444 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
course of the next ten minutes that the doughty fish 
is brought into shallow water and there landed without 
the help of the gaff. 
"A fine fight, a fine fish and the certainty of a fine 
supper," Kitchener announces. "And, now, gentles, let's 
away." 
The canoes are floated, bags and what-not packed in. 
and the expedition moA^es forward once more. A few 
miles further down the Severn, another rapids is reached, 
but so wide and straight and free from rocks that there 
is no question about running it. Nevertheless, as the 
canoes shoot through the dancing water, the paddlers 
catch a fleeting glimpse of a gleaming white cross stand- 
ing out from one of the banks, commemorative, doubt- 
less, of the drowning of some unfortunate voyageur. 
A few miies below this camp for the night is made. 
While Kitchener is preparing the big black bass for 
supper, and Cyclops is getting the tent up, the Little 
Officer Boy goes back into the country upon an explor- 
ing expedition for blueberries. He returns in half an 
hour with his hat filled with the luscious fruit. 
"Boys," he says, "I never saw so many blueberries 
in my life, and the partridges are so thick it's just dis- 
gusting. They've fed on those berries till they're too 
fat to fly. I was falling over them at every step. We'll 
have to slay here to-morrow and have a go at them 
with the guns." 
"Season doesn't open until the first of next month, 
Kitchener announces quietly. 
"Look here. Kitchener!" Cyclops says, growing sud- 
denly excited, "there isn't any law of God or man that'll 
keep me of? those birds. What the dickens did we 
bring the guns and the dog for, I'd like to know! A 
fellow that croaks about laws in such a country as this 
ought to have his head stove in and be fed to the pike." 
"Oh, well!" Kitchener responds with an amused smile, 
"sooner than suffer an ignominious death at the hands 
of outlaws I suppose I'll have to submit. If the worst 
comes to the worst we can plead the necessities of hun- 
ger-" , 
Plead nothing!" Cyclops cries, mdignantly. 'You 
talk as though there were a magistrate around the next 
point. Why, confound it all, we might stay here for a 
month and' never see a human being. It's downright 
immoral to talk about laws under the circumstances." ^ 
"Right, child, right!" Kitchener responds serenely. 'I 
stand corrected. As the poet says, 'there's never a law 
of God or man runs north of fifty-three.' " 
"This isn't fifty-three by a long shot." Cyclops says 
sulkily; "but it's far enough north for a decent man to 
do any bally thing he wants to." 
"There, there, Cyclops; there, there!" Kitchener an- 
swers soothingly. ' "You have ridden me down, and 
there's no need to trample me to death." 
"Kitchener," says Cyclops in a milder tone, "have. you 
got any " • , 
"Yes, yes, child; here's my pouch and my match safe, 
and you can get my pipe out of my coat if you can't find 
your own. I hope you'll not stop smoking for so many 
minutes again. It seems to get on your nerves." 
Next morning, long before the others are awake, 
Cyclops steals off with his gun and the dog. Kitcheiier 
and the Sick Thing are roused at last by an angry male- 
diction from the Little Ofliccr Boy. . 
"What is it?" Kitchener exclaims, sprmging to his 
feet. "What has happened?" . 
"Here's Cyclops gone and hogged all the fun for him- 
self," the Little Oflicer Boy cries. "He's sneaked off 
with the dog and he'll not leave a bird m the whole 
blooming country. I call it a dirty low mean trick to do 
a thing like that, and I'm blessed if I won't tell hun so 
when he gets back." 
"Oh is that all? It isn't enough to get wild over. 
He'll be back by breakfast time, and you can have your 
go at the partridges later. Come along, Sick ^Thing; 
roll out of your blankets and get into the water. 
A moment later they have their night woolens ott 
and go shivering through the raw air of the morning 
to a point of rock where the river runs dark and deep. 
One after the other, they plunge m. The Little Olftcer 
Boy and Kitchener come to the surface at about the same 
^'"Hello, Where's the Sick Thing?" the Little Officer 
Boy exclaims, looking about him. 
"Oh, he'll be up after a bit. He's the most swim- 
mingest chap I ever knew when his hand's in. And I 
fancy he's beginning to feel a good dsal more fit than 
when he started. Isn't the water jolly warm! 
"Yes- it's like coming in out of the cold to get into 
it I wish that beggar'd come up. I'm getting anxious. 
'"There he blows!" Kitchener cries. "We thought you 
were lost, old chap! You're feeling pretty coltish this 
morning — eh?" ^. , „, . , ', , u 
Half way across the stream the Sick Thing s head bobs 
to the surface and he blows the water out of his nostrils 
with a mighty sound. , , , c- i -ru- 
"I haven't done the hke of that, the Sick ihmg 
shouts back, "since somewhere about the beginning ot 
the century. Kitchener, I believe I'm getting to that 
state of body which the Americans describe as so s to 
be around.' I'm feeling fit as a fiddle. Don t wait 
breakfast for me— I'm going down the river tor a bit ot 
"You are going to do nothing of the sort," Kitchener 
retorts peremptorily. "You arc coming ashore at one? 
for a rub down and to get into your clothes. 
"All right" the Sick Thing answers with a good tem- 
pered laugh. "I suppose you know best. But, really, 
I feel fit for anything this morning." 
When they are dressed. Kitchener sends the i^ittle 
Officer Boy off in the canoe with a trolling line and an 
order for something weighing about seven pounds, for 
breakfast; and he then sets to work to build the camp 
fire and get the kettle boiling. In ten minutes the Little 
Officer Boy is back with a big black-backed pike; and 
thirty minutes later breakfast is ready. • . r 
"I'm not going to spoil mv fish by waiting tor 
Cyclops," Kitchener announces. "I'U^keep his share 
hot. and we can go ahead without hiin." _ 
Breakfast is finished and the matutinal pipes smoked 
out, and still Cyclops has not returned. The miscel- 
laneous work of the camp keeps everybody busy for 
another hour, during the latter part of which a general 
disinclination for conversation :s observable. At last 
the Little Officer Boy voices the general uneasiness. 
"I belicA'e the chap's lost, you know. It's the worst 
looking country back there you ever saw. Nothing but 
nasty little lumpy hills that you can't see over, and scrub 
and scraggly pine till your heart aches. I didn't tell you 
fellows, but I had to climb a big white pine to find my 
way back yesterday. One spot looks for all the world 
like another, and there isn't a landmark to swear by. I 
believe that Cyclops has gone grubbling along after the 
birds, just watching the dog and slipping the shells in, 
and never looking Avhere he was going. I've been sick 
about the thing for the last hour. Will anybody come 
with me? I'm off to hunt for him." 
"Yes," says Kitchener quietly; "I'll go with you. 
We'll take the guns and the compass. As the wind 
blows now straight against us, there is no use in trying 
to signal to Cyclops, for he couldn't possibly hear the 
shots. But the wind may go down, and the guns will be 
the best Avay I can think of to foregather with him. 
Sick Thing, I'll leave you to take care of the house. We 
ought to be hack in a couple of hours. If we're not, 
don't be uneasy, for the compass makes us safe enough." 
The Sick Thing settles himself down to do a little 
necessary sewing. There is a large rent in one of his 
garments which he decides may be remedied by a neat 
patch. He gets the sewing-huzzy out and selects a nee- 
dle which he thinks to be of about the right caliber. 
After spending an exciting half hour in a perfectly futiie 
effort to introduce the thread into the eye, he decides that 
what he needs is a larger bore. He therefore puts away 
his first choice and selects instead a darning needle of 
heroic proportions. The thread goes through the eye 
without the slightest difficulty. "This," he tells himself, 
"is something like it." He inserts the point of the nee- 
dle in the cloth, and is astonished to find that it refuses 
to go entirely through. He therefore inverts the need.e, 
lays the head against his leg and bears down upon it, 
with the result that he at once inflicts a painful stab 
upon his anatomj'. Profiting by this experience he now 
uses a small stone as a means of ramming the needle. 
This proving eminently successful he proceeds to draw 
tlie thread through. His thread is so long, however, that 
the utmost stretch of his arm fails to carry through more 
than half of it. He therefore places his mending on the 
ground with the stone on top, and moves a yard or two 
away, from which point of vantage he is able to achieve 
his object. He is a good deal chagrined, however, to 
find that the thread, not content with going to its limit, 
passes entirely through the cloth and comes out in his 
hand. "What that thread needs," he soliloquizes, "is 
a knot." He digs the needle into the earth to keep it 
safe, and crawls back to the end of the thread. He makes 
a knot and examines it critically. "Not big enough," he 
decides. So he makes another one with the intention of 
sliding it down on top of the first. But instead of doing 
this the contrary thing makes itself fast about an inch 
higher. He now tries to make a third knot which will 
fit in between the two first. When he has finished it, he 
finds, to his intense surprise, that it stands half an inch 
above the second. Abandoning the knot problem as 
quite hopeless, he proceeds with his mending. By keep- 
ing the article to be mended on the ground and kneeling 
a foot or two away from it, he is able to draw the thread 
through to the knots without moving his- knees. He has' 
simply to lean back over his heels and extend his arm 
in the same direction over his head. He decides, after 
a few minutes of this, that sewing is an uncommonly 
good exercise. The problem of holding the garment to 
the ground while he does this, he solves by laying a large 
stone on top, and he thus has the smaller stone to use 
as a needle-rammer. Despite the most skillful manipu- 
lation of the rammer, however, he stabs himself with the 
needle over and over again. Sometimes it is the point 
that catches him; sometimes the head, and occasion- 
ally he gets both of them at once, the head going into 
his hand and the point into his leg. "I believe," he says, 
reflectively, "that this is how Kitchener learnt to swear. 
It certainly is very aggravating." He finds on examining 
his work, when he thinks he jias made some progress, 
that the thread, instead of passing through evenly, has 
left a lot of various sized loops on both sides of the cloth. 
Moreover, the patch will not lie flat, but insists upon 
humping itself into annoying festoons. The thread being 
by now short enough for closer operations, he takes his 
sewing on his knee, and proceeds calmly with it. He 
thinks he is doing finely in this position until he dis- 
covers that the last five stitches have firmly attached the 
leg of his trousers to the article being mended. Then he 
repeats rapidly all of Kitchener's profanity that he can 
recall, cuts himself free and flings his sewing into the 
tent. 
His watch tells him that it is half past twelve, and he 
decides that he must get something to eat. There is no 
sign of the absent men, and as yet he feels no anxiety 
about them. He starts up the fire and puts on the kettle. 
Tea is the only thing he knows how to cook, and he is 
largely theoretical about that. In the course of half an 
hour he has made about two quarts of a very inky brew, 
which he is surprised to find quite unlike anything he 
ever tasted. By adding large quantities of cold water, 
however, it becomes fairly palatable, albeit somewhat 
chilly, and with this and hardtack he makes a lunch 
which, though not exactly appetizing, satisfies his hun- 
ger. Then he sits down to smoke and wait. By three 
o'-clock, there still being no sign of his friends, he be- 
comes anxious. As the wind still blows strong from the 
same quarter, he knows there can be no use in attempt- 
ing to signal with the gun. All that he can think of 
doing is to wait until nightfall and then build a bonfire 
on the high land back of the camp. For this purpose 
he gathers all the available wood and carries it up to the 
point he has selected. Six o'clock comes and still they 
have not returned. He eats a miserable supper of hard- 
tack and cold water, being too unhappy for anything 
more ambitious, and then sits watching the slowly dark- 
ening sky. Shortly after seven, he climbs to where his 
wood is stacked, and starts his fire. He sits before it, 
feeding it, and listening intently. The sky is completely 
overcast, with not a star showing, and no sound cornes 
to his strained ears but the mournful whine of the wind 
through the trees. The stillness is terrifying. Out of it 
there suddenly comes to his alert senses the startling 
sound of a far-away laugh. It is so human and at the 
same time so weird a sound that his heart stands still. 
It is like the laughter of a maniac — wild, disordered, un- 
canny. His first thought is that it is one of his friends, 
gone mad with hopeless wandering in a desolate coun- 
try. But immediately on the heels of that fancy comes 
the recollection of a sentence in Kitchener's letter — "the 
land where the loon laughs in the hush of the night!" 
That is the satisfying explanation — it is a loon and noth- 
ing else! He piles the drift-wood high upon his fire 
and watches the flames leap upward. Surely so vivid 
a point of light must be visible for many miles! It must 
guide the wandering steps of the lost ones— are they all 
lost by now? — back to the safe shelter and the comfort 
of the camp! Taking solace in the thought, he sits on 
the ground with his back to a rock, and watches the fire. 
From it he occasionally casts a furtive look into the 
black of the night about him. But instantly his eyes 
revert to the fire. He is shut in on all sides by an eter- 
nity of void space. The whole of his world is the few 
feet of ground between his rock and his fire. When he 
has to get up to add another log to the flames, he moves 
with trepidation. A step beyond the line of light would 
mean a plunge into black space, thereafter to fall forever. 
From the far shore of the river comes the plaintive griev- 
ing of a whip-poor-will, three long, sad notes, and then 
silence again. The weary hours creep forward laggingly, 
broken only by the work of feeding the fire and by 
mournful and terrifying sounds that come to him out of 
the desolate forest about. The last time he looks at his 
watch he finds it is past midnight. Then a new sound 
comes to his ears, borne from afar by the breeze, that 
brings him to his feet with a jump. There can be no 
mistaking it — it is pleasant human voices shouting a rude 
chorus. He cannot hear the words, but the dear familiar 
tawdry tune shapes them for him. 
"It's the soldiers of the Queen^ my lads." 
He stretches wide his arms and shouts in the teeth of 
the breeze, his full heart choking him, "Kitchener! 
Kitchener! Kitchener!" He knows his voice will not 
carry half the distance that still separates them, but still, 
from sheer joy, he continues to shout as he piles fuel 
upon his beacon fire that is casting its light afar and 
bringing the lost ones home again. How they meet at 
last, and spend the rest of the night in feasting and sing- 
ing; how he is told that the needle of the compass got 
off its axis and was of no use to them, and how at last 
they foregathered with Cyclops by getting to windward 
of him by chance and his hearing the faint bang-bang 
of their guns and running them down just about sunset, 
is afterward a confused and delightful recollection to him. 
William Edward Aitken. 
— ♦ — 
Intelligence of the Wild Things. 
BY HERMIT. , 
The Red Squirrel. 
(Continued from page 825.) 
Bismarck did not always hide bread beneath pine nee- 
dles or leaves. At a certain season of the year the trees 
about my cabin were made into storehouses. This season 
was governed by the bluejays. When they were nesting 
they did not come to the cabin and Bismarck could store 
food in the trees without fear of being robbed. 
My attention was called early to the fact that a gale 
of wind did not dislodge the pieces of bread which the 
squirrel had stored on the limbs of a hemlock tree. I 
found that each piece was held in place by a small twig. 
Scores of times afterward I saw Bismarck lift up a twig 
with his hands and then push the piece of bread with 
his nose to the junction of twig and limb. Of course 
the natural spring of the twig held the bread in place. 
Bismarck alvy'ays stored mushrooms in the trees, for 
he knew that the bluejays did not eat such food. He 
would drop the stem of the mushroom between the 
prongs of a forked limb, if there was cap enough left to 
hold the same in place, otherwise he treated it just as he 
would a piece of bread. 
How Bismarck acquired a knowledge of the edible 
mushrooms is a mystery beyond my powers. Doubtless, 
when he attended the Chickaree College, he studied nat- 
ural history instead of the dead languages. He knew 
how to harvest mushrooms. He gathered them soon 
after they appeared above the ground. Gathered thus, 
they would keep several days, while a few hours' growth 
would spoil them if left in the ground. 
Bismarck knew how to eat mushrooms. He did not 
begin on the freshly gathered ones; he knew they would 
keep, and he selected those that would decay shortly. 
Human beings eat the specked apples from motives of 
economy, and the same impulse controls the- squirrel. 
In the woods about my cabin grow many varieties of 
the poisonous mushrooms. One deadly variety — the 
"Destroying Angel" — possesses a form most pleasing to 
the eye. Its symmetrical shape and pearly white <;olor 
give it a look of innocence that has lured many a human 
being to an early grave. I have never seen a toothmark 
by a squirrel, mouse or mole in one of these deadly 
mushrooms, which goes to prove that the wild things 
know more than some human beings. 
A few years ago, while out on a walk with the Appa- 
lachian Mountain Club, I told a professor, who was an 
expert on mushrooms, that I used the mushrooms which 
were approved by the squirrels, and no others. He said 
that I was risking my life, for he claimed that sq^uirrels 
could eat poisonous varieties that might kill human be- 
ings. I thought that the professor knew more about 
mushrooms than he did about squirrels, so his warning 
was wasted on me. Up to date I have found the squir- 
rels all right and I feel no fear when eating what they 
eat. 
For years I attended a squirrels school, and Bismardk 
was the schoolmaster. He taught me many things relat- 
ing to squirrel life. Much of the knowledge acquired was 
wholly unknown to me before. 
When Bismarck first introduced himself to me I think 
he was an old bachelor or a widower. Three years later 
he excavated a storehouse in a bank, beneath a boulder, 
