362 
FOREST AND STREAM, 
I Nov. 7, 1896. 
OLD HAUNTS IN NEW GUISE. 
From the Vermont mainland in the township of Char- 
lotte, a long cape, toothed with minor points and in- 
dented with small bays, reaches far westward toward the 
bald promontory of Split Rook. The cape is fringed with 
woods, and terminates in a bold cliff, crowned with 
cedars, pines and deciduous trees. 
In it is embalmed the name of a man otherwise for- 
gotten. No one knows who Thompson was, but it is 
probable that he was the first settler here, and that a 
scraggy orchard, intergrown with cedars, and the barely 
traceable foundations of a house, were his, and that some 
crumbling lines of stone wall mark the divisions of his 
sterile fields. 
Doubtless the poverty of this soil prevented a succession 
of occupants and the consequent succession of names 
which so many of our points and bays have imder- 
gone. Thompson's Point is not a good name for a 
noble headland, but it is better that it should have borne 
it for a hundred years than half a dozen that are no more 
significant. 
The Waubanakees called it Kozoap8qua,the "Long Rocky 
Point," and the noticeable cleft promontory opposite So- 
bapsqua, the "Pass through the Rock," names which might 
well have been retained, and perhaps would have been if 
our pioneer ancestors had not so bitterly hated the Indians 
and all that pertained to them. There was cause enough 
for this hatred, but one wishes it had not been carried so 
far when the poverty of our ancestors' nomenclature is 
considered, and the few surviving names of Indian origin 
remind us how easily we might have been spared the iter- 
ation of commonplace and vulgar names that cling to 
mountain, river and lake. 
Sobapsqua and Kozoapsqua make the gateway to the 
broader expanse of water stretching thence to Canada. 
It is one through which many memorable expeditions 
have passed — unrecorded war parties of Iroquois and 
Waubanakee, the brave and devout Cliamplam on his 
voyage of discovery with his Indian allies, the predatory 
"bands of French and Indians marching over the ice-bound 
lake, the armies of France bearing her banners to victory 
or trailing them homeward from defeat. Here passed 
Rogers and his rangers to wreak vengeance on those 
scourges of New England, the Waubanakees of St. 
Francis, and then Amherst's army passing from lesser 
conquests to the final and crowning victory. A few years 
later the little army of Americans went through these 
portals to its disastrous campaign in Canada, and the en- 
suing winter saw Warner and his rangers march down 
the frozen lake to the succor of their hard-pressed breth- 
ren; the summer, the same brave commander bearing 
homeward the feeble remnant of the Northern army. 
Here Arnold's flotilla passed on its way to the bloody 
battle at Valcour, and here the escaping vessels were over- 
taken by Oarleton's fleet and the running fight began 
which ended at Arnold's Bay. Through this broad gate- 
way came Bm-goyne's unreturning host. Ticonderoga 
fell, and henceforth till the close of the war British war- 
ships passed and repassed in undisputed possession of the 
ake whose waters mirrored no flag but the red cross of 
England. Then it vanished from them till it reappeared 
when Captain Pring's flotilla made its unsuccessful as- 
sault on Fort Casin, at the mouth of the Otter, in which 
MeDonough's unready fleet lay moored. Next day the 
stars and stripes flashed past these headlands as the gal- 
lant fleet sailed down the lake to its eventual glorious 
victory in Plattsburgh Bay, 
Thus, for two centuries, such shifting scenes of war 
passed in broken succession before these steadfast senti- 
nels. Then came the peaceful sails of commerce, white- 
winged schooners and sloopa, the single square canvas of 
Canadian craft; immense lumber rafts, coaxed slowly 
northward by sweep and sail; the first clumsy steamboat, 
making tortoise-like progress, followed in a little while 
by majestic successors, tearing the still waters asunder 
and casting the torn waves against either rocky shore. 
In the later, pleasant days of autumn canoes of the 
Waubanakees reappeared, like apparitions of the old days, 
rounding the ancient headland, and making into the 
great "Bay of the Vessels" straight for Wonakakatukese, 
Sungahneetuk or Paumbowk, the old trapping grounds 
of the wild fathers of these peaceable men, coming now 
with no bloodier intent than warfare against the musk- 
rats, while their women made baskets and moccasins to 
hawk about the country side. The oldest men could re- 
Eeat the legends of ancient wars with the Iroquois and 
new the old names of rivers, mountains and lakes, and 
stUl made offering to Wojahose, the invisible deity of the 
lake, as they paddled in awed silence past the lonely rock 
wherein dwelt the master of storms. 
Fifty years ago some one discovered that the reefs off 
Thompson's Point were good fishing ground for pike 
perch, and they became a favorite resort of anglers. To 
take advantage of the late and early fishjng it was a com- 
mon custom to camp on the Point over night. For the 
most part the fishermen camped in primitive fashion. 
They slept on beds of cedar twigs under rude shelters of 
cedar boughs and cooked their simple fare, with few uten- 
sils, over an open fire. Occasionally a party brought a 
tent and lived more luxuriously under canvas during a 
longer outing. At last a goodly guild of honest anglers 
built an unpretentious but comfortable club house with 
two rooms on the ground floor, one of which was kitchen, 
dining room and living room, the other a sleeping apart- 
ment fitted up with two tiers of bunks, which were sup- 
plemented by others in the loft. There were a cook 
stove, a big coffee-pot, kettles, and more than one capa- 
cious frying-pan, also a table and seats, but the primitive 
character of a genuine camp was still maintained. Every- 
thing was conducted in a free and easy manner, without 
any attempt at style or luxurious living. 
To supply the demands of the frying-pans and for sport, 
which, though dull as watching a runway for deer, quite 
satisfied their modest desires, these men anchored their 
boats on the reefs and fished from daybreak to nightfall 
with the philosophical patience of honest anglers. When 
tiie fish were biting well there was lively work hauling in 
the 60 or 100ft. of line hand over hand, with a stout pike 
perch and a strong current to fight against, but when 
there was a long time between bites it was dull enough, 
A stiff cedar pole with wire guides and a cleat at the butt 
to wind the Ime on was the approved tackle by which the 
fish was brought to boat in the briefest possible time. 
If the fishing was not conducted in the finest style of 
the art it fulfilled all the requirements of these anglers, 
and there were jolly gatherings around the camp-fire, 
whether it blazed in the free air or roared within the 
rusty iron walls of the stove. 
In those days the Point afforded good fox hunting, as 
in days long before, when Uncle Bill Williams and the old 
Meaches hunted there with their gaunt, melodious-voiced, 
old-fashioned hounds and were succeeded by Uncle Bill's 
son's, .John Thorpe and others of a generation of Nimrods, 
who, in turn, have departed to happier hunting grounds 
than these are now. 
We who came later had excellent sport, for at least one 
litter of foxes was sure to be raised there every year, and 
besides these residents transient visitors were likely 
enough to be started. 
A fox running before hounds would keep a course con- 
forming to the shore line and thus make the circuit of 
the Point, crossing from one side to the other near the 
heads of the two bays, and so repeated the circuit till 
killed, run to earth or run off the Point along one or the 
other shore to the Cove Woods, McNiell's Point or the 
hills. A single hunter stood a reasonable chance of get- 
ting a shot, while if there were two or more, properly 
posted, one of these was almost sure of a chance, though 
by no means so certain of the fox, who sometimes safely 
ran the gauntlet of half a dozen guns and left as many 
chopfallen hunters, each excusing himself and blaming 
the others. 
I have painful recollections of being more than onee a 
member of such an awkward squad, mingled with pleas- 
anter memories of occasions when fortune favored us; but 
somehow the misadventures stand forth most prominently. 
I well remember one dull-skied November day when I 
tramped to the Point with no companion but my old 
hound Gabriel, and ranged the woods almost to the end 
without finding a track till he came to the o!d orchard, I 
being a little behind him, when he sounded such a melo- 
dious blast of his trumpet as at once raised my waning 
hopes and set me all alert. In a moment he had a fox 
afoot and going around the end of the Point from the 
south side to the north at a lively rate. There was a bare 
chance of my getting over to that side in time to intercept 
him, and I tried my best for it, running ventre a terre be- 
side an old wall that crossed the pasture till I came to the 
belt of woods above the shore. I had not time to catch 
breath before the fox was seen among the thick shadows 
of the trees, in black relief against the light beyond, and 
I made a snap shot at him. He tumbled all in a heap into 
a clump of cedar trunks, but before I could get to him he 
picked himself up and staggered into a thicket, whither I 
followed close at his heels and making futile snatches at 
his brush, a foot or so beyond my reach. Having the ad- 
vantage of slipping through intricacies that I floundered 
against, he was gaining on me a little, when Gabriel 
overhauled us and pounced upon him with a grip that 
took the life out of the poor fox, yet not soon enough to 
prevent one vengeful nip in the nose of his slayer. Ga- 
briel's angelic name came of his voice, not of his temper, 
which was BO kindled by this last thrust of his foe that 
the handsome skin was in danger of being spoiled before 
I could get the fox away from him. When I began tak- 
ing off the pelt he curled himself up for a comfortable 
nap, but a fresh twinge of his wounded nose suddenly re- 
kindled his smouldering wrath, and snatching the fox out 
of my hands he gave it another violent shaking, and I 
had to be severe with him before he would let me finish. 
This done, we set forth in the homeward direction along 
the belt of woods on the north shore. We had not gone 
far before Gabriel found a track that engaged his earnest 
attention, whereof he made loud proclamation while it 
led him across the wide pasture to the woods of Cedar 
Point, which is the southernmost headland of the cape 
and the largest piece of woods upon it. In a moment the 
woods were filled with quick reverberations of the hound's 
melodious voice. Assured that the fox was afoot and 
that there was no time to lose, I put my best foot for- 
ward for the corner of a fence which ran across nearly to 
the woods and divided the pasture from a meadow. The 
desired point was scarcely reached when I saw the fox 
break cover, a tawny dot in the woodside, now growing 
and growing into distinctive form as it rapidly drew 
nearer along a cowpath that ran close beside the fence. 
Now he was not more than two gunshots from me, the 
butt of the gun was at my shoulder, my finger touching 
the trigger, and I could almost feel this fellow's pelt in 
my right pocket comfortably balancing the one in my 
left, when a herd of young cattle discovered him and 
charging in a mad stampede drove him through the 
fence into the meadow, across which he took a diagonal 
course, well out of my range. 1 fired with a forlorn hope 
of crippling him, but only increased the velocity of the 
ruddy streak which vanished in an instant and left the 
world a blank. 
Presently the leaden sky came closer to the earth, and 
then became one with it in a dense snowfall, and muffled 
in its thick veil Gabriel's trumpet notes sounded faintly 
far away, as he pottered over the blotted scent. The six 
miles tramp home was leg- wearying, as all can testify who 
have taken so long a walk in the first snow, but my luck 
had been good enough and I should have been satisfied, 
yet the vanishing form of that fox stood forth then as it 
stands even now in unpleasant distinctness, clearer than 
aught else in the day's events. 
Immense flocks of ducks used to cruise along the shores 
and come out on the shelving rocks, sometimes in very 
dangerous places, where ambushed gunners lay in wait 
to rake the huddled throng with a charge of BB shot. In 
some cases a dozen or more were killed by a single dis- 
charge. Frank Brady got eighteen with two barrels. 
Old Justin Cyr killed as many with one discharge of his 
ancient Queen's arm. This was very unsportsmanlike, 
and in nowise to be compared with the exploits of men 
who kill a hundred ducks on the wing in a day's shoot- 
ing and are still unsatisfied. Our pot-hunters fired but 
one shot and went home quite content with the result, 
and from year to year there was no noticeable decrease 
in the numbers of water fowl till the generation of "true 
sportsmen" with improved weapons began to increase 
and multiply. 
It is not to be denied that there is a degree of excite- 
ment in the stealthy approach to a flock of wary dusky 
ducks, or in lying in wait, silent and motionless, for them 
to swim within range, meanwhile observing the autumnal 
beauty of earth and sky out of the corners of one's eyes, 
sniffing the fragrant odor of ripe leaves and listening to 
the pulse of lazy ripples, and undeniably there is a satis- 
faction in the successful shot. Nevertheless it was pot- 
hunting that one should blush with shame for having in- 
dulged in, yet somehow I do not, only as the recollection 
of some inexcusably bad shot comes back to me. 
I am glad I do not know how a man feels after shooting 
100 ducks that have flown past his stand or stooped to his 
decoys in one day. It seems to me that one should feel 
remorse rather than exultation for such a feat. 
The beautiful island in the north bay which was called 
Birch Island when I first knew it, clad then with a thick 
growth of white birch and cedar, was a beloved resort of 
ducks, and its secluded shores were seldom disturbed by 
gunners. By change of ownership its name became 
Yale's, then Holmes's, and is now Putnam's after the 
present owner, who has a handsome summer house there 
and has so improved the place that the wild ducks have 
forsaken it, 
I think this may be the place where the devoted mis- 
sionary, Isaac Jogues, ran tbe gauntlet and suffered other 
tortures from his savage captors while he and his fellow 
captives were being carried to the Mohawk country, for 
though by no means situated on the southern part of the 
lake, it is the southernmost island which answers at all the 
description given of the halting place of the war party, 
by Parkman, in his "The Jesuits in North America": 
"On the eighth day they learned that a large Iroquois 
war party, on their way to Canada, were near at hand; 
and they soon approached their camp, on a small island 
near the southern end of Lake Champlain, The war- 
riors, 200 in number, saluted their victorious country- 
men with volleys from their guns; then, armed with 
clubs and thorny sticks, ranged themselves in two lines, 
between which the captives were compelled to pass up the 
side of a rooky hill. On the way they were beaten with 
such fury that Jogues, who was last in the line, fell 
powerless, drenched in blood and half dead. As the chief 
man among the French captives, he fared the worst. 
His hands were again mangled, and fired applied to his 
body; while the Huron chief, Eaatache, was subjected to 
tortures even more atrocious. When, at night, the ex- 
hausted sufferers tried to rest, the young warriors came 
to lacerate their wounds and pull out their hair and 
beards." 
One can hardly realize that scenes now so steeped in the 
serenity of peace should ever have witnessed such bar- 
barities. 
The shores of this island can no longer tempt me, as 
they once did years and years ago, to steal a boat where- 
with to get close to the congregation of ducks assembled 
in and about them on that October Sunday. My com- 
panion and I broke two commandments and were not 
penitent, but I trust heaven forgave us, for we were only 
boys and returned the boat just as we found it, and got 
nine lusty, dusky ducks, half as big as geese. 
John Hough, an old man whose memory ran back to 
the last days of deer hunting here, told me that the deer, 
started on Mt, Philo, used to run to water at Thompson's 
Point, as the lay of the land would lead one to guess. 
Here the relentless slayers of the last deer lay in wait 
for their prey, while, faint and far away, the hound's 
first notes drifting down the wind-blown crest of Mt. 
Philo, then swelling to a jangle of echoes in the nearer 
woods, the hunted deer plunged into the lake and the 
rifle spat out its spiteful charge, or the long smooth-bore 
belched forth its double charge of ball a.nd buckshot, and 
the rocky steeps of S jbapequa, offering life and safety, 
faded out of the glazmg eyes. 
The days of the deer were long ago when the Point was 
still a half wilderness, and the days of the fox and the 
wUd duck are almost fallen into the past, for the place 
has become a fashionable resort, and is populous with 
deluded people who imagine themselves to be camping 
out. In fact, they live luxuriously in furnished cottages, 
with carpets on their floors and cushioned chairs, and 
have dinners of divers courses, with napery of fine linen 
and service of choice ware, I am told that they not 
only undress to go to bed at night, but that the women 
folk actually change their elegant apparel two or three 
times during the day. Poor souls! little they know of the 
freedom of real camp life, the comfort of one shabby suit 
that does service day and night, the disenthrallment from 
the care of tableware, and the cleansing of many utensils 
from over-neatness and punctilious etiquette, but yet not 
from true politeness. 
Scaffolded on mattressed bedsteads over carpeted floors, 
how shall they so much as guess what restful sleep comes 
to him who lies close to the bosom of mother earth, with 
naught between but a blanket and a litter of fragrant 
cedar twigs. What poor comradeship must there be 
among those who gather around a black stove, compared 
with such. as encircle the genial blaze of a camp-fire,^and 
how shall those feel themselves near to nature who are 
shut from the sky and the woods by wooden walls and roofs? 
The best of camp-life is in escaping from the wearisome 
burdens of civilization and in some measure renewing the 
old relationship with nature. 
The change has been even greater on the other side of 
the north bay at Cedar Beach, which has undergone a 
change of name as well as of character since the time 
when we followed fugitive foxes from Thompson's Point 
thither, or made fresh starts among the vulpine residents 
of its wild seclusion. It was known as McNiell's Point 
then, after its pioneer owner, who established a ferry just 
north of it, which was continued by his descendants with 
various craft — sloops, horse boats and a natty little steam- 
boat. It was a famous thoroughfare until the building of 
the railroad, which revolutionized everything. Then 
there were no more great droves of cattle making leisurely 
progress toward Boston on the hoof, nor any longer much 
faring to and fro across the ferry on the business of traffic 
or visiting, and the idle ferryman and the guestless pub- 
lican lounged on the rotting wharf in mutual condolence. 
Yet the little wilderness on the Point, seldom invaded 
by human kind except the infrequent woodman, the 
more infrequent meditative woods lounger and the hunter, 
and throbbing in springtime with the beat of the par- 
tridge's druoi, ringing all summer long with the songs of 
a multitude of birds, echoing in the golden days of autumn 
with the melody of hounds, still preserved its sylvan 
seclusion and kept its homely name, till it was discovered 
by some "hey due" explorers, who rechristened it and 
made it fashionable. 
Spick, and span cottages, even elegant residences, are 
built upon its heights; a steamer comes to it regularly 
twice a day during the summer, and the thronged wpodg 
are noisy with gay pleasure-seekers. 
