Fee. ft 
FOREST . AND^ STREAM; 
103 
if they remained on the ice, would carry them past Cap 
Chat, the most northern point of the south coast, and 
this meant death to a certainty. 
A rapid train of thought went through Comeau's brain. 
He decided that if saved they were to be, it must be by 
passing over that ten miles of moving, grinding ice. He 
forced some food on the others and gave each a small 
dram of spirits; how much rather would he have given 
them tea or coffee. But even if he had had it, water was 
wanting to make it. They abandoned the roll of blankets, 
which had been of no use to them, and started, using the 
canoes see-saw fashion as they had done the night before. 
They left the cake of ice upon which they had passed 
the night at 8 A. M. and only got ashore at the ex- 
treme point of Cap Chat at daylight next morning. At 
times they would come across narrow lanes of water, but 
these lanes always ran at right angles to the direction in 
which they were going. Several times, when stepping 
upon what was considered a strong piece of ice, one of 
the party would be immersed in the cold, cruel water, and 
be rescued with great trouble and danger to the others. 
What a picture of heartfelt prayer offering it must 
have been, to have seen those men kneeling on the ice- 
hound shore, pouring out their thanks to the ever-watch- 
iul Almighty who had brought them safely through such 
dangers. 
Bob, who had taken down the Captain's narrative in 
shorthand, gave me his notes, and I give the story of 
adventure and heorism to the public. 
Comeau is well known by most of the members of the 
Forest and Stream clubs of New York and Montreal. 
Martin Hunter. 
One Hundred and Twenty-five 
Years Ago. 
As a voice from the distant past and yet of present in- 
terest is the following narrative of a member o£ the Con- 
tinental army who accompanied Benedict Arnold through 
the Maine wilderness in his disastrous campaign against 
Quebec during the fall and winter of 1775. 
When the main body of the army arrived at Fort 
Western at Cushnoc, now Augusta, the writer and 
eight others were detailed under command of Archibald 
Steele to proceed in advance of the main column for the 
purpose ot correctly ascertaining and marking the paths 
(by felling small trees, blazing, and otherwise) which 
were used b}- the Indians at the numerous carrying- 
places in the wilderness, toward the head waters of the 
Dead River, and also to ascertain the distance and nature 
of the route over the height of land (now the Boundary 
Mountains) to the head waters of the Chaudiere Rivei 
(that portion of the river now known as Arnold River), 
which flows in a northerly direction to the St. Lawrence 
River at a point nearly opposite to Quebec. 
Two birch-bark canoes were provided; and two guides, 
celebrated for the management of such water craft and 
who knew the river as high up as the great carrying- 
place, were also found. These were Jeremiah Getchell, a 
very respectable man, and John Horne, an Irishman who 
had grown gray in this cold climate. 
This small part}', unconscious of danger, and animated 
by the hope of applause from their country, .set forward 
from Fort Western in their light barks, at the rate of 
fifteen to twenty and, in good water, twenty-five miles 
per da\'. These canoes are so light that a person of com- 
mon strength may carry one of the smallest kind, such 
as ours were, many hundred 3'ards without halting. Yet 
they will bear a great burden and swim nearly gunwale 
deep; an admirable desciiption of them is given by 
Hearne in his journey to the Coppermine River." 
Steele's canoe bore five men with their arms and bag- 
gage, which last was, indeed, light in quantity and quality 
— one barrel of pork, one bag of meal and two hundred- 
weight of biscuit. The other canoe carried seven men, 
their arms and baggage and a due proportion of pro- 
visions. 
On the evening of the 23d of September our party ar- 
rived at Fort Halifax, situated on the point formed by a 
junction of the Sebasticook and Kennebec rivers. Here 
our commander, Steele, was accosted by a Capt. Harrison 
or Huddlestone inviting him and the company to his 
house. The invitation was gladly accepted, as the ac- 
commodation at the fort, which consisted of old block- 
houses and a stockade in a ruinous state, did not admit 
of much comfort; besides, it was inhabited, as our friend, 
the captain, said, by a rank tory. Here, for the first time, 
the application of the American term tory was defined tc 
me by the captain. Its European definition was well 
knoAvn before. 
Another interesting conversation on the part 01 rnc 
captain struck my mind as a great curiosity in natural 
history and well deserving commendation. He observed 
that he had immigrated to the place he then resided at 
about thirty years before, most probably with his parents, 
for he did not then appear much beyond forty. That at 
that period the common deer which now inhabits our 
more southern climate was the only animal of the deer 
kind which they knew, unless it was the elk; and them 
but partially. In a short space of time the moose deer 
appeared in small numbers, but increased annually after- 
ward, and as the one species became more numerous the 
other diminished; so that the kind of deer first spoken 
of. at the time of this information, according to the cap- 
tain, was totally driven from that quarter. The moose 
deer reigned the master of the forest. 
This anecdote, if true, might in such minds as those 
of Buffon or De Pauw give occasion to systems of 
natural history totally inconsistent with the laws of na- 
ture; still, there may be something in it; animals, like 
human beings, whether forced by necessity or from 
choice, do migrate. Many instances might be given of 
tliis circumstance of the animal economy, in various parts 
of the world. The above relation is the only instance 
which has come to my knowledge where one species has 
expelled another of the same genus. If the fact be true, 
it is either effected by a species of warfare or some pe- 
culiarity in the appearande of the one kind, and of horror 
or perhaps disgust in the other; we know the rock goat 
(steinbock of the Germans and boquetin of the French) 
formerly inhabited the low hills of southern France and 
of the Pyrenees; they have been driven hence by some 
peculiar cause, for they are now confined to the tops of 
the highest mountains in Europe. 
It is true it has been frequently advanced by men of 
respectability and information in Pennsylvania that the 
gray fox. which if indigenous in the United States and 
all North America, has been driven from the Atlantic sea 
coast into the interior by the red fox from Europe, but 
we have no sufficient data to warrant this assertion. The 
truth probably is that as the gray fox is a dull and slow 
animal, compared with the sprightliness, rapidity and 
cunning of the red fox, the first has been thinned by the 
huntsmen and gradually receded from the sea coast to the 
forest, where, from his habits, he is more secure. 
The cunning and the prowess of the latter has enabled 
him to maintain his station among the farms, in spite 
of tlte swiftness and powerful scent of the dogs. But 
that which puts this assertion out of view is that the red 
fox is indigenous throughout North America. He and 
the gray fox are found in the highest latitudes, but there 
their skins are changed into more beautiful furs than 
those of ours by the effects of climate. 
Another notion has been starte<l within these twenty 
years past of the fox squirrel expelling the large gray 
squirrel; but it i? fallacious. Geo. McAleer. 
Worcester, Mass. 
As Seen Between the Lines. 
This time it is the mention of dough birds that starts 
the trouble. Not that I am loaded down with knowledge 
of them or their habits, for I am not, "but rather some- 
thing in the reminiscent vein suggested by some refer- 
ence to dough birds in Mr. Hough's department. 
It was in 1871. Another kid and I were in camp on 
the Loup River, a few miles below the Pawnee Indian 
village at Genoa, Neb. One day there came drifting our 
way, as a tumble weed or other matter carried by the 
wind, without apparent volition of its own, an Indian boy 
about our own age with a stringless bow at his back. It 
was lazy time in April and the Indian stopped to talk 
awhile. As we lay on the grass in the sun, feeling languid 
and growing fast, a flock of plover (as we supposed) 
came whistling overhead. As they passed the Indian 
gave a shrill whistle in imitation of their call and turned 
them. After a circle or two the birds lit down on a strip 
of prairie that had been burned over near by. 
We were not hunting to any great extent, but just 
loafin' round with each other, though each of us had a 
double-barrel shotgun. An examination of our ammuni- 
tion supply showed only two charges of powder. As 
both of us wanted a shot, we loaded one barrel of each gun 
and sallied forth. The birds rose out of range, and, 
bunching as they rose, made a short circle and passed 
within thirty yards of us. As they went by we emptied 
our guns into the bunch and picked up twenty-four dead 
and wounded birds. They were dough birds, though we 
did not know it at the time. 
We invited the Indian lad to stay for dinner, and out 
of our choicest fishing lines made a string for his bow. 
We then stuck a stick in the ground and a potato on the 
stick about twenty yards from the shanty. The Indian 
shot at it and missed and he and I walked out to where 
the arrow fell, about twenty yards further on. Picking 
up the arrow, the Indian turned and again shot at the 
potato, which was now between us and the shanty. At 
the same instant my partner thrust his head out of the 
door, stooping low over the threshhold to pick up some- 
thing from the ground just outside. The arrow struck 
the potato on one side and. glancing, started straight for 
the head. To hit the head the arrow must pass very close 
to the corner of the shanty, as it only protruded a 
few inches through the door. There was a brief instant 
of suspense, though brief as it was it was long enough to 
turn that full-blood Indian into a chalk-colored quarter- 
blood, and then the arrow quivered in the corner of the 
shanty, having failed to pass by the narrow margin of 
half an inch, and burying its steel head an inch and a 
half in the cottonwood log. Had the arrow passed the 
corner my partner's head would have been its sure re- 
ception. The Indian looked at me and I looked at him 
and then we pulled the arrow out as if nothing had hap- 
pened, and Will never knew how near he came to being 
wiped out by a redskin. 
I saw several flocks of dough birds in Nebraska that 
spring, and in 1876 I shot a few in Kansas; also a few in 
'82. That is the last one I ever saw, though I have 
often been on the plover grounds of Kansas, Nebraska 
and the Dakotas. 
Man and 'Wild Animals. 
Another thing that has caused me to read between the 
lines is the discussions that have been going on concern- 
ing man's fear of wild animals. It always makes me 
nervous to read the fake stories concerning adventures 
with wild animals. I don't believe any wild animal will 
attack a man, but when attacked there are circumstances 
under which even a rabbit will fight. To refute the popular 
notion of the ferocity of wild animals one of your corre- 
spondents goes to the other extreme and tells of a man 
who followed a wounded panther into its den and the 
animal refused to fight him. He says the story is true, 
and I can't help but think it is, but as neither man nor 
beast could have been in his right mind, the fact has no 
value in determining the status of animal nature. A 
coyote will fight a man without hesitation when cor- 
nered; so will a wildcat. I have tried both. Get be- 
tween, an otter and the stream and it will fight without a 
moment's hesitation. Yet any of these animals would 
starve to death rather than face a man. Truth is a smal! 
point on which it seems hard to balance;- we. generally 
lop this way or that. 
Here is a story I just read of a trapper who had beets 
all season in catching two wolves. During this time he 
dare not stay out at all late in the evening, for fear of 
being treed by wolves. But they were so very clever he 
could not get them. Why did not that trapper load him- 
self down with cartridges and get treed by wolves? He 
might have got fifty in one night. Many a man has 
doubtless been treed by his imagination, but by wolves, 
never! And if he were, a single discharge of a gun 
would scatter them for gooiL 
Here is another by a man who has taken upon him- 
self the special task of educating the public concerning 
wild animals. A man is out trapping wolves and after 
setting two traps at one bait he proceeds leisurely, to get 
into one and then the other. Held thus from two ways 
it is impossible for him to get out. The wolves soon 
locate him and are about to eat him up, but his faithful 
dog comes to the rescue, and after killing a couple of 
wolves brings the trap wrench that his master may free 
himself. As a dog story this is very good. The dear fel- 
lows will often fight to the death for their friends, and 
thus far it is true to nature; but as a wolf story it is sim- 
ply rot. In trapping wolves I seldom got one the first 
night, and it seemed as if they would not come near as 
long as bait or trap retained the scent of man. Had I 
Icnown it and baited my trap with a man I might have 
caught a dozen in place of waiting several days for a 
nibble. With such stuff as this filling books, papers and 
magazines, and even crowding into our natural histories 
and sportsman's journals, is it any wonder that the mass 
of people, who never see wild animals except in cages, 
have erroneous ideas concerning them? 
I want my stories of the supernatural to deal with 
ghosts and goblins only, with trademark blown in the 
bottle so there can be no mistake. E. P. Jaques 
Elmo, Kan., Jan. 28. 
Incidentals, • 
To most sportsmen the chief charm of their outings is 
largely made up of incidentals. Go where you may. 
wherever sportsmen gather — be it in well appointed club 
or afar in the country store of some obscure hamlet 
where they lounge about the glowing stove — you will 
find the conversation composed mostly of these small 
happenings as here and there one gives his experience. 
In your own case, though you may grow talkative at 
times, you cannot always put your feelings in proper 
words. 
Who shall tell of the pleasure he feels over the com- 
fortable chuckle and click of the cartridges in his pockets 
as they rub and jostle each other while he swings along 
through the stubble?' What a thrill one has, when, after 
jumping from the wagon and inserting a couple of shells, 
he hears that unctuous little snap of the breech that tells 
of a well cared for gim. A little sound, a trifle, yet it 
makes him "feel good," and he paces confidently toward 
the stanchly pointing dog, fully prepared to "count coup" 
on the first upward rush of the brown covey just ahead. 
A long interval of business cares has passed, and at 
last you stand again among the debris of your old blind. 
Ben is splashing the decoys into place some twenty yards 
away, while you set to work to make your cover ship- 
shape. In a moment you uncover an old empty water- 
soaked and powder-stained cartridge case. The brass 
base gives you a feeble gleam of recognition as you take 
it in hand. Beneath the iridescence of its tarnish you 
read the legend, "U. M. C. Co. No. 12. Smokeless." 
"Yes, one of my old ones," you mentally exclaim, and 
toss it into the water, where it subsides with a sullen 
"plup"! Is that all? That battered case paints you a 
mental picture that is full of reminiscence — a picture of 
this very spot, when once before you sat here and cut 
down the darting wildfowl. The magic still liirking in 
that bit of clouded brass has set you aglow, and the 
time seems all too long before you have everything to 
rights and are ready for business. 
Have you ever stood to -leeward of some old gunning 
shanty at night, far out on the lonely beach? In the 
brilliant moonlight the shadow of the old house rests 
like a blot of ink in sharp contrast with the gleaming 
stillness that spreads around. Beyond the sand dunes 
a restless surf is booming, while now and again the fitful 
wind drives a spurt of sand against your boot legs with a 
faint sound of scurrying. You seem to be all eyes, all 
ears. The breeze is "purring" all about — now here, now 
there, whispering mysteriously as it goes. The heavens 
are filled with gems whose sparkle is subdued in the 
wondrous splendor of the moonlight. The North Star, 
cold and calculating as ever, floats in space, oblivious of 
the never weary pointers of the Dipper, while away in 
the southeast lordly Sirius is poised below Orion. Can 
you put in words the surge of thought that comes to 
you as you stand there? Is it to be wondered at that 
wildfowl should migrate under such conditions? 
Again, who shall tell the angler's feeling, when, after 
supper, he wanders out to finish his last pipeful before 
turning in? He has reached the haven whither his 
thoughts have led him during many weeks. The snug 
cottage, perchance his old homestead, nestles among its 
trees on the hillside, seemingly unchanged since his_ last 
visit. All about him is the witchery of the spring night. 
That damp, earthy smell, spiced with a fragrance sub- 
tle yet so strong that it has lingered through life in 
his memory, comes to him as in the years long past. 
Frogs are piping just as they have always piped in 
spring time. Down atnong the lilypads something is 
rattling like a pair of castanets, and his boyhood wonder 
as 'to what it can be is at once upon him as strongly as 
when he first heard it in the long ago. "Qua!" says a 
night heron overhead in the silence, and a delicious little 
tremor makes goose flesh run along his spine. 
saunters under the tree where the turkeys are roosting. 
Sure enough they hear him, or see him- -w^-o knows 
which? At all events the familiar "Quit! quit'"' f.:ils him he 
is discovered. Never in al his life has he been able to 
fool those turkeys. That same mist is stealing along the 
creek. Softly, quietly, it is working and floating in 
cottony folds; there is no wind, yet it is never still. 
To-morrow on his way to his favorit* stream he will 
listen for the bluebird's call — that pastoral note that 
speaks so directly to his heart. Mayhap he will hear the 
little voice in the sky, and then you will find him listen- 
ing again and again as it falls to him, softly, indesciiba 
bly suggestive of gentleness. 
WlI-MOT TowNSENa. 
The FoKEBT AMD Stskam is put to press each week on Tueadsj. 
Correspondence intended fSr publication should reach tis at the 
latMt by Monday and as mash «vU«r u pncticabl^t 
1 
