228 
FOREST AND STREAM. 


; From Harpers’ Megazine. 
AN ODE TO A NOSE. 

H Nose! chief feature of the human face! 
To whom each varying visage justly owes 
Ite quaint excess of ugliness or grace, 
"Tis meet to give thee prominence and place, 
And make thee, too, the feature of my song; 
Oh, yes the feature of my song, oh Nose! 
Then tune thee, organ, though in senseless strain, 
Accompanying with alight catarrh, 
My wheezy Muse shall join the strange refrain, 
And blow the bellows for thy fa, sol, la. 
Alack, that in our first acquaintance, Nose, 
We should so readily have come to blows! 
I'll follow thee, my Nose, in blind reliance, 
As dauntless seamen track an unknown main— 
Bid the wild winds and angry waves defiance, 
With thee for compass, dial, index, vane; 
I'll mock when dire vicissitudes arise, 
With thee, my Pole star, aye before mine eyes. 
Thy ruby light beams forth like beacon blaze, 
Or heat of inward ‘‘crater” all aglow; 
Thou art a censor of the public ways, 
In whatsoever path thou chance to go. 
Thus Sheridan, chief of Wits and Beaux, 
Erst made a nosegay of his gay nose. 
He filched the subtle hue from ruddy wine. 
And robbed the mellow punch bowl of its bloom, 
Until at length his nose grew aquiline, 
Through being bent for want of beaker-room. 
A nasal bridge of such portentous size, 
Might well sustain a punch between the eyes. 
And yet indeed thon art a goodly Nose— 
No common snub or overgrown proboscis, 
But such a nose as everybody knows 
Is fitted for the functions of its office. 
Here, then, I pause; I’ve wasted words enough 
On one that seems acutely ‘‘up to snuff.” 
Oh most sagacious Nose! most potent Nose! 
When friends desert and bright presages fail; 
When life’s best hours are fraught with bitter woes, 
That fain would make the stoutest hearted quail; 
When naught transpires to succor or befriend. 
Thou art sure, my Nose to turn ap in the end. 
Thus words are vain to trumpet forth thy praise— 
One brazen note from that strange lute of thine, 
One of thy deep sternutatory brays, 
Would do thee justice more than pen of mine; 
Yet if my muse doth fail in aught to please, 
He fain will make my devoirs with his knees [sneeze]. 
CHARLES HALLOCK. 
ee 0 
> AUTUMN IN NOVA SCOTIA. 

NUMBER THREE. 
SR EES 
T was a cool gray morning, and our overcoats were un- 
common comfortable, as we rattled away from Purdy’s 
door in a strong wagon, driven by a young man who com- 
bined in one the offices of guide, driver, cook and general 
attendant. The roads were good, and our nag a most 
energetic roadster, doing well all the time, and putting 
forth tremendous speed up hill and down, when Nat, our 
above mentioned man, reached out and pulled the animal’s 
tail. It was a novel way of bringing out speed, but was as 
promptly effective as putling the throttle of a locomotive. 
Our way led by a brook, full of trout it was reported by 
Nat, and the view was limited on either hand by spruce clad 
hills. The clouds hung low, and the huge volumes of 
smoke from charcoal burnings soon mingled with them. 
The weather was not doing much, but had a sullen low 
lurid air that assisted its power to do just as it might happen 
to please. 
An hour’s drive brought us to Sutherland’s Pond, and 
soon we were out in the only boat on the pond. It was not 
all that one could wish. One end had been long under 
water and was as slippery as the way of the wicked. The 
other end was fine and dry, well seasoned in fact from ly- 
ing high and dry under the hot summer sun, so well season- 
ed that there was a want of intimacy between planks 
intended to be co-6perative, and it took a deal of old rope 
to so far compromise these breaches as to prevent fish from 
coming in upon us in a mode not provided for by Wal- 
tonian counsel. 
Huddled in the slippery end, hoping to keep the dry end 
in its more familiar element, the air, we essayed to throw 
our flies, sometimes did so, and as frequently threw our- 
selves into the bottom of the slimy boat. Our efforts were 
manly, but quite unappreciated; no fish rose. We tried fly 
after fly, and denounced the pond asa fraud. Nat drew 
breath between his assiduous bailing, and defended it.. Mr. 
so-and-so caught a basket full, as did Mr. so-and-so, En- 
couraged, we braced ourselves and did our duty, blamed 
the pond, and lost faith in Nathaniel. He said we should 
come in the spring, in June, when flies bite; but every one 
says ‘‘you must come in June,” and we did not want to go 
home and come again, nor were we quite resigned to re- 
main until leafy spring. 
Desparing of fly fishing we sent Nat for the despised 
earth worm, and sat wondering which would come first, 
rain from an impending cloud, or the subterranean worm, 
‘when the sun seemed to take compassion upon us, and gave 
2 look of encouragement through the rent clouds. A little 
air sprung up; it was mild and pleasant, while with line 
lying loose and fly hanging over the boat, six inches above 
the surface, your correspondent sat watching the play of a 
small fountain like leak that let the water in upon our feet. 
It was still not an entrancing moment; facts were very real, 
and rather in opposition, when a blessed little trout popped 
up and made most spirited efforts to catch the penda fly, 

even if he jumped into the boat for it. The little fellow 
failed after several ambitious leaps, but failed bravely, 
and his example aroused us. Nathaniel rejoined us and we 
drifted with the wind, casting on all sides with varied flies. 
The clouds lost their gloomy hue, and as the water grew 
brighter the fish rose, languidly at first, going back with 
only a swirl to show where they sought the fly, then with 
more eagerness, until their real spirit seemed to be aroused, 
and they took our flies, as Nat said, like June, and the click 
of the reels and the hiss of lines that followed the splendid 
dashes of the fish were music to our ears: 
One after another, one at a time, two at a time, the 
beauties came into the net until our baskets were taken off 
to ease our shoulders, so full that some fine fellows got 
their heads out, and wiggled clear of basket and boat. We 
could well spare them. From a selected few we lunched in 
the shelter of the woods, and after our drive homeward, a 
second hunger demanded trout for supper, while goodly 
portions went to Purdy’s neighbors and none of the deli- 
cate flesh was wasted. 
Before the open fire again, our host said we must go to 
Fountain Lake, and the next morning found us on our way, 
favored with one of the autumnal days when all the ele- 
ments of summer seem to combine in an effort to impress 
bright memories of the passing season. 
Purdy went up a short cut to join us and bring bur wagon 
home, as we were to remain in camp. After a few outly- 
ing clearings were passed, the road entered the unbroken 
forest, all fresh with dew, and adorned here and there with 
the first scarlet and golden leaves. We had hardly entered 
this shade when we met Purdy returning. He motioned us 
to halt, and called us to leave the wagon and join him. 
When we reached him he pointed to the soft mud in the 
roadway, and in it, clearly printed were the knuckle-like 
tracks of a large bear, and amoung them, often in the large 
tracks the little footprints of a cub that had trotted along 
after its dam. They had not been long gone, for the morn- 
ing dew was brushed off, and there was reason in Purdy’s 
saying that he did not wish to go on alone and unarmed. 
A she bear does not permit her cub to be hurried or wor- 
ried, and once raised a good deal of consecutive killing is 
called for to place her hors du combat. é 
A hunter needs reserve shots to feel justified in forcing a 
contest when a cub is about, and a cool hand must deliver 
them to arrest the brutes. 
We uncased our guns and leaving our noisy wagon be- 
hind, stole on with the faint hope of getting a shot at mad- 
am. The deep tracks were in the road for some three 
miles, but we saw nothing of her, or of her little follower. 
Where the outlet of Fountain Lake was crossed by a wide 
bridge bear tracks were all about, they evidently appreciat- 
ing both road and bridge as very convenient;.for the little 
infant Bruin’s ‘‘learning to walk.” 
Our camping ground was near the water, and not far 
from the road, in a fine dry hardwood fovest. 
A more beautiful pond than this need hardly be sought. 
Irregular in form, with bays and points that through all 
the day are charming in light and shade, with a great 
variety of rich foliage, evergreen and deciduous, surround- 
ing it, it was a place to linger near. Leaving the building 
of our camp to Nathaniel, we took our rods and went, out 
on araft built by Purdy, and no better craft was ever made 
for fly fishing. It was about twelve feet long, eigh:t wide, 
with a tight floor and plank sides. One could go about on 
it as ona dock, and when it was anchored all the radius 
of many yards could be covered with nothing to endanger 
the back cast. Parts of the lake were not deep, and through 
the clear water springs could be seen pushing up little 
circles of moving sand. These were in deep round pits, 
from five to thirty feet in diameter, and several feet deeper 
than the surrounding bottom. They were easily found by 
seeking circles clear of weeds, and a fly carefully cast over 
them rarely came in without one or more of the bright 
silver trout that characterize clear and sunlit waters. The 
trout were not large, few weighing over one pound, but for 
gameness and pluck, they were second to none. It was the 
perfection of fishing. As the raft drifted slowly about; the 
eye fell on nothing that suggested aught but undisturbed 
nature. None of the annoyances of summer were present, 
and from the rising of the mist that unveiled the lake at dawn 
until the last sunset glow faded away, and the moon came 
up from the tree tops—it was just such a scene of peace as 
men long for when the hurry and rush of modern life seem 
to overrun and distance life itself. Here we camped under 
fragrant balsam boughs, and watched the sparks from our 
camp fire rise among.the tree tops until they seemed to be- 
come stars, and the stars and their blue field hung nearer to 
us than they do when lamps glare, and ambitious roofs rise 
in monotnoous sky line. From this nest we arose at dawn—it 
is easy to rise at dawn when fresh air sleep gives rest with- 
out languor—and went to our trout at the lake. The mist 
hung’ over the water, but beyond it the pointed tree tops 
caught the early dawn; under the haze the lake was placid, 
stretching in perfect repose into the mystery of the white 
drifting cloud that opened in wreaths and each moment 
disclosed new beauties, and then coquettishly snatched them 
away only to reproduce them with more light and greater 
charms. Just before us, the only tangible point in the mist 
and its reflectiovs, a large male loon floated in his suit of 
slashed velvet, than which no more fit figure could have ap- 
peared, if summoned by the spirit of the place. 
He eyed us boldly, turned slowly to and fro, and then 
sank, leaving nothing to mark the water-line but the circles 
that widened from the spot. ’ 
From dawn to day, amid lake and forest, the transforma- 
tion scene is one of wonderful beauty, and when in autumn 
the early light falls upon the prismatic colors of the hard- 
wood foliage, there are lights and effects that pen and pencil 
can only recall to those. who know them—they cannot be 
presented. 
All these places so pleasantly remembered—now we are 
again far away from the Cobequid range—and tie lakes 
and streams we so enjoyed, are easily reached, and their 
pleasures can be shared by any ladies who are strong 
enough to dance a german, and we are sure the day is not 
far distant when many a fair dame will seek health and 
new interest in these rambles, and get in blue flannel more 
impressions of the beauties sown broadcast, than can ever 
be gained by drawing silken trains in parlors or garden 
paths. They will bring home the forest rose of health, and 
know a firmer step from climbing the ways that lead to the 
woodlands. 
Few of us but would go with more pleasure on our an- 
nual vagabondizing could part at least of our rambles be 
shared by wives and sisters, and there are few places where 
so much of wild life can be approached and enjoyed by 
ladies as in many of the resorts of Nova Scotia. The people 
are kind and friendly; at the farm house inns more com- 
forts are obtainable than in any corresponding places we 
have found in extended journeys. 
Expenses are very moderate, and the disposition to get 
the traveler’s bottom dollar is not yet evident. 
It will be many years before the sports of Nova Scotia 
will be exhausted, and may we wish that the best favors 
may fall to the rifles and rods of the readers of the Forust 
AND STREAM. L W.rk: 
$—$ + 
HEDGE HOG vs PORCUPINE. 


EpIToR ForE*T AND STREAM :— 
In number thirteen of your paper appeared a very in- 
teresting article on ‘‘Hedge-hog Shooting.” Now I write 
for information, I want to know whether I am right or 
Mr. Hersey in regard to the animal. Have we strictly 
speaking a hedge-hog among us? That is, is it indigenous 
to this country? In my travels I have never seen one. 
We have the white Canada porcupine (the common name 
Rodentia comprising the genus Hreshizou family Hystricidae 
F. Cuv. # dorsatus) in abundance throughout all our north- 
ern wooded region. * 
And where is Ossipee Mountain? There is a lake I 
believe by that name somewhere in the southwestern part 
of Maine. Was that the scene of his sport? 
His description of the habits of, and the locality where 
he found his animal, corresponds to a certain extent with 
my own experience with the other hog, the porcupine. 
In the old country there is, and they may have perhaps 
down South the Hrinaceus, the little fellow (he only measures 
about ten inches) that when danger threatens rolls himself 
into a round compact ball, presenting his needlelike weap- 
ons in all directions to his enemy. The porcupine, a very 
sluggish animal is too clumsy for that movement, though 
they do sometimes thrust their heads into a hole or against 
a tree, presenting only their posterior extremities with flat 
bristling tails ready to slap a score of their screw-like 
spears into the face and eyes of their assailant. The hedge- 
hog feeds mostly on snails, slugs, mice, frogs &c., and 
sweet fruit when they can get it. He is also # hibernating 
animal, that is lays torpid in his warm nest during the 
winter. The porcupine will I think eat anything from a 
trapper’s old moccasin to an axe helve, and roams the 
woods (in his sluggish way) at all hours and all seasons. 
In winter they feed for the most part (when they can find 
them) on two trees alternately. Hemlock, Abies canadensis 
and the basswood or linden, Tiliacee Americana and their 
trail, a well beaten path from their hole in the rocks or hol- 
low tree or under a stump to these trees, can be easily 
found. They feed on one of these trees for several days in 
succession, and then try the other for perhaps the same 
length of time. And Ihave seen large hemlocks almost 
stripped of their twigs and smaller branches by a single 
animal. 
Of what earthly use they are I never could tell, only to 
the Indians who sometimes eat them (as they will eat any- 
thing, even an owl), and who do use the quills in large 
quantities in their ornaments. , 
We had an old Indian camped near us (too near rather) 
in the ‘‘Big Woods, Wis., and he certainly was the laziest 
rascal J ever saw. Though the deer were abundant that 
season he was always two constitutionally tired to hunt 
them, but would poke around and find a porcupine trail 
anytime, and it was said that he lived alone on these stink- 
ing animals, during the winter of 1856-7 having killed and 
eaten himself sixty of them. ; 
The porcupine is about two feet in length with a flattish 
tail of about seven or eight inches. He partakes largely of 
the worst characteristics of the hog family, being very un- 
clean in his nest or house. He gets very fat and very strong 
(whew! tremendous strong,) in the fall and sometimes reaches 
the weight of twenty pounds, and I do not know but 
more. 
I said stinking animal, for of all the awfullest smelling 
places, next to a he skunk, is a porcupine’s den after a win- 
ter through—faugh, I can smell them yet. 
: J ACOBSTAFF. 
—Most American travellers throw away much of their 
reading matter at their‘journey’s end. But in England, at 
each station, can be found a box fastened up, very similar 
to our letter boxes, but sometimes larger, into which the 
traveller puts his papers, books, &c. Those are in turn 
collected by men who carry them to hospitals, homes for 
old men and women, and similar institutions, where they 
are gladly reccived. 

