tNov. 8, 1902. 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
868 
fhemes that reawaken the echoes in the old woodshed? 
Uncle had a right appreciation of his nephew, after 
ill, and knowing that I had spent a term at our agri- 
cultural college, been secretary of one of the farmers" 
institutes one session, beside that experience at the 
:ounty fair, he naturally selected me to come on and 
■un the farm, while he and aunt should undertake to 
iliow the people of the sunny and fruity Southland how 
:o do things. 
"Sunny and fruity Southland." Say, how does that 
strike you? Rather neat, eh? Rather neater, perhaps, 
Jian veracious, especially when they have such winters 
IS the past one. 
I accepted the offer; two weeks thereafter our County 
laper, The Kansas Zeph}^, published in the column de- 
oted to our township, a "personal/" which stated: 
Our respected friends. Uncle Ephraini Downs, and his estimable 
vifc, who have been subscribers to the Zephyr ere since it started, 
lave gone to the balmy longitude of Florida, where they allow_ to 
!ngage in that beautiful and lukcrative occupation of growing 
)ranges and other tropicle fruits. Their newphew, Benjamin 
l^colidge, has been engaged to ruin the farm during their absence. 
Welcome to the county, Ben. Come and see tis. 
I did so at once, without unnecessary loss of time. 
; was ready for murder, rapine, massacre, gore, man- 
;laughter, carnage, assassination or other form of 
Homicide. "Engaged to ruin the farm!" Ha! I louud 
he printing office at the head of a rickety flight of 
tairs and the editor sitting behind a cob pipe on ton 
)f an inverted soap box, evidently deep in the duties of 
diting. 
"What do you mean by printing such a libel in your 
food-for-nothing, low-down sheet as that item concern- 
ng me?" pointing to the same in the paper which I 
leld up before him. 
"Libel! You! Why, my dear sir, w-what — where — 
et me see that — I wrote that myself — Uncle Downs — 
>hades of Great Scott! Why, gosh darn that drunken 
ompositor, ef he hain't slid in a letter i into that word 
un — run the farm, that's what I wrote." 
"Where is he? I'll sober him up! I'll just introduce 
■le man that's going to ruin Uncle Downs' farm, and 
'11 commence by ruining one batch of old barleycorn 
eed right now." 
"Oh, he's gone — he's lit out; he had a spell or two of 
tie serpents Sunday and Monday and I fired him; 
ired Sam Gale to take him over into Poseytown in his 
elivery wagon." 
'•Then you've missed a first-class tragedy item for 
icxt week's paper." 
That editor proved to be the finest kind of a chap, 
me of these brainy, broad gauge, intellectual giants and 
.ppreciative journalists that one sometimes runs across 
mexpectedly. I am not saying this because he fell in 
?ith my ideas of fartning and raising stock, and wanted 
tie to conduct a column in the Zephyr on "The High- 
st Type of Modern Farming," and let me name my 
)wn terms. Not at all. Not by any means. In fact, far 
rom it. It was a most noble act. The fact that money 
^nd price were no object to the editor, because he never 
)aid anybody for anything (which I afterward discov- 
:red), had absolutely nothing to do with the proposi- 
ion. Anybody could see that. 
A few weeks later the columns of the Zephyr con- 
ained the following: 
BRAINS IN FARMING. 
Probablv no recent event has had so much to do with the pros- 
lective development of our lovely county, and so fully illustrates 
he possibilities of our soil and climate under brainy management, 
s the success of experiments already made by Benjamin Cool- 
dge on his uncle's farm. His entirely original methods with 
irops as well as in making ordinarily useless animals earn their 
iving, and a little more besides, is certainly interesting and more 
ir less instructive; generally more. We congratulate the entire 
;ounty on having this kind of a man in our midst. It might be 
uggestive to add that he's the only man so far that has paid his 
ubscription to this paper in csish. Go thou and do likewise. 
The particular events and innovations to which the 
;ifted editor refers will be set forth in another chap- 
er or two. Frank, Heywood. 
[to be CONTINUED-1 
On the War Road. 
"This is the War Road," was the somewhat startling 
nnounceraent that glared down on me from a board 
lailed high upon a poplar tree on the edge of the 
iToods. 
The few scattered wagon tracks which I had been 
allowing across the half-brush, half-prairie lands further 
lack, concentrated here, and passing between two trees 
hat just grazed the hubs on either hand, wound away 
nto the unknown wilderness beyond. The sign board 
^ras of rough, unhewn lumber. The lettering had been 
lone with red chalk. The marks showed only here 
nd there, and the general effect, somehow, was one of 
wkward splashes in blood. 
The letters had much in their appearance to suggest 
disordered mob fleeing before a victorious army, 
'hey leaned this way and that, and struggled in and 
ait of line. The "t" and "e" in the "the" towered far 
bove the cowering little "li" between them, and might 
lavc passed for two stalwart fellows dragging away a 
founded comrade. It was ominous. 
I had learned at tlie last settlers cabin, half a mile 
lack, that after entering the wilderness proper I should 
ee no sign of human habitation until I returned. There 
vds a possibility that I might meet somewhere on the 
vay a miner returning from the Rainy Lake gold fields, 
nd another that I might find a few Indians in camp at 
he mouth of the War Road; but the probability was 
hat I should see nobody on the whole trip. 
I was in search of solitude. For three days I had 
leen traversing a sparsely, settled country, having fol- 
Dwed the old Saint Paul and Pembina trail from the 
leighborhood of Crookston, Minnesota, north to where 
t crosses the Roseau trail. Over this I had reached 
^^oseau, a small village seventy miles back in the wil- 
Icrness. Another half-day without sight of a house 
lad brought me into camp at night rejoicing in my 
■scape beyond the dread of aught that could remind me 
)f civilized abominations. But I had only begun to hug 
nyself when I positively stiffened with dismay. A cow 
)awled, and the illusion was destroyed. 
A few minutes later two children came aloAg, driving 
the cattle. Other sounds presently told me that I was 
within two hundred yards of a farmhouse. 
This was annoying, as I wanted to enjoy the night 
and the moonlight alone. But my annoyance was some- 
what intensified when, half an hour later, the farmer and 
his family called upon me, staying until twelve o'clock 
and drawing from me my life history by inches. Here 
was solitude witli a vengeance, and I resolved to put 
as many miles as possible between me and the haunts 
of man before I again undertook to commune with Na- 
ture in her loneliest retreats. 
About five miles east of Roseau (Jadis, it was then) 
I passed the last settler's cabin, and half a mile on I 
came face to face with the grewsome legend: • 
"This is the War Road." 
It was ten o'clock when I faced this tunnel, bored 
through thirty-five miles of unbroken solitude, with a 
slight fracture only at one end. I began to wonder 
if I had not better go back and camp near the settler's 
cabin — so as to be handy to water — and take an early 
start in, the morning. Then I might be sure of getting 
through before nightfall. 
I began to think that soHtude might be like some 
other good things — deleterious when taken in overdoses. 
It was useless to try to make myself believe that I- 
should turn because of water for that night's camp. I 
knew that creeks, lakes and muskegs were everywhere 
in the wood. Therefore, if I adopted this retrograde 
move I must admit, to myself at least, that I stood in 
awe of that vast solitude. That I would not do. There 
was no valid reason for retreat, and giving Jack and 
Jill their marching orders, we plunged into that mysteri- 
ous stillness. 
I gave myself some courage by the assurance that, if 
any good reason occurred to me in the meantime, I 
could still turn back after going a few miles into the 
wood. For awhile the road led through a swamp, and 
as the whiffletrees and hubs of the wagon began to dis- 
turb the bushes along the way, out swarmed mosquitoes 
in clouds. Or, I might say, in a haze at first, which 
thickened and darkened until it assumed the blackness 
of a thunder-cloud. This was something 1 had not 
thought of, and I accounted it a good and sufficient 
reason for waiting to make the trip for some day when 
the wind should blow hard enough to keep down mos- 
quitoes. 
"There were other things I had not thought of, how- 
ever. One was the narrowness of the way, closely 
walled in by standing timber, fallen logs and under- 
brush. It was impossible to turn, and I should have to 
keep on at least until I reached more open ground- 
When at length I came to an opening, it was a bog 
crossed by a narrow corduroy road, and the chances 
for turning were not improved. 
A couple of miles further on the road came out on 
firmer soil. Poplar, birch and willow gave way to great 
oaks, whose branches, interlacing, completely shut out 
the rays of the sun. An impenetrable tangle of fallen 
limbs, brush, vines and brambles continued to wall me 
in and to keep me in this "straight and narrow way," 
and before I did come to a possible turning point the 
wind sprang up from the east, sifting into the faces of 
myself and the mules, like a rush of air through a 
cafion, and sweeping the mosquitoes to the rear. With 
them went my excuse for turning at all, and I kept on. 
The road had been cut through only about wo months 
before and was very rough. There had been little travel 
over it. The larger growth had been cleared away wide 
enoiigh only to admit the passage of a wagon, while 
the small brush still stood. Nothing could be seen of 
the track ahead, and one had an impression of travel- 
ing through an accidental opening in the wood. The 
noise of the wagon as we bumped along, was so great 
that there was little prospect of catching a dryad un- 
awares, though I confess that I kept a sharp lookout 
and several times imagined I caught a glimpse of one 
as she whisked out of sight behind some great oak. 
The wagon creaked and groaned direfuUy as it bumped 
over the stumps and roots or plunged hub-deep into 
ruts. There was always a deep rut opposite each stump, 
as, when the wheel raised over a stump, it threw the 
whole weight of the wagon on the opposite wheel, 
forcing it deep into the soft mould. This kept it roll- 
ing and pitching at a great rate, and the steady swish 
of the small brush bent beneath the axles resembled 
the hiss of water beneath a storm-tossed boat. 
Occasionally a partridge hopped from the road in 
front of the mules and alighting on some bush just 
ahead, out of reach, eyed me curiously as I passed. My 
Parker lay in its case at the bottom of the wagon; I 
cared little for the game, and no one being present to 
witness my prowess, I had slight incentive to shoot. I 
did try a few shots at the partridge, however, with my 
\Vhip, but the lash usually caught in an overhanging 
bough, and I scored nothing but clean misses. 
Friend, did you ever make a wagon journey through 
a forest or after dark, when objects could be seen only 
for a short distance? If so, do you remember how 
swiftly you seemed borne along, yet how interminable 
seemed the way to some momentarily expected desti- 
nation? How the seconds swelled into minutes and the 
minutes into hours, as you swept on and on; yet how 
you remained, seemingly, always in the same spot? 
After I had been in the woods, as I judged, for two 
hours, I began to speculate on the distance I had trav- 
eled. At the rate the sibilant bushes brushed past be- 
neath the wagon I must be going at least six miles an 
hour. Twice six are twelve: whole distance to be trav- 
eled, thirty-five miles. Clearly, I was more than one- 
third of the way; but rather than be disappointed at the 
end, I would reduce my calculations and call that great 
oak. there, on the left, the quarter-post. By giving 
good measure thus, I should get a rebate ,on the last 
quarter, just when I needed it. 
It is customary when writing of the woods to ex- 
patiate on their grandeur. But I was still under the 
spell of that ominous guide-board; and though the sol- 
emn forest shades did fill me with awe, the scenery was 
a good deal like that inside a railway tunnel, except 
that the walls were composed of whispering green 
leaves and yielding boughs, and not cold, gray, un- 
yielding and voiceless granite. 
Two hours later I note a tree with a wagon-hub 
blaze, which I call the half-way mark. Soon afterward 
I see an opening ahead and wonder if I can possibly 
be coming to the lake. Perhaps I have allowed too 
much, and in place of getting a present of the last 
quarter the rebate is to be nearly the whole last half 
of the journey. The light spreads; it is plain that I 
am nearing the end of the tunnel. It is impossible that 
I can have come thirty-five miles. I begin to wonder 
if the contractor who cut the road has not "done" the 
government— if he has not been paid for thirty-five 
miles when the actual distance is twenty. But no; the 
opening is not the lake, but a wide muskeg with a 
burned district beyond. 
Crossing the muskeg on a pole bridge, the road winds 
away across the burning on a long, low sand ridge. The 
way is now much smoother and my range of vision 
more extended. I am on one of the well-defined sand- 
reefs characteristic of northwestern Minnesota. These 
ridges are one of the great natural curiosities of this 
region. Flat, curving reefs of sand, one to two hun- 
dred yards wide, they are continuous for many miles. 
Being gravelly and well-drained, their spines make splen- 
did natural roadways. 
Travelers in the old fur-trading days took advantage 
of these ndges m laying out their highways. The old 
Saint Paul and Pembina trail follows them for more 
than a hundred miles; the Roseau road hugs another 
for more than two-thirds of its seventy-one miles of 
length. But for this ridge the eastern half of Kittson 
County would be still unsettled. The streams that have 
their sources in the Red Lake basin cut these ridges 
at right angles, the deep, gash-like channels having the 
appearance of breaks in a great dike. The wide val- 
ley of the Roseau breaks the continuity of the Roseau 
road ridge; but it is said that it is this same ridge which 
the War Road traverses all the way to the Lake of the 
Woods. 
With smoother roads, a more extended prospect and 
a fresh breeze, my spirits rise and I roll along at a 
brisk trot. On the ridge top the sway of the fire had 
been complete and. everything had gone down before 
it, except here and there a charred stump or tree 
trunk. Some of these reached a height of fifty or sixty 
feet; all were blackened to the very top. These with a 
two years' growth of poplars, were all that remained 
of a once dense forest. 
On either side of the ridge stretched a great swamp 
which had not burned, and tamarac, spruce, cedar and 
balsam pine reared a variegated screen of pale and deep 
greens and purple. I was now enjoying myself thorough- 
and took slight heed of the flight of time, until it 
suddenly dawned on me that another two hours had 
slipped away. I must be entering on the last quarter 
stretch, and if I was to get much of a rebate the lake 
should soon appear. Mile after mile I glide through 
the prattling green poplars, but no lake materializes. 
The tamarac and cedar of the swamps give place to 
birch and willow, with now and then stately white pine, 
but along the ridge are the same charred stumps and 
fluttering poplars. 
Another two hours slips away— still no lake. I have 
been guessing at time and rate of speed, but with all the 
allowance I have made I surely cannot be far short. I 
eagerly watch each new opening, expecting momentar- 
ily to catch the glimmer of water through the trees. 
I begin to have some misgiving about reaching the 
lake at all that night, but promptly administer a stern 
rebuke to myself upon reflecting that solitude, with a 
big S, is what I have been looking for. How one could 
revel in a vast and mighty ocean of solitude by camping 
overnight in this lonely wood! I fall to speculating 
on what there is beyond the portal of that great swamp, 
off there to the north. Moose, doubtless, and bear and 
deer. And, as if conjured up by an over-active fancy, 
a great lumbering hulk swings into the road ahead of 
mel it !.(-,. -r*] 
It is a sure-enough moose, no apparition. And, by 
the glaring sign board of the War Road, what a spread 
of horns! Like the fish that got away, I think him the 
finest specimen I ever saw. He gazes at me for a full 
half minute; then turns and shambles off into the pop- 
lars. Ah! if only I had had one of those long-range 
cameras — one with a trigger, that is aimed like a gun 
and that, if the aim. be true, catches the victim full in 
the center of the disk. I remember to have seen such 
a one, on paper (Harper's Weekly), some years ago, 
and have often wondered why they were not brought 
out. What a boon such a gun would be to the sports- 
man! He might shoot and shoot to his heart's con- 
tent, then, and no effeminate "woud-be" could shout 
"Game hog," either. 
For an hour my imagination is at a wire edge. I have 
just evoluted the fourth black stump into a bear, and 
then, upon closer inspection, back into a stump again, 
when it occurs to me that the lake is still missing. It 
cannot be that I am off the road, for there is but one 
road, and I could not turn off from it if I tried. I now 
begin to examine into my calculations. I _have been 
for ten hours in the woods. A brief reckoning shows 
that it should be sundown, whereas the sun is at least 
four hours Jiigh. Calculations that are four hours out 
in ten seem worthless as a basis. I conclude I am in the 
woods, and drop it at that. 
Three hours later I come to the crossing of War 
Road River. Then I remember that this crossing is six 
miles from the lake. The deep, dark waters have an 
inviting look as they swirl and eddy beneath the over- 
hanging trees. I am tempted to go into camp and wet 
a line, but the buzz of mosquitoes warns me to seek 
higher ground before halting for the night. A couple 
of miles further on I come to a high knoll with a large 
open stretch of grass at the top. In the center of this 
miniature park, where the wind has a free sweep I 
conclude to camp. 
Unharnessing the mules, I tie them to convenient 
bushes, giving them as much rope as possible in order, 
that they may reach abundant grass. Then I collect 
som.e dry limbs and build a fire. 
Preparations for supper are of the simplest, being 
limited to fetching and boiling some water for coffee. 
My provisions consist mainly of canned goods ready 
for the table. To be sure I might have had a pheasant 
to broil had I been so minded, but riding in a wagon 
