166 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Aug. 9, 1913. 
For a long time we rested in quiet content¬ 
ment. This would have been impossible had 
we not been fortified against the pestering in¬ 
sects by the well-tried preparation of tar, castor 
oil and pennyroyal oil smeared over every inch 
of exposed skin. With all the discomfort of 
the insects in the Maine woods, we could never 
forget that those very pests are the salvation 
of the fishing there. Were it not that the flies 
are most abundant at the very season when the 
trout rise the most freely to the fly, fishing would 
be so popular there that the trout would quickly 
be exterminated. By the generous use of the 
fragrant dope and occasional resort to a thin 
muslin mask over the head and mitts upon the 
hands, it is perfectly possible to defy the insects 
and live in peace. We did not entirely escape 
being bitten by the black flies. Their first few 
bites have a distinctly poisonous effect. For 
about thirty-six hours the sites of the bites are 
swollen, red and tender, and the itching pretty 
bad. For that length of time one usually suf¬ 
fers also from headache, feverishness and some 
loss of appetite. Once these symptoms pass off, 
they do not again appear until another fly sea¬ 
son. There seems to be no doubt that one be¬ 
comes immunized. 
On resuming our fishing we watched with 
interest a loon, that embodiment of wild nature, 
dodging about the lake, her graceful black neck 
the size of that of a goose, and her sharp bill, 
outlined against the shining surface of the 
water. Fler body was kept submerged while we 
were in sight, and at times she would show 
nothing above water but her head. From time 
to time she would dive and reappear after a 
long swim under water. A wild duck gave us 
an exhibition of swift flight, circling about the 
lake several times. But of trout we saw none 
and reluctantly gave up after fishing for an hour 
longer, admitting that for once we were skunked. 
The march home over the short mile was 
largely through a pure growth of spruce, one of 
the prettiest spots of woods of which we know. 
On arriving at the camp we found our two 
guests to be teachers in the Maine State Univer¬ 
sity. After their hard jaunt on the mountain 
they were glad to sit down to a square meal in 
comfort of our camp. They were made welcome 
for the night and proved to be congenial. On 
their departure the next morning for down the 
river, they took with them letters from us to 
our families. As they were sitting at supper 
with us, although no one had noticed signs of 
a storm, the wind, which had been blowing from 
the west during the day, suddenly increased, 
leading the way for an unusually severe thunder 
squall. For a few moments we watched the 
sheets of rain race across the lake and fall 
upon its foaming surface, while the wind and 
thunder were so loud as to make it necessary 
to shout in order to be understood by one close 
at hand. In the midst of.it all Tom ran across 
from the kitchen camp, where we had been eat¬ 
ing, to the main camp, forty feet away. Soon 
we heard a crash from that direction and saw 
that its window sash had been blown in. For 
a while the contents of the building were the 
sport of the wind, and some things were wetted, 
but no serious damage was done, and half an 
hour later all .was calm, and the sunset serenely 
in a clear sky. 
On our fourth day in the woods all went 
to fish the Sourdnahunk Stream, which flows 
south into the West Branch, a mile or so to the 
westward of our camp. We marched together 
down the hills through the woods to its mouth, 
and there divided into three parties, each going 
to a different point along the wild turbulent 
mountain river with its granite bed and sur¬ 
rounding forest. Old Joe and I started at the 
mouth to fish up. As on previous occasions on 
lake and stream in the Maine woods I first gave 
the dry flies a conscientious and thorough trial 
without any success or encouragement. Those 
untutored savages of trout are more charmed 
by the absurd and gaudily tinted silver doctor 
or parmacheenee belle dragged about under the 
surface of the water in an utterly impossible 
fashion than they are by the best imitation of 
a natural insect floating like thistledown. We 
crossed the stream near its mouth and walked 
troutless up the right bank toward the rendez¬ 
vous. Old Joe carried the landing net, an axe 
and a basket of birch bark improvised for me 
in which to carry my specimens of plants or 
flowers. We were walking single file as usual 
through the woods, Joe in the lead, and I peer¬ 
ing about for flowers, or mushrooms or what 
not, when a mother partridge bustled up toward 
us, full of fight and fantail spread, as she clucked 
to her chicks and squeaked at us. Only a glimpse 
of her little ones could be seen as they scuttled 
away among the leaves, and it was of course to 
distract our attention from them that she made 
her threats. For a half hour we played tag 
with her, endeavoring to drive her into a sunny 
spot where an instantaneous photograph might 
be had. She was very fearless and did not at¬ 
tempt to fly unless we made a pass at her, and 
even then she would quickly light again and 
bristle up at us. At times she would advance 
toward us, peeping defiantly, bill open, crest 
erect, and her beautifully marked tail spread to 
its full extent like that of a turkey gobbler. 
Again she would crouch among the leaves and 
seem to shrink to two-thirds of her former size 
and become difficult to find at all, although close 
at hand. She resisted our repeated efforts to 
drive her into a sunny spot, but before she 
finally flew up high into a tree, several shots 
with the camera had been attempted. 
Our luncheon rendezvous was at a pictur¬ 
esque pool beside which rests a perched boulder 
known as the Monument Rock. A large gray 
lichen-covered granite boulder rests upon other 
rock twelve or fifteen feet above the water and 
projects so far on the stream side that it would 
seem as though a touch would make it topple 
over and crash down from the perch where the 
flood or glacier had placed it. The stream could 
not be crossed hereabouts without a wetting, so 
that in order that we two might join the rest 
of the party who had the lunch, Joe determined 
to cut down a tree and construct a bridge across 
the rapids above the pool which makes smooth 
water beside the balanced rock. The old Indian 
was so long in getting the wood for the bridge 
that I undressed and swam across the lower end 
of the pool. The water was icy and the current 
stronger than I had anticipated, and with one 
hand aloft carrying a bundle of my clothing I 
lacked power, and was swept down stream upon 
the rocks which lost no time in banging and 
cutting my legs. But the worst of the hurts 
were those of my feelings as two heathen brutes 
sat up on the rock and laughed at me. Three 
swims were needed for all my clothes and im¬ 
pedimenta, but more mishaps were avoided by 
starting to swim across from further upstream. 
Old Joe had his bridge finished soon, and we 
enjoyed as usual the meal prepared with Joe 
Dennis’ customary cunning. It was not trout¬ 
less, as the others in the party had secured a 
meal of the delicious little squaretails upstream. 
In the afternoon we strolled up to the lum¬ 
bermen’s dam, about three and one-half miles 
from the mouth of the stream. After fishing 
the pool below it with indifferent success, we 
began at 3 o’clock the homeward march down 
the left bank, and up the side trail to old Foss 
and Knowlton, arriving in time to secure the 
evening meal of trout from the canoes. The 
walk home was among beautiful forest sur¬ 
roundings. Some months before we were there, 
the lumbermen, in order to facilitate floating 
logs down the stream, had blasted out masses 
of granite from along its bed and sides. Fresh 
broken chunks of the rock were found many 
rods away from the stream, and sometimes 
strewing the forest floor. It is also customary 
for them to blast log jams to pieces when they 
occur during the drive down to the river. As 
a result of these methods we found in several 
places huge spruce logs sticking up from boggy 
spots along the stream where they had been 
driven like pins into a pin-cushion. We took to 
the home camp many flowers and plants for 
identification and a plentiful supply of mush¬ 
rooms (Plcurotus sapidus ) which went well fried 
for supper. A fat lumbering porcupine crossed 
our path and attempted to swim the stream. He 
found it too swift for him and crawled back 
up the bank and caused us a lively quarter of 
an hour and much laughter, while I attempted 
to snapshot him on the move. Everyone prodded 
and shoved and shouted to make him move out 
on to a sandy beach in the sunlight. No one 
cared to get too close to his needles, and it was 
almost impossible to force the big black and 
white bundle on to the open shingle until Joe 
Dennis put his Indian wits to work. In a minute 
he had cut a birch crotch and trimmed it of 
leaves, so that by holding the ends of the V, 
he could slip the point under the beast and lift 
him at arm’s length, struggling, but helpless out 
into the sunlight where he might have his picture 
taken in spite of his shyness. During the ex¬ 
citement I glanced at Ned and got a momentary 
picture of him laughing aloud, one leg raised 
and slapping his thigh with glee. 
[to be concluded.] 
