68 



FOREST AND STREAM 



THE OLD CANOE. 



_ ♦ 



WHERE the rocks are gray and the shore is steep, 

 And the rugged pine, in its lonely pride. 

 Leans gloomily over the murky tide; 

 Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, 

 And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank; 

 Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through. 

 There lies at its mooring the old canoe. 



The useless paddles are idly dropped, 



Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm has lopped. 



And crossed on the railing, one o'er one, 



Like the folded hands when the work is done: 



While busily back ana forth between 



The spider watches bis silver screen, 



And the solemn owl, with his dull " too-boo,"" 



Settles down on the side of the old canoe. 



The stern half sunk in the slimy wave, 



Eots slowly away in its living grave 



And the green mass creeps o'er its dull decay; 



Hiding its mouldering dust away. 



Like the hand that plants o'er the tome'a flower, 



Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower; 



While marry a blossom of lovelest hue 



Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe. 



The currentless waters are dead and still- 

 But the light winds play with the boat at will, 

 And lazily in and out again 

 It floats the length of the rusty chain. 

 Like the weary match of the hands of time. 

 That meet and part at the noontide chime, 

 And the shore is kissed at each turning anew. 

 By the dripping bow of the old canoe. 



Oh, many a time, with a careless' hand, 

 I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, 

 And paddled it down where the stream runs quick, 

 Where the whirls are wild and the. eddies are thick. 

 And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side, 

 And looked below in the broken tide, 

 To see that the faces and boats were two, 

 That were mirrored back from the old canoe. 



But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side, 



And look below in the sluggish tide, 



The. face that t see there is graver grown, 



And the laugh that I hear has a sober tone. 



And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings, 



Have grown familiar with sterner things, 



But I love to think of the hours that sped 



As 1 rocked where the whirls their white spray shed, 



Ere the blossom waved, or the green grass grew 



O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe. 



-*••-*- 



PLOVER SHOOTING IN VIRGINIA. 



Northampton, Va., September 5, 1873. 

 Editor Forest and Stream : — 



NOTWITHSTANDING the numerous assurances I had 

 received that it was useless for me to expect to get 

 plover, I determined, before leaving for New York, to try 

 a morning's shooting in this locality, especially as I had 

 an invitation from a Virginia friend, a thorough sports- 

 man, who was well acquainted with all the localities most 

 likely to be frequented by this rather shy bird. 



I found my friend ready to receive me, with horse and 

 buggy. Ho assured me of the excellence of his horse, not 

 as to speed, but as to his stalking powers, as he informed 

 me that he had shot behind him for the last thirteen years. 

 Plover can generally be readily approached by the sports- 

 man, when he is in a buggy. We drove not more than 

 three-quarters of a mile from the house, and it was about 

 half -past five o'clock in the morning, when my friend in- 

 formed me that we were in what was, in former years, the 

 best place for plover in Virginia. The sea was about half 

 a mile distant, and a long, watery bog stretched just here, 

 parallel with the beach. The soil was covered with the 

 tough, wiry, salt grass, though here and there stood isolated 

 clumps of trees, and an occasional thicket. The plover 

 roosts somewhat more inland, and betakes himself at dawn 

 to feed on the grubs and small slugs he may rind in the 

 marshes. My .friend was rather fearful that the sport 

 would be poor, and he informed me that every year the 

 birds were getting scarcer. Ten years ago, he told me, that 

 just where we were then, he had often killed thirty plover 

 between sunrise and nine o'clock. We were driving to- 

 wards a neighboring clump of trees, through rather soggy 

 ground, when he sighted live plover flying at a distance be- 

 yond us, entirely out of gun shot. We remained quiet in 

 the buggy, when my companion took a "call" from his pock- 

 et, made from the leg-bon« of a curlew, and piped the shrill 

 cry of the plover. As we were well covered by the trees, 

 the birds answered the call instantly, and flew straight 

 towards us, when, both of us tiling at -about twenty-five 

 yards, we killed three fine birds. Old Bob— the horse- 

 stood fire admirably, never budging. This early success 

 somewhat inspirited my friend, and as the wind was blow- 

 ing on shore, the best condition for plover shooting, we 

 had hopes of making a good bag. We waited, however, 

 at this same spot for fully two hours more, but could see 

 no birds. Old Bob was urged on, and, as we went along, 

 breakfast, was in order, and I, for the first time, ate cold 

 roasted coon, which is a morsel by no means to be despised, 

 especially when a cool sea-breeze whets the appetite. Jog- 

 ging leisurely along, we must have proceeded quite two 

 miles, when before me, about 200 yards distance, I saw 

 quite a flock of plover. They were scattered over an area 

 of fully an acre, and, perhaps, numbered forty. We got 

 out of the buggy— slipping out behind, and clucking to 

 Bob, we followed in the wake of- the wagon. When within 

 tif 1 y yards of the birds, a word from us brought Bob to a 

 full stop, and crouching down on our hands and knees, we 



slowly approached the plover, and when within thirty 

 yards, we flushed them. They rose^en masse, pretty close 

 together, when my friend, with his Lancaster, and I with 

 my Snyder- Allen, let them have the four barrels, andmine 

 birds fell. We could do nothing more with the flock, as 

 they flew off three-quarters of a mile, to a point Avhere we 

 could not drive. After collecting the birds, we made for a 

 good-sized clump of woods, some mile and a half distant, 

 when we came to a cross-road. Bob was tied up, and a 

 feed left for him, wdiile we walked through the woods, 

 shooting an occasional|rabbit. The sun being oppressively 

 hot, we remained there through the heat of the day, 

 looking up some fox traps, which the negroes had set. We 

 found in the Newhouse-traps one very handsome dog fox 

 and two cubs, which we despatched, setting the traps anew 

 with some birds my friend had brought with him for that 

 purpose. About five o'clock we. retraced our steps, killing 

 five more plover, all of them single birds. Total bag for 

 the day, eighteen birds. Plover are by no means an easy 

 bird to kill ; they are very swift flyers, when ^n the wind, 

 though their --flight is limited as to distance. I should 

 recommend No. 7 shot in all cases. If plover are hard to 

 find, this does not arise from over-shooting. I must attrib- 

 ute their growing scarcity to the reasons stated by me in my 

 last letter to you from Mockhorn ( providing Jake reached 

 Cherrystone with my last letter to you ). I attributed, there- 

 in, the scarcity of plover to the constant destruction of 

 their eggs in this part of Virginia. 



Sincerely yours, . C. B. 

 ^^^ 



ATTRACTIONS OF NATURAL SCIENCE. 



Milltown, Maine, August 30, 1873. 

 Editor Forest and Stream : — 



I am more than pleased with the first numbers of the 

 Forest and Stream. Such a paper, I think, is very much 

 needed to educate our people to out-door exercises and 

 sports, and to the study of natural history in some of its 

 branches. To the lovers of the beautiful— to one who de- 

 lights in the gay, bright beings of nature, ornithology is one 

 of the most attractive branches of natural science. How 

 little most people know of the number and variety of birds 

 that annually visit every part of our extended clime, or are 

 even aware how many spend the summer in our immediate 

 vicinity. We little think every time we walk in our grounds 

 and gardens. we are intruding upon rare and elegant visit- 

 ants from Mexico, Central and South America, Florida, 

 and islands of the sea; but such is the case, and one that 

 passes through life without a knowledge of the feathered 

 creatures constantly surrounding him in the fields and 

 woods, rendered vocal with their songs, watching the pa- 

 tience and care in providing for their young, loses one of 

 the chief means by which his own existence might be made 

 more cheerful, happy, and contented, and fails to under- 

 stand one of the most pleasing and attractive of the crea- 

 tions of Omnipotence. How important for the sportsman 

 to know the history and habits of his feathered friends, so 

 as not to be led to slaughter them out of season. And the 

 agriculturist, after failing crops and barren fields, only 

 learns the errors he lias committed in the destruction of his 

 little feathered helpmates by the life and vigor it has given 

 the grubs and insects that now overrun his fields. And 

 now, with the help of the Forest and Stream, that I hope 

 may go into every family, we may try to surpass our Eng- 

 lish friends in the study of natural science, and know the 

 benefits of out-door recreation and physical culture. Yours 

 very truly, 



George A. Boardman, (Naturalist.) 

 •+•-». 



/ 



[Correspondence of the N. Y. Sun.] 

 HUNTING JACK RABBITS. 



Camp Douglas, Utah, August 26th, 1873. 

 FEW months ago Mr. J. E. Moen, a Wall street bro- 

 ker, came out here to look at some mines in which 

 he was interested. Moen was accompanied by the Hon. 

 Amasa Mason, a London banker from Rochester, New 

 York. They found snug quarters in Camp Douglas, and 

 recognized the faces of a few old acquaintances among the 

 officers. One of these was the face of Major David S. 

 Gordon, Colonel Tompkins' right bower in the celebrated 

 cavalry charge at Fairfax Courthouse. Another was the 

 refulgent countenance of Major Howell, a jovial son of 

 Mars, who was planted in the Quartermaster's Department 

 some years ago by General Rufe Ingalls, and who has taken 

 deep root in the service of the republic. A third face was 

 that of Captain Dinwiddie, a handsome Hoosier, who once 

 spent forty-seven days in the gloomy depths of the Black 

 Canon of the Colorado. Moen and Mason were heartily 

 welcomed to the festive boards of these three epauletted 

 worthies. At one of their liquid meals Moen said he had 

 brought a five hundred dollar (in gold) gun with him out 

 here in hopes of shooting something before he returned to 

 New York. 



"Did you ever see a jack rabbit, Moen?" asked Gordon. 



"No," Moen said, "but I've heard of them, and would 

 give fifty dollars for a shot at one. Are there any of them 

 about here?" 



"Oh, lots of them," exclaimed Rufe Ingalls' military 

 plant. You musn't go back to New York without taking- 

 one of their hides along with you." 



"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Gordon, "American 

 Fork is full of jack rabbits. To-morrow morning we'll 

 hitch up an ambulance and ride over there. Moen is sure 

 to get a shot at one. What do you say, gentlemen? Will 

 you go?" 



"Go," repeated Mason, "of course we'll go. What do 

 you think we came out here for? I'd like to see a jack rab- 

 bit myself. How large are they?" 



"Well," drawled Gordon, "they're about the size of a 

 young colt. When they start on a run they've got the 

 queerest lope that you ever saw. They pop over the ground 

 as though they had the spring halt in every .leg." 



The whiskey went round once more, and a little more 



intellectual conversation followed. The party then sena 

 rated, but were brought together again by the power of Vt 

 traction, all declaring that a. nightcap was necessary before 

 going to bed. After the nightcaps had been secured each 



Tiiiin r.rent hpnpfl.t.h his hhvnkpts sinrl t.hp nr\r\\ Q«t™„ • , . 



guara turned put nis men, under tne impression that 

 the horses in the canip stables were suffering from the dis 

 temper. 



Day dawned clear and beautiful. The five men were in 

 an ambulance by sunrise. They were happy. Five morn- 

 ing cocktails had warmed their souls. The scenery was 

 magnificent, The great valley of the Salt Lake, checkered 

 with squares of yellow grain and green grass, and hemmed 

 in by turreted mountains, was spread out before them 

 The lake itself glistened at the base of the far-off moun- 

 tains like an immense mij-ror. Entranced at the scene the 

 men halted, and gazed at it through the bottom of a black 

 bottle. "Glorious, grand affair!" rapturously exclaimed 

 the Wall street operator, waving his hand over a sea of sao-e 

 brush. Dinwiddie lashed the mules, and the ambulance 

 ran down hill with the speed of a Texas steer. Moen's gun 

 attracted great attention. All handled it, and squinted 

 along its barrels. The lock was clicked a hundred times 

 If the gun had been a second bottle of whiskey it could 

 not have been handled more lovingly, or its good points 

 more expatiated upon. Moen was delighted, and Mason 

 regarded the experienced army officers and their bottles 

 with an affection bordering on veneration. 



It was well along in the afternoon when the ambulance 

 began to roll up the American Fork canon. A bright 

 watch was kept for jack rabbits. They were scarce. Hours 

 passed, and none were seen. Moen became dispirited. At 

 last, about five o'clock, Gordon saw two ears, sticking up 

 above a clump of bushes on the side of a hill. 



"Hold on," he shouted, "there's one now. He's a bio- 

 one, too. Get out, Moen, and give it to him. Easy, now* 

 easy." 



The Wall street gentleman shinned out of the wagon and 

 shoved two patent cartridges into the barrels of his gun. 



"Now, then, let him have it. Give it to him," repeated 

 Gordon. 



The army officers began to laugh as Moen rested the 

 fowling piece upon the wheel of the ambulance and squat- 

 ted to take sight. They saw that the supposed jack rabbit 

 was a jack without the rabbit. It was a burro, or Spanish 

 donkey, about two-thirds grown. Moen had never seen 

 one. The animal stood with its quaint face surrounded by 

 green leaves, a perfect picture of contentment. The banker 

 took oood aim and fired. The biirro threw up its ears, but 

 never budged an inch. 



"You shot too high," said Howell. "Shoot lower, and# 

 you'll fetch him. I never saw a bigger one. He's the king 

 of all jack rabbits. Now, then, give it to him, quick !" 



The banker squatted again, and sighted his game over 

 the wheel. There was a puff of smoke and a report. The 

 burro's ears flew up a second time, but he didn't stir." 



"Too low, too low, old man," cried Gordon. "Load up 

 again and give him another shot." 



"Heavens !" exclaimed Moen, ain't he a big fellow?'" He 

 nervously shoved the cartridge into his fowling piece. 

 "Keep quiet, boys," he whispered, "don't scare him." 



"Now, then, give it to him sure," Gordon said in a low 

 tone of voice, as the broker squatted for a third shot. As 

 his finger touched the trigger the burro threw one of his 

 ears over his eyes and began to bray. ' ' Y-a-a-w e-e-e-h ! 

 y-a-a-w e-e-e-h shouted the jack. The officers burst into a 

 roar of laughter. 



The Wall street man straightened up in an instant. 

 "Great Caesar," said he, "it's a cursed jackass ! I came 

 near killing it." 



He jumped into the ambulance and put up his gun. The 

 best of the joke is, that the jack belonged to an old Mor- 

 mon, who collected $25 from Moen, alleging that he had 

 shot the beast near the root of the tail, seriously damaging 

 him. After the banker returned to New York Davis ac- 

 knowledged that the animal was untouched. 



"The bullets didn't go within a mile of the jack," said he, 

 "but what is a New Yorker good for in this country if it 

 isn't to pluck. I plucked him." 



A DANGEROUS INDIAN BOY. 



MAJOR Benteen, in leading the attack of his squad- 

 ron through the timber below the village, encount- 

 ered an Indian boy, scarcely fifteen years of age; he was 

 well mounted, and was endeavoring to make his way 

 through the lines. This boy rode boldly towards the Ma- 

 jor, seeming to invite a contest. His youthful bearing, 

 and not being looked upon as a combatant, induced Major 

 Benteen to endeavor to save him by making " peace signs" 

 to him and obtaining his surrender, when he could be 

 placed in a position of safety until the battle was terminated; 

 but the young savage desired and would accept no such 

 friendly concessions. He regarded himseslf as a warrior, 

 and as such he purposed to do a warrior's part. With re- 

 volver in hand he dashed at the Major, who still could not 

 regard him as anything but a harmless lad. Levelling his 

 weapon as he rode, he fired, but either from excitement 

 or the changing positions of both parties, his aim was 

 defective and the shot whistled harmlessly by Major 

 Benteen's head. Another followed in quick succession, 

 but with no better effect. All this time the dusky little 

 chieftain boldly advanced, to lessen the distance between 

 himself and his adversary. A third bullet was sped on its 

 errand, and this time to some purpose, as it passed through 

 the neck of the Major's horse, close to the shoulder. Mak- 

 ing^ a final but ineffectual appeal to him to surrender, and 

 seeing him still preparing to fire again, the Major was 

 forced in self-defence to level his revolver and despatch 

 him, although as he did so it was with admiration for the 

 plucky spirit exhibited by the lad, and regret often expressed 

 that no other course under the circumstances was left to 

 him. Attached to the saddle bow of the young Indian 

 hung a beautifully wrought pair of small moccasins, elabo- 

 rately ornamented with beads. One of the Major's troop- 

 ers secured these and presented them to him. These fur- 

 nished the link of evidence by which we subsequently as- 

 certained who the young chieftain was — a title which was 

 justly his, both by blood and bearing.— General Custer's 

 Life on the Plains — Galaxy. 



*+.»** 



— The preservation of game irrespective of size, seems 

 to be now the rule. On the first of October in the Presi- 

 dency of Madras, any one killing an elephant will be fined 

 500 rupees. Elephant pot hunters being now fully fore- 

 warn ed, will have no excuse. 



