he never iied; though his deer was sometimes so 
far from camp that it scarcely paid to pack it 
in. Like most still-hunt dogs, he would not fol¬ 
low a well deer a mile; but a few drops of blood 
on the track would set him off for an all-day 
race, and the deer was pretty certain to be run 
down, though the wound might be trifling. 
Before the hunt was over I had a chance to 
try him on bear, and he was the best bear dog 
of his size I had ever been out with. His hunt¬ 
ing weight was about 40 pounds, but at times 
he weighed 5 pounds less. When an able-bodied 
bear has been thoroughly frightened and has 
made up his mind to leave the country rather than 
climb a tree, it takes a pretty smart dog to stop 
him until the hunter can catch up for a shot; 
but Pete would often do it. Not always, though, 
for the bear has a shrewd way of dragging his 
enemy through the worst possible tangles of brier 
and laurel brake or knocking him loose against 
fallen timber, rocks, etc. But his most effective 
ruse is to drag the dog into a tangle of under¬ 
growth, and then throw himself over with a sud¬ 
den back flop, reaching out and striking savage¬ 
ly with his fore-paws; or, to reverse the opera¬ 
tion, he will suddenly drop his nose between his 
forelegs and change ends, which draws the dog 
over and in reach of his claws; and it is a wise 
and wary dog that escapes all these tricks. 
Whence it sometimes happened that Pete was 
left on the trail so utterly beaten and exhausted 
that he had to be helped into camp. This, how¬ 
ever, was rarely the case. 
The bear, when suddenly attacked and sharply 
bitten, would usually take the nearest large tree 
he came to, where, with coolness and skill, he 
could be easily approached and shot. If only a 
slight wound were inflicted he was apt to come 
down with a heavy thump, gather himself up and 
commence to emigrate in dead earnest, in which 
FOREST AND STREAM 
it took a good “bear team” to stop him; and 
Pete was a team by himself. I have known him 
to seize a' bear by the ham and hang his hold, 
with legs stiffly braced, until he was dragged 
more than a hundred yards at a stretch. He had 
a very creditable score on bear scalps, as c I sub¬ 
sequently learned, though we only got after three 
bear while he was with me, two of which got 
away. These two were wary old pig thieves who 
knew all about dogs and would sooner die than 
be treed. In each case they wore the dog out 
and left him on the trail in a half day’s run, 
while the hunter, with his best efforts, could not 
get near enough for a shot. 
The foregoing will give a pretty fair idea as 
to the hunting traits of Pete; and his accom¬ 
plishments were by no means exceptional at that 
day, only that they were condensed under one 
dog skin. In other cases they were spread out 
and divided among different dogs, as it were. 
But we were fated to part. When the off sea¬ 
son came for man, dog or game, and the frozen 
hand of bitter winter was pressing the forest 
and clearing, earth and water, there came to our 
shop a hook-nosed, long-legged, shambling Dutch¬ 
man, who introduced himself as “Yohn Shultz 
from vay out py der Plockhouse,” and he wanted 
to know you know, if “somepotty here half cot 
a leedle tawg. mit one ear straight up, unt de 
odder lop town yp his het, like dis,” and he ills- 
trated by a bent leather chip. 
There was no need to answer. Pete heard the 
voice, and the way he went into ecstacies over 
and around that Dutchman settled the question 
of ownership to my mind. I never saw a steady 
business dog exhibit such extravagant joy. 
All the same, I had determined not to lose 
Pete. The man looked poor, and his clothes 
were patched to a wonderful extent. The Block¬ 
house was a rough, poverty-stricken region. 
205 
Probably ten or fifteen dollars would be worth 
more to the man and his family than any dog; 
so I commenced to negotiate, and, as often hap¬ 
pens, was mistaken in my man. He said, “No, I 
coodn’t solt him. You see, he vas grow up mit 
our leedly poy, Peter, unt ven der poy took sick 
unt got det, my olt voman she say, ‘Now ve call 
ter tawg Peter unt keep him so long as he lif.’ 
He is wort more to me as a goot hoos.” 
And old Shultz, like his dog, was better than 
he looked. It turned out that he was a welRo- 
do farmer, with a bank account and a strong 
penchant for hunting, though he did not allow 
his love of the woods to lessen his savings. Hunt¬ 
ing that did not pay was no sport for him. He 
had hunted and trapped for more than thirty 
years in the Blockhouse Range and the Armenia 
Mountains, and it transpired that he was the man 
who had built the Chestnut Shanty, an enter¬ 
prise that did not pay from a money standpoint. 
He offered to pay for Pete’s keeping, and thought 
$2 would be about right. In return I offered to 
keep the dog a year for nothing and himself 
until the next day on the same terms. The latter 
part of the offer was accepted and we spent the 
evening together, he doing most of the talking, 
as was meet, for he knew'all about the romantic 
history of that quaint, out-of-the-way settlement 
called Blockhouse, and had paid for his land with 
wolf scalps-—a fact that proved him the skillful 
trapper and woodsman. 
When we finally turned in it was understood- 
that we would meet at the Chestnut Shanty ora, 
or about the middle of the ensuing October;, 
and at early daylight the next morning old 
Shultz was making for home at a telling pace, 
with Pete at his heels, leaving me to regret the 
loss of the best still-hunt dog I had ever known £ 
nor have I yet seen his equal for bear or deer-. 
And, alas, he had no pedigree. 
Allagash Waters From a Canoe 
Intimate Knowledge of Allagash, of Interest to Canoist, Angler and Nature Lover 
A T no other season of the year is the north 
woods so delightful, so alluring and sublime 
in its charm as that which follows the 
balmy days of spring. The winter had been late 
in going, the snow lingered long in the woods, 
but there is no fear that it can come back and 
Nature is secure for another season in which 
the joy and pleasure of wild life will have its 
way, and be free to exercise its own free will. 
The rivers are no longer the angry, foaming tor¬ 
rents, urged on by the melting snows; the streams 
are now at their best, strong and clear and travel 
to their own sweet music of wordless tales. 
Mating birds are billing and cooing and some¬ 
times quarreling, too; their songs and calling notes 
seem more agitated than usual as they flutter 
Through the whispering leaves, selecting homes 
and building nests. The early trees and bushes 
are in full leaf and the hardwood trees are get¬ 
ting impatient to put out their full foliage. In¬ 
numerable clusters of transparent green buds 
tipped with pink seem to be waiting for the word 
go, in the race of wild nature to show its charms; 
By William Simpson. 
(With Photographs by Author.) 
countless, varied and delicate wild flowers are 
peeping through the soft green moss, speckled 
trout and other denizens of the clear streams are 
sporting themselves on the surface of the still 
water and on the rapids. 
This indeed is the anglers’ season of unfilled 
desire, eager hope and constantly succeeding 
pleasant surprises. This is the lure of wild na¬ 
ture that creeps in around the heart of the va¬ 
grant fly fisherman. 
The streets all seem to lead to the country, the 
highways seem to lead to the winding lane, the 
tote road guides the way to the trail, and the 
trail points the way to the landing on the stream, 
and that is the kind of country where the spice 
of life grows. Here is the place to drink the 
full cup of pure delight. 
At this time of the year it is hard for anglers 
who reside in cities to stay at home. The call of 
the wild keeps up a constant agitation in the 
mind, and finally the vagrant inclination asserts 
itself. The rods, reels, lines and flies, the im¬ 
plements of regal sport, are overhauled, and we 
set out on our way to that goal of affectionate 
memory, the north woods of Maine, and I know 
there is no tonic like the crisp, invigorating air 
or environment that excel in scenic charms like 
the combination of forest, mountain, lake and 
river. 
When a few sunny, balmy days succeed each 
other in the latter half of May, it was time to 
take the night express to our chosen place for a 
holiday, the Allagash River territory. This is a 
choice locality for canoeing and a veritable an¬ 
glers’ paradise, and I often think what good old 
Izaac Walton would have said, had it been his 
privilege to explore the streams that are accessi¬ 
ble 'to his present day disciples: this is what he 
said to his pupils: 
“Angling is an art, and an art worth learning; 
the question is whether you he capable of learn - 
ing it. For angling is something like poetry, men 
are to be born so. I mean with inclinations to 
it, though both may be heightened by discourse 
and practice. But he that hopes to be a good 
angler must not only bring an inquiring, search- 
