Forest and Stream 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy, 
Six Months, $1.50. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, APRIL 5, 1913. 
VOL. LXXX.—No. 14. 
187 Franklin St., New York. 
Camping on Aroostook 
By WILLIAM SIMPSON 
To mute and to material things 
New life revolving summer brings; 
The genial call dead nature hears 
,\nd in her glory reappears. 
— Walter Scott. 
I T was blossom month in Maine, perfume per¬ 
vaded the air, hemlock, pine, balsam, here 
and there, wild black cherry, budding birch 
and laurel were now in their annual bloom of 
youth. On the edge of the streams the pussy 
willows were out, and occasionally in the shade 
of a spreading yellow birch, clumps of trail¬ 
ing bear berries that delight the partridges, and 
furnish them with food and cover. On the 
banks of the river, fringes of gaudy dogwood 
or sumac and other flowering shrubs blend their 
odors with pond lilies, and American lotos, 
harebells and forget-me-nots, blue and white 
wood violets peep from under the old moss- 
covered logs and a dozen more of nature’s wild 
beauties are abloom. The cold winter with 
heavy snow and the lateness of the spring, had 
caused delay to some, but the sudden warm sun 
in June had helped along others, and now all 
seemed to join in a concert of color, as if 
nature’s storehouse had burst open, and she had 
become intoxicated with giving, which is the 
ace of joy. 
Everywhere the sweet, merry songs of 
active and busy birds, some native, and more 
fresh from the South, were taking up their 
summer residence; the partridges were there 
giving examples in bravery in spite of natural 
timidity, and does not this brave little bird give 
proof that there are other qualities than beauti¬ 
ful plumage and sweet voices in the bird king¬ 
dom, and I doubt if anyone who is a lover of 
nature, or has spent much time out of doors, 
has not observed the devotion to their young, 
and the courageous manner of protecting their 
offspring. On several occasions I have had a 
chance to see their heroism conquer fear, and 
particularly how the hen bird exposes herself 
and ignores all danger in her efforts to defend 
her young. She will flutter about to attract 
your attention, while her less helpless brood 
will make their escape to safety among the 
moss or ferns, and other natural cover, after 
which the mother bird will fly to a place of 
safety herself, with valor that despises death. 
I am not in full sympathy with those that call 
this bird a “fool hen.” 
The kingfisher bristles up his ruffled crest 
when he alights on the overhanging branch of 
a dead tree as he darts down stream on your 
approach and seems to resent an intrusion and 
quarrels with you for interrupting the business 
which his name implies. His harsh screams 
can be heard half a mile away on a quiet day. 
The noisy bluejay is perched on top of a dead 
tree calling to you from his perch to leave, leave, 
leave; he is a ventriloquist and a mimic, but he 
is no singer, but has a discordant voice. Early 
in the spring his disposition is mild; the hen 
lays her eggs early, and about the time the 
young arc able to fly their plumage becomes 
quite brilliant, and the parents become in¬ 
veterate robbers of other birds’ nests. Not only 
will they devour the eggs of other birds, but 
will often quarrel with birds larger than them¬ 
selves, and will give battle over a choice morsel, 
and if they are in company with others of their 
own tribe, v/ill vanquish a chipmunk, and some¬ 
times even a squirrel. 
Overhead sat a sweet-voiced veery, that 
notable songster of the East, whose song is 
impossible to describe in words, and he is 
lavish with his musical entertainment. Yel¬ 
low warblers and wrens are flitting from twig 
to twig, and I fancy there is no fisherman, or 
pilgrim of the wildwood, of rightly-tempered 
mind, who will fail to lay these scenes on the 
altar of remembrance. 
Among all this glory of blossom and plum¬ 
age, under a pearl-tinted sky on the banks of 
the Aroostook, we pushed our canoe from the 
landing, and pursued our course up to the head¬ 
waters of the Aroostook. It is not a great 
river, so it has little to do with great responsi¬ 
bilities, or matters of vast importance; it is not 
called upon to float large vessels or to bear 
great burdens. Every spring it renders valu¬ 
able service to the State and the lumbermen, in 
floating down large quantities of logs, that are 
left conveniently on its bed. to be called for 
by the spring freshets, and carried to places 
where they can be used to best advantage. 
Like many other small rivers, it is not too 
large for the intimacy of a summer vacation. 
Here and there it has a deep pool, where it 
keeps its store of game trout, and landlocked 
salmon, and freely gives up its bounties to visit 
ing sportsmen, and its still waters are the sum¬ 
mer home of the many deer and moose that 
feed along its banks among the lilypads and 
luscious grasses. 
It was six o’clock in the evening when we 
reached the salmon pool. After ten hours of 
constant struggle with the current, we were just 
SONG OF THE RAPIDS. 
