REMINISCENCE OF LAKE SUPERIOR BY THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE It was with a hearty laugh that Dr. W. bounded into my room one bright morning in the latter part of September, without waiting to knock or in any way announce his arrival. In almost the same breath he called out, “Why! you’re a pretty fellow to be housed here all day long, fussing over those feathers and wires ! Why are you not on the river trolling, or in the woods after partridges? Come, put up those tools and lets off for a day’s tramp. Peter has put up enough luncheon for two, so pick up your gun and come on.” The fact was, that for the past week I had spent a great portion of my time stuffing birds. I had collected some two dozen, peculiar to the Lake Superior region, and had packed them away preparatory to leaving on “the last boat of the season.” At the present time I had under consideration a Canada jay or “Whiskey Jack,”as they are sometimes called, and was manipulating it in the usual manner. I had just turned the skin of the bird to its natural position and was making a body of hemp as near the size of the original as possible, when the Doctor entered and accosted me with above salutation. Doctor W. was an Englishman, but, instead of possessing the rotund figure which “John Bull” is always supposed to have, he was tall and slim, with that restless activity of manner and overflow of fun and jollity which are the proverbial dignity of an Englishman. He was “a hale fellow, well met” and consequently a favorite with all. His bright face alone brought relief and happiness to a sick room, and as a companion in the woods, he was everything that could be desired. All these attractive qualities were really the secret of his success as a physician—setting aside the fact of there being no other within a radius of thirteen miles. It would indeed have been a brave man who could venture to “hang out his shingle” in competition with Doctor W. Although loath to leave my bird half finished, I knew the Doctor’s company would well repay me, so I carefully smoothed down the plumage and depositing the skin in my drawer, looked about for my gun. To most people, my room might not have been attractive, but to me, as a sportsman, it was perfection. The pegs around the room, not covered by wearing apparel, were decorated with fishing rods, creels, nets and all the paraphernalia of an angler, while in one corner, carefully packed in cotton, were skins of birds and jars of agates which I had collected during four month’s occupation of the premises. In one corner lay my game bag and a pair of deer’s antlers, while last but not least, stood my ever-faithful friend, my gun. To throw on my hunting coat, whose numerous pockets were made to contain everything from game to percussion caps, was the work of an instant, and shouldering my gun, I locked the door and followed the Doctor down stairs and out into the street. It was a lovely morning, bright, clear and frosty, with but little wind to stir the waves of old Superior, in -whose mirror-like surface was reflected the deep blue of the sky. With one long lingering look down the Lake to see that no steamer was in sight, (as their arrival always made a holiday at Ontonagon,) we turned our backs on the scene, and passing through the town, followed the old corduroy road into the woods. Occasionally we stopped to pick a few berries, the last of the season, to snatch a few ferns from the wayside or to cut from some old stump a pretty bit of moss. It would have been better for me if, for once, I had let the “pretty mosses” go, for a favorite hunting knife mounted in ivory and silver, a relic of “our late unpleasantness” may, for aught I know, be still sticking in that old stump or some friendly Indian may have slipped it into his belt ere this. If so, I can safely assure him that he has secured a first-rate piece of cutlery. Mile after mile we plodded up the road, our dogs working in the woods to the right and left, occasionally starting a partridge which fell by the Doctor’s unerring aim. Through the stillness of the woods came the sound of the great tree pecker or woodcock of the northern woods, his body of black and white feathers, almost as large as a partridge and a crest of Vermillion that would put a sunset to blush. Soon we came to the thickest part of the woods where the great trees encroached on the road, and tossed their long branches into dangerous proximity to the stages for the mines. Although the morning was calm, not so had been the night previous, and across our path lay numerous mementoes of the gale, around which we had to work our way. While passing through one of these thickets of fallen branches, our dogs came to a point. Cocking our guns, we made ready for whatever should be flushed. The next moment, whir-r r-r, that music so melodious to all sportsmen’s ears, and up sprang two partridges, the Doctor covering one and I the other. The smoke had hardly ...
