The Wild Pigeon of North America ^y 



the young birds in the nesting. He listened to me in 

 utter astonishment, and said, "My God, is that possi- 

 ble!" Remaining silent a few moments with bowed 

 head, he looked up and said, "See here, old Indian, you 

 go out with me in the morning and I will show you a 

 way to catch pigeons that will please any red man and 

 the birds, too." 



Early the next morning I followed him a few rods 

 from his hut, where he showed me an open pole pen, 

 about two feet high, which he called his bait bed. Into 

 this he scattered a bucket of wheat. We then sat in 

 ambush, so as to see through between the poles into the 

 pen. Soon they began to pour into the pen and gorge 

 themselves. While I was watching and admiring them, 

 all at once to my surprise they began fluttering and 

 falling on their sides and backs and kicking and quiver- 

 ing like a lot of cats with paper tied over their feet. 

 He jumped into the pen, saying, "Come on, you red- 

 skin." 



I was right on hand by his side. A few birds flew out 

 of the pen apparently crippled, but we caught and caged 

 about one hundred fine birds. After my excitement 

 was over I sat down on one of the cages, and thought 

 in my heart, "Certainly Pokagon is dreaming, or this 

 long-haired white man is a witch." I finally said, "Look 

 here, old fellow, tell me how you did that." He gazed 

 at me, holding his long white beard in one hand, and 

 said with one eye half shut and a sly wink with the 



