142 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Sept. 15, 188?. 



Address aU communications to the Forest and Stream Pun, Co 



IN THE BRUSH. 



17^ VERY man's experience, especially a woodman's, 

 J ought to be worth the telling, if he takes pains in so 

 doing. Most of niy shooting has been done in the brush. 

 In fact I would rather go in and take my chances, follow- 

 ing my dog right up, than to be outside man. In the 

 brush is more like being on the skirmish line, therefore I 

 jot down somewhat in a snap shot way my recollections 

 of many years' experience with rod and gun. I have 

 thought it high time to put up my rod and begin to fire 

 off my gun, and whether I can interest my readers will 

 depend, I take it, on how I handle my gun; my ammu- 

 nition and weapon I think good enough; the intention, 

 though, may be far better than the execution. However, 

 I shall load and fire away. 



I can say without any braggadocio I come from an old 

 shooting family, for I have often heard my father say 

 (and 4 "Felix Oldboy" in his delightful reminiscences of 

 old New York, in the Evening Post, con firms the truth of 

 the story) that he used to shoot snipe where Canal street 

 now crosses Broadway. There used to be a stream or 

 "fly" running through there from North to East River. 

 All of the family are first-rate shots with rifle and gun, 

 Frank Forrester to the contrary notwithstanding ; while 

 even — but let me put in a snap shot right here. A long 

 low island, out at sea, way down in Dixie, abounding in 

 game, a sportsman's lodge, plantation huts, darkies, 

 boats, everything going to make a huntsman's home. 

 Staghounds, foxhounds, and a merry party of kinsmen 

 expectant for the chase. A sandy beach fringed with 

 green weeds stretches far away. The sea waves lap and 

 ripple on the shore. Suddenly out dashes a buck, plunges 

 into the surf and swims boldly out seaward. Vain are his 

 efforts. One of the fleetest staghounds, Bruce, is close to 

 him, dashing in inhot pursuit, the noble dog gains swiftly 

 on Mm. Will he seize him in the surf? Ah no, he knows 

 too much for that, he heads him off and turns him in 

 shoreward. Poor buck, thy days are numbered. The 

 master of the hunt swings his wife as lightly from the 

 saddle, as did Lochinvar of old, as he hands her the 

 Winchester and holds her bridle rein. One word is 

 ut tered, steady ! Up comes the rifle to its level. Steady 

 it is. A moment's pause, and as the deer gains the sands, 

 the water dripping from his sides and Bruce almost 

 springing on him, out rings the report, down falls the 

 buck shot through the heart, dead in his tracks, 75yds. if 

 it's a foot, while hats are thrown up in the air and ring- 

 ing cheers from the huntsmen attest their rejoicing at the 

 shot. 



When I say all my kith and kin are good shots I do not 

 include myself. I yield to none of them in the enjoy- 

 ment, but truth compels me to state that I am the poorest 

 shot of the lot. I killed a crow with a stone once, and so 

 I did a pig, provoking the cruelly sarcastic remark "that 

 a fellow that did as well as that with a stone had no need 

 of a gun." I stick to the gun for all that, and sometimes 

 do not get very "badly left." 



My uncle, Judge P., well known for many a year in 

 Dutchess county, was a famous old-time sportsman, and 

 many a story of his exploits "on old Long Island's seagirt 

 shore" in company with his companion, Gov. King, have 

 I listened to. That country then was the sportsman's 

 paradise. The Governor used to shoot, if I remember 

 right, with spectacles, and gun at hip, taking sight over 

 the top of the barrel, and a good shot he was, too. The 

 Judge once drove off to his favorite shooting ground, and 

 started off, up got a woodcock in plain sight; he fired, 

 missed him, called off his dog, got into his wagon and 

 drove home. On another occasion while shooting in 

 Dutchess county up the creek, a famous place for birds, 

 he fired at a bird, down fell the bird, up went a terrific 

 shriek, and a young fellow digging on the other side of 

 the stream was totally incapacitated from sitting down 

 for the rest of the day. 



The Governor and the Judge used to meet daily to play 

 at racket, the court being situated somewhere up the 

 Bowery; and a great attachment sprang up between the 

 Judge's setter Tippoo and the Governor's saddle horse. 

 If the horse arrived there first he would keep a sharp 

 lookout for the dog and neigh when he saw him coming. 

 If the dog got there first he would keep a bright lookout 

 for his friend and bark and wag his tail when he saw 

 him coming; then the two would rub noses together and 

 evince every mark of satisfaction. There was a curious 

 story told of a dog owned by a brother of J ohn Stevens, 

 who owned the yacht Maria in old times. This gentle- 

 man, who lived at Weehawken, had a noble Newfound- 

 land dog who constantly accompanied his master. Some 

 one made Mr. S. a present of a little tan terrier, to whose 

 presence the big dog strenuously objected. Finally one 

 morning the Newfoundland caught the little dog by the 

 nape of his neck, swam out into the river with liim and 

 left him there. Of course the terrier swam ashore. The 

 big dog took him out again and again the little fellow re- 

 turned to land. The third time the Newfoundland carried 

 him out and held his head under water until he was 

 drowned. Then he swam ashore and reported to his 

 master as if to say, "No more little dogs to be allowed 

 here." 



An old-time president of the Chemical Bank was very 

 fond of quail snooting on Long Island. On one occasion 

 he went down with a friend to have a rap at the birds. 

 When they got down there they asked for a guide, and 

 were referred to the village blacksmith as being just the 

 man they wanted. 



"Can you show us some quail?" 



"I guess I can." 



"Well, bring along your gun; we don't want all the 

 sport ourselves." 



So the man took down an old muzzleloader, of course, 

 slung his powder horn and shot pouch over one shoulder, 

 old game bag over the other. ' ' Never mind your dog; ours 

 will do." And off they went. Arriving on the ground, 

 dogs came on a bevy, trailed, stopped and pointed them. 

 The genial president walks up to his bird, and the old 

 blacksmith knocked him down before either of the two 

 gentlemen could get their guns to their shoulders. This 

 performance he repeated several times, until finally they 

 had to ask him to hold up. "My friend, we didn't come 

 here to see you shoot." 



"But," added the bank man, "what a shot he was." 



Hammering away at hot iron appears to make a man a 

 real good shot. My old instructor was a blacksmith, and 

 I shall allude to some of his performances hereafter to 

 show he was no exception to the general rule. They all 

 shoot well. Old Dutchess county abounded in game. 

 Woodcock were as thick as bumblebees, partridges tasted 

 just as good for being called so. Pigeons were plenty 

 and so were copperheads. 



An old dog named Flash taught me lots of things in 

 hunting. I can almost see from my window a famous 

 swamp called the. "Indekill." I went in there with an 

 old-fashioned long barrel muzzleloader, said to be made 

 out of nails used to shoe mules in crossing the Alps; this 

 I cannot vouch for, but I can vouch for the fact that it 

 would kick like a mule anyhow. I was just beginning 

 "to get the hang" of shooting on the wing, and I fired 

 just seven shots and killed seven woodcock; as I pulled 

 on the seventh the old gun went off with a roar, and I 

 went off without a roar, kicked ignominiously heels-over- 

 head off of the stone wall into the mud, and as I 

 scrambled up, a sight to behold, old Flash was coming in 

 demurely with the bird in Ms mouth. Though I have 

 shot lots of birds since then I have never beaten that 

 record of seven straight, though I once "tied it" on quail. 



As I am writing about game birds I may at once set 

 down here my unalterable conviction "first, last and all 

 the time," that no sport in my estimation approaches that 

 of shooting the ruffed grouse. I have devoted years to 

 the sport and rank it first of all. I will supplement this 

 by saying that for trainmg a dog to be Al, no bird comes 

 near to the "partridge," as we country boys always have 

 and will call him. 



Eastward from what I can call my native village, I 

 have lived near it so long, runs the creek road, following 

 close by a stream that heads up near Wirtembergh church. 

 TMs used to be the famous ground for woodcock, and 

 they have been killed there more than man could number. 

 Very few there now. You may go up and down it care- 

 fully and pick up tMee or four. Not so many years ago 

 but that I can well recollect it, a young fellow from our 

 village went up the stream on a day's shoot. There were 

 hunters ahead of him, but still he persevered. When he 

 had tramped up several miles with varied success he 

 rested himself under a tree and waited until along in the 

 afternoon. The men ahead of him were not crack shots. 

 He was a good shot, and I had offered to back Mm to 

 kill a dozen straight in the brush. When well rested he 

 turned round and came right back over the same ground 

 and he came off the creek Avith thirty-five birds. I saw 

 them and I counted them. That shows what the shooting 

 was. The shooting was the prettiest imaginable in sum- 

 mer July weather. Then the water was not very deep, 

 you could wade down stream or up, send your dog on 

 either side, and when the birds flew down stream you 

 had a clear sight. 



Some sportsmen have a knack in shooting woodcock; 

 some quail, Borne grouse. My father once killed two 

 woodcock with one shot, and my great delight, as a boy, 

 was to tramp alone and carry the game bag, and I may 

 "rise to remark" that gunners and fishermen have "honors 

 easy" in the telfing of their exploits; and as I shall prob- 

 ably tell some tall shooting exploits, incidentally I will 

 record that the biggest shoot I ever heard of was a man 

 telling me he killed fifty-three woodcock in fifty-two 

 shots down in Rhode Island (they must have lit in that 

 State in their fall flight). This beats anything I am ac- 

 quainted with. The man was a good shot, I've seen Mm 

 shoot, "nuff sed." 



The first one to give me points on shooting was "Dan 

 Wigg." though nobody round here would know Mm by 

 that name, he has always been called the " Domine." I 

 have known him ever since I was big enough to squint 

 over a gun barrel. I do not know that he has ever fired 

 off a breechloader. Of a rifle he knows no more than a 

 child, but m the matter of handling a shotgun "he's 

 equalled by none and surpassed by few." I have known 

 him to go out right into the brush, on a wager, fire twelve 

 shots and bring m twelve woodcock. The Governor 

 generally gets tMee out of five. These two shots can 

 both "down me" and not half try. 



When first I met the "Domine" I was a mere lad learn- 

 mg to shoot, he a stout, stalwart young man, a born shot. 

 Now I am gray-bearded, while the "Domine" walks 

 "with tottering steps and slow." He will never kill any 

 more birds. But I often drive down to Ms shop and sit 

 down by the kmd-hearted old hunter and review our old- 

 time hunts. It is just as well. There is nothing around 

 here now to shoot. The "Domine" knew every inch of 

 ground all around for miles; he always had a good dog 

 and gun; and no day was too long for Mm to go a-huntmg. 

 Bemg a beginner, I had not met him then, though he was 

 well known to the older members. So it came about one 

 day that I went out to the Widin's ash swamp with a 

 noble dog called Buff. He was the oMy dog I ever shot 

 over (and I have shot over a great many, and good ones, 

 too) who would sit right down on his haunches, "hunkey 

 punkey," and pomt a woodcock when first flushed. He 

 did this frequently when I first hunted Mm; later on he 

 got entirely over it, though I never reproved Mm for it. 

 I don't believe in shooting where you have to make a fog 

 horn of yourself by shoutmg at your dog. A brass band 

 is a poor thmg to go out in quest of game with. When I 

 ran across the ''Domine" I made up my mind at once 

 what to do if I wanted to get any birds. So I sang out 

 to him "Hello!" ranged up witMn easy hail, unlimbered 

 and went into action. 



I shall always remember that day ; a lovely summer 

 afternoon, plenty of game; two noble dogs, one jet black 

 old Ned, the other tawny red Buff with Ms white circles. 

 Could there be a prettier picture, or was it one you ever 

 tire of? Just look there once. Both dogs on a point, 

 side by side, eyes ablaze with excitement, hmbs rigid as 

 steel, not a motion, save the tremulous movement of their 

 muzzles, as the hot scent strikes their nostrils, "Domine" 

 as cool as a cucumber, and I about to perpetrate an awful 

 fraud on my unsuspecting companion. A cluck, a toss of 

 the head, dogs and men take a step forward, up goes 

 Timber-doodle like a flash, out ring the reports of our 

 guns as one piece, a few feathers flutter down wind, as 

 the bird tumbles over and Buff brings him in to me, How 

 I wish I could have had an instantaneous photo of the 

 scene. I played tMs dodge on the "Domine' 1 tMee or 

 four times in succession, until finally he turned around to 

 me with an indescribable look, "Ain't you gomg to give 

 me one bird?" We made a mutual treaty of peace then 

 and there, which has been kept unbroken for many a 

 year. Dan was an mveterate joker and I think rather 



appreciated my getting ahead of him. We got all the 

 birds we wanted to, and after a promise to the "Domine" 

 to come out soon and have another shoot, with a wave 

 of the hand I went home. Capt. Clayton. 



FISH AND GAME IN CALIFORNIA. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



Your editorial remarks in the number of Aug. 18, re- 

 lative to the wholesale destruction of deer in California, 

 are timely. I imagine, however, that there are few 

 "would-be sportsmen" who kill for brag, for the conven- 

 tional sport to whom you refer has to go too far from 

 centers of poprdation in these days to get any chance for 

 deer. The "skmners" abound in the land, though, and as 

 a result of their efforts the deer are becoming scarcer 

 every year. The steamers and trams which arrive at San 

 Francisco bring hundreds of bundles of Mdes from all 

 parts of the State, and the majority of them are probably 

 received from professional deer-skmners, who hunt only 

 to obtain hides. These facts are well known here in 

 California, but no remedy seems to have been suggested 

 or put mto practical effect. 



We are still worse off in the matter of fish. Time was 

 when there were plenty of trout in all the coast streams 

 witMn from twenty- five to one hundred miles of San 

 Francisco. I have ' been a resident of San Francisco for 

 thirty-seven years, and since I was big enough to carry a 

 rod have cast on most of the streams from San Diego on 

 the south to Humboldt county on the north. Gradually, 

 from year to year, I have seen one favorite stream after 

 another become depleted and worthless, as far as fishmg 

 was concerned. There are good laws here as elsewhere, 

 and here, as elsewhere, there is no one to enforce them. 

 Our Fish Commissioners have hatcheries and stock 

 streams, and they also, to a certam extent, prevent 

 violations of the fish laws on the larger rivers where the 

 salmon canneries are established. But the State is large 

 and the appropriations small, and the minor streams, both 

 in the Sierra and on the coast, ai-e paid little attention to. 

 Last summer I took my annual fishing trip northward 

 along the coast a couple of hundred miles, for in that 

 direction there are no railroads as yet further than Austin 

 Creek, above Russian River, eighty or ninety miles from 

 San Francisco. Every few miles we meet a creek or 

 river emptying into the sea. The previous year I had 

 gone over the same ground, fishing in the Gualalo River, 

 the Garcia, Brush, Caspar and Elk creeks, the Novarx'o, 

 Big, Little and Albron rivers, up to Ten-Mile River above 

 Fort Bragg and near the headwaters of the Eel. The first 

 season we had fine sport, but last season it was poor. 

 Sawdust in the streams and fishing out of season are 

 gradually spoihng all the sport. 



TMs summer I made a longer jaunt and have just re- 

 turned after a month's trip. We first went to the sum- 

 mit of the Sierra Nevada, and then down to the beauti- 

 ful and historic Dormer Lake. Thence to Truckee and 

 Lake Tahoe. In the latter fish were very scarce. In fact 

 the owners of excursion steamers and hotels have a fish 

 hatchery with which to keep up the lake supply. Where 

 formerly 90 to 1501bs. was a day's catch, 10 or lolbs. is 

 now not bad. Our party got none at all. Coming back 

 to Truckee we set out for Independence Lake. We there 

 met at a camp among others one who paid Ms fish record 

 was half a one a day. He had been there twelve days 

 and caught six fish. Webber Lake, not far off, had, how- 

 ever, furnished passably good sport. We then visited 

 Sierra Valley and agam crossed the range at an elevation 

 of 7,000ft. to Sierra City on the South Fork of the North 

 Fork of the Yuba River. The several branches are all 

 magnificent streams of clear, cold water that would do 

 the heart of any angler good to look at. But in all of 

 them fish were scarce. Below the mills the mam fork 

 was filled with "tailings" from the quartz mines, and 

 above the smaller forks and branches had been unmerci- 

 fully fished. 



Back on the mountain again we found the two sardme 

 and two salmon lakes, which are portions of a cham of 

 lakes including Deer, Parker and Gold lakes up back of 

 the great Sierra Buttes. There we had some sport. But 

 the lakes are difficult of access. There are no hotels, and 

 in fact no houses except the cabins of the ditch-tenders or 

 lake-men, who regulate the water supply for the turning 

 flumes. These lakes have been stocked by the English 

 mining company wMch owns them. The best one was 

 spoiled last winter by an immense quantity of snow forc- 

 ing the ice down and crushing thousands of fish. They 

 have 12 or 15ft. of snow in that region in winter. But in 

 summer the climate is magmficent. The country is rug- 

 ged and mountainous, but is heavily timbered. Near by, 

 on the summits and in the canons of the higher moun- 

 tains, the snow lasts all summer. 



But even in this comparatively out-of-the-way region, 

 between 300 and 400 miles north and east from San Fran- 

 cisco, the fish were scarce. They cannot exist on the 

 lower rivers by reason of the mining debris. They get 

 penned in above the mills, but are so persistently sought 

 after they have little chance to multiply. I refer to the 

 streams of course, for in the lakes the fish are more plen- 

 tiful. 



Returmng frorn this northern region I started south 

 down tM-ough the great interior valley of California past 

 Merced, Fresno, Tulare, Sumner, over the Tehachapi 

 Mountains to Mojave, across the Mojave desert to Los 

 Angeles; thence by Pasadena, San Bernardino, Riverside, 

 Colton and so on to San Diego, only a few miles from the 

 Mexican line. Everywhere there were complamts about 

 scarcity of fish. Of course in southern California you 

 don't expect much fishing, for they have little water to 

 spare for fish to swim in. They need it for irrigating, 

 etc. , and the water is worth more than the land. 



But having gone from some 400 miles north and east of 

 San Francisco to some 650 miles south of it— nearly from 

 one end of Calif ornia to the other — I can corroborate the 

 views expressed on the increasing scarcity of fish and 

 game. I was enjoying a vacation from the editorial chair 

 on this trip and was not on busmess. Where there was 

 any chance for fishing I tried it, but must confess to an 

 unpleasant regularity of failures. The mountain lakes 

 of Sierra county were the only places where passable 

 success was reached 



We who are fond of the rod and stream must keep go- 

 ing north toward Oregon for good sport. In the rrgion 

 above Sissons, Shasta county, wMch the railroad has 

 recently tapped, there are plenty of fine streams. The 

 famous McCloud, and headwaters of the Sacramento 

 River, are no longer worthy oi mention as fisMng streams. 



