June 8, 1901-] 
•FOREST .AND « STREAM? 
448 
jam warned both men that there was little time left for 
the work of rescue. At any instant the key log might 
snap asunder, and that meant a swift and certain death for 
Peshtigo Sam, with liut slight hope of escape for his 
rescuer. 
Bill swung his axe and sent the cliips flying in all 
directions, as he attacked one of the logs that held 
Peshtigo Sam a prisoner. Few men could wield this im- 
plement as he could, and he now worked as he had never 
worked before. 
"Y' can't make it, Bill," Peshtigo Sam groaned in an 
agony of terror. "She'll bust in a minute. I kin feel 
her goin'. You better clear out while ther's time." 
The ringing blows of the axe was Bill's only answer. 
"It's hell to die like this," Peshtigo Sam continued, with 
something like a sob in his voice. "I ain't ready t' die. 
Bill, I ain't treated you an' Long Tom on the squar'. See- 
in' as I'm a gonner, ef you git out o' this alive tell Tom I 
lied 'buut Sal. I didn't marry her, an' she ain't hitched 
onto nobody as fer as I knows. I was allers goin' t' tell 
Tom, but somehow I kept puttin' it off an' puttin' it off, 
an' now it's too late. You tell him, will you?" 
The axe paused in the air over Bill's shoulder. 
"Is that straight?" he demanded in stern tones. 
"Honest Injun 1" the other declared. "It was a mean 
trick, I know, but I couldn't give up Sal. She loves Long 
Tom, an' I was 'fraid ef he knew it he'd go back thar 
an' git her. His savin' me from freezin' to death made me 
change my choose, an' I figgered to confess; but it's too 
late now." 
The axe descended with redoubled force and buried 
itself in the log. 
"Won't you shake, Bill?" Peshtigo Sam pleaded. 
"Won't you call it quits, an' everything squared, seein' as 
I'm goin' t' pass in my checks?" 
"Y' ain't goin' to — ^pass 'em in — to-day," Bill grunted 
between blows. 
This confident assurance inspired Peshtigo Sam with 
renewed hope, and he watched" each blow of the axe in 
torturing suspense. When the log was finally severed and 
he felt himself free at last, he became ahnost hysterical in 
his joy. He was too badly bruised to move without as- 
ssistance, so that Bill was obliged to lift him to his feet, 
and thus supporting him with his strong arm he half- 
carried, half-dragged him over the heaving logs toward 
the shore. Long Tom sprang forward and met them 
half-way, and together he and Bill bore the helpless -man 
to saf etj-" amid the cheering and shouting of the crew. 
They were none too soon. There came a sudden loud 
report, the big log burst in twain and with a crash and a 
deafening toar the jam broke. The imprisoned logs were 
hurled forward by the raging flood of |vvater in their 
rear, and with a deafening roar plunged over the falls 
into the deep pool below. Captain Jenkins and his crew 
sent up a great shout of exultation. 
They camped that night at the falls, working in shifts 
by the light of bonfires to keep the passage clear and pre- 
vent a recurrence of the trouble from which they had 
so fortunately escaped. 
Peshtigo Sam was resting easily, so far as his bodily 
comfort was concerned, but his mind was in a tumult of 
conflicting emotions. His secret was no longer his own, 
and he would now be compelled to acknowledge his 
duplicity to Long Tom and relinquish all claim to Sally. 
Why had he been in such a hurry to confess to Bill White? 
He might have known that Bill would save him, and even 
though they both had perished Long To"m would have 
discovered the truth for himself sooner or later. Now he 
would have to surrender all hope of winning the aft'ections 
of the girl of his choice, while Long Tom stepped in and 
walked off with the prize. Truly it was an unfortunate 
state of affairs, and he felt very sorry for himself. 
His meditations were interrupted by the approach of 
Bill White, with Long Tom bringing up the rear, and he 
realized that the unwelcome moment had come at last. 
"I bin tellin' Tom you had somethin' t' say to him," 
said Bill, by way of introduction. "Jest tell him what 
you told me when you thought you was a gonner." 
"You tell him, Bill ; I can't." Peshtigo sam entreated. 
"Not by a dern sight," Bill firmly replied. "Tell him 
yerself," and with that he turned away and left them. 
The next morning Long Tom drew his friend aside. 
There was an expression of quiet happiness on his face 
that Bill had never seen there before. 
"Say, Bill," Long Tom began, blushing like a school 
boy, "I wanter invite you to a weddin' what'll come off 
soon as we git back t' Green Bay, an' I want you fer my 
best man." 
"Ain't it sorter rushin' things?" Bill inquired, dubious- 
ly. "Course I don't know nothin' 'bout Sal, but I allers 
had a sneakin'- notion the gal herself had somethin' t' say 
'bout this yere marryin' business. Leastwise that's bin my 
'sperience." 
"Oh, Sal's willin',"_ Long Tom replied; "Peshtigo Sam 
sez she allers was willin' ef I'd had sense 'nuff t' see it.' 
Say, do y' know I'm sorter glad I didn't shoot that buck, 
'cause ef 'twarn't fer him we'd never have saved Sam's 
life an' he'd never have confessed. He was a dern big 
buck, though." 
"He was that," Bill agreed. "You must have it bad fer 
Sal if you're glad 'bout the buck." 
"You wouldn't be s'priscd ef y' knowed Sal," Long 
Tom declared. 
"I ain't s'prised," Bill responded, after due reflection. 
"No, I ain't s'prised none; but I sorter got my doubts 
'bout the business. It's a dern risW thing, b'gosh. Be 
you dead sot on it, Tom?" 
"As sot as a settin' hen," Long Tom emphatically as- 
serted. 
"Waal, then," said Bill, resignedly, "ef you're that sot 
they ain't no use sayin' nuthin more. Count me in fer 
the funeral." Fayette Durlin, Jr. 
Ift 4^8^ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^"^^^^ ^^^t ^^^^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^J^l^^E 
if 2 
it 
|f Take inventory of the good things in this issue 9 
S of Forest and Stream. Recall what a fund was ^ 
^ given last week. Count on what is to come next j| 
fg week. Was there ever in all the world a more 3t 
K abundant weekly store of sportsmen's readingf ^ 
Where the Loon Laughs. 
In Three Parts — Part Two. 
Early the ne:^t morning the canoes moved across 
beautiful Lake Couchiching to the mouth of the Upper 
Severn River, indicated by an iron railway bridge 
throwil across it. This part of the Severn is a narrow 
and tortuous stream shut in by clay banks and broken at 
close intervals by small rapids and falls about which 
short portages have to be made. Half way down, the 
canoes are confronted with the problem of floating logs, 
and lurnber booms stretched either straight across or 
lengthwise through the middle and edging gradually 
toward one of the banks to end at last in a "bag" of logs 
constituting an absolutely impassable barrier. By creep- 
ing among the floating logs and shoving them this way 
and tliat, gradual headway is made. The booms across 
the stream have usually an opening at either end large 
enough to let a canoe through; and the lengthwise 
booms are crossed by running the nose of one canoe 
atop and sinking the timber sufficiently to allow the 
other to scrape over. By nightfall the little saw mill 
town of Severn Bridge is passed, and camp for the 
night is made below. Next morning the expedition 
moves on, crossing Sparrow Lake to the entrance of the 
Lower Severn. 
The whole character of the country seems to change 
from this point, the banks of the river rising high and 
almost sheer and formed of .granitic gneiss, with pines 
clinging to every Httle point of vantage, and the stream 
flowing between with greater depths of dark color, and 
a new air of strength and majesty. It is the first real 
taste of the wilderness — the beginning of the end of 
human settlement. The wind sweeps through the high 
walls with a touch of coldness in it and with that keen 
tang of the forest that quickens the pulses of the town- 
bred man shaking off the shackles of convention at 
last and claiming his share in the joy of a common birth- 
right. From this on no blade of grass is seen — noth- 
ing, indeed, but gray rock covered with stag-moss and 
lichen, masses of dark forest of white and red pine, with 
here and there a small oak or maple, and a sprinkling of 
juniper and spruce. Here and there along the banks 
of the river and lake'' the cardinal flower stands forth 
flauntingly against the background of dark green arid 
slaty gray — a little shaft of vivid scarlet that comes 
upon one like a suddenly shouted defiance. The Indian 
or the French Canadian may pass it by all unheeding; 
but when the town-bred man meets it, his dripping pad- 
dle comes out of the water and he pauses to do instinc- 
tive reverence to the wonder and the beauty of the 
thing. More shy and modest, and crouching low at the 
feet of its splendid relative, the little water lobelia 
grows. Find a cardinal flower and go down on your 
knees by it, atid you will come upon its timid little neigh- 
bor hiding in the shadow as if dreading discovery. From 
afar you may see the cardinal, but you must search for 
the lobelia if you would find it. Yet it is always there. 
Here and there, in little sheltered streams, by far and 
by far, you come upon patches of water lilies, with olive 
and green sepals and pink edges, pure white petals and 
•perfect hearts of gold — smaller, daintier and sweeter- 
smelling lilies than grow in the southland. 
The first stage of the next day's journey brings the 
two canoes to a rapids, the roar of which has been heard 
through the previous night. As the first canoe is swept 
down toward it. Kitchener stands up and makes a 
quick examination. 
"All right. Sick Thing!" he shouts above the roar of 
the water, "We'll try it. When I give the word, paddle 
as though all hell were behind you and all heaven be- 
fore!" 
Then, as the first inrush of the water grips the canoe 
and whirls it forward, he shouts to the others, "Land, 
you fellows — land! Don't follow!" 
The rapids is something lustier than he had expected, 
and disaster seems imminent. But he is an old voy- 
ageur, cool and quick, and with the most sympathetic 
wrist that ever worked wonders with a paddle. There 
is a boiling coltimn of water spouting in the center that 
means destruction to the poor canoe if once it lay hold 
of it. The canoe sweeps forward, helpless in the grasp 
of a mighty force. In another instant that spouting 
devil that stands there waiting must have it. A light- 
ning turn of Kitchener's flexible wrist, and the canoe 
sheers off, ducks under a mighty wave, and escapes. 
"We're awash to the thwarts, Sick Thing!" he shouts. 
"Make for the shore and get the bags out." 
The Little Officer Boy comes dancing down over the 
rocks with his camera in hand. 
"Oh! oh! oh!" he shouts; "confound it, all you know! 
I missed that, and it would have made the bulliest kind 
of a picture. It was lovely when you shot under that 
big 'un. If it isn't too much trouble, you know, would 
you fellows mind going back and doing it over again?" 
The Kitchener curses him softly in Moccasin — and that 
always hurts the Little Officer Boy's feelings. 
"Yoti seem a trifle wet, Sick Thing," Kitchener says 
a moment later when the bags are safely out of the 
water. "Just slip, your clothes off and hang them up to 
dry. We might as well have a swim and lunch here, be- 
fore we go on." _ - 
From this on the river widens into a series of beauti- 
ful little lakes and inlets, all fringed about and shut in 
by high headlands. A few miles - further along, and it 
rushes through a narrow gorge, the whole body of it 
compressed into a fifty-yard channel. It goes through 
in swirling maelstroms and sucking undertows that 
snatch the control from the paddler's hands, but really 
mean no danger to the canoe, for the banks are smooth, 
the water deep, and the cottrse straight. Below this is 
the Raggedy Rapids, a half mile dash of roaring water 
and gaping rock that no canoe could live through. The 
beginning of the portage stands out, fair and clear, on 
the left bank, and for this the canoe makes. The tump- 
lines are adjusted on the dunnage bags and a pair of 
paddles lashed lengthwise to the center thwarts of each 
canoe. Cyclops whirls a canoe about on the point of its 
nose, bottom up, and slips his head between the paddles. 
Then, grasping the sides in his hands, he proceeds to 
climb the precipitous bank of rock and slipping sand_ as 
unconcerned as though he were doing an everyday thing 
of the most commonplace character. Then the. Sick 
Thing follows with a tump-line over the top of his head 
and a big dunnage bag resting in the hollow of his back. 
Before he reaches the top, his head has been nearly 
jerked ifrom his shoulders, his breath comes in painful 
,gasps, his hands and knees are cut and bleeding with 
falls, and he is bathed in perspiration. 
"All right, old chap!" cries the Little Officer Boy, 
laden with another dunnage bag about as large as him- 
self; "you're doing fine. Keep close after Cyclops or 
you'll lose the trail and get lost in the bush. Here comes 
Kitchener with the other canoe. If we get in his way, 
he'll swear horrid." 
As the Sick Thing staggers along the trail, feeling 
that every step must be his last, he is ttirning a cuHous 
reflection over in his mind. Up tO this point in his life 
he had taken it for granted that he knew how to walk; 
he now realizes that what he knows of the matter is very 
rudimentary. With twice his load Cyclops has chmbed 
the face of a precipice without a slip, and now he is 
traveling at a kind of jog trot over every conceivable 
kind of obstacle with as much carelessness and certainty- 
as though he were traversing a flagstone pavement. 
"Out of the way, you fellows!" Kitchener roars. 
They step oft" the trail into the bush, and Kitchener 
.goes trotting by with a canoe on his shoulders and a 
couple of guns in his right hand. 
"He's as strong as an ox, that chap," the Little Officer 
Boy remarks. "He and Cyclops are just the deuce and 
all at this kind of thing. I'm a bit soft myself. What do 
you say to a rest?" 
"You are just saying that fdr my sake. Thank you for 
your kindness, but I can hold out a bit longer." 
"I'll go ahead, if you don't mind. Take it easy, you 
know, and drop the blooming bag when you've had 
enough of it. I'll come back and fetch it when I get to 
the other end." 
A few minutes later and the Sick Thing has the trail 
to himself. He moves slowly, picking his steps with the 
utmost circumspection, liut missing his footing every 
yard or two, nevertheless, and with each such experience 
the dunnage bag swings to the right or left and gives 
his neck a further twist in the direction of ultimate dis- 
location. The solution of his troubles would be to set 
his load down, but something in him forbids the thought 
as unworthy of his manhood. He toils on, gasping and 
trembling, but grim and determined. Presently he meets 
Kitchener and Cyclops coming back for the remaining 
ba.gs. 
"Poor old chap!" Kitchener said kindly. "This is a 
deuce of a hard portage for you. It's a good three- 
tiuarters of a mile. Do you think you can stick it out?" 
The Sick Thing says nothing, passing them without a 
word. He is not withotit appreciation of Kitchener's 
sympathy, but he has no breath with which to express it. 
"Clear grit to the heels!" Kitchener shouts after him. 
"You're as right as they make 'em." 
The Sick Thing's benitmbed hands grip the tumjy-lines 
closer yet, and his whole body braces under the tonic 
of the compliment. He knotws that he is far from de- 
serving it — indeed, he tells himself now that he is only 
a doddering old man from whom the glory of j'outh has 
passed, and with it the courage to endure. Neverthe- 
less, upborne by his friend's commendation, his deter- 
inination to carry the intolerable load to the end is con- 
firmed. There is Only one thing that can prevent him. 
He may faint. He fights against the growing sickness 
which he recognizes as the forerunner of this disaster, 
and he strains forward with every ounce of force which 
his will can lend to his failing body. The Little Officer 
Boy comes running along the trail toward him. 
"Oh, I say, old chap, you know!" he says, "You're 
like Jack Falstaff, larding the ground as you go. Let 
me take the beastly thing and you lie down and have a 
rest. You won't do it? Well, you're a tough one. All 
right; I'll go along with you and show you the way. 
It's only a few hundred yards more." 
How the Sick Thing gets over the remaining distance 
he does not clearly know. He has an indistinct idea that 
the Little Officer Boy chatters without ceasing, and that 
he likes it and gets a Sort of comfort from it, though 
what it is all about he has not the remotest conception. 
But at last he is at the water's edge, where the canoes 
lie, and he shoots the big bag over his head and drops 
down beside it. When Kitchener and Cyclops arrive, 
he is fast asleep. \ 
"Let him rest a bit, poor old chap!" Kitchener says, 
"And while we are waiting, I am going to try a cast in 
that pool. There ought to be something good to eat 
in it, from the looks of things. See if you can't find me a 
young and innocent frog, one of you fellows, while T 
get my rod out." 
In a few mintites, Kitchener, his hook baited according 
to his desires, has crept out upon the rocks to a point 
where the tail-end of the Raggedy comes swirling past, 
leaving a sheltered pool in the lee of the land. With his 
first cast, there is a quick strike, and the reel pays out 
with a shriek. 
"He's a big 'un, a big 'un!" the Little Officer Boy 
shouts, beginning to dance with excitement. "For 
glorj^'s sake, don't let him get off!" 
The Sick Thing opens his eyes at the shout, and gets 
up with alacrity, forgettimg all about his late sufferings. 
"Any you fellows got any " Cyclops begins. 
"Stttff that brute up with tobacco and keep him quiet," 
Kitchener calls. "One of you fellows get the gaff out 
and bring it here. I've got my hands full with this chap. 
If it's a bass, he'll leap in a minute." 
The line, which has been tense as a bow string against 
the curved rod, suddenly slackens. At the same moment 
Kitchener be.gins to paj^ out from the reel and then the 
fish leaps high in the air. But -with the slack line which 
Kitchener had provided, the fish fails to jerk the hook 
from its hold— an ancient device of the bass— and he 
plunges a.gain into the water, defeated and raging. The 
wary fisherman lets him take all the line he wants, keep- 
ing it taut only until such time as the intention to try 
another leap is shown by a sudden slackening, when he 
pays out quickly again. Three times does the bass try 
the device of the leap, and each time Kitchener defeats 
him with a slack line. Then, little by little, the line is 
reeled in. the bass fighting stubbornly for every inch of 
the way, bttt bass strength and bass courage cannot much 
longer endttre this strain, and so it comes to pass in the 
