280 
[March 21, 1896, 
UNCLE LISHA'S OUTING— XVI. 
Uncle Lisha and Joseph go Voyaging. 
Uncle Lisha woke early from a troubled dream of 
slaughtered geese that when picked up changed to a 
leering, disagreeable man clad in a garment of feathers 
and a red woolen comforter tied about his neck. As the 
unpleasant vision dissolved in the vanishing miBts of 
dreamland his awakening senses realized the dim, chilling 
dawn of the autumn day, its silver promise of golden 
hours, its absence of bird songs, the near stillness stirred 
but not broken by far away sounds, the raucous call of 
dusky ducks, the chiming whistle of a flock of golden- 
eyes already on the wing and the crazy laughter of a dis- 
tant loon calling the sleeping winds. 
These sounds became more separate and distinct when 
be crept forth into the open air without disturbing his 
companions and stood shivering by the cold fireplace. 
He heard what more attracted his attention, the rustle of 
quick nervous footsteps in dry leaves near by and a sharp 
"K-r-r-r, quit, quit, quit, quit" that at once told their origin. 
He cautiously drew his gun from the tent and went in 
stealthy pursuit of the partridge, which led him down to 
the brink of the cliff before it burst into flight and went 
clattering far out of sight through the branches. 
Uncle Lisha stared a moment into the brief disturbance 
of branches along the bird's aerial path and then through 
a narrow aperture in the green wall of cedars he turned 
his eyes upon the lake, always an object of admiration to 
him, a dweller among the mountains. 
He saw Split Rock and the further shore of the bay be- 
coming distinct in the growing light, and looming above 
the low-spread veil of mist, whose nearer frayed edge dis- 
solved in the silvery sheen of the water, smooth as glass, 
yet gently undulating with long swells that were not per- 
ceptible except as they swept downward the lengthening 
reflections of Garden Island trees, or washed the sands 
with recurrent, slumberous murmurs. 
As he peered out upon the tranquil scene through the 
narrow casement of boughs, he heard a sonorous gabble 
of voices mingled with the soft wash of the swells, evi 
dently close at hand, yet coming from an unseen source, 
for there was no living object in sight but a small flock of 
ducks crinkling the glassy surface with theii wake just in 
the edge of the mist. Raising himself on tiptoe and look- 
ing nearer, his heart almost choked him at the sight of 
five noble geese standing midleg deep in the sandy shal- 
lows almost beneath him. One tall old gander stood on 
guard stretched to his utmost height, while his companions 
delved in the submerged gravel. 
With breathless caution the old man trained his gun 
upon them. Remembering all he had ever heard of the 
danger of overshooting in downhill shots and aiming low 
at two that stood in range, the trigger was pulled, the 
mimic thunder rolled across the bay, and as the multiplied 
echoes came tumbling back from distant hills and shores 
the lifting smoke unveiled two sprawling forms flounder- 
ing in the shallows and a brief vision of the survivors 
climbing skyward with flurried wing-beats. 
He knew not how, but with a speed and safety that 
seemed to him miraculous Uncle Lisha descended the 
cliff and secured his victims. 
"There you be anyway!" he panted as he stood exult- 
antly regarding them, "an' if you're tame wil' geese 
you're almighty smart ones, an' if any dumb man claims 
ye he'll be an almighty smart one if he gits ye away f'm 
your Uncle Lisher!" 
Casting a furtive glance around, he gathered them by 
the legs and made all haste along the beach. Though he 
• had not far to go to reach camp, his breath was well nigh 
spent, his short old legs were weak and his arm ached 
with a pain that he was proud of when he had climbed 
the steep path, and bracing himself for a final effort, held 
up his game before his gaping comrades. 
"There, boys," he cried, "haow'll that du for a 'fore 
breakfus' job? I tell ye it's the airly bird 'at gits the 
ff - worm. These 'ere geese is the birds an' I'm the worm." 
Then in response to a shower of questions he related all 
the incidents of his exploit, while each of his companions 
"hefted" the geese separately and together and burned 
with envy or glowed with admiration. 
"An' naow le's ha' some breakfus'," he cried when the 
recital was concluded, "for it's hungry work a-huntin' 
geese an' strainin' work a luggin' on 'em, as you may not 
know, but I du." 
"I s'pose you won't hev no 'bjections tu my hevin' the 
feathers if I'll pick 'em?" Joseph asked as they sat around 
the stone table, and between bites he turned his eyes upon 
the geese, and with slow rumination calculated their yield 
of down. 
"Not a ident'cal feather comes off'm them geese till 
they gits tu Danvis, an' Jerushy an' the hull consarn on 
'em sees 'em jest as they be, feathers an' all. No, sir," the 
old man continued with increasing emphasis, as he waved 
the half-picked thigh of a duck in the direction of the 
subject of his remarks, "the' ain't a-goin' tu be nothin' 
duberous abaout them 'ere geese, ner nob'dy a.-twittin' me 
'at they're someb'dy 'nother's tame geese 'at I shot." 
"Prob'ly you'll goin' prove it by de smell of it too, One' 
Lasha! Dey was git purty hoi' 'nough for smell w'en you 
gat it home." 
"I'll resk but what they'll keep three, four days, an' 
you'll be a goin' hum by that time, won't ye, Samwil?" 
"Yes, I gue3S we'll git 'nough on't by that time," Sam 
answered. "An' I would kerry 'em jest as they be if I 
was you, for they're better worth showin' 'an anything 
we've got erless it's aourselves. What be you an' Jozeff 
goin' tu du t'day? Me an' Antwine's a-goin' up theSaouth 
Slang tu hunt some an' see the Injins make the' canew. 
Want tu go 'long up in the scaow?" 
"No, I don't sca'cely b'lieve we du, du we, Jozeff? I 
b'en a-cal'latin' tu gwup the crik a piece some day an' see 
an ol' feller 'at I useter know time o' the war 'at I hain't 
seen for fifteen year, an' I guess if Joz°ff's a min' ter go 
an' hunt along up that way in the scaow, we'll go. I'd 
ruther see an ol' friend 'an all the dumb b'ilin' o' Injins 
in the 'Nited States, an' I don't care no gre't 'baout seein' 
'em make a canew. If 'twas mockersins, it might be in- 
terestin'. What say, Jozeff?" 
Joseph pondered long before he answered, casting 
doubtful glances out upon the creek while he slowly 
mopped his plate with a bit of bread. 
"Wal, I do' know sca'cely, Uncle Lisher. Du you 
understan' haow tu oar a boat an' gee an' haw it? 'Cause 
ye see I don't, an' the plaguey dumb things goes a- 
shoolin' 'raoun' jest where they're a minter, a dumb sight 
contrayer'n a hawg, seems 's 'ough. I cal'late they got it 
'baout right when they called 'em she. I do' know but 
what it can be l'arnt, but I kinder reckon a feller's got tu 
hev the gift o' managin' on 'em, same as o' women folks, 
which some hain't ner can't git. Naow if 'twas M'ri' er 
Ruby, I should know jest haow tu go tu work, but darn a 
boat, anyways." 
"Good airth an' seas, Jozeff, 'tain't nothin' to manage 
ary one. You jest got tu humor 'em, that's all. I can 
run that scaow boat anywheres on this 'ere crik, I bate 
ye." 
"Wal, if you c'n du it it's all right, an' I'll go, but if 
you hafter depend any on me, we shan't git anywheres 
ner nowheres else." 
Joseph's doubts being overcome, they set forth on their 
voyage, Uncle Lisha at the oars, shaping his course by 
frequent glances over his shoulder. 
The weather was in the genial mood that autumnal 
days often assume as if to make amends for later sullen- 
ness and turbulence. The sun shone warm and bright, 
and the genial air was stirred by so light a breeze that it 
only wrinkled the outer channel with ripples that flashed 
back the sunlight and repeated the azure of the sky in 
" quavering lines of blue, cut athwart by gold and russet 
reflections of further woods and nearer rushy margins. 
The marshes were webbed so thick with a veil of spiders' 
weaving that they looked as if a hoar frost lay upon 
them, while the sun threw a glade of burnished gold 
across the broad silvery level, broken by the curving 
seam of the channel and the brown domes of the musk- 
rat houses. 
Uncle Lisha pulled an even, steady stroke, but a noisy 
one, with a creak and splash that awoke echoes and 
aroused flocks of wildfowl, while the boa.t snored placidly 
on its course, its broad bow seeming to exhale long 
respirations as it met the ripples with a decadent surge. 
A party of crows came out of the woods, cruising over- 
head in a brief tour of observation, whereof they made 
discordant report as they flapped back to cover. A king- 
fisher sallied from his perch to meet the voyagers with a 
rattling volley of clatter that did not cease till he slanted 
in upward flight to a steadfast poise above a shoal of 
minnows, into which he presently plunged like a plum- 
met, and then retired in silence to his Lenten break- 
fast. 
So they pursued the voyage, Uncle Lisha too busily 
employed and J oseph in too great trepidation for much 
conversation, till the mouth of the East Slang was passed, 
when the latter cleared his throat and remarked : 
"I tell ye what 'tis, Uncle Lisher, it binder seems 's 
'ough a feller 'd feel consid'able stiddier an' safer on one 
o' them 'ere mushrat haouses 'an what he does a-bolancin' 
hisself in this 'ere plaguey ol' wobblin' boat, seems 's 
'ough he would." 
"He wouldn't git fur on one on 'em, I don't cal'late," 
the old man answered. 
"Mebbe he might git fur in 'em," said Joseph, feeling 
guilty for venturing to pun in such a perilous situation; 
but Uncle Lisha did not deign to notice it and he con- 
tinued in serious vein. "But ye see I hain't wantin' tu 
go nowher', on'y tu git aout ont' the land agin, which the' 
hain't no chance o' duin' here, 'ceptih' I land on one o' 
them mushrat haousen." 
Uncle Lisha vouchsafed no answer, but half turned in 
his seat to study his course, thereby slightly tipping the 
scow. 
"Sam Hill! Look aout!" cried Joseph, pulling hard on 
the gunwale. "You'll hev the dumb tottlish consarn 
t'other side up fust ye know!" 
"Go 'long wi' your nonsense," Uncle Lisha answered. 
"You couldn't tip it over." In proof whereof he wagged 
his head and shoulders from side to side and raised a wash 
that shook the boat, yet not so much as it did Joseph. 
"For the Lord's sake stop it, Uncle Lisher," he pleaded, 
"I can't swim no more'n a grin'stun." 
"Nob'dy wants ye tu. You jes' sit still an' I'll navigate 
ye." Uncle Lisha smiled benignly as he resumed his stroke. 
"Set still? It don't eeem 's 'ough I could, no more'n on 
a hetchel, an' the tarnal boat won't let me. Say, Uncle 
Lisher, I wanter git aout an' set on a mushrat haouse till 
you come along back. Like 'nough I c'ld shoot a mush- 
rat er suthin'." 
"Sho, the' wouldn't none come anigh ye." 
"Wal, I don't care if they wouldn't. I've rid fur 
'nough, an' don't want to go nowheres! You back up tu 
that big one an' le' me git aout. My back aches an' my 
laigs cramps, an' I'm dizzy-headed an' sick tu my stom- 
erk an' I don't feel very well myself. You le' me git aout." 
"Why, Jozeff, be you in ri' daown airnest?" Uncle Lisha 
asked, resting his oars, Joseph's scared face gave suffi- 
cient answer without supplement of speech. 
"Yes, I be. It seems 's 'ough I wouldn't ask for nothin' 
in this world 'an tu be sot on suthin' 'at wouldn't tottle 
every time I drawed my breath or rolled my eye. You 
jest lemme git aout." 
"Sho, now don't be sech a 'fraid-cat. It hain't more'n 
a mile furder tu where we're a-goin', an' then you can 
huff it back tu camp, 'crost the bridge an' so raound." 
* 'I tell ye I've rid fur 'nough. You back up an' lemme 
git aout. Come now, du, Uncle Lisher. Whoa! Back! 
S-h-s-h! Dumb the plaguey ol' contr'y thing! Whoa! 
Hush!" 
"Wal, if you will, you will, I s'pose," Uncle Lisha said, 
stopping the scow's headway with a great surge of the 
oars and backing her in the direction of the largest musk- 
rat house. "But you'll git tumble lunsome, an' you can't 
move raound none." 
"I've moved raound 'nough tu last me a month. An' 
I'll be contented as a clam a-waitin' f er ye. Seems 's 'ough 
I would till — till the ma'sh froze, so I c'ld walk ashore." 
The slanting stern of the scow slid up the sloped side of 
the house and Joseph, hitching his gun along beside him, 
crawled out on all fours to the top, where he seated him- 
self with a sigh of intense relief. 
"There, naow, if 't wa'n't fer thinkin' o' gittin' away 
f'm here, I sh'ld be as independent as a man on the 
taown. You needn't hurry none 'baout comin' back. 
Seems 's 'ough I wanted consid'able time tu git settled an' 
rested up ah' look 'raound." 
"Guess you'll git settled an' sick on't 'fore I git aout o' 
sight. If ye du, you holler, an' I'll come back an' git ye. 
Good-by." 
Uncle Lisha bent to his oars and with a strong pull, 
assisted by a push of Joseph's foot, resumed his course, 
continuing it with moderate speed till quite out of sight, 
in momentary expectation of a recall. He passed the 
mouth of the East Slang and the long curve of the reach 
above it when he came where shore and channel became 
neighborly at a sandy landing, the cleanliest of all the 
old homestead ports that the inland voyager finds be- 
tween the lake and the first falls of Little Otter. He 
pulled in at the foot of a great elm and stepped out on the 
flint-strewn shore, stretching his legs and straightening 
his back before he beached his boat and climbed the 
breast-high bank, which was cut to a steep incline by the 
wash of the spring floods, and overhung with a fringe of 
naked roots of shrubs and grass. 
A level meadow lay before him, the rank aftermath 
dappled with purple heads of the second blossoms of 
clover and starred with late daisies. Beyond it a farm- 
house and barns nestled among locust, cherry and apple 
trees, a,nd a footpath led to it from the landing. This 
Uncle Lisha followed till the old house assumed a familiar 
appearance as he approached it from the unaccustomed 
direction. The smoke of an outdoor fire drifted up from 
behind a row of cherry trees that bordered the garden, 
and with it broken clouds of steam that diffused a savory 
odor of mixed cookery, the old-time hog's hotch-potch of 
pumpkins, potatoes and apples. 
When his feet brushed the plantain and scuffed the 
chips of the back yard, Uncle Lisha came close upon the 
source of the smoke and steam, a great potash kettle slung 
to a thick pole by a log chain over a brisk fire of stubborn 
odds and ends of the wood-pile. A wiry little man of 
about his own age was sidling around the windward side 
of the fire, punching it here with a wooden poker, kick- 
ing it there with a quick thrust of his cowhide boot, and 
then pulling a hat apparently as old as himself well over 
his brows and sinking his chin deep into the grizzled ruff 
of beard that surrounded his throat, stooped and peered 
into the bubbling kettle, getting brief giimpses of wallow- 
ing chunks of pumpkins, bursting potatoes and dropsical 
apples. He was in this position as Uncle Lisha ap- 
proached in the rear and touched him lightly on the most 
prominent part of his person with his gun. The guardian 
of the kettle was not at all startled, but only called out 
without turning his head. 
"Hy, ye leetle sarpint, tryin' tu skeer yer gran'dad, be 
ye?" 
Uncle Lisha touched him again, when making a sudden 
clutch with his free hand, he caught the stock of a gun. 
Then he quickly faced about, the look of surprise growing 
on his face when it met the complacent grin on another 
face as old as his own and on a level with it. The ex- 
pression of blank amazement softened to one of pleased 
recognition when the visitor roared, 
"Good airth an' seas! Abil, don't ye know me?" and 
the host responded in a higher pitched but as hearty a 
voice. 
"Why, Lisher Peggs, you goo' for nothin' ol' sinner, is 
it you? Where'n time 'd you come from an' haow be ye, 
anyway?" and the hands of the old friends clasped each 
other in a vise-like grip. "I never thought o' it a-bein' 
nobody ner nothin' but some o' the young uns a-foolin'. 
They're keen ones, I tell ye. But, by Hokey, I'm glad tu 
see ye. Where'd ye come from, any way, an' haow be 
ye?" Abel Benham ran on in an uninterrupted flow 
while he lugged a block of wood in front of the fire. 
"There, set ri' daown an' make yourself tu hum. Got 
yer pipe? Wal, here's some terbarker. Light up an' le's 
have a smoke." While he filled his own pipe he stood 
off and made a critical examination of his friend, beam- 
ing upon him a slow smile of approval. "Wal, ye look 
jest as nat'ral as an ol' shoe. Leetle Older an' a leetle 
fatter, but jest as humbly as ever. Where'd ye come 
from, anyway?" 
Uncle Lisha accounted for his presence and the two 
fell into a discourse concerning past experiences till Abel 
bethought him of another hospitable offering. 
"Say, there's a berril o' cider 'at's worked some. 'T 
hain't very sartain, but it's better'n water. Won't ye ha' 
some?" 
; He brought a brimming quart dipper of it, from which 
they drank in turn, and Uncle Lisha gave it the usual 
compliment of "being good for the time o' year," while he 
thought of poor Joseph in thirsty isolation. They eat the 
mellowest apples in the variegated fragrant pile that was 
flanked by a yellow mound of pumpkins on one side and 
on the other by a great heap of potatoes, blushing a dusky 
red through the clinging soil. When conversation lagged 
Uncle Lisha was taken to see the hogs, which were duly 
admired and their weight guessed, while a treat of back- 
scratching and corn nubbins made the visit a mutual 
pleasure. Then the dinner horn sounded, and the visitor 
was forced, not much against his will, to partake of a 
bountiful meal, served in civilized fashion, which he real- 
ized was the better and more comfortable way, for he 
was beginning to tire of eating with his fingers and Bleep- 
ing in his clothes, and of the untidiness of womanlesa 
housekeeping, and he was glad to eat food nicely cooked, 
unseasoned with smoke and ashes, off a clean plate, in 
the companionship of women and children, and finish 
the meal with a dessert of pumpkin pie, so dear to the 
Yankee. 
Now and then he had brief mental visions of Joseph 
munching his dry, unsocial repast on the roof of the 
marsh dweller's hut, and felt some qualms of pity for his 
friend's solitary plight; but both were as fleeting as they 
are apt to be when one in the midst of plenty considers 
the condition of the wretched. 
Not till he noticed how his shadow had lengthened 
while he smoked and chatted beside the waning fire did 
he realize how long poor Joseph had been left in solitary 
exile. Then he bade his friend farewell and set forth on 
his return. 
With a long and strong pull Uncle Lisha sent the scow 
surging down the channel, and though he grew scant of 
breath with the unwonted exertion, he abated not the 
length nor strength of his stroke till he drew near the 
place where his comrade had been left, frightening scores 
of ducks to unnoticed flight a furlong in advance of his 
noisy progress. 
Then he began to look forward, the lifted oar blades 
dripping a dotted wake while he turned his head, or 
trailed, bumping the gunwales and creating a succession 
of miniature whirlpools while he twisted his short body 
for a long look ahead. Discovering no one, he became 
anxious, but tried to quiet his feelings with the idea that 
he had mistaken his reckoning, and again plied the oars 
vigorously, casting frequent glances on either side. Pres- 
