Nov. 18, 1890. 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



827 



rang out on the clear, frosty air of that November morn- 

 ing, by which time the clogs engaged the foe in a hand to 

 hand fight, preventing further hostilities on Sam's part. 

 The badly wounded bear had taken refuge ia a sort of 

 pen formed by the log elide and its supports, and as the 

 dogs had to attack her from the front, they were getting 

 Borne terrible lessons in boxing from a master of the fistic 

 art. Finding no further opportivnity to shoot the bear, 

 Sam cried out, "Hurry up, for heaven's sake, she's killing 

 all the dogs." When Reams and I reached the slide our 

 services were not needed, as the wounds from Sam's rifle 

 had done their work, and the monster lay dead, sur- 

 rounded by the victor and the dogs. 



The remainder of that day was devoted to hunting 

 deer, and though none was killed, the writer demon- 

 strated how easily a hunter can stand on a stump and 

 miss a deer seven times in succession as it attempts to run 

 by him in a thicket. 



Thursday morning was fixed as the time for hauling in 

 our game. We were fortunate in having a team and 

 wagon at our camp, so that we were saved the trouble of 

 carrying our deer and bear all the way. In the case of 

 the bear, however, the nearest point we could reach with 

 the wagon was some two miles from where she hung. 

 One mile of this route lay down the old slide road and 

 the other mile up Trout Run Hill. A green birch pole 

 was cut and the bear strapped to it, and with two men 

 under each end we took up the line of nmrch for the 

 wagon. When I think of that pole cutting into nxy 

 shoulder, and that old bear swinging back and forth, it 

 makes me tired yet. It is fun to kill game in those awful 

 thickets, but when you are compelled to lug a 4001bs. 

 bear or a 2001bs. buck two miles to get him to catnp you 

 p&3 well for the sport. 



Thursday night after supper a great pitch-pine fire was 

 kindled in front of the cabin, amid the giant oaks, chest- 

 nuts and hemlocks. Around this fire green saplings were 

 bent down, and the bear and the deer were hung high in 

 air, presenting a picture that would rejoice the heart of 

 any hunter. Around this scene our party gathered and 

 led by Reams we executed a genuine war dance in honor 

 of the suecess of the hunt, while the flames from our 

 pitch-pine faggots sent their lurid light high up into the 

 treetops and far out into the forest, casting weird 

 shadows and fantastic pictures into the surrounding 

 gloom. While we were in the midst of festivities two 

 men, clad in the garb of hunters, approached our cabin. 

 One was a tall man, the other smaller in stature; both 

 carried their rifles, tomahawks and hunting knives. They 

 had come from Kime's camp, on Winter's Ridge, and the 

 latter of the two was Kime himself, well known to the 

 writer in early boyhood. On their approaching our cabin 

 the dance was suspended and the visitors invited to a seat 

 by the cabin fire. 



After some pleasant inquiries and a general conversa- 

 tion concerning the success of both parties, Kime, ad- 

 dressing Reams, said: "T understand "you killed our bear 

 and we just came over to see about getting our share.'' 



"Yes," said Bill, "we killed the bear you were after 

 the other day, but I can't understand where your share 

 comes in. What do you consider is your share in this 

 case?" 



"Well," replied Kime, "we think we ought to have the 

 hide and half the meat, that's the hunter's custom, and 

 we are here to see that we get what belongs to us." 



"Well, sir,'"replied Reams, "the custom is all right, and 

 for forty years I have endeavored to honor the unwritten 

 laws of the chase; but, sir, in this case the custom does 

 not apply, as according to your own admissions you 

 wounded the bear but slightly ; she whipped your dogs 

 which refused to follow her; you gave up the chase and 

 she was killed the next day some two miles from where 

 you left her. She is our game, and you are not legally 

 entitled to a pound of meat or a hair of the hide ; and , sir, 

 if you had been a little more modest in your demands we 

 would have been glad to give you a quarter: but, as it is, 

 not a pound of that bear goes to your camp." 



As Reams announced this decision, the visitors picked 

 up their rifles, and muttering some threats about prose- 

 cuting our party for chasing deer with dogs, they left. 



Ten days later the hunters' camp on Chestnut Ridge 

 had been abandoned, and the annual hunt for 1886 had 

 become a part of the history of our hunting trips to the 

 Alleghanies. Old Jim had gone to his cabin home fol- 

 lowed by his hounds, while the others of our party had 

 scattered, one here and the other yonder, to engage in 

 the occupations of a busy life. I was seated in my office 

 one morning, endeavoring to dispose of the accumulated 

 ,and neglected work of the week, when the door of the 

 •outer room opened, a tall man clad in the garb of a 

 .hunter, carrying a Winchester rifle and with a tomahawk 

 :and hunting knife in his belt, walked into my sanctum, 

 and standing his gun in the corner of the office sat down. 

 My visitor was Kime, the hunter; not a hunter by occu- 

 pation, but a farmer and lumberman from the upper 

 Susquehanna, returning from his annual hunting trip to 

 the Green Woods of the Alleghanies, and withal a gentle- 

 man and good square fellow. He had brooded over the 

 . wrongs inflicted upon him by Bill Reams and his party 

 in refusing to divide the bear with him, and that he 

 might secure his rights he had come to consult a lawyer. 

 When last we had met he was a man, I was a boy, and 

 years had come and gone. True, we had met in the 

 cabin in the mountains on the night of our war dance 

 when his conversation with Bill Reams had ended 

 so abruptly, but he did not know that the hunter 

 who sat back in the cabin bunk in the dark- 

 ness was his boy friend of years ago and the 

 lawyer from whom he now sought counsel. Drawing 

 his chair close to my desk, and laying his hunting cap 

 upon the floor, he stated his case substantially as the 

 reader doubtless now understands it. It is said of Abra- 

 ham Lincoln that the secret of his wonderful success as a 

 lawyer is explained by the fact that he always studied 

 the other side of the case as thoroughly as he did that of 

 his client, and it has also been said by some one that the 

 lawyer is a fool who has himself for a client. I was cer- 

 tainly in a position to know something of the other side 

 of the case, if I didn't fully appreciate the fact that my 

 client was a fool. It certainly required something of an 

 effort on my part to barken to this story of the hunter 

 and not reveal the fact that I was at least amused while 

 I listened to his tale of woe. The first thing to do after 

 he had finished was to reveal to him, as a matter of right 

 and honor, just the position I occupied in the case; in 

 short that I was one of the parties who had taken his 

 bear, and that 1 was in the cabin on the night he and his 



friend had come for all the hide and half the meat, and 

 hence he must consult some other attorney. 



At this unexpected turn of events Mr. Kime said: 

 "Well, sir, I take you for an honest man, and whether 

 the medicine be bitter or sweet f will take it and abide by 

 the results." 



The reader if he has followed this story through has 

 doubtless anticipated the counsel given Mr. Kime con- 

 cerning his case. True to his word, and I confess some- 

 what to my surprise, as he pushed his chair back and 

 picked up his rifle to leave, he said, "Well, sir, I think 

 your counsel is about straight, and that we got as much 

 of that bear as we were in equity entitled to, and I 

 am satisfied to let the matter rest," 



The story of that bear hunt and of Kime's visit to our 

 cabin has been put into rhyme by Bill Reams, but like 

 most of his best stories it has never been written, and can 

 only be heard when Bill and his companions have gath- 

 ered around their cabin fire after a successful day's hunt. 



Frank O. Harris. 



MOOSE RIVER AND THE WEST BRANCH. 



IX. 



FRANCIS is an expert in the management of a birch, 

 and the sight of game brought to mind the way in 

 which we have hunted together. He would say some 

 night as we sat by the fire, "Well, I guess you and me 

 hunt some deers in mornin'." 



Up by daylight, we drink a cup of coffee, and in the 

 canoe paddle silently along, keeping close to the bank. 

 At every bend we steal around the shorter curve, and if 

 the stream then turns in the opposite direction we paddle 

 diagonally across, so that we are always in a position to 

 come upon the game without being seen, if perchance a 

 deer has come to the bank to drink or eat. The deer, 

 like most animals, depends upon his ears and nose, more 

 than upon his eyes for warning against danger, and if 

 not startled by noise or scent will always stand a moment 

 to take a good look at a strange object, thereby giving 

 the hunter a chance to shoot. 



A buck, when startled, sounds a note of alarm, a snort 

 which sounds like the short, sharp bark of a dog. We 

 paddle along, being careful not to make the slightest 

 noise and we go against the wind. 



Sometimes a deer is heard softly passing through the 

 bushes; we were not aware of his presence till we heard 

 a twig crack or the rustle of the underbrush. We did 

 not see him, but he heard or scented us, and not being 

 startled he simply creeps back out of sight. Perhaps we 

 may come upon one suddenly, and then, unless the rifle 

 speaks quickly, we shall see his white flag wave defiantly 

 as he bounds away. When a deer is hit the tail is 

 dropped; but if not wounded it is held aloft, the white 

 underside flashing before the eyes of the disappointed 

 hunter. But on this morning we paddle two or three 

 miles, and to all appearances there are no deer in the 

 country. 



Francis speaks for the first time: "I guess we try 'em 

 logon; guess find some deer." Logon is probably a cor- 

 ruption of the word "lagoon," and is the name given to a 

 place where the water from a stream or lake sets back, 

 forming a marshy pond. Such places are much resorted 

 to by deer, as they are secluded, and also furnish lily 

 pads and other food. Wild ducks find the logons suit- 

 able places for raising their young. 



We paddle along till we come to a logon where the 

 deer come to feed. We pass silently through the narrow 

 entrance and around a clump of trees, and there the logon 

 opens up before us. It is nearly a mile in length and sur- 

 rounded by the forest. The water is shallow and there is 

 no current; it is covered with lily pads; but there is a 

 channel of comparatively clear water extending up the 

 length of it. As we enter we glance along the edge of 

 the timber, but there is no sign of life. I have laid down 

 my paddle and taken the Winchester. 



Not a word is spoken and the silence is oppressive — how 

 loud that grating of thehly pad against the canoe sounds. 

 If it were not for the motion I would not know that Fran- 

 cis was behind me. His paddle makes no noise ; I do not 

 hear the slightest tap against the gunwale or the drip of 

 a single drop of water from the blade. 



Suddenly the canoe stops and I hear a low hiss from 

 Francis, but I have been watching, too, and saw the deer 

 come out of the woods, away up at the head of the logon. 

 There is no shelter, and our only course is straight ahead 

 across the open. The deer is so far away that it is simply a 

 bright spot against the dark background of forest. How 

 red it looks; nothing else would look like that, Now the 

 canoe moves forward again ; it goes so slowly that I can 

 feel no motion, and if I did not see that we were passing 

 the lily pads I should think we were standing still. We 

 scarcely dare to breathe, and I feel an almost uncontrol- 

 lable desire to sneeze. Francis doe^ not lift the paddle 

 from the water, but works it noiselessly. 



Now the water shoals so that he cannot paddle, but 

 pushes the canoe just as silently. We are now so near 

 that we see the deer plainly; it is a big doe, and she is 

 feeding and wandering about near the edge of the woods. 



She looks up and toward us; the canoe stops and we sit 

 without moving a muscle. She goes back to her break- 

 fast, and again, without the slightest jar, we steal for- 

 ward. Now we are almost near enough to shoot, but she 

 turns and walks back into the forest. Well, our game is 

 lost, but it was a pleasure to see the way in which Fran- 

 cis stalked it. His approach to it was a work of art, one 

 of those fine touches which none but one trained to the 

 woods from childhood could have accomplished. 



And in no other boat than a birch could it have been 

 done. The canoe is the boat of the wilderness ; it possesses 

 a feline quality — creeping, stealthy, silent — which is pecu- 

 liar to itself. It will float in a few inches of water, and a 

 man can pick it up and carry it from one body of water 

 to another. It can be propelled without noise, and is so 

 small and light that it will penetrate to places that can be 

 reached in no other way. It is to the red man of the 

 woods what the horse is to his brother of the plains. To 

 journey in a birch on the lonely waters of lakes and 

 streams in the heart of the wilderness, is to realize all 

 that is romantic and poetical in the art of traveling. 



Francis and I returned to camp with nothing to show 

 for our trip, but on other occasions I have seen venison 

 hanging from a tree near the tent, and have feasted on 

 the savory steaks broiled over the camp-fire. 



The stretch of dead water on which Camp Nelhudus 

 was pitched extends from the upper Seeboomook Fall to 

 Gulliver Falls, a distance of ten miles. At Gulliver we 



had good fishing in the quick water below the falls, which 

 are really more like rapids. 



It is a pretty place, and the banks were clotted with the 

 blossoms of the wild onion. For half a mile below the 

 water is shallow and the current strong, which made 

 rather stiff poling. 



Six miles above Gulliver Fall is the junction of the 

 North and South Branches, which combine and form the 

 West Branch. A large logon opens from the left bank 

 of the river, three miles above our camp, which is a great 

 resort for ducks. Several times when we were in there 

 we started broods of wood ducks and sheldrakes, and it 

 was interesting to watch the solicitude of the old ones 

 and the courage they displayed in the protection of the 

 young. At our approach the little ones would skitter 

 away over the water as fast as feet and wings could carry 

 them, while the old one would follow slowly between 

 them and the canoe. She would swim along at about the 

 pace of the canoe, quacking encouragingly to the gos- 

 lings, her head moving anxiously from side to side as she 

 watched us. She would plainly show her nervousness 

 and excitement, but nevertheless she put her life in jeop- 

 ardy as long as the young were in sight. But the moment 

 they disappeared under the reeds she would take wing 

 and fly away with the swiftness of an arrow. Then, cir- 

 cling high in the air, she would return far overhead to the 

 place where her offspring were in hiding. 



Seeboomook Fall is a wild place where the water goes 

 roaring and rushing through a narrow gorge. There are 

 three pitches at Seeboomook, but we only visited the 

 upper one on this trip. The name, however, brings to 

 mind a day, Avhen on a former excursion we made the 

 carry around the lower falls during a severe storm, The 

 lower falls are three miles below the upper ones, and 

 both are wild and dangerous places. At the upper fall 

 of Seeboomook there is a gruesome curiosity in the shape 

 of a coffin, which for twenty-five years has remained on 

 the bank. This fall is dreaded by the river drivers and 

 is the worst place on the West Branch through which 

 the boys have to pass. One spring while engaged in 

 starting a jam, one man did not succeed in reaching the 

 shore when the logs moved, and was carried down with 

 them. His companions, expecting to recover the body 

 below the pitch, built a coffin and placed it on the bank 

 in readiness, but the merciless river never gave up it3 

 dead, and the coffin still remains where it was left a 

 quarter of a century ago. The river drivers have a super- 

 stitious dread of it, and many stories are connected with 

 it. One spring, when a bad jam had formed, a dare- 

 devil lumberman stretched himself in it, saying, "I want 

 to see whether it fits, boys, before I go on to that jam," 

 The men were made so nervous by this that it was four 

 days before the jam was broken, so cautious were they. 

 Strangely enough, the man whose levity had unnerved 

 the crew, did fall into the river, but was rescued, and the 

 old weather-beaten boards are still unused. 



The day we went to Seeboomook we were caught in a 

 heavy down-pour of rain, but the canoes were turned 

 bottom up on the bank, and under them we found pro- 

 tection. One night I was awakened by the sound of rain 

 and lay with open eyes listening to the storm. The fire 

 was sputtering and nearly extinguished by the terrific 

 down- pour which was beating on the tent and spattering 

 on the ground. The trees were dripping and 1 could hear 

 the pattering of the drops on the surface of the branch, 

 but in the tent we were snug and dry, and before morning 

 the storm had passed. We had no discomfort, but even 

 if we had we should have taken it philosophically, for 

 Dame Nature is not always in the same mood, and one 

 must expect tears as well as smiles. The following even- 

 ing, as I was walking about the camp, I suddenly noticed 

 that the ground had the appearance of being strewn with 

 live coals. The effect was startling at first sight, for all 

 about me were patches of light, which glowed with a 

 brilliant white lustre, tinged with a beautiful pale green. 

 These spots varied from the size of a penny to some of 

 several inches diameter, and I saw at once that they were 

 chips of phosphorescent wood. They gleamed against 

 the dark, damp forest floor with a steady, slumbering 

 flame, dazzling in its brilliancy, like pieces of fiery beryl. 

 I picked some of them up and they lighted my hands, 

 but the effect was most incongruous; for, though I held 

 what appeared to be a substance heated to a white heat, 

 it was cold and damp to the touch. On looking about to 

 discover where they came from, I found an old, hollow 

 stump, in an advanced stage of decay, of which the whole 

 interior was illuminated with the same immaculate and 

 wonderful fire. I had seen bits of phosphorescent wood 

 before, but never so large pieces nor in such quantity. 



Beautiful as was the sight, there was something inex- 

 pressibly uncanny about it, as we saw it — this light with- 

 out fire and fire without heat — in the darkness of the grim 

 forest, so far from the haunts of men. We imagined the 

 old stump to be the opening of some subterranean tunnel, 

 through which the strange light escaped from the un- 

 known regions of the under world. The heavy rain of 

 the preceding night and the subsequent dampness were 

 probably the cause of this interesting phenomenon, for 

 we had not noticed it before. 



William Austin Brooks. 



Kansas Quail.— Ottawa, Kan., Nov. 6.— Last Satur- 

 day was the opening day for quail shooting in this State, 

 and many birds were killed around here. A friend and 

 his companion went hunting Saturday morning for quail 

 in the vicinity of his farm, four and a half miles from 

 town, and bagged twenty-one quail and two rabbits. An- 

 other sportsman from Ottawa was out yesterday with a 

 good dog and bagged thirty-two quail, the largest num- 

 ber I have heard of being killed by one person in a day's 

 shooting. Not very long ago a party of nine Ottawa 

 men went down to Pottawatomie Creek, some twenty 

 miles below here, and camped out over night; they were 

 not gone over thirty-six hours, but they returned with 

 over 200 squirrels, 40 ducks and several coons and pos- 

 sums. This is the largest bag of squirrels I ever knew to 

 be killed in Kansas, and it shows tliat although this State 

 is mostly prairie, there is still timber enough to hunt in. 

 One of our prominent business men lost a valuable horse 

 last week while out hunting. He fastened his horse not 

 far from the river, and while he was out of sight in the 

 woods the horse got loose and wandered off. It was 

 thought at first that the horse had been stolen, but it was 

 found next day in the river drowned. As soon as the 

 prairie grass has died down enough to permit rabbit 

 shooting and we have a week or two of rainy weather 

 there will be good shooting the rest of the season. — F. B, 



