1B6 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Feb. 24, 1894. 



A FLORIDA NIGHT ADVENTURE. 



Reading "R. P. B's" account of the alligators on the 

 Anclote River in Florida, recalls to my mind the days when 

 every river, lake and bayou in that State fairly teemed 

 with the saurians, before man discovered a ready market 

 for their hides— a time when to those living near the 

 water no more familiar sound was known than the bel- 

 low of some "old bull gator," as he raised his gentle voice 

 at night in friendly rivalry with br'er frog. 



One such sound still reverberates in my ears, not from 

 unfamiliarity, but owing to my sudden and unexpected 

 introduction to the author of that particular bellow. 



I had been on a hunt in the great gulf hammock, that 

 dismal and weird feature of the peninsula of Florida, 

 that stretches for miles along the coast near Cedar Keys. 

 It is a mass of tangled undergrowth and vegetation ; giant 

 cypress, live-oak and magnolia lift their heads; and from 

 their limbs long festoons of gray funereal moss Jhang 

 swaying in the air. Strange, silent and still, the very 

 birds move with scarcely a sound save the rustling of their 

 wings, or at night the blood-curdling cry of the panther 

 as he slips through the brush. Under foot, save the run- 

 ways of the deer, path there is none. Everywhere it is 

 a labyrinth of tangled vine and palmetto, with long 

 stretches of swamp and "flatwood," with here and there a 

 knoll of dry ground that rises as an oasis in this dark and 

 silent land. Here the wild game finds a retreat from man, 

 only to fall a victim to the wolf and panther. Here in 

 these wooded fastnesses Osceola and his band of Seminoles 

 laughed defiance to his white antagonists, its pathless 

 maze unfathomable save to the Indian eye, and by bis 

 side stood that other scourge, malaria. But in these for- 

 est depths no Indian lurks to-day, and for those who will 

 risK the fever, no better spot can be offered to the lover 

 of the chase, and there I have spent many exciting 

 moments, when with gun in hand I heard the crash of 

 the deer as he came rushing along before the hounds. 



On the occasion to which I refer, I had become sepa- 

 rated from my companions and my horse as well, for on 

 search no trace of either could be found, save the remains 

 of a parted bridle rein, and there was for me in prospect 

 but a weary tramp homeward, some thirty miles or more. 

 Floundering through the soggy woods I at length reached 

 the railroad that crossed the hammock on its way to the 

 gulf, trestle after trestle marking its path through a land 

 that contained no human inhabitant. But what a relief 

 to me it was to find firm dry ground for my weary feet. 

 So forward I started, just as night closed in, with not a 

 star in sight and the ever-nearing thunder warning 

 that more misery was in store for me. Onward I plodded, 

 mile after mile, drenched to the skin from that tropical 

 stoi'm, with no shelter save the live-oaks beside the track 

 and under whose dripping arms myriads of mosquitoes 

 disputed my right of shelter. Choosing the lesser evil, I 

 dragged myself along, but no friendly moon nor star came 

 out as the rain passed away. All around me was impen- 

 etrable darkness, save when a iriendly flash of lightning 

 showed me a trestle about to entrap my feet. At length 

 the trestle came, but without the light; and through it I 

 fell, to land up to my waist in a slimy bayou. There, 

 right beside me apparently, from out the murky darkness, 

 rose the angry snort of a bull alligator. Many a time in 

 sport have I and my brother swam in lakes tdat were full 

 of them and with never a fear, but then the bright sun 

 lent us courage. But here, alone in inky darkness, I was 

 face to face with an enemy I could not even see. How 1 

 scrambled outT never knew; but out I finally managed to 

 get, gun still grasped in hand, and over the trestle I 

 picked my way, as badly scared as a man usually can be. 



A mile or so further on I passed some negroes camped 

 beside the track, and by their cheerful lightwood fire dried 

 my soaked clothes and warmed my chilled limbs. After 

 a rest and a meal of corn pone, which refreshed me in a 

 measure, I resumed my way, lighted by a torch of light- 

 wood. All now was plain sailing, and just as the dawn 

 broke I reached the trail that led to our plantation, weary 

 and footsore and burning already with the fever that put 

 a quietus on my hunting trips for many weeks to come. 



W. R. H. 



AN EVENING ON VANCOUVER'S ISLAND 



In the winter of 1682, Cavelier de la Salle, accompanied- 

 by Tonty and twenty -three other Fienchmen, together 

 with a band of Wabenaki allies, came to the Chicago 

 River, made the portage to the northern branch of the 

 Illinois, and continued their journey down its frozen 

 course. 



If any one had predicted to the great explorer that in 

 two hundred years another band of Wabenaki Indians 

 would camp near the mouth of the Chicago, and that a 

 few steps from them would be a village of their old ene- 

 mies, the dread Iroquois, he would probably have consid- 

 ered the prophecy as one of the vagaries of a disordered 

 brain. If it had been further predicted that near the 

 camps of the Wabenaki and the Iroquois other aborigines 

 from an island on the northwest coast, of which he never 

 heard, would build their rude habitations and erect their 

 totem poles; and that these and still other tribes would be 

 dwelling together in harmony in the midst of one of the 

 world's great cities, which would be built on the banks of 

 the insignificant stream which the Indians named after 

 the skunk cabbage, La Salle would no doubt have been 

 skeptical as to the arrival of the millennium so soon. 



But all this came to pass, and the wilderness of 1682 

 became in 1893 the scene of many wonders of which the 

 discoverer of the great West never dreamed nor would 

 have deemed possible of human accomplishment. 



Near the birch bark wigwams of my Wabenaki friends 

 of the Penobscot tribe, of whom I wrote in a recent paper, 

 was the camp of the Iroquois, in which dwelt the repre- 

 sentatives of the Six Nations. There was the "long 

 house," the ho-da-no-sau-nee, built of bass and elm bark, 

 fastened to poles with hickory withes; three smoke holes 

 were in the roof, under which could be lighted the three 

 council fires, which are kindled when the Six Nations 

 come together. It was in just such a house as this, hidden 

 in the wilderness of the Mohawk Valley, that the councils 

 were held which sent war parties against the other red 

 nations and the pale-faced men who had come from over 

 the great water; it was in just such a house that the battle 

 songs were sung whose echoes struck terror to the settlers 

 on the St. Lawrence and the wild tribes on the. Mississippi. 



Near the ho-da-no-sau-nee was a round hut of bark, sur- 

 rounded by a palisade of stakes sunk firmly into the 

 ground, showiDg the ancient mode of protecting their 

 dwellings and forts. 



There was another structure similar to the "long" or 

 council house. In this village were members of the six 

 tribes which comprise the league of the Iroquois, Senecas, 

 Oneidas, Mohawks, Onondagas, Tuscaroras and Cayugas. 

 In the old days the Iroquois were the most dreaded, savage 

 and relentless of all the Indians; to-day there are none 

 who lead them in civilization, and some of the best farms 

 in New York State belong to them. 



They are a fine-looking people and at the Fair were 

 employed, as were the Penobscots, in making and selling 

 their native wares, baskets, canoes, bead work, etc. 



The Penobscots do not make much bead work, but excel 

 in the manufacture of baskets. I became acquainted 

 with one very intelligent man, whose name I cannot now 



rUOOUOIS BARK HOUSES AND POLE STOCKADE. 



recall, but who in his early life had hunted and traveled 

 over much of my own well-loved hunting grounds in 

 northern Maine. This formed a bond of sympathy be- 

 tween us, and he and Nikola Sockbeson and myself had 

 some pleasant chats together. 



This man had a strong Indian face of very dignified 

 expression, wore his hair long and had gold rings in his 

 ears. His home is near Chautauqua Lake, and he asked 

 me if I had ever heard a certain public man speak. "I 

 heard him at Chautauqua," said he, "and he is a very 

 able man." This one expression shows as well as a volume 

 the possibilities of Indian civilization. "My people do 

 not hunt much now," said he. "They are mostly farmers 

 and do not go in the big woods much." This seems 

 rather strange, as they live near the Adirondacks, and 

 my friends, the Penobscots, get most of their living from 

 their native forests, guiding, hunting, lumbering and 

 river driving. At the Fair were Chief Daniel La Porte, 



tjjl'ACKAHL HUTS AND TOTEM POLES. 



an Onondaga, chief of the Six Nations, and Chief 

 Thomas Webster, the wampum keeper, who knows the 

 history of all the wampum belts. Chief La Porte speaks 

 all of the six languages. 



Then there were Solomon O'Bail, a Seneca, 78 years of 

 age and grandson of the famous Chief Cornplanter, who 

 made treaties with Washington and was a great friend of 

 the whites; and Deerfoot, another Seneca, who won name 

 and fame years ago by his fleetness of foot. Thirty years 

 ago in London he ran eleven and a half miles and ninety- 

 nine yards in one hour; this feat, which I believe has 

 never been equaled, was witnessed by the Prince of Wales. 

 Some of their women were handsome: one in particular, 

 a Seneca, who used to come over to the Penobscot camp, 

 had a pretty face with fine eyas and a soft voice. Drawn 

 up on the shore of the pond, near the graceful bark canoes 

 of the Penobscots, were several dugouts belonging to the 

 Iroquois, who were never such good canoe builders, for 

 the birch was scarce in their country and they used elm 

 bark and hollowed logs. But birch and dugout lay peace- 

 fully side by side on the South Pond, even as the Wa- 

 benaki and the Iroquois dwelt in harmony. 



The wonderful change since the days of La Salle came 

 to me very forcibly one evening as I stood talking with 

 Nick Sockbeson and my Iroquois acquaintance of the long 

 hair and gold ear-rings. 



There we were, two Indians whose ancestors for gen- 

 erations thirsted for one another's blood, and a pale face, 

 a descendant of the common enemy of both. It brought 

 to mind the old Indian wars, and the many traditions 

 extant among the Penobscots of their fights with the 

 Iroquois. 



One great battle with the Mohawks was fought at a 

 certain place on the Penobscot where there are rapids in 

 the river, and after a fierce encounter the Penobscots van- 

 quished the foe and killed or captured every one. Two 

 they saved, and after cutting off their ears sent them back 

 to their own country that they might tell their people of 

 the fate which had befallen the expedition. To this day 

 the falls are known as the Mohawk Rips, and every time 

 we go through them the story is told again. 



We were speaking of it one time at the Fair, and I 

 told Nick that if I saw any member of the Six Nations 

 wandering around the grounds minus his ears, I should 

 know that the old feud had been revived, but Nick said 

 he had left his scalping knife at home, so I apprehended 

 no danger. Nick is a good deal of a wag himself, not-, 

 withstanding that the stoical red man is not much given 

 to fun, and he often made a shy Indian joke at the ex- 

 pense of the people who ask so many questions. 



It was a curious fact remarked by the different people 

 from all over the world who were represented at the Fair, 

 that nearly all visitors who talked with them, limited 

 their conversation to a few stock questions. 



Almost every one who looked into a Penobscot wigwam , 

 glanced up at the little patch of sky which showed 

 through the smoke hole, and asked, "What do you do 

 when it rains? " After answering this question several 

 times one day, Nick replied soberly to a gentleman and 

 lady, "Oh, we do just as they do in Canady." 



"What is that?" 



"Why we just let it rain." 



Sometimes when tired of answering questions he would 

 have a little quiet fun by pretending to be extremely 

 deaf. 



"I should think you would prefer to live in houses, 

 said a visitor after a critical inspection of the wigwam. 



"We'd have been dead Injuns long before this if we 

 was shut up in houses," replied the imperturbable Penob- 

 scot, and I smiled as I thought of his neat cottage on the 

 Indian Island. 



One gushing young woman with her husband, came in, 

 bought a basket and said with great animation, "Oh! I 

 want to see the little Indian baby." 



She probably thought an infant went with every ex- 

 hibit in the ethnological department, the same as a 

 chromo with every package. Nick replied ingenuously 

 and with such an innocent expression as to disarm any 

 feeling of offense: "We haven't got any Injun baby," and 

 then asif an after-thought had occurred to him, "But 

 nobody knows what may happen. You might call around 

 at this time next year." The couple went away laughing 

 and Nick walked down to see if the canoes were all 

 right. 



One evening in the early summer we sat on a deer skin 

 by the wigwam door; we had just eaten our supper and 

 were enjoying the cool breeze from the lake and the 

 quiet of the twilight which was stealing over the White 

 City. As we sat there we heard the soft dip of a paddle 

 and young Joe Sockaleris stepped from his canoe, and 

 after lifting it carefully out of the water joined us. It 

 seemed as if we must ask him if he had seen any game 

 or which flies the trout were rising to that evening. 



It was the quiet hour between daylight and dark, which 

 is the pleasantest of the day, the hour which in camp is 

 devoted to the well-earned siesta, so delicious after a day 

 in the open air. We had been talking of the woods, 

 and as the light faded I thought of many just such 

 peaceful evenings when we had seen the sun "sink behind 

 the pine-clad nills and watched the jjurple shades creep 

 up the steep slopes of old Ktaadn, or Kmeo, or Kokadjo, 

 or the Travelers. 



But no mountains loomed up beyond the South Pond, 

 no reflection of rock or forest tree floated in the water. 

 Still it was a spot where the wizards of 1893 had wrought 

 their spell, one of those places where one came under the 

 influence of the magic power of the White City, and the 

 owner of the seven-league boots would have gone at a 

 snail's pace in comparison to the steps one took at 

 ordinary gait. 



Here the potency of the magic was so great that won- 

 derful powers were given to the eyes as well as to the 

 feet. 



So it was that sitting by the door of a Penobscot wig- 

 wam on the Indian Island we found our vision become so 

 powerful that we easily looked across the entire breadth 

 of the North American continent and saw Jimmie Deans 

 sitting on a log on the shore of another island, which is 

 laved by the waters of the Pacific. About him we could 

 see the representatives of another tribe of Indians, as 

 different from the Wabenaki people as their canoes and 

 habitations were different from those which had come 

 from the Maine woods. 



Wonderful, wonderful, was the magic of the Fair. 



"Nick," said I, "Let's go over to Vancouver's Islandand 

 call on the Quackahls." A charming proposal, was it not,, 

 for an evening's stroll; from the Atlantic to the Pacific;; 

 but that was nothing at all in the White City, and if the 

 owner of the seven-league boots visited the exposition, it, 

 must have been pure chagrin which kept him from* 

 announcing his arrival. 



"All right; we go over; perhaps we see 'em dance to- 

 night," and we walked through the country of the 

 Iroquois and in due time arrived on the Pacific coast with 

 our scalps on our heads; a feat which Cavelier de la Salle 

 would not have accomplished so easily in his day. 



"Good evening, Mr. Deans," said we to the grizzled old 

 Scotchman, who has spent the greater part of his life 

 among the fish-eating tribes of Vancouver's Island, and 

 who brought the Quackahls to Chicago. 



"Good evening, good evening, how air ye," responded 

 the old man cordially, as he took his pipe from his mouth 

 and extended his hand, while his eyes beamed kindly 

 under the Scotch cap whose ribbons hung over his gray 

 hair. We were soon joined by another man of powerful 

 build and swarthy skin, who spoke English with a voice 

 soft and gentle as a woman's. This was George Hunt, a 

 half-breed— whose mother was a Quackahl squaw and his 

 father a Scotchman— the interpreter of the tribe. I nod- 

 ded to Wanug, the prince consort of the Quackahls, who 

 squatted on the grcmd near one of the big canoes, 

 wrapped in his blanket and drawing comfort from a pipe. 

 Wanug grunted something in his native jargon with no 

 change of expression on his stoical face. His wife, the 

 tribal queen Doquayes, also wrapped in a gay blanket and 

 with her pappoose on her back, stood in the door of one 

 of the houses. 



The Vancouver Islanders had a very picturesque village 

 consisting of three weatlier-beaten shanties, two for 



