the ancient 

 gourd that hangs on the root above it. If you are wise, 

 though, you will lie all along the cool brink of it, and let 

 the living water lave your lips; or else kneel, gather it in 

 your scooped palms, and drink and drink the nectar of 

 the wood sprites. 



The stream is delightfully vagrant. It bends, turns and 

 ooubles upon itself in each half mile. The bluffs alternate 

 with curious regularity. The next one faces south-by - 

 east. There you find always the first hepaticas. All 

 winter its big red-brown leaves curl aud cling to each 

 clefted rock to break in late January or by St. Valentine's 

 at latest, into wreathy stars, white, paly pink or blue or 

 purple. 



The bluff itself is low, a bare ten feet with big rocks 

 standing out all over the sheer face of it. A big hill 

 crowns it and goes up to the level of the plateau behind. 

 There the water-nymphs have their flower garden. 

 Anemones grow there, daisies, violets, the wild cowslips, 

 with flower like the hot-house cyclamen, sweet williams, 

 blue-flag, columbine purple and" scarlet, sweet brier and 

 bramble rose, and white August lilies. Beside them a 

 great multitude of nameless delicately beautiful things. 

 There is one trailer whose leaf recalls the mimosa and 

 whose white blossom seems a cluster of sw r eet peas made 

 for fairy wearing. Another hangs out a fringe of white 

 cups shaped like the lily of the valley, and still another 

 shakes long yellow, gold-dusty tassels in each sweet spring 

 wind. The chief est of them though is a vine, a %voocty 

 climber, with handsome dark green leaves and flowers of 

 true wall-flower yellow, but in shape and size like a nastur- 

 tium. The root of it loves water, and the richness of 

 crumbling rock. It grows at the water side, and clam- 

 bers up the rocky face to fling down torrents of trailing 

 bloom. The native purple wistaria has much the same 

 habit. Its pale, pendulous clusters make the creekside 

 throughout April a long dream of bloom. In May there is 

 the flash of scarlet Virginia creeper, beloved alike of butter- 

 fly and humming bird. Master ruby-throat often builds 

 his wee nest in its shelter, and always draws from its 

 deep cup his choicest sweets. 



In the pebbly reaches that spring floods cover yearly 

 you find pink and purple larkspur, the curious root 

 known locally as "Adam and Eve," Jack in the pulpit, 

 yellow celandine and yellow wild mimosa. Wherever 

 there is a bit of fine earth, blue grass springs spontane- 

 ously, starred with a million dandelions, Countless May 

 apples burst up through it, too— there is apt to be a paw 

 paw thicket — and if the earthy bank abuts upon the 

 water a fringe of green stiff rushes. 



After the first frost go down the creek for chestnuts 

 and scaly-barks. You will walk through a glory of yel- 

 low leaves, with the smell of new-fallen ones coming 

 sw eet from under foot. Grassland is green as in May. 

 Only weeds and stubble lie sere in the low sun rays. The 

 winds breathe, rather than blow, yet the ripe nuts pat- 

 ter, patter, at each sigh of them. Gather good store, but 

 leave plenty for the squirrels. Winter is at hand and 

 they are rightful heirs to nature's bounty . 



When it does come, the few days of bitter cold about 

 the winter solstice, there is fairy Laid all down the creek. 

 The lakes skim over with clear commonplace ice. In 

 the swift runs there is ice only along the edges. But ice 

 of such clear shining, such wonderful shapes, as freezes 

 nowhere else. Each leaf is armored in lace of diamond, 

 each twig and grass-spear has its pendant pearl moss, and 

 lichen is transfigured stone and pebble made harmonies 

 of frost. 



All the shelving bluffs, whence waters drip so cool 

 through summer days, are hung with huge icicles, points 

 of fluted pearl. They grow upward as well as downward. 

 If the frost holds a week they meet in hour-glass fashion 

 and stand white ghosts of fair water, that only the south 

 wind can make again alive. 



He is not slow in rescue. He comes at night with a 

 roar and rush of rain. In a day the ice is broken up, and 

 a turbid torrent full of drift and silt goes racing to the 

 river valley, to rest at last in the sea. M. A. W. 



The Loggerhead Shrike. — Mr. Robert Ridgway, 

 Curator, Department of Birds, U. S. National Museum at 

 Washington, has called our attention to a highly interest- 

 ing group of loggerhead shrikes or butcher birds (Lanius 

 liidovicicmus), representing a pair of old birds with their 

 nest, full of young, in osage orange hedge. The female 

 is shown in the act of feeding her young, which are 

 about half grown, while the male sits on a tree near by 

 reconnoitering. Impaled on thorns are a Mack-throated 

 bunting, a field mouse, grasshopper, etc. The reason for 

 the birds impaling their victims on thorns is not known 

 with certainty, since they very often make no further 

 use of therm When this is the case it is probable that 

 the birds find food to their liking abundant and so leave 

 the impaled prey untouched. Some persons say that the 

 birds have this habit from the fact, that unlike the hawks, 

 owls, and other true birds of prey, they do not have talons 

 to hold flesh while in the act of feeding, and that the 

 thorns take the place of talons. The group was prepared 

 by Mr. C. F. Adams, of Champaign, Illinois, who studied 

 the habits of the birds and obtained the materials near 

 that place. 



If you have a Friend interested in natural history, 

 send his address for a copy of Forest and Stream. 



A Book About Indians.— The Fohest and Stream will mail 

 free on application a descriptive circular ot Mr. Grinnell's book, 

 "Pawnee Hero Stories and Folk-Tales, 1 ' giving a table of contents 

 and specimen illustrations from the volume.— Adv. 



