FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



37i 



field larks, bobolinks, cedar birds and yel- 

 low-hammers, as game. These birds are 

 killed by the thousand during their stay 

 in the South, in winter, or on their annual 

 spring and autumn migrations. The birds 

 killed by the " Nashville Nimrods " were 

 undoubtedly robins, with probably a few 

 meadow larks or doves sprinkled among 

 them. Wouldn't old Nimrod's bones rattle 

 if he knew robin shooters were called 

 " Nimrods " in these days. 



All these men are prominent and influ- 

 ential citizens of Nashville, and if they 

 could be gotten on the right side of the 

 question of bird protection would do the 

 cause much good. 



What we need first in this section of the 

 country is not a limit to the amount of 

 game one man may kill, but a law that will 

 limit him to game, and prevent his shoot- 

 ing at everything that can fly and that 

 furnishes a mouthful of meat. 



Under separate cover I mail you a copy 

 of " Some Birds and Their Ways," a book 

 written for the young, for the good it might 

 do in the way of the protection of birds in 

 general. I have not attempted to preach a 

 sermon in every chapter, but have hit the 

 subject of the useless destruction of birds 

 a hard lick wherever I thought it would 

 tell. A. C. Webb. 



Such slaughter of innocent song birds as 

 is recorded in the above extracts is little 

 short of infamy. It is astonishing that men 

 can be found in this age of the world, men 

 who call themselves gentlemen, and sports- 

 men, who will stoop to such reckless de- 

 struction of beautiful creatures. It is high 

 time the Southern gentlemen should stop 

 and think of the ultimate result of their 

 work. It has been fully demonstrated that 

 there are but one half as many robins in 

 the United States to-day as there were 15 

 years ago. If the Southern sportsmen pur- 

 sue their present course these beautiful 

 birds will be entirely extinct in another 5 

 years. Gentlemen, for God's sake stop 

 shooting song birds ! 



Mr. Webb's book is excellent and will 

 receive proper attention in a later issue. 

 I would advise all Southern " sportsmen " to 

 read it. — Editor. 



AMONG MARYLAND QUAIL. 



Not a long time ago I got it into my head 

 that I was a good shot, so I decided to go 

 forth and exterminate some quail. I made 

 arrangements with my friend Wilson, equal- 

 ly inexperienced, to try a place on the East- 

 ern shore of Maryland, where we had heard 

 good sport could be found. Wilson owned 

 a fine hammerless gun and I was the proud 

 possessor of a Greener ejector, with which 

 I felt sure I should startle the sporting 

 world. 



We reached our destination about 4 

 o'clock on a cold October morning and sat 

 shivering for 2 hours, awaiting the arrival 

 of an old farmer, who had been recom- 

 mended to us and who was known to Wil- 

 son in a business way. He came at last, 

 bringing with him several of his friends and 

 2 dogs. Neither Wilson nor I had ever seen 

 a quail except on toast, surrounded by 

 watercress, but we had no doubt that with 

 the aid of our magnificent arsenal we could 

 easily account for anything that came in 

 sight. 



After we had walked a mile or so the dogs 

 came to a stand and in a moment a covey 

 of a dozen birds rose up with the usual 

 whirring noise. Our companions immedi- 

 ately discharged their assortment of muzzle 

 loaders, bringing down several birds. I 

 was so surprised I simply gaped, while Wil- 

 son in the excitement of the moment shot 

 both barrels at once, and it was only 

 through the intervention of Providence that 

 no one was hit! 



The next time we knew what was to be 

 expected and each of us got a bird. I firmly 

 believe mine died of humiliation at being 

 even grazed by such a bungler, for I had 

 only a hazy notion that something brown 

 was going through the air with the speed 

 of a cannon ball, felt it my duty to give it 

 a scare if nothing else, and so shot almost 

 at random. 



At the end of the day Wilson and I had 

 accounted for 8 birds between us. We did 

 not want to be branded as game hogs by 

 Recreation. Our companions bagged be- 

 tween 30 and 40. We had a glorious day, 

 notwithstanding our supper at the farmer's 

 house consisted of cold pigs' feet and raw 

 turnips. In our hollow condition they 

 seemed to us better than the finest dinner 

 at the Waldorf, especially as the farmer's 

 daughter who waited on us was " a gem of 

 purest ray serene." Wilson could not make 

 much of an impression on the Maryland 

 birds in general, but he scored well, for a 

 novice, with that one. 



The most curious incident of our trip 

 was the firm refusal of the farmers to be 

 paid for their trouble. They were insulted 

 when we inquired their terms for the day, 

 and said we were their guests. As they 

 scorned our money, we insisted on their 

 accepting some cartridges as a present. 

 This they did after much hesitation. 



After a 14 mile drive over the worst roads 

 I ever saw we reached the railway station 

 and boarded the midnight express for home, 

 with less faith in fine guns, unless expert 

 shots are behind them, and with a firm con- 

 viction that the Maryland quail is a cunning 

 and deceitful bird. W. Y. Stevenson. 

 314 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 



A BEAR HUNT AT MOUNT SHASTA. 



Sisson, Cal. 

 Editor Recreation: I bought my first 



