FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Jaw. 4, 1903. 
A Cry in the Night. 
A Story of the Maine Woods. 
I place this on record as the most remarkable story that 
has ever come out of the Maine hunting woods— and I 
know considerable about the stories of the Maine woods. 
If it were not vouched for so eminently I would not tell 
it. It would be too much for credulity and wouldn't be 
worth the telling. I believe it, for I know the men who 
tell it to me, even though they cannot explain it. They 
believe it and do not try to explain it, for they feel they 
cannot. Here it is. If the thing seems too much to 
believe, then don't believe it. But the facts are facts just 
the same. 
x9^i- "? of B P arstone Mountain, in the town 
of Llkotsville, in Piscataquis county. Maine, lives Trust- 
rum H. Brown, who calls himself "The Mediator." He 
entertains the harmless vagary that he is the mediator 
between man and God. For some fifteen years since his 
retirement to the wilderness of northern Maine he has 
been writing what he calls a new Bible, and he has a 
mass of manuscript piled a foot high. By the way I have 
exam-ned The Mediator's manuscript considerably, and 
it is far from being balderdash. Much of his writing in- 
dicates real thought and considerable ability. The Medi- 
ator is in no sense of the word a crazy man despite his 
hallucination on the subject of religion. 
Brown has a bit of a farm and raises potatoes and 
vegetables enough to last him through the winter. He 
traps a little and hunts a bit an# never goes hungry. 
Early in December, just after the first snow of the sea- 
son, he discovered one morning the fresh tracks of a 
moose near his house. By the manner in which the crea- 
ture's great feet had splayed into the snow, Brown saw 
that the moose was a big one. In his capacity of mediator 
he asserts that there are ten thousand spirits about him 
ah the time. He alleges that he asked one of these 
spirits to tell him how big the moose was, and that the 
spirit skipped along ahead and then came back and ren- 
dered him the information that the moose was none 
other than the Ambajejus Giant that had defied the rifles 
of the hunters for years. The spirit further declared, so 
Brown avers, that the moose didn't have much of a start. 
So The Mediator tied on his snowshoes, grabbed his 
rifle and a bit of a snack, and started away on the lope 
into the forest. That was early in the morning. Well, 
The Mediator scuffed along till noon without coming up 
with the moose. But the tracks still continued fresh, and 
his spirit guide, so he says, kept breathing into his ear 
that the animal was almost in reach. He ate his lunch 
of cold venison as he walked, for in a stern chase of a 
moose no time Is to be wasted. His keen woodman's eye 
noted that the clouds hung low and were massing darker 
and darker. Had he not been so confident that the moose 
was just ahead of him and would "yard" at the coming of 
nightfall, he would have abandoned the chase. But his 
hope toled him on. 
At 4 o'clock it was dusk, and still the splay tracks were 
stretching on ahead of him. Then he could see them no 
longer, and regretfully he brought to In a ravine and 
abandoned the chase for the night. 
He had not reckoned on the long pursuit, and therefore 
he had not provided himself in the usual cautious man- 
ner. Above all, he had not brought his woods axe. 
Only a man accustomed to the woods realizes how seri- 
ous an omission this is. The Mediator was able to collect 
some dry kye or limbs that had dropped from the trees 
and he hewed off some low branches with his hunting 
knife. He kindled a bit of a fire at the foot of a tree. 
He did not dare to go to sleep, for the cold was raw and 
piercing. So he. stood and turned himself before the 
fire like an animated spit, moving constantly to keep 
awake. 
In the morning there was nothing left of his provender 
except one flat-chested biscuit. Had he not been unduly 
fired with zeal to catch that moose he would have retraced 
his steps. But he felt that probably the animal had 
yarded a little way ahead and so on he went. He did 
come across the trampled place where the moose had spent 
the night, and with its great teeth had ripped off the twigs 
and bark. By the mighty reach The Mediator saw that 
the animal was a monster, and on he drove eagerly in a 
skurry of snow from his broad shoes. Still those mon- 
strous splotches in the snow kept trailing away ahead of 
him. 
Then some unkind weather sprite joggled the clouds 
overhead. The snow commenced to come in the fine, driv- 
ing flakes that indicate a protracted storm. Then, and 
not till then, did the reckless hunter turn about. But 
before an hour had passed the snow, driving faster and 
faster, covered his tracks. Night came on again. Once 
more he lighted his fire, and, dizzy for want of sleep, stag- 
gered about it, struggling to keep awake. The Mediator 
is nearly seventy years old, but his lithe little form is 
inured to hardship by many years of woods life. A less 
experienced man Or one with less vitality must have suc- 
cumbed. 
The snow came down damp and heavy, and the sag- 
ging boughs above kept dropping clumps down on to his 
shoulders and into his neck. 
At the first lightening that showed that morning was 
approaching, he ate the last crumbs of his biscuit and 
started away. But the snow drove hard in his face. He 
was weak with hunger and sick for sleep. His limbs were 
stiff and his whole body ready to sink with fatigue. Ac- 
customed though he was to the woods, it is not surprising 
that in a few hours he knew that he had lost his way. 
But still he kept on, hoping that he might come across 
some trail or water course, his chief hope of rescue, some 
logging camp. 
The snow ceased in the afternoon, but a sharp and 
driving wind succeeded. It flung the drying snow and 
shrieked with it through the trees and clearings. The fine 
particles cut his face like the dust of a sand storm. , Few 
men have made a fiercer struggle for life than he. It is 
probable that partial delirium overtook him, for he in^ 
sists that he could not only hear his spirit guides, but could 
see them as they flocked about him and beckoned him on. 
At dusk he was in a country wholly unknown. There 
were mountains off to the right, but he did not recognize 
the peaks nor the surroundings. About an hour after the 
dark came down, with the wind still driving the snow 
into his eyes, he came out into a section that he recog- 
nized at last. It was "The Gulf." This is a canon about 
three miles long, through which the west branch of 
Pleasant River rages. The walls are precipices. But 
along the north side skirts a wood road leading to camps 
miles above, and into this road The Mediator staggered. 
Now, he was desperately weak. But he knew that if he 
could round the foot of the canon and scramble for three 
miles up the side of the first Chairback he would come 
to Long Pond, where there were camps. 
t It was now a race for life. He stood his dear old 
rifle against a tree and hung his cartridge belt on a limb. 
Then he cinched the belt around his thin waist and started. 
He was in a half-stupor when he came down to the frozen 
ford at the foot of the canon. He crossed, and striking 
the corduroy road that leads up the first Chairback he 
plowed on. , He fell a dozen times, but he had sense 
enough left to struggle up and dig to his task again. 
When he made Long Pond his strength was nearly 
gone. But he knew that across the pond lay Hall & 
Davis' sporting camp, three miles away. The wind was 
still driving the snow, and he miscalculated his route 
3 cross. When he came to shore he peered in all direc- 
tions and listened. There was no glimmer of light any- 
where, and no sound indicating that any camp was near. 
His knees were doubling under him by this time. His 
strength was gone; his eyes would not stay open, and he 
gave up. He stumbled and crawled up on the shore and 
fell across a log. His tongue was swollen in his mouth 
and his throat was dry. He says that he tried to shout 
but he could utter no sound but a gurgling whisper. Then 
he became unconscious. 
• 1 
Now comes the strange part of the story. 
There was at the Hall & Davis camps at that time a 
hunting party from the town of Dexter. Among them 
were N. E. Meigs, the leading clothier of the place, and 
Walter Abbott, one of the proprietors of the large Abbott 
woolen mill. Mr. Meigs had been out that day with the 
party, and in trying to cross the pond had frozen both 
his ears, so bitter was the cold. He would have perished 
had not his guide beaten him to make him walk. He had 
desired to lie down and go to sleep on the snow, and had 
begrged the others to go away and leave him. 
On this evening he was lying in his bunk wondering 
whether or not he was going to be able to save his ears. 
They were wrapped up and were aching fearfully, and 
Mr. Meigs wasn't taking the most intense interest in any 
outside matters. The others were playing pitch-pede 
before the fire. 
Suddenly Mr. Meigs raised himself on his elbow and 
cried, "I hear some one shouting for help." 
The others stopped their play and listened. Beyond 
the moaning of the wind in the chimney and the sough 
of the big trees outside there was no sound. 
"Folks with frozen ears can hear 'most anything," re- 
marked one of his comrades. 
"But I certainly heard some one shout," persisted 
Meigs. 
"Do you believe for a moment," said his friend, "that 
a man with his ears done up like a pound of pickled tripe 
could hear a sound that we didn't?" 
The clothing man admitted that it didn't seem very 
probable, but still he persisted in his opinion strenuously. 
At last one of the guides went to the door and shouted 
into the night. There was no response. 
"It couldn't have been," he said, returning. . 
"I don't want to be stubborn in this matter,' said Mr. 
Meigs, "but I do think that we ought to make some 
investigation. I can't go to sleep with the notion that 
some poor cuss is out there in the cold. Somehow or 
other I can't reason myself out of the notion that there 
Is something the matter outside, and I wish you would 
look it up. I'd go myself If it were not for my ears. < 
After poking some fun at the persistent man arguing 
from his nest in the bunk, two of the guides put on their 
outer clothing and went out. 
"Of course it may be that some one has dropped into 
the water hole down here a piece," said one of them, "but 
as that's more than a mile away it don't stand to reason 
that you could have heard any shouting with your ears 
done up in that manner." 
In the course of fifteen minutes one of the men came 
running back, and those in the camp heard him pulling 
the moose sled out of the lean-to. 
"There is something the matter after all down at the 
water hole." he cried to those within. "Ed was ahead 
and he hollered back to me to bring the moose sled. 
And in a little while they came tugging into the camp a 
stiff figure that the guides, as soon as the man was m the 
lamplight, recognized as Mediator Trustrum H. Brown, of 
E1 Affirst e they thought he was dead. But they Messed 
him and set' h-'m bodily into a tub of ice-cold water. They 
rubbed him with snow and after some work he commenced 
to revive Then they poured whisky and brandy down 
his throat, and at midnight he was sitting up and telling 
^I^two dayThe was all right and lively once more, and it 
may be stated here while I am on the subject of recoveries, 
tVinf- Mr Mei^s saved his ears. f * ± 
4w Tl^Med^tor swears that the sound he emitted 
when he sank down on the log was only a whisper Even 
a shout as loud as a foghorn woujd scar cely JJ^e been 
heard a mile away by the men mside a log camp heavily 
banked with snow. . . 
That the sound should have been heard by a man with 
his ears frozen and wrapped in bandages is more curious 
still But for that I have authority that cannot be dis- 
puted. Both sides have told me their stones. 
They do not try to explain it— neither will I. a 
But as I remarked in the first place, I set this down, 
not only as one of the most remarkable stories of endur- 
ance that the Maine woods have ever reported, but as a 
mystery that is almost uncanny. r ^ 
A Tennessee Outing. — IL 
The snapping of the wood fire was the pleasant sound 
that recalled me from dreamland next morning. The 
Doctor was already up and had about completed his 
morning toilet. 
"Five thirty," said he, when he saw me stirring, "heavy 
frost and clear as a bell." 
The favorable and welcome weather report set me to 
moving in earnest, and the early breakfast announcement 
found me ready. 
The oatmeal, with real, rich cream — the kind that tastes 
right, as well as looks right; the town article generally 
doing only the latter — had about determined me to repeat 
the dose and skip down the bill of fare to coffee when 
the culinary goddess entered with a larg^ dish of country 
sausage, friend brown. 
• Bless my life! what an aroma pervaded the atmosphere 
as soon as it passed the threshold. 
No disturbing doubt as to the pedigree of that sausage. 
Simmering, bubbling, sputtering in the rich, brown gravy,, 
every cake a beautiful rich brown and the size of an 
honest man's dollar, it was a sight to cause one to forget 
both moderation and caution, and eat to repletion, though 
the morrow brought a sad reckoning. I was well on the 
way with my second sausage — that might or might not . 
lead to repentance (for my department of the interior 
rather lords it at home) — when Uncle Bill, the colored 
man of all work, put his head in at the door and briefly 
announced : 
"Hen hawk out heah gittin a chicken, Doctor." The 
Doctor passed this report on to me for action, accom- 
panied with an appealing look. 
Telling Uncle Bill to wait a moment, I secured my 
gun and accompanied him out to the chicken yard, where 
the chickens were protesting vigorously, but where I did 
not expect to find the hawk still lingering. As we passed 
from behind the house and came in view of the rear 
fence, there sat the hawk, a long, slender, piratical 
looking rascal; apparently enjoying the confusion and ex- 
citement he was causing among the chickens, that were 
running about seeking shelter in the yard. It was rather 
a long shot, but as I knew he would dart down and keep 
the fence between us, as he flew off, I did not try to 
approach any nearer. He pitched from the fence when 
I fired, and believing him safely disposed of, I returned 
to the house, leaving Uncle Bill to investigate and report. 
I had just resumed my interrupted breakfast when the 
girl, coming in with hot rolls, announced "De hawk ain' 
dead, an' Uncle Bill got de gun an' goin' aftah him 
agin." The fact that Uncle Bill had my gun, my new 
gun that I would hardly let a friend handle with ungloved 
hands, and probably had never heard of a "hammerless," 
caused me to hurry out again, and in the lot near the 
hen house I found the privileged character in question 
turning the gun over and over looking for the hammers. 
"Here, give it to me. Uncle Bill,"^ I said. 
"How you goin' shoot it," he inquired, rather suspi- 
ciously, as though he suspected some trick. Not caring 
to enlighten him on that point, I inquired for the hawk. 
"Dah he, sah; rite oveh dah settin' on de groun'." 
And looking in the direction indicated I saw the hawk 
sitting erect and defiant, but evidently wounded. 
Throwing the gun in position for ready wing shooting, 
I walked toward the bird. 
"Dat neah 'nough, sah," said my sable assistant. "Yo' 
kin git him from dah." Then, as I approached nearer, 
he called excitedly: "He goin' fly, sah. He sho' goin' 
fly. Shoot, sah, shoot!" 
Then he did fly, and waiting until the wings were 
spread full, and the distance right, I cut him down, and 
fully completed the job of making him a good hawk. 
Wing snooting was rather a novelty to Uncle Bill, and 
the easy shot was, in his eyes, a great feat. 
"Hi, dat good, sah!" he shouted. "Dat is de way to 
do um. I'd sho' give fifty cents if I could do dat way 
once," 
Being out for recreation, and not business, I let this 
opportunity to turn an honest penny slip by, and re- 
turned to the house, when, without further interruption, 
I finished my breakfast. The air was still and cold, but 
the sun shone warm; and by the time we got well out 
in the bird cover most of the frost was melted, leaving 
a dampness in the ground that was excellent to retain 
scent 
Old Jack felt too good to stay on the ground, and went 
to work at a pace that no other dog could have kept for 
more than a half hour. 
We found our first covey on the side of a steep ridge, 
and got one and mussed up the feathers of another bird 
on the flush. 
The wounded bird was the first bird shot, and seemed 
to be coming down all right, so I attended to another 
with the second barrel, only to see the first bird -e- 
covered sufficiently to fly out of sight over the next ridge. 
I hate to see a bird going bravely on that 1 have tried 
my best to stop and have help fill the lean and hungry 
look of my game pocket; but with a keener and more 
lasting regret do I see one going off in a wounded or 
maimed condition; and hence it is my invariable rule 
to keep shooting at the first bird shot at until both bar- 
rels are fired, unless the first be sufficient. Retrieving 
my dead bird, I crossed over the next ridge in the line 
of flight taken by my wounded bird, and was fortunate 
enough to locate it. The dog pointed, just over the 
ridge, and going to him and following his line of vision, 
I saw the bird in the weeds about three feet from the end 
of his nose. There was a thicket near, and when I 
flushed the bird it flew toward that, in an uncertain, 
fluttering way, owing to being badly wing-tipped, and as 
it was shoot quick or see it go into the thicket, I did the 
former, but attempted a bit of fine work by holding high, 
endeavoring to get the bird with the outside edge of the 
charge only, so as not to shoot it up badly. 
I drew the bit of fine work too fine, and the bird went 
into the thicket untouched by that shot, and after crawl- 
ing and scrambling through brush and briers for fifteen 
minutes longer, after a bird that I had two fair shots 
at, I had the humiliation of seeing it run into a brush 
pile and caught by the dog. 
Returning to the open we got among the scattered 
birds and put up four, killing all but three of them. 
Tack got on his dignity again and began to look in- 
