July 10, 1888.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



518 



"Because you look so well fattened up, and have such 

 a healthy, bronzed sort of a look. Can't mistake it." 



''Now, George, let me tell you something, my hoy. 

 People 'go down to the sea' and come back looking just 

 as I do; their friends meet them and tell them how they 

 have improved; how fat they are, and go wild over their 

 complexion; but the truth' is, George, it's nothing but 

 sunburn and whisky." 



Staunton, Va. 



Whack. 



Mine 



fag and 



Antelope and Deer of America. By J. D. Caton. 

 Price Win (i and Glass Ball Shooting with the 



Rijle. By W. C. Bliss. Price 50 cents. Rifle, Rod and 

 Gun in California. By T. 8. Van Dyke. Price Si. 50. 

 Shore Birds'. Price 50 cents. Woodcraft. By '•JVess- 

 mule." Price fx. Trajectories of Hunting Rifle's. Price 

 5 cen ts. The St ill- Hunter. By T. S. Van Dyke. Price $2. 



DEER HUNTING AT MURRELL'S POINT. 



(Concluded from Page U76.) 



ON Wednesday John and myself went driving, Mr. 

 Murrell was detained by business, but he sent An- 

 drew and the freednian to drive for us. The first drive 

 we made in an opposite direction from those on Tuesday. 

 We had the melancholy reflection to know we were too 

 late in getting to our stands, as we saw two fine deer 

 passing out, just where we designed stopping. The next 

 was one into which the deer had gone. John and I went 

 to a stand which he wanted me to take, but I preferred 

 going to another, of which he gave me such directions 

 I could not fail to find it. 



Shortly after taking it I heard the hounds running the 

 deer we had seen, seemingly straight to me. But when 

 almost in shooting distance they turned to go beyond me, 

 but I discovered a huge gobbler creeping along the edge 

 of Grassy Lake. I ran to head him, and after getting to 

 the lake could see him nowhere. Concluding he had hid 

 among the palmettoes, I hunted faithfully for him. 

 Finally, as I was passing a big cypress tree he jumped 

 up almost at my feet, and before I could get ready to 

 shoot, he was out of sight, and I saw him no more. 'How 

 he escaped I could not tell. He did not fly, and there 

 was no brush to conceal him. The driver came to me 

 and blew the dogs back. We had been waiting there 

 some time before their return, and Avhen we started to 

 John Warren the dogs jumped several deer that had been 

 lying in gunshot of us all that time. We failed to get a 

 shot, but the deer ran by where John ought to have been, 

 but unfortunately he had left his stand to head the dogs 

 when they first ran out, thus missing a splendid oppor- 

 sunity of killing one or more. The stand was on a very 

 deep bayou that ran out of Bayou Pierre into Eed River, 

 the banks very steep, yet we managed to cross and again 

 get the dogs, that had gone into a very large scope of 

 country. 



We drove this drive, starting several, that ran across 

 Bayou Pierre. I was assigned one of the most noted 

 stands in that whole country, one where Mr. Murrell told 

 me several hundred deer had been killed during the last 

 fifty years. It was known as the Persimmon Tree Stand. 

 Here was a large persimmon tree bending over a path 

 that lead to Pierre, being on a narrow ridge between two 

 wide cypress brakes. There were but two stands' to this 

 drive, the deer nearly always going through them, or 

 coming back the same way, unless frightened. This 

 ended, the hunt for the day. John and Andrew shot 

 several squirrels as we returned home. 



Thursday:, Mr. Crichton came over and all of us again 

 went to drive the same Big Bend in which we had killed 

 the deer on Tuesday. We started a number of deer, 

 that avoided our stand. The last drive we made on the 

 opposite side of the deep bayou, where we bagged our 

 deer, as stated. Mr. Crichton drove, accompanied by the 

 little negro boy. They started two wolves, that crossed 

 the bayou, just where Mr. Murrell was about to put me 

 to stand. We got there in time to see the dogs on the op- 

 posite bank, and I suppose the wolves a long way ahead 

 of them. That hunt was over, and we started for home. 

 Crichton and Murrell killed several squirrels, I did not 

 shoot. 



The next day, Friday, I had no one to hunt with me 

 except Andrew and the little negro boy, Murrell being 

 detained at home. Early we started with only two 

 hounds, Music and one of her puppies. About a mile 

 from the house is a famous palmetto ridge, on which the 

 big deer go to lie. They are so wary that great caution 

 must be observed, or the deer hear one going to his 

 stand and run out before he can get to it. On this occa- 

 sion I gave strict orders to the little negro, who was to 

 drive, while Andrew and I stood, not to blow his horn, 

 hollow or make the least noise; but to drive silently 

 down the fence, until he got to the extremity of the 

 ridge, and there begin his drive. He disobeyed my in- 

 junctions, resulting in the deer getting up and going out 

 before we reached our stands. Andrew blew the dogs 

 back, and advised going up to the deep bayou running 

 from Bayou Pierre, crossing and making the persimmon 

 tree drive, since the deer had gone into that, and it was 

 very likely he would return by the persimmon stand. I 

 agreed, and accordingly we made our respective stands. 

 The little negro was placed near where we expected the 

 deer had gone into the drive from the palmetto ridge, 

 and he was ordered not to move for at least half an 

 hour, so as to give us ample time to take our stand. A 

 promise of half a dollar if he should run me a deer was 

 a further stimulus. 



When I arrived at the persimmon tree I tied my horse 

 in the brake behind me, sufficiently for to prevent the 

 deer from either seeing or winding him. Then, I walked 

 in the opposite brake and took my stand, some 150yds. 

 from the tree, and rather above it, being near the middle 

 of the brake. I conjectured a cautious old buck would 

 run up near the stand where Andrew stood, and as the 

 wind was blowing from him toward the deer he would 

 turn and feel his way down the middle of the brake to 

 some point opposite the persimmon stand, and there stop 

 to listen and wind for astander. My conjectures proved 

 correct. It was not five minutes after I stopped before I 

 saw the monster horns of a buck cautiously and slowly 

 making his way straight to me. In an instant the gun 

 was raised, with heel on my hip, finger on trigger, ready 



o come to the shoulder at the proper moment. Up to 

 this time I had not heard a cry from the hounds. The 

 buck slowly loped along, turning his head first one way 

 and then another, intently listening and snuffing the 

 wind, that was then blowing sideways to him. The un- 

 dergrowth prevented my seeing his body. He was com- 

 ing direct down the middle of the brake from Andrew's 

 stand. It seemed to me he would never come in shooting 

 distance, though he was not over 200yds. when I first saw 

 his horns. Suddenly the cry of the hounds was heard, 

 and instantly he stopped, took in the direction, and then 

 accelerated his gait. Some thorn bushes caused him to 

 turn from the direct line, and made him pass some 40 or 

 50yds. broadside to me. Instantly the gun came to the 

 shoulder, and as my eye glanced along the glistening 

 barrels I noticed a sapling, not as large as the small part 

 of my arm, covering his vital parts. What a superb- 

 looking animal he was, his huge horns lying back on his 

 neck and shoidders, his head slightly turned in the direc- 

 tion of the hounds, that were at least a mile off on an air 

 line, his long ears thrown forward to catch the least 

 noise, his hair blue and silky, and his mouth almost white 

 from old age! As the barrrel leveled against the sapling 

 my finger madly pressed the fore trigger, a ringing report 

 followed. I saw the buck reel as he sprang to the right, 

 and in an instant more the left barrel roared to a quarter- 

 ing shot. And then!— what then? The smoke cleared 

 away and I saw that huge buck reefing and plunging over 

 brush squa,re across the brake. He disappeared from my 

 sight and I never saw him again. It was nearly half an 

 hour before the two hounds came to me in full cry on his 

 track I whooped to them with all the power of lungs I 

 had, and there is where I made a sad and fatal mistake. 

 Had I stopped them and waited until Andrew, who was 

 a fearless rider, came up, that great deer would have been 

 mine in less than fifteen minutes. But I was so sanguire 

 he was shot so badly that he could not go far before he 

 would fall that I urged on the hounds. When they smelt 

 the blood they ran as if perfectly wild. I listened in- 

 tently for some ten or fifteen minutes, and then the cry 

 suddenly ceased. The wind was blowing from me to the 

 dogs, and I could not exactly locate the spot where I last 

 heard them. 



Andrew came to me, bringing my pony, and we rode 

 where I thought I heard the dogs stop. But no deer, no 

 sound of a dog. In twenty-five minutes the dogs came 

 back on our track. We took them to the place where I 

 shot the deer, looked for blood, could find none, nor 

 would the hounds run the track again. So. spiritless, 

 mortified with myself because I had not stopped the dogs 

 and waited for Andrew, I rode back home Avith the ceru- 

 lean vapors around me thicker than I ever had them 

 before. Andrew tried to comfort me by saying, "he 

 knew the hounds had come up w r ith the deer, that no 

 doubt fell dead, and as they never staid by a dead deer, 

 that was the cause of their coming back so soon. And 

 that old Music would not leave the track of a wounded 

 deer until it was caught or had gotten into swimming 

 water." This was no comfort to my wounded pride. I 

 was like "Rachel mourning for her children because they 

 were not." With such feelings I arrived at Mr. Murrell's 

 to tell the bitter tale. John expressed the same opinion 

 that Andrew did, and comforting me by assuring me he 

 would go the next day, and he did not doubt he could 

 find the deer. 



Nothing could assuage my grief, only that the deer was 

 so extraordinarily large that the small size shot, what we 

 call swan shot or BB, were too small to produce instant 

 death. I shot 21 in each shell. In the little sapling I 

 found 9, so I supjjose only 12 of them went in his side, 

 and how they ranged with the other barrel I could not 

 tell, as I discovered no shot on any brush or saplings in 

 the direction I shot. Mrs. Murrell tried to comfort my 

 wounded spirits by talking of college days, and then pre- 

 paring me a supper of broiled venison, the nicest I ever 

 eat. All that night I could imagine I could see those 

 great horns above the bushes. It rained that night and 

 all the next day, so we could not get out to look for the 

 deer. On Sunday I returned home, having had a most 

 enjoyable week's visit, marred only by my faflure to bag 

 the biggest deer in Red River Parish. But John promised 

 to send some one to look for the deer, and if found, to 

 save me the horns, as I never expected to see another 

 such pair on a deer that I might slay. 



A week after I got home I received the cheering news 

 from Mr. Murrell in a letter, in which he said, "Tom 

 Elizur, a freednian on the Watson plantation below mine, 

 found your big buck just where you said you last heard 

 the hounds. He was riddled with shot. I have his big 

 horns saving for you. They are larger than those on the 

 top of my store. Don't shoot such small shot again at 

 such large deer. I killed a buck at the cypress tree cross- 

 ing on Deep Bayou, and John Warren, who had stopped 

 over to collect for Oapt. Marston, shot at five deer where 

 you killed the yearling, but did not kill one. Had you 

 been there I am sure you would have got at least two of 

 them. John killed a turkey that day. Come down and 

 visit us again. It is now better hunting than when you 

 were here, since the high waters keep the deer on the 

 ridge- 3 . Eda and I will be glad to see you, and I am 

 never too busy to hunt with you." 



This palliated the mortification of not killing the deer 

 dead in his tracks. I doubt not, had no shot gone in the 

 sapling, those nine would have penetrated to the heart 

 and lungs, as they struck at the right height to have 

 done so. I vow that the next time a deer gets in a killing 

 distance of me I will give it a shrfil call from my dog 

 whistle, and if that does not stop it then I will give it a 

 regular old fawn bleat, with a whoop "to stop." If all 

 fail, then, as a final resort, I will try the effect of the 

 blue pills. No more swan pellets go into my shells for 

 deer, the blue pills for the future, and I guess I will lower 

 the white flag just then and there. 



As soon as possible I shall renew my visit to friends 

 John Murrell and Jack Crichton, and if we have any 

 luck my readers shall hear the result. 



I must not close without stating I gave the little negro 

 his promised reward if he ran a deer by me. It was 

 really cheering to see his broad grin of satisfaction when 

 he searched for a small greasy purse and dropped his coin 

 in it. ' 'How much money have you now?" asked James 

 Harper, a son of one of my old pupils, and now a clerk in 

 Murrell's store. The little fellow emptied his purse on 

 the counter, counted his dimes and nickels, and said he 

 had $3 before, and now he was the happy owner of $3.50. 

 Mr. Murrell told me this little negro, the winter before, 

 during a long raing season, had run down on horseback 



a large deer until it was too tired to run, and with the 

 aid of another negro had succeeded in killing it. 



Nowhere on Red River below Shreveport are more deer 

 to be found than back of Murrell's Point, and no surer 

 stands for the sportsman to get shots. This was my first 

 visit there, and being unacquainted with the woods and 

 the runs of the deer, I did not have opportunities of 

 heading them, as I expect to have on my next visit. 



Knox Point, La. Gad. 



ADIRONDACK ABOMINATIONS. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



The editorial in this week's Forest and Stream on the 

 destruction of the Adirondack region as a sportsman's 

 resort, is to the point, and every sportsman will thank 

 you for it. The trouble lies just where you put it — with 

 the so-called city sportsman tourist and with the railroads. 

 After living here a little over a year, I have made the 

 acquaintance of a good many native woodsmen and have 

 gained their confidence. I believe that the amount of 

 poaching done by them is insignificant, for it is always 

 done for food, which, as you say, is not such a grievous 

 sin. But when the city tourist, who is ambitious to kill, 

 .comes along and offers the woodsman $2.50 a day or more 

 to go into the woods as a guide and a liberal bonus, say 

 $20 or even $50, in case a deer is killed, it is too much to 

 expect the woodsman to refuse. The woodsman can make 

 more in the woods in a week with such a city tourist than 

 he can in three months of hard labor at home. 



Besides this, there are not a few boarding houses on the 

 west side of the mountains who depend on just such a 

 class of sportsmen for their existence. No deer killed out 

 of season, no boarders. On last Friday night I went up 

 Little Black Creek, about thirteen miles from this post 

 office, fishing. After sundown and also the next morn- 

 ing before sunrise I heard the boom of the shotgun on 

 Little Black Creek Lake, about two miles above me. 

 Some one was floating for deer. My first thought was 

 that some bark peelers were doing it, but on inquiry after 

 coming out I found that a city party had gone in from a 

 boarding house up the West Canada for the purpose of 

 floating. While the bark peelers up there would be ex- 

 cusable, as I believe, for varying their coarse fare with a 

 bit of venison, I am convinced that they have not done so. 



I do not tliink we can stop the destruction wrought by 

 the railroads unless the sportsmen interested in the Adi- 

 rondacks can influence the Legislature to make the region 

 a State park, from which boarding-house keepers are to 

 be excluded, but if the new game wardens can be sent to 

 parts of the State where they are not known to the 

 natives, and will there represent themselves as tourists 

 and hire native guides, they can learn where the poach- 

 ing is done and what boarding-house keepers make a 

 business of it. Then it will be the simplest matter in the 

 world to get evidence that will convict the city chaps and 

 make life a burden for the boarding-house keepers. 



So far as my experience in the matter goes the attempts 

 to catch and convict guides other than boarding-house 

 keepers are about all that have been made. It is like try- 

 ing to stalk a scared bear to make such efforts. As I 

 have already intimated these are not the men to look for. 

 Go for the man with the helmet hat, the patent leather 

 shoes and the double-barreled shotgun (I saw just such 

 a rig go up the road the other day). 



Dynamiting the ponds and still- waters is of course done 

 to get fish for market, but I have never heard of a native 

 woodsman being engaged in it; indeed they would be glad 

 to aid a game warden in catching the scoundrels. It is 

 the man who comes from Utica and other like places who 

 understands the use of dynamite and who is simply sup- 

 plying some fish market" Shift around the game war- 

 dens and set them to watching the houses where city 

 boarders are kept, and to following the parties th;t leave 

 them going fishing with ten gauge shotguns over their 

 pack baskets. John R. Spears. 



Northwood, N. Y., July 13. 



HOT WEATHER STORIES. 



From the Lewiston [Me.) Journal. 

 A N Augusta boy who went regularly to the Young 

 XX. Men's Christian Association gymnasium last winter 

 became much interested in developing his muscles. He 

 had been told the best way to do this was to swing In- 

 dian clubs, beginning with a light pair and gradually in- 

 creasing the weight as he became stronger. As this 

 would necessitate the purchase of several pairs of clubs, 

 which he could ill afford, he hit upon the following- 

 scheme. He was the owner of two pups, which, though 

 small in size, possessed to a remarkable degree that 

 tenacity of grip for which the bulldog is so justly cele- 

 brated. He easily taught each of these to fix his teeth in 

 the end of a short stick, and then taking one of the sticks 

 in each hand he waved them about his head in some of 

 the simple movements. As the dogs grew his strength 

 increased, and now he may be seen in easy posture per- 

 forming all the graceful gyrations of an expert club 

 swinger with two wooden handles, to the ends of which 

 a couple of 15-lb. bulldogs hang by their teeth with a 

 deathlike grip. 



From the Talbotton (Oa.) New Era. 

 Reading your pigeon story reminded me of a pigeon 

 story I have heard my friend, Mr. John O. Holmes, tell. 

 It ran thus: "One morning before it was light I went up 

 on Pigeon Creek to shoot pigeons. I tied my horse to a 

 swinging limb and waited for it to become light enough 

 for me to see how to shoot. When it was light enough I 

 shot at some pigeons near by, and when the smoke 

 cleared away I noticed that my horse was gone. I looked 

 all around for him, but could see him nowhere, until 

 hearing a groan I looked up and saw him hanging in the 

 air. I had tied him to the top of a tree on which the 

 pigeons were roosting, and when I fired the gun the 

 pigeons flew, the tree straightened up and carried my 

 horse with it." Friend John is a strict member of the 

 church. __ 



Let Her Go, Gallagher!— In his account of buffalo 

 hunting, recently referred to by me, Orin Belknap speaks 

 of using a carbine made by Gallagher. I didn't know 

 before that Gallagher had ever made a carbine. Proba- 

 bly when he got the first one finished he got some friend 

 to go out with him and test it, and when the marker got 

 the target all ready he yelled out to the shooter, "Let 

 her go, Gallagher!" and that's probably why the boys say 

 it so much.— G. O. S. 



