230 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Aug. 23, 1913. 
bunch berries, wintergreen and moss in plenty 
about the camp clearing, but never a blade of 
grass. Before us was a long landing place for 
the canoes, and from it we took our plunges 
into comfortably deep water. The opposite shore 
was within hailing distance, and its margin 
fringed by granite boulders and laurel bushes 
then in bloom. Birches and poplars mingled with 
the cedars, spruces and pines up the hillside. 
Behind the nearer hills Katahdin loomed up 
grandly and furnished an ever-changing spectacle 
of lights and shadows, colors and clouds. Even 
matter-of-fact Tom waxed sentimental over the 
mountain sometimes, and I heard him exclaim 
once, “You old mountain, you just stand there 
and stand there, and don’t say a darned word.” 
Our eyes, the binoculars and the camera were 
often aimed in its direction, and our thoughts 
centered about it even through the months and 
years in which we do not see it face to face. 
The log camp in which we slept was built 
entirely of logs or hand-hewed lumber, and was 
a simple one-room structure about twenty feet 
long and nearly as wide, with a steep gable roof 
continued forward to cover the wide porch. It 
seemed indeed like home to us after our many 
occupations. 
Before we had turned in on the evening 
last mentioned, Tom, in moving about, making 
ready for bed, struck with his head the swing¬ 
ing tin lamp. Down it crashed, the glass chim¬ 
ney shivering to bit, and the flame flaring up 
from the floor in an unpleasantly threatening 
manner. For a few seconds there was quiet 
tension under that roof, but fortunately enough 
coolness and quickness on Tom’s part relieved 
the tension and left the camp dark. Candles 
were lit just as a solemn half grown frog who 
lived under the landing place loudly but tersely 
remarked, “Stung!” He was always saying that 
same thing at thrilling' moments. When Ned 
rushed into camp for his binoculars with which 
to spy at a strange bird, only to find it flown 
when he emerged, that frog made the same sar¬ 
castic comment. 
Friday was a day of lowering skies, east 
wind, misty coolness and loafing. We trolled 
up a plentiful supply of trout for the midday 
meal on the lake, and dozed awhile after eating 
our fill of them and of freshly baked beans, 
mashed potatoes, toast and molasses, apple sauce, 
tea and cheese, and any quantity of all of them. 
In the late afternoon we strolled ovfer to the 
great lumbermen’s dam on the river at the 
Sourdnahunk Falls, where the large volume of 
rushing waters make a wild scene. The river 
country is covered with a hardwood growth, 
and we hoped to collect many varieties of mush¬ 
rooms in it for study and for the table, but 
were disappointed and attributed their scarcity 
to the earliness of the season in that latitude. 
Near the mouth of the Sourdnahunk Stream 
there is a little soil, and Joe Dennis produced 
a dilapidated shovel from somewhere—trust him 
for that! — and dug a mess of worms, as our 
supply was low at camp. Sometimes they fur¬ 
nished us with a meal of trout when baited on 
the trolling spoon, when the square-tails per¬ 
sistently refused the fly, and we also found 
use for their humble service on the stream when 
fly-fishing was impossible. 
The expected afternoon shower held off, and 
the day was pleasant and restful without any 
very exciting events to characterize it. There 
was a glimpse of a deer on the way home, and 
the usual meetings with porkies and partridges. 
Saturday was the year’s longest day. Day¬ 
light began before 3 o’clock in the morning, and 
was visible until 9 o’clock at night. The moon¬ 
light nights for which we had hoped were sup¬ 
planted by mists and cloudiness. But when one 
is sound asleep by a few moments after dark, 
moonlight on the lake is not missed. 
There was a permanent camp with inhabi¬ 
tants on Dacey Pond during our trip, so that 
when we decided upon a trial of its fishing, we 
expected but mediocre results at best. Our 
guides lugged a canoe over the two-mile trail, 
and we hired another there from Mr. York and 
were soon casting those standbys of the wilder¬ 
ness waters—the Montreal, silver doctor and par- 
macheenee belle. To our pleasant surprise the 
Dacey Pond squaretails were “jumping-crazy for 
the fly” that day, and among the morning’s catch 
averaging three-quarters of a pound, was a long 
lanky two-pounder, credited to Tom. Showers 
fell from time to time, but were little heeded. 
During one of the longest of them we strolled 
in the woods where the sponge-like moss and 
humus soak up the moisture, leaving the surface 
almost dr\ r . Then, too, the air seems to have un¬ 
usual drying qualities. Often a pair of thick- 
woolen stockings hung out of doors wet at night 
will be as dry as a chip by morning. While the 
guides were preparing the luncheon of trout, pork, 
johnny-cake, tea, apple sauce and onions, the 
rain fell steadily for a half hour, but by the time 
grub call was sounded, the sun shone again, and 
eating with comfort was possible. The guides 
never took coats with them on these day trips, 
but if they suffered any discomfort from, occas¬ 
ional wettings, they never let it be known. There 
were trout enough that day for a generous eve¬ 
ning meal, and that meant two big fellows for 
each man and a few little ones left over. After 
supper we chased rises on the home lake. When 
the sun went down and the wind was stilled and 
the clear, cool evening air resounded with the 
song of the hermit trush, the woods about the 
lake grew a deeper and deeper green, and the 
tracery of their tops along the skyline stood out 
sharply against the western sky. One was apt 
then to see little circles appearing on the placid 
surface of the lake, and now and then a splash 
would be heard as some especially hungry trout 
leaped high after an insect. It was fascinating 
indeed to watch for such places, get near them 
as quickly as possible in the canoe and cast the 
fly over them. If one could reach the spot with¬ 
in a reasonable number of seconds after the 
trout had risen, he was almost sure to be suc¬ 
cessful in getting a response, and this stalk¬ 
ing method of casting from canoes was de¬ 
lightfully interesting. When it was over we 
would paddle to camp in the dusk, listening to 
the hooting of an owl or the squawks of a cer¬ 
tain crane who shared residence upon the lake 
with us, or if a little later than usual we would 
see Jupiter rise above the eastern hilltops. 
By Sunday we had been in camp for a week 
and were thoroughly at home and adjusted to 
conditions about us. We ate like pigs, slept like 
dead men, and felt like youngsters. The young 
Indian and I took a six-mile stroll in the morn¬ 
ing for exercise and botanizing, and to replenish 
our supplies from the lumbermen’s camp at the 
Sourdnahunk Falls. 
In traversing the forest trails one realizes 
what an easy time of it city folk have in getting 
about, with every way smoothed out and made 
easy for them. In the wilderness on the con¬ 
trary everything seems to combine to make pro¬ 
gress difficult, and to the tenderfoot there are 
traps on every hand. He steps on an attractive 
looking smooth spot and sinks deep into hidden 
ice water. He plants his foot confidently on a 
fallen white birch log and crashes through a 
hollow shell of bark. His instep slides along a 
slippery root, and he finds himself sitting and 
sore. Sometimes the trail leads along an old 
logging road where corduroy is built along and 
over a brook. The log cover looks sound and 
firm, but don’t trust it. The mossy carpet-like 
covering of the boulders, which strews the ever¬ 
green forest floor, has never been tacked in 
place, and a footfall will dislodge it and send 
down the unwary one. Blown-down trees block 
the way; dead branches aim spears at one’s eyes 
as he walks and all the time one must keep in 
view the “spots” or blazed marks on the tree- 
trunks ahead in order not to go astray, for once 
off the trail it is not always easily found. Even 
the spots will sometimes lure one away from 
his way. The guide will say when one asks 
about some unlooked for spots, “Oh, that’s jest 
a township line.” 
When Sonny and I returned to camp, we 
brought back with us matches, a cake of soap, 
and five pounds of dried apples, together with 
the money which we had taken with us. The 
cook at the camp said the bill was thirty-five 
cents, but that he had no change, and we could 
pay later if we should happen to be over that 
way again. We made it a point to be over that 
way again. 
Ned and Tom in camp fretted at the high 
wind which would not let them cast their flies 
or manage the canoes except with great diffi¬ 
culty, so they loitered the morning away and 
brought back from a stroll to the little bog pond 
near camp some wisps of deer’s hair in their hats. 
They had found a spot where some hunter had 
done his work. Some much needed clothes 
washing was attended to that day, but we knew 
that when we returned home, those same gar¬ 
ments would be held at arm’s length by critical 
women folks. 
Fried eels are pretty good eating, and that 
night I rigged a stout line to a stake on shore 
with sinker and hook baited with a generous 
bunch of worms and thrown well out into the 
lake. The next morning there he was, a “really 
truly twirly-whirly eel” and a big one. Fried eel 
steaks did taste good, but I was solemnly in¬ 
formed at breakfast to my chagrin that I had 
violated the law in using a set line, all of which 
was news to me. 
[to be continued.] 
Effective Protection of the Bluebird. 
In the January, 1912, number of The Agri¬ 
cultural Magazine (an English publication) Mrs. 
Katharine Curry bears the following testimony 
to the strict enforcement of the law prohibiting 
the export from the United States of native 
birds : 
Now that the exportation of the bluebird 
from his native land is prohibited — and as a 
wild birds’ protectionist I rejoice at the law, 
for a blue robin in a dealer's shop was a sight 
that tugged at the heart strings—his companion¬ 
ship remains only a sweet memory. In years 
gone by I kept many pairs of them, and they 
were very intelligent and interesting. 
