NATURAL HISTORY. 



When a bird or a wild animal is killed, that is the end of it. If photographed, it may still live and its educational 



and scientific value is multiplied indefinitely. 





PHEASANTS AS MOTHERS. 



Pet stock fanciers of the United States 

 are fast awakening to the fact that among 

 the most beautiful and easily kept birds in 

 the world is the pheasant family. The 

 golden and Lady Amherst pheasants are 

 preferred for aviary and park decoration, 

 if they can be given a few square yards of 

 lawn they will take great pleasure in ex- 

 hibiting their gorgeous plumage while feed- 

 ing on the clover, and the care of them 

 will be reduced to a minimum. 



Frequently their eggs lack fertility. When 

 that is not the case the trick of hatching 

 and rearing the young is as simple as rais- 

 ing domestic poultry. 



I am a great advocate of pinioning the 

 little fellows at about 2 weeks old. at 

 which age there is but about ^4 inch of 

 gristle to clip off with the scissors from 

 each wing. That forever limits their flight, 

 and as a bird carries that part of its wing 

 out of sight the lack of it would never be 

 noticed. 



I have always understood that it was un- 

 desirable to allow pheasants to do the 

 hatching, the reasons given being that these 

 birds are prone to leave nests and eggs on 

 the slightest provocation, that their timiditv 

 and lack of affection for the young chicks 

 make them poor mothers and that if al- 

 lowed to set the possible further egg pro- 

 duction would be cut off. The latter ob- 

 jection is well founded; but the first 2 are, 



1 think, groundless. 



Last year my golden pheasant hen, after 

 laying 18 eggs, desired to set. I readilv 

 dissuaded her by putting her off the nest 



2 or 3 times. Two weeks thereafter she 

 laid 3 more eggs, which were unfertile, and 

 then ceased for the season. This spring, 

 after laying 14 eggs, she became broody, 

 and though I would not risk wasting any 

 pheasant eggs under her, I determined to 

 give her a chance to raise a little family. 

 After she had kept an empty nest warm 

 for 3 days without, as far as I could see, 

 leaving it to feed, I placed 6 bantam eggs 

 just inside her basket. She wasted no time 

 before drawing them under her with her 

 beak, and cuddling down on them as though 

 they were little chickens. For the next 3 or 

 4 days I never found her off the nest, but 

 sitting there with her head under her wing, 

 apparently asleep, day and night. Having 

 heard of hens setting themselves to death. 

 I became somewhat anxious. I offered her 



grain from my hand, which she scorned. I 

 drove her off the nest and tossed her food, 

 but with the same result. As soon as 1 

 allowed her she ran back to her basket and 

 resumed her task of incubation. Up to the 

 21 days I never saw her off her nest of her 

 own accord, and have come to the conclu- 

 sion that she must have fed in the early 

 dawn. Two of the eggs progressed to the 

 point where their inmates endeavored to 

 break through their lime walls, but died in 

 the attempt. The other 4 are now each run- 

 ning around on 2 little legs and being shel- 

 tered and cared for by one of the most gen- 

 tle and affectionate mothers that ever graced 

 a poultry yard. 



I have decided that if this golden pheas- 

 ant tenders her services next spring I shall 

 not hesitate in awarding her the contract 

 to bring to life and raise some little golden 

 or Amherst pheasants for me. 



T. C. W. Rolls, Detroit, Mich. 



THE DEATH LOCK. 



M. L. MICHAEL. 



In 1880 I learned that Catfish pond, 'situ- 

 ated on the summit of the Blue Ridge, 

 1,400 feet above the sea, and only 80 miles 

 from New York City, contained signs of 

 otters, minks, coons, and muskrats. No- 

 vember 2d of that year I repaired thither 

 and was soon engaged in gathering the 

 pelts of many animals. My only compan- 

 ions were 2 dogs trained to trail deer and 

 foxes. These sharers of my solitude were 

 surly fellows, never making friends with 

 the hunters who occasionally passed my 

 camp. I usually left the dogs on guard 

 while I visited my traps, but once or twice 

 I took them with me. 



On one of these occasions they suddenly 

 sprang forward, barking excitedly, and 

 after running 100 yards stopped and barked 

 fiercely. Supposing they had treed a bear 

 I hurried forward, Winchester in hand, 

 emerging into what, at first, seemed a small 

 clearing, the underbrush being trodden 

 down. In the center of this space were 2 

 bucks, one down, the other standing, with 

 their antlers inseparably interlocked. They 

 were enfeebled and emaciated beyond be- 

 lief, mere skeletons with the skin stretched 

 over them, a sight never to be forgotten. 



Pitying the poor brutes, my first im- 

 pulse was to free them. Laying down my 

 rifle I stepped on an antler of the pros- 

 trate buck, and with my hands attempted 

 to spread them. I should probably have 



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