62 
FOREST AND STREAM^ 
fJuiiY 35, 1896. 
LABRADOR SKETCHES. 
v.— A Whale In a Lake— an Indian Fish Story. 
[Written for FoRKST AND Sthkam by Count H. de Puyjalon, and trans- 
lated by Crawford Lindsay,] 
Far away in Labrador there flows a river called the 
JRwi^re des Eochers, or Eocky River. Many tributaries 
nearly as large as itself fall into it, bringing the waters of 
very large and very deep lakes, stocked with the finest 
fish. 
One of these lakes, which in consequence of its length 
is called the Thirty-mile Lake, has for thousands of years 
contained a whale left there by the dehige. I have not 
seen it. but the Montagnais Indian Saint-Onze and his 
family have seen it. Why would there not be fresh-wa- 
ter whalee? There are fresh-water seals in Lake Baikal 
near tha Caspian sea. 
I was camped on the Mossy Portage above the first falls 
of the Riviere des RocJiers. I bad arrived late at night, 
and to save the trouble of hunting for a camping place I 
pitched my tent close to the bark wigwam of my old 
friend Dominique Saint-Onze, of the Montagnais tribe, who 
was going up the river to winter on the great lakes of 
that region. I awoke early on the following morning and 
while I was smoking a cigarette Saint-Onze appeared 
and asked me for a pipe of tobacco. I handed him a plug. 
He cut some with his axe and in a fit of abstraction, no 
doubt, put the remainder in his pocket, filled and lit his 
pipe and then began to question me. 
"You come from Thirty-mile Lake?" 
"No," I replied, "I did not go beyond the first two 
lakes; the water was too high for fishing, so I came 
back." 
"But you must have got some trout?" 
•'Yes, a few, but such beauties, from 20 to 25in. long, 
in fine condition, nearly all of a size, as red as blood and 
delicious to eat." 
"Any chance of trapping?" 
"Not bad. There are some mink and I saw a pekan on 
the river. I prevented my man from shooting it because 
I knew we were on your hunting grounds and your sons, 
Pierre and Napis, would not have been pleased if we had 
killed it." 
The Indian smiled, smoked his pipe in silence for a 
while and then said: "So you did not go to Thirty-mile 
Lake. You did wrong, for if you had gone there you 
would perhaps have seen the great fish that my father 
once saw and that I have since seen myself." 
"A big fish? What? A ouananiche, or a touladi?" 
"No, much bigger than that, much bigger than your 
big boat. A fish that spouts water through its nose, 
black on the back and white under the belly. My father 
said it was a whale surprised in the lake when the waters 
of the deluge suddenly fell, and I bel'eve it." 
"Hold OH, my friend," I said; "are you quite sure you 
saw it? Were there not a good many empty whisky bot- 
tles in the bottom of your bark canoe?" 
"I was not drunk," indignantly replied Dominique. 
"The old Indian, in spite of his years, can see better 
than any two white hunters, and what he saw he saw 
well." 
I hope I will not greatly surprise you when I say that 
Dominique is the greatest liar of his tribe, which never- 
theless contains some very remarkable ones. His imag- 
ination sometimes carried him rapidly beyond the bounds 
of truth. However, on this occasion he seemed so thor- 
oughly in earnest that .1 thought his story, improb- 
able as it was, might contain some truth; so I urged him 
to go on, apologizing for my incredulity at the begin- 
ning. 
"Well, you know Thirty-mile Lake, and you know that 
we have given it that name on account of its length and 
that it is very deep. I have often failed to get bottom 
with fifty fathoms of line. You know how narrow it is 
in some places, especially in front of the three ravines 
which run from the mountain right down to the shore. 
"You know that it is stocked with enormous trout, 
gigantic touladi and ouananiche as big as salmon, with 
whitefish, and with cod eo like the sea cod that the fieher- 
men cannot tell the d ifference, and with many other kinds 
of fish, while bears, marten, otter and pekan roam in the 
woods around it. 
"You saw many things on its shores, you picked up 
many stones and plants that are unknown to me, but you 
cannot have eeen what I saw or learned what I have 
learned; for you have only been there two or three 
times, while I have hunted and trapped there for forty- 
four years." 
"That is true, I don't know the lake as well as you do." 
"Well, about seven or eight years ago I was camped 
with my family at the entrance of the third ravine, on 
the northeast side. Jean Baptiste, from Mingan, was 
camped with his family quite close to me. One Friday 
night, after my sons and myself had spent the day get- 
ting birch bark to make canoes with, we went to spend 
the evening in Jean Baptiste's camp. While we were 
chatting away we heard lor the first time — ^it was then 10 
o'clock — a great noise on the lake, like that caused by the 
splash of an immense rock falling into the water. We 
paid no attention, thinking it must be that. But a few 
minutes afterward the noise was repeated, only it was 
closer, and was preceded by that sound of suppressed 
roaring caused by the breathing of a whale when it comes 
to the surface. 
"We rushed out. The moon was full, and it was almost 
as bright as day. We could see nothing but some long 
waveH which furrowed the lake. Several minutes elapsed, 
fchen all of a sudden we saw a column of vapor arise a 
short distance from us. We heard the loud breathing of 
the animal and distinctly saw an enormous black body 
which, after slowly emerging, disappeared as slowly 
under the water. 
"We stared at each other. 'A whale,' cried Jean Bap- 
tiste. 'A whale,' I repeated. 'A whale,' re-echoed the 
women and children , for all had rushed out after us and 
had witnessed the spectacle. 
'■I don't know how long we waited outside; the moon 
had already passed to the other side of the north star 
when I went into my wigwamj but I could not sleep and 
impatiently waited for the dawn, for I hoped once more 
to see the animal of which my father had formerly spoken 
to me, and which had so unexpectedly brought itself to 
my recollection," 
"And you saw it again?" 
"No, I never saw it again, but it is still in the lake, I 
have often heard it at night. If you pass the winter there 
you observe that throughout the season in front of the 
ravines the ice is always open, broken and scattered. The 
whale does that when it comes up to breathe. You will 
hear it roar, distinctly notice the noise made by the water, 
which it pushes back and sometimes strikes with its tail, 
probably to keep it from freezing again." 
"Look here, Dominique, it is always diflfioult to see at 
night. Perhaps you were mistaken and took the trunk of 
a tree shaken by the storm for a whale." 
"I tell you my eyes are as good as any two white men's. 
I did not make a mistake. Ask Jean Baptiste." 
"Very well, my old friend, don't get angry, I won't ask 
Jean Baptiste; I would rather take your word; I would 
rather, in fact, you had seen the whale. So take some 
more tobacco and let us say good-bye, for I must have my 
breakfast and be off." H. dk Puyjalon. 
REMINISCENCES OF CAMP HALIFA^. 
Next to the reality of a hunting trip for enjoyment is 
the gathering together of the participants for reminis- 
cences of the trip. The stories told of "How I shot that 
buck" and "How we played poker to determine who 
should wash the dishes" bring one almost into the hunting 
grounds again. We can still see that yellow flash as the 
startled deer fled through the woods, visible only now and 
then through the shifting foliage; we can still hear the 
camp-fire crackling, and see the fellows lounging about, 
smoking and commenting on the result of the day's 
hunt. 
What gladsome days those were! And then the night, 
when we crept into our bunk of hemlock boughs, weary 
enough to sleep sweetly on a bed that would be unendur- 
able except in the woodsl Prowling porcupines would 
occasionally break the monotony of the quiet night. 
Even once, I recall, we were aroused by the crashing of 
underbrush near by, and on lighting a torch we were sur- 
prised by the whistle of a buck. Alas! at that time the 
season for hunting deer was not at hand, so we sadly 
crawled back to our rest, reflecting on what might have 
been. 
My little tale, however, seems to be running away 
with me, and I would best begin where I originally intend- 
ed. Last year a friend and myself entered the Adiron- 
dacks a few days before the law would permit the killing 
of deer, with the intention of fishing for trout. Leaving 
the Adirondacks & St. Lawrence Railroad at Beaver 
River, we immediately took what of our duflle we could 
conveniently (or otherwise) carry, and struck- out for 
what we are pleased to call "Camp Halifax." This is a 
deserted lumbermen's camp, located a half mile south of 
the Ne-ha-sa-ne Park line, and one which we had appro- 
priated as our headquarters during the fall of each of the 
two previous years. The name we apply is appropriate in 
that the camp seemed an intolerable distance from the 
railroad station; distance in so far as time to travel it is 
concerned, in reality I believe it was not more than one 
and one-half miles. How we two youths, fresh from 
school, did groan and grumble under our loads. And 
our discreet judgment was prominently manifest when 
we came to the ford of an adjunct of Beaver River. The 
water rolled over the loosely constructed bridge in such 
force that the logs plunged and danced beneath our feet 
at every step; our, to our minds useless, rubber wading 
boots were far away, stored in the closets at home. So 
we poor mortals tugged at our loads and grinned and 
endured. The next day one of the natives jokingly in- 
formed us that it had rained every day previously for 
three weeks. 
Arrived at the camp, scarce was the relief we experi- 
enced. The atmosphere was damp and warm, and such 
informal denizens of the forest as mosquitoes and pun- 
kies held high revel. Bloodthirsty and desperate, they 
pounced upon every available spot of our defenseless car- 
casses. But at last the sky cleared, the stars shone out, 
the pests diminished, and we unrolled our blankets and 
lay down to rest. 
The morrow found us hungry and cheerful apd ready 
for our duties. Again and again must we hie "ourselves 
to the station to lade ourselves anew and trudge to camp 
with more dufiie. The large part of the second day's 
abode was spent in cleaning and preparing Camp Halifax 
for our needs. Toward evening my helpmeet in the misery 
and pleasure of the trip — we all know him as Brod — be- 
thought himself of hooks and lines and sundry other fish- 
ing appurtenances, and set out for the nearby creek to 
tempt the wary inhabitants thereof. Our feast that night 
was fit for a king. All heaven looked down on us and 
rejoiced, for we were happy. Happy? Yes, with but one 
drawback. Every day gave us views and every night 
visions of deer. Our fingers itched to press the triggers 
and our palms ached to grip the stocks of our true and 
tried rifles, for we had not yet acquired that spirit of 
ecstacy which fllls us with delight to see those majestic 
creatures of nature rove at will through the glades, un- 
harmed by the hand of man. We were but human. 
One of the prettiest sights we witnessed was of a buck 
and doe feeding on the hillside not far from our camp. 
We were concealed at a distance not exceeding 40yds. 
from the deer, and watched them fully ten minutes. 
Either from their becoming aware of our presence or 
from being inspired by some sudden desire to seek other 
feeding grounds, they at last turned into a bog trail and 
soon passed from view. The buck was handsome, bear- 
ing a neat head of four-pronged antlers. 
As war is the chief element of history to the boy, so to 
us youthful, would-be sportsmen the annals of the killing 
of the deer is the most exciting part of the account of a 
hunting trip. Therefore I pass by the details of our 
camp life to relate the wherefore and outcome of the 
grand climax. One cold morning, when the mists yet ob- 
scured the lowlands, Brod and I took our rifles in hand 
and mounted by different routes the mountain south of 
the camp. I had proceeded about two miles, and enter- 
ing marshy ground was creeping stealthily along, noting 
the numerous deer signs, when something moving in the 
shadow of the foliage lOOyds. ahead dr6w my attention. 
I was soon assured that it was the hip and leg of a deer. 
My rifle was fairly steady as I glanced through the Lyman 
sights and pressed the trigger. The heavy crashing of 
the brush at the crack of the gun told me that the .45-70 
bullet had struck the deer, yet I dropped to my knees to 
peer beneath the smoke and waited. For perhaps fifteen 
minutes I remained there, silently watching, meanwhile 
hearing the report of Brod's Winchester. Then, as 
I considered I had sufficiently obeyed old hunters' 
directions in waiting after I had shot, I sought the 
deer I had fired at. The groujid and leaves were 
fairly sprinkled with blood, so that I was read- 
ily enabled to trail the wounded deer. When I 
had traveled only about 150yds. the deer leaped into view 
only a few rods in advance. Thjus time there was no 
steady aim. Almost instantly my gun came to my shoul- 
der, and at its crack the deer dropped in his tracks, roll- 
ing his eyes in agony. Never again do I care to see a 
deer die. There is much more poetry in watching the 
living deer than the dying one. My victim proved to be 
a young three-prong buck. The first ball had broken his 
hip, passing out just back of the ribs, a few inches to the 
right of the backbone. The second ball broke his spine 
and passed out at the breast, both fortunate shots. 
While I was dressing my trophy— a very interesting 
procedure — Brod came up and announced that his shot 
too had been successful. He had brought down a buck 
that very much resembled mine in 8i25e and color mark- 
ing. It differed, however, in having four prongs instead 
of three. The porting of those deer to camp and the 
"jerking" of the venison was no easy task, though our 
stomachs fared well during the latter process. 
The sterner duties of living at last demanded our atten- 
tion, and we were compelled to leave the now well-be- 
loved spot, this wilderness of lofty pines and drooping 
cedars and wide-spreading birches, assured by our brief 
experiences that 
"To him who in the love of nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language." 
Theo. F. Brookins. 
SOME CAMPING DEVICES. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
As the season of camping is now on, I thought some of 
my experiments might interest your readers. 
First, as to tent, a 7x7 wall suits me. The poles are 
sawn in two and joined by removable tin tubes, the ridge 
pole by hinges. I roll the tent and poles into a small 
bundle with shawl strap and check as baggage. 
Second, as to cooking. I took a discarded biscuit can, 
covered it with wood, punched a hole in the bottom to 
give entrance to a lamp chimney and above the hole made a 
small deflector. This bakes meats, potatoes, etc., boils 
vegetables and fruits. I put dinner in the oven and leave 
camp for the morning and crme back to a well-cooked 
roast. On a cold, rainy night it gives a cheerful warmth 
and light. Oven, cooking utensils, etc., go into a light 
chest, which goes as baggage. Atkinson's "Science of 
Nutrition" is a book that will help users of this oven. 
For broiling put your fire on platform 3ft. high of sod or 
rocks, using two light fire bricks for dogs. 
Washing dishes is the camper's bugbear. Have enough 
dishes so you need to wash but once a day and let each 
man look after his own. Wash with tepid water with a 
little kerosene stirred in. Use paper, not rags, and bury 
all refuse at once. 
As to provisions, buy the best. I send to the best pur- 
veyor and have him send ahead by freight the best in the 
market. Jams are good for camp. The best living costs 
about $3 a week and you can digest and enjoy it in the 
woods. 
As to bed, my plan is a folding wire cot hinged in the 
middle, with mattress in two pieces, the whole with bed- 
ding to be put in canvas case and go as baggage. A tick 
for straw or leaves answers well. With proper manage- 
ment, tent, chest, bed and grip will come within baggage 
limits, and you will save money and bother. If you are 
handy with tools and take bedding from home the whole 
outfit can be had for $10. For camping ground, along the 
Great Lakes from Frankfort, Mich,, up are many fine 
spots practically free of mosquitoes at all seasons, and en- 
tirely so of ter the middle of J uly. H. M. Stanley. 
MY FOURTH OF JULY. 
"Going a-fishing the Fourth, or what? Say, where are 
you going?" 
"Well, I will tell you. I expect to leave on the 4:20 
P, M. train on the 3d, take my young setter with me, and 
after a good night's sleep and breakfast at the farmhouse 
take a stroll in the woods." 
1 had it all fixed in my mind just what I would do, but 
I didn't do it. You ask why not. Well, the cash didn't 
balance. I might say it didn't materialize; call it any- 
thing you choose, but I didn't get away on the afternoon 
of the 3d, and didn't leave the office until 7 P. M., and 
when I did I wished figures, books, cash, cash balances 
and blunders further. 
I turned in quite early that night, thinking the dear 
boys would not begin with their big guns, little guns, big 
crackers and little crackers until after 12 o'clock, and 
that I might get some sleep in the early part of the night. 
But no, no. As soon as it was dark the boys living next 
door got out their little cannon, and such a noise. And 
then they have a family of bull pups in the woodshed, 
and the noise of the guns and crackers woke them up and 
they had the liveliest Fourth of July time I ever 
heard. But the dear boys were having a good time, as 
were the pupa, and I was a boy once myself (for the first 
cannon I ever had I stole the old single-barreled gun that 
belonged to my grandfather, and sawed off the end with 
father's buck saw); so I just turned over and said, "Well, 
I was a boy once myself (that was a long time ago), let 
the dear boys have a good time; they can be boys but 
once." I didn't get much sleep. 
I took the 7 o'clock train, and at 8:30 was at the old 
home in the country where the sportsmen are always 
welcome. The rain of the night before made everything 
look fresh and bright, and how I did enjoy it. About 11 
o'clock my eye struck a fishing rod hanging up on a beam 
In the kitchen, and I said, "I will just go for trout; no 
flies with me and nothing but worms for bait; but I'll try 
it." I struck out for the brook just across the meadow, 
where I thought I would try under the old mill dam first; 
and just as I got by the brook up went an old partridge. 
I dropped the rod, for trout are not in it with me when a 
partridge gets up, and walked cautiously down the brook, 
hoping I might get sight of another; but I did not. 
About that time it appeared to me that about every 
bush and daisy in the field was filled with birds having a 
Fourth of July jubilee, Leading them aXl was bob-o-link, 
