FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Jan. 6, 1894. 



A NEW YEAR'S GREETING. 



The Forests are leafless, the Streams in their flow 

 Are fettered and bound in a mantle of snow, 

 The Storm King comes down with a howl from his lair, 

 While the cold wintry landscape is naked and bare. 



We heed not the tempest, as cozy and snug, 

 We sit by the Are, our feet on the rug, 

 Our pipe 'tween our lips, and recall like a dream, 

 Our many bright hours by Forest and Stream. 



For close on our table, in reach of our hand, 

 Where its many bright columns are readily scanned, 

 Lies a Fobkst and Stream, which at once can recall, 

 The verdure of Springtime, the glories of Fall. 



We roam through its pages, no need of a guide, 

 By the torrent's swift rush, up the mountain's steep side, 

 And join in our hearts with the comrades unknown, 

 Who have thus made the pleasures of Nature our own. 



Then to one and to all, who our moments thus cheer, 

 Here's "the best of good luck" and a "Happy New Year 1" 

 And a health, in a bumper of rosiest gleam, 

 To all readers and loveisrdf Fobest and Stbeam. 



Von W. 



PADDLING DOWN THE PATUCA. 



A Story of Travel in Honduras. 



My Paya guide halted beneath a giant mahogany, on 

 the edge of a high bank. He slipped back from his 

 wrinkled brow the band of tuno bark that held up the 

 bag of clothing and blankets which he bore on his broad 

 brown back. His fellows followed his example, and let 

 their burdens drop to the ground, and I gladly allowed 

 the butt of my rifle to rest on the damp leaves that 

 carpeted the forest; for, while in the morning that gun 

 was as a suckling pig for weight, long before we stopped 

 it had become as a prize porker. Its HUba. bore heavily 

 on arms and shoulders it had made sore the very first day. 

 When I carried the gun in my hands it seemed likely to 

 pull my arms from their fastenings. It made the miles 

 tremendously long and the hills steep. It made the steady, 

 even pace of those Indians villainously, cruelly fast. And 

 the worst of all was that I could not swear at them, not 

 even suffer a word of complaint to escape me, in face of 

 the fact that those brown rascals had serenely jogged on, 

 with heavy packs on their backs, hour after hour over 

 wooded hill and through somber hollow, with manifest 

 determination to wear out the white man. 



Behind us lay full fifty miles of blind trail through a 

 tropical forest. Before I took that little walk I shared 

 with millions the belief, inspired by story tellers like 

 Captain Mayne Reid, by book-taught geographers and by 

 untaught writers, that all forests in tropical America are 

 dense and steaming jungles of bush and. vine, of bamboo 

 and thorny palmetto, through which a path must be 

 laboriously hewn whenever any one would go anywhere, 

 reeking breeding grounds of deadly fevers wherein ven- 

 omous serpents and poisonous tarantulas, centipedes and 

 scorpions vie with the ferocious jaguar and the panther 

 to give zest to life. 



But I found those great tracts of virgin forest as cool 

 and clean, as open and easy to traverse, as healthful and 

 as free from snakes and as safe as are the woods of our 

 Northern States. It is true that giant grasses and tangled 

 vines, thickets of bramble and bush wall the banks of the 

 waterways wherever sunshine warmly falls to force to 

 profuse growth. And so they do in our Northern States. 

 But where tall trees shade the ground in the tropics, the 

 undergrowth is small and scattered, and the forest is as 

 open as are our own maple and our beech woods. 



Nor is it true of the hill country alone. I have ridden 

 many a mile through cool and fragrant avenues, roofed 

 by lofty arches of bamboo and of palms in countless 

 thousands rooted in alluvium of unsurpassable fertility, 

 where there was no sign of a road. In those vast wilds 

 every passing gust sends whirling down from trees that 

 are forever green showers of the leaves that are forever 

 dying, to join those that carpet all the ground. 



From where my Payas stopped that afternoon we 

 looked down on the mountain stream, the valley of 

 which we had followed ever since we sat to eat our 11 

 o'clock breakfast on the clean rocks, polished by centur- 

 ies of its rushing floods. Here it widened into a pool 

 wherein the bathing might have been more delightful 

 had not the name of the stream — El Lagarto— been so 

 suggestive. At our right was a broad and placid river. 

 It was the Blanco, the end of our tramp through the woods. 



"Well, here we are; what next?" I asked. 



"Make watla now and sleep. To-morrow find pipanti 

 perhaps," replied the elder of the Indians. 



"Very good. But let one of the men hunt the canoe 

 to-day. Two can get the dinner. See, it is only 3 oclock." 



A few minutes later I was swimming in the Lagarto and 

 keeping watch for the ripples that would mark the ap- 

 proach of an alligator and give me notice to quit. A fire 

 had been started and my hammock was slung between two 

 trees. Three grass stalks about five feet long, tied together 

 near their tops, made a pyramidal frame over the fire. A 

 foot or more above the coals three other stalks were 

 lashed horizontally from one to another of the first three, 

 and made a triangular frame on which rested other stalks, 

 and on these lay roasting pieces of the big black monkey 

 that I had shot that afternoon. The Indians squatted 

 around the fire. Each held close to the coals a bit of the 

 monkey, spitted on the end of a sharpened stick. The 

 drawn arms and shriveled hands were most repulsive to 

 me, for I had then never eaten of monkey flesh; but the 

 odor was most appetizing, for I was hungry, and my sup- 

 ply of frijolitas and tortillas had soured, and I had noth- 

 ing else to eat but crackers. Crackers do not of them- 

 selves make a completely satisfactory diet. 



The guide came toward me. He held a stick on which 

 was spitted a thigh of the monkey. The other Indians 

 grinned cheerfully as they watched. Their faces said 

 plainly, "Here is one of a race that thinks itself mighty 

 smart, and you will see that he doesn't know a good thing 

 when he sees it." 



"Shall it be said that these illiterate, these savage 

 children can do a thing that a Yankee can not do? Perish 

 the thought!" And I took the stick and ate the meat. I 



have never since failed to pot a monkey when in woods 

 where that delicacy is to be found. I am not prepared to 

 say now that tender babies are entirely safe when left 

 alone with me about dinner time. 



A loud yell came from somewhere up the river while 

 we were eating. "Boy find canoe," remarked the guide. 



In a minute or two the boys ran the bow of the canoe 

 on the sands at the foot of the bank and said a few words 

 to the guide. 



"Boy says that the owner of the pipanti wants two 

 pesos," said the old man, turning to me. 



"Two pesos. Well, you agreed to take me and my 

 trastos from Dulce Nombre to Pau for twenty-five cents a 

 day for each man. If you pay the two dollars out for the 

 use of a canoe, that is your mal negocio, not mine," I de- 

 clared positively. 



This was manifestly not to the taste of the old man. He 

 spoke earnestly to his fellows, in the Paya dialect, then 

 said to me: 



"We will make a balsa. To make a balsa takes much 

 time, much." 



"How many hours?" 



"Hours! It is days, two days, no less." 



The old fellow had me there. Making a balsa would 

 cost more than the hiring of the canoe, and it would take 

 a week to float to the Patuca, if the raft didn't go to pieces 

 on some rapid — as it doubtless would. Therefore 1 re- 

 marked with an air of indifference: 



"Very good. We will sleep now; we can talk better 

 after sleeping." 



In the morning one of the men cut from a bamboo a 

 piece some seven feet long and six inches in diameter. 

 With his machete he split one side of this, then flattened 

 it on the sands. It made a sort of board, glossy on one 

 side, downy and white on the other, and full of cracks 

 like those in an old-fashioned split lathing. This was laid 

 on cross pieces fitted across the canoe, and made a floor 

 four or five inches above the bottom of the boat. 



On that floor our baggage was piled and made a rest for 

 my back as I sat with my legs stretched out before me. 

 It made a more or less comfortable lounge on which I 

 could lie and dream the sunny hours away when we were 

 not making portages or shooting rapids, which was five 

 hours of every six. 



The steersman sat perched on the broad stern that sloped 

 slightly upward over the water. Forward of the pile of 

 baggage the three Payas who were to do most of the pad- 

 dling sat on little round sticks, cut to a length that let 

 them wedge in between the sides of the pipanti, six or 

 eight inches from the bottom — a torturing seat for one not 

 used to it, and not too luxurious for those whose tough 

 hides are accustomed to rough treatment. 



I had cut a joint from a hollow tree, the wood of which 

 is as light as cork, and to it fastened one end of a piece of 

 fish Hue 20ft. or more in length. The other end I tied to 

 my rifle. Then we were all ready to begin our canoeing. 

 Nothing of interest happened in a long time — fully an 

 hour. I was sound asleep when the guide poked my foot 

 with his paddle. I opened my eyes. 



"Tilba, senor, vaca de montafia," he whispered. 



"Mountain cow, eh? Where?" I asked softly, rolling 

 over and picking up my gun. 



He uttered no word and made no motion, but his glit- 

 tering eyes showed the way. It was enough. I slowly 

 twisted around in my seat. There he stood, half his 

 slate-colored body hidden by the tall grass that walled 

 the river in. His long, flexible nose twisted about as if 

 he was searching with it for our "wind." I raised my 

 rifle as he turned away and the bullet struck behind his 

 shoulder. He stopped, staggered, then broke through the 

 thick wall of grass behind him. 



The Payas had sat as still as stones, but with the crack 

 of the Marlin they yelled like fiends. They dug their 

 paddles into the water as though they would tear the 

 river from its bed. They slapped the surface of the 

 stream with the broad blades of their paddles and yelled 

 again. The heavy canoe grated on the sand, but it 

 scarcely touched before we were on the shore. The 

 Indians ran through the grass, which was higher than 

 their heads. I tried to do so, too, but it was easier to 

 walk. In a moment came another shout that told me 

 that the tapir was saved. 



He lay on the ground gasping his life away. The .45 

 had passed entirely through him and torn a big hole in 

 the side that was furthest from me when I fired the fatal 

 shot. Yet he had run fully twenty rods before falling. 



Now that I had murdered the poor beast there came 

 the question; what use is it to me now that I have killed 

 it? But the Payas knew very well what use it would be 

 to them and promptly cut off a hindquarter. I bethought 

 me then that people in these woods might think the 

 flesh of the tapir good to eat and I had the men cut out 

 the loin. The old guide cut off the head and stowed it in 

 the canoe, and we started on our way. 



We soon reached a rapid where the river was widely 

 spread among smooth boulders of black granite. A nar- 

 row channel, a mere gutter, had been made by rolling 

 aside the boulders, and across this the men laid stiff poles, 

 eight or ten feet apart, the ends resting on the stones on 

 each side. The canoe was unloaded and dragged down 

 the rapid, the poles serving to keep its bottom from 

 touching the rocks. There was in no part of the gutter 

 water enough to help the pipanti down the rapids. 



Toward evening a loud, discordant yell echoed through 

 the forest. Again the howl sounded, and was at once 

 answered by another like the first. 



"Rain," ejaculated the guide. "The monkey cries be- 

 cause it will rain to-night." 



We landed on the first sandbar we came to, and the men 

 hurried to make a big and thickly thatched roof — a watla. 

 Two of them cut down and stripped of their leaves an 

 armful of stalks of grass. They were ten or twelve feet 

 in length and two inches in diameter at the butt. An- 

 other man had cut two poles having crotches at the end. 

 These he stuck deep into the sand, and in the crotches 

 laid another pole. From this the grass stalks sloped to the 

 ground. Then all hands brought armfuls of the big leaves 

 of the platanio and with them thickly covered the sloping 

 frame, and our shelter was complete. 



While the others gathered firewood, made a fire and set 

 themselves to broiling tapir steaks, the guide was digging 

 a hole in the sand near the camp-fire. When it was a foot 

 deep he paved it with small stones. Then he coolly raked 

 from under the roasting pieces of meat the best of the 

 glowing coals, and on them built a big fire in the pit. 



While it was burning he split the head of the tapir, 

 ' scraped and washed it well, clapped the halves together 



again and wrapped them in layer after layer of the platanio 

 leaves. The whole he tied together with a thin liana 

 pulled from the nearest tree. 



When they had eaten their supper they raked most of 

 the coals out from the pit, put a layer of green leaves on 

 the few embers that remained, and placed the tapir's head 

 on them. The coals, with those from the pit, were 

 pushed back into the trench and covered by big leaves. 

 Then a fire was started over all. The men squatted about 

 the light, and were still murmuring in soft, liquid tones 

 when I fell asleep on my blankets spread out on my ham- 

 mock lying on the sands. 



At 6 o'clock I awoke after a sleep of 11 hours. Sun- 

 shine brightened the tops of the trees; three of the Payas 

 were lazily stretching and yawning around the ashes of 

 the camp-fire, while the fourth knelt and with his hands 

 scraped away the sand and ashes from the pit where the 

 tapir's head lay buried. The layer of leaves, toughened 

 by the steaming, lifted what sand he could not scrape off. 

 The bundle was lifted out and opened, and our breakfast 

 lay steaming before us on the leaves. The proboscis was 

 cut off and offered to me, as being the daintiest bit of the 

 dish. I gave half of it back to the guide and ate the rest. 

 It was tender, gelatinous and altogether good to eat. The 

 Indians offered some of the brains, but I did not want 

 anything better than I had. 



Scarcely an hour passed before we started down the 

 river before a soft whistle from one of the men instantly 

 stopped every paddle. Every eye intently searched the 

 river banks, but mine could see nothing to call for such 

 attention, even when the guide whispered, "Tigre! Tigre 

 negro!" 



I could see no sign of the presence of the jaguar that 

 had come to the river for a drink after a night out. I 

 earnestly wished to see him. In fact the one animal of 

 all others I wanted to see just then was a black tiger, 

 biggest of the cat kind in all the Americas. 'Twas a good 

 time for such a meeting. My rifle was ready in hand, we 

 were a safe distance from shore, my crew could paddle 

 away faster than any jaguar could swim, and no cat often 

 takes to the water to follow foe or prey. 



But peer as I might, I could see no sign of the tiger, 

 not even when the men pointed at the very spot where he 

 stood. What I did see was dim flecks of sunshine amid 

 the dark leaves of low bushes on the sloping bank; and 

 when those yellow spots turned to bound up the bank it 

 was too late to do more than send a bullet humming af ter 

 them. 



My men were disgusted. What earthly good can one 

 expect of a man who can't see a tiger when it stares him 

 in the face? What good can reasonably be expected of a 

 white man, anyway? He can scarcely see, and often he 

 can scarcely hear; he can't find his way without a guide, 

 he can't carry a score or two pounds of trastos for him- 

 self; he can't smellawaree even when it is near enough to 

 hit with a stone from the hand ; it may even be doubted 

 whether he really knows enough to come in out of the wet 

 —when the canoe turns over? 



I confess that I was ashamed of myself. But I declare 

 that the spotted skin of that deceitful brute was so like 

 flecks of sunshine falling on the leaves that I could not 

 distinguish between them before it was too late, and he 

 had left me with my disgruntled crew. 



They were polite enough to say little about the matter. 

 What they did say was in Paya tongue, but I felt that it 

 was severe criticism. I was relieved when we came near 

 to a place that demanded all their attention. The river 

 ran head on against a wall of rock, the base of a high hill, 

 and disappeared. That it went somewhere was shown by 

 the fact that it did not come back, and by the dull roar 

 that filled the air. 



V/ e landed at the head of the pass. The crew scram- 

 bled to the top of the rocks to survey the stream. I 

 followed to see what we were coming to. I saw a river 

 whirling and boiling around a sharp bend, then pitch- 

 ing down a steep slope where the rocks hardly cared to 

 keep themselves hidden. At the lower end of the rapids 

 the stream was choked into a narrow passage, below 

 which was a broad and placid pool shining in the morn- 

 ing sunlight. Pathway beside the stream was impos- 

 sible. 



The Payas steadfastly gazed at the rapids for a full 

 minute. I saw their eyes took in every yard of the way, 

 and dwelt a little on the head of the narrow passage at 

 the foot of the rapids. We returned to the pipanti and 

 they took their places while I took off shirts and shoes, 

 tied long pieces of stout fishline to them and to my bag 

 of clothing, which also held my ammunition, and to the 

 other end of each cord fastened a bit of dry wood. The 

 Indians nodded approval, which may have meant that 

 they thought it was well for me to be ready to go in 

 swimming suddenly. 



The guide uttered a single word. The men bent for- 

 ward, their paddles poised in air. The bow of the pi- 

 panti swung out a little, and we closely skirted the pol- 

 ished granite. As we neared the point I held my breath 

 in fear lest the current might seize the canoe and slam 

 it against that solid wall upon which the waters had 

 vainly beaten through the ages. 



The bow shot beyond the end of the rock. The men 

 before me dug their paddles deep into the stream and 

 strove to swing the canoe around the point, Behind me 

 the guide labored to force the stern out into the channel. 

 They succeeded, and we were flying down through the 

 Ojo de las Aguas — the Eye of the Waters. 



Boiling eddies caught at the pipanti, surging waves 

 slapped at it, and cross currents dragged at it, to hurl us 

 on the rocky shore. Green hillocks smoothly rose before 

 us, to drop into boiling pits beyond the hidden rocks. 

 Black heads of granite reached above the surface here and 

 there. 



Possibly a quarter of a minute passed while we were 

 rushing down that rapid, toward the narrow gate, but to 

 me it seemed to be an hour. I had time to think that it 

 would have been far better if a whole day could have 

 been used in making the passage. Such haste tended to 

 give a sense of discomfort. There was a lack of repose, a 

 positive hurry that was not well bred, if it was not actu- 

 ally vulgar. 



The whole volume of the torrent poured through the 

 narrow crack in that rocky dam. Near its head the sur- 

 face of the river became almost smooth. In the contrast 

 with the rush through the tumult above one might have 

 i imagined that the boat was standing still, but such fancy 

 would have been changed by one glance at the wall of 

 rocks slipping swiftly past. 



Every Indian before me sat like lifeless bronze, his pad- 



