The Red Gods’ Call. 
What is it? “Something,” we say. That is 
all the answer to Jje given. For the rest it is 
as indefinable as our conscience. It is a some¬ 
thing, a dear, pagan something — delirious, 
ecstatic, vagrant, Bohemian. It is something 
that stirs within us, shakes the soul loose from 
its fetters of formality and environment and 
pulls the body away from desk or wicket. “Go 
out!” it cries, this strange something. “Be free; 
put your feet on the hills; put your heart in the 
wind once more, only once.” 
That is the way the call always comes—"only 
once more,” to the reluctant who have a night¬ 
mare of their day-book left behind. They will 
go this once, they say, and that will end it; for 
really they should not —business is business. 
And in their solitudes the red gods smile, for 
they know that now that the autumn has come 
it will be answered again. As sure as the 
sumach's flame goes smoldering over the 
ridges, as sure as the marshy reeds blacken be¬ 
fore bleak north blizzards, the call will draw 
them on. They cannot help it; it is a heritage. 
Up at his mantelpiece the city dweller looks. 
There is a monstrous moose head. The owner 
reads its eyes, feasts on its palmated antlers; 
through his mind the trophy tale is running. 
Why, he could go in the dark to where this 
monarch fell. Away out yonder where steel 
streaks thread through the firs, ’way out in 
God’s country, there is a jumping-off station, a 
Somewhere on the limits of Nowhere. There 
is a lake, a canoe, a shack and the wilderness. 
There, too, is a swarthy guide who wets a finger 
to find the wind, and who trails like a blood¬ 
hound. Oh ! he sees it all. The ridges and run¬ 
ways are plain as day. His feet are fevering 
for them; the red gods’ spell is on him and he 
cannot down the summons. Moreover, a thou¬ 
sand fellow hearts have felt it with him; to 
prince and vagabond it comes alike. In the 
rural districts rough fingers leave the plow 
handles. In them is a feeling that asks for a 
rifle barrel, and, like a thing of life, it thrills 
to their touch. To them the red gods have 
whispered also; and they go. 
This period of autumn lure has an atmos¬ 
phere wholly its own. At no other season does 
the waste offer such enchantment. Through the 
trees a great scarlet brush has whipped, leaving 
masterpieces of nature-staining in idle abandon 
which no art can approach. Mists in magic 
colors hang in the wake of exhilarating frosts; 
birch-smoke of pungent odor fills the air. These 
and a million others are the lures with which 
the red gods compel. They have an earth at 
hand, a wonderful world to attract and tantalize, 
to influence and persuade. How can the simple 
heart of man withstand them? 
Conquered, bound, they come to worship at 
the altar of the wild. From the quiet places 
they glide; out of the trammeled ways they pour. 
Whether it be to hear the whistle of mallard 
pinions down the wind or the tell-tale click of 
spread hoofs on a runway, they come—children 
of the place-of-many-dwellings, children of the 
solitary homes, old hearts, young hearts; ancient 
in woodcraft or ignorant of everything; wise in 
nature-worship or uninitiated in her mysteries— 
they come free, free, free, at the red gods’ call. 
S. A. White. 
Game in Northern New York. 
Berlin, N. Y., Sept. 17. — Editor Forest and 
Stream: The trout season, until the severe 
drouth during August, was an unusually good 
one. and the fish taken were above the average 
size. Four taken from the Little Hoosac weighed 
UNCLE HI. 
nine pounds, two of them being rainbow trout. 
During the past two weeks we have had heavy 
rains, and as 25 ,000 trout fry were put in the 
streams last spring, next year should be a ban¬ 
ner trout year in our valley. 
Gray squirrels, rabbits and partridges are 
abundant and Oct. 1 will see our local sports¬ 
men out on the mountains in full force. I have 
heard some objections to the law permitting the 
use of ferrets, but the majority seem to think 
the abundance of rabbits and their great fecun¬ 
dity is a good warrant for their use, and already 
our local papers contain advertisements of "fer¬ 
rets for sale.” 
September is the month between fishing and 
shooting, but it is not a blank month. While 
the mornings are decidedly cool, mid-day is un¬ 
pleasantly warm, and wild bee hunters are on 
the hillsides with their honey boxes, lining 
swarms. Our Western range abounds in bee 
trees, and one party brought in fifty pounds of 
honey from two trees last week. Sandy. 
Hunting with Uncle Hi. 
A series of letters written to relatives by a sportsman 
sojourning at a camp on the Grasse River in the North 
Woods. 
I.—INTRODUCING UNCLE HI AND HIS CAMP. 
We are here at last. Charlie and I had tramp¬ 
ed weary miles over the rough mountain road 
and the rougher mountain trails since we left 
the railroad. Our feet were tired and our packs 
were heavy. There was a gnawing sensation in 
our midst and we yearned for the end of our 
quest. The darkness of the early fall afternoon 
was falling and a drizzling rain added no buoy¬ 
ancy to our feelings. We struggled through the 
underbrush down one ridge and up over another. 
As we topped the rise we saw through the drip¬ 
ping foliage the flicker of a distant light, the 
harbinger of rest and warmth, and our burdened 
backs and lagging feet were instantly refreshed. 
We hurried into ft little clearing and, on the 
further edge, were able to discern the dim out¬ 
lines of the low log cabin from whose single 
window the unsteady light of a candle shone 
forth. From the chimney curled pungent white 
smoke and an occasional living spark that told 
of a comfortable wood fire. From the darkness 
beyond came the swish-lap of a running stream 
and on the mountain across the river a prowling 
fox gave tongue to his sharp bark. 
We knew the place. It was the cabin of Uncle 
Hi Hutchins, hunter, trapper and guide for near¬ 
ly a half century. As you already know, his 
roof is to be our shelter for weeks, with the hope 
and belief that the rough life accompaniment 
will cure, or, at least, neutralize, the ills of a 
strenuous city life that beset me. Flere you and 
Charlie conspired to isolate me, and so far your 
plans have not miscarried. 
As we approached the cabin we could hear the 
voice of a man pitched in a tone one employs 
while soothing a child. Twigs snapped under 
our feet and instantly a shadow passed the win¬ 
dow and the board door swung open. In the 
opening appeared an old man holding in his arms 
a great tiger cat. Peering into the darkness he 
called in the vernacular of the woods, “Who be 
ye?” 
We made our identity known in short order, 
as Charlie had camped and hunted with Uncle 
Hi on a previous occasion. 
“Come right in and make yerselves easy, an’ 
I'll bile the- kittle,” he said cordially. 
Tossing the surprised cat on to a deer skin 
in the corner, the old man poked the .fh' e andl 
placed the black kettle over the coals. After we 
had doffed our wet outer clothing and pulled our 
chairs in front of the glowing fire, we took an 
optica! inventory of Uncle Hi, while he fried 
the trout and brewed the tea. Grizzled he was 
and gray. His height was that of the average 
man and his square and muscular shoulders were 
slightly stooped. His bearded face was lighted 
by kindly blue eyes, but his firm lips and square 
jaw indicated that he was taciturn and a man of' 
determination. His brow was high and full and 
his head was well shaped. He moved about with 
the stride and step of an Indian, placing one 
