II

The Delaware is one of our minor rivers, but it is a stream beloved of

the trout. Nearly all its remote branches head in mountain springs, and

its collected waters, even when warmed by the summer sun, are as sweet

and wholesome as dew swept from the grass. The Hudson wins from it two

streams that are fathered by the mountains from whose loins most of its

beginnings issue, namely, the Rondout and the Esopus. These swell a

more illustrious current than the Delaware, but the Rondout, one of the

finest trout streams in the world, makes an uncanny alliance before it

reaches its destination, namely, with the malarious Wallkill.

In the same nest of mountains from which they start are born the

Neversink and the Beaverkill, streams of wondrous beauty that flow

south and west into the Delaware. From my native hills I could catch

glimpses of the mountains in whose laps these creeks were cradled, but

it was not till after many years, and after dwelling in a country where

trout are not found, that I returned to pay my respects to them as an

angler.

My first acquaintance with the Neversink was made in company with some

friends in 1869. We passed up the valley of the Big Ingin, marveling at

its copious ice-cold springs, and its immense sweep of heavy-timbered

mountain-sides. Crossing the range at its head, we struck the Neversink

quite unexpectedly about the middle of the afternoon, at a point where

it was a good-sized trout stream. It proved to be one of those black

mountain brooks born of innumerable ice-cold springs, nourished in the

shade, and shod, as it were, with thick-matted moss, that every

camper-out remembers. The fish are as black as the stream and very

wild. They dart from beneath the fringed rocks, or dive with the hook

into the dusky depths,—an integral part of the silence and the shadows.

The spell of the moss is over all. The fisherman’s tread is noiseless,

as he leaps from stone to stone and from ledge to ledge along the bed

of the stream. How cool it is! He looks up the dark, silent defile,

hears the solitary voice of the water, sees the decayed trunks of

fallen trees bridging the stream, and all he has dreamed, when a boy,

of the haunts of beasts of prey—the crouching feline tribes, especially

if it be near nightfall and the gloom already deepening in the

woods—comes freshly to mind, and he presses on, wary and alert, and

speaking to his companions in low tones.

After an hour or so the trout became less abundant, and with nearly a

hundred of the black sprites in our baskets we turned back. Here and

there I saw the abandoned nests of the pigeons, sometimes half a dozen

in one tree. In a yellow birch which the floods had uprooted, a number

of nests were still in place, little shelves or platforms of twigs

loosely arranged, and affording little or no protection to the eggs or

the young birds against inclement weather.

Before we had reached our companions the rain set in again and forced

us to take shelter under a balsam. When it slackened we moved on and

soon came up with Aaron, who had caught his first trout, and,

considerably drenched, was making his way toward camp, which one of the

party had gone forward to build. After traveling less than a mile, we

saw a smoke struggling up through the dripping trees, and in a few

moments were all standing round a blazing fire. But the rain now

commenced again, and fairly poured down through the trees, rendering

the prospect of cooking and eating our supper there in the woods, and

of passing the night on the ground without tent or cover of any kind,

rather disheartening. We had been told of a bark shanty a couple of

miles farther down the creek, and thitherward we speedily took up our

line of march. When we were on the point of discontinuing the search,

thinking we had been misinformed or had passed it by, we came in sight

of a bark-peeling, in the midst of which a small log house lifted its

naked rafters toward the now breaking sky. It had neither floor nor

roof, and was less inviting on first sight than the open woods. But a

board partition was still standing, out of which we built a rude porch

on the east side of the house, large enough for us all to sleep under

if well packed, and eat under if we stood up. There was plenty of

well-seasoned timber lying about, and a fire was soon burning in front

of our quarters that made the scene social and picturesque, especially

when the frying-pans were brought into requisition, and the coffee, in

charge of Aaron, who was an artist in this line, mingled its aroma with

the wild-wood air. At dusk a balsam was felled, and the tips of the

branches used to make a bed, which was more fragrant than soft; hemlock

is better, because its needles are finer and its branches more elastic.

There was a spirt or two of rain during the night, but not enough to

find out the leaks in our roof. It took the shower or series of showers

of the next day to do that. They commenced about two o’clock in the

afternoon. The forenoon had been fine, and we had brought into camp

nearly three hundred trout; but before they were half dressed, or the

first panfuls fried, the rain set in. First came short, sharp dashes,

then a gleam of treacherous sunshine, followed by more and heavier

dashes. The wind was in the southwest, and to rain seemed the easiest

thing in the world. From fitful dashes to a steady pour the transition

was natural. We stood huddled together, stark and grim, under our

cover, like hens under a cart. The fire fought bravely for a time, and

retaliated with sparks and spiteful tongues of flame; but gradually its

spirit was broken, only a heavy body of coal and half-consumed logs in

the centre holding out against all odds. The simmering fish were soon

floating about in a yellow liquid that did not look in the least

appetizing. Point after point gave way in our cover, till standing

between the drops was no longer possible. The water coursed down the

underside of the boards, and dripped in our necks and formed puddles on

our hat-brims. We shifted our guns and traps and viands, till there was

no longer any choice of position, when the loaves and the fishes, the

salt and the sugar, the pork and the butter, shared the same watery

fate. The fire was gasping its last. Little rivulets coursed about it,

and bore away the quenched but steaming coals on their bosoms. The

spring run in the rear of our camp swelled so rapidly that part of the

trout that had been hastily left lying on its banks again found

themselves quite at home. For over two hours the floods came down.

About four o’clock Orville, who had not yet come from the day’s sport,

appeared. To say Orville was wet is not much; he was better than

that,—he had been washed and rinsed in at least half a dozen waters,

and the trout that he bore dangling at the end of a string hardly knew

that they had been out of their proper element.

But he brought welcome news. He had been two or three miles down the

creek, and had seen a log building,—whether house or stable he did not

know, but it had the appearance of having a good roof, which was

inducement enough for us instantly to leave our present quarters. Our

course lay along an old wood-road, and much of the time we were to our

knees in water. The woods were literally flooded everywhere. Every

little rill and springlet ran like a mill-tail, while the main stream

rushed and roared, foaming, leaping, lashing, its volume increased

fifty-fold. The water was not roily, but of a rich coffee-color, from

the leachings of the woods. No more trout for the next three days! we

thought, as we looked upon the rampant stream.

After we had labored and floundered along for about an hour, the road

turned to the left, and in a little stumpy clearing near the creek a

gable uprose on our view. It did not prove to be just such a place as

poets love to contemplate. It required a greater effort of the

imagination than any of us were then capable of to believe it had ever

been a favorite resort of wood-nymphs or sylvan deities. It savored

rather of the equine and the bovine. The bark-men had kept their teams

there, horses on the one side and oxen on the other, and no Hercules

had ever done duty in cleansing the stables. But there was a dry loft

overhead with some straw, where we might get some sleep, in spite of

the rain and the midges; a double layer of boards, standing at a very

acute angle, would keep off the former, while the mingled refuse hay

and muck beneath would nurse a smoke that would prove a thorough

protection against the latter. And then, when Jim, the two-handed,

mounting the trunk of a prostrate maple near by, had severed it thrice

with easy and familiar stroke, and, rolling the logs in front of the

shanty, had kindled a fire, which, getting the better of the dampness,

soon cast a bright glow over all, shedding warmth and light even into

the dingy stable, I consented to unsling my knapsack and accept the

situation. The rain had ceased, and the sun shone out behind the woods.

We had trout sufficient for present needs; and after my first meal in

an ox-stall, I strolled out on the rude log bridge to watch the angry

Neversink rush by. Its waters fell quite as rapidly as they rose, and

before sundown it looked as if we might have fishing again on the

morrow. We had better sleep that night than either night before, though

there were two disturbing causes,—the smoke in the early part of it,

and the cold in the latter. The “no-see-ems” left in disgust; and,

though disgusted myself, I swallowed the smoke as best I could, and

hugged my pallet of straw the closer. But the day dawned bright, and a

plunge in the Neversink set me all right again. The creek, to our

surprise and gratification, was only a little higher than before the

rain, and some of the finest trout we had yet seen we caught that

morning near camp.

We tarried yet another day and night at the old stable, but taking our

meals outside squatted on the ground, which had now become quite dry.

Part of the day I spent strolling about the woods, looking up old

acquaintances among the birds, and, as always, half expectant of making

some new ones. Curiously enough, the most abundant species were among

those I had found rare in most other localities, namely, the small

water-wagtail, the mourning ground warbler, and the yellow-bellied

woodpecker. The latter seems to be the prevailing woodpecker through

the woods of this region.

That night the midges, those motes that sting, held high carnival. We

learned afterward, in the settlement below and from the barkpeelers,

that it was the worst night ever experienced in that valley. We had

done no fishing during the day, but had anticipated some fine sport

about sundown. Accordingly Aaron and I started off between six and

seven o’clock, one going upstream and the other down. The scene was

charming. The sun shot up great spokes of light from behind the woods,

and beauty, like a presence, pervaded the atmosphere. But torment,

multiplied as the sands of the seashore, lurked in every tangle and

thicket. In a thoughtless moment I removed my shoes and socks, and

waded in the water to secure a fine trout that had accidentally slipped

from my string and was helplessly floating with the current. This

caused some delay and gave the gnats time to accumulate. Before I had

got one foot half dressed I was enveloped in a black mist that settled

upon my hands and neck and face, filling my ears with infinitesimal

pipings and covering my flesh with infinitesimal bitings. I thought I

should have to flee to the friendly fumes of the old stable, with “one

stocking off and one stocking on;” but I got my shoe on at last, though

not without many amusing interruptions and digressions.

In a few moments after this adventure I was in rapid retreat toward

camp. Just as I reached the path leading from the shanty to the creek,

my companion in the same ignoble flight reached it also, his hat broken

and rumpled, and his sanguine countenance looking more sanguinary than

I had ever before seen it, and his speech, also, in the highest degree

inflammatory. His face and forehead were as blotched and swollen as if

he had just run his head into a hornets’ nest, and his manner as

precipitate as if the whole swarm was still at his back.

No smoke or smudge which we ourselves could endure was sufficient in

the earlier part of that evening to prevent serious annoyance from the

same cause; but later a respite was granted us.

About ten o’clock, as we stood round our camp-fire, we were startled by

a brief but striking display of the aurora borealis. My imagination had

already been excited by talk of legends and of weird shapes and

appearances, and when, on looking up toward the sky, I saw those pale,

phantasmal waves of magnetic light chasing each other across the little

opening above our heads, and at first sight seeming barely to clear the

treetops, I was as vividly impressed as if I had caught a glimpse of a

veritable spectre of the Neversink. The sky shook and trembled like a

great white curtain.

After we had climbed to our loft and had lain down to sleep, another

adventure befell us. This time a new and uninviting customer appeared

upon the scene, the _genius loci_ of the old stable, namely, the

“fretful porcupine.” We had seen the marks and work of these animals

about the shanty, and had been careful each night to hang our traps,

guns, etc., beyond their reach, but of the prickly night-walker himself

we feared we should not get a view.

We had lain down some half hour, and I was just on the threshold of

sleep, ready, as it were, to pass through the open door into the land

of dreams, when I heard outside somewhere that curious sound,—a sound

which I had heard every night I spent in these woods, not only on this

but on former expeditions, and which I had settled in my mind as

proceeding from the porcupine, since I knew the sounds our other common

animals were likely to make,—a sound that might be either a gnawing on

some hard, dry substance, or a grating of teeth, or a shrill grunting.

Orville heard it also, and, raising up on his elbow, asked, “What is

that?”

“What the hunters call a ‘porcupig,’” said I.

“Sure?”

“Entirely so.”

“Why does he make that noise?”

“It is a way he has of cursing our fire,” I replied. “I heard him last

night also.”

“Where do you suppose he is?” inquired my companion, showing a

disposition to look him up.

“Not far off, perhaps fifteen or twenty yards from our fire, where the

shadows begin to deepen.”

Orville slipped into his trousers, felt for my gun, and in a moment had

disappeared down through the scuttle hole. I had no disposition to

follow him, but was rather annoyed than otherwise at the disturbance.

Getting the direction of the sound, he went picking his way over the

rough, uneven ground, and, when he got where the light failed him,

poking every doubtful object with the end of his gun. Presently he

poked a light grayish object, like a large round stone, which surprised

him by moving off. On this hint he fired, making an incurable wound in

the “porcupig,” which, nevertheless, tried harder than ever to escape.

I lay listening, when, close on the heels of the report of the gun,

came excited shouts for a revolver. Snatching up my Smith and Wesson, I

hastened, shoeless and hatless, to the scene of action, wondering what

was up. I found my companion struggling to detain, with the end of the

gun, an uncertain object that was trying to crawl off into the

darkness. “Look out!” said Orville, as he saw my bare feet, “the quills

are lying thick around here.”

And so they were; he had blown or beaten them nearly all off the poor

creature’s back, and was in a fair way completely to disable my gun,

the ramrod of which was already broken and splintered clubbing his

victim. But a couple of shots from the revolver, sighted by a lighted

match, at the head of the animal, quickly settled him.

He proved to be an unusually large Canada porcupine,—an old patriarch,

gray and venerable, with spines three inches long, and weighing, I

should say, twenty pounds. The build of this animal is much like that

of the woodchuck, that is, heavy and pouchy. The nose is blunter than

that of the woodchuck, the limbs stronger, and the tail broader and

heavier. Indeed, the latter appendage is quite club-like, and the

animal can, no doubt, deal a smart blow with it. An old hunter with

whom I talked thought it aided them in climbing. They are inveterate

gnawers, and spend much of their time in trees gnawing the bark. In

winter one will take up its abode in a hemlock, and continue there till

the tree is quite denuded. The carcass emitted a peculiar, offensive

odor, and, though very fat, was not in the least inviting as game. If

it is part of the economy of nature for one animal to prey upon some

other beneath it, then the poor devil has indeed a mouthful that makes

a meal off the porcupine. Panthers and lynxes have essayed it, but have

invariably left off at the first course, and have afterwards been found

dead, or nearly so, with their heads puffed up like a pincushion, and

the quills protruding on all sides. A dog that understands the business

will manœuvre round the porcupine till he gets an opportunity to throw

it over on its back, when he fastens on its quilless underbody. Aaron

was puzzled to know how long-parted friends could embrace, when it was

suggested that the quills could be depressed or elevated at pleasure.

The next morning boded rain; but we had become thoroughly sated with

the delights of our present quarters, outside and in, and packed up our

traps to leave. Before we had reached the clearing, three miles below,

the rain set in, keeping up a lazy, monotonous drizzle till the

afternoon.

The clearing was quite a recent one, made mostly by barkpeelers, who

followed their calling in the mountains round about in summer, and

worked in their shops making shingle in winter. The Biscuit Brook came

in here from the west,—a fine, rapid trout stream six or eight miles in

length, with plenty of deer in the mountains about its head. On its

banks we found the house of an old woodman, to whom we had been

directed for information about the section we proposed to traverse.

“Is the way very difficult,” we inquired, “across from the Neversink

into the head of the Beaver-kill?”

“Not to me; I could go it the darkest night ever was. And I can direct

you so you can find the way without any trouble. You go down the

Neversink about a mile, when you come to Highfall Brook, the first

stream that comes down on the right. Follow up it to Jim Reed’s shanty,

about three miles. Then cross the stream, and on the left bank, pretty

well up on the side of the mountain, you will find a wood-road, which

was made by a fellow below here who stole some ash logs off the top of

the ridge last winter and drew them out on the snow. When the road

first begins to tilt over the mountain, strike down to your left, and

you can reach the Beaverkill before sundown.”

As it was then after two o’clock, and as the distance was six or eight

of these terrible hunters’ miles, we concluded to take a whole day to

it, and wait till next morning. The Beaverkill flowed west, the

Neversink south, and I had a mortal dread of getting entangled amid the

mountains and valleys that lie in either angle.

Besides, I was glad of another and final opportunity to pay my respects

to the finny tribes of the Neversink. At this point it was one of the

finest trout streams I had ever beheld. It was so sparkling, its bed so

free from sediment or impurities of any kind, that it had a new look,

as if it had just come from the hand of its Creator. I tramped along

its margin upward of a mile that afternoon, part of the time wading to

my knees, and casting my hook, baited only with a trout’s fin, to the

opposite bank. Trout are real cannibals, and make no bones, and break

none either, in lunching on each other. A friend of mine had several in

his spring, when one day a large female trout gulped down one of her

male friends, nearly one third her own size, and went around for two

days with the tail of her liege lord protruding from her mouth! A

fish’s eye will do for bait, though the anal fin is better. One of the

natives here told me that when he wished to catch large trout (and I

judged he never fished for any other,—I never do), he used for bait the

bullhead, or dart, a little fish an inch and a half or two inches long,

that rests on the pebbles near shore and darts quickly, when disturbed,

from point to point. “Put that on your hook,” said he, “and if there is

a big fish in the creek, he is bound to have it.” But the darts were

not easily found; the big fish, I concluded, had cleaned them all out;

and, then, it was easy enough to supply our wants with a fin.

Declining the hospitable offers of the settlers, we spread our blankets

that night in a dilapidated shingle-shop on the banks of the Biscuit

Brook, first flooring the damp ground with the new shingle that lay

piled in one corner. The place had a great-throated chimney with a

tremendous expanse of fireplace within, that cried “More!” at every

morsel of wood we gave it.

But I must hasten over this part of the ground, nor let the delicious

flavor of the milk we had that morning for breakfast, and that was so

delectable after four days of fish, linger on my tongue; nor yet tarry

to set down the talk of that honest, weatherworn passer-by who paused

before our door, and every moment on the point of resuming his way, yet

stood for an hour and recited his adventures hunting deer and bears on

these mountains. Having replenished our stock of bread and salt pork at

the house of one of the settlers, midday found us at Reed’s shanty,—one

of those temporary structures erected by the bark jobber to lodge and

board his “hands” near their work. Jim not being at home, we could gain

no information from the “women folks” about the way, nor from the men

who had just come in to dinner; so we pushed on, as near as we could,

according to the instructions we had previously received. Crossing the

creek, we forced our way up the side of the mountain, through a perfect

_cheval-de-frise_ of fallen and peeled hemlocks, and, entering the

dense woods above, began to look anxiously about for the wood-road. My

companions at first could see no trace of it; but knowing that a casual

wood-road cut in winter, when there was likely to be two or three feet

of snow on the ground, would present only the slightest indications to

the eye in summer, I looked a little closer, and could make out a mark

or two here and there. The larger trees had been avoided, and the axe

used only on the small saplings and underbrush, which had been lopped

off a couple of feet from the ground. By being constantly on the alert,

we followed it till near the top of the mountain; but, when looking to

see it “tilt” over the other side, it disappeared altogether. Some

stumps of the black cherry were found, and a solitary pair of

snow-shoes was hanging high and dry on a branch, but no further trace

of human hands could we see. While we were resting here a couple of

hermit thrushes, one of them with some sad defect in his vocal powers

which barred him from uttering more than a few notes of his song, gave

voice to the solitude of the place. This was the second instance in

which I have observed a song-bird with apparently some organic defect

in its instrument. The other case was that of a bobolink, which, hover

in mid-air and inflate its throat as it might, could only force out a

few incoherent notes. But the bird in each case presented this striking

contrast to human examples of the kind, that it was apparently just as

proud of itself, and just as well satisfied with its performance, as

were its more successful rivals.

After deliberating some time over a pocket compass which I carried, we

decided upon our course, and held on to the west. The descent was very

gradual. Traces of bear and deer were noted at different points, but

not a live animal was seen.

About four o’clock we reached the bank of a stream flowing west. Hail

to the Beaverkill! and we pushed on along its banks. The trout were

plenty, and rose quickly to the hook; but we held on our way, designing

to go into camp about six o’clock. Many inviting places, first on one

bank, then on the other, made us linger, till finally we reached a

smooth, dry place overshadowed by balsam and hemlock, where the creek

bent around a little flat, which was so entirely to our fancy that we

unslung our knapsacks at once. While my companions were cutting wood

and making other preparations for the night, it fell to my lot, as the

most successful angler, to provide the trout for supper and breakfast.

How shall I describe that wild, beautiful stream, with features so like

those of all other mountain streams? And yet, as I saw it in the deep

twilight of those woods on that June afternoon, with its steady, even

flow, and its tranquil, many-voiced murmur, it made an impression upon

my mind distinct and peculiar, fraught in an eminent degree with the

charm of seclusion and remoteness. The solitude was perfect, and I felt

that strangeness and insignificance which the civilized man must always

feel when opposing himself to such a vast scene of silence and

wildness. The trout were quite black, like all wood trout, and took the

bait eagerly. I followed the stream till the deepening shadows warned

me to turn back. As I neared camp, the fire shone far through the

trees, dispelling the gathering gloom, but blinding my eyes to all

obstacles at my feet. I was seriously disturbed on arriving to find

that one of my companions had cut an ugly gash in his shin with the axe

while felling a tree. As we did not carry a fifth wheel, it was not

just the time or place to have any of our members crippled, and I had

bodings of evil. But, thanks to the healing virtues of the balsam which

must have adhered to the blade of the axe, and double thanks to the

court-plaster with which Orville had supplied himself before leaving

home, the wounded leg, by being favored that night and the next day,

gave us little trouble.

That night we had our first fair and square camping out,—that is,

sleeping on the ground with no shelter over us but the trees,—and it

was in many respects the pleasantest night we spent in the woods. The

weather was perfect and the place was perfect, and for the first time

we were exempt from the midges and smoke; and then we appreciated the

clean new page we had to work on. Nothing is so acceptable to the

camper-out as a pure article in the way of woods and waters. Any

admixture of human relics mars the spirit of the scene. Yet I am

willing to confess that, before we were through those woods, the marks

of an axe in a tree were a welcome sight. On resuming our march next

day we followed the right bank of the Beaverkill, in order to strike a

stream which flowed in from the north, and which was the outlet of

Balsam Lake, the objective point of that day’s march. The distance to

the lake from our camp could not have been over six or seven miles;

yet, traveling as we did, without path or guide, climbing up banks,

plunging into ravines, making detours around swampy places, and forcing

our way through woods choked up with much fallen and decayed timber, it

seemed at least twice that distance, and the mid-afternoon sun was

shining when we emerged into what is called the “Quaker Clearing,”

ground that I had been over nine years before, and that lies about two

miles south of the lake. From this point we had a well-worn path that

led us up a sharp rise of ground, then through level woods till we saw

the bright gleam of the water through the trees.

I am always struck, on approaching these little mountain lakes, with

the extensive preparation that is made for them in the conformation of

the ground. I am thinking of a depression, or natural basin, in the

side of the mountain or on its top, the brink of which I shall reach

after a little steep climbing; but instead of that, after I have

accomplished the ascent, I find a broad sweep of level or gently

undulating woodland that brings me after a half hour or so to the lake,

which lies in this vast lap like a drop of water in the palm of a man’s

hand.

Balsam Lake was oval-shaped, scarcely more than half a mile long and a

quarter of a mile wide, but presented a charming picture, with a group

of dark gray hemlocks filling the valley about its head, and the

mountains rising above and beyond. We found a bough house in good

repair, also a dug-out and paddle and several floats of logs. In the

dug-out I was soon creeping along the shady side of the lake, where the

trout were incessantly jumping for a species of black fly, that,

sheltered from the slight breeze, were dancing in swarms just above the

surface of the water. The gnats were there in swarms also, and did

their best toward balancing the accounts by preying upon me while I

preyed upon the trout which preyed upon the flies. But by dint of

keeping my hands, face, and neck constantly wet, I am convinced that

the balance of blood was on my side. The trout jumped most within a

foot or two of shore, where the water was only a few inches deep. The

shallowness of the water, perhaps, accounted for the inability of the

fish to do more than lift their heads above the surface. They came up

mouths wide open, and dropped back again in the most impotent manner.

Where there is any depth of water, a trout will jump several feet into

the air; and where there is a solid, unbroken sheet or column, they

will scale falls and dams fifteen feet high.

We had the very cream and flower of our trout-fishing at this lake. For

the first time we could use the fly to advantage; and then the contrast

between laborious tramping along shore, on the one hand, and sitting in

one end of a dug-out and casting your line right and left with no fear

of entanglement in brush or branch, while you were gently propelled

along, on the other, was of the most pleasing character.

There were two varieties of trout in the lake,—what it seems proper to

call silver trout and golden trout; the former were the slimmer, and

seemed to keep apart from the latter. Starting from the outlet and

working round on the eastern side toward the head, we invariably caught

these first. They glanced in the sun like bars of silver. Their sides

and bellies were indeed as white as new silver. As we neared the head,

and especially as we came near a space occupied by some kind of

watergrass that grew in the deeper part of the lake, the other variety

would begin to take the hook, their bellies a bright gold color, which

became a deep orange on their fins; and as we returned to the place of

departure with the bottom of the boat strewn with these bright forms

intermingled, it was a sight not soon to be forgotten. It pleased my

eye so, that I would fain linger over them, arranging them in rows and

studying the various hues and tints. They were of nearly a uniform

size, rarely one over ten or under eight inches in length, and it

seemed as if the hues of all the precious metals and stones were

reflected from their sides. The flesh was deep salmon-color; that of

brook trout is generally much lighter. Some hunters and fishers from

the valley of the Mill Brook, whom we met here, told us the trout were

much larger in the lake, though far less numerous than they used to be.

Brook trout do not grow large till they become scarce. It is only in

streams that have been long and much fished that I have caught them as

much as sixteen inches in length.

The “porcupigs” were numerous about the lake, and not at all shy. One

night the heat became so intolerable in our oven-shaped bough house

that I was obliged to withdraw from under its cover and lie down a

little to one side. Just at daybreak, as I lay rolled in my blanket,

something awoke me. Lifting up my head, there was a porcupine with his

forepaws on my hips. He was apparently as much surprised as I was; and

to my inquiry as to what he at that moment might be looking for, he did

not pause to reply, but hitting me a slap with his tail which left

three or four quills in my blanket, he scampered off down the hill into

the brush.

Being an observer of the birds, of course every curious incident

connected with them fell under my notice. Hence, as we stood about our

camp-fire one afternoon looking out over the lake, I was the only one

to see a little commotion in the water, half hidden by the near

branches, as of some tiny swimmer struggling to reach the shore.

Rushing to its rescue in the canoe, I found a yellow-rumped warbler,

quite exhausted, clinging to a twig that hung down into the water. I

brought the drenched and helpless thing to camp, and, putting it into a

basket, hung it up to dry. An hour or two afterward I heard it

fluttering in its prison, and cautiously lifted the lid to get a better

glimpse of the lucky captive, when it darted out and was gone in a

twinkling. How came it in the water? That was my wonder, and I can only

guess that it was a young bird that had never before flown over a pond

of water, and, seeing the clouds and blue sky so perfect down there,

thought it was a vast opening or gateway into another summer land,

perhaps a short cut to the tropics, and so got itself into trouble. How

my eye was delighted also with the redbird that alighted for a moment

on a dry branch above the lake, just where a ray of light from the

setting sun fell full upon it! A mere crimson point, and yet how it

offset that dark, sombre background!

I have thus run over some of the features of an ordinary trouting

excursion to the woods. People inexperienced in such matters, sitting

in their rooms and thinking of these things, of all the poets have sung

and romancers written, are apt to get sadly taken in when they attempt

to realize their dreams. They expect to enter a sylvan paradise of

trout, cool retreats, laughing brooks, picturesque views, and balsamic

couches, instead of which they find hunger, rain, smoke, toil, gnats,

mosquitoes, dirt, broken rest, vulgar guides, and salt pork; and they

are very apt not to see where the fun comes in. But he who goes in a

right spirit will not be disappointed, and will find the taste of this

kind of life better, though bitterer, than the writers have described.

VI

BIRDS AND BIRDS

I

There is an old legend which one of our poets has made use of about the

bird in the brain,—a legend based, perhaps, upon the human significance

of our feathered neighbors. Was not Audubon’s brain full of birds, and

very lively ones, too? A person who knew him says he looked like a bird

himself; keen, alert, wide-eyed. It is not unusual to see the hawk

looking out of the human countenance, and one may see or have seen that

still nobler bird, the eagle. The song-birds might all have been

brooded and hatched in the human heart. They are typical of its highest

aspirations, and nearly the whole gamut of human passion and emotion is

expressed more or less fully in their varied songs. Among our own

birds, there is the song of the hermit thrush for devoutness and

religious serenity; that of the wood thrush for the musing, melodious

thoughts of twilight; the song sparrow’s for simple faith and trust,

the bobolink’s for hilarity and glee, the mourning dove’s for hopeless

sorrow, the vireo’s for all-day and every-day contentment, and the

nocturne of the mockingbird for love. Then there are the plaintive

singers, the soaring, ecstatic singers, the confident singers, the

gushing and voluble singers, and the half-voiced, inarticulate singers.

The note of the wood pewee is a human sigh; the chickadee has a call

full of unspeakable tenderness and fidelity. There is pride in the song

of the tanager, and vanity in that of the catbird. There is something

distinctly human about the robin; his is the note of boyhood. I have

thoughts that follow the migrating fowls northward and southward, and

that go with the sea-birds into the desert of the ocean, lonely and

tireless as they. I sympathize with the watchful crow perched yonder on

that tree, or walking about the fields. I hurry outdoors when I hear

the clarion of the wild gander; his comrade in my heart sends back the

call.