402 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[May 26, 1900. 
Forest Camp Visitors. 
To learn what there is of wild life in a great primitive 
forest it is desirable to become a resident for a while; to 
settle in a shelter of some sort — a tent or rough log 
house — and be quiet. The natives are shy, and at the 
sound of human footsteps tramping through their plan- 
tations they retreat or hide. Besides, they seem to know 
whether you are looking for them or attending to your 
own affairs. Make a camp and become a peaceful neigh- 
bor, and visitors will call. 
At Lake Baude, in the Laurentian forest, last summer 
our two tents stood in a small clearing cut for them in 
dense spruce woods. Very soon after the tents were set 
up several spruce partridges strolled into our rustic 
court, walked among the bushes and pecked right and 
left, like chickens in a yard. They showed no timidity, 
and after our first meal walked under the outdoor table 
and gleaned the crumbs that had fallen. They remained 
in and about the camp for two or three days, and until 
a guide tried to catch one. 
Rabbits were nocturnal visitors. In the night, after 
the camp-fire had burned low, they galloped along the 
path between the tents, and one night, as I lay in my 
blankets, listening to their footfalls, there was a sudden 
alarm and a scurry, and one of them, in his 
haste to get away, bumped against the side 
of the tent. 
The red squirrels were companionable and 
friendly. 
But the most remarkable visitation was of 
butterflies. It happened on Sunday — a day 
so warm we could not stay in the tents. 
The sun blazed down on them and drove 
us out to the sliade of the trees by the lake. 
About noon hundreds of butterflies de- 
scended upon the camp, illuminating it with 
color. They alighted on the bark of the 
trees, on the duff, 'the tents, the bushes, 
opening and closing their painted wings, 
rising, settling, coming and going, whence 
or whither, who could tell? Our canoe lying 
near us on the shore seemed to have a 
strong attraction for them. They lined it 
from bow to stern. The air was populous 
with them. It seemed as if all the butter- 
flies of the Dominion were taking their 
Sundaj'^ outing with us. An entomologist 
might have identified them and possibly 
given us an explanation of the visitation, 
but then we should have been led into dry 
classification and formula, and failed to 
duly appreciate the brilliant display. Even 
the guides, not easily moved by curiosity, 
bestirred themselves to look at the fluttering 
swarms. The place seemed unsuited to the 
gay crowd — a dense evergreen forest — il- 
limitable; no meadows or fields; no grasses 
except the wild, coarse water growth of the 
sandy beach; no other clearing within the 
utmost compass of butterfly flight. We 
watched them for hours of the quiet day, 
seeing them as Richard Jeffries would no 
doubt have liked to see them — "a shining, 
quivering, gleaming; a changing, fluttering, 
shifting; a mixing, weavi^g; varnished 
wings, translucent wings, wings with dots 
and veins, all playing over the purple heath; 
a very tangle of many-toned lights and 
hues." 
In contrast with the multitude of these 
fluttering visitors was the one white gull 
which sat still and solitary on the top of a 
gray Laurentian rock that projected from 
the lake near the shore. Unlike the restless 
butterflies, he seemed to belong to the scenery — to be 
typical of the lonely lake and the wilderness. 
At night a thunder storm rolled over the forest. The 
rain sputtered in the fire, pelted the canvas roofs, the trees 
and all the camp. In the morning the brilliant, painted 
throng had disappeared, but the solitary gull still perched 
upon the rock. 
The sportsman's shelter camps, built of logs, in the 
woods, usually near a lake or river, in outward aspect 
very soon become blended with their sylvan surroundings. 
The logs turn gray or brown, moss gathers on them, and 
rank grass and bushes hide the foundations. They are 
seldom occupied. Now and then the hunter or the 
fisherman comes for a few days, but nearly all the year 
they stand lonely and silent. What wonder that they 
become the familiar haunt of the small animals and 
birds, inhabitants of the forest; the wood mice and squir- 
rels who live and breed and hold their frolicsome revels 
in the deserted rooms; the rabbits, hares and wood- 
chucks, who find dry and safe lodgings under the floors? 
It is a curious fact that the American or red cross- 
bills are accustomed to creep under these shelters. 
Usually the sills and beams rest upon stones or logs 
placed upon the surface of the ground, and there are no 
cellars. The crossbills work away the earth, so as to 
make a passage under the sills. To that entrance they 
fly in numbers. Standing near the cabin, one hears the 
soft whirr of many wings in the air close by, and sees the 
flock drop to the ground near the passage, and with quick 
steps disappear under the building. The time of their 
stay varies. When they reappear they rise in the air in 
a flock as they came. It is characteristic of .the red cross- 
bills to move in flocks and to take wing together. Why 
they go under these forest shelters does not appear by^a'ny 
observation I have ever made. That it is their habit, I 
know from having seen them many times in different 
years in the Canadian woods in locations far apart. Like 
parrots, they will cling to the trunk of a tree or the side 
of a. log house, and often I have seen thern clinging to 
the side of a barrel, with their heads downward, as well 
as upward. In the wood camps they are cnmparatively 
fearless, and with caution can be caught in the hand 
when' feeding on the ground. They are always welcome 
visitors. Their bright colors, in which red oredominates., 
their social ways, their aumb'ers, their e^'ident partiality 
to the presence of man, their activity and fearlessness, 
all tend to make the days of their visits brighter and 
more cheerful. 
I have mentioned the wood mice as camp visitors. If 
you should have the curiosity to know how great a noise 
a houseful of them can make in a still night in the woods 
try sleeping in one of the forest shelters. Having arrived 
toward nightfall after a day on the lakes and trails, and 
having enjoyed the supper cooked by the guides, a 
lounge by the camp-fire, and snuffed out the candle, 
stretch yourself on the bough bed. 
As soon as it is quiet, the legions emerge from their 
secret places, and troop into the arena. They tear over 
the floors, scratch up the wooden walls, run over the 
tables, chairs and packs, clamber up the blankets, race 
over the bed, and tramp up and down the stairs. The 
latter action is unique. They jump from one stair to 
another, and the accompanying noise is surprising. It 
seems incredible that so small a body can make so 
much noise, A dog doing the same thing would hardly 
make more. But they are harmless, and with the first 
movements of the camp in the morning the performances 
end. 
Nor are the visits of the natives of the woods con- 
fined to the solitary camps. They come to those which 
are in continuous iise, such as that at Lac la Peche. A 
small river empties into the lake at the rear of the camp. 
Two suthmers ago a blue heron appeared every morn- 
ing flyirtg with heavy flapping wings from beyond the 
THE TEMPLE OF SEEAPIS IN THE PARIS AQUARIUM. 
lake, and alighting at the mouth of the river, whence 
he went by easy stages up the stream to other waters. 
Toward sunset he returned and flew across the lake again. 
His visits to the camp were as regular for weeks as the 
coming of the day. 
Another regular visitor was a bittern. He daily 
emerged from the edge of the woods and dropped his 
long legs among the grass and bushes on the soft shore 
of a pool in the center of the camp. There he would 
stand upright for hours, motionless, except when he 
snapped up the unwary frogs that paddled too near. He 
kept so still that no one would suspect his presence unless 
his arrival had been seen. The passing of members of 
the camp along the path, and even the noisy steps on a 
wooden bridge near by, did not disturb him; but I 
found that if I went to the opposite side of the pool and 
spied him out and stood and looked at him, he became 
agitated and soon flew away, whether moved by fear or 
by disgust at my lack of politeness in staring at him was 
not apparent. 
At the same camp one season a beaver took up his 
residence on the lake. He was alone, and contrary to the 
habit of the beaver, often showed himself in the day- 
time, swimming about the lake, so that sometimes a 
canoe would be put in pursuit, but he was never harmed. 
Whether he was the last of his family or whether he had 
been expelled from his lodge for laziness, as the trappers 
allege is done, he never told. 
While in camp at Lac Fou, one of the Laurentian lakes, 
a marten, or black fox. as he is sometimes called by fur 
hunters, rushed in. His visit happened in this manner. 
While in a thick copse of bushes near the log shelter one 
morning T was startled by a clamor and bustle at the lake 
shore, and at the same moment heard a rustling near my 
feet. Looking doAvn, I saw the marten standing w^ithin 
a yard of me, his head turned to one side, apparently 
listening. His eyes glistened, and he was panting; as if 
from violent exercise. After two or three minutes he 
moved away at a slow trot. He had not shown any fear 
of me; and as I had kept quite still he probably did not 
realize my presence. Going to the shore. I learned that 
a rabbit had bounded into the camp with the marten at 
his heels in close pursuit, and had t^iken refuge from his 
enemy under the inverted canoe, while the marten-, taking 
in the situation, quickly changed his course an'd came 
toward me, and so got safely off; but it was the rabbit's 
unlucky day. In escaping the marten he fell victim to the 
cudgel of the guide, and later was served in a stew. 
When once on the track of a rabbit, the marten pursues 
with bloodthirsty patience until he runs him down. Like 
others of the weasel family, he also catches and eats squir- 
rels, mice and birds. His arboreal habits enable him to 
reach the birds. He ascends and descends trees with 
ease and swiftness. 
On another day, while at the same camp, two otters 
appeared in the lake near by and played in the Avater, 
diving and rising and occasionally lifting their glossy 
heads and shoulders above the surface. 
As for the squirrels, they occupied the shelter and were 
tenants in common with us, entering by the door or, at 
their convenience, by a dozen crevices between the logs. 
They made free with our food, without ever saying by 
your leave, eating it sitting upon their haunches or carry- 
ing it away, as they pleased. How happy and friendly and 
sometimes how impertinent they were, jumping on the 
table and scrambling over the dishes. 
And now it is a hungry bird that comes. From the 
rude open-air fireplace of stones the odors of the cook- 
ing, rising with the smoke, are sifted by the wind through 
the surrounding woods, and attract the Northern shrike, 
who com.es with the precision of an arrow, and with a 
sudden upward jerk settles on a high branch of a neigh- 
boring tree and utters his clear, eager crj'. That note 
and his gray back, white breast, dark wings and alert 
air reveal his identity. He has come as by 
invitation to share our feast, and waits with 
manifest impatience, indicated by his fre- 
quent calls. By and by the guide harigs 
up a trout to be kept cool on the shady side 
of the log house, and when the coast is 
clear, down drops the shrike, alights on a 
projecting surface and strikes at the fish, 
with his hawk-like bill. But he is dis- 
covered in time to save the trout for our 
own luncheon. 
One August evening my friends and I 
had the pleasure of a visit from a deputa- 
tion of owls. We were in camp at Lac 
Foin in evergreen woods. While sitting 
by the camp-fire toward dusk we heard the 
soft flapping of wings, and dimly saw in the 
twilight the forms of the nocturnal l)ird& 
settling one by one on the trees around us. 
It was evident that the interest and curiosity 
of the community had been excited by the 
novel sight in their domain of a white tent 
and a crackling, blazing fire and strange 
intruders. Very likely, too, the smell of 
the broiling trout at supper time had at- 
tracted them. As the daylight faded and 
the firelight grew brighter, they came nearer 
and nearer, until the party in the forest 
amphitheater was complete — we were in the- 
orchestra, as it were, and the owls in the 
balcony and upper tiers. One big owl flew 
down and perched on a low limb not more 
than 20 feet from us. He might be said 
to occupy a stage box. He sat quietly and 
stared at us as only an owl can stare. 
Until after we went to our tent for the' 
night the owls were silent; then they be- 
gan a low call, which they kept up during 
the night. It was something like the note 
of the catbird, only much softer. It was not 
unmusical, and in fact was pleasant to the 
ear. Coming from different directions in 
the woods, it suggested a conversation in 
an undertone. 
I think there is no doubt they were the 
American long-eared owls, although the 
light was not strong enough to detect the 
long ear tufts that are a mark of that 
species. 
To a quiet and friendly camp on the lake 
the loon will not fail to present himself. Though wild 
by nature, he is full of curiosity, and if not shot at or- 
otherwise frightened he will come often and regularly to 
the vicinity; and it is certain the wilderness cannot fur- 
nish a more attractive visitor. 
What the lake is to the forest, the loon is to the lake. 
The lake enhances the beauty and wildness of the forest — 
the loon's far-sounding laugh and cry, his grace of move- 
ment and beauty of plumage, increase the charm and 
wildness of the lake. Loons are much given to recon- 
noitering a camp, especially in the early morning, Look- 
mg out upon the smooth surface at such a time it is 
pleasing to see them circling with easy motion toward 
the shore. They approach gradually, for they are wary 
and alert. They are on a voyage of discovery, and feel 
that man may be treacherous, but they are willing to 
take some risks. Their glossy, arched necks and the 
plumage of their broad backs shine in the slanting rays 
of the sun. Their heads turn quickly from side to side. 
They move with stately grace. If they detect no sus- 
picious movement or appearance they will come quite 
near to the camp. Evidently they would like to establish 
friendlj' relations with the inhabitants. 
What a fine thing it would be if a treaty of peace could 
be made between us, or if all sportsmen would refrain 
from shooting at them. It is to be hoped the loons will 
not be driven by the firearms entirely away from our. 
Northern waters, to which they are so great an orna- 
ment. 
The only plausible excuse now offered for shooting 
them is that they destroy the trout. True, they live on 
the fish, but it is also a fact that the lonely lakes, where 
the loons have lived and bred and fished undisturbed for 
unknown years, are full of trout, and no fisherman of; 
experience expects to be or is disappointed in his sport;.-; 
because he finds the wild lake he has discovered the hab' 
itat of loons. ' ' * 
I would plead for this camp visitor — the- beautiful' " 
graceful and typical bird of the Northern. lakes. ,. -, • 
The larger inhabitants of the forest, the moose aiid.- 
caribou, can hardly be included in* the category of "cartip 
visitors," except that sometimes in their restless wander- 
ings their route takes them into the vicinity and the 
come within the range of vision ■whilf? ctossipg waters? r: 
at the m.argin of 'the wgo-ds, 
