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RECREATION. 



ON TUSSEY MOUNTAIN. 



Not long ago I had the pleasure of re- 

 visiting my former home, near the foot 

 of Tussey mountain. Many a day in my 

 youth I spent in clambering, gun in hand, 

 over the rocky sides of old Tussey. Often 

 I returned gameless, and often, again, 

 with a good bag of turkeys, rabbits, or 

 squirrels. 



Last fall reports came to me that game 

 was plentiful there, and the first day of 

 the open season found me back on my old 

 hunting ground. 



The weather was cold and stormy; 

 therefore I did not feel discouraged at 

 getting but one squirrel. The next day 

 I shot 4 or 5, and for nearly 2 weeks 

 hunted squirrels, some days getting as 

 many as io or 12. 



On Friday of the second week I went 

 to the top of the mountain to look for 

 turkeys. So far I had not seen a sign of 

 them. It was a long, hard climb, but I 

 got there, and followed the ridge South- 

 ward a half mile. Still no sign. Coming 

 down, I found a place where turkeys had 

 scratched, though not that day. Farther 

 down I came to fresh signs, and followed 

 the trail to a large ledge of rock. Get- 

 ting near that, I could hear a sound as of 

 scratching in leaves beyond it. 



I crawled to the rock and looked over, 

 and was rewarded by seeing the birds just 

 moving out of sight up the mountain. 

 Clearly, the thing for me to do was to 

 make a circuit and get ahead of them. 

 This I succeeded in doing without alarm- 

 ing the flock. The birds, however, had 

 changed their line of retreat, and I saw 

 they would not come within range. One 

 young cock espied some wild grapes 

 hanging within 15 yards of my hiding 

 place, and came boldly toward them. I 

 let him come so close that the load from 

 my Remington nearly severed his neck. 



The instant I had fired, I ran my speed- 

 iest toward the flock, hoping to get a long 

 range shot, but the birds were too quick 

 for me. 



The next day I returned with my father 

 and brothers. We took positions along 

 the mountain side, about 100 yards apart. 

 For an hour all was quiet; then I began 

 calling, and presently a turkey answered. 

 I changed my position and called again. 

 In a few minutes I had another gobbler. 

 No other of the partv was lucky enough 

 to get a shot. 



W. C. Robb, Homestead, Pa. 



him. On going to the spot, however, he 

 was gone. I found plenty of blood on the 

 wet leaves, but this soon disappeared, 

 washed out by the rain. After a long 

 search I gave him up, and started for 

 camp, determined to hunt no more that 

 day. Coming to a road I saw where a 

 large buck had just crossed diagonally to 

 the South, but I kept on toward camp. 

 Farther on I noticed an old road leading 

 South, and it occurred to me if I should 

 go quietly down the road I might get a 

 shot. I did so and presently came on my 

 buck, 120 yards away. I fired and 

 the buck dropped, shot through the 

 shoulders. Reaching for my knife to cut 

 his throat I suddenly remembered an ex- 

 perience I once had with a wounded buck 

 in Texas. I decided to get a log and 

 throw it on his neck, stand on it and cut 

 his throat without danger. Setting my 

 gun against a tree I started in search of a 

 log. Hearing a noise I turned just in 

 time to see the buck disappear through the 

 bushes. I hurried back to my gun and 

 fired into the hole where he disappeared, 

 but without result. I followed him, getting 

 occasional glimpses of him but no shot. 

 Remembering my ill luck of the day I 

 knew my speed must win or all was lost. 

 Coming to a pile of fallen trees I mounted 

 them and made a desperate leap to clear 

 myself. I caught my foot and took a header 

 into the swamp, thrusting the muzzle of 

 my gun about a foot into the soft mud, my 

 left arm and head ditto. Gathering myself 

 up I hurried on, clearing the mud from 

 mv gun bore with a stick as I ran. 



How long the race lasted I can not tell, 

 but finally I saw the buck standing on a 

 hillock looking back at me. I fired once 

 more and he dropped. When I reached 

 him both were gasping for breath, and 

 for a time I did not know which would die 

 first. Finally my breath came while his 

 left. 



I hauled him on top of a large stump, 

 and again started for camp, where my 

 story caused much merriment. All, how- 

 ever, were willing to help eat my game. 

 S. W. Button, Sparta, Wis. 



I CAUGHT HIM. 

 In the fall of 1896 I hunted in the North- 

 ern part of Wisconsin. One rainy day as I 

 sat under a pine, a large buck came out from 

 a hemlock thicket about 25 rods away. 

 I fired at him and supposed I had killed 



SLAUGHTER OF CARIBOU. 



St. Johns, N. F. 

 Editor Recreation: 



Popular Ornithology has come to 

 hand. Much obliged for your prompt- 

 ness. Exactly what I wanted, and better 

 than I expected at the price. The author 

 says the wren does not winter in the 

 North. It does remain on our West 

 Coast all winter, and is as hardy as the 

 chickadee, which also remains. Our wild 

 birds are never shot. Few are killed, 

 and those only by boys. The law pro- 

 tects even the smallest of our song birds. 



