44 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
("July 20, 1901. 
On Cowancock. 
"A r'iNK we bett'r go back now. The win' she com' 
blow pr' soon," said Pierre, and as I looked baclf to wuid- 
ward across the lake, it occurred to me that it was good 
lime to return. The wind had risen steadily, and we had 
drifted before it faster and faster, until now Pierre, in- 
stead of paddling, was holding water, in a fruitless en- 
deavor to check the speed of the canoe, as it ran before 
the pursuing waves which threatened to break over the 
stern, into soniething like a proper gait for trolling. We 
had almost reached the end of the trolling ground. Be- 
youd us the water was shallower and there was but little 
chance of our getting more pike. 
So I reeled in tlie line, and as Pierre turned the canoe 
about, I worked my way forward into the bow, where I 
knelt down and grasped my paddle in preparation for the 
fight homeward. The lake, which had lately been almost 
motionless, rippled here ajid there only by little breezes, 
was^ now one restless, .surging mass, heaving until it 
seemed, as I knelt in the canoe, that the white crests of 
the waves at times almost blotted out the further shore. 
The sand beaches that had lately shone in the sunlight as 
they circled the borders of the lake, were now entirely 
swallowed up in the tumult of waves that broke white in 
the distance before us. The two loons which had floated 
lazily on the quiet surface of the lake, showing tlieir long, 
snake-like necks and even the greater paii of their bodies 
above the water, seemingly too indolent to exert them- 
selves for any purpose, were now changed utterly. Cry 
after cry mingled with the dash of the breaking waves 
and the noise of the wind among the tree tops. At times 
the note was loud and clear, like the whistle of a steam- 
boat softened by distance. Again it was as a man calling 
for help somewhere out in the distant tumult, but most 
often a lower, plaintive and mote querulous sound came 
forth, rising and falling without apparent effort, as if, in 
the vastness beyond, the spirit of the storm were mutter- 
ing to itself and bewailing some sorrow too deep for 
fuller utterance. Again the voice was fraught with 
laughter, not hearty and ringing, but as of one light- 
headed or delirious with fever. Jruly may the loon be 
called the spirit of tlie storm, as floating in the roughest 
water, he rejoices the more the harder the wind blows and 
the whiter the crests of the waves as they break beneath 
him, hooting his joy in wild and piercing cries to his 
mate, who responds from a distant part of the lake, where 
her head is occasionally visible, a black speck on the green 
water about her. 
No time was this on Lake Cowancock, famed for its 
roughness and its ability to raise a big sea in an incredibly 
short time, to try to cut across the arc of the lake that lay 
between us and the camp, so, following the shore closely, 
we slowly battled our way forward against the wind and 
the waves which disputed our progress, Now and again, 
as the bow of the canoe, plunged down into a breaker, the 
spray dashed upward and splashed into the canoe in a 
solid sheet. Soon I was drenched to the waist, but stJJI 
the struggle continued, until our arms ached. Then we 
changed sides, thus obtaining a temporary relief. When a 
wave larger than usual appeared, I stopped paddling for a 
few strokes. Pierre paddling hard to lift the bow out of 
water until the wave had passed. Then I resumed 
paddling. 
Slowly we progressed, passing several small headlands 
that forced us out into the wind, beyond the lee of the 
shore. At length we reached the last point, the largest of 
all that lay between us and the smooth water in the bay 
beyond. It was there that the great final struggle was 
to come. Even from a distance the point had shown up 
white with the spray of the breaking waves. Now, as we 
approached it, the wind blew harder every minute and the 
white crests of the waves multiplied until the whole ex- 
panse about us seemed one mass of breaking foam. Slowly 
we worked our way along the rocky shores until we left 
the partial lee of the point and came into the full force of 
wind and sea. For a moment they beat us back. Our 
progress stopped suddenly as they burst upon us. Soon, 
however, taking advantage of momentary lulls in the wind, 
and of several lower waves succeeding each other now 
and then, we managed to get clear of the land and 
opposite the end of the point. At times when the wind 
blew its fiercest, as a wave higher than its fellows came 
bearing down upon the light boat, I was forced to hold 
water with iny paddle to keep her head up to the .sea, while 
Pierre paddled frantically in order to avoid losing any 
of our hard won ground. Spray dashed up on both sides 
of us and enough water came aboard to form a small pool 
down in Pierre's end of the canoe. I was already soaked 
to the waist, so that the extra wetting 1 got did not 
inconA-enience me much, for I had plenty of exercise to 
keep me warm, 
We were gaining slowly but perceptibly. Before lon^ 
the wind seemed less strong, and fewer whitecaps broke 
over the bow. Before us lay the smoother water of the 
bay, with a white sand beach circling about its end, not 
hidden from sight as the others by a breaking surf, but 
bordered only by untroubled water tmdulating slowly to 
an'd fro, reflecting faintly the disturbance without and 
rolling slow, leisurely ripples that broke gently upon the 
sand at measured intervals. Then the wind seemed to 
go down and the sea to subside. We glided along without 
effort now, the change seeming all the greater as our tired 
muscles relaxed after their long strain. It was only by 
looking back over the foam-dotted surface of the lake that 
we could realize that the wind was still blowing as strong 
as before. Heading straiglit across the smooth water to 
where the tent stood out white against the dark back- 
ground of trees above the beach, we soon reached our 
destination. 
After unloading the canoe and lifting it up on the beach 
out of reach of the water, Pierre started to clean tlie fish 
and I lay down on a big flat-topped rock, from which I 
commanded a good view of the lake, which stretched 
before me, round as a cup, except where one point on 
either hand marked the edge of the bay. The further 
tihore, although it was some three miles away, stood out 
clear and bold between the water and the sky, one long, 
fi3t-topped ridge rising abruptly above the otherwise even 
tree line. Over to the west and the north, where the 
shore was lower, rose the tops of the hills about Lakes 
Baiide and the Pobelo. Streaked cirrus clouds stretched 
hurrying in scattered ranks to the northward across the 
bright afternoon sky. The lake was still thickly spotted 
with flecks of white, and now and then, as the tops of the 
waves rose and fell, a yellow sand bank, by the outlet at 
the opposite side of the lake, glittered in the sunlight. 
Then, as I watched, the sun crept gradually lower, the 
clouds drifted away to the northward, leaving a clear, 
unbroken blue sky overhead. The quiet of evening seemed 
even here to be stealing upon us. Birds chirped and 
twittered. Over on the other shore of the bay a white- 
•throated sparrow kept whistling his clear, silvery song 
of "Peabody! Peabody ! Peabody !" as though he wanted 
all the world to take notice. Out on the lake the white- 
caps faded away and the waves showed fewer broken 
summits above the line of the further shore. The noise 
of the wind among the forest trees overhead died slowly 
down into a faint rustle which soon was quiet. The sea 
was fast subsiding. How quickly it can rise and go down 
no one who has not seen this lake knows. Soon, as the 
shadows about us lengthened, the last ripple was gone 
from the water and the lake lay calm in the evening light, 
unruffled from shore to shore. Here and there the smooth 
surface was broken by, widening rings, where the big pike 
were breaking as they swam about near the top. Round 
about the shores the sand beaches again divided by a 
broken ring of white the dark forests from the glittering 
water. The big red sun hovered over the hills about the 
Pobelo. 
Then I went in swimming, pike or no pike. The beach 
sloped so gradually that I found I could walk out a 
quarter of a mile or more without getting out of my 
depth. The air was chilly as I came out of the water, 
but a short run up and down the beach on the wet sand 
soon put my blood in circulation again. As I dressed the 
sun went down, a blazing globe of fire in a clear sky, be- 
hind the black forest growth of the further shore. The 
hills stretched to the northward, until they faded away 
into dimness in the twilight sky. The lake quivered 
slightly in the half-light, the black edges growing wider as 
the shadow of the shores deepened. The voices of the 
liirds grew still, and the quiet was soon intense, relieved 
npw and then only by the distant calls of the loons or the 
fkint croak of some heron wending his way homeward 
along the line of the tree tops on his return from the 
day's fishing. 
There I watched the fading light in the sky and listened 
to the forest silence until Pierre's call and the smell of 
frying fish warned me that supper was ready. Then we 
had' supper under the brightening stars and rolled our- 
selves in our blankets on balsam boughs. Below us at our 
feet lay the lake, stretching forth into the distance until 
it faded out in the brightness of the night. We heard the 
lapping of the water upon the beach, and now and then 
there came to us down the lake the splashing of an otter 
at play or of some larger animal wading about in the 
shallows along the shore. 
Then we went to sleep wdtile the loons called to each 
other from out the starlit silences. 
Frank Lawrence. 
Charles Marsh. 
.Seymox;r, Wis., July 2. — Editor Forest and Stream; 
In your isstie of May 26, igoo, on page 405. I read, "The 
Last Adirondack Moose," from the pen of J. H. R., and 
here is a portion of what he says: 'T do not know when 
he was killed, but I know this : In December, 1858 or '59, 
I think the latter year. Charles Marsh, a resident of the 
town of Fine, St. Lawrence county, killed a bull moose." 
And he adds: "Mansh was one of the old-time woods- 
men, though hardly more than thirty-five years old. He 
hunted, fished, trapped, both for fur, wolves and panthers; 
he was an ideal woodsman, a dead quick shot. * * * 
I hear he has now gone over the Divide; for he went 
West in the early sixties, and I have not seen him since." 
And now. if you will give me a chance, I will tell you 
of the last years and days and deeds of Charles Marsh. 
About thirty years ago he struck our then wilderness town 
of Seymour. Outagamie county, Wis., about seventeen 
miles west of Green Bay. He was accompanied by Rube 
Irish, another old Adirondack hunter and guide. They 
had a lot of steel traps, guns, deer hides and camp 
equipage. He soon found too many settlers in our small 
hole in the woods here and moved eight iniles north, 
stuck up a shack, got a piece of land and tried to till the 
soil. We were many of us hunters here at that time of 
necessity, and soon found that LJncle Charlie (as we called 
him) could do some tall shooting at the many deer that 
were all around these parts at that time. If a deer was 
foolish enough to make more than one jump in his sight 
Uncle Charlie owned him. 
If we needed a gun sight, or a rifle cut over, a main 
spring made, or a watch repaired, Uncle Charlie was the 
one to whom we went. His word was as good as his 
shooting. He was also a good hand on the trail of the 
honey bee, and many was the bee tree located by him. 
About ten years ago I wanted to build a new frame barn 
— w^e had outgrown our old log barns of pioneer times — 
so I hired Uncle Charlie to do the job. He came, looked 
the timbers and all over and took the contract. He was 
as particular in building that bam as if it had been a fine 
dwelling house. I said, "Uncle Charlie, you will not 
make your salt if you take so much pains." "Well," he 
said, "this may be the last barn I shall build, and I want 
it done right." It was; and it was also the best one. 
When he had finished I paid him more than the bargain 
called for, which seemed to stirprise him, but he was 
much pleased. 
While liuilding the barn, and at other times, he gave 
me much of his past history. He had been a hunter and 
guide for twenty-eight years in the Adirondacks before 
coming liere, and I have heard him tell all about that 
moose, which is mainly as J. H. R. states, only more so. 
He said it was his first moose and last one. The first 
shot struck the moose .square between the eyes, but in- 
stead of going down, as he should, he charged Uncle 
Charlie, who sprang behind a large spruce. "The old bull 
made the liveliest time of my life for me," he said, "for 
the next few minutes. Around and around that spruce 
we went, his horns clattering against the old spruce. I 
had about made up my mind I was a goner, when he 
moved away and looked me over, and before I could 
reload was oft'. We didn't have the pump gun in those 
days or T would not have needed to follow the old fellow 
nearly two days longer before I got him. I have killed I 
lots of painters, and one time I shot one, and he was so 
near me that when he made his last jump his tail switched 
me. But that old bull moose gave me a hard racket, when 
we were going lickity switch around that old spmce; and 
I just made up my mind that that was hardly the right 
end to shoot a bull moose." 
About eight years ago Uncle Charlie moved forty miles 
northward again ; civilization was crowding him as it did 
Daniel Boone. Then the news came that he was sick, and 
then the news of his death. His last request was that the 
writer should preach his funeral sermon. They brought 
him down to his old home eight miles north of here, and I 
buried him in the little churchyard, there to wait for the 
last trump of First Corinthians 15:51-53. Peace to his 
ashes, I hope to meet him again in peace. 
I^EED. 
Rttffed Gtouse Shooting: — A Fragment* ' 
With infinite delight I look back upon that afternoon 
in the Brown county wood hunting ruffed grouse. My 
orange and white setter, Colonel, comes running to me 
now with that old cock. How proud the fellow is! His 
big tender eyes are seemingly almost suffused with tears 
from sheer joy. 
Bully for 3'ou, Colonel, and bully for me! It is your 
first grouse, and, ah, my lucky star; it is my first, too. 
Wa.sn t his rise a perfect storm, though.? And do you 
Imow, old dog— there, now, let go— isn't he beautiful? 
—that I'm all a-quiver from the fear that I'd miss 
him.? Queer, isn't it, that two tenderfeet like you and 
I should be so fortunate, and so soon, too, after getting 
in the woods. But right here, on this little hillside, is 
where the boy said he saw them last summer. Young 
chaps they were then ; and great stars ! what a place for 
such game! How can we find our way up and down 
these hills and through this undergrowth.? Why, there 
goes another! Oh, pshaw! why didn't we look out for 
that! Whoop! Heel, Colonel! I'm afraid to chance 
you just yet! We'll walk them up, and then, Colonel, 
you can fetch them in when— well, maybe you can fetch 
them in. Wait now, my boy; wait a bit. Plold on until 
I load this barrel; then we'll follow across the hollow 
after that chap. Oh, well, come on; I'll load as I go. 
Ah, Colonel, my boy, we are the clean th ; yes, blarst 
it! There goes another— and anoth . Drop, you cuss! 
Drop! What we don't know about grouse hunting 
would fill several octavos, Wm. J. Beck. 
Columbus, Ind. 
' — • — 
Outing in Acadia.— VI. 
BY EDWARD A. SAMUELS. 
\Continued from Vol. LVI.^ page 486,] 
kJlwi^if 7u""5 °" ^"^'"^ 'yn^ had been 
killed the talk turned to that animal, and Phoebe said, "A 
lynx IS far from prepossessing, but I suppose it has its 
mission, has it not. Doctor?" 
"Yes," he replied ; "all the rapacious animals have their 
special mission, and it is very interesting to study their 
habits and see how each is fitted for its special sphere 
and work, fhey, with the rapacious birds, seem to have 
been created for the purpose of keeping others in check 
which, from their greater fecundity, might increase in 
such numbers as to become pests, hut that they shall 
not be extirpated nature has provided them with struc- 
tural peculiarities which enable them to, in great meas- 
ure, escape from their enemies. For instance the sheep, 
deer, and other ruminants which are, in a state of nature 
liable at any moment to become the prey of a carnivorous 
animal are obliged to be constantly on the alert, and 
every mouthful of food they eat is seized while watching 
for the approach of an enemy. Now, if no provision 
were made for their safety, they would be captured 
of ener than they are; but the Creator provided beauti- 
tully for their preservation. As you know, the rumi- 
nants are those animals which chew the cud. They from 
force of habit and instinct, eat very rapidly, seizing the 
herbage upori which they subsist and swallowing it with 
hardly any chewing. They can thus fill their stomachs 
m a very short time and then, retiring to a secure place, 
they chevy the food they have swallowed until it is in a 
ht^ condition for digestion and assimilation. 
I never quite understood how they do that" said 
Phoebe. "I know that they chew the cud, but what 
the exact process is I never knew. 
_ "It is very easy to explain. When the animal has filled 
Its first stomach or rumen— the ruminants have four 
stomachs— It raises the food into its mouth by pellets or 
cuds,' so called where it is completely ground up or' as 
we say, masticated; it then passes into the second stom- 
ach and the process of digestion proceeds, until that 
which was green grass or hay at first is converted into 
a delicate white curd. On leaving the fourth stomach 
It passes into the intestine, where it is urged onward by 
contractions of the tube, through an extent of forty-six 
feet in the sheep, and a proportionate length in all the 
herbivora; .sliding by the mouths of multitudes of lacteal 
vessels, or milk suckers, or absorbents, it finally enters 
the venous system to circulate with and become blood " 
"I can see now what I never fully understood before " 
said Ralph. "Of course I have seen sheep and cattle 
'chewing the cud' ever since I was a child, but I had no 
idea what the habit was originally for; it must have been,, 
as you say. a special provision by which they can eat 
their food unmolested. They require absolute rest and 
freedom from any exertion to do this perfectly,' and I 
have noticed that if the ox be pushed and worked hard 
without having time to masticate, he falls off in flesh,, 
his health is poor, and his digestion incomplete.'' 
"Yes; but. Doctor," said Phcebe, "the horses run wild 
in a state of nature, and they do not chew the cud." 
"True." he replied; "it takes a horse a long time to 
fill its stomach, because it is obliged to masticate thor- 
oughly every mouthful it eats. A hungry ox in a rich 
pasture will fill himself in twenty minutes, while a horse 
wotild want at least an hour and twenty tninutes to take 
