FOREST AND STREAM 
235 
Early Days In Maine 
The Guide’s First Moose. He Got It, But Not Until After It Had Almost Gotten Him 
By D. R. Howe 
1 WAS born in a small town in Maine, 154 
miles north of Bangor. There were no rail¬ 
roads then and for the most part no wagon 
roads either. It was a wild country at that time, 
with lots of game of all kinds, including deer, 
moose, bear, caribou, of which there are many 
left, except the latter, and all of which are pro¬ 
tected pretty well by the wardens. 
In earlier days people hunted moose for their 
hides and what meat they wanted or could sell 
at three cents per pound. I have sold tons of it 
to lumbermen. 
I have had lots of “close calls,” as they say, in 
hunting the larger game. But the one that made 
the deepest impression on my mind was the kill¬ 
ing of my first moose. I was about thirteen 
years old, and having been brought up in the 
woods, I knew no fear. 
One morning about the middle of September 
(there being at that time slight attention paid to 
game laws) my brother, some two years younger 
than myself, and I, started for a moose hunt. 
The weather was fine. I had a new rifle—a 44 
Winchester—and I was proud of that gun. I 
would have faced an elephant with it. We 
headed for the south branch of the Machias 
stream, about sixteen miles from home, where 
moose were as thick as could be. We passed an 
old hunter who told us to “be careful,” as at that 
time of the year the moose were cross. But as 
we thought he was trying to scare us we paid no 
attention to his good advice. We landed about 
noon, made camp, cut a large pile of wood, and 
made ready to stay two weeks. The next morn¬ 
ing about four o’clock we heard an awful bellow 
up the stream, a short distance, and grabbed our 
rifles, jumped into our “Perog” and started. We 
knew it was a moose calling. Now our “Perog,” 
as we called it, was a log hollowed out and 
shaped like a canoe, about as hard to keep right 
side up as an ordinary keg. I had gone “heels 
over head” out of it more than once. 
We went up stream about a mile. I was in the 
bow. We were both standing, poling, my rifle 
laid ready. Suddenly the bushes parted right 
under the bow, and a large black object showed 
up. I waited for nothing more, but placed three 
shots as quick as I could work the lever, and 
that was pretty quick. We heard the animal run 
back into the woods, then heard a heavy thud 
and knew it was down. We landed the “Perog” 
and started in, I being in the lead. The bushes 
were thick as the hair on a dog’s back, with paths 
through them made by the game where it came 
to drink and feed. Suddenly we heard a grunt 
and the bushes swayed and cracked. My brother 
broke and ran for the stream. I stood my 
ground about two seconds, then I headed for 
water, but too late. The moose saw me and 
charged after me. Say, I only remember hit¬ 
ting the ground once. I felt his breath coming 
against my head. The next I knew I cleared the 
bank, went straight down, I don’t know how 
deep. But when I rose to the surface the moose 
had made back to its mate which I had shot. 
There was some awful bellowing. I have heard 
moose bellow a thousand times since, but never 
like that. I swam ashore on the opposite side. 
crawled into the bushes and lay quiet. Suddenly 
the moose came again, bellowing and tearing 
straight for us. My brother fainted. I set my 
jaws and waited. When the bull came in sight 
I could not raise my rifle—it had suddenly grown 
heavy. As luck would have it, he started up the 
bank; I tell you I felt relieved. We waited a 
while, laying flat on the ground. Pretty soon 
we heard the brush cracking behind up. Then 
I was scared. I grabbed my brother, dragged 
him to the “Perog,” put him in it, and started 
down stream. He came to after a little, but I 
would hardly let him breathe. We did not stop 
at camp, but made for home, where I got my 
older brother and a cousin and went back. We 
found the cow moose I had shot, pretty well 
pounded to pieces. The two bulls had met and 
fought. By the way the brush was broken down, 
I should say that they were “old timers.” 
I have called and killed scores of them since, 
in my business as a hunter and guide, but will 
say I never have killed one since that did not 
send the chills running down my back and start 
me to shaking after it was all over. Such are the 
effects of boyhood impressions. 
I remember once I shot a yearling. I did not 
want him, but he wanted me. When he fell I 
could stick my foot out and touch his head. I 
had killed nine that week. Now don't think I 
S TEWART EDWARD WHITE, who, with 
R. J. Cunninghame, recently returned from 
a tour of exploration in German East Africa, 
reports the discovery of a brand new game coun¬ 
try and a tribe of savages, the Wasongi, who 
inhabit this mountainous region. 
“An item which I think is of considerable im¬ 
portance to this club and to sportsmen of the 
world,” said Mr. White, who spoke at the an¬ 
nual Ladies’ Night dinner of the Camp Fire 
Club of America, “was our discovery and ex¬ 
ploration of a virgin African field, something 
that never again can happen. This is the last pos¬ 
sibility of such a discovery in that country—a 
land where the sound of a rifle was absolutely un¬ 
known until we entered it. There now remain 
no more odd corners of the continent to be looked 
into.” 
Even the newly discovered tribesmen, met 
on the borders of the hitherto unknown land, 
feared to penetrate the region, teeming with 
game, that Mr. White told about. High plateaus, 
the highest about 6,200 feet above sea level, slope 
down to 3,600 feet in the Victoria Nyanza region, 
where a semi-circle of low mountains look down 
upon plains covered with small trees and bush. 
Mr. White dwelt chiefly upon the astonishing 
number of various kinds of game met up with— 
topi, wildebeeste, zebra, impalla, sing sing, eland, 
ostrich, giraffe, bushbuck and reedbuck. 
just went around butchering, for I could have 
killed as many more if I wanted them. I was 
like others—“out for the money.” When I got 
an order I filled it, then stopped. This was 
before sportsmen were known in that section. 
The same conditions exist to-day in some parts 
of Canada. The sportsmen are so few that peo¬ 
ple do not seem to think of protecting the fish 
and game. They kill the moose and make the 
hides into mocassins for which they get a dollar 
a pair. That gives them about $10 for a hide. 
If Canada would hire a few good men that are 
not afraid of a bullet or the dark, and put them 
around in the “bush” to stop this slaughter dur¬ 
ing the crusting season, the Province would 
have the best hunting and fishing country on the 
globe. 
I have fished and hunted in Maine, Florida 
and California, and can say that up here in 
Quebec is the best fishing I ever saw. And as 
to the hunting, bear are more numerous here 
than any other place I was ever in. In the berry 
season we see them frequently around the lakes. 
Moose and deer are increasing quite rapidly in 
the section of the country where I am located. 
There can be seen to-day ten deer and moose 
where three years ago it was difficult to find one 
Quebec, Feb. 2, 1914. 
“In a little valley and on the gentle slopes sur¬ 
rounding it,” he said, “we would think that we 
had come upon a concentration of all the beasts 
of the neighborhood, but over the next hill we 
would find as many more and in the next and the 
next valley after that. One morning before 9 
o'clock I counted 1,300 head of game and in a 
day I have counted 4,623. This is actual count, 
not estimated.” 
Mr. White said that he and Mr. Cunninghame, 
accompanied by thirty blacks, came to the top of 
a mountain after a long march through a country 
where little game was to be seen, and suddenly 
looked down upon an unknown “yellow” plain. 
Here they came upon the new tribe, the Wasongi, 
in three fortified villages, and promptly made 
friends. What lay west of the villages even the 
Wasongi tribesmen could not say, further than 
that mountains and valleys stretched “to where 
the sun sets and no people are.” 
Wasongi guides did go with Mr. White’s party 
for two days into a high country, rolling and 
grassy, and then turned back through fear. The 
tsetse fly here began to attack the donkeys and 
forty-two of the little animals died from the fly 
bites during the next six weeks. Also there was 
almost no water to be had until Cunninghame, 
off on a scouting trip, found a damp spot where 
after much digging spring water was reached. 
The tsetse fly makes the country impossible for 
cattle or for riding horses or donkeys. 
Back From African Mountains 
Stewart Edward White Reports Discovery of Hitherto Unknown Tribe of African Savages— 
Found Virgin Game Field, Too. 
