292 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. 7, 1905. 
T hen a nd Now. 
BY DR. WM. M. BYRAM. 
When forest nuts were falling with the frost, 
And sere October’s brush had touched the wood 
With magic colors of her myriad hues, 
With dog and gun I strolled one autumn day, 
To where, in boyhood’s hours forever past — 
That “golden age’’ of all men’s memory — 
I knew so well the haunts of wildfowl once. 
For years I had been in an active world. 
The ceaseless grind of life, with little rest. 
And so had come once more where, as a boy, 
I watched the gorgeous mallard’s steady flight. 
All day I walked in thoughtful solitude. 
The change, of years impressed at every glance. 
The stream -was there, but only by the verge 
Rose trees, where once a great old forest stood. 
At length I came upon the one-time marsh. 
Where oft the thunder of a thousand wings 
Had echoed through the forest where it stood. 
I looked long on a field of stunted grain— 
In hopeless memory of other days. 
All day I noted little of game life— 
A few short lines of birds, high up in air, 
On rapid wing were beating toward the south ; 
From off a hickory a red squirrel leaped 
Among the leaves and scampered to his den; 
Once, far in open field a hawk was perched. 
As if he now slept after midday meal. 
While from a wooded hill a quail’s low call 
Was faintly sounding to his scattered mates. 
As I returned at eve with heavy step. 
And scarcely fired a shot within the wood, 
I read the lesson well of men’s great greed 
For blood of all the life of wood and stream. 
Like our dark brothers of primeval days. 
The game is swiftly passing from the earth. 
A Woman in New Brunswick. 
We left Tilton, N. H., one bright September day to 
take our long-planned moose hunt in New Brunswick. 
We started from Boston at night, taking a sleeper for St. 
John, arriving next day at noon. We spent a very pleas- 
ant afternoon in driving about the city and seeing all the 
points of interest. We left St. John that night at 7’30. 
arriving at Bathurst at 2:22 A. M., this being the end 
of our railway journey. We found our genial guide, Mr.. 
W. H. Allen, of Penniac, N. B., waiting to welcome us 
to the land of the moose and to see that we were safely 
started on the first twelve miles of the trip to camp. We 
had a comfortable carriage and arrived at the end of the 
settlement just as it was coming daylight. Here we had 
breakfast and changed our clothes for hunting suits, put 
on long-legged leather boots, warranted waterproof, 
which meant the water got in and could not get out ; took 
our places on the “tote” wagon and began the all days 
ride over twenty-four of the worst miles of road we ever 
had the bad luck to be jolted on. However, we reached 
Camp Caribou after dark and found the cook waiting for 
us with plenty of baked beans, and they did taste good. 
Soon the air mattresses were inflated and we were sleep- 
ing as only one can after eighteen hours of open air 
exercise. 
In the morning we were able to see what kind of a 
place we were in, as it had been too dark at night to see 
anything but trees. The camp faced the river and was 
situated on a high bank, so the outlook up the river was 
very fine. There were two small lakes above and two 
below us which were the headwaters of the Tetegouche 
River. The first day we went up the lakes in a canoe 
and I saw my first wild moose ; he was a young bull, hut 
we wanted larger game, so watched him for some time 
and then quietly paddled away leaving him still there 
feeding. The second day we saw a fine deer on the shore 
of the lake at a distance of 140 yards. I fired from the 
bottom of the canoe and much to the guide’s astonish- 
ment killed him with one shot, so we were supplied with 
fresh meat and found it fine eating. 
After this we hunted several days before we saw any- 
thing but tracks. The n^xt thing we saw was a calf 
moose feeding on the shore of the lake, hut there seemed 
to be no old ones with him. A few days later we saw 
another calf and got very close to him. He was a pretty 
shaggy fellow, about the size of a Shetland pony. He did 
not see us and fed up very close, at last he got the_ scent 
and trotted quickly away. We made various trips to 
other ponds and bogs, and on coming back would usually 
find fresh moose tracks on our boat landing. 
On the eighth day we went to one of the upper lakes 
and the guide gave his persuasive call on the birch-bark 
horn and away off on the hill we heard a faint sound. 
We waited, listening intently, and at last heard the sound 
of antlers on the trees. “It is a bull moose,” whispered 
the guide, “don’t move.” Soon we could hear the great 
creature crashing over fallen trees and through the 
underbrush. When nearly down to the edge of the lake 
he stopped; that was a moment of suspense. Would he 
come out in sight or would he detect the fraud and steal 
away? Presently, however, he name on again and we 
could see his great head aiid antlers through the trees. 
How large he looked as he leisurely walked out into the 
lake looking for the cow he hoped to find there. Noise- 
lessly as a phantom the canoe dowly drew a little nearer 
and turned into position. Now we are to know whether 
the much dreaded h”ck fever ill set the nerves jumping 
and the rifle sights dancing,- or whether the bull is ours. 
It was my first moose, lip was 150 yards across the Iqhe, 
but the Mannlicher bullet went straight to the. fore shoul- 
der, broke the bone, went back and was found in the 
hind quarter. It was a deadly shot, but we gave him a 
few more to finish him, and not let him suffer. He fell 
in the water on a sandy beach, so we dragged him 'partly 
out and dressed him. He was a fine fellow, beautifully 
colored, and had perfectly symmetrical antlers. We took 
his picture as he lay in the lake. While we were dressing 
him we heard another moose walking in the bushes, but 
he did not come out in sight. 
I had shot my first moose in the great forest of New 
Brunswick, and best of all had made a clean shot and 
had not had “buck fever.” Now it was Mr. Mdses’ time; 
and although we worked hard, no answering grunt was 
heard to the guide’s plaintive notes until next to- the last 
day in camp, then toward sunset we heard the much 
wished for sound, every minute coming nearer and 
nearer, until at last he was close at hand. We waited 
anxiously until he should come out into the lake. As 
soon as he could see him Mr. Moses gave him two shots 
in rapid succession. The huge animal, terrified, turned 
and ran into the woods. The guide thought best not to 
follow him, as they often run miles when badly wounded, 
so we went back to camp to. wait until morning. We 
were out early the next morning, and on going to the 
place found tracks but no blood. We followed only a 
short distance, however, before we found him stretched 
out calm and peaceful, beautiful to look upon, his antlers 
perfect in size and color. He had been hit with a .30-30, 
which went nearly through him lengthwise, and had 
died within a short time after being shot. 
The peaceful days and quiet nights had passed quickly, 
our hunt was over. We had our twO' moose and a' deer 
and an immeasurable amount of good health stored up 
for the future. Never before had we lived on the “fat of 
the land” as on this trip — fresh vegetables, trout from the 
river, wild cranberries, blueberries and raspberries, all 
sorts of good things in cans, plenty of bacon and ham, 
besides all the fine moose and deer steak w'e could eat. 
Our guide was a thorough woodsman and one of the few 
men who think of everything and think nothing too hard 
for the pleasure and comfort of his party. The evenings 
in camp were passed in hearing story after story of the 
hunter’s life and his many exciting adventures. It was 
with real regret we said good-by as the train came rush- 
ing in that was to take us back again to the busy every- 
day world. Mabel P. Moses. 
West Virginia Past and Present 
Hu, Maxwell has been making an exploration of the 
wilderness regions of West Virginia, once famous for 
their supply of game and fish. Of the discouraging con- 
ditions now existing he writes in the Morgantown 
Chronicle : 
The professional hunter’s occupation passed away in 
West Virginia long ago, and the amateur sportsman’s is 
following in the same path. Our development is destroy- 
ing the retreats where game and fish found their last 
refuge; and the unsportsmanlike conduct of many of the 
amateurs who go out to hunt and fish is contributing 
much tO' destroy what little still remains. 
The practical extinction of the wild creatures of woods 
and streams was impressed upon my attention during my 
two weeks’ trip among the mountains of this State. Dur- 
ing a journey of 342 miles, a large part of it on foot 
through the wildernesses and over the mountains, in the 
wiWest part of West Virginia, I saw not one trace of deer 
or bear, not one pheasant, no wild turkeys, except a brood 
which had been domesticated ; no quail, only one gray 
squirrel, two snipes, not one rabbit, or duck, or wild 
pigeon. It may thus be inferred that game is no longer 
plentiful. 
Fish were no less scarce. A small number of very small 
trout was all. They’ were so small that no fisherman with 
self-respect would spend much time looking for them. 
On Glady Fork of Cheat River, which was once the 
realization of all the hopes and aspirations of the.' trout 
fisherman, not one remains, so far as I could see,-or hear. 
I met again at Glady a small crowd that I had seen in 
Grafton on my way to the mountains. They had reached 
Glady one day ahead of me, having gone over from Elkins 
on the Coal and Iron railroad. When I met them they 
were on the back track toward home. They explained 
briefly and with extreme disgust that they had been lured 
upon a fool’s journey, and that the last trout had died of 
suffocation in the stream which was once clear and pure, 
but now choked and foul with the refuse from the forest, 
which is disappearing beneath the lumberman’s ax. 
I made no effort to catch fish there. One glance at the 
surroundings convinced me that it was useless. As well 
might one try to catch trout in the vats of a tanyard. But 
instead of taking my back track at the first rebuff, I shoul- 
dered my pack and struck deeper into the mountains in 
search of streams still unpolluted by the hark, leaves and 
sawdust of the lumberman and his sawmills. 
Six or seven miles beyond, and on the other side of a 
mountain 3,700 feet high, I came to Laurel Fork, another 
tributary of Cheat River. The lumberman has not touched 
this stream, except near its mouth. It flows through a 
wilderness as wild as it was when Columbus discovered 
America. Here, if anywhere, trout ought to be found. 
I knew that they once existed, for ’T fished in that stream 
on the day that I was twenty-one years old. Of course, 
that was a long time ago, but it is not quite ancient his- 
tory, and my memory is sufficiently clear to remember it 
distinctly. On that September day the stream was alive 
with trout. Little branches, with scarcely enough water 
to conceal a fish, were filled," and one hour’s work was 
sufficient to satisfy any fisherman possessing the -true in- 
stipcts of the amateur who always knows when he jigs 
.’ caught enough, and is willing to leave some for the next, 
man. 
A great change has taken plqce. Laurel Fork has been 
fished to death. I found evidences of this in the deserted 
camps with the ground littered with empty meat tins,i 
. showing that the fishermen had been there by the week.' 
After trying my luck a part of two days, with nothing to; 
show for it except two or three weak nibbles, I con- 
cluded that I had no further business on Laurel Fork, and' 
I pulled out for new fields. 
A few days afterward I was telling a citizen of my, dis- 
couraging experience on Laurel Fork, when he proceeded 
to tell me how different it used to be on that stream. He. 
said that he and two others had killed a deer and caught! 
900 trout on Laurel Fork in one afternoon. That is a 
. sample of what has taken place. .It explains what has 
become of the trout which once swarmed in that stream 
, They have been wantonly destroyed by human hogs 
. whose dull instincts permit them to catch 900 trout in one 
afternoon. No wonder the trout have disappeared. Whali 
any man would want with 300 trout (each of the three 
men’s share) is past finding out. 
This is not the first case that has come under mj; 
observation in West Virginia of the inexcusable and 
wanton destruction of trout. A few years ago I went 
'fishing on Burgoo and Leatherwood creeks, in Webster 
.county, and not meeting with the success I expected, some' 
of the mountaineers proceeded to regale me with account 
of how they used to catch trout on those streams. Thej 
said they had often caught more than they could carrj 
home and “threw them away.” I suggested that all ovei' 
and above what they wanted for themselves should have 
been left alive. 
“Oh,” was the reply, “if we did not catch them some- 
body else would, and we might as well have the fun as| 
anybody.” 
Senseless and useless destruction of the wild creatures 
of streams, or forest, or air, never appealed to me as a 
civilized kind pf fun. But I am convinced that it is onlj 
so-called civilized people who indulge in that species ol 
destruction. I have spent a good deal of time with Indian 
hunters and fishermen in the West, and they can sel 
examples that will put to shame many a white sportsman 
with destructive impulses. The Indian hunter kills onlj 
what game or fish he can use. He never ceases to express 
contempt for the white man’s wantonness in killing gamf 
that he cannot use, or catching fish after he has enough; 
I once obtained useful lessons on this subject while among 
the Indians in the mountains of British Columbia. Th( 
head streams of the Frazer River were so filled with fisl 
that a man could catch a wagonload in a day. Yet th( 
Indians wasted none, and were quick to rebuke any ten 
dency on my part to do so. It is the same way witl 
hunting. The Indians often remonstrate' with white hun-. 
ters for killing more game than they need. 'When thes< 
remonstrances have proved in vain, as they usually do, ] 
have known the Indians to go stealthily ahead of the whiti 
hunters, and endeavor to drive the game away. 
But this is digression, although if the white man car. 
learn lessons from savages, I see no reason why he shoulc 
not do so. 
Meeting with no success on Laurel Fork, I crossed th( 
Alleghany Mountains to Big Run, in Pendleton county 
fifteen miles further. That was a famous trout stream 
once. It is lifeless now. One glance at its banks was 
enough for me, and I did not unwind my fish lines. 
That region was once the finest range' for deer in th( 
State. Old hunters tell me that it used to be the com 
mon thing to see several deer every time a person passec 
along the paths through the woods, and it was difficult t( 
follow the tracks of a single deer because tracks of other? 
were too numerous. That was when timber covered th(’ 
country. The deer has gone the way of all the earth; 
The forests have also gone. Over tracts of hundreds o" 
acres hardly so much as a stump remains. Fire destroyec 
everything. The hunter has no business there, and thi 
sooner he gets out of sight of the desolate hills with theij, 
unbroken expanses of fern, and nothing else, the bette; 
he will feel. 
Southwest of this district lies what is still called “thi 
hunting ground.” The people yet call it by that name 
but it is a misnomer now. While . passing through tht 
miles of fern, growing on the hard soil of the hills, I sav 
. nothing more pretentious than a ground squirrel. Th< 
country is still unsettled. That is, a house is seen onl-f 
once in several miles. I believe I walked eight or nin( 
miles without passing a house. If the torch had not beet 
applied to the forest, I doubt not that it would still be t 
good place to hunt deer. 
Along the North Fork River I heard of fish, hut I sav 
none. I did not try to catch any, because I was discour 
aged. I saw a company of ten from Pittsburg who hac 
gone to the North Fork to fish. They had been success 
fill, to the extent of catching one-Bmall eel when I sav' 
them, which was the second day of their endeavor. The^ 
were hopeful, however, and were confident that their lucl 
would change with the clearing of the weather. They hac 
been fishing in the rain. 
High water prevented me from trying in Seneca Creek 
The last time I had been there, which was a good whilii 
ago, trout ten or twelve inches long could be caught ii: 
abundance, and sometimes they were caught as large' a? 
eighteen inches. On the eccasion of my present trip 1 
v/as told that no trout of any kind can be caught ii 
. Seneca until the headwaters are reached;, and of late th.' 
lumbermen have invaded the headwaters, and that mean, 
that Seneca Creek will soon not have a fish in it. ' 
Leaving the waters of the upper Potomac I crossed twr 
ranges of mountains, the Alleghanies and Canaan Moun' 
tain, a distance of about twenty miles, and reached th-; 
headwaters of Black Fork of Cheat River, in the famou! 
valley of Capaan, which was at one time tie pamdise q> 
