37° 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[March 9, 1907. 
that she might have been bitten by a rattlesnake 
and died before she could get home. And one 
man, with a mean, cruel laugh, said: ‘Oh, the 
women! You can never trust them; can never 
tell what they will do. More than likely she 
has run off with some pretty young fellow.’ 
“ ‘Say that again,’ I cried, ‘and I shoot you 
where you sit. If I ever hear of you repeating 
it, be sure to prepare yourself, for I shall hunt 
for you. Now, get out of my lodge and never 
again enter the doorway.’ 
“He went, but he never made the evil talk 
again so far as I know. He was mean to his 
wife, allowing her nothing but the coarsest food, 
the poorest scanty dress. And so, after many hard- 
„ ships and many beatings, she had run off with a 
man who loved her and was good to her. Who 
could blame her? 
“When all my visitors had gone home I lay 
down, but it was nearly morning before I fell 
asleep for a short time. I had prayed long for 
help in my trouble, for some sign to be given 
me. In answer, a voice came to me in my dream, 
a loud, clear voice, and it said: ‘Your woman 
lives; keep up your courage; seek hard for her 
and you shall find her.’ 
“I was going to ask the voice where I should 
seek, but just then I awoke, and then it was 
useless to do so; for the gods talk to our 
shadows (souls) only when our bodies sleep and 
they are free to wander as they will. Nor could 
I sleep again; morning had come, and the camp 
was astir. After the morning meal the whole 
camp turned out to search for my woman. We 
were then located where the Big River and the 
Bear River join (the Missouri and Yfarias 
rivers). Some went up the Bear River, some up 
and some down the other one, through the tim¬ 
ber and willows, the berry thickets, and among 
the breaks of the valley slopes. But the search 
was without result; not a trace could be found 
of the missing one, nor were there any signs 
that a war party had been near. I was satisfied 
though. I was sure that the enemy had been 
around and had captured her, for had not my 
dream said that she lived? And if she was alive 
would she not be at home with me, unless she 
were held a captive? That was plain enough, 
and I was to seek for her; but where? Where 
should I go? I left it to the gods; they would 
advise me, I felt sure. I sacrificed to the sun 
first of all, hanging in a tree some of my most 
prized property, also my woman’s beautiful elk- 
tusk-strung dress. I got a powerful medicine 
man to unwrap his sacred pipe and pray with me 
to the sun, to Old Man, to all the gods of the 
air, the earth and the deep, dark waters. High 
up on the back of my lodge he painted the sign 
of the butterfly, the silent winger who gives us 
dreams. And then for four days and four nights 
I fasted, sleeping long and often while my 
shadow self went forth on adventure. Thus I 
met and talked to the ancient ones. ‘Have you 
seen my woman?’ I would ask them. ‘Can you 
tell me where to go. to find her?’ 
“Although I met and talked with most of them 
—the buffalo shadow chief, the wolf, the coyote, 
badger, lynx, wolverine, none could give me any 
news. I began to despair. ‘My medicine is weak,’ 
I thought. ‘What evil have I done that I must 
suffer this great trouble and find no way out of 
it?’ 
“On the fourth night I slept and waked, slept 
and waked many times, a kind of half sleep it 
was until nearly morning, and then, at last, help 
came. I was walking along the shore of the Big 
River and came to a broad, smooth trail which 
led from the water up into a deep cave in the 
bank. Back in its depths there was singing, a 
low, slow, dreamy song. I entered the cave and 
felt my way along the dark passage for some 
distance and then came to a big, wide, high 
place which was lighted dimly by a willow-cov¬ 
ered hole in the top. At the rear of this queer 
home sat an old, white beaver; on either side 
of him clear around were other beavers, also 
white and aged looking, and all were singing 
the beautiful song, beating time to it with cut¬ 
tings of willow which they lightly tapped against 
the couch rails. As I stood looking and listen¬ 
ing, four of them arose, standing on their hind 
legs, and danced out to the center of the place, 
danced slowly in time to the slowly sung song. 
When they were all met in the middle of the 
space they stopped and then danced four times 
as they were, after which they all turned short 
around and danced back to their seats. The 
singing ceased and the old chief beaver, motion¬ 
ing me to a place by his side, said: ‘Welcome, 
man person, sit you down with us.’ 
“I took the seat he pointed to, and we talked 
together for a time. At last he asked me where 
I was traveling, and for what purpose. So I told 
him what was my trouble, and that I could get 
no trace of my missing woman. ‘Ah,’ the beaver 
chief exclaimed, when I had related my story. 
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed several times; and ‘Hah!’ 
he said, scratching his white, smooth head with 
his little front paw. ‘Hah. I think I can help 
you.’ And with that he told me to follow him, 
and we went out to the shore of the river, all 
the other ancient ones following us. ‘Call our 
people,’ said the chief to one of them. Where¬ 
upon that old one slipped into the stream and 
struck the surface of the water four loud slaps 
with his broad tail. Again he struck it four 
times, and yet again four times. In answer we 
heard the slaps repeated away up the river, and 
away down it, and out near the further shore. 
That was the call of the ancient ones, the signal 
to gather at the chief’s lodge; and soon they 
began to come, swimming in swiftly from all 
directions until a large number were gathered 
there before us, some on the shore and some in 
the shallow water. Then said the chief to them: 
‘Listen, my children. Did I not hear some of 
ypu say that some men persons had gone down 
the river lately? I seem to remember that you 
did. If there be any here who know about it 
let them speak.’ 
“Then spoke one who sat near us: ‘True, 
chief,’ he said. ‘You speak true. It was I who 
gave the news. I saw them, a man person and 
a woman person drifting down the river on a 
raft of two- logs which were covered with brush. 
The moon had not yet arisen and I swam close 
to them unperceived as they floated along. They 
were a man person and a woman person, and the 
woman was crying. She was bound to the logs 
with many turns of a rope, and although she 
strove and struggled she could not free herself.’ 
“I was about to speak to the chief when I 
suddenly awoke. My shadow had returned to 
my body, and my mother had come in. ‘You 
were dreaming ?’ she asked; was anything re¬ 
vealed to you?’ 
“She was glad when I told her what I had 
learned. ‘The gods have been good to us,’ she 
said. ‘We must sacrifice to them; to the Ancient 
Beaver especially.’ 
“We did so, with many prayers, and I sung 
over and over again the song I had heard the 
beavers sing, until I was sure that I would never 
forget it. The song has always been good medi¬ 
cine to me. I have sung it whenever in danger, 
or great trouble, or sickness, and have mostly 
come safely and happily out of it all.” 
J. W. Schultz, 
[to be continued.] 
Returning To Camp. 
We are coming back to camp after a long day’s 
hunt. Ha! As we top a hill we see the camp¬ 
fire. What a joy.ous sight. We quicken our 
pace. We shout and an answering shout rolls 
back. We come into camp amid the cheers of 
our comrades, and swing down our game bags, 
heavy with game, while the boys crowd around 
and scan the contents with eager eyes. The 
fire is blazing under a large kettle of soup, which 
is taken off on our arrival, and under our vigor- 
our apnetites soon disappears. 
We are sitting around the fire, the utmost 
contentment on every face. All listen eagerly 
while we recount our day’s adventures. The 
pipes are filled, and lounging back comfortably 
rolled in blankets, we listen with interest while 
Joe tells the story of a narrow escape he had 
with the timber wolves up in Alaska. Many a 
tale is told, till at last one by one we drop off 
to dream them all over, and the last story teller 
finds himself telling his story to himself and 
the surrounding woods. Whereupon he likewise 
rolls over and drops into the happy hunting 
grounds. The fire crackles and smoulders, flick¬ 
ering less and less as the hours creep by, till it 
dies out, leaving the coals, which last till the 
early riser brings them to life again. 
Frank N. Whitman. 
Mt. Washington and Return After Noon 
This is the story of an afternoon ramble on 
snowshoes which started from the Glen House 
and ended—as you shall see. 
I am a middle-aged lawyer, inclined to stout¬ 
ness, keeping up a good bluff as to muscle and 
wind, but forced to admit with Mulvaney, that 
“I am not the man I was oncet.” I had nob 
been on a long snowshoe trip for two years. 
I was called to Berlin, N. H., on Feb. 8, and 
took snowshoes along in case a good chance 
should offer for a trip. 
On the morning of Feb. 9 my client was not 
accessible, and at half-past nine I concluded to 
take a trip up Mount Washington over the Toll- 
Road from Glen House. This is the road that 
the automobilists have given up as too danger¬ 
ous for racing in summer. I had no idea of 
going to the top. 
With just time to slip a cake of chocolate and 
a whiskey flask in my pocket, I caught an 
electric for Gorham, hired a fur coat, a horse 
and sleigh, and at 10:30 I was off on an 8-mile 
drive through Carter Notch, over the finest sort 
of sleighing. About half way over, Mt. Wash¬ 
ington swung into view, tree-clad half way to the 
summit and above clear white and dazzling in 
the morning sun. The outline d»f the road could 
be distinctly traced along the northerly slopes. 
The thermometer was then about zero. 
The Glen House was fortunately open for a 
party of Appalachians, so I left my horse and 
overcoat and started from the toll house at 
noon; to be exact (and truthful), at 11:55. 
No true sportsman loses an opportunity to 
describe his outfit. Mine was exactly what I 
wear in my law office—woolen underclothes, 
madras shirt, starched collar and tie, cheviot 
coat and waistcoat, worsted trousers, cotton 
socks, black calf shoes, arctic over-shoes, woolen 
cap and street tan gloves. I had a pair of heavy 
buck gloves, fur-lined, in my pocket, but I 
didn’t wear them at all. 
My snowshoes I had never worn. They had 
just come from Dunham, of Norway, Maine, 
who outfitted Peary, and I knew they were good. 
I put them on at the toll house and started. It 
was then 11:55. 
