THE GAME FIELD 



543 



winter time, they were practically wild. Selling 

 the land, Mr. Eldridge was at a loss to know 

 what to do with the deer. The State Game 

 Commissioner was anxious to get the herd for 

 the new game preserves, but came to the con- 

 clusion that it would entail too much trouble 

 and expense to catch them and move them. Mr. 

 Kennedy's stepping forward at the proper time 

 undoubtedly saved the herd from being slaugh- 

 tered. 



Rural Police Game Wardens 



For the first time since the organization of the 

 Pennsylvania State mounted police, the troopers 

 have demonstrated their usefulness as game 

 wardens by capturing two Italians who were 

 shooting song birds in the woods near Yatesville. 



Privates Cooley and Casey were making their 

 rounds of the collieries when they heard shoot- 

 ing in the woods, and, spurring their horses into 

 the brush, came upon the two Italians, who had 

 just killed a robin. The men fled, and in the 

 spirited two -mile chase which followed the 

 horses and troopers won. 



The prisoners, Matteo Augustina and Mike 

 Pigga, had killed three robins and a bluebird. 

 They were taken to Wilkesbarre before Alder- 

 man Pollock and fined $36 each. They paid. 

 The troopers have been instructed to keep a 

 general lookout for violators of the game and 

 fish laws. 



A Quail Hunt in Texas 



A friend of mine came up from sixteen miles 

 below here to spend a few hours with me and 

 talk over some of our old hunts. While he spent 

 his first night with me, Nature was spreading 

 her mantle of whiteness over the earth, so next 

 morning when we awoke we were surprised to 

 find it such, and we knew it would be a fine day 

 to spend with the quail, in the brush. So, as my 

 friend had left his gun at home, and we neither 

 had any shells, the best thing for us to do was to 

 don our heavy clothes and face the cold north 

 wind for a short walk to the Interurban line, 

 which in a few minutes took us to the city of 

 Fort Worth. There we bought our shells. 

 After that we hunted up the first book store to 

 see if we could find a Recreation to read. 

 Then we caught the first car back. 



My friend borrowed my brother's gun, a 

 16-gauge hammer gun, I shooting a 12 -gauge 

 hammerless. After cleaning them up, we were 

 called to dinner, which was soon eaten, and 

 donning our shooting clothes, we started for 

 the brush, where we expected to find the 

 quail, but after walking for some time we 

 were about to give up when I thought I would 

 do some calling. So I gave a few low whistles, 



which were answered far up the hill in the thick 

 brush. We started to head them off, for they 

 were running. A short distance down the hill 

 we came in sight of five quail running. We 

 called and one by itself answered and came 

 toward us. We started to run to flush it. It got 

 up to our left and I killed it. We now began to 

 track up the others. We soon found them, and 

 my friend flushed one and got it. Next thing 

 found us in among a scattered covey, which 

 some other hunters had raised. I jumped two 

 and made a double, but only found my last bird 

 78 steps from where I had stood. My friend 

 flushed the next and his gun made a 

 missfire, so it went to better grounds. The next 

 one flushed was missed by him and one of the 

 other hunters potted it, not giving it a chance. 

 The sun was setting, so we concluded it about 

 time to turn homeward. On the way back we 

 had several shots and got our share of the game. 

 After this I oiled and put away my shotgun, 

 to remain in its case until November 1. There 

 should be plenty of birds next fall, as a good 

 breeding stock was left over. 



Call. Johnston. 

 Fort Worth, Tex. 



Wood Ashes as a Styptic 

 There is nothing so quick, or so efficacious, 

 nothing cheaper, nothing so universally at hand 

 or command, and yet no one in these days ever 

 heard of it or thought of it. Ask the doctors and 

 they will tell you that wood ashes as a styptic is 

 not found in the pharmacopeia. I have asked 

 hundreds of physicians, and the reply is always 

 the same. Not one knew of it, and all without 

 exception thanked me for imparting so valuable 

 a secret, not too proud to accept it from a lay- 

 man. Last week, in a doctor's office, I rounded 

 up three novitiates at once. Nevertheless, the 

 remedy is as old as the aborigines. I learned it 

 from a salesman almost sixty years ago, though 

 I do not recall having mentioned it in my 

 treatises on woodcraft. Out on the plains, in 

 the breechclout days, emergencies were constant 

 and store remedies scarce. Emigrants, traders, 

 trappers and freighters were continually run- 

 ning up against hostile Indians and flying 

 arrows often made jagged wounds. Wood 

 ashes were applied as soon as possible. A 

 piece of buffalo hide was clapped onto the place 

 and no more attention was paid to it. Healing 

 would take place in an incredibly short time. 

 Last summer I cured up a farm hand in Massa- 

 chusetts who had been mangled by a mowing 

 machine. He was so pleased with the speedy 

 result that he was almost ready to try it again. 

 Simply, the potash in the ashes seals up the 

 ruptured pores, and a healing ointment does the 



