Camp and Trail - A Story of the Maine Woods

Isabel Hornibrook

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• Publié par: uctoo
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 46
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Camp and Trail, by Isabel Hornibrook
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Title: Camp and Trail
A Story of the Maine Woods
Author: Isabel Hornibrook
Release Date: November 4, 2004 [EBook #13946]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMP AND TRAIL ***
Produced by Curtis Weyant, Josephine Paolucci, Joshua Hutchinson and
the PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
TO
J.L.H.
The Moose Was Now Snorting Like a War-Horse Beneath
Preface
In adding another to the list of stories bearing on that subject of perennial interest to boys,
adventures in camp and on trail among the woods and lakes of Northern Maine, one thought has
been the inspiration that led me on.
It is this: To prove to high-mettled lads, American, and English as well, that forest quarters, to be
the most jovial quarters on earth, need not be made a shambles. Sensation may reach its finest
pitch, excitement be an unfailing fillip, and fun the leaven which leavens the camping-trip from
start to finish, even though the triumph of killing for triumph's sake be left out of the play-bill.
"There is a higher sport in preservation than in destruction," says a veteran hunter, whose forest
experiences and descriptions have in part enriched this story. I commend the opinion to boy-readers, trusting that they may become "queer specimen sportsmen," after the pattern of Cyrus
Garst; and find a more entrancing excitement in studying the live wild things of the forest than in
gloating over a dying tremor, or examining a senseless mass of horn, hide, and hoofs, after the
life-spring which worked the mechanism has been stilled forever.
One other desire has trodden on the heels of the first: That Young England and Young America
may be inspired with a wish to understand each other better, to take each other frankly and
simply for the manhood in each; and that thus misconception and prejudice may disappear like
mists of an old-day dream.
ISABEL HORNIBROOK.
Contents
Contents
Chapter I - Jacking For Deer
Chapter II - A Spill-Out
Chapter III - Life in a Bark Hut
Chapter IV - Whither Bound?
Chapter V - A Coon Hunt
Chapter VI - After Black Ducks
Chapter VII - A Forest Guide-Post
Chapter VIII - Another Camp
Chapter IX - A Sunday Among the Pines
Chapter X - Forward All!
Chapter XI - Beaver Works
Chapter XII - "Go It, Old Bruin!"
Chapter XIII - "The Skin Is Yours."
Chapter XIV - A Lucky Hunter
Chapter XV - A Fallen King
Chapter XVI - Moose-Calling
Chapter XVII - Herb's Yarns
Chapter XVIII - To Lonelier Wilds
Chapter XIX - Treed By a Moose
Chapter XX - Triumph
Chapter XXI - On Katahdin
Chapter XXII - The Old Home-Camp
Chapter XXIII - Brother's Work
Chapter XXIV - "Keeping Things Even"
Chapter XXV - A Little Caribou Quarrel
Chapter XXVI - Doc Again
Chapter XXVII - Christmas on the Other Side
Notes
Credits
List Of Illustrations
The Moose Was Now Snorting Like A War-Horse Beneath.
"There Is Moosehead Lake."
Dol Sights A Friendly Camp.
In The Shadow Of Katahdin."Go It, Old Bruin! Go It While You Can!"
"Herb Heal."
A Fallen King.
The Camp On Millinokett Lake.
"Herb Charged Through The Choking Dust-Clouds."
Greenville,—"Farewell To The Woods."
Camp And Trail
Chapter I - Jacking For Deer
"Now, Neal Farrar, you've got to be as still as the night itself, remember. If you bounce, or turn, or
draw a long breath, you won't have a rag of reputation as a deer-hunter to take back to England.
Sneeze once, and we're done for. That means more diet of flapjacks and pork, instead of venison
steaks. And I guess your city appetite won't rally to pork much longer, even in the wilds."
Neal Farrar sighed as if there was something in that.
"But, you know, it's just when an unlucky fellow would give his life not to sneeze that he's sure to
bring out a thumping big one," he said plaintively.
"Well, keep it back like a hero if your head bursts in the attempt," was the reply with a muffled
laugh. "When you know that the canoe is gliding along somehow, but you can't hear a sound or
feel a motion, and you begin to wonder whether you're in the air or on water, flying or floating,
imagine that you're the ghost of some old Indian hunter who used to jack for deer on Squaw
Pond, and be stonily silent."
"Oh! I say, stop chaffing," whispered Neal impetuously. "You're enough to make a fellow feel
creepy before ever he starts. I could bear the worst racket on earth better than a dead quiet."
This dialogue was exchanged in low but excited voices between a young man of about one and
twenty, and a lad who was apparently five years his junior, while they waded knee-deep in water
among the long, rank grasses and circular pads of water-lilies which border the banks of Squaw
Pond, a small lake in the forest region of northern Maine.
The hour was somewhere about eleven o'clock. The night was intensely still, without a zephyr
stirring among the trees, and of that wavering darkness caused by a half-clouded moon. On the
black and green water close to the bank rocked a light birch-bark canoe, a ticklish craft, which a
puff might overturn. The young man who had urged the necessity for silence was groping round
it, fumbling with the sharp bow, in which he fixed a short pole or "jack-staff," with some object—at
present no one could discern what—on top.
"There, I've got the jack rigged up!" he whispered presently. "Step in now, Neal, and I'll open it.
Have you got your rifle at half-cock? That's right. Be careful. A fellow would need to have his hair
parted in the middle in a birch box like this. Remember, mum's the word!"
The lad obeyed, seating himself as noiselessly as he could in the bow of the canoe, and threw
his rifle on his shoulder in a convenient position for shooting, with a freedom which showed he
was accustomed to firearms.At the same time his companion stepped into the canoe, having first touched the dark object on
the pole just over Neal's head. Instantly it changed into a brilliant, scintillating, silvery eye, which
flashed forward a stream of white light on a line with the pointed gun, cutting the black face of the
pond in twain as with a silver blade, and making the leaves on shore glisten like oxidized coins.
The effect of this sudden illumination was so sudden and beautiful that the boy for a minute or
two held his rifle in unsteady hands while the canoe glided out from the bank. An exclamation
began in his throat which ended in an indistinct gurgle. Remembering that he was pledged to
silence, he settled himself to be as wordless and motionless as if his living body had become a
statue.
From his position no revealing radiance fell on him. He sat in shadow beside that glinting eye,
which was really a good-sized lantern, fitted at the back with a powerful silvered reflector, and in
front with a glass lens, the light being thrown directly ahead. It was provided also with a sliding
door that could be noiselessly slipped over the glass with a touch, causing the blackness of a
total eclipse.
This was the deer-hunters' "jack-lamp," familiarly called by Neal's companion the "jack."
And now it may be readily guessed in what thrilling night-work these canoe-men are engaged as
they skim over Squaw Pond, with no swish of paddle, nor jar of motion, nor even a noisy breath,
disturbing the brooding silence through which they glide. They are "jacking" or "floating" for deer,
showing the radiant eye of their silvery jack to attract any antlered buck or graceful doe which
may come forth from the screen of the forest to drink at this quiet hour amid the tangled grasses
and lily-pads at the pond's brink.
Now, a deer, be it buck, doe, or fawn in the spotted coat, will stand as if moonstruck, if it hears no
sound; to gaze at the lantern, studying the meteor which has crossed its world as an astronomer
might investigate a rare, radiant comet. So it offers a steady mark for the sportsman's bullet, if he
can glide near enough to discern its outline and take aim. There is one exception to this rule. If
the wary animal has ever been startled by a shot fired from under the jack, trust him never to
watch a light again, though it shine like the Kohinoor.
As for Neal Farrar, this was his first attempt at playing the part of midnight hunter; and I am bound
to say that—being English born and city bred—he found the situation much too mystifying for his
peace of mind.
He knew that the canoe was moving, moving rapidly; for giant pines along the shore, looking
solid and black as mourning pillars, shot by him as if theirs were the motion, with an effect
indescribably weird. Now and again a gray pine stump, appearing, if the light struck it, twice its
real size, passed like a shimmering ghost. But he felt not the slightest tremor of advance, heard
no swish or ripple of paddle.
A moisture oozed from h