292 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



■^OcT. 7, 18&3. 



DAYS AT HEMLOCK. 



I.— A RAINY DAY. 



Comfort COve, Hemlock Lake, N. Y. — It commenced 

 to rain during the night. Half awake I heard the drip, 

 drip on the roof of our lodge. Turning over in my bed 

 to seek a warmer position, 1 heard D. L. yawn and turn 

 also. Here at the lake— in a sylvan retreat, as it were — 

 rain would not be a welcome sight, our time being so 

 limited to enjoy the scents, sights and sounds of early 

 autumn. Wouldn't it debar us from just so much out- 

 door pleasure — one less excursion to the grouse-haimted 

 hemlock thicket in the mountain side, one less row along 

 the wooded shore, one less saunter along the tree- 

 embowered highway on the opposite shore? Ahl and this 

 meant so much. 



Only late last night not a cloud_i)bscured the deep ex- 

 panse of the heavens, and the brilliant stars reflected 

 themselves in the mirror-like expanse of the still waters. 

 Not even the weird nocturne of an owl, nor lisping of a 

 leaf. Perhaps the silence was ominous of a coming 

 change! 



Meanwhile the rain set in for an all day's drizzle — one 

 of those persistent drippings that leaves a decided shiver 

 behind. Never before did I realize that nine-tenths of 

 man himself is water, as John Burroughs puts it. 



The forest swooping down to our very door was a mass 

 of wetness. It reminded me of that beautiful line of Wale 

 Whitman: 



"The slumbrous and liquid trees," 



only there wasn't so much slumbering going on in their 

 midst, for the wind was not idle, and every gust shook 

 down the drops by the million. But all was liquidity at 

 any rate. Once an over-ripe maple leaf fluttered down 

 on the porch — an exquisite mixture of deep maroon and 

 ochre — so permeated with sunshine it left a gentle mes- 

 sage behind that led me to tenderly cherish it for the 

 hint it conveyed. 



What of the wild life out there in the woods? Will 

 they also miss the precious sunbeams? Perhaps it doesn't 

 make any particular difference to that saucy little wood 

 darling, the chickadee, lisping amid the dripping beeches? 

 But then nothing will ever harm that '"atom of full 

 breath" since zero weather even improves his winsome 

 notes. Yes, and there was the bark of a black or gray 

 squirrel, but only for a moment — no repetition. The red 

 squirrel did not make his usual racket on the roof, but the 

 bluejay with his buzz-saw voice was abroad as usual. We 

 were considerably" amused at the antics of a pair of chip- 

 munks, who halting just in front of the kitchen door, 

 mistook us for two terrible monsters and preciiJitately fled 

 under the stone wall, where they peered forth now and 

 then with cunning and suspicious eyes. No inducements 

 of ours could make them venture forth. W^eli do I know 

 their snug home under an old decayed log only a short 

 distance away. 



Despondency not seeming to reign among the wood 

 folk what is 'to prevent us from being cheerful also? 

 Wasn't it Charles Lamb who wrote to Wadsworth, "For 

 the time that a man may call his own, that is his Ufe?" 

 Let it drizzle, we say. In our living room, around a 

 beech fire, we can well bid defiance to the raw e ements 

 without. Of cut wood we have plenty, only it requires a 

 little pilfei'ing from an absent neighbor's woodpile, for 

 -which we will humbly apologize afterward. In our last 

 expedition to this pile we disturbed a tiny wood mouse, 

 snugly ensconced, but he can shift to other quarters just 

 as good. We have a monopoly of this wood now. Beech 

 predominates here, but now and then a stick of silver 

 birch is revealed, gleaming beautifully among its tamer 

 brethren, which is eagerly grasped. Not that it makes a 

 better tire than the beech, but it is good to look upon, to 

 smooth back the shiny scalings of its bark, or cut it open 

 to enjoy the sweet scent — too beautiful to burn, fit only 

 for rustic ornamentation. Did this particular stick per- 

 chan".e come from the tall, upright sapling that I missed 

 from the gully near the dead hemlock? How showy still 

 these mottled beechen sticks! Here a bit of moss is still 

 clinging or a brilliantly-tinted lichen. On top of the pile 

 I find a gnarled stub that has evidently passed through a 

 siege, in which the catapult of a woodpecker was used 

 for bombarding^ — row upon row of little cells where the 

 enemy's shot penetrated with telling effect to many a 

 luckless grub. 



So in all thankfulness to the bountiful wood harvest — 

 the great and benign mortal (may he ride with St. Peter 

 in a golden chariot) who prepared this pile for our use — 

 ■we will now enjoy the crackling blaze, the grateful 

 warmth. What virtue in a wood fire! How it roars and 

 crackles with seeming delight to invite the devouring 

 fiame! We love the tree, so let us cherish the fire also. 

 What matter if the moaning forest sounds like a mighty 

 dirge? With a good fire in our little stove and a fire in 

 D. L.'s brier, what else can there be but good cheer? 'Tis 

 a goodly sight to see his happy face when the clouds ot 

 fragrance are greatest. Its rarity is a strange reminder of 

 Barrie's "Arcadia Mixture." Will it inspire Arcadian 

 thoughts in his teeming brain? Will the gentle muse de- 

 scend upon his fez-capped head? Now he is absorbed in 

 day dreams, hands clasped tightly over his head, feet 

 planted with unholy grace on top of the stove. Soon his 

 pipe ceases to emit its clouds of fragrance. He does not 

 notice it. His statuesque poise almost alarms me. When 

 suddenly he gets up with consideralde trepidation, applies 

 a fresh match to his pipe, and exclaims: "Now for a son- 

 net, to be set to sweetest music!" and rushes to a desk. I 

 knew it; I knew that he would turn poet. With his slip- 

 pered feet reclining on such a convenient place as the 

 top of the stove, baggy corduroy trousers, fez-capped head, 

 unshaven face, pipe in mouth, and such an indescribable 

 dreamy look in his countenance, he looked for all the 

 world like some Oriental bard — or something of that sort, 

 at least— ready to obey the Prophet's call. I know the 

 way his hand speeds over the paijer that he has caught 

 the divine afllatus. Then with a weary sigh he relinquishes 

 his work and exclaims, "Sonnets be darned ( looking at 

 his watch), I must now boil that pork!" Emitting a wail, 

 I fall to the floor like one in a swoon. Oh, the subhme 

 and ridiculous! So, so, this is the outcome of his day 

 dream? Perhaps he was thinking after all how to best 

 l)repare that pork? Ah! cruel fates, my dream has van- 

 irihC'i, nevermore to return. Outside the rain is falling 



faster and the moaning forest seems to echo a sad refrain. 



Let us pass over this now painful subject — the sonnet 

 and pork episode. With the gathering twilight we will 

 resort once more to the woodpile and grovel around to 

 see whether we can't find a few dry pieces. Then for an 

 evening's enjoyment. With many thanks to the kind Fates, 

 D. L.'s muse has left him and he is once more a sane 

 man. As we settle in comfortable positions I perceive 

 that the fragrance of his brier is even more pronounced. 

 I am sure now that it outrivals the famous "Arcadia 

 Mixture." What ever induced him to take up plain- 

 spoken old Smollett, I don't know. I think he was even 

 fond of it. In "Roderick Random" he became very much 

 interested in Captain Weazel, described as a woe-begone 

 looking nondescript, so hke a spider or grasshopper erect. 

 No wonder Madame Weazel called him a "poor, withered, 

 sapless twig." I must confess that I myself found con- 

 siderable amusement in this old "twig" and some of his 

 remarkable adventures. But Smollett is shut up with a 

 bang and laid aside. While D. L. refills his pipe, re- 

 plenishes the fire and takes a look at the weather, I will 

 glance again through "Sam Level's Camps," the cherished 

 pocket companion of many a tramp by wood and field. 

 My finger turns instinctively to the "Voyage Down 

 Little Otter." In the whole category of ilr. Robin- 

 son's two unique volumes is there anything more mirth- 

 provoking — extremely laughable — than this chapter? 

 i heartily admire the fine descriptive powers of the 

 author, but I like best the funny experiences, the rare 

 exploits of two just such characters as Joseph Hill and 

 Solon Briggs, while trying to row a "bwut." To use a 

 rude expression, this is enough to make a horse laugh. 

 Uncle Tyler tells them tbey "can't row a bwut no more'n 

 a goose c'n gobble," and that ends the dispute and their 

 prowess as oarsmen. When D. L, read this sketch aloud 

 shortly afterward, and coming to the point where Uncle 

 Tyler received a thud on his pate from Joseph's missed 

 stroke, we were so thoroughly convulsed with hilarious 

 laughter that I came very near swallowing the cigar I 

 was smoking, and in my effort to recover fell over back- 

 ward from my chair and thumped my head on the end of 

 the table. All during this time D. L. was making such a 

 commotion that it started a bird outside to twitter in its 

 sleep. But he resumed reading and ended without fur- 

 ther mishap. 



And so ended a rainy day and evening. 



Outside the rain was still falling, and D. L., stretching 

 himself with a yawn, stepped to the door, where I fol- 

 lowed and quoted the last line from his favorite sonnet of 

 the morning: 



" 'Tis time to say good night." 



Simultaneously from out the deep shadows came the 

 answering call of the wicked owl. T, M, S, 



II.— A PERFECT SEPTEMBER DAY. 



Comfort Cove, Hemlock Lake, N. Y.— This twenty-first 

 day of September, iy93, has been, I may safely say, the 

 most perfect, from a meteorological point of view, 1 have 

 ever experienced in all my many visits to Hemlock Lake. 



I date the beginning of its glories from tiie hour of 8 A. 

 M., when I roused my sluggard senses from the embrace 

 of sleej). The lately risen sun was pouring through my 

 lattice with an inviting mellowness tbat shamed me for 

 my long communion with the drowsy god, and at once 1 

 was a strong man again, drinking in with hearty inhala- 

 tions the sweetness of the morning. Throwing open the 

 shutters, my eyes took in at a glance the half-mile stretch of 

 wimpiing waters intervening 'twixt my cottage and the 

 eastern shore, then traveled slowly up the wooded hill, 

 noting the warm autumnal tints just showing among the 

 deciduous frondage, doubly beautiful by contrast with 

 dark banks of interspersing evergreens. Still upward my 

 morning gaze soared, across the pasture lots and stubble 

 fields lying on the rounded crest above the timber, on past 

 the red larmhouse to anoiher belt of woods that crowned 

 the summit, then up through the blue ether where it met 

 the sun, the gloritier of all. 



I fear my comrade and I forgot our early religious train- 

 ing, and became veritable sun worshippers, when after 

 breakfast we entered our boat and crossed the lake wholly 

 under the influence of the god of day. The brightness 

 not only bathed our bodies and put new life into them, 

 but reached far down into our hearts and souls, eliminat- 

 ing therefrom all base material, making us better, purer, 

 more like the day that now in full effulgence throbbed 

 about us. 



Thinking perhaj)s a lingering, frostless season had left 

 clinging to tne brambles a few blackberries, we took our 

 pail and clambered up a steep path through the woods to 

 a clearing where the vines grew thick and rank; and we 

 were not disappointed. They were rare and hard to find, 

 but, O! how luscious, large and jjlump they were; and 

 although we only got enough to supplement our humble 

 dinner, we were quite content. Meantime the joyous sun 

 was beaming down as sweet as ever. Not like the torrid 

 orb of August, but with a full, round, yellow richness 

 like a rare ripe pippin, the au- seemed all aglow, neither 

 hot nor cold, but just as one might fancy the atmosphere 

 of Heaven ought to be. 



As we embarked again for a quiet pull up the lake with 

 our berries snug beneath the tn warts and trolling gear 

 dangling over the stern, we felt that we could answer 

 Lowell's query: 



"What is so rare as a day in June?" 



by simply noting the scene about us. There was just 

 enough breeze creeping up from the south to wrinkle the 

 face of the water into jocund smiles. It was not strong 

 enough to sway the treetops, but only drew coyly from 

 them drowsy whisperings that did not prevent us, as we 

 skirted along shore, hearing all those mysterious voices of 

 the forest. We heard the clucking of a grouse, the 

 tremulous qua qua of a gray squu-rel far up the mountain 

 side; the aiscordant ranting of a pair of jays, and the 

 gentle wheedle of the chickadees. Brig tit-eyed chip- 

 munks with distended chops would peer at us from logs 

 along the bank, and flocks of crows oared their way across 

 the blue ether overhead to join a clamorous concoiu-se of 

 their dusky fellows on the opposite mountain. A sohtary 

 sea-gull, evidently a wanderer from its native brine, 

 dropped into the midst of the waters, its white breast 

 shining in the sun, and far overhead a fish-hawk soared 

 I wheelmg in effortless circles. What cared we that no 



1 luckless pickerel or bass was attracted by glittering spoon. 

 It might have marred our peace to have brought up from 

 those pure depths— whose deepest caves the sun was 



gilding — a living creature as much entitled to enjoy the 

 day as we, so our hne was wound up and lazily we turned 

 our prow toward home. 



Afternoon came, the short September afternoon with 

 no cessation or diminishment of the glories promised by 

 the morning. The waning sun, with healing in his 

 beams, rode down the west as brightly, calmly and 

 serenely to his setting as some grand old patriarch, who, 

 after a life of peace and doing good to others, rounds out 

 his cycle with a smile and sinks down to honored death. 



But even with the going of the sun the beauty of the 

 day still lingered. The soft autumnal twilight hovered 

 o'er the bosom of the lake like a gentle benediction, and 

 getting out the boat again we rowed far up the western 

 shore, peering into nooks and deUs, lying on our oars and 

 listening to the tinkling of tiny rivulets down the cliffs 

 like voice of fairy bells. Anon up rolled the glorious 

 moon, burnishing the crinkling waves with Hquid silver 

 and lighting us home in peace and safety, pure ending to 

 a perfect day. H. W. D. L. 



THE WHITE GOAT AND HIS COUNTRY. 



From advance sheets of "American Big Game Hunting," the Boolr of 

 the Boone and Crockett Club. 



[Concluded from page Z70.\ 



The next morning the rain kept us from making an 

 early start, and we did not leave camp untfl eight. Now 

 and then a drizzle fell from the mist, and still the banks 

 of clouds were driving across the higher peaks, but dur- 

 ing the day the sun slowly got the better of them. Again 

 we saw a solitary goat, this time far below down the 

 ridge we had chosen. Like the sheep, these animals 

 watch the valley. There is no use in attempting to hunt 

 them from there. Their eyes are watchful and keen, 

 and the chances are that if you are working up from 

 below and see a goat on the hill, he will have been look- 

 ing at you for some time. Once he is alarmed, ten 

 minutes will be enough for him to put a good many 

 hours of climbing between himself and you. His favorite 

 trick is to remain stock still, watching you till you pass 

 out of his sight behind something, and then he makes off 

 so energetically that when you see him next he will be 

 on some totally new mountain. But his intelligence 

 does not seem to grasp more than the danger from below. 

 While he is steadfastly on the alert against this, it does 

 not apparently occur to him that anything can come 

 down upon him. Consequently from above you may get 

 very near before you are noticed. The chief difficulty is 

 the noise of falling stones your descent is almost sure to 

 make. The character of these mountainsides was such 

 that even with the greatest care in stepping we sent a 

 shower rattUng down from time to time. We had & 

 viciously bad climb. We went down through tilted fun- 

 nels of crag, avoiding jumping off places by crossing 

 slides of brittle slate and shale, hailing a dead tree as an 

 oasis. And then we lost count, and T. came unexpectedly 

 on the goat, who was up and away and shot by T. before 

 I could get a sight of him. I had been behind some 

 twenty yards, both of us supposing we had to go consider- 

 ably further. T. Avas highly disgusted. "To think of me 

 managing such a botch as that," he said, "when you've 

 come so far;" and he wanted me to tell the people that I 

 liad shot the goat myself. He really cared more than I 

 did. 



This goat was also a billy, and larger than the first. 

 We sat skinning him where he had fallen at the edge 

 of a grove of tamerack, and T. conversed about the royal 

 family of England. He had always rather liked "that 

 chap Lorne." 



I explained to him that the "chap Lome" had made 

 himself ridiculous forever at the Queen's Jubilee. Then 

 as T. did not know, I told him how the marquis had in- 

 sisted on riding in the procession upon a horse against 

 which the Prince of Wales, aware of the tame extent of 

 his horsemanship, had warned him. In the middle of 

 the pageant, the Queen in her carriage, the crowned 

 heads of Europe escorting her on horseback, and the 

 whole world looking on — at this picturesque moment 

 Lorne fell off, I was not sure that T, felt fully how in- 

 appropriate a time this was for a marquis to tumble from 

 his steed. 



"I believe the Queen sent somebody," I continued. 

 "Where?" said T. 



"To him. She probably called the nearest king, and 

 said, 'Frederick, Lome's off. Go and see if he's hurt'." 



" 'And if he ain't hurt, hurt him\" said T., completing 

 her majesty's thought. 



This second billy seemed to me twice the size of a 

 domestic goat. He was certainly twice the weight. His 

 hide alone weighed SOlbs. , as far as one could determine 

 by balancing it against weights that we knew, such as a 

 sack of flour or sugar. But I distrust the measurements 

 of wild animals made by guesswork on a mountain top 

 during the enthusiastic state of the hunter's mind which 

 follows at once upon a lucky shot. Therefore, what 1 

 can positively vouch for is this, only that all the goats 

 which I have seen struck me as being larger and heavier 

 animals than the goat of civilization. After all, the c jm- 

 parison is one into which we are misled by the name. 

 This is an antelope; and though, through certain details 

 of his costume, he is able to masquerade as a goat, it 

 must be remembered that he is of a species wholly dis- 

 tinct. We took the web tallow, and the tallow of one 

 kidney. The web was three-quarters of an inch thica. 

 Neither elk, nor any animal I have seen, except bear, has 

 such quantities of fat, and I do not think even a bear has 

 a thicker hide. On the rump it was as thick as the sole 

 of my boot, and the masses of hair were impenetrable to 

 anything but modern firearms. An arrow might easily 

 stick harmless; and I am told that carnivorous animals 

 who prey upon the deer in these mountains respectfully 

 let the goat alone. Besides his defensive armor, he is an 

 ugly customer in attack. He understands the use of his 

 thin smooth horns, and, driving them securely into the 

 belly of his enemy, jumps back and leaves him a useless, 

 ripped-open sack. Male and female have horns of much 

 the same size; and in taking a bite out of one of either 

 sex, as T, said, a mountain lion would get only a mouth- 

 ful of hair. 



But modern firearms have come to be appreciated by 

 the wild animals, and those which were once unquestion- 

 ably dangerous to pioneers now retreat before the Win- 

 chester rifle. Only a bear w.th cubs to defend remains 

 formidable, 



1 said this to T. who told me a personal experience tliat 

 tends to destroy even this last chance for the sportsman to 



