FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



365 



who would take out 500 shells and then 

 grieve because some game got away, is not 

 a sportsman at all. He is just a common 

 hog. A sportsman quits when he gets 

 enough, just as you say you do. Therefore 

 it seems, by your statement, you are a genu- 

 ine, true blooded sportsman ; notwithstand- 

 ing you claim to be a pot hunter. — Editor. 



APPENDICITIS OR WHAT ? 



The article in January Recreation by 

 Mr. J. F. Warner reminds me of an experi- 

 ence of my own. 



One afternoon, last winter, I was in the 

 hills near Los Angeles, Cal., shooting 

 ground squirrels with a .22 calibre rifle. 



An old man was with me, who uses the 

 squirrels as food. And barring prejudice 

 they are just as good to eat as any squirrel. 



I had secured 6 or 7 and left my com- 

 panion at the bottom of a little ravine, while 

 he dressed them. Soon after leaving him, 

 I saw a half grown squirrel come out of a 

 hole, some 30 yards from me. When I 

 pulled on him, he jumped a foot or more 

 and began to kick as lively as any dying 

 squirrel I ever saw. Calling the old man, 

 I told him I had another for him. He came 

 to the dead rodent, picked it up and looked 

 it over. 



There was no bullet mark on it, not a 

 scratch, nor even a break on the skin to 

 show it had been struck. I told my friend 

 to examine it closely when he dressed it ; 

 but no bullet mark did he find. Did this 

 squirrel, like the antelope, catch the bullet 

 in its mouth and die of appendicitis? 



Will A. Wright, Los Angeles, Cal. 



A BOOMERANG BULLET. 



In the fall of '93, with 2 companions, I 

 was hunting among the sandstone canyons 

 of Mesa county, Col. Having killed 2 deer, 

 my comrades started to bring the pack 

 horses from a little park in which they were 

 picketed. In rounding the head of the can- 

 yon, where I awaited their return, they start- 

 ed a deer. It ran down the canyon and 

 stopped opposite me, some 80 yards away. 

 I aimed behind its shoulder and fired, shoot- 

 ing downward at an angle of 25 degrees. 

 Three or 4 seconds after the report some- 

 thing passed my ear with a humming noise 

 and struck the ground 3 feet behind me. I 

 saw a flattened bullet lying on the pine 

 needles at my feet. Supposing it to be a 

 spent ball from some other hunter's gun, 

 I picked it up and discovered that, besides 

 being freshly blood-stained, the bullet con- 

 tained grains of sand imbedded on oppo- 

 site sides. 



An investigation showed that my bullet 

 had passed through the deer without strik- 

 ing a bone. It next struck a hard piece of 

 sandstone with a nearly horizontal top, lying 

 about 10 feet beyond the deer. This gave 



it an upward inclination. Ten feet farther 

 on it struck the vertical wall of the canyon 

 and was thrown into the air at the proper 

 angle to return it whence it came. 



C. A. Cooper, Silverton, Col. 



WHAT KILLED THE DEER ? 



Frank Warren's remarkable shot reminds 

 me of a similar experience. I was deer 

 hunting, about 5 miles from Petoskey. It 

 had been snowing for several days and the 

 snow was deep and soft. I was using a 12 

 gauge Winchester shotgun, loaded with 

 buckshot. While I was walking on a side 

 of a hill, suddenly up jumped a doe. She 

 kept hidden in the thick undergrowth so I 

 could not see her for some time. At the 

 end of the ridge was an open space, perhaps 

 6 feet wide. She crossed this like a flash, 

 and all I remember seeing was a pair of 

 hind legs. I fired, and ran to the top of 

 the ridge to get another shot, but could see 

 nothing. I went back to the place where 

 I last saw her and found her tracks. Those 

 I followed for about 200 feet and there lay 

 the doe stone dead. The only wound I 

 could find on her was in the left hind leg, 

 where one of the buckshot had penetrated. 

 I skinned the deer there, but not another 

 wound could I find. I never thought of 

 opening the stomach to see if she had swal- 

 lowed any of my buckshot. 



Swan Schriver, Petoskey, Mich. 



A VACATION ON WHEELS. 



Every fall my wife and I take 2 weeks 

 vacation. We go on a carriage drive back 

 through the White mountains. We cook 

 all our food out of doors and when night 

 overtakes us, stop at some farm house. 



I take gun and rod along and manage to 

 shoot squirrels and grouse enough to give 

 us all the fricassee we want. I also catch 

 trout and pickerel. I have invented a cook- 

 er that we use over an oil stove. With it I 

 can get dinner for 6 people and make coffee, 

 all at one boiling. We pack our carriage 

 with useful articles, take plenty of salt pork, 

 butter, cheese, tea and coffee, as well as oats 

 for the horse. 



Last September we drove around the 

 White mountains, and never ate a meal un- 

 der cover but once. That day it rained hard 

 and we were looking for shelter when we 

 came to a large covered bridge. I unhar- 

 nessed the horse, turned him out to grass, 

 set up our stove and cooked the best din- 

 ner of the whole trip. We had our camera 

 with us, and took lots of pictures, which I 

 value highly. We had books and papers 

 to read, and enjoyed every moment of our 

 trip. At noon we generally took 2 hours' 

 rest. We would drive into a good shady 

 place, put up our hammocks and after dinner 

 we would sleep or read. 



O. P. Greene, Saco, Me. 



