Forest and Stream 
Six Months, $1 50. 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, JULY 26, 1913. 
VOL. LXXXI.-No. 4. 
127 Franklin St., New York. 
In the Enemy’s Country 
J UST fancy a poet and a composer of operas—• 
two of the cleverest men Jobe had ever en¬ 
tertained at his little old hotel—digging for 
worms! Buck declared that it would be “real 
jam” to see the two men at such work; but they 
only laughed and would not admit what they 
would do when morning came. 
Everybody rose early as agreed upon. There 
was a dull, leaden sky, and everything was damp, 
even to the boots, which came up to the rooms 
as if Set had cleaned them under the pump. 
There was a slimy chill about the atmosphere 
which old Bilious Liver declared was an indi¬ 
cation that something was going to happen—and 
something did. The boys were swallowing their 
breakfast of ham and eggs hurriedly, so as to 
get an early start, when Jobes came in and 
said: “Well, boys, here’s hopin’ that you will 
have a fine day of it, and that each of you will 
come back with your baskets filled with trout. 
We will have a lady with us fer supper, and I’m 
mighty glad.” 
None of them liked their host’s appearing 
“mighty glad,” and saying so before them and 
then rushing off, they felt it implied he had had 
enough of them. They simultaneously shrugged 
their shoulders to show their ignorance of Mollie 
Marvin and their social superiority to anyone 
whom Jobes might bring in. They quit the table 
angrily, and with the assistance of Seth and the 
old cook, who had prepared them a hearty lunch, 
they were soon on their way. It was no child’s 
play before them. The ten miles they were to 
travel would test the muscle of every one of 
them, but they were all men of patience and 
nerve, and for the sake of the pleasure that 
awaited them, were willing to encounter some 
weariness and much discomfort. Up long hills, 
down into deep gulfs, with invisible branches 
sweeping their faces at every turn, tumbling 
over fallen trees, they traveled on, full of blood 
and vigor as the old woods were of mosquitoes, 
their hearty laughs ringing out as well at mis¬ 
fortune as at a joke. Presently they came to a 
spot in the forest that the sun now shone on 
bright and clear. The logs and brush had been 
burned up and a field of grain waved in the 
summer wind. “One of Jobes’ clearin’s we’ve 
heard him talk about,” said Payne as they 
trudged on to an adjoining clearing black with 
stumps. It was a forlorn place, but the birds 
were singing cheerfully as though to hear the 
echo of their own sweet songs. Through an¬ 
other wood, thick with underbrush, they came 
out upon an overhanging precipice in the river. 
By JESSIE B. PURDY 
(Concluded from last week.) 
Here the stream flowed in a broad sheet against 
a side hill and disappeared from sight to appear 
again further on. On the verge of the over¬ 
hanging rock they cast their flies. The very 
first cast brought forth some fine fellows, and 
just as Payne, Walker and Melvin were about 
to throw in again, they heard a tremendous 
splashing in the water. Turning their eyes in 
the direction of the tumult, they saw Buck 
floundering in the water. With a short crooked 
stick he had endeavored to mount a smooth, 
slippery rock, and cast his line into a deep hole 
that looked good to him, but he missed his foot¬ 
ing, and over he rolled into the swift current. 
He hastily got out of the predicament and 
stretched himself on the bank “to dry out.” 
“What were you trying to do, Buck—rout 
the fish out with that crooked pole?” asked 
Melvin dryly. 
“Foolish questions,” exclaimed Buck. “No, 
I was trying to furnish Walker with material 
for a new libretto,” and he laughed heartily at 
his own wit. 
“Buchanan, you are more kinds of a - 
idiot than any man I ever met. We may as well go 
home, for you and that boisterous laugh have 
frightened all the fish out of the river,” replied 
Walker testily. 
“Speaking of idiots,” returned Buck, en¬ 
tirely ignoring Walker’s reference to his laugh, 
“were any of you fellows ever in an asylum— 
not as patients, of course, but as visitors?” 
The others received his question in silence. 
“I went through one not long ago,” he continued. 
“Wonder they let you out,” growled Melvin, 
the poet. No one ever encouraged Buck to talk. 
The boys now sat silently, watching their lines 
which had been motionless since Buck’s drop 
into the water. But Buck doesn’t know when 
to stop talking. He resumed seriously: “I say, 
Melvin, though, joking apart”—this conciliates 
Melvin, who thinks he is appealed to as some¬ 
one above the average intellect—“you would be 
interested in the books the patients are allowed 
to read.” 
“No doubt,” said Melvin gravely. “It must 
be difficult to select reading that would suit 
those poor half-brained beings.” 
“Yes,” returned Buck, in the same serious 
tone, “the superintendent told me that the selec¬ 
tion was most troublesome; in fact, almost im¬ 
possible until last year.” 
“Ah,” said Walker, drawing in his line and 
interesting himself, being glad to find that Buck 
could talk rationally when he wanted to. “Then 
last year the patients were of a different mental 
caliber!” 
'Yes, much below the usual standard; they 
all insisted upon reading Melvin’s 'Book of 
Poems.’ ” 
They all laughed heartily at this—Walker, 
because he owed Melvin one for having said 
that “good poetry was thrown away on music,” 
and Payne and Buck because they knew that 
Melvin was confoundedly conceited about his 
one book of poems. Of course Melvin did not 
join in the laughter very boisterously, for he 
really did not see anything very funny in it. 
At first he ruffled his feathers preparatory to 
making a crushing reply, but he thought better 
of it, and admitted that he was most gratified 
at having been able to relieve the monotony of 
the poor creatures’ lives. 
Payne was always making motions like 
those of Parliament. As he gathered up his be¬ 
longings, he said: “I move that we start for 
home. You boys are on the verge of a row, 
and considering what we are to meet when we 
get back to the hotel, I think we should co¬ 
operate in our sympathy and unite as against a 
common foe.” Everybody seemed to have quite 
forgotten about Mollie Marvin, and that she 
would be at the hotel when they got back. They 
arose as one man and solemnly agreed to hang 
together on the proposition of her being a dis¬ 
tinct intruder. The journey back did not seem 
so far, because they were all keyed up to a high 
pitch on account of her coming, and they did 
not notice the distance. There was general dis¬ 
cussion on the way as to whether they would 
or would not dress for dinner, finally each man 
compromising on a clean shirt. 
The presence of Miss Marvin caused an 
alteration in the table arrangement. Jobes, who 
had his own views on table etiquette, put “old 
Bilious Liver” at the head, because he was the 
oldest man present. Livermore seemed delighted 
with the change on account of having grown 
tired of Buck’s whacks in the back during argu¬ 
ments at the table. Then Jobes asked Miss 
Marvin to take Livermore’s old place next to 
Buck. When everyone finally was seated, every¬ 
body wondered what everybody else would like 
to talk about. Miss Marvin sat very upright, 
very forward on her chair, occasionally glanc¬ 
ing sideways at Buck simpering, but never ven¬ 
turing a word. Buck had often heard the word 
“simpering,” but never realized its meaning until 
now. When not glancing sideways nor eating, 
she was engaged in making jerky, furtive in- 
