282 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[April 9, 1^8. 
A Summer Love. 
The summer flew, Kill fragrant breath, on golden wings 
O'er hill and dale, o'er town and field, o'er land aild sea; 
She greeted all created things with fervent Jciss 
And all, responding, thrilled with joy; so fair was she. 
Her eyes had azure tint, her locks a golden sheen ; 
Her rosy cheeks against her ruby lips turn pale. 
And blooming trailing vines held 'round her lithesome form 
Light folds of goss'mer woof, a flowing, clinging veil. 
Four moons have waned since last .1 met the lovely maid, 
Where Oswegatchie's amber floods lave rocky shore. 
And spreading branch of pine and beach and balsam tree 
Give shade to fragrant couch, where oft I dreamt before. 
Oh, summer fair I I've loved, thee three score years and more; 
And yet thy heart remaincth young and fresh and warm ; 
'Though loved by countless throngs, thou never brokest faith 
With me; I'll bare my heart and own thy potent charm! 
The maid ne'er uttered vvord, but spoke by sign and sound 
A language eloquent and casilj' understood 
By one whose open eyes and ears and hungry heart 
Fotmd in siich summer idleness the needed food. 
She Jiummed and droned with beetle, bee and hummtlighird, 
Or laughed a purling laugh athwart the waterfall; 
Or, when the king of storms smote down proud forest trees, 
She sobbed and shrieked and wept; her love embraced Uiem all. 
She mocked my startled gaze, when suddenly a trout 
Or muskrat splashed around, close by my resting place; 
And when at deer or grouse I aimed with fishing rod 
She smiled, but chided ni^ with frowning, angry faqe. 
At sunrise summer marshaled forth her full-voiced choir 
To grateful hymns of praise and joyous symphonies; 
But when the night-paJl fell she lured the drowsy world 
To sleep by rocking, rhythmic waves and pine branch lullabies. 
At last the parting- came, as partings ever come, 
Filled with regrets and vows, some tears, withal some pain, 
My summer love went south and I to bufey town; 
Yet, in my dreams, 'midst snows, fair summer comes again. 
Syracuse, Ernst Held. 
Ghosts. 
I STOPPEC upon a causeway. It was on the last day 
of October, and on the one side was a cattail swamp with 
the fluff of the mace-heads already tufting oitt and ready 
for flight. On the other lay a little pond lined witlt yel- 
low-leaved birches. I leaned upon the rail and looked 
down into the calm water. The air was still, and now 
and then a leaf detached itself and zigzagged downward, 
while from the depths another seemed to zigzag up- 
ward, until the twain kissed at the surface and became 
one. 
We all know the feeling, the thoughts, that come to 
us at such a time and place. A group of faces was 
mistily distinct — faces of old plajmiates. Here was one, 
fair-haired, alert — she died in 1872. Another, ruddy- 
cheeked, handsome, with the dark hair and blue eyes of 
the Norman strain — he died in '93. Another yet, tall, 
dark and winsome, always with a pleasant word, never 
with a sharp one — ^she passed away in '97. Yet they 
were here, with others of the old, old little chque in 
academy days. 
The white clouds drifted past in reflections on the 
shallow bottom. The little net of dead branches, some 
feet down, was suspended as in mid-air, motionless, 
lifeless, and there was no life about it nor between the 
surface and the ripple marks in the sands below. Noth- 
ing moved or showed that it possessed the power of 
moving, and yet, half way between earth and air, ap- 
peared a small turtle, as suddenly as ever a figure 
flashed on the screen of a stereopticon. It did not 
"come." It simply was created between the shutting 
and the opening of an eye, and was there. Reason 
declared that it had been there all the time — a good ten 
minutes; and yet the eye must have been looking through 
and through it all that time, in that event, without 
seeing, and reason soon divined the cause. Across its 
back were w^avy white lines that matched well the ripple 
marks on the bottom, until gradually it had swung 
round athwart them; and then, and not until then, did 
the eye above begin to receiA'e the impression of some- 
thing to observe. 
The turtle thought it was time to move, and slowly 
•clawed its way to the surface. Its black nose was thrust 
above it for half an inch with a sigh of content, and a 
gulp; its hindfeet were stretched out broad and deep 
behind. Then it began to swing as thotigh hung on gim- 
bals, toward the perpendicular, with the forefeet as the 
pivot. The arc of the swing was about 3in., and the re- 
verse was effected by a dipping of the head. For full 
twenty swings it played the pendulum as though enjoy- 
ing it to the full, its little black eyes ever watchful never- 
theless, as the motion caused it to revolve. Then it 
dreAv in its head and started slowly downward toward 
some branches. 
One could not help but wonder why those feet were not 
in rhythm, A frog gives a strong stroke with both rear 
feet at once with all its power flung into it and all in- 
stantly available. Only now and then, when rising or 
progressing slowly, does it use them alternately. If that 
turtle could be trained to strike out all four webs at once, 
to what speed might it not attain, I mused. 
Then in the space below me another ghost sprang into 
being. Right among the branches at which I had been 
gazing with eyes that did not see there floated a half- 
pound pickerel; and I had thought that in all these 
jrears I had learned to know one when I looked at it! 
Yet there it was, and evidently had been there all the 
time. Doubtless a fin now and then quivered a hair's 
breadth and kept the balance, hut with closest watching 
I could not see it move. To any but a country eye the 
fish might well be a lifeless stake. Even the mottled 
back was dttst-colored, like the wood around it. The 
harmony was perfect. 
Then came a disturber. Slowly, in its lumbering way, 
■wiihout .intent .tx» viKsturb, the turtle came wrandering 
thither. It glided up and down among the branches 
aimlessly, yawing about with each stroke, until it yawed 
the other way with the next one, yet hitting a fairly 
straight and happy medium for its general course. It 
drew near the lair of my pickerel, yet seemed not to see 
him; but the little pike was not so innocent. Silently 
it hung in mid-water, but there was something of watch- 
fulness in its poise, felt rather than seen. It waited 
until the last second, when the turtle was fairly in touch- 
ing distance; then there was a tremble in the water — 
merely that— just a sudden bit of indistinctness in the 
outlines of things seen, that ceased as swiftly and lasted 
but for the quiver of an eyelash. Yet in that time the 
fish was gone. It was blotted out of vision as complete- 
ly as though resolved into water; and where it had been 
the little turtle was, scrambling frantically to escape from 
the scene of such a start, each leglet working as furiously 
and as independently as though run by a separate steam 
engine whose engineer was on a strike, and whose sub- 
.stitute w^as not on speaking terms with the ones at the 
throttle valves of the other three. Then an errant zephyr 
flashed across the water, and it all was blotted out; vis- 
ions, dreams and thoughts of life that was. and I mount- 
ed my Avhecl and went onward through the dead leaves 
of the last day of October, and toward the sunset. 
John Preston True. 
The Old Muzzleloader* 
I H.WE a very good fowling piece of modern manufac- 
ture, and sometimes I have used it with pleasure. In- 
deed I in no way fail to appreciate its practical advan- 
tages over the old muzzleloader. Yes, I also know the 
advantages of the smokeless powder and more subdued 
report, and am not out of true with these new days, 
though to-day I am seventy-five years old. 
But I cannot help going every now and then into the 
attic to take down from its rusted hooks my faithful old 
muzzleloader that is so behind the times. It is an old 
friend, and has grown old with me, and with me is now 
beyond work. I have had opportunities to sell it, but not 
for w^orlds would I let it go. 
Nothing extra of a gun at its best. Only a single bar- 
rel, small bore, light weight fowling piece, but true as 
a line within its range. That was not long, just about 
right for partridge, woodcock and gray squirrels. I have 
pursued the fox, and once in a while have brought one 
to terms with it. It numbers among its victims a lynx, 
and on two occasions made bold attempts on the life 
of a wolf. 
It is fully as old as myself, being one of the first that 
appeared as an improA^ement upon the flint lock. 
I have always had a great love for the woods and the 
gun, and in my youth have tramped many miles through 
dark forests and tangled underbrush in pursuit of a few 
partridges. And I would that now, just for one brief, 
bright Indian summer day, I might be transported to 
the old Maine woods that surroitnded the home of my 
bojdiood and follow again the old paths, frosty and cold 
in the early morning, dry and warm in the afternoon, 
fascinated by the whistle and whir of the grouse. 
You could not shoot many birds in those days, and we 
needed no game laws, for nature took good care of the 
supply. If you brought home a brace of partridges, 
a half dozen woodcock, a gray squirrel or two, it was 
a good day's woi'k; but how insignificant it would be 
to-day. 
You see one could not shoot many birds, for it took 
time to load. He must carefully measure his powder and 
w^eigh his shot. Then the powder must be rammed 
hard. A wad of oakum served to hold it in place; then 
followed the shot; they must be somewhat loose, so we 
were taught in those days, held in place by another wad 
of oakum. Then caine the priming! How lovingly one 
held the gun in the hollow of his arm, and raising the 
hammer examined the tube; then put the cap on— the 
bright cap, so suggestive of force — and carefully let the 
hammer down! Ah, the boys of these days are deprived 
of all that. And I am in earnest when I say it is a de- 
privation. To shoot, then carefully load, then go and 
pick up the game, never hurried, never frenzied, while 
round yoti was the smell of the old black powder! That 
was a good part of the enjoyment. Time is surely an 
element in pleasure. 
Now things are done too quick. You shoot, and while 
you are turning round you reload, and shoot again. The 
loading is a mere mechanical process; it involves no 
thought. Your charge is made for you, and all that needs 
to be done is to snap the gun over your knee, put the 
shells in, give it a jerk, and there it is, all ready for an- 
©ther attack; a minute and a half or so is time enough 
for the whole process. 
Yes, one now loses the peculiar mental pleasure of 
measuring his powder in the hollow of his hand, and 
carefully weighing the shot. 
Then, one must kill so much in these days! Not less 
than a dozen partridges, two or three dozen woodcock, 
as many gray squirrels, or he is a poor gunner. 
I Why don't I use the old muzzleloader when I go gun- 
ning now? Ah, the times have changed! Why don't 
neighbor Jones use the old hand scythe and rake? He 
would like to. Can I be ten minutes loading, when my 
boy loads in two? Can I go ath\Vart the spirit of the 
times, even in the little gunning I do alone? Certainly 
not. So I have put the old muzzleloader away in the 
attic, now and then to look at; and in moods when mem- 
ories of former days come thronging upon me I go and 
take it down, and together we two old friends dream 
of the hunting days that are no more. 
Yes, I keep the old powder horn, and the shot bag, 
both my own make, and a box of caps, the last I bought. 
Sometimes I turn out the powder, just to see if my 
hand has forgot its cunning. I weigh again the charge 
of shot. How good it feels in the palm! 
■'Yott never heard of drying your powder?" On great 
occasions, the annual shooting match, or some fox hunt, 
I used to put my powder into the frying-pan and set it 
over the fire. You only had to guard against a stray 
spark or two, and you could dry it quite as easily as so 
much sawdust. The powder of those days was not highly 
explosive as powder. Sometimes, when you wanted to 
shoot quick your cap would snap, and you would take the 
gun down, and then hearing a commotion within almost 
.get it back to your should-er before it would be off. That 
was another feature one had to watch for. It was a 
trade to handle the muzzleloader with ease, and succeed 
in killing game. Now any boy, even a girl, can handle 
the gun. 
"Was it all gunning in those lost days? Is there no 
other interesting memory clinging to the old muzzle- 
loader in the attic than the tramping through the Maiiie 
woods, and shooting of a few partridges?" Yes, there is 
more. There are fond recollections, tender memories 
connected with it. 
In the store where I used to buy my powder was a little 
girl. You "knew there was a girl connected with it?" 
She was a slight, golden-haired child, when I began to 
buy powder. I was about sixteen then. She may have 
been twelve, but so small that I thought of her only as 
a child. Her name was Mamie. Sometimes Mamie 
was left alone in the store, and then, if I wanted powder 
I must show her what it w^as, and where to find it, and 
even poun it out for her. Somehow I took to going there 
after my powder ahvays at the time when I knew her 
uncle was out. I really liked to pour out that powder 
for Mamie. 
Well, I poured out powder every two or three weeks, 
during the hunting season, from September to March — 
there were no game laws then — for several years. The 
years seem to go slow to boys, but they went fast, those 
I spent in weighing powder — I bought small quantities, 
and used large quantities. There were several reasons 
for that: I did not have mtich money to spend for pow- 
der, and I feel quite sure I was very much interested in 
that golden-curled clerk. 
One day, after some three years — I was nineteen, 
Mamie fifteen — the powder did not run well; had got 
damp or something else, and we had to coax it, and thus 
our hands came together, and her hair more than once 
fell on my shoulder. I guess, after all, as I now studv 
the event in cool blood, I guess the powder was much the 
same as ever, and that we were the ones with which 
something was the matter. 
"Wbat was the matter with us?" I never could tell, 
but we blushed and looked supremely conscious — I did 
not think of it like that then; it is an afterthought. I 
stood holding the keg of powder, and could not have told 
for a world what for. Mamie tried to wrap the powder 
in the coarse brown paper, but somehow could not. 
"Why didn't w^e talk?" Couldn't think of a thing to 
say. Not a thought in either head. I tried to help 
her with the bundle, but only took hold of her handj 
and then somehow, I never knew how, I found my arm 
arotmd her waist, and her arms around my neck, and 
those soft curls on my shoulder, and those large, dreamy 
blue eyes pouring their depths of soul into mine. Then 
we awoke. 
"That's the way you use the time when I'm gone, is it?" 
came the shrill voice of Mamie's aunt. 
"Two culprits?" No culprits that I ever saw looked 
half so shame-faced as I felt, and Mamie hid her face 
entirely. 
"If you've got your powder, I guess you'd better run 
home, sonny," was the final advice to me. I took it. 
What happened to Mamie I never knew. It was harsh 
enough. 
When I ventured after powder next time there was no 
Mamie, and her uncle poured it out — such black stuff, 
so damp and worthless, that I got mad and told him I 
guessed I didn't want it. And he laughed. No, I instant- 
ly saw that it was not that commodity I wanted, and the 
other, the little golden-haired clerk, had been sent away 
to sea. 
Did my wife ever hear that story? Go and ask her. 
Joseph Woodbury Strout. 
Just About a Boy,— IX. 
When 1 came home the boy was waiting for me, 
curled up in a jack-knife attitude, his back against the 
fence and his broad hat pulled down to shade his eyes 
while he industriously whittled a stick and chewed one 
of the pungent pine shavings. 
"Gee! Thought you wasn't comin' 't all," he said, as 
he arose and snapped his knife shut against his trousers 
leg. 
"I'm goin' up river in the mornin'. Goin' to nose 
around where some beaver bin a-workin' up there." Want 
to kinder figger on how many pelts I c'n corral when 
fur gits good this fall, yeh know. Want to go 'long?" 
"Sure," I answered. "I feel just like taking a trip any- 
how." 
"All right. Goin' to start early sost to git away fr'm 
the sun all we can. 'Bout daylight I reckon 'd be a good 
time. Be ready then, will yeh?" 
"Yes," I answered, "I'll meet you at the boat at dawn. 
Will we take any guns or fishing tackle?" 
"Dunno; nuthin' to shoot, but we c'n do some fishin', 
I reckon. Oh, say, I know— gee! cottrse we can! I 
got 'bout fifteen or twenty jug lines down at the landin', 
'n' we'll jug back!" 
"All right; I don't know anything about jiigging, btit 
if you do we'll try it. I'll brittg lunch for Jdq^Ii of us, 
then, and meet you in the morning." 
"All right; so long!" said the boy, as he started home. 
"Say," he called back, "be sure and be down t' th* 
river by daylight?" 
"Yes." 
When the gray dawn came we were afloat on the 
silent river. The little canoe scarcely made a ripple 
on the glassy surface as we slipped along swiftly as may 
be, two good, stout paddles urging the little craft for- 
ward against the sluggish back water above the dam. 
Little curls of vapor seemed to hang like smoke against 
the water, and cttrious little, oil}', wavy places showed 
where a sunken snag neared the surface. A home-hurry- 
ing muskrat marked a wrinkly patch across the current 
and dived as we neared him. 
Blackbirds chattered among the willows or flew with 
swift beating wings and trailing tail rudders across the 
tinted sky. 
"Say," said the boy, without turning his head, "this 
here's a heap the nicest part of a day, ain't it? If it 'd 
juss stay this way forever I don't reckon Paradise 'd 
beat it a heap, d'you? Look at them fool blackbirds, 
fightin' like a couple o' kids over sompin' 'r other! 
Smell th' trees, huh? Can't smell 'em on'y on still 
summer mornin's, early, this way, jever nodiss it? 
Seems like wh^en th' sun comes up it sort o' soaks up th' 
