484 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Jan. IS, 1888. 



good chances to have bagged a duck each shot. After 

 satiating my eyes I leveled down to business, and by the 

 time John Lot returned with my dinner I had killed live 

 more mallards and one coot. John came to my assist- 

 ance, packed mv game in the skiff, and I waded over and 

 ate my lunch. He stated that Mr. Will had concluded to 

 shoot on the other side of the lake, but that he would re- 

 turn by the time it would be too dark to shoot, as Bill 

 Hogan bad gone to Knox Point to get him a pair of 

 rubber boots and a bottle of "snake cure bite. I told 

 him I never indulged except on occasions like this, and I 

 regretted Will had not sent for a flask of old Bourbon for 

 mvself, as he never drank. He said, "That was just 

 what Will did, because he was afraid your ducking 

 would either bring on an attack of pneumonia or you 

 might have the rheumatism." I felt truly grateful to 

 Will for Ms thoughtful care, and getting my fresh sup- 

 ply of shells, I went back to the stump where I had slain 

 those bright wanderers from the Polar Sea. 



It proved to be the best one I could have selected. The 

 water being shallow, the footing steady and the good dry 

 grass in easy shooting distance to my left, I was satisfied 

 the ducks would flock there by hvmdreds before sundown. 

 Some other sportsman must have occupied the same 

 place the evening before, as the many feathers along the 

 shore told of slaughter, and besides every flock avoided 

 the place, just passing too far to kill; some lighting on 

 the grass and others on the water. I did not get a shot 

 until it was nearly dusk. Then the sky was black with 

 them. I must have shot down at least thirty, until it 

 was too dark to see them. I can see but little after dark, 

 but I shot at random, often at the whirr of wings until 

 every shell was emptied. John finally came and picked 

 up eighteen fat mallards, I had not killed a teal. It was too 

 dark to find the others. He was compelled to carry my 

 gun as well as the ducks, for my wrist was dreadfully 

 swollen, and after the excitement was over I could not 

 bear in my hand even the weight of a duck. We arrived 

 at camp by 9 o'clock, Hogan had not returned, but in 

 half an horn" he did so, and Mr. John Graham came with 

 him. He brought the Bourbon. Will bathed my wrist 

 with some of it, and a stiff horn of it made riie feel 

 wonderfully better. 



Will had considerately put Dick Menefer. one of his 

 negro tenants, and a splendid cook by the way, to pre- 

 paring supper. He had killed several teal, which Dick 

 had broiled to a nicety, just to suit my appetite. Never 

 did I enjoy more such a supper as this was. Two teal 

 and three curlew barely satisfied me. Talk about good 

 eating! broiled teal and curlew just beat anything ever 

 put into a hungry sportsman's mouth. But they must be 

 broiled in a scientific manner, known only to hunters. 

 When ready for cooking stuff the teal with pieces of raw 

 breakfast bacon — well peppered with Cayenne — put in a 

 plenty of good butter, then stick on a forked stick and 

 hold over the coals until thoroughly done. If a few ashes 

 fall on it, no matter, it is all the better. Next put the 

 birds in a hot plate with plenty of melted butter, and a 

 little vinegar, add some Worcestershire sauce, have by 

 you several slices of risen com bread, and drink with it 

 several cups of "He No tea,'' and you have a supper that 

 makes a sportsman feel good all over, at peace with him- 

 self and the balance of mankind, ready to yarn it big 

 until kind nature can hold out no longer, and he sinks 

 into the amis of the drowsy god. 



I had brought with me on this outing my Fergusons 

 head light, and Will rubbed my wrist, now twice its 

 natural size, with some of the signal oil of the head light, 

 which relieved me considerably before morning. 



Our cooks picked a number of ducks and put them in a 

 large kettle filled with water, with plenty of dry-salted 

 raw bacon and red pepper. The kettle was put over a 

 slow fire, and by next morning- we had the best stew of 

 ducks I ever ate. 



Before daylight we were all off to our respective posi- 

 tions. Graham said he would go to Catfish Point, Will 

 and John Lot went down the lake to the big pond 

 opposite Stumpy Lake, while Bill Hogan and I went in 

 the skiff over to Peggy's Island, to the point where Will 

 stood the evening before. When we proceeded as far as 

 we could push the skiff. I left Hogan and waded across 

 to the place I intended to stand. Crossing the flat I 

 made two fine shots at a brace of ducks, one of which 

 proved to be a redhead, the first I ever shot on Bistereau. 

 The recoil of the gun caused my wrist to swell, and with 

 great difficulty I managed to bag five more. When the 

 pain became so severe I was compelled to call Hogan and 

 return to camp. He had also bagged five mallards. 



All returned for dinner. By constantly saturating a 

 piece of cloth with coal oil and binding to my wrist, I 

 thought I might hold out for the evening's shoot. 



Graham had bagged a baker's dozen of curlew and one 

 duck, Will and John Lot had killed together some ten 

 ducks. After a late, hearty dinner we all crossed over to 

 Peggy and shot until too dark to shoot. I took my 

 Greener gun, as it was lighter than the Colt, and I could 

 handle it easier. I took my same station where I bagged 

 the geese. Just before sunset the ducks began coming on 

 by thousands. A small flock flew over me and I killed a 

 greenhead with each ban-el, the largest and fattest lever 

 killed. They were superb shots, when considering their 

 height and my swollen wrist. I had bagged some ten 

 when an accident deprived me of any more shooting that 

 evening. One of my Kynoch brass shells, that I had 

 reloaded some fifteen or twenty times, got the head 

 broken off as I put it in the chamber of the gun. I had 

 no stick to push it out, and my extractor was useless in 

 such an emergency. Calling Hogan , who was doing good 

 shooting, I directed him to cut a stick for me and en- 

 deavor to force out the shell. There was nothing near 

 us but some crooked thorn bushes. He cut one, and 

 shaved it small enough to be forced in, but on account of 

 its crookedness could not get it down to the shell. I 

 directed him to get another. A good one he could not 

 find, but he brought one too large and too crooked. Be- 

 fore I was aware of what he was doing, he cut the first 

 stick off at the bending part and thrust it in the gun. It 

 was now too short, and next he cut the last stick in half 

 and attempted to drive the first one down with this 

 piece. He got it wedged so tight that it was impossible 

 to force it down or draw it back. 



I could shoot no more, being afraid of some accident 

 if I shot the other barrel with a stick projecting from the 

 first. It was too bad. Never had I seen ducks flying so 

 close and so many. I could have bagged at least 100 

 more but for this accident. Mad, in pain, and annoyed 

 beyond expression, I made Hogan gather up our ducks 



and carry his and my gun back to the skiff, where I 

 waited in the worst of humors until Will and Graham re- 

 turned. They had been quite successful considering a 

 number of driek hunters from Ringgold, Bienville Parish, 

 had camped that afternoon on the island, and were shoot- 

 ing all around them. 



I had the blues— sick unto death. Never expected to 

 have such a glorious chance for making a big bag of 

 ducks again. A strong pull and a long pull at the flask 

 of old Bourbon restored me to my usual equanimity of 

 temper. Will rubbed my wrist until I felt easy. We 

 told yarns until after midnight, and then went to bed, re- 

 solved to break camp the next morning and leave for home. 



Morning came; we did not rise until our freedmen 

 roused us for breakfast. While eating the deep cry of a, 

 hound arrested our attention. "That is Aaron Lock's 

 hound. Let us ran to the stand. It is a deer, and he 

 will go through the old field not 300yds. from here," said 

 Bill Hogan. We jerked up our guns, inserted buckshot 

 shells, and ran up the steep bank. "No use to go," said 

 Bill, "the hound has gone through the stand." "Where 

 will it run?" I asked of Hogan. "Sometimes it goes to 

 Burr Ridge, not unfrequently it crosses to Peggy and 

 goes to the Bienville Hills." It was a cold frosty morn- 

 ing, I continued standing, listening to the deep mellow 

 cry of the hound as he ran up one hill and down another. 

 "Look," said Bill, "it is a big buck, and he will cross the 

 lake." I looked and saw a sight I will never forget. It 

 was a monster buck. He was very tired , smoke was curl- 

 ing from his nostrils, and his long red tongue was hang- 

 ing out of his mouth. On he went, straight to where our 

 skiff was anchored. The sight of it caused him to stop 

 and hesitate a moment, but the deep cry of the hound 

 was coming nearer. In he plunged, into the mud and 

 water, going down sometimes entirely out of sight. His 

 efforts were frantic to get out, and we could distinctly 

 hear his surges; and see the splash of water at each jump, 

 until he struck deep water. Rising with sides half out, I 

 never saw an animal swim more gallantly or more grace- 

 fully. He vvas heading direct to the high part of the 

 island, where the hunters from Ringgold had pitched 

 their camp, once the exact site of Peggy's cabin. We 

 shouted as loud as possible, but the half mile across pre- 

 vented any one from hearing us. The buck had to plunge 

 through the mud for 100yds. after he left the deep water, 

 before he struck dry land. The hunters were booming 

 all around the island with their double barrels, but none 

 saw him. When he got to land he stopped, threw up 

 his head with those great wide-spreading homs like a 

 chair on it, listened intently, looked back at us, who 

 were shouting, shook his muddy sides, and then plunged 

 into the thick brush, going no doubt in a few yards of 

 their camp-fire. It was a grand picture. I would not 

 have shot that buck, even had I the opportunity. 



The disappearance of the buck called our attention to 

 the noble "hound. By the time the buck got into the 

 bushes, the hound had arrived at the point the buck took 

 the water. He ran up and down the shore to be 

 certain that the deer had not taken to land again, and 

 then he plunged into the water just where the buck did. 

 Hogan blew several long blasts of his horn, to which the 

 dog was accustomed, as he often hunted with Hogan's 

 own hounds. He caught the sound, stopped, listened, 

 took in the direction, and soon came bounding to our 

 camp, apparently as fresh as if he had just started on a 

 drive, though Will and I learned from Aaron Lock on 

 our return home that the dog started the deer about mid- 

 night, while he was opossum hunting. Our ponies were 

 sent for and harnessed and hitched to the dog cart. 

 Guns, implements, ammunition and camp equipage, 

 with ducks stowed away, our bills to Hogan and Lot 

 paid, and homeward did Will and I set our faces. Two 

 better pleased sportsmen never went from Lake Bisteneau. 

 Each pronounced it the best and most enjoyable hunt he 

 ever had. We had killed over 150 ducks, 2 geese, 1 owl 

 and 8 dozen curlews. But for my strained wrist I verily 

 believe I would have bagged 200 myself. A drive of 

 three hours brought us home pleased with ourselves and 

 all the world. Geo. D. Alexander. 



PUPPIES AND GUNS. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



I wish to appeal to your readers in (verification or non- 

 verification) of an alleged fact which, if satisfactorily 

 established, would settle a great scientific question. It 

 is well known that evolutionists consider that what in the 

 ancestors were habits or associations of ideas impressed 

 from without may in the young become instincts or intui- 

 tions anticipative of experience — provided only the number 

 of ancestral generations be sufficiently lai'ge. This heredit- 

 ory transmission of acquired habits forms one of the 

 comer stones of Mr. Herbert Spencer's philosophy. It is 

 perhaps not so well known that the objective evidence in 

 favor of this very plausible and serviceable doctrine con- 

 sists of a mere handful of facts, almost every one of 

 which is susceptible of a different interpretation. 



A crucial fact, however, if it could only be well at- 

 tested, woidd be this: I have heard two accounts of 

 young sporting dogs who had never seen any shooting, 

 showing great and unusual excitement the first time their 

 master took doAvn Ins gun to prepare for a day in the 

 fields. One of my informants tells me that he cannot 

 doubt the phenomenon in the case of his own dog. This 

 excitement a,t the sight of a gun in a young setter, 

 pointer or spaniel could hardly admit of more than one 

 interpretation. It can only be due (in case it exists) to 

 the pup having inherited something of the tumultuous 

 expectations which for generations back the sight of the 

 gun had called up in the bosoms of his ancestors— expec- 

 tations onlv too well grounded (,as the birds would have 

 to confess) in "associations" wrought in them by many a 

 day in the woods and fields. 



Now, has any one of your readers witnessed such a 

 phenomenon? And is he sure it was not a mere chance 

 coincidence, or explicable in some other way, but a genu- 

 ine exciting quality which the gun seemed to possess for 

 the untrained dog? If such a reader will answer me 

 either through your pages, or personallv as below, I shall 

 feel deeply obliged. Or if any reader 'has good reasons 

 to doubt the truth of such stories, and will communicate 

 the ground of Ids doubts, I shall feel obliged no less. 



Wm. James. M.D. 



Harvahd College, Cambridge, Mass., Jan. 2. 



CHERISHED MYTHS. 



" 'INHERE is neither ibex, goat or mountain sheep (big 



X horn) in the Olympian range." So vanish, one by 

 one, the little conceits and romances that so largely color 

 our lives, I soliloquized as I laid down the letter contain- 

 ing the above extract. It was from a friend who had 

 recently located a ranch near the foot of the range in 

 Washington Territory, about which less is really known 

 than is the case with many regions much more remote 

 from the busy haunts of men. 



I had heard that there were strange animals there, 

 among which the ibex was mentioned, and the letter was 

 his answer to my request to send me if possible some 1 

 information upon the subject — a reply based , he wrote 

 me, upon the testimony of a trapper who had spent 

 several years in the range between Fort Townsend and 

 Grey's Harbor. 



As we reach the meridian of life, we relinquish these 

 cherished fancies with reluctance, even when they are • 

 proved to be myths; in early youth the crop is so 

 abundant that a few of them are easily spared, and their 

 vanishing forms leave no acute pang of regret. The 

 youth of to-day will tell you that the mermaid is an 

 impossibility, but the old barnacle-back, whose years spe;: t 

 out of sight of land far outnumber those he spent upon 

 the shore, will tell you still with a wise look and a shake 

 of the head that he has seen things that could be I 

 accounted for by no other hypothesis. In reading, when 

 a boy, the "Lif e and Adventures of Grizzly Adams," I 

 found no chapter more interesting than the one relating 

 his journey over the Sierras to the mysterious Hum- 

 boldt Mountains in search of the purple panthers which 

 emigrants from across the plains had assured him dwelt 

 there, and I remember the disappointment I felt when 

 even his imaginative biographer was obliged to confess 

 that he found only the common gray kind there — a dis- 

 appointment that was subsequently enhanced when a | 

 personal investigation of the region where, according to 

 the narrative, those mountains existed, failed to reveal 

 anything that harmonized with his magnificent descrip- < 

 tion of their sublimity. 



Scientific researches and careful, intelligently con- 

 structed observaticn dispel much of the fabulous ele- < 

 inent that so frequently attaches itself to little known - 

 subjects, as has often been illustrated in your own 

 columns in regard to the panther, wild goat, sheep, etc. j 

 But the fact that science itself sometimes makes mis- . 

 takes and asserts as truths deductions that are subse- 

 quently ignored, makes us sometimes reluctant to re- 

 verse what our personal experience has led us to regard 

 as established facts. The discovery of those immense 

 cuttlefish on the shores of Newfoundland considerably ' 

 modified the views of scientists concerning the sea mon- 

 sters which they had declared existed only in the brain I 

 of Hugo; and prone as is our own Forest and Stream to 

 skepticism where the documents are not perfectly regu- 

 lar, it is evident that it has a strong bias in favor of the i 

 sea serpent as at least some huge marine reptile, whose 

 shape even is as yet a matter of conjecture. 



Science attempted at one villainous scoop to deprive 

 '•Nessmuk" of his cranberry bear, but although I I 

 regret to say that my only knowledge of his character 

 has been derived entirely from Ids charming sketches, I 

 feel confident that the attempt was a dismal failure and 

 that in the mind of the old veteran the cranberry bear 

 still exist?, a species as distinct and clearly defined as i 

 ever. The summary manner in which scientific classifi- 

 cation demolishes our pet hobbies is appalling to those i 

 who, like "Nessmuk," have grown gray in the woods. 

 A striking example came under my own observation. 



In 1870 T took a horseback journey from ocean to ocean 

 through Costa Rica. The first day's travel from Punta 

 Arenas led through a country essentially tropical, but on 

 the second day, when about forty miles from the coast, 

 and at an elevation of nearly six thousand feet, we passed 

 through a region whose general appearance and arboreal 

 productions would have passed muster in any portion of 

 Massachusetts or Connecticut. I was forcibly struck by 

 the resemblance, and it seemed to be the rno6t natural 

 thing in the world, when I discovered a small pack of 

 birds dusting themselves in the road, which, after as close 

 an inspection as it was possible to obtain without alarm- 

 ing them, I decided to be raffed grouse. A few miles 

 beyond a clear ringing whistle from a field adjacent to 

 the road fell upon my ears and carried me in an instant 

 back to the days of childhood and youth. I reined up 

 my horse to listen, and again that familiar sound, sharp 

 and vigorous, came floating through the air more con- 

 vincing than before. As far as my ears were to be 

 trusted, it was the pipe of the quail of New England, the 

 partridge of the South. Heard amid those surroundings 

 there would have been no doubt concerning its origin, 

 but in this far land I determined to investigate still 

 further. Slipping from the saddle I crept along the wall 

 until as near as I thought T would be hkely to get, and 

 rising up looked cautiously over. There on the capstone 

 of the wall, just where I expected to find him, and look- 

 ing, as far as my eyes could be trusted, just as I expected 

 •to see him look, was the old friend of my boyhood, Bob 

 White, the white spots upon his face were visible from 

 my standpoint, and at my approach he ran down the side 

 of the wall into the brush, just as we have all seen the 

 little fellow do time and again. In neither case was I 

 more than 40yds. away from the birds, but as I had no 

 firearms, except a belted revolver, neither of them came 

 to my hand. Judge my surprise then, when several years 

 after I made inquiries through the Forest and Stream 

 concerning the habitat of these birds, to leam from Prof. 

 Ridgway, of the Smithsonian Institute, that there were 

 neither ruffed grouse nor quail in that country, but only 

 birds of a somewhat similar species. 



From a decision emanating from a source so dis- 

 tinguished, there was, of course, no thought of appeal, 

 especially as he informed me that the ornithology of 

 Costa Rica had been more carefully studied than that of 

 almost any other tropical section of America. But to 

 say* that I was puzzled is drawing it very mild, and 

 "Nessmuk" and his cranberry bear came instantly to my 

 mind. On the one hand I had been deceived about birds 

 with which from childhood I had been nearly as familiar 

 as with the barnyard fowls. I had never met with the 

 raffed grouse in Nevada or California, but I had shot 

 them in the mountains of Utah and the Cascade Range 

 of Oregon, and I recognized them as such before I sighted 

 them over my rifle barrel; and although in the mean 

 while I shot many a pinnated, sharptail, and blue grouse, 



