442 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Mat 12, 189S, 



A CHILD OF THE FOREST. 



AH! yes, I know where the lady-slippers grow, 

 " Where woodland HlieB are thickest; 

 I know where the very first May flowers blow, 

 And mushrooms spring up quickest. 



Where the wood thrush starts, 

 Where the brown hare darts 



To its covert down the hollow; 

 And the partridge's dram 

 And the wild bee's hum 



I know how to follow. 



And the trees they beckon to me, 

 And the trees they whisper to me, 

 And the trees they listen to me, 



And spread their broad arms over; 

 And when the wind blows free 

 The leaflets dance in glee, 

 And birds sing sweet in the tree, 



To me, the forest rover. J. M. Hooper. 



AFTER THIRTY-SIX YEARS. 



DURING the first week of October, 1890, I visited the 

 home of my boyhood, Theresa, N. Y., I did not go for 

 hunting or fishing, as I did not expect to remain more 

 than a day or two: but my friends persuaded me to stay 

 a week, and I was not loath to do so. It was more than 

 thirty-six years since I had left the old home. For the 

 first ten years I made yearly visits, after which they were 

 less frequent, and then five years would intervene; but 

 the old home has not been forgotten, as one or both of my 

 sons have visited it nearly every year. 



The morning after my arrival was Sunday— I was up 

 with the sun, and as none of the family were about I 

 stepped out of the house, to find it was the morning 'of 

 mornings for a walk through what was left of the old 

 wood adjoining the homestead place, within a hundred 

 rods of the house, and I was not long in getting to it. I 

 recognized the opening that was once the old farm wood 

 road where it came out on the main road, where I was 

 wont to let down the bars when I drove the cows to and 

 from the pasture which lay beyond the wood through 

 which we had to pass. It often happened that it was 

 quite dark while going through these woods, and as there 

 was a story that connected a man with a rope to a certain 

 beech tree on the opposite side of the main road, I did not 

 tarry to investigate it at such times. I did not have to 

 let down the fence bars this morning, they looked as if 

 they had not been put up since the last time I drove the 

 cows through. 



I had not gone ten rods into the woods when a streak 

 of brown feathers started from, nearly under my feet. I 

 suppose that I should say with a whirring sound, as I 

 know there must have been, for I have heard it many 

 times when the same thing has happened in the same 

 woods in my boyhood days; but as I do not hear any- 

 thing now I am content to say that it was a streak of 

 brown feathers that I saw disappear among the hemlock 

 trees. As I stood wondering where it had gone so sud- 

 denly I caught a glimpse of something moving under a 

 small hemlock shrub within a rod from me, and the 

 next instant there was another streak of feathers and 

 (I know as well as if I had heard it) another whirring 

 sound, this time in a different direction. It did not pass 

 out of my sight until it dropped to the ground, about 

 fifteen rods away, without rising more than 10ft. above 

 the ground. I walked up within good gunshot of it and 

 there with my field glass I saw the lordly ruffed grouse, 

 the game bird of America, in all his grandeur, as he 

 leisurely walked about seemingly unconcerned as to my 

 presence. After watching him for at least ten minutes I 

 thought that I would see how near I could get to him. 

 Now it was my turn to be seemingly unconcerned as to 

 his presence, and I walked up within twenty feet before 

 he took to wing and flew over the ledge down among the 

 thick hemlock. I turned to resume my stroll in another 

 direction, and had gone but a few rods when I flushed 

 another, probably his mate, and the one I first put up. 

 Undoubtedly they were having an early breakfast when 

 first disturbed. 



Besides the grouse, there were other species of birds in 

 search of an early meal, most of them summer residents 

 in that locality. I noted the olive-backed and the hermit 

 thrushes; of the warblers there were the pafula-myrtle, 

 blackburnian, chestnut-sided, black-throated blue, black- 

 throated green, black poll, cerulean and bay-breasted. 

 There were also the golden-crowned and ruby-crowned 

 kinglets, the smallest of our northern birds, with the ex- 

 ception of the hummingbird, its weight being about a 

 quarter of an ounce or twice that of the hummingbird. 



I must not forget the quiet little oven-bird, also with 

 its golden crown; hence its name aurocapillus. When I 

 speak of it as quiet I have reference to its movements 

 while on the ground; as to its song, that is quite a different 

 thing — I will not undertake to describe it, as I have not 

 heard it for more than twenty-five years — but it is said to 

 be one of our sweetest songsters. 



But I cannot tarry longer with my little friends, for 

 like them I am thinking of the breakfast that probably 

 awaits my coming, and I turn toward the old home. 

 When I came to the fence that divides the wood from the 

 pasture lot, I perched myself on the top of it "and viewed 

 the country o'er." Then my gaze returned to the near- 

 by surroundings; and there, not two rods away, was the 

 very spot where I witnessed my father kill the first 

 "patridge" (we knew nothing of ruffed grouse then) that 

 I ever saw shot. It must be over fifty-two years since 

 then, but I remember it as well as if it were but fifty-two 

 weeks. My grandfather — a soldier of the Revolution — 

 was sick and wanted a "patridge" to eat. So father and I 

 set out with grandfather's gun,* with which he claimed 

 to have shot many an Indian across the Mohawk River. 

 I remember that the bird was on the ground under a 

 small sweet acorn oak tree, walking away when father 



*It was at this time a percussion pill-lock, having been changed 

 from flint-lock. A few years later it was shortened 12®rl5m., 

 had a new stock and was changed to cap-lock; yet it was "grand- 

 father's old gun," although the grandfather had gone the way 

 that all grandfathers and fathers must go. Then it was claimed 

 by my two older brothers. Later it fell to myself and a younger 

 brother. Later still we loaned it to a friend to go duck hunting, 

 and it fell out of the boat and now lies buried in the mud at the 

 bottom of Hyde Lake, about three miles from the village, 



called it "Biddy! biddy!" and then shot it. The next 

 minute I had it by the feet with the wings flapping its 

 sides, when father took it and wrung its neck, and then 

 I was allowed to carry it, and a prouder boy "you never 

 saw" as I trudged on behind carrying to grandfather his 

 last "patridge." Years afterward I shot many in the 

 same wood. 



On the brink of the ledge to the left still stands the 

 remnant of the old dead oak tree, from the top of which 

 I shot the first crow while I was watching the cornfield 

 in the spring. As I ran up to secure my trophy I noticed 

 blood running from its eyes. As I reached to take it in 

 my hand it rose in the air and commenced flying around 

 in a circle, each circle larger as it gained in height, until 

 finally it disappeared over the wood. A few days after I 

 found it and hung it in the cornfield as a scarecrow. 



Passing through the pasture lot I reach the ledge back 

 of the house, and here, beside the rock that I am stand- 

 ing on, was where I found the hidden nest of the old 

 turkey hen, and from this crevice at my feet my older 

 brother found the broken blade of a sword more than 

 two feet long: supposed to have been left there by the 

 Indians after the war of 1813. But my walk has given 

 me a good appetite for my breakfast, and I enter the 

 house well pleased with my tramp among my old friends 

 the pines, hemlocks and beeches with their feathery 

 denizens, and I mentally promise that it will not be my 

 last during my stay. 



On Tuesday morning following I started for a trip in 

 another direction. One friend offered me the use of his 

 boat, another, a hardware dealer, loaned me his only re- 

 maining gun. 



But to resume my trip down Indian River 1 took the 

 boat at the old Indian landing, which is about twenty 

 rods from the main street of the village, and where, in 

 passing up and down the river, the Indians had to make 

 a carry on account of a fall of about seventy feet. Taking 

 the oars I was soon passing between the island and the 

 cliff on the main shore, where fifty feet above me was 

 "Lovers' Point," and directly under it and just above 

 high water mark was "The Devil's Hole," a smooth, ob- 

 long hole, about two feet deep, cut in the solid rock. A 

 quarter of a mile below the landing Black Creek enters 

 the river, and about the same distance below on the op- 

 posite side Barnes Creek came in. In my boyhood days 

 these were favorite places for ducks. I remember that 

 on my first visit to the old home, in 1854, my younger 

 brother and myself killed seven during the afternoon 

 of the first day of our visit. Another mile below and 

 I come to Mollie Brook, where over forty years ago I 

 paddled my dugout canoe within good gunshot of a duck 

 asleep with head under its wing, which I shot. At pres- 

 ent I should not consider that a sportsmanlike way of 

 shooting ducks, but at that time I considered it a great 

 feat. Two miles from the village I passed Bullhead 

 Rock, where, in the spring, three old fellows with a jug 

 of whisky and fresh beef for bait would sit all night and 

 pull bullheads into the boat with lines without hooks, and 

 toward morning would go ashore, build a fire and skin 

 the fish. On one such occasion one of them, who lived 

 about three miles from the village, and who had taken 

 more than his share, or at least too much, of the contents 

 of the jug, allowed his companions to divide the fish. 

 This they did by taking all the bodies and putting the 

 heads and entrails into his bag, which they placed on his 

 shoulders and started him for home, where he arrived 

 covered with blood and full of whisky, just as his wife 

 was building the morning fire, and when she asked him 

 what he had in the bag he let it slip to the floor and an- 

 swered, "Bull-hic-heads." 



Half a mile from Bullhead Rock I landed at Stony 

 Point, and taking gun and water jug start for the spring 

 of cold water at the foot of the ledge, twenty rods back 

 from the river. I take the gun expecting to find some 

 partridge, as I had in my boyhood days. The sun was 

 well up and shed its warm rays down among the small 

 trees through which I was passing; and I was not long in 

 finding among them many of my little feathered friends. 

 The first to attract my attention was a towhee, busily 

 scratching on the ground under the top of a fallen hem- 

 lock where I was looking for my partridge; while above 

 him, on the trunk of a maple, was the busy little red- 

 breasted nuthatch, circling it in search of the small in- 

 sects; and in the branches above were a number of 

 warblers of different species, also the chickadee and the 

 kinglet. As I approached the spring I had to cross a low 

 wet swale, and here among the low shrubbery I saw for 

 the first time a live specimen of the Kentucky warbler, 

 which, with the exception of being larger, is almost a 

 counterpart of its cousin, the Maryland yellow-throat. I 

 was anxious to secure this specimen, but as I had no shot 

 smaller than No. 8, 1 knew it was useless to try to secure 

 it in good condition at so short distance, and was content 

 in watching it through the field glass for some minutes. 

 In May last I saw the second live specimen of this species, 

 but did not secure it. After loitering on the way for 

 nearly half an hour, I reach the spring, quench my thirst, 

 and filling the jug return to the boat, to find that there is 

 a good breeze on the water in my favor; and cutting the 

 top off a small hemlock shrub and fastening it up in the 

 bow of the boat, I reverse my position by taking the stern 

 seat, and what little rowing is needed is done forward 

 instead of backward . I am on the 1 'long reach" — so called 

 on account of being a nearly straight stretch of the river 

 of a mile and a half, at. the end of which I come to the 

 "bluff," a ledge of rocks 150ft. high, extending along the 

 river more than a quarter of a mile. Near the middle of 

 it is a Bquare hole, about eighty feet above the water, 

 where seventy years ago a pair of eagles had their nest. 

 Opposite the hole was a large hemlock tree. I have often 

 heard my father tell how Curtis Mann, a man more ven- 

 turesome than bis neighbors of the village, climbed the 

 tree and in someway took the young eagles from the nest, 

 which was fifteen feet from the tree. Nearly all the 

 people in the village (of whom there probably were not 

 over fifty) were there to see him perform the perilous 

 feat. A few years ago, and after the old hemlock tree 

 had fallen, one of the village youth had climbed the cliff 

 and fastened the Stars and Stripes in the crevice of the 

 rocks where the eagles built their nest two-thirds of a 

 century ago. 



Below the bluff the river's bank is low and level, and 

 here forty years ago was a cornfield, planted ostensibly 

 to produce food for the cattle and swine of the owner, 

 but really on which fattened the coons, porcupines and 

 squirrels, of which there was an abundance. My oldest 

 brother and H. H. Thompson (at present of Passaic, N. J.) 



shot seven black and gray squirrels out of one tree: and 

 it was a poor tree for squirrel, as it was not over forty 

 feet high. In those days there was what was called 

 "flood trash" along the river's bank, caused by trees fall- 

 ing into the river and driftwood lodging in them. 

 Around these was good black bass angling. There was 

 such a point just below the cornfield. Over thirty-five 

 years ago I was hunting and fishing with Grover Cleve- 

 land down this river. He did the fishing while I did the 

 hunting and rowing. When I got tired of the latter I 

 would go ashore and hunt, leaving him in the boat fish- 

 ing. I remember that in this bed of flood trash Cleve- 

 land hooked a large black bass, but while he was taking 

 it into the boat it threw itself off the hook and disap- 

 peared through the driftwood. I remember also that he 

 patiently sat there for an hour, expecting to catch that 

 same bass, but did not get another offer. And I will 

 "bet a cookie" that he was more anxious to get that fish 

 than he is to-day to get the nomination for the Presi- 

 dency, as he knows just how large the latter is, but he 

 did not know just how large that bass was. The drift- 

 wood and most of the trees have disappeared, and with 

 the latter the black and gray squirrels; but there is still 

 good bass and mascalonge fishing, although I am not 

 giving it much attention this day. I have dragged a 

 stern line part of the time, but have kept it too far from 

 the shore to be very effective. 



I am now opposite Red Lake, which is less than a quar- 

 ter of a mile from the river as the crow flies, but two 

 miles by river to the outlet. About midway between 

 river and lake is a home where fishermen are entertained, 

 and good accommodations are furnished. As I pass 

 around the bend in the river below the house a great blue 

 heron rises from the bank and lazily flaps himself out of 

 gunshot, although I had no idea of harming him. But I 

 remember that on one occasion fifty years ago my father 

 and the late Sewell Newhouse (of steel-trap fame) made 

 a trip down this river to Mascalonge Lake, fourteen 

 miles, when Newhouse wantonly shot fifteen of these 

 beautiful birds. He was a good marksmen and on this 

 occasion he carried a telescope rifle— which to me was 

 the wonder of wonders at that time. After he had 

 killed about a dozen herons my father told him he would 

 not allow him to kill any more: but when he would see 

 one sitting in the top of some dead tree he would say, 

 "Now, Doc, just this one more;" and father, thinking it 

 was impossible for him to kill it at that distance, would 

 give consent. But after the fifteenth had been killed 

 father concluded that Newhouse could kill them as far 

 as he could see them and he would not allow the boat to 

 be stopped to give him another chance. 



But I have now turned the last bend in the rjver before 

 coming to the outlet of Red Lake; and I find that the 

 wind is against me instead of being in my favor, such is 

 the winding of the stream. I throw my hemlock sail 

 overboard and apply more power to the oars, and soon 

 am in the more narrow channel of the outlet. What a 

 change has taken place since the first time I passed through 

 it more than fifty years ago, with my older brothers and 

 the hired man to procure three natural bent white cedar 

 trees, for the'arms to the wagon hay-rack, At that time 

 it was almost impossible to get from the river to the lake 

 on account of trees that had fallen across the outlet. We 

 had to chop out some and pull the boat over others; but 

 now it is free from these and there are no overhanging 

 trees on its banks. As I neared the lake an American 

 bittern started up in front of the boat and flew over the 

 marshy bank and dropped among the cattail flags. 



Crossing the bay at my right, I land on a point where, 

 in 1856, while on a visit to my old home, I helped build a 

 camp, which has since been enlarged and used to enter- 

 tain fishermen and tourists, and here as a tourist I sought 

 entertainment; but to be disappointed, as it was closed. I 

 never start out on an all day tramp without my lunch, 

 and seating myself on the rocks near the landing, I pro- 

 ceeded to entertain myself and the rock bass in the water 

 at my feet, who greedily partook of the "crumbs of bread 

 that I cast upon the water." On the east side of the lake 

 opposite the outlet and extending south half a mile, a 

 bluff of rocks rises from the water's edge 150ft. in height. 

 The smooth rounded top and front show strong indica- 

 tions of the glacial period. Robert Sixberry, probably 

 the first white man to navigate Indian River and this 

 lake, used to sav that from the top of this bluff; he had 

 seen Indians fall from a log while trying to cross the out- 

 let. The distance is between three eights and one-half 

 mile. As he did not live on very friendly terms with the 

 Indians the people were at liberty to draw their own in- 

 ference. Sixberry died near there about twenty years 

 ago, at the age of 111 years 8 months. When about 

 eighty years of age he met with an accident: and my 

 father amputated one of bis legs. Sixberry sat in a chair 

 during the operation and bossed the job. One of the ten 

 lakes in the town of Theresa is named after him: "Six- 

 berry Lake." 



In building the camp where I am taking my lunch we 

 did not do any digging for the foundation, but a few 

 years ago the water from the eaves disclosed to view 

 some fine specimens of Indian pottery; and 'quite a num- 

 ber have been found since. I have a small one, also a 

 very fine stone pipe that was plowed up on the bank of 

 the outlet. 



After my lunch I take the gun and start for a tramp 

 through the wood, following an old deer runway along 

 the lake for some distance, and then leading into the 

 dense forest to a trail running through to Mascalonge 

 Lake. The forest is clothed in all its grandeur— the 

 maple with its green, yellow and rpd; the beach with its 

 sere brown, and the hemlock in its sombre green — all in- 

 termingled with the bright sunlight of this October day. 

 As I leave the high rocky shore of the lake and enter the 

 more open wood below, I am again in the midst of my 

 little feathered friends, all too busy to give me even a 

 passing notice. They are feeding to day, preparing for 

 their flight of to-night, for to-morrow they may be many 

 miles away toward their southern home. A few min- 

 utes later I notice a commotion among some kinglets and 

 chickadees. As I get near to them I notice a large black 

 snake lying doubled up on a small limb about 8ft. from 

 the ground, and the same distance from the trail. On 

 the impulse of the moment I raised the gun and shot it, 

 and the next moment I was sorry that I had done so. I 

 might have retired a short distance and watched them; 

 but it was now too late, for the birds had taken them- 

 selves away at the report of the gun and the snake was 

 writhing on the ground. The shot had taken effect about 

 §, foot from the head, and the same distance from the 



