816 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Dec. 16, 1898. 



FROM PENOBSCOT TO YELLOWSTONE 



IN TEN MINUTES. 



"When I was a small boy I remember reading a story of 

 a fortunate individual who possessed a pair of magic 

 boots. "Seven-league boots," he called them, and when 

 he wished to make a journey — there being no ocean grey- 

 bounds or limited express trains in those days — he pulled 

 on the magic boots and strode away over bill and dale, 

 across rivers and through lakes, covering seven leagues at 

 each stride. Of course he had an advantage over his less 

 fortunate townsmen, and while they were plodding around 

 the circumscribed area of the village, he was visiting the 

 most distant portions of the kingdom. 



Seven-league boots are not common in these degenerate 

 days. The magic of the old necromancers is obsolete 

 and the customs of old do not obtain in the year of grace, 

 1893. But a new race of wizards— de siecle magicians 

 — have appeared on the earth and things which would 

 have been deemed- impossible by our fathers are to the 

 younger generations every day facts. The grand chef 

 d'ceuvre of these wise men — the White City, the Dream 

 City, the Magic City — arose from the marsh on the shores 

 of Lake Michigan. 



This entrancing city, for sis short months the acme of 

 the world's art, knowledge and science, is now undergo- 

 ing dissolution. 



But during its short existence it made easy of accom- 

 plishment feats which would have taxed even the wonder- 

 ful properties of the seven-league boots. The four corners 

 of ilie eanh were drawn together. The habitations and 

 manners and customs of antipodal countries were brought 

 into juxtaposition, while people of all races and complex- 

 ions, jostled one another, uttered a babel of strange 

 tongues and produced a kaleidoscopic exhibition of strange 

 costumes and lack of costumes. 



There were a hundred places in this White City where 

 the magic of its builders was so potent that by merely 

 entering a portal one was on the instant transported far 

 away from the bustling, energetic metropolis of the great 

 West to places far and near, where the rush and roar and 

 excitement of the city were at once forgotten and one 

 breathed the soft, languid atmosphere of the Orient, or 

 the healthful, bracing air of our own pine-clad mountains. 

 East or West. These illusions were so real that it was 

 difficult to believe that outside the inclosing walls were 

 the beautiful palaces of the Fair. 



From the Penobscot to the Yellowstone is a far cry, and 

 a journey from one to the other is a matter of days of con- 

 stant traveling, even in this age of steam. That is, it is 

 usually a matter of days, but this summer I found it only 

 a question of a short walk, such as the owner of the seven- 

 league boots might have taken. There was a little bit of 

 everywhere at the Fair, and people from everywhere 

 under the sun paid their respects to Uncle Sam, but two 

 years ago when I said adio (good bye) to Nick Sockben- 

 son, Francis Sockalexis and Gabriel on the bank of the 

 Penobscot River after our long canoe joiurney down the 

 East Branch, I did not think that a portion of the Indian 

 Island would drop down on the shore of the South Pond 

 at Jackson Park. 



Thousands of people visited the various Indian camps 

 which formed part of Prof. Putnam's ethnological exhibit. 

 A group of birchbark wigwams and a house with a frame 

 of spruce poles and covered with bark, comprised the 

 Penobscot camp. 



The little house was closed to the public, but the wig- 

 wams were open during the day and many people entered 

 the narrow doorways. They watched deft fingers weave 

 ash splints and sweet grass into various shapes, bought 

 the pretty baskets, miniature canoes, bows and arrows, 

 and corn-husk dolls, and asked all sorts of questions of 

 the handsome black-eyed women and dark-skinned men. 

 I They examined curiously the snowshoes and paddles, 

 and the canoes drawn upon the shore of the pond. To 

 most of the throng the camp was simply a part of the 

 ethnological exhibit, and its inhabitants a strange people 

 of a difiEerent race and color from their own. But to me 

 it was the Indian Island and the Maine woods, and when 

 I crossed the threshold of the bark-covered house or those 

 of the wigwams I took a step which put to shame the 

 longest stride ever made by the seven-league boots. It 

 was the Indian Island because there was my friend (and 

 a good friend, too) Nikola Sockbeson to bid me welcome, 

 "Pohweenokzemm uijia." There was his wife Kiatettn, 

 a much handsomer woman than most of those among the 

 sightseers, and there was their pretty daughter Ada. 

 Tnere was young Sozap Sockalexis and his girl wife 

 Sozou, who is shy and gentle as a fawn. There was 

 E^tetin's sister Mrs. Fransway and her daughter Josie, 

 both fine-looking women. Then there were Noel and 

 Azon Paris, and Micel Attean and Charlie Daylight, the 

 last so-called because that is the literal translation of his 

 family name, Jayquaddis 



It was the Mame woods, because there were the spruce 

 poles and the birch bark, which had been brought all the 

 way from the forests of the Penobscot. There were the 

 skins of deer shot in localities where I have hunted with 

 Nick and Francis. There was the immense hide of the 

 big moose which Sozap Plasoa shot last winter up back 

 of Pamedomcook, near Meelapswagamoc. In a corner 

 of the camp were ongamock (snowshoes) and nodahonga 

 (paddles). Through the half -open door I could see three 

 canoes at the edge of the water. Louis Pielsock built 

 one of the birch bark ones, Sebat Shai the other, and the 

 canvas-covered one was constructed by Sozap Eanco. 

 There was the fragrance of sweet grass and soft musical 

 tones of the Wabenaki tongue. 



Many pleasant evenings were spent at the camp after 

 the labors of the day were over, and many pleasant meals 

 were eaten when mine was the only white face at the 

 table. What talks Nick and I had over our cigars of our 

 wayfaring by flood and field, of our camps and tramps 

 and long voyages in canoes. How many incidents were 

 recalled, and how we laughed as we lived our adventures 

 over again, and thought of the time when Andy Patter- 

 son almost broke his neck on MiUinoket Carry by capsiz- 

 ing the sled with our outfit on it. And then of that day 

 when I shot the buck near Lunxus Mountain and Francis 

 got excited and put his right boot on his left foot; and the 

 time when Gabriel made the potato soup in the rain and 

 was asliamed to give it to us, but my wife got it and liked 

 it BO well she ate it aU. We remembered how we were 



caught in the rain on Mud Pond Carry; and how near 

 we came once to being smashed in the drive near the 

 rafting-out place on the Penobscot; how we had to hustle 

 and tug to lift the canoes over the boom with nothing but 

 the slippery logs to stand on. The big trout we caught 

 were expatiated on, and the still bigger ones we lost were 

 mourned over a?atn. 



Sometimes my wife would go with me, for she has been 

 in the woods with Nick for her especial "guide, philoso- 

 pher and friend." We told the old stories over again, the 

 old legends of the Algonquin mythology which had been 

 told so many times around the camp iii-e, but which 

 seemed new again — the stories of Ktaadn and of Gloos- 

 kombe, the first man, the man from nothing; the stories 

 n'karneeyeh aleedebeeklunk (of the old times). 



We used to take the canoe on summer evenings, after 

 the gondolas and electric launches were tied up for the 

 night, and paddle through the tunnel into the grand 

 court of honor, where we would float and gaze enraptured 

 at the entrancing beauty of the great white palaces loom- 

 ing grandly against the dark, starlit sky. How the dusk 

 softened their outlines, and how immaciilate they seemed. 

 It was subhme, and it is with no irreverence that I say it 

 seemed as if we had drifted into the midst of the city 

 whose streets are paved with gold. 



How still it was with the people gone and no sound of 

 voice of footfall. We would paddle around the shadowy, 

 bosky shores of the wooded island, sometimes penetrating 

 little coves where trees and thickets of shrubs hung over 

 the water, shutting out all view of the buildings, so that 

 we hardly reahzed that we were not sure of seeing a deer 

 come out to drink. Then up into the North Pond, to the 

 Art Palace and back to the camp, the canoe with those 

 surroundings running like a wild bird in a cage. I never 

 saw the Fair as I saw it those summer nights with Nick 

 in the canoe. Sometimes I would sit in the stern and 



PENOBSCOT INDIAN CAMP. 



Amateur photo by H. A. Brooks. 



paddle; sometimes he; with the other in the bow, face to 

 face, so that we could talk, and no one who saw the Ex- 

 position appreciated its beauties more than my friend, 

 whose forefathers were paddling their birchen craft on 

 New England rivers long before the great Genoese sailed 

 from Palos. 



I never will forget one June night when Nick left me at 

 the landing at the Woman's Building and I stood on the 

 pier and watched him as he crossed the lagoon and disap- 

 peared behind the island. His paddle made no sound in 

 the water, but with swift, sure strokes the canoe glided 

 like a specter out of sight. There was the past and the 

 present as I stood there alone by the water — the fairy pal- 

 aces representing the highest civilization the world has 

 attained all around me, and an Indian in a bark canoe 

 gUding past them. That is the way extremes met at the 

 Fair, and art and nature went hand in hand. 



I used to go very often from the Penobscot camp and 

 walk across the bridge where the Spanish caravels were 

 moored, around the Agricultural Building, across the 

 plaza in front of the Administration Building down the 

 way between the Mining and Electricity halls to the 

 bridge leading to the smaller island. Then instead of 

 crossing the other bridge to the large island, I would turn 

 to the left into a path bordered with trees and bushes. A 

 few steps and I entered another doorway, which must 

 have had magic properties, for the Columbian Exposition 

 had once more disappeared. 



Where was I? A few moments ago I had said adio to 

 friends on the Indian Island, had taken a short walk and 

 lo! I had crossed the continent. The Penobscot wigwams 

 had vanished and I was in a hunter's log camp in the 

 mountains of the Yellowstone. Would not the owner of 

 the seven-league boots have been jealous of such a feat? 

 Such a sudden translation from East to West might well 

 daze one and make him doubt his senses, but I knew I 

 was not dreaming, for there was the cabin and there 

 was the prairie schooner outside the door; and in- 

 stead of bidding good-bye to Nick Sockbeson was say- 

 ing, "How do you do, Billy," to Elwood Hofer, who 

 is called BiUy by his friends for the good and suffi- 

 cient Western reason that it isn't his name. Most ex- 

 hibits were decorated with signs telling what they were, 

 but though Billy Hofer would not have anything about 

 his shack which detracted from its truthful appearance, 

 he did pin up a sheet of paper (to save his own breath), 

 which informed curious visitors what it was not: 



This is not Daniel Boone's, nor 

 Davy Crockett's, nob Abhaham 

 Lincoln's, nor Uncle Tom's Cabin, 

 BUT A Hunter's Camp, such as is 

 Used in the Booky Mountains. 



And in fact, at night after the last belated caller had 



disappeared down the path and we had shut the door and 

 secured it with the wooden pin, we were to all intents 

 and purposes in the mountains without a single incon- ■ 

 gruity to dispel the illusion. The cabin, soUdly con- 

 structed of logs chinked with mud, stood on the island 

 where nothing but a green mass of foliage met the eye 

 through door or window. The old prairie schooner, dingy 

 with long service, stood by the door, over which was the 

 bleached skull of an elk surmotmted by branching antlers. 

 Inside, the shaggy head of a buffalo bull was the first 

 object seen as it looked down from the half partition; at 

 the back of the cabin was a big fire-place flanked on either 

 side by a buffalo skull. On the mantle were two bear 

 skulls and over them another pair of elk antlers. On the 

 floor were the hides of elk, antelope, blacktail deer and 

 moose. A bear skin thrown over a box formed a con- 

 venient seat by the table on which lay a six-shooter and 

 a pair of field glasses. 



Kit Carson's rifle stood in a corner, and Villalonga's 

 hung on pins driven into the logs. Two other rifles were 

 supported by the elk antlers over the mantel, and under 

 them were crossed a pair of web snowshoes. A pair of 

 long skees, or Norwegian snowshoes stood in another 

 corner, and near the table were other skulls of bighorns 

 and buffalo. There were saddles, pack saddles, bridles, 

 lariats, shaps, buckskin hunting coats, sombreros and all 

 the paraphernalia necessary for a trip after big game. A 

 fly-rod hung on the wall. 



Two bunks and a big 7ft. settle built of round wood 

 with the bark on were very inviting with their piles of 

 blankets. If one cared to read, Forest ajjd Stream lay 

 on the table. A back door opened out to a thicket in the 

 rear of the cabin, where a foot-path led down to the 

 lagoon. Several large oak trees stood guard and rustled 

 their leaves in a friendly fashion above the low roof. 



I was the recipient of Billy Hofer's hospitality on sev- 

 eral occasions and remember with especial pleasure 

 several nights in October which I spent at the hunter's 

 cabin. 



Those were pleasant chats, long to be remembered, 

 which we had, with the doors and windows closed to 

 keep out the chill night air with its suspicion of winter, 

 while a noble fire roared up the chimney. With the set- 

 tle drawn tip before the blaze and pipes alight, we told 

 stories of the East and West, of the mountains and the 

 woods, of expeditions in the saddle and afloat, of the pur- 

 suit of the beasts of the field, the fowls of the air and the 

 finny denizens of many waters. Then, after throwing 

 fresh sticks into the bed of glowing embers in front of the 

 big back log, we would wrap our blankets about us and 

 go to sleep. 



One night I went to the cabin early in the evening; the 

 rear door had been left ajar for me and I had three hours 

 to myself before Billy came. I buflt a fire, drew the set- 

 tle into place and sat there watching the blaze and the 

 fantastic shadows which danced attendance. Through 

 the open door the shimmer of water twinkled and sparkled 

 through the foliage; a strain of distant music came softly 

 to my ears like a memory, and now and then a swiftly- 

 moving shadow flitted by on the lagoon, hardly distin- 

 guishable through the leaves, and vanishing as quickly as 

 it came. 



As I sat there the great World's Fair seemed like a 

 dream; like something one has read of, or heard of, or 

 experienced a long, long time ago. It seemed like other 

 things I have thought of and dreamed about while sitting 

 by many camp-fires, and the log cabin was, to me, at that 

 moment miles away in the wilderness. 



Some mornings we broiled our own steak over the fire 

 and sometimes 1 went down to the other camp and had 

 breakfast with my Wabenaki friends, thus making the 

 retm-n journey across the continent. To sleep in a log 

 cabin on the Yellowstone with Billy Hofer and breakfast 

 in a bark wigwam on the Penobscot with Nick Sockbeson 

 the next morning was made possible to me by the power 

 of the latter-day magician of 1893, and of the time I gave 

 to the great show the hours I silent in those two camps 

 were by no means the least profitable. W. A. Brooks. 



PINCHER. 



The drowsy hum of a big fiy, darting to and fro amid 

 the sunbeams which flood my room with their genial 

 rays, almost makes me believe that summer is still with 

 us, instead of brown November. Yet the bare branches 

 of the trees that make a network against the cold sky, 

 the flying leaves that now and then tap upon my window 

 in their passage, and the small white clouds scudding 

 across the sky recall the fact that the harvest of the year 

 has come, and soon 'neath the white robe of winter the 

 earth will take its long sleep. 



Were it not for the huge fire of logs that crackle on the 

 hearth in the wide old-fashioned fireplace, there would be 

 a chiUiness in the atmosphere of this room, despite the 

 sunbeams, so I fill the brown bowl of my pipe with some 

 "Old Virginia" and draw my arm-chair closer to the 

 blaze. 



This movement disturbs old Pincher, my Enghsh set- 

 ter, who has been stretching out aU morning on the deer- 

 skin rug, but he is not a bit sulky over it, merely raps the 

 floor gently once or twice with his tail, blinks his eyes 

 drowsily and proceeds to go to sleep again with one eye 

 open. 



Pincher is over 15 years old now. Born in Orange 

 county, New York State, of respectable parents, Pincher 

 first made his appearance in our family, from father's 

 great-coat pocket. 



His puppy days were passed quietly in the comfortable 

 old barn, in company with five or six foxhounds, a saucy 

 terrier and a pair of pointers. 



To old Isiah, my fathers body servant, fell the task of 

 breaking the puppy, and poor Pincher's life was made a 

 burden for him. Not a meal went by but what he was 

 compelled to stand in a very uncomfortable attitude be- 

 fore the tempting dish, while Isiah with uplifted finger 

 held him in check, with "To ho, easy, doan yo move sub. 

 To ho — easy boy" — until the word was given to "Go on." 



I shall always remember the bright October morning 

 when father and I, accompanied by Isiah, StonewaU the 

 pointer, and Pincher, started out to give the pup his first 

 real field experience. 



Just such a day as this, full of sunlight, the air sharp 

 and invigorating, and the earth just hard enough to make 

 walking comfortable. Pincher at once evinced a dis- 

 position to range too widely, and of course the first break 

 he made was to flush a big covey far outside of any 

 possible range; but when we struck into the cornfield, 



