FOREST AND STREAM 
204 
but fortunately we had reached water a little 
less than waist deep, so we jumped overboard, 
and hauled the boat to shore, while the sting¬ 
ing rain-drops pelted us unmercifully. Then we 
tipped it against a rotten stump, and crawled 
under. How it rained! The wind reached the 
velocity of a hurricane. The little lake was a 
seething, whirling, maelstrom of angry water 
that spelled death, in large letters, to anyone 
who might be caught upon it. Upon the shore 
mighty trees were tottering to earth before the 
devastating wind, while others were rent and 
wrenched in twain by Jove’s terrible lightning. 
All in all, it was one of the worst storms it has 
been my fortune to behold.” 
I have mentioned the fact that Warren Smith 
is strengthening in his power of narrative, as his 
pen becomes more and more of a fascinating 
thing of life to him. Having thoroughly covered 
the subject of fishing, as far as technicalities are 
concerned, he is turning steadily toward writing 
Nature material, certainly a welcome fact, for 
we cannot but give our just consideration and 
appreciation to pure work in this line. In a 
beautiful little article entitled, ‘‘The Winter 
Woods,” we find Warren Smith perhaps at his 
best in this feature, carefully adjusted descrip¬ 
tion, with just enough of sentimentality in it to 
make it wonderfully picturesque: 
“The architecture of new-fallen snow, is beau¬ 
tiful beyond description. The woods are trans¬ 
formed by their white burden into a veritable 
fairyland, and you have only to gaze in one direc¬ 
tion long enough to behold the glint of an 
evanescent wing, the glitter of priceless jewels 
A black pine stump, capped with white, becomes 
an altar at which the purest white-robed priest 
might officiate, without sacrilege: and a gnarled, 
and deformed, tree trunk, becomes an ivory 
statue when mantled by the spotless snow. Even 
a brown reed, the fragile remnant of a midsum¬ 
mer golden-rod, lives anew, a bending, swaying 
thing of crystal whiteness—not less beautiful 
than in the days of its pristine beauty. 
“A single spruce tree, transformed into a white 
spire of immaculate purity, by pounds upon 
pounds of glittering snow, is more productive 
of spiritual thoughts than the tallest church 
spire of a. smoke-'begrimed city. The latter is 
man’s attempt at soul expression, the former is 
the result of the labor of the Great Master 
■Craftsman. Would you behold cathedral spires 
such as never climbed the skies in haunts of 
men? Would you behold beauties such as are 
imagined by painters and poets, only in their 
maddest moments? Then go to the winter 
woods, where God lets his imagination run riot, 
building, and like a child at play, destroying 
that He may build again.” 
From this last example of his work it can be 
seen that Warren Smith is a man of Nature— 
truly, one of God’s cheerful children; hating all 
narrow restrictions, choosing words of liberality 
in placing Nature foremost as a greater example 
of God’s intrinsic workmanship. Warren Smith 
has happily escaped the tyrannical and conven¬ 
tional weight of ministerial gloom and comic 
seriousness; in a word he is himself, not once 
alone, but all the time. The work of this pleas¬ 
ant writer is identified by a number of brisk 
and exhilerating descriptions of battles with vari¬ 
ous fish, as for instance, that below recorded, a 
fight with a black bass: 
“A sound from my reel attracted my atten¬ 
tion; it was turning, not in a menacing manner, 
but slowly—inevitably as Fate. Fascinated, I 
impotently gazed. I looked under the willows 
for the glittering spot where but a mmoent ago 
I had seen my Silver Doctor. It, was gone. A 
rapidly widening circle of ripplets told where it 
bad been. Experimentally, I placed my thumb 
on the slowly revolving spool, and struck hard 
Instantly a splendid bass leaped into the air, the 
shining water falling like rain from his golden 
sides. I came back to things terrestrial with a 
jerk, and the battle was on. Oh, but that was 
a wise old bass. He had not escaped the nets 
at the mouth of the river without learning a 
thing or two. Three airy flights in rapid succes¬ 
sion, tested my tackle, and proved to the game 
that he could not easily rid himself of that tan¬ 
talizing thing which clung so tenaciously to his 
upper lip. Then, without a moment’s hesitancy, 
he made a fifty-yard dash in record-breaking 
time, but found the pressure of the reel too in¬ 
sistent, and he went into the atmosphere, turning 
a back somersault in midair. Then straight 
toward me he came, eliminating space with the 
speed of a Twentieth Century Flyer, while my 
automatic shrieked and groaned, vainly trying 
to recover the slack, but despite its utmost ef¬ 
forts, when the bass passed me he gained at least 
six yards of line, and I trembled for the mo¬ 
ment when he would snap tight. With thumb, 
gently pressing the spool I waited for the cru¬ 
cial moment, knowing that the odds were in 
favor of the fish, but the fates were kind that 
day. I saw the gossamer thread tighten, and felt 
the inert spool spring into sudden life beneath 
my finger. Then I applied the drag with a force 
that set the line singing like an aeolian harp, as 
it went ripping through the water, and once 
nnd 
If “Old Camper” was ever in doubt as to what 
would have made an acceptable meal for his un¬ 
expected guests, the answers which are coming 
in to Forest and Stream in response to his re¬ 
quest for a solution of his problem, must con¬ 
vince him that it is possible to prepare inviting 
repasts from a very limited larder. Forest and 
Stream wants all its readers, young campers 
and old campers and “rocking chair” campers 
as well, to send in an answer to the problem 
which was published in the issue of January 24th. 
Just read what follows, and even though Febru¬ 
ary snows adorn the greater part of the North 
American landscape, we know that you will be¬ 
gin to long for a chance to try some of these 
recipes yourself.—Editor’s Note.] 
A TEMPTING AL FRESCO FEAST. 
Editor Forest and Stream: Let hospitality 
abound! May it ever be that the latch-string 
hangs out at each woodman’s cabin and sports¬ 
man’s camp, thus to invite the passing stranger 
to shelter and cheer; where, belated on his jour¬ 
ney or confused in direction, he will receive the 
needed aid together with satisfaction for the 
inner man. 
“Old Camper” indeed had a privilege in extend¬ 
ing the “honors of the camp,” thus being really 
the representative of the absent hundreds of fel¬ 
low campers who so thoroughly approve of ex¬ 
tending the helping hand. 
With a neighborly and friendly hand, inscribe 
with charcoal on a piece of 6x8 bark the follow¬ 
ing menu and obey the appended instruction in 
its preparation: 
Planked Trout 
Hot Biscuit 
Butter 
Roast Partridge with gravy 
Browned Mashed Potatoes with 
grated 
cheese 
Coffee Cold Spring Water 
Tea 
again the fish leaped into the air, but I could see 
that he was weakening, and knew that the battle 
was nearly over. A few spasmodic rushes, a few 
futile attempts to leap, and he gave up the 
struggle.” 
As Warren Smith is building upon his reputa¬ 
tion, he is strengthening throughout his work. 
No writer is perfect. Only certain few parts be¬ 
come immortal—and the average person knows 
the world’s great men by a few stray paragraphs 
that are so illuminating and transparent in their 
wisdom that they are never rid from the mental 
consciousness. I write this appreciation much in 
anticipation of the future work of this man of 
the North. The Northwest, Minnesota, Wiscon¬ 
sin, and Michigan, are woefully lacking in at¬ 
tention from men of the pen but I think Warren 
Smith at least, will leave many monuments of 
beauty and truth behind him when his pen is laid 
away forever—and it is certainly a gracious 
thought that he is yet far from the journey’s 
goal. When outdoor men appreciate outdoor 
truths, joined together by pure language, they 
appreciate deeply, and well. With such an sym¬ 
pathetic audience before him, Warren Smith must 
certainly have the most courageous and happy 
assurance, and may many another article from 
his pen illumine the pages of this foremost maga¬ 
zine—our own Forest and Stream. I submit my¬ 
self with loving remembrance to the subject of 
this sketch—The Reverend O. Warren Smith. 
How 
Build a good high fire of hardwood, so placed 
that the heat will be readily reflected. Get out 
the oft used plank with its groove at both ends, 
along which so frequently has flowed the juices 
of the finny tribe, and set it up before the fire to 
get piping hot. 
Put a kettle of cold water where it will come 
to a boil. 
Into the baking pan put a big pint of flour and 
thoroughly mix with the baking-powder (taken 
from among the “fixins”). Read the label for 
the quantity to use, as brands vary, but one and 
one-half teaspoonfuls is about right. 
Add one-half teaspoonful of salt and mix 
well, then add one tablespoonful of lard (not 
melted) and again mix until smooth and no lumps 
remain. You are now ready to add enough 
water to make a stiff dough. Do all the mixing 
with a big spoon or a broad stick of wood, but 
not with the hands, and handle the dough as lit¬ 
tle as possible. Dust some flour over the dough, 
rollingpin (glass bottle or round stick of wood 
with the bark off) and the breadboard, then lift 
the dough onto the well floured board. Roll the 
mass to a thickness of a little less than an inch. 
Flour the top of the baking-powder can and use 
as a cutter to cut the rolled dough into pieces. 
Put these into half the baking pan of the re- 
flecter. 
Drive two forked sticks into the ground be¬ 
side the fire, about twelve inches apart and rest 
a crosspiece stick in the crotches. Tie a stout 
wet string about the legs of each partridge and 
have a small piece of bacon secured on the upper 
part of each bird. Suspend separately in a row 
from the cross-piece with a pan beneath to catch 
the drippings, which are to be used for basting 
the birds and making the gravy. 
Have them revolve so that all sides receive the 
heat equally from the fire. Soon as the flesh is 
Helping “Old Camper ’ 9 Along With That Meal 
Readers of “Forest and Stream” Tell Him What They Would Have Done 
