2 I 2 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Feb. 9, 1907. 
natured chuckle, for Lucy is not constructed 
on fairy-like lines. 
Next morning we were up at an unusual 
hour. The whippoorwills were not through 
singing, and the moon was not through shin¬ 
ing; but a robin had wakened and was call¬ 
ing to its mate, while in the east bars of pale 
light were reaching up and touching the scat¬ 
tering bits of clouds which we hoped would 
thicken. That morning it was a camp of hurry 
and bustle. Breakfast was a “short whet,” as 
the farmers used to say. We were not saun¬ 
tering out to watch the streams, the clouds, 
and the mountains, with only a desire to catch 
enough for a few lazy fellows’ suppers. We 
were to fish for trout to send to neighbors and 
friends—to fathers, who would be reminded 
of just such mornings forty years ago; to gray¬ 
haired mothers, whose faces would broaden; 
to wives who would be proud, and to small 
boys, who would tell their playmates about 
them. And one wanted a particularly fine fish 
for-, but let him tell it if he wants it told. 
Three of us were to drive up the stream a 
few miles, while Henry would fish near the 
camp, in case old Billy should come. Urged 
by the driver, the horses spanked their hoofs 
into the deep dust of the dry road and threw 
whole handfuls over the dashboard to mingle 
upon our clothing with the clouds which the 
wheels brought up, and then be turned to paste 
by the spray from the agitated leaves as we 
brushed under the dew-weighted limbs which 
overhung the way. The steel tires clicked as 
unseen stones set the spokes trembling, and 
gave the wagon a lurch. A short half hour 
of this, and when the sun had gilded the top 
of Tice Teneyck and came on to turn the 
Esopus into quivering gold, it revealed three 
widely separated forms standing knee-deep in 
the rushing waters, as they switched thread¬ 
like lines out over the foaming rifts from the 
ends of withy little sticks. 
For a few hours the sun and the clouds 
strove for the mastery of the day. Fleecy 
columns would assault the sun and be melted 
away. Heavier banks riding on the south 
wind would take up the charge and for a time 
shut off the glare. Then when their noiseless 
victory seemed complete, through some unseen 
rift the smothered fire would again break 
forth. At length the mists prevailed, and the 
day was dark and sultry. Not content with 
the veiling of the sun, the thickening skies 
kept shrinking the circle of the horizon, and 
shutting down the lid upon the valley. The 
tops of Samuel’s Point and Tice Teneyck be¬ 
came engulfed, and then the lower hills were 
lost to sight. The sound of the blasts at the 
mountain quarries had an indefinite location 
and their echoes were entangled in the fog. 
Dogs barked where there were no farmhouses; 
cowbells tinkled where there were no pastures. 
As the passing of the day was marked by 
the gathering of cows for milking, by the ring¬ 
ing of the school bells, by the toot of the din¬ 
ner horns, by the movement of familiar trains, 
and by the closing whistle of a distant sawmill, 
the fog grew thicker and thicker. It shut off 
the banks and muffled the roar of the rifts. It 
floated down the stream in broad, flat sheets 
and came up the stream in rolling billows. 
For a minute too dense to bear its own weight 
it would turn to a drizzling rain. From un¬ 
seen shores flat gravel bars slid out under it 
into the water, and ragged barkless snags 
pierced it. 
Through the sunshine, through the shadows, 
through the mist, and through the rain we 
worked on to the swish of the line and the click 
of the reel, until as we rode home in the 
murky blackness of a starless night we had 
fish and to spare. Winfield T. Sherwood, 
[to be continued.] 
IN THE WOODS 
or in (lie mountains, no matter how far from civiliza¬ 
tion, fresh milk can always be had if foresight is used in 
packing the outfits. Borden’s Peerless Brand Evaporated 
Milk iri cans keeps indefinitely until opened, and answers 
every purpose. It is pure, rich milk, condensed to the 
consistency of cream, put up without sugar and preserved 
by sterilization only.— Adv. 
A Cruise in a Converted Canoe.—VI. 
The Wicomico River gave one a certain sense 
of relief, after the steady menace of wind and 
waves in the open, but there was a closeness 
in the scenery, an oppressiveness quite marked 
after the wide-open breadths of the bays and 
flat islands. It was as different from the islands 
as one could imagine. Here the houses were 
built on real knolls, surrounded by beautiful 
groves of trees, and wide orchards grew in 
orderly array upon the sloping lands. The fields 
had the look of fertility, and what woods we 
saw seemed aristocratic and dignified, rather 
too cultured to please the wild forest trained 
eye. A schooner loomed huge upon a narrow 
reach of water. It was loaded, however, with 
countless cords of crates, which linked it un¬ 
mistakably with the fruit farms along the banks 
of the river. There is much that is distinctly 
disquieting at sight of a sea-going ship, trim, 
storm-defying and strong, put to such paltry 
(but very profitable) business as toting for a 
truck garden. And yet, in the last analysis, what 
we saw upon the Wicomico was most pleasing. 
When we reached White Haven the men who 
came down to see the motor had distinctly the 
appearance of happy lives. Several were boat 
builders, tongers, fishermen and followers of 
the sea life. And one man was a fur buyer. 
That spring he had sent out 80,000 muskrats, 
besides otter, mink, skunk and other fur bearers. 
If one but thought a minute on the life in the 
immediate vicinity of White Haven, he was con¬ 
fused by the multiplicity of its affairs—the land 
was perfectly tamed, yielding vast quantities of 
fruit and tomatoes, a territory of twenty miles 
square yielding one-fourth of the Maryland 
tomato canning pack, it was said. Yet this 
same place yielded thousands of fur-bearing 
animals, and was accessible to one of the great 
fur districts of the world. 
The Wicomico * had many gasolene boats, 
some for pleasure, and some for profit. A 
gasolene packet ran from White Haven to 
Salisbury every day. It is a profitable little 
boat, too, for it does a regular commission busi¬ 
ness. buying goods, delivering produce, carry¬ 
ing passengers. 
We lay at White Haven long enough for 
Rusk to get the whole population interested in 
the boat, and several prospective purchasers 
learned to manipulate the machine, taking it 
apart and putting it together themselves, and 
then we started up stream toward Salisbury once 
more. We started with the packet, but that 
boat’s 12-horsepower engine and superior model 
soon left us behind. 
I suppose that for the Chesapeake Bay, a 
launch from 28 to 34ft. long, with a breadth of 
7 to 9ft. will give as much pleasure as any other 
type of cruising launch. The engine depends on 
the pocketbook, of course, but the higher the 
power up to 15 or 20 horse, the greater the 
efficiency. 
Our canoe was a maulhead—wide at the bow 
and tapering aft like a tadpole. The Pocosin 
model tapers forward from the broad stern, and 
is a much faster boat under sails, it is claimed. 
A built-up boat would have been much lighter, 
and, on the whole, much more satisfactory, al¬ 
though the canoe will last 50 years, and the 
plank boat only half as long. 
We met many gill or drift net fishermen, 
floating down in tiny canoes with the tide, keep¬ 
ing on the up-stream side of the net, or two, 
they were fishing. They had nets fifty feet long, 
with round colored corks along the top, and 
ounce sinkers to hold the webbing down. They 
kept the nets square across the current and 
watched the bobs anxiously for the tell-tale 
jumping, which would tell of a fish struck. 
There were a dozen or so fishermen out, and 
all complained of poor luck, and yet they looked 
contented, even happy, as they manipulated the 
narrow, tapering square-ended paddles, in either 
end to go either way. 
It was very like sport, the fish taken being 
herring, perch, shad and striped bass. The 
fisher starts on the tail end of the tide, so that 
he can run down an hour or so. The net meets 
the up-coming fish, and they are entangled. 
Then the fisherman takes in his net, and floats 
back on the returning tide. 
We passed many wood piles along the bank, 
at which sailboats were loading up with cord- 
wood, indicating that woodsmen could still find 
occupation in the region. 
One gill net fisherman gave up trying to catch 
anything, and we towed him up stream two or 
three miles, while he sat slumped down in the 
stern of his little canoe, peering straight ahead 
without a motion of any kind. He said nothing 
at all, till it came time to cast off, and then his 
wrinkled old face and gray goatee flashed into 
a bright smile and he waved us good-bye, with 
thanks, and watched us till we were around the 
bend. His home was up a creek, of which a 
dozen or so came down into the Wicomico. 
Some of these creeks reach far back into the 
land, and furnish exits for farmers whose lands 
come down to them—and even here, the musk¬ 
rats furnish an important item of income, es¬ 
pecially for the boys. Most of the land is 
posted, and quail and rabbits hold their own 
nicely, in spite of numerous hunters. 
It is a pity (growing greater every year) that 
market shooting on the Chesapeake Bay is not 
stopped. Tens of thousands of the ducks and 
geese are killed on the migratory flights by 
men hired to kill at so much a day. This, it 
seems to me, is even worse than one shooting 
for market for himself. All down the eastern 
shore I heard of trappers who hired help, and 
on “good days” the “hired men” went out to the 
blinds and in cold blood shot down game which 
is rapidly becoming scarce. 
There are two great lines of wildfowl flight 
across the land—one down the Mississippi, and 
one down the Chesapeake, Albemarle and 
Pamlico waters. It is an interstate flight, and 
from end to end of these lines, the market 
hunters shoot great holes into the flocks. There 
are men who follow the birds from Wisconsin 
to the Missisisppi bottoms, killing the birds and 
shipping them by the barrels full to the eastern 
markets. Think of the folly of permitting ex¬ 
termination of the noblest of game birds by 
hired shooters! 
We were in fresh water soon after leaving 
White Haven, and water lilies began to appear 
a few miles above. The captain of the sailboat 
suggested that we tow him up to Salisbury, and 
Rusk naturally responded: 
“What’s it worth?” 
“ ’Bout a quarter,” the captain answered. 
“Eh, what!” exclaimed Rusk. 
The captain looked surprised. “Why,” he 
said, “it’d pay for the gasolene!” 
“Yes,” said Rusk, “but it don’t pay for power. 
It’s worth a quarter for me to sit and look on!” 
There has been a boom all around the Chesa¬ 
peake Bay. The location is so good for water 
lovers that men of moderate wealth have paid 
$100 an acre for water-front lands. The result 
has been to double the previous values placed 
on farms, and prices have been rising. One 
can find land for less, but it must be hunted 
for. It is worth the price, some farmers clear¬ 
ing several thousand a year with their fruit and 
trucking, but the prices were kept down owing 
to the uncertainty of railway rates, and high 
steamer rates. But the coming of the seeker of 
a summer home has put a value on the land 
aside from its productiveness or fertility. The 
State of Maryland is booming its resources now, 
and in a very few years the fruit and truck 
raising should be greatly increased, while every 
bay and river will have its “summer people,” 
especially from Philadelphia, Baltimore and 
Washington. One finds New Yorkers even now 
going down to Matthews county, Virginia, to 
spend the summer. 
We came to Salisbury at last. It’s a bustling 
little place of 5,000 inhabitants, or thereabouts, 
but my chief interest there was in the ship 
yard. Otis S. Lloyd was the owner, and also 
a designer. One of these Lloyd boats was the 
Norma, built at Tivaskin, Md., and said to be 
the fastest bugeye on the Chesapeake. Captain 
Lloyd turned out a number of boats which were 
pleasing to the eye, for unlike many another 
bay boat builder, he would take some pains to 
ornament the craft he built. He carved out 
Continued on page 238. 
