52 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[JAN. 21, 1892. 



making a bargain. The next day the white man's Indian 

 wife confided to us that tlie chocolate damsels had hidden 

 distrustfully when they saw us come. As we are good- 

 looking, this seems to be indisputable evidence that these 

 frowsy heathens cannot be civilized. 



Our object of the exploration had been to have a view 

 of the Wisconsin's babyhood. It here is a narrow, strug- 

 gling creek, that emerges from its source in a southwest- 

 erly direction. Monday, while our bark meandered down 

 its serpentine course, which frequently was curtained to 

 the water's edge by emerald portieres of cedar branches, 

 extensive areas of birches were passed, which either 

 Indians or porcupines had husked of their rind. One of 

 the latter, espied and respectfully kept at bay by Hector, 

 was dropped. No further game was encountered except 

 a devil's needle zigzagging along the river, and here and 

 there a fisb fanning the gravelly bottom with bis fins. 

 At one place, near the ford (the former bridge being 

 broken down), the stream was pencilled. The highway 

 here is, or was at that time, the only one in that whole 

 district. 



When we neared our fire-place again we perceived an 

 animal sporting in the moist element. The relater 

 coveted its scalp. To facilitate the interview, Bob was 

 asked to row a little nearer. He was heedless in laying 

 down his shooting iron, a report rang across the waves, 

 the creature dove, and didn't show up again. It was too 

 large for an otter. Nymphs, to my knowledge, are not 

 denizens of those waters. What was it? 



In the evening, delighting in a rank old pipe and the 

 warmth of a blazing woodpile, we decided to abandon 

 our hermitage, and to wander further south toward Twin 

 Lakes and Eagle River. Tuesday morning the spear was 

 separated from its knotty pole, the axe from its home- 

 made handle, and the lines from their rustic rods. A 

 basty sketch was drawn of our sylvan headquarters, the 

 luggage was harnessed on, and our frail ship restored to 

 its owner; leaving nothing behind but a beap of ashes 

 between the stakes that had supported the camp kettle, 

 and taking along a bost of pleasing recollections. 



Our programme had been to use the "military road," 

 but as an Indian trail bad been mentioned, which 

 also led toward Twin Lakes and thence to Eagle River, 

 we chose that, We hoped to reach Eagle River by sun- 

 down. As subsequent paragraphs will demonstrate, we 

 never got there. Another long look at the crystal depths, 

 at whose woody strand we had experienced five delight- 

 ful days, and away we marched across the Wisconsin 

 along the trail. It threaded into valleys and over hills, 

 and was "blind" at so many places that I, who conducted 

 the caravan, had ample opportunity to practice this line 

 of woodcraft. Sundry times we lost it entirely, but found 

 it again by zealously quartering the ground, but it was 

 more difficult to follow than the path of virtue. My feet, 

 being moccasined, got along passably. We caught 

 glimpses of divers lakes, nestled in the embrace of beau- 

 tiful timbered slopes, which invitingly enough smiled 

 upon us. But on we tramped, forward, along at the top 

 of ridges, through deep ravines, over stony bluffs into 

 picturesque gullies, over barren lands along rippling 

 brooks, skirted burnt districts and passed long-grassed 

 prairies — always along toward Twin Lakes. At one 

 place there dangled a piece of ornamental buckskin, 

 probably an Indian's offering to the spirits. 



We wandered till the shades grew gigantic, when we 

 came to Twin River. This was not Twin River, as I 

 learned from an aged trapper two years later, when I 

 again traversed that region. That trail must have 

 swerved off to the east. Here, in the sweet glimmers of 

 twilight, when Luna rose in all her silvery splendor, the 

 rustling wood became so dreamy, so full of fantastic 

 scenery , that I sauntered onward in silent fascination. 

 The Indian village that we had been promised to find 

 here did not realize, but we thought it quite romantic to 

 kindle the flickering camp-fire where some half- burnt 

 logs lying within the tepee frame of a deserted wigwam 

 indicated where the mirth and, perhaps, the spooning of 

 eagle-eyed buck and black- tressed heifer had been wit- 

 nessed by the Norway's somber majesty and the gurgling 

 woodland stream. On slumbrous, aromatic pine browse 

 and swelling moss, taking our repast, we hatched out the 

 ill-starred idea to pick our way to the railroad track by 

 crossing the swamp-forest to our right. In the first place, 

 since the landmarks didn't agree with those pointed out 

 by the Indian woman, we were not positive that this path 

 would guide to Eagle River, our destination. Secondly, 

 according to the map, we had but five miles to the rail- 

 way. We expected to reach till noon the nearest station, 

 whence the only daily train could whirl us along. 



We could, by aid of map and compass, ascertain our 

 bearings to a point. (?) Next morning we inserted our- 

 selves into our long-shafted boots, crossed the river and 

 set out in a due westerly direction. A great number of 

 fresh deer tracks were observed yesterday and to-day, 

 especially at the water courses. From one bed the deer 

 could have arisen but shortly before. But none were 

 scared up except once, We traversed wide, treeless 

 plains that were covered with fallen pine logs, we 

 pressed through cedar swamps, tamarack brakes and 

 thickets of spruce; with throbbing temples we panted 

 through heaths defended by blackberry bushes— and ever 

 and ever a new kind of troublesome, weary tramp and 

 our own discomfiture opened before our vision. When- 

 ever we had straggled about thirty minutes we were 

 obliged to sit down a while (with traps kept in their 

 place). We perspired like icicles in July. The heat 

 quivered in the air. We afterward learned that this was 

 the hottest day of that summer. The axe and the ham- 

 mocks had been cast away, and yet our burdens became 

 heavier and heavier. Moments of delight were when 

 rows of willows promised a supply of water. Deer 

 trails were our only stimulants. After 10 o'clock we 

 hoped every second to detect the track, our only chance. 

 Suddenly there echoes from afar the war whoop of the 

 locomotive. We race to reach the iron goal. Once 

 more reviving hope imparts strength to do the utmost, 

 A few hundred yards further a stream impedes our pro- 

 gress. "Can't we cross some way?" "Here is a log. 

 Hurry up!" Over we are; clambering over charred trees 

 ankle deep into treacherous ground, gasping, stumbling, 

 the blood galloping through our veins, quivering, groan- 

 ing. "Stop!" The rumbling noise grows fainter, dies 

 out in the distance and all is serene again. Thus we had 

 lost twenty-four hours, which, under different circum- 

 stances, would not have been mortifying, but we yet 

 needed four meals and had but two. and scanty enough 

 they were. 



We now craved to dine and for convenience returned 

 to the opposite shore. Bob's reluctant attempt to slip off 

 the log was crowned with howling success: scolding and 

 spouting he wriggled himself ahore. What he said, "I 

 dinna care to tell." Above the upper button of his vest 

 everything was dry yet. He draped a shrub with his 

 underwear and his statuesque beauty with a blanket in 

 true antique style, while bis friend endeavored to dis- 

 charge bis duties as housewife, and fried the few re- 

 maining potatoes and dressed two grouse that had been 

 secured. It was a pity to skin one of them; it ought to 

 have been preserved intact for the scribe's intimate, Mr. 

 H. Nehrling, the popular author of the latest ornithologi- 

 cal success, "North American Birds." It was»one of the 

 rarely met Tetrao canadensis. But that appetite of ours 

 spared neither friendship nor science. 



When our lunch and his pantaloons had their proper 

 place, it was after 3 P. M, We bad to hasten if we 

 wanted to escape these "bad lands" before the sunshine 

 did. To get the exact direction we had to recross Bob's 

 bath-tub. With firm, graceful steps his acrobatic feat 

 began. Presumably, however, some of that fisb fat was 

 still lingering about his soles— at least the result seems to 

 justify this inference, for suddenly he squirmed in the 

 water again. He had been rather taciturn the whole 

 day, but thus refreshed he presented a combination of 

 moisture, mud and profanity that would have caused a 

 smile of serious dimensions on the countenance of even 

 an indifferent spectator. My smile could be heard for 

 eighty rods, until a stare that meant a library threw me 

 into convulsions. This time he was wet only up to his 

 hips. He acknowledged in this hour of confidence that 

 he had but one more wish in this vale of tears, viz. , that 

 your correspondent slide in also. But the tfates were 

 against him. 



The two pilgrims took up their wearisome, drudging 

 route once more with the apathy and resignation of a 

 lame dray-horse. Enthusiasm and perspiration oozed 

 away alike. The day was fading into dusk, and fading 

 were the hopes of clearing the swamps that night. Al- 

 ready a location some distance off, guarded by some 

 patriarchs of the forest, had been suggested as a suitable 

 bed-chamber, when Bob exclaimed, "There!" and pointed 

 to the horizon, where he had descried the telegraph poles 

 that usually line railroads. Much more jubilant than we, 

 the crew of Columbus could not hav« shouted, "Land!" 



The beginning of the end of our afflictions in view, our 

 ardor was inspired. We hoofed on until dark. Many 

 deer trails on and beside the track. Thumping and crash- 

 ing in the underbrush, betraying some an tiered monarch's 

 stampede, at one time induced your tenderfoot to hobble 

 back a distance, but it was love's labor lost. 



Though we had to brave the mutiny of our bowels, we 

 went without supper in order to have a meal in the morn- 

 ing. Too fatigued to cut down browse, we threw our 

 weary limbs down under some stately pines, and soon 

 there reigned at the dying embers the eilence of a well- 

 merited repose, which even that feathered hermit, the 

 owl, could but little disturb. 



Tuesday, after the last coffee and the last crunibs of 

 crackers bad been disposed of, we had five more miles to 

 walk, when we sighted Scott station. At noon the steam 

 horse dashed up and hurried us homeward. At Eagle 

 River station lay two beir skins and one bear that had 

 been killed recently. At Pelican Lake an ad miring crowd 

 surrounded a 30-pound maskallonge, whose fortunate 

 possessor was proceeding to pack it in ice. In the even- 

 ing we anchored at Oshkosh. Having been without a 

 shave for two weeks we closely resembled porcupines. 

 Our clothing, impregnated with smoke and excessive 

 sweating, smelled rotten. We limped along with lacer- 

 ated ankles and unwieldy packs like Jewish peddlers. 

 With our dilapidated slouch hats and the duatand dirt of 

 swamp and railroad travel clinging to our garments, we 

 were, without flattery, the disgrace of respectable scare- 

 crows; and we were glad when, two hours later, we could 

 enjoy home and a huge bar of soap. 



The narrated chain of disappointments hardly confers 

 the idea of recreation, but as we both are cranks on 

 camping, we consider it so. The undersigned has been 

 in that section four times since — twice alone — and con- 

 trived to amuse himself prodigiously by avoiding several 

 crying follies, to wit: Hammocks, new, ill-fitting boots, 

 too heavy packs, too many cartridges, etc. (Of etceteras 

 we had about a bushel too much.) He took a tent and 

 enough cash; and if another enthusiast contemplating an 

 excursion to those wilds profits by these remarks, the 

 above account has accomplished its mission. 



Milwaukee, Wis. TAMARACK. 



Words of Appreciation. 



Fokkst and Stisam, tlie most delightful of the weekly journals 

 devoted to the rod and gun and out door life in general, is en- 

 larged to thirty-two pages with the new year. "Oar boyhood 

 number" it aptly labels the first issue of the year because of the 

 entertaining collection of boyhood reminiscences of the rare old 

 fellows whose recollections go back to the days of flint-lock guns. 

 "Cleaning the Old Gun," by Rowland E. Robinson, of Ferrisburg, 

 Vt., has a mellow charm about it that will touch the heart of 

 many a sympathetic reader; and Orin Belknap's story of the 

 treacherous flint-lock which would go off with alacrity at any 

 small game, but positively wouldn't shoot at a deer, will tickle to 

 laughter the venerable sportsmen who recall the trials of the 

 fickle precursor of the percussion lock. In addition to the liberal 

 space devoted to fishing and shooting, Fohest and Stbea m pays 

 considerable attention to canoeing and yachting. Hardly a week 

 passes without a presentation of plans and description of some- 

 thing novel in the way of canoe or yacht. — Sprinujuld (Mom.) Re- 

 publican. 



Fohest Anjj Stream, commencing with the thirty-eighth vol- 

 ume, has been enlarged to thirty-two pages owing to the growth 

 of the special interests to which the paper is devoted and a de- 

 mand for more space. This very popular journal was established 

 eighteen years ago, and has encouraged sports with the rod and 

 gun, and has heen iustrumeutal in developing manly recreations. 

 It has steadily grown in worth, influence and circulation, and is 

 one of the leading publicatious in the country,— Gfiest\ T (Pfh) 

 Times. 



The Fohest and Stream came out this week with a new cover 

 and in an enlarged form. The reading matter, as alwayB, is of an 

 interesting nature.— New York Times. 



2>ic&erausge&er be3 <SpoxU unb 3agb=SBiatte§ "Forest & Stream" in 

 91eto Watt tjaben uu§ eine feljr } Jjbit nuSgeftattete, retdjljnliige Summer 

 ilireS 3Matte§ 3utommeu ta(fcu. SBh' fbuuett basfelbe jebem SteMj'cifetr be* 

 e t>le n 9Cnib)ne\!e6 aitps rtiigetegeutudijic empfetjleu.— ©jltwj; Gitti Gcumer. 



THE SUMMER ROOSTS OF BIRDS. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



The article in Forest and Stkeah. entitled "Summer 

 Robin Roosts," was a great surprise to me. I had studied 

 the subject for years and thought I owned the copyright. 

 It was the first intimation I had received that others were 

 engaged in the same study. 



While the article is exhaustive on the methods of flight, 

 etc., it fails to give a satifactory reason wlvy such resorts 

 are established. 



My disposition is such, that I am never satisfied with a 

 fact because it is a fact; I want to know why it is a fact. 

 To this end I have studied the summer roosts of birds. 



I commenced my observations in Maine, but did not 

 meet with success in that State. But my seven years of 

 bird study on the Cape has resulted in giving me a clue 

 to tbe mystery. 



In this locality the robiu is persecuted by the gunner. 

 He has become a wary, suspicious bird. A limited num- 

 ber, however, breed on the Cape, and several small roosts 

 are known to me. 



One roost is in a mixed grove (oak and pine), near a 

 brook, and not far from my cabin. " During two seasons 

 I patiently watched this roost, but not a hint of its origin 

 did I receive to repay me for my trouble. 



About this time I noticed that other birds formed roosts, 

 or resorts (as I called them in my note book). I noticed 

 also that in these resorts the birds were such as rear two 

 broods in a season. 



One resort, in thick shrubbery surrounding a small 

 pond, was patronized by catbirds, song sparrows, Mary- 

 land yellowthroats, brown thrashers and towhee bunt- 

 ings. All these birds rear two broods in a season. I at 

 once adopted the theory that the rearing of two broods 

 bad something to do with establishing roosts or resortB. 



The next season, after forming this conclusion, I care- 

 fully watched the first broods of all tbe robins in my 

 locality. I discovered the mystery, but not through the 

 robins. A pair of pet towhee buntings gave me the clue. 

 These birds nested near the cabin, and the female brought 

 the first brood, when large enough, into the dooryard. 

 For some time she fed the little ones on bread, supple- 

 mented by insects gleaned in the flower garden. The 

 male did nothing toward the support of his family until 

 the female commenced a nest for a second brood. Then 

 be took charge of the first brood. He fed the youug 

 birds in the dooryard day after day, until the second 

 brood was out of the shell, when be removed his charge 

 to a bird resort. He spent the most of his time about the 

 dooryard with his mate, usually flying away to the resort 

 twice a day to look after the welfare of the first brood. 

 Every night he flew away to the resort. 



When the birds of the last family could fly and had 

 learned to peck food, the banished ones were brought 

 back. Both families were taken to the resort at night 

 time. As the season advanced, more and more of the 

 daytime was spent at the resort. 



Thus the pet towhee buntings gave me a clue to tbe 

 origin of bird resorts. 



Since that day I have watched many broods of birds: 

 towhee buntings, robins, song sparrows, catbirds and 

 others. I have found it an invariable rule that the male 

 removes the first brood to the resort before the second is 

 hatched out. The object of this is to give the female a 

 chance to rear the last brood unmolested. That this pre- 

 caution is adsolutely necessary, is evident when one ob- 

 serves how persistently the deserted birds pursue the 

 mother and clamor for food. She can escape them only 

 by hasty flight. 



Birds possess intelligence far beyond the realm of in- 

 stinct. The features of song, nesting and migration are 

 educational and not instinctive. Hermit. 



THE DEER-LICK BIRD. 



IN reading your paper I see that there is some differ- 

 ence of opinion as to names of birds and animals. 

 Now, we boys that were brought up or rather came up 

 in the backwoods, neither knew nor cared for any of the 

 scientific names of birds and animals, "and the names 

 which we first learned are the proper names for us still, 

 and will remain so during our lives. With us the ruffed 

 grouse will always be a partridge, and the porcupine will 

 always be a hedge hog. However, the class of back- 

 woodsmen which I represent have nearly all passed 

 away. 



In my boyhood days one of my favorite song birds was 

 (perhaps) the wood or hermit thrush. We called it the 

 little night lark or deer-lick bird, as its notes were heard 

 tbe first in the morning and the latest at night. It was 

 mostly found far back in the deep forest, and was seldom 

 seen near the clearings. 



The scream of the bluejay is not much to his credit as 

 a song bird, but a close observance will prove him to be 

 quite an interesting bird. I have sat for hours under the 

 beeches watching the singular antics of the bluejay. He 

 is the liveliest of all birds, never sits still moping on a 

 limb, but alights on a treetop, drops along down on every 

 limb, picking up here and there a bug, seed or nut which 

 has been hidden under the bark or moss by himself or 

 some other bird or squirrel; and on the lower branches 

 he meets perhaps bis mate, when he pours forth such a 

 flow of soft musical language, all the while bowing and 

 scraping as politely and gracefully as a French dancing 

 master. I could not distinguish the language from Ger- 

 man, Choctaw or French, but presume that it was just 

 pure bird language. Then he starts up the tree again 

 hopping from branch to branch until he reaches the top, 

 during which time he has counterfeited some of the notes 

 of several song birds that happen to be near by. In fact 

 his meddling propensities makes him a sort of terror and 

 a nuisance among song birds. The bluejays do not 

 migrate; the woods that keep them all summer hold 

 them through the winter, and let it be never so cold they 

 are out all the same. 



Speaking of winter birds brings to inhid the little tom- 

 tit or chickadee. These beautiful little innocents seem 

 to be just as happy during the coldest winter days as in 

 the heat of summer. Far back midst the deepest of deep 

 snows and the stormiest of stormy days, I have shared 

 my lunch with these little feathered mites as they would 

 drop down by the half dozen or more from the thick 

 branches of the treetops. and their tameness was pleasing 



