IAN A. C RANDALL




REFLECTION ON 1.AKE MC DKRMOT




DAYS IN THE OPEN





WHEN THE SPRING FRET COMES O ER YOU



Cult



er



Lib,



DECORATIONS BY

RHEAD




Copyright, 1914, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY




New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago : 125 N. Wabash Ave.
Toronto : 25 Richmond St., W.
London : 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh : 100 Princes Street








^/



Do you know the blackened timber
do you know that racing stream
With the raw, right-angled log-
jam at the end;

And the bar of sun-warmed shingle
where a man may bask and
dream
To the click of shod canoe-poles

round the bend?
It is there that we are going with

our rods and reels and traces,
To a silent smoky Indian that we

know

To a couch of new-pulled hemlock,
with the starlight on our faces,
For the Red Gods call us out and
we must go!

RUDYARD KIPLING, The Feet
of the Young Men.




CONTENTS

I. THE BOY AND THE BROOK . . 13

II. THE Two BOYS .... 25

III. THE TOWN-MEETING AT BLUE ROCK

POOL . -35

IV. IN THE NORTH WOODS . . . 49
V. OVER THE SIMPLON PASS . . 65

VI. ON SEA AND SHORE . 75

VII. AMONG THE NORTHERN PINES . . 87

VIII. JN THE LAND OF NOD ... 99

IX. ON BOTH COASTS . . . . in

X. ON MOOSEHEAD LAKE . . .125

7



8 CONTENTS

XL AMONG THE CUT-THROATS OF LAKE

CHELAN ..... 139

XII. CAMPING ON THE NEPIGON . -151

XIII. IN A HOUSE-BOAT ON THE KOOTENAY 167

XIV. SKEGEMOG POINT . . . -183
XV. IN THE ALGOMA WOODS AND BE-
FORE ..... 199

XVI. IN THE VALLEY OF THE DWYFOR . 213

XVII. BOY LIFE IN THE OPEN . . 225

XVIII. THE BULLY OF THE UPPER OSWE-

GATCHIE 239

XIX. OLLA PODRIDA .... 255





ILLUSTRATIONS



FACING
PAGE



" When the spring fret comes o'er you " . . Title
The brook was ten miles of silvery laughter . 14

Dixon's Mill! How the nerves tingle at the

writing of those two words . . . . 104

The waters of the lake dimple and flash in the

sunlight . . . . . .- . . 126

Here one could catch mountain trout with the

fly . . . ... * . . . 146



We are tied up to a sandy beach
Have you forgotten your boyhood ? .
It was here that the Bully was born .

9



172
229
240




The sun was setting and vespers

done, the monks came trooping

out, one by one,
And down they went through the

garden trim in cassock and cowl

to the river's brim,
Every brother his rod he took, every

rod had a line and hook,
Every hook had a bait so fine, and

thus they sang in the even shine,
"Oh! to-morrow will be Friday, so

we fish the stream to-day!
Oh! to-morrow will be Friday, so we

fish the stream to-day!"
BENEDICT, To-morrow Will
Be Friday.



THE BOY

AND

THE BROOK




/ wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling.
I draw them all along and now

To join the brimming river
For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on for ever.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON,
The Brook.






THE BOY AND THE BROOK

A, may I go fishing? "

That the boy should use the
homely " Ma," rather than
" Mamma," makes it clear that he
is not of our generation, although
his generous crop of freckles
looks familiar, and his blue jumper, coming
down to the knees, and that battered straw hat,
are sometimes duplicated in our own day. It
is fifty years across which we look, even if he does
stand out so clearly. The question is one that he
asks daily, if not oftener, from the time when the
pussy-willows begin to swell in the spring-time, to
the season for comforters and woollen mittens in
the late fall.

Hark ! Do you hear the voice that is calling the
boy? It comes distinctly across the long stretch
of years, and is as sweet and compelling now as

13



14 DAYS IN THE OPEN

when it pulled at the heart of the lad on that long-
ago summer day. It is the voice of the brook. It
gurgles and laughs and pleads. It says, " Ha ! ha !
ha ! Isn't this a beautiful world, and this the finest
day ever? Come on, little boy, and play in my
ripples. I've some nice peppermint growing on my
banks, and all sorts of pretty pebbles that I have
washed for you. Look sharp, now! Do you see
that trout lying at the head of the riffle ? Do you
know that I counted thirty-seven as big as he is
between the bridge and the Deer Pond? Come
and catch 'em ! "

That brook was a part, and a large one, of the
first permanent impressions made upon the boy's
mind. It had its rise in a little pond, concerning
which there was the usual dark legend that it had
no bottom. Just what held up the water was a
mystery, but the boy never doubted the legend.
It was fed by numerous springs. Vigorous and
noisy from the moment when it broke forth from
its source, the brook was ten miles of silvery
laughter.

" If you'll not go out of sight of the house you
may go for an hour," says the mother, for she too
has ears to hear the call of the brook and can
understand its charm for her lad. " Just up in the
pasture-lot above the bridge," calls back the boy,
and starts off with his pole and a supply of angle-
worms wrapped up in paper. Take special no-
tice of that pole, for it is the joy of the boy's heart.



THE BOY AND THE BROOK 15

He had thought that a cedar sapling, peeled and
thoroughly dried, made an ideal outfit, until a
friend gave him a straight cane-pole painted a bril-
liant blue. In after years he owned not a few
jointed rods, made by hand of split bamboo; but
the tide of joy and pride has never risen higher in
his heart than on the day when he became the pos-
sessor of the blue cane-pole.

There is a place in the pasture-lot where the
brook stretches itself out in a long reach of still
water. Above and below are rippling shallows.
Wary as is his approach, the boy sees the shy trout
darting from the riffles into the darker water.
Patiently he dangles his baited hook by the side of
a sunken log, and trails it temptingly back and
forth before the coverts where the cunning fish lie
hidden, but all in vain. They have learned by ex-
perience that the presence of a blue jumper and a
blue pole spells out danger for them, and refuse to
take any risks. Is this, like so many other fishing
trips, to end in failure ? Watch the boy ! Laying
the blue pole carefully on the ground, he rolls his
sleeves to his shoulders and, lying on his stomach
on the bank of the brook, thrusts one hand very
gently into the water. With the utmost caution he
feels here and there under the overhanging sods
until at last his fingers touch something that sends
an electric thrill tingling through the length of his
little body. He feels a trout, and strangely
enough it does not stir. The little fingers gently



16 DAYS IN THE OPEN

tickle the belly of the trout as they work their way
towards its head, and when they have encircled the
body at the gills they suddenly contract and the fish
is thrown far back upon the grass. This perform-
ance is repeated three or four times, and then the
trophies are gathered up in the jumper and with
blue pole over his shoulder the boy goes proudly
homeward.

Many years after the boy had grown to manhood
he was riding with a friend on their way to a
famous trout preserve. Naturally, the conversa-
tion turned to fishing experiences, and he told the
story of the brook and of catching trout with his
hands. The friend looked a whole volume of in-
credulity and exclaimed, " Well, of all the fish-lies
I ever heard that takes the cake." When the club-
house was reached the keeper, a canny Scotchman,
was interviewed. " Andrew, did you ever hear of
catching trout with the hands ? " " Is it guddlin'
you mean? Mony a time. I've caught plenty of
'em in the burns when a boy." The skeptic was
silenced if not convinced. Since that time a
heated discussion of this mooted question has ap-
peared in a prominent sporting journal, and able
arguments have been adduced to prove the impos-
sibility of any such feat as that ascribed to the boy.
But he knows, and the brook knows, and the blue
pole knows; and those may doubt who will.

" May I go fishin' down in the woods ? " The
question came from an anxious heart, and the boy



THE BOY AND THE BROOK 17

proceeded to support his request with reasons.
" The biggest trout are down there. Edwin
Crumb caught one that weighed 'most a pound
down there last week. There are no big ones in
the pasture-lot. I'll be careful, and I'm 'most
seven now, you know." It was a momentous
question. For two miles after leaving the bridge
the brook ran through the woods, and the mother
fancied all manner of possible and impossible dan-
gers to her boy lurking among those trees. But
then, the lad must be allowed to go out of her sight
some time, and the day was full of sunshine.

"If you'll be very careful, and not go far, and be
back early, you may go." " Whoop ! " and a
small boy has disappeared from view before the
permission is fairly spoken. No blue pole this
time. The brush and alders are too thick and the
pole too long. It is only a small birch limb, six
feet long, possibly, that he pulls out from under
the barn as he hurries to get out of hearing before
the mother repents her rashness.

What a day that was! He has not gone far
before, alongside the alders in the swift water,
almost at his feet, he captures a larger trout than
any ever granted him by the pasture-lot. He cuts
a stringer from the over-hanging alders, and with
fish in one hand and pole in the other proceeds on
his adventurous way. For some time he steals
along the gravelly bed of the brook, eagerly expec-
tant but without getting even a bite. Certainly



18 DAYS IN THE OPEN

this is not very exciting, and his gaze begins to
wander to the woods. Is that crinkle-root? In-
vestigation yields a plentiful supply of the peppery
plant and also three or four ground-nuts. Then
the brook pulls him back to itself and a few rods
farther on he comes to a log across the stream and
partly under water. His heart gives a thump, for
this must be the place where Edwin Crumb caught
his big trout. It exactly fits the oft-repeated de-
scription. He leaves the bed of the brook, fetches
a circuit through the brush and comes out just
where he can drop his hook by the upper side of
the log in the still water. The answer to his invi-
tation is prompt, but the captive is not as large as
was anticipated. Again and yet again he returns
his lure only to meet a cordial reception, until five
fair-sized trout have been added to the alder
stringer; then activities cease.

We cannot follow him all through his eventful
pilgrimage, but there is one experience that must
not go unrecorded. In a tangle of brush formed
by a tree-top which has fallen into a deep place in
the stream he spies an open space, possibly eighteen
inches in diameter, where the water is covered with
scum and foam. Just the place for a big trout, but
there is no way of getting even his short pole
through the brush. The line is untied, and he goes
crawling out on a limb that hangs over the brook,
and sits, at last, astride it and directly above the
enticing spot. A fresh and exceedingly fat angle-



THE BOY AND THE BROOK 19

.worm is looped upon the hook and the wriggling
mass is cautiously dropped into the middle of the
scum. It has no sooner touched the water than
there is a sharp tug and a mighty swirl, but only
the hook and the remainders of the worm come
back in answer to his pull. Another bait, and
again the hook is lowered into the pool. No, the
old fellow was not pricked the first time, for here
he is again and this time firmly hooked. To bal-
ance the body on the limb when both hands are
employed in tugging on the line, is no easy task, but
at last the trout is in his hands and hugged to his
breast. With the fingers of one hand through his
gills and the thumb among the sharp teeth of the
fish's mouth, the slow journey is made back to the
shore. Glory enough for one day! The prize
measures about twelve inches and is thick through.
Edwin Crumb's trout is beaten with room to spare.
But now it dawns upon the boy that he has been
gone a long time, and if he hopes to be permitted to
repeat this trip he must hurry home. He also be-
comes acutely conscious of an awful vacuum in the
region of his stomach which even crinkle-root and
ground-nuts will not fill. He reasons with himself
that he can reach home more quickly by striking
through the woods to the road than by retracing
his way along the brook. He is very sure that he
knows the way, but his certitude evaporates
steadily as he plunges his way through the woods.
Just when he admits to himself that he has no



20 DAYS IN THE OPEN

idea in which direction the road lies, he emerges
into a clearing and sees before him a group of farm
buildings. They are certainly unfamiliar; but
some one must live here and he can get directions
as to his shortest way home. Who is that in the
doorway? It cannot be Mrs. Woodman whose
home is only a short half-mile from his own? But
it is, and, to make his joy complete, this is baking
day and the good woman hands him out an apple
turnover. All turnovers are good, but that one
was far and away the best ever baked. A hungry
boy and an apple turnover form a great combina-
tion.

It would not do to say that the boy and the brook
were inseparable companions, for there were long
months when the Frost King had everything his
own way and the merry stream found it hard work
to maintain its appearance even on the shallow rif-
fles. Then there were swift flights down the hill-
sides for the boy, and long journeys up again drag-
ging his sled. Often in the long winter nights he
heard the half-smothered gurgle of the near-by
brook, and wondered where the trout lived when
the thermometer was below zero.

Even in the summer days the two friends could
not be together all the time. A mile or so over the
hill was the brown school-house to which the boy
must make his pilgrimages five days each week for
three months at a time, and where he learned,
helped by the pictures, that three cherries and two



THE BOY AND THE BROOK 21

cherries make five cherries, and wrestled more or
less successfully with the multiplication table.
The old meadow just above the orchard was a
famous place for strawberries, and many hours the
boy spent in gathering the luscious fruit while the
bobolinks, perched on swaying mullein stalks or
the old rail-fence, engaged in a vocal contest of
riotous and maudlin song. Then a robin had built
its nest on one of the big beams under the meeting-
house shed on the top of the hill, and the eggs must
needs be watched and the young birds looked after.
Sometimes the children strayed into the burial
ground adjoining the church and pushed aside the
myrtle to read on the little head-stone the name of
a child that had died long, long ago.

If anything could make the boy forget the brook
it was his dog. Very likely the dog had a pedi-
gree, but it had not been recorded, and he was as
dear to the heart of the child as if his ancestors had
all been decorated with blue ribbons. Pedro and
the lad knew where the woodchucks lived on the
side of the hill above the pond, and it was a red-
letter day when one of them was cut off from his
hole by the two hunters and Pedro vanquished him
in a pitched battle.

The brook has run through the years and its
laughter sounds now in the ears of the writer.
Somehow he hopes that the River of Life will be
like the brook, larger grown. And ever as its
murmur is heard a vision of the mother is seen.



22 DAYS IN THE OPEN

The two grew into the boy's heart together. In
the last days when that mother had grown weary
and was waiting for rest, the son sat by her bed-
side and they talked together of the long past days,
of the home under the hill, of friends gone on into
the silence, and of the brook with its sun-painted
trout. She has been sleeping for many years on
the banks of the Susquehanna, lulled by the cease-
less flow of the noble river with whose waters the
waters of the brook are mingled.



THE TWO
BOYS



^M^r-m

-?^fe*r /





Here is a story of something that
was shown me when I was a little
boy. Every time I think of this
story it seems to me more and more
charming. For it is with some
stories as it is with many people
they become better as they grow
older. . . . And that something
which was told me when I was a
child, you shall hear too, and learn
that whatever an old man does, is
generally right. HANS CHRISTIAN
ANDERSEN, The Wife Perfect.





II



THE TWO BOYS

E may safely interpret a lowery day
in haying time as a providential
hint to go fishing. It did not re-
quire a strong hint of this kind
to move grandfather, especially
when the boy was around; for he
not only loved to fish but he loved the boy who
loved to fish, and was always planning something
for his pleasure.

Why not stop for a moment just here to consider
what sort of a grandfather a boy should have?
Of course he must have white hair and a kindly
face, but these are comparatively unimportant parts
of his outfit. It is the disposition that counts.
He must not have nerves. The peppery, irascible,
impatient man, who growls and sputters on the
least provocation, should never set up in business
as a grandfather. In order to highest excellence

25



26 DAYS IN THE OPEN

he should keep the boy-spirit through all the ex-
periences of life. The man who has entirely
ceased to be a boy is disqualified.

This particular grandsire filled the bill com-
pletely. He never scolded, and never even grew
tired of answering questions. When the little lad
had reached the sled age, the cunning hands of his
grandfather built him one that could easily dis-
tance all competitors. When skates had become
an obsession, it was the same benefactor who in-
vested his hard-earned money in the most wonder-
ful pair that the boy had ever seen, and surrepti-
tiously taught him to use them before the anxious
mother knew anything about it. But the crowning
day among all the many that these two spent to-
gether was that upon which the older boy taught
the younger how to use a gun. The gun was a
family heirloom, and tradition said that it had
done duty in the Revolutionary War. The old flint
lock had been removed and a percussion lock sub-
stituted; but the hammer refused to stay cocked.
When it was fired, whatever might be the re-
sult to the object fired at, no uncertainty could
be felt about the consequences to the firer; he
was kicked certainly, promptly, and vigorously.

On an historic morning in the winter, when
the grandfather was going into the woods to chop,
he took the boy's breath away by saying, "If you
want to go with me to-day and take along the old
shotgun, you may, possibly, shoot a squirrel."



THE TWO BOYS 27

Will he go? If any boy reads these lines, let him
answer. Gun over shoulder, and heart filled with
infinite happiness, the boy trudges along the road,
through the fields, and into the woods on the hill-
side, pouring forth a steady flow of talk. When
the big beech, which the grandfather is turning
into fire-wood, is reached, a council of war is held.
Directions are given as to the proper way of hand-
ling a gun, and especially this one. " You'll have
to hold the hammer back with your thumb, and
when you have taken good aim, let go." Over and
over again it is impressed upon the boy that under
no circumstances is he to point the muzzle of the
gun toward him.

While instructions are going on, a harsh call
sounds from among the distant trees. The boy
does not need to be told that it is the cry of the
grey-squirrel, and with all the speed that caution
will permit he hurries in the direction of the hidden
challenger. Every now and then he stops to await
a renewal of the cry, and then on again. Now
the call is very near, almost directly overhead.
Evidently it comes from somewhere high up in that
great maple. For moments that seem hours he
peers here and there among the leafless branches.
At last the flirt of a grey tail catches his eye, and
there, stretched along a limb near the top of the
trees, lies the quarry. Up goes the long-barrelled
gun, but the muzzle refuses to hold still. It de-
scribes circles and rectangles and zigzags, but per-



28 DAYS IN THE OPEN

sistently avoids the squirrel. Possibly it is too
heavy for the slight muscles. Certainly the boy's
heart is beating a tattoo, and a severe attack of
" squirrel fever " has him in its grip. Just as de-
spair is completely overwhelming the lad, he sees a
big log near by, and loses no time in getting behind
it, with the gun resting upon it and pointing toward
the tree-top. With this rest it is possible to keep
the contraptious old gun still for a minute. Care-
fully he pulls back the hammer, takes a long sight
over the barrel, and lets go. Have the heavens
fallen and has the world come to an end? The
gun bellows, and the boy turns a back-somersault
in the snow, vaguely fancying that the entire uni-
verse has struck him. The squirrel is forgotten
for a moment in the surprise caused by the back-
action of the gun. But it is only for a moment,
and then digging the snow out of his eyes, the boy
peers anxiously up at the limb just occupied by the
squirrel. It is empty. Has he missed him ? Just
when humiliation begins to creep into his heart he
sees a grey heap on the snow, and sorrow turns to
joy.

With gun over his shoulder and the squirrel hid-
den behind him, he takes the back trail, and soon
rejoins the chopper. " I heard the gun go off,"
says the old boy. " What did you shoot at ? " "A
grey squirrel," is the answer. " Missed him,
eh? " This is the moment of supreme happiness,
as the concealed game is brought to the front and



THE TWO BOYS 29

the boy cries, " Missed him, did I ? What do you
think of that?" What amazement, simulated or
real, appears on the older face ! His surprise even
surpasses the boy's expectation. " Well ! Well !
If that isn't a big one, and you killed him all by
yourself! I'll take his hide off when we get home
and you shall have him for supper."

It is more than probable that some dear people,
if they have the patience to read thus far, will lay
down the book in disgust, saying, " Cruel ! Cruel !
Boys should be taught never to take life unneces-
sarily." The writer accepts their censure with all
meekness, and assures them of his hearty sympa-
thy. But he is writing of the boy in the open, the
out-of-doors boy, the real boy, not of a becurled
and anaemic male child, coddled and restrained and
tutored until he is no more than a little manikin.
And writing of the real boy as he has been, is, and
evermore will be, it must be set down in all honesty
that he loves the hunt.

But we have wandered a long way from that
lowery day when grandfather said, " Boy, I can't
work in the hay-field today; what do you say to
going over to the river fishing? " Now the boy had
spent innumerable hours on the creek that flowed
past the old farm-house, and had sought acquaint-
ance with the bull-heads and horndace and eels for
a mile in either direction, but the river he had fished
only in his dreams. He had seen huge pickerel
and giant perch which neighbours had exhibited as



30 DAYS IN THE OPEN

spoils from this wonderful stream, and in night
visions he had walked along its banks and pulled
out fish of enormous size and brilliant colouring.
Now his dreams were to come true.

In the same valley with the river, and before it
was reached, was the canal. Just below a lock,
where the water looked to be infinitely deep to the
boy, the grandfather stopped and said, " We will
try it here for a while." Nothing happened except
that after feeling a tug at his line the boy pulled
it in minus a hook. " Probably a turtle," explains
the elder : " Let's go on to the river." A quarter
of a mile farther on and the shining river is
reached, just where a dam had been many years
before. Some of the logs remained, reaching out
over the water, and upon these the two boys seated
themselves and began to fish. Memory has failed
to record all the incidents of that eventful day, but
it has engraved the picture of the long string of
fish which they carried home that night. The
record is probably not any more accurate than some
of which we read now-a-days, for it declares that
this string was something over six feet long, and
weighed at least a thousand pounds !

One experience of that day will not allow itself
to be forgotten. The boy hooked a fish that put up
an exceptionally vigorous fight, but was finally
brought in. After it had been unhooked and was
being exultantly inspected by the younger and