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Title: The Maine Woods

Author: Henry David Thoreau

Release date: April 9, 2013 [eBook #42500]
                Most recently updated: August 26, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAINE WOODS ***




The Writings of Henry David Thoreau

In Twenty Volumes

VOLUME III

Manuscript Edition
Limited to Six Hundred Copies
Number ----


  [Illustration: _Snowberry_ (_page 227_)]

  [Illustration: _Moosehead Lake, from Mount Kineo_]


The Writings of Henry David Thoreau

THE MAINE WOODS







Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin and Company
MDCCCCVI

Copyright 1864 by Ticknor and Fields
Copyright 1892, 1893, and 1906 by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

All rights reserved




CONTENTS


     INTRODUCTORY NOTE

     KTAADN

     CHESUNCOOK

     THE ALLEGASH AND EAST BRANCH

     APPENDIX

       I. TREES

      II. FLOWERS AND SHRUBS

     III. LIST OF PLANTS

      IV. LIST OF BIRDS

       V. QUADRUPEDS

      VI. OUTFIT FOR AN EXCURSION

     VII. A LIST OF INDIAN WORDS

     INDEX




ILLUSTRATIONS


     SNOWBERRY, _Carbon photograph_

     MOOSEHEAD LAKE, FROM MOUNT KINEO,

     MAINE WILDERNESS

     PINE TREE, BOAR MOUNTAIN

     SQUAW MOUNTAIN, MOOSEHEAD LAKE

     MOOSEHEAD LAKE, FROM MOUNT KINEO

     MOUNT KINEO CLIFF




INTRODUCTORY NOTE


The Maine Woods was the second volume collected from his writings
after Thoreau’s death. Of the material which composed it, the first
two divisions were already in print. “Ktaadn and the Maine Woods” was
the title of a paper printed in 1848 in _The Union Magazine_, and
“Chesuncook” was published in _The Atlantic Monthly_ in 1858. The book
was edited by his friend William Ellery Channing.

It was during his second summer at Walden that Thoreau made his first
visit to the Maine woods. It was probably in response to a request
from Horace Greeley that he wrote out the narrative from his journal,
for Mr. Greeley had shown himself eager to help Thoreau in putting his
wares on the market. In a letter to Emerson, January 12, 1848, Thoreau
writes: “I read a part of the story of my excursion to Ktaadn to quite
a large audience of men and boys, the other night, whom it interested.
It contains many facts and some poetry.” He offered the paper to
Greeley at the end of March, and on the 17th of April Greeley
responded: “I inclose you $25 for your article on Maine scenery, as
promised. I know it is worth more, though I have not yet found time to
read it; but I have tried once to sell it without success. It is
rather long for my columns, and too fine for the million; but I
consider it a cheap bargain, and shall print it myself if I do not
dispose of it to better advantage. You will not, of course, consider
yourself under any sort of obligation to me, for my offer was in the
way of business, and I have got more than the worth of my money.” But
this generous, high-minded friend was thinking of Thoreau’s business,
not his own, for in October of the same year he writes, “I break a
silence of some duration to inform you that I hope on Monday to
receive payment for your glorious account of ‘Ktaadn and the Maine
Woods,’ which I bought of you at a Jew’s bargain and sold to _The
Union Magazine_. I am to get $75 for it, and as I don’t choose to
_exploiter_ you at such a rate, I shall insist on inclosing you $25
more in this letter, which will still leave me $25 to pay various
charges and labors I have incurred in selling your articles and
getting paid for them,--the latter by far the most difficult portion
of the business.”

The third of Thoreau’s excursions in the Maine woods was made very
largely for the purpose of studying Indian life and character in the
person of his guide. He had all his life been interested in the
Indians, and Mr. Sanborn tells us--what is also evident from his
journal--that it was his purpose to expand his studies into a separate
work on the subject, for which he had collected a considerable amount
of material from books as well as from his own observations. After his
return from the Allegash and East Branch he wrote as follows to Mr.
Blake under date of August 18, 1857: “I have now returned, and think I
have had a quite profitable journey, chiefly from associating with an
intelligent Indian.... Having returned, I flatter myself that the
world appears in some respects a little larger, and not as usual
smaller and shallower for having extended my range. I have made a
short excursion into the new world which the Indian dwells in, or is.
He begins where we leave off. It is worth the while to detect new
faculties in man, he is so much the more divine; and anything that
fairly excites our admiration expands us. The Indian who can find his
way so wonderfully in the woods possesses so much intelligence which
the white man does not, and it increases my own capacity as well as
faith to observe it. I rejoice to find that intelligence flows in
other channels than I knew. It redeems for me portions of what seemed
brutish before. It is a great satisfaction to find that your oldest
convictions are permanent. With regard to essentials I have never had
occasion to change my mind. The aspect of the world varies from year
to year as the landscape is differently clothed, but I find that the
_truth_ is still _true_, and I never regret any emphasis which it may
have inspired. Ktaadn is there still, but much more surely my old
conviction is there, resting with more than mountain breadth and
weight on the world, the source still of fertilizing streams, and
affording glorious views from its summit if I can get up to it again.”




THE MAINE WOODS




KTAADN


On the 31st of August, 1846, I left Concord in Massachusetts for
Bangor and the backwoods of Maine, by way of the railroad and
steamboat, intending to accompany a relative of mine, engaged in the
lumber trade in Bangor, as far as a dam on the West Branch of the
Penobscot, in which property he was interested. From this place, which
is about one hundred miles by the river above Bangor, thirty miles
from the Houlton military road, and five miles beyond the last log
hut, I proposed to make excursions to Mount Ktaadn, the second highest
mountain in New England, about thirty miles distant, and to some of
the lakes of the Penobscot, either alone or with such company as I
might pick up there. It is unusual to find a camp so far in the woods
at that season, when lumbering operations have ceased, and I was glad
to avail myself of the circumstance of a gang of men being employed
there at that time in repairing the injuries caused by the great
freshet in the spring. The mountain may be approached more easily and
directly on horseback and on foot from the northeast side, by the
Aroostook road, and the Wassataquoik River; but in that case you see
much less of the wilderness, none of the glorious river and lake
scenery, and have no experience of the batteau and the boatman’s life.
I was fortunate also in the season of the year, for in the summer
myriads of black flies, mosquitoes, and midges, or, as the Indians
call them, “no-see-ems,” make traveling in the woods almost
impossible; but now their reign was nearly over.

Ktaadn, whose name is an Indian word signifying highest land, was
first ascended by white men in 1804. It was visited by Professor J. W.
Bailey of West Point in 1836; by Dr. Charles T. Jackson, the State
Geologist, in 1837; and by two young men from Boston in 1845. All
these have given accounts of their expeditions. Since I was there, two
or three other parties have made the excursion, and told their
stories. Besides these, very few, even among backwoodsmen and hunters,
have ever climbed it, and it will be a long time before the tide of
fashionable travel sets that way. The mountainous region of the State
of Maine stretches from near the White Mountains, northeasterly one
hundred and sixty miles, to the head of the Aroostook River, and is
about sixty miles wide. The wild or unsettled portion is far more
extensive. So that some hours only of travel in this direction will
carry the curious to the verge of a primitive forest, more
interesting, perhaps, on all accounts, than they would reach by going
a thousand miles westward.

The next forenoon, Tuesday, September 1, I started with my companion
in a buggy from Bangor for “up river,” expecting to be overtaken the
next day night at Mattawamkeag Point, some sixty miles off, by two
more Bangoreans, who had decided to join us in a trip to the mountain.
We had each a knapsack or bag filled with such clothing and articles
as were indispensable, and my companion carried his gun.

Within a dozen miles of Bangor we passed through the villages of
Stillwater and Oldtown, built at the falls of the Penobscot, which
furnish the principal power by which the Maine woods are converted
into lumber. The mills are built directly over and across the river.
Here is a close jam, a hard rub, at all seasons; and then the once
green tree, long since white, I need not say as the driven snow, but
as a driven log, becomes lumber merely. Here your inch, your two and
your three inch stuff begin to be, and Mr. Sawyer marks off those
spaces which decide the destiny of so many prostrate forests. Through
this steel riddle, more or less coarse, is the arrowy Maine forest,
from Ktaadn and Chesuncook, and the head-waters of the St. John,
relentlessly sifted, till it comes out boards, clapboards, laths, and
shingles such as the wind can take, still, perchance, to be slit and
slit again, till men get a size that will suit. Think how stood the
white pine tree on the shore of Chesuncook, its branches soughing with
the four winds, and every individual needle trembling in the
sunlight,--think how it stands with it now,--sold, perchance, to the
New England Friction-Match Company! There were in 1837, as I read, two
hundred and fifty sawmills on the Penobscot and its tributaries above
Bangor, the greater part of them in this immediate neighborhood, and
they sawed two hundred millions of feet of boards annually. To this is
to be added the lumber of the Kennebec, Androscoggin, Saco,
Passamaquoddy, and other streams. No wonder that we hear so often of
vessels which are becalmed off our coast being surrounded a week at a
time by floating lumber from the Maine woods. The mission of men there
seems to be, like so many busy demons, to drive the forest all out of
the country, from every solitary beaver swamp and mountain-side, as
soon as possible.

At Oldtown, we walked into a batteau-manufactory. The making of
batteaux is quite a business here for the supply of the Penobscot
River. We examined some on the stocks. They are light and shapely
vessels, calculated for rapid and rocky streams, and to be carried
over long portages on men’s shoulders, from twenty to thirty feet
long, and only four or four and a half wide, sharp at both ends like a
canoe, though broadest forward on the bottom, and reaching seven or
eight feet over the water, in order that they may slip over rocks as
gently as possible. They are made very slight, only two boards to a
side, commonly secured to a few light maple or other hard-wood knees,
but inward are of the clearest and widest white pine stuff, of which
there is a great waste on account of their form, for the bottom is
left perfectly flat, not only from side to side, but from end to end.
Sometimes they become “hogging” even, after long use, and the boatmen
then turn them over and straighten them by a weight at each end. They
told us that one wore out in two years, or often in a single trip, on
the rocks, and sold for from fourteen to sixteen dollars. There was
something refreshing and wildly musical to my ears in the very name of
the white man’s canoe, reminding me of Charlevoix and Canadian
Voyageurs. The batteau is a sort of mongrel between the canoe and the
boat, a fur-trader’s boat.

The ferry here took us past the Indian island. As we left the shore, I
observed a short, shabby, washerwoman-looking Indian,--they commonly
have the woebegone look of the girl that cried for spilt milk,--just
from “up river,” land on the Oldtown side near a grocery, and, drawing
up his canoe, take out a bundle of skins in one hand, and an empty keg
or half-barrel in the other, and scramble up the bank with them. This
picture will do to put before the Indian’s history, that is, the
history of his extinction. In 1837 there were three hundred and
sixty-two souls left of this tribe. The island seemed deserted to-day,
yet I observed some new houses among the weather-stained ones, as if
the tribe had still a design upon life; but generally they have a very
shabby, forlorn, and cheerless look, being all back side and woodshed,
not homesteads, even Indian homesteads, but instead of home or
abroad-steads, for their life is _domi aut militiæ_, at home or at
war, or now rather _venatus_, that is, a hunting, and most of the
latter. The church is the only trim-looking building, but that is not
Abenaki, that was Rome’s doings. Good Canadian it may be, but it is
poor Indian. These were once a powerful tribe. Politics are all the
rage with them now. I even thought that a row of wigwams, with a dance
of powwows, and a prisoner tortured at the stake, would be more
respectable than this.

We landed in Milford, and rode along on the east side of the
Penobscot, having a more or less constant view of the river, and the
Indian islands in it, for they retain all the islands as far up as
Nicketow, at the mouth of the East Branch. They are generally
well-timbered, and are said to be better soil than the neighboring
shores. The river seemed shallow and rocky, and interrupted by rapids,
rippling and gleaming in the sun. We paused a moment to see a fish
hawk dive for a fish down straight as an arrow, from a great height,
but he missed his prey this time. It was the Houlton road on which we
were now traveling, over which some troops were marched once towards
Mars’ Hill, though not to Mars’ _field_, as it proved. It is the main,
almost the only, road in these parts, as straight and well made, and
kept in as good repair as almost any you will find anywhere.
Everywhere we saw signs of the great freshet,--this house standing
awry, and that where it was not founded, but where it was found, at
any rate, the next day; and that other with a waterlogged look, as if
it were still airing and drying its basement, and logs with
everybody’s marks upon them, and sometimes the marks of their having
served as bridges, strewn along the road. We crossed the Sunkhaze, a
summery Indian name, the Olemmon, Passadumkeag, and other streams,
which make a greater show on the map than they now did on the road. At
Passadumkeag we found anything but what the name implies,--earnest
politicians, to wit,--white ones, I mean,--on the alert to know how
the election was likely to go; men who talked rapidly, with subdued
voice, and a sort of factitious earnestness you could not help
believing, hardly waiting for an introduction, one on each side of
your buggy, endeavoring to say much in little, for they see you hold
the whip impatiently, but always saying little in much. Caucuses they
have had, it seems, and caucuses they are to have again,--victory and
defeat. Somebody may be elected, somebody may not. One man, a total
stranger, who stood by our carriage in the dusk, actually frightened
the horse with his asseverations, growing more solemnly positive as
there was less in him to be positive about. So Passadumkeag did not
look on the map. At sundown, leaving the river road awhile for
shortness, we went by way of Enfield, where we stopped for the night.
This, like most of the localities bearing names on this road, was a
place to name which, in the midst of the unnamed and unincorporated
wilderness, was to make a distinction without a difference, it seemed
to me. Here, however, I noticed quite an orchard of healthy and
well-grown apple trees, in a bearing state, it being the oldest
settler’s house in this region, but all natural fruit and
comparatively worthless for want of a grafter. And so it is generally,
lower down the river. It would be a good speculation, as well as a
favor conferred on the settlers, for a Massachusetts boy to go down
there with a trunk full of choice scions, and his grafting apparatus,
in the spring.

The next morning we drove along through a high and hilly country, in
view of Cold-Stream Pond, a beautiful lake four or five miles long,
and came into the Houlton road again, here called the military road,
at Lincoln, forty-five miles from Bangor, where there is quite a
village for this country,--the principal one above Oldtown. Learning
that there were several wigwams here, on one of the Indian islands, we
left our horse and wagon and walked through the forest half a mile to
the river, to procure a guide to the mountain. It was not till after
considerable search that we discovered their habitations,--small huts,
in a retired place, where the scenery was unusually soft and
beautiful, and the shore skirted with pleasant meadows and graceful
elms. We paddled ourselves across to the island side in a canoe,
which we found on the shore. Near where we landed sat an Indian girl,
ten or twelve years old, on a rock in the water, in the sun, washing,
and humming or moaning a song meanwhile. It was an aboriginal strain.
A salmon-spear, made wholly of wood, lay on the shore, such as they
might have used before white men came. It had an elastic piece of wood
fastened to one side of its point, which slipped over and closed upon
the fish, somewhat like the contrivance for holding a bucket at the
end of a well-pole. As we walked up to the nearest house, we were met
by a sally of a dozen wolfish-looking dogs, which may have been lineal
descendants from the ancient Indian dogs, which the first voyageurs
describe as “their wolves.” I suppose they were. The occupant soon
appeared, with a long pole in his hand, with which he beat off the
dogs, while he parleyed with us,--a stalwart, but dull and
greasy-looking fellow, who told us, in his sluggish way, in answer to
our questions, as if it were the first serious business he had to do
that day, that there _were_ Indians going “up river”--he and one
other--to-day, before noon. And who was the other? Louis Neptune, who
lives in the next house. Well, let us go over and see Louis together.
The same doggish reception, and Louis Neptune makes his appearance,--a
small, wiry man, with puckered and wrinkled face, yet he seemed the
chief man of the two; the same, as I remembered, who had accompanied
Jackson to the mountain in ’37. The same questions were put to Louis,
and the same information obtained, while the other Indian stood by. It
appeared that they were going to start by noon, with two canoes, to
go up to Chesuncook to hunt moose,--to be gone a month. “Well, Louis,
suppose you get to the Point (to the Five Islands, just below
Mattawamkeag) to camp, we walk on up the West Branch tomorrow,--four
of us,--and wait for you at the dam, or this side. You overtake us
to-morrow or next day, and take us into your canoes. We stop for you,
you stop for us. We pay you for your trouble.” “Ye’,” replied Louis,
“may be you carry some provision for all,--some pork,--some
bread,--and so pay.” He said, “Me sure get some moose;” and when I
asked if he thought Pomola would let us go up, he answered that we
must plant one bottle of rum on the top; he had planted good many; and
when he looked again, the rum was all gone. He had been up two or
three times; he had planted letter,--English, German, French, etc.
These men were slightly clad in shirt and pantaloons, like laborers
with us in warm weather. They did not invite us into their houses, but
met us outside. So we left the Indians, thinking ourselves lucky to
have secured such guides and companions.

There were very few houses along the road, yet they did not altogether
fail, as if the law by which men are dispersed over the globe were a
very stringent one, and not to be resisted with impunity or for slight
reasons. There were even the germs of one or two villages just
beginning to expand. The beauty of the road itself was remarkable. The
various evergreens, many of which are rare with us,--delicate and
beautiful specimens of the larch, arbor-vitæ, ball-spruce, and
fir-balsam, from a few inches to many feet in height,--lined its
sides, in some places like a long front yard, springing up from the
smooth grass-plots which uninterruptedly border it, and are made
fertile by its wash; while it was but a step on either hand to the
grim, untrodden wilderness, whose tangled labyrinth of living, fallen,
and decaying trees only the deer and moose, the bear and wolf can
easily penetrate. More perfect specimens than any front-yard plot can
show grew there to grace the passage of the Houlton teams.

About noon we reached the Mattawamkeag, fifty-six miles from Bangor by
the way we had come, and put up at a frequented house still on the
Houlton road, where the Houlton stage stops. Here was a substantial
covered bridge over the Mattawamkeag, built, I think they said, some
seventeen years before. We had dinner,--where, by the way, and even at
breakfast, as well as supper, at the public-houses on this road, the
front rank is composed of various kinds of “sweet cakes,” in a
continuous line from one end of the table to the other. I think I may
safely say that there was a row of ten or a dozen plates of this kind
set before us two here. To account for which, they say that, when the
lumberers come out of the woods, they have a craving for cakes and
pies, and such sweet things, which there are almost unknown, and this
is the _supply_ to satisfy that _demand_. The supply is always equal
to the demand, and these hungry men think a good deal of getting their
money’s worth. No doubt the balance of victuals is restored by the
time they reach Bangor,--Mattawamkeag takes off the raw edge. Well,
over this front rank, I say, you, coming from the “sweet cake” side,
with a cheap philosophic indifference though it may be, have to
assault what there is behind, which I do not by any means mean to
insinuate is insufficient in quantity or quality to supply that other
demand, of men, not from the woods but from the towns, for venison and
strong country fare. After dinner we strolled down to the “Point,”
formed by the junction of the two rivers, which is said to be the
scene of an ancient battle between the Eastern Indians and the
Mohawks, and searched there carefully for relics, though the men at
the bar-room had never heard of such things; but we found only some
flakes of arrowhead stone, some points of arrowheads, one small leaden
bullet, and some colored beads, the last to be referred, perhaps, to
early fur-trader days. The Mattawamkeag, though wide, was a mere
river’s bed, full of rocks and shallows at this time, so that you
could cross it almost dry-shod in boots; and I could hardly believe my
companion, when he told me that he had been fifty or sixty miles up it
in a batteau, through distant and still uncut forests. A batteau could
hardly find a harbor now at its mouth. Deer and caribou, or reindeer,
are taken here in the winter, in sight of the house.

Before our companions arrived, we rode on up the Houlton road seven
miles to Molunkus, where the Aroostook road comes into it, and where
there is a spacious public house in the woods, called the “Molunkus
House,” kept by one Libbey, which looked as if it had its hall for
dancing and for military drills. There was no other evidence of man
but this huge shingle palace in this part of the world; but sometimes
even this is filled with travelers. I looked off the piazza round the
corner of the house up the Aroostook road, on which there was no
clearing in sight. There was a man just adventuring upon it this
evening in a rude, original, what you may call Aroostook wagon,--a
mere seat, with a wagon swung under it, a few bags on it, and a dog
asleep to watch them. He offered to carry a message for us to anybody
in that country, cheerfully. I suspect that, if you should go to the
end of the world, you would find somebody there going farther, as if
just starting for home at sundown, and having a last word before he
drove off. Here, too, _was_ a small trader, whom I did not see at
first, who kept a store,--but no great store, certainly,--in a small
box over the way, behind the Molunkus sign-post. It looked like the
balance-box of a patent hay-scales. As for his house, we could only
conjecture where that was; he may have been a boarder in the Molunkus
House. I saw him standing in his shop door,--his shop was so small,
that, if a traveler should make demonstrations of entering in, _he_
would have to go out by the back way, and confer with his customer
through a window, about his goods in the cellar, or, more probably,
bespoken, and yet on the way. I should have gone in, for I felt a real
impulse to trade, if I had not stopped to consider what would become
of him. The day before, we had walked into a shop, over against an inn
where we stopped, the puny beginning of trade, which would grow at
last into a firm copartnership in the future town or city,--indeed, it
was already “Somebody & Co.,” I forget who. The woman came forward
from the penetralia of the attached house, for “Somebody & Co.” was in
the burning, and she sold us percussion-caps, canalés and smooth, and
knew their prices and qualities, and which the hunters preferred. Here
was a little of everything in a small compass to satisfy the wants and
the ambition of the woods,--a stock selected with what pains and care,
and brought home in the wagon-box, or a corner of the Houlton team;
but there seemed to me, as usual, a preponderance of children’s
toys,--dogs to bark, and cats to mew, and trumpets to blow, where
natives there hardly are yet. As if a child born into the Maine woods,
among the pine cones and cedar berries, could not do without such a
sugar-man or skipping-jack as the young Rothschild has.

I think that there was not more than one house on the road to
Molunkus, or for seven miles. At that place we got over the fence into
a new field, planted with potatoes, where the logs were still burning
between the hills; and, pulling up the vines, found good-sized
potatoes, nearly ripe, growing like weeds, and turnips mixed with
them. The mode of clearing and planting is to fell the trees, and burn
once what will burn, then cut them up into suitable lengths, roll into
heaps, and burn again; then, with a hoe, plant potatoes where you can
come at the ground between the stumps and charred logs; for a first
crop the ashes sufficing for manure, and no hoeing being necessary the
first year. In the fall, cut, roll, and burn again, and so on, till
the land is cleared; and soon it is ready for grain, and to be laid
down. Let those talk of poverty and hard times who will in the towns
and cities; cannot the emigrant who can pay his fare to New York or
Boston pay five dollars more to get here,--I paid three, all told,
for my passage from Boston to Bangor, two hundred and fifty
miles,--and be as rich as he pleases, where land virtually costs
nothing, and houses only the labor of building, and he may begin life
as Adam did? If he will still remember the distinction of poor and
rich, let him bespeak him a narrower house forthwith.

When we returned to the Mattawamkeag, the Houlton stage had already
put up there; and a Province man was betraying his greenness to the
Yankees by his questions. Why Province money won’t pass here at par,
when States’ money is good at Fredericton,--though this, perhaps, was
sensible enough. From what I saw then, it appears that the Province
man was now the only real Jonathan, or raw country bumpkin, left so
far behind by his enterprising neighbors that he didn’t know enough to
put a question to them. No people can long continue provincial in
character who have the propensity for politics and whittling, and
rapid traveling, which the Yankees have, and who are leaving the
mother country behind in the variety of their notions and inventions.
The possession and exercise of practical talent merely are a sure and
rapid means of intellectual culture and independence.

The last edition of Greenleaf’s Map of Maine hung on the wall here,
and, as we had no pocket-map, we resolved to trace a map of the lake
country. So, dipping a wad of tow into the lamp, we oiled a sheet of
paper on the oiled table-cloth, and, in good faith, traced what we
afterwards ascertained to be a labyrinth of errors, carefully
following the outlines of the imaginary lakes which the map contains.
The Map of the Public Lands of Maine and Massachusetts is the only one
I have seen that at all deserves the name. It was while we were
engaged in this operation that our companions arrived. They had seen
the Indians’ fire on the Five Islands, and so we concluded that all
was right.

Early the next morning we had mounted our packs, and prepared for a
tramp up the West Branch, my companion having turned his horse out to
pasture for a week or ten days, thinking that a bite of fresh grass
and a taste of running water would do him as much good as backwoods
fare and new country influences his master. Leaping over a fence, we
began to follow an obscure trail up the northern bank of the
Penobscot. There was now no road further, the river being the only
highway, and but half a dozen log huts, confined to its banks, to be
met with for thirty miles. On either hand, and beyond, was a wholly
uninhabited wilderness, stretching to Canada. Neither horse nor cow,
nor vehicle of any kind, had ever passed over this ground; the cattle,
and the few bulky articles which the loggers use, being got up in the
winter on the ice, and down again before it breaks up. The evergreen
woods had a decidedly sweet and bracing fragrance; the air was a sort
of diet-drink, and we walked on buoyantly in Indian file, stretching
our legs. Occasionally there was a small opening on the bank, made for
the purpose of log-rolling, where we got a sight of the river,--always
a rocky and rippling stream. The roar of the rapids, the note of a
whistler duck on the river, of the jay and chickadee around us, and of
the pigeon woodpecker in the openings, were the sounds that we heard.
This was what you might call a bran-new country; the only roads were
of Nature’s making, and the few houses were camps. Here, then, one
could no longer accuse institutions and society, but must front the
true source of evil.

There are three classes of inhabitants who either frequent or inhabit
the country which we had now entered: first, the loggers, who, for a
part of the year, the winter and spring, are far the most numerous,
but in the summer, except a few explorers for timber, completely
desert it; second, the few settlers I have named, the only permanent
inhabitants, who live on the verge of it, and help raise supplies for
the former; third, the hunters, mostly Indians, who range over it in
their season.

At the end of three miles we came to the Mattaseunk stream and mill,
where there was even a rude wooden railroad running down to the
Penobscot, the last railroad we were to see. We crossed one tract, on
the bank of the river, of more than a hundred acres of heavy timber,
which had just been felled and burnt over, and was still smoking. Our
trail lay through the midst of it, and was well-nigh blotted out. The
trees lay at full length, four or five feet deep, and crossing each
other in all directions, all black as charcoal, but perfectly sound
within, still good for fuel or for timber; soon they would be cut into
lengths and burnt again. Here were thousands of cords, enough to keep
the poor of Boston and New York amply warm for a winter, which only
cumbered the ground and were in the settler’s way. And the whole of
that solid and interminable forest is doomed to be gradually devoured
thus by fire, like shavings, and no man be warmed by it. At Crocker’s
log-hut, at the mouth of Salmon River, seven miles from the Point, one
of the party commenced distributing a store of small, cent
picture-books among the children, to teach them to read, and also
newspapers, more or less recent, among the parents, than which nothing
can be more acceptable to a backwoods people. It was really an
important item in our outfit, and, at times, the only currency that
would circulate. I walked through Salmon River with my shoes on, it
being low water, but not without wetting my feet. A few miles farther
we came to “Marm Howard’s,” at the end of an extensive clearing, where
there were two or three log huts in sight at once, one on the opposite
side of the river, and a few graves even, surrounded by a wooden
paling, where already the rude forefathers of a hamlet lie, and a
thousand years hence, perchance, some poet will write his “Elegy in a
Country Churchyard.” The “Village Hampdens,” the “mute, inglorious
Miltons,” and Cromwells, “guiltless of” their “country’s blood,” were
yet unborn.

     “Perchance in this _wild_ spot _there will be_ laid
       Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
     Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
       Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.”

The next house was Fisk’s, ten miles from the Point at the mouth of
the East Branch, opposite to the island Nicketow, or the Forks, the
last of the Indian islands. I am particular to give the names of the
settlers and the distances, since every log hut in these woods is a
public house, and such information is of no little consequence to
those who may have occasion to travel this way. Our course here
crossed the Penobscot, and followed the southern bank. One of the
party, who entered the house in search of some one to set us over,
reported a very neat dwelling, with plenty of books, and a new wife,
just imported from Boston, wholly new to the woods. We found the East
Branch a large and rapid stream at its mouth and much deeper than it
appeared. Having with some difficulty discovered the trail again, we
kept up the south side of the West Branch, or main river, passing by
some rapids called Rock-Ebeeme, the roar of which we heard through the
woods, and, shortly after, in the thickest of the wood, some empty
loggers’ camps, still new, which were occupied the previous winter.
Though we saw a few more afterwards, I will make one account serve for
all. These were such houses as the lumberers of Maine spend the winter
in, in the wilderness. There were the camps and the hovels for the
cattle, hardly distinguishable, except that the latter had no chimney.
These camps were about twenty feet long by fifteen wide, built of
logs,--hemlock, cedar, spruce or yellow birch,--one kind alone, or all
together, with the bark on; two or three large ones first, one
directly above another, and notched together at the ends, to the
height of three or four feet, then of smaller logs resting upon
transverse ones at the ends, each of the last successively shorter
than the other, to form the roof. The chimney was an oblong square
hole in the middle, three or four feet in diameter, with a fence of
logs as high as the ridge. The interstices were filled with moss, and
the roof was shingled with long and handsome splints of cedar, or
spruce, or pine, rifted with a sledge and cleaver. The fireplace, the
most important place of all, was in shape and size like the chimney,
and directly under it, defined by a log fence or fender on the ground,
and a heap of ashes, a foot or two deep within, with solid benches of
split logs running round it. Here the fire usually melts the snow, and
dries the rain before it can descend to quench it. The faded beds of
arbor-vitæ leaves extended under the eaves on either hand. There was
the place for the water-pail, pork-barrel, and wash-basin, and
generally a dingy pack of cards left on a log. Usually a good deal of
whittling was expended on the latch, which was made of wood, in the
form of an iron one. These houses are made comfortable by the huge
fires, which can be afforded night and day. Usually the scenery about
them is drear and savage enough; and the loggers’ camp is as
completely in the woods as a fungus at the foot of a pine in a swamp;
no outlook but to the sky overhead; no more clearing than is made by
cutting down the trees of which it is built, and those which are
necessary for fuel. If only it be well sheltered and convenient to his
work, and near a spring, he wastes no thought on the prospect. They
are very proper forest houses, the stems of the trees collected
together and piled up around a man to keep out wind and rain,--made of
living green logs, hanging with moss and lichen, and with the curls
and fringes of the yellow birch bark, and dripping with resin, fresh
and moist, and redolent of swampy odors, with that sort of vigor and
perennialness even about them that toadstools suggest.[1] The
logger’s fare consists of tea, molasses, flour, pork (sometimes beef),
and beans. A great proportion of the beans raised in Massachusetts
find their market here. On expeditions it is only hard bread and pork,
often raw, slice upon slice, with tea or water, as the case may be.

The primitive wood is always and everywhere damp and mossy, so that I
traveled constantly with the impression that I was in a swamp; and
only when it was remarked that this or that tract, judging from the
quality of the timber on it, would make a profitable clearing, was I
reminded, that if the sun were let in it would make a dry field, like
the few I had seen, at once. The best shod for the most part travel
with wet feet. If the ground was so wet and spongy at this, the dryest
part of a dry season, what must it be in the spring? The woods
hereabouts abounded in beech and yellow birch, of which last there
were some very large specimens; also spruce, cedar, fir, and hemlock;
but we saw only the stumps of the white pine here, some of them of
great size, these having been already culled out, being the only tree
much sought after, even as low down as this. Only a little spruce and
hemlock beside had been logged here. The Eastern wood which is sold
for fuel in Massachusetts all comes from below Bangor. It was the
pine alone, chiefly the white pine, that had tempted any but the
hunter to precede us on this route.

Waite’s farm, thirteen miles from the Point, is an extensive and
elevated clearing, from which we got a fine view of the river,
rippling and gleaming far beneath us. My companions had formerly had a
good view of Ktaadn and the other mountains here, but to-day it was so
smoky that we could see nothing of them. We could overlook an immense
country of uninterrupted forest, stretching away up the East Branch
toward Canada on the north and northwest, and toward the Aroostook
valley on the northeast; and imagine what wild life was stirring in
its midst. Here was quite a field of corn for this region, whose
peculiar dry scent we perceived a third of a mile off, before we saw
it.

Eighteen miles from the Point brought us in sight of McCauslin’s, or
“Uncle George’s,” as he was familiarly called by my companions, to
whom he was well known, where we intended to break our long fast. His
house was in the midst of an extensive clearing or intervale, at the
mouth of the Little Schoodic River, on the opposite or north bank of
the Penobscot. So we collected on a point of the shore, that we might
be seen, and fired our gun as a signal, which brought out his dogs
forthwith, and thereafter their master, who in due time took us across
in his batteau. This clearing was bounded abruptly, on all sides but
the river, by the naked stems of the forest, as if you were to cut
only a few feet square in the midst of a thousand acres of mowing, and
set down a thimble therein. He had a whole heaven and horizon to
himself, and the sun seemed to be journeying over his clearing only
the livelong day. Here we concluded to spend the night, and wait for
the Indians, as there was no stopping-place so convenient above. He
had seen no Indians pass, and this did not often happen without his
knowledge. He thought that his dogs sometimes gave notice of the
approach of Indians half an hour before they arrived.

McCauslin was a Kennebec man, of Scotch descent, who had been a
waterman twenty-two years, and had driven on the lakes and headwaters
of the Penobscot five or six springs in succession, but was now
settled here to raise supplies for the lumberers and for himself. He
entertained us a day or two with true Scotch hospitality, and would
accept no recompense for it. A man of a dry wit and shrewdness, and a
general intelligence which I had not looked for in the back woods. In
fact, the deeper you penetrate into the woods, the more intelligent,
and, in one sense, less countrified do you find the inhabitants; for
always the pioneer has been a traveler, and, to some extent, a man of
the world; and, as the distances with which he is familiar are
greater, so is his information more general and far reaching than the
villager’s. If I were to look for a narrow, uninformed, and
countrified mind, as opposed to the intelligence and refinement which
are thought to emanate from cities, it would be among the rusty
inhabitants of an old-settled country, on farms all run out and gone
to seed with life-everlasting, in the towns about Boston, even on the
high-road in Concord, and not in the back woods of Maine.

Supper was got before our eyes in the ample kitchen, by a fire which
would have roasted an ox; many whole logs, four feet long, were
consumed to boil our tea-kettle,--birch, or beech, or maple, the same
summer and winter; and the dishes were soon smoking on the table, late
the arm-chair, against the wall, from which one of the party was
expelled. The arms of the chair formed the frame on which the table
rested; and, when the round top was turned up against the wall, it
formed the back of the chair, and was no more in the way than the wall
itself. This, we noticed, was the prevailing fashion in these log
houses, in order to economize in room. There were piping-hot wheaten
cakes, the flour having been brought up the river in batteaux,--no
Indian bread, for the upper part of Maine, it will be remembered, is a
wheat country,--and ham, eggs, and potatoes, and milk and cheese, the
produce of the farm; and also shad and salmon, tea sweetened with
molasses, and sweet cakes, in contradistinction to the hot cakes not
sweetened, the one white, the other yellow, to wind up with. Such we
found was the prevailing fare, ordinary and extraordinary, along this
river. Mountain cranberries (_Vaccinium Vitis-Idæa_), stewed and
sweetened, were the common dessert. Everything here was in profusion,
and the best of its kind. Butter was in such plenty that it was
commonly used, before it was salted, to grease boots with.

In the night we were entertained by the sound of rain-drops on the
cedar splints which covered the roof, and awaked the next morning with
a drop or two in our eyes. It had set in for a storm, and we made up
our minds not to forsake such comfortable quarters with this prospect,
but wait for Indians and fair weather. It rained and drizzled and
gleamed by turns, the livelong day. What we did there, how we killed
the time would perhaps be idle to tell; how many times we buttered our
boots, and how often a drowsy one was seen to sidle off to the
bedroom. When it held up, I strolled up and down the bank, and
gathered the harebell and cedar berries, which grew there; or else we
tried by turns the long-handled axe on the logs before the door. The
axe-helves here were made to chop standing on the log,--a primitive
log of course,--and were, therefore, nearly a foot longer than with
us. One while we walked over the farm and visited his well-filled
barns with McCauslin. There were one other man and two women only
here. He kept horses, cows, oxen, and sheep. I think he said that he
was the first to bring a plow and a cow so far; and he might have
added the last, with only two exceptions. The potato-rot had found him
out here, too, the previous year, and got half or two thirds of his
crop, though the seed was of his own raising. Oats, grass, and
potatoes were his staples; but he raised, also, a few carrots and
turnips, and “a little corn for the hens,” for this was all that he
dared risk, for fear that it would not ripen. Melons, squashes, sweet
corn, beans, tomatoes, and many other vegetables, could not be ripened
there.

The very few settlers along this stream were obviously tempted by the
cheapness of the land mainly. When I asked McCauslin why more settlers
did not come in, he answered, that one reason was, they could not buy
the land, it belonged to individuals or companies who were afraid that
their wild lands would be settled, and so incorporated into towns, and
they be taxed for them; but to settling on the State’s land there was
no such hindrance. For his own part, he wanted no neighbors,--he
didn’t wish to see any road by his house. Neighbors, even the best,
were a trouble and expense, especially on the score of cattle and
fences. They might live across the river, perhaps, but not on the same
side.

The chickens here were protected by the dogs. As McCauslin said, “The
old one took it up first, and she taught the pup, and now they had got
it into their heads that it wouldn’t do to have anything of the bird
kind on the premises.” A hawk hovering over was not allowed to alight,
but barked off by the dogs circling underneath; and a pigeon, or a
“yellow-hammer,” as they called the pigeon woodpecker, on a dead limb
or stump, was instantly expelled. It was the main business of their
day, and kept them constantly coming and going. One would rush out of
the house on the least alarm given by the other.

When it rained hardest, we returned to the house, and took down a
tract from the shelf. There was the “Wandering Jew,” cheap edition,
and fine print, the “Criminal Calendar,” and “Parish’s Geography,” and
flash novels two or three. Under the pressure of circumstances, we
read a little in these. With such aid, the press is not so feeble an
engine, after all. This house, which was a fair specimen of those on
this river, was built of huge logs, which peeped out everywhere, and
were chinked with clay and moss. It contained four or five rooms.
There were no sawed boards, or shingles, or clapboards, about it; and
scarcely any tool but the axe had been used in its construction. The
partitions were made of long clapboard-like splints, of spruce or
cedar, turned to a delicate salmon-color by the smoke. The roof and
sides were covered with the same, instead of shingles and clapboards,
and some of a much thicker and larger size were used for the floor.
These were all so straight and smooth, that they answered the purpose
admirably, and a careless observer would not have suspected that they
were not sawed and planed. The chimney and hearth were of vast size,
and made of stone. The broom was a few twigs of arbor-vitæ tied to a
stick; and a pole was suspended over the hearth, close to the ceiling,
to dry stockings and clothes on. I noticed that the floor was full of
small, dingy holes, as if made with a gimlet, but which were, in fact,
made by the spikes, nearly an inch long, which the lumberers wear in
their boots to prevent their slipping on wet logs. Just above
McCauslin’s, there is a rocky rapid, where logs jam in the spring; and
many “drivers” are there collected, who frequent his house for
supplies; these were their tracks which I saw.

At sundown McCauslin pointed away over the forest, across the river,
to signs of fair weather amid the clouds,--some evening redness there.
For even there the points of compass held; and there was a quarter of
the heavens appropriated to sunrise and another to sunset.

The next morning, the weather proving fair enough for our purpose, we
prepared to start, and, the Indians having failed us, persuaded
McCauslin, who was not unwilling to revisit the scenes of his driving,
to accompany us in their stead, intending to engage one other boatman
on the way. A strip of cotton cloth for a tent, a couple of blankets,
which would suffice for the whole party, fifteen pounds of hard bread,
ten pounds of “clear” pork, and a little tea, made up “Uncle George’s”
pack. The last three articles were calculated to be provision enough
for six men for a week, with what we might pick up. A tea-kettle, a
frying-pan, and an axe, to be obtained at the last house, would
complete our outfit.

We were soon out of McCauslin’s clearing, and in the evergreen woods
again. The obscure trail made by the two settlers above, which even
the woodman is sometimes puzzled to discern, ere long crossed a
narrow, open strip in the woods overrun with weeds, called the Burnt
Land, where a fire had raged formerly, stretching northward nine or
ten miles, to Millinocket Lake. At the end of three miles, we reached
Shad Pond, or Noliseemack, an expansion of the river. Hodge, the
Assistant State Geologist, who passed through this on the 25th of
June, 1837, says, “We pushed our boat through an acre or more of
buck-beans, which had taken root at the bottom, and bloomed above the
surface in the greatest profusion and beauty.” Thomas Fowler’s house
is four miles from McCauslin’s, on the shore of the pond, at the mouth
of the Millinocket River, and eight miles from the lake of the same
name, on the latter stream. This lake affords a more direct course to
Ktaadn, but we preferred to follow the Penobscot and the Pamadumcook
lakes. Fowler was just completing a new log hut, and was sawing out a
window through the logs, nearly two feet thick, when we arrived. He
had begun to paper his house with spruce bark, turned inside out,
which had a good effect, and was in keeping with the circumstances.
Instead of water we got here a draught of beer, which, it was allowed,
would be better; clear and thin, but strong and stringent as the cedar
sap. It was as if we sucked at the very teats of Nature’s pine-clad
bosom in these parts,--the sap of all Millinocket botany
commingled,--the topmost, most fantastic, and spiciest sprays of the
primitive wood, and whatever invigorating and stringent gum or essence
it afforded steeped and dissolved in it,--a lumberer’s drink, which
would acclimate and naturalize a man at once,--which would make him
see green, and, if he slept, dream that he heard the wind sough among
the pines. Here was a fife, praying to be played on, through which we
breathed a few tuneful strains,--brought hither to tame wild beasts.
As we stood upon the pile of chips by the door, fish hawks were
sailing overhead; and here, over Shad Pond, might daily be witnessed
the tyranny of the bald eagle over that bird. Tom pointed away over
the lake to a bald eagle’s nest, which was plainly visible more than a
mile off, on a pine, high above the surrounding forest, and was
frequented from year to year by the same pair, and held sacred by him.
There were these two houses only there, his low hut and the eagles’
airy cart-load of fagots. Thomas Fowler, too, was persuaded to join
us, for two men were necessary to manage the batteau, which was soon
to be our carriage, and these men needed to be cool and skillful for
the navigation of the Penobscot. Tom’s pack was soon made, for he had
not far to look for his waterman’s boots, and a red flannel shirt.
This is the favorite color with lumbermen; and red flannel is reputed
to possess some mysterious virtues, to be most healthful and
convenient in respect to perspiration. In every gang there will be a
large proportion of red birds. We took here a poor and leaky batteau,
and began to pole up the Millinocket two miles, to the elder Fowler’s,
in order to avoid the Grand Falls of the Penobscot, intending to
exchange our batteau there for a better. The Millinocket is a small,
shallow, and sandy stream, full of what I took to be lamprey-eels’ or
suckers’ nests, and lined with musquash-cabins, but free from rapids,
according to Fowler, excepting at its outlet from the lake. He was at
this time engaged in cutting the native grass--rush-grass and
meadow-clover, as he called it--on the meadows and small, low islands
of this stream. We noticed flattened places in the grass on either
side, where, he said, a moose had laid down the night before, adding,
that there were thousands in these meadows.

Old Fowler’s, on the Millinocket, six miles from McCauslin’s, and
twenty-four from the Point, is the last house. Gibson’s, on the
Sowadnehunk, is the only clearing above, but that had proved a
failure, and was long since deserted. Fowler is the oldest inhabitant
of these woods. He formerly lived a few miles from here, on the south
side of the West Branch, where he built his house sixteen years ago,
the first house built above the Five Islands. Here our new batteau was
to be carried over the first portage of two miles, round the Grand
Falls of the Penobscot, on a horse-sled made of saplings, to jump the
numerous rocks in the way; but we had to wait a couple of hours for
them to catch the horses, which were pastured at a distance, amid the
stumps, and had wandered still farther off. The last of the salmon for
this season had just been caught, and were still fresh in pickle, from
which enough was extracted to fill our empty kettle, and so graduate
our introduction to simpler forest fare. The week before they had lost
nine sheep here out of their first flock, by the wolves. The surviving
sheep came round the house, and seemed frightened, which induced them
to go and look for the rest, when they found seven dead and lacerated,
and two still alive. These last they carried to the house, and, as
Mrs. Fowler said, they were merely scratched in the throat, and had no
more visible wound than would be produced by the prick of a pin. She
sheared off the wool from their throats, and washed them, and put on
some salve, and turned them out, but in a few moments they were
missing, and had not been found since. In fact, they were all
poisoned, and those that were found swelled up at once, so that they
saved neither skin nor wool. This realized the old fables of the
wolves and the sheep, and convinced me that that ancient hostility
still existed. Verily, the shepherd-boy did not need to sound a false
alarm this time. There were steel traps by the door, of various sizes,
for wolves, otter, and bears, with large claws instead of teeth, to
catch in their sinews. Wolves are frequently killed with poisoned
bait.

At length, after we had dined here on the usual backwoods fare, the
horses arrived, and we hauled our batteau out of the water, and lashed
it to its wicker carriage, and, throwing in our packs, walked on
before, leaving the boatmen and driver, who was Tom’s brother, to
manage the concern. The route, which led through the wild pasture
where the sheep were killed, was in some places the roughest ever
traveled by horses, over rocky hills, where the sled bounced and slid
along, like a vessel pitching in a storm; and one man was as necessary
to stand at the stern, to prevent the boat from being wrecked, as a
helmsman in the roughest sea. The philosophy of our progress was
something like this: when the runners struck a rock three or four feet
high, the sled bounced back and upwards at the same time; but, as the
horses never ceased pulling, it came down on the top of the rock, and
so we got over. This portage probably followed the trail of an ancient
Indian carry round these falls. By two o’clock we, who had walked on
before, reached the river above the falls, not far from the outlet of
Quakish Lake, and waited for the batteau to come up. We had been here
but a short time, when a thunder-shower was seen coming up from the
west, over the still invisible lakes, and that pleasant wilderness
which we were so eager to become acquainted with; and soon the heavy
drops began to patter on the leaves around us. I had just selected the
prostrate trunk of a huge pine, five or six feet in diameter, and was
crawling under it, when, luckily, the boat arrived. It would have
amused a sheltered man to witness the manner in which it was unlashed,
and whirled over, while the first waterspout burst upon us. It was no
sooner in the hands of the eager company than it was abandoned to the
first revolutionary impulse, and to gravity, to adjust it; and they
might have been seen all stooping to its shelter, and wriggling under
like so many eels, before it was fairly deposited on the ground. When
all were under, we propped up the lee side, and busied ourselves there
whittling thole-pins for rowing, when we should reach the lakes; and
made the woods ring, between the claps of thunder, with such
boat-songs as we could remember. The horses stood sleek and shining
with the rain, all drooping and crestfallen, while deluge after deluge
washed over us; but the bottom of a boat may be relied on for a tight
roof. At length, after two hours’ delay at this place, a streak of
fair weather appeared in the northwest, whither our course now lay,
promising a serene evening for our voyage; and the driver returned
with his horses, while we made haste to launch our boat, and commence
our voyage in good earnest.

There were six of us, including the two boatmen. With our packs heaped
up near the bows, and ourselves disposed as baggage to trim the boat,
with instructions not to move in case we should strike a rock, more
than so many barrels of pork, we pushed out into the first rapid, a
slight specimen of the stream we had to navigate. With Uncle George in
the stern, and Tom in the bows, each using a spruce pole about twelve
feet long, pointed with iron,[2] and poling on the same side, we shot
up the rapids like a salmon, the water rushing and roaring around, so
that only a practiced eye could distinguish a safe course, or tell
what was deep water and what rocks, frequently grazing the latter on
one or both sides, with a hundred as narrow escapes as ever the Argo
had in passing through the Symplegades. I, who had had some experience
in boating, had never experienced any half so exhilarating before. We
were lucky to have exchanged our Indians, whom we did not know, for
these men, who, together with Tom’s brother, were reputed the best
boatmen on the river, and were at once indispensable pilots and
pleasant companions. The canoe is smaller, more easily upset, and
sooner worn out; and the Indian is said not to be so skillful in the
management of the batteau. He is, for the most part, less to be relied
on, and more disposed to sulks and whims. The utmost familiarity with
dead streams, or with the ocean, would not prepare a man for this
peculiar navigation; and the most skillful boatman anywhere else would
here be obliged to take out his boat and carry round a hundred times,
still with great risk, as well as delay, where the practiced
batteau-man poles up with comparative ease and safety. The hardy
“voyageur” pushes with incredible perseverance and success quite up to
the foot of the falls, and then only carries round some perpendicular
ledge, and launches again in

     “The torrent’s smoothness, ere it dash below,”

to struggle with the boiling rapids above. The Indians say that the
river once ran both ways, one half up and the other down, but that,
since the white man came, it all runs down, and now they must
laboriously pole their canoes against the stream, and carry them over
numerous portages. In the summer, all stores--the grindstone and the
plow of the pioneer, flour, pork, and utensils for the explorer--must
be conveyed up the river in batteaux; and many a cargo and many a
boatman is lost in these waters. In the winter, however, which is very
equable and long, the ice is the great highway, and the loggers’ team
penetrates to Chesuncook Lake, and still higher up, even two hundred
miles above Bangor. Imagine the solitary sled-track running far up
into the snowy and evergreen wilderness, hemmed in closely for a
hundred miles by the forest, and again stretching straight across the
broad surfaces of concealed lakes!

We were soon in the smooth water of the Quakish Lake, and took our
turns at rowing and paddling across it. It is a small, irregular, but
handsome lake, shut in on all sides by the forest, and showing no
traces of man but some low boom in a distant cove, reserved for spring
use. The spruce and cedar on its shores, hung with gray lichens,
looked at a distance like the ghosts of trees. Ducks were sailing here
and there on its surface, and a solitary loon, like a more living
wave,--a vital spot on the lake’s surface,--laughed and frolicked, and
showed its straight leg, for our amusement. Joe Merry Mountain
appeared in the northwest, as if it were looking down on this lake
especially; and we had our first, but a partial view of Ktaadn, its
summit veiled in clouds, like a dark isthmus in that quarter,
connecting the heavens with the earth. After two miles of smooth
rowing across this lake, we found ourselves in the river again, which
was a continuous rapid for one mile, to the dam, requiring all the
strength and skill of our boatmen to pole up it.

This dam is a quite important and expensive work for this country,
whither cattle and horses cannot penetrate in the summer, raising the
whole river ten feet, and flooding, as they said, some sixty square
miles by means of the innumerable lakes with which the river connects.
It is a lofty and solid structure, with sloping piers, some distance
above, made of frames of logs filled with stones, to break the ice.[3]
Here every log pays toll as it passes through the sluices.

We filed into the rude loggers’ camp at this place, such as I have
described, without ceremony, and the cook, at that moment the sole
occupant, at once set about preparing tea for his visitors. His
fireplace, which the rain had converted into a mud-puddle, was soon
blazing again, and we sat down on the log benches around it to dry us.
On the well-flattened and somewhat faded beds of arbor-vitæ leaves,
which stretched on either hand under the eaves behind us, lay an odd
leaf of the Bible, some genealogical chapter out of the Old Testament;
and, half buried by the leaves, we found Emerson’s Address on West
India Emancipation, which had been left here formerly by one of our
company, and _had made two converts to the Liberty party_ here, as I
was told; also, an odd number of the _Westminster Review_, for 1834,
and a pamphlet entitled “History of the Erection of the Monument on
the Grave of Myron Holly.” This was the readable or reading matter in
a lumberer’s camp in the Maine woods, thirty miles from a road, which
would be given up to the bears in a fortnight. These things were well
thumbed and soiled. This gang was headed by one John Morrison, a good
specimen of a Yankee; and was necessarily composed of men not bred to
the business of dam-building, but who were jacks-at-all-trades, handy
with the axe, and other simple implements, and well skilled in wood
and water craft. We had hot cakes for our supper even here, white as
snowballs, but without butter, and the never-failing sweet cakes, with
which we filled our pockets, foreseeing that we should not soon meet
with the like again. Such delicate puffballs seemed a singular diet
for backwoodsmen. There was also tea without milk, sweetened with
molasses. And so, exchanging a word with John Morrison and his gang
when we had returned to the shore, and also exchanging our batteau for
a better still, we made haste to improve the little daylight that
remained. This camp, exactly twenty-nine miles from Mattawamkeag Point
by the way we had come, and about one hundred from Bangor by the
river, was the last human habitation of any kind in this direction.
Beyond, there was no trail, and the river and lakes, by batteaux and
canoes, was considered the only practicable route. We were about
thirty miles by the river from the summit of Ktaadn, which was in
sight, though not more than twenty, perhaps, in a straight line.

It being about the full of the moon, and a warm and pleasant evening,
we decided to row five miles by moonlight to the head of the North
Twin Lake, lest the wind should rise on the morrow. After one mile of
river, or what the boatmen call “thoroughfare,”--for the river becomes
at length only the connecting link between the lakes,--and some slight
rapid which had been mostly made smooth water by the dam, we entered
the North Twin Lake just after sundown, and steered across for the
river “thoroughfare,” four miles distant. This is a noble sheet of
water, where one may get the impression which a new country and a
“lake of the woods” are fitted to create. There was the smoke of no
log hut nor camp of any kind to greet us, still less was any lover of
nature or musing traveler watching our batteau from the distant hills;
not even the Indian hunter was there, for he rarely climbs them, but
hugs the river like ourselves. No face welcomed us but the fine
fantastic sprays of free and happy evergreen trees, waving one above
another in their ancient home. At first the red clouds hung over the
western shore as gorgeously as if over a city, and the lake lay open
to the light with even a civilized aspect, as if expecting trade and
commerce, and towns and villas. We could distinguish the inlet to the
South Twin, which is said to be the larger, where the shore was misty
and blue, and it was worth the while to look thus through a narrow
opening across the entire expanse of a concealed lake to its own yet
more dim and distant shore. The shores rose gently to ranges of low
hills covered with forests; and though, in fact, the most valuable
white-pine timber, even about this lake, had been culled out, this
would never have been suspected by the voyager. The impression, which
indeed corresponded with the fact, was, as if we were upon a high
table-land between the States and Canada, the northern side of which
is drained by the St. John and Chaudière, the southern by the
Penobscot and Kennebec. There was no bold, mountainous shore, as we
might have expected, but only isolated hills and mountains rising here
and there from the plateau. The country is an archipelago of
lakes,--the lake-country of New England. Their levels vary but a few
feet, and the boatmen, by short portages, or by none at all, pass
easily from one to another. They say that at very high water the
Penobscot and the Kennebec flow into each other, or at any rate, that
you may lie with your face in the one and your toes in the other. Even
the Penobscot and St. John have been connected by a canal, so that the
lumber of the Allegash, instead of going down the St. John, comes down
the Penobscot; and the Indian’s tradition, that the Penobscot once ran
both ways for his convenience, is, in one sense, partially realized
to-day.

None of our party but McCauslin had been above this lake, so we
trusted to him to pilot us, and we could not but confess the
importance of a pilot on these waters. While it is river, you will not
easily forget which way is up-stream; but when you enter a lake, the
river is completely lost, and you scan the distant shores in vain to
find where it comes in. A stranger is, for the time at least, lost,
and must set about a voyage of discovery first of all to find the
river. To follow the windings of the shore when the lake is ten miles,
or even more, in length, and of an irregularity which will not soon
be mapped, is a wearisome voyage, and will spend his time and his
provisions. They tell a story of a gang of experienced woodmen sent to
a location on this stream, who were thus lost in the wilderness of
lakes. They cut their way through thickets, and carried their baggage
and their boats over from lake to lake, sometimes several miles. They
carried into Millinocket Lake, which is on another stream, and is ten
miles square, and contains a hundred islands. They explored its shores
thoroughly, and then carried into another, and another, and it was a
week of toil and anxiety before they found the Penobscot River again,
and then their provisions were exhausted, and they were obliged to
return.

While Uncle George steered for a small island near the head of the
lake, now just visible, like a speck on the water, we rowed by turns
swiftly over its surface, singing such boat songs as we could
remember. The shores seemed at an indefinite distance in the
moonlight. Occasionally we paused in our singing and rested on our
oars, while we listened to hear if the wolves howled, for this is a
common serenade, and my companions affirmed that it was the most
dismal and unearthly of sounds; but we heard none this time. If we did
not _hear_, however, we did _listen_, not without a reasonable
expectation; that at least I have to tell,--only some utterly
uncivilized, big-throated owl hooted loud and dismally in the drear
and boughy wilderness, plainly not nervous about his solitary life,
nor afraid to hear the echoes of his voice there. We remembered also
that possibly moose were silently watching us from the distant coves,
or some surly bear or timid caribou had been startled by our singing.
It was with new emphasis that we sang there the Canadian boat song,--

     “Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
     The rapids are near and the daylight’s past!”

which describes precisely our own adventure, and was inspired by the
experience of a similar kind of life,--for the rapids were ever near,
and the daylight long past; the woods on shore looked dim, and many an
Utawas’ tide here emptied into the lake.

     “Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
     There is not a breath the blue wave to curl!
     But, when the wind blows off the shore,
     Oh, sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar.”

     “Utawas’ tide! this trembling moon
     Shall see us float o’er thy surges soon.”

At last we glided past the “green isle,” which had been our landmark,
all joining in the chorus; as if by the watery links of rivers and of
lakes we were about to float over unmeasured zones of earth, bound on
unimaginable adventures,--

     “Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
     Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs!”

About nine o’clock we reached the river, and ran our boat into a
natural haven between some rocks, and drew her out on the sand. This
camping-ground McCauslin had been familiar with in his lumbering days,
and he now struck it unerringly in the moonlight, and we heard the
sound of the rill which would supply us with cool water emptying into
the lake. The first business was to make a fire, an operation which
was a little delayed by the wetness of the fuel and the ground, owing
to the heavy showers of the afternoon. The fire is the main comfort of
the camp, whether in summer or winter, and is about as ample at one
season as at another. It is as well for cheerfulness as for warmth and
dryness. It forms one side of the camp; one bright side at any rate.
Some were dispersed to fetch in dead trees and boughs, while Uncle
George felled the birches and beeches which stood convenient, and soon
we had a fire some ten feet long by three or four high, which rapidly
dried the sand before it. This was calculated to burn all night. We
next proceeded to pitch our tent; which operation was performed by
sticking our two spike-poles into the ground in a slanting direction,
about ten feet apart, for rafters, and then drawing our cotton cloth
over them, and tying it down at the ends, leaving it open in front,
shed-fashion. But this evening the wind carried the sparks on to the
tent and burned it. So we hastily drew up the batteau just within the
edge of the woods before the fire, and propping up one side three or
four feet high, spread the tent on the ground to lie on; and with the
corner of a blanket, or what more or less we could get to put over us,
lay down with our heads and bodies under the boat, and our feet and
legs on the sand toward the fire. At first we lay awake, talking of
our course, and finding ourselves in so convenient a posture for
studying the heavens, with the moon and stars shining in our faces,
our conversation naturally turned upon astronomy, and we recounted by
turns the most interesting discoveries in that science. But at length
we composed ourselves seriously to sleep. It was interesting, when
awakened at midnight, to watch the grotesque and fiend-like forms and
motions of some one of the party, who, not being able to sleep, had
got up silently to arouse the fire, and add fresh fuel, for a change;
now stealthily lugging a dead tree from out the dark, and heaving it
on, now stirring up the embers with his fork, or tiptoeing about to
observe the stars, watched, perchance, by half the prostrate party in
breathless silence; so much the more intense because they were awake,
while each supposed his neighbor sound asleep. Thus aroused, I, too,
brought fresh fuel to the fire, and then rambled along the sandy shore
in the moonlight, hoping to meet a moose come down to drink, or else a
wolf. The little rill tinkled the louder, and peopled all the
wilderness for me; and the glassy smoothness of the sleeping lake,
laving the shores of a new world, with the dark, fantastic rocks
rising here and there from its surface, made a scene not easily
described. It has left such an impression of stern, yet gentle,
wildness on my memory as will not soon be effaced. Not far from
midnight we were one after another awakened by rain falling on our
extremities; and as each was made aware of the fact by cold or wet, he
drew a long sigh and then drew up his legs, until gradually we had all
sidled round from lying at right angles with the boat, till our bodies
formed an acute angle with it, and were wholly protected. When next we
awoke, the moon and stars were shining again, and there were signs of
dawn in the east. I have been thus particular in order to convey some
idea of a night in the woods.

We had soon launched and loaded our boat, and, leaving our fire
blazing, were off again before breakfast. The lumberers rarely trouble
themselves to put out their fires, such is the dampness of the
primitive forest; and this is one cause, no doubt, of the frequent
fires in Maine, of which we hear so much on smoky days in
Massachusetts. The forests are held cheap after the white pine has
been culled out; and the explorers and hunters pray for rain only to
clear the atmosphere of smoke. The woods were so wet to-day, however,
that there was no danger of our fire spreading. After poling up half a
mile of river, or thoroughfare, we rowed a mile across the foot of
Pamadumcook Lake, which is the name given on the map to this whole
chain of lakes, as if there was but one, though they are, in each
instance, distinctly separated by a reach of the river, with its
narrow and rocky channel and its rapids. This lake, which is one of
the largest, stretched northwest ten miles, to hills and mountains in
the distance. McCauslin pointed to some distant, and as yet
inaccessible, forests of white pine, on the sides of a mountain in
that direction. The Joe Merry Lakes, which lay between us and
Moosehead, on the west, were recently, if they are not still,
“surrounded by some of the best timbered land in the State.” By
another thoroughfare we passed into Deep Cove, a part of the same
lake, which makes up two miles, toward the northeast, and rowing two
miles across this, by another short thoroughfare, entered Ambejijis
Lake.

At the entrance to a lake we sometimes observed what is technically
called “fencing-stuff,” or the unhewn timbers of which booms are
formed, either secured together in the water, or laid up on the rocks
and lashed to trees, for spring use. But it was always startling to
discover so plain a trail of civilized man there. I remember that I
was strangely affected, when we were returning, by the sight of a
ring-bolt well drilled into a rock, and fastened with lead, at the
head of this solitary Ambejijis Lake.

It was easy to see that driving logs must be an exciting as well as
arduous and dangerous business. All winter long the logger goes on
piling up the trees which he has trimmed and hauled in some dry ravine
at the head of a stream, and then in the spring he stands on the bank
and whistles for Rain and Thaw, ready to wring the perspiration out of
his shirt to swell the tide, till suddenly, with a whoop and halloo
from him, shutting his eyes, as if to bid farewell to the existing
state of things, a fair proportion of his winter’s work goes
scrambling down the country, followed by his faithful dogs, Thaw and
Rain and Freshet and Wind, the whole pack in full cry, toward the
Orono Mills. Every log is marked with the owner’s name, cut in the
sapwood with an axe or bored with an auger, so deep as not to be worn
off in the driving, and yet not so as to injure the timber; and it
requires considerable ingenuity to invent new and simple marks where
there are so many owners. They have quite an alphabet of their own,
which only the practiced can read. One of my companions read off from
his memorandum book some marks of his own logs, among which there were
crosses, belts, crow’s feet, girdles, etc., as, “Y--girdle--crowfoot,”
and various other devices. When the logs have run the gauntlet of
innumerable rapids and falls, each on its own account, with more or
less jamming and bruising, those bearing various owners’ marks being
mixed up together,--since all must take advantage of the same
freshet,--they are collected together at the heads of the lakes, and
surrounded by a boom fence of floating logs, to prevent their being
dispersed by the wind, and are thus towed all together, like a flock
of sheep, across the lake, where there is no current, by a windlass,
or boom-head, such as we sometimes saw standing on an island or
headland, and, if circumstances permit, with the aid of sails and
oars. Sometimes, notwithstanding, the logs are dispersed over many
miles of lake surface in a few hours by winds and freshets, and thrown
up on distant shores, where the driver can pick up only one or two at
a time, and return with them to the thoroughfare; and before he gets
his flock well through Ambejijis or Pamadumcook, he makes many a wet
and uncomfortable camp on the shore. He must be able to navigate a log
as if it were a canoe, and be as indifferent to cold and wet as a
muskrat. He uses a few efficient tools,--a lever commonly of rock
maple, six or seven feet long, with a stout spike in it, strongly
ferruled on, and a long spike-pole, with a screw at the end of the
spike to make it hold. The boys along shore learn to walk on floating
logs as city boys on sidewalks. Sometimes the logs are thrown up on
rocks in such positions as to be irrecoverable but by another freshet
as high, or they jam together at rapids and falls, and accumulate in
vast piles, which the driver must start at the risk of his life. Such
is the lumber business, which depends on many accidents, as the early
freezing of the rivers, that the teams may get up in season, a
sufficient freshet in the spring, to fetch the logs down, and many
others.[4] I quote Michaux on Lumbering on the Kennebec, then the
source of the best white pine lumber carried to England. “The persons
engaged in this branch of industry are generally emigrants from New
Hampshire.... In the summer they unite in small companies, and
traverse these vast solitudes in every direction, to ascertain the
places in which the pines abound. After cutting the grass and
converting it into hay for the nourishment of the cattle to be
employed in their labor, they return home. In the beginning of the
winter they enter the forests again, establish themselves in huts
covered with the bark of the canoe-birch, or the arbor-vitæ; and,
though the cold is so intense that the mercury sometimes remains for
several weeks from 40° to 50° [Fahr.] below the point of congelation,
they persevere, with unabated courage, in their work.” According to
Springer, the company consists of choppers, swampers,--who make
roads,--barker and loader, teamster, and cook. “When the trees are
felled, they cut them into logs from fourteen to eighteen feet long,
and, by means of their cattle, which they employ with great dexterity,
drag them to the river, and, after stamping on them a mark of
property, roll them on its frozen bosom. At the breaking of the ice,
in the spring, they float down with the current.... The logs that are
not drawn the first year,” adds Michaux, “are attacked by large worms,
which form holes about two lines in diameter, in every direction; but,
if stripped of their bark, they will remain uninjured for thirty
years.”

Ambejijis, this quiet Sunday morning, struck me as the most beautiful
lake we had seen. It is said to be one of the deepest. We had the
fairest view of Joe Merry, Double Top, and Ktaadn, from its surface.
The summit of the latter had a singularly flat, table-land appearance,
like a short highway, where a demigod might be let down to take a turn
or two in an afternoon, to settle his dinner. We rowed a mile and a
half to near the head of the lake, and, pushing through a field of
lily-pads, landed, to cook our breakfast, by the side of a large rock,
known to McCauslin. Our breakfast consisted of tea, with hard-bread
and pork, and fried salmon, which we ate with forks neatly whittled
from alder twigs, which grew there, off strips of birch-bark for
plates. The tea was black tea, without milk to color or sugar to
sweeten it, and two tin dippers were our tea cups. This beverage is as
indispensable to the loggers as to any gossiping old women in the
land, and they, no doubt, derive great comfort from it. Here was the
site of an old logger’s camp, remembered by McCauslin, now overgrown
with weeds and bushes. In the midst of a dense underwood we noticed a
whole brick, on a rock, in a small run, clean and red and square as in
a brick-yard, which had been brought thus far formerly for tamping.
Some of us afterward regretted that we had not carried this on with us
to the top of the mountain, to be left there for our mark. It would
certainly have been a simple evidence of civilized man. McCauslin said
that large wooden crosses, made of oak, still sound, were sometimes
found standing in this wilderness, which were set up by the first
Catholic missionaries who came through to the Kennebec.

In the next nine miles, which were the extent of our voyage, and which
it took us the rest of the day to get over, we rowed across several
small lakes, poled up numerous rapids and thoroughfares, and carried
over four portages. I will give the names and distances, for the
benefit of future tourists. First, after leaving Ambejijis Lake, we
had a quarter of a mile of rapids to the portage, or carry of ninety
rods around Ambejijis Falls; then a mile and a half through Passamagamet
Lake, which is narrow and river-like, to the falls of the same
name,--Ambejijis stream coming in on the right; then two miles through
Katepskonegan Lake to the portage of ninety rods around Katepskonegan
Falls, which name signifies “carrying-place,”--Passamagamet stream
coming in on the left; then three miles through Pockwockomus Lake, a
slight expansion of the river, to the portage of forty rods around the
falls of the same name,--Katepskonegan stream coming in on the left;
then three quarters of a mile through Aboljacarmegus Lake, similar to
the last, to the portage of forty rods around the falls of the same
name; then half a mile of rapid water to the Sowadnehunk deadwater,
and the Aboljacknagesic stream.

This is generally the order of names as you ascend the river: First,
the lake, or, if there is no expansion, the deadwater; then the falls;
then the stream emptying into the lake, or river above, all of the
same name. First we came to Passamagamet Lake, then to Passamagamet
Falls, then to Passamagamet Stream, emptying in. This order and
identity of names, it will be perceived, is quite philosophical, since
the deadwater or lake is always at least partially produced by the
stream emptying in above; and the first fall below, which is the
outlet of that lake, and where that tributary water makes its first
plunge, also naturally bears the same name.

At the portage around Ambejijis Falls I observed a pork-barrel on the
shore, with a hole eight or nine inches square cut in one side, which
was set against an upright rock; but the bears, without turning or
upsetting the barrel, had gnawed a hole in the opposite side, which
looked exactly like an enormous rat-hole, big enough to put their
heads in; and at the bottom of the barrel were still left a few
mangled and slabbered slices of pork. It is usual for the lumberers to
leave such supplies as they cannot conveniently carry along with them
at carries or camps, to which the next comers do not scruple to help
themselves, they being the property, commonly, not of an individual,
but a company, who can afford to deal liberally.

I will describe particularly how we got over some of these portages
and rapids, in order that the reader may get an idea of the boatman’s
life. At Ambejijis Falls, for instance, there was the roughest path
imaginable cut through the woods; at first up hill, at an angle of
nearly forty-five degrees, over rocks and logs without end. This was
the manner of the portage. We first carried over our baggage, and
deposited it on the shore at the other end; then, returning to the
batteau, we dragged it up the hill by the painter, and onward, with
frequent pauses, over half the portage. But this was a bungling way,
and would soon have worn out the boat. Commonly, three men walk over
with a batteau weighing from three to five or six hundred pounds on
their heads and shoulders, the tallest standing under the middle of
the boat, which is turned over, and one at each end, or else there are
two at the bows. More cannot well take hold at once. But this requires
some practice, as well as strength, and is in any case extremely
laborious, and wearing to the constitution, to follow. We were, on the
whole, rather an invalid party, and could render our boatmen but
little assistance. Our two men at length took the batteau upon their
shoulders, and, while two of us steadied it, to prevent it from
rocking and wearing into their shoulders, on which they placed their
hats folded, walked bravely over the remaining distance, with two or
three pauses. In the same manner they accomplished the other portages.
With this crushing weight they must climb and stumble along over
fallen trees and slippery rocks of all sizes, where those who walked
by the sides were continually brushed off, such was the narrowness of
the path. But we were fortunate not to have to cut our path in the
first place. Before we launched our boat, we scraped the bottom smooth
again, with our knives, where it had rubbed on the rocks, to save
friction.

To avoid the difficulties of the portage, our men determined to “warp
up” the Passamagamet Falls; so while the rest walked over the portage
with the baggage, I remained in the batteau, to assist in warping up.
We were soon in the midst of the rapids, which were more swift and
tumultuous than any we had poled up, and had turned to the side of the
stream for the purpose of warping, when the boatmen, who felt some
pride in their skill, and were ambitious to do something more than
usual, for my benefit, as I surmised, took one more view of the
rapids, or rather the falls; and, in answer to our question, whether
we couldn’t get up there, the other answered that he guessed he’d try
it. So we pushed again into the midst of the stream, and began to
struggle with the current. I sat in the middle of the boat to trim it,
moving slightly to the right or left as it grazed a rock. With an
uncertain and wavering motion we wound and bolted our way up, until
the bow was actually raised two feet above the stern at the steepest
pitch; and then, when everything depended upon his exertions, the
bowman’s pole snapped in two; but before he had time to take the spare
one, which I reached him, he had saved himself with the fragment upon
a rock; and so we got up by a hair’s breadth; and Uncle George
exclaimed that that was never done before, and he had not tried it if
he had not known whom he had got in the bow, nor he in the bow, if he
had not known him in the stern. At this place there was a regular
portage cut through the woods, and our boatmen had never known a
batteau to ascend the falls. As near as I can remember, there was a
perpendicular fall here, at the worst place of the whole Penobscot
River, two or three feet at least. I could not sufficiently admire the
skill and coolness with which they performed this feat, never speaking
to each other. The bowman, not looking behind, but knowing exactly
what the other is about, works as if he worked alone. Now sounding in
vain for a bottom in fifteen feet of water, while the boat falls back
several rods, held straight only with the greatest skill and exertion;
or, while the sternman obstinately holds his ground, like a turtle,
the bowman springs from side to side with wonderful suppleness and
dexterity, scanning the rapids and the rocks with a thousand eyes; and
now, having got a bite at last, with a lusty shove, which makes his
pole bend and quiver, and the whole boat tremble, he gains a few feet
upon the river. To add to the danger, the poles are liable at any time
to be caught between the rocks, and wrenched out of their hands,
leaving them at the mercy of the rapids,--the rocks, as it were, lying
in wait, like so many alligators, to catch them in their teeth, and
jerk them from your hands, before you have stolen an effectual shove
against their palates. The pole is set close to the boat, and the prow
is made to overshoot, and just turn the corners of the rocks, in the
very teeth of the rapids. Nothing but the length and lightness, and
the slight draught of the batteau, enables them to make any headway.
The bowman must quickly choose his course; there is no time to
deliberate. Frequently the boat is shoved between rocks where both
sides touch, and the waters on either hand are a perfect maelstrom.

Half a mile above this two of us tried our hands at poling up a slight
rapid; and we were just surmounting the last difficulty, when an
unlucky rock confounded our calculations; and while the batteau was
sweeping round irrecoverably amid the whirlpool, we were obliged to
resign the poles to more skillful hands.

Katepskonegan is one of the shallowest and weediest of the lakes, and
looked as if it might abound in pickerel. The falls of the same name,
where we stopped to dine, are considerable and quite picturesque. Here
Uncle George had seen trout caught by the barrelful; but they would
not rise to our bait at this hour. Halfway over this carry, thus far
in the Maine wilderness on its way to the Provinces, we noticed a
large, flaming, Oak Hall handbill, about two feet long, wrapped round
the trunk of a pine, from which the bark had been stripped, and to
which it was fast glued by the pitch. This should be recorded among
the advantages of this mode of advertising, that so, possibly, even
the bears and wolves, moose, deer, otter, and beaver, not to mention
the Indian, may learn where they can fit themselves according to the
latest fashion, or, at least, recover some of their own lost garments.
We christened this the Oak Hall carry.

The forenoon was as serene and placid on this wild stream in the
woods, as we are apt to imagine that Sunday in summer usually is in
Massachusetts. We were occasionally startled by the scream of a bald
eagle, sailing over the stream in front of our batteau; or of the fish
hawks on whom he levies his contributions. There were, at intervals,
small meadows of a few acres on the sides of the stream, waving with
uncut grass, which attracted the attention of our boatmen, who
regretted that they were not nearer to their clearings, and calculated
how many stacks they might cut. Two or three men sometimes spend the
summer by themselves, cutting the grass in these meadows, to sell to
the loggers in the winter, since it will fetch a higher price on the
spot than in any market in the State. On a small isle, covered with
this kind of rush, or cut-grass, on which we landed to consult about
our further course, we noticed the recent track of a moose, a large,
roundish hole in the soft, wet ground, evincing the great size and
weight of the animal that made it. They are fond of the water, and
visit all these island meadows, swimming as easily from island to
island as they make their way through the thickets on land. Now and
then we passed what McCauslin called a pokelogan, an Indian term for
what the drivers might have reason to call a poke-logs-in, an inlet
that leads nowhere. If you get in, you have got to get out again the
same way. These, and the frequent “runrounds” which come into the
river again, would embarrass an inexperienced voyager not a little.

The carry around Pockwockomus Falls was exceedingly rough and rocky,
the batteau having to be lifted directly from the water up four or
five feet on to a rock, and launched again down a similar bank. The
rocks on this portage were covered with the _dents_ made by the spikes
in the lumberers’ boots while staggering over under the weight of
their batteaux; and you could see where the surface of some large
rocks on which they had rested their batteaux was worn quite smooth
with use. As it was, we had carried over but half the usual portage at
this place for this stage of the water, and launched our boat in the
smooth wave just curving to the fall, prepared to struggle with the
most violent rapid we had to encounter. The rest of the party walked
over the remainder of the portage, while I remained with the boatmen
to assist in warping up. One had to hold the boat while the others got
in to prevent it from going over the falls. When we had pushed up the
rapids as far as possible, keeping close to the shore, Tom seized the
painter and leaped out upon a rock just visible in the water, but he
lost his footing, notwithstanding his spiked boots, and was instantly
amid the rapids; but recovering himself by good luck, and reaching
another rock, he passed the painter to me, who had followed him, and
took his place again in the bows. Leaping from rock to rock in the
shoal water, close to the shore, and now and then getting a bite with
the rope round an upright one, I held the boat while one reset his
pole, and then all three forced it upward against any rapid. This was
“warping up.” When a part of us walked round at such a place, we
generally took the precaution to take out the most valuable part of
the baggage for fear of being swamped.

As we poled up a swift rapid for half a mile above Aboljacarmegus
Falls, some of the party read their own marks on the huge logs which
lay piled up high and dry on the rocks on either hand, the relics
probably of a jam which had taken place here in the Great Freshet in
the spring. Many of these would have to wait for another great
freshet, perchance, if they lasted so long, before they could be got
off. It was singular enough to meet with property of theirs which they
had never seen, and where they had never been before, thus detained by
freshets and rocks when on its way to them. Methinks that must be
where all my property lies, cast up on the rocks on some distant and
unexplored stream, and waiting for an unheard-of freshet to fetch it
down. O make haste, ye gods, with your winds and rains, and start the
jam before it rots!

The last half mile carried us to the Sowadnehunk Deadwater, so called
from the stream of the same name, signifying “running between
mountains,” an important tributary which comes in a mile above. Here
we decided to camp, about twenty miles from the Dam, at the mouth of
Murch Brook and the Aboljacknagesic, mountain streams, broad off from
Ktaadn, and about a dozen miles from its summit, having made fifteen
miles this day.

We had been told by McCauslin that we should here find trout enough;
so, while some prepared the camp, the rest fell to fishing. Seizing
the birch poles which some party of Indians, or white hunters, had
left on the shore, and baiting our hooks with pork, and with trout,
as soon as they were caught, we cast our lines into the mouth of the
Aboljacknagesic, a clear, swift, shallow stream, which came in from
Ktaadn. Instantly a shoal of white chivin (_Leuciscus pulchellus_),
silvery roaches, cousin-trout, or what not, large and small, prowling
thereabouts, fell upon our bait, and one after another were landed
amidst the bushes. Anon their cousins, the true trout, took their
turn, and alternately the speckled trout, and the silvery roaches,
swallowed the bait as fast as we could throw in; and the finest
specimens of both that I have ever seen, the largest one weighing
three pounds, were heaved upon the shore, though at first in vain, to
wriggle down into the water again, for we stood in the boat; but soon
we learned to remedy this evil; for one, who had lost his hook, stood
on shore to catch them as they fell in a perfect shower around
him,--sometimes, wet and slippery, full in his face and bosom, as his
arms were outstretched to receive them. While yet alive, before their
tints had faded, they glistened like the fairest flowers, the product
of primitive rivers; and he could hardly trust his senses, as he stood
over them, that these jewels should have swam away in that
Aboljacknagesic water for so long, so many dark ages;--these bright
fluviatile flowers, seen of Indians only, made beautiful, the Lord
only knows why, to swim there! I could understand better for this, the
truth of mythology, the fables of Proteus, and all those beautiful
sea-monsters,--how all history, indeed, put to a terrestrial use, is
mere history; but put to a celestial, is mythology always.

But there is the rough voice of Uncle George, who commands at the
frying-pan, to send over what you’ve got, and then you may stay till
morning. The pork sizzles and cries for fish. Luckily for the foolish
race, and this particularly foolish generation of trout, the night
shut down at last, not a little deepened by the dark side of Ktaadn,
which, like a permanent shadow, reared itself from the eastern bank.
Lescarbot, writing in 1609, tells us that the Sieur Champdoré, who,
with one of the people of the Sieur de Monts, ascended some fifty
leagues up the St. John in 1608, found the fish so plenty, “qu’en
mettant la chaudière sur le feu ils en avoient pris suffisamment pour
eux disner avant que l’eau fust chaude.” Their descendants here are no
less numerous. So we accompanied Tom into the woods to cut cedar twigs
for our bed. While he went ahead with the axe and lopped off the
smallest twigs of the flat-leaved cedar, the arbor-vitæ of the
gardens, we gathered them up, and returned with them to the boat,
until it was loaded. Our bed was made with as much care and skill as a
roof is shingled; beginning at the foot, and laying the twig end of
the cedar upward, we advanced to the head, a course at a time, thus
successively covering the stub-ends, and producing a soft and level
bed. For us six it was about ten feet long by six in breadth. This
time we lay under our tent, having pitched it more prudently with
reference to the wind and the flame, and the usual huge fire blazed in
front. Supper was eaten off a large log, which some freshet had thrown
up. This night we had a dish of arbor-vitæ or cedar tea, which the
lumberer sometimes uses when other herbs fail,--

     “A quart of arbor-vitæ,
     To make him strong and mighty,”--

but I had no wish to repeat the experiment. It had too medicinal a
taste for my palate. There was the skeleton of a moose here, whose
bones some Indian hunters had picked on this very spot.

In the night I dreamed of trout-fishing; and, when at length I awoke,
it seemed a fable that this painted fish swam there so near my couch,
and rose to our hooks the last evening, and I doubted if I had not
dreamed it all. So I arose before dawn to test its truth, while my
companions were still sleeping. There stood Ktaadn with distinct and
cloudless outline in the moonlight; and the rippling of the rapids was
the only sound to break the stillness. Standing on the shore, I once
more cast my line into the stream, and found the dream to be real and
the fable true. The speckled trout and silvery roach, like
flying-fish, sped swiftly through the moonlight air, describing bright
arcs on the dark side of Ktaadn, until moonlight, now fading into
daylight, brought satiety to my mind, and the minds of my companions,
who had joined me.

By six o’clock, having mounted our packs and a good blanketful of
trout, ready dressed, and swung up such baggage and provision as we
wished to leave behind upon the tops of saplings, to be out of the
reach of bears, we started for the summit of the mountain, distant, as
Uncle George said the boatmen called it, about four miles, but as I
judged, and as it proved, nearer fourteen. He had never been any
nearer the mountain than this, and there was not the slightest trace
of man to guide us farther in this direction. At first, pushing a few
rods up the Aboljacknagesic, or “open-land stream,” we fastened our
batteau to a tree, and traveled up the north side, through burnt
lands, now partially overgrown with young aspens and other shrubbery;
but soon, recrossing this stream, where it was about fifty or sixty
feet wide, upon a jam of logs and rocks,--and you could cross it by
this means almost anywhere,--we struck at once for the highest peak,
over a mile or more of comparatively open land, still very gradually
ascending the while. Here it fell to my lot, as the oldest
mountain-climber, to take the lead. So, scanning the woody side of the
mountain, which lay still at an indefinite distance, stretched out
some seven or eight miles in length before us, we determined to steer
directly for the base of the highest peak, leaving a large slide, by
which, as I have since learned, some of our predecessors ascended, on
our left. This course would lead us parallel to a dark seam in the
forest, which marked the bed of a torrent, and over a slight spur,
which extended southward from the main mountain, from whose bare
summit we could get an outlook over the country, and climb directly up
the peak, which would then be close at hand. Seen from this point, a
bare ridge at the extremity of the open land, Ktaadn presented a
different aspect from any mountain I have seen, there being a greater
proportion of naked rock rising abruptly from the forest; and we
looked up at this blue barrier as if it were some fragment of a wall
which anciently bounded the earth in that direction. Setting the
compass for a northeast course, which was the bearing of the southern
base of the highest peak, we were soon buried in the woods.

We soon began to meet with traces of bears and moose, and those of
rabbits were everywhere visible. The tracks of moose, more or less
recent, to speak literally, covered every square rod on the sides of
the mountain; and these animals are probably more numerous there now
than ever before, being driven into this wilderness, from all sides,
by the settlements. The track of a full-grown moose is like that of a
cow, or larger, and of the young, like that of a calf. Sometimes we
found ourselves traveling in faint paths, which they had made, like
cow-paths in the woods, only far more indistinct, being rather
openings, affording imperfect vistas through the dense underwood, than
trodden paths; and everywhere the twigs had been browsed by them,
clipped as smoothly as if by a knife. The bark of trees was stripped
up by them to the height of eight or nine feet, in long, narrow
strips, an inch wide, still showing the distinct marks of their teeth.
We expected nothing less than to meet a herd of them every moment, and
our Nimrod held his shooting-iron in readiness; but we did not go out
of our way to look for them, and, though numerous, they are so wary
that the unskillful hunter might range the forest a long time before
he could get sight of one. They are sometimes dangerous to encounter,
and will not turn out for the hunter, but furiously rush upon him and
trample him to death, unless he is lucky enough to avoid them by dodging
round a tree. The largest are nearly as large as a horse, and weigh
sometimes one thousand pounds; and it is said that they can step over a
five-foot gate in their ordinary walk. They are described as exceedingly
awkward-looking animals, with their long legs and short bodies, making
a ludicrous figure when in full run, but making great headway,
nevertheless. It seemed a mystery to us how they could thread these
woods, which it required all our suppleness to accomplish,--climbing,
stooping, and winding, alternately. They are said to drop their long
and branching horns, which usually spread five or six feet, on their
backs, and make their way easily by the weight of their bodies. Our
boatmen said, but I know not with how much truth, that their horns are
apt to be gnawed away by vermin while they sleep. Their flesh, which
is more like beef than venison, is common in Bangor market.

We had proceeded on thus seven or eight miles, till about noon, with
frequent pauses to refresh the weary ones, crossing a considerable
mountain stream, which we conjectured to be Murch Brook, at whose
mouth we had camped, all the time in woods, without having once seen
the summit, and rising very gradually, when the boatmen beginning to
despair a little, and fearing that we were leaving the mountain on one
side of us, for they had not entire faith in the compass, McCauslin
climbed a tree, from the top of which he could see the peak, when it
appeared that we had not swerved from a right line, the compass down
below still ranging with his arm, which pointed to the summit. By the
side of a cool mountain rill, amid the woods, where the water began to
partake of the purity and transparency of the air, we stopped to cook
some of our fishes, which we had brought thus far in order to save
our hard-bread and pork, in the use of which we had put ourselves on
short allowance. We soon had a fire blazing, and stood around it,
under the damp and sombre forest of firs and birches, each with a
sharpened stick, three or four feet in length, upon which he had
spitted his trout, or roach, previously well gashed and salted, our
sticks radiating like the spokes of a wheel from one centre, and each
crowding his particular fish into the most desirable exposure, not
with the truest regard always to his neighbor’s rights. Thus we
regaled ourselves, drinking meanwhile at the spring, till one man’s
pack, at least, was considerably lightened, when we again took up our
line of march.

At length we reached an elevation sufficiently bare to afford a view
of the summit, still distant and blue, almost as if retreating from
us. A torrent, which proved to be the same we had crossed, was seen
tumbling down in front, literally from out of the clouds. But this
glimpse at our whereabouts was soon lost, and we were buried in the
woods again. The wood was chiefly yellow birch, spruce, fir,
mountain-ash, or round-wood, as the Maine people call it, and
moose-wood. It was the worst kind of traveling; sometimes like the
densest scrub oak patches with us. The cornel, or bunch-berries, were
very abundant, as well as Solomon’s-seal and moose-berries.
Blueberries were distributed along our whole route; and in one place
the bushes were drooping with the weight of the fruit, still as fresh
as ever. It was the 7th of September. Such patches afforded a grateful
repast, and served to bait the tired party forward. When any lagged
behind, the cry of “blueberries” was most effectual to bring them up.
Even at this elevation we passed through a moose-yard, formed by a
large flat rock, four or five rods square, where they tread down the
snow in winter. At length, fearing that if we held the direct course
to the summit, we should not find any water near our camping-ground,
we gradually swerved to the west, till, at four o’clock, we struck
again the torrent which I have mentioned, and here, in view of the
summit, the weary party decided to camp that night.

While my companions were seeking a suitable spot for this purpose, I
improved the little daylight that was left in climbing the mountain
alone. We were in a deep and narrow ravine, sloping up to the clouds,
at an angle of nearly forty-five degrees, and hemmed in by walls of
rock, which were at first covered with low trees, then with
impenetrable thickets of scraggy birches and spruce trees, and with
moss, but at last bare of all vegetation but lichens, and almost
continually draped in clouds. Following up the course of the torrent
which occupied this,--and I mean to lay some emphasis on this word
_up_,--pulling myself up by the side of perpendicular falls of twenty
or thirty feet, by the roots of firs and birches, and then, perhaps,
walking a level rod or two in the thin stream, for it took up the
whole road, ascending by huge steps, as it were, a giant’s stairway,
down which a river flowed, I had soon cleared the trees, and paused on
the successive shelves, to look back over the country. The torrent was
from fifteen to thirty feet wide, without a tributary, and seemingly
not diminishing in breadth as I advanced; but still it came rushing
and roaring down, with a copious tide, over and amidst masses of bare
rock, from the very clouds, as though a waterspout had just burst over
the mountain. Leaving this at last, I began to work my way, scarcely
less arduous than Satan’s anciently through Chaos, up the nearest
though not the highest peak. At first scrambling on all fours over the
tops of ancient black spruce trees (_Abies nigra_), old as the flood,
from two to ten or twelve feet in height, their tops flat and
spreading, and their foliage blue, and nipped with cold, as if for
centuries they had ceased growing upward against the bleak sky, the
solid cold. I walked some good rods erect upon the tops of these
trees, which were overgrown with moss and mountain cranberries. It
seemed that in the course of time they had filled up the intervals
between the huge rocks, and the cold wind had uniformly leveled all
over. Here the principle of vegetation was hard put to it. There was
apparently a belt of this kind running quite round the mountain,
though, perhaps, nowhere so remarkable as here. Once, slumping
through, I looked down ten feet, into a dark and cavernous region, and
saw the stem of a spruce, on whose top I stood, as on a mass of coarse
basket-work, fully nine inches in diameter at the ground. These holes
were bears’ dens, and the bears were even then at home. This was the
sort of garden I made my way _over_, for an eighth of a mile, at the
risk, it is true, of treading on some of the plants, not seeing any
path _through_ it,--certainly the most treacherous and porous country
I ever traveled.

                     “Nigh foundered on he fares,
     Treading the crude consistence, half on foot,
     Half flying,”

But nothing could exceed the toughness of the twigs,--not one snapped
under my weight, for they had slowly grown. Having slumped, scrambled,
rolled, bounced, and walked, by turns, over this scraggy country, I
arrived upon a side-hill, or rather side-mountain, where rocks, gray,
silent rocks, were the flocks and herds that pastured, chewing a rocky
cud at sunset. They looked at me with hard gray eyes, without a bleat
or a low. This brought me to the skirt of a cloud, and bounded my walk
that night. But I had already seen that Maine country when I turned
about, waving, flowing, rippling, down below.

When I returned to my companions, they had selected a camping-ground
on the torrent’s edge, and were resting on the ground; one was on the
sick list, rolled in a blanket, on a damp shelf of rock. It was a
savage and dreary scenery enough, so wildly rough, that they looked
long to find a level and open space for the tent. We could not well
camp higher, for want of fuel; and the trees here seemed so evergreen
and sappy, that we almost doubted if they would acknowledge the
influence of fire; but fire prevailed at last, and blazed here, too,
like a good citizen of the world. Even at this height we met with
frequent traces of moose, as well as of bears. As here was no cedar,
we made our bed of coarser feathered spruce; but at any rate the
feathers were plucked from the live tree. It was, perhaps, even a more
grand and desolate place for a night’s lodging than the summit would
have been, being in the neighborhood of those wild trees, and of the
torrent. Some more aërial and finer-spirited winds rushed and roared
through the ravine all night, from time to time arousing our fire, and
dispersing the embers about. It was as if we lay in the very nest of a
young whirlwind. At midnight, one of my bed-fellows, being startled in
his dreams by the sudden blazing up to its top of a fir tree, whose
green boughs were dried by the heat, sprang up, with a cry, from his
bed, thinking the world on fire, and drew the whole camp after him.

In the morning, after whetting our appetite on some raw pork, a wafer
of hard-bread, and a dipper of condensed cloud or waterspout, we all
together began to make our way up the falls, which I have described;
this time choosing the right hand, or highest peak, which was not the
one I had approached before. But soon my companions were lost to my
sight behind the mountain ridge in my rear, which still seemed ever
retreating before me, and I climbed alone over huge rocks, loosely
poised, a mile or more, still edging toward the clouds; for though the
day was clear elsewhere, the summit was concealed by mist. The
mountain seemed a vast aggregation of loose rocks, as if some time it
had rained rocks, and they lay as they fell on the mountain sides,
nowhere fairly at rest, but leaning on each other, all rocking stones,
with cavities between, but scarcely any soil or smoother shelf. They
were the raw materials of a planet dropped from an unseen quarry,
which the vast chemistry of nature would anon work up, or work down,
into the smiling and verdant plains and valleys of earth. This was an
undone extremity of the globe; as in lignite we see coal in the
process of formation.

At length I entered within the skirts of the cloud which seemed
forever drifting over the summit, and yet would never be gone, but was
generated out of that pure air as fast as it flowed away; and when, a
quarter of a mile farther, I reached the summit of the ridge, which
those who have seen in clearer weather say is about five miles long,
and contains a thousand acres of table-land, I was deep within the
hostile ranks of clouds, and all objects were obscured by them. Now
the wind would blow me out a yard of clear sunlight, wherein I stood;
then a gray, dawning light was all it could accomplish, the cloud-line
ever rising and falling with the wind’s intensity. Sometimes it seemed
as if the summit would be cleared in a few moments, and smile in
sunshine; but what was gained on one side was lost on another. It was
like sitting in a chimney and waiting for the smoke to blow away. It
was, in fact, a cloud-factory,--these were the cloud-works, and the
wind turned them off done from the cool, bare rocks. Occasionally,
when the windy columns broke in to me, I caught sight of a dark, damp
crag to the right or left; the mist driving ceaselessly between it and
me. It reminded me of the creations of the old epic and dramatic
poets, of Atlas, Vulcan, the Cyclops, and Prometheus. Such was
Caucasus and the rock where Prometheus was bound. Æschylus had no
doubt visited such scenery as this. It was vast, Titanic, and such as
man never inhabits. Some part of the beholder, even some vital part,
seems to escape through the loose grating of his ribs as he ascends.
He is more lone than you can imagine. There is less of substantial
thought and fair understanding in him than in the plains where men
inhabit. His reason is dispersed and shadowy, more thin and subtile,
like the air. Vast, Titanic, inhuman Nature has got him at
disadvantage, caught him alone, and pilfers him of some of his divine
faculty. She does not smile on him as in the plains. She seems to say
sternly, Why came ye here before your time. This ground is not
prepared for you. Is it not enough that I smile in the valleys? I have
never made this soil for thy feet, this air for thy breathing, these
rocks for thy neighbors. I cannot pity nor fondle thee here, but
forever relentlessly drive thee hence to where I _am_ kind. Why seek
me where I have not called thee, and then complain because you find me
but a stepmother? Shouldst thou freeze or starve, or shudder thy life
away, here is no shrine, nor altar, nor any access to my ear.

     “Chaos and ancient Night, I come no spy
     With purpose to explore or to disturb
     The secrets of your realm, but ...
     .    .    .    .    .    .    as my way
     Lies through your spacious empire up to light.”

The tops of mountains are among the unfinished parts of the globe,
whither it is a slight insult to the gods to climb and pry into their
secrets, and try their effect on our humanity. Only daring and
insolent men, perchance, go there. Simple races, as savages, do not
climb mountains,--their tops are sacred and mysterious tracts never
visited by them. Pomola is always angry with those who climb to the
summit of Ktaadn.

According to Jackson, who, in his capacity of geological surveyor of
the State, has accurately measured it, the altitude of Ktaadn is 5300
feet, or a little more than one mile above the level of the sea, and
he adds, “It is then evidently the highest point in the State of
Maine, and is the most abrupt granite mountain in New England.” The
peculiarities of that spacious table-land on which I was standing, as
well as the remarkable semicircular precipice or basin on the eastern
side, were all concealed by the mist. I had brought my whole pack to
the top, not knowing but I should have to make my descent to the
river, and possibly to the settled portion of the State alone, and by
some other route, and wishing to have a complete outfit with me. But
at length fearing that my companions would be anxious to reach the
river before night, and knowing that the clouds might rest on the
mountain for days, I was compelled to descend. Occasionally, as I came
down, the wind would blow me a vista open, through which I could see
the country eastward, boundless forests, and lakes, and streams,
gleaming in the sun, some of them emptying into the East Branch. There
were also new mountains in sight in that direction. Now and then some
small bird of the sparrow family would flit away before me, unable to
command its course, like a fragment of the gray rock blown off by the
wind.

I found my companions where I had left them, on the side of the peak,
gathering the mountain cranberries, which filled every crevice between
the rocks, together with blueberries, which had a spicier flavor the
higher up they grew, but were not the less agreeable to our palates.
When the country is settled, and roads are made, these cranberries
will perhaps become an article of commerce. From this elevation, just
on the skirts of the clouds, we could overlook the country, west and
south, for a hundred miles. There it was, the State of Maine, which we
had seen on the map, but not much like that,--immeasurable forest for
the sun to shine on, that eastern _stuff_ we hear of in Massachusetts.
No clearing, no house. It did not look as if a solitary traveler had
cut so much as a walking-stick there. Countless lakes,--Moosehead in
the southwest, forty miles long by ten wide, like a gleaming silver
platter at the end of the table; Chesuncook, eighteen long by three
wide, without an island; Millinocket, on the south, with its hundred
islands; and a hundred others without a name; and mountains, also,
whose names, for the most part, are known only to the Indians. The
forest looked like a firm grass sward, and the effect of these lakes
in its midst has been well compared, by one who has since visited this
same spot, to that of a “mirror broken into a thousand fragments, and
wildly scattered over the grass, reflecting the full blaze of the
sun.” It was a large farm for somebody, when cleared. According to the
Gazetteer, which was printed before the boundary question was settled,
this single Penobscot County, in which we were, was larger than the
whole State of Vermont, with its fourteen counties; and this was only
a part of the wild lands of Maine. We are concerned now, however,
about natural, not political limits. We were about eighty miles, as
the bird flies, from Bangor, or one hundred and fifteen, as we had
ridden, and walked, and paddled. We had to console ourselves with the
reflection that this view was probably as good as that from the peak,
as far as it went; and what were a mountain without its attendant
clouds and mists? Like ourselves, neither Bailey nor Jackson had
obtained a clear view from the summit.

Setting out on our return to the river, still at an early hour in the
day, we decided to follow the course of the torrent, which we supposed
to be Murch Brook, as long as it would not lead us too far out of our
way. We thus traveled about four miles in the very torrent itself,
continually crossing and recrossing it, leaping from rock to rock, and
jumping with the stream down falls of seven or eight feet, or
sometimes sliding down on our backs in a thin sheet of water. This
ravine had been the scene of an extraordinary freshet in the spring,
apparently accompanied by a slide from the mountain. It must have been
filled with a stream of stones and water, at least twenty feet above
the present level of the torrent. For a rod or two, on either side of
its channel, the trees were barked and splintered up to their tops,
the birches bent over, twisted, and sometimes finely split, like a
stable-broom; some, a foot in diameter, snapped off, and whole clumps
of trees bent over with the weight of rocks piled on them. In one
place we noticed a rock, two or three feet in diameter, lodged nearly
twenty feet high in the crotch of a tree. For the whole four miles we
saw but one rill emptying in, and the volume of water did not seem to
be increased from the first. We traveled thus very rapidly with a
downward impetus, and grew remarkably expert at leaping from rock to
rock, for leap we must, and leap we did, whether there was any rock at
the right distance or not. It was a pleasant picture when the foremost
turned about and looked up the winding ravine, walled in with rocks
and the green forest, to see, at intervals of a rod or two, a
red-shirted or green-jacketed mountaineer against the white torrent,
leaping down the channel with his pack on his back, or pausing upon a
convenient rock in the midst of the torrent to mend a rent in his
clothes, or unstrap the dipper at his belt to take a draught of the
water. At one place we were startled by seeing, on a little sandy
shelf by the side of the stream, the fresh print of a man’s foot, and
for a moment realized how Robinson Crusoe felt in a similar case; but
at last we remembered that we had struck this stream on our way up,
though we could not have told where, and one had descended into the
ravine for a drink. The cool air above and the continual bathing of
our bodies in mountain water, alternate foot, sitz, douche, and plunge
baths, made this walk exceedingly refreshing, and we had traveled only
a mile or two, after leaving the torrent, before every thread of our
clothes was as dry as usual, owing perhaps to a peculiar quality in
the atmosphere.

After leaving the torrent, being in doubt about our course, Tom threw
down his pack at the foot of the loftiest spruce tree at hand, and
shinned up the bare trunk some twenty feet, and then climbed through
the green tower, lost to our sight, until he held the topmost spray
in his hand.[5] McCauslin, in his younger days, had marched through
the wilderness with a body of troops, under General Somebody, and with
one other man did all the scouting and spying service. The General’s
word was, “Throw down the top of that tree,” and there was no tree in
the Maine woods so high that it did not lose its top in such a case. I
have heard a story of two men being lost once in these woods, nearer
to the settlements than this, who climbed the loftiest pine they could
find, some six feet in diameter at the ground, from whose top they
discovered a solitary clearing and its smoke. When at this height,
some two hundred feet from the ground, one of them became dizzy, and
fainted in his companion’s arms, and the latter had to accomplish the
descent with him, alternately fainting and reviving, as best he could.
To Tom we cried, “Where away does the summit bear? where the burnt
lands?” The last he could only conjecture; he descried, however, a
little meadow and pond, lying probably in our course, which we
concluded to steer for. On reaching this secluded meadow, we found
fresh tracks of moose on the shore of the pond, and the water was
still unsettled as if they had fled before us. A little farther, in a
dense thicket, we seemed to be still on their trail. It was a small
meadow, of a few acres, on the mountain-side, concealed by the forest,
and perhaps never seen by a white man before, where one would think
that the moose might browse and bathe, and rest in peace. Pursuing
this course, we soon reached the open land, which went sloping down
some miles toward the Penobscot.

Perhaps I most fully realized that this was primeval, untamed, and
forever untamable _Nature_, or whatever else men call it, while coming
down this part of the mountain. We were passing over “Burnt Lands,”
burnt by lightning, perchance, though they showed no recent marks of
fire, hardly so much as a charred stump, but looked rather like a
natural pasture for the moose and deer, exceedingly wild and desolate,
with occasional strips of timber crossing them, and low poplars
springing up, and patches of blueberries here and there. I found
myself traversing them familiarly, like some pasture run to waste, or
partially reclaimed by man; but when I reflected what man, what
brother or sister or kinsman of our race made it and claimed it, I
expected the proprietor to rise up and dispute my passage. It is
difficult to conceive of a region uninhabited by man. We habitually
presume his presence and influence everywhere. And yet we have not
seen pure Nature, unless we have seen her thus vast and drear and
inhuman, though in the midst of cities. Nature was here something
savage and awful, though beautiful. I looked with awe at the ground I
trod on, to see what the Powers had made there, the form and fashion
and material of their work. This was that Earth of which we have
heard, made out of Chaos and Old Night. Here was no man’s garden, but
the unhandseled globe. It was not lawn, nor pasture, nor mead, nor
woodland, nor lea, nor arable, nor waste land. It was the fresh and
natural surface of the planet Earth, as it was made forever and
ever,--to be the dwelling of man, we say,--so Nature made it, and man
may use it if he can. Man was not to be associated with it. It was
Matter, vast, terrific,--not his Mother Earth that we have heard of,
not for him to tread on, or be buried in,--no, it were being too
familiar even to let his bones lie there,--the home, this, of
Necessity and Fate. There was clearly felt the presence of a force not
bound to be kind to man. It was a place for heathenism and
superstitious rites,--to be inhabited by men nearer of kin to the
rocks and to wild animals than we. We walked over it with a certain
awe, stopping, from time to time, to pick the blueberries which grew
there, and had a smart and spicy taste. Perchance where _our_ wild
pines stand, and leaves lie on their forest floor, in Concord, there
were once reapers, and husbandmen planted grain; but here not even the
surface had been scarred by man, but it was a specimen of what God saw
fit to make this world. What is it to be admitted to a museum, to see
a myriad of particular things, compared with being shown some star’s
surface, some hard matter in its home! I stand in awe of my body, this
matter to which I am bound has become so strange to me. I fear not
spirits, ghosts, of which I am one,--_that_ my body might,--but I
fear bodies, I tremble to meet them. What is this Titan that has
possession of me? Talk of mysteries! Think of our life in
nature,--daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it,--rocks,
trees, wind on our cheeks! the _solid_ earth! the _actual_ world! the
_common sense!_ _Contact!_ _Contact!_ _Who_ are we? _where_ are we?

Erelong we recognized some rocks and other features in the landscape
which we had purposely impressed on our memories, and, quickening our
pace, by two o’clock we reached the batteau.[6] Here we had expected
to dine on trout, but in this glaring sunlight they were slow to take
the bait, so we were compelled to make the most of the crumbs of our
hard-bread and our pork, which were both nearly exhausted. Meanwhile
we deliberated whether we should go up the river a mile farther, to
Gibson’s clearing, on the Sowadnehunk, where there was a deserted log
hut, in order to get a half-inch auger, to mend one of our spike-poles
with. There were young spruce trees enough around us, and we had a
spare spike, but nothing to make a hole with. But as it was uncertain
whether we should find any tools left there, we patched up the broken
pole, as well as we could, for the downward voyage, in which there
would be but little use for it. Moreover, we were unwilling to lose
any time in this expedition, lest the wind should rise before we
reached the larger lakes, and detain us; for a moderate wind produces
quite a sea on these waters, in which a batteau will not live for a
moment; and on one occasion McCauslin had been delayed a week at the
head of the North Twin, which is only four miles across. We were
nearly out of provisions, and ill prepared in this respect for what
might possibly prove a week’s journey round by the shore, fording
innumerable streams, and threading a trackless forest, should any
accident happen to our boat.

It was with regret that we turned our backs on Chesuncook, which
McCauslin had formerly logged on, and the Allegash lakes. There were
still longer rapids and portages above; among the last the Ripogenus
Portage, which he described as the most difficult on the river, and
three miles long. The whole length of the Penobscot is two hundred and
seventy-five miles, and we are still nearly one hundred miles from its
source. Hodge, the Assistant State Geologist, passed up this river in
1837, and by a portage of only one mile and three quarters crossed
over into the Allegash, and so went down that into the St. John, and
up the Madawaska to the Grand Portage across to the St. Lawrence. His
is the only account that I know of an expedition through to Canada in
this direction. He thus describes his first sight of the latter river,
which, to compare small things with great, is like Balboa’s first
sight of the Pacific from the mountains of the Isthmus of Darien.
“When we first came in sight of the St. Lawrence,” he says, “from the
top of a high hill, the view was most striking, and much more
interesting to me from having been shut up in the woods for the two
previous months. Directly before us lay the broad river, extending
across nine or ten miles, its surface broken by a few islands and
reefs, and two ships riding at anchor near the shore. Beyond, extended
ranges of uncultivated hills, parallel with the river. The sun was
just going down behind them, and gilding the whole scene with its
parting rays.”

About four o’clock, the same afternoon, we commenced our return
voyage, which would require but little if any poling. In shooting
rapids the boatmen use large and broad paddles, instead of poles, to
guide the boat with. Though we glided so swiftly, and often smoothly,
down, where it had cost us no slight effort to get up, our present
voyage was attended with far more danger; for if we once fairly struck
one of the thousand rocks by which we were surrounded, the boat would
be swamped in an instant. When a boat is swamped under these
circumstances, the boatmen commonly find no difficulty in keeping
afloat at first, for the current keeps both them and their cargo up
for a long way down the stream; and if they can swim, they have only
to work their way gradually to the shore. The greatest danger is of
being caught in an eddy behind some larger rock, where the water
rushes up stream faster than elsewhere it does down, and being carried
round and round under the surface till they are drowned. McCauslin
pointed out some rocks which had been the scene of a fatal accident of
this kind. Sometimes the body is not thrown out for several hours. He
himself had performed such a circuit once, only his legs being visible
to his companions; but he was fortunately thrown out in season to
recover his breath.[7] In shooting the rapids, the boatman has this
problem to solve: to choose a circuitous and safe course amid a
thousand sunken rocks, scattered over a quarter or half a mile, at the
same time that he is moving steadily on at the rate of fifteen miles
an hour. Stop he cannot; the only question is, where will he go? The
bowman chooses the course with all his eyes about him, striking broad
off with his paddle, and drawing the boat by main force into her
course. The sternman faithfully follows the bow.

We were soon at the Aboljacarmegus Falls. Anxious to avoid the delay,
as well as the labor, of the portage here, our boatmen went forward
first to reconnoitre, and concluded to let the batteau down the falls,
carrying the baggage only over the portage. Jumping from rock to rock
until nearly in the middle of the stream, we were ready to receive the
boat and let her down over the first fall, some six or seven feet
perpendicular. The boatmen stand upon the edge of a shelf of rock,
where the fall is perhaps nine or ten feet perpendicular, in from one
to two feet of rapid water, one on each side of the boat, and let it
slide gently over, till the bow is run out ten or twelve feet in the
air; then, letting it drop squarely, while one holds the painter, the
other leaps in, and his companion following, they are whirled down
the rapids to a new fall or to smooth water. In a very few minutes
they had accomplished a passage in safety, which would be as foolhardy
for the unskillful to attempt as the descent of Niagara itself. It
seemed as if it needed only a little familiarity, and a little more
skill, to navigate down such falls as Niagara itself with safety. At
any rate, I should not despair of such men in the rapids above Table
Rock, until I saw them actually go over the falls, so cool, so
collected, so fertile in resources are they. One might have thought
that these were falls, and that falls were not to be waded through
with impunity, like a mud-puddle. There was really danger of their
losing their sublimity in losing their power to harm us. Familiarity
breeds contempt. The boatman pauses, perchance, on some shelf beneath
a table-rock under the fall, standing in some cove of backwater two
feet deep, and you hear his rough voice come up through the spray,
coolly giving directions how to launch the boat this time.

Having carried round Pockwockomus Falls, our oars soon brought us to
the Katepskonegan, or Oak Hall carry, where we decided to camp
half-way over, leaving our batteau to be carried over in the morning
on fresh shoulders. One shoulder of each of the boatmen showed a red
spot as large as one’s hand, worn by the batteau on this expedition;
and this shoulder, as it did all the work, was perceptibly lower than
its fellow, from long service. Such toil soon wears out the strongest
constitution. The drivers are accustomed to work in the cold water in
the spring, rarely ever dry; and if one falls in all over he rarely
changes his clothes till night, if then, even. One who takes this
precaution is called by a particular nickname, or is turned off. None
can lead this life who are not almost amphibious. McCauslin said
soberly, what is at any rate a good story to tell, that he had seen
where six men were wholly under water at once, at a jam, with their
shoulders to handspikes. If the log did not start, then they had to
put out their heads to breathe. The driver works as long as he can
see, from dark to dark, and at night has not time to eat his supper
and dry his clothes fairly, before he is asleep on his cedar bed. We
lay that night on the very bed made by such a party, stretching our
tent over the poles which were still standing, but re-shingling the
damp and faded bed with fresh leaves.

In the morning we carried our boat over and launched it, making haste
lest the wind should rise. The boatmen ran down Passamagamet, and soon
after Ambejijis Falls, while we walked round with the baggage. We made
a hasty breakfast at the head of Ambejijis Lake on the remainder of
our pork, and were soon rowing across its smooth surface again, under
a pleasant sky, the mountain being now clear of clouds in the
northeast. Taking turns at the oars, we shot rapidly across Deep Cove,
the foot of Pamadumcook, and the North Twin, at the rate of six miles
an hour, the wind not being high enough to disturb us, and reached the
Dam at noon. The boatmen went through one of the log sluices in the
batteau, where the fall was ten feet at the bottom, and took us in
below. Here was the longest rapid in our voyage, and perhaps the
running this was as dangerous and arduous a task as any. Shooting down
sometimes at the rate, as we judged, of fifteen miles an hour, if we
struck a rock we were split from end to end in an instant. Now like a
bait bobbing for some river monster, amid the eddies, now darting to
this side of the stream, now to that, gliding swift and smooth near to
our destruction, or striking broad off with the paddle and drawing the
boat to right or left with all our might, in order to avoid a rock. I
suppose that it was like running the rapids of the Sault Sainte Marie,
at the outlet of Lake Superior, and our boatmen probably displayed no
less dexterity than the Indians there do. We soon ran through this
mile, and floated in Quakish Lake.

After such a voyage, the troubled and angry waters, which once had
seemed terrible and not to be trifled with, appeared tamed and
subdued; they had been bearded and worried in their channels, pricked
and whipped into submission with the spike-pole and paddle, gone
through and through with impunity, and all their spirit and their
danger taken out of them, and the most swollen and impetuous rivers
seemed but playthings henceforth. I began, at length, to understand
the boatman’s familiarity with, and contempt for, the rapids. “Those
Fowler boys,” said Mrs. McCauslin, “are perfect ducks for the water.”
They had run down to Lincoln, according to her, thirty or forty miles,
in a batteau, in the night, for a doctor, when it was so dark that
they could not see a rod before them, and the river was swollen so as
to be almost a continuous rapid, so that the doctor _cried_, when they
brought him up by daylight, “Why, Tom, how did you see to steer?” “We
didn’t steer much,--only kept her straight.” And yet they met with no
accident. It is true, the more difficult rapids are higher up than
this.

When we reached the Millinocket opposite to Tom’s house, and were
waiting for his folks to set us over,--for we had left our batteau
above the Grand Falls,--we discovered two canoes, with two men in
each, turning up this stream from Shad Pond, one keeping the opposite
side of a small island before us, while the other approached the side
where we were standing, examining the banks carefully for muskrats as
they came along. The last proved to be Louis Neptune and his
companion, now, at last, on their way up to Chesuncook after moose,
but they were so disguised that we hardly knew them. At a little
distance they might have been taken for Quakers, with their
broad-brimmed hats and overcoats with broad capes, the spoils of
Bangor, seeking a settlement in this Sylvania,--or, nearer at hand,
for fashionable gentlemen the morning after a spree. Met face to face,
these Indians in their native woods looked like the sinister and
slouching fellows whom you meet picking up strings and paper in the
streets of a city. There is, in fact, a remarkable and unexpected
resemblance between the degraded savage and the lowest classes in a
great city. The one is no more a child of nature than the other. In
the progress of degradation the distinction of races is soon lost.
Neptune at first was only anxious to know what we “kill,” seeing some
partridges in the hands of one of the party, but we had assumed too
much anger to permit of a reply. We thought Indians had some honor
before. But--“Me been sick. Oh, me unwell now. You make bargain, then
me go.” They had in fact been delayed so long by a drunken frolic at
the Five Islands, and they had not yet recovered from its effects.
They had some young musquash in their canoes, which they dug out of
the banks with a hoe, for food, not for their skins, for musquash are
their principal food on these expeditions. So they went on up the
Millinocket, and we kept down the bank of the Penobscot, after
recruiting ourselves with a draught of Tom’s beer, leaving Tom at his
home.

Thus a man shall lead his life away here on the edge of the
wilderness, on Indian Millinocket Stream, in a new world, far in the
dark of a continent, and have a flute to play at evening here, while
his strains echo to the stars, amid the howling of wolves; shall live,
as it were, in the primitive age of the world, a primitive man. Yet he
shall spend a sunny day, and in this century be my contemporary;
perchance shall read some scattered leaves of literature, and
sometimes talk with me. Why read history, then, if the ages and the
generations are now? He lives three thousand years deep into time, an
age not yet described by poets. Can you well go further back in
history than this? Ay! ay!--for there turns up but now into the mouth
of Millinocket Stream a still more ancient and primitive man, whose
history is not brought down even to the former. In a bark vessel sewn
with the roots of the spruce, with horn-beam paddles, he dips his way
along. He is but dim and misty to me, obscured by the æons that lie
between the bark canoe and the batteau. He builds no house of logs,
but a wigwam of skins. He eats no hot bread and sweet cake, but
musquash and moose meat and the fat of bears. He glides up the
Millinocket and is lost to my sight, as a more distant and misty cloud
is seen flitting by behind a nearer, and is lost in space. So he goes
about his destiny, the red face of man.

After having passed the night, and buttered our boots for the last
time, at Uncle George’s, whose dogs almost devoured him for joy at his
return, we kept on down the river the next day, about eight miles on
foot, and then took a batteau, with a man to pole it, to Mattawamkeag,
ten more. At the middle of that very night, to make a swift conclusion
to a long story, we dropped our buggy over the half-finished bridge at
Oldtown, where we heard the confused din and clink of a hundred saws,
which never rest, and at six o’clock the next morning one of the party
was steaming his way to Massachusetts.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [Illustration: _Maine Wilderness_]

What is most striking in the Maine wilderness is the continuousness of
the forest, with fewer open intervals or glades than you had imagined.
Except the few burnt lands, the narrow intervals on the rivers, the
bare tops of the high mountains, and the lakes and streams, the forest
is uninterrupted. It is even more grim and wild than you had
anticipated, a damp and intricate wilderness, in the spring everywhere
wet and miry. The aspect of the country, indeed, is universally stern
and savage, excepting the distant views of the forest from hills, and
the lake prospects, which are mild and civilizing in a degree. The
lakes are something which you are unprepared for; they lie up so
high, exposed to the light, and the forest is diminished to a fine
fringe on their edges, with here and there a blue mountain, like
amethyst jewels set around some jewel of the first water,--so
anterior, so superior, to all the changes that are to take place on
their shores, even now civil and refined, and fair as they can ever
be. These are not the artificial forests of an English king,--a royal
preserve merely. Here prevail no forest laws but those of nature. The
aborigines have never been dispossessed, nor nature disforested.

It is a country full of evergreen trees, of mossy silver birches and
watery maples, the ground dotted with insipid small, red berries, and
strewn with damp and moss-grown rocks,--a country diversified with
innumerable lakes and rapid streams, peopled with trout and various
species of _leucisci_, with salmon, shad, and pickerel, and other
fishes; the forest resounding at rare intervals with the note of the
chickadee, the blue jay, and the woodpecker, the scream of the fish
hawk and the eagle, the laugh of the loon, and the whistle of ducks
along the solitary streams; at night, with the hooting of owls and
howling of wolves; in summer, swarming with myriads of black flies and
mosquitoes, more formidable than wolves to the white man. Such is the
home of the moose, the bear, the caribou, the wolf, the beaver, and
the Indian. Who shall describe the inexpressible tenderness and
immortal life of the grim forest, where Nature, though it be
midwinter, is ever in her spring, where the moss-grown and decaying
trees are not old, but seem to enjoy a perpetual youth; and blissful,
innocent Nature, like a serene infant, is too happy to make a noise,
except by a few tinkling, lisping birds and trickling rills?

What a place to live, what a place to die and be buried in! There
certainly men would live forever, and laugh at death and the grave.
There they could have no such thoughts as are associated with the
village graveyard,--that make a grave out of one of those moist
evergreen hummocks!

     Die and be buried who will,
       I mean to live here still;
     My nature grows ever more young
       The primitive pines among.

I am reminded by my journey how exceedingly new this country still is.
You have only to travel for a few days into the interior and back
parts even of many of the old States, to come to that very America
which the Northmen, and Cabot, and Gosnold, and Smith, and Raleigh
visited. If Columbus was the first to discover the islands, Americus
Vespucius and Cabot, and the Puritans, and we their descendants, have
discovered only the shores of America. While the Republic has already
acquired a history world-wide, America is still unsettled and
unexplored. Like the English in New Holland, we live only on the
shores of a continent even yet, and hardly know where the rivers come
from which float our navy. The very timber and boards and shingles of
which our houses are made grew but yesterday in a wilderness where the
Indian still hunts and the moose runs wild. New York has her
wilderness within her own borders; and though the sailors of Europe
are familiar with the soundings of her Hudson, and Fulton long since
invented the steamboat on its waters, an Indian is still necessary to
guide her scientific men to its headwaters in the Adirondack country.

Have we even so much as discovered and settled the shores? Let a man
travel on foot along the coast, from the Passamaquoddy to the Sabine,
or to the Rio Bravo, or to wherever the end is now, if he is swift
enough to overtake it, faithfully following the windings of every
inlet and of every cape, and stepping to the music of the surf,--with
a desolate fishing town once a week, and a city’s port once a month to
cheer him, and putting up at the lighthouses, when there are any,--and
tell me if it looks like a discovered and settled country, and not
rather, for the most part, like a desolate island, and No-Man’s Land.

We have advanced by leaps to the Pacific, and left many a lesser
Oregon and California unexplored behind us. Though the railroad and
the telegraph have been established on the shores of Maine, the Indian
still looks out from her interior mountains over all these to the sea.
There stands the city of Bangor, fifty miles up the Penobscot, at the
head of navigation for vessels of the largest class, the principal
lumber depot on this continent, with a population of twelve thousand,
like a star on the edge of night, still hewing at the forests of which
it is built, already overflowing with the luxuries and refinement of
Europe, and sending its vessels to Spain, to England, and to the West
Indies for its groceries,--and yet only a few axemen have gone “up
river,” into the howling wilderness which feeds it. The bear and deer
are still found within its limits; and the moose, as he swims the
Penobscot, is entangled amid its shipping, and taken by foreign
sailors in its harbor. Twelve miles in the rear, twelve miles of
railroad, are Orono and the Indian Island, the home of the Penobscot
tribe, and then commence the batteau and the canoe, and the military
road; and sixty miles above, the country is virtually unmapped and
unexplored, and there still waves the virgin forest of the New World.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Springer, in his _Forest Life_ (1851), says that they first remove
the leaves and turf from the spot where they intend to build a camp,
for fear of fire; also, that “the spruce-tree is generally selected
for camp-building, it being light, straight, and quite free from sap;”
that “the roof is finally covered with the boughs of the fir, spruce,
and hemlock, so that when the snow falls upon the whole, the warmth of
the camp is preserved in the coldest weather;” and that they make the
log seat before the fire, called the “Deacon’s Seat,” of a spruce or
fir split in halves, with three or four stout limbs left on one side
for legs, which are not likely to get loose.

[2] The Canadians call it _picquer de fond_.

[3] Even the Jesuit missionaries, accustomed to the St. Lawrence and
other rivers of Canada, in their first expeditions to the
Abenaquinois, speak of rivers _ferrées de rochers_, shod with rocks.
See also No. 10 _Relations_, for 1647, p. 185.

[4] “A steady current or pitch of water is preferable to one either
rising or diminishing; as, when rising rapidly, the water at the
middle of the river is considerably higher than at the shores,--so
much so as to be distinctly perceived by the eye of a spectator on the
banks, presenting an appearance like a turnpike road. The lumber,
therefore, is always sure to incline from the centre of the channel
toward either shore.”--Springer.

[5] “The spruce tree,” says Springer in ’51, “is generally selected,
principally for the superior facilities which its numerous limbs
afford the climber. To gain the first limbs of this tree, which are
from twenty to forty feet from the ground, a smaller tree is undercut
and lodged against it, clambering up which the top of the spruce is
reached. In some cases, when a very elevated position is desired, the
spruce tree is lodged against the trunk of some lofty pine, up which
we ascend to a height twice that of the surrounding forest.”

To indicate the direction of pines, one throws down a branch, and a
man on the ground takes the bearing.

[6] The bears had not touched things on our possessions. They
sometimes tear a batteau to pieces for the sake of the tar with which
it is besmeared.

[7] I cut this from a newspaper: “On the 11th (instant?) [May, ’49],
on Rappogenes Falls, Mr. John Delantee, of Orono, Me., was drowned
while running logs. He was a citizen of Orono, and was twenty-six
years of age. His companions found his body, enclosed it in bark, and
buried it in the solemn woods.”




CHESUNCOOK


At five P. M., September 13, 1853, I left Boston, in the steamer, for
Bangor, by the outside course. It was a warm and still night,--warmer,
probably, on the water than on the land,--and the sea was as smooth as
a small lake in summer, merely rippled. The passengers went singing on
the deck, as in a parlor, till ten o’clock. We passed a vessel on her
beam-ends on a rock just outside the islands, and some of us thought
that she was the “rapt ship” which ran

                    “on her side so low
     That she drank water, and her keel ploughed air,”

not considering that there was no wind, and that she was under bare
poles. Now we have left the islands behind and are off Nahant. We
behold those features which the discoverers saw, apparently unchanged.
Now we see the Cape Ann lights, and now pass near a small village-like
fleet of mackerel fishers at anchor, probably off Gloucester. They
salute us with a shout from their low decks; but I understand their
“Good-evening” to mean, “Don’t run against me, sir.” From the wonders
of the deep we go below to yet deeper sleep. And then the absurdity of
being waked up in the night by a man who wants the job of blacking
your boots! It is more inevitable than seasickness, and may have
something to do with it. It is like the ducking you get on crossing
the line the first time. I trusted that these old customs were
abolished. They might with the same propriety insist on blacking your
face. I heard of one man who complained that somebody had stolen his
boots in the night; and when he found them, he wanted to know what
they had done to them,--they had spoiled them,--he never put that
stuff on them; and the bootblack narrowly escaped paying damages.

Anxious to get out of the whale’s belly, I rose early, and joined some
old salts, who were smoking by a dim light on a sheltered part of the
deck. We were just getting into the river. They knew all about it, of
course. I was proud to find that I had stood the voyage so well, and
was not in the least digested. We brushed up and watched the first
signs of dawn through an open port; but the day seemed to hang fire.
We inquired the time; none of my companions had a chronometer. At
length an African prince rushed by, observing, “Twelve o’clock,
gentlemen!” and blew out the light. It was moonrise. So I slunk down
into the monster’s bowels again.

The first land we make is Monhegan Island, before dawn, and next St.
George’s Islands, seeing two or three lights. Whitehead, with its bare
rocks and funereal bell, is interesting. Next I remember that the
Camden Hills attracted my eyes, and afterward the hills about
Frankfort. We reached Bangor about noon.

When I arrived, my companion that was to be had gone up river, and
engaged an Indian, Joe Aitteon, a son of the Governor, to go with us
to Chesuncook Lake. Joe had conducted two white men a-moose-hunting in
the same direction the year before. He arrived by cars at Bangor that
evening, with his canoe and a companion, Sabattis Solomon, who was
going to leave Bangor the following Monday with Joe’s father, by way
of the Penobscot, and join Joe in moose-hunting at Chesuncook when we
had done with him. They took supper at my friend’s house and lodged in
his barn, saying that they should fare worse than that in the woods.
They only made Watch bark a little, when they came to the door in the
night for water, for he does not like Indians.

The next morning Joe and his canoe were put on board the stage for
Moosehead Lake, sixty and odd miles distant, an hour before we started
in an open wagon. We carried hard-bread, pork, smoked beef, tea,
sugar, etc., seemingly enough for a regiment; the sight of which
brought together reminded me by what ignoble means we had maintained
our ground hitherto. We went by the Avenue Road, which is quite
straight and very good, northwestward toward Moosehead Lake, through
more than a dozen flourishing towns, with almost every one its
academy,--not one of which, however, is on my General Atlas,
published, alas! in 1824; so much are they before the age, or I behind
it! The earth must have been considerably lighter to the shoulders of
General Atlas then.

It rained all this day and till the middle of the next forenoon,
concealing the landscape almost entirely; but we had hardly got out of
the streets of Bangor before I began to be exhilarated by the sight of
the wild fir and spruce tops, and those of other primitive evergreens,
peering through the mist in the horizon. It was like the sight and
odor of cake to a schoolboy. He who rides and keeps the beaten track
studies the fences chiefly. Near Bangor, the fence-posts, on account
of the frost’s heaving them in the clayey soil, were not planted in
the ground, but were mortised into a transverse horizontal beam lying
on the surface. Afterwards, the prevailing fences were log ones, with
sometimes a Virginia fence, or else rails slanted over crossed stakes;
and these zigzagged or played leap-frog all the way to the lake,
keeping just ahead of us. After getting out of the Penobscot valley,
the country was unexpectedly level, or consisted of very even and
equal swells, for twenty or thirty miles, never rising above the
general level, but affording, it is said, a very good prospect in
clear weather, with frequent views of Ktaadn,--straight roads and long
hills. The houses were far apart, commonly small and of one story, but
framed. There was very little land under cultivation, yet the forest
did not often border the road. The stumps were frequently as high as
one’s head, showing the depth of the snows. The white hay-caps, drawn
over small stacks of beans or corn in the fields on account of the
rain, were a novel sight to me. We saw large flocks of pigeons, and
several times came within a rod or two of partridges in the road. My
companion said that in one journey out of Bangor he and his son had
shot sixty partridges from his buggy. The mountain-ash was now very
handsome, as also the wayfarer’s-tree or hobble-bush, with its ripe
purple berries mixed with red. The Canada thistle, an introduced
plant, was the prevailing weed all the way to the lake, the roadside
in many places, and fields not long cleared, being densely filled with
it as with a crop, to the exclusion of everything else. There were
also whole fields full of ferns, now rusty and withering, which in
older countries are commonly confined to wet ground. There were very
few flowers, even allowing for the lateness of the season. It chanced
that I saw no asters in bloom along the road for fifty miles, though
they were so abundant then in Massachusetts,--except in one place one
or two of the _Aster acuminatus_,--and no golden-rods till within
twenty miles of Monson, where I saw a three-ribbed one. There were
many late buttercups, however, and the two fire-weeds, erechthites and
epilobium, commonly where there had been a burning, and at last the
pearly everlasting. I noticed occasionally very long troughs which
supplied the road with water, and my companion said that three dollars
annually were granted by the State to one man in each school-district,
who provided and maintained a suitable water-trough by the roadside,
for the use of travelers,--a piece of intelligence as refreshing to me
as the water itself. That legislature did not sit in vain. It was an
Oriental act, which made me wish that I was still farther down
East,--another Maine law, which I hope we may get in Massachusetts.
That State is banishing bar-rooms from its highways, and conducting
the mountain springs thither.

The country was first decidedly mountainous in Garland, Sangerville,
and onwards, twenty-five or thirty miles from Bangor. At Sangerville,
where we stopped at mid-afternoon to warm and dry ourselves, the
landlord told us that he had found a wilderness where we found him. At
a fork in the road between Abbot and Monson, about twenty miles from
Moosehead Lake, I saw a guide-post surmounted by a pair of moose
horns, spreading four or five feet, with the word “Monson” painted on
one blade, and the name of some other town on the other. They are
sometimes used for ornamental hat-trees, together with deer’s horns,
in front entries; but, after the experience which I shall relate, I
trust that I shall have a better excuse for killing a moose than that
I may hang my hat on his horns. We reached Monson, fifty miles from
Bangor, and thirteen from the lake, after dark.

At four o’clock the next morning, in the dark, and still in the rain,
we pursued our journey. Close to the academy in this town they have
erected a sort of gallows for the pupils to practice on. I thought
that they might as well hang at once all who need to go through such
exercises in so new a country, where there is nothing to hinder their
living an outdoor life. Better omit Blair, and take the air. The
country about the south end of the lake is quite mountainous, and the
road began to feel the effects of it. There is one hill which, it is
calculated, it takes twenty-five minutes to ascend. In many places the
road was in that condition called _repaired_, having just been
whittled into the required semicylindrical form with the shovel and
scraper, with all the softest inequalities in the middle, like a hog’s
back with the bristles up, and Jehu was expected to keep astride of
the spine. As you looked off each side of the bare sphere into the
horizon, the ditches were awful to behold,--a vast hollowness, like
that between Saturn and his ring. At a tavern hereabouts the hostler
greeted our horse as an old acquaintance, though he did not remember
the driver. He said that he had taken care of that little mare for a
short time, a year or two before, at the Mount Kineo House, and
thought she was not in as good condition as then. Every man to his
trade. I am not acquainted with a single horse in the world, not even
the one that kicked me.

Already we had thought that we saw Moosehead Lake from a hilltop,
where an extensive fog filled the distant lowlands, but we were
mistaken. It was not till we were within a mile or two of its south
end that we got our first view of it,--a suitably wild-looking sheet
of water, sprinkled with small, low islands, which were covered with
shaggy spruce and other wild wood,--seen over the infant port of
Greenville with mountains on each side and far in the north, and a
steamer’s smoke-pipe rising above a roof. A pair of moose-horns
ornamented a corner of the public house where we left our horse, and a
few rods distant lay the small steamer Moosehead, Captain King. There
was no village, and no summer road any farther in this direction, but
a winter road, that is, one passable only when deep snow covers its
inequalities, from Greenville up the east side of the lake to Lily
Bay, about twelve miles.

I was here first introduced to Joe. He had ridden all the way on the
outside of the stage, the day before, in the rain, giving way to
ladies, and was well wetted. As it still rained, he asked if we were
going to “put it through.” He was a good-looking Indian, twenty-four
years old, apparently of unmixed blood, short and stout, with a broad
face and reddish complexion, and eyes, methinks, narrower and more
turned up at the outer corners than ours, answering to the description
of his race. Besides his underclothing, he wore a red flannel shirt,
woolen pants, and a black Kossuth hat, the ordinary dress of the
lumberman, and, to a considerable extent, of the Penobscot Indian.
When, afterward, he had occasion to take off his shoes and stockings,
I was struck with the smallness of his feet. He had worked a good deal
as a lumberman, and appeared to identify himself with that class. He
was the only one of the party who possessed an india-rubber jacket.
The top strip or edge of his canoe was worn nearly through by friction
on the stage.

At eight o’clock the steamer, with her bell and whistle, scaring the
moose, summoned us on board. She was a well-appointed little boat,
commanded by a gentlemanly captain, with patent life-seats and
metallic life-boat, and dinner on board, if you wish. She is chiefly
used by lumberers for the transportation of themselves, their boats,
and supplies, but also by hunters and tourists. There was another
steamer, named Amphitrite, laid up close by; but, apparently, her name
was not more trite than her hull. There were also two or three large
sailboats in port. These beginnings of commerce on a lake in the
wilderness are very interesting,--these larger white birds that come
to keep company with the gulls. There were but few passengers, and not
one female among them: a St. Francis Indian, with his canoe and
moose-hides; two explorers for lumber; three men who landed at Sandbar
Island, and a gentleman who lives on Deer Island, eleven miles up the
lake, and owns also Sugar Island, between which and the former the
steamer runs; these, I think, were all beside ourselves. In the saloon
was some kind of musical instrument--cherubim or seraphim--to soothe
the angry waves; and there, very properly, was tacked up the map of
the public lands of Maine and Massachusetts, a copy of which I had in
my pocket.

The heavy rain confining us to the saloon awhile, I discoursed with
the proprietor of Sugar Island on the condition of the world in Old
Testament times. But at length, leaving this subject as fresh as we
found it, he told me that he had lived about this lake twenty or
thirty years, and yet had not been to the head of it for twenty-one
years. He faces the other way. The explorers had a fine new birch on
board, larger than ours, in which they had come up the Piscataquis
from Howland, and they had had several messes of trout already. They
were going to the neighborhood of Eagle and Chamberlain lakes, or the
head-waters of the St. John, and offered to keep us company as far as
we went. The lake to-day was rougher than I found the ocean, either
going or returning, and Joe remarked that it would swamp his birch.
Off Lily Bay it is a dozen miles wide, but it is much broken by
islands. The scenery is not merely wild, but varied and interesting;
mountains were seen, farther or nearer, on all sides but the
northwest, their summits now lost in the clouds; but Mount Kineo is
the principal feature of the lake, and more exclusively belongs to it.
After leaving Greenville, at the foot, which is the nucleus of a town
some eight or ten years old, you see but three or four houses for the
whole length of the lake, or about forty miles, three of them the
public houses at which the steamer is advertised to stop, and the
shore is an unbroken wilderness. The prevailing wood seemed to be
spruce, fir, birch, and rock maple. You could easily distinguish the
hard wood from the soft, or “black growth,” as it is called, at a
great distance, the former being smooth, round-topped, and light
green, with a bowery and cultivated look.

Mount Kineo, at which the boat touched, is a peninsula with a narrow
neck, about midway the lake on the east side. The celebrated precipice
is on the east or land side of this, and is so high and perpendicular
that you can jump from the top, many hundred feet, into the water,
which makes up behind the point. A man on board told us that an anchor
had been sunk ninety fathoms at its base before reaching bottom!
Probably it will be discovered ere long that some Indian maiden jumped
off it for love once, for true love never could have found a path more
to its mind. We passed quite close to the rock here, since it is a
very bold shore, and I observed marks of a rise of four or five feet
on it. The St. Francis Indian expected to take in his boy here, but he
was not at the landing. The father’s sharp eyes, however, detected a
canoe with his boy in it far away under the mountain, though no one
else could see it. “Where is the canoe?” asked the captain, “I don’t
see it;” but he held on, nevertheless, and by and by it hove in sight.

We reached the head of the lake about noon. The weather had, in the
meanwhile, cleared up, though the mountains were still capped with
clouds. Seen from this point, Mount Kineo, and two other allied
mountains ranging with it northeasterly, presented a very strong
family likeness, as if all cast in one mould. The steamer here
approached a long pier projecting from the northern wilderness, and
built of some of its logs, and whistled, where not a cabin nor a
mortal was to be seen. The shore was quite low, with flat rocks on it,
overhung with black ash, arbor-vitæ, etc., which at first looked as if
they did not care a whistle for us. There was not a single cabman to
cry “Coach!” or inveigle us to the United States Hotel. At length a
Mr. Hinckley, who has a camp at the other end of the “carry,” appeared
with a truck drawn by an ox and a horse over a rude log-railway
through the woods. The next thing was to get our canoe and effects
over the carry from this lake, one of the heads of the Kennebec, into
the Penobscot River. This railway from the lake to the river occupied
the middle of a clearing two or three rods wide and perfectly straight
through the forest. We walked across while our baggage was drawn
behind. My companion went ahead to be ready for partridges, while I
followed, looking at the plants.

This was an interesting botanical locality for one coming from the
south to commence with; for many plants which are rather rare, and one
or two which are not found at all, in the eastern part of
Massachusetts, grew abundantly between the rails,--as Labrador-tea,
_Kalmia glauca_, Canada blueberry (which was still in fruit, and a
second time in bloom), _Clintonia_ and _Linnæa borealis_, which last a
lumberer called _moxon_, creeping snowberry, painted trillium,
large-flowered bellwort, etc. I fancied that the _Aster Radula_,
_Diplopappus umbellatus_, _Solidago lanceolata_, red trumpet-weed, and
many others which were conspicuously in bloom on the shore of the lake
and on the carry, had a peculiarly wild and primitive look there. The
spruce and fir trees crowded to the track on each side to welcome us,
the arbor-vitæ, with its changing leaves, prompted us to make haste,
and the sight of the canoe birch gave us spirits to do so. Sometimes
an evergreen just fallen lay across the track with its rich burden of
cones, looking, still, fuller of life than our trees in the most
favorable positions. You did not expect to find such _spruce_ trees in
the wild woods, but they evidently attend to their toilets each
morning even there. Through such a front yard did we enter that
wilderness.

There was a very slight rise above the lake,--the country appearing
like, and perhaps being partly a swamp,--and at length a gradual
descent to the Penobscot, which I was surprised to find here a large
stream, from twelve to fifteen rods wide, flowing from west to east,
or at right angles with the lake, and not more than two and a half
miles from it. The distance is nearly twice too great on the Map of
the Public Lands, and on Colton’s Map of Maine, and Russell Stream is
placed too far down. Jackson makes Moosehead Lake to be nine hundred
and sixty feet above high water in Portland harbor. It is higher than
Chesuncook, for the lumberers consider the Penobscot, where we struck
it, twenty-five feet lower than Moosehead, though eight miles above it
is said to be the highest, so that the water can be made to flow
either way, and the river falls a good deal between here and
Chesuncook. The carry-man called this about one hundred and forty
miles above Bangor by the river, or two hundred from the ocean, and
fifty-five miles below Hilton’s, on the Canada road, the first
clearing above, which is four and a half miles from the source of the
Penobscot.

At the north end of the carry, in the midst of a clearing of sixty
acres or more, there was a log camp of the usual construction, with
something more like a house adjoining, for the accommodation of the
carry-man’s family and passing lumberers. The bed of withered fir
twigs smelled very sweet, though really very dirty. There was also a
store-house on the bank of the river, containing pork, flour, iron,
batteaux, and birches, locked up.

We now proceeded to get our dinner, which always turned out to be tea,
and to pitch canoes, for which purpose a large iron pot lay
permanently on the bank. This we did in company with the explorers.
Both Indians and whites use a mixture of rosin and grease for this
purpose, that is, for the pitching, not the dinner. Joe took a small
brand from the fire and blew the heat and flame against the pitch on
his birch, and so melted and spread it. Sometimes he put his mouth
over the suspected spot and sucked, to see if it admitted air; and at
one place, where we stopped, he set his canoe high on crossed stakes,
and poured water into it. I narrowly watched his motions, and listened
attentively to his observations, for we had employed an Indian mainly
that I might have an opportunity to study his ways. I heard him swear
once, mildly, during this operation, about his knife being as dull as
a hoe,--an accomplishment which he owed to his intercourse with the
whites; and he remarked, “We ought to have some tea before we start;
we shall be hungry before we kill that moose.”

At mid-afternoon we embarked on the Penobscot. Our birch was nineteen
and a half feet long by two and a half at the widest part, and
fourteen inches deep within, both ends alike, and painted green, which
Joe thought affected the pitch and made it leak. This, I think, was a
middling-sized one. That of the explorers was much larger, though
probably not much longer. This carried us three with our baggage,
weighing in all between five hundred and fifty and six hundred pounds.
We had two heavy, though slender, rock-maple paddles, one of them of
bird’s-eye maple. Joe placed birch-bark on the bottom for us to sit
on, and slanted cedar splints against the cross-bars to protect our
backs, while he himself sat upon a cross-bar in the stern. The baggage
occupied the middle or widest part of the canoe. We also paddled by
turns in the bows, now sitting with our legs extended, now sitting
upon our legs, and now rising upon our knees; but I found none of
these positions endurable, and was reminded of the complaints of the
old Jesuit missionaries of the torture they endured from long
confinement in constrained positions in canoes, in their long voyages
from Quebec to the Huron country; but afterwards I sat on the
cross-bars, or stood up, and experienced no inconvenience.

It was deadwater for a couple of miles. The river had been raised
about two feet by the rain, and lumberers were hoping for a flood
sufficient to bring down the logs that were left in the spring. Its
banks were seven or eight feet high, and densely covered with white
and black spruce,--which, I think, must be the commonest trees
thereabouts,--fir, arbor-vitæ, canoe, yellow and black birch, rock,
mountain, and a few red maples, beech, black and mountain ash, the
large-toothed aspen, many civil-looking elms, now imbrowned, along the
stream, and at first a few hemlocks also. We had not gone far before I
was startled by seeing what I thought was an Indian encampment,
covered with a red flag, on the bank, and exclaimed, “Camp!” to my
comrades. I was slow to discover that it was a red maple changed by
the frost. The immediate shores were also densely covered with the
speckled alder, red osier, shrubby willows or sallows, and the like.
There were a few yellow lily pads still left, half-drowned, along the
sides, and sometimes a white one. Many fresh tracks of moose were
visible where the water was shallow, and on the shore, the lily stems
were freshly bitten off by them.

After paddling about two miles, we parted company with the explorers,
and turned up Lobster Stream, which comes in on the right, from the
southeast. This was six or eight rods wide, and appeared to run nearly
parallel with the Penobscot. Joe said that it was so called from small
fresh-water lobsters found in it. It is the Matahumkeag of the maps.
My companion wished to look for moose signs, and intended, if it
proved worth the while, to camp up that way, since the Indian advised
it. On account of the rise of the Penobscot, the water ran up this
stream to the pond of the same name, one or two miles. The Spencer
Mountains, east of the north end of Moosehead Lake, were now in plain
sight in front of us. The kingfisher flew before us, the pigeon
woodpecker was seen and heard, and nuthatches and chickadees close at
hand. Joe said that they called the chickadee _kecunnilessu_ in his
language. I will not vouch for the spelling of what possibly was never
spelt before, but I pronounced after him till he said it would do. We
passed close to a woodcock, which stood perfectly still on the shore,
with feathers puffed up, as if sick. This Joe said they called
_nipsquecohossus_. The kingfisher was _skuscumonsuck_; bear was
_wassus_; Indian devil, _lunxus_; the mountain-ash, _upahsis_. This
was very abundant and beautiful. Moose tracks were not so fresh along
this stream, except in a small creek about a mile up it, where a large
log had lodged in the spring, marked “W-cross-girdle-crow-foot.” We
saw a pair of moose-horns on the shore, and I asked Joe if a moose had
shed them; but he said there was a head attached to them, and I knew
that they did not shed their heads more than once in their lives.

After ascending about a mile and a half, to within a short distance of
Lobster Lake, we returned to the Penobscot. Just below the mouth of
the Lobster we found quick water, and the river expanded to twenty or
thirty rods in width. The moose-tracks were quite numerous and fresh
here. We noticed in a great many places narrow and well-trodden paths
by which they had come down to the river, and where they had slid on
the steep and clayey bank. Their tracks were either close to the edge
of the stream, those of the calves distinguishable from the others, or
in shallow water; the holes made by their feet in the soft bottom
being visible for a long time. They were particularly numerous where
there was a small bay, or pokelogan, as it is called, bordered by a
strip of meadow, or separated from the river by a low peninsula
covered with coarse grass, wool-grass, etc., wherein they had waded
back and forth and eaten the pads. We detected the remains of one in
such a spot. At one place, where we landed to pick up a summer duck,
which my companion had shot, Joe peeled a canoe birch for bark for his
hunting-horn. He then asked if we were not going to get the other
duck, for his sharp eyes had seen another fall in the bushes a little
farther along, and my companion obtained it. I now began to notice the
bright red berries of the tree-cranberry, which grows eight or ten
feet high, mingled with the alders and cornel along the shore. There
was less hard wood than at first.

After proceeding a mile and three quarters below the mouth of the
Lobster, we reached, about sundown, a small island at the head of what
Joe called the Moosehorn Deadwater (the Moosehorn, in which he was
going to hunt that night, coming in about three miles below), and on
the upper end of this we decided to camp. On a point at the lower end
lay the carcass of a moose killed a month or more before. We concluded
merely to prepare our camp, and leave our baggage here, that all might
be ready when we returned from moose-hunting. Though I had not come
a-hunting, and felt some compunctions about accompanying the hunters,
I wished to see a moose near at hand, and was not sorry to learn how
the Indian managed to kill one. I went as reporter or chaplain to the
hunters,--and the chaplain has been known to carry a gun himself.
After clearing a small space amid the dense spruce and fir trees, we
covered the damp ground with a shingling of fir twigs, and, while Joe
was preparing his birch horn and pitching his canoe,--for this had to
be done whenever we stopped long enough to build a fire, and was the
principal labor which he took upon himself at such times,--we
collected fuel for the night, large, wet, and rotting logs, which had
lodged at the head of the island, for our hatchet was too small for
effective chopping; but we did not kindle a fire, lest the moose
should smell it. Joe set up a couple of forked stakes, and prepared
half a dozen poles, ready to cast one of our blankets over in case it
rained in the night, which precaution, however, was omitted the next
night. We also plucked the ducks which had been killed for breakfast.

While we were thus engaged in the twilight, we heard faintly, from far
down the stream, what sounded like two strokes of a woodchopper’s axe,
echoing dully through the grim solitude. We are wont to liken many
sounds, heard at a distance in the forest, to the stroke of an axe,
because they resemble each other under those circumstances, and that
is the one we commonly hear there. When we told Joe of this, he
exclaimed, “By George, I’ll bet that was a moose! They make a noise
like that.” These sounds affected us strangely, and by their very
resemblance to a familiar one, where they probably had so different
an origin, enhanced the impression of solitude and wildness.

At starlight we dropped down the stream, which was a deadwater for
three miles, or as far as the Moosehorn; Joe telling us that we must
be very silent, and he himself making no noise with his paddle, while
he urged the canoe along with effective impulses. It was a still
night, and suitable for this purpose,--for if there is wind, the moose
will smell you,--and Joe was very confident that he should get some.
The Harvest Moon had just risen, and its level rays began to light up
the forest on our right, while we glided downward in the shade on the
same side, against the little breeze that was stirring. The lofty,
spiring tops of the spruce and fir were very black against the sky,
and more distinct than by day, close bordering this broad avenue on
each side; and the beauty of the scene, as the moon rose above the
forest, it would not be easy to describe. A bat flew over our heads,
and we heard a few faint notes of birds from time to time, perhaps the
myrtle-bird for one, or the sudden plunge of a musquash, or saw one
crossing the stream before us, or heard the sound of a rill emptying
in, swollen by the recent rain. About a mile below the island, when
the solitude seemed to be growing more complete every moment, we
suddenly saw the light and heard the crackling of a fire on the bank,
and discovered the camp of the two explorers; they standing before it
in their red shirts, and talking aloud of the adventures and profits
of the day. They were just then speaking of a bargain, in which, as I
understood, somebody had cleared twenty-five dollars. We glided by
without speaking, close under the bank, within a couple of rods of
them; and Joe, taking his horn, imitated the call of the moose, till
we suggested that they might fire on us. This was the last we saw of
them, and we never knew whether they detected or suspected us.

I have often wished since that I was with them. They search for timber
over a given section, climbing hills and often high trees to look off;
explore the streams by which it is to be driven, and the like; spend
five or six weeks in the woods, they two alone, a hundred miles or
more from any town, roaming about, and sleeping on the ground where
night overtakes them, depending chiefly on the provisions they carry
with them, though they do not decline what game they come across; and
then in the fall they return and make report to their employers,
determining the number of teams that will be required the following
winter. Experienced men get three or four dollars a day for this work.
It is a solitary and adventurous life, and comes nearest to that of
the trapper of the West, perhaps. They work ever with a gun as well as
an axe, let their beards grow, and live without neighbors, not on an
open plain, but far within a wilderness.

This discovery accounted for the sounds which we had heard, and destroyed
the prospect of seeing moose yet awhile. At length, when we had left
the explorers far behind, Joe laid down his paddle, drew forth his
birch horn,--a straight one, about fifteen inches long and three or
four wide at the mouth, tied round with strips of the same bark,--and,
standing up, imitated the call of the moose,--_ugh-ugh-ugh_, or
_oo-oo-oo-oo_, and then a prolonged _oo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o_, and listened
attentively for several minutes. We asked him what kind of noise he
expected to hear. He said that if a moose heard it, he guessed we
should find out; we should hear him coming half a mile off; he would
come close to, perhaps into, the water, and my companion must wait
till he got fair sight, and then aim just behind the shoulder.

The moose venture out to the riverside to feed and drink at night.
Earlier in the season the hunters do not use a horn to call them out,
but steal upon them as they are feeding along the sides of the stream,
and often the first notice they have of one is the sound of the water
dropping from its muzzle. An Indian whom I heard imitate the voice of
the moose, and also that of the caribou and the deer, using a much
longer horn than Joe’s, told me that the first could be heard eight or
ten miles, sometimes; it was a loud sort of bellowing sound, clearer
and more sonorous than the lowing of cattle, the caribou’s a sort of
snort, and the small deer’s like that of a lamb.

At length we turned up the Moosehorn, where the Indians at the carry
had told us that they killed a moose the night before. This is a very
meandering stream, only a rod or two in width, but comparatively deep,
coming in on the right, fitly enough named Moosehorn, whether from its
windings or its inhabitants. It was bordered here and there by narrow
meadows between the stream and the endless forest, affording favorable
places for the moose to feed, and to call them out on. We proceeded
half a mile up this as through a narrow, winding canal, where the
tall, dark spruce and firs and arbor-vitæ towered on both sides in the
moonlight, forming a perpendicular forest-edge of great height, like
the spires of a Venice in the forest. In two places stood a small
stack of hay on the bank, ready for the lumberer’s use in the winter,
looking strange enough there. We thought of the day when this might be
a brook winding through smooth-shaven meadows on some gentleman’s
grounds; and seen by moonlight then, excepting the forest that now
hems it in, how little changed it would appear!

Again and again Joe called the moose, placing the canoe close by some
favorable point of meadow for them to come out on, but listened in
vain to hear one come rushing through the woods, and concluded that
they had been hunted too much thereabouts. We saw, many times, what to
our imaginations looked like a gigantic moose, with his horns peering
from out the forest edge; but we saw the forest only, and not its
inhabitants, that night. So at last we turned about. There was now a
little fog on the water, though it was a fine, clear night above.
There were very few sounds to break the stillness of the forest.
Several times we heard the hooting of a great horned owl, as at home,
and told Joe that he would call out the moose for him, for he made a
sound considerably like the horn; but Joe answered, that the moose had
heard that sound a thousand times, and knew better; and oftener still
we were startled by the plunge of a musquash. Once, when Joe had
called again, and we were listening for moose, we heard, come faintly
echoing, or creeping from far through the moss-clad aisles, a dull,
dry, rushing sound with a solid core to it, yet as if half smothered
under the grasp of the luxuriant and fungus-like forest, like the
shutting of a door in some distant entry of the damp and shaggy
wilderness. If we had not been there, no mortal had heard it. When we
asked Joe in a whisper what it was, he answered, “Tree fall.” There is
something singularly grand and impressive in the sound of a tree
falling in a perfectly calm night like this, as if the agencies which
overthrow it did not need to be excited, but worked with a subtle,
deliberate, and conscious force, like a boa-constrictor, and more
effectively then than even in a windy day. If there is any such
difference, perhaps it is because trees with the dews of the night on
them are heavier than by day.

Having reached the camp, about ten o’clock, we kindled our fire and
went to bed. Each of us had a blanket, in which he lay on the fir
twigs, with his extremities toward the fire, but nothing over his
head. It was worth the while to lie down in a country where you could
afford such great fires; that was one whole side, and the bright side,
of our world. We had first rolled up a large log some eighteen inches
through and ten feet long, for a backlog, to last all night, and then
piled on the trees to the height of three or four feet, no matter how
green or damp. In fact, we burned as much wood that night as would,
with economy and an air-tight stove, last a poor family in one of our
cities all winter. It was very agreeable, as well as independent, thus
lying in the open air, and the fire kept our uncovered extremities
warm enough. The Jesuit missionaries used to say, that, in their
journeys with the Indians in Canada, they lay on a bed which had never
been shaken up since the creation, unless by earthquakes. It is
surprising with what impunity and comfort one who has always lain in a
warm bed in a close apartment, and studiously avoided drafts of air,
can lie down on the ground without a shelter, roll himself in a
blanket, and sleep before a fire, in a frosty autumn night, just after
a long rain-storm, and even come soon to enjoy and value the fresh
air.

I lay awake awhile, watching the ascent of the sparks through the
firs, and sometimes their descent in half-extinguished cinders on my
blanket. They were as interesting as fireworks, going up in endless,
successive crowds, each after an explosion, in an eager, serpentine
course, some to five or six rods above the tree-tops before they went
out. We do not suspect how much our chimneys have concealed; and now
air-tight stoves have come to conceal all the rest. In the course of
the night, I got up once or twice and put fresh logs on the fire,
making my companions curl up their legs.

When we awoke in the morning (Saturday, September 17), there was
considerable frost whitening the leaves. We heard the sound of the
chickadee, and a few faintly lisping birds, and also of ducks in the
water about the island. I took a botanical account of stock of our
domains before the dew was off, and found that the ground-hemlock, or
American yew, was the prevailing undershrub. We breakfasted on tea,
hard-bread, and ducks.

Before the fog had fairly cleared away we paddled down the stream
again, and were soon past the mouth of the Moosehorn. These twenty
miles of the Penobscot, between Moosehead and Chesuncook lakes, are
comparatively smooth, and a great part deadwater; but from time to
time it is shallow and rapid, with rocks or gravel beds, where you can
wade across. There is no expanse of water, and no break in the forest,
and the meadow is a mere edging here and there. There are no hills
near the river nor within sight, except one or two distant mountains
seen in a few places. The banks are from six to ten feet high, but
once or twice rise gently to higher ground. In many places the forest
on the bank was but a thin strip, letting the light through from some
alder swamp or meadow behind. The conspicuous berry-bearing bushes and
trees along the shore were the red osier, with its whitish fruit,
hobble-bush, mountain-ash, tree-cranberry, choke-cherry, now ripe,
alternate cornel, and naked viburnum. Following Joe’s example, I ate
the fruit of the last, and also of the hobble-bush, but found them
rather insipid and seedy. I looked very narrowly at the vegetation, as
we glided along close to the shore, and frequently made Joe turn aside
for me to pluck a plant, that I might see by comparison what was
primitive about my native river. Horehound, horse-mint, and the
sensitive fern grew close to the edge, under the willows and alders,
and wool-grass on the islands, as along the Assabet River in Concord.
It was too late for flowers, except a few asters, goldenrods, etc. In
several places we noticed the slight frame of a camp, such as we had
prepared to set up, amid the forest by the riverside, where some
lumberers or hunters had passed a night, and sometimes steps cut in
the muddy or clayey bank in front of it.

We stopped to fish for trout at the mouth of a small stream called
Ragmuff, which came in from the west, about two miles below the
Moosehorn. Here were the ruins of an old lumbering-camp, and a small
space, which had formerly been cleared and burned over, was now
densely overgrown with the red cherry and raspberries. While we were
trying for trout, Joe, Indian-like, wandered off up the Ragmuff on his
own errands, and when we were ready to start was far beyond call. So
we were compelled to make a fire and get our dinner here, not to lose
time. Some dark reddish birds, with grayer females (perhaps purple
finches), and myrtle-birds in their summer dress, hopped within six or
eight feet of us and our smoke. Perhaps they smelled the frying pork.
The latter bird, or both, made the lisping notes which I had heard in
the forest. They suggested that the few small birds found in the
wilderness are on more familiar terms with the lumberman and hunter
than those of the orchard and clearing with the farmer. I have since
found the Canada jay, and partridges, both the black and the common,
equally tame there, as if they had not yet learned to mistrust man
entirely. The chickadee, which is at home alike in the primitive woods
and in our wood-lots, still retains its confidence in the towns to a
remarkable degree.

Joe at length returned, after an hour and a half, and said that he
had been two miles up the stream exploring, and had seen a moose, but,
not having the gun, he did not get him. We made no complaint, but
concluded to look out for Joe the next time. However, this may have
been a mere mistake, for we had no reason to complain of him
afterwards. As we continued down the stream, I was surprised to hear
him whistling “O Susanna” and several other such airs, while his
paddle urged us along. Once he said, “Yes, sir-ee.” His common word
was “Sartain.” He paddled, as usual, on one side only, giving the
birch an impulse by using the side as a fulcrum. I asked him how the
ribs were fastened to the side rails. He answered, “I don’t know, I
never noticed.” Talking with him about subsisting wholly on what the
woods yielded,--game, fish, berries, etc.,--I suggested that his
ancestors did so; but he answered that he had been brought up in such
a way that he could not do it. “Yes,” said he, “that’s the way they
got a living, like wild fellows, wild as bears. By George! I shan’t go
into the woods without provision,--hard-bread, pork, etc.” He had
brought on a barrel of hard-bread and stored it at the carry for his
hunting. However, though he was a Governor’s son, he had not learned
to read.

At one place below this, on the east side, where the bank was higher
and drier than usual, rising gently from the shore to a slight
elevation, some one had felled the trees over twenty or thirty acres,
and left them drying in order to burn. This was the only preparation
for a house between the Moosehead Carry and Chesuncook, but there was
no hut nor inhabitants there yet. The pioneer thus selects a site for
his house, which will, perhaps, prove the germ of a town.

My eyes were all the while on the trees, distinguishing between the
black and white spruce and the fir. You paddle along in a narrow canal
through an endless forest, and the vision I have in my mind’s eye,
still, is of the small, dark, and sharp tops of tall fir and spruce
trees, and pagoda-like arbor-vitæs, crowded together on each side,
with various hard woods intermixed. Some of the arbor-vitæs were at
least sixty feet high. The hard woods, occasionally occurring
exclusively, were less wild to my eye. I fancied them ornamental
grounds, with farmhouses in the rear. The canoe and yellow birch,
beech, maple, and elm are Saxon and Norman, but the spruce and fir,
and pines generally, are Indian. The soft engravings which adorn the
annuals give no idea of a stream in such a wilderness as this. The
rough sketches in Jackson’s Reports on the Geology of Maine answer
much better. At one place we saw a small grove of slender sapling
white pines, the only collection of pines that I saw on this voyage.
Here and there, however, was a full-grown, tall, and slender, but
defective one, what lumbermen call a _konchus_ tree, which they
ascertain with their axes, or by the knots. I did not learn whether
this word was Indian or English. It reminded me of the Greek κόγχη, 
a conch or shell, and I amused myself with fancying that it
might signify the dead sound which the trees yield when struck. All
the rest of the pines had been driven off.

How far men go for the material of their houses! The inhabitants of
the most civilized cities, in all ages, send into far, primitive
forests, beyond the bounds of their civilization, where the moose and
bear and savage dwell, for their pine boards for ordinary use. And, on
the other hand, the savage soon receives from cities iron
arrow-points, hatchets, and guns, to point his savageness with.

The solid and well-defined fir-tops, like sharp and regular
spearheads, black against the sky, gave a peculiar, dark, and sombre
look to the forest. The spruce-tops have a similar but more ragged
outline, their shafts also merely feathered below. The firs were
somewhat oftener regular and dense pyramids. I was struck by this
universal spiring upward of the forest evergreens. The tendency is to
slender, spiring tops, while they are narrower below. Not only the
spruce and fir, but even the arbor-vitæ and white pine, unlike the
soft, spreading second-growth, of which I saw none, all spire upwards,
lifting a dense spearhead of cones to the light and air, at any rate,
while their branches straggle after as they may; as Indians lift the
ball over the heads of the crowd in their desperate game. In this they
resemble grasses, as also palms somewhat. The hemlock is commonly a
tent-like pyramid from the ground to its summit.

After passing through some long rips, and by a large island, we
reached an interesting part of the river called the Pine Stream
Deadwater, about six miles below Ragmuff, where the river expanded to
thirty rods in width and had many islands in it, with elms and
canoe-birches, now yellowing, along the shore, and we got our first
sight of Ktaadn.

Here, about two o’clock, we turned up a small branch three or four
rods wide, which comes in on the right from the south, called Pine
Stream, to look for moose signs. We had gone but a few rods before we
saw very recent signs along the water’s edge, the mud lifted up by
their feet being quite fresh, and Joe declared that they had gone
along there but a short time before. We soon reached a small meadow on
the east side, at an angle in the stream, which was, for the most
part, densely covered with alders. As we were advancing along the edge
of this, rather more quietly than usual, perhaps, on account of the
freshness of the signs,--the design being to camp up this stream, if
it promised well,--I heard a slight crackling of twigs deep in the
alders, and turned Joe’s attention to it; whereupon he began to push
the canoe back rapidly; and we had receded thus half a dozen rods,
when we suddenly spied two moose standing just on the edge of the open
part of the meadow which we had passed, not more than six or seven
rods distant, looking round the alders at us. They made me think of
great frightened rabbits, with their long ears and half-inquisitive,
half-frightened looks; the true denizens of the forest (I saw at
once), filling a vacuum which now first I discovered had not been
filled for me,--_moose_-men, _wood-eaters_, the word is said to
mean,--clad in a sort of Vermont gray, or homespun. Our Nimrod, owing
to the retrograde movement, was now the farthest from the game; but
being warned of its neighborhood, he hastily stood up, and, while we
ducked, fired over our heads one barrel at the foremost, which alone
he saw, though he did not know what kind of creature it was;
whereupon this one dashed across the meadow and up a high bank on the
northeast, so rapidly as to leave but an indistinct impression of its
outlines on my mind. At the same instant, the other, a young one, but
as tall as a horse, leaped out into the stream, in full sight, and
there stood cowering for a moment, or rather its disproportionate
lowness behind gave it that appearance, and uttering two or three
trumpeting squeaks. I have an indistinct recollection of seeing the
old one pause an instant on the top of the bank in the woods, look
toward its shivering young, and then dash away again. The second
barrel was leveled at the calf, and when we expected to see it drop in
the water, after a little hesitation, it, too, got out of the water,
and dashed up the hill, though in a somewhat different direction. All
this was the work of a few seconds, and our hunter, having never seen
a moose before, did not know but they were deer, for they stood partly
in the water, nor whether he had fired at the same one twice or not.
From the style in which they went off, and the fact that he was not
used to standing up and firing from a canoe, I judged that we should
not see anything more of them. The Indian said that they were a cow
and her calf,--a yearling, or perhaps two years old, for they
accompany their dams so long; but, for my part, I had not noticed much
difference in their size. It was but two or three rods across the
meadow to the foot of the bank, which, like all the world thereabouts,
was densely wooded; but I was surprised to notice, that, as soon as
the moose had passed behind the veil of the woods, there was no sound
of footsteps to be heard from the soft, damp moss which carpets that
forest, and long before we landed, perfect silence reigned. Joe said,
“If you wound ’em moose, me sure get ’em.”

We all landed at once. My companion reloaded; the Indian fastened his
birch, threw off his hat, adjusted his waistband, seized the hatchet,
and set out. He told me afterward, casually, that before we landed he
had seen a drop of blood on the bank, when it was two or three rods
off. He proceeded rapidly up the bank and through the woods, with a
peculiar, elastic, noiseless, and stealthy tread, looking to right and
left on the ground, and stepping in the faint tracks of the wounded
moose, now and then pointing in silence to a single drop of blood on
the handsome, shining leaves of the _Clintonia borealis_, which, on
every side, covered the ground, or to a dry fern stem freshly broken,
all the while chewing some leaf or else the spruce gum. I followed,
watching his motions more than the trail of the moose. After following
the trail about forty rods in a pretty direct course, stepping over
fallen trees and winding between standing ones, he at length lost it,
for there were many other moose-tracks there, and, returning once more
to the last blood-stain, traced it a little way and lost it again,
and, too soon, I thought, for a good hunter, gave it up entirely. He
traced a few steps, also, the tracks of the calf; but, seeing no
blood, soon relinquished the search.

I observed, while he was tracking the moose, a certain reticence or
moderation in him. He did not communicate several observations of
interest which he made, as a white man would have done, though they
may have leaked out afterward. At another time, when we heard a slight
crackling of twigs and he landed to reconnoitre, he stepped lightly
and gracefully, stealing through the bushes with the least possible
noise, in a way in which no white man does,--as it were, finding a
place for his foot each time.

About half an hour after seeing the moose, we pursued our voyage up
Pine Stream, and soon, coming to a part which was very shoal and also
rapid, we took out the baggage, and proceeded to carry it round, while
Joe got up with the canoe alone. We were just completing our portage
and I was absorbed in the plants, admiring the leaves of the _Aster
macrophyllus_, ten inches wide, and plucking the seeds of the great
round-leaved orchis, when Joe exclaimed from the stream that he had
killed a moose. He had found the cow moose lying dead, but quite warm,
in the middle of the stream, which was so shallow that it rested on
the bottom, with hardly a third of its body above water. It was about
an hour after it was shot, and it was swollen with water. It had run
about a hundred rods and sought the stream again, cutting off a slight
bend. No doubt a better hunter would have tracked it to this spot at
once. I was surprised at its great size, horse-like, but Joe said it
was not a large cow moose. My companion went in search of the calf
again. I took hold of the ears of the moose, while Joe pushed his
canoe down-stream toward a favorable shore, and so we made out, though
with some difficulty, its long nose frequently sticking in the
bottom, to drag it into still shallower water. It was a
brownish-black, or perhaps a dark iron-gray, on the back and sides,
but lighter beneath and in front. I took the cord which served for the
canoe’s painter, and with Joe’s assistance measured it carefully, the
greatest distances first, making a knot each time. The painter being
wanted, I reduced these measures that night with equal care to lengths
and fractions of my umbrella, beginning with the smallest measures,
and untying the knots as I proceeded; and when we arrived at
Chesuncook the next day, finding a two-foot rule there, I reduced the
last to feet and inches; and, moreover, I made myself a two-foot rule
of a thin and narrow strip of black ash, which would fold up
conveniently to six inches. All this pains I took because I did not
wish to be obliged to say merely that the moose was very large. Of the
various dimensions which I obtained I will mention only two. The
distance from the tips of the hoofs of the fore feet, stretched out,
to the top of the back between the shoulders, was seven feet and five
inches. I can hardly believe my own measure, for this is about two
feet greater than the height of a tall horse. (Indeed, I am now
satisfied that this measurement was incorrect, but the other measures
given here I can warrant to be correct, having proved them in a more
recent visit to those woods.) The extreme length was eight feet and
two inches. Another cow moose, which I have since measured in those
woods with a tape, was just six feet from the tip of the hoof to the
shoulders, and eight feet long as she lay.

When afterward I asked an Indian at the carry how much taller the
male was, he answered, “Eighteen inches,” and made me observe the
height of a cross-stake over the fire, more than four feet from the
ground, to give me some idea of the depth of his chest. Another
Indian, at Oldtown, told me that they were nine feet high to the top
of the back, and that one which he tried weighed eight hundred pounds.
The length of the spinal projections between the shoulders is very
great. A white hunter, who was the best authority among hunters that I
could have, told me that the male was not eighteen inches taller than
the female; yet he agreed that he was sometimes nine feet high to the
top of the back, and weighed a thousand pounds. Only the male has
horns, and they rise two feet or more above the shoulders,--spreading
three or four, and sometimes six feet,--which would make him in all,
sometimes, eleven feet high! According to this calculation, the moose
is as tall, though it may not be as large, as the great Irish elk,
_Megaceros Hibernicus_, of a former period, of which Mantell says that
it “very far exceeded in magnitude any living species, the skeleton”
being “upward of ten feet high from the ground to the highest point of
the antlers.” Joe said, that, though the moose shed the whole horn
annually, each new horn has an additional prong; but I have noticed
that they sometimes have more prongs on one side than on the other. I
was struck with the delicacy and tenderness of the hoofs, which divide
very far up, and the one half could be pressed very much behind the
other, thus probably making the animal surer-footed on the uneven
ground and slippery moss-covered logs of the primitive forest. They
were very unlike the stiff and battered feet of our horses and oxen.
The bare, horny part of the fore foot was just six inches long, and
the two portions could be separated four inches at the extremities.

The moose is singularly grotesque and awkward to look at. Why should
it stand so high at the shoulders? Why have so long a head? Why have
no tail to speak of? for in my examination I overlooked it entirely.
Naturalists say it is an inch and a half long. It reminded me at once
of the camelopard, high before and low behind,--and no wonder, for,
like it, it is fitted to browse on trees. The upper lip projected two
inches beyond the lower for this purpose. This was the kind of man
that was at home there; for, as near as I can learn, that has never
been the residence, but rather the hunting-ground of the Indian. The
moose will, perhaps, one day become extinct; but how naturally then,
when it exists only as a fossil relic, and unseen as that, may the
poet or sculptor invent a fabulous animal with similar branching and
leafy horns,--a sort of fucus or lichen in bone,--to be the inhabitant
of such a forest as this!

Here, just at the head of the murmuring rapids, Joe now proceeded to
skin the moose with a pocket-knife, while I looked on; and a tragical
business it was,--to see that still warm and palpitating body pierced
with a knife, to see the warm milk stream from the rent udder, and the
ghastly naked red carcass appearing from within its seemly robe, which
was made to hide it. The ball had passed through the shoulder-blade
diagonally and lodged under the skin on the opposite side, and was
partially flattened. My companion keeps it to show to his
grandchildren. He has the shanks of another moose which he has since
shot, skinned and stuffed, ready to be made into boots by putting in a
thick leather sole. Joe said, if a moose stood fronting you, you must
not fire, but advance toward him, for he will turn slowly and give you
a fair shot. In the bed of this narrow, wild, and rocky stream,
between two lofty walls of spruce and firs, a mere cleft in the forest
which the stream had made, this work went on. At length Joe had
stripped off the hide and dragged it trailing to the shore, declaring
that it weighed a hundred pounds, though probably fifty would have
been nearer the truth. He cut off a large mass of the meat to carry
along, and another, together with the tongue and nose, he put with the
hide on the shore to lie there all night, or till we returned. I was
surprised that he thought of leaving this meat thus exposed by the
side of the carcass, as the simplest course, not fearing that any
creature would touch it; but nothing did. This could hardly have
happened on the bank of one of our rivers in the eastern part of
Massachusetts; but I suspect that fewer small wild animals are
prowling there than with us. Twice, however, in this excursion, I had
a glimpse of a species of large mouse.

This stream was so withdrawn, and the moose-tracks were so fresh, that
my companions, still bent on hunting, concluded to go farther up it
and camp, and then hunt up or down at night. Half a mile above this,
at a place where I saw the _Aster puniceus_ and the beaked hazel, as
we paddled along, Joe, hearing a slight rustling amid the alders, and
seeing something black about two rods off, jumped up and whispered,
“Bear!” but before the hunter had discharged his piece, he corrected
himself to “Beaver!”--“Hedgehog!” The bullet killed a large hedgehog
more than two feet and eight inches long. The quills were rayed out
and flattened on the hinder part of its back, even as if it had lain
on that part, but were erect and long between this and the tail. Their
points, closely examined, were seen to be finely bearded or barbed,
and shaped like an awl, that is, a little concave, to give the barbs
effect. After about a mile of still water, we prepared our camp on the
right side, just at the foot of a considerable fall. Little chopping
was done that night, for fear of scaring the moose. We had moose meat
fried for supper. It tasted like tender beef, with perhaps more
flavor,--sometimes like veal.

After supper, the moon having risen, we proceeded to hunt a mile up
this stream, first “carrying” about the falls. We made a picturesque
sight, wending single file along the shore, climbing over rocks and
logs, Joe, who brought up the rear, twirling his canoe in his hands as
if it were a feather, in places where it was difficult to get along
without a burden. We launched the canoe again from the ledge over
which the stream fell, but after half a mile of still water, suitable
for hunting, it became rapid again, and we were compelled to make our
way along the shore, while Joe endeavored to get up in the birch
alone, though it was still very difficult for him to pick his way amid
the rocks in the night. We on the shore found the worst of walking, a
perfect chaos of fallen and drifted trees, and of bushes projecting
far over the water, and now and then we made our way across the mouth
of a small tributary on a kind of network of alders. So we went
tumbling on in the dark, being on the shady side, effectually scaring
all the moose and bears that might be thereabouts. At length we came
to a standstill, and Joe went forward to reconnoitre; but he reported
that it was still a continuous rapid as far as he went, or half a
mile, with no prospect of improvement, as if it were coming down from
a mountain. So we turned about, hunting back to the camp through the
still water. It was a splendid moonlight night, and I, getting sleepy
as it grew late,--for I had nothing to do,--found it difficult to
realize where I was. This stream was much more unfrequented than the
main one, lumbering operations being no longer carried on in this
quarter. It was only three or four rods wide, but the firs and spruce
through which it trickled seemed yet taller by contrast. Being in this
dreamy state, which the moonlight enhanced, I did not clearly discern
the shore, but seemed, most of the time, to be floating through
ornamental grounds,--for I associated the fir-tops with such
scenes;--very high up some Broadway, and beneath or between their
tops, I thought I saw an endless succession of porticoes and columns,
cornices and façades, verandas and churches. I did not merely fancy
this, but in my drowsy state such was the illusion. I fairly lost
myself in sleep several times, still dreaming of that architecture and
the nobility that dwelt behind and might issue from it: but all at
once I would be aroused and brought back to a sense of my actual
position by the sound of Joe’s birch horn in the midst of all this
silence calling the moose, _ugh_, _ugh_, _oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo_, and I
prepared to hear a furious moose come rushing and crashing through the
forest, and see him burst out on to the little strip of meadow by our
side.

But, on more accounts than one, I had had enough of moose-hunting. I
had not come to the woods for this purpose, nor had I foreseen it,
though I had been willing to learn how the Indian manœuvred; but
one moose killed was as good, if not as bad, as a dozen. The
afternoon’s tragedy, and my share in it, as it affected the innocence,
destroyed the pleasure of my adventure. It is true, I came as near as
is possible to come to being a hunter and miss it, myself; and as it
is, I think that I could spend a year in the woods, fishing and
hunting just enough to sustain myself, with satisfaction. This would
be next to living like a philosopher on the fruits of the earth which
you had raised, which also attracts me. But this hunting of the moose
merely for the satisfaction of killing him,--not even for the sake of
his hide,--without making any extraordinary exertion or running any
risk yourself, is too much like going out by night to some wood-side
pasture and shooting your neighbor’s horses. These are God’s own
horses, poor, timid creatures, that will run fast enough as soon as
they smell you, though they are nine feet high. Joe told us of some
hunters who a year or two before had shot down several oxen by night,
somewhere in the Maine woods, mistaking them for moose. And so might
any of the hunters; and what is the difference in the sport, but the
name? In the former case, having killed one of God’s and _your own_
oxen, you strip off its hide,--because that is the common trophy, and,
moreover, you have heard that it may be sold for moccasins,--cut a
steak from its haunches, and leave the huge carcass to smell to heaven
for you. It is no better, at least, than to assist at a
slaughter-house.

This afternoon’s experience suggested to me how base or coarse are the
motives which commonly carry men into the wilderness. The explorers
and lumberers generally are all hirelings, paid so much a day for
their labor, and as such they have no more love for wild nature than
wood-sawyers have for forests. Other white men and Indians who come
here are for the most part hunters, whose object is to slay as many
moose and other wild animals as possible. But, pray, could not one
spend some weeks or years in the solitude of this vast wilderness with
other employments than these,--employments perfectly sweet and
innocent and ennobling? For one that comes with a pencil to sketch or
sing, a thousand come with an axe or rifle. What a coarse and
imperfect use Indians and hunters make of nature! No wonder that their
race is so soon exterminated. I already, and for weeks afterward, felt
my nature the coarser for this part of my woodland experience, and was
reminded that our life should be lived as tenderly and daintily as one
would pluck a flower.

With these thoughts, when we reached our camping-ground, I decided to
leave my companions to continue moose-hunting down the stream, while I
prepared the camp, though they requested me not to chop much nor make
a large fire, for fear I should scare their game. In the midst of the
damp fir wood, high on the mossy bank, about nine o’clock of this
bright moonlight night, I kindled a fire, when they were gone, and,
sitting on the fir twigs, within sound of the falls, examined by its
light the botanical specimens which I had collected that afternoon,
and wrote down some of the reflections which I have here expanded; or
I walked along the shore and gazed up the stream, where the whole
space above the falls was filled with mellow light. As I sat before
the fire on my fir-twig seat, without walls above or around me, I
remembered how far on every hand that wilderness stretched, before you
came to cleared or cultivated fields, and wondered if any bear or
moose was watching the light of my fire; for Nature looked sternly
upon me on account of the murder of the moose.

Strange that so few ever come to the woods to see how the pine lives
and grows and spires, lifting its evergreen arms to the light,--to see
its perfect success; but most are content to behold it in the shape of
many broad boards brought to market, and deem _that_ its true success!
But the pine is no more lumber than man is, and to be made into boards
and houses is no more its true and highest use than the truest use of
a man is to be cut down and made into manure. There is a higher law
affecting our relation to pines as well as to men. A pine cut down, a
dead pine, is no more a pine than a dead human carcass is a man. Can
he who has discovered only some of the values of whalebone and whale
oil be said to have discovered the true use of the whale? Can he who
slays the elephant for his ivory be said to have “seen the
elephant”? These are petty and accidental uses; just as if a stronger
race were to kill us in order to make buttons and flageolets of our
bones; for everything may serve a lower as well as a higher use. Every
creature is better alive than dead, men and moose and pine trees, and
he who understands it aright will rather preserve its life than
destroy it.

  [Illustration: _Pine Tree, Boar Mountain_]

Is it the lumberman, then, who is the friend and lover of the pine,
stands nearest to it, and understands its nature best? Is it the
tanner who has barked it, or he who has boxed it for turpentine, whom
posterity will fable to have been changed into a pine at last? No! no!
it is the poet; he it is who makes the truest use of the pine, who
does not fondle it with an axe, nor tickle it with a saw, nor stroke
it with a plane, who knows whether its heart is false without cutting
into it, who has not bought the stumpage of the township on which it
stands. All the pines shudder and heave a sigh when that man steps on
the forest floor. No, it is the poet, who loves them as his own shadow
in the air, and lets them stand. I have been into the lumber-yard, and
the carpenter’s shop, and the tannery, and the lampblack factory, and
the turpentine clearing; but when at length I saw the tops of the
pines waving and reflecting the light at a distance high over all the
rest of the forest, I realized that the former were not the highest
use of the pine. It is not their bones or hide or tallow that I love
most. It is the living spirit of the tree, not its spirit of
turpentine, with which I sympathize, and which heals my cuts. It is as
immortal as I am, and perchance will go to as high a heaven, there to
tower above me still.

Ere long, the hunters returned, not having seen a moose, but, in
consequence of my suggestions, bringing a quarter of the dead one,
which, with ourselves, made quite a load for the canoe.

After breakfasting on moose meat, we returned down Pine Stream on our
way to Chesuncook Lake, which was about five miles distant. We could
see the red carcass of the moose lying in Pine Stream when nearly half
a mile off. Just below the mouth of this stream were the most
considerable rapids between the two lakes, called Pine Stream Falls,
where were large flat rocks washed smooth, and at this time you could
easily wade across above them. Joe ran down alone while we walked over
the portage, my companion collecting spruce gum for his friends at
home, and I looking for flowers. Near the lake, which we were
approaching with as much expectation as if it had been a
university,--for it is not often that the stream of our life opens
into such expansions,--were islands, and a low and meadowy shore with
scattered trees, birches, white and yellow, slanted over the water,
and maples,--many of the white birches killed, apparently by
inundations. There was considerable native grass; and even a few
cattle--whose movements we heard, though we did not see them,
mistaking them at first for moose--were pastured there.

On entering the lake, where the stream runs southeasterly, and for
some time before, we had a view of the mountains about Ktaadn
(_Katahdinauquoh_ one says they are called), like a cluster of blue
fungi of rank growth, apparently twenty-five or thirty miles distant,
in a southeast direction, their summits concealed by clouds. Joe
called some of them the Sowadnehunk Mountains. This is the name of a
stream there, which another Indian told us meant “running between
mountains.” Though some lower summits were afterward uncovered, we got
no more complete view of Ktaadn while we were in the woods. The
clearing to which we were bound was on the right of the mouth of the
river, and was reached by going round a low point, where the water was
shallow to a great distance from the shore. Chesuncook Lake extends
northwest and southeast, and is called eighteen miles long and three
wide, without an island. We had entered the northwest corner of it,
and when near the shore could see only part way down it. The principal
mountains visible from the land here were those already mentioned,
between southeast and east, and a few summits a little west of north,
but generally the north and northwest horizon about the St. John and
the British boundary was comparatively level.

Ansell Smith’s, the oldest and principal clearing about this lake,
appeared to be quite a harbor for batteaux and canoes; seven or eight
of the former were lying about, and there was a small scow for hay,
and a capstan on a platform, now high and dry, ready to be floated and
anchored to tow rafts with. It was a very primitive kind of harbor,
where boats were drawn up amid the stumps,--such a one, methought, as
the Argo might have been launched in. There were five other huts with
small clearings on the opposite side of the lake, all at this end and
visible from this point. One of the Smiths told me that it was so far
cleared that they came here to live and built the present house four
years before, though the family had been here but a few months.

I was interested to see how a pioneer lived on this side of the
country. His life is in some respects more adventurous than that of
his brother in the West; for he contends with winter as well as the
wilderness, and there is a greater interval of time at least between
him and the army which is to follow. Here immigration is a tide which
may ebb when it has swept away the pines; there it is not a tide, but
an inundation, and roads and other improvements come steadily rushing
after.

As we approached the log house, a dozen rods from the lake, and
considerably elevated above it, the projecting ends of the logs
lapping over each other irregularly several feet at the corners gave
it a very rich and picturesque look, far removed from the meanness of
weather-boards. It was a very spacious, low building, about eighty
feet long, with many large apartments. The walls were well clayed
between the logs, which were large and round, except on the upper and
under sides, and as visible inside as out, successive bulging cheeks
gradually lessening upwards and tuned to each other with the axe, like
Pandean pipes. Probably the musical forest gods had not yet cast them
aside; they never do till they are split or the bark is gone. It was a
style of architecture not described by Vitruvius, I suspect, though
possibly hinted at in the biography of Orpheus; none of your frilled
or fluted columns, which have cut such a false swell, and support
nothing but a gable end and their builder’s pretensions,--that is,
with the multitude; and as for “ornamentation,” one of those words
with a dead tail which architects very properly use to describe their
flourishes, there were the lichens and mosses and fringes of bark,
which nobody troubled himself about. We certainly leave the handsomest
paint and clapboards behind in the woods, when we strip off the bark
and poison ourselves with white-lead in the towns. We get but half the
spoils of the forest. For beauty, give me trees with the fur on. This
house was designed and constructed with the freedom of stroke of a
forester’s axe, without other compass and square than Nature uses.
Wherever the logs were cut off by a window or door, that is, were not
kept in place by alternate overlapping, they were held one upon
another by very large pins, driven in diagonally on each side, where
branches might have been, and then cut off so close up and down as not
to project beyond the bulge of the log, as if the logs clasped each
other in their arms. These logs were posts, studs, boards, clapboards,
laths, plaster, and nails, all in one. Where the citizen uses a mere
sliver or board, the pioneer uses the whole trunk of a tree. The house
had large stone chimneys, and was roofed with spruce-bark. The windows
were imported, all but the casings. One end was a regular logger’s
camp, for the boarders, with the usual fir floor and log benches. Thus
this house was but a slight departure from the hollow tree, which the
bear still inhabits,--being a hollow made with trees piled up, with a
coating of bark like its original.

The cellar was a separate building, like an ice-house, and it answered
for a refrigerator at this season, our moose meat being kept there. It
was a potato hole with a permanent roof. Each structure and
institution here was so primitive that you could at once refer it to
its source; but our buildings commonly suggest neither their origin
nor their purpose. There was a large, and what farmers would call
handsome, barn, part of whose boards had been sawed by a whip-saw; and
the saw-pit, with its great pile of dust, remained before the house.
The long split shingles on a portion of the barn were laid a foot to
the weather, suggesting what kind of weather they have there. Grant’s
barn at Caribou Lake was said to be still larger, the biggest ox-nest
in the woods, fifty feet by a hundred. Think of a monster barn in that
primitive forest lifting its gray back above the tree-tops! Man makes
very much such a nest for his domestic animals, of withered grass and
fodder, as the squirrels and many other wild creatures do for
themselves.

There was also a blacksmith’s shop, where plainly a good deal of work
was done. The oxen and horses used in lumbering operations were shod,
and all the iron-work of sleds, etc., was repaired or made here. I saw
them load a batteau at the Moosehead Carry, the next Tuesday, with
about thirteen hundredweight of bar iron for this shop. This reminded
me how primitive and honorable a trade was Vulcan’s. I do not hear
that there was any carpenter or tailor among the gods. The smith seems
to have preceded these and every other mechanic at Chesuncook as well
as on Olympus, and his family is the most widely dispersed, whether he
be christened John or Ansell.

Smith owned two miles down the lake by half a mile in width. There
were about one hundred acres cleared here. He cut seventy tons of
English hay this year on this ground, and twenty more on another
clearing, and he uses it all himself in lumbering operations. The barn
was crowded with pressed hay, and a machine to press it. There was a
large garden full of roots,--turnips, beets, carrots, potatoes, etc.,
all of great size. They said that they were worth as much here as in
New York. I suggested some currants for sauce, especially as they had
no apple trees set out, and showed how easily they could be obtained.

There was the usual long-handled axe of the primitive woods by the
door, three and a half feet long,--for my new black-ash rule was in
constant use,--and a large, shaggy dog, whose nose, report said, was
full of porcupine quills. I can testify that he looked very sober.
This is the usual fortune of pioneer dogs, for they have to face the
brunt of the battle for their race, and act the part of Arnold
Winkelried without intending it. If he should invite one of his town
friends up this way, suggesting moose meat and unlimited freedom, the
latter might pertinently inquire, “What is that sticking in your
nose?” When a generation or two have used up all the enemies’ darts,
their successors lead a comparatively easy life. We owe to our fathers
analogous blessings. Many old people receive pensions for no other
reason, it seems to me, but as a compensation for having lived a long
time ago. No doubt our town dogs still talk, in a snuffling way, about
the days that tried dogs’ noses. How they got a cat up there I do not
know, for they are as shy as my aunt about entering a canoe. I
wondered that she did not run up a tree on the way; but perhaps she
was bewildered by the very crowd of opportunities.

Twenty or thirty lumberers, Yankee and Canadian, were coming and
going,--Aleck among the rest,--and from time to time an Indian touched
here. In the winter there are sometimes a hundred men lodged here at
once. The most interesting piece of news that circulated among them
appeared to be, that four horses belonging to Smith, worth seven
hundred dollars, had passed by farther into the woods a week before.

The white pine tree was at the bottom or farther end of all this. It
is a war against the pines, the only real Aroostook or Penobscot war.
I have no doubt that they lived pretty much the same sort of life in
the Homeric age, for men have always thought more of eating than of
fighting; then, as now, their minds ran chiefly on the “hot bread and
sweet cakes;” and the fur and lumber trade is an old story to Asia and
Europe. I doubt if men ever made a trade of heroism. In the days of
Achilles, even, they delighted in big barns, and perchance in pressed
hay, and he who possessed the most valuable team was the best fellow.

We had designed to go on at evening up the Caucomgomoc, whose mouth
was a mile or two distant, to the lake of the same name, about ten
miles off; but some Indians of Joe’s acquaintance, who were making
canoes on the Caucomgomoc, came over from that side, and gave so poor
an account of the moose-hunting, so many had been killed there lately,
that my companions concluded not to go there. Joe spent this Sunday
and the night with his acquaintances. The lumberers told me that there
were many moose hereabouts, but no caribou or deer. A man from Oldtown
had killed ten or twelve moose, within a year, so near the house that
they heard all his guns. His name may have been Hercules, for aught I
know, though I should rather have expected to hear the rattling of his
club; but, no doubt, he keeps pace with the improvements of the age,
and uses a Sharp’s rifle now; probably he gets all his armor made and
repaired at Smith’s shop. One moose had been killed and another shot
at within sight of the house within two years. I do not know whether
Smith has yet got a poet to look after the cattle, which, on account
of the early breaking up of the ice, are compelled to summer in the
woods, but I would suggest this office to such of my acquaintances as
love to write verses and go a-gunning.

After a dinner at which apple-sauce was the greatest luxury to me, but
our moose meat was oftenest called for by the lumberers, I walked
across the clearing into the forest, southward, returning along the
shore. For my dessert, I helped myself to a large slice of the
Chesuncook woods, and took a hearty draught of its waters with all my
senses. The woods were as fresh and full of vegetable life as a lichen
in wet weather, and contained many interesting plants; but unless they
are of white pine, they are treated with as little respect here as a
mildew, and in the other case they are only the more quickly cut down.
The shore was of coarse, flat, slate rocks, often in slabs, with the
surf beating on it. The rocks and bleached drift-logs, extending some
way into the shaggy woods, showed a rise and fall of six or eight
feet, caused partly by the dam at the outlet. They said that in winter
the snow was three feet deep on a level here, and sometimes four or
five,--that the ice on the lake was two feet thick, clear, and four
feet including the snow-ice. Ice had already formed in vessels.

We lodged here this Sunday night in a comfortable bedroom, apparently
the best one; and all that I noticed unusual in the night--for I still
kept taking notes, like a spy in the camp--was the creaking of the
thin split boards, when any of our neighbors stirred.

Such were the first rude beginnings of a town. They spoke of the
practicability of a winter road to the Moosehead Carry, which would
not cost much, and would connect them with steam and staging and all
the busy world. I almost doubted if the lake would be there,--the
self-same lake,--preserve its form and identity, when the shores
should be cleared and settled; as if these lakes and streams which
explorers report never awaited the advent of the citizen.

The sight of one of these frontier houses, built of these great logs,
whose inhabitants have unflinchingly maintained their ground many
summers and winters in the wilderness, reminds me of famous forts,
like Ticonderoga or Crown Point, which have sustained memorable
sieges. They are especially winter-quarters, and at this season this
one had a partially deserted look, as if the siege were raised a
little, the snowbanks being melted from before it, and its garrison
accordingly reduced. I think of their daily food as rations,--it is
called “supplies;” a Bible and a greatcoat are munitions of war, and a
single man seen about the premises is a sentinel on duty. You expect
that he will require the countersign, and will perchance take you for
Ethan Allen, come to demand the surrender of his fort in the name of
the Continental Congress. It is a sort of ranger service. Arnold’s
expedition is a daily experience with these settlers. They can prove
that they were out at almost any time; and I think that all the first
generation of them deserve a pension more than any that went to the
Mexican war.

Early the next morning we started on our return up the Penobscot, my
companion wishing to go about twenty-five miles above the Moosehead
Carry to a camp near the junction of the two forks, and look for moose
there. Our host allowed us something for the quarter of the moose
which we had brought, and which he was glad to get. Two explorers from
Chamberlain Lake started at the same time that we did. Red flannel
shirts should be worn in the woods, if only for the fine contrast
which this color makes with the evergreens and the water. Thus I
thought when I saw the forms of the explorers in their birch, poling
up the rapids before us, far off against the forest. It is the
surveyor’s color also, most distinctly seen under all circumstances.
We stopped to dine at Ragmuff, as before. My companion it was who
wandered up the stream to look for moose this time, while Joe went to
sleep on the bank, so that we felt sure of him; and I improved the
opportunity to botanize and bathe. Soon after starting again, while
Joe was gone back in the canoe for the frying-pan, which had been
left, we picked a couple of quarts of tree-cranberries for a sauce.

I was surprised by Joe’s asking me how far it was to the Moosehorn. He
was pretty well acquainted with this stream, but he had noticed that I
was curious about distances, and had several maps. He and Indians
generally, with whom I have talked, are not able to describe
dimensions or distances in our measures with any accuracy. He could
tell, perhaps, at what time we should arrive, but not how far it was.
We saw a few wood ducks, sheldrakes, and black ducks, but they were
not so numerous there at that season as on our river at home. We
scared the same family of wood ducks before us, going and returning.
We also heard the note of one fish hawk, somewhat like that of a
pigeon woodpecker, and soon after saw him perched near the top of a
dead white pine against the island where we had first camped, while a
company of peetweets were twittering and teetering about over the
carcass of a moose on a low sandy spit just beneath. We drove the fish
hawk from perch to perch, each time eliciting a scream or whistle, for
many miles before us. Our course being up-stream, we were obliged to
work much harder than before, and had frequent use for a pole.
Sometimes all three of us paddled together, standing up, small and
heavily laden as the canoe was. About six miles from Moosehead, we
began to see the mountains east of the north end of the lake, and at
four o’clock we reached the carry.

The Indians were still encamped here. There were three, including the
St. Francis Indian who had come in the steamer with us. One of the
others was called Sabattis. Joe and the St. Francis Indian were
plainly clear Indian, the other two apparently mixed Indian and white;
but the difference was confined to their features and complexion, for
all that I could see. We here cooked the tongue of the moose for
supper,--having left the nose, which is esteemed the choicest part, at
Chesuncook, boiling, it being a good deal of trouble to prepare it.
We also stewed our tree-cranberries (_Viburnum opulus_), sweetening
them with sugar. The lumberers sometimes cook them with molasses. They
were used in Arnold’s expedition. This sauce was very grateful to us
who had been confined to hard-bread, pork, and moose meat, and,
notwithstanding their seeds, we all three pronounced them equal to the
common cranberry; but perhaps some allowance is to be made for our
forest appetites. It would be worth the while to cultivate them, both
for beauty and for food. I afterward saw them in a garden in Bangor.
Joe said that they were called _ebeemenar_.

While we were getting supper, Joe commenced curing the moose-hide, on
which I had sat a good part of the voyage, he having already cut most
of the hair off with his knife at the Caucomgomoc. He set up two stout
forked poles on the bank, seven or eight feet high, and as much
asunder east and west, and having cut slits eight or ten inches long,
and the same distance apart, close to the edge, on the sides of the
hide, he threaded poles through them, and then, placing one of the
poles on the forked stakes, tied the other down tightly at the bottom.
The two ends also were tied with cedar bark, their usual string, to
the upright poles, through small holes at short intervals. The hide,
thus stretched, and slanted a little to the north, to expose its flesh
side to the sun, measured, in the extreme, eight feet long by six
high. Where any flesh still adhered, Joe boldly scored it with his
knife to lay it open to the sun. It now appeared somewhat spotted and
injured by the duck shot. You may see the old frames on which hides
have been stretched at many camping-places in these woods.

For some reason or other, the going to the forks of the Penobscot was
given up, and we decided to stop here, my companion intending to hunt
down the stream at night. The Indians invited us to lodge with them,
but my companion inclined to go to the log camp on the carry. This
camp was close and dirty, and had an ill smell, and I preferred to
accept the Indians’ offer, if we did not make a camp for ourselves;
for, though they were dirty, too, they were more in the open air, and
were much more agreeable, and even refined company, than the
lumberers. The most interesting question entertained at the lumberers’
camp was, which man could “handle” any other on the carry; and, for
the most part, they possessed no qualities which you could not lay
hands on. So we went to the Indians’ camp or wigwam.

It was rather windy, and therefore Joe concluded to hunt after
midnight, if the wind went down, which the other Indians thought it
would not do, because it was from the south. The two mixed-bloods,
however, went off up the river for moose at dark, before we arrived at
their camp. This Indian camp was a slight, patched-up affair, which
had stood there several weeks, built shed-fashion, open to the fire on
the west. If the wind changed, they could turn it round. It was formed
by two forked stakes and a cross-bar, with rafters slanted from this
to the ground. The covering was partly an old sail, partly birch-bark,
quite imperfect, but securely tied on, and coming down to the ground
on the sides. A large log was rolled up at the back side for a
headboard, and two or three moose-hides were spread on the ground
with the hair up. Various articles of their wardrobe were tucked
around the sides and corners, or under the roof. They were smoking
moose meat on just such a crate as is represented by With, in De Bry’s
“Collectio Peregrinationum,” published in 1588, and which the natives
of Brazil called _boucan_ (whence buccaneer), on which were frequently
shown pieces of human flesh drying along with the rest. It was erected
in front of the camp over the usual large fire, in the form of an
oblong square. Two stout forked stakes, four or five feet apart and
five feet high, were driven into the ground at each end, and then two
poles ten feet long were stretched across over the fire, and smaller
ones laid transversely on these a foot apart. On the last hung large,
thin slices of moose meat smoking and drying, a space being left open
over the centre of the fire. There was the whole heart, black as a
thirty-two pound ball, hanging at one corner. They said that it took
three or four days to cure this meat, and it would keep a year or
more. Refuse pieces lay about on the ground in different stages of
decay, and some pieces also in the fire, half buried and sizzling in
the ashes, as black and dirty as an old shoe. These last I at first
thought were thrown away, but afterwards found that they were being
cooked. Also a tremendous rib-piece was roasting before the fire,
being impaled on an upright stake forced in and out between the ribs.
There was a moose-hide stretched and curing on poles like ours, and
quite a pile of cured skins close by. They had killed twenty-two moose
within two months, but, as they could use but very little of the meat,
they left the carcases on the ground. Altogether it was about as
savage a sight as was ever witnessed, and I was carried back at once
three hundred years. There were many torches of birch-bark, shaped
like straight tin horns, lying ready for use on a stump outside.

For fear of dirt, we spread our blankets over their hides, so as not
to touch them anywhere. The St. Francis Indian and Joe alone were
there at first, and we lay on our backs talking with them till
midnight. They were very sociable, and, when they did not talk with
us, kept up a steady chatting in their own language. We heard a small
bird just after dark, which, Joe said, sang at a certain hour in the
night,--at ten o’clock, he believed. We also heard the hylodes and
tree-toads, and the lumberers singing in their camp a quarter of a
mile off. I told them that I had seen pictured in old books pieces of
human flesh drying on these crates; whereupon they repeated some
tradition about the Mohawks eating human flesh, what parts they
preferred, etc., and also of a battle with the Mohawks near Moosehead,
in which many of the latter were killed; but I found that they knew
but little of the history of their race, and could be entertained by
stories about their ancestors as readily as any way. At first I was
nearly roasted out, for I lay against one side of the camp, and felt
the heat reflected not only from the birch-bark above, but from the
side; and again I remembered the sufferings of the Jesuit
missionaries, and what extremes of heat and cold the Indians were said
to endure. I struggled long between my desire to remain and talk with
them and my impulse to rush out and stretch myself on the cool grass;
and when I was about to take the last step, Joe, hearing my murmurs,
or else being uncomfortable himself, got up and partially dispersed
the fire. I suppose that that is Indian manners,--to defend yourself.

While lying there listening to the Indians, I amused myself with
trying to guess at their subject by their gestures, or some proper
name introduced. There can be no more startling evidence of their
being a distinct and comparatively aboriginal race than to hear this
unaltered Indian language, which the white man cannot speak nor
understand. We may suspect change and deterioration in almost every
other particular but the language which is so wholly unintelligible to
us. It took me by surprise, though I had found so many arrowheads, and
convinced me that the Indian was not the invention of historians and
poets. It was a purely wild and primitive American sound, as much as
the barking of a chickaree, and I could not understand a syllable of
it; but Paugus, had he been there, would have understood it. These
Abenakis gossiped, laughed, and jested, in the language in which
Eliot’s Indian Bible is written, the language which has been spoken in
New England who shall say how long? These were the sounds that issued
from the wigwams of this country before Columbus was born; they have
not yet died away; and, with remarkably few exceptions, the language
of their forefathers is still copious enough for them. I felt that I
stood, or rather lay, as near to the primitive man of America, that
night, as any of its discoverers ever did.

In the midst of their conversation, Joe suddenly appealed to me to
know how long Moosehead Lake was.

Meanwhile, as we lay there, Joe was making and trying his horn, to be
ready for hunting after midnight. The St. Francis Indian also amused
himself with sounding it, or rather calling through it; for the sound
is made with the voice, and not by blowing through the horn. The
latter appeared to be a speculator in moose-hides. He bought my
companion’s for two dollars and a quarter, green. Joe said that it was
worth two and a half at Oldtown. Its chief use is for moccasins. One
or two of these Indians wore them. I was told that, by a recent law of
Maine, foreigners are not allowed to kill moose there at any season;
white Americans can kill them only at a particular season, but the
Indians of Maine at all seasons. The St. Francis Indian accordingly
asked my companion for a _wighiggin_, or bill, to show, since he was a
foreigner. He lived near Sorel. I found that he could write his name
very well, Tahmunt Swasen. One Ellis, an old white man of Guilford, a
town through which we passed, not far from the south end of Moosehead,
was the most celebrated moose-hunter of those parts. Indians and
whites spoke with equal respect of him. Tahmunt said that there were
more moose here than in the Adirondack country in New York, where he
had hunted; that three years before there were a great many about, and
there were a great many now in the woods, but they did not come out to
the water. It was of no use to hunt them at midnight,--they would not
come out then. I asked Sabattis, after he came home, if the moose
never attacked him. He answered that you must not fire many times, so
as to mad him. “I fire once and hit him in the right place, and in the
morning I find him. He won’t go far. But if you keep firing, you mad
him. I fired once five bullets, every one through the heart, and he
did not mind ’em at all; it only made him more mad.” I asked him if
they did not hunt them with dogs. He said that they did so in winter,
but never in the summer, for then it was of no use; they would run
right off straight and swiftly a hundred miles.

Another Indian said that the moose, once scared, would run all day. A
dog will hang to their lips, and be carried along till he is swung
against a tree and drops off. They cannot run on a “glaze,” though
they can run in snow four feet deep; but the caribou can run on ice.
They commonly find two or three moose together. They cover themselves
with water, all but their noses, to escape flies. He had the horns of
what he called “the black moose that goes in low lands.” These spread
three or four feet. The “red moose” was another kind, “running on
mountains,” and had horns which spread six feet. Such were his
distinctions. Both can move their horns. The broad flat blades are
covered with hair, and are so soft, when the animal is alive, that you
can run a knife through them. They regard it as a good or bad sign, if
the horns turn this way or that. His caribou horns had been gnawed by
mice in his wigwam, but he thought that the horns neither of the moose
nor of the caribou were ever gnawed while the creature was alive, as
some have asserted. An Indian, whom I met after this at Oldtown, who
had carried about a bear and other animals of Maine to exhibit, told
me that thirty years ago there were not so many moose in Maine as
now; also, that the moose were very easily tamed, and would come back
when once fed, and so would deer, but not caribou. The Indians of this
neighborhood are about as familiar with the moose as we are with the
ox, having associated with them for so many generations. Father
Rasles, in his Dictionary of the Abenaki Language, gives not only a
word for the male moose (_aianbé_), and another for the female
(_hèrar_), but for the bone which is in the middle of the heart of the
moose (!), and for his left hind leg.

There were none of the small deer up there; they are more common about
the settlements. One ran into the city of Bangor two years before, and
jumped through a window of costly plate glass, and then into a mirror,
where it thought it recognized one of its kind, and out again, and so
on, leaping over the heads of the crowd, until it was captured. This
the inhabitants speak of as the deer that went a-shopping. The
last-mentioned Indian spoke of the _lunxus_ or Indian devil (which I
take to be the cougar, and not the _Gulo luscus_), as the only animal
in Maine which man need fear; it would follow a man, and did not mind
a fire. He also said that beavers were getting to be pretty numerous
again, where we went, but their skins brought so little now that it
was not profitable to hunt them.

I had put the ears of our moose, which were ten inches long, to dry
along with the moose meat over the fire, wishing to preserve them; but
Sabattis told me that I must skin and cure them, else the hair would
all come off. He observed that they made tobacco pouches of the skins
of their ears, putting the two together inside to inside. I asked him
how he got fire; and he produced a little cylindrical box of friction
matches. He also had flints and steel, and some punk, which was not
dry; I think it was from the yellow birch. “But suppose you upset, and
all these and your powder get wet.” “Then,” said he, “we wait till we
get to where there is some fire.” I produced from my pocket a little
vial, containing matches, stoppled water-tight, and told him, that,
though we were upset, we should still have some dry matches; at which
he stared without saying a word.

We lay awake thus a long while talking, and they gave us the meaning
of many Indian names of lakes and streams in the vicinity,--especially
Tahmunt. I asked the Indian name of Moosehead Lake. Joe answered
_Sebamook_; Tahmunt pronounced it _Sebemook_. When I asked what it
meant, they answered, Moosehead Lake. At length, getting my meaning,
they alternately repeated the word over to themselves, as a
philologist might,--_Sebamook_,--_Sebamook_,--now and then comparing
notes in Indian; for there was a slight difference in their dialects;
and finally Tahmunt said, “Ugh! I know,”--and he rose up partly on the
moose-hide,--“like as here is a place, and there is a place,” pointing
to different parts of the hide, “and you take water from there and
fill this, and it stays here; that is _Sebamook_.” I understood him to
mean that it was a reservoir of water which did not run away, the
river coming in on one side and passing out again near the same place,
leaving a permanent bay. Another Indian said, that it meant Large Bay
Lake, and that _Sebago_ and _Sebec_, the names of other lakes, were
kindred words, meaning large open water. Joe said that _Seboois_ meant
Little River. I observed their inability, often described, to convey
an abstract idea. Having got the idea, though indistinctly, they
groped about in vain for words with which to express it. Tahmunt
thought that the whites called it Moosehead Lake, because Mount Kineo,
which commands it, is shaped like a moose’s head, and that Moose River
was so called “because the mountain points right across the lake to
its mouth.” John Josselyn, writing about 1673, says, “Twelve miles
from Casco Bay, and passable for men and horses, is a lake, called by
the Indians Sebug. On the brink thereof, at one end, is the famous
rock, shaped like a moose deer or helk, diaphanous, and called the
Moose Rock.” He appears to have confounded Sebamook with Sebago, which
is nearer, but has no “diaphanous” rock on its shore.

I give more of their definitions, for what they are worth,--partly
_because_ they differ sometimes from the commonly received ones. They
never analyzed these words before. After long deliberation and
repeating of the word,--for it gave much trouble,--Tahmunt said that
_Chesuncook_ meant a place where many streams emptied in (?), and he
enumerated them,--Penobscot, Umbazookskus, Cusabesex, Red Brook, etc.
“_Caucomgomoc_,--what does that mean?” “What are those large white
birds?” he asked. “Gulls,” said I. “Ugh! Gull Lake.” _Pammadumcook_,
Joe thought, meant the Lake with Gravelly Bottom or Bed. _Kenduskeag_,
Tahmunt concluded at last, after asking if birches went up it,--for he
said that he was not much acquainted with it,--meant something like
this: “You go up Penobscot till you come to _Kenduskeag_, and you go
by, you don’t turn up there. That is _Kenduskeag_.” (?) Another
Indian, however, who knew the river better, told us afterward that it
meant Little Eel River. _Mattawamkeag_ was a place where two rivers
meet. (?) _Penobscot_ was Rocky River. One writer says that this was
“originally the name of only a section of the main channel, from the
head of the tide-water to a short distance above Oldtown.”

A very intelligent Indian, whom we afterward met, son-in-law of
Neptune, gave us also these other definitions: _Umbazookskus_, Meadow
Stream; _Millinoket_, Place of Islands; _Aboljacarmegus_, Smooth-Ledge
Falls (and Deadwater); _Aboljacarmeguscook_, the stream emptying in
(the last was the word he gave when I asked about _Aboljacknagesic_,
which he did not recognize); _Mattahumkeag_, Sand-Creek Pond;
_Piscataquis_, Branch of a River.

I asked our hosts what _Musketaquid_, the Indian name of Concord,
Massachusetts, meant; but they changed it to _Musketicook_, and
repeated that, and Tahmunt said that it meant Dead Stream, which is
probably true. _Cook_ appears to mean stream, and perhaps _quid_
signifies the place or ground. When I asked the meaning of the names
of two of our hills, they answered that they were another language. As
Tahmunt said that he traded at Quebec, my companion inquired the
meaning of the word _Quebec_, about which there has been so much
question. He did not know, but began to conjecture. He asked what
those great ships were called that carried soldiers. “Men-of-war,” we
answered. “Well,” he said, “when the English ships came up the river,
they could not go any farther, it was so narrow there; they must go
back,--go-back,--that’s Que-bec.” I mention this to show the value of
his authority in the other cases.

Late at night the other two Indians came home from moose-hunting, not
having been successful, aroused the fire again, lighted their pipes,
smoked awhile, took something strong to drink, and ate some moose
meat, and, finding what room they could, lay down on the moose-hides;
and thus we passed the night, two white men and four Indians, side by
side.

When I awoke in the morning the weather was drizzling. One of the
Indians was lying outside, rolled in his blanket, on the opposite side
of the fire, for want of room. Joe had neglected to awake my
companion, and he had done no hunting that night. Tahmunt was making a
cross-bar for his canoe with a singularly shaped knife, such as I have
since seen other Indians using. The blade was thin, about three
quarters of an inch wide, and eight or nine inches long, but curved
out of its plane into a hook, which he said made it more convenient to
shave with. As the Indians very far north and northwest use the same
kind of knife, I suspect that it was made according to an aboriginal
pattern, though some white artisans may use a similar one. The Indians
baked a loaf of flour bread in a spider on its edge before the fire
for their breakfast; and while my companion was making tea, I caught a
dozen sizable fishes in the Penobscot, two kinds of sucker and one
trout. After we had breakfasted by ourselves, one of our bed-fellows,
who had also breakfasted, came along, and, being invited, took a cup
of tea, and finally, taking up the common platter, licked it clean.
But he was nothing to a white fellow, a lumberer, who was continually
stuffing himself with the Indians’ moose meat, and was the butt of his
companions accordingly. He seems to have thought that it was a feast
“to eat all.” It is commonly said that the white man finally surpasses
the Indian on his own ground, and it was proved true in this case. I
cannot swear to his employment during the hours of darkness, but I saw
him at it again as soon as it was light, though he came a quarter of a
mile to his work.

The rain prevented our continuing any longer in the woods; so, giving
some of our provisions and utensils to the Indians, we took leave of
them. This being the steamer’s day, I set out for the lake at once.

I walked over the carry alone and waited at the head of the lake. An
eagle, or some other large bird, flew screaming away from its perch by
the shore at my approach. For an hour after I reached the shore there
was not a human being to be seen, and I had all that wide prospect to
myself. I thought that I heard the sound of the steamer before she
came in sight on the open lake. I noticed at the landing, when the
steamer came in, one of our bed-fellows, who had been a-moose-hunting
the night before, now very sprucely dressed in a clean white shirt and
fine black pants, a true Indian dandy, who had evidently come over the
carry to show himself to any arrivers on the north shore of Moosehead
Lake, just as New York dandies take a turn up Broadway and stand on
the steps of a hotel.

Midway the lake we took on board two manly-looking middle-aged men,
with their batteau, who had been exploring for six weeks as far as the
Canada line, and had let their beards grow. They had the skin of a
beaver, which they had recently caught, stretched on an oval hoop,
though the fur was not good at that season. I talked with one of them,
telling him that I had come all this distance partly to see where the
white pine, the Eastern stuff of which our houses are built, grew, but
that on this and a previous excursion into another part of Maine I had
found it a scarce tree; and I asked him where I must look for it. With
a smile, he answered that he could hardly tell me. However, he said
that he had found enough to employ two teams the next winter in a
place where there was thought to be none left. What was considered a
“tip-top” tree now was not looked at twenty years ago, when he first
went into the business; but they succeeded very well now with what was
considered quite inferior timber then. The explorer used to cut into a
tree higher and higher up, to see if it was false-hearted, and if
there was a rotten heart as big as his arm, he let it alone; but now
they cut such a tree and sawed it all around the rot, and it made the
very best of boards, for in such a case they were never shaky.

One connected with lumbering operations at Bangor told me that the
largest pine belonging to his firm, cut the previous winter, “scaled”
in the woods four thousand five hundred feet, and was worth ninety
dollars in the log at the Bangor boom in Oldtown. They cut a road
three and a half miles long for this tree alone. He thought that the
principal locality for the white pine that came down the Penobscot
now was at the head of the East Branch and the Allegash, about Webster
Stream and Eagle and Chamberlain lakes. Much timber has been stolen
from the public lands. (Pray, what kind of forest-warden is the Public
itself?) I heard of one man who, having discovered some particularly
fine trees just within the boundaries of the public lands, and not
daring to employ an accomplice, cut them down, and by means of block
and tackle, without cattle, tumbled them into a stream, and so
succeeded in getting off with them without the least assistance.
Surely, stealing pine trees in this way is not so mean as robbing
hen-roosts.

We reached Monson that night, and the next day rode to Bangor, all the
way in the rain again, varying our route a little. Some of the taverns
on this road, which were particularly dirty, were plainly in a
transition state from the camp to the house.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next forenoon we went to Oldtown. One slender old Indian on the
Oldtown shore, who recognized my companion, was full of mirth and
gestures, like a Frenchman. A Catholic priest crossed to the island in
the same batteau with us. The Indian houses are framed, mostly of one
story, and in rows one behind another, at the south end of the island,
with a few scattered ones. I counted about forty, not including the
church and what my companion called the council-house. The last, which
I suppose is their town-house, was regularly framed and shingled like
the rest. There were several of two stories, quite neat, with front
yards inclosed, and one at least had green blinds. Here and there
were moose-hides stretched and drying about them. There were no
cart-paths, nor tracks of horses, but footpaths; very little land
cultivated, but an abundance of weeds, indigenous and naturalized;
more introduced weeds than useful vegetables, as the Indian is said to
cultivate the vices rather than the virtues of the white man. Yet this
village was cleaner than I expected, far cleaner than such Irish
villages as I have seen. The children were not particularly ragged nor
dirty. The little boys met us with bow in hand and arrow on string,
and cried, “Put up a cent.” Verily, the Indian has but a feeble hold
on his bow now; but the curiosity of the white man is insatiable, and
from the first he has been eager to witness this forest
accomplishment. That elastic piece of wood with its feathered dart, so
sure to be unstrung by contact with civilization, will serve for the
type, the coat-of-arms of the savage. Alas for the Hunter Race! the
white man has driven off their game, and substituted a cent in its
place. I saw an Indian woman washing at the water’s edge. She stood on
a rock, and, after dipping the clothes in the stream, laid them on the
rock, and beat them with a short club. In the graveyard, which was
crowded with graves, and overrun with weeds, I noticed an inscription
in Indian, painted on a wooden grave-board. There was a large wooden
cross on the island.

Since my companion knew him, we called on Governor Neptune, who lived
in a little “ten-footer,” one of the humblest of them all.
Personalities are allowable in speaking of public men, therefore I
will give the particulars of our visit. He was abed. When we entered
the room, which was one half of the house, he was sitting on the side
of the bed. There was a clock hanging in one corner. He had on a black
frock coat, and black pants, much worn, white cotton shirt, socks, a
red silk handkerchief about his neck, and a straw hat. His black hair
was only slightly grayed. He had very broad cheeks, and his features
were decidedly and refreshingly different from those of any of the
upstart Native American party whom I have seen. He was no darker than
many old white men. He told me that he was eighty-nine; but he was
going a-moose-hunting that fall, as he had been the previous one.
Probably his companions did the hunting. We saw various squaws dodging
about. One sat on the bed by his side and helped him out with his
stories. They were remarkably corpulent, with smooth, round faces,
apparently full of good-humor. Certainly our much-abused climate had
not dried up their adipose substance. While we were there,--for we
stayed a good while,--one went over to Oldtown, returned and cut out a
dress, which she had bought, on another bed in the room. The Governor
said that “he could remember when the moose were much larger; that
they did not use to be in the woods, but came out of the water, as all
deer did. Moose was whale once. Away down Merrimack way, a whale came
ashore in a shallow bay. Sea went out and left him, and he came up on
land a moose. What made them know he was a whale was, that at first,
before he began to run in bushes, he had no bowels inside, but”--and
then the squaw who sat on the bed by his side, as the Governor’s aid,
and had been putting in a word now and then and confirming the story,
asked me what we called that soft thing we find along the seashore.
“Jelly-fish,” I suggested. “Yes,” said he, “no bowels, but
jelly-fish.”

There may be some truth in what he said about the moose growing larger
formerly; for the quaint John Josselyn, a physician who spent many
years in this very district of Maine in the seventeenth century, says
that the tips of their horns “are sometimes found to be two fathoms
asunder,”--and he is particular to tell us that a fathom is six
feet,--“and [they are] in height, from the toe of the fore foot to the
pitch of the shoulder, twelve foot, both which hath been taken by some
of my sceptique readers to be monstrous lies;” and he adds, “There are
certain transcendentia in every creature, which are the indelible
character of God, and which discover God.” This is a greater dilemma
to be caught in than is presented by the cranium of the young Bechuana
ox, apparently another of the _transcendentia_, in the collection of
Thomas Steel, Upper Brook Street, London, whose “entire length of
horn, from tip to tip, along the curve, is 13 ft. 5 in.; distance
(straight) between the tips of the horns, 8 ft. 8½ in.” However, the
size both of the moose and the cougar, as I have found, is generally
rather underrated than overrated, and I should be inclined to add to
the popular estimate a part of what I subtracted from Josselyn’s.

But we talked mostly with the Governor’s son-in-law, a very sensible
Indian; and the Governor, being so old and deaf, permitted himself to
be ignored, while we asked questions about him. The former said that
there were two political parties among them,--one in favor of schools,
and the other opposed to them, or rather they did not wish to resist
the priest, who was opposed to them. The first had just prevailed at
the election and sent their man to the legislature. Neptune and
Aitteon and he himself were in favor of schools. He said, “If Indians
got learning, they would keep their money.” When we asked where Joe’s
father, Aitteon, was, he knew that he must be at Lincoln, though he
was about going a-moose-hunting, for a messenger had just gone to him
there to get his signature to some papers. I asked Neptune if they had
any of the old breed of dogs yet. He answered, “Yes.” “But that,” said
I, pointing to one that had just come in, “is a Yankee dog.” He
assented. I said that he did not look like a good one. “Oh, yes!” he
said, and he told, with much gusto, how, the year before, he had
caught and held by the throat a wolf. A very small black puppy rushed
into the room and made at the Governor’s feet, as he sat in his
stockings with his legs dangling from the bedside. The Governor rubbed
his hands and dared him to come on, entering into the sport with
spirit. Nothing more that was significant transpired, to my knowledge,
during this interview. This was the first time that I ever called on a
governor, but, as I did not ask for an office, I can speak of it with
the more freedom.

An Indian who was making canoes behind a house, looking up pleasantly
from his work,--for he knew my companion,--said that his name was Old
John Pennyweight. I had heard of him long before, and I inquired after
one of his contemporaries, Joe Four-pence-ha’penny; but alas! he no
longer circulates. I made a faithful study of canoe-building, and I
thought that I should like to serve an apprenticeship at that trade
for one season, going into the woods for bark with my “boss,” making
the canoe there, and returning in it at last.

While the batteau was coming over to take us off, I picked up some
fragments of arrowheads on the shore, and one broken stone chisel,
which were greater novelties to the Indians than to me. After this, on
Old Fort Hill, at the bend of the Penobscot, three miles above Bangor,
looking for the site of an Indian town which some think stood
thereabouts, I found more arrowheads, and two little dark and
crumbling fragments of Indian earthenware, in the ashes of their
fires. The Indians on the island appeared to live quite happily and to
be well treated by the inhabitants of Oldtown.

We visited Veazie’s mills, just below the island, where were sixteen
sets of saws,--some gang saws, sixteen in a gang, not to mention
circular saws. On one side, they were hauling the logs up an inclined
plane by water-power; on the other, passing out the boards, planks,
and sawed timber, and forming them into rafts. The trees were
literally drawn and quartered there. In forming the rafts, they use
the lower three feet of hard-wood saplings, which have a crooked and
knobbed butt-end, for bolts, passing them up through holes bored in
the corners and sides of the rafts, and keying them. In another
apartment they were making fence-slats, such as stand all over New
England, out of odds and ends; and it may be that I saw where the
picket-fence behind which I dwell at home came from. I was surprised
to find a boy collecting the long edgings of boards as fast as cut
off, and thrusting them down a hopper, where they were ground up
beneath the mill, that they might be out of the way; otherwise they
accumulate in vast piles by the side of the building, increasing the
danger from fire, or, floating off, they obstruct the river. This was
not only a sawmill, but a gristmill, then. The inhabitants of Oldtown,
Stillwater, and Bangor cannot suffer for want of kindling stuff,
surely. Some get their living exclusively by picking up the driftwood
and selling it by the cord in the winter. In one place I saw where an
Irishman, who keeps a team and a man for the purpose, had covered the
shore for a long distance with regular piles, and I was told that he
had sold twelve hundred dollars’ worth in a year. Another, who lived
by the shore, told me that he got all the material of his outbuildings
and fences from the river; and in that neighborhood I perceived that
this refuse wood was frequently used instead of sand to fill hollows
with, being apparently cheaper than dirt.

I got my first clear view of Ktaadn, on this excursion, from a hill
about two miles northwest of Bangor, whither I went for this purpose.
After this I was ready to return to Massachusetts.

       *       *       *       *       *

Humboldt has written an interesting chapter on the primitive forest,
but no one has yet described for me the difference between that wild
forest which once occupied our oldest townships, and the tame one
which I find there to-day. It is a difference which would be worth
attending to. The civilized man not only clears the land permanently
to a great extent, and cultivates open fields, but he tames and
cultivates to a certain extent the forest itself. By his mere
presence, almost, he changes the nature of the trees as no other
creature does. The sun and air, and perhaps fire, have been
introduced, and grain raised where it stands. It has lost its wild,
damp, and shaggy look; the countless fallen and decaying trees are
gone, and consequently that thick coat of moss which lived on them is
gone too. The earth is comparatively bare and smooth and dry. The most
primitive places left with us are the swamps, where the spruce still
grows shaggy with usnea. The surface of the ground in the Maine woods
is everywhere spongy and saturated with moisture. I noticed that the
plants which cover the forest floor there are such as are commonly
confined to swamps with us,--the _Clintonia borealis_, orchises,
creeping snowberry, and others; and the prevailing aster there is the
_Aster acuminatus_, which with us grows in damp and shady woods. The
asters _cordifolius_ and _macrophyllus_ also are common, asters of
little or no color, and sometimes without petals. I saw no soft,
spreading, second-growth white pines, with smooth bark, acknowledging
the presence of the woodchopper, but even the young white pines were
all tall and slender rough-barked trees.

Those Maine woods differ essentially from ours. There you are never
reminded that the wilderness which you are threading is, after all,
some villager’s familiar wood-lot, some widow’s thirds, from which her
ancestors have sledded fuel for generations, minutely described in
some old deed which is recorded, of which the owner has got a plan,
too, and old bound-marks may be found every forty rods, if you will
search. ’Tis true, the map may inform you that you stand on land
granted by the State to some academy, or on Bingham’s purchase; but
these names do not impose on you, for you see nothing to remind you of
the academy or of Bingham. What were the “forests” of England to
these? One writer relates of the Isle of Wight, that in Charles the
Second’s time “there were woods in the island so complete and
extensive, that it is said a squirrel might have traveled in several
parts many leagues together on the top of the trees.” If it were not
for the rivers (and he might go round their heads), a squirrel could
here travel thus the whole breadth of the country.

We have as yet had no adequate account of a primitive pine forest. I
have noticed that in a physical atlas lately published in
Massachusetts, and used in our schools, the “wood land” of North
America is limited almost solely to the valleys of the Ohio and some
of the Great Lakes, and the great pine forests of the globe are not
represented. In our vicinity, for instance, New Brunswick and Maine
are exhibited as bare as Greenland. It may be that the children of
Greenville, at the foot of Moosehead Lake, who surely are not likely
to be scared by an owl, are referred to the valley of the Ohio to get
an idea of a forest; but they would not know what to do with their
moose, bear, caribou, beaver, etc., there. Shall we leave it to an
Englishman to inform us, that “in North America, both in the United
States and Canada, are the most extensive pine forests in the world”?
The greater part of New Brunswick, the northern half of Maine, and
adjacent parts of Canada, not to mention the northeastern part of New
York and other tracts farther off, are still covered with an almost
unbroken pine forest.

But Maine, perhaps, will soon be where Massachusetts is. A good part
of her territory is already as bare and commonplace as much of our
neighborhood, and her villages generally are not so well shaded as
ours. We seem to think that the earth must go through the ordeal of
sheep-pasturage before it is habitable by man. Consider Nahant, the
resort of all the fashion of Boston,--which peninsula I saw but
indistinctly in the twilight, when I steamed by it, and thought that
it was unchanged since the discovery. John Smith described it in 1614
as “the Mattahunts, two pleasant isles of groves, gardens, and
cornfields;” and others tell us that it was once well wooded, and even
furnished timber to build the wharves of Boston. Now it is difficult
to make a tree grow there, and the visitor comes away with a vision of
Mr. Tudor’s ugly fences, a rod high, designed to protect a few pear
shrubs. And what are we coming to in our Middlesex towns? A bald,
staring town-house, or meeting-house, and a bare liberty-pole, as
leafless as it is fruitless, for all I can see. We shall be obliged to
import the timber for the last, hereafter, or splice such sticks as we
have. And our ideas of liberty are equally mean with these. The very
willow-rows lopped every three years for fuel or powder, and every
sizable pine and oak, or other forest tree, cut down within the memory
of man! As if individual speculators were to be allowed to export the
clouds out of the sky, or the stars out of the firmament, one by one.
We shall be reduced to gnaw the very crust of the earth for
nutriment.

They have even descended to smaller game. They have lately, as I hear,
invented a machine for chopping up huckleberry bushes fine, and so
converting them into fuel!--bushes which, for fruit alone, are worth
all the pear trees in the country many times over. (I can give you a
list of the three best kinds, if you want it.) At this rate, we shall
all be obliged to let our beards grow at least, if only to hide the
nakedness of the land and make a sylvan appearance. The farmer
sometimes talks of “brushing up,” simply as if bare ground looked
better than clothed ground, than that which wears its natural
vesture,--as if the wild hedges, which, perhaps, are more to his
children than his whole farm beside, were dirt. I know of one who
deserves to be called the Tree-hater, and, perhaps, to leave this for
a new patronymic to his children. You would think that he had been
warned by an oracle that he would be killed by the fall of a tree, and
so was resolved to anticipate them. The journalists think that they
cannot say too much in favor of such “improvements” in husbandry; it
is a safe theme, like piety; but as for the beauty of one of these
“model farms,” I would as lief see a patent churn and a man turning
it. They are, commonly, places merely where somebody is making money,
it may be counterfeiting. The virtue of making two blades of grass
grow where only one grew before does not begin to be superhuman.

Nevertheless, it was a relief to get back to our smooth but still
varied landscape. For a permanent residence, it seemed to me that
there could be no comparison between this and the wilderness,
necessary as the latter is for a resource and a background, the raw
material of all our civilization. The wilderness is simple, almost to
barrenness. The partially cultivated country it is which chiefly has
inspired, and will continue to inspire, the strains of poets, such as
compose the mass of any literature. Our woods are sylvan, and their
inhabitants woodmen and rustics; that is _selvaggia_, and the
inhabitants are _salvages_. A civilized man, using the word in the
ordinary sense, with his ideas and associations, must at length pine
there, like a cultivated plant, which clasps its fibres about a crude
and undissolved mass of peat. At the extreme north, the voyagers are
obliged to dance and act plays for employment. Perhaps our own woods
and fields,--in the best wooded towns, where we need not quarrel about
the huckleberries,--with the primitive swamps scattered here and there
in their midst, but not prevailing over them, are the perfection of
parks and groves, gardens, arbors, paths, vistas, and landscapes. They
are the natural consequence of what art and refinement we as a people
have,--the common which each village possesses, its true paradise, in
comparison with which all elaborately and willfully wealth-constructed
parks and gardens are paltry imitations. Or, I would rather say, such
_were_ our groves twenty years ago. The poet’s, commonly, is not a
logger’s path, but a woodman’s. The logger and pioneer have preceded
him, like John the Baptist; eaten the wild honey, it may be, but the
locusts also; banished decaying wood and the spongy mosses which feed
on it, and built hearths and humanized Nature for him.

But there are spirits of a yet more liberal culture, to whom no
simplicity is barren. There are not only stately pines, but fragile
flowers, like the orchises, commonly described as too delicate for
cultivation, which derive their nutriment from the crudest mass of
peat. These remind us, that, not only for strength, but for beauty,
the poet must, from time to time, travel the logger’s path and the
Indian’s trail, to drink at some new and more bracing fountain of the
Muses, far in the recesses of the wilderness.

The kings of England formerly had their forests “to hold the king’s
game,” for sport or food, sometimes destroying villages to create or
extend them; and I think that they were impelled by a true instinct.
Why should not we, who have renounced the king’s authority, have our
national preserves, where no villages need be destroyed, in which the
bear and panther, and some even of the hunter race, may still exist,
and not be “civilized off the face of the earth,”--our forests, not to
hold the king’s game merely, but to hold and preserve the king himself
also, the lord of creation,--not for idle sport or food, but for
inspiration and our own true recreation? or shall we, like the
villains, grub them all up, poaching on our own national domains?




THE ALLEGASH AND EAST BRANCH


I started on my third excursion to the Maine woods Monday, July 20,
1857, with one companion, arriving at Bangor the next day at noon. We
had hardly left the steamer, when we passed Molly Molasses in the
street. As long as she lives, the Penobscots may be considered extant
as a tribe. The succeeding morning, a relative of mine, who is well
acquainted with the Penobscot Indians, and who had been my companion
in my two previous excursions into the Maine woods, took me in his
wagon to Oldtown, to assist me in obtaining an Indian for this
expedition. We were ferried across to the Indian Island in a batteau.
The ferryman’s boy had got the key to it, but the father, who was a
blacksmith, after a little hesitation cut the chain with a cold-chisel
on the rock. He told me that the Indians were nearly all gone to the
seaboard and to Massachusetts, partly on account of the smallpox--of
which they are very much afraid--having broken out in Oldtown, and it
was doubtful whether we should find a suitable one at home. The old
chief Neptune, however, was there still. The first man we saw on the
island was an Indian named Joseph Polis, whom my relative had known
from a boy, and now addressed familiarly as “Joe.” He was dressing a
deer-skin in his yard. The skin was spread over a slanting log, and he
was scraping it with a stick held by both hands. He was stoutly built,
perhaps a little above the middle height, with a broad face, and, as
others said, perfect Indian features and complexion. His house was a
two-story white one, with blinds, the best-looking that I noticed
there, and as good as an average one on a New England village street.
It was surrounded by a garden and fruit-trees, single cornstalks
standing thinly amid the beans. We asked him if he knew any good
Indian who would like to go into the woods with us, that is, to the
Allegash Lakes, by way of Moosehead, and return by the East Branch of
the Penobscot, or vary from this as we pleased. To which he answered,
out of that strange remoteness in which the Indian ever dwells to the
white man, “Me like to go myself; me wants to get some moose;” and
kept on scraping the skin. His brother had been into the woods with my
relative only a year or two before, and the Indian now inquired what
the latter had done to him, that he did not come back, for he had not
seen nor heard from him since.

At length we got round to the more interesting topic again. The
ferryman had told us that all the best Indians were gone except Polis,
who was one of the aristocracy. He to be sure would be the best man we
could have, but if he went at all would want a great price; so we did
not expect to get him. Polis asked at first two dollars a day, but
agreed to go for a dollar and a half, and fifty cents a week for his
canoe. He would come to Bangor with his canoe by the seven o’clock
train that evening,--we might depend on him. We thought ourselves
lucky to secure the services of this man, who was known to be
particularly steady and trustworthy.

I spent the afternoon with my companion, who had remained in Bangor,
in preparing for our expedition, purchasing provisions, hard-bread,
pork, coffee, sugar, etc., and some india-rubber clothing.

We had at first thought of exploring the St. John from its source to
its mouth, or else to go up the Penobscot by its East Branch to the
lakes of the St. John, and return by way of Chesuncook and Moosehead.
We had finally inclined to the last route, only reversing the order of
it, going by way of Moosehead, and returning by the Penobscot,
otherwise it would have been all the way upstream and taken twice as
long.

At evening the Indian arrived in the cars, and I led the way while he
followed me three quarters of a mile to my friend’s house, with the
canoe on his head. I did not know the exact route myself, but steered
by the lay of the land, as I do in Boston, and I tried to enter into
conversation with him, but as he was puffing under the weight of his
canoe, not having the usual apparatus for carrying it, but, above all,
was an Indian, I might as well have been thumping on the bottom of his
birch the while. In answer to the various observations which I made by
way of breaking the ice, he only grunted vaguely from beneath his
canoe once or twice, so that I knew he was there.

Early the next morning (July 23) the stage called for us, the Indian
having breakfasted with us, and already placed the baggage in the
canoe to see how it would go. My companion and I had each a large
knapsack as full as it would hold, and we had two large india-rubber
bags which held our provision and utensils. As for the Indian, all the
baggage he had, beside his axe and gun, was a blanket, which he
brought loose in his hand. However, he had laid in a store of tobacco
and a new pipe for the excursion. The canoe was securely lashed
diagonally across the top of the stage, with bits of carpet tucked
under the edge to prevent its chafing. The very accommodating driver
appeared as much accustomed to carrying canoes in this way as
bandboxes.

At the Bangor House we took in four men bound on a hunting excursion,
one of the men going as cook. They had a dog, a middling-sized
brindled cur, which ran by the side of the stage, his master showing
his head and whistling from time to time; but after we had gone about
three miles the dog was suddenly missing, and two of the party went
back for him, while the stage, which was full of passengers, waited. I
suggested that he had taken the back track for the Bangor House. At
length one man came back, while the other kept on. This whole party of
hunters declared their intention to stop till the dog was found; but
the very obliging driver was ready to wait a spell longer. He was
evidently unwilling to lose so many passengers, who would have taken a
private conveyance, or perhaps the other line of stages, the next day.
Such progress did we make, with a journey of over sixty miles to be
accomplished that day, and a rain-storm just setting in. We discussed
the subject of dogs and their instincts till it was threadbare, while
we waited there, and the scenery of the suburbs of Bangor is still
distinctly impressed on my memory. After full half an hour the man
returned, leading the dog by a rope. He had overtaken him just as he
was entering the Bangor House. He was then tied on the top of the
stage, but being wet and cold, several times in the course of the
journey he jumped off, and I saw him dangling by his neck. This dog
was depended on to stop bears with. He had already stopped one
somewhere in New Hampshire, and I can testify that he stopped a stage
in Maine. This party of four probably paid nothing for the dog’s ride,
nor for his run, while our party of three paid two dollars--and were
charged four--for the light canoe which lay still on the top.

It soon began to rain, and grew more and more stormy as the day
advanced. This was the third time that I had passed over this route,
and it rained steadily each time all day. We accordingly saw but
little of the country. The stage was crowded all the way, and I
attended the more to my fellow-travelers. If you had looked inside
this coach you would have thought that we were prepared to run the
gauntlet of a band of robbers, for there were four or five guns on the
front seat, the Indian’s included, and one or two on the back one,
each man holding his darling in his arms. One had a gun which carried
twelve to a pound. It appeared that this party of hunters was going
our way, but much farther,--down the Allegash and St. John, and thence
up some other stream, and across to the Restigouche and the Bay of
Chaleur, to be gone six weeks. They had canoes, axes, and supplies
deposited some distance along the route. They carried flour, and were
to have new bread made every day. Their leader was a handsome man
about thirty years old, of good height, but not apparently robust, of
gentlemanly address and faultless toilet; such a one as you might
expect to meet on Broadway. In fact, in the popular sense of the word,
he was the most “gentlemanly” appearing man in the stage, or that we
saw on the road. He had a fair white complexion, as if he had always
lived in the shade, and an intellectual face, and with his quiet
manners might have passed for a divinity student who had seen
something of the world. I was surprised to find, on talking with him
in the course of the day’s journey, that he was a hunter at all,--for
his gun was not much exposed,--and yet more to find that he was
probably the chief white hunter of Maine, and was known all along the
road. He had also hunted in some of the States farther south and west.
I afterwards heard him spoken of as one who could endure a great deal
of exposure and fatigue without showing the effect of it; and he could
not only use guns, but make them, being himself a gunsmith. In the
spring, he had saved a stage-driver and two passengers from drowning
in the backwater of the Piscataquis in Foxcroft on this road, having
swum ashore in the freezing water and made a raft and got them
off,--though the horses were drowned,--at great risk to himself, while
the only other man who could swim withdrew to the nearest house to
prevent freezing. He could now ride over this road for nothing. He
knew our man, and remarked that we had a good Indian there, a good
hunter; adding that he was said to be worth $6000. The Indian also
knew him, and said to me, “the great hunter.”

The former told me that he practiced a kind of still-hunting, new or
uncommon in those parts; that the caribou, for instance, fed round and
round the same meadow, returning on the same path, and he lay in wait
for them.

The Indian sat on the front seat, saying nothing to anybody, with a
stolid expression of face, as if barely awake to what was going on.
Again I was struck by the peculiar vagueness of his replies when
addressed in the stage, or at the taverns. He really never said
anything on such occasions. He was merely stirred up, like a wild
beast, and passively muttered some insignificant response. His answer,
in such cases, was never the consequence of a positive mental energy,
but vague as a puff of smoke, suggesting no _responsibility_, and if
you considered it, you would find that you had got nothing out of him.
This was instead of the conventional palaver and smartness of the
white man, and equally profitable. Most get no more than this out of
the Indian, and pronounce him stolid accordingly. I was surprised to
see what a foolish and impertinent style a Maine man, a passenger,
used in addressing him, as if he were a child, which only made his
eyes glisten a little. A tipsy Canadian asked him at a tavern, in a
drawling tone, if he smoked, to which he answered with an indefinite
“Yes.” “Won’t you lend me your pipe a little while?” asked the other.
He replied, looking straight by the man’s head, with a face singularly
vacant to all neighboring interests, “Me got no pipe;” yet I had seen
him put a new one, with a supply of tobacco, into his pocket that
morning.

Our little canoe, so neat and strong, drew a favorable criticism from
all the wiseacres among the tavern loungers along the road. By the
roadside, close to the wheels, I noticed a splendid great purple
fringed orchis with a spike as big as an epilobium, which I would fain
have stopped the stage to pluck, but as this had never been known to
stop a bear, like the cur on the stage, the driver would probably have
thought it a waste of time.

When we reached the lake, about half past eight in the evening, it was
still steadily raining, and harder than before; and, in that fresh,
cool atmosphere, the hylodes were peeping and the toads ringing about
the lake universally, as in the spring with us. It was as if the
season had revolved backward two or three months, or I had arrived at
the abode of perpetual spring.

We had expected to go upon the lake at once, and, after paddling up
two or three miles, to camp on one of its islands; but on account of
the steady and increasing rain, we decided to go to one of the taverns
for the night, though, for my own part, I should have preferred to
camp out.

About four o’clock the next morning (July 24), though it was quite
cloudy, accompanied by the landlord to the water’s edge, in the
twilight, we launched our canoe from a rock on the Moosehead Lake.
When I was there four years before, we had a rather small canoe for
three persons, and I had thought that this time I would get a larger
one, but the present one was even smaller than that. It was 18¼ feet
long by 2 feet 6½ inches wide in the middle, and one foot deep within,
so I found by measurement, and I judged that it would weigh not far
from eighty pounds. The Indian had recently made it himself, and its
smallness was partly compensated for by its newness, as well as
stanchness and solidity, it being made of very thick bark and ribs.
Our baggage weighed about 166 pounds, so that the canoe carried about
600 pounds in all, or the weight of four men. The principal part of
the baggage was, as usual, placed in the middle of the broadest part,
while we stowed ourselves in the chinks and crannies that were left
before and behind it, where there was no room to extend our legs, the
loose articles being tucked into the ends. The canoe was thus as
closely packed as a market-basket, and might possibly have been upset
without spilling any of its contents. The Indian sat on a cross-bar in
the stern, but we flat on the bottom, with a splint or chip behind our
backs, to protect them from the cross-bar, and one of us commonly
paddled with the Indian. He foresaw that we should not want a pole
till we reached the Umbazookskus River, it being either deadwater or
down-stream so far, and he was prepared to make a sail of his blanket
in the bows if the wind should be fair; but we never used it.

It had rained more or less the four previous days, so that we thought
we might count on some fair weather. The wind was at first
southwesterly.

Paddling along the eastern side of the lake in the still of the
morning, we soon saw a few sheldrakes, which the Indian called
_Shecorways_, and some peetweets, _Naramekechus_, on the rocky shore;
we also saw and heard loons, _Medawisla_, which he said was a sign of
wind. It was inspiriting to hear the regular dip of the paddles, as if
they were our fins or flippers, and to realize that we were at length
fairly embarked. We who had felt strangely as stage-passengers and
tavern-lodgers were suddenly naturalized there and presented with the
freedom of the lakes and the woods. Having passed the small rocky
isles within two or three miles of the foot of the lake, we had a
short consultation respecting our course, and inclined to the western
shore for the sake of its lee; for otherwise, if the wind should rise,
it would be impossible for us to reach Mount Kineo, which is about
midway up the lake on the east side, but at its narrowest part, where
probably we could recross if we took the western side. The wind is the
chief obstacle to crossing the lakes, especially in so small a canoe.
The Indian remarked several times that he did not like to cross the
lakes “in littlum canoe,” but nevertheless, “just as we say, it made
no odds to him.” He sometimes took a straight course up the middle of
the lake between Sugar and Deer islands, when there was no wind.

Measured on the map, Moosehead Lake is twelve miles wide at the widest
place, and thirty miles long in a direct line, but longer as it lies.
The captain of the steamer called it thirty-eight miles as he steered.
We should probably go about forty. The Indian said that it was called
“_Mspame_, because large water.” Squaw Mountain rose darkly on our
left, near the outlet of the Kennebec, and what the Indian called
Spencer Bay Mountain, on the east, and already we saw Mount Kineo
before us in the north.

Paddling near the shore, we frequently heard the _pe-pe_ of the
olive-sided flycatcher, also the wood pewee, and the kingfisher, thus
early in the morning. The Indian reminding us that he could not work
without eating, we stopped to breakfast on the main shore, southwest
of Deer Island, at a spot where the _Mimulus ringens_ grew abundantly.
We took out our bags, and the Indian made a fire under a very large
bleached log, using white pine bark from a stump, though he said that
hemlock was better, and kindling with canoe birch bark. Our table was
a large piece of freshly peeled birch bark, laid wrong side up, and
our breakfast consisted of hard-bread, fried pork, and strong coffee,
well sweetened, in which we did not miss the milk.

While we were getting breakfast, a brood of twelve black dippers, half
grown, came paddling by within three or four rods, not at all alarmed;
and they loitered about as long as we stayed, now huddled close
together, within a circle of eighteen inches in diameter, now moving
off in a long line, very cunningly. Yet they bore a certain proportion
to the great Moosehead Lake on whose bosom they floated, and I felt as
if they were under its protection.

Looking northward from this place it appeared as if we were entering a
large bay, and we did not know whether we should be obliged to diverge
from our course and keep outside a point which we saw, or should find
a passage between this and the mainland. I consulted my map and used
my glass, and the Indian did the same, but we could not find our place
exactly on the map, nor could we detect any break in the shore. When I
asked the Indian the way, he answered, “I don’t know,” which I thought
remarkable, since he had said that he was familiar with the lake; but
it appeared that he had never been up this side. It was misty dog-day
weather, and we had already penetrated a smaller bay of the same kind,
and knocked the bottom out of it, though we had been obliged to pass
over a small bar, between an island and the shore, where there was
but just breadth and depth enough to float the canoe, and the
Indian had observed, “Very easy makum bridge here,” but now it seemed
that, if we held on, we should be fairly embayed. Presently, however,
though we had not stirred, the mist lifted somewhat, and revealed a
break in the shore northward, showing that the point was a portion of
Deer Island, and that our course lay westward of it. Where it had
seemed a continuous shore even through a glass, one portion was now
seen by the naked eye to be much more distant than the other which
overlapped it, merely by the greater thickness of the mist which still
rested on it, while the nearer or island portion was comparatively
bare and green. The line of separation was very distinct, and the
Indian immediately remarked, “I guess you and I go there,--I guess
there’s room for my canoe there.” This was his common expression
instead of saying “we.” He never addressed us by our names, though
curious to know how they were spelled and what they meant, while we
called him Polis. He had already guessed very accurately at our ages,
and said that he was forty-eight.

  [Illustration: _Squaw Mountain, Moosehead Lake_]

After breakfast I emptied the melted pork that was left into the lake,
making what sailors call a “slick,” and watching to see how much it
spread over and smoothed the agitated surface. The Indian looked at it
a moment and said, “That make hard paddlum thro’; hold ’em canoe. So
say old times.”

We hastily reloaded, putting the dishes loose in the bows, that they
might be at hand when wanted, and set out again. The western shore,
near which we paddled along, rose gently to a considerable height, and
was everywhere densely covered with the forest, in which was a large
proportion of hard wood to enliven and relieve the fir and spruce.

The Indian said that the usnea lichen which we saw hanging from the
trees was called _chorchorque_. We asked him the names of several
small birds which we heard this morning. The wood thrush, which was
quite common, and whose note he imitated, he said was called
_Adelungquamooktum_; but sometimes he could not tell the name of some
small bird which I heard and knew, but he said, “I tell all the birds
about here,--this country; can’t tell littlum noise, but I see ’em,
then I can tell.”

I observed that I should like to go to school to him to learn his
language, living on the Indian island the while; could not that be
done? “Oh, yer,” he replied, “good many do so.” I asked how long he
thought it would take. He said one week. I told him that in this
voyage I would tell him all I knew, and he should tell me all he knew,
to which he readily agreed.

The birds sang quite as in our woods,--the red-eye, redstart, veery,
wood pewee, etc., but we saw no bluebirds in all our journey, and
several told me in Bangor that they had not the bluebird there. Mount
Kineo, which was generally visible, though occasionally concealed by
islands or the mainland in front, had a level bar of cloud concealing
its summit, and all the mountain-tops about the lake were cut off at
the same height. Ducks of various kinds--sheldrake, summer ducks,
etc.--were quite common, and ran over the water before us as fast as a
horse trots. Thus they were soon out of sight.

The Indian asked the meaning of _reality_, as near as I could make out
the word, which he said one of us had used; also of “_interrent_,”
that is, intelligent. I observed that he could rarely sound the letter
r, but used l, as also r for l sometimes; as _load_ for road,
_pickelel_ for pickerel, _Soogle_ Island for Sugar Island, _lock_ for
rock, etc. Yet he trilled the _r_ pretty well after me.

He generally added the syllable _um_ to his words when he could,--as
paddl_um_, etc. I have once heard a Chippeway lecture, who made his
audience laugh unintentionally by putting _m_ after the word _too_,
which word he brought in continually and unnecessarily, accenting and
prolonging this sound into _m-ah_ sonorously, as if it were necessary
to bring in so much of his vernacular as a relief to his organs, a
compensation for twisting his jaws about, and putting his tongue into
every corner of his mouth, as he complained that he was obliged to do
when he spoke English. There was so much of the Indian accent
resounding through his English, so much of the “bow-arrow tang” as my
neighbor calls it, and I have no doubt that word seemed to him the
best pronounced. It was a wild and refreshing sound, like that of the
wind among the pines, or the booming of the surf on the shore.

I asked him the meaning of the word _Musketicook_, the Indian name of
Concord River. He pronounced it _Muskéeticook_, emphasizing the second
syllable with a peculiar guttural sound, and said that it meant
“deadwater,” which it is, and in this definition he agreed exactly
with the St. Francis Indian with whom I talked in 1853.

On a point on the mainland some miles southwest of Sand-bar Island,
where we landed to stretch our legs and look at the vegetation, going
inland a few steps, I discovered a fire still glowing beneath its
ashes, where somebody had breakfasted, and a bed of twigs prepared for
the following night. So I knew not only that they had just left, but
that they designed to return, and by the breadth of the bed that there
was more than one in the party. You might have gone within six feet of
these signs without seeing them. There grew the beaked hazel, the only
hazel which I saw on this journey, the diervilla, rue seven feet high,
which was very abundant on all the lake and river shores, and _Cornus
stolonifera_, or red osier, whose bark, the Indian said, was good to
smoke, and was called _maquoxigill_, “tobacco before white people came
to this country, Indian tobacco.”

The Indian was always very careful in approaching the shore, lest he
should injure his canoe on the rocks, letting it swing round slowly
sidewise, and was still more particular that we should not step into
it on shore, nor till it floated free, and then should step gently
lest we should open its seams, or make a hole in the bottom. He said
that he would tell us when to jump.

Soon after leaving this point we passed the Kennebec, or outlet of the
lake, and heard the falls at the dam there, for even Moosehead Lake is
dammed. After passing Deer Island, we saw the little steamer from
Greenville, far east in the middle of the lake, and she appeared
nearly stationary. Sometimes we could hardly tell her from an island
which had a few trees on it. Here we were exposed to the wind from
over the whole breadth of the lake, and ran a little risk of being
swamped. While I had my eye fixed on the spot where a large fish had
leaped, we took in a gallon or two of water, which filled my lap; but
we soon reached the shore and took the canoe over the bar, at Sand-bar
Island, a few feet wide only, and so saved a considerable distance.
One landed first at a more sheltered place, and walking round caught
the canoe by the prow, to prevent it being injured against the shore.

Again we crossed a broad bay opposite the mouth of Moose River, before
reaching the narrow strait at Mount Kineo, made what the voyageurs
call a _traverse_, and found the water quite rough. A very little wind
on these broad lakes raises a sea which will swamp a canoe. Looking
off from the shore, the surface may appear to be very little agitated,
almost smooth, a mile distant, or if you see a few white crests they
appear nearly level with the rest of the lake; but when you get out so
far, you may find quite a sea running, and ere long, before you think
of it, a wave will gently creep up the side of the canoe and fill your
lap, like a monster deliberately covering you with its slime before it
swallows you, or it will strike the canoe violently, and break into
it. The same thing may happen when the wind rises suddenly, though it
were perfectly calm and smooth there a few minutes before; so that
nothing can save you, unless you can swim ashore, for it is impossible
to get into a canoe again when it is upset. Since you sit flat on the
bottom, though the danger should not be imminent, a little water is a
great inconvenience, not to mention the wetting of your provisions. We
rarely crossed even a bay directly, from point to point, when there
was wind, but made a slight curve corresponding somewhat to the shore,
that we might the sooner reach it if the wind increased.

When the wind is aft, and not too strong, the Indian makes a spritsail
of his blanket. He thus easily skims over the whole length of this
lake in a day.

The Indian paddled on one side, and one of us on the other, to keep
the canoe steady, and when he wanted to change hands he would say, “t’
other side.” He asserted, in answer to our questions, that he had
never upset a canoe himself, though he may have been upset by others.

Think of our little eggshell of a canoe tossing across that great
lake, a mere black speck to the eagle soaring above it!

My companion trailed for trout as we paddled along, but the Indian
warning him that a big fish might upset us, for there are some very
large ones there, he agreed to pass the line quickly to him in the
stern if he had a bite. Besides trout, I heard of cusk, whitefish,
etc., as found in this lake.

While we were crossing this bay, where Mount Kineo rose dark before
us, within two or three miles, the Indian repeated the tradition
respecting this mountain’s having anciently been a cow moose,--how a
mighty Indian hunter, whose name I forget, succeeded in killing this
queen of the moose tribe with great difficulty, while her calf was
killed somewhere among the islands in Penobscot Bay, and, to his eyes,
this mountain had still the form of the moose in a reclining posture,
its precipitous side presenting the outline of her head. He told this
at some length, though it did not amount to much, and with apparent
good faith, and asked us how we supposed the hunter could have killed
such a mighty moose as that,--how we could do it. Whereupon a
man-of-war to fire broadsides into her was suggested, etc. An Indian
tells such a story as if he thought it deserved to have a good deal
said about it, only he has not got it to say, and so he makes up for
the deficiency by a drawling tone, long-windedness, and a dumb wonder
which he hopes will be contagious.

We approached the land again through pretty rough water, and then
steered directly across the lake, at its narrowest part, to the
eastern side, and were soon partly under the lee of the mountain,
about a mile north of the Kineo House, having paddled about twenty
miles. It was now about noon.

We designed to stop there that afternoon and night, and spent half an
hour looking along the shore northward for a suitable place to camp.
We took out all our baggage at one place in vain, it being too rocky
and uneven, and while engaged in this search we made our first
acquaintance with the moose-fly. At length, half a mile farther north,
by going half a dozen rods into the dense spruce and fir wood on the
side of the mountain, almost as dark as a cellar, we found a place
sufficiently clear and level to lie down on, after cutting away a few
bushes. We required a space only seven feet by six for our bed, the
fire being four or five feet in front, though it made no odds how
rough the hearth was; but it was not always easy to find this in those
woods. The Indian first cleared a path to it from the shore with his
axe, and we then carried up all our baggage, pitched our tent, and
made our bed, in order to be ready for foul weather, which then
threatened us, and for the night. He gathered a large armful of fir
twigs, breaking them off, which he said were the best for our bed,
partly, I thought, because they were the largest and could be most
rapidly collected. It had been raining more or less for four or five
days, and the wood was even damper than usual, but he got dry bark for
the fire from the under side of a dead leaning hemlock, which, he
said, he could always do.

This noon his mind was occupied with a law question, and I referred
him to my companion, who was a lawyer. It appeared that he had been
buying land lately (I think it was a hundred acres), but there was
probably an incumbrance to it, somebody else claiming to have bought
some grass on it for this year. He wished to know to whom the grass
belonged, and was told that if the other man could prove that he
bought the grass before he, Polis, bought the land, the former could
take it, whether the latter knew it or not. To which he only answered,
“Strange!” He went over this several times, fairly sat down to it,
with his back to a tree, as if he meant to confine us to this topic
henceforth; but as he made no headway, only reached the jumping-off
place of his wonder at white men’s institutions after each
explanation, we let the subject die.

He said that he had fifty acres of grass, potatoes, etc., somewhere
above Oldtown, besides some about his house; that he hired a good deal
of his work, hoeing, etc., and preferred white men to Indians, because
“they keep steady, and know how.”

After dinner we returned southward along the shore, in the canoe, on
account of the difficulty of climbing over the rocks and fallen trees,
and began to ascend the mountain along the edge of the precipice. But
a smart shower coming up just then, the Indian crept under his canoe,
while we, being protected by our rubber coats, proceeded to botanize.
So we sent him back to the camp for shelter, agreeing that he should
come there for us with his canoe toward night. It had rained a little
in the forenoon, and we trusted that this would be the clearing-up
shower, which it proved; but our feet and legs were thoroughly wet by
the bushes. The clouds breaking away a little, we had a glorious wild
view, as we ascended, of the broad lake with its fluctuating surface
and numerous forest-clad islands, extending beyond our sight both
north and south, and the boundless forest undulating away from its
shores on every side, as densely packed as a rye-field, and enveloping
nameless mountains in succession; but above all, looking westward over
a large island, was visible a very distant part of the lake, though we
did not then suspect it to be Moosehead,--at first a mere broken white
line seen through the tops of the island trees, like hay-caps, but
spreading to a lake when we got higher. Beyond this we saw what
appears to be called Bald Mountain on the map, some twenty-five miles
distant, near the sources of the Penobscot. It was a perfect lake of
the woods. But this was only a transient gleam, for the rain was not
quite over.

Looking southward, the heavens were completely overcast, the mountains
capped with clouds, and the lake generally wore a dark and stormy
appearance, but from its surface just north of Sugar Island, six or
eight miles distant, there was reflected upward to us through the
misty air a bright blue tinge from the distant unseen sky of another
latitude beyond. They probably had a clear sky then at Greenville, the
south end of the lake. Standing on a mountain in the midst of a lake,
where would you look for the first sign of approaching fair weather?
Not into the heavens, it seems, but into the lake.

Again we mistook a little rocky islet seen through the “drisk,” with
some taller bare trunks or stumps on it, for the steamer with its
smoke-pipes, but as it had not changed its position after half an
hour, we were undeceived. So much do the works of man resemble the
works of nature. A moose might mistake a steamer for a floating isle,
and not be scared till he heard its puffing or its whistle.

If I wished to see a mountain or other scenery under the most
favorable auspices, I would go to it in foul weather, so as to be
there when it cleared up; we are then in the most suitable mood, and
nature is most fresh and inspiring. There is no serenity so fair as
that which is just established in a tearful eye.

Jackson, in his Report on the Geology of Maine, in 1838, says of this
mountain: “Hornstone, which will answer for flints, occurs in various
parts of the State, where trap-rocks have acted upon silicious slate.
The largest mass of this stone known in the world is Mount Kineo, upon
Moosehead Lake, which appears to be entirely composed of it, and rises
seven hundred feet above the lake level. This variety of hornstone I
have seen in every part of New England in the form of Indian
arrowheads, hatchets, chisels, etc., which were probably obtained from
this mountain by the aboriginal inhabitants of the country.” I have
myself found hundreds of arrowheads made of the same material. It is
generally slate-colored, with white specks, becoming a uniform white
where exposed to the light and air, and it breaks with a conchoidal
fracture, producing a ragged cutting edge. I noticed some conchoidal
hollows more than a foot in diameter. I picked up a small thin piece
which had so sharp an edge that I used it as a dull knife, and to see
what I could do, fairly cut off an aspen one inch thick with it, by
bending it and making many cuts; though I cut my fingers badly with
the back of it in the meanwhile.

  [Illustration: _Moosehead Lake, from Mount Kineo_]

From the summit of the precipice which forms the southern and eastern
sides of this mountain peninsula, and is its most remarkable feature,
being described as five or six hundred feet high, we looked, and
probably might have jumped, down to the water, or to the seemingly
dwarfish trees on the narrow neck of land which connects it with the
main. It is a dangerous place to try the steadiness of your nerves.
Hodge says that these cliffs descend “perpendicularly ninety feet”
below the surface of the water.

The plants which chiefly attracted our attention on this mountain were
the mountain cinquefoil (_Potentilla tridentata_), abundant and in
bloom still at the very base, by the waterside, though it is usually
confined to the summits of mountains in our latitude; very beautiful
harebells overhanging the precipice; bear-berry; the Canada blueberry
(_Vaccinium Canadense_), similar to the _V. Pennsylvanicum_, our
earliest one, but entire-leaved and with a downy stem and leaf (I have
not seen it in Massachusetts); _Diervilla trifida_; _Microstylis
ophioglossoides_, an orchidaceous plant new to us; wild holly
(_Nemopanthes Canadensis_); the great round-leaved orchis
(_Platanthera orbiculata_), not long in bloom; _Spiranthes cernua_, at
the top; bunchberry, reddening as we ascended, green at the base of
the mountain, red at the top; and the small fern _Woodsia ilvensis_,
growing in tufts, now in fruit. I have also received _Liparis
liliifolia_, or tway-blade, from this spot. Having explored the
wonders of the mountain, and the weather being now entirely cleared
up, we commenced the descent. We met the Indian, puffing and panting,
about one third of the way up, but thinking that he must be near the
top, and saying that it took his breath away. I thought that
superstition had something to do with his fatigue. Perhaps he believed
that he was climbing over the back of a tremendous moose. He said that
he had never ascended Kineo. On reaching the canoe we found that he
had caught a lake trout weighing about three pounds, at the depth of
twenty-five or thirty feet, while we were on the mountain.

When we got to the camp, the canoe was taken out and turned over, and
a log laid across it to prevent its being blown away. The Indian cut
some large logs of damp and rotten hard wood to smoulder and keep fire
through the night. The trout was fried for supper. Our tent was of
thin cotton cloth and quite small, forming with the ground a
triangular prism closed at the rear end, six feet long, seven wide,
and four high, so that we could barely sit up in the middle. It
required two forked stakes, a smooth ridge-pole, and a dozen or more
pins to pitch it. It kept off dew and wind, and an ordinary rain, and
answered our purpose well enough. We reclined within it till bedtime,
each with his baggage at his head, or else sat about the fire, having
hung our wet clothes on a pole before the fire for the night.

As we sat there, just before night, looking out through the dusky wood,
the Indian heard a noise which he said was made by a snake. He imitated
it at my request, making a low whistling note,--_pheet_--_pheet_,--two
or three times repeated, somewhat like the peep of the hylodes, but
not so loud. In answer to my inquiries, he said that he had never seen
them while making it, but going to the spot he finds the snake. This,
he said on another occasion, was a sign of rain. When I had selected
this place for our camp, he had remarked that there were snakes
there,--he saw them. “But they won’t do any hurt,” I said. “Oh, no,”
he answered, “just as you say; it makes no difference to me.”

He lay on the right side of the tent, because, as he said, he was
partly deaf in one ear, and he wanted to lie with his good ear up. As
we lay there, he inquired if I ever heard “Indian sing.” I replied
that I had not often, and asked him if he would not favor us with a
song. He readily assented, and, lying on his back, with his blanket
wrapped around him, he commenced a slow, somewhat nasal, yet musical
chant, in his own language, which probably was taught his tribe long
ago by the Catholic missionaries. He translated it to us, sentence by
sentence, afterward, wishing to see if we could remember it. It proved
to be a very simple religious exercise or hymn, the burden of which
was, that there was only one God who ruled all the world. This was
hammered (or sung) out very thin, so that some stanzas well-nigh meant
nothing at all, merely keeping up the idea. He then said that he would
sing us a Latin song; but we did not detect any Latin, only one or two
Greek words in it,--the rest may have been Latin with the Indian
pronunciation.

His singing carried me back to the period of the discovery of America,
to San Salvador and the Incas, when Europeans first encountered the
simple faith of the Indian. There was, indeed, a beautiful simplicity
about it; nothing of the dark and savage, only the mild and infantile.
The sentiments of humility and reverence chiefly were expressed.

It was a dense and damp spruce and fir wood in which we lay, and,
except for our fire, perfectly dark; and when I awoke in the night, I
either heard an owl from deeper in the forest behind us, or a loon
from a distance over the lake. Getting up some time after midnight to
collect the scattered brands together, while my companions were sound
asleep, I observed, partly in the fire, which had ceased to blaze, a
perfectly regular elliptical ring of light, about five inches in its
shortest diameter, six or seven in its longer, and from one eighth to
one quarter of an inch wide. It was fully as bright as the fire, but
not reddish or scarlet, like a coal, but a white and slumbering light,
like the glow-worm’s. I could tell it from the fire only by its
whiteness. I saw at once that it must be phosphorescent wood, which I
had so often heard of, but never chanced to see. Putting my finger on
it, with a little hesitation, I found that it was a piece of dead
moose-wood (_Acer striatum_) which the Indian had cut off in a
slanting direction the evening before. Using my knife, I discovered
that the light proceeded from that portion of the sap-wood immediately
under the bark, and thus presented a regular ring at the end, which,
indeed, appeared raised above the level of the wood, and when I pared
off the bark and cut into the sap, it was all aglow along the log. I
was surprised to find the wood quite hard and apparently sound, though
probably decay had commenced in the sap, and I cut out some little
triangular chips, and, placing them in the hollow of my hand, carried
them into the camp, waked my companion, and showed them to him. They
lit up the inside of my hand, revealing the lines and wrinkles, and
appearing exactly like coals of fire raised to a white heat, and I saw
at once how, probably, the Indian jugglers had imposed on their people
and on travelers, pretending to hold coals of fire in their mouths.

I also noticed that part of a decayed stump within four or five feet
of the fire, an inch wide and six inches long, soft and shaking wood,
shone with equal brightness.

I neglected to ascertain whether our fire had anything to do with
this, but the previous day’s rain and long-continued wet weather
undoubtedly had.

I was exceedingly interested by this phenomenon, and already felt paid
for my journey. It could hardly have thrilled me more if it had taken
the form of letters, or of the human face. If I had met with this
ring of light while groping in this forest alone, away from any fire,
I should have been still more surprised. I little thought that there
was such a light shining in the darkness of the wilderness for me.

The next day the Indian told me their name for this
light,--_artoosoqu’_--and on my inquiring concerning the
will-o’-the-wisp, and the like phenomena, he said that his “folks”
sometimes saw fires passing along at various heights, even as high as
the trees, and making a noise. I was prepared after this to hear of
the most startling and unimagined phenomena, witnessed by “his folks;”
they are abroad at all hours and seasons in scenes so unfrequented by
white men. Nature must have made a thousand revelations to them which
are still secrets to us.

I did not regret my not having seen this before, since I now saw it
under circumstances so favorable. I was in just the frame of mind to
see something wonderful, and this was a phenomenon adequate to my
circumstances and expectation, and it put me on the alert to see more
like it. I exulted like “a pagan suckled in a creed” that had never
been worn at all, but was bran-new, and adequate to the occasion. I
let science slide, and rejoiced in that light as if it had been a
fellow creature. I saw that it was excellent, and was very glad to
know that it was so cheap. A scientific _explanation_, as it is
called, would have been altogether out of place there. That is for
pale daylight. Science with its retorts would have put me to sleep; it
was the opportunity to be ignorant that I improved. It suggested to me
that there was something to be seen if one had eyes. It made a
believer of me more than before. I believed that the woods were not
tenantless, but choke-full of honest spirits as good as myself any
day,--not an empty chamber, in which chemistry was left to work alone,
but an inhabited house,--and for a few moments I enjoyed fellowship
with them. Your so-called wise man goes trying to persuade himself
that there is no entity there but himself and his traps, but it is a
great deal easier to believe the truth. It suggested, too, that the
same experience always gives birth to the same sort of belief or
religion. One revelation has been made to the Indian, another to the
white man. I have much to learn of the Indian, nothing of the
missionary. I am not sure but all that would tempt me to teach the
Indian my religion would be his promise to teach me _his_. Long enough
I had heard of irrelevant things; now at length I was glad to make
acquaintance with the light that dwells in rotten wood. Where is all
your knowledge gone to? It evaporates completely, for it has no depth.

I kept those little chips and wet them again the next night, but they
emitted no light.

       *       *       *       *       *

     SATURDAY, July 25.

At breakfast this Saturday morning, the Indian, evidently curious to
know what would be expected of him the next day, whether we should go
along or not, asked me how I spent the Sunday when at home. I told him
that I commonly sat in my chamber reading, etc., in the forenoon, and
went to walk in the afternoon. At which he shook his head and said,
“Er, that is ver bad.” “How do you spend it?” I asked. He said that
he did no work, that he went to church at Oldtown when he was at home;
in short, he did as he had been taught by the whites. This led to a
discussion in which I found myself in the minority. He stated that he
was a Protestant, and asked me if I was. I did not at first know what
to say, but I thought that I could answer with truth that I was.

When we were washing the dishes in the lake, many fishes, apparently
chivin, came close up to us to get the particles of grease.

The weather seemed to be more settled this morning, and we set out
early in order to finish our voyage up the lake before the wind arose.
Soon after starting, the Indian directed our attention to the
Northeast Carry, which we could plainly see, about thirteen miles
distant in that direction as measured on the map, though it is called
much farther. This carry is a rude wooden railroad, running north and
south about two miles, perfectly straight, from the lake to the
Penobscot, through a low tract, with a clearing three or four rods
wide; but low as it is, it passes over the height of land there. This
opening appeared as a clear bright, or light, point in the horizon,
resting on the edge of the lake, whose breadth a hair could have
covered at a considerable distance from the eye, and of no appreciable
height. We should not have suspected it to be visible if the Indian
had not drawn our attention to it. It was a remarkable kind of light
to steer for,--daylight seen through a vista in the forest,--but
visible as far as an ordinary beacon at night.

We crossed a deep and wide bay which makes eastward north of Kineo,
leaving an island on our left, and keeping up the eastern side of the
lake. This way or that led to some Tomhegan or _Socatarian_ stream, up
which the Indian had hunted, and whither I longed to go. The last
name, however, had a bogus sound, too much like sectarian for me, as
if a missionary had tampered with it; but I knew that the Indians were
very liberal. I think I should have inclined to the Tomhegan first.

We then crossed another broad bay, which, as we could no longer
observe the shore particularly, afforded ample time for conversation.
The Indian said that he had got his money by hunting, mostly high up
the West Branch of the Penobscot, and toward the head of the St. John;
he had hunted there from a boy, and knew all about that region. His
game had been beaver, otter, black cat (or fisher), sable, moose, etc.
Loup-cervier (or Canada lynx) were plenty yet in burnt grounds. For
food in the woods, he uses partridges, ducks, dried moose-meat,
hedgehog, etc. Loons, too, were good, only “bile ’em good.” He told us
at some length how he had suffered from starvation when a mere lad,
being overtaken by winter when hunting with two grown Indians in the
northern part of Maine, and obliged to leave their canoe on account of
ice.

Pointing into the bay, he said that it was the way to various lakes
which he knew. Only solemn bear-haunted mountains, with their great
wooded slopes, were visible; where, as man is not, we suppose some
other power to be. My imagination personified the slopes themselves,
as if by their very length they would waylay you, and compel you to
camp again on them before night. Some invisible glutton would seem to
drop from the trees and gnaw at the heart of the solitary hunter who
threaded those woods; and yet I was tempted to walk there. The Indian
said that he had been along there several times.

I asked him how he guided himself in the woods. “Oh,” said he, “I can
tell good many ways.” When I pressed him further, he answered,
“Sometimes I lookum side-hill,” and he glanced toward a high hill or
mountain on the eastern shore, “great difference between the north and
south, see where the sun has shone most. So trees,--the large limbs
bend toward south. Sometimes I lookum locks” (rocks). I asked what he
saw on the rocks, but he did not describe anything in particular,
answering vaguely, in a mysterious or drawling tone, “Bare locks on
lake shore,--great difference between north, south, east, west,
side,--can tell what the sun has shone on.” “Suppose,” said I, “that I
should take you in a dark night, right up here into the middle of the
woods a hundred miles, set you down, and turn you round quickly twenty
times, could you steer straight to Oldtown?” “Oh, yer,” said he, “have
done pretty much same thing. I will tell you. Some years ago I met an
old white hunter at Millinocket; very good hunter. He said he could go
anywhere in the woods. He wanted to hunt with me that day, so we
start. We chase a moose all the forenoon, round and round, till middle
of afternoon, when we kill him. Then I said to him, ‘Now you go
straight to camp. Don’t go round and round where we’ve been, but go
straight.’ He said, ‘I can’t do that, I don’t know where I am.’
‘Where you think camp?’ I asked. He pointed so. Then I laugh at him. I
take the lead and go right off the other way, cross our tracks many
times, straight camp.” “How do you do that?” asked I. “Oh, I can’t
tell you,” he replied. “Great difference between me and white man.”

It appeared as if the sources of information were so various that he
did not give a distinct, conscious attention to any one, and so could
not readily refer to any when questioned about it, but he found his
way very much as an animal does. Perhaps what is commonly called
instinct in the animal, in this case is merely a sharpened and
educated sense. Often, when an Indian says, “I don’t know,” in regard
to the route he is to take, he does not mean what a white man would by
those words, for his Indian instinct may tell him still as much as the
most confident white man knows. He does not carry things in his head,
nor remember the route exactly, like a white man, but relies on
himself at the moment. Not having experienced the need of the other
sort of knowledge, all labeled and arranged, he has not acquired it.

The white hunter with whom I talked in the stage knew some of the
resources of the Indian. He said that he steered by the wind, or by
the limbs of the hemlocks, which were largest on the south side; also
sometimes, when he knew that there was a lake near, by firing his gun
and listening to hear the direction and distance of the echo from over
it.

The course we took over this lake, and others afterward, was rarely
direct, but a succession of curves from point to point, digressing
considerably into each of the bays; and this was not merely on account
of the wind, for the Indian, looking toward the middle of the lake,
said it was hard to go there, easier to keep near the shore, because
he thus got over it by successive reaches and saw by the shore how he
got along.

The following will suffice for a common experience in crossing lakes
in a canoe. As the forenoon advanced, the wind increased. The last bay
which we crossed before reaching the desolate pier at the Northeast
Carry was two or three miles over, and the wind was southwesterly.
After going a third of the way, the waves had increased so as
occasionally to wash into the canoe, and we saw that it was worse and
worse ahead. At first we might have turned about, but were not willing
to. It would have been of no use to follow the course of the shore,
for not only the distance would have been much greater, but the waves
ran still higher there on account of the greater sweep the wind had.
At any rate it would have been dangerous now to alter our course,
because the waves would have struck us at an advantage. It will not do
to meet them at right angles, for then they will wash in both sides,
but you must take them quartering. So the Indian stood up in the
canoe, and exerted all his skill and strength for a mile or two, while
I paddled right along in order to give him more steerage-way. For more
than a mile he did not allow a single wave to strike the canoe as it
would, but turned it quickly from this side to that, so that it would
always be on or near the crest of a wave when it broke, where all its
force was spent, and we merely settled down with it. At length I
jumped out on to the end of the pier, against which the waves were
dashing violently, in order to lighten the canoe, and catch it at the
landing, which was not much sheltered; but just as I jumped we took in
two or three gallons of water. I remarked to the Indian, “You managed
that well,” to which he replied, “Ver few men do that. Great many
waves; when I look out for one, another come quick.”

While the Indian went to get cedar bark, etc., to carry his canoe
with, we cooked the dinner on the shore, at this end of the carry, in
the midst of a sprinkling rain.

He prepared his canoe for carrying in this wise. He took a cedar
shingle or splint eighteen inches long and four or five wide, rounded
at one end, that the corners might not be in the way, and tied it with
cedar bark by two holes made midway, near the edge on each side, to
the middle cross-bar of the canoe. When the canoe was lifted upon his
head bottom up, this shingle, with its rounded end uppermost,
distributed the weight over his shoulders and head, while a band of
cedar bark, tied to the cross-bar on each side of the shingle, passed
round his breast, and another longer one, outside of the last, round
his forehead; also a hand on each side-rail served to steer the canoe
and keep it from rocking. He thus carried it with his shoulders, head,
breast, forehead, and both hands, as if the upper part of his body
were all one hand to clasp and hold it. If you know of a better way, I
should like to hear of it. A cedar tree furnished all the gear in this
case, as it had the woodwork of the canoe. One of the paddles rested
on the cross-bars in the bows. I took the canoe upon my head and found
that I could carry it with ease, though the straps were not fitted to
my shoulders; but I let him carry it, not caring to establish a
different precedent, though he said that if I would carry the canoe,
he would take all the rest of the baggage, except my companion’s. This
shingle remained tied to the cross-bar throughout the voyage, was
always ready for the carries, and also served to protect the back of
one passenger.

We were obliged to go over this carry twice, our load was so great.
But the carries were an agreeable variety, and we improved the
opportunity to gather the rare plants which we had seen, when we
returned empty handed.

We reached the Penobscot about four o’clock, and found there some St.
Francis Indians encamped on the bank, in the same place where I camped
with four Indians four years before. They were making a canoe, and, as
then, drying moose-meat. The meat looked very suitable to make a
_black_ broth at least. Our Indian said it was not good. Their camp
was covered with spruce bark. They had got a young moose, taken in the
river a fortnight before, confined in a sort of cage of logs piled up
cob-fashion, seven or eight feet high. It was quite tame, about four
feet high, and covered with moose-flies. There was a large quantity of
cornel (_C. stolonifera_), red maple, and also willow and aspen
boughs, stuck through between the logs on all sides, butt ends out,
and on their leaves it was browsing. It looked at first as if it were
in a bower rather than a pen.

Our Indian said that _he_ used _black_ spruce roots to sew canoes
with, obtaining it from high lands or mountains. The St. Francis
Indian thought that _white_ spruce roots might be best. But the former
said, “No good, break, can’t split ’em;” also that they were hard to
get, deep in ground, but the black were near the surface, on higher
land, as well as tougher. He said that the white spruce was
_subekoondark_, black, _skusk_. I told him I thought that I could make
a canoe, but he expressed great doubt of it; at any rate, he thought
that my work would not be “neat” the first time. An Indian at
Greenville had told me that the winter bark, that is, bark taken off
before the sap flows in May, was harder and much better than summer
bark.

Having reloaded, we paddled down the Penobscot, which, as the Indian
remarked, and even I detected, remembering how it looked before, was
uncommonly full. We soon after saw a splendid yellow lily (_Lilium
Canadense_) by the shore, which I plucked. It was six feet high, and
had twelve flowers, in two whorls, forming a pyramid, such as I have
seen in Concord. We afterward saw many more thus tall along this
stream, and also still more numerous on the East Branch, and, on the
latter, one which I thought approached yet nearer to the _Lilium
superbum_. The Indian asked what we called it, and said that the
“loots” (roots) were good for soup, that is, to cook with meat, to
thicken it, taking the place of flour. They get them in the fall. I
dug some, and found a mass of bulbs pretty deep in the earth, two
inches in diameter, looking, and even tasting, somewhat like raw green
corn on the ear.

When we had gone about three miles down the Penobscot, we saw through
the tree-tops a thunder-shower coming up in the west, and we looked
out a camping-place in good season, about five o’clock, on the west
side, not far below the mouth of what Joe Aitteon, in ’53, called
Lobster Stream, coming from Lobster Pond. Our present Indian, however,
did not admit this name, nor even that of _Matahumkeag_, which is on
the map, but called the lake _Beskabekuk_.

I will describe, once for all, the routine of camping at this season.
We generally told the Indian that we would stop at the first suitable
place, so that he might be on the lookout for it. Having observed a
clear, hard, and flat beach to land on, free from mud, and from stones
which would injure the canoe, one would run up the bank to see if
there were open and level space enough for the camp between the trees,
or if it could be easily cleared, preferring at the same time a cool
place, on account of insects. Sometimes we paddled a mile or more
before finding one to our minds, for where the shore was suitable, the
bank would often be too steep, or else too low and grassy, and
therefore mosquitoey. We then took out the baggage and drew up the
canoe, sometimes turning it over on shore for safety. The Indian cut a
path to the spot we had selected, which was usually within two or
three rods of the water, and we carried up our baggage. One, perhaps,
takes canoe birch bark, always at hand, and dead dry wood or bark, and
kindles a fire five or six feet in front of where we intend to lie. It
matters not, commonly, on which side this is, because there is little
or no wind in so dense a wood at that season; and then he gets a
kettle of water from the river, and takes out the pork, bread, coffee,
etc., from their several packages.

Another, meanwhile, having the axe, cuts down the nearest dead rock
maple or other dry hard wood, collecting several large logs to last
through the night, also a green stake, with a notch or fork to it,
which is slanted over the fire, perhaps resting on a rock or forked
stake, to hang the kettle on, and two forked stakes and a pole for the
tent.

The third man pitches the tent, cuts a dozen or more pins with his
knife, usually of moose-wood, the common underwood, to fasten it down
with, and then collects an armful or two of fir twigs,[8] arbor-vitæ,
spruce, or hemlock, whichever is at hand, and makes the bed, beginning
at either end, and laying the twigs wrong side up, in regular rows,
covering the stub ends of the last row; first, however, filling the
hollows, if there are any, with coarser material. Wrangel says that
his guides in Siberia first strewed a quantity of dry brushwood on the
ground, and then cedar twigs on that.

Commonly, by the time the bed is made, or within fifteen or twenty
minutes, the water boils, the pork is fried, and supper is ready. We
eat this sitting on the ground, or a stump, if there is any, around a
large piece of birch bark for a table, each holding a dipper in one
hand and a piece of ship-bread or fried pork in the other, frequently
making a pass with his hand, or thrusting his head into the smoke, to
avoid the mosquitoes.

Next, pipes are lit by those who smoke, and veils are donned by those
who have them, and we hastily examine and dry our plants, anoint our
faces and hands, and go to bed--and--the mosquitoes.

Though you have nothing to do but see the country, there’s rarely any
time to spare, hardly enough to examine a plant, before the night or
drowsiness is upon you.

Such was the ordinary experience, but this evening we had camped
earlier on account of the rain, and had more time.

We found that our camp to-night was on an old, and now more than
usually indistinct, supply road, running along the river. What is
called a road there shows no ruts or trace of wheels, for they are not
used; nor, indeed, of runners, since they are used only in the winter
when the snow is several feet deep. It is only an indistinct vista
through the wood, which it takes an experienced eye to detect.

We had no sooner pitched our tent than the thunder-shower burst on us,
and we hastily crept under it, drawing our bags after us, curious to
see how much of a shelter our thin cotton roof was going to be in this
excursion. Though the violence of the rain forced a fine shower
through the cloth before it was fairly wetted and shrunk, with which
we were well bedewed, we managed to keep pretty dry, only a box of
matches having been left out and spoiled, and before we were aware of
it the shower was over, and only the dripping trees imprisoned us.

Wishing to see what fishes there were in the river there, we cast our
lines over the wet bushes on the shore, but they were repeatedly swept
down the swift stream in vain. So, leaving the Indian, we took the
canoe just before dark, and dropped down the river a few rods to fish
at the mouth of a sluggish brook on the opposite side. We pushed up
this a rod or two, where, perhaps, only a canoe had been before. But
though there were a few small fishes, mostly chivin, there, we were
soon driven off by the mosquitoes. While there we heard the Indian
fire his gun twice in such rapid succession that we thought it must be
double-barreled, though we observed afterward that it was single. His
object was to clean out and dry it after the rain, and he then loaded
it with ball, being now on ground where he expected to meet with large
game. This sudden, loud, crashing noise in the still aisles of the
forest, affected me like an insult to nature, or ill manners at any
rate, as if you were to fire a gun in a hall or temple. It was not
heard far, however, except along the river, the sound being rapidly
hushed up or absorbed by the damp trees and mossy ground.

The Indian made a little smothered fire of damp leaves close to the
back of the camp, that the smoke might drive through and keep out the
mosquitoes; but just before we fell asleep this suddenly blazed up,
and came near setting fire to the tent. We were considerably molested
by mosquitoes at this camp.

       *       *       *       *       *

     SUNDAY, July 26.

The note of the white-throated sparrow, a very inspiriting but almost
wiry sound, was the first heard in the morning, and with this all the
woods rang. This was the prevailing bird in the northern part of
Maine. The forest generally was all alive with them at this season,
and they were proportionally numerous and musical about Bangor. They
evidently breed in that State. Though commonly unseen, their simple
_ah, te-te-te, te-te-te, te-te-te_, so sharp and piercing, was as
distinct to the ear as the passage of a spark of fire shot into the
darkest of the forest would be to the eye. I thought that they
commonly uttered it as they flew. I hear this note for a few days only
in the spring, as they go through Concord, and in the fall see them
again going southward, but then they are mute. We were commonly
aroused by their lively strain very early. What a glorious time they
must have in that wilderness, far from mankind and election day!

I told the Indian that we would go to church to Chesuncook this
(Sunday) morning, some fifteen miles. It was settled weather at last.
A few swallows flitted over the water, we heard Maryland
yellow-throats along the shore, the phebe notes of the chickadee, and,
I believe, redstarts, and moose-flies of large size pursued us in
midstream.

The Indian thought that we should lie by on Sunday. Said he, “We come
here lookum things, look all round; but come Sunday, lock up all that,
and then Monday look again.” He spoke of an Indian of his acquaintance
who had been with some ministers to Ktaadn, and had told him how they
conducted. This he described in a low and solemn voice. “They make a
long prayer every morning and night, and at every meal. Come Sunday,”
said he, “they stop ’em, no go at all that day,--keep still,--preach
all day,--first one, then another, just like church. Oh, ver good
men.” “One day,” said he, “going along a river, they came to the body
of a man in the water, drowned good while, all ready fall to pieces.
They go right ashore,--stop there, go no farther that day,--they have
meeting there, preach and pray just like Sunday. Then they get poles
and lift up the body, and they go back and carry the body with them.
Oh, they ver good men.”

I judged from this account that their every camp was a camp-meeting,
and they had mistaken their route,--they should have gone to Eastham;
that they wanted an opportunity to preach somewhere more than to see
Ktaadn. I read of another similar party that seem to have spent their
time there singing the songs of Zion. I was glad that I did not go to
that mountain with such slow coaches.

However, the Indian added, plying the paddle all the while, that if we
would go along, he must go with us, he our man, and he suppose that if
he no takum pay for what he do Sunday, then ther’s no harm, but if he
takum pay, then wrong. I told him that he was stricter than white men.
Nevertheless, I noticed that he did not forget to reckon in the
Sundays at last.

He appeared to be a very religious man, and said his prayers in a loud
voice, in Indian, kneeling before the camp, morning and
evening,--sometimes scrambling up again in haste when he had forgotten
this, and saying them with great rapidity. In the course of the day,
he remarked, not very originally, “Poor man rememberum God more than
rich.”

We soon passed the island where I had camped four years before, and I
recognized the very spot. The deadwater, a mile or two below it, the
Indian called _Beskabekukskishtuk_, from the lake _Beskabekuk_, which
empties in above. This deadwater, he said, was “a great place for
moose always.” We saw the grass bent where a moose came out the night
before, and the Indian said that he could smell one as far as he could
see him; but, he added, that if he should see five or six to-day close
by canoe, he no shoot ’em. Accordingly, as he was the only one of the
party who had a gun, or had come a-hunting, the moose were safe.

Just below this, a cat owl flew heavily over the stream, and he,
asking if I knew what it was, imitated very well the common _hoo, hoo,
hoo, hoorer, hoo_, of our woods; making a hard, guttural sound, “Ugh,
ugh, ugh,--ugh, ugh.” When we passed the Moose-horn, he said that it
had no name. What Joe Aitteon had called Ragmuff, he called
_Paytaytequick_, and said that it meant Burnt Ground Stream. We
stopped there, where I had stopped before, and I bathed in this
tributary. It was shallow but cold, apparently too cold for the
Indian, who stood looking on. As we were pushing away again, a
white-headed eagle sailed over our heads. A reach some miles above
Pine Stream, where there were several islands, the Indian said was
_Nonglangyis_ Deadwater. Pine Stream he called Black River, and said
that its Indian name was _Karsaootuk_. He could go to Caribou Lake
that way.

We carried a part of the baggage about Pine Stream Falls, while the
Indian went down in the canoe. A Bangor merchant had told us that two
men in his employ were drowned some time ago while passing these falls
in a batteau, and a third clung to a rock all night, and was taken off
in the morning. There were magnificent great purple fringed orchises
on this carry and the neighboring shores. I measured the largest canoe
birch which I saw in this journey near the end of the carry. It was
14½ feet in circumference at two feet from the ground, but at five
feet divided into three parts. The canoe birches thereabouts were
commonly marked by conspicuous dark spiral ridges, with a groove
between, so that I thought at first that they had been struck by
lightning, but, as the Indian said, it was evidently caused by the
grain of the tree. He cut a small, woody knob, as big as a filbert,
from the trunk of a fir, apparently an old balsam vesicle filled with
wood, which he said was good medicine.

After we had embarked and gone half a mile, my companion remembered
that he had left his knife, and we paddled back to get it, against the
strong and swift current. This taught us the difference between going
up and down the stream, for while we were working our way back a
quarter of a mile, we should have gone down a mile and a half at
least. So we landed, and while he and the Indian were gone back for
it, I watched the motions of the foam, a kind of white water-fowl near
the shore, forty or fifty rods below. It alternately appeared and
disappeared behind the rock, being carried round by an eddy. Even this
semblance of life was interesting on that lonely river.

Immediately below these falls was the Chesuncook Deadwater, caused by
the flowing back of the lake. As we paddled slowly over this, the
Indian told us a story of his hunting thereabouts, and something more
interesting about himself. It appeared that he had represented his
tribe at Augusta, and also once at Washington, where he had met some
Western chiefs. He had been consulted at Augusta, and gave advice,
which he said was followed, respecting the eastern boundary of Maine,
as determined by highlands and streams, at the time of the
difficulties on that side. He was employed with the surveyors on the
line. Also he had called on Daniel Webster in Boston, at the time of
his Bunker Hill oration.

I was surprised to hear him say that he liked to go to Boston, New
York, Philadelphia, etc., etc.; that he would like to live there. But
then, as if relenting a little, when he thought what a poor figure he
would make there, he added, “I suppose, I live in New York, I be
poorest hunter, I expect.” He understood very well both his superiority
and his inferiority to the whites. He criticised the people of the
United States as compared with other nations, but the only distinct
idea with which he labored was, that they were “very strong,” but,
like some individuals, “too fast.” He must have the credit of saying
this just before the general breaking down of railroads and banks. He
had a great idea of education, and would occasionally break out into
such expressions as this, “Kademy--a-cad-e-my--good thing--I suppose
they usum Fifth Reader there.... You been college?”

From this deadwater the outlines of the mountains about Ktaadn were
visible. The top of Ktaadn was concealed by a cloud, but the Souneunk
Mountains were nearer, and quite visible. We steered across the
northwest end of the lake, from which we looked down south-southeast,
the whole length to Joe Merry Mountain, seen over its extremity. It is
an agreeable change to cross a lake, after you have been shut up in
the woods, not only on account of the greater expanse of water, but
also of sky. It is one of the surprises which Nature has in store for
the traveler in the forest. To look down, in this case, over eighteen
miles of water, was liberating and civilizing even. No doubt, the
short distance to which you can see in the woods, and the general
twilight, would at length react on the inhabitants, and make them
salvages. The lakes also reveal the mountains, and give ample scope
and range to our thought. The very gulls which we saw sitting on the
rocks, like white specks, or circling about, reminded me of
custom-house officers. Already there were half a dozen log huts about
this end of the lake, though so far from a road. I perceive that in
these woods the earliest settlements are, for various reasons,
clustering about the lakes, but partly, I think, for the sake of the
neighborhood as the oldest clearings. They are forest schools already
established,--great centres of light. Water is a pioneer which the
settler follows, taking advantage of its improvements.

Thus far only I had been before. About noon we turned northward, up a
broad kind of estuary, and at its northeast corner found the
Caucomgomoc River, and after going about a mile from the lake, reached
the Umbazookskus, which comes in on the right at a point where the
former river, coming from the west, turns short to the south. Our
course was up the Umbazookskus, but as the Indian knew of a good
camping-place, that is, a cool place where there were few mosquitoes
about half a mile farther up the Caucomgomoc, we went thither. The
latter river, judging from the map, is the longer and principal
stream, and, therefore, its name must prevail below the junction. So
quickly we changed the civilizing sky of Chesuncook for the dark wood
of the Caucomgomoc. On reaching the Indian’s camping-ground, on the
south side, where the bank was about a dozen feet high, I read on the
trunk of a fir tree, blazed by an axe, an inscription in charcoal
which had been left by him. It was surmounted by a drawing of a bear
paddling a canoe, which he said was the sign which had been used by
his family always. The drawing, though rude, could not be mistaken for
anything but a bear, and he doubted my ability to copy it. The
inscription ran thus, _verbatim et literatim_. I interline the English
of his Indian as he gave it to me.

     [The figure of a bear in a boat.]

                  July 26
                   1853
                -----------
                _niasoseb_
              We alone Joseph
               _Polis elioi_
                Polis start
                 _sia olta_
                for Oldtown
                 _onke ni_
                right away
                 _quambi_
               ------------
                 July 15
                   1855
                _niasoseb_

He added now below:--

                   1857
                 July 26
                Jo. Polis

This was one of his homes. I saw where he had sometimes stretched his
moose-hides on the opposite or sunny north side of the river, where
there was a narrow meadow.

After we had selected a place for our camp, and kindled our fire,
almost exactly on the site of the Indian’s last camp here, he, looking
up, observed, “That tree danger.” It was a dead part, more than a foot
in diameter, of a large canoe birch, which branched at the ground.
This branch, rising thirty feet or more, slanted directly over the
spot which we had chosen for our bed. I told him to try it with his
axe; but he could not shake it perceptibly, and therefore seemed
inclined to disregard it, and my companion expressed his willingness
to run the risk. But it seemed to me that we should be fools to lie
under it, for though the lower part was firm, the top, for aught we
knew, might be just ready to fall, and we should at any rate be very
uneasy if the wind arose in the night. It is a common accident for men
camping in the woods to be killed by a falling tree. So the camp was
moved to the other side of the fire.

It was, as usual, a damp and shaggy forest, that Caucomgomoc one, and
the most you knew about it was, that on this side it stretched toward
the settlements, and on that to still more unfrequented regions. You
carried so much topography in your mind always,--and sometimes it
seemed to make a considerable difference whether you sat or lay nearer
the settlements, or farther off, than your companions,--were the rear
or frontier man of the camp. But there is really the same difference
between our positions wherever we may be camped, and some are nearer
the frontiers on feather-beds in the towns than others on fir twigs in
the backwoods.

The Indian said that the Umbazookskus, being a dead stream with broad
meadows, was a good place for moose, and he frequently came a-hunting
here, being out alone three weeks or more from Oldtown. He sometimes,
also, went a-hunting to the Seboois Lakes, taking the stage, with his
gun and ammunition, axe and blankets, hard-bread and pork, perhaps for
a hundred miles of the way, and jumped off at the wildest place on the
road, where he was at once at home, and every rod was a tavern-site
for him. Then, after a short journey through the woods, he would build
a spruce-bark canoe in one day, putting but few ribs into it, that it
might be light, and, after doing his hunting with it on the lakes,
would return with his furs the same way he had come. Thus you have an
Indian availing himself cunningly of the advantages of civilization,
without losing any of his woodcraft, but proving himself the more
successful hunter for it.

This man was very clever and quick to learn anything in his line. Our
tent was of a kind new to him; but when he had once seen it pitched,
it was surprising how quickly he would find and prepare the pole and
forked stakes to pitch it with, cutting and placing them right the
first time, though I am sure that the majority of white men would have
blundered several times.

This river came from Caucomgomoc Lake, about ten miles farther up.
Though it was sluggish here, there were falls not far above us, and we
saw the foam from them go by from time to time. The Indian said that
_Caucomgomoc_ meant Big-Gull Lake (_i. e._, herring gull, I suppose),
gomoc meaning lake. Hence this was _Caucomgomoctook_, or the river
from that lake. This was the Penobscot _Caucomgomoctook_; there was
another St. John one not far north. He finds the eggs of this gull,
sometimes twenty together, as big as hen’s eggs, on rocky ledges on
the west side of Millinocket River, for instance, and eats them.

Now I thought I would observe how he spent his Sunday. While I and my
companion were looking about at the trees and river, he went to sleep.
Indeed, he improved every opportunity to get a nap, whatever the day.

Rambling about the woods at this camp, I noticed that they consisted
chiefly of firs, black spruce, and some white, red maple, canoe birch,
and, along the river, the hoary alder (_Alnus incana_). I name them in
the order of their abundance. The _Viburnum nudum_ was a common shrub,
and of smaller plants, there were the dwarf cornel, great round-leaved
orchis, abundant and in bloom (a greenish-white flower growing in
little communities), _Uvularia grandiflora_, whose stem tasted like a
cucumber, _Pyrola secunda_, apparently the commonest pyrola in those
woods, now out of bloom, _Pyrola elliptica_, and _Chiogenes
hispidula_. The _Clintonia borealis_, with ripe berries, was very
abundant, and perfectly at home there. Its leaves, disposed commonly
in triangles about its stem, were just as handsomely formed and green,
and its berries as blue and glossy, as if it grew by some botanist’s
favorite path.

I could trace the outlines of large birches that had fallen long ago,
collapsed and rotted and turned to soil, by faint yellowish-green
lines of feather-like moss, eighteen inches wide and twenty or thirty
feet long, crossed by other similar lines.

I heard a night-warbler, wood thrush, kingfisher, tweezer-bird or
parti-colored warbler, and a nighthawk. I also heard and saw red
squirrels, and heard a bullfrog. The Indian said that he heard a
snake.

Wild as it was, it was hard for me to get rid of the associations of
the settlements. Any steady and monotonous sound, to which I did not
distinctly attend, passed for a sound of human industry. The
waterfalls which I heard were not without their dams and mills to my
imagination; and several times I found that I had been regarding the
steady rushing sound of the wind from over the woods beyond the rivers
as that of a train of cars,--the cars at Quebec. Our minds anywhere,
when left to themselves, are always thus busily drawing conclusions
from false premises.

I asked the Indian to make us a sugar-bowl of birch bark, which he
did, using the great knife which dangled in a sheath from his belt;
but the bark broke at the corners when he bent it up, and he said it
was not good; that there was a great difference in this respect
between the bark of one canoe birch and that of another, _i. e._, one
cracked more easily than another. I used some thin and delicate sheets
of this bark which he split and cut, in my flower-book; thinking it
would be good to separate the dried specimens from the green.

My companion, wishing to distinguish between the black and white
spruce, asked Polis to show him a twig of the latter, which he did at
once, together with the black; indeed, he could distinguish them about
as far as he could see them; but as the two twigs appeared very much
alike, my companion asked the Indian to point out the difference;
whereupon the latter, taking the twigs, instantly remarked, as he
passed his hand over them successively in a stroking manner, that the
white was rough (_i. e._, the needles stood up nearly perpendicular),
but the black smooth (_i. e._, as if bent or combed down). This was an
obvious difference, both to sight and touch. However, if I remember
rightly, this would not serve to distinguish the white spruce from the
light-colored variety of the black.

I asked him to let me see him get some black spruce root, and make
some thread. Whereupon, without looking up at the trees overhead, he
began to grub in the ground, instantly distinguishing the black spruce
roots, and cutting off a slender one, three or four feet long, and as
big as a pipe-stem, he split the end with his knife, and, taking a
half between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, rapidly separated
its whole length into two equal semicylindrical halves; then giving me
another root, he said, “You try.” But in my hands it immediately ran
off one side, and I got only a very short piece. In short, though it
looked very easy, I found that there was a great art in splitting
these roots. The split is skillfully humored by bending short with
this hand or that, and so kept in the middle. He then took off the
bark from each half, pressing a short piece of cedar bark against the
convex side with both hands, while he drew the root upward with his
teeth. An Indian’s teeth are strong, and I noticed that he used his
often where we should have used a hand. They amounted to a third hand.
He thus obtained, in a moment, a very neat, tough, and flexible
string, which he could tie into a knot, or make into a fish-line even.
It is said that in Norway and Sweden the roots of the Norway spruce
(_Abies excelsa_) are used in the same way for the same purpose. He
said that you would be obliged to give half a dollar for spruce root
enough for a canoe, thus prepared. He had hired the sewing of his own
canoe, though he made all the rest. The root in his canoe was of a
pale slate-color, probably acquired by exposure to the weather, or
perhaps from being boiled in water first.

He had discovered the day before that his canoe leaked a little, and
said that it was owing to stepping into it violently, which forced the
water under the edge of the horizontal seams on the side. I asked him
where he would get pitch to mend it with, for they commonly use hard
pitch, obtained of the whites at Oldtown. He said that he could make
something very similar, and equally good, not of spruce gum, or the
like, but of material which we had with us; and he wished me to guess
what. But I could not, and he would not tell me, though he showed me a
ball of it when made, as big as a pea, and like black pitch, saying,
at last, that there were some things which a man did not tell even his
wife. It may have been his own discovery. In Arnold’s expedition the
pioneers used for their canoe “the turpentine of the pine, and the
scrapings of the pork-bag.”

Being curious to see what kind of fishes there were in this dark,
deep, sluggish river, I cast in my line just before night, and caught
several small somewhat yellowish sucker-like fishes, which the Indian
at once rejected, saying that they were _michigan_ fish (_i. e._,
_soft_ and _stinking_ fish) and good for nothing. Also, he would not
touch a pout, which I caught, and said that neither Indians nor whites
thereabouts ever ate them, which I thought was singular, since they
are esteemed in Massachusetts, and he had told me that he ate
hedgehogs, loons, etc. But he said that some small silvery fishes,
which I called white chivin, which were similar in size and form to
the first, were the best fish in the Penobscot waters, and if I would
toss them up the bank to him, he would cook them for me. After
cleaning them, not very carefully, leaving the heads on, he laid them
on the coals and so broiled them.

Returning from a short walk, he brought a vine in his hand, and asked
me if I knew what it was, saying that it made the best tea of anything
in the woods. It was the creeping snowberry (_Chiogenes hispidula_),
which was quite common there, its berries just grown. He called it
_cowosnebagosar_, which name implies that it grows where old prostrate
trunks have collapsed and rotted. So we determined to have some tea
made of this to-night. It had a slight checkerberry flavor, and we
both agreed that it was really better than the black tea which we had
brought. We thought it quite a discovery, and that it might well be
dried, and sold in the shops. I, for one, however, am not an old
tea-drinker, and cannot speak with authority to others. It would have
been particularly good to carry along for a cold drink during the
day, the water thereabouts being invariably warm. The Indian said that
they also used for tea a certain herb which grew in low ground, which
he did not find there, and ledum, or Labrador tea, which I have since
found and tried in Concord; also hemlock leaves, the last especially
in the winter, when the other plants were covered with snow; and
various other things; but he did not approve of arbor-vitæ, which I
said I had drunk in those woods. We could have had a new kind of tea
every night.

Just before night we saw a _musquash_ (he did not say muskrat), the
only one we saw in this voyage, swimming downward on the opposite side
of the stream. The Indian, wishing to get one to eat, hushed us,
saying, “Stop, me call ’em;” and, sitting flat on the bank, he began
to make a curious squeaking, wiry sound with his lips, exerting
himself considerably. I was greatly surprised,--thought that I had at
last got into the wilderness, and that he was a wild man indeed, to be
talking to a musquash! I did not know which of the two was the
strangest to me. He seemed suddenly to have quite forsaken humanity,
and gone over to the musquash side. The musquash, however, as near as
I could see, did not turn aside, though he may have hesitated a
little, and the Indian said that he saw our fire; but it was evident
that he was in the habit of calling the musquash to him, as he said.
An acquaintance of mine who was hunting moose in those woods a month
after this, tells me that his Indian in this way repeatedly called the
musquash within reach of his paddle in the moonlight, and struck at
them.

The Indian said a particularly long prayer this Sunday evening, as if
to atone for working in the morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

     MONDAY, July 27.

Having rapidly loaded the canoe, which the Indian always carefully
attended to, that it might be well trimmed, and each having taken a
look, as usual, to see that nothing was left, we set out again
descending the Caucomgomoc, and turning northeasterly up the
_Umbazookskus_. This name, the Indian said, meant Much Meadow River.
We found it a very meadowy stream, and deadwater, and now very wide on
account of the rains, though, he said, it was sometimes quite narrow.
The space between the woods, chiefly bare meadow, was from fifty to
two hundred rods in breadth, and is a rare place for moose. It
reminded me of the Concord; and what increased the resemblance was one
old musquash-house almost afloat.

In the water on the meadows grew sedges, wool-grass, the common blue
flag abundantly, its flower just showing itself above the high water,
as if it were a blue water-lily, and higher in the meadows a great
many clumps of a peculiar narrow-leaved willow (_Salix petiolaris_),
which is common in our river meadows. It was the prevailing one here,
and the Indian said that the musquash ate much of it; and here also
grew the red osier (_Cornus stolonifera_), its large fruit now
whitish.

Though it was still early in the morning, we saw nighthawks circling
over the meadow, and as usual heard the pepe (_Muscicapa Cooperi_),
which is one of the prevailing birds in these woods, and the robin.

It was unusual for the woods to be so distant from the shore, and
there was quite an echo from them, but when I was shouting in order to
awake it, the Indian reminded me that I should scare the moose, which
he was looking out for, and which we all wanted to see. The word for
echo was _Pockadunkquaywayle_.

A broad belt of dead larch trees along the distant edge of the meadow,
against the forest on each side, increased the usual wildness of the
scenery. The Indian called these juniper, and said that they had been
killed by the backwater caused by the dam at the outlet of Chesuncook
Lake, some twenty miles distant. I plucked at the water’s edge the
_Asclepias incarnata_, with quite handsome flowers, a brighter red
than our variety (the _pulchra_). It was the only form of it which I
saw there.

Having paddled several miles up the Umbazookskus, it suddenly
contracted to a mere brook, narrow and swift, the larches and other
trees approaching the bank and leaving no open meadow, and we landed
to get a black spruce pole for pushing against the stream. This was
the first occasion for one. The one selected was quite slender, cut
about ten feet long, merely whittled to a point, and the bark shaved
off. The stream, though narrow and swift, was still deep, with a muddy
bottom, as I proved by diving to it. Beside the plants which I have
mentioned, I observed on the bank here the _Salix cordata_ and
_rostrata_, _Ranunculus recurvatus_, and _Rubus triflorus_ with ripe
fruit.

While we were thus employed, two Indians in a canoe hove in sight
round the bushes, coming down stream. Our Indian knew one of them, an
old man, and fell into conversation with him in Indian. He belonged at
the foot of Moosehead. The other was of another tribe. They were
returning from hunting. I asked the younger if they had seen any
moose, to which he said no; but I, seeing the moose-hides sticking out
from a great bundle made with their blankets in the middle of the
canoe, added, “Only their hides.” As he was a foreigner, he may have
wished to deceive me, for it is against the law for white men and
foreigners to kill moose in Maine at this season. But perhaps he need
not have been alarmed, for the moose-wardens are not very particular.
I heard quite directly of one who being asked by a white man going
into the woods what he would say if he killed a moose, answered, “If
you bring me a quarter of it, I guess you won’t be troubled.” His duty
being, as he said, only to prevent the “indiscriminate” slaughter of
them for their hides. I suppose that he would consider it an
_indiscriminate_ slaughter when a quarter was not reserved for
himself. Such are the perquisites of this office.

We continued along through the most extensive larch wood which I had
seen,--tall and slender trees with fantastic branches. But though this
was the prevailing tree here, I do not remember that we saw any
afterward. You do not find straggling trees of this species here and
there throughout the wood, but rather a little forest of them. The
same is the case with the white and red pines, and some other trees,
greatly to the convenience of the lumberer. They are of a social
habit, growing in “veins,” “clumps,” “groups,” or “communities,” as
the explorers call them, distinguishing them far away, from the top of
a hill or a tree, the white pines towering above the surrounding
forest, or else they form extensive forests by themselves. I should
have liked to come across a large community of pines, which had never
been invaded by the lumbering army.

We saw some fresh moose-tracks along the shore, but the Indian said
that the moose were not driven out of the woods by the flies, as usual
at this season, on account of the abundance of water everywhere. The
stream was only from one and one half to three rods wide, quite
winding, with occasional small islands, meadows, and some very swift
and shallow places. When we came to an island, the Indian never
hesitated which side to take, as if the current told him which was the
shortest and deepest. It was lucky for us that the water was so high.
We had to walk but once on this stream, carrying a part of the load,
at a swift and shallow reach, while he got up with the canoe, not
being obliged to take out, though he said it was very strong water.
Once or twice we passed the red wreck of a batteau which had been
stove some spring.

While making this portage I saw many splendid specimens of the great
purple fringed orchis, three feet high. It is remarkable that such
delicate flowers should here adorn these wilderness paths.

Having resumed our seats in the canoe, I felt the Indian wiping my
back, which he had accidentally spat upon. He said it was a sign that
I was going to be married.

The Umbazookskus River is called ten miles long. Having poled up the
narrowest part some three or four miles, the next opening in the sky
was over Umbazookskus Lake, which we suddenly entered about eleven
o’clock in the forenoon. It stretches northwesterly four or five
miles, with what the Indian called the Caucomgomoc Mountain seen far
beyond it. It was an agreeable change.

This lake was very shallow a long distance from the shore, and I saw
stone-heaps on the bottom, like those in the Assabet at home. The
canoe ran into one. The Indian thought that they were made by an eel.
Joe Aitteon in 1853 thought that they were made by chub. We crossed
the southeast end of the lake to the carry into Mud Pond.

Umbazookskus Lake is the head of the Penobscot in this direction, and
Mud Pond is the nearest head of the Allegash, one of the chief sources
of the St. John. Hodge, who went through this way to the St. Lawrence
in the service of the State, calls the portage here a mile and three
quarters long, and states that Mud Pond has been found to be fourteen
feet higher than Umbazookskus Lake. As the West Branch of the
Penobscot at the Moosehead carry is considered about twenty-five feet
lower than Moosehead Lake, it appears that the Penobscot in the upper
part of its course runs in a broad and shallow valley, between the
Kennebec and St. John, and lower than either of them, though, judging
from the map, you might expect it to be the highest.

Mud Pond is about halfway from Umbazookskus to Chamberlain Lake, into
which it empties, and to which we were bound. The Indian said that
this was the wettest carry in the State, and as the season was a very
wet one, we anticipated an unpleasant walk. As usual he made one large
bundle of the pork-keg, cooking-utensils, and other loose traps, by
tying them up in his blanket. We should be obliged to go over the
carry twice, and our method was to carry one half part way, and then
go back for the rest.

Our path ran close by the door of a log hut in a clearing at this end
of the carry, which the Indian, who alone entered it, found to be
occupied by a Canadian and his family, and that the man had been blind
for a year. He seemed peculiarly unfortunate to be taken blind there,
where there were so few eyes to see for him. He could not even be led
out of that country by a dog, but must be taken down the rapids as
passively as a barrel of flour. This was the first house above
Chesuncook, and the last on the Penobscot waters, and was built here,
no doubt, because it was the route of the lumberers in the winter and
spring.

After a slight ascent from the lake through the springy soil of the
Canadian’s clearing, we entered on a level and very wet and rocky path
through the universal dense evergreen forest, a loosely paved gutter
merely, where we went leaping from rock to rock and from side to side,
in the vain attempt to keep out of the water and mud. We concluded
that it was yet Penobscot water, though there was no flow to it. It
was on this carry that the white hunter whom I met in the stage, as he
told me, had shot two bears a few months before. They stood directly
in the path, and did not turn out for him. They might be excused for
not turning out there, or only taking the right as the law directs.
He said that at this season bears were found on the mountains and
hillsides in search of berries, and were apt to be saucy,--that we
might come across them up Trout Stream; and he added, what I hardly
credited, that many Indians slept in their canoes, not daring to sleep
on land, on account of them.

Here commences what was called, twenty years ago, the best timber land
in the State. This very spot was described as “covered with the
greatest abundance of pine,” but now this appeared to me,
comparatively, an uncommon tree there,--and yet you did not see where
any more could have stood, amid the dense growth of cedar, fir, etc.
It was then proposed to cut a canal from lake to lake here, but the
outlet was finally made farther east, at Telos Lake, as we shall see.

The Indian with his canoe soon disappeared before us; but ere long he
came back and told us to take a path which turned off westward, it
being better walking, and, at my suggestion, he agreed to leave a
bough in the regular carry at that place, that we might not pass it by
mistake. Thereafter, he said, we were to keep the main path, and he
added, “You see ’em my tracks.” But I had not much faith that we could
distinguish his tracks, since others had passed over the carry within
a few days.

We turned off at the right place, but were soon confused by numerous
logging-paths, coming into the one we were on, by which lumberers had
been to pick out those pines which I have mentioned. However, we kept
what we considered the main path, though it was a winding one, and in
this, at long intervals, we distinguished a faint trace of a
footstep. This, though comparatively unworn, was at first a better,
or, at least, a drier road than the regular carry which we had left.
It led through an arbor-vitæ wilderness of the grimmest character. The
great fallen and rotting trees had been cut through and rolled aside,
and their huge trunks abutted on the path on each side, while others
still lay across it two or three feet high. It was impossible for us
to discern the Indian’s trail in the elastic moss, which, like a thick
carpet, covered every rock and fallen tree, as well as the earth.
Nevertheless, I did occasionally detect the track of a man, and I gave
myself some credit for it. I carried my whole load at once, a heavy
knapsack, and a large india-rubber bag, containing our bread and a
blanket, swung on a paddle; in all, about sixty pounds; but my
companion preferred to make two journeys, by short stages, while I
waited for him. We could not be sure that we were not depositing our
loads each time farther off from the true path.

As I sat waiting for my companion, he would seem to be gone a long
time, and I had ample opportunity to make observations on the forest.
I now first began to be seriously molested by the black fly, a very
small but perfectly formed fly of that color, about one tenth of an
inch long, which I first felt, and then saw, in swarms about me, as I
sat by a wider and more than usually doubtful fork in this dark forest
path. The hunters tell bloody stories about them,--how they settle in
a ring about your neck, before you know it, and are wiped off in great
numbers with your blood. But remembering that I had a wash in my
knapsack, prepared by a thoughtful hand in Bangor, I made haste to
apply it to my face and hands, and was glad to find it effectual, as
long as it was fresh, or for twenty minutes, not only against black
flies, but all the insects that molested us. They would not alight on
the part thus defended. It was composed of sweet oil and oil of
turpentine, with a little oil of spearmint, and camphor. However, I
finally concluded that the remedy was worse than the disease. It was
so disagreeable and inconvenient to have your face and hands covered
with such a mixture.

Three large slate-colored birds of the jay genus (_Garrulus
Canadensis_), the Canada jay, moose-bird, meat-bird, or what not, came
flitting silently and by degrees toward me, and hopped down the limbs
inquisitively to within seven or eight feet. They were more clumsy and
not nearly so handsome as the bluejay. Fish hawks, from the lake,
uttered their sharp whistling notes low over the top of the forest
near me, as if they were anxious about a nest there.

After I had sat there some time, I noticed at this fork in the path a
tree which had been blazed, and the letters “Chamb. L.” written on it
with red chalk. This I knew to mean Chamberlain Lake. So I concluded
that on the whole we were on the right course, though as we had come
nearly two miles, and saw no signs of Mud Pond, I did harbor the
suspicion that we might be on a direct course to Chamberlain Lake,
leaving out Mud Pond. This I found by my map would be about five miles
northeasterly, and I then took the bearing by my compass.

My companion having returned with his bag, and also defended his face
and hands with the insect-wash, we set forward again. The walking
rapidly grew worse, and the path more indistinct, and at length, after
passing through a patch of _Calla palustris_, still abundantly in
bloom, we found ourselves in a more open and regular swamp, made less
passable than ordinary by the unusual wetness of the season. We sank a
foot deep in water and mud at every step, and sometimes up to our
knees, and the trail was almost obliterated, being no more than that a
musquash leaves in similar places, when he parts the floating sedge.
In fact, it probably was a musquash trail in some places. We concluded
that if Mud Pond was as muddy as the approach to it was wet, it
certainly deserved its name. It would have been amusing to behold the
dogged and deliberate pace at which we entered that swamp, without
interchanging a word, as if determined to go through it, though it
should come up to our necks. Having penetrated a considerable distance
into this, and found a tussock on which we could deposit our loads,
though there was no place to sit, my companion went back for the rest
of his pack. I had thought to observe on this carry when we crossed
the dividing line between the Penobscot and St. John, but as my feet
had hardly been out of water the whole distance, and it was all level
and stagnant, I began to despair of finding it. I remembered hearing a
good deal about the “highlands” dividing the waters of the Penobscot
from those of the St. John, as well as the St. Lawrence, at the time
of the northeast boundary dispute, and I observed by my map, that the
line claimed by Great Britain as the boundary prior to 1842 passed
between Umbazookskus Lake and Mud Pond, so that we had either crossed
or were then on it. These, then, according to _her_ interpretation of
the treaty of ’83, were the “highlands which divide those rivers that
empty themselves into the St. Lawrence from those which fall into the
Atlantic Ocean.” Truly an interesting spot to stand on,--if that were
it,--though you could not sit down there. I thought that if the
commissioners themselves, and the King of Holland with them, had spent
a few days here, with their packs upon their backs, looking for that
“highland,” they would have had an interesting time, and perhaps it
would have modified their views of the question somewhat. The King of
Holland would have been in his element. Such were my meditations while
my companion was gone back for his bag.

It was a cedar swamp, through which the peculiar note of the
white-throated sparrow rang loud and clear. There grew the side-saddle
flower, Labrador tea, _Kalmia glauca_, and, what was new to me, the
low birch (_Betula pumila_), a little round-leafed shrub, two or three
feet high only. We thought to name this swamp after the latter.

After a long while my companion came back, and the Indian with him. We
had taken the wrong road, and the Indian had lost us. He had very
wisely gone back to the Canadian’s camp, and asked him which way we
had probably gone, since he could better understand the ways of white
men, and he told him correctly that we had undoubtedly taken the
supply road to Chamberlain Lake (slender supplies they would get over
such a road at this season). The Indian was greatly surprised that we
should have taken what he called a “tow” (_i. e._, tote or toting or
supply) road, instead of a carry path,--that we had not followed his
tracks,--said it was “strange,” and evidently thought little of our
woodcraft.

Having held a consultation, and eaten a mouthful of bread, we
concluded that it would perhaps be nearer for us two now to keep on to
Chamberlain Lake, omitting Mud Pond, than to go back and start anew
for the last place, though the Indian had never been through this way,
and knew nothing about it. In the meanwhile he would go back and
finish carrying over his canoe and bundle to Mud Pond, cross that, and
go down its outlet and up Chamberlain Lake, and trust to meet us there
before night. It was now a little after noon. He supposed that the
water in which we stood had flowed back from Mud Pond, which could not
be far off eastward, but was unapproachable through the dense cedar
swamp.

Keeping on, we were ere long agreeably disappointed by reaching firmer
ground, and we crossed a ridge where the path was more distinct, but
there was never any outlook over the forest. While descending the
last, I saw many specimens of the great round-leaved orchis, of large
size; one which I measured had leaves, as usual, flat on the ground,
nine and a half inches long, and nine wide, and was two feet high. The
dark, damp wilderness is favorable to some of these orchidaceous
plants, though they are too delicate for cultivation. I also saw the
swamp gooseberry (_Rides lacustre_), with green fruit, and in all the
low ground, where it was not too wet, the _Rubus triflorus_ in fruit.
At one place I heard a very clear and piercing note from a small hawk,
like a single note from a white-throated sparrow, only very much
louder, as he dashed through the tree-tops over my head. I wondered
that he allowed himself to be disturbed by our presence, since it
seemed as if he could not easily find his nest again himself in that
wilderness. We also saw and heard several times the red squirrel, and
often, as before observed, the bluish scales of the fir cones which it
had left on a rock or fallen tree. This, according to the Indian, is
the only squirrel found in those woods, except a very few striped
ones. It must have a solitary time in that dark evergreen forest,
where there is so little life, seventy-five miles from a road as we
had come. I wondered how he could call any particular tree there his
home; and yet he would run up the stem of one out of the myriads, as
if it were an old road to him. How can a hawk ever find him there? I
fancied that he must be glad to see us, though he did seem to chide
us. One of those sombre fir and spruce woods is not complete unless
you hear from out its cavernous mossy and twiggy recesses his fine
alarum,--his spruce voice, like the working of the sap through some
crack in a tree,--the working of the spruce beer. Such an impertinent
fellow would occasionally try to alarm the wood about me. “Oh,” said
I, “I am well acquainted with your family, I know your cousins in
Concord very well. Guess the mail’s irregular in these parts, and
you’d like to hear from ’em.” But my overtures were vain, for he would
withdraw by his aerial turnpikes into a more distant cedar-top, and
spring his rattle again.

We then entered another swamp, at a necessarily slow pace, where the
walking was worse than ever, not only on account of the water, but the
fallen timber, which often obliterated the indistinct trail entirely.
The fallen trees were so numerous, that for long distances the route
was through a succession of small yards, where we climbed over fences
as high as our heads, down into water often up to our knees, and then
over another fence into a second yard, and so on; and, going back for
his bag, my companion once lost his way and came back without it. In
many places the canoe would have run if it had not been for the fallen
timber. Again it would be more open, but equally wet, too wet for
trees to grow, and no place to sit down. It was a mossy swamp, which
it required the long legs of a moose to traverse, and it is very
likely that we scared some of them in our transit, though we saw none.
It was ready to echo the growl of a bear, the howl of a wolf, or the
scream of a panther; but when you get fairly into the middle of one of
these grim forests, you are surprised to find that the larger
inhabitants are not at home commonly, but have left only a puny red
squirrel to bark at you. Generally speaking, a howling wilderness does
not howl: it is the imagination of the traveler that does the howling.
I did, however, see one dead porcupine; perhaps he had succumbed to
the difficulties of the way. These bristly fellows are a very suitable
small fruit of such unkempt wildernesses.

Making a logging-road in the Maine woods is called “swamping” it, and
they who do the work are called “swampers.” I now perceived the
fitness of the term. This was the most perfectly swamped of all the
roads I ever saw. Nature must have cooperated with art here. However,
I suppose they would tell you that this name took its origin from the
fact that the chief work of roadmakers in those woods is to make the
swamps passable. We came to a stream where the bridge, which had been
made of logs tied together with cedar bark, had been broken up, and we
got over as we could. This probably emptied into Mud Pond, and perhaps
the Indian might have come up it and taken us in there if he had known
it. Such as it was, this ruined bridge was the chief evidence that we
were on a path of any kind.

We then crossed another low rising ground, and I, who wore shoes, had
an opportunity to wring out my stockings, but my companion, who used
boots, had found that this was not a safe experiment for him, for he
might not be able to get his wet boots on again. He went over the
whole ground, or water, three times, for which reason our progress was
very slow; beside that the water softened our feet, and to some extent
unfitted them for walking. As I sat waiting for him, it would
naturally seem an unaccountable time that he was gone. Therefore, as I
could see through the woods that the sun was getting low, and it was
uncertain how far the lake might be, even if we were on the right
course, and in what part of the world we should find ourselves at
nightfall, I proposed that I should push through with what speed I
could, leaving boughs to mark my path, and find the lake and the
Indian, if possible, before night, and send the latter back to carry
my companion’s bag.

Having gone about a mile, and got into low ground again, I heard a
noise like the note of an owl, which I soon discovered to be made by
the Indian, and, answering him, we soon came together. He had reached
the lake, after crossing Mud Pond, and running some rapids below it,
and had come up about a mile and a half on our path. If he had not
come back to meet us, we probably should not have found him that
night, for the path branched once or twice before reaching this
particular part of the lake. So he went back for my companion and his
bag, while I kept on. Having waded through another stream, where the
bridge of logs had been broken up and half floated away,--and this was
not altogether worse than our ordinary walking, since it was less
muddy,--we continued on, through alternate mud and water, to the shore
of Apmoojenegamook Lake, which we reached in season for a late supper,
instead of dining there, as we had expected, having gone without our
dinner. It was at least five miles by the way we had come, and as my
companion had gone over most of it three times, he had walked full a
dozen miles, bad as it was. In the winter, when the water is frozen,
and the snow is four feet deep, it is no doubt a tolerable path to a
footman. As it was, I would not have missed that walk for a good deal.
If you want an exact recipe for making such a road, take one part Mud
Pond, and dilute it with equal parts of Umbazookskus and
Apmoojenegamook; then send a family of musquash through to locate it,
look after the grades and culverts, and finish it to their minds, and
let a hurricane follow to do the fencing.

We had come out on a point extending into Apmoojenegamook, or
Chamberlain Lake, west of the outlet of Mud Pond, where there was a
broad, gravelly, and rocky shore, encumbered with bleached logs and
trees. We were rejoiced to see such dry things in that part of the
world. But at first we did not attend to dryness so much as to mud and
wetness. We all three walked into the lake up to our middle to wash
our clothes.

This was another noble lake, called twelve miles long, east and west;
if you add Telos Lake, which, since the dam was built, has been
connected with it by dead water, it will be twenty; and it is
apparently from a mile and a half to two miles wide. We were about
midway its length, on the south side. We could see the only clearing
in these parts, called the “Chamberlain Farm,” with two or three log
buildings close together, on the opposite shore, some two and a half
miles distant. The smoke of our fire on the shore brought over two men
in a canoe from the farm, that being a common signal agreed on when
one wishes to cross. It took them about half an hour to come over, and
they had their labor for their pains this time. Even the English name
of the lake had a wild, woodland sound, reminding me of that
Chamberlain who killed Paugus at Lovewell’s fight.

After putting on such dry clothes as we had, and hanging the others to
dry on the pole which the Indian arranged over the fire, we ate our
supper, and lay down on the pebbly shore with our feet to the fire,
without pitching our tent, making a thin bed of grass to cover the
stones.

Here first I was molested by the little midge called the no-see-em
(_Simulium nocivum_,--the latter word is not the Latin for no-see-em),
especially over the sand at the water’s edge, for it is a kind of
sand-fly. You would not observe them but for their light-colored
wings. They are said to get under your clothes, and produce a
feverish heat, which I suppose was what I felt that night.

Our insect foes in this excursion, to sum them up, were, first,
mosquitoes, the chief ones, but only troublesome at night, or when we
sat still on shore by day; second, black flies (_Simulium molestum_),
which molested us more or less on the carries by day, as I have before
described, and sometimes in narrower parts of the stream. Harris
mistakes when he says that they are not seen after June. Third,
moose-flies. The big ones, Polis said, were called _Bososquasis_. It
is a stout, brown fly, much like a horse-fly, about eleven sixteenths
of an inch long, commonly rusty-colored beneath, with unspotted wings.
They can bite smartly, according to Polis, but are easily avoided or
killed. Fourth, the no-see-ems above mentioned. Of all these, the
mosquitoes are the only ones that troubled me seriously; but, as I was
provided with a wash and a veil, they have not made any deep
impression.

The Indian would not use our wash to protect his face and hands, for
fear that it would hurt his skin, nor had he any veil; he, therefore,
suffered from insects now, and throughout this journey, more than
either of us. I think that he suffered more than I did, when neither
of us was protected. He regularly tied up his face in his
handkerchief, and buried it in his blanket, and he now finally lay
down on the sand between us and the fire for the sake of the smoke,
which he tried to make enter his blanket about his face, and for the
same purpose he lit his pipe and breathed the smoke into his blanket.

As we lay thus on the shore, with nothing between us and the stars, I
inquired what stars he was acquainted with, or had names for. They
were the Great Bear, which he called by this name, the Seven Stars,
which he had no English name for, “the morning star,” and “the north
star.”

In the middle of the night, as indeed each time that we lay on the
shore of a lake, we heard the voice of the loon, loud and distinct,
from far over the lake. It is a very wild sound, quite in keeping with
the place and the circumstances of the traveler, and very unlike the
voice of a bird. I could lie awake for hours listening to it, it is so
thrilling. When camping in such a wilderness as this, you are prepared
to hear sounds from some of its inhabitants which will give voice to
its wildness. Some idea of bears, wolves, or panthers runs in your
head naturally, and when this note is first heard very far off at
midnight, as you lie with your ear to the ground,--the forest being
perfectly still about you, you take it for granted that it is the
voice of a wolf or some other wild beast, for only the last part is
heard when at a distance,--you conclude that it is a pack of wolves,
baying the moon, or, perchance, cantering after a moose. Strange as it
may seem, the “mooing” of a cow on a mountain-side comes nearest to my
idea of the voice of a bear; and this bird’s note resembled that. It
was the unfailing and characteristic sound of those lakes. We were not
so lucky as to hear wolves howl, though that is an occasional
serenade. Some friends of mine, who two years ago went up the
Caucomgomoc River, were serenaded by wolves while moose-hunting by
moonlight. It was a sudden burst, as if a hundred demons had broke
loose,--a startling sound enough, which, if any, would make your hair
stand on end, and all was still again. It lasted but a moment, and
you’d have thought there were twenty of them, when probably there were
only two or three. They heard it twice only, and they said that it
gave expression to the wilderness which it lacked before. I heard of
some men who, while skinning a moose lately in those woods, were
driven off from the carcass by a pack of wolves, which ate it up.

This of the loon--I do not mean its laugh, but its looning,--is a
long-drawn call, as it were, sometimes singularly human to my
ear,--_hoo-hoo-ooooo_, like the hallooing of a man on a very high key,
having thrown his voice into his head. I have heard a sound exactly
like it when breathing heavily through my own nostrils, half awake at
ten at night, suggesting my affinity to the loon; as if its language
were but a dialect of my own, after all. Formerly, when lying awake at
midnight in those woods, I had listened to hear some words or
syllables of their language, but it chanced that I listened in vain
until I heard the cry of the loon. I have heard it occasionally on the
ponds of my native town, but there its wildness is not enhanced by the
surrounding scenery.

I was awakened at midnight by some heavy, low-flying bird, probably a
loon, flapping by close over my head, along the shore. So, turning the
other side of my half-clad body to the fire, I sought slumber again.

       *       *       *       *       *

     TUESDAY, July 28.

When we awoke, we found a heavy dew on our blankets. I lay awake very
early, and listened to the clear, shrill _ah, te te, te te, te_ of
the white-throated sparrow, repeated at short intervals, without the
least variation, for half an hour, as if it could not enough express
its happiness. Whether my companions heard it or not, I know not, but
it was a kind of matins to me, and the event of that forenoon.

It was a pleasant sunrise, and we had a view of the mountains in the
southeast. Ktaadn appeared about southeast by south. A double-topped
mountain, about southeast by east, and another portion of the same,
east-southeast. The last the Indian called Nerlumskeechticook, and
said that it was at the head of the East Branch, and we should pass
near it on our return that way.

We did some more washing in the lake this morning, and with our
clothes hung about on the dead trees and rocks, the shore looked like
washing-day at home. The Indian, taking the hint, borrowed the soap,
and, walking into the lake, washed his only cotton shirt on his
person, then put on his pants and let it dry on him.

I observed that he wore a cotton shirt, originally white, a greenish
flannel one over it, but no waistcoat, flannel drawers, and strong
linen or duck pants, which also had been white, blue woolen stockings,
cowhide boots, and a Kossuth hat. He carried no change of clothing,
but putting on a stout, thick jacket, which he laid aside in the
canoe, and seizing a full-sized axe, his gun and ammunition, and a
blanket, which would do for a sail or knapsack, if wanted, and
strapping on his belt, which contained a large sheath-knife, he walked
off at once, ready to be gone all summer. This looked very
independent; a few simple and effective tools, and no india-rubber
clothing. He was always the first ready to start in the morning, and
if it had not held some of our property, would not have been obliged
to roll up his blanket. Instead of carrying a large bundle of his own
extra clothing, etc., he brought back the greatcoats of moose tied up
in his blanket. I found that his outfit was the result of a long
experience, and in the main hardly to be improved on, unless by
washing and an extra shirt. Wanting a button here, he walked off to a
place where some Indians had recently encamped, and searched for one,
but I believe in vain.

Having softened our stiffened boots and shoes with the pork fat, the
usual disposition of what was left at breakfast, we crossed the lake
early, steering in a diagonal direction, northeasterly about four
miles, to the outlet, which was not to be discovered till we were
close to it. The Indian name, _Apmoojenegamook_, means lake that is
crossed, because the usual course lies across, and not along it. This
is the largest of the Allegash lakes, and was the first St. John water
that we floated on. It is shaped in the main like Chesuncook. There
are no mountains or high hills very near it. At Bangor we had been
told of a township many miles farther northwest; it was indicated to
us as containing the highest land thereabouts, where, by climbing a
particular tree in the forest, we could get a general idea of the
country. I have no doubt that the last was good advice, but we did not
go there. We did not intend to go far down the Allegash, but merely to
get a view of the great lakes which are its source, and then return
this way to the East Branch of the Penobscot. The water now, by good
rights, flowed northward, if it could be said to flow at all.

After reaching the middle of the lake, we found the waves as usual
pretty high, and the Indian warned my companion, who was nodding, that
he must not allow himself to fall asleep in the canoe lest he should
upset us; adding, that when Indians want to sleep in a canoe, they lie
down straight on the bottom. But in this crowded one that was
impossible. However, he said that he would nudge him if he saw him
nodding.

A belt of dead trees stood all around the lake, some far out in the
water, with others prostrate behind them, and they made the shore, for
the most part, almost inaccessible. This is the effect of the dam at
the outlet. Thus the natural sandy or rocky shore, with its green
fringe, was concealed and destroyed. We coasted westward along the
north side, searching for the outlet, about one quarter of a mile
distant from this savage-looking shore, on which the waves were
breaking violently, knowing that it might easily be concealed amid
this rubbish, or by the overlapping of the shore. It is remarkable how
little these important gates to a lake are blazoned. There is no
triumphal arch over the modest inlet or outlet, but at some
undistinguished point it trickles in or out through the uninterrupted
forest, almost as through a sponge.

We reached the outlet in about an hour, and carried over the dam
there, which is quite a solid structure, and about one quarter of a
mile farther there was a second dam. The reader will perceive that the
result of this particular damming about Chamberlain Lake is, that the
head-waters of the St. John are made to flow by Bangor. They have thus
dammed all the larger lakes, raising their broad surfaces many feet;
Moosehead, for instance, some forty miles long, with its steamer on
it; thus turning the forces of nature against herself, that they might
float their spoils out of the country. They rapidly run out of these
immense forests all the finer, and more accessible pine timber, and
then leave the bears to watch the decaying dams, not clearing nor
cultivating the land, nor making roads, nor building houses, but
leaving it a wilderness as they found it. In many parts, only these
dams remain, like deserted beaver-dams. Think how much land they have
flowed, without asking Nature’s leave! When the State wishes to endow
an academy or university, it grants it a tract of forest land: one saw
represents an academy; a gang, a university.

The wilderness experiences a sudden rise of all her streams and lakes.
She feels ten thousand vermin gnawing at the base of her noblest
trees. Many combining drag them off, jarring over the roots of the
survivors, and tumble them into the nearest stream, till, the fairest
having fallen, they scamper off to ransack some new wilderness, and
all is still again. It is as when a migrating army of mice girdles a
forest of pines. The chopper fells trees from the same motive that the
mouse gnaws them,--to get his living. You tell me that he has a more
interesting family than the mouse. That is as it happens. He speaks of
a “berth” of timber, a good place for him to get into, just as a worm
might. When the chopper would praise a pine, he will commonly tell you
that the one he cut was so big that a yoke of oxen stood on its stump;
as if that were what the pine had grown for, to become the footstool
of oxen. In my mind’s eye, I can see these unwieldy tame deer, with a
yoke binding them together, and brazen-tipped horns betraying their
servitude, taking their stand on the stump of each giant pine in
succession throughout this whole forest, and chewing their cud there,
until it is nothing but an ox-pasture, and run out at that. As if it
were good for the oxen, and some terebinthine or other medicinal
quality ascended into their nostrils. Or is their elevated position
intended merely as a symbol of the fact that the pastoral comes next
in order to the sylvan or hunter life?

The character of the logger’s admiration is betrayed by his very mode
of expressing it. If he told all that was in his mind, he would say,
it was so big that I cut it down and then a yoke of oxen could stand
on its stump. He admires the log, the carcass or corpse, more than the
tree. Why, my dear sir, the tree might have stood on its own stump,
and a great deal more comfortably and firmly than a yoke of oxen can,
if you had not cut it down. What right have you to celebrate the
virtues of the man you murdered?

The Anglo-American can indeed cut down, and grub up all this waving
forest, and make a stump speech, and vote for Buchanan on its ruins,
but he cannot converse with the spirit of the tree he fells, he cannot
read the poetry and mythology which retire as he advances. He
ignorantly erases mythological tablets in order to print his handbills
and town-meeting warrants on them. Before he has learned his _a b c_
in the beautiful but mystic lore of the wilderness which Spenser and
Dante had just begun to read, he cuts it down, coins a _pine-tree_
shilling (as if to signify the pine’s value to him), puts up a
_dee_strict schoolhouse, and introduces Webster’s spelling-book.

Below the last dam, the river being swift and shallow, though broad
enough, we two walked about half a mile to lighten the canoe. I made
it a rule to carry my knapsack when I walked, and also to keep it tied
to a crossbar when in the canoe, that it might be found with the canoe
if we should upset.

I heard the dog-day locust here, and afterward on the carries, a sound
which I had associated only with more open, if not settled countries.
The area for locusts must be small in the Maine woods.

We were now fairly on the Allegash River, which name our Indian said
meant hemlock bark. These waters flow northward about one hundred
miles, at first very feebly, then southeasterly two hundred and fifty
more to the Bay of Fundy. After perhaps two miles of river, we entered
Heron Lake, called on the map _Pongokwahem_, scaring up forty or fifty
young _shecorways_, sheldrakes, at the entrance, which ran over the
water with great rapidity, as usual in a long line.

This was the fourth great lake, lying northwest and southeast, like
Chesuncook and most of the long lakes in that neighborhood, and,
judging from the map, it is about ten miles long. We had entered it on
the southwest side, and saw a dark mountain northeast over the lake,
not very far off nor high, which the Indian said was called Peaked
Mountain, and used by explorers to look for timber from. There was
also some other high land more easterly. The shores were in the same
ragged and unsightly condition, encumbered with dead timber, both
fallen and standing, as in the last lake, owing to the dam on the
Allegash below. Some low points or islands were almost drowned.

I saw something white a mile off on the water, which turned out to be
a great gull on a rock in the middle, which the Indian would have been
glad to kill and eat, but it flew away long before we were near; and
also a flock of summer ducks that were about the rock with it. I
asking him about herons, since this was Heron Lake, he said that he
found the blue heron’s nests in the hardwood trees. I thought that I
saw a light-colored object move along the opposite or northern shore,
four or five miles distant. He did not know what it could be, unless
it were a moose, though he had never seen a white one; but he said
that he could distinguish a moose “anywhere on shore, clear across the
lake.”

Rounding a point, we stood across a bay for a mile and a half or two
miles, toward a large island, three or four miles down the lake. We
met with ephemeræ (shadfly) midway, about a mile from the shore, and
they evidently fly over the whole lake. On Moosehead I had seen a
large devil’s-needle half a mile from the shore, coming from the
middle of the lake, where it was three or four miles wide at least. It
had probably crossed. But at last, of course, you come to lakes so
large that an insect cannot fly across them; and this, perhaps, will
serve to distinguish a large lake from a small one.

We landed on the southeast side of the island, which was rather
elevated and densely wooded, with a rocky shore, in season for an
early dinner. Somebody had camped there not long before, and left the
frame on which they stretched a moose-hide, which our Indian
criticised severely, thinking it showed but little woodcraft. Here
were plenty of the shells of crayfish, or fresh-water lobsters, which
had been washed ashore, such as have given a name to some ponds and
streams. They are commonly four or five inches long. The Indian
proceeded at once to cut a canoe birch, slanted it up against another
tree on the shore, tying it with a withe, and lay down to sleep in its
shade.

When we were on the Caucomgomoc, he recommended to us a new way home,
the very one which we had first thought of, by the St. John. He even
said that it was easier, and would take but little more time than the
other, by the East Branch of the Penobscot, though very much farther
round; and taking the map, he showed where we should be each night,
for he was familiar with the route. According to his calculation, we
should reach the French settlements the next night after this, by
keeping northward down the Allegash, and when we got into the main St.
John the banks would be more or less settled all the way; as if that
were a recommendation. There would be but one or two falls, with short
carrying-places, and we should go down the stream very fast, even a
hundred miles a day, if the wind allowed; and he indicated where we
should carry over into Eel River to save a bend below Woodstock in New
Brunswick, and so into the Schoodic Lake, and thence to the
Mattawamkeag. It would be about three hundred and sixty miles to
Bangor this way, though only about one hundred and sixty by the
other; but in the former case we should explore the St. John from its
source through two thirds of its course, as well as the Schoodic Lake
and Mattawamkeag,--and we were again tempted to go that way. I feared,
however, that the banks of the St. John were too much settled. When I
asked him which course would take us through the wildest country, he
said the route by the East Branch. Partly from this consideration, as
also from its shortness, we resolved to adhere to the latter route,
and perhaps ascend Ktaadn on the way. We made this island the limit of
our excursion in this direction.

We had now seen the largest of the Allegash lakes. The next dam “was
about fifteen miles” farther north, down the Allegash, and it was dead
water so far. We had been told in Bangor of a man who lived alone, a
sort of hermit, at that dam, to take care of it, who spent his time
tossing a bullet from one hand to the other, for want of
employment,--as if we might want to call on him. This sort of
tit-for-tat intercourse between his two hands, bandying to and fro a
leaden subject, seems to have been his symbol for society.

This island, according to the map, was about a hundred and ten miles
in a straight line north-northwest from Bangor, and about ninety-nine
miles east-southeast from Quebec. There was another island visible
toward the north end of the lake, with an elevated clearing on it; but
we learned afterward that it was not inhabited, had only been used as
a pasture for cattle which summered in these woods, though our
informant said that there was a hut on the mainland near the outlet
of the lake. This unnaturally smooth-shaven, squarish spot, in the
midst of the otherwise uninterrupted forest, only reminded us how
uninhabited the country was. You would sooner expect to meet with a
bear than an ox in such a clearing. At any rate, it must have been a
surprise to the bears when they came across it. Such, seen far or
near, you know at once to be man’s work, for Nature never does it. In
order to let in the light to the earth as on a lake, he clears off the
forest on the hillsides and plains, and sprinkles fine grass seed,
like an enchanter, and so carpets the earth with a firm sward.

Polis had evidently more curiosity respecting the few settlers in
those woods than we. If nothing was said, he took it for granted that
we wanted to go straight to the next log-hut. Having observed that we
came by the log huts at Chesuncook, and the blind Canadian’s at the
Mud Pond carry, without stopping to communicate with the inhabitants,
he took occasion now to suggest that the usual way was, when you came
near a house, to go to it, and tell the inhabitants what you had seen
or heard, and then they tell you what they had seen; but we laughed,
and said that we had had enough of houses for the present, and had
come here partly to avoid them.

In the meanwhile, the wind, increasing, blew down the Indian’s birch,
and created such a sea that we found ourselves prisoners on the
island, the nearest shore, which was the western, being perhaps a mile
distant, and we took the canoe out to prevent its drifting away. We
did not know but we should be compelled to spend the rest of the day
and the night there. At any rate, the Indian went to sleep again in
the shade of his birch, my companion busied himself drying his
plants, and I rambled along the shore westward, which was quite stony,
and obstructed with fallen, bleached, or drifted trees for four or
five rods in width. I found growing on this broad, rocky, and gravelly
shore the _Salix rostrata_, _discolor_, and _lucida_, _Ranunculus
recurvatus_, _Potentilla Norvegica_, _Scutellaria lateriflora_,
_Eupatorium purpureum_, _Aster Tradescanti_, _Mentha Canadensis_,
_Epilobium angustifolium_ (abundant), _Lycopus sinuatus_, _Solidago
lanceolata_, _Spiræa salicifolia_, _Antennaria margaraticea_,
_Prunella_, _Rumex Acetosella_, raspberries, wool-grass, _Onoclea_,
etc. The nearest trees were _Betula papyracea_ and _excelsa_, and
_Populus tremuloides_. I give these names because it was my farthest
northern point.

Our Indian said that he was a doctor, and could tell me some medicinal
use for every plant I could show him. I immediately tried him. He said
that the inner bark of the aspen (_Populus tremuloides_) was good for
sore eyes; and so with various other plants, proving himself as good
as his word. According to his account, he had acquired such knowledge
in his youth from a wise old Indian with whom he associated, and he
lamented that the present generation of Indians “had lost a great
deal.”

He said that the caribou was a “very great runner,” that there was
none about this lake now, though there used to be many, and pointing
to the belt of dead trees caused by the dams, he added, “No likum
stump,--when he sees that he scared.”

Pointing southeasterly over the lake and distant forest, he observed,
“Me go Oldtown in three days.” I asked how he would get over the
swamps and fallen trees. “Oh,” said he, “in winter all covered, go
anywhere on snowshoes, right across lakes.” When I asked how he went,
he said, “First I go Ktaadn, west side, then I go Millinocket, then
Pamadumcook, then Nicketow, then Lincoln, then Oldtown,” or else he
went a shorter way by the Piscataquis. What a wilderness walk for a
man to take alone! None of your half-mile swamps, none of your
mile-wide woods merely, as on the skirts of our towns, without hotels,
only a dark mountain or a lake for guide-board and station, over
ground much of it impassable in summer!

It reminded me of Prometheus Bound. Here was traveling of the old
heroic kind over the unaltered face of nature. From the Allegash, or
Hemlock River, and Pongoquahem Lake, across great Apmoojenegamook, and
leaving the Nerlumskeechticook Mountain on his left, he takes his way
under the bear-haunted slopes of Souneunk and Ktaadn Mountains to
Pamadumcook, and Millinocket’s inland seas (where often gulls’-eggs
may increase his store), and so on to the forks of the Nicketow
(_niasoseb_, “we alone Joseph,” seeing what our folks see), ever
pushing the boughs of the fir and spruce aside, with his load of furs,
contending day and night, night and day, with the shaggy demon
vegetation, traveling through the mossy graveyard of trees. Or he
could go by “that rough tooth of the sea,” Kineo, great source of
arrows and of spears to the ancients, when weapons of stone were used.
Seeing and hearing moose, caribou, bears, porcupines, lynxes, wolves,
and panthers. Places where he might live and die and never hear of
the United States, which make such a noise in the world,--never hear
of America, so called from the name of a European gentleman.

There is a lumberer’s road called the Eagle Lake road, from the
Seboois to the east side of this lake. It may seem strange that any
road through such a wilderness should be passable, even in winter,
when the snow is three or four feet deep, but at that season, wherever
lumbering operations are actively carried on, teams are continually
passing on the single track, and it becomes as smooth almost as a
railway. I am told that in the Aroostook country the sleds are
required by law to be of one width (four feet), and sleighs must be
altered to fit the track, so that one runner may go in one rut and the
other follow the horse. Yet it is very bad turning out.

We had for some time seen a thunder-shower coming up from the west
over the woods of the island, and heard the muttering of the thunder,
though we were in doubt whether it would reach us; but now the
darkness rapidly increasing, and a fresh breeze rustling the forest,
we hastily put up the plants which we had been drying, and with one
consent made a rush for the tent material and set about pitching it. A
place was selected and stakes and pins cut in the shortest possible
time, and we were pinning it down lest it should be blown away, when
the storm suddenly burst over us.

As we lay huddled together under the tent, which leaked considerably
about the sides, with our baggage at our feet, we listened to some of
the grandest thunder which I ever heard,--rapid peals, round and
plump, bang, bang, bang, in succession, like artillery from some
fortress in the sky; and the lightning was proportionally brilliant.
The Indian said, “It must be good powder.” All for the benefit of the
moose and us, echoing far over the concealed lakes. I thought it must
be a place which the thunder loved, where the lightning practiced to
keep its hand in, and it would do no harm to shatter a few pines. What
had become of the ephemeræ and devil’s-needles then? Were they prudent
enough to seek harbor before the storm? Perhaps their motions might
guide the voyageur.

Looking out I perceived that the violent shower falling on the lake
had almost instantaneously flattened the waves,--the commander of that
fortress had smoothed it for us so,--and, it clearing off, we resolved
to start immediately, before the wind raised them again.

Going outside, I said that I saw clouds still in the southwest, and
heard thunder there. The Indian asked if the thunder went “lound”
(round), saying that if it did we should have more rain. I thought
that it did. We embarked, nevertheless, and paddled rapidly back
toward the dams. The white-throated sparrows on the shore were about,
singing, _Ah, te-e-e, te-e-e, te_, or else _ah, te-e-e, te-e-e,
te-e-e, te-e-e_.

At the outlet of Chamberlain Lake we were overtaken by another gusty
rain-storm, which compelled us to take shelter, the Indian under his
canoe on the bank, and we ran under the edge of the dam. However, we
were more scared than wet. From my covert I could see the Indian
peeping out from beneath his canoe to see what had become of the rain.
When we had taken our respective places thus once or twice, the rain
not coming down in earnest, we commenced rambling about the
neighborhood, for the wind had by this time raised such waves on the
lake that we could not stir, and we feared that we should be obliged
to camp there. We got an early supper on the dam and tried for fish
there, while waiting for the tumult to subside. The fishes were not
only few, but small and worthless, and the Indian declared that there
were no good fishes in the St. John’s waters; that we must wait till
we got to the Penobscot waters.

At length, just before sunset, we set out again. It was a wild evening
when we coasted up the north side of this Apmoojenegamook Lake. One
thunder-storm was just over, and the waves which it had raised still
running with violence, and another storm was now seen coming up in the
southwest, far over the lake; but it might be worse in the morning,
and we wished to get as far as possible on our way up the lake while
we might. It blowed hard against the northern shore about an eighth of
a mile distant on our left, and there was just as much sea as our
shallow canoe would bear, without our taking unusual care. That which
we kept off, and toward which the waves were driving, was as dreary
and harborless a shore as you can conceive. For half a dozen rods in
width it was a perfect maze of submerged trees, all dead and bare and
bleaching, some standing half their original height, others prostrate,
and criss-across, above or beneath the surface, and mingled with them
were loose trees and limbs and stumps, beating about. Imagine the
wharves of the largest city in the world, decayed, and the earth and
planking washed away, leaving the spiles standing in loose order, but
often of twice the ordinary height, and mingled with and beating
against them the wreck of ten thousand navies, all their spars and
timbers, while there rises from the water’s edge the densest and
grimmest wilderness, ready to supply more material when the former
fails, and you may get a faint idea of that coast. We could not have
landed if we would, without the greatest danger of being swamped; so
blow as it might, we must depend on coasting by it. It was twilight,
too, and that stormy cloud was advancing rapidly in our rear. It was a
pleasant excitement, yet we were glad to reach, at length, in the
dusk, the cleared shore of the Chamberlain Farm.

We landed on a low and thinly wooded point there, and while my
companions were pitching the tent, I ran up to the house to get some
sugar, our six pounds being gone;--it was no wonder they were, for
Polis had a sweet tooth. He would first fill his dipper nearly a third
full of sugar, and then add the coffee to it. Here was a clearing
extending back from the lake to a hilltop, with some dark-colored log
buildings and a storehouse in it, and half a dozen men standing in
front of the principal hut, greedy for news. Among them was the man
who tended the dam on the Allegash and tossed the bullet. He having
charge of the dams, and learning that we were going to Webster Stream
the next day, told me that some of their men, who were haying at Telos
Lake, had shut the dam at the canal there in order to catch trout, and
if we wanted more water to take us through the canal, we might raise
the gate, for he would like to have it raised. The Chamberlain Farm is
no doubt a cheerful opening in the woods, but such was the lateness
of the hour that it has left but a dusky impression on my mind. As I
have said, the influx of light merely is civilizing, yet I fancied
that they walked about on Sundays in their clearing somewhat as in a
prison-yard.

They were unwilling to spare more than four pounds of brown
sugar,--unlocking the storehouse to get it,--since they only kept a
little for such cases as this, and they charged twenty cents a pound
for it, which certainly it was worth to get it up there.

When I returned to the shore it was quite dark, but we had a rousing
fire to warm and dry us by, and a snug apartment behind it. The Indian
went up to the house to inquire after a brother who had been absent
hunting a year or two, and while another shower was beginning, I
groped about cutting spruce and arbor-vitæ twigs for a bed. I
preferred the arbor-vitæ on account of its fragrance, and spread it
particularly thick about the shoulders. It is remarkable with what
pure satisfaction the traveler in these woods will reach his
camping-ground on the eve of a tempestuous night like this, as if he
had got to his inn, and, rolling himself in his blanket, stretch
himself on his six-feet-by-two bed of dripping fir twigs, with a thin
sheet of cotton for roof, snug as a meadow-mouse in its nest.
Invariably our best nights were those when it rained, for then we were
not troubled with mosquitoes.

You soon come to disregard rain on such excursions, at least in the
summer, it is so easy to dry yourself, supposing a dry change of
clothing is not to be had. You can much sooner dry you by such a fire
as you can make in the woods than in anybody’s kitchen, the fireplace
is so much larger, and wood so much more abundant. A shed-shaped tent
will catch and reflect the heat like a Yankee baker, and you may be
drying while you are sleeping.

Some who have leaky roofs in the towns may have been kept awake, but
we were soon lulled asleep by a steady, soaking rain, which lasted all
night. To-night, the rain not coming at once with violence, the twigs
were soon dried by the reflected heat.

       *       *       *       *       *

     WEDNESDAY, July 29.

When we awoke it had done raining, though it was still cloudy. The
fire was put out, and the Indian’s boots, which stood under the eaves
of the tent, were half full of water. He was much more improvident in
such respects than either of us, and he had to thank us for keeping
his powder dry. We decided to cross the lake at once, before
breakfast, or while we could; and before starting I took the bearing
of the shore which we wished to strike, S. S. E. about three miles
distant, lest a sudden misty rain should conceal it when we were
midway. Though the bay in which we were was perfectly quiet and
smooth, we found the lake already wide awake outside, but not
dangerously or unpleasantly so; nevertheless, when you get out on one
of those lakes in a canoe like this, you do not forget that you are
completely at the mercy of the wind, and a fickle power it is. The
playful waves may at any time become too rude for you in their sport,
and play right on over you. We saw a few _shecorways_ and a fish hawk
thus early, and after much steady paddling and dancing over the dark
waves of Apmoojenegamook, we found ourselves in the neighborhood of
the southern land, heard the waves breaking on it, and turned our
thoughts wholly to that side. After coasting eastward along this shore
a mile or two, we breakfasted on a rocky point, the first convenient
place that offered.

It was well enough that we crossed thus early, for the waves now ran
quite high, and we should have been obliged to go round somewhat, but
beyond this point we had comparatively smooth water. You can commonly
go along one side or the other of a lake, when you cannot cross it.

The Indian was looking at the hard-wood ridges from time to time, and
said that he would like to buy a few hundred acres somewhere about
this lake, asking our advice. It was to buy as near the crossing-place
as possible.

My companion and I, having a minute’s discussion on some point of
ancient history, were amused by the attitude which the Indian, who
could not tell what we were talking about, assumed. He constituted
himself umpire, and, judging by our air and gesture, he very seriously
remarked from time to time, “you beat,” or “he beat.”

Leaving a spacious bay, a northeasterly prolongation of Chamberlain
Lake, on our left, we entered through a short strait into a small lake
a couple of miles over, called on the map _Telasinis_, but the Indian
had no distinct name for it, and thence into _Telos_ Lake, which he
called _Paytaywecomgomoc_, or Burnt-Ground Lake. This curved round
toward the northeast, and may have been three or four miles long as
we paddled. He had not been here since 1825. He did not know what
Telos meant; thought it was not Indian. He used the word
“_spokelogan_” (for an inlet in the shore which led nowhere), and when
I asked its meaning said that there was “no Indian in ’em.” There was
a clearing, with a house and barn, on the southwest shore, temporarily
occupied by some men who were getting the hay, as we had been told;
also a clearing for a pasture on a hill on the west side of the lake.

We landed on a rocky point on the northeast side, to look at some red
pines (_Pinus resinosa_), the first we had noticed, and get some
cones, for our few which grow in Concord do not bear any.

The outlet from the lake into the East Branch of the Penobscot is an
artificial one, and it was not very apparent where it was exactly, but
the lake ran curving far up northeasterly into two narrow valleys or
ravines, as if it had for a long time been groping its way toward the
Penobscot waters, or remembered when it anciently flowed there; by
observing where the horizon was lowest, and following the longest of
these, we at length reached the dam, having come about a dozen miles
from the last camp. Somebody had left a line set for trout, and the
jack knife with which the bait had been cut on the dam beside it, an
evidence that man was near, and on a deserted log close by a loaf of
bread baked in a Yankee baker. These proved the property of a solitary
hunter, whom we soon met, and canoe and gun and traps were not far
off. He told us that it was twenty miles farther on our route to the
foot of Grand Lake, where you could catch as many trout as you
wanted, and that the first house below the foot of the lake, on the
East Branch, was Hunt’s, about forty-five miles farther; though there
was one about a mile and a half up Trout Stream, some fifteen miles
ahead, but it was rather a blind route to it. It turned out that,
though the stream was in our favor, we did not reach the next house
till the morning of the third day after this. The nearest permanently
inhabited house behind us was now a dozen miles distant, so that the
interval between the two nearest houses on our route was about sixty
miles.

This hunter, who was a quite small, sunburnt man, having already
carried his canoe over, and baked his loaf, had nothing so interesting
and pressing to do as to observe our transit. He had been out a month
or more alone. How much more wild and adventurous his life than that
of the hunter in Concord woods, who gets back to his house and the
mill-dam every night! Yet they in the towns who have wild oats to sow
commonly sow them on cultivated and comparatively exhausted ground.
And as for the rowdy world in the large cities, so little enterprise
has it that it never adventures in this direction, but like vermin
clubs together in alleys and drinking-saloons, its highest
accomplishment, perchance, to run beside a fire-engine and throw
brickbats. But the former is comparatively an independent and
successful man, getting his living in a way that he likes, without
disturbing his human neighbors. How much more respectable also is the
life of the solitary pioneer or settler in these, or any
woods,--having real difficulties, not of his own creation, drawing his
subsistence directly from nature,--than that of the helpless
multitudes in the towns who depend on gratifying the extremely
artificial wants of society and are thrown out of employment by hard
times!

Here for the first time we found the raspberries really plenty,--that
is, on passing the height of land between the Allegash and the East
Branch of the Penobscot; the same was true of the blueberries.

Telos Lake, the head of the St. John on this side, and Webster Pond,
the head of the East Branch of the Penobscot, are only about a mile
apart, and they are connected by a ravine, in which but little digging
was required to make the water of the former, which is the highest,
flow into the latter. This canal, which is something less than a mile
long and about four rods wide, was made a few years before my first
visit to Maine. Since then the lumber of the upper Allegash and its
lakes has been run down the Penobscot, that is, up the Allegash, which
here consists principally of a chain of large and stagnant lakes,
whose thoroughfares, or river-links, have been made nearly equally
stagnant by damming, and then down the Penobscot. The rush of the
water has produced such changes in the canal that it has now the
appearance of a very rapid mountain stream flowing through a ravine,
and you would not suspect that any digging had been required to
persuade the waters of the St. John to flow into the Penobscot here.
It was so winding that one could see but little way down.

It is stated by Springer, in his “Forest Life,” that the cause of this
canal being dug was this: according to the treaty of 1842 with Great
Britain, it was agreed that all the timber run down the St. John,
which rises in Maine, “when within the Province of New Brunswick ...
shall be dealt with as if it were the produce of the said Province,”
which was thought by our side to mean that it should be free from
taxation. Immediately, the Province, wishing to get something out of
the Yankees, levied a duty on all the timber that passed down the St.
John; but to satisfy its own subjects “made a corresponding discount
on the stumpage charged those hauling timber from the crown lands.”
The result was that the Yankees made the St. John run the other way,
or down the Penobscot, so that the Province lost both its duty and its
water, while the Yankees, being greatly enriched, had reason to thank
it for the suggestion.

It is wonderful how well watered this country is. As you paddle across
a lake, bays will be pointed out to you, by following up which, and
perhaps the tributary stream which empties in, you may, after a short
portage, or possibly, at some seasons, none at all, get into another
river, which empties far away from the one you are on. Generally, you
may go in any direction in a canoe, by making frequent but not very
long portages. You are only realizing once more what all nature
distinctly remembers here, for no doubt the waters flowed thus in a
former geological period, and, instead of being a lake country, it was
an archipelago. It seems as if the more youthful and impressible
streams can hardly resist the numerous invitations and temptations to
leave their native beds and run down their neighbors’ channels. Your
carries are often over half-submerged ground, on the dry channels of a
former period. In carrying from one river to another, I did not go
over such high and rocky ground as in going about the falls of the
same river. For in the former case I was once lost in a swamp, as I
have related, and, again, found an artificial canal which appeared to
be natural.

I remember once dreaming of pushing a canoe up the rivers of Maine,
and that, when I had got so high that the channels were dry, I kept on
through the ravines and gorges, nearly as well as before, by pushing a
little harder, and now it seemed to me that my dream was partially
realized.

Wherever there is a channel for water, there is a road for the canoe.
The pilot of the steamer which ran from Oldtown up the Penobscot in
1854 told me that she drew only fourteen inches, and would run easily
in two feet of water, though they did not like to. It is said that
some Western steamers can run on a heavy dew, whence we can imagine
what a canoe may do. Montresor, who was sent from Quebec by the
English about 1760 to explore the route to the Kennebec, over which
Arnold afterward passed, supplied the Penobscot near its source with
water by opening the beaver-dams, and he says, “This is often done.”
He afterward states that the Governor of Canada had forbidden to
molest the beaver about the outlet of the Kennebec from Moosehead
Lake, on account of the service which their dams did by raising the
water for navigation.

This canal, so called, was a considerable and extremely rapid and
rocky river. The Indian decided that there was water enough in it
without raising the dam, which would only make it more violent, and
that he would run down it alone, while we carried the greater part of
the baggage. Our provision being about half consumed, there was the
less left in the canoe. We had thrown away the pork-keg, and wrapt its
contents in birch bark, which is the unequaled wrapping-paper of the
woods.

Following a moist trail through the forest, we reached the head of
Webster Pond about the same time with the Indian, notwithstanding the
velocity with which he moved, our route being the most direct. The
Indian name of Webster Stream, of which this pond is the source, is,
according to him, _Madunkchunk_, _i. e._, Height of Land, and of the
pond, _Madunkchunk-gamooc_, or Height of Land Pond. The latter was two
or three miles long. We passed near a pine on its shore which had been
splintered by lightning, perhaps the day before. This was the first
proper East Branch Penobscot water that we came to.

At the outlet of Webster Lake was another dam, at which we stopped and
picked raspberries, while the Indian went down the stream a half-mile
through the forest, to see what he had got to contend with. There was
a deserted log camp here, apparently used the previous winter, with
its “hovel” or barn for cattle. In the hut was a large fir twig bed,
raised two feet from the floor, occupying a large part of the single
apartment, a long narrow table against the wall, with a stout log
bench before it, and above the table a small window, the only one
there was, which admitted a feeble light. It was a simple and strong
fort erected against the cold, and suggested what valiant trencher
work had been done there. I discovered one or two curious wooden
traps, which had not been used for a long time, in the woods near by.
The principal part consisted of a long and slender pole.

We got our dinner on the shore, on the upper side of the dam. As we
were sitting by our fire, concealed by the earth bank of the dam, a
long line of sheldrake, half-grown, came waddling over it from the
water below, passing within about a rod of us, so that we could almost
have caught them in our hands. They were very abundant on all the
streams and lakes which we visited, and every two or three hours they
would rush away in a long string over the water before us, twenty to
fifty of them at once, rarely ever flying, but running with great
rapidity up or down the stream, even in the midst of the most violent
rapids, and apparently as fast up as down, or else crossing
diagonally, the old, as it appeared, behind, and driving them, and
flying to the front from time to time, as if to direct them. We also
saw many small black dippers, which behaved in a similar manner, and,
once or twice, a few black ducks.

An Indian at Oldtown had told us that we should be obliged to carry
ten miles between Telos Lake on the St. John and Second Lake on the
East Branch of the Penobscot; but the lumberers whom we met assured us
that there would not be more than a mile of carry. It turned out that
the Indian, who had lately been over this route, was nearest right, as
far as we were concerned. However, if one of us could have assisted
the Indian in managing the canoe in the rapids, we might have run the
greater part of the way; but as he was alone in the management of the
canoe in such places, we were obliged to walk the greater part. I did
not feel quite ready to try such an experiment on Webster Stream,
which has so bad a reputation. According to my observation, a batteau,
properly manned, shoots rapids as a matter of course, which a single
Indian with a canoe carries round.

My companion and I carried a good part of the baggage on our
shoulders, while the Indian took that which would be least injured by
wet in the canoe. We did not know when we should see him again, for he
had not been this way since the canal was cut, nor for more than
thirty years. He agreed to stop when he got to smooth water, come up
and find our path if he could, and halloo for us, and after waiting a
reasonable time go on and try again,--and we were to look out in like
manner for him.

He commenced by running through the sluiceway and over the dam, as
usual, standing up in his tossing canoe, and was soon out of sight
behind a point in a wild gorge. This Webster Stream is well known to
lumbermen as a difficult one. It is exceedingly rapid and rocky, and
also shallow, and can hardly be considered navigable, unless that may
mean that what is launched in it is sure to be carried swiftly down
it, though it may be dashed to pieces by the way. It is somewhat like
navigating a thunder-spout. With commonly an irresistible force urging
you on, you have got to choose your own course each moment, between
the rocks and shallows, and to get into it, moving forward always with
the utmost possible moderation, and often holding on, if you can, that
you may inspect the rapids before you.

By the Indian’s direction we took an old path on the south side,
which appeared to keep down the stream, though at a considerable
distance from it, cutting off bends, perhaps to Second Lake, having
first taken the course from the map with a compass, which was
northeasterly, for safety. It was a wild wood-path, with a few tracks
of oxen which had been driven over it, probably to some old camp
clearing, for pasturage, mingled with the tracks of moose which had
lately used it. We kept on steadily for about an hour without putting
down our packs, occasionally winding around or climbing over a fallen
tree, for the most part far out of sight and hearing of the river;
till, after walking about three miles, we were glad to find that the
path came to the river again at an old camp ground, where there was a
small opening in the forest, at which we paused. Swiftly as the
shallow and rocky river ran here, a continuous rapid with dancing
waves, I saw, as I sat on the shore, a long string of sheldrakes,
which something scared, run up the opposite side of the stream by me,
with the same ease that they commonly did down it, just touching the
surface of the waves, and getting an impulse from them as they flowed
from under them; but they soon came back, driven by the Indian, who
had fallen a little behind us on account of the windings. He shot
round a point just above, and came to land by us with considerable
water in his canoe. He had found it, as he said, “very strong water,”
and had been obliged to land once before to empty out what he had
taken in. He complained that it strained him to paddle so hard in
order to keep his canoe straight in its course, having no one in the
bows to aid him, and, shallow as it was, said that it would be no
joke to upset there, for the force of the water was such that he had
as lief I would strike him over the head with a paddle as have that
water strike him. Seeing him come out of that gap was as if you should
pour water down an inclined and zigzag trough, then drop a nutshell
into it, and, taking a short cut to the bottom, get there in time to
see it come out, notwithstanding the rush and tumult, right side up,
and only partly full of water.

After a moment’s breathing-space, while I held his canoe, he was soon
out of sight again around another bend, and we, shouldering our packs,
resumed our course.

We did not at once fall into our path again, but made our way with
difficulty along the edge of the river, till at length, striking
inland through the forest, we recovered it. Before going a mile we
heard the Indian calling to us. He had come up through the woods and
along the path to find us, having reached sufficiently smooth water to
warrant his taking us in. The shore was about one fourth of a mile
distant, through a dense, dark forest, and as he led us back to it,
winding rapidly about to the right and left, I had the curiosity to
look down carefully, and found that he was following his steps
backward. I could only occasionally perceive his trail in the moss,
and yet he did not appear to look down nor hesitate an instant, but
led us out exactly to his canoe. This surprised me; for without a
compass, or the sight or noise of the river to guide us, we could not
have kept our course many minutes, and could have retraced our steps
but a short distance, with a great deal of pains and very slowly,
using a laborious circumspection. But it was evident that he could go
back through the forest wherever he had been during the day.

After this rough walking in the dark woods it was an agreeable change
to glide down the rapid river in the canoe once more. This river,
which was about the size of our Assabet (in Concord), though still
very swift, was almost perfectly smooth here, and showed a very
visible declivity, a regularly inclined plane, for several miles, like
a mirror set a little aslant, on which we coasted down. This very
obvious regular descent, particularly plain when I regarded the
water-line against the shores, made a singular impression on me, which
the swiftness of our motion probably enhanced, so that we seemed to be
gliding down a much steeper declivity than we were, and that we could
not save ourselves from rapids and falls if we should suddenly come to
them. My companion did not perceive this slope, but I have a
surveyor’s eyes, and I satisfied myself that it was no ocular
illusion. You could tell at a glance on approaching such a river which
way the water flowed, though you might perceive no motion. I observed
the angle at which a level line would strike the surface, and
calculated the amount of fall in a rod, which did not need to be
remarkably great to produce this effect.

It was very exhilarating, and the perfection of traveling, quite
unlike floating on our dead Concord River, the coasting down this
inclined mirror, which was now and then gently winding, down a
mountain, indeed, between two evergreen forests, edged with lofty dead
white pines, sometimes slanted half-way over the stream, and destined
soon to bridge it. I saw some monsters there, nearly destitute of
branches, and scarcely diminishing in diameter for eighty or ninety
feet.

As we thus swept along, our Indian repeated in a deliberate and
drawling tone the words “Daniel Webster, great lawyer,” apparently
reminded of him by the name of the stream, and he described his
calling on him once in Boston, at what he supposed was his
boarding-house. He had no business with him, but merely went to pay
his respects, as we should say. In answer to our questions, he
described his person well enough. It was on the day after Webster
delivered his Bunker Hill oration, which I believe Polis heard. The
first time he called he waited till he was tired without seeing him,
and then went away. The next time, he saw him go by the door of the
room in which he was waiting several times, in his shirt-sleeves,
without noticing him. He thought that if he had come to see Indians,
they would not have treated him so. At length, after very long delay,
he came in, walked toward him, and asked in a loud voice, gruffly,
“What do you want?” and he, thinking at first, by the motion of his
hand, that he was going to strike him, said to himself, “You’d better
take care; if you try that I shall know what to do.” He did not like
him, and declared that all he said “was not worth talk about a
musquash.” We suggested that probably Mr. Webster was very busy, and
had a great many visitors just then.

Coming to falls and rapids, our easy progress was suddenly terminated.
The Indian went alongshore to inspect the water, while we climbed over
the rocks, picking berries. The peculiar growth of blueberries on the
tops of large rocks here made the impression of high land, and indeed
this was the Height-of-Land Stream. When the Indian came back, he
remarked, “You got to walk; ver strong water.” So, taking out his
canoe, he launched it again below the falls, and was soon out of
sight. At such times he would step into the canoe, take up his paddle,
and, with an air of mystery, start off, looking far down-stream, and
keeping his own counsel, as if absorbing all the intelligence of
forest and stream into himself; but I sometimes detected a little fun
in his face, which could yield to my sympathetic smile, for he was
thoroughly good-humored. We meanwhile scrambled along the shore with
our packs, without any path. This was the last of _our_ boating for
the day.

The prevailing rock here was a kind of slate, standing on its edges,
and my companion, who was recently from California, thought it exactly
like that in which the gold is found, and said that if he had had a
pan he would have liked to wash a little of the sand here.

The Indian now got along much faster than we, and waited for us from
time to time. I found here the only cool spring that I drank at
anywhere on this excursion, a little water filling a hollow in the
sandy bank. It was a quite memorable event, and due to the elevation
of the country, for wherever else we had been the water in the rivers
and the streams emptying in was dead and warm, compared with that of a
mountainous region. It was very bad walking along the shore over
fallen and drifted trees and bushes, and rocks, from time to time
swinging ourselves round over the water, or else taking to a gravel
bar or going inland. At one place, the Indian being ahead, I was
obliged to take off all my clothes in order to ford a small but deep
stream emptying in, while my companion, who was inland, found a rude
bridge, high up in the woods, and I saw no more of him for some time.
I saw there very fresh moose tracks, found a new goldenrod to me
(perhaps _Solidago thyrsoidea_), and I passed one white pine log,
which had lodged, in the forest near the edge of the stream, which was
quite five feet in diameter at the butt. Probably its size detained
it.

Shortly after this I overtook the Indian at the edge of some burnt
land, which extended three or four miles at least, beginning about
three miles above Second Lake, which we were expecting to reach that
night, and which is about ten miles from Telos Lake. This burnt region
was still more rocky than before, but, though comparatively open, we
could not yet see the lake. Not having seen my companion for some
time, I climbed, with the Indian, a singular high rock on the edge of
the river, forming a narrow ridge only a foot or two wide at top, in
order to look for him; and, after calling many times, I at length
heard him answer from a considerable distance inland, he having taken
a trail which led off from the river, perhaps directly to the lake,
and was now in search of the river again. Seeing a much higher rock,
of the same character, about one third of a mile farther east, or
down-stream, I proceeded toward it, through the burnt land, in order
to look for the lake from its summit, supposing that the Indian would
keep down the stream in his canoe, and hallooing all the while that my
companion might join me on the way. Before we came together I noticed
where a moose, which possibly I had scared by my shouting, had
apparently just run along a large rotten trunk of a pine, which made
a bridge, thirty or forty feet long, over a hollow, as convenient for
him as for me. The tracks were as large as those of an ox, but an ox
could not have crossed there. This burnt land was an exceedingly wild
and desolate region. Judging by the weeds and sprouts, it appeared to
have been burnt about two years before. It was covered with charred
trunks, either prostrate or standing, which crocked our clothes and
hands, and we could not easily have distinguished a bear there by his
color. Great shells of trees, sometimes unburnt without, or burnt on
one side only, but black within, stood twenty or forty feet high. The
fire had run up inside, as in a chimney, leaving the sap-wood.
Sometimes we crossed a rocky ravine fifty feet wide, on a fallen
trunk; and there were great fields of fire-weed (_Epilobium
angustifolium_) on all sides, the most extensive that I ever saw,
which presented great masses of pink. Intermixed with these were
blueberry and raspberry bushes.

Having crossed a second rocky ridge like the first, when I was
beginning to ascend the third, the Indian, whom I had left on the
shore some fifty rods behind, beckoned to me to come to him, but I
made sign that I would first ascend the highest rock before me, whence
I expected to see the lake. My companion accompanied me to the top.
This was formed just like the others. Being struck with the perfect
parallelism of these singular rock hills, however much one might be in
advance of another, I took out my compass and found that they lay
northwest and southeast, the rock being on its edge, and sharp edges
they were. This one, to speak from memory, was perhaps a third of a
mile in length, but quite narrow, rising gradually from the northwest
to the height of about eighty feet, but steep on the southeast end.
The southwest side was as steep as an ordinary roof, or as we could
safely climb; the northeast was an abrupt precipice from which you
could jump clean to the bottom, near which the river flowed; while the
level top of the ridge, on which you walked along, was only from one
to three or four feet in width. For a rude illustration, take the half
of a pear cut in two lengthwise, lay it on its flat side, the stem to
the northwest, and then halve it vertically in the direction of its
length, keeping the southwest half. Such was the general form.

There was a remarkable series of these great rock-waves revealed by
the burning; breakers, as it were. No wonder that the river that found
its way through them was rapid and obstructed by falls. No doubt the
absence of soil on these rocks, or its dryness where there was any,
caused this to be a very thorough burning. We could see the lake over
the woods, two or three miles ahead, and that the river made an abrupt
turn southward around the northwest end of the cliff on which we
stood, or a little above us, so that we had cut off a bend, and that
there was an important fall in it a short distance below us. I could
see the canoe a hundred rods behind, but now on the opposite shore,
and supposed that the Indian had concluded to take out and carry round
some bad rapids on that side, and that that might be what he had
beckoned to me for; but after waiting a while I could still see
nothing of him, and I observed to my companion that I wondered where
he was, though I began to suspect that he had gone inland to look for
the lake from some hilltop on that side, as we had done. This proved
to be the case; for after I had started to return to the canoe, I
heard a faint halloo, and descried him on the top of a distant rocky
hill on that side. But as, after a long time had elapsed, I still saw
his canoe in the same place, and he had not returned to it, and
appeared in no hurry to do so, and, moreover, as I remembered that he
had previously beckoned to me, I thought that there might be something
more to delay him than I knew, and began to return northwest, along
the ridge, toward the angle in the river. My companion, who had just
been separated from us, and had even contemplated the necessity of
camping alone, wishing to husband his steps, and yet to keep with us,
inquired where I was going; to which I answered that I was going far
enough back to communicate with the Indian, and that then I thought we
had better go along the shore together, and keep him in sight.

When we reached the shore, the Indian appeared from out the woods on
the opposite side, but on account of the roar of the water it was
difficult to communicate with him. He kept along the shore westward to
his canoe, while we stopped at the angle where the stream turned
southward around the precipice. I again said to my companion that we
would keep along the shore and keep the Indian in sight. We started to
do so, being close together, the Indian behind us having launched his
canoe again, but just then I saw the latter, who had crossed to our
side, forty or fifty rods behind, beckoning to me, and I called to my
companion, who had just disappeared behind large rocks at the point
of the precipice, three or four rods before me, on his way down the
stream, that I was going to help the Indian a moment. I did
so,--helped get the canoe over a fall, lying with my breast over a
rock, and holding one end while he received it below,--and within ten
or fifteen minutes at most I was back again at the point where the
river turned southward, in order to catch up with my companion, while
Polis glided down the river alone, parallel with me. But to my
surprise, when I rounded the precipice, though the shore was bare of
trees, without rocks, for a quarter of a mile at least, my companion
was not to be seen. It was as if he had sunk into the earth. This was
the more unaccountable to me, because I knew that his feet were, since
our swamp walk, very sore, and that he wished to keep with the party;
and besides this was very bad walking, climbing over or about the
rocks. I hastened along, hallooing and searching for him, thinking he
might be concealed behind a rock, yet doubting if he had not taken the
other side of the precipice, but the Indian had got along still faster
in his canoe, till he was arrested by the falls, about a quarter of a
mile below. He then landed, and said that we could go no farther that
night. The sun was setting, and on account of falls and rapids we
should be obliged to leave this river and carry a good way into
another farther east. The first thing then was to find my companion,
for I was now very much alarmed about him, and I sent the Indian along
the shore down-stream, which began to be covered with unburnt wood
again just below the falls, while I searched backward about the
precipice which we had passed. The Indian showed some unwillingness
to exert himself, complaining that he was very tired, in consequence
of his day’s work, that it had strained him very much getting down so
many rapids alone; but he went off calling somewhat like an owl. I
remembered that my companion was near-sighted, and I feared that he
had either fallen from the precipice, or fainted and sunk down amid
the rocks beneath it. I shouted and searched above and below this
precipice in the twilight till I could not see, expecting nothing less
than to find his body beneath it. For half an hour I anticipated and
believed only the worst. I thought what I should do the next day if I
did not find him, what I _could_ do in such a wilderness, and how his
relatives would feel, if I should return without him. I felt that if
he were really lost away from the river there, it would be a desperate
undertaking to find him; and where were they who could help you? What
would it be to raise the country, where there were only two or three
camps, twenty or thirty miles apart, and no road, and perhaps nobody
at home? Yet we must try the harder, the less the prospect of success.

I rushed down from this precipice to the canoe in order to fire the
Indian’s gun, but found that my companion had the caps. I was still
thinking of getting it off when the Indian returned. He had not found
him, but he said that he had seen his tracks once or twice along the
shore. This encouraged me very much. He objected to firing the gun,
saying that if my companion heard it, which was not likely, on account
of the roar of the stream, it would tempt him to come toward us, and
he might break his neck in the dark. For the same reason we refrained
from lighting a fire on the highest rock. I proposed that we should
both keep down the stream to the lake, or that I should go at any
rate, but the Indian said: “No use, can’t do anything in the dark;
come morning, then we find ’em. No harm,--he make ’em camp. No bad
animals here, no gristly bears, such as in California, where he’s
been,--warm night,--he well off as you and I.” I considered that if he
was well he could do without us. He had just lived eight years in
California, and had plenty of experience with wild beasts and wilder
men, was peculiarly accustomed to make journeys of great length; but
if he were sick or dead, he was near where we were. The darkness in
the woods was by this so thick that it alone decided the question. We
must camp where we were. I knew that he had his knapsack, with
blankets and matches, and, if well, would fare no worse than we,
except that he would have no supper nor society.

This side of the river being so encumbered with rocks, we crossed to
the eastern or smoother shore, and proceeded to camp there, within two
or three rods of the falls. We pitched no tent, but lay on the sand,
putting a few handfuls of grass and twigs under us, there being no
evergreen at hand. For fuel we had some of the charred stumps. Our
various bags of provisions had got quite wet in the rapids, and I
arranged them about the fire to dry. The fall close by was the
principal one on this stream, and it shook the earth under us. It was
a cool, because dewy, night; the more so, probably, owing to the
nearness of the falls. The Indian complained a good deal, and thought
afterward that he got a cold there which occasioned a more serious
illness. We were not much troubled by mosquitoes at any rate. I lay
awake a good deal from anxiety, but, unaccountably to myself, was at
length comparatively at ease respecting him. At first I had
apprehended the worst, but now I had little doubt but that I should
find him in the morning. From time to time I fancied that I heard his
voice calling through the roar of the falls from the opposite side of
the river; but it is doubtful if we could have heard him across the
stream there. Sometimes I doubted whether the Indian had really seen
his tracks, since he manifested an unwillingness to make much of a
search, and then my anxiety returned.

It was the most wild and desolate region we had camped in, where, if
anywhere, one might expect to meet with befitting inhabitants, but I
heard only the squeak of a nighthawk flitting over. The moon in her
first quarter, in the fore part of the night, setting over the bare
rocky hills garnished with tall, charred, and hollow stumps or shells
of trees, served to reveal the desolation.

       *       *       *       *       *

     THURSDAY, July 30.

I aroused the Indian early this morning to go in search of our
companion, expecting to find him within a mile or two, farther down
the stream. The Indian wanted his breakfast first, but I reminded him
that my companion had had neither breakfast nor supper. We were
obliged first to carry our canoe and baggage over into another stream,
the main East Branch, about three fourths of a mile distant, for
Webster Stream was no farther navigable. We went twice over this
carry, and the dewy bushes wet us through like water up to the
middle; I hallooed in a high key from time to time, though I had
little expectation that I could be heard over the roar of the rapids,
and, moreover, we were necessarily on the opposite side of the stream
to him. In going over this portage the last time, the Indian, who was
before me with the canoe on his head, stumbled and fell heavily once,
and lay for a moment silent, as if in pain. I hastily stepped forward
to help him, asking if he was much hurt, but after a moment’s pause,
without replying, he sprang up and went forward. He was all the way
subject to taciturn fits, but they were harmless ones.

We had launched our canoe and gone but little way down the East
Branch, when I heard an answering shout from my companion, and soon
after saw him standing on a point where there was a clearing a quarter
of a mile below, and the smoke of his fire was rising near by. Before
I saw him I naturally shouted again and again, but the Indian curtly
remarked, “He hears you,” as if once was enough. It was just below the
mouth of Webster Stream. When we arrived, he was smoking his pipe, and
said that he had passed a pretty comfortable night, though it was
rather cold, on account of the dew.

It appeared that when we stood together the previous evening, and I
was shouting to the Indian across the river, he, being near-sighted,
had not seen the Indian nor his canoe, and when I went back to the
Indian’s assistance, did not see which way I went, and supposed that
we were below and not above him, and so, making haste to catch up, he
ran away from us. Having reached this clearing, a mile or more below
our camp, the night overtook him, and he made a fire in a little
hollow, and lay down by it in his blanket, still thinking that we were
ahead of him. He thought it likely that he had heard the Indian call
once the evening before, but mistook it for an owl. He had seen one
botanical rarity before it was dark,--pure white _Epilobium
angustifolium_ amidst the fields of pink ones, in the burnt lands. He
had already stuck up the remnant of a lumberer’s shirt, found on the
point, on a pole by the waterside, for a signal, and attached a note
to it, to inform us that he had gone on to the lake, and that if he
did not find us there, he would be back in a couple of hours. If he
had not found us soon, he had some thoughts of going back in search of
the solitary hunter whom we had met at Telos Lake, ten miles behind,
and, if successful, hire him to take him to Bangor. But if this hunter
had moved as fast as we, he would have been twenty miles off by this
time, and who could guess in what direction? It would have been like
looking for a needle in a haymow, to search for him in these woods. He
had been considering how long he could live on berries alone.

We substituted for his note a card containing our names and
destination, and the date of our visit, which Polis neatly inclosed in
a piece of birch bark to keep it dry. This has probably been read by
some hunter or explorer ere this.

We all had good appetites for the breakfast which we made haste to
cook here, and then, having partially dried our clothes, we glided
swiftly down the winding stream toward Second Lake.

As the shores became flatter with frequent gravel and sand-bars, and
the stream more winding in the lower land near the lake, elms and ash
trees made their appearance; also the wild yellow lily (_Lilium
Canadense_), some of whose bulbs I collected for a soup. On some
ridges the burnt land extended as far as the lake. This was a very
beautiful lake, two or three miles long, with high mountains on the
southwest side, the (as our Indian said) _Nerlumskeechticook_, _i.
e._, Deadwater Mountain. It appears to be the same called Carbuncle
Mountain on the map. According to Polis, it extends in separate
elevations all along this and the next lake, which is much larger. The
lake, too, I think, is called by the same name, or perhaps with the
addition of _gamoc_ or _mooc_. The morning was a bright one, and
perfectly still and serene, the lake as smooth as glass, we making the
only ripple as we paddled into it. The dark mountains about it were
seen through a glaucous mist, and the brilliant white stems of canoe
birches mingled with the other woods around it. The wood thrush sang
on the distant shore, and the laugh of some loons, sporting in a
concealed western bay, as if inspired by the morning, came distinct
over the lake to us, and, what was more remarkable, the echo which ran
round the lake was much louder than the original note; probably
because, the loon being in a regularly curving bay under the mountain,
we were exactly in the focus of many echoes, the sound being reflected
like light from a concave mirror. The beauty of the scene may have
been enhanced to our eyes by the fact that we had just come together
again after a night of some anxiety. This reminded me of the Ambejijis
Lake on the West Branch, which I crossed in my first coming to Maine.
Having paddled down three quarters of the lake, we came to a
standstill, while my companion let down for fish. A white (or whitish)
gull sat on a rock which rose above the surface in mid-lake not far
off, quite in harmony with the scene; and as we rested there in the
warm sun, we heard one loud crushing or crackling sound from the
forest, forty or fifty rods distant, as of a stick broken by the foot
of some large animal. Even this was an interesting incident there. In
the midst of our dreams of giant lake trout, even then supposed to be
nibbling, our fishermen drew up a diminutive red perch, and we took up
our paddles again in haste.

It was not apparent where the outlet of this lake was, and while the
Indian thought it was in one direction, I thought it was in another.
He said, “I bet you four-pence it is there,” but he still held on in
my direction, which proved to be the right one. As we were approaching
the outlet, it being still early in the forenoon, he suddenly
exclaimed, “Moose! moose!” and told us to be still. He put a cap on
his gun, and, standing up in the stern, rapidly pushed the canoe
straight toward the shore and the moose. It was a cow moose, about
thirty rods off, standing in the water by the side of the outlet,
partly behind some fallen timber and bushes, and at that distance she
did not look very large. She was flapping her large ears, and from
time to time poking off the flies with her nose from some part of her
body. She did not appear much alarmed by our neighborhood, only
occasionally turned her head and looked straight at us, and then gave
her attention to the flies again. As we approached nearer she got out
of the water, stood higher, and regarded us more suspiciously. Polis
pushed the canoe steadily forward in the shallow water, and I for a
moment forgot the moose in attending to some pretty rose-colored
Polygonums just rising above the surface, but the canoe soon grounded
in the mud eight or ten rods distant from the moose, and the Indian
seized his gun and prepared to fire. After standing still a moment,
she turned slowly, as usual, so as to expose her side, and he improved
this moment to fire, over our heads. She thereupon moved off eight or
ten rods at a moderate pace, across a shallow bay, to an old
standing-place of hers, behind some fallen red maples, on the opposite
shore, and there she stood still again a dozen or fourteen rods from
us, while the Indian hastily loaded and fired twice at her, without
her moving. My companion, who passed him his caps and bullets, said
that Polis was as excited as a boy of fifteen, that his hand trembled,
and he once put his ramrod back upside down. This was remarkable for
so experienced a hunter. Perhaps he was anxious to make a good shot
before us. The white hunter had told me that the Indians were not good
shots, because they were excited, though he said that we had got a
good hunter with us.

The Indian now pushed quickly and quietly back, and a long distance
round, in order to get into the outlet,--for he had fired over the
neck of a peninsula between it and the lake,--till we approached the
place where the moose had stood, when he exclaimed, “She is a goner!”
and was surprised that we did not see her as soon as he did. There, to
be sure, she lay perfectly dead, with her tongue hanging out, just
where she had stood to receive the last shots, looking unexpectedly
large and horse-like, and we saw where the bullets had scarred the
trees.

Using a tape, I found that the moose measured just six feet from the
shoulder to the tip of the hoof, and was eight feet long as she lay.
Some portions of the body, for a foot in diameter, were almost covered
with flies, apparently the common fly of our woods, with a dark spot
on the wing, and not the very large ones which occasionally pursued us
in midstream, though both are called moose-flies.

Polis, preparing to skin the moose, asked me to help him find a stone
on which to sharpen his large knife. It being all a flat alluvial
ground where the moose had fallen, covered with red maples, etc., this
was no easy matter; we searched far and wide, a long time, till at
length I found a flat kind of slate-stone, and soon after he returned
with a similar one, on which he soon made his knife very sharp.

While he was skinning the moose, I proceeded to ascertain what kind of
fishes were to be found in the sluggish and muddy outlet. The greatest
difficulty was to find a pole. It was almost impossible to find a
slender, straight pole ten or twelve feet long in those woods. You
might search half an hour in vain. They are commonly spruce,
arbor-vitæ, fir, etc., short, stout, and branchy, and do not make good
fish-poles, even after you have patiently cut off all their tough and
scraggy branches. The fishes were red perch and chivin.

The Indian, having cut off a large piece of sirloin, the upper lip,
and the tongue, wrapped them in the hide, and placed them in the
bottom of the canoe, observing that there was “one man,” meaning the
weight of one. Our load had previously been reduced some thirty
pounds, but a hundred pounds were now added,--a serious addition,
which made our quarters still more narrow, and considerably increased
the danger on the lakes and rapids, as well as the labor of the
carries. The skin was ours according to custom, since the Indian was
in our employ, but we did not think of claiming it. He being a
skillful dresser of moose-hides would make it worth seven or eight
dollars to him, as I was told. He said that he sometimes earned fifty
or sixty dollars in a day at them; he had killed ten moose in one day,
though the skinning and all took two days. This was the way he had got
his property. There were the tracks of a calf thereabouts, which he
said would come “by, by,” and he could get it if we cared to wait, but
I cast cold water on the project.

We continued along the outlet toward Grand Lake, through a swampy
region, by a long, winding, and narrow dead water, very much choked up
by wood, where we were obliged to land sometimes in order to get the
canoe over a log. It was hard to find any channel, and we did not know
but we should be lost in the swamp. It abounded in ducks, as usual. At
length we reached Grand Lake, which the Indian called _Matungamook_.

At the head of this we saw, coming in from the southwest, with a sweep
apparently from a gorge in the mountains, Trout Stream, or
_Uncardnerheese_, which name, the Indian said, had something to do
with mountains.

We stopped to dine on an interesting high rocky island, soon after
entering Matungamook Lake, securing our canoe to the cliffy shore. It
is always pleasant to step from a boat on to a large rock or cliff.
Here was a good opportunity to dry our dewy blankets on the open sunny
rock. Indians had recently camped here, and accidentally burned over
the western end of the island, and Polis picked up a gun-case of blue
broadcloth, and said that he knew the Indian it belonged to, and would
carry it to him. His tribe is not so large but he may know all its
effects. We proceeded to make a fire and cook our dinner amid some
pines, where our predecessors had done the same, while the Indian
busied himself about his moose-hide on the shore, for he said that he
thought it a good plan for one to do all the cooking, _i. e._, I
suppose, if that one were not himself. A peculiar evergreen overhung
our fire, which at first glance looked like a pitch pine (_P.
rigida_), with leaves little more than an inch long, spruce-like, but
we found it to be the _Pinus Banksiana_,--“Banks’s, or the Labrador
Pine,” also called scrub pine, gray pine, etc., a new tree to us.
These must have been good specimens, for several were thirty or
thirty-five feet high. Richardson found it forty feet high and upward,
and states that the porcupine feeds on its bark. Here also grew the
red pine (_Pinus resinosa_).

I saw where the Indians had made canoes in a little secluded hollow in
the woods, on the top of the rock, where they were out of the wind,
and large piles of whittlings remained. This must have been a favorite
resort for their ancestors, and, indeed, we found here the point of an
arrowhead, such as they have not used for two centuries and now know
not how to make. The Indian, picking up a stone, remarked to me, “That
very strange lock (rock).” It was a piece of hornstone, which I told
him his tribe had probably brought here centuries before to make
arrowheads of. He also picked up a yellowish curved bone by the side
of our fireplace and asked me to guess what it was. It was one of the
upper incisors of a beaver, on which some party had feasted within a
year or two. I found also most of the teeth, and the skull, etc. We
here dined on fried moose-meat.

One who was my companion in my two previous excursions to these woods,
tells me that when hunting up the Caucomgomoc, about two years ago, he
found himself dining one day on moose-meat, mud turtle, trout, and
beaver, and he thought that there were few places in the world where
these dishes could easily be brought together on one table.

After the almost incessant rapids and falls of the Madunkchunk
(Height-of-Land, or Webster Stream), we had just passed through the
dead water of Second Lake, and were now in the much larger dead water
of Grand Lake, and I thought the Indian was entitled to take an extra
nap here. Ktaadn, near which we were to pass the next day, is said to
mean “Highest Land.” So much geography is there in their names. The
Indian navigator naturally distinguishes by a name those parts of a
stream where he has encountered quick water and forks, and again, the
lakes and smooth water where he can rest his weary arms, since those
are the most interesting and more arable parts to him. The very sight
of the _Nerlumskeechticook_, or Deadwater Mountains, a day’s journey
off over the forest, as we first saw them, must awaken in him pleasing
memories. And not less interesting is it to the white traveler, when
he is crossing a placid lake in these out-of-the-way woods, perhaps
thinking that he is in some sense one of the earlier discoverers of
it, to be reminded that it was thus well known and suitably named by
Indian hunters perhaps a thousand years ago.

Ascending the precipitous rock which formed this long narrow island, I
was surprised to find that its summit was a narrow ridge, with a
precipice on one side, and that its axis of elevation extended from
northwest to southeast exactly like that of the great rocky ridge at
the commencement of the Burnt Ground, ten miles northwesterly. The
same arrangement prevailed here, and we could plainly see that the
mountain ridges on the west of the lake trended the same way. Splendid
large harebells nodded over the edge and in the clefts of the cliff,
and the blueberries (_Vaccinium Canadense_) were for the first time
really abundant in the thin soil on its top. There was no lack of them
henceforward on the East Branch. There was a fine view hence over the
sparkling lake, which looked pure and deep, and had two or three, in
all, rocky islands in it. Our blankets being dry, we set out again,
the Indian as usual having left his gazette on a tree. This time it
was we three in a canoe, my companion smoking. We paddled southward
down this handsome lake, which appeared to extend nearly as far east
as south, keeping near the western shore, just outside a small island,
under the dark Nerlumskeechticook Mountain. For I had observed on my
map that this was the course. It was three or four miles across it. It
struck me that the outline of this mountain on the southwest of
the lake, and of another beyond it, was not only like that of the huge
rock waves of Webster Stream, but in the main like Kineo, on Moosehead
Lake, having a similar but less abrupt precipice at the southeast end;
in short, that all the prominent hills and ridges hereabouts were
larger or smaller Kineos, and that possibly there was such a relation
between Kineo and the rocks of Webster Stream.

  [Illustration: _Mount Kineo Cliff_]

The Indian did not know exactly where the outlet was, whether at the
extreme southwest angle or more easterly, and had asked to see my plan
at the last stopping-place, but I had forgotten to show it to him. As
usual, he went feeling his way by a middle course between two probable
points, from which he could diverge either way at last without losing
much distance. In approaching the south shore, as the clouds looked
gusty and the waves ran pretty high, we so steered as to get partly
under the lee of an island, though at a great distance from it.

I could not distinguish the outlet till we were almost in it, and
heard the water falling over the dam there.

Here was a considerable fall, and a very substantial dam, but no sign
of a cabin or camp. The hunter whom we met at Telos Lake had told us
that there were plenty of trout here, but at this hour they did not
rise to the bait, only cousin trout, from the very midst of the
rushing waters. There are not so many fishes in these rivers as in the
Concord.

While we loitered here, Polis took occasion to cut with his big knife
some of the hair from his moose-hide, and so lightened and prepared it
for drying. I noticed at several old Indian camps in the woods the
pile of hair which they had cut from their hides.

Having carried over the dam, he darted down the rapids, leaving us to
walk for a mile or more, where for the most part there was no path,
but very thick and difficult traveling near the stream. At length he
would call to let us know where he was waiting for us with his canoe,
when, on account of the windings of the stream, we did not know where
the shore was, but he did not call often enough, forgetting that we
were not Indians. He seemed to be very saving of his breath,--yet he
would be surprised if we went by, or did not strike the right spot.
This was not because he was unaccommodating, but a proof of superior
manners. Indians like to get along with the least possible
communication and ado. He was really paying us a great compliment all
the while, thinking that we preferred a hint to a kick.

At length, climbing over the willows and fallen trees, when this was
easier than to go round or under them, we overtook the canoe, and
glided down the stream in smooth but swift water for several miles. I
here observed again, as at Webster Stream, and on a still larger scale
the next day, that the river was a smooth and regularly inclined plane
down which we coasted. As we thus glided along we started the first
black ducks which we had distinguished.

We decided to camp early to-night, that we might have ample time
before dark; so we stopped at the first favorable shore, where there
was a narrow gravelly beach on the western side, some five miles below
the outlet of the lake. It was an interesting spot, where the river
began to make a great bend to the east, and the last of the peculiar
moose-faced Nerlumskeechticook Mountains not far southwest of Grand
Lake rose dark in the northwest a short distance behind, displaying
its gray precipitous southeast side, but we could not see this without
coming out upon the shore.

Two steps from the water on either side, and you come to the abrupt
bushy and rooty if not turfy edge of the bank, four or five feet high,
where the interminable forest begins, as if the stream had but just
cut its way through it.

It is surprising on stepping ashore anywhere into this unbroken
wilderness to see so often, at least within a few rods of the river,
the marks of the axe, made by lumberers who have either camped here or
driven logs past in previous springs. You will see perchance where,
going on the same errand that you do, they have cut large chips from a
tall white pine stump for their fire. While we were pitching the camp
and getting supper, the Indian cut the rest of the hair from his
moose-hide, and proceeded to extend it vertically on a temporary frame
between two small trees, half a dozen feet from the opposite side of
the fire, lashing and stretching it with arbor-vitæ bark which was
always at hand, and in this case was stripped from one of the trees it
was tied to. Asking for a new kind of tea, he made us some, pretty
good, of the checkerberry (_Gaultheria procumbens_), which covered the
ground, dropping a little bunch of it tied up with cedar bark into the
kettle; but it was not quite equal to the _Chiogenes_. We called this
therefore Checkerberry-Tea Camp.

I was struck with the abundance of the _Linnæa borealis_,
checkerberry, and _Chiogenes hispidula_, almost everywhere in the
Maine woods. The wintergreen (_Chimaphila umbellata_) was still in
bloom here, and clintonia berries were abundant and ripe. This
handsome plant is one of the most common in that forest. We here first
noticed the moose-wood in fruit on the banks. The prevailing trees
were spruce (commonly black), arbor-vitæ, canoe birch (black ash and
elms beginning to appear), yellow birch, red maple, and a little
hemlock skulking in the forest. The Indian said that the white maple
punk was the best for tinder, that yellow birch punk was pretty good,
but hard. After supper he put on the moose tongue and lips to boil,
cutting out the _septum_. He showed me how to write on the under side
of birch bark, with a black spruce twig, which is hard and tough, and
can be brought to a point.

The Indian wandered off into the woods a short distance just before
night, and, coming back, said, “Me found great treasure,--fifty, sixty
dollars’ worth.” “What’s that?” we asked. “Steel traps, under a log,
thirty or forty, I didn’t count ’em. I guess Indian work,--worth three
dollars apiece.” It was a singular coincidence that he should have
chanced to walk to and look under that particular log, in that
trackless forest.

I saw chivin and chub in the stream when washing my hands, but my
companion tried in vain to catch them. I also heard the sound of
bullfrogs from a swamp on the opposite side, thinking at first that
they were moose; a duck paddled swiftly by; and sitting in that dusky
wilderness, under that dark mountain, by the bright river which was
full of reflected light, still I heard the wood thrush sing, as if no
higher civilization could be attained. By this time the night was upon
us.

You commonly make your camp just at sundown, and are collecting wood,
getting your supper, or pitching your tent while the shades of night
are gathering around and adding to the already dense gloom of the
forest. You have no time to explore or look around you before it is
dark. You may penetrate half a dozen rods farther into that twilight
wilderness, after some dry bark to kindle your fire with, and wonder
what mysteries lie hidden still deeper in it, say at the end of a long
day’s walk; or you may run down to the shore for a dipper of water,
and get a clearer view for a short distance up or down the stream, and
while you stand there, see a fish leap, or duck alight in the river,
or hear a wood thrush or robin sing in the woods. That is as if you
had been to town or civilized parts. But there is no sauntering off to
see the country, and ten or fifteen rods seems a great way from your
companions, and you come back with the air of a much-traveled man, as
from a long journey, with adventures to relate, though you may have
heard the crackling of the fire all the while,--and at a hundred rods
you might be lost past recovery, and have to camp out. It is all mossy
and _moosey_. In some of those dense fir and spruce woods there is
hardly room for the smoke to go up. The trees are a _standing_ night,
and every fir and spruce which you fell is a plume plucked from
night’s raven wing. Then at night the general stillness is more
impressive than any sound, but occasionally you hear the note of an
owl farther or nearer in the woods, and if near a lake, the semihuman
cry of the loons at their unearthly revels.

To-night the Indian lay between the fire and his stretched moose-hide,
to avoid the mosquitoes. Indeed, he also made a small smoky fire of
damp leaves at his head and his feet, and then as usual rolled up his
head in his blanket. We with our veils and our wash were tolerably
comfortable, but it would be difficult to pursue any sedentary
occupation in the woods at this season; you cannot see to read much by
the light of a fire through a veil in the evening, nor handle pencil
and paper well with gloves or anointed fingers.

       *       *       *       *       *

     FRIDAY, July 31.

The Indian said, “You and I kill moose last night, therefore use ’em
best wood. Always use hard wood to cook moose-meat.” His “best wood”
was rock maple. He cast the moose’s lip into the fire, to burn the
hair off, and then rolled it up with the meat to carry along.
Observing that we were sitting down to breakfast without any pork, he
said, with a very grave look, “Me want some fat,” so he was told that
he might have as much as he would fry.

We had smooth but swift water for a considerable distance, where we
glided rapidly along, scaring up ducks and kingfishers. But, as usual,
our smooth progress ere long came to an end, and we were obliged to
carry canoe and all about half a mile down the right bank, around some
rapids or falls. It required sharp eyes sometimes to tell which side
was the carry, before you went over the falls, but Polis never failed
to land us rightly. The raspberries were particularly abundant and
large here, and all hands went to eating them, the Indian remarking on
their size.

Often on bare rocky carries the trail was so indistinct that I
repeatedly lost it, but when I walked behind him I observed that he
could keep it almost like a hound, and rarely hesitated, or, if he
paused a moment on a bare rock, his eye immediately detected some sign
which would have escaped me. Frequently _we_ found no path at all at
these places, and were to him unaccountably delayed. He would only say
it was “ver strange.”

We had heard of a Grand Fall on this stream, and thought that each
fall we came to must be it, but after christening several in
succession with this name, we gave up the search. There were more
Grand or Petty Falls than I can remember.

I cannot tell how many times we had to walk on account of falls or
rapids. We were expecting all the while that the river would take a
final leap and get to smooth water, but there was no improvement this
forenoon. However, the carries were an agreeable variety. So surely as
we stepped out of the canoe and stretched our legs we found ourselves
in a blueberry and raspberry garden, each side of our rocky trail
around the falls being lined with one or both. There was not a carry
on the main East Branch where we did not find an abundance of both
these berries, for these were the rockiest places, and partially
cleared, such as these plants prefer, and there had been none to
gather the finest before us.

In our three journeys over the carries,--for we were obliged to go
over the ground three times whenever the canoe was taken out,--we did
full justice to the berries, and they were just what we wanted to
correct the effect of our hard bread and pork diet. Another name for
making a portage would have been going a-berrying. We also found a few
amelanchier, or service, berries, though most were abortive, but they
held on rather more generally than they do in Concord. The Indian
called them _pemoymenuk_, and said that they bore much fruit in some
places. He sometimes also ate the northern wild red cherries, saying
that they were good medicine, but they were scarcely edible. We bathed
and dined at the foot of one of these carries. It was the Indian who
commonly reminded us that it was dinner-time, sometimes even by
turning the prow to the shore. He once made an indirect, but lengthy
apology, by saying that we might think it strange, but that one who
worked hard all day was very particular to have his dinner in good
season. At the most considerable fall on this stream, when I was
walking over the carry, close behind the Indian, he observed a track
on the rock, which was but slightly covered with soil, and, stooping,
muttered “caribou.” When we returned, he observed a much larger track
near the same place, where some animal’s foot had sunk into a small
hollow in the rock, partly filled with grass and earth, and he
exclaimed with surprise, “What that?” “Well, what is it?” I asked.
Stooping and laying his hand in it, he answered with a mysterious air,
and in a half whisper, “Devil [that is, Indian Devil, or
cougar]--ledges about here--very bad animal--pull ’em rocks all to
pieces.” “How long since it was made?” I asked. “To-day or yesterday,”
said he. But when I asked him afterward if he was sure it was the
devil’s track, he said he did not know. I had been told that the
scream of a cougar was heard about Ktaadn recently, and we were not
far from that mountain.

We spent at least half the time in walking to-day, and the walking was
as bad as usual, for the Indian, being alone, commonly ran down far
below the foot of the carries before he waited for us. The carry-paths
themselves were more than usually indistinct, often the route being
revealed only by the countless small holes in the fallen timber made
by the tacks in the drivers’ boots, or where there _was_ a slight
trail we did not find it. It was a tangled and perplexing thicket,
through which we stumbled and threaded our way, and when we had
finished a mile of it, our starting-point seemed far away. We were
glad that we had not got to walk to Bangor along the banks of this
river, which would be a journey of more than a hundred miles. Think of
the denseness of the forest, the fallen trees and rocks, the windings
of the river, the streams emptying in, and the frequent swamps to be
crossed. It made you shudder. Yet the Indian from time to time pointed
out to us where he had thus crept along day after day when he was a
boy of ten, and in a starving condition. He had been hunting far north
of this with two grown Indians. The winter came on unexpectedly early,
and the ice compelled them to leave their canoe at Grand Lake, and
walk down the bank. They shouldered their furs and started for
Oldtown. The snow was not deep enough for snowshoes, or to cover the
inequalities of the ground. Polis was soon too weak to carry any
burden; but he managed to catch one otter. This was the most they all
had to eat on this journey, and he remembered how good the yellow lily
roots were, made into a soup with the otter oil. He shared this food
equally with the other two, but being so small he suffered much more
than they. He waded through the Mattawamkeag at its mouth, when it was
freezing cold and came up to his chin, and he, being very weak and
emaciated, expected to be swept away. The first house which they
reached was at Lincoln, and thereabouts they met a white teamster with
supplies, who, seeing their condition, gave them as much of his load
as they could eat. For six months after getting home, he was very low,
and did not expect to live, and was perhaps always the worse for it.

We could not find much more than half of this day’s journey on our
maps (the “Map of the Public Lands of Maine and Massachusetts,” and
“Colton’s Railroad and Township Map of Maine,” which copies the
former). By the maps there was not more than fifteen miles between
camps at the outside, and yet we had been busily progressing all day,
and much of the time very rapidly.

For seven or eight miles below that succession of “Grand” falls, the
aspect of the banks as well as the character of the stream was
changed. After passing a tributary from the northeast, perhaps Bowlin
Stream, we had good swift smooth water, with a regular slope, such as
I have described. Low, grassy banks and muddy shores began. Many elms,
as well as maples, and more ash trees, overhung the stream, and
supplanted the spruce.

My lily roots having been lost when the canoe was taken out at a
carry, I landed late in the afternoon, at a low and grassy place amid
maples, to gather more. It was slow work, grubbing them up amid the
sand, and the mosquitoes were all the while feasting on me.
Mosquitoes, black flies, etc., pursued us in mid-channel, and we were
glad sometimes to get into violent rapids, for then we escaped them.

A red-headed woodpecker flew across the river, and the Indian remarked
that it was good to eat. As we glided swiftly down the inclined plane
of the river, a great cat owl launched itself away from a stump on the
bank, and flew heavily across the stream, and the Indian, as usual,
imitated its note. Soon the same bird flew back in front of us, and we
afterwards passed it perched on a tree. Soon afterward a white-headed
eagle sailed down the stream before us. We drove him several miles,
while we were looking for a good place to camp, for we expected to be
overtaken by a shower,--and still we could distinguish him by his
white tail, sailing away from time to time from some tree by the shore
still farther down the stream. Some shecorways being surprised by us,
a part of them dived, and we passed directly over them, and could
trace their course here and there by a bubble on the surface, but we
did not see them come up. Polis detected once or twice what he called
a “tow” road, an indistinct path leading into the forest. In the
meanwhile we passed the mouth of the Seboois on our left. This did not
look so large as our stream, which was indeed the main one. It was
some time before we found a camping-place, for the shore was either
too grassy and muddy, where mosquitoes abounded, or too steep a
hillside. The Indian said that there were but few mosquitoes on a
steep hillside. We examined a good place, where somebody had camped a
long time; but it seemed pitiful to occupy an old site, where there
was so much room to choose, so we continued on. We at length found a
place to our minds, on the west bank, about a mile below the mouth of
the Seboois, where, in a very dense spruce wood above a gravelly
shore, there seemed to be but few insects. The trees were so thick
that we were obliged to clear a space to build our fire and lie down
in, and the young spruce trees that were left were like the wall of an
apartment rising around us. We were obliged to pull ourselves up a
steep bank to get there. But the place which you have selected for
your camp, though never so rough and grim, begins at once to have its
attractions, and becomes a very centre of civilization to you: “Home
is home, be it never so homely.”

It turned out that the mosquitoes were more numerous here than we had
found them before, and the Indian complained a good deal, though he
lay, as the night before, between three fires and his stretched hide.
As I sat on a stump by the fire, with a veil and gloves on, trying to
read, he observed, “I make you candle,” and in a minute he took a
piece of birch bark about two inches wide and rolled it hard, like an
allumette fifteen inches long, lit it, and fixed it by the other end
horizontally in a split stick three feet high, stuck it in the ground,
turning the blazing end to the wind, and telling me to snuff it from
time to time. It answered the purpose of a candle pretty well.

I noticed, as I had done before, that there was a lull among the
mosquitoes about midnight, and that they began again in the morning.
Nature is thus merciful. But apparently they need rest as well as we.
Few, if any, creatures are equally active all night. As soon as it was
light I saw, through my veil, that the inside of the tent about our
heads was quite blackened with myriads, each one of their wings when
flying, as has been calculated, vibrating some three thousand times in
a minute, and their combined hum was almost as bad to endure as their
stings. I had an uncomfortable night on this account though I am not
sure that one succeeded in his attempt to sting me. We did not suffer
so much from insects on this excursion as the statements of some who
have explored these woods in midsummer led us to anticipate. Yet I
have no doubt that at some seasons and in some places they are a much
more serious pest. The Jesuit Hierome Lalemant, of Quebec, reporting
the death of Father Reni Menard, who was abandoned, lost his way, and
died in the woods, among the Ontarios near Lake Superior, in 1661,
dwells chiefly on his probable sufferings from the attacks of
mosquitoes when too weak to defend himself, adding that there was a
frightful number of them in those parts, “and so insupportable,” says
he, “that the three Frenchmen who have made that voyage affirm that
there was no other means of defending one’s self but to run always
without stopping, and it was even necessary for two of them to be
employed in driving off these creatures while the third wanted to
drink, otherwise he could not have done it.” I have no doubt that this
was said in good faith.

       *       *       *       *       *

     August 1.

I caught two or three large red chivin (_Leuciscus pulchellus_) early
this morning, within twenty feet of the camp, which, added to the
moose-tongue, that had been left in the kettle boiling overnight, and
to our other stores, made a sumptuous breakfast. The Indian made us
some hemlock tea instead of coffee, and we were not obliged to go as
far as China for it; indeed, not quite so far as for the fish. This
was tolerable, though he said it was not strong enough. It was
interesting to see so simple a dish as a kettle of water with a
handful of green hemlock sprigs in it, boiling over the huge fire in
the open air, the leaves fast losing their lively green color, and
know that it was for our breakfast.

We were glad to embark once more, and leave some of the mosquitoes
behind. We had passed the _Wassataquoik_ without perceiving it. This,
according to the Indian, is the name of the main East Branch itself,
and not properly applied to this small tributary alone, as on the
maps.

We found that we had camped about a mile above Hunt’s, which is on the
east bank, and is the last house for those who ascend Ktaadn on this
side.

We had expected to ascend it from this point, but my companion was
obliged to give up this on account of sore feet. The Indian, however,
suggested that perhaps he might get a pair of moccasins at this place,
and that he could walk very easily in them without hurting his feet,
wearing several pairs of stockings, and he said beside that they were
so porous that when you had taken in water it all drained out again
in a little while. We stopped to get some sugar, but found that the
family had moved away, and the house was unoccupied, except
temporarily by some men who were getting the hay. They told me that
the road to Ktaadn left the river eight miles above; also that perhaps
we could get some sugar at Fisk’s, fourteen miles below. I do not
remember that we saw the mountain at all from the river. I noticed a
seine here stretched on the bank, which probably had been used to
catch salmon. Just below this, on the west bank, we saw a moose-hide
stretched, and with it a bearskin, which was comparatively very small.
I was the more interested in this sight, because it was near here that
a townsman of ours, then quite a lad, and alone, killed a large bear
some years ago. The Indian said that they belonged to Joe Aitteon, my
last guide, but how he told I do not know. He was probably hunting
near, and had left them for the day. Finding that we were going
directly to Oldtown, he regretted that he had not taken more of the
moose-meat to his family, saying that in a short time, by drying it,
he could have made it so light as to have brought away the greater
part, leaving the bones. We once or twice inquired after the lip,
which is a famous tidbit, but he said, “That go Oldtown for my old
woman; don’t get it every day.”

Maples grew more and more numerous. It was lowering, and rained a
little during the forenoon, and, as we expected a wetting, we stopped
early and dined on the east side of a small expansion of the river,
just above what are probably called Whetstone Falls, about a dozen
miles below Hunt’s. There were pretty fresh moose-tracks by the
waterside. There were singular long ridges hereabouts, called
“horsebacks,” covered with ferns. My companion, having lost his pipe,
asked the Indian if he could not make him one. “Oh, yer,” said he, and
in a minute rolled up one of birch bark, telling him to wet the bowl
from time to time. Here also he left his gazette on a tree.

We carried round the falls just below, on the west side. The rocks
were on their edges, and very sharp. The distance was about three
fourths of a mile. When we had carried over one load, the Indian
returned by the shore, and I by the path, and though I made no
particular haste, I was nevertheless surprised to find him at the
other end as soon as I. It was remarkable how easily he got along over
the worst ground. He said to me, “I take canoe and you take the rest,
suppose you can keep along with me?” I thought that he meant that
while he ran down the rapids I should keep along the shore, and be
ready to assist him from time to time, as I had done before; but as
the walking would be very bad, I answered, “I suppose you will go too
fast for me, but I will try.” But I was to go by the path, he said.
This I thought would not help the matter, I should have so far to go
to get to the riverside when he wanted me. But neither was this what
he meant. He was proposing a race over the carry, and asked me if I
thought I could keep along with him by the same path, adding that I
must be pretty smart to do it. As his load, the canoe, would be much
the heaviest and bulkiest, though the simplest, I thought that I ought
to be able to do it, and said that I would try. So I proceeded to
gather up the gun, axe, paddle, kettle, frying-pan, plates, dippers,
carpets, etc., etc., and while I was thus engaged he threw me his
cowhide boots. “What, are these in the bargain?” I asked. “Oh, yer,”
said he; but before I could make a bundle of my load I saw him
disappearing over a hill with the canoe on his head; so, hastily
scraping the various articles together, I started on the run, and
immediately went by him in the bushes, but I had no sooner left him
out of sight in a rocky hollow than the greasy plates, dippers, etc.,
took to themselves wings, and while I was employed in gathering them
up again, he went by me; but hastily pressing the sooty kettle to my
side, I started once more, and soon passing him again, I saw him no
more on the carry. I do not mention this as anything of a feat, for it
was but poor running on my part, and he was obliged to move with great
caution for fear of breaking his canoe as well as his neck. When he
made his appearance, puffing and panting like myself, in answer to my
inquiries where he had been, he said, “Rocks (locks) cut ’em feet,”
and, laughing, added, “Oh, me love to play sometimes.” He said that he
and his companions, when they came to carries several miles long, used
to try who would get over first; each, perhaps, with a canoe on his
head. I bore the sign of the kettle on my brown linen sack for the
rest of the voyage.

We made a second carry on the west side, around some falls about a
mile below this. On the mainland were Norway pines, indicating a new
geological formation, and it was such a dry and sandy soil as we had
not noticed before.

As we approached the mouth of the East Branch, we passed two or three
huts, the first sign of civilization after Hunt’s, though we saw no
road as yet; we heard a cow-bell, and even saw an infant held up to a
small square window to see us pass, but apparently the infant and the
mother that held it were the only inhabitants then at home for several
miles. This took the wind out of our sails, reminding us that we were
travelers surely, while it was a native of the soil, and had the
advantage of us. Conversation flagged. I would only hear the Indian,
perhaps, ask my companion, “You load my pipe?” He said that he smoked
alder bark, for medicine. On entering the West Branch at Nicketow it
appeared much larger than the East. Polis remarked that the former was
all gone and lost now, that it was all smooth water hence to Oldtown,
and he threw away his pole which was cut on the Umbazookskus. Thinking
of the rapids, he said once or twice that you wouldn’t catch him to go
East Branch again; but he did not by any means mean all that he said.

Things are quite changed since I was here eleven years ago. Where
there were but one or two houses, I now found quite a village, with
sawmills and a store (the latter was locked, but its contents were so
much the more safely stored), and there was a stage-road to
Mattawamkeag, and the rumor of a stage. Indeed, a steamer had ascended
thus far once, when the water was very high. But we were not able to
get any sugar, only a better shingle to lean our backs against.

We camped about two miles below Nicketow, on the south side of the
West Branch, covering with fresh twigs the withered bed of a former
traveler, and feeling that we were now in a settled country,
especially when in the evening we heard an ox sneeze in its wild
pasture across the river. Wherever you land along the frequented part
of the river, you have not far to go to find these sites of temporary
inns, the withered bed of flattened twigs, the charred sticks, and
perhaps the tent-poles. And not long since, similar beds were spread
along the Connecticut, the Hudson, and the Delaware, and longer still
ago, by the Thames and Seine, and they now help to make the soil where
private and public gardens, mansions and palaces are. We could not get
fir twigs for our bed here, and the spruce was harsh in comparison,
having more twig in proportion to its leaf, but we improved it
somewhat with hemlock. The Indian remarked as before, “Must have hard
wood to cook moose-meat,” as if that were a maxim, and proceeded to
get it. My companion cooked some in California fashion, winding a long
string of the meat round a stick and slowly turning it in his hand
before the fire. It was very good. But the Indian, not approving of
the mode, or because he was not allowed to cook it his own way, would
not taste it. After the regular supper we attempted to make a lily
soup of the bulbs which I had brought along, for I wished to learn all
I could before I got out of the woods. Following the Indian’s
directions, for he began to be sick, I washed the bulbs carefully,
minced some moose-meat and some pork, salted and boiled all together,
but we had not patience to try the experiment fairly, for he said it
must be boiled till the roots were completely softened so as to
thicken the soup like flour; but though we left it on all night, we
found it dried to the kettle in the morning, and not yet boiled to a
flour. Perhaps the roots were not ripe enough, for they commonly
gather them in the fall. As it was, it was palatable enough, but it
reminded me of the Irishman’s limestone broth. The other ingredients
were enough alone. The Indian’s name for these bulbs was _Sheepnoc_. I
stirred the soup by accident with a striped maple or moose-wood stick,
which I had peeled, and he remarked that its bark was an emetic.

He prepared to camp as usual between his moose-hide and the fire; but
it beginning to rain suddenly, he took refuge under the tent with us,
and gave us a song before falling asleep. It rained hard in the night,
and spoiled another box of matches for us, which the Indian had left
out, for he was very careless; but, as usual, we had so much the
better night for the rain, since it kept the mosquitoes down.

       *       *       *       *       *

     SUNDAY, August 2.

Was a cloudy and unpromising morning. One of us observed to the
Indian, “You did not stretch your moose-hide last night, did you, Mr.
Polis?” Whereat he replied, in a tone of surprise, though perhaps not
of ill humor: “What you ask me that question for? Suppose I stretch
’em, you see ’em. May be your way talking, may be all right, no Indian
way.” I had observed that he did not wish to answer the same question
more than once, and was often silent when it was put again for the
sake of certainty, as if he were moody. Not that he was incommunicative,
for he frequently commenced a long-winded narrative of his own
accord,--repeated at length the tradition of some old battle, or some
passage in the recent history of his tribe in which he had acted a
prominent part, from time to time drawing a long breath, and resuming
the thread of his tale, with the true story-teller’s leisureliness,
perhaps after shooting a rapid,--prefacing with “We-e-ll, by-by,”
etc., as he paddled along. Especially after the day’s work was over,
and he had put himself in posture for the night, he would be
unexpectedly sociable, exhibit even the _bonhommie_ of a Frenchman,
and we would fall asleep before he got through his periods.

Nicketow is called eleven miles from Mattawamkeag by the river. Our
camp was, therefore, about nine miles from the latter place.

The Indian was quite sick this morning with the colic. I thought that
he was the worse for the moose-meat he had eaten.

We reached the Mattawamkeag at half past eight in the morning, in the
midst of a drizzling rain, and, after buying some sugar, set out
again.

The Indian growing much worse, we stopped in the north part of Lincoln
to get some brandy for him; but failing in this, an apothecary
recommended Brandreth’s pills, which he refused to take, because he
was not acquainted with them. He said to me, “Me doctor,--first study
my case, find out what ail ’em,--then I know what to take.” We dropped
down a little farther, and stopped at mid-forenoon on an island and
made him a dipper of tea. Here, too, we dined and did some washing and
botanizing, while he lay on the bank. In the afternoon we went on a
little farther, though the Indian was no better. “Burntibus,” as he
called it, was a long, smooth, lake-like reach below the Five
Islands. He said that he owned a hundred acres somewhere up this way.
As a thunder-shower appeared to be coming up, we stopped opposite a
barn on the west bank, in Chester, about a mile above Lincoln. Here at
last we were obliged to spend the rest of the day and night, on
account of our patient, whose sickness did not abate. He lay groaning
under his canoe on the bank, looking very woebegone, yet it was only a
common case of colic. You would not have thought, if you had seen him
lying about thus, that he was the proprietor of so many acres in that
neighborhood, was worth six thousand dollars, and had been to
Washington. It seemed to me that, like the Irish, he made a greater
ado about his sickness than a Yankee does, and was more alarmed about
himself. We talked somewhat of leaving him with his people in
Lincoln,--for that is one of their homes,--and taking the stage the
next day, but he objected on account of the expense saying, “Suppose
me well in morning, you and I go Oldtown by noon.”

As we were taking our tea at twilight, while he lay groaning still
under his canoe, having at length found out “what ail him,” he asked
me to get him a dipper of water. Taking the dipper in one hand he
seized his powder-horn with the other, and, pouring into it a charge
or two of powder, stirred it up with his finger, and drank it off.
This was all he took to-day after breakfast beside his tea.

To save the trouble of pitching our tent, when we had secured our
stores from wandering dogs, we camped in the solitary half-open barn
near the bank, with the permission of the owner, lying on new-mown
hay four feet deep. The fragrance of the hay, in which many ferns,
etc., were mingled, was agreeable, though it was quite alive with
grasshoppers which you could hear crawling through it. This served to
graduate our approach to houses and feather beds. In the night some
large bird, probably an owl, flitted through over our heads, and very
early in the morning we were awakened by the twittering of swallows
which had their nests there.

       *       *       *       *       *

     MONDAY, August 3.

We started early before breakfast, the Indian being considerably
better, and soon glided by Lincoln, and after another long and
handsome lake-like reach, we stopped to breakfast on the west shore,
two or three miles below this town.

We frequently passed Indian islands with their small houses on them.
The Governor, Aitteon, lives in one of them, in Lincoln.

The Penobscot Indians seem to be more social, even, than the whites.
Ever and anon in the deepest wilderness of Maine, you come to the log
hut of a Yankee or Canada settler, but a Penobscot never takes up his
residence in such a solitude. They are not even scattered about on
their islands in the Penobscot, which are all within the settlements,
but gathered together on two or three,--though not always on the best
soil,--evidently for the sake of society. I saw one or two houses not
now used by them, because, as our Indian Polis said, they were too
solitary.

The small river emptying in at Lincoln is the Matanancook, which
also, we noticed, was the name of a steamer moored there. So we
paddled and floated along, looking into the mouths of rivers. When
passing the Mohawk Rips, or, as the Indian called them, “Mohog lips,”
four or five miles below Lincoln, he told us at length the story of a
fight between his tribe and the Mohawks there, anciently,--how the
latter were overcome by stratagem, the Penobscots using concealed
knives,--but they could not for a long time kill the Mohawk chief, who
was a very large and strong man, though he was attacked by several
canoes at once, when swimming alone in the river.

From time to time we met Indians in their canoes, going up river. Our
man did not commonly approach them, but exchanged a few words with
them at a distance in his tongue. These were the first Indians we had
met since leaving the Umbazookskus.

At Piscataquis Falls, just above the river of that name, we walked
over the wooden railroad on the eastern shore, about one and a half
miles long, while the Indian glided down the rapids. The steamer from
Oldtown stops here, and passengers take a new boat above. Piscataquis,
whose mouth we here passed, means “branch.” It is obstructed by falls
at its mouth, but can be navigated with batteaux or canoes above
through a settled country, even to the neighborhood of Moosehead Lake,
and we had thought at first of going that way. We were not obliged to
get out of the canoe after this on account of falls or rapids, nor,
indeed, was it quite necessary here. We took less notice of the
scenery to-day, because we were in quite a settled country. The river
became broad and sluggish, and we saw a blue heron winging its way
slowly down the stream before us.

We passed the Passadumkeag River on our left and saw the blue Olamon
mountains at a distance in the southeast. Hereabouts our Indian told
us at length the story of their contention with the priest respecting
schools. He thought a great deal of education and had recommended it
to his tribe. His argument in its favor was, that if you had been to
college and learnt to calculate, you could “keep ’em property,--no
other way.” He said that his boy was the best scholar in the school at
Oldtown, to which he went with whites. He himself is a Protestant, and
goes to church regularly at Oldtown. According to his account, a good
many of his tribe are Protestants, and many of the Catholics also are
in favor of schools. Some years ago they had a schoolmaster, a
Protestant, whom they liked very well. The priest came and said that
they must send him away, and finally he had such influence, telling
them that they would go to the bad place at last if they retained him,
that they sent him away. The school party, though numerous, were about
giving up. Bishop Fenwick came from Boston and used his influence
against them. But our Indian told his side that they must not give up,
must hold on, they were the strongest. If they gave up, then they
would have no party. But they answered that it was “no use, priest too
strong, we’d better give up.” At length he persuaded them to make a
stand.

The priest was going for a sign to cut down the liberty-pole. So Polis
and his party had a secret meeting about it; he got ready fifteen or
twenty stout young men, “stript ’em naked, and painted ’em like old
times,” and told them that when the priest and his party went to cut
down the liberty-pole, they were to rush up, take hold of it, and
prevent them, and he assured them that there would be no war, only a
noise,--“no war where priest is.” He kept his men concealed in a house
near by, and when the priest’s party were about to cut down the
liberty-pole, the fall of which would have been a death-blow to the
school party, he gave a signal, and his young men rushed out and
seized the pole. There was a great uproar, and they were about coming
to blows, but the priest interfered, saying, “No war, no war,” and so
the pole stands, and the school goes on still.

We thought that it showed a good deal of tact in him, to seize this
occasion and take his stand on it; proving how well he understood
those with whom he had to deal.

The Olamon River comes in from the east in Greenbush a few miles below
the Passadumkeag. When we asked the meaning of this name, the Indian
said there was an island opposite its mouth which was called
_Olarmon_; that in old times, when visitors were coming to Oldtown,
they used to stop there to dress and fix up or paint themselves. “What
is that which ladies used?” he asked. Rouge? Red Vermilion? “Yer,” he
said, “that is _larmon_, a kind of clay or red paint, which they used
to get here.”

We decided that we, too, would stop at this island, and fix up our
inner man, at least, by dining.

It was a large island, with an abundance of hemp nettle, but I did not
notice any kind of red paint there. The Olamon River, at its mouth at
least, is a dead stream. There was another large island in that
neighborhood, which the Indian called “_Soogle_” (_i. e._, Sugar)
Island.

About a dozen miles before reaching Oldtown he inquired, “How you like
’em your pilot?” But we postponed an answer till we had got quite back
again.

The Sunkhaze, another short dead stream, comes in from the east two
miles above Oldtown. There is said to be some of the best deer ground
in Maine on this stream. Asking the meaning of this name, the Indian
said, “Suppose you are going down Penobscot, just like we, and you see
a canoe come out of bank and go along before you, but you no see ’em
stream. That is _Sunkhaze_.”

He had previously complimented me on my paddling, saying that I
paddled “just like anybody,” giving me an Indian name which meant
“great paddler.” When off this stream he said to me, who sat in the
bows, “Me teach you paddle.” So, turning toward the shore, he got out,
came forward, and placed my hands as he wished. He placed one of them
quite outside the boat, and the other parallel with the first,
grasping the paddle near the end, not over the flat extremity, and
told me to slide it back and forth on the side of the canoe. This, I
found, was a great improvement which I had not thought of, saving me
the labor of lifting the paddle each time, and I wondered that he had
not suggested it before. It is true, before our baggage was reduced we
had been obliged to sit with our legs drawn up, and our knees above
the side of the canoe, which would have prevented our paddling thus,
or perhaps he was afraid of wearing out his canoe, by constant
friction on the side.

I told him that I had been accustomed to sit in the stern, and,
lifting my paddle at each stroke, give it a twist in order to steer
the boat, only getting a pry on the side each time, and I still
paddled partly as if in the stern. He then wanted to see me paddle in
the stern. So, changing paddles, for he had the longer and better one,
and turning end for end, he sitting flat on the bottom and I on the
crossbar, he began to paddle very hard, trying to turn the canoe,
looking over his shoulder and laughing; but finding it in vain, he
relaxed his efforts, though we still sped along a mile or two very
swiftly. He said that he had no fault to find with my paddling in the
stern, but I complained that he did not paddle according to his own
directions in the bows.

Opposite the Sunkhaze is the main boom of the Penobscot, where the
logs from far up the river are collected and assorted.

As we drew near to Oldtown I asked Polis if he was not glad to get
home again; but there was no relenting to his wildness, and he said,
“It makes no difference to me where I am.” Such is the Indian’s
pretense always.

We approached the Indian Island through the narrow strait called
“Cook.” He said, “I ’xpect we take in some water there, river so
high,--never see it so high at this season. Very rough water there,
but short; swamp steamboat once. Don’t you paddle till I tell you,
then you paddle right along.” It was a very short rapid. When we were
in the midst of it he shouted “paddle,” and we shot through without
taking in a drop.

Soon after the Indian houses came in sight, but I could not at first
tell my companion which of two or three large white ones was our
guide’s. He said it was the one with blinds.

We landed opposite his door at about four in the afternoon, having
come some forty miles this day. From the Piscataquis we had come
remarkably and unaccountably quick, probably as fast as the stage or
the boat, though the last dozen miles was dead water.

Polis wanted to sell us his canoe, said it would last seven or eight
years, or with care, perhaps ten; but we were not ready to buy it.

We stopped for an hour at his house, where my companion shaved with
his razor, which he pronounced in very good condition. Mrs. P. wore a
hat and had a silver brooch on her breast, but she was not introduced
to us. The house was roomy and neat. A large new map of Oldtown and
the Indian Island hung on the wall, and a clock opposite to it.
Wishing to know when the cars left Oldtown, Polis’s son brought one of
the last Bangor papers, which I saw was directed to “Joseph Polis,”
from the office.

This was the last that I saw of Joe Polis. We took the last train, and
reached Bangor that night.

FOOTNOTE:

[8] These twigs are called in Rasle’s Dictionary _Sediak_.




APPENDIX


I. TREES

The prevailing trees (I speak only of what I saw) on the east and west
branches of the Penobscot and on the upper part of the Allegash were
the fir, spruce (both black and white), and arbor-vitæ, or “cedar.”
The fir has the darkest foliage, and, together with the spruce, makes
a very dense “black growth,” especially on the upper parts of the
rivers. A dealer in lumber with whom I talked called the former a
weed, and it is commonly regarded as fit neither for timber nor fuel.
But it is more sought after as an ornamental tree than any other
evergreen of these woods except the arbor-vitæ. The black spruce is
much more common than the white. Both are tall and slender trees. The
arbor-vitæ, which is of a more cheerful hue, with its light-green
fans, is also tall and slender, though sometimes two feet in diameter.
It often fills the swamps.

Mingled with the former, and also here and there forming extensive and
more open woods by themselves, indicating, it is said, a better soil,
were canoe and yellow birches (the former was always at hand for
kindling a fire,--we saw no small white birches in that wilderness),
and sugar and red maples.

The aspen (_Populus tremuloides_) was very common on burnt grounds. We
saw many straggling white pines, commonly unsound trees, which had
therefore been skipped by the choppers; these were the largest trees
we saw; and we occasionally passed a small wood in which this was the
prevailing tree; but I did not notice nearly so many of these trees as
I can see in a single walk in Concord. The speckled or hoary alder
(_Alnus incana_) abounds everywhere along the muddy banks of rivers
and lakes, and in swamps. Hemlock could commonly be found for tea, but
was nowhere abundant. Yet F. A. Michaux states that in Maine, Vermont,
and the upper part of New Hampshire, etc., the hemlock forms three
fourths of the evergreen woods, the rest being black spruce. It
belongs to cold hillsides.

The elm and black ash were very common along the lower and stiller
parts of the streams, where the shores were flat and grassy or there
were low gravelly islands. They made a pleasing variety in the
scenery, and we felt as if nearer home while gliding past them.

The above fourteen trees made the bulk of the woods which we saw.

The larch (juniper), beech, and Norway pine (_Pinus resinosa_, red
pine) were only occasionally seen in particular places. The _Pinus
Banksiana_ (gray or Northern scrub pine), and a single small red oak
(_Quercus rubra_) only, are on islands in Grand Lake, on the East
Branch.

The above are almost all peculiarly Northern trees, and found chiefly,
if not solely, on mountains southward.


II. FLOWERS AND SHRUBS

It appears that in a forest like this the great majority of flowers,
shrubs, and grasses are confined to the banks of the rivers and lakes,
and to the meadows, more open swamps, burnt lands, and mountain-tops;
comparatively very few indeed penetrate the woods. There is no such
dispersion even of wild-flowers as is commonly supposed, or as exists
in a cleared and settled country. Most of our wild-flowers, so called,
may be considered as naturalized in the localities where they grow.
Rivers and lakes are the great protectors of such plants against the
aggressions of the forest, by their annual rise and fall keeping open
a narrow strip where these more delicate plants have light and space
in which to grow. They are the _protégés_ of the rivers. These narrow
and straggling bands and isolated groups are, in a sense, the pioneers
of civilization. Birds, quadrupeds, insects, and man also, in the
main, follow the flowers, and the latter in his turn makes more room
for them and for berry-bearing shrubs, birds, and small quadrupeds.
One settler told me that not only blackberries and raspberries but
mountain maples came in, in the clearing and burning.

Though plants are often referred to primitive woods as their locality,
it cannot be true of very many, unless the woods are supposed to
include such localities as I have mentioned. Only those which require
but little light, and can bear the drip of the trees, penetrate the
woods, and these have commonly more beauty in their leaves than in
their pale and almost colorless blossoms.

The prevailing flowers and conspicuous small plants of the _woods_,
which I noticed, were: _Clintonia borealis_, linnæa, checkerberry
(_Gaultheria procumbens_), _Aralia nudicaulis_ (wild sarsaparilla),
great round-leaved orchis, _Dalibarda repens_, _Chiogenes hispidula_
(creeping snowberry), _Oxalis Acetosella_ (common wood-sorrel), _Aster
acuminatus_, _Pyrola secunda_ (one-sided pyrola), _Medeola Virginica_
(Indian cucumber-root), small _Circæa_ (enchanter’s nightshade), and
perhaps _Cornus Canadensis_ (dwarf cornel).

Of these, the last of July, 1858, only the _Aster acuminatus_ and
great round-leaved orchis were conspicuously in bloom.

The most common flowers of the _river_ and _lake shores_ were:
_Thalictrum cornuti_ (meadow-rue); _Hypericum ellipticum_, _mutilum_,
and _Canadense_ (St. John’s-wort); horsemint; horehound, _Lycopus
Virginicus_ and _Europæus_, var. _sinuatus_ (bugle-weed); _Scutellaria
galericulata_ (skullcap); _Solidago lanceolata_ and _squarrosa_, East
Branch, (goldenrod); _Diplopappus umbellatus_ (double-bristled aster);
_Aster Radula_; _Cicuta maculata_ and _bulbifera_ (water hemlock);
meadow-sweet; _Lysimachia stricta_ and _ciliata_ (loosestrife);
_Galium trifidum_ (small bed-straw); _Lilium Canadense_ (wild yellow
lily); _Platanthera peramœna_ and _psycodes_ (great purple orchis
and small purple fringed orchis); _Mimulus ringens_ (monkey-flower);
dock (water); blue flag; _Hydrocotyle Americana_ (marsh pennywort);
_Sanicula Canadensis_ (_?_) (black snake-root); _Clematis Virginiana_
(_?_) (common virgin’s-bower); _Nasturtium palustre_ (marsh cress);
_Ranunculus recurvatus_ (hooked crow-foot); _Asclepias incarnata_
(swamp milkweed); _Aster Tradescanti_ (Tradescant’s aster); _Aster
miser_, also _longifolius_; _Eupatorium purpureum_, apparently, lake
shores, (Joe-Pye-weed); _Apocynum Cannabinum_, East Branch, (Indian
hemp); _Polygonum cilinode_ (bindweed); and others. Not to mention,
among inferior orders, wool-grass and the sensitive fern.

In the water, _Nuphar advena_ (yellow pond-lily), some _potamogetons_
(pond-weed), _Sagittaria variabilis_ (arrowhead), _Sium lineare_ (_?_)
(water-parsnip).

Of these, those conspicuously in flower the last of July, 1857, were:
rue, _Solidago lanceolata_ and _squarrosa_, _Diplopappus umbellatus_,
_Aster Radula_, _Lilium Canadense_, great and small purple orchis,
_Mimulus ringens_, blue flag, virgin’s-bower, etc.

The characteristic flowers in _swamps_ were: _Rubus triflorus_ (dwarf
raspberry); _Calla palustris_ (water-arum); and _Sarracenia purpurea_
(pitcher-plant). On _burnt grounds_: _Epilobium angustifolium_, in
full bloom, (great willow-herb); and _Erechthites hieracifolia_
(fire-weed). On _cliffs_: _Campanula rotundifolia_ (harebell); _Cornus
Canadensis_ (dwarf cornel); _Arctostaphylos Uva-Ursi_ (bear-berry);
_Potentilla tridentata_ (mountain cinquefoil); _Pteris aquilina_
(common brake). At _old camps, carries, and logging-paths_: _Cirsium
arvense_ (Canada thistle); _Prunella vulgaris_ (common self-heal);
clover; herd’s-grass; _Achillea millefolium_ (common yarrow);
_Leucanthemum vulgare_ (whiteweed); _Aster macrophyllus_; _Halenia
deflexa_, East Branch, (spurred gentian); _Antennaria margaritacea_
(pearly everlasting); _Actæa rubra_ and _alba_, wet carries, (red and
white cohosh); _Desmodium Canadense_ (tick-trefoil); sorrel.

The handsomest and most interesting flowers were the great purple
orchises, rising ever and anon, with their great purple spikes
perfectly erect, amid the shrubs and grasses of the shore. It seemed
strange that they should be made to grow there in such profusion, seen
of moose and moose-hunters only, while they are so rare in Concord. I
have never seen this species flowering nearly so late with us, or with
the small one.

The prevailing underwoods were: _Dirca palustris_ (moose-wood), _Acer
spicatum_ (mountain maple), _Virburnum lantanoides_ (hobble-bush), and
frequently _Taxus baccata_, var. _Canadensis_ (American yew).

The prevailing shrubs and small trees along the shore were: _osier
rouge_ and alders (before mentioned); sallows, or small willows, of
two or three kinds, as _Salis humilis_, _rostrata_, and _discolor_
(_?_); _Sambucus Canadensis_ (black elder); rose; _Viburnum Opulus_
and _nudum_ (cranberry-tree and withe-rod); _Pyrus Americana_
(American mountain-ash); _Corylus rostrata_ (beaked hazelnut);
_Diervilla trifida_ (bush honeysuckle); _Prunus Virginiana_
(choke-cherry); _Myrica gale_ (sweet-gale); _Nemopanthes Canadensis_
(mountain holly); _Cephalanthus occidentalis_ (button-bush); _Ribes
prostratum_, in some places, (fetid currant).

More particularly of shrubs and small trees in _swamps_: some willows,
_Kalmia glauca_ (pale laurel), _Ledum latifolium_ and _palustre_
(Labrador tea), _Ribes lacustre_ (swamp gooseberry), and in one place
_Betula pumila_ (low birch). At _camps and carries_: raspberry,
_Vaccinium Canadense_ (Canada blueberry), _Prunus Pennsylvanica_ (also
alongshore) (wild red cherry), _Amelanchier Canadensis_ (shad-bush),
_Sambucus pubens_ (red-berried elder). Among those peculiar to the
_mountains_ would be the _Vaccinium Vitis-Idæa_ (cow-berry).

Of plants commonly regarded as _introduced_ from Europe, I observed at
Ansel Smith’s clearing, Chesuncook, abundant in 1857: _Ranunculus
acris_ (buttercups); _Plantago major_ (common plantain); _Chenopodium
album_ (lamb’s-quarters); _Capsella Bursa-pastoris_, 1853,
(shepherd’s-purse); _Spergula arvensis_, also north shore of Moosehead
in 1853, and elsewhere, 1857, (corn-spurry); _Taraxacum
Dens-leonis_--regarded as indigenous by Gray, but evidently introduced
there--(common dandelion); _Polygonum Persicaria_ and _hydropiper_, by
a logging-path in woods at Smith’s, (lady’s-thumb and smart-weed);
_Rumex Acetosella_, common at carries, (sheep sorrel); _Trifolium
pratense_, 1853, on carries, frequent, (red clover); _Leucanthemum
vulgare_, carries, (whiteweed); _Phleum pratense_, carries, 1853 and
1857, (herd’s-grass); _Verbena hastata_ (blue vervain); _Cirsium
arvense_, abundant at camps, 1857, (Canada thistle); _Rumex crispus_
(_?_), West Branch, 1853 (?), (curled dock); _Verbascum Thapsus_,
between Bangor and lake, 1853, (common mullein).

It appears that I saw about a dozen plants which had accompanied man
as far into the woods as Chesuncook, and had naturalized themselves
there, in 1853. Plants begin thus early to spring by the side of a
logging-path,--a mere vista through the woods, which can only be used
in the winter, on account of the stumps and fallen trees,--which at
length are the roadside plants in old settlements. The pioneers of
such are planted in part by the first cattle, which cannot be summered
in the woods.


III. LIST OF PLANTS

The following is a list of the plants which I noticed in the Maine
woods, in the years 1853 and 1857. (Those marked * not in woods.)

1. THOSE WHICH ATTAINED THE HEIGHT OF TREES

_Alnus incana_ (speckled or hoary alder), abundant along streams, etc.

_Thuja occidentalis_ (American arbor-vitæ), one of the prevailing.

_Fraxinus sambucifolia_ (black ash), very common, especially near dead
water. The Indian spoke of “yellow ash” as also found there.

_Populus tremuloides_ (American aspen), very common, especially on
burnt lands, almost as white as birches.

_Populus grandidentata_ (large-toothed aspen), perhaps two or three.

_Fagus ferruginea_ (American beech), not uncommon, at least on the
West Branch. (Saw more in 1846.)

_Betula papyracea_ (canoe birch), prevailing everywhere and about
Bangor.

_Betula excelsa_ (yellow birch), very common.

_Betula lenta_ (black birch), on the West Branch in 1853.

_Betula alba_ (American white birch), about Bangor only.

_Ulmus Americana_ (American or white elm), West Branch and low down
the East Branch, _i. e._ on the lower and alluvial part of the river,
very common.

_Larix Americana_ (American or black larch), very common on the
Umbazookskus; some elsewhere.

_Abies Canadensis_ (hemlock spruce); not abundant; some on the West
Branch, and a little everywhere.

_Acer saccharinum_ (sugar maple), very common.

_Acer rubrum_ (red or swamp maple), very common.

_Acer dasycarpum_ (white or silver maple), a little low on East Branch
and in Chesuncook woods.

_Quercus rubra_ (red oak), one on an island in Grand Lake, East
Branch, and, according to a settler, a few on the east side of
Chesuncook Lake; a few also about Bangor in 1853.

_Pinus Strobus_ (white pine), scattered along, most abundant at Heron
Lake.

_Pinus resinosa_ (red pine), Telos and Grand Lake, a little afterwards
here and there.

_Abies balsamea_ (balsam fir), perhaps the most common tree,
especially in the upper parts of rivers.

_Abies nigra_ (black or double spruce), next to the last the most
common, if not equally common, and on mountains.

_Abies alba_ (white or single spruce), common with the last along the
rivers.

_Pinus Banksiana_ (gray or Northern scrub pine), a few on an island in
Grand Lake.

Twenty-three in all (23).

2. SMALL TREES AND SHRUBS

_Prunus depressa_ (dwarf cherry), on gravel-bars, East Branch, near
Hunt’s, with green fruit; obviously distinct from the _pumila_ of
river and meadows.

_Vaccinium corymbosum_ (common swamp blueberry), Bucksport.

_Vaccinium Canadense_ (Canada blueberry), carries and rocky hills
everywhere as far south as Bucksport.

_Vaccinium Pennsylvanicum_ (dwarf-blueberry?), Whetstone Falls.

_Betula pumila_ (low birch), Mud Pond Swamp.

_Prinos verticillatus_ (black alder), 1857, now placed with _Ilex_ by
Gray, 2d ed.

_Cephalanthus occidentalis_ (button-bush).

_Prunus Pennsylvanica_ (wild red cherry), very common at camps,
carries, etc., along rivers; fruit ripe August 1, 1857.

_Prunus Virginiana_ (choke-cherry), riverside, common.

_Cornus alternifolia_ (alternate-leaved cornel), West Branch, 1853.

_Ribes prostratum_ (fetid currant), common along streams; on Webster
Stream.

_Sambucus Canadensis_ (common elder), common along riversides.

_Sambucus pubens_ (red-berried elder), not quite so common; roadsides
toward Moosehead, and on carries afterward; fruit beautiful.

_Ribes lacustre_ (swamp-gooseberry), swamps, common; Mud Pond Swamp
and Webster Stream; not ripe July 29, 1857.

_Corylus rostrata_ (beaked hazelnut), common.

_Taxus baccata_, var. _Canadensis_ (American yew), a common undershrub
at an island in West Branch and Chesuncook woods.

_Viburnum lantanoides_ (hobble-bush), common, especially in Chesuncook
woods; fruit ripe in September, 1853, not in July, 1857.

_Viburnum Opulus_ (cranberry-tree), on West Branch; one in flower
still, July 25, 1857.

_Viburnum nudum_ (withe-rod), common along rivers.

_Kalmia glauca_ (pale laurel), swamps, common, as at Moosehead Carry
and Chamberlain Swamp.

_Kalmia angustifolia_ (lambkill), with _Kalmia glauca_.

_Acer spicatum_ (mountain maple), a prevailing underwood.

_Acer striatum_ (striped maple), in fruit July 30, 1857; green the
first year; green, striped with white, the second; darker, the third,
with dark blotches.

_Cornus stolonifera_ (red-osier dogwood), prevailing shrub on shore of
West Branch; fruit still white in August, 1857.

_Pyrus Americana_ (American mountain-ash), common along shores.

_Amelanchier Canadensis_ (shad-bush), rocky carries, etc.,
considerable fruit in 1857.

_Rubus strigosus_ (wild red raspberry), very abundant, burnt grounds,
camps, and carries, but not ripe till we got to Chamberlain dam and on
East Branch.

_Rosa Carolina_ (swamp rose), common on the shores of lakes, etc.

_Rhus typhina_* (staghorn sumach).

_Myrica Gale_ (sweet-gale), common.

_Nemopanthes Canadensis_ (mountain holly), common in low ground,
Moosehead Carry, and on Mount Kineo.

_Cratægus_ (_coccinea_? scarlet-fruited thorn), not uncommon; with
hard fruit in September, 1853.

_Salix_ (near to _petiolaris_, petioled willow), very common in
Umbazookskus meadows.

_Salix rostrata_ (long-beaked willow), common.

_Salix humilis_ (low bush willow), common.

_Salix discolor_ (glaucous willow) (?).

_Salix lucida_ (shining willow), at island in Heron Lake.

_Dirca palustris_ (moose-wood), common.

In all, 38.

3. SMALL SHRUBS AND HERBACEOUS PLANTS

_Agrimonia Eupatoria_ (common agrimony), not uncommon.

_Circæa alpina_ (enchanter’s nightshade), very common in woods.

_Nasturtium palustre_ (marsh cress), var. _hispidum_, common, as at A.
Smith’s.

_Aralia hispida_ (bristly sarsaparilla), on West Branch, both years.

_Aralia nudicaulis_ (wild sarsaparilla), Chesuncook woods.

_Sagittaria variabilis_ (arrowhead), common at Moosehead and
afterward.

_Arum triphyllum_ (Indian turnip), now _arisæma_, Moosehead Carry in
1853.

_Asclepias incarnata_ (swamp milkweed), Umbazookskus River and after;
redder than ours, and a different variety from our var. _pulchra_.

_Aster acuminatus_ (pointed-leaved aster), the prevailing aster in
woods, not long open on South Branch, July 31; two or more feet high.

_Aster macrophyllus_ (large-leaved aster), common, and the whole plant
surprisingly fragrant, like a medicinal herb; just out at Telos Dam,
July 29, 1857, and after to Bangor and Bucksport; bluish flower (in
woods on Pine Stream and at Chesuncook in 1853).

_Aster Radula_ (rough-leaved aster), common, Moosehead Carry and
after.

_Aster miser_ (petty aster), in 1853 on West Branch, and common on
Chesuncook shore.

_Aster longifolius_ (willow-leaved blue aster), 1853, Moosehead and
Chesuncook shores.

_Aster cordifolius_ (heart-leaved aster), 1853, West Branch.

_Aster Tradescanti_ (Tradescant’s aster), 1857. A narrow-leaved one,
Chesuncook shore, 1853.

_Aster_, _longifolius_-like, with small flowers, West Branch, 1853.

_Aster puniceus_ (rough-stemmed aster), Pine Stream.

_Diplopappus umbellatus_ (large diplopappus aster), common along
river.

_Arctostaphylos Uva-Ursi_ (bear-berry), Kineo, etc., 1857.

_Polygonum cilinode_ (fringe-jointed false-buckwheat), common.

_Bidens cernua_ (bur-marigold), 1853, West Branch.

_Ranunculus acris_ (buttercups), abundant at Smith’s dam, Chesuncook,
1853.

_Rubus triflorus_ (dwarf raspberry), low grounds and swamps, common.

_Utricularia vulgaris_* (greater bladderwort), Pushaw.

_Iris versicolor_ (larger blue flag), common, Moosehead, West Branch,
Umbazookskus, etc.

_Sparganium_ (bur-reed).

_Calla palustris_ (water-arum), in bloom July 27, 1857, Mud Pond
Swamp.

_Lobelia cardinalis_ (cardinal-flower), apparently common, but out of
bloom August, 1857.

_Cerastium nutans_ (clammy wild chickweed) (?).

_Gaultheria procumbens_ (checkerberry), prevailing everywhere in woods
along banks of rivers.

_Stellaria media_* (common chickweed), Bangor.

_Chiogenes hispidula_ (creeping snowberry), very common in woods.

_Cicuta maculata_ (water hemlock).

_Cicuta bulbifera_ (bulb-bearing water hemlock), Penobscot and
Chesuncook shore, 1853.

_Galium trifidum_ (small bed-straw), common.

_Galium Aparine_ (cleavers) (?), Chesuncook, 1853.

_Galium_, one kind on Pine Stream, 1853.

_Trifolium pratense_ (red clover), on carries, etc.

_Actæa spicata_, var. _alba_ (white cohosh), Chesuncook woods, 1853,
and East Branch, 1857.

_Actæa_, var. _rubra_ (red cohosh), East Branch, 1857.

_Vaccinium Vitis-Idæa_ (cow-berry), Ktaadn, very abundant.

_Cornus Canadensis_ (dwarf cornel), in woods Chesuncook, 1853; just
ripe at Kineo, July 24, 1857, common; still in bloom, Moosehead Carry,
September 16, 1853.

_Medeola Virginica_ (Indian cucumber-root), West Branch and Chesuncook
woods.

_Dalibarda repens_ (dalibarda), Moosehead Carry and after, common. In
flower still, August 1, 1857.

_Taraxacum Dens-leonis_ (common dandelion), Smith’s, 1853; only there.
Is it not foreign?

_Diervilla trifida_ (bush honeysuckle), very common.

_Rumex Hydrolapathum_ (_?_) (great water dock), in 1857; noticed it
was large-seeded in 1853; common.

_Rumex crispus_ (_?_) (curled dock), West Branch, 1853.

_Apocynum cannabinum_ (Indian hemp), Kineo (Bradford) and East Branch,
1857, at Whetstone Falls.

_Apocynum androsæmifolium_ (spreading dogbane), Kineo (Bradford).

_Clintonia borealis_ (clintonia), all over woods; fruit just ripening,
July 25, 1857.

A _Lemna_ (duckweed), Pushaw, 1857.

_Elodea Virginica_ (marsh St. John’s-wort), Moosehead, 1853.

_Epilobium angustifolium_ (great willow-herb), great fields on burnt
lands; some white at Webster Stream.

_Epilobium coloratum_ (purple-veined willow-herb), once in 1857.

_Eupatorium purpureum_ (Joe-Pye-weed), Heron, Moosehead, and
Chesuncook lake shores, common.

_Allium_ (onion), a new kind to me in bloom, without bulbs above, on
rocks near Whetstone Falls (?), East Branch.

_Halenia deflexa_ (spurred gentian), carries on East Branch, common.

_Geranium Robertianum_ (herb-robert).

_Solidago lanceolata_ (bushy goldenrod), very common.

_Solidago_, one of the three-ribbed, in both years.

_Solidago thyrsoidea_ (large mountain goldenrod), one on Webster
Stream.

_Solidago squarrosa_ (large-spiked goldenrod), the most common on East
Branch.

_Solidago altissima_ (rough hairy goldenrod), not uncommon both
years.

_Coptis trifolia_ (three-leaved gold-thread).

_Smilax herbacea_ (carrion-flower), not uncommon both years.

_Spiræa tomentosa_* (hardhack), Bangor.

_Campanula rotundifolia_ (harebell), cliffs, Kineo, Grand Lake, etc.

_Hieracium_ (hawkweed), not uncommon.

_Veratrum viride_ (American white hellebore).

_Lycopus Virginicus_ (bugle-weed), 1857.

_Lycopus Europæus_ (water horehound), var. _sinuatus_, Heron Lake
shore.

_Chenopodium album_ (lamb’s-quarters), Smith’s.

_Mentha Canadensis_ (wild mint), very common.

_Galeopsis tetrahit_ (common hemp-nettle), Olamon Isle, abundant, and
below, in prime, August 3, 1857.

_Houstonia cærulea_ (bluets), now _Oldenlandia_ (Gray, 2d ed.), 1857.

_Hydrocotyle Americana_ (marsh pennywort), common.

_Hypericum ellipticum_ (elliptical-leaved St. John’s-wort), common.

_Hypericum mutilum_ (small St. John’s-wort), both years, common.

_Hypericum Canadense_ (Canadian St. John’s-wort), Moosehead Lake and
Chesuncook shores, 1853.

_Trientalis Americana_ (star-flower), Pine Stream, 1853.

_Lobelia inflata_ (Indian tobacco).

_Spiranthes cernua_ (ladies’-tresses), Kineo and after.

_Nabalus_ (rattlesnake-root), 1857; _altissimus_ (tall white lettuce),
Chesuncook woods, 1853.

_Antennaria margaritacea_ (pearly everlasting), common, Moosehead,
Smith’s, etc.

_Lilium Canadense_ (wild yellow lily), very common and large, West
and East Branch; one on East Branch, 1857, with strongly revolute
petals, and leaves perfectly smooth beneath, but not larger than the
last, and apparently only a variety.

_Linnæa borealis_ (linnæa), almost everywhere in woods.

_Lobelia Dortmanna_ (water lobelia), pond in Bucksport.

_Lysimachia ciliata_ (hairy-stalked loosestrife), very common,
Chesuncook shore and East Branch.

_Lysimachia stricta_ (upright loosestrife), very common.

_Microstylis ophioglossoides_ (adder’s-mouth), Kineo.

_Spiræa salicifolia_ (common meadow-sweet), common.

_Mimulus ringens_ (monkey-flower), common, lake-shores, etc.

_Scutellaria galericulata_ (skullcap), very common.

_Scutellaria lateriflora_ (mad-dog skullcap), Heron Lake, 1857;
Chesuncook, 1853.

_Platanthera psycodes_ (small purple fringed orchis), very common,
East Branch and Chesuncook, 1853.

_Platanthera fimbriata_ (large purple fringed orchis), very common,
West Branch and Umbazookskus, 1857.

_Platanthera orbiculata_ (large round-leaved orchis), very common in
woods, Moosehead and Chamberlain carries, Caucomgomoc, etc.

_Amphicarpæa monoica_ (hog peanut).

_Aralia racemosa_ (spikenard), common, Moosehead Carry, Telos Lake,
etc., and after; out about August 1, 1857.

_Plantago major_ (common plantain), common in open land at Smith’s in
1853.

_Pontederia cordata_* (pickerel-weed), only near Oldtown, 1857.

_Potamogeton_ (pondweed), not common.

_Potentilla tridentata_ (mountain cinquefoil), Kineo.

_Potentilla Norvegica_ (cinquefoil), Heron Lake shore and Smith’s.

_Polygonum amphibium_ (water persicaria), var. _aquaticum_ Second
Lake.

_Polygonum Persicaria_ (lady’s-thumb), log-path, Chesuncook, 1853.

_Nuphar advena_ (yellow pond-lily), not abundant.

_Nymphæa odorata_ (sweet water-lily), a few in West Branch, 1853.

_Polygonum Hydropiper_ (smart-weed), log-path, Chesuncook.

_Pyrola secunda_ (one-sided pyrola), very common, Caucomgomoc.

_Pyrola elliptica_ (shin-leaf), Caucomgomoc River.

_Ranunculus Flammula_ (spearwort, var. _reptans_).

_Ranunculus recurvatus_ (hooked crowfoot), Umbazookskus landing, &c.

_Typha latifolia_* (common cat-tail or reed-mace), extremely abundant
between Bangor and Portland.

_Sanicula Marylandica_ (black snake-root), Moosehead Carry and after.

_Aralia nudicaulis_ (wild sarsaparilla).

_Capsella Bursa-pastoris_ (shepherd’s-purse), Smith’s, 1853.

_Prunella vulgaris_ (self-heal), very common everywhere.

_Erechthites hieracifolia_ (fire-weed), 1857, and Smith’s open land,
1853.

_Sarracenia purpurea_ (pitcher-plant), Mud Pond Swamp.

_Smilacina bifolia_ (false Solomon’s-seal), 1857, and Chesuncook
woods, 1853.

_Smilacina racemosa_ (false spikenard) (?), Umbazookskus Carry, July
27, 1853.

_Veronica scutellata_ (marsh speedwell).

_Spergula arvensis_ (corn-spurry), 1857, not uncommon, 1853, Moosehead
and Smith’s.

_Fragaria_ (strawberry), 1853, Smith’s; 1857, Bucksport.

_Thalictrum Cornuti_ (meadow-rue), very common, especially along
rivers, tall, and conspicuously in bloom in July, 1857.

_Cirsium arvense_ (Canada thistle), abundant at camps and
highway-sides in the north of Maine.

_Cirsium muticum_ (swamp thistle), well in bloom, Webster Stream,
August 31.

_Rumex acetosella_ (sheep sorrel), common by river and log-paths, as
Chesuncook log-path.

_Impatiens fulva_ (spotted touch-me-not).

_Trillium erythrocarpum_ (painted trillium), common West Branch and
Moosehead Carry.

_Verbena hastata_ (blue vervain).

_Clematis Virginiana_ (common virgin’s-bower), common on river-banks;
feathered in September, 1853; in bloom July, 1857.

_Leucanthemum vulgare_ (whiteweed).

_Sium lineare_ (water-parsnip), 1857, and Chesuncook shore 1853.

_Achillea millefolium_ (common yarrow), by river and log-paths, and
Smith’s.

_Desmodium Canadense_ (Canadian tick-trefoil), not uncommon.

_Oxalis Acetosella_ (common wood-sorrel), still out July 25 1853, at
Moosehead Carry and after.

_Oxalis stricta_ (yellow wood-sorrel), 1853, at Smith’s and his
wood-path.

_Liparis liliifolia_ (tway-blade), Kineo (Bradford).

_Uvularia grandiflora_ (large-flowered bellwort), woods, common.

_Uvularia sessilifolia_ (sessile-leaved bellwort), Chesuncook woods,
1853.

In all, 145.

4. OF LOWER ORDER

_Scirpus Eriophorum_ (wool-grass), very common, especially on low
islands. A coarse grass, four or five feet high, along the river.

_Phleum pratense_ (herd’s-grass), on carries, at camps and clearings.

_Equisetum sylvaticum_ (sylvatic horse-tail).

_Pteris aquilina_ (brake), Kineo and after.

_Onoclea sensibilis_ (sensitive fern), very common along the
riversides; some on the gravelly shore of Heron Lake Island.

_Polypodium Dryopteris_ (brittle polypody).

_Woodsia Ilvensis_ (rusty woodsia), Kineo.

_Lycopodium lucidulum_ (toothed club-moss).

_Usnea_ (a parmeliaceous lichen), common on various trees.


IV. LIST OF BIRDS

WHICH I SAW IN MAINE BETWEEN JULY 24 AND AUGUST 3, 1857

A very small hawk at Great Falls, on Webster Stream.

_Haliæetus leucocephalus_ (white-headed or bald eagle), at Ragmuff,
and above and below Hunt’s, and on pond below Mattawamkeag.

_Pandion haliaëtus_ (fish hawk or osprey), heard, also seen on East
Branch.

_Bubo Virginianus_ (cat owl), near Camp Island, also above mouth of
Schoonis, from a stump back and forth, also near Hunt’s on a tree.

_Icterus phœniceus_ (red-winged blackbird), Umbazookskus River.

_Corvus Americanus_ (American crow), a few, as at outlet of Grand
Lake; a peculiar cawing.

_Fringilla Canadensis_ (tree sparrow), think I saw one on Mount Kineo,
July 24, which behaved as if it had a nest there.

_Garrulus cristatus_ (blue jay).

_Parus atricapillus_ (chickadee), a few.

_Muscicapa tyrannus_ (kingbird).

_Muscicapa Cooperii_ (olive-sided flycatcher), everywhere a prevailing
bird.

_Muscicapa virens_ (wood pewee), Moosehead, and I think beyond.

_Muscicapa acadica_ (small pewee), common.

_Muscicapa ruticilla_ (American redstart), Moosehead.

_Vireo olivaceus_ (red-eyed vireo), everywhere common.

_Turdus migratorius_ (red-breasted robin), some everywhere.

_Turdus melodus_ (wood thrush), common in all the woods.

_Turdus Wilsonii_ (Wilson’s thrush), Moosehead and beyond.

_Turdus aurocapillus_ (golden-crowned thrush or oven-bird), Moosehead.

_Fringilla albicollis_ (white-throated sparrow), Kineo and after,
apparently nesting; the prevailing bird early and late.

_Fringilla melodia_ (song sparrow), at Moosehead or beyond.

_Sylvia pinus_ (pine warbler), one part of voyage.

_Trichas Marylandica_ (Maryland yellow-throat), everywhere.

_Coccyzus Americanus_ (_?_) (yellow-billed cuckoo), common.

_Picus erythrocephalus_ (red-headed woodpecker), heard and saw, and
good to eat.

_Sitta Carolinensis_ (_?_) (white-breasted American nuthatch), heard.

_Alcedo alcyon_ (belted kingfisher), very common.

_Caprimulgus Americanus_ (nighthawk).

_Tetrao umbellus_ (partridge), Moosehead Carry, etc.

_Tetrao cupido_ (_?_) (pinnated grouse), Webster Stream.

_Ardea cærulea_ (blue heron), lower part of Penobscot.

_Totanus macularius_ (spotted sandpiper or peetweet), everywhere.

_Larus argentatus_ (_?_) (herring gull), Heron Lake on rocks, and
Chamberlain. Smaller gull on Second Lake.

_Anas obscura_ (dusky or black duck), once in East Branch.

_Anas sponsa_ (summer or wood duck), everywhere.

_Fuligula albeola_ (spirit duck or dipper), common.

_Colymbus glacialis_ (great northern diver or loon), in all the lakes.

_Mergus Merganser_ (buff-breasted merganser or sheldrake), common on
lakes and rivers.

A swallow; the night-warbler (?) once or twice.


V. QUADRUPEDS

A bat on West Branch; beaver skull at Grand Lake; Mr. Thatcher ate
beaver with moose on the Caucomgomoc. A muskrat on the last stream;
the red squirrel is common in the depths of the woods; a dead
porcupine on Chamberlain road; a cow moose and tracks of calf; skin of
a bear, just killed.


VI. OUTFIT FOR AN EXCURSION

The following will be a good outfit for one who wishes to make an
excursion of _twelve_ days into the Maine woods in July, with a
companion and one Indian, for the same purposes that I did.

_Wear_,--a check shirt, stout old shoes, thick socks, a neck-ribbon,
thick waistcoat, thick pants, old Kossuth hat, a linen sack.

_Carry_,--in an india-rubber knapsack, with a large flap, two shirts
(check), one pair thick socks, one pair drawers, one flannel shirt,
two pocket-handkerchiefs, a light india-rubber coat or a thick woolen
one, two bosoms and collars to go and come with, one napkin, pins,
needles, thread, one blanket, best gray, seven feet long.

_Tent_,--six by seven feet, and four feet high in middle, will do;
veil and gloves and insect-wash, or, better, mosquito-bars to cover
all at night; best pocket map, and perhaps description of the route;
compass; plant-book and red blotting-paper; paper and stamps, botany,
small pocket spy-glass for birds, pocket microscope, tape-measure,
insect-boxes.

Axe, full size if possible, jackknife, fish-lines, two only apiece,
with a few hooks and corks ready, and with pork for bait in a packet,
rigged; matches (some also in a small vial in the waistcoat pocket);
soap, two pieces; large knife and iron spoon (for all); three or four
old newspapers, much twine, and several rags for dish-cloths; twenty
feet of strong cord, four-quart tin pail for kettle, two tin dippers,
three tin plates, a fry-pan.

_Provisions._--Soft hard-bread, twenty-eight pounds; pork, sixteen
pounds; sugar, twelve pounds; one pound black tea or three pounds
coffee; one box or a pint of salt; one quart Indian meal, to fry fish
in; six lemons, good to correct the pork and warm water; perhaps two
or three pounds of rice, for variety. You will probably get some
berries, fish, etc., beside.

A gun is not worth the carriage, unless you go as hunters. The pork
should be in an open keg, sawed to fit; the sugar, tea or coffee,
meal, salt, etc., should be put in separate water-tight india-rubber
bags, tied with a leather string; and all the provisions, and part of
the rest of the baggage, put into two large india-rubber bags, which
have been proved to be water-tight and durable.

Expense of preceding outfit is twenty-four dollars.

An Indian may be hired for about one dollar and fifty cents per day,
and perhaps fifty cents a week for his canoe (this depends on the
demand). The canoe should be a strong and tight one. This expense will
be nineteen dollars.

Such an excursion need not cost more than twenty-five dollars apiece,
starting at the foot of Moosehead, if you already possess or can
borrow a reasonable part of the outfit. If you take an Indian and
canoe at Oldtown, it will cost seven or eight dollars more to
transport them to the lake.


VII. A LIST OF INDIAN WORDS

     1. _Ktaadn_, said to mean _Highest Land_, Rasles puts for _Mt.
     Pemadene_; for _Grai, pierre à aiguiser_, _Kitadaügan_. (_Vide_
     Potter.)

     _Mattawamkeag_, place where two rivers meet. (Indian of carry.)
     (_Vide_ Williamson’s History of Maine, and Willis.)

     _Molunkus._

     _Ebeeme_, rock.

     _Noliseemack_; other name, Shad Pond.

     _Kecunnilessu_, chickadee.                                   }
                                                                  }
     _Nipsquecohossus_, woodcock.                                 }
                                                                  }
     _Skuscumonsuk_, kingfisher. Has it not the pl. termination   }
     _uk_ here, or _suk_?                                         } Joe.
                                                                  }
     _Wassus_, bear, _aouessous_ (Rasles).                        }
                                                                  }
     _Lunxus_, Indian-devil.                                      }
                                                                  }
     _Upahsis_, mountain-ash.                                     }

     _Moose_ (is it called, or does it mean, wood-eater?), _mous_
     (Rasles).

     _Katahdinauguoh_, said to mean mountains about Ktaadn.

     _Ebemena_, tree-cranberry. _Ibibimin_, _nar_, red, bad     }Joe
     fruit. (Rasles.)                                           }

     _Wighiggin_, a bill or writing, _aouixigan_,               } Ind’n of
     “_livre_, _lettre_, _peinture_, _ceinture_” (Rasles).      } carry.

     _Sebamook_, Large-bay Lake, _Peqouasebem_; add _ar_        }
     for plural, _lac_ or _étang_, (Rasles). _Ouaürinaügamek_,  } Nicholai.
     _anse dans un lac_, (Rasles). _Mspame_, large water.       }
     Polis.                                                     }

     _Sebago_ and _Sebec_, large open water.

     _Chesuncook_, place where many streams empty in.      }
     (_Vide_ Willis and Potter.)                           }
                                                           } Tahmunt,
     _Caucomgomoc_, Gull Lake. (_Caucomgomoc_, the lake;   } etc.
     _Caucomgomoc-took_, the river, Polis.)                }

     _Pammadumcook._

     _Kenduskieg_, Little Eel River. (_Vide_ Willis.)      Nicholai.

     _Penobscot_, Rocky River. _Puapeskou_, stone. (Rasles  } Ind’n of
     v. Springer.)                                          } carry.

     _Umbazookskus_, meadow stream. (Much-meadow            }
     river, Polis.)                                         }
                                                            }
     _Millinocket_, place of islands.                       } Nicholai.
                                                            }
     _Souneunk_, that runs between mountains.               }
                                                            }
     _Aboljacarmegus_, Smooth-ledge Falls and Deadwater.    }

     _Aboljacarmeguscook_, the river there.

     _Muskiticook_, dead stream. (Indian of carry.) _Meskikou_, or
     _Meskikouikou_, a place where there is grass, (Rasles).
     _Muskéeticook_, deadwater, (Polis).

     _Mattahumkeag_, Sand-creek Pond.     }
                                          } Nicholai.
     _Piscataquis_, branch of river.      }

     _Shecorways_, sheldrakes.      }
                                    }
     _Naramekechus_, peetweet.      } Polis.
                                    }
     _Medawisla_, loon.             }

     _Orignal_, Moosehead Lake. (Montresor.)

     _Chor-chor-que_, usnea.                               }
                                                           }
     _Adelungquamooktum_, wood thrush.                     }
                                                           }
     _Bematruichtik_, high land generally.                 } Polis.
     (_Mt. Pemadené._ Rasles).                             }
                                                           }
     _Maquoxigil_, bark of red osier, Indian tobacco.      }

     _Kineo_, flint (Williamson; old Indian hunter). (Hodge.)

     _Artoosoqu’_, phosphorescence.                             }
                                                                }
     _Subekoondark_, white spruce.                              }
                                                                }
     _Skusk_, black spruce.                                     }
                                                                }
     _Beskabekuk_, the “Lobster Lake” of maps.                  } Polis.
                                                                }
     _Beskabekukskishtuk_, the deadwater below the island.      }
                                                                }
     _Paytaytequick_, Burnt-Ground Stream, what Joe             }
     called _Ragmuff_.                                          }
                                                                }
     _Nonlangyis_, the name of a deadwater between the          }
     last and Pine Stream.                                      }

     _Karsaootuk_, Black River (or Pine Stream). _Mkazéouighen_, }
     black, (Rasles).                                            }
                                                                 }
     _Michigan, fimus._ Polis applied it to a sucker, or         }
     a poor, good-for-nothing fish. _Fiante (?) mitsegan_        }
     (Rasles). (Pickering puts the ? after the first word.)      }
                                                                 }
     _Cowosnebagosar_, _Chiogenes hispidula_, means, grows       }
     where trees have rotted.                                    }
                                                                 } Polis.
     _Pockadunkquaywayle_, echo. _Pagadaükoueouérré_             }
     (Rasles).                                                   }
                                                                 }
     _Bororquasis_, moose-fly.                                   }
                                                                 }
     _Nerlumskeechtcook_ (or _quoik_?), (or _skeetcook_),        }
     Deadwater, and applied to the mountains near.               }
                                                                 }
     _Apmoojenegamook_, lake that is crossed.                    }
                                                                 }
     _Allegash_, hemlock bark. (_Vide_ Willis.)                  }

     _Paytaywecongomec_, Burnt-Ground Lake, _Telos_.

     _Madunkehunk_, Height-of-Land Stream (Webster                 }
     Stream).                                                      }
                                                                   }
     _Madunkehunk-gamooc_, Height-of-Land Lake.                    }
                                                                   }
     _Matungamooc_, Grand Lake.                                    }
                                                                   }
     _Uncardnerheese_, Trout Stream.                               }
                                                                   }
     _Wassataquoik_ (or _-cook_), Salmon River, East Branch.       }
     (_Vide_ Willis.)                                              }
                                                                   } Polis.
     _Pemoymenuk_, amelanchier berries, “_Pemouaimin,              }
     nak_, a black fruit. Rasles.” Has it not here the plural      }
     ending?                                                       }
                                                                   }
     _Sheepnoc_, _Lilium Canadense_ bulbs. “_Sipen, nak_,          }
     white, larger than _penak_” (Rasles).                         }
                                                                   }
     _Paytgumkiss_, Petticoat (where a small river comes           }
     into the Penobscot below Nicketow).                           }
                                                                   }
     _Burntibus_, a lake-like reach in the Penobscot.              }

     _Passadumkeag_, “where the water falls into the Penobscot
     above the falls” (Williamson). _Paüsidaükioui_ is, _au dessus
     de la montagne_ (Rasles).

     _Olarmon_, or _larmon_ (Polis), red paint. “Vermilion, paint,
     _Ouramaü_” (Rasles).

     _Sunkhaze_, “See canoe come out; no see ’em stream” (Polis).
     The mouth of a river, according to Rasles, is _Saüghedétegoue_.
     The place where one stream empties into another, thus [Symbol]
     is _saüktaüoui_. (_Vide_ Willis.)

     _Tomhegan_ Br. (at Moosehead). “_Hatchet_, _temahigan_”
     (Rasles).

     _Nicketow_, “_Nicketaoutegué_, or _Niketoutegoue_, _rivière qui
     fourche_” (Rasles).

     2. From WILLIAM WILLIS, on the Language of the Abnaquies, Maine
     Hist. Coll., Vol. IV.

     _Abalajako-megus_ (river near Ktaadn).

     _Aitteon_ (name of a pond and sachem).

     _Apmogenegamook_ (name of a lake).

     _Allagash_ (a bark camp). Sockbasin, a Penobscot, told him,
     “The Indians gave this name to the lake from the fact of their
     keeping a hunting-camp there.”

     _Bamonewengamock_, head of Allegash, Cross Lake. (Sockbasin.)

     _Chesuncook_, Big Lake. (Sockbasin.)

     _Caucongamock_ (a lake).

     _Ebeeme_, mountains that have plums on them. (Sockbasin).

     _Ktaadn_. Sockbasin pronounces this Ka-tah-din, and said it
     meant “large mountain or large thing.”

     _Kenduskeag_ (the place of eels).

     _Kineo_ (flint), mountain on the border, etc.

     _Metawamkeag_, a river with a smooth, gravelly bottom.
     (Sockbasin.)

     _Metanawcook._

     _Millinoket_, a lake with many islands in it. (Sockbasin.)

     _Matakeunk_ (river).

     _Molunkus_ (river).

     _Nicketow_, Neccotoh, where two streams meet (“Forks of the
     Penobscot”).

     _Negas_ (Indian village on the Kenduskeag).

     _Orignal_ (Montresor’s name for Moosehead Lake).

     _Ponguongamook_, Allagash, name of a Mohawk Indian killed
     there. (Sockbasin.)

     _Penobscot_, _Penobskeag_, French _Pentagoet_, etc.

     _Pougohwaken_ (Heron Lake).

     _Pemadumcook_ (lake).

     _Passadumkeag_, where water goes into the river above falls.
     (Williamson.)

     _Ripogenus_ (river).

     _Sunkhaze_ (river), deadwater.

     _Souneunk._

     _Seboomook._ Sockbasin says this word means “the shape of a
     Moose’s head, and was given to the lake,” etc. Howard says
     differently.

     _Seboois_, a brook, a small river. (Sockbasin.)

     _Sebec_ (river).

     _Sebago_ (great water).

     _Telos_ (lake).

     _Telasius_ (lake).

     _Umbagog_ (lake), doubled up; so called from its form.
     (Sockbasin.)

     _Umbazookskus_ (lake).

     _Wassatiquoik_, a mountain river. (Sockbasin.)

     Judge C. E. Potter of Manchester, New Hampshire, adds in
     November, 1855:--

     “_Chesuncook._ This is formed from _Chesunk_, or _Schunk_ (a
     goose), and _Auke_ (a place), and means ‘The Goose Place.’
     Chesunk, or Schunk, is the sound made by the wild geese when
     flying.”

     _Ktaadn._ This is doubtless a corruption of _kees_ (high), and
     _auke_ (a place).

     _Penobscot_, _penapse_ (stone, rock place), and _auke_ (place).

     _Suncook_, goose place, _Schunk-auke_.

     The Judge says that _schoot_ means to rush, and hence
     _schoodic_ from this and _auke_ (a place where water rushes),
     and that _schoon_ means the same; and that the Marblehead
     people and others have derived the words “scoon” and “scoot”
     from the Indians, and hence “schooner”; refers to a Mr. Chute.




INDEX


ABBOT (Me.), 97.

Aboljacarmegus Falls, 58, 82; meaning of the name, 157.

Aboljacarmegus, Lake, 51.

Aboljacknagesic Stream, 51, 58, 59, 62.

Aitteon, Joe, 94, 99, 100, 210, 233, 313.

ALLEGASH AND EAST BRANCH, THE, 174-327.

Allegash Lakes, the, 78, 175, 250, 257.

Allegash River, the, 40, 80, 161, 178, 233, 250, 254-257, 260, 270.

Ambejijis Falls, 50; portage round, 52; 84.

Ambejijis Lake, 45-47, 49, 50, 84, 291.

Ambejijis Stream, 50.

America, the newness of, 90.

Apmoojenegamook Lake, 244; meaning of, 250; 260; a storm on, 263, 264;
hard paddling on, 267.

Aroostook (Me.) road, 3, 13, 14; river, 4; wagon, an, 14; valley, 23;
sleds of the, 261.

Asters, 97.

Atlas, the General, 95.


Bailey, Prof. J. W., 4.

Bangor (Me.), 3, 4, 9, 12; passage to, 16; 23, 36, 38, 74, 86, 91,
94-98; the deer that went a-shopping in, 154; 160, 161, 166, 167, 174,
175; House, the, 177; 250, 251, 256, 257, 290, 307.

Batteaux, 6, 35.

Bears, abundance of, 235.

Bed, a cedar-twig, 60; of arbor-vitæ twigs, 265; the primitive, by all
rivers, 317.

Birds, in the wilderness, 118; about Moosehead Lake, 186; about Mud
Pond Carry, 237; near Chamberlain Lake, 240, 241; on Heron Lake, 255;
on East Branch, 309.

Black flies, protection against, 236; 246.

Blueberries, 66, 298.

Boston (Mass.), countrified minds in towns about, 24.

Bowlin Stream, 308.

Burnt Land, the, 29, 77.

“Burntibus,” 319.


Camp, loggers’, 20; reading matter in a, 37, 38; on side of Ktaadn, a,
68; the routine for making, 210-212; darkness about a, 303, 304.

Canadian boat-song, 42; a blind, 234.

Canoe, a birch, 106; used in third excursion to Maine Woods, 181;
shipping water in a, 189; crossing lakes in a, 206; carrying a, 207,
208; running rapids in a, 275-277, 279, 280.

Carbuncle Mountain, 291.

Caribou Lake, 216.

Carry, Indian’s method with canoe at a, 207, 208; a wet, 235-244;
berries at each, 305, 306; race at a, 314, 315.

Caucomgomoc Lake, meaning of the name, 156; 222, 223.

Caucomgomoc Mountain, 233.

Caucomgomoc Stream, 142, 147, 219, 229, 247, 297.

Cedar tea, arbor-vitæ, or, 60.

Chaleur, Bay of, 178.

Chamberlain Farm, the, 245, 264, 265.

Chamberlain Lake, 101, 145, 161, 233, 237, 239, 240; Apmoojenegamook
or, 244; dams about, 251; 262, 267.

Checkerberry-Tea Camp, 301.

CHESUNCOOK, 93-173.

Chesuncook Deadwater, 217.

Chesuncook Lake, 5, 11, 36, 73, 80, 86, 94, 104, 105, 117, 119, 136,
137; meaning of the word, 156; 176; going to church on, 214; 234, 250,
254.

Chivin, silvery roaches, cousin-trout, or, 59; 312.

Civilization and landscape, 171-173.

Cloud, entering a, 70; factory, a, 70.

Cold Stream Pond, 9.

Colton’s Map of Maine, 104, 308.

Concord (Mass.), 1, 24, 76, 117; meaning of Indian name for, 157, 187;
214, 268; the Assabet in, 278.

Concord River, 229, 278, 299.

Cranberries, mountain, 27; tree-, 147.

Crosses in the wilderness, 50.

Curing moose meat and hide, 149, 150, 208.


De Bry’s _Collectio Peregrinationum_, 149.

Deep Cove, 45, 84.

Deer, 154.

Deer Island, 100, 183, 185, 188.

“Die and be buried who will,” verse, 90.

Dippers, a brood of, 184.

Dog, a troublesome, 177.

Double Top Mountain, 49.

Dream of fishing, a, 61.


Eagle Lake, 101, 161; road, 261.

EAST BRANCH, THE ALLEGASH AND, 174-327.

East Branch, mouth of the, 19; 23, 161, 175, 176, 249, 256, 257, 268;
Hunt’s house on the, 269, 270, 273, 274, 288, 289, 298, 312, 315, 316.

Eel River, 256.

Elegy in a Country Churchyard, quoted, 19.

Enfield (Me.), 9.

Everlasting, the pearly, 97.


Fenwick, Bishop, 323.

Fire, a camp, 43, 115, 116.

Fire-weed, 95, 282.

Fishing, 58; the Caucomgomoc, 147.

Five Islands, the, 11, 31, 87, 320.

Fowler, Thomas, sheltered and joined by, 29-34.

Fredericton (N. B.), 16.

Freshet, the Great, 58.

Frontier houses, 144.

Fundy, Bay of, 254.


Goldenrod, 97.

Grand Falls of the Penobscot, 31; portage to avoid the, 32.

Grand Lake, 268; Indian name for, 295; 297, 307.

Grand Portage, the, 80.

Greenbush (Me.), 324.

Greenleaf’s Map of Maine, 16.

Greenville (Me.), 99, 101, 188, 194, 209.


Hedgehog, shooting a, 130.

Heron Lake, 254, 255.

Hide, stretching a, 147, 148; sale of a moose-, 152.

“Highlands” between the Penobscot and St. John, 238.

Hilton’s clearing, 105.

History, reading, 87.

Hobble-bush, wayfarer’s tree or, 96.

Hodge, assistant geologist, quoted, 29, 80.

Holland, the King of, in his element, 239.

Horns, uses for deer’s, 97, 98.

Hornstone, 194.

Houlton (Me.), road, the, 3, 8, 9, 12, 13.

Hunter, a “gentlemanly,” 178, 179; Indian, with hides, 231; enviable
life of a, 269, 270.

Hunting, the degradation of, 132-134.


Indian, extinction, 7; guides secured, 11; belief that river ran two
ways, 35; words for some birds and animals, 108; camp, an, 146-159;
language, 151; words for Maine waters, 155-157; houses at Oldtown,
161; relics, 166; speech, 187; singing, 198; methods of guiding,
204-206; manner of carrying canoes, 207, 208; inscription, an, 220;
wardrobe, 249, 250; failure to understand avoidance of settlers, 258;
medicines, 259; travel, 260, 261; as umpire, 267; skill in retracing
steps, 277; relics and geographical names, 297; good manners, 300;
devil (or cougar), the, 306; reticence and talkativeness, 318, 319;
sickness, 319, 320; indifference, 326.

Indian Island, 92, 174, 326, 327.

Insect foes, 246.


Jackson, Dr. Charles T., 4, 10; quoted regarding altitude of Ktaadn,
72; on Moosehead Lake, 104; sketches in Reports of, 120; quoted,
regarding hornstone on Mount Kineo, 194, 195.

Joe Merry Lakes, the, 45.

Joe Merry Mountain, 38, 51, 218.

Josselyn, John, quoted, 156, 164.


Katepskonegan Falls, 52; Carry, 81.

Katepskonegan Lake, 50, 57.

Katepskonegan Stream, 50.

Kenduskeag, meaning of, 156.

Kennebec River, the, 5, 40, 103, 183, 188, 233, 272.

Kineo, Mount, 9-103, 156, 183, 186, 189; Indian tradition of origin
of, 190; hornstone on, 194; 196, 203, 260, 299.

Knife, an Indian, 156.

KTAADN, 3-90.

Ktaadn, Mt., 1; ascents of, 3-5; view of, 23; first view of, 36; 38;
the flat summit of, 49; 58, 61; the ascent of, 63-76; altitude of, 72;
96, 121, 136, 167, 215, 218, 249, 257, 260, 297, 312, 313.


Lake country of New England, the, 40.

Larch, extensive wood of, 231.

Lescarbot quoted regarding abundance of fishes, 60.

Lily, the yellow, 209, 291; roots, gathering, 309; roots, soup of,
317.

Lily Bay, 97, 99.

Lincoln (Me.), 9, 85, 260, 319, 321, 322.

Little Schoodic River, the, 23.

Lobster Lake, 106.

Lobster Pond, 210.

Lobster Stream, 105, 210.

Locusts, 254.

Loggers, camps of, 20; a gang of, 38.

Log house, a, 138.

Logs, from woods to market, sending, 46-49.

Loon, Indian word for, 182; cry of the, 247, 248.

Lost, in the lakes, experienced woodmen, 41; in the woods, T.’s
companion, 285-290.

Lovewell’s Fight, 245.


Madawaska, the, 80.

Maine, mountainous region of, 4; intelligence of backwoodsmen in, 24;
view of, 73; the forest of, 88.

Map of the Public Lands of Maine and Massachusetts, 17, 101, 104, 308.

Marriage, a sign of, 232.

Mars’ Hill, 8.

Matahumkeag, 107; meaning of the word, 157; 210.

Matanancook River, the, 321.

Mattaseunk, 18.

Mattawamkeag, the, 12, 13, 16; meaning of the name, 157; 256.

Mattawamkeag Point, 4, 11, 38, 88, 316, 319.

Matungamook Lake, 295.

McCauslin, or “Uncle George,” weather-bound at farm of, 23-29; good
services as guide by, 40-42.

Michaux on lumbering, quoted, 48.

Milford (Me.), 7.

Millinocket Lake, 29, 41, 73, 260.

Millinocket River, 29, 31, 86-88, 223.

Ministers, with, on Ktaadn, 214.

Mohawk Rips, the, 322.

Mohawk traditions, 154.

Molasses, Molly, 174.

Molunkus (Me.), 13, 15.

Monhegan Island, 94.

Monson (Me.), 97, 98, 161.

Moose, sign of, 58, 65, 108; carcass of a, 109; night expedition in
vain hunt for, 110-115; shooting at and wounding a, 122-124; found,
measured, and skinned, 125-130; Indian ideas about, 153; Indian
tradition of evolution of, from the whale, 163; shooting and skinning
a, on Second Lake, 292-295.

Moose-flies, 246.

Moosehead Lake, 45, 46, 73, 95, 97, 99; steamers and sail-boats on,
100; 104, 108, 117, 145, 150, 152; Indian name for, 155; 159, 175,
176, 181; extent of, 183; 184, 188, 193, 231, 252; dragon-fly on, 255;
272, 299, 322.

Moosehorn Deadwater, 109.

Moosehorn Stream, the, 111, 113, 117, 118, 145, 216.

Moose River, 189.

Moose wardens, laxness of, 231.

Moose-wood, 65; phosphorescent light in, 199.

Morrison, John, head of a lumber-gang, 38.

Mosquitoes, 246, 310, 311.

Mountain-ash, 94.

Mountain-tops, 71.

Mud Pond, 233, 237, 238, 240, 243, 244.

Murch Brook, 58, 64, 74.

Musquash, calling a, 228.


Nahant (Mass.), 170.

Nature, the earth as made by, 77, 78; always young, 89, 90; the coarse
use of, 133.

Neptune, Louis, 10, 86; a call on Governor, 162, 163; the old chief,
174.

Nerlumskeechticook Mountain, 249, 260, 291, 297, 298, 301.

Nicketow (Me.), 7, 19, 260, 316, 319.

Night, in the woods, a, 43-45; thoughts by a stream at, 131; sounds in
the woods at, 247, 248.

Noliseemack, Shad Pond or, 29.

North Twin Lake, 39, 80, 84.

No-see-em, midge called, 245, 246.


Oak Hall hand-bill and carry, 55, 83.

Olamon Mountains, 323.

Olamon River, the, and meaning of word, 324.

Old Fort Hill, 166.

Oldtown (Me.), 4, 6, 7, 9, 88, 142, 152, 153, 160, 161, 166, 167, 174,
192, 202, 204, 222, 226, 259, 272, 274, 313, 320, 322, 323, 325-327.

Orchis, the great round-leaved, 240.

Orono (Me.), 92.

Osier, red, Indian word for, 188.


Paddling, a lesson in, 325, 326.

Pamadumcook Lakes, the, 30, 45, 47, 84; meaning of the word, 156; 260.

Passadumkeag River, the, 8, 9, 323, 324.

Passamagamet Falls, 51; “warping up,” 53; 84.

Passamagamet Lake, 50, 51.

Passamagamet Stream, 50, 51.

Passamaquoddy River, the, 5, 91.

Peaked Mountain, 254.

Peetweets, Indian word for, 182.

Penobscot County, 73.

Penobscot Indians, sociability of, 321.

Penobscot River, the, 3, 5, 6; Indian islands in the, 7; 17, 18, 24,
29, 31, 32, 40, 41, 54, 77, 80, 87, 91, 95, 96, 103-105, 107, 108;
between Moosehead and Chesuncook Lake, described, 117; 145, 148;
meaning of the word, 157, 158, 161; 166, 176, 193, 202; West Branch
of, 203; 208, 209, 233, 234, 238, 270-272; main boom of the, 329.

Phosphorescent wood, 199-201.

Pine, the white, 160; forests, 169; red, 268; Labrador and red, 296.

Pine Stream, 122, 136, 216.

Pine Stream Deadwater, 121.

Pine Stream Falls, 136, 216.

Piscataquis Falls, 322.

Piscataquis River, the, 101; meaning of the word, 157; 179, 260, 327.

Pitching a canoe, 105.

Plants, abundance of strange, by Moosehead Lake, 103, 104, 188;
observed on Mount Kineo, 195; about camp on the Caucomgomoc, 223;
along the Umbazookskus, 229, 230; in cedar swamp by Chamberlain Lake,
239-241; on East Branch, 302.

Pockwockomus Falls, 56, 57, 83.

Pockwockomus Lake, 50.

Pokelogan, a, 56.

Poling a batteau, 34, 35, 53, 54.

Polis, Joe, 174; secured as guide, 175; puzzled about white men’s law,
192; travels and opinions of, 217, 218; calls upon Daniel Webster,
279; as a boy, hard experience in traveling of, 308; good-by to, 327.

Politicians, country, 8, 9.

Pongoquahem Lake, 260.

Portage, a rough, 33; round Ambejijis Falls, 51.

Province man, a green, 16.


Quakish Lake, 33, 36, 85.

Quebec, meaning of the word, 157; 257.


Ragmuff Stream, 118, 121, 145, 216.

Rain, 33, 265, 266.

Rapids, shooting, 81.

Rasles, Father, Dictionary of the Abenaki language, 154.

Red shirts, 31, 145.

_Repaired_ road, a, 98.

Restigouche River, the, 178.

Ripogenus Portage, 80.

Roaches, silvery, 59.

Road, a supply, 212; recipe for making a, 244.

Rock-Ebeeme, 20.

Rock hills, singular, 282.

Roots of spruce, as thread, 225, 226.

Russell Stream, 104.


St. Francis Indian, 146, 208.

St. John River, the, 5, 40, 80, 101, 137, 176, 178, 203, 233, 238,
251, 256, 257, 270, 271, 274.

St. Lawrence River, the, 80, 233, 238.

Salmon River, 19.

Sandbar Island, 100, 188, 189.

Schoodic Lake, 256.

School question, the, among Indians, 323, 324.

Seboois Lakes, 222, 261, 310.

Second Lake, 274, 276, 281; beauty of, 290-292, 297.

Shad Pond, or Noliseemack, 29, 30, 86.

Shad-flies, ephemeræ or, 255.

Sheldrakes, Indian word for, 182; 254, 274, 276.

Singing, 41, 42.

Smith, Ansell, clearing and settlement of, 137-145.

Snowberry, creeping, used as tea, 227.

“Somebody & Co.,” 14.

Souneunk Mountains, the, 218, 260.

South Twin Lake, 39.

Sowadnehunk Deadwater, 58.

Sowadnehunk River, the, 31, 79.

Sparrow, the white-throated, 213, 249, 262.

Spencer Bay Mountain, 183.

Spencer Mountains, 108.

“Spokelogan,” 268.

Spring, a cool, 280.

Springer, J. S., Forest Life, quoted, 21, note; on lumbering, quoted,
48, note; on the spruce tree, quoted, 75; about the digging of a
canal, quoted, 270, 271.

Spruce, the, 104; Indian words for black and white, 209; difference
between black and white, 225.

Spruce beer, a draught of, 30.

Squaw Mountain, 183.

Squirrel, the red, 241.

Stars known to Indian, 247.

Stillwater (Me.), 4, 167.

Sugar Island, 101, 183, 194; near Olamon River, 324.

Sunday, an Indian’s, 201, 202, 214, 215, 223, 229.

Sunkhaze, the, 8, 325, 326.

“Swampers,” 242.

“Sweet cakes,” 12.


Tea, varieties of forest, 227; hemlock, 312.

Telasinis Lake, 267.

Telos Lake, 235, 245, 264; Indian name for, 267; 270, 274, 281, 290,
299.

Tent, description of, 196, 197.

Thistle, the Canada, 96.

Thoreau, Henry David, leaves Concord for Maine, 31 Aug. 1846, 3;
starts “up river” from Bangor, 4; strikes into the wilderness, 15;
starts for summit of Ktaadn, 61, 62; begins descent, 72; leaves Boston
by steamer for Bangor, 13 Sept. 1853, 93; takes Moosehead Lake steamer
for return home, 159; starts on third excursion to Maine Woods, 20
July, 1857, 174; reaches farthest northern point, 259; lands at
Oldtown, the journey finished, 326.

Thrush, wood, Indian word for, 186.

Thunder-storm, violent, 261, 262.

Timber, 18; land, best in Maine, 235.

Tomhegan Stream, 203.

Traps, a find of steel, 302.

Tree, fall of a, at night, 115; a dangerous, 221.

Trees, varieties of, 22, 116; along the Penobscot, 107, 120; about
camp on the Caucomgomoc, 223; along the Umbazookskus, 231; on island
in Heron Lake, farthest northern point, 259; on East Branch, 302.

Tree-tops, a walk over, 67; appearance of various, 121.

Trout, true and cousin-, 59.

Trout Stream, 235, 269; Indian name for, 295.


Umbazookskus, the, 219, 222; Much Meadow River, 229; 230, 232.

Umbazookskus Lake, 233, 238.

Usnea lichen, Indian word for, 186.


Veazie’s mills, 166.

Voyageurs, Canadian, 6.


Waite’s farm, 23.

“Warping up,” 57.

Washing in a lake, 249.

Wassataquoik River, the, 3, 312.

Water-troughs, 97.

Wayfarer’s-tree or hobble-bush, 96.

Webster, Daniel, Joe Polis’s call upon, 279.

Webster Pond, 270, 273; Indian name for, 273.

Webster Stream, 161, 264; Indian name for, 273; 275, 289, 297, 299,
300.

West Branch, tramp up the, 17; 20, 31, 32, 291, 316.

Whetstone Falls, 313.

White Mountains, the, 4.

Whitehead Island, 94.

Woods, wetness of the, 22; characteristics of Maine, and uses of all,
167-173; destruction of the, 252-254.

Woodstock (N. B.), 256.


     The Riverside Press
     H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY
     CAMBRIDGE
     MASSACHUSETTS


     The Riverside Press
     H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY
     CAMBRIDGE
     MASSACHUSETTS




       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber’s note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved.  In particular, numerous spelling differences between
  the text and the Appendices were noted and retained.

  On page 240, “Rides lacustre” possibly should be “Ribes lacustre.”

  On page 259, “margaraticea” possibly should be “margaritacea.”

  On page 319, “bonhommie” possibly should be “bonhomie.”

  On page 330, “New Hamphsire” was corrected to “New Hampshire.”

  On page 333, “Virbirnum” possibly should be “Viburnum.”

  On page 351, “Mt. Pemadene” possibly should be “Mt. Pemadenée.”

  On page 354, “Allegash” possibly should be “Allagash.”

  On page 355, a symbol, circle with up arrow, is denoted by [Symbol].






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