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FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Deo. 30, 1898. 



i 



For the Wanin g Year. 



THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.— IV. 



BY E, HOUGH. 



The fire was flickering fitfully, and painting ghostly 

 shadows on the wall. It was winter, and late in winter; 

 indeed, the season was now at length drawing near to the 

 end of winter, and a,pproaching that dear time of spring, 

 which, beyond doubt, will be the eventual front and clos- 

 ing of the circle in the land where winter will not come, 

 I had drawn the little pine table close to the heap of 

 failing embers, and aided by what light the sulky candle 

 gave, was bending over and trying to arrange a patch on 

 my old hunting coat. It was an old, old hunting coat, 

 far gone in the sere and yellow leaf. It was old-fashioned 

 now, though once of proper form and comeliness. It was 

 disiigured, stained and worn. The pockets were torn down. 

 The bindings were worn out. It was quite willing, was 

 the coat, to be left alone now, hung by upon a forgotten 

 nail, and subject to no further requisition. Nevertheless, 

 if its owner wished, it could still do a day or two. I knew 

 that; and something in the sturdy texture of its oft-tried 

 nature excited more than half my admiration, and all my 

 love. So I was gentle as I might be with the needle. 



Walpurgis on the cefiing, gray coming on in the embers, 

 symptoms of death in the candle, a blotch of tallow on 

 the Shakspere, and the coat not half done. It must have 

 been about then, I think, that the thin -edged sweetness of 

 the Singing Mouse's voice pierced keenly through the air. 

 I was right glad when the little creature came and sat on 

 my knee, and in its affectionate way began to nibble at 

 my finger-tips. I was right glad when it sat erect, its 

 thin paws waving with a tiny, measured swing, and in its 

 mystic voice, so infinitely small, so sweet and yet so majes- 

 tically strong, began a song which no pen can transcribe. 

 Thrilled and spell-bound, knowing that the awakening 

 must come, but unwilling to lose one moment of the 

 dream, I, who with one finger could have crushed the 

 little thing, sat prizing it more and more, as more and 

 more its voice swept, and swelled, and rang; rang till the 

 fire burst high in noble pyramids of flame; rang till the 

 candle flashed its thousand crystals; swelled till the walls 

 fell silently apart, and showed that all tliis time I had 

 been sitting ignorant of, but yet within a grand and 

 stately hall, whose polished sides bore speaking canvas 

 and noble marbles; swept up and around, till every stately 

 niche, and every tapestried corner, and every lofty dome 

 rang gently back in mellow music, all for the Singing 

 Mouse and me! 



Thou small wizard! It was cunning of thee, I declare, 

 to paint that old mill dam on the wall. How naturally 

 the wooded hill slopes back beyond the mill ! And how, 

 with the same old sleepy curves the river winds on back! 

 How green the trees— how very green! Ah, Singing 

 Mouse, they can't mix that color any more, someway. 

 And nowhere now do wide bottom-lands wave and sing 

 in such seemly grace, so decked with yellow flowers, 

 with odd sweet William and the small wild rose. And 

 nowhere now on earth, I know, is there any stream to 

 murmur so sweetly and so comfortably, to say such words 

 to any dreaming boy, to babble of a work well done, to 

 whisper of a high place earned, to hint of a good, clear 

 conscience, and of a final happiness worth all the work 

 and all the places. All that was. in the river. If I listen 

 very hard and imagine very high and very deep I can 

 almost pretend to hear them, those old words, heard 

 when I was young. But it is only pretense. I fear I have 

 lived too long. The voices are there, I doubt not. There 

 are other boys, God keep them boys always; and may 

 they dream not backward, but ahead ! 



Now, that smooth, lazy pool beneath the east wing of 

 the dam, how smooth it looks! Yet well I know the 

 sunken log upon its further side. I have festooned it full 

 often with big hook and hempen line, with spoon and 

 swivel, with small hook and airy leaders. I have taken 

 out of that pool how many hundred bass, I would not say, 

 nor how multifold a band of fat and fatuous goggle-eyes, 

 nor how great a store of bullheads, when the water was 

 too high for better game. It was here my father first 

 taught me to loosen a hard-snagged hook, workmg pa- 

 tiently, with deft droppings of the heavy sinker, and easy 

 twitchings of the line. It was here my brother and I 

 caught the pailful of goggle-eyes. It was here we made 

 that fellow throw back the bass we saw him catch out of 

 season. It was here that we actually once slept all night, 

 rolled upon the bank, and woke the next morning each 

 with a sore throat, but with a heart full proud at such 

 high deed of derring-do. 



And there's the long wooden bridge. What a feat of 

 engineering did that bridge seem to our un traveled minds! 

 And there, at the other end of the bridge— swimming up, 

 I declare, in the same old way— is the great silvery moon 

 whose light served us when we used to stay late by the 

 dam in the summer time. And those shadows of the 

 bridge timbers are just as long and black; and the water 

 over the middle break— out there where we speared the 

 big sucker, you know— is just as beautiful and white; and 

 here, right down under ovir feet, the moon is playing the 

 same trick of painting faces in the water! 



There are too many faces. Singing Mouse! Will you 

 kindly make it clearer? Can you not bring them nearer 

 to the surface? And will you not stop repeating those 

 old fines about the "Corpus Delicti !" You make me 

 shudder with your song about bodies coming to the sur- 

 face I 



What's that— what are you doing? I pray you, no 

 Madonnas! This river is only make-believe, you know, 

 and I'm not really a boy. There are no more angels on 

 earth, I know, than there are bass in a meadow! That 

 one— Pull it! Pull the slide, I say! Do you want to kill 

 me, you heartless fittle wretch? You are so cruel some- 

 times that I know not whether most to love or hate you. 



Now, that's rather a pretty picture you've got there. 

 The autumn frosts have very beautifully touched the 

 leaves along that wmding little creek, and the cornfields 

 sweep down to the banks in very gracious golden plenty. 

 Do I know that little stream? Do I know it? Do I know 

 —no wonder you are laughing, Singing Mouse. I should 

 think I might well know that stream. Did I not shoot 

 my first quail flying there? Have I not gralloched many 

 a molly-cotton in those thickets? Did I not once knock a 

 squirrel spinning out of that tree, with the rifle ball 

 square under his ears? I'll bet the old rifle would do it 

 to-day. That old rifle— Say, what are you pamtmg m 



that picket fence for? What do you mean by that house, 

 with the little porch in front, and the green blinds and 

 the new look, as if it had never been lived in? What's 

 that got to do with the brown woods, whose doors stand 

 always wide and welcoming to a fellow, and whose rooms 

 have no ghosts in them? Pull it! Pull it, I say! What- 

 ever has gotten into you to-night? 



I thank you, wizard. After the solemn-fronted moun- 

 tains, the solemn-fronted sea. If you will listen thought- 

 fully enough you will find that it is not afi trouble that 

 the sea is talking about. Much more than a petty excite- 

 ment, fit to blot a weak man's momentary woes, it speaks 

 of a sterner and stranger impulse; it throbs with the 

 pulse of a further shore; it speaks of a quiet tide making 

 out to the Fortunate Islands, and tells of a way of follow- 

 ing gales, and to a new Atlantis. Those are pretty lines 

 you haye there. Singing Mouse: 



Long time upon the mast our brown sail flapped; 



Our keel plowed bitter salt, and everywhere 

 The ominous sky in sullen mystery wrapped, 



What Bide we looked on, either here or there. 

 The welcome sight of land long sadly sought; 



And that Atlantis, hid within the sea, 

 The city with our hope and promise fraught, 

 We saw not yet, nor wist where it might be. 



But as we sailed as manful as we might, 



And counted not the sail more fit than oar, 

 1,0 ! o'er the wave there burs", a vision bright 



Of wood, and winding stream, and easy shore. 

 Then by the lofty light which shone above, 



We knew at last our voyage sad was o'er, 

 And we hard by the haven for which we strove. 



And soon all past the need to wander more. 



Then as our craft made safely on the strand, 



And we all well our weary brown sail furled, 

 We gazed as strangers might at that fair land. 



And hardly knew if it might be our world; 

 Till some one took gently every weary hand, 



And led us on to where still waters be, 

 And whispered softly, "Lo ! it hath been planned 



That thou at last this pleasant place shouldst see." 



And as those dreaming, so awakened we, 



And looked with eyes unhurt on that fair sky, 

 And whispered, hand in hand, and eye to eye, 

 "'Tis our Atlantis, risen from the sea— 

 ^Tis our Atlantis, from the bitter sea! 

 'Tis our Atlantis, come again, oh 1 friend, to thee and me I" 

 "Say, about that Atlantis, now, Singing Mouse?" said I. 

 Well, well, how small the voice sounded! Bless my 

 soul! how quickly it all snapped back to the pine table, 

 and the dead fire, and the burnt-out candle, and the old, 

 old coat! 



DANVIS FOLKS.-XIX. 



Misfits. 



"iT'sturrible resky a-gettin' one thing 'at's a leetle cuter 

 'n the rest o' yer belongin's," Uncle Lisha remarked as he 

 split some pegs off a block with his jack-knife. 



"Oncte I got me a new awl 'at put me clean aout'n con- 

 sait o' my ol' kit, an' cost me more'n a month's aimin's 

 a-buyin' new tools 'at I didn't need, an' some on 'em jest 

 useless consarns. \. , . 



"I've knowed a feller tu^t a patch sot on a boot at 

 looked so much better 'n the rest on 't 'at he bed tu git a 

 new pair an' then a suit o' clo's tu match, an' then his 

 womern must up an' hev a new caliker gaownd. But the 

 beatinest was Ros'l Drake's door, a bran new front door 

 'at he bid off tu Amos Wilkinses vandue. Do' know haow 

 Amos come tu hev it, but he bed it, an' Ros'l he bid it off, 

 an' took it hum an' sot it in the barn, and at fust his 

 womern sputtered 'baout his buyin' of it, an' they bed a 

 notion o' puttin' on 't in the place o' their ol' front door, 

 but it wouldn't fit, an' they ca'lated if it did it 'ould make 

 the hul haouse look humblier 'n ever. But it wouldn't du 

 to waste that aire door, 'at was paneled an' hed a big 

 brass knocker, an' so what d' they du finally but turn_ tu 

 an' build them a new haouse tu fit that 'aire door, which 

 the ol' one was plenty good 'nough." 



"Wal," he continued, after brushing the split pegs from 

 the edge of the bench into his hand, "they hed tu mort- 

 gage the' place, an' finally lost it, ol' haouse, new haouse, 

 front door an' all, an' went off over intu Adams Gore tu 

 live in a lawg haouse, an' glad 'nough tu git sech shelter. 



"Over in the Gore, the rusters don't begin tu crow 'fore 

 ten o'clock in the forenoon, an' the hens go to rust right 

 arter dinner, an' you c'n aUers tell Gore folks when they 

 come daown here in dog days, by the' stompin' the' feet 

 tu git the snow off on 'em. That's where the door landed 



them." -, „ -J A 



"Dat mek me remmbler one man Canada, said An- 



toine. , , , ^, 



"Consarn ye, Ann Twine, what m tunket 's the reason 

 ye don't never tell your stories fust?" , 



"Ah '11 save de pie an' kek for de en' of de dinny," said 

 Antoine with a bland smile. 



"Pies an' lies they be mostly," Uncle Lisha growled, 

 and Antoine began: 



"Dar was one man Canada gone off for work one 

 mornin' hearly, an' he '11 see it one leetly waum walkin' 

 aout on de road for smell de mornin' hair. 



"Wen dat mans see he '11 say, bah gosh. Ah 'Ugoin 

 f eeshins, me. An' he' 11 peek it up an' go raght off an' get 

 hees hookin line an' go on de river an' t'row hees hook, 

 an' it ant more as two minute 'fore peckerel was took it, 

 O, great beeg one. An' de log was slippy de man was 

 Stan' on, an' he was pull on de water an' all draown dead. 



"So you see, sab, boy, jus' for leetly waum dat mans 

 was loss hees day work, an' dat beeg peeckerel— dat was 

 too bad— an' more as half hees laf-tam, for he'll was be 

 young man an' was goin' be marre nex' week, so he loss 

 hees waf too, an' all de funs of de weddki'. Ant dat good 

 many for one leetly waum, hein?" 



Pelatiah sighed wearily as he thought of the crueller 

 fate that had cheated him of his wedding day. 



"But if yer story was true, Ann Twine," said the shoe- 

 maker, driving a peg home with each blow of his ham- 

 mer, "which it ain't anyways likely it is, bein' you tol' it, 

 it don't argy agin a, feller's goin' a-tishin' when he'dort tu, 

 an' I b'lieve I'd ort tu the fust good day 'at comes, an' I 

 want you tu go along tew, Peltier." 



As his abstracted gaze habituaUy sought the dusty win- J 

 dow, the blurred panes did not shut out from him a 'visioii | 

 of clear streams braiding the sunlight into the shadows of / 



copses and green brookside banks, inviting the weary 

 heart and hand to rest and quiet recreation. He felt an 

 almost painful heart-twinge that reminded him of long 

 by- gone boyish anticipation. 



"It can't quite tech the ol' spot," he thought to himself, 

 "but thinkin' o' fishin' an' goin' a-tishin' comes nigher 

 fetchin' on 't 'an most anythin'." Then speaking aloud: 



"It's a hopesin' 'at I won't never git so I can't go a-fishin' 

 whilst I've got sense tu enjy it. Lord, haow many times 

 I think o' ol' Kit Jarvis a tryin' tu go a-troutin' arter he 

 got blind as a bat. He was a master hand for huntin' an' 

 fishin' an' a mate o' yer father, Jozeff, when I was a boy. 



"But whilst he was a tough, hearty man, he begin tu 

 git blind. It wan't fiUums on his eyes, for they looked jest 

 as nat'ral 's ever they did, on'y when he was a-talkin' tu 

 you, they wouldn't hit you, but p'int off tu one side 

 mebby an' be shut when he was a-listenin' tu ye. But he 

 would go a-huntin' arter he got so 's 't he couldn't tell a 

 barn from a haystack, an' they said he shot a pa'tridge 

 by the saound of her quit quitin', an' he'd go kerwack 

 agin a tree afore he see it an' cuss a spell an' then laugh 

 an' make fun of hisself . 



"But he gin up huntin' arter he'd shot Peltier's gran' 

 ther's yullin' fer a deer, 'Never knowed my gun tu cut 

 up sech a caper as that afore,' says he, 'an' I won't trust 

 it no furder.' 



"But yit he would go a-traoutin', an' us boys, the Lord 

 forgive us, uster laugh tu see him a-pawin' wi' one hand 

 for suthin' 'at wa'n't there, an' a-pokin' his steek juUuk a 

 pismire feelin' its way 'mongst strange things, an' stan'in' 

 harkin' for saounds julluk a hawg in a cornfiel', an' 

 mebby tost his hook ontu a lawg or rock, an' wait an' 

 wait fer a bite. I wonder the Lord didn't strike us mis' 

 able leetle torments blind, but mebby 'twas 'cause we 

 uster onsnag his hook for him an' onsnarl his line, an' 

 led him tu the best holes, an' mebby 'twas 'cause He don't 

 take much 'caount o' sech leetle onsignificant critters' 

 duin's. . , ., ^ 



"Arter a spell he gin it up, just oncte m a while tu sit 

 by the mill pawnd an' fish for chubs an' dace. 'I c'n 

 feel 'em bite an' pull, an' hear 'em flopping in the grass, 

 an' they smell like fish an' it's better 'n nothin' if 'taint 

 much fun,' says he, 'an' I spect it 'muses the minnies tu 

 see sech a ol' dodunk a-tryin' to ketch 'em.' 



"When it come his turn to die I guess he was glad on't. 

 'I ben the same as dead this ten year,' says he, 'the 

 world a rattlin' round me 'tliout no more 'caount on me 

 'an if I wan't in 't, my own fiesh an' blood grown up 

 'thout my knowin' haow they look, er seein' my ol' wom- 

 mern's face er my nighest friend, er seeing' the grass an' 

 the trees leaf aout er shed the' leaves, er ever pintin' a 

 gun er liookin' a trout, on' just a-settin' an' harkin' in 

 the everlastin' dark. It's lunsome, I tell ye. A blind 

 man's uselesser 'n a dead man, an' you can't bary him 

 aout'n the way an' be perlite.' 



"When he was dead he looked turrible contented, 

 Jozeff, an' yer father says he, 'Kit, I wish 't I knowed 

 whether you c'n see tu sight yer rifle naow.' An' I guess 

 it's suthin' we'd all give consid'able tu know. 



"Wal, it's hopesin' the dark won't overtake none o us^ 

 afore it's time tu go tu sleep fer good, an' naow I'm goin' 

 tu shut up shop^; Rowland E . Robinson. , 



1 



AFTER TOIL RECREATION. 



Kalypso, the Concealer, I christened the Barnegafc 

 speakboat which at one time it was my good fortune to 

 own. She was IGft. long, cat-rigged, and by far the most 

 serviceable sailing craft that has ever come into my pos- 



Session • 



Often have I fled from the noisy, busy city to the Utile 

 town on the lake shore where my boat was housed, and, 

 having rowed out of sight of town, spread my blanket m 

 the bottom of the boat l or a couch and basked m the 

 bright sunshine on the glassy surface of the lake; or, with 

 a favorable breeze, skirted along close to the shore, study- 

 ing the birds in their native haunts, my presence never . 

 once suspected. For days have I drifted about in this, 

 manner, exulting in the freedom and in the beauty of the 

 wooded hills and blue expanse of water— God's handiwork, 

 unsulUed by the hand of man. , . , -r 



In my kit were a half dozen wooden decoys, which 1 

 would drop overboard opposite the mouth of some stream, 

 and, conceahng myself on the reed-covered bank, await 

 the approach of unsuspecting ducks, which were pretty 

 sure to fall a prey to my 10-bore. ^r. , , 



On one occasion, having been carried far down the lake 

 toy a strong south blow, I pitched camp in a thick clump 

 of hemlock on a projecting headland. All night the wind 

 moaned in the sheltering hemlocks, and day dawned dull 

 and lowering. I was awakened by the weird honking of 

 geese, and at length discerned them, an immense host, 

 feeding. Pifing hemlock branches on the fore deck of the 

 boat, I concealed myself within, and allowed the wind to 

 drift me down upon them. Nearer and nearer I ap- 

 proached, fike a mass of driftwood, until at length the 

 birds took fright and rose in their clumsy manner. In- 

 stantly I was on my knees, and selecting two of the 

 largest of the flock, dropped them, one with each barrel. 

 Those fellows are now two of the finest specimens in my 

 cherished collection. . h 



Never have I failed to derive the utmost enjoyment 

 from any of my trips. But, best of all, I have returned to ' 

 I my work with zest redoubled and with a zeal that haa 

 i well repaid me for my outlay. Barnaby. 



The Wildfowl Egg Importation. 



Editor Forest and Stream: ^ , 



In the last impression of your journal I noted a letter 

 from Mr. R. W. Huntington, of Ohio, touching the de- ; 

 struction of wildfowl eggs. It said they were gathered 

 for the purpose of selling the albumen or whites, to be 

 used in the arts, and that there was great danger of the 

 supply of waterfowl from the Northwest being cut short 

 in this way. I inquired at the Customs Division of the 

 U. S. Treasury as to this matter. I do not think there is 

 any serious occasion for alarm upon this point. The entire 

 importation of the yolks of eggs for the year 1892 from 

 Canada and its northwestern provinces was valued at |;lb. 

 No whites were imported. The importation of the same 

 class of products, viz., "the yolks or whites of eggs," from 

 all sections for the current year had been brought down 

 to November and was valued at ,$ 14.42. I have taken 

 some trouble to be accurate in relation to this matter, and .j 

 the U. S. Custom House returns ought to be sufficient to 

 assure sportsmen that there is no danger in this quarter 

 and by this means of game and water birds' deduction. 

 Washington, D. C , Dec. 21. ^ . H, K. 



