162. 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
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[Supr, 95, 1984 
Che Sportsman Gonrist. 
RHYMES FOR THE SEASON, 
DANVIg, Charlotte Co., Vit. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Here is another fragment which I suyed from Mrs. Lovel’s 
rag bag, where, perhaps, it might better have been allowed to 
remain till it went to the making of good, clean white paper. 
To that use it may be you will now think best to consign it. 
Very respectfully yours, 
Hi. Mumepson, Teacher in Dist. 13. 
IN THE FALL OF THE YAR. 
When the popple leaves *s as scace an’ as yaller as gold; 
When the braown leayes rustle an’ the year’s a-growin’ old; 
The crickits creaks slow when the nights grows cold. 
When the patridges’ flight has growed strong an’ bold, 
An’ the fox gits so furry he’s a beauty to behold, 
The erickits creaks slow when the nights grows cold. 
When the wild goose arrer is a-shootin’ from the cold, 
‘Taint the time o' year *at a hunter grows old, 
When the crickits creaks slow an’ the nights grows cold. 
For his heart grows young an’ his sperrit scorns the mould 
That his body *!l be become when his death bell is toiled; 
The crickits creaks slow when the nights grows cold, 
‘N’ his thoughts haint 0’ things that is bought an’ is sold, 
‘N? it’s no matter then if the wimmin folks scold; 
The crickits creaks slow when the nights grows cold. 
Ole Time drops his glass, *n’ his seythe’s aidge don’t hold; 
For a feller that’s a hunter the hours haint told, 
When the crickits ereaks slow an’ the nights grows cold. 
A CHATTY LETTER. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
A seattering letter, desultory, chatty, and of little account 
anyhow, tliat is what lam sending you to-day; for lam at 
home, the mercury at 98°, and I am resting up after a three 
months’ outing, Not ‘fishin’ an’ huntin’,” bitt outing; 
> eruising light canocs (I haye two of them), building camps, 
cooking, botanizing; lonking up all points of interest in 
natural history, so far as 1 can see and understand; taking 
in the fine scenery ou the upper Susquehanna, and the many 
cosy camping spots thereabout. My fingers and thumbs are 
cramped and blistered by paddling; my feet and legs are 
peeled by sunburn. Iam ready for a rest; ready to read up 
and write up. And firstly the back numbers of FOREST AND 
Strwam, Il see the old controversy of bullet versus buck- 
shot is still going on. ‘‘Picket” has a sensible article on the 
much-protected but utterly thievish robin, which ‘‘Wilmot” 
answers illogically, while “R. T.” wants to freat him as a 
“came bird;” and ‘‘Elkridge” talks very sensibly on the 
bread question; and the question of snake bites, with the 
best remedics therefor, has prominent place. Now, lam no 
scientist. What 1 have to say is, as Mr. Toots remarks, ‘‘of 
no consequence, not the slightest.” But I like to consider 
myself around the camp-fire, and when better liars than I 
have talked themselves toa standstill and sheathed their little 
hatchets, I like to dip my modest paddle into the contro- 
versy- 
‘And firstly, as regards buckshot versus bullets, rifle against 
shotgun. Boys, you are all right, and each wrong. 0 one 
style of gun can cover the ground, The best possible gun 
for quail and snipe isn’t the tool you want to go after the 
grizzly you have lost. The best rifle for heading squirrels is 
not the one you want for moose and caribou. The best rifle 
for watching a runway on a broad river is not the gun you 
want for ‘‘ridging” or starting dogs in a tangled thicket. 
Cut your coat according to your cloth. If you are delegated 
to start two '‘set” of fierce, unruly hounds, and expect ashot 
among the briars, poplars, chestnut sprouts and fire cherries, 
take the most powerful shotgun in camp. Load each barrel 
with six drams of powder and two ounces of buckshot. If 
ou get a shot you will never know whether or no the gun 
Jicked. If you get no chance at a deer you may as well 
draw the charges. 
T like a neat 64-pound, 20-gauge for snipe and woodcock, 
a 74-pound, 14-gauge for grouse, and a heavy 10-bore for 
duck, wild geese and brant. ' 
Capt. Bogardus, with his skill and his heavy far-killing 
duck gun, can beat the best of us cutting down deer. And 
he will send fewer wounded deer away to die miserably than 
the best rifle shot among us. While the green tenderfoot, 
who loads his gun as though it were a pair of candle-molds, 
will wound far more than he kills. Skill, pluck and judg- 
ment count for something in hunting, as elsewhere. 
There was a time in my earlier hunting days, when, hav- 
ing become rather expert wilh the hair-triggered muzzle- 
loader, I came to have a most thorough contempt for the 
“seatter-gun.” I laid down some platforms in those days, 
the planks of which turned out a little shaky in after years, 
For instance, “It takes but one bullet to kill a deer; andifa 
man has but one shot he is pretty certain to make it count.” 
“If you can’t get a fair shot don’t shoot; and if you can’t 
hit a deer with a fair chance it is only right and sportsman- 
like to let it go.” All very pretty. But as honest Hans says: 
‘*The sooner a man lif the longer he know, the more he find 
by shimany oud.” I found ‘‘oud” that I was missing a good 
many deer, or sending them off wounded, where # second 
shot would have made an easy, sure thing of venison. Also, 
I strack places and game that made me fairly Jong for the 
despised seatter-guu. Notably in Southern Michigan, where 
I found myself one bright October, at a time when the M. 8. 
R. R. was just being cut out and graded to the westward of 
Hudson. . 
Thad started for a fall hunt on the Muskegon, but had 
stopped at a little village west of Hillsdale to visit an old 
friend who had emigrated to Miviivan with his young wife 
ata time when half of New England was singing enthusiastic 
songs about Michigania, His enthusiasm had a good deal 
abated. Both he and his wife had gone away from their 
home rosy and healthy, I found them pale and ague-stricken, 
with three peevish, sickly children. Ichose not to quarter 
myself on them, but took my traps to the Button House, 
where old man Button ngseed to take care of me for $3 per 
week, while his buxom daughter offered to keep my clothes 
in good order for a weekly stipend of twenty-five cents. 
Those were cheap times and money was scarce. Game and 
fish were most abundant about the little village of J., and as 
the weather was warm, and it was early for still-bunting, 
and as I could have a pleasant rustic room right under the 
roof, where 1 could heay the eee of the rain, and as there 
was @ full supply of milk and eggs, and J was a young man, 
and Sukey Button was really a fine—but no matter, I de- 
cided to camp there for an undecided length of time. 
It happened that 1 didn’t camp anywhere else that fall, 
didn’t. even see the Muskegon. For the people were kind, 
the living was good and wholesome, fruit was plenty, and as 
for game and fish, I could take more in one day than the 
little hotel could use in four. And the country was, and is 
to-day, one of the finest and pleasantest in the land, subject 
to that curse of Michigan, “fever ’n’ ager.” So I stayed, in 
an off-hand, unpremeditated way, until I barely caught the 
last boat from Toledo to Buffalo. How did I pass the time? 
Gloriously, There was not a day, rain or shine, on which I 
did not fish or shoot. Scarecely an evening when I did not 
have a pleasant visit with old man Button and his daughter 
Sukey, especially his daughter Sukey. The old lady was a 
victim of ‘‘ager,” and the daughter was yirtually landlady. 
A smart, capable young woman, with an eye like a moist 
violet, and a wealth of waving, blue-black hair, Healthy 
and well formed. Not the sort of a girl you would look for 
in a malarial country, But it was nothing to me, nothing. 
Though only twenty-three, I had solemnly sworn that 1 
would have no spouse but the rifle. No wife. But Dame 
Nature for a mother, 
Still, it was pleasant to come in just at dark loaded with 
game, wash up, get a wholesome supper, then sit by the 
bright open fire reading poetry to her and old man Button, 
for they were both intelligent and loved poetry. 
The old man tied to Pope and Burns. His favorite poems 
were the ‘‘Essay on Man’’}and the ‘Universal Prayer,” for 
Pope, with ‘‘Burns’s ‘‘Adyice to a Young Friend.” The 
daughter liked Byron and Burns, Her favorite poems were 
“Highland Mary,” “‘Cotter’s Saturday Night,” and ‘The 
Dream.” Wext to off-hand shooting, I had a eonceit that 
reading poetry was my ‘‘best holt.” 
When I confess that I practiced reading ‘‘The Dream” in 
the woods when alone, it mnst be understood that it was 
from no spoony sentiment about any young woman; but 
only that I might contribute to the innocent enjoyment of a 
pleasant family circle. (‘‘The Dream” was her favorite.) The 
duties of the bar often called the old man away, and | think 
we did not care how much whisky he sold at three cents a 
lass. 
: There was a gander-shanked, gawky-looking young fellow, 
with a high collar made from common sheeting, who used to 
call about twice a week, and sit twirling his thumbs and 
looking hungrily at Sukey while we read poetry. I thought 
he was in love, and did not blame him. Rather I was dis- 
posed to be sorry for him and help him, if I could. He 
‘owned a sawmill bout five mile off, and was gettin’ rich,” 
so old Button told me. From some casual remarks he made 
to me, and about me, I was led to conclude that he was 
sharper than he looked, But this is digression. I started to 
write something about guns snd game, and was near being 
led into alove story, To return. 
From the village of J., looking to the west, there was a 
gradually narrowing vista through the dense forest that 
seemed to end in a peak as far off as the eye could reach. 
This was the ‘‘Michigan Southern,” cut out, but only par- 
tially graded. ‘The cars came no further than Adrian, forty 
odd miles to the eastward. Only two miles up the track 
there was as good hunting as any man could ask. Two 
rather extensive, swampy thickets furnished excellent cover 
for deer and turkeys. Grouse and squirrels were too plenty 
and tame, and there was not a day in which bevies of quail 
were not seen in the village, while ducks swarmed on the 
wheat stubble every evening. The men who worked on the 
roid told daily of seeing scattering deer and droves of 
turkeys crossing the track within shot, and I began to tire of 
clipping (or missing) the heads of grouse and squirrels and 
to hanker for a shot at something larger. Jt soon came, and 
rather to my disgust, . 
I had taken an early start to get on the ground before the 
workmen came up the track, and was sitting on a stump 
resting and watching for game when a big gobbler glided 
out of the swamp and made for the opposite side of the 
open, followed by a dozen or more well grown turkeys. The 
rifle came to shoulder and I caughi the bead in an instant, 
but to get the bead fairly on the old gobbler was another 
matter. His quick, gliding motion, between a walk and a 
run, fairly threw me out, and I attempted to catch on the 
next and then on the next. Finally, as they all seemed get- 
ting away, | took as good an average as 1 could get at the 
tail end of the flock and cut loose, missing the whole blasted 
lot. And, oh! for the much-abused double-barreled shotgun 
just for five seconds, for they crossed within thirty yards, 
and any decent shot could have stopped a couple of the 
biggest ones. It rattled meso badly that I could not hit a 
squirrel for the next hour. ; 
There was a genial young doctor in J., who had a fine 14- 
auge shotgun, but no time to use it. 1 went to the village 
Batore noon with a fair show of small game, and proceeded 
to interview the doctor for the loan of his gun, leaving the 
rifle with him in case he might be called to visit a patient 
where it was worth while to take a gun along. 
Ispent a part of the afternoon cutting wads, arranging 
ammunition, and getting a good ready for a shotgun raid on 
the turkeys. arly the next morning I was on the ground, 
and I still-hunted on the best ground fill long after noon, but | 
not a turkey could I get sight of. 
Smaller game seemed plentier than ever. Hven the fox 
squirrels had lost their accustomed shyness, and gazed. calmly 
on me at shortrange. But I was not there to shoot at squir- 
rels with four drams of powder, an ounce and a half of BB 
shot and double wads, SoI hunted till the middle of the 
afternoon without firing a shot, and then made for a spring 
I knew to rest and eat a lunch, for I had eaten nothing since 
five in the morning. After lunch, a rest and smoke of 
course; and while ‘smoking, out walks a lordly buck, twenty 
rods away, followed by a large doe and a fawn. They came 
within seventy-five yards of the spring and stopped, broad- 
side on, inthe open, Ah, me! The wrong gun again. A 
big gobbler lost because I had a tifle; a big buck, because 1 
had not one. My notions as to the best hunting gun began 
to stow a little fopgy. : , 
or a full minute they stood still, cautiously looking 
about, then the buck laid his ears forward, lowered his head, 
and poked his nose far out in_ my direction. Something 1n 
the air did not suit him. Suddenly he raised his head, 
whistled and snorted loudly, and galloped off grandly to the 
swamp, followed by his little family. It was a fine sight, 
put discouraging. 1 started for the village in a reflective 
mood, Suppose 1 had been using a mongrel gun, 7.4, a 
double barrel, rifle and shot, the barrels lying vertically, rifle 
parrel on top, and each barrel good of its kind. It 1s as eer- 
tain as sunrise that neither deer nor turkey would have 
escaped me, I went back to the hotel in a most unamiable 
state of mind, 
Just before sundown I went down to the lake, hid in the 
| shrubs near a cove which the ducks affected, and waited for 
them to come from the wheat fields. When I had a nice 
huddle swimming within six rods of the blind, I raked them 
viciously with both barrels at once, and got kicked flat on 
my back; but left six unfortunates sprawling on top of the 
water for old man Button to pick up with thedugout. * * 
“Went to the hotel; washed up and rubbed shoulder with 
liniment. Tried to get up a meek, religious frame of mind, 
but was too full of cussedness, Sukey got up a neat supper 
and was pleasant as usual, 
‘Am atraid that girl is thinking too much of me for her 
own peace of mind, 
‘Tn the evening John Hinckley, the gawky sawmill man, 
came around. 
“He sate as usual, twirling his thumbs, looking spoony at 
the girl, or regarding me with a guizzical smile hard to un- 
derstand. Perhaps because he owns a portable sawmill and 
is a few years the oldest, he is inclined to look down on me. 
He is a good fellow, though, and offered me free quarters if 
I would come out to the mill and hunt deer, I wish the girl 
would fancy him,” . 
The above in quotation marks is about what I entered in 
my diary that night. 1 reproduce it to show what an “egre- 
jus ass” a conceited youngster of three or four and ‘twenty 
can make of himself. 
I modified my notion of sport, and concluded to divide the 
thing about equally between fishing, wing-shooting and 
“‘sneak-hunting” with the rifle. Idid so, and can hardly say 
which afforded the best sport. On one day I would spend 
the morning fishing from the dugout with a preposterous 
tamarack pole and strong linen line. Jn the afternoon go 
out with the doctor’s shotgun, loaded with No, 8, for quail. 
Limiting myself to a round dozen, I could cut them down in 
sight of the village, and in an hour. They were so tame 
that I often had to shy the old wideawake over a bevy to 
make them rise. Yes, game was plenty then. Just before 
sundown IJ would load up with No. 3, and, taking alow sag 
of the swampy timber, just where the ducks came in for the 
wheat stubble, make a few easy shots at them, I came to 
make an zesthetic thing of it. I usually limited myself to a 
dozen quail or six ducks. I was also a little curious fo 
know how years of careful rifle practice had affected the 
wing-shooting, in which I once delighted. Well, I found 
it had made me slower, but not less accurate; rather more 
certain and deadly. I had fine sport in the timber shooting 
grouse and squirrels, but for days had no luck on turkeys or 
deer. Luck came at last. 
‘All things come round to him who will but wait.”* 
I had gone to the timber early on a bright October morn- 
ing, notifying old man Button that I would bring in just 
four grouse and four fox squirrels—grays and blacks to be 
passed by. Now the grouse were easy to get, and I soon 
had the four with heads neatly clipped. But the squirrels 
cost me nearly the rest of the day. No animal that runs 
the woods is more sagacious than the fox squirrel, and I 
think him the hardest animal to get a shot at that I ever 
saw. 
Tf I made three or four misses I did not count them. And 
if I spoiled one or two by body shots, I did not bring them 
in. But just before sundown I was walking down the 
track with my full number, handsomely strung on a broad 
strap, tails down. ‘hey made a handsome picture. And 
then, two hundred and fifty yards ahead of me, a Jarge doe 
loped out of the swamp on the left and made for the opposite 
side, On reaching the middle of the road she paused for an 
observation, and dropping to a knee rest, I held a full bead 
at the top of her back and cut loose, 
For a moment there was no stir; then she bounded conyul- 
sively into the air, tore down the track like mad, and after 
running a hundred yards, keeled over dead. For a round 
balland a light charge of powder, it was a most surprising 
shot, to me, at least; and I haye neyer sincé killed o deer at 
as great a distance, nor have I shot aslargeadoe. She 
weighed 120 pounds dressed. That day I had the right gun 
in the right place. 
What with fishing, hunting, and a little platonic love- 
making in the long, cool eyenings, the time stole by almost 
imperceptibly, and the 10th of November was on me almost 
before I knew it. The weather had become cold, roads were 
frozen, and ice formed along the margin of the lake, Wild 
geese swarmed to the lake every evening, and I took to wateh- 
ing them from the lower corner of a wheat field, where the 
flight seemed most promising. Though I loaded heavily with 
BB shot and the flocks looked near enough, it was only a 
partial success. Three evenings and a dozen shots only re- 
sulted in three geese and a very lame shoulder, and 1 began 
to think of going home. 
Now, it happened then and there, as it often happens in 
frontier settlements, that an old rogue of a buck had taken 
up his quarters in the swampy thickets about the lake, just 
where he could handily make midnight raids on wheat fields 
andturnip patches, Passing his days in easy hearing of 
dogs, guns, men, cow bells, and all the many noises pertain- 
ing to farm life, he had become so cunning that Button de- 
clared he ‘‘knew more ’n’ a boy ten year old.” Hewas often 
jumped by the farm dogs of the settlement, and took it 
cooly, making a short detour to the clearings, coming back 
to the lake, and finally swimming off to a brushy, briery 
island surrounded by reeds, rank grass and wild rice. This 
was his stronghold, from which neither men nor dogs could 
hunt him out. Just how and where he managed to hide so 
cunningly no man ever knew. Several times he was chased 
by the old dugout and_a single paddle, but he could out- 
swim a hollow log, and always got away. He was what 
hunters call a ‘‘swamp buck;” heavy-bodied, short-legged, 
dark-colored, and with an immense foot for a deer. The 
Jocal hunters believed he would weigh 250 pounds, and more 
than one of them had secretly resolved to hunt him down on 
the first tracking snow. They were doomed to disappoint: 
ment. 
It was in the second week of November that, one cold 
evening an hour before sundown, I had taken my usual 
stand to watch for geese. I had scarcely been in position 
for ten minutes when i heard the eager, sharp yelping of a 
little cur dog, and in a minute or two a buck—the buck— 
broke out of the thickct into the wheatfield. He was not 
fifty rods off, and my heart almost ceased beating as he 
turned and skirted the margin of the field straight toward 
my stand. Would he keep on, or dodge into the thicket 
before getting near enough for a safe shot with anything so 
small as BB? 1 
The suspense was painful, but of short duration. Steadily 
and with head down, he came right on, galloping slowly and 
