Sept, g, 1911.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
411 
Bozenkill Folks 
By WILL W. CHRISTMAN 
a limber withe. He always used the fir and not 
the spruce or hemlock, as the fir boughs were 
not prickly, lay smoothly, and had a delicious, 
woodsy smell. These little boughs he would im¬ 
bricate from the back of the tent to the front, 
carefully sticking the broken end of each bough 
slantingly into the ground. Over the smooth, 
springy sweet-scented surface was stretched a 
piece of canvas the size of the floor of the tent, 
then individual ponchos, rubber side down, and 
finally the blankets. We each had two heavy 
black blankets of pure wool and weighing about 
eight pounds apiece. When on the move these 
were packed in a strong canvas bag which had 
straps for the shoulders. The scheme in cor¬ 
rectly making a bed was to fo'd two together on 
the long way, lay them on the ponchos and 
smooth out the wrinkles. The inside blanket 
was then over'apned for a foot of its edge and 
the outer one s’milarly tucked about the one 
J UST above Gray's farm the creek loiters at 
the foot of a leaning elm. On either side 
lies a narrow strip of wild meadow where 
the grass greens first in spring and where in 
summer the scattered trees stand knee-deep in 
fern. The wooded hills rise abruptly several 
hundred feet above the meadow to the level of 
the upland farms. It is such a valley as Tenny¬ 
son has described. The 
“ledges midway down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 
The long brook falling thro’ the clov’n ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea.” 
Many years ago at the foot of the northern 
mingle with the great-flowered trilliums in his 
forsaken front yard. 
When I was a boy and first penetrated these 
woods, exploring and fishing the stream, the 
silence and solitude of the place, its remoteness 
from ail traveled paths attracted me. I have 
made many a pilgrimage there since solely to 
see the trilliums whitening the forest floor or 
to pluck a spray of the neglected lilac. It is an 
enchanted spot if it is Furbeck’s pasture. I 
sometimes meet and visit with the present pro¬ 
prietor when he looks after his young stock, but 
Furbeck is as oblivious to the charm of it all as 
any of his yearlings that pasture there. 
STILL WATERS. IN ROBINSON’S YARD. WHERE THE BOZENKILL LOITERS. 
From photographs by Mrs. Christman. 
within. The whole bed was then fixed by rais¬ 
ing the excess at the foot and turning it up un¬ 
derneath until the remaining length corresponded 
approximately to the inches of the occupant. 
The unopened side of the two blankets was so 
placed that a man lying in his usual position 
had it to his back. In effect the result was that 
of a sleeping bag, and, like it, once in, it was 
not easy to get uncovered. The pillows were 
made up of our heavier clothing topped in the 
case of two of us by inflated air cushions, while 
the other used a small down pillow. The air 
pillows were not satisfactory, since before long 
leaks developed and rendered them worse than 
useless. When it came to our personal sleep¬ 
ing habits, our ideas somewhat differed. George 
and Gurney doffed shoes, coats and hats, loosen¬ 
ed buckles and buttons and turned in to sleep 
in their clothing, but I divested myself com¬ 
pletely of my daytime garb, got into light flannel 
(Continued on page 432.) 
hill in the edge of the wilderness meadow lived 
the Robinsons. If Robinson selected this spot 
to avoid mankind, the place was well chosen, 
for to this day the nearest farm house and high¬ 
way is almost a mile away. One of Robinson’s 
neighbors was an outlaw whose misdeeds are 
still retold by white-haired men who had the 
story from their fathers. Robinson’s daughter, 
it is said, was drowned in the pond below Gray’s, 
where the ruined dam and ha f-obliterated flume 
may still be seen. But this, too, is apocryphal; 
the memory of the early inhabitants of this In¬ 
dian valley is kept alive only in dim tradition. 
Robinson’s house has become a desolation. 
His cellar is an inconspicuous dent, for the wail 
has tumbled, there is hardly one stone left upon 
another, and an elm and a butternut thrive in the 
little square that once was home. His well, too, 
is filled with rubbish which last year’s leaves 
have covered. His lilac and wild apple strangle 
among the hardwoods, and dogtooth violets 
Of equal interest to the nature lover or his¬ 
torian are the abandoned homes whose latest 
occupants were our contemporaries. These last 
year’s nests now falling to ruin are common 
here. Overlooking the falls is the Dutcher 
farm, tenantless for a decade, its fields over¬ 
grown with orange hawkweed, wild carrot and 
goldenrod, and hedged with impenetrable rasp¬ 
berry and chokecherry. Perched on the bluff 
above Stillwater is Harrington’s, abandoned to 
the owls and foxes, and across the creek from 
Harrington’s, well up among the hills and toe¬ 
ing the road to Altamont, is Southwick’s, but 
recently deserted. 
In past years this last was the home of Rich¬ 
ard Southwick, a wandering preacher with long 
white hair that fell upon his shoulders and 
patriarchal beard, a man well known at old- 
t'me Methodist camp meetings, and at country 
school houses adjacent to the northern Helder- 
1 ergs. He had been ignorant, rough and care- 
