A COON HUNT IN A CANADIAN FOREST. 



O. M. ARNOLD. 



The fight you are making for the protec- 

 tion of game is worthy of material support, 

 and I enclose fee for a year's subscription. 

 The inherent nature of man to kill is a 

 heavy handicap against you in the race on 

 which you have entered, but the gradual 

 disappearance of game in all parts of the 

 country may act as a warning and offset 

 the natural inclination. 



In my boyhood I was fond of dog and 

 gun. My father was a good hunter and 

 my mother was an ideal shot. I have often 

 seen her select a chicken walking in the 

 yard and shoot it in the head, offhand, with 

 a rifle. Their home is in Kent county, 

 Western Ontario. Not many years ago there 

 were plenty of wild pigeons, quails, grouse, 

 ducks, geese, wild turkeys, black squirrels, 

 rabbits, ground hogs, foxes, deer and 

 coons. Most of them have disappeared on 

 account of not being protected. I live in 

 the beautiful Muskoka Lake District of 

 Ontario. Until recently deer were found 

 here in herds ; now they are scarce. In 

 Ontario we have a game law which limits 

 the number of deer any person may take 

 in the open season, but that is offset by the 

 number of persons who hunt. The law 

 is supposedly enforced by officers who 

 are appointed by the government without 

 regard to any qualification save political 

 good conduct. The game warden is 

 clothed with extraordinary power. He may 

 be, and is, informant, prosecutor and, be- 

 ing ex-officio a justice of the peace, judge 

 of his victims. These are generally poor 

 settlers who only come within the scope 

 of the law by killing for food- during the 

 close season. 



The result is there is little killing done by 

 settlers, and during the open season the 

 country is overrun by hundreds of hunt- 

 ers and trainloads of hounds, who carry 

 on a war of extermination. They slaughter 

 deer in the water and on well marked run- 

 ways as if the poor animals were deadly 

 enemies of man. If hounding were prohib- 

 ited not only would deer increase but good 

 still hunters would be developed. Now 

 there arc few worthy the name. 



My favorite sport was coon hunting. An 

 article in March Recreation, by W. A. 

 Bruce, brings to mind my last coon hunt. 

 Mr. Bruce apparently did his hunting with 

 lu mnds. I never fancied them for coons. 

 I have found them too apt to run the back- 

 track. Their power of discrimination is 

 not good. It is anything but pleasant to 



fell a big tree and find it the one the coon 

 left hours before. The hounds I knew 

 were also inclined to run foxes, or perhaps 

 spoil an evening's sport by pouncing on 

 an unwary skunk. 



A coon in front of a slow hound always 

 takes a big tree. That does not happen sq 

 often with a smarter dog. They are often 

 forced to take a small tree or be caught 

 on the ground. 



The best coon dogs I have known have 

 been yellow dogs — collies and crosses of 

 other breeds. The proverbial uselessness 

 and meanness of a yellow dog must have 

 been imagined by some person who never 

 owned one. My last hunt was with a yellow 

 dog. He was a collie, above the average 

 in size. As a pup he had a bad reputation 

 in the neighborhood where he was raised. 

 He fell into the hands of a man who pre- 

 sented him to my father as a sort of prac- 

 tical joke. The dog had a fine head with 

 plenty of brains and eyes that bespoke his 

 every mood. We all soon fell in love with 

 that hitherto despised yellow dog. He 

 turned out well and proved a great coon 

 dog. When he barked up a tree a coon 

 was surely there. 



The time of which I write was a fine 

 fall evening. The frost had cleared the 

 trees of leaves, and there was just enough 

 moonlight to enable one to go through the 

 thin woods without a lantern. I had gone 

 home from school for a few days, and was 

 sitting in the dining-room reading. Sud- 

 denly there came a scratching at the door 

 and the dog began to whine. I hastened 

 out and the yelping of dogs told me a 

 coon tree had been cut on an adjoining 

 farm, and that the game had got away. 

 The dogs followed fast on the track, 

 through a bit of brush, across a cleared 

 field and over the highway into our woods. 

 It was what we called a swamp coon, old 

 and wary. He knew exactly where he 

 was going. It was to a stately elm, the 

 largest on the property. The coon had oft- 

 en escaped by reaching that tree. 



After calling me out the old dog started 

 for the noise, but a word from me brought 

 him back. Soon the other dogs became 

 quiet, and as there was no immediate sound 

 of axes I knew the coon had reached the 

 big elm. The animal frequented a corn 

 field near where he was first put up. His 

 trades, frequently seen in mud and soft 

 ground, showed that he was a big fellow. 

 My father had given our neighbors permis- 



