Gbe IHIlarbler 73 



They were the last wild Pigeons I have ever seen alive in that or any 

 other locality, with one exception, and that is open to question. Some 30 

 years later — in 1898 — while visiting the old farm and the former haunts of 

 the wild Pigeon, three birds flew over my head at a considerable height 

 which I firmly believe were Passenger Pigeons. As I had not seen one for 

 thirty years I maybe mistaken, but they certainly were not Mourning Doves, 

 and from the size and shape of their tails, color and manner of flight I feel 

 sure they were not domestic pigeons. 



As I looked at them the thrill of a sportsman's pleasure and excitement 

 tingled through my nerves the same as it did when as a boy I pursued the 

 same game in the same locality with so much fervor. Since that time I 

 have hunted the wary waterfowl and the wild turkey, chased the fox, the deer 

 and the bear, but none of these have afforded me the intensity of excitement 

 and delight which I used to experience when a flock of wild Pigeons was 

 approaching my ambush, or when I have heard the flock rise from the hills 

 top back of our home in such numbers and with a noise from many wing- 

 that sounded like a distant peal of thunder; or when I have crept up over 

 the brow of the same hill and looked straight into the top branches of the 

 oak and poplar trees on the other side and beheld hundreds of these birds 

 within gun shot, unsuspicious of danger, the beautiful iridescence of their 

 plumage flashing in the sunlight and all their glistening colors mingled with 

 the green foliage of the trees, resplendent in lights and shadows. To 

 this day I rejoice to reflect that in that position I found more pleasure in 

 watching the birds than in shooting at them, and that I enjoyed to the full- 

 est extent the most beautiful sight in nature it has been my privilege to 

 behold. If men and boys in general found the same degree of sport in Pigeon 

 hunting that I did at the time they were so abundant, it is no wonder that 

 the species has become extinct or nearly so. The sight of such immense 

 flocks of those birds, so beautiful and so desirable for the table, made Pigeon 

 shooting the most fascinating of all game hunting. 



In those days no one ever dreamed of the birds becoming extinct, or 

 even scarce, so great were their numbers. The amount of grain they de- 

 stroyed was often a serious loss to the farmers and did much towards encour- 

 aging the wholesale slaughter to which the birds were subjected. 



I once heard an old settler tell of the great abundance of the wild 

 Pigeons in Maine during the beginning of the eighteenth century, and that a 

 common way of killing them off was to dig a long trench in which a quantity 

 of wheat was scattered to attract the birds. When they came and settled 

 down to feed, filling the trench to its utmost capacity, one discharge from 

 some advantageous point of an old flint-lock musket loaded with a handful 

 of shot would often result in the killing of as many as 75 birds. 



In those days wild Pigeons were hunted for three distinct reasons — as 

 sport, as an article of food, and because they were destructive to crops . 



