242 
FOREST AND, STREAM. 
I [Sept. 29, 190a. 
life took their place — deer and elk and bears and wolves — 
and soon after these came the red hunter, who with his 
stone-pointed arrows slew the game and from his canoes 
speared the fish that swarmed in the river, or gathered 
the shellfish found at its mouth. But all the time the 
river was running on its steady, unceasing way to the 
sea, and was carrjdng with it the sand arfid the silt and the 
fine mud, which at length formed the meadows and the 
islands which are to-day the marsh. 
The marsh is attractive at all seasons, but perhaps 
most so in the spring and fall. Late in April, befope 
the grass has started, its level surface is yellow with the 
dead vegetation of the year that has passed, but the 
steep sloping banks which run down to it from the 
higher lands are spangled thick with violets, highest up 
purple, and then blue and pale lilac, until down where 
the soil is quite moist even white ones grow. At the 
marsh's edge great white banks of the blossoms of the 
bloodroot are piled up.^and along the twisting course 
of the little creeks the blooms of the water cowslip shine 
against the deep, glossy green of the rounded leaves, 
3'ellower than any gold. Later come the purple blos- 
soms of the adder's tongue and a thousand other flowers, 
but these are soon hidden by the ever-growing grass, 
through which two months later the mowers will take 
their way, marching in steadfast ranks as they pile up the 
long swaths of grass, and at a signal stopping all to- 
gether to whet their scythes in melodious rhythm. 
With the coming of autumn the grass of the marsh 
has grown again, and the green is as vivid as that of 
summer. Slender and light, it stands as tall as a man's 
knee, and as the wind sweeps over it it bows and billows, 
showing colors and shades which change under the sun- 
light as if the shadows of passing clouds were falling on 
the wide plain. Naw all the flowers are gone, except 
that here and there along the banks, and where the land 
is higher, purple asters cluster among the tall weeds. 
All along the water's edge is a border of yellow, here 
wide, there narrow, where the tall stems of the wild rice 
stand. At one point they are upright and thickly clus- 
tered, at another beaten down by the passage of skififs 
shoved through them by the boatmen who propel the 
hoats of the rail shooters. Scattered among the tall 
stems, or in the floating herbage that has been crushed 
down, lies the flotsam and jetsam of a river — ^^old barrels, 
baskets and boxes, a railrpad tie. a board, tin cans which 
still float, cartridge shells and boxes thrown overboard by 
the rail shooter — a thousand things carried backward and 
forward by the restless tide and at length entangled 
among the grass stems, here to remain until the winter's 
ice shall grasp them and the spring break-up sweep them 
away to the sea. 
In aututinn the marsh life is still abundant. Great 
brown butterflies float over it high in air, and at a lower 
level flit smaller white ones, sometimes singly, some- 
times in considerable companies. "Darning-needles," 
new risen from watery homes, where their youth was 
spent, daft here and there, and prey on the smaller in- 
sects which in the marsh flourish mightily until the heats 
of summer are passed. 
The smaller life of the marsh— never seen by the casual 
visitor— is abundant and at any season of the year the 
naturalist finds this a fruitful hunting greund, no matter 
what the branch in which he is interested. But the gun- 
ner who visits these wide meadows in quest of rail, or 
snipe,, or the dueks which occasionally drop in here to 
rest on their spring and autumn journeys, notices most 
of all the birds, which make the marsh their temporary 
home and feeding ground. 
♦ SNAP SHOTS. 
We have had from time to time stories of grouse shoot- 
ing in the old orchards grown up to brush of New Eng- 
land abandoned farms ; and the writers of such sketches 
have given us something of the poetry and romance and 
pathos of the changes w^hich have converted the old 
homesteads into ruins and desolation. There are few 
finer touches in Mr. Robinson's "Uncle Lisha's Shop" 
than the description in the last chapter of the old shop 
tenanted by bees and the partridges. At the meeting of 
the Old Folks' Association at Charlemont, Mass., the 
other day, a letter was read from Mr. H. S. Gere, of 
Northampton, which describes with sUch feeling tbe'old 
abandoned homes that we are constrained to reprint it 
for the benefit of Pine Tree out on his Kansas prairies, 
and the many other Pine Trees, of whom— meaning those, 
who have deserted the New England hills for other 
latitudes and longitudes— the West is full. 
In OUT angling columns Mr. A. B. F. Kinney reports 
a fifteen and one-quarter pound brook trout, and for the 
prize justly claims the world's record. If there is no 
error in its identification as a speckled brook trout, the 
fish is the largest of its kinf| of ^hjch we have authentic 
iriforniation, 
Fish Shooting in Samoan Seas* 
Utumau always had an attraction for me on my boat 
voyages up the windward coast of Upolu. It was a land- 
mark to the eastward from my vfcranda, almost the last 
thing that was to be seen except on some exceptionally 
bright day when the sun cast a dazzling gleam on the 
sands of Lufilufi, still further away and so low-lying that 
it could not be seen except by such reflected light. It 
was a rounded sugar-cone sort of cape that could never 
be mistaken. Then there w'as a long-winded story about 
Utumau that my Samoan boys never told me in full, for 
a Samoan legend is a test of endurance which few for- 
eigners ever have the patience to undergo. On the voy- 
ages this rounded cape always served me for a landmark 
of the open sea part of the trip. After we had pulled 
out from under the shelter of the reef at Letongo Moun- 
tain it was rowing in the ocean itself until we found the 
passage into the reef again at Saluafata, and Utumau was 
the guidepost to show that the quiet water of the lagoon 
was only a little way beyond. 
As Utumau became a familiar landmark to me I cher- 
ished the desire to climb its steep sides and to sit at the 
foot of the single palm tree that crowned its summit. 
That seemed no difficult task, for Utumau is no more 
than 200 feet high. But the real difficulty lay not ashore, 
but in the sea. Just at that point of land the sea breaks 
heavily. There is no barrier reef to check the waves, 
even the fringing reef which clings to the shore both 
east and west is here absent and the sea crashes on the 
black rocks so constantly that no boat could live in the 
breakers. The little matter of difficulty only served to 
whet m}-- desire to clamber up the steep sides of the point. 
As usual Talolo was willing to help me to my wish. 
But he said it would be very difficult and we must tell 
Tanoa to come along and cut the path. By rights that 
should have been Talolo's own duty, but where work 
was involved he had a stock of reasons why it should 
be done bj-- some one else. Being quite familiar with 
Talolo's methods, I agreed that Tanoa should come with 
us, and in fact that the whole boat's crew should be of the 
party. Under Talolo's general supervision the party was 
made up, his particular care being the commissariat, and 
he was not conten: until he was assured that the boat 
should be stocked with cans and can openers enough 
to provide for all the meals that could be eaten in a sin- 
gle day, even by Samoan eaters. 
As Utumau lies to windward and no small part of the 
trip was to be riiade by boat', it was necessary to make an 
early start, even in the dark hour before the break of 
day, when the trade wind has not yet begun its day's 
activity. The last point on the coast where a boat can 
lafid is at Luatuanuu, and it is only in Samoa that it 
could be considered a landing place at all. The fringing 
reef is here about 300 yards in width and through it runs 
a narrow streak of perilous channel as tortuous as the 
proverbial ram's horn. At the entrance to the pass the 
coral blocks are so close that oars must be brought in- 
board and the send of the sea relied upon for motive 
power; then at a certain corner of the channel where the 
impulse of the wave ceases and the backwash is met it is 
necessary to get out the oars and row hard to get into 
a reach parallel to the shore; then there is another sharp 
turn which can only be made when the rollers from the 
outer sea do not happen to reach that far; and at the 
very edge of the land itself the crew must jump over- 
board and haul the boat high up on the shingle of broken 
coral with the rush of the wave, and at the moment it 
begins to recede must pick the boat up bodily and carry- 
it above high water mark. So far as I have been able 
to pin my boat boys down to positive statement, there 
are four places in this pass where a capsize is imminent; 
my own opinion is that it is only by a miracle that one 
gets through at all. Yet this is set down in the charts 
as a "good boat passage." 
This pass and the little village on the shore known as 
Luatuanuu were our objective point and bur plans were 
made, and carried out, to reach it bright and early in order 
to have our breakfast before setting out upon the two 
or three miles which we shoidd have to clamber over 
afoot before reaching Utumau. At this village we were 
sure of a warmer welcome than the ordinary formalities 
and long speeches with which the Samoans greet official 
foreigners. Living the native life in this almost inacessi- 
ble spot was an American citizen, old Bob Wright. Tftere 
must have been a history about Bob's career, if he could 
be brought to tell that which he always preserves in si- 
lence. He is a Virginia negro, and he left the Old Do- 
minion long before the slavery , days passed by. But 
whatever experience he must have had with the under- 
ground railroad he kept to himself, and the history which 
he was willing to tell began when he was a runaway 
cook on a trading vessel and dropped over the side to 
make his entrance into Samoan life forty years ago. 
Whenever Bob paid one of . his rare visits to Apia he 
always made a point of stopping in Vaiala to leave a pres- 
ent of a m.at or a bunch of fans, or, best of all. a laying 
of eggs, which w^ere the only really reliably fresh eggs 
that ever came to my table. When one finds the tie of 
common nationality guaranteeing one's eggs it is seen 
that patriotism is after all a good thing. And old Bob 
never forgot the way he had been brought up to address 
"quality."_ It was a pleasant change from "tama'itai" and 
the meaningless flowers of Samoan compliment, as mer- 
cenary as one can well imagine, to hear the good old 
word "Mistis" with which I had become familiar in my 
life in the South. 
Bob was there to welcome us, and even before we had 
come to shore he had recognized the flag at the stern of 
our boat and had run ud on a lightning-blasted cocoa- 
nut the small Stars and Stripes which had been officially 
condemned, but which was the only return he would ever 
accept for his many kindnesses, and which meant to the 
poor old exile more than can be easily appreciated. 
Although old Bob appears in this narrative only as a 
way station for breakfast on the way to Utumau and 
the gunning for fish, I will surely be pardoned for dwell- 
ing a little at length upon him. He is married to a 
3amoan woman, one qf the yery fev7 fpreigpers who has 
had the grace to really marry, and he has a large family 
of children. In all the family he is the only one who 
speaks English, except one little granddaughter who is 
the apple of the old man's eye. The rest are altogether 
Samoan in life and habits, the men being as fully tattooed 
as any of the islanders. In everything but his own sturdy 
moral fiber old Uncle Bob is a beachcomber. He lives 
on the bounty of nature, but he sticks to the civilized 
garb. Money comes rarely to him, and what he can col- 
lect he devotes to his little half-caste granddaughter in 
order that she may be brought up at school in Apia and 
be folks instead of sinking into the native savagery. 
With old Bob we had our breakfast, partly of our own, 
supplies and partly of his fish and chickens and vegeta- 
bles. The cans of meat and biscuit that we left with 
him had to be_ forced upon him with delicacy in order 
not to injure his sense of hospitality and his feeling that 
it was his duty to gorge the representatives of the coun- 
try that he may never see again, but of which he is as 
ppoud as more highly placed citizens seldom think of 
being. 
Like most old colored men. Bob was suffering from 
the classical disease known as the "misery." As he was 
not an islander and therefore did not come under the 
rigid prohibition of the Samoan law, a good drink of 
whisky did him good, all the more because of its rar- 
ity, and a small flask left for emergencies raised him to 
the seventh heaven. The addition of a bottle of pain 
killer and a supply of witch hazel set him up so that he 
felt he could defy his misery for some time to come. 
His buoyant recovery was so immediate that he desired 
to go with me on the rest of the trip. But that I would 
not hear to at all, and compromised on drafting into 
service one of his sons and a few Samoans to help guide 
and cut the path. 
Walking is not nice in Samoa; the climate does not 
at all conduce to such exercise in the jungle where the 
br«eze never penetrates, where not even a hurricane 
could stir the thick air beneath the trees. There. are paths, 
indeed, according to the Samoan idea of paths, cen- 
turies old, their beginnings all merged in the antiquity 
of the race in these islands and their prehistoric con- 
flicts with other peoples whom they class as the Ton- 
gans and the Fijians. But a Samoan path is nothing but 
a line of jagged blocks of volcanic rock, rarely more 
than a foot in width, choosing by preference the sharp- 
est saddles of the mountain ridges, devastating to the 
shod foot of the foreigner, although grateful to the tough- 
ened sole of the islander, to whom shoes are an unknown 
torment. From Luatuanuu to Utumau we should reckon 
the distance as rather less than three miles. As a matter 
of time it is about three hours. This will furnish some 
slight idea of the difficulties of the travel. We proceeded ■ 
in the formation known to us as Indian file, but which 
is really the general system of all savage races. In the 
Samoan there is only a single word tO' express any other 
style of walking than this of one after another, whereby 
a party @f ten, such as mine on this occasion, will be 
extended over a furlong. This word is "fa'aevaeva," and 
its only meaning is to walk two and two, with arms 
about the waist, in the moonlight, a mere love parade 
on the beach where space ofifers opportunity., For a 
brief part of the trip we followed the beach just above 
the wash of the breakers. On this open and exposed 
coast there can be no sand; the beach is but a confused 
shingle of broken stems of coral, by no means a com- 
fortable foothold. There was about a mile of this and 
then Timothy, son of Bob, turned oflf to clamber up a 
rocky ledge. When we had reached the summit of this 
ascent we reformed the procession by reason of the 
change in the going. All my Samoans went ahead, each 
with his long knife in hand to cut away the bushes from 
the trail — for in this fertile land a single week will bury 
— a path in vegetation. With me was the ever fahhfu'l 
Tanot,_to give me a hand at every steep place, and where 
the difficulties were even greater he was ready to pick 
me up and carry me over. The rear guard was Talolo. 
a post quite up to his idea of the fitness of things and 
the dignity of his inherited position, for in that place there 
was absolutely nothing to do beyond taking advantage 
of the way which others had cleared. Thus, over the 
rocks, winding in and out between the great trunks of 
trees, crossing and recrossing mountain torrents, we 
covered the distance and reached the beach from which 
rose the cone-shaped hillock of Utumau. 
Up this our way led in the bed of a little stream, now 
in the water itself breasting the current and the small 
waterfalls, again leaping from rock to rock, always in the 
shade of overhanging vegetation and helping ourselves 
to climb by pulling on the tra:iling lianas of rattan and 
convolvulus. The end was reached in time on the sum- 
mit, where a small spring gushed forth near the roots of 
the solitary palm which is so conspicuous from every 
point of view. Here was a flat space as large as a good- 
sized room. Here the ready knives of my boys cleared 
away the undergrowth and gave them material to heap 
up for me a soft couch, on which I might rest under the 
palm. We had ascended into a region where the trade 
wind was again felt, and under its steady blast fatigue 
and warmth vanished. 
From this hilltop the view was magnificent. On eiich 
side the brilliant green in the sea traced the lines of the 
fringing coral, and deeper hues outlined the irregular 
pools within the reef where the depth was greater. From 
the brilliant blue of the ocean a blue wedge between the 
greens showed where the deep water came almost to the 
foot of the rock and made a channel for the noisy breakers. 
Still further seaward lay the off-shore danger of the "Fale 
Aitu," in English "The House of the Devil," a deeply 
seated sea reef far out from the shore. It is like the Vir- 
gin Rocks on the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, for 
much of the time it is silent and safe, but at irregular 
intervals the sea breaks heavily over it and then woe 
betide the boat that is caught within the area of broken 
water. It is a constant source of dread to the boatmen 
Avhen going to windward and their expression of thanks 
seems more than empty words when they have passed 
it in safety. While on the summit of Utumau I saw it 
break twice for ten minutes about two hours apart. 
When our dinner was over and the boys were lying at 
gorged ease .smoking their banana leaf cigarettes." Tanoa 
was moved to tell me the storv of LTtumau. "This," he 
began, "is the rock of the husband who lost his wife by 
the wortl of his chief and the supernatural power of the 
