290 
too deeply interested in watching and study- 
ing the animals. It is not all of hunting 
to kill game. It is often more fun to study 
a wild creature’s movements than to kill 
it. To have fired at one of these wolves 
would have broken up their hunting party 
in an instant and that would have ended 
the most interesting show I ever saw. 
And now comes the most thrilling epi- 
sode of that remarkable day’s hunt. Im- 
mediately after these wolves had crossed 
the road I heard crashing of brush on the 
opposite side of the road, and the animal 
that was making the disturbance was com- 
ing directly toward me. At first I thought 
it was the pack of wolves returning. Then 
I said “a bear.” I shuddered till you could 
almost have heard me, and looked for limbs 
on the tree by which I was standing, but 
there were none. 
Finally relief came when close to me, on 
the opposite side of the road a large porcu- 
pine waddled to a tree and clambered up it. 
I regained my composure in a moment and 
made strides toward camp, which I reached 
long after the day had merged into night. 
C. O. Coleman, Croton, Ohio. 

ONE RAINY MORNING. 
F. W. PARKHURST, 
Near my home in central New York is a 
sheet of water termed by courtesy a lake, 
though covering scarcely 150 acres. It is 
almost ‘round, and is bordered on one side 
by a few scraggly hemlocks and by a high- 
way on the other. It affords, in season, ex- 
cellent duck shooting; and the sport is 
made more exciting by its risk, for it is an 
even chance that the shooter will himself 
stop a stray charge of 4’s. 
One rainy evening in April, ’96, my 
brother and I wheeled to our little cottage 
on the shore of the lake and made prep- 
aration for the fun we expected in the 
morning. We awoke at 4 to the music 
of an alarm clock; soon had a fire burning 
merrily, and an appetizing breakfast pre- 
pared. 
At the first peep of dawn we were in our 
boats and ready for the ducks. The light 
came fast, and a glimpse of 2 dark 
shadows on the water working toward a 
large flock of ducks in the middle of the 
lake, warned us that we must hasten or 
lose our share of shooting. It became 
a race to determine which boat should 
have first shot. Finding myself handi- 
capped, I compromised with fate and 
took an advantageous position for a 
chance when the birds flew. Bang! bang! 
bang! and fun began. Up went the birds 
with a sharp swish of wings, headed 
straight for my boat. I let them come 
within 30 yards and then sprang up. They 
RECREATION. 
hesitated, turned and were lost, for they 
received both barrels in rapid succession. 
Four fell with a resounding splash. 
The banging became general and ducks 
flew in all directions in bunches, pairs and 
singles, with an occasional large flock. One 
beauty came flying along at a 60 mile clip, 
and I drew on him; but a hasty glance be- 
yond convinced me that my place was in 
the bottom of the boat. I dropped like a 
log, and just in time, for my neighbor across 
the way, apparently unconscious of my 
proximity, let drive with both barrels, and 
played a merry staccato on the sides of 
my boat. It was a humiliating position. 
I rose with offended dignity and poured 
forth a most convincing presentment of the 
case; but the man was an old hand and 
knew a charge of 4’s could not hurt much at 
100 yards. He calmly remarked, “I hope I 
didn’t hurt you much.” 
admit that I was uninjured, and the only 
reply I received was: “You ought to 
be thankful for my consideration in al- 
lowing you time to drop.” I have learned 
since that the only sure preventive of such 
accidents is to shoot first. 
Shifiting my position to a less dangerous 
neighborhood, I lay back for business. First 
a pair of teal came swiftly on. When in 
range the old Wilkesbarre spoke and down 
went the leader. My second barrel drew 
a blank. Then birds came so fast I was 
kept busy attending to them. 
It was marvelous how the ducks shifted 
from one location to another, receiving 
volley after volley as they swung round the 
fatal circle. They apparently lost their 
wits, and if they passed one string of boats 
in safety, they were sure to fall victims at 
the next. Frequently 25 or 30 boats dot the 
lake, so close together that it is a wonder 
a single duck escapes. I never knew ducks 
to act elsewhere as they do on this par- 
ticular lake. I have seen flocks of 30 or 
more fly round and round until not over 
2 or 3 were left alive, and smaller flocks 
are frequently annihilated. Do not gather the 
impression that it is pot shooting, for it is 
not. After the first shot in the water, every 
bird is killed on the wing. 
. 

CAMPING IN THE HILLS. 
H, F. HACKETT, 
In the spring of ’83 Jack Foster, John 
Dunkin, familiarly called “Dunk,” and I 
concluded to put in a summer in the moun- 
tains between Dillon, Montana, and Yel- 
lowstone park, so we procured pack and 
saddle horses, and bought our grub, camp 
outfit, traps, tent and everything we needed 
for a 3 months’ stay in the hills. Besides, 
we took along a pick, shovel and gold pan, 
for we intended to prospect. We took only 
2 guns, an old muzzle loading shot gun and 
I was forced to © 
