666 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Dec. 28, 1895. 



pon out in the river, and occasionally Bee the side of a 

 rolling fish, with the rosy gleam on the scales which is 

 seen on the unharmed and unalarmed animal alone. 



About 10 o'clock there were signs of clearing weather, 

 and we turned to retrace our course. On the way back 

 the brigand became exceedingly demonstrative, and I 

 fired into a large tree and brought down a green parrot 

 which fell into the worst kind of a cactus thicket, whence 

 our boatman really could not extricate it. On the way 

 back I shot at four graceful birds running on the mud 

 which resembled small turkey hens; I do not know what 

 they were and got none. I also killed three doves, which 

 were the only edible results of the trip. 



The sight of the tarpon made me to desire a tussle with 

 that fish, and having the proper tackle with me, I engaged 

 men and mullet to meet me at the mouth of the river the 

 next day. With a fellow passenger (from Chicago) I 

 fished faithfully the whole day without a strike. 



I am satisfied, from reliable sources, that the tar- 

 pon on the west coast] of the Gulf of Mexico will not 

 take the bait before the month of May. I do not gener- 

 alize on this single experience at Tampico; that would be 

 foolish. But men of lai'ge experience at Aransas Pass 

 and places with some musical but forgetable Spanish 

 names, who are hunters of wildfowl and in the region 

 every winter, tell me that the natives tell them that the 

 fish will not strike before May. I have seen Texas scores 

 in Forest and Stream, and they always deal with sum- 

 mer and autumn months. There is no tarpon fishing 

 worth considering for winter or early a spring except the 

 Charlotte Harbor region, and notably at Fort Myers on 

 the Caloosahatchie. F. S. J. C. 



THE CHRISTMAS GROUSE. 



For a man who is passionately fond of the country and 

 of outdoor life and sports to find himself, at the vigorous 

 age of 30, condemned to the slavery of office work in a 

 great city is a striking instance of what has been called 

 "the irony of fate." Such was my lot when I firstfbegan 

 to really live; that is (for I use the term advisedly) when 

 I "married me a wife" and began to look about me for a 

 little home. 



I swore a mighty oath— and there be mighty oaths 

 which are not profane — that, though doomed to toil with- 

 in the dark and rumbling [depths of the great town, I 

 would not live there. My home at least should be where 

 God's breezes kiss the grass and the trees, and where 

 God's sunlight strikes on other than glaring pavements 

 and brick walls. So I rented me a cottage twelve miles 

 from town in the suburbs of a suburb. To be sure, the 

 trail of the city was over it all — the deafening buzz and 

 rumble of the trolley cars; the suburban trains following- 

 one another like an endless pack of hounds on a hot 

 scent; the scream of the newsboy and the howl of the 

 huckster; the prim park system, where no man feels that 

 his soul, or the twig that brushes his hand, is his own; 

 the proudly exclusive "estates," with their stone walls 

 and their frightful threats against trespassers— all these 

 things and others like them took the charm off the seem- 

 ing country. Still it was better than pavements and brick 

 walls; and by locating upon the extreme edge of this pert 

 little suburb, called Underwood, I found myself able to 

 have a bit of garden, swing a hammock and even look 

 over my back fence upon an unprotected field and, beyond 

 it, some woods. 



I do not remember how long I had been living in Un- 

 derwood before I discovered the grouse — the Christmas 

 grouse; only he wasn't a Christmas grouse then, and 

 probably never dreamed of being such. I imagine I must 

 have been a resident about six months. It took me all 

 that time to get over my dread of being arrested if I 

 should venture out of the main traveled ways and delight 

 my presumptuous soul with a bit of woodland ramble. 

 But one August afternoon, a Saturday half holiday, I did 

 defy law and precedent by crossing my unknown neigh- 

 bor's bit of pasture and striking boldly into the woods be- 

 yond. 



Then it was to my utter amazement, unbounded de- 

 light and startled apprehension that I discovered there 

 was actually a living grouse within the borders of Under- 

 wood—only twelve miles from the stalls of one of the 

 greatest game markets in America. 



He launched from the foot of a thorn-apple bush in the 

 good old whirring, thundering way; I saw him plainly. 

 He was a grouse and no mistake — a goodly old cock grouse, 

 apparently in a state of vigorous nature, independent, self- 

 reliant, and undismayed by the presence of an advanced 

 civilization which had put its ban upon trespassing. 

 What music his thunderous wings made for me! And 

 yet how strange, how almost incongruous, that he should 

 be there; Btrange as finding a gray hair in a baby's head. 



That afternoon's discovery gave me new lease of life. 

 It brought back all the romance of my gunning days to 

 know that there was actually a grouse, a live, wild 

 grouse, within two gunshots of my own back door. From 

 that time on I lived in a new and more endurable world. 



Gradually I overcame my fear of those awful hobgoblin 

 trespassing signs, which I found to be as harmless as 

 Irish bogies, and roamed far and wide through the forests 

 of Underwood. And I was surprised to find what a large 

 area of woodland there was — acres and acres of it at a 

 stretch. But no more grouse did I discover. That one 

 lusty fellow in the woods behind my house was all that 

 remained of an otherwise locally extinct race. And he 

 was spared, doubtless that he might become the Christmas 

 grouse. 



But of that in due time. 



I became so bold, so reckless, so defiant of consequences 

 that I bought me a gun and began to hunt that solitary 

 grouse. Not that I would have killed him— no, not for 

 the world. There was not the slightest danger of that. I 

 must not— I could not hit him. I bought my gun with 

 distinct reference to this necessity. It was a 16-gauge 

 and choked so lightly that both barrels threw their con- 

 tents in the shape of a hen's egg up to 60yds. No living 

 man could have hit a healthy, flying grouse with a gun 

 like that. And furthermore, my feathered friend having 

 discovered that I was after him with a persistency which 

 might probably prove dangerous, made up his mind to dis- 

 courage any undue intimacy by rising in my presence at 

 the coolly courteous distance of 80yds. on an average. 



But for two successive years what fun I did have hunt- 

 ing him I How my health improved — how my eye 

 brightened— how my homesickness for the dear old woods 

 of Vermont decreased! Every day when I could get off 

 for a few hours, during the open season, I was out pop- 



ping at him — popping at 80yds., with no more expecta- 

 tion of getting him than a leap-year spinster has of get- 

 ting a millionaire. And I was never arrested— that was 

 the wonder of it. Twice, by mistake, I threaded a tres- 

 passing sign with daylight, and once I fired at the grouse 

 so near the house of the man who owned the woods that 

 my shot rattled down on the glass roof of his conserva- 

 tory. Yet I was not arrested. It was marvelous, it was 

 inexplicable, it was almost demoralizing. 



So came— or rather approached— Christmas of the third 

 year. And my grouse still lived, thrived and gave me 

 joy. 



Then came a letter from my favorite brother. He had 

 been in the far West, had returned and was now at the 

 old home in Vermont. How I longed to see him! I wrote, 

 begging him to come and spend Christmas with us, and 

 by way of extra inducement, remembering that his fond- 

 ness for sport was as keen as mine, I mentioned that there 

 was a wily old grouse in the woods back of my cottage 

 and invited him to come and help me "circumvent" him, 

 as we used to the shy old birds in Vermont that every- 

 body else had given over as beyond the reach of mortal 

 skill. 



To my delight he came, and to my dismay he brought 

 his 10-guage. It was then that, for the first time, I began 

 to seriously consider the possibility of grouse as an after- 

 piece to the Christmas goose. The more I thought of it 

 the more inclined I felt to sacrifice my cherished bird 

 upon the altar of Yuletide cheer. Think of the magnifi- 

 cent thrill, the triumph of it, to begin with! Then, it 

 must be remembered that my grouse was growing old. 

 Before another season he might die an inglorious natural 

 death — unless we saved him from that ignominy by shoot- 

 ing him. Besides, why could I not import another and 

 younger grouse for next year's sport?— my brother could 

 send me one from Vermont. All things considered I de- 

 cided to immortalize the old log-drummer of Underwood 

 by making of him— a Christmas grouse. 



To this end, on the evening of Dec. 23 my brother and 

 I sat planning. 



"Do you know his flyways?" asked my brother. "It 

 will all depend on posting ourselves rightly, so as to cut 

 him off on some fly way, as we used to do with the old 

 tricksters at home. One of us must drive, the other one 

 stand ready on the fly way." 



In reply to my brother's question I drew the following 



map. So long had I pursued the old grouse that I knew, 

 every time he rose, exactly where he would go. 



"That is exactly the way he will fly, to a dot," I said. 



My brother examined the map closely. Then he broke 

 into a laugh. 



"Do you see what it spells?" he asked. 



"No," I replied, with some curiosity. "Does it spell 

 anything? What?" 



"It spells 'N. G.,' " laughed my brother. "No grouse, I 

 suppose that stands for." 



I joined in the laugh, but added: "Wait till Christmas! 

 Before that day has passed it may stand for 'now guz- 

 zled.' " 



The following afternoon I returned from my office at 

 2 o'clock, and we started in pursuit of the old grouse. 

 The day was still and rather warm. No snow had as yet 

 gathered on the ground, and one might easily have imag- 

 ined it an overcast day in late October. My brother car- 

 ried his 10-gauge gun, with twenty shells in his shooting- 

 jacket. I had my little 16-bore. 



"Now, Rob," said I, "you are to do the shooting, and I 

 will play dog. I shall station you first among the hard- 

 wood trees. The bird will surely come that way, though 

 I can't tell which one he will select to light in. Be ready 

 for him." 



The big hardwoods were quite near the road, and I 

 cautioned my brother not to fire low, lest he should hit 

 somebody. Leaving him near the center of the grove, I 

 circled back again and came up on the opposite side of 

 the scrub pines, where I was confident the old grouse was 

 hiding. Sure enough, up he got, with resonant wings, 

 long before I came in sight of him, and less than a min- 

 ute later I heard the boom of the 10-gauge. But I listened 

 in vain for Bob's exultant yell. When I reached him he 

 was creeping with cat-like steps about the grove, his neck 

 bent back almost at right angles to his body, and his eyes 

 fixed on the tree tops. 



"The rascal is hiding here somewhere," he said. "I 

 took an incoming overhead shot at him and missed. But 

 I heard him light somewhere. ' 



Just then the old fellow launched with a mocking roar 

 of wings from the very tree under which my brother 

 stood. So arrow-like was his flight that by the time the 

 10-gauge reached Bob's shoulder the grouse was more 

 than 200yds. away. 



"Well, sir, he's a corker!" exclaimed Rob. 



"You may wager your boots he is!" I replied. "Do 

 you suppose I have had him in training two years for 

 nothing? But come on. Let's waste no time. He is now 

 among the alders down by the brook. I will station you 

 on the hillside, just off the road, below here. It is thick 

 there, but I will put you in the clearest place, and you 

 must take your chances. You will hear him at least." 



It was quite a long trip from the hillside, around the 

 edge of the woods to the opposite side of the alders, 

 but I got there at last, and drove my bird just as I ex- 

 pected to. I heard him tearing away toward the hillside; 

 but this time there was no boom from the 10-gauge. 



I found, as I expected, that the grouse had alighted in 

 the thick brush, about 50yds. from my brother, and at the 

 latter's first move to get a flying shot had whirred away, 

 unseen, below the cover, and given him no chance at all. 



"Oh,*he's full of his trickB," said I, "but we will have 

 him yet, I guess we'll drive him over to the ravine now, 



and get him away from the houses and the road. Then 

 we can peg at him as we please. Hark! There he goesl" 

 Warned by the sound of our voices, the wily old bird 

 had left the hillside and was now making his sweeping 

 curve around the shoulder of a long ridge into the ravine 

 beyond. 



"Now, Rob," said I, drawing out the map, "I am going 

 to put you on the top of that bare hill where the dead 

 tree is. The grouse has to cross it in order to hide in the 

 swamp, which is the last and winning move. If he gets 

 into the swamp we may as well go home. But don't you 

 let him pass you. I will fire when I start him from the 

 ravine, whether I get a fair shot or not, in order to give 

 you warning. Then do your prettiest. The bird isn't 

 likely to cross out of range." 



Twenty minutes later Rob stood like a statue behind the 

 old dead tree on the hill, and I was on my way back to 

 the ravine. It was nearly sunset. The clouds had broken 

 away in the west, and the gray landscape was bathed in 

 a deep, soft, almost crimson light. I scaled the ridge and 

 began creeping down toward the mouth of the ravine. 

 For the first time that season the old grouse lay like a 

 stone, and I almost stepped on him before he rose. Crack 

 went the little 16-gauge, and the egg of shot buried itself 

 in a neighboring hemlock. Crack went the other barrel, 

 but the grouse kept right on. 



Half a dozen flying leaps took me out of the ravine 

 into a little open space, where I could see the bare hill 

 opposite, toward the sunset. Just as I emerged there was 

 a thunderous report from behind the old dead tree, and 

 the lurid sunset seemed flecked for a minute with the 

 floating particles of a cloud of mist. Then came Rob's 

 well-known yell of triumph. 



"Hi-yi! hoo-oo-oo! whoop!" 



When I reached the spot, I found him searching for 

 the poor old Christmas grouse. The ground was sprinkled 

 with feathers for yards around, but not a particle of any- 

 thing more substantial could we find, until at last I spied 

 something pinkish white lodged in a crotch of the old 

 tree. I poked it down with a long stick, and we found 

 that it was part of the stripped breast of Rob's victim. 



And that was what we had for the after-piece of the 

 first course at our Christmas dinner. Did I say we? No! 

 the cat had it. But we all tried it. Paul Pastnor. 



AT SUNRISE IN THE SIERRAS. 



Shasta Mountains, California. — Anticipating my usual 

 custom by about four hours, I arose recently at 3 o'clock 

 in the morning; I got out of a comfortable bed at that 

 early hour because there was no fresh meat in the house, 

 and I wanted venison. 



My house is several miles from a meat market. In fact, 

 my house is a rather obscure hermitage, and for the past 

 three years I have lived as n B ear the solitary life of a hermit 

 and as near absolute solitude as I care to exist. 



An erratic individual several years ago conceived the 

 plan of erecting a sawmill in this out-of-the-way niche in 

 the California mountains. The mill did not continue for 

 several sundry reasons, and the machinery was removed. 

 A quantity of sawed lumber was left on the ground in 

 among the mighty granite boulders of a little flat on the 

 banks of Bowlder Creek. For several other sundry reasons 

 I collected some of the boards and timbers, and after 

 an expenditure of much labor and some money built a 

 house here. 



My house is worth writing a great deal more about, in 

 my opinion; but in deference to the unknown reader I 

 will say no more than to add that it is at the terminus of 

 a rough mountain road and at the foot of at least five very 

 steep spurs from a lofty range of mountains to the west. 

 These spurs, or radials, from the high ridge almost inter- 

 sect or unite near my house, forming, after a fashion, one- 

 half of a huge wheel, with a bend in the swift, rocky 

 stream for the hub. The spurs coming in together at this 

 point made the place desirable for a mill site. 



These same spurs puzzle me a great deal. As they are 

 separated by gulches, ravines and canons, I find it impos- 

 sible to climb more than one of them at a time. Hence, 

 when I decide to go out hunting I have also to decide be- 

 tween the spurs. More than once, after getting my rifle 

 and causing my dog to go into one of his customary fits 

 of joy at the prospect of a hunt, I have stopped to con- 

 eider which spur to select. Consideration often leads to 

 hesitation — at least I am sure it does on Bowlder Creek— 

 and hesitation always implies delay. 



"Enterprises of great pith and moment 



With thiB regard their currents turn awry 



And lose the name of action." 



The chances for finding deer are about equal upon 

 either of the several slopes and there is not much choice 

 as to their ascent. Some are steeper in one place or 

 another, but they are all steep most of the way, and all 

 finally end at about the same altitude, where they join 

 the main ridge. 



But there are always considerations or "strings" ap- 

 pended to everything, it seems to me. The sun may 

 shine in my eyes if I go up the south spur, the wind may 

 be wrong if I select the north; perhaps I was up the mid- 

 dle one last and had no luck, or there may be a band of 

 cattle there now and they would start the deer over to the 

 next spur, and so on until 



—"the native hue of resolution 

 Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," 



Sometimes my dog seems to fathom my speculations, 

 and fearing I may abandon the hunt he sets off in advance 

 with great manifestations. In fact my present dog is a 

 sort of "confidence operator." He has operated upon my 

 confidence until I begin to suspect him. He has of late 

 assumed airs and simulated sagacity in what I fear to be 

 a bogus kind of a way. He elevates his nose and steps 

 high, as though he scented deer, and he has betrayed me 

 and led me astray. 



One day he took me down into a deep canon on the 

 trail of a big deer. He pretended to be excited and I 

 followed the track after him for a half mile over very 

 rough ground. Finally when he began to sniff at pine 

 burrs, where squirrels had been feeding, my suspicions 

 were aroused. I got down and examined the deer tracks 

 and I'll be ding-donged if there wasn't grass sprouting in 

 them. 



But I was about to say: I arose at 3 o'clock to go out 

 after venison. My rifle gleamed in the corner, having 

 been freshly cleaned and oiled the night before. She is a 

 .38 56-255, model 1876, Winchester. I selected her myself 



