[Illustration: THE INDIANS WOULD RISE TO THEIR FEET FOR A SINGLEMOMENT]

THE FOREST

BY

STEWART EDWARD WHITE

CONTENTS

I. THE CALLINGII. THE SCIENCE OF GOING LIGHTIII. THE JUMPING-OFF PLACEIV. ON MAKING CAMPV. ON LYING AWAKE AT NIGHTVI. THE 'LUNGEVII. ON OPEN-WATER CANOE TRAVELLINGVIII. THE STRANDED STRANGERSIX. ON FLIESX. CLOCHEXI. THE HABITANTSXII. THE RIVERXIII. THE HILLSXIV. ON WALKING THROUGH THE WOODSXV. ON WOODS INDIANSXVI. ON WOODS INDIANS _(continued)_XVII. THE CATCHING OF A CERTAIN FISHXVIII. MAN WHO WALKS BY MOONLIGHTXIX. APOLOGIA

SUGGESTIONS FOR OUTFIT

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE INDIANS WOULD RISE TO THEIR FEET FOR A SINGLE MOMENT

THIS OLD SOLDIER HAD COME IN FROM THE LONG TRAIL TO BEAR AGAIN THE FLAGOF HIS COUNTRY

AT SUCH A TIME YOU WILL MEET WITH ADVENTURES

EACH WAVE WAS SINGLY A PROBLEM, TO FAIL IN WHOSE SOLUTION MEANT INSTANTSWAMPING

WATCHED THE LONG NORTH-COUNTRY TWILIGHT STEAL UP LIKE A GRAY CLOUD FROMTHE EAST

IN THIS LOVABLE MYSTERY WE JOURNEYED ALL THE REST OF THAT MORNING

NOR NEED YOU HOPE TO POLE A CANOE UPSTREAM AS DO THESE PEOPLE

THEN IN THE TWILIGHT THE BATTLE

THE FOREST

I. 

THE CALLING. 

"The Red Gods make their medicine again. "

Some time in February, when the snow and sleet have shut out from thewearied mind even the memory of spring, the man of the woods generallyreceives his first inspiration. He may catch it from some companion'schance remark, a glance at the map, a vague recollection of a dim pastconversation, or it may flash on him from the mere pronouncement of aname. The first faint thrill of discovery leaves him cool, butgradually, with the increasing enthusiasm of cogitation, the idea gainsbody, until finally it has grown to plan fit for discussion. 

Of these many quickening potencies of inspiration, the mere name of aplace seems to strike deepest at the heart of romance. Colour, mystery, the vastnesses of unexplored space are there, symbolized compactly forthe aliment of imagination. It lures the fancy as a fly lures thetrout. Mattágami, Peace River, Kánanaw, the House of the TouchwoodHills, Rupert's House, the Land of Little Sticks, Flying Post, Conjuror's House--how the syllables roll from the tongue, what picturesrise in instant response to their suggestion! The journey of a thousandmiles seems not too great a price to pay for the sight of a placecalled the Hills of Silence, for acquaintance with the people who dwellthere, perhaps for a glimpse of the saga-spirit that so named itsenvironment. On the other hand, one would feel but little desire tovisit Muggin's Corners, even though at their crossing one were assuredof the deepest flavour of the Far North. 

The first response to the red god's summons is almost invariably theproduction of a fly-book and the complete rearrangement of all itscontents. The next is a resumption of practice with the little pistol. The third, and last, is pencil and paper, and lists of grub and duffel, and estimates of routes and expenses, and correspondence with men whospell queerly, bear down heavily with blunt pencils, and agree to be atBlack Beaver Portage on a certain date. Now, though the February snowand sleet still shut him in, the spring has draw very near. He canfeel the warmth of her breath rustling through his reviving memories. 

There are said to be sixty-eight roads to heaven, of which but one isthe true way, although here and there a by-path offers experimentalvariety to the restless and bold. The true way for the man in the woodsto attain the elusive best of his wilderness experience is to go aslight as possible, and the by-paths of departure from that principlelead only to the slightly increased carrying possibilities ofopen-water canoe trips, and permanent camps. 

But these prove to be not very independent side paths, never divergingso far from the main road that one may dare hope to conceal from avigilant eye that he is _not_ going light. 

To go light is to play the game fairly. The man in the woods matcheshimself against the forces of nature. In the towns he is warmed and fedand clothed so spontaneously and easily that after a time he perforcebegins to doubt himself, to wonder whether his powers are not atrophiedfrom disuse. And so, with his naked soul, he fronts the wilderness. Itis a test, a measuring of strength, a proving of his essential pluckand resourcefulness and manhood, an assurance of man's highest potency, the ability to endure and to take care of himself. In just so far as hesubstitutes the ready-made of civilization for the wit-made of theforest, the pneumatic bed for the balsam boughs, in just so far is herelying on other men and other men's labour to take care of him. Toexactly that extent is the test invalidated. He has not proved acourteous antagonist, for he has not stripped to the contest. 

To go light is to play the game sensibly. For even when it is not soearnest, nor the stake so high, a certain common-sense should take theplace on a lower plane of the fair-play sense on the higher. A greatmany people find enjoyment in merely playing with nature. Throughvacation they relax their minds, exercise mildly their bodies, andfreshen the colours of their outlook on life. Such people like to livecomfortably, work little, and enjoy existence lazily. Instead ofmodifying themselves to fit the life of the wilderness, they modifytheir city methods to fit open-air conditions. They do not need tostrip to the contest, for contest there is none, and Indian packers arecheap at a dollar a day. But even so the problem of the greatestcomfort--defining comfort as an accurate balance of effort expended toresults obtained--can be solved only by the one formula. And thatformula is, again, _go light_, for a superabundance of paraphernaliaproves always more of a care than a satisfaction. When the woods offeryou a thing ready made, it is the merest foolishness to transport thatsame thing a hundred miles for the sake of the manufacturer's trademark. 

I once met an outfit in the North Woods, plodding diligently acrossportage, laden like the camels of the desert. Three Indians swarmedback and forth a half-dozen trips apiece. An Indian can carry over twohundred pounds. That evening a half-breed and I visited their camp andexamined their outfit, always with growing wonder. They had tent-polesand about fifty pounds of hardwood tent pegs--in a wooded country wheresuch things can be had for a clip of the axe. They had a system ofringed iron bars which could be so fitted together as to form a lowopen grill on which trout could be broiled--weight twenty pounds, andsplit wood necessary for its efficiency. They had air mattresses andcamp-chairs and oil lanterns. They had corpulent duffel bags apiecethat would stand alone, and enough changes of clothes to last outdry-skinned a week's rain. And the leader of the party wore thewrinkled brow of tribulation. For he had to keep track of everythingand see that package number twenty-eight was not left, and that packagenumber sixteen did not get wet; that the pneumatic bed did not getpunctured, and that the canned goods did. Beside which, the caravan wasmoving at the majestic rate of about five miles a day. 

Now tent-pegs can always be cut, and trout broiled beautifully by adozen other ways, and candle lanterns fold up, and balsam can be laidin such a manner as to be as springy as a pneumatic mattress, andcamp-chairs, if desired, can be quickly constructed with an axe, andclothes can always be washed or dried as long as fire burns and waterruns, and any one of fifty other items of laborious burden could havebeen ingeniously and quickly substituted by any one of the Indians. Itwas not that we concealed a bucolic scorn of effete but solid comfort;only it did seem ridiculous that a man should cumber himself with afifth wheel on a smoothly macadamized road. 

The next morning Billy and I went cheerfully on our way. We werecarrying an axe, a gun, blankets, an extra pair of drawers and socksapiece, a little grub, and an eight-pound shelter tent. We had been outa week, and we were having a good time. 

II. 

THE SCIENCE OF GOING LIGHT. 

"Now the Four-Way lodge is opened--now the smokes of Council rise--Pleasant smokes ere yet 'twixt trail and trail they choose. "

You can no more be told how to go light than you can be told how to hita ball with a bat. It is something that must be lived through, and alladvice on the subject has just about the value of an answer to abashful young man who begged from one of our woman's periodicals helpin overcoming the diffidence felt on entering a crowded room. The replyread: "Cultivate an easy, graceful manner. " In like case I mighthypothecate, "To go light, discard all but the really necessaryarticles. "

The sticking-point, were you to press me close, would be the definitionof the word "necessary, " for the terms of such definition would have tobe those solely and simply of a man's experience. Comforts, even mostdesirable comforts, are not necessities. A dozen times a day triflingemergencies will seem precisely to call for some little handycontrivance that would be just the thing, were it in the pack ratherthan at home. A disgorger does the business better than a pocket-knife;a pair of oilskin trousers turns the wet better than does kersey; acamp-stove will burn merrily in a rain lively enough to drown an openfire. Yet neither disgorger, nor oilskins, nor camp-stove can beconsidered in the light of necessities, for the simple reason that theconditions of their use occur too infrequently to compensate for thepains of their carriage. Or, to put it the other way, a few moments'work with a knife, wet knees occasionally, or an infrequent soggy mealare not too great a price to pay for unburdened shoulders. 

Nor on the other hand must you conclude that because a thing is a mereluxury in town, it is nothing but that in the woods. Most woodsmen ownsome little ridiculous item of outfit without which they could not behappy. And when a man cannot be happy lacking a thing, that thingbecomes a necessity. I knew one who never stirred without boratedtalcum powder; another who must have his mouth-organ; a third who wasmiserable without a small bottle of salad dressing; I confess to a pairof light buckskin gloves. Each man must decide for himself--rememberingalways the endurance limit of human shoulders. 

A necessity is that which, _by your own experience_, you havefound you cannot do without. As a bit of practical advice, however, thefollowing system of elimination may be recommended. When you returnfrom a trip, turn your duffel bag upside down on the floor. Of thecontents make three piles--three piles conscientiously selected in thelight of what has happened rather than what ought to have happened, orwhat might have happened. It is difficult to do this. Preconceivednotions, habits of civilization, theory for future, imagination, allstand in the eye of your honesty. Pile number one should comprise thosearticles you have used every day; pile number two, those you have usedoccasionally; pile number three, those you have not used at all. If youare resolute and singleminded, you will at once discard the latter two. 

Throughout the following winter you will be attacked by misgivings. Tobe sure, you wore the mosquito hat but once or twice, and the fourthpair of socks not at all; but then the mosquitoes might be thicker nexttime, and a series of rainy days and cold nights might make itdesirable to have a dry pair of socks to put on at night. The past hasbeen _x_, but the future might be _y_. One by one the discarded creepback into the list. And by the opening of next season you have madetoward perfection by only the little space of a mackintosh coat and aten-gauge gun. 

But in the years to come you learn better and better the simple woodslesson of substitution or doing without. You find that discomfort is assoon forgotten as pain; that almost anything can be endured if it isbut for the time being; that absolute physical comfort is worth but avery small price in avoirdupois. Your pack shrinks. 

In fact, it really never ceases shrinking. Only last summer taught methe uselessness of an extra pair of trousers. It rains in the woods;streams are to be waded; the wetness of leaves is greater than thewetness of many rivers. Logically, naturally, inevitably, suchconditions point to change of garments when camp is made. We alwayschange our clothes when we get wet in the city. So for years I carriedthose extra nether garments--and continued in the natural exposure tosun and wind and camp-fire to dry off before change time, or to hangthe damp clothes from the ridge-pole for resumption in the morning. Andthen one day the web of that particular convention broke. We change wettrousers in the town; we do not in the woods. The extras were relegatedto pile number three, and my pack, already apparently down to aminimum, lost a few pounds more. 

You will want a hat, a _good_ hat to turn rain, with a mediumbrim. If you are wise, you will get it too small for your head, and ripout the lining. The felt will cling tenaciously to your hair, so thatyou will find the snatches of the brush and the wind generallyunavailing. 

By way of undergarments wear woollen. Buy winter weights even formidsummer. In travelling with a pack a man is going to sweat instreams, no matter what he puts on or takes off, and the thick garmentwill be found no more oppressive than the thin. And then in the cool ofthe woods or of the evening he avoids a chill. And he can plunge intothe coldest water with impunity, sure that ten minutes of the air willdry him fairly well. Until you have shivered in clammy cotton, youcannot realize the importance of this point. Ten minutes of cottonunderwear in cold water will chill. On the other hand, suitably clothedin wool, I have waded the ice water of north country streams when thethermometer was so low I could see my breath in the air, without otherdiscomfort than a cold ring around my legs to mark the surface of thewater, and a slight numbness in my feet when I emerged. Therefore, evenin hot weather, wear heavy wool. It is the most comfortable. Undoubtedly you will come to believe this only by experience. 

Do not carry a coat. This is another preconception of civilization, exceedingly difficult to get rid of. You will never wear it whilepacking. In a rain you will find that it wets through so promptly as tobe of little use; or, if waterproof, the inside condensation will morethan equal the rain-water. In camp you will discard it because it willimpede the swing of your arms. The end of that coat will be a briefhalf-hour after supper, and a makeshift roll to serve as a pillowduring the night. And for these a sweater is better in every way. 

In fact, if you feel you must possess another outside garment, let itbe an extra sweater. You can sleep in it, use it when your day garmentis soaked, or even tie things in it as in a bag. It is not necessary, however. 

One good shirt is enough. When you wash it, substitute the sweateruntil it dries. In fact, by keeping the sweater always in yourwaterproof bag, you possess a dry garment to change into. Twohandkerchiefs are enough. One should be of silk, for neck, head, or--incase of cramps or intense cold--the _stomach_; the other ofcoloured cotton for the pocket. Both can be quickly washed, and dried_en route_. Three pairs of heavy wool socks will be enough--onefor wear, one for night, and one for extra. A second pair of drawerssupplements the sweater when a temporary day change is desirable. Heavykersey "driver's" trousers are the best. They are cheap, dry veryquickly, and are not easily "picked out" by the brush. 

The best blanket is that made by the Hudson's Bay Company for itsservants--a "three-point" for summer is heavy enough. The next best isour own gray army blanket. One of rubber should fold about it, and apair of narrow buckle straps is handy to keep the bundle right andtight and waterproof. As for a tent, buy the smallest shelter you canget along with, have it made of balloon silk well waterproofed, andsupplement it with a duplicate tent of light cheesecloth to suspendinside as a fly-proof defence. A seven-by-seven three-man A-tent, whichwould weigh between twenty and thirty pounds if made of duck, meansonly about eight pounds constructed of this material. And it iswaterproof. I own one which I have used for three seasons. It has beenemployed as tarpaulin, fly, even blanket on a pinch; it has been packedthrough the roughest country; I have even pressed it into service as asort of canoe lining; but it is still as good as ever. Such a tentsometimes condenses a little moisture in a cold rain, but it never"sprays" as does a duck shelter; it never leaks simply because you haveaccidentally touched its under-surface; and, best of all, it weighs nomore after a rain than before it. This latter item is perhaps its bestrecommendation. The confronting with equanimity of a wet day's journeyin the shower-bath brush of our northern forests requires a degree ofphilosophy which a gratuitous ten pounds of soaked-up water sometimesmost effectually breaks down. I know of but one place where such a tentcan be bought. The address will be gladly sent to any one practicallyinterested. 

As for the actual implements of the trade, they are not many, althoughof course the sporting goods stores are full of all sorts of "handycontrivances. " A small axe--one of the pocket size will do, if you getthe right shape and balance, although a light regulation axe is better;a thin-bladed sheath-knife of the best steel; a pocket-knife; acompass; a waterproof match-safe; fishing-tackle; firearms; and cookingutensils comprise the list. All others belong to permanent camps, oropen-water cruises--not to "hikes" in the woods. 

The items, with the exception of the last two, seem to explainthemselves. During the summer months in the North Woods you will notneed a rifle. Partridges, spruce hens, ptarmigan, rabbits, ducks, andgeese are usually abundant enough to fill the provision list. For them, of course, a shotgun is the thing; but since such a weapon weighs manypounds, and its ammunition many more, I have come gradually to dependentirely on a pistol. The instrument is single shot, carries a six-inchbarrel, is fitted with a special butt, and is built on the gracefullines of a 38-calibre Smith and Wesson revolver. Its cartridge is the22 long-rifle, a target size, that carries as accurately as you canhold for upwards of a hundred yards. With it I have often killed ahalf-dozen of partridges from the same tree. The ammunition is light. Altogether it is a most satisfactory, convenient, and accurate weapon, and quite adequate to all small game. In fact, an Indian namedTawabinisáy, after seeing it perform, once borrowed it to kill a moose. 

[Illustration: THIS OLD SOLDIER HAD COME IN FROM THE LONG TRAIL TO BEARAGAIN THE FLAG OF HIS COUNTRY. ]

"I shootum in eye, " said he. 

By way of cooking utensils, buy aluminium. It is expensive, but solight and so easily cleaned that it is well worth all you may have topay. If you are alone you will not want to carry much hardware. I madea twenty-day trip once with nothing but a tin cup and a frying-pan. Dishes, pails, wash-basins, and other receptacles can always be made ofbirch bark and cedar withes--by one who knows how. The ideal outfit fortwo or three is a cup, fork, and spoon apiece, one tea-pail, twokettle-pails, and a frying-pan. The latter can be used as a bread-oven. 

A few minor items, of practically no weight, suggest themselves--toiletrequisites, fly-dope, needle and thread, a cathartic, pain-killer, aroll of surgeon's bandage, pipe and tobacco. But when the pack is madeup, and the duffel bag tied, you find that, while fitted for everyemergency but that of catastrophe, you are prepared to "go light. "

III. 

THE JUMPING-OFF PLACE. 

Sometime, no matter how long your journey, you will reach a spot whosepsychological effect is so exactly like a dozen others that you willrecognize at once its kinship with former experience. Mere physicallikeness does not count at all. It may possess a water-front of lathsand sawdust, or an outlook over broad, shimmering, heat-baked plains. It may front the impassive fringe of a forest, or it may skirt the calmstretch of a river. But whether of log or mud, stone or unpaintedboard, its identity becomes at first sight indubitably evident. Wereyou, by the wave of some beneficent wand, to be transported direct toit from the heart of the city, you could not fail to recognize it. "Thejumping-off place!" you would cry ecstatically, and turn with unerringinstinct to the Aromatic Shop. 

For here is where begins the Long Trail. Whether it will lead youthrough the forests, or up the hills, or over the plains, or byinvisible water paths; whether you will accomplish it on horseback, orin canoe, or by the transportation of your own two legs; whether yourcompanions shall be white or red, or merely the voices of thewilds--these things matter not a particle. In the symbol of this littletown you loose your hold on the world of made things, and shift foryourself among the unchanging conditions of nature. 

Here the faint forest flavour, the subtle, invisible breath of freedom, stirs faintly across men's conventions. The ordinary affairs of lifesavour of this tang--a trace of wildness in the domesticated berry. Inthe dress of the inhabitants is a dash of colour, a carelessness ofport; in the manner of their greeting is the clear, steady-eyedtaciturnity of the silent places; through the web of their gray talk ofways and means and men's simpler beliefs runs a thread of colour. Onehears strange, suggestive words and phrases--arapajo, capote, arroyo, the diamond hitch, cache, butte, coulé, muskegs, portage, and a dozenothers coined into the tender of daily use. And occasionally, when theexpectation is least alert, one encounters suddenly the very symbol ofthe wilderness itself--a dust-whitened cowboy, an Indian packer withhis straight, fillet-confined hair, a voyageur gay in red sash andornamented moccasins, one of the Company's canoemen, hollow-cheekedfrom the river--no costumed show exhibit, but fitting naturally intothe scene, bringing something of the open space with him--so that inyour imagination the little town gradually takes on the colour ofmystery which an older community utterly lacks. 

But perhaps the strongest of the influences which unite to assure thepsychological kinships of the jumping-off places is that of theAromatic Shop. It is usually a board affair, with a broad high sidewalkshaded by a wooden awning. You enter through a narrow door, and findyourself facing two dusky aisles separated by a narrow division ofgoods, and flanked by wooden counters. So far it is exactly like thecorner store of our rural districts. But in the dimness of these twoaisles lurks the spirit of the wilds. There in a row hang fifty pair ofsmoke-tanned moccasins; in another an equal number of oil-tanned;across the background you can make out snowshoes. The shelves are highwith blankets--three-point, four-point--thick and warm for theout-of-doors. Should you care to examine, the storekeeper will hookdown from aloft capotes of different degrees of fineness. Fathoms ofblack tobacco-rope lie coiled in tubs. Tump-lines welter in a tangle ofdimness. On a series of little shelves is the ammunition, fascinatingin the attraction of mere numbers--44 Winchester, 45 Colt, 40-82, 30-40, 44 S. & W. --they all connote something to the accustomed mind, just as do the numbered street names of New York. 

An exploration is always bringing something new to light among thecommonplaces of ginghams and working shirts, and canned goods andstationery, and the other thousands of civilized drearinesses to foundin every country store. From under the counter you drag out a mink skinor so; from the dark corner an assortment of steel traps. In a loft abirch-bark mokok, fifty pounds heavy with granulated maple sugar, dispenses a faint perfume. 

For this is, above all, the Aromatic Shop. A hundred ghosts of odoursmingle to produce the spirit of it. The reek of the camp-fires is inits buckskin, of the woods in its birch bark, of the muskegs in itssweet grass, of the open spaces in its peltries, of the evening meal inits coffees and bacons, of the portage trail in the leather of thetump-lines. I am speaking now of the country of which we are to write. The shops of the other jumping-off places are equally aromatic--whetherwith the leather of saddles, the freshness of ash paddles, or thepungency of marline; and once the smell of them is in your nostrils youcannot but away. 

The Aromatic Shop is always kept by the wisest, the most accommodating, the most charming shopkeeper in the world. He has all leisure to giveyou, and enters into the innermost spirit of your buying. He is ofsupernal sagacity in regard to supplies and outfits, and if he does notknow all about routes, at least he is acquainted with the very man whocan tell you everything you want to know. He leans both elbows on thecounter, you swing your feet, and together you go over the list, whilethe Indian stands smoky and silent in the background. "Now, if I wasyou, " says he, "I'd take just a little more pork. You won't be eatin'so much yourself, but these Injuns ain't got no bottom when it comes tosow-belly. And I wouldn't buy all that coffee. You ain't goin' to wantmuch after the first edge is worn off. Tea's the boy. " The Indianshoots a few rapid words across the discussion. "He says you'll wantsome iron shoes to fit on canoe poles for when you come backup-stream, " interprets your friend. "I guess that's right. I ain't gotnone, but th' blacksmith'll fit you out all right. You'll find him justbelow--never mind, don't you bother, I'll see to all that for you. "

The next morning he saunters into view at the river-bank. "Thought I'dsee you off, " he replies to your expression of surprise at his earlyrising. "Take care of yourself. " And so the last hand-clasp ofcivilization is extended to you from the little Aromatic Shop. 

Occasionally, however, though very rarely, you step to the Long Trailfrom the streets of a raw modern town. The chance presence of somelocal industry demanding a large population of workmen, combined withfirst-class railroad transportation, may plant an electric-lighted, saloon-lined, brick-hoteled city in the middle of the wilderness. Lumber, mines--especially of the baser metals or commercialminerals--fisheries, a terminus of water freightage, may one or allcall into existence a community a hundred years in advance of itsenvironment. Then you lose the savour of the jump-off. Nothing canquite take the place of the instant plunge into the wilderness, for youmust travel three or four days from such a place before you sense theforest in its vastness, even though deer may eat the cabbages at theedge of town. Occasionally, however, by force of crude contrast to thebrick-heated atmosphere, the breath of the woods reaches your cheek, and always you own a very tender feeling for the cause of it. 

Dick and myself were caught in such a place. It was an unfinishedlittle town, with brick-fronted stores, arc-lights swaying overfathomless mud, big superintendent's and millowner's houses of bastardarchitecture in a blatant superiority of hill location, a hotel whoseoffice chairs supported a variety of cheap drummers, and storesscreeching in an attempt at metropolitan smartness. We inspected thestandpipe and the docks, walked a careless mile of board walk, kicked adozen pugnacious dogs from our setter, Deuce, and found ourselves atthe end of our resources. As a crowd seemed to be gathering about thewooden railway station, we joined it in sheer idleness. 

It seemed that an election had taken place the day before, that oneSmith had been chosen to the Assembly, and that, though this districthad gone anti-Smith, the candidate was expected to stop off an hour onhis way to a more westerly point. Consequently the town was on hand toreceive him. 

The crowd, we soon discovered, was bourgeois in the extreme. Young menfrom the mill escorted young women from the shops. The young men woreflaring collars three sizes too large; the young women white cottonmitts three sizes too small. The older men spat, and talked throughtheir noses; the women drawled out a monotonous flow of speechconcerning the annoyances of domestic life. A gang of uncouth practicaljokers, exploding in horse-laughter, skylarked about, jostling rudely. A village band, uniformed solely with cheap carriage-cloth caps, brayedexcruciatingly. The reception committee had decorated, with red andwhite silesia streamers and rosettes, an ordinary side-bar buggy, towhich a long rope had been attached, that the great man might bedragged by his fellow-citizens to the public square. 

Nobody seemed to be taking the affair too seriously. It was evidentlymore than half a joke. Anti-Smith was more good-humouredly in evidencethan the winning party. Just this touch of buffoonery completed oursense of the farce-comedy character of the situation. The town wastawdry in its preparations--and knew it; but half sincere in itsenthusiasm--and knew it. If the crowd had been composed of Americans, we should have anticipated an unhappy time for Smith; but good, loyalCanadians, by the limitations of temperament, could get no further thana spirit of manifest irreverence. 

In the shifting of the groups Dick and I became separated, but shortlyI made him out worming his way excitedly toward me, his sketch-bookopen in his hand. 

"Come here, " he whispered. "There's going to be fun. They're going toopen up on old Smith after all. "

I followed. The decorated side-bar buggy might be well meant; thevillage band need not have been interpreted as an ironical compliment;the rest of the celebration might indicate paucity of resource ratherthan facetious intent; but surely the figure of fun before us could notbe otherwise construed than as a deliberate advertising in the face ofsuccess of the town's real attitude toward the celebration. 

The man was short. He wore a felt hat, so big that it rested on hisears. A gray wool shirt hung below his neck. A cutaway coat miles toolarge depended below his knees and to the first joints of his fingers. By way of official uniform his legs were incased in an ordinary roughpair of miller's white trousers, on which broad strips of red flannelhad been roughly sewn. Everything was wrinkled in the folds oftoo-bigness. As though to accentuate the note, the man stood veryerect, very military, and supported in one hand the staff of an Englishflag. This figure of fun, this man made from the slop-chest, thiscaricature of a scarecrow, had been put forth by heavy-handedfacetiousness to the post of greatest honour. He was Standard-Bearer tothe occasion! Surely subtle irony could go no further. 

A sudden movement caused the man to turn. One sleeve of the faded, ridiculous old cutaway was empty. He turned again. From under theear-flanging hat looked unflinchingly the clear, steady blue eye of thewoodsman. And so we knew. This old soldier had come in from the LongTrail to bear again the flag of his country. If his clothes were oldand ill-fitting, at least they were his best, and the largeness of theempty sleeve belittled the too-largeness of the other. In all thisribald, laughing, irreverent, commonplace, semi-vicious crowd he wasthe one note of sincerity. To him this was a real occasion, and theexalted reverence in his eye for the task he was so simply performingwas Smith's real triumph--if he could have known it. We understood now, we felt the imminence of the Long Trail. For the first time the littlebrick, tawdry town gripped our hearts with the well-known thrill of theJumping-Off Place. Suddenly the great, simple, unashamed wildernessdrew near us as with the rush of wings. 

IV. 

ON MAKING CAMP. 

"Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard the birch log burning?Who is quick to read the noises of the night?Let him follow with the others, for the young men's feet are turningTo the camps of proved desire and known delight. "

In the Ojibway language _wigwam_ means a good spot for camping, aplace cleared for a camp, a camp as an abstract proposition, and a campin the concrete as represented by a tent, a thatched shelter, or aconical tepee. In like manner, the English word _camp_ lendsitself to a variety of concepts. I once slept in a four-poster bed overa polished floor in an elaborate servant-haunted structure which, mainly because it was built of logs and overlooked a lake, the owneralways spoke of as his camp. Again, I once slept on a bed of prairiegrass, before a fire of dried buffalo chips and mesquite, wrapped in asingle light blanket, while a good vigorous rain-storm made new coldplaces on me and under me all night. In the morning the cowboy withwhom I was travelling remarked that this was "sure a lonesomeproposition as a camp. "

Between these two extremes is infinite variety, grading upwards throughthe divers bivouacs of snow, plains, pines, or hills to the barkshelter; past the dog-tent, the A-tent, the wall-tent, to the elaboratepermanent canvas cottage of the luxurious camper, the dug-out winterretreat of the range cowboy, the trapper's cabin, the great log-builtlumber-jack communities, and the last refinements of sybaritic summerhomes in the Adirondacks. All these are camps. And when you talk ofmaking camp you must know whether that process is to mean only a searchfor rattlesnakes and enough acrid-smoked fuel to boil tea, or awinter's consultation with an expert architect; whether your camp is tobe made on the principle of Omar's one-night Sultan, or whether it isintended to accommodate the full days of an entire summer. 

But to those who tread the Long Trail the making of camp resolvesitself into an algebraical formula. After a man has travelled all daythrough the Northern wilderness he wants to rest, and anything thatstands between himself and his repose he must get rid of in as fewmotions as is consistent with reasonable thoroughness. The end in viewis a hot meal and a comfortable dry place to sleep. The straighter hecan draw the line to those two points the happier he is. 

Early in his woods experience, Dick became possessed with the desire todo everything for himself. As this was a laudable striving forself-sufficiency, I called a halt at about three o'clock one afternoonin order to give him plenty of time. 

Now Dick is a good, active, able-bodied boy, possessed of averageintelligence and rather more than average zeal. He even had theory of asort, for he had read various "Boy Campers, or the Trapper's Guide, ""How to Camp Out, " "The Science of Woodcraft, " and other able works. Hecertainly had ideas enough and confidence enough. I sat down on a log. 

At the end of three hours' flusteration, heat, worry, and good hardwork, he had accomplished the following results: A tent, very saggy, very askew, covered a four-sided area--it was not a rectangle--of verybumpy ground. A hodge-podge bonfire, in the centre of which aninaccessible coffee-pot toppled menacingly, alternately threatened toignite the entire surrounding forest or to go out altogether throughlack of fuel. Personal belongings strewed the ground near the fire, andprovisions cumbered the entrance to the tent. Dick was anxiously mixingbatter for the cakes, attempting to stir a pot of rice often enough toprevent it from burning, and trying to rustle sufficient dry wood tokeep the fire going. This diversity of interests certainly made him situp and pay attention. At each instant he had to desert his flour-sackto rescue the coffee-pot, or to shift the kettle, or to dab hastily atthe rice, or to stamp out the small brush, or to pile on more drytwigs. His movements were not graceful. They raised a scurry of drybark, ashes, wood dust, twigs, leaves, and pine needles, a certainproportion of which found their way into the coffee, the rice, and thesticky batter, while the smaller articles of personal belonging, hastily dumped from the duffel-bag, gradually disappeared from view inthe manner of Pompeii and ancient Vesuvius. Dick burned his fingers andstumbled about and swore, and looked so comically-patheticallyred-faced through the smoke that I, seated on the log, at the same timelaughed and pitied. And in the end, when he needed a continuous steadyfire to fry his cakes, he suddenly discovered that dry twigs do notmake coals, and that his previous operations had used up all the fuelwithin easy circle of the camp. 

So he had to drop everything for the purpose of rustling wood, while the coffee chilled, the rice cooled, the bacon congealed, and allthe provisions, cooked and uncooked, gathered entomological specimens. At the last, the poor bedeviled theorist made a hasty meal of scorchedfood, brazenly postponed the washing of dishes until the morrow, andcoiled about his hummocky couch to dream the nightmares of completeexhaustion. 

Poor Dick! I knew exactly how he felt, how the low afternoon sunscorched, how the fire darted out at unexpected places, how the smokefollowed him around, no matter on which side of the fire he placedhimself, how the flies all took to biting when both hands wereoccupied, and how they all miraculously disappeared when he had setdown the frying-pan and knife to fight them. I could sympathize, too, with the lonely, forlorn, lost-dog feeling that clutched him after itwas all over. I could remember how big and forbidding and unfriendlythe forest had once looked to me in like circumstances, so that I hadfelt suddenly thrust outside into empty spaces. Almost was I tempted tointervene; but I liked Dick, and I wanted to do him good. Thisexperience was harrowing, but it prepared his mind for the seeds ofwisdom. By the following morning he had chastened his spirit, forgottenthe assurance breathed from the windy pages of the Boy Trapper Library, and was ready to learn. 

Have you ever watched a competent portraitist at work? The infinitepains a skilled man spends on the preliminaries before he takes onestep towards a likeness nearly always wears down the patience of thesitter. He measures with his eye, he plumbs, he sketches tentatively, he places in here a dab, there a blotch, he puts behind him apparentlyunproductive hours--and then all at once he is ready to begin somethingthat will not have to be done over again. An amateur, however, iscarried away by his desire for results. He dashes in a hit-or-missearly effect, which grows into an approximate likeness almostimmediately, but which will require infinite labour, alteration, andanxiety to beat into finished shape. 

The case of the artist in making camps is exactly similar, and thephilosophical reasons for his failure are exactly the same. To thesuperficial mind a camp is a shelter, a bright fire, and a smell ofcooking. So when a man is very tired he cuts across lots to those threeresults. He pitches his tent, lights his fire, puts over his food--andfinds himself drowned in detail, like my friend Dick. 

The following is, in brief, what during the next six weeks I told thatyouth, by precept, by homily, and by making the solution so obviousthat he could work it out for himself. 

When five or six o'clock draws near, begin to look about you for a goodlevel dry place, elevated some few feet above the surroundings. Dropyour pack or beach your canoe. Examine the location carefully. Youwill want two trees about ten feet apart, from which to suspend yourtent, and a bit of flat ground underneath them. Of course the flatground need not be particularly unencumbered by brush or saplings, sothe combination ought not to be hard to discover. Now return to yourcanoe. Do not unpack the tent. 

With the little axe clear the ground thoroughly. By bending a saplingover strongly with the left hand, clipping sharply at the strainedfibres, and then bending it as strongly the other way to repeat the axestroke on the other side, you will find that treelets of even two orthree inches diameter can be felled by two blows. In a very fewmoments you will have accomplished a hole in the forest, and your twosupporting trees will stand sentinel at either end of a mostrespectable-looking clearing. Do not unpack the tent. 

Now, although the ground seems free of all but unimportant growths, goover it thoroughly for little shrubs and leaves. They look soft andyielding, but are often possessed of unexpectedly abrasive roots. Besides, they mask the face of the ground. When you have finishedpulling them up by the roots, you will find that your supposedly levelplot is knobby with hummocks. Stand directly over each little mound;swing the back of your axe vigorously against it, adze-wise, betweenyour legs. Nine times out of ten it will crumble, and the tenth timemeans merely a root to cut or a stone to pry out. At length you arepossessed of a plot of clean, fresh earth, level and soft, free fromprojections. But do not unpack your tent. 

Lay a young birch or maple an inch or so in diameter across a log. Twoclips will produce you a tent-peg. If you are inexperienced, andcherish memories of striped lawn marquees, you will cut them about sixinches long. If you are wise and old and gray in woods experience, youwill multiply that length by four. Then your loops will not slip off, and you will have a real grip on mother earth, than which nothing canbe more desirable in the event of a heavy rain and wind squall aboutmidnight. If your axe is as sharp as it ought to be, you can pointthem more neatly by holding them suspended in front of you while yousnip at their ends with the axe, rather than by resting them against asolid base. Pile them together at the edge of the clearing. Cut acrotched sapling eight or ten feet long. Now unpack your tent. 

In a wooded country you will not take the time to fool with tent-poles. A stout line run through the eyelets and along the apex will string itsuccessfully between your two trees. Draw the line as tight aspossible, but do not be too unhappy if, after your best efforts, itstill sags a little. That is what your long crotched stick is for. Stake out your four corners. If you get them in a good rectangle, andin such relation to the apex as to form two isosceles triangles of theends, your tent will stand smoothly. Therefore, be an artist and do itright. Once the four corners are well placed, the rest followsnaturally. Occasionally in the North Country it will be found that thesoil is too thin over the rocks to grip the tent-pegs. In that casedrive them at a sharp angle as deep as they will go, and then lay alarge flat stone across the slant of them. Thus anchored, you willride out a gale. Finally, wedge your long sapling crotch under theline--outside the tent, of course--to tighten it. Your shelter is up. If you are a woodsman, ten or fifteen minutes has sufficed toaccomplish all this. 

There remains the question of a bed, and you'd better attend to it now, while your mind is still occupied with the shelter problem. Fell agood thrifty young balsam and set to work pulling off the fans. Thoseyou cannot strip off easily with your hands are too tough for yourpurpose. Lay them carelessly crisscross against the blade of your axeand up the handle. They will not drop off, and when you shoulder thataxe you will resemble a walking haystack, and will probably experiencea genuine emotion of surprise at the amount of balsam that can be thustransported. In the tent lay smoothly one layer of fans, convex sideup, butts toward the foot. Now thatch the rest on top of this, thrusting the butt ends underneath the layer already placed in such amanner as to leave the fan ends curving up and down towards the foot ofyour bed. Your second emotion of surprise will assail you as yourealize how much spring inheres in but two or three layers thusarranged. When you have spread your rubber blanket, you will bepossessed of a bed as soft and a great deal more aromatic and luxuriousthan any you would be able to buy in town. 

Your next care is to clear a living space in front of the tent. Thiswill take you about twenty seconds, for you need not be particular asto stumps, hummocks, or small brush. All you want is room for cooking, and suitable space for spreading out your provisions. But do notunpack anything yet. 

Your fireplace you will build of two green logs laid side by side. Thefire is to be made between them. They should converge slightly, inorder that the utensils to be rested across them may be of varioussizes. If your vicinity yields flat stones, they build up even betterthan the logs--unless they happen to be of granite. Granite explodesmost disconcertingly. Poles sharpened, driven upright into the ground, and then pressed down to slant over the fireplace, will hold yourkettles a suitable height above the blaze. 

Fuel should be your next thought. A roll of birch bark first of all. Then some of the small, dry, resinous branches that stick out from thetrunks of medium-sized pines, living or dead. Finally, the wooditself. If you are merely cooking supper, and have no thought for awarmth-fire or a friendship-fire, I should advise you to stick to thedry pine branches, helped out, in the interest of coals for frying, bya little dry maple or birch. If you need more of a blaze, you willhave to search out, fell, and split a standing dead tree. This is notat all necessary. I have travelled many weeks in the woods withoutusing a more formidable implement than a one-pound hatchet. Pile yourfuel--a complete supply, all you are going to need--by the side of youralready improvised fireplace. But, as you value your peace of mind, donot fool with matches. 

It will be a little difficult to turn your mind from the concept offire, to which all these preparations have compellingly ledit--especially as a fire is the one cheerful thing your weariness needsthe most at this time of day--but you must do so. Leave everything justas it is, and unpack your provisions. 

First of all, rinse your utensils. Hang your tea-pail, with the properquantity of water, from one slanting pole, and your kettle from theother. Salt the water in the latter receptacle. Peel your potatoes, if you have any; open your little provision sacks; puncture your tincans, if you have any; slice your bacon; clean your fish; pluck yourbirds; mix your dough or batter; spread your table tinware on yourtarpaulin or a sheet of birch bark; cut a kettle-lifter; see thateverything you are going to need is within direct reach of your hand asyou squat on your heels before the fireplace. Now light your fire. 

The civilized method is to build a fire and then to touch a match tothe completed structure. If well done and in a grate or steve, thisworks beautifully. Only in the woods you have no grate. The only sureway is as follows: Hold a piece of birch bark in your hand. Shelteryour match all you know how. When the bark has caught, lay it in yourfireplace, assist it with more bark, and gradually build up, twig bytwig, stick by stick, from the first pin-point of flame, all the fireyou are going to need. It will not be much. The little hot blazerising between the parallel logs directly against the aluminium of yourutensils will do the business in a very short order. In fifteenminutes at most your meal is ready. And you have been able to attainto hot food thus quickly because you were prepared. 

In case of very wet weather the affair is altered somewhat. If therain has just commenced, do not stop to clear out very thoroughly, butget your tent up as quickly as possible, in order to preserve an areaof comparatively dry ground. But if the earth is already soaked, youhad best build a bonfire to dry out by, while you cook over a smallerfire a little distance removed, leaving the tent until later. Or itmay be well not to pitch the tent at all, but to lay it across slantingsupports at an angle to reflect the heat against the ground. 

It is no joke to light a fire in the rain. An Indian can do it moreeasily than a white man, but even an Indian has more trouble than thestory-books acknowledge. You will need a greater quantity of birchbark, a bigger pile of resinous dead limbs from the pine trees, andperhaps the heart of a dead pine stub or stump. Then, with infinitepatience, you may be able to tease the flame. Sometimes a small deadbirch contains in the waterproof envelope of its bark a species ofpowdery, dry touchwood that takes the flame readily. Still, it is easyenough to start a blaze--a very fine-looking, cheerful, healthy blaze;the difficulty is to prevent its petering out the moment your back isturned. 

But the depths of woe are sounded and the limit of patience reachedwhen you are forced to get breakfast in the dripping forest. After thechill of early dawn you are always reluctant in the best ofcircumstances to leave your blankets, to fumble with numbed fingers formatches, to handle cold steel and slippery fish. But when every leaf, twig, sapling, and tree contains a douche of cold water; when thewetness oozes about your moccasins from the soggy earth with every stepyou take; when you look about you and realize that somehow, before youcan get a mouthful to banish that before-breakfast ill-humour, you mustbrave cold water in an attempt to find enough fuel to cook with, thenyour philosophy and early religious training avail you little. Thefirst ninety-nine times you are forced to do this you will probablysquirm circumspectly through the bush in a vain attempt to avoidshaking water down on yourself; you will resent each failure to do so, and at the end your rage will personify the wilderness for the purposeof one sweeping anathema. The hundredth time will bring you wisdom. Youwill do the anathema--rueful rather than enraged--from the tentopening. Then you will plunge boldly in and get wet. It is notpleasant, but it has to be done, and you will save much temper, not tospeak of time. 

Dick and I earned our diplomas at this sort of work. It rained twelveof the first fourteen days we were out. Towards the end of that twoweeks I doubt if even an Indian could have discovered a dry stick ofwood in the entire country. The land was of Laurentian rock formation, running in parallel ridges of bare stone separated by hollows carpetedwith a thin layer of earth. The ridges were naturally ill-adapted tocamping, and the cup hollows speedily filled up with water until theybecame most creditable little marshes. Often we hunted for an hour orso before we could find any sort of a spot to pitch our tent. As for afire, it was a matter of chopping down dead trees large enough to haveremained dry inside, of armfuls of birch bark, and of the patientdrying out, by repeated ignition, of enough fuel to cook very simplemeals. Of course we could have kept a big fire going easily enough, but we were travelling steadily and had not the time for that. Inthese trying circumstances, Dick showed that, no matter how much of atenderfoot he might be, he was game enough under stress. 

But to return to our pleasant afternoon. While you are consuming thesupper you will hang over some water to heat for the dish-washing, andthe dish-washing you will attend to the moment you have finishedeating. Do not commit the fallacy of sitting down for a little rest. Better finish the job completely while you are about it. You willappreciate leisure so much more later. In lack of a wash-rag you willfind that a bunch of tall grass bent double makes an ideal swab. 

Now brush the flies from your tent, drop the mosquito-proof lining, andenjoy yourself. The whole task, from first to last, has consumed but alittle over an hour. And you are through for the day. 

In the woods, as nowhere else, you will earn your leisure only byforethought. Make no move until you know it follows the line ofgreatest economy. To putter is to wallow in endless desolation. If youcannot move directly and swiftly and certainly along the line of leastresistance in everything you do, take a guide with you; you are not ofthe woods people. You will never enjoy doing for yourself, for yourdays will be crammed with unending labour. 

It is but a little after seven. The long crimson shadows of the NorthCountry are lifting across the aisles of the forest. You sit on a log, or lie on your back, and blow contented clouds straight up into theair. Nothing can disturb you now. The wilderness is yours, for you havetaken from it the essentials of primitive civilization--shelter, warmth, and food. An hour ago a rainstorm would have been a minorcatastrophe. Now you do not care. Blow high, blow low, you have madefor yourself an abiding-place, so that the signs of the sky are lessimportant to you than to the city dweller who wonders if he should takean umbrella. From your doorstep you can look placidly out on the greatunknown. The noises of the forest draw close about you their circle ofmystery, but the circle cannot break upon you, for here you haveconjured the homely sounds of kettle and crackling flame to keep ward. Thronging down through the twilight steal the jealous woodland shadows, awful in the sublimity of the Silent Places, but at the sentry outpostsof your firelit trees they pause like wild animals, hesitating toadvance. The wilderness, untamed, dreadful at night, is all about; butthis one little spot you have reclaimed. Here is something beforeunknown to the eerie spirits of the woods. As you sleepily knock theashes from the pipe, you look about on the familiar scene withaccustomed satisfaction. You are at home. 

V. 

ON LYING AWAKE AT NIGHT. 

"Who hath lain alone to hear the wild goose cry?"

About once in so often you are due to lie awake at night. Why this isso I have never been able to discover. It apparently comes from nopredisposing uneasiness of indigestion, no rashness in the matter oftoo much tea or tobacco, no excitation of unusual incident orstimulating conversation. In fact, you turn in with the expectation ofrather a good night's rest. Almost at once the little noises of theforest grow larger, blend in the hollow bigness of the first drowse;your thoughts drift idly back and forth between reality and dream;when--_snap!_--you are broad awake!

Perhaps the reservoir of your vital forces is full to the overflow of alittle waste; or perhaps, more subtly, the great Mother insists thusthat you enter the temple of her larger mysteries. 

For, unlike mere insomnia, lying awake at night in the woods ispleasant. The eager, nervous straining for sleep gives way to adelicious indifference. You do not care. Your mind is cradled in anexquisite poppy-suspension of judgment and of thought. Impressions slipvaguely into your consciousness and as vaguely out again. Sometimesthey stand stark and naked for your inspection; sometimes they losethemselves in the midst of half-sleep. Always they lay soft velvetfingers on the drowsy imagination, so that in their caressing you feelthe vaster spaces from which they have come. Peaceful-brooding yourfaculties receive. Hearing, sight, smell--all are preternaturally keento whatever of sound and sight and woods perfume is abroad through thenight; and yet at the same time active appreciation dozes, so thesethings lie on it sweet and cloying like fallen rose leaves. 

In such circumstance you will hear what the _voyageurs_ call thevoices of the rapids. Many people never hear them at all. They speakvery soft and low and distinct beneath the steady roar and dashing, beneath even the lesser tinklings and gurglings whose qualitysuperimposes them over the louder sounds. They are like the tear-formsswimming across the field of vision, which disappear so quickly whenyou concentrate your sight to look at them, and which reappear somagically when again your gaze turns vacant. In the stillness of yourhazy half-consciousness they speak; when you bend your attention tolisten, they are gone, and only the tumults and the tinklings remain. 

But in the moments of their audibility they are very distinct. Just asoften an odour will wake all a vanished memory, so these voices, by theforce of a large impressionism, suggest whole scenes. Far off are thecling-clang-cling of chimes and the swell-and-fall murmur of amultitude _en fête_, so that subtly you feel the gray old town, with its walls, the crowded marketplace, the decent peasant crowd, thebooths, the mellow church building with its bells, the warm, dust-motedsun. Or, in the pauses between the swish-dash-dashings of the waters, sound faint and clear voices singing intermittently, calls, distantnotes of laughter, as though many canoes were working against thecurrent; only the flotilla never gets any nearer, nor the voiceslouder. The _voyageurs_ call these mist people the Huntsmen, andlook frightened. To each is his vision, according to his experience. The nations of the earth whisper to their exiled sons through thevoices of the rapids. Curiously enough, by all reports, they suggestalways peaceful scenes--a harvest field, a street fair, a Sundaymorning in a cathedral town, careless travellers--never the turmoilsand struggles. Perhaps this is the great Mother's compensation in aharsh mode of life. 

Nothing is more fantastically unreal to tell about, nothing moreconcretely real to experience, than this undernote of the quick water. And when you do lie awake at night, it is always making its unobtrusiveappeal. Gradually its hypnotic spell works. The distant chimes ringlouder and nearer as you cross the borderland of sleep. And thenoutside the tent some little woods noise snaps the thread. An owlhoots, a whippoorwill cries, a twig cracks beneath the cautious prowlof some night creature--at once the yellow sunlit French meadows puffaway--you are staring at the blurred image of the moon spraying throughthe texture of your tent. 

The voices of the rapids have dropped into the background, as have thedashing noises of the stream. Through the forest is a great silence, but no stillness at all. The whippoorwill swings down and up the shortcurve of his regular song; over and over an owl says his rapid_whoo_, _whoo_, _whoo_. These, with the ceaseless dash of the rapids, are the web on which the night traces her more delicate embroideriesof the unexpected. Distant crashes, single and impressive;stealthy footsteps near at hand; the subdued scratching of claws; afaint _sniff! sniff! sniff!_ of inquiry; the sudden clear tin-horn_ko-ko-ko-óh_ of the little owl; the mournful, long-drawn-out cryof the loon, instinct with the spirit of loneliness; the etherealcall-note of the birds of passage high in the air; a _patter_, _patter_, _patter_ among the dead leaves, immediately stilled;and then at the last, from the thicket close at hand, thebeautiful silver purity of the white-throated sparrow--the nightingaleof the North--trembling with the ecstasy of beauty, as though ashimmering moonbeam had turned to sound; and all the while the blurredfigure of the moon mounting to the ridge-line of your tent--thesethings combine subtly, until at last the great Silence of which theyare a part overarches the night and draws you forth to contemplation. 

No beverage is more grateful than the cup of spring water you drink atsuch a time; no moment more refreshing than that in which you lookabout you at the darkened forest. You have cast from you with the warmblanket the drowsiness of dreams. A coolness, physical and spiritual, bathes you from head to foot. All your senses are keyed to the lastvibrations. You hear the littler night prowlers, you glimpse thegreater. A faint, searching woods perfume of dampness greets yournostrils. And somehow, mysteriously, in a manner not to be understood, the forces of the world seem in suspense, as though a touch mightcrystallize infinite possibilities into infinite power and motion. Butthe touch lacks. The forces hover on the edge of action, unheeding thelittle noises. In all humbleness and awe, you are a dweller of theSilent Places. 

At such a time you will meet with adventures. One night we putfourteen inquisitive porcupines out of camp. Near M'Gregor's Bay Idiscovered in the large grass park of my camp-site nine deer, croppingthe herbage like so many beautiful ghosts. A friend tells me of a fawnthat every night used to sleep outside his tent and within a foot ofhis head, probably by way of protection against wolves. Its mother hadin all likelihood been killed. The instant my friend moved toward thetent opening the little creature would disappear, and it was alwaysgone by earliest daylight. Nocturnal bears in search of pork are notuncommon. But even though your interest meets nothing but the bats andthe woods shadows and the stars, that few moments of the sleeping worldforces is a psychical experience to be gained in no other way. Youcannot know the night by sitting up; she will sit up with you. Only bycoming into her presence from the borders of sleep can you meet herface to face in her intimate mood. 

The night wind from the river, or from the open spaces of the wilds, chills you after a time. You begin to think of your blankets. In a fewmoments you roll yourself in their soft wool. Instantly it is morning. 

And, strange to say, you have not to pay by going through the dayunrefreshed. You may feel like turning in at eight instead of nine, andyou may fall asleep with unusual promptitude, but your journey willbegin clear-headedly, proceed springily, and end with much in reserve. No languor, no dull headache, no exhaustion, follows your experience. For this once your two hours of sleep have been as effective as nine. 

VI. 

THE 'LUNGE. 

"Do you know the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting?"

Dick and I travelled in a fifteen-foot wooden canoe, with grub, duffel, tent, and Deuce, the black-and-white setter dog. As a consequence wewere pretty well down toward the water-line, for we had not realizedthat a wooden canoe would carry so little weight for its length incomparison with a birch-bark. A good heavy sea we could ride--withproper management and a little baling; but sloppy waves kept us busy. 

Deuce did not like it at all. He was a dog old in the wisdom ofexperience. It had taken him just twenty minutes to learn all aboutcanoes. After a single tentative trial he jumped lightly to the verycentre of his place, with the lithe caution of a cat. Then if the waterhappened to be smooth, he would sit gravely on his haunches, or wouldrest his chin on the gunwale to contemplate the passing landscape. Butin rough weather he crouched directly over the keel, his nose betweenhis paws, and tried not to dodge when the cold water dashed in on him. Deuce was a true woodsman in that respect. Discomfort he always borewith equanimity, and he must often have been very cold and verycramped. 

For just over a week we had been travelling in open water, and theelements had not been kind to us at all. We had crept up underrock-cliff points; had weathered the rips of white water to shelter onthe other side; had struggled across open spaces where each wave wassingly a problem to fail in whose solution meant instant swamping; hadbaled, and schemed, and figured, and carried, and sworn, and triedagain, and succeeded with about two cupfuls to spare, until we as wellas Deuce had grown a little tired of it. For the lust of travel was onus. 

The lust of travel is a very real disease. It usually takes you whenyou have made up your mind that there is no hurry. Its predisposingcause is a chart or map, and its main symptom is the feverish delightwith which you check off the landmarks of your journey. A fair wind ofsome force is absolutely fatal. With that at your back you cannotstop. Good fishing, fine scenery, interesting bays, reputed game, evencamps where friends might be visited--all pass swiftly astern. Hardlydo you pause for lunch at noon. The mad joy of putting country behindyou eats all other interests. You recover only when you have come toyour journey's end a week too early, and must then search out newvoyages to fill in the time. 

All this morning we had been bucking a strong north wind. Fortunately, the shelter of a string of islands had given us smooth water enough, but the heavy gusts sometimes stopped us as effectively as though wehad butted solid land. Now about noon we came to the last island, andlooked out on a five-mile stretch of tumbling seas. We landed the canoeand mounted a high rock. 

"Can't make it like this, " said I. "I'll take the outfit over and landit, and come back for you and the dog. Let's see that chart. "

We hid behind the rock and spread out the map. 

"Four miles, " measured Dick. "It's going to be a terror. "

We looked at each other vaguely, suddenly tired. 

"We can't camp here--at this time of day, " objected Dick, to ourunspoken thoughts. 

And then the map gave him an inspiration. "Here's a little river, "ruminated Dick, "that goes to a little lake, and then there's anotherlittle river that flows from the lake and comes out about ten milesabove here. "

"It's a good thirty miles, " I objected. 

"What of it?" asked Dick calmly. 

So the fever-lust of travel broke. We turned to the right behind thelast island, searched out the reed-grown opening to the stream, andpaddled serenely and philosophically against the current. Deuce sat upand yawned with a mighty satisfaction. 

We had been bending our heads to the demon of wind; our ears had beenfilled with his shoutings, our eyes blinded with tears, our breathcaught away from us, our muscles strung to the fiercest endeavour. Suddenly we found ourselves between the ranks of tall forest trees, bathed in a warm sunlight, gliding like a feather from one grassy bendto another of the laziest little stream that ever hesitated as to whichway the grasses of its bed should float. As for the wind, it was lostsomewhere away up high, where we could hear it muttering to itselfabout something. 

The woods leaned over the fringe of bushes cool and green and silent. Occasionally through tiny openings we caught instant impressions ofstraight column trunks and transparent shadows. Miniature grass marshesjutted out from the bends of the little river. We idled along as with ahomely rustic companion through the aloofness of patrician multitudes. 

Every bend offered us charming surprises. Sometimes a muskrat swamhastily in a pointed furrow of ripple; vanishing wings, barely sensedin the flash, left us staring; stealthy withdrawals of creatures, whosepresence we realized only in the fact of those withdrawals, snared oureager interest; porcupines rattled and rustled importantly and regallyfrom the water's edge to the woods; herons, ravens, an occasional duck, croaked away at our approach; thrice we surprised eagles, once atassel-eared Canada lynx. Or, if all else lacked, we still experiencedthe little thrill of pleased novelty over the disclosure of a group ofsilvery birches on a knoll; a magnificent white pine towering over thebeech and maple forest; the unexpected aisle of a long, straightstretch of the little river. 

Deuce approved thoroughly. He stretched himself and yawned and shookoff the water, and glanced at me open-mouthed with doggy good-nature, and set himself to acquiring a conscientious olfactory knowledge ofboth banks of the river. I do not doubt he knew a great deal moreabout it than we did. Porcupines aroused his special enthusiasm. Incidentally, two days later he returned to camp after an expedition ofhis own, bristling as to the face with that animal's barbed weapons. Thenceforward his interest waned. 

We ascended the charming little river two or three miles. At a sharpbend to the east a huge sheet of rock sloped from a round grass knollsparsely planted with birches directly down into a pool. Two or threetree trunks jammed directly opposite had formed a sort of half damunder which the water lay dark. A tiny grass meadow forty feet indiameter narrowed the stream to half its width. 

We landed. Dick seated himself on the shelving rock. I put my fish-rodtogether. Deuce disappeared. 

Deuce always disappeared whenever we landed. With nose down, hindquarters well tucked under him, ears flying, he quartered the forest athigh speed, investigating every nook and cranny of it for the radius ofa quarter of a mile. When he has quite satisfied himself that we weresafe for the moment, he would return to the fire, where he would lie, six inches of pink tongue vibrating with breathlessness, beautiful inthe consciousness of virtue. Dick generally sat on a rock and thought. I generally fished. 

After a time Deuce returned. I gave up flies, spoons, phantom minnows, artificial frogs, and crayfish. As Dick continued to sit on the rockand think, we both joined him. The sun was very warm and grateful, andI am sure we both acquired an added respect for Dick's judgment. 

Just when it happened neither of us was afterwards able to decide. Perhaps Deuce knew. But suddenly, as often a figure appears in acinematograph, the diminutive meadow thirty feet away contained twodeer. They stood knee-deep in the grass, wagging their little tails inimpatience of the flies. 

"Look a' there!" stammered Dick aloud. 

Deuce sat up on his haunches. 

I started for my camera. 

The deer did not seem to be in the slightest degree alarmed. Theypointed four big ears in our direction, ate a few leisurely mouthfulsof grass, sauntered to the stream for a drink of water, wagged theirlittle tails some more, and quietly faded into the cool shadows of theforest. 

[Illustration: AT SUCH A TIME YOU WILL MEET WITH ADVENTURES. ]

An hour later we ran out into reeds, and so to the lake. It was apretty lake, forest-girt. Across the distance we made out a movingobject which shortly resolved itself into a birch canoe. The canoeproved to contain an Indian, an Indian boy of about ten years, a blackdog, and a bundle. When within a few rods of each other we ceasedpaddling, and drifted by with the momentum. The Indian was afine-looking man of about forty, his hair bound with a red fillet, hisfeet incased in silk-worked moccasins, but otherwise dressed in whitemen's garments. He smoked a short pipe, and contemplated us gravely. 

"Bo' jou', bo' jou', " we called in the usual double-barrelled NorthCountry salutation. 

"Bo' jou', bo' jou, " he replied. 

"Kée-gons?" we inquired as to the fishing in the lake. 

"Áh-hah, " he assented. 

We drifted by each other without further speech. When the decentdistance of etiquette separated us we resumed our paddles. 

I produced a young cable terminated by a tremendous spoon and a solidbrass snell as thick as a telegraph wire. We had laid in thisformidable implement in hopes of a big muscallunge. It had been trailedfor days at a time. We had become used to its vibration, which actuallyseemed to communicate itself to every fibre of the light canoe. Everyonce in a while we would stop with a jerk that would nearly snap ourheads off. Then we would know we had hooked the American continent. Wehad become used to that also. It generally happened when we attempted alittle burst of speed. So when the canoe brought up so violently thatall our tinware rolled on Deuce, Dick was merely disgusted. 

"There she goes again, " he grumbled. "You've hooked Canada. "

Canada held quiescent for about three seconds. Then it started duesouth. 

"Suffering serpents!" shrieked Dick. 

"Paddle, you sulphurated idiot!" yelled I. 

It was most interesting. All I had to do was to hang on and try to stayin the boat. Dick paddled and fumed and splashed water and got moreexcited. Canada dragged us bodily backward. 

Then Canada changed his mind and started in our direction. I was plentybusy taking in slack, so I did not notice Dick. Dick was absolutelydemented. His mind automatically reacted in the direction of paddling. He paddled, blindly, frantically. Canada came surging in, his mouthopen, his wicked eyes flaming, a tremendous indistinct body lashingfoam. Dick glanced once over his shoulder, and let out a frantic howl. 

"You've got the sea-serpent!" he shrieked. 

I turned to fumble for the pistol. We were headed directly for a logstranded on shore, and about ten feet from it. 

"Dick!" I yelled in warning. 

He thrust his paddle out forward just in time. The stout maple bent andcracked. The canoe hit with a bump that threw us forward. I returned tothe young cable. It came in limp and slack. 

We looked at each other sadly. 

"No use, " sighed Dick at last. "They've never invented the words, andwe'd upset if we kicked the dog. "

I had the end of the line in my hands. 

"Look here!" I cried. That thick brass wire had been as cleanly bittenthrough as though it had been cut with clippers. "He must have caughtsight of you, " said I. 

Dick lifted up his voice in lamentation. "You had four feet of him outof water, " he wailed, "and there was a lot more. "

"If you had kept cool, " said I severely, "we shouldn't have lost him. You don't want to get rattled in an emergency; there's no sense in it. "

"What were you going to do with that?" asked Dick, pointing to where Ihad laid the pistol. 

"I was going to shoot him in the head, " I replied with dignity. "It'sthe best way to land them. "

Dick laughed disagreeably. I looked down. At my side lay our largestiron spoon. 

We skirted the left-hand side of the lake in silence. Far out fromshore the water was ruffled where the wind swept down, but with us itwas as still and calm as the forest trees that looked over into it. After a time we turned short to the left through a very narrow passagebetween two marshy shores, and so, after a sharp bend of but a fewhundred feet, came into the other river. 

This was a wide stream, smoothly hurrying, without rapids or tumult. The forest had drawn to either side to let us pass. Here were thewilder reaches after the intimacies of the little river. Acrossstretches of marsh we could see an occasional great blue heron standingmid-leg deep. Long strings of ducks struggled quacking from invisiblepools. The faint marsh odour saluted our nostrils from the point wherethe lily-pads flashed broadly, ruffling in the wind. We dropped out thesmaller spoon and masterfully landed a five-pound pickerel. Even Deucebrightened. He cared nothing for raw fish, but he knew theirpossibilities. Towards evening we entered the hilly country, and so atthe last turned to the left into a sand cove where grew maples andbirches in beautiful park order under a hill. There we pitched camp, and, as the flies lacked, built a friendship-fire about which toforgather when the day was done. 

Dick still vocally regretted the muscallunge told him of my big bear. 

One day, late in the summer, I was engaged in packing some suppliesalong an old fur trail north of Lake Superior. I had accomplished oneback-load, and with empty straps was returning to the cache foranother. The trail at one point emerged into and crossed an open parksome hundreds of feet in diameter, in which the grass grew to theheight of the knee. When I was about halfway across, a black bear aroseto his hind legs not ten feet from me, and remarked _Woof!_ in aloud tone of voice. Now, if a man were to say _woof_ to youunexpectedly, even in the formality of an Italian garden or theaccustomedness of a city street, you would be somewhat startled. So Iwent to camp. There I told them about the bear. I tried to beconservative in my description, because I did not wish to be accused ofexaggeration. My impression of the animal was that he and a spruce treethat grew near enough for ready comparison were approximately of thesame stature. We returned to the grass park. After some difficulty wefound a clear footprint. It was a little larger than that made by agood-sized coon. 

"So, you see, " I admonished didactically, "that lunge probably was notquite so large as you thought. "

"It may have been a Chinese bear, " said Dick dreamily--"a Chinese ladybear of high degree. "

I gave him up. 

VII. 

ON OPEN-WATER CANOE TRAVELLING. 

"It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bail her--Just one single long-shore loafer that I know. He can take his chanceof drowning while I sail and sail and sail her, For the Red Gods callme out, and I must go. "

The following morning the wind had died, but had been succeeded by aheavy pall of fog. After we had felt our way beyond the mouth of theriver we were forced to paddle north-west by north, in blind relianceon our compass. Sounds there were none. Involuntarily we lowered ourvoices. The inadvertent click of the paddle against the gunwale seemedto desecrate a foreordained stillness. 

Occasionally to the right hand or the left we made out faintshadow-pictures of wooded islands that endured but a moment and thendeliberately faded into whiteness. They formed on the view exactly asan image develops on a photographic plate. Sometimes a faint_lisp-lisp-lisp_ of tiny waves against a shore nearer than itseemed cautioned us anew not to break the silence. Otherwise we werealone, intruders, suffered in the presence of a brooding nature only aslong as we refrained from disturbances. 

Then at noon the vapours began to eddy, to open momentarily inrevelation of vivid green glimpses, to stream down the rising wind. Pale sunlight dashed fitfully across us like a shower. Somewhere in theinvisibility a duck quacked. Deuce awoke, looked about him, and_yow-yow-yowed_ in doggish relief. Animals understand thoroughlythese subtleties of nature. 

In half an hour the sun was strong, the air clear and sparkling, and afreshening wind was certifying our prognostications of a livelyafternoon. 

A light canoe will stand almost anything in the way of a sea, althoughyou may find it impossible sometimes to force it in the direction youwish to go. A loaded canoe will weather a great deal more than youmight think. However, only experience in balance and in the nature ofwaves will bring you safely across a stretch of whitecaps. 

With the sea dead ahead you must not go too fast; otherwise you willdip water over the bow. You must trim the craft absolutely on an evenkeel; otherwise the comb of the wave, too light to lift you, will slopin over one gunwale or the other. You must be perpetually watching yourchance to gain a foot or so between the heavier seas. 

With the sea over one bow you must paddle on the leeward side. When thecanoe mounts a wave, you must allow the crest to throw the bow off atrifle, but the moment it starts down the other slope you must twistyour paddle sharply to regain the direction of your course. Thecareening tendency of this twist you must counteract by a correspondingtwist of your body in the other direction. Then the hollow will allowyou two or three strokes wherewith to assure a little progress. Thedouble twist at the very crest of the wave must be very delicatelyperformed, or you will ship water the whole length of your craft. 

With the sea abeam you must simply paddle straight ahead. Theadjustment is to be accomplished entirely by the poise of the body. Youmust prevent the capsize of your canoe when clinging to the angle of awave by leaning to one side. The crucial moment, of course, is thatduring which the peak of the wave slips under you. In case of abreaking comber, thrust the flat of your paddle deep in the water toprevent an upset, and lean well to leeward, thus presenting the sideand half the bottom of the canoe to the shock of water. Your recoverymust be instant, however. If you lean a second too long, over you go. This sounds more difficult than it is. After a time you do itinstinctively, as a skater balances. 

With the sea over the quarter you have merely to take care that thewaves do not slue you around sidewise, and that the canoe does not dipwater on one side or the other under the stress of your twists with thepaddle. Dead astern is perhaps the most difficult of all, for thereason that you must watch both gunwales at once, and must preserve anabsolutely even keel, in spite of the fact that it generally requiresyour utmost strength to steer. In really heavy weather one man onlycan do any work. The other must be content to remain passenger, and hemust be trained to absolute immobility. No matter how dangerous acareen the canoe may take, no matter how much good cold water may pourin over his legs, he must resist his tendency to shift his weight. Theentire issue depends on the delicacy of the steersman's adjustments, sohe must be given every chance. 

The main difficulty rests in the fact that such canoeing is a good deallike air-ship travel--there is not much opportunity to learn byexperience. In a four-hour run across an open bay you will encountersomewhat over a thousand waves, no two of which are exactly alike, andany one of which can fill you up only too easily if it is not correctlymet. Your experience is called on to solve instantly and practically athousand problems. No breathing-space in which to recover is permittedyou between them. At the end of the four hours you awaken to the factthat your eyes are strained from intense concentration, and that youtaste copper. 

Probably nothing, however, can more effectively wake you up to the lastfibre of your physical, intellectual, and nervous being. You are filledwith an exhilaration. Every muscle, strung tight, answers immediatelyand accurately to the slightest hint. You quiver all over withrestrained energy. Your mind thrusts behind you the problem of the lastwave as soon as solved, and leaps with insistent eagerness to the next. You attain that superordinary condition when your faculties reactinstinctively, like a machine. It is a species of intoxication. After atime you personify each wave; you grapple with it as with a personaladversary; you exult as, beaten and broken, it hisses away to leeward. "Go it, you son of a gun!" you shout. "Ah, you would, would you! thinkyou can, do you?" and in the roar and rush of wind and water you crouchlike a boxer on the defence, parrying the blows, but ready at theslightest opening to gain a stroke of the paddle. 

In such circumstances you have not the leisure to consider distance. You are too busily engaged in slaughtering waves to consider your rateof progress. The fact that slowly you are pulling up on your objectivepoint does not occur to you until you are within a few hundred yards ofit. Then, unless you are careful, you are undone. 

Probably the most difficult thing of all to learn is that the waves tobe encountered in the last hundred yards of an open sweep are exactlyas dangerous as those you dodged so fearfully four miles from shore. You are so nearly in that you unconsciously relax your efforts. Calmly, almost contemptuously, a big roller rips along your gunwale. You arewrecked--fortunately within easy swimming distance. But that doesn'tsave your duffel. Remember this: be just as careful with the very lastwave as you were with the others. Get inside before you draw that deepbreath of relief. 

Strangely enough, in out-of-door sports, where it would seem thatconvention would rest practically at the zero point, the bugbear ofgood form, although mashed and disguised, rises up to confuse thedirected practicality. The average man is wedded to his theory. He hasseen a thing done in a certain way, and he not only always does it thatway himself, but he is positively unhappy at seeing any one elseemploying a different method. From the swing at golf to the manner oflighting a match in the wind, this truism applies. I remember oncehearing a long argument with an Eastern man on the question of theEnglish riding-seat in the Western country. 

"Your method is all very well, " said the Westerner, "for where it camefrom. In England they ride to hunt, so they need a light saddle andvery short stirrups set well forward. That helps them in jumping. Butit is most awkward. Out here you want your stirrups very long anddirectly under you, so your legs hang loose, and you depend on yourbalance and the grip of your thighs--not your knees. It is less tiring, and better sense, and infinitely more graceful, for it more nearlyapproximates the bareback seat. Instead of depending on stirrups, youare part of the horse. You follow his every movement. And as for yourrising trot, I'd like to see you accomplish it safely on our mountaintrails, where the trot is the only gait practicable, unless you takefor ever to get anywhere. " To all of which the Easterner found norebuttal except the, to him, entirely efficient plea that his ownmethod was good form. 

Now, of course, it is very pleasant to do things always accurately, according to the rules of the game, and if you are out merely forsport, perhaps it is as well to stick to them. But utility is anothermatter. Personally, I do not care at all to kill trout unless by thefly; but when we need meat and they do not need flies, I never hesitateto offer them any kind of doodle-bug they may fancy. I have even at apinch clubbed them to death in a shallow, land-locked pool. Time willcome in your open-water canoe experience when you will pull intoshelter half full of water, when you will be glad of the fortuity of achance cross-wave to help you out, when sheer blind luck, or mainstrength and awkwardness, will be the only reasons you can honestlygive for an arrival, and a battered and dishevelled arrival at that. Donot, therefore, repine, or bewail your awkwardness, or indulge in undueself-accusations of "tenderfoot. " Method is nothing; the arrival is theimportant thing. You are travelling, and if you can make time by nearlyswamping yourself, or by dragging your craft across a point, or bytaking any other base advantage of the game's formality, by all meansdo so. Deuce used to solve the problem of comfort by drinking thelittle pool of cold water in which he sometimes was forced to lie. Inthe woods, when a thing is to be done, do not consider how you havedone it, or how you have seen it done, or how you think it ought to bedone, but how it _can_ be accomplished. Absolute fluidity ofexpedient, perfect adaptability, is worth a dozen volumes oftheoretical knowledge. "If you can't talk, " goes the Westernexpression, "raise a yell; if you can't yell, make signs; if you can'tmake signs, wave a bush. "

And do not be too ready to take advice as to what you can or cannotaccomplish, even from the woods people. Of course the woods Indians orthe _voyageurs_ know all about canoes, and you would do well tolisten to them. But the mere fact that your interlocutor lives in theforest, while you normally inhabit the towns, does not necessarily givehim authority. A community used to horses looks with horror on theinstability of all water craft less solid than canal boats. Canoemenstand in awe of the bronco. The fishermen of the Georgian Bay, accustomed to venture out with their open sailboats in weather thatforces the big lake schooners to shelter, know absolutely nothing aboutcanoes. Dick and I made an eight-mile run from the Fox island toKillarney in a trifling sea, to be cheered during our stay at thelatter place by doleful predictions of an early drowning. And this froma seafaring community. It knew all about boats; it knew nothing aboutcanoes; and yet the unthinking might have been influenced by the adviceof these men simply because they had been brought up on the water. Thepoint is obvious. Do not attempt a thing unless you are sure ofyourself; but do not relinquish it merely because some one else is notsure of you. 

The best way to learn is with a bathing-suit. Keep near shore, and tryeverything. Don't attempt the real thing until your handling in a heavysea has become as instinctive as snap-shooting or the steps of dancing. Remain on the hither side of caution when you start out. Act at firstas though every wavelet would surely swamp you. Extend the scope ofyour operations very gradually, until you know just what you can do. _Never_ get careless. Never take any _real_ chances. That'sall. 

VIII. 

THE STRANDED STRANGERS. 

As we progressed, the country grew more and more solemnly aloof. In theSouthland is a certain appearance of mobility, lent by the deciduoustrees, the warm sun, the intimate nooks in which grow the commonerhomely weeds and flowers, the abundance of bees and musical insects, the childhood familiarity of the well-known birds, even the pleasantlyfickle aspects of the skies. But the North wraps itself in a mantle ofawe. Great hills rest not so much in the stillness of sleep as in thecalm of a mighty comprehension. The pines, rank after rank, file afterfile, are always trooping somewhere, up the slope, to pause at thecrest before descending on the other side into the unknown. Bodies ofwater exactly of the size, shape, and general appearance we areaccustomed to see dotted with pleasure craft and bordered with wharves, summer cottages, pavilions, and hotels, accentuate by that very fact asolitude that harbours only a pair of weirdly laughing loons. Like thehills, these lakes are lying in a deep, still repose, but a repose thatsomehow suggests the comprehending calm of those behind the veil. Thewhole country seems to rest in a suspense of waiting. A shot breaks thestillness for an instant, but its very memory is shadowy a moment afterthe echoes die. Inevitably the traveller feels thrust in upon himselfby a neutrality more deadly than open hostility would be. Hostility atleast supposes recognition of his existence, a rousing of forces tooppose him. This ignores. One can no longer wonder at the taciturnityof the men who dwell here; nor does one fail to grasp the eminentsuitability to the country of its Indian name--the Silent Places. 

Even the birds, joyful, lively, commonplace little people that theyare, draw some of this aloofness to themselves. The North is full ofthe homelier singers. A dozen species of warblers lisp music-boxphrases, two or three sparrows whistle a cheerful repertoire, thenuthatches and chickadees toot away in blissful _bourgeoisie_. Andyet, somehow, that very circumstance thrusts the imaginative voyageroutside the companionship of their friendliness. In the face of thegreat gods they move with accustomed familiarity. Somehow they possessin their little experience that which explains the mystery, so thatthey no longer stand in its awe. Their everyday lives are spent underthe shadow of the temple whither you dare not bend your footsteps. Theintimacy of occult things isolates also these wise little birds. 

The North speaks, however, only in the voices of three--the twothrushes, and the white-throated sparrow. You must hear these each athis proper time. 

The hermit thrush you will rarely see. But late some afternoon, whenthe sun is lifting along the trunks of the hardwood forest, if you arevery lucky and very quiet, you will hear him far in the depth of theblackest swamps. Musically expressed, his song is very much like thatof the wood thrush--three cadenced liquid notes, a quivering pause, then three more notes of another phrase, and so on. But the fineness ofits quality makes of it an entirely different performance. If yousymbolize the hermit thrush by the flute, you must call the wood thrusha chime of little tinkling bells. One is a rendition; the other theessence of liquid music. An effect of gold-embroidered richness, ofdepth going down to the very soul of things, a haunting suggestion ofhaving touched very near to the source of tears, a conviction that thejust interpretation of the song would be an equally just interpretationof black woods, deep shadows, cloistered sunlight, broodinghills--these are the subtle and elusive impressions you will receive inthe middle of the ancient forest. 

The olive-backed thrush you will enjoy after your day's work is quitefinished. You will see him through the tobacco haze, perched on a limbagainst the evening sky. He utters a loud joyful _chirp_ pausesfor the attention he thus solicits, and then deliberately runs up fivemellow double notes, ending with a metallic "_ting_ chee cheechee" that sounds as though it had been struck on a triangle. Then asilence of exactly nine seconds and repeat. As regularly as clock-workthis performance goes on. Time him as often as you will, you can neverconvict him of a second's variation. And he is so optimistic andwilling, and his notes are so golden with the yellow of sunshine!

The white-throated sparrow sings nine distinct variations of the samesong. He may sing more, but that is all I have counted. He inhabitswoods, berry-vines, brulés, and clearings. Ordinarily he is cheerful, and occasionally aggravating. One man I knew he drove nearly crazy. Tothat man he was always saying, "_And he never heard the man say drinkand the_----. " Toward the last my friend used wildly to offer him athousand dollars if he would, if he only _would_, finish thatsentence. But occasionally, in just the proper circumstances, heforgets his stump corners, his vines, his jolly sunlight, and hisdelightful bugs to become the intimate voice of the wilds. It is night, very still, Very dark. The subdued murmur of the forest ebbs and flowswith the voices of the furtive folk--an undertone fearful to break thenight calm. Suddenly across the dusk of silence flashes a single threadof silver, vibrating, trembling with some unguessed ecstasy of emotion:"_Ah! poor Canada Canada Canada Canada!_" it mourns passionately, and falls silent. That is all. 

You will hear at various times other birds peculiarly of the North. Loons alternately calling and uttering their maniac laughter; purplefinches or some of the pine sparrows warbling high and clear; thewinter wren, whose rapturous ravings never fail to strike the attentionof the dullest passer; all these are exclusively Northern voices, andeach expresses some phase or mood of the Silent Places. But nonesymbolizes as do the three. And when first you hear one of them afteran absence, you are satisfied that things are right in the world, forthe North Country's spirit is as it was. 

Now ensued a spell of calm weather, with a film of haze over the sky. The water lay like quicksilver, heavy and inert. Toward afternoon itbecame opalescent. The very substance of the liquid itself seemedimpregnated with dyes ranging in shade from wine colour to the mostdelicate lilac. Through a smoke veil the sun hung, a ball of red, whilebeneath every island, every rock, every tree, every wild fowl floatingidly in a medium apparently too delicate for its support, lurked thebeautiful crimson shadows of the North. 

[Illustration: EACH WAVE WAS SINGLY A PROBLEM, TO FAIL IN WHOSESOLUTION MEANT INSTANT SWAMPING. ]

Hour after hour, day after day, we slipped on. Point after point, island after island, presented itself silently to our inspection anddropped quietly astern. The beat of paddles fitted monotonously intothe almost portentous stillness. It seemed that we might be able to goon thus for ever, lapped in the dream of some forgotten magic that hadstricken breathless the life of the world. And then, suddenly, threeweeks on our journey, we came to a town. 

It was not the typical fur town of the Far North, but it lay at thethreshold. A single street, worn smooth by the feet of men and dogs, but innocent of hoofs, fronted the channel. A board walk, elevatedagainst the snows, bordered a row of whitewashed log and frame houses, each with its garden of brilliant flowers. A dozen wharves of varioussizes, over whose edges peeped the double masts of Mackinaw boats, spoke of a fishing community. Between the roofs one caught glimpses ofa low sparse woods and some thousand-foot hills beyond. We subsequentlyadded the charm of isolation in learning that the nearest telegraphline was fifteen miles distant, while the railroad passed some fiftymiles away. 

Dick immediately went wild. It was his first glimpse of the mixedpeoples. A dozen loungers, handsome, careless, graceful with theinimitable elegance of the half-breed's leisure, chatted, rolledcigarettes, and surveyed with heavy-eyed indolence such of the town ascould be viewed from the shade in which they lay. Three girls, in whosedark cheeks glowed a rich French comeliness, were comparing purchasesnear the store. A group of rivermen, spike-booted, short-trousered, reckless of air, with their little round hats over one ear, satchair-tilted outside the "hotel. " Across the dividing fences of two ofthe blazoned gardens a pair of old crones gossiped under their breaths. Some Indians smoked silently at the edge of one of the docks. In thedistance of the street's end a French priest added the quaintness ofhis cassock to the exotic atmosphere of the scene. At once a pack ofthe fierce sledge-dogs left their foraging for the offal of thefisheries, to bound challenging in the direction of poor Deuce. Thathighbred animal fruitlessly attempted to combine dignity with adiscretionary lurking between our legs. We made demonstrations withsticks, and sought out the hotel, for it was about time to eat. 

We had supper at a table with three Forest Rangers, two lumber-jacks, and a cat-like handsome "breed" whose business did not appear. Then welit up and strolled about to see what we could see. 

On the text of a pair of brass knuckles hanging behind the hotel bar Iembroidered many experiences with the lumberjack. I told of a Wisconsintown where an enforced wait of five hours enabled me to establish theproportion of fourteen saloons out of a total of twenty framebuildings. I descanted craftily on the character of the woodsman out ofthe woods and in the right frame of mind for deviltry. I related howJack Boyd, irritated beyond endurance at the annoyances of a stranger, finally with the flat of his hand boxed the man's head so mightily thathe whirled around twice and sat down. 

"Now, " said Jack softly, "be more careful, my friend, or next time I'll_hit_ you. " Or of a little Irishman who shouted to his friendsabout to pull a big man from pounding the life quite out of him, "Lethim alone! let him alone! I may be on top myself in a few minutes!" Andof Dave Walker, who fought to a standstill with his bare fists alonefive men who had sworn to kill him. And again of that doughty knight ofthe peavie who, when attacked by an axe, waved aside interference withthe truly dauntless cry, "Leave him be, boys; there's an axe betweenus!"

I tried to sketch, too, the drive, wherein a dozen times in an hourthese men face death with a smile or a curse--the raging untamed river, the fierce rush of the logs, the cool little human beings poising witha certain contemptuous preciosity on the edge of destruction as theyherd their brutish multitudes. 

There was Jimmy, the river boss, who could not swim a stroke, and whowas incontinently swept over a dam and into the boiling back-set of theeddy below. Three times, gasping, strangling, drowning, he was carriedin the wide swirl of the circle, sometimes under, sometimes on top. Then his knee touched a sand-bar, and he dragged himself painfullyashore. He coughed up a quantity of water, and gave vent to hisfeelings over a miraculous escape. "Damn it all!" he wailed, "I lost mypeavie!"

"On the Paint River drive one spring, " said I, "a jam formed thatextended up river some three miles. The men were working at the breastof it, some underneath, some on top. After a time the jam apparentlybroke, pulled downstream a hundred feet or so, and plugged again. Thenit was seen that only a small section had moved, leaving the main bodystill jammed, so that between the two sections lay a narrow stretch ofopen water. Into this open water one of the men had fallen. Before hecould recover, the second or tail section of the jam started to pull. Apparently nothing could prevent him from being crushed. A man calledSam--I don't know his last name--ran down the tail of the firstsection, across the loose logs bobbing in the open water, seized thevictim of the accident by the collar, desperately scaled the face ofthe moving jam, and reached the top just as the two sections groundtogether with the brutish noise of wrecking timbers. It was amagnificent rescue. Any but these men of iron would have adjourned forthanks and congratulations. 

"Still retaining his hold on the other man's collar, Sam twisted himabout and delivered a vigorous kick. '_There_, damn you!' said he. That was all. They fell to work at once to keep the jam moving. "

I instanced, too, some of the feats of river-work these men couldperform. Of how Jack Boyd has been known to float twenty miles withoutshifting his feet, on a log so small that he carried it to the water onhis shoulder; of how a dozen rivermen, one after the other, would oftengo through the chute of a dam standing upright on single logs; ofO'Donnell, who could turn a somersault on a floating pine log; of thebirling matches, wherein two men on a single log try to throw eachother into the river by treading, squirrel fashion, in faster andfaster rotation; of how a riverman and spiked boots and a saw-log cando more work than an ordinary man with a rowboat. 

I do not suppose Dick believed all this--although it was strictly andliterally true--but his imagination was impressed. He gazed withrespect on the group at the far end of the street, where fifteen ortwenty lumber-jacks were interested in some amusement concealed fromus. 

"What do you suppose they are doing?" murmured Dick, awestricken. 

"Wrestling, or boxing, or gambling, or jumping, " said I. 

We approached. Gravely, silently, intensely interested, thecock-hatted, spikeshod, dangerous men were playing--croquet!

The sight was too much for our nerves. We went away. 

The permanent inhabitants of the place we discovered to be friendly toa degree. 

The Indian strain was evident in various dilution through all. Dick'senthusiasm grew steadily until his artistic instincts becameaggressive, and he flatly announced his intention of staying at leastfour days for the purpose of making sketches. We talked the matterover. Finally it was agreed. Deuce and I were to make a wide circle tothe north and west as far as the Hudson's Bay post of Cloche, whileDick filled his notebook. That night we slept in beds for the firsttime. 

That is to say, we slept until about three o'clock. Then we becamevaguely conscious, through a haze of drowse--as one becomes consciousin the pause of a sleeping-car--of voices outside our doors. Some onesaid something about its being hardly much use to go to bed. Anotherhoped the sheets were not damp. A succession of lights twinkled acrossthe walls of our room, and were vaguely explained by the coughing of asteamboat. We sank into oblivion until the calling-bell brought us toour feet. 

I happened to finish my toilet a little before Dick, and so descendedto the sunlight until he might be ready. Roosting on a gray old boulderten feet outside the door were two figures that made me want to rub myeyes. 

The older was a square, ruddy-faced man of sixty, with neatly trimmed, snow-white whiskers. He had on a soft Alpine hat of pearl gray, amodishly cut gray homespun suit, a tie in which glimmered an opal pin, wore tan gloves, and had slung over one shoulder by a narrow blackstrap a pair of field-glasses. 

The younger was a tall and angular young fellow, of an eager andsophomoric youth. His hair was very light and very smoothly brushed, his eyes blue and rather near-sighted, his complexion pink, with anobviously recent and superficial sunburn, and his clothes, from thewhite Panama to the broad-soled low shoes, of the latest cut andmaterial. Instinctively I sought his fraternity pin. He looked asthough he might say "Rah! Rah!" something or other. A camera completedhis outfit. 

Tourists! How in the world did they get here? And then I remembered thetwinkle of the lights and the coughing of the steamboat. But what intime could they be doing here? Picturesque as the place was, it heldnothing to appeal to the Baedeker spirit. I surveyed the pair with someinterest. 

"I suppose there is pretty good fishing around here, " ventured theelder. 

He evidently took me for an inhabitant. Remembering my faded blue shirtand my floppy old hat and the red handkerchief about my neck and themoccasins on my feet, I did not blame him. 

"I suppose there are bass among the islands, " I replied. 

We fell into conversation. I learned that he and his son were from NewYork. 

He learned, by a final direct question which was most significant ofhis not belonging to the country, who I was. By chance he knew my name. He opened his heart. 

"We came down on the _City of Flint_, " said he. "My son and I areon a vacation. We have been as far as the Yellowstone, and thought wewould like to see some of this country. I was assured that on this dateI could make connection with the _North Star_ for the south. Itold the purser of the _Flint_ not to wake us up unless the_North Star_ was here at the docks. He bundled us off here atthree in the morning. The _North Star_ was not here; it is anoutrage!"

He uttered various threats. 

"I thought the _North Star_ was running away south around thePerry Sound region, " I suggested. 

"Yes, but she was to begin to-day, June 16, to make this connection. "He produced a railroad folder. "It's in this, " he continued. 

"Did you go by that thing?" I marvelled. 

"Why, of course, " said he. 

"I forgot you were an American, " said I. "You're in Canada now. "

He looked his bewilderment, so I hunted up Dick. I detailed thesituation. "He doesn't know the race, " I concluded. "Soon he will betrying to get information out of the agent. Let's be on hand. "

We were on hand. The tourist, his face very red, his whiskers verywhite and bristly, marched importantly to the agent's office. Thelatter comprised also the post-office, the fish depot, and a generalstore. The agent was for the moment dickering _in re_ two poundsof sugar. This transaction took five minutes to the pound. Mr. Touristwaited. Then he opened up. The agent heard him placidly, as one wholistens to a curious tale. 

"What I want to know is, where's that boat?" ended the tourist. 

"Couldn't say, " replied the agent. 

"Aren't you the agent of this company?"

"Sure, " replied the agent. 

"Then why don't you know something about its business and plans andintentions?"

"Couldn't say, " replied the agent. 

"Do you think it would be any good to wait for the _North Star_?Do you suppose they can be coming? Do you suppose they've altered theschedule?"

"Couldn't say, " replied the agent. 

"When is the next boat through here?"

I listened for the answer in trepidation, for I saw that another"Couldn't say" would cause the red-faced tourist to blow up. To myrelief, the agent merely inquired, --

"North or south?"

"South, of course. I just came from the north. What in the name ofeverlasting blazes should I want to go north again for?"

"Couldn't say, " replied the agent. "The next boat south gets in nextweek, Tuesday or Wednesday. "

"Next week!" shrieked the tourist. 

"When's the next boat north?" interposed the son. 

"To-morrow morning. "

"What time?"

"Couldn't say; you'd have to watch for her. "

"That's our boat, dad, " said the young man. 

"But we've just _come_ from there!" snorted his father; "it'sthree hundred miles back. It'll put us behind two days. I've got to bein New York Friday. I've got an engagement. " He turned suddenly to theagent. "Here, I've got to send a telegram. "

The agent blinked placidly. "You'll not send it from here. This ain't atelegraph station. "

"Where's the nearest station?"

"Fifteen mile. "

Without further parley the old man turned and walked, stiff andmilitary, from the place. Near the end of the broad walk he met theusual doddering but amiable oldest inhabitant. 

"Fine day, " chirped the patriarch in well-meant friendliness. "Theyjest brought in a bear cub over to Antoine's. If you'd like to take alook at him, I'll show you where it is. "

The tourist stopped short and glared fiercely. 

"Sir, " said he, "damn your bear!" Then he strode on, leaving grandpastaring after him. 

In the course of the morning we became quite well acquainted, and heresigned. The son appeared to take somewhat the humorous view allthrough the affair, which must have irritated the old gentleman. Theydiscussed it rather thoroughly, and finally decided to retrace theirsteps for a fresh start over a better-known route. This settled, thesenior seemed to feel relieved of a weight. He even saw and relishedcertain funny phases of the incident, though he never ceased toforetell different kinds of trouble for the company, varying in rangefrom mere complaints to the most tremendous of damage suits. 

He was much interested, finally, in our methods of travel, and then, inlogical sequence, with what he could see about him. He watchedcuriously my loading of the canoe, for I had a three-mile stretch ofopen water, and the wind was abroad. Deuce's empirical boat wisdomaroused his admiration. He and his son were both at the shore to see meoff. 

Deuce settled himself in the bottom. I lifted the stern from the shoreand gently set it afloat. In a moment I was ready to start. 

"Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" suddenly cried the father. 

I swirled my paddle back. The old gentleman was hastily fumbling in hispockets. After an instant he descended to the water's edge. 

"Here, " said he, "you are a judge of fiction; take this. "

It was his steamboat and railway folder. 

IX. 

ON FLIES. 

All the rest of the day I paddled under the frowning cliffs of the hillranges. Bold, bare, scarred, seamed with fissures, their precipicerocks gave the impression of ten thousand feet rather that only so manyhundreds. Late in the afternoon we landed against a formation ofbasaltic blocks cut as squarely up and down as a dock, and dropping offinto as deep water. The waves _chug-chug-chugged_ sullenly againstthem, and the fringe of a dark pine forest, drawn back from a breadthof natural grass, lowered across the horizon like a thunder-cloud. 

Deuce and I made camp with the uneasy feeling of being under inimicalinspection. A cold wind ruffled lead-like waters. No comfort was in theprospect, so we retired early. Then it appeared that the coarse grassof the park had bred innumerable black flies, and that we had our workcut out for us. 

The question of flies--using that, to a woodsman, eminently connotiveword in its wide embracement of mosquitoes, sandflies, deer-flies, black flies, and midges--is one much mooted in the craft. On nosubject are more widely divergent ideas expressed. One writer claimsthat black flies' bites are but the temporary inconvenience of apin-prick; another tells of boils lasting a week as the invariableresult of their attentions; a third sweeps aside the whole question asunimportant to concentrate his anathemas on the musical mosquito; stilla fourth descants on the maddening midge, and is prepared to defend hisclaims against the world. A like dogmatic partisanship obtains in thequestion of defences. Each and every man possessed of a tonguewherewith to speak or a pen wherewith to write, heralds the particularmerits of his own fly-dope, head-net, or mosquito-proof tent-lining. Eager advocates of the advantages of pork fat, kerosene, pine tar, pennyroyal, oil of cloves, castor oil, lollacapop, or a half hundredother concoctions, will assure you, tears in eyes, that his is the onlytrue faith. So many men, so many minds, until the theorist is confusedinto doing the most uncomfortable thing possible--that is, to learn byexperience. 

As for the truth, it is at once in all of them and in none of them. Theannoyance of after-effects from a sting depends entirely on theindividual's physical makeup. Some people are so poisoned by mosquitobites that three or four on the forehead suffice to close entirely thevictim's eyes. On others they leave but a small red mark withoutswelling. Black flies caused festering sores on one man I accompaniedto the woods. In my own case they leave only a tiny blood-spot the sizeof a pin-head, which bothers me not a bit. Midges nearly drove crazythe same companion of mine, so that finally he jumped into the river, clothes and all, to get rid of them. Again, merely my own experiencewould lead me to regard them as a tremendous nuisance, but one quitebearable. Indians are less susceptible than whites; nevertheless I haveseen them badly swelled behind the ears from the bites of the bighardwood mosquito. 

You can make up your mind to one thing: from the first warm weatheruntil August you must expect to cope with insect pests. The black flywill keep you busy until late afternoon; the midges will swarm youabout sunset; and the mosquito will preserve the tradition after youhave turned in. As for the deer-fly, and others of his piratical breed, he will bite like a dog at any time. 

To me the most annoying species is the mosquito. The black fly issometimes most industrious--I have seen trout fishermen come into campwith the blood literally streaming from their faces--but his greatrecommendation is that he holds still to be killed. No frantic slaps, no waving of arms, no muffled curses. You just place your finger calmlyand firmly on the spot. You get him every time. In this is great, heart-lifting joy. It may be unholy joy, perhaps even vengeful, but itleaves the spirit ecstatic. The satisfaction of _murdering_ thebeast that has had the nerve to light on you just as you are reeling inalmost counterbalances the pain of a sting. The midge, again, orpunkie, or "no-see-'um, " just as you please, swarms down upon yousuddenly and with commendable vigour, so that you feel as thoughred-hot pepper were being sprinkled on your bare skin; and hisinvisibility and intangibility are such that you can never tell whetheryou have killed him or not; but he doesn't last long, and dope routshim totally. Your mosquito, however, is such a deliberate brute. He hasin him some of that divine fire which causes a dog to turn around ninetimes before lying down. 

Whether he is selecting or gloating I do not know, but I do maintainthat the price of your life's blood is often not too great to pay forthe cessation of that hum. 

"Eet is not hees bite, " said Billy the half-breed to me once--"eet ishees sing. "

I agree with Billy. One mosquito in a tent can keep you awake forhours. 

As to protection, it is varied enough in all conscience, and alwaystheoretically perfect. A head-net falling well down over your chest, oreven tied under your arm-pits, is at once the simplest and mostfallacious of these theories. It will keep vast numbers of flies out, to be sure. It will also keep the few adventurous discoverers in, whereyou can neither kill nor eject. Likewise you are deprived of your pipe;and the common homely comfort of spitting on your bait is totallydenied you. The landscape takes on the prismatic colours of refraction, so that, while you can easily make out red, white, and blue Chinesedragons and mythological monsters, you are unable to discover the morewelcome succulence, say, of a partridge on a limb. And the end of thathead-net is to be picked to holes by the brush, and finally to besnatched from you to sapling height, whence your pains will rescue itonly in a useless condition. Probably then you will dance the war-danceof exasperation on its dismembered remains. Still, there are times--incase of straight-away river paddling, or open walking, or lengthenedwaiting--when the net is a great comfort. And it is easily included inthe pack. 

Next in order come the various "dopes. " And they are various. From thestickiest, blackest pastes to the silkiest, suavest oils they range, through the grades of essence, salve, and cream. Every man has his ownrecipe--the infallible. As a general rule, it may be stated that thethicker kinds last longer and are generally more thoroughly effective, but the lighter are pleasanter to wear, though requiring more frequentapplication. At a pinch, ordinary pork fat is good. The Indians oftenmake temporary use of the broad caribou leaf, crushing it between theirpalms and rubbing the juices on the skin. I know by experience thatthis is effective, but very transitory. It is, however, a good thing touse when resting on the trail, for, by the grace of Providence, fliesare rarely bothersome as long as you are moving at a fair gait. 

This does not always hold good, however, any more than the bestfly-dope is always effective. I remember most vividly the first day ofa return journey from the shores of the Hudson Bay. The weather wasrather oppressively close and overcast. 

We had paddled a few miles up river from the fur trading-post, and thenhad landed in order to lighten the canoe for the ascent against thecurrent. At that point the forest has already begun to dwindle towardsthe Land of Little Sticks, so that often miles and miles of openmuskegs will intervene between groups of the stunted trees. Jim and Ifound ourselves a little over waist deep in luxuriant and tangledgrasses that impeded and clogged our every footstep. Never shall Iforget that country--its sad and lonely isolation, its dull lead sky, its silence, and the closeness of its stifling atmosphere--and nevershall I see it otherwise than as in a dense brown haze, a haze composedof swarming millions of mosquitoes. There is not the slightestexaggeration in the statement. At every step new multitudes rushed intoour faces to join the old. At times Jim's back was so covered with themthat they almost overlaid the colour of the cloth. And as near as wecould see, every square foot of the thousands of acres quartered itshordes. 

We doped liberally, but without the slightest apparent effect. Probablytwo million squeamish mosquitoes were driven away by the disgust of ourmedicaments, but what good did that do us when eight million otherswere not so particular? At the last we hung bandanas under our hats, cut fans of leaves, and stumbled on through a most miserable day untilwe could build a smudge at evening. 

For smoke is usually a specific. Not always, however: some midges seemto delight in it. The Indians make a tiny blaze of birch bark and pinetwigs deep in a nest of grass and caribou leaves. When the flame iswell started, they twist the growing vegetation canopy-wise above it. 

In that manner they gain a few minutes of dense, acrid smoke, which isenough for an Indian. A white man, however, needs something moreelaborate. 

The chief reason for your initial failure in making an effective smudgewill be that you will not get your fire well started before piling onthe damp smoke-material. It need not be a conflagration, but it shouldbe bright and glowing, so that the punk birch or maple wood you addwill not smother it entirely. After it is completed, you will not haveto sit coughing in the thick of fumigation, as do many, but only toleeward and underneath. Your hat used as a fan will eddy the smoketemporarily into desirable nooks and crevices. I have slept withoutannoyance on the Great Plains, where the mosquitoes seem to go inorganized and predatory bands, merely by lying beneath a smudge thatpassed at least five feet above me. You will find the frying-pan ahandy brazier for the accommodation of a movable smoke to betransported to the interior of the tent. And it does not in the leasthurt the frying-pan. These be hints, briefly spoken, out of which attimes you may have to construct elaborate campaigns. 

But you come to grapples in the defence of comfort when nightapproaches. If you can eat and sleep well, you can stand almost anyhardship. The night's rest is as carefully to be fore-assured as thefood that sustains you. No precaution is too elaborate to certifyunbroken repose. By dark you will discover the peak of your tent to beliberally speckled with insects of all sorts. Especially is this trueof an evening that threatens rain. Your smudge-pan may drive away themosquitoes, but merely stupefies the other varieties. You are forced tothe manipulation of a balsam fan. 

In your use of this simple implement you will betray the extent of yourexperience. Dick used at first to begin at the rear peak and brush asrapidly as possible toward the opening. The flies, thoroughly aroused, eddied about a few frantic moments, like leaves in an autumn wind, finally to settle close to the sod in the crannies between thetent-wall and the ground. Then Dick would lie flat on his belly inorder to brush with equal vigour at these new lurking-places. The fliesrepeated the autumn-leaf effect, and returned to the rear peak. Thiswas amusing to me, and furnished the flies with healthful, appetizingexercise, but was bad for Dick's soul. After a time he discovered theonly successful method is the gentle one. Then he began at the peak andbrushed forward slowly, very, very slowly, so that the limitedintellect of his visitors did not become confused. Thus when theyarrived at the opening they saw it and used it, instead of searchingfrantically for corners in which to hide from apparently vengefuldestruction. Then he would close his tent-flap securely, and turn in atonce. So he was able to sleep until earliest daylight. At that time themosquitoes again found him out. 

Nine out of ten--perhaps ninety-nine out of a hundred--sleep in opentents. For absolute and perfect comfort proceed as follows:--Have yourtent-maker sew you a tent of cheese-cloth[*] with the same dimensionsas your shelter, except that the walls should be loose and voluminousat the bottom. It should have no openings. 

[Footnote *: Do not allow yourself to be talked into substitutingmosquito-bar or bobinet. Any mesh coarser than cheese-cloth will provepregnable to the most enterprising of the smaller species. ]

Suspend this affair inside your tent by means of cords or tapes. Dropit about you. Spread it out. Lay rod-cases, duffel-bags, or rocks alongits lower edges to keep it spread. You will sleep beneath it like achild in winter. No driving out of reluctant flies; no enforced earlyrising; no danger of a single overlooked insect to make the midnightmiserable. The cheese-cloth weighs almost nothing, can be looped up outof the way in the daytime, admits the air readily. Nothing could fillthe soul with more ecstatic satisfaction than to lie for a momentbefore going to sleep listening to a noise outside like an able-bodiedsawmill that indicates the _ping-gosh_ are abroad. 

It would be unfair to leave the subject without a passing reference toits effect on the imagination. We are all familiar with comic papermosquito stories, and some of them are very good. But until actualexperience takes you by the hand and leads you into the realm of purefancy, you will never know of what improvisation the human mind iscapable. 

The picture rises before my mind of the cabin of a twenty-eight-footcutter-sloop just before the dawn of a midsummer day. The sloop wasmade for business, and the cabin harmonized exactly with thesloop--painted pine, wooden bunks without mattresses, camp-blankets, duffel-bags slung up because all the floor place had been requisitionedfor sleeping purposes. We were anchored a hundred feet off land fromPilot Cove, on the uninhabited north shore. The mosquitoes hadadventured on the deep. We lay half asleep. 

"On the middle rafter, " murmured the Football Man, "is one old fellowgiving signals. "

"A quartette is singing drinking-songs on my nose, " muttered the GleeClub Man. 

"We won't need to cook, " I suggested somnolently. "We can run up anddown on deck with our mouths open and get enough for breakfast. "

The fourth member opened one eye. "Boys, " he breathed, "we won't beable to go on to-morrow unless we give up having any more biscuits. "

After a time some one murmured, "Why?"

"We'll have to use all the lard on the mast. They're so mad becausethey can't get at us that they're biting the mast. It's already swelledup as big as a barrel. We'll never be able to get the mainsail up. Anyof you boys got any vaseline? Perhaps a little fly-dope--"

But we snored vigorously in unison. The Indians say that when Kitch'Manitou had created men he was dissatisfied, and so brought women intobeing. At once love-making began, and then, as now, the couples soughtsolitude for their exchanges of vows, their sighings to the moon, theirclaspings of hands. Marriages ensued. The situation remained unchanged. Life was one perpetual honeymoon. I suppose the novelty was fresh andthe sexes had not yet realized they would not part as abruptly as theyhad been brought together. The villages were deserted, while the woodsand bushes were populous with wedded and unwedded lovers. Kitch'Manitou looked on the proceedings with disapproval. All this was mostromantic and beautiful, no doubt, but in the meantime mi-dáw-min, thecorn, mi-nó-men, the rice, grew rank and uncultivated; while bis-íw, the lynx, and swingwáage, the wolverine, and me-én-gan, the wolf, committed unchecked depredations among the weaker forest creatures. Thebusiness of life was being sadly neglected. So Kitch' Manitou tookcounsel with himself, and created sáw-gi-may, the mosquito, to whom hegave as dwelling the woods and bushes. That took the romance out of thesituation. As my narrator grimly expressed it, "Him come back, go towork. "

Certainly it should be most effective. Even the thick-skinned moose isnot exempt from discomfort. At certain seasons the canoe voyager in theFar North will run upon a dozen in the course of a day's travel, standing nose-deep in the river merely to escape the insect pests. 

However, this is to be remembered: after the first of August theybother very little; before that time the campaign I have outlined iseffective; even in fly season the worst days are infrequent. In thewoods you must expect to pay a certain price in discomfort for a veryreal and very deep pleasure. Wet, heat, cold, hunger, thirst, difficulttravel, insects, hard beds, aching muscles--all these at one time oranother will be your portion. If you are of the class that cannot havea good time unless everything is right with it, stay out of the woods. One thing at least will always be wrong. When you have gained thefaculty of ignoring the one disagreeable thing and concentrating yourpowers on the compensations, then you will have become a true woodsman, and to your desires the forest will always be calling. 

X. 

CLOCHE. 

Imagine a many-armed lake, like a starfish, nested among ruggedLaurentian hills, whose brows are bare and forbidding, but whoseconcealed ravines harbour each its cool screen of forest growth. Imagine a brawling stream escaping at one of the arms, to tumble, intermittently visible among the trees, down a series of cascades andrapids, to the broad, island-dotted calm of the big lake. Imagine ameadow at the mouth of this stream, and on the meadow a single whitedot. Thus you will see Cloche, a trading-post of the Honourable theHudson's Bay Company, as Deuce and I saw it from the summit of thehills. 

We had accomplished a very hard scramble, which started well enough ina ravine so leafy and green and impenetrable that we might well haveimagined ourselves in a boundless forest. Deuce had scented sundrypartridges, which he had pointed with entire deference to the good formof a sporting dog's conventions. As usual, to Deuce's never-failingsurprise and disgust, the birds had proved themselves most uncultivatedand rude persons by hopping promptly into trees instead of lying topoint and then flushing as a well-taught partridge should. I hadrefused to pull pistol on them. Deuce's heart was broken. Then, finally, we came to cliffs up which we had to scale, and boulders whichwe had to climb, and fissures which we had to jump or cross on fallentrees, and wide, bare sweeps of rock and blueberry bushes which we hadto cover, until at last we stood where we could look all ways at once. 

The starfish thrust his insinuating arms in among the distant hills tothe north. League after league, rising and falling and rising againinto ever bluer distance, forest-covered, mysterious, other ranges andsystems lifted, until at last, far out, nearly at the horizon-height ofmy eye, flashed again the gleam of water. And so the starfish arms ofthe little lake at my feet seemed to have plunged into this wildernesstangle only to reappear at greater distance. Like swamp-fire, it luredthe imagination always on and on and on through the secret waterways ofthe uninhabited North. It was as though I stood on the dividing ridgebetween the old and the new. Through the southern haze, hull down, Ithought to make out the smoke of a Great Lake freighter; from theshelter of a distant cove I was not surprised a moment later to seeemerge a tiny speck whose movements betrayed it as a birch canoe. Thegreat North was at this, the most southern of the Hudson's Bay posts, striking a pin-point of contact with the world of men. 

Deuce and I angled down the mountain toward the stream. Our arrivalcoincided with that of the canoe. It was of the Ojibway three-fathompattern, and contained a half-dozen packs, a sledge-dog, with whomDeuce at once opened guarded negotiations, an old Indian, a squaw, anda child of six or eight. We exchanged brief greetings. Then I sat on astump and watched the portage. 

These were evidently "Woods Indians, " an entirely different articlefrom the "Post Indians. " They wore their hair long, and bound by anarrow strip or fillet; their faces were hard and deeply lined, with afine, bold, far-seeing look to the eyes which comes only from longwoods dwelling. They walked, even under heavy loads, with a sagging, springy gait, at once sure-footed and swift. Instead of tump-lines theman used his sash, and the woman a blanket knotted loosely together atthe ends. The details of their costumes were interesting in combinationof jeans and buckskin, broadcloth and blanket, stroud and a materialevidently made from the strong white sacking in which flour intendedfor frontier consumption is always packed. After the firstdouble-barrelled "bo' jou', bo' jou', " they paid no further attentionto me. In a few moments the portage was completed. The woman thrust herpaddle against the stream's bottom and the canoe, and so embarked. Theman stepped smoothly to his place like a cat leaping from a chair. Theyshot away with the current, leaving behind them a strange andmysterious impression of silence. 

I followed down a narrow but well-beaten trail, and so at the end of ahalf-mile came to the meadow and the post of Cloche. 

The building itself was accurately of the Hudson Bay type--a steep, sloping roof greater in front than behind, a deep recessed veranda, squared logs sheathed with whitewashed boards. About it was a littlegarden, which, besides the usual flowers and vegetables, contained suchexotics as a deer confined to a pen and a bear chained to a stake. As Iapproached, the door opened and the Trader came out. 

Now, often along the southern fringe your Hudson's Bay Trader willprove to be a distinct disappointment. In fact, one of the historic oldposts is now kept by a pert little cockney Englishman, cringing orimpudent as the main chance seems to advise. When you have penetratedfurther into the wilderness, however, where the hardships of winter andsummer travel, the loneliness of winter posts, the necessity of dealingdirectly with savage men and savage nature, develops the quality of aman or wrecks him early in the game, you will be certain of meetingyour type. But here, within fifty miles of the railroad!

The man who now stepped into view, however, preserved in his appearanceall the old traditions. He was, briefly, a short black-and-white manbuilt very square. Immense power lurked in the broad, heavy shoulders, the massive chest, the thick arms, the sturdy, column-like legs. As forhis face, it was almost entirely concealed behind a curly square blackbeard that grew above his cheek-bones nearly to his eyes. Only a thickhawk nose, an inscrutable pair of black eyes under phenomenally heavyeyebrows, and a short black pipe showed plainly from the hirsutetangle. He was lock, stock, and barrel of the Far North, one of the old_régime_. I was rejoiced to see him there, but did not betray aglimmer of interest. I knew my type too well for that. 

"How are you?" he said grudgingly. 

"Good-day, " said I. 

We leaned against the fence and smoked, each contemplating carefullythe end of his pipe. I knew better than to say anything. The Trader waslooking me over, making up his mind about me. Speech on my part wouldargue lightness of disposition, for it would seem to indicate that Iwas not also making up my mind about him. 

In this pause there was not the least unfriendliness. Only, in thewoods you prefer to know first the business and character of a chanceacquaintance. Afterwards you may ingratiate to his good will. All ofwhich possesses a beautiful simplicity, for it proves that good or badopinion need not depend on how gracefully you can chatter assurances. At the end of a long period the Trader inquired, "Which way youheaded?"

"Out in a canoe for pleasure. Headed almost anywhere. "

Again we smoked. 

"Dog any good?" asked the Trader, removing his pipe and pointing to theobservant Deuce. 

"He'll hunt shade on a hot day, " said I tentatively. "How's the fur inthis district?"

We were off. He invited me in and showed me his bear. In ten minutes wewere seated chair-tilted on the veranda, and slowly, very cautiously, in abbreviated syncopation, were feeling our way toward an intimacy. 

Now came the Indians I had seen at the lake to barter for some flourand pork. I was glad of the chance to follow them all into thetrading-room. A low wooden counter backed by a grill divided the mainbody of the room from the entrance. It was deliciously dim. All thecharm of the Aromatic Shop was in the place, and an additional flavourof the wilds. Everything here was meant for the Indian trade: bolts ofbright-patterned ginghams, blankets of red or blue, articles ofclothing, boxes of beads for decoration, skeins of brilliant silk, leadbars for bullet-making, stacks of long brass-bound "trade guns" in thecorner, small mirrors, red and parti-coloured worsted sashes withtassels on the ends, steel traps of various sizes, and a dozen otherarticles to be desired by the forest people. And here, unlike theAromatic Shop, were none of the products of the Far North. All that, Iknew, was to be found elsewhere, in another apartment, equally dim, butdelightful in the orderly disorder of a storeroom. 

Afterwards I made the excuse of a pair of moccasins to see this otherroom. We climbed a steep, rough flight of stairs to emerge through asort of trap-door into a space directly under the roof. It was lit onlyby a single little square at one end. Deep under the eaves I could makeout row after row of boxes and chests. From the rafters hung a dozenpair of snow-shoes. In the centre of the floor, half overturned, lay anopen box from which tumbled dozens of pairs of moose-hide snow-shoemoccasins. 

Shades of childhood, what a place! No one of us can fail to recall witha thrill the delights of a rummage in the attic--the joy of pullingfrom some half-forgotten trunk a wholly forgotten shabby garment, whichnevertheless has taken to itself from the stillness of undisturbedyears the faint aroma of romance; the rapture of discovering in thedusk of a concealed nook some old spur or broken knife or rusty pistolredolent of the open road. Such essentially commonplace affairs theyare, after all, in the light of our mature common sense, but suchunspeakable ecstasies to the romance-breathing years of fancy. Herewould no fancy be required. To rummage in these silent chests and boxeswould be to rummage, not in the fictions of imagination, but the factsof the most real picturesque. In yonder square box are the smoke-tannedshoes of silence; that velvet dimness would prove to be the fur of abear; this birch-bark package contains maple sugar savoured of thewilds. Buckskin, both white and buff, bears' claws in strings, bundlesof medicinal herbs, sweet-grass baskets fragrant as an Eastern tale, birch-bark boxes embroidered with stained quills of the porcupines, bows of hickory and arrows of maple, queer half-boots of stiff sealskinfrom the very shores of the Hudson Bay, belts of beadwork, yellow andgreen, for the Corn Dance, even a costume or so of buckskin completefor ceremonial--all these the fortunate child would find were he totake the rainy-day privilege in this, the most wonderful attic in allthe world. And then, after he had stroked the soft fur, and smelled thebuckskin and sweet grasses, and tasted the crumbling maple sugar, anddressed himself in the barbaric splendours of the North, he couldflatten his little nose against the dim square of light and look outover the glistening yellow backs of a dozen birchbark canoes to thedistant, rain-blurred hills, beyond which lay the country whence allthese things had come. Do you wonder that in after years that childhits the Long Trail? Do you still wonder at finding these strange, taciturn, formidable, tender-hearted men dwelling lonely in the SilentPlaces?

The Trader yanked several of the boxes to the centre and prosaicallytumbled about their contents. He brought to light heavy moose-hidemoccasins with high linen tops for the snow; lighter buckskinmoccasins, again with the high tops, but this time of white tanneddoeskin; slipper-like deer-skin moccasins with rolled edges, for thesummer; oil-tanned shoepacs, with and without the flexible leathersole; "cruisers" of varying degree of height--each and every sort offootgear in use in the Far North, excepting and saving always thebeautiful soft doeskin slippers finished with white fawnskin andornamented with the Ojibway flower pattern for which I sought. Finallyhe gave it up. 

"I had a few pair. They must have been sent out, " said he. 

We rummaged a little further for luck's sake, then descended to theouter air. I left him to fetch my canoe, but returned in the afternoon. We became friends. That evening we sat in the little sitting-room andtalked far into the night. 

He was a true Hudson's Bay man, steadfastly loyal to the Company. Imentioned the legend of _La Longue Traverse_; he stoutly assertedhe had never heard of it. I tried to buy a mink-skin or so to hang onthe wall as souvenir of my visit; he was genuinely distressed, but hadto refuse because the Company had not authorized him to sell, and hehad nothing of his own to give. I mentioned the River of the Moose, theLand of Little Sticks; his deep eyes sparkled with excitement, and heasked eagerly a multitude of details concerning late news from thenorthern posts. 

And as the evening dwindled, after the manner of Traders everywhere, hebegan to tell me the "ghost stories" of this station of Cloche. Everypost has gathered a mass of legendary lore in the slow years, but thishad been on the route of the _voyageurs_ from Montreal and Quebecat the time when the lords of the North journeyed to the scenes oftheir annual revels at Fort Williams. The Trader had much to say of themagnificence and luxury of these men--their cooks, their silken tents, their strange and costly foods, their rare wines, their hordes ofFrench and Indian canoemen and packers. Then Cloche was a halting-placefor the night. Its meadows had blossomed many times with the gay tentsand banners of a great company. He told me, as vividly as though he hadbeen an eye-witness, of how the canoes must have loomed up suddenlyfrom between the islands. By-and-by he seized the lamp and conducted meoutside, where hung ponderous ornamental steelyards, on which in theold days the peltries were weighed. 

"It is not so now, " said he. "We buy by count, and modern scales weighthe provisions. And the beaver are all gone. "

We re-entered the house in silence. After a while he began briefly tosketch his own career. Then, indeed, the flavour of the Far Northbreathed its crisp, bracing ozone through the atmosphere of the room. 

He had started life at one of the posts of the Far North-West. At theage of twelve he enlisted in the Company. Throughout forty years he hadserved her. He had travelled to all the strange places of the North, and claimed to have stood on the shores of that half-mythical lake ofYamba Tooh. 

"It was snowing at the time, " he said prosaically; "and I couldn't seeanything, except that I'd have to bear to the east to get away fromopen water. Maybe she wasn't the lake. The Injins said she was, but Iwas too almighty shy of grub to bother with lakes. "

Other names fell from him in the course of talk, some of which I hadheard and some not, but all of which rang sweet and clear with nouncertain note of adventure. Especially haunts my memory an impressionof desolate burned trees standing stick-like in death on the shores ofLost River. 

He told me he had been four years at Cloche, but expected shortly to betransferred, as the fur was getting scarce, and another post onehundred miles to the west could care for the dwindling trade. He hopedto be sent into the North-West, but shrugged his shoulders as he saidso, as though that were in the hands of the gods. At the last he fishedout a concertina and played for me. Have you ever heard, after dark, inthe North, where the hills grow big at sunset, _à la ClaireFontaine_ crooned to such an accompaniment, and by a man ofimpassive bulk and countenance, but with glowing eyes?

I said good-night, and stumbled, sight-dazed, through the cool dark tomy tent near the beach. The weird minor strains breathed after me as Iwent. 

"A la claire fontaineM'en allant promener, J'ai trouvé l'eau si belleQue je m'y suis baigné, Il y a longtemps que je t'aimeJamais je ne t'oublierai. "

The next day, with the combers of a howling north-westerly galeclutching at the stern of the canoe, I rode in a glory of spray andcopper-tasting excitement back to Dick and his half-breed settlement. 

But the incident had its sequel. The following season, as I was sittingwriting at my desk, a strange package was brought me. It was wrapped inlinen sewn strongly with waxed cord. Its contents lie before me now--apair of moccasins fashioned of the finest doeskin, tanned sobeautifully that the delicious smoke fragrance fills the room, and soeffectively that they could be washed with soap and water withoutdestroying their softness. The tongue-shaped piece over the instep isof white fawnskin heavily ornamented in five colours of silk. Where itjoins the foot of the slipper it is worked over and over into a narrowcord of red and blue silk. The edge about the ankle is turned over, deeply scalloped, and bound at the top with a broad band of blue silkstitched with pink. Two tiny blue bows at either side the ankleornament the front. Altogether a most magnificent foot-gear. No wordaccompanied them, apparently, but after some search I drew a bit ofpaper from the toe of one of them. It was inscribed simply--"Fort laCloche. "

XI. 

THE HABITANTS. 

During my absence Dick had made many friends. Wherein lies his secret Ido not know, but he has a peculiar power of ingratiation with peoplewhose lives are quite outside his experience or sympathies. In theshort space of four days he had earned joyous greetings from every onein town. The children grinned at him cheerfully; the old women cackledgood-natured little teasing jests to him as he passed; the pretty, dusky half-breed girls dropped their eyelashes fascinatingly acrosstheir cheeks, tempering their coyness with a smile; the men painfullydemanded information as to artistic achievement which was evidently aswell meant as it was foreign to any real thirst for knowledge theymight possess; even the lumber-jacks addressed him as "Bub. " And withalDick's methods of approach were radically wrong, for he blundered uponnew acquaintance with a beaming smile, which is ordinarily a surerepellent to the cautious, taciturn men of the woods. Perhaps theirkeenness penetrated to the fact that he was absolutely without guile, and that his kindness was an essential part of himself. I should becurious to know whether Billy Knapp of the Black Hills would surrenderhis gun to Dick for inspection. 

"I want you to go out this afternoon to see some friends of mine, " saidDick. "They're on a farm about two miles back in the brush. They'reancestors. "

"They're what?" I inquired. 

"Ancestors. You can go down to Grosse Point near Detroit, and findpeople living in beautiful country places next the water, and afterdinner they'll show you an old silhouette or a daguerreotype orsomething like that, and will say to you proudly, 'This is old Jules, my ancestor, who was a pioneer in this country. The Place has been inthe family ever since his time. '"

"Well?"

"Well, this is a French family, and they are pioneers, and the familyhas a place that slopes down to the water through white birch trees, and it is of the kind very tenacious of its own land. In two hundredyears this will be a great resort; bound to be--beautiful, salubrious, good sport, fine scenery, accessible--"

"Railroad fifty miles away; boat every once in a while, " said Isarcastically. 

"Accessible in two hundred years, all right, " insisted Dick serenely. "Even Canada can build a quarter of a mile of railway a year. Accessible, " he went on; "good shipping-point for country nowundeveloped. "

"You ought to be a real estate agent, " I advised. 

"Lived two hundred years too soon, " disclaimed Dick. "What moreobvious? These are certainly ancestors. "

"Family may die out, " I suggested. 

"It has a good start, " said Dick sweetly. "There are eighty-seven in itnow. "

"What!" I gasped. 

"One great-grandfather, twelve grandparents, thirty-seven parents, andthirty-seven children, " tabulated Dick. 

"I should like to see the great-grandfather, " said I; "he must be veryold and feeble. "

"He is eighty-five years old, " said Dick, "and the last time I saw himhe was engaged with an axe in clearing trees off his farm. "

All of these astonishing statements I found to be absolutely true. 

We started out afoot soon after dinner, through a scattering growth ofpopples that alternately drew the veil of coyness over the blue hillsand caught our breath with the delight of a momentary prospect. Deuce, remembering autumn days, concluded partridges, and scurried away on theexpert diagonal, his hind legs tucked well under his flanks. The roaditself was a mere cutting through the miniature woods, winding to rightor left for the purpose of avoiding a log-end or a boulder, surmountinglittle knolls with an idle disregard for the straight line, knobby withbig, round stones, and interestingly diversified by circular mud holesa foot or so in diameter. After a mile and a half we came to the cornerof a snake fence. This, Dick informed me, marked the limits of the"farm. "

We burst through the screen of popples definitely into the clear. Atwo-storied house of squared logs crested a knoll in the middledistance. Ten acres of grass marsh, perhaps twenty of ploughed land, and then the ash-white-green of popples. We dodged the grass marsh andgained the house. Dick was at once among friends. 

The mother had no English, so smiled expansively, her bony arms foldedacross her stomach. Her oldest daughter, a frail-looking girl in thetwenties, but with a sad and spiritual beauty of the Madonna in her bigeyes and straight black hair, gave us a shy good-day. Three boys, justalike in their slender, stolid Indian good looks, except that theydiffered in size, nodded with the awkwardness of the male. Two babiesstared solemnly. A little girl with a beautiful, oval face, largemischievous gray eyes behind long black lashes, a mischievously quirkedmouth to match the eyes, and black hair banged straight, both front andbehind, in almost mediaeval fashion, twirked a pair of brown bare legsall about us. Another light-haired, curly little girl, surmounted by anold yachting-cap, spread apart sturdy shoes in an attitude at oncecritical and expectant. 

Dick rose to the occasion by sorting out from some concealed recess ofhis garments a huge paper parcel of candy. 

With infinite tact, he presented this bag to Madame rather than thechildren. Madame instituted judicious distribution and appropriatereservation for the future. We entered the cabin. 

Never have I seen a place more exquisitely neat. The floor had not onlybeen washed clean; it had been scrubbed white. The walls of logs werefreshly whitewashed. The chairs were polished. The few ornaments werenew, and not at all dusty or dingy or tawdry. Several religiouspictures, a portrait of royalty, a lithographed advertisement of somebuggy, a photograph or so--and then just the fresh, wholesomecleanliness of scrubbed pine. Madame made us welcome with smiles--afaded, lean woman with a remnant of beauty peeping from her soft eyes, but worn down to the first principles of pioneer bone and gristle bytoil, care, and the bearing of children. I spoke to her in French, complimenting her on the appearance of the place. She was genuinelypleased, saying in reply that one did one's possible, but thatchildren!--with an expressive pause. 

Next we called for volunteers to show us to the great-grandfather. Ourelfish little girls at once offered, and went dancing off down thetrail like autumn leaves in a wind. Whether it was the Indian in them, or the effects of environment, or merely our own imaginations, we bothhad the same thought--that in these strange, taciturn, friendly, smiling, pirouetting little creatures was some eerie, wild strain akinto the woods and birds and animals. As they danced on ahead of us, turning to throw us a delicious smile or a half-veiled roguish glanceof nascent coquetry, we seemed to swing into an orbit of experienceforeign to our own. These bright-eyed woods people were in the lastanalysis as inscrutable to us as the squirrels. 

We followed our swirling, airy guides down through a trail to anotherclearing planted with potatoes. On the farther side of this theystopped, hand in hand, at the woods' fringe, and awaited us in astartlingly sudden repose. 

"V'la le gran'père, " said they in unison. 

At the words a huge gaunt man clad in shirt and jeans arose andconfronted us. Our first impression was of a vast framework stiffenedand shrunken into the peculiar petrifaction of age; our second, of aJove-like wealth of iron-gray beard and hair; our third, of eyes, wide, clear, and tired with looking out on a century of the world's time. Hismovements, as he laid one side his axe and passed a great, gnarled handacross his forehead, were angular and slow. We knew instinctively thequality of his work--a deliberate pause, a mighty blow, another pause, a painful recovery--labour compounded of infinite slow patience, butwonderfully effective in the week's result. It would go on withouthaste, without pause, inevitable as the years slowly closing about thetoiler. His mental processes would be of the same fibre. The apparenthesitation might seem to waste the precious hours remaining, but in theend, when the engine started, it would move surely and unswervinglyalong the appointed grooves. In his wealth of hair; in his wide eyes, like the mysterious blanks of a marble statue; in his huge frame, gnarled and wasted to the strange, impressive, powerful age-quality ofPhidias's old men, he seemed to us to deserve a wreath and a marbleseat with strange inscriptions and the graceful half-draperies ofanother time and a group of old Greeks like himself with whom toexchange slow sentences on the body politic. Indeed, the fact that hisseat was of fallen pine, and his draperies of butternut brown, and hisaudience two half-breed children, an artist, and a writer, and his bodypolitic two hundred acres in the wilderness, did not filch from him theimpressiveness of his estate. He was a Patriarch. It did not need thepark of birch trees, the grass beneath them sloping down to the water, the wooded knoll fairly insisting on a spacious mansion, tosubstantiate Dick's fancy that he had discovered an ancestor. 

Neat piles of brush, equally neat piles of cord-wood, knee-high stumpsas cleanly cut as by a saw, attested the old man's efficiency. Weconversed. 

Yes, said he, the soil was good. It is laborious to clear away theforest. Still, one arrives. M'sieu has but to look. In the memory ofhis oldest grandson, even, all this was a forest. Le bon Dieu hadblessed him. His family was large. Yes, it was as M'sieu said, eighty-seven--that is, counting himself. The soil was not wonderful. Itis indeed a large family and much labour, but somehow there was alwaysfood for all. For his part he had a great pity for those whom God hadnot blessed. It must be very lonesome without children. 

We spared a private thought that this old man was certainly in nodanger of loneliness. 

Yes, he went on, he was old--eighty-five. He was not as quick as heused to be; he left that for the young ones. Still, he could do a day'swork. He was most proud to have made these gentlemen's acquaintance. Hewished us good-day. 

We left him seated on the pine log, his axe between his knees, hisgreat, gnarled brown hands hanging idly. After a time we heard the_whack_ of his implement; then after another long time we heard it_whack_ again. We knew that those two blows had gone straight andtrue and forceful to the mark. So old a man had no energy to expend inthe indirections of haste. 

Our elfish guides led us back along the trail to the farmhouse. A girlof thirteen had just arrived from school. In the summer the little onesdivided the educational advantages among themselves, turn and turnabout. 

The newcomer had been out into the world, and was dressed accordingly. A neat dark-blue cloth dress, plainly made, a dull red and blue checkedapron; a broad, round hat, shoes and stockings, all in the best andquietest taste--marked contrast to the usual garish Sunday best of theAnglo-Saxon. She herself exemplified the most striking type of beautyto be found in the mixed bloods. Her hair was thick and glossy andblack in the mode that throws deep purple shadows under the rolls andcoils. Her face was a regular oval, like the opening in a wishbone. Herskin was dark, but rich and dusky with life and red blood that ebbedand flowed with her shyness. Her lips were full, and of a dark cherryred. Her eyes were deep, rather musing, and furnished with the mostgloriously tangling of eyelashes. Dick went into ecstasies, tookseveral photographs which did not turn out well, and made one sketchwhich did. Perpetually did he bewail the absence of oils. The type isnot uncommon, but its beauty rarely remains perfect after the fifteenthyear. 

We made our ceremonious adieus to the Madame, and started back to townunder the guidance of one of the boys, who promised us a short cut. 

This youth proved to be filled with the old, wandering spirit thatlures so many of his race into the wilderness life. He confided to usas we walked that he liked to tramp extended distances, and that thedays were really not made long enough for those who had to return homeat night. 

"I is been top of dose hills, " he said. "Bime by I mak' heem go to doselak' beyon'. "

He told us that some day he hoped to go out with the fur traders. Inhis vocabulary "I wish" occurred with such wistful frequency thatfinally I inquired curiously what use he would make of the Fairy Gift. 

"If you could have just one wish come true, Pierre, " I asked, "whatwould you desire?"

His answer came without a moment's hesitation. 

"I is lak' be one giant, " said he. 

"Why?" I demanded. 

"So I can mak' heem de walk far, " he replied simply. 

I was tempted to point out to him the fact that big men do not outlastthe little men, and that vast strength rarely endures, but then abetter feeling persuaded me to leave him his illusions. The power, evenin fancy, of striding on seven-league boots across the fascinationsspread out below his kindling vision from "dose hills" was too preciousa possession lightly to be taken away. 

Strangely enough, though his woodcraft naturally was notinconsiderable, it did not hold his paramount interest. He knewsomething about animals and their ways and their methods of capture, but the chase did not appeal strongly to him, nor apparently did hepossess much skill along that line. He liked the actual physicallabour, the walking, the paddling, the tump-line, the camp-making, thenew country, the companionship of the wild life, the wilderness as awhole rather than in any one of its single aspects as Fish Pond, GamePreserve, Picture Gallery. In this he showed the true spirit of the_voyageur_. I should confidently look to meet him in another tenyears--if threats of railroads spare the Far North so long--girdledwith the red sash, shod in silent moccasins, bending beneath theportage load, trolling _Isabeau_ to the silent land somewhereunder the Arctic Circle. The French of the North have never been greatfighters nor great hunters, in the terms of the Anglo-Saxonfrontiersmen, but they have laughed in farther places. 

XII. 

THE RIVER. 

At a certain spot on the North Shore--I am not going to tell youwhere--you board one of the two or three fishing-steamers that collectfrom the different stations the big ice-boxes of Lake Superiorwhitefish. After a certain number of hours--I am not going to tell youhow many--your craft will turn in toward a semicircle of bold, beautiful hills, that seem at first to be many less miles distant thanthe reality, and at the last to be many more miles remote than is thefact. From the prow you will make out first a uniform velvet green;then the differentiation of many shades; then the dull neutrals ofrocks and crags; finally the narrow white of a pebble beach againstwhich the waves utter continually a rattling undertone. The steamerpushes boldly in. The cool green of the water underneath changes togray. Suddenly you make out the bottom, as through a thick green glass, and the big suckers and catfish idling over its riffled sands, inconceivably far down through the unbelievably clear liquid. Soabsorbed are you in this marvellous clarity that a slight, grinding jaralone brings you to yourself. The steamer's nose is actually touchingthe white strip of pebbles!

Now you can do one of a number of things. The forest slants down toyour feet in dwindling scrub, which half conceals an abandoned logstructure. This latter is the old Hudson's Bay post. Behind it is theFur Trail, and the Fur Trail will take you three miles to Burned RockPool, where are spring water and mighty trout. But again, half a mileto the left, is the mouth of the River. And the River meanderscharmingly through the woods of the flat country over numberlessriffles and rapids, beneath various steep gravel banks, until it sweepsboldly under the cliff of the first high hill. There a rugged precipicerises sheer and jagged and damp-dark to overhanging trees clinging tothe shoulder of the mountain. And precisely at that spot is a bendwhere the water hits square, to divide right and left in whiteness, toswirl into convolutions of foam, to lurk darkly for a moment on theedge of tumult before racing away. And there you can stand hip-deep, and just reach the eddy foam with a cast tied craftily of RoyalCoachman, Parmachenee Belle, and Montreal. 

From that point you are with the hills. They draw back to leave wideforest, but always they return to the River--as you would return seasonafter season were I to tell you how--throwing across yourwoods-progress a sheer cliff forty or fifty feet high, shouldering youincontinently into the necessity of fording to the other side. More andmore jealous they become as you penetrate, until at the Big Falls theyclose in entirely, warning you that here they take the wilderness tothemselves. At the Big Falls anglers make their last camp. About thefire they may discuss idly various academic questions--as to whetherthe great inaccessible pool below the Falls really contains thelegendary Biggest Trout; what direction the River takes above; whetherit really becomes nothing but a series of stagnant pools connected bysluggish water-reaches; whether there are any trout above the Falls;and so on. 

These questions, as I have said, are merely academic. Your true angleris a philosopher. Enough is to him worth fifteen courses, and if thefinite mind of man could imagine anything to be desired as an additionto his present possessions on the River, he at least knows nothing ofit. Already he commands ten miles of water--swift, clear water--runningover stone, through a freshet bed so many hundreds of feet wide that hehas forgotten what it means to guard his back cast. It is to be wadedin the riffles, so that he can cross from one shore to the other as themood suits him. One bank is apt to be precipitous, the other to stretchaway in a mile or so of the coolest, greenest, stillest primeval forestto be imagined. Thus he can cut across the wide bends of the River, should he so desire and should haste be necessary to make camp beforedark. And, last, but not least by any manner of means, there are trout. 

I mean real trout--big fellows, the kind the fishers of little streamsdream of but awake to call Morpheus a liar, just as they are too politeto call you a liar when you are so indiscreet as to tell them a fewplain facts. I have one solemnly attested and witnessed record oftwenty-nine inches, caught in running water. I saw a friend land on onecast three whose aggregate weight was four and one half pounds. Iwitnessed, and partly shared, an exciting struggle in which three fishon three rods were played in the same pool at the same time. Theyweighed just fourteen pounds. One pool, a backset, was known as theIdiot's Delight, because any one could catch fish there. I have lain onmy stomach at the Burned Rock Pool and seen the great fish lying soclose together as nearly to cover the bottom, rank after rank of them, and the smallest not under a half pound. As to the largest--well, everytrue fisherman knows him!

So it came about for many years that the natural barrier interposed bythe Big Falls successfully turned the idle tide of anglers'exploration. Beyond them lay an unknown country, but you had to climbcruelly to see it, and you couldn't gain above what you already had inany case. The nearest settlement was nearly sixty miles away, so evenadded isolation had not its usual quickening effect on camper's effort. The River is visited by few, anyway. An occasional adventurous steamyacht pauses at the mouth, fishes a few little ones from the shallowpools there, or a few big ones from the reefs, and pushes on. It neverdreams of sending an expedition to the interior. Our own people, andtwo other parties, are all I know of who visit the River regularly. Ourcamp-sites alone break the forest; our blazes alone continue theinitial short cut of the Fur Trail; our names alone distinguish thevarious pools. We had always been satisfied to compromise with thefrowning Hills. In return for the delicious necks and points and forestareas through which our clipped trails ran, we had tacitly respectedthe mystery of the upper reaches. 

This year, however, a number of unusual conditions changed our spirit. I have perhaps neglected to state that our trip up to now had been arather singularly damp one. Of the first fourteen days twelve had beenrainy. This was only a slightly exaggerated sample for the rest of thetime. As a consequence we found the River filled even to the limit ofits freshet banks. The broad borders of stone beach between thestream's edge and the bushes had quite disappeared; the riffles hadbecome rapids, and the rapids roaring torrents; the bends boiledangrily with a smashing eddy that sucked air into pirouetting cavitiesinches in depth. Plainly, fly-fishing was out of the question. Noself-respecting trout would rise to the surface of such a moil, orabandon for syllabubs of tinsel the magnificent solidities ofground-bait such a freshet would bring down from the hills. Also theRiver was unfordable. 

We made camp at the mouth and consulted together. Billy, the half-breedwho had joined us for the labour of a permanent camp, shook his head. 

"I t'ink one week, ten day, " he vouchsafed. "P'rhaps she go down den. We mus' wait. " We did not want to wait; the idleness of a permanentcamp is the most deadly in the world. 

"Billy, " said I, "have you ever been above the Big Falls?"

The half-breed's eyes flashed. 

"Non, " he replied simply. "Bâ, I lak' mak' heem firs' rate. "

"All right, Billy; we'll do it. "

The next day it rained, and the River went up two inches. The morningfollowing was fair enough, but so cold you could see your breath. Webegan to experiment. 

Now, this expedition had become a fishing vacation, so we had all thecomforts of home with us. When said comforts of home were laden intothe canoe, there remained forward and aft just about one square foot ofspace for Billy and me, and not over two inches of freeboard for theRiver. We could not stand up and pole; tracking with a tow-line was outof the question, because there existed no banks on which to walk; thecurrent was too swift for paddling. So we knelt and poled. We knew itbefore, but we had to be convinced by trial, that two inches offreeboard will dip under the most gingerly effort. It did so. Wegroaned, stepped out into ice-water up to our waists, and so began theday's journey with fleeting reference to Dante's nethermost hell. 

Next the shore the water was most of the time a little above our knees, but the swirl of a rushing current brought an apron of foam to ourhips. Billy took the bow and pulled; I took the stern and pushed. Inplaces our combined efforts could but just counterbalance the strengthof the current. Then Billy had to hang on until I could get my shoulderagainst the stern for a mighty heave, the few inches gain of which hewould guard as jealously as possible, until I could get into positionfor another shove. At other places we were in nearly to our armpits, but close under the banks where we could help ourselves by seizingbushes. 

Sometimes I lost my footing entirely and trailed out behind like astreamer; sometimes Billy would be swept away, the canoe's bow wouldswing down-stream, and I would have to dig my heels and hang on untilhe had floundered upright. Fortunately for our provisions, this neverhappened to both at the same time. The difficulties were still furthercomplicated by the fact that our feet speedily became so numb from thecold that we could not feel the bottom, and so were much inclined toaimless stumblings. By-and-by we got out and kicked trees to start thecirculation. In the meantime the sun had retired behind thick, leadenclouds. 

At the First Bend we were forced to carry some fifty feet. There theRiver rushed down in a smooth apron straight against the cliff, whereits force actually raised the mass of water a good three feet higherthan the level of the surrounding pool. I tied on a bait-hook, and twocartridges for sinkers, and in fifteen minutes had caught three trout, one of which weighed three pounds, and the others two pounds and apound and a half respectively. At this point Dick and Deuce, who hadbeen paralleling through the woods, joined us. We broiled the trout, and boiled tea, and shivered as near the fire as we could. Thatafternoon, by dint of labour and labour, and yet more labour, wemade Burned Rock, and there we camped for the night, utterlybeaten out by about as hard a day's travel as a man would want toundertake. 

The following day was even worse, for as the natural bed of the Rivernarrowed, we found less and less footing and swifter and swifter water. The journey to Burned Rock had been a matter of dogged hard work; thiswas an affair of alertness, of taking advantage of every little eddy, of breathless suspense during long seconds while the question ofsupremacy between our strength and the stream's was being debated. Andthe thermometer must have registered well towards freezing. Three timeswe were forced to cross the River in order to get even precariousfooting. Those were the really doubtful moments. We had to get incarefully, to sit craftily, and to paddle gingerly and firmly, withoutattempting to counteract the downward sweep of the current. All ourenergies and care were given to preventing those miserable curlinglittle waves from over-topping our precious two inches, and thatmiserable little canoe from departing even by a hair's-breadth from theexactly level keel. Where we were going did not matter. After aninterminable interval the tail of our eyes would catch the sway ofbushes near at hand. 

"Now, " Billy would mutter abstractedly. 

With one accord we would arise from six inches of wet and step swiftlyinto the River. The lightened canoe would strain back; we would braceour legs. The traverse was accomplished. 

[Illustration: WATCHED THE LONG NORTH COUNTRY TWILIGHT STEAL UP LIKE AGRAY CLOUD FROM THE EAST. ]

Being thus under the other bank, I would hold the canoe while Billy, astraddle the other end for the purpose of depressing the water towithin reach of his hand, would bail away the consequences of ourcrossing. Then we would make up the quarter of a mile we had lost. 

We quit at the Organ Pool about three o'clock of the afternoon. Notmuch was said that evening. 

The day following we tied into it again. This time we put Dick andDeuce on an old Indian trail that promised a short cut, withinstructions to wait at the end of it. In the joyous anticipation ofanother wet day we forgot they had never before followed an Indiantrail. Let us now turn aside to the adventures of Dick and Deuce. 

Be it premised here that Dick is a regular Indian of taciturnity whenit becomes a question of his own experience, so that for a long time weknew of what follows but the single explanatory monosyllable which youshall read in due time. But Dick has a beloved uncle. In moments ofexpansion to this relative after his return he held forth as to thehappenings of that morning. 

Dick and the setter managed the Indian trail for about twenty rods. They thought they managed it for perhaps twice that distance. Then itbecame borne in on them that the bushes went back, the faintknife-clippings, and the half weather-browned brush-cuttings that aloneconstitute an Indian trail had taken another direction, and that theyhad now their own way to make through the forest. Dick knew thedirection well enough, so he broke ahead confidently. After ahalf-hour's walk he crossed a tiny streamlet. After another half-hour'swalk he came to another. It was flowing the wrong way. 

Dick did not understand this. He had never known of little streamsflowing away from rivers and towards eight-hundred-foot hills. Thismight be a loop, of course. He resolved to follow it up-stream farenough to settle the point. The following brought him in time to asoggy little thicket with three areas of moss-covered mud and tworound, pellucid pools of water about a foot in diameter. As the littlestream had wound and twisted, Dick had by now lost entirely his senseof direction. He fished out his compass and set it on a rock. The Riverflows nearly north-east to the Big Falls, and Dick knew himself to besomewhere east of the River. The compass appeared to be wrong. Dick wasa youth of sense, so he did not quarrel with the compass; he merelybecame doubtful as to which was the north end of the needle--the whiteor the black. After a few moments' puzzling he was quite at sea, andcould no more remember how he had been taught as to this than you canclinch the spelling of a doubtful word after you have tried on paper adozen variations. But being a youth of sense he did not desert thestreamlet. 

After a short half-mile of stumbling the apparent wrong direction inthe brook's bed, he came to the River. The River was also flowing thewrong way, and uphill. Dick sat down and covered his eyes with hishands, as I had told him to do in like instance, and so managed toswing the country around where it belonged. 

Now here was the River--and Dick resolved to desert it for no moreshort cuts--but where was the canoe?

This point remained unsettled in Dick's mind, or rather it wasalternately settled in two ways. Sometimes the boy concluded we must bestill below him, so he would sit on a rock to wait. Then, after a fewmoments, inactivity would bring him panic. The canoe must have passedthis point long since, and every second he wasted stupidly sitting onthat stone separated him farther from his friends and from food. Thenhe would tear madly through the forest. Deuce enjoyed this game, butDick did not. 

In time Dick found his farther progress along the banks cut off by ahill. The hill ended abruptly at the water's edge in a sheer rock cliffthirty feet high. This was in reality the end of the Indian trail shortcut--the point where Dick was to meet us--but he did not know it. Hehappened for the moment to be obsessed by one of his canoe up-streampanics, so he turned inland to a spot where the hill appearedclimbable, and started in to surmount the obstruction. 

This was comparatively easy at first. Then the shoulder of the cliffintervened. Dick mounted still a little higher up the hill, thenhigher, then still higher. Far down to his left, through the trees, broiled the River. The slope of the hill to it had become steeper thana roof, and at the edge of the eaves came a cliff drop of thirty feet. Dick picked his way gingerly over curving moss-beds, assisting hisbalance by a number of little cedar trees. Then something happened. 

Dick says the side of the hill slid out from under him. The fact of thematter is, probably, the skin-moss over loose rounded stones gave way. Dick sat down and began slowly to bump down the slant of the roof. Henever really lost his equilibrium, nor until the last ten feet did heabandon the hope of checking his descent. Sometimes he did actuallysucceed in stopping himself for a moment; but on his attempting tofollow up the advantage, the moss always slipped or the sapling let goa tenuous hold and he continued on down. At last the River flashed outbelow him. He saw the sheer drop. He saw the boiling eddies of theHalfway Pool, capable of sucking down a saw-log. Then, with a finalrush of loose round stones, he shot the chutes feet first into space. 

In the meantime Billy and I repeated our experience of the two previousdays, with a few variations caused by the necessity of passing twoexceptionally ugly rapids whose banks left little footing. We did thisprecariously, with a rope. The cold water was beginning to tell on ourvitality, so that twice we went ashore and made hot tea. Just below theHalfway Pool we began to do a little figuring ahead, which is a badthing. The Halfway Pool meant much inevitable labour, with its twoswift rapids and its swirling, eddies, as sedulously to be avoided asso many steel bear-traps. Then there were a dozen others, and the threemiles of riffles, and all the rest of it. At our present rate it wouldtake us a week to make the Falls. Below the Halfway Pool we looked forDick. He was not to be seen. This made us cross. At the Halfway Pool weintended to unload for portage, and also to ferry over Dick and thesetter in the lightened canoe. The tardiness of Dick delayed the game. 

However, we drew ashore to the little clearing of the Halfway Camp, made the year before, and wearily discharged our cargo. Suddenly, upstream, and apparently up in the air, we heard distinctly the excitedyap of a dog. Billy and I looked at each other. Then we lookedupstream. 

Close under the perpendicular wall of rock, and fifty feet from the endof it, waist deep in water that swirled angrily about him, stood Dick. 

I knew well enough what he was standing on--a little ledge of shale notover five or six feet in length and two feet wide--for in lower water Ihad often from its advantage cast a fly down below the big boulder. ButI knew it to be surrounded by water fifteen feet deep. It wasimpossible to wade to the spot, impossible to swim to it. And why inthe name of all the woods gods would a man want to wade or swim to itif he could? The affair, to our cold-benumbed intellects, was simplyincomprehensible. 

Billy and I spoke no word. We silently, perhaps a little fearfully, launched the empty canoe. Then we went into a space of water whosetreading proved us no angels. From the slack water under the cliff wetook another look. It was indeed Dick. He carried a rod-case in onehand. His fish-creel lay against his hip. His broad hat sat accuratelylevel on his head. His face was imperturbable. Above, Deuce agonized, afraid to leap into the stream, but convinced that his duty requiredhim to do so. 

We steadied the canoe while Dick climbed in. You would have thought hewas embarking at the regularly appointed rendezvous. In silence we shotthe rapids, and collected Deuce from the end of the trail, whither hefollowed us. In silence we worked our way across to where our duffellay scattered. In silence we disembarked. 

"In Heaven's name, Dick, " I demanded at last, "how did you get_there_?"

"Fell, " said he, succinctly. And that was all. 

XIII. 

THE HILLS. 

We explained carefully to Dick that he had lit on the only spot in theHalfway Pool where the water was at once deep enough to break his falland not too deep to stand in. We also pointed out that he had escapedbeing telescoped or drowned by the merest hair's-breadth. From this wedrew moral conclusions. It did us good, but undoubtedly Dick knew italready. 

Now we gave our attention to the wetness of garments, for we werechilled blue. A big fire and a clothes-rack of forked sticks and asapling, an open-air change, a lunch of hot tea and trout and coldgalette and beans, a pipe--and then the inevitable summing up. 

We had in two and a half days made the easier half of the distance tothe Falls. At this rate we would consume a week or more in reaching thestarting-point of our explorations. It was a question whether we couldstand a week of ice-water and the heavy labour combined. Ordinarily wemight be able to abandon the canoe and push on afoot, as we wereaccustomed to do when trout-fishing, but that involved fording theriver three times--a feat manifestly impossible in present freshetconditions. 

"I t'ink we quit heem, " said Billy. 

But then I was seized with an inspiration. Judging by the configurationof the hills, the River bent sharply above the Falls. Why would it notbe possible to cut loose entirely at this point, to strike acrossthrough the forest, and so to come out on the upper reaches? Remainedonly the probability of our being able, encumbered by a pack, to scalethe mountains. 

"Billy, " said I, "have you ever been over in those hills?". 

"No, " said he. 

"Do you know anything about the country? Are there any trails?"

"Dat countree is belong Tawabinisáy. He know heem. I don' know heem. It'ink he is have many hills, some lak'. "

"Do you think we can climb those hills with packs?"

Billy cast a doubtful glance on Dick. Then his eye lit up. 

"Tawabinisáy is tell me 'bout dat Lak' Kawágama. P'rhaps we fine heem. "

In so saying Billy decided the attempt. What angler on the River hasnot discussed--again idly, again academically--that mysterious Lakealive with the burnished copper trout, lying hidden and wonderful inthe high hills, clear as crystal, bottomed with gravel like a fountain, shaped like a great crescent whose curves were haunted of forest treesgrim and awesome with the solemnity of the primeval? That its exactlocation was known to Tawabinisáy alone, that the trail to it waspurposely blinded and muddled with the crossing of many little ponds, that the route was laborious--all those things, along with the minordetails so dear to winter fire-chats, were matters of notoriety. Probably more expeditions to Kawágama have been planned--inFebruary--than would fill a volume with an account of anticipatedadventures. Only, none of them ever came off. We were accustomed togaze at the forbidden cliff ramparts of the hills, to think of theIdiot's Delight, and the Halfway Pool, and the Organ Pool, and theBurned Rock Pool, and the Rolling Stone Pool, and all the rest of themeven up to the Big Falls; and so we would quietly allow our Februaryplannings to lapse. One man Tawabinisáy had honoured. But this man, named Clement, a banker from Peoria, had proved unworthy. Tawabinisáytold how he caught trout, many, many trout, and piled them on theshores of Kawágama to defile the air. Subsequently this same"sportsman" buried another big catch on the beach of Superior. Theseand other exploits finally earned him his exclusion from the delectableland. I give his name because I have personally talked with his guides, and heard their circumstantial accounts of his performances. Unlessthree or four woodsmen are fearful liars, I do Mr. Clement noinjustice. 

Since then Tawabinisáy had hidden himself behind his impenetrable grin. 

So you can easily see that the discovery of Kawágama would be a featworthy even high hills. 

That afternoon we rested and made our cache. A cache in the forestcountry is simply a heavily constructed rustic platform on whichprovisions and clothing are laid and wrapped completely about in sheetsof canoe bark tied firmly with strips of cedar bark, or withes madefrom a bush whose appearance I know well, but whose name I cannot say. In this receptacle we left all our canned goods, our extra clothing, and our Dutch oven. We retained for transportation some pork, flour, rice, baking-powder, oatmeal, sugar, and tea, cooking utensils, blankets, the tent, fishing-tackle, and the little pistol. As we wereabout to go into the high country where presumably both game and fishmight lack, we were forced to take a full supply for four--countingDeuce as one--to last ten days. The packs counted up about one hundredand fifteen pounds of grub, twenty pounds of blankets, ten of tent, sayeight or ten of hardware including the axe, about twenty of duffel. This was further increased by the idiosyncrasy of Billy. He, like mostwoodsmen, was wedded to a single utterly foolish article of personalbelonging, which he worshipped as a fetish, and without which he wasunhappy. In his case it was a huge winter overcoat that must haveweighed fifteen pounds. The total amounted to about one hundred andninety pounds. We gave Dick twenty, I took seventy-six, and Billyshouldered the rest. 

The carrying we did with the universal tump-line. This is usuallydescribed as a strap passed about a pack and across the forehead of thebearer. The description is incorrect. It passes across the top of thehead. The weight should rest on the small of the back just above thehips--not on the broad of the back as most beginners place it. Then thechin should be dropped, the body slanted sharply forward, and you maybe able to stagger forty rods at your first attempt. 

Use soon accustoms you to carrying, however. The first time I ever didany packing I had a hard time stumbling a few hundred feet over a hillportage with just fifty pounds on my back. By the end of that same tripI could carry a hundred pounds and a lot of miscellaneous traps, likecanoe-poles and guns, without serious inconvenience and over a longportage. This quickly-gained power comes partly from a strengthening ofthe muscles of the neck, but more from a mastery of balance. A pack cantwist you as suddenly and expertly on your back as the best ofwrestlers. It has a head lock on you, and you have to go or break yourneck. After a time you adjust your movements, just as after a time youcan travel on snow-shoes through heavy down timber without takingconscious thought as to the placing of your feet. 

But at first packing is as near infernal punishment as merely mundaneconditions can compass. Sixteen brand-new muscles ache, at first dully, then sharply, then intolerably, until it seems you cannot bear itanother second. You are unable to keep your feet. A stagger means aneffort at recovery, and an effort at recovery means that you trip whenyou place your feet, and that means, if you are lucky enough not to bethrown, an extra tweak for every one of the sixteen new muscles. Atfirst you rest every time you feel tired. Then you begin to feel verytired every fifty feet. Then you have to do the best you can, and provethe pluck that is in you. 

Mr. Tom Friant, an old woodsman of wide experience, has often told mewith relish of his first try at carrying. He had about sixty pounds, and his companion double that amount. Mr. Friant stood it a fewcenturies and then sat down. He couldn't have moved another step if agun had been at his ear. 

"What's the matter?" asked his companion. 

"Del, " said Friant, "I'm all in. I can't navigate. Here's where Iquit. "

"Can't you carry her any farther?"

"Not an inch. "

"Well, pile her on. I'll carry her for you. "

Friant looked at him a moment in silent amazement. 

"Do you mean to say that you are going to carry your pack and minetoo?"

"That's what I mean to say. I'll do it if I have to. "

Friant drew a long breath. 

"Well, " said he at last, "if a little sawed-off cuss like you canwiggle under a hundred and eighty, I guess I can make it under sixty. "

"That's right, " said Del imperturbably. "_If you think you can, youcan_. "

"And I did, " ends Friant, with a chuckle. 

Therein lies the whole secret. The work is irksome, sometimes evenpainful, but if you think you can do it, you can, for though great isthe protest of the human frame against what it considers abuse, greateris the power of a man's grit. 

We carried the canoe above the larger eddies, where we embarkedourselves and our packs for traverse, leaving Deuce under strictcommand to await a second trip. Deuce disregarded the strict command. From disobedience came great peril, for when he attempted to swimacross after us he was carried downstream, involved in a whirlpool, sucked under, and nearly drowned. We could do nothing but watch. When, finally, the River spued out a frightened and bedraggled dog, we drew abreath of very genuine relief, for Deuce was dear to us through muchassociation. 

The canoe we turned bottom up and left in the bushes, and so we set offthrough the forest. 

At the end of fifteen minutes we began to mount a gentle ascent. Thegentle ascent speedily became a sharp slope, the sharp slope an abrupthill, and the latter finally an almost sheer face of rock and thinsoil. We laid hold doggedly of little cedars; we dug our fingers intolittle crevices, and felt for the same with our toes; we perspired instreams and breathed in gasps; we held the strained muscles of ournecks rigid, for the twisting of a pack meant here a dangerous fall; weflattened ourselves against the face of the mountain with always theheavy, ceaseless pull of the tump-line attempting to tear us backwardfrom our holds. And so at last, when the muscles of our thighs refusedto strengthen our legs for the ascent of another foot, we would turnour backs to the slant and sink gratefully into the only real luxury inthe world. 

For be it known that real luxury cannot be bought; it must be workedfor. I refer to luxury as the exquisite savour of a pleasant sensation. The keenest sense-impressions are undoubtedly those of contrast. Inlooking back over a variety of experience, I have no hesitation at allin selecting as the moment in which I have experienced the liveliestphysical pleasure one hot afternoon in July. The thermometer might havestood anywhere. We would have placed childlike trust in any of itsstatements, even three figures great. Our way had led through unbrokenforest oppressed by low brush and an underfooting of brakes. There hadbeen hills. Our clothes were wringing wet, to the last stitch; even theleather of the tump-line was saturated. The hot air we gulped down didnot seem to satisfy our craving for oxygen any more than lukewarm waterever seems to cut a real thirst. The woods were literally like an ovenin their hot dryness. Finally we skirted a little hill, and at the baseof that hill a great tree had fallen, and through the aperture thusmade in the forest a tiny current of cool air flowed like a stream. Itwas not a great current, nor a wide; if we moved three feet in anydirection, we were out of it. But we sat us down directly across itsflow. And never have dinners or wines or men or women, or talks ofbooks or scenery or adventure or sport, or the softest, daintiestrefinements of man's invention given me the half of luxury I drank infrom that little breeze. So the commonest things--a dash of cool wateron the wrists, a gulp of hot tea, a warm, dry blanket, a whiff oftobacco, a ray of sunshine--are more really the luxuries than all thecomforts and sybaritisms we buy. Undoubtedly the latter would also riseto the higher category if we were to work for their essence instead ofmerely signing club cheques or paying party calls for them. 

Which means that when we three would rest our packs against the side ofthat hill, and drop our head-straps below our chins, we were not at allto be pitied, even though the forest growth denied us the encouragementof knowing how much farther we had to go. 

Before us the trees dropped away rapidly, so that twenty feet out in astraight line we were looking directly into their tops. There, quite onan equality with their own airy estate, we could watch the fly-catchersand warblers conducting their small affairs of the chase. It lent usthe illusion of imponderability; we felt that we too might be able torest securely on graceful gossamer twigs. And sometimes, through achance opening, we could see down over billows of waving leaves to asingle little spot of blue, like a turquoise sunk in folds of greenvelvet, which meant that the River was dropping below us. This, in themercy of the Red Gods, was meant as encouragement. 

The time came, however, when the ramparts we scaled rose sheer and barein impregnability. Nothing could be done on the straight line, so weturned sharp to the north. The way was difficult, for it lay over greatfragments of rock stricken from the cliff by winter, and furtherrendered treacherous by the moss and wet by a thousand trickles ofwater. At the end of one hour we found what might be called a ravine, if you happened not to be particular, or a steep cleft in the precipiceif you were. Here we deserted the open air for piled-up brushy tangles, many sharp-cornered rock fragments, and a choked streamlet. Finally thewhole outfit abruptly ceased. We climbed ten feet of crevices and stoodon the ridge. 

The forest trees shut us in our own little area, so that we were forthe moment unable to look abroad over the country. 

The descent, abrupt where we had mounted, stretched away gently towardthe north and west. And on that slope, protected as it was from theseverer storms that sweep up the open valleys in winter, stood the mostmagnificent primeval forest it has ever been my fortune to behold. Thehuge maple, beech, and birch trees lifted column-like straight up to alucent green canopy, always twinkling and shifting in the wind and thesunlight. Below grew a thin screen of underbrush, through which we hadno difficulty at all in pushing, but which threw about us face-high atender green partition. The effect was that of a pew in anold-fashioned church, so that, though we shared the upper stillnesses, a certain delightful privacy of our own seemed assured us. This privacywe knew to be assured also to many creatures besides ourselves. On theother side of the screen of broad leaves we sensed the presence oflife. It did not intrude on us, nor were we permitted to intrude on it. But it was there. We heard it rustling, pattering, scrambling, whispering, scurrying with a rush of wings. More subtly we felt it, asone knows of a presence in a darkened room. By the exercise ofimagination and experience we identified it in its manifestations--thesquirrel, the partridge, the weasel, the spruce hens, once or twice thedeer. We knew it saw us perfectly, although we could not see it, andthat gave us an impression of companionship; so the forest was notlonely. 

Next to this double sense of isolation and company was the feeling oftransparent shadow. The forest was thick and cool. Only rarely did thesun find an orifice in the roof through which to pour a splash ofliquid gold. All the rest was in shadow. But the shadow was that of thebottom of the sea--cool, green, and, above all, transparent. We sawinto the depth of it, but dimly, as we would see into the greenrecesses of a tropic ocean. It possessed the same liquid quality. Finally the illusion overcame us completely. We bathed in the shadowsas though they were palpable, and from that came great refreshment. 

Under foot the soil was springy with the mould of numberless autumns. The axe had never hurried slow old servant decay. Once in a while wecame across a prostrate trunk lying in the trough of destruction itsfall had occasioned. But the rest of the time we trod a carpet to themaking of which centuries of dead forest warriors had wrappedthemselves in mould and soft moss and gentle dissolution. Sometimes afaint rounded shell of former fair proportion swelled above the level, to crumble to punkwood at the lightest touch of our feet. Or, again, the simulacrum of a tree trunk would bravely oppose our path, only tomelt away into nothing, like the opposing phantoms of Aeneas, when weplaced a knee against it for the surmounting. 

If the pine woods be characterized by cathedral solemnity, and thecedars and tamaracks by certain horrifical gloom, and the popples by asilvery sunshine, and the berry-clearings by grateful heat and thehomely manner of familiar birds, then the great hardwood must be knownas the dwelling-place of transparent shadows, of cool green lucency, and the repository of immemorial cheerful forest tradition which thetraveller can hear of, but which he is never permitted actually toknow. 

[Illustration: IN THIS LOVABLE MYSTERY WE JOURNEYED ALL THE REST OFTHAT MORNING. ]

In this lovable mystery we journeyed all the rest of that morning. Thepacks were heavy with the first day's weight, and we were tired fromour climb; but the deep physical joy of going on and ever on intounknown valleys, down a long, gentle slope that must lead somewhere, through things animate and things of an almost animate life, openingsilently before us to give us passage, and closing as silently behindus after we had passed--these made us forget our aches and fatigues forthe moment. 

At noon we boiled tea near a little spring of clear, cold water. As yetwe had no opportunity of seeing farther than the closing in of manytrees. We were, as far as external appearances went, no more advancedthan our first resting-place after surmounting the ridge. This effectis constant in the great forests. You are in a treadmill--though apleasant one withal. Your camp of to-day differs only in non-essentialsfrom that of yesterday, and your camp of to-morrow will probably bealmost exactly like to-day's. Only when you reach your objective pointdo you come to a full realization that you have not been the Sisyphusof the Red Gods. 

Deuce returning from exploration brought indubitable evidence ofporcupines. We picked the barbed little weapons from his face and noseand tongue with much difficulty for ourselves and much pain for Deuce. We offered consolation by voicing for his dumbness his undoubtedintention to avoid all future porcupines. Then we took up the afternoontramp. 

Now at last through the trees appeared the gleam of water. Tawabinisáyhad said that Kawágama was the only lake in its district. We thereforebecame quite excited at this sapphire promise. Our packs were thrownaside, and like school-boys we raced down the declivity to the shore. 

XIV. 

ON WALKING THROUGH THE WOODS. 

We found ourselves peering through the thicket at a little reed andgrass grown body of water a few acres in extent. A short detour to theright led us to an outlet--a brook of width and dash that convinced usthe little pond was only a stopping-place in the stream, and not aheadwater as we had at first imagined. Then a nearer approach led uspast pointed tree-stumps exquisitely chiselled with the marks of teeth;so we knew we looked, not on a natural pond, but on the work ofbeavers. 

I examined the dam more closely. It was a marvel of engineering skillin the accuracy with which the big trees had been felled exactly alongthe most effective lines, the efficiency of the filling in, and thejust estimate of the waste water to be allowed. We named the placeobviously Beaver Pond, resumed our packs, and pushed on. 

Now I must be permitted to celebrate by a little the pluck of Dick. Hewas quite unused to the tump-line, comparatively inexperienced inwoods-walking, and weighed but one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Yetnot once in the course of that trip did he bewail his fate. Towards theclose of this first afternoon I dropped behind to see how he was makingit. The boy had his head down, his lips shut tight together, his legswell straddled apart. As I watched he stumbled badly over the meresttwig. 

"Dick, " said I, "are you tired?"

"Yes, " he confessed frankly. 

"Can you make it another half-hour?"

"I guess so; I'll try. "

At the end of the half-hour we dropped our packs. Dick had manifestedno impatience--not once had he even asked how nearly time was up--butnow he breathed a deep sigh of relief. 

"I thought you were never going to stop, " said he simply. 

From Dick those words meant a good deal. For woods-walking differs aswidely from ordinary walking as trap-shooting from field-shooting. Agood pedestrian may tire very quickly in the forest. No two successivesteps are of the same length; no two successive steps fall on the samequality of footing; no two successive steps are on the same level. Those three are the major elements of fatigue. Add further the factsthat your way is continually obstructed both by real difficulties--suchas trees, trunks, and rocks--and lesser annoyances, such as branches, bushes, and even spider-webs. These things all combine againstendurance. The inexperienced does not know how to meet them with aminimum of effort. The tenderfoot is in a constant state of muscularand mental rigidity against a fall or a stumble or a cut across theface from some one of the infinitely numerous woods scourges. Thisrigidity speedily exhausts the vital force. 

So much for the philosophy of it. Its practical side might beinfinitely extended. Woodsmen are tough and enduring and in goodcondition; but no more so than the average college athlete. Time andagain I have seen men of the latter class walked to a standstill. Imean exactly that. They knew, and were justly proud, of their physicalcondition, and they hated to acknowledge, even to themselves, that therest of us were more enduring. As a consequence they played on theirnerve, beyond their physical powers. When the collapse came it wascomplete. I remember very well a crew of men turning out from a lumbercamp on the Sturgeon River to bring in on a litter a young fellow whohad given out while attempting to follow Bethel Bristol through a hardday. Bristol said he dropped finally as though he had been struck onthe head. The woodsman had thereupon built him a little fire, made himas comfortable as possible with both coats, and hiked for assistance. Ionce went into the woods with a prominent college athlete. We walkedrather hard over a rough country until noon. Then the athlete lay onhis back for the rest of the day, while I finished alone the businesswe had come on. 

Now, these instances do not imply that Bristol, and certainly notmyself, were any stronger physically, or possessed more nervous force, than the men we had tired out. Either of them on a road could havetrailed us, step for step, and as long as we pleased. But we knew thegame. 

It comes at the last to be entirely a matter of experience. Any man canwalk in the woods all day at some gait. But his speed will depend onhis skill. It is exactly like making your way through heavy, dry sand. As long as you restrain yourself to a certain leisurely plodding, youget along without extraordinary effort, while even a slight increase ofspeed drags fiercely at your feet. So it is with the woods. As long asyou walk slowly enough, so that you can pick your footing and liftaside easily the branches that menace your face, you will expend littlenervous energy. But the slightest pressing, the slightest inclinationto go beyond what may be called your physical foresight, lands youimmediately in difficulties. You stumble, you break through the brush, you shut your eyes to avoid sharp switchings. The reservoir of yourenergy is open full cock. In about an hour you feel very, very tired. 

This principle holds rigidly true of every one, from the softesttenderfoot to the expertest forest-runner. For each there exists anormal rate of travel, beyond which are penalties. Only, theforest-runner, by long use, has raised the exponent of his powers. Perhaps as a working hypothesis the following might be recommended:_One good step is worth six stumbling steps; go only fast enough toassure that good one. _

You will learn, besides, a number of things practically which memorycannot summon to order for instance here. "Brush slanted across yourpath is easier lifted over your head and dropped behind you than pushedaside, " will do as an example. 

A good woods-walker progresses without apparent hurry. I have followedthe disappearing back of Tawabinisáy when, as my companion elegantlyexpressed it, "if you stopped to spit you got lost. " Tawabinisáywandered through the forest, his hands in his pockets, humming a littleIndian hymn. And we were breaking madly along behind him with thecrashing of many timbers. 

Of your discoveries probably one of the most impressive will be that inthe bright lexicon of woodscraft the word "mile" has been entirely leftout. To count by miles is a useless and ornamental elegance ofcivilization. Some of us once worked hard all one day only to campthree miles downstream from our resting-place of the night before. Andthe following day we ran nearly sixty with the current. The space ofmeasured country known as a mile may hold you five minutes or fivehours from your destination. The Indian counts by time, and after alittle you follow his example. "Four miles to Kettle Portage" meansnothing. "Two hours to Kettle Portage" does. Only when an Indian tellsyou two hours you would do well to count it as four. 

Well, our trip practically amounted to seven days to nowhere; orperhaps seven days to everywhere would be more accurate. It was all inthe high hills until the last day and a half, and generally in thehardwood forests. Twice we intersected and followed for short distancesIndian trails, neither of which apparently had been travelled since theoriginal party that had made them. They led across country for greateror lesser distances in the direction we wished to travel, and thenturned aside. Three times we blundered on little meadows ofmoose-grass. Invariably they were tramped muddy like a cattle-yardwhere the great animals had stood as lately as the night before. Caribou were not uncommon. There were a few deer, but not many, for themost of the deer country lies to the south of this our district. Partridge, as we had anticipated, lacked in such high country. 

In the course of the five days and a half we were in the hills wediscovered six lakes of various sizes. The smallest was a mere pond;the largest would measure some three or four miles in diameter. We cameupon that very late one afternoon. A brook of some size crossed ourway, so, as was our habit, we promptly turned upstream to discover itssource. In the high country the head-waters are never more than a fewmiles distant; and at the same time the magnitude of this indicated alake rather than a spring as the supply. The lake might be Kawágama. 

Our packs had grown to be very heavy, for they had already the weightof nine hours piled on top. And the stream was exceedingly difficult tofollow. It flowed in one of those aggravating little ravines whosebanks are too high and steep and uneven for good footing, and whosebeds are choked with a too abundant growth. In addition, there hadfallen many trees over which one had to climb. We kept at it forperhaps an hour. The brook continued of the same size, and the countryof the same character. Dick for the first time suggested that it mightbe well to camp. 

"We've got good water here, " he argued, quite justly, "and we can pushon to-morrow just as well as to-night. "

We balanced our packs against a prostrate tree-trunk. Billy contributedhis indirect share to the argument. 

"I lak' to have the job mak' heem this countree all over, " he sighed. "I mak' heem more level. "

"All right, " I agreed; "you fellows sit here and rest a minute, andI'll take a whirl a little ways ahead. "

I slipped my tump-line and started on light. After carrying a heavypack so long, I seemed to tread on air. The thicket, before soformidable, amounted to nothing at all. Perhaps the consciousness thatthe day's work was in reality over lent a little factitious energy tomy tired legs. At any rate, the projected two hundred feet of myinvestigations stretched to a good quarter-mile. At the end of thatspace I debouched on a widening of the ravine. The hardwood ran offinto cedars. I pushed through the stiff rods and yielding fans of thelatter, and all at once found myself leaning out over the waters of thelake. 

It was almost an exact oval, and lay in a cup of hills. Three woodedislands, swimming like ducks in the placid evening waters, added atouch of diversity. A huge white rock balanced the composition to theleft, and a single white sea-gull, like a snowflake against pines, brooded on its top. 

I looked abroad to where the perfect reflection of the hills confusedthe shore line. I looked down through five feet of crystal water towhere pebbles shimmered in refraction. I noted the low rocks juttingfrom the wood's shelter whereon one might stand to cast a fly. Then Iturned and yelled and yelled and yelled again at the forest. 

Billy came through the brush, crashing in his haste. He looked long andcomprehendingly. Without further speech, we turned back to where Dickwas guarding the packs. 

That youth we found profoundly indifferent. 

"Kawágama, " we cried, "a quarter-mile ahead. "

He turned on us a lack-lustre eye. 

"You going to camp here?" he inquired dully. 

"Course not! We'll go on and camp at the lake. "

"All right, " he replied. 

We resumed our packs, a little stiffly and reluctantly, for we hadtasted of woods-travel without them. At the lake we rested. 

"Going to camp here?" inquired Dick. 

We looked about, but noted that the ground under the cedars washummocky, and that the hardwood grew on a slope. Besides, we wanted tocamp as near the shore as possible. Probably a trifle further alongthere would be a point of high land and delightful littlepaper-birches. 

"No, " we answered cheerfully, "this isn't much good. Suppose we pushalong a ways and find something better. "

"All right, " Dick replied. 

We walked perhaps a half-mile more to the westward before we discoveredwhat we wanted, stopping from time to time to discuss the merits ofthis or that place. Billy and I were feeling pretty good. After such aweek Kawágama was a tonic. Finally we agreed. 

"This'll do, " said we. 

"Thank God!" said Dick unexpectedly, and dropped his pack to the groundwith a thud, and sat on it. 

I looked at him closely. Then I undid my own pack. "Billy, " said I, "start in on grub. Never mind the tent just now. "

"A' right, " grinned Billy. He had been making his own observations. 

"Dick, " said I, "let's go down and sit on the rock over the water. Wemight fish a little. "

"All right, " Dick replied. 

He stumbled dully after me to the shore. 

"Dick, " I continued, "you're a kid, and you have high principles, andyour mother wouldn't like it, but I'm going to prescribe for you, andI'm going to insist on your following the prescription. This flask doesnot contain fly-dope--that's in the other flask--it contains whisky. Ihave had it in my pack since we started, and it has not been opened. Idon't believe in whisky in the woods; not because I am temperance, butbecause a man can't travel on it. But here is where you break yourheaven-born principles. Drink. "

Dick hesitated, then he drank. By the time grub was ready his vitalityhad come to normal, and so he was able to digest his food and get somegood out of it; otherwise he could not have done so. Thus he furnishedan admirable example of the only real use for whisky in woods-travel. Also it was the nearest Dick ever came to being completely played out. 

That evening was delightful. We sat on the rock and watched the longNorth Country twilight steal up like a gray cloud from the east. Twoloons called to each other, now in the shrill maniac laughter, now withthe long, mournful cry. It needed just that one touch to finish thepicture. We were looking, had we but known it, on a lake no white manhad ever visited before. Clement alone had seen Kawágama, so in ourignorance we attained much the same mental attitude. For I may as welllet you into the secret; this was not the fabled lake after all. Wefound that out later from Tawabinisáy. But it was beautiful enough, andwild enough, and strange enough in its splendid wilderness isolation tofill the heart of the explorer with a great content. 

Having thus, as we thought, attained the primary object of ourexplorations, we determined on trying now for the second--that is, theinvestigation of the upper reaches of the River. Trout we had notaccomplished at this lake, but the existence of fish of some sort wasattested by the presence of the two loons and the gull, so we laid ournon-success to fisherman's luck. After two false starts we managed tostrike into a good country near enough our direction. The travel wasmuch the same as before. The second day, however, we came to asurveyor's base-line cut through the woods. Then we followed that as amatter of convenience. The base-line, cut the fall before, was the onlyevidence of man we saw in the high country. It meant nothing in itself, but was intended as a starting-point for the township surveys, wheneverthe country should become civilized enough to warrant them. Thatcondition of affairs might not occur for years to come. Therefore theline was cut out clear for a width of twenty feet. 

We continued along it as along a trail until we discovered our lastlake--a body of water possessing many radiating arms. This was thenearest we came to the real Kawágama. If we had skirted the lake, mounted the ridge, followed a creek-bed, mounted another ridge, anddescended a slope, we should have made our discovery. Later we did justthat, under the guidance of Tawabinisáy himself. Floating in the birchcanoe we carried with us we looked back at the very spot on which westood this morning. 

But we turned sharp to the left, and so missed our chance. However, wewere in a happy frame of mind, for we imagined we had really made thedesired discovery. 

Nothing of moment happened until we reached the valley of the River. Then we found we were treed. We had been travelling all the time amonghills and valleys, to be sure, but on a high elevation. Even the bottomlands, in which lay the lakes, were several hundred feet aboveSuperior. Now we emerged from the forest to find ourselves on boldmountains at least seven or eight hundred feet above the main valley. And in the main valley we could make out the River. 

It was rather dizzy work. Three or four times we ventured over therounded crest of the hill, only to return after forty or fifty feetbecause the slope had become too abrupt. This grew to be monotonous andaggravating. It looked as though we might have to parallel the River'scourse, like scouts watching an army, on the top of the hill. Finally alittle ravine gave us hope. We scrambled down it; ended in a very steepslant, and finished at a sheer tangle of cedar-roots. The latter weattempted. Billy went on ahead. I let the packs down to him by means ofa tump-line. He balanced them on roof; until I had climbed below him. And so on. It was exactly like letting a bucket down a well. If one ofthe packs had slipped off the cedar-roots, it would have dropped like aplummet to the valley, and landed on Heaven knows what. The same mightbe said of ourselves. We did this because we were angry all through. 

Then we came to the end of the cedar-roots. Right and left offerednothing; below was a sheer, bare drop. Absolutely nothing remained butto climb back, heavy packs and all, to the top of the mountain. Falsehopes had wasted a good half day and innumerable foot-pounds. Billy andI saw red. We bowed our heads and snaked those packs to the top of themountain at a gait that ordinarily would have tired us out in fiftyfeet. Dick did not attempt to keep up. When we reached the top we satdown to wait for him. After a while he appeared, climbing leisurely. Hegazed on us from behind the mask of his Indian imperturbability. Thenhe grinned. That did us good, for we all three laughed aloud, andbuckled down to business in a better frame of mind. 

That day we discovered a most beautiful waterfall. A stream abouttwenty feet in width, and with a good volume of water, dropped somethree hundred feet or more into the River. It was across the valleyfrom us, so we had a good view of its beauties. Our estimates of itsheight were carefully made on the basis of some standing pine that grewnear its foot. 

And then we entered a steep little ravine, and descended it withmisgivings to a cañon, and walked easily down the cañon to a slope thattook us by barely sensible gradations to a wooded plain. At six o'clockwe stood on the banks of the River, and the hills were behind us. 

Of our down-stream travel there is little really to be said. Weestablished a number of facts--that the River dashes most scenicallyfrom rapid to rapid, so that the stagnant pool theory is henceforthuntenable; that the hills get higher and wilder the farther youpenetrate to the interior, and their cliffs and rock-precipices bolderand more naked; that there are trout in the upper reaches, but not solarge as in the lower pools; and, above all, that travel is not a joyfor ever. 

For we could not ford the River above the Falls--it is too deep andswift. As a consequence, we had often to climb, often to break throughthe narrowest thicket strips, and once to feel our way cautiously alonga sunken ledge under a sheer rock cliff. That was Billy's idea. We cameto the sheer rock cliff after a pretty hard scramble, and we were mostloth to do the necessary climbing. Billy suggested that we might beable to wade. As the pool below the cliff was black water and ofindeterminate depth, we scouted the idea. Billy, however, poked aroundwith a stick, and, as I have said, discovered a little ledge about afoot and a half wide and about two feet and a half below the surface. This was spectacular, but we did it. A slip meant a swim and the lossof the pack. We did not happen to slip. Shortly after, we came to theBig Falls, and so after further painful experiment descended joyfullyinto known country. 

The freshet had gone down, the weather had warmed, the sun shone, wecaught trout for lunch below the Big Falls; everything was lovely. Bythree o'clock, after thrice wading the stream, we regained ourcanoe--now at least forty feet from the water. We paddled across. Deucefollowed easily, where a week before he had been sucked down and nearlydrowned. We opened the cache and changed our very travel-stainedgarments. We cooked ourselves a luxurious meal. We built afriendship-fire. And at last we stretched our tired bodies full lengthon balsam a foot thick, and gazed drowsily at the canvas-blurred moonbefore sinking to a dreamless sleep. 

XV. 

ON WOODS INDIANS. 

Far in the North dwell a people practically unknown to any but thefur-trader and the explorer. Our information as to Mokis, Sioux, Cheyennes Nez Percés, and indirectly many others, through the pages ofCooper, Parkman, and allied writers, is varied enough, so that ourideas of Indians are pretty well established. If we are romantic, wehark back to the past and invent fairy-tales with ourselves anent theNoble Red Man who has Passed Away. If we are severely practical, wetake notice of filth, vice, plug-hats, tin cans, and laziness. In fact, we might divide all Indian concepts into two classes, following thesemental and imaginative bents. Then we should have quite simply andsatisfactorily the Cooper Indian and the Comic Paper Indian. It must beconfessed that the latter is often approximated by reality--andeverybody knows it. That the former is by no means a myth--at least inmany qualities--the average reader might be pardoned for doubting. 

Some time ago I desired to increase my knowledge of the Woods Indiansby whatever others had accomplished. Accordingly I wrote to theEthnological Department at Washington asking what had been done inregard to the Ojibways and Wood Crees north of Lake Superior. Theanswer was "nothing. "

And "nothing" is more nearly a comprehensive answer than at first youmight believe. Visitors at Mackinac, Traverse, Sault Ste. Marie, andother northern resorts are besought at certain times of the year bysilent calico-dressed squaws to purchase basket and bark work. If thetourist happens to follow these women for more wholesale examination oftheir wares, he will be led to a double-ended Mackinaw-builtsailing-craft with red-dyed sails, half pulled out on the beach. In thestern sit two or three bucks wearing shirts, jean trousers, and broadblack hats. Some of the oldest men may sport a patched pair ofmoccasins or so, but most are conventional enough in clumsy shoes. After a longer or shorter stay they hoist their red sails and driftaway toward some mysterious destination on the north shore. If thebuyer is curious enough and persistent enough, he may elicit the factthat they are Ojibways. 

Now, if this same tourist happens to possess a mildly venturesomedisposition, a sailing-craft, and a chart of the region, he will sooneror later blunder across the dwelling-place of his silent vendors. Atthe foot of some rarely-frequented bay he will come on a diminutivevillage of small whitewashed log houses. It will differ from othervillages in that the houses are arranged with no reference whatever toone another, but in the haphazard fashion of an encampment. Itsinhabitants are his summer friends. If he is of an insinuating address, he may get a glimpse of their daily life. Then he will go away firmlyconvinced that he knows quite a lot about the North Woods Indian. 

And so he does. But this North Woods Indian is the Reservation Indian. And in the North a Reservation Indian is as different from a WoodsIndian as a negro is from a Chinese. 

Suppose, on the other hand, your tourist is unfortunate enough to getleft at some North Woods railway station where he has descended fromthe transcontinental to stretch his legs, and suppose him to havehappened on a fur-town like Missináibie at the precise time when thetrappers are in from the wilds. Near the borders of the village he willcome upon a little encampment of conical tepees. At his approach thewomen and children will disappear into inner darkness. A dozenwolf-like dogs will rush out barking. Grave-faced men will respondsilently to his salutation. 

These men, he will be interested to observe, wear still the deer ormoose skin moccasin--the lightest and easiest foot-gear for the woods;bind their long hair with a narrow fillet, and their waists with a redor striped worsted sash; keep warm under the blanket thickness of aHudson Bay capote; and deck their clothes with a variety of barbaricornament. He will see about camp weapons whose acquaintance he has madeonly in museums, peltries of whose identification he is by no meanssure, and as matters of daily use--snow-shoes, bark canoes, bows andarrows--what to him have been articles of ornament or curiosity. To-morrow these people will be gone for another year, carrying withthem the results of the week's barter. Neither he nor his kind will seethem again, unless they too journey far into the Silent Places. But hehas caught a glimpse of the stolid mask of the Woods Indian, concerningwhom officially "nothing" is known. 

In many respects the Woods Indian is the legitimate descendant of theCooper Indian. His life is led entirely in the forests; his subsistenceis assured by hunting, fishing, and trapping; his dwelling is thewigwam, and his habitation the wide reaches of the wilderness lyingbetween Lake Superior and the Hudson Bay; his relation to humanityconfined to intercourse with his own people and acquaintance with themen who barter for his peltries. So his dependence is not on the worldthe white man has brought, but on himself and his natural environment. Civilization has merely ornamented his ancient manner. It has given himthe convenience of cloth, of firearms, of steel traps, of iron kettles, of matches; it has accustomed him to the luxuries of whitesugar--though he had always his own maple product--tea, flour, andwhite man's tobacco. That is about all. He knows nothing of whisky. Thetowns are never visited by him, and the Hudson's Bay Company will sellhim no liquor. His concern with you is not great, for he has little togain from you. 

This people, then, depending on natural resources for subsistence, hasretained to a great extent the qualities of the early aborigines. 

To begin with, it is distinctly nomadic. The great rolls of birch barkto cover the pointed tepees are easily transported in the bottoms ofcanoes, and the poles are quickly cut and put in place. As aconsequence, the Ojibway family is always on the move. It searches outnew trapping-grounds, new fisheries, it pays visits, it seems even toenjoy travel for the sake of exploration. In winter a tepee of doublewall is built, whose hollow is stuffed with moss to keep out the cold;but even that approximation of permanence cannot stand against theslightest convenience. When an Indian kills, often he does nottransport his game to camp, but moves his camp to the vicinity of thecarcass. There are of these woods dwellers no villages, no permanentclearings. The vicinity of a Hudson's Bay post is sometimes occupiedfor a month or so during the summer, but that is all. 

An obvious corollary of this is that tribal life does not consistentlyobtain. Throughout the summer months, when game and fur are at theirpoorest, the bands assemble, probably at the times of barter with thetraders. Then for the short period of the idling season they drifttogether up and down the North Country streams, or camp for bigpow-wows and conjuring near some pleasant conflux of rivers. But whenthe first frosts nip the leaves, the families separate to theirallotted trapping districts, there to spend the winter in pursuit ofthe real business of life. 

The tribe is thus split into many groups, ranging in numbers fromthe solitary trapper, eager to win enough fur to buy him a wife, to acompact little group of three or four families closely related inblood. The most striking consequence is that, unlike other Indianbodies politic, there are no regularly constituted and acknowledgedchiefs. Certain individuals gain a remarkable reputation and an equallyremarkable respect for wisdom, or hunting skill, or power of woodcraft, or travel. These men are the so-called "old men" often mentioned inIndian manifestoes, though age has nothing to do with the deferenceaccorded them. Tawabinisáy is not more than thirty-five years old;Peter, our Hudson Bay Indian, is hardly more than a boy. Yet both areobeyed implicitly by whomever they happen to be with; both lead the wayby river or trail; and both, where question arises, are sought inadvice by men old enough to be their fathers. Perhaps this is as good ademocracy as another. 

The life so briefly hinted at in the foregoing lines inevitablydevelops and fosters an expertness of woodcraft almost beyond belief. The Ojibway knows his environment. The forest is to him so familiar ineach and every one of its numerous and subtle aspects that theslightest departure from the normal strikes his attention at once. Apatch of brown shadow where green shadow should fall, a shimmering ofleaves where should be merely a gentle waving, a cross-light where theusual forest growth should adumbrate, a flash of wings at a time of daywhen feathered creatures ordinarily rest quiet--these, and hundreds ofothers which you and I should never even guess at, force themselves asglaringly on an Indian's notice as a brass band in a city street. Awhite man _looks_ for game; an Indian sees it because it differsfrom the forest. 

That is, of course, a matter of long experience and lifetime habit. Were it a question merely of this, the white man might also in timeattain the same skill. But the Indian is a better animal. His sensesare appreciably sharper than our own. 

In journeying down the Kapúskasíng River, our Indians--who had comefrom the woods to guide us--always saw game long before we did. Theywould never point it out to us. The bow of the canoe would swingsilently in its direction, there to rest motionless until we indicatedwe had seen something. 

"Where is it, Peter?" I would whisper. 

But Peter always remained contemptuously silent. 

One evening we paddled directly into the eye of the setting sunacross a shallow little lake filled with hardly sunken boulders. Therewas no current, and no breath of wind to stir the water into betrayingriffles. But invariably those Indians twisted the canoe into a newcourse ten feet before we reached one of the obstructions, whoseexistence our dazzled vision could not attest until they were actuallybelow us. They _saw_ those rocks, through the shimmer of thesurface glare. 

Another time I discovered a small black animal lying flat on a point ofshale. Its head was concealed behind a boulder, and it was so far awaythat I was inclined to congratulate myself on having differentiated itfrom the shadow. 

"What is it, Peter?" I asked. 

Peter hardly glanced at it. 

"Ninny-moósh" (dog), he replied. 

Now we were a hundred miles south of the Hudson's Bay post, and twoweeks north of any other settlement. Saving a horse, a dog would beabout the last thing to occur to one in guessing at the identity of anystrange animal. This looked like a little black blotch, without form. Yet Peter knew it. It was a dog, lost from some Indian hunting-party, and mightily glad to see us. 

The sense of smell, too, is developed to an extent positively uncannyto us who have needed it so little. Your Woods Indian is alwayssniffing, always testing the impressions of other senses by hisolfactories. Instances numerous and varied might be cited, but probablyone will do as well as a dozen. It once became desirable to kill acaribou in country where the animals are not at all abundant. Tawabinisáy volunteered to take Jim within shot of one. Jim describestheir hunt as the most wonderful bit of stalking he had ever seen. TheIndian followed the animal's tracks as easily as you or I could havefollowed them over snow. He did this rapidly and certainly. Every oncein a while he would get down on all fours to sniff inquiringly at thecrushed herbage. Always on rising to his feet he would give the resultof his investigations. "Ah-téek [caribou] one hour. "

And later, "Ah-téek half hour. "

Or again, "Ah-téek quarter hour. "

And finally, "Ah-téek over nex' hill. "

And it was so. 

In like manner, but most remarkable to us because the test of directcomparison with our own sense was permitted us, was their acuteness ofhearing. Often while "jumping" a roaring rapids in two canoes, mycompanion and I have heard our men talking to each other in quite anordinary tone of voice. That is to say, I could hear my Indian, and Jimcould hear his; but personally we were forced to shout loudly to carryacross the noise of the stream. The distant approach of animals theyannounce accurately. 

"Wawashkeshí" (deer), says Peter. 

And sure enough, after an interval, we too could distinguish thefootfalls on the dry leaves. 

As both cause and consequence of these physical endowments--which placethem nearly on a parity with the game itself--they are most experthunters. Every sportsman knows the importance--and also thedifficulty--of discovering game before it discovers him. The Indian hashere an immense advantage. And after game is discovered, he isfurthermore most expert in approaching it with all the refined art ofthe still hunter. 

Mr. Caspar Whitney describes in exasperation his experience with theIndians of the Far North-West. He complains that when they blunder ongame they drop everything and enter into almost hopeless chase, twolegs against four. Occasionally the quarry becomes enough bewildered sothat the wild shooting will bring it down. He quite justly argues thatthe merest pretence at caution in approach would result in much greatersuccess. 

The Woods Indian is no such fool. He is a mighty poor shot--and heknows it. Personally I believe he shuts both eyes before pullingtrigger. He is armed with a long flint or percussion lock musket, whosegas-pipe barrel is bound to the wood that runs its entire length bymeans of brass bands, and whose effective range must be about tenyards. This archaic implement is known as a "trade gun" and has thesingle merit of never getting out of order. Furthermore ammunition isprecious. In consequence, the wilderness hunter is not going to bemerely pretty sure; he intends to be absolutely certain. If he cannotapproach near enough to blow a hole in his prey, he does not fire. 

I have seen Peter drop into marsh-grass so thin that apparently wecould discern the surface of the ground through it, and disappear socompletely that our most earnest attention could not distinguish even arustling of the herbage. After an interval his gun would go off fromsome distant point, exactly where some ducks had been feeding serenelyoblivious to fate. Neither of us white men would have considered for amoment the possibility of getting any of them. Once I felt rather proudof myself for killing six ruffed grouse out of some trees with thepistol, until Peter drifted in carrying three he had bagged with astick. 

Another interesting phase of this almost perfect correspondence toenvironment is the readiness with which an Indian will meet anemergency. We are accustomed to rely first of all on the skilled labourof some one we can hire; second, if we undertake the job ourselves, onthe tools made for us by skilled labour; and third, on the shops tosupply us with the materials we may need. Not once in a lifetime are wethrown entirely on our own resources. Then we improvise bunglingly amakeshift. 

The Woods Indian possesses his knife and his light axe. Nails, planes, glue, chisels, vices, cord, rope, and all the rest of it he has to dowithout. But he never improvises makeshifts. No matter what theexigency or how complicated the demand, his experience answers withaccuracy. 

Utensils and tools he knows exactly where to find. His job is neat andworkmanlike, whether it is a bark receptacle--water-tight or not--apair of snow-shoes, the repairing of a badly-smashed canoe, theconstruction of a shelter, or the fashioning of a paddle. About noonone day Tawabinisáy broke his axe-helve square off. This to us wouldhave been a serious affair. Probably we should, left to ourselves, havestuck in some sort of a rough straight sapling handle which would haveanswered well enough until we could have bought another. By the time wehad cooked dinner that Indian had fashioned another helve. We comparedit with the store article. It was as well shaped, as smooth, as nicelybalanced. In fact, as we laid the new and the old side by side, wecould not have selected, from any evidence of the workmanship, whichhad been made by machine and which by hand. Tawabinisáy then burned outthe wood from the axe, retempered the steel, set the new helve, andwedged it neatly with ironwood wedges. The whole affair, including thecutting of the timber, consumed perhaps half an hour. 

To travel with a Woods Indian is a constant source of delight on thisaccount. So many little things that the white man does without, becausehe will not bother with their transportation, the Indian makes forhimself. And so quickly and easily! I have seen a thoroughlywaterproof, commodious, and comfortable bark shelter made in about thetime it would take one to pitch a tent. I have seen a raft built ofcedar logs and cedar bark ropes in an hour. I have seen a badly-stovecanoe made as good as new in fifteen minutes. The Indian rarely needsto hunt for the materials he requires. He knows exactly where theygrow, and he turns as directly to them as a clerk would turn to hisshelves. No problem of the living of physical life is too obscure tohave escaped his varied experience. You may travel with Indians foryears, and learn something new and delightful as to how to take care ofyourself every summer. 

The qualities I have mentioned come primarily from the fact that theWoods Indian is a hunter. I have now to instance two whose developmentcan be traced to the other fact--that he is a nomad. I refer to hisskill with the bark canoe and his ability to carry. 

I was once introduced to a man at a little way station of the CanadianPacific Railway in the following words:--

"Shake hands with Munson; he's as good a canoeman as an Indian. "

A little later one of the bystanders remarked to me:--

"That fellow you was just talking with is as good a canoeman as anInjun. "

Still later, at an entirely different place, a member of the barinformed me, in the course of discussion:--

"The only man I know of who can do it is named Munson. He is as good acanoeman as an Indian. "

At the time this unanimity of praise puzzled me a little. I thought Ihad seen some pretty good canoe work, and even cherished a mild conceitthat occasionally I could keep right side up myself. I knew Munson tobe a great woods-traveller, with many striking qualities, and why thisof canoemanship should be so insistently chosen above the others wasbeyond my comprehension. Subsequently a companion and I journeyed toHudson Bay with two birch canoes and two Indians. Since that trip Ihave had a vast respect for Munson. 

Undoubtedly among the half-breed and white guides of Lower Canada, Maine, and the Adirondacks are many skilful men. But they know theirwaters; they follow a beaten track. The Woods Indian--well, let me tellyou something of what he does. 

We went down the Kapúskasíng River to the Mattágami, and then down thatto the Moose. These rivers are at first but a hundred feet or so wide, but rapidly swell with the influx of numberless smaller streams. Twodays' journey brings you to a watercourse nearly half a mile inbreadth; two weeks finds you on a surface approximately a mile and ahalf across. All this water descends from the Height of Land to the sealevel. It does so through a rock country. The result is a series ofroaring, dashing boulder rapids and waterfalls that would make yourhair stand on end merely to contemplate from the banks. 

The regular route to Moose Factory is by the Missinaíbie. Our way wasnew and strange. No trails; no knowledge of the country. When we cameto a stretch of white water, the Indians would rise to their feet for asingle instant's searching examination of the stretch of tumbled waterbefore them. In that moment they picked the passage they were to followas well as a white man could have done so in half an hour's study. Thenwithout hesitation they shot their little craft at the green water. 

From that time we merely tried to sit still, each in his canoe. EachIndian did it all with his single paddle. He seemed to possess absolutecontrol over his craft. 

Even in the rush of water which seemed to hurry us on at almostrailroad speed, he could stop for an instant, work directly sideways, shoot forward at a slant, swing either his bow or his stern. An errorin judgment or in the instantaneous acting upon it meant a hit; and ahit in these savage North Country Rivers meant destruction. How my mankept in his mind the passage he had planned during his momentaryinspection was always to me a miracle. How he got so unruly a beast asthe birch canoe to follow it in that tearing volume of water was alwaysanother. Big boulders he dodged, eddies he took advantage of, slants ofcurrent he utilized. A fractional second of hesitation could not bepermitted him. But always the clutching of white hands from the rip atthe eddy finally conveyed to my spray-drenched faculties that the rapidwas safely astern. And this, mind you, in strange waters. 

Occasionally we would carry our outfit through the woods, while theIndians would shoot some especially bad water in the light canoe. As aspectacle nothing could be finer. The flash of the yellow bark, themovement of the broken waters, the gleam of the paddle, the tensealertness of the men's figures, their carven, passive faces, with thecontrast of the flashing eyes and the distended nostrils, then the leapinto space over some half-cataract, the smash of spray, the exultantyells of the canoemen! For your Indian enjoys the game thoroughly. Andit requires very bad water indeed to make him take to the brush. 

This is, of course, the spectacular. But also in the ordinary graybusiness of canoe travel the Woods Indian shows his superiority. He istireless, and composed as to wrist and shoulder of a number ofwhale-bone springs. From early dawn to dewy eve, and then a fewgratuitous hours into the night, he will dig energetic holes in thewater with his long, narrow blade. And every stroke counts. The waterboils out in a splotch of white air-bubbles, the little suction holespirouette like dancing-girls, the fabric of the craft itself tremblesunder the power of the stroke. Jim and I used, in the lake stretches, to amuse ourselves--and probably the Indians--by paddling in furiousrivalry one against the other. Then Peter would make up his mind hewould like to speak to Jacob. His canoe would shoot up alongside asthough the Old Man of the Lake had laid his hand across its stern. Would I could catch that trick of easy, tireless speed! I know it liessomewhat in keeping both elbows always straight and stiff, in a lurchforward of the shoulders at the end of the stroke. But that, and more!Perhaps one needs a copper skin and beady black eyes with surfacelights. 

Nor need you hope to pole a canoe upstream as do these people. Tawabinisáy uses two short poles, one in either hand, kneels amidships, and snakes that little old canoe of his upstream so fast that you wouldswear the rapids an easy matter--until you tried them yourself. We wereonce trailed up a river by an old Woods Indian and his interestingfamily. The outfit consisted of canoe Number One--_item_, one oldInjin, one boy of eight years, one dog; canoe Number Two--_item_, one old Injin squaw, one girl of eighteen or twenty, one dog; canoeNumber Three--_item_, two little girls of ten and twelve, onedog. We tried desperately for three days to get away from this party. It did not seem to work hard at all. We did. Even the two little girlsappeared to dip the contemplative paddle from time to time. Waterboiled back of our own blades. We started early and quit late, andabout as we congratulated ourselves over our evening fire that we haddistanced our followers at last, those three canoes would stealsilently and calmly about the lower bend to draw ashore below us. Inten minutes the old Indian was delivering an oration to us, squatted inresignation. 

The Red Gods alone know what he talked about. He had no English, andour Ojibway was of the strictly utilitarian. But for an hour he wouldhold forth. We called him Talk-in-the-Face, the Great Indian Chief. Then he would drop a mild hint for sáymon, which means tobacco, anddepart. By ten o'clock the next morning he and his people wouldovertake us in spite of our earlier start. Usually we were in the actof dragging our canoe through an especially vicious rapid by means of atow-line. Their three canoes, even to the children's, would ascendeasily by means of poles. Tow-lines appeared to be unsportsmanlike--likeangle-worms. Then the entire nine--including the dogs--would roost onrocks and watch critically our methods. 

The incident had one value, however: it showed us just why these peoplepossess the marvellous canoe skill I have attempted to sketch. Thelittle boy in the leading canoe was not over eight or nine years ofage, but he had his little paddle and his little canoe-pole, and, whatis more, he already used them intelligently and well. As for the littlegirls--well, they did easily feats I never hope to emulate, and thatwithout removing the cowl-like coverings from their heads andshoulders. 

The same early habitude probably accounts for their ability to carryweights long distances. The Woods Indian is not a mighty manphysically. Most of them are straight and well built, but of onlymedium height, and not wonderfully muscled. Peter was most beautiful, but in the fashion of the flying Mercury, with long smooth panthermuscles. He looked like Uncas, especially when his keen hawk-face wasfixed in distant attention. But I think I could have wrestled Peterdown. Yet time and again I have seen that Indian carry two hundredpounds for some miles through a rough country absolutely withouttrails. And once I was witness of a feat of Tawabinisáy, when that wilysavage portaged a pack of fifty pounds and a two-man canoe through ahill country for four hours and ten minutes without a rest. Tawabinisáyis even smaller than Peter. 

So much for the qualities developed by the woods life. Let us nowexamine what may be described as the inherent characteristics of thepeople. 

XVI. 

ON WOODS INDIANS (_continued_). 

It must be understood, of course, that I offer you only the best of mysubject. A people counts for what it does well. Also I instance men ofstanding in the loose Indian body politic. A traveller can easilydiscover the reverse of the medal. These have their shirks, theirdo-nothings, their men of small account, just as do other races. I haveno thought of glorifying the noble red man, nor of claiming for him afreedom from human imperfection--even where his natural quality andtraining count the most--greater than enlightenment has been able toreach. 

In my experience the honesty of the Woods Indian is of a very highorder. The sense of _mine_ and _thine_ is strongly forced bythe exigencies of the North Woods life. A man is always on the move; heis always exploring the unknown countries. Manifestly it is impossiblefor him to transport the entire sum of his worldly effects. Theimplements of winter are a burden in summer. Also the return journeyfrom distant shores must be provided for by food-stations, to be reliedon. The solution of these needs is the cache. 

And the cache is not a literal term at all. It _conceals_ nothing. Rather does it hold aloft in long-legged prominence, for the inspectionof all who pass, what the owner has seen fit to leave behind. A heavyplatform high enough from the ground to frustrate the investigations ofanimals is all that is required. Visual concealment is unnecessary, because in the North Country a cache is sacred. On it may depend thelife of a man. He who leaves provisions must find them on his return, for he may reach them starving, and the length of his out-journey maydepend on his certainty of relief at this point on his in-journey. Somen passing touch not his hoard, for some day they may be in the samefix, and a precedent is a bad thing. 

[Illustration: NOR NEED YOU HOPE TO POLE A CANOE UPSTREAM AS DO THESEPEOPLE. ]

Thus in parts of the wildest countries of northern Canada I haveunexpectedly come upon a birch canoe in capsized suspension between twotrees; or a whole bunch of snow-shoes depending fruit-like beneath thefans of a spruce; or a tangle of steel traps thrust into the crevice ofa tree-root; or a supply of pork and flour, swathed like an Egyptianmummy, occupying stately a high bier. These things we have passed byreverently, as symbols of a people's trust in its kind. 

The same sort of honesty holds in regard to smaller things. I havenever hesitated to leave in my camp firearms, fishing-rods, utensilsvaluable from a woods point of view, even a watch or money. Not onlyhave I never lost anything in that manner, but once an Indian ladfollowed me some miles after the morning's start to restore to me ahalf-dozen trout flies I had accidentally left behind. 

It might be readily inferred that this quality carries over into thesubtleties, as indeed is the case. Mr. MacDonald of Brunswick Houseonce discussed with me the system of credits carried on by the Hudson'sBay Company with the trappers. Each family is advanced goods to thevalue of two hundred dollars, with the understanding that the debt isto be paid from the season's catch. 

"I should think you would lose a good deal, " I ventured. "Nothing couldbe easier than for an Indian to take his two hundred dollars' worth anddisappear in the woods. You'd never be able to find him. "

Mr. MacDonald's reply struck me, for the man had twenty years' tradingexperience. 

"I have never, " said he, "in a long woods life known but one Indianliar. "

This my own limited woods-wandering has proved to be true to asometimes almost ridiculous extent. The most trivial statement of factcan be relied on, provided it is given outside of trade or enmity orabsolute indifference. The Indian loves to fool the tenderfoot. But asober, measured statement you can conclude is accurate. And if anIndian promises a thing, he will accomplish it. He expects you to dothe same. Watch your lightest words carefully and you would retain therespect of your red associates. 

On our way to the Hudson Bay we rashly asked Peter, towards the last, when we should reach Moose Factory. He deliberated. 

"T'ursday, " said he. 

Things went wrong; Thursday supplied a head wind. We had absolutely nointerest in reaching Moose Factory next day; the next week would havedone as well. But Peter, deaf to expostulation, entreaty, and command, kept us travelling from six in the morning until after twelve at night. We couldn't get him to stop. Finally he drew the canoes ashore. 

"Moose-amik quarter hour, " said he. 

He had kept his word. 

The Ojibway possesses a great pride which the unthinking can rufflequite unconsciously in many ways. Consequently the Woods Indian isvariously described as a good guide or a bad one. The difference liesin whether you suggest or command. 

"Peter, you've got to make Chicawgun to-night. Get a move on you!" willbring you sullen service, and probably breed kicks on the grub supply, which is the immediate precursor of mutiny. 

"Peter, it's a long way to Chicawgun. Do you think we make himto-night?" on the other hand, will earn you at least a seriousconsideration of the question. And if Peter says you can, you will. 

For the proper man the Ojibway takes a great pride in his woodcraft, the neatness of his camps, the savoury quality of his cookery, theexpedition of his travel, the size of his packs, the patience of hisendurance. On the other hand, he can be as sullen, inefficient, stupid, and vindictive as any man of any race on earth. I suppose the facultyof getting along with men is largely inherent. Certainly it is blendedof many subtleties. To be friendly, to retain respect, to praise, topreserve authority, to direct and yet to leave detail, to exact what isdue, and yet to deserve it--these be the qualities of a leader, andcannot be taught. 

In general the Woods Indian is sober. He cannot get whisky regularly, to be sure, but I have often seen the better class of Ojibways refuse adrink, saying that they did not care for it. He starves well, and keepsgoing on nothing long after hope is vanished. He is patient--yea, verypatient--under toil, and so accomplishes great journeys, overcomesgreat difficulties, and does great deeds by means of this handmaiden ofgenius. According to his own standards is he clean. To be sure hisbaths are not numerous, nor his laundry-days many, but he never cooksuntil he has washed his hands and arms to the very shoulders. Otherdetails would but corroborate the impression of this instance--that hisideas differ from ours, as is his right, but that he lives up to hisideas. Also is he hospitable, expecting nothing in return. After yourcanoe is afloat and your paddle in the river, two or three of hisyoungsters will splash in after you to toss silver fish to yournecessities. And so always he will wait until this last moment ofdeparture, in order that you will not feel called on to give himsomething in return. Which is true tact and kindliness, and worthy ofhigh praise. 

Perhaps I have not strongly enough insisted that the Indian nationsdiffer as widely from one another as do unallied races. We found thisto be true even in the comparatively brief journey from Chapleau toMoose. After pushing through a trackless wilderness without having laideyes on a human being, excepting the single instance of three French_voyageurs_ going Heaven knows where, we were anticipatingpleasurably our encounter with the traders at the Factory, andnaturally supposed that Peter and Jacob would be equally pleased at thechance of visiting with their own kind. Not at all. When we reachedMoose our Ojibways wrapped themselves in a mantle of dignity, andstalked scornful amidst obsequious clans. For the Ojibway is greatamong Indians, verily much greater than the Moose River Crees. Had itbeen a question of Rupert's River Crees with their fierce blood-laws, their conjuring-lodges, and their pagan customs, the affair might havebeen different. 

For, mark you, the Moose River Cree is little among hunters, and heconducts the chase miscellaneously over his district without thought tothe preservation of the beaver, and he works in the hay marshes duringthe summer, and is short, squab, and dirty, and generally_ka-win-ni-shi-shin_. The old sacred tribal laws, which are betterthan a religion because they are practically adapted to northern life, have among them been allowed to lapse. Travellers they are none, nor dotheir trappers get far from the Company's pork-barrels. So they inbreedignobly for lack of outside favour, and are dying from the face of theland through dire diseases, just as their reputations have already diedfrom men's respect. 

The great unwritten law of the forest is that, save as provision duringlegitimate travel, one may not hunt in his neighbour's district. Eachtrapper has assigned him, or gets by inheritance or purchase, certainterritorial power. In his land he alone may trap. He knows thebeaver-dams, how many animals each harbours, how large a catch eachwill stand without diminution of the supply. So the fur is made tolast. In the southern district this division is tacitly agreed upon. Itis not etiquette to poach. What would happen to a poacher no one knows, simply because the necessity for finding out has not arisen. Tawabinisáy controls from Batchawanúng to Agawa. There old Waboos takescharge. And so on. But in the Far North the control is more oftendisputed, and there the blood-law still holds. An illegal trapper baitshis snares with his life. If discovered, he is summarily shot. So isthe game preserved. 

The Woods Indian never kills waste-fully. The mere presence of gamedoes not breed in him a lust to slaughter something. Moderation youlearn of him first of all. Later, provided you are with him long enoughand your mind is open to mystic influence, you will feel the strongimpress of his idea--that the animals of the forest are not lower thanman, but only different. Man is an animal living the life of theforest; the beasts are also a body politic speaking a differentlanguage and with different view-points. Amik, the beaver, has certainideas as to the conduct of life, certain habits of body, and certainbias of thought. His scheme of things is totally at variance with thatheld by Me-en-gan, the wolf, but even to us whites the two are on aparity. Man has still another system. One is no better than another. They are merely different. And just as Me-en-gan preys on Amik, so doesMan kill for his own uses. 

Thence are curious customs. A Rupert River Cree will not kill a bearunless he, the hunter, is in gala attire, and then not until he hasmade a short speech in which he assures his victim that the affair isnot one of personal enmity, but of expedience, and that anyway he, thebear, will be better off in the Hereafter. And then the skull iscleaned and set on a pole near running water, there to remain duringtwelve moons. Also at the tail-root of a newly-deceased beaver is tieda thong braided of red wool and deerskin. And many other curioushabitudes which would be of slight interest here. Likewise do theyconjure up by means of racket and fasting the familiar spirits ofdistant friends or enemies, and on these spirits fasten a blessing or acurse. 

From this it may be deduced that missionary work has not been asthorough as might be hoped. That is true. The Woods Indian loves tosing, and possesses quaint melodies, or rather intonations, of his own. But especially does he delight in the long-drawn wail of some of ourold-fashioned hymns. The church oftenest reaches him through them. Iknow nothing stranger than the sight of a little half-lit church filledwith Indians swaying unctuously to and fro in the rhythm of a cadenceold Watts would have recognized with difficulty. The religious feelingof the performance is not remarkable, but perhaps it does as astarting-point. 

Exactly how valuable the average missionary work is I have been puzzledto decide. Perhaps the church needs more intelligence in the men itsends out. The evangelist is usually filled with narrow, preconceivednotions as to the proper physical life. He squeezes his savage into loghouses, boiled shirts, and boots. When he has succeeded in getting histuberculosis crop well started, he offers as compensation a doctrinalreligion admirably adapted to us, who have within reach ofcentury-trained perceptions a thousand of the subtler associations asavage can know nothing about. If there is enough glitter and tinsteeple and high-sounding office and gilt good-behaviour card to it, the red man's pagan heart is tickled in its vanity, and he dies in theodour of sanctity--and of a filth his out-of-door life has never taughthim how to avoid. The Indian is like a raccoon: in his propersurroundings he is clean morally and physically because he knows how tobe so; but in a cage he is filthy because he does not know how to beotherwise. 

I must not be understood as condemning missionary work; only the stupidmissionary work one most often sees in the North. Surely Christianityshould be adaptable enough in its little things to fit any people withits great. It seems hard for some men to believe that it is notessential for a real Christian to wear a plug-hat. One God, love, kindness, charity, honesty, right living, may thrive as well in thewigwam as in a foursquare house--provided you let them wear moccasinsand a _capote_ wherewith to keep themselves warm and vital. 

Tawabinisáy must have had his religious training at the hands of a goodman. He had lost none of his aboriginal virtue and skill, as may begathered from what I have before said of him, and had gained inaddition certain of the gentle qualities. I have never been able togauge exactly the extent of his religious _understanding_, forTawabinisáy is a silent individual, and possesses very little English;but I do know that his religious _feeling_ was deep and reverent. He never swore in English; he did not drink; he never travelled orhunted or fished on Sunday when he could possibly help it. Thesevirtues he wore modestly and unassumingly as an accustomed garment. Yethe was the most gloriously natural man I have ever met. 

The main reliance of his formalism when he was off in the woods seemedto be a little tattered volume, which he perused diligently all Sunday, and wrapped carefully in a strip of oiled paper during the rest of theweek. One day I had a chance to look at this book while its owner wasaway after spring water. Every alternate page was in the phoneticIndian symbols, of which more hereafter. The rest was in French, andevidently a translation. Although the volume was of Roman Catholicorigin, creed was conspicuously subordinated to the needs of the classit aimed to reach. A confession of faith, quite simple, in one God, aSaviour, a Mother of Heaven; a number of Biblical extracts rich inimagery and applicability to the experience of a woods-dweller; a dozensimple prayers of the kind the natural man would oftenest find occasionto express--a prayer for sickness, for bounty, for fair weather, forease of travel, for the smiling face of Providence; and then somehymns. To me the selection seemed most judicious. It answered the needsof Tawabinisáy's habitual experiences, and so the red man was a goodand consistent convert. Irresistibly I was led to contemplate the ideaof any one trying to get Tawabinisáy to live in a house, to cutcordwood with an axe, to roost on a hard bench under a tin steeple, towear stiff shoes, and to quit forest roaming. 

The written language mentioned above you will see often in theNorthland. Whenever an Indian band camps, it blazes a tree and leaves, as record for those who may follow, a message written in the phoneticcharacter. I do not understand exactly the philosophy of it, but Igather that each sound has a symbol of its own, like shorthand, andthat therefore even totally different languages--such as Ojibway, theWood Cree, or the Hudson Bay Eskimos--may all be written in the samecharacter. It was invented nearly a hundred years ago by a priest. Sosimple is it, and so needed a method of intercommunication, that itsuse is now practically universal. Even the youngsters understand it, for they are early instructed in its mysteries during the long winterevenings. On the preceding page is a message I copied from a sprucetree two hundred miles from anywhere on the Mattágami River. 

[Illustration]

Besides this are numberless formal symbols in constant use. Forerunnerson a trail stick a twig in the ground whose point indicates exactly theposition of the sun. Those who follow are able to estimate, by notinghow far beyond the spot the twig points to the sun has travelled, howlong a period of time has elapsed. A stick pointed in any givendirection tells the route, of course. Another planted upright acrossthe first shows by its position how long a journey is contemplated. Alittle sack suspended at the end of the pointer conveys information asto the state of the larder, lean or fat according as the little sackcontains more or less gravel or sand. A shred of rabbit-skin meansstarvation. And so on in variety useless in any but an ethnologicalwork. 

[Illustration 1: A short journey. ]

[Illustration 2: A medium journey. ]

[Illustration 3: A long journey. ]

The Ojibways' tongue is soft, and full of decided lisping and sustainedhissing sounds. It is spoken with somewhat of a sing-song drawl. Wealways had a fancy that somehow it was of forest growth, and that itssyllables were intended in the scheme of things to blend with the woodsnoises, just as the feathers of the mother partridge blend with thewoods colours. In general it is polysyllabic. That applies especiallyto concepts borrowed of the white men. On the other hand, the Ojibwaysdescribe in monosyllables many ideas we could express only in phrase. They have a single word for the notion, Place-where-an-animal-slept-last-night. Our "lair, " "form, " etc. , do not mean exactly that. Itsgenius, moreover, inclines to a flexible verb-form, by which adjectivesand substantives are often absorbed into the verb itself, so that onebeautiful singing word will convey a whole paragraph of information. Mylittle knowledge of it is so entirely empirical that it can possess smallvalue. 

In concluding these desultory remarks, I want to tell you of a verycurious survival among the Ojibways and Ottawas of the Georgian Bay. Itseems that some hundreds of years ago these ordinarily peaceful folkdescended on the Iroquois in what is now New York, and massacred avillage or so. Then, like small boys who have thrown only tooaccurately at the delivery wagon, they scuttled back home again. 

Since that time they have lived in deadly fear of retribution. TheIroquois have long since disappeared from the face of the earth, buteven to-day the Georgian Bay Indians are subject to periodical spasmsof terror. Some wild-eyed and imaginative youth sees at sunset a canoefar down the horizon. Immediately the villages are abandoned in haste, and the entire community moves up to the head-waters of streams, thereto lurk until convinced that all danger is past. It does no good totell these benighted savages that they are safe from vengeance, atleast in this world. The dreaded name of Iroquois is potent, evenacross the centuries. 

XVII. 

THE CATCHING OF A CERTAIN FISH. 

We settled down peacefully on the River, and the weather, after so muchenmity, was kind to us. Likewise did the flies disappear from the woodsutterly. 

Each morning we arose as the Red Gods willed; generally early, when thesun was just gilding the peaks to the westward; but not too early, before the white veil had left the River. Billy, with woodsman'scontempt for economy, hewed great logs and burned them nobly in thecooking of trout, oatmeal, pancakes, and the like. We had constructedourselves tables and benches between green trees, and there we ate. Andgreat was the eating beyond the official capacity of the human stomach. There offered little things to do, delicious little things just on thehither side of idleness. A rod wrapping needed more waxed silk; afavourite fly required attention to prevent dissolution; the pistol wasto be cleaned; a flag-pole seemed desirable; a trifle more of balsamcould do no harm; clothes might stand drying, blankets airing. Weaccomplished these things leisurely, pausing for the telling ofstories, for the puffing of pipes, for the sheer joy of contemplations. Deerskin slipper moccasins and flapping trousers attested ourdeshabille. And then somehow it was noon, and Billy again at the Dutchoven and the broiler. 

Trout we ate, and always more trout. Big fellows broiled with strips ofbacon craftily sewn in and out of the pink flesh; medium fellows cutinto steaks; little fellows fried crisp in corn-meal; big, medium, andlittle fellows mingled in component of the famous North Country_bouillon_, whose other ingredients are partridges, and tomatoes, and potatoes, and onions, and salt pork, and flour in combinationdelicious beyond belief. Nor ever did we tire of them, three times aday, printed statement to the contrary notwithstanding. And besideswere many crafty dishes over whose construction the major portion ofmorning idleness was spent. 

Now at two o'clock we groaned temporary little groans; and crawledshrinking into our river clothes, which we dared not hang too near thefire for fear of the disintegrating scorch, and drew on soggy hobnailedshoes with holes cut in the bottom and plunged with howls of disgustinto the upper riffles. Then the cautious leg-straddled passage of theswift current, during which we forgot for ever--which eternity alonecircles the bliss of an afternoon on the River--the chill of the water, and so came to the trail. 

Now, at the Idiot's Delight Dick and I parted company. By three o'clockI came again to the River, far up, halfway to the Big Falls. Deucewatched me gravely. With the first click of the reel he retired to thebrush away from the back cast, there to remain until the pool wasfished and we could continue our journey. 

In the swift leaping water, at the smooth back of the eddy, in thewhite foam, under the dark cliff shadow, here, there, everywhere thebright flies drop softly like strange snowflakes. The game is asinteresting as pistol-shooting. To hit the mark, that is enough. Andthen a swirl of water and a broad lazy tail wake you to the fact thatother matters are yours. Verily the fish of the North Country aremighty beyond all others. 

Over the River rests the sheen of light; over the hills rests the sheenof romance. The land is enchanted. Birds dip and sway, advance andretreat; leaves toss their hands in greeting, or bend and whisper oneto the other; splashes of sun fall heavy as metal through the yieldingscreens of branches; little breezes wander hesitatingly here and thereto sink like spent kites on the nearest bar of sun-warmed shingle; thestream shouts and gurgles, murmurs, hushes, lies still and secret asthough to warn you to discretion, breaks away with a shriek of hilaritywhen your discretion has been assured. There is in you a great leisure, as though the day would never end. There is in you a great keenness. One part of you is vibrantly alive. Your wrist muscles contract almostautomatically at the swirl of a rise, and the hum of life along thegossamer of your line gains its communication with every nerve in yourbody. The question of gear and method you attack clear-minded. Whatfly? Montreal, Parmachenee Belle, Royal Coachman, Silver Doctor, Professor, Brown Hackle, Cow-dung--these grand lures for the NorthCountry trout receive each its due test and attention. And on the tailsnell what fisherman has not the Gamble--the unusual, obscure, multinamed fly which may, in the occultism of his taste, attract theBig Fellows? Besides, there remains always the handling. Does yourtrout to-day fancy the skittering of his food, or the withdrawal inthree jerks, or the inch-deep sinking of the fly? Does he want itacross current or up current; will he rise with a snap, or is he goingto come slowly, or is he going to play? These be problems interesting, insistent to be solved, with the ready test within the reach of yourskill. 

But that alertness is only one side of your mood. No matter howdifficult the selection, how strenuous the fight, there is in you alarge feeling that might almost be described as Buddhistic. Time hasnothing to do with your problems. The world has quietly run down, andhas been embalmed with all its sweetness of light and colour and soundin a warm Lethe bath of sun. This afternoon is going to last for ever. You note and enjoy and savour the little pleasures unhurried by thethought that anything else, whether of pleasure or duty, is to follow. 

And so for long delicious eons. The River flows on, ever on; the hillswatch, watch always; the birds sing, the sun shines grateful acrossyour shoulders; the big trout and the little rise in predestined order, and make their predestined fight, and go their predestined way eitherto liberty or the creel; the pools and the rapids and the riffles slipby upstream as though they had been withdrawn rather than as though youhad advanced. 

Then suddenly the day has dropped its wings. The earth moves forwardwith a jar. Things are to be accomplished; things are beingaccomplished. The River is hurrying down to the Lake; the birds havebusiness of their own to attend to, an it please you; the hills arewaiting for something that has not yet happened, but they are ready. Startled, you look up. The afternoon has finished. Your last step hastaken you over the edge of the shadow cast by the setting sun acrossthe range of hills. 

For the first time you look about you to see where you are. It has notmattered before. Now you know that shortly it will be dark. Stillremain below you four pools. A great haste seizes you. 

"If I take my rod apart and strike through the woods, " you argue, "Ican make the Narrows, and I am sure there is a big trout there. "

Why the Narrows should be any more likely to contain a big trout thanany of the other three pools you would not be able to explain. In halfan hour it will be dark. You hurry. In the forest it is alreadytwilight, but by now you know the forest well. Preoccupied, feverishwith your great idea, you hasten on. The birds, silent all in thebrooding of night, rise ghostly to right and left. Shadows steal awaylike hostile spies among the treetrunks. The silver of last daylightgleams ahead of you through the brush. You know it for the Narrows, whither the instinct of your eagerness has led you as accurately as acompass through the forest. 

Fervently, as though this were of world's affairs the most important, you congratulate yourself on being in time. Your rod seems to joinitself. In a moment the cast drops like a breath on the molten silver. Nothing. Another try a trifle lower down. Nothing. A little wanderingbreeze spoils your fourth attempt, carrying the leader far to the left. Curses, deep and fervent. The daylight is fading, draining away. Afifth cast falls forty feet out. Slowly you drag the flies across thecurrent, reluctant to recover until the latest possible moment. And so, when your rod is foolishly upright, your line slack, and your fliesmotionless, there rolls slowly up and over the trout of trouts. You seea broad side, the whirl of a fantail that looks to you to be at leastsix inches across; and the current slides on, silver-like, smooth, indifferent to the wild leap of your heart. 

[Illustration: THEN IN THE TWILIGHT THEY BATHE. ]

Like a crazy man you shorten your line. Six seconds later your fliesfall skilfully just upstream from where last you saw that wonderfultail. 

But six seconds may be a long, long period of time. You have feared andhoped and speculated and realized; feared that the leviathan haspricked himself, and so will not rise again; hoped that his appearancemerely indicated curiosity which he will desire further to satisfy;speculated on whether your skill can drop the fly exactly on that spot, as it must be dropped; and realized that, whatever be the truth as toall those fears and hopes and speculations, this is irrevocably yourlast chance. 

For an instant you allow the flies to drift downstream, to be floatedhere and there by idle little eddies, to be sucked down and spat out oftiny suction-holes. Then cautiously you draw them across the surface ofthe waters. _Thump--thump--thump_--your heart slows up withdisappointment. Then mysteriously, like the stirring of the waters bysome invisible hand, the molten silver is broken in its smoothness. TheRoyal Coachman quietly disappears. With all the brakes shrieking onyour desire to shut your eyes and heave a mighty heave, you depressyour butt and strike. 

Then in the twilight the battle. No leisure is here, only quivering, intense, agonized anxiety. The affair transcends the moment. Purposesand necessities of untold ages have concentrated, so that somehow backof your consciousness rest hosts of disembodied hopes, tendencies, evolutionary progressions, all breathless lest you prove unequal to thestruggle for which they have been so long preparing. 

Responsibility--vast, vague, formless--is yours. Only the fact that youare wholly occupied with the exigence of the moment prevents yourunderstanding of what it is, but it hovers dark and depressing behindyour possible failure. You must win. This is no fish; it is opportunityitself, and once gone it will never return. The mysticism of lower duskin the forest, of upper afterglow on the hills, of the chill of eveningwaters and winds, of the glint of strange phantoms under the darknessof cliffs, of the whisperings and shoutings of Things you are too busyto identify out in the gray of North Country awe--all these menace youwith indeterminate dread. Knee-deep, waist-deep, swift water, slackwater, downstream, upstream, with red eyes straining into the dimness, with every muscle taut and every nerve quivering, you follow theripping of your line. You have consecrated yourself to the uttermost. The minutes stalk by you gigantic. You are a stable pin-point inwhirling phantasms. And you are very little, very small, veryinadequate among these Titans of circumstance. 

Thrice he breaks water, a white and ghostly apparition from the deep. Your heart stops with your reel, and only resumes its office when againthe line sings safely. The darkness falls, and with it, like themysterious strength of Sir Gareth's opponent, falls the power of youradversary. His rushes shorten. The blown world of your uncertaintyshrinks to the normal. From the haze of your consciousness, as througha fog, loom the old familiar forest, and the hills, and the River. Slowly you creep from that strange enchanted land. The sullen troutyields. In all gentleness you float him within reach of your net. Quietly, breathlessly you walk ashore, and over the beach, and yet anunnecessary hundred feet from the water lest he retain still a flop. Then you lay him upon the stones and lift up your heart in rejoicing. 

How you get to camp you never clearly know. Exultation lifts your feet. Wings, wings, O ye Red Gods, wings to carry the body whither the spirithath already soared, and stooped, and circled back in impatience to seewhy still the body lingers! Ordinarily you can cross the riffles abovethe Halfway Pool only with caution and prayer and a stout staffcraftily employed. This night you can--and do--splash across hand-free, as recklessly as you would wade a little brook. There is no stumble inyou, for you have done a great deed, and the Red Gods are smiling. 

Through the trees glows a light, and in the centre of that light areleaping flames, and in the circle of that light stand, rough-hewn inorange, the tent and the table and the waiting figures of yourcompanions. You stop short, and swallow hard, and saunter into camp asone indifferent. 

Carelessly you toss aside your creel--into the darkest corner, asthough it were unimportant--nonchalantly you lean your rod against theslant of your tent, wearily you seat yourself and begin to draw offyour drenched garments. Billy bends toward the fire. Dick gets you yourdry clothes. Nobody says anything, for everybody is hungry. No one asksyou any questions, for on the River you get in almost any time ofnight. 

Finally, as you are hanging your wet things near the fire, you inquirecasually over your shoulder, --

"Dick, have any luck?"

Dick tells you. You listen with apparent interest. He has caught athree-pounder. He describes the spot and the method and the struggle. He is very much pleased. You pity him. 

The three of you eat supper, lots of supper. Billy arises first, filling his pipe. He hangs water over the fire for the dish-washing. You and Dick sit hunched on a log, blissfully happy in the moments ofdigestion, ruminative, watching the blaze. The tobacco smoke eddies andsucks upward to join the wood smoke. Billy moves here and there in thefulfilment of his simple tasks, casting his shadow wavering andgigantic against the fire-lit trees. By-and-by he has finished. Hegathers up the straps of Dick's creel, and turns to the shadow for yourown. He is going to clean the fish. It is the moment you have watchedfor. You shroud yourself in profound indifference. 

"_Sacré!_" shrieks Billy. 

You do not even turn your head. 

"Jumping giraffes! why, it's a whale!" cries Dick. 

You roll a _blasé_ eye in their direction, as though such puerileenthusiasm wearies you. 

"Yes, it's quite a little fish, " you concede. 

They swarm down upon you, demanding particulars. These you accordlaconically, a word at a time, in answer to direct question, betweenpuffs of smoke. 

"At the Narrows. Royal Coachman. Just before I came in. Pretty fairfight. Just at the edge of the eddy. " And so on. But your soul glories. 

The tape-line is brought out. Twenty-nine inches it records. Holysmoke, what a fish! Your air implies that you will probably catch threemore just like him on the morrow. Dick and Billy make tracings of himon the birch bark. You retain your lofty calm: but inside you arelittle quivers of rapture. And when you awake, late in the night, youare conscious, first of all, that you are happy, happy, happy, allthrough; and only when the drowse drains away do you remember why. 

XVIII. 

MAN WHO WALKS BY MOONLIGHT. 

We had been joined on the River by friends. "Doug, " who never fishedmore than forty rods from camp, and was always inventing water-gauges, patent indicators, and other things, and who wore in his soft slouchhat so many brilliant trout flies that he irresistibly reminded you offlower-decked Ophelia; "Dinnis, " who was large and good-natured, andbubbling and popular; Johnny, whose wide eyes looked for the first timeon the woods-life, and whose awe-struck soul concealed itself behindassumptions; "Jim, " six feet tall and three feet broad, with whom theseason before I had penetrated to Hudson Bay; and finally, "Doc, " tall, granite, experienced, the best fisherman that ever hit the river. Withthese were Indians. Buckshot, a little Indian with a good knowledge ofEnglish; Johnnie Challán, a half-breed Indian, ugly, furtive, anefficient man about camp; and Tawabinisáy himself. This was an honourdue to the presence of Doc. Tawabinisáy approved of Doc. That was allthere was to say about it. 

After a few days, inevitably the question of Kawágama came up. Billy, Johnnie Challán, and Buckshot squatted in a semi-circle, and drewdiagrams in the soft dirt with a stick. Tawabinisáy sat on a log andoverlooked the proceedings. Finally he spoke. 

"Tawabinisáy" (they always gave him his full title; we called himTawáb) "tell me lake you find he no Kawágama, " translated Buckshot. "Hecalled Black Beaver Lake. "

"Ask him if he'll take us to Kawágama, " I requested. 

Tawabinisáy looked very doubtful. 

"Come on, Tawáb, " urged Doc, nodding at him vigorously. "Don't be aclam. We won't take anybody else up there. "

The Indian probably did not comprehend the words, but he liked Doc. 

"A'-right, " he pronounced laboriously. 

Buckshot explained to us his plans. 

"Tawabinisáy tell me, " said he, "he don' been to Kawágama seven year. To-morrow he go blaze trail. Nex' day we go. "

"How would it be if one or two of us went with him to-morrow to see howhe does it?" asked Jim. 

Buckshot looked at us strangely. 

"_I_ don't want to follow him, " he replied, with a significantsimplicity. "He run like a deer. "

"Buckshot, " said I, pursuing the inevitable linguistics, "what doesKawágama mean?"

Buckshot thought for quite two minutes. Then he drew a semicircle. 

"W'at you call dat?" he asked. 

"Crescent, like moon? half-circle? horseshoe? bow?" we proposed. 

Buckshot shook his head at each suggestion. He made a wriggling mark, then a wide sweep, then a loop. 

"All dose, " said he, "w'at you call him?"

"Curve!" we cried. 

"Áh hah, " assented Buckshot, satisfied. 

"Buckshot, " we went on, "what does Tawabinisáy mean?"

"Man-who-travels-by-moonlight, " he replied promptly. 

The following morning Tawabinisáy departed, carrying a lunch and ahand-axe. At four o'clock he was back, sitting on a log and smoking apipe. In the meantime we had made up our party. 

Tawabinisáy himself had decided that the two half-breeds must stay athome. He wished to share his secret only with his own tribesmen. Thefiat grieved Billy, for behold he had already put in much time on thisvery search, and naturally desired to be in at the finish. Dick, too, wanted to go, but him we decided too young and light for a fast march. Dinnis had to leave the River in a day or so; Johnnie was a littledoubtful as to the tramp, although he concealed his doubt--at least tohis own satisfaction--under a variety of excuses. Jim and Doc would go, of course. There remained Doug. 

We found that individual erecting a rack of many projecting arms--likea Greek warrior's trophy--at the precise spot where the first rays ofthe morning sun would strike it. On the projecting arms he purposedhanging his wet clothes. 

"Doug, " said we, "do you want to go to Kawágama to-morrow?"

Doug turned on us a sardonic eye. He made no direct answer, but toldthe following story:--

"Once upon a time Judge Carter was riding through a rural district inVirginia. He stopped at a negro's cabin to get his direction. 

"'Uncle, ' said he, 'can you direct me to Colonel Thompson's?'

"'Yes, sah, ' replied the negro; 'yo' goes down this yah road 'bout twomile till yo' comes to an ol' ailm tree, and then yo' tu'us sha'p toth' right down a lane fo' 'bout a qua'ter of a mile. Thah you sees abig white house. Yo' wants to go through th' ya'd, to a paf that takesyou a spell to a gate. Yo' follows that road to th' lef till yo' comesto three roads goin' up a hill; and, jedge, _it don' mattah which oneof them thah roads yo' take, yo' gets lost surer 'n hell anyway!_'"

Then Doug turned placidly back to the construction of his trophy. 

We interpreted this as an answer, and made up an outfit for five. 

The following morning at six o'clock we were under way. Johnnie Challánferried us across the river in two instalments. We waved our hands andplunged through the brush screen. 

Thenceforth it was walk half an hour, rest five minutes, with almostthe regularity of clockwork. We timed the Indians secretly, and foundthey varied by hardly a minute from absolute fidelity to this schedule. We had at first, of course, to gain the higher level of the hills, butTawabinisáy had the day before picked out a route that mounted aseasily as the country would allow, and through a hardwood forest freeof underbrush. Briefly indicated, our way led first through the bigtrees and up the hills, then behind a great cliff knob into a creekvalley, through a quarter-mile of bottom-land thicket, then by an openstrip to the first little lake. This we ferried by means of the barkcanoe carried on the shoulders of Tawabinisáy. 

In the course of the morning we thus passed four lakes. Throughout theentire distance to Kawágama were the fresh axe-blazes the Indian hadmade the day before. These were neither so frequent nor as plainly cutas a white man's trail, but each represented a pause long enough forthe clip of an axe. In addition the trail had been made passable for acanoe. That meant the cutting out of overhanging branches wherever theymight catch the bow of the craft. In the thicket a little road had beencleared, and the brush had been piled on either side. To anunaccustomed eye it seemed the work of two days at least. YetTawabinisáy had picked out his route, cleared and marked it thus, skirted the shores of the lakes we were able to traverse in the canoe, and had returned to the River in less time than we consumed in merelyreaching the Lake itself! Truly, as Buckshot said, he must have "runlike a deer. "

Tawabinisáy has a delightful grin which he displays when pleased orgood-humoured or puzzled or interested or comprehending, just as a dogsneezes and wrinkles up his nose in like case. He is essentiallykind-hearted. If he likes you and approves of you, he tries to teachyou, to help you, to show you things. But he never offers to do anypart of your work, and on the march he never looks back to see if youare keeping up. You can shout at him until you are black in the face, but never will he pause until rest-time. Then he squats on his heels, lights his pipe, and grins. 

Buckshot adored him. This opportunity of travelling with him was anepoch. He drank in eagerly the brief remarks of his "old man, " anddetailed them to us with solemnity, prefaced always by his "Tawabinisáytell me. " Buckshot is of the better class of Indian himself, butoccasionally he is puzzled by the woods-noises. Tawabinisáy never. Aswe cooked lunch, we heard the sound of steady footsteps in theforest--_pat_; then a pause; then _pat_; just like a deerbrowsing. To make sure I inquired of Buckshot. 

"What is it?"

Buckshot listened a moment. 

"Deer, " said he decisively; then, not because he doubted his ownjudgment, but from habitual deference, he turned to where Tawabinisáywas frying things. 

"Qwaw?" he inquired. 

Tawabinisáy never even looked up. 

"Adjí-domo" (squirrel), said he. 

We looked at each other incredulously. It sounded like a deer. It didnot sound in the least like a squirrel. An experienced Indian hadpronounced it a deer. Nevertheless it was a squirrel. 

We approached Kawágama by way of a gradual slope clothed with abeautiful beech and maple forest whose trees were the tallest of thosespecies I have ever seen. Ten minutes brought us to the shore. Therewas no abrupt bursting in on Kawágama through screens of leaves; weentered leisurely to her presence by way of an ante-chamber whosespaciousness permitted no vulgar surprises. After a time we launchedour canoe from a natural dock afforded by a cedar root, and so stoodready to cross to our permanent camp. But first we drew our knives anderased from a giant birch the half-grown-over name of the bankerClement. 

There seems to me little use in telling you that Kawágama is about fourmiles long by a mile wide, is shaped like a crescent, and lies in avalley surrounded by high hills; nor that its water is so transparentthat the bottom is visible until it fades into the sheer blackness ofdepth; nor that it is alive with trout; nor that its silence is thesilence of a vast solitude, so that always, even at daybreak or at highmidday, it seems to be late afternoon. That would convey little to you. I will inform you quite simply that Kawágama is a very beautifulspecimen of the wilderness lake; that it is as the Lord made it; andthat we had a good time. 

Did you ever fish with the fly from a birch-bark canoe on absolutelystill water? You do not seem to move. But far below you, gliding, silent, ghostlike, the bottom slips beneath. Like a weather-vane in animperceptible current of air, your bow turns to right or left inapparent obedience to the mere will of your companion. And the fliesdrop softly like down. Then the silence becomes sacred. You whisper--although there is no reason for your whispering; you move cautiously, lest your reel scrape the gunwale. An inadvertent click of the paddleis a profanation. The only creatures in all God's world possessing theright to utter aloud a single syllable are the loon, far away, and thewinter wren, near at hand. Even the trout fight grimly, without noise, their white bodies flashing far down in the dimness. 

Hour after hour we stole here and there like conspirators. Where showedthe circles of a fish's rise, thither crept we to drop a fly on theircentre as in the bull's-eye of a target. The trout seemed to lingernear their latest capture, so often we would catch one exactly where wehad seen him break water some little time before. In this was the charmof the still hunt. Shoal water, deep water, it seemed all the same toour fortunes. The lake was full of fish, and beautiful fish they were, with deep, glowing bronze bellies, and all of from a pound to a poundand a half in weight. The lake had not been fished. Probably somewherein those black depths over one of the bubbling spring-holes that mustfeed so cold and clear a body of water, are big fellows lying, andprobably the crafty minnow or spoon might lure them out. But we weresatisfied with our game. 

At other times we paddled here and there in exploration of coves, inlets, and a tiny little brook that flowed westward from a reed marshto join another river running parallel to our own. 

The Indians had erected a huge lean-to of birch bark, from the ribs ofwhich hung clothes and the little bags of food. The cooking-fire wasmade in front of it between two giant birch trees. At evening the lightand heat reflected strongly beneath the shelter, leaving the forest inimpenetrable darkness. To the very edge of mystery crowded the strangewoods noises, the eerie influences of the night, like wolves afraid ofthe blaze. We felt them hovering, vague, huge, dreadful, just outsidethe circle of safety our fire had traced about us. The cheerful flameswere dancing familiars who cherished for us the home feeling in themiddle of a wilderness. 

Two days we lingered, then took the back track. A little after noon wearrived at the camp, empty save for Johnnie Challán. Towards dark thefishermen straggled in. Time had been paid them in familiar coinage. They had demanded only accustomed toll of the days, but we had returnedladen with strange and glittering memories. 

XIX. 

APOLOGIA. 

The time at last arrived for departure. 

Deep laden were the canoes; heavy laden were we. The Indians shot awaydown the current. We followed for the last time the dim blazed trail, forded for the last time the shallows of the river. At the Burned RockPool we caught our lunch fish from the ranks of leviathans. Then thetrodden way of the Fur Trail, worn into a groove so deep and a surfaceso smooth that vegetation has left it as bare as ever, though the Posthas been abandoned these many years. At last the scrub spruce, and thesandy soil, and the blue, restless waters of the Great Lake. With theappearance of the fish-tug early the following day the summer ended. 

How often have I ruminated in the long marches the problem of theForest! Subtle she is, and mysterious, and gifted with a charm thatlures. Vast she is, and dreadful, so that man bows before her fiercermoods, a little thing. Gentle she is, and kindly, so that she deniesnothing, whether of the material or spiritual, to those of her chosenwho will seek. August she is, and yet of a homely, sprightlygentleness. Variable she is in her many moods. Night, day, sun, cloud, rain, snow, wind, lend to her their best of warmth and cold, of comfortand awe, of peace and of many shoutings, and she accepts them, but yetremains greater and more enduring than they. In her is all thesweetness of little things. Murmurs of water and of breeze, faintodours, wandering streams of tepid air, stray bird-songs in fragment aswhen a door is opened and closed, the softness of moss, the coolness ofshade, the glimpse of occult affairs in the woods life, accompany heras Titania her court. How to express these things; how to fix on paperin a record, as one would describe the Capitol at Washington, what theForest is--that is what I have asked myself often, and that is what Ihave never yet found out. 

This is the wisdom reflection has taught. One cannot imprison the oceanin a vial of sea-water; one cannot imprison the Forest inside thecovers of a book. 

There remains the second best. I have thought that perhaps if I were toattempt a series of detached impressions, without relation, withoutsequence; if I were to suggest a little here the beauty of a moon-beam, there the humour of a rainstorm, at the last you might, by dint ofimagination and sympathy, get some slight feeling of what the greatwoods are. It is the method of the painter. Perhaps it may suffice. 

For this reason let no old camper look upon this volume as a treatiseon woodcraft. Woodcraft there is in it, just as there is woodcraft inthe Forest itself, but much of the simplest and most obvious does notappear. The painter would not depict every twig, as would thenaturalist. 

Equally it cannot be considered a book of travel nor of description. The story is not consecutive; the adventures not exciting; thelandscape not denned. Perhaps it may be permitted to call it a book ofsuggestion. Often on the street we have had opened to us by the merestsketches of incident limitless vistas of memory. A momentary pose ofthe head of a passer-by, a chance word, the breath of a faintperfume--these bring back to us the entirety of forgotten scenes. Someof these essays may perform a like office for you. I cannot hope togive you the Forest. But perhaps a word or a sentence, an incident, animpression, may quicken your imagination, so that through no consciousdirection of my own the wonder of the Forest may fill you, as the meresight of a conch-shell will sometimes till you with the wonder of thesea. 

SUGGESTIONS FOR OUTFIT. 

In reply to inquiries as to necessary outfit for camping andwoods-travelling, the author furnishes the following lists:--

1. _Provisions per man, one week. _

7 lbs. Flour; 5 lbs. Pork; 1-5 lb. Tea; 2 lbs. Beans; 1 1-2 lbs. Sugar;1 1-2 lbs. Rice; 1 1-2 lbs. Prunes and raisins; 1-1-2 lb. Lard; 1 lb. Oatmeal; baking-powder; matches; soap; pepper; salt; 1-3 lb. Tobacco--(weight, a little over 20 lbs. ). This will last much longer ifyou get game and fish. 

2. _Pack one, or absolute necessities for hard trip. _

_Wear_ hat; suit woollen underwear; shirt; trousers; socks; silkhandkerchief; cotton handkerchief; moccasins. 

_Carry_ sweater (3 lbs. ); extra drawers (1 1-2 lbs. ); 2 extrapairs socks; gloves (buckskin); towel; 2 extra pairs moccasins;surgeon's plaster; laxative; pistol and cartridges; fishing-tackle;blanket (7 1-2 lbs. ); rubber blanket (1 lb. ); tent (8 lbs. ); small axe(2 1-2 lbs. ); knife; mosquito-dope; compass; match-box; tooth-brush;comb; small whetstone--(weight, about 25 lbs. ); 2 tin or aluminiumpails; 1 frying-pan; 1 cup; 1 knife, fork, and spoon--(weight, 4 lbs. If of aluminium). 

Whole pack under 50 lbs. In case of two or more people, each pack wouldbe lighter, as tent, tinware, etc. , would do for both. 

3. _Pack two--for luxuries and easy trips--extra to pack one. _

More fishing-tackle; camera; 1 more pair socks; 1 more suitunderclothes; extra sweater; wading-shoes of canvas; large axe;mosquito net; mending materials; kettle; candles; more cooking-utensils;extra shirt; whisky. 

THE END.