462 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[June ii, 1898. 
hex Talionis. 
Say the finny folk who glide in the stream, 
"We could be happy the whole day long 
Were it not that in sun or in shadow we dream 
Of pinions that liover to do us wrong!" 
Say the people whose pathways are through the sky, 
"We could sing our son^s, we could brood our nests. 
Were it not we have seen our fellows lie 
With a strange red plume on their silent breasts!" 
THe fdyier tnused. as he bagged the game, 
"How careless and free were man's estate 
\Vere it not for the fear he scarce can name — 
Were it not for the arrows of lurking Fate!" 
Edith M. Thomas. 
Rival Fisher Folk. 
Theke is in my neighborhood an inlet fed by tide and 
stream which on entering the broader meadows widens 
to a lake. This possesses all the features or qualities 
characteristic of both fresh and salt water — ^the overhang- 
ing trees, the grasses of the margin, the very contours of 
the stones which line the shores, suggest a lake where no 
restless ocean has rubbed to sand and gravel the pebbles. 
Also, the jagged rocks lying about have an irregular 
and untidy appearance which tells of fresh water. Here 
the incoming tide from the sea meets and mingles with 
the contents of a small stream. 
"A loose, thin, tremulous, pulseless vein, 
Rapid, and vivid, and dumb as a dream." 
Indications are not wanting, however, of the moon- 
slave's presence. There is high-water mark, above which 
all is dry and clean, though the intervening span to low 
water is slimy, muddj^ and wecdstrewn. 
To the margin of this lake resort many wild creatures of 
cartli and air, for by that natural law which gathers the 
eagles together the spot has become a famous feeding 
place. Fish of many kinds — usualhr rather small — abound 
in this miniature sea. Fi.sh of a hybrid character come 
from the ocean, languidlj' condescending to fresh water; 
many more from mountain streams come to find strength 
and comfort in the brackish current of this aqueous half- 
way house. And here a watchful lover of nature finds 
many illustrations of nature's ways, not all of which, I 
fear, would increase otir respect for her magnanimity or 
for that maternal loving kindness ascribed as a motive for 
her doings. Here can one see the larger fish cheerily 
devouring the smaller ones, while crabs, eels and other 
denizens of this debatable land ioregather, fight or 
fraternize, as the cases may be. Yet, spite of all the dis- 
aster wrought by such fratricidal warfare, so prolific are 
the waters, so abundant are their occupants, that man 
himself is frequently induced to take a hand in these 
predatory pastimes — with the odds all in his favor. 
Several fishermen who live by their calling have for 
years patrolled this lake in a miniature navj'-, of their OAvn 
construction, and almost as primitive as the bits of bark 
on which bushj-^-tailed squirrels cross a river. So tiear 
to nature is all that takes place in this unsophisticated 
spot. At night these harvesters of their watery fields 
proceed with bright lanterns fastened to their prows — 
the imwonted brilliance proving as fatal to fish of the 
sillier sort as is the traditional candle to the traditional 
moth. And, as though this were not enough, they pur- 
sue with Indian spears the wiser fish swimming un- 
scathed, through higher knowledge. Moreover, at everj' 
coign of vantage lurk the lobster pot and the eel snare, or 
any contrivances which can betraj'' piscatory confidence 
or entrap the unwary. But among the scientific fishers 
of the "wee salt lake," as our Scottish neighbors call 
this expansion of the inlet, are some of modest preten- 
sions, whose "catch" goeth not to market. There is in- 
deed a familiar tradition which describes a monstrous cat 
dwelling upon a pile of rock near the hut of a lone 
fisherman, whose suft'erance she earned by service as a 
rat-detective; and many and many are the fantastic tales 
told of Mother Cotton's prowess as a fisher. (This was 
after the first fluffy white litter had conferred the pr^eno- 
men Mother.) An occasional check from a bellicose crab 
gave a comedy element to these recitals. 
Long surviving Mistress Cotton and other rivals, the 
chief fishers of this saline pool are the birds, which here 
have a curious custom of hunting in couples. Especially 
have I noticed one royal kingfisher, of strident vocifera- 
tion and stately swoop, who with his mate — a feathered 
image of himself — takes possesison of the lake by day. 
Establishing themselves on opposite sides of the inlet, 
the pair fly diagonally across every portion of its surface 
that can contain a prey, frequently meeting, but never 
flying together. I haA^e often been compelled to admire 
the thoroughness with which tlteir work is done, the 
skill with which each avoids the fowler's eye (that 
"mark, to do them wrong"), while leaving no part of this 
happy hunting ground unvisited. For j'ears the twain 
have held these waters. Noting the tufted head, the 
sharp cry, suggestive of war-whoop, and the darting 
precision of flight, one might almost fancj' them a her- 
itage from the long-forgotten aborigines. In color and 
markings of their plumage part and parcel are thej^ of 
the woods whose dead branches are their perch. Whose 
umbrageous leafiness form their bower and nesting- 
place. But alas, the bane of aught that succeeds in 
life is imitation. A pair of herons, having observed, no 
doubt, the success attending a systematic prosecution of 
business, have come to the abode and adopted the tactics 
of the kingfishers, who could they be heard might claim 
that the herons had stolen their war-cry. The newcomer, 
when engaged in his nefarious poaching (this is the 
kingfisher's view of the matter), utters a hoarse croak, on 
the strength of which he is derisively named by the children 
Qwawk, There is in his shambling flight and awkwardly 
stealthy, almost feline, moveme*its an irresistibly comical 
caricature of the nobler bird. The heron contents him- 
self with lurking among the small stones which line the 
shore, 3.nd which he sing^Jgirl/ resembles both in form 
and color, so much so indeed that it is difficult to dis- 
tinguish him even at a short distance, especially as his 
hours for fishing is the twilight. So persistently does he 
skulk in penumbra, disguising himself among similarly 
tinted rocks, that one quite naturally imputes to him a 
lack of the courage so readily conceded to the kingfisher, 
who, however, beyond the fact that there is something of 
contemptuous negation in his pose, ignores totally the 
larger bird, his rival. It should be mentioned that our 
king among the fishes earns his regalia not only by his 
daring and enterprise, but by a mastery of strategy 
worthy of Bruce's hay cart, since, according to those who 
with blazing lanterns prowl along the lake in search 
of dazzled eels, this ingeniously voracious bird has on 
more than one occasion darted along the pathway of con- 
centrated hght, emerging with wriggling prey and 
screech of triumph. 
While we meditate upon that scheme of nature which 
secures a survival of the fittest by surrendering the weak 
to the strong, we are made aware of a sudden silence — a 
silence that seems to proclaim the approach of some por- 
tentous new element. The "quawk" is inaudible as his 
dingy body among dingier rocks is invisible. The king- 
fisher and his mate have fled noiselessly to the pine 
thicket that woos them to dark and fragrant safety. Look- 
ing up, we behold a vast eagle floating majestically against 
the wind, with motionless wings, with that magic volition 
which poets have noted in the thundercloud. He poises, 
circles, is gone ere bleating lamb can be folded, or flut- 
tering feathers gathered in. And now the trembling 
denizens of "wee salt lake" can resume their own preda- 
tory operations. "Old LTncas!" exclaims a native fisher- 
man, who also has been startled by this apparition and 
the stage-wait produced by its presence among the tnem- 
bers of the warring underworld. "Yes, that's old Uncas. 
I reckon he likes to stir up the small fry onct an' awhile, 
tho' 't 'pears to-day he ain't hungry." "But his name?" I 
ask. "Oh, everybody hereabouts calls him that, an' has 
called him so long's I kin remember. Fact is, no one 
knows whether Uncasville's called after him or he's called 
after Uncasville." "Why," I exclaim, in astonishment, 
"how old must he be then?" "Nobody here 's old 
enough to remember," and, as I watch the retreating 
figure in the sky, I mentally ejaculate, "Old Survival!" 
S. R. Elliott. 
Katahdin and Big Fish Lake Regions 
The Bangor & Aroostook Railroad has opened one 
of the choicest regions in Maine. Nowhere in the Maine 
woods is there such a combination of magnificent scen- 
ery with good hunting and fishing. The Katahdin and 
Machias sections abound in game, and good deer shoot- 
ing is found anywhere along the line of the road after 
it enters the forest. The game has not been driven 
away yet, as the railroad has only been in operation a 
short time. The scene rapidly changes after leaving Old- 
town. Farms give place to patches of woodland, and 
then a dense forest hems in the track on both sides. 
Many miles of woods are traversed before the train ar- 
rives at Norcross, the first station of any importance. 
The sportsman is now within striking distance of ex- 
cellent hunting and fishing. Norcross is the best place 
to outfit for Katahdin aiid the West Branch. Hunt's 
Camp on the Sordahunk Stream, thirty miles from Nor- 
cross, is a good central location, with good trout fishing 
in the nearby ponds. 
This is the most beautiful region in Maine, and second 
to none for moose and deer. Dacej^, Rock, Foss and 
Noton and Lost ponds furnish good fly-fishing in August, 
when there is practically no angling in the Big Fish 
Lake section. The trout run from 8 to I2in. in length, 
seldom larger; they make up in numbers what they lack 
in size. A Norcross guide claims to have taken some 
large square-tails out of Slaughter Pond. 
Over toward Saddleback Mountain, at the foot of the 
horse race, the Penobscot widens into a beautiful lake 
called Sordahunk Dead Water. Follow up the trout 
brook that comes in on the left and you will soon arrive 
at Trapper Pond. This lovely trout pond has few 
visitors. The West Branch of the Penobscot swarms 
with little salmon and chubs. These pests of the angler 
^ will play havoc with his flies and balk him in his 
attempts to fasten to any of the large trout that haunt 
Ripogenus Gorge and Eddy. From Sordahunk stream 
it is a twenty-mile tramp through the forest to reach the 
Nesowadnehunk lakes. Very few sportsmen had worked 
their way in here previous to the season of 1895, Sep- 
tember is the best month for camping out in this beautiful 
region; plenty of blankets are required, as sometimes ice 
puts in an appearance. A camp on the lake furnishes 
shelter to that class of sportsmen who are not hardy 
enough for wood life. In the early part of September 
bright flashes of color light up the somber recesses of 
the forest, by the middle of the month the autumn colors 
are in their prime, all the little ponds that mirror Ka- 
tahdin are looking their loveliest. Foxes are working 
their way in from the edge of the woods; these pests are 
no doubt responsible for the scarcity of grouse. The 
sportsman is not apt to bother with small game in a 
section that abounds with deer. 
It is an unwritten law of the woods that a little deer 
meat is allowed in camp during the close season, pro- 
vided the wardens know nothing about it. The tempta- 
tion to shoot a bull moose in the latter part of this 
month is very great, as the calling season is rapidly pass- 
ing away. Bull moose are getting scarce, and if the 
sportsmen's and guides' associations don't do something 
more than invite hunters to come up here and destroy 
them, thej' will soon be a thing of the past. 
About sixteen miles of wood road connects Nesowad- 
nehunk with Grand Lake, on the east branch. The 
sportsman can make a trip from here to Webster Lake 
through Chamberlain and Eagle lakes to the eastern 
extremity of Churchill Lake, then work his way down 
through "the Masungan lakes to the Machias section, then 
north over a three-mile carry to Clayton Pond and Big 
Fish Lake. I would not advise the sportsman to under- 
take this trip unless he is fond of roughing it, and has 
plenty of time at his disposal. Otherwise I would ad- 
vise him to take a buckboard to Crystal Station on the 
Bangor 5f Aroostook Railroad, ^nd so on north to Ash- 
Isip.d, " Artist. 
His Vacation. 
"Had your vacation, Ned?" 
"No, I'm going up in New Hampshire later on my 
annual hunting trip. You've been away, haven't you?" 
"Yes, I had two weeks at Cottage City, but it was 
so blasted hot and there was so much going on that I 
didn't get much rest. Deuced lot of fun though, and T 
met some jolly girls. Say, old man, you better stop 
making a hermit of yourself and go down with me next 
year?" 
The speaker, a dapper young man with a slight mus- 
tache and a high collar, that made it difficult for him to 
turn his head, tipped his chair back against the wall 
and exhaled cigarette smoke through his nostrils. There 
was no reply, and he cast his eyes indifferently about 
the room. On one wall a pair of antlers served as a rest 
for an old muzzle-loading rifle. Hanging from the 
prongs were a cartridge belt, a well-worn corduroy hunt- 
ing jacket, and a double-visored canvas shooting cap. A 
brace of revolvers hung on either side. There were 
hunting pictures elsewhere. A foxskin rug lay on the 
floor before a low, broad window seat, upon which a 
sturdily built, ruddy-faced young fellow, in a dressing 
gown, lounged as he pulled at a long, black pipe or 
watched smoke rings rise into the air and break. 
Presently the young man on the window seat straight- 
ened up and looked at his caller. 
"I say, Gus," he finally said somewhat earnestly, "don't 
talk that sort of stuft" to me. I wouldn't trade my two 
weeks among the mountains for a whole summer of the 
kind of torture you call fun. What's it all amount to. 
that everlasting sitting on the piazza, lolling on the sand 
and dressing for supper; with an evening on the wharf 
with some girl you've only known a few hours, gazing 
at the stars, or the red and green lights on the boats in 
the harbor? I call it wasting life when one considers 
the vigor and the exhilaration of healthy excitement and 
plenty of exercise in the clear October air! You say 
you're tired, and way down in your heart you know 
you're disgusted too. Try as you will to make your- 
self believe you've had a good time and you can't. Isn't 
that so?" 
"How do I kill time up there? Don't I find it dull? 
Don't the people make me tired? Why, man, there's no 
time to kill. The days are not half long enough, and 
when night comes you've only been able to do half that 
you wished. After supper's over, you light your pipe and 
pull your chair up with the farmer's family close to a 
blazing fireplace. Your host may tell stories, but you're 
content to do nothing but gaze into the flames that are 
struggling upward. How good the pipe tastes? How 
contented you feel as you go over the day's experiences! 
How restful it seems to be away from the endless noise, 
the everlasting prattle of uninteresting people! The 
hearts of your hosts beat warmly for j'ou. T?he Avords 
they speak are kindly, sincere ones. You feel their in- 
terest and sympathy. What a pleasure it is to meet un- 
affected, sincere people! Your rough hunting togs are 
so comfortable. You are supremely happy. The world 
with its confusion and struggle is forgotten. Almost 
before you know it your pipe has burnt out and a feel- 
ing of pleasant drowsiness steals over you. You rouse 
yourself with an effort, pick up the little lamp that is 
Avaiting on the table, and make A^our way upstairs to 
the tiny bedroom with its slanting walls. The Avindow is 
open. Darkness and stillness seem to creep in through 
it. No sound is heard save, perhaps, the distant barking 
of some house dog out for a frolic. Your night's rest is 
as peaceful as the night is quiet. 
"The rising sun streaming in at the Avindow wakes 
you. You rise full of life. After a wholesome breakfast 
you spend the day with your dogs in the field, stopping 
during the noon hours on some sunny hillside to eat the 
lunch which you have brought, and then to rest and 
smoke. You can feel your flesh tingling with vigor! 
You feel like a man, you think like a man. By George, 
you are a man! 
"But the ending of the day is what I look forward 
to. As the sun gets low I make my way to a lake that 
nestles among the mountains. The farmer's son is Avait- 
ing for me. We unhitch the boat and row leLsurelv to- 
Avard the point Avhere the river empties in. Hardly a 
ripple breaks the placid Avater, Avhich mirrors the dark 
woods on the shore bej^ond and the blue sky above, 
The sun's slanting rays make the foliage golden green 
and the tree trunks vibrate with color. Ah! It is the 
time to be out! 
"We make our way slowly up the river a short dis- 
tance, put out the decoys and push the boat inside the 
'blind.' Sere, broAvn bushes spread away in every direc- 
tion, amid Avhich Avild celery grows in great quantities. 
The sun is a ball of fire on the Avestern horizon. The 
little pools of Avater on the dotting feeding grounds here 
and there glow with its crimson. A lank, ungainly heron 
flies lazily by, casting a suspicious ej^e at the decoys, sit- 
ting stiffly on the Avater a short distance from us. There 
is a loAv Avhistling in the reeds close at hand. The dry 
seed-pods on the bushes rattle faintly in the cool, crisp 
evening breeze. Pickerel are breaking among the lily 
pads, sending little circles of water rushing toward the 
shore. A muskrat sticks his nose up close to the boat 
and sinks Avith a splash. We Avait quietly, buttoning our 
hunting jackets close to the throat as the air becomes 
more chill. The sun drops out of sight be3'ond the dis- 
tant mountains !with a parting beam. 
"We scan the horizon eagerly. Presently a dark spot 
flecks the clear sky at the southwest. By jove! The 
sight brings us to ovtr feet Avith a thrill of expectation. 
On comes the speck like the wind, straight for us, grow- 
ing larger every moment until it CA^olves itself into a 
flock of ducks. The evening flight has begun. They 
come down on the Avind to our left, swing, and a mo- 
ment later are hoA'ering a few feet above the decoys. 
Our guns flash twice simultaneously. Heavy splashes in 
the Avater are followed by a convulsiA^e fluttering. There 
is hardly time to load before there is a SAvishing of air 
overhead, and a second flock passes us before we have- 
time to shoot. The birds are suspicious and make a 
long circle, but we finally get in a shot at long range 
and doAvn a couple. The air is full of ducks almost be- 
fore Ave know it; shooting past us like rockets, darting 
here and there, hovering oA^er the decoys. We load atid 
fire Avith nervous haste. Time passes quickly. By Jove, 
! 
