DEER NECK.
The outfit of the little party was very simple. The Woodranger was
content with his faithful Danger thrown over his shoulder, and plenty
of ammunition. Of course the boys had been careful to take a good
supply of powder and ball. The Stark boys, at the urgent request of
their mother, had a bagful of bread and doughnuts, which she knew
would not come amiss. Johnny had strenuously opposed this, as he
considered it showed a weakness on the part of hunters. Each of them,
excepting the forester, carried a wolf-skin made into as small a roll
as possible, and fastened on their backs. Johnny had objected even to
this, but before their return he was glad to have heeded a mother’s
thoughtful interest.
They left the Falls by the main road leading to the centre of the
Scotch-Irish settlement, but upon reaching the few scattered homes of
these pioneers the Woodranger plunged boldly into the primeval forest,
stretching away in every direction farther than the eye could survey,
mile on mile of wildwood, broken only here and there by some small
clearing of an adventurous settler. Extending over such a vast area,
the forests covered mountain and hillside, valley and plain, margined
the banks of numerous ponds, or fringed with overhanging branches
innumerable silvery streams.
Norman, who had not seen as much of wildwood life as his companions,
felt a strange, awe-inspiring sensation on entering deeper and deeper
into the trackless and sunless region. The Woodranger showed that he
was in his true element, and it was not long before the exuberance of
spirit, welling up in his heart, as the fountain in the forest finds
an outlet for its overflowing treasures, sought an escape in his rude,
philosophical speech:
“Man is nearest human natur’ when alone with the works o’ his Creator.
I do not have to go to the haunts o’ man to find the imprint o’ his
hand. It is on the forest everywhere. What better evidence do you want
o’ man’s pride than in yon pine, which lifts its cap a good fifty
feet above the heads of its neighbours? What is more typical o’ man’s
aggressive natur’ than that oak, which claims, and holds too, double
the sarcuit o’ territory that even the proud pine possesses? In that
silver birch, growing by the bank o’ that leetle stream, is the very
personification o’ grace and beauty and modesty. See how the tiny
vines cling to it, as if it were their natural mother. I love the
birch best o’ all the wildwood trees. It may be there are more useful
ones, and I am mindful of the ash that makes a tolerable paddle, and
the poplar, better yet. There be many others better and more useful, I
allow, but still I love the birch.
“The other day, at the shooting-match, which was ’p’inted to take place
on sacred ground ’cording to my idee, I thought o’ the forests then.
To him who could ’a’ looked down on that mob there was only an uneven
flooring o’ heads, one looking very much like another. But underneath
were all kind o’ visages, and some were black with hate, and some were
white with rage; some wore peaceful looks, and some looks o’ trouble
and o’ fear. Everywhere was a spirit o’ rebellion and extermination
o’ the other. Some were men o’ intellect and eddication, stalwart o’
figure and handsome o’ feature; others were dwafted in body, stunted in
mind, and poor in the knowledge that comes from others’ experience. I
pity sich, and none more than myself.
“To him who stands on the mountain and looks down on the forest, the
sight presents a scene o’ many hues, but symmetrical and suggestful o’
quiet and repose. But below is a gnarled and tangled mass o’ drooping
branches, mossy trunks o’ fallen trees, stunted undergrowth stifling
for the sunlight o’ which it has been robbed, distorted limbs and
knotted roots that will thrust their forbidding bodies into sight, all
festooned, here and there, with draperies o’ ferns and vines reeking
with the cold sweat o’ their damp environments. Dead trees, like
spectres o’ departed greatness, thrust their skeleton arms mutely
toward the sunlight, while lean, starved trees eke out a miserable
existence beside more fortunate kindred, which have grown to undue
girth, just as some men fatten on their relations. An asthmatic beech,
a consumptive pine, a stunted birch live only at the mercy of some big
overbearing oak.
“So you see it is continual warfare among the trees,――a case o’ the
survival o’ the strongest, as it is among men. A hundred infant trees
have been dwarfed and suffocated by this giant pine, which, like some
big general, will stand lordly and grand until the silent axe o’ the
gray destroyer shall fell it to make room for another, which will grow
and fatten on its decaying carcass. Unnumbered seedlings spring each
season from the rich mould o’ them which have perished afore ’em, and
they, too, become food for the next generation. Not one in a thousand
survives in the struggle for the sunlight which means life to them, and
yet in the grand march o’ ages those few have made the innumerable host
surrounding us.
“I never see one o’ the Massachusetts men without thinking o’ the
tall, haughty, defiant pine, unbending to the strongest blasts, and
as changeless as the December sky on a moonlit night. The Scotch-Irish
remind me o’ the stubborn, aggressive oak, spreading out its branches
where it listeth, severe and fearless, but generous and hospitable to
those who find the way to its heart. The two clans o’ trees can never
live together, as many other species o’ the forest do.
“But forgive me, lads, for running off into this sarmon at the outset.
You must think me a pretty companion to let my foolish tongue lead me
sich a race. I fear me much my tongue is like a runaway brook, for
ever babbling o’ what it cannot in reason know. I often find myself
listening to its lectures, when there be none other to hear, unless the
trees have ears.”
“But your talk is always interesting. You have such new ideas.”
“As old as natur’, lad, as old as natur’.”
At this juncture, very much to the surprise of Norman, they came upon a
hard-beaten path, winding through the forest.
“It is an old Indian trail,” said the Woodranger, “and it leads down to
the shore o’ a pond, which we shall reach sooner than you now think.
Look! even now we ketch a glimmer o’ the water through the tree-tops.
You see that neck o’ land holding that leetle patch o’ earth out into
the pond by the throat? Weel, that is called Deer Neck. It was a
favourite drive for the red men, who delighted in chasing the deer down
here by the dozen, and, having cornered ’em, kill ’em off at their
pleasure.
“It was a plan o’ the reds to lop down brushwood wherever they found a
deer path, until they had built an enclosure of considerable extent.
They were never particular about having the fence straight; in fact, it
was better to let it jog as it happened. But they were sure to bring
the ends close together at the mouth, so there was leetle chance for
the creatur’ to get out once he had entered the pound. Some o’ ’em,
too, would always guard the gap. Inside the grounds was filled with
hedges and mazes o’ brushwood, while at every corner they set snares
made o’ deer thongs o’ amazing strength. One end o’ the thong was
usually made fast to a sapling, if one was convanient. If not, a loose
pole was used, they being keerful to have it heavy enough so the deer
could not drag it away.”
“But with their tools I should have thought it would have taken them a
lifetime to build such a pen.”
“Hast seen the beavers work, lad? These patient creatur’s, with only
their teeth for axes, have felled some o’ the biggest trees o’ the
forest. The industrious beaver can teach the red man no lesson o’
patience. There were many hands, too, you must remember, working for
the general good and not for individual gain, as the whites do.
“The red, too, had a way o’ running down the deer, in case he was
hunting alone and missed his mark. It was a sort o’ unwritten law with
’em that if the hunter missed his shot, he must run down the creatur’
to save himself from disgrace. So, when the frightened deer bounded
away, he would give one o’ his unyarthly screeches and follow. But he
knew better than to keep running at first. A moose never stops running,
once he starts, until he either escapes or falls dead in his tracks.
But a deer, after running a little way and finding it is not pursued,
will stop to browse. The red knew this, and would creep upon his game,
and when near enough give another yell, which would send the animal on
another spurt. In this way the red would follow the deer for hours, and
worry it by these jerky pursuits. It would get dry then, and drink its
fill of the first pool or stream. That would load down its stomach so
it could no longer make its big jumps, while its runs would be shorter.
Each stop stiffened its joints.
“The cunning red, no matter how parched his tongue was, would not allow
a drop o’ water down his throat. Dashing a handful into his face, as
he crossed some brook, he would keep repeating his manœuvres, until
at last the poor hunted brute would turn hopelessly at bay. The red
then makes short work o’ it. Without stopping for the flesh to cool,
he cuts a piece from behind the fore shoulder, and begins to eat it.
Neither does he allow himself, in his overheated condition, to stand
still a minute. Slinging as much o’ the carcass as he can well carry
o’er his shoulder, he starts on a trot to his home. He knows if he
stops he will soon be too stiff to move. It may be he has run a hundred
miles in this race. Such races generally average fifty miles, though it
may end near where it started, the bewildered deer going in nearly a
circle. The endurance o’ the red is wonderful. I have known one to run
continually for twenty-four hours, and kiver every hour from four to
five miles through a wilderness o’ swamp and upland. But here we are at
old Massabesic, which is an Indian name for Place o’ Much Water. It is
a goodish sized pool, and there is another off yender as large as this,
hitched on by a narrer rim o’ water, so the two look like a pair o’
spectacles.”