62 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Jan. 25, 1902. 
7ff ^parhiijdit l^onmL 
— $ — 
The Old Logging Camp. 
It was my first day in the woods; that is to say, the real 
forest, with its miles upon miles of towering pines and 
waving hemlocks, where one might easily lose his way 
and wander for days before coming upon a human habita- 
tion. Previous to then my excursions into the wilds 
of nature had been limited to a day's tramp through a 
grove of hard-wood timber adjacent to my native village. 
It was not much of a grove from a grown-up's point 
of view, but to the imagination of a child it was vast 
and immeasurable, and peopled with many terrible 
monsters and beasts of prey, a veritable "forest 
primeval." Somewhere within the depths of this great 
forest there dwelt a frightful ogre, a second Polyphemus, 
with one eye in the middle of his forehead. We never 
spoke his name aloud, nor confessed our fear of his 
lurking presence to one another, but he was always 
there— somewhere in the bushes just beyond— waiting 
to seize upon and devour us in one big mouthful. I 
discovered his lair, on a certain memorable day, at the 
end of the deep canon— or was it only a small, narrow 
ravine, after all — between the two big boulders whose 
tops came together, thus forming a dark cave, a fearsome 
place when you came to think of it; but I imparted my 
discovery to no one, save to whisper the harrowing tale 
in the ear of my young and confiding sister. 
We made many pilgrimages to this wilderness of >_._.rs, 
armed with the deadly sling-shot, or a primitive "bow- 
an'-arrer" that would hit everything except the object 
at which it was aimed, in search of the ever invisible 
game, or in lighter mood, playing at Indian and many 
other soul-stirring sports; and then came the inevitable 
day of awakening, when all my fond illusions vanished, 
and our "forest primeval" dwindled down into a few 
acres of oak and maple trees surrounded by a split-rail 
fence, and Polyphemus, on closer inspection, had trans- 
formed himself into an one-eyed woodchuck. The dis- 
covery caused a shock to my youthful sensibilities and 
also destroyed my faith in things material for the time 
being ; so much so. indeed, that — terribile dictu ! — for the 
first time in my life 1 went to bed without saying my 
prayers, and felt very wicked in consequence. 
I had come to the awkward age of fourteen when my 
eyes were opened to the true state of affairs as they ex- 
isted in our child world. The "Olympians," those of the 
masculine persuasion, had thrilled my ears many a time 
and oft with tales of their exploits and deeds of adventure 
with beatsts of the forest. I had always imagined that 
their forest resembled ours in all the most important fea- 
tures, but after my disillusionment regarding the latter 
I was forced to conclude that theirs must be something 
greatly different and truly wonderful, the real forest of 
my dreams; wherefore my curiosity became aroused to 
an uncomfortable de gree, and I was consumed with the 
desire to visit that marvelous land of which my elders 
prated. 
My father was a great lover of the woods and a" most 
enthusiastic sportsman. He spent a certain portion of 
each year among the northern pines, and in my estima- 
tion he represented the wisdom of the Creator in all 
things pertaining to the hidden realms of nature. He was 
a silent, reserved man, traits that grow on one, as I have 
since observed, who had passed many days in the still- 
ness of a pine forest, and we children stood not a little 
in awe of him at times. One day — it was on a Saturday, 
I remember, and there were no hated school duties to 
perform — my father came upon me swinging disconso- 
lately on the front gate, and gazing with gloomy brow 
at nothing in particular, though my thoughts were busy 
with a multitude of vexing problems, and the world 
looked very dark to me. I was in a most cynical mood. 
"Where are the children?" he inquired. 
"Gone to the woods, I guess," I replied, with more 
indifference than I had ever before dared assume. He 
looked at me in some surprise, 
"Why didn't you go with them?" he 1 asked. "Have you 
been quarreling?" 
"No, sir. But I didn't want to," I made answer, still 
oppressed with the futility of existence. 
"Why, I thought you liked the woods," said he. 
"I do," I assured him, "but I don't like those woods." 
"What is the matter with them?" he questioned. "You 
have always told wonderful tales of your doings there." 
"They are too small," I scornfully declared. "They 
ain't really woods at all." And then I added in my des- 
peration, "there's a fence all 'round 'em." 
My father gazed at me quizzically for a moment, and 
the corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously. 
"Oh, I see," said he. "Let me see: you are now 
thirteen," 
"Fourteen," I corrected. "Fourteen last October." 
"Well, I guess you are getting big enough to learn how 
to handle a gun," he continued. "I think I'll take you out 
with me the next time I go after duck." 
I nearly fell off the gate in the sudden shock of joy 
that swept over me, and I could only gasp out an enrap- 
tured "0 !" as he turned away and left me. 
From that time on my initiation into the mysteries of 
woodcraft had its beginning. All that year I hunted and 
fished with my father, eschewing the society of my 
former playmates, and scorning the terrors of the grove 
with the fence around it; and I fear that I put on airs, 
and essayed the manners of my elders, and spoke boast- 
ingly of the "fine mallards we shot the other day,", or 
"the big catch of fish we brought home yesterday." But 
the glory of these past performances faded into insig- 
nificance when my father announced the joyful news that 
I was to accompany him on his next trip to the woods— 
the real woods. O, the delicious hours I spent in antici- 
pation of my coming happiness! How I polished up my 
biggest jack-knife, and with what diligence did I consult 
the story books dealing with the life of a hunter! I 
acquired much useless knowledge, and whetted my appe- 
tite with tales of adventure until I longed for an oppor- 
tunity to outrival "Hawkeye" himself in deeds of might 
The intervening weeks dragged slowly by and were 
counted as years, until, at last, the longed-for day was 
there, and the world had not .come, to an end in the 
meanwhile, as I had greatly feared it might. 
How can I describe my feelings as we left the station 
at the end of the railway line and began the long drive 
through the forest to our camping ground? We spent 
that night with Hogarth, a settl'er who lived on the 
shores of a beautiful lake, and who had seven tall sons, 
like Ishmael of olden time. Early the next morning, 
with the aid of a clumsy, unwieldy batteau belonging to 
Hogarth, we transferred our outfit across the lake, and 
before noon the tents were erected; the camp-fire, with 
its huge backlog, was already blazing merrily, and we 
were unpacking our kits and getting our guns ready, and 
trying to do a dozen things at once — at least I was — 
and that was the beginning of my first day in the woods. 
And then came the dinner. My one idea of a meal 
cooked over a camp-fire bad been formed from my 
own youthful experiences in the culinary art, namely, 
a smoky, smudgy fire, a few charred ears of corn and a 
collection of small lumps of red-hot charcoal that at one 
time had borne the form and likeness of potatoes. 
(Sometimes we attempted to fry the potatoes, and the 
result — well, a few of us still survive.) But that dinner 
which Jim, the cook, set before us on an improvised table, 
with the command to "Git busy on the grub afore she 
gits cold," that dinner, I say, was a revelation, a marvel- 
ous revelation. What the menu consisted of matters 
not. There was an indescribable flavor of the pines and 
hemlocks, the spruce and cedar to the food, mingled with 
a faint aroma from the blazing pine knots of the camp- 
fire. It is an old story now. It is one of the siren voices 
calling to me at times far from the haunts of civilized 
man with his cooking stoves and gas ranges and other 
"modern conveniences." Yes, it is an old story now, 
but that first meal beneath the far away northern pines 
which Jim the cook served to us at midday, what a 
revelation it was. 
After dinner my father turned to me and said: 
, "I think I'll walk over to the old logging camp, if it 
is still there. Get your gun, we might run across a 
partridge." 
Now, this was the first intimation I had received that 
such a thing as a logging camp existed in that part of 
the woods, and the haste with which I complied with his 
request must have amused my father greatly. It was a 
perfect Indian summer day. The air was soft and hazy, 
and a deep stillness brooded over the forest. I longed to 
run ahead, and leap and shout aloud with the joy of being 
permitted to participate in the Relights of this hunter's 
paradise, but the fear of my father's disapproval, or pos- 
sibly ridicule, constrained me. I strove to emulate his 
calm cje meanor < while I could not but wonder at his ap- 
parent indifference to the marvelous beauty of the ever- 
varying picture that met our gaze at each step as we 
started on our way. I have since learned that feeling 
of appreciation and calm enjoyment which defies human 
language for expression. 
We ascended the ridge that sloped gently back from 
our camp, my father leading the way and I following- 
close on his heels until one or two-stinging blows across 
the face from the low hanging branches of a spruce or 
stunted jack-pine taught me to place a safer distance 
between my guide and myself. As we gained the top of 
the ridge, my father paused, and pointing to a faintly 
traced pathway, scarcely discernible to my inexperienced 
eye, said: 
"Here is the old Indian trail that was made ever so 
many years ago; in fact, years before a white man ever 
set foot in this forest. Be careful that you don't stub 
your toe on the root of some tree." 
The announcement sent a thrill through every nerve 
in my body. Here, then, was a real Indian trail such 
as I had read and dreamt about. Of course it was not as 
I had pictured it in my imagination, and I wondered if I 
should ever acquire sufficient knowledge of the woods to 
enable me to follow its obscure windings with any cer- 
tainty of success. Obviously the trail presented no such 
difficulties to my father, for he immediately went forward 
with the assured air of one who was familiar with much 
more vexing problems than that which now confronted 
us. And then my ever active imagination came to the 
fore, and transported me back to other days and other 
scenes of which I had read. 
• My father became Pathfinder — no, Hawkeye was the 
better name; Hawkeye, that boy's ideal of what a man 
of the woods should be, and I — I was his chosen friend 
and companion, Chingachgook, the wily "Sarpent," one 
of my best loved heroes of all romance. Down among 
the red sumach bushes and the yellowing birches that 
lined the shores of the lake lurked the dreaded Mingo. 
Through the tops of the trees gleamed the waters of the 
lake, and somewhere there, in his rough block house, 
was "Floating Tom" Hutter with his daughters two, and 
mighty '"Hurry Harry" was there, too, to protect them, 
So perfect was the illusion painted by my fancy, that 
when my father stubbed his toe and plunged forward 
with a greatly accelerated gait — a performance that would 
, have stirred my risibilities to their foundation under 
ordinary circumstances — I merely paused and glanced 
about for the hidden enemy who had fired the fatal shot 
that had wounded my erstwhile invulnerable companion. 
My father recovered his equilibrium with some difficulty, 
and continued on his way as though nothing had hap- 
pened. After a bit he glanced back over his shoulder, 
and observing my unruffled countenance was evidently 
suspicious of guile on the part of his son and heir. 
"Why don't you laugh?" he demanded. "You know 
you want to." 
T was wholly unprepared for this accusation, and fear- 
ing to offend him by some unfortunate explanation which 
he would misconstrue into deeper guile, I said nothing. 
"It is no laughing matter, however," he went on in 
grieved tones. "T might have injured myself very 
seriously if I hadn't recovered so quickly." 
O. the subtlety and deceit that is practiced on inex- 
perienced, unsophisticated, giddy youth! 
Presently the trail crossed an old roadway, and wc 
turned off to the left and followed where it led, and it led 
us to our destination. We emerged from the forest 
growth that lined the roacj on either side, and the next 
moment found ourselves standing in a small clearing — 
or what had once been a clearing, for a heavy Under- 
growth of bushes and weeds now choked the place. In 
the center of this clearing stood the ruins of an old log 
cabin. Time with his many varying seasons erf heat and 
cold, of rain and snow had set his mark upon this isolated 
dwelling. The huge logs of which it had been constructed 
"seemed to hold their own bravely, but on closer inspec- 
tion the finger of decay was plainly visible upon them. 
In places the rotting timbers or rafters of the roof had 
fallen from their supports, leaving a yawning hole in ' 
their stead. The walls, however, still stood firm, although 
the seams and interstices had spread apart in wide, open 
cracks, through which the desolate interior could be. 
clearly seen. A chipmunk or two went scampering away 
before us, and a lazy porcupine waddled off reluctantly 
into the underbrush with manifset signs of disapproval 
at our intrusion. The afternoon sun shone down upon 
this peaceful scene with genial warmth, and the tall, 
encircling pines, stirred by the faint breezes from the: 
south, waved their graceful plumes in solemn salutation. 
It seemed a sacrilege to break this fitting silence with 
idle questioning, therefore I curbed my desire for infor- 
mation and slowly followed in my fathers footsteps as' 
he walked around the building, surveying it with critical 
eye. At the rear another smaller cabin, in a more ad- 
vanced state of ruin, met our gaze. 
"That was the cook's cabin," my father explained. 
"The other is where the lumbermen lived." 
His voice aroused me from my cogitations, and I 
ventured to ask a few questions: Who had lived there? 
How long ago was it? Why had they left the cabin to 
its fate to fall to ruin? and so forth, and so on. 
My father answered me patiently. The cabin had been 
there twelve years to his knowledge, how much longer 
he could not say. It was there when he first hunted in 
that part of the wilderness. Lumbermen had built it and 
none but lumbermen had ever dwelt there; in other 
words, it was a lumber camp, and the men that had built 
it had left it to its fate after it had served its purpose 
as a home for them while they were cutting the timber 
in the surroimding forest. Probably Jim the cook could 
give me more definite information. So much did he tell, 
me, and I was impatient to hear more about this deserted 
cabin from Jim the cook, 
We returned to camp by the old logging road, a road 
in name only, for the forest had encroached all along its • 
meandering course on both sides, and the way was en- 
cumbered with many a fallen tree or moss-covered log, 
I killed my first partridge on this road that day. I was 
walking ahead on the lookout for something to shoot at, 
and when the bird scurried across the pathway a short 
distance before me I raised my gun and fired both bar- 
rels. Immediately there was a great fluttering and flop- 
ping where the partridge had been. I dashed forward, 
and, dropping my gun, fell bodily upon the expiring bird, 
and clutched at it desperately for fear it might escape me. 
My father watched my wild antics without comment. 
When the bird finally yielded up its life to my frantic 
embrace, I gradually came back to earth again, and rose 
to my feet somewhat shamefaced because of my display 
of "buck fever," if it could be so called. I held the 
partridge aloft in justification of my unsportsmanlike 
behavior, and regretted the act the next moment. In 
my struggles with the bird I had plucked out whole 
handtuls of feathers, and the effect was quite surprising, 
to say the least. I never before realized how indis- 
pensable a tail is to a bird's beauty. 
"What sort of a thing do you call that?" my father in- 
quired, with a grim smile. 
"I thought it was a partridge," I weakly made answer. 
"Humph! A partridge, eh?" said he. "A queer looking 
partridge I call it. It hasn't any tail, and it looks as if 
it were moulting. Why did you drop your gun?" 
"I didn't know that I had dropped it," I replied. 
"Guess I must have been pretty excited." 
"No one would have suspected it," he assured me, 
"though one barrel is generally sufficient to kill most 
birds. I thought you had shot nothing less than a deer, 
at least." 
I retired discomfited, picked up my gun and took an 
humble position in the rear. But, in spite of my chagrin, 
I was still highly elated over the success of my first shot 
in the "real woods." even though I had made a sort of 
' fool of myself. I had long since discovered that a boy 
never does anything right of his own accord, in the 
judgment of the wiseacres, and also that my male, 
acquaintances of riper years seemed blissfully unconscious 
of the fact that they had ever been boys themselves. 
Jim, the cook, smiled when he beheld my trophy of the 
hunt, but refrained from remarks, for which I blessed him 
in my inmost soul; and he broiled the partridge over the 
coals for supper that night, and the ambrosia of the gods 
was not to be compared with that delicious morsel of 
flesh. 
After supper I got Jim to tell me all about the old 
lumber camp and the men that built it, and he talked on 
and on in h'is slow, easy drawl until the shadows had 
deepened into darkness in the forest, and my sleepy eyes 
would no longer stay open, and my tired head began to 
nod on my breast. But when we had turned in for the 
night, and I found myself reclining for the first time 
on a sweet smelling couch of hemlock boughs, with the 
strange noises of the night sounding outside through the 
thin canvas walls of our tent, sleep forsook me alto- 
gether and left me lying there, listening with beating 
heart to each new sound, and wondering if it could be 
some fierce beast of prey about to attack us in our weak 
shelter. The deep, regular breathing of my two com- 
panions indicated that my fears were groundless^ and I 
was just dropping off to sleep when suddenly- a loud, and 
to my imagination, piercing cry broke the stillness of the 
night. I sat up with a start, straining my ears for a 
repetition of the dread sound, and when it came I re- 
tired beneath the protecting folds of my blankets. I 
fully expected my father to spring out of bed, rifle in 
hand, to meet this new foe — panther or wolf, or' whatever 
it might be — but as no such a demonstration took place, 
I feared to rouse the camp, and lay shivering with terror 
in my bunk, until, through sheer weariness, I at last fell 
asleep. For the next two nights my slumbers were dis- 
turbed by the same fearful cry, and I wondered how my 
father and Jim could sleep on unmoved at the threaten- 
ing sound — so deeply oblivious of the lurking danger; 
and it cost me a mighty effort to dissemble my feelings 
and imitate their calm stoicism. 
On the morning of the fourth day. as we were sitting 
at the breakfast table, my father bcoke, ..the spell by 
inquiring: ,* -' . 
"Did you hear that big owl hooting last night?" 
