Indian Summer.--Venison Styles again.--Jim Buzzard.--Fishing
Excursion.--Muskrat City.--Indian Burying-ground.--The
Pickerel and the Rest of the Fishes.--The Prairie.--Wild
Geese.--The Old Mound.--Venison's Regrets at the
degenerating Times.--His Luck, and Mine.--Reminiscences of
the Beavers.--Camping out.--Safe Return.
Indian summer had not yet taken her bow from the woods or her breath from
the sky. Old Autumn still lay asleep; Time stood by, with his hour-glass
erect, slowly counting the palpitations of his heart.
Venison Styles appointed a day for a fishing excursion, and was desirous of
my company; so, on one of those bright mornings, we might have been seen
loading our gear into the boat, preparatory to a night's lodging in the
woods. We were accompanied by "Jim Buzzard," a genuine Puddlefordian, whom
we took along to do up the little pieces of drudgery that always attend
such an expedition.
Puddleford was a wonderful place for fish-eaters, and the only real harvest
the villagers had was the fish-harvest. One half of Puddleford lived on
fish, and everybody fished. But our "Jim Buzzard" was a character in fish,
and I could never excuse myself if I should pass him over unnoticed.
Where "Jim" was born--who was his father or mother--and whether he
actually ever had any, are questions that no mortal man was ever yet able
to answer. He appeared one spring morning in Puddleford with the swallows.
The first thing seen of him, he was sitting, about sunrise, on an old dry
goods' box, at the corner of a street, whistling a variety of lively airs.
The crown was dangling from the top of his hat, he was shirtless and
unshaved, and his shoes gaped horribly at the public.
"Jim" was a genuine loafer, and loafers, you know, reader, pervade every
place, and are always the same. There is a certain class of animals that
are said to follow civilization, as sharks follow in the wake of a ship,
and generally for the same reason, to pick up what they can find. Rats and
loafers belong to this class, and there is no human ingenuity shrewd enough
to keep them off: their appearance seems to be a simple fulfilment of a law
of nature.
Jim Buzzard was a fisher, too, and nothing but a fisher. He would sit on an
old log by the bank of the river, and hold a pole from morning until night.
If the fish would bite, very well; if they would not, very well. Ill-luck
never roused his wrath, because there was no wrath in him to arouse. He was
a true philosopher, and was entirely too lazy to get into a passion. Jim
knew that the fish would bite to-morrow, or next day, if they didn't
to-day. He was happy, completely so; that is, as completely happy as the
world will admit. He didn't envy anybody--not he. All his wants were
supplied, and what did he care about the possessions of his neighbors? He
never realized any future, here or hereafter. Jim never lay awake nights,
thinking about where he would be, or what he should have, next week. He
didn't know as there was any next week. He knew the sun rose and set, which
was all the time he ever measured at once. Well, as I said, Jim made one of
our company.
Our boat was finally loaded, our crew shipped, and we shot forth into the
stream. The water lay as smooth as glass, and the reflected colors of the
blazing trees that hung over it gave it the appearance of a carpet. The
headlands put out here and there, intersected by long gores of marsh, that
ran away a mile or more in the distance.
Upon one of these marshes a city had been reared by the muskrats, which
presented an interesting appearance. Hundreds of huts had been erected by
this busy population, intended by them as their winter quarters, composed
of grass and sticks and mud, and hoisted up beyond the reach of the spring
floods. Each one was a little palace, and the whole sat upon the water like
a miniature Venice. Here huts were entered by diving down, the front door
being always concealed to prevent intrusion. Up and down the canals of this
city the inhabitants gossiped and gambolled by moonlight, like those of
every other gay place. They had their routs, and cotillons, and suppers, in
all human probability, and for aught I know drank themselves stupid.
Perhaps they kept up an opera. I say perhaps--we know so little of the
inner life of these strange creatures, that we may draw upon the
imagination in regard to their amusements as much as we please. If any
transcendental muskrat should ever write the history of this colony, I will
forward it to the newspapers by the first mail.
Venison said, "we were going to have a wet time on't, cause the rats had
built so high, and the whole mash would be covered bime-by, by the rains."
He said, "muskrats know'd more nor men about times ahead, and fixed up
things 'cordingly."
Our boat glided along until we came in sight of a huge bluff that had
pushed itself half across the stream. A melancholy fragment of one of the
tribes of Indians, who once held the sovereignty of the soil, and who had
escaped a removal, or had wandered back from their banishment, were
clustered upon it. They had erected a long pole, and gathered themselves,
hand in hand, in a circle about it; within this circle, their medicines and
apparel worn in worship, lay for consecration. The plaintive chant was
heard melting along the waters, as they wheeled round and round in their
solemn service. I have never looked upon a more touching exhibition. Most
of these Indians were very old; they had outlived their tribe, their
country, their glory--everything but their ceremonies and themselves. What
a beautiful tribute was this to the past! a handful of worshippers
lingering round the broken altar of their temple, and hallowing its very
ruins.
Near by, and on the southern slope of the bluff, lay the remains of an
extensive Indian burying-ground. No white man could tell its age. Large
oaks, centuries old, that had grown since the dead were first deposited
there, stood up over the graves. No monuments of stone designated the
thousands of sleepers--the living themselves were the monuments of the
dead. Weapons of war and peace were scattered beneath the turf, mixed with
crumbling human bones.
What were this little band of red men, thought I, but so many autumn
leaves? A few years more, and the solitary boat, as it turns this headland,
will find no warrior kneeling on its height. The Great Spirit will brood
alone over the solitude.
By and by, we turned into a bay, sheltered by an overhanging cliff, where
we cast our anchor, and made ready for work. The water was transparent, and
the shining pebbles glittered in the sandy depths below. Shoals of fish had
gathered in this nook, beyond the strife of waters. The sun-fish, his back
all bristling with rage, ploughed around with as much ferocity as a
privateer; the checkered perch lazily rolled from side to side, as his
breath came and went; the little silver dace darted and flashed through
each other their streams of light; and away off, all alone, the pickerel,
that terror of the pool, stood as still and dart-like as the vane of a
steeple.
This congregation reminded me of the stir we sometimes find in the ports of
a city. They seemed to have much business on hand. They were continually
putting out and putting in; sometimes alone and sometimes in fleets. I
noticed an indolent old "sucker," who made several unsuccessful attempts to
reach the current, and get under headway. Once in a while, a fish would
come dashing in from above, like a ship before a gale, throwing the whole
community into an uproar.
Below us, on the left bank of the river, stretched a prairie which was
several miles in circumference. It was dotted, here and there, with a
settler's cabin, but the greater part yet lay in the wild luxuriance of
nature. It was surrounded by the forest, and long points of woodland
pierced it, now glowing like a flame. Shooting back and forth, the
prairie-hens sailed across it like boats upon the main. The sky above it
was filled with hawks, sweeping round and round in search of prey--now they
rested upon their outspread wings--then plunged through a long-drawn
curve--then gracefully moved near the earth in downward circles, as some
object was discovered, winnowing a while above it, to make sure of its
nature and position, and rising once more, and turning with lightning
quickness, away they rushed upon their quarry, and soared away with it on
high.
In the depth of winter, when the lakes and rivers are bound in ice, vast
bodies of geese assemble there. Acres of ground are covered, and they storm
about their camp like an army of soldiers. Some commanding elevation, far
out from shore, beyond the reach of the hunter's gun, is selected. When
disturbed, their sentinels blow the alarm, and away they go, piping their
dismal dirge, until it dies afar in the sky. By daybreak the next morning,
they are on the ground again, as tranquil as though nothing had happened.
It is almost impossible to trap these wanderers. Before they establish
their quarters, they study the landscape with the eye of a painter. They
take a daguerrian view of objects as they are. The log-hut, with its
curling smoke--the hay-stack crowned with snow--the settler's cart tipped
up, its tongue pointing towards the north star--a goose understands as well
as a man. _They_ never blow up nor work destruction. But just try an
artificial house of boughs, a brush fence, or an intrenchment near their
lines. They see the plot at a glance, and draw out of harm's way, and pitch
their snowy tents again, beyond its reach. As well chase the fabled island
as a flock of wild geese.
Not far below this prairie, near the bank of the river, a venerable mound
raised its solitary head. It was thinly covered with oaks, and belonged to
Oblivion. It was one of the few feathers that Time had cast in his flight,
to mark the past and confuse the present. It looked like a hand reached out
from eternity; but _whose_ hand? Ay, whose? Who built it? When? Why? It was
filled with all kinds of strange things that had been planted there by a
busy race who were unable to preserve their own history. Their works had
outlived themselves; but they cannot talk to us, nor tell us what they are,
nor who fashioned them. There it stands, gazing dumbly at all who look upon
it, a sad lesson to individual pride or national glory.
Venison did not seem quite satisfied with the prospect of catching fish in
the little bay. "'Tain't as it used to be," sighed the old hunter. "Before
the woods were cut down, and them are dams built," said he, "the whole
river was alive with all sorts of fish. In the spring-time the salmon-trout
and sturgeon used to come up out of the lakes to feed, but they can't get
up any more. They keep trying it every year yet, and thousands on 'em may
be seen packed in below old Jones' dam, 'long 'bout April, waiting and
waiting for it to go off. For I s'pose they think 'tain't nothing but
flood-wood lodged."
"Why don't they climb it?" inquired I.
"When the water is very high up, and there arn't much of a riffle there,
they will sometimes; but they can't climb like them speckled trout--they'll
go right up a mountain stream, and make nothing on't--them fellers beat all
nater for going anywhere."
However, as I said somewhere back in my narrative, we made ready for work.
We looked around for Jim Buzzard, and found him sitting in the bow of the
boat, his legs sprawled out, his head dropped on his chin, his ragged hat
cocked on one side, fast asleep. There was an ease and self-abandonment
about his appearance that were really beautiful. Jim could sleep
anywhere--some people can't. He was never nervous. He never had any spasms
about something that could never occur. He had no notes falling due--no
crops in the ground--no merchandise on his hand--no property, except the
little he carried on his back, and that he didn't really own; it was given
to him--he was no candidate for office, and didn't even know or care who
was President--all administrations were alike to him, for all had treated
him well. He never flew into a passion because some persons slandered him,
because he had no character to injure.
"Hallo, Jim!" I screamed, with my mouth to his ear, "the boat is sinking."
He gaped, and groaned, and stretched a few times, and finally opened his
eyes, and adjusted his hat, and looking up at me, "Let her sink, then," he
replied; "we can get-er up agin."
"Stir around! stir around, Jim!" I exclaimed; "the fish are waiting for our
bait; out with your pole."
He said, "_he_ was goin' overboard arter fresh-water clams--kase they were
good with salt, and anybody could eat 'em;" and rolling up his breeches,
over he went, and moving away down near a sandy beach, he commenced digging
his clams with his feet, and piling them up on shore by his side.
Venison and myself dashed our lines overboard. I watched every movement of
the old hunter. He went through as many ceremonies as a magician working a
charm. His "minnys" (minnows), as he called them, were hooked tenderly at a
particular place in the back, so that they might shoot around in the water,
without dying in the effort; his hook was pointed in a certain direction,
so as to catch at the first bite; he then spit upon the bait, and swinging
the line a few times in circles, he threw it far out in the stream.
"That'll bring a bass, pickerel, or something," said he, as it struck the
water.
Soon the pole bent, and Venison sprang upon it.
"Pull him out!" exclaimed I.
"Don't never hurry big fish," replied he; "let him play round a little;
he'll grow weak byme-by, and come right along into the boat;" and
accordingly, Venison "_let_ him play;" he managed the fish with all that
refinement in the art that sportsmen know so well how to appreciate and
enjoy. Sometimes it raced far up the stream, then far down; and once, as
the line brought it up on a downward trip, it bounded into the air, and
turned two or three summersets that shook the silver drops of water from
its fins. After a while, it became exhausted, and Venison slowly drew him
into the boat, all breathless and panting; a famous pickerel, four feet
long and "well proportioned."
My poles, all this time, remained just where I first placed them--not a
nibble, as I knew. Some very wicked people, I have been informed, swear at
fish when they refuse to bite--but I did not--because I have never been
able to see why _they_ were to blame, or why swearing would reform them,
if they were. It was no very good reason that they should take hold of one
end of my pole and line, because I happened to be at the other.
Not having much luck with big fish, I concluded to amuse the "small fry."
So out went my hook ker-slump right down in the midst of a great gathering,
who seemed to have met on some business of importance. It was a little
curious to watch these finny fellows as they eyed my worm. They swept round
it in a circle, a few times, and coming up with a halt, and forming
themselves abreast, they rocked up and down from head to tail, as they
surveyed the thing. By and by, a perch, a little more venturesome than the
rest, floated up by degrees to the bait, his white fins slowly moving back
and forth, and carefully reaching out his nose, he touched it, wheeled, and
shot like a dart out of sight. In a few minutes he came round in the rear
of the company, to await further experiments. Next came the sun-fish,
jerking along, filled with fire and fury, with a kind of who's-afraid sort
of look, and striking at my hook, actually caught the tip of the barb, and
I turned the fellow topsy-turvy, showing up his yellow to advantage. He
left for parts unknown. There was a small bass who had strayed into the
community, whom I was anxious to coax into trouble; but he lay off on his
dignity, near an old root, to see the fun. I moved my hook towards him. He
shot off and turned head to, with a no-you-don't sort of air. I took my
bait from the water and spit on it, but it wouldn't do. I took it out
again, and went through an incantation over it, but I couldn't catch him by
magic; and I have no doubt, reader, he is there yet.
Venison, every little while, dragged another and another pickerel aboard.
Pretty soon we had Jim Buzzard cleaning fish, and packing away in a barrel,
with a little sprinkling of salt.
I gathered in my lines, arose, and thanked the whole tribe of fish,
generally and particularly, for their attendance upon me, and promised not
to trouble them for a month at least.
The sun was waning low, and the shadows of the trees were pointing across
the river. The clouds in the west gathered themselves into all kinds of
pictures. There was a fleet of ships, all on fire, in full sail, far out at
sea; the fleet dissolved, and a city rose out of its ruins, filled with
temples, and domes, and turrets, and divided into streets, up and down
which strange and fantastic figures were hurrying. The city vanished, and a
pile of huge mountains shot up their rugged peaks, around which golden
islands lay anchored, all glowing with light. Away one side, I noticed a
grave, corpulent, and shadowy old gentleman, astride an elephant, smoking a
pipe, and he puffed himself finally away into the heavens, and I have never
seen him since--a solemn warning to persons who use tobacco.
Venison said "we had better hunt up our camping-ground, for his stomach was
getting holler, and he wanted to fill it up."
Below us, a sparkling stream put into the river. Just above it, a mile or
so, lay a broad lake, which was fed from this same stream--it came in from
the wilderness. We started for this lake, and wound our way up this little
creek amid the struggling shafts of sunlight that hung over it. The
water-fowl were hurrying past us, towards the same spot, to take up their
night's lodging, and we drove flocks of them ahead as we crowded upon them.
The dip of our oars echoed among the shadows. We reached our ground,
unloaded our gear, and prepared for the night.
Venison directed Jim Buzzard to build a "stack" and get supper. So, a pile
of stones was laid up, with a flat one across the top, leaving a hole
behind for the smoke to escape. Venison knocked over a gray duck on the
lake with his rifle, and it was not long before we had four feet of
pickerel and that self-same duck sprawled out on the hot stone, frying.
Venison was rather gloomy. "This," said he, "makes me think of times gone.
I used to camp here all alone, years ago, when there warn't no settlers for
miles. I used to catch otter and beaver and rat, and sleep out weeks to a
time. But the beaver and otter are gone."
"Beaver here?" inquired I.
"Why, not more'n nor a mile or so up this creek, I've killed piles on 'em.
Why, I seed a company on 'em, up there, once, of two or three hundred. They
com'd down one spring and clear'd off acres of ground that had grown up to
birch saplings, that they wanted to build a dam with, and there they let
the trees lie until August. Then they started to build their houses all
over the low water in the mash--great houses four or five feet through--and
they work'd in companies of four or five on a house till they got 'em done.
You jist ought to see 'em carry mud and stones between their fore-paws and
throat, and see 'em lay it down and slap it with their tails, like men who
work with a trowel."
"Well," said I, "about those trees that they cleared off?"
"When they got 'em done, then they all jined in to build a dam, to raise up
the water, so't wouldn't freeze up the doors of their houses. And then
there was a time on't. You might see 'em by moonlight, pitching in the
trees, and swimming down the stream with 'em, and laying 'em in the current
of the creek, like so many boys."
"Pshaw!" said I.
"Yes, sir! I seed one night a lot of beavers drawing one of the biggest
trees they had cut. It was more'n six inches through. They got it part over
the bank, when it stuck fast. Jest the top of the tree was in the water,
and there were four or five on 'em sousing round in the water, pulling this
way and that, and as many more on the bank jerking at it, until byme-by it
went in kerswash; the beavers all took hold on't, then, and towed it to the
dam."
"And so they really built a dam?"
"A dam three feet high, and forty or fifty long--all laid up with birch
trees, and mud and stones, so tight 'tain't gone yet. The beaver have gone
long ago, but the dam hain't."
"How did you catch 'em?" said I.
"When the fur is good, in the winter, we jest went round with our
ice-chisels and knocked their houses to pieces, when away they would go for
their _washes_, as we used to call 'em, where we fastened 'em in and
catch'd 'em."
"Washes? what are they?" inquired I.
"Holes the beavers dig in the bank, partly under water, where they can run
in and breathe without being seen."
Venison was going on to tell me how many beaver skins he got, but the duck
and fish were done, and had been divided up by Jim Buzzard, and handsomely
laid out on a piece of clean bark, ready to eat.
We ranged ourselves in a row, squat upon the ground like so many Turks,
drew our hunting-knives, and went to work. I looked out upon the lake that
lay like a looking-glass, draped with gauze, at my feet. Day was dying over
it like a strain of music. One slender bar of light lay trembling along its
eastern shore. By and by it crept up the bank; from that to a mound behind,
and from which it took a leap to a hill a mile distant, where it faded and
faded into twilight. The water-fowl were screaming among the flags, and I
noticed a belated hawk winging his way through the air on high, to his home
in the forest. I could almost hear the winnowing of his wings in the silent
sky. A chick-a-dee-dee came bobbing and winding down an oak near me, for
the purpose of coaxing a supper. The trees began to assume uncertain
shapes--the arms of the oaks stretched out longer and longer. The new moon
grew brighter and brighter in the west. There it hung, looking down into
the lake. The river sent up its hollow roar, the mists settled thicker and
thicker, and solemn night at last came down over the wilderness.
After I had finished my watch of departing day, I looked around for my
company. "Jim" had been stuffing himself for the last half hour, until he
had grown as stupid as an over-fed anaconda. His jaws were moving very
slowly over the bone of a duck--his eyes were drowsy--and every now and
then he heaved a long-drawn sigh--a kind of melancholy groan over his
inability to eat any more.
Venison said "we must build up our night fire to keep off the varmints,"
and accordingly we reared a pile of brush of logs, set it a-going, made up
our bed of withered leaves, ranged ourselves in a circle with our feet
turned to the blaze, and were soon lost in sleep.
Morn broke over us lovely as ever. As the first gray streaks began to melt
away, Venison roused up to get a deer for breakfast. We went out on to a
run-way, hid ourselves in the bushes, and soon a large buck, his antlers
swung aloft, came snuffing and cracking along over the leaves, on his way
to the lake to take his morning drink. Pop! and over he went, and soon his
"saddles" were taken out and carried into camp, our stack started, and
breakfast prepared.
Another day was loitered away among the fish--another day, beautiful as the
last, we floated over the lake, and threaded the stream that poured into
it. At night we found ourselves safely moored at Puddleford, our boat
loaded with fish, and my soul filled with a thousand beautiful pictures of
nature, that hang there winter and summer, as bright and lovely as life
itself.