June ky, 1963.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
like hoot she went rushing away across the lake, half 
swimming, half flying, and leaving a wake like that of a 
steamboat. After we had exammed her brownish eggs 
and the island nest, which was a curiosity, for these birds 
do not often build so pretentious a structure, I photo 
graphed the whole from the bow of the canoe. 
We could now see a wide stretch of the lake, which is 
seven or eight miles long, from one to two miles wide, 
and full of islands. It is absolutely surrounded by forests 
whose trees, often "bearded witli moss," gnarled and 
twisted by myriads of winter storrns, presented on all 
sides that ragged outline seen only in the undefiled wil- 
derness. The wildness of the scene was enhanced by the 
sight of a moose far away on the opposite shore and the 
cries of the loons weirdly in keeping with the spirit of 
those lovely lakes. Long reaches of the shore are ren- 
dered hideous by the dead trees standing like exhumed 
skeletons, a perpetual reproach to the lumbermen whose 
dam at the outlet of the lake has caused all this destruc- 
tion. 
.^s we lolled back easily in the canoe, drinking in the 
wild beauty of the scene, while the guides sent our little 
craft swiftly along, Harr3^'s sudden low exclamation, 
"Moose!" directed our eyes toward the neighboring shore, 
near which, in the shallow water, stood a young cow 
feeding with such relish on the lily stems that she did not 
perceive our noiseless approach. The wind was in our 
favor, and Harry whispered : 
"Get out your camera. I'll see if we can get near 
enough for a picture." 
Thereupon, camera in hand, I stood up behind Tom in 
the bow, while Harry's absolutely noiseless paddle sent 
UH nearer and nearer to the moose. A hundred yards, 
fifty yards, seventy-five feet, and still she did not see us. 
THE HOME OF THE LOON, 
Then suddenly divining our approach, she lifted her head, 
a long lily stem hanging from one corner of her mouth 
to the water, her ears cocked up in surprise rather than 
terror. At the same moment Harry, who is a famous 
moose caller, began to talk to her in her own language, 
uttering an indescribale grunting whine, the cry of the 
baby moose. This was too much for her, and there she 
sat on her haunches in three feet of water, motionless as 
a statue, a victim of feminine curiosity, until we were 
within twenty-five feet of her. And in this attitude I 
should have caught her with the camera, but . I was 
standing up in a tottlish canoe, holding the camera with 
one hand and trying simultaneously to manage focus and 
bulb with the other; the sun was bright, and, try as I 
would, I could not see her image in the finder until she 
had turned and was plunging for the shore. Then, calling 
to Tom to lean back out of range, I pressed the bulb with 
the partial results you see. The rifle is a far easier 
weapon to handle successfully than the camera. 
But I was nearly forgetting our trout. Pocket Lake 
Stream yielded us a few and Squaw Barren Pool a score 
or more, but not one would have weighed more than half 
a pound. It was clear that we must trail the big fellows 
in earnest. And so, waiting until evening, we glided 
stealthily into tke channel by which a spring brook found 
its way through the marsh grass into the lake and cast 
our flies gently upon the surface of the black water. 
Presto ! we were both fast to pound trout in a twinkling. 
The result of an hour's sport in the darkness, amid the 
buzz of countless mosquitoes, was a string of fourteen 
nice fish, six or eight of which weighed well over a pound 
apiece. We had received our cue — springholes and even- 
ing fishing, and thereafter, although we caught none of 
the three and four-pounders for which the region is 
famous, we never failed of good sport. 
*'* * * * * ** 
**How tame everything is !" 
So spoke Charlie one evening as we sat about the fire 
smoking the postprandial pipe, and, although perhaps a 
trifle ambiguous, the remark was literally true in the 
sense intended. The rabbits, oblivious of our presence, 
calmly munched their food within a dozen yards of the 
cabin. A woodchuck lived under the floor and was at no 
pains to conceal his exits and entrances from us. The 
grouse were so tame that they merely walked away when 
we tried to touch them. Moose birds or "gorbies" 
(Canada jays) would almost alight upon our hands, 
although Harry contended with considerable probability 
that in their case this total lack of fear was not the result 
of unsuspecting gentleness, but of impudent curiosity. So 
it was with the red squirrels, the chipmunks, and even 
with the deer and young moose. None of these have 
learned to dread, the man with the gun, for the few men 
with guns who enter that country are in search of larger 
game. It is this fearlessness which constitutes a chief 
pleasure of the genuine wilderness; you touch elbows, 
so to speak, with the woods folk. 
I must hasten over most of the events of our week at 
the home camp— how I photographed a beaver's house 
(but forgot to draw the slide), and a caribou (but took 
another picture on the same plate) ; how we inade a trip 
of two days to the forks of the Miramichi in quest of 
salmon, but were disappointed because all the salmon 
had gone doAvn to the North Pole Branch in quest of cool 
water. Even our sojourn on the Crooked Deadwater, 
where we saw eight moose in one evening, and almost 
saw a bear, are, in Kiplingian phrase, "another story." 
But I must tell, albeit briefly, of the last expedition before 
our enforced departure from the woods. 
The trail to Moose Lake leads through miles of forest 
never touched by the ax. The lake itself, nearly round 
and about a mile in diameter, is walled in by lofty forested 
hills. No unsightly dead wood mars the beauty of its 
shores, and the mirror-like surface gives back the perfect 
image of spruce and pine and hemlock, with here and 
there the softer outline and brighter colors of the birches 
and maples that have crowded among their pointed- 
crowned sisters. Our little picture affords but a faint 
idea of the perfect beauty of this lonely tarn. 
Trouting on Moose Lake in the early evening is the 
reverse of effort. You paddle where you will, cast your 
flies, and the trout come up by twos and threes at every 
cast. A half hour's sport brought us all the fish we 
needed for breakfast, but we were not fated to enjoy 
them, for when Tom went to the canoe next morning to 
get them, not a fish was to be found. We soon saw the 
thief eying us triumphantly from behind a log — a mink, 
who had spent all his working hours during the night 
storing away our trout in nooks and crannies along the 
shore. So for once we had a troutless breakfast. 
Thus we lived for twenty happy days, absorbing health 
from the balsam-scented air, growing sturdy with health- 
ful tramping and paddling, and eating with enormous ap- 
petites. Trout and game were everywhere, and it is sig- 
nificant of the country that, on our way to Fredericton, 
almost the last thing we saw before our train entered the 
city was a deer leaping from a field into the neighboring- 
woods. A. W. 
Foods. 
OssiNiNG, N. Y., June 19. — Editor Forest and Stream: 
In the article, by L. Lodian, entitled "Across Cibiria," 
appearing in your issue of June 20, the writer gives the 
results of his experience with concentrated and other 
foods. 
My experience during two winters in Alaska, where 
I traveled some 2,000 miles on foot, packing my out- 
fit on my back or hauling it on a sled, confirms the 
opinions expressed by Mr. Lodian with the exception 
of the values of beans, potatoes and fresh meat. 
When engaged in hard labor, such as packing or 
hauling a sled in a temperature of from 30 to 50 de- 
grees Fahrenheit below zero, animal heat is the first 
consideration in food. 
Let an inexperienced person start out in the morn- 
ing after a hearty breakfast, and in four or four and a 
half hours he will commence to feel cold and weak, but 
not necessarily hungry. By five hours he will some- 
times scarcely have sufficient strength to carry his pack 
or haul his load, and still not feel the need of food by 
means of his appetite, and in whatever portion of his 
body the circulation of the blood is defective that por- 
tion will become chilled to the bone. With the major- 
ity of persons the feet suffer first. With others the 
circulation in the feet is good, but that in the hands 
and fore arms is defective, and if such a person con- 
tinues to work much longer without food, the chances 
are that his hands will become so benumbed that he, 
will have great difficulty in starting a fire. 
If, however, after four or four and a half hours' 
work the traveler stops, builds a fire, warms up some 
beans and flapjacks, fries a few slices of bacon and 
boils some tea or coffee (yes, they boil tea in that 
climate) and eats the same standing or crouching over 
his fire, it will put new life in him, and he will feel 
almost as strong as at the beginning of the day. He 
will have no trouble in eating all he cooks, even though 
the sensation of hunger is scarcely apparent to him. 
Where such an amount of food is necessary in order 
to sustain heat and strength, the subject of eating be- 
comes as important as firing a locomotive. After the 
day's work is done there is a tendency to devour an 
enormous quantity of food at the evening meal. This 
sometimes induces nausea or indigestion through over- 
loading the stomach. In such cases the remedy is to 
divide the evening meal into two — a fairly plentiful 
dinner at the usual time, and a warm lunch before re- 
tiring. In this manner sufficient food can be digested 
each day to supply the waste of heat and tissue due to 
the extreme cold and hard work. 
Regarding the value of beans as an article of diet, 
the pioneers of Alaska considered them as possessing 
the greatest nourishment per pound of any article ob- 
tainable in that country. Dried king salmon, perhaps, 
is superior, but it is scarce and not relished by white 
men as a steady diet. 
My own experience with various foods is as follows: 
Beans, with plenty of grease or a little bacon or 
pork, and flapjacks cooked in bacon fat, will sustain 
warmth and vigor for four or four and a half hours 
while working in a temperature of 25 to 35 degrees 
Fahrenheit below zero. 
Evaporated potatoes, with a liberal allowance of but- 
ter or bacon fat, are nearly as sustaining as beans. 
Beefsteak, moose and caribou meat, etc. (the etc. in- 
cludes horse meat), will not sustain heat for much 
more than two and a half or three hours. 
Soups and oatmeal digest quickly, and are only to 
be recommended for an evening meal. 
Extract of beef makes an appetizing drinlj and good 
stock for soups and stews. Do not try to eat it spread 
on bread like butter — it will induce thirst and perhaps 
cause illness. 
Flapjacks and crullers are nutritious and lasting. 
Cornmeal mush fried in slices, with latd or bacon fat, 
is also good. 
Among drinks chocolate or cocoa is the most stimu- 
lating and invigorating. 
Alcoholic liquors are worse than useless, except to 
relieve stift'ness of the muscles after the day's work is 
done. 
With the limited menu obtainable in such a country 
scurvy frequently makes its appearance. As a pre- 
ventive, some make a strong infusion of spruce leaves 
and Cottonwood (poplar) bark and take a good drink 
thereof twice a week. While this may be beneficial as 
a preventive, it is not considered of much value as a 
remedy after the disease has obtained a hold. Fresh 
meat, fruit and vegetables are all good preventives or 
remedies, but the article in which the inhabitants of 
Alaska have the most confidence is fresh potatoes. 
In the early days the commercial companies retained a 
smaU supply of these during the winter and sold them 
only on presentation of a physician's prescription or 
other good evidence that they were required as medi- 
cine. Edw. F. Ball. 
Horse Hair and Glass Snakes. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
I was much interested in the article entitled, "Erro- 
neous Beliefs" which appeared some time ago; but 
it contained two statements which I beg permission to 
revise. 
First. "How prevalent is the belief that horse hairs 
turn to snakes ! There is no other foundation for this 
error than the resemblance of the so-called hairsnake 
{gordius) to a common horse hair." 
I do not believe in horse hairs metamorphosing into 
snakes (no true naturalist could be so absurd) and I 
also am acquainted with the wonderful gordius; but there 
is another, commoner, and much more pardonable cause 
of the popular superstition mentioned : Certain waters 
swarm with invisible but very active living creatures, and 
if a horsehair be placed upon the surface of such water, 
floating, and left there undisturbed a number of hours, 
in calm weather, it will soon be found wriggling about, 
and exhibiting every appearance of a live snake — a snake 
in misery at that. It may actually show a head at one 
end — or even at each end ! The reason is that the hair 
possesses a sort of magnetic power, and attracts the tiny 
creatures to it in great numbers, and securely retains 
them. They may slip along its sides, in either direction, 
with ease, but cannot break away, until a great knot of 
them collect at either or both ends. It is very difficult 
for those at the ends to get back to the sides, consequently 
the "heads" are quite likeh^ to keep growing larger ! They 
are amazingly powerful creatures, and exceedingly vora- 
cious and restless, and their furious efforts to regain 
their liberty causes the compound "snake" to writhe and 
squirm constantly — sometimes actually moving endwise, 
as if possessing a real intelligent head of its own ! 
To insure the success of the experiment, better have 
the water in a tub, and allow no frogs or other 
visible creatures to enter; but do not cover (unless with 
screen), as a lack of air sometimes engenders a chemical 
change in the water, producing a new and very diflterent 
set of animalcules (which, of course, were there before, 
but undeveloped). 
Second. "Many persons believe that there is a glass 
snake, or joint snake, which may be broken to fragments 
when struck but can rejoint itself and live. This may 
come from the fact that a certain lizard (Ophiosaurus 
ventralis) readily loses its tail, and while the body escapes 
the caudal member wriggles and attracts the attention of 
the pursuer." 
There are several varieties of lizards that do as 
described. Nevertheless the joint snake is a reality, and, 
though not common, is still so plentiful (here, for in- 
stance, in the mountain region of Arkansas) that I won- 
der how any naturalist can doubt its very existence ! 
I have seen several, each three feet or more in length 
(saw two or three in one year). They are striped in light 
colors, such as so blend together at a distance as to pro- 
duce the general effect of a yellowish gray; are glossy, 
shiny, hard and stiff looking (yet very swift in a plunge 
for liberty), and feel cold, hard, metallic to the touch. 
When frightened in a place where they cannot escape and 
struck carefully, so as not to kill or wound, they begin to 
unjoint. And if you keep whipping them they do not 
stop at one or two sections, but may continue until only 
the head and neck (has a snake a neck?) are left at the 
intelligent end. 
Now, "here comes" the part of their description that 
seems almost incredible, even after you have seen it your- 
self— //7£T{? is )io real breakage, but each section is jointed 
on to its mate by a sort of knob-and-socket arrangement 
(the socket having apparently the power to expand and 
contract) that is too wonderful for this pen to describe 
at present. I hope to discover the mystery hereafter. 
And although the snake can easily "flop off" his joints 
himself, he is not a tender creature like the lizard, but is 
very strong, and you would be astonished at the strength 
required to forcibly pull him apart. 
Now, as he is neatly jointed, the sections coming apart 
clean, hard and bloodlessly, and "Nature makes no mis- 
takes," if philosophers are to be believed, a man may be 
excused for believing the jointing is for an important 
purpose. The question is— What purpose? This, I admit, 
I am unable to answer, even to my own satisfaction. 
That the snake can and does unjoint I know. That he 
can rejoint I doubt — but I am not at all certain— even 
after two separate experiments. In the first case I left 
the pieces in a field. Next morning they had mysteriously 
disappeared. "Oh, that's nothing— eaten by buzzard or 
something!" But another snake (a common sort), killed 
about the same time the glass snake was unjointed, had 
not yet been disturbed. In the second trial I turned a 
tub over the joints on a tight floor. The succeeding day 
the joints were still apart, lifeless, and covered with ants. 
Perhaps I had allowed the dogs to fatally wound the rep- 
tile before unjointing it. 
