FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



39 



summer home, " Eagles' Nest " on Bidde- 

 ford bay. 



Mr. Cole has a model shooting wagon 

 with room for everybody on the 2 wide seats 

 and a comfortable place for the dogs in the 

 back. He. also has the best little road horse 

 I ever saw, and we made the 9 miles over 

 country roads, in the night, in 46 minutes. 



Arrived at the house, we hustled off to 

 bed, and the first streak of sunlight found 

 us up and admiring a beautiful Biddeford 

 pool. The pool is full of bowlders over 

 which the ocean sweeps in stormy weather, 

 and on the most prominent point of cliffs, 

 stands Eagles' Nest. Then, just across a lit- 

 tle stretch of beach is the life saving station, 

 with its sturdy seamen who keep constant 

 watch for ships in distress. From them, we 

 learned the time and location of different 

 flights, which helped us materially, and if 

 they enjoyed the duck dinner we left with 

 them later it repaid them in part for the 

 courtesy shown us. While admiring my sur- 

 roundings I was told all was in readiness 

 for our trip beyond the breakers. We got 

 into the boats and pulled for Shooting rock, 

 where we left Mrs. Cole. Then a hundred 

 rods farther out, Mr. Cole dropped anchor 

 and decoys, and instructed me to go about 

 the same distance beyond. Soon after we 

 were located the birds began to come. First 

 a pair of black ducks swung in to Mr. C, 

 and only one went away. Then, a flock of 

 coot whistled in over my decoys and 2 

 splashed in the water. " Bang," " bang," 

 came the report of Mrs. Cole's little Ithaca, 

 from Shooting rock, and I saw 2 birds tum- 

 ble. So it went until we had enough and, 

 out of respect for Recreation's campaign 

 against game hogs, we pulled up anchor and 

 returned to shore. 



HOW WOULD THIS DO? 



Roslindale, Mass. 



Editor Recreation: For several years I 

 have been thinking, or trying to think, of 

 some way to stop, or at least to reduce, reck- 

 less shooting in our big game regions. In 

 some localities it is unsafe to go into the 

 woods without wearing a style of clothing 

 altogether unsuitable for hunting big game. 

 There are men who go into the woods pre- 

 pared to shoot at everything that moves, 

 and to find out later whether they have 

 bagged or missed a guide or a brother 

 sportsman. They scarcely expect any such 

 good luck as to " happen " to kill a deer. I 

 heard, not long ago, of a party going to 

 Maine to spend their vacation .who took 

 along 125 pounds of cartridges! Excuse me 

 from neighboring with them. The place for 

 such people is at the traps or targets. Per- 

 haps I should say in some insane asylum. 

 The woods should be the last place for them 

 to go. 



A scheme has occurred to me that you 

 may think worthy a place in your valuable 



magazine. It is new to me anyway, although 

 it may be old to many of Recreation's 

 readers. We will instance Maine, where 

 each man has a right to kill, each year, one 

 moose, one caribou and 2 deer. Let us sup- 

 pose the law should read " shoot at " instead 

 of " kill." How would that work? It seems 

 to me most men would then be extremely 

 careful of their shots and make every one 

 count. They would stalk their game, kill it 

 with a merciful shot in a vital place and at 

 close range, like true hunters. Probably a 

 law of this kind would not be lived up to 

 any better than existing laws; but in case 

 a man unfortunately got into close proxim- 

 ity with one of these " shooters " he might 

 be able to hobble him. 



I firmly believe that many more deer are 

 killed and never found than are brought to 

 bag. I know several men who go to Maine 

 or Canada every year; who make a practice 

 of putting a bullet or a charge of buck shot 

 after every deer that jumps within sight. In 

 such cases the sportsman usually makes a 

 careless search. " Guess he wasn't hurt 

 much, only a few drops of blood on the 

 leaves," is his report when he gets back to 

 camp; but the deer seeks some swamp to 

 die. Of course there are men who with 

 buck shot, or even with bullet, can kill deer 

 on the run, through heavy timber, but I 

 never saw one yet who would not miss a 

 large per centage of those fired at. The 

 greatest benefit to be gained, however, 

 would be from knowing that people are go- 

 ing to be sure what they are firing at, and 

 that a man can go into the woods without 

 fear of being shot for game. 



H. A. Ives. 



THE NEW SPORTSMAN. 



These are the days of regeneration. Lee 

 has given us a New South. Dewey has given 

 the world a New Power to reckon with. An 

 array of wise women (and men) have given 

 us the New Woman and Recreation, as- 

 sisted by the L. A. S., has given us the New 

 Sportsman. 



He is not a brand new creation; he ' is 

 only old material regenerated. He is the 

 old time stuff, aiming to get fresh air, sun- 

 light, scenery, exercise, study and natural 

 history out of sport; but to leave out the 

 repulsive features — cruelty and destruction. 

 He aims at all the joys and none of the re- 

 giets of the chase. If Recreation had 

 done nothing else but plant and water this 

 noble tree, it would have sufficient claim to 

 immortality. 



My enthusiasm is stirred away down deep 

 when I see work like that on page 329 of 

 your November number — " Photographing 

 a Quail "—by N. D. Keys and C. C Galle- 

 her. If these men had shot those quail they 

 would possibly have had a momentary thrill 

 of triumph over a good shot, followed by 

 some half smothered, but more lasting 



