326 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Nov. 13, 1890. 



THE PHANTOM OF NAHMAKANTA. 



~\TO lovelier spot in which, to take an outing can be 

 _[> found than one of the picturesque mountain-girt 

 lakes that stud the rugged surface of Maine. It was my 

 good fortune a few summers ago to have the necessary 

 leisure to allow me to visit this charming region. 



It was one of those mild September days when all 

 nature seemed to be decked in her best, filling the air 

 -with sweet fragrance and imparting a feeling of ecstacy 

 and happiness. The trees spread out their branches cov- 

 ered with crimson ch-apery; the voices of the forest sent 

 forth sweet songs that seemed to come from some en- 

 chanted land . lulling one into that dreaminess of mind 

 where life for the hour is an absorption into the glory of 

 the world around. 



As we paddled down the Penobscot on such a day as 

 this, the birch canoes gliding silently along, propelled by 

 the swift strokes of the Indian guides, I gave myself up 

 to the fascination of the hour. On either side of the 

 river, which is here little more than a stream, the rich 

 foliage overhanging from the banks, kissed the water as 

 it glided past. Here and there a tall pine raised its 

 majestic head, towering above the surrounding forests 

 like some kingly giant. The sun shone from the clear, 

 blue sky with rare brilliancy. The stream occasionally 

 broke into little fails or "rips," through which we sped, 

 passing great rocks and boulders, over which the water 

 foamed and hissed in petty fury. 



The day previous we had left Chesuncook, and paddling 

 across the northern end of Pamedomcook Lake, and from 

 thence westward through a small stream, we reached 

 Nahmakanta Lake, where we had been informed fish 

 were abundant. We entered this lake late in the after- 

 noon, as the sun was sinking in the west, leaving faint 

 streaks of gold and red to mark the course of its decline, 

 and illuminated that placid sheet of water and the sur- 

 rounding forest. 



A suitable camping place having been found we landed. 

 While the guides were pitching the tents and conveying 

 our luggage from the canoes we occupied ourselves with 

 cutting fir boughs for our beds. No one who has not 

 tried a couch of this kind can have any conception of the 

 ease and comfort it affords, especially when one has pad- 

 dled a canoe all day or waded in brooks casting a fly for 

 the wary trout. By the time we had completed our task 

 the guides announced that supper was ready. Our table 

 was a rude structure of boards, while our provision 

 buckets did duty as seats. It was surprising what a 

 quantity of trout, "flipjacks" and molasses we managed 

 to stow away, just how much I would not dare to say. 



After supper had been finished the most of the party 

 gathered round the camp-fire, some filling out their jour- 

 nals, while others got their fishing tackle in readiness 

 for the morrow. As for myself, taking one of the guides, 

 I paddled out upon the lake, in the hope of getting a shot 

 at a deer, as they frequently come down to drink and 

 feed upon the lilies about the shores of these lakes. 



A light breeze had sprung up from the westward, 

 ruffling the tranquil surface of the lake. A little later 

 the moon rose, piercing the dark canopy. I sat in the bow 

 of the canoe, and as it danced over the little waves I found 

 myself again indulging in reverie. The stars overhead, 

 the swish of the waves on the side of the canoe, and the 

 moon-lit panorama, extending from our camp-fire in the 

 distance to yonder hill, all had a tendency to dispel 

 thoughts of care and the outside world from my mind 

 and let me drift away into dreamland. Suddenly the 

 tranquillity was broken by a wailing cry. I started in 

 my seat, nearly overturning the canoe, and grasping my 

 rifle, looked about, expecting to see some strange form 

 come into view. After a moment of silence there was a 

 repetition of the cry; it was a cry as of some one in dis- 

 tress. I felt a chill creep through my body as again that 

 wail rose on the night air. Looking in the direction from 

 which the sound came, I beheld a sight that seemed to 

 transfix me with terror. Even now when my mind goes 

 back to the scene of that night, a feeling of horror steals 

 over me. that I cannot describe or suppress. I tried to 

 speak, but could not; the scene held me as one in a 

 trance. I could not move, but sat, gazing spellbound. 

 There, standing on a point of land which jutted out into 

 the lake, in the full light of the moon, stood a figure, 

 draped in a long mantle of white hanging loosely about 

 it. Its arms were extended at full length toward the 

 heavens, while its voice was continually to be heard in 

 mournful cries. 



At once there came to my mind a thought of the many 

 weird Indian legends repeated and believed even in our 

 enlightened days by nearly all the dwellers in these parts. 

 One can imagine my state of mind, impressed and stimu- 

 lated as I was, by the supernatural calm of the surround- 

 ing scenery. 



Suddenly the Indian gave a prolonged yell, aud dash- 

 ing his paddle into the water, sent the canoe over the 

 lake toward our camp at a tremendous rate of speed. Not 

 a word was spoken by either of us. We were both think- 

 ing of what we had just seen. As the bow of the canoe 

 grated on the sandy beach in front of the camp, the In- 

 dian leaped ashore, and trembling from head to foot, 

 stood leaning on his paddle, gazing with dilated eyes out 

 upon the lake toward the place where still could be seen 

 the strange and ghostly figure. As we stood there the 

 cry was again repeated, and turning round I saw the In- 

 dian sink terrified on his knees. 



I must confess that my nerves were not very steady, 

 and calling to the men in the camp to join me, I told 

 them what I had seen. Although they had heard the cry 

 they laughed at me, saying that I was a • 'dreamer," but 

 looking toward the neck of land I saw that the appar- 

 ition had not disappeared altogether and was still dimlv 

 to be discerned standing in exactly the same attitude as 

 before, while its thrilling cry, now rising, now falling, 

 floated toward us on the night breeze. For some time 

 we gazed at it in silence and then retraced our steps to 

 camp. Sitting around the fire, the silence was not 



No one asked the other why he so silently wrapped 

 himself in his blanket that night, each feeling, though 

 ashamed to own it, a blending of alarm, apprehension 

 and uncertainty. 



The rest of rnore than one was disturbed by dreams, 



from which the sleeper would spring up, thinking him- 

 self contending with some strange phantom, only to see 

 the motionless forms and the flickering light of the camp- 

 fire. Putting an armful of wood on the smouldering 

 logs, and again seeking the blanket and couch of fir, sleep 

 would quiet the troubled mind. 



The camp was astir at an early hour, and after break- 

 fast all, with fixed resolution, set out in the direction in 

 which the strange object of the night before had been 

 seen. When we reached this point of land we got out 

 and carefully examined the place. No signs were to be 

 found of any one having been there during the night. 

 After spending over an hour in the place, we were about 

 to leave it, when Mr. P. called out for us to come where 

 he was standing. As we approached, he pointed to an 

 old birch stump and asked if we could not see in it the 

 phantom of last night. The bark on the lower part of the 

 trunk had been torn aside and lay rolled back, looking 

 like the folds of a loose garment, while two limbs, one on 

 each side, resembled extended arms. This was what we 

 had seen, and the moon shining upon it had given it the 

 appearance of life. But then if this was what we had 

 taken for the strange figure, what had caused these 

 mournful cries? We had heard them and they had filled 

 us with terror. Surely they could not have issued from 

 this queer stump. We spent some time trying to find a 

 clue, but at last had to give it up. We remained three 

 days on the lake, but there was no repetition of the sound, 

 and on the morning of the fourth day we left. Our stay 

 had not been without interest, for besides the adventure 

 of our first night, we had good sport hunting and fishing, 

 and nowhere during our trip did we make such large 

 catches. Our only regret was our inability to solve the 

 mystery. 



******* 

 Two years later I again visited this lake, and during 

 the second night once more heard those mournful cries, 

 and immediately started for the spot from which they 

 seemed to come. There was the same old stump which 

 had so terrified us on that night, and close by, seeming to 

 rise from the earth, came those startling cries. The sen- 

 sations which I had before felt I again experienced, but 

 upon a closer examination I found my fears to be ground- 

 less. 



The wailing noise was produced by the wind blowing 

 through a hollow log lying on the ground. The inside 

 was covered with large thin slabs or splinters. One end 

 was much smaller than the other, and when the wind 

 came from the west, blowing through the log, a wailing 

 noise was produced. Thus the mystery connected with 

 the phantom of Nahmakanta was solved. 



Willis H. Colby. 



A BEAR HUNT AND ITS SEQUEL. 



THE month of November, 1886, found our party of 

 seven snugly housed in our log cabin in the heart 

 of the Alleghanies, ready for our annual hunt. The 

 leader and guide of our party was William Reams, better 

 known as "Bill Reams," probably the most successful 

 hunter in central Pennsylvania, a woodsman from child- 

 hood, a true friend and rare good fellow. Then came 

 Kizer, Bill's hunting companion, a true gentleman, a 

 good hunter, well versed in woodcraft, and a dead shot. 

 Tom, Sam, Joe and the writer were there as friends of 

 Bill and Kizer, and had been their companions in more 

 than one hunt. Just over the Chestnut Ridge from our 

 cabin, in a log house built by a pioneer lumberman, lived 

 old Jim McCrury. For four years he had served his 

 country in the great Civil War, after which he came 

 home and settled in the Green Woods, devoting his sum- 

 mers to herding cattle, and his winters to hunting and as 

 guide to hunting parties. The frosts of seventy winters 

 had silvered over his head, but straight as an arrow and 

 6ft. tall, he knew every hill and hollow and pathway of 

 the mountains, and his familiar "whoop, whoop," was 

 known to every hunter from the Susquehanna to the 

 Sinnemahoning. Rough and rugged as the hills he 

 climbed, honest as the sun, and generous to a fault; no 

 man ever turned from his cabin hungry or cold while 

 old Jim had a crust or a faggot beneath his roof. Poor 

 old manl His faithful wife sleeps the sleep that knows 

 no waking, his cabin is in ashes, his dogs have gone 

 where ad good hunting dogs go, and only a few weeks 

 since word came that he too had gone to the happy hunt- 

 ing grounds. Some three years ago he bade good-bye to 

 his friends in the East and went to the West to die among 

 his kindred who had drifted toward the setting sun. But 

 he soon wearied of the plains of Kansas, and he longed 

 for the mountains and hills of his own native State. He 

 came back to Pennsylvania to die, and to-day he sleeps 

 amid the scenes he loved so well. May he rest in peace. 



On this occasion "Old Jim," with his dogs Rover, Lion, 

 Dan and Cal, completed the party, and woe to any deer 

 or bear when once Jim and his hounds had struck his 

 trail. 



By 2 o'clock on Monday, the first day in camp, our 

 cabin had been cleaned out and everything was ready 

 for the hunt. To the north of us some two miles lay 

 Winter's Ridge, a vast wilderness, to the southeast of 

 which was the "Brier Patch." Bill said he thought he 

 could drive a deer out of that brier patch, and in less 

 time than it takes to tell it we were off for the first hunt. 

 The watchers were stationed, and the dogs and drivers 

 were away for the chase. Bill had taken his position at 

 the head of the windfall, where any deer would likely 

 pass that attempted to escape to Winter's Ridge. As the 

 drivers came up over the hill from the run "three shots 

 were heard from the direction of Reams's stand, followed 

 by his familiar whoop, which indicated that he had killed 

 a deer. When we reached the top of the hill we found 

 Reams sitting beside a splendid two-year-old buck with 

 two rifle balls through its neck.~The deer had been 

 routed on the brow of the hill overlooking Robert's Run, 

 where he lay sunning himself, and when disturbed he 

 made the fatal mistake that many a buck had made be- 

 fore of trying to run past Bill Reams's watch. 



Another drive was made that evening without starting 

 any deer, and we returned to our cabin. Our supper was 

 cooked and eaten and relished as only hungry hunters 

 can relish a meal. And, Teader, if there is anything 

 wrong with your appetite take a hunting trip to the 

 mountains. If you are not cured this prescription shall 

 cost you nothing. 



For the lover of nature an evening in a hunter's cabin 

 has many attractions. Away frOm the noise and bustle 

 of business life in the woods and among the mountains, 

 there is a ©harm one cannot tell. Without, and all around. 



stand the "murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded 

 with moss, and in garments green," uttering no voices, 

 save the wailings of autumn winds. The barking of a 

 fox or the hooting of an owl rouse the sleeping dogs 

 in their kennel, and they rush forth and bay at the 

 strange sounds, only to retreat again mocked by the 

 echoes of their own voices. 



Around the cheerful fire of the cabin care and trouble 

 are banished, the conventionalities of life are laid aside, 

 and the pent-up desire to get away from one's self and from 

 the world finds vent in innocent pleasure and all-round 

 good cheer. Give me a night in the jolly hunter's cabin, 

 with its stories, its reminiscences and its memories, out- 

 lasting the gilded vanities that disappear and leave but 

 their dregs behind. 



Bedtime had come and we repaired to our couches where 

 we slept without waking, for the hunter that follows Bill 

 Reams in an all-day chase over the Trout Run hills is 

 generally ready for his supper and his bed at the close of 

 the day. 



The plan for Tuesday's hunt was to drive the ridges at 

 the head of Crooked Run, some two miles to the south of 

 our camp. Sam had never been so fortunate as to kill a 

 deer, and as he crawled into his bunk he expressed a de- 

 sire to get a fair shot at one with his Kennedy, and he 

 would show the boys just what he could do. Tuesday 

 morning at peep of day found us on our way to Crooked 

 Run. The country we proposed to hunt over was a series 

 ©f low ridges, covered with red brush, but with little 

 timber, and with, at least for the watchers, a fair oppor- 

 tunity of seeing any game that might be started. The 

 day proved a poor one for our dogs, the bracken and 

 leaves were very dry, the game had left but little scent, 

 and the drivers failed to start any deer. Finally Bill 

 ordered Tom, Sam, Joe and the writer to break from west 

 to east over a ridge that projects out into and overlooks a 

 little valley through which winds Crooked Run, while he 

 and Kizer and "Old Jim," would watch the crossings in 

 the valley below. We had not gone far before a beauti- 

 ful doe jumped up ahead of the hunters and ran back 

 through the line, passing within thirty feet of Sam and 

 his deadly Kennedy. A splendid opportunity was now 

 presented to show the boys just what he could do and to 

 make a record that even Reams or Kizer might be proud 

 of — but "the best laid plans of mice and men" — in the 

 excitement of the moment Sam knocked the pipe from 

 his mouth, the ashes flew into his eyes and he scored a 

 miss. Bill, who watched the scene from the valley below, 

 said the smoke and fire from either Sani'sgun or his pipe 

 flew over the deer's back, and if he had dropped his gun 

 he might have caught the deer. Sam was greatly annoyed 

 at missing that deer, and said nothing more about want- 

 ing a fair shot. But accidents will happen to the best of 

 people, and the best of hunters will get "rattled." But 

 he was not to be discouraged, and being a fine shot, he 

 resolved to redeem his lost fortunes, which he did the next 

 day. 



As the hunt progressed and the drivers approached the 

 point of the ridge where Bill and Kizer watched, two 

 deer were raised, one a doe that ran to the right and es- 

 caped the hunters, while the other, a magnificent buck, 

 pitched down over the rocky point on his way across the 

 valley to Stump Lick. He had scarcely reached the low 

 ground when Bill and Kizer opened their batteries on him 

 from either side, while the writer trained his Winchester 

 on the foe from the rear. For years I have hunted over 

 these hills and mountains, but never have I beheld a 

 more beautiful and thrilling sight than that presented by 

 this noble buck as he crossed the valley to escape his pur- 

 suers. Some half-dozen shots were fired when the deer's 

 flag went down, and Bill cried out: "Hold on boys, he'll 

 soon stop." He ran some three hundred yards further, 

 then turned and faced his enemies and fell dead. As I 

 remember the prostrate form of that monarch of the glen 

 as he lay stretched upon the plain, slaughtered in such 

 an unequal ba,ttle, I regret the half -savage instinct that 

 impels me to stain my hands in the blood of so beautiful 

 a creature, but when I gaze upon his head and antlers, 

 that look down upon me while I record the manner of his 

 death, I instinctively move toward my rifle that stands in 

 yonder corner, and I long again for the chase and to live 

 over again that day on the hills of Crooked Run. 



As we sat in our cabin that night, a hunter passed Our 

 door and told us the story of a bear hunt that had taken 

 place that day on Winter's Ridge. A party of hunters 

 from the headwaters of the Susquehanna, who were 

 camped some two miles to the north of us, had routed an 

 old she bearnear toaspotknown as the Woodpecker Tree, 

 and in the battle that ensued their dogs were badly 

 whipped, and the bear, though wounded in the fleshy 

 part of the front leg, escaped into one of the dense laurel 

 beds so numerous in that locality. As there was no snow 

 on the ground and the dogs refused to follow any further, 

 the chase was abandoned. 



When our visitor had left us, Reams said, "Boys, we 

 can kill that bear to-morrow. She is in that big laurel 

 bed on Robert's Run. You remember the twelve shots 

 we heard to-day while sitting at the little prairie? That 

 was Kime's party after that bear. We'll hang her up to- 

 morrow before the frost is off." After supper our guns 

 were cleaned and plans laid to capture that old bear. 

 And this is how we did it: 



On Wednesday morning, before the owls had gone to 

 rest, we were off for the fray. We expected to find the 

 bear on a rocky hillside looking west, covered with a jun- 

 gle of high laurel or rhododendron, aud faced by another 

 steep hill opposite, between which runs Robert's Run, 

 down a rocky hollow covered with timber and a heavy 

 undergrowth. Four of our party were stationed on the 

 hill opposite, while Sam was left in the hollow on an old 

 road near to an old log slide that bad been abandoned 

 many years before. Reams and I were left to take the 

 dogs into the laurels and drive out the bear. After allow- 

 ing the watchers time to reach their stations, the dogs 

 were turned loose and we entered the jungle about one 

 hundred yards apart. Our plans proved to be well laid, 

 for we had scarcely gotten into the lauval when the dogs 

 gave tongue and the fun began. We were somewhat 

 skeptical as to how our dogs would act, as the older ones 

 had not indulged in a bear fight for some time, while Dan 

 and Cal, two staghound pups but nine months old, had 

 never seen a bear. But when the music began there was 

 no longer any doubt of our dogs doing their duty. In a 

 very short while the war was carried from the hillside 

 into the hollow and across the run, and the bear broke 

 cover within thirty yards of Sam, who was ready and 

 waiting for the fray. Seven shots in quick succession 



