FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



121 



as if it was going to. In my next letter I 

 hope I can tell you the deer is alive. 

 Your loving son, 



Clarence. 



prised to see such a large black bear in- 

 stead of the deer. 



S. R. Harris, Grand Haven, Mich. 



MORE THAN WE EXPECTED. 



In the early days in Northern Michigan, 

 from Grand Rapids to the Straits of Mack- 

 inac, was a dense forest. It was then I 

 engaged in hunting, trapping and fishing. 

 I worked, through the summer, and in the 

 fall took my traps, gun, and a few camp 

 utensils, a small supply of provisions, and 

 started North for the season's hunting and 

 trapping. I made a shanty of hemlock 

 bark, covered with hemlock boughs, and in 

 one end, with blue beech sticks and clay 

 I made a little fireplace, which answered 

 for both cooking and heating. In the other 

 end of the shanty I made a bunk of hem- 

 lock boughs and marsh grass. This was 

 my home for the season, and sometimes for 

 several seasons. Those were the most en- 

 joyable days of my life, as game was abun- 

 dant. One fall, about 1874, in Osceola 

 county, Marve Anton, Frank Buck and 

 I got off the train at Leroy, and with 

 our luggage on our backs, followed a blazed 

 trail through the woods to Rose lake. 

 There we built our hunting shanty and put 

 everything into first class shape for the 

 season's work. Several days were spent in 

 fishing and duck shooting, as it was still 

 early in the season and the weather warm. 

 We found acorns abundant. There was 

 one oak ridge 2 miles from camp where 

 deer were working, so I proposed going 

 up there at night and getting one. My 

 chums were somewhat timid of the screech- 

 ing owls and preferred daylight, so I got 

 up in the morning about 2.30,, took a lunch 

 in my pocket, dressed warm and started 

 for the ridge, leaving word with the boys 

 that if they heard 3 shots in succession, to 

 come at once, as I might need help. I 

 reached the place selected and sat down 

 under a red oak tree. Everything was 

 quiet, but, as I supposed, the birds were 

 getting uneasy in the tree above, for pieces 

 of bark fell sometimes ; but I could hear 

 a deer a short distance away, so I did not 

 notice the work overhead. I could see 

 the glitter of a big buck's horns in the 

 moonlight, and waited for him to come 

 close. As I sat there a piece of falling 

 bark nearly knocked my hat off. I looked 

 up slowly, not to attract attention, and saw, 

 on a large limb, a huge black bear. The 

 deer forgotten, I bounded away from the 

 tree. I had a double barrel muzzle loading 

 rifle. Cocking it, I drew a bead on the 

 bear's eye as best I could in the moonlight 

 and fired. Down came the bear, so, load- 

 ing, I fired both barrels to call the boys. 

 KVhen they came they were greatly sur- 



A PLEA FOR THE SMALL GAME. 



All around us we see the most wanton de- 

 struction of those animals and birds which add 

 beauty, music and interest to every bit of wood- 

 land, swamp and meadow. 



The rifleman desiring practice, the small boy 

 with his 22, the farmer who associates every ani- 

 mal and bird with damage to his crops, and the 

 city man who, having a holiday, goes out to "kill 

 something," are slowly but surely exterminating 

 wild life. 



If these people could only be induced to lay 

 aside their guns and go to the woods with tele- 

 scope and camera and a desire for intimate ac- 

 quaintance with the denizens of forest and 

 swamp, how much more interest they would find 

 in life! How much knowledge of scientific worth 

 they would acquire! 



The rifleman would then shoot only at ver- 

 min, the small boy would grow up a naturalist, 

 the farmer would learn how few creatures really 

 injure his crops and how many protect them, 

 and the city man would have photos of real in- 

 terest to remind him of days afield. 



The average farmer knows little or nothing of 

 the wild creatures he sees every day. If he 

 sees a woodpecker in his orchard, he remarks, 

 "there's that darned woodpecker peckin' holes in 

 my trees," and goes for his gun, never thinking 

 of the little borer drilling into his tree's vitals, 

 on which the bird desires to make its breakfast. 



If he finds a skunk in his fields he shoots the 

 "pesky brute" at once for fear some night it 

 might come near his mongrel fowls, never dream- 

 ing that the skunk is ridding his fields of insects. 

 Better build a skunk-proof hen-house and let the 

 animal continue its good work. 



Most people regard all hawks as fair marks, 

 calling all hen-hawks, whereas there are but 2 

 hen-hawks among all the common species; the 

 Cooper's and the sharp shinned. The others do 

 an immense amount of good by destroying insects 

 and vermin. A safe test is to see if they visit 

 the hen-house. 



Some say "shoot the red squirrels, they eat 

 birds' eggs." Didn't red squirrels eat birds' eggs 

 before man came on the scene? Yet the number 

 of birds did not diminish. No! rather leave the 

 red squirrels alone. Man has upset the balance of 

 nature enough already. 



If instead of shooting every animal committing 

 a real or imaginary offense against their property 

 men would weigh their good work against their 

 crimes, and only fire when the latter overbal- 

 anced the former, a host of beneficial and neutral 

 creatures would be spared. 



If people would only study more and kill less, 

 wild life would soon abound about us and we 

 should not leave to our successors deserted woods, 

 voiceless meadows, and swamps whose deathly 

 stillness would be only broken by the croaking 

 of the dismal frog. — A. B. K., in the Cornwall, 

 Ont., Standard. 



AN ENCOUNTER WITH A LYNX. 

 I have just returned from a hunting 

 trip to the Boston mountains in Northern 

 Arkansas. There were 4 in our party, 

 and, excepting one untoward incident, we 

 had a delightful time. The mountains are 

 high and well watered, and game is abun- 

 dant. The region is, however, difficult to 

 reach. We left the railroad at West 

 Plains, Mo., and took a stage from there 

 to the Mountain House, 60 miles dis- 

 tant. Thence we drove 40 miles to our 



