428* 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



\,\\mv, 34, 1886. 



tyro can knock one over," say many. So often had I heard 

 this and similar talk that I rather wished it were not "run- 

 ning time," for I felt no pride in doing anything that any 

 tyro can do. For in spite of the tremendous lowering of 

 conceit I still felt far above the tyro. 



I now found tracks more abundant than before, which to 

 my verdant brain meant, of course, that deer were much 

 more plenty than before. Less than half a mile from the 

 house I found them numerous and fresh, and with a thrill of 

 satisfaction I cocked the rifle and looked around for some- 

 thing running. Down long vistas of dark and gray tree 

 trunks my eye hopefully wandered; but nothing was run- 

 ning there. Up a long flat through which ran a little creek 

 I saw tussocks of light-gray grass still green at the bottom, 

 sloes all black and shiny with clusters of ripened berries, 

 red haws and thorn-apples red with dense masses of fruit. 

 The leaves were all off, and I could plainly see (so it seemed) 

 two hundred yards or more through the thickest brush. The 

 golden wild plums still hanging on the trees seemed brighter 

 than ever, and so did the scarlet of the high bush cranberry. 

 But there was a remarkable scarcity of anything 'running. 

 On the other side the ground rolled away in short ridges, 

 heavily clad with oak, with little patches of brush on their 

 points and in the heads of the hollows between them. But 

 all this was easily seen through (so it seemed), and all the 

 running there done was by a red squirrel along a fallen tree 

 in a hollow. 



Having heard that creek bottoms were good places for deer 

 I followed one for about, half a. mile. The quantity of tracks 

 indorsed the principle which I had followed, but there was 

 nothing running there but a weasel running over a log and a 

 big hare making good time for the cover of a windfall, I 

 began to feel that a glimpse of something even walking 

 would not be a serious disappointment. Tracks were still 

 plenty and fresh; everywhere were spots where the ground 

 had been scraped and pawed or freshly plowed by plunging 

 hoofs, plenty of bushes bent and torn and broken; plenty of 

 lovely openings to shoot through; avast amphitheater of 

 lovely ground for something to run on; yet nothing running, 

 walking, nor even standing. 



"Only a fawn, eh," I was* about to remark as my back- 

 woods friend who preferred to hunt alone brought in one 

 that evening. But I caught myself before it was too late. 

 It suddenly occurred to me that that fawn would look im- 

 mense if I had shot it. 



That night it rained a little and in the morning there was 

 a slow drizzle — a capital day to hunt. On the whole yes- 

 terday had not been a good day. It was too cold and the 

 leaves and sticks were stiffer than they should be for suc- 

 cess. To-day all was soft and silent under foot. 



I was soon alone in the deep dark woods. They were 

 wrapt in gloom and silence. No grouse boomed across my 

 path ; all the squirrels were still ; the bluejay's tuneful 

 squall was hushed, and even the ever busy woodpeckers 

 seemed gone for ever. Nothing but the drip from the trees 

 or the low breeze soughing through their tops. Nothing but 

 cold wet tree trunks all around ; dismal looking black- 

 berry, currant and raspberry thickets, weary looking ferns 

 and spignet ; all but the ginseng, whose scarlet head shone 

 the brighter for being wet. No more inviting logs, no dry 

 sunny slopes to rest on ; and, to crown all, nothing running. 



So wore on the day until about noon, when, in crossing a 

 bit of low ground covered with fallen logs I saw a flash of 

 white in the distance. It was in the furthest circle of trees, 

 very small and very faint, but it brought my rifle in a 

 twinkling from my shoulder. But by the time the rifle was 

 down the white was gone. I could plainly (so it seemed) 

 see everything around the place where it vanished. ' ' It must 



have been fancy," I thought as I moved on, " or" At 



my second step forward the white flipped again just over 

 the distant line of brush, once, yes twice ; the second time 

 very faintly but unmistakably, and then all there was still. 

 I went to the place where it disappeared as quickly as pos- 

 sible. There were the fresh tracks of descending hoofs, the 

 soft, dark dirt and wet leaves torn up and scattered about 

 a t intervals of about fifteen feet. I gazed long and mus- 

 in gly. 1 bad at last seen something running, or, to be ac- 

 curate, the tail of something ruuning. 



On I went over ridges, across hollows, and along creek 

 bottoms, mile afier mile with clothes wet through; yet there 

 was nothing running except an occasional drip from my hat 

 down the back of my neck. But about half an hour before 

 sunset I came to a sudden halt. About one hundred and 

 fifty yards ahead of me was a small, dark looking animal 

 moving over a ridge. It was low, angular and homely in 

 shape; so utterly unlike the deer I had before seen before the 

 hounds, that I might have taken it for a goat or even a hog 

 had 1 not known there was nothing of the kind in these 

 woods. 



Nevertheless the rifle came off my shoulder and I started 

 for the ridge just as the animal passed over it out of sight. 

 Reaching the top of the ridge I looked cautiously over into 

 the next hollow. There were huge fallen trees, the red 

 berries of the prickly ash and the black bunches of the late 

 "choke cherries" all shining in the wet, but no animal was 

 there. As usual there were plenty of nice open places for a 

 deer to stand in and, while I, as usual, was looking in them 

 for a deer and neglecting all other places, there was suddenly 

 a dim flicker of white on the dark horizon of the forest, gone 

 before I could raise the rifle. 



"And this is 'running time, '" I thought, as once more 

 alone I stopped to muse on the uncertainties of life. Were 

 all hunters liars? If not where were the deer that were now 

 so tame? No mortal could walk much more quietly than I 

 had walked, yet'the only running I had seen was such as no 

 mortal could stop with any rifle yet devised. 



A faint sound along the ground cut short my meditations 

 and brought my rifle to full cock at the same moment. In 

 a second more the sound came full and clear, the unmistak- 

 able sound of trotting hoofs. Scarcely had I turned to look 

 in its direction than there emerged from some thin brush 

 along the ridge a dark animal on a slow trot. Its head was 

 well down toward the ground, but upon it were a pair of 

 massive horns with half a dozen tines on each, and all pointed 

 directly at me. Aud its distance was scarce fifty yards and 

 that growing rapidly less. 



As I raised the rifle— an old time double muzzleloader — 

 and glanced along the sights, I had little time to be surprised; 

 but into the little time I did have was condensed more genu- 

 ine and joyful surprise than I had ever known before. I 

 could scarcely realize it, but it was true, I hadn't a particle 

 of the buck ague of which we read and hear so much. My 

 nerves were charmingly calm, my hand most blissfully 

 steady, and the sight Itook on that coming deer would have 

 sufficed to hit a hundred successive birds with a shotgun. I 

 felt a lofty contempt for the rest of the universe as I saw the 

 bright silver sight glitter in line with the low, rakish-looking 



A TIOME MADE BREECHLOADER, 



thing now less than thirty yards away, and pulled the 

 trigger. 



Bang went the rifle, and wondrous was the change. _ As if 

 rising out of the smoke itself stood before me in a twinkling 

 the deer of the artist. There were the great thick neck 

 proudly erect, the big glossy body looming broadside, the 

 fine pointed nose, the flaring ears turned full upon me, the 

 deep, dark eyes full of inquiry and wonder, and over all 

 the broad branching horns with points innumerable, all 

 glittering in the sun, which was now shining from a clear 

 place in the western horizon. There was a sight worth all 

 the toil and patience and disappointment I had endured. 

 And to crown my happiness, I was still delightfully cool, 

 with nerves quite unruffled by my miss with the first barrel. 

 What a supreme moment was that in which my eye again 

 ran along that rifle and saw the silver shine this time upon 

 the massive shoulder that was too big to miss! 



But the next moment was infinitely more supreme, for as 

 the smoke of the second barrel cleared away there stood that 

 buck in exactly the same position, his large lustrous eyes 

 looking as if they had not even winked. And there stood I 

 with an empty muzzleloader and fingers benumbed with 

 wet and cold. With the muzzleloading rifle passes away a 

 peculiar experience in the hunter's life. It is somewhat to 

 be regretted, for no hunter is finished without it. The man 

 who has not loaded a muzzleloader with bare hands on a 

 cold day with a deer gazing calmly at him within stone's 

 throw until he gets the cap about half on the tube and leav- 

 ing just about as it is half adjusted has missed something 

 that all the rest of his hunting life can never supply. 



To get one ball down seemed to take an age, and all that 

 while the buck stood there like a statue, and growing ever 

 larger to my excited eye. Just as the cap that I was about 

 to put on dropped from my trembling fingers into the leaves, 

 with a long-drawn "phew", the deer rose in a high bound and 

 galloped away to one side with nearly half a yard, as it 

 seemed, of white rising and falling over his glossy rump at 

 every bound. By the time 1 got another cap ready I was 

 once more alone, musing upon the new form of "buck ague" 

 of which I had never heard — being too confident because of 

 the game being too close. So intense were my musings upon 

 this that I had to call in the aid of a log just behind me, for 

 the weakness of despair had suddenly seized me in the knees, 

 and my hands shook as if palsied. 



"Saints defend us! Here he comesagain !" I involuntarily 

 exclaimed, as another deer, looking so much like the first 

 that he seemed the same, came in sight half walking and 

 half trotting, from almost the same place from which the 

 other had come. 



Bang went the rifle before I saw any sight upon it at all. 

 Through the smoke there was a gentle undulation of soft 

 gray for a few yards. Then it suddenly stopped in an open- 

 ing among the trees— another statue even more graceful, if 

 possible, than the last one had been. But it had none of the 

 curiosity of the last one, and as I raised the rifle it turned 

 again into a line of wavy gray, which disappeared over the 

 trunk of a large fallen tree just as I turned the second barrel 

 upon it and fired. In a moment more there was a farewell 

 wave of white in the darkening circle of the furthest trees 

 and once more I was alone. 



But not long. For no sooner had I loaded the rifle and 

 beguu to feel a trifle composed than 1 was almost petrified 

 with amazement at seeing another deer coming from the 

 very place from which the others had come. Though I had 

 before heard of several deer following each other at this 

 time of year I had forgotten all about it ; and the havoc 

 wrought in my nerves by the sudden apparition w as such 

 that 1 decided to let it come closer than the others had 

 come. 



This one, too, was a buck, smaller than either of the 

 others, but quite large enough to satisfy all that now re- 

 mained of my former ambition. On he came only walking, 

 but still moving fast, for the deer is a fast walker. I had 

 plenty of time in which to collect myself, but found time 

 having the very opposite effect from that desired. In a mo- 

 ment more the buck was passing me some twenty yards on 

 one side, 1 with head downward aud quite unsuspicious of 

 dsn jy£r. 



Intending to make sure of him I drew the sight of the rifle 

 upon the very center of his body, I saw the silver shine this 

 time. It danced all over the giay-eoated side, but just as it 

 shone for an instant about on the middle (as it seemed) I 

 pulled the trigger. The smoke came back in my face, but 

 when it cleared away there was no deer in sight. I rushed 

 to the spot and found him stretched full length upon the 

 ground, fat, glossy and stone dead. 



It is the proper thing to act the child over the first deer, 

 and I was about to indulge in a hurrah and a somersault 

 when I was seized with a sudden sinking of the heart. I 

 had just noticed the bullet hole and the collapse of pride was 

 fearful. It was in the neck, some three inches from the butt 

 of one ear, and just about three feet nine inches from the 

 spot at which I fancied I was pulling the trigger. 

 * T. S. Van Dyke. 



Quail m Dutchess County, N. Y.— In an extended 

 ride through Dutchess county last week, I was greatly 

 pleased to hear the shrill whistle of Bob White ringing from 

 so many meadows. It was a pleasant reminder of years long 

 gone by. But as the fields are quite generally posted, then- 

 taking off in the fall is to be enjoyed but by the favored 

 few. But even this is vastly better than their extinction by 

 indiscriminate slaughter.— J. H. D. 



ANOTHER BREECHLOADER. 



EACH monthly issue of the Patent Office report contains 

 many entries of patents granted on breechloaders. 

 There seems to be a steady supply of them; but occasionally 

 there is one which does not get iuto the official report, and 

 of this class is the weapon represented in our cut. It is the 

 handiwork of George M. Grant, of North Tunbridge, Vt., 

 and shows what a boy will do when he makes up his mind 

 in a certain direction. George is 14 years old and lives on a 

 farm, just an ordinary New England homestead, with a great 

 barn and a tool house, with its thousand and one odds and 

 ends, old buckles and bits, ancient saws, sleighs and surcin- 

 gles, queer bits of almost every conceivable sort of junk. 

 George wanted a gun. There were squirrels to be knocked 

 over, impudent little rascals, who whisked their tails in 

 George's very face as though knowing that he bad no gun 

 to poo them with, nor any ready cash to buy one at the vil- 

 lage store. Then there were woodchucks, equally brazen, 

 and the young Vermonter was sure he could rid the place of 

 the "varmints" if he only had a firearm of any sort. Then 

 there were crows, too, and scores of things which could be 

 blazed away at if there was only a gun to do it with. 



The will was there, what of the way, which the old say- 

 ing has it is always to be found in juxtaposition thereto? 

 The way was in that pile of old junk in the corner of the 

 barn. Poking it over, young Grant found an old Allen 

 pistol barrel. So far good. Now how to use this so that it 

 would enable him to use the .32-caliber cartridge which he 

 found he could purchase so cheaply, for George was to have 

 a breechloader. No muzzleloader for him. Not much. A 

 portion of a discarded Newhouse trap supplied the spring, 

 and then an old musket stock, which may have been carried 

 by some relative who followed George's great namesake, and 

 the young mechanic set to work. Carriage screws, bits of 

 wire, lag screws and such wood as he could cut to purpose as- 

 sisted him in building up the queer but effective contrivance 

 our artist has so well pictured. The barrel, it will be seen, is 

 held by an iron strap, evidently from the heel of a scythe, 

 which slips on over the front and holds the muzzle end of the 

 barrel in position ; then the rear end of the barrel has inserted 

 in it a bed screw. This has a slight motion through the 

 screw eye, while the nut upon it prevents it going too far 

 and at the same time acts as an effective stoppage to the dis- 

 charge of gas, etc., rearward. The front end of this hori- 

 zontal screw rests upon the cartridge head. Now how to 

 give it a sharp blow so that the impact should ignite the 

 fulminate. Here comes in the Newhouse trap spring. Om; 

 end was made fast, the other was brought back, and the 

 wire crosspiece put behind the small pin seen on the front 

 edge of the weapon. An ordinary wooden button acted to 

 liberate the retaining wire when aim had been taken. The free 

 end of the spring rushing forward struck the long screw 

 bolt, and this acting as a firing pin, started the cartridge and 

 the bolt action weapon was discharged. To reload, it was 

 necessary to slip off the front strap, when the removal of 

 the barrel permitted the pushing out of the shell and the 

 insertion of a fresh cartridge. It worked capitally, and the 

 worthy bearer of a proud name was happy and the envy of 

 his companions, while each night saw the precious piece 

 safely tucked beneath his bed. 



A drummer chanced that way, one of these pilgrims of 

 commerce who leave no nook nor corner of the country un- 

 visited. He saw the quaint weapon and very soon won the 

 odd contrivance by the promise of a bright new store-made 

 gun. No sooner had it reached the Winchester Arms Co. 

 store here and been duly wondered at than the drummer 

 who had caught it in his travels sent it to the Forest and 

 Stream with the following letters: 



New York, May 7, 1886.— Editor Forest and Stream : This 

 model (or whatever you call it) was made by George M. Grant, 

 of North Tunbridge, V ermont. He was fourteen years old when 

 he made it. 'When it came to our notice, Mr. W. W. Converse, 

 president of our company, saw it, and thought that as the boy 

 had shown so much ingenuity he should be rewarded, and we 

 sent him one of our single shot rifles. I inclose you a copy of 

 the letter which 1 have just received from him,— Winchester 

 Repeating Arms Company (P. G. Sanford, Agent). 



North Tunbridge, Vt., May 4, 1886.— Winchester Arms 

 Company: Gentlemen sirs, I received that rifle ah right last 

 night and was very much surprised and pleased. I have 

 wished I had one like it a good many times. I shall prize it 

 more than anything in this world. I never had such a costly 

 present before. And, gentlemen, I thank you more than I can 

 tell • whenever I look at it I shall think of you. Once more I 

 thank you and close. I remain yours truly, George M. 

 Grant. \ 



How the weapon came to be made was the question which 

 we put to the lad,and his answer comes to complete the story 

 of how pluck and brains were properly rewarded: 



North Tunbridge, Vt., May 8, 1886. 

 Editor Forest and Stream: , . ... ^ 



I received your letter wishing to know all about that ride 1 

 made little more than a year ago. I had a broken pistol that 

 would not work. I got to thinking one day if I couldnt make 

 a rifle out of it. At that time I had four .38 rim-fire cart- 

 ridges I tried one and found they would fit. Then 1 went to 

 work, when I had time, to make it. I had no one to tell me 



S me. w Lieu i gut m uuuc - 



cartridge, and set up a mark six inches square, eight rods off, 

 and tired. I hit it the first time. I fired a good deal after 

 that and hit well. I have no cartridges now such as 1 used 

 then. After awhile i lent it to a friend of mine and he let a 

 gentleman have it who was stopping around here, and he car- 

 ried it to New York. That is all I can think of to describe. 



