Forest and Stream Bryan Muche

The events that happened in Kekoskee, Wisconsin are so extraordinary and improbable that I always hesitate about telling the story. The evidence is legal, convincing and overwhelming.  In total it makes up the grandest fish story in the history of a lifetime.
It is really a story about bullheads, and of course it is a beautiful story, for the bullhead is naturally a romantic fish. 
Every man in Mayville and Kekoskee knows this story, and without any hint or coaching will tell it to you exactly as his neighbor does.  Everyone in town knows the horse too.  You see, there was a horse in the story – which in time you will come to know. 
It all happened way back in 1860, when the Horicon Marsh was Horicon Lake.  Back then the Rock River ran into Horicon which was the  largest man-made lake in the United States. Today, the river runs into the marsh at the same place where it used to run into the lake. 
It’s the same river, and the people of Mayville will take you to the same place, and show you where the story happened. So you can’t possibly doubt the truth of the details of this story.
It was an awfully cold winter that year, and that has something to do with the story, too.   
-EMERSON HOUGH                    

If the sketch which follows, depicting a general outline of incidents which entered into the experience of a "Greenhorn," on his first deer hunt in the wilds of Michigan, shall have the effect of driving the work-encumbered denizens of the city into some reasonable consideration for his own wellbeing, by taking for himself such recreation as will yield him the greatest possible benefit, the object of it will have been accomplished. After a fellow has spent say thirty years of his life with his nose at the grindstone, it is not astonishing that it comes to strike him at last as being somewhat monotonous, and then when he comes to look at the results and sees little but cavernous eyes, sunken cheeks, attenuated frame, and a general slaughter of the vital energies, it is well that he began to think, "What is to be the end of all this anyhow? Does it pay? and, if not, what is the remedy?" When a man has reached this crisis, and asks himself seriously these questions, there is hope for him, and happy will it prove if he can profit by my experience, so he may enjoy himself to the full limit of his capacity; and his capacity will require no stinted draught, particularly if he has been a constant reader of Forest and Stream, for while yet in the toils his tastes and inclinations will have been so shaping and developing as to prepare him to receive the maximum amount of enjoyment and satisfaction the moment he breaks the monotony and enters upon the rejuvenating process.
In my case I went into early training. It commenced with the first issue of Forest and Stream, and it still continues. Thursday nights my watch is slow, and from the moment I take my seat before my wide open grate, with slippers and cigars until bed time, I let the world wag. I am drinking in new life, shaking hands with Thad. Norris, holding high carnival with Major Sarasota, and courting old Al. Fresco as I would my “Gum Drop”. Wife says we must make that “party call” tonight. "Not much," say I; "here's mettle more attractive!
 Well, I read my Forest and Stream through; then turn again to your new title page on the outside of the cover, study that grand old head, which is the Daniel Webster of all mooses, then to the camp, the rods, the guns.  0h! I wish I were there; but then— not any of this for me. Oh! no, the delicious reality is too far beyond my reach. It is all very nice to know that there is such a fountain of perpetual youth, and that the mysteries of the Forest and the Stream can be enjoyed by some, so that we can read about them and get the crumbs as it were from the rich man's table, or to borrow a smile, we can look at the blackened frames next morning after the fireworks are over, and so enjoy the fireworks second-hand like.
Now, it so happens, that in one of these reveries, the post carrier brings a letter posted "Wild Cat," Michigan. Of course that's from Elisha ('Lish for short), lumberman, merchant, notary, constable, sportsman and brother-in-law. Let's see what he has to say; some patent business probably, as usual. What! do I read aright? Why, the boy says: "Dear Greenhorn, if you want some sport, come here at once; lots of deer, plenty of bear, clouds of turkey, wild cats quantum sufficit, and as for partridges, quail, jack rabbits, and all such small insects, they overrun the country, begging for a front seat in a pot-pie. Come quick. Bring "Bird" (that's my wife) and stay eighteen months. Gentle reader: (Original but not copyrighted) were you ever struck by lightning? If so, you can probably imagine the thrill that shivered my timbers the moment the full force of this thing struck me. Here was the grand opportunity of a life time; but how can I? Oh! The tantalizing cuss! he knows it's impossible. Of course it is. But the vision haunts me; like Banquo's ghost, it will not down. I imagine I see the handwriting on the wall — he "who hesitates is lost." Well, I hesitate! I am lost! I resolve. I will go. There ! It is done. I wil

TROUT FISHING
Give me a rod of the split bamboo,
A rainy day and a fly or two,
A mountain stream where the eddies play,
And mists hang low o'er the winding way.
 
Give me a haunt by the purling brook,
A hidden spot in a mossy nook,
No sound save hum of the drowsy bee,
Or lone bird's tap on the hollow tree.
 
The world may roll with its busy throng
And phantom scenes, on its way along;
It's stocks may rise, or it's stocks may fall—
Ah! what care I for its baubles all?
 
I cast my fly o'er the troubled rill,
Luring the beauties by magic skill,
With mind at rest and a heart at ease,
And drink delight from the balmy breeze .
 
As lusty trout to my glad surprise,
Speckled and bright, on the crest arise,
Then plash and plunge in a dazzling whirl,
Hope springs anew as the wavelets curl.
 
Gracefully swinging from left to right,
Action so gentle, motion so slight,
Tempting, enticing, on craft intent,
Till yielding tip by the game is bent.
 
Drawing in slowly, then letting go
Under the ripples where mosses grow,
Doubting my fortune, lost in a dream,
Blessing the land of Forest and Stream.
By Mrs. Eunice B. Lamberton
Rochester, N.Y., Dec. 15, 1873

The Back Lakes of Canada
As was their custom, several young men of the town of Cobourg (a Canadian frontier town) met one evening in Frank Stalwart's rooms at the "North American." This was in the latter days of August, four years ago — yes, it must be four years ago, and yet how fresh in my memory, in spite of the many changes, some so gladly welcomed and others so ruthlessly bitter, which have since then transpired. On this particular evening the usual gossip was almost exhausted, when Ned Benton, a young, but not briefless, barrister, proposed we should settle upon the manner in which to take a couple of weeks' recreation.
Placing his pipe carefully against a book on the table, which I remember was Longfellow's Poems, my friend, Frank Stalwart, suggested a trip up the Back Lakes. Said he, "we can have a little deer hunting, a good deal of duck shooting, no end of fishing, and altogether a splendid outing." "Some prefer to 'ball it' at a watering place; what say you, Bob Bertram?" addressing myself, "and put down that novel and order in some claret and ice." "Well," I said, "I know not whether the claret will change my mind, but now I am for the Lakes. I have heard so much about their romantic scenery that I greatly desire to see them." So, it was settled that we should start on the following Monday, after having taken another evening to arrange the route and the requirements of our outfit.
Ned Benton and I, according to a previous understanding, met our companion, Frank Stalwart, at Peterborough, about thirty-five miles north of our starting point. This was done so that our friend could go by way of Rice Lake and bring over Thad. Fremont, an accomplished man in the way of dogs, canoes, and camp life on the lakes and in the woods. I may mention here that, besides his many other admirable qualifications, in all things culinary Thad. was a perfect success.
During the afternoon of the day of our arrival at Peterborough we proceeded to get together such things as are necessary for the hunter's outfit. Besides the tent, the sportsman, for two weeks of camping, must have buffalo skins and blankets, kettle, tin plates, cups, and such things, together with bacon and bread to last a few days. After that he should trust to his skill in killing to supply the board. Also, he requires a moderate quantity of tea. I believe some carry with them a small keg of whiskey; in fact, it is considered by many a necessary article on these occasions, as it is impossible to drink the lake water on account of the profuse vegetable growth of rice, lilies, and other plants and flowers, which are almost invariably present in these small lakes, and certainly add to their picturesque beauty. Having towards evening collected our necessaries, we began to look for Mr. Thad., who had, unnoticed, strayed from our path.
We had in prospect that night a drive of seven miles in a wagon to Bridgenorth, a village consisting of one small tavern and a boat-building shop. We wished to set out as early as possible, so as to obtain a good night's rest and be prepared for a long paddle the next day. Thaddeus, however, was not to be found, and after a diligent search we went without him, taking with us his rifle and cartridge box, and leaving word to have him taken out early in the morning in a buggy. It turned out that the young man could not refrain from visiting an acquaintance of the fair persuasion, and once in the charmer's fascinating presence he found, no doubt, it was impossible to resist the spell of her enchantments, and midnight had stolen in upon the happy lovers ere Thad. awoke to the slightest degree of consciousness.
Determined to start that evening, we loaded our wagon with two canoes, ammunition, and other supplies, and ourselves, three in number, besides the driver. The wagon that held all this was very moderate in size, with easy springs, but the canoes are carried in a peculiar way. Two poles are placed across the wagon above the box and near

NATURES INVITATION
On the fair face of Nature let us muse, and dream by lapsing stream and drooping wood;
Tread the dark forests whose primeval ranks, since the creation dawn have cast their shade;
Ponder by flowing stream and ocean tides, and note the varied forms of life they hold,
Mark the wild game so clear to hunter's heart, the swarming fowl that skim the salty deeps,
The birds that haunt the woodlands and the plains, The fish that swim the seas, the lakes, the streams,
And tempt the thoughtful angler to their marge;
Glance at the life that fills our native woods, and game of Asian plains, and Afric wilds.
When soft May breezes fan the early woods, and with her magic wand the blue-eye'd Spring
Quickens the swelling blossoms and the buds,
Then forth the russet partridge leads her brood, while on the fallen tree-trunk drums her mate ;
The quail her young in tangled thicket hides, the dun deer with their fawns the forests range,
The wild geese platoons hasten far in air, the wild ducks from their Southern lagoons pass,
And soaring high their Northward journeyings take, The dusky coot along the coast-line sweeps,
The piping snipe and plover that frequent,
The sandy bars and beaches, wing their flight, And all the grassy prairies of the West,
Team with the speckled younglings of the grouse, And all the budding forests and the streams
Are gay with beauty, joyous with young life.
Then swell the first bird melodies; the wren chirrups and perches on the garden rail,
The blue-bird twitters on the lilac hedge, or flits on azure wings from tree to tree;
The golden robin on the apple-bough, hovers, where last year's withered nest had been,
The darting swallows circle o'er the roof, the woodpeckers on trunk of gnarled trees
Tap their quick drum-beats with their horny beaks, the crow caws hoarsely from the blasted pine,
High in mid-air the sailing hawk is poised, while from the grove the purple pigeon-flocks,
Burst with loud flapping in the grain-sown fields.
Fair is the scene in Autumn, when the frosts from palettes rich, with prodigal, gorgeous brush
Color the nodding groves with brown and gold.
Then silvery-skied, and purple-hazed the dome of heaven's deep vault, and fair the earth below.
Far up, where sunny uplands scope their sides, shaggy with woods, prone to the brimming stream,
Where bowering beech trees shake their laden boughs, and oaks their varnished acorns high uplift,
Where the broad butter-nut its gummy fruit in russet husks slow-ripens day by day,
And where in crowded ranks the chestnut groves waves out their broad-leaved pennons to the air,
And from their prickly burs shake treasures down, there the quick clusterings of the squirrels sound.
The gentle valley with its belt of hills crowned to their tops with grand, primeval woods,
Glows with all forms and hues that nature loves.
Deep in its hollow stretch meadows brightly green, kept verdurous by the full o’erflowing stream ;
Yet the deep swamps and thickets that engird, the river-reaches, are resplendent all,
Their umbrage tinctur'd with imperial dyes.
The maples tall with blood-red foliage burn, the hickories clap their palms of burnish'd gold,
The poplar thrusts its yellow spire in air, the russet oaks and purpled dogwoods blend,
Their colors with the alder's sable green and scarlet sumacks; all contrasted rich
With sombre evergreens, and willows pale.
And when the winds autumnal, wailing strip the frosted foliage, like a host they stand,
With trailing banners and with drooping plumes.
Such be the scenes in wondrous forest-land
Such be the scenes by sea and lake and stream
That we would picture; wild romantic scenes,
Dear to the hunter's and the angler's soul.
-Isaac McLelllan

METAPHYSICS OF DEER HUNTING
When the financial panic was at its height last week, we visited a wealthy friend whose up-town mansion is palatial, his income from safe and judicious investments always ample and assured, and his bank account invariably showing a balance to his credit of many thousands. A gentleman who dabbles little in speculative risks; and whom cares of State and fluctuations of the market of late do not perplex ; one of those rare exceptions among men, content with sufficient and not ambitious for more. Surely, his was a case not, within the range of human probability, to be affected by any financial crash or monetary crisis.
And yet, so intricate and searching are the ramifications of disorder in times like these, when even the most provident and conservative find themselves suddenly cramped for means, that he was unable to command a dollar from ordinary or extraordinary resources. Said he: "I have a balance in bank of $20,000, but all the cash I can raise is a paltry two hundred dollars. It is just enough to take me to the Adirondacks. I am getting my guns and traps together, and tomorrow I start for Paul Smith's, to bury myself in the woods and seek oblivion until the storm is over!"
Happy the man who can thus drive dull care away at will, and turn aside the impending wave of trouble ! The bank to which he has confided his trusts may break in his absence and swallow all his surplus; the business, hitherto lucrative, in which he is a silent partner, may suspend and cut off his monthly income; dividend paying stocks may depreciate until they are quoted at half their value; bonds and mortgages may cease to be negotiable; still, like the ostrich with his head in the bush he may roam the forest in blissful ignorance of his misfortunes, and follow his quest for game with a blithesome heart and bounding step! Who would not be an ardent sportsman?
Such a man as this never allows business to interfere with his shooting. We wish the same were true of the herd of speculators who squeeze values, upset the market, and set the mercantile world at their wits end. Would that some good genius would inspire them to goof?  For "a day's shooting," and stay until the panic subsides! Ah! there is some soothing influence in this going apart to commune with nature in her solitudes, that makes us forget the struggles of life and our worldly troubles. It banishes all inordinate desires, simplifies our tastes, and makes us contented with mere food, raiment and shelter, which, after all, constitute the sole necessaries of life.
This free existence among the woods, with heaven's canopy over us, the crisp and fallen leaves beneath our feet, and the pure untainted air to breathe: it gives us elasticity of step and expands the lungs; it enlarges the generous impulses of man; it dignifies his own self-respect; it makes him noble!
In this quiet unconcerned existence, he finds himself moving in a new world populous with strange creatures, with whom in time he learns to hold familiar converse. The little denizens of the stumps and hollow logs become accustomed to his presence at last. When the first sound of his coming footfall was heard, they all hid away. The first warning twig that snapped admonished them to be wary and lie perdu. All was silent as the grave, except when a rustling leaf dropped down, or a walnut slipped from its opening shell aloft. But presently the head of a little gopher popped from under a dry leaf, then his body crept stealthily out, and in a minute with a sharp squeak to show the coast was clear, he rustled away. Then a woodpecker peered cautiously from behind the trunk of a tree, and commenced to hammer, and from a neighboring limb a red squirrel sprung his sharp, shrill rattle. A garter snake glided noiselessly from under a stump and slid into a bog hole, from which an autumn frog already intoned his solemn staccato bass.
As we have said, one learns to comprehend the language of these little creatures, a