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to the Blues and so the engagement became general. At one o'clock the Red Army had been obliged to call back the Ioth Cavalry from its dash to Boston and was in such a position that they could not have possibly moved on without four or five days more of the hardest kind of fighting. Their men were bunched in Hanover, while Battery A, from a position a mile away, was sending three-inch projectiles into the town at a rate that meant annihilation. To all who were witnesses there was no question but that the battle of Hanover was a decisive victory for the Blues. At one o'clock the war was over, as Friday and Saturday were required to get the troops home. No decision was made and probably none will ever be reached. Unofficially many of the Umpires expressed themselves as believing the Blue Army won. General Bliss did not reach Boston in the time speci
fied and at the end it was a question if he ever could have.
General Wood expressed himself as greatly pleased at the showing of all concerned, and stated that he considered the manoeuvres of more value than any that had ever taken place in this country.
The manoeuvres showed the coast well protected and made doubly plain the fact that Massachusetts needs more Cavalry. While they were of immense value to the officers they were equally instructive to the men and gave them more knowledge of army life than they could have learned at State camps in years.
On Friday the Red Army embarked, with the District of Columbia troops going on to Boston for a short visit, while the other outfits returned direct. Saturday the Blue Army disbanded and the War of the Invasion of Boston was at an end.
*Read at the First Parish Church, Beverly, July 4th, in honor of President Taft's presence, and omitted from the account of “Old Beverly,” in the August issue of the New England Magazine.
A HUNTER'S EL DORADO IN BLACK AND WHITE
By CHARLES EVERETT BEANE
With Illustrations by Roland C. Butler
HERE'S Carville hiking along the trail and—Great Smoke| pipe off the pack on his back! Looks like it weighed a ton 1 Makes your load t a l k like feather language from an air ship, Jack. All the way I'd fit with that burden would be to furnish the grunts. Ship ahoy! How's she heading?” “Straight up in the air and over the mountain to Spring Lake,” came the laughing reply, as the husky chap addressed turned around a big boulder, swung his freight—an entire hind quarter of beef-to earth and vigorously mopped his brow with an ample bandanna. “Sandow has nothing on you, John. Sure you haven't horns, hoofs and tail, as well as all the meat in that bundle? Clyde is restless as a wiggle worm in a rain barrel under a forty-pound pack and looks ready to pass away when he even thinks of yours. What do you know about that after a week's feed, such as you have given him?” “Took several years of it to put me right, Jack, so there's hope for him. Better turn back and get another seven-day bracer. What's the rush? Don't think you know where more entrancing scenic gems abound, do you? I haven't grown accustomed to seeing you about my camps yet. You'll feel kind of homey if you stay longer.” “Wouldn't be ready to leave if we hung on all summer, but, delightful as this country is, its not the whole Dead River region and we must hike along or build winter quarters before we're
half around. Our cameras have rubbered your attractions in part, we have eaten your salmon within twenty minutes of their capture on the fly, your deer have paraded for our benefit in the clearing across the lake and, with full appreciation of your splendid hospitality, we are off before we make you twice glad.” “If you're game for a gamble, I'll put my camps against your time to prove I'll continue once glad and no more. Glad you came and even better pleased that you remained, but if you must move, perhaps you should say good-bye to an old friend of yours,” and the genial fellow pointed along the mountain path. Stalking majestically toward them came a noble buck, head held high, as though challenging denial of his claim to premier rights in that particular part of the woods. Steadily advancing with all the confidence born of freedom from molestation in close time, the beautiful animal disdained to step aside until within twenty paces, when he stopped, gazed full upon the trio, sensitively sniffed the air, stamped his hoof, and departed slowly, glancing over his shoulder as he caught the double click of loaded cameras. “Can you beat it? Not content with rearing their imposing summits that the soft-breathed farewells of summer breezes may send emerald billows of evergreen rolling down their sides to the shores of one of the fairest of her innumerable lakes to be kissed across sparkling lips to you, Maine mountains bid their tenantry speed lovers of her outing delights, by the tender of such exquisite courtesies as that we have just enjoyed. Fairyland could do no more in the way of manifestation of affectionate regard, nor could it provide fairer messengers. I have no doubt scores of eyes, innocent of guile, are upon us from leafy coverts to witness this faithful performance of natu re's com mands. Au revoir, my beauty, thanks for your in te rest and may you live long and prosper.” With this pretty conceit, Jack turned, wrung the hand of the exschool teacher and, with many a back w a r d glance at the sturdy figure waving adieus from the hill, he and his pal hit the trail for Flagstaff. It was early June of the present year and, in more senses than one, a rare day. A protracted cold period had loosed its hold upon the north woods at the imperative ultimatum of a summer sun and promise was abroad in the land that the long-delayed sport of the season was hurrying toward realization. Waters heretofore high and icy now warmed and pregnant with dashing speckled treasures, lifted their voices in invitation to fishermen's delights and, at last, nature's guests seemed to be coming into their own. Evenings must still be marked by gatherings about yawning, open fireplaces where dancing flames fashioned themselves into weird fantastic shapes as they roared up the chimney, but after a day in the open, the sense of absolute comfort in the cabins was born of things like this. Morning broke clear and bracing, ap
petites were sharpened by a little vigorous exercise before welcome horn call announced the morning meal, and after a brief smoke talk, a twenty-five mile tramp on this day seemed anything but formidable.
Bareheaded, clad in soft flannel shirts, thick woolen socks under slipper moccasins and light rain-proof trousers; hunting knife and .38 calibre revolver were hung from strong belts and camp axes were swung from their shoulders. All the simple needs of woods comfort were contained in army packs properly adjusted in such fashion as to forbid chafing, the outfit weighing in the neighborhood of forty pounds and mile after mile was cut out of the foreground and thrust behind before the rising temperature slowed down their pace.
Never willing to admit weariness, it was, however, noticeable with what alacrity packs were dropped upon the bottom of the power boat at Flagstaff, while a long breath and gentle shrugs of tired shoulders gave mute evidence to welcome relief from burden bearing. If you consider it an easy proposition to break into the pack-carrying game, there are people who will doubt the yarns you may spin regarding long tramps under any respectable weight, until several days have found you ready to negotiate distance. Ever try it? Shake.
Three miles of plugging motor and the landing at the beginning of the rough road was reached in good season to pack all belongings except cameras under the buckboard seats and get away in the lead for a lunch under the trees, to which myriads of mosquitos considered themselves cordially invited. Upon notification of their intention to take part in the festivities, exercises in their honor were the order, consisting of liberal applications of oil of citronilla and sweet oil in the ratio of one to three.
Beginning well within the hair line about the face, this preparation, put on in thin quantities with due regard to the aversion of lips and eyes to the lotion, formed a barrier across which the little songsters could not come with impunity. The staccato notes of their discontent after a happy flight in the direction of the dainty morsel presented by your anatomy had ended in discomfiture, linger yet as pleasant memories if you have been there.
Lunch over, our friends set their faces against an eighteen-mile hooffest into King and Bartlett, with disappointed pests hanging on wherever they could find room away from the
forbidding odor that made them dizzy. “One hundred and sixty three thousand, seven hundred and seven on your back, Clyde—count 'em, 103,707—that's right. Your blue shirt is brown with them,” and it was even so. They were faithful in their attendance until Spencer Stream was crossed, but here they drew the line at the hither shore
and probably traced out the blazed
trail on the back track to Flagstaff Pond. Some few were found further north, but skeets don't count when they can be reckoned in numbers less than a few thousand to the individual. Of course, you have noticed these and black flies; yes, and mingies are always most in evidence where the fishing is best? Facts are stubborn things, eh? “Hello, partner! Are you hammering our back trail?” was their greeting from a two hundred pounder who stood beside a rough table in front of the door of a log cabin at the end of Spencer dam. The open door gave vent to an appetizing odor of good cooking. A nearby buckboard, at the pole of which stood an able-bodied pair of white horses, had been their conveyance from Blakeslee. “Not to-day. It looks like we had