FOREST AND STREAM 
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Hardin 
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Attached to almost every camp in the back- 
woods is at least one individual whose duty it is 
to perform the tasks remaining undone after all 
the other inmates—guests or hosts—have done all 
they can or will. This functionary has not as yet 
been named, to clasify him, probably because his 
duties being numerous and varied, no term suffi¬ 
ciently comprehensive or adequately descriptive, 
has yet been found. He is everything from scul¬ 
lery maid to packhorse, as circumstances may 
require. 
At Beaver Camp, up on the western shore of 
Second Connecticut Lake in the early eighties, 
his name was Harding. Although originally pos¬ 
sessed of a Christian name without doubt, it had 
long since been forgotten, atrophied, dropped off, 
and left behind. Scientists contend that unused 
members of the body are in time evolutionized 
out of existence. Harding’s name had obeyed 
this law. The woods have no use for superflu¬ 
ities even of human nomenclature. All that is 
not useful is discarded. The fittest, the essential 
only survives. 
He was probably the only person within fifty 
miles answering to the name of Harding, and, as 
through a certain lack of mental furnishing he 
had lost the moral and social status that would 
have compelled the prefix “Mister,” “John,” or 
“William” in most cases, no reason remained or 
appeared to those who had occasion to address 
him, enforcing more than the single designation 
with which he entered the world—Harding. 
In this he quietly assented. At least, if he felt 
any objection, he never disclosed it. Uncle Tom 
Chester in his capacity of proprietor of Beaver 
Camp and employer shortened the name to 
“Hardin.’ ” He definitely avoided the finish 
which a full pronunciation of the last syllable 
would have given the name. Uncle Tom meant 
no offense. He would have been the last person 
in the world to rob anyone of his just due, even 
in the matter of names; but Harding was so un- 
resistant, so acquiescent in the fate that had 
brought him to a menial in a lonely backwoods 
camp, that Uncle Tom unconsciously acquired 
the kleptomania that everywhere robbed Harding 
of his birthright. 
No particular reason was apparent in Harding’s 
makeup, indicating why he should have come to 
be the drudge of Beaver Camp. He seemed sim¬ 
ply to have slipped into the place. He fitted and 
filled it; therefore he stayed. He was not espe¬ 
cially strong, he made no pretense of knowing 
anything worth mentioning, and there was noth¬ 
ing he could do with any exceptional skill. 
Yet, when a party wanted to fish a hitherto un¬ 
visited stream or lake, or see a new region, 
Harding was frequently brought into requisition. 
On his back they piled the duffle, pans and ket¬ 
tles, food and blankets, and he would carry it all 
off uncomplainingly, as sure-footed as a burro. 
No guide getting his two dollars or three dollars 
per day knew the country better or provided more 
comfortably for his clients than did Harding. He 
took them to their destination and back, safely 
and dry. They had good sport. If it was a 
question of trout and the sportsmen had been 
unsuccessful, Harding knew the compelling de¬ 
vices as well as any professional guide. 
He could rip open a log for a worm, or hitch 
on a fish’s eye or gullet or some such stomach- 
“When a Party Wanted to Fish an Unvisited 
Lake.” 
filling device to which he could resort when 
“skunked” as well as any of them. He knew the 
virtues of birch bark for fire building, could rig 
a lean-to and make a bed of spruce. He could 
set any kind of snare from twitch-up to 'bear trap, 
and he could wield an axe or handle a jack¬ 
knife as skillfully as any lumber jack that ever 
went into the woods. In short, his backwoods 
education was complete. His services were worth 
a regular guide’s pay, but men did not seem to 
recognize the fact, and he did not press it. He 
could do for a party of sportsmen all a profes¬ 
sional guide could do, but he made no claim. 
One September morning after a week of steady 
rain, day broke upon Beaver Camp with heavy 
clouds skurrying overhead but with a prospect 
of a lull in the dismal weather. Swollen streams 
had raised the level of the lake until its normal 
margin was a man’s height under water and trout 
were out in the woods exploring birds’ nests. The 
outlook was not hopeful. The season was late, 
and under the circumstances, not a trout would 
rise to a fly. Even worms failed. 
A disconsolate and almost discouraged tender¬ 
foot looked wistfully out over the lake. Neither 
Uncle Tom nor any of the guides had anything 
to suggest. Harding, who was dragging a towel 
around a breakfast plate, muttered something 
about “lakers” over at the mouth of the South 
Inlet. No one gave any attention. The guide, 
who was waiting for clear weather to take a 
sportsman up the East Inlet, pulled thoughtfully 
at his pipe without comment, while his “man” 
continued, without pause, his conversation with 
Uncle Tom about a moose which had been killed 
by some crust hunters near the camp the previ¬ 
ous spring, who took away only the head. Hard¬ 
ing’s remark came and went as a gust of wind 
when the door was opened, leaving no impres¬ 
sion, forgotten as soon as made, simply because 
the author was not supposed to make sugges¬ 
tions that were good for anything. 
Had the idea of “lakers” been broached down 
at some of the swell camps in the Rangeleys or 
at Moosehead, such treatment might have been 
attributed to a prevailing sentiment of contempt 
for such kind of fish, or perhaps to the necessity 
of using bait in catching them. A Boston gen¬ 
tleman who was staying at the camp had said 
that down Rangeley way sportsmen would not eat 
trout unless taken with a fly. He rather felt that 
way himself. Up here in New Hampshire visit¬ 
ors were not quite so fastidious. Not much value 
was attached to “lakers,” however, especially to 
the catching of them. 
Later on, Uncle, Tom stopped as he passed the 
outside door and stepping outside carefully scan¬ 
ned the sky and lake. “You might get a ‘laker* 
or two,” he said, addressing the tenderfoot, 
“over to the South Inlet. If you want to go, 
Hardin’ will show you.” Thus it was developed 
that Harding’s suggestion was not wholly fruit¬ 
less. No credit was given to Harding, however. 
Uncle Tom had used it as his own, unconscious¬ 
ly. “Keep a sharp lookout,” he admonished. 
“The squalls come down off the hills awful sud¬ 
den. If it comes on to blow, just pull up the kil- 
lick and get in among the bushes. Some of us’ll 
come and get you.” 
