240 THE PASSENGER PIGEON IN PENNSYLVANIA 



go into the bough house — eagerly scaning the horizon 

 for the coming pigeons. Presently, a scattered flock 

 of some two or three hundred appear. We both sally 

 out, and when we think near enough, toss our flyers 

 into the air. They go up the length of their lines, 

 fifty or sixty feet, and find they are anchored, and re- 

 turn to the ground, wherever their blinded lot may 

 light them. Then we rush in and "Play the Stool" — 

 pulling on the cord and lifting it from the ground 

 where it rests on a small pod of grass. 



*'We lift it about three feet and let it drop instantly, 

 in this operation, the stool flutters on its way down- 

 ward, imitating pigeons feeding on the ground, when 

 other flocks are passing. Soon we see the flock begin- 

 ning to sail, they whirl, sail over the bed, turn and sail 

 for lighting. We never wait a second. As soon as we 

 think we have a fair amount of them lighting and 

 about to light, we surge on the spring pole and spring 

 the nets, rush out and hold down the sides, to keep 

 them in, for with their united efifort, they carry the 

 net off the ground, and the ones near the sides escape. 

 Here I stop, think and ask myself, "Shall I finish the 

 picture?" To stop, would not be giving the reader 

 a full account of 'Tigeon Catching." To finish, brings 

 the animal part of our nature to the surface, at which 

 I now shudder. 



The trappers now went in on top of the nets, 

 walked over them, and stooping down, placed their 

 thumb on the top of the pigeon's head, their finger 

 under his bill, and pressed the skull down till it 



