Camp and Trail
A Story of the Maine Woods
by Isabel Hornibrook
[Illustration]
TO
J.L.H.
[Illustration: The Moose Was Now Snorting Like a War-Horse Beneath]
Preface
In adding another to the list of stories bearing on that subject of
perennial interest to boys, adventures in camp and on trail among the
woods and lakes of Northern Maine, one thought has been the inspiration
that led me on.
It is this: To prove to high-mettled lads, American, and English as
well, that forest quarters, to be the most jovial quarters on earth,
need not be made a shambles. Sensation may reach its finest pitch,
excitement be an unfailing fillip, and fun the leaven which leavens the
camping-trip from start to finish, even though the triumph of killing
for triumph’s sake be left out of the play-bill.
“There is a higher sport in preservation than in destruction,” says a
veteran hunter, whose forest experiences and descriptions have in part
enriched this story. I commend the opinion to boy-readers, trusting
that they may become “queer specimen sportsmen,” after the pattern of
Cyrus Garst; and find a more entrancing excitement in studying the live
wild things of the forest than in gloating over a dying tremor, or
examining a senseless mass of horn, hide, and hoofs, after the
life-spring which worked the mechanism has been stilled forever.
One other desire has trodden on the heels of the first: That Young
England and Young America may be inspired with a wish to understand
each other better, to take each other frankly and simply for the
manhood in each; and that thus misconception and prejudice may
disappear like mists of an old-day dream.
ISABEL HORNIBROOK.
Contents
Chapter I. Jacking For Deer
Chapter II. A Spill-Out
Chapter III. Life in a Bark Hut
Chapter IV. Whither Bound?
Chapter V. A Coon Hunt
Chapter VI. After Black Ducks
Chapter VII. A Forest Guide-Post
Chapter VIII. Another Camp
Chapter IX. A Sunday Among the Pines
Chapter X. Forward All!
Chapter XI. Beaver Works
Chapter XII. “Go It, Old Bruin!”
Chapter XIII. “The Skin Is Yours.”
Chapter XIV. A Lucky Hunter
Chapter XV. A Fallen King
Chapter XVI. Moose-Calling
Chapter XVII. Herb’s Yarns
Chapter XVIII. To Lonelier Wilds
Chapter XIX. Treed By a Moose
Chapter XX. Triumph
Chapter XXI. On Katahdin
Chapter XXII. The Old Home-Camp
Chapter XXIII. Brother's Work
Chapter XXIV. “Keeping Things Even”
Chapter XXV. A Little Caribou Quarrel
Chapter XXVI. Doc Again
Chapter XXVII. Christmas on the Other Side
List Of Illustrations
The Moose Was Now Snorting Like A War-Horse Beneath.
“There Is Moosehead Lake.”
Dol Sights A Friendly Camp.
In The Shadow Of Katahdin.
“Go It, Old Bruin! Go It While You Can!”
“Herb Heal.”
A Fallen King.
The Camp On Millinokett Lake.
“Herb Charged Through The Choking Dust-Clouds.”
Greenville,—“Farewell To The Woods.”
Camp And Trail
[Illustration]
Chapter I. Jacking For Deer
“Now, Neal Farrar, you’ve got to be as still as the night itself,
remember. If you bounce, or turn, or draw a long breath, you won’t have
a rag of reputation as a deer-hunter to take back to England. Sneeze
once, and we’re done for. That means more diet of flapjacks and pork,
instead of venison steaks. And I guess your city appetite won’t rally
to pork much longer, even in the wilds.”
Neal Farrar sighed as if there was something in that.
“But, you know, it’s just when an unlucky fellow would give his life
not to sneeze that he’s sure to bring out a thumping big one,” he said
plaintively.
“Well, keep it back like a hero if your head bursts in the attempt,”
was the reply with a muffled laugh. “When you know that the canoe is
gliding along somehow, but you can’t hear a sound or feel a motion, and
you begin to wonder whether you’re in the air or on water, flying or
floating, imagine that you’re the ghost of some old Indian hunter who
used to jack for deer on Squaw Pond, and be stonily silent.”
“Oh! I say, stop chaffing,” whispered Neal impetuously. “You’re enough
to make a fellow feel creepy before ever he starts. I could bear the
worst racket on earth better than a dead quiet.”
This dialogue was exchanged in low but excited voices between a young
man of about one and twenty, and a lad who was apparently five years
his junior, while they waded knee-deep in water among the long, rank
grasses and circular pads of water-lilies which border the banks of
Squaw Pond, a small lake in the forest region of northern Maine.
The hour was somewhere about eleven
o’clock. The night was intensely still, without a zephyr stirring among
the trees, and of that wavering darkness caused by a half-clouded moon.
On the black and green water close to the bank rocked a light
birch-bark canoe, a ticklish craft, which a puff might overturn. The
young man who had urged the necessity for silence was groping round it,
fumbling with the sharp bow, in which he fixed a short pole or
“jack-staff,” with some object—at present no one could discern what—on
top.
“There, I’ve got the jack rigged up!” he whispered presently. “Step in
now, Neal, and I’ll open it. Have you got your rifle at half-cock?
That’s right. Be careful. A fellow would need to have his hair parted
in the middle in a birch box like this. Remember, mum’s the word!”
The lad obeyed, seating himself as noiselessly as he could in the bow
of the canoe, and threw his rifle on his shoulder in a convenient
position for shooting, with a freedom which showed he was accustomed to
firearms.
At the same time his companion stepped into the canoe, having first
touched the dark object on the pole just over Neal’s head. Instantly
it changed into a brilliant, scintillating, silvery eye, which flashed
forward a stream of white light on a line with the pointed gun, cutting
the black face of the pond in twain as with a silver blade, and making
the leaves on shore glisten like oxidized coins.
The effect of this sudden illumination was so sudden and beautiful that
the boy for a minute or two held his rifle in unsteady hands while the
canoe glided out from the bank. An exclamation began in his throat
which ended in an indistinct gurgle. Remembering that he was pledged to
silence, he settled himself to be as wordless and motionless as if his
living body had become a statue.
From his position no revealing radiance fell on him. He sat in shadow
beside that glinting eye, which was really a good-sized lantern, fitted
at the back with a powerful silvered reflector, and in front with a
glass lens, the light being thrown directly ahead. It was provided also
with a sliding door that could be noiselessly slipped over the glass
with a touch, causing the blackness of a total eclipse.
This was the deer-hunters’ “jack-lamp,” familiarly called by Neal’s
companion the “jack.”
And now it may be readily guessed in what thrilling night-work these
canoe-men are engaged as they skim over Squaw Pond, with no swish of
paddle, nor jar of motion, nor even a noisy breath, disturbing the
brooding silence through which they glide. They are “jacking” or
“floating” for deer, showing the radiant eye of their silvery jack to
attract any antlered buck or graceful doe which may come forth from the
screen of the forest to drink at this quiet hour amid the tangled
grasses and lily-pads at the pond’s brink.
Now, a deer, be it buck, doe, or fawn in the spotted coat, will stand
as if moonstruck, if it hears no sound; to gaze at the lantern,
studying the meteor which has crossed its world as an astronomer might
investigate a rare, radiant comet. So it offers a steady mark for the
sportsman’s bullet, if he can glide near enough to discern its outline
and take aim. There is one exception to this rule. If the wary animal
has ever been startled by a shot fired from under the jack, trust him
never to watch a light again, though it shine like the Kohinoor.
As for Neal Farrar, this was his first attempt at playing the part of
midnight hunter; and I am bound to say that—being English
born and city bred—he found the situation much too mystifying for his
peace of mind.
He knew that the canoe was moving, moving rapidly; for giant pines
along the shore, looking solid and black as mourning pillars, shot by
him as if theirs were the motion, with an effect indescribably weird.
Now and again a gray pine stump, appearing, if the light struck it,
twice its real size, passed like a shimmering ghost. But he felt not
the slightest tremor of advance, heard no swish or ripple of paddle.
A moisture oozed from his skin, and gathered in heavy drips under the
brim of his hat, as he began to wonder whether the light bark skiff was
working through the water at all, or skimming in some unnatural way
above it. For the life of him he could not settle this doubt. And,
fearful of balking the expedition by a stir, he dared not turn his head
to investigate the doings of his comrade, Cyrus Garst.
Cyrus, though also city bred, was an American, and evidently an old
hand at the present business. The Maine wilds had long been his
playground. He had studied the knack of noiseless paddling under the
teaching of a skilled forest guide until he fairly brought it
to perfection. And, in perfection, it is about the most wizard-like art
practised in the nineteenth century.
The silent propulsion was managed thus: the grand master of the paddle
gripped its cross handle in both hands, working it so that its broad
blade cut the water first backward then forward so dexterously that not
even his own practised hearing could detect a sound; nor could he any
more than Neal feel a sensation of motion.
The birch-bark skiff skimmed onward as if borne on unseen pinions.
To Neal Farrar, who had been brought up amid the tumult of rival noises
and the practical surroundings of Manchester, England, who was a
stranger to the solitudes of primitive forests, and almost a stranger
to weird experiences, the silent advance was a mystery. And it began to
be a hateful one; for he had not even the poor explanation of it which
has been given in this record.
It was only his third night in Maine wilds; and I fear that his friend
Cyrus, when inviting him to join in the jacking excursion, had
refrained from explaining the canoe mystery, mischievously promising
himself considerable fun from the English lad’s bewilderment.
Neal’s hearing was strained to catch any sound of big game beating
about amid the bushes on shore or splashing in the water, but none
reached him. The night seemed to grow stiller, stiller, ever stiller,
as they glided towards the head of the pond, until the dead quiet
started strange, imaginary noises.
There was a pounding as of dull hammers in his ears, a belling in his
head, and a drumming at his heart.
He was tortured by a wild desire to yell his loudest, and defy the
brooding silence.
Another—a midnight watchman—broke it instead.
“Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!”
It was the thrilling scream of a big-eyed owl as he chased a squirrel
to its death, and proceeded to banquet in unwinking solemnity.
“Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!”
Neal started,—who wouldn’t?—and joggled the canoe, thereby nearly
ending the night hunt at once by the untimely discharge of his rifle.
He had barely regained some measure of steadiness, though he felt as if
needles were sticking into him all over, when at last there was a
crashing amid the bushes on the right bank, not a hundred yards
distant.
Noiselessly as ever the canoe shot around, turning the jack’s eye in
that direction. A minute later a magnificent buck, swinging his antlers
proudly, dashed into the pond, and stooped his small red tongue to
drink, licking in the water greedily with a soft, lapping sound.
Neal silently cocked his rifle, almost choking with excitement; then
paused for a few seconds to brace up and control the nervous terrors
which had possessed him, before his eye singled out the spot in the
deer’s neck which his bullet must pierce. But he found his operations
further delayed; for the animal suddenly lifted its head, scattered
feathery spray from its horns and hoofs, and retired a few steps up the
bank.
In its former position every part of its body was visibly outlined
under the silver light of the jack. Now a successful shot would be
difficult, though it might be managed. The boy leaned slightly forward,
trying to hold his gun dead straight and take cool aim, when the most
curious of all the curious sensations he had felt this night ran
through him, seeming to scorch like electricity from his scalp to his
feet.
From the stand which the deer had taken,
its body was in shadow. All that the sportsman could discern were two
living, glowing eyes, staring—so it appeared to him—straight into his,
like starry search-lights, as if they read the death-purpose in the
boy’s heart, and begged him to desist.
It was all over with Neal Farrar’s shot. He lowered his rifle, while
the speech, which could no longer be repressed, rattled in his throat
before it broke forth.
“I’ll go crazy if I don’t speak!” he cried.
At the first word the buck went scudding like the wind through the
forest, doubtless vowing by the shades of his ancestors that he never
would stand to gaze at a light again.
“And—and—I can’t shoot the thing while it’s looking at me like that!”
the boy blurted out.
“You dunderhead! What do you mean?” gasped Cyrus, breaking silence in a
gusty whisper of mingled anger and amusement. “You won’t get a chance
to shoot it or anything else now. You’ve lost us our meat for
to-night.”
“Well, I couldn’t help it,” Neal whispered back. “For pity’s sake, what
has been moving this canoe? The quiet was enough to set a fellow mad!
And then that buck stared
straight at me like a human thing. I could see nothing but two burning
eyes with white rings round them.”
“Stuff!” was the American’s answer. “He was gazing at the jack, not at
you. He couldn’t see an inch of you with that light just over your
head. But it would have been a hard shot anyhow, for his nose was
towards you, and ten to one you’d have made a clean miss.”
“Well,” he added, after five minutes of acute listening, “I guess we
may give over jacking for to-night. That first cry of yours was enough
to set a regiment of deer scampering. I’m only half mad after all at
your losing a chance at such a splendid buck. It was something to see
him as he stooped to drink in the glare of the jack, a midnight forest
picture such as one wants to remember. Long may he flourish! We
wouldn’t have started out to rid him of his glorious life if we weren’t
half-starved on flapjacks and ends of pork. Let’s get back to camp! I
guess you felt a few new sensations to-night, eh, Neal Farrar?”
[Illustration]