Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland

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Title: Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland
Author: Thomas, William S.
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland" ***

_By William S. Thomas_

Hunting Big Game with Gun and with Kodak
Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland

G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London

[Illustration: Mother 'Possum and her Family]

TRAILS AND TRAMPS
IN ALASKA AND
NEWFOUNDLAND

WILLIAM S. THOMAS

AUTHOR OF "HUNTING BIG GAME WITH GUN AND KODAK"

WITH ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SEVEN
ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL
PHOTOGRAPHS

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1913

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

To
MY WIFE
WHO SHARED NONE OF THE PLEASURES OF THE TRAIL AND BORE
ALL THE ANXIETIES FOR MY RETURN.

PREFACE

The matter here submitted has been accumulated upon several hunting
trips in the wilderness, and many excursions from time to time into the
woods and fields about home. The author has for some years kept more or
less extensive field notes, and has taken numerous photographs of
objects, scenes, or incidents by the way.

Not all of the narrative is concerned with the chase, but all has to do
with, or is in some way attributable to, the wanderlust that from
boyhood days has cast its spell over the author at uncertain intervals,
and from time to time, has compelled a pilgrimage nearer or farther into
the regions of that freedom found only where man is not.

If in the heart of the reader it sets vibrating again some chord once
sounded by the breath of the forest, or stirs to harmony some strings
hitherto not attuned to the music of the great outdoors, the mission of
this volume will not have been vain, for it will then have assisted in a
modest way the interpretation of that medium of expression of which
Bryant has said,

"To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A varied language."

W. S. T.

PITTSBURGH, PA.,
_March, 1913_.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I CRUISING AND HUNTING IN SOUTHEASTERN ALASKA 1

II OBSERVATIONS ON KODIAK ISLAND 64

III HUNTING BIG GAME ON THE KENAI PENINSULA 123

IV A TRIP TO NEWFOUNDLAND 181

V HUNTING WITH A FERRET 222

VI A NIGHT HUNT 238

VII IN THE SPRINGTIME 247

VIII A PLEA FOR PROTECTION 305

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

MOTHER 'POSSUM AND HER FAMILY _Frontispiece_
KETCHIKAN 3
MYRIADS OF SALMON 5
"FATHER" DUNCAN 7
METLAKATLA 8
GUEST HOUSE 9
"FATHER" DUNCAN'S CHURCH 10
WHERE THE INDIANS ROAMED 11
STREET SCENE IN METLAKATLA 12
METLAKATLA BELLES 13
INDIANS CHEERING THE SECRETARY 15
TOTEMS AT SITKA 18
INDIAN WAR CANOE 20
PETERSBURG 22
STREAMS OF CRYSTAL WATER 23
LIGHTHOUSE NEAR DIXON'S ENTRANCE 26
SITKA 27
PRIESTS OF THE GREEK CHURCH AT SITKA 28
FAIRWEATHER RANGE 30
UPPER ICE FIELDS 31
THE AUTHOR LOOKING INTO A CREVASSE 33
NATIVE WOMEN TRADING 35
MOTHER AND BABE 36
PLAYING IN THE SAND 37
NATIVE BOYS OUT GUNNING 38
SUNSET NEAR ST. ELIAS 39
CAPE ST. ELIAS 41
HINCHINBROOK ISLAND 44
VALDEZ AFTER THE FLOOD 45
BRUIN IN A STEEL TRAP 46
SALMON RUNNING UP STREAM TO SPAWN 49
KILLING FISH WITH A CLUB 50
GULLS FEEDING ON SALMON 51
A GOOD FISHERMAN 52
DOGS FISHING FOR SALMON 53
INDIAN HUT 55
INDIAN GRAVES 56
INDIAN WOMEN REPAIRING THE BIDARKA 57
SUNRISE 60
OUR PERMANENT CAMP 61
AN ISLAND NEAR VALDEZ 65
SEA LION ROCKS 67
SEWARD 68
SELDOVIA 69
TURBULENT SHELLICOFF 71
THE RAVENS 72
KODIAK 79
GULL ISLAND 80
FORGET-ME-NOTS 81
CROW'S NEST AND YOUNG 82
NESTS OF EAGLE AND MAGPIE 83
EAGLE WATCHING FOR PREY 85
EAGLE'S NEST AND YOUNG 86
FIRST SIGHT OF DAY 88
SEA PARROT INCUBATING 90
SEA PARROT'S NEST AND EGG 91
CHARACTERISTIC NEST OF "GYGIS" 93
NEST AND EGGS OF HERRING GULL 94
OUR CAMP AMONG THE COTTONWOODS 97
AN EXTINCT CRATER WHERE THE BEAR HIBERNATE 101
WHERE HE FELL 103
STRETCHED BEAR SKINS 105
INDIAN BARABARA 108
KODIAK ISLAND PINKS 109
KENAI RIVER 129
LINING THE BOAT 133
MID-DAY ON THE KENAI 137
"PORKY" 141
THE TONSORIAL ARTIST AT WORK 144
READY FOR THE START 147
APPROACHING THE LOW PASS 149
HOME OF THE WHITE SHEEP 151
SEEKING A FORD 155
PTARMIGAN 167
A BATH IN LAKE SKILAK 174
BAY OF ISLANDS 185
CONSTRUCTING A RAFT 186
ONE TOOK TO THE WOODS 187
ONE OF THE OTHERS 188
TRAILING ARBUTUS 190
SPOTTED SANDPIPER'S NEST 192
MERGANSER'S NEST 194
NEST OF WILSON'S THRUSH 195
LEARNING TO SWIM 199
OUT FOR THEMSELVES 200
LEARNING TO WALK 201
REFLECTIONS 202
RADIANT SPLENDOR 206
WHISKEY JACK 208
NEST AND EGGS OF THE WHITE-THROATED SPARROW 209
BUNCHBERRIES 213
THE "STEADY" 215
SOLITUDE 217
BREAKFAST HEAD ON THE HUMBER RIVER 219
COLOR BLENDING 224
PUTTING IN THE FERRET 226
HIS LAST NIBBLE 229
IN HOT PURSUIT 230
PICKED UP 231
DOWN THE OLD FENCE 233
THE DOG LISTENING TO THE LAST SOUND 235
DID HE COME OUT? 236
THE HUNTING PARTY 239
DOG AND COON IN THE MIX-UP 244
HOME OF THE CARDINAL 249
CARDINAL'S NEST AND EGGS 252
WINTER IN THE NORTH 254
INDIGO BUNTING'S NEST WITH COWBIRD'S EGG 256
THE YOUNG INTERLOPER 258
A WELL-CONSTRUCTED HOME 259
MADAM VIREO AT HOME 260
THE USURPER 262
YOUNG FLICKERS 265
NEST AND EGGS OF TANAGER 267
LITTLE GREEN HERON'S NEST 268
LITTLE GREEN HERON'S NEST 269
LEAVING THE NEST 270
NEST AND EGGS OF GROSBEAK 272
NESTLINGS 273
FLEDGLINGS 274
TOM AT THE NEST 275
NEST AND EGGS OF BLUE-GRAY GNAT-CATCHER 276
NEST AND YOUNG OF GOLDFINCH 277
RED-SPOTTED PURPLE BUTTERFLY ON QUEEN ANNE'S LACE 278
YOUNG GOLDFINCH 280
NEST OF RED-WING BLACKBIRD 282
YOUNG RED-WING BLACKBIRDS 283
HOMES OF THE CLIFF SWALLOWS 285
NEST OF THE SONG SPARROW 287
A TRAGEDY IN NATURE 288
WOOD-THRUSH 289
NEST AND EGGS OF WOOD-THRUSH 290
UP A STUMP 291
WOOD-THRUSH'S NEST WITH YOUNG 292
NEST AND EGGS OF AMERICAN REDSTART 294
LADY REDSTART AND HER HOME 295
NEST AND EGGS OF BLUE-WINGED WARBLER 296
YOUNG WOODPECKERS FORAGING 297
NEST AND EGGS OF THE THRASHER 299
ON NIGHT TURN 300
YOUNG THRASHER 301
A DELIGHTFUL PLACE 306
CAUGHT 307
NEST AND EGGS OF RUFFED GROUSE 313
NOT CERTAIN 315
A SURE POINT 317
ORCHARD NEST OF MOURNING DOVE 318
TWO LITTLE TURTLE-DOVES 320

Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland

CHAPTER I

CRUISING AND HUNTING IN SOUTHEASTERN ALASKA

In the midst of the rustling and bustling on the pier, the creaking of
the block and tackle, and the hoisting of the duffel, could be heard the
loud, clear voice of the mate resounding in the evening twilight, "Heave
to!" "That's well," and similar expressions, all preparatory to our
departure for the far-away North, the land of glaciers, gold, and fish.
In the crowd were many sorts and conditions of men--and not the least in
evidence were the sturdy Norseman and the Scottish clansman,--some on
pleasure bent, some in search of the mighty beasts of the forest, still
others seeking their fortune in the vast gold-fields stretching on and
on into the great unknown beyond the Arctic Circle.

Among the ever-changing groups of humanity, my attention was attracted
to one, the center of which was a young man about one and twenty. As the
time drew near for our departure, around him gathered four or five young
ladies, who to all appearances were in sore distress. An only brother,
perhaps, was about to leave home and friends to seek his fortune in the
Land of the Midnight Sun. The old father, grizzled and gray, stood by
with dejected countenance and folded hands, the very picture of despair.
Presently one of the girls--the boy's sweetheart, as I afterwards
learned,--unable longer to stand the strain, threw her arms about her
lover and wept bitterly. What expressions of sadness upon the faces of
those left behind as the lamplight casts its pallid rays over them! And
now one staggers and falls into the arms of a friend. Then what a look
of grief upon the face of the young man peering over the ship's rail!
Such is the pathos of life at every turn, could we but see it.

[Illustration: Ketchikan]

On board the steamer was the Hon. Walter L. Fisher, Secretary of the
Interior, and his party, consisting of his son Walter, Alfred H.
Brooks, of the Geological Surveys Committee, Governor W. E. Clark of
Alaska, and reporters of various newspapers. Their mission was to
investigate the condition and wants of the people of Alaska. The genial
and pleasant old sea-dog, Captain Michael Jansen, was at the helm as the
steamer wedged her way towards the north.

For some two hundred miles we skirted the eastern shore of Vancouver
Island, lined to the water's edge with hemlock, spruce, and cedar,
through which occasionally bluish-white streaks of water came tumbling
down the mountain-side, each adding its own particular charm to the
scenery. The English Government has erected along the coast many
lighthouses for the protection of navigation, but after we passed
through Dixon's Entrance into Uncle Sam's domain, very few of these were
to be seen. Our Government seems to have given too little attention to
this matter.

[Illustration: Myriads of Salmon]

The first stop on the way north was Ketchikan, a little village nestled
snugly at the foothills, with its hospital, saloons, and all the usual
adjuncts of a mining town. It has a population of some five hundred
souls, whose principal occupation consists of fishing and mining. The
most interesting thing to sightseers was a stroll up the boardwalk
laid along a narrow winding stream that has its origin in the
snow-capped mountains. Pitching, tossing, and foaming it hurried down
the narrow gulch, seeking its level in the briny deep. It was alive with
myriads of salmon, jumping and leaping in their mad rush to the spawning
ground.

* * * * *

In the dawn of the following morning the boat plowed its way through the
green waters of the Strait toward Annette Island, a strip of land
covered to the water's edge with fir and cedar trees. The island is some
six miles long, and at the extreme end, on a small, gently sloping
plateau, is the little town of Metlakatla, which boasts a population of
about a thousand persons. It has its own canneries, saw-mills, and other
industries, and the people seem to be happy and contented. At the head
of the colony is Rev. William Duncan, who has done much for the uplift
of the many tribes of Indians in this locality.

[Illustration: Father Duncan]

"Father" Duncan relates that more than half a century ago, when a young
man of twenty-five, he was living in England. Upon his ordination as a
minister of the Established Church, Alaska was assigned him as the
field of his future life-work. His passage was paid and he arrived at
Victoria after a nine-months trip. The old man was very much agitated in
relating his early experience. On reaching Victoria, he of course
desired to enter at once upon his active duties, but the head official
of the town and the captain of the boat used every means in their power
to persuade him from going among the Indians, urging that they were
bloodthirsty savages and would surely kill him. He told them that he was
assigned to the field by the Board and could not think of changing his
plan without an order from his superiors, to procure which would
require at least two years. He must get to his labor of love right away.
However, he made one request of the officer in charge of the fort, and
it was this: he would like to spend about nine months with them in the
stockade, and wished they would send for the brightest young man of the
most powerful tribe, so that he might learn the language before going
among the savages. They granted his request, and in nine months he was
ready to deliver his first sermon.

[Illustration: Metlakatla]

[Illustration: Guest House]

The Indians were divided into various tribes, each at war with the
other. He thought if he could succeed in getting the chiefs together
and could tell them the Word of God in their own language, he would more
readily win their confidence and esteem. So he requested his interpreter
to call together all the chiefs to one central point, where he would
deliver his first sermon. "But oh!" he said, "when I saw before me the
assembled braves, decorated in all the colors of the rainbow, my courage
left me, and turning to my teacher, I begged of him to deliver the
message I had so carefully prepared to the gathered tribesmen. But he
positively refused, and told me his intrusion might cause a war, for
the tribes were very jealous of the power and influence of their
neighbors. Then I took courage and when I had spoken, oh! what an effect
it had upon them! Bodies were rigid and eyes seemed as though they would
pierce me through and through. The results were striking. They gathered
around in little groups, earnestly discussing the truths made known to
them and wondering who could be and whence came this strange white man
who spoke their own tongue.

[Illustration: "Father" Duncan's Church]

"From that day I became absorbed in my work. For thirty years I labored
among them at Old Metlakatla, when one day I was told that the natives
did not own the land and that the title was vested in the Queen of
England. The Indians could not understand how a sovereign whom they had
never seen could own the land over which they and their ancestors had
roamed for centuries, fishing, hunting, and trapping.

[Illustration: Where the Indians Roamed]

* * * * *

[Illustration: Street Scene in Metlakatla]

"I went down to Vancouver to examine into the matter, and the Premier
and Attorney-General advised me that such was the case. I was fearful
lest when the Indians learned this fact they would go on the war-path
and kill every white man in the country. I wrote a long letter to them
explaining conditions and saying that I would be back home to Old
Metlakatla as soon as I could. Shortly afterwards, much to my surprise,
a committee came to Vancouver to confer with me. When I saw them I was
greatly excited for fear they had decided upon war. When I inquired of
them what had been done at the meeting, they refused to tell me, so that
I was considerably worried over the matter. Although it was late in the
evening, I went immediately to the Attorney-General's home to advise him
of the situation. I told him I would give him all the information I had
that evening, but to-morrow, after I had learned the action taken, I
could not divulge a single word. I did not sleep much that night, and in
the morning, when I met the committee, imagine my relief when they told
me they had decided to leave English territory and seek a new home under
the Stars and Stripes. Shortly after that I went to Washington to
arrange matters, if possible, for a new location. I finally succeeded;
the United States Government gave Annette Island to my people for their
home, and here we have built the new Metlakatla."

[Illustration: Metlakatla Belles]

* * * * *

"Father" Duncan does not believe in educating the Indian children as
they are taught at Carlisle and similar institutions. Once while he was
visiting Carlisle at Commencement time, the orator of the day advised a
graduating class to go out among the white people and do as the whites
did. Speaking of the occasion, he remarked: "I thought as I listened,
'Oh, what a mistake for them to leave their fathers and mothers, now too
old to work, and become worthless and idle, unfitted for the duties of
life!'" With deep emotion the old man pointed across the woods toward
the cemetery, and said: "Over yonder lie the remains of about thirty
young men, the pick of their tribe, who attended such schools, adopted
the white man's mode of living, and contracted tuberculosis, to which
they fall ready victims. They are by nature so constituted that they
require outdoor life and outdoor exercise."

While "Father" Duncan was talking, the Secretary of the Interior came
out of the Town Hall, where he had been holding a conference with the
Town Council, and he and "Father" Duncan walked down the boardwalk
toward the cannery and from there to the boat. As the steamer was about
to depart, the passengers gave three rousing cheers for the grand old
man who had spent fifty-five years of useful life among these simple
children of nature. Scarcely had the echo of the last cheer resounded
from the hills about the bay, when, as the steamer left the wharf, the
Indians gave three mightier cheers for the Secretary and another three
for Governor Clark.

[Illustration: Indians Cheering the Secretary]

About midnight of the third day the fog-horn began to blow, repeating
the blast every ten minutes or more, and the engine bells tinkled,
tinkled all through the night. Sleep being out of the question, we were
up early the next morning, and to our great surprise were informed by
the pilot that the _Wizard of the Northern Sea_ had been caught in the
fog and had traveled scarcely a mile; in fact, we were obliged to return
from the Narrows and wait for the fog to lift. As the old pilot
expressed it: "Great Golly! it was a bad night, without a place to throw
the anchor and the current running miles an hour." The old sea-dog had a
fine face, carved with stern lines. As he related with his Danish accent
the stories of how two men-of-war and several other vessels had met
their doom in those waters, hundreds on board going down, the little
group was all attention. Even as he talked, he pointed out the partly
concealed rocks where the men-of-war had met their fate, and over which
the water now broke in innocent-looking ripples.

After thirteen hours waiting for flood tide and the lifting of the fog,
we steamed slowly through Wrangel Narrows. What a sight as the sun
dispelled the fog! I have seen at night in a puddling mill a ball of
molten metal on its way from the furnace to the "squeezers" and, when
"soused" with water, emitting a blue flame and vapor. The sun at
Wrangel Narrows was such a ball of molten metal, while the fog clinging
to the leeward side of the mountain peaks was the vapor, and the peaks
and crags with heads towering far above the clouds were the stacks and
beams of a monster mill. Occasionally as we glide along, aquatic birds
soar through the air in search of their morning meal; blackfish sport in
the water, their fins cutting the surface as they disappear into the
depths; and now a little snipe, flying around and around, trying to
alight on the vessel, causes a stir among the passengers. A short
distance away appears the head of a seal, evidently in search of its
prey, and the leaping fish tell the rest of the story. How many things
appeal to the lover of nature!

On account of the swift current and concealed rocks, the Narrows can be
navigated with safety only in daylight, and I learned that the policy
issued by marine insurance companies contains a clause under which no
recovery can be had in event of accident to a steamer while passing
through the Narrows by night.

Here and there lay an old hull cast high and dry on the rocks, after
being tossed and pitched about in the powerful currents until it was
battered and broken out of all resemblance to a boat. The old _Portland_
was pointed out in the distance, not yet a complete wreck, her mast
erect, hull submerged, and the breakers booming and splashing over her.
A feeling of sadness came over at least one of the party at the pleasant
recollections of a former hunting trip made on the _Portland_ with the
big-hearted and greatly beloved Captain Moore, who has since passed over
the Great Divide.

[Illustration: Totems at Sitka]

[Illustration: Indian War Canoe]

Wrangel, the next port of entry, was reached in due time. To the
tourists the most noteworthy objects are the totem-poles. Indian
totem-poles are erected in even the smallest Indian settlements along
the coast as far north as Sitka. Visitors are always interested in their
picturesque carving. All kinds of grotesque figures of birds, animals,
and fish are cut into the smooth surface of trees after the bark is
removed. Contrary to what seems to be a very general belief, the natives
do not worship totem-poles as idols, but regard them as a sort of family
register. When a great event takes place, in order that it may be
commemorated, they erect a totem; a successful hunter in the tribe
becomes well known for his deeds of valor,--straightway he selects a
family crest and up goes his totem, tinted with all the colors of the
rainbow. Sometimes the poles illustrate legends handed down from
generation to generation,--the stories and traditions of this
simple-minded people. Ages ago, according to "Father" Duncan, the
Indians adopted totems or crests to distinguish the social clans into
which the race is said to be divided, and each clan is represented
symbolically by some character, such as the finback whale, the grizzly
bear, the frog, the eagle, etc. All Indian children take the crest of
their mother and they do not regard the members of their father's
family as relatives. Therefore a man's heir or his successor is not his
own son, but his sister's son. Not often can an Indian be persuaded to
rehearse to a stranger the story represented by the carvings on a pole.
Here is a legend which is told of one totem-pole: A very long time ago
an old chief with his wife and two small children pitched his wigwam at
the mouth of a stream when the salmon were running to spawn. The old
squaw, in order to get some spruce boughs with which to gather salmon
eggs, pushed her _bidarka_, or sealskin boat, into the water, and
telling her two little papooses to get into the boat, paddled them
across the stream. As she pulled the _bidarka_ up on the other shore she
instructed the children to remain in the boat till she returned. She
came back in a short time with her load, only to discover that the
children were gone. Many times she called to them, but always they
answered to her from the woods with the voices of crows, and when she
tried to follow them they would keep calling to her from some other
direction. She returned to the boat again, gave up the children for
lost, and going back to the wigwam reported to the chief that an old
white trapper with a big beard had carried away the two little children.
To commemorate this event they had a totem-pole carved to show the beard
of the white trapper, and frequently point it out as an example to
refractory children.

* * * * *

Our next stop was at Petersburg, a typical Alaskan town, with its
cannery, saw-mill, and myriads of herring gulls on the wing and on the
water. The old totem-poles which had stood for many, many years, worn
almost smooth by the constant beating of the elements, excited a great
deal of curiosity, and made one wish for some occult power wherewith to
read the mysteries of the past. At one pole the party, consisting of
several doctors, was much absorbed, and after considerable study
deciphered the figure of an old witch doctor carved on the top and below
it what seemed to be a squaw, which they interpreted as very suggestive
of the operation of laparotomy.

[Illustration: Petersburg]

A few miles from Petersburg we saw the first ice floe with its deep
marine coloring, floating slowly towards the open sea. Two days and
nights of continual rain were very oppressive and trying on sociability,
but when the welcome sun reappeared, how enjoyable was the contrast! The
mountain-sides in the foreground, clad with verdure from the base half
way to the snowy summit, had for a background the arched dome of the
heavens, filled with vari-colored clouds. Here and there streams of
crystal water coursed down the mountain-side, whence each took a final
leap over the rocks into the boiling and seething maelstrom, throwing
spray in every direction.

[Illustration: Streams of Crystal Water]

An interesting visit was had to the Treadwell mine, where the voice of
man could not be heard above the noise of the many stamp mills pounding
away, crushing the low-grade ores. At six o'clock the day shift is
leaving the mines and the night force entering. As the up cage
discharges its load of human freight the down cage is ready, packed so
tightly that it would be almost impossible for a passenger to turn
sideways. Down into the perpendicular shaft for several hundred feet the
miners descended, and from there they scattered through the entries
drifted out underneath the bay, where the best paying rock is to be
found.

Juneau, the capital of Alaska, almost directly across from the mines,
was our next stopping-place. The deck hands, at the command of the first
officer, threw out the gang-plank. Before it was rightly adjusted, the
crowd was waiting eagerly to get ashore. The dock was wet and slippery,
for it was raining as usual, the low-hanging clouds shutting out the
view of the snow-covered mountain-tops in the background. All hunters in
the party made straightway for the Governor's office to secure licenses
at fifty dollars apiece, which entitled each one to shoot two bull
moose. But in order that a trophy may be brought out of Alaska, the Act
of Congress makes it obligatory to pay an additional fee of one hundred
and fifty dollars. It seems to me absurd to permit the killing of moose
and to encourage leaving the trophies where they fall. A subsequent
experience on the Kenai River bore out this conclusion very forcibly. On
the river we came across a party of hunters from Texas who had killed a
very large moose having a noble spread of horn. The body was left to rot
on the shore. One of our party who did not care to shoot would gladly
have taken the trophy home to decorate his den, but the one hundred and
fifty dollars was strictly prohibitory. I am satisfied this party killed
several moose and left them because the trophies would not justify the
additional cost of bringing them out.

We spent several hours in Juneau sending cablegrams and watching a black
bear chained in the middle of the main street. He was walking around and
around, as though guarding the entrance to the town. Every person
passing kept a safe distance, but occasionally a visitor unawares
approached too near and afforded fun for the onlookers when he made a
desperate get-away.

[Illustration: Lighthouse near Dixon's Entrance]

[Illustration: Sitka]

Leaving Juneau the boat turned south quite a distance in order to reach
Sitka. Some time was lost waiting for high tide before we could get
through the Narrows, full tide being about eleven o'clock P.M. The night
was very dark and the fog thick, making it difficult to keep the boat in
the channel. As the old Dane afterwards said, we could keep our course
only by noting the echo of the fog-horn as it reverberated among the
distant hills; but with great skill we were taken safely through, and
when morning dawned clear and bright, we found we were fast approaching
Sitka. Many interesting things were to be seen from the deck as we
glided over the water. The reflection of the mountains was beautiful and
one could scarcely distinguish the real shore line. Here and there an
old bald eagle (_Haliætus leucocephalus_) stood sentinel on some dead
tree-top, while the great blue heron (_Ardea herodias_) waded along the
edge of the water in search of something to eat. Thus we were
entertained for hours as we neared Sitka. About noon the shrill blast of
the whistle reminded us that the town was in sight. Just as soon as the
gang-plank was lowered there was a rush for shore, and every person was
on his way to see the sights of Sitka.

[Illustration: Priests of the Greek Church at Sitka]

The town was founded in 1799 by Governor Baranoff, a Russian explorer,
and is beautifully situated on Baranoff Island. The old Russian Greek
church stood there just as it did a hundred years before, with the
exception of a new coat of paint, and the priests were in their church
garb as of yore. Tourists always visit the old church to see the
magnificent Madonna and other paintings brought over from Russia in the
last century. On the main street stands the old log-cabin erected many
years ago by the Hudson Bay Company and used as a trading post. The
Government has set aside a reservation for a public park, and many
totem-poles have been set up all along the roadway. Indian squaws were
squatted on the dock selling their little trinkets, such as miniature
totem-poles, sealskin moccasins, and vases carved in many forms.

While leaving Sitka the picturesque snow-crowned Mount Edgecumbe
serrated the horizon on the left, and on the right the sky-line was much
the same. Both shores were advancing nearer and nearer, and it looked as
though we were in a cul-de-sac. Presently we passed through Icy Straits,
so named because of the many icebergs which, broken from a neighboring
glacier, find their way hither.

[Illustration: Fairweather Range]

As we reached the open ocean, "Gony," as the sailors call the
black-footed albatross (_Diomedea nigripes_), followed in the wake of
the steamer, porpoise raced with us, rushing and dodging alongside the
boat, occasionally turning their silver bellies skyward and flaunting
their tails to show how easy it was for them to keep up with us. The
race continued at intervals for more than an hour before they
disappeared, and by that time the long swells of the water rocking the
steamer had taken effect and many of the passengers disappeared from the
decks. Many miles to the right the purple foothills of the Fairweather
range could be seen. Muir Glacier glittering in the distance added to
the fascination of the scenery. Along the coast wild strawberries, with
their delicate flowers, their fruit sought alike by man, beast, and
fowl, grew very abundantly. The weather was just fine and the conditions
right (something unusual in this neighborhood) to see the great Mount
St. Elias, at least a hundred and fifty miles due north, and her English
cousin, Mount St. Logan, farther off across the border line. The
Fairweather range extends for many miles along the coast. The white ice
fields glitter in the sunshine and at sunset a halo of many colors hangs
over the mountains.

[Illustration: Upper Ice Fields]

[Illustration: The Author Looking into a Crevasse]

Alaska seems to be a chosen land for glaciers. The warm Japan stream
washes the coast line, the topography of which is well adapted to
fashion glaciers out of the heavy snowfall precipitated by the cooling
of the humid air as it strikes the mountains. When the lofty summits and
surrounding fields have accumulated more snow than they are able to
retain, it gradually advances toward the valleys. When it leaves the
summit it is soft and flaky, but alternate thawing and freezing
gradually change its condition into a granulated form of ice. The
pressure of the great body of snow above, the change of the atmospheric
conditions, assisted by gravity, are the causes which enter into the
formation of the solid glacier ice. These conditions may be increased or
diminished by earthquakes and mild winters. Like a great river it
advances toward the mouth of the valley, and as the immense body of ice
moves downward, it brings with it by erosion huge pieces of rock, earth,
and trees. This debris thrown upon the ice is called moraine, and where
the moraine gathers the thickest it protects the ice. When the hot
summer sun thaws the unprotected ice, tiny streamlets flow from here and
there. These gradually increase in number and size, and as they grow
larger and larger cut their way down into the ice, forming deep
crevasses, and finally reach bedrock. The interior color of the
crevasses is a deep blue and this changes to a light blue at the outer
edge where exposed to light. Standing on the brink one can throw a huge
boulder into the opening and hear it rumbling for some time before it
reaches the bottom. A glacier that is receding slowly is known locally
as a dead glacier, and one advancing as a live glacier. However, a live
glacier may become a dead one, and _vice versa_. A dead glacier has
frequently readvanced after years of inactivity, carrying with it trees
which had grown up in its course. Columbia glacier in Prince William
Sound is an example of this type.

A tiny snowflake falls on the mountain-top, is covered in turn by many
others, and disappears for many years. Gradually the whole mass, by its
own weight, is pushed down into the valley and solidified. Not a ray of
light can penetrate through the thick glacier ice; the little snowflake
has been completely immured. After years, perhaps centuries, it finally
reappears at sea level, with myriads of others of its kind congealed
into one solid mass, which breaks off and floats seaward, clothed in
beautiful blue. But it is such a cold, heartless beauty, for until
melted away the little snowflake is part of a tremendous mass, whose
weight and silent progress are a constant and dreaded menace to human
life; many a steamer has been sunk by striking an iceberg.

At the head of Yakutat Bay is situated the Indian village of Yakutat. It
has its cannery and saw-mill and village church, in which last is a
large and very interesting totem carved out of the butt of a tree. I
have heard it said that these poles are not found north of Sitka. This
one is several hundred miles farther north. There is only the one, and
it may have been a trophy or a gift. I was unable to get any account of
its past or any interpretation of its symbolic carvings.

[Illustration: Native Women Trading]

Before we landed we noticed the natives coming from every possible
direction; some in their canoes, others walking, but all loaded down
with their trinkets to sell to the passengers on the steamer. When we
landed on the dock the women were squatting on the floor, all in a row,
displaying their goods. When a kodak was pointed at them they concealed
their faces and demanded "two bits" as the price of a shot. There was
among them a young mother with her babe whom I was anxious to
photograph, but her price was higher and I was required to raise the
amount to "eight bits" before she would step out into the sun for a
snap-shot. I was afraid to take a time picture for fear she would "shy"
before I got it.

[Illustration: Mother and Babe]

[Illustration: Playing in the Sand]

The old village, up the shore about a mile, was reached by a narrow walk
along the coast line. The walk through the sparsely-growing spruce and
cottonwood was delightful. Ravens flew about here and there, hoarsely
calling as we passed by. The undergrowth consisted principally of berry
bushes--salmon-berries, blueberries, and red raspberries--and as we
walked along we gathered handfuls of the luscious fruit from each in
turn as our taste inclined. When we reached the village with its wide
beach--for the tide was out--our attention was attracted toward a couple
of the native belles, who were sitting tracing on the sand with their
fingers images of fish, birds, and animals. We approached suddenly,
cutting off their retreat. Being naturally shy and timid they ceased
writing, and when they saw us point the camera toward them, turned their
backs. I suggested to my friend that he walk around to the opposite
side, take out his kodak as though to photograph them, and when they
turned around I would take a snap, which ruse worked admirably.

[Illustration: Native Boys out Gunning]

Abandoning the party at this point, I took a stroll through the woods.
There I happened upon half a dozen native boys shooting at a mark with
guns. They were not aware of my presence until one of the boys standing
apart from the others noticed what I was doing. Before he got away,
however, I had his image on the film. I walked away a few steps and sat
down on a log to put in a new film. When I lifted my head, to my
surprise every last one of the little rascals had me covered with his
gun. One emphatic sentence from me wilted their timid spirits and they
skulked away.

[Illustration: Sunset near St. Elias]

The attractive feature of Yakutat is a favorable view of Mt. St. Elias.
When we were going up the bay the heavy clouds shrouded the mountain,
obstructing our view, and how disappointed were the passengers as the
boat steamed on toward the head of the bay, where the nearer peaks would
shut off our view of St. Elias, even if other conditions had been
favorable! But when we were leaving the harbor the same day the
atmospheric conditions were just right to array the scene in all its
splendor. The air was filled with low floating clouds fringed with the
most brilliant colors from the setting sun, and as the clouds lifted,
the purple foothills added splendor and enchantment to the slope that
extended its snow-capped peak eighteen thousand feet into the blue
concave of the heavens. Up to this time aboard our ship peace,
happiness, and sociability reigned supreme, but when the open waters of
the Pacific were reached and the "woollies," as the fierce blasts from
the icy ranges are called by the sailors, struck us, tossing the spray
over the pitching, rocking, and quivering steamer, sociability
disappeared and peace and happiness left the faces of all the
passengers, while the pallor of death overspread blooming countenances.
Thereupon the fishes became alert and the herring gulls, gracefully
soaring in the wake of the steamer, uttered their hungry call of
expectation. Surely 'tis an ill wind that blows no good.

[Illustration: Cape St. Elias]

The steamer belched forth the smoke from its stack as we moved slowly
along the coast toward Katella harbor, the next port of entry. For fifty
miles on the right of us could be seen the terminal edge of the famous
Malaspina glacier, looking like the white crest of breakers crashing
against a rocky coast. Ahead of us appeared Cape St. Elias, one of the
most picturesque promontories of Alaska. Its divided point projected a
long way into the ocean and the captain gave it a wide berth.

* * * * *

On reaching Controller Bay the good ship anchored in the poor harbor.
Presently a boat, hailing from the revenue cutter _Tahoma_, pulled by
eight sturdy seamen dressed in their clean, picturesque suits of blue
and white, drew near the side of the steamer, and the officer in charge,
tall and erect, a fine specimen of manhood, came up the rope ladder and
made straight toward Secretary Fisher. In a short time one of the seamen
was on the top deck gesticulating with hat and handkerchief to the
cutter in the distance. On the cutter could be seen against the sky-line
an ensign going through similar signs in answer to the instructions
given. The Secretary and his party left the steamer very quietly without
a cheer, and as he arrived on the cutter the booming of the cannon,
repeated nineteen times, signaled the reception of the party.

Controller Bay is not a natural harbor and the problem it presents is
whether an engineer can construct at a reasonable cost an artificial
harbor that will protect vessels from the terrific gales that sweep the
coast during the winter months. Engineers differ on this matter; some
say that the solution of the problem is a great dike constructed of
concrete, and others think that a wall could not be built strong enough
to withstand the powerful currents and massive ice floes of Controller
Bay, and for this reason it is believed that the only terminal
facilities for the Behring coal fields are at Cordova, by water some
hundred miles farther north.

At the present time a railroad is being built up the Copper River
valley, which is the natural gateway to the great coal and copper
deposits of the interior and the rich Tanana Valley. In constructing a
railroad up this valley serious difficulties must be overcome. The
question of labor is very important. Because of the continual rains and
the short open season the highest wages must be paid. To get up the
valley, it is necessary to cross the Copper River between two glaciers,
and the topography of the country is such that it is a difficult
engineering feat to construct a roadbed that will not be carried away by
the spring freshets and the glaciers, which are continually changing.
Miles and Childs glaciers vary in their movements, at times receding and
again advancing, controlled by forces which are not fully understood.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Hinchinbrook Island]

[Illustration: Valdez after the Flood]

[Illustration: Bruin in a Steel Trap]

Leaving Katella we soon pass Cape Hinchinbrook, where several steamers
have been cast ashore and wrecked upon the rocky coast. Entering Prince
William Sound we find the water smoother and a pleasant run is made to
Cordova, the present terminus of the Copper River Railroad. Our next
stop was Valdez, with its land-locked harbor. The town is built
practically on the moraine of a glacier. Sometimes the channel of a
glacier stream changes; in the year 1911 such a change took place and
carried away about half of the town. In order to prevent a similar
accident in the future, the citizens turned out and constructed a levee
of logs, rocks, and sand. Valdez glacier extends down from the summit a
distance of twenty miles, the foot being about five miles from the
town. During the winter of 1898 gold was first discovered near Center
City in the interior. The excitement was great at Valdez, some seven
thousand men gathering from all parts of the States to seek their
fortunes. So great was the rush for the gold-fields that one continuous
procession of prospectors, carrying all kinds of outfits, passed
northward over the glacier. The following year many perished on their
way out. My guide carried the mail that year, and on one trip found
seven men who had frozen to death, having been caught in a storm on the
glacier. The whole party were very weak on account of scurvy and unable
to reach Valdez. When found, two were lashed to sleds and one was
sitting on a piece of ice, his head resting on his hands. On the same
trip my guide came upon an old miner frozen to death, still holding to
the handle of his dog sleigh, while the dog lay curled up in a ball,
still alive and still in the harness.

After spending several days at Valdez, arrangements were made with the
captain of the _Hammond_ for a small boat to take us about fifty miles
south into Gravenna Bay. Our little skiff was towed behind all day, and
at five o'clock in the evening we were informed by the captain that he
was afraid to go up the bay any farther for fear of striking a rock.
Consequently our camping outfit had to be piled into our dory in a
pouring rain, and after the captain gave two gongs, as the pilot
shouted, "Great luck, boys!" the tug left us and disappeared around the
cape in the distance. And here we were, fifty miles from human
habitation, dependent for our return to civilization upon making
connections with this same little tug at its next visit a month later.

Prepared for the rain with rubber boots and oilcoats, we pulled towards
the head of the bay, before the wind and on a flowing tide, so that our
little craft fairly glided over the water. About twilight we pitched
camp in a drenching rain. If there is one thing more than another which
dampens the enthusiasm for the wild, it is making camp with everything
soaked. But by perseverance in due time we were getting our supper,
snugly housed in our eight by ten tent, and happier than kings in a
royal palace. To the music of the rain I soon fell asleep.

In the morning consciousness was restored by the "quack, quack" of the
ducks and the splash of the salmon running to their spawning
ground,--the occasional wriggling splash of an old "humpback" who had
run up the shore too far and was trying to get back into deeper water,
the loud splash of the high jumper, and the faint swish of the thousands
on their way to fresh water. After breakfast I donned my hunting outfit
and strolled along the beach until I reached the mouth of a small creek
which flowed into the bay. I was amazed at the number of humpback salmon
(_Oncorhynchus gorbuscha_) ascending the stream to spawn, some green and
fresh from the briny deep, others changed to a dark lead color by
contact with the fresh water, and others, struggle-worn, almost
without scales or skin to cover their bodies. They were running
upstream by the thousands.

[Illustration: Salmon Running Up Stream to Spawn]

* * * * *

[Illustration: Killing Fish with a Club]

[Illustration: Gulls Feeding on Salmon]

[Illustration: A Good Fisherman]

[Illustration: Dogs Fishing for Salmon]

There was a flock of red-breasted mergansers (_Merganser serrator_) on a
pool nearby. I crept quietly to the brink, and, hat off, peeped over.
After the shot was fired it was interesting to see the flock trying to
dive; the fish were so thickly massed that the ducks could not get below
the surface of the water. This disturbance caused a rush of the fish and
they madly churned the water in their efforts to get away from an
imaginary enemy. In shallow riffles the fish were so crowded that it
was almost impossible to wade across the stream without being thrown by
tramping upon them or tripped by others trying to get away. Closer
observation showed them in pairs, rooting their noses into the sand and
gravel to make a hole; in this the female deposited the eggs and the
male covered them with a milky substance, both turning sideways at the
same time and both flapping their tails in covering the spawn.
Frequently I could see two males or two females fighting each other,
striking with their tails and biting like dogs, trying to get possession
of a hole in the sand in which the spawn might be deposited. Looking at
the horde all tattered and torn, I could not but admire their pluck and
perseverance in ascending the stream over stones and other obstacles,
with scarcely enough water to cover half their bodies, in order that the
laws of nature might be obeyed and the species propagated. When the tide
went out many were caught high and dry on the shore, and became a prey
for birds and beasts. Thousands of gulls gathered daily, feeding on the
dead fish, and almost invariably picking out the eyes first, these
being the choicest morsels, according to their taste. I have frequently
come across fish still alive, though robbed of their eyes. Our first
method of getting fish was to arm ourselves with clubs, walk into the
shallow riffles, select some just fresh from the salt water and hit them
with our clubs. We abandoned this method because several were killed
before we got one that was fresh. We then tied a halibut hook on the end
of a pole and, sitting on a rock, waited until a fresh fish appeared. As
we caught sight of him some distance away we would gradually move the
hook into position and land him.

It rained for several days and nights, causing the water in the creek to
rise very high and run with considerable current. At this time the shore
was salmon-colored with eggs uncovered by the swift water. All the fresh
streams near camp were so polluted with dead fish that the water could
not be used, and we were obliged to go above for some distance to get
pure water.

* * * * *

Before leaving Valdez we had taken a little walk out from town, and came
across a small stream of pure ice-cold water that had its source in the
snow of the mountain. Occasionally could be seen salmon returning to
their spawning ground. I have no doubt that before Valdez was built the
stream was famous for the annual hordes of fish that returned to spawn
(and, as is believed by some, to die), but I was told that the number is
getting less and less and now only a very few frequent the stream. While
watching them our attention was drawn to a dog jumping into the water
and others splashing about, dashing first in one direction and then
another, trying to catch the fish. How amusing to see the fish dart
between the legs of their would-be captors, out of the shallows and
into deeper water! Occasionally the dogs would catch them and bring them
to shore. Had we had the dogs with us at Gravenna Bay, what sport we
might have had!

[Illustration: Indian Hut]

While writing my notes one evening I smelled something burning, and on
turning around saw our bed all ablaze, caught by a spark from the wood
fire. If the fire had caught in our absence it would have been a very
serious matter. Imagine our predicament to have been without food and
shelter, many miles from civilization.

[Illustration: Indian Graves]

On one of our side trips we happened upon an Indian and his family,
living in a little hut constructed of logs and other materials. He could
talk no English and we could not understand him. After exchanging
several grunts and shaking hands we started to go, when we noticed his
small boy coming towards us, holding out a paper in his hand. Opening
it, we found the following written in a legible hand: "To all to whom
these presents come: This is to notify all miners and trappers that
there are bear traps set in these diggings." My guide was always more
or less uneasy for fear of stepping into a steel trap set on a game
trail along the stream.

[Illustration: Indian Woman Repairing the Bidarka]

The vegetation along the banks of the creek was almost tropical in its
density, and when the fish were spawning, bear frequented the place to
catch their prey, which they carried to the bank and devoured. Often we
could see the remains of fish left partly consumed, indicating that the
bears had been disturbed at their meal. Doubtless they had heard the
commotion of the fish trying to get away from us as we ascended the
stream.

One day while paddling our little boat along the water's edge, my guide
called attention to an object in the distance which I was unable to make
out for some time, but which the experienced eye of the hunter had
observed a long way off, though he was unable to determine exactly what
it was. Finally, as we approached nearer, he exclaimed, "Caught his own
dog!" and sure enough, there was the Indian's dog caught in the steel
trap set for bear. The poor fellow was whining from pain, as though
pleading with us to release him. I wanted the guide to take him out, but
he said the dog might bite him and we had better notify the owner, for
even if released the dog could never reach home in his present
condition. While coming along he told the following story:

"Several years ago there were two white men trapping on a little stream
that emptied into the Copper River, and one of them was caught in a
steel trap. The bones between the knee and the ankle were crushed where
the huge iron jaws came together. After being in the trap for a long
time, by almost superhuman efforts he succeeded in extricating his leg.
Fortunately he was not far from his boat, and dragging himself over and
under fallen trees he reached the dory, almost exhausted. Taking the
oars he pulled several miles to reach his cabin. A day or two afterwards
I happened along and found the man suffering great pain, and saw that
unless the leg were taken off he would lose his life. We were a hundred
miles from a doctor, and before aid could reach him he would have died.
After talking the matter over with his partner, it was agreed that I was
to cut the leg off in order to save his life, if possible. All the tools
we had were a hunting knife and an old rusty saw which had hung in the
cabin for several years. We boiled water to clean the tools as well as
possible, inserted the end of the old saw in the fire to take off the
rust, retempered the teeth in bear oil, got deer sinews ready to tie the
arteries, and with these tools I cut the leg off. During the time I was
at work the injured man frequently advised us what to do. He recovered
from the operation in due time and is now alive and well." My guide
afterwards pointed the man out to me.

[Illustration: Sunrise]

In this location we spent about a week. We had no difficulty in killing
all the teal (_Nettium carolinensis_) and Canada geese (_Branta
canadensis_) that we cared to eat, and, when the tide was down, in
gathering all the clams desired. During the month that we spent in this
part of the country it rained continually, night and day, with the
exception of three days, which I spent in photographing. The sun would
burst through the clouds like a huge search-light, casting its rays upon
the tropical luxuriance of the underbrush, reflecting back a sparkling
radiance from myriads of tiny rain-drops. We changed our camp
occasionally for new grounds, and one evening we had pitched our tent
without pinning it down. It was raining, as usual, and after eating a
scanty meal we threw our blankets on the ground and retired early. Some
time in the night I heard the crackling of the rank grass. My first
impression was that there was a porcupine skulking near, but as we
listened my guide said, "There's a bear outside!" We had thrown down on
the grass at the edge of the tent what was left of a side of bacon, and
Mr. Bruin was trying to get it from under the canvas. I immediately
jumped up, grabbed my "405," and started towards the flap of the tent,
but about the time I reached it there came two loud "woofs," accompanied
by the sound of crashing bushes, and that was the last we heard of Old
Bruin.

[Illustration: Our Permanent Camp]

At the head of one of the fiords in the neighborhood, there was a
glacier of considerable size, and on looking over the desolation I half
expected to find a glacier bear (_Ursus emmonsi_). Comparatively little
is known about the habits of this animal. The only one in captivity is
in the public park at Seattle. It is a fine specimen, and as it walks up
and down behind the bars its wild nature seems to predominate in every
movement. In the adjoining cages are black and grizzly bears, but they
seem to be satisfied in captivity, while the glacier bear reminds one of
a hyena as it paces from end to end, occasionally throwing its head into
the air. The fur is a bluish black beneath, with outer grayish tips.

In the early morning I started alone in the direction of the dead
glacier, crossed the glacier stream easily to the opposite side, which
looked more inviting of access, working my way up over the lateral
moraine, searching among the crevasses, and now and again getting into a
"pocket," from which I had to retrace my steps. Towards evening I turned
homeward. When I reached the stream, I thought I had located the ford
where I had previously crossed, but on making the attempt, I found the
water too deep and swift. Many times I tried to cross at different
points, thinking each time I had found the ford. I would wade out into
the ice-cold stream until I felt the swift current almost lifting me off
my feet, and then would make a hasty return. It was beginning to get
dark and I was anxious to get home, so I lifted a large stone in my arm
to give me additional weight and started toward a little eddy,
cautiously feeling my way. When I reached the eddy I felt my feet
sinking in the sand. My first thought was of a quick-sand, and I shall
never forget the sensation as I hurriedly dropped the stone and made a
mad rush for shore. However, I finally succeeded in reaching the other
side safely. Before arriving at camp I heard the report of a gun from
the direction of home, for the guide had grown uneasy and thought I was
lost.

A few more days' experience in the rain, among the glaciers, then we
broke camp at high tide and drifted with the ebb flow out along the
shore until we reached the outermost projection of rocks, and there
awaited the return of the tug which would take us back to Valdez.

CHAPTER II

OBSERVATIONS ON KODIAK ISLAND

[Illustration: An Island near Valdez]

In the following spring, about the middle of May, we purchased an outfit
at Valdez for a trip westward along the Alaskan peninsula. After being
bottled up two days in the port of Valdez, we were anxious to get
started. The steamer approached the narrow entrance to the harbor, with
Fort Liscom, a Government post, on the left, and on the right glaciers
and wooded foothills. As we neared the neck it looked as though the
stopper was in the bottle and our exit barred by an island; but an
abrupt curve at the entrance took us into Prince William Sound, and in
due time along Knight's Island and Latouche Island, where copper is
found in paying quantities. And here is the most beautiful glacier of
Alaska, the Columbia, with its palisades at times advancing into the
forest and at times receding. A large flock of phalaropes (_Phalaropus
lobatus_) darting back and forth over the surface of the water, formed
geometric figures in the most graceful manner; occasionally the gray
back most conspicuous and then the silvery underside shining, each
little plume helping to make one perfect reflection in the water as they
move in regular form, without any disarranging of the original
positions, until they alight gracefully on the water. The greater
scaup-duck (_Aythya marila nearctica_), with its white spots so
noticeable as it takes its occasional upward flight from the water, is
always interesting. However, it prefers diving out of sight for a place
of safety as the steamer approaches, coming to the surface from time to
time until the boat is quite near, when, after a last long dive, it is
off on the wing as fast as possible out of harm's way.

In the distance to the westward as we entered Resurrection Bay, loomed
up the majestic Cathedral Rock, towering skyward a thousand feet, with
the Government survey cross on the top, and the roaring breakers washing
its foot, filling the coast line with make-believe soap-suds. Near the
water's edge the rocks were white with gulls mating for the nesting-time.
With the consent of the captain a shot was fired in that direction,
which struck the water some distance from the rock, and myriads of gulls
took to wing with their wild cry of alarm. Some person shouted, "There's
a whale!" and all were anxiously waiting for his reappearance, but his
huge tail had disappeared to us for the last time. About this time a
gull soared gracefully over the steamer and a fellow-passenger, rifle in
hand, pointed the muzzle at the bird, and pulled the trigger, bringing
down a feather from its wing. At the same time the first officer
shouted, "Here, here! Don't shoot that gull! You'll bring us bad luck."
There is a well founded superstition among the "old sea-dogs" that to
kill a gull will bring bad luck.

[Illustration: Sea Lion Rocks]

About dusk, as we steamed westward, our attention was called to Sea Lion
Rocks, and the genial Captain Jansen steered the ship within five
hundred yards of the island in order that we might see the lions. The
rocks were covered with the large animals, and they made such an uproar
as we passed that they could be heard a long distance off above the
noise of the breakers.

Along the coast of Kenai Peninsula the mountains are covered with
spruce, hemlock, and birch, until we enter Resurrection Bay, at the
head of which Seward is built. The first time I visited Seward it was
practically abandoned. It was the terminus of a new railroad in process
of construction across the peninsula, having as its objective point the
placer mines of the Susitna Valley. Like a great many other projects of
this kind, there was not sufficient money subscribed to finish the
undertaking, and the company was forced into the hands of a receiver.

[Illustration: Seward]

[Illustration: Seldovia]

The next stop on our way west was Seldovia. The old Russian church where
we attended services was built on a little knoll that overlooked the
harbor, and from it we could see the native burial ground with its
dilapidated grave marks. When we entered the church the natives did not
seem to be much interested in us. While the sermon is being delivered
the women occupy one side of the house and the men the other. During the
services they paid close attention to what was going on. There were no
seats in the church and all the parties stood during the entire time of
worship. When the incense was being burned, filling the room with sweet
fragrance, the expression on the features of the worshipers manifested a
devout frame of mind and spirit not often in evidence.

In the harbor were hundreds of gulls, floating leisurely on the surface
of the water or standing on the logs that drifted with the tide.

Among the passengers on the steamer was a delicate little lady with her
three-year-old child, who was on the way to meet her husband at
Iliamnia, some sixty miles across the bay. I remember how indignant the
passengers were when they learned there was no person present to meet
her when she arrived, and no prospect of her getting across Cook's Inlet
for more than a week. A purse was raised among the passengers, all
contributing, and with the aid of the captain of the revenue cutter,
who in ordinary cases would take no passengers, the little lady was
started on her trip across the Inlet the following morning, happy in the
expectation of meeting her husband.

[Illustration: Turbulent Shellicoff]

[Illustration: The Ravens]

While crossing the entrance to Shellicoff Straits we encountered a very
rough sea and the steamer tossed and pitched among the billows. That
evening, as we steamed towards Kodiak Island, the clouds were fringed
with pink and purple and through a rift the sun illuminated sky and
water with all the splendor and brilliance of those northwestern
sunsets. Passing to the left of Afognak Island, we entered the harbor at
Kodiak. The village, with its Greek church similar in structure to the
old chapel at Sitka, is built on a plateau and surrounded with sloping,
verdure-clad hills. The population consists of about four hundred, a few
of them whites, the rest Aliutes and Creoles. The ravens (_Corvus corax
principalis_) were very plentiful, and their croaking could be heard in
all directions. One old fellow continually perched on the top of a
shanty used as the district jail. Two of the prisoners were permitted to
wander around, cut firewood for the warden, plant seed and the like.
Once when the planter was putting in seed at one end of the row and the
raven picking it out at the other, we heard the former call out, "Shoo,
shoo, _you'll_ be put in jail for stealing next."

We arrived in Kodiak on the morning of May 26th, and immediately began
our preparations for the hunt. On our way up we became acquainted with
the United States Marshal, who kindly invited us to stop at his home
until we could arrange matters to go farther westward on the island,
where we expected to hunt.

My guide was a man who had spent his early life on the plains as a
cow-puncher and trapper. One day he told me that he and a friend left
their mountain camp to sell their winter's catch. It was getting less
and less each year because of the slow but sure disappearance of wild
life, as the white hunters and trappers increased and the demand for
furs grew. He was in love with a daughter of the plains and had returned
in the spring with the results of his winter's work, intending to lay
his all at the feet of his lady love. The season had been against him in
his search for furs. The heavy snows had kept the fox and lynx from
making extensive forages from their dens, and the low temperature
before the snow came froze the creeks so solid that the mink, otter, and
beaver were forced to remain indoors the greater part of the time. The
winter had been long and severe, the catch was poor, and he left his
traps late in the spring when the pelts were beginning to look hairless.
Thus he left his occupation in the solitude of the wilds with a heavy
heart, for the previous fall when he bade adieu to his fair fiancée,
full of hope and expectation, with the promise of a large yield, he was
sure of sufficient funds to purchase a meager home. When he reached the
frontier town he could not muster up courage enough to see her, but
disposed of his stock, sold his outfit and all his belongings, and made
a bee-line for California; thence he took the first steamer for the
Yukon. About this time a strike was made at Nome and hundreds of gold
seekers had gathered. There was a great demand for fresh meat, so he
conceived the idea of constructing a raft in the upper waters, loading
it with moose meat, and then floating the flat to Nome and getting rich
quick. About the time he was ready to start with a full load, Congress
passed an act making it unlawful to sell or have in possession any wild
game. On his way down he was stopped at the Government fort, put under
arrest, and his load confiscated. He argued his own case well, for he
got off without imprisonment. After spending several years there he
returned to Seattle, and sent for his little girl from Montana; they
were united for better or worse, and together they left Seattle and
landed on the Alaskan Peninsula, where they spent three years hunting
and trapping.

I visited their clean, tidy home in Seattle, was very much delighted,
and spent many pleasant hours listening to the wife's stories of her
experiences. Among other things she said: "My husband shot during the
three years over one hundred of the big brown bear for the hides. My
part was to assist him with the skinning and do the general housework.
On one occasion he had shot a big bear and had placed his gun a short
distance away while he proceeded to skin the animal. About the time the
steel entered the skin the bear jumped up, uttered a hair-raising growl,
and as I ran away, Grant grabbed his gun and finished the bear. I tell
you that was exciting. For a whole year we did not see a soul at camp,
and when we wanted provisions, Grant would make a trip across Akuton
Pass to Unalaska to do the buying. One day he left me in the morning
with a large Malamuth dog for my sole companion, saying he would return
on the morrow. When the morrow dawned it brought with it one of the
worst storms that had swept the coast for years, so bad that even one of
the large steamers could not live it out, and was destroyed on the rocks
nearby. The storm kept up for four days, and just imagine me alone
during those four long, weary days, wondering if Grant had been lost,
and what I would do if such were the case.

"The dawning of the fifth day found me looking in the direction of
Unalaska, hoping and praying that he might return safely. A little black
speck in the blue distance caught my eye. At first I thought it was a
bird skimming over the water, but as I looked again and again it seemed
to float on the surface. My spirits rose, and the longer I looked the
more certain I was that it was the little boat. Oh! what was my joy as
the tiny object increased in size as it advanced nearer and nearer until
I recognized the little dory and the frantic waving of hat and hands of
Grant as he approached closer and closer! The climax came when I
recognized his whoop, as he saw me standing on the beach with arms open
to receive him, and woman-like, I proceeded to swoon away.

"The very next trip I determined to go with him. We set sail in our
little schooner with a strong fair wind, but before long a fierce gale
struck us and was carrying us toward sure destruction on the reef, where
the angry sea would have made kindling wood of our frail craft. We cast
the anchor, but it dragged, dragged, and would not take hold, and all
the while we were drifting nearer and nearer the reef. Grant had given
up all hope, and said: 'Mollie, dear, it's all up! We're lost!' I
encouraged him, saying that there was still hope, when, much to our
relief, the anchor took hold and the bow turned to windward on the very
verge of destruction. It held fast all night. As the dawn began to
appear the wind shifted, and hoisting our little sail we tacked back and
forth to Unalaska. We started on our return trip, but luck was against
us; we were blown far out to sea, and for four long days and nights we
drifted, we knew not where. Almost the entire time Grant had his head up
through the hatchway, around his neck a canvas spread over the hatchway,
to keep the breakers from filling the boat, and many, many times I
cheered him with a cup of strong tea. Grant had given up all hope of
reaching land, when gradually the wind shifted, blew from the opposite
direction, and took us straight to shore."

On one of their hunting trips to Knight's Island, Grant prospected a
little on the side and staked a copper claim which "panned out" very
well, but which eventually cost the life of a partner, who was caught in
a snow slide the following spring.

I bade her good-bye as we left Seattle, when she said: "Oh! how I long
to return to Alaska! Before I went there I was a very delicate girl and
had very poor health; in fact, the opinion of the family physician was
that I did not have long to live; but roughing it in the open air seemed
to be a tonic and built me right up. Is it any wonder I love Alaska and
long for its wild free life?"

* * * * *

[Illustration: Kodiak]

Kodiak is a charming little village. The natives are lazy and spend most
of their time in fishing and hunting. We hired a couple of Aliutes, who
owned a schooner, to take our equipment to the camping ground. Our
course lay around the northeastern end of Kodiak Island, thence
westward. After starting, we were becalmed for some time to leeward of
the rocky coast. Along came a couple of natives, who towed us out a few
hundred feet from behind the island, and presently the sails began to
fill. As though it were human, the schooner responded to the gentle
breezes and away we went toward the open seas. We had to round a distant
point in order to get into another bay. With a fair southeast wind we
dropped anchor at six o'clock some thirty miles west of Kodiak. We
followed the shore line with its picturesque scenery of snow-clad hills
covered with scrubby trees, mostly cottonwood and spruce. Here and there
the tundra, like a great meadow fringed with alder, added charm and
interest to the surroundings. The waters of Shellicoff Straits threw
their breakers far up on the beach, and an occasional whale would spout
in the distance. We passed an island covered with different species of
gulls nesting on the rocks; it was just the beginning of the nesting
season for aquatic birds.

[Illustration: Gull Island]

[Illustration: Forget-me-nots]

After several days of these interesting sights, the sailboat entered a
beautiful little fiord, where we cast anchor for the night. On the
following day we landed our equipment, dismissed the Indians with their
boat, and pitched our tent in a little sheltered nook among the
cottonwoods, where we expected to spend several weeks in hunting and
photographing the great Kadiak bear (_Ursus middendorff_). The snow had
disappeared for about a third of the way up the mountain, visible beyond
foothills densely overgrown with alder, elder, and other bushes. The
rocky shore, treeless, save for a stunted cottonwood here and there, was
covered with many varieties of beautiful spring flowers. A cluster of
fragrant forget-me-nots among the mosses, another of crowfoot, with the
long dry grass of the previous year for a background, and a bunch of
pinks with a similar setting added life and color to the rugged
surroundings.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Crow's Nest and Young]

[Illustration: Nests of Eagle and Magpie]

While climbing for a specially beautiful bunch of forget-me-nots I came
across a crow's nest (_Corvus americanus_) under a ledge of rocks. In
the nest were several young crows waiting for the mother bird to return
to appease their hunger. The bald eagles (_Haliætus leucocephalus_) were
very plentiful and there were several nests built in the vicinity. Never
having had any experience with eagles rearing their young, I suggested
to my guide that I would climb one of the trees to the nest and see
what effect it would have upon the birds. He insisted that it was
dangerous to climb the tree, but could not persuade me to forego the
experience. At my request he stood guard near the foot of the
cottonwood, with instructions to shoot the birds if they came too close.
Taking off my shoes, coat, and hat, I started to climb the tree as the
old birds were soaring quite a distance above. As I climbed higher and
higher the birds came nearer and nearer, and when I was about half way
up the guide tried to persuade me to come down, for the birds were
getting dangerously close. When I had covered about two-thirds of the
climb, one of the birds came so near that I could feel the wind from his
wing, when "crack" went the gun and down went the bird. I remonstrated
with him for shooting the bird, for it was not close enough to do any
harm. He again insisted that I come down, saying that the other bird
would strike me and knock me off the tree, but I still persisted in
going higher, with the male coming nearer and nearer. On one of its
circlings it struck me lightly on the head with the tip of its wing. The
guide said, "Is that close enough?" and threw his gun up as though to
shoot the bird, but I insisted that he should wait a little. All the
time my eyes were fixed on the eagle. As he made the next swoop, if I
had not dodged behind a limb he would surely have knocked me off with
his wing. Again the gun cracked, the bird pitched head-on and,
meteor-like, dropped to the ground with a thud.

[Illustration: Eagle Watching for Prey]

Climbing up to the nest, I found it was built of sticks. Some on the
margin of the nest were as large as one's wrist, those nearer the center
were smaller, while the nest proper was lined with grass. The nest over
all had a diameter of about six feet. In it were three little eaglets,
possibly two days old, and around the nest were the remains of several
species of birds, such as ducks, ptarmigan, and kingfishers, also pieces
of fish, to feed the young. When I saw the destruction of life I felt,
in common with the guide, that eagles should not receive too much
consideration at the hands of the Nimrod. He was anxious to shoot every
eagle in sight, as he said many a nice piece of fur caught in his traps
had been destroyed by them. Knowing that both the parent birds were
dead, I thought it a pity to leave the young to die of starvation.
Pulling my bandanna handkerchief out of my pocket, I carefully stowed
away the little birds in the pack, swung it over my arm, and slid down
to the ground.

[Illustration: Eagle's Nest and Young]

On the lower branches of the same tree a pair of magpies (_Pica pica
hudsonica_) had built their nest in the usual way, covered over to the
depth of at least a foot with limbs and sticks, its small entrance at
the side, evidently in pursuance of the natural instinct of the birds
for the protection of their nest and young. It occurred to me as strange
that both of these birds, carnivorous and well known as destroyers of
eggs and nests, seemed to live happily together, though the eagle, if it
so desired, could have destroyed the nest of the magpie with one grip of
its powerful talons.

We took the young eagles to camp, fed them for several days, and the
amount they could devour of fresh codfish, cut up in large chunks, was
surprising. They would fill their craws so full that they looked like
pouter pigeons.

[Illustration: First Sight of Day]

For several days we observed with the field-glass that a bald eagle had
built its nest away up among the crags at the end of a projection on one
of the peaks. We noticed that the old bird spent a great deal of time on
the nest, and we knew she was hatching. After discussing the matter, we
decided to take the young eagles and put them in the nest to be reared
by the foster-mother. About dawn we started for the eyrie on the cliffs,
with our kodak, gun, and the young eaglets. After climbing three or four
hours we reached a point above the rocks, and then by advancing
cautiously, sliding and crawling, we safely reached the nest. I had
given the guide positive instructions that he was under no circumstances
to kill the old birds, but scare them away by shooting into the air
occasionally. He took a position a little above where he could command a
good view of the birds and keep guard over me while I was photographing
the nest. There were two pale buff eggs (size 2.75 × 2.10) in the nest,
and while I was arranging my camera an occasional report from the gun in
the hands of the guide kept the eagles at a respectful distance. While
setting up the kodak I heard the "peep, peep" of the little eaglets in
the eggs trying to get the first sight of day, and about the time
everything was ready to take the picture the egg cracked, with the
result that I obtained a picture of the little bird just coming out. We
left our two little eagles with the others, worked our way down the
mountain-side, and since then I have often wondered if the foster-mother
reared the young.

[Illustration: Sea Parrot Incubating]

We decided to change our camping-ground into the adjoining fiord. Taking
the twenty-foot tide at flood, as we thought, we were a little slow in
starting, had some difficulty getting out, and before we reached deep
water were caught and left high and dry on a shoal, where we were
obliged to remain for several hours, waiting for the return of the tide.
During the interim we waded to shore and scoured the neighboring hills
in search of some evidence of Bruin. We found none, and by the time we
came back to the water's edge, the tide had set in so far that we were
forced to wade for a quarter of a mile to our boat. The latter was
heavily loaded, but as the current caught it, it moved gently at first,
then at last cleared the sandbar. With a strong wind blowing, we were
carried out to the promontory just about the time the tide was turning
and the flood tide carried us up to the head of the adjoining bay. The
breakers were running high on the point and it was with the greatest
difficulty that we were able to get around with our dory. Frequently
the wind blew the spray all over us, and by the time we reached the
return tide on the other side I was greatly exhausted and gave a sigh of
relief, for conditions were such that we were afraid our little dory
could not stand much more of the kind of sea that was running. Once
around on the other side the wind changed, and with the inflow of the
tide and our little leg-of-mutton sail, we were carried with race-horse
speed to the head of the bay. We steered for a small island, and as we
approached, many gulls, sea-parrots, and ducks were flying around the
bay. We landed the dory on the beach, and climbed the rocks while the
birds hovered about us by the thousands, uttering their shrill cries of
alarm as we gathered a few fresh eggs for breakfast on the morrow.
Sea-parrots (_Fratercula arctica_) were quite numerous, and many left
their holes in the rocks, startled no doubt by the warning given by the
gulls. Peeping down into one of the crevices I discovered a sea-parrot's
nest with the female sitting on it. In order to get in to the nest it
was necessary to pass horizontally between the rocks and drop vertically
about five feet into a small, cavern-like space. Being anxious to
photograph the nest, I discarded a part of my clothing, entered the hole
feet first, with the guide holding on to me until my feet reached solid
ground. Having a pair of buckskin gloves on my hands I caught the
parrot, and at the same time the parrot caught me with its powerful
beak, and if it had not been for the gloves I would have received an
ugly bite. I handed the bird and her one dull-white-and-lilac-marked egg
to the guide, who placed the bird in my kodak box until he helped me
out. I had considerable difficulty in getting out at the hole by which I
had entered, for to do so it was necessary for my body as it emerged to
be at right angles with the wall rock. When I did succeed in getting
out, with the aid of my guide pulling and tugging, I was minus
considerable clothing.

[Illustration: Sea Parrot's Nest and Egg]

* * * * *

A little farther down the rocks we came to a white tern's nest (_Gygis
alba kittlitzi_), viz, an egg laid upon the bare rock without a vestige
of any structure. In color it was bluish white, with large liver-colored
spots. It is said of these birds that are very reckless in laying their
eggs, at times selecting a bare limb, and how they succeed in incubating
under certain conditions is remarkable.

[Illustration: Characteristic Nest of _Gygis_]

[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Herring Gull]

We passed about two weeks in this location in the most ideal weather,
without pitching tent, sleeping on the ground rolled in our blankets,
our canopy the heavens glittering with myriads of stars overhead. The
days were long and we spent most of our time from two o'clock in the
morning until eleven at night where the bear love to roam. They were
just coming out of hibernation and had not yet started to feed. During
my brief experience I observed from the tracks in the snow that the bear
do not eat anything for the first two or three days, then gradually
descend toward the snow-line and begin to nip the new grass. While the
salmon run their principal diet is fish. With the glasses we could see
several trails of Old Ephraim where he came over the very highest peaks
of the snow-capped range, quartering down and again returning to the
higher altitudes, where he evidently spent his time at this season of
the year. On one occasion we pitched camp about dusk, ten o'clock, and
having gathered a good supply of last year's ferns for bedding, rolled
ourselves up in our blankets and forgot we were tired until five o'clock
the next morning.

A good hot breakfast limbered up our stiff joints considerably, and in
about an hour we were starting for the trails in the snow of the summit.
Up we went, steadily and slowly, at an angle of forty-five degrees until
we reached the snow-line, when we struck the bear trail where he first
had descended the mountain. A part of the time he had come down on his
tail, judging from the slides we found occasionally. He had circled
around quite a distance and ascended again without even nipping a blade
of grass, although in the snow-slides the grass was beginning to grow.
Taking the trail we started after him up the mountain, but a more
difficult task one could not well imagine. Part of the time the wet snow
was up to our waists and all the time over boot-tops. Up and up we went
on the trail until we reached the drift snow of the side summit, where
we were obliged to crawl on hands and knees in order to get over. Then
our task was easy for some time and we found many old trails on the
top. We were satisfied that the bears were not yet feeding.

* * * * *

Returning along the mountains we saw quite a few small snow-slides. On
one occasion while crossing between two ridges my companion startled me
by shouting, "Run, for Heaven's sake!" At the same time he made a dash
towards the ridge. My first thought was, "A bear!" But almost instantly
I realized our danger, as a snow-slide that had started above from some
unknown cause, came thundering down, almost upon us. (It is said that
under certain conditions the report of a gun may start a slide.) As it
descended, gathering speed and bulk and as the loose snow slid over the
hard crust, it sounded like a strong wind roaring through the trees. In
speaking about his long experience in Alaska, my guide informed me that
he was more afraid of a snow-slide than of all the grizzlies in the
country. He said that in the spring of '98, in what was known as the
Sheep Creek slide on the Chillcoot Pass, he helped to dig out of the
snow fifty-two dead bodies of gold-seekers who were caught on the trail
in a big snow-slide, among them being one woman.

[Illustration: Our Camp among the Cottonwoods]

The next morning, just as soon as the regular routine of getting
breakfast was over, we again started up the mountains in search of the
quarry. The hunting was the hardest I have ever experienced, the
mountains being a series of peaks and hollows, at the base covered with
a dense growth of alder and underbrush, the rocks and crevices hidden
beneath moss, dry ferns, and leaves. As we ascended we found less moss
and alder and more long grass. The snow had packed the latter flat on
the earth and it was as slippery as ice. At each step we were sure to
slide if the greatest effort and care were not taken. When we reached
the snowy top, as far as the eye could see, peak after peak pushed its
head above the clouds, looking like huge sentries, standing guard over
an untrodden domain. We scrutinized every suspicious-looking object with
the field-glasses in the hope of descrying a bear. Working our way down
over the snow, occasionally sliding "hunker" fashion or dropping into a
hole between the rocks, greeting with a quiet "damn" an alder switch in
the eye or a devil's club jagger in the hand, we finally reached the
valley.

Along the shore of the stream I observed the beaten paths that the bear
had worn to a depth of twenty inches at places, evidently where they had
been travelling up and down the stream fishing for many years. Each
morning as soon as we opened our eyes we reached for the field-glasses
and carefully scanned the mountain-sides for fresh signs. One morning
the guide, after looking long and carefully, called my attention to
three bears circling up the mountain. We watched them climb higher and
higher until they finally disappeared over the backbone of the ridge
just about the time we were ready to follow. The foothills were covered
at least a third of the way with dense alder and other tangled
underbrush that made it very difficult to get through. By the time we
reached the snow-line we were tired out and stopped a short time for a
rest. Occasionally a ptarmigan would start up, uttering its plaintive,
croaking notes as it took to wing. Some were all white in their winter
coats, others were partly in their brown summer plumage. Again we plowed
our way up through the soft snow, sinking deeper and deeper as we
ascended the mountain, a hot sun adding to our discomfort. The guide was
in advance and I followed, stepping in his tracks. Even with our snow
glasses it was almost impossible to see. The glitter of the snow
affected the eyes, though the eyelids, heavy and red, were almost closed
and the tears trickled down our cheeks. Half the time I could not see
at all. Sometimes the guide would go into the snow up to his knees and
again to his waist into a crevice, which could then be avoided by his
follower. Plodding along we reached almost the top of the snowy peak,
now enveloped in a canopy of fog, and there we were in the midst of a
snowstorm that was so dense we could scarcely see, and all that I could
distinguish was a black object about three feet in advance. Finally the
guide called out that it was foolishness for us to track the bear under
present conditions, and suggested that we circle around the peak and
catch their trail on the other side. In a short time we were out of the
snowstorm and, tramping around the cone of the mountain, struck the
trail, which went straight down the other side toward the valley.
Occasionally one of the bear would take a notion to sit down and slide
many yards. This habit rubs the hair off rapidly, and if they are not
killed shortly after they leave winter quarters the hide is practically
ruined. When we got down below the snow-line the bear took to the alder,
where we found it was much more difficult to follow the trail. About
noon we took off our shoes, wrung out our socks, now soaking wet with
snow water, and hung them up to dry while we slept for about three
hours on the bare ground. Then we took the trail again across the
opposite mountain, but finally had to give up, for we were unable to
overtake the game.

[Illustration: An Extinct Crater where the Bear Hibernate]

Two days afterwards we started up the valley, when the guide happened to
look back and pointed out a large bear ascending the mountain about half
a mile behind us. Through the field-glasses we watched him climbing;
frequently he would look back,--evidently he had gotten a whiff of us as
we passed him in the valley below. Occasionally he would disappear
behind a little knoll and again appear, at the same time gradually
ascending the mountain. Finally he went out of sight behind a knoll and
we waited for about twenty minutes to see if he would show himself again
before we started after him. We concluded that he had lain down on the
knoll, and after fixing the location as best we could, we started to
climb the mountain, first through the thick alder until we reached the
snow-line, then plowing our way through the snow, using the guns for
alpenstocks, as the climbing was very difficult. When we reached the
knoll where the bear was concealed we advanced cautiously, puffing like
"wind-jammers"--full of excitement at the thought of the quarry being so
near.

[Illustration: Where He Fell]

The guide was just pointing out to me the back track in the snow beyond,
when old Bruin raised up on his hind quarters, opened his mouth, and let
out two of the most awful growls one could imagine. At the same time the
guide exclaimed, "Get to him, there he is!"--only his language was a
little more forcible. With that the bear dropped on all fours, head
advanced as though he was going to charge. Before I had time to take a
shot he wheeled, disappeared for a second in a little depression beyond,
reappeared on the other side at a distance of about forty yards, going
down the mountain at a rapid gait. I fired my first shot from a "405,"
but there was no indication that I had touched the mark. I pumped in
another shell and fired again, with no better results; again I threw the
gun to my shoulder, pulled the trigger, but there was no explosion. I
must have been a little excited, for I did not push the lever far
enough, consequently it did not throw the shell into the chamber. My
guide by this time was very much excited and insisted upon taking a
shot, while I demanded one more chance. All this time the bear was
going down the mountain-side at a rapid pace. By the time he was a
hundred yards away I fired the last shot and he made one headlong plunge
into the snow.

Much to my surprise, although I had frequently heard of the remarkable
vitality of the grizzly, we found upon examination that the first shot
had passed through the heart and through the entire body, as indicated
by the hole on the other side. The second time I fired I overshot and
the last charge quartered through the lungs and came out at the left
shoulder. Thus he had run at least fifty yards after receiving his death
wound, and I have no doubt would have run a long way if it had not been
for the last shot that brought him down. We left the bear where he fell
in order to get a photograph, and it was necessary to make a special
trip back with the kodak, which we did the following day.

[Illustration: Stretched Bear Skins]

Working our way down the mountain trail to the valley we ate our lunch,
and took a nap. On awakening we advanced toward the head of a beautiful
little lake artistically located in a basin of half snow-clad hills. The
silence, save for the crackling cry of the ptarmigan (_Lagopus lagopus_)
as they left their snowy bed in great alarm, was awe-inspiring. A
little beyond the head of the lake we were confronted with a mountain
stream which to me looked impassable owing to the swiftness of the
current. In a few seconds the guide stepped into the ice-cold water, at
the same time commanding me to get on his back, and in this way he
ferried me across with the water almost carrying him off his feet. Later
in the afternoon our progress was again checked by a torrent, the sight
of which caused me to say, "It's impossible for us to cross this
stream, we'll have to go back the way we came." My companion followed
the stream up and down a short way until finally he came to a cottonwood
tree about two feet in diameter. Taking his coat off and reaching for
the small axe in his belt, in a short time he felled the tree right
across the creek, and by this footbridge we passed over without any
difficulty. About ten o'clock in the evening, as we worked our way down
the precipitous chasm, we came upon an obstacle that we could not
overcome. The gorge was perhaps ten feet wide and we were working our
way along on the left of the stream. As we rounded a curve we found that
just ahead the course of the torrent was deflected by a boulder on the
right, so that it rushed to the left and point blank against a
projecting rock directly in our path, effectually cutting off our
progress. It was quite an undertaking to get out of the pocket we were
in, and it required the alternate assistance of each to accomplish the
undertaking. With occasionally a boost and then a pull, and so on, we
finally climbed pretty well up to the top, where we could start anew
down to the shore a little beyond the canyon. By this time the shadows
cast by the midnight sun were lengthening fast. We began to realize our
position, tired and hungry, without food, waiting around the camp fire
for six hours for the ebb tide that we might get over to our boat. The
guide could not content himself very long and started to work his way
around a rock projection. In the undertaking he fell into the water, and
instead of trying to get out, made a bold dash across the stream and
pulled himself up on the rocks on the opposite side like a half-drowned
rat. In a short time he returned with the boat and ferried your humble
servant across. By this time it was getting quite cold and he was
threatened with chills, so to keep up the circulation he applied the
oars furiously to reach our tent, which fortunately was not far away.
Hurriedly changing his clothing and wrapping himself up in blankets, he
brought on the reaction about the time I had a pot of strong hot tea
ready to administer.

On our wanderings around the island we frequently came upon an abandoned
winter home of the natives. They fish and trap principally, for a
livelihood. Early in the fall they take their families into some remote
nook, build a _barabara_ out of logs, thatch the entire outside surface
with native red-top hay to keep out the cold, and pile large logs all
over the hay to keep it from blowing away. They dry salmon, cod, and
flounders for their winter supply. When the fur becomes prime they set
their traps for fox, ermine, and land otter, and in this way eke out a
miserable existence. It is said of them that in their early days they
were honest to a fault, theft being punished by death, but on
associating with the whites they acquired all the faults of the latter
with none of the good.

[Illustration: Indian Barabara]

[Illustration: Kodiak Island Pinks]

The dawn of another day brought a hazy sky and the indications foretold
wet weather. True to our expectations it rained the greater portion of
the day. In the afternoon it cleared up somewhat and towards evening the
sun came out bright. We then visited Gull Island to get a few fresh eggs
for breakfast. The Arctic tern (_Sterna paradisæa_) had a large
community on the rocky island. When we approached they hovered over us
in great numbers. The kittiwakes (_Rissa tridactyla_) also had a colony.
In many nests on the island, the eggs were blotched and streaked in
various shades. They were about the size of an ordinary hen egg, were
palatable, and we used quite a number to make pancakes. After
photographing several nests with eggs and a few wild flowers that grew
very abundantly on the rocks near the water's edge, we returned to camp,
had supper, consisting of eggs, bear steak, etc., after which we retired
for the night about ten o'clock, it being still almost daylight, for
during June the days are twenty-two hours long.

We again desired to change our camp into the adjoining bay, so we pulled
stakes and started for a fifteen-mile trip. The tide was in our favor,
but with a head wind we pulled our little dory down to the turning
point, where tide and wind helped us on our way.

When we were about half-way up we came upon a camp of Italian fishermen
who had just arrived from "Frisco" to fish for salmon during the
season's run. We turned our boat towards shore and landed to meet our
neighbors. They were a villainous-looking lot, about two dozen in all,
and could speak no English, except the foreman, and we could understand
him only with difficulty. We succeeded in letting him know we were
anxious to have a few fish for supper, and soon several of the men were
making a haul with the seine for our special benefit, so we had all the
fish we wanted. After exchanging compliments, our little sail was
hoisted, and as the boat sped over the water we waved a good-bye to the
"bunch," although we understood they wanted us to spend the night with
them. Before we had gone very far the wind died down to a gentle breeze,
and much to our disappointment we had to take down our sail, for it
flapped around like a wounded bird, here, there, and everywhere, without
wind enough to make it taut. We took the oars about seven o'clock and
before long the water became so calm that the snow-capped mountains
reflected their peaks on the waters of the bay, seeming to use the
smooth surface for a mirror, as they stood majestic in their garments of
white. We rode along in silence, hour after hour, past the huge
mountains of granite, slate, and sandstone, with here and there a
stringer of quartz. I could not but wonder what a force must have been
at work to have caused such an upheaval. Beautiful clusters of pink,
yellow, and purple flowers were clinging to the perpendicular face of
the rocks, and relieved much of the severity of outline. As we advanced
toward the head of the bay, the eagles, in their solitude perching here
and there on the topmost pinnacles, eyed us with suspicion. Now and
again one would leave the cliff, soar round and round overhead until we
passed out of sight, doubtless wondering what strange creatures these
were. We arrived at the head of the bay about midnight in this land of
twilight, and soon had a good wood fire alongside a big cottonwood tree,
where with "spuds" and flounders, hard tack and a tin of hot "Old
English Breakfast," we were quite contented. After a corncob pipe and a
short story or two, we threw our blankets on the beach and were quickly
in the Land of Nod.

The next morning we were up about the time the sun was casting his rays
over the eastern snow-capped peaks. What a picture for an artist! If
painted true to nature almost any person would say, "Overdrawn,
overdrawn!" yet with the deep blue sky for a background, the white
mountains in bold relief, pushing their tops into the blue, and the
green foothills and the placid waters of the bay in the foreground, how
could the scene be overdrawn? In that dawn of morning the flight of
ducks to and from the feeding grounds was numerous, the most conspicuous
of them all being the harlequin duck (_Histrionicus histrionicus_)
because of the prominent black and white stripes. It builds its nest
along the mountain stream which dashes and tosses down the gorge, and
when the young are hatched leads them to the sea.

Just as soon as we got a bite to eat, with our rifles and field-glasses
we started for our daily hunt. On our way up the mountain a little brown
body streaked with black fluttered out from beneath a tuft of grass
underneath the pussy willows. Stooping and separating the dry grass, we
exposed the four whitish eggs of the white-crowned sparrow (_Zonotrichia
leucophrys_). In about an hour we saw a large bear traveling at a rapid
gait--at times running--along the mountain just at the snow-line. We sat
down and watched him through the glasses, hoping he would soon find a
place to his liking to take a little snooze. After paralleling the
entire base of the mountain he passed behind a small group of rocks and
emerged on the other side against the snow, where we could see him very
plainly as he turned back toward the rocks. We were quite sure he had
found a bed that would suit his purpose. We knew if he once lay down he
was more than likely to stay for a long nap.

In about twenty minutes we started after Old Bruin in earnest. Into
alder and elder we plunged, plodding along just as fast as we could,
bringing out the perspiration in beads on our red faces. The sun was
very hot and our tramp was difficult,--over rocks, under limbs, using
the toes of our guns as alpenstocks, we puffed and blew, going higher
and higher. "Oh, how deceiving!" often I thought as we climbed each
little knoll, only to find on arriving at the top that our objective
point was still in the distance. To be sure, we rested many times before
we reached the place. The uncertainty of the wind annoyed us greatly,
and often the only way we could tell how it was blowing was by tossing a
few crushed leaves into the air.

After two hours' hard work we arrived at the place best suited for us to
get a shot at Mr. Bear, when he should leave the thickest of the alder.
We maneuvered around the top a considerable time, found his trail
following a ravine up the mountain, and in this way he reached the
opening of an extinct crater. At the very time when we were expecting a
shot at any minute, he must have been on the other side of the mountain.
Wearily we slipped, slid, and tramped our way down. By the time we
reached camp, hungry and tired, it was well along in the afternoon.
After getting something to eat we took a couple of hours' nap, and
again watched the foothills in the hope of discovering the object of
our search, but in vain.

We had several beautiful days; in fact, the middle of the day was too
hot to hunt with any comfort. If you had been watching, you might have
seen a solitary pair wending their way up along the river flat; one tall
and well built in proportion, with a broad-brimmed western hat on his
head, the other small in stature, with a small slouch hat set on the
back of his head, one carrying a Winchester and the other an Eastman
kodak. If you had observed closely, you would have noticed that both
hats were constantly turning in a semicircle from side to side, as the
eyes were busy scanning every direction, expecting that the quarry would
put in an appearance somehow, somewhere; for we had arrived at the
conclusion that we would have to work harder in order to get a big
specimen of the Kodiak bear. We followed the river valley for ten miles
without seeing any fresh signs. About noon we ate our lunch, stretched
out in the warm sun, and slept peacefully for several hours, then turned
towards camp, hunting on our way back.

Up to this time the bear seemed to live up on the very tops of the
mountains and occasionally to come down about the snow-line and again
return. We had several wild-goose chases after them, only to discover
that they were somewhere else. Now we noticed they were beginning to
feed on the grass and come down into the valley. The leaves were pretty
well developed by this time. Hunting big bear in the alder is very
dangerous sport, for at any minute a big she with her cubs might rise up
close by and make a charge. If our guns should catch in the brush, the
jig would be all up, for the bear are large and hard to stop at close
range. My guide said that not many men will hunt them in this way and
told me he had had several narrow escapes himself. On one occasion he
dropped a big fellow right at his feet. They vary in size; the largest
skin in the picture on page 105 measured eleven by nine feet. They also
vary in color from a dark brown to yellow. The specimens I have seen
have a tawny crescent just back of the neck.

The natives do not hunt the bear by following them through the brush,
and have a wholesome fear of stalking them afoot. I have been told that
the only way they will hunt is to follow the coast line in a _bidarka_,
and when the bear come out to feed on the fish along some stream they
kill them. My guide, who has had a great deal of experience with the
natives of the peninsula, told me that he could sell all the bear
intestines to the natives, getting a good price for them. Out of these
intestines they make water-proof coats, called _kamlaykas_. In the early
spring they examine the intestines very carefully. They consider that in
bear killed as soon as they come out of hibernation the intestines are
useless, for they believe the bear retire to their winter quarters in
the fall gorged with fish. The fish bones perforate the intestines and
it takes several weeks for them to heal enough to make the best
water-proof coats.

We worked our way up to the snow-line and hunted until ten o'clock
without getting a sight of one, although we trailed a large bear a long
way through the grass. They are great tramps and will travel many miles
without stopping. Where this one crossed the creek the water was not yet
dried on the leaves when we came up. For four days the weather was fine
and as it was not necessary to put our tent up, a great deal of time
could be saved in this way.

On our wandering about the island, about five o'clock one evening the
fishermen's camp was reached and they treated us royally, gave us a
square meal of candle fish, some tobacco, sugar and tea, and sent us on
our way rejoicing. We pulled along all day without any incident of much
interest. Once two bald eagles soared over our heads, and my guide could
not resist the temptation. Up went his rifle and three times in
succession the shot brought some feathers out of the wings, while the
fourth brought the bird pitching headlong into the bay. At one point we
watched an eagle in the air with two crows after him. It was evident the
crows had their nest nearby and the eagle had ventured too near. The
crows seemed to have the best of the fight, for they would take turns in
darting down on their foe, while the eagle seemed to be helpless in the
air, for the crows would strike and be away before he could harm them.

Now our thoughts turned homeward, but we realized that it would take
some time to pull with oars seventy or eighty miles in a dory to Kodiak.
Breaking camp one morning about two o'clock, we tried to get out with
the tide, but unfortunately we were caught on the flats and were forced
to spend six hours until the tide returned. Being anxious to get home as
soon as possible, we were using every effort to gain time, and one
little experience we had I shall not forget as long as I live. The wind
had been blowing a gale all day, and about nine o'clock in the evening,
after making slow progress, we came to a point which would require us
either to lie by for the balance of the night, then follow the shore
line for about ten miles, or cross directly over a distance of about
three miles to the other side of the bay. The wind had died down
considerably and was blowing toward us from the other shore; we were
anxious to cross and discussed the advisability of trying it, finally
deciding that we could do so safely. With both at the oars, the dory
loaded to within three or four inches of the water, and the breakers
running, we started across and got along fairly well until we were about
midway over. We naturally expected the whitecaps would diminish in size
and the wind would be going down, when to our dismay the wind rose, the
waves grew more boisterous, and about every seventh wave would toss part
of its volume clear over us. Occasionally I would ship the oars, grab
the tomato can, and bail frantically until the water was almost all
out,--then to the oars again to assist in keeping the boat under
control. My companion was skillful in handling the boat, and while I was
bailing out the craft he had to make desperate efforts to keep the bow
cutting the rollers diagonally; but gradually the wind seemed to get
the boat out of its safest course, and then I had to take up the oars
and help to right her again. To say the least, I realized the
predicament we were in. At the time, I had almost given up the idea of
reaching the shore in safety, and one who has never had a similar
experience cannot understand the feeling of hope that rose within us as
we advanced nearer the other side.

While we were still battling with wind and wave, I promised myself that
if we reached safety I would never again risk a similar experience, and
yet on the following day we pulled the boat fourteen miles across the
mouth of another such bay, with the water as smooth as glass all the way
over. Knowing the rapidity with which the wind can rise over those
treacherous straits and the risk we were taking after the experience of
the previous day, neither of us spoke more than half a dozen words
during the entire time until we landed safely.

Returning at last to Kodiak, we caught a boat for Valdez, whence we
engaged passage on the homeward cruise. Taking the outside route from
Valdez to Seattle, we experienced a rough voyage. At the captain's table
were seated about a dozen passengers, all in high spirits in
anticipation of reaching home, and thankful that we had not taken
passage on the _Valentia_, the preceding steamer, which was wrecked on
the rocks before it got rightly started. One by one the members of the
party would fail to put in an appearance on account of seasickness. One
day the captain complimented the author on being such a good sailor, but
in answer I suggested that he wait a little. I felt it coming on, and
sure enough the captain had the table to himself at the very next meal.

One night while lying in my bunk I was aroused from a doze by a shout
from the occupant of the under bunk: "There's a rat in your bed! There's
a rat in your bed!" I looked out to see my informant standing on a
chair. In a short time we had a light, and in the bunk we found a Mother
Carey's chick that had been attracted by the light on the boat and
entered the room. We caught the little bird and kept it until morning.
It seemed not to be disturbed by our attentions, indeed was content to
cuddle down in our hands. Its apparent tameness was probably due to the
fact that its habits are partly nocturnal.

After three or four stormy days, with the sea running high and breaking
in whitecaps over the deck, not a thing to be seen save the sailors and
the albatross following in the wake of the steamer, we reached the port
of Seattle. The vision and the sensation of the tossing and pitching
waters remained with us, and on landing we found that our "sea legs"
made walking on terra firma a very awkward process.

CHAPTER III

HUNTING BIG GAME ON THE KENAI PENINSULA

We arrived at Seldovia, on Cook's Inlet, on the evening of August 28th.
Between the steamer landing and the town, a creek, unbridged as yet,
enters the bay, and except at ebb tide the passengers are compelled to
cross the arm of the bay by rowboat. The tide being then at flood, it
was necessary to get a dory before we could reach the village. One of
the natives who hailed from the cannery nearby was the proud owner of an
old dugout. We knew the water was quite shallow across the arm of the
fiord, yet some of the party were fearful of the craft. We all got into
the boat, and how quickly the inexperienced displayed their awkwardness.
Instead of stepping carefully to the center they landed on the side,
causing the dugout to ship water. After righting matters we started
across, when "Clumsy," in trying to make himself comfortable, rocked
the craft and "Timid" gave peremptory commands to return, which we did.
Two of the party got out and the rest were landed safely on the other
shore. In a few hours we were all aboard a home-made tug of six tons
burden, called the _Bydarky_, and on our way up the inlet some sixty
miles to Kenai. We retired to our bunks shortly after the boat got under
way, and when we awoke in the morning we were lying at anchor near the
beach at Kenai. The captain of the boat, being very anxious to get out
on the tide, asked us to unload our duffel as quickly as possible, so
that he might start at once. In our haste we overlooked Doc's hand
satchel but did not discover this until too late.

Kenai is a little village built on a plateau overlooking the inlet, a
sixty-foot sand embankment down to the water's edge, lending it the
appearance of a fortified town. We ascended the road, entered the
post-office and store, and began to make inquiries about guides, boats,
and equipment. We soon learned that we could get white guides for ten
dollars per day and "keep," and natives for five dollars; white packers
for five dollars per day and "keep," natives for three dollars. After
scouring the village we found two licensed native guides and two packers
and gave them instructions to get our boats and provisions ready as
quickly as possible, so that we could leave on the next flood tide for
the Kenai River. In selecting guides and packers, I think it is a
mistake to take natives, as they are naturally indolent, lack the
interest the white man has in his work, are over-sensitive about their
treatment, and sulk upon the least provocation; and then one never can
impress upon them the eagerness of the party to secure, in the limited
time at its disposal, photographs of big game in its natural haunts, or
a desirable trophy. Time is the only object to them when they are out
with a party at five dollars a day. To illustrate, on this occasion we
had made an agreement with the head guide that the packers would go with
us for three dollars a day and "keep," but we were not out more than a
three days' "line" of the river until they demanded three fifty, and
when refused began to sulk and lag behind with their work, and for fear
they would leave us before we got up the river we were obliged to grant
their demand. Indeed, they will sometimes purposely lead parties away
from the best game country in order to keep them out as long as
possible.

The evening before we arrived at Kenai, two miners had come to town for
provisions and had sold their dust. They then started out for a good
time, landed in a "joint," consumed all the "houch," after which they
proceeded to "paint the town red." They succeeded fairly well, ended up
with broken heads and limbs, and with a bullet in the breast of one. In
the village was a doctor, some eighty years of age, who had long been in
the habit of locating for the summer at Kenai to practice medicine. When
the old man learned that there was a doctor in our party he looked us up
and invited a consultation. Doc accepted the invitation, and on
examination found the lead had entered the side, glanced around the
ribs, and embedded itself in the muscles. He was very much surprised to
find that the patient was wrapped in an extremely dirty towel, and
everything was filthy. He said to the local physician, "Are you not
afraid of the wound becoming infected?" Whereupon the latter informed
him that no pus ever formed in wounds in that country and that infection
was unknown. Our doctor made considerable inquiry about the matter, for
he was very much interested, and learned that this was true.

The man who did the shooting was arrested and placed in the custody of
the town bailiff, but was permitted to roam over the country at will.
The authorities well know, and so do the prisoners, that it would be
suicide of the worst form for the guilty to try to escape to the woods,
for it means death of the most horrible sort--by exposure and
starvation. The only avenue of escape was by boat that left twice a
week. Inquiring about the case on our return trip, we learned that the
commissioner had arrived, a day was fixed for hearing, the testimony was
beyond a doubt conclusive against the prisoner, and he was held without
bail for trial at Valdez, whither he was taken by the commissioner.
However, the injured man recovered and the gallows was again defrauded.

Our party consisted of four, and for brevity's sake we will call them
"Doc," "Old Sourdough," "Cheechalker," and "Esau." The provisions had
all been purchased at Seattle and packed carefully in water-proof bags
and cans. Many and varied were the suggestions made by the party as to
what should be taken along. Doc suggested talcum powder, frostilene, and
vaseline, with pills of various colors, red, white, and blue. He had a
special satchel well filled with antiseptics, anodynes, astringents,
styptics, and bactericides, but unfortunately for his peace of mind he
discovered, too late, that the precious satchel had been left on the
_Bydarky_, the little boat that brought us over from Seldovia to Kenai,
and there were no immediate prospects of recovering the important
parcel. Doc looked wistfully after the little boat disappearing in the
distance as it plowed its way through the tide-rifts, and submitted with
such grace as he could command to the chaffing of his companions.

By way of firearms Cheechalker (northern name for "tenderfoot") had
quite an assortment,--a ten-gauge shotgun with five hundred rounds of
ammunition, one Springfield army rifle, model of 1909, a Winchester
.30-.30, and several others. Cheechalker insisted upon his tin bathtub,
but Old Sourdough finally pacified him with a description of a bath _à
la Wilderness_. This is accomplished by erecting a tepee, like that the
Indians build, around a fire in a small depression filled with stones,
then, when the bather is ready, removing the fire and pouring water on
the stones, thus producing steam enough to open the pores of the skin,
after which a good rubbing at the hands of an Indian valet completes the
ablution. In this way one might get along for a few weeks at least
without his tub. For this substitute Cheechalker finally consented to
give up the useful article.

[Illustration: Kenai River]

Esau carefully selected a prospector's pick, gold pan, and shovel to do
a little prospecting on the side. In his telescope he had his
toothbrush, comb, hair-brush, manicure set, etc., which he considered
absolutely necessary for his personal comfort. He also carried his own
knife and fork, tin cup, and tin plate, each artistically marked with
his own symbol.

Old Sourdough watched these arrangements with an expression of disgust.
He carried a red bandanna handkerchief dangling from his belt,
containing his change of socks, some smoking tobacco, and matches. Later
he improvised a very serviceable pipe by fitting a shot cartridge shell
with a split willow stem, artistically wrapped with thread.

After the packing was completed we embarked upon the Kenai River in two
twenty-foot dories, with the tide in our favor. The river meandered like
a wriggling snake for about a mile through the marshy flats; beyond, the
shore was lined to the water's edge with cottonwood, birch, and spruce.
On our way, ducks, geese, and many other water-fowl were flushed by the
noise of the oars in the locks and the splash of the blades as they
dipped into the water. The guides were making all haste, being anxious
to get as far up the river as possible, knowing it was no mean task to
pull, line, and pole the mile or more to the head of tide water without
the aid of full tide.

When we reached our first camp the flies and mosquitoes were very
plentiful. The boys were loud in their forceful expressions against the
songsters and their near cousins, the black flies. All hands were busy,
some erecting the tents, others cutting spruce boughs for a good bed,
and the rest getting something to eat for the hungry party.

Pitching camp very quickly developed the inexperience of Cheechalker.
Always willing to lend a helping hand, he started the fire on the
windward side, filling our eyes with smoke. The site he selected for the
tent showed plenty of roots, well calculated to furnish an uneasy
experience for the night. When he pointed it out to us, we soon
overruled him. The duffel was hardly unloaded until Doc was ransacking
the outfit for his .22 rifle to shoot some Canada grouse (_Dendragapus
canadensis_). They are very plentiful in the spruce timber and when
flushed will fly to a limb, where they sit and crane their necks at the
hunter, who, if he is wise enough to pick off the lowest bird at each
shot, may, if he so desires, clean out the entire covey. In the
meantime one of the party had shot a red squirrel, and at the suggestion
of Old Sourdough it was nailed to the limb of a tree in anticipation of
a little fun at Doc's expense. On his return the old Indian said in his
guttural voice (pointing at the squirrel), "Look! look! him big
squirrel, shoot!!" Old Sourdough, meanwhile helping the fun along by
craning his neck in every direction, said, "Where? where?" In the
meantime Doc was making a mad rush for his .35 Winchester; crack went
the gun, off went the ears of Mr. Squirrel, and he gently swayed on the
nail; once more the gun cracked, and this time the body fell to the
ground in fragments. Then the woods rang again and again with the shouts
of the party, while Doc threatened dire vengeance on those who
perpetrated the joke.

After dinner, a smoke, and a few stories, the Indians departed to their
tent and we all stretched out in a row for our night's sleep. But too
soon, for one fellow pulled the blanket from his neighbor. Then there
was a "rough house," and after that duels to the death with mosquitoes,
all punctuated with such a variety of exclamations that the vocabulary
of each was exhausted before quiet was restored.

[Illustration: Lining the Boat]

On the way out next morning the hunters were boasting about the number
of fine trophies they were going to take home, for all reports indicated
plenty of sheep and moose. About that time one of the party remembered
we had forgotten to bring salt along for curing the "fine trophies;"
then a call was sent out for a meeting to discuss ways and means to
procure the necessary salt. At the caucus it was decided to send the
packers back to Kenai with a boat, and a halt was called until the
following day, when the return of the packers was expected. They arrived
in good time with a bushel of coarse salt.

Kenai River is very swift and cannot be ascended in a dory pulled with
oars, so the boat must be "lined" along the shore. There is no beach
along the river and the shore is almost impassable by foot on account of
trees growing at every conceivable angle and hanging over and under the
water.

In the morning we started, two natives and two hunters to a boat, the
leader with his two-hundred-foot line well in advance, carefully keeping
the rope on the river side of all obstructions. Doc selected the
position of captain (steersman) of one of the dories. Cheechalker took
hold of the rope, but before long he was panting for breath, being
quite fleshy and tipping the scales at two hundred pounds. He soon
found that carrying his weight on the many ups and downs over fallen
timbers, with the washouts along the bank and the alder growing thick at
places along the shore, was not a joy ride over a macadamized road in an
auto, nor was it conducive to easy respiration. The advantage a man of
experience has over the inexperienced individual, in making his way over
and under logs and overcoming other difficulties with the least
resistance, is wonderful. For instance, experience has taught the
veteran that he must not step on a slanting stick, a slime-covered
stone, or grass concealing a washout in the bank. He likewise learns to
avoid many other little indiscretions that cause heavy falls and
bruising of the limbs and body, which will wear out the vitality of the
strongest. Before long Cheechalker, who had had several tumbles into the
water, had to have assistance to get out. He was soon lagging behind,
and ere the first lap of the journey was completed he was begging us to
let him get into the boat. Travel was delayed long enough for him to don
dry clothing, and when we started he refused to walk any more, saying it
was out of the question,--he was completely "tuckered out." It was then
that one of the natives hesitated for some time before he would consent
to go on, for it required all the red men's strength and skill on the
line to get the boat along without this additional load of two hundred
pounds. Cheechalker, with his red face, looked for all the world like a
lobster, so Old Sourdough took pity on him and had a heart-to-heart talk
with the natives. His argument was, "Him sick, heap sick,--like turtle,
no walk!" This and similar logic was used for a period of about five
minutes, whereupon the two natives looked at each other, emitted a few
grunts, and started up the river.

At the end of the first day's work we had made about eight miles and
built our camp-fire for the night. Nothing unusual happened that
evening, but the inevitable "no-see-ims" and mosquitoes had sufficient
time to gather and kept us busy moving at short intervals from place to
place, following the smudge smoke. Cheechalker, although naturally
sluggish on account of his avoirdupois, was quite active now, first to
windward and then to leeward of the smudge, between periods of relief
from smoke and "no-see-ims." Doc complained at frequent intervals about
the "pesky critters," donned his veil, and with hands in his pockets
strutted around, restless and impatient.

[Illustration: Mid-day on the Kenai]

Old Sourdough, without any modern frills, sat quietly smoking his
makeshift pipe, evidently enjoying his smoke, but occasionally disturbed
and raising his hand to chase an importunate pest out of his eye or ear.

A fallen spruce furnished boughs for a temporary bed for the tired
campers after a day's lining, pulling, and wading. Each man opened his
pack, spread his rubber blanket on the boughs, and one long tarpaulin
was laid over all. Then each one lay down wrapped in his blanket, and
another tarpaulin was drawn over all four in a row. Thus settled, we
enjoyed the sweet but restless sleep of the weary. Toward morning when
the ice was forming on the water in the camp pails, there was a tug of
war going on most of the time between the two end men for the control of
the upper canvas, and as the middle man expressed it later, "it had made
three round trips during the night," for he felt it "sawing its way
across" under his nose.

Ever to our ears through the night came the roar of the river, here two
hundred yards wide, rushing day and night to the sea, grand and
powerful, glistening here and there in the morning twilight as the
raging waters boiled and seethed over the hidden bowlders that threw
the water as though some huge monster were trying to "buck" the current.

As soon as breakfast was over every man went to his task, the blankets
were rolled in separate bundles, the entire equipment packed carefully,
the guns tied fast for fear of the boat capsizing in the strong current.
The leader started with the rope, two others followed, each taking a
hold in turn, and the captain steered. The leader in advance put the
rope on the river side of all trees, rocks, and debris; the other two,
climbing out on the trees that extended over the water, assisted in
pulling and keeping the rope clear. Occasionally we struck rapids, where
the current was swift and caused much trouble to the boats by driving
one or the other against a hidden bowlder, where it would hang as on a
pivot, swinging backward and forward until one of the Indians would wade
out in the ice-cold water up to his waist and release it.

The mania to kill was very strong in the hunters and at dawn the most
bloodthirsty was astir, exhorting the cook to build a fire in the Yukon
stove and hustling the packers to get ready for our up-river trip by
loading the boats with the duffel. Across the beautiful river, sparkling
with the silt of the glaciers, aglow with the morning sun, stood a
solitary, snow-white herring gull, breakfasting upon a king salmon that
had been cast by the swift current into an eddy and gently washed
ashore. The passion for wilful destruction was uppermost in the heart of
the gunner, and as quickly as possible he had a leaden missile on its
way across the water. With the field-glasses could be seen the white
bird with its graceful wings spread helplessly over the water and the
beautiful white feathers crimsoned with its life blood, slowly moving
with the current to the sea.

In a short time stakes were pulled, duffel packed, lines adjusted, and
we were on our way. There was a little commotion at the head of the line
when Simeon, one of the Indians, spied a large porcupine plodding his
way deeper into the forest. Letting go of the rope he made a rush for
the "porky," caught it by the tail, held on till he got a club nearby,
and proceeded to pound it over the head. The natives are very fond of
"porky," and when we pitched camp in the evening Simeon was very busy
singeing the hair over the fire before boiling.

[Illustration: "Porky"]

On our way up the river we were agreeably surprised to see a stranger
walk into camp. Tall, erect, with clean-cut features, he looked the
very picture of health. He wore a broad-brimmed hat with the garb of a
hunter. Lunch was about ready, and on invitation he dined with us. In
conversation we soon learned that he was a college man, a graduate of
one of the leading colleges in the East, and had come from our own
eastern city some fourteen years before. He told us that for several
years he had corresponded with relatives and friends, but finally quit
writing because he had not yet made his stake. However, he now had many
encouraging prospects, and before long expected to make good and return
east. It was surprising to us how an educated man could spend fourteen
of the best years of his life in his little tent, with mosquitoes and
"no-see-ims" as his only companions, dreaming, dreaming of the find that
never came, and with his pan, pick, and shovel digging every here and
there, with color, color everywhere, but not in paying quantities. On
our way down we found him as usual, dreaming of the prospects he had
staked, and when we left him a sack of flour and a few other necessaries
of life he was very grateful, showing that a warm heart beat beneath the
rough exterior. We bid him good-bye, and a large tear coursed down his
cheek as he said: "I wish I were going with you, boys; but not yet;
soon, I hope." Is it any wonder that the steamers on their return trips
carry so many insane men to the States? The entire river has been
prospected and staked; the blazed trees and indelible pencil marks are
about the only method of indicating that a claim has been staked. About
half-way up the river we came to the deserted tent of the fellows who
had participated in the shooting at Kenai.

In order to have a pleasant time on a trip of this sort it is very
essential to have companions accustomed to "roughing it." Every man in
the party must sacrifice individual comfort for the benefit of the camp
as a whole. I have in mind a trip taken to Alaska with another party
where one individual was so selfish that every action was for his own
comfort and enjoyment. For instance, he was always first to eat and
managed to get a double portion of everything, cooked and uncooked. If
there was one duck, one grouse, or one trout, he managed to cook the one
and gorge himself and eat all to his own satisfaction. In the morning he
was always first up and ready for breakfast, taking care of his
individual interests and paying no attention to others. In fact, he
would even permit the destruction of goods not his own without showing
the least interest. In the same party was another character in many ways
the opposite, always last to the table and never looking out for his own
things; going around growling about this, that, and the other
thing,--never in time for breakfast, lunch, or supper. There is no
better opportunity to find out the good qualities of a companion than to
go camping with him in the wilds. A selfish disposition soon becomes
unbearable, and many a good outing has been spoiled by having such a
fellow in the party. Few men are so constituted that they can stand
"roughing it" very long under trying circumstances without showing the
"yellow streak."

[Illustration: The Tonsorial Artist at Work]

After seven days' hard work we reached Lake Skilak. The sun was just
setting, casting a mellow crimson reflection over the placid waters. The
beautiful lake was hemmed in on all sides by verdured slopes and
snow-capped peaks, the dark green of the spruce intermingling with
patches of cottonwood clothed in autumnal colors, "the sear, the yellow
leaf" predominating. On the surface of the water, idling away the time,
were little flocks of ducks, and in the air were black cormorants heavy
in their flight. This serene panorama filled the nature-lovers in the
party with joy and delight, and they felt themselves well repaid for all
the hardship of the week. The Indians wanted to make camp at once, and
showed their displeasure when they learned that we desired to take
advantage of a strong fair wind and hoist our sail regardless of their
wishes. We made elegant time to an island, on which we camped for the
night. The next day we reached the head of the lake, where we expected
to spend several weeks.

The party had decided to make a try after white sheep on the mountain
beyond the divide. By this time Cheechalker had had enough of tramping
and quietly informed us that we might count him out; he was perfectly
satisfied, he said, to remain with the cook at the permanent camp. This
was located at the mouth of a little stream which entered the lake after
a precipitous course from the glacier at the summit, down the mountain
canyon, through the narrow gulch of the upper foothills to the wooded
valley, chasing and tumbling under and over moss-grown and decayed
trees, fallen giants of other years. The under foliage had been
destroyed by a fire which was still smoldering here and there among the
moss, and the sun, entering the opening between the trees, shimmered
and fluttered on the spray-moistened bowlders like fantastic rays of
Aladdin's lamp. Here we pitched our tent among the stately birches,
intending to make this our headquarters for some time.

Taking a stroll a little way up the beach we were agreeably surprised to
find we had neighbors, and were interested to know who they were and
what they were doing. One suggested prospectors, another hunters; in the
meantime, while we were looking at their outfit for a suggestion, a
collection of stones in the niche of a tree, the skull of a rodent, an
insect or two, answered the question beyond the shadow of a doubt,--a
naturalist in pursuit of data that the world might be benefited by his
researches. The following day his packer came into camp with a beautiful
specimen of Dall's sheep (_Ovis dalli nelson_). We then learned that it
was Mr. Bell, from the University of Minneapolis.

[Illustration: Ready for the Start]

We left camp for the top of the mountain, every man with his pack. The
tramp along the trail was interesting, leading as it did through spruce,
birch, and cottonwood until we reached the end, where we were obliged to
push through low alder and "devil's clubs." The latter average about one
inch in thickness, and in this locality grow as high as a man's head.
They are usually straight and branchless, of a yellowish-green color,
and are thickly covered with slender sharp spines that readily penetrate
the clothing and cause great discomfort to one who undertakes to pass
through a thicket.

The ascent was very steep from this point until we reached the altitude
of "little sticks." One of the Nimrods was in advance a short distance,
and so anxious was he to reach the sheep country that he went off the
trail and had to be recalled. But his aggressiveness was short-lived,
and long before midday he was shouting at the top of his voice from the
rear end of the string of packs, "Wait! Wait! You're going too d----
fast!" In a short time we ran into a bees' nest, and you should have
seen the party scatter to get out of raiding distance of the nest, every
man for himself, packs bouncing, hats waving, all shouting until we
reached a safe distance.

[Illustration: Approaching the Low Pass]

As we ascended the mountain the mosquitoes grew scarcer and scarcer.
About the "land of little sticks" we stopped for a light lunch. Looking
in the direction indicated by the guide we saw a large moose feeding in
a little swale. Doc could not see him, try as he would. The Indian
endeavored to assist him by locating the animal with reference to a
good-sized rock, but his untrained eye, even with the aid of
field-glasses, could not make out the outline and we had to give up in
despair, although he was very keen to see it. Blueberries were quite
plentiful all around us and after we ate our lunch we filled up with
them as a dessert. We came to a little pond of crystal water at the foot
of a small glacier, and as soon as we reached the margin some
twenty-five or thirty ptarmigan took flight in all directions. They were
still in their moulting plumage. By this time the largest man in the
party was unable to keep the pace, and lagging behind kept the entire
party back. In starting up the canyon the ambitious member turned up the
right side, but erelong came to a place that was impassable and began to
shout, "I can't go any farther along here." One of the others answered,
"Slide, slide!" and the mighty Nimrod took the suggestion and slid down
the shale to the bottom and then began the ascent from another point on
the opposite side, where he found traveling much easier. This is the
common experience of the over-zealous tenderfoot.

[Illustration: Home of the White Sheep]

There was a low pass over the mountain and we had to wind our way up,
down, and around in order to make it, for it was only accessible by way
of an almost perpendicular rock. The leaders reached the top and were
required to wait for the rear-guard, but the tail end, before he could
get up, had to have the assistance of a rope tied around his body. What
with pulling and tugging by the guides on the upper end of the rope, the
big fellow was gently and carefully landed in safety. When he reached us
he was puffing and blowing like a wind-broken horse and insisted we must
camp right there, for he could go no farther. And although we had
intended to reach the valley some five miles beyond, where we could get
wood and water, we were forced, out of sympathy for a big-hearted,
congenial companion, to camp just where we were, he being completely
tired out from his trying experience.

After a restless night, with visions of sheep and photographs galore, we
were up and ready to start about the time the ptarmigan were clucking
their announcement of the rosy dawn. The country was cut into
gently-sloping valleys clothed with verdure, between long ridges of
mountains partly covered with snow. Through the glasses a dozen or more
white specks on the mountain-side could be distinguished as sheep moving
slowly as they grazed. We were too far away to tell whether there were
any big rams in the flock.

Considering the topographical conditions, the wind and the method of
approach, we mapped out our _modus operandi_ and started up the ridge of
the mountain on the right. It was a long, hard pull and by the time we
reached the summit all were wearied, especially my companion, who kept
shouting a request not to go so fast. Several hours after we spied the
sheep we were crawling stealthily over the backbone of the ridge where
we expected to find the flock, but were sadly disappointed. The
photographer threw his kodak back into the case with a quiet "d----";
the other pushed his "safety" on, threw his gun over his shoulder, and
turned back with a shaking of the head that was more expressive than
language. After examining carefully every likely place, all that we
could find of the flock was one lonely little lamb looking at us as
though in disgust. Presently it went away down into the valley and we
watched it as it ascended the opposite side and disappeared as a little
speck over the divide.

When we left camp in the morning the tenderfoot was still in bed and on
our return we were surprised to see how happy he was. Pointing to the
carcass of a little lamb, and beating his breast with his good right
hand, he said: "I've got my sheep. No more tramping those d----
mountains for me. I'm going back to camp." We were very much disgusted
to think he would travel six thousand miles and spend so much money to
hunt one half-day and then turn "quitter." We used every argument in our
power and as tactfully as possible tried to persuade him not to turn
back, but of no avail. Turning to us he retorted: "You old Sourdoughs, I
wouldn't follow you over those mountains for ten thousand dollars." So
with a packer he started around the mountain towards camp, happy as a
lark, promising us he would send the packer back with flour and other
provisions. Little did we suspect that he would try to starve us out of
the camp and thereby force us to return to headquarters.

According to prearranged plan, we intended to move down the valley and
select a camp site where we could get wood. About the time we started
the wind blew a gale, bringing rain and sleet. For four hours we tramped
through the wet underbrush with the elements pelting and lashing us in
their fury. We were drenched to the skin. As soon as our camp site was
selected, we threw off our packs in a drizzling rain and each man turned
to his task. Two arranged the canvas under a spreading scrub hemlock,
for we needed the protection from the wind. Soon a huge fire was going,
dispensing its cheerful warmth through the gloom, driving away the blues
of my companion, who was beginning to complain a great deal. Disrobing,
we hung our wet clothing over the surrounding limbs, where it was soon
steaming away, while the hunters were toasting their shins as they
waited for dry clothes and liquid refreshment, for by this time the
teapot was trying to quench the little side fire and the sizzling lamb
chops were about done to a finish. After a while my friend began to thaw
out; turning to me, he said: "Billy, I wonder what our friends would say
if they saw us now. I have no doubt they would suggest a committee of
the person," and I answered: "But this is only one side of it. We enjoy
life by contrast. When we get into our dry clothing, how we will enjoy
it, and when the sun shines to-morrow, how it will fill our hearts with
gladness! Every thorn has its rose, the darkest cloud its silver
lining."

[Illustration: Seeking a Ford]

After a good night's rest and something to eat, we divided into two
parties. My companion and his guide going toward the north, I started
westward up Benjamin Creek with the intention of crossing, but the
current was so swift that it was impossible to find a ford. Although the
guide, with me on his back, waded into the ice-cold water several times,
he was forced to return for fear of being carried off his feet. On the
opposite side of the creek could be seen a great many sheep, some
feeding, others lying down on rocky points from which they could command
a good view of the surrounding valley. They are very quick to
distinguish any strange object a long way off, and before you can get at
all near they take to the summit and disappear beyond. In the flock
there was not a single head that could be considered a trophy worthy of
the chase, even to a tenderfoot. I am sorry I did not have a telephoto
lens, for I could have secured a fairly good picture of the group. My
friend, George Shiras, III., got many good pictures in this same
location with a telephoto lens.

In ecstasy I followed the stream, reveling in the solitude of the rocky
fastnesses, where the right of eminent domain is granted by the Creator
to none save the cloven-hoofed creatures who have roamed there
unmolested from time immemorial. But now they are being taught a new
lesson. The modern gun in hands controlled by steady nerves and unerring
eye sounds the death knell of the species, unless they are given
protection. They are learning slowly and by bitter experience that even
at any distance they are in imminent danger from the rifle.

Away yonder on the uppermost crag stood His Majesty, as though chiseled
out of and forming a part of the very rock itself. A little below stood
his companion, another big ram. Selecting the lower sheep for a trophy,
I elevated the sights for six hundred yards. I instructed the guide to
watch with the field-glasses where the lead struck the rock. A loud
report, a great recoil, and a thud carried the message of danger to the
curious, though unsuspecting, sheep. The guide said, "A little too
high." In the meantime the rams were nervous and undecided what to do,
seeming uncertain as to the exact location of the enemy. Another thud on
the rocks, this time below, and then away they went out of sight over
the crest. We did not see them again, and they offered the only
desirable trophies of their kind that we found on the trip. In the fall
the big rams roam together a great deal in the most remote and
inaccessible places, the ewes generally flocking by themselves. It
seems to be the popular belief in that country that the large rams
separate from the flocks and withdraw by themselves at that season. We
saw several flocks, an average of seventy-five sheep a day, but there
were no big rams among them.

Our attention is attracted by a movement on the ground, a glimpse of a
marmot, as, making a bolt along its well-worn path, it disappears into a
hole, reappears, and again disappears,--a caper which is characteristic
of the little animal, as though he were curious to know something
definite about the invaders of his domain. This habit frequently gives
the hunter a shot, but their tenacity of life is so great that they
usually get back into the hole and one seldom recovers the body. Their
flesh is quite a delicacy among the natives, as well as to the hunter
when hungry. He is conscious of their presence at all times, for their
whistling can be heard continually in every direction.

The ptarmigan are plentiful, some partly concealed among the rocks, and
some walking about craning their necks, all beautiful in their moulting
plumage. Each is in a different stage of transformation from the
handsome brown of summer to the more beautiful winter dress of
snow-white. How wonderful are the ways of the Creator for the
preservation of the species! If the summer plumage were to remain until
the whole land is covered with snow, how easy it would be for the
ptarmigan hawk, occasionally seen soaring in the air, to distinguish the
bird, make a dart, pick it up for his evening meal--and thus bring about
the speedy extermination of this beautiful species! They are so tame you
could kill with stones all you would eat. The manner in which nature
provides protection for the inhabitants of the snow peaks is illustrated
again in the case of the sheep, which are white.

We saw many beautiful little flowers, the bluebell always in evidence,
daisies, a bunch of forget-me-nots, and what fascinated me beyond
description,--several bunches of violets away above the snow-line. They
took me back to the springtime in the Middle States. The wild geraniums
were in bloom, varying in color from a delicate purple to a faded hue,
with leaves colored from green to scarlet.

When we left the main camp provisions enough to last two days were
packed. It was our intention to keep a packer going between camps
carrying our supplies; thus we could move from place to place as light
as possible. When Doc returned from the last camp to headquarters with
his lamb and a packer to show him the way, he promised faithfully to
send the Indian back to us with a good supply of provisions. We
suggested writing down the articles desired, but he thought this was not
necessary,--that a good supply would be forthcoming. Thus we separated.
My companion was uneasy for fear of the Indian not being able to find
our camp, for our supplies were getting low. I had no fear from this
source, knowing well the natural instinct of a child of the forest for
taking our trail, which was so pronounced that even a novice could
follow us. You may imagine the chagrin of the party when he returned on
the following day with no flour and only bread enough to last one meal.
We then came to the conclusion that Doc was tired of the hunt and had
adopted this means of forcing us by starvation to return to the
provision camp. We hunted all that day with only one small biscuit
apiece. It was raining, and in the evening, when we returned to camp wet
and hungry, a large fire was built and our wet clothing dried. A tin cup
full of boiling hot tea soon revived our depressed spirits. This, with a
few ptarmigan roasted on a spit, enabled us to retire in good
condition.

By this time my comrade could not stand the hardships any longer and
wanted to return to the lake. He insisted that there were no big
trophies in the country. I succeeded in getting him to stay a day or two
longer by telling him I had seen a large ram. The last day we hunted
together we came upon a prospector's cache. On top of a large stone we
noticed a pile of small stones arranged in a way that at first sight
indicated the hand of man. Examining the pile we found beans, flour, and
dried fruits. Although we had been living on porcupine for two days, the
natives refused to touch the cache. There is an unwritten law among
prospectors and hunters that is never violated in this far-away land.
The cache is never disturbed, for they know full well that some
fellow-man is depending upon the provisions to reach civilization, and
to disturb it may cost the life of the owner. However, if one in a
starving condition helps himself, he leaves his name and the owner
considers it an act of humanity. Those only who have been in a similar
situation can appreciate what it means. One of the guides insisted it
was cached by the owner, who had gone back to civilization and left it
in the hope that some person in great need might find it. How we longed
to have a mess of those navy beans, but we had not yet reached the
condition where we could help ourselves, for we were only one day's
march from plenty.

Finally my companion had his way, and in the morning, though the weather
looked threatening, we started, two of the packers towards camp with the
outfit, and the hunters for the summit once more. While resting a little
before we made the ascent of a high mountain, my guide pointed out a
large moose, with huge palmated horns. He was feeding peacefully in the
distance, occasionally looking around as though always on the alert for
foes. One horn was still in the velvet, and on the other the velvet was
dangling down just ready to drop off, with the red corpuscles on the
antlers glittering in the rain.

By and by the clouds began to form on the mountain-tops, and gradually
lowered until they enveloped the entire mountains and valleys. Again the
rain commenced, and continued a steady downpour for the remainder of the
day. The fates were against us in respect to the weather, but we did not
have to go hungry, for the marmots were plentiful, whistling here and
there, as though a kind Providence had provided a good supper for the
camp. After walking all day in a cold, drizzling rain that was almost
sleet, we overtook our packers, who had been traveling since morning in
order to reach a camping place where there were both wood and water. We
finally reached the foothills, where we found water and scrub spruce in
abundance. One of the guides, while "rustling" sticks for fire, ran onto
a large porcupine, and between marmot soup and porcupine roast we had an
abundance to satisfy the inner man.

After the Indians had eaten their fill,--and the amount they could eat
was surprising,--the one that got the brisket had picked it clean and
started to twirl it in the air, uttering some chanting words each time
he tossed it, until it fell with the narrow side up, then he turned to
his companions laughing and shaking his head. Then another went through
the same motions. I subsequently learned that if the narrow side turned
up frequently this indicated they would have another "porky" on the
morrow. Porcupine they prefer to any other kind of meat. The intestines
seem to be considered the choice morsels. Our guide would take hold of
the intestine with one hand and with the other would strip it of its
contents in the various stages of digestion. Then to each man would be
allotted his _pro rata_ share,--and each was careful to see that he got
his full portion of the delicacy. Next they would string the sections on
sticks and gather round the fire on their "hunkers," singeing the
tidbits more or less, each according to his taste. Upon our inquiring
why they did not wash the dainties, they explained that washing spoiled
the flavor. There was a great deal of humor about them and they
frequently tried to play simple jokes on each other. Occasionally one
would reach for the field-glasses, look long and earnestly, then point
in the direction of the mountain to some rocks and shout "Mushee"[1]
(meaning "Sheep"), and when another member of the party would hurriedly
reach for the glasses and shout "No mushee," all would have a laugh at
his expense. They are great tea drinkers and when in camp the teapot is
always on the fire getting hot for the next cup. If for any reason they
were compelled to do without it, they would sulk until they got it.

[Footnote 1: The term for mountain sheep in the language of the
British Columbian Indians is "Scoulaps."]

It rained all night and we did not rest well, although very tired after
our trip over long stretches of mountain-side covered with loose stones
of all sizes and forms thrown down by the elements from the mountain-top.
The bed was hard; the tent was pitched under a scrub hemlock to get
protection from the strong wind that was blowing down the pass. The wind
moaned and groaned all the fore part of the night, then subsided, but
the rain continued till morning. The Nimrods huddled together in a small
depression on the ground, with no bed but the rubber blankets and very
scanty covering. Our hip bones would get sore, and one would turn and
then the other, continually. We were glad to see the dawn of another
day. All night long, "drip, drip, drip" in different parts of the tent
the rain could be heard. The hunting shoe of my companion, standing
upright under one of the largest leaks, proved an opportune receptacle,
consequently in the morning his shoe was about half full of rain water.
After a breakfast of porcupine stewed with a spoonful of evaporated
potatoes and washed down with a cup of tea, we folded our tent and
plodded our weary way towards camp. Blueberries and salmon-berries were
very plentiful. We found at the higher elevations an abundance of a
species of blueberry, the woody plants of which grew less than three
inches in height. They were laden with a small berry, very sweet to the
taste, and so plentiful that they could be stripped off by the handful.
Among them grew another species as heavily laden with red fruit, which I
think was a species of partridge-berry. The two grew about the same
height. The Indians preferred the red berries and seemed fond of them.
As for myself, I was not partial to them, but ate liberally of the blue.

Among the berries we came upon a covey of ptarmigan feeding. Doc,
murderously inclined, fired some ten shots at one of them before it
flew. Indeed, so recklessly did he scatter his leaden pellets as the
birds rose, that old Shanghai, one of our Indians, called to me: "Hey,
Billy, Billy! Come on! Damn! Him make bullets whiz by head!"

As we reached lower levels, the blueberries gave way to salmon-berries.
They resemble raspberries in growth and appearance, but have a peculiar
tart flavor. They were in great abundance, and were much relished by our
party.

We arrived at camp in due time, tired and hungry, but none the worse for
our experience, and after a short rest, quite ready for another tramp
through the enchanting forest of birch, Cottonwood, and hemlock.

[Illustration: Ptarmigan]

On our way through the woods the Indians gathered for snuff-making a
great many fungi growing on the birch trees. In preparing the snuff,
they first take a birch limb of sufficient size and with a pocket-knife
cut out a round hole about two inches in diameter and an inch and a
half deep; this is the mortar. The fungi are then placed in the hot
coals of a birch-wood fire until they are charred through and through,
when they are broken into the mortar with a like amount of tobacco
leaves. Then with another piece of birch wood about three feet long for
a pestle the mixture is ground in the mortar until it becomes of the
color and consistency of a moist snuff. This the Indians continually
chew and rub in their teeth. Of the many uses of the noble birch surely
this is the most unique.

From the seedling to the giant tree the life history of the birch is one
of usefulness to the inhabitants of the wild. The hardwood ridge over
yonder looks like the woods in the vicinity of a beaver community, only
over a much larger area. Acres and acres of birch trees averaging two
inches in diameter are broken off a couple of feet from the ground by
the giant moose, which straddle a sapling and bend it down to browse
upon the boughs and tender twigs of the top. An old-timer in the country
told us that once after a hard winter he came upon several "moose yards"
in the spring and found many bodies of moose that had starved to death.
He also told us that he had saved the lives of quite a number by
cutting down trees where they could feed and thus tide themselves over a
severe spell of bad weather. The birch-buds nourish the grouse during
the winter. Birch-bark starts the fire and birch-wood furnishes the
fuel. Birch-bark supplies the natives raw material from which to
manufacture canoes and various utensils and trinkets. Taking it all in
all I do not know of any other tree of the forest that is put to so many
uses. An interesting instance of its application to the culinary art
comes to mind. According to a tradition in our family, some of whom were
pioneers in the Huron district of Canada, the Indians taught them to
make a very fair substitute for baking powder out of a compound of the
ashes of birch and hickory wood. I am sorry I never learned the formula.

Around the camp fire we gathered just before retiring. The night was
dark. The doleful cry of the solitary great northern diver (_Urinator
imperator_) came through the stillness of the invigorating atmosphere,
and scarcely would the echo die away in the distant hills until the call
was repeated. The bird may have been floating on the surface of the
lake, or flying in the air, calling, as it frequently does while in
flight. The native Indians, like the sailors, do not take kindly to the
laughing of the loon, for there is a superstition among them that it
forebodes bad weather or some misfortune. The camp-fire was burning
brightly, cutting a luminous hemisphere out of the inky darkness. In the
north the aurora borealis was throwing its weird light in streamers
stretched in a semicircle over the horizon. While I was admiring these
the moon pushing up over the black hilltop across the lake, looked
cherry-red. It seemed as though I was under a spell. In my fancy I could
see a great boat approaching over the dark water, with a huge
search-light just rotating into view and sweeping the northern heavens
with its rays. But even as I gazed the full moon appeared in all its
northern splendor, the vision dissolved, and I realized that the
northern lights and Old Luna had played a prank on me.

The next day we packed our belongings and shifted camp some four miles
farther south on the same lake. As soon as the bow of our little boat
struck the shore we hopped out and began a reconnoiter for a camp site.
A well-worn path across the narrow neck of land separating one little
fiord from another attracted our attention. A stroll in that direction
disclosed a camp which had lately been occupied by some unknown party.
On a tree we found the card of our fellow townsman, George Shiras, III.,
who had recently left the camp for the sheep country. It was like
receiving a letter from home. How pleasant the surprise had we been so
fortunate as to meet him! The "few days in camp together," suggested by
his invitation of long standing, would have been realized by a strange
coincidence. While he left civilization from Seward, we departed by way
of Kenai, several hundred miles distant, yet both arrived at the same
place, he by way of the upper Kenai and we by the lower.

A hurried pitching of camp in anticipation of rain, which had been
incessant for the past four days, with only brief intervals of relief
from the downpour, put us in excellent shape, with plenty of spruce
boughs for bedding, before the rain began to patter, patter on the
stretched canvas. To me a most interesting experience is that of being
lulled into dreamland under such conditions. It may be due to the effect
of the ozone and to the fact that in the woods one is always tired when
night comes.

On the following morning we divided the parties and left camp in
different directions. After tramping many miles alone I came to a swamp
country. Crossing over one arm of the swamp, wading up to my knees in
water, I came upon a path worn almost a foot deep by moose traveling
from one place to another. I was unable to figure out why they traveled
backward and forward along this particular route. After returning home I
learned from Mr. Shiras that not far from this point was a salt lick and
the path was the regular route to and from the lick.

The path led through a little depression in a ridge that projected into
the swamp. Mounting an elevation in the center of the ridge, I could see
on every side little lakes and ponds, surrounded with alders and acres
of yellow swamp grass, an ideal home for moose. Taking my field-glass, I
looked in every direction for game, and finally my eye rested on a
yellowish-brown object, then another and another, which proved to be cow
moose feeding among the birches. While resting, there came to my ears
from another direction the snapping of bushes. I knew it was a moose
feeding, a cow, to be sure. I at once started in the direction whence
the sound came, and happened upon three cows feeding and resting. They
did not seem to be wild, for on seeing me they threw their ears back and
hair forward, just like mules, then walked off a short distance and
stopped. In fact, they appeared to be very tame and evidently knew that
the law protected their sex. While looking in the finder of my camera I
noticed that their curiosity seemed to be aroused and that they were
advancing towards me a little too closely for safety. I hurriedly set
down my kodak and raised my gun for fear the foremost would take a
notion to charge. Just at this moment she wheeled straight around and
with a trotting motion, took to the closest cover. Before I returned to
camp my intention had been to come back the next day, but I found the
entire party had decided to turn homeward the next morning. What an
opportunity I missed to get some photographs of big bull moose! The
party saw at least ten cow moose that day. Without a doubt, when the
rutting season arrived in about ten days, the large bulls, now in the
high timber, would be scouring the forests in search of their mates,
bellowing in answer to the call of their lady-loves.

As soon as he reached the camp that evening Cheechalker began to inquire
about his bath, and his equilibrium was greatly disturbed when the
Indians refused to erect a tepee for a sweat box and give him a bath.
The guide, pointing to the crystal water of the lake, said, "Him good
water, make good wash." Now Cheechalker took as kindly to the crystal
water as fish take to the land. Finally the party went for a bath, each
performing his ablution in installments, and while they were sunning
themselves, Old Sourdough took a header into the lake as an example that
they might follow. This was too strenuous for the balance of the party
and they were satisfied to look on.

[Illustration: A Bath in Lake Skilak]

Doc took a stroll along the beach with his shotgun and returned with a
brace of snipe. The white crescent over the eye was very conspicuous
between the black bill and slaty-black feathers of the crown.

Pulling stakes after our breakfast was over next morning, we were soon
on our way homeward. We were just one day going down the river. The
current was very swift and save for a few stops we made excellent time.
At two of the worst rapids we all got out and the Indians ran the
rapids. Before we pulled into Kenai we were told the _Bydarky_ had left
for Seldovia and would not make another trip for three days, which, if
true, would be too late for us to catch the last boat of the season from
Seldovia to Seattle. After arriving at Kenai we had about completed
arrangements for a little schooner to take us up the inlet to Sunrise,
on Turnagain Bay, where we expected to get a train for Seward, in time
for the steamer, when, much to our pleasant surprise, the belated
_Bydarky_ came into port on her way to Seldovia. We had been
misinformed. We quickly transferred our outfit, much relieved that we
would not have to miss the last boat of the season.

At two o'clock in the afternoon the boat left Kenai under full steam for
the westward. The waters of the inlet were as smooth as glass and we
were making good headway. Not even a gentle breeze was blowing as the
sun disappeared behind the snow-covered peaks of Iliamna and Redoubt.
The afterglow, reflected from the snowy cap, and the steam bursting from
the side of old Redoubt gave it a weird appearance.

All the passengers had retired except Doc and myself, who had been left
without a bunk. We first thought we would throw our blankets on the
floor of the combination cabin, kitchen, and dining-room. A strong
breeze began to blow and we decided to go into the hold for the night,
coil ourselves up in our duffel, and go to sleep. The wind increased to
a hurricane. What a night we spent down in the hold of that old tub! She
was carrying little freight, had no ballast, and could make no time. The
tide caught us, and between the outgoing and the incoming tide-rifts the
boat was tossed about at the mercy of the elements. When she pitched
forward the propeller was out of the water and spun like a button on a
barn door. The engine throbbed and beat, stopped and started, with jerks
and bounds, and the climax came when it broke.

We were in the most treacherous water of the Pacific, rolling and
tumbling in the trough and on the ridge of the high seas. The boat was
drifting out of the charted course and toward a coast bristling with
unknown rocks, upon which we were sure of being lost. The instant the
engine broke, the engineer came down the hatchway like a meteor. The
boat made a plunge and he landed in a heap on top of the doctor, who was
so sick that in his misery he did not care whether the craft went down
or floated. Righting himself, the engineer made a dash for the
engine-room to repair the damage. In the storm the poop deck went to
windward over the stern. The repair-men were at work; above the din of
the hammer and chisel could be heard the cargo shifting from side to
side with the billows. Oh! how I longed to hear again the vibrating of
the engine and smell the stench of the fuel oil, which before the storm
had made our condition almost unbearable. The doctor lying on the broad
of his back lifted his head and stared through the now open poop deck
and asked, "Where are those sparks coming from?" I looked up and thought
the stack was belching sparks from its fiery bowels. A second look,
however, sufficed to show that what seemed to be sparks were the stars
as they passed back and forth over the hatch with the rocking of the
boat. The illusion was much more realistic than the narration of it
would indicate.

I mustered up enough courage to crawl to the ladder, climbed up, looked
out,--and what a night! The stars seemed large and brilliant enough for
planets, the moon almost large and bright enough for the sun. How it
danced on the foamy crests of the tide-rifts when the whitecaps broke,
throwing the silvery spray all around the heaving, plunging, tossing
boat. Iliamna and Redoubt stood in their majesty, silent onlookers at
the battle that was waging between the little boat and the powerful
elements,--wondering who was going to be the victor. I dropped bade into
the hold half believing it was all a dream, when I heard the captain
shouting to the pilot, "Keep her head on, head on!" For fear of drifting
upon the rocks they were obliged to run many miles out to sea before
they dared make the turn for the harbor. I heard him shout to the man at
the wheel, "Head her into the harbor as quickly as possible when she is
in the next trough!" We had now reached the critical moment,--would they
select the right time to make the turn? When the boat was turned halfway
to leeward and on the crest, the turbine without resistance spun around
at a fearful rate, then the engine stopped for a moment and the
breakers struck the side a terrific blow, causing the hull to creak and
groan as though it were human and about ready to collapse. The water in
the cabin overhead swished back and forth and the pots and kettles, as
they beat against the walls, kept time with the rolling and plunging of
the boat. The old tub righted herself, we had crossed the danger line,
and were heading straight for the harbor.

When we reached quiet water the old-timers shook their heads and vowed
that was their last trip in the _Bydarky_. What happened in the bunks no
one would tell, though at least one of the party said that during the
night he had offered many a silent prayer for the safety of the craft.
There was a foot of water on the cabin floor, the pots and pans were
drifting about amid a flotsam and jetsam of pork and beans, vegetables,
and what not.

Thus we reached Seldovia and learned that the steamer _Portland_ was
about due on her last trip for the season. Coming home by way of the
inside passage, we had a pleasant trip, full of interest in a hundred
ways. On one occasion, while many miles from land, a curious little bird
came fluttering from mast to mast. Evidently on its way south it had
become exhausted in the long flight from some northern point and had
taken a short cut across the water. Finally one of the passengers caught
the little fellow and it proved to be a crossbill. The mandibles of this
species are considerably crossed to assist in picking seeds from the
pine cones of the northern land. It stayed with us all day and seemed to
be perfectly contented and satisfied to be caressed in the open hand,
but just as soon as the boat neared land it took to wing and with a
graceful flight reached the timber safely. So the days passed until in
due time we arrived at Seattle, where we took the train for the East.

CHAPTER IV

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.

CHAPTER V

HUNTING WITH A FERRET

Having many times tried with indifferent success to photograph the
rabbit in his native fields and woods, I cast about for a means of
stalking him at close range, and had for some time cherished the idea of
taking a hunt with my kodak in a good tracking snow. Thus intent, I
jumped from a passenger coach one day in the late fall, equipped with an
Eastman twelve-shooter and ammunition enough to make a big bag.

I had left the station scarcely more than a couple of hundred yards
behind along the public road, when I leaped a stake and rider fence,
crossed a stubble field, bound for the bottom land. A field covered with
tall, dry grass, right at the edge of a brier patch, looked a very
likely place for cottontail. Just as I reached the little creek covered
with ice, save where here and there the rippling water crossed the
shallow, pebbly places, I struck a fresh trail. Carefully examining the
footprints in the snow, which had fallen early the preceding day, I
reached the conclusion, from the trodden condition of the ground and the
little round brownish excrement lying here and there on the surface of
the snow, that this was his playground and I must look elsewhere for the
quarry. So I began a large circle around the brier patch to catch the
trail to his bed. After passing several times around the thicket, I
finally discovered the latest trail out. Bunny usually travels by long
jumps from the time he makes up his mind to retire for the day. The
trail followed what seemed the most cautious route--under an old fallen
tree, then two long jumps and into an abandoned ground-hog hole. I cut a
pole with the intention, if possible, of routing Bunny from his
quarters. About the time the pole was half way in, out he popped from an
unexpected direction like a flash, made a dash for a brush heap nearby,
and disappeared even before I could get the camera into action.

When a rabbit is once driven out of a hole, it seldom re-enters unless
hard pressed by the dogs. I have trailed them in the snow for hours,
reading the story from the footprints as they ran, now hopping along
leisurely, now doubling and following old tracks under, through, and
over logs. In one instance Br'er Rabbit showed considerable ingenuity in
making a long side jump to a board fence and squatting where the color
of fence and rabbit was almost the same, by this simple ruse eluding his
pursuers.

[Illustration: Color Blending]

Later I accidentally came upon some fellows who had put a ferret into a
hole. In a short time he stuck his nose out, sniffing the air for the
scent of the quarry, circling the open for the lost trail. When the owner
made a slight movement towards him he instantly disappeared into the
hole. For fully an hour the men tried in vain to catch him as he appeared
alternately at either end of the tunnel. Grass had grown around the
entrance, and the ferret was busy trying to carry enough into the hole
to make a comfortable bed and take up his abode there, unceremoniously
abandoning the snug quarters in his master's pocket. Several times they
almost succeeded in getting hold of him by taking a bunch of grass and
poking it towards him. This he would grab, hold until his owner had
pulled him out almost far enough to catch him, then let go, sniffing as
he scurried back out of reach. Finally they were obliged to try a new
scheme, and one of them was sent to a neighboring house for a piece of
fresh meat. They tied a string to the meat and lowered it into the hole;
whereupon the ferret instantly snatched it, and forgetting his late
resolve, held on so tenaciously that the hunter soon had him back into
the bag.

[Illustration: Putting in the Ferret]

On the second day out, the snow was fast disappearing from the open
under the influence of a bright sunshine, though it was still quite deep
in the woods and on the northerly slopes of the high hills. While
looking for tracks I succeeded in gaining the confidence of another
party of rabbit hunters who had a good dog and a "long pole," as they
called it, and directly I obtained an invitation to accompany them as
they hunted for signs of the little cottontail. I accepted with some
hesitation, determined to take a few observations of the operations of
modern "game hogs." Soon we heard the short, sharp bark of the old
hound, indicating that a start had been made; and about the same time a
shout rent the air, "Here he goes!" as the little white tail dodged in
and out from one cover to another, disappearing in the distance with the
old hound in hot pursuit and baying at every jump. Presently, in the
language of the coon-hunter, the dogs tongued "Treed," which in the
dialect of the rabbit hunter is "Holed," and erelong the law breakers
gathered around the hole at the root of the tree. I was hoping the tree
was hollow and that the little rabbit who had made such a good long run
for his life had climbed the tree and would be safe from the ferret, but
my hopes soon vanished when I heard the rumbling noise, first faint in
the depths, then coming nearer and nearer as he approached the opening.
A hasty scramble by the man on his knees, a muffled "d----", a wish
expressed that he had used his net, and the little rabbit was away again
in a race for his life, minus a tail taken by the ferret and a patch of
skin and hair taken from his back by the big fellow at the hole. Then
follows a long chase during which the old dog overleaps a little bunch
of gray as it squats in the grass. For, knowing that the enemy is fleet
of foot and is likely to pass hurriedly by, overlooking in his haste the
clod of color that blends with the dry grass, he crouches low and gains
an opportunity to double on his tracks. His ruse misleads the pursuer
for a short time at least and requires a halt in the chase, which gives
the fugitive an opportunity to reach some oft-frequented harbor of
refuge.

Again he is tracked to his hiding-place, and again the little
bloodthirsty creature is turned loose to drive him from cover. Bunny,
always on the alert, makes a bolt for his life with the ferret at his
back and the old hound waiting at the other end of the hole to crush his
life out. He stops a moment at the entrance as the dog makes a vicious
snap at him, returns to meet his arch enemy, lets out a pitiful squeal,
and meekly allows his life blood to be sucked without further
resistance. His courage and dash are gone and he quietly submits to his
cruel fate at the hands of the lawless "game hogs." After the entrance
is dug out a long arm is extended into the hole and Bunny is slowly
dragged forth with the ferret hanging on like grim death.

Again the biggest "game hog" of the party could be heard shouting to the
dogs, "Whoop her up, Dan," urging them on the trail of another innocent
little rabbit that has a slim chance for life.

While hunting for fresh signs we ran across a little cottontail hanging
by his head, caught in a snare set by another type of hunters who bag
their game by means of knife, twine, and apple. A nibble at the apple,
the trap is sprung, and the noose tightens around his neck, dangling
little cottontail in the air just low enough for his hind feet to touch
the ground, and slow strangulation continues until life is extinct. In
the morning when the trapper reaches his snare he finds the rabbit
frozen stiff, with tongue protruding and eyes bulging from their
sockets. Surely he is not without a pang of conscience as he gathers up
his catch.

[Illustration: His Last Nibble]

I was startled out of my contemplation by the sound of the old dog
giving tongue, and the bang of the musket echoing in the tree-tops.
Listening, I could hear the dogs baying on the trail some distance from
where the shot was fired,--plainly a clean miss. In a short time the
language of the hound again announced "Holed," and the gathering of the
heartless around the spot told the same old story. At my suggestion,
"Give the rabbit a chance," the dog was removed from the hole, when out
popped the rabbit. The dog in hot pursuit soon overtook him, but failed
to pick him up. Twice the little fellow fooled the dog, but the third
time his doom was sealed. The dog returned with the rabbit kicking in
his mouth, and laid it at the feet of his master as a trophy worthy of
the chase, occasionally nosing it to see if any life remained. Truly
this cannot be sport.

[Illustration: In Hot Pursuit]

[Illustration: Picked Up]

Crossing the hill we caught a view from the distance of a beautiful
meadow flanked on one side by an old orchard, which long needed pruning
and was grown up with blackberry briers. On the other side was a thicket
of locust, sumac, and elder, which had been cleared several years before
and the debris piled on the stone heaps ready for the match that had
never been applied. Here and there were stretches of stake and rider
fence; in fact, it was an old farm neglected for many years owing to the
death of the owner and continued litigation among the heirs for the
possession of the land,--an ideal home for the cottontail.

Crossing the meadow the dogs started a rabbit which had been basking in
the sun, coiled up in a bed built in the middle of a bunch of dry swamp
grass. The little fellow had remained perfectly quiet, although one of
the party passed within two feet without seeing him, so well did his
color harmonize with the surroundings. He remained unobserved until one
of the dogs passing by started him and warned the other dogs, whereupon
away they went in full chase. Through the orchard, down along the old
fence, sped the fugitive, the dogs close behind, tonguing at every jump.
Into the thicket he plunged, safe for the time being. The dogs began to
circle, caught the trail on the opposite side, and followed it into
another cover, where Bunny squatted and presently we saw him returning
on his own trail. I made a run to head him off so that I could get a
snap-shot, but observing me he stopped in the middle of a wheat field.
In the meantime the dogs had gathered enough information and were
working their way back over the track until the leader came on to him,
and away they went. The quarry returned towards the other dogs and was
picked up before cover could be reached.

[Illustration: Down the Old Fence]

Again the dogs were urged to hunt the old orchard. A start was made and
away went a rabbit across the meadow on the far side of which he darted
into a burrow. The ferret was put into a hole and out popped three
rabbits, one on the heels of the other. Each dog followed one, but soon
returned, evidently unable to keep the trails, for they all crisscrossed
around the orchard. In the meantime every effort was made to get the
ferret, without success, when finally one of the unfeeling suggested
shooting a bird. I protested against shooting a song bird and suggested
an English sparrow, whereupon he promised to go down to the barn for a
sparrow. However, upon returning he handed over a song sparrow
(_Melospiza fasciata_), with its long tail and brownish-streaked body
beautiful even in death. Charity impels me to believe the man was
ignorant rather than willful. Pulling a piece of twine from his
hunting-coat pocket, he tied fast the bird, a double hitch after hitch,
so that the ferret could not loose the bait and carry it into the hole.
When properly secured the bird was thrown to the ferret, and instantly
seized. Each began to pull, when off went the head into the hole.
Returning promptly for the body the ferret made another grab and was
finally coaxed out of the hole and caught by the owner.

[Illustration: The Dog Listening to the Last Sound]

The dogs began to work the trails and again had a rabbit crossing the
meadow for dear life, they following close behind. He went into a hole
among the roots of an old tree, to escape from his enemies, as he hoped,
but alas, only to a cruel fate! "Put in the long pole," said one of the
boys kneeling at the hole. The other started the ferret on its
death-dealing mission. In a few minutes we could hear the smothered
"Wah, wah, wah" of cottontail, and a curse from the heartless, not out
of sympathy for poor little bunny, but because he knew the rabbit would
not make another attempt to reach the opening and the ferret would stay
there for days. Fainter and fainter grew the pitiful moans, until
finally they ceased forever. One of the men went for an ax to cut a way
down to the ferret. The hole took a downward course into an old root,
and by cutting through they found the hole, reached in and pulled out
the dead rabbit. It was sickening to see the condition of its head. The
owner of the ferret had a cruel heart, but even it was softened a
little at the sight, for he threw the murderous creature away from him.
Instantly the big dog made a jump, grabbed the ferret, and tossed him
into the air several feet before his master could interfere. A feeling
of satisfaction came over me when I saw the toss, and I said to myself,
"That was your last kill." But landing on his feet he humped his back
and at the same time hissing through his teeth made several vicious
snaps at the dog and sought protection by running towards his master.
Fortunately for him his master had the sack open and the ferret
hastened into it to safety.

[Illustration: Did He Come Out?]

When I boarded the train for home that evening I felt as though I had
spent a day in the shambles. Such slaughter seems to me to be utterly
unjustifiable, even in the name of sport.

CHAPTER VI

A NIGHT HUNT

A coon hunt is always interesting to me. Just as soon as night
approaches and you call old Stump, who has lost the tip of his tail in a
battle royal, he pricks up his ears, begins to whine, and seems to know
that the boys are out for a coon hunt. As you approach to loosen the
snap that ties him to the kennel he begins to wag what is left of his
tail and seems to say, "Boys, I'm happy to be with you to-night!" The
wrinkles in his face twitch as the excitement grows. His face and head
indicate that he has been in many a coon fight. On one occasion he
tracked a ground-hog into its hole underneath an uprooted tree. Being
then of tender years and lacking experience, as the ground-hog came out,
Stump made a grab and at the same time the ground-hog snapped Stump by
the nose and held on like grim death. It took the combined efforts of
men and dogs to separate them. Finally in the mix-up Stump made one
desperate struggle to get away and lost the tip of his nose. Thus with
the two tips gone Stump entered the arena as a full-fledged--shall we
say?--and experienced coon dog.

[Illustration: The Hunting Party]

We gather at the country farm, boys and girls ready for the outing.
Stump, Fan, and Towser all are anxious for a night out working the
ravines and watercourses. Lanterns and "pit-lamps" are shining brightly
as we start across the meadow. The dogs disappear in the darkness. The
fireflies flash here and there as though to light our way across the
fields. One of the party, and by the way a fair one, steps into a pool
of running water and the night air is pierced--in fact, sadly rent--by
the shrill screams of the miss, for this is her first experience
"trekking" in the dark. As we approach the woods the weirdness of the
scene is enchanting. Shadows play on the trees and leaves, as though in
imagination one were transplanted into some fairy-land. Away off among
the timber the great horned owl can be heard calling to its mate, "Waugh
ho! waugh ho!" just before it makes an excursion into the fields in
search of some hapless rabbit or bird. The crickets are fiddling away,
making music for their mates while they gather blades of grass for their
burrow.

Presently our eager ears catch the low grunt of a dog as he gets the
first whiff of the trail, not fresh, but spent. By the reflected light
we see Towser wag his tail, slowly at first, but as the scent gets
warmer the tail wags more vigorously. Soon one long, loud wail resounds
in the stillness of the night and ere the echo dies away in the distance
it is repeated, and we know the chase is on. Everybody runs toward the
sound. The quarry has taken to the tree and the dogs bay up, but before
the party reaches the scene of action the dogs are off again. They find
the trail where the coon has followed a grapevine for some distance,
taken the ground again, and "put one over" on the old dog. After
considerable delay the dog finds his mistake, picks up the scent and
away he goes, and directly, on the other side of the ridge, bays up.
Then the party goes pell-mell in that direction. And so the hunt
proceeds, now here, now there, up hill and across ravine, until at last
the coon is treed, and the dogs by their change of voice tell the news
and summon the party, which arrives in installments, out of breath, at
the foot of the tree where the dogs are panting after their long chase.

Every one is eager for the finish. The tree-climber of the party takes
off his coat, hat, and shoes and begins the ascent to shake Mister Coon
from the tree. A shout comes from the tree-top, "Here he is; look out
below!" then follows a shake or two and a large house cat disappears
into the darkness before the dogs can take hold. When the cat came down
it alighted on all fours near the girls, and what with the girls
screaming, the dogs barking, and the cat spitting, night was made
hideous. We soon called the dogs off and "hied" them on for a fresh
trail.

By and by the dogs took another hot scent. Down the hill, clambering
over a stake and rider fence,--a ruse which for a moment confused the
dogs,--then across a cornfield to the creek went the coon with the dogs
in hot pursuit; he followed the course of the creek for several rods,
then dashed through at the shallows and bid fair to make good his escape
to the woods beyond. But old Stump had been through that maneuver
before; the rest of the dogs knew it and followed him over to the other
bank, up the hill, under the cliff, and erelong bayed up. Following as
fast as possible over and under dead trees, a jump of several feet over
an embankment, a slide of several feet more, a brief climb and we
reached the dogs, who, excitedly voicing their triumph, formed a circle
around the tree as though appealing to us for action.

The night was dark and just such a night as was well suited for
"shining" the eyes of the coon. Lying flat on the ground and staring
into every part of the tree, I finally descried two objects shining like
stars near together in the zenith. We knew they were the eyes of the
treed coon. Calling the dogs we prepared to photograph them and the coon
in the mix-up. Setting up the kodak about twenty feet from the spot
where we figured the coon would drop from the tree, we fixed the pan
for the flash, loading it with an ounce of flash-light powder. One of
the party held the dogs and another lighted Roman candles and shot them
towards the coon. Thus we had the artist at the kodak, the man in charge
of the flash at the pan, the coon hunters holding the dogs, and one of
Payne's pyrotechnic men setting off the fireworks. The combination was
too much for the coon. About that time the big dog began to jerk at his
chain, and the pit-lamp in the hands of the man who held him registered
on the exposed sensitive film a sort of stylographic record of the
efforts of the dog to get at the coon as soon as the latter landed on
the ground. As the coon dropped we set the flash off, and caught both
the dog and coon about the time they came together at the very spot on
which we had focused the lens.

The chase ended, the quarry caught, we straggled back over the hills to
the distant trolley line, as Orion rose high toward the zenith. A few
hours more, and the eastern sky would grow gray. Tired, but happy, we
jogged along, most of us in silence, for about that time in the morning
after a coon hunt, the songs and jokes of the early evening are stale,
and our spirits, with the night, are on the wane. Like an exploded
skyrocket, we are getting back again to earth as fast as we can after
our excursion into the realm of darkness.

[Illustration: Dog and Coon in the Mix-up

Note the forefoot of the coon between the dog's hind legs; his banded
tail to the right of the dog's right forefoot. The zig-zag line in front
of the man at the left indicates the movement of his hand in which was a
pit-lamp and the end of the dog's chain just prior to the flash.]

Another denizen of the woods is frequently interrupted in his night
prowlings by the dogs hunting for coon. I refer to the oppossum, who is
himself frequently the object of the quest. In the Southern States the
negroes are very fond of hunting for 'possum. A successful hunt means a
good dinner, the _pièce-de-résistance_ being the trophy of the chase
stuffed with sweet potatoes. Roasted and served as only an old "mammy"
can roast and serve it, 'possum defies comparison. Perhaps roast
suckling-pig comes the nearest, but even this lacks the flavor of the
woods. We are used to thinking of the 'possum as a lethargic animal, but
that is only when he is "playing 'possum." He is really quite agile, and
when treed by the dogs, furnishes no end of excitement by climbing, not
into the tops of the trees, as does the coon, but merely far enough to
be safe from his pursuers. I have yet in anticipation the pleasure of
obtaining a flash-light of the hounds on their hind legs, pawing and
clawing at a tree on which, just beyond their reach, the 'possum lies
stretched indifferently on a horizontal limb. One really ought to have a
dictagraph, so that when the picture is thrown on the screen, it may be
with the appropriate accompaniment of the baying and barking of the
hounds and the shouts of the hunters.

The little animal is very prolific and rears several families in a
season. How interesting it is to watch the antics of the young clinging
to the mother when disturbed! I have known cases where an old 'possum,
presumably alone, was shaken out of a tree, and as she fell, strange,
plaintive cries were heard on all sides. The rays of the lantern
disclosed perhaps a dozen young 'possums, who had been ruthlessly
dislodged from the pouch or marsupium of the mother as she struck the
ground. On such an occasion, if the parent is allowed an opportunity,
she will gather up the young and hunt cover.

There is something quite comfortable and clinging about the young
'possums and their mother (Frontispiece). The little fellows are very
roguish in their ways, and I have no doubt would in time become
friendly. The 'possum has very sharp teeth, and can do good execution
upon occasion, but as a general rule he may be said to have a "retiring"
disposition.

CHAPTER VII

IN THE SPRINGTIME

As soon as the first harbingers of spring arrive we take to the forest.
Life is just awakening in the northern woods. The winter has been long
and severe. Following the course of the creek we see large cakes of ice
thrown topsy-turvy all over the meadow, where they have been carried by
the spring freshet. In the gorge block after block is piled; they are
lying in every conceivable position. The spring sun is busy undoing what
the hard winter has accomplished. The cakes of crystal ice are fast
losing their deep blue color, becoming "rotten" and breaking off in huge
chunks with a report that fairly startles one. The newly-exposed
ice-prisms glisten in the sun like so many jewels. To add to the
attractions of the landscape, the creek is lined with stately
sycamores,--here and there a lonely buttonball clings by a slender stem
to the parent tree, as though loath to break away. Or perhaps it is
hopeful that by some imaginary elixir of life it may renew its youth and
live the spring and summer over again, forgetful that on the verge of
inaugurating a new cycle of existence,--the birth of another
generation,--it has before it the great consummation of all life. Where
the hills furnish a dark background the old tree stands out, weird and
majestic, its limbs white and naked after shedding their cinnamon-like
bark. It glistens in the sunlight almost as much as the ice-prisms. The
high water is busy undermining the bank of the stream and an occasional
cave-in appears, as though some muskrat surprised in his foraging were
making a hasty departure for his tunnelled home.

[Illustration: Home of the Cardinal]

The woods are ringing with the song of the cardinals (_Cardinalis
cardinalis cardinalis_), and just as soon as you enter their "beat" they
seem to take notice and are ready to fight any intruder. It is a
noteworthy fact that the "sphere of influence" of a particular cock is
limited to a portion of a tract of woodland as well defined as though
surrounded by a fence. If you can conceal yourself in his zone and
imitate his call, the bird will approach very near. In my younger days
many were the cardinals I trapped in the following manner: In the
mating season we would take a caged bird into the woods, the cage
covered from the time we left home until we reached the woods. Selecting
a likely place, we set our net, and attached a rope which led to a blind
constructed of boughs put together as naturally as possible. Then when
all was ready we lifted the cover of the cage. The sudden emergence from
darkness to light seemed to fill the very soul of the caged bird with
gladness, and even before we could conceal ourselves behind the blind it
would break forth into the sweetest melodies, filling the woods with its
songs, as though once again free in its erstwhile haunts. Ere the first
notes die away in the distance, like an echo comes the answer from the
proprietary lord of that particular section of woodland, as though he
seemed to say: "Some miscreant has entered my shady bowers to entice my
fair one away, so I'll teach him a lesson and drive him out of my
domain." Again the voice of the caged bird peals forth in a loud, clear
whistling call, but I have no doubt the notes are not so sweet to the
suspicious wild bird, for he is answering in an angry tone. In the
meantime the wild bird is cautiously advancing, flitting from limb to
limb. If he comes from the direction of the blind, he may be so near
that you can distinctly see the bristled rictus and black mask on his
face, the crested top, and glowing red body. Presently he sees the
captive bird, makes a dive for it, and hangs onto the wires, trying to
get hold of the intruder, picking and striking through the narrow
openings so excitedly that he does not notice the net being pulled over
him. What loyalty to his mate we see in this little bird! Thus many
cardinals are caught. If the other bird does not encroach on their beat
they will not answer to the call, but by shifting the cage even fifty
feet or less, it may enter the domain of another and then he will show
fight even to the death.

The piping of the cardinal is shrill at times, again soft, mellow, and
soothing to the ear. He is a perfect vocalist and is known as one of the
best whistlers among the feathery tribes; indeed, by some he is called
the American nightingale. At times when he ends up his song with
"Pretty, pretty, pretty," I repeat the words, agreeing absolutely with
him.

[Illustration: Cardinal's Nest and Eggs]

He shows some strange antics occasionally. Once we found a nest built in
a crab tree about three feet from the ground. When we first found it
there were four light blue eggs blotched with liver-colored spots, laid
in a loosely-built nest of rootlets, grass, and grapevine bark. About a
week later when we visited it the nest was empty. Looking toward the
ground by chance, I saw a little bird "in the down" apparently without
life. Lifting it up in my hand, by close observation I noticed that it
still breathed. We put the bird into the nest, went away, and returned
in about thirty minutes, when to our surprise we found the nestling was
gone again! Query, did the mother bird carry away its offspring to some
place of safety where it would not be disturbed?

On another occasion we found a nest in the top of a grapevine. We drew
down the vine, photographed the nest, and restored the nest to its
original position. Calling the following week I found the mother bird
had incubated the brood as though nothing had happened, but the young
were taken from the nest as soon as they could be moved and some days
before they would ordinarily have been allowed to leave home. Although
the cardinal is naturally shy and retiring, at times he will permit one
to get very close. I am glad to think that in many of the States this
beautiful bird is increasing under the protection of the law.

While sitting on a moss-covered log enjoying the balmy breezes of
spring, the "dee, dee, dee" notes of the tufted titmouse (_Parus
bicolor_) came to my ear. What hardy little birds they are! The coldest
winter of the north does not affect them. They are fearless of man at
times, and if you keep quiet they will flit about from place to place,
alternately disclosing to you now their ashy blue backs, now their dull
white, russet-flanked under-parts, as they swing from twig to twig,
scanning each little crevice for a choice morsel of insect life.

[Illustration: Winter in the North]

When the first warm rays hatch the winged insects, the tragedy of the
woods begins. A little cream-colored butterfly just out of its winter
garb is on the wing, floating gracefully in the air among the leafless
trees. The titmouse, with his bright eye ever on the alert, spies the
insect, makes a sprightly dart, and seldom misses his mark. Then he
perches on a limb with the fly and, like a bird of prey, takes hold with
bill and feet and tears his victim apart, and as the remnants of the
little wings float slowly to the ground, he feeds on the body.

The indigo bunting (_Passerina cyanea_) with its exquisite lay makes its
abode very attractive to bird fanciers. In the mating season he can be
seen perched on the topmost twig of one of the graceful drooping limbs
of the elm bush, a little blue ball of feathers, throat expanded,
pouring forth sweet music. If an instrument could be invented to record
and reproduce the melody as he delivers it in the stillness of the
morning when the little songster is at his best, it would become a very
popular air. The indigo is frequently kept in captivity, but loses all
the sweetness of song and the little male soon drops his beautiful
livery and dons a distasteful shabby color, lacking even the somber
luster of the female. During the period of mating, the cock-bird can be
trapped very easily by using a trap cage with a bird in the lower
compartment. As a boy, I have placed a trap cage on my head, walked
under the tree where the wild bird was singing, with my mouth made a few
kissing sounds, whereupon the bird would fly down into the cage and try
to get through the wires to the captive. If some wheat grains were
placed on the "paddle," the wild bird would invariably light on it
first, and picking up the grains would spring the trap and be caught
while the cage was on my head.

[Illustration: Indigo Bunting's Nest with Cowbird's Egg]

[Illustration: The Young Interloper (He sits on one and crowds the other
out.)]

In constructing their nest they usually select a dense thicket and
frequently build near the ground, where they deposit four or five
bluish-white eggs not much bigger than a large pea. The cowbird
(_Molothrus ater_), which is a sort of parasite, does not build a nest
of its own, but lays its eggs in the nest of some other bird. In this
respect it shows its wonderful instinct by selecting a smaller bird as
foster-mother for its offspring. By experience they have been taught
that the larger birds invariably dispose of the eggs by removing them
from the nest. It frequently selects the bunting's nest in which to
deposit its brown spotted eggs, which are much larger. The cowbird,
being of a larger species, grows much faster, and before long the
foundling fills the little nest, forcing the rightful owners out of home
and board. On one occasion I visited a nest and found it almost upset,
with the "big cow" filling the whole nest. On the upper edge perched one
little bunting, almost featherless, shivering in the cold. From
underneath the "parasite" could be seen the head of the other, panting
for breath and nearly stifled. We removed the cowbird, straightened up
the nest, replaced the rightful owners of the house, and perched the
cowbird nearby on a bush. We then went off a short distance and watched
developments, and to our surprise the little male bunting fed the
cowbird first. It was strange to see the youngster, as large as his
foster parent, open his mouth so wide you could imagine he was getting
ready to swallow the old bird,--indeed he looked as though he could,
rapacious pirate offspring that he was. On telling the story to a
friend, he remarked, "Well, how do you account for the foolish old man
neglecting his own offspring and feeding the cowbird first?" I cannot
answer that, unless the old fellow was proud of his big son.

[Illustration: A Well-Constructed Home (Note the Cowbird's egg in
nest.)]

[Illustration: Madam Vireo at Home]

The red-eyed vireo (_Vireosylva olivacea_) loves solitude. During the
nesting season it seeks some dense thicket, selects a fork on a drooping
limb, and constructs its wonderful basket-shaped, pensile nest.
Intertwining about the fork a silky material for the basis of the
structure, they put together with grasses, lichens, and plant fibres a
wonderful little home for their progeny. When working away at building
they are very cheerful, almost continually singing a sweet, pleasant
warble, as though haranguing the dwellers of the silent places, hence
their pseudonym, "preacher." Very frequently in the dense foliage nearby
skulks another member of the feathery tribe, watching every movement of
the industrious pair, and now she gloats over them when, their work of
art complete, they flit from limb to limb, closely observing the
masterpiece and softly twittering their satisfaction, as though to say,
"Well done." Tired and hungry after their labors they wander away in
search of food, singing cheerily as they twitch their heads now this
way, now that, seeking a worm or insect. When they have gone, the
somber-gowned, parasitic mate of a polygamist makes a bee-line for the
nest, hastily drops a large speckled egg in the neat little basket, then
quits the thicket and returns afield to the flock from which she came,
leaving her ignominious progeny to be hatched and reared by the foster
parents. When the vireos return, imagine the little red eyes looking
with surprise at the egg that almost fills the cradle. They have not the
strength, even if it occurred to them, to tumble the egg overboard, and
unlike the yellow warblers, who sometimes build another nest on top of
the egg, they resignedly proceed with the family duties.

[Illustration: The Usurper]

The cowbird is a parasite of the worst kind; it lays its egg, not on the
doorstep, like some foundlings, but in the bedchamber. The period of
incubation being shorter than with most other birds, the egg is hatched
sooner, the bird grows more rapidly, and consequently young _molothrus_
frequently stifles the rightful owners of the home. One by one the vireo
fledglings die and are carried from the nest by the mourning parents,
and so the survivor flourishes and grows fat, rocked in the cradle by
the gentle breezes and under the care and protection of the little
red-eyed vireos. The vireos are noted as good providers and protectors.
During incubation they are fearless and loath to leave their eggs,--at
times indeed, will permit you to approach the nest within two feet and
photograph. We made several attempts to get the picture on page 260 but
without success, until with a hand-mirror as a reflector we threw the
rays of the sun on the bird. The light seemed to bewilder her and had
the same effect as a "flash-light" has on a moose or deer in the
stillness of a dark night. Thus we were able to take a photograph by
time-exposure.

It is very seldom that a mixed family is raised. Usually the children of
the home perish, and then how the young cowbird does continually call to
the foster parents, "hungry, hungry, I'm hungry," and how the little
birds must work to satisfy the fast-growing changeling. At last one day
the parents find their darling has disappeared; their summer's work is
finished; four cunning little vireo nestlings have met an untimely fate,
and one arrogant young cowbird is well started upon his infamous career.
Despite his careful rearing his blood will tell just as surely as if he
were human.

Over yonder, a stone's throw from my sleeping-porch, stands the stump of
a hardwood tree, now soft from years of exposure to the elements. First
the slender twigs decaying dropped one by one, then limb after limb,
until all that remained of the noble tree, the growth of years, was this
stump, where one bright morning in March I heard from my bed the
familiar tapping sound characteristic of the woodpecker family. It was
a flicker (_Colaptes auratus luteus_). The mating season was due, the
ardent lovers were busy making holes here and there, as is customary,
until finally they accomplished one to their liking and began their
domestic duties in earnest. Some weeks later, in answer to my tapping on
the stump, a head appeared at the door looking from side to side for the
cause of the noise. It was the father of the family who reconnoitered
the situation. The characteristic broad streaks of black throat
feathers, commonly referred to as his "dark mustache," served to
identify him. For some time we had suspected the young were soon to
leave their home. Tom climbed the tree in search of "data," for the
accumulation of which he is quite eager, but before he got half way up,
shouted, "There goes one of the kids,--there goes another." While their
intentions were good, through lack of training "the kids" soon came to
the ground. It is said of the flicker family that the parents coax and
coax the young birds to leave the hole, but the latter are very
reluctant to do so, and at times the parents are constrained to resort
to starving or practically kicking them out. In the hole three were
left. Tom brought them out and took them to a slanting tree. It was
interesting to watch them. Like all climbers, they have two toes in
front and two behind and in climbing are assisted by their rigid tail
feathers. Tom was kept busy trying to arrange them within focus of the
camera. For some time it was impossible to make them stay "posed"; they
insisted on climbing the tree. After a while they got tired and then
posed nicely for their picture. During the whole time they called in
plaintive tone and the parent birds answered as they hovered around.
After being photographed the birds were returned to their home, where
they seemed well satisfied to remain.

[Illustration: Young Flickers]

This member of the woodpecker family has some individuality. While the
other woodpeckers stay in the trees, he spends a great deal of his time
on the ground, some of it in feeding, and some of it certainly in
amusement. He finds the latter on tree and ground alike. I have seen
them going through various contortions and maneuvers, some of which
closely resembled the figures in a minuet. On one occasion I witnessed a
fight between two males on the ground. How they parried, juked, and
dodged to avoid the sally of the adversary, until finally one got the
better of the other and the vanquished took to flight. Every spring for
several years a flicker takes up his abode near the home of a friend of
mine, who relates with a great deal of interest how the bird attracts
attention by visiting at frequent intervals a tin box on top of an
arc-light pole, where he takes much delight in spending considerable
time drumming away, as though the musician of the regiment were
practicing his favorite tattoo.

[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Tanager]

Of all the birds of Pennsylvania the male scarlet tanager (_Piranga
erythromelas_) is the most beautifully and attractively colored. Seldom
seen by the occasional visitor to the woods, like a "Will o' the wisp"
he flits through the thick foliage, uttering his peculiar "chirp churr."
I remember well finding my first nest of the tanager after several years
of search. On a horizontal limb of an elm tree about ten feet from the
ground I noticed a few twigs and roots placed on the limb. So frail was
the structure that even the sunlight shone through. Although I saw the
female fluttering around considerably disturbed, I did not give it much
thought, but left the location, only to return again to investigate.
Imagine my agreeable surprise when, on climbing the tree, I saw four
handsome bluish-green speckled eggs in the frail structure of twigs and
rootlets. I have no doubt the scanty nest is a protection, for it
requires a close observer to distinguish it as the living habitation of
a bird.

[Illustration: Little Green Heron's Nest]

[Illustration: Little Green Heron's Nest (Note frog legs to left of
young bird.)]

[Illustration: Leaving the Nest]

The green heron (_Butorides virescens_) dwells in colonies at times, and
frequently in solitary pairs along creeks and ponds. They build their
nests on small trees and bushes. The same birds will build in one
locality for years if unmolested, and even if disturbed will probably
find a site nearby the following year. I remember finding a nest built
on a small black-haw bush about ten feet from the ground. We visited the
nest frequently until five bluish-green eggs were laid in the
frail-looking platform of twigs. Its fragile appearance is deceptive,
however, for the nest is realty strongly constructed amongst the limbs
upon which it rests. An egg collector found the nest and removed two of
the eggs, but the mother bird continued to incubate. We cut the limb off
and removed the nest to the ground to photograph, then returned it,
made it fast as before, and the bird hatched out a brood successfully
from the three remaining eggs. One day upon visiting the nest I found
one of the occupants in the act of swallowing a frog. All that remained
of the frog was a leg sticking out of the nestling's mouth. It was not
long before the bird disgorged the legs, or all that was undigested of
them. About a week later I visited the nest, and looking up saw three
long necks and three heads sticking up over the edge. Before long they
started one by one to leave the nest, stepping rather ceremoniously
along the limbs towards the foliage at the top. Occasionally one would
miss his foothold and partially lose his balance, but by the use of
wings and beak would right himself. Often when in distress and hastening
to get away, the young herons will use their heads and necks as a parrot
does its beak, "chinning" themselves upon a limb and drawing up the body
by main strength. These birds when frightened disgorge partially
digested food; and because of their predilection to the generous
distribution of ornithological whitewash at frequent intervals as they
fly, they well deserve the name of "chalk-line." While climbing the
trees on several occasions when visiting the homes of these birds, I
found to my sorrow that "discretion is the better part of valor."
Although they seem to be extremely shy, they will return from time to
time to the neighborhood of their nests. They do not often approach
closely, however, while a visitor is near, and on such occasions remain
at some distance craning their necks curiously in every direction. They
seldom utter a sound unless startled, when with a hoarse "quawk" and a
shrilly harsh cry, they hastily fly away.

[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Grosbeak]

[Illustration: Nestlings]

The rose-breasted grosbeak (_Zamelodia ludoviciana_) is one of the
handsomest of the finch family, and also one of the most useful to the
farmer. The grosbeak's chief diet is bugs and other insects, the potato
bug being a favorite morsel in their menu. They usually build their nest
on a bush and are very devoted to their home, so much so that when eggs
are removed they continue to lay and incubate the remaining eggs. On one
occasion in photographing a nest containing two eggs it was necessary to
pull the slendor bush over and tie it within range of the camera. The
cord snapped, releasing the sapling and the eggs were thrown out and
destroyed, much to our annoyance. On the following week when we returned
we found the mother bird had laid two more eggs in the nest. The birds
raised their small brood as though nothing had happened. I have visited
many grosbeaks' nests, and excepting on one or two occasions I have not
seen the female incubating. This duty seems to be performed more often
by the male.

[Illustration: Fledglings]

[Illustration: Tom at the Nest]

The blue-gray gnat-catchers (_Polioptila cærulea_) are among the birds
who build their nests early. When building is on, the nests are very
easy to find, but ere the young are hatched out the foliage affords
effective concealment. Their squeaky voices attract your attention, and
looking towards the very top of the tree you can see them flitting from
limb to limb. Before long, one or the other draws nearer and nearer the
nest; then a quick flight, and there it is in the partly constructed
home. Watching with the field-glass you can see them constructing the
most beautiful nest in all bird architecture, save possibly that of the
ruby-throated hummingbird, which builds a similar home. They usually
select an elm tree, and at a height of thirty to fifty feet saddle the
nest on the under or horizontal branch of a fork. Thus the branching
system of the elm is peculiarly adapted to their style of architecture.
It furnishes a shelter from storm and hawk overhead, and prowling boy or
bird of prey in the brush underneath. The nest in the illustration
accompanying the text was taken upon an oak, which my experience leads
me to believe is an unusual site. How interesting to watch both male and
female building their nest in the crotch! After several days' work the
structure begins to take shape and the master touches are being put to
the little cup of lichens, moss, and grass. Alighting in it the builders
crane their necks and with their long bills tuck in the moss and lichens
all around, much as a mother tucks the clothing around her sleeping babe
in the cradle. When all is complete the five little speckled eggs are
deposited and incubation begins. The parent is quite plucky and resents
any intrusion upon the sanctity of her home. On one occasion I saw a
downy woodpecker come too close to a gnat-catcher's nest. Like a streak
of light she shot out, a mix-up followed, and the downy made haste to
get away. Another time a redstart was taught the lesson that it did not
pay to "hang around" this little bird's home.

[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of the Blue-gray Gnat-catcher]

[Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Nest and Young of Goldfinch]

[Illustration: Red-spotted Purple Butterfly on Queen Anne's Lace]

In the early spring we hear a concert of sweet voices coming from a
flock of songsters in the summit of the elm, their favorite tree. Their
period of love-making is long, as all their brothers and sisters of the
same order have with very few exceptions finished their family duties
before the American goldfinch (_Astragalinus tristis_) looks about and
selects for his nest the fork of a bush or tree handy to some thistly
field. Here the family of three to six young is reared. From his
fondness for thistle seeds he gets his common name, "thistle-bird." As
the thistles ripen he can be seen picking away as he clings to the burr
in every conceivable position, releasing the "witches" that float
gracefully off with the gentle breezes over the field; regardless is he
of the bees that tend the rose-purple flower-heads scattered here and
there among the ripe thistle-tops. Over yonder a colony of the delicate
blossoms of the "Queen Anne's lace" is quite conspicuous. Hovering
around are many flies and bees. A red-spotted purple butterfly lights
gracefully on the plant, folding and unfolding its beautifully colored
wings. He is safe from any molestation on the part of the goldfinch, who
is essentially a seed-eater. Thus it is that these two highly-decorated
creatures may often be seen gathering food side by side in the meadow.

There are some advantages in late building, and especially to the
thistle-birds. They get rid of the parasite cowbird, whose season for
propagation must needs be earlier in order to afford sufficient time for
development; for the young cowbird is more phlegmatic in temperament and
slower in growth, nor does he stay with us so late as the young
goldfinch. Again, the thistle-birds, being seed-eaters, find a more
bountiful supply of food as the July days approach.

[Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Young Goldfinch]

In the air they are readily distinguished by their undulatory flight.
Frequently repeating their bubbling, laughter-like call, they pass
overhead, describing circle after circle as though compelled thus to
work off some of the buoyancy of their nature. The essence of
cleanliness, they love to bathe in the purling waters of the brook where
the pebbles lend their smoothness to the ever-rippling streamlet; there
in some secluded spot during the sweltering weather of July and August
the little birds delight to splash the crystal waters over their
lemon-colored plumage. In my earlier days I have often caught them in
the following manner: We would thrust a branch into the ground at one of
the bathing places, and on the side of the stream from which by prior
observation it was ascertained that the birds usually approached. They
would alight on this branch as they came to the water, and after a while
would become accustomed to linger on it before descending to the bath.
In a few days we would cut pliant tips of the willow, smear them with
bird-lime, and by means of slits cut in the branch would arrange the
besmeared twigs high enough that when the bird alighted the limed twigs
stuck to his breast feathers and swung around underneath, sticking the
wing fast to his side so that the bird could not move. Invariably it
would fall to the ground, unable in the case of the smaller birds either
to walk or fly, and thus became an easy prey. Of course this was a
boyhood prank, and my love to have the songster with me at home led me
to place him in captivity. My ideas have changed and to-day I love the
birds best in their natural haunts among the environments in which they
sing the sweetest, their plumage is the finest, and where liberty of
flight adds to their grace and charm.

[Illustration: Nest of Red-wing Blackbird]

In selecting the place to trap the birds where they go to bathe, one
must bear in mind that some birds will frequent one place, some birds
another. We would set out a line of traps some distance apart. In going
from place to place we gave the birds time to visit in our absence. If
perchance a bird disturbed the twigs, we always knew it, for we kept the
number of the smeared twigs set on each branch. If a twig were missing
and no bird in sight, on looking around we were sure to find the bird,
if small, somewhere near the branch, or in case of larger birds, some
distance away, for while the smaller birds were hopelessly entangled,
the larger ones could walk but could not fly, and frequently got away by
going through the grass and working rid of the small willow twig.

[Illustration: Young Red-wing Blackbirds]

Among the first harbingers of spring the red-wing blackbirds (_Agelaius
phoeniceus_) are conspicuous among the swamps and meadows, where they
gather in flocks. The birds build their nests among the cat-tails,
willows, and small bushes along the margin of swamps and meadows. As
you approach they warn you of their disapproval in anxious tones. In a
short time, however, they cease their noise and fly from point to point,
lighting on the slender top of cat-tail, limb or weed, gracefully
swaying backward and forward with the gentle breezes. It is thus they
show their beautiful wings to the best advantage. Among the cat-tails
they love to build their nest from one to three feet above the water. A
coarse grass is used to bind the nest to the stock and within this is
constructed a bulky basket of weeds and grass, in which they deposit
four or five whitish, bluish, or greenish eggs, fantastically marked
with dots, scrawls, and blotches, resembling some of the illegible
hieroglyphics of the past ages.

[Illustration: Homes of the Cliff Swallows]

My opportunity to study the ways of the cliff swallow (_Petrochelidon
lunifrons_) has been very limited. My young friend Tom wrote me the
birds were at work, a colony being busy building their odd-shaped nests
on the rafters of a cow barn. When I visited the place I found the nests
were built quite close to each other. How the birds did scold when we
approached, darting around and around at first, but, gradually quieting
down, they disappeared! In the meantime we were trying to get a
snap-shot of a bird entering the neck of the nest. The nests were
constructed of small pellets of mud, and were gourd-shaped, lined with
grass and feathers. There they laid their four or five white speckled
eggs. I understood this was the second year in succession they had built
in this barn, but the following year they selected a barn some distance
away. How conspicuous the rufous rump appeared when they entered the
nest! They never remained long, but were off again, always on the wing.
They entered the frail structures like fairies, touching the opening
lightly, entering easily, then reappearing, to be off again on the wing.
Sometimes they stopped for a moment at the mouth, clogging the entrance
entirely with the body. As some writer has said, the bird is known by
its "crescent-shaped frontlet shining like a moon," hence its specific
Latin name "lunifrons,"--moon-brow. One need not draw far on his
imagination to think that the moon on her brow dispenses light for the
mother bird to see the little mouths as she feeds her young in the
"darksome cave."

[Illustration: Nest of the Song Sparrow]

The song sparrow (_Melospiza melodia_) is among the first to return to
its summer home. What a cheerful, fascinating little fellow he is as he
perches on the fence post, or "any old place," pouring forth his
lightsome, varied songs! Clothed in his somber brown suit, he is
instantly recognized by the dark throat patch. There is no regularity in
what they do, or how, where, or when they do it. They build nests on the
ground and in bushes, bulky or sparse, lined with horse hairs or
otherwise, and lay eggs irregularly speckled. They begin to build their
nests about the time the trillium is peeping through the ground, and the
brood are ready to leave their home when the trillium is in full
blossom. How delighted the children are when, if perchance out gathering
flowers, they see the hasty flight of the mother bird as she quits her
carefully concealed nest, and parting the leaves, there they find a
family of fledglings, mouths wide open, waiting for the return of the
mother with food to satisfy their wants! One day I found a song
sparrow's nest in a small catalpa tree. On closer examination I noticed
a young bird hanging by the neck, dead. I have no doubt that when the
bird was ready to leave the nest it became entangled in the horse hair,
for a loop was found around its neck, and when the little youngster, in
its endeavors to release itself, tumbled overboard, it was strangled to
death.

[Illustration: A Tragedy in Nature]

A large percentage of the nests of the wood thrush (_Hylocichla
mustelina_) are destroyed or abandoned from various causes. When
incubation is begun the mother bird is very loath to leave the nest and
will permit you to come very near. The accompanying photograph was
obtained after many failures. Day by day we approached nearer and nearer
until finally the bird allowed us to set the kodak within two feet of
the nest, and the click of the shutter did not disturb her, although she
seemed to quiver as if in great fear.

[Illustration: Wood-Thrush]

These birds love solitude, and how charming to listen to their sweet
melodies coming from the depths of the woodland! Often in building their
nest they select some limb or fork of a sapling near a path frequented
by lovers of the woods. The place, method, and material chosen by them
make it quite easy to find their home. It is built of coarse grass,
which usually streams down over the limb, while paper is frequently used
in the formation of the lower and outer part of the nest, rendering it
quite conspicuous. Various causes, such as hawks, owls, and snakes,
contribute to the destruction of a large proportion of these nests.

[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Wood-Thrush]

[Illustration: Up a Stump]

[Illustration: Wood-Thrush's Nest with Young]

One day we were walking through a strip of woods that lay along a
babbling brook, wending our way towards a wood thrush's nest which on
the occasion of our last visit contained several eggs. When we came to
the nest we found the eggs had been removed, and we left, wondering what
agency was responsible. A short distance from the nest we saw a large
black snake gliding through the grass toward a rotten stump about ten
feet high. I set after him and he climbed a big locust tree, on which he
paused for a moment at a height of some six feet from the ground. Then
when disturbed he slipped over to a hollow stump, which had grown
alongside from the same base, and to our surprise proceeded to enter a
knothole that seemed far too small for him. Not to be outdone, we pried
the stump from the main trunk and found the snake coiled like a watch
spring tightly against the inner walls of the hollow base. From this
position he had to be pried, inch by inch, while I pulled him out by the
tail and dragged him into an open field nearby, where he could be
photographed. We placed a limb in the ground at an angle, but although
we tried many times, the snake refused to crawl up. Finally we got the
original stump, placed it in the ground, started Mr. Snake toward it,
and he, immediately recognizing his former retreat, gracefully crawled
up the tree.

The wood thrush builds its nest anywhere from two to twelve feet from
the ground and on almost any kind of bush or tree. They are not
over-sensitive if one disturbs the nest. In order to get the
accompanying photograph it was necessary to remove the nest from its
lofty position some twelve feet above the ground to a limb about two
feet high. After taking the picture of the nest with the four eggs, we
returned it to its original place. The following week we called and
found three of the eggs hatched. We removed the nest and after
photographing returned it, and the birds remained until full-fledged, as
though nothing had happened to their childhood home.

[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of American Redstart]

How elegantly dressed the American redstart (_Setophaga ruticilla_)
appears on his arrival from his winter home! The costume of his wife is
not so flaming, but is nevertheless very attractive. How active they
seem, flitting from place to place, at times having all the
characteristics of the flycatcher and again all the marks of the sylvan
warblers they are! Proud as a peacock, he spreads his pretty tail as
much as to say to his woodland neighbors, "You can't match me for grace
and beauty." And well may he be proud of his graceful elegance and his
achievements in procuring his food, for he is one of the most charming
and energetic of the insectivorous birds. He is a creature of action,
always on the move, lively and alert, getting all that is coming to him
in quick succession. The nest is built in the fork of a tree or on some
horizontal limb, and is constructed of rootlets and twigs in a skillful
manner. Often plant-down and vegetable-silks are woven into the cup much
after the fashion of the vireo's idea. It is frequently adorned on the
outside with lichens and other substances tending toward obliterative
coloration. If approached, the birds flit from limb to limb in a nervous
manner, much excited, and at times appearing as though ready to strike
an intruder. When frightened from the nest they will return if one
stands off at some distance.

[Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Lady Redstart and Her Home]

[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Blue-winged Warbler]

Down on the edge of a group of dead trees a pair of red-headed
woodpeckers (_Melanerpes erythrocephalus_) were working away at a height
of about twenty feet, getting ready for their anticipated brood. Tom, a
boy of fourteen years, came along and noticed the couple at work. They
were taking their turns methodically at intervals of twenty minutes or
thereabouts. Later the birds completed the excavated cavity and the
female had proceeded fairly well with her maternal duties. Tom climbed
the tree to see how she was getting along. He found two eggs in the
nest. Because of this intrusion or some other reason, the birds
abandoned the nest and eggs and selected another stump not far from the
first, where they proceeded along the same lines until they had
excavated another hole to their liking, and the mother bird laid three
pearly-white eggs which in due time she hatched.

[Illustration: Young Woodpeckers Foraging]

Now the birds were busy gathering insects to feed their progeny. A short
distance from their home was an abandoned tennis-court, grown up with
grass. This seemed to be the favorite feeding-ground of the male parent.
For hours we watched him coming and going, always alighting on the
net-post where he kept a lookout for insects. Every few minutes he would
take a rapid flight to the ground and again return to the post with
food, then by an easy course to the young. To follow him with the eye in
flight conveyed the idea of one continuous line of red, white, and blue.
One day while we were watching the tree stump a flicker alighted on it
near the hole. Like a flash came the parent bird from some place nearby,
made a dart at the flicker, and soon put him to rout.

[Illustration: Photo by E. W. Arthur. Nest and Eggs of the Thrasher]

The brown thrasher (_Harporhynchus rufus_) is an interesting member of
the feathery tribe who dwells in the solitude of some thicket, where he
is at home among the underbrush. In order to see the inhabitants of the
woods, one should avoid light or conspicuous clothing, dress as nearly
as may be in harmony with the surroundings, and step about as gently as
possible. You may go through a clump of woods talking with a companion
and rarely see much that is happening; but go alone, gently, with eyes
and ears open, and Nature begins to unfold some of her secrets. In the
early morn the thrashers delight in perching on a tree-top and filling
the surrounding glen with delightful melodies. In nesting-time they
become very seclusive, and an occasional glimpse is all that we can get
of this handsome bird as he flits from limb to limb, jerking and wagging
his tail. Sometimes they build their nest on the ground, but more
frequently on some bush or small tree. It is characteristic of the
female when incubating to let you get very close before she will leave
the nest. On one occasion while walking through an open woods I became
conscious of a bright eye fixed upon me. The gleam of an orange iris
accentuated its size, and in a second it dawned upon me that a thrasher
sitting on its nest in a brush heap was the owner of the eye. I
proceeded to arrange my tripod for a picture, but before I secured it
she left the nest with a graceful flight. She flew around and around,
making an angry noise, and continued her scolding for some time.

[Illustration: Photo by E. W. Arthur. On Night Turn (Note the protective
obliteration.)]

[Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Young Thrasher]

A friend of mine found a nest with eggs on the ground among some
mandrakes. Selecting a dark night he visited the nest and, by keeping
the bird bewildered under the rays of a pocket flash-light, was able to
set up his camera at a distance of perhaps ten feet, arrange a
reflector and touch off a flash powder, by the light of which he
succeeded in getting a flash-light of the bird while incubating. She
seemed to be unconcerned, and in fact did not leave the nest. The
intruder decamped and left the serenity of her domestic life
undisturbed.

The young of the thrasher are instantly recognized, for they have all
the family characteristics of the parent birds so well defined.
Frequently as late as the month of August, and long after most birds
have turned their attention to other matters, the thrasher devotes its
time to domestic duties. Indeed after the song season of many birds has
passed, I have found in the Ohio Valley region the nests of thrashers
and chewinks with eggs and young.

Measured by the birds and their customs, the springtime may extend, as
we have seen, far into the calendar summer. We begin paying our
devotions to the goddess while yet the snow is on the ground, and we are
still doing homage at the shrine when the mercury hovers about the
ninety-five-in-the-shade mark, but the change has come so gradually that
from one day to another we have hardly noticed it. If to our worship we
brought receptive hearts, stimulated by keen vision and hearing, we have
learned much of practical economic value.

Without ever having opened the craw of one of the feathered tribe,
observation with a good glass has taught us a multitude of things in
regard to the feeding of the different species and their economic worth
to the human race. From a commanding position by the nest of the
yellow-billed cuckoo (_Coccyzus americanus_), we have learned that this
bird is an invaluable ally in the war against the tent caterpillar. The
grosbeak is the arch enemy of the potato bug; young bobwhites devour
untold numbers of the eggs of the Hessian fly, that great ravager of the
western grainfields; the woodpeckers save many an orchard and lawn tree
from early death as a victim of one or another of the borers. Indeed,
the tons of destruction, if we may apply the term, devoured by our birds
in a single summer day, if it could be estimated, would make an
appalling figure.

But beyond all the mass of facts gathered, which go to make up the sum
total of the world's knowledge, is that oxygenation of spirit, that
freshness of vigor, bodily and mental, which we derive from having left
behind the busy world for these hours of devotion at the shrine. I have
always thought that there was a more spiritual quality in the religion
of the Druids than in that of most ancient heathen faiths, due probably
to the fact that their rites and ceremonies were performed in the woods
and forests, and that in their seeking after a Force beyond that which
they saw, they received some measure of the revelation which comes to
every one who loves the woods and fields. To us who have the light of
other revelation, the contact with Nature brings a closer touch and
keener sympathy with the great scheme of the Author of all creation. And
who can contemplate this without gaining dignity in the contemplation?

CHAPTER VIII

A PLEA FOR PROTECTION

[Illustration: A Delightful Place]

As I loiter along the banks of a sylvan stream about the first of April,
looking for the return of some of the feathery tribe, there falls upon
my ears a sound, hoarse and grating as described by ornithologists, but
to my ears most pleasant, for it tells me that a fine bird, the belted
kingfisher (_Ceryle alcyon_), has arrived for the season. With his crest
plainly visible, in strong flight he is following the course of the
winding creek. This highly original character is the only member of the
kingfisher family in our part of the country. Yet there is little or no
protection extended to him by law. It would be a calamity indeed if he
were eliminated from the scenery of the wooded banks, the tossing
rapids, and the still pool at the foot of the falls. Here the silvery
spray contributes a weird touch to the scene as the "lone fisherman"
hovers for an instant, then with a spiral sweep makes a plunge,
disappears for a second, comes up with his finny prey, and takes his
rapid flight to some old limb, where he consumes the fish at leisure. I
have never heard a word against this striking bird, except on one
occasion when a friend, who is the proud owner of a lily pond,
complained about one of them making visits to poach on his goldfish. The
legislation permitting their slaughter was passed, I presume, in the
sole interest of the fisherman. Surely this stately bird should not be
exterminated; its chief diet is minnows and small fry, fish rejected by
the angler except for use as bait. To my mind the species is at present
in serious danger of becoming extinct and should be protected.

[Illustration: Caught (Note the minnow in his beak.)]

I was quite anxious to get a few pictures before he passed into history.
So one bright summer day, selecting a pool previously observed to be
much frequented, I constructed a blind out of boughs and weeds on the
bank three or four feet away from an old root where I had seen the birds
alight as they patrolled up and down the stream. Truly "the watched pot
never boils." After waiting three or four hours I heard a rattling
call, a splash, and through my peephole saw his lordship perched,
dripping wet, on the very spot on which I had trained the camera. The
shutter clicked, but it might as well have "clacked" for he was
instantly alert; I was discovered, and away went the kingfisher,
rattling as though in defiance. In the short instant of his sojourn,
however, my purpose was accomplished. Only the person who has had this
or a similar hobby can appreciate my delight when I developed the film
and found it had caught the fisherman with the small fry in his beak.

In building their nest Mr. and Mrs. Ceryle select some high embankment
where they excavate a small tunnel from three to six feet long, widened
at the far end into a chamber perhaps fourteen inches in diameter. Here
the silvery-white eggs are deposited usually on the bare floor. They
frequently build their nest in a bank whose base is washed by the waters
of a stream. On one occasion we opened a hole about half its length and
could see eggs in the chamber. Bridging over the excavation with sticks
and leaves, we returned in about a week, opened it up, and found the old
bird on the eggs incubating. We replaced the sticks and leaves without
disturbing the bird, and the following week the young were hatched. We
thought our opportunity to photograph a kingfisher family had arrived.
As the birds were too small to remove from the nest, we left them until
the next week, when they were still too young to pose well. Upon our
visit a week later, the nest was to all appearances undisturbed as we
had left it, but an examination disclosed that it was empty save for the
partly decomposed body of a half-fledged young bird. Whether the rest of
the brood had fared forth into the world and this one, a weakling or
cripple perhaps, had been put to death or deserted, or whether some dire
fate had fallen upon the entire household, remains to us an unsolved
mystery.

Another bird that is unprotected by our law makers is the green heron
(_Butorides virescens_). For weeks we had been studying the habits of
one of these birds and had about decided on the location of a blind or
ambush for photographing. One day we saw our little friend rise from the
pool where we had so often found him, and take to wing with neck
stretched forward and legs backward, in one continuous line. He
disappeared around a bend in the stream and presently we heard the
report of a shotgun. I thought, perhaps audibly, "Good-bye, little
heron, good-bye!" Sure enough, in a few minutes we met a party of three
or four coming towards us with their guns, and a little later came to
the place where the shots had been fired. There was the object of our
study floating lifeless on the surface of the water, with wings spread
out, not in flight, but in death. I deplored the untimely end of the
little bird. While looking at his lifeless form I was startled by the
appearance of a stranger, who seemed more than casually interested. As I
talked with him about the death of the heron we heard the report of a
gun several times, and I have no doubt each report rang out the death
knell of one of our feathered friends. The stranger proved to be an
officer of the law. I was anxious to have him prosecute the person who
killed the heron, but he pulled out a copy of the statute that
specifically permitted the deed. I was sorry to learn that such an act
had been passed. As with the kingfisher so with the heron; it is of
economic value in that it devours a great number of destructive insects,
as well as crayfish, small water fry, and frogs.

Of the game birds, the ruffed grouse (_Bonasa umbellus_) is far superior
to all others and well able to take care of itself against its most
deadly foe--the breech-loading shotgun in the hands of a crack shot. He
is more than a match for all comers. He outwits the most carefully
trained setters, and only the old dogs after years of experience can
take him unawares. At times, when flushed, grouse will alight on a limb
of a tall tree, squatting near the trunk, where they remain unobserved,
and this ruse frequently accounts for the dogs being unable to find the
bird again. An "educated" bird will ofttimes "jump" from cover, make a
bee-line for a tree, pass around it and continue its flight, thus hidden
from sight until beyond gun reach. I have had a staunch point along a
stake and rider fence--a flush, a whirr, leaves flying in every
direction, and lo! the bird in flight passes between two rails of the
fence and continues on the wing up the other side until out of sight. At
times I have been fairly successful, occasionally making a "double,"
then again, obliged to return home after a hard day's hunt without a
single bird. Hunting grouse in western Pennsylvania is a noble sport,
one that requires strong endurance, a good dog, and skillful shooting to
out-general the cunning, crafty fowl, who is a problem for most hunters.
How it stirs one's admiration to see the old dog, after "rhoding"
backward and forward, take a trail, follow carefully, head erect,
nostrils expanded, and every nerve at its highest tension in
anticipation of a point! But the bird is running and ere the point is
made, a whirr at the crest of the hill draws the eye, and behold! he is
a-wing, sailing over the ravine to the other ridge.

[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Ruffed Grouse]

In the month of April the drumming of an old cock-bird can be heard a
long way off, like the muffled beating of a bass drum, beginning soft
and slow, then louder and faster until it reaches the highest pitch,
and, receding, gradually dies away in the distance. He continues his
love call, as some think it, for a considerable time, and if you
approach carefully you may see him on an old log, strutting about like a
pea-fowl, his tail expanded, erect, and in a semicircle, his head thrown
back and his glossy black ruffs spread to their full extent, like the
crimped and fluted adornment of the days of "Queen Bess." About the
middle of May he does not drum so much, for the courtship is over and
his lady is "sitting" on the nest beside some old log, where she lays as
many as fifteen creamy-white eggs in a little depression lined with a
few dried leaves and grass. Their color harmonizes so nicely with the
surroundings that it is almost impossible to see them. Grouse seem to
understand the law of protective coloration, and will not flush from the
nest until they are sure they have been discovered. Whether
deliberately, I do not pretend to say, but frequently, as she rises from
the nest, the hen grouse with her wings stirs the leaves so that they
fall upon and partly conceal the eggs. When once disturbed she will not
let you get so close again. As soon as the young are hatched they will
run to hide, while the mother bird is feigning all kinds of decrepitude
to attract your attention from the cute little brownish fluffs of
feather scampering here and there for cover. I once knew a farmer boy
who found a nest, took the eggs home, and put them under a hen. In due
time they hatched out. How pretty, cute, and interesting were the little
birds, and how the foster-mother strutted about, undoubtedly proud of
her chicks! But ere long the little creatures, wild by nature, died for
want of proper food and the maternal care required by their kind.

Quite different from the grouse in many respects is the other member of
the same family, the bobwhite (_Colinus virginianus_), the first a
woodland bird, the other a dweller in the fields. It is fascinating to
follow a well trained dog as he jumps the rail fence, and if the wind is
not favorable, slowly and carefully follows the fence line for fear of
flushing the covey. When he gets to windward he increases his gait and
"rhodes" backward and forward through the stubble until he gets a whiff
of the odor so familiar to the experienced dog; then according to the
strength of the scent he puts on the brakes. I have seen old Fan stop so
suddenly that she turned a somersault, then recover herself sheepishly,
if that term may be applied by way of accommodation to as brave a
hunter as she.

[Illustration: Not Certain]

Quail are easy marks for the hunter. Usually they "roost" in a stubble
field in a circle, heads outward, and thus they keep warmer during the
cold weather. I have known pot-hunters to shoot into a covey in the
early morning before they began to feed, killing almost every one.

[Illustration: Photo by W. S. Bell. A Sure Point]

It is rare sport to start out with the dogs on a November morning after
a fall of snow, light, but sufficient to show the footprints--three toes
in front, one behind. By this time the birds are strong of flight and
at their best. After "heeling" the dogs, the trail is followed. The
birds will separate and run hither and thither, always, however, coming
together again so that their tracks cross and recross each other over
the field. Snow always makes the birds wild, and invariably when feeding
they will take to flight long before the dogs are near enough to make a
point. A good dog takes the stubble field with the wind in his favor.
Getting a fresh scent as the birds are feeding he throws his head and
tail in the air and "rhodes" on. Occasionally the bird will run a short
distance before taking to wing; then the dog shows his lack of training
by running helter-skelter as the hunter shouts, "Steady, steady, old
girl!" or "old boy"; or if well trained, the noble fellow returns with
his tail between his legs, as much as to say to his master: "It was not
my fault they wouldn't lie to cover; it wasn't my fault; give me another
chance!" The humane master cautions his dog to be careful; the brute
probably kicks his dog unmercifully, and all because of lack of
knowledge on his part. If he had understood his dog he would have known
from its actions that the birds were feeding in the cornfield where
there was not much shelter, and that if time had been given them they
would have found cover and the old dog would have made a beautiful
point. The birds in the beginning of the open season will not make a
long flight, but pitch abruptly over handy cover, such as an old fence
grown with briars, elder, and grass. The dogs follow the windward side
with nostrils dilated and the delicate membrane of their olfactory
nerves detects the whereabouts of the little feathered creature
concealed in a tuft of grass or a bunch of leaves. When the briars are
real thick occasionally the little bird does not take to wing easily,
but in great alarm runs about, neck extended, tail expanded, and crest
erect, calling "peep, peep," as though loath to leave cover.

[Illustration: Orchard Nest of Mourning Dove]

Frequently when the dogs are working a stubble field they put to flight
small flocks of turtle doves (_Zenaidura macroura_). Although these are
scarcely gregarious, they like to mingle together in the fall. They
visit the fields to glean a few grains of corn or wheat left after the
harvest. On taking to wing they make a whistling noise similar to that
of a flight of American golden-eye ducks, and beat a hurried course to
the top limb of some old dead tree, where they spread their fan-like
tails just before lighting, then meekly turn their heads to take in the
situation. Many of the birds are shot over the dogs in this way. Their
flesh is considered a great delicacy by some would-be sportsmen. In the
nesting time they separate in pairs through the woods, fields, and
orchards, building in every conceivable place according to fancy.
Measured by the usual standards, their flimsy nests are several sizes
too small for the owner. When you approach their home the bird drops to
the ground and feigns a crippled condition to entice you away, always
careful, however, to keep just beyond your reach.

[Illustration: Two Little Turtle-Doves]

The nest shown in the accompanying photograph was happily located upon a
broad slab of bark that had fallen from a locust tree and was curiously
lodged some feet off the ground among the branches of undergrowth. Here
a few straggling pieces of dried grass, sufficient merely to prevent the
eggs from rolling off, formed the nest. To one coming up the hill after
inspection of a beautifully constructed vireo's nest in the woods below,
the first impression would be that this crude affair could not be the
handiwork of so neat and orderly-looking a bird as the dove on the tree
nearby; but alas! fine feathers do not make fine birds, nor do good
clothes make good housekeepers. No better illustration of this is needed
than the sight of a dove's nest with the eggs or young in it.

Thus in our rambles from the opening of spring until the winter snows,
we come upon a great variety of feathered friends--some esteemed for
their beauty, some for their flesh, some esteemed little or not at all,
and yet each one has its place in the general system of creation, each
one has its individuality and its own peculiar characteristics so well
adapted to the sphere in which it moves. The question often comes to us:
Is it for man to say that any of these birds shall be deprived of the
law's protection merely because their habits of life do not appeal to
him? A brief study of the question from an economic point of view, aside
from the æsthetic, leads us to hope that the time is not far distant
when the several States will afford a uniform protection to all of the
native fowls of the air, regardless of whether they be game birds, song
birds, or "other" birds, at least until such time as a long-continued
investigation will prove beyond a doubt that the restriction of the
numbers of any species is of substantive value from an economic
standpoint.

POSTSCRIPT

With the hope that it may be the means of increasing the love of nature,
and thereby adding to the joys of life, this little book is given to the
public.

Laws for the preservation of birds and animals, more than any others,
need behind them a sensitive public opinion. With this, the law itself
is almost forgotten in its general observance, while without this
support a breach of the law comes in time to take on something of virtue
instead of crime. Whatever tends to spread the knowledge of nature, and
consequently the love of it, makes it harder for the man who _kills_,
either for the mere zest of it, for vanity or for purely commercial
reasons, and thus each convert becomes, in a limited sense at least, a
game warden.

To the lover of Nature, the whole animal and plant world is the quest.
Unlimited time can be spent in photographing insects, birds' nests and
birds, endeavoring to catch and display the butterfly on the particular
plant from which it loves to extract the nectar, the bird's nest in the
tree or the bush in its natural surroundings, the old setter on a
staunch point among the stubble; thus by pictorial notes reproducing
various events in natural history and creating an interest in the study
of botany, entomology, and ornithology--in fact, preserving all the
conditions that make up the attraction for outdoor recreation, which the
American people so much need. By this indirect method many come to be so
instructed in the rudiments of nature that they are led to see in life a
myriad of interesting things which they could not otherwise enjoy, and
the book of Nature, hitherto sealed to the hurrying multitude, becomes
an open volume to those who, turning aside from the rush of modern life,
bring to its reading a sympathetic mind and an ear attuned to catch the
melodious voices, and so,

"This our life, exempt from public haunts,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything."

INDEX

Afognak Island, 72
Akuton Pass, 76
Anecdotes:
Father Duncan's story, 9
Indian legend of totem, 20
Primitive surgery, 58
Annette Island, 6
Aurora Borealis, 170

Barabara, Indian, 107
Baranoff Island, 28
Bath à la Wilderness, 128, 173, 174
Bay of Islands, 184, 221
Bear feeding, 57
at camp, 61
catching, 102
glacier, 62
grizzly, vitality of, 104
Kadiak, 81
size of, 116
trailing, 95, 98, 114, 117
Beaver, 189, 209, 217
Bee's nest, 148
Bell, Mr., 146
Benjamin Creek, 156
Berries, 30
blueberries, 150, 165
bunchberries, 212
partridge berries, 166
salmon-berries, 165
strawberries, 3, 30
Bidarka, 21, 116
Birch, 167, 203, 206, 211
Bird lime, 281
Birds:
albatross, black-footed, 29
American golden-eye, 197, 319
American goldfinch, 277
American redstart, 278, 293-296
belted kingfisher, 305-309
blue-gray gnat-catchers, 274
bobwhite, 303, 314
brown thrasher, 298
Canada geese, 59
Canada jays, 207
cardinals, 248, 250
chewinks, 302
cliff swallows, 284
cormorants, 144
cowbird, 257, 261, 279
crane, sandhill, 183
crossbill, 179, 180
crows, 82, 118
cuckoo, yellow-billed, 303
eagles, 27, 82, 88, 111, 118
fish ducks, 50
flickers, 264, 298
"gony," 29
great horned owl, 240
great northern diver, 169
greater scaup-duck, 65
grouse, 169, 310, 313
Canada, 131
gulls, 52, 66, 70, 80, 140, 186, 218
harlequin ducks, 112
heron, great blue, 27
green, 268, 310
herring gulls, 94, 186
indigo bunting, 255
kingfisher, 203-216, 305, 310
kittiwakes, 109
loon, 170, 186, 188, 216
magpies, 86
merganser, 193, 216, 218
red-breasted, 50
Mother Carey's chick, 121
osprey, 216
phalaropes, 64
ptarmigan, 99, 104, 152, 158, 166
hawk, 159
quail, 314-316
ravens, 72
red-eyed vireo, 259-320
redpolls, 204
red-wing blackbird, 283
rose-breasted grosbeak, 271, 303
ruby-throated hummingbird, 275
ruffed grouse, 310-313
scarlet tanager, 266
sea-parrot, 91
snipe, 174
sparrow, song, 234, 286-288
white-crowned, 113
white-throated, 209
spotted sandpiper, 192
teal, 59
tern, Arctic, 109
white, 92
thistle-bird, 279
thrush, wood, 288
Wilson's, 196
titlark, 196
tree swallows, 213
tufted titmouse, 254
turtle doves, 318-320
whisky jack, 208
woodpeckers, downy, 277
red-headed, 296, 303
Birds, aquatic, 17
protection of, 321
Black flies, 190
Black snake, 291
Brooks, Alfred H., 2
Bruce, the Steamer, 181
Butterflies:
red-spotted purple, 279
tiger swallow-tail, 214
Bydarky, The, 175

Cache, 161
Camera, Auto Graflex, 182
Camp afire, 55
Camping under difficulties, 48, 154, 165, 204
Cape Hinchinbrook, 43
Cape St. Elias, 41
Carlisle Institution, 14
Caribou, 183
Cathedral Rock, 66
Cat hunt, 241
Cheechalker, 127, 128, 131, 145, 173
Church, Russian, 68
Clark, W. E., Governor of Alaska, 3, 15
Columbia glacier, 64
Controller Bay, 41, 42
Cook's Inlet, 176
Coon hunt, 238
Cordova, 44
Creoles, 72
Crevasses, 33
Crossing the stream, 106
Crow's nest, 82, 118

Dall's sheep, 146
Deer Lake, 190
Devil's clubs, 146
Dixon's Entrance, 4
Dogs:
catching fish, 52
caught in trap, 58
catching salmon, 53
in action, 226, 232, 240
Duncan, Rev. William, 6-19

Economic value of birds, 303
Edgecumbe, Mount, 29
Esau, 127, 130

Fairweather Range, 30
Fellow townsman's camp, 171
Ferrets, 224, 226, 234
Fish, black, 17
Fisher, Hon. Walter L., 2
Fishing parties, 182
Flashlight hunting, 197, 243
Flowers:
bluebells, 159
crow's foot, 81
daisies, 159
forget-me-nots, 81, 159
pinks, 82
trailing arbutus, 189
trillium, 286
violets, 159
wild geranium, 159
Fort Liscom, 64

Glacier, formation of, 32, 34
Columbia, 34, 64
Malaspina, 41
Muir, 30
Valdez, 44
Gravenna Bay, 47
Greek Church, Russian, 28, 72
Greek priests, 28
Ground hog, 238
Guides, natives as, 125
Gull Island, 109
Gun, modern, 157

Hessian fly, 303
Hudson Bay Company, 29
Humber, Lower, 210
Humber River, 190, 214
Humor of Indian guides, 164

Ice fields, 32
floe, 22
Icy Straits, 29
Iliamnia, 70
crater of, 176
Indians, 107
barabara, 107
chanting, 163
family, 56
feeding on "porky," 163
how they live, 107
humor of, 164
legend of totems, 20
making snuff, 167
superstitions, 170
tuberculosis among, 14
Infection unknown in Alaska, 126
Italians' camp, 110, 117

Jansen, Capt. Michael, 4, 67
Juneau, 24

Kadiak bear, 81
Kamlaykas, 117
Katella, 41, 43
Kenai, 124, 175
"hot time" at, 126
Kenai Mountains, 152
Kenai Peninsula, 67
Kenai River, 25, 130, 134
killing moose on, 25
Ketchikan, 4
Knight's Island, 64, 78
Kodak, Eastman, 115
Kodiak Island, 72, 73
village of, 72, 79, 120

Lake Skilak, 144
Lighthouses, 4

Madonna, picture of, 28
Mandrakes, 301
Marmot, 158, 162
Metlakatla, 6
Moon, illusion of, 170
Moore, Capt., 18
Moose, 148
feeding, 172
in velvet, 162
yards, 168
Moraine, 62
Mosquitos, 131, 132, 136, 191
Mount Edgecumbe, 29
St. Elias, 30-39
St. Logan, 30
"Mushee"--sheep, 164
Muskrat, 216

Native boys, 38
Newfoundland, 181
"Nippers," 191
North Sydney, 181

Obliterative coloration, 295
Old Twitchen road, 184
Opossum, 244, 245

Papooses, 21
Petersburg, 21
Photographing natives, 36-38
Pine trees, 206
Porcupine, 163
"Porky," 140
Port aux Basques, 181
Portland, Steamer, 18
Postscript, 322
Pot hunters, 315
Preservation of species, 159
Prince William Sound, 43
Protection of birds, 321
Protective coloration, 313

Quicksand, experience in, 63

Rabbits, hunting, 223-235
Raccoon hunt, 241, 242
Raft, constructing, 187
Redoubt crater, 176
Resurrection Bay, 66, 67

Salmon, 48
catching, 53, 54
eggs of, 54
feeding, 215
gulls picking out eyes of, 53
hordes of, 50
humpback, 48
spawning, 51
Salt lick, 172
Seal, 17
Seal Cove, 218
Sea Lion Rocks, 67
Seals, baby, 220
breeding grounds, 220
characteristics of, 220
Seldovia, 68, 123, 173, 179
Seward, 68
Shanghai, 166
Sheep, 152
Dall's, 157
Sheep Creek, 96
Shellicoff Straits, 71
Shiras, George III, 156
Sitka, 27, 29
Slaughter of game, 25
Snow-slide, 96
Snow storm, 100
Snuff making, 167
"Sourdough," 127, 130, 153
Stranger in camp, 140
Sycamores, 247

Tenderfoot, 123, 131, 132, 153
Tom, 296
after flickers, 264
Totem poles, 19, 35
family register, 19
laparotomy, 22
legend of, 19
symbolical of, 19
witch doctor, 22
Treadwell Mines, 24
Trees,
balsam, 184
birch, 146
cottonwood, 146
fir, 184
pine, 206
spruce, 146
white, value of, 211
sycamores, 247
Trout, as food, 205, 216
food of, 213, 215
Turnagain Bay, 175

Unalaska, 76

Vaccination, 181
Valdez, 44
flood at, 44, 64
leaving, 54
Vancouver Island, 4

Whale, 66
White sheep, 152, 156, 157
Wrangel Narrows, 16, 17, 26
port of, 18

Yakutat, 34

* * * * *

_A Selection from the Catalogue of_

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

Complete Catalogue sent
on application

The Log of the North Shore Club

Paddle and Portage on the Hundred Trout Rivers of Lake Superior

By Kirkland B. Alexander

_With over 40 Illustrations. 16mo. $1.25 net_

(_By mail $1.40_)

The land that lies to the north of Lake Superior, where the great
god Naniboujou rules over mile upon mile of unreclaimed wilderness,
has long been a favorite retreat of the fisher and camper, who finds
in the hush of its gaunt forests and on the twinkling ripples of its
inland lakes a secure haven from the busy din of the cities. In
Kirkland B. Alexander's "Log of the North Shore Club," the primeval
beauty of this region is described by one who is an alert and
appreciative student of nature. Mr. Alexander tells of his camping
and fishing experiences along these sequestered waters and of the
amusing happenings that seasoned his trips, undertaken with
companions after his own heart. The book, which is well illustrated,
is written in a sprightly vein and is decidedly entertaining
reading.

G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London

_Written in a vein that enchants not only the sportsman and
naturalist, but the general reader as well._

Recreations of a Sportsman on the Pacific Coast

By Charles Frederick Holder

Author of "Life in the Open," etc.

_8vo. With 80 Full-page Illustrations. Net, $2.00_

_By mail, 2.20_

Mr. Holder has fished in the deep sea of the Pacific and in the
mountain streams that are hidden away in the high Sierras and
Cascades, protected from the rude intrusions of the crowd and
accessible only to the seasoned mountaineer. The tussles he has had
with game fish, retold in the dramatic style of which Mr. Holder is
the master, will thrill the most phlegmatic reader, while the
descriptions of nature which the author presents will fill the
reader with a yearning for the spacious country of mountain, desert,
sea, and air, with whose unfrequented trails and remote recesses the
author is so familiar. The book is copiously illustrated with
pictures of game, sporting incidents, and natural scenery.

G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London

_Sporting Books by Theodore Roosevelt_

Hunting Trips of a Ranchman

Sketches of Sport on the Northern Cattle Plains

=Standard Library Edition.= With numerous engravings from designs by
Frost, Gifford, Beard, and Sandham. 8^o. $2.50.

=Alleghany Edition.= Printed on high-grade Old Chester-Laid, containing
many rare old Western views and portraits, secured and especially
engraved for this edition. 8^o. Full buckram, gilt top. $5.00.

=Dakota Edition.= 2 vols. Crown 8^o, with frontispieces. Cloth, gilt
top, full gilt back. Each, $1.50.

=Sagamore Edition.= 2 vols., with frontispieces. Cloth, 16^o. Each, 50
cents.

"One of those distinctively American books which ought to be
welcomed as contributing to raise the literary prestige of the
country all over the world."--_N. Y. Tribune._

"One of the rare books which sportsmen will be glad to add to their
libraries.... Mr. Roosevelt may rank with Scrope, Lloyd, Harris, St.
John, and half a dozen others, whose books will always be among the
sporting classics."--_London Saturday Review._

The Wilderness Hunter

With an Account of the Big Game of the United States and its Chase with
Horse, Hound, and Rifle

=Standard Library Edition.= With illustrations by Remington, Frost,
Sandham, Eaton, Beard, and others. 8^o. $2.50.

=Alleghany Edition.= Printed on high-grade Old Chester-Laid, containing
many rare old Western views and portraits, secured and specially
engraved for this edition. 8^o. Full buckram, gilt top, $5.00.

=Dakota Edition.= 2 vols. Crown 8^o, with frontispieces. Cloth, gilt
top, full gilt back. Each, $1.50.

=Sagamore Edition.= 2 vols., with frontispieces. Cloth, 16^o. Each, 50
cents.

"A book which breathes the spirit of the wilderness and presents a
vivid picture of the phase of American life which is rapidly passing
away, with clear, incisive force."--_New York Literary News._

"For one who intends to go a-hunting in the West this book is
invaluable. One may rely upon its information. But it has better
qualities. It is good reading for anybody, and people who never hunt
and never will are sure to derive pleasure from its account of that
part of the United States, relatively small, which is still a
wilderness."--_New York Times._

G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London

"A thoroughly enjoyable sportsman's book." _N. Y. Sun_

Hunting Big Game

with Gun and with Kodak

A Record of Personal Experience in the United States, Canada, and Old
Mexico

By William S. Thomas

Author of Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland

_Octavo, 240 pages. With 70 Illustrations from Original Photographs by
the Author. Net, $2.00. By mail, $2.20_

The author makes a sportsmanlike plea for the use of a camera rather
than rifle in the quest of big game. The appeal cannot fail to reach
the hearts of all those who are interested in preserving the life of
wild animals rather than unmercifully slaughtering them with modern
firearms. Mr. Thomas procures as much pleasure from his humane
method of hunting as does the so-called "sportsman" whose chief
desire is to kill.

The territory covered in the book is not only remarkable for its
extent, but also for the vivid and picturesque descriptions of every
locality visited. The remarkable kodak pictures give one interesting
glimpses of large game in their native haunts from Canada to Mexico.

"=Every chapter is lively, diverting, and full of good things. The
illustrations are as interesting as they are varied in
scope.="--_Pittsburg Times._

G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London

* * * * *

TRANSCRIBER NOTES:

Words contained within underscores (i.e. _March, 1913_) indicated
words in italics in the original.

Words contained within equal symbols (i.e. =Every chapter=) indicate
words in bold in the original.

Archaic, alternate and misspellings of words have been retained to
match the original work with the exception of those listed below.

Missing punctuation has been added and obvious punctuation errors
have been corrected.

Page 309: "examinanation" changed to "examination" (but an
examination disclosed that it was empty).

Page 335: "willderness" changed to "wilderness" (which is still a
wilderness).

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland" ***

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