198 



RECREATION. 



little in front of the ears. I never killed an 

 animal so dead in all my hunting as I did 

 this bear. I did not suppose it possible to 

 kill a bear so suddenly that it would not 

 move after falling. Once since then I 

 broke a bear's neck, but he struggled for a 

 short time. I have 3 relics from my first 

 bear; a rug from his skin, a watch charm 

 from a claw and a penholder from a bone. 

 It was interesting to study the situation 

 around the old camp. The bear had evi- 

 dently been feeding and roving around 

 there for some time. There was a greasy 

 trail over the window sill, also on the floor 

 of the hallway under the barrel of syrup. I 

 imagined I could see him marching back 

 and forth under the barrel studying some 

 way to reach it. 



I skinned the bear and packed his skin 7 

 miles to the farm, reaching there at 2 p.m. 



Since that time I have lost much of my 

 fear of black bears, as I have found them 

 cowards under most circumstances. 



AN EXPERIENCE WITH LOONS. 



HANK HUNKAMUNK. 



In 1888, when deer hunting at Witch 

 lake, Northern Michigan, our party dis- 

 covered 2 loons on the lake. They remained 

 there the 2 weeks we were in camp. From 

 our boat, and from the shore, we often fired 

 at them with Winchester repeaters, but 

 without scoring a hit. 



My friend, Peter W , declared he 



would whack one of those loons before we 

 broke camp, and he wasted 45-90 cartridges 

 on them, day after day. The day before we 

 pulled out he went down to the shore for 

 a last trial, and I with him to see the fun. 

 The loons were out about 75 yards, and his 

 rifle was sighted for that distance. At the 

 second shot, greatly to my surprise, one 

 of the birds turned bottom up and his white 

 breast lay still on the water. We jumped 

 in our boat, rowed out and picked him up. 

 A big, fine specimen he was, and shot ex- 

 actly midway through the neck. I won- 

 dered that a 45-300 bullet did not cut the 

 head clean off. Two years after, in 1890, I 

 went up to camp again, this time at Fence 

 lake, with my brother and son, and 2 

 friends. On Fence lake were also 2 loons; 

 and we kept popping at them, as we had at 

 the others. One day we approached the 

 shore through some tall reeds. Before we 

 sighted the water, my brother suggested 

 we go quietly and look for the loons. 



We stole cautiously through the reeds to 

 the water and there, within 75 yards, was 

 one of the birds taking his siesta and sun- 

 bath. I had with me my single shot May- 

 nard rifle, with Lyman peep. My brother 

 being armed with a 45-90 Winchester, sug- 

 gested I fire with my more accurate single 

 shot rifle. I wanted that loon badly, and 

 carefully aiming I pulled. I heard the bul- 

 let's distinct " ping " as it struck. When the 

 loon was brought to shore, there was the 



bullet hole directly through the neck, mid- 

 way, but the head was not severed. Now 

 to have 2 shots just alike, 2 years apart, 

 and I witness them both, struck me as a 

 singular coincidence. Neither of those 

 loons dodged the bullets, and what's more, 

 they could not. The absurd idea, advanced 

 by some old hunters, that, at the flash of a 

 rifle, a loon will dive before the bullet 

 reaches him, got knocked flat in this in- 

 stance. A friend of mine told me he 

 and a comrade once chased 2 loons on a 

 river, for miles; firing at them repeatedly 

 with shot guns, and that they dived every 

 time and escaped the shot. I imagine they 

 at no time got within 75 to 100 yards, as 

 loons will not allow a closer approach from 

 a boat. Of course when they fired, the 

 birds dived; but the shot never reached 

 them. All this talk of a loon's dodging a 

 rifle ball originated from trying to shoot 

 these birds with shot. 



AN ARKANSAS CAMP. 



J. N. HALL. 



A company of gentlemen from various 

 contiguous sections of our Western country 

 always look forward to the coming of No- 

 vember, because that means our annual 

 outing is near at hand. This occasion 

 serves as an annual reunion to as congenial 

 a crew as ever tempted a finny strike, or 

 chased a fleeing deer. It is a regular 

 Christmas of a time for us when we get 

 out in the woods, or on the waters of the 

 noble St. Francis. 



We had 13 in our party on our last hunt. 

 We got into camp November 19th, and re- 

 mained a little over one week. Our camp 

 was on what is called Little White Oak, on 

 the banks of the beautiful St. Francis river. 

 Our first care was to ascertain the sort of 

 game we had around us, and to what par- 

 ticular line of sport we would have to 

 adapt ourselves. We soon found deer were 

 scarce, and after one day's hunt we decided 

 to spend but little time on that sort of sport. 

 But duck shooting and fishing were good, 

 and, as most of us liked both, we soon had 

 lots of game in camp. 



This is the best duck region I ever saw. 

 There are thousands of acres of sunk lands 

 on both sides of the main channel of the 

 river. The water pepper and moss are fine 

 feed" for the fowls, and they are there in 

 great abundance, and are very fat. It is 

 sometimes hard work to reach their feeding 

 grounds, on account of the growth of smart 

 weed and saw grass. One morning Mr. 

 Fonville and I were in our canoe making 

 our way into " Goose Opening " to shoot 

 ducks. I was in the stern of the boat, push- 

 ing it over the weeds, when suddenly we 

 pushed over a deep hole, and out I went. 

 As I went down I caught hold of the boat 

 and upset it, and out went Mr. Fonville, 

 too. There we were, 3 miles from camp, 

 cold morning, and soaking wet. Fonville 



