Sept. 35, 1897. J 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
24.3 
w« earried into Umbazooksus, and were once more in 
Penobscot water. On Umbazooksus stream we met a large 
party of lumbermen going in with supplies, and about half 
way down the stream we passed quitf a large camp. There 
were signs — unmistakable signs — of moose in this vicinity. 
We stopped for dinner nearly opposite this camp and ran 
into a brood of partridges in some birch sprouts, and here 
Gypsey was able to get in some fine work, much to the edi- 
fication of the guides, and we easily secured the foundation 
for another big kettle of Kosombo. Down the stream we 
started many bunches of plover and some yellow legs. 
From Mud Pond to Chesuncook the country is very unin- 
teresting, although game was plentiful, and we were glad 
when we struck the Cauquomgnmic stream again, comolet- 
ing the circle. We camped that night at Pine Stream Falls, 
and the following morning continued up the west branch, 
with a few stops for fishing. A young gentleman from 
Philadelphia passed us as we were loading, and a short dis- 
tance above the falls a tremendous bull moose waded across 
I the river right in front of his canoe. We slept that niaht on 
[the same bed of boughs we had used on our first night out. 
We reached the northeast carry just in time to miss the 
Sunday steamer, and put into "jvloosehead, paddling part 
so deep that he was obliged to cross the Allegheny ridges 
in a sleigh. When he reached our town we all gathered 
in the street and about the hotel, and by dint of yelling 
and shouting attested our admiration of the great Magyar. 
Manv years afterward in a book, "Red, White and Black," 
by M me. Pulzsky, one of Kossuth's retinue, I saw that we 
were characterized as "a lot of Irish," whose enthusiasm 
was anything but agreeable to the distinguished strangers. 
This was a' little mortifying when I recalled how many 
hours I had stood around in the snow waiting for a chance 
to demonstrate my goodiwill. 
Like De Quincey, "I dally with my subject, because, to 
myself, the remembrance of those times is profoundly in- 
teresting." 
One December day, fifty years ago or so, there was a 
very heavy snowfall on the ridge. From early dawn the 
flakes had fallen softly, softly but persistently, until now 
the landscape was covered with a thick, fleecy mantle of 
snow. Occasionally gusts of wind had rushed across the 
scene, gathering up the snow from the exposed points and 
laying it down in the hollows and more sheltered spots, 
until in places the drifts were 3 or 4ft. deep. It promised 
man was he?" "A young, good-looking, black-eyed fellow; 
I was told," replied the Sheriff. "Why, there was a young 
fellow like that came here this afternoon," said the land- 
lord. "He was playing the fiddle for the dancers a few 
minutes ago. I guess he is in the dining-room now." 
"I'll look in," said the Sheriff, and he did; but no young 
man was to be seen. 
"Where's the fiddler?" cried the landlord. But nobody 
knew. "He must have gone out," said the landlord. But 
nobody had noticed. They were all interested now. 
"Turn out, everybody, and help," cried the Sheriff: and 
the men, donning their hats and great coats, turned out of 
doors to look for the missing fiddler. 
"Get the lantern, Dave, and let us search the barn," said 
the Sheriff. The wind was blowing and drifting. The 
barn was duly searched from top to bottom, but no fugitive 
was found. "Look in the stage-coach." The stage-coach 
was examined, but nobody was hidden in that. "Now 
the wash house." The wash house was also explored, 
but it was tenantless as the stage-coach. 
"Bless me! where's my horse?" cried the Sheriff. "Why, 
where is your horse?" exclaimed the landlord, by way of 
WOODS COOKERY. 
way down to Kineo, when a heavy storm nearly swamped 
us and we were compelled to make camp, 
Frank and 1 were drenched with the spray which came 
in over the bows, and having on our last change of under- 
clothing, we hung them about the fire to dry while we took 
a swim in the lake. Three days before we had an inch of 
snow and ice formed in the water-pail a quarter of an inch 
thiclr, but our cold spray bath of an hour or more had so 
reduced our temperatures that the lake seemed quite com- 
fortable. Johnny thought the wind would die down about 
Imidnight, and suggested a start at 3 A.M., but at 3 there 
was quite a heavy sea running and we did not get started till 
5. This night we were kept awake more by deer about the 
tents than on any night of the trip. They stamped and 
whistled all night long. We reached Kineo in time to get 
dinner and climb the mountain before the boat left for 
Greenville and home, C. Harky Morse. 
Boston, Mass. 
THE CHESTNUT RIDGE 
And Alone Its Foot.— VI. 
At the eastern base of the Chestnut Ridge, on the edge 
of the broad interval between that upland and the parallel 
range of the Laurel Hill, there stood, fifty years ago and 
more, an old-fashioned tavern known in my early years as 
"Meanor's." It was a typical roadside inn, one of many 
that stood along the line of the old Northern turnpike, 
whose swinging signboard was the promise of rest and 
refreshment to man and beast. I remember the house 
well and the weeks of a pleasant summer I spent there in 
the halcyon days of Franklin Pierce. The turnpike road, 
wide, smooth and sandy, lay along in front of the hostlery, 
and wound like a broad gray ribbon up the side of the 
Ridge until it disappeared among the trees. Across the 
road was a large barn, and beyond, stretching in the direc- 
tion of the Conemaugh, were wide, sloping fields, where 
the sheep nibbled the grass or reposed in the heat of the 
day in the shade of the trees. Pleasant is it to abide among 
the sheepfolds, "to hear the bleatings of the flocks." 
Any one seeing this old turnpike now, neglected, re- 
duced in many places to the width and condition of a mere 
township road, cannot conceive what it was like in the 
days of long ago. Then a constant succession of wheeled 
vehicles of every description, of horsemen and pedestrians, 
moved along this famous highway. At stated periods the 
gaudily painted and gilded stage coach— the Pioneer or the 
Good Intent— dashed by with its spanking team of four 
horses, with their jingling harness, its Jehu sitting up 
aloft, cracking his long whip or occasionally winding his 
bugle, whose notes lingered musically among the hills 
and trees. Looking back now it seems like a dream of " 
fairyland. 
But Linden saw another sight. It was not always sum- 
mer and sunshine on the Allegheny ridges. Whatever 
may be the fact now, formerly the snows came early and 
fell deep. The wagons proceeded with difficulty or ceased 
busmess altogether. The stage-coach labored along 
through the snow, the passengers happy to make thi-ee or 
four miles an hour. Sometimes it was necessary to discard 
wheels altogether and mount the body of the coach upon 
runners. It then became for the time a great sleigh, none 
the less pleasant to ride in. 
I remember that when Louis Kossuth passed through 
our country about the end of the year 1851, the snow was 
pronj. Amatieur Photos by 0. Harry Morse. 
to be a rough night. Along in the afternoon a solitary 
pedestrian descended the Ridge, picking his way through 
the drifts, glad enough at last to find a refuge at the inn. 
He was a young feUow, tall, activei handsome, except for 
a restlessness in his eyes that made him not altogether 
pleasant to look at. Before advancing into the room he 
cast a quick glance around, and then apparently satisfied, 
he walked up to the bar and asked for a glass of brandy. 
"Lots of snow," said the landlord, handing out the bottle. 
"Yes, indeed," replied the stranger. "Must be hard walk- 
ing," remarked the landlord. "Very," answered the other. 
"I was trying to make my way down to Nineveh," he co£i- 
tinued, "but I guess I shall have to give it up. Can I stay 
here to-night?" "Yes; we have room for you," replied the 
landlord. The young man unbuttoned his coat, pushed 
back his hat from his brow, and seated himself bv the 
fire, but in such a position that he could see everything in 
the room. 
The snow continued to fall. Half an hour later, amid a 
great outcry on the part of the driver, and a fierce struggle 
on the part of the horses, the stage-coach that should by that 
time have been in Blairsville, pulled into the wagon-yard 
in front of the inn. At the first sound, the young man 
sprang to his feet and hastened to the window. The stage 
door was opened, and the occupants, six or eight ladies and 
gentlemen, got out. The young man scanned them closely, 
and w hen they entered the room, he hung about the door 
leading to the back premises of the tavern. He was evi- 
dently not at his ease in his inn. The coach was effectu- 
ally "stuck" for the present. The horses were bestowed 
in the barn, and the passengers became unwilling guests 
for the night. But there was no help for it. And they 
might easily have been worse accommodated. As the 
evening closed in, after supper, it was proposed to have a 
dance. A violin and bow hung on a nail behind the bar. 
"Here is a fiddle," said the landlord, "if anybody can 
play." A very short inquiry revealed the fact that the 
strange young man could manipulate the bow. The tables 
were carried out of the dining-room, the chairs shoved 
against the wall; the young man, who seemed to have a 
predilection for the back door, stationed himself near that 
point; the violin was tuned up, the people chose their 
partners, the fiddle sang out its cheerful notes, and the fro- 
lic proceeded. The fiddler was an admirable performer 
and caller of the figures, and soon made himself quite a 
favorite among the dancers. Several sets had been danced, 
when a halt was called; the ladies sought their chairs, and 
the gentlemen the bar. It was in this lull that a heavy 
step was heard at the door, as of some one stamping the 
snow from his feet; a moment later the door opened, and a 
burly form entered the bar-room. 
"Why, how do. Sheriff?" cried the landlord, as he recog- 
nized the new-comer. "How are you, Dave?" he replied, 
shaking the snow from his coat and sending a swift glance 
through the company at the same time. "A thimbleful of 
whiskey," he said, and the bottle and glass were pushed 
across the bar. 
"A bad night to be out. Sheriff," remarked the landlord. 
"Yes;" said the other. "After a horsethief;" he added, in 
a confidential tone. "Had traces of him up the hill, and 
thought he might be in here." 
"Nobody has come here with a horse to-day," said the 
landlord. "No," answered the Sheriff. "The horse was 
sold in Blairsville, and the thief left this morning afoot." 
"Aha!" exclaimed the other. i,"Wh£it kind of ^ looking 
AN IDEAL CAJIPING PLACE. 
answer. "I tied him right there, in the shelter 'of the 
wash house," said the Sheriff. 
Sure enough! where was the sheriff^s horse? 
When the ofi&cer's step was heard at the door, the young 
fellow was on the alert; when the landlord uttered the 
word "Sheriff," he slipped noiselessly out of the back 
door, and before the Sheriff had disposed of his thimble- 
ful of ^'hiskey, the young fellow had untied the animal, 
leaped upon its back, and was plunging through the snow 
toward the east. No vestige of his flight remained upon 
the ground, and nobody had any idea in what direction 
he had gone. It was dark and stormy, and nothing could 
be done. 
A week afterward the Sheriff's horse was found in Johns- 
town, in possession of an honest old Conemaugh township 
farmer, who was boasting what a bargain he had got: a 
good horse, saddle and bridle, all for §50. In the mean- 
time the young man had left for parts unknown and no 
trace of him could be found. T. J. Chapman. 
PiTTSBUKG, Pa. 
SHEEP AND SNOWSHOES— XL 
A Winter Hunt at the Summit of the Rockies. 
With the Wolfhounds. 
In the year of 1896 the State of Montana paid $8,000 
bounty on gray wolves alone. These animals are a menace 
to the live stock industry and have been pursued relent- 
lessly for years, but in spite of this seem to be numerous 
as ever in some parts of the State. Joe Kipp told us that , 
he had killed a great many with his pack of hounds, not 
far from his ranch, and he was anxious to give McOhesney 
and myself a taste of the sport of wolf-coursing. Billy 
Kipp volunteered to take us out, and after one day of rest 
we three made a start with a half dozen of the best dogs 
of the pack, great shaggy yellow hounds of decidedly use- 
ful look. Some of these dogs were monsters, and were- 
scarred all over in token of their work with the big and 
dangerous grays of these plains than which a dog can 
meet few more dangerous antagonists. 
We rode something like forty miles or more that day and 
jumped four coyotes and one antelope, none of the game 
close enough to enable us to sight the dogs, which scat- 
tered vpildly about, crazy to run, but showing the usual 
sight-hound's inability to get sighted. We saw no gray 
wolves at all, and indeed were not on -their main range, 
which was properly about twenty-five miles to the north 
of us. We had not time to take two days for a wolf hunt, 
though I presume we should have had some fun. One of 
our dogs followed off the antelope and we did not see her 
till we got home that night. Nothing of great interest 
transpired during the day, though a touch of excitement 
was for a time threatened by a little accident with my 
mount, a typical cow pony of some dignity of character. 
Riding along across the prairie, a loose knot at the side of 
the bit fell apart and let down one side of the bridle rein. 
As I leaned forward to fasten it up again the horse threw 
up his head and began to go a bit, and the others not 
knowing that anything was wrong, he broke away in front 
and Ijolted across the country in spite of all I could do, re- 
fusing to be guided by the touch of the rein, as all cow horses 
are taught, and refusing also to be circled with any kind of a 
pull. At last he went crazy at the unusual situation, and 
taking the bit well into his mouth bolted off on a career 
