FOREST AND STREAM. 
| April 12, 1902. 
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The Old Line Fence. 
Thoreau found that when he started off for a stroll 
without any particular destination in mind he somehow 
gravitated toward the southwest. In such a case I find 
myself heading instinctively for an old fence that divides 
two series of farms, among them one which was ray home 
in youthful days. Beginning in the edge of the village 
the fence runs straight out into the country about two 
miles. It is composed, by turns, of wire, stumps, rails 
laid zigzag, rails laid straight and a combination of stones 
and rails, It is not really handsome at any point, but it is 
picturesque in spots, and upon it are strung not only 
charming rural nooks, but pleasant incidents and obser- 
vations of many years; so that the strolling feet still 
naturally follow it at times, and memory and imagination 
at other times. 
The old fence passes in succession open fields and 
remnants of woodland, and along it I carried my first 
shotgun and my first rifle, with plenty of enthusiasm, 
though without much game, of which, indeed, there has 
not been much on this line within my time here. When 
these woods were larger and denser it was not surprising 
to start a ruffed grouse hereabout, but that was mostly 
back of my gunning days. Even now a stray grouse 
may be seen here after a long interval, and the only quail 
I ever knew to be found in the town were flushed near 
the old line two or three years ago. My first practice 
in wing shooting was had in these fields, upon blackbirds, 
kildeers, kingbirds, which a neighbor liked to have killed 
on account of their attentions to his bees, and meadow 
larks, which, in the eccentricities of legislation, were 
game some years, though their season opened so 
late in the fall that most of them had gone south. 
The shootable animals within range of the fence in 
these days are not for the most part game. Nor are 
they all even "grub" to the ordinary white American. 
The occasional rabbits fall under one of these heads, 
and the red squirrels are eatable at a pinch, but the 
woodchucks find no bidders except the Italian laborers 
on the railroad near by. Sport is to be had here now- 
adays with the rifle rather than the shotgun, and not 
too rhuch of it with either. Fortunately this ramble has 
other attractions. Wintergreens, sassafras, chestnuts, 
apples and berries appeal to one sort of taste. The 
botanist and the ornithologist find their game here 
whether the gunner does or not; and the indiscriminate 
nature-lover, professor of no ology, is sure of entertain- 
ment and pleasure. 
Wandering away from the village along the familiar 
fence we soon come to the fields where I worked a good 
deal and sported a little in the auld lang syne. Farm 
life is generally more favorable to work than to sport. 
Here the line crosses a ridge that looks over at the little 
farm house which was the last home of the unbroken 
family circle. We all left it long ago, yet some drawing 
of the old home tie doubtless helps to make it natural 
to turn thisway when I drift out of town. From the 
woods at this point the call of the whippoorwills came 
down to the house through the summer nights. They 
disappeared with the clearing of this ground, and I have 
never heard them elsewhere. Here the first red squirrel 
fell before my first rifle, having paused for a fatal mo- 
•ment in his scamper along the old fence. Just here a big 
bird flew up one day from a stump among the thick- 
growing saplings, leaving the remains of a small bird to 
tell of one of the tragedies of the woods. 
It was about here, too, that I found a hummingbird's 
nest, the owner having attracted attention by buzzing 
angrily around. It was eight or ten feet from the ground, 
on the drooping branch of a beech tree, at a point where 
the branch was less than an inch thick. A twig started 
out at the same place and was built into the base of the 
nest. The whole structure was but an inch and a half 
wide over all and an inch in diameter inside. When 
the birds had gone I took the nest, with a section of the 
branch. The mysterious felt-like substance — "plant 
down," the books tell us — of which it is mainly com- 
posed, is rather the worse for the sixteen years that 
have passed since the birds made it with their wonderful 
art, but the flakes of lichen with which the outside was 
covered still cling by their frail attachment. It is not 
easy to see just how they are fastened, though spider 
threads may be traced among them. The, authorities 
say they are glued on with the saliva of the bird, but 
some of the bits appear to be tied or suspended rather 
than glued, so movable are they. 
Next the line passes between two pieces of second- 
growth timber. One of these has been thinned out for 
a chestnut orchard. It has never been "posted," and I 
have sometimes gleaned a pocketful of the nuts; but the 
owner mentioned the last time I met him there that he 
had sold $40 worth that season,thus intimating that he had 
his own uses for them. I may yet collect a few of the 
chestnuts, however, to pay for the bullets that have 
stopped the nimble paws of sundry red squirrels which 
would otherwise be boarding on them. This is but a 
small grove of small trees, and I have hunted it thor- 
oughly in the course of later rifle practice; but there 
were squirrels there th.e other day, and it is rather pleas- 
ing — except, perhaps, to the chestnut grower — to see wild 
life thus holding its own in a mere bit of forest just 
over the border of a large village. I suppose the owner 
does not begrudge to squirrel or man the chestnuts that 
may be found among the withered and matted leaves in 
the spring; but a handful can easily be gathered then 
that will be sweeter and more tender, with the sprouts 
already starting, than when they fell in the previous 
autumn. One has to wonder how they have survived so 
long among squirrels and chipmunks that have means 
and reason for canvassing every foot of the ground. 
Beyond the next field our fence divides another chest- 
nut grove, of larger trees and mixed with other species. 
Hill and dell are shaded by them. I have relieved the 
owners of half a bushel of red squirrels, yet they have 
lately confronted me with repulsive notices to "Keep 
off." Years ago a sign on one of these trees warned 
the rambler against "guning, nuting or truspasing" on 
these premises. The present proprietor? put their idea 
in better spelling, but it is the same old idea. Venturing 
to "truspas," as we have no designs this time of "gun- 
ing" or "nuting," we follow the guiding fence to where 
it shortly drops down the steep bank of a large brook. 
This stream, a little below, crosses a corner of the old 
farm, and it is the stringer for another chain of associa- 
tions. It has run sawmills in its day. On local maps 
it is dignified as a creek, and in the spring freshet it 
justifies the name. A picturesque trapping and fishing 
character who lived in the neighborhood used to set 
nets in it at such times. When winter approached he 
would store minnows in the cask which inclosed our 
spring, to be used as bait in fishing for pickerel through 
the ice of the mill pond. The brook pickerel may still 
be found in the pools of the creek, along with sunfish and 
little bullheads. I have seen a boy with a respectable 
string of them, caught by trolling a* small spoon from a 
pole carried along the bank. They tell me this was an 
ideal trout stream forty years ago and more. I caught 
a few of the last and least of the trout myself, just about 
where the line fence crosses the water. In these later 
summers the stream is reduced to the output of a few 
springs; yet there still are .deep spots and swift channels, 
shaded by trees, bushes and overhanging banks, where 
a trout might be very much at home if he could have 
them all to himself. One day — of course when I hadn't 
a gun — I repeatedly flushed a snipe beside the creek near 
this point. He seemed loth to leave for good, but at 
last took the southern air line at a speed to make up for 
any loitering here. A couple of miles above this stream 
waters a productive snipe flat. Another waterside inci- 
dent just about here was the watching of a muskrat 
traveling up the creek at his ease, landing here and there 
to nip grass, splashing over the shallows, or gliding 
through the depths of the pools, sinuous and graceful 
as a snake. 
A rod or two from the old line fence there is a per- 
manent accumulation of drift wood in the stream which 
makes an indifferent bridge, but much appreciated- at 
high water. Here for a little distance the bottom land 
is full of trees and the adjacent ridge is covered with 
them. This is the most attractive spot on the whole 
route. The creek, charging upon a bank perhaps thirty 
feet high, has been repulsed and thrown aside, but has 
inflicted considerable loss. The settlement of the strife 
left a wide pool embraced in a semicircular bluff and 
overhung with trees, while other trees crown the earthy 
wall and add their shadows to the grateful gloom. The 
curve of the bank opens toward the northeast, and the 
sun never shines into its innermost recess. Here a spring 
sends a rill of chilly water into the stream. It is a cool, 
fresh, shady place, and to the worker or rambler from 
the heated fields above it is like the shadow of a great 
rock in a weary land. A dabbler in ornithology likes to 
distinguish a spot as the place where he met with this or 
that bird previously unknown to him. Beside the pool 
under the bluff I first identified the water thrush. In the 
face of the bluff a pair of kingfishers have excavated for 
their nest. 
Just above, in the edge of the next field, a large tree 
years ago fell conveniently across the brook, and" it still 
serves as a bridge. This field is a_ pasture, but some 
woods remain in it, and the stream runs swiftly over 
a stony bed, part way in the shade of another timbered 
hill. Here I first got my hands upon a sparrow hawk, 
having invited her down from a treetop with a bullet, and 
inspected her garb of convict stripes, well suited to her 
murderous character. If the sparrow hawk is not a jail 
bird it well might be. In this grove I bagged a gray 
squirrel_ with my first breechloader. Near the creek at 
this point I saw for the last time a black squirrel. I 
would like to know what became of him and of his kind. 
Apparently they went to join the passenger pigeon in 
the happy hunting grounds. 
One autumn day my attention was called to this field 
by a great clamor of crows. I found them holding one 
of their congresses preparatory to the southward migra- 
tion. There were hundreds in the woods, and more con- 
stantly arriving, and most of them were trying to speak 
at once. Along the creek they kept flying up and down 
between the banks and the trees. Many were picking 
about on the ground, where beechnuts and chestnuts 
were scattered. Gradually they discovered me sitting 
behind a knoll close to the line fence, and drew off to the 
more distant part of the grove. Going to a stump where 
I had seen a crow Working, I found the ragged shell of 
a chestnut with the meat nearly cleaned out. 
Where the brook enters this field it receives its most 
noteworthy contribution from an artesian well which is 
the result of boring for gas. An iron pipe, battered by 
driving, rises about a foot above the ground. It is filled 
with clear, cold water, which usually overflows and which 
is kept in a turmoil by rising bubbles of gas. One may 
burn his fingers by holding a match to these. The water 
has a peculiar taste and apparently contains iron, for it 
has reddened the soil through which it soaks away to 
the brook. Who knows but a fortune is here running to 
waste, which might be rescued by sufficient advertising? 
Beyond the well the creek is a commonplace stream, 
running through a commonplace pasture that used to be 
called in neighborhood parlance the "hundred-acre berry 
lot." On the other side of the line is a stumpy field 
browsed by cattle and woodchucks. I have reduced its 
woodchuck census by ten at one time and another, with- 
out killing any of the cows so far as I ever heard. It 
was at the edge of this field that I first saw the scarlet 
tanager; a bird crank never would forget where that 
happened. 
Now the ground rises in a great hillside, roughened 
with "cradle-knolls," dotted here and there with a bush 
or a boulder and streaked with cow-paths. I once saw 
in a New York gallery a painting by John La Farge en- 
titled, I believe, "Pasture Lands of New England." It 
was priced at $2,500 and I concluded it was too large 
to bring away. I think of it when I see this broad, gray, 
stony slope. Over the flank of the hill runs the last 
section of the old fence. Here it consists of an informal 
ridge of stones, drawn out with a rickety supplement of 
rails and stakes. Bushes and trees have grown up along 
the line and it has become a stronghold of wild life. 
An amateur naturalist could put in a summer here with 
a chance of making discoveries any day among the pop- 
ulation of bird, beast, insect and reptile. Here dwell 
woodchucks, red squirrels, mice and chipmunks certainly, 
skunks and weasels likely enough, other quadrupeds pos- 
sibly, snakes in all probability, and spiders, beetles and 
other insects too numerous to mention. 
I sat here on the old fence one bright day in early 
spring. A squirrel chattered in a tree further along with- 
out getting much attention. But suddenly a less familiar 
sound demanded notice. It was a birdlike call, starting 
as if with the word "sweet" uttered quick and high, and 
running out in a rapid diminishing trill, like the song of 
the field sparrow, but on a larger scale. Moving toward 
the apparent source of the sound I stared in vain for any 
bird. The call came repeatedly, now stronger, now 
weaker. I had just about got it placed when something 
disappeared from between two fence rails close to the 
ground. I went up and looked over. There was the 
mouth of a burrow, and the occupant had freshly nibbled 
the bark on a bush in front of it. I had been listening to 
a variation of the woodchuck's whistle. 
Returning along the fence I came upon a chipmunk 
foraging so earnestly that he let me step close to him. 
He had discovered or deposited something eatable in the 
grass against a large stone, and he alternately rooted and 
nibbled, glancing up at me in a quiver of timidity and 
excitement, but bound not to sacrifice his dinner while 
he could still skip out, as he did, at my next motion. 
Our old fine fence is a very common affair, with quite 
common surroundings, and if it is worth writing and 
reading about that is the very reason. In itself and its 
accompaniments it may be matched in almost any town- 
ship, and if the accompaniments are suspected of being 
interesting they can easily be tested. I fancy that many 
a business man in a great city, preserving wholesome in- 
stincts amid unwholesome surroundings, would give dol- 
lars to take the ramble we have taken. Let those who 
have such a privilege realize it. Get out and follow your 
old line fence and you will find it a line failed to you in 
pleasant places. It may not be much of a fence, but 
it lies out of doors. Sun, moon and stars shine on it or 
throw across it the shadow of tree or shrub. The song 
sparrow and the goldfinch sing from its stakes. The 
squirrel scampers over it and the woodchuck burrows 
under it. The daisy and the golden rod bloom beside 
it, wild vines clamber overit. If you strike it at the right 
end it leads away from town, and that is a good way to 
go sometimes. Bristol Hilt,. 
The Shirt-Tailogram* 
If Signor Marconi can squeeze out time for a week's 
vacation, I wish he would run up to the Second Joe Mary 
Lake, in the Katahdin region, State of Maine, and look 
into the possibilities of the "shirt-tailogram," as invented 
and operated by a bow-legged old hunter who runs a 
sporting camp. His name is Josh Something — no mat- 
ter about the last name. But on wireless telegraphy he 
goes Marconi two or three better. As a matter of fact, 
our friend of the wishbone legs has been operating his 
system for more than ten years. The reader may wonder 
why, under these circumstances, more is not known about 
the "shirt-tailogram." Well, developments of science per- 
colate but slowly from the deep woods of Maine, and 
then again, the men who have been up against Josh and 
his wireless telegraph have not been inclined to be loqua- 
cious. You will understand why, later on. As I write 
on about Josh I am well aware that many scores of city 
men who read these lines will grin or color or grit their 
teeth or say something that does not appear in the Rollo 
books. They will recollect their own individual stay 
with the genial Josh, inventor of the "Anti- Warden Wire- 
less Telegraph," otherwise known as the "shirt-tailogram 
method." 
Josh's strong suit is the fishing in his neighborhood, 
and therefore he has many patrons during the months 
when the game laws are on. You all know how it is in 
the months when you are out without your gun I As the 
canoe rounds headlands or sweeps across broad coves, the 
paddle shattering pictures of the fleecy clouds, splash- 
thrash, a deer lifts his dripping muzzle and stares at the 
intruder. 
What a shot! 
And you see a d<J»en such opportunities during the day, 
if you paddle along the shores of any lake in theKatahdin 
section. I have counted thirty-four deer in five hours 
sailing Cooper Brook and the Second Joe Mary. Of 
course I never felt tempted to shoot one. But there are 
wicked men who are differently constituted. The spec- 
tacle of so many deer in reach^ warps their moral natures 
to a worse bow than the twist in the legs of old Josh. 
You understand how human nature works ! For the 
first week of a man's stay he is content with his fishing. 
He regards the deer with absorbing interest, but only as 
so many attractions in the landscape. Then he commences 
to wonder if it wouldn't be a great addition to his vaca- 
tion if he should, have a little fresh venison to vary the 
camp fare of beans and salt pork — and a few hunks to 
take home, hidden in his luggage. You realize that just 
the moment the sportsman shoots that deer, he packs up 
and hustles for home. There are several reasons for 
that. Wardens may hear of the shooting — probably will. 
Sportsman wants to get the meat home before it spoils. 
Josh understands ! — 
The average fisherman, coming for fishing only, usu- 
ally reels in for the last time at the end of a week or 
ten days. During this time Josh has beeen sizing him up 
from the stern of the canoe, as they have drifted under 
lazy skies and have chatted in shady coves. *Tis sad, 'tis 
true, but true it is, nine men out of every ten rise to old 
Josh's bait. He sees the lust of killing growing in their 
e3 r es. It usually dawns at the end of the first week. Then 
they are ripe for the "shirt-tailogram." That bit of in- 
vention during the past ten years has coined money for 
Uncle Josh out of vacations prolonged from day to day. 
The experience of one man will do for all. A friend of 
mine who is a judge and who should have known bet- 
ter, gives me the facts of his undoing. He looks back 
on the affair philosophically, but he nurses the vague 
hope that some time old Josh may come to his city to 
see the elephant, and may be haled before him in the 
municipal court. Then — but no matter! 
One day Josh and the judge were fishing off the mouth 
of Pratt Brook. Near the end of the judge's vacation! 
Judge was leaning back in his canoe chair, his hat brim 
close to his nose. Away off in a cove a deer was splash- 
ingly pulling up lily roota, 
