March 2, 1907.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
33 1 
Henry and T took a hurried breakfast and 
then each started out with a team. I11 order 
hat the ground might be more thoroughly and 
[uickly covered; both Mr. Brown and his man 
drove over other roads. Sometimes we met 
people who had seen such a looking dog, and 
then we followed the trail until it proved to 
oe the wrong dog. Once I lieard of a dog, 
which certainly seemed as if it must be Terry, 
and he was reported as running away from 
people and looking nearly worn out. I fol- 
owed fast on that trail, but at length lost it 
completely. One old man whom I met list¬ 
ened to my inquiries, and when I told him 
that a liberal reward would be paid for the 
return of the pup, he asked, “Who would be 
tool enough to spend time and money looking 
for a dog?” 
It’s curious how differently different people 
iook at the same thing. When at night we all 
returned, nothing more definite was known 
than when we started out. It was Sunday, 
md Tuesday evening my wife and boy would 
he there. The first question they would ask, 
after a glance had assured them that I was 
well, would be, “How is Terry?” If he was 
not found by that time their stay woul’d be 
spoiled, so 1 had just got to have that pup— 
and besides, I wanted him myself. 
■ There was not a house within ten miles 
! where inquiry had not been made, so further 
search of that kind seemed useless. The next 
morning bright and early men drove in all 
directions, posting bills, offering a liberal re¬ 
ward, and I stayed at camp with the money 
n my Docket, itching to be paid out. For 
two days I watched and waited in vain, and 
[finally when Tuesday evening came I was 
forced to go to meet my family without a scrap 
af news of Terry. As I reluctantly sauntered 
down to the station, I sincerely hoped that 
diey had missed their train, or that some mild 
,'orm of mishap had kept them from coming; 
[out of course no such thing happened, and 
' the train was exactly on time. 
Wliiie I stood near the track and looked up 
he long straight stretch at the vibrating little 
| spot of smoke and iron which was rapidly 
I growing larger and assuming the form of a 
' oc.omotive, an employee of the railroad came 
[and told me that the dog I was looking for 
j aad been struck by an engine Saturday after- 
loon and instantly killed. The force of the 
alow h?d been so great that he was thrown 
nto a clump of bushes and escaped our search, 
j \s he finished speaking the locomotive, clat¬ 
tering by me, came to a stop, and I turned to 
meet my family. Of course, it was only a 
log, and it would be good philosophy not to 
'are too much about it, but there is a spot 
(vhich philosophy does not touch. 
When a mother takes a boy eight years old 
| or his firsts visit to a camp, she has arranged 
j or herself a period of great activity. At about 
1 hat age a boy can fall into a creek with less 
I >rovocation and from more different direc- 
: ions than any other living creature. My wife 
paid she had never realized what a bountiful 
I wardrobe our child possessed until she saw 
j t all hung upon the line to dry at one time, 
I md he was scurrying about the camp at mid- 
lay in his nightgown. 
Such visitations are a good thing in camp 
1 vhen the pet dog has just been lost. It is a 
! aew world to boys; so many things are at 
j land to be investigated, and the time is so 
Fort. The first and greatest curiosity to re- 
■eive attention was of course the camp-fire. 
Dne cannot see a child bewitched to play with 
[ire, as all of them are, as early as they take 
lotice of anything, without wondering why it 
■ s. Most, if not all, other living creatures are 
‘ilher indifferent to or afraid of fire; then, 
\ why should man. both as a babe and adult, 
, ie so fascinated by it? Is it an instinct, born 
rom the custom of countless generations? Or 
I s it a part of the preat plan that man shall 
trive to control the elements? At any rate, 
. 10 plaything so delights a child as fire, even 
hough it is the foe against which he is least 
1 itted to contend. Our boys tired of it no 
[ nore the last day than the first. No matter 
whether they were wet or dry, sleeping or 
wide awake, they were always watching it. 
Every new phase was a new pleasure, and every 
poke they could give it, which brought a newer 
phase, was a newer pleasure. Then, when in 
the daytime the fire was out, there was the ax 
and the wood pile, next of kin to the camp¬ 
fire. The ax had long since, for the want of 
grinding, passed out of the class of dangerous 
implements, except as a possible source of 
bruises, so they were at liberty to whack away 
with it as much as they liked in anticipation 
of the evening. Down in the bottom of the 
trunk, carefully hidden on the day of their 
arrival, was the keen-edged hatchet which did 
service when anything actually had to be cut, 
a precaution taken for the preservation of their 
digits. With profound solemnity, the boys 
would sit, cross-legged, and meditate before 
the fire while they smoked their grapevine 
cigars. Once, to make the imitation of their 
fathers more complete, they ground the grape¬ 
vine bark into the semblance of granulated 
tobacco, and privately tried it in some of 
our extra pipes. Poor boys! But they were 
all right again next morning. 
With the lads in camp to furnish an ex¬ 
cuse, Plenrv and I soon slipped back a score 
or more years and fell to whittling out water¬ 
wheels, bows and arrows, together with the 
dozens of other things which go to make up 
a boy’s world. The overflow from the springs 
was dammed so that it ran through a bark 
trough, bringing to life with irregular pulsa¬ 
tions a lop-sided little water-wheel. Chestnut 
whistles, willow whistles and whistle-wood 
whistles abounded everywhere. Whistles lay 
soaking in the water and whistles lay drying in 
the sun. There were whistles with sharp lit¬ 
tle screeches and whistles with sputtering, 
gurgling throats, besides some whistles which 
had no voice at all. 
We made bows of ash and hemlock, and ar¬ 
rows of pine and hickory. There were arrows 
which would go straight and true, and arrows 
which wobbled about. We shot darts high into 
the air from the ends of withy branches. 
From bits of leather and fish line we made 
slings, and the little Davids used the big 
boulder across the creek for Goliath’s head. 
Then, when the almost exhaustless possibilities 
of sticks and strings were finally exhausted, 
we made wigwams of poles and leafy boughs; 
teeters of rails and boards, and, best of all, a 
grapevine swing. In the dark shadows under 
the thick hemlocks we lay hidden and watched 
the little trout in the crystal pool of a spring 
run. Sometimes we tossed in worms and saw 
how they eyed them suspiciously without mov¬ 
ing a fin, then turning sharply around and com¬ 
pleting the inspection, they darted to devour 
them. 
All the performances of us four boys the 
little mother followed and watched with a 
childish delight. To her girlhood home the 
unfair stork had come but once. Perhaps he 
was chilled by the gray stone walls. He came 
often enough to the tenant’s house, but the 
lazy fellow flew no further up the hill. She 
had never retied the cot on a brother’s finger, 
and never held his books or dinner pail while 
he settled a dispute with another boy on the 
way home from school. All our inherited boy¬ 
ish arts were new and charming inventions to 
her. 
So the time passed until it was the beginning 
of haying on the uncle’s farms, and the boys 
must be there to attend to it. Then they went 
home. Finally, when Henry and I had seen 
the tender young grass ripen and had smelt 
the fragrant new-mown hay, and after the 
chestnut trees had put on and laid aside their 
mantle of creamy white blossoms, there came 
a dajf that we, too, must go. 
Wlaen a full-grown man finds a home where 
boyhood indolence and fancy again have sway 
he is loth to leave it. With a pang of regret 
as each tent pole came down, and oft-recurring 
glances at the dying camp-fire, we packed up 
and saw our effects go trundling off over the 
wood road. Then, with one more drink from 
the dipperless spring, and a stick of wood 
thrown on to the coals for luck, we walked to 
the observatory. The savage roar of the 
spring Esopus had dwindled to a midsummer 
murmur. In the pine patch was the bare 
knuckle of a root which had often proved a 
stumbling block to me. Now I stopped and 
looked at it as if it was an old friend. Then 
we moved on out of the shade, and bidding 
good-by to the Chatmans, trudged on down 
the track to the station. 
“Well,” said Henry, as the train started, 
“every one we came in contact with at Unasego 
tried to make our stay pleasant.” 
“Yes,” I replied, “and they succeeded.” 
To those who have followed the preceding 
chapters, it may be of interest to know that 
when the present plans of the water commis¬ 
sioners of the City of New York are executed 
the entire section of which I write will be a 
vast artificial lake. Upon the completion of 
the great Ashokan dam the rifts will one by 
one be stifled b$ the rising flood, and their 
music cease—for a time. Fish will swim 
where the pine path now winds, and water- 
grasses wave where the camp-fire burned. The 
beautiful little village which I have called 
Unasego must move back. All our friends 
must move back, excepting Mr. Cushman and 
the old bear hunter; but High Point will not 
move back, and Tice Teneyck will remain to 
mirror its beautiful sides in the pool which 
men have made. 
Winfield T. Sherwood. 
A Summer on Loch Laggan. 
New York City, Jan. 19.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: The Highlands of Scotland may be re¬ 
garded as an immense sporting preserve, nearly 
the entire area outside the towns being com¬ 
prised in great landed estates held by a few 
wealthy owners as deer forests, grouse moors, 
and fisheries. There are between four and five 
thousand shootings and fishings, more than a 
hundred of which are deer forests, covering 
nearly two million acres. The rental paid to 
the proprietors of these estates for the pleasure 
of shooting over them or of fishing the lochs 
and streams during the brief season amounts to 
more than £400,000 per annum. 
Some of the estates are of immense size, 
covering tens of thousands of acres, including 
deer forests, grouse moors, and salmon and 
trout fishings, and are let at a correspondingly 
high rental. It is estimated that about 4,500 
stags or red deer are killed each season, at an 
average cost to the sportsman of £30 per stag. 
As .this covers only the rent paid for the privi¬ 
lege of shooting, and does not include the cost 
of maintaining the establishment, the value of 
guns and ammunition, and other incidental ex¬ 
penses, deer-stalking may well be called costly 
pleasure. 
While most of the lochs and streams in the 
Highlands are closely preserved and can be 
fished only on payment of a rental, a few are 
free to the public, having been fished from time 
immemorial, and in some cases the privilege 
is granted to the guests of certain hotels and 
inns. To obtain rooms at any of these inns, 
which are always full in the fishing season, it is 
often necessary to apply long in advance. The 
price varies, but averages, for somewhat primi¬ 
tive accommodations, ten to twelve shillings per 
day, including meals and attendance. In loch 
fishing a boat is necessary, and most of the inns 
have a few boats which are free to the guests; 
but a charge of five or six shillings per day is 
made for the services of the gillie who rows it, 
this sum covering the price of his luncheon. 
I was fortunate in securing rooms at Loch 
Laggan Inn, the guests of which have the privi¬ 
lege of fishing the loch, the little river Pataig 
(locally called Pattoch), which feeds it, and 
several smaller lochs and streams in the vicinity. 
Loch Laggan, a beautiful sheet in Invernesshire, 
is seven or eight miles long by a half mile 
wide, and is surrounded by well wooded moun¬ 
tains, attaining in some places a height of three 
thousand feet. The north shore, including the 
