FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



123 



We used 2 single boxes about 750 decoys. 

 That broke the record of any shooting on 

 the flats, especially on canvasbacks. 

 Capt. William H. Poplar, Havre de Grace, 

 Md. 



The dispatch says : 



"Duck shooting has been poor on the 

 Susquehanna flats this spring." Then the 

 reporter proceeds to laud a pair of bristly 

 brutes, who killed 122 ducks in 40 minutes. 



It is because such slaughter as these 

 Poplar porkers committed has been going 

 on for the past 20 years that duck shoot- 

 ing is now so poor everywhere. Occasion- 

 ally the ducks bunch in here and there, and 

 if a shooter happens to be present at the 

 time, he gets good shooting. All gentlemen 

 know when to quit, even in such rare 

 cases ; but these Poplars did not. They 

 will probably continue to hang around the 

 flats, as long as they live and to eke out 

 a miserable existence by occasionally get- 

 ting $5 or $10 from some sportsmen who 

 would like to kill a few ducks. Further- 

 more this Poplar type of swine will oc- 

 casionally get a flight of ducks, murder 

 them, and, if possible, sell them. 



This slaughter was committed in the 

 spring, too, when the birds were on their 

 way to their nesting grounds. 



The only way we can ever hope to put 

 these disreputable brutes out of business is 

 to stop spring shooting, and to stop the 

 sale of game. 



Captain Poplar's number on the game 

 hog list is 891 and Jesse D. Poplar's is 

 892. — Editor. 



AMONG THE DUCKS. 



Twin lakes are situated 5 miles North 

 of Rockwell City, Iowa. They are beauti- 

 ful bodies of water separated by a ridge 30 

 rods wide. The North lake is y 2 mile wide 

 and 3 miles long. The South lake is about 

 one square mile in extent. These lakes are 

 on a large prairie and are partly surrounded 

 by small trees. To the Northwest extends 

 a large marsh called Hell's slough. Lakes 

 and marshes are surrounded by immense 

 grain fields. 



By September 1, when the open season 

 begins, teal are abundant and the first day 

 or 2 any one with a gun can get ducks ; but 

 teal are _ no fools, and soon even expert 

 shots fail to bring in large bags. Later 

 come spoonbills, widgeons and other small 

 ducks. Still later bluebills, with a few can- 

 vasbacks and mallards ; but it is during the 

 last of October and the first half of No- 

 vember that the canvasback and mallard 

 hold high carnival on these lakes. 



Some of our local shooters and a few 

 visitors had royal sport last fall. About 

 .November 1, Frank Owens and Peck Mead, 

 2 local sports and expert wing shots, took 



a 2 days' shoot on South lake, killing over 

 200 ducks. They are royal good fellows as 

 well as good shots, and know the ways of 

 the birds. 



Some sportsmen may cry game hog, but 

 if they had seen the boys shoot, standing 

 in their boats on the lake, the wind blowing 

 a gale and the waves rolling, they would 

 have been as ready to cheer as we were. 

 D. C. Nowels, Rockwell, la. 



If I were you I would not waste time 

 apologizing for any man who slaughters 

 game. It is the most utterly hopeless task 

 you could possibly undertake in this age 

 of the world. When you tell about 2 men 

 killing over 200 ducks in 2 days, you may 

 as well submit their case to the jury of 

 public opinion without comment, for no 

 amount of argument in their favor could 

 conceal their bristles. These men may be 

 "sports," as you term them, but they are 

 not sportsmen, no matter how rough the 

 weather was, or how hard the porkers had 

 to root to get their game. 



Owens is game hog number 893 and 

 Peck Mead is hog number 894. — Editor. 



HOW THE BUFFALO DIED. 



It was on the sandy waste of Colorado. 

 The hot day was nearing its end. The sun, 

 which had scorched the arid plain all 

 day, cast its rays obliquely on it, tinging all 

 objects with a brownish yellow hue. North, 

 South and East spread the limitless desert ; 

 not a single mound or hillock relieved the 

 tired eye. Toward the setting sun, and 

 gleaming with ethereal beauty, Pike's Peak 

 raised its 14,150 feet of awe-inspiring ma- 

 jesty to the heavens. 



It was at the close of such a day that 

 Leslie Winton, explorer and naturalist, 

 spurred his tired pony toward a stream 

 which he had selected as a favorable spot 

 for the night's halt. As he approached the 

 place he saw something which made him 

 quicken his horse's pace. In a few min- 

 utes he arrived at his goal, and there, a 

 few rods from the stream, stood a noble 

 bull buffalo. Winton's first impulse was to 

 shoot, but after a second glance he lowered 

 his piece and intently observed every move- 

 ment of the beast. 



The bull was dying; the emaciated 

 flanks, sprawling legs and lolling tongue 

 proved it. Yet even in his sore strait he 

 bore himself with a natural majesty which 

 bespoke the king. The dull, lusterless eyes, 

 shaggy neck and defiant poise of the head 

 uphold the reputation of savage strength so 

 characteristic of the buffalo, even in death. 



In a few moments unmistakable signs of 

 the end became apparent. Twice he fell on 

 his knees and as often regained his feet. 

 The third time, struggle as he would, he 

 could not rise. He knelt there, then with 

 one mighty bellow, breathing defiance to 



