Camp and Trail

䋰Camp and Trail

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Camp and Trail, by Isabel Hornibrook This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Camp and Trail A Story of the Maine Woods
Author: Isabel Hornibrook
Release Date: November 4, 2004 [EBook #13946]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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[Illustration: THE MOOSE WAS NOW SNORTING LIKE A WAR-HORSE BENEATH.
(_See page 274_)]

CAMP AND TRAIL
A Story of the Maine Woods
BY
ISABEL HORNIBROOK
AUTHOR OF "TUKE," "IN THE SERVICE," "LOST IN MAINE WOODS," ETC.
BOSTON
LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY
1897
TYPOGRAPHY BY C.J. PETERS & SON, BOSTON.
PRESSWORK BY BERWICK & SMITH.

TO
J.L.H.

PREFACE.
In adding another to the list of stories bearing on that subject of perennial interest to boys, adventures in camp and on trail among the woods and lakes of Northern Maine, one thought has been the inspiration that led me on.
It is this: To prove to high-mettled lads, American, and English as well, that forest quarters, to be the most jovial quarters on earth, need not be made a shambles. Sensation may reach its finest pitch, excitement be an unfailing fillip, and fun the leaven which leavens the camping-trip from start to finish, even though the triumph of killing for triumph's sake be left out of the play-bill.
"There is a higher sport in preservation than in destruction," says a veteran hunter, whose forest experiences and descriptions have in part enriched this story. I commend the opinion to boy-readers, trusting that they may become "queer specimen sportsmen," after the pattern of Cyrus Garst; and find a more entrancing excitement in studying the live wild things of the forest than in gloating over a dying tremor, or examining a senseless mass of horn, hide, and hoofs, after the life-spring which worked the mechanism has been stilled forever.
One other desire has trodden on the heels of the first: That Young England and Young America may be inspired with a wish to understand each other better, to take each other frankly and simply for the manhood in each; and that thus misconception and prejudice may disappear like mists of an old-day dream.
ISABEL HORNIBROOK.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER
I. JACKING FOR DEER
II. A SPILL-OUT
III. LIFE IN A BARK HUT
IV. WHITHER BOUND?
V. A COON HUNT
VI. AFTER BLACK DUCKS
VII. A FOREST GUIDE-POST
VIII. ANOTHER CAMP
IX. A SUNDAY AMONG THE PINES
X. FORWARD ALL!
XI. BEAVER WORKS
XII. "GO IT, OLD BRUIN!"
XIII. "THE SKIN IS YOURS"
XIV. A LUCKY HUNTER
XV. A FALLEN KING
XVI. MOOSE-CALLING
XVII. HERB'S YARNS
XVIII. To LONELIER WILDS
XIX. TREED BY A MOOSE
XX. DOL'S TRIUMPH
XXI. ON KATAHDIN
XXII. THE OLD HOME-CAMP
XXIII. BROTHERS' WORK
XXIV. "KEFPING THINGS EVEN"
XXV. A LITTLE CARIBOU QUARREL
XXVI. DOC AGAIN
XXVII. CHRISTMAS ON THE OTHER SIDE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
THE MOOSE WAS NOW SNORTING LIKE A WAR-HORSE BENEATH.
"THERE IS MOOSEHEAD LAKE."
DOL SIGHTS A FRIENDLY CAMP.
IN THE SHADOW OF KATAHDIN.
"GO IT, OLD BRUIN! GO IT WHILE YOU CAN!"
"HERB HEAL."
A FALLEN KING.
THE CAMP ON MILLINOKETT LAKE.
"HERB CHARGED THROUGH THE CHOKING DUST-CLOUDS."
GREENVILLE,--"FAREWELL TO THE WOODS."

CAMP AND TRAIL.

CHAPTER I.
JACKING FOR DEER.
"Now, Neal Farrar, you've got to be as still as the night itself, remember. If you bounce, or turn, or draw a long breath, you won't have a rag of reputation as a deer-hunter to take back to England. Sneeze once, and we're done for. That means more diet of flapjacks and pork, instead of venison steaks. And I guess your city appetite won't rally to pork much longer, even in the wilds."
Neal Farrar sighed as if there was something in that.
"But, you know, it's just when an unlucky fellow would give his life not to sneeze that he's sure to bring out a thumping big one," he said plaintively.
"Well, keep it back like a hero if your head bursts in the attempt," was the reply with a muffled laugh. "When you know that the canoe is gliding along somehow, but you can't hear a sound or feel a motion, and you begin to wonder whether you're in the air or on water, flying or floating, imagine that you're the ghost of some old Indian hunter who used to jack for deer on Squaw Pond, and be stonily silent."
"Oh! I say, stop chaffing," whispered Neal impetuously. "You're enough to make a fellow feel creepy before ever he starts. I could bear the worst racket on earth better than a dead quiet."
This dialogue was exchanged in low but excited voices between a young man of about one and twenty, and a lad who was apparently five years his junior, while they waded knee-deep in water among the long, rank grasses and circular pads of water-lilies which border the banks of Squaw Pond, a small lake in the forest region of northern Maine.
The hour