August, 1920 
FOREST AND STREAM 
433 
A log jam on the St. Croix River, Wisconsin 
with me, it was so arranged. We spent 
a week or two at the lodge, and also 
fished some pools farther up the river 
and on a tributary that was leased by 
Mr. Dean Sage, of Albany, New York, 
and the author of a magnificent book 
on salmon fishing. While there I met 
the chief engineer of the Dominion of 
Canada, who prevailed on us to forego 
our contemplated trip to the Nipigon, 
and fish the Batiscan river, which was 
then made available by the completion of 
the Quebec and Lake St. John Railway 
to that stream, which he said was swift, 
with many rapids, and advised us to take 
with us two Gaspe canoes and canoemen. 
We decided, however, to take but one, 
and at Quebec we procured a light bass- 
wood canoe, of birch-bark model. We 
found that the river was deep and very 
swift, and that it was impossible to pole 
a canoe up the rapids, consequently 
everything had to be portaged around 
them. As there were a number of these 
formidable rapids our progress was slow, 
but the fishing was incomparable, the 
trout running up to five or six pounds, 
and so plentiful that we soon tired of the 
sport. We had carried around half a 
dozen rapids of tumultuous and roaring- 
water, surging amid great black rocks, 
and circling around them in every direc- 
tion. It was the best, even if dangerous, 
■canoeing I had seen except in the Rock- 
ies or Alps. So I resolved to try running 
them even at the protest of the Gaspe 
boatmen. 
Accordingly, the Gaspe canoe was load- 
ed with our camp equipment and lowered 
over the rapids by long ropes, which we 
had been advised to take with us. Dr. 
Dawson had taken his negro carriage 
driver with him as valet and cook. When 
I was prepared to start down the first 
rapids “Jim” wanted to go with me. I 
was loath to take him, as he was utterly 
unconscious of the danger, but finally at 
his earnest entreaties I consented. I 
warned him to sit flat on the bottom of 
the canoe, to grasp the gunnels, and not 
to move, or I would brain him with the 
paddle. We went through all right, but 
when we reached the smooth water be- 
low I felt the canoe quiver and vibrate 
from the trembling of Jim, whose eyes, 
as one of the Gaspe men said, “stuck out 
like pot-feet.” The others were waiting 
for us, and the doctor sung out: “Jim, 
get out of that canoe and come ashore!” 
“Yes, sir; I wants to,” answered Jim. 
“I don’t want to take a dead nigger back 
to Cincinnati,” continued the doctor, and 
Jim got out, and was very glad to do so. 
I discovered that each rapids encount- 
ered was more perilous and threatening 
than the last one. I began to think that 
I would be obliged to give up the attempt, 
but pride and vain conceit in my prowess 
as a conoeist compelled me to go on. 
Never before did I realize the jeopardy 
and treachery of white water. There 
were half a dozen or more channels surg- 
ing and circling amid the dangerous 
rocks, with scarcely a straight stretch of 
water equal to the length of the canoe, 
and none much wider. The water raced 
with the speed of wild horses, foaming 
and dashing and churning against the 
rocky barriers that hindered its mad 
rush to mingle its waters with the sea. 
Then I came to the last rapids and 
congratulated myself that I was getting 
along so well. I was sitting far back 
in the stern so that the bow might be 
lifted out of the water in order that the 
canoe might respond more readily to the 
paddle in avoiding the rocks. On ap- 
proaching a particularly short and dan- 
gerous turn I put the blade of the paddle 
hard down and deep, so as to throw the 
bow around quickly, but unfortunately 
the blade caught in a cleft of bed rock 
and the paddle was forcibly snatched 
from my hands. I had taken the precau- 
tion to place an extra paddle in the bow 
of the canoe in case of just such an 
emergency. 
There was now but one thing to do, 
however risky it might prove. I threw 
myself bodily into the bow, where my 
weight caused what had been the stern 
to rise out of the water, and turning on 
the weighed end, as on a pivot, the two 
ends of the canoe were reversed, just be- 
fore it broached to, and I was again in 
the stern ready for action. I succeeded 
in getting through safely, more by good 
luck, but as I flattered myself by a little 
good management, too. On reaching the 
smooth water below the rapids I discov- 
ered my lost paddle floating alongside. 
M Y friend and companion, Judge 
Nicholas Longworth, an eminent 
jurist and a thorough sportsman, 
of Cincinnati, Ohio, built a comfortable 
river steam yacht, the “C. O.,” a little 
stern-wheel steamboat, something over a 
hundred feet in length, and well equipped 
and fully furnished with every conven- 
ience for its purpose. The engine-room 
was aft as the cabin with twelve berths 
was forward. It was the custom of the 
judge and a coterie of fellow sportsmen, 
during the fall season, to go to Reelfoot 
Lake, in Tennessee, and the bayous and 
streams of Missouri, Arkansas and Mis- 
sissippi for wild geese and ducks, as well 
as for black bass fishing. 
It was during one of these excursions 
that late one October afternoon the “C. 
O.” tied up for the night at Buffalo 
Bayou, in Missouri. I went ashore to 
look around. Back of a log cabin was a 
small field of com in the shock. Back of 
this was a canebrake stretching away, 
probably for miles. Just outside of the 
corn field were two large trees, a pin-oak 
and a pecan, both of which were occupied 
by a number of squirrels busily feeding, 
and too much engaged to pay much atten- 
tion to me. The two trees mentioned 
seemed to be the only nut trees in sight. 
On a tree in the edge of the canebrake 
was a small platform well concealed by 
the foliage, which was suggestive of wild 
turkeys. 
The next morning I arose at daybreak, 
and taking a Winchester 22 caliber rifle 
and a box of cartridges, I was soon seat- 
ed on a log midway between the oak 
and pecan, about twenty-five yards from 
either tree. The squirrels were already 
ahead of me and busy biting the hulls 
from the pecans and the cups from the 
acorns. Others were continuously com- 
ing, leaping from tree to tree across the 
canebrake, eager for their breakfast. I 
remained perfectly still for ten minutes, 
and then began picking off the little ro- 
dents, first from one tree and then from 
the other. 
When an hour had elapsed some hogs 
came out of the canebrake, attracted by 
the shooting, and began eating my squir- 
rels. Driving them away I began loop- 
ing the heads of the squirrels on my 
game straps, and counted thirty; mostly 
gray, but a few fox squirrels and two 
black ones, melanitic varieties of both 
the fox and gray species. During the 
shooting I had not moved from the log. 
It was altogether too easy, reminding me 
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