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. 
IT.—THE PLACE OF PLEASANT EXILE. 
I must tell you something about my place of 
pleasant exile, in order that you may, as far as 
possible, understand. Around us the dense 
forest stretches for miles—a forest of beech, 
birch, cherry, maple, balsam fir, pine, cedar, 
spruce, tamarack and poplar. Occasionally we 
find a balm-o’-Gilead tree of fragrant odor, and 
ash trees are not infrequently encountered on 
the slopes of the mountains. The undergrowth 
of witch-hopple, dogwood, scrub beech and 
maple is in places almost impassable. Along the 
streams the alders grow in tangled, impenetrable 
luxuriance. The mountains are precipitous and 
rocky and they seem to be lacking in range for¬ 
mation ; in fact, the topographical appearance of 
the country indicates that Providence tossed 
these great hills in the air and permitted them 
to drop helter-skelter. The ponds, rivers and 
brooks are in every direction and all are fed by 
springs and the drainage from the mountains. 
The major portions of the ponds are beautiful, 
fringed as they are by the deep green of the 
conifers, and often covered with lilypads; in 
brief, it is an ideal place for the creatures of 
the wild, for cover, food and water are ample. 
It is even a better place for weary humanity, 
sick at heart because of too intimate contact 
with people and man-made things. The game is 
in the woods, the trout throng the shaded streams, 
and good health lurks in every breath of the in¬ 
vigorating balsam-laden air. 
We are in the Grasse River valley, not far 
from the headwaters, and Uncle Hi’s camp is 
i,600 feet above tide water. All around us the 
mountains rise from 1,500 to 3,000 feet higher. 
To the north are several thousand acres of blue¬ 
berry marsh, dotted here and there with islands 
covered with poplar and tamarack. One of these 
islands is high and rocky and aggregates about 
800 or 900 acres. It is a mile and a half from 
Uncle Hi’s camp to Hardwood Island by trail, 
and five miles by river. And this river is a 
wonder. It doubles and twists and turns in its 
course through the marsh and forest. It is full 
of trout, especially in its swift water and at the 
deep and abrupt bends—trout that fight and churn 
and $end -electric thrills up the rod arm of the 
angler. 
For over a quarter of a century the stream 
has been fished much of the time for the 
market, but it still yields ample toll to him who 
penetrates to its shores. And what is true of 
the stream is also true of the forest that reaches 
east and west. Uncle Hi and others in years 
agone hunted and trapped for the market. Uncle 
Hi tells me he used to average $200 a month dur¬ 
ing the brief hunting and trapping seasons. The 
fur-bearing animals are now few, but there are 
deer a plenty, an occasional bear, and not a few 
foxes, ruffed grouse and ducks. I saw a solitary 
woodcock one day near the cabin and Charlie 
has already shot two yellow-legged plover. 
Within the radius of our hunting field are 
Burnt Bridge, Towline and Lilypad ponds. 
The former is the largest. It, like the river, is 
a wonder. Apparently it is not over two or three 
feet deep, but at its western end it is little more 
than floating mud. You can push a paddle into 
this mud as far as your arm will reach and still 
meet no resistance. Woe unto the man who 
falls overboard or capsizes in such a place. At 
the eastern end there is a hard sand beach and 
the water is as clear as crystal. Near the south¬ 
ern shore two great rocks rise out of the water, 
and on the apex of each are the nests of white 
gulls such as you see on the great lakes and 
along the seashore. In season the surface of the 
pond is covered with lilypads and is a great 
feeding ground for deer. From a rocky point 
on the north shore in mid afternoon we have 
seen thirty deer in the water at one time. It is 
devoid of fish, however. This pond’s outlet is 
one of the most beautiful streams I ever looked 
upon. Town-line Pond is small, has no outlet 
or inlet, and there are no fish in it. Its water 
is so soft and its bottom so hard that it is an 
ideal bathing place. Lilypad Pond is very small 
and is the home of the yellow and white pond 
lilies. Out of it flows a pretty stream whose 
waters are colored, hence it is aptly called 
Brandy Brook. 
The railway, half completed, is ten miles away. 
Occasionally across the mountains comes to our 
ears the faint shrill of the work train’s whistle, 
and we thus are reminded that human beings are 
not a great distance away — human beings who 
are striving to force an entrance into nature’s 
•sanctuary and transform it into a commercial 
proposition. However, we have seen no other 
human being than Uncle Hi since we left the 
mud hole in the woods designated as a railway 
station. We hope no one will intrude on us dur¬ 
ing our entire stay. That is a selfish wish, but 
our isolation is such a blessing, such a relief, 
that I cannot refrain from expressing the hope 
that it will continue. 
The man unused to the wilderness finds many 
things to astound him—wonderful things per¬ 
formed by nature. For instance, this morning 
I came on a rock about eight feet high and forty 
feet in circumference. On its top, growing 
thriftily, were a large beech tree and a small 
spruce tree. The roots of the beech extended 
over and down the sides of the rock into the 
ground, while the accumulated moss and humus 
on the rock seemed to be the only foothold of 
the little spruce. I saw several rocks thus 
strangely ornamented. Out on the trail toward 
the railway a large maple tree fell, and striking 
the upper branches of a young spruce tree bent 
the latter to the ground in the shape of a per¬ 
fect arch. The top of the spruce was imbedded 
in the ground and the little tree continues to 
grow and thrive even in its unusual position. I 
find that no matter how often I may go the same 
way in the woods I find something new. It is 
delightful as well as restful to direct one’s mind 
along' these new channels and to forget, for even 
a brief time, the problems of business. Some 
day you two shall come here with me and see all 
these wonders, and I promise you that it will 
be before the inevitable coming of destructive 
and sordid men. 
III.—A SERMON IN THE WOODS. 
Yesterday was our first Sunday in camp. Our 
larder was well supplied with venison and trout, 
and Charlie and I decided that we would refrain 
from fishing or hunting. Our decision met with 
the instant approval of Uncle Hi. 
“I never hunt er fish on a Sunday,” said the 
old man, ‘‘onless it is necessary to git eatables. 
’Tain’t ’cause I’m a church member, fer I ain’t 
joined up with no religion ’cept that of the 
woods. I’ve lived in this wilderness long enough 
to know its ways and teachin’s. It all tells me 
there is a God an’ I believe in Him. I try to 
live accordin’ to His rules an’ I know Sunday 
is His day. I do nothin’ to mar it fer Him, an’ 
so I don’t hunt er fish onless I’m hongry. I 
don’t believe He objects in times like that.” 
Here was an unlettered and untutored denizen 
of the wild, and we were interested to know the 
workings of his mind along religious lines. 
Hence we kept alive the conversation with the 
hope that he would reveal himself and his method 
of reasoning. We even questioned the substance 
of a number of religious beliefs in order that 
we might note the effect on the old woodsman. 
“Some men say that there is no God,” said 
Uncle LIi, in answer to our leading talk, “ ’cause 
there ain’t no proof. Well, there’s proof enough, 
only these fellows haven’t looked fer it. They’ve 
never been in the woods—the wilderness woods. 
I say that no man can live in the woods, boy 
an’ man, as I have, an’ study ’em as he would 
a book an’ not find proof there’s a God. Every¬ 
thing here, ef ye read it right, tells ye so. Noth¬ 
in’ jest happened in the wilderness. It was made 
so. 
“A preacher was in here -once. He came to 
git well from an overdose of teachin’ his flock. 
When he found out that I had been in the woods 
all my life an’ never went to church he felt that 
it was his plain duty to yank me from the jaws 
of the hot pit. He walloped me to a fare-ye-well 
about bein’ a heathen an’ warned me that I must 
be baptized er I would git a roast later that 
would be the last of me. Jee-mimy! What a 
turrible time he planned fer me! Well, after 
he’d got through with my smoking corpus he 
asked me what I thought. ‘I think,’ sez I, ‘that 
what ye don’t know about God would make a 
large liberry.’ He was shocked, he sez, by my 
remarks, but I stuck to it. ‘Ye don’t know a 
thing about God,’ I sez, ‘er ye wouldn’t tell me 
such turrible things about Him. I don’t, can’t 
and won’t believe He's a God of vengeance when 
this great and glorious earth that He has given 
us tells me that He’s a God of love. But, Par¬ 
son, there’s hope fer ye ef ye stay in the woods 
long enough.’ 
“Well, I had the Parson goin’, I tell ye. I 
think I made a better man of him, fer he did try 
to read the woods before he left. But let’s drop 
religion an’ take a walk. Ye boys have made 
me talk like a gabby ole man.” 
