520 
FOREST AND STREAM 
September, 1918 
I’m some walker, but I don’t pretend to 
compete with legs as long as Jock’s 
I took occasion to give that fool-hen a 
fatherly talk which I hope did her gopd 
Jock’s foot skidded and slowly but sure¬ 
ly we started to topple over backward 
A DAY’S LARK AT DINGY BROOK LICK 
“NEWT” NEWKIRK SPENDS A SCOTCH SABBATH IN THE WILDS OF NEW BRUNSWICK 
AND EXPERIENCES THE CHARM AND UNCERTAINTY OF HUNTING WITH A CAMERA 
I T stacked up to me like a quiet Sunday 
at Ogilvy Brothers’ Camps on the To- 
bique River, Oxbow, N. B. 
As I sat on the front piazza pulling away 
at my asthmatic and indigent briar pipe an 
old he-sea-salmon that would weight 15 
or 20 pounds, leaped laughingly out of the 
home pool right in front of camp, threw 
a saucy summersault and splashed back 
joyously. I was teetering away on a chair 
when this happened and it gave me such 
a start that I went over backward and 
like to have swallered my pipe! Gee, how 
my fingers itched to grab my rod, holler 
for a guide and get out on the pool in a 
canoe to lay a fly over that noble fish! 
But it wasn’t any use—there is no Sunday 
salmon fishing on the Tobique. It is 
against the law. You are not allowed to 
fish for salmon even if you don’t catch 
any. I s’pose that’s why this old bull- 
salmon came out of the pool and winked 
one eye at me before he flopped back. 
Just then Jock Ogilvy, my guide, came 
around the corner. “Did you see that 
salmon break a minute ago, Newt?” he 
asks. “Did I see him!” says I gloomily; 
“he did that high jump just for my special 
benefit—the mean, old fat rascal! It’s 
tough enough to have to sit here on the 
piazza unable to fish without being insulted 
in this manner! If he does that again I’m 
goin’ back in the woods to sit on a log and 
hate myself for the rest of the day.” Jock 
grinned, but I think he felt sorry for me, 
for presently he says, “Whaddye say we 
take a romp across to Dingy Brook lack 
to see the menagerie?” “I’m with you,” 
says I; “how far is it?” “Only five miles,” 
says Jock, “and a good trail.” “Well,” 
says I, “I’d walk seventeen miles to get 
away from these jumpin’ fish—if I don’t 
I’ll have nervous prostration before night.” 
“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” says 
Jock, and he beat it to put up our lunch. 
This Dingy Brook Lick proposition 
sounded good to me. I had been hearing 
a lot about it from the other guests who 
had been there and had watched numbers 
of moose and deer come into the Lick at¬ 
tracted by some saline quality in the water 
it contained. I raced to my room and got 
into my hiking togs, not forgetting my 
camera and a supply of films. I don’t pose 
as any crack-shot with a camera, but I gen- 
By NEWTON NEWKIRK 
erally lug one along when I go hunting or 
fishing because there are times when it 
comes in handy as a weapon of self-de¬ 
fense. But for lifelike photographs of 
monster fish I have caught and big game 
animals I have bagged my best friends 
wouldn’t believe these achievements. But 
when they are confronted with a picture 
of me nonchalantly holding out a huge fish 
(close to the lens of the camera) or sitting 
bravely astride a mammoth defunct bull 
moose which I have brought low with my 
trusty rifle (when the animal was viciously 
charging me, perhaps) these sceptics cease 
to scoff and begin to look on me with awe 
and admiration. It also occurred to me 
that if I should get some snap-shots of 
big game animals at close range I would 
have them enlarged and present them with 
my compliments to the Smithsonian Insti¬ 
tution at Washington, D. C. 
J OCK and I crossed the Tobique in front 
of camp, leaving the canoe on the op¬ 
posite side, then we struck into the 
woods, following an old tote road up a 
gentle grade. Jock Ogilvy has the longest 
leg-stretch for his height of anybody I 
know. He took the lead and, believe me, 
the pace he set was something fierce. I 
had to trot to keep up to him and before 
we’d gone half a mile my tongue was hang- 
in’ out, my breath was cornin’ in quick, 
short pants and I was perspirin’ very 
freely. Then I wished I hadn’t told Jock 
the day before, when we were out fishing, 
what a son-of-a-gun of a walker I was. 
Naturally I didn’t like to ask him to go 
slower. Finally Jock stops, turns around 
and asks, “Am I goin’ fast enough for you, 
Newt?” Soon as I could get my breath 
I says, “Why, yes, Jock, you’re movin’ 
along plenty fast enough for me. Course 
if I was in a hurry I’d ask you to speed 
fipl but I’m not—this is a pleasure trip, 
you understand, not a footrace—let’s sit 
down and have a smoke—wot are you 
laffin’ at?” “I’m not laffin’,” says Jock in¬ 
nocently, trying to straighten up his face. 
After we filled our pipes Jock tried to draw 
me out on my ability as a hiker, but I tact¬ 
fully changed the subject—no matter.how 
accomplished a man may be in any direc¬ 
tion I dislike to hear him brag about it. 
When we proceeded Jock went at a 
slower pace, but still it was plenty swift 
enough, especially after we left the tote- 
road and struck into the uncharted woods. 
Jock said it was only five miles to the Lick, 
but he was speaking of New Brunswick 
miles. A N. B. mile is about a mile and 
a half longer than a U. S. mile, so if you 
are good at mental arithmetic you can fig¬ 
ure out how far we had to hoof it. 
As we jogged along I nearly stepped on 
a plump spruce partridge, alias “fool-hen.” 
She flew to a limb about 15 feet from the , 
ground and sat there rubbering down at 
us. A fool-hen (as her name implies) 
hasn’t enough sense to come in out of the 
rain. The law of self-preservation doesn’t 
apply to her at all—she will almost stand 
still enough to let you put salt on her tail. 
“Jevver fish for a spruce partridge, Newt?” 
asks Jock. “No,” says I; “wot kind of 
bait do you use?” For answer Jock 
whipped out his belt knife and cut a long 
pole which he trimmed. On the small end 
of this he tied a rawhide shoelace and 
made a running noose in it. Then he care¬ 
fully raised the pole until the noose hung ( 
right in front of Mrs. Partridge’s face, 
and I’ll be jiggered if she didn’t stick her 
fool head right thru it. Jock tightened 
the noose and lifted her bodily off the limb 
by the neck. I unloosed her quickly and 
smoothed her ruffled feathers for her. She 
soon quieted down under my caresses and 
I gave her a severe lecture on the idiocy 
of not using the half spoonful of brains 
which Nature had bestowed upon her. I 
told her that strange gentlemen in the 
woods were not to be trusted as a rule and 
she might thank her lucky stars that I had 
a kind and loving heart. Then I set her 
on a limb and we went our way. When 
I looked back the foolish old lady had 
hopped to the ground and was walking 
after us! “Newt, you made a big hit with 
the old girl,” says Jock. “Yes,” I says 
modestly, “I always was very popular 
among the ladies.” 
A BOUT a mile from the Lick we sud¬ 
denly came to the brink of a shallow 
but turbulent stream—Gulquac Brook. 
“How are we gonna get across?” says I 
curiously. “I’m gonna walk,” says Jock, 
“and you’re gonna ride—climb on.” With 
that he stooped in front of me and ordered 
