226 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Sew, 16, 1893. 



THE LAIR OF SOMETHING STRIPED. 



moving on beneath the waves, the birds are flying south- 

 ward overhead. I'll hoist my sail and follow the moon 

 road between the fishes and birds and think of ways to 

 catch the striped bass. Egbert T. Morius. 



Now York, 



would be the nearest that I can come to the sound h e 

 made with it. 



^ As we left the shore his remark was, "We hah go dis 

 side enight. Win' come dat way. Mus' take care moose 

 not smell um us." 



We landed on quite a straight shore, some half mile in 

 length. Near the center of it a small hiU abutted on the 

 lake. The whole shore was well wooded. When we had 

 passed up over the hill, though (so far as I could s^e), there 

 seemed to be a barren. At least there were patches of 

 low growth, with blueberry bushes scattered here and 



, there among scrub birches and bushes of larger growth. 



I In one of these largest openings I was placed, or rather 

 on the edge of one. There was a large rock at my right, 



I and at my left the overturned root and trunk of some 



I old forest tree. As the Indian left me he said, "Dis good 

 place for you stan' an' sit. Watch um dat open. Me go 

 back dare in woods. Call um moose. He come. You 

 see um in moonlight. You hear um come. Make big 

 noise sometime. Hook uan tree. Don't miss um. Hope 

 he come." 



With this Niiel was off in the direction we had just 

 come, and it was not long before I heard the wind goose- 

 hog-and-frog sound from that neighborhood. After a 

 time it seemed to be answered by a sound with no more 

 music than in that from behind me. This appeared to come 

 nearer for a time, but at length it ceased. Meanwhile I 

 thought over the day past and what I had seen— the 

 water, the wilderness, the variegated woods. The day had 

 been perfect, the very climax of an October day. There 

 had been a slight haze in the atmosphere, and that 

 peculiar smell of ripen'^d and decaying vegetation that is 

 so hard to describe. And now here I was, with desola- 

 tion itself around me. Not a sound to be heard except 

 the occasional hoot of an owl or the call of a loon, and 

 that weird and monotonous lamentation that Nuel was 

 making. The evening itself was perfection. There was 

 a three-quarter moon in the heavens, without a cloud to 

 hide its face, and the air was so quiet that one could 

 almost hear himself breathe. 



I had listened and listened and heard nothing butNuel's 

 call since he had received his last short faint reply some 

 two hours since. I was getting chilled and the moon was 

 casting her shadows pretty well on my back when Nuel 

 said to me, "No use enight, Doc' or. He no come. Maybe 

 he got cow roun' here. No wan' nudder one. We go 

 camp. " 



I was not sorry to return, though I must say I regretted 

 that we could not entice that moose further. My back 

 was beginning to remind me that warmth and rest would 

 do me no harm, and that the exertions of the day had 

 not been light. 



It was between 12 and 1 when we reached our camp- 

 ing place. Here a fire was soon kindled and we vvarmed 

 up some cold tea, which with some pilot bread consti^j 

 tuted our supper. 



Nuel was very silent this evening. He had hardly 

 spoken a word on our way over except to say, "Doc'or, 

 me disappoin'. Me tot sartin we get um." Now he 

 simply said, "Ingin tired. He go sleep. You go too?" 



**Yes, Nuel," replied I, "better luck next time. I hope 

 we will always have such nights." With this I crawled 

 under the canoe and knew no more until I awoke the 

 next morning with the sun shining in my face vmder the 

 edge of the canoe. 



Nuel was still asleep and I thought I would let him be 

 until the breakfast was nearly ready. I felt as fresh as 

 a lark myself and I was particularly anxious that he 

 should be rested. However, I had hardly got the fire 

 lighted when he opened his eyes and said, "Doc'or, how* 

 you feel um dis mornin'? Ingin feel um good. Wan 

 hab big feas'. Eat um tree duck. You get more and big 

 fish edny." 



"All right. You pick the ducks theU, while I get the 

 things ready." 



It was not long before the breakfast was prepared, and 

 Nuel was scarcely through his second duck when he 

 began, "Now, Doc'or, sartin one moose roun' here. May 

 be two. I t'ink two. But sartin one. I_take you for 

 duck and fish, and den me go look for dem." Much time, 

 all day. Goin' to be fine." 



So soon as breakfast was over Nuel said, "Come now. 

 We go hab hunt. You bring um gun, fish rod. We get 

 um sumfin eat for all day." 



When we got into the canoe he paddled almost directly 

 the same way he had the evening before, remarking as 

 we started out, "I dink somefin. Wan see. Wan go long 

 dat shore. You fish in stream. Me look." 



It was not long before we landed near the mouth of a 

 brook that poured its waters into the lake, a few hundred 

 yards above the place of our landing the evening before. 

 Nuel had hardly left me before I heard him grunt out, 

 "Ugh a. I tot so." 



"What is it now?" I called out. 



"You jes' come an' see, Doc'or." 



When I reached Mm he pointed down to the sand on 

 the shore and said: "You see um dat track? Dat track 

 of big moose, berry big. An' debble moose, too, you call 

 'em. Berry cunnin'. Not come roun' dare, but «wim 

 'cross. Come up behine. Smell um me. You come '1 mg. 

 You see um track. Him make no noise las' night, w'en 

 walk um 'long here." 



I was led to follow him, and sure enough we soon came 

 to a place about lOOyds. from where Nuel had been call- 

 ing, where it was very evident the moose had stood, 

 turned aroxmd several times, and then made off, taking 

 the water not far from where the canoe was drawn up. 



"I tell you, we have cunnin' moose to get dis time. But 

 neber miue, I know him ways now. I guess we get him. 

 an' him cow, too. He got cow roun' here. No big moose 

 like him widout cow somewhere." 



We soon had all the trout we wanted, I thought more 

 than we really required. But Nuel said: "Ilab um 

 plenty," and I kept on until there must have been nearly 

 12lbs. I think the Indian took great delight in seemg 

 them rise to the fly. When I failed to hook my fish he 

 would say, "Dat wise fish. He wan' to smeU um bait 

 'fore he bite um." 



Before noon we were back to the camping place, and 

 by 5 o'clock had a nice shanty built, everything was made 

 ready for our evening expedition, and half an hour before 

 sundown we set off. 



This time Nuel changed his direction. He went toward 

 the head of the lake and on the same side we were. In- 

 deed when we landed we were not half a mile from where 

 we had taken the lake two days before. Here the Indian 

 drew up the canoe, and after lifting out my heavy coat 



That rock's awash, aswash. Tighter draws the mus- 

 sel on his byssus The tide has turned. A thousand kelp 

 streamers point the way the flood must go, and eagerly, 

 not drooping as at last of ebb when obedience had seemed 

 to satisfy their importuning. 



The seeping barnacles make merry and clap their 

 valves, for diatoms are coming, the sweet, the beautiful, 

 food for the rough and ugly; coming from the devious 

 gardens that they glorified among the schist splinters 

 and boulders, beneath the swelling and subsiding and 

 unceasing flow of gr«"en illumined sea waters. 



The rock is yet uncovered. No 'tis not. And then 

 once more it seems to sink, till the lolling pelage of wrack 

 lifts up a sign for help to the slow sweep of an engulfing 

 wave, and weltei-s disconsolate though the saved rock 

 again appears. It is not to disappear for long, this 

 archaic boulder of granite. It has never moved but once 

 e'en though the mammoth rubbed it with his wooly ear 

 or the heedless elasmosaurus boimced against it in the 

 chase. It moved but once, and then the straining glacier 

 dropped its load at the foot of the cliff. Up the bold gray 

 cliff the autumn breaker boimds, roaring and splurging 

 with hoarse challenge, till clouds of spray separated in 

 the churning turmoil float up to higher ether to make 

 sunset nimbus, and show the October foliage what gentle 

 beauty may come from harsh parentage as well as from 

 homes of peace. 



At the foot of the cliff purling summer combers smoothe 

 the hard walls that resist. 



The boulder, sunken but a fathom at the ebb, rises not 

 enough to arouse the ire of forceful antagonists, and un- 

 moved as sphinx to the questions of the changing seas, it 

 needs not to turn before the brunt, not topple to the 

 wooing. Now the tide runs smoothly over it. Caught in 

 an eddy a red seaweed whirls and spreads its shoots, and 

 a sertularia colony swinging near has descended to mim- 

 icry of botany without putting on any air of condescen- 

 sion. The tremulous algee waving from cliff to boulder 

 and from boulder to cliff, make in the water a clear 

 arcade, a runway. Out from a crevice glides a cautious 

 chogset into the runway, now poising by a crimson sponge, 

 then backing slowly underneath a translucent green sheet 

 of sea kale. A crab makes haste to cross the round yel- 

 low bottom pebbles, carrying a burden that he fain would 

 hide, for this is a lair, and he knows it. What is his 

 burden, though? Oh, look, you unbelievers in disinter- 

 ested friendship. 'Tis a stranger crab that had to shed its 

 armor, and unprotected needs the guarding of a friend 

 for two whole days or more. There's nothing "in it," as 

 the politicians say, for the faithful protector, and yet he 

 will not weary, but fight valiantly if necessary, and lose 

 his very life, and for that there is no reward nor other 

 life. 



Like silver arrows a troop of spearing nervously dart 

 from rock to wrack and from algae to the surface, not 

 stopping, but alert, leaving a lazy enemy no hope. What 

 is it they fear in this quiet aisle? A slow tautog drops 

 with the current into the rim way and then as deliberately 

 has gone. 



A shrimp escaping from the sprightly pilot-fish stupidly 

 backs straight into the clutches of a dull sea anemone at 

 the bottom of the boulder. This is what might be caUed 

 a turn in affairs. The pilot-fish knew how to Catch a 

 shrimp. The anemone did not. The anemone has the 

 shrimp, and possessing now a fortune it withdraws from 

 old friends and becomes exclusive and disagreeable. 



A sinuous eel slides in and out amongthe rocks, searching 

 for love-lorn nereid, or for mantis praying for rehef from 

 danger, which is granted till danger comes, and then he 

 is lost in spite of supplications, for nature cares no more 

 for the backsliding mantis than she does for sleek eels. 

 The eel keeps near the bottom, as though fearing. He 

 dreads not the bluefish nor bonita nor swift squeteague, 

 for the runway between the boulder and the cliff is not 

 deep enough for them. See them further out, though, 

 rising in the curl of a mounting billow till the sun has 

 shot through beneath them, leaping with an energy that 

 goes with fish that fight strong tides for life, not" resting, 

 never lagging. How dangerous such needing maws as 

 theirsi An ink-laden squid pumps faster with his siphon 

 engine as he steers in gracef iil curve through the runway. 

 He too suspects that it is a lurking place. What shadow 

 slowly moved across the bottom then? Was it from some 

 pausing cormorant or circling tern? From this jutting 

 storm-bleached jag of cliff I dare to look up, but no bird 

 flies overhead. 'Twas but the shifting of the kelp per- 

 haps, for down in the runway waters I see almost aa 

 clearly as through the north wind. 'Twas but the waving 

 of sea fronds. 



Why though has all sign of life stopped in the run- 

 way? The shadow falls across the bottom, and following 

 itfrom behind the curtain of fronds there comes forth a fish 

 so stately, so dignified in bearing, that surely he deigns 

 not to notice these lesser fish that flee from his presence. 

 Like a wolf he is. Not in outer likeness perhaps, but in 

 demeanor, and in weight, and that great weight made up 

 of all the sorts of things that swim the tide or crawl the 

 bottom, collected by him and made to form a fish of won- 

 drous strength, with dark straight stripes to mark the 

 shapely sides. A clear stern eye has he, and jaw like any 

 trap. His glistening scales are white where white, and 

 black they are where black. Resting upon broad fins he 

 balances beneath the sea arbor of his lair and shows no 

 fear, but seems to be among familiar surroundings. FU 

 quietly toss to him a choice bit of menhaden. It slowly 

 drifting sinks. The film of oil rises. He takes the bait 

 and looks for more. I'll give it to him. There's a hook 

 in it, and fastened to the hook 600ft. of hard-laid line. 

 Down the current it settles. He spreads a broad tail and 

 turns quizzingly sidewise to take a look, then back he 

 bends, and turning a finely outlined nose into the tide 

 rests again, and lets the baited hook slide by. 



The sun sinking below the horizon takes one last look 

 into the sea by a trick of angular refraction, and finding 

 the bass all safe calmly moves away to make day else- 

 where for awhile. 



The chink of a migrating finch overhead, the chirp of a 

 cricket, are evening sounds, and their hax-mony is not i 

 marred by the splash of a hooked baas. : 



The moon rises. It makes a straight and lighted road 

 through the midst of dark heaving waters. The fishes are I 



THE MUSEUM MOOSE. 



(Continued from page S09.') 



An early hour the next morning found us on our way 

 again. Nuel said, "We hab long way to go, an mornin' 

 best time for duck," 



As we were about to enter the creek in the marsh he 

 said, "Now Doc'or, hab um gun ready. Shoot um mus- 

 quash too. s'pos' you get um chance." 



Hardly had we got inside the outer line of rushes when 

 my eye caught sight of three black mallards not more than 

 twenty yards in front of us, with their necks stretched 

 out and looking at the approaching canoe in every atti- 

 tude of surprise. "See um," said Nuel. "See um quick. 

 Ooin' fly." They did fly, but two of them fell within 

 fifty yards of the canoe. 



"Dat good," said thfi Indian. But he had hardly got the 

 words out of his mouth when up went a flock of nearly a 

 hundred teal, not more than a gunshot away. 



"Ugha!" exclaimed he. "Me no see um. But neber 

 mine, we get um some. Da come back soon. You load 

 vim gun." 



We had no breechloaders in those days and it took 

 some time to load. However, this was done and I was 

 soon ready for another shot. Meanwhile the teal had 

 gone out of sight and Nuel had paddled the canoe nearer 

 the place where they rose. He had just pushed it into a 

 bunch of tall bulrushes, when he said to me in a low 

 voice, "Da comin' dis way like win'. You ready?" 



It was as he said. They were coming in from the lake 

 as fast as they could fly, in a good, compact flock, and 

 low along the water. 



I had not much time to think. All I said to myself was, 

 "Nearly three feet ahead of the leader and both barrels." 

 They went off almost as one report, but I swung around 

 and felt as though I had been struck in the shoulder. 

 Nuel's exclamation was, "Ughal What heap you kill." 



And indeed there was a heap. There were ten of them, 

 and we had not gone a quarter of a mile before we found 

 one more, stone dead. But we saw no muskrats, though 

 there were plenty of places where they had commenced 

 to build their -v^inter houses. Nor had we any more shots 

 at ducks. We might have had, if we had gone but a little 

 way off our course. But it was moose that we were after, 

 and it was very necessary that we should make the most 

 of our time. My desire was to reach the new ground, 

 that Nuel had spoken of, by night. So all our energies 

 were bent upon this. 



We passed through several ponds or arms of the lake, 

 then up a narrow stream, then into another pond, and 

 about 11 o'clock found ourselves apparently at the foot of 

 a range of low hills, clothed with the thickest spruce and 

 fir, it seems to me, I had ever seen. 



"Now we get um dinner," said Nuel, as he brought the 

 canoe to shore. I knew he must be hungry. He had 

 worked with his paddle all the morning, The way at 

 times was so intricate and the water so shallow that I 

 could not give him much help, and now I felt glad that 

 he was to have a rest. 



We had hardly stepped ashore, though, and handed the 

 baggage out, when I heard Nuel utter his usual exclama- 

 tion, "Ugha!" 

 "What is it, Nuel?" 



"You come see. Sartin moose come here. See um track, 

 one, two, tree, one leetle one." 



And sure enough, there were their marks in the soft 

 moss, not twenty feet from where we landed. The tracks 

 were a day old, perhaps, but as Nuel said, "Da show 

 moose been here." 



The Indian was- all excitement now. He said, "We 

 huriy. Hab um chance dis eben. Not much mor'an 

 mile 'cross." 



We did hurry. The dinner was cooked in a very short 

 time, and before 12 we were ready to start on our way. 

 The ducks and partridges were tied together in a bunch 

 and hung up on a tree oefore we started, and all our pro- 

 visions suspended in the same way. Nuel's caution was, 

 "Bear or fisher might fine 'em." 



I could hardly see where he was going, but I knew he 

 was following a trail. How he could steer his canoe 

 through those thick woods was a mystery to me. And 

 yet he did, only having to stop once and take a few steps 

 backward before we rested. 



When we came to a halt he said, "Mor'an half way. 

 Berry tick wood. We go um down hill now. Soon come 

 to lake. Hab um hunt de night." 



But it was a good while before we came to the lake. I 

 could see where it was before we reached the water. As 

 we came to the edge of it, Nuel gave liis usual grunt and 

 remarked, "Now worse ober. We hurry back. Put sad'- 

 bags up here on limb an' guns 'side 'em. We no wan' um 

 gun," 



With this he started back again as lively as though he 

 had carried nothing in coming. Two more loads brought 

 all. And we were launched again by 3 o'clock. 



As we pushed off Nuel said, "Me berry glad me here. 

 Now we get um moose. Maybe dis night. Big barn 

 [barren] off dare. Not rain de night. You no mine sleep 

 um un'er canoe? Me make good camp morrow. Me wan' 

 to hab hunt," 



"All right," said 1. "Let tis get a moose, then, and 

 never mind the camp," 



This lake did not seem to be very long, but it was quite 

 wide, and in the center of it a rounded point made out 

 some distance from the main land. This, 1 could see, was 

 Nuel's destination. Before we reached it, he said, "We 

 Ian' on poin'. Den moose not smell um fire, tobac' smoke. 

 Nice dry place. Me camp here most ebery year, EaU um 

 many moose in dem wood." 



The place was very much as Nuel described it. There 

 were some dead trees upon it, with bits of old dried up 

 skin and some bones lying around. Here we prepared the 

 evening meal, and as the sunUght left the hills pushed off 

 from the shore to what seemed to be a cove on the other 

 side of the lake. 



It is hardly necessary to say that before our going Nuel 

 had provided himself with a birch bark horn. The in- 

 strument was one which (something like the bagpipes to a 

 Scotchman) had music in it only for a moose. The grunt 

 of a pig and the trumpeting of a bullfrog and the squawk 

 of a goose — all these combined and drawn out. This 



