FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Jan. 30, 1909. 
I 70 
falls at 10 o’clock. We threw aside our heavy 
packs and sank upon the rocks, glad to be free 
from the burning straps. Finally I opened my 
pack and fished out—not the package of sweet 
chocolate, but a lemon. I have always won¬ 
dered which one of the world’s many fruits was 
best. Now I know; it is the lemon. We sucked 
the last drop of juice from that lemon, then we 
ate the pulp and chewed the rind. From that 
moment we treasured our little store of lemons 
with jealous care. After a time we bestirred 
ourselves and made a cup of beef tea, thick with 
bread. Thus encouraged, we set up the tent 
where we could get a splendid view of the falls 
and listen to their constant music. 
For years High Falls has been a sort of 
Mecca for sportsmen as well as one of Wiscon¬ 
sin’s natural wonders. All nearby streams are 
good trout streams and the Peshtigo itself is 
noted for its large trout, while the surrounding 
country is as good deer country as we have in 
Wisconsin. The falls are not perpendicular, but 
in three long sliding plunges the river descends 
sixty-two feet. The rock crops out everywhere 
and one is surprised to find sizeable trees and 
shrubs growing in every crack and crevice. One 
might almost say that the surrounding country 
is mountainous, so many boulders are heaped 
up. Everywhere they lay as though some Titan 
had been playing marbles. However, all will 
shortly be changed. A Green Bay Company is 
building a thirty-foot dam which will give a 
head of ninety-two feet and over 7,000 horse¬ 
power will be developed. Above the falls a lake 
a mile wdde in places will be formed, backing 
up the river two or three miles. An electric 
power plant will be erected at the foot of the 
falls and the power generated transported to 
Green Bay and other towns. Johnson’s Falls, 
three or four miles down the river, is also to 
be harnessed. All of which, though economi¬ 
cally justifiable, may not be looked upon with 
equanimity by the lover of out-of-doors. Why 
must King Midas’ hand ever sully and destroy? 
Some of us mourned when they began to steal 
the water from Niagara, but it is worse now 
that they are penetrating the wilderness itself. 
I am glad we were ahead of the workmen, and 
we tried not to see the surveyor’s stakes every¬ 
where. Two days after we left, the workmen 
came and began to blast and build. We took 
a great many pictures, among the last, if not 
the last, taken of High Falls before the builders 
came. 
Sunday we spent in camp and Wife prepared 
a spread for dinner. Girl said, “At home Sun¬ 
day is the day for meetin’; here it is the day 
for eatin’.’’ In the afternoon a party of hungry 
canoeists came down the river and we were 
glad to share our bacon and beans with them, 
and they, hearing me mourn because we had 
no fish for supper and probably feeling under 
obligation because of the beans, caught a fine 
rainbow which they insisted upon our accept¬ 
ing, We do not fish on Sunday, but we took 
that fish. One member of the party, a fair¬ 
faced lad, related a happening which befell him 
two years previously. He and a companion, both 
strangers to the river, were descending the Pesh¬ 
tigo in a canoe. At Twin Falls, three miles 
above, they asked a fisherman if there were 
any falls below, and he replied that there were 
one or two rapids. The wind was with them, so 
thev did not hear the roar of the falls and the 
BEAUTIES. 
water just above is smooth and quiet, so they 
ran full speed into High Falls. Their canoe was 
dashed against the right wall of rock and held 
there by the force of the current “with one end 
sticking over in eternity.’’ Inserting their finger 
tips into every crack in the rock and pressing 
with the flat of their hands when there were 
no cracks, they slowly worked their boat back¬ 
ward and out of the “jaws of death.” Though 
related with all the sang froid of an experienced 
canoeist, it caused my hair to stand on end just 
to listen, and my dreams that night were a 
jumble of fair-faced lads, wrecked canoes and 
a moil of white water. 
On Monday we cached two-thirds of our grub 
and nearly all of*, the potatoes, and Tuesday 
morning set out with lighter packs and conse¬ 
quently lighter hearts. 
[to be concluded.] 
In Exile. 
Away in the ciieerless tundra, 
Where the stunted lichens bloom. 
And the reindeer gathers his harvest of moss 
In the breathless Arctic gloom. 
An exile has builded his humble home 
Alid the snowdrifts bleak and grim 
That stretch themselves Tike a ghastly sea 
To the far horizon’s rim. 
The North wind whistles his heartless airs 
Through the long-drawn Arctic night. 
And the Earth dreams on in its deadly dreams 
’Neath the winding sheet of white. 
Through the doleful mutterings of the storms 
That reign ’neath the Polar star. 
He fancies he hears the gull’s lone cry 
And the surf on the moaning bar. 
The North-god paints his pictures wild 
On the trembling Arctic skies. 
And wastes his skill with an iron will. 
Where the snow-bound desert lies. 
The Dream-god spills his magic wine, 
.And the Southern roses bloom. 
But the laggard day brings naught of hope 
To the cheerless Arctic gloom. 
The silent-shod troops of the shadow land 
That sleep in their ice-bound caves, 
Are marshaled in form by the hand of night 
From a thousand unknown graves. 
.And in silence they march, and counter-march. 
With battalions weird and grim, 
Then turn in flight through the bitter night 
O’er the snow field’s ghastly rim., 
And the birds that sang round the Southern home. 
Call from the raging storm, 
And out of the gloom of his Arctic tomb. 
Comes memory’s awful form. 
For the moon is spreading her silver veil 
Over the Southern home, 
While the exile tosses in restless sleep 
In the Arctic bleak and lone. 
Away in the dreary tundra, 
Where the wolf and the reindeer roam, 
And the Arctic gloom comes down at noon 
To cover his cheerless home; 
The exile breathes his curses free 
On the cruel iron hand 
That has sealed him alive in a tomb of death 
In God’s forgotten land. 
But only the lone wolf prowling 
Can hear his frenzied wrath. 
For the drifts of winter barricade 
The moss-built Arctic path, 
W'here one end rests on the banquet hall 
And the cheerful lights of home, 
And the other is lost on the wild frontier 
Of the Arctic bleak and lone. 
Chart A. Pitt. 
The Forest and Stream may be obtained from 
any nezvsdcaler on order. Ask your dealer to 
supply you regularly. 
