We parted in silence, we parted in tears
On the banks of that lonely river,
But the odour and bloom of by-gone years
Shall hang o’er its waters for ever.”
But sleep, the “dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health” soon folded the singer and his listeners in her embrace, and with the rising sun we entered upon the labours of another day. While the fiddler prepared our breakfast, (out of the few trout which certain beastly robbers had not stolen during the night), the rifleman went out and killed a large hare, and I took a sketch of the cabin where we had lodged.
After breakfast we shouldered our knapsacks and started for the Hudson. We struck this noble river at the embryo city of Tahawas where we found a log house and an unfinished saw-mill. Here we also discovered a canoe which we boarded, and navigated the stream to Lake Sanford. This portion of the Hudson is not more than one hundred feet broad, but quite deep and picturesque. On leaving our canoe we made our way up a mountain road, and after walking about four miles, came out upon an elevated clearing of some two hundred acres, in the centre of which was a solitary log cabin with a retinue of out-houses,—and this was the famous Newcomb Farm.
The attractions of this spot are manifold, for it lies in the vicinity of Moose Lake and Lake Delia, and commands the finest distant prospect of the Adirondac Mountains, which has yet been discovered.
Moose Lake lies at the west of the Farm, and about six miles distant. It is embosomed among mountains, and the fountain head of the Cold River, which empties into the St. Lawrence. In form it is so nearly round, that its entire shore may be seen at one view; the bottom is covered with white sand, and the water is perfectly cold and clear. Considering its size, it is said to contain more trout than any lake in this wilderness; and it is also celebrated as a watering-place for deer and moose. In fishing from the shore, one of our party caught no less than forty pounds of trout in about two hours. There were two varieties, and they varied from one to three pounds in weight.
Our guide to this lake, where we encamped for one night, was Steuben Hewitt, the keeper of the Newcomb Farm, who is a hunter. This woodsman got the notion into his head, that he must have a venison steak for his banquet. We had already seen some half dozen deer walking along the opposite margin of the lake, but Steuben told us that he would wait until after dark to capture his game. He also told us that the deer were in the habit of visiting the wilder lakes of this region at night, for the purpose of escaping the tormenting flies; and as he spoke so confidently of what he intended to accomplish, we awaited his effort with a degree of anxiety.
Soon as the quiet night had fairly set in, he shipped himself on board a wooden canoe (a rickety affair, originally bequeathed to this lake by some departed Indian,) in the bow of which was a fire-jack or torch-holder. Separating this machine from himself, as he sat in the centre of the canoe, was a kind of screen made of bark, which was sufficiently elevated to allow him to fire his gun from underneath; and in this manner, with a loaded rifle by his side, did he paddle into the lake. After floating upon the water for one hour, in perfect silence, he finally heard a splashing near the shore, and immediately lighting his torch, he noiselessly proceeded in the direction of the sound, where he discovered a beautiful deer standing knee-deep in the water, and looking at him in stupified wonder. The poor creature could see nothing before it but the mysterious light, and while standing in the most interesting attitude imaginable, the hunter raised his rifle and shot it through the heart. In half an hour from that time the carcass of the deer was hanging from a dry limb near our camp fire, and I was lecturing the hard-hearted hunter on the cruelty of thus capturing the innocent creatures of the forest. To all my remarks, however, he replied, “They were given to us for food, and it matters not how we kill them.”