A TRIP TO NEWFOUNDLAND
In the spring I had made all preparations for a trip to Newfoundland,
and arrived at North Sidney to take the steamer _Bruce_ for Port aux
Basques. Walking into the offices of the company upon the dock to make
arrangements for my passage, my attention was attracted to a little
group of men. I learned that the Government doctor was vaccinating every
passenger before allowing him to enter Newfoundland, because at this
time Sidney had an epidemic of smallpox. One of the officers shouted to
me: "Here you, going over? Bare your arm." I answered, "Not for me,"
knowing it would be useless to go into the woods with a punctured arm.
Just a little while before the boat cleared I slipped aboard, heard the
officer shout "Cast away!" and we were off for Port aux Basques.
The sea was rough and in the morning all the "landlubbers" were "pale
behind the gills." On landing, every person called upon the customs
officer to have his baggage cleared, and I was required to leave a
deposit of fifty dollars for the return of my Auto Graflex camera. The
train was scheduled to start in a few minutes, and all the passengers
were aboard waiting for more than an hour, wondering what was delaying
the start. Inquiry developed the fact that the trainmen were waiting for
the wind to subside before they would venture across the viaduct over a
swamp a few miles out. It seems that the train had been blown off the
track several times by a strong wind. We finally crossed in safety.
Among the passengers were several fishing parties, and they were
bubbling over with good fellowship in anticipation of the excellent
sport they were going to have in pursuit of their favorite pastime. I
believe every person should have a hobby of some kind to divert his mind
from his burdens and petty cares. A chance to do something that we like
fills us with pleasant thoughts, both in anticipation and realization.
Several of the fishermen returned on the same train with me; they looked
much better and were quite talkative about "whipping the stream," their
"wonderful casts," and the "big fellows" they didn't get. Their hearty
appearance confirmed my theory.
Passing through the country, as far as the eye could reach we looked out
over barrens covered with moss. Here and there a small body of blue
water, like a jewel, broke the monotony. Perhaps a solitary duck floated
peacefully on its glossy surface, waiting for the little brood soon to
appear. Away over yonder on the opposite shore of one of the lakes stood
a sentinel, the sandhill crane (_Grus mexicana_), knee-deep in the
water, sedate and motionless, waiting an opportunity to catch some
unsuspecting fish that might fortunately pass his way. The countless
herds of caribou had returned to the north and were scattered all
through the woodland hills, attending to their domestic duties. Towards
evening the fishing parties began to drop off, one by one, at Middle
Brook, Fischel's Brook, and Harry's River, all ideal streams for salmon
and trout. They seemed scarcely able to restrain themselves until the
morrow, when they could joint their rods, wade the crystal water, and
cast the Jock Scott or Silver Doctor into the riffles again and again in
anticipation of a strike.
Arriving at Bay of Islands in due time, we found it a very interesting
place, sloping gently up from the water's edge, with here and there a
two-story frame house on its few acres of clearing. The inhabitants live
almost wholly by fishing. Each had his own salmon net stretched out at
some little projection of rocks in the bay, for the salmon were just
beginning to run.
A guide employed, we made a trip up a long valley by the old "Twitchen"
road, used years ago and grown up with alder, fir, and balsam so as to
be almost closed; up the old caribou path, worn at some places three
feet deep in the moss and soft black mire by countless herds of caribou
that had passed beyond. To one looking backward before crossing over the
divide, as far as the eye could see extended the blue waters of the bay,
with the snow-capped mountains in the distance, and in the foreground
the park-like lowlands where the stately caribou roamed at will.
[Illustration: Bay of Islands]
[Illustration: Constructing a Raft]
[Illustration: One Took to the Woods]
Our objective point was a small lake nestled somewhere in the direction
we were going, among the pine, birch, and spruce, but on the way we
missed the location and got lost in the undertaking. My guide climbed a
tree in order to get a peep of the lake, but without success. While
wandering about we heard from afar the doleful "who, who, hum, hee" of
the loon. We had considerable difficulty determining the direction of
the sound, but finally made a bee-line for the lake. No sooner had we
put in an appearance than from a small grassy island in the middle of
the lake a dozen or more herring gulls (_Larus argentatus smithsonianus_)
rose into the air, uttering their distressed, plaintive cries as they
soared round and round. After getting a cup of tea and a bite to eat, we
cut down four or five old tree stubs, bone dry from years and years of
exposure to the elements. Lashing them together with redwood twisted
into a "gad" and propelling the impromptu raft with a pole, we landed
safely on the island. Our appearance startled from their island home
three little birds, whose whitish down was covered with irregular dusky
spots. In their excitement one took to the woods, and when requested to
pose for its picture displayed all the resentment and fierceness charged
to the American herring gulls. The others took to the water. I am almost
sure this was their first experience in the water, and how the little
flesh-covered palmated feet churned it in their desperate efforts to
lend the enchantment of distance to the view of their unwelcome
visitors. The colony had almost deserted its annual nesting-ground, but
here and there a tardy mother bird had not completed incubation, and the
little chicks were about due and calling to be released from their
prison. At the point of the island, just at the water-line, we found a
loon's nest (_Urinator imber_). Its two big olive-brown eggs (size 3.50"
× 2.25"), marked with dark brown spots, were lying on the bare, wet
ground, with a few rootlets scattered here and there. The old pair
floated gracefully on the surface of the water some three hundred yards
in the distance, without uttering a sound. What a contrast between the
gull and the loon in this respect,--the gulls soaring in the air above
us with great excitement and noise, the loons quiet and apparently
resting peacefully in the blue distance! The water in the lake was
higher than usual. A family of beaver (_Castor canadensis Kuhl_) had
dammed the entrance and had taken possession by building their home
close at hand. Occasionally from the fortifications came across the lake
a report almost as loud as a gun, the smack of the beaver's flat tail on
the water as he disappeared when alarmed by the intruders.
[Illustration: One of the Others]
After taking several photographs we boarded our raft, crossed over to
mainland, and returned homeward in the dead stillness of the evening.
Softly we make our way through the forest, our feet sinking deep into
the moss, turning over with our toes the evergreen oval-shaped leaves of
the trailing arbutus (_Epigæa repens_), exposing to the light of day the
beautiful delicate flower that loves sylvan seclusion. Again and again I
plucked a cluster which filled the air with a fragrant perfume that
mingled with the odor of the pine; then I thought of the lines,
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
[Illustration: Trailing Arbutus]
On the following day we took the train for the head of Deer Lake, some
thirty miles away. After leaving the train we pulled our boat across the
lake and pitched our tent on an island at the mouth of the Upper Humber
River. The day was beautiful, and the sun hot enough that the eggs of
the mosquito, deposited at dawn, were wigglers by noon. All day long the
black flies made our lives miserable, and as night approached the
"nippers" took their place. Our tent was brand-new and erected with the
most painstaking care, but we were unable to keep them out. We made
ourselves busy before retiring for the evening by killing everything in
sight, black flies, mosquitoes, and spiders, and then we tucked
ourselves away on the balsam fir bed for a night's rest. But no sooner
were we fixed nicely than the music began, and they seemed to come from
every direction, so the fight was renewed again and again until we had
exhausted ourselves and our "dope," and fell asleep from sheer
weariness. Their favorite point of attack seemed to be behind the ears,
and the singing still continued, adding considerably to the torment. In
the morning our brand-new tent looked like a slaughter house, all
blotched over with red, each mark indicating the death of one of the
vicious little pests.
[Illustration: Spotted Sandpiper's Nest]
The weather turned cold,--and how glad we were to find relief! After
breakfast we started out in search of anything of interest, and while
walking down the beach we noticed many little fine tracks on the sand;
three toes in front cleft to the base indicated immediately that the
maker belonged to the order of waders (_Limicolæ_), and was about the
size of the little spotted sandpiper (_Actitis macularia_), which
builds its nest just along the edge of sparsely-clustered bushes. Taking
the trail, we followed, scanning carefully every likely place, and when
we were within a few feet of her the little hen bird left in great
excitement, twittering and flapping her wings as she fluttered along the
ground, evidently trying to feign a crippled condition to draw our
attention from the nest. This was built on the sand; just a very
shallow hole and a few small sticks and pieces of bark; the four little
cream-colored eggs with their liver-colored spots rested in the center
of the nest, with a bunch of green leaves for the background.
[Illustration: Merganser's Nest]
Going a little farther down the beach we found the footprints of another
bird on the sands. The trail was scarcely deeper, but quite different.
At first sight we recognized the track as made by a member of the order
of swimmers (_Lamellirostres_), for the full palmated feet left their
plain imprint, with the three toes pressed a little deeper in the sand
than was the web, and with the lobate toe leaving its delicate touch. We
followed the trail to a large white birch which was partly undermined by
the spring freshet, leaving its mass of roots hanging down to the sand.
Getting down on my knees and looking closely I saw a few feathers, and
by a long and careful straining of the eye could make out the mother
bird on the nest. She was so well concealed it was absolutely impossible
to get a photograph of her in occupation of the nest, so we proceeded to
pull some of the roots away and even touched her in doing so; still she
did not move from her position; but before we got the picture she left
the nest with a "quack, quack," her neck extended and wings beating the
sand. The nest belonged to a family of red-breasted mergansers
(_Merganser serrator_), and contained seven plain cream-colored eggs
(size 2.50" × 1.70"); it was built of a few small sticks and lined with
down from the breast of the duck. We visited the nest several times
afterwards, but believe it was abandoned. At the upper end of the island
we pitched our tent, possibly half a mile from the nest, intending to
make a midnight visit for the purpose of getting a flash-light picture
if possible. Before evening the birds could be seen a long way off
taking in the situation from the distance, but as the evening approached
they drew nearer and nearer and then darkness enshrouded the landscape.
Although we could not see their flight over our tent, we could
frequently hear the whirr of their wings long into the night as they
passed up and down, frightened and unable to settle peacefully under the
roots of the old birch. The instinct for the protection of her young is
very strongly developed in the merganser, and she will resort to every
possible ruse to conceal them, coaxing them into good cover, and, when
once they are concealed, leading you away in another direction.
[Illustration: Nest of Wilson's Thrush]
In the early dawn, when the dew was glistening on the vegetation and
wild life was full of activity, from underfoot glided a Wilson's thrush
(_Hylocichla fuscescens_). As I looked carefully in the direction whence
it came, a small opening in a clump of sticks and grass disclosed a
beautifully constructed nest of moss lined with rootlets and coarser
grass, embedded in a small hillock. In the nest were three delicate
greenish-blue eggs (0.90" × 0.65"). We spent a great deal of time making
the acquaintance of the mother bird, while the old man perched on a
distant limb, and at our approach seemed to give warning by calling
"chip, chip," so that, no matter how stealthily we drew near, the female
was aware of our approach and had left the nest before we were in sight.
That she had only just gone was apparent from the warmth of the eggs. We
visited the nest many times until finally she became very tame.
What a contrast to the nervous, excited titlark which had built its nest
on the ground near a stump! The more we visited the nest of the latter
the wilder she became, and after many attempts to photograph her we had
to give up in despair. By the time evening came we were quite well
acquainted, and when night set in we tried to take a flash-light picture
of the thrush, using an electric lamp to attract attention until the
flash went off. The instant of the flash she would glide gently out of
the nest, to return again in a few minutes after we left. We made the
attempt many times, and finally she became so accustomed to it that she
would not leave the nest when the flash went off.
The following day we heard a whistling noise overhead,--a female
American golden-eye (_Glaucionetta clangula americana_) was in full
flight, disturbing the air with her laboring short wings. Away over
yonder in a burned clearing stood an old birch tree stump, gaunt and
white with the constant beating of the weather against it. Some thirty
feet from the ground was a large hole in the stump, and as the duck
passed by we noticed that she hesitated as though about to enter, but at
the same instant she must have seen us, for she continued her vigorous
flight up the river as far as we could see. We decided she had her nest
in the old tree-top, and by concealing ourselves, gave her to believe we
had gone. In a short time we saw the duck return and pitch into the
hole. When she was once in her protected home it was impossible to get
her out. We hammered the tree with stones and logs and threw many stones
into the opening; in fact, we did everything we could to make her come
out, but to no avail. We then cut two long trees and leaned them against
the top of the stump, and my guide proceeded to make rungs by binding
rope around them until he had a fairly good ladder to the top. Then he
climbed up and looked into the hole, but could not see the duck; she had
built her nest in the hollow branch and not in the main trunk. The old
stump began to sway from a breeze that sprang up, so the guide became
nervous and hastened down for fear it would fall. Taking his ax he
decided to cut the tree down, but when he was half way through I
persuaded him that the mother and young would be killed by the fall, and
at my suggestion he let the old stump stand.
[Illustration: Learning to Swim]
Several days later the young were transported to the water by the old
ducks, and about the time the last duckling was placed on the water, we
arrived on the scene.[2] It was very interesting to see them trying to
dive; they were only able to stick their heads under the water, exposing
their white under tail-coverts. As our little boat advanced quietly over
the water, the mother bird, in her excited efforts to get them
concealed, swam now this way, now that way, and made many attempts at
turning into an apparent shelter, only to come out again. After many
such zig-zag efforts she decided to take to the open water with her
brood. In the meantime we were approaching nearer and nearer and when
we separated them the mother disappeared in the direction of the open
lake and the ducklings were forced towards the sandy beach. Thus
separated we were able to guide them up and down the shore according to
our liking, being careful to keep them along the sandy beach where they
could not find any cover to conceal themselves. We followed them for
several hours.
[Footnote 2: Some authorities say that the mother duck carries the
young to the water in her bill. Whether this or some other means is
adopted, seems to be as yet a mooted question.]
[Illustration: Out for Themselves]
[Illustration: Learning to Walk]
This little family had not received many lessons in the way of providing
for itself, and when we cut the ducklings off from their mother, fear
was uppermost in all their actions. The instinct of fear gradually left
them and in its place the instinct of hunger evidently gained the
ascendancy. In the beginning they would swim and paddle over the water
in great alarm, calling with a faint "quack, quack," trying to dive and
distance their pursuers. Occasionally they would walk a little on the
shore and then take to the water again. We followed them up and down
until they finally seemed to pay little attention to us, and how
interesting it was to watch them diving in the water for bugs and
minnows to satisfy their hunger! Several times we saw them bring their
prey, small minnows or mollusca, to the surface and swallow it. When we
first met in the morning they could scarcely dive under the surface of
the water. In the afternoon they would disappear for quite a while at a
time, and as each in turn would appear and disappear they kept us
guessing as to the duration and depth of their dives. Thus we left them.
[Illustration: Reflections]
As we floated leisurely along, the trees skirting the edge of the forest
cast upon the surface of the lake their long reflections of green,
mingled with the red, blue, and purple of the sun's rays. We heard the
harsh notes of the kingfisher (_Ceryle alcyon_) as it skimmed gracefully
over the water and, ascending with a quick movement, perched on an old
dead limb. With the field-glasses could be distinctly seen her belted
markings of white, her ashy blue and rufous color, and her elevated
occipital crest. She remained for some time motionless, according to her
characteristic habit, when like a flash, with a rapid movement of her
long, pointed wings, she made a plunge, disappeared for an instant, and
then with a small fish made a graceful flight to her sylvan retreat.
Here she delights to build her nest in a perpendicular bank washed at
the base by a swift current, a protection from intruders. Quietly the
canoe entered the mouth of a little creek and at an abrupt bend there
was almost a collision between the man in the boat and the kingfisher
returning to its home. With a series of rattles, backing of pedals, and
evolutions in the air, the frightened bird, naturally timid and of
secluded habits, hastened away.
The gnarled and picturesque old birch, with its smooth white-spotted
bark twisting and curling in every direction, covered with ages of moss
and lichen, spread its drooping limbs gracefully over the water. Among
the slender twigs, with their long-pointed, triangular, saw-toothed
leaves, were many redpolls (_Acanthis linaria_) feeding on the brown
buds, clinging in all conceivable positions, like boys picking cherries.
The day was hot, and late in the afternoon a warmer stratum of air
saturated with vapor was being driven up the mountain-side. We knew by
the uniform gray tint that a nimbus cloud was forming and we could
expect a heavy rain erelong. As we glided over the smooth water of the
lake, looking anxiously for a good temporary camp site, large drops of
rain, spreading a silvery spray over the surface as they struck it,
hastened our progress. Heading our craft direct for shore, the oarsman
plied the oars with full force, expecting to make a jump to beach as the
bow neared shore, but just about the time he straightened up the boat
struck a rock and away he went, head first, over the duffel and into the
water. A hearty laugh, and we were tugging away at the boat, doing our
utmost to get out the tent and save harmless our bed and board.
Fortunately on the edge of the bank was a grassy spot large enough to
spread a small wall tent. Having our tent-poles with us, already cut,
we formed a crotch by tying ropes around the ends. The center pole was
thrown into the crotch, and while I steadied the frame Charley slashed
four pins out of young saplings, the four corners of the tent were
staked down, and in less time than it takes to write it we had a good
shelter for the outfit.
The rain was increasing while we rustled the outfit to cover. With the
woods appetite we hastened the frying pan onto the fire as the resinous
smoke curled in rings gracefully away from the tent, and by the time the
pan was hot and the solid chunks were aglow, speckled beauties, fresh
from the riffles, were curling and drawing, but the rain-drops, sizzling
and sputtering, marred their symmetry by making them stick to the pan.
In the meantime the forked pole was punched into the soft soil until it
leaned at an angle above the fire, and the coffee-pot was soon boiling
over, adding its sweet aroma to the already fragrant atmosphere.
[Illustration: Radiant Splendor]
It was evident that the weather was clearing up. Looking toward the
purple foothills the air was rapidly taking up the vapor and mist, and
the sun peeped out from its concealment, illuminating the lake with
radiant splendor. We walked up the old lumber road, abandoned many years
and almost covered with underbrush, to a deserted cabin, with its
tumble-down roof and moss-grown sides. A small stream of pure, cold
water gurgled as it disappeared under a decayed and broken corduroy
bridge,--an ideal spot to cast for trout. A little beyond, the jack
pines towered their heads high in the air, each vying with the other for
supremacy over the light and sun. Close by stood a beautiful birch,
which, after the manner of those who wear a band of black crape around
the arm in respect for the memory of some dear one, wore a band of crape
encircling its very trunk, in token of its own premature death. The work
of a novice or the spirit of destruction was plainly evident, for the
living cambium had been destroyed and pulled off with the bark. The
wilful destruction of trees casts a sadness over me when I think how
easy it is in a few moments to destroy that which it has taken the wise
Creator years to develop. No wonder the spirit of conservation is
spreading over the country!
A short cut through the woods disclosed timber in every stage of decay,
from the tall, stately birch, frayed at the very top, like a bald-headed
man, to the giant lying prostrate on the ground, uprooted by the wind
years before and covered with moss and decaying leaves. As you step upon
the moss, down you go to your knees into the rotten trunk, and it seems
to say, "Dust thou art, to dust thou shalt return."
When we arrived at camp several Canada jays (_Perisoreus canadensis_)
were in evidence, examining every nook and corner and exercising their
well-known powerful instinct in this respect; in fact, their curiosity
is so overpowering that they have no fear of man and in a short time
become very tame. They are well-known camp robbers, and carry away
everything that strikes their fancy. In this instance they were busy
toting away into an old tree-top remnants of trout, both cooked and
uncooked.
[Illustration: Whiskey Jack]
[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of the White-Throated Sparrow]
Towards evening, a dead stillness pervaded the air, broken occasionally
by the "hoot, hoot" of an owl and the sharp smack of the beaver's tail
on the water as he was disturbed in his night prowlings. Through the
stillness came to us the sweet notes of the white-throated sparrow
(_Zonotrichia albicollis_) roosting among the fragrant boughs of the
balsam fir. His song may have been inspired by the changed and
refreshing atmosphere, or perhaps he was inquiring about the welfare of
his little mate as she brooded over her four wee brown-speckled eggs
carefully laid in the small arched house on a cushion of moss lined with
fine grass and rootlets.
Arranging our bed of balsam boughs, we were just about ready to blow out
the light, when my half-breed guide, who held the candle in his hand,
suggested that he offer up a little prayer. I assented to his desire and
he knelt on the boughs with the candle in his hand, while with face
upturned he remained silent in this suppliant attitude for some time.
The mellow light of the candle on his swarthy, upturned face, amidst the
quiet solemnity of the night, was very impressive and turned my earnest
thought to the higher things of life. It touched me very deeply. I
thought if this simple child of the forest had so much to be thankful
for, how much more we, a happy, prosperous people.
Just as the half-risen sun kissed the tips of the mountains, we pushed
our little craft from the shore. Gently the current caught the stern,
and like a magnet drew the boat towards the head of the Lower
Humber,--gently at first, but faster and faster as we neared the
rapids.
The woodman with his ax had been at work. Floating silently with the
current were two large tree-trunks felled by the ax of the lumberman.
The one, with grayish-brown bark, is known as the white spruce (_Picea
canadensis_), a tree until recently of no value, its foliage nasty
smelling, its wood soft and brittle. When burned it cracks and throws
off sparks that eat holes in the wearing apparel of the camper-out. The
other, with its white resinous bark, was the canoe birch (_Betula
papyrifera_), which has given pleasure to man from time immemorial, and
is used in so many ways by both Indian and white hunters. On the latter
three white gulls, with their mantles of black, were standing with heads
bowed, as though respectful mourners at the funeral of the noble birch
that was moving faster and faster towards the rapids. About the time the
log reached the brink of the boiling and seething waters the mourners
left it to its fate. The current tossed and pitched it in every
conceivable direction, and at last plunged it into the billows head-on,
where it disappeared, and after being lost to sight for some time
finally floated gracefully into an eddy not much the worse for wear and
tear, turning around like an animate being, while the little voices of
the forest seemed to unite in praise of their hero. The old spruce with
its soft substance appeared tattered and torn--"unwept, unhonored, and
unsung" by any except the new man--the pulp manufacturer.
At the head of the rapids we made a landing and walked through a
beautiful strip of woods to select a camping-site. When we reached the
foot of the rapids we found a place to our liking. I suggested to the
half-breed that while he prepared a dwelling-place I would go and shoot
the rapids with the boat. He positively refused to let me go, and in
fact would not allow me to get in the boat for fear we should capsize,
saying that several of those who had tried to run the river at this
point had lost their lives. When I saw our little craft float the rapids
like a duck and swing gracefully into the haven of safety, I naturally
felt relieved. We pitched our tent on a grassy bank above the water
where it surged back into an eddy, as though it was tired after its
swift and tumultuous passage over the bowlders, and longed to tarry for
a short time to enjoy the quiet and peaceful pool. We spent several days
in this locality, roaming among the spruce and pines. Under the secluded
spruce the bunchberries (_Cornus canadensis_) love to grow and blossom.
After the flowers fade, from the whorls come clusters of red berries
that, mingling with the moss, work out fantastic patterns on the
beautiful natural carpet.
[Illustration: Bunchberries]
Into the pool were brought many insects, larvæ, and frogs, which invited
schools of speckled trout to enjoy the quiet waters where we took
advantage of the natural haven for our little craft.
Toward evening a colony of tree swallows (_Tachycineta bicolor_) invaded
the surrounding valley, feeding on the numerous insects. As we watched
their flight the under white plumage looked like silver streaks. So
rapid were their movements that the wings were scarcely perceptible, and
when they skimmed the surface of the meadow and rose gracefully over the
willows below us, the beautiful cerulean of their upper plumage so
harmonized with the deep blue of a rainbow which spanned the heavens at
that moment, that the air seemed to shimmer and sparkle with light and
motion.
The tiger swallow-tail butterflies (_Papilio turnus_) were very
plentiful. The cook had thrown on the shore the heads and entrails of
fish and by some unknown method the butterflies were able to ascertain
its location. During the afternoon some twenty-four butterflies actually
collected around the refuse and with their antennæ sensed the
dainties--shall I say?--that seemed to appeal to their taste. When one
approached too close, all would take wing and the air was filled with
yellow fancies as they scattered in all directions. They soon returned
and seemed to bring their friends and neighbors with them, for at each
flush they were more numerous than before.
[Illustration: The "Steady"]
The Humber looked calm and peaceful in the big "steady." How serene and
beautiful the mountain appeared in Nature's mirror! How charmingly all
the natural colors were reproduced in the reflection on the placid lake!
Even the purple foothills displayed their beauty as they clung to the
weeping willows along the shore-line. Here and there the water was
broken occasionally by the jumping of the salmon and trout on the way to
the spawning-waters. The little brook, now full, came tossing, plunging,
and pitching with a great noise down the mountain, and at its mouth,
gracefully idling away the time, were thousands of trout jumping and
splashing in the spray, waiting to strike and dart away with any larvæ
or bug that was caught by the onrush of the water. Under such conditions
the angler could gather a rich harvest, for the trout takes the bait
just as soon as it touches the water, and darts away, making the line
"sizz" as it cuts through, breaking again and again until after a
desperate struggle he gives up to the inevitable and is landed safely in
the boat. Man is not the only creature familiar with this condition and
the feeding habits of the fish. At the mouth of every stream the
merganser loiters with her family to take toll; the kingfisher makes its
morning call along the route; the loon, swimming gracefully around the
projecting willows that quiver in the gentle current, disappears like a
flash, and another is added to the tally; the osprey soaring through the
air takes a dive beneath the surface and brings up one of the finny
tribe, then makes a true line to the top of the old dead tree stump,
where the young are waiting with stretched necks and open mouths to
receive their allotment.
[Illustration: Solitude]
While we anchored to an old snag that had drifted with the current into
an eddy, there appeared from the depths the head of a muskrat, moving
gracefully around in a semicircle and throwing off little wavelets that
broadened as they approached the shore. The cast of the fly frightened
His Majesty, and with a "whack" of his tail on the water he disappeared,
but erelong again came to the surface. What a contrast in the
disposition of the muskrat and its cousin, the beaver! The latter loves
solitude and builds its lodge in the most inaccessible places that can
be found in the fastness of the uninhabited mountains and along some
stream where the foot of man seldom treads. The other colonizes near
civilization in some old dam or waterway thrown up by man. Under the
protection of the law, beaver are becoming more plentiful, and
occasionally at the mouths of little creeks can be seen limbs of birch
and willow freshly peeled; if the winding course of the stream is
followed, you are sure to come upon a dam, lately completed by a pair
that have of their own accord left the old lodge to seek their fortune
in a new home. The dam is usually constructed first and then the lodge a
short distance above, and wonderful in the building of the dam and lodge
is the skill of this little animal, known as the King of the Rodents.
[Illustration: Breakfast Head on the Humber River]
A little way below, the waters separated around an acreage of island
that afforded protection for the homes of numerous gulls and fish ducks.
The undergrowth was very dense out to the edge of the perpendicular wall
rock. The mergansers constructed on the ledge their shallow nests
encircled with a ring of down. When approached they sailed gracefully
along a descending plain a hundred yards beyond, closed their wings,
skimmed elegantly over the water several yards and then floated about,
perfect pictures of grace, beauty, and ease combined. Seal Cove loomed
up in the distance with its two sides of perpendicular reddish
sandstone. The gently sloping water front was the breeding-ground for
quite a few harbor seals. They are naturally gregarious, and as we
approached them one by one they slid into the water. In a few seconds,
noiselessly a shiny black object resembling the head of a dog would come
in sight some distance away, and scarcely a ripple of the displaced
water marked the spot where the seal emerged. Again and again it
appeared and disappeared until a mere speck in the distance. Climbing
the rocks we saw remnants of numerous white woolly suits discarded by
the newly-born baby seals before they took to the water, where with
their brand-new spotted sealskin coats they could be seen sporting and
playing before the big bulging, affectionate eyes of the mother. Seals
love to spend a great deal of their time resting, sleeping, and sunning
themselves on the rocks. Their hearing is not very acute and they can be
approached easily by stalking. They are very tenacious of life and when
shot must be killed instantly or they will slide into the water and
disappear. My Indian guide shot a large bull around the region of the
heart, and it would have reached the water although mortally wounded if
the Indian had not caught hold of its flippers and pulled back with all
his strength. All the time the bull was snapping viciously at him just
like a dog. The northern seal is much prized by the natives for its
economic value, its flesh, fat, and skin being in great demand. Seal
hunting in these waters has been a great industry for years. The
Newfoundlanders are a hardy race, and when hunting seal on the ice floes
must endure great privations.
While at Bay of Islands an old sailer came into port with a young man
aboard, penniless and very sick. He lived in the interior and the
captain was trying to raise money to send him on the train to his home.
The lad knew he was going to die and was anxious to reach home to make
amends to his old father and mother for seeking, against their wishes, a
life on the seas. Passengers contributed the money and sent word to the
captain, but before the train arrived the poor boy died.
The train pulled in, not in due time, but several hours late. The
conductor shouted "All aboard!" and as it slowly left the bay my
thoughts turned homeward. It is then I begin to feel anxious about the
folks at home and wonder if all is well.