Marcu 17, 1906. ] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 

A MAINE LOG JAM. 
dance began, an immense crowd having gath- 
ered around in a great circle to see it. No one 
cared to go near the cans of forbidden food. 
As I remember it through all these years, the 
dance song was very different from any the 
Blackfeet sing, but the dance step, a forward 
spring on one foot and then the other, body 
slightly inclined forward, was like that of the 
Parted Hairs. Forth and back they danced, 
now to the right, again to the left, every little 
while circling completely around the fire and 
the cans, arms and hands extended, as if they 
were blessing the food. After dancing the 
circle there was a rest, during which a pipe was 
smoked, and then the dance was repeated. The 
performance lasted about an hour, and then the 
party removed the cans from the fire and pre- 
‘pared to feast on their contents. In less than 
two minutes the last Piegan had left the vicin- 
ity, some of the women badly nauseated at the 
thought of eating such proscribed food. 
After remaining with us a couple of days 
longer, the Crows prepared to depart, and 
many a present was given them for themselves 
and for their chiefs. They carried about ten 
pounds of tobacco asa token that the Piegans 
accepted their overtures of peace, also a hand- 
some black stone pipe, a present from Big 
Lake to their head chief. Then they were given 
a number of horses, fine blankets, parfleches of 
choice dried meat and skins of pemmican. 
Nat-ah’-ki had her little herd run in. “My 
horses are your horses,” she said to me. ‘‘Give 
Rock Eater that four-year-old black.” I did so. 
Then she got together some things for his 
mother—a new four-point blanket, a blue trade 
cloth dress, various paints and trinkets, and 
lastly a lot of food for the traveler. Rock 
Eater could hardly speak when he was leaving. 
Finally he managed to say, “These days here 
with you have been happy. I go from you, 
my good and generous relatives, only to meet 
you soon with my mother. She will cry with 
joy when she hears the words you send her 
and receives these fine presents.” And so they 
rode away across the bottom and over the ice- 
bound river, and we turned to our every-day 
affairs. WALTER B, ANDERSON, 
[TO BE CONTINUED. ] 
A Maine Log Jam. 
Boston, Mass.—Hditor Forest and Stream: 
Many moons ago—but not so many that it is for- 
gotten—we had a great “shindy.’ It was all 
along of the “red gods” of the poet Kipling. 
Some person—I have forgotten his name but not 
his enormity—took umbrage at that superb poem, 
“The Feet of the Young Men,’ and especially 
was his wrath excited by the lines: 
“Do you know the blackened timber—do you know that 
racing stream? 
With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end; 
And the bar of sun-warmed shingle, where a man may 
bask and dream, 
To the click of shod canoe-pole round the bend?’’ 
To the objector there wasn’t the least savor of 
truth or poetry in any of this. Log jams were 
never “raw” and never in any sense or by any 
possibility “right-angled.” A “bar of sun-warmed 
shingle’ was to him an absurd idea, and canoe 
poles were never, never “shod,” and to prove this 
last point he was to send out exploring parties to 
the ends of the earth—including the Amazon 
River—and other and even more remote resorts 
of men who pole canoes for a living, to bring 
back such incontestable proof as should confound 
the poetaster Kipling and all who professed to 
find pleasure in his misconceived and meretricious 
verse. 
Well, as you know, we had it out till editorial 
patience was exhausted or editorial sense of pro- 
portion prevailed and the discussion was called 
off. Your correspondents complied with the edi- 
torial rules despite the fact that interest to de- 
nounce or defend still ran high, and everybody 
seemed still to have shots in his magazine. 
But a few weeks ago you yourself made edi- 
torial reference to the subject, and apropos of a 
large and pleasant photograph of the log jam 
which you reproduced on your front page. 
Being away from home I did not chance to see 
it till recently. Instantly I remarked the fact 
that it represented a log jam with the “jam” ele- 
ment reduced to lowest terms, and that, though 
showing indeed traces of rawness and_ right- 
angledness, it was not by any means a typical 
log jam—one of the tumbled and piled-up and 
rip-roaring sort with which frequenters of driv- 
ing rivers are familiar and which Kipling had in 
mind when he wrote his lines. 
It was, as I recall it, mainly a jam produced in 
a quiet way, the logs coming down a compara- 
tively quiet stream, meeting some barrier and 
arranging themselves largely side by side and 
being stranded in that formation by the subsi- 
dence of the water. 
I send you two small photographs of a Maine 
log jam of the real “raw” and “right-angled” sort 
which I hope you may be willing to reproduce. 

“TUMBLED AND PILED UP.” 
I wish they were much larger but think a multi- 
tude of your readers will recognize their.char- 
acter as familiar to them, and that all will agree 
that right-angledness could not be better repre- 
sented. 
While I am about it let me inclose to you the 
call to the third annual dinner of the Ends of the 
Earth Club, of which most enjoyable organization 
of good fellows I have the honor to be a mem- 
ber. You will note the way in which the club 
honors the poet Kipling, and of all his poems 
this particular one, “The Feet of the Young Men,” 
in which the “red gods’ make their irresistible 
call. I am not sure that I have a right to ask its 
complete reproduction, but think it worthy of 
hoorable mention and feel sure that a legion of 
your readers would be found, upon test, to speak 
the language. C. H. AMEs. 
Unc’ Jim’s ’Speyunce. 
[It is a superstition among the older negroes around 
here, that if one sees a nighthawk (or ha’nt-bird, as they 
call it) sitting on a fence, and does not make it fly, some 
misfortune is sure to happen to him.] 
Seen a ha’nt-bird on de fence; 
Stidder scarin’ um offen hence— 
Some fool niggers got no sense! 
Luff um stay. 
Gwine home my ole mule slip, 
Trowed me ober her head kerflip! 
Bus’ mer nose, ’n’ cut mer lip, 
Dat same day. 
Nex’ day, mer gyarden gate onlatch; 
Hawgs git in mer tater patch— 
Mek um look ez ef Ole Scratch 
Hed bin dar. 
Went er huntin’ in de bawg— 
Saw er rabbit ’hind er lawg— 
Done shoot at um—killed mer dawg 
Stedder ole har’. 
Den, m’ ole ’oman—bone o’ mer bone— 
She tuk up wild Passon Jone— 
Went libbin’ wid him, ’n’ luff me alone— 
Mean ole rip! 
’N’ dat young huzzy—’ Mazen Grace— 
Wat I dun ’suade to took her place— 
Stay jest er week—den slap mer face— 
’N’ she done skip 
Den dat triflin? Cunnel Briggs— 
Jes’ caze I borrid one er his pigs, 
Ter holp mer save mer crap er figs, 
W’at wuz rottin’— $ 
He swore I stole um—den an’ dar— 
Hed me up before the Squar— 
Sent me ter jail fur mos’ a y’ar— 
Jes’ for nottin. 
Dass why I says it—pintedly— 
’F you see ha’nt-bird, ’n’ don’ mek um fly, 
Bad luck is er comin’ mighty nigh 
Somebuddy’s doo’, 
Er ef he holler in de night— 
Holler free times, ’n’ den stay quiet— 
Somebuddy gwine die ’fore mawnin’ light, 
Sartin sho’, 
LOUISIANA. He PRU: 
