Forest and Stream
This Forest and Stream podcast will take you to the times, the people and the events that shaped America and Americans, our ideals, our values and our dreams. We’ll seat you alongside the affluent and in the boots of everyday citizens to deliver a rare insight and an unfiltered view through a window into the past. Discover how footprints made generations ago have worn a path to where our own outdoor experiences still intersect today, and affects you now. As with many historical works from past era’s, there are phrases, terms, and descriptions that are inappropriate to our modern sensibilities. We in no way condone these offensive remarks or passages but may choose to read published work in its entirety for purposes of education and accurate historic context. We hope you enjoy this show, perhaps finding a new understanding and even revealing a connection that moves you a little closer to touching our past.
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The Greatest Fish Story Ever Told!
02/24/2022
The Greatest Fish Story Ever Told!
The events that happened in Kekoskee, Wisconsin are so extraordinary and improbable that I always hesitate about telling the story. The evidence is legal, convincing and overwhelming. In total it makes up the grandest fish story in the history of a lifetime. It is really a story about bullheads, and of course it is a beautiful story, for the bullhead is naturally a romantic fish. Every man in Mayville and Kekoskee knows this story, and without any hint or coaching will tell it to you exactly as his neighbor does. Everyone in town knows the horse too. You see, there was a horse in the story – which in time you will come to know. It all happened way back in 1860, when the Horicon Marsh was Horicon Lake. Back then the Rock River ran into Horicon which was the largest man-made lake in the United States. Today, the river runs into the marsh at the same place where it used to run into the lake. It’s the same river, and the people of Mayville will take you to the same place, and show you where the story happened. So you can’t possibly doubt the truth of the details of this story. It was an awfully cold winter that year, and that has something to do with the story, too. -EMERSON HOUGH
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A Greenhorn and Big John in the Wilds of Michigan - January 18, 1877
02/11/2022
A Greenhorn and Big John in the Wilds of Michigan - January 18, 1877
If the sketch which follows, depicting a general outline of incidents which entered into the experience of a "Greenhorn," on his first deer hunt in the wilds of Michigan, shall have the effect of driving the work-encumbered denizens of the city into some reasonable consideration for his own wellbeing, by taking for himself such recreation as will yield him the greatest possible benefit, the object of it will have been accomplished. After a fellow has spent say thirty years of his life with his nose at the grindstone, it is not astonishing that it comes to strike him at last as being somewhat monotonous, and then when he comes to look at the results and sees little but cavernous eyes, sunken cheeks, attenuated frame, and a general slaughter of the vital energies, it is well that he began to think, "What is to be the end of all this anyhow? Does it pay? and, if not, what is the remedy?" When a man has reached this crisis, and asks himself seriously these questions, there is hope for him, and happy will it prove if he can profit by my experience, so he may enjoy himself to the full limit of his capacity; and his capacity will require no stinted draught, particularly if he has been a constant reader of Forest and Stream, for while yet in the toils his tastes and inclinations will have been so shaping and developing as to prepare him to receive the maximum amount of enjoyment and satisfaction the moment he breaks the monotony and enters upon the rejuvenating process. In my case I went into early training. It commenced with the first issue of Forest and Stream, and it still continues. Thursday nights my watch is slow, and from the moment I take my seat before my wide open grate, with slippers and cigars until bed time, I let the world wag. I am drinking in new life, shaking hands with Thad. Norris, holding high carnival with Major Sarasota, and courting old Al. Fresco as I would my “Gum Drop”. Wife says we must make that “party call” tonight. "Not much," say I; "here's mettle more attractive! Well, I read my Forest and Stream through; then turn again to your new title page on the outside of the cover, study that grand old head, which is the Daniel Webster of all mooses, then to the camp, the rods, the guns. 0h! I wish I were there; but then— not any of this for me. Oh! no, the delicious reality is too far beyond my reach. It is all very nice to know that there is such a fountain of perpetual youth, and that the mysteries of the Forest and the Stream can be enjoyed by some, so that we can read about them and get the crumbs as it were from the rich man's table, or to borrow a smile, we can look at the blackened frames next morning after the fireworks are over, and so enjoy the fireworks second-hand like. Now, it so happens, that in one of these reveries, the post carrier brings a letter posted "Wild Cat," Michigan. Of course that's from Elisha ('Lish for short), lumberman, merchant, notary, constable, sportsman and brother-in-law. Let's see what he has to say; some patent business probably, as usual. What! do I read aright? Why, the boy says: "Dear Greenhorn, if you want some sport, come here at once; lots of deer, plenty of bear, clouds of turkey, wild cats quantum sufficit, and as for partridges, quail, jack rabbits, and all such small insects, they overrun the country, begging for a front seat in a pot-pie. Come quick. Bring "Bird" (that's my wife) and stay eighteen months. Gentle reader: (Original but not copyrighted) were you ever struck by lightning? If so, you can probably imagine the thrill that shivered my timbers the moment the full force of this thing struck me. Here was the grand opportunity of a life time; but how can I? Oh! The tantalizing cuss! he knows it's impossible. Of course it is. But the vision haunts me; like Banquo's ghost, it will not down. I imagine I see the handwriting on the wall — he "who hesitates is lost." Well, I hesitate! I am lost! I resolve. I will go. There ! It is done. I will telegraph so that I can't back out, and a message goes instantaneous. Are there any skeptics in your large family that don't believe in the virtue of a good resolution? Let them try it and see. My resolution is scarce an hour old, and here is a new man already. Why, the new life bursts out all over; the tension of a long strain is off; the whole frame springs upright; the true manhood steps forth and asserts the privilege of a hitherto imprisoned birthright, which else might have gone, like Esau of old, for a mere mess of pottage. So it is fixed. I go. Now to business. Let's see; I must have a Winchester and a— well, never mind. I will tell you just what I did take, and then let you know in the end how the items respectively served my purpose, as follows, viz: A Winchester rifle, a heavy blue flannel shirt, a tightly knit cardigan jacket, a pair of rubber boots, a few pairs of extra heavy woolen socks, a Holabird shooting coat, an old soft felt hat, and a sheath knife, all together (except of course the rifle) filling not more than half an ordinary sized hand bag. I did not take a shot gun, as my ambition was for the "heavy weights" — no sparrows and wrens and sich, for my bag, this time. All these things provided, therefore, the most beautiful morning of the whole year (two month's since) saw me on the rear platform of a Pullman parlor, passing quietly out of the Erie depot, bound for sundown. The next morning found me at Port Huron, with a trip of thirty miles up the shore of Lake Huron yet before me, and no practicable way of making it but by boat. A boat of the regular line would not pass up until evening, but I must do better if possible, for I thought of that "Lordly Buck" that was waiting, and afraid lest Bergh might make a case against me if I taxed his patience too long; but it was no use. After hailing all sorts of craft, and trying to drive a bargain with numerous tug captains I gave it up, and it was ten o'clock at night before I set foot on the dock at Lexington, where was a pair of stalwart arms wide open to embrace, and they being clad in the shaggiest of Ulsters, it was no great stretch of the imagination in the hug that followed, to believe that I had found my own Grizzly, and that he had got the best of me. Five miles more inland in the pitchy darkness behind "Old John" (of whom more anon), brought us to our destination, and by midnight I was fast in the arms of Morpheus under a hospitable shelter, with warm hearts and true around me, and the "Lordly Buck" scarce five hundred yards away in "the bush," waiting to bid me good morning. I was awakened betimes by the sound of voices under my window, and looking out, I saw in the faint grey of the early dawn the preparation on foot for the sport of the day; the boys were waiting for us with the hounds (splendid fellows), and a good backwoods team with hay, straw, robes, and other creature comforts filling the box, and into which, after a glorious breakfast of venison, fresh eggs, wafer-like buckwheat cakes, and the most fragrant and delicious of coffee, we all bundled. Then, amid a jolly outburst of orchestral music from some half-dozen fog horns we started, just as the streaks of grey in the east began to broaden and reflect a silver sheen on the frosty landscape. Now, while we are driving along gaily, but not rapidly (for the corderoy road forbids that), I will introduce my companions: First, there is "'Lish," our brother-in-law, a thorough sportsman, "with all that that implies," a born gentleman in all his walks and conversation, the worthy head of the community, and the authority of an extended local district in all matters pertaining to the horse, the dog, or the gun— a mechanical genius of the first water— and a most genial and intelligent companion. Next comes Buxton, young in years, but old in wood craft; can scent a deer about as well as a hound; can thread the mazes of the forest without breaking a twig, or losing his locality for an instant; a most willing and unselfish worker for the enjoyment of others. Then comes Bertham, an educated and intelligent gentleman, whom taste and inclination, and perhaps fortune, has led to a frontier life, an ardent lover of all manly sports, and a valued teacher and mentor to the youth of the community. Last, but not least, is Joe Butterball, in charge of the team. What Joe don't know about getting a team through a "slashing" isn't worth knowing; but when it comes to guns — well, if Joe has one in his hands give him a wide berth. He "don't know nothing about the dog-goned things — don't like 'em." So we had prepared for Joe an old muzzle loader loaded with blank cartridge, to be used as we should instruct. I was armed with a Winchester, Buxton with a Spencer carbine, Bertham with a fine Webley breech loader, loading buck-shot. 'Lish had both a Winchester and a Daly gun. Well, here we are. We have come a mile due west of the hamlet, and here is apparently a cross road; at least they call it such but it is really little else than a path cut for the surveyor's through the forest for the laying out of the section line roads. Here we drop Buxton and the hounds. They go a mile or two further on foot, when they enter the forest to the north of the road, gradually making their way back towards us, and driving the deer before them. We turn into the forest to the north, and after going in a short distance the horses are hitched, and Joe left in charge. We give him the blunderbuss loaded and prepared for his use, and tell him to pull the trigger if he hears the hounds coming too near his station, so as to frighten the deer over towards us. We cock the gun for him, and leave him fully prepared for the emergency. We then take up our several positions about five hundred yards apart, on a line due north from each other. Joe first, Bertham second, myself third, and 'Lish last. As a Greenhorn, I am told to keep my eye on a certain black stump when I hear the hounds coming, for if the deer comes through on the runway I am watching, he will surely pass within ten feet of that stump. I am told, also, that if the deer gets by me unhurt, not to let the dogs follow, but to stop and tie them fast. I am provided with stout muslin cords for that purpose, for the deer would probably lead them to the lake, seven or eight miles distant, and we might see no more of them for days, our hunt for the next day be spoiled. So, with these hints, I wait in the grand solitude of the virgin forest, with ears intent for the voice of the hounds. I cannot tell how long I waited. I only know that in a supreme moment of contemplation, when the soul seemed filled with the greatness, the grandeur, the glory of the illimitable wilderness, I was suddenly aroused to a realizing sense of the situation by a distant cry of the hounds, distant and low at first, gradually coming nearer and more distinct; now evidently running to the north, now to the south. Oh! the music of that full chorus, which now began to break loudly on the still air, was inspiring. All else was still as death, and every particular hair was standing on end with expectation. One loud, deep, and wonderfully clear voice, was evidently nearer than the rest, but running too far north, for my runway. Presently, crack goes a shot, evidently from 'Lish's Winchester; then another, and another in quick succession. All is still again. The deep, loud-voiced hound, is heard no more; but the others are in full cry, nearly in front of me, but yet at some distance. I cannot resist the inclination to climb that high stump at my right, to see if I can see the result of those three sharp cracks. I am up there in an instant, but can see nothing: I suddenly hear a twig snap almost at my side, and looking down quickly, there is a beautiful fawn bounding lightly by, scarcely seeming to touch the ground, so graceful, so beautiful. I am spell-bound, and haven't the heart to stop him. No! Go on, my jewel, and take your life with you. The hounds are still crying loud and near. I am now back in an instant to my old position, with my eye on the black stump, though my game has probably passed. I must stop the hounds. A' ah! there is a commotion in the brush over by that stump now. No fawn this time. A crash in the thicket, and out rushes like the wind an old grey-haired monarch, plunging like lightning right by my wondering and bewildered vision, and myself powerless to raise an arm to stop him. In an instant, however, Richard is himself again, and I send a wild shot after him. He is away now two hundred yards, going straight from me. I raise my rifle again with comparative deliberation this time. Ah! old fellow, where are you now? His heels fly up, and turning a complete sommersault he lies still. The shot had struck him behind the ear and entered his brain, and in falling his momentum had carried him completely over. I viewed my prize with a pride that I will not attempt to express. He was a grand fellow, and his head and antlers will remain an heirloom, I hope, for many generations to come. I now start to get Joe to help me in the details of bleeding and dressing him. Hark! there goes Joe's gun! Can there be another coming? I stop to listen, but hear nothing but a faint, distant jargon, in Joe's peculiar vernacular, and hasten to see what has happened to him. I found him leaning against a stump, with his hands pressed over his abdominal region, throwing out curses by the bushel on all guns, and that gun in particular, which was lying in the mud at his feet. He was able finally to explain that, after he had heard our shots, he thought all necessity for shooting his gun had passed, and he didn't like to see it standing there cocked, for the "durned thing might go off of itself, you know," and so resolved to put the hammer down. In performing the operation he held the breech against his stomach, the hammers slipped from his fingers and exploded both barrels, the recoil sending him flat on his back, and as he expressed it, "knocking his breakfast clean up into his hat." 'Lish and Bertham had now come up with the hounds, and we passed congratulations and enjoyed a hearty laugh at Joe's expense. 'Lish had killed a buck and a doe, which satisfactorily accounted for his three shots. Bertham had not been in luck, and all agreed that the Greenhorn had acquitted himself with credit, but rather joked the sentiment which gave the fawn his liberty. We now waited for Buxton to come in before we tackled the substantials that we had brought for the inner man. He was not long after the hounds, however, and while regaling ourselves at the festive board, Buxton related how the large buck that I killed was started up by the hounds, only a few rods from where he was standing, and he could have captured him easily, but he thought of that "chap from York who had come a thousand miles to shoot deer, and he wouldn't steal any of his chances no how." Who says there isn't honor and fellow feeling in the backwoods? Indeed, that is just the place to look for it and its name, when you find it— is" Buxton. Well, there must be an end to all things, and the end had now come to our first day's hunt. We all turned to and had our venison stored in the wagon box in short order, which obliged all but that "favored chap from York" to walk home. That night a mysterious party, with glistening knives and lanterns, were busy until midnight cutting up and dividing the spoils, and planning for the next day's hunt, which promised lively sport, inasmuch as bear and wildcat were included in the programme. I find I have forgotten to speak of "Old John," as I promised. He is a grand character in his way, but the length of this paper precludes the singing of his virtues, and of his wonderful intelligence at this time, but will come in with a subsequent account of the three day's sport that followed, and which was participated in by Greenhorn. Part 2 As "Old John" is to figure more or less conspicuously in the account of the next day's hunt, it will be well to introduce him on the start. He is a stallion of almost regal magnificence when he is in shape; but it is not usual in the hunting season to find him in this condition, for his master is almost constantly on his back, and they rough it together, scouring the country in all weathers, and it is a matter of almost daily occurrence to see them come in at nightfall— -'Lish on foot followed by Old John bearing a buck, or a bear, or a brace of turkeys slung over his back; and when we consider the pure white of his coat it is easy to imagine that with such usage he does not at this season appear at his best, as far as looks are concerned, being blood stained and soiled; but as soon as the hunting season is over he appears in his dress suit, which is pure glossy white with jet black spots scattered about his loins and shoulders, with a mane and tail flowing thick and long like silken floss prepared for the loom. A sight of him impressed one with supernatural strength and endurance, combined with the most perfect symmetry and grace of form and movement. 'Lish bought him while a colt, and commenced his education at once. We call him Old John, but he has only turned his sixth year, and is therefore not jet in his prime. His natural intelligence is something wonderful, and after he had been taught that he had an absolute master it was perfectly easy for him to be made to understand and to perform anything. He will acknowledge but one master, however, and -it is worth the life of a stranger to attempt any familiarities with him, and yet 'Lish will put his little six-year old Gussie and five-year old Nellie on his back, and Old John will follow him like a pet dog even into the house, proud of his precious burden. But the noble animal shows best his mettle when on the hunt with his master on his back. The bridle lines are always hanging loosely over his neck, for they are rarely used. 'Lish has his Winchester slung over his shoulder, his breech loader over his arm, his knife in his belt, and off they go like the wind, through thickets, over ditches and fallen logs, turning this way and that, guided by his master's voice or the sway of his body, or a wave of his hand; it is a picture worth going miles to see. Now we will imagine 'Lish and Old John coming home together after a hard day's hunt. They pass in the lane and stop at the side door of the house. The game is taken off Old John's back, and the bridle also removed and done up snugly; no such encumbrance as a saddle is used. Old John is then made to take the bridle in his mouth and receives his orders there. "Now, sir, take your bridle down and hang it up and go into your room and shut the door," and Old John starts off at a lively gait for the barn at the end of the lane, while ‘Lish goes in, kisses wife and babies, takes his game into the dressing room, and then goes down to make Old John comfortable for the night. He finds the bridle hung on its peg all right, and lifting the latch finds the old fellow awfully impatient for his oats; so the feed box is filled, and just as Old John is going for it with a rush, he hears a warning, thus : "Stop, sir! Don't you dare touch an oat until I tell you." We go out and latch the door and look through a crack, keep perfectly still and watch. John stretches out his nose towards the oats just near enough to get a sniff, then throws back his head and looks all around slyly; then once more slowly and cautiously allows his nose to get within an inch of the tempting pile, and holds still a moment, then the lips begin to quiver, then to open and stretch forward. "T-a-k-e c-a-r-e, sir," and back goes his head with a sigh and a half whinney, when 'Lish says "Go in, old chap," and his nose goes in half way up to his eyes, and he is happy. Such is Old John. In order that the plan of the second day's hunt may be clearly comprehended, it is necessary to explain that the Black River runs through the...
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Trout Fishing - January 1, 1874
01/11/2022
Trout Fishing - January 1, 1874
Forest and Stream - By the Poets Hand. TROUT FISHING, a poem by Eunice B. Lamberton.
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The Back Lakes of Canada - January 1, 1874
01/08/2022
The Back Lakes of Canada - January 1, 1874
A deer hunting adventure, covering 50 miles in a canoe.
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Natures Invitation - August 14, 1873
01/02/2022
Natures Invitation - August 14, 1873
NATURES INVITATION On the fair face of Nature let us muse, and dream by lapsing stream and drooping wood; Tread the dark forests whose primeval ranks, since the creation dawn have cast their shade; Ponder by flowing stream and ocean tides, and note the varied forms of life they hold, Mark the wild game so clear to hunter's heart, the swarming fowl that skim the salty deeps, The birds that haunt the woodlands and the plains, The fish that swim the seas, the lakes, the streams, And tempt the thoughtful angler to their marge; Glance at the life that fills our native woods, and game of Asian plains, and Afric wilds. When soft May breezes fan the early woods, and with her magic wand the blue-eye'd Spring Quickens the swelling blossoms and the buds, Then forth the russet partridge leads her brood, while on the fallen tree-trunk drums her mate ; The quail her young in tangled thicket hides, the dun deer with their fawns the forests range, The wild geese platoons hasten far in air, the wild ducks from their Southern lagoons pass, And soaring high their Northward journeyings take, The dusky coot along the coast-line sweeps, The piping snipe and plover that frequent, The sandy bars and beaches, wing their flight, And all the grassy prairies of the West, Team with the speckled younglings of the grouse, And all the budding forests and the streams Are gay with beauty, joyous with young life. Then swell the first bird melodies; the wren chirrups and perches on the garden rail, The blue-bird twitters on the lilac hedge, or flits on azure wings from tree to tree; The golden robin on the apple-bough, hovers, where last year's withered nest had been, The darting swallows circle o'er the roof, the woodpeckers on trunk of gnarled trees Tap their quick drum-beats with their horny beaks, the crow caws hoarsely from the blasted pine, High in mid-air the sailing hawk is poised, while from the grove the purple pigeon-flocks, Burst with loud flapping in the grain-sown fields. Fair is the scene in Autumn, when the frosts from palettes rich, with prodigal, gorgeous brush Color the nodding groves with brown and gold. Then silvery-skied, and purple-hazed the dome of heaven's deep vault, and fair the earth below. Far up, where sunny uplands scope their sides, shaggy with woods, prone to the brimming stream, Where bowering beech trees shake their laden boughs, and oaks their varnished acorns high uplift, Where the broad butter-nut its gummy fruit in russet husks slow-ripens day by day, And where in crowded ranks the chestnut groves waves out their broad-leaved pennons to the air, And from their prickly burs shake treasures down, there the quick clusterings of the squirrels sound. The gentle valley with its belt of hills crowned to their tops with grand, primeval woods, Glows with all forms and hues that nature loves. Deep in its hollow stretch meadows brightly green, kept verdurous by the full o’erflowing stream ; Yet the deep swamps and thickets that engird, the river-reaches, are resplendent all, Their umbrage tinctur'd with imperial dyes. The maples tall with blood-red foliage burn, the hickories clap their palms of burnish'd gold, The poplar thrusts its yellow spire in air, the russet oaks and purpled dogwoods blend, Their colors with the alder's sable green and scarlet sumacks; all contrasted rich With sombre evergreens, and willows pale. And when the winds autumnal, wailing strip the frosted foliage, like a host they stand, With trailing banners and with drooping plumes. Such be the scenes in wondrous forest-land Such be the scenes by sea and lake and stream That we would picture; wild romantic scenes, Dear to the hunter's and the angler's soul. -Isaac McLelllan
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Metaphysics of Deer Hunting - October 2, 1873
12/31/2021
Metaphysics of Deer Hunting - October 2, 1873
METAPHYSICS OF DEER HUNTING When the financial panic was at its height last week, we visited a wealthy friend whose up-town mansion is palatial, his income from safe and judicious investments always ample and assured, and his bank account invariably showing a balance to his credit of many thousands. A gentleman who dabbles little in speculative risks; and whom cares of State and fluctuations of the market of late do not perplex ; one of those rare exceptions among men, content with sufficient and not ambitious for more. Surely, his was a case not, within the range of human probability, to be affected by any financial crash or monetary crisis. And yet, so intricate and searching are the ramifications of disorder in times like these, when even the most provident and conservative find themselves suddenly cramped for means, that he was unable to command a dollar from ordinary or extraordinary resources. Said he: "I have a balance in bank of $20,000, but all the cash I can raise is a paltry two hundred dollars. It is just enough to take me to the Adirondacks. I am getting my guns and traps together, and tomorrow I start for Paul Smith's, to bury myself in the woods and seek oblivion until the storm is over!" Happy the man who can thus drive dull care away at will, and turn aside the impending wave of trouble ! The bank to which he has confided his trusts may break in his absence and swallow all his surplus; the business, hitherto lucrative, in which he is a silent partner, may suspend and cut off his monthly income; dividend paying stocks may depreciate until they are quoted at half their value; bonds and mortgages may cease to be negotiable; still, like the ostrich with his head in the bush he may roam the forest in blissful ignorance of his misfortunes, and follow his quest for game with a blithesome heart and bounding step! Who would not be an ardent sportsman? Such a man as this never allows business to interfere with his shooting. We wish the same were true of the herd of speculators who squeeze values, upset the market, and set the mercantile world at their wits end. Would that some good genius would inspire them to goof? For "a day's shooting," and stay until the panic subsides! Ah! there is some soothing influence in this going apart to commune with nature in her solitudes, that makes us forget the struggles of life and our worldly troubles. It banishes all inordinate desires, simplifies our tastes, and makes us contented with mere food, raiment and shelter, which, after all, constitute the sole necessaries of life. This free existence among the woods, with heaven's canopy over us, the crisp and fallen leaves beneath our feet, and the pure untainted air to breathe: it gives us elasticity of step and expands the lungs; it enlarges the generous impulses of man; it dignifies his own self-respect; it makes him noble! In this quiet unconcerned existence, he finds himself moving in a new world populous with strange creatures, with whom in time he learns to hold familiar converse. The little denizens of the stumps and hollow logs become accustomed to his presence at last. When the first sound of his coming footfall was heard, they all hid away. The first warning twig that snapped admonished them to be wary and lie perdu. All was silent as the grave, except when a rustling leaf dropped down, or a walnut slipped from its opening shell aloft. But presently the head of a little gopher popped from under a dry leaf, then his body crept stealthily out, and in a minute with a sharp squeak to show the coast was clear, he rustled away. Then a woodpecker peered cautiously from behind the trunk of a tree, and commenced to hammer, and from a neighboring limb a red squirrel sprung his sharp, shrill rattle. A garter snake glided noiselessly from under a stump and slid into a bog hole, from which an autumn frog already intoned his solemn staccato bass. As we have said, one learns to comprehend the language of these little creatures, and understanding them thoroughly wonders how any man can be so unkind and thoughtless as to blow out their little lives with powder and shot. Even the deer begin to understand him at last, and if he is harmless and uses no gun, will repose such confidence in his honor that they will actually bring the rising generation of agile fawns to drink from the very spring that supplies his camp. Then when both have become better acquainted by closer contact, the sportsman will learn to look into their lustrous eyes as lovingly as did Don Juan into Donna Julia's; and all his conscience will rise up against him in reproof for his cruel slaughter in bygone years. His resentment will follow the hunter who dares to lay violent hands upon these innocent creatures whom he has learned to regard as his companions. If his larder becomes empty, he will have to select another locality where the deer are wild. It is only when they are running, that he can make up his mind to shoot. If bucks and does would only walk gently up to the magnanimous hunter when they see him stalking in the distance, they would never get shot. Even the tiger seldom springs upon a creature that is not in motion. This is nature. We are a creation of pursuers and pursued, but not insatiable for that reason, by any means. If one will not run, there can be no pursuit. It is only human beings like the Neros, Herods, and Caligulas that butcher in cold blood. These are the metaphysics of deer hunting. He who has studied the subject thoroughly, will find his thoughts yielding a responsive assent to their truthfulness. Now is the time for enjoying the full fruition of the delights which a ramble in the forests affords. Whether it be in the eager pursuit of the chase, or in the simpler study of the gorgeous tints of autumn, in breathing the sharp, invigorating frosty air, or in seeking merely a temporary relaxation from business cares, the glorious month of October yields an appreciable reward which no other month affords. Episode Part 2 THE WASTE OF TIMBER. A Paragraph floating around states that the Indians upon the Leech Lake Reservation, in Minnesota, have become so enraged at the destruction of timber on their lands that they have taken the war path, and are burning the lumbermen's hay by way of reprisal. Here is a lesson for the Hon. Joel T. Headley and those very few other gentlemen who deny that cutting away our forests will diminish our water supply, or work out climatic and organic changes that must prove detrimental. Even the untutored savage can appreciate the value of our forests to the extent that, he not only implores that the "woodman spare that tree," but absolutely insists upon it in a way that is neither gentle nor kind. He realizes that the denudation of the earth is extermination to the red man, and that with the deep damnation of the taking off of its timber, food, fuel, shelter, navigable waters, and means of transportation all vanish. Geology tells us that the mosses and ferns were the first vegetable products that grew upon the surface of the earth, and that, the pines and then the deciduous forest trees succeeded; and after them came animal life. By inversion, it is easy to determine that animal life must perish after the trees are destroyed. It is the duty of man, by what he owes to his fellows, if not by the universal law of self-preservation, to prevent so sweeping a calamity. And man, when impelled to that sterner mood which horrible conviction brings, will not stop to "argify" the question with the Hon. J. T. Headley, et al, but, taking the ounce of prevention in his hands, make the advocates and defenders of timber-cutting "cut stick" in a fashion which will throw all the devices of the Minnesota redskins far in the shade. Episode Part 3 Difference in Weights Does a sportsman's full bag or basket ever feel heavy? For the sensation of the strap over the shoulder is, doubtless, very different from what it would have been if, instead of beautiful trout, one has a twelve-pound cannon shot in the basket. Indeed, this notion of weight, though absolute and positive, as marked by the scales of material philosophers, has got a variable force and signification, when sentiment lends vigor to the muscles. For what sportsman, helping to carry home a fine buck, or what loving husband, taking a sick wife upstairs in his arms, or what young fellow, on whose back fortune had, for the moment, buckled a laughing lass of a hundred and forty pounds, to be carried over a slough, would feel the weight the same as if the burden were a bag of grain or a sack of salt ? — The Lawrences
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Caribou Hunting in Nova Scotia - September 25, 1873
12/22/2021
Caribou Hunting in Nova Scotia - September 25, 1873
A far reachinging journey through forests and across barrens in pursuit of the elusive Caribou.
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Reminiscence of Lake Superior - February 26, 1874
12/16/2021
Reminiscence of Lake Superior - February 26, 1874
REMINISCENCE OF LAKE SUPERIOR BY THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE It was with a hearty laugh that Dr. W. bounded into my room one bright morning in the latter part of September, without waiting to knock or in any way announce his arrival. In almost the same breath he called out, “Why! you’re a pretty fellow to be housed here all day long, fussing over those feathers and wires ! Why are you not on the river trolling, or in the woods after partridges? Come, put up those tools and lets off for a day’s tramp. Peter has put up enough luncheon for two, so pick up your gun and come on.” The fact was, that for the past week I had spent a great portion of my time stuffing birds. I had collected some two dozen, peculiar to the Lake Superior region, and had packed them away preparatory to leaving on “the last boat of the season.” At the present time I had under consideration a Canada jay or “Whiskey Jack,”as they are sometimes called, and was manipulating it in the usual manner. I had just turned the skin of the bird to its natural position and was making a body of hemp as near the size of the original as possible, when the Doctor entered and accosted me with above salutation. Doctor W. was an Englishman, but, instead of possessing the rotund figure which “John Bull” is always supposed to have, he was tall and slim, with that restless activity of manner and overflow of fun and jollity which are the proverbial dignity of an Englishman. He was “a hale fellow, well met” and consequently a favorite with all. His bright face alone brought relief and happiness to a sick room, and as a companion in the woods, he was everything that could be desired. All these attractive qualities were really the secret of his success as a physician—setting aside the fact of there being no other within a radius of thirteen miles. It would indeed have been a brave man who could venture to “hang out his shingle” in competition with Doctor W. Although loath to leave my bird half finished, I knew the Doctor’s company would well repay me, so I carefully smoothed down the plumage and depositing the skin in my drawer, looked about for my gun. To most people, my room might not have been attractive, but to me, as a sportsman, it was perfection. The pegs around the room, not covered by wearing apparel, were decorated with fishing rods, creels, nets and all the paraphernalia of an angler, while in one corner, carefully packed in cotton, were skins of birds and jars of agates which I had collected during four month’s occupation of the premises. In one corner lay my game bag and a pair of deer’s antlers, while last but not least, stood my ever-faithful friend, my gun. To throw on my hunting coat, whose numerous pockets were made to contain everything from game to percussion caps, was the work of an instant, and shouldering my gun, I locked the door and followed the Doctor down stairs and out into the street. It was a lovely morning, bright, clear and frosty, with but little wind to stir the waves of old Superior, in -whose mirror-like surface was reflected the deep blue of the sky. With one long lingering look down the Lake to see that no steamer was in sight, (as their arrival always made a holiday at Ontonagon,) we turned our backs on the scene, and passing through the town, followed the old corduroy road into the woods. Occasionally we stopped to pick a few berries, the last of the season, to snatch a few ferns from the wayside or to cut from some old stump a pretty bit of moss. It would have been better for me if, for once, I had let the “pretty mosses” go, for a favorite hunting knife mounted in ivory and silver, a relic of “our late unpleasantness” may, for aught I know, be still sticking in that old stump or some friendly Indian may have slipped it into his belt ere this. If so, I can safely assure him that he has secured a first-rate piece of cutlery. Mile after mile we plodded up the road, our dogs working in the woods to the right and left, occasionally starting a partridge which fell by the Doctor’s unerring aim. Through the stillness of the woods came the sound of the great tree pecker or woodcock of the northern woods, his body of black and white feathers, almost as large as a partridge and a crest of Vermillion that would put a sunset to blush. Soon we came to the thickest part of the woods where the great trees encroached on the road, and tossed their long branches into dangerous proximity to the stages for the mines. Although the morning was calm, not so had been the night previous, and across our path lay numerous mementoes of the gale, around which we had to work our way. While passing through one of these thickets of fallen branches, our dogs came to a point. Cocking our guns, we made ready for whatever should be flushed. The next moment, whir-r r-r, that music so melodious to all sportsmen’s ears, and up sprang two partridges, the Doctor covering one and I the other. The smoke had hardly cleared away when up sprang another brace, followed almost immediately by a single bird. Being wholly unprepared for quite so many in one spot, we only knocked two, Dr.W. missing the last one. It was with great difficulty we could restrain the dogs and prevent them from rushing in, as we had not as yet retrieved a bird. But it was well we did, for a few feet further on Spot came to a point, backed by Hero in the most graceful manner possible. The undergrowth was very thick, long vines stretching from tree to tree, and across our path in every direction innumerable slippery branches covered the ground, but as Spot very seldom deceived us we pushed forward to where he stood. The Doctor, who was a little in advance, had hardly reached the dogs when up sprang another brace of partridges which he dropped with his right and left barrel. Re-loading, we “quartered” the ground, but not another bird could be flushed, so, picking up those we had killed, we returned to the road, satisfied in bagging six out of a flock of seven. Where that seventh bird disappeared we never could discover; possibly into a swamp hard by, but we contented our minds with the thought that some other sportsman would retrieve him and that we ought to be generous. On we tramped along that corduroy road, every foot of which is so distinct in my memory, until we arrived at an old log house, a few rods back from the road, at whose door we knocked and were greeted with “come in” from a remarkably healthy pair of lungs. The hut contained but two rooms, the latter of which could hardly be called a room, but rather a shed, and contained wood and various tubs arranged for the week’s washing. In the centre of the main room stood an old-fashioned iron box stove, while from the rafters above hung sundry ears of corn, aspargus branches and hams. The female members of the household were grouped around in various corners while the brawny head of the house sat resting one arm on the table and smoking an old clay pipe. To our request for a “glass of water” we received a decided “no,” but the “Lieut. Governor” of the family finally produced a cup of milk, saying that the well had given out and the spring was half a mile distant, but if we would accept of this, (holding forward the cup,) she would be pleased. The cup was of stone china, had evidently seen better days, and been younger and prettier. The handle was gone and the edge looked as if it had withstood a charge of grape and cannister, while numerous dark spots confirmed the fact of there being no water in the house ! But we were wry thirsty and had a walk still of four long miles before we reached another house or the mining town of Rockland, towards which we were bending: our steps; so, shutting our eyes, we each in turn lifted the cup and it-was all over! Thanking them for their kindness, we were soon deep in the woods again, hoping that another bird or two might fall to our bag. We were not disappointed, for we soon flushed three others, all of which fell to our hand. We had now entered the mining town of Rockland, and passing though its muddy streets, wound our way up the hill to the mines on its crest. Here -we rested our weary feet and gazed down on the village below. To the south of us stretched an almost endless forest with hardly an opening, the bright autumnal foliage in strong contrast with the dark solemn pines. At our feet lay the village with its ever busy inhabitants, its low log houses and its noisy dogs and pigs, a very fair sample of a western mining town. Occasionally a few notes of a flute or violin would be wafted to our ears, for a Cornishman’s house is hardly complete without some kind of a musical instrument. To the east and west extended the mountains of the great mineral range, dotted here and there with the “pepper box” shaft houses, while constantly could be heard the cliinck, chinck, cliinck of the skips as they were drawn out of the mine and the roll of the rock as it rattled down the hill. After we had sufficiently recovered from our walk the Doctor suggested that we should vary our tramp by a trip down the mine, provided we could find a “Mining Captain,” (as they are called,) who was “going in” at that time. So we immediately repaired to the “change house,” and depositing our guns, game bags and other equipments, and securing the dogs, we doffed a portion of our clothing and arrayed ourselves in heavy canvass jackets and pants. Our heads were crowned with odd-looking hats, as hard as sole leather, something after the shape of Esquimaux huts. These were to protect our heads from falling rocks while down the mine. Following the directions of the Captain we rolled a tallow candle in soft clay and sticking it on to the front of our hats, picked our way over the rocks to the shaft house, and entered the shaft through a hole only just large enough to admit one’s body. As soon as daylight disappeared the Captain ordered a “halt,” to impart a few instructions necessary to our safety. From the top to the bottom of the mine extended ladders which were securely fastened to the sides of the shaft, and the Captain’s most important warning was that we must never let go our hold of one round of the ladder until we had firmly secured another, else a remarkably sudden trip of twelve hundred feet would be the consequence. Gradually we began the descent, hand over hand, round by round, until we had reached what is called the “first level.” Taking breath, and pushing the clay from the wicks of our candles, which still adhered to our hats, we slipped a few feet to the right and continued downward on another ladder. On the sides of the rock underneath us ran a rapid stream of water, continually fed by hidden springs, while on all sides the dark damp rocks seemed ready to crush us, so closely did they seem to press, but nothing daunted we continued our downward way. To the left lay another and larger shaft, through which we could see the “skips” filled with copper and rock passing and repassing, to which were fastened copper ropes, running over pulleys and operated by an engine up above at the entrance of the mine. By this time we were decidedly cold, and our hands and wrists all covered with soft sticky clay, which made it extremely difficult to retain our hold on the ladder, but hold we must. Down and farther down, until. the bottom of the mine is reached, 1,200 feet below the surface, while removing our candle from its exalted position on our hats and shading it from the air, we groped our way along in the “level,” expecting every moment to make some unlucky step. The blasts in other parts of the mine sounded like distant thunder as they echoed along the gallery. Away up in one part of the rock men were “stopping” or following a vein of copper, the musical “chinck, chinck” of their hammers and drills falling faintly on our ears, but immediately turning aside we passed through the “level” and entered a large room where, supporting the rocks overhead, were massive timbers some three feet in diameter. Here, we were Informed, a few years ago was taken, out a mass of copper which weighed six hundred tons and which required eighty barrels of powder to blast it and thirty men over a year to cut it up and raise it from the mine. Soon we were obliged to lie flat upon the ground, and by means of our hands and elbows, work ourselves through a small hole in the rock; and in that manner we entered another room or cave where eight miners were engaged at their work. Quitting this noisy place, the Captain taking the lead, we followed him to another gallery, to which we must needs pass over a shaft 500 feet deep, on one of the most slippery logs that ever mortal traveled. We had hardly reached the other side before our ears were nearly deafen'ed by another tremendous blast much nearer than the last, and the room was immediately filled with smoke, so we could hardly see, much less breathe, but feeling our way along, with the help of the Captain’s hand, we passed over a great ledge of rocks and up into a better atmosphere. The Captain now took from his pocket a curious looking brown parcel and asked if we would like some “crib,” or what a miner calls dinner. Crib is a composition of meat, potatoes, bread and other compounds mixed, seasoned and baked into a pie—not a very tempting morsel certainly, but our appetites were sharpened by hard exercise, and remembering the proverb, “When you are in Rome do as the Romans do,” we accepted the offered “crib” with thanks. While thus engaged we had time to gaze around us, and what a sight met our eyes. The roof over our heads was one mass of glittering ore and rock. Great veins of bright copper seamed the grey rock, while here and there were traces of silver and masses of snow-white quartz, which, sparkling in the light of our candles, suggested to our minds a fairy grotto. We sat some time enjoying this picture and absorbed in wonder, until the cold damp atmosphere of the place warned us of the danger of delay, so crawling along over still larger holders until this means of progression became exceedingly painful, we entered another rock bound chamber. Here we found the greatest number of miners we had yet seen, men down on their knees holding long drills, while above them others swinging the huge hammers. On the sides of the rock they had fastened their candles, whose fitful glare, lighting up the huge cave, combined with the tremendous noise of the hammers, made the place seem like a perfect Pandemonium. Leaving the men at their work we passed along a dark gallery and by a deal of climbing reached a ledge of rocks, where, through a small opening, we obtained our first ray of sunlight, and by means of a rope drew ourselves hand over hand out of the mine. Oh! how delightful seemed the “blessed sunlight,” and although the day was cool, how hot the air seemed in comparison with the dampness of the mine. We drew in long draughts of the fresh pure air and sat for a long time enjoying the bright sunlight, while we congratulated one another upon the success of our novel expedition. Then a “happy thought” suggested itself and we at once repaired to a neighboring “photograph cart,” where, with pick in hand, candles on our hats and mining clothes covered with clay, we made a picture which we have carefully preserved as a souvenir and which has proved to our friends a great source of amusement ever since.
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