202 
FOREST AND STREAM 
IMakch 15, ige* 
An Unseen Year. 
Sr" 1 ^ BY ROWLAND E. ROBINSON. 
A domed wall of darkness, intangible yet impenetrable, 
shuts me in from sky, fields, winds and waters so con- 
tinually that the brightness of the sunniest day and the 
gloom of the blackest night are indistinguishable. 
Yet the voices of nature come to my ears, its breath, 
laden with divers odors, to my nostrils, her touch makes 
response to mine; and so I have a notion, a New Year's 
one, that is likely enough to be abandoned in a little 
while, to make note of the year's passage by such signs 
as are vouchsafed me. It will serve to amuse me for 
awhile at least, and perhaps sometime interest some one 
else to know how the world goes with one who is in 
perpetual night. 
Jan. i, 1898.— I happened to be awake at midnight when 
the old year went out with a roar of the north wind's 
trumpet and with banners of snow flying;, and with like 
pomp the new year came in. Here amid the open fields 
there was such a tumult of sound that the roar and 
shriek of passing trains were swallowed up in it. How 
much greater it must have been in the woods, a countless 
host of trees lifting up their voices in a mighty chorus and 
clashing their branches and booming downfalls like an 
irregular cannonade. Or along the lake with waves 
crashing and thundering on rocks and level shores, torn 
crests hissing and seething over miles of surface, the 
winds shrieking through the bent cedars and clashing 
their icy branches at the upturned sprawls of juniper. 
Through the straight-blown mist of snow and spray, Split 
Rock Light is shining for the last night of this winter 
on the leaping pillar of foam at the end of the point and 
on the racing waves. The wind whines and moans in the 
chimney as I used to hear it fifty-odd years ago in the 
old Friends' meeting house on First days and Fifth days, 
while we were waiting - for the spirit to move some 
ministering friend. I remember far more distinctly the 
solemn plaint oi the wind, the murmur of the stove's 
draft and the singing of the sappy wood, than the weighty 
testimonies of the elders, though their venerable forms, 
long since departed, still arise before me, benign ghosts. 
The storm raged all day, and few passing teams were 
reported. 
Jan. 2 began in calm and with a clear sky. The last is 
evident to me as the first, when the sun rose and shone 
warm through the windows, though the mercury was 
twelve degrees below in the early morning. By and bye 
the wind arose out of the north and was blowing half a 
gale at nightfall. 
Jan. 3 — So it continues this morning, with a snow 
squall and then sunshine. (I now forefeel that this record 
will be short-lived, for handicapped as I must be there 
will be little of nature's doings made manifest to me.) 
A loud, deep, , solemn monotone of wind in the trees; 
amid it rather than above it, though higher pitched, the 
harping of the telegraph wires. Why do none of the 
wise men tell us the causes of this harping? Is it the 
wind, the electric current or the contracting of the wires 
by the lowering of the temperature? 
Jan. 4 — Night and morning a frozen silence, not broken 
by a note of the telegraph wires nor the cracking of the 
trees. This reminds me that in a thunderstorm last 
summer I heard the lightning strike the great elm near 
the "Polly house," and the sound coming just before the 
crash of thunder was just like that of a tree cracking 
with stress of frost. I hear no birds nor anything to 
make note of. At evening they tell me of the setting 
sun and rising moon, both casting shadows. 
Jan. 5— Must copy the boy's diary. "Forgot what did." 
Shall have to abandon my plan and record only the note- 
worthy days. 
Jan. 6 — The softening south wind portends a thaw,- 
which the afternoon brings, and at night a few wind- 
blown raindrops fall upon my face as I go out. I hear 
the drip of the eaves all night, and twice the thud of 
snow sliding from the roof. 
Jan. 7 — Light breeze from the north, increasing toward 
noon. A partial eclipse of the moon this evening, which 
our folks were all greatly interested to see because it is a 
rare sight. The moon rising behind a mountain peak or a 
pine tree, or with a cloud passing over it is as beautiful, 
yet so common a sight as to attract no particular atten- 
tion. 
Jan. 8— South wind, softening the snow. Some sleighs 
passing with bells jingling, slow teams and runners grind- 
ing a dismal accompaniment; but it is sleighing. 
Jan. 9 — A good, wholesome air of northern flavor. 
Jan. 10 — The wind south again, and how quickly the 
temperature responds, though we can catch no savor of 
the sea nor of the green fields over which this wind so 
lately blew. Neither does the north wind bring us the 
odor of the Esquimaux igloos, but it does blow down to 
us now and then a snowy owl and flurries of snow 
buntings and Arctic grosbeaks like showers of red snow. 
Jan. 15— Snow falling nearly all day, but in all only 
four or five inches. George drawing wood from the 
mountain, and says there are no fox tracks to be seen. 
They have probably made a partial migration to the 
lake shore or the back hills. I must ask people of both 
regions. Joe tells of pheasant tracks back side of Shell- 
house Mountain. 
Jan. 16 — A fine, quiet winter day. 
Jan. 19— To-day, coming up our road, the familiar path 
under snow is strange to my feet and staff, and I go 
astray. Then I hear a nuthach, and think I locate the tree 
he is on, and so myself, but am mistaken and bring up 
.against the front porch instead of the kitchen stoop, which 
I thought myself near. Rachael makes a trip to the moun- 
tain on the wood sled without discoveries, unless of hints 
for pictures. 
Jan. 20— Snow falling this morning. I feel it drifting in 
my face from the south. Afternoon it turns to rain, fall- 
ing noiselessly on the snow, and a flat, unmusical drip 
from the eaves. 
Jan, 21— The north wind is roaring in the woods and 
whining and moaning in the chimneys. I am carried again 
to the old Friends' meeting house. I remember as. jif it 
were yesterday, the moaning of the wind at the funeral 
when I gained my first acquaintance with the awful 
mystery of death. I can distinctly recall the solemnity of 
the scene; the venerable forms of the white-haired minis- 
ters and elders, sitting motionless, in silence on the high 
seats; the hushed congregation, the awe with which it all 
filled me, especially that central object, the plain pine 
coffin, unadorned by a single flower, but with a bunch 
of tansy on the lid, diffusing its pungent, bitter odor, ever 
after associated in my mind with funerals. 
Jan. 28 — The men go to the mountains to cut timber, 
and report a little more than two feet of snow in the 
woods. The boy goes with them to chop, and proves him- 
self in some measure a chip of the old block, his pioneer 
great-grandfather Stevens, taking handily to the ax. 
Jan. 30 — Twenty degrees below zerb. I hear wood- 
peckers, chickadees and jays out at the meat placed on 
the tree for them. 
Feb. 3 — Our folks report a new pensioner taking his 
dole from the meat, a forlorn little crow, so small that he 
was not easily recognizable. He was driven away by a 
female downy. A stranger asked if he might bait his 
tired horse in our "ba'n." I knew before he told me that 
he came from "over the mountain." You can tell an 
eastern Vermonter by the softening or the dropping of his 
r's, as no born western Vermonter does, unless he has 
cultivated elegance of diction. The treatment of the let- 
ter by our eastern brethren, who flatten and twist the 
fourth vowel as ruthlessly as we do, is as marked as that 
of our common hereditary enemies, the Yorkers, yet with 
a difference. It is a curious fact that the "height of land 
is a dividing line of dialects of a people having the same 
colonial ancestry. This is not more curious than the 
fact that it is unconsciously spoken by inhabitants of 
one region, while they are quite aware of the peculiarities 
of speech in the pople of another. The New Yorker 
sneers at me when I tell of my "caow," while I wonder 
to what sort of a landing he brought his craft when he 
"droved her up to the whauf." Each is unaware that 
he is not speaking good English. 
Feb. 8 — One day follows another, of which I find 
nothing to report more than would a frog encased in a 
rock or tree, aware of a difference in temperature, hearing 
the noises of day and noting the stillness of night in the 
constant unvarying darkness. 
Feb. 12— -It has thawed for four days and spoiled the 
sleighing. I am compensated in hearing the distant 
brooks whisper of spring. This long thaw is remarkable 
for the absence of rain. Otherwise, we would have had. 
a flood. 
March 6 — Last night there was the perfect stillness of 
winter nights, now and then broken by the crack of a 
frosty tree like a blow struck on resonant wood. 
March 10— I hear spring-like sounds in the daytime; 
the hammering of a woodpecker and the soft nasal piping 
of the nuthatches; in the night, the south winds signing 
among the trees and the dripping of the eaves. 
The North Country. 
III.— A Morning's Call. 
It was just before dawn that Karl called me, and after 
stumbling about the little cabin, lit our invaluable lantern 
and started a few sticks in the stove. This early hour, 
before N the birds are awake, is the coldest of the twenty- 
four, and one can easily understand that, although all 
the chinks of our house were well stuffed with moss, it 
still leaked enough to make one want to bury one's nose 
in the blankets. But we soon had a fire going and a pot 
of coffee boiling. Then I rolled out and performed the 
formalties of rising outside, with a tooth brush and a 
little — a very little — soap and water. The stars shivered 
in the velvety sky through the trees, and thin ice skim- 
mered the pail. A "cat's lick," as my old nurse use"d to 
call my boyish attempts at cleanliness, was all the atmos- 
phere encouraged. A moment found me indoors again; 
then, before the fire, came a gulp of coffee and a biscuit 
pocketed to carry along with me. I took my rifle, five 
extra shells, and behold, we were out in the quiet breath- 
the night again, climbing the hill through the mysterious 
and shifting, morning gloom of the woods toward the 
water — one short mile away. How majestic the great 
trees loom in the dark! How bright stand the birches 
and how gloomy the thickets ! But the stars were paling, 
night was rapidly passing over the hills, and before we 
came to the end of the trail had slipped away from be- 
fore the day. 
If some of the peaked-faced men and women one 
meets at balls would only try the other end of night for 
their festivities, and hold them out of doors, as we 
hunters . do, would it not make them better men and 
women, as well as healthier? 
Everything was crisp with frost. It made swords of 
every grass blade, and a broken twig cracked sharply in 
the stillness. Near the lake a flock of spruce partridges 
rose noisily into a clump of pines, but we could not stop 
for them. Mists rose from the water, a cloud of airy 
white spectres that floated away with the lightest air 
making room for new ones to arise, Aphrodite-like, and 
weave rings and spirals with all the grace of nature. We 
took one long look, and then, "Nobody !" whispered Karl, 
so we crept along by the old blind where I had killed the 
caribou, and over toward a long deserted beaver house. 
Here the bushes made fine cover, and it had the double 
advantage of standing well out from the shore. To 
reach it one had to jump from a bunch of swamp grass, 
and, as luck would have it, my moccasins slipped, and 
down I fell into a good three feet of cold mud and water. 
If Karl had not leaned forward and caught me, I might 
be still sinking, so oozy was the black, ill-smelling slime. 
In such bright, frosty air it does not take long to get 
chilled, but Karl, the far-seeing, had a blanket to wrap 
round me. Into this I sat me down and tried to dry my 
wet trousers from the inside out. Any one who has 
tried this knows it is a tedious operation, and so I 
found it. 
The morning was ideal, still and cold — the morning a 
caller loves. The yellow horn, a new one, wider a trifle 
than the last, gave forth a bugle note that floated . off 
lightly over the tree tops. You could hear the echoes 
roll over the "hills and search out every nook and thicket 
for a mile and a half. We waited patiently, but no an- 
swer. Again Karl called, beginning clear, and after a 
long sustained note, ending with the grunt we all know. 
No answer. Twenty minutes went by. I shifted once 
or twice in. my wet clothes to see if they were any dryer, 
but they were only coMer. The sun was now changing 
the pine tops to gold. Very slowly it came, and it was 
a surprise to find that it finally was up after all, and yet 
it seemed as if it had jumped up suddenlv, and with it 
came the morning breeze. 
A few minutes more and the horn was raised to try 
again, when Karl suddenly dropped it, and away off 
over the forest came the faint but distinct grunt of the 
bull. Again came the answer, and then, after a few 
moments of silence, Karl raised his hand for attention. 
"Hark !" said he, and we heard the call of the cow. "She 
won't leave him go," said he, "but we'll see." And the 
horn again woke the echoes, lower this time and more 
pleadingly, if possible. We hardly dared breathe now as 
the moments went silently by. Squirrels chirruped and 
jays screamed in the woods, and at each break in the 
quiet I thought the owner of the voice had been startled 
by the approaching moose. How quiet the woods can be 
of a morning, and yet what a bustle there is of awaken- 
ing life ! A bird whistles, a squirrel scolds, the wind 
rustles the trees, and a duck flaps around in the water 
as if it was his first bath of the season. A song sparrow 
hopped out on a branch some^ ten feet away, and late as 
was the season, poured out his little thankful heart in a 
melody of praise. There was no motions or sound on 
the beaver house except the chattering of our teeth, loud 
enough to frighten an army, it seemed, but we concluded 
afterward that we were not so much scared as cold. 
After a half-hour of silence, and that intense listening 
which strains the ear and the imagination, and after a 
low grunt from the yellow horn and another long spell 
of -watching the shores, suddenly there was a great crash- 
ing of sticks on the hillside near the lake. My rifle 
automatically came to the ready and Karl beat the bushes 
with his horn. Every moment we expected to see his 
black bride burst into the light, but no moose was forth- 
coming. We waited and waited, but waited in vain. 
I hope he returned to the fair one he had deserted and 
quieted her sobs and made it all up, for certa : n!y her 
bawls denoted a most distressed state of mind, and I'm 
sure one of her remarks referred to Karl as "that for- 
ward hussy," which had more poetical than actual justice 
in it. We decided that night, on talking over the an- 
noying affair, while discussing also the best of suppers — 
which I must stop to tell you I prepared myself of boiled 
rice and a can of tomatoes heated in the fry pan — we de- 
cided, I repeat, that the light breeze must have carried the 
scent of the carcass of the Doctor's moose to his brother 
on the hill, or, possibly, a whiff of the human taint 
reached him, but in any case he gave us a glorious thrill, 
quite worth a wetting. George F. Dominick, Jr. 
[to be continued.] 
A Walk Down South— XX. 
1 was in Saltville until Tuesday, December 31. I tried 
to go through the salt works, but the company thought I 
was after the secrets of its trade — thought I was a chemist 
sent to Saltville by a rival company to learn the process — 
so they shut me out. I told them that it was the first 
time I'd been regarded as a sneak thief. 
On Tuesday morning the sun shone, and after a good- 
bye to the folks in general, I started down the railroad 
track with Backley for company. Neither one of us 
was anxious to part from the other. We could not tell 
whether we would ever meet again or not. One day he 
had said: 
"The man who gave me this corkscrew died of thirst 
on an Australian desert." 
Again : 
"Here is half of a penny. The man who has the other 
half I don't know where he is." 
A letter Backley got from New Zealand one day while 
I was there told of the death of one of his friends on an 
African battlefield. These things made partings hard 
for him — and the same for me. 
Three miles down the railroad we climbed a hill, and 
on top of it beside the road we looked at a snow-covered 
mountain miles away. We saw a little river boiling full 
crossing the road at the foot of the ridge, and Backley 
went down to help me across the rail that served as a 
bridge. Then it was "good-bye." Few days have been 
so hard as that "evening" when I plodded down the 
middle of a road ankle deep with red mud that stuck to 
my shoes by the pounds. 
That night I stopped at the Rev. Mr. Buck's. I was 
tired, weary and wet with sweat. At an early hour I 
went to bed, rolled up in my thick woolen blanket, under 
the ample covering hoping to stave off a cold that was 
coming on. The sleep was good and the cold was beaten. 
In the morning it was frosty and very "fresh," or cold. It 
was New Year's Day. 
"I hope you'll remember the hereafter," the good parson 
said on parting. 
The road grew worse every mile. The frost had not 
frozen deep enough to make the mud substantial. Some- 
times I slid off the hummocks, sometimes I sank into 
them. A brook ran down the center of the way in one 
place for several rods. It was a long valley, just over 
the ridge from the Holston. A grazing land, there were 
some fine red cattle here and there along it. 
I stopped at a little village, Glenford, Va., early in 
the afternoon. My shoes needed soling. I learned that 
there was no water a boatman need fear on the Little 
Holston. There were some dams, but I could get over 
most of them, and pull around those I couldn't run. On 
the second of January I reached Hughes' Ford, two miles 
from Glenford. A carpenter was on the opposite bank 
where I landed, and he agreed to build me a' boat then 
and there. 
On the following day I went up to a little sawmill 
and got an 8-foot piece of white oak plank, .green, but 
clear of knots, for a paddle. I drew a plan on the board. 
It was six inches wide for the blade and two inches wide 
for the handle, five feet three inches over all. The blade 
was two feet four inches long from the foot of the grip 
to the point. 
I made the paddle of a £hape Backley had recom- 
mended — the Maori blade. The^ sides are parallel for 
sixteen inches, then at each end it tapers one to a point 
and the other into the handle. One side is rounded, the 
other hollowed to a depth oi nearly a quarter of an 
