jAif. 20, ipdd.i FOREST AND STREAM. 48 
Christmas In Alabama* 
L'AuEORE is the name of my hunting lodge, situated on 
the southermost piniacle of Lookotit Mountain. It fronts 
on the west, a wide expanse of valley (in which lies the 
nearest town), wh-xh at last is cut off by the green and 
blue rims of Candler and Sand mountains. To the east is 
a wilier plain, with a setting of two other towns and fine 
abrupt spurs on the parent mountain. 
The house is in a wood of pine, oak, and hickory, and 
my only neighbors a pair of dissenting goats, who have 
foresworn association with the large flock in the valley. 
They rnmrnage around the house at night in the moot 
human fashion, and were J Robinson Crusoe, I should not 
longer defer a imal from one of the two kids who liave 
lately blessed this solitary family. With what hardihood 
they have thus started out to make a living in the boscm 
of nature! They too may love the sunrise, and in sum- 
mer, the cool plashes about the spring, and they may cail 
their home in the cleft of rocks by a name as significant 
as this of The Dawn. 
Full of charm in spring and summer, I yet find the gr^rTt 
■wood fires of winter so attractive that I spend most of 
my evenings here at this season as well. My dog races 
and sprawls with delight when he sees me lock the oflite 
THE LODGE L AUROEE. 
door 'amd start for the climb. He may find a covey of 
quail or a squirrel, of if not, the walk itself is so much 
more sport than most dogs get that he is quite content. 
Last year at my Christmas dinner a magnificent wild 
turkey graced the board, and the following invitation was 
sent out: 
Won't you come to a party at 7 o'clock, 
At my little brown house on Lookout Kock? 
We'll have turkey and tea and cranberry sauce, 
Each man his own cook and the women to boss. 
We'll have rockets to shoot and quail to roast. 
And each one is expected to make his own toast; 
Come up ar.o add cheer to a lonely fireside, 
And walk — it's quite out of fashion to ride. 
This year the call was made as below: 
NINETY-NINE. 
Last Christmas was green with holly and yew, 
In each teacup a niistleioe berry; 
Come again, if you will, with a friend or two, 
Let us feast while oui hearts are still merry. 
Come up, get in if you can, at L'Aurore, 
There's no lackey to ask lor your card; 
My welcome is widei" than niy door, 
But you are sure of a place in the yard. 
I 
Doctor Stewart, our Master, of Dance shall be. 
■ He will pose or launch out in a tale; 
While Henri is pottering over the tea, 
And the Captain is broiling the quail. 
The girFs? My pine fire will sparkle anew, 
And a bachelor's dream we shall see — 
The mistletoe too will be better if you 
Stand beneath it while drinking your tea. 
A number of metrical responses came from distant 
ffriends, some of which are so good that I must append a 
-verse or two. 
One is called "A Bachelor's Dream." I give the last 
ii^ianza: 
Yes, the same scene and yet, it is not quite the same 
For one maiden blushing wears a new name; 
And when by and by, the festivities o'er. 
Adieus have been said and each guest leaves L'Aurore, 
When silence conies softly, leans tenderly low. 
With a joy that earth's favored ones only may know, 
You smile, turning gladly a sweet face to greet, 
Thanking God for the love that has made life complete. 
And you whisper, while watching the fire's fitful gleam: 
"I'll dream never more a bachelor's dream." 
The adventures of a "pale ghost" at the party are thu.s 
vrlosed by another : 
Nay, while time serves, she too" will be gay. 
No thought of the duU', sad to-morrow; 
'Neath mistletoe bough she too shall— but stayl 
Parting is such sweet sorrow. 
Then adieu to the pine fire, L'Aurore and mine host- 
To old friends, old cheer, yew and holly, 
With a lingering look at the heights the pale ghost 
\tas vanished— returned to her folly 
E. M. 
The Last of the Ntpmufcs. 
Boston, Jan, 8.— A story which comes from Webster, 
Mass., records the passing away on Jan. 6 of Lucy Boston, 
the last descendant of the fainous tribe of Nipmuk In- 
dians, whose home was for many years near that town, 
and who were of particular interest to Forest and 
Stream readers, as being the childhood friends of dear 
old Nessmuk. 
Mr. Sears was born and passed the early years of his 
life near the Nipmuks, from whom he took his pen- 
name, and to whose influence and teaching he ascribed 
much of his woods love and remarkable knowledge of 
woodcraft. The Nipmuks were a branch of the once 
powerful Narragan setts, atid though in later years the 
tribal character partook rather more of Poor Lo than the 
Noble Redman, yet in the tragic, almost heroic, death of 
Aunt Lucy, at the age of 105 years, there appeared a 
vestige of the old, wild pride of the Indian. 
Aunt Lucy had long been a State charge, but had al- 
ways insisted on living in her humble hut in the woods, 
declaring that she would die rather than be taken to the 
town farm. In spite of her protests, however, prepara- 
tions were recently made to take her to the poor farm, 
and learning of this, the old lady determined to thwart the 
plan of the well-meaning overseers. Her resources were 
few, but a bundle of rags and a lighted candle sufficed. 
William Fogarty, a neighbor, made an heroic effort to 
rescue her, dashing through the flames at the peri! of 
his own life ; but Aunt Lucy was beyond the reach of the 
almoner and died in Fogarty's arms— the last remnant 
of the Nipmuks. C. Harry Morse. 
A Pair of Phoebes. 
In the spring of 1889 a pair of phoebes (Sayornis 
pha be) built a nest under the eaves of an outhouse on my 
father's premises in Franklin county, Maine. It was 
placed in a corner where the weather board came down, 
making a cozy corner for a nest site. The nest was com- 
posed of the usual material, plastered on the board under 
the eaves after the fashion of the nest of the clift' swal- 
low, but with the entrance on top. 
I watched the birds each day as they built the nest, with 
a great deal of chattering and inspection of their work, 
and thought 1 would have an opportunity of observing 
them all the way through from the nest building to the 
rearing of the young, and learn much of interest to me. 
They are very much a home-loving bird, and took a great 
deal of care in budding the nest. I watched it to com- 
pletion, and soon the first egg was laid. The next morning 
I found another, and so on till there were four. The next 
morning I went to look for the fifth egg, and found the 
bird had begun her sitting, so I did not disturb her. I 
thought it strange she sho'-'.d begin to incubate so soon 
after the last egg, as I su[)i)osed, was laid. I watched 
her as closely as possible, going to the nest several times 
each day, as the opportunity was presented, and always 
found her sitting willi her head in the corner and her 
tail protruding out over ti e edge of the nest. I thought 
is strange that she alw„v- -nt back to the hght, and never 
semed to change lit-i pu.iuion. She sat thus for several 
days before 1 iho'ight anything was wrong. But one 
morning I noticed that the male seemed disturbed about 
something; occasionally he would go to the nest, then fly 
up to the top of the stable and call Phcebe, Phoebe-a. 
His call sounded strange, as though calling to some one 
he despaired of ever finding. So I decided to disturb the 
sitting bird on the nest. 
I took a short step ladder, as the nest was just up 
beyond my reach as I stood on the ground, and went up 
to the nest and touched the bird, fully expecting to see 
her start and flutter off in my face ; but to my great 
surprise she did not move, but sat silent and rigid in the 
same posture. I then took the bird in my hand and lifted 
her from the nest, and found she was dead and had be- 
gun to decay. On a closer examination 1 found that the 
fifth egg had broken as she had tried to deposit it, and 
this I suppose, had caused her death. I removed the four 
eggs and left the nest. The male would keep constantly 
calling for Phcebe, Phoebe-a, then fly to the nest and 
hover about it for a moment, then return to the top of 
some building, generally the stable, and resume his mourn- 
ful calhng. This continued all through the summer. In 
the early rnorning I was awakened by the mournful call 
of- this lonesoine bird, who could not seem to become 
reconcded to his sad fate. In the fall .he left for the 
South, but returned earlier than usual in the spring and 
resumed his usual perch on the ridge-pole of the stable 
and continued his calling throughout the spring and sinn- 
nier. Not a morning passed but what, he was in his 
favorite place, calling for his lost mate. 
The spring of '91, one cold morning in March, I was 
awakened by my sister, who said: "There's a pewee on 
top of the stable : I heard it call." I dressed hurriedly and 
said: "It must be the call of the chicadees that were so 
common abrut the orchard." 
But to niy surprise there was the same pewee, with his 
same sad call, perched in his usual place, and the ther- 
mometer registering below zero, fully two weeks before 
I saw the first song sparrow (Melospisa fasciata) in the 
brush about the grape vines, or heard the pleasing warble 
of Stalia sialis, or even heard the welcome c-a-w-caw of 
Conms americanus, as he searched about the snow-clad 
fields and stubble, hunting for the field mice, which they 
catch as they rim along through their burrows under the 
snow, and among the dead grasses to their nests. He 
had remamed true to her whom he had lost, and the same 
pathetic story was repeated throughout that summer. 
But the following spring, after he had returned a few 
days, a female joined him, and they soon began to search 
about the buildings for a suitable nesting site. They 
soon decided upon a place beneath the timbers in the ice 
house. They built a nest and laid two eggs, and on the 
morning when I looked for the third egg the birds had 
both mysteriously disappeared, and were seen no more 
about the place for the season. The next spring I was 
away from home, so could not look for the return of the 
birds, but on spending a vacation there in June, I found a 
pair of pewees had a nest in the apple-packing house, and 
had four young. I was not able to decide whether it was 
the same pair that disappeared so suddenly or some other 
pair. This pair, however, has returned every spring 
since, and I find them nesting in the same building, never 
rebuilding the old nest, but making a new one, as I return 
to the old home for a vacation in June. Thus ends, so 
far as known, the history of a bird who lost his mate and 
happy home. Whether he lives, and ever bewails his early 
loss is a mere matter of supposition. If we could but 
get down deeper into the lives of the birds that are about 
us, many strange and interesting facts would be brought 
to our notice, and we should come to love them better 
and have a deeper interest in them. 
Portland, Me., Dec. 1". J. MeRTON SwAIN. 
On a Fox Trail. 
Something of the same charm which lures on the ex- 
plorer and the pioneer is experienced by the lover of out- 
door life in following the trail of a fox through snow- 
covered country. I like to trace an unknown brook to 
its headwater!;, or follow a grass-grown road until it fades 
away, perhaps, in some distant upland pasture, or 
"dwindles into a squirrel track and runs up a tree." Such 
an excursion smacks of adventure and of constantly re- 
newed surprise. Expectation is on tiptoe with every 
step; one is sure of something fresh and new all the way. 
But best of all, I love to be the first one to follow a fox's 
road — after the fox himself. He not only leads you 
through a succession of the choicest bits of natural 
scenery, full of unexpected peeps into nature's most 
hidden corners, but makes interesting surprises for you 
in the report of his own adventures, so vividly recorded in 
the snow. 
Go forth some crisp mid-winter morning after a recent 
fall of snow, and take a tramp over the hills beyond the 
town. If the snow is deep enough for snowshoes or skis, 
so much the better ; you will have the pleasure of fox 
trailing and snowshoeing to boot. I venture to say that 
you _ will not have tramped far beyond that zone of 
civilization represented by the outmost village or subur- 
ban hen roosts before you will come upon the wiry 
trail of a fox. Indeed, it will probably be the first in- 
dication of wild life you encounter, The fox is the most 
traveled of prowlers, and will often cover from fifteen 
to twenty miles in a night, searching for something to 
stay his perpetually empty stomach. He does most of 
his foraging at night— not all of it, as some writers as- 
sume, for I have frequently seen him nosing about in 
the daytime. But as a rule his long hunting trips are 
taken under cover of darkness, and he spends the day 
napping, with occasional brief foraging excursions be- 
tween naps." 
This slender, dainty, inconspicuous trail, upon which 
we have chanced, was evidently made last night, while 
the fox was out hunting for his breakfast. It leads us 
first toward town again, and is soon boldly skirting the 
fences and outbuildings of the town dwellers, as if 
Reynard were hopeful at least of getting a sniff of plump, 
huddling poultry through the chinks of the henhouse. 
Two or three times we find where he has stopped and 
raised himself on his hind legs, with his forepaws up 
against a barn or hennery, hungrily sniffing at the tooth- 
some fowls within. But he soon drops down again and 
trots disconsolately on his way, convinced by long ex- 
perience that a fox has nothing to hope for from a 
modern henhouse. Yet almost every night he is attracted 
to It like a moth to a candle, and wastes much valuable 
time at the outset by courting the impossible. 
At length, however, he leads away again toward the 
open fields, and we follow his straightening trail until 
we come to a pasture full of rotting stumps and logs. 
Here the fox has paused to dig for mice in the decayed 
stumps and under the logs. We sincerely hope that the 
poor fellow has picked up a mouthful, at least, to 
strengthen him for his midnight work, though there is 
no evidence of any tragedy among the mice. The 
tox has visited nearly all the likeliest stumps, and the 
snow IS covered with the chips and punk which he has 
torn out with teeth and claws. He must have spent an 
hotrr m this quest, for the snow is everywhere traced 
with his zigzag paths. But at last he gets off again to- 
ward the woods, as we discover by making a detour on 
the other side of the stumpy pasture. 
For a quarter of a mile his track represents the shortest 
distance between two points. See how carefully he places 
one toot m front of another, so as to make the narrowest 
and least conspicuous trail possible. The Indian must 
have learned this trick from the fox, I think. It is an evi- 
dence of the same keen, crafty disposition. 
_ ISjow we are in the woods, with the fox track winding 
in devious, loop-like curves among the underbrush, bend- 
mg toward every snow-covered bush or evergreen clump 
where a grouse or rabbit or huddled bevy of quail might be 
dozmg. How softly and noiselessly those dainty, padded 
tcet must have fallen in the featherv snow ! No chance 
of any creatures overhearing Reynard, as he comes drift- 
mg through the woods with that peculiar, buoyant, floating 
motion of his kind. Other senses mu.st warn of his com- 
mg, if his quarry escapes. 
And escape it does, in almost every instance as the 
snow record proves. Only once or twice in my winter 
walks have I found any indication of a rabbit or grouse 
or quail caught napping and captured by a fox. The 
smaller woodland creatures seem to be possessed of an 
extra sense, a sort of intuitive detector of approaching 
peril, that ^» ,rns them, even when they are sound asleep 
of the prcence of their natural destroyers. There seems 
to be a tiny alarm rV.k in t]ieir brains, or a gong of 
nerve.s. with sensiiiv.. SLinunts cast olT in all directions, 
which detect m a mysterious way the prowler's approach 
and set the clapper a-striking. 
See where this ruffed grouse ws? lying in a bowl-shaoed 
cavity of snow the sides of which. M.fn ned by the wannth 
the birds body, have now frozen lo crystalline hard- 
ness. When the fox was still 20 feet n\v;,v, as you see by 
Its sudden leap, the sleeping grouse waked up and sprang 
from Its couch. Observe where the first stroke of the 
strong wmgs beat down and scattered the snow. How 
