When I went to the Adirondacs, which was in the summer of 1863, I was in the first flush of my ornithological studies, and was curious, above all else, to know what birds I should find in these solitudes—what new ones, and what ones already known to me.

In visiting vast, primitive, far-off woods one naturally expects to find something rare and precious, or something entirely new, but it commonly happens that one is disappointed. Thoreau made three excursions into the Maine woods, and though he started the moose and caribou, had nothing more novel to report by way of bird notes, than the songs of the wood-thrush and the pewee. This was about my own experience in the Adirondacs. The birds for the most part prefer the vicinity of settlements and clearings, and it was at such places that I saw the greatest number and variety.

At the clearing of an old hunter and pioneer by the name of Hewett, where we paused a couple of days on first entering the woods, I saw many old friends and made some new acquaintances. The snow-bird was very abundant here, as it had been at various points along the route, after leaving Lake George. As I went out to the spring in the morning to wash myself a purple finch flew up before me, having already performed its ablutions. I had first observed this bird the winter before in the Highlands of the Hudson, where, during several clear but cold February mornings, a troop of them sang most charmingly in a tree in front of my house. The meeting with the bird here in its breeding haunts was a pleasant surprise. During the day I observed several pine finches—a dark-brown or brindlish bird, allied to the common yellow-bird, which it much resembles in its manner and habits. They lingered familiarly about the house, sometimes alighting in a small tree within a few feet of it. In one of the stumpy fields I saw an old favorite in the grass-finch or vesper-sparrow. It was sitting on a tall charred stub with food in its beak. But all along the borders of the woods and in the bushy parts of the fields there was a new song that I was puzzled in tracing to the author. It was most noticeable in the morning and at twilight, but was at all times singularly secret and elusive. I at last discovered that it was the white-throated sparrow, a common bird all through this region. Its song is very delicate and plaintive—a thin, wavering, tremulous whistle, which disappoints one, however, as it ends when it seems only to have begun. If the bird could give us the finishing strain of which this seems only the prelude, it would stand first among feathered songsters.

By a little trout brook in a low part of the woods adjoining the clearing, I had a good time pursuing and identifying a number of warblers—the speckled Canada, the black-throated blue, the yellow-rumped, and Audubon’s warbler. The latter, which was leading its troop of young through a thick undergrowth on the banks of the creek where insects were plenty, was new to me.

It being August, the birds were all moulting and sang only fitfully and by brief snatches. I remember hearing but one robin during the whole trip. This was by the Boreas River in the deep forest. It was like the voice of an old friend speaking my name.

From Hewett’s, after engaging his youngest son,—the “Bub” of the family,—a young man about twenty and a thorough woodsman, as guide, we took to the woods in good earnest, our destination being the Stillwater of the Boreas—a long deep dark reach in one of the remote branches of the Hudson, about six miles distant. Here we paused a couple of days, putting up in a dilapidated lumberman’s shanty, and cooking our fish over an old stove which had been left there. The most noteworthy incident of our stay at this point was the taking by myself of half a dozen splendid trout out of the Stillwater, after the guide had exhausted his art and his patience with very insignificant results. The place had a very trouty look, but as the season was late and the river warm, I know the fish lay in deep water from which they could not be attracted. In deep water accordingly, and near the head of the hole, I determined to look for them. Securing a chub I cut it into pieces about an inch long and with these for bait sank my hook into the head of the Stillwater and just to one side of the main current. In less than twenty minutes I had landed six noble fellows, three of them over one foot long each. The guide and my incredulous companions, who were watching me from the opposite shore, seeing my luck, whipped out their tackle in great haste and began casting first at a respectable distance from me, then all about me, but without a single catch. My own efforts suddenly became fruitless also, but I had conquered the guide and thenceforth he treated me with the tone and freedom of a comrade and equal.

One afternoon we visited a cave some two miles down the stream which had recently been discovered. We squeezed and wriggled through a big crack or cleft in the side of the mountain, for about one hundred feet, when we emerged into a large dome-shaped passage, the abode, during certain seasons of the year, of innumerable bats, and at all times of primeval darkness. There were various other crannies and pit-holes opening into it, some of which we explored. The voice of running water was everywhere heard, betraying the proximity of the little stream by whose ceaseless corroding the cave and its entrance had been worn. This streamlet flowed out of the mouth of the cave and came from a lake on the top of the mountain; this accounted for its warmth to the hand which surprised us all.

Birds of any kind were rare in these woods. A pigeon-hawk came prowling by our camp, and the faint piping call of the nut-hatches, leading their young through the high trees was often heard.

On the third day our guide proposed to conduct us to a lake in the mountains where we could float for deer.

Our journey commenced in a steep and rugged ascent, which brought us after an hour’s heavy climbing, to an elevated region of pine forest, years before ravished by lumbermen, and presenting all manner of obstacles to our awkward and encumbered pedestrianism. The woods were largely pine, though yellow birch, beech, and maple were common. The satisfaction of having a gun, should any game show itself, was the chief compensation to those of us who were thus burdened. A partridge would occasionally whir up before us, or a red squirrel snicker and hasten to his den; else the woods appeared quite tenantless. The most noted object was a mammoth pine, apparently the last of a great race, which presided over a cluster of yellow birches, on the side of the mountain.

About noon we came out upon a long shallow sheet of water which the guide called Bloody-Moose Pond, from the tradition that a moose had been slaughtered there many years before. Looking out over the silent and lonely scene, his eye was the first to detect an object apparently feeding upon lily-pads, which our willing fancies readily shaped into a deer. As we were eagerly waiting some movement to confirm this impression, it lifted up its head, and lo! a great blue heron. Seeing us approach, it spread its long wings and flew solemnly across to a dead tree on the other side of the lake, enhancing, rather than relieving the loneliness and desolation that brooded over the scene. As we proceeded it flew from tree to tree in advance of us, apparently loath to be disturbed in its ancient and solitary domain. In the margin of the pond we found the pitcher-plant growing, and here and there in the sand the closed gentian lifted up its blue head.

In traversing the shores of this wild, desolate lake, I was conscious of a slight thrill of expectation, as if some secret of Nature might here be revealed, or some rare and unheard-of game disturbed. There is ever a lurking suspicion that the beginning of things is in some way associated with water, and one may notice that in his private walks he is led by a curious attraction to fetch all the springs and ponds in his route, as if by them was the place for wonders and miracles to happen. Once, while in advance of my companions, I saw, from a high rock, a commotion in the water near the shore, but on reaching the point found only the marks of a musquash.

Pressing on through the forest, after many adventures with the pine-knots, we reached, about the middle of the afternoon, our destination, Nate’s Pond,—a pretty sheet of water, lying like a silver mirror in the lap of the mountain, about a mile long and half a mile wide, surrounded by dark forests of balsam, hemlock, and pine, and, like the one we had just passed, a very picture of unbroken solitude.

It is not in the woods alone to give one this impression of utter loneliness. In the woods are sounds and voices, and a dumb kind of companionship; one is little more than a walking tree himself; but come upon one of these mountain-lakes, and the wildness stands relieved and meets you face to face. Water is thus facile and adaptive, that it makes the wild more wild, while it enhances more culture and art.

The end of the pond which we approached was quite shoal, the stones rising above the surface as in a summer-brook, and everywhere showing marks of the noble game we were in quest of—foot-prints, dung, and cropped and uprooted lily-pads. After resting for a half-hour, and replenishing our game-pouches at the expense of the most respectable frogs of the locality, we filed on through the soft, resinous pine-woods, intending to camp near the other end of the lake, where, the guide assured us, we should find a hunter’s cabin ready built. A half-hour’s march brought us to the locality, and a most delightful one it was,—so hospitable and inviting that all the kindly and beneficent influences of the woods must have abided there. In a slight depression in the woods, about one hundred yards from the lake, though hidden from it for a hunter’s reasons, surrounded by a heavy growth of birch, hemlock, and pine, with a lining of balsam and fir, the rude cabin welcomed us. It was of the approved style, three sides inclosed, with a roof of bark and a bed of boughs, and a rock in front that afforded a permanent back-log to all fires. A faint voice of running water was heard near by, and, following the sound, a delicious spring-rivulet was disclosed, hidden by the moss and dÉbris as by a new fall of snow, but here and there rising in little well-like openings, as if for our special convenience. On smooth places on the logs I noticed female names inscribed in a female hand; and the guide told us of an English lady, an artist, who had traversed this region with a single guide, making sketches.

Our packs unslung and the kettle over, our first move was to ascertain in what state of preservation a certain dug-out might be, which, the guide averred, he had left moored in the vicinity the summer before,—for upon this hypothetical dug-out our hopes of venison rested. After a little searching it was found under the top of a fallen hemlock, but in a sorry condition. A large piece had been split out of one end, and a fearful chink was visible nearly to the water-line. Freed from the tree top, however, and calked with a little moss, it floated with two aboard, which was quite enough for our purpose. A jack and an oar were necessary to complete the arrangement, and before the sun had set our professor of wood-craft had both in readiness. From a young yellow birch, an oar took shape with marvelous rapidity—trimmed and smoothed with a neatness almost fastidious,—no make-shift, but an instrument fitted for the delicate work it was to perform.

A jack was made with equal skill and speed. A stout staff about three feet long was placed upright in the bow of the boat, and held to its place by a horizontal bar, through a hole in which it turned easily: a half wheel eight or ten inches in diameter, cut from a large chip, was placed at the top, around which was bent a new section of birch bark, thus forming a rude semicircular reflector. Three candles placed within the circle completed the jack. With moss and boughs seats were arranged—one in the bow for the marksman, and one in the stern for the oarsman. A meal of frogs and squirrels was a good preparation, and when darkness came, all were keenly alive to the opportunity it brought. Though by no means an expert in the use of the gun,—adding the superlative degree of enthusiasm to only the positive degree of skill,—yet it seemed tacitly agreed that I should act as marksman, and kill the deer, if such was to be our luck.

After it was thoroughly dark we went down to make a short trial-trip. Everything working to satisfaction, about ten o’clock we pushed out in earnest. For the twentieth time I felt in the pocket that contained the matches, ran over the part I was to perform, and pressed my gun firmly, to be sure there was no mistake. My position was that of kneeling directly under the jack, which I was to light at the word. The night was clear, moonless, and still. Nearing the middle of the lake, a breeze from the west was barely perceptible, and noiselessly we glided before it. The guide handled his oar with great dexterity; without lifting it from the water or breaking the surface, he imparted the steady, uniform motion desired. How silent it was! The ear seemed the only sense, and to hold dominion over lake and forest. Occasionally a lily-pad would brush along the bottom, and stooping low I could hear a faint murmuring of the water under the bow: else all was still. Then, almost as by magic, we were encompassed by a huge black ring. The surface of the lake, when we had reached the centre, was slightly luminous from the starlight, and the dark, even forest-line that surrounded us, doubled by reflection in the water, presenting a broad, unbroken belt of utter blackness. The effect was quite startling, like some huge conjuror’s trick. It seemed as if we had crossed the boundary-line between the real and the imaginary, and this was indeed the land of shadows and of spectres. What magic oar was that the guide wielded that it could transport me to such a realm! Indeed, had I not committed some fatal mistake and left that trusty servant behind, and had not some wizard of the night stepped into his place? A slight splashing in-shore broke the spell and caused me to turn nervously to the oarsman: “Musquash,” said he, and kept straight on.

Nearing the extreme end of the pond, the boat gently headed around, and silently we glided back into the clasp of that strange orbit. Slight sounds were heard as before, but nothing that indicated the presence of the game we were waiting for; and we reached the point of departure as innocent of venison as we had set out.

After an hour’s delay, and near midnight, we pushed out again. My vigilance and susceptibility were rather sharpened than dulled by the waiting; and the features of the night had also deepened and intensified. Night was at its meridian. The sky had that soft luminousness which may often be observed near midnight at this season, and the “large few stars” beamed mildly down. We floated out into that spectral shadow-land and moved slowly on as before. The silence was most impressive. Now and then the faint yeap of some traveling bird would come from the air overhead, or the wings of a bat whisp quickly by, or an owl hoot off in the mountains, giving to the silence and loneliness a tongue. At short intervals some noise in-shore would startle me, and cause me to turn inquiringly to the silent figure in the stern.

The end of the lake was reached, and we turned back. The novelty and the excitement began to flag; tired nature began to assert her claims; the movement was soothing, and the gunner slumbered fitfully at his post. Presently something aroused me. “There’s a deer,” whispered the guide. The gun heard, and fairly jumped in my hand. Listening, there came the cracking of a limb, followed by a sound as of something walking in shallow water. It proceeded from the other end of the lake, over against our camp. On we sped, noiselessly as ever, but with increased velocity. Presently, with a thrill of new intensity, I saw the boat was gradually heading in that direction. Now, to a sportsman who gets excited over a gray squirrel, and forgets that he has a gun on the sudden appearance of a fox, this was a severe trial. I felt suddenly cramped for room, and trimming the boat was out of the question. It seemed that I must make some noise in spite of myself. “Light the jack,” said a soft whisper behind me. I fumbled nervously for a match, and dropped the first one. Another was drawn briskly across my knee, and broke. A third lighted, but went out prematurely, in my haste to get it up to the jack. What would I not have given to see those wicks blaze! We were fast nearing the shore,—already the lily-pads began to brush along the bottom. Another attempt, and the light took. The gentle motion fanned the blaze, and in a moment a broad glare of light fell upon the water in front of us, while the boat remained in utter darkness.

By this time I had got beyond the nervous point, and had come round to perfect coolness and composure again, but preternaturally vigilant and keen. I was ready for any disclosures; not a sound was heard. In a few moments the trees along-shore were faintly visible. Every object put on the shape of a gigantic deer. A large rock looked just ready to bound away. The dry limbs of a prostrate tree were surely his antlers.

But what are those two luminous spots? Need the reader to be told what they were? In a moment the head of a real deer became outlined; then his neck and foreshoulders; then his whole body. There he stood, up to his knees in the water, gazing fixedly at us, apparently arrested in the movement of putting his head down for a lily-pad, and evidently thinking it was some new-fangled moon sporting about there. “Let him have it,” said my prompter,—and the crash came. There was a scuffle in the water, and a plunge in the woods. “He’s gone,” said I. “Wait a moment,” said the guide, “and I will show you.” Rapidly running the canoe ashore, we sprang out, and holding the jack aloft, explored the vicinity by its light. There, over the logs and brush, I caught the glimmer of those luminous spots again. But, poor thing! There was little need of the second shot, which was the unkindest cut of all, for the deer had already fallen to the ground, and was fast expiring. The success was but a very indifferent one, after all, as the victim turned out to be only an old doe, upon whom maternal cares had evidently worn heavily during the summer.

This mode of taking deer is very novel and strange. The animal is evidently fascinated or bewildered. It does not appear to be frightened, but as if overwhelmed with amazement, or under the influence of some spell. It is not sufficiently master of the situation to be sensible to fear, or to think of escape by flight; and the experiment, to be successful, must be done quickly, before the first feeling of bewilderment passes.

Witnessing the spectacle from the shore, I can conceive of nothing more sudden or astounding. You see no movement and hear no noise, but the light grows upon you, and stares and stares like a huge eye from the infernal regions.

According to the guide, when a deer has been played upon in this manner and escaped, he is not to be fooled a second time. Mounting the shore, he gives a long signal snort, which alarms every animal within hearing, and dashes away.

The sequel to the deer-shooting was a little sharp practice with a revolver upon a rabbit, or properly a hare, which was so taken with the spectacle of the camp-fire, and the sleeping figures lying about, that it ventured quite up in our midst; but while testing the quality of some condensed milk that sat uncovered at the foot of a large tree, poor Lepus had his spine injured by a bullet.

Those who lodge with Nature find early rising quite in order. It is our voluptuous beds, and isolation from the earth and the air, that prevents us from emulating the birds and beasts in this respect. With the citizen in his chamber, it is not morning, but breakfast-time. The camper-out, however, feels morning in the air, he smells it, sees it, hears it, and springs up with the general awakening. None were tardy at the row of white chips arranged on the trunk of a prostrate tree, when breakfast was halloed; for we were all anxious to try the venison. Few of us, however, took a second piece. It was black and strong.

The day was warm and calm, and we loafed at leisure. The woods were Nature’s own. It was a luxury to ramble through them,—rank, and shaggy, and venerable, but with an aspect singularly ripe and mellow. No fire had consumed and no lumberman plundered. Every trunk and limb and leaf lay where it had fallen. At every step the foot sank into the moss, which, like a soft green snow, covered everything, making every stone a cushion and every rock a bed,—a grand old Norse parlor; adorned beyond art and upholstered beyond skill.

Indulging in a brief nap on a rug of club-moss carelessly dropped at the foot of a pine-tree, I woke up to find myself the subject of a discussion of a troop of chickadees. Presently three or four shy wood-warblers came to look upon this strange creature that had wandered into their haunts; else I passed quite unnoticed.

By the lake, I met that orchard-beauty, the cedar wax-wing, spending his vacation in the assumed character of a fly-catcher, whose part he performed with great accuracy and deliberation. Only a month before I had seen him regaling himself upon cherries in the garden and orchard, but as the dog-days approached, he set out for the streams and lakes, to divert himself with the more exciting pursuits of the chase. From the tops of the dead trees along the border of the lake, he would sally out in all directions, sweeping through long curves, alternately mounting and descending, now reaching up for a fly high in air, now sinking low for one near the surface, and returning to his perch in a few moments for a fresh start.

The pine finch was also here, though, as usual, never appearing at home, but with a waiting, expectant air. Here also I met my beautiful singer, the hermit-thrush, but with no song in his throat now. A week or two later and he was on his journey southward. This was the only species of thrush I saw in the Adirondac. Near Lake Sandford, where were large tracts of raspberry and wild cherry, I saw numbers of them. A boy whom we met, driving home some stray cows, said it was the “partridge-bird,” no doubt from the resemblance of its note, when disturbed, to the cluck of the partridge.

Nate’s Pond contained perch and sun-fish but no trout. Its water was not pure enough for trout. Was there ever any other fish so fastidious as this, requiring such sweet harmony and perfection of the elements for its production and sustenance? On higher ground about a mile distant was a trout pond, the shores of which were steep and rocky.

Our next move was a tramp of about twelve miles through the wilderness, most of the way in a drenching rain, to a place called the Lower Iron Works, situated on the road leading in to Long Lake, which is about a day’s drive farther on. We found a comfortable hotel here, and were glad enough to avail ourselves of the shelter and warmth which it offered. There was a little settlement and some quite good farms. The place commands a fine view to the north of Indian Pass, Mount Marcy, and the adjacent mountains. On the afternoon of our arrival and also the next morning the view was completely shut off by the fog. But about the middle of the forenoon the wind changed, the fog lifted and revealed to us the grandest mountain scenery we had beheld on our journey. There they sat about fifteen miles distant, a group of them; Mount Marcy, Mount McIntyre, and Mount Golden, the real Adirondac monarchs. It was an impressive sight, rendered doubly so by the sudden manner in which it was revealed to us by that scene shifter the Wind.

I saw blackbirds at this place, and sparrows, and the solitary sandpiper, and the Canada woodpecker, and a large number of humming-birds. Indeed I saw more of the latter here than I ever before saw in any one locality. Their squeaking and whirring were almost incessant.

The Adirondac Iron Works belong to the past. Over thirty years ago a company in Jersey City purchased some sixty thousand acres of land lying along the Adirondac River and abounding in magnetic iron ore. The land was cleared, roads, dams, and forges constructed, and the work of manufacturing iron begun.

At this point a dam was built across the Hudson, the waters of which flowed back into Lake Sandford, about five miles above. The lake itself being some six miles long, tolerable navigation was thus established for a distance of eleven miles, to the Upper Works, which seem to have been the only works in operation. At the Lower Works, besides the remains of the dam, the only vestige I saw was a long low mound, overgrown with grass and weeds, that suggested a rude earth-work. We were told that it was once a pile of wood containing hundreds of cords, cut in regular lengths and corded up here for use in the furnaces.

At the Upper Works, some twelve miles distant, quite a village had been built, which was now entirely abandoned, with the exception of a single family.

A march to this place was our next undertaking. The road for two or three miles kept up from the river and led us by three or four rough, stumpy farms. It then approached the lake and kept along its shores. It was here a dilapidated corduroy structure that compelled the traveler to keep an eye on his feet. Blue jays, two or three small hawks, a solitary wild pigeon, and ruffed grouse were seen along the route. Now and then the lake gleamed through the trees, or we crossed on a shaky bridge some of its arms or inlets. After a while we began to pass dilapidated houses by the roadside. One little frame house I remember particularly; the door was off the hinges and leaned against the jambs, the windows had but a few panes left which glared vacantly. The yard and little garden spot were overrun with a heavy growth of timothy, and the fences had all long since gone to decay. At the head of the lake a large stone building projected from the steep bank and extended over the road. A little beyond the valley opened to the east, and looking ahead about one mile we saw smoke going up from a single chimney. Pressing on, just as the sun was setting we entered the deserted village. The barking of the dog brought the whole family into the street, and they stood till we came up. Strangers in that country were a novelty, and we were greeted like familiar acquaintances.

Hunter, the head, proved to be a first-rate type of an Americanized Irishman. His wife was a Scotch woman. They had a family of five or six children, two of them grown-up daughters—modest, comely young women as you would find anywhere. The elder of the two had spent a winter in New York with her aunt, which perhaps made her a little more self-conscious when in the presence of the strange young men. Hunter was hired by the company at a dollar a day to live here and see that things were not wantonly destroyed but allowed to go to decay properly and decently. He had a substantial roomy frame house and any amount of grass and woodland. He had good barns and kept considerable stock, and raised various farm products, but only for his own use, as the difficulties of transportation to market some seventy miles distant made it no object. He usually went to Ticonderoga on Lake Champlain once a year for his groceries, etc. His post-office was twelve miles below at the Lower Works, where the mail passed twice a week. There was not a doctor, or lawyer, or preacher within twenty-five miles. In winter, months elapse without their seeing anybody from the outside world. In summer, parties occasionally pass through here on their way to Indian Pass and Mount Marcy. Hundreds of tons of good timothy hay annually rot down upon the cleared land.

After nightfall we went out and walked up and down the grass-grown streets. It was a curious and melancholy spectacle. The remoteness and surrounding wildness rendered the scene doubly impressive. And the next day and the next the place was an object of wonder. There were about thirty buildings in all, most of them small frame houses with a door and two windows opening into a small yard in front and a garden in the rear, such as are usually occupied by the laborers in a country manufacturing district. There was one large two-story boarding-house, a school-house with a cupola and a bell in it, and numerous sheds and forges, and a saw-mill. In front of the saw-mill, and ready to be rolled to their place on the carriage, lay a large pile of pine logs, so decayed that one could run his walking-stick through them. Near by, a building filled with charcoal was bursting open and the coal going to waste on the ground. The smelting works were also much crumbled by time. The school-house was still used. Every day one of the daughters assembles her smaller brothers and sisters there and school keeps. The district library contained nearly one hundred readable books, which were well thumbed.

The absence of society, etc., had made the family all good readers. We brought them an illustrated newspaper which was awaiting them in the post-office at the Lower Works. It was read and reread with great eagerness by every member of the household.

The iron ore cropped out on every hand. There was apparently mountains of it; one could see it in the stones along the road. But the difficulties met with in separating the iron from its alloys, together with the expense of transportation and the failure of certain railroad schemes, caused the works to be abandoned. No doubt the time is not distant when these obstacles will be overcome and this region reopened.

At present it is an admirable place to go to. There is fishing and hunting and boating and mountain climbing within easy reach, and a good roof over your head at night, which is no small matter. One is often disqualified for enjoying the woods after he gets there by the loss of sleep and of proper food taken at seasonable times. This point attended to, and one is in the humor for any enterprise.

About half a mile northeast of the village is Lake Henderson, a very irregular and picturesque sheet of water, surrounded by dark evergreen forests, and abutted by two or three bold promontories with mottled white and gray rocks. Its greatest extent in any one direction is perhaps less than a mile. Its waters are perfectly clear and abound in lake trout. A considerable stream flows into it which comes down from Indian Pass.

A mile south of the village is Lake Sandford. This is a more open and exposed sheet of water and much larger. From some parts of it Mount Marcy and the gorge of the Indian Pass are seen to excellent advantage. The Indian Pass shows as a huge cleft in the mountain, the gray walls rising on one side perpendicularly for many hundred feet. This lake abounds in white and yellow perch and in pickerel; of the latter single specimens are often caught which weigh fifteen pounds. There were a few wild ducks on both lakes. A brood of the goosander or red merganser, the young not yet able to fly, were the occasion of some spirited rowing. But with two pairs of oars in a trim light skiff, it was impossible to come up with them. Yet we could not resist the temptation to give them a chase every day when we first came on the lake. It needed a good long pull to sober us down so we could fish.

The land on the east side of the lake had been burnt over, and was now mostly grown up with wild cherry and red raspberry-bushes. Ruffed grouse were found here in great numbers. The Canada grouse was also common. I shot eight of the latter in less than an hour on one occasion; the eighth one, which was an old male, was killed with smooth pebble stones, my shot having run short. The wounded bird ran under a pile of brush, like a frightened hen. Thrusting a forked stick down through the interstices I soon stopped his breathing. Wild pigeons were quite numerous also. These latter recall a singular freak of the sharp shinned hawk. A flock of pigeons alighted on the top of a dead hemlock standing in the edge of a swamp. I got over the fence and moved toward them across an open space. I had not taken many steps, when on looking up I saw the whole flock again in motion flying very rapidly around the butt of a hill. Just then this hawk alighted on the same tree. I stepped back into the road and paused a moment in doubt which course to go. At that instant the little hawk launched into the air and came as straight as an arrow toward me. I looked in amazement, but in less than half a minute he was within fifty feet of my face, coming full tilt as if he had sighted my nose. Almost in self-defense I let fly one barrel of my gun, and the mangled form of the audacious marauder fell literally between my feet.

Of wild animals, such as bears, panthers, wolves, wild cats, etc., we neither saw nor heard any in the Adirondacs. “A howling wilderness,” Thoreau says, “seldom ever howls. The howling is chiefly done by the imagination of the traveler.” Hunter said he often saw bear tracks in the snow, but had never yet met Bruin. Deer are more or less abundant everywhere, and one old sportsman declares there is yet a single moose in these mountains. On our return, a pioneer settler, at whose house we stayed over-night, told us a long adventure he had had with a panther. He related how it screamed, how it followed him in the brush, how he took to his boat, how its eyes gleamed from the shore, and how he fired his rifle at them with fatal effect. His wife in the mean time took something from a drawer, and as her husband finished his recital, she produced a toe-nail of the identical animal with marked dramatic effect.

But better than fish or game or grand scenery or any adventure by night or day, is the wordless intercourse with rude Nature one has on these expeditions. It is something to press the pulse of our old mother by mountain lakes and streams, and know what health and vigor are in her veins, and how regardless of observation she deports herself.