FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Sept. 22, 188?. 



IN THE BRUSH.— II. 



"i^l 00D morning, Domine." "Good morning. Captain, 

 VT get out and tie, and sit down and let's have a 

 chat." "That's just what I'm going to do." 



We fall to work reviewing old times. "Ah me," says 

 the Domine with a sigh that speaks volumes, "what 

 would the Judge and your father think of shooting now- 

 adays." 



I know the old man's thoughts are forty years away, 

 bo I call on him for an old-time story. 



"Well, ah yes; have you heard from the Gov'nor?" By 

 this appellation the Domine means my elder brother, who 

 has gone out for a "tramp in the Rockies" at a time of 

 life when most men would shrink at the bare idea of 

 such a trip. "I hope the grizzlieB and the Injiris won't 

 get a hold of him." 



"Oh no, I guess not," and Dan's face softens at the pos- 

 sibility of any harm coming to his old hunting companion.* 



Then the „Domine went on: "It seems to me as though 

 it was only the other day with your father and the Gov'- 

 nor. How well I remember that day we went over on 

 a tramp round Black Pond. You know, Captain, wood- 

 cock were very thick round there then. Jim Bilyou 

 rowed us over, and we struck across lots and over the 

 hills and came in up to the north end of the pond. Your 

 brother had a new single-barreled gun which your father 

 had just given him. He was mighty proud of his new 

 gun and very much in a hurry to fiTe it off. We started 

 to go across "some loose logs that had floated down the 

 stream, and when we got half way across gave it up as a 

 bad job and started to go back. The Gov'nor's gun some- 

 how or other went off like a rocket, jumped out of his 

 hand and went down 'kerchug' into ten feet of water. 

 Here was a pretty how d'ye do. Never expected to see 

 that gun again. The Gov'nor thought he'd lost it sure. 

 The gun was mounted with German silver, and as I 

 looked down in the water I see it shine, and I says to 

 your father, 'I guess I can get it." So I cut a stick with 

 a hook to it, and pokes down and around, and by gracious 1 

 I hooks on to her and fetches her up. Hurrah ! So we 

 got ashore and took her to pieces and cleaned her out and 

 went on. Only I says to him, 'Don't you get more game 

 than you can get in your bag.' " 



"Well, Dan, how about your getting shot: tell us about 

 that." 



"That wasn't at Black Pond; that was up to Hairy Face 

 Dave's, up there by Wirtemberg. You know where the 

 schoolhouse stands. Well, we got into the swamp. My! 

 how thick the birds were. I was overseer. You see your 

 father was mighty particular. 'Why,' I says, 'I won't 

 shoot the boy.' 'Oh, I'm not afraid of your hitting him; 

 I'm only afraid he will hit you.' So you see up at the 

 north end of the swamp I had just shot a bird, and was 

 stooping to pick him up, when up gets a bird, and flies 

 right toward me. The Gov'nor he ups and pulls on him, 

 clown comes the bird, and bim comes the charge right 

 through my shirt. Gov'nor sings out, 'I've got the bird.' 

 'Yes, and I've got the charge right in my back." My. 

 how sorry the boy was. Now I says to him, 'Look a here, 

 nobody's hurt, it was only an accident; don't you go for 

 to say a word to your father about this; if you do, he will 

 stop your shooting sure.' So I went circling round toward 

 the wagon and went to work to get my shirt off. You 

 see I felt like as if a swarm of bees had lit on me. Pres- 

 ently up comes your father. 'Dan, what's the matter?' 

 and I'm blamed if the Gov'nor didn't up and tell him all 

 about it! Certainly. However, I explained it all right, 

 though I was dreadful afraid the Gov'nor's shooting was 

 ended; and we went on and filled up our game bags. 

 That's the only time I ever got hit." 



"Was that up in Travers Swamp?" 



"Yes! and I'll teU you a story about that same swamp. 

 There was lots of birds up there. You see the swamp 

 wasn't all cut away and cleared up then as it is now. 

 Why there must have been nigh on to a hundred acres in 

 there. Prettiest ground for woodcock you ever see! So 

 I hired Squire Hinchman's old Buckskin; you recollect 

 the old horse; and I give your father an invitation to go 

 along and have a hunt. You know how very careful he 

 was; he wouldn't go out a shooting with any man but me, 

 cause he knowed I was equally careful. We started off 

 bright and early one morning, for we had a long drive 

 and a lazy horse. I cut a gad for to wake him up, and 

 your father he drove. 'Don't 'pear to mind the whip 

 much, Dan?' 'No, he don't mind nothing 'cept fire- 

 crackers,' says I. With that your father puts his hand in 

 his vest pocket, draws out some caps and says to me, 'Try 

 them.' Well, I put one on and snapped it off, and you 

 just oughter seen that old horse go. He put down the 

 road for two hundred yards or more like a colt. By and 

 by he held up a little. 'Give him another, Domine, caps 

 are cheap,' says the old gentleman to me, and I'm blest if 

 that old horse didn't make first-rate time all the way up. 

 As we got up near our hunting ground I kinder got lost, 

 and your father, who was, you know, a very polite man, 

 Bays, 'Domine, I'll ask the way.' We come up to a man 

 and your father says, 'Can you tell me if you please, sir, 

 where Mr. David B. Traver lives?' 



"Man shakes his head, says 'No.' 'Never heard of him?' 

 says your father? 'Never heard of him,' says the man. 

 Well, he asked two or three, so I up and says, 'Let me 

 try.' 'Go ahead.' We come to four or five men a work- 

 ing in a hay field, says I, 'Say! Hello! where does Hairy- 

 face Dave live?' 'Turn down that 'ere lane and keep on 

 over the hill and you'll see the house close by.' 'Well,' 

 says your father, 'Domine! Don't that beat the devil ! 

 Here" these men lived right by him and don't know who 

 David B. Traver is from Adam ! Never mind sir, here we 

 are,' and we tied up and got ready to go to work. I says 

 to your father, 'Now he's a cross old chap, for I used to 

 shoe for him; you just put me outside so as to manage 

 Mm.' The first thing the old black dog comes a pitching 

 into my dog and giving him a terrible shaking. Up 

 comes old Dave hmping along with his cane. 'Here! I 

 don't allow no shooting in this swamp!' 'Very sorry, Mr. 

 Traver. I know you U Didn't think you'd mind it. ' ' Well, 

 I don't know you.' 'Well, I'll tell you who I be. I'm the 

 Domine.' So your father comes out of the swamp and I 

 give him an introduction to Dave. I'm blessed if your 

 father didn't turn round on me sharp and quick, 'Oh, 

 Domine. why didn't you tell me this man didn't allow any 



*And lo! as I write my little girl comes trotting in with a postal: 

 "Saturday, Aug. 20, 1887.— My Dear Boy: We arrived in camp last 

 •Tening. Swan Lake. Thermometer this A. M. 34°. Snow all around 

 on the mountains. Are off in an hour. All well, love to all. Yours 

 affectionately— Gov'nor." How familiarly this voice from "the 

 Roekies" sounds. 



shooting in his swamp, you ought not to have brought me 

 up here, you ought not* to have done it !' I thought I 

 should have died! Now you see, Captain, I knew old 

 Hairy-face Dave much better than your father did, so I 

 steps out to the wagon and brings out a soda water bottle 

 chock full of something I'd mixed up a purpose for the 

 old feller." 



History repeats itself; my mind went back to my fish- 

 ing on old Macedony and the dose I fixed up there for the 

 old fellow, but I knew better than to interrupt Domine 

 in his story and he went on. 



"So I says 'Mr. Traver, it's a very hot day, where's there a 

 good spring around here?' 'Why, right by the house, here,' 

 says he. 'It's a very hot day,' says I, 'try a little of this 

 old French brandy.' So we sat down by the spring and 

 had a drink. You see I handed him the bottle first, 'cause 

 I knowed him. Then your father says 'Here's luck,' and 

 I did the same. Well, after a little while I see the med- 

 icine was beginning to work and I says, 'Take another 

 nip, Mr. T.' With that he just waves his hand to me 

 and says, 'You and your friend can hunt here whenever 

 you like, I'm a going into the house.' I guess he went in 

 and laid down for a nap," said the Domine, with a most 

 comical expression of countenance, "for we never see no 

 more of him that day. So we went in, and of all the 

 shooting I ever see, that beat it. The birds was that 

 thick you could almost head on them, get up like bees, 

 six or>seven in the air at a time; you'd think they was 

 blackbirds; only the day before they said some fellers 

 from Rhinebeck had been in there and got eighty. Well, 

 we quit with birds enough at noon and went up to the 

 wagon for our lunch. I hauled off my game bag and I 

 took and counted out twenty-five woodcock, and your 

 father says, 'Gad, Domine, I guess I can beat you,' and 

 he threw out twenty-six. 'Beat you one bird, Dan.' " 



"Well, Domine, you started out to tell me all about 

 your killing so many birds straight, round Delamater's 

 Pond, and you've switched off on to another story." 

 "Let me see, where was I?" 



"Never mind, old boy. I'll come down again and you 

 shall tell me the story some other time." So thinking on 

 the old time sport these hunters had and how little game 

 there was now, I jumped into my gig, clucked to old 

 Blackie and drove off home. Capt. Clayton. 



SHOOTING NOTES. 



a^HERE have been plenty of sora rail with a scattering 

 _ of Virginia rail in the reeds opposite Mauricetown, 

 Cumberland county, N. J., during last week. Although 

 the run of tides were in the morning, the boats averaged 

 from forty to one hundred birds each. Among those 

 who shot one or more tides were: J. Holladay, P. C. 

 Converry, A. Fuller, Chas. Fuller, Wm. Mackay, Harry 

 Hinkle, Gus. A. Muller, J. C. Whitney, John J. Gibbons, 

 George Weaver, M. F. Bonzana, A. Cummings, W. R. 

 Gaulbert, Geo. A. Kroom, Wm. Campion, Merideth Baily, 

 H. H. Wise and Wm. Kates. 

 As the public is interested in knowing who are the best 



f ushers in the Mauricetown and Port Elizabeth districts, 

 name a few I can recommend. They are: Edward 

 Elliott, Alex Phrampus, Fred Phrampus, Lincoln Wills, 

 Stephen Reeves, John Lore, Chas. Lore, Wm. Mason, 

 Norman Pinkard, Chas. Compton, John Prichard, Harold 

 Hinson and Frank Vanaman. If there are any birds on 

 the marsh these men, who know where to look, will find 

 them. The reeds are now beginning to be broken down, 

 yet the pushing in some of the best ground is hard work, 

 owing to the stumps. 



So little is known of this great inland rail and and reed- 

 bird shooting ground, that Twill give its history which is 

 seasonable at this time: The great September gale of 1876 

 swept away much of the bank on the west side of the 

 Mam-ice River, and although an attempt was made to 

 substantially replace it, it was unsuccessful. Then fol- 

 lowed the gale of October, 1878, which permanently 

 opened great breaches all along the west bank, and since 

 that time the meadows, which formerly were either cul- 

 tivated or used as pastures, have been grown up with 

 wild oats and become the finest rail shooting grounds in 

 New Jersey. For several years after the storms referred 

 to from one hundred thousand to one hundred and twenty- 

 five thousand rail were killed annually opposite Port 

 Elizabeth alone. A party of nine Philadelphians killed 

 two thousand one hundred birds on one tide. The best 

 season's work by one man was accomplished by David 

 Lore, who killed ten thousand rail. The big one-day 

 scores made some years since were: George Bowen, 405; 

 Pete Lane, 365; Charles McAllister, the celebrated ama- 

 teur pigeon shot, 270; Sam Camp, 220, and Billy Kates, 

 90. George Weaver killed 126 in one tide three years 

 ago, and boated 302 on four tides. These statements are 

 facts, and can be abundantly verified. For several years 

 after the big storms, before the oats grew up too thick 

 and the meadows began to fill in, the section between 

 Port Norris to above Port Elizabeth was the best rail 

 grounds in the United States. It was shot over ahnoet 

 exclusively by Philadelphians, the most of whom were 

 careful to keep their rail find to themselves. For this 

 reason the shooting public did not know what was going 

 on along Maurice River, and the only sportsmen that I 

 ever met who hailed from these parts were Frank Sat- 

 terthwaite, of Newark, N. J., and John H. Abeel, Jr., of 

 this city. 



Mr. Jules Reynal, of White Plains, N. Y., who is an ac- 

 comphshed and enthusiastic sportsman and the owner of 

 a kennel of well-bred and broken dogs, has just returned 

 from a visit to Cape Vincent. When there he went out 

 shooting one morning without a dog and killed fifteen 

 partridges. He says the birds were quite abundant and 

 in fine condition. 



A large flight of black ducks settled in the streams of 

 the South Side Sportsmen's Club of Long Island last week 

 and commenced to gobble up the trout fry. They were 

 doing considerable damage, and some of the angling 

 members of the club wanted to have the ducks killed. 

 As the law, however, prohibits the shooting of wildfowl 

 on Long Island until Oct. 1, and as the South Side mem- 

 bers maintain a position of shining examples in the sports- 

 man's world, the ducks have been left unmolested. On 

 Oct. 1, however, the shooting members will wade down 

 the beautiful streams that traverse the grand preserve, 

 and enjoy the sport of kfiling at close, towering rises, the 

 trout destroyers. Shooting fowl in this way is a most 

 delightful pastime, and beats to death sitting all day 

 cramped and frozen in a blind watching a lot of bobbing 

 wooden stools in front of one. 



Mr. Robert Barnwell Roosevelt, of this city, is a strong 

 advocate of summer woodcock shooting, which he assures 

 every one is cure for the gout. For my own part I prefer 

 ^out to death by sunstroke, nor can I see much fun in 

 aeing honey-combed by mosquitoes for the sake of kiUing 

 a few hen birds with eggs in them. I have spoken to a 

 score of representative sportsmen recently who are resi- 

 dents of New Jersey, and we are going to put our 

 shoulders to the wheel this winter to have summer wood- 

 cock shooting stopped in New Jersey; at least in the 

 northern counties. 



For the information of the Staten Island robin gunners, 

 who are at sea as to when they can pot that quondam 

 bird of sport, I will say they can load their cartridges for 

 Oct. 15. This sort of shooting is chiefly carried on by 

 either young boys or antique relics of sportsmanship. 

 The transition of the latter may thus be versed : 



When cruel time bestows 



Adipose, 

 Cock shooting and all those 



He outgrows. 

 Then saunter in gly he goes 

 To where the robins sit in rows, 

 And them with heavy charges mowi 



Until it snows. 



Speaking of snows reminds me to say that the much 

 lower temperature of last Friday night was anticipated 

 by a small flight of male woodcock to the mountains of 

 Sussex county, N. J. Of course, the two Warwick gun- 

 ners who report this flight are awaiting the first of next 

 month to be up and at these longbills. 



Noticing several reports in the Philadelphia papers of 

 the fine bay snipe shooting in Cape May county. N. J., 

 this season, I asked a friend of mine, who spent the sum- 

 mer there in search of sport, what he had done. Being a 

 truthful man not connected with any of the daily paper a, 

 he said that only a few brown and ringtailed marlin, a 

 very few willet and yellowlegs had been shot there this 

 season . He supposed about half a dozen birds daily would 

 be about the average of the bags made. On the Newark 

 and Elizabethtown meadows some small yellowiegs, 

 krekers and oxeyes have been shot by the market gun- 

 ners, who are continually prowling over this large strip 

 of salt-water marsh land. 



Since writing the above I have had word from the 

 Augustine marshes at Port Perm, on the Delaware, that 

 owing to the filling in of the lowlands at that place its 

 once glorious rail shooting has departed forever. Mr. S. 

 Lord of that place now advocates Maurice River. He 

 says that every "old liner" knows that this will be rail 

 week, and those who desire reliable information had 

 better call at John Krider's gun store, N.E. corner of 

 Walnut and Second streets, Philadelphia, where the latest 

 news from the rail grounds on the Delaware River is 

 always on tap. The old rail shooters, however, ask no 

 man 'for information but get up and go when the moon 

 goes into perigee, at such times they never fail to get 

 good tides. It is only at this time that big bags of rail 

 are ever made. 



I am one of a very few in a position to state that within 

 a short time a very fine exhibition will be held in this 

 city of all the different birds of the world that are utilized 

 either for sport or profit. The collection will include the 

 Queen's falcons, and some remarkable fishing cormorants. 



There are some English snipe and black ducks on the 

 meadows at Pine Brook, N, J. Two Montclair gunners 

 shot nine ducks and eleven snipe there one day last wt ek. 



My prediction that we would have an early fall now 

 turns out to have not been a bad one. The Wiseacre. 



New York, Sept. 19. 



DUCK SHOOTING WITH THE ABENAKI. 



ON the northern side of the St. John River and about 

 sixty miles from its mouth stretches a region of 

 lake and swamp, inviting to the feathered tribes by its 

 vastness and solitude. On a bleak October day the eye 

 wanders over thousands of acres of withered rushes, 

 browned and seared by the first touch of the almost 

 Arctic winter, which is soon to hush all sound of animal 

 life and change the landscape of mere and fen into a 

 carpet of glistening, dazzling white; fit mirror for the 

 rays of a sickly winter sun or the ghostly beams of the 

 Northern Lights. 



But in the fall, especially on one of those perfect days 

 of the Indian summer, bird and animal life is plentiful 

 enough. Black duck and teal are there by hundreds, 

 and occasionally that most beautiful of winged fowl, a 

 wood drake, accompanied by his mate, flashes over the 

 tops of the tall aquatic plants, seeking food unci .shelter. 

 Musquash, too, are extremely abundant, and their quaint 

 calls and cries, while working Industriously banking their 

 house against winter and his hosts, servo to amuse and 

 occupy the attention of the lonely sportsman, lying low 

 in his birch bark, awaiting the evening flight. 



Toward this sporting paradise I found myself last 

 autumn making my way, in company with an old Indian, 

 one of the few remaining members of the tribe claiming 

 pure Indian blood, for the Abenaki are now but a rem- 

 nant of what was once a powerful nation, numbering 

 thousands of warriors, in the days when the noble Lady 

 Latour was holding her fort at the mouth of the river 

 against all comers, the Fleur de Lis waving defiance 

 from tower and rampart. Indeed, most of those that 

 remain are Indians in little more than name. Old Noel, 

 however, stoutly claims to be "all Indian," and his high 

 cheek bones, straight black hair and absence of beard 

 would seem to bear him out in his assertion. If so, the 

 mixture of white blood has certainly not improved the 

 race, for a more honest man than Noel it would be hard 

 to find — or greater blackguards than hi3 half-bred kins- 

 men. 



We had paddled quietly along a narrow lane of water- 

 ier some two miles, called the "Thoroughfare," when we 

 arrived at the camping place. A pleasant bank of green- 

 sward stretched to the water's edge, crowned by a growth 

 of alders, with a few rock maple as a background. Here- 

 we landed, pitched the little tent well within the shelter 

 of the bushes, and beside a roaring fire proceeded to maker 

 ourselves comfortable for the night. As I lay smoking 

 the last pipe of the day, borne on the low evening breeze 

 over the waste came the low cries of distant wildfowl 

 calling to one another and splashing and feeding in the 

 soft ooze. These sounds, coupled with the dreary, deso- 

 late surroundings, had a strange fascination for me, as 

 they always have, for often have I in days gone by on th^ 



