62 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
Just About a Boy.— IL 
When Saturday came I went to the dam, equipped 
for fishing. The boy was there ahead of me, and had 
already seined a lot of his favorite red horse minnows, 
and was keeping them alive in a little pond he had built 
where the waters from a spring trickled down the hill. 
"Hello. You're on time 'n' I'm all ready. Got lots of 
bait for both of us. Got a new pole, too. What d'ye 
think of her?" he asked, without giving me time to get a 
word in edgeways. 
I took the pole, a stout lancewood, and examined it. 
It was perfect in every particular except weight, and I 
told him it was a trifle heavy, I thought, otherwise all 
right. "Well, you see; I kinder thought I might bust a 
little one 'fore I got iist to it, so I got tliis one. Could 
'a' got a littler one, but I was a little leery about it. 
Reckon she'll do. Hain't half so heavy as my old cane, 
anyhow," he sagely remarked, as he fondled the new rod 
and tested the spring of its bending length. 
"Here, put some of these in your hat," he continued, 
scooping up a double handful of fine minnows. I 
pushed my bait box around and he dumped them in, but 
put his own in his hat, because they were handier there 
according to his notion. The minnow net he stuck 
through his belt, letting it dangle without any brails. 
He could cut the latter anywhere along the stream, so 
he did not bother himself with the extra weight. 
"Ready?" he asked. "Yes," I answered, and we 
started into the stream, shoes, trousers and all, for he 
had his on this time perforce, as there were houses on 
each side of the stream. We waded out to a bar that 
reached partly across the river below the dam, and then 
the boy showed his knowledge. "Here, you wade about 
lour steps straight toward the dam, and you'll find a 
big flat rock there, where the water is waist deep. Get 
up on the rock, and it will only come half-way to your 
knees. When j'ou get there, throw your bait right 
where those two little currents meet, an' 3'-ou'll get a 
Balaam, for they's a place where they stay down in 
amongst the rocks there. I know, 'cause I've dove down 
there and been all over the bottom. You must throw 
right ed-zackly where I tell you, or you'll get fast, for 
they's a big old cottonwood stump jammed in among 
the rocks on this side about 2ft., and the rock bottom 
goes down in a straight step-ofi' on the other side, and 
they's only about 3ft. of clear Avater between the two. 
It's about 9 or loft. deep, and they's a current at the 
bottom that goes up stream toward the dam, 'cause the 
water falls and tnakes sort of an undertow. Go ahead." 
I did as directed, and found the rock as described, and 
caught some fine fish of 6 or 7lbs. weight before the boy 
shouted to "Come on, this is petered out." By question- 
ing I found that the boy had actually been all over the 
bottom of the river, right up to the very falls of the 
dam, unmindful of a strong undertow that had drowned 
several men. 
He seemed to think nothing of the danger he ex- 
posed himself to by taking chances among those cur- 
rents. 
"It's easy to swim in there if you Icncvf how*'/ he said. 
"All you got to do when you want to get out is just come 
up to the top quick, then turn on your back and float out 
with the top current, that's going downstream all the 
time, 'cept right up by the fall, and there the top current 
goes upstream and the undertow goes down. You can 
feel the difference soon as you strike it; so, if you are 
close to the fall, dive and stay down till you meet the 
undertow comin' back, then shoot to the top 'n' turn 
on your back, and you're all right. I mighty near got 
caught once, though, 'fore I found out about the cur- 
rents," he added reflectively. "I got shoved down and 
yanked back up five or six times, but I just helt my breath 
and reckoned I could keep it up till I got into the right 
current. Had a purty close call, though." 
We were slowly wading along down stream as we 
talked, and each picked up a good fish here and there 
among the eddies until we got near the foot o| the 
rapid, half a mile from the dam. "Now come here 'u' 
I'll show you another place," said the boy. "Throw 
right over there, just above that old maple on the bank. 
They's a deep place just below there, and the current 
has cut away back under the roots. Some day the maple 
is going to tumble in and spoil that hole. I come down 
through here one day and didn't get a bite from the dam 
clear here nen I got a three-pounder out of this hole, 
nen I got a nother, 'n' a nother, till I stood here and 
caught twenty-nine of 'em, all about the same size and 
'bout three pounds weight. I didn't know they was a 
hole there then, but I found it out afterwards, and I 
always catch about the same size fish there, 'bout 3lbs." 
I had cast into the place indicated, and almost before 
the minnow struck I had a fish which, when landed, was 
sure enough "'bout a three-pounder." We caught sev- 
eral more there, and they ran just about the same size, 
and I found that the hole could be depended on for 
"three-pounders" almost every time. 
"Now, less get out and walk down to the big walnut 
trees," said the boy. "They ain't any use fishing in this 
still water below here. Might get a few, but it's too 
slow. I like swift water, so the fish will run when you 
get a holt of 'em. 'Tain't no fun to fish in still water." 
I thought the boy spoke more wisely than he knew, 
for he had the true sportsman's instinct, and only needed 
a few hints properly administered to show him that he 
was really enjoying life just about in the right way. 
We climbed the bank wet and dripping, walked down 
stream along a path that the boy seemed to know would 
come to the river again at about the right place. 
"Mighty good place for quails and rabbits up there 
about three miles," the boy remarked, as we crossed a 
little creek. "If. you are here this winter I'll show you 
some fun. I know right where to find 'em, 'n' without 
a dog too. Don't like a dog to hunt with anyhow," con- 
tinued the young savage. "Makes too much noise, nen 
they always run ahead and scare everything up before 
70U get close enough. Best way is to trail 'em." 
"How can you trail quail?" I asked. 
''Easy. They leave lots of signs, even if they hain't 
any snow on the ground. They kind of flutter in the 
dust like a chicken does in the middle of the day, and 
they always come to about the same place at the same 
time every day, if they hain't hunted too much so's to 
scare 'em away, nen they go to some other place and 
begin all over again. 
This was news to me, but I found out that the boy was 
a regular Indian in his ways of hunting, and whatever 
he said about game or fish of that section 1 learned to 
depend on as accurate, for he knew the habits of wild 
creatures as few. people do. He loved them, and only 
killed what he could use, and later I have seen him pass 
a covey of quail after he had all he wanted and never pay 
any more attention to them than he would to a tame 
chicken, except to remark, "I'll sec you later, my beau- 
ties," and he generally did it too. 
When we reached the lower riffles we waded in again 
and fished to the island before lunch time, then I sug- 
gested that we climb out and have a little lunch, a propo- 
sition that suited him exactly. 
"We'll go to my camp here and have as good a feed as 
though we was home." he said, as we tied our fish in 
a shady spot and climbed upon the island. "You see I 
fish here a good deal, and I've fixed up a kind of a camp, 
so I'm at home like. 'Tain't much, but we can get a bite 
to eat all right," he said, as he led the way toward the 
center of the island, where the bushes seemed so thick 
that one could scarcely get through them. To my sur- 
prise the boy twisted and turned about, always with a 
clear path under our feet and easy traveling until we 
reached a little open space where three giant cotton\vood 
trees grew close together. "You see I cut a trail in 
here so I could get in without much trouble. Had to 
wind around to make it blind. If I'd cut it straight 
everybody wotrld come right into camp, but it winds 
aroiand so that you can't see any trail at all unless you 
know where to go." 
' That, I thought was certainly an Indian way of hidmg 
• camp , and leaving' the front door open, trusting to the 
blindness so common among civilized people for pro- 
tection. 
"Now we'll have a feed right," said the boy, as we 
reached his "camp," Avhich appeared to be only a snug 
little opening in the middle of the thicket; but as he 
began to brush aside iiinocent looking little bunches of 
leaves and twigs I saAV the same Indian methods dis- 
played again, for under each pile reposed some essential 
camp article, and no two in a place. A cofTee pot a,p- 
peared, theii a frying-pan, tin plates, spoons, knives, 
forks, and last, but not least, he scattered a few bits of 
bark and revealed a hollow space dug under the base of 
one of the cottonwoods, and in this hole a wooden box. 
Opening the box he brought forth a bag of oiled canvas, 
and this in turn produced coffee, sugar, salt and a gener- 
ous slab of bacon, each tied up in a separate oiled bag. 
"Hain't got any bread just now," he remarked; "got 
to bring some down too. Eat the last up a few days 
ago." 
I had plenty of lunch in my basket, and with fresh 
fish fried with the bacon and hot black coffee we made 
a meal that was fit for kings. 
"I got a little tent over yonder too, so I m pretty 
much at home dowm here rain or shine. Got another 
outfit cached up the river too. Got a stove up there 
and a shovel, besides a little tent and plenty of grub. 
You see I don't like to pack stuff with me, so I pack it 
out and hide it, and then I'm fixed." Truly the boy was 
a half wild person in those days, and his soft step wan- 
dered through all the byways of his domain and he was 
king. 
After our lunch he stowed things away, and deftly hid 
them by making the surroundings appear perfectly nat- 
ural, and I wo.uld never have suspected the existence of 
a camp there when he got through. 
"Now less go home. I've got all the fishing I want 
if you have," he said, after we had rested and talked an 
hour after dinner. "You go ahead 'n' I'll kind o' kick 
the leaves over your trail," he said, as we were ready to 
leave. I went down the windings of the trail and then 
discovered that he had cut the bushes about half off 
on one side >ind bent them down over the cut to hide it 
and show only an ordinary broken bush, perfectly natu- 
ral in the woods, and thus had cut hii. trail into camp. 
When we got back to town I . invited him up to the 
house, to come in just whenever he felt like it or wanted 
company on a trip, and that is how we came to-be close 
Iriends and travel "pardners" in all these after years, 
for the boy came in often and was always ready for a 
trip somewhere. Of these trips I must tell you another 
ti-mp El Comancho. 
The Camp at Hopkins'. 
Into our lives each summer comes a blissful period of 
oblivion from business, when we congregate at the place 
where, ten years ago, we landed one summer evening 
and lay ourselves down under the Hght of the full moon, 
with the sand for a bed and the sky for a blanket. Each 
year we have renewed the acquaintance with the spot 
which, on that summer evening, we seized in, tl^g name 
of the O. C. C. , ■ J 
But it was not until the last yeatr that we obtained per- 
mission to build a cabin there; and, once having ob- 
tained that permission, it was not long before, standing 
about 2oft. from the bluff, there could he seen a small 
camp, painted a dark red, resembling a peanut stand or 
a night-lunch car. But, notwithstanding its unpromising 
exterior, the interior affords a cozy, comfortable, sub- 
stantial place in which to spend our idle moments. 
The spot itself is beautiful. A creek, barred across 
its mouth by sand, filled with weeds and rushes, its banks 
lined with fine groves of chestnut trees. Now and then 
a gloomy pine or hemlock stands along its margin; the 
bend shows a small grove of birches, rising white and 
cool against the high, brown bank, their delicate foliage 
faithfully reflected in the murky water. 
Westward, a half mile or more, a long point of land, 
green and brown by day, violet at evening, stretches into 
the lake until it stands black against the sunset sky; 
eastward, the shore seemingly ends in a clump of grace- 
ful willows. Veritable fliirts are these willows, flinging 
their favors to every passing zephyr, Avooing the evening 
land breeze, throwing kisses to the lake. 
Sometimes a straj' duck enters the creek. Perhaps 
the woodcock will greet you on a Warm summer day with 
his scornful whistle, as you disturb his noonday siesta. 
The rattle of the kingfisher is a constant sound; anon he 
entertains you by poising gracefully over the lake, mov- 
ing not an inch, but, with rapidly fluttering wings, seems 
a toy suspended on a string. Old Daddy Longlegs, the 
great blue heron, is a frequent visitor, and woe unto the 
uuAvary, goggle-eyed frog Avho comes within reach of his 
long beak. Between Daddy Longlegs and Mr., Pickerel, 
Goggle-ej-e leads a much-disturbed and precarious life; 
indeed, although there may be a goodly number of frogs 
in the early summer, they soon disappear, and it would 
perhaps be irapeftinent to ask Mr. Heron or Mr. Pickerel 
what becomes of them. 
Of the shy, small bird-life of the Avoods, one may see 
quite a little. He may greet the scarlet tanager in the 
spring, and watch him as he reverses the procedure of 
the trees, and turns from red to green as the season 
advances. He may catch the pCAvee's plaintive whistle, 
the clattering of the woodpeckers, the lisp of small 
warblers, and spend a pleasant and profitable afternoon 
with the birds in the woods. 
As one strolls cautiously along, the shrill squeak of 
the hilarious chipmunk may be heard on every side. The 
red squirrel ceases his pressing labors and chatters and 
scolds in wicked squirrel language at the intruder. Both 
of these animals are more friendly, however, upon a 
more intimate acquaintance, and the chipmunk makes 
himself very much at home in the vicinity of our camp. 
The red squirrel is more shy, but even he passes part 
of his time speculating on the nature of the cabin and 
its inmates from a nearby stump, Mr. Chipmunk sits 
for a half hour at a time on the fence, watching every 
move Avith his bright black eye, seemingly a very inter- 
ested spectator. The chipmunk is very aristocratic, and 
prefers the best brand of building paper for making his 
nest, and helps himself without asking permission. 
In this respect, as Avell as in many others. Chipmunk 
differs from the wood-mouse, who disdains building 
paper, and goes in for quilts and blankets. Of course, 
from the standpoint of two-legged, indolent monsters 
who put up the paper and furnish the quilts, it is an un- 
rcmunerative task to keep Messrs. Chipmunk and Mouse 
supplied with building material, but undoubtedly the 
little fellows do not take that fact into consideration. 
But, with all their faults, we love them still. 
Mr. and Mrs. Mouse live in a luxurious home under 
the bottom rail of the old fence in front of the cabin. 
Sometimes, when friend Bink's supper is placed outside 
upon the ground, Mr. Mouse, all uninAated, scurries out 
and helps himself. Bink, although a most good-natured 
dog, dislikes to share his supper with any one, and with 
snap and growl sends Mr. Mouse back into his strong- 
hold in great haste. Mousie cannot stand the temptation, 
howcA'er, and shortly he is back again, and Avith much 
fear and trembling and many short and hasty journeys, 
each time taking a little food in his mouth, he finally 
gets enough for his supper, and perhaps also for break- 
fast to-morrow. 
Should one prefer, he may take the canoe and paddle 
silently along the rushes. Here he may become ac- 
quainted Avith the saucy, flippant marsh wren, and watchi 
him as he describes his short arc abo\'e the rushes and 
pours out his little, tinkling, bubbling song. If you 
explore the rushes for his home, you will find perhaps 
five or six nests, but of these but one is used. How 
the wren scolds and chatters as you approach an unused! 
nest! And hoAV strangely silent Avhen the real nest is 
in danger! His home, shaped like a cocoanut, contain- 
ing the five or six eggs of so browm a color as to appear 
almost black, is really a Avork of art. It is surely a snug 
retreat for the children Avhen the raindrops patter and 
the wind sings through the sedges. 
Then you may watch the sora rails, those long-legged!,, 
long-billed, Avedge-shaped birds, running about among, 
the rushes. Perhaps after a search you will find, snugly 
built in the bottom of a clump of sedges, the nest, con- 
taining ten to thirteen eggs of a light coffee color,, 
specked with reddish brown. How that little bird covers 
the big nestful of eggs is a mystery, but coA^er it she 
does, and Avell, too. The eggs of the Virginia rail, about 
the same in number and of the same size, are of a light 
flesh tint, specked with the same reddish brown. If one 
would test the expertness of the grebe, he may amuse 
himself by frightening him with puffs of smoke from his 
pipe. He dives before the shot reaches him! 
Jim Crow and his ally, the bluejay, make the woods 
their home, and every night and morning Jim makes a 
meal upon the dead fish along the beach. In the course 
of a season the croAV cleans up a great deal of filth, and 
in this he is ably seconded by the snapping turtle. Large 
snappers are found in the creek, which is an ideal place 
for them, and frequently they are seen upon the beach, 
dining on the dead fish. All in all, the snapping turtle 
is not a nice felloAV. Aside from his diet, which is ex- 
• tremely disgusting, he has an ugly bite and an atrocious 
smell of musk. One Avhich we caught on the beach one 
day Avould bite so hard as to leave deep marks in a hard- 
wood stick; and when we let him go the pail in Avhich 
we kept him went Avith him. We had no further use for it. 
'A careful search among the pines will reveal the nest 
of the bluejay, Avith its complement of four or five dark 
broAvn eggs, "spotted Avith red. The jay is a handsome 
felloAV, and he knoAvs it; but he Avill insist upon spoiling 
the good impression created by his fine coat Avith his 
harsh squalling. 
In the tAvilight the screech ovtl cothes forth and moans 
his ditty. It has been said the cry of the owl resembles 
the wail of a lost spirit We have never heard a lost 
spirit Avail, and consequently cannot say as to the truth- 
fulness of this statement; but Ave Avill say that he soun4s 
as though he were bothered by mosquitoes. 
It is said that there is no great loss without some small 
gain, and upon the same principle it may truthfully be 
said that there can be no great pleasure Avithout some 
small pain. This is so in the case with life at camp, al- 
though there is nothing Avorse to mar the pleasure than 
that small bit of animated cussedness, the mosquito. We 
have tried, individually and collectiA^ely, to express our 
contempt for the mosquito, but it was a failure. Whence 
