306 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



tNov. 5, 1891, 



SMOKE WREATHS. 



IT is, as you see, a very ordinary brier-wood with an 

 amber mouthpiece. "^The amber has been broken o£t 

 and rudely mended with the brass shell of a cartridge. 

 The leather case is scratched and worn, and its velvet 

 lining is faded. Just an old brier-wood pipe. But then 

 you remember Aladdin's lamp was old and battered so 

 that no one guessed its wonderful power. As the magic 

 lamp was only for its possessor, so this old pipe unfolds 

 its secrets only to me, its owner. 



I am not much of a smoker, and 1 use my pij)e but 

 seldom. It is smoked of tener by others, who never get an 

 inkling of its magic properties, but think of it simply as 

 a sweet one which they enjoy. 



But when I light it, and the curling wreaths of blue 

 smoke float gently upward, while the subtle influence of 

 the tobacco soothes the senses, then it is that it becomes, 

 to me, different from other pipes. On those same curling 

 wreaths of smoke I am carried away to other days and 

 scenes, some of which are separated from the present by 

 long intervals of both time and space — to places and times 

 when the old pipe was my companion and in the smoke 

 come visions which, while ever changing, are replete 

 with vivid pictures, familiar forms and well-loved faces. 

 Wild scenes most of them are; mountains, forests, lonely 

 lakes and rushing rivers. Places where the cry of the 

 loon, the tread of deer, the splash of leaping trout are the 

 sounds which mingle with the voice of the wind in the 

 pines trees. And the faces— three there are which come 

 oftenest, and one is more often a reality than an illusion, 

 though in the smoke I see it again by my side in the 

 woods and by the streams; the sweet face of a woman into 

 whose dear eyes God grant I may look for many years to 

 come. And the other two — one, a younger brother whose 

 love of nature is the same as mine; the other, the best 

 friend a man ever had, and like another older brother in 

 the affection I bear him. 



Other faces there are, some of which have the copper 

 tint of the aboriginal races, but all, except the first one, 

 are far away under the blue skies of New England, many 

 miles from our home on the shores of Lake Michigan. 



As I touch my match to the tobacco I have in mind a 

 stanza from Whittier, who above all others is the poet of 

 New England, of her history, her traditions and her 

 people. 



"Wildly round our woodland quarters, 



Sad-voiced autumn grieves; 

 Thickly dowu these swelling waters 



Float his fallen leaves. 

 Through the tall and naked timber, 



Column-like and old, 

 Grleam the sunsets of November, 



From their skies of gold." 



The lines run through my mind, and they and the magic 

 of the pipe form in the curling smoke a picture. 



On the shore of a lonely lake in the wilderness a giant 

 pine stands alone near the water. Some of its branches 

 are bare and dead; some are clothed with the living 

 green. Beneath the pine tree is a small tent gleaming 

 white in the twilight, and in front of it a camp-fire is 

 burning merrily, throwing out a grateful heat and cheer- 

 ful light. Back of the camp is the forest, through which 

 many and many a mile intervenes between the little tent 

 and the nearest settlement. la front is a strip of hard, 

 white, curving beach, stretching for half a mile around 

 the water; and the sand is covered with the tracks of 

 deer: a larger hoof print shows where a moose has come 

 out to quench his thirst. Across the placid surface of the 

 lake in which the dying sunlight is reflected, the purple 

 peaks of a mountain range are sharply defined agaiust the 

 amber sky. To the north a stupendous mountain rears its 

 lofty summit far above the timber line, its black sides 

 showing the white scars of avalanches which occurred no 

 man knows when. A birch canoe is drawn up on the 

 beach and a rod and rifle lean against the tent. The car- 

 cass of a deer hangs on the pine tree, its antlers showing 

 it to be a buck. By the fire two men watch the light fade 

 from the western sky. The one an Indian , the other a 

 white man, and there is no other within many miles of 

 them. For days they have been voyaging down from the 

 head waters of the stream, their frail canoe borne onward 

 by the flood till at last they pitch their tent under the 

 big pine tree on the sand beach. It is late in the after- 

 noon when they land, and after preparing the camp they 

 go out in quest of game. It is a warm, glorious Indian 

 summer day, and as they paddle across the pulsing water, 

 the canoe, now empty of its burden, leaps forward like a 

 thing of life. Across the lake they go and in among the 

 shadowy islands near the inlet. 



The white man in the bosv places his paddle carefully 

 by his side and takes his rifle. On they go through wind- 

 ing channels where great trees overarch the dark water, 

 and the shores are bordered with gi-asses and lilypads. 

 Here and there a maple in its autumnal splendor adds a 

 splash of gaudy color to the sombre evergreen forest. 

 The minarets of the firs and spruces sharply cut the sky 

 and the peace of the dying day is over all. The Indian's 

 paddle is as stUl as death as he sends the canoe along 

 through this beautiful, silent land. Hark! a stealthy 

 tread is heard in the bushes, but nothing is visible. 

 Then a snort from the hidden buck proclaims that his 

 keen nostrils have apprised him of lurking danger. It is 

 useless longer to look for him, and again the canoe steals 

 forward. 



The daylight is fast growing dimmer among the 

 islands, but as the hunters emerge from them into 

 another pond there is more light. This sheet of water is 

 even more lonely than the lake on which the camp is 

 situated. It is smaller and the mountains approach more 

 closely, their dusky slopes hem it in on all sides. How 

 still it is, as if the solitude had never before been disturbed 

 nor the bosom of the lake kissed by gliding prow. As the 

 view first bursts upon the sight it is like a revelation of 

 nature. The eyes of the white hunter search every rod 

 of shore and behind him two other eyes are on the alert. 



No word is spoken; both men sit motionless but the 

 arms of the Indian are working from the shoulders; the 

 Made is not lifted from its element. The canoe, ap- 

 parently without propulsion, goes onward like the shadow 

 of a cloud across the water. 



Suddenly it stops, 



"Nol-ke nah-za-ket,l' whispers the Indian in his own 

 tongue. "There is a deer over there." 



Yes, on the opposite shore can be seen a moving red 

 body, but so far away that but for the motion it might be 

 mistaken for a dead spruce top. Once more the canoe 

 steals forward, but though it moves swiftly there is not 

 the least suspicion of a sound. The rifle is cocked and 

 ready. The distance rapidly decreases and the deer can 

 be plainly seen. It walks along the shore, turns toward 

 the woods and disappears behind the windfall. Has it 

 gone? Is there to be no meat in the camp to-night? The 

 same gliding motion of the canoe continues, and eyes are 

 strained for the reappearance of the game. 



Ha! there it is coming toward the shore. It stops, 

 gazes out across the water, and the canoe ceases to move. 

 It lowers its head to eat and again the silent boat is in 

 motion. The deer is apparently restless; will it remain 

 in sight till the rifle is near enough to speak? Then 

 further up the shore another deer comes out to drink and 

 eat the succulent lily pads. The first one is now stand- 

 ing knee deep in the water drinking. It lifts its head 

 and looks toward the canoe, and then turns toward the 

 woods. It is a buck, and as he turns, a few swift, strong 

 strokes send the light craft swiftly, but just as silently, 

 nearer to him. He is now headed directly away from 

 the hunters and presents a poor mark, but there is no time 

 to lose. The rifle is brought to the shoulder, and as the 

 antlered head is turned to take another look at the strange 

 object on the water, the sharp crack awakens the echoes, 

 and at the sound the buck drops in his tracks. Reverbe- 

 rations bound and rebound across the pond from one 

 mountain to another. The second deer gives one hasty, 

 startled glance, and with prodigious leaps seeks the cover 

 of the woods. Another cartridge is thrown into the bar- 

 rel, but it is not needed, for when the canoe reaches the 

 quarry it is found lying amid the grass in the edge of 

 the water, shot through the neck, dead. 



"Good shot. Not much time to lose that time," is the 

 brief comment of the Indian as he takes his hunting knife 

 and prepares to dress the animal. 



In a short time the work is done, and then with the 

 fatigue of the day forgotten, the game is placed in the 

 canoe, the bow is pointed campward and the paddles are 

 wielded by arms into which success has infused new 

 life. It is after the return, and the fire has been rebuilt 

 and preparations made for the night, that we see them 

 sitting by the blaze. Two loons out on the lake and the 

 deer tracks in the sand are the only signs of life. The 

 light fades away and the night comes. The soft, black 

 shadows creep out from under the hemlocks and spruces, 

 and gradually envelop all things in their sombre cover- 

 ing. Through the branches of the pines atove the tent 

 the moon floats slowly upward and the stars begin to 

 twinkle in the sky. 



The silence is broken only by an occasional remark, 

 sometimes in the soft, musical language of the Abenaki, 

 sometimes in the more sonorous English. More wood is 

 heaped upon the fire, and as the warm flame leaps into 

 the air, dissipating the darkness in one small circle, but 

 making the outer blackness jnore intese, they sit and 

 smoke. 



And one of them is smoking an old brier wood pipe. 



W. A. Brooks. 



THE RED SHANTY CLUB. 



AN account of a week spent in a permanent camp, on 

 the shore of Barnegat Bay, may interest some of 

 the readers of the "good old paper." The first week of 

 August, 1891, will long be remembered by four "camping 

 cranks," who had fun galore in a tight little shanty built 

 on stout piles driven into the salt meadow. 



Everj'thing having been collected, on the morning of 

 Aug. 1 the duffle was packed on board the crack naphtha 

 launch NejDtune, owned by the writer's father, and we 

 started down Toms River. The wind was blowing hard 

 southeast, and when we got out in Barnegat Bay we 

 caught it fast and furious. A few minutes suificed to 

 wet us to the skin, our oil-skins being spread over our 

 duffle. The Neptune, 25ft. over all, and a staunch little 

 craft, rode the heavy seas admirably, and we made the 

 run of 7^ miles in one hour and twenty minutes, with a 

 heavy yawl in tow, having water barrels on board. 



The shanty is painted red, hence the name of the club, 

 which, by the way, is a close corporation on account of 

 the shanty being 8xl3ft. in size. We soon had things 

 snugly fixed. Two of us had bunks, one over the other, 

 and the other two fellows had one a cot and the other the 

 floor. But we had good bads— after we had appropriated 

 enough salt hay for mattresses. 



We spent the ensuing week fishing, crabbing, swim- 

 ming, and last, but really it ought to be first, eating. 

 If any dyspeptic wants to find a good appetite let him 

 I spend a weak or two near the salt meadows; the salt air 

 and the peculiar smell of the black salt mud will make 

 him want to eat a cow raw. Mem, White potatoes 

 boiled in salt water have a remarkably fine flavor. 



Business compelling our return to office and shop, on 

 Aug. 11 we reluctantly broke camp, resolved to spend a 

 whole month next summer in the "Red Shanty." 



Broadbill. 



TEXAS TURKEYS. 



WITH very little ceremony in preparation, but with 

 ample of everything that was substantial in the 

 way of camp fare loaded into our wagon, we mounted to 

 the seat aboixt 10 o'clock, and bidding a merry good-bye 

 to the ladies, went oft' down the road on our way to the 

 hunting ground on the river, leaving all care behind; and 

 living in the present were boys again. After following 

 the public road for a while we turned off into the chap- 

 paral, and taking a trail reached the river about 2 o'clock. 



We rested in camp until late in the afternoon, and then 

 stai'ted out in separate directions to sit around and listen 

 for turkeys to fly up to roost. My old friend and I went 

 together. Just about dusk we heard one gobbler away 

 off, but too far to reach him; so when it became dark and 

 it was useless to wait longer on our stand, we started 

 back to our camp about one-half mile away through the 

 woods. The timber which skirted the creek was so nar- 

 row on the side which we were traveling that we felt 

 certain if any turkeys were roosting on the creek we must 

 pass under them. We moved cautiously, expecting to 

 see one at any time on the roost. When about 300 or 

 800yds. from camp I felt my companion pull me; and he 

 pointed ahead into a large tree. I knew what it was at 

 once. Who that has hunted the magnificent game can 



ever forget? That form was unmistakable, so plump, so 

 graceful, so erect and keenly alert to all surroundings, it 

 poised on the limb in a nonchalant attitude, clearly out- 

 lined against the horizon, while we below were obscured 

 by the shadows of the trees. I saw at a glance that it 

 was a nice gobbler, and raised my gun to bring him down. 

 My companion whispered "Wail," and then cautioned 

 me that I must not mistake a large grapevine running 

 parallel with him for his head and neck and shoot that. 

 Although I felt confident that I could see distinctly, still 

 I waited to take a good look, and being satisfied of him, 

 drew a bead on his head and neck and fired. Out he 

 rolled, and the fall was a heavy one, echoing through the 

 woods far and near. We ran to him , neglecting to look 

 about for others in the trees, as we should have done; 

 and they commenced to fly oxxt, quite a bunch leaving 

 us. We went into camp, and soon retiring to bed, slept 

 the sleep that can only come to those who live out of 

 doors. 



Long before daylight next morning we were" up sitting 

 around a merry crackling fire drinking coffee and wait- 

 ing until it should be time to start out to hunt them on 

 the roost. When we started each went in different 

 directions. This time I was all alone. Going up the 

 creek near to where we had been the evening before, I 

 sat down to listen and wait. It was quite dark under 

 the trees, but the sky was lit by myriads of twinkling 

 stars. The stillness was oppressive," not a voice of ani- 

 mal life to break the quiet, all nature seemed hushed in 

 sweet repose. The witchery of the scene was contagious 

 and I caught the inspiration. Sweet spirits, voiceless 

 and unseen, hovered near, and the atmosphere, heavy- 

 laden with perfumes of early spring blossoms, breathed 

 into motion by the plants and flowers. The large forest 

 trees towering majestic, silent and stately in the shadowy 

 background, were massive columns in an enchanted castle 

 in which I, the sole occupant, was musing all alone. 

 How small I seemed and how grand the surroundings, 

 brought thus face to face with nature. How weak was 

 I and all mankind compared to this. Where is the use 

 of the perpetual struggle going on the world; the strong 

 trampling down the weaker; the rich man's continual 

 strife to accumulate more riches; the poor man's cease- 

 less struggle for bread? What care I, living in this en- 

 chanted garden, for stocks or bonds, or for panics or 

 crises? Who would not lay aside the jealousies, the heart- 

 burnings and follies of society to abide in these surround- 

 ings? 



My reveries were interrupted here by the twittering 

 whistle of the redbh-d, the first tiny herald of the ap- 

 proach of morning. Soon his note is answered by an- 

 other, and another, and then taken up by all the feathered 

 tribe of the woods. Then sound multiplies sound in 

 gradual volume, until all the world seems to be awaking 

 from its slumber. Soon the god of day gives one shy- 

 peep — like a lazy boy from his bed — over the surround- 

 ing hills, probably to ascertain if the little stars were still 

 watching. But they were not; the timid little things 

 had long since said their good-night and hastened away 

 to hide. Thrown back on the curtain of mist and dark- 

 ness which so recently enveloped the world, and with 

 one bound the sun springs out full, robed in the grandest 

 of his habiliments and sheds a smile over the whole 

 world. His coming dispels my dreams — for dreams van- 

 ish with the stars — and as I have not heard any gobbling 

 I rise and take my way back to camp. Soon the others 

 come in, my Richmond friend with two nice turkeys, but 

 both hens. Our host would not hunt except to pilot us 

 about, he did not even carry his shotgun with him from 

 the house, for he said he wanted us to have a good time 

 and do the shooting. 



We passed the day pleasantly around the camp resting 

 and fishing. For dinner we had fish and the breast of 

 turkey cooked as steak, which was delicious. 



For the evening hunt we planned to cross the river and 

 hunt in the broader bottom of the other side, hunting the 

 turkeys at night while on the roost. It was too late in the 

 season to do this successfully, as the leaves had all come 

 out thick on the elm trees, making it hard to see them at 

 night. We went a mile above cami) to a shallow ford and 

 crossed over the river, waiting until it became quite dark, 

 and started down the bank of the stream. We had poor 

 luck, scaring out quite a number, but killing none for 

 quite a while. When about opposite to our camp aud we 

 had been scattered out into the woods for some time, I 

 came upon my companions standing close together and 

 holding a whispered conversation about something in a 

 tree which attracted them. One of them said he thought 

 it was a turkey, but the other said it was a bunch of moss, 

 I guessed what it was, and solved the problem by firing 

 into it, and not waiting to express an opinion on the sub- 

 ject. Out rolled a turkey. My friends were teased of 

 course. This was all we killed, and being near to camp 

 we waded the river and turned into camp and beds. 



The next morning was our last in camp, and we arose 

 early, as usual, and went out to our stands. My host and 

 I went together again on a stand, when, just before it 

 was light good, there opened up quite near us an old 

 gobbler, who was joined in a chorus by others. I went 

 to the roost, which was quite near, as quick as I could , 

 and after looking around soon located the tree which con- 

 tained the leading spirit of the flock. It was hard at first 

 to see him, but when my eyes became accustomed to the 

 surroundings I located him and brought him out. Just 

 before I fired my friend shot one about 30yds. from me 

 with his rifle, but did not get it. After I had fired and 

 was looking into the tree for others which I could hear 

 but not see, my friend came running up to tell me to go 

 to some others not far off. He did not know the tree which 

 I had killed one out of was full of them. Out they all 

 went and left me with only one. That ended the prospects 

 for that bunch, but before I picked up my gobbler to leave 

 there came one from down the creek and went whirring 

 through the trees. As it passed I fired and brought it 

 down with a broken wing, but it got away although I 

 gave it a second barrel at long range, knocking it down. 

 When we got back to camp my other friend was there with 

 a fine gobbler. 



We broke up our camp and started home that day. It 

 was Saturday and we felt that we had enough game for 

 one short hunt. 



The next day our host took us back to Beeville in his 

 hunting wagon; we had enjoyed our hunt to the utmost 

 but were willing to go home, Oa our way in that morn- 

 ing we had no idea of shooting anything, for besides hav- 

 ing had hunt enough, it was' Sunday, vve were all in- 

 clmed to respect the dog. Bnt who pan withstand temp- 



