A DAY WITH THE SWANS. 



THOS. G. FARREL. 



Gracefully floating on the surface of the 

 lakes in the parks of our larger cities, may 

 be seen numbers of swans. Some are the 

 black Australian variety, but the majority 

 are white European or American swans. 



As one watches them gliding about the 

 mirror-like surface, the idea of their being 

 game birds hardly enters the mind. 



In truth, the American swan is one of our 

 gamest birds, as many a veteran wild fowl 

 shooter can attest. 



Although strangely unlike in color and 

 size, in more ways than one the swan re- 

 sembles the canvasback duck. All hail to 

 these 2 birds! A snap of my finger for the 

 mallard, teal, wood-duck, sprig-tail and 

 others of the " fair weather " duck tribe. 



Here's to the swan and the divers; to the 

 canvasback, red-head, blue-bill, and black- 

 duck; to the birds that fear not the storm 

 and the cold; to the birds that revel in 

 snow and sleet; that pick choicest morsels 

 from the ooze at the bottom of the pond and 

 are not frightened into the next county at 

 the sight of bobbing decoys- 

 Two or 3 years ago, when the lakes of 

 the Columbia river valley were fairly payed 

 with succulent bulbs, we did not give these 

 ideas the consideration they deserved. But 

 time has worked a change. 



That worthy institution, the U. S. Fish 

 Commission, made a most fearful blunder 

 here in Oregon. Ordinarily the Fish Com- 

 mission does naught but good, distributing 

 as it does the fry of bass, salmon, pick- 

 erel, shad, trout, and other good food 

 fishes; but with us they left the carp. 



To some, doubtless, that name explains 

 matters. To those who do not understand 

 " the nature of the beast " let me say that 

 our good people, knowing little of fish in 

 general and less of the variety known as the 

 German carp, took the Fish Commission at 

 its word when told it was a valuable and 

 prolific food fish, and thanked it for the 

 gift of some thousand young water hogs. 

 There are 2 importations the Oregon 

 sportsman will never forget. 



Once we imported the Mongolian pheas- 

 ant; and our fields are now well stocked 

 with those beautiful and prolific game birds. 



The other importation — the carp — was 

 even more prolific (we have countless mill- 

 ions of them) ; but they have eaten our 

 wapatoes and all other forms of vegetation 

 with which our lakes once abounded, leav- 

 ing them desolate, unsightly seas of mud 

 and roily water. 



In the good old days, not long gone, but 

 I fear never to return, we shot the guileless 

 mallard and wood-duck early in the season 

 and thought them birds fit for anyone's 



sport. But when the North wind howled 

 through the leafless branches of the cotton- 

 wood, we furbished up our decoys for the 

 game and dashing canvasback and the 

 snowy pinioned swan. At present he who 

 desires duck hunting must place wheat and 

 barley for the birds. 



Great numbers of mallard, teal, widgeon 

 and sprig-tail come to the feast and many 

 fair bags are obtained at the baited boxes. 

 But it is tame sport at best. 



No canvasbacks nor swans come to the 

 scattered grain. No indeed; these royal 

 birds will not humble themselves. 



The first cold snap drives the open 

 weather ducks toward the Southland, and, 

 there being little or no natural food, we get 

 no canvasback, and the shooting season 

 is practically over. 



No longer than 4 years ago many of our 

 ponds were frequently white with whistling 

 swans, gorging themselves on the wapatoe 

 which they extracted from the soft mud. 

 Beautiful, plump birds they were and great 

 sport did they afford. 



Many a time did the sportsman bless their 

 presence in his lake, knowing they would 

 prevent the ice from entirely closing up, 

 and so insure a good day with the cold-ig- 

 noring canvas backs. 



Lying in my bunk on the hunting float, 

 one night about 3 years ago, I heard the 

 cries of a passing band of swan, and, to my 

 ears at least, there is no sound so reminis- 

 cent of rushing winds, pelting snow and 

 glorious' sport as that strange note. 



" Is the swan really a game bird," I hear 

 the reader question. " When you have 

 bagged your bird what is it good for? " 

 "Is it fit for food?" 



A young swan, when properly prepared, 

 if not a dainty morsel, forms the piece de 

 resistance to a choice game dinner. 



In England they appreciate the swan and 

 at Christmas time a cygnet sells readily at 

 from 5 to 10 dollars. 



Breeding in the marshy fens of Alaska 

 the swans, in their annual trip South, reach 

 Oregon about December 1st. They haunt 

 the Columbia river valley for 3 or 4 months, 

 but the best shooting is generally had about 

 Fe-bruary 1st. 



Tradition has it that 2 varieties of the 

 swan family are to be met with in Oregon 

 — the common American whistler, and the 

 bugler. I have seen many thousands of 

 these birds, but none other than the whis- 

 tler or trumpeter swan. 



Two or 3 winters ago, 4 of us found our- 

 selves near St. Helens, a hamlet on the 

 shores of the Columbia, in quest of canvas- 

 backs and swans. All night long, as we 



193 



