334 Sporting Sketches 



turkeys sometimes on the tracks, sometimes by 

 guesswork for an entire day and never had a 

 chance at a bird. 



One fall, that now has many leaves upon its grave, 

 I decided to take a run into Essex Woods and try for 

 a good gobbler, though a plump hen would not have 

 been beneath attention. It had rained hard for 

 several days, then the cold came, and with it a slight 

 fall of snow, though hardly sufficient for good track- 

 ing. It was an extremely sharp, clear morning when 

 I left a comfortable farm-house some miles west of 

 Essex Centre, and with Winchester on shoulder 

 started for the great silent stretch of woods which 

 extended for miles in every direction. I knew that 

 the fowl were in those woods, and was fully resolved 

 to have one before night, but soon learned that it 

 wasn't a good day for turkey. 



Every hollow between the thick-standing oaks, 

 maples, and elms had been rilled to o'erflowing by the 

 rains, and now every pool was covered with an inch- 

 thick coat of ice just thick enough not to bear one 

 hundred and eighty pounds. Every twig and frozen 

 leaf under foot crushed like glass, and under such 

 conditions I was about as likely to get within shot 

 of a turkey as I was to tree a Bengal tiger up one 

 of the big elms. There was nothing for it but to 

 acknowledge a balk, and I retreated to the railroad, 

 the track being about the only place where dry walk- 

 ing was possible. After infinite difficulty, aided by 

 a couple of rails from the snake-fence, I managed to 

 safely cross the deep ditch between the woods and 

 the track, and so reached safe footing. 



It was an exasperating situation. Straight as a 



