270 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[IAprii, 8, 190S. 
Denmark, 
A Story of Ambition, Pluck and 'Well Deserved Sjfccess. 
For many years the writer has known the subject 
of this article as one of the most reputable and effi- 
cient guides in the Adirondacks. But not until last 
summer was the interesting story of his life secured. ■ 
As told by himself, it is as follows: A native of Den- 
mark and wishing to improve his condition, he came 
to America in 1883 when twenty-seven years old. He 
landed with sixty-four cents in his pocket and only 
three English words on his tongue: "Yes," "no," and 
"potatoes." He soon hired out to a farmer in Rox- 
bury, Vt., where he worked one month. But he "did 
not like it" and left. Then a man loaned him money 
to go and seek work at Port Henry, N. Y. He 
promised, "Me pay when work." He went to the Cedar 
Iron Works at Port Henry and looked around. Mr. 
Foote, an official, saw him and asked, "What do you 
want — work?" "Yes me work." Taking in the situa- 
tion at a glance, Foote took the Dane to his mother's 
house and fed him on bread and milk. "It was the 
sweetest meal I ever ate," he said in describing it. 
Then Foote pointed to six o'clock on a watchdial, 
then to the smoke stack at the iron works, and said, 
"boo-o-o-o-h," and Denmark knew he was to go to 
work when the whistle blew at six o'clock the next 
morning. 
He worked four days at $1.40 per day and then was 
promoted to receive $2 per day. But he did not know 
it, as he drew no pay till the end of the month. On 
pay day he received two envelopes. One contained 
pay for the first four days' work — the second a $20 
bill. He said, "No, too much!" but was satisfied with 
the explanation. The next step was to settle for his 
board. His landlady charged him $18 a month. He 
thought it too much for what was furnished, and 
changed to a boarding-house at $20 a month. "The 
Dane," as everyone called him, was on the road to 
fortune. But in about two months the iron works 
closed, and seven hundred men were thrown out of 
employment. "The Dane" had paid back the money 
borrowed at Roxbury, had sent his father $25, and 
now had $72 in his pocket. He could live until work 
came. But his money was stolen. Now he must move 
quickly. Two offers of work came. One on the 
Canadian Pacific Railroad, the other in the lumber 
woods of Essex Co., N. Y. He went there. Eighteen 
men were on the job. A month passed, the foreman 
drew the pay for all, and ran away. The men were 
angry and wanted to kill the stock, a cow, a pig, and 
a horse. But "The Dane" seized an old gun, presented 
it at the men, and said, "No, no, me bang!" His sense 
of honor and prompt courage saved the stock. All 
the other men left, but he stayed and fed the stock. 
After several days a man came into the woods with 
a load of supplies. Seeing the Dane he asked, "What 
are you doing?" Denmark could not name the ani- 
mals and so replied, "Me feed ugh"— giving a grunt 
as nearly like a pig's as he could. The man said, "If 
you will work for me, I will see that you are paid." 
The bargain was closed on the spot. In the spring 
he had earned and received over $300. Then came the 
usual "river-driving" and "The Dane," wishing to be 
a full-fledged lumberman, engaged. But "a jam" of 
logs was his undoing. Caught between logs as the 
"jam" suddenly gave way, some of his ribs were 
broken, he was otherwise severely injured, and was 
taken out of the water seemingly more dead than alive. 
He was carried out of the woods to a country tavern. 
Between the tavernkeeper and the doctor his money 
was soon gone by charges akin to robbery. Then he 
was put out, but a "good Samaritan" living near took 
him in and cared for him until recovery was complete. 
Then he went into the lumber woods again. Gradually 
acquiring forest lore, he at length went to Long Lake* 
Standing near the water one day, he was Seen by a 
party of newly arrived sportsmen, and One of them 
asked him, "Can you take a trunk to my camp?" "Yes, 
me take two trunks." Reaching camp with the bag- 
gage he watched the newcomers preparing supper. 
They had used saleratus instead of baking powder 
for flapjacks, and the result set the Dane to laughing. 
"Can you do better?" was demanded of him. "Yes," 
he said, and did it. He was promptly engaged as 
cook for the party, and when fortune did not smile 
upon the hunters, was asked if he could take a dog 
and run a deer' into the lake for them. In that region 
he had not been twenty rods from the road, but he 
was "woodwise" and immediately told the hunters he 
could do it. His first effort brought them a big buck; 
this was followed by other successful efforts, and so 
began his "guiding." Then he served Rev. Dr. Duryea 
and party as guide, and at the end of the season 
he bought a boat for $32 which he rented for $60 the 
next season. This put him on a new track. He bought 
other boats and rented them at good profit. Saying . 
his money, he soon owned all the boats in service at 
one of the Long Lake hotels. Suddenly the hotel 
was burned and all his boats with it. Again he had 
lost everything but his magnificent strength and 
courage. He resumed "guiding" and served in that 
capacity for some years on the private preserve at 
Brandreth's Lake. As always he saved his money, and 
^t length felt warranted in seeking a wif?, fiefqrg the 
marriage took place, his fiance died. Grief prostrated 
the Dane in serious illness, and again nearly all his 
earnings were swept away. Recovery was followed by 
renewed effort and accustomed success in his calling 
as guide. 
He finally bought a farm about three miles from^ 
Blue Mt. Lake, where he lives, comfortable and re- 
spected, dividing his time between the farm, guiding, 
and the duties of public office to which his towilsrrtetl 
elected him. He is trusted everywhere, and has guided 
some of the most wealthy and prominent Adirondack 
sportsmen. "In season" he is usually busy with old 
patrons— often engaged months in advance — and last 
year refused an offer of $600 and expenses for a six 
months' trip to Newfoundland, in order that he 
might keep faith in a previous engagement for only 
six weeks. Such honor is . above commercialism. He 
is thoroughly Americanized, having no desire to re- 
turn to his native country, though proudly wearing 
among his^h-iends and correspondents the cognomen, 
"Denmark." His manliness, energy and perseverance, 
have earned success and appreciation. Such men are 
welcome from any country, and make good citizens 
anywhere. His career presents the same fundamentals 
of character as have made other Norsemen with better 
opportunities conspicious before the world as its 
servants and benefactors. All honor to Nansen and 
Finsen and other heroes of achievement against great 
odds. But likewise honor to all those of every nation 
who in the humbler walks of life, without the en- 
couragement of public , knowledge and approval, but 
with relatively great odds and equal heroism, achieve 
success. ^ Juvenal. 
The Last of the Eagles. 
He lay dying on a cliff of the great cafion. His winjr 
was broken and his breast torn by a. pitiless rifle ball, ft 
happened miles away, but he had reached his old cliff 
heme, a thousand feet above the river and as many below 
the top of the cliff. How many hours in his long life he 
had sat on this perch watching the dashing water below, 
the blue sky above. How many changes he had witnessed. 
He was more than a hundred years old— a hundred and 
fifty, perhaps— and he remembered when the forests were 
primeval and the buffaloes in great herds grazed in the 
valleys and wild horses dashed over the plains; he re- 
membered the mountain goat, leaping, from cliff to cliff 
in wild joy. A thousand other things he remembered; 
among them, many years ago, seeing a man who hunted 
not with the bow and arrow, but with a terrible instru- 
ment like the thunder bolt that killed a long way off. One 
of his friends went too near, thinking it a bow and arrow, 
and was killed. He had seen many killed since in Ihe 
same way, and he had learned to keep at a long distance. 
He had been fired at a good many times, but had laughed 
at the hunter and scorned his lightning. 
At first , all this was play to him— the play of a daring 
spirit— watching the ball as it sped toward him, but 
slowed down, and at the last went underneath his perch. 
Underneath this old perch were a thousand marks of 
bullets fired at him as he sat upon it; and how he had 
been amused by it all ! 
But these bullets gradually came nearer, and one day 
a ball struck the perch on Avhich he sat. This man's light- 
.ning was getting stronger. Many more of his comrades 
had gone too near and were dead. He, wise old fellow, 
cautiously held aloof, lengthened his distance between 
himself and the man with' the strange thunderbolt, and 
lived on; but it was getting lonely now, all those who 
started out with him — and these cliffs were alive with 
them—were gone, fallen before this ruthless piece of 
thunder wielded by. a man. And so many of those born 
later had fallen, too; and now for several years as he 
sailed tip and down the Canon or soared above the moun- 
tain peaks, he had had no companion. He was alone. 
Who had killed all his companions? That man who. 
somehow had control of the Hghtning. What did he want 
to kill all his friends for? Why, now, was he trying to' 
kill him? Was it just because he could? A new power 
had come to him, and he could kill at long range, and so 
he killed. What was he getting out of all this killing? 
The simple satisfaction of killing; and if he only knew 
more, if he only would lay aside that instrument of death 
and come nearer, as somehow he might, and instead of 
studying a dead eagle, listen to the secrets of a live one, 
he might one day hear a story that would be worth more 
to him than all the thunderbolts of all the clouds; he 
might receive, a secret that he would give a thousand 
times as much for as he had given for his lightning. With 
this instrument, cunning as it was, he could only kill; 
with the secret in the heart of the old, dying eagle, he 
would be the master of life. He remembered also that 
in a far off land in the distant past he had seen these men 
killing one another with this same instrument. These 
men could only kill. He, the eagle, could tell them how 
to make alive, or how to live long. Once he sat on a tree 
top and talked a few minutes with his old friend the 
buffalo, wounded aiid dying. He was the last of his race, 
he said— and the eagle had seen none since- — and the buf- 
falo^ had told him that he knew some things that men 
did not, but that they wanted to know terribly; and there 
had been times, he said, when he had hoped to show men 
this marvelous secret of strength and virility, but man 
n^ve|- a|lgY|i'ed him to come near. The minute h^ ap- 
proached their camp, out came those thunderbolts, and 
then a run for life. Now this buffalo was dying, the last 
of his race, because he had ventured too near a man's 
camp in the desperate hope that he might be allowed to 
tell him the great secret he longed for, and held now 
only by the buffalo himself. But , the shot came instead 
of the commuiiiortj and. the animal niust Carry his seCfet 
out of the world with iiirri. 
The bald eagle held the secret, of long life, and all his 
days he had sought an opportunity to communicatfe it to' 
this man. He had lived 150 years; there was riO feaSoti 
why he should not have lived as many more, but for this 
pitiless rifle ball. And in that time who knows but that 
he might have told his secret to men? Even now, could 
he only do so, he would make it known. But between 
him and man there was a great, an awful gulf. He had 
no way to cross it. 
Now he lay down on his old perch with broken wing 
and torn breast, dying. The secret ot long life that should 
have been man's, but that could be his only as the eagle 
communicated it to him, must die with him. The solace, 
the comfort it would have brought, the pain it would 
have relieved, the heartache it might have swept away- 
all these now lost to man, and lost forever. And the 
eagle was sad; not to die, for it was too lonely now to 
live any longer; but that he could not make known' his 
great secret. Had he lived for naught? 
The shadows had long since crept into the canon, and, 
save a gleam of light here and there from the moon, -the 
old eagle was in darkness; and for the first time in his 
life he was cold, and he knew that the end was near. 
With great pain, for it hurt him to move, he turned oft 
his perch, where, the instant he rose above the eastefii 
peaks he could see the, rising sun, and composed hiniself 
to die. Then, in a flaSh the light shot athwart the eailqil, 
and opening his eyes he gazed long and tendei-ly oh the 
old sun; then his head drooped and his spirit, oti tlie 
morning sunbeams, with its untold secret, went out into 
the light, and his tribe passed on. 
Joseph Woodbury Strout. 
A Midnight Mystery. 
In the summer of '81, two other men and I bought a 
sloop of five tons capacity, stocked her with provisions 
and tools, and started to hunt sea otter on the Alaskan 
coast. After about two weeks we got up as high as Queen 
Charlotte Island, and I began to find the sloop rather 
small, with far too little elbow room for three men of 
our size, so I parted with my interest in the venture and 
took the steamer Otter back to Victoria — the mate to the 
steamer, by the way, which now lies rotting on the beach 
in Burrard Inlet Narrows, the old Beaver, the first steamer 
that ever plied along the coast. After I got to Victoria I 
loaded a canoe with tools and supplies and started for 
Jonhnson's Straits to spend the rest of the summer hand 
logging. 
This industry was at one time quite profitable, but a 
man needed nearly five hundred dollars' worth of tools 
and as much worth of provisions for an outfit, and be- 
sides he needed to know the trade, for if a man started 
in and cut off the timber near the water first, he could 
never shoot the back timber down through the old tops. 
The way to do was to get two jack screws of the three- 
legged kind made on purpose for this use, axes, barking 
irons, saws and chopping boards with steel plates on the 
end to notch into the body of the tree and stand on while 
you cut the tree down rather high to keep above the butt, 
where the wood is wind-shaken and pitchy; then you 
needed a square to tell how your tree was to fall. This 
square is made like a T, and when you begin the "scurf," 
or notch you cut to fell the tree, you put the crosspiece 
in and sight along the stem to see where the stick will 
drop. Of course our hand logging was done on steep 
ground near the water, where the logs could be floated 
and rafted down to mill. 
After you select your claim, you go back to the 
farthest point that it will pay to cut to begin work. Then 
for getting out logs, the first thing to be done is to fell 
your bedding; that is, to cut a lot of small trees, say 
from a foot to two feet through, so as to lie crosswise 
on the spot where your timber will fall; then you cut a 
notch for the chopping board and begin the front scurf on 
the tree, using the square to find exactly where it will 
fall. After that you put a chopping board in for the 
back cut, cutting the trees (which are for the most part 
Douglas firs from four to eight feet -through) at a height 
of from ten to twelve feet from the ground. Then when 
the tree is felled you bark it. When the sap is running in 
spring and summer you can easily do this with a barking 
iron, which is a steel bar about 40 inches long, of % or . 
%-inch steel, rounded and flattened at the end. This you 
jam through the bark and can then pry it off, using the 
tool something like a crowbar. If the sap has finished 
running, you must chop the bark all off with the ax, and 
it is a long, slow job. 
You now top off the timber ; that is, chop off the top at 
the first limbs, say from 80 to 100 feet from the ground, 
so as to leave all clear lumber. Then the log is sniped; 
that is, the point is tapered off, slightly rounding like an 
egg. Now the log lies on its bedding, free from bark ex- 
cept on the under side. The jackscrew is then set on one 
of the skids of the bedding and the log is notched to take 
the head of the screw. If the log be on pretty steep 
ground^ you must put in a. "Sampson," of which there are 
