couldn't find any spring-holes. One thing the
Preacher did find for which he was not looking;
namely, a narrow escape from being shot. He had
made a short cut through the underbrush to strike
IN THE NORTH WOODS 53
the river higher up, and as he came out upon the
border of the stream found himself looking into
the muzzle of a gun. A party coming down the
river in a boat had heard the crashing in the woods
and, of course, thought of deer. All that saved
the Preacher was the fact that the man with the gun
did not belong to that group of invincible idiots
who shoot at a noise or at an unidentified moving
object. A week later, in a camp three miles away,
a young man was shot and instantly killed by his
camp-mate who saw something moving in the
bushes and fired on the chance of its being a deer.
At the close of the day the Hardware Man pre-
sented numerous and cogent reasons why we should
not spend another night in camp, and just before
sundown we struck the trail back to the cabin.
After that we were content to make daily excur-
sions, returning to the cabin at night. Camp life is
delightful when proper provision has been made
for comfort; otherwise, it is a delusion and a snare.
We had not outfitted as we should, and our guide
either did not know how to make good our de-
ficiencies or was too lazy to undertake the job.
There is a deal of poetry about tent-dwelling, and
not infrequently that is all. It is possible to have a
tent that will not leak, pitched so that a heavy rain
will not turn your sleeping place into a pond; a
bough-bed so constructed that the boughs do not
poke you in the ribs all night; a commissary de-
partment that allows some little variety in the bill
54. DAYS IN THE OPEN
of fare and a cook who can at least boil potatoes.
This, we say, is possible, and these desirable fea-
tures are sometimes actualities. When they are,
life is " one grand, sweet song." But there are
worse experiences than returning after a day's
tramp, tired and hungry, to find awaiting you an
easy chair, a well-cooked meal and a comfortable
bed under the shelter of a roof.
This outing was in the days before " jacking for
deer " had become not only illegal but entirely un-
ethical. The Preacher and Frank, with the guide,
tramped one afternoon to a little lake some four
miles away for the purpose of floating for deer that
night. As it is useless to go on such a quest when
the moon is in the sky, and that luminary had fixed
upon ten o'clock as the hour for retiring that night,
a fire was kindled on the hill-side, well back from
the water, and the hunters waited upon the slow
setting of the moon. Many questions of more or
less importance were discussed and, at last, Frank
said to the Preacher,
" Have you ever read ' Robert Elsmere ' ? "
" Yes," answered the Preacher. " Why do you
ask?"
" Well, Pastor advised me not to read it.
He said he had preached on the book twice, and
he had never read it."
The Preacher chuckled and then roared, until the
guide growled, " You'll scare all the deer out of the
lake and over the mountain if you make so much
IN THE NORTH WOODS 55
noise." Possibly it was the Preacher's vociferous
hilarity that explains why we " jacked " around the
shores of the lake that night for two hours without
sighting anything more animated than a dead
stump. The Preacher was comparatively young
then and had not learned that the less we know
about a matter the more unrestrained and cock-
sure we may be in discussing it.
Not a few experiences are more amusing when
considered in retrospect than at the time when they
are going forward. When the guide proposed to
the Preacher that they visit a little lake a couple of
miles from the cabin, try for trout at sundown and
then float for deer when darkness had fallen, the
proposition was greeted with applause. Although
the trail was not an easy one, the guide carried a
canoe on his shoulders and the Preacher trudged
on behind with the guns and rods, his mind filled
with alluring visions of mighty trout and at least
one big buck. When the lake was reached and it
came time to joint the rods, it was discovered that
the reels and lines had been forgotten. The fly-
book, with its gaudy contents, was in the Preacher's
pocket, but neither of the two felt competent to do
any successful fishing without a line. It would be
dark before the trip to camp and back could be
made and, reluctantly, the fishing part of the trip
was abandoned. That night there was no moon to
compel them to wait upon its slow movements, and
as soon as darkness had fallen the " jack " was
56 DAYS IN THE OPEN
lighted and the slow circling of the lake began.
About two-thirds of the way around, the guide
stopped paddling, then gave the canoe a little twist
so that the bow pointed towards shore, and the
Preacher felt the slight shaking of the canoe
agreed upon as the signal to shoot. Shoot at
what? He could see nothing.
A whisper came from the guide " Shoot ! "
" Where? " was wafted back from the half-par-
alyzed lips of the Preacher.
" There at the edge of the lily-pads, just a little
to your left." Did the Preacher see the dim out-
line of a form? He does not know to this day, but
he shot as he was commanded. A mighty snort
answered the shot, then splashing of water and
breaking of limbs, and the guide announced, " You
missed him." The assertion was entirely gratui-
tous. In fact, the Preacher had not expected to
hit what he could not see.
Just about that time a thunder-cloud in the west
became so threatening that the guide proposed that
they go on shore and get under shelter. That
sounded good, but it was not just clear to the pas-
senger where the shelter was to be found. How-
ever, the mystery was solved when the guide pulled
the canoe to a dry spot on shore, turned it upside
down, and both crept under it as the first big drops
of rain came pelting down. Just as the Preacher
was congratulating himself upon their good for-
tune, the dulcet note of a mosquito sounded in his
IN THE NORTH WOODS 57
ears. He promptly slapped, and then kept on slap-
ping. The singer was the advance guard of an in-
numerable host. All of the tribe between Paul
Smith's and Lowville had evidently gathered to the
feast. To make a bad matter the worst possible,
the quarters were exceedingly cramped. One
could not well roll over without rolling from under
the canoe. The omnipresent root was persistently
punching the Preacher's ribs. To lift his suffer-
ings to the nth power, that guide went to sleep
and actually snored. It would have been a satis-
faction to have companionship in suffering, but
now this was denied him. Was it only four hours ?
It seemed like four eternities before the guide de-
cided that they ought to start for the cabin. The
storm had passed, but every bush showered quarts
of water at the slightest touch. Just where the
advantage lies in keeping dry from the storm, only
to get soaked to the skin from tramping through
miles of wet underbrush, is not yet quite clear.
At two o'clock in the morning the cabin was
reached, sans trout, sans deer, but not sans mos-
quito bites or a thorough drenching.
What a day that was which the Doctor and the
Preacher spent on the East Fork ! The lake is fed
by two streams, one flowing in from the southeast
and the other from the southwest. By a trail the
eastern branch could be struck well up towards its
source, and from this point down to the lake fur-
nished just about the right distance for a day's fish-
58 DAYS IN THE OPEN
ing. Bright and early the start was made, with
plenty of bread and butter, a skillet, and a supply of
fat, salt pork. The fisherman who could not be
happy on such a stream, on such a day, whether
the fish would bite or not, listening to the laughter
of the water, watching the flickers of sunshine
strained through the meshes of the trees, drinking
in the sweet, pure air, in close touch with nature, is
a hopeless pessimist. Fishing side by side, some-
times one and then the other going first, the friends
loitered down that beautiful stream while " not a
wave of trouble rolled across their peaceful
breasts." Now and then an exceptionally fine trout
was taken, and then fishing was suspended while
they examined and exclaimed over it. They won-
dered again, as they had often done before, why
some of the fish should be red of fin and belly and
with yellow meat, while others had the greyish-
white fin and belly, with white meat. The
Preacher caught two trout from under the same
log, one with blood-red fins and golden flesh, the
other white. They were both speckled trout, lived
side by side, ate the same food, but differed as
greatly as a red-headed boy and an albino.
At noon, where the waters of a cold spring
bubbled out of the bank, a fire was made, the fat
pork set to sizzling in the skillet and then but
what's the use ? Trout fresh from the brook, fried
over a fire in the open and eaten with an appetite
engendered by hours of tramping and wading,
IN THE NORTH WOODS 59
make a disn for the adequate description of which
words are impotent. Of course, the smaller trout
were chosen for the mid-day meal, not alone that
the catch might look better when exhibited that
night, but because they tasted better than the larger
ones. How many did we eat ? Ask the Doctor !
Who should understand the proper amount of food
to be taken into the stomach at a single meal, if not
one of his profession?
An hour or so for luncheon and chatting, and
then into the stream again and on our way towards
its mouth. The creels were getting heavy, and the
Doctor decided to take a short cut for the lake
shore. Just before starting, the two were stand-
ing near together fishing a pool, when the Doctor,
taking a forward step, slipped on a smooth stone
and began falling. The process was the most slow,
deliberate, and altogether comical the Preacher
ever witnessed. As he began losing his balance
and tipping over backwards, he made frantic
efforts to regain his poise. Both hands waving in
the air, one clutching his rod, eyes popping out of
his head, a look of mingled surprise and disgust
illuminating his manly face, the final, mighty splash
as the stream yielded to the impact of his body,
formed a most delightful picture for his sympa-
thetic and sorrowing comrade. Strangely enough,
the Doctor could not see the humour of the situa-
tion, and if he should ever deign to read this
truthful record it is doubtful if he cracks a smile.
60 DAYS IN THE OPEN
Thoroughly drenched, the Doctor's previous de-
termination to take a short-cut home was much
strengthened. He struck off into the woods and
the Preacher was left alone to follow the stream.
When he had reached the cabin the Doctor had not
arrived. When it was almost sundown and no
Doctor, the guide started out in search of him.
According to later reports the Doctor was found in
a depressed state of mind playing hide-and-go-seek
with the trees in a tamarack swamp. The guide
declared that he knew where they were all of the
time a most credible statement. They were in a
tamarack swamp. It was well towards nine
o'clock when they arrived at camp, and it took a
hot supper to restore their normal good spirits.
The guide had frequently descanted upon the ex-
cellence of the fishing on " Lost Creek "; but as that
stream was seven miles away, and no trail led to it,
members of the party had not shown great eager-
ness to make the trip. But when the lake and
near-by streams had become familiar through fre-
quent visits, the Doctor, the Boy and the Preacher
decided upon an excursion to " Lost Creek."
After crossing the lake, the guide plunged into
what seemed an impenetrable jungle, and steadily
led the way up and over the hill, through dense
thickets showing no sign of ever having been trav-
ersed before. He never seemed to hesitate which
way to go, and his confidence was inexplicable to
those who followed until he pointed to a tree that
IN THE NORTH WOODS 61
had been " blazed," then to another in the distance.
He was not guessing or travelling by compass, but
following a " blazed trail."
The first sight of the stream was disappointing
not to say disheartening. Here was no dashing
brook dancing its way along, but seemingly dead
water in a great stretch of marsh land. The guide
called it a " beaver-meadow," although we saw no
signs of the animal or of its architectural activities.
But there were trout, as we soon proved. Pushing
along through the marsh grass, frequent catches of
good-sized fish were made, until at last the
Preacher had a notable experience, not only for
that day, but for any he ever spent in fishing. The
Doctor was fishing ahead, and as he vacated a dry
hummock, having taken two trout from that point
of vantage, his friend stepped into the same spot.
The first cast brought a trout, as did the second and
the third and so on until he had taken sixty fine fish
without stirring from his tracks. And they all came
from the same point in the stream. The lure fell
in vain three feet away from this particular spot.
They were not fingerlings, but ten-inch and twelve-
inch fellows. The Preacher's creel and his pockets
were full when the guide and the Doctor, returning
along the creek, came upon him. The guide's ex-
planation was that the fortunate Preacher hap-
pened in his first cast to strike a " pot-hole," a de-
pression in the bed of the creek, where the water
was cool and in which the trout gathered in great
62 DAYS IN THE OPEN
numbers. The explanation mattered little to the
Preacher; it was the fact that counted. Even now
he would gladly give two old sermons to be per-
mitted to stand again on the banks of " Lost
Creek " if he were sure of locating that " pot-hole."
OVER
THE
SIMPLON
PASS
Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,
Mighty and pure, and fit to make
The ramparts of a Godhead's
dwelling.
TOM MOORE, On the Road.
OVER THE SIMPLON PASS
WE agreed, my wife and I, that the
couple whom we saw for the first
time in the post-office at Domo
d'Ossoli and a little later met in
the gathering room at the hotel,
would be well worth knowing.
They were, evidently, not only husband and
wife, but good chums, thoroughly congenial, and
rejoicing in each other's companionship. That
they were intelligent no one could doubt, and they
radiated kindliness and courtesy. They were
dressed for roughing it, and we were prepared for
the remark of the gentleman, made to a by-stander,
that they had been spending a week in mountain
climbing in the neighbourhood. When he added
that they would cross into the Rhone Valley by dili-
gence on the morrow, we were conscious of a dis-
tinctly pleasant sensation at the thought that, for
65
66 DAYS IN THE OPEN
one day at least, they were to be our fellow-trav-
ellers.
The table d'hote that evening gave us the desired
opportunity to cultivate the acquaintance of the at-
tractive strangers, for they were seated directly
across the table from us.
"Going over the Simplon tomorrow?" I ven-
ture to ask the gentleman. " Yes." Dead pause!
" I am sure that you enjoy Italy," is our next ef-
fort to make conversation. " Yes," a pause even
more absolutely dead than the preceding one.
What's the matter? Do they take us for pick-
pockets? We furtively examine our attire to see
if we are looking especially dowdy, but can
discover nothing very reprehensible. Possi-
bly they are diffident, so here goes for another
attempt :
" Do you know at what time we start in the
morning? " Of course we know, have known for
weeks; but it is a question whose answer offers
good-sized opportunities for something more than
a monosyllable.
" Six-thirty." We wait anxiously, but that is all.
Even the most obtuse individual must come to the
conclusion that the questioner is being snubbed;
quite courteously, but also very unmistakably
snubbed. Our American blood begins to boil
gently, and a solemn vow is registered then and
there to let these attractive but unfriendly people
severely alone. Meanwhile, they have been chat-
OVER THE SIMPLON PASS 67
ting with each other in some unfamiliar language
which is not Italian or French or German.
When we leave the hotel the next morning for
the all-day ride over the Alps our unresponsive
fellow-travellers are in the banquette at the ex-
treme rear end of the diligence, while we occupy
the coupe directly under the driver's seat. We
could not speak to them if we would, and would
not if we could. Indeed, they are soon forgotten
in the joy of the hour. The deep blue of the
Italian sky unflecked by a cloud, the broad, smooth
highway, the cottages with their tiny patches of
cultivated land, the exhilarating morning air and
the rattling pace at which we bowl along for the
first mile or more, would help us to ignore even a
greater unhappiness than that caused by the snub-
bing of the previous evening.
Now we have left the level road and begin the
long and tortuous climb towards the summit of
the Simplon Pass. Again and again we cross the
brawling stream with which the road disputes the
right of way. The bridges are all of solid stone.
Yonder, to the left, the mountains rise in great
ridges and piles of raw rock, while on the right a
more gentle slope is covered with grass and shrubs.
We begin to count the waterfalls, threads of spun
silver hung against the dark background of the
rocks, but soon lose track of the count. On the
heights the snow is lying, and by the roadside the
wild flowers blossom in profusion. What a glory
68 DAYS IN THE OPEN
of flowers we find on these Alpine heights ! In
every meadow and pasture lot red and yellow and
blue and purple, with many indescribable shades,
delight the eye and the heart of the traveller. The
rhododendron, with its brilliant colouring, is every-
where, and the little forget-me-not nods to every
passerby. Up and still up we climb, and every
turn of the road brings new exclamations of delight
as the wonderful panorama of mountain and valley
unfolds before us.
But now we have reached the summit, and the
tired horses are brought to a halt in front of the
little hotel where we are to have our mid-day
meal. The village is a tiny one, of a dozen houses
or so. The hotel does not look especially attrac-
tive, and the meal is even less appetizing than
the appearance of the building has led us to expect.
For once in our life we refuse chicken at least we
are content with one mouthful. Without attempt-
ing to file a bill of particulars, it is enough to say
that the interval between the death of that bird and
its appearance on the table as food has been unduly
prolonged. With absolute unanimity the guests
abjure chicken, for that meal at least. The food
is so sublimely bad that every one laughs, and even
our foreign friends who refused to respond to our
advances of the previous evening join in the merri-
ment. Somehow, during the course of the meal,
we are led to speak of our nationality, and then
comes the revelation.
69
"Americans?" cries the hitherto unfriendly
foreigner. " Americans ? " echoes his wife, who
up to this time had not been supposed to understand
a word of English. The mystery is solved. This
gentleman and his wife are Hollanders and have
taken us for English. It is at the time when the
English-Boer war is at its height, and the Hollander
has no dealings with the Englishman if he can help
it. The gentleman is an Amsterdam physician,
and a man of culture and wide reading. His evi-
dent effort to be friendly reaches a climax when
he tells us of his hotel at Brieg, where we are to
spend the night, and assures us that there we will
be certain to have trout for dinner.
Now for the last half of the trip! We have
only just left the hotel when the diligence is stopped
and the passengers are asked to get out and walk
for a mile across the debris of an avalanche which
came thundering down from the terminal moraines
of the Ross Boden glacier the previous spring. The
diligence sways and lurches and thumps along,
while we pick our way over stones and ice and
around giant rocks. Halfway across we meet a
young man who has spent nearly all of his waking
hours for months past in search for the body of
his sister who met her death under the sudden
sweep of the avalanche.
Here, in this little monastery so they tell us
is where Napoleon made his headquarters for a
time when he led his troops over the mighty moun-
70 DAYS IN THE OPEN
tains to the sunny plains of Italy. We stop long
enough to admire the St. Bernard dogs, and then
on down the mountains. When we begin the
descent some of the party assert that this ride will
be less interesting than that of the morning when
we were all the time climbing upward. Possibly
it is; but it is far more exciting. Five horses
going at full speed towards a precipice which drops
away for a full thousand feet, the leaders seem-
ingly pawing into space before they turn the corner,
the outer wheels of the diligence constantly flirting
with the edge of the precipice these are things
that lead to nervous prostration. As I look back
at that trip I am satisfied that it was only by lean-
ing hard toward the inside of the road that I saved
the passengers and the whole outfit from untimely
destruction.
When the Amsterdam doctor descanted upon
the deliciousness of the trout served in the Brieg
hostelry, he awakened memories of the Nepigon
and the Adirondacks, of northern Wisconsin and
the Miramichi! I formed a resolution, then and
there, to catch as well as to eat some of the trout
for which Brieg was said to be famous. Arriving
at Brieg at 5.30 P.M. after our drive of forty miles,
I at once interviewed the concierge of the hotel,
who assured me that it would be no trick at all to
catch a mess of trout before dinner-time. Away
to a tackle store, where line and leader and hooks
were bought and a cane-pole rented, an interview
OVER THE SIMPLON PASS 71
with the hotel " boy," who dug a can of worms fat
enough to have come from Holland, and then for
the Rhone, which was rushing along the valley
about half a mile distant. The first sight of the
river somewhat dampened my ardour. It was of
a dirty milk colour, and no respectable American
trout would live in it for a moment. But then, I
reasoned, Swiss trout may not know any better
so here goes. I fished in the rapids and in swirling
pools, under low bending alders and by the side of
huge rocks. I skittered those fat worms on the
surface, and dropped them down to the bottom.
Every trick of the angler learned by experience or
gathered from conversation and reading, was tried
in vain. Tell it not in Skegemog and publish it
not on Prairie River! but I never had a bite.
And yet I was not cast down. The setting sun
was turning the mountain tops into glory, the
laughterof reapers ina neighbouring field, the tinkle
of goats' bells far up the mountain side, the gurgle
and singing of the Rhone, the beauty of that match-
less valley I had gained all these by my efforts,
even though of fish I had none.
Let no hard-hearted reader giggle over my poor
luck, for when I sat down that night to dinner,
and the far-famed Brieg trout were placed before
me, behold! they were not trout at all, but some
sort of a sucker, full of pronged bones and with
soft white meat. I never had any ambition to
catch suckers.
ON SEA
AND SHORE
The sea is a jovial comrade;
He laughs wherever he goes;
His merriment shines in the dim-
pling lines
That wrinkle his hale repose.
He lays him down at the feet of the
sun
And shaking all over with glee,
And the broad-backed billows fall
faint on the shore
In the mirth of the mighty sea!
BAYARD TAYLOR, Wind and
Sea.
VI
ON SEA AND SHORE
R. W. D. HOWELLS made a
most pathetic confession some
years ago in an article contrib-
uted to a well-known journal
when he said concerning vaca-
tions, " Whatever choice you
make, you are pretty sure to regret it." Either
Mr. Howells was " out of tune with the universe "
or he never tried Edgartown.
Lest some of our readers should assume some
selfish motive as prompting this bold proclamation
of Edgartown as an attractive spot in which to
spend the summer days, let it be said that the writer
does not stand in with any hotel proprietor or real
estate dealer in this village by the sea or
elsewhere.
Just how Martha's Vineyard came by its name
is not certain. One tradition has it that when, in
75
76 DAYS IN THE OPEN
1605, Bartholomew Gosnold sailed from England
for " Northern Virginia " and chanced upon No