462 
[Dec. io, 1898. 
A Visit to Rowland Robinson's. 
The other day I made a pilgrimage by boat and bicycle 
to the home of the sage of the Little Otter. The house 
stands on a rocky elevation, twenty or thirty rods back 
from the main road, surrounded by a native growth of 
oak and beech and hickory, except in front, where the 
exotic locusts and Lombardy poplars mark the approach. 
A mile away on either side are Lewis and Little Otter 
creeks, and in front is Lake Champlain, though no 
water can be seen from the house. 
The principal feature of the landscape is the Adiron- 
dack Mountain range, of which there is a magnificent 
view. The house is a fine old mansion, the newer por- 
tion dating back of the war of 1812, and the older part 
antedating the Revolution. 
Inside is a wealth of trophies and much interesting 
and beautiful material of especial interest to sports- 
men. There are arrow-heads and implements used by 
the primeval hunters of the Champlain lowlands, and 
bullet moulds and rifles of the white men who followed. 
The antlers of a Vermont moose are over the door, and 
near by are antlers of elk and deer. On the walls hang 
half a dozen guns, and sketches and paintings of game 
and fishing and shooting subjects abound. The atmos- 
phere of the home is distinctly artistic, for not only mas- 
ter and mistress have the talent for visual expression, 
but also one of the daughters. Mrs. Robinson's oil 
paintings of game are truthful and felicitous, but in 
father and daughter the love of line, as exemplified 
in black and white illustration, is the ruling motive. 
In his latest book, "A Hero of Ticonderoga," is an 
admirable portrait of Rowland E. Robinson. It is the 
face of a strong, thoughtful and broad-minded man — 
a man who, despite the fact that he cannot see his sur- 
roundings, takes the keenest interest in every-day life, 
and criticises men and events with a philosophy that 
is alike humorous and kindly. What the picture does 
not describe is the good coloring and hardy physique 
of the sixty-five-year-old six-footer. 
Mr. Robinson does not strike you as being a blind 
man. Certainly no one ever parted with eyesight more 
gracefully. 
In conversation his lqok follows the speaker, and there 
is no feeling of anything out of the way or call for 
sympathy or special attention that is sometimes so awk- 
ward and constraining. Robinson is a born host, and 
instinctively puts his guest at his ease. 
Our conversation was largely about Forest and 
Stream. Mr. Robinson has a love of the paper nour- 
ished by many years' friendship with its editors and con- 
tributors. He mentioned them all by name, and in- 
cluded Schember and Day, of the printing office force, 
but for fear I should leave some of these Forest and 
Stream friends out I will not attempt to give the list. 
Of two of the brotherhood who have gone to the ma- 
jority he made particular mention. One was Ufford, 
whose storv of the Irishman treed by a pseudo grizzly 
recurred to memory and furnished a good laugh, and the 
other was O. O. S., the quizzical humorist, who hid 
tragic suffering behind a jester's mask. Robinson cor- 
responded with O. O. S., and has one letter written 
two days before the latter's death which is as free from 
repining or self-commiseration as the moon is of green 
cheese. 
Of himself Mr. Robinson said little, and he took more 
interest in talking of what others had written than of 
his own stories of the old Yankee frontier life. In a 
general way I gathered that his first love had been for 
drawing and illustration, rather than writing, and that 
he had only taken up the pen when the pencil and brush 
were denied him. He is a natural story-teller, as any 
one who listens to him five minutes finds out, and his 
keen natural observation, strengthened by artistic train- 
ing, has apparently gained in power indirectly through 
his misfortune. The little touches in his descriptions 
of landscape or such a commonplace as the expres- 
sion of berries falling in the basket in "Ras'berrying in 
Danvis" show the refinement of observation. 
Sam Lovel, Mr. Robinson says, is a creation and not 
a portrait, but the statement will not make him any 
the less a portrait to those who have known the fox- 
hunter and fisher on the Slang. 
Sam Lovel is a character with whom most sportsmen 
are acquainted, and to such the truth of the likeness is 
a source of never-failing pleasure. : 
I arrived at the Robinson homestead before the family 
had risen from dinner, and was shown into the old- 
fashioned dining room, about which was that air of 
homeliness and hospitality that seems the special prop- 
erty of old houses. I had already dined, but was per- 
suaded to take some bread and honey, and then some 
mushrooms, but to and behold! when the time came the 
mushrooms were all gone. Mr, Robinson said the in- 
cident reminded him of the case of an old Quaker lady 
at whose house a visitor arrived cold and wet after a 
long drive. 
"Thee are cold and wet," said the old lady. lhee 
needs spirits; won't thee have spirits? But we haven't 
any spirits in the house." 
As it turned out, however, the case wasn't a parallel. 
Some fresh mushrooms were put on and cooked and 
served up on toast, deliciously hot and appetizing, and 
better than any I had ever eaten before. 
I happened to allude to the fact that Mr. Robinson 
was called Judge Robinson on the New York side of 
Lake Champlain. and the fact amused him greatly. 
"These people over here don't appreciate me," he said, 
with a smile; "they're more apt to call me Rowl. or any 
old nickname, than Judge." 
"But aren't you a judge?" I asked. 
"No," said Robinson, "not that I know of." 
Some one suggested that the title might have been 
given in an honorary way,' and then Mrs. Robinson's 
brother, who is an old-time Colorado frontiersman, 
said: "Why, Rowland, you're a Justice of the Peace, 
aren't you? In parts of New York State they call a 
iustice Judge. You'd better move across the lake and 
set the benefit of your title." J. B, Bueneak. 
Three Trips into Maine. 
To the man who is a born lover of the woods and 
lakes, the rod and gun and all that tends to draw one 
away from the hum and hurry of civilization into the 
quiet and beauty of nature, and whose only idea of the 
primeval is the scattering of woods about a large city," 
the first trip into Maine is a much anticipated event. 
The summer of '95 brought the realization of this dream. 
D. and I had arranged to spend ten days together, and 
left Boston one day during the first part of August, with 
Norcross for our destination. Here we were met by 
our guide, and after a night spent mostly in dreams 
of the morrow We made a start down North Twin and 
Pemadumcook lakes, men and outfit all in one big 
canoe. Here we were at last right in the midst of 
those scenes and of that life of which we had dreamt 
so long, and of which we expected so much; and to 
say we were pleased with our surroundings is putting 
it mildly. Will that feeling ever be satisfactorily ex- 
plained which absorbs a man as each hunting and fish- 
ing season comes round, and again, when he is for- 
tunate enough to get away, when he nears the scene of 
his favorite camp or the lake or some spot made familiar 
and dear by previous association? Already you are a dif- 
ferent man from him who left the city a few hours before, 
and the complete change comes- when you find yourself 
comfortably settled amid those familiar sounds and sights, 
and all that goes to make up the grandeur of the. forest 
and the fascination of camp life. 
On this trip wc covered a good deal of ground around 
Pemadumcook and the Katepskanegan lakes, spending 
the most time on the third Katepskanegan. We caught an 
abundance of fish, had a fine time generally, and more_ 
than all were impressed with the great game resources of 
the country. 
We planned for a hunt at the first opportunity. This 
came in the fall of '96, but unfortunately I was obliged to 
take it alone. However, I did not hesitate, knowing my 
guide and being sure of good companionship, that great 
necessity for enjoyable camp life, and left Boston Nov. 
9 again for Norcross. I never see Norcross now but 
what I think of the young man who went up on the train 
also bound for Norcross, and evidently on his first trip. 
In talking over his plans he said he intended to leave his 
valuables in the care of the Norcross Safe Deposit and 
Trust Company during his stay in the woods. Imagine 
his surprise on reaching that place to find all business, 
banking, post-office, and merchandise carried on in one 
small apartment, which was still large enough to hold 
nearly all of the not over numerous population of Nor- 
cross. 
My first shot at a deer came the next afternoon in the 
woods back of Norcross. A glorious miss, of course, but 
not very disappointing on that account, for success would 
have spoilt the chance for something bigger later. We 
started for camp on Nahmakanta Lake next morning, but 
owing to a late start did not arrive until long after dark. 
A hot supper, which we found waiting for us, and a good 
night's sleep, such sleep as you only get in the woods, 
banished all remembrance of a hard day's travel, and put 
us in readiness for the morrow's hunt, The first thing in 
the morning I went out to get a look at the camp and its 
surroundings, and found that we were beautifully situated 
on high land, about midway up the lake, with a fine view 
of wooded hills in either direction, and with Sundabund 
Mountain directly across. 
Our hunt began that day with the prime object a moose, 
and for four days we spent most of the time in following 
up fresh signs, which were plentiful enough, but with- 
out coming in sight of the game. 
Feeling that time was getting short, and not. wishing to 
postpone the deer hunting until the last moment, the 
guide packed provisions enough for three days, and with 
the necessary utensils we started early the next morn- 
ing to the head of Nahmakanta, thence across to Pollywog 
and Wadleigh, stopping there to hunt on Wadleigh Moun- 
tain, and intending to push through to Upper Musquash 
in the afternoon. 
I had received already a very distinct impression of 
the ability of deer to vanish with a snort and a show of 
flag on the slightest provocation, and had- decided that 
it wasn't the easiest thing in the world to bring one 
in line of your rifle. But this day proved a banner one 
for me, as "the occasion of my first, deer. We were, walk- 
ing along the edge of a high bank, which rose almost 
perpendicularly from the brook below, about iooft., and 
separated from the edge by a few feet of small growth, 
when the guide beckoned silence and walked out on 
the edge of the bank, listening intently. I followed, and 
with a "Hush, get ready, I hear a deer feeding; he will 
smell us and run," I crouched as low as possible and 
held my breath. I had hardly stooped before with a 
crash and a snort the deer had left the clump of bushes 
at the foot of the embankment and dashed up the brook 
as if a thousand devils were chasing. I brought my 
rlfie up and fired almost in the same motion. I must 
say I was surprised to see him plunge out into the 
brook and lie perfectly still. In my excitement I 
shouted, "He's down, he's down," and started for the 
foot of the bank, landing there in a heap, having rolled 
most of the way. Looking up, I saw the guide, who 
was filling the air with shouts of laughter, and more 
slowly following my hurried descent. The deer was stone, 
dead, with a bullet through the neck, and it proved to 
be a spike buck. 
We pushed through to Upper Musquash that night, 
having to walk all the way from Wadleigh, finding the 
upper water of Wadleigh frozen tight, and camped in the 
office of an abandoned lumber camp. The next day, in 
the swamp back of camp, I repeated my good Hick 
of the day before, and had the satisfaction of bringing 
down, by what I call another chance shot, a large 
buck with very heavy and finely spreading antlers, 
which I am proud to show to my friends as it hangs in 
my home to-day. We went back to the main camp the 
next day, thinking it a more comfortable place to pass 
the two or three remaining days of our stay. 
Barring the experience in getting home, of being stopped 
by ice in Pemadumcook, and having to leave every- 
thing on the shore under the canoes, and walk through 
the snow-covered woodsi forty miles to Schoodic Sta- 
tion, with the attendant discomfort of laying out nights, 
lack of food and the ever present novelty of doing the 
tight rope act on a slippery tree over icy brooks, our 
trip was a thoroughly enjoyable one, and filled with 
incidents and sights both new and novel to me, and 
which I have not here the space to mention. 
Unable to get away during 1897, this spring I could ' 
wait no longer, and June 1 found me again among the ! 
familiar surroundings of Katepskanegan lakes and Mount ' 
Katahdin. The man who could ask for better fishing than 
we had would certainly be hard to please. We caught 
togue or lakers until our arms were tired handling the 
rods, keeping only enough for our table, the require- 
ment for which, by the way, was rather hard to gauge for j 
the first few days, for there is not the slightest similarity 
between the appetite of one at home doing his daily office 
work and that of the same man off in the woods, tramp- 
ing, fishing, hunting or even loafing, with the surround- 
ings of camp life. 
Brook trout were rising nicely to the fly, and we caught 
all we wanted of from % to 2lbs. We saw game in 
abundance, and the most exciting incident of the trip was 
the experience attending the sight of my first moose. We 
had gone back to a little pond for trout, and as we neared 
it the guide pointed and said: "There's our. moose," and 
there he was, feeding on the opposite shore of the pond, 
standing up to his knees m water, and every few minutes 
bringing up his head and looking squarely in our direc- 
tion, but all unconscious of. our presence. Hastily climb- 
ing onto the raft, the only means of conveyance on the 
pond, and a very convenient sort of craft to throw a fly 
from, I sat down in front and the guide pushed out direct- 
ly toward the moose, which was about 150yds. away. 
Every time he put his head under water the guide would 
push or paddle as hard as he could, and when he brought 
his head up and apparently looked right at us we 
crouched as low as possible. In this way we got within 
20ft. of him without his scenting us, but the more alert 
deer, four in number, caught the scent and decamped be- 
fore we were half-way across the pond. My position on 
front of the raft was getting warm, and my only weapon 
was a pocket camera, which I kept snapping all the way 
across, expecting every click of the shutter would tell the 
story of our presence. Down went the head again, and 
another shove with the pole sent us within 10ft.. He 
brought up his head, shook the water from his great neck 
and shoulders, and stood for a second looking us square in 
the eye, a picture of surprise, but long enough for me to 
take a final snap. As I was preparing to slide over the 
edge of the raft should he wish to make closer inspection, 
he turned and with a snort ran for the woods; and how 
the mud and water did fly. Under the shelter of the trees 
he stopped, looked us over for a minute, and then slowly 
trotted back out of sight. 
I must acknowledge to a slight weakness in the knees as 
I tried to rise, and the guide was simply streaming with 
perspiration. It was a clever piece of work on his part, 
and he told me of having done the same thing the year 
before in a canoe, which, of course, had lessened the diffi- 
culty considerably, The photographs were unfortunately 
spoilt, owing, no doubt, to bad management on the part 
of the photographer. 
We made a short trip to Nahmakanta, Wadleigh and 
the Musquash ponds, and found lots of trout, and black 
flies and mosquitoes in swarms; so thick in fact that we 
stayed but one night, preferring the comfort of a good 
tight camp to the attraction of better trout fishing. 
The whole trip was, like the others, one of thorough en- 
joyment. It could not have been otherwise in company 
with my guide, D. W. Hopkins, of Milo, who seems to 
take in at a glance the requirements of his guest for a 
good time, is an Ai canoeman, and thoroughly capable in 
every way. He controls a fine line of camps in a wonder- 
fully fine game country, and I can heartily recommend 
him and his country to any one in search of either game, 
fish or rest and recuperation, and a general good time. 
Such trips are to me the most delightful mode of en-i 
joyment, and as far as I ca*n learn there seems to be but 
one verdict from those who from time to time spend 
a few days or weeks in this way. All seem agreed that 
it is the greatest antidote for tired minds and bodies, and 
the greatest boon possible toward a happy and prosperous; 
balance of the year. Tyro. 
Massachusetts. 
How I Spent Thanksgiving. 
A Story of Wheeling and Quail Shooting. 
The morning promised a faultless winter day. The 
brightest of sunshine, a crisp air full af bracing frost, 
and without wind. I breathed and felt strong of limb and' 
light of heart. 
What a day for flying over the smooth roads on a 
wheel; what a day for quail. I felt like wheeling, and, 
felt it in my bones that I could make a dozen straight 
shots on flying quail. 
There was a little business to see after at a village eight, 
miles away, and there was good quail ground along the. 
road; so the wheel was brought out, touched up a little- 
here and there, and its beauty and strength and light- 
ness admired for the hundredth time. It has carried me 
more than a thousand miles, over every sort of road, from 
the very best to the worst, and never once have I even 
had to dismount on account of any failure of the wheel 
to be in perfect order. 
Next, the gun case was brought out and strapped to 
the wheel. Then the gun was taken apart and stock and 1 
barrels were shoved into their compartments, Then the. 
old shooting coat was put on. Ah ! that old coat. It wan) 
a beauty once, but now it is ragged on the shoulders, and 
its game pockets have been renewed more than once. It 
is dirty, discolored, greasy and smells of the smoke of 
camp-fires. It is a tough looking old coat, but the pock- 
ets have held grouse, ducks and squirrels in Wisconsin 
hundreds of quail in Kansas, Iowa, Arkansas, Tennessee 
and Texas. Those pockets have more than once been 
filled with ruffed and sharp-tailed grouse in the Black 
Hills too, and wild turkeys have been slung over the 
shoulder in Florida, while the pockets were bulged with 
two dozen quail, and the guide was dragging a deer to 
camp. Down in the Indian Territory those pockets have 
more than once been filled to overflowing with chicken? 
and snipe. A new coat would look lots nicer, but the old 
one is good enough for me, and there is no shooting coa<j 
on earth to-day that I would take in exchange for it. 
