Nov, 25, 189Q.I 
•FOREST AND STREAM. 
4 28 
lute rear ends could be seen plainly darting liither and 
\ uu like the wig-wagging; of a signal corps, or like the 
flutter of white sknts at u picnic at the cry of snakes. 
Then they went and all was still again save the dry 
leaves, stones and twigs under foot. Half a mile more 
throngh windfalls and spots where under the balsams the 
deer had yarded in winter and where the bones told me 
that some had died of old age or starvation, I came out 
mto the plain. It is acres in extent and as level as a 
floor. It was burned over this season and the black and 
charred crust gave up a pungent dust, and I seek deer 
trails which cross it for better walking. The grass grows 
richer and greener in these paths, and the fire has, left 
them undisturbed, as though they were ploughed trenches 
around a prairie home. 
On the other side of the plains, away up among the 
mountains, there is a lake than which none is more 
beautiful. Some one said: "See Naples and then die." 
Why ring down the curtain for so small an inducement 
or put on a wooden overcoat when with corudroys one 
can wander in these wild regions upon an October day? 
I say to you, see a mountain lake in October and live. 
See it when the sun shines on the mirrorlike water; 
when the leaves in crimson, brown, green and yellow, 
.still clinging to the supporting branches of the trees! 
are transferred in duplicate to the lake surface and seem 
to enter it even, and the moss-covered shore rocks that 
you think ought to sink float on the surface; and away 
back on anotlier range of hills, where the warmth and 
fog from the lake surface has not access, see the frost and 
ice covered foliage glistening in the sunlight. See it all 
from the silent, gliding canoe, and thank the Creator 
that you are alive, 
One afternoon, when, weary from long wanderings, I 
returned to camp, and leaning my easy chair (a board 
,with a cross-section) against a tree I watched the set- 
ting sun. A huge yellow ball (the gold standard of the 
West) was dropping down behind the mountain top high 
up before me. I saAv, or thought I saw, a mammoth, 
half bird, half animal, moving over and through the tree 
tops a mile up and away on the mountain. The first im- 
pulse was to shoot, but something weird, something un- 
canny in the aspect stayed the slaughter. It was a chance 
for the big-game hunter. The outlines of the monster 
were imperfect, and adjusting my glasses for better sight 
I discovered that I was the innocent victim of an hallu- 
cination. It was a bug on the vizor of my himting cap. 
^Whatever caused the distorted fancy or the conductive 
fancy which led to it still had its influence, and as my 
eyes closed in slumber there was left in them the picture 
!of the sunset, and I thought of the happy hunting ground 
be.vond, and believed that the portal thereto rested on 
the blue and gold cumulus cloud strata to the left, and 
T thought I left that earthly camp and darted through 
the forest and up to the mountain top and stepped off 
• into space and floated in ozone until at last, with feet 
resting on steps of pearl and gold, I looked about for 
the janitor. Yet it seemed not to be a building — rather 
a walled estate — and I felt that I must find the lodge 
keeper before being apprehended by game keepers. 
Then that old fisherman of revered memory, St. Peter, 
came to me and said: "What is it, man; what is wanted?" 
And I told him that I did not know yet and asked him 
to tell me if there was a place where the fires burned 
eternally; a place paved with infants' skulls and good 
intentions, and where all alike had a place in the lake 
of fire; and he told me "No"; told me that it was a myth 
invented by those who wished to rule by fear, and I 
asked him if there were a divine right to rule. 
"Not where you came from, he said; "party majori- 
ties decide that." 
"Can I walk around in there, St. Peter?" 
"Go in; go where you please. W^e bar none. There is 
no posted ground, no game laws or preserves. Go walk 
beside the still waters and lie down in green pastures and 
there find those gone on before; those of your own 
ways and habits; those whom you have loved and who 
have loved you — no night, no storm, no pain — all serenity 
, and sunshine." 
And with friends all about and with no thought of 
time, I wandered about the celestial forest and streams, 
and I saw Tecumseh, Pontiac, Red Jacket, all of the 
Sagamores, and the Seminole chief who had forgotten 
that he said: "Til taunt ye with my latest breath, I'll 
hate ye till I die." There were Uncas and the Path- 
finder talking with the Iroquois and Hurons, while Fen- 
imore Cooper and Francis Parkman stood by smiling. 
' Yonder playing together were now living exemplifica- 
tions of the destructiveness of the extremes of heat and 
I cold^ — the Casablanca boy who stood upon the burning 
' deck and the Alpine youth who cried "Excelsior" and 
^ perished amid snow and ice. 
In due time dear old Fred Mather came, and gather-, 
ing all the men that he had fished with retired with them ' 
to a leafy grotto and led them in singing "Shall We 
Gather at the River." Then Sam Lovel hurried by and 
on his shoulder he carried old "Ore-bed." He had 
smuggled in the only gun that I saw. I ran after him 
and said. "Sam, what are you up to?" and he told me that 
Rowland Robinson was coming, and that he and Uncle 
'Lisha were mustering all New Englanders to give him 
Avelcome— "Come on." And when the good ijian came 
with sight restored and white hair and beard waving in 
the celestial zephyrs, like the plumes of Navarre, we 
ciieered that Vermonter as only one other has been 
cheered, and then he led us in singing "Hurrah for old 
New England and her cloud-capped granite hills.' 
Daniel Boone, Dave Crockett, Kit Garson and the 
illustrious Buffalo Bill had organized a new W^ild West 
Show, and the Rough Riders, led by our Teddy, did well 
their stunt. The impression gained from the earthly 
pictorial illustrations that the only angels having wings 
were women and children was verified, and the men do 
not fly about as on earth. All is passive, and the genial 
editor of the Forest and Stream, with blue pencil oyer 
ear and shears pendent from his neck with golden chain, 
like Aguinaldo's whistle, informed me that he was to 
publish a new periodical called the "Spiritual Sports- 
man." All would be on the free list, and the paper would 
reach all old subscribers quickly under the impulse of a 
special delivery stamp. His old friends and correspond- 
ents were with him— all save Ransacker, who had re- 
mained below with chip on his shoulder waiting to have 
some one tell him what a sportsman is. Pine Tree, no 
longer sitting at his lent front on the great waterless 
Kansas prairie and harking back to the Hatfield Mead- 
ows and his boyhood days, is where we all see him, and 
I grasp his hand in comradeship, and while talking about 
the Connecticut River we heard in the distance the notes 
of the "Huntsman's Song." It was played upon the 
calliope operated by liquid air in expansion, and from 
around a bend in the silver-paved boulevard there came 
an automobile golden chariot propelled by that mys- 
terious "power behind the throne," and Nimrod, "mighty 
hunter before the Lord," was motorman, and Didymus, 
from the Floridian everglades, was footman, and he said: 
"Say, you two exterminatory peregrinators, get in, 
climb up. 
*' 'Climb into the band wagon;. 
Sit upon the golden dragon; 
Sound the post horn; beat the drum; 
Sand the tracks, let motor hum.' " 
We rolled away for leagues, and amid fields Elysian, 
where grew all the flowers that clustered around my 
boyhood home in the New England hills. There were 
hollyhocks, sunflowers, marigolds, purple and white 
lilacs, asters, tiger lilies, white and yellow daisies, golden- 
rod, and the wild rose crept and carried its blossoms over 
the hedges and palisades. In the water near the lacus- 
tral shores the pond lilies bloomed and dispensed their 
nectaral perfume to mingle with that of the wild honey- 
suckle, and the game fish of the lake leaped into the 
bright light with sparkling sides, to fall back and send 
showers of iridescent spray into rainbow coloring. 
Anon we passed an inclosed field on the uplands, and 
wandering about in corduroy and canvas clothing were 
hundreds of obsolete sportsmen, and I asked Didymus 
if they were game hogs in pound, and he, disgusted at 
the inelegant expression, jostled me and I fell— fell like 
a snowflake from Heaven to — to — well, to that hole back 
of the tree where I had gone to sleep in camp. It was 
dark around me, and the night dew falling on the dead 
leaves to prepare them for the morrow's fermentation 
in the sun's rays made with the darkness a dismal and 
damp contrast to the light and warm dryness of the 
happy hunting ground I had just been so rudely ejected 
from. I wondered if that boy guide had aught to do 
with huiTying me back, and I thought that if he had I 
would gladly attend his funeral, and even pay out a few 
dollars for flowers and let him take his chances of going 
where I did without a letter of introduction from me. 
But the boy was honest and faithful, for I heard a shot 
on the mountain and saw a glimmer of a lantern, and he, 
like Diogenes, was looking for an honest man. Two 
shots from the camp in reply brought him back, and 
he said: 
"I thought you were lost. Where have you been?" 
"A long way off, Eri, but I came back quickly." 
While getting supper he was uneasy, and at the table 
he asked me again where I had been. 
"I went to Heaven, boy." 
The white of his eyes shone in the lantern light, and 
he stopped eating and said: 
"Well, you must have had a high time." 
The hot coft'ee that I was drinking met the exploding 
mirth from my lungs somewhere near the foot of the 
back stairs of my nose and I choked, and my cup ran 
over, and to avoid the scalding I arose quickly and upset 
the bench upon which he sat, and he went to the floor 
with the paper tablecloth that he grasped for safety, and 
all that was on it. We saved what we could and finished 
the meal, and he was consoled with a Pittsburg stogie 
while I reserved a Garcia Perfecto. 
Then, taking candle and climbing the ladder to sleep 
aloft, we disrobed with no fear of "Peeping Toms," 
while the millers and moths batted against the unshaded 
glass to reach the candle flame. The bed-making process 
consisted only in arranging the new horse blankets in 
such a way that the neck buckle would not scratch 
"beauty that unadorned is adorned the most." 
I slept out the night quietly, and before daylight tickled 
the feet of that boy with the burnt end of a still hot 
match and "Awoke him once, and he said: 'Awake me 
again.' " The words "deer hunting" brought him out, 
and we left the cabin, and a short distance away the fog 
from the mountain side hid it from sight. Say, you 
hunters, is not the dawn of day, or just before dawn, the 
best part of it? If you have been out at that time you 
know all about it, and if you haven't it will do no good 
to describe the joyful thrill. That morning, when the 
eastern gray light came in flat beneath the tree tops, I 
saw a buck coming out of the valley 150 yards away, and 
pointing him out to the boy, said: "Hit him on the run 
and he is yours." When he was ready a slight noise 
startled the deer, and as he went flying away the rifle 
cracked, the flag dropped, and then the buck — that 
boy had done it. Whirr, whirr, from the bushes, and 
crack, crack, from the shotgun — a deer and two grouse 
had come to us in a fair fight, and we trussed up the deer 
where he fell, and at the cabin fifteen birds hung where 
thirteen had hung before, side by side, with feathers 
touching, and I said to the boy, Eri: 
"When the line reaches to the other end of the cabin 
I am going home. We are in for hot weather, and your 
meat will spoil. Go out for a pack horse and take iti 
the deer and give it to the man who has been kind to 
you all summer by providing you with work." 
I knew that was what he wanted, but he felt that the 
deer was mine and said so, and I reminded him of the 
fine heads that I have at home and of my statement made 
previously that I M'ould not shoot another deer. It is 
not all of life to live, nor all of a hunt to kill. He got 
the horse, went out and came back the next morning 
happy. 
The days grew warmer, the string of birds was com- 
plete, and one drj^ morning we cleaned camp and put 
all in order and left what seemed to me to be home. We 
took enough coffee and food to allow staying at the old 
open camp till the next morning, and after three miles 
of hot work reached it. In making the coffee over the 
open fire the nail in the end of the golf club burned out 
and the pail and its contents were spilled into the fire. 
The next attempt unsoldered the pail, and the second 
mess followed the first. The boy succeeded with the 
third portion, but we had none left for supper or for 
breakfast the next day, arid inasmuch as I had rather be 
at hom.e with coffee than in the Woods without it, we 
started anew for the lake, seven whole miles away. But 
say, it was hot! and the only redeeming feature was that 
there was no chump around to say "Is it hot enough 
for you?" The pa,ck weighed 45 pounds; the rifle 8, g;nd 
the shotgun 7^ more, arid there was no air stirring' ex- 
cept what we moved, and perspiration ran off of my bald 
head in streams, and what little hair I have was dripping 
with moisture. The sweat blinded me as I stumbled 
along, and that boy said: "You ought to have gutters 
on your eyebrows." I made tip for the leakage at every 
spring hole and brook, and we kept up steam until at 
last I tumbled into the bathtub at the hotel. 
On the way out that old pack horse called "Doctor" 
passed us, and he bore the burdens of a lawyer sports- 
man from Kingston, N. Y. This lawyer was a giant in 
stature, and a typical sportsman, willing to spend his 
money, happy himself, though his luck was poor, and he 
spread an atmosphere about him that was a positve refu- 
tation of the anomaly "Circumstances make the man." 
The old horse remembered me, and he remembered that 
two years ago he threw me off and in the mud, the depth 
and thickness of which I have never seen since, and " 
while resting on the trail side this year he came ambling 
up, and placing his grizzled head on my shoulder laughed 
with me, and we renewed a former friendship. I think 
that many readers of Forest and Stream know the old 
horse, or of him, and that they love him as I do. 
Upon the day of reaching the lake a Brooklyn lady 
with rare skill and the necessary paraphernalia secured a 
fine lot of small-mouthed bass. I complimented her to 
the extent of receiving an invitation to sit at their table, 
and Mr. Stevens, an expert angler himself, seemed 
pleased that Adam lost a rib in primeval times. 
The tale is nearly told, and I am writing the last of it 
as the train speeds along the Mohawk Valley, where long 
years ago Isaac Joques the devoted Jesuit missionary, 
sacrificed himself piece by piece to the Indians in an 
endeavor to bring them into the fold, and the work of 
converting the heathen still goes on; and to-morrow — 
Sunday — as I sit at home at the midday meal of broiled 
.grouse. One Lung, High Ball and Gin Sling will amble 
past the house on noiseless sneakers, with Bible up one 
sleeve and a pack of cards up the other, on the way to 
Sunday school, and entering while still chuckling at the 
result of a dog fight in front of the church, receive a 
chiding for their sporting proclivities, and the religious 
instruction meekly, while their almond eyes beam upon 
the Melican girl teacher. 
There is an end to everything but a spliced rope, and 
in closing I trust that the sportsman reader will look 
upon the invasion of the happy hunting ground as but a 
dream, which in due time will be a reality, and that all 
will meet there. 
After the hoops come oft of the barrels, 
And there is nothing to hold up the staves; 
After the bung holes float off on the zephyrs 
And all heads are low in their graves. 
After Gabriel sounds the last trumpet call and shouts 
"All ashore that's going ashore — last call!" may we meet 
there, and then let me caution you to be discreet in con- 
versation, inasmuch as away back, nearly nineteen cen- 
turies ago, the Pharisees were unable to answer a word 
and durst not ask more questions. 
W. W. Hastings. 
A "Welcome for the Boy. 
Wymoke, Neb., Nov.., 13— Editor Forest and Stream: 
There were expressions of delight in the family circle 
Sunday morning, when the announcement was read in 
Forest and Stream that Mr. Rowland E. Robinson 
would continue the Danvis stories and tell us how Sara 
Lovel's boy acquired ^the "art of being a boy." 
"Good! Bub will have a name now. Yes, and we 
shall have Uncle Lisher and Aunt Jerusha and Sam and . 
Huldah and Antwine and Peltier, and all the old friends 
with us again. Won't that be jolly!" And so the com- 
ments ran. No books ever entered our house that gave 
more genuine pleasure than the four by Mr, Robinson: 
"Uncle Lisha's Shop," "Sam Lovel's Camps," "Danvis 
Folks" and "Uncle Lisha's Outing." They were read 
twice aloud to the familj' and once in the sick room, 
and each of the characters seems like a dear old friend to 
us all. And to hear some members of the family talk 
you would think they had been raised in old Vermont 
in the days of Granther Hill, "seems as how you would." 
And while I am talking about books, there is another 
that belongs in the same class with those named above, 
and that is "Men I have Fished With," by Col. Fred 
Mather. When I want to get near to nature's heart I 
take this book and read the three chapters of "Antoine 
Gardepee." This is an outing classic that I dearly love. 
Are we never to have volume two? 
I wish all the good things published in Forest and 
Stream since I have been a reader of it were published 
in book form; one series in jparticular I remember was 
"Tales Told by the Camp Fire." I wish I had it, but 
have not even a copy of the paper that contains one. 
Well, I must close, and go out and shoot some quail. 
A. D. McCandless. , ■ 
A Well (*pised Grouse. 
Apropos of the grouse meeting illustrated in the draw- 
ing of "A Country Road" in our issue of Nov. 4, Mr. J. 
L. Davison writes of another experience last September: 
"After dinner on Sunday I lit a cigar and started for a 
walk to a small piece of woods within the village limits, 
and within five minutes I walked up within a rod of a 
cock grouse under a small tree. Did he fly? No, indeed! 
He just spread his tail and ruff, and majestically walked 
out of sight under some small hemlock trees, as if he was 
lord of all creation/^ 
Cruising; on the West Coast. 
Fort Myers, Fla.^ Nov. II. — Have just arrived from up 
the Caloosahatchee. Could' not get through to Okeecho- . 
bee. Water too low. Birds are plenty. Saw more plume 
birds than I have seen in five years. . Game fairly plenty. . 
Hunters, ditto. We go from here south as far as Panther 
Key — ^perhaps further. Shall see. Old John if he is alive. 
Will tell you about it later. ' Tarpon. 
