FOREST AND STREAM 
493 
letting 'the does and fawns go free the one to 
grow up, the other to breed. As to the traps, 
some evil spirit had taken them away with 
the otter in them, and the Pine Marten had been 
very sick-^too sick for hunting—for a long time. 
It was doubtful if the Pine Marten ever saw 
his wigwam beyond the lake again. 
He' looked me steadily in the face for some 
moments, with glittering but expressionless eyes, 
such eyes as none but an Indian head ever car¬ 
ries by any possibility, and then said, “Umph! 
me know—know all ’bout it. Know when you 
hunt; how much deer, how much bear; kill one 
buck elk, let wolf steal ’urn—dam fool! Know 
when you sick; come mos’ every day; come to 
stay now- Take care you—hunt with you rifle. 
How you like that? Bimeby ole Blackbird squaw 
come—he great squaw doctor, make you well in 
leetle while. You say yes?” 
I said yes most gladly. Not that I had much 
faith in Indian honesty; I thought it quite likely 
to be a plan for stealing my gun and whatever 
else could be handily got at, but, as I was likely 
enough to die anyway and felt that I could not 
hold out long, as I was, it seemed to offer a 
chance worth taking, and I took it. I did the 
Indian wrong. He kept faith with me nobly. 
From early dawn until dark, when the weather 
was favorable, he hunted and tended traps, for his 
own benefit as-it turned out, (though he offered to 
divide fairly), but 'he never left me at the shanty 
without a fair supply of wood, which he hacked 
up with infinite labor—for he was no axeman— 
and he made it a point of conscience to be pres¬ 
ent when the fever was on me. This, I have 
little doubt, saved my life. For several days 
succeeding Peter’s arrival I was much worse, 
raving about the shanty insanely at night, rush¬ 
ing out into the frosty air half naked, with the 
snow waist deep, cutting up wild in various ways, 
and trying insanely to pummel him when he 
found it necessary to restrain me by force or to 
lug me back into the shanty after a crazy at¬ 
tempt to start down the river barefoot, with the 
thermometer at zero. 
After a week or ten days the fever somewhat 
abated and Peter, taking my double-barreled 
rifle by way of armament and half a dozen hard 
biscuits by way of grub, gave notice of two 
days’ absence, and buckling his blanket about 
him went off up the trail. 
Late in the evening of the second day, while 
I was lying on the bearskin with swimming brain 
and a fevered brow, he came back, but not alone. 
Two strong, athletic squaws, each toting a large 
pack, were his companions. He introduced them 
as “Ole Blackbird squaw and he gal; pooty 
young squaw—great medicine.” 
The elder of the two was about as tough, 
leathery-looking a specimen of aboriginal ugli¬ 
ness as I have ever fallen in with, and making 
due allowance for difference in age the daughter 
was the perfect moral of her. They both cast 
their loads unceremoniously aside and the elder 
proceeded at once to business. Watching me 
closely as she did so she rolled a large handful 
of leaves in her hand until they were partially 
pulverized, then passed them over to the young¬ 
er squaw who soon made a pint of very bitter 
tea from them which I was told to drink. I 
managed to gulp it down, hot and bitter as it 
was, and the old squaw then seized me without 
ceremony, packed me snugly in bearskin and 
blankets, after which she and her daughter, 
wrapping their own blankets about them, lay 
down on either side of me, crowding me in a 
manner more close than pleasant. 
’Tis written in the Hebrew chronicle: 
“How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 
Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, 
When old King David’s blood grew dull in mo¬ 
tion, 
And that the medicine answered very well.” 
I trust King David’s medicine, which answered 
the purpose so well, was not a squaw—or, if she 
were, that she was young and good looking. 
My leathery belles, however, answered to help 
get up a copious perspiration, which was just 
what they intended, and when I awoke from the 
first sound refreshing sleep I had enjoyed for 
weeks it was with a cool, clear head and limbs 
free from pain. 
With the rise of the sun the confounded ague 
began to threaten me, and Mrs. Blackbird, with 
the help of her interesting daughter proceeded 
to take measures for expelling it in a manner 
quite as novel and original as her treatment of 
fever. First, she undid a bundle of dirty blue 
cloth, and took therefrom several bundles of 
neatly bound, minute twigs. I had heard some 
hard stories of “whippin’ out the ager,” and 
smelt a pretty extensive mice immediately; but 
made them laugh all the more, and brought down 
the switches with increased vigor. I entreated 
and cursed by turns,- tried bribery and flattery, 
begged for a resting spell, and threatened death 
to the party of conspirators immediately I got 
loose, but all in vain. They flogged me for a 
time that seemed an age, and only let me off 
when I was too exhausted to stand alone. Then 
I was again enveloped in skins and blankets, 
when, strange as it may seem, I almost imme¬ 
diately fell into a deep slumber from which I 
did not awake until evening. When I did awake 
it was with a general sense of soreness all over 
the outer man; but where was the ague? Gone. 
Completely cured, as well as the fever, although 
1 had some slight returns of the latter occasion¬ 
ally, which always yielded to Indian treatment, 
however. (To be continued.) 
THE TRAIL TO SOLITUDE. 
Whatever our condition of life may be; 
whether we are born to a city, or pastoral or 
wilderness existence; whether we be jocund 
or sad; or blithe or gloomy—just once in so 
often we should answer to the old calling of 
the Sun Worshipper, and climbing to a place 
higher than that where we habitually dwell 
—behold even, if only for a briefly passing 
Wading Into the Hunting Season. 
on the whole concluded to go through, so I suf¬ 
fered them to divest me of my clothing and 
seize me grmly by the wrists, and made no ob¬ 
jection even when Mrs. Blackbird began to ap¬ 
ply the switches gently to the bare skin. Gradu¬ 
ally the blows increased in rapidity and severity; 
old Peter, who had stood by as spectator at first 
stepped forward and seized a wrist firmly in each 
hand, so suddenly that I had no time to object; 
and the whipping immediately became energetic 
and general. Each of the squaws with a switch 
in each hand vied with the other in rapidity of 
hitting, and, as the sluggish, torpid blood strove 
to dash with answering speed through the ting¬ 
ling veins the pain became unendurable. I had 
resolved to bear all that was asked of me in 
hope of a radical cure, but the torture was too 
severe; and I ordered them to desist, trying at 
the same time to wrench myself loose from 
Peter. They only laughed and laid on the harder. 
I became mad with pain and went in on my 
muscle, ‘biting and butting furiously at old Peter 
and giving the leathery females ungallant kicks 
about the ribs and abdomen—a proceeding that 
time, a little more of the world’s horizons. 
Otherwise, following perhaps, with an almost 
too constant fidelity the furrow of the plow, 
we are apt to lose from our perspective, 
those golden vistas and green hills of promise, 
which recreate and refresh our minds against 
the grind and wear of routine living. 
A mountain lookout is a tonic for the 
soul. It brings us nearer to the stars; it 
banishes, at least temporarily, the elements 
that would sap our vision of its wider ranges. 
To those of us who have neither the time nor 
opportunity to conquer a Mount McKinley, let 
the more humble eminences of earth suffice. 
The mountains of the Adirondacks are neither 
steep nor hazardous. They are tempered by 
age, and smoothed by wind, and sun, and rain. 
Alike for the young and old are they attain¬ 
able. Sometime therefore, when your thoughts 
have grown dusty in the mart and your heart 
longs for a fairer outlook than the high roads 
built by man can offer—remember if you will, 
the green trail to Owl’s Head, and the gentle 
hospitality of the great green woods. 
