\ 
Terms. Four Dollars n Year. 
Ten Outs n Copy. 
NEW YORK, THURSDAY, APRIL 25, 1878. 
I Volume 10.— No. 18 . 
1 No. Ill Fallon si., IV Y. 
MAKE ME A SONG. 
SeUcteO. 
AUT of the silence make rne a song, 
Beautiful, sad and eoft and low ; 
Let the loneliest music sound along 
And wing each note with a wull of woe, 
Dim and drear, 
Aa hope’s last tear. 
Out of the silence make me a hymn 
Whose sounds are shadows soft and dim. 
Out of the stillnesses In your heart— 
A thousand songs are sleeping there— 
Make me but one, thou child of art, 
The song of a hope In a last despair 
Dark and low, 
A chant of woe. 
Out of the stillnesses, tone by tone, 
Soft as a suowdake, wild os a moan. 
Out of the darknesses flash me a song, 
Brightly dark and darkly bright ; 
Let It sweep as a lone star sweeps along 
The mystical shadows of the night. 
Sing It sweet, 
Where nothing la drear, or dark, or dim, 
And earth songs melt Into heaven’s hymn. 
Fatukb Ryan. 
For Forest and Stream and Rod and Qun. 
M l ' cnc ? the | ^hocimv Ration. 
Number I. 
I N one corner of my library, arranged in such a manner as 
to display its proportions to the best advantage, is an ob- 
ject which has for me a more than common interest, and 
which I cannot look at without being reminded of an adven- 
ture which will live in my recollection as long as memory 
itself. This object is the skin of what I am proud to 
believe was one of the largest panthers that ever fell before a 
hunter's rifle. Measuring along the curve of the back as the 
animal lay on its side, from the tip of the nose to the extrem- 
ity of the tail, the tape line showed a distance of exactly 
seven feet, ten and one-quarter inches. Its sickle-like claws 
and ugly-looking teeth are something fearful to contemplate. 
In the centre of the forehead, and almost as exactly between 
the eyes as though the distance had been stepped out with a 
pair of dividers, is the orifice made by the passage of the 
bullet— the tangible evidence of a remarkable shot. This 
trophy was secured during a journey across the southeast 
corner of the Indian Territory— that portion of it occupied by 
the Choctaws— in the spring of the Centennial year. 
But though the panther skin always reminds me of the in 
cidcnts of that journey, such adventitious aid is by no means 
necessary to enable my memory to recall them. They made 
at the time too distinct an impression to depend upon sou- 
venirs for recollection. The mise en scene was sufficiently 
novel, and the danger and discomfort sufficiently abundant to 
give to the various scenes and incidents that romantic color- 
ing which shines the brightest and endures the longest on the 
frescoed walls of memory. In June, 1876, I found myself in 
Red River County, Texas, but with a determination not to 
stay there longer than I could possibly avoid. The specu- 
lation which had brought me there had ended, and the events 
rapidly ripening in the Quaker City were invitrag me urgently 
nortlfward. To go north, however, in the usual manner— by 
rail — was not what I fancied. I had come south that way, 
and for all the pleasure of the trip or the knowledge of the 
country obtained, I might as well have stayed in a St. Louis 
hotel reading the gaudy circulars of the M., K. and T. R. R. 
I was the possessor of a pony and of a light muzzle-loading 
rifle, and these articles suggested the idea of going at least 
part of the way “overland.” I was not pressed for time, and 
the novelty of such a trip would more than repay me for its 
discomforts, if any such there proved to be. A young friend, 
by name Morgan Nichols, agreed to accompany me, and hav- 
ing made all possible inquiries as to the route, and laid in a 
few pounds of soda crackers to masticate on the road in the 
event of a scarcity of game, we started one bright sunshiny 
morning for the great Red River of the South. 
The route we had laid out for ourselves, and which we fol- 
lowed with but slight deviations, was across the “ Nation ” 
to a place marked on the maps as Ultima Thule, but which 
every one we met called “ McLean’s Store," thence northeast- 
ward to Ozark, on the Arkansas, thence to Springfield, Mo., 
and from there to 8t. Louis. We expected the trip would 
last nearly a month, and would give us time to take the cars 
and reach Philadelphia by the “Fourth.'’ 
We crossed the Red River at a place called Mound City, a 
metropolis consisting of one dwelling house, one store house, 
and one dilapidated cotton gin. The river here was about 
forty yards wide, with a current of perhaps four miles an 
hour lshaU never forget the scene it presented. I had 
crossed the same stream a hundred miles farther west on my 
southward journey, but there I saw none of those elements of 
picturesqueness which were here so abundant. The water 
had cut a channel between steep banks of bright vermilion- 
colored clay, which stood some fifteen feet above the surface 
ol the stream. From the top of these banks a level sward 
stretched away for several yards to where a thick aud gloomy 
forest arose on the southern side, consisting chiefly of pines 
and oaks, while on the northern hank wi re more promineut 
the silvery green foliage of the cottonwoods. The trees were 
surmounted with their brightest toppings of changing green, 
which threw itself into varying shades as the leaves were 
stirred by a slight breeze blowing down the river. The 
morning sun, sbiuing from a cloudless sky, threw into bold 
relief the open pluces near the river bunk, with the deep aud 
almost gloomy shadow of the forest. The gorgeous colors 
presented, the crimson hue of the stream, the brighter red of 
the sharply-cut banks, the brown of the tree trunks, and the 
gleaming emeralds of their tops were calculated to leave on 
the mind an impression which other scenes of greater beauty 
could not produce. There was no particular beauty here, blit 
there was that indefinable j* ne sois quoi which gives its 
charm to many a well -remembered spot. It was the ming- 
ling or the curious with the picturesque. 
After crossing the river, our route for several miles lay 
through a curious tract of bottom-land, which differed 
almost totally from all other “bottoms” it had been my 
fortune to traverse. On the Texas side of the stream the 
bottom consisted merely of a thick forest of oaks, filled up 
with Bcraggly underbrush. On the northern side the bottom 
partook more of a swampy and tropical character. It could 
not be called a swamp, for the ground was bard and firm, at 
least along the narrow trail we were compelled to travel. 
Neither could it fairly be called a mere forest, though tall 
trees, literal “giants of the wood,” spread their umbrageous 
foliage over the gloom below. Nor yet could it be likened to 
a canebrake, though caoes grew there in abundance, their tall 
s ender culms growing thickly along the trail, at times almost 
closing it in. I noticed that our ponies eagerly snapped at the 
narrow leaves as they brushed through them. The row of cot- 
tonwoods which grew along the river bank had grown thinner 
as we proceeded inward and were soon offiy to be seen at in- 
tervals, but their places were filled with other species. The 
water oaks were there, with gigantic pines of several feet in 
diameter ; while here and there amid the gloom we could 
discern the wide spreading branches of the ugly excrescented 
cypress. Monstrous grape vines, the diameter of a man’s 
body, stretched, anaconda like, from trunk to trunk, while 
the branches were heavily loaded and festooned with myriads 
of llianas, among them the perforated rattan. So thickly 
were the vines interlaced not only among the branches, but 
from them to the ground, that only at rare intervals could the 
sunbeams filter through and give a dim glimpse of the grace- 
fully curved festoons. It was to me a very interesting place, 
reminding me as it did of scenes supposed by myself at least 
to be found only at a long distauce to the southward. 
As we rode along we found that in this net work of vegeta- 
ble forms occasional openings appeared, and one of these wus 
so curious as to excite remark. The trail passed through the 
extreme edge of it, and gave a good view of its strange fea- 
tures. It was circular iu form and about seventy-five yards 
in diameter. On all 6ides was a wall of trees, their trunks 
and branches so closely interwoven with creepers as to re- 
semble a fiuely woven screen of foliage colored wire. In the 
centre of the circles tall tree had once stood, but had long 
since been broken off below the lowest branch, about forty 
feet from the ground. Around this trunk the llianas hud 
clung and clustered until they completely covered it, form- 
ing a cone about thirty feet in diameter at the base by forty 
feel in height, and as regular as though formed by the hand 
of man. On the top of this cone, his body clearly outlined 
against the sky, a large blue heron was stundiog, apparently 
asleep. 1 be beauty of the scene, as well as its strangeness, 
caused us both to drawn rein and sit for a few moments in 
silent contemplation. While sitting thus the heron espied us 
and flapping his wings rose lazily into the air and was soon 
out of sight. 
A ride of a couple of hours brought us out of the bottom 
and on to higher ground. The cypresses first disappeared, 
then the pines grew less frequent, the canes ceased, and we 
found ourselves riding through a forest of noble oaks, in 
which the narrow trail we had been following in the bottom 
widened to the dignity of a blazed road. This road we ex- 
pected would lead to a place called Shawnee Town, where we 
had been directed to inquire for information about the road 
from thence to Graham's Ferry, a crossing on Little River 
where we would in turn be directed to Ultima Thule. 
AloDg this road we met with our first Indians— Choctaws, 
I suppose they were — and the impression left on ray mind by 
tins glimpse of the noble savage was sudly at variance with 
the ideas derived from the pages of Cooper and Mayne Reid. 
There were two of them coming along the road from Shawnee 
Town. The foremost was a middle-aged man with a very 
pleasant and benevolent-looking face. His companion was 
younger, with a more commonplace coumenance, and with 
an expression lurking about the corners of the eyes which 
filled_one with suspicion. Both were dressed in buckskin 
hunting shirts, leggings and moccasins. The younger w«s 
bareheaded, but the elder wore around his forehead a bright 
colored band, aud on his breast was h medal-like piece of 
sinning metal. Neither of them was armed. Coming be- 
hind these, but several rods iu the rear, were 1 lie “better 
halves '—squaws by name and squaws by nature, os Nichols 
atterward expressed it. They could not lie called prepossess 
mg in appearance, but were decidedly the reverse. Indeed, 
they were ubsplutely disgust ing. They possessed not one 
trace of that “wild, untutored beauty ” romance writers huvo 
been able to mid in Indian maideus. It is true they were 
uow on the shady side of middle ago and might have been 
more attractive when young, but it was hard to conceive of 
beauty ovor attaching itself to such libels on female liiunauily. 
bLort and stout m body, with short, thick nocks, 
square jaws, high cheek hones, moDSlrous ears, small evil- 
ghtteriug eyes, low, black, wrinkled foreheads, and coarse, 
greasy and unkempt hair, they formed pictures that might 
v^U disgust any civilized man with the remotest idea of mat- 
rimony. They were clad in buckskin moccasins and leggings 
and cheap cotton gowus, plentifully besprinkled with beads. 
On the back of one of them, in a sack formed of a folded 
blanket, was a little papoose, bis impish-looking head peep- 
ing over his mother’s shoulder and tugging away at the pen- 
dant mamma she had lifted up to within his roach. On the 
buck of the Other was au army blaukot. tied at the coi ners 
and loaded to its utmost capacity with the traps and “penates” 
of the family, and beneath whoso weight the bearer almost 
bent double. Not a gleam of intelligence, not a glimmer of a 
smile enlivened their countenances as wo liftcu our lints in 
passing. A look of stolid stupidity was the only return for 
this act of oourleay. 
Sucli is the result of nearly half a century of government 
protection and civilization of one tribe of wood Indians. 
We soon arrived at Shawnee Town. We did not find It 
to lie much of a place. It consisted of one largo frame 
house, with the usual outbuildings, located in ouu corner 
of a largo fenced field. Ou the opposite side of this field 
were several negro huts, to which we were directed to ob- 
tain information about the road. Iu one of these huts wo 
found an old Degress, who informed us that it was about 
forty miles to Graham’s Ferry, aud gave us directions as 
to the road. She was not very well posted on directions, 
aud the most wo learned from her was that about ten miles 
on we would come to u hut inhabited by an old Indian 
woman who would give us directions for the rest of the 
wav. 
Tiie forty miles wo had to traverso led us through ft 
beautiful oak grove. Our route was marked by blazes 
on the trees, which were the only Bigns of a road visible. 
The trees were just far enough apart to allow an occasional 
glimmer of suulight to filler through their branches, while 
beneath them was spread a green carpet of rich rank grass. 
There was no undergrowth, save here and there a clump of 
blackberry bushes covered with their half rlpo fruit, ami the 
sprigs that spring up around those spots where a fallen treo has 
lain for some time and given protection to the sprouting seed. 
We found but little to interest us, and the ride soon grew mo- 
notonous. A green carpeted grove may bo— it is— a very pleas- 
ant place on a Sunday afternoon, when the goodie-laden picnic 
tables spread their iuviting treasures beneath tho shading 
branches, but to ride forty miles through such a grove, where 
the loaded tables and the pretty-faced waiters are absent, cau 
hardly fail to grow tiresome. 
Aa we rode along our ears were greeted by a constant rust- 
ling of the grass under our heroes' feet. It was caused by the 
lightning-like darting of myriads of little green aud striped 
lizards, as they scampered out of our path. At times a bevy 
of quail started up and whirred away into the distance, but os 
our weapons were both rifles, such opportunities were of no 
avail to us. We saw no trace of larger game, and we began 
to think that we might have some difficulty in getting our 
regular meals, for the crackers we had bought at starting had 
been all consumed, and they are but poor food at best. Occa- 
sionally, though not often, the road led us along the edge of 
park-like glades, where the blackberry bushes grew thickly. 
On the ground, or several inches above it, appeared the large 
plum-shaped fruit of the Mandrake plant, its yellowish plump- 
ness appealing s'rongly to the palate of Nichols, tempting him 
at intervals to dismount and fill his pockets with the medicinal 
apples. At one spot we passed for nearly a mile through an 
opening which had been made in the woods by a hurricane. 
The stout o tks, varying from one to three feet in diameter, 
had been snapped off about three feet from the ground, and 
many of them were, torn up by the roots. Fortunately for us 
no Buoh storm arose during our journey. 
Late in the afternoon a thunderstorm came up. A small 
cloud suddenly obscured the suu, cutting off the struggling 
beams hitherto filtering through the tree tops. In a few mo- 
ments the entire heavens were overcast with dark rolling 
clouds, aud a gloom like that of midnight enveloped the woods, 
unfil it was with great difficulty we could distinguish tho 
road. Frequently wo were forced to stop and •xauiiue the 
trees carefully in search of tho “blazes.” A long, low peal of 
thunder shook the forest, and a wind, slow at first, but 
rapidly increasing in fierceness, swept through the woods, 
bending the trees like willow wands, and filling the air with 
a sad, sighing music. A vivid Hash of lightning, followed 
almost instantaneously by a deafening crash, uod then the big 
drops came pouring down, and in less time than it takes to 
write it both of us were soaked from crown to sole. Flash 
