122 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Feb. 13, 1904. 
St. Patrick of Nipigon. 
We saw him the first time on Friday rnorning, and we 
hailed him and his wagon as the solution of our troubles 
for the day. 
Three of us — two Indian guides and the writer — had 
come up from the Hudson Bay post the night before, 
camping at the lower end of the first and longest carry 
on the river. This carry or portage is two and a half 
miles, long. It avoids the impossible passage of the Long 
Rapids, and Cameron's Pool, once famous for its big 
trout, now seldom fished; nearly all parties going higher 
up the river, passing by this beautiful piece of water, 
which in consequence is again yielding good sport to 
the fly. 
Pat is care-taker and man-of-all-work for the syndicate 
that has secured permission from the Ontario Govern- 
ment to erect a pulp mill about half way up the Long 
Rapid. _ Last year they cut all the large timber in the 
immediate section, and are now running a small saw mill, 
getting out the lumber to build the mill. Three sub- 
stantial log buildings represent their plant so far, one for 
an office, one used as a stable, and a larger two-story one 
for cook-house, dining room, and bunk-house for the 
hands, when the mill is built. In this last one Pat lives 
and dispenses hospitality to all comers alike. "Born in 
Ireland and proud of it, sor-r," he spends about nine 
months of the year in solitude, except for the Indians and 
a few mill men. An Irishman is a born talker, and ?o 
Pat makes up for his long winter's silence by putting in 
good licks the three months of the fishing season — June, 
July, and August. At this time the stream is visited by 
scores of anglers. When he hurries he stutters, and as 
he has to make up for lost time, he generally prefaces 
his remarks with a hurried, struggling "Aa-a-a-a-h." 
We named him St. Patrick because of his "swate" dis- 
position. Nothing seems to worry him. He says, "I 
sometimes git mad enough to throw m' job, y' know, but 
I git over it." But we saw no evidence of this bad tem- 
per. So he's still in the calendar as St. Patrick of 
Nipigon. 
It takes about half a day for two guides to carry an 
outfit over this Long Portage. Everything must be car- 
ried on the back. Still, it is astonishing what loads 
these Indians will take. Stories are told of five hundred 
pounds having been carried at a time. However, Pat's 
wagon will take the whole outfit across in less than an 
hour. His services are consequently in demand. 
Before going to bed, Toma, the head guide, remarked 
he would go over and see Pat early next morning. It 
rained during the night. It seems to rain so easily in 
that northern country. When six o'clock came, Martin 
was making the fire. Everything was wet, but sparkling 
in the clear, pure light of the rising sun. Toma had 
been over to Pat's, two miles, and now reported that 
Pat had to go to the mill, and couldn't come for us. 
This changed our plans. Just below camp a noisy 
brook tumbled into the river, and looked a likely place 
for small trout. We were not in a hurry, anyhow. We 
would spend the morning, or the day, if necessary, at 
this camp, explore the brook called Frazier River, fol- 
low it four miles to a lake which Toma said was full of 
bass, and so wait until Pat could come for us. In the 
meantime breakfast was cooking, but without trout. The 
rod hadn't even come out of its case yet. 
Toma stopped still. "Listen !" In the distance a 
rumbling, bumping rattle could be heard. "That's Pat," 
he said. Soon the noise became louder. We hurried 
our meal, in the midst of which the team and driver came 
into sudden sight from the bushes. 
The team and wagon were good and strong — fit for this 
country of rocks and logs — but it was the driver that had 
our attention; five feet four, weight two hundred and 
ten, an old woolen sweater stretched ready to burst, 
trousers rolled up almost to the knees, gray woolen socks 
which shrank away from the trousers, and heavy shoes 
completed his costume, except for his hat. The hat was 
typical, an old battered felt, with narrow rim. It would 
have told his birthplace without the map of his face or 
the brogue of his tongue, and was rammed down on the 
back of his head — the habit of generations — where it 
would do the least good. It might have come from 
Killarney. It certainly was at home on the wearer. 
Pat and his team, on this two and a half miles of road 
(if such it can be called) occupy the furthest outpost of 
civilization up the river. Beyond are no roads— nothing 
but Indian trails, traveled for more than a hundred years 
now by the employes of the Hudson's Bay Company. ' 
Above the Long Portage no teams can go, no wheel turn, * 
until roads are cut through the forest. In the summer 
supplies go up the river to other posts of the Hudson's 
Bay Company by canoes. In the winter the dog sledges 
come into use, following a winter trail well back from 
the river, on the east. An electric road, following the 
fiver on the west, is talked of. With its presence, and 
that of the pulp mill, now assured, will vanish much of 
the charm that now draws anglers from all over the 
world to this king of trout streams. 
"Goo-o-od mornin', gintlemin. 1 tho't Fd come, any- 
how. Y' see, I told Tommy I had t' go t' the mill. Well, 
I did, but m' hafse§ got Qpt in the night, an' whin I found 
?^ they was al^gsf pvff ^''tllf |'|ig* §3^1 
to m'silf, I'll jis' go back an' help the byes out, an' so 
I'm here. I'm bin out for two hours. Jis' look at me, 
how wet I am. Ain't I a daisy? An' say, if y' have a 
drop of anythin' warm 'round here to dr-rink I sartinly 
would be glad to get it. Ain't got any? Well, it's all 
right. Some folks does and some don't, but it's mighty 
warmin' whin a felly's bin out and got all wet through 
this way. Have I had breakfast? Not a bite. Well, I 
don't care if I do. I always was a good hand at the 
table, and this mornin' I'm powerful hungry." 
During the meal, and in answer to questions, he 
rambled on to tell of himself. 
"Y'd think I'd come straight from Ireland. Well, I 
was born there, all right. Y' could tell that, couldn't y'? 
I come over t' this Canady whin I was a little felly. 
Lived down near Montryal 'till 'bout four years ago, thin 
come up here. I ain't bin down t' the post since in April 
[this was August], an' I won't git down there agin till 
things freeze up. 
"Where'd y' say y' was from ? Saint Louis ! Are there 
any Ir-rish down there? I knew there was. Any of the 
Carrolls? That's my name, y' know. Y' say there's wan 
of 'em in politics there. I'll bit he's some kin to me." 
The breaking camp and loading the wagon was soon 
over. The road wound in and out, avoiding trees and 
boulders, and finally crossed a good sized brook on a 
corduroy bridge. Beyond rose a hill of blue clay, bad at 
all times, but now made doubly slippery by the rain of the 
inght before. Pat was for unloading and sending the 
v.agon up empty, but we finally decided to try it first, and 
unload afterwards if we had to. All went well for about 
a minute after the start, when the horses began to slip. 
The wheels were blocked with the ever-present loose 
stones, and so we held our own. Pat and Toma each cut 
a heavy switch — a gad, Pat called it — and we moved 
again. The Stone once more came into play, and we had 
gained another vantage point. Then came the worst 
piece of the hill. Pat bragged, coaxed, threatened, 
stormed, hut didn't swear. The occasion was certainly a 
good opportunity, but the noise and the gads carried ns 
up and on, and when we reached the top Pat remarked, 
"1 could 've cussed 'em plinty, but the n'ise does jis' as 
well. I didn't do much wor-rk, but I'm a dandy on the. 
holler. Tommy, how's that gad— 'bout wore out, ain't it? 
I tho't so." 
At the far end of the portage we found three separate 
parties getting ready to go up the river. They had 
crossed the carry the evening before. One of the crowd, 
an artist from Boston, admired Pat's muscles and felt of 
a pair of biceps as big aS a stove pipe. Pat said. "Yis, 
I've got a good ar-rm on me. Las' winter 1 broke a 
hame strap the byes fastened round m' ar-rm. (But it 
was a small wan.) I jis' want to tell y' of a felly that 
was up here this spring. He was wan of thim typewriter 
fellys, an' he saw me a-liftin' things 'round kinder easy, 
an' he says to me, 'How did I do it?' So I said, jis' feel 
of that ar-rm, an' after that I couldn't git him near me. 
"But," he said, "that's nothin'. Jis' feel of m' leg. Y' 
see, I sometimes git dr-runk. Whin I'm out with the 
byes I have t' be wan of thim, y' know, an' I tell 'em I'm 
only a poor Ir-rish lad with a wooden leg; an' they'll feel 
of m' leg an' say, 'Too bad; poor felly.' Thin I tell 'em, 
feel of the ither wan, an' thin the dr-rinks is on 'em." 
Then addressing himself direct to the artist, he said, pat- 
ting his left leg, "Bite it; jis' set y're teeth in it. _ Y' can't 
hur-rt it." The invitation was neither declined nor 
accepted. 
Coming up on the train the writer had met a young 
woman bound for the post, to visit her father, a pros- 
pective millionaire miner. At the post was the parent, un- 
shaven and dressed for the camp, but evidently a diamond 
in the rough, and the daughter was welcomed to his arms 
and the one hotel of the place, kept by mine host Hogan. 
It happened that Pat knew the father ; and Toma, know- 
ing of the acquaintance, told of the visitor. Pat was de- 
lighted. "So the old man's darter has finally come, has 
she? He's bin tellin' me 'bout her, an' promised to intro- 
jooce me to her whin she come. Begob, I'll git me a tin 
cint soot of clo's, an' a dood cane, an' a five-cint collar 
'round m' neck, an' I'll go down an' be presinted. My, 
but he says she jis' knows an or-rgan by hear-rt_. Why, 
she can jis' br-reak a or-rgan or a pianny! An' sing — jis' 
like a bir-rd ! But, say, was th' old man sober? I'm glad 
he was. My, but he's a good wan. He's from 'cross the 
lake — Michygan or Wisconsin, I forgit which. 
"I've got an uncle over in Wisi%;Onsin. He's always 
a-wantin' me to come see him. He's rich — well fixed — 
got a far-rm an' only wan darter. He says he'll set me 
up if I'll only come. D'ye know, I've started siveral 
times, but I niver git farder .than Port Arthur. There 
I sure git dr-runk, an' the first thing I knows I'm dead 
broke intirely, an' have to come back here. Some day 
I'm goin' to buy m' ticket clear through before I sta-art. 
Thin, maybe, I'll git to see the old man. 
"Whin y' come back I want y' t' stay a day with me, 
an' take a picture of m' shanty. It's a dandy. Y' haven't 
seen it yit. I'll be lookin' for y'." 
Coming down the river we again hunted up Pat to take 
our lighter load across the carry, and found him at his 
"shanty." A large party from Minneapolis had gone down 
the river the first of the week, among them that prince of 
goo4 fellows, Msf, Charlef Y«glie, and they had tgjd Pa| 
of our intention to stop a day with him. This was now 
impossible, owing to the sickness of one of the guides, 
which made it necessary for us to hasten to the post. 
Pat greeted us with a running fire of questions and 
explanations. 
"Well, I was a-lookin' for y' but not quite so soon. 
The folks from Min-nyap-polis, the Jedge and the rest, 
they told me y' was goin' to make me a visit. What, can't 
stay? One of your byes sick? Well, I'm sorry, shure. 
Can't y' stay jis' wan day? I've got bread all ready to 
bake. (It won't giv' y' the indyspepsy, nayther.) An' 
to-morrow we could have a fine time. 
"No, I ain't got no woman. But y' know Cha-arley, the 
game warden. Well, he's part Indian, an' he's got a 
darter, an' if I take her I'll be in the tr-ribe thin, won't 
I? An' I'll have somebody to wor-rk for me. (But, oh, 
my! What will the children be — Ir-rish or Indian?) 
"I've got to hunt up wan of m' harses an' fix a single 
tree, an' thin I'll git yer things over." 
Here he produced a new timepiece and remarked, 
"Cha-arley — he gi' me a wa-atch. Cha-arley? Why, 
Cha-arley Feeley. We're so well acquainted; he always 
calls me Pat, an' I call him Cha-arley. It's wan of thim 
Ingersoll wa-atches. Ingersoll he was an infydel, but 
it don't hur-rt the wa-atch none, y' know. He gi' me d 
wa-atch las' year. He gits 'em down t' Min-nyap-polis 
fer 'bout a dollar an' a qua-arter apiece. Say, is that 
Saint Louis farder off than Min-nyap-polis ? Almost a 
thousan' miles ! My, but y're a long ways from home. 
Well, he gi' me a wa-atch las' year; an' whin he sees I 
ain't got it now he wants to know what wint with it. So 
he says, says he, 'What did y' do with the wa-atch I giv' 
y' las' year— did y' lose it?' 
"An' I says, 'No, I didn't lose it' 
"An he says, 'I'll bit y' giv' it away.' 
"An' I says, 'No, I didn't giv' it away.' 
"An' thin he says, 'Did y' dr-rown it?' 
"An' I says, 'No, I niver dr-rownded it.' 
"Thin he says, 'If y' didn't lose it, an' didn't giv' it 
away, nor didn't dr-rown it, what did y' do with it?' 
"An' I says, 'I ra-afled it,' so I did, and got most five 
dollars for it. 
"So he gi' me this wan. 
"Las' year he was up here with his sister, and she gif 
me a go-old pin. So he wanted to know what had becomf; 
of it. I told him I still had it, but [aside with a wink] it's 
down t' Nipigon. I'll see it on her nixt time I go down. 
"I sartinly am sorry y' can't stop a day anyhow. We 
c'd git over t' a little lake I know of, that's jis' full of 
bass, great big five and six-pounders — ain't it. Tommy? 
D'ye know, Cha-arley, the game warden, calls 'em 'baths,' 
but thin he's an Indian an' don't know no better. If y' 
come ag'in we'll shure go over there. 
"Comin' ag'in nixt year, are y' ? Well, I'll be right here 
t' meet y'. Goin' to bring yer wife? Well, Pat will be 
glad to see her, too. How do I git m' mail? Y' can ad- 
dress it t' P-a-t, Pat, r-i-c-k C-a-r-r-o-double-1, Patrick 
Carroll, Nipigon, care of Aleck McFar-rland. Be shure 
an' sind me a pictur' of m' shanty." 
And when we were well out in the stream there came 
to our ears, "Good-by, Mister Faerguson, be shure an' 
come ag'in nixt year." Fergy. 
In Old Virginia. 
XVIII -Woodcock and Other Things. 
The first woodcock was an accident, both as to find- 
ing and losing. We had been out some time and were 
passing through a strip of heavy timber growing along 
a small stream, when the bird flushed and went boring 
almost straight up through the tall trees._ Although a 
gunner of many years' experience, this bird is one that has 
very rarely entered into my game pockets, and I might 
almost say that my only knowledge of it is that gained 
by examining specimens in collections, or market stalls, 
and cursory reading. 
It is a strange and marvelous thing how much valuable 
information comes to us a few days after the time has 
passed, or the event transpired, when it would have been 
of use. And so it is not surprising that a few days after 
my first real engagement with the woodcock, when I 
shot at it under the impression that when flushed it flew 
at great speed for a great distance, I should read in our 
own ever to be relied on Forest and Stream that this 
beautiful bird is slow of flight, and only inclined to move 
aside a bit, as if to barely get out of the way when 
disturbed. 
This is entirely in harmony with my experience — ^the 
little I had— but without the testimony of such higli 
authority I should probably have continued in error, ex- 
plaining the variation noted by thinking I had happened 
on only young birds. Error dies hard, and while I can 
now see that the said woodcock went up through the 
trees with a slow, even flight, I then honestly believed 
that it was going away with the speed of a rocket, and 
f^lt sure that the quickest possible action was demanded, 
l' shot quick, both barrels, and stood watching the bird 
o^t of sight through the trees with a greater sense of 
real loss than I could remember to have felt in many 
years on accotint; of a lost bir^, I was |ur^ that no other 
