194 
F O REST A ND S TREAM: 
[Sept. 3, 1904. 
affair to me. It seems the Sioux from the first were in- 
clined to treachery, being very numerous and the others 
but few. The Salteurs were well provided with guns and 
ammunition, but on their first meeting were surrounded, 
and the guns taken away from them, in return for which 
the Sioux gave them bows and arrows; but in a manner 
to be of little use, giving one a bow and no arrows, an- 
other a quiver of arrows, but no bow." 
On January 14 he was awakened by the bellowing of 
buffalo, and found the plains black, and apparently in 
motion. An enormous herd of buffalo surrounded the 
fort, and were moving northward, extending south as far 
as the eye could see. "I had seen almost incredible num- 
bers of buffalo in the fall, but nothing in comparison to 
what I now beheld. The ground was covered at every 
point of the compass as far as the eye could reach, and every 
animal was in motion. All hands soon attacked them with 
a tremendous running fire, which put them to a quicker 
pace, but had no effect in altering their course. The first 
roads beaten in the snow were followed by those in the 
rear. They passed in full speed, until about nine o'clock, 
when their numbers decreased, and they kept further off 
in the plains. There was about fifteen inches of snow_ on 
a level, in some places drifted in great banks. Notwith- 
standing the buffalo were so numerous, and twelve guns 
were employed, we killed only three cows and one old 
bull, but must have wounded a great number." The next 
day the plains were still covered with buffalo, moving 
northward; and this continued for a day or two^ The 
stock of winter provisions was now all laid in — an 
abundance of good, fat buffalo meat. In February the 
buffalo began to get poor, as they always do at that time, 
and toward the end of the month some of the men caught 
a cow on the ice of the river, the dogs having surrounded 
her, and the men entangling her legs in a line, so that she 
fell on her side; they then dragged her, still alive, to the 
fort, when she jumped to her feet and ran to attack the 
dogs. Two men mounted on her back, but she was as 
active with this load as before, jumping and kicking at 
the dogs in most agile fashion. 
On February 28, an Indian brought in a spring calf, 
which he had found dead, a very unusually early birth. 
The Indians declared that this meant an early spring. 
The first outarde— Canada goose— was seen March 12, 
and on the same day a swan. On this day, too, it was 
noted that the sap of the box-elder began to run; this 
yields a fine white sugar, but not so sweet as that from 
the real sugar maple (Acer). He notes that bitter- 
sweet is abundant along the Red River, and that the In- 
dians eat it in time of famine. 
Now the river, on account of melting snow, began to 
rise, and to lift up the ice. Henry began to get out his 
canoes and mend them up for the summer use. Wild- 
fowl made their appearance in great numbers, and on the 
23d young calves were seen by the men. And now, the 
ice of the river coming down, carried with it great num- 
bers of dead buffalo from above, which had been drowned 
in crossing the river while the ice was weak. Their 
numbers were astonishing. Often they were drifted to 
the shore, where the women cut up some of the fattest 
for their own use, the flesh seeming to be fresh and good. 
On the 7th of April one of his men brought in to Henry 
three wolves born this spring; another had brought in 
six, which he had found in one hole, and which were now 
very tame. It was proposed to keep them for sledge dogs 
in winter. 
A little later the odor of the decaying buffalo lying 
there along the river was terrible. In fact, on his journey 
down the river with his goods, which were now to be 
dispatched to Montreal, the stench of the drowned buffalo 
was such that Henry could not eat his supper. 
At last he dispatched his goods, and about the first of 
June left for the Grand Portage. The proceeds of the 
winter's trade amounted to nearly two thousand pounds, 
Halifax currency. 
George Bird Grtnnell. 
[to be continued.] 
Life in the Woods .—XVI. 
Last Night in Camp. 
(Concluded from Page 116.) 
Thus our hunt began and ended. Thus our hunts have 
begun and ended for seventeen years or more. We have 
bade farewell to the camp and the scenes about it, and 
now, in bidding farewell to you. the reader, I must, in 
a measure, bid farewell to my comrades, too, for life is 
fleeting. The eighteen-year-old boy who began to hunt 
when the others were in the prime of life, has grown to 
manhood, and his companions have passed the meridian 
of the known, and are fast traveling toward the mys- 
terious future of the unknown. A life prolonged by 
active outdoor exercise grows to that stage when it is 
pleasanter to live over old exciting experiences than it is 
to court new ones, and toward that condition they are 
fast traveling. And yet who shall say that they will cross 
the border first, for is it not written the first shall be last 
and the last shall be first ? 
As we have all changed, so have our old haunts been 
changing under the restless activity of man and the re- 
sistless activity of the elements until they no longer con- 
vey the same invitation that they did. What was once a 
trackless wilderness is fast becoming a settled civilized 
country. The past fifteen years have been the era of the 
passing of the pine tree ; the vast forests have been laid 
low Beginning at the mouths of the rivers where the 
timber was most accessible, the hardy lumberman, 
crowded on by the ambitious capitalist, has penetrated 
further and further each year, until not only the coun- 
try along the main rivers has been stripped, but the 
smallest tributary streams have been ascended even to 
the headwaters, and all the pine cut. Rapids m the rivers 
have been cleared out, gigantic rocks removed, and falls 
obliterated by the herculean power of dynamite. Nor 
has the pine tree alone been sacrificed. The cedar swamps 
have been cut for fence posts, railroad ties and poles; 
the spruces and the poplars have been taken to the paper 
mills, and the hemlock has been flayed to fill the maws 
of the tanneries. The hard wood, too, has been taken for 
vari us purposes until it seems as if no living tree is 
desl .ied to escape. Then have followed wind and fire, 
and a black desolation has settled upon the earth, blotting 
out the smiles of nature and seemingly destroying her 
few remaining treasures. Even the forests not adjacent 
to water have not escaped, for into these the enterprising 
lumberman has- built railroads until the entire northern 
part of the State is gridironed with the pathway of the 
iron horse, and roads- that seemed at first to run nowhere 
have gradually developed into trunk lines, over which 
the passenger and freight traffic of the world flow with 
unceasing regularity. 
Not the surface alone has been attacked. The bowels 
of the earth have been made to yield 'up treasures also. 
Along the road over which our team for several years 
took us into camp, vast mines of iron ore have been dis- 
covered. Towns have sprung up like magic, and where 
the game, the Indian, and the hunter roamed- at will, 
thousands of people rush here and there in the eager 
chase for wealth or at least of a living. The rivers, too, 
have been harnessed. Gigantic dams nave been built, and 
the power used to turn the wheels of machinery. Saw 
mills have sprung up at every considerable point, all 
seemingly waging war on nature. 
But now behind them all another army is advancing; 
not one of destruction, but rather one of restoration. 
The advance guard came from Germany, from Poland, 
from Norway, from Sweden, and from almost every 
clime. This is the flow of immigration — 'tis the advance 
of the pioneer. Soon the trail of the deer will become 
the cow-path of the settler, and soon the trail of the 
hunter will become the roadway of the farmer. Barren 
as the land may seem to us now, under the hand of man 
it will blossom and blossom again until in time it will ap- 
pear more radiant than ever before. Then will the 
hunter's camp have given way to the home of a happy 
people, whose laughter the rivers will catch as they dance 
merrily on their way. Even now nearly all the old land- 
marks have passed away; one of the very last was old 
La Salle. 
At a very early day, and long before the lumberman 
and miner had penetrated this wilderness, Charles La 
Salle, a young trapper and hunter, pushed his way far into 
the woods. Without road or trail he worked his way for 
over .150 miles from the nearest frontier settlement, and 
built a cabin at the junction of the Pine and Poplar 
rivers, there commencing the vocation of a trapper and In- 
dian trader. As time passed on a companion joined him 
in his forest home, and together they set their traps and 
endured the hardships of the wild life. During the win- 
ter months they suffered much from the inclemency of 
the weather, and for the want of proper food. In the 
dead of one winter the companion was taken sick and 
died. La Salle could not think of burying him in the 
woods, neither was it possible to take the body out 
through the forests and down the rivers in the summer 
months. Consequently he must endeavor to get the re- 
mains out over the snow and icy rivers before spring. 
With this determination, he built a sled, and preparing 
the body, lashed it on. Then with some provisions, 
blankets, and a few camping implements, he started on 
his long journey. As most of the distance was without 
road or trail, his progress was slow, but he was deter- 
mined to reach civilization. He camped at night in the 
snow, with the great pine trees as sentinels and wolves 
and owls for companions. Thus he marched on through 
the forest, over the frozen lakes and rivers, and across 
the bleak plains, never faltering on his weary journey 
until the settlement was reached, the body taken in a 
sleigh and transported another 150 miles to the home of 
the dead man. It was only then that La Salle returned to 
his forest cabin, with, to him, the supreme satisfaction 
that his former companion had been buried in, to him, 
consecrated ground, and with the services which those 
who- are faithful to the church hold so dear. A better 
example of heroic devotion to a friend and of faithful ad- 
herence to church is hard to find, and so far as the busy 
world is concerned, through no act of the chief actor, 
would it ever have become known, because he looked at 
it as a matter of duty, a thing which anyone ought and 
would do, never thinking of his own untold sufferings. 
La Salle still resides on the same spot, but a more 
modern house has supplanted his cabin. It is surrounded 
by a settlement, and he now enjoys the comforts of 
civilization. La Salle's history is but an obscure frag- 
ment of the untold tales of the development of a section 
which one day is destined to stand as one of the richest 
farming districts of the great commonwealth of 
Wisconsin. 
There is considerable satisfaction in going back to 
the scenes of former pleasures, even though all may seem 
to have been changed. Even though the first effect may 
be to make one lonesome and to oppress him with the 
feeling that he alone is left, and is destined to live and 
die alone; for after all, the lesson is taught that nothing 
is in vain, and that out of seeming destruction and deso- 
lation is bound to come in time some of the sweetest 
fruits of life. But for the present dearer to each of us 
is the thought that some of our companions are still left 
to us, older in years, but with hearts unchanged, and that 
they have retained the affections formed during camp life 
—retained them unchanged, and will continue to cherish 
them until death do us part. 
1 have seen old diaries placed away in which in a few 
lines were briefed the important events of each fall's 
hunt for many years. Sometimes I take them out and 
look them over, with what emotions I can scarcely tell. 
They are old and dirty ; finger-marks and gummy covers 
show the dirt of a camp. They are written in lead, evi- 
dently with the stub of an old pencil, for the lines take 
up more room than they should, and they stagger quite a 
little, and are not over and above legible. I prize them, 
though, and to me they possess inestimable value. I have 
read them over and over again. They are not much, to 
be sure, and if, when read by others, they do not seem 
silly, even childish, I will be satisfied. But, good friends, 
those lines tell of many happy days. They recall the 
excitement of youth, the fire of the chase, the health of 
the woods, and the blessings that come from association 
with good men and loyal companions. When I read 
them, I can almost shed a tear for the days that are gone 
and the scenes that have vanished. It then seems as if I 
have lost something near and dear to me — time passed 
that can never be recalled, moments of joy and of com- 
fort that cannot be duplicated. And yet from this one 
can turn to the heritage of the future, and ample satisfac- 
tion is there. When we meet we have the memories of 
the past to live over; for to us our stories never become 
tiresome, and though others may fail to appreciate them, 
yet to us they have a charm which naught else possesses. 
We have our pictures of many a camp and many a place 
around which are associated many bits of life which 
otherwise might escape unnoticed from the storehouse 
of the mind. We have, too, the spoils of the chase which 
the tanner and the taxidermist have preserved for us, 
and which by their mute presence recall many an exciting 
incident of the chase. We have our camp equipments, 
old and worn, yet eloquent to us on account of long 
service. But greater than all these, we have the living' 
presence of those who are still with us. 
There is the Old Trapper, with his sixty years and 
more, envying no man, giving all he can to deserving 
humanity, and blessed with three boys in whom the spirit 
of the father is plainly discernible. There is Henry, 
patient and persevering, never resting except to greet his 
friends, and with heart as large as ever. There is Bill, 
restless, and ever looking ahead ; keen in business, a man 
of capacity wherever he may be. There is the Buckeye, 
grown from the athlete to the robust knight of the grip, 
but still the same cordial friend that first tossed rifle to 
his shoulder. There is Mack, the same thoughtful, en- 
during friend, always ready to join in- making others 
happy. ; Three have passed away ; well mannered men, 
good citizens, who did naught but good for their fellow- 
men, and whose ways have made us seem as if they were 
still here. "We think of them still the- same as if not 
dead but just away." They had their faults. Who is 
there without them? We write them on the sands, but 
their virtues We inscribe on our hearts ever to remain 
there. Soon we must break up the camp of life, and 
some must go before the rest. And as to the woods, this 
time, too, it will be away from streets that teem with 
busy life — away from where man celebrates his triumphs, 
mourns over his sorrows, and weeps in the presence of 
death. But until that time comes, the chains that have 
linked us together shall remain unbroken; and may we 
not hope when we pass out upon that dark ocean to seek 
the unknown shore beyond, that there we may be reunited 
as each fall we have been reunited at our camp in the 
woods? So farewell, reader, and farewell comrades, and 
as you now close these pages, so do we hang up the rifle 
and the rod, and as you turn to open the pages of another 
book, so will we, as long as we can, turn each fall to 
take down the gun, pack the chests, and hie ourselves 
to the North Woods, there to prove to our own heart's 
content that in some ways at least primitive man was 
happier than his civilized brethren of modern times ; 
there to renew health ; there to worship nature in all her 
grandeur. 
Having come to the end, I have reached the beginning 
again, for I am reminded that I have not told anyone 
who, of all the party, Alexander Sampson was. If I re- 
member correctly, I eulogized him quite highly at first, 
and now I come to him once more. Faithful companion, 
I cannot do you justice, for it has not been given to me 
power to express in adequate language a fitting tribute 
to your worth to me. Many a long chase have you led 
me over hill and through hollow; many a long tramp 
have we taken through the trackless forests and across 
the plains. You have tried me as never tried by anyone 
else,- and exposed me as never before or since exposed. 
Through rain and sleet and snow we have plodded along 
for many a mile; through swamps, where every step was 
a quaky bog; into unknown districts, from which only 
the faithful compass led us; through windfalls and brush 
and briers and rocks; at river crossings and along the 
runways we have watched until almost frozen, then to 
stumble into camp mid the gathering gloom, stepping to 
the accompaniment of hooting owls and the distant wail 
of the wolf. But though you have done this and even 
more you have always stood by me. You have never 
failed, and often by your assistance the end of some of 
our greatest trials has been glorious success, which has 
driven away all memory of hardship or fatigue. Thus 
we have camped together, hunted together, and lived to- 
gether these many years, and our relations have always 
been pleasant, and I live in hopes that we may continue 
to do so for many more years to come. What care we 
what others say, so long as we are satisfied? What care 
we though others affect to despise our caliber and our 
aim, so long as we are constant each to the other ? What 
care we thought we are compelled to compete with others 
of greater penetration and power, so long as our suc- 
cesses are sufficient for ourselves? At all events, I am 
without complaint, for I am frank to confess that if fault 
there is it rests with me and not with you. So, good 
companion, as long as I live your future is assured, for 
I will never see you suffer abuse or injury. You and I 
will not say farewell until, until— well, so long as life 
shall last. But who is Alexander Sampson? My .45-90 
repeating rifle. Carolus. 
A Pastoral Lilting, 
^Or^the literary results of the poet's vacation at Halls Corners, 
Oh, for a life in the country free, 
Where the sighing wind in the sweet corn tree 
Mingles its- music, drowsy and low, 
With the song of the milkmaid, as, to and fro, 
Through the sunny pastures she skips about, 
., Milking the milk weeds with many a spout. 
z How sweet are the wee white leghorn lambs, 
i That scamper about with the half-grown hams, 
j. Barking in glee at the farmer's lad 
i As he wades in the brooklet fishing for shad, 
I While out through the barnyard come strident notes, 
j . For the farmer is busy a-shearing the shoats. 
j The drowsy sound of the husking bees 
1 Drifts in at noon on the scented breeze, 
The farmer's men all cease their toil ; 
No more they cultivate the soil, 
j Nor educate the sheep; no more 
Swap ancient puns at the country store. 
I For 'tis the festive dinner hour, 
And they gather round and eke devour 
j Enough of the juicy buckwheat cake 
: : To make their rural bellies ache. 
But back to the orchard at one they go, 
For the strawberry bushes they now must sow. 
Oh, a country life is the life for me, 
Where the neighing calves go frisking free; 
! The swallows cackle at sunset hour, 
I As they sip the dew from the whole wheat flower, 
And early to roost the ravens go, 
For at morn they must flap their wings and crow. 
—Frederick Aruthr Palmer in the Journalist 
