72 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[July 27, 1895. 



ADIRONDACK NOTES. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



Three deer have wandered about the clearings here for 

 some time. One is an old doe, the others spotted fawns. 

 When Freddie Spoil was driving his father's milk wagon 

 one morning last week he saw them in Miller's oats. 

 They were not greatly alarmed by his wagons jangling 

 over the rocks, but stood with heads erect and worked 

 their ears in a doubtful sort of way as they eyed the cans 

 and wagon. They went over into Johnny Jones's woods 

 and slept comfortably that day. At night they wandered 

 on and away. 



Down on the flats behind the house in which I am 

 writing, about a third of a mile away, a deer crossed the 

 creek a while ago. A dog was after him, but he was not 

 too scared to stop and gaze upon the men who were work- 

 ing the roads. He was a pretty sight, they tell me. Horns 

 with big nubs on their ends, being soft yet, wide open 

 eyes and long, graceful limbs that quivered to shake the 

 files away. The little white tail bobbed up and down as 

 the deer ran down through the lots to plunge into the 

 still water. He crossed the creek and disappeared. The 

 men stopped the dog. 



We will kill a few deer here this fall. Up the creek 

 are a lot of runways, and a dog started over near Little 

 Black Creek will send the deer that way. We always get 

 some — enough for six or eight messes during the fall. 

 We would get more if the dogs were kept tied up now, 

 and some of the men too. As a whole the woodsmen 

 would kill a deer if they got a chance, but they do not 

 approve of those who hunt all the time, or fish, nor do 

 they do it themselves, excepting one or two who hunt 

 and fish or trap the year around. It is these men who 

 bring down on honest woodsmen the name "poacher" or 

 "lout." They are hated outcasts who seine the cold beds 

 and kill the mother partridges and deer in June. 



I am told that five men were arrested at Mill Creek 

 Lake on July 7. They were floating for deer and a game 

 protector lay in wait three nights and at last caught them 

 in the act. It is well. There is not a man who kills 

 game illegally in this region but shakes in his boots. 



"Yew can't tell 'most alius. Them pertectors is liable 

 tew be sneakin' on tew ye 'most any time. I hain't a-goin' 

 tew dew nothin' no more, long ez thar's a chance on git- 

 tin' intew sech a fix," is the way they put it. 



It don't take more than two or three determined prose- 

 cutions to bring down the score of illegal game killed. 

 There are woodsmen who fear neither man nor law, and 

 these would kill anyhow, but it shuts off the sneaking 

 trap stealers and trout seiners. An easy-going detective 

 would learn a good deal about matters of summer and 

 winter killing. I have heard it declared that a detective 

 would get shot if he went around cold beds on certain 

 nights when seines were being drawn. He wouldn't, 

 though. The seiners are too cowardly. A boy here was 

 losing traps off his line once. He watched one day and 

 saw a trap taken up. The boy went down the bank with 

 his gun cocked and talked to the thief. He never lost but 

 one trap after that, though it was four years ago. 



There is no fishing here now, but along about the last 

 of August a few may be caught. The best time is in the 

 spring, and then they haul them out on flies by the 

 dozens — milk-pans full. 



The natives do not fish much in the late summer, pre- 

 ferring to hunt deer, although some fine messes might be 

 taken. 



I was up to Moose River last week, staying at The 

 Plains.- I got what fish five men required, using flies on 

 the cold beds and in the deep water, just above the natural 

 dam of rocks, cut up chubs were best. I saw a number 

 of deer and among them the largest doe I ever saw. She 

 was long and lean. I wish her fawn or fawns had been 

 with her. 



A man who knows the Moose River region as well as 

 anybody, probably better, said that the deer were as plenty 

 at The Plains as they were ten years ago. Very likely 

 there are as many, for the persistent hounding about the 

 clearings and the hunting in the adjacent region have 

 tended to drive them back to the deeper woods. 



When I came by, two loons out on Canachagala Lake 

 were having an interesting confab. Male and female I 

 guess they were. One, the larger, would stand on the 

 water erect and flap his wings, then he would settle 

 back again and "holler." He would fly along a rod or so, 

 splashing the water and flapping his wings, then again he 

 would yell. The other one sat sedately on the water an- 

 swering now and then and swimming at times toward the 

 displayer. The last I saw of them they were swimming 

 along side by side out near Watcher's Island. 



The Holland Patent camp, so called, near the new out- 

 let of Lake Canachagala, has been burned "by order of 

 the Adirondack League," as the men who set it afire in- 

 formed an inquirer. It used to be a favorite stopping 

 place for hunters on their way to the river, but now the 

 parties will push right through and get there the same 

 day, instead of taking two days, as they formerly did. A 

 day gained, and so much more will the deer suffer. 



I never had such an utter feeling of lonesomeness as 

 while rowing down the still water at The Plains. It was 

 nearly dark. From down the valley a violent thunder- 

 storm was coming. The rain drops pattered here and 

 there on the water and sent out widening circles on the 

 smooth surface. On my right dark woods overhung the 

 river; to my left was a stretch of land covered with low 

 ferns and marked with tall, gray pines stripped of their 

 bark and jutting forth long, dead limbs. After a bit a 

 start of wind ruffled the water, and the sough of wind- 

 tossed branches made me Bhiver. It seemed to take a 

 good while coming down that short stretch from the Pine 

 Tree runway to the upper cold bed. The chuck-chuck of 

 water against the bow of the boat was not a cheerful 

 sound. 



I walked up the path and saw the gleam of fire on the 

 trees. A moment later I saw a 6ft. blaze spring out of 

 a pile of green birch logs. It died away, then again leaped 

 up. Back on the evergreen-tree boughs were stretched 

 my companions, smoking, talking. 'Twas a cheerful 

 sight. The rain pattered down on the bark roof, but did 

 not sound so saddening. The sighs of trees no longer 

 sent chills down my back. After a little I felt better, 

 but even now to think of that mile and a half ride makes 

 me shaky. I guess I must have been badly scared, or 

 something. 



I do not wonder that men have so much to say about the 

 camp fires. I could write a week about them, I guess— the 

 one up on Little Black Creek, six years ago, that ate down 



under a peeled hemlock back log and spread through a 

 hemlock chopping (the first camp fire I ever saw). Then 

 the one the night after I killed my first deer. Every stick 

 they put on the fire, every spark and shoot of flame I 

 seem to see yet. I was fourteen then. Then the ones that 

 were wet and would not burn and those that burned too 

 much and drove us to the open air, and the night we had 

 visitors and the stories they told. One likes to think 

 about them, to remember their savor, and feel again their 

 warmth. 



Three nights at Moose River it was cold, and when we 

 stirred up the fire the warmth that came back into the 

 lean-to was most welcome. The fog rose in dense clouds 

 from the river, and it was hours before the Bun next 

 morning dispersed them. 



I hated to leave the woods even though I live on their 

 outskirts— the big woods are less than a mile away, but 

 I would rather have them all around than on just one 

 side. 



I expect to hear from the bears any day now. The ber- 

 ries are beginning to ripen and back in the woods bear 

 signs are plenty. The trappers are beginning to oil their 

 traps. Raymond S. Speaks. 



Northwood, N. Y., July 19. 



THE SQUIRREL HUNT.-II. 



Preston, Conn. — Editor Forest and Stream: The morn- 

 ing dawned clear and cool, a perfect day for the squirrel 

 hunt, and after an impromptu race down the old road to 

 quicken the congealed blood in our chilled anatomies, 

 Morris and I returned to the hotel and found George 

 busily engaged with a bag of Wheeler's apples, discovered 

 while on a tour of inspection through the old barn. This 

 windfall partially appeased the interior cravings of 

 nature, so we girded up our loins and. sallied forth. 

 There were no signs of life about the house as yet, so 

 Morris, assuring us there would be a substantial breakfast 

 awaiting us on our return, proposed a short trip through 

 the chestnut grove across the road. We ranged through 

 the grove and returned, the trip netting us three grays, 

 whose capture was not wholly due to the prowess of the 

 bipeds of the party, for Keno, spying a big fellow on the 

 ground, stretched his old legs in the race, and grabbed 

 him just as he gained the trunk of an old oak. One 

 shake, a sickening crunch of bones, and it was all over 

 with poor bunny. 



As we came out of the grove I had a beautiful snap 

 shot at a ruffed grouBe as he came whizzing from the 

 swamp, and as beautifully missed him. 



Reaching the house, we found Whe6ler at his chores, 

 and meekly listened to a robust lecture on (as he put it) 

 the cussed foolishness of roosting in the barn like chick- 

 ens, when good warm beds were free in the house — a lec 

 ture which perhaps was not wholly unmerited. 



After a refreshing wash at the old wooden sink, we 

 filed in to the well-laden table, and lost no time about it 

 either, as after our twelve hours' fast (barring the apples 

 and nuts) we were nearly famished. We immediately 

 attacked the fried potatoes, ham and hot corn griddles, 

 and as we sipped the hot coffee we listened to a some- 

 what revised edition of her husband's open-air lectures 

 from the good lady of the house. 



At last with a general sigh of satisfaction we laid down 

 the implements of war and cried enough. We were full 

 to repletion, and the table looked as if swept by a 

 cyclone. 



Well, breakfast over, the party, including of course 

 Wheeler and his dogship, made ready for the hunt. We 

 carried the climbers and a coil of fuse, used by Wheeler 

 for blasting rocks. 



Entering the grove, the scene of the morning's hunt, 

 the deep tones of Keno, mingled with the shriller yelps 

 of Shep, were soon heard in advance. We found the 

 dogs at the foot of a lordly old chestnut, and a likely 

 looking hole some 25ft. from the ground denoted the 

 hiding place of the game. On went the climbers and up 

 went Morris. The scolding and complaining from the in- 

 terior indicated the presence of a whole family. 



Comfortably seating himself astride a projecting stub, 

 Morris dropped in a lighted fuse. A moment of suspense, 

 a lively commotion in the interior of the tree and Morris 

 yelled "Look out below there!" and out scrambled a be- 

 wildered looking squirrel, followed by a cloud of yellow 

 smoke. As he paused a moment, as though to get his 

 bearings, he afforded a good shot, and Wheeler blazed 

 away lively, with no other results than to chip off the 

 bark in rather uncomfortable proximity to Morris's head. 

 As he whipped around the tree I gave him my compli- 

 ments, with no damage but the loss of part of his ^bushy 

 tail, but at the report of George's gun the squirrel came 

 to the ground with a thump. 



"Look out there below again!" called Morris from 

 aloft, and out popped another smoke-grimed squirrel. 

 Down the tree he came along the fence, and down the 

 hill like a rocket, myself, Keno and Shep in pursuit, the 

 dogs yelping like mad. The chase soon became too warm 

 for him, and he took refuge in a convenient hole in the 

 earth. 



In my absence, the third squirrel had left the hole and 

 was dodging about in the tree tops, George and Wheeler 

 keeping pace below. I soon caught sight of his gray coat 

 'midst the leaves, and brought him down with a charge of 

 No. 6s. This proved to be the last one in that burrow, 

 and Morris came down. 



The hunt was now directed to the west, where at the 

 extreme outer edge of the grove lay a little ravine, lined 

 on either side by lordly oaks. This ravine was a favorite 

 Bpot of Wheeler's, where, as he averred, one had only to 

 open the game bag and scoop the Bquirrels in with the gun 

 barrel. 



Well, we arrived at the ideal spot in due time, taking 

 positions according to Wheeler's directions. Morris 

 mounted a huge oak with a splendid looking hole fifty 

 feet up, and we awaited results. A huge limb grew from 

 this tree and ran clear across the gully against an immense 

 oak on the opposite side, with a corresponding hole at the 

 top. Well, Morris began the fuse act, and what fun we 

 did have knocking them off that limb as they scuttled 

 across to the opposite hole. The first one to make the 

 attempt escaped scot-free, which fact was not due to any 

 good intention of mine, but I must be truthful if (as the 

 vulgar saying goes) it takes a leg. As he skipped across, 

 Wheeler shouted "Nail him," and accordingly I threw my 

 gun to my shoulder and pulled the trigger. The squirrel 

 kept on and the gun spoke not. Shifting my finger to the 

 opposite trigger, the eame results followed, and the squir- 



rel popped into the hole with a chuckle of satisfaction. 

 Much chagrined I lowered the gun for inspection. I had 

 forgotten to raise the hammers, which discovery was 

 followed of course by an audible smile. 



We now followed a rambling course across country to 

 the Shetucket River — the large groves bordering the 

 banks of that beautiful stream affording plenty 

 of nuts and good quarters for the rodents. The 

 walk of two miles was a very enjoyable one, now 

 stopping to chat and rest in some pleasant nook, or, in 

 response to a call of the busy dogs, leaving the trail to 

 bag one of the gray-coated tribe as he threaded the 

 branches above. 



We in due season reached the stream and started west. 

 Ranging along in its immediate vicinity in the first grove, 

 Morris by two splendid snap shots knocked a large squirrel 

 from the opposite sides of a walnut as they started for the 

 top. We kept adding squirrel after squirrel to our bags, 

 the capture of each being accompanied by the usual 

 excitement, the yelping of the dogs, the hustling around 

 under the trees, the usual chorus of "There he is, look 

 out for him! he's on your side etc!" then the ringing re- 

 port, then the tell-tale thud on the leaves. 



Possibly squirrel shooting may not compare with the 

 higher branches of the art, such as hunting the lordly 

 moose or bounding deer, or bagging the whirring quail 

 or metor- winged grouse, but with an ideal day, good 

 companions and abundance of game, it is a sport not to 

 be despised. 



A laughable incident occurred in a belt of young 

 timber. While passing an old decayed stub of perhaps 

 ten feet in height, I threw my weight against it and over 

 it went. As it struck the ground with a crash, a large 

 owl emerged from the ruins and slowly winged its way 

 up the hillside, passing so close to George's face as to 

 nearly knock that astonished individual off his feet. In 

 fact, we were all so startled that we stood like a lot of 

 dunces and watched him out of sight, and then turned on 

 one another with the natural inquiry, "Why didn't you 

 shoot him?" 



We soon passed a small clump of large oaks overhang- 

 ing the river. Wheeler made the remark, "Those trees 

 look mighty gamy." "Yes," replied Morris, "strange the 

 dogs did not put up a squirrel there." We had passed well 

 by them when Wheeler chanced to turn his head. "Great 

 thunder, look a-there!" he cried, and wheeling about we 

 saw two of the cunning rascals on a dead run for the 

 largest of the group. Away we rushed to head them off 

 from any possible hole that might exist in the old oak. 

 Three ot us arrived at the tree a close second to the squir- 

 rels. Looking back, we saw George hopelessly entang led 

 ia a mat of grapevines which had caught him in his wild 

 rush, and there he hung, kicking and talking. 



Helping George out of his difficulty, we camped under 

 the tree. The only opening was at the end of a large 

 limb, broken off 6ft. from the trunk and located 20ft. 

 from the ground. Straddling this stub, Wheeler lay at 

 length upon his stomach, and dropped a fuse into the 

 hole, which ran directly back to the tree. A moment of 

 waiting, then out scrambled an immense buck squirrel. 

 Seeing no alternative but to jump into the river or over 

 Wheeler, he chose the latter course, and with a mighty 

 bound landed square on top of Wheeler's head. "Oh! let 

 go," yelled Wheeler, as the sharp claws entered his scalp; 

 and forgetful of his position made a wild grab at the squir- 

 rel, and in consequence nearly fell off the limb. His 

 career was short, for as he bounded up the tree Morris's 

 gun spoke, and he dropped. The second one tried the 

 same game, but Wheeler dodged, and I soon disposed of 

 him. 



As Wheeler started to descend he in some way slipped, 

 whirled under the limb, and there he hung, his back to 

 the earth, with his legs and arms locked around the stub. 



Never will I forget that picture as he hung squirming 

 and twisting to regain his seat. We offered him plenty 

 of advice as to how to gain the top of the limb, when in 

 exasperation he shouted, "Oh, if I could only turn the 

 limb over I would be on top anyhow." 



At length, by some hitherto unthought-of contortion, 

 he regained his seat and reached the ground completely 

 exhausted, and now the lengthening shadows warned us 

 of approaching darkness. We started' direct for Wheel- 

 er's farm, where we arrived in good time, incidentally 

 picking off a few squirrels along the route. The good 

 wife had a bountiful supper awaiting us, to which we did 

 ample justice, and then drove homeward in the twilight 

 with twenty-eight squirrels in the wagon, and if there is 

 anyone to say that we did not pass an enjoyable day I am 

 calmly waiting for them to prove the assertion. 



E. M. Brown. 



Louisiana Quail, Ducks, Wildcats, Coons. Deer. 



Opelousas, La., July 14. — I don't know what the pros- 

 pects for a good crop of birds are, as I have not been 

 around enough to find out. But I am afraid, though, 

 that the rainy summer has destroyed lots of young birds 

 as well as nests. Even as I write I can hear the old cock 

 birds whistling their "Bob White" a short distance from 

 the house. At this season of the year, as you know, it is 

 a common thing to see the old birds in the roads every 

 morning and evening, dusting themselves; and they are 

 so gentle that they will let you drive within a few feet of 

 them without their getting frightened. 



I would not be at all surprised if we did not have as 

 good duck shooting this coming season as we had last, for 

 the rice-planting industry has been revived among the 

 farmers, and after the crop is harvested in the fall the 

 fields will be a great resort for mallards, which seem to 

 favor the shattered rice over all other foods. Winter be- 

 fore last the rice fields were alive with mallards, and it 

 was an easy matter to bag them. They would alight in 

 a lot of grass and weeds, and all one had to do was to 

 move a little cautiously in a stooping position, and he 

 could walk them up like snipe. Last year there was very 

 little rice planted, and the consequence was that there 

 were few ducks in the winter. 



The favorite sport out here in the country now seems 

 to be wildcat hunting with hounds, and that truly 

 Southern nocturnal sport (?) known as "coon hunting." 

 The thickets hereabouts seem to produce an inexhaustible 

 supply of the species of the feline tribe above referred to, 

 and some of my country friends manage to have a little 

 sport once in a while. 



Not long ago a negro from the western portion of the 

 parish captured and brought to town a pair of young cats 

 of the stump-tail species. They are in a large wire cage, 

 and are on exhibition at Dr. J. E. Shute's drugstore, 



