A.VQ. 17, 1895.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



189 



out fat: he has scarcely breathed during the long exile. 

 He does not leave his den all at once, but takes a walk 

 for observation for a day and returns at night; and so on, 

 perhaps for several days, until he gets somewhat accus- 

 tomed to the outside world. 



Mr. Artemus Ward, an old hunter in Millsfield, N. H., 

 was out on a hunt a few years ago, late in the fall, and 

 struck a large bear track in the snow. He at once gave 

 chase and followed him for several days, and not seeing 

 any prospect of the bear's stopping or of getting sight of 

 him, and getting out of provisions and footsore withal, 

 he left the trail and made his way to the settlements. 

 Meeting Llewelien Peree, of the town of Mexico, 

 Me., a day or two after, he told him of his adventure, 

 and Peree thereupon offered to go and follow up the 

 trail, and if successful to give "Ward one-fourth of the 

 proceeds. Ward agreed to it, and went with him to 

 where he left the trail, and Peree started at once. 



Peree followed on for two days, camping at night in the 

 open air. At noon the second day the trail led over some 

 big fallen tree-tops and piles of brush, and while climbing 

 over these his footing gave way and Peree dropped down 

 several feet into a deep, dark hole, and found himself fac- 

 ing a ferocious bear of the largest size, which at once 

 arose on his hindfeet, and with a loud growl champed 

 his teeth and made toward Peree, whose hair straight- 

 ened up, throwing off his hat. The bear was nearly upon 

 him when he drew a bead on it with his repeating rifle 

 and pulled. The bullet struck the bear between the eyes, 

 which looked like two balls of fire in that cavern, and the 

 bear fell dead at his feet. One more jump of that bear 

 would have fixed poor Peree. J. G. Rich. 



Bethel, Me. 



Some Animals do not Challenge. 



In treating of the "deer's challenge" in Forest and 

 Stream of Aug. 10, Mr. A. McLain contends that deer do 

 challenge, and, furthermore, that all animals challenge 

 when preparing directly for battle. He maintains that, 

 this trait being common to all animals, it is inferentially 

 a trait of deer. He asks Mr. Walton if he ever saw any 

 two animals come together for a fight without some kind 

 of a challenge. I presume that he does not intend to limit 

 a reply to any one person, therefore I venture some 

 truthful remarks. There are domestic animals which 

 fight without challenging. 1 The greyhound runs and 

 fights mute. They will fight each other or antelope or 

 bears without a note of defiance or warning. Many 

 breeds of dogs will fight a strange dog at sight without 

 uttering the slightest sound. I have in mind a dog which 

 was called a bull dog by his owner, though he was not 

 one, but a strong active dog of the "business" type so com- 

 monly owned at one time by the rougher 1 element of 

 humanity. This dog would silently charge on any large 

 dog at sight, and by a trick of colliding his shoulder amid- 

 ship of his victim and knocking him down and over and 

 over he gained such an advantage at the outset that vic- 

 tory was insured. With little dogs he was peaceful and even 

 kind. Nearly all dogs of sharp temper and tried courage 

 begin battle silently. The ill-tempered and cowardly 

 sound a warning more to test the courage of their oppo- 

 nents than to challenge to battle. Rams and goats en- 

 gage strangers of their kind in battle without any chal- 

 lenging notes. A species of animals may be very pugna- 

 cious and yet there may be cowardly individuals of that 

 species. Such would rather trust to a challenge stamped- 

 ing the enemy and thus avoiding a battle than to engag- 

 ing in the battle itself. Dick of Connecticut. 



Small Birds and Insects. 



Philadelphia, Pa., Aug. 2.— Editor Forest and Stream: 

 Reading in your last issue Mr. "Von W.'s" article on 

 "Small Birds," I would like to answer in the affirmative. 

 I have found this year some species of Lepidoptera and 

 Goleoptera in greater abundance than in former years, 

 and have found also larvae of some flies I never could find 

 before. 



Those who will gather cocoons as Mr. Oheeny describes 

 in No. 4 (Jan. 26) of your very interesting paper will 

 have no trouble in finding some on alder, apple, plum, 

 cherry or elderberry bushes. But, safe to say, many will 

 be disappointed when the time for metamorphosis arrives 

 and ichneumon flies will make their appearance instead 

 of the moth. These flies are plentiful, and will be more 

 so next year unless the winter is favorable for our birds. 



1 have quite frequently noticed robins here, but the best 



glace I know for all kinds of birds is certainly Five-Mile 

 leach, on the New Jersey coast. I haven't seen a cane- 

 brake yet,'and never went through switch cane; but the 

 way mosquitoes and catbriars are taking hold of a fellow 

 there reminds him that his life belongs to the country and 

 New Jersey is taking it piecemeal. The swampy condi- 

 tions in some parts and the wonderfully twisted growth 

 of branching trees are no doubt a great protection to the 

 birds, which furnish the most interesting part of life on 

 the island. H. Hornig. 



An Incident of the Spring. 



Okanogan, Wash. — Did you ever take a drink with a 

 snake or even see a snake drink? 



I had been out grouse hunting one warm day and had 

 got seven. As I was expecting quite a crowd next day I 

 wanted a few more. Frank, the dog, had got quite hot. 

 I kept around, the mountain to where a spring came up 

 from the rock and ran but a short distance. I had the 

 year before scraped out a place large enough to water a 

 norse or let the dog wallow in. So when I neared the 

 place I made the dog come back, as I wanted the first 

 chance at the water. I rode up, got off from the horse, 

 lay down and drank until I wanted to get my breath. 

 When I raised myself up I saw a snake drinking on the 

 opposite side of the pool, which was not more than 18in. 

 across. I rose up a little more and watched the snake 

 until it got through. It did not seem to notice me until 

 it finished; then it ran out its forked tongue and crawled 

 back into the grass, It was striped and about an inch in 

 diameter. I had had all the water I wanted, and after I 

 had given the horse a drink Frank took possession of the 

 pool. As soon as he was through we went on. I flushed 

 a very large flock of grouse and soon had fourteen and 

 stopped shooting. The folks came and were much pleased 

 to find I had plenty of game, and that of the finest. 



Lew Wilmot. 



itfff* nnA %xttu 



MINNESOTA GAME AND FISH. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



Being permanently located in a section of country which 

 promises to rival Maine for moose and other large game, 

 1 take this opportunity to acquaint brother sportsmen with 

 my surroundings. A glance at the map of Minnesota will 

 show the reader the remoteness of Aitkin county and 

 the country contributary to it. Being on the headwaters 

 of the Mississippi, a boat built on the scow plan, to draw 

 no more than two feet of water, will take one from Aitkin 

 through a country as wild and picturesque as could be de- 

 sired. Minnesota is credited with 10,000 lakes, and the 

 greater portion of these lie in Crow Wing, Aitkin. Cass 

 and Itasca counties, and vary from one-half a mile of 

 shore to over 200. But these big lakes, Mille Lacs, Leech 

 and Winnebagoshish, are poor fishing grounds. _ The 

 smaller lakes, having better bays and inlets, are visited 

 yearly by hordes of anglers. 



The country to the northwest of Aitkin is practically 

 virgin ground for big game; but, alas! the game law of 

 Minnesota is so rigid no moose can be shot legally until 

 Jan. 1, 1898. But every winter sees numbers of this noble 

 game fall to the report of the rifle, and it is no uncommon 

 thing to see its meat on sale at markets of bordering 

 towns. All you have to do is to ask for ' 'mountain sheep," 

 pay the price and take it away. 



Several Indian reservations to our north are vast domains 

 of forest and water. Leech Lake Reservation, some 

 seventy miles northwest, comprises 94,440 acres, or 147.50 

 square miles of territory alive with game, berries and fish. 

 Plenty of bear. One half-blood Chippewa living at Kim- 

 berly told me, a few days ago, that he could take some 

 bear hunter to a den only two days' time from Aitkin and 

 guarantee him bear. He showed me three magnificent 

 skins, trophies of a little hunt last Christmas. Moose are 



A MINNESOTA CURIO. 



frequent visitors almost to our village limits, four being 

 seen four miles from town only last week. A half- 

 hour's drive in the country will reward you with the 

 sight of innumerable deer, while quail, grouse and duck 

 are continually scampering away from the roadside. 



A few Hays ago I met old Me-sog-na-day, head chief of 

 the Sandy Lake Chippewas. He came into town with a 

 sack of herbs, and in his hand carried a staff upon the tip 

 of which was wound a piece of buckskin, and attached 

 thereto were two feathers. One of these feathers told 

 his rank, the other his band. When asked the prospect 

 for the berry crop he waved his hand in a manner signi- 

 fying fire, and we knew there was no hope to the house- 

 wife for jams from that neighborhood. When wild rice 

 (Zizania aquatica) was mentioned his face brightened 

 and his hand motion interpreted that there was a plenty. 

 In fact this is an unusual year for rice, and while it now 

 sells in the market for 10 cents per pound it will be so plen- 

 tiful this fall that large quantities will be marketed and 

 thus will bring the Indians quite a revenue. 



The lakes about here have their peculiarities: a mile 

 west is a lake a mile long by one-half wide from which 

 only pickerel can be taken, a little further on is one from 

 which only dogfish are taken, while on the opposite side 

 of the railroad track is Bass Lake, where black bass are 

 only to be had. Four miles west nestles one of the 

 prettiest bodies of water in the State. Red Cedar Lake 

 has seventy-five miles of shore, is 65 to 70ft. deep, is 

 dotted with several beautiful islands. The resort is be- 

 coming quite lively now with campers. The lake abounds 

 with black, rock and silver bass, croppy, perch, whitefish 

 and pickerel. Occasionally wall-eyed pike, but they are 

 scarce. The further end of the lake, in what is known as 

 McGee's Cove, is alive with duck, and I have heard an 

 occasional gun in that direction. Its report signifies that 

 some camper or settler is enjoying young duck. 



The early part of July I visited Clitheral, Otter Tail 

 county. ThiB section is within easy reach of the Twin 

 Cities, and abundance of fine duck shooting is to be had 

 in neighboring lakes and sloughs. 



Now for a few curios. There are four rare specimens 

 here in Aitkin. One is the white fawn of which I have 

 spoken; another is in the possession of Mr. Marr, and is a 

 triple deer antler (drawing accompanying this), i. e., there 

 are two main beams, and branching from one of these is 

 a third beam as large as the others. The antlers are flat 

 and resemble in some features the antlers of moose. 

 Another curiosity is a pair of antlers, likewise of flat 

 design, which contain twenty-eight points. I think this 

 is a great curiosity, and if desired I will have them photo- 

 graphed for reproduction in Forest and Stream. My 

 fourth curiosity is my friend, George Lott, the Izaak 

 Walton of the upper Mississippi country, and his aggrega- 

 tion, Dash, a very intelligent spaniel, and Span, equally as 

 knowing a setter, and his split-bamboo cane and expert 

 reel. I fished with Lott last week in Pickerel Lake, but 

 his $25 rod and reel was a "hoodoo," while with my com- 

 mon 15-cent cane pole outfit I landed every fish caught 

 that day, several large pickerel being among the catch. 

 Now, Lott is celebrated as a wonderful angler, a beautiful 

 fly-fisherman, but he can't hold a candle with an ordinary 

 cane pole fisherman. But I give him credit of hooking 



the largest fish, which made a meal of 10ft. of his silk 

 braided line and hook. I didn't stop to examine whether 

 his fish had roots or bark on it, but give him the benefit 

 of the doubt. Some day we are going to troll the Missis- 

 sippi and endeavor to land the 5ft. muskallonge which 

 has frequently been seen in this vicinity, and if we suc- 

 ceed in landing the prize the photographic camera will be 

 used to perpetuate the feat. 



If any Forest and Stream readers are in doubt where to 

 go to get all-round duck, geese, grouse, deer or bear 

 shooting this fall, I will try and put them in a way where 

 they cannot help but be satisfied. Lott and I will go with 

 them. 



Our Bass Lake Gun Club is getting bluerock shooting 

 down fine now. F. J. S. 



WHERE WILD PIGEONS FLOCKED. 



"D. A.'s" shooting at two pigeons and gathering eight, 

 as told some time ago in our paper, reminds me of a puz- 

 zling shot at pigeons. 



When a mere lad, just learning to shoot, one day my 

 elder brother and I were out in the woods and discovered 

 a large flock of pigeons in a low beech tree on the edge 

 of the woods, just at the foot of a short, abrupt hill. 

 Slowly and cautiously we crept to within a short gun- 

 shot, probably not more than 40yds.; carefully resting 

 our guns across a convenient stump we took deliberate 

 aim at the thickest of them and poured the deadly (?) 

 contents of three barrels into them, my brother having a 

 double gun and firing both barrels. Can you imagine the 

 glow of triumph with which we contemplated the harvest 

 we would make, and how the old father who still loves 

 the gun would smile and say we had done well? 



How many did we kill? Some time you have had a 

 similar experience — or if not, you will have. Picture our 

 sorrow and disgust when we found not one dead bird and 

 only one cripple, which I secured with another shot. Per- 

 haps some of the experts in the science of gunnery can 

 explain how not less than 1,000 pellets of lead could go 

 through that tree-top loaded with birds without accident- 

 ally killing some of them. I should judge there must 

 have been more than 100 birds in the tree. 



Though more than twenty-five years have come and 

 gone, that hunting episode "haunts me still." 



The earliest recollections of my hunting days are con- 

 nected with wild pigeons, and for long years they were 

 my favorite game. Many days I have sat on the big rock 

 back of the old home and watched immense flocks pass- 

 ing over to their roosting place, and have tried to kill 

 them with the boy's universal weapon — the bow and 

 arrow. 



My love for them came to me honestly, for my first 

 shot at live game was at a single pigeon, and it was suc- 

 cessful. With my father, brother and uncle I went to a 

 nesting on Tug Hill, and well do I remember how the 

 sky would be darkened by the myriads of birds that 

 would rise from the trees at every discharge of a gun, 

 only to settle back again as the noise died away. The 

 rapid shooting soon exhausted the ammunition, but we 

 had enough. 



In later years I learned the difference between butch- 

 ery and sport; and many happy days I have stood near 

 an old dead tree on the edge of a buckwheat stubble and 

 picked off single birds from the top of the tree. As I 

 progressed in knowledge, I learned to take them as they 

 flew in, but the years were few in which they stayed 

 with us; and when in 1876 I left the old home in North- 

 ern New York to make a new one in Minnesota, pigeons 

 in New York had nearly become simply a remembered 

 delight. 



In April, 1877, I went to Minnesota to live. At my 

 first dinner at my boarding place I became an intent 

 listener to a conversation between two gentlemen who 

 had just returned from a shooting trip. They were de- 

 scribing the exact counterpart of scenes I had witnessed 

 ten years before at the nesting on Tug Hill, in old York 

 State. To say that I was delighted would not cover a fair 

 idea of the joy with which I listened to their story. Again 

 I had found God's country and the dear pigeons were not 

 all dead; they had simply done what many wise men had 

 done — "gone West." Here again I could enjoy the old 

 sport and be happy. Alas! I did not know that what I 

 had found was simply the last of them, and that this year 

 was the end of the pigeons in Minnesota, so far as the old 

 time abundance went; but my ignorance was bliss. At 

 this time I knew nothing of the acres of ducks, the myr- 

 iads of snipe, or the ten-fold pleasures of shooting chick- 

 ens over a dog. 



My first spring and fall outing days were devoted to 

 pigeons, and with fair success. My last pigeon shooting 

 was in September of 1878. 



My friend R. and I started from home early one morn- 

 ing properly equipped for two or three days' outing. We 

 headed for the Rice Lake marshes, a wild strip of country 

 some fifteen miles north of Minneapolis. The country is 

 in the main low and level, dotted all over with marshes, 

 lakes and oak openings. We drove leisurely, hunting on 

 the way, and stopping at noon to prepare a hunter's din- 

 ner from the game killed during the morning; at night 

 we made our camp by the side of a beautiful pond sur- 

 rounded by scrub oaks. After an early breakfast we 

 packed our outfit in the wagon, and taking an old hay 

 road were on our way across a marsh headed toward a 

 promising piece of woods. A slow drizzly rain had set in 

 and the prospects were for an off day. 



The country in which we were is all alike for miles and 

 miles, and a stranger in it is more liable than not to very 

 soon want to know "where he is at." Such was my fate. 

 Leaving our horse tied to a tree by the roadside, R. took 

 the right hand side and I the left, agreeing to meet at the 

 wagon in an hour's time. Very soon I foUnd pigeons and 

 killed two; I followed the flock and came upon more, 

 again killing. I kept this up with varying luck until I 

 had bagged eleven and began to think of returning to 

 the wagon. "That's easy, I'll simply turn around and 

 bearing a little to the right I'll soon be there." I did so, 

 and ten minutes' walk brought me to the edge of a marsh, 

 the boundaries of which I was unable to see in any direc- 

 tion. I canvassed the situation and decided that I was 

 lost. I hadn't the remotest idea of where the wagon was 

 or how to find it. Seating myself on an old log, I lit a 

 cigar and tried to study a way out of it; useless. I 

 couldn't do it, so I started walking a while in one way 

 and then in another, zigzagging back and forth, but it was 

 all useless. Get away from that marsh I could not. 

 "Well," I exclaimed at last, "these confounded pigeons 



