18 THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 



moved entirely from the list of game birds that can be killed until 

 September 1, 1918. 



The Band-tailed Pigeon, often called Wild Pigeon, is sometimes mis- 

 taken for the Passenger Pigeon. It ranges up and down the Pacific 

 Coast with an occasional record as far east as Colorado and Western 

 Texas. The habit of the pigeon collecting in large bands in certain 

 seasons has made it possible in the past for hunters to kill enormous 

 numbers. This, coupled with the fact that the bird does not reproduce 

 itself rapidly, usually laying but a single egg, is sufficient reason why 

 it can be exterminated readily. 



Twenty-five or thirty years ago, men made a business of netting 

 Band-tailed Pigeons in the Willamette Valley, Oregon, for the market. 

 Mr. O. G. Dalaba of Corvallis, Oregon, says that he caught a great many 

 in the coast hills in the early nineties. He says he got twenty-five 

 dozen birds at one spring of the net at Eddyville, and many others got 

 away. At that time, they were shipped to Portland and San Francisco 

 by way of steamers from 1 Yaquina Bay. He shipped as many as eighty 

 dozen at a time. The birds were accustomed to collect around mineral 

 springs or at watering places at certain seasons of the year. 



During the winter of 1911 and 1912, Mr. W. Lee Chambers reported 

 an immense .flight of Band-tailed Pigeons from Paso Kobles south to 

 Nordhoff all through the coast mountains. Great numbers of the birds 

 were) killed and shipped to San Francisco and Los Angeles. One hunter 

 shipped over two thousand birds. A great many hunters from all through 

 Southern California turned out daily to shoot pigeons. This was a good 

 example of certain time and place where perhaps a large portion of the 

 existing numbers of pigeons collect together and stay about in one 

 locality until they are practically destroyed. It would take very few 

 occurrences like this to exterminate the species. 



AN UMPQUA TKAGEDY 



By Alvah Elmer Kellogg, Gold Hill, Oregon 



ONE winter day in the wooded wilds of the Umpqua Mountains in 

 Southern Oregon, John Burch, a government hunter, was plodding 

 his weary way over a new fall of snow, on a tour of inspection 

 over his district. His legs were encased in waterproof leggins, laced 

 above the knees, and shoes of the timbermen type; about his gaunt frame 

 hung a' short leather jacket lined with felt. Plainly, he had paid but 

 little attention to his attire, except for comfort. He carried a late- 

 modeled Winchester rifle strapped over his shoulder, his field glasses 

 hung in a leather case by his side. 



Chained to the hunter's waist was Bruce, an old hound that had 

 been his boon companion for five years. The dog was sired by a blood- 

 hound, imported by his master from old Kentucky. His dam was a 

 black and tan hound, who had lost her life in a battle with the crafty 

 panther in these very mountains. All during his career old Bruce had 

 led a charmed life. His puppyhood comrades had all fallen on the trail, 

 the victim of their foe. The old hero had survived them all. He was 

 of a lank frame, sense wonderfully developed, of great strength and 

 endurance. He knew but one master; his comrades feared and respected 

 his superior authority. Keen on the trail, swift on foot, and valorous, 

 the old fighter had never met defeat; every child was his friend and 

 playmate. 



Chained to the old hound were four young dogs of the same breed. 



