90 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Feb. 1, 1896. 
UNCLE LISHA'S OUTING.-X. 
Le Feu Follet. 
The northern horizon was glowing with the pulsating 
flame of the aurora, and the dark forest of the eastern 
shore echoed at intervals with the solemn challenges of 
the horned owls, remotely answered by their brethren 
who held sway over the somber realm of the Porterboro 
woods that stretched their dark expanse along the west 
bank of the South Slang and beyond the sluggish rivulets 
of its source. 
" 'Cordin' tu the signs we're a-goin' tu git some sort o' 
fallin' weather," Uncle Lisha remarked as he gave an eye 
and ear to these prognostics of a storm. 
"The north'n lights is shinin' tol'lable bright," said 
Joseph, peeping through the trees at the celestial display. 
"If the sun hain't crawled 'raoun' an' sot back side o' 
Canerdy. 'Roarer Borer Alice,' Solon calls it." 
Antoine rolled himself off his seat onto all fours, and in 
that position intently regarded such glimpses of the flicker- 
ing arch as could be seen between the tree trunks that 
* stood in black relief against it. 
"Wal, Ah'll a' n't hear it roar, me, but Ab'U can see it 
bore some in de sky. Dat was what Solon prob'ly call it 
de borer Alice for, a'n't he? But Ah do' know what for 
he'll call it roarer, hein." 
"Wal, the fact on 't is, Solon val'es words 'cordin' tuthe 
bigness more 'n the meanin', seems 's 'ough," Joseph ex- 
plained, while Antoine, turning his searching gaze to the 
creek, descried a light moving about in the black shadows 
of the further shore. 
"Look, see darl" he said in a suppressed tone of alarm, 
as he pointed to the moving light. "Dat was de feu 
follet!" 
"Few follies is better 'n many, Ann Twine," said Uncle 
Lisha; "but that 'ere hain't nothin' but someb'dy nuther 
wi' a lantern." 
"O, no, no, no, One' Lasha, dat a'n't belamprm, aah; dat 
was feu follet! Ah do' know haow you call it in Angleesh, 
but he was very bat t'ing, Ah tol' you." 
"What is 't, Ann Twine?" Joseph inquired; "sort of a 
one-eyed lew grew critter sech as you was a-tellin' us on 
oncte?" 
The Canadian watched the light till it vanished in fitful 
gleams among the woods, and then heaving a sigh of re- 
lief he turned and stooped to the camp-fire to rekindle his 
neglected pipe before he answered. 
"No, seh, Zhozeff, he'll a'n't so hugly for keel some- 
boddy lak de loup garou; he more kan' o' funny for fool- 
ish somebody. Ah'll had some experiments of it mahse'f, 
an' Ah'll goin' tol' you of it, me." 
Before seating himself at the fire he looked again in the 
direction where the light had disappeared. If he had 
been given the vision of an owl he might have seen a boat 
with two figures in it stealthily landing at the further 
shore; but the faint light of the aurora, that barely de- 
fined in dimmed silver the course of the channel, revealed 
nothing to him. 
"Wen Ah'll was leeve in Canada," he began, as his pipe 
responded satisfactorily to his energetic draf ts^each end- 
ing in a smack like the stroke of a paddle blade upon the 
water, "one tarn, w'en Ah'll han't more hoi' as 20 year 
an' was goin' for see de gal one naght — he a'n't Ursule, 
but nudder one dat Ah tink more of as ev'rybody dat 
tarn," he paused a moment in dreamy retrospect of long 
past days when eyes were bright and cheeks were rosy 
that now were dim and faded, and then resumed, "wal, 
seh, Ah'll was rode 'long on mah leetly mare. Oh, he 
was good one, Ah'll tol' you, for draw, for rode, for go 
fas' — ev'ryt'ing 'cep' t'rashin' machine, dey a'n't gat it den, 
an' it was kan' o' daks in de naght, an' Ah'll see lit over 
in mah fader, hees farm where dey was be some swamp 
side of de meader. Ah'll a'n't know if he was somebody 
steal de hay or what he was do, but Ah'll t'ink he a'n't gat 
some beesiness dar, an' Ah'll go see what he was do. So 
Ah hitch mah hoss — dat was, mah mare — on de fence an' 
gat on de lot for see what Ah'll see. 
"Ah'll go very softie as leetly maouses, but more furder 
Ah'll go de more furder de lit was go. Den Ah'll begin 
for run fas', but he run more fastes' as Ah was, an' den 
Ah'll gat mad an' run more an' more faster, an' de more 
Ah run de more Ah'll gat mad, an' de more Ah'll gat mad 
de more Ah'll run an' holler sco'ndrel name to it an' tol' 
it for stop, an' what beesiness he got, go to diab' for see 
his One' — ev'ryt'ing Ah can tink me, but he jus' jomp 
raoun' dis way, dat way on de swamp an' say not'ing, 
only mek motion, an' dat mek me so mad Ah'll run on de 
swamp at it. 
"Ah'll fregit Ah'll gat on all mah bes' clos'. Ah'll 
gat mah new moccasin, mah bes' tow traowser, mah han'- 
some shirt mah mudder weave pruppus, an' seh, fus' Ah'll 
stubble mah toe an' sloop! Ah'll go all over raght on 
de black mud an' water. Den Ah peek up mahse'f care- 
ful, an' w'en Ah scoop de mud off mah heye, Ah'll see 
de lit go dance 'way off 'cross de swamp where somebody 
can never go, an' den Ah'll know it was de feu follet, an' 
Ah feel 'f Ah'll a'n't wort' much, me. 
"Wal, Ah go back where mah mare was, spluck, 
spluck, in my wet moccasin, an' seh, mah mare he a'nt 
dar. He gat scare an' run home, an' Ah gat for go 'foot 
all de way; spluck, spluck, all de way. My clos' all sp'il 
up so Ah'll can' go for see de gal dat naght, an' sem 
naght nudder feller go an' see it an' cut me all off, so Ah'll 
lose it. Dat was pooty bad lucky for me, but not so 
very bad, for den Ah'll go marry Ursule, an' she more as 
feefty paoun' bigger as dat gal." 
"Why, man alive, what you was askivin' raoun' in the 
maash arter wan't nothin' but a jack o' lantern. I B'pose 
it's fox-fire 'at's broke loose from rotten wood an' sich, 
an' goes fluripin' an' driftin' 'raoun'. But what you seen 
over yonder was jest someb'dy wi' a lantern, Samwil's 
niggers a fishin', like 's not. I wonder what's come o' 
Samwil," and Uncle Lisha got up and moved restlessly 
about, peering out upon the creek and toward the land- 
ing. "Good airth an' seas! I don't see what in tunket he 
wants to be a rarin' 'raoun' nights for, when honest folks 
ort tu be abed. I wouldn't never ha' come here with 
him 'f I'd s'posed he was goin' tu cut up so. I'm a dum 
good min' tu go tu bed an' let him go tu thunder, I snum 
I be!" 
Preparatory to the execution of this threat he retired 
into the tent and spread his blankets, but p^sently came 
forth, sat down by the fire and lighted his pipe, emitting 
snorts of impatience between silent intervals of listening. 
The owls had quit their dismal calling and not a sound 
was to be heard from the woods nor waters save the occa- 
sional splash of a fish or a waterfowl or a muskrat busy 
with its nightly labors. 
"What ye s'pose has become o' that 'ere tormented 
boy?" Uncle Lisha demanded sharply, after some inward 
fuming at the apparent apathy of his companions, "or 
don' ye car' whet'er he's draownded or lost in the maash? 
Why don't ye say suthin'?" 
"Wal, Ah guess Sam gat hoi' 'nough for took care hee- 
se'f of it, prob'ly," Antoine answered with some sharp- 
ness. "He'll a'n't leetly boy, a'n't it?" 
"I was kinder meditatin' it over in my mind," Joseph 
said apologetically, "an' I don't seem tu feel r'al'y oneasy 
'baout Samwil, ner yet ezackly easy, it don't seem 's 'ough. 
It's a-gittin' consid'able kinder late, an' then ag'in it hain't 
so late as it might be." 
"I wish't I bed a rope hitched 'raoun' his neck, I'd 
fetch him almighty quick. I don't see what in tunket's 
come o' him," and Uncle Lisha stumped about, making 
the circuit of the fire, and gazed out into the surround- 
ing darkness. "Wal, it's high time honest folks was abed, 
and I'm a-goin' right stret off." 
Again he retired within the tent, where he could be 
heard laboriously pulling off his boots, and with deep- 
drawn sighs disposing his stout form upon his low couch. 
But not many moments elapsed before he reappeared in 
his stockings. Uncle Lisha deigned no reply to the 
Canadian, but asked anxiously: 
"Wal, One' Lasha, you a'n't so hones' you t'ink you was, 
a'n't it? Hain't that 'eretarnal boy come back yit? Wal, 
I swan." Then after a moment of intent listening, "Wal, 
I'm a dumbed good min' to holler, anyway. I c'n make 
him hear if he's alive within a mild o' here." 
As he drew in his breath for a mighty shout they heard 
disturbed waterfowl, one after another, nearer and nearer, 
taking sudden flight, the flutter of uprising and cries of 
alarm continually drawing nearer, till at last the thump 
of a paddle was heard at the landing, and then the lantern 
began to sway and undulate, now hidden behind a tree or 
knoll, now shining brighter till it's sprinkled light dis- 
closed Sam's illuminated legs quite close at hand. 
"Wal, folks, here I be," he announced as he let the full 
light of the candle upon his face through the open door 
and then extinguished it with a puff. 
"An' high time 'at you was," and Uncle Lisha spent his 
hoarded breath in a growl. "What ye be'n shoolin 'raound 
these 'ere ma'ches for, a ketchin' the fever 'n' aig an' 
freezin' tu death? I'm a tarnal good min' ter shake ye, so 
I be. Sed daown there by the fire an' warm ye whilst I 
put on some more/wood. An' say, Ann Twine, hain't ye got 
a col' duck for him an' a hunk o' bread? I know he's 
hungry." 
"I hain't a mite hungry, ner cold nuther," Sam de- 
clared, seating himself by the fire and preparing for a 
restful smoke. "On'y a leetle mite tired. I staid tu Mr. 
Bartlett's longer'n what I meant tu an' it's kinder slow 
poky work a-keepin' the channel in the dark 'specerly in 
the Slang. I'm sorry you got worried." 
"Sho, I wan't worryin' none, but I was a leetle riled," 
said the old man as he ran his hand down Sam's long 
shank. "Why, your laigs is kinder damp. You want to 
dry 'em good 'fore you go tu bed! I'm a goin' naow, tu 
stay." 
"Ho! a'n't worry!" Antoine scoffed. "Bah gosh, seh, 
he was be f usster, f usster raoun' more as one hoi' sheekin 
wid one hen." 
"Yah, if you ever tol' the truth folks 'ould b'lieve you 
oncte in a while," Uncle Lisha growled back from the 
depths of the tent, where, after a prelude of sighs and 
yawns, there came a regular succession of sounds where- 
with he was wont to proclaim his presence in dreamland. 
"Wal," said Joseph sleepily, "I s'pose if I don't never 
go tu bed I shan't never git up, an' it's the wust o' goin' 
tu bed 'at you du hafter git up some time er nuther," and 
he went to join Uncle Lisha. 
"Say, Sam," Antoine whispered cautiously, "Where 
you was, hein?" 
Sam cast a scrutinizing glance upon him as he answered , 
"Why, up to Mr. Bartlett's. Where d'ye s'pose. Le's go 
tu bed." Rowland E. Robinson. 
THE TALKING PINE.— HI. 
The Wind Dance. 
"Come, T'solo the wanderer, when the wind is strong in 
the southwest, and see the wind dance and hear the wind 
song of the pines." So said my friend, the Talking Pine, 
when we parted the last time. 
This wise pine, which is so old that it can remember the 
first white man's coming, had promised to tell me the 
secrets of the woods and this was to be the first lesson, so 
when the wind came from the southwest I got in my canoe 
and journeyed across the Lake of the Mountains until I 
came to the place where the wise one lives. 
The Talking Pine and all his large family and all their 
relations were dancing the wind dance and singing the 
wind song when the canoe scraped the sand. 
The Talking Pine saw me and nodded his head, but did 
not stop dancing, for you must know that when the pines 
once begin dancing they will sing and dance the wind 
dance just as long as they can get the wind to help them 
with the music. They love to swing and sway with the 
wind that comes from the sea to help them sing, and you 
know the pines cannot sing alone and they always sleep 
when the wind goes away. 
I came to the foot of the Talking Pine so he could talk 
as he danced, and he told me why the pines dance the 
wind dance and sing always when the wind is in the 
southwest. This the Talking Pine said about the wind 
dance: 
"Many, many years ago, before I was born, or my 
father or my father's father was born, when the Wind 
was still a little boy, there were many strange and 
horrible creatures in the world and they were always at 
war. 
"Far away to the southwest was a Skall-lal-a-toot that 
the wind loved to play tricks on. 
"This Skall-lal-a-toot had a daughter about the same 
age as the Wind, and the Wind loved the little one for her 
winning ways and pretty face, for you know they are all 
this way. The old Skall-lal-a-toot loved his daughter very 
much too, and hated the Wind because he was always 
traveling and playing tricks, and had a bad temper. 
When the Wind got old enough to marry he went to this I 
girl and wanted her to go away with him to his lodge.| L 
She was willing, but the old Skall-lal-a-toot was very angry' l| 
and hid his daughter. i 
"Now, you know the Wind can make himself very small f 
and invisible too, so he came in the night and took thei 4 
Skall-lal-a-toot's daughter in his arms and started away fl 
across the big water to take her to his lodge. Soon thet 1 1 1 
old Skall-lal-a-toot missed his daughter and went to find jf 
the Wind and get his daughter back, and at the same i 
time to punish the Wind for the trick he had played on jt 
him. 
"After a long journey he overtook the Wind, and while il 
the Wind slept he took his daughter and then struck the ji 
Wind so hard on the head that he was like a dead man |> 
for a long time. 
"Then the old Skall-lal-a-toot took his daughter and fl 
started for home again. In 
"When the Wind woke up he was pelton in his head,' f 
crazy the white men call it, and he could not remember |i 
anything, and had lost the power to change himself back I 
to his visible shape again, so now you can only hear him fi 
sing, but can never see him. 
"After a long time the Wind remembered that the f 
Skall-lal-a-toot's daughter was with him, and he thought i 
she had been stolen, so he went to look for her. 
"The Wind was very strong in his body because he was { 
wrong in his head, and he traveled very fast and got very 
angry when he thought of the old Skall-lal-a-toot, and at $ 
last he overtook the old man with his daughter and \ 
fought him a great battle, away out over the big water.; i 
Soon the Skall-lal-a-toot was forced to drop his daughter; tj 
and take care of himself, and when her father let go of g 
her the girl fell down into the big water and was drowned, o 
"Then the Tah-mah-na-wis took her up in the sky so i 
the Wind could not see her always. t 
"The white men call her the Moon, but they do not' $ 
know why her face is white like the face of a drowned | 
person or why you can always see the ghost of the moon > i 
in the water when you look on moonlight nights. That 
is because she was drowned in the big water, and now ►) 
she must always stay there until the Wind finds her, and | 
the Wind is crazy and does not know her face, but travels 
always and looks for his wife and sings to call her from! 
the woods. 
"The Wind thinks the pines know where his wife is, 
and he is always singing to them to tell him, then he gets 
crazy again and thinks she is with him, and he goes away 
laughing and singing. 
"The Wind loves to dance and to sing, and the pines 
always help the poor fellow and he tells them many things 
that he sees in his travels. 
"He is not always crazy and then he moans and cries 
for his wife and looks everywhere, but soon he gets crazy 
again and sings and shrieks, and rushes along looking 
for the old Skall-lal-a-toot again. 
"The Tah-mah-na-wis^changed the wicked old Skall-lal-< 
a-toot into the sun and put him in the sky, and now he is 
always running away from his daughter and she is always 
following him." 
This the Talking Pine told me as he danced the wind 
dance and sung the wind song. 
"I would sleep now, T'solo the wanderer," said the Pine 
when the Wind went away. 
"When there is more to know I will tell you by a mes- 
sage and you will come then, T'solo the wanderer, andi 
we will see more." 
Then the pine slept and I came again to my lodge. 
El Comanoho. 
BEE HUNTING. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
The communication on bee hunting in your columns 
has stirred my old memory box clear down to the bottom.! 
Next to hunting and fishing, "bee lining" was the pride) 
and joy of my boyhood days. When the boy grew tci 
manhood it was a toss up as to which of the three sports 
afforded greater pleasure. 
You say in your pleasant editorial on the subject, "Who 
shall say that bee hunting may not become a fine art 
among sports, and that in the increasing dearth of fishj 
and fowls and beasts of venery the wild honey bee may! 
not come to be legitimate game, and the hunting thereof! 
the contemplative man's recreation?" 1 
I say amen to this sentiment, and would add: That thel 
lover of sports who has never enjoyed the pleasure of bee I 
hunting has misseci one of the most enjoyable things off 
this life. 
It would be useless for any one to attempt to "line"! 
bees without some knowledge of the manner in which the I 
sport is conducted. For the benefit of those who may de- 1 
sire instructions, I will give the method followed in the I 
State of Maine, where "bee lining" is reduced to a fine I 
art. 
First, let us start right. The sport is not called bee J 
hunting for the same reason that trout fishing is not J 
called trout hunting. "Bee lining" is the term used. 
The first requisite is a bee box. The dimensions are J 
usually as follows: Length 6in., width 4in., depth 3iin. J 
The box is in two parts, connected by brass hinges. The 1 
lower part, or bottom, is l^in. in depth. The upper part I 
is fitted with a slide at the bottom and glass at the top. I 
The slide should be the full width of the box, and when I 
closed should project about 4in. The projection can be I 
whittled down into a convenient handle. Fit a piece of I 
empty honeycomb into the lower half of the box if you I 
can get it, otherwise use a block of wood filled with shal- I 
low holes. Your box is now ready to take into the field. 
You will have to procure some strained honey, the pure 
article; made honey don't go. Dilute your honey with] 
water — about one-third water. The pure honey is too] 
thick to run well when you are filling the empty comb, \> 
and it takes the bees too long to load up. Besides the 
bees daub themselves and are worthless while they are 
cleaning their wings and bodies. Do not mix over one- 
half pint of honey and water at a time, as the mixture 
sours in warm weather. 
The next requisite is a slender staff about 4ft. in length. 
Whittle one end to a point and nail a shingle or small 
piece of thin board on the other end. 
A light axe and a compass should be added to the outfit 
and then you are ready for business. 
When you find a locality which you think will afford 
wild bees thrust the staff into the ground and you have a 
handy stand for your bee box. Take the empty piece of 
comb out of the box and go in search of bees. When you 
