CHAPTER V.
Indian Summer.--Venison Styles again.--Jim Buzzard.--Fishing Excursion.--Muskrat City.--Indian Burying-ground.--The Pickerel and the Rest of the Fishes.--The Prairie.--Wild Geese.--The Old Mound.--Venison's Regrets at the degenerating Times.--His Luck, and Mine.--Reminiscences of the Beavers.--Camping out.--Safe Return.
Indian summer had not yet taken her bow from the woods or her breath fromthe sky. Old Autumn still lay asleep; Time stood by, with his hour-glasserect, slowly counting the palpitations of his heart.
Venison Styles appointed a day for a fishing excursion, and was desirous ofmy company; so, on one of those bright mornings, we might have been seenloading our gear into the boat, preparatory to a night's lodging in thewoods. We were accompanied by "Jim Buzzard," a genuine Puddlefordian, whomwe took along to do up the little pieces of drudgery that always attendsuch an expedition.
Puddleford was a wonderful place for fish-eaters, and the only real harvestthe villagers had was the fish-harvest. One half of Puddleford lived onfish, and everybody fished. But our "Jim Buzzard" was a character in fish,and I could never excuse myself if I should pass him over unnoticed.
Where "Jim" was born--who was his father or mother--and whether heactually ever had any, are questions that no mortal man was ever yet ableto answer. He appeared one spring morning in Puddleford with the swallows.The first thing seen of him, he was sitting, about sunrise, on an old drygoods' box, at the corner of a street, whistling a variety of lively airs.The crown was dangling from the top of his hat, he was shirtless andunshaved, and his shoes gaped horribly at the public.
"Jim" was a genuine loafer, and loafers, you know, reader, pervade everyplace, and are always the same. There is a certain class of animals thatare said to follow civilization, as sharks follow in the wake of a ship,and generally for the same reason, to pick up what they can find. Rats andloafers belong to this class, and there is no human ingenuity shrewd enoughto keep them off: their appearance seems to be a simple fulfilment of a lawof nature.
Jim Buzzard was a fisher, too, and nothing but a fisher. He would sit on anold log by the bank of the river, and hold a pole from morning until night.If the fish would bite, very well; if they would not, very well. Ill-lucknever roused his wrath, because there was no wrath in him to arouse. He wasa true philosopher, and was entirely too lazy to get into a passion. Jimknew that the fish would bite to-morrow, or next day, if they didn'tto-day. He was happy, completely so; that is, as completely happy as theworld will admit. He didn't envy anybody--not he. All his wants weresupplied, and what did he care about the possessions of his neighbors? Henever realized any future, here or hereafter. Jim never lay awake nights,thinking about where he would be, or what he should have, next week. Hedidn't know as there was any next week. He knew the sun rose and set, whichwas all the time he ever measured at once. Well, as I said, Jim made one ofour company.
Our boat was finally loaded, our crew shipped, and we shot forth into thestream. The water lay as smooth as glass, and the reflected colors of theblazing trees that hung over it gave it the appearance of a carpet. Theheadlands put out here and there, intersected by long gores of marsh, thatran away a mile or more in the distance.
Upon one of these marshes a city had been reared by the muskrats, whichpresented an interesting appearance. Hundreds of huts had been erected bythis busy population, intended by them as their winter quarters, composedof grass and sticks and mud, and hoisted up beyond the reach of the springfloods. Each one was a little palace, and the whole sat upon the water likea miniature Venice. Here huts were entered by diving down, the front doorbeing always concealed to prevent intrusion. Up and down the canals of thiscity the inhabitants gossiped and gambolled by moonlight, like those ofevery other gay place. They had their routs, and cotillons, and suppers, inall human probability, and for aught I know drank themselves stupid.Perhaps they kept up an opera. I say perhaps--we know so little of theinner life of these strange creatures, that we may draw upon theimagination in regard to their amusements as much as we please. If anytranscendental muskrat should ever write the history of this colony, I willforward it to the newspapers by the first mail.
Venison said, "we were going to have a wet time on't, cause the rats hadbuilt so high, and the whole mash would be covered bime-by, by the rains."He said, "muskrats know'd more nor men about times ahead, and fixed upthings 'cordingly."
Our boat glided along until we came in sight of a huge bluff that hadpushed itself half across the stream. A melancholy fragment of one of thetribes of Indians, who once held the sovereignty of the soil, and who hadescaped a removal, or had wandered back from their banishment, wereclustered upon it. They had erected a long pole, and gathered themselves,hand in hand, in a circle about it; within this circle, their medicines andapparel worn in worship, lay for consecration. The plaintive chant washeard melting along the waters, as they wheeled round and round in theirsolemn service. I have never looked upon a more touching exhibition. Mostof these Indians were very old; they had outlived their tribe, theircountry, their glory--everything but their ceremonies and themselves. Whata beautiful tribute was this to the past! a handful of worshipperslingering round the broken altar of their temple, and hallowing its veryruins.
Near by, and on the southern slope of the bluff, lay the remains of anextensive Indian burying-ground. No white man could tell its age. Largeoaks, centuries old, that had grown since the dead were first depositedthere, stood up over the graves. No monuments of stone designated thethousands of sleepers--the living themselves were the monuments of thedead. Weapons of war and peace were scattered beneath the turf, mixed withcrumbling human bones.
What were this little band of red men, thought I, but so many autumnleaves? A few years more, and the solitary boat, as it turns this headland,will find no warrior kneeling on its height. The Great Spirit will broodalone over the solitude.
By and by, we turned into a bay, sheltered by an overhanging cliff, wherewe cast our anchor, and made ready for work. The water was transparent, andthe shining pebbles glittered in the sandy depths below. Shoals of fish hadgathered in this nook, beyond the strife of waters. The sun-fish, his backall bristling with rage, ploughed around with as much ferocity as aprivateer; the checkered perch lazily rolled from side to side, as hisbreath came and went; the little silver dace darted and flashed througheach other their streams of light; and away off, all alone, the pickerel,that terror of the pool, stood as still and dart-like as the vane of asteeple.
This congregation reminded me of the stir we sometimes find in the ports ofa city. They seemed to have much business on hand. They were continuallyputting out and putting in; sometimes alone and sometimes in fleets. Inoticed an indolent old "sucker," who made several unsuccessful attempts toreach the current, and get under headway. Once in a while, a fish wouldcome dashing in from above, like a ship before a gale, throwing the wholecommunity into an uproar.
Below us, on the left bank of the river, stretched a prairie which wasseveral miles in circumference. It was dotted, here and there, with asettler's cabin, but the greater part yet lay in the wild luxuriance ofnature. It was surrounded by the forest, and long points of woodlandpierced it, now glowing like a flame. Shooting back and forth, theprairie-hens sailed across it like boats upon the main. The sky above itwas filled with hawks, sweeping round and round in search of prey--now theyrested upon their outspread wings--then plunged through a long-drawncurve--then gracefully moved near the earth in downward circles, as someobject was discovered, winnowing a while above it, to make sure of itsnature and position, and rising once more, and turning with lightningquickness, away they rushed upon their quarry, and soared away with it onhigh.
In the depth of winter, when the lakes and rivers are bound in ice, vastbodies of geese assemble there. Acres of ground are covered, and they stormabout their camp like an army of soldiers. Some commanding elevation, farout from shore, beyond the reach of the hunter's gun, is selected. Whendisturbed, their sentinels blow the
alarm, and away they go, piping theirdismal dirge, until it dies afar in the sky. By daybreak the next morning,they are on the ground again, as tranquil as though nothing had happened.
It is almost impossible to trap these wanderers. Before they establishtheir quarters, they study the landscape with the eye of a painter. Theytake a daguerrian view of objects as they are. The log-hut, with itscurling smoke--the hay-stack crowned with snow--the settler's cart tippedup, its tongue pointing towards the north star--a goose understands as wellas a man. _They_ never blow up nor work destruction. But just try anartificial house of boughs, a brush fence, or an intrenchment near theirlines. They see the plot at a glance, and draw out of harm's way, and pitchtheir snowy tents again, beyond its reach. As well chase the fabled islandas a flock of wild geese.
Not far below this prairie, near the bank of the river, a venerable moundraised its solitary head. It was thinly covered with oaks, and belonged toOblivion. It was one of the few feathers that Time had cast in his flight,to mark the past and confuse the present. It looked like a hand reached outfrom eternity; but _whose_ hand? Ay, whose? Who built it? When? Why? It wasfilled with all kinds of strange things that had been planted there by abusy race who were unable to preserve their own history. Their works hadoutlived themselves; but they cannot talk to us, nor tell us what they are,nor who fashioned them. There it stands, gazing dumbly at all who look uponit, a sad lesson to individual pride or national glory.
Venison did not seem quite satisfied with the prospect of catching fish inthe little bay. "'Tain't as it used to be," sighed the old hunter. "Beforethe woods were cut down, and them are dams built," said he, "the wholeriver was alive with all sorts of fish. In the spring-time the salmon-troutand sturgeon used to come up out of the lakes to feed, but they can't getup any more. They keep trying it every year yet, and thousands on 'em maybe seen packed in below old Jones' dam, 'long 'bout April, waiting andwaiting for it to go off. For I s'pose they think 'tain't nothing butflood-wood lodged."
"Why don't they climb it?" inquired I.
"When the water is very high up, and there arn't much of a riffle there,they will sometimes; but they can't climb like them speckled trout--they'llgo right up a mountain stream, and make nothing on't--them fellers beat allnater for going anywhere."
However, as I said somewhere back in my narrative, we made ready for work.We looked around for Jim Buzzard, and found him sitting in the bow of theboat, his legs sprawled out, his head dropped on his chin, his ragged hatcocked on one side, fast asleep. There was an ease and self-abandonmentabout his appearance that were really beautiful. Jim could sleepanywhere--some people can't. He was never nervous. He never had any spasmsabout something that could never occur. He had no notes falling due--nocrops in the ground--no merchandise on his hand--no property, except thelittle he carried on his back, and that he didn't really own; it was givento him--he was no candidate for office, and didn't even know or care whowas President--all administrations were alike to him, for all had treatedhim well. He never flew into a passion because some persons slandered him,because he had no character to injure.
"Hallo, Jim!" I screamed, with my mouth to his ear, "the boat is sinking."
He gaped, and groaned, and stretched a few times, and finally opened hiseyes, and adjusted his hat, and looking up at me, "Let her sink, then," hereplied; "we can get-er up agin."
"Stir around! stir around, Jim!" I exclaimed; "the fish are waiting for ourbait; out with your pole."
He said, "_he_ was goin' overboard arter fresh-water clams--kase they weregood with salt, and anybody could eat 'em;" and rolling up his breeches,over he went, and moving away down near a sandy beach, he commenced digginghis clams with his feet, and piling them up on shore by his side.
Venison and myself dashed our lines overboard. I watched every movement ofthe old hunter. He went through as many ceremonies as a magician working acharm. His "minnys" (minnows), as he called them, were hooked tenderly at aparticular place in the back, so that they might shoot around in the water,without dying in the effort; his hook was pointed in a certain direction,so as to catch at the first bite; he then spit upon the bait, and swingingthe line a few times in circles, he threw it far out in the stream.
"That'll bring a bass, pickerel, or something," said he, as it struck thewater.
Soon the pole bent, and Venison sprang upon it.
"Pull him out!" exclaimed I.
"Don't never hurry big fish," replied he; "let him play round a little;he'll grow weak byme-by, and come right along into the boat;" andaccordingly, Venison "_let_ him play;" he managed the fish with all thatrefinement in the art that sportsmen know so well how to appreciate andenjoy. Sometimes it raced far up the stream, then far down; and once, asthe line brought it up on a downward trip, it bounded into the air, andturned two or three summersets that shook the silver drops of water fromits fins. After a while, it became exhausted, and Venison slowly drew himinto the boat, all breathless and panting; a famous pickerel, four feetlong and "well proportioned."
My poles, all this time, remained just where I first placed them--not anibble, as I knew. Some very wicked people, I have been informed, swear atfish when they refuse to bite--but I did not--because I have never beenable to see why _they_ were to blame, or why swearing would reform them,if they were. It was no very good reason that they should take hold of oneend of my pole and line, because I happened to be at the other.
Not having much luck with big fish, I concluded to amuse the "small fry."So out went my hook ker-slump right down in the midst of a great gathering,who seemed to have met on some business of importance. It was a littlecurious to watch these finny fellows as they eyed my worm. They swept roundit in a circle, a few times, and coming up with a halt, and formingthemselves abreast, they rocked up and down from head to tail, as theysurveyed the thing. By and by, a perch, a little more venturesome than therest, floated up by degrees to the bait, his white fins slowly moving backand forth, and carefully reaching out his nose, he touched it, wheeled, andshot like a dart out of sight. In a few minutes he came round in the rearof the company, to await further experiments. Next came the sun-fish,jerking along, filled with fire and fury, with a kind of who's-afraid sortof look, and striking at my hook, actually caught the tip of the barb, andI turned the fellow topsy-turvy, showing up his yellow to advantage. Heleft for parts unknown. There was a small bass who had strayed into thecommunity, whom I was anxious to coax into trouble; but he lay off on hisdignity, near an old root, to see the fun. I moved my hook towards him. Heshot off and turned head to, with a no-you-don't sort of air. I took mybait from the water and spit on it, but it wouldn't do. I took it outagain, and went through an incantation over it, but I couldn't catch him bymagic; and I have no doubt, reader, he is there yet.
Venison, every little while, dragged another and another pickerel aboard.Pretty soon we had Jim Buzzard cleaning fish, and packing away in a barrel,with a little sprinkling of salt.
I gathered in my lines, arose, and thanked the whole tribe of fish,generally and particularly, for their attendance upon me, and promised notto trouble them for a month at least.
The sun was waning low, and the shadows of the trees were pointing acrossthe river. The clouds in the west gathered themselves into all kinds ofpictures. There was a fleet of ships, all on fire, in full sail, far out atsea; the fleet dissolved, and a city rose out of its ruins, filled withtemples, and domes, and turrets, and divided into streets, up and downwhich strange and fantastic figures were hurrying. The city vanished, and apile of huge mountains shot up their rugged peaks, around which goldenislands lay anchored, all glowing with light. Away one side, I noticed agrave, corpulent, and shadowy old gentleman, astride an elephant, smoking apipe, and he puffed himself finally away into the heavens, and I have neverseen him since--a solemn warning to persons who use tobacco.
Venison said "we had better hunt up our camping-ground, for his stomach wasgetting holler, and he wanted to fill it up."
Below us, a sparkling stream put i
nto the river. Just above it, a mile orso, lay a broad lake, which was fed from this same stream--it came in fromthe wilderness. We started for this lake, and wound our way up this littlecreek amid the struggling shafts of sunlight that hung over it. Thewater-fowl were hurrying past us, towards the same spot, to take up theirnight's lodging, and we drove flocks of them ahead as we crowded upon them.The dip of our oars echoed among the shadows. We reached our ground,unloaded our gear, and prepared for the night.
Venison directed Jim Buzzard to build a "stack" and get supper. So, a pileof stones was laid up, with a flat one across the top, leaving a holebehind for the smoke to escape. Venison knocked over a gray duck on thelake with his rifle, and it was not long before we had four feet ofpickerel and that self-same duck sprawled out on the hot stone, frying.
Venison was rather gloomy. "This," said he, "makes me think of times gone.I used to camp here all alone, years ago, when there warn't no settlers formiles. I used to catch otter and beaver and rat, and sleep out weeks to atime. But the beaver and otter are gone."
"Beaver here?" inquired I.
"Why, not more'n nor a mile or so up this creek, I've killed piles on 'em.Why, I seed a company on 'em, up there, once, of two or three hundred. Theycom'd down one spring and clear'd off acres of ground that had grown up tobirch saplings, that they wanted to build a dam with, and there they letthe trees lie until August. Then they started to build their houses allover the low water in the mash--great houses four or five feet through--andthey work'd in companies of four or five on a house till they got 'em done.You jist ought to see 'em carry mud and stones between their fore-paws andthroat, and see 'em lay it down and slap it with their tails, like men whowork with a trowel."
"Well," said I, "about those trees that they cleared off?"
"When they got 'em done, then they all jined in to build a dam, to raise upthe water, so't wouldn't freeze up the doors of their houses. And thenthere was a time on't. You might see 'em by moonlight, pitching in thetrees, and swimming down the stream with 'em, and laying 'em in the currentof the creek, like so many boys."
"Pshaw!" said I.
"Yes, sir! I seed one night a lot of beavers drawing one of the biggesttrees they had cut. It was more'n six inches through. They got it part overthe bank, when it stuck fast. Jest the top of the tree was in the water,and there were four or five on 'em sousing round in the water, pulling thisway and that, and as many more on the bank jerking at it, until byme-by itwent in kerswash; the beavers all took hold on't, then, and towed it to thedam."
"And so they really built a dam?"
"A dam three feet high, and forty or fifty long--all laid up with birchtrees, and mud and stones, so tight 'tain't gone yet. The beaver have gonelong ago, but the dam hain't."
"How did you catch 'em?" said I.
"When the fur is good, in the winter, we jest went round with ourice-chisels and knocked their houses to pieces, when away they would go fortheir _washes_, as we used to call 'em, where we fastened 'em in andcatch'd 'em."
"Washes? what are they?" inquired I.
"Holes the beavers dig in the bank, partly under water, where they can runin and breathe without being seen."
Venison was going on to tell me how many beaver skins he got, but the duckand fish were done, and had been divided up by Jim Buzzard, and handsomelylaid out on a piece of clean bark, ready to eat.
We ranged ourselves in a row, squat upon the ground like so many Turks,drew our hunting-knives, and went to work. I looked out upon the lake thatlay like a looking-glass, draped with gauze, at my feet. Day was dying overit like a strain of music. One slender bar of light lay trembling along itseastern shore. By and by it crept up the bank; from that to a mound behind,and from which it took a leap to a hill a mile distant, where it faded andfaded into twilight. The water-fowl were screaming among the flags, and Inoticed a belated hawk winging his way through the air on high, to his homein the forest. I could almost hear the winnowing of his wings in the silentsky. A chick-a-dee-dee came bobbing and winding down an oak near me, forthe purpose of coaxing a supper. The trees began to assume uncertainshapes--the arms of the oaks stretched out longer and longer. The new moongrew brighter and brighter in the west. There it hung, looking down intothe lake. The river sent up its hollow roar, the mists settled thicker andthicker, and solemn night at last came down over the wilderness.
After I had finished my watch of departing day, I looked around for mycompany. "Jim" had been stuffing himself for the last half hour, until hehad grown as stupid as an over-fed anaconda. His jaws were moving veryslowly over the bone of a duck--his eyes were drowsy--and every now andthen he heaved a long-drawn sigh--a kind of melancholy groan over hisinability to eat any more.
Venison said "we must build up our night fire to keep off the varmints,"and accordingly we reared a pile of brush of logs, set it a-going, made upour bed of withered leaves, ranged ourselves in a circle with our feetturned to the blaze, and were soon lost in sleep.
Morn broke over us lovely as ever. As the first gray streaks began to meltaway, Venison roused up to get a deer for breakfast. We went out on to arun-way, hid ourselves in the bushes, and soon a large buck, his antlersswung aloft, came snuffing and cracking along over the leaves, on his wayto the lake to take his morning drink. Pop! and over he went, and soon his"saddles" were taken out and carried into camp, our stack started, andbreakfast prepared.
Another day was loitered away among the fish--another day, beautiful as thelast, we floated over the lake, and threaded the stream that poured intoit. At night we found ourselves safely moored at Puddleford, our boatloaded with fish, and my soul filled with a thousand beautiful pictures ofnature, that hang there winter and summer, as bright and lovely as lifeitself.