In the Wilderness................................................................................................................................................1

Charles Dudley Warner ............................................................................................................................1

HOW I KILLED A BEAR .......................................................................................................................1

LOST IN THE WOODS ..........................................................................................................................5

A FIGHT WITH A TROUT....................................................................................................................9

AHUNTING OF THE DEER ..............................................................................................................12

A CHARACTER STUDY.....................................................................................................................18

CAMPING OUT ....................................................................................................................................28

A WILDERNESS ROMANCE.............................................................................................................33

WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE.......................................................................................37

So many conflicting accounts have appeared about my casual encounter with an Adirondack bear last

summer that in justice to the public, to myself, and to the bear, it is necessary to make a plain statement of the

facts. Besides, it is so seldom I have occasion to kill a bear, that the celebration of the exploit may be

The encounter was unpremeditated on both sides. I was not hunting for a bear, and I have no reason to

suppose that a bear was looking for me. The fact is, that we were both out blackberrying, and met by chance,

the usual way. There is among the Adirondack visitors always a great deal of conversation about bears,a

general expression of the wish to see one in the woods, and much speculation as to how a person would act if

he or she chanced to meet one. But bears are scarce and timid, and appear only to a favored few.

It was a warm day in August, just the sort of day when an adventure of any kind seemed impossible. But it

occurred to the housekeepers at our cottagethere were four of themto send me to the clearing, on the

mountain back of the house, to pick blackberries. It was rather a series of small clearings, running up into the

forest, much overgrown with bushes and briers, and not unromantic. Cows pastured there, penetrating

through the leafy passages from one opening to another, and browsing among the bushes. I was kindly

Not from any predatory instinct, but to save appearances, I took a gun. It adds to the manly aspect of a person

with a tin pail if he also carries a gun. It was possible I might start up a partridge; though how I was to hit

him, if he started up instead of standing still, puzzled me. Many people use a shotgun for partridges. I prefer

the rifle: it makes a clean job of death, and does not prematurely stuff the bird with globules of lead. The rifle

was a Sharps, carrying a ball cartridge (ten to the pound),an excellent weapon belonging to a friend of

mine, who had intended, for a good many years back, to kill a deer with it. He could hit a tree with it if the

wind did not blow, and the atmosphere was just right, and the tree was not too far offnearly every time. Of

course, the tree must have some size. Needless to say that I was at that time no sportsman. Years ago I killed

a robin under the most humiliating circumstances. The bird was in a low cherrytree. I loaded a big shotgun

pretty full, crept up under the tree, rested the gun on the fence, with the muzzle more than ten feet from the

bird, shut both eyes, and pulled the trigger. When I got up to see what had happened, the robin was scattered

about under the tree in more than a thousand pieces, no one of which was big enough to enable a naturalist to

decide from it to what species it belonged. This disgusted me with the life of a sportsman. I mention the

incident to show that, although I went blackberrying armed, there was not much inequality between me and

In this blackberrypatch bears had been seen. The summer before, our colored cook, accompanied by a little

girl of the vicinage, was picking berries there one day, when a bear came out of the woods, and walked

towards them. The girl took to her heels, and escaped. Aunt Chloe was paralyzed with terror. Instead of

attempting to run, she sat down on the ground where she was standing, and began to weep and scream, giving

herself up for lost. The bear was bewildered by this conduct. He approached and looked at her; he walked

around and surveyed her. Probably he had never seen a colored person before, and did not know whether she

would agree with him: at any rate, after watching her a few moments, he turned about, and went into the

forest. This is an authentic instance of the delicate consideration of a bear, and is much more remarkable than

the forbearance towards the African slave of the wellknown lion, because the bear had no thorn in his foot.

When I had climbed the hill,I set up my rifle against a tree, and began picking berries, lured on from bush

to bush by the black gleam of fruit (that always promises more in the distance than it realizes when you reach

it); penetrating farther and farther, through leaf shaded cowpaths flecked with sunlight, into clearing after

clearing. I could hear on all sides the tinkle of bells, the cracking of sticks, and the stamping of cattle that

were taking refuge in the thicket from the flies. Occasionally, as I broke through a covert, I encountered a

meek cow, who stared at me stupidly for a second, and then shambled off into the brush. I became

accustomed to this dumb society, and picked on in silence, attributing all the wood noises to the cattle,

thinking nothing of any real bear. In point of fact, however, I was thinking all the time of a nice romantic

bear, and as I picked, was composing a story about a generous shebear who had lost her cub, and who

seized a small girl in this very wood, carried her tenderly off to a cave, and brought her up on bear's milk and

honey. When the girl got big enough to run away, moved by her inherited instincts, she escaped, and came

into the valley to her father's house (this part of the story was to be worked out, so that the child would know

her father by some family resemblance, and have some language in which to address him), and told him

where the bear lived. The father took his gun, and, guided by the unfeeling daughter, went into the woods and

shot the bear, who never made any resistance, and only, when dying, turned reproachful eyes upon her

I was in the midst of this tale when I happened to look some rods away to the other edge of the clearing, and

there was a bear! He was standing on his hind legs, and doing just what I was doing,picking blackberries.

With one paw he bent down the bush, while with the other he clawed the berries into his mouth,green ones

and all. To say that I was astonished is inside the mark. I suddenly discovered that I didn't want to see a bear,

after all. At about the same moment the bear saw me, stopped eating berries, and regarded me with a glad

surprise. It is all very well to imagine what you would do under such circumstances. Probably you wouldn't

do it: I didn't. The bear dropped down on his forefeet, and came slowly towards me. Climbing a tree was of

no use, with so good a climber in the rear. If I started to run, I had no doubt the bear would give chase; and

although a bear cannot run down hill as fast as he can run up hill, yet I felt that he could get over this rough,

The bear was approaching. It suddenly occurred to me how I could divert his mind until I could fall back

upon my military base. My pail was nearly full of excellent berries, much better than the bear could pick

himself. I put the pail on the ground, and slowly backed away from it, keeping my eye, as beasttamers do,

The bear came up to the berries, and stopped. Not accustomed to eat out of a pail, he tipped it over, and nosed

about in the fruit, "gorming" (if there is such a word) it down, mixed with leaves and dirt, like a pig. The bear

is a worse feeder than the pig. Whenever he disturbs a maplesugar camp in the spring, he always upsets the

buckets of syrup, and tramples round in the sticky sweets, wasting more than he eats. The bear's manners are

As soon as my enemy's head was down, I started and ran. Somewhat out of breath, and shaky, I reached my

faithful rifle. It was not a moment too soon. I heard the bear crashing through the brush after me. Enraged at

my duplicity, he was now coming on with blood in his eye. I felt that the time of one of us was probably

short. The rapidity of thought at such moments of peril is well known. I thought an octavo volume, had it

illustrated and published, sold fifty thousand copies, and went to Europe on the proceeds, while that bear was

loping across the clearing. As I was cocking the gun, I made a hasty and unsatisfactory review of my whole

life. I noted, that, even in such a compulsory review, it is almost impossible to think of any good thing you

have done. The sins come out uncommonly strong. I recollected a newspaper subscription I had delayed

paying years and years ago, until both editor and newspaper were dead, and which now never could be paid

I tried to remember what I had read about encounters with bears. I couldn't recall an instance in which a man

had run away from a bear in the woods and escaped, although I recalled plenty where the bear had run from

the man and got off. I tried to think what is the best way to kill a bear with a gun, when you are not near

enough to club him with the stock. My first thought was to fire at his head; to plant the ball between his eyes:

but this is a dangerous experiment. The bear's brain is very small; and, unless you hit that, the bear does not

mind a bullet in his head; that is, not at the time. I remembered that the instant death of the bear would follow

a bullet planted just back of his foreleg, and sent into his heart. This spot is also difficult to reach, unless the

bear stands off, side towards you, like a target. I finally determined to fire at him generally.

The contest seemed to me very different from anything at Creedmoor. I had carefully read the reports of the

shooting there; but it was not easy to apply the experience I had thus acquired. I hesitated whether I had better

fire lying on my stomach or lying on my back, and resting the gun on my toes. But in neither position, I

reflected, could I see the bear until he was upon me. The range was too short; and the bear wouldn't wait for

me to examine the thermometer, and note the direction of the wind. Trial of the Creedmoor method,

therefore, had to be abandoned; and I bitterly regretted that I had not read more accounts of offhand shooting.

I tried to fix my last thoughts upon my family. As my family is small, this was not difficult. Dread of

displeasing my wife, or hurting her feelings, was uppermost in my mind. What would be her anxiety as hour

after hour passed on, and I did not return! What would the rest of the household think as the afternoon passed,

and no blackberries came! What would be my wife's mortification when the news was brought that her

husband had been eaten by a bear! I cannot imagine anything more ignominious than to have a husband eaten

by a bear. And this was not my only anxiety. The mind at such times is not under control. With the gravest

fears the most whimsical ideas will occur. I looked beyond the mourning friends, and thought what kind of an

It is a very unheroic and even disagreeable epitaph. That "eaten by a bear" is intolerable. It is grotesque. And

then I thought what an inadequate language the English is for compact expression. It would not answer to put

upon the stone simply "eaten"; for that is indefinite, and requires explanation: it might mean eaten by a

cannibal. This difficulty could not occur in the German, where essen signifies the act of feeding by a man,

That explains itself. The wellborn one was eaten by a beast, and presumably by a bear,an animal that has

The bear was coming on; he had, in fact, come on. I judged that he could see the whites of my eyes. All my

subsequent reflections were confused. I raised the gun, covered the bear's breast with the sight, and let drive.

Then I turned, and ran like a deer. I did not hear the bear pursuing. I looked back. The bear had stopped. He

was lying down. I then remembered that the best thing to do after having fired your gun is to reload it. I

slipped in a charge, keeping my eyes on the bear. He never stirred. I walked back suspiciously. There was a

quiver in the hindlegs, but no other motion. Still, he might be shamming: bears often sham. To make sure, I

approached, and put a ball into his head. He didn't mind it now: he minded nothing. Death had come to him

with a merciful suddenness. He was calm in death. In order that he might remain so, I blew his brains out, and

Notwithstanding my excitement, I managed to saunter into the house with an unconcerned air. There was a

"Where are your blackberries?" "Why were you gone so long?" "Where's your pail?"

"If you want to see the bear, you must go up into the woods. I couldn't bring him down alone."

Having satisfied the household that something extraordinary had occurred, and excited the posthumous fear

of some of them for my own safety, I went down into the valley to get help. The great bear hunter, who

keeps one of the summer boardinghouses, received my story with a smile of incredulity; and the incredulity

spread to the other inhabitants and to the boarders as soon as the story was known. However, as I insisted in

all soberness, and offered to lead them to the bear, a party of forty or fifty people at last started off with me to

bring the bear in. Nobody believed there was any bear in the case; but everybody who could get a gun carried

one; and we went into the woods armed with guns, pistols, pitchforks, and sticks, against all contingencies or

But when I led the way to the fatal spot, and pointed out the bear, lying peacefully wrapped in his own skin,

something like terror seized the boarders, and genuine excitement the natives. It was a nomistake bear, by

George! and the hero of the fight well, I will not insist upon that. But what a procession that was, carrying the

bear home! and what a congregation, was speedily gathered in the valley to see the bear! Our best preacher

And I must say that my particular friends, who were sportsmen, behaved very well, on the whole. They didn't

deny that it was a bear, although they said it was small for a bear. Mr... Deane, who is equally good with a

rifle and a rod, admitted that it was a very fair shot. He is probably the best salmon fisher in the United States,

and he is an equally good hunter. I suppose there is no person in America who is more desirous to kill a

moose than he. But he needlessly remarked, after he had examined the wound in the bear, that he had seen

This sort of talk affected me not. When I went to sleep that night, my last delicious thought was, "I've killed a

It ought to be said, by way of explanation, that my being lost in the woods was not premeditated. Nothing

could have been more informal. This apology can be necessary only to those who are familiar with the

Adirondack literature. Any person not familiar with it would see the absurdity of one going to the Northern

Wilderness with the deliberate purpose of writing about himself as a lost man. It may be true that a book

about this wild tract would not be recognized as complete without a lostman story in it, since it is almost as

easy for a stranger to get lost in the Adirondacks as in Boston. I merely desire to say that my unimportant

adventure is not narrated in answer to the popular demand, and I do not wish to be held responsible for its

We had been in camp a week, on the Upper Au Sable Lake. This is a gememerald or turquoise as the light

changes itset in the virgin forest. It is not a large body of water, is irregular in form, and about a mile and a

half in length; but in the sweep of its wooded shores, and the lovely contour of the lofty mountains that guard

it, the lake is probably the most charming in America. Why the young ladies and gentlemen who camp there

occasionally vex the days and nights with hooting, and singing sentimental songs, is a mystery even to the

I left my companions there one Saturday morning, to return to Keene Valley, intending to fish down the Au

Sable River. The Upper Lake discharges itself into the Lower by a brook which winds through a mile and a

half of swamp and woods. Out of the north end of the Lower Lake, which is a huge sink in the mountains,

and mirrors the savage precipices, the Au Sable breaks its rocky barriers, and flows through a wild gorge,

several miles, to the valley below. Between the Lower Lake and the settlements is an extensive forest,

traversed by a cartpath, admirably constructed of loose stones, roots of trees, decayed logs, slippery rocks,

and mud. The gorge of the river forms its western boundary. I followed this caricature of a road a mile or

more; then gave my luggage to the guide to carry home, and struck off through the forest, by compass, to the

river. I promised myself an exciting scramble down this littlefrequented canyon, and a creel full of trout.

There was no difficulty in finding the river, or in descending the steep precipice to its bed: getting into a

scrape is usually the easiest part of it. The river is strewn with bowlders, big and little, through which the

amber water rushes with an unceasing thunderous roar, now plunging down in white falls, then swirling

round in dark pools. The day, already past meridian, was delightful; at least, the blue strip of it I could see

Better pools and rapids for trout never were, I thought, as I concealed myself behind a bowlder, and made the

first cast. There is nothing like the thrill of expectation over the first throw in unfamiliar waters. Fishing is

like gambling, in that failure only excites hope of a fortunate throw next time. There was no rise to the

"leader" on the first cast, nor on the twentyfirst; and I cautiously worked my way down stream, throwing

right and left. When I had gone half a mile, my opinion of the character of the pools was unchanged: never

were there such places for trout; but the trout were out of their places. Perhaps they didn't care for the fly:

some trout seem to be so unsophisticated as to prefer the worm. I replaced the fly with a baited hook: the

worm squirmed; the waters rushed and roared; a cloud sailed across the blue: no trout rose to the lonesome

opportunity. There is a certain companionship in the presence of trout, especially when you can feel them

flopping in your fish basket; but it became evident that there were no trout in this wilderness, and a sense of

isolation for the first time came over me. There was no living thing near. The river had by this time entered a

deeper gorge; walls of rocks rose perpendicularly on either side, picturesque rocks, painted many colors by

the oxide of iron. It was not possible to climb out of the gorge; it was impossible to find a way by the side of

the river; and getting down the bed, over the falls, and through the flumes, was not easy, and consumed time.

Was that thunder? Very likely. But thunder showers are always brewing in these mountain fortresses, and it

did not occur to me that there was anything personal in it. Very soon, however, the hole in the sky closed in,

and the rain dashed down. It seemed a providential time to eat my luncheon; and I took shelter under a

scraggy pine that had rooted itself in the edge of the rocky slope. The shower soon passed, and I continued

my journey, creeping over the slippery rocks, and continuing to show my confidence in the unresponsive

trout. The way grew wilder and more grewsome. The thunder began again, rolling along over the tops of the

mountains, and reverberating in sharp concussions in the gorge: the lightning also darted down into the

darkening passage, and then the rain. Every enlightened being, even if he is in a fisherman's dress of shirt and

pantaloons, hates to get wet; and I ignominiously crept under the edge of a sloping bowlder. It was all very

well at first, until streams of water began to crawl along the face of the rock, and trickle down the back of my

neck. This was refined misery, unheroic and humiliating, as suffering always is when unaccompanied by

A longer time than I knew was consumed in this and repeated efforts to wait for the slackening and renewing

storm to pass away. In the intervals of calm I still fished, and even descended to what a sportsman considers

incredible baseness: I put a "sinker" on my line. It is the practice of the country folk, whose only object is to

get fish, to use a good deal of bait, sink the hook to the bottom of the pools, and wait the slow appetite of the

summer trout. I tried this also. I might as well have fished in a pork barrel. It is true that in one deep, black,

round pool I lured a small trout from the bottom, and deposited him in the creel; but it was an accident.

Though I sat there in the awful silence (the roar of water and thunder only emphasized the stillness) full half

an hour, I was not encouraged by another nibble. Hope, however, did not die: I always expected to find the

trout in the next flume; and so I toiled slowly on, unconscious of the passing time. At each turn of the stream

I expected to see the end, and at each turn I saw a long, narrow stretch of rocks and foaming water. Climbing

out of the ravine was, in most places, simply impossible; and I began to look with interest for a slide, where

bushes rooted in the scant earth would enable me to scale the precipice. I did not doubt that I was nearly

through the gorge. I could at length see the huge form of the Giant of the Valley, scarred with avalanches, at

the end of the vista; and it seemed not far off. But it kept its distance, as only a mountain can, while I

stumbled and slid down the rocky way. The rain had now set in with persistence, and suddenly I became

aware that it was growing dark; and I said to myself, "If you don't wish to spend the night in this horrible

chasm, you'd better escape speedily." Fortunately I reached a place where the face of the precipice was

Having no doubt that I was within half a mile, perhaps within a few rods, of the house above the entrance of

the gorge, and that, in any event, I should fall into the cartpath in a few minutes, I struck boldly into the

forest, congratulating myself on having escaped out of the river. So sure was I of my whereabouts that I did

not note the bend of the river, nor look at my compass. The one trout in my basket was no burden, and I

The forest was of hardwood, and open, except for a thick undergrowth of moosebush. It was raining,in

fact, it had been raining, more or less, for a month,and the woods were soaked. This moosebush is most

annoying stuff to travel through in a rain; for the broad leaves slap one in the face, and sop him with wet. The

way grew every moment more dingy. The heavy clouds above the thick foliage brought night on prematurely.

It was decidedly premature to a nearsighted man, whose glasses the rain rendered useless: such a person

ought to be at home early. On leaving the river bank I had borne to the left, so as to be sure to strike either the

clearing or the road, and not wander off into the measureless forest. I confidently pursued this course, and

went gayly on by the left flank. That I did not come to any opening or path only showed that I had slightly

I was so certain of this that I quickened my pace and got up with alacrity every time I tumbled down amid the

slippery leaves and catching roots, and hurried on. And I kept to the left. It even occurred to me that I was

turning to the left so much that I might come back to the river again. It grew more dusky, and rained more

violently; but there was nothing alarming in the situation, since I knew exactly where I was. It was a little

mortifying that I had miscalculated the distance: yet, so far was I from feeling any uneasiness about this that I

quickened my pace again, and, before I knew it, was in a full run; that is, as full a run as a person can indulge

in in the dusk, with so many trees in the way. No nervousness, but simply a reasonable desire to get there. I

desired to look upon myself as the person "not lost, but gone before." As time passed, and darkness fell, and

no clearing or road appeared, I ran a little faster. It didn't seem possible that the people had moved, or the

road been changed; and yet I was sure of my direction. I went on with an energy increased by the

ridiculousness of the situation, the danger that an experienced woodsman was in of getting home late for

supper; the lateness of the meal being nothing to the gibes of the unlost. How long I kept this course, and how

far I went on, I do not know; but suddenly I stumbled against an illplaced tree, and sat down on the soaked

ground, a trifle out of breath. It then occurred to me that I had better verify my course by the compass. There

was scarcely light enough to distinguish the black end of the needle. To my amazement, the compass, which

was made near Greenwich, was wrong. Allowing for the natural variation of the needle, it was absurdly

wrong. It made out that I was going south when I was going north. It intimated that, instead of turning to the

left, I had been making a circuit to the right. According to the compass, the Lord only knew where I was.

The inclination of persons in the woods to travel in a circle is unexplained. I suppose it arises from the

sympathy of the legs with the brain. Most people reason in a circle: their minds go round and round, always

in the same track. For the last half hour I had been saying over a sentence that started itself: "I wonder where

that road is!" I had said it over till it had lost all meaning. I kept going round on it; and yet I could not believe

that my body had been traveling in a circle. Not being able to recognize any tracks, I have no evidence that I

The compass annoyed me. I've known experienced guides utterly discredit it. It couldn't be that I was to turn

about, and go the way I had come. Nevertheless, I said to myself, "You'd better keep a cool head, my boy, or

you are in for a night of it. Better listen to science than to spunk." And I resolved to heed the impartial needle.

I was a little weary of the rough tramping: but it was necessary to be moving; for, with wet clothes and the

night air, I was decidedly chilly. I turned towards the north, and slipped and stumbled along. A more

uninviting forest to pass the night in I never saw. Every thing was soaked. If I became exhausted, it would

be necessary to build a fire; and, as I walked on, I couldn't find a dry bit of wood. Even if a little punk were

discovered in a rotten log I had no hatchet to cut fuel. I thought it all over calmly. I had the usual three

matches in my pocket. I knew exactly what would happen if I tried to build a fire. The first match would

prove to be wet. The second match, when struck, would shine and smell, and fizz a little, and then go out.

There would be only one match left. Death would ensue if it failed. I should get close to the log, crawl under

my hat, strike the match, see it catch, flicker, almost go out (the reader painfully excited by this time), blaze

up, nearly expire, and finally fire the punk,thank God! And I said to myself, "The public don't want any

more of this thing: it is played out. Either have a box of matches, or let the first one catch fire."

In this gloomy mood I plunged along. The prospect was cheerless; for, apart from the comfort that a fire

would give, it is necessary, at night, to keep off the wild beasts. I fancied I could hear the tread of the stealthy

brutes following their prey. But there was one source of profound satisfaction,the catamount had been

killed. Mr. Colvin, the triangulating surveyor of the Adirondacks, killed him in his last official report to the

State. Whether he despatched him with a theodolite or a barometer does not matter: he is officially dead, and

none of the travelers can kill him any more. Yet he has served them a good turn.

I knew that catamount well. One night when we lay in the bogs of the South Beaver Meadow, under a canopy

of mosquitoes, the serene midnight was parted by a wild and humanlike cry from a neighboring mountain.

"That's a cat," said the guide. I felt in a moment that it was the voice of "modern cultchah." " Modern

culture," says Mr. Joseph Cook in a most impressive period," modern culture is a child crying in the

wilderness, and with no voice but a cry." That describes the catamount exactly. The next day, when we

ascended the mountain, we came upon the traces of this brute,a spot where he had stood and cried in the

night; and I confess that my hair rose with the consciousness of his recent presence, as it is said to do when a

Whatever consolation the absence of catamount in a dark, drenched, and howling wilderness can impart, that

I experienced; but I thought what a satire upon my present condition was modern culture, with its plain

thinking and high living! It was impossible to get much satisfaction out of the real and the ideal,the me and

the notme. At this time what impressed me most was the absurdity of my position looked at in the light of

modern civilization and all my advantages and acquirements. It seemed pitiful that society could do

absolutely nothing for me. It was, in fact, humiliating to reflect that it would now be profitable to exchange

all my possessions for the woods instinct of the most unlettered guide. I began to doubt the value of the

It began to be a question whether I could hold out to walk all night; for I must travel, or perish. And now I

imagined that a spectre was walking by my side. This was Famine. To be sure, I had only recently eaten a

hearty luncheon: but the pangs of hunger got hold on me when I thought that I should have no supper, no

breakfast; and, as the procession of unattainable meals stretched before me, I grew hungrier and hungrier. I

could feel that I was becoming gaunt, and wasting away: already I seemed to be emaciated. It is astonishing

how speedily a jocund, wellconditioned human being can be transformed into a spectacle of poverty and

want, Lose a man in the Woods, drench him, tear his pantaloons, get his imagination running on his lost

supper and the cheerful fireside that is expecting him, and he will become haggard in an hour. I am not

dwelling upon these things to excite the reader's sympathy, but only to advise him, if he contemplates an

adventure of this kind, to provide himself with matches, kindling wood, something more to eat than one raw

Nature is so pitiless, so unresponsive, to a person in trouble! I had read of the soothing companionship of the

forest, the pleasure of the pathless woods. But I thought, as I stumbled along in the dismal actuality, that, if I

ever got out of it, I would write a letter to the newspapers, exposing the whole thing. There is an impassive,

stolid brutality about the woods that has never been enough insisted on. I tried to keep my mind fixed upon

the fact of man's superiority to Nature; his ability to dominate and outwit her. My situation was an amusing

satire on this theory. I fancied that I could feel a sneer in the woods at my detected conceit. There was

something personal in it. The downpour of the rain and the slipperiness of the ground were elements of

discomfort; but there was, besides these, a kind of terror in the very character of the forest itself. I think this

arose not more from its immensity than from the kind of stolidity to which I have alluded. It seemed to me

that it would be a sort of relief to kick the trees. I don't wonder that the bears fall to, occasionally, and scratch

the bark off the great pines and maples, tearing it angrily away. One must have some vent to his feelings. It is

a common experience of people lost in the woods to lose their heads; and even the woodsmen themselves are

not free from this panic when some accident has thrown them out of their reckoning. Fright unsettles the

judgment: the oppressive silence of the woods is a vacuum in which the mind goes astray. It's a hollow sham,

this pantheism, I said; being "one with Nature" is all humbug: I should like to see somebody. Man, to be sure,

is of very little account, and soon gets beyond his depth; but the society of the least human being is better

than this gigantic indifference. The "rapture on the lonely shore" is agreeable only when you know you can at

I had now given up all expectation of finding the road, and was steering my way as well as I could northward

towards the valley. In my haste I made slow progress. Probably the distance I traveled was short, and the time

consumed not long; but I seemed to be adding mile to mile, and hour to hour. I had time to review the

incidents of the RussoTurkish war, and to forecast the entire Eastern question; I outlined the characters of

all my companions left in camp, and sketched in a sort of comedy the sympathetic and disparaging

observations they would make on my adventure; I repeated something like a thousand times, without

contradiction, "What a fool you were to leave the river!" I stopped twenty times, thinking I heard its loud

roar, always deceived by the wind in the treetops; I began to entertain serious doubts about the

compass,when suddenly I became aware that I was no longer on level ground: I was descending a slope; I

was actually in a ravine. In a moment more I was in a brook newly formed by the rain. "Thank Heaven!" I

cried: "this I shall follow, whatever conscience or the compass says." In this region, all streams go, sooner or

later, into the valley. This ravine, this stream, no doubt, led to the river. I splashed and tumbled along down it

in mud and water. Down hill we went together, the fall showing that I must have wandered to high ground.

When I guessed that I must be close to the river, I suddenly stepped into mud up to my ankles. It was the

road,running, of course, the wrong way, but still the blessed road. It was a mere canal of liquid mud; but

man had made it, and it would take me home. I was at least three miles from the point I supposed I was near

at sunset, and I had before me a toilsome walk of six or seven miles, most of the way in a ditch; but it is truth

to say that I enjoyed every step of it. I was safe; I knew where I was; and I could have walked till morning.

The mind had again got the upper hand of the body, and began to plume itself on its superiority: it was even

Trout fishing in the Adirondacks would be a more attractive pastime than it is but for the popular notion of its

danger. The trout is a retiring and harmless animal, except when he is aroused and forced into a combat; and

then his agility, fierceness, and vindictiveness become apparent. No one who has studied the excellent

pictures representing men in an open boat, exposed to the assaults of long, enraged trout flying at them

through the open air with open mouth, ever ventures with his rod upon the lonely lakes of the forest without a

certain terror, or ever reads of the exploits of daring fishermen without a feeling of admiration for their

heroism. Most of their adventures are thrilling, and all of them are, in narration, more or less unjust to the

trout: in fact, the object of them seems to be to exhibit, at the expense of the trout, the shrewdness, the skill,

and the muscular power of the sportsman. My own simple story has few of these recommendations.

We had built our bark camp one summer and were staying on one of the popular lakes of the Saranac region.

It would be a very pretty region if it were not so flat, if the margins of the lakes had not been flooded by dams

at the outlets, which have killed the trees, and left a rim of ghastly deadwood like the swamps of the

underworld pictured by Dore's bizarre pencil,and if the pianos at the hotels were in tune. It would be an

excellent sporting region also (for there is water enough) if the fish commissioners would stock the waters,

and if previous hunters had not pulled all the hair and skin off from the deers' tails. Formerly sportsmen had a

habit of catching the deer by the tails, and of being dragged in mere wantonness round and round the shores.

It is well known that if you seize a deer by this "holt" the skin will slip off like the peel from a bananaThis

reprehensible practice was carried so far that the traveler is now hourly pained by the sight of peeledtail deer

We had been hearing, for weeks, of a small lake in the heart of the virgin forest, some ten miles from our

camp, which was alive with trout, unsophisticated, hungry trout: the inlet to it was described as stiff with

them. In my imagination I saw them lying there in ranks and rows, each a foot long, three tiers deep, a solid

mass. The lake had never been visited except by stray sable hunters in the winter, and was known as the

Unknown Pond. I determined to explore it, fully expecting, however, that it would prove to be a delusion, as

such mysterious haunts of the trout usually are. Confiding my purpose to Luke, we secretly made our

preparations, and stole away from the shanty one morning at daybreak. Each of us carried a boat, a pair of

blankets, a sack of bread, pork, and maplesugar; while I had my case of rods, creel, and book of flies, and

Luke had an axe and the kitchen utensils. We think nothing of loads of this sort in the woods.

Five miles through a tamarack swamp brought us to the inlet of Unknown Pond, upon which we embarked

our fleet, and paddled down its vagrant waters. They were at first sluggish, winding among triste firtrees,

but gradually developed a strong current. At the end of three miles a loud roar ahead warned us that we were

approaching rapids, falls, and cascades. We paused. The danger was unknown. We had our choice of

shouldering our loads and making a detour through the woods, or of "shooting the rapids." Naturally we

chose the more dangerous course. Shooting the rapids has often been described, and I will not repeat the

description here. It is needless to say that I drove my frail bark through the boiling rapids, over the successive

waterfalls, amid rocks and vicious eddies, and landed, half a mile below with whitened hair and a boat half

full of water; and that the guide was upset, and boat, contents, and man were strewn along the shore.

After this common experience we went quickly on our journey, and, a couple of hours before sundown,

reached the lake. If I live to my dying day, I never shall forget its appearance. The lake is almost an exact

circle, about a quarter of a mile in diameter. The forest about it was untouched by axe, and unkilled by

artificial flooding. The azure water had a perfect setting of evergreens, in which all the shades of the fir, the

balsam, the pine, and the spruce were perfectly blended; and at intervals on the shore in the emerald rim

blazed the ruby of the cardinal flower. It was at once evident that the unruffled waters had never been vexed

by the keel of a boat. But what chiefly attracted my attention, and amused me, was the boiling of the water,

the bubbling and breaking, as if the lake were a vast kettle, with a fire underneath. A tyro would have been

astonished at this common phenomenon; but sportsmen will at once understand me when I say that the water

boiled with the breaking trout. I studied the surface for some time to see upon what sort of flies they were

feeding, in order to suit my cast to their appetites; but they seemed to be at play rather than feeding, leaping

high in the air in graceful curves, and tumbling about each other as we see them in the Adirondack pictures.

It is well known that no person who regards his reputation will ever kill a trout with anything but a fly. It

requires some training on the part of the trout to take to this method. The uncultivated, unsophisticated trout

in unfrequented waters prefers the bait; and the rural people, whose sole object in going afishing appears to

be to catch fish, indulge them in their primitive taste for the worm. No sportsman, however, will use anything

While Luke launched my boat and arranged his seat in the stern, I prepared my rod and line. The rod is a

bamboo, weighing seven ounces, which has to be spliced with a winding of silk thread every time it is used.

This is a tedious process; but, by fastening the joints in this way, a uniform spring is secured in the rod. No

one devoted to high art would think of using a socket joint. My line was forty yards of untwisted silk upon a

multiplying reel. The "leader" (I am very particular about my leaders) had been made to order from a

domestic animal with which I had been acquainted. The fisherman requires as good a catgut as the violinist.

The interior of the house cat, it is well known, is exceedingly sensitive; but it may not be so well known that

the reason why some cats leave the room in distress when a pianoforte is played is because the two

instruments are not in the same key, and the vibrations of the chords of the one are in discord with the catgut

of the other. On six feet of this superior article I fixed three artificial flies,a simple brown hackle, a gray

body with scarlet wings, and one of my own invention, which I thought would be new to the most

experienced flycatcher. The troutfly does not resemble any known species of insect. It is a

"conventionalized" creation, as we say of ornamentation. The theory is that, flyfishing being a high art, the

fly must not be a tame imitation of nature, but an artistic suggestion of it. It requires an artist to construct one;

and not every bungler can take a bit of red flannel, a peacock's feather, a flash of tinsel thread, a cock's

plume, a section of a hen's wing, and fabricate a tiny object that will not look like any fly, but still will

I took my stand in the center of the tipsy boat; and Luke shoved off, and slowly paddled towards some

lilypads, while I began casting, unlimbering my tools, as it were. The fish had all disappeared. I got out,

perhaps, fifty feet of line, with no response, and gradually increased it to one hundred. It is not difficult to

learn to cast; but it is difficult to learn not to snap off the flies at every throw. Of this, however, we will not

speak. I continued casting for some moments, until I became satisfied that there had been a miscalculation.

Either the trout were too green to know what I was at, or they were dissatisfied with my offers. I reeled in,

and changed the flies (that is, the fly that was not snapped off). After studying the color of the sky, of the

water, and of the foliage, and the moderated light of the afternoon, I put on a series of beguilers, all of a

subdued brilliancy, in harmony with the approach of evening. At the second cast, which was a short one, I

saw a splash where the leader fell, and gave an excited jerk. The next instant I perceived the game, and did

not need the unfeigned "dam" of Luke to convince me that I had snatched his felt hat from his head and

deposited it among the lilies. Discouraged by this, we whirled about, and paddled over to the inlet, where a

little ripple was visible in the tinted light. At the very first cast I saw that the hour had come. Three trout

leaped into the air. The danger of this manoeuvre all fishermen understand. It is one of the commonest in the

woods: three heavy trout taking hold at once, rushing in different directions, smash the tackle into flinders. I

evaded this catch, and threw again. I recall the moment. A hermit thrush, on the tip of a balsam, uttered his

long, liquid, evening note. Happening to look over my shoulder, I saw the peak of Marcy gleam rosy in the

sky (I can't help it that Marcy is fifty miles off, and cannot be seen from this region: these incidental touches

are always used). The hundred feet of silk swished through the air, and the tailfly fell as lightly on the water

as a threecent piece (which no slamming will give the weight of a ten) drops upon the contribution plate.

Instantly there was a rush, a swirl. I struck, and "Got him, by!" Never mind what Luke said I got him by.

"Out on a fly!" continued that irreverent guide; but I told him to back water, and make for the center of the

lake. The trout, as soon as he felt the prick of the hook, was off like a shot, and took out the whole of the line

with a rapidity that made it smoke. "Give him the butt!" shouted Luke. It is the usual remark in such an

emergency. I gave him the butt; and, recognizing the fact and my spirit, the trout at once sank to the bottom,

and sulked. It is the most dangerous mood of a trout; for you cannot tell what he will do next. We reeled up a

little, and waited five minutes for him to reflect. A tightening of the line enraged him, and he soon developed

his tactics. Coming to the surface, he made straight for the boat faster than I could reel in, and evidently with

hostile intentions. "Look out for him!" cried Luke as he came flying in the air. I evaded him by dropping flat

in the bottom of the boat; and, when I picked my traps up, he was spinning across the lake as if he had a new

idea: but the line was still fast. He did not run far. I gave him the butt again; a thing he seemed to hate, even

as a gift. In a moment the evilminded fish, lashing the water in his rage, was coming back again, making

straight for the boat as before. Luke, who was used to these encounters, having read of them in the writings of

travelers he had accompanied, raised his paddle in selfdefense. The trout left the water about ten feet from

the boat, and came directly at me with fiery eyes, his speckled sides flashing like a meteor. I dodged as he

whisked by with a vicious slap of his bifurcated tail, and nearly upset the boat. The line was of course slack,

and the danger was that he would entangle it about me, and carry away a leg. This was evidently his game;

but I untangled it, and only lost a breast button or two by the swiftlymoving string. The trout plunged into

the water with a hissing sound, and went away again with all the line on the reel. More butt; more indignation

on the part of the captive. The contest had now been going on for half an hour, and I was getting exhausted.

We had been back and forth across the lake, and round and round the lake. What I feared was that the trout

would start up the inlet and wreck us in the bushes. But he had a new fancy, and began the execution of a

manoeuvre which I had never read of. Instead of coming straight towards me, he took a large circle,

swimming rapidly, and gradually contracting his orbit. I reeled in, and kept my eye on him. Round and round

he went, narrowing his circle. I began to suspect the game; which was, to twist my head off.When he had

reduced the radius of his circle to about twenty five feet, he struck a tremendous pace through the water. It

would be false modesty in a sportsman to say that I was not equal to the occasion. Instead of turning round

with him, as he expected, I stepped to the bow, braced myself, and let the boat swing. Round went the fish,

and round we went like a top. I saw a line of Mount Marcys all round the horizon; the rosy tint in the west

made a broad band of pink along the sky above the treetops; the evening star was a perfect circle of light, a

hoop of gold in the heavens. We whirled and reeled, and reeled and whirled. I was willing to give the

malicious beast butt and line, and all, if he would only go the other way for a change.

When I came to myself, Luke was gaffing the trout at the boatside. After we had got him in and dressed

him, he weighed threequarters of a pound. Fish always lose by being "got in and dressed." It is best to weigh

them while they are in the water. The only really large one I ever caught got away with my leader when I first

If civilization owes a debt of gratitude to the selfsacrificing sportsmen who have cleared the Adirondack

regions of catamounts and savage trout, what shall be said of the army which has so nobly relieved them of

the terror of the deer? The deerslayers have somewhat celebrated their exploits in print; but I think that

The American deer in the wilderness, left to himself, leads a comparatively harmless but rather stupid life,

with only such excitement as his own timid fancy raises. It was very seldom that one of his tribe was eaten by

the North American tiger. For a wild animal he is very domestic, simple in his tastes, regular in his habits,

affectionate in his family. Unfortunately for his repose, his haunch is as tender as his heart. Of all wild

creatures he is one of the most graceful in action, and he poses with the skill of an experienced model. I have

seen the goats on Mount Pentelicus scatter at the approach of a stranger, climb to the sharp points of

projecting rocks, and attitudinize in the most selfconscious manner, striking at once those picturesque

postures against the sky with which Oriental pictures have made us and them familiar. But the whole

Greece is the home of art, and it is rare to find anything there natural and unstudied. I presume that these

goats have no nonsense about them when they are alone with the goatherds, any more than the goatherds

have, except when they come to pose in the studio; but the long ages of culture, the presence always to the

eye of the best models and the forms of immortal beauty, the heroic friezes of the Temple of Theseus, the

marble processions of sacrificial animals, have had a steady molding, educating influence equal to a society

of decorative art upon the people and the animals who have dwelt in this artistic atmosphere. The Attic goat

has become an artificially artistic being; though of course he is not now what he was, as a poser, in the days

of Polycletus. There is opportunity for a very instructive essay by Mr. E. A. Freeman on the decadence of the

The American deer, in the free atmosphere of our country, and as yet untouched by our decorative art, is

without selfconsciousness, and all his attitudes are free and unstudied. The favorite position of the

deerhis forefeet in the shallow margin of the lake, among the lilypads, his antlers thrown back and his

nose in the air at the moment he hears the stealthy breaking of a twig in the forestis still spirited and

graceful, and wholly unaffected by the pictures of him which the artists have put upon canvas.

Wherever you go in the Northern forest you will find deerpaths. So plainly marked and welltrodden are

they that it is easy to mistake them for trails made by hunters; but he who follows one of them is soon in

difficulties. He may find himself climbing through cedar thickets an almost inaccessible cliff, or immersed in

the intricacies of a marsh. The "run," in one direction, will lead to water; but, in the other, it climbs the

highest hills, to which the deer retires, for safety and repose, in impenetrable thickets. The hunters, in winter,

find them congregated in " yards," where they can be surrounded and shot as easily as our troops shoot

Comanche women and children in their winter villages. These little paths are full of pitfalls among the roots

and stones; and, nimble as the deer is, he sometimes breaks one of his slender legs in them. Yet he knows

how to treat himself without a surgeon. I knew of a tame deer in a settlement in the edge of the forest who

had the misfortune to break her leg. She immediately disappeared with a delicacy rare in an invalid, and was

not seen for two weeks. Her friends had given her up, supposing that she had dragged herself away into the

depths of the woods, and died of starvation, when one day she returned, cured of lameness, but thin as a

virgin shadow. She had the sense to shun the doctor; to lie down in some safe place, and patiently wait for her

leg to heal. I have observed in many of the more refined animals this sort of shyness, and reluctance to give

The deer is called a timid animal, and taunted with possessing courage only when he is "at bay"; the stag will

fight when he can no longer flee; and the doe will defend her young in the face of murderous enemies. The

deer gets little credit for this eleventh hour bravery. But I think that in any truly Christian condition of

society the deer would not be conspicuous for cowardice. I suppose that if the American girl, even as she is

described in foreign romances, were pursued by bulldogs, and fired at from behind fences every time she

ventured outdoors, she would become timid, and reluctant to go abroad. When that golden era comes which

the poets think is behind us, and the prophets declare is about to be ushered in by the opening of the "vials,"

and the killing of everybody who does not believe as those nations believe which have the most cannon;

when we all live in real concord,perhaps the gentlehearted deer will be respected, and will find that men

are not more savage to the weak than are the cougars and panthers. If the little spotted fawn can think, it must

seem to her a queer world in which the advent of innocence is hailed by the baying of fierce hounds and the

Hunting the deer in the Adirondacks is conducted in the most manly fashion. There are several methods, and

in none of them is a fair chance to the deer considered. A favorite method with the natives is practiced in

winter, and is called by them "still hunting." My idea of still hunting is for one man to go alone into the

forest, look about for a deer, put his wits fairly against the wits of the keen scented animal, and kill his deer,

or get lost in the attempt. There seems to be a sort of fairness about this. It is private assassination, tempered

with a little uncertainty about finding your man. The still hunting of the natives has all the romance and

danger attending the slaughter of sheep in an abattoir. As the snow gets deep, many deer congregate in the

depths of the forest, and keep a place trodden down, which grows larger as they tramp down the snow in

search of food. In time this refuge becomes a sort of "yard," surrounded by unbroken snowbanks. The

hunters then make their way to this retreat on snowshoes, and from the top of the banks pick off the deer at

leisure with their rifles, and haul them away to market, until the enclosure is pretty much emptied. This is one

of the surest methods of exterminating the deer; it is also one of the most merciful; and, being the plan

adopted by our government for civilizing the Indian, it ought to be popular. The only people who object to it

are the summer sportsmen. They naturally want some pleasure out of the death of the deer.

Some of our best sportsmen, who desire to protract the pleasure of slaying deer through as many seasons as

possible, object to the practice of the hunters, who make it their chief business to slaughter as many deer in a

camping season as they can. Their own rule, they say, is to kill a deer only when they need venison to eat.

Their excuse is specious. What right have these sophists to put themselves into a desert place, out of the reach

of provisions, and then ground a right to slay deer on their own improvidence? If it is necessary for these

people to have anything to eat, which I doubt, it is not necessary that they should have the luxury of venison.

One of the most picturesque methods of hunting the poor deer is called " floating." The person, with murder

in his heart, chooses a cloudy night, seats himself, rifle in hand, in a canoe, which is noiselessly paddled by

the guide, and explores the shore of the lake or the dark inlet. In the bow of the boat is a light in a "jack," the

rays of which are shielded from the boat and its occupants. A deer comes down to feed upon the lilypads.

The boat approaches him. He looks up, and stands a moment, terrified or fascinated by the bright flames. In

that moment the sportsman is supposed to shoot the deer. As an historical fact, his hand usually shakes so that

he misses the animal, or only wounds him; and the stag limps away to die after days of suffering. Usually,

however, the hunters remain out all night, get stiff from cold and the cramped position in the boat, and, when

they return in the morning to camp, cloud their future existence by the assertion that they "heard a big buck"

moving along the shore, but the people in camp made so much noise that he was frightened off.

By all odds, the favorite and prevalent mode is hunting with dogs. The dogs do the hunting, the men the

killing. The hounds are sent into the forest to rouse the deer, and drive him from his cover. They climb the

mountains, strike the trails, and go baying and yelping on the track of the poor beast. The deer have their

established runways, as I said; and, when they are disturbed in their retreat, they are certain to attempt to

escape by following one which invariably leads to some lake or stream. All that the hunter has to do is to seat

himself by one of these runways, or sit in a boat on the lake, and wait the coming of the pursued deer. The

frightened beast, fleeing from the unreasoning brutality of the hounds, will often seek the open country, with

a mistaken confidence in the humanity of man. To kill a deer when he suddenly passes one on a runway

demands presence of mind and quickness of aim: to shoot him from the boat, after he has plunged panting

into the lake, requires the rare ability to hit a moving object the size of a deer's head a few rods distant. Either

exploit is sufficient to make a hero of a common man. To paddle up to the swimming deer, and cut his throat,

is a sure means of getting venison, and has its charms for some. Even women and doctors of divinity have

enjoyed this exquisite pleasure. It cannot be denied that we are so constituted by a wise Creator as to feel a

delight in killing a wild animal which we do not experience in killing a tame one.

The pleasurable excitement of a deerhunt has never, I believe, been regarded from the deer's point of view. I

happen to be in a position, by reason of a lucky Adirondack experience, to present it in that light. I am sorry if

this introduction to my little story has seemed long to the reader: it is too late now to skip it; but he can

Early on the morning of the 23d of August, 1877, a doe was feeding on Basin Mountain. The night had been

warm and showery, and the morning opened in an undecided way. The wind was southerly: it is what the deer

call a dogwind, having come to know quite well the meaning of "a southerly wind and a cloudy sky." The

sole companion of the doe was her only child, a charming little fawn, whose brown coat was just beginning to

be mottled with the beautiful spots which make this young creature as lovely as the gazelle. The buck, its

father, had been that night on a long tramp across the mountain to Clear Pond, and had not yet returned: he

went ostensibly to feed on the succulent lilypads there. "He feedeth among the lilies until the day break and

the shadows flee away, and he should be here by this hour; but he cometh not," she said, "leaping upon the

mountains, skipping upon the hills." Clear Pond was too far off for the young mother to go with her fawn for

a night's pleasure. It was a fashionable wateringplace at this season among the deer; and the doe may have

remembered, not without uneasiness, the moonlight meetings of a frivolous society there. But the buck did

not come: he was very likely sleeping under one of the ledges on Tight Nippin. Was he alone? "I charge you,

by the roes and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not nor awake my love till he please."

The doe was feeding, daintily cropping the tender leaves of the young shoots, and turning from time to time

to regard her offspring. The fawn had taken his morning meal, and now lay curled up on a bed of moss,

watching contentedly, with his large, soft brown eyes, every movement of his mother. The great eyes

followed her with an alert entreaty; and, if the mother stepped a pace or two farther away in feeding, the fawn

made a half movement, as if to rise and follow her. You see, she was his sole dependence in all the world.

But he was quickly reassured when she turned her gaze on him; and if, in alarm, he uttered a plaintive cry,

she bounded to him at once, and, with every demonstration of affection, licked his mottled skin till it shone

It was a pretty picture,maternal love on the one part, and happy trust on the other. The doe was a beauty,

and would have been so considered anywhere, as graceful and winning a creature as the sun that day shone

on,slender limbs, not too heavy flanks, round body, and aristocratic head, with small ears, and luminous,

intelligent, affectionate eyes. How alert, supple, free, she was! What untaught grace in every movement!

What a charming pose when she lifted her head, and turned it to regard her child! You would have had a

companion picture if you had seen, as I saw that morning, a baby kicking about among the dry pineneedles

on a ledge above the Au Sable, in the valley below, while its young mother sat near, with an easel before her,

touching in the color of a reluctant landscape, giving a quick look at the sky and the outline of the Twin

Mountains, and bestowing every third glance upon the laughing boy,art in its infancy.

The doe lifted her head a little with a quick motion, and turned her ear to the south. Had she heard

something? Probably it was only the south wind in the balsams. There was silence all about in the forest. If

the doe had heard anything, it was one of the distant noises of the world. There are in the woods occasional

moanings, premonitions of change, which are inaudible to the dull ears of men, but which, I have no doubt,

the forestfolk hear and understand. If the doe's suspicions were excited for an instant, they were gone as

soon. With an affectionate glance at her fawn, she continued picking up her breakfast.

But suddenly she started, head erect, eyes dilated, a tremor in her limbs. She took a step; she turned her head

to the south; she listened intently. There was a sound,a distant, prolonged note, belltoned, pervading the

woods, shaking the air in smooth vibrations. It was repeated. The doe had no doubt now. She shook like the

sensitive mimosa when a footstep approaches. It was the baying of a hound! It was far off,at the foot of the

mountain. Time enough to fly; time enough to put miles between her and the hound, before he should come

upon her fresh trail; time enough to escape away through the dense forest, and hide in the recesses of Panther

Gorge; yes, time enough. But there was the fawn. The cry of the hound was repeated, more distinct this time.

The mother instinctively bounded away a few paces. The fawn started up with an anxious bleat: the doe

turned; she came back; she couldn't leave it. She bent over it, and licked it, and seemed to say, "Come, my

child: we are pursued: we must go." She walked away towards the west, and the little thing skipped after her.

It was slow going for the slender legs, over the fallen logs, and through the rasping bushes. The doe bounded

in advance, and waited: the fawn scrambled after her, slipping and tumbling along, very groggy yet on its

legs, and whining a good deal because its mother kept always moving away from it. The fawn evidently did

not hear the hound: the little innocent would even have looked sweetly at the dog, and tried to make friends

with it, if the brute had been rushing upon him. By all the means at her command the doe urged her young

one on; but it was slow work. She might have been a mile away while they were making a few rods.

Whenever the fawn caught up, he was quite content to frisk about. He wanted more breakfast, for one thing;

and his mother wouldn't stand still. She moved on continually; and his weak legs were tangled in the roots of

Shortly came a sound that threw the doe into a panic of terror,a short, sharp yelp, followed by a prolonged

howl, caught up and reechoed by other bayings along the mountainside. The doe knew what that meant. One

hound had caught her trail, and the whole pack responded to the "viewhalloo." The danger was certain now;

it was near. She could not crawl on in this way: the dogs would soon be upon them. She turned again for

flight: the fawn, scrambling after her, tumbled over, and bleated piteously. The baying, emphasized now by

the yelp of certainty, came nearer. Flight with the fawn was impossible. The doe returned and stood by it,

head erect, and nostrils distended. She stood perfectly still, but trembling. Perhaps she was thinking. The

fawn took advantage of the situation, and began to draw his luncheon ration. The doe seemed to have made

up her mind. She let him finish. The fawn, having taken all he wanted, lay down contentedly, and the doe

licked him for a moment. Then, with the swiftness of a bird, she dashed away, and in a moment was lost in

According to all human calculations, she was going into the jaws of death. So she was: all human calculations

are selfish. She kept straight on, hearing the baying every moment more distinctly. She descended the slope

of the mountain until she reached the more open forest of hardwood. It was freer going here, and the cry of

the pack echoed more resoundingly in the great spaces. She was going due east, when (judging by the sound,

the hounds were not far off, though they were still hidden by a ridge) she turned short away to the north, and

kept on at a good pace. In five minutes more she heard the sharp, exultant yelp of discovery, and then the

deepmouthed howl of pursuit. The hounds had struck her trail where she turned, and the fawn was safe.

The doe was in good running condition, the ground was not bad, and she felt the exhilaration of the chase.

For the moment, fear left her, and she bounded on with the exaltation of triumph. For a quarter of an hour she

went on at a slapping pace, clearing the moosebushes with bound after bound, flying over the fallen logs,

pausing neither for brook nor ravine. The baying of the hounds grew fainter behind her. But she struck a bad

piece of going, a deadwood slash. It was marvelous to see her skim over it, leaping among its intricacies,

and not breaking her slender legs. No other living animal could do it. But it was killing work. She began to

pant fearfully; she lost ground. The baying of the hounds was nearer. She climbed the hardwood hill at a

slower gait; but, once on more level, free ground, her breath came back to her, and she stretched away with

After running at high speed perhaps half a mile farther, it occurred to her that it would be safe now to turn to

the west, and, by a wide circuit, seek her fawn. But, at the moment, she heard a sound that chilled her heart. It

was the cry of a hound to the west of her. The crafty brute had made the circuit of the slash, and cut off her

retreat. There was nothing to do but to keep on; and on she went, still to the north, with the noise of the pack

behind her. In five minutes more she had passed into a hillside clearing. Cows and young steers were grazing

there. She heard a tinkle of bells. Below her, down the mountain slope, were other clearings, broken by

patches of woods. Fences intervened; and a mile or two down lay the valley, the shining Au Sable, and the

peaceful farmhouses. That way also her hereditary enemies were. Not a merciful heart in all that lovely

valley. She hesitated: it was only for an instant. She must cross the Slidebrook Valley if possible, and gain the

mountain opposite. She bounded on; she stopped. What was that? From the valley ahead came the cry of a

searching hound. All the devils were loose this morning. Every way was closed but one, and that led straight

down the mountain to the cluster of houses. Conspicuous among them was a slender white wooden spire. The

doe did not know that it was the spire of a Christian chapel. But perhaps she thought that human pity dwelt

In a panic, frightened animals will always flee to humankind from the danger of more savage foes. They

always make a mistake in doing so. Perhaps the trait is the survival of an era of peace on earth; perhaps it is a

prophecy of the golden age of the future. The business of this age is murder,the slaughter of animals, the

slaughter of fellowmen, by the wholesale. Hilarious poets who have never fired a gun write

The hunted doe went down the "open," clearing the fences splendidly, flying along the stony path. It was a

beautiful sight. But consider what a shot it was! If the deer, now, could only have been caught I No doubt

there were tenderhearted people in the valley who would have spared her life, shut her up in a stable, and

petted her. Was there one who would have let her go back to her waitingfawn? It is the business of

The doe went on. She left the sawmill on John's Brook to her right; she turned into a woodpath. As she

approached Slide Brook, she saw a boy standing by a tree with a raised rifle. The dogs were not in sight; but

she could hear them coming down the hill. There was no time for hesitation. With a tremendous burst of

speed she cleared the stream, and, as she touched the bank, heard the "ping" of a rifle bullet in the air above

her. The cruel sound gave wings to the poor thing. In a moment more she was in the opening: she leaped into

the traveled road. Which way? Below her in the wood was a load of hay: a man and a boy, with pitchforks in

their hands, were running towards her. She turned south, and flew along the street. The town was up. Women

and children ran to the doors and windows; men snatched their rifles; shots were fired; at the big

boardinghouses, the summer boarders, who never have anything to do, came out and cheered; a campstool

was thrown from a veranda. Some young fellows shooting at a mark in the meadow saw the flying deer, and

popped away at her; but they were accustomed to a mark that stood still. It was all so sudden! There were

twenty people who were just going to shoot her; when the doe leaped the road fence, and went away across a

marsh toward the foothills. It was a fearful gauntlet to run. But nobody except the deer considered it in that

light. Everybody told what he was just going to do; everybody who had seen the performance was a kind of

hero,everybody except the deer. For days and days it was the subject of conversation; and the summer

boarders kept their guns at hand, expecting another deer would come to be shot at.

The doe went away to the foothills, going now slower, and evidently fatigued, if not frightened half to death.

Nothing is so appalling to a recluse as half a mile of summer boarders. As the deer entered the thin woods,

she saw a rabble of people start across the meadow in pursuit. By this time, the dogs, panting, and lolling out

their tongues, came swinging along, keeping the trail, like stupids, and consequently losing ground when the

deer doubled. But, when the doe had got into the timber, she heard the savage brutes howling across the

meadow. (It is well enough, perhaps, to say that nobody offered to shoot the dogs.)

The courage of the panting fugitive was not gone: she was game to the tip of her highbred ears. But the

fearful pace at which she had just been going told on her. Her legs trembled, and her heart beat like a

triphammer. She slowed her speed perforce, but still fled industriously up the right bank of the stream.

When she had gone a couple of miles, and the dogs were evidently gaining again, she crossed the broad, deep

brook, climbed the steep left bank, and fled on in the direction of the MountMarcy trail. The fording of the

river threw the hounds off for a time. She knew, by their uncertain yelping up and down the opposite bank,

that she had a little respite: she used it, however, to push on until the baying was faint in her ears; and then

This rest, brief as it was, saved her life. Roused again by the baying pack, she leaped forward with better

speed, though without that keen feeling of exhilarating flight that she had in the morning. It was still a race

for life; but the odds were in herfavor, she thought. She did not appreciate the dogged persistence of the

She was a little confused in her mind where to go; but an instinct kept her course to the left, and consequently

farther away from her fawn. Going now slower, and now faster, as the pursuit seemed more distant or nearer,

she kept to the southwest, crossed the stream again, left Panther Gorge on her right, and ran on by Haystack

and Skylight in the direction of the Upper Au Sable Pond. I do not know her exact course through this maze

of mountains, swamps, ravines, and frightful wildernesses. I only know that the poor thing worked her way

along painfully, with sinking heart and unsteady limbs, lying down "dead beat" at intervals, and then spurred

on by the cry of the remorseless dogs, until, late in the afternoon, she staggered down the shoulder of Bartlett,

and stood upon the shore of the lake. If she could put that piece of water between her and her pursuers, she

At her first step into the water she saw a sight that sent her back with a bound. There was a boat midlake:

two men were in it. One was rowing: the other had a gun in his hand. They were looking towards her: they

had seen her. (She did not know that they had heard the baying of hounds on the mountains, and had been

lying in wait for her an hour.) What should she do? The hounds were drawing near. No escape that way, even

if she could still run. With only a moment's hesitation she plunged into the lake, and struck obliquely across.

Her tired legs could not propel the tired body rapidly. She saw the boat headed for her. She turned toward the

centre of the lake. The boat turned. She could hear the rattle of the oarlocks. It was gaining on her. Then there

was a silence. Then there was a splash of the water just ahead of her, followed by a roar round the lake, the

words "Confound it all!" and a rattle of the oars again. The doe saw the boat nearing her. She turned

irresolutely to the shore whence she came: the dogs were lapping the water, and howling there. She turned

The brave, pretty creature was quite exhausted now. In a moment more, with a rush of water, the boat was on

"Knock her on the head with that paddle!" he shouted to the gentleman in the stern.

The gentleman was a gentleman, with a kind, smoothshaven face, and might have been a minister of some

sort of everlasting gospel. He took the paddle in his hand. Just then the doe turned her head, and looked at

"I can't do it! my soul, I can't do it!" and he dropped the paddle. "Oh, let her go!"

"Let H. go!" was the only response of the guide as he slung the deer round, whipped out his huntingknife,

The buck returned about the middle of the afternoon. The fawn was bleating piteously, hungry and lonesome.

The buck was surprised. He looked about in the forest. He took a circuit, and came back. His doe was

nowhere to be seen. He looked down at the fawn in a helpless sort of way. The fawn appealed for his supper.

The buck had nothing whatever to give his child,nothing but his sympathy. If he said anything, this is what

he said: "I'm the head of this family; but, really, this is a novel case. I've nothing whatever for you. I don't

know what to do. I've the feelings of a father; but you can't live on them. Let us travel."

The buck walked away: the little one toddled after him. They disappeared in the forest.

There has been a lively inquiry after the primeval man. Wanted, a man who would satisfy the conditions of

the miocene environment, and yet would be good enough for an ancestor. We are not particular about our

ancestors, if they are sufficiently remote; but we must have something. Failing to apprehend the primeval

man, science has sought the primitive man where he exists as a survival in present savage races. He is, at

best, only a mushroom growth of the recent period (came in, probably, with the general raft of mammalian

It is a good mental exercise to try to fix the mind on the primitive man divested of all the attributes he has

acquired in his struggles with the other mammalian fauna. Fix the mind on an orange, the ordinary occupation

of the metaphysician: take from it (without eating it) odor, color, weight, form, substance, and peel; then let

the mind still dwell on it as an orange. The experiment is perfectly successful; only, at the end of it, you

haven't any mind. Better still, consider the telephone: take away from it the metallic disk, and the magnetized

iron, and the connecting wire, and then let the mind run abroad on the telephone. The mind won't come back.

I have tried by this sort of process to get a conception of the primitive man. I let the mind roam away back

over the vast geologic spaces, and sometimes fancy I see a dim image of him stalking across the terrace

But this is an unsatisfying pleasure. The best results are obtained by studying the primitive man as he is left

here and there in our era, a witness of what has been; and I find him most to my mind in the Adirondack

system of what geologists call the Champlain epoch. I suppose the primitive man is one who owes more to

nature than to the forces of civilization. What we seek in him are the primal and original traits, unmixed with

the sophistications of society, and unimpaired by the refinements of an artificial culture. He would retain the

primitive instincts, which are cultivated out of the ordinary, commonplace man. I should expect to find him,

by reason of an unrelinquished kinship, enjoying a special communion with nature, admitted to its

mysteries, understanding its moods, and able to predict its vagaries. He would be a kind of test to us of what

we have lost by our gregarious acquisitions. On the one hand, there would be the sharpness of the senses, the

keen instincts (which the fox and the beaver still possess), the ability to find one's way in the pathless forest,

to follow a trail, to circumvent the wild denizens of the woods; and, on the other hand, there would be the

philosophy of life which the primitive man, with little external aid, would evolve from original observation

and cogitation. It is our good fortune to know such a man; but it is difficult to present him to a scientific and

caviling generation. He emigrated from somewhat limited conditions in Vermont, at an early age, nearly half

a century ago, and sought freedom for his natural development backward in the wilds of the Adirondacks.

Sometimes it is a love of adventure and freedom that sends men out of the more civilized conditions into the

less; sometimes it is a constitutional physical lassitude which leads them to prefer the rod to the hoe, the trap

to the sickle, and the society of bears to town meetings and taxes. I think that Old Mountain Phelps had

merely the instincts of the primitive man, and never any hostile civilizing intent as to the wilderness into

which he plunged. Why should he want to slash away the forest and plow up the ancient mould, when it is

infinitely pleasanter to roam about in the leafy solitudes, or sit upon a mossy log and listen to the chatter of

birds and the stir of beasts? Are there not trout in the streams, gum exuding from the spruce, sugar in the

maples, honey in the hollow trees, fur on the sables, warmth in hickory logs? Will not a few days' planting

and scratching in the "open" yield potatoes and rye? And, if there is steadier diet needed than venison and

bear, is the pig an expensive animal? If Old Phelps bowed to the prejudice or fashion of his age (since we

have come out of the tertiary state of things), and reared a family, built a frame house in a secluded nook by a

cold spring, planted about it some apple trees and a rudimentary garden, and installed a group of flaming

sunflowers by the door, I am convinced that it was a concession that did not touch his radical character; that

He was a true citizen of the wilderness. Thoreau would have liked him, as he liked Indians and woodchucks,

and the smell of pine forests; and, if Old Phelps had seen Thoreau, he would probably have said to him,

"Why on airth, Mr. Thoreau, don't you live accordin' to your preachin'?" You might be misled by the shaggy

suggestion of Old Phelps's given nameOrsoninto the notion that he was a mighty hunter, with the fierce

spirit of the Berserkers in his veins. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The hirsute and grisly sound of

Orson expresses only his entire affinity with the untamed and the natural, an uncouth but gentle passion for

the freedom and wildness of the forest. Orson Phelps has only those unconventional and humorous qualities

of the bear which make the animal so beloved in literature; and one does not think of Old Phelps so much as a

lover of nature,to use the sentimental slang of the period,as a part of nature itself.

His appearance at the time when as a "guide" he began to come into public notice fostered this

impression,a sturdy figure with long body and short legs, clad in a woolen shirt and butternutcolored

trousers repaired to the point of picturesqueness, his head surmounted by a limp, lightbrown felt hat, frayed

away at the top, so that his yellowish hair grew out of it like some nameless fern out of a pot. His tawny hair

was long and tangled, matted now many years past the possibility of being entered by a comb.

His features were small and delicate, and set in the frame of a reddish beard, the razor having mowed away a

clearing about the sensitive mouth, which was not seldom wreathed with a childlike and charming smile. Out

of this hirsute environment looked the small gray eyes, set near together; eyes keen to observe, and quick to

express change of thought; eyes that made you believe instinct can grow into philosophic judgment. His feet

and hands were of aristocratic smallness, although the latter were not worn away by ablutions; in fact, they

assisted his toilet to give you the impression that here was a man who had just come out of the ground, a

real son of the soil, whose appearance was partially explained by his humorous relation tosoap. "Soap is a

thing," he said, "that I hain't no kinder use for." His clothes seemed to have been put on him once for all, like

the bark of a tree, a long time ago. The observant stranger was sure to be puzzled by the contrast of this

realistic and uncouth exterior with the internal fineness, amounting to refinement and culture, that shone

through it all. What communion had supplied the place of our artificial breeding to this man?

Perhaps his most characteristic attitude was sitting on a log, with a short pipe in his mouth. If ever man was

formed to sit on a log, it was Old Phelps. He was essentially a contemplative person. Walking on a country

road, or anywhere in the "open," was irksome to him. He had a shambling, loosejointed gait, not unlike that

of the bear: his short legs bowed out, as if they had been more in the habit of climbing trees than of walking.

On land, if we may use that expression, he was something like a sailor; but, once in the rugged trail or the

unmarked route of his native forest, he was a different person, and few pedestrians could compete with him.

The vulgar estimate of his contemporaries, that reckoned Old Phelps "lazy," was simply a failure to

comprehend the conditions of his being. It is the unjustness of civilization that it sets up uniform and artificial

standards for all persons. The primitive man suffers by them much as the contemplative philosopher does,

If the appearance of Old Phelps attracts attention, his voice, when first heard, invariably startles the listener.

A small, high pitched, halfquerulous voice, it easily rises into the shrillest falsetto; and it has a quality in it

that makes it audible in all the tempests of the forest, or the roar of rapids, like the piping of a boatswain's

whistle at sea in a gale. He has a way of letting it rise as his sentence goes on, or when he is opposed in

argument, or wishes to mount above other voices in the conversation, until it dominates everything. Heard in

the depths of the woods, quavering aloft, it is felt to be as much a part of nature, an original force, as the

northwest wind or the scream of the henhawk. When he is pottering about the campfire, trying to light his

pipe with a twig held in the flame, he is apt to begin some philosophical observation in a small, slow,

stumbling voice, which seems about to end in defeat; when he puts on some unsuspected force, and the

sentence ends in an insistent shriek. Horace Greeley had such a voice, and could regulate it in the same

manner. But Phelps's voice is not seldom plaintive, as if touched by the dreamy sadness of the woods

When Old Mountain Phelps was discovered, he was, as the reader has already guessed, not understood by his

contemporaries. His neighbors, farmers in the secluded valley, had many of them grown thrifty and

prosperous, cultivating the fertile meadows, and vigorously attacking the timbered mountains; while Phelps,

with not much more faculty of acquiring property than the roaming deer, had pursued the even tenor of the

life in the forest on which he set out. They would have been surprised to be told that Old Phelps owned more

of what makes the value of the Adirondacks than all of them put together, but it was true. This woodsman,

this trapper, this hunter, this fisherman, this sitter on a log, and philosopher, was the real proprietor of the

region over which he was ready to guide the stranger. It is true that he had not a monopoly of its geography or

its topography (though his knowledge was superior in these respects); there were other trappers, and more

deadly hunters, and as intrepid guides: but Old Phelps was the discoverer of the beauties and sublimities of

the mountains; and, when city strangers broke into the region, he monopolized the appreciation of these

delights and wonders of nature. I suppose that in all that country he alone had noticed the sunsets, and

observed the delightful processes of the seasons, taken pleasure in the woods for themselves, and climbed

mountains solely for the sake of the prospect. He alone understood what was meant by "scenery." In the eyes

of his neighbors, who did not know that he was a poet and a philosopher, I dare say he appeared to be a slack

provider, a rather shiftless trapper and fisherman; and his passionate love of the forest and the mountains, if it

was noticed, was accounted to him for idleness. When the appreciative tourist arrived, Phelps was ready, as

guide, to open to him all the wonders of his possessions; he, for the first time, found an outlet for his

enthusiasm, and a response to his own passion. It then became known what manner of man this was who had

grown up here in the companionship of forests, mountains, and wild animals; that these scenes had highly

developed in him the love of beauty, the aesthetic sense, delicacy of appreciation, refinement of feeling; and

that, in his solitary wanderings and musings, the primitive man, selftaught, had evolved for himself a

philosophy and a system of things. And it was a sufficient system, so long as it was not disturbed by external

skepticism. When the outer world came to him, perhaps he had about as much to give to it as to receive from

it; probably more, in his own estimation; for there is no conceit like that of isolation.

Phelps loved his mountains. He was the discoverer of Marcy, and caused the first trail to be cut to its summit,

so that others could enjoy the noble views from its round and rocky top. To him it was, in noble symmetry

and beauty, the chief mountain of the globe. To stand on it gave him, as he said, "a feeling of heaven

uph'isted ness." He heard with impatience that Mount Washington was a thousand feet higher, and he had

a childlike incredulity about the surpassing sublimity of the Alps. Praise of any other elevation he seemed to

consider a slight to Mount Marcy, and did not willingly hear it, any more than a lover hears the laudation of

the beauty of another woman than the one he loves. When he showed us scenery he loved, it made him

melancholy to have us speak of scenery elsewhere that was finer. And yet there was this delicacy about him,

that he never overpraised what he brought us to see, any more than one would overpraise a friend of whom

he was fond. I remember that when for the first time, after a toilsome journey through the forest, the

splendors of the Lower Au Sable Pond broke upon our vision,that lowlying silver lake, imprisoned by the

precipices which it reflected in its bosom, he made no outward response to our burst of admiration: only a

quiet gleam of the eye showed the pleasure our appreciation gave him. As some one said, it was as if his

friend had been admireda friend about whom he was unwilling to say much himself, but well pleased to

Thus far, we have considered Old Phelps as simply the product of the Adirondacks; not so much a selfmade

man (as the doubtful phrase has it) as a natural growth amid primal forces. But our study is interrupted by

another influence, which complicates the problem, but increases its interest. No scientific observer, so far as

we know, has ever been able to watch the development of the primitive man, played upon and fashioned by

the hebdomadal iteration of "Greeley's Weekly Tribune." Old Phelps educated by the woods is a fascinating

study; educated by the woods and the Tribune, he is a phenomenon. No one at this day can reasonably

conceive exactly what this newspaper was to such a mountain valley as Keene. If it was not a Providence, it

was a Bible. It was no doubt owing to it that Democrats became as scarce as moose in the Adirondacks. But it

is not of its political aspect that I speak. I suppose that the most cultivated and best informed portion of the

earth's surfacethe Western Reserve of Ohio, as free from conceit as it is from a suspicion that it lacks

anything owes its preeminence solely to this comprehensive journal. It received from it everything except a

collegiate and a classical education,things not to be desired, since they interfere with the selfmanufacture

of man. If Greek had been in this curriculum, its best known dictum would have been translated, "Make

thyself." This journal carried to the community that fed on it not only a complete education in all departments

of human practice and theorizing, but the more valuable and satisfying assurance that there was nothing more

to be gleaned in the universe worth the attention of man. This panoplied its readers in completeness. Politics,

literature, arts, sciences, universal brotherhood and sisterhood, nothing was omitted; neither the poetry of

Tennyson, nor the philosophy of Margaret Fuller; neither the virtues of association, nor of unbolted wheat.

The laws of political economy and trade were laid down as positively and clearly as the best way to bake

beans, and the saving truth that the millennium would come, and come only when every foot of the earth was

I do not say that Orson Phelps was the product of nature and the Tri bune: but he cannot be explained

without considering these two factors. To him Greeley was the Tribune, and the Tribune was Greeley; and

yet I think he conceived of Horace Greeley as something greater than his newspaper, and perhaps capable of

producing another journal equal to it in another part of the universe. At any rate, so completely did Phelps

absorb this paper and this personality that he was popularly known as "Greeley" in the region where he lived.

Perhaps a fancied resemblance of the two men in the popular mind had something to do with this transfer of

name. There is no doubt that Horace Greeley owed his vast influence in the country to his genius, nor much

doubt that he owed his popularity in the rural districts to James Gordon Bennett; that is, to the personality of

the man which the ingenious Bennett impressed upon the country. That he despised the conventionalities of

society, and was a sloven in his toilet, was firmly believed; and the belief endeared him to the hearts of the

people. To them "the old white coat"an antique garment of unrenewed immortalitywas as much a

subject of idolatry as the redingote grise to the soldiers of the first Napoleon, who had seen it by the

campfires on the Po and on the Borysthenes, and believed that he would come again in it to lead them against

the enemies of France. The Greeley of the popular heart was clad as Bennett said he was clad. It was in vain,

even pathetically in vain, that he published in his newspaper the full bill of his fashionable tailor (the fact that

it was receipted may have excited the animosity of some of his contemporaries) to show that he wore the best

broadcloth, and that the folds of his trousers followed the city fashion of falling outside his boots. If this

revelation was believed, it made no sort of impression in the country. The rural readers were not to be

wheedled out of their cherished conception of the personal appearance of the philosopher of the Tribune.

That the Tribune taught Old Phelps to be more Phelps than he would have been without it was part of the

independenceteaching mission of Greeley's paper. The subscribers were an army, in which every man was a

general. And I am not surprised to find Old Phelps lately rising to the audacity of criticising his exemplar. In

some recentlypublished observations by Phelps upon the philosophy of reading is laid down this definition:

"If I understand the necessity or use of reading, it is to reproduce again what has been said or proclaimed

before. Hence, letters, characters, are arranged in all the perfection they possibly can be, to show how certain

language has been spoken by the, original author. Now, to reproduce by reading, the reading should be so

perfectly like the original that no one standing out of sight could tell the reading from the first time the

This is illustrated by the highest authority at hand: I have heard as good readers read, and as poor readers, as

almost any one in this region. If I have not heard as many, I have had a chance to hear nearly the extreme in

variety. Horace Greeley ought to have been a good reader. Certainly but few, if any, ever knew every word of

the English language at a glance more readily than he did, or knew the meaning of every mark of punctuation

more clearly; but he could not read proper. 'But how do you know?' says one. From the fact I heard him in the

same lecture deliver or produce remarks in his own particular way, that, if they had been published properly

in print, a proper reader would have reproduced them again the same way. In the midst of those remarks Mr.

Greeley took up a paper, to reproduce by reading part of a speech that some one else had made; and his

reading did not sound much more like the man that first read or made the speech than the clatter of a nail

factory sounds like a well delivered speech. Now, the fault was not because Mr. Greeley did not know how

to read as well as almost any man that ever lived, if not quite: but in his youth he learned to read wrong; and,

as it is ten times harder to unlearn anything than it is to learn it, he, like thousands of others, could never stop

Whether a reader would be thanked for reproducing one of Horace Greeley's lectures as he delivered it is a

question that cannot detain us here; but the teaching that he ought to do so, I think, would please Mr. Greeley.

The first driblets of professional tourists and summer boarders who arrived among the Adirondack Mountains

a few years ago found Old Phelps the chief and best guide of the region. Those who were eager to throw off

the usages of civilization, and tramp and camp in the wilderness, could not but be well satisfied with the

aboriginal appearance of this guide; and when he led off into the woods, axe in hand, and a huge canvas sack

upon his shoulders, they seemed to be following the Wandering Jew. The contentsof this sack would have

furnished a modern industrial exhibition, provisions cooked and raw, blankets, maplesugar, tinware,

clothing, pork, Indian meal, flour, coffee, tea, Phelps was the ideal guide: he knew every foot of the pathless

forest; he knew all woodcraft, all the signs of the weather, or, what is the same thing, how to make a Delphic

prediction about it. He was fisherman and hunter, and had been the comrade of sportsmen and explorers; and

his enthusiasm for the beauty and sublimity of the region, and for its untamable wildness, amounted to a

passion. He loved his profession; and yet it very soon appeared that he exercised it with reluctance for those

who had neither ideality, nor love for the woods. Their presence was a profanation amid the scenery he loved.

To guide into his private and secret haunts a party that had no appreciation of their loveliness disgusted him.

It was a waste of his time to conduct flippant young men and giddy girls who made a noisy and irreverent

lark of the expedition. And, for their part, they did not appreciate the benefit of being accompanied by a poet

and a philosopher. They neither understood nor valued his special knowledge and his shrewd observations:

they didn't even like his shrill voice; his quaint talk bored them. It was true that, at this period, Phelps had lost

something of the activity of his youth; and the habit of contemplative sitting on a log and talking increased

with the infirmities induced by the hard life of the woodsman. Perhaps he would rather talk, either about the

woods life or the various problems of existence, than cut wood, or busy himself in the drudgery of the camp.

His critics went so far as to say,"Old Phelps is a fraud." They would have said the same of Socrates.

Xantippe, who never appreciated the world in which Socrates lived, thought he was lazy. Probably Socrates

could cook no better than Old Phelps, and no doubt went "gumming" about Athens with very little care of

If the summer visitors measured Old Phelps, he also measured them by his own standards. He used to write

out what he called "shortfaced descriptions" of his comrades in the woods, which were never so flattering as

true. It was curious to see how the various qualities which are esteemed in society appeared in his eyes,

looked at merely in their relation to the limited world he knew, and judged by their adaptation to the primitive

life. It was a much subtler comparison than that of the ordinary guide, who rates his traveler by his ability to

endure on a march, to carry a pack, use an oar, hit a mark, or sing a song. Phelps brought his people to a test

of their naturalness and sincerity, tried by contact with the verities of the woods. If a person failed to

appreciate the woods, Phelps had no opinion of him or his culture; and yet, although he was perfectly

satisfied with his own philosophy of life, worked out by close observation of nature and study of the

Tribune, he was always eager for converse with superior minds, with those who had the advantage of travel

and much reading, and, above all, with those who had any original "speckerlation." Of all the society he was

ever permitted to enjoy, I think he prized most that of Dr. Bushnell. The doctor enjoyed the quaint and

firsthand observations of the old woodsman, and Phelps found new worlds open to him in the wide ranges

of the doctor's mind. They talked by the hour upon all sorts of themes, the growth of the tree, the habits of

wild animals, the migration of seeds, the succession of oak and pine, not to mention theology, and the

I recall the bearing of Old Phelps, when, several years ago, he conducted a party to the summit of Mount

Marcy by the way he had "bushed out." This was his mountain, and he had a peculiar sense of ownership in

it. In a way, it was holy ground; and he would rather no one should go on it who did not feel its sanctity.

Perhaps it was a sense of some divine relation in it that made him always speak of it as "Mercy." To him this

ridiculously dubbed Mount Marcy was always "Mount Mercy." By a like effort to soften the personal

offensiveness of the nomenclature of this region, he invariably spoke of Dix's Peak, one of the southern peaks

of the range, as "Dixie." It was some time since Phelps himself had visited his mountain; and, as he pushed

on through the miles of forest, we noticed a kind of eagerness in the old man, as of a lover going to a

rendezvous. Along the foot of the mountain flows a clear trout stream, secluded and undisturbed in those

awful solitudes, which is the "Mercy Brook" of the old woodsman. That day when he crossed it, in advance

of his company, he was heard to say in a low voice, as if greeting some object of which he was shyly fond,

"So, little brook, do I meet you once more?" and when we were well up the mountain, and emerged from the

last stunted fringe of vegetation upon the rockbound slope, I saw Old Phelps, who was still foremost, cast

himself upon the ground, and heard him cry, with an enthusiasm that was intended for no mortal ear, "I'm

with you once again!" His great passion very rarely found expression in any such theatrical burst. The bare

summit that day was swept by a fierce, cold wind, and lost in an occasional chilling cloud. Some of the party,

exhausted by the climb, and shivering in the rude wind, wanted a fire kindled and a cup of tea made, and

thought this the guide's business. Fire and tea were far enough from his thought. He had withdrawn himself

quite apart, and wrapped in a ragged blanket, still and silent as the rock he stood on, was gazing out upon the

wilderness of peaks. The view from Marcy is peculiar. It is without softness or relief. The narrow valleys are

only dark shadows; the lakes are bits of broken mirror. From horizon to horizon there is a tumultuous sea of

billows turned to stone. You stand upon the highest billow; you command the situation; you have surprised

Nature in a high creative act; the mighty primal energy has only just become repose. This was a supreme hour

to Old Phelps. Tea! I believe the boys succeeded in kindling a fire; but the enthusiastic stoic had no reason to

complain of want of appreciation in the rest of the party. When we were descending, he told us, with mingled

humor and scorn, of a party of ladies he once led to the top of the mountain on a still day, who began

immediately to talk about the fashions! As he related the scene, stopping and facing us in the trail, his mild,

farin eyes came to the front, and his voice rose with his language to a kind of scream.

"Why, there they were, right before the greatest view they ever saw, talkin' about the fashions!"

Impossible to convey the accent of contempt in which he pronounced the word " fashions," and then added,

with a sort of regretful bitterness, "I was a great mind to come down, and leave 'em there."

In common with the Greeks, Old Phelps personified the woods, mountains, and streams. They had not only

personality, but distinctions of sex. It was something beyond the characterization of the hunter, which

appeared, for instance, when he related a fight with a panther, in such expressions as, "Then Mr. Panther

thought he would see what he could do," etc. He was in "imaginative sympathy" with all wild things. The

afternoon we descended Marcy, we went away to the west, through the primeval forests, toward Avalanche

and Colden, and followed the course of the charming Opalescent. When we reached the leaping stream,

"Oh, she's too pretty!" And too pretty she was, with her foamwhite and rainbow dress, and her downfalls,

and fountainlike uprising. A bewitching young person we found her all that summer afternoon.

This sylphlike person had little in common with a monstrous lady whose adventures in the wildernes Phelps

was fond of relating. She was built some thing on the plan of the mountains, and her ambition to explore was

equal to her size. Phelps and the other guides once succeeded in raising her to the top of Marcy; but the feat

of getting a hogshead of molasses up there would have been easier. In attempting to give us an idea of her

magnitude tha night, as we sat in the forest camp, Phelps hesitated a moment, while he cast his eye around the

It is only by recalling fragmentary remarks and incidents that I can put the reader in possession of the

peculiarities of my subject; and this involves the wrenching of things out of their natural order and continuity,

and introducing them abruptly, an abruptness illustrated by the remark of "Old Man Hoskins" (which Phelps

liked to quote), when one day he suddenly slipped down a bank into a thicket, and seated himself in a wasps'

The first time we went into camp on the Upper Au Sable Pond, which has been justly celebrated as the most

prettily set sheet of water in the region, we were disposed to build our shanty on the south side, so that we

could have in full view the Gothics and that loveliest of mountain contours. To our surprise, Old Phelps,

whose sentimental weakness for these mountains we knew, opposed this. His favorite camping ground was

on the north side,a pretty site in itself, but with no special view. In order to enjoy the lovely mountains, we

should be obliged to row out into the lake: we wanted them always before our eyes,at sunrise and sunset,

and in the blaze of noon. With deliberate speech, as if weighing our arguments and disposing of them, he

replied, "Waal, now, them Gothics ain't the kinder scenery you want ter hog down!"

It was on quiet Sundays in the woods, or in talks by the campfire, that Phelps came out as the philosopher,

and commonly contributed the light of his observations. Unfortunate marriages, and marriages in general,

were, on one occasion, the subject of discussion; and a good deal of darkness had been cast on it by various

speakers; when Phelps suddenly piped up, from a log where he had sat silent, almost invisible, in the shadow

and smoke, "Waal, now, when you've said all there is to be said, marriage is mostly for discipline."

Discipline, certainly, the old man had, in one way or another; and years of solitary communing in the forest

had given him, perhaps, a childlike insight into spiritual concerns. Whether he had formulated any creed or

what faith he had, I never knew. Keene Valley had a reputation of not ripening Christians any more

successfully than maize, the season there being short; and on our first visit it was said to contain but one

Bible Christian, though I think an accurate census disclosed three. Old Phelps, who sometimes made abrupt

remarks in trying situations, was not included in this census; but he was the disciple of supernaturalism in a

most charming form. I have heard of his opening his inmost thoughts to a lady, one Sunday, after a noble

sermon of Robertson's had been read in the cathedral stillness of the forest. His experience was entirely

firsthand, and related with unconsciousness that it was not common to all. There was nothing of the mystic

or the sentimentalist, only a vivid realism, in that nearness of God of which he spoke,"as near some times

as those trees,"and of the holy voice, that, in a time of inward struggle, had seemed to him to come from

In later years there was a "revival" in Keene Valley, the result of which was a number of young "converts,"

whom Phelps seemed to regard as a veteran might raw recruits, and to have his doubts what sort of soldiers

"Waal, Jimmy," he said to one of them, "you've kindled a pretty good fire with light wood. That's what we do

of a dark night in the woods, you know but we do it just so as we can look around and find the solid wood: so

In the Sunday Bible classes of the period Phelps was a perpetual anxiety to the others, who followed closely

the printed lessons, and beheld with alarm his discursive efforts to get into freer air and light. His remarks

were the most refreshing part of the exercises, but were outside of the safe path into which the others thought

it necessary to win him from his "speckerlations." The class were one day on the verses concerning "God's

word" being "written on the heart," and were keeping close to the shore, under the guidance of "Barnes's

Notes," when Old Phelps made a dive to the bottom, and remarked that he had "thought a good deal about the

expression, 'God's word written on the heart,' and had been asking himself how that was to be done; and

suddenly it occurred to him (having been much interested lately in watching the work of a photographer) that,

when a photograph is going to be taken, all that has to be done is to put the object in position, and the sun

makes the picture; and so he rather thought that all we had got to do was to put our hearts in place, and God

Phelps's theology, like his science, is firsthand. In the woods, one day, talk ran on the Trinity as being

nowhere asserted as a doctrine in the Bible, and some one suggested that the attempt to pack these great and

fluent mysteries into one word must always be more or less unsatisfactory. "Yees," droned Phelps: "I never

could see much speckerlation in that expression the Trinity. Why, they'd a good deal better say Legion."

The sentiment of the man about nature, or his poetic sensibility, was frequently not to be distinguished from a

natural religion, and was always tinged with the devoutness of Wordsworth's verse. Climbing slowly one day

up the Balcony,he was more than usually calm and slow,he espied an exquisite fragile flower in the

It seems as if," he said, or rather dreamed out, it seems as if the Creator had kept something just to look at

To a lady whom he had taken to Chapel Pond (a retired but rather uninteresting spot), and who expressed a

little disappointment at its tameness, saying, of this "Why, Mr. Phelps, the principal charm of this place

"Yes," he replied in gentle and lingering tones, and its nativeness. It lies here just where it was born."

Rest and quiet had infinite attractions for him. A secluded opening in the woods was a "calm spot." He told of

seeing once, or rather being in, a circular rainbow. He stood on Indian Head, overlooking the Lower Lake, so

that he saw the whole bow in the sky and the lake, and seemed to be in the midst of it; "only at one place

there was an indentation in it, where it rested on the lake, just enough to keep it from rolling off." This

One Indiansummer morning in October, some ladies found the old man sitting on his doorstep smoking a

He gave no sign of recognition except a twinkle of the eye, being evidently quite in harmony with the

peaceful day. They stood there a full minute before he opened his mouth: then he did not rise, but slowly took

"Do you see that tree?" indicating a maple almost denuded of leaves, which lay like a yellow garment cast at

its feet. "I've been watching that tree all the morning. There hain't been a breath of wind: but for hours the

leaves have been falling, falling, just as you see them now; and at last it's pretty much bare." And after a

This contemplative habit of Old Phelps is wholly unappreciated by his neighbors; but it has been indulged in

no inconsiderable part of his life. Rising after a time, he said, "Now I want you to go with me and see my

golden city I've talked so much about." He led the way to a hilloutlook, when suddenly, emerging from the

forest, the spectators saw revealed the winding valley and its stream. He said quietly, "There is my golden

city." Far below, at their feet, they saw that vast assemblage of birches and "popples," yellow as gold in the

brooding noonday, and slender spires rising out of the glowing mass. Without another word, Phelps sat a long

time in silent content: it was to him, as Bunyan says, "a place desirous to be in."

Is this philosopher contented with what life has brought him? Speaking of money one day, when we had

asked him if he should do differently if he had his life to live over again, he said, "Yes, but not about money.

To have had hours such as I have had in these mountains, and with such men as Dr. Bushnell and Dr. Shaw

and Mr. Twichell, and others I could name, is worth all the money the world could give." He read character

very well, and took in accurately the boy nature. "Tom" (an irrepressible, rather overdone specimen),"

Tom's a nice kind of a boy; but he's got to come up against a snubbin'post one of these days.""Boys!" he

once said: "you can't git boys to take any kinder notice of scenery. I never yet saw a boy that would look a

second time at a sunset. Now, a girl will some times; but even then it's instantaneous,comes an goes like

the sunset. As for me," still speaking of scenery, "these mountains about here, that I see every day, are no

more to me, in one sense, than a man's farm is to him. What mostly interests me now is when I see some new

In literature it may be said that Old Phelps prefers the best in the very limited range that has been open to

him. Tennyson is his favorite among poets an affinity explained by the fact that they are both lotoseaters.

Speaking of a lectureroom talk of Mr. Beecher's which he had read, he said, "It filled my cup about as full

as I callerlate to have it: there was a good deal of truth in it, and some poetry; waal, and a little spice, too.

We've got to have the spice, you know." He admired, for different reasons, a lecture by Greeley that he once

heard, into which so much knowledge of various kinds was crowded that he said he "made a reg'lar gobble of

it." He was not without discrimination, which he exercised upon the local preaching when nothing better

offered. Of one sermon he said, "The man began way back at the creation, and just preached right along

down; and he didn't say nothing, after all. It just seemed to me as if he was tryin' to git up a kind of a fixup."

Old Phelps used words sometimes like algebraic signs, and had a habit of making one do duty for a season

together for all occasions. "Speckerlation" and "callerlation" and "fixup" are specimens of words that were

prolific in expression. An unusual expression, or an unusual article, would be charactcrized as a "kind of a

"What is the program for tomorrow?" I once asked him. " Waal, I callerlate, if they rig up the callerlation they

callerlate on, we'll go to the Boreas." Starting out for a day's tramp in the woods, he would ask whether we

wanted to take a "reg'lar walk, or a random scoot,"the latter being a plunge into the pathless forest. When

he was on such an expedition, and became entangled in dense brush, and maybe a network of "slash" and

swamp, he was like an old wizard, as he looked here and there, seeking a way, peering into the tangle, or

withdrawing from a thicket, and muttering to himself, "There ain't no speckerlation there." And when the way

became altogether inscrutable,"Waal, this is a reg'lar random scoot of a rigmarole." As some one

remarked, "The dictionary in his hands is like clay in the hands of the potter." A petrifaction was a kind of a

There is no conceit, we are apt to say, like that born of isolation from the world, and there are no such

conceited people as those who have lived all their lives in the woods. Phelps was, however, unsophisticated

in his until the advent of strangers into his life, who brought in literature and various other disturbing

influences. I am sorry to say that the effect has been to take off something of the bloom of his simplicity, and

to elevate him into an oracle. I suppose this is inevitable as soon as one goes into print; and Phelps has gone

into print in the local papers. He has been bitten with the literary "git up." Justly regarding most of the

Adirondack literature as a "perfect fizzle," he has himself projected a work, and written much on the natural

history of his region. Long ago he made a large map of the mountain country; and, until recent surveys, it was

the only one that could lay any claim to accuracy. His history is no doubt original in form, and

unconventional in expression. Like most of the writers of the seventeenth century, and the court ladies and

gentlemen of the eighteenth century, he is an independent speller. Writing of his work on the Adirondacks, he

says, "If I should ever live to get this wonderful thing written, I expect it will show one thing, if no more; and

that is, that every thing has an opposite. I expect to show in this that literature has an opposite, if I do not

show any thing els. We could not enjoy the blessings and happiness of riteousness if we did not know

innicuty was in the world: in fact, there would be no riteousness without innicuty." Writing also of his great

enjoyment of being in the woods, especially since he has had the society there of some people he names, he

adds, "And since I have Literature, Siance, and Art all spread about on the green moss of the mountain woods

or the gravell banks of a cristle stream, it seems like finding roses, honeysuckels, and violets on a crisp brown

cliff in December. You know I don't believe much in the religion of seramony; but any riteous thing that has

life and spirit in it is food for me." I must not neglect to mention an essay, continued in several numbers of

his local paper, on "The Growth of the Tree," in which he demolishes the theory of Mr. Greeley, whom he

calls "one of the best vegetable philosophers," about "growth without seed." He treats of the office of sap:

"All trees have some kind of sap and some kind of operation of sap flowing in their season," the

dissemination of seeds, the processes of growth, the power of healing wounds, the proportion of roots to

branches, Speaking of the latter, he says, "I have thought it would be one of the greatest curiosities on earth to

see a thrifty growing maple or elm, that had grown on a deep soil interval to be two feet in diameter, to be

raised clear into the air with every root and fibre down to the minutest thread, all entirely cleared of soil, so

that every particle could be seen in its natural position. I think it would astonish even the wise ones." From

his instinctive sympathy with nature, he often credits vegetable organism with "instinctive judgment." "

Observation teaches us that a tree is given powerful instincts, which would almost appear to amount to

Here our study must cease. When the primitive man comes into literature, he is no longer primitive.

It seems to be agreed that civilization is kept up only by a constant effort: Nature claims its own speedily

when the effort is relaxed. If you clear a patch of fertile ground in the forest, uproot the stumps, and plant it,

year after year, in potatoes and maize, you say you have subdued it. But, if you leave it for a season or two, a

kind of barbarism seems to steal out upon it from the circling woods; coarse grass and brambles cover it;

bushes spring up in a wild tangle; the raspberry and the blackberry flower and fruit; and the humorous bear

Perhaps the cleared spot is called Ephesus. There is a splendid city on the plain; there are temples and

theatres on the hills; the commerce of the world seeks its port; the luxury of the Orient flows through its

marble streets. You are there one day when the sea has receded: the plain is a pestilent marsh; the temples,

the theatres, the lofty gates have sunken and crumbled, and the wildbrier runs over them; and, as you grow

pensive in the most desolate place in the world, a bandit lounges out of a tomb, and offers to relieve you of all

that which creates artificial distinctions in society. The higher the civilization has risen, the more abject is the

desolation of barbarism that ensues. The most melancholy spot in the Adirondacks is not a tamarackswamp,

where the traveler wades in moss and mire, and the atmosphere is composed of equal active parts of

blackflies, mosquitoes, and midges. It is the village of the Adirondack IronWorks, where the streets of

gaunt houses are falling to pieces, tenantless; the factorywheels have stopped; the furnaces are in ruins; the

iron and wooden machinery is strewn about in helpless detachment; and heaps of charcoal, ore, and slag

proclaim an arrested industry. Beside this deserted village, even Calamity Pond, shallow, sedgy, with its

ragged shores of stunted firs, and its melancholy shaft that marks the spot where the proprietor of the

The instinct of barbarism that leads people periodically to throw aside the habits of civilization, and seek the

freedom and discomfort of the woods, is explicable enough; but it is not so easy to understand why this

passion should be strongest in those who are most refined, and most trained in intellectual and social

fastidiousness. Philistinism and shoddy do not like the woods, unless it becomes fashionable to do so; and

then, as speedily as possible, they introduce their artificial luxuries, and reduce the life in the wilderness to

the vulgarity of a wellfed picnic. It is they who have strewn the Adirondacks with paper collars and tin cans.

The real enjoyment of camping and tramping in the woods lies in a return to primitive conditions of lodging,

dress, and food, in as total an escape as may be from the requirements of civilization. And it remains to be

explained why this is enjoyed most by those who are most highly civilized. It is wonderful to see how easily

the restraints of society fall off. Of course it is not true that courtesy depends upon clothes with the best

people; but, with others, behavior hangs almost entirely upon dress. Many good habits are easily got rid of in

the woods. Doubt sometimes seems to be felt whether Sunday is a legal holiday there. It becomes a question

of casuistry with a clergyman whether he may shoot at a mark on Sunday, if none of his congregation are

present. He intends no harm: he only gratifies a curiosity to see if he can hit the mark. Where shall he draw

the line? Doubtless he might throw a stone at a chipmunk, or shout at a loon. Might he fire at a mark with an

airgun that makes no noise? He will not fish or hunt on Sunday (although he is no more likely to catch

anything that day than on any other); but may he eat trout that the guide has caught on Sunday, if the guide

swears he caught them Saturday night? Is there such a thing as a vacation in religion? How much of our

I am not at all sure whether this desire to camp outside of civilization is creditable to human nature, or

otherwise. We hear sometimes that the Turk has been merely camping for four centuries in Europe. I suspect

that many of us are, after all, really camping temporarily in civilized conditions; and that going into the

wilderness is an escape, longed for, into our natural and preferred state. Consider what this " camping out " is,

that is confessedly so agreeable to people most delicately reared. I have no desire to exaggerate its delights.

The Adirondack wilderness is essentially unbroken. A few bad roads that penetrate it, a few jolting wagons

that traverse them, a few barnlike boardinghouses on the edge of the forest, where the boarders are soothed

by patent coffee, and stimulated to unnatural gayety by Japan tea, and experimented on by unique cookery,

do little to destroy the savage fascination of the region. In half an hour, at any point, one can put himself into

solitude and every desirable discomfort. The party that covets the experience of the camp comes down to

primitive conditions of dress and equipment. There are guides and porters to carry the blankets for beds, the

raw provisions, and the camp equipage; and the motley party of the temporarily decivilized files into the

woods, and begins, perhaps by a road, perhaps on a trail, its exhilarating and weary march. The exhilaration

arises partly from the casting aside of restraint, partly from the adventure of exploration; and the weariness,

from the interminable toil of bad walking, a heavy pack, and the grim monotony of trees and bushes, that shut

out all prospect, except an occasional glimpse of the sky. Mountains are painfully climbed, streams forded,

lonesome lakes paddled over, long and muddy "carries" traversed. Fancy this party the victim of political

exile, banished by the law, and a more sorrowful march could not be imagined; but the voluntary hardship

becomes pleasure, and it is undeniable that the spirits of the party rise as the difficulties increase.

For this straggling and stumbling band the world is young again: it has come to the beginning of things; it has

cut loose from tradition, and is free to make a home anywhere: the movement has all the promise of a

revolution. All this virginal freshness invites the primitive instincts of play and disorder. The free range of the

forests suggests endless possibilities of exploration and possession. Perhaps we are treading where man since

the creation never trod before; perhaps the waters of this bubbling spring, which we deepen by scraping out

the decayed leaves and the black earth, have never been tasted before, except by the wild denizens of these

woods. We cross the trails of lurking animals,paths that heighten our sense of seclusion from the world.

The hammering of the infrequent woodpecker, the call of the lonely bird, the drumming of the solitary

partridge,all these sounds do but emphasize the lonesomeness of nature. The roar of the mountain brook,

dashing over its bed of pebbles, rising out of the ravine, and spreading, as it were, a mist of sound through all

the forest (continuous beating waves that have the rhythm of eternity in them), and the fitful movement of the

air tides through the balsams and firs and the giant pines,how these grand symphonies shut out the little

exasperations of our vexed life! It seems easy to begin life over again on the simplest terms. Probably it is not

so much the desire of the congregation to escape from the preacher, or of the preacher to escape from himself,

that drives sophisticated people into the wilderness, as it is the unconquered craving for primitive simplicity,

the revolt against the everlasting dressparade of our civilization. From this monstrous pomposity even the

artificial rusticity of a Petit Trianon is a relief. It was only human nature that the jaded Frenchman of the

regency should run away to the New World, and live in a foresthut with an Indian squaw; although he found

little satisfaction in his act of heroism, unless it was talked about at Versailles.

When our trampers come, late in the afternoon, to the bank of a lovely lake where they purpose to enter the

primitive life, everything is waiting for them in virgin expectation. There is a little promontory jutting into

the lake, and sloping down to a sandy beach, on which the waters idly lapse, and shoals of redfins and

shiners come to greet the stranger; the forest is untouched by the axe; the tender green sweeps the water's

edge; ranks of slender firs are marshaled by the shore; clumps of whitebirch stems shine in satin purity

among the evergreens; the boles of giant spruces, maples, and oaks, lifting high their crowns of foliage,

stretch away in endless galleries and arcades; through the shifting leaves the sunshine falls upon the brown

earth; overhead are fragments of blue sky; under the boughs and in chance openings appear the bluer lake and

the outline of the gracious mountains. The discoverers of this paradise, which they have entered to destroy,

note the babbling of the brook that flows close at hand; they hear the splash of the leaping fish; they listen to

the sweet, metallic song of the evening thrush, and the chatter of the red squirrel, who angrily challenges their

right to be there. But the moment of sentiment passes. This party has come here to eat and to sleep, and not to

The spot for a shanty is selected. This side shall be its opening, towards the lake; and in front of it the fire, so

that the smoke shall drift into the hut, and discourage the mosquitoes; yonder shall be the cook's fire and the

path to the spring. The whole colony bestir themselves in the foundation of a new home,an enterprise that

has all the fascination, and none of the danger, of a veritable new settlement in the wilderness. The axes of

the guides resound in the echoing spaces; great trunks fall with a crash; vistas are opened towards the lake

and the mountains. The spot for the shanty is cleared of underbrush; forked stakes are driven into the ground,

crosspieces are laid on them, and poles sloping back to the ground. In an incredible space of time there is

the skeleton of a house, which is entirely open in front. The roof and sides must be covered. For this purpose

the trunks of great spruces are skinned. The woodman rims the bark near the foot of the tree, and again six

feet above, and slashes it perpendicularly; then, with a blunt stick, he crowds off this thick hide exactly as an

ox is skinned. It needs but a few of these skins to cover the roof; and they make a perfectly watertight roof,

except when it rains. Meantime busy hands have gathered boughs of the spruce and the feathery balsam, and

shingled the ground underneath the shanty for a bed. It is an aromatic bed: in theory it is elastic and

consoling. Upon it are spread the blankets. The sleepers, of all sexes and ages, are to lie there in a row, their

feet to the fire, and their heads under the edge of the sloping roof. Nothing could be better contrived. The fire

is in front: it is not a fire, but a conflagrationa vast heap of green logs set on fireof pitch, and split

deadwood, and crackling balsams, raging and roaring. By the time, twilight falls, the cook has prepared

supper. Everything has been cooked in a tin pail and a skillet,potatoes, tea, pork, mutton, slapjacks. You

wonder how everything could have been prepared in so few utensils. When you eat, the wonder ceases:

everything might have been cooked in one pail. It is a noble meal; and nobly is it disposed of by these

amateur savages, sitting about upon logs and roots of trees. Never were there such potatoes, never beans that

seemed to have more of the bean in them, never such curly pork, never trout with more Indian meal on

them, never mutton more distinctly sheepy; and the tea, drunk out of a tin cup, with a lump of maplesugar

dissolved in it,it is the sort of tea that takes hold, lifts the hair, and disposes the drinker to anecdote and

hilariousness. There is no deception about it: it tastes of tannin and spruce and creosote. Everything, in short,

has the flavor of the wilderness and a free life. It is idyllic. And yet, with all our sentimentality, there is

nothing feeble about the cooking. The slapjacks are a solid job of work, made to last, and not go to pieces in a

person's stomach like a trivial bun: we might record on them, in cuneiform characters, our incipient

civilization; and future generations would doubtless turn them up as Acadian bricks. Good, robust victuals are

Darkness falls suddenly. Outside the ring of light from our conflagration the woods are black. There is a

tremendous impression of isolation and lonesomeness in our situation. We are the prisoners of the night. The

woods never seemed so vast and mysterious. The trees are gigantic. There are noises that we do not

understand, mysterious winds passing overhead, and rambling in the great galleries, treetrunks grinding

against each other, undefinable stirs and uneasinesses. The shapes of those who pass into the dimness are

outlined in monstrous proportions. The spectres, seated about in the glare of the fire, talk about appearances

and presentiments and religion. The guides cheer the night with bearfights, and catamount encounters, and

frozentodeath experiences, and simple tales of great prolixity and no point, and jokes of primitive lucidity.

We hear catamounts, and the stealthy tread of things in the leaves, and the hooting of owls, and, when the

moon rises, the laughter of the loon. Everything is strange, spectral, fascinating.

By and by we get our positions in the shanty for the night, and arrange the row of sleepers. The shanty has

become a smokehouse by this time: waves of smoke roll into it from the fire. It is only by lying down, and

getting the head well under the eaves, that one can breathe. No one can find her "things"; nobody has a

pillow. At length the row is laid out, with the solemn protestation of intention to sleep. The wind, shifting,

Goodnight is said a hundred times; positions are readjusted, more last words, new shifting about, final

remarks; it is all so comfortable and romantic; and then silence. Silence continues for a minute. The fire

flashes up; all the row of heads is lifted up simultaneously to watch it; showers of sparks sail aloft into the

blue night; the vast vault of greenery is a fairy spectacle. How the sparks mount and twinkle and disappear

like tropical fireflies, and all the leaves murmur, and clap their hands! Some of the sparks do not go out: we

see them flaming in the sky when the flame of the fire has died down. Well, goodnight, goodnight. More

folding of the arms to sleep; more grumbling about the hardness of a handbag, or the insufficiency of a

pockethandkerchief, for a pillow. Good night. Was that a remark?something about a root, a stub in the

ground sticking into the back. "You couldn't lie along a hair?" "Well, no: here's another stub. It needs but

a moment for the conversation to become general,about roots under the shoulder, stubs in the back, a ridge

on which it is impossible for the sleeper to balance, the nonelasticity of boughs, the hardness of the ground,

the heat, the smoke, the chilly air. Subjects of remarks multiply. The whole camp is awake, and chattering

like an aviary. The owl is also awake; but the guides who are asleep outside make more noise than the owls.

Water is wanted, and is handed about in a dipper. Everybody is yawning; everybody is now determined to go

to sleep in good earnest. A last goodnight. There is an appalling silence. It is interrupted in the most natural

way in the world. Somebody has got the start, and gone to sleep. He proclaims the fact. He seems to have

been brought up on the seashore, and to know how to make all the deeptoned noises of the restless ocean.

He is also like a war horse; or, it is suggested, like a sawhorse. How malignantly he snorts, and breaks off

short, and at once begins again in another key! One head is raised after another.

The sleeper is turned over. The turn was a mistake. He was before, it appears, on his most agreeable side. The

camp rises in indignation. The sleeper sits up in bewilderment. Before he can go off again, two or three others

have preceded him. They are all alike. You never can judge what a person is when he is awake. There are

here half a dozen disturbers of the peace who should be put in solitary confinement. At midnight, when a

philosopher crawls out to sit on a log by the fire, and smoke a pipe, a duet in tenor and mezzosoprano is

going on in the shanty, with a chorus always coming in at the wrong time. Those who are not asleep want to

know why the smoker doesn't go to bed. He is requested to get some water, to throw on another log, to see

what time it is, to note whether it looks like rain. A buzz of conversation arises. She is sure she heard

something behind the shanty. He says it is all nonsense. "Perhaps, however, it might be a mouse."

"Then that's what I heard nibbling by my head. I shan't sleep a wink! Do they bite?"

Towards morning it grows chilly; the guides have let the fire go out; the blankets will slip down. Anxiety

"See that mist on the lake, and the light just coming on the Gothics! I'd no idea it was so cold: all the first part

When the party crawls out to the early breakfast, after it has washed its faces in the lake, it is disorganized,

but cheerful. Nobody admits much sleep; but everybody is refreshed, and declares it delightful. It is the fresh

air all night that invigorates; or maybe it is the tea, or the slapjacks. The guides have erected a table of

spruce bark, with benches at the sides; so that breakfast is taken in form. It is served on tin plates and oak

chips. After breakfast begins the day's work. It may be a mountainclimbing expedition, or rowing and

angling in the lake, or fishing for trout in some stream two or three miles distant. Nobody can stir far from

camp without a guide. Hammocks are swung, bowers are built novelreading begins, worsted work appears,

cards are shuffled and dealt. The day passes in absolute freedom from responsibility to one's self. At night

when the expeditions return, the camp resumes its animation. Adventures are recounted, every statement of

the narrator being disputed and argued. Everybody has become an adept in woodcraft; but nobody credits his

neighbor with like instinct. Society getting resolved into its elements, confidence is gone.

Whilst the hilarious party are at supper, a drop or two of rain falls. The head guide is appealed to. Is it going

to rain? He says it does rain. But will it be a rainy night? The guide goes down to the lake, looks at the sky,

and concludes that, if the wind shifts a p'int more, there is no telling what sort of weather we shall have.

Meantime the drops patter thicker on the leaves overhead, and the leaves, in turn, pass the water down to the

table; the sky darkens; the wind rises; there is a kind of shiver in the woods; and we scud away into the

shanty, taking the remains of our supper, and eating it as best we can. The rain increases. The fire sputters

and fumes. All the trees are dripping, dripping, and the ground is wet. We cannot step outdoors without

getting a drenching. Like sheep, we are penned in the little hut, where no one can stand erect. The rain swirls

into the open front, and wets the bottom of the blankets. The smoke drives in. We curl up, and enjoy

ourselves. The guides at length conclude that it is going to be damp. The dismal situation sets us all into good

spirits; and it is later than the night before when we crawl under our blankets, sure this time of a sound sleep,

lulled by the storm and the rain resounding on the bark roof. How much better off we are than many a

shelterless wretch! We are as snug as dry herrings. At the moment, however, of dropping off to sleep,

somebody unfortunately notes a drop of water on his face; this is followed by another drop; in an instant a

stream is established. He moves his head to a dry place. Scarcely has he done so, when he feels a dampness in

his back. Reaching his hand outside, he finds a puddle of water soaking through his blanket. By this time,

somebody inquires if it is possible that the roof leaks. One man has a stream of water under him; another says

it is coming into his ear. The roof appears to be a discriminating sieve. Those who are dry see no need of such

a fuss. The man in the corner spreads his umbrella, and the protective measure is resented by his neighbor. In

the darkness there is recrimination. One of the guides, who is summoned, suggests that the rubber blankets be

passed out, and spread over the roof. The inmates dislike the proposal, saying that a showerbath is no worse

than a tubbath. The rain continues to soak down. The fire is only half alive. The bedding is damp. Some sit

up, if they can find a dry spot to sit on, and smoke. Heartless observations are made. A few sleep. And the

night wears on. The morning opens cheerless. The sky is still leaking, and so is the shanty. The guides bring

in a halfcooked breakfast. The roof is patched up. There are reviving signs of breaking away, delusive signs

that create momentary exhilaration. Even if the storm clears, the woods are soaked. There is no chance of

This life, without responsibility or clean clothes, may continue as long as the reader desires. There are, those

who would like to live in this free fashion forever, taking rain and sun as heaven pleases; and there are some

souls so constituted that they cannot exist more than three days without their worldlybaggage. Taking the

party altogether, from one cause or another it is likely to strike camp sooner than was intended. And the

stricken camp is a melancholy sight. The woods have been despoiled; the stumps are ugly; the bushes are

scorched; the pineleafstrewn earth is trodden into mire; the landing looks like a cattleford; the ground is

littered with all the unsightly dibris of a handtohand life; the dismantled shanty is a shabby object; the

charred and blackened logs, where the fire blazed, suggest the extinction of family life. Man has wrought his

usual wrong upon Nature, and he can save his selfrespect only by moving to virgin forests.

And move to them he will, the next season, if not this. For he who has once experienced the fascination of the

woodslife never escapes its enticement: in the memory nothing remains but its charm.

At the south end of Keene Valley, in the Adirondacks, stands Noon Mark, a shapely peak thirtyfive hundred

feet above the sea, which, with the aid of the sun, tells the Keene people when it is time to eat dinner. From

its summit you look south into a vast wilderness basin, a great stretch of forest little trodden, and out of

whose bosom you can hear from the heights on a still day the loud murmur of the Boquet. This basin of

unbroken green rises away to the south and southeast into the rocky heights of Dix's Peak and Nipple

Top,the latter a local name which neither the mountain nor the fastidious tourist is able to shake off.

Indeed, so long as the mountain keeps its present shape as seen from the southern lowlands, it cannot get on

These two mountains, which belong to the great system of which Marcy is the giant centre, and are in the

neighborhood of five thousand feet high, on the southern outposts of the great mountains, form the gateposts

of the pass into the south country. This opening between them is called Hunter's Pass. It is the most elevated

and one of the wildest of the mountain passes. Its summit is thirtyfive hundred feet high. In former years it

is presumed the hunters occasionally followed the game through; but latterly it is rare to find a guide who has

been that way, and the tincan and papercollar tourists have not yet made it a runway. This seclusion is due

not to any inherent difficulty of travel, but to the fact that it lies a little out of the way.

We went through it last summer; making our way into the jaws from the foot of the great slides on Dix,

keeping along the ragged spurs of the mountain through the virgin forest. The pass is narrow, walled in on

each side by precipices of granite, and blocked up with bowlders and fallen trees, and beset with pitfalls in

the roads ingeniously covered with fairseeming moss. When the climber occasionally loses sight of a leg in

one of these treacherous holes, and feels a cold sensation in his foot, he learns that he has dipped into the

sources of the Boquet, which emerges lower down into falls and rapids, and, recruited by creeping tributaries,

goes brawling through the forest basin, and at last comes out an amiable and boat bearing stream in the

valley of Elizabeth Town. From the summit another rivulet trickles away to the south, and finds its way

through a frightful tamarack swamp, and through woods scarred by ruthless lumbering, to Mud Pond, a quiet

body of water, with a ghastly fringe of dead trees, upon which people of grand intentions and weak

vocabulary are trying to fix the name of Elk Lake. The descent of the pass on that side is precipitous and

exciting. The way is in the stream itself; and a considerable portion of the distance we swung ourselves down

the faces of considerable falls, and tumbled down cascades. The descent, however, was made easy by the fact

that it rained, and every footstep was yielding and slippery. Why sane people, often churchmembers

respectably connected, will subject themselves to this sort of treatment,be wet to the skin, bruised by the

rocks, and flung about among the bushes and dead wood until the most necessary part of their apparel hangs

in shreds,is one of the delightful mysteries of these woods. I suspect that every man is at heart a roving

animal, and likes, at intervals, to revert to the condition of the bear and the catamount.

There is no trail through Hunter's Pass, which, as I have intimated, is the least frequented portion of this

wilderness. Yet we were surprised to find a wellbeaten path a considerable portion of the way and wherever

a path is possible. It was not a mere deer's runway: these are found everywhere in the mountains. It is trodden

by other and larger animals, and is, no doubt, the highway of beasts. It bears marks of having been so for a

long period, and probably a period long ago. Large animals are not common in these woods now, and you

seldom meet anything fiercer than the timid deer and the gentle bear. But in days gone by, Hunter's Pass was

the highway of the whole caravan of animals who were continually going backward; and forwards, in the

aimless, roaming way that beasts have, between Mud Pond and the Boquet Basin. I think I can see now the

procession of them between the heights of Dix and Nipple Top; the elk and the moose shambling along,

cropping the twigs; the heavy bear lounging by with his exploring nose; the frightened deer trembling at

every twig that snapped beneath his little hoofs, intent on the lilypads of the pond; the raccoon and the

hedgehog, sidling along; and the velvet footed panther, insouciant and conscienceless, scenting the path

with a curious glow in his eye, or crouching in an overhanging tree ready to drop into the procession at the

right moment. Night and day, year after year, I see them going by, watched by the red fox and the

comfortably clad sable, and grinned at by the black cat,the innocent, the vicious, the timid and the savage,

the shy and the bold, the chattering slanderer and the screaming prowler, the industrious and the peaceful, the

treetop critic and the crawling biter,just as it is elsewhere. It makes me blush for my species when I think

of it. This charming society is nearly extinct now: of the larger animals there only remain the bear, who

minds his own business more thoroughly than any person I know, and the deer, who would like to be friendly

with men, but whose winning face and gentle ways are no protection from the savageness of man, and who is

treated with the same unpitying destruction as the snarling catamount. I have read in history that the amiable

natives of Hispaniola fared no better at the hands of the brutal Spaniards than the fierce and warlike Caribs.

As society is at present constituted in Christian countries, I would rather for my own security be a cougar

There is not much of romantic interest in the Adirondacks. Out of the books of daring travelers, nothing. I do

not know that the Keene Valley has any history. The mountains always stood here, and the Au Sable, flowing

now in shallows and now in rippling reaches over the sands and pebbles, has for ages filled the air with

continuous and soothing sounds. Before the Vermonters broke into it some three quarters of a century ago,

and made meadows of its bottoms and sugar camps of its fringing woods, I suppose the red Indian lived

here in his usual discomfort, and was as restless as his successors, the summer boarders. But the streams were

full of trout then, and the moose and the elk left their broad tracks on the sands of the river. But of the Indian

there is no trace. There is a mound in the valley, much like a Tel in the country of Bashan beyond the Jordan,

that may have been built by some prehistoric race, and may contain treasure and the seated figure of a

preserved chieftain on his slow way to Paradise. What the gentle and accomplished race of the Mound

Builders should want in this savage region where the frost kills the early potatoes and stunts the scanty oats, I

do not know. I have seen no trace of them, except this Tel, and one other slight relic, which came to light last

Some workingmen, getting stone from the hillside on one of the little plateaus, for a housecellar, discovered,

partly embedded, a piece of pottery unique in this region. With the unerring instinct of workmen in regard to

antiquities, they thrust a crowbar through it, and broke the bowl into several pieces. The joint fragments,

however, give us the form of the dish. It is a bowl about nine inches high and eight inches across, made of red

clay, baked but not glazed. The bottom is round, the top flares into four comers, and the rim is rudely but

rather artistically ornamented with crisscross scratches made when the clay was soft. The vessel is made of

clay not found about here, and it is one that the Indians formerly living here could not form. Was it brought

here by roving Indians who may have made an expedition to the Ohio; was it passed from tribe to tribe; or did

it belong to a race that occupied the country before the Indian, and who have left traces of their civilized skill

If I could establish the fact that this jar was made by a prehistoric race, we should then have four generations

in this lovely valley:the amiable PreHistoric people (whose gentle descendants were probably killed by the

Spaniards in the West Indies); the Red Indians; the Keene Flaters (from Vermont); and the Summer Boarders,

to say nothing of the various races of animals who have been unable to live here since the advent of the

Summer Boarders, the valley being not productive enough to sustain both. This last incursion has been more

But we are wandering from Hunter's Pass. The western walls of it are formed by the precipices of Nipple

Top, not so striking nor so bare as the great slides of Dix which glisten in the sun like silver, but rough and

repelling, and consequently alluring. I have a great desire to scale them. I have always had an unreasonable

wish to explore the rough summit of this crabbed hill, which is too broken and jagged for pleasure and not

high enough for glory. This desire was stimulated by a legend related by our guide that night in the Mud

Pond cabin. The guide had never been through the pass before; although he was familiar with the region, and

had ascended Nipple Top in the winter in pursuit of the sable. The story he told doesn't amount to much, none

of the guides' stories do, faithfully reported, and I should not have believed it if I had not had a good deal of

leisure on my hands at the time, and been of a willing mind, and I may say in rather of a starved condition as

The guide said thenand he mentioned it casually, in reply to our inquiries about ascending the

mountainthat there was a cave high up among the precipices on the southeast side of Nipple Top. He

scarcely volunteered the information, and with seeming reluctance gave us any particulars about it. I always

admire this art by which the accomplished storyteller lets his listener drag the reluctant tale of the marvelous

from him, and makes you in a manner responsible for its improbability. If this is well managed, the listener is

always eager to believe a great deal more than the romancer seems willing to tell, and always resents the

There were strange reports about this cave when the old guide was a boy, and even then its very existence had

become legendary. Nobody knew exactly where it was, but there was no doubt that it had been inhabited.

Hunters in the forests south of Dix had seen a light late at night twinkling through the trees high up the

mountain, and now and then a ruddy glare as from the flaringup of a furnace. Settlers were few in the

wilderness then, and all the inhabitants were well known. If the cave was inhabited, it must be by strangers,

and by men who had some secret purpose in seeking this seclusion and eluding observation. If suspicious

characters were seen about Port Henry, or if any such landed from the steamers on the shore of Lake

Champlain, it was impossible to identify them with these invaders who were never seen. Their not being seen

did not, however, prevent the growth of the belief in their existence. Little indications and rumors, each trivial

in itself, became a mass of testimony that could not be disposed of because of its very indefiniteness, but

which appealed strongly to man's noblest faculty, his imagination, or credulity.

The cave existed; and it was inhabited by men who came and went on mysterious errands, and transacted

their business by night. What this band of adventurers or desperadoes lived on, how they conveyed their food

through the trackless woods to their high eyrie, and what could induce men to seek such a retreat, were

questions discussed, but never settled. They might be banditti; but there was nothing to plunder in these

savage wilds, and, in fact, robberies and raids either in the settlements of the hills or the distant lake shore

were unknown. In another age, these might have been hermits, holy men who had retired from the world to

feed the vanity of their godliness in a spot where they were subject neither to interruption nor comparison;

they would have had a shrine in the cave, and an image of the Blessed Virgin, with a lamp always burning

before it and sending out its mellow light over the savage waste. A more probable notion was that they were

romantic Frenchmen who had grow weary of vice and refinement together,possibly princes, expectants of

the throne, Bourbon remainders, named Williams or otherwise, unhatched eggs, so to speak, of kings, who

had withdrawn out of observation to wait for the next turnover in Paris. Frenchmen do such things. If they

were not Frenchmen, they might be honestthieves or criminals, escaped from justice or from the friendly

stateprison of New York. This last supposition was, however, more violent than the others, or seems so to us

in this day of grace. For what wellbroughtup New York criminal would be so insane as to run away from

his political friends the keepers, from the easily had companionship of his pals outside, and from the society

of his criminal lawyer, and, in short, to put himself into the depths of a wilderness out of which escape, when

escape was desired, is a good deal more difficult than it is out of the swarming jails of the Empire State?

Besides, how foolish for a man, if he were a really hardened and professional criminal, having established

connections and a regular business, to run away from the governor's pardon, which might have difficulty in

This gang of menthere is some doubt whether they were accompanied by womengave little evidence in

their appearance of being escaped criminals or expectant kings. Their movements were mysterious but not

necessarily violent. If their occupation could have been discovered, that would have furnished a clew to their

true character. But about this the strangers were as close as mice. If anything could betray them, it was the

steady light from the cavern, and its occasional ruddy flashing. This gave rise to the opinion, which was

strengthened by a good many indications equally conclusive, that the cave was the resort of a gang of coiners

and counterfeiters. Here they had their furnace, smeltingpots, and dies; here they manufactured those

spurious quarters and halves that their confidants, who were pardoned, were circulating, and which a few

This prosaic explanation of a romantic situation satisfies all the requirements of the known facts, but the

lively imagination at once rejects it as unworthy of the subject. I think the guide put it forward in order to

have it rejected. The fact is,at least, it has never been disproved,these strangers whose movements were

veiled belonged to that dark and mysterious race whose presence anywhere on this continent is a nestegg of

romance or of terror. They were Spaniards! You need not say buccaneers, you need not say gold hunters,

you need not say swarthy adventurers even: it is enough to say Spaniards! There is no tale of mystery and

fanaticism and daring I would not believe if a Spaniard is the hero of it, and it is not necessary either that he

Nobody, I suppose, would doubt this story if the moose, quaffing deep draughts of red wine from silver

tankards, and then throwing themselves back upon divans, and lazily puffing the fragrant Havana. After a day

Does the reader think these inferences not warranted by the facts? He does not know the facts. It is true that

our guide had never himself personally visited the cave, but he has always intended to hunt it up. His

information in regard to it comes from his father, who was a mighty hunter and trapper. In one of his

expeditions over Nipple Top he chanced upon the cave. The mouth was half concealed by undergrowth. He

entered, not without some apprehension engendered by the legends which make it famous. I think he showed

some boldness in venturing into such a place alone. I confess that, before I went in, I should want to fire a

Gatling gun into the mouth for a little while, in order to rout out the bears which usually dwell there. He went

in, however. The entrance was low; but the cave was spacious, not large, but big enough, with a level floor

and a vaulted ceiling. It had long been deserted, but that it was once the residence of highly civilized beings

there could be no doubt. The dead brands in the centre were the remains of a fire that could not have been

kindled by wild beasts, and the bones scattered about had been scientifically dissected and handled. There

were also remnants of furniture and pieces of garments scattered about. At the farther end, in a fissure of the

rock, were stones regularly built up, the rem Yins of a larger fire,and what the hunter did not doubt was the

smelting furnace of the Spaniards. He poked about in the ashes, but found no silver. That had all been carried

But what most provoked his wonder in this rude cave was a chair I This was not such a seat as a woodman

might knock up with an axe, with rough body and a seat of woven splits, but a manufactured chair of

commerce, and a chair, too, of an unusual pattern and some elegance. This chair itself was a mute witness of

luxury and mystery. The chair itself might have been accounted for, though I don't know how; but upon the

back of the chair hung, as if the owner had carelessly flung it there before going out an hour before, a man's

waistcoat. This waistcoat seemed to him of foreign make and peculiar style, but what endeared it to him was

its row of metal buttons. These buttons were of silver! I forget now whether he did not say they were of silver

coin, and that the coin was Spanish. But I am not certain about this latter fact, and I wish to cast no air of

improbability over my narrative. This rich vestment the hunter carried away with him. This was all the

plunder his expedition afforded. Yes: there was one other article, and, to my mind, more significant than the

vest of the hidalgo. This was a short and stout crowbar of iron; not one of the long crowbars that farmers use

to pry up stones, but a short handy one, such as you would use in digging silverore out of the cracks of

This was the guide's simple story. I asked him what became of the vest and the buttons, and the bar of iron.

The old man wore the vest until he wore it out; and then he handed it over to the boys, and they wore it in

turn till they wore it out. The buttons were cut off, and kept as curiosities. They were about the cabin, and the

children had them to play with. The guide distinctly remembers playing with them; one of them he kept for a

long time, and he didn't know but he could find it now, but he guessed it had disappeared. I regretted that he

had not treasured this slender verification of an interesting romance, but he said in those days he never paid

much attention to such things. Lately he has turned the subject over, and is sorry that his father wore out the

vest and did not bring away the chair. It is his steady purpose to find the cave some time when he has leisure,

and capture the chair, if it has not tumbled to pieces. But about the crowbar? Oh I that is all right. The guide

has the bar at his house in Keene Valley, and has always used it. I am happy to be able to confirm this story

by saying that next day I saw the crowbar, and had it in my hand. It is short and thick, and the most

interesting kind of crowbar. This evidence is enough for me. I intend in the course of this vacation to search

for the cave; and, if I find it, my readers shall know the truth about it, if it destroys the only bit of romance

My readers were promised an account of Spaniard's Cave on NippleTop Mountain in the Adirondacks, if

such a cave exists, and could be found. There is none but negative evidence that this is a mere cave of the

imagination, the void fancy of a vacant hour; but it is the duty of the historian to present the negative

testimony of a fruitless expedition in search of it, made last summer. I beg leave to offer this in the simple

The summit of NippleTop Mountain has been trodden by few white men of good character: it is in the heart

of a hirsute wilderness; it is itself a rough and unsocial pile of granite nearly five thousand feet high, bristling

with a stunted and unpleasant growth of firs and balsams, and there is no earthly reason why a person should

go there. Therefore we went. In the party of three there was, of course, a chaplain. The guide was Old

Mountain Phelps, who had made the ascent once before, but not from the northwest side, the direction from

which we approached it. The enthusiasm of this philosopher has grown with his years, and outlived his

endurance: we carried our own knapsacks and supplies, therefore, and drew upon him for nothing but moral

reflections and a general knowledge of the wilderness. Our first day's route was through the Gillbrook

woods and up one of its branches to the head of Caribou Pass, which separates Nipple Top from Colvin.

It was about the first of September; no rain had fallen for several weeks, and this heart of the forest was as

dry as tinder; a lighted match dropped anywhere would start a conflagration. This dryness has its advantages:

the walking is improved; the long heat has expressed all the spicy odors of the cedars and balsams, and the

woods are filled with a soothing fragrance; the waters of the streams, though scant and clear, are cold as ice;

the common forest chill is gone from the air. The afternoon was bright; there was a feeling of exultation and

adventure in stepping off into the open but pathless forest; the great stems of deciduous trees were mottled

with patches of sunlight, which brought out upon the variegated barks and mosses of the old trunks a

thousand shifting hues. There is nothing like a primeval wood for color on a sunny day. The shades of green

and brown are infinite; the dull red of the hemlock bark glows in the sun, the russet of the changing

moosebush becomes brilliant; there are silvery openings here and there; and everywhere the columns rise up

to the canopy of tender green which supports the intense blue sky and holds up a part of it from falling

through in fragments to the floor of the forest. Decorators can learn here how Nature dares to put blue and

green in juxtaposition: she has evidently the secret of harmonizing all the colors.

The way, as we ascended, was not all through open woods; dense masses of firs were encountered, jagged

spurs were to be crossed, and the going became at length so slow and toilsome that we took to the rocky bed

of a stream, where bowlders and flumes and cascades offered us sufficient variety. The deeper we penetrated,

the greater the sense of savageness and solitude; in the silence of these hidden places one seems to approach

the beginning of things. We emerged from the defile into an open basin, formed by the curved side of the

mountain, and stood silent before a waterfall coming down out of the sky in the centre of the curve. I do not

know anything exactly like this fall, which some poetical explorer has named the FairyLadder Falls. It

appears to have a height of something like a hundred and fifty feet, and the water falls obliquely across the

face of the cliff from left to right in short steps, which in the moonlight might seem like a veritable ladder for

fairies. Our impression of its height was confirmed by climbing the very steep slope at its side some three or

four hundred feet. At the top we found the stream flowing over a broad bed of rock, like a street in the

wilderness, slanting up still towards the sky, and bordered by low firs and balsams, and bowlders completely

On account of the tindery condition of the woods we made our fire on the natural pavement, and selected a

smooth place for our bed near by on the flat rock, with a pool of limpid water at the foot. This granite couch

we covered with the dry and springy moss, which we stripped off in heavy fleeces a foot thick from the

bowlders. First, however, we fed upon the fruit that was offered us. Over these hills of moss ran an exquisite

vine with a tiny, ovate, green leaf, bearing small, delicate berries, oblong and white as wax, having a faint

flavor of wintergreen and the slightest acid taste, the very essence of the wilderness; fairy food, no doubt, and

too refined for palates accustomed to coarser viands. There must exist somewhere sinless women who could

eat these berries without being reminded of the lost purity and delicacy of the primeval senses. Every year I

doubt not this stainless berry ripens here, and is unplucked by any knight of the Holy Grail who is worthy to

eat it, and keeps alive, in the prodigality of nature, the tradition of the unperverted conditions of taste before

the fall. We ate these berries, I am bound to say, with a sense of guilty enjoyment, as if they had been a sort

of shewbread of the wilderness, though I cannot answer for the chaplain, who is by virtue of his office a

little nearer to these mysteries of nature than I. This plant belongs to the heath family, and is first cousin to

the blueberry and cranberry. It is commonly called the creeping snowberry, but I like better its official title of

Our mossy restingplace was named the Bridal Chamber Camp, in the enthusiasm of the hour, after darkness

fell upon the woods and the stars came out. We were two thousand five hundred feet above the common

world. We lay, as it were, on a shelf in the sky, with a basin of illimitable forests below us and dim

And as we lay there courting sleep which the blinking stars refused to shower down, our philosopher

discoursed to us of the principle of fire, which he holds, with the ancients, to be an independent element that

comes and goes in a mysterious manner, as we see flame spring up and vanish, and is in some way vital and

indestructible, and has a mysterious relation to the source of all things. "That flame," he says, "you have put

out, but where has it gone?" We could not say, nor whether it is anything like the spirit of a man which is

here for a little hour, and then vanishes away. Our own philosophy of the correlation of forces found no sort

of favor at that elevation, and we went to sleep leaving the principle of fire in the apostolic category of " any

At daylight we were astir; and, having pressed the principle of fire into our service to make a pot of tea, we

carefully extinguished it or sent it into another place, and addressed ourselves to the climb of some thing over

two thousand feet. The arduous labor of scaling an Alpine peak has a compensating glory; but the dead lift of

our bodies up Nipple Top had no stimulus of this sort. It is simply hard work, for which the strained muscles

only get the approbation of the individual conscience that drives them to the task. The pleasure of such an

ascent is difficult to explain on the spot, and I suspect consists not so much in positive enjoyment as in the

delight the mind experiences in tyrannizing over the body. I do not object to the elevation of this mountain,

nor to the uncommonly steep grade by which it attains it, but only to the other obstacles thrown in the way of

the climber. All the slopes of Nipple Top are hirsute and jagged to the last degree. Granite ledges interpose;

granite bowlders seem to have been dumped over the sides with no more attempt at arrangement than in a

riprap wall; the slashes and windfalls of a century present here and there an almost impenetrable chevalier

des arbres; and the steep sides bristle with a mass of thick balsams, with dead, protruding spikes, as

unyielding as iron stakes. The mountain has had its own way forever, and is as untamed as a wolf; or rather

the elements, the frightful tempests, the frosts, the heavy snows, the coaxing sun, and the avalanches have

had their way with it until its surface is in hopeless confusion. We made our way very slowly; and it was ten

o'clock before we reached what appeared to be the summit, a ridge deeply covered with moss, low balsams,

I say, appeared to be; for we stood in thick fog or in the heart of clouds which limited our dim view to a

radius of twenty feet. It was a warm and cheerful fog, stirred by little wind, but moving, shifting, and boiling

as by its own volatile nature, rolling up black from below and dancing in silvery splendor overhead As a fog

it could not have been improved; as a medium for viewing the landscape it was a failure and we lay down

We waited two hours without change, except an occasional hopeful lightness in the fog above, and at last the

appearance for a moment of the spectral sun. Only for an instant was this luminous promise vouchsafed. But

we watched in intense excitement. There it was again; and this time the fog was so thin overhead that we

caught sight of a patch of blue sky a yard square, across which the curtain was instantly drawn. A little wind

was stirring, and the fog boiled up from the valley caldrons thicker than ever. But the spell was broken. In a

moment more Old Phelps was shouting, "The sun!" and before we could gain our feet there was a patch of

sky overhead as big as a farm. "See! quick!" The old man was dancing like a lunatic. There was a rift in the

vapor at our feet, down, down, three thousand feet into the forest abyss, and lo! lifting out of it yonder the

tawny side of Dix,the vision of a second, snatched away in the rolling fog. The play had just begun. Before

we could turn, there was the gorge of Caribou Pass, savage and dark, visible to the bottom. The opening shut

as suddenly; and then, looking over the clouds, miles away we saw the peaceful farms of the Au Sable

Valley, and in a moment more the plateau of North Elba and the sentinel mountains about the grave of John

Brown. These glimpses were as fleeting as thought, and instantly we were again isolated in the sea of mist.

The expectation of these sudden strokes of sublimity kept us exultingly on the alert; and yet it was a blow of

surprise when the curtain was swiftly withdrawn on the west, and the long ridge of Colvin, seemingly within

a stone's throw, heaved up like an island out of the ocean, and was the next moment ingulfed. We waited

longer for Dix to show its shapely peak and its glistening sides of rock gashed by avalanches. The fantastic

clouds, torn and streaming, hurried up from the south in haste as if to a witch's rendezvous, hiding and

disclosing the great summit in their flight. The mist boiled up from the valley, whirled over the summit where

we stood, and plunged again into the depths. Objects were forming and disappearing, shifting and dancing,

now in sun and now gone in fog, and in the elemental whirl we felt that we were "assisting" in an original

process of creation. The sun strove, and his very striving called up new vapors; the wind rent away the

clouds, and brought new masses to surge about us; and the spectacle to right and left, above and below,

changed with incredible swiftness. Such glory of abyss and summit, of color and form and transformation, is

seldom granted to mortal eyes. For an hour we watched it until our vast mountain was revealed in all its bulk,

its long spurs, its abysses and its savagery, and the great basins of wilderness with their shining lakes, and the

giant peaks of the region, were one by one disclosed, and hidden and again tranquil in the sunshine.

Where was the cave? There was ample surface in which to look for it. If we could have flitted about, like the

hawks that came circling round, over the steep slopes, the long spurs, the jagged precipices, I have no doubt

we should have found it. But moving about on this mountain is not a holiday pastime; and we were chiefly

anxious to discover a practicable mode of descent into the great wilderness basin on the south, which we must

traverse that afternoon before reaching the hospitable shanty on Mud Pond. It was enough for us to have

discovered the general whereabouts of the Spanish Cave, and we left the fixing of its exact position to future

The spur we chose for our escape looked smooth in the distance; but we found it bristling with obstructions,

dead balsams set thickly together, slashes of fallen timber, and every manner of woody chaos; and when at

length we swung and tumbled off the ledge to the general slope, we exchanged only for more disagreeable

going. The slope for a couple of thousand feet was steep enough; but it was formed of granite rocks all

mosscovered, so that the footing could not be determined, and at short intervals we nearly went out of sight

in holes under the treacherous carpeting. Add to this that stems of great trees were laid longitudinally and

transversely and crisscross over and among the rocks, and the reader can see that a good deal of work needs

We had had no water since our daylight breakfast: our lunch on the mountain had been moistened only by the

fog. Our thirst began to be that of Tantalus, because we could hear the water running deep down among the

rocks, but we could not come at it. The imagination drank the living stream, and we realized anew what

delusive food the imagination furnishes in an actual strait. A good deal of the crime of this world, I am

convinced, is the direct result of the unlicensed play of the imagination in adverse circumstances. This

reflection had nothing to do with our actual situation; for we added to our imagination patience, and to our

patience longsuffering, and probably all the Christian virtues would have been developed in us if the

descent had been long enough. Before we reached the bottom of Caribou Pass, the water burst out from the

rocks in a clear stream that was as cold as ice. Shortly after, we struck the roaring brook that issues from the

Pass to the south. It is a stream full of character, not navigable even for trout in the upper part, but a

succession of falls, cascades, flumes, and pools that would delight an artist. It is not an easy bed for anything

except water to descend; and before we reached the level reaches, where the stream flows with a murmurous

This was Old Phelps, whose appetite had failed the day before,his imagination being in better working

order than his stomach: he had eaten little that day, and his legs became so groggy that he was obliged to rest

at short intervals. Here was a situation! The afternoon was wearing away. We had six or seven miles of

unknown wilderness to traverse, a portion of it swampy, in which a progress of more than a mile an hour is

difficult, and the condition of the guide compelled even a slower march. What should we do in that lonesome

solitude if the guide became disabled? We couldn't carry him out; could we find our own way out to get

assistance? The guide himself had never been there before; and although he knew the general direction of our

point of egress, and was entirely adequate to extricate himself from any position in the woods, his knowledge

was of that occult sort possessed by woodsmen which it is impossible to communicate. Our object was to

strike a trail that led from the Au Sable Pond, the other side of the mountainrange, to an inlet on Mud Pond.

We knew that if we traveled southwestward far enough we must strike that trail, but how far? No one could

tell. If we reached that trail, and found a boat at the inlet, there would be only a row of a couple of miles to

the house at the foot of the lake. If no boat was there, then we must circle the lake three or four miles farther

through a cedarswamp, with no trail in particular. The prospect was not pleasing. We were short of supplies,

for we had not expected to pass that night in the woods. The pleasure of the excursion began to develop itself.

We stumbled on in the general direction marked out, through a forest that began to seem endless as hour after

hour passed, compelled as we were to make long detours over the ridges of the foothills to avoid the swamp,

which sent out from the border of the lake long tongues into the firm ground. The guide became more ill at

every step, and needed frequent halts and long rests. Food he could not eat; and tea, water, and even brandy

he rejected. Again and again the old philosopher, enfeebled by excessive exertion and illness, would collapse

in a heap on the ground, an almost comical picture of despair, while we stood and waited the waning of the

day, and peered forward in vain for any sign of an open country. At every brook we encountered, we

suggested a halt for the night, while it was still light enough to select a campingplace, but the plucky old

man wouldn't hear of it: the trail might be only a quarter of a mile ahead, and we crawled on again at a snail's

pace. His honor as a guide seemed to be at stake; and, besides, he confessed to a notion that his end was near,

and he didn't want to die like a dog in the woods. And yet, if this was his last journey, it seemed not an

inappropriate ending for the old woodsman to lie down and give up the ghost in the midst of the untamed

forest and the solemn silences he felt most at home in. There is a popular theory, held by civilians, that a

soldier likes to die in battle. I suppose it is as true that a woodsman would like to "pass in his chips,"the

figure seems to be inevitable, struck down by illness and exposure, in the forest solitude, with heaven in sight

The guide seemed really to fear that, if we did not get out of the woods that night, he would never go out;

and, yielding to his dogged resolution, we kept on in search of the trail, although the gathering of dusk over

the ground warned us that we might easily cross the trail without recognizing it. We were traveling by the

light in the upper sky, and by the forms of the treestems, which every moment grew dimmer. At last the end

came. We had just felt our way over what seemed to be a little run of water, when the old man sunk down,

Suddenly night fell like a blanket on us. We could neither see the guide nor each other. We became at once

conscious that miles of night on all sides shut us in. The sky was clouded over: there wasn't a gleam of light

to show us where to step. Our first thought was to build a fire, which would drive back the thick darkness into

the woods, and boil some water for our tea. But it was too dark to use the axe. We scraped together leaves

and twigs to make a blaze, and, as this failed, such dead sticks as we could find by groping about. The fire

was only a temporary affair, but it sufficed to boil a can of water. The water we obtained by feeling about the

stones of the little run for an opening big enough to dip our cup in. The supper to be prepared was fortunately

simple. It consisted of a decoction of tea and other leaves which had got into the pail, and a part of a loaf of

bread. A loaf of bread which has been carried in a knapsack for a couple of days, bruised and handled and

hacked at with a huntingknife, becomes an uninteresting object. But we ate of it with thankfulness, washed

it down with hot fluid, and bitterly thought of the morrow. Would our old friend survive the night? Would he

be in any condition to travel in the morning? How were we to get out with him or without him?

The old man lay silent in the bushes out of sight, and desired only to be let alone. We tried to tempt him with

the offer of a piece of toast: it was no temptation. Tea we thought would revive him: he refused it. A drink of

brandy would certainly quicken his life: he couldn't touch it. We were at the end of our resources. He seemed

to think that if he were at home, and could get a bit of fried bacon, or a piece of pie, he should be all right.

We knew no more how to doctor him than if he had been a sick bear. He withdrew within himself, rolled

himself up, so to speak, in his primitive habits, and waited for the healing power of nature. Before our feeble

fire disappeared, we smoothed a level place near it for Phelps to lie on, and got him over to it. But it didn't

suit: it was too open. In fact, at the moment some drops of rain fell. Rain was quite outside of our program for

the night. But the guide had an instinct about it; and, while we were groping about some yards distant for a

place where we could lie down, he crawled away into the darkness, and curled himself up amid the roots of a

gigantic pine, very much as a bear would do, I suppose, with his back against the trunk, and there passed the

night comparatively dry and comfortable; but of this we knew nothing till morning, and had to trust to the

Our own bed where we spread our blankets was excellent in one respect,there was no danger of tumbling

out of it. At first the rain pattered gently on the leaves overhead, and we congratulated ourselves on the

snugness of our situation. There was something cheerful about this free life. We contrasted our condition with

that of tired invalids who were tossing on downy beds, and wooing sleep in vain. Nothing was so wholesome

and invigorating as this bivouac in the forest. But, somehow, sleep did not come. The rain had ceased to

patter, and began to fall with a steady determination, a sort of soak, soak, all about us. In fact, it roared on the

rubber blanket, and beat in our faces. The wind began to stir a little, and there was a moaning on high. Not

contented with dripping, the rain was driven into our faces. Another suspicious circumstance was noticed.

Little rills of water got established along the sides under the blankets, cold, undeniable streams, that

interfered with drowsiness. Pools of water settled on the bed; and the chaplain had a habit of moving

suddenly, and letting a quart or two inside, and down my neck. It began to be evident that we and our bed

were probably the wettest objects in the woods. The rubber was an excellent catchall. There was no trouble

about ventilation, but we found that we had established our quarters without any provision for drainage.

There was not exactly a wild tempest abroad; but there was a degree of liveliness in the thrashing limbs and

the creaking of the tree branches which rubbed against each other, and the pouring rain increased in volume

and power of penetration. Sleep was quite out of the question, with so much to distract our attention. In fine,

our misery became so perfect that we both broke out into loud and sarcastic laughter over the absurdity of our

situation. We had subjected ourselves to all this forlornness simply for pleasure. Whether Old Phelps was still

in existence, we couldn't tell: we could get no response from him. With daylight, if he continued ill and could

not move, our situation would be little improved. Our supplies were gone, we lay in a pond, a deluge of water

was pouring down on us. This was summer recreation. The whole thing was so excessively absurd that we

laughed again, louder than ever. We had plenty of this sort of amusement. Suddenly through the night we

heard a sort of reply that started us bolt upright. This was a prolonged squawk. It was like the voice of no

beast or bird with which we were familiar. At first it was distant; but it rapidly approached, tearing through

the night and apparently through the treetops, like the harsh cry of a webfooted bird with a snarl in it; in

fact, as I said, a squawk. It came close to us, and then turned, and as rapidly as it came fled away through the

"What was that, Phelps? "we cried out. But no response came; and we wondered if his spirit had been rent

away, or if some evil genius had sought it, and then, baffled by his serene and philosophic spirit, had shot off

The night had no other adventure. The moon at length coming up behind the clouds lent a spectral aspect to

the forest, and deceived us for a time into the notion that day was at hand; but the rain never ceased, and we

lay wishful and waiting, with no item of solid misery wanting that we could conceive.

Day was slow acoming, and didn't amount to much when it came, so heavy were the clouds; but the rain

slackened. We crawled out of our watercure "pack," and sought the guide. To our infinite relief he

announced himself not only alive, but in a going condition. I looked at my watch. It had stopped at five

o'clock. I poured the water out of it, and shook it; but, not being constructed on the hydraulic principle, it

refused to go. Some hours later we encountered a huntsman, from whom I procured some gungrease; with

this I filled the watch, and heated it in by the fire. This is a most effectual way of treating a delicate Genevan

The light disclosed fully the suspected fact that our bed had been made in a slight depression: the under

rubber blanket spread in this had prevented the rain from soaking into the ground, and we had been lying in

what was in fact a wellcontrived bathtub. While Old Phelps was pulling himself together, and we were

wringing some gallons of water out of our blankets, we questioned the old man about the "squawk," and what

bird was possessed of such a voice. It was not a bird at all, he said, but a cat, the blackcat of the woods,

larger than the domestic animal, and an ugly customer, who is fond of fish, and carries a pelt that is worth

two or three dollars in the market. Occasionally he blunders into a sabletrap; and he is altogether hateful in

his ways, and has the most uncultivated voice that is heard in the woods. We shall remember him as one of

the least pleasant phantoms of that cheerful night when we lay in the storm, fearing any moment the advent to

We rolled up and shouldered our wet belongings, and, before the shades had yet lifted from the saturated

bushes, pursued our march. It was a relief to be again in motion, although our progress was slow, and it was a

question every rod whether the guide could go on. We had the day before us; but if we did not find a boat at

the inlet a day might not suffice, in the weak condition of the guide, to extricate us from our ridiculous

position. There was nothing heroic in it; we had no object: it was merely, as it must appear by this time, a

pleasure excursion, and we might be lost or perish in it without reward and with little sympathy. We had

something like a hour and a half of stumbling through the swamp when suddenly we stood in the little trail!

Slight as it was, it appeared to us a very Broadway to Paradise if broad ways ever lead thither. Phelps hailed it

and sank down in it like one reprieved from death. But the boat? Leaving him, we quickly ran a quarter of a

mile down to the inlet. The boat was there. Our shout to the guide would have roused him out of a

deathslumber. He came down the trail with the agility of an aged deer: never was so glad a sound in his ear,

he said, as that shout. It was in a very jubilant mood that we emptied the boat of water, pushed off, shipped

the clumsy oars, and bent to the twomile row through the black waters of the winding, desolate channel, and

over the lake, whose dark waves were tossed a little in the morning breeze. The trunks of dead trees stand

about this lake, and all its shores are ragged with ghastly driftwood; but it was open to the sky, and although

the heavy clouds still obscured all the mountain ranges we had a sense of escape and freedom that almost

How lightly past hardship sits upon us! All the misery of the night vanished, as if it had not been, in the

shelter of the log cabin at Mud Pond, with dry clothes that fitted us as the skin of the bear fits him in the

spring, a noble breakfast, a toasting fire, solicitude about our comfort, judicious sympathy with our suffering,

and willingness to hear the now growing tale of our adventure. Then came, in a day of absolute idleness,

while the showers came and went, and the mountains appeared and disappeared in sun and storm, that perfect

physical enjoyment which consists in a feeling of strength without any inclination to use it, and in a delicious