20 



HARDWOOD RECORD 



January la, 1017 



but, as the sobriquet comes more easily and quiclfly than the 

 real name, he will be known as "Little Nemo" in the rest of 

 the story. "Little Nemo" found his greatest usefulness in 

 attending to the one hundred and one details that kept the 

 machinery of the expedition well oiled. His box, always 

 approaching exhaustion, could always be made to disgorge 

 another cigarette. As chancellor of the icebox, he never 

 failed to produce what was needed. His greatest accom- 

 plishment was his transformation, under the tutelage of 

 Wilbur Thistlewood, from a state of utter innocence of any 

 of the w-iles of the uncertain goose, at the beginning of the 

 trip, into one of the most accomplished of geese callers and 

 proficient of goose-hunters when we were homeward bound. 



And in the background, always there at the proper moment, 

 was the dusky group shown on the first page. Silas Ram- 

 sey, who has the true southern sense of the proper culinary 

 use of pepper; Lillian Williams, who acted as intermediary 

 between the stove and the table; Elijah Williams, head deck 

 hand; Henry Jones, first assistant deck hand (Henry cast 

 the "buffalo" spell over the rest of the "niggahs" so effec- 

 tively that not one of them had the courage to even offer 

 to clean a gun or carry a bag); "Pahson" Israel Scott, who, 

 when he is not fulfilling his duties as chief flunkie and man 

 of all work, exhorts the negro population adjacent to Vicks- 

 burg. 



But I almost forgot Jim — Jim Armstrong, or Armie, as he 

 is usually known. Jim in everyday guise is captain of the 

 jitney fleet for the Anderson-Tully Company, this being a 

 fleet of small boats which hovers in and around the log rafts 

 much as a destroyer or torpedo boat attends battleships in 

 the salt water. Poor Jim started out very bravely as the 

 source of all information on the proper methods of taking 

 geese, but between a pair of sore feet and the lack of specific 

 results from his own gun (and probably the fact that the 

 rest did manage to get a few geese themselves had something 

 to do with it), Jim made the homeward trip a wiser and more 

 lowly man. 



%P^ 



Goose hunting in the lower Mississippi is a more than 

 commonly interesting sport. The Canada goose, one of the 

 wildest of game birds, seeks the most primitive of surroundings. 

 He is reached with difficulty and successfully hunted only 

 under carefully worked out plans. So it is not strange that 

 in following the seasons the big fellows coming from the Cana- 

 dian wilds work down the basin of the lower Mississippi where 

 boats can travel for miles at a stretch without coming within 

 reach of even a suggestion of habitation. 



In hunting the birds one must know their probable flight 

 from river to feeding ground, or from lake to lake. The 

 Mississippi in its southern channels follows for miles between 

 immense and picturesque sandbars totally barren of vegetable 

 life. In fact, at flood times the bar on which we hunted is 

 thirty feet under water. These bars are ever changing — one 

 walks today thirty feet above the river's surface where three 

 years ago the packets were following the channel. So it was 

 with us. On the points of these bars, formed at every turn 

 of the river, each passing steamer stirs up great flocks of the 

 big fellows into undulating, ponderous flight in long, black 

 strings which show in clear contrast against the gray back- 

 ground of scraggly timber beyond the bar. When thus frightened, 

 or when inclination moves them, they work back and forth 

 between the river and the inland lakes that contain their feeding 

 grounds. Such "crossings" must be located; the pits (round 

 holes in the sand, three to five feet deep anil two to three feet 

 across) dug one to each man. Silhouette decoys (augmented, 

 as luck begins to come, by the dead geese planted each with a 

 forked stick under his neck to hold him in a semi-natural posi- 

 tion) are put out, and the hunters seek their respective pits 

 and wait. Patience is the requisite of the successful hunter. 



Often long hours may go by without a sign of a bird ; the 

 sky is clear ; the sand stretches away monotonous and un- 

 interesting. In the small, cramped quarters the restless hunter 

 settles into that position whicli will give sore muscles the 

 greatest ease. His thoughts wahdcring miles away, he is hardly 

 conscious of his surroundings. His mind is on anything but 

 geese. Suddenly out of nowheres comes the call of the leader ; 

 'way off beyond the timber, maybe a half or three-quarters of 

 a mile toward the ri%'er, there arises a clearly defined "V." 

 Immediately stiff backs and aching legs are forgotten. The 



word "Down ; they're coming," 

 lireripitates each man into the 

 very bottom of his pit, merely 

 his eyes and the visor of his 

 hunting cap snowing above the 

 surface. Pour pairs of eyes. 



directed so that the geese show 

 barely over the rim of the pit, 

 follow the flight as it steadily 

 but swiftly marks its course 

 along the crossing. Suddenly 

 the birds seem to have changed 

 their gait. As they approach 

 nearer they apparently have seen 

 ' 'le mute traitors on the sand, and tkeen of eye and intellect as 

 they are reputed to be, geese sometimes act very foolishly) 

 there is an agitated fluttering, an uncertaint.v in the course, 

 an argumentative honking in jjlace of the occasional call of the 

 undiverted flight. They seem almost to be holding a council 

 to consider the situation. But the leader takes the reins into 

 his own hands and starts out again, not directly for his man- 

 made mates below, but in a direction that will enable him to 

 get down wind from the decoys and give them a careful scrutiny. 

 The chatter keeps up, and now those in the pits (who are 

 capable) add coaxing calls of assurance. Apparently the geese 

 are satisfied, for when they are immediately down wind from 

 the pits, the wings are cupped ami they begin to circle nearer. 

 Or possibly the slight movement of a cap or the dark shadow 

 in the pits makes them suspect something, for they veer again, 

 completing a wide, sweeping circle. But finally, with each man. 

 tense and but an occasional call from the most expert, they 

 direct themselves downward, straight for us — immense birds- 

 with great curved wings set at an angle that will carry them 

 straight and unswervingly for two hundred yards to the ground. 

 The waiting hunters scarcely dare breathe while the geese are 

 soaring in, now with a friendly, satisfied sort of chirp in place 

 of the former honking. As the goose is hard to kill when he 

 is coming on, the hunter must wait until he has swerved up- 

 wards, when in fright he scrambles to leave the scene. (Many 

 a shot Is spoiletl by an attack of "buck ague.") When he 

 turns "belly-up" the feathers point toward the guns and the 

 shot can penetrate. With this wild scramble for safety a sho\it 

 goes up, "Let them have it," and each man, arising, brings his 

 gun to his shoulder, takes his bird in order, according to the 

 position of his pit, and empties his gun. 



From sunrise to sunset, twelve hours of this continuous phys- 

 ical and mental strain, ending with a tw'o-mile tote of three 

 to five twelve-pounders per man, across the slipping, yielding 

 sand, brings one back to the boat at night with a thorough 

 relish for the opportunity of sitting in a chair, taking off one's 

 heavy boots and sitting down to a savory and Jolly dinner. 

 Then come talks of the experiences of the day. How "I hit 

 three in that last bunch — I could hear the shot rattle every 

 time" ; or, "I know I winged that first one that came over — 

 watched him for a half-mile and saw him drop into the river" ; 

 or, "I bet we would have gotten six anyway out of that big 

 gang if that decoy hadn't blown over" ; or you tell how the 

 action of your "pump" got clogged ; how the sand got Into 

 your breech, and you couldn't close it. You forgot to put 

 your shells in, or a shell missed fire when y<ui knew you "had 

 him dead." If a man didn't have alibis there wouldn't be any 

 fun In shooting — and missing. 



And so It was with us. Everything about the trip from the 

 time we left Vicksburg. late in the evening, 'til our drawing up 

 at the dock again at midnight three days later, went off beauti- 

 fully. We had day after day of Ideal weather — every day pro- 

 ductive of good results ; some days where the flights were 

 continuous and others when we had long stretches of tedious 

 waiting, anil then more excitement in an hour than all the rest 

 of the day had given us. 



Three days of this. Each day interrupted only by nightfall, 

 which brought us to a cheery evening by the cabin stove, a 

 dinner of goose or duck or bear i la Frank May. Afterwards 

 smokes and talk, or a little game of cards kept us up until 

 pleasantly tired muscles and heavy eyes unacijustomed to 

 wind, sun and exercise, made anything but bed impossible. 



That you, who were not with us, might feel the spirit of this 

 perfect expedition would require the pen of an Ernest Seatou 

 Thompson. Coming back to Vicksburg from the river bars I 

 endeavored to specifically formulate in my mind the most 

 vivid impressions, and I have tried to sketch them here. 1 

 find though that the one thought which stands out biggest after 

 everything else is considered is this : I hope the trip is staged 

 again next year and that I will be invited. Or, as Frank Ma.\' 

 says. "I don't care whether 1 am invited or not — I only want 

 to know the date and I'll be there." Edwin W. Meeker. 



