THE AMERICAN SPORTSMAN'S JOURNAL, 



[Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Tear 1379, by the Forest & Stream Publishing Company, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington';] 



1 onus, Four Dollars 



Ten Cents a Copy. 

 6 months, 82 ; 3 months, 



Tear ) 



■,81. J 



NEW YORK, THURSDAY, MAY 29, 1879. 



BIRDS AT PLAY— A FOREST IDYL. 



[Translated from the Swedish for Forest and SiBEiM by 

 A, T. LlNrmoLM.J 



SHOULDEB thy rifle, thou hunter so bold, 

 And stealth'ly descend down the path throngh the wold ; 

 For now Is the time, while from glimmering height 

 The dim, fading stars yet are sheddiog their light, 

 Anl Earth's slumbering still, under Night's balmy wing, 

 On the flower-decked bosom of Spring. 



Be careful 1 the bird, like the lover, la shy ; 

 And watchful Is he; never closes his eye. 



Now, quietly, 'pon tip-toe, proceed on thy way, 



For soon shall the birds commence play. 

 Lo 1 the shades of the night begin fading away 

 For the; quickening light of the dawning of day-s 



And with a red glare the mountain tops glow, 



Yet 'tis dark In the valleys below. 

 Sce'st thou yon hillock with forest trees crowned, 

 Where like cloudlets the shattered mists flit around, 



And the tree-tops are tinged by the glittering spray 1 



Ah I there are the birds now at play I 



Hark ! now their love notes, saluting the day, 



Awaken the fair ones to Innocent play. 

 How tender those notes, full of longing so sweet, 

 With which the tond singer his bride doth greet ! 



Now courting the coy one, who's pretending to know 



But little, if aught, of his grief and his woe. 

 List I in how sad and how mournful a strain : 

 He telleth the heart's oft-told legend again ; 



Of desires immortal, of undying faith, 



And an untiring hope that abldeth to death ! 

 Oh 1 bard of the forest, who can thee disdain, 

 While Nature thou speak'st in thy wild, gushing strain ? 



Love ! oh, thou mystic, unquenchable flame, 



Though constantly changing, yet ever the same ! 

 Life's creative word 1 Nature's e'erbeating heart ! 

 Ah 1 the highest of rapture and pain thou art 



On earth as In heaven. Sing happy and free, 



No art in thy measures can imitate thee ! 

 But— all of a sudden the singer's notes grow 

 Agitating and wild ;— he's encountered a foe ! 



And this rival he threatens to deadly asBall ; 



He must drive him away over hillock and dale. 

 And who can his violent wrath put to rest ? 

 For of war song and battle now heaveth his breast ! 



Same battle's to be fought, as at Troja of old, 



As an Iliad of the forest now here might be told : 



MenelauB shall fight against Paris— a bride 



Is the prize to contend for ; —the crowd draws aside- 

 Fair Helena Is seated, though not on the wall, 

 But high from a fir-tree, majestic and tall, 



Looks down on the fight ;— f or a mate she must seek, 



Howe'er the battle may lura, between Trojan and Greek. 

 With deafening war-cries ascending the sky, 

 Now, breast against breast, and with flre-flashlng eye, 



The warriors meet, and, with thundering might, 



Their death-dealing weapons employ in the fight. 

 Fierce rageth the combat, and reeking In blood 

 It spreads consternation and dread through the wood. 



Yet the contest is short, and the battle doth cease, 



When, dismayed, overpowered, Paris he flees. 

 But ah ! a Pandarus bends treacherous bow, 

 And the loud, boasting Achean victor Ueth low ! 



Now, victorious shouts through the forest resound ; 



With many accounts of brave deeds they abounn ! 

 And the fair and the loved one is hailed with rejoice, 

 Though still there is wrath In the brave singer's voice. 



But it cannot abide in a fond lover's breast, 



And soon, by degrees, it is soothed to rest ; 

 And in softened cadences floweth the lay 

 Tiil, iu falut uttered sighs, it is melting away. 



Now, hunter, be quick, follow swiftly thy trail! 



The moment Is near when t'a' bird's vision shall fall ; 

 When ceased his his long, dying note— hold thy breath 1 

 Stoop down— and be still as the stillness of death 1 



What matters it thee if the hillock is steep, 



And the water, beneath in the fen, it is deep 1 

 Make thy steady advance, and the precious game 

 In a moment la thine. Therefore, ready, take aim ! 



Fire I Ah ! the b.ill pierced the singer's brave heart. 



Yet victorious In death :— for he fell free from smart . 

 But the love song is hushed ! Ah ! yet happy was he. 

 For he sang and he tiled iu love's sweet ecstaoy I 



The beautiful poem, "The Birds at Play" !i 

 which the above is an excellent translation, is from the pen of the 

 late Bishop Esaias Tegoer, the world-renowned author of 

 /(.'' The bird to which reference is made in the 

 poem is the Capercailzie or Gock-of-the-Wooda ( T. ■ 

 This most noble game bird, by far the largest member of the 

 grouse family— the male bird often reaching a weight of twenty 

 pounds— inhabits the pine and spruce forests of northern Europe 

 —Scandinavia, Finland, Russia, Bohemia. In former times— in 

 fact, already bo long ago that there are recordB of bowa and 



arrows being used for the purpose— this bird waa mostly hnnted 

 and shot when at play in springtime. The song or play which he 

 performs from his night-perch, mostly one of the lower limbs of 

 some large pine or spruce tree, commences at the first break of 

 day, and consists of three widely different notes : First, a loud, 

 snapping tune, repeated a number of timea in quick succession, 

 and expressed by the word "peliepp." This is wound up by a 

 lingle guttural sound, somewhat like that when the oork is drawn 

 from an empty bottle, and is by the hunters called the "gulp" 

 (kluok, 8w.), and immediately followed by a lower, hisBing oadenoe. 

 While omitting the first of these notes the bird is wide awake and 

 i sharp lookout for any approaching danger, but after the sec- 

 ond and during tho continuance of the third he is perfectly deaf 

 and blind. The hunter takes advantage of this. Entering the 

 forest where these birds are known to resort, Just before early 

 dawn, he proceeds slowly and cautiously until he hears the first 

 note, then remains perfectly still while it lasts and until the 

 "gulp" is heard, which is the signal for the hunter to make 

 three or four rapid strides forward, after which he again stands as 

 still aa a statue until, a few minutes later, his time for moving 

 again comes on. In this way the hunter can gradually approach 



ifctun easy shooting distance of the bird. But this mode of hunt- 

 ing the Capercailzie is now a thing of the past, at least on the 

 Scandinavian peninsula ; no " treacherous Pandarus," or any 

 other pot-hunter, will be likely hereafter to disturb bis spring 

 frolic, for acoording to a most stringent game law of those coun- 

 tries, the close season, as well for the bird in question as all his 

 congeners, extends from Jan. 1 to Aug. 15. But a sportsman, 

 hunting in the wild pine forests of northern Europe in proper sea- 

 son, may have the grand opportunity— as has been the good 

 fortune of the writer— to behold a dozen of these birds, as big as 

 turkeys, rise simultaneously, and with the din of a thunder clap, 

 before his pointing dog, within twenty yards from the muzzle of 

 his gun, and offer an easy mark, provided our sportsman is oool 

 enough to keep back the buck-ague. 



Not very social or gregarious in his habits at any time, the 

 Capercailzie is particularly anxious during play-time to have all to 

 himself a wide range, including all the fair ladies of his acquaint- 

 ance within reach, for he ia as much of a polygamist as any 

 " Latter Days' Saint,'' and as jealous of his harem as a Turk. If 

 two bold champions happen to be within each other's hearing 

 while their love making concerts are going on, a desperate fight is 

 sure to fellow, as described so graphically in the poem. J. S. 



For Forest and Stream and Rod and Gun. 



fawn th$ 



%wt\== 



{Continued, from our issue of May 8th.) 



AFTER packing our portables, having partially dried 

 them after their week's drenching, we started down for 

 Hickman, Kentucky, at which place we mailed postal cards 

 home and spent our last dime for molasses. We had the 

 misfortune, two weeks previously to drop nearly all our 

 money overboard out of our pocket while bathing in the 

 river, and have been short ever since. Expect to find funds 

 at Memphis. We got but a pint of molasses for our money, 

 which the shop boy said was at the rate of fifty cents a gal- 

 lon, and we took his word for it. Hickman is quite a pretty 

 place perched on a hill overlooking the river, but seemed 

 dead so far as business was concerned. They were playing 

 chess in the freight office, and clerks and proprietors were 

 lounging idly in front of nearly all the stores. Saloons 

 seemed to preponderate. 



We camped a few miles below the town, and by the time 

 we had got things arranged it was quite dark. We had 

 slapjacks for supper because we could get nothing else. We 

 were beginning to tire of this fare which had grown monot- 

 onous. Besides, our flour had begun to smell bad from 

 being constantly damp, and cooking did not altogether re- 

 move the taint. Still, to hungry palates it was tolerable, 

 and thus far we had not grumbled. I took some of the slap- 

 jacks ou my tin plate, and poured upon them some of the 

 ten-cent molasses of Hickman, It smelled good, and prom- 

 ised to give a relish to the cukes ; but alas! for the short- 

 lived hopes of man. Along with the syrup, a large number 

 of small dark objects gurgled out of the bottle and settled 

 down on the cakes. I thought at first they were chrystal- 

 izations of sugar, but was soon undeceived. They were 

 flies— dead flies, There were fifteen, more or less, to each 

 cake, and on looking through the bottle at the camp-fire we 

 were forcibly reminded of the Moodyite hymn, ' ' Still, there's 

 more to follow." Without supper, but, with a mournful 

 heart, I crept into my hammock and went to sleep, 



Tuesday — Before we got up several hogs came prowling 

 around, and it was the noise made by their nosing among 

 our dishes that awakened us. We got up, and strained the 

 flies out of our molasses, and spread our flour out in the sun 

 to dry, but the bad smell still clung to it. We had half a 

 sack of corn-meal left, and of this I proposed to make a hoe- 

 cake, but found on examination that it smelled worse than 

 the flour did, so we threw it overboard. We breakfasted on 

 strong-smelling pancakes, sweetened with fly molasses. We 

 ate them, but did not enjoy them. If any reader of Fobest 

 ajid Stream resides in Hickman he will do the writer a 

 favor by castigating the boy who sold me that molasses. He 

 was in the first boat warehouse as you go up from the wharf. 

 About noon we embarked again. The river slowly widens, 

 much more slowly than I had expected. To my eye it is 

 about one-third wider than at Davenport, but when we have 

 to pull across it it seems twice as wide. Until lately we 

 have not seen its full width save at intervals, owing to the 

 continuous string of islands which overlap each other. They 

 are getting less numerous now, but larger. There are many lit- 

 tle creeks running into the river, but it is rarely we see their 

 mouths, or, seeing a dark indentation in the line of cotton- 

 woods opposite, do not recognize it as the mouth of a 

 stream. The distinguishing characteristic of our camp to- 

 night is mosquitoes. 



Wednesday Morning — My last entry last night was to the 

 effect that there were mosquitoes here. I can substantiate 

 the statement now. Not a wink of sleep did I get last night. 

 They came around in countless hordes and took the camp by 

 storm. I rubbed my skin with essence of pennyroyal till it 

 was raw, but it only seemed to tickle the mosquitoes. After 

 trying in vain to sleep, I got up and built a roaring fire and 

 lay down in the smoke, and thus managed to live through 

 the night. 



The banks are becoming more thinly settled now, the 

 towns being farther apart and the "deadening?" much less 

 numerous. The banks are wooded, and from the opposite 

 side present the appearance of an impassable wall of trunks 

 and leaves. 



We came to-day upon an interesting phenomenon — that is, 

 it was interesting to us. We got into a small indentation in 

 a channel cut across the sandbar of a bend, and as the cur- 

 rent did not reach it, the mud had settled and left the water 

 with the clear hue of the alta Mississippi. It was a welcome 

 sight to us, for we were terribly hot and thirsty; but alas! 

 the water was hot, too— hotter than we were. We saved a 

 pailful of it, however, for our coffee to-night. 



Between Madrid Bend and Morris Landing we saw on the 

 shore a band of meu who were bent on lynching somebody 

 if they could only catch him. There Were about one hundred 

 and fifty of the " Regulators," armed to theteeth. 



Thursday — An uneventful day, making just four weeks 

 since we left home. We made pretty faiftirne, considering 

 that we have had no sleep for two nights. We are camped 

 just below the mouth of the Obion River. Hale's Point is 

 just above us, and Wright's Point on the opposite side. 

 They are what I call twenty-five cent towns. They look as 

 big as a city on the map, but it is quite possible to sail close 

 by them and not be aware of their proximity. They con- 

 sist of eight or ten houses, generally so scattered as to be 

 easily mistaken for single clearings with the usual outbuild- 

 ings. White houses are rare in these towns. 



I shot at a mud-hen to-day, but missed. On a strip of 

 sandy beach we saw a spot where a number of turtle eggs 

 had been dug up and emptied. The four-toed tracks in the 

 sand suggested a 'coon as the probable robber. 



Got completely disgusted with our flour this morning, and 

 threw it — about thirty pounds — overboard. No more grub 

 in the larder. 



Saturday — A glorious morning, after a miserable night. 

 Indeed, all night3 are miserable now, only varying in in- 

 tensity. Away up north of here, a man told us that when 

 we got below St. Genevieve we would be eaten up by mos- 

 quitoes ; but, ye gods! who could have imagined it would 

 be like this! I have not slept for nights on account of them. 



Last night we encamped at the base of a chalky bluff, 

 where nothing but a few willows grew, and a stream, as if 

 a spring came; tumbling down a cleft it had cut for 

 itself in the clay bluff. It was not a spring branch, how- 

 ever, but only the waste water from an irrigating ditch 

 cut through a farm on top of the hill. At the bottom of the 

 bluff, clay slate cropped out in places, and numberless small 

 stones lying around were encrusted with the hardened sedi- 

 ment of the spray of the water washed down from above. 

 We were not troubled much by mosquitoes here, but sand- 

 flies, or chigas, or something of like character, kept at us all 

 night, making our bodies smart and prickle almost unen- 

 durably. We were nearly upset while tiying to land here. 

 The current was very swift, and carried the boat sideways 

 against a small tree growing out of the water. The cover, 

 which was down and lying loosely across the boat, was 

 pushed to one side till it overbalanced, and we began dip- 

 ping water. As quickly as possible I sprang up and stood 

 on the down-stream gunwale of theboat, to force it down to 

 a level, and then, by hard pushing and pulling, we managed 

 to get clear. 



This morning, when we got all ready to start, we found 

 that our rudder was missing. It had hung loosely in the 

 stern, and the swell of a passing steamer had unshipped it 

 and sent it adrift. This was by no means a small loss, for 



