468 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



|Nov. 30, 1895. 



SPORTSMANSHIP. 



Dick of Connecticut tells us of his deep pondering as 

 to whether it exists in this country, and concludes that 

 we haven't got the genuine article. t^Sff^* -1 



Don't this nearly take you off your feet? Eheu don't 

 express it; in the language of a dear lady friend, this is 

 "jes' turribul!" 



Here we have been all this time carelessly allowing the 

 universe to wobble along as best it might, and the earth 

 to revolve, as dear old Artemus Ward used to say, "on its 

 own axletree, subject only to the constitution of the 

 United States;" all the while supposing that if we each 

 paid several "puns sterlink" for a Hinglish shotgun and 

 joined in a concerted howl of indignation over the effron- 

 tery of the skipper of Defender in presuming to enter a 

 protest against Dunraven's playful, kittenish style of 

 winning a yacht race, that we were all sportsmen. 



But here we are, it seems, up a stump after all. Like 

 the little children of the old colonist, who, having heard 

 that their father had been unexpectedly made corporal of 

 a militia company, began instantly to execute an im- 

 promptu war dance, and in their childish glee shouting 

 "We're all corporals, we're all corporals!" were rudely 

 awakened from their dream of bliss by the bareh voice of 

 the mother crying, "Shet yer mouths, you little fools! 

 there is nobody corporal but your daddy and I"; we find 

 that it is pretty tough to learn at this late day that there 

 is nobody corporal but Dunraven and Dick. 



Possibly he is right. It may be that Boone, of Ken- 

 tucky, plunged into the depths of the greatest forest any 

 continent of this earth ever knew, 700 miles distant from 

 civilization, home, friends, wife and babies; loving the 

 great wilderness with an intensity of devotion which 

 made these days of peril from wild beasts and savage 

 men — peril unshared by mortal man — the very bappieBt 

 of all his long life; it may be that he was no sportsman. 

 Was Nessmuk? Was Carson? Were any of the great host 

 of true American pioneers who, from sheer love of the 

 great unexplored wilderness, eagerly encountered its 

 thousand perils rather than accept the life of security and 

 ease in the settlements? 



Dick of Connecticut (who whole families of us are about 

 ready to conclude has mistaken his place of residence, 

 and belongs rather to Berwick-upon-Tweed, or Stratford- 

 upon-Avon, or Lunnon-on-Tems) asks in conclusion, "Who 

 says nay?" 



Before I, for one, make reply, I want to know if we 

 each buy a complete new shooting outfit imported from 

 England, and when procuring camp supplies reject en- 

 tirely any and all canned salmon from the Columbia or 

 any other American canneries and take instead only the 

 straight tinned product from some English tinnery, and 

 when on our journey to our inclosed game preserve we 

 insist strenuously upon having the cars shunted instead of 

 side-tracked, and put in all our spare time shouting "Great 

 is Diana of the English Ephesians!" whether this will en- 

 title us to take rank with the grandees across the water or 

 not? 



It might also be even possible for some American (who 

 had lost the sense of smell, and was possessed of a gunny- 

 sack stomach) by dint of hard practice to eat birds which 

 had been hung up by the neck until the feathers dropped 

 out of them, but I doubt it. 



Still, if any one on this side of the water is ambitious 

 to try it he has one assurance — there is no law (but that 

 of decency) against it. If Dick of Connecticut is right 

 there is surely a great gulf fixed between Americans and 

 sportsmanship. 



Count me with Boone, Carson, Nessmuk and the rest of 

 our worthies— an American hunter. Oein Belknap. 



POTOMAC GUNNING NOTES. 



Washington, D. C, Nov. 22.— Just outside of the 

 shadow of the dome of the U. S. Capitol Building, as the 

 sun goes down, is William Wagner's Washington head- 

 quarters for the Hallowing Point Gunning and Fishing 

 Club. The members of this club are: Wm. Wagner; John 

 Peyton, executive officer; James H. Smith, Daniel W. 

 Edelin. Wm. D. Dyer, John Arth, and Richard W. Barker. 

 All of these gentlemen are gunners of good marksmapship 

 and true sportmen. The president, Wm. Wagner, is an 

 authority on guns and their uses, and one of the leading 

 marksmen in the city. At the Du Pont shoot, recently 

 held in Baltimore, he stood third out of a very large 

 number of entries, killing thirty-nine out of a possible 

 forty. Every evening of the week, except Sunday, 

 Wagner's shop, at the back of his gun and hardware 

 store, is filled with men and smoke, tobacco smoke — the 

 stove draws well. When the writer called Tuesday even- 

 ing the smoke was strongly tinged with sulphur. This 

 was owing to the sudden return of genial John Arth, who 

 had been down to the Point for ten days. With all his 

 inborn modesty John could not refrain from giving a 

 glowing account of his experiences. He went down the 

 river for a good time and declared he had it. John now 

 swears by corn bread and mushrooms, they saved his life, 

 for he lived on them the ten days. We have John's word 

 for it that mushrooms are to be picked up by the barrel- 

 ful in the marshes around the club house. 



Ducks were somewhat scarce, so John had plenty of 

 time to devote to his corn bread and mushrooms. The 

 weather was too nice and warm for ducks. On Friday 

 the weather thickened up and brought some ducks 

 toward the Point. John prepared bis battery, felt good, 

 prospects seemed bright. The ducks showed signs of 

 settling on the water, sure signs, and John pictured them 

 swimming toward him by the fifties, even marked the 

 place on the water by eye where he would let loose and 

 pump the lead into the innocent, unsuspecting creatures 

 But something was wrong, the birds wouldn't light, they 

 just acted so as to let John know that they were tired of 

 flying and would gladly light if things suited them, and 

 then away they went to alight miles away. Our lone 

 gunner couldn't see what bothered the birds until about 

 10 o clock a miserable, dirty-canvased sloop sailed out 

 from the cove back of the point, the skipper of which 

 thoughtfully yelled to John, --D'ye have eny lo-uk " and 

 John replied in language too harsh and rasping to be here 

 mentioued. 



Notwithstanding the little circumstance of losing his 

 best morning's shooting, Mr. Arth brought home thirty- 

 two ducks, counting, as he puts it, the three Johnnie 

 shot. They were mostly blackheads and butterballs. The 

 two redheads that were in the number made a good 

 showing. J ohn took them and carefully split the feathers 

 of the head so that there was a broad chrysanthemum 



effect, then'^he'putjall of the smaller ducks into the cen- 

 ter of the bunch out of sight, and the two redheads were 

 spread all over the outside in such a manner that when 

 John boarded the Macalester at Glymont Captain Blake 

 opened wide his eyes at the sight of such a lot of fine 

 ducks. 



One of the mornings John was surprised to have some 

 mallards swim right up to him; he let go a No, 8 shell at 

 them and didn't ruffle a feather, It was a pure case of 

 duck fever, if there is such a thing. John says he can't 

 see where the lead went to. 



The Hallowing Point Club is well located, it being one 

 of tbe bpst shooting points on the Potomac. The Point is 

 on the Virginia side opposite Glymont, Md., about twenty- 

 five miles below Washington. 



As Peyton remarks, shooting on the Potomao is not 

 what it used to be. However, in spite of changed condi- 

 tions, the iniquitous big guns and steam launches, very 

 good sport is often enjoyed even nowadays. Edelin and 

 Smith a short time ago killed ten redheads over the de- 

 coys. On one of his shoots last season Wagner killed 

 sixty-six redheads and blackheads. Capt. Blake and 

 Wagner killed fourteen blackheads in Nanjemoy Creek 

 one day last year. Some one jocularly remarked that 

 more ducks are killed each season in Wagner's shop than 

 on the Potomac River. 



The marshes around Hallowing Point are very good rail 

 shooting grounds. With a very high tide these birds are 

 to be found there in great numbers. There is also good 

 snipe and woodcock shooting. 



One great trouble about the Potomac is the fact that the 

 game laws are not enforced. There is plenty of law, but 

 no enforcement to it. If the big guns and steam launches 

 were suppressed the sportsmen would have a chance to 

 reach the game. 



Speaking of this part of the river we are reminded of 

 Craney Island, artificially built years ago by a Mr. Chap- 

 man as a shad fishing station. Thousands of dollars' 

 worth of the savory Potomac shad were landed here, and 

 the owner was at one time offered $80,000 for the island, 

 so valuable was the fishery, now about worthless. Some 

 very good ducking is to be had off this island at times. 



That birds of various kinds know a thing or two and 

 will profit by protection iB well illustrated in the marshes 

 back of the Alexander race track, in Virginia, opposite 

 this city. The authorities of the race track control the 

 marsh adjoining and will not allow gunning there, as it 

 interferes with the racing. As a consequence the marsh 

 is full of reed birds, rail, etc., in their seasons, 



Bart. 



WILL'S FIRST WAPITI. 



For nearly a week we had been riding laboriously over 

 steep hills covered with fallen timber and through deep 

 canons tangled with underbrush, when about 3 o'clock 

 one afternoon we saw some fresh elk sign, and the guide 

 and our map agreeing that we were safely out of the 

 Park we decided to go into camp. 



Neither the General nor Will had ever killed an elk, 

 and to do so was the prime object of the hunt. We were 

 all growing tired of bacon and trout, and our horses were 

 getting tired from six days' hard traveling without their 

 accustomed allowance of oats. Dismounting in a little 

 grove of pines at the edge of a grassy meadow our horses 

 were soon unsaddled and refreshing themselves by a roll 

 in the soft grass. The pack mules were soon unloaded, 

 and lifting up their melodious voices in gratitude, the 

 aprarejos ranged neatly side by side, and the coffee-pot 

 simmering over a fire of dry pine boughs. After a hasty 

 lunch the rifles emerged from their cases, cartridge belts 

 were buckled on and the General and the guide went up 

 back of camp full of murderous intent. 



Will and I crossed the little meadow and entered the 

 forest, heading for a little bench about half way up the 

 mountain beyond, and almost smacking our lips in an- 

 ticipation of a fat juicy elk steak for supper. I confess 

 to having been somewhat amused as Will caressed the 

 polished stock of his little .38-55 Marlin and asked who 

 was the best taxidermist to put up elk heads. But I 

 wisely concluded to say nothing and let him learn by 

 experience that it required something more than a pretty 

 toy and a tenderfoot to kill an animal nearly as large as 

 a horse. 



After an hour's toilsome climbing up the rocky and 

 almost perpendicular face of the cliff we reached the 

 bench, and were delighted to find some very fresh sign. 

 Slowly and cautiously now, with rifles "ready," we 

 advanced through the virgin pine forest. Carefully step- 

 ping around or over every dry twig and stopping at every 

 little rise to search carefully the valley beyond, we finally 

 came to one of those little open grassy glades of perhaps 

 three acres in extent called parks by the mountaineers. 



Peering cautiously out from behind a clump of firs, our 

 hearts bound, and hands grip the stock tighter; for there, 

 about 75yds. away and all unconscious of our presence, 

 stands a bull, his rump to the wind and his full broadside 

 toward us, He has evidently just finished a good dinner 

 from the rich grass and washed it down with a draft of 

 cool water from the little stream which runs through the 

 meadow, and is now thoughtfully chewing his cud in 

 blissful ignorance of the close proximity of his deadly toe; 

 meditating, perhaps, on the charms of those young cows 

 in a herd he knows of, and thinking he would go and call 

 on them if the "old man" wasn't so fearfully big and 

 strong and ill-tempered. 



Ye gods! what -a sight for a sportsman, and how it tends 

 to make the eyes and mouth of a tenderfoot open wide, 

 and his knees shake under him. And I notice that Will's 

 eyes are very bright and big, though his hand is perfectly 

 steady, and he doesn't forget to cock the little Marlin as 

 he brings it slowly to his shoulder. 



A spiteful little crack, and as Mr. Wapiti looks quickly 

 around to see what is the matter, he finds out to his sorrow 

 for the repeater cracks again, and this time he starts < ff 

 with his hindleg broken just below the gambrel, and held 

 only by a bit of skin. 



Right bravely doeB he plow crashing through the 

 forest for about 60yds. down to another little park, where 

 he falls in a slough, and now the first little pellet seems to 

 give him a queer feeling in the vicinity of his stomach, for 

 he lies quite still until we come crashing out of the timbf r 

 after him. Another brave effort brings him out of tie 

 slough, but his progress is slow and labored. Once again 

 the little "pop gun" cracks, and this time it is fatal, and 

 the noble bull goeB down to rise no more. He is a beauti- 

 ful specimen, just medium size, with ten poiats— one of 

 them curiously bent down and misshapen, probably fro m 



some injury while still in the velvet. But he is fat and 

 sleek, and in perfect condition. 



P Will doesn't say much, but I notice as he pushes his hat 

 back the absence of three out of the five wrinkles that I 

 noticed in his manly brow when we left civilization, and 

 he stands erect, with shoulders, back and chest thrown 

 out more like a soldier than a staid bank cashier. And 1? 

 I am glad now, when I see the leg and the big cervical 

 vertebra spattered by the little "pop gun," that I didn't 

 express all I thought about it and its owner. But the sun 

 is already out of sight behind yon tall cliff. Guns are laid 

 aside, sleeves rolled up, and— well, let me tell you. If 

 you have never dressed a big elk, and don't know how, 

 just you go to a butcher and learn before you start hunt- 

 ing in the Rocky Mountains with no hatchet or saw. Put 

 after half an hour's hard work and a big nick in Will's 

 new hunting knife, we conclude that he is butchered 

 plenty, for to-night at least. And another hard hour's 

 work brings us safely into camp with a big piece of liver 

 for supper and breakfast. 



Of course it only illustrates a human weakness to say 

 that we were both secretly gratified to learn that the Gen- 

 eral and the guide "hadn't seen anything," and after a 

 hearty supper we told them all about it. E. L. 



MY FIRST DEER HUNT IN AROOSTOOK. 



"I hardly think the old army rifle will do to kill deer 

 with," was a remark I made to my wife one evening in 

 the latter part of September, "and if I want to be fully 

 equipped I had better be hustling and get a gun that 

 won't shoot around corners." I had brought the rifle 

 from the garret, where it had been laying for the past 

 three years, and it took me but a few minutes to come to 

 the conclusion that it was a back number, and in the 

 morning's mail was a request to rifle manufacturers for 

 a copy of their latest catalogue of "destroyers," 



Away back in the spring Dick, an old chum of earlier 

 days, now a farmer and woodsman of that mecca of the 

 hunter's dreams, Aroostook, and one of the jolliest and 

 best all-round companions on an "expedition" that you 

 could scare up in a day's journey, in one of his letters 

 had said: "In my opinion it is most time for me to do 

 some killing, and I am going to commence oiling up my 

 shooting irons and get into training for the fall," and 

 knowing that I had never killed anything larger than a 

 fox, asked me if I was going to join him. Well, that 

 started me off on tbe sance tack, and for the next three 

 or four nights I cleaned out everything with horns and 

 four legs in Aroostook county, and would just be getting 

 a bead on that big fellow with the fine pair of antlers 

 when I would get a jab in the ribs "and a gentle voice 

 would softly whisper," "For goodness sake turnover on 

 your side and stop snoring." 



About five weeks ago I heard from Dick again, saying 

 that he had made all necessary arrangements for the trip 

 after big game, and to be on deck sure Oct. 1. 



In three clays the catalogue had been thoroughly dis- 

 sected and I had decided on a .38 55, octagon barrel, of 

 the latest model- A prettier gun I never handled, and it 

 weighed but 7|lbs. 



Friday, Sept. 27. found me getting off the train at Sher- 

 man Station on the Bangor & Aroostook Railroad, and 

 when Dick saw me he executed a regular "nigger break- 

 down," or at least as near to it as he could come. Inside 

 of five minutes we had Btarted on the seven mile ride to 

 his farm, where a hearty dinner already waiting for us 

 was treated in a most affectionate and brotherly manner. 

 After dinner I unpacked, and of course the new rifle was 

 the main object of interest to Dick, who, having "tried" 

 it to his satisfaction, proposed that I go out in the field 

 and see if I could shoot a deer should I get the chance. I 

 looked at him, "but spoke niver a wurrd," packed up the 

 gun and a handful of cartridges and started for the field, 

 and in a few moments had made kindling wood of a small 

 box at 250yds. (I had been practicing before leaving 

 home). This seemed to relieve him wonderfully, so we 

 went up the hill to where a four-horse machine was dig- 

 ging out potatoes. Six men were picking up and barrel- 

 ing, and kept a two-horse team busy hauling them to tbe 

 house. He told me that this crew could house 200 barrels 

 per day. The principal things of interest though were 

 the deer tracks and they were thick all over the field. 

 Alongside of this field ran a thick piece of woods, in 

 which Dick said we would find plenty of sign. Sure 

 enough there had been deer around during the previous 

 night, but as it was getting too late in the day to com- 

 mence operations we returned to the house, About 8 

 o'clock I began to get restless, and as the full moon was 

 shining brightly I said to Dick, "Let's take our guna and 

 go up on the hill. Perhaps we can spot something." 

 "I'm your huckleberry," said he, and soon we were going 

 cautiously up the rise and keeping close in the shadow of 

 the woods. We made a complete circuit of the field 

 before stopping, and then sat down beside a large pile of 

 stoneB where the shadows were so black that we were 

 completely hidden, but had a fine view of the open. 



I think we must have sat there about two hours ,when I 

 leaned over to whisper something to Dick. Hark! what 

 is that? Every sense is keenly on the alert, and your 

 fingers instinctively put the triggers of the guns in cock. 

 We listened breathlessly, for a little further above us, 

 apparently in the edge of the woods, we could hear the 

 regular swish, swisb, swish of some large animal walking 

 over the dead leaves. It seemed to have no sense nf dan- 

 ger, and came on in a direct line toward us. Nearer, 

 nearer, when of a sudden it stopped, and peering out we 

 tried to locate the beast, which was now almost upon us. 

 Now it starts again, but this time headed directly for the 

 open field. Ah! there he is. Both rifles cracked almost 

 together, and then we saw a black object whirling around 

 as if chasing its tail. We put two more bullets in its hide 

 before he gave up the ghost, and then we ran for the spot. 

 There lay one of the finest black bears that had been been 

 in many a day. I straightened up and let out three of the 

 heartie&t cheers that ever came from mortal throat; for I 

 had killed my first bear. We bled him and then went 

 down to the house, considering that we had commenced 

 the season in right good style, and to say we were happy 

 is drawing it very mildly. 



The next morning at break of day we took one of the 

 horse teamB and an extra hand and went after our game. 

 It was a beauty, with long, jet black hair. Dick said the 

 hide was good for $15, and the nose $5, which is the 

 bounty paid by the State of Maine for bears' noses. After 

 the skin was taken off we found that three of the bullets 

 had gone clear through the body. 



