Sept. 8, 1894.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
201 
possible. It may be said, however, that he needed very- 
little encouragement in this direction, and the manner in 
which he flew up over that mountain road left little fear 
in my mind with reference to any one overtaking me. 
Indeed, it seemed but a short time before I pulled in front 
of the only store in camp, and when a moment later I 
walked inside, exclamations of surprise and alarm came 
from the dozen or more men who were there, my torn 
clothes and bleeding face and hands leading them to 
believe that some serious harm had befallen me. 
I assured them that I was not seriously hurt, and in 
reply to their inquiries told the story of my night's experi- 
ence. "When I had finished, big Jack Perdue, the sawyer, 
said between meditative puffs on his pipe: "'Twas a 
terror of a ride, sure enough," which seemed to me at the 
time, and even now to have been a very happy character- 
j ization of my experience. 
It may be said in conclusion that I brought my trout 
I through in safety, and whether it was that the experiences 
I of the night seasoned them any or not, yet it certainly did 
' seem to me the next day when I helped devour them, 
that there was an extra rare flavor to them. Sancho. 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.— V. 
The Skull and the Rose. 
The Singing Mouse peeped out from the hollow orbit of 
the white skull which lies upon the table next to the 
volume of Shakspere. It reached down a tiny pink paw 
and touched a leaf of the brave red rose which every day 
lies before the skull. It plucked the leaf, which made a 
buckler for its small throbbing breast. It spoke. 
"The rose is bold and red," said the Singing Mouse. 
"Blood is red. A skull is white. The rose and the skull 
1 love one another. They understand. We do not under- 
stand." 
As I sat by the skull I saw a dream of the past go by. It 
| was as you see it now. 
"Do you see the waving grasses of the valleys? Do you 
fsee the unmoving front of the white old mountains? Do 
[.you see the red roses growing down, among the grasses? 
"It is peace upon the land. I can see one who has seen 
the lands. He smiles, but he is sad. He crosses the wide 
sea, but cares not. He travels upon rails of iron, and he 
smiles, but still is sad, because he thinks, and he who 
thinks must weep. He leaves the ship and the iron rail, 
and his road is narrower and slower, for he travels now 
by wheels of wood. He sees the valleys, and his smile 
has more of peace. His trail becomes narrower yet. He 
goes by saddle, anrt the mountains hem him in, but now 
he smiles the more. Now he must leave even the saddle, 
and the trail is dim and hard. See, the trail is gone! 
Here, where no foot has trod, where the mountains close 
about, where the trees whisper, he sits and looks about 
him. Do you see the red rose on his breast? Always the 
rose is there. Do you see him look up at the mountains, 
about him at the trees? Do you see him lay his head upon 
the earth? Do you still see his smile, the smile which is 
weary and yet not afraid? Do you hear him sigh? And 
■what is this he whispers, here at the end of the long and 
narrowing way— 'I know not if this be the end or the 
beginning!' Ah, what does this man mean who whispers 
to himself in riddles? 
"Look! It is the time of war. There is music. The 
blood stings. The heart leaps. The eye flames. The soul 
exults. Flickering of light on steel, the flash of servant 
forces used to slay, the reverberant growl of engines made 
for death, the passing of men in cloth and men in blankets, 
the tramp of hurrying hoofs, the falling of men who die- 
can you see this— can you catch the horror, the exultation, 
the joy of this, I eay? They come, they go; they run their 
race, and it is all. 
"Here are those who ride against those who slay. Do 
you know this one who rides at the head, smiling, swing- 
ing his sword well and smiling all the time? It is he who 
said in the mountains that riddle of the end and the begin- 
ning — who knew that to the heart of Nature we must 
come, for either the end or the beginning of a happy 
life. Do you see upon his breast the red rose? I think 
he rides to battle with the rose knowing that fate will 
come. 
"You know of this biting whistle in the air — this small 
thing that smites unseen? Do you know the mowing of 
the death scythes? Hark! I heard the singing of this 
unseen thing. See! he of the rose is bitten. Hehasfailen. 
Ai ! ai! He was so brave and strong! His horse has gone. 
He is alone. The grass here was so green. It is red. 
The rose upon his breast is red. His face is white, but 
still the smile is there, and now it is calmer and more 
sweet, though still he whispers, 'I know not if it be the 
end or the beginning!' 
"He is alone with Nature again. The heavens weep for 
him. The grasses and leaves begin with busy fingers to 
cover him up. The earth pillows him. He sleeps. It is 
ail. It is done. It is the way of life. It is the end and 
the beginning. 
"He loved the valley, the mountain, the grass, the rose. 
Now, since he cherished the rose so well, see, the rose will 
not leave him. Out of the dust it rises, it grows, it blooms. 
Against his lips it presses. It is the beginning! He loved, 
he thought, he knew. He is not dead. He is with Nature. 
It is but the beginning! 
"Let the rose press against his hps in an eternal pure 
caress. There is no end. They understand. We do not 
yet uaderstand." 
The pink flame of the unreal light died away. The 
pageant of the hills, the panorama of the battle faded and 
were gone. The table and the books came back. Won- 
dering at these words, I scarce could tell when the Sing- 
ing Mouse went away, leaving me staring at the barren 
walls and at the white skull by my hand. 
For a moment it nearly seemed to me the hollow eyes 
had light and spoke to me. For a moment almost it 
seemed to me that the rose stirred down deep among its 
petals, and that a wider perfume floated out upon the air. 
E. Hough. 
Chicago, May 10. 
It is told of the late John Quincy Adams that a Quincy client of his, 
whose case was to be tried on a certain morning, was unable to get 
his counsel to go to Boston, or to leave his fishing boat, except long 
enough to write a note to the judge, which, when presented, caused 
that worthy magistrate to announce to the court: -'Mr. Adams is de- 
tained on important business." The note read: "Dear Judge— For 
the sake of old Izaak Walton, please continue my case until Friday 
The smelt are biting and I cant leave. "^-iVeiu York Evening Post. 
Newfoundland As It Is. 
St. Johns, Newfoundland. — Editor Forest and Stream: 
A handbook and guide entitled "Newfoundland As It Is 
in '94," has been published by the Rev, Moses Harvey of 
St. Johns. As this work is full of gross exaggerations 
respecting some of the subjects on which it treats, I 
should be glad for space to make a few remarks on it so 
as to prevent people being misled. 
The soil of the island, except in a few isolated spots, is 
of a poor, sandy, stony nature, requiring much manure. 
The rich, loamy, fertile soil said to be the rule in the val- 
leys of the Exploite, Humber and other rivers is not to be 
found, except in very small patches, if at all. The state- 
ment that the great barrens, large open spaces of altitude 
in the center of the island, such as the Whitehills north 
on Hale's Bay, are a "splendid ranching country, equal as 
a cattle and sheep raising country to the foothills of the 
Rocky Mountains in Montana or Alberta" is altogether an 
error. These barrens afford no vegetation of any kind 
for sheep or cattle; all they grow is white moss, coarse, 
sour rushes and dwarf spruce. The climate of the island 
is all against farming, th« summer being too short and too 
cold. The truck system obtains, as St. Johns is the only 
cash mai'ket. To talk of emigration to such a place, to 
live by the land, is ridiculous. There is very little natural 
meadow in the island, and the abundant supply of nutri- 
tious wild grass and pasture" is a myth, as the rivers 
nearly always have steep banks, which they never over- 
flow. 
As to sport, there are a good many deer still left, though 
at the rate people destroy them in winter by firing buck- 
shot into the herd, they will not last very long; and Mr. 
Harvey forgets to tell the non-resident sportsman that 
before he can kill a deer he must pay a license of $100. 
He who writes as if the stags has always horns of "mag-, 
nificent proportions — the brow antlers meeting over the 
nose like a pair of hands clasped in the attitude of prayer." 
But horns such as these are by no means common, especi- 
ally with meeting brow antlers. As a rule, a stag, even a 
big one, has but one perfect antler, the other is a mere 
prong like a finger, and the perfect one is extended out 
like a hand over the nose, somewhat in the fashion 
school boys sometimes adopt, not when they are engaged 
in prayer, or animated by any pious or reverential feeling, 
but very much the reverse! 
The great barrens are described as abounding with 
"immense numbers of snipe;" as a fact there is hardly a 
snipe to be seen on them, and nowhere are they plenty. 
Ducks of all kinds are very scarce, as there is no food for 
them. Curlew, so called, at the present are rarely met 
with, they having deserted their old haunts. Plover also 
are only occasionally killed. As Mr. Harvey says, the 
salmon rivers have been ruined more or less by barring 
and poaching, but he is mistaken in saying that the 
fishery laws are enforced, such is seldom the case, and I 
must add that for some curious reason the salmon are 
very sulky at rising to the fly, especially those of more 
than 4 or 5lbs. which is the size of the great majority of 
the fish. 
The fact is the colony have undertaken to build 500 
miles of railway, which can never pay in any way, hence 
a frantic attempt is being made to boom the country, so 
as to bring grist to the mill and enable gthose who own 
land along side the track to sell to advantage. 
Richard Dashword. 
AN ANGLER'S DAY IN BIRDLAND. 
Friday May 18, a friend and myself with rods in hand 
.left home at an early hour, en route for the haunls of 
the trout, but finding the streams too shallow and slug- 
gish for sport with the rod we turned to smiling nature 
and gave ourselves up to the fascinating study of bird 
habits; and never in a limited space have I observed 
abundance and variety of bird life as I saw it that day 
between Lebanon and Yantic, this State, along the wooded 
banks of the Susquetonscot River. 
The weather was Warm and humid and the woods 
rang with the varied notes. We soon made a rare dis- 
covery, the nest of a pair of ruby-throated humming 
birds, which by a careful search we located on the upper 
surface of a maple branch overhanging the stream. Our 
discovery of the wee bit of moss and lichen was wholly 
due to the intense anxiety of the little midgets to drive 
us from the spot. The female as yet had deposited no 
eggs. We turned from the nest to watch the flight of a 
yellow-billed cuckoo. It was undoubtedly a male bird, as 
they arrive earlier than the females. He was noticeable 
by the long rudder-like tail characteristic of the species 
as he winged his way to a distant tree. Numerous song 
sparrows threaded their way along the bushy banks and 
flitted from twig to twig. The sharp penetrating cry 
of the red-tailed hawk cut the air; a close scrutiny of the 
blue ether above disclosed his dark form wheeling aloft 
iu ever widening circles, his silhouette well defined 
against the fleecy clouds. An answ.ering call was heard 
and he was joined by his mate and they soon were but a 
speck in the distance. 
A great squalling in a nearby thicket proclaimed the 
presence of a pair of catbirds or mimits. They flew 
about in seeming great distress at our near approach to 
their nest, which contained four greenish colored eggs. 
Crossing a little glade numerous shifting shadows on the 
leaves caused us to direct our glance upward and a flock 
of crows passsed over the opening with heavy laborious 
flight. Hearing an unusual bird note we made search 
and saw the bird, a beautiful rose-breasted grosbeak. 
This was rather unexpected as they are more common in 
autumn and are not plentiful at any time in the United 
States. Hearing the querulous note of the wood pewee 
or phosbe bird, we saw a couple of these unassuming 
little birds hovering around the upturned roots of a fallen 
maple near the stream, and among the mass of roots and 
fibre was their nest in course of construction. Suddenly 
the uncanny wah-wah of a barred owl btartled us nearly 
out of our wits, and volume of sound being any indication 
of size, he must have been a monster. A flock of song 
sparrows flew by and with a saucy little flirt of the tail 
dove into the shrubbery. 
While crowding through a clump of spice bush or ben- 
zoin, I discovered a nest with a head and tail projecting 
above the rim. The occupant allowed me to come quite 
close before leaving the nest, which contained four eggs 
of an exquisite light blue. It was the nest of the hermit, 
thrush, a bird of secluded habits with no song, but a 
sharp "chuck." We paused to note the movements of a 
scarlet tanager and remarked on the beauty of his scar- 
let coat and its flowing contrast to the emerald foliage 
as he sported among the branches above. 
The woods rang with the reverberating roll of the par- 
tridge's drum as he amused himself on his favorite log in 
the distant recesses of the forest. On the cedar-grown 
knolls the robins were flitting about and their nests were 
of frequent occurrence in all stages of completion, from 
the first twigs to the perfect nest with eggs. The finches 
were here in number and variety. The rustle of the 
towhee finch or chewink was frequently heard among the 
leaves in the thickets; purple finches were often seen, the 
adult male looking for all the world as though he had 
been dipped in pokeberry juice and taken out before the 
drying process was complete. But the pet of them all is 
the little American goldfinch, his bright yellow and jet 
black plumage conspicuous among the willows, where 
they usually nest. One would hardly recognize this gay- 
plumaged little bird in the winter months by his coat of 
dull green neutral tint. 
The flora vied in richness with the fauna of this delight- 
ful region, my friend often calling my attention to the 
liberal growth of wood lilies or trilliums, the large purple 
or bath flower and the delicate painted trillium, its wavy 
white flowers adorned with pinkish purple stripes at the 
base. The pale purple cranesbill was here, tne twin- 
flower, Solomon's seal and hosts of others. 
At one of the stream's broad reaches I saw a belted 
kingfisher take his curious spiral' plunge as checking his 
rapid flight in mid-air he dropped into the stream and 
emerged with a small fish. At the same pool a muskrat 
swam across with a leaf of the blue iris waving plume-like 
above his head. 
Catching the sharp chatter of a Baltimore oriole we 
directed our steps to an elm tree in a nearby opening, and 
there saw the male bird moving restlessly among the foli- 
age, and also located their queer purse-like nest, which 
swung at the tip of a drooping branch. From the apple 
trees of an old orchard came the strident cry of purple 
grackles, and on the old wall perched a red squirrel, who 
greeted the intruders in his domain with a defiant chatter 
and then scampered along the wall as though frightened 
at his temerity. The soft sweet twitter of bluebirds was 
wafted on the air, and approaching an old dead poplar 
by the water we saw one of these rightly named birds 
perched in close proximity to a hole which led to the 
interior of the tree, where doubtless th« mother bird was 
fulfilling her maternal duties. The wick-a-wick of the 
high-hole or flicker was heard that day, and occasionally 
one was seen in his long undulating flight, or sitting 
crosswise on a branch— a feat never attempted by other 
members of the woodpecker tribe. 
Sitting on a bowlder at the foot of a moss-grown ledge 
our meditations are disturbed by the rustle of leaves up 
the ravine side. We watch the spot and a large cock par- 
tridge struts proudly into view. What a subject for the 
artist's brush as he stands erect in a listening attitude, the 
grayish white bars of legs and breast, a strong contrast to 
the emerald background of laurels. Soon his native in- 
stinct seems to warn him of lurking danger; his eagle eye 
darts from point to point in the little glen, and as the 
unusual objects at the foot of the ledge burst upon his 
vision, the spell is broken, and with an alarmed and hur- 
ried ouit- ouit his brown body rises from the earth and 
followed by a whirl of leaves shoots through the trees 
like a meteor, and the booming of wings soon dies away 
in the distance. 
In the fragrant meadows aflame with the scarlet bloom 
of the rhodora the meadow larks or starlings skulked 
through the fresh young grass, or from the summit of a 
convenient rock poured forth their liquid notes. Redwing 
blackbirds hovered around the shallow grass-grown 
sloughs, and with noisy gabble made their usual short curv- 
ing flight, fluttering back to the starting point. Along the 
fences flitted the familiar little chipping sparrow and 
occasionally we caught Bob White's well known whistle. 
In fact it was birds everywhere. Never was there such 
a day, never such a locality, where all day we were enter- 
tained by Nature's orchestra. It is certainly a fact that 
bird life is the most abundant along water-courses where 
the conditions of nature are in accordance with the wants 
of the feathered tribe. Here the foliage is most luxuriant, 
insect life if abundant, material for nesting purposes 
a-plenty, and the necessary water for bathing and drink; 
and again, it is my firm belief that birds as well as human 
beings have an appreciative eye for the charm of nature, 
which are enhanced ten-fold by the presence of the mur- 
muring stream. E. M. Brown. 
Connecticut. 
L A Flying Squirrel. 
One day my little boy and I took a stroll in the moun- 
tain just across the river, opposite Poughktepsie, when 
we observed a nest in the top of a tree, which for size 
might be called but a sapling. I gave the tree a kick and 
out jumped a flying squirrel, which sailed to another 
large tree and disappeared. I surmised that he might be 
in the nest the next day. So I took a bag and cut a birch 
bough that was full of twigs and started for the capture 
of the squirrel. This time I gave the tree but a slight jar 
and instead of leaping from the tree he came out of the 
nest and clung to a branch. Instantly I gave the sapling 
a vigorous shake, so that he had no opportunity to leap 
and sail away, and he fell plump upon the ground. He 
assayed to climb the tree, but I would brush him down at 
every attempt with my birch bough, until I succeeded in 
putting my hat over him and then transferring him to 
the bag. 
That this squirrel is a somewhat "mysterious fellow," 
as one of your correspondents says, is quite true; but this 
one would eat what other squirrels do. He got pretty 
tame in a few days and would show himself during the 
daytime. But all at once he disappeared. I thought he 
had found some place of egress and gave him up as lost. 
But one night as I sat at my desk I heard at "pat-pat" on 
the floor, and looking, saw the squirrel. I was astounded. 
I soon learned that he was a night animal, and found the 
place of his diurnal repose. It was between the bed- 
clothes and right over my feet. I never handled him 
much, but he would run over me and into my pockets 
and nestle there. Just before I left New York State I 
sold him to a man who bought him, as I was in the post- 
office, where I had carried him in my pecket. 
N. D. Elting. 
