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RECREATION. 



Do you ever hear from this wonderful 

 valley, the home of the Mongolian pheas- 

 ant and other birds, all of which need your 

 protection? We have good game laws 

 here, but we also have good natured peo- 

 ple, slow to wrath, so that the game hog 

 flourishes. A fine crop of pheasants was 

 mostly shot out before October ist, and 

 after that date the limit to the bag is too 

 often all that the shooter can kill. The 

 den of the game hog seems to be in Port- 

 land. 



The farmers about us are exceedingly 

 kind to sportsmen. I have had numerous 

 invitations to shoot, and have been out 

 twice, bagging 3 pheasants the first trip 

 and doing somewhat better the last time, 

 when I had the pleasure of shooting once 

 at a pheasant, 3 times at ruffed grouse and 

 twice at quail. I came home without hav- 

 ing missed a shot, though all the shooting 

 was in high brush or heavy timber. I am 

 not always so fortunate; but 'no great 

 number of birds would have given me the 

 pleasure I derived from 2 or 3 difficult 

 shots that day. 



My excellent host and guide was a Mr. 

 Macbee, who told me he has been reading 

 Recreation several years. 



The chief object of this letter is to have 

 you name the bird I have called ruffed 

 grouse. I so named it because someone 

 here told me that was what it was. I 

 have never seen the bird before, but I 

 should have called it a partridge. I found 

 it in dense woods. I also found it suc- 

 cessful in getting away from me. It has 

 about all the earmarks of Bonasa umbel- 

 lus, feathered legs, tail feathers like those 

 of a turkey, and the cock has large black 

 feathers on the sides of his neck; short 

 bill, white flesh, and he who eats it wants 

 more of it. What is it?* 



By the way, I had one misfortune while 

 on the hunt of which I have been telling. 

 My last chance was at a magnificent cock 

 pheasant, on open ground. That bird owes 

 its life to the fact that I did not have with 

 me enough tools to explode the primer of 

 a Peters shell which I had carelessly and 

 unintentionally placed in my gun. That 

 same lot of shells cost me many ducks last 

 spring. I thought I had thrown all the 

 lame shells away, but 2 had remained in 

 my coat of many pockets. These inter- 

 vened to save the life of the finest cock 

 pheasant I have seen. What kind of a 

 gun will explode those shells ? Should one 

 grind the primers down a bit before start- 

 ing out? If these shells will not explode, 

 why are they made? Would it not be well 

 for Peters to keep up with the procession? 

 We can't afford to go back to flintlocks. 

 T. B. M., Corvallis, Oregon. 



COON HUNTING. 



One clear cool night in July as I was sit- 

 ting on my back porch I heard a whine 

 from old Quick, the winner of many a 

 hard fought battle. My cousin, a lad of 

 13, made his appearance at the same time 

 and said he would like to go coon hunting. 

 I told him to hitch the pony and tell the 

 boys to get ready. At 8 p. m. we started ; 

 Lester, Barny, Lawrence and I, and Quick. 



Quick is a large black and tan dog, 12 

 years old and weighing about 60 pounds. 

 He has never lost a coon, and will not run 

 any other animal. 



We set out across the wheat stubbles 

 and had traveled nearly 2 hours before we 

 heard the welcome bawl. The coon ran a 

 quarter of a mile before he turned. Then 

 he came back on a fence and passed within 

 50 feet of us. He took up through a pas- 

 ture and over the hill to a thicket. When 

 we reached the top of the hill we found that 

 Quick had chased the coon into a slab pile. 

 It was then 12 o'clock and as coons do not, 

 as a rule, run much after midnight, we de- 

 cided to return. 



We had nearly reached the barn when 

 we again heard the dog's deep bay. He 

 went straight through the corn field to the 

 fence and there lost the trail a while, but 

 soon picked it up and gave us more music. 

 The coon circled the woods and then 

 worked toward the center. Quick treed him 

 in a big oak. It was too dark to see and the 

 tree was too big to climb, so we built a fire 

 and waited for daylight. Quick took his 

 post at the foot of the tree. We fell asleep 

 and it was just breaking day when I awoke 

 and wakened the rest. I told the boys to 

 watch while I shot into the tree. There was 

 a scramble, the noise of falling bark and 

 then the coon leaped. Quick was at his 

 service when he alighted and after a hot 

 fight, killed him. A prouder dog was no- 

 where to be found, nor a happier bunch of 

 boys. The coon, a large red one, weighed 

 21 pounds. We reached home at 6 a. m. 

 tired but ready to go again. 



H. Dugan, Greensburg, Pa. 



*It appears to be the Canada ruffed grouse, 

 Bonasa umbellus togata. — Editor, 



THE PROSPECTOR AND THE BEAR. 



The article in August Recreation de- 

 scribing the bear of Alaska brings to mind 

 an experience I had in Minnesota, in the 

 early 90's. 



I had been laid up in Duluth as the re- 

 sult of overwork while prospecting, and 

 when I at last got around I was in rather 

 poor trim. The first day out I met my 

 friend, Z. D. Goodell, who wanted some- 

 one to look up some indications of iron 

 he had run across the year before in the 

 Hinkley country. In spite of my poor 

 condition I consented to go. 



I left the train at noon the next day and 

 traveled about 10 miles before I stopped. 



