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FOREST AND STREAM. 



[May 19, 1887- 



lie ^orhttfnn ^ottrist 



Address all communicatUms to the Forest and Stream Pub. Co. 



THE SONG OF THE FLOOD. 

 /AH, a glorious sight is a field of ice 

 ^ In the sunlight all a-glitter, 

 When tbe river is fast in a giant vise 



And the wind blows keen and bitter. 

 But hurrah for the earth-stained, raging stream, 



When tbe river runs bank full; 

 With a slippery clash as the ice cakes flash 



Like, the eyes of a maddened bull! 



When the wii ite plain breaks in a million cakes 

 ♦ With a shock like planets shaking. 



And the crash of the fragments piled in flakes 



Sets the granite ledges quaking, 

 Then hurrah for the earth-stained, raging stream, 



When the river runs bank full, 

 And the ice fiend 'a loose down the frightful sluice 

 With the roar of a maddened bull! 



John Pbeston True. 



THE OLD AND THE NEW. 



BY OLD MORTALITY. 

 " Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well/' 



THE arrangement for a shooting trip, in "the good 

 old times," was a matter for considerable thought 

 and involved some trouble, but the time and trouble were 

 generally well rewarded. Game was plentiful, and it 

 only required the "know how to do it" to insure success. 

 To tbe eastward of Havre de Grace, across the waters of 

 the bay, lies a strip of land divided from the main shore 

 by a narrow inlet; this is known as Spesutia Island, or as 

 we always called it, "Pesusi Island." Only a very small 

 portion of it was at all suitable for cultivation, the most 

 of the tract being composed of marshes overgrown with 

 tall reeds, and cut up and intersected with small streams, 

 ditches, channels and thoroughfares, a veritable wilder- 

 ness on a small scale, and a favorite haunt for wildfowl 

 of all descriptions. To thread this wilderness in a light 

 skiff required as mucb "craft" and skill as does that of 

 the hunter, who follows the trails of the forest with un- 

 erring precision. Among these wild marshes the savage 

 swine roamed, the old boars, emerging from the brake, 

 greeting the passing boat with a loud snort and showing 

 their tusks viciously at having their solitude disturbed. 

 Among these wilds I have spent many days of sport and 

 pleasure in the olden time. In the bow of the frail skiff, 

 with ammunition box in front of me and my No. 11 muz- 

 zleloader at a ready, and my dear old friend and com- 

 panion of many hunts at the paddle, which he twirled in 

 the water so skillfully that nothing could be heard of our 

 advance but the whispers of the ripples as they parted 

 from the bow. Ever and anon a teal, with bright blue or 

 green wing, a gaudy icallard or a black duck, would 

 spring from the reeds at the sides of the channel and 

 often drop as quickly at the report of the No. 11. The 

 echoes would startle numberless flocks of different kinds 

 of ducks from the ponds and ditches, and these would 

 circle about and then settle again and resume feeding or 

 repose. To reach this favorite spot it was requisite to put 

 our skiffs and traps on board of the propeller bound for 

 Baltimore, and in the early morning or in the evening we 

 were put off opposite the Narrows and icade our way to 

 McGraw's, who occupied an old mansion situated on a 

 high bluff just above the landing. McGraw was a most 

 peculiar man, both in appearance and habits. He had 

 the infirmity of stuttering, and the contortions of his 

 countenance during these paroxysms made him appear 

 frightful; more so when he was angry or out of humor, 

 which was quite a common occurrence. He had two 

 stalwart sons and a most amiable and beautiful daughter; 

 these, with the niggers and dogs, made up the household. 

 Ah! what splendid times I have had in that old mansion, 

 and how the trials of the day have vanished "in wreaths 

 of smoke, the well- cracked joke and fumes of apple 

 toddy." 



On a crisp evening in November, many years ago, an 

 old friend of mine, who had shared my pleasures on 

 many occasions with rod and gun, together with myself, 

 two gunners and my two dogs, launched our skiffs from 

 the steamer, when near Turkey Point, and hurrying in 

 the traps, pulled away for McGraw's landing. The sun 

 had disappeared, leaving behind the glorious autumn 

 halo that bathed the west in a flood of crimson and tinged 

 the far-off clouds with orange, purple and gold. We old 

 sportsmen have witnessed the glories of the sunrise and 

 setting that would thrill with delight the heroes of the 

 Alpenstock, or the Mt. Washington tourist. The gloom 

 had settled down over the water and the marshes ere the 

 prows of our boats grated on the sandy beach of the 

 landing, and the lights from the windows of McGraw's 

 twinkled like stars to guide us up the bank. A chorus of 

 fierce howls and barkings announced our arrival, and 

 the boys came out, lantern in hand, to quiet the dogs and 

 give us a hearty welcome. Having provided Dash and 

 Juno with good warm beds in the barn, we prepared to 

 do justice to Sally's odorous buckwheat cakes, the aroma 

 from which had whetted our appetites to a ferocious 

 degree. 



Now in this little sketch I propose to give my readers 

 some idea of the ways that we enjoyed sport in "the 

 olden time," when game, although plentiful, required 

 skill, judgment and a level head to secure it. The 

 breechloader was unknown; for every shot you were 

 obliged to go through the motions with horn and pouch 

 and wads and caps; and when ducks were flying around 

 you, the bluewing darting with the velocity of a rifle 

 ball at your decoys, a man needed to be cool to get through 

 the operation without a bungle. 



After discussing the good supper, although tired, we 

 had to await digestion before retiring, which gave us an 

 opportunity to tilk over tha chances for the morrow and 

 the inevitable game of seven-up. Having arranged mat- 

 ters and got out the guns and traps, we all started for 

 bed and much needed rest. "Breakfast by candle-light" 

 is the duck shooter's motto, and the sun had not even 

 tinged the leaden clouds ere we were off for the day's 

 sport. As we left the house we could hear Dash and 

 Juno whimpering in the barn, full of disappointment at 

 being left at home; but keep quiet, good dogs, your turn 



will come before we return to town. After pulling our 

 light boats over the sands and putting the decoys snugly 

 away, we bad eone another good bye and wished good 

 luck, and each boat pointed in a different direction. I 

 had in my boat my old friend and companion, Dan 

 Wills. I have designated him as a gunner, and while he 

 was a gunner in every sense of the term, he was at the 

 time a most jovial and welcome companion. There must be 

 very few old sportsmen in this section who have not heard 

 of or did not know Dan Wills. He was a famous shot, a 

 capital boatman, and, indeed, up to everything that per- 

 tained to sport. He was also an accomplished naturalist 

 and taxidermist. What Danny did not know about sport 

 was not worth the knowing. He was a short, stout man, 

 with small, dark, piercing eyes; quick as the lightning 

 with his gun, and could shoot equally well from right Or 

 left shoulder. He was considered A>y many to be the best 

 snap or cripple shot in this country. I have seen this 

 man perform some wonderful feats at shooting during 

 the many trips I have been with him. Years have passed 

 since we put him to his final rest and his shooting days 

 were over. Nothing could please Danny more than to 

 place one of his friends in a first-rate position in the 

 cripple, where he could see all around him, while Danny 

 went into the deep thicket to start the woodcock. He was 

 indeed a lucky man who would get down a bird to his 

 gun, for with the whir of the cock would come Dan's cry 

 of "Mark!" a little cloud of smoke in the bushes, a 

 report, and down would go the bird with unerring cer- 

 tainty before our friend could get his gun to his shoulder. 

 About the time Dan would have the bird in his capacious 

 pocket you would hear him inquire in the most innocent 

 manner, "Did he drop?" He used to fool me in this man- 

 ner until I got to know him, when I gave up standing 

 outside watching for chances, and pitched in with my 

 dog, or I would never have got a bird. I was considered 

 a pretty fair shot; but, in all candor, there was scarcely a 

 trip that we took together, either at quail, woodcock or 

 snipe, that Dan would not double me in spite of all my 

 endeavors. I never beat him but once in my life, and 

 that was at rail birds. Dan pushed his own boat, gath- 

 ered his birds and shot with one hand, while I had Dennis 

 Welsh, one of the best pushers on the Delaware, and had 

 hard work to beat him at that. But I am getting into 

 biographies, and forgetting that the morning is breaking 

 in the east and we are out for duck shooting. 



After rowing noiselessly through the maze of crooked 

 channels, we halted for our morning's work at a point 

 where two streams met, forming an open space of water, 

 giving us plenty of room for our decoys. While putting 

 them out we could hear the faint whistle of the wings of 

 the flocks of redheads and baldpates as they passed 

 Swiftly overhead toward their favorite feeding grounds 

 on the flats. Decoys being arranged satisfactorily, we 

 pushed our boat among the reeds at the point and bent 

 over the tallest ones toward us, so as not to interfere with 

 our shooting. Having loaded up, we were ready for 

 business. It seems to me that anticipation and expecta- 

 tion have nearly as much to do with the enjoyment of a 

 sportsman as realization. We crouch in our little boat, 

 eye and ear on the alert, and the heart throbs with a feel- 

 ing of joyous expectancy, eager to hear the first sound of 

 the soft whistle of the -wings or the faint cluck or quack, 

 or to catch the first glimpse of the little flock as they 

 double with graceful movement toward the decoys. 



We had not long to wait, for without warning and with 

 a splash, in bounced a little bunch of teal close to the 

 decoys. It was scarcely light and I could not distinguish 

 them as they scurried away upon our rising to shoot. 

 Not so with Dan, for with the double report from his gun, 

 down came a pair, struggling for a moment on the sur- 

 face of the water, and then floating quietly, dead, toward 

 the shore. After a little wait three fine mallards came 

 along, and I dropped a pair of them, Dan doubling up the 

 other, a little cloud of feathers floating down on the wind, 

 proving the certainty of his aim. And so we kept on 

 until the sun had gotten about two hours high, and the 

 flight seemed to have ceased. We had secured sixteen 

 ducks, including two redheads. We then concluded to 

 change our quarters to a spot some half mile away, where 

 we had observed several bunches of ducks go down. Up 

 came our twenty-five decoys, and we pulled away and 

 soon had them out again. We waited here some time 

 without a shot. Dan had been taking a look around for 

 chances, when he suddenly crouched down in the boat, 

 and pointed, with a chuckle, up the thoroughfare. By 

 peeping cautiously out from among the reeds, I could 

 distinguish our two friends in their boat, the one lying 

 closely with his gun pointing over the bow, the other 

 paddling noiselessly as they rounded the point so as to 

 get a shot at our decoys. Before they arrived too near 

 Dan gave them a hail, which put an end to their dream 

 of a big shot, and we had a good laugh over their mistake. 

 They thought from the report of our guns we were far 

 away, and made an error that many duck shooters have 

 made before and since. After consultation we concluded 

 to occupy the rest of the day in paddling, so putting the 

 decoys on shore we started for the ditches and thorough- 

 fares. It was really wonderful to see Dan handle a pad- 

 dle. Without any seeming exertion he would urge a skiff 

 along noiselessly and steadily, and he could be on a duck 

 before the timid creature was aware of the proximity of 

 an enemy. Frequent reports of the guns of our friends 

 gave promise of a fair bag, and thus the time wore away 

 and the shades of evening were upon us ere we realized 

 the day half gone, and we pointed our way toward Mc- 

 Graw's again. The boys met us and helped us with our 

 load, which proved a good bag of forty-one ducks, five 

 snipe and a muskrat. And now, my reader, let me ask 

 you this, Did you ever sit over a plate of hot "com 

 dodgers" after a hard day's shooting? It seems to me 

 that the boys had much better appetites in the olden time 

 than now in the new. To be sure, we used to work 

 harder, and my fingers have ached many a time from 

 handling my loading rod, and from putting those infernal 

 caps on the nipples that were a size too small for them. 

 We have it easier now. The smooth and neatly made 

 cartridge slips into the chamber, and with a snap the gun 

 is ready for work. The old brown table cover, the steel 

 knife and fork, and the imitation "Delf" china and bowl 

 for coffee are now replaced with white china and plated 

 ware. But I fancy the appetite is no better, and I am 

 confident that "corn dodgers" never look nor taste as 

 well from a white china plate and silver fork. Sally 

 could make corn cakes, certain, and she had a company 

 of hungry boys on that night that could put them away. 

 Dash and Juno had a good supper also, and they pranced 



and barked and clung around us, giving us a welcome 

 that only a faithful dog can express. 



On the morrow Dan and myself arranged for a quail 

 shoot on the mainland, and our friends were to try the 

 ducks again and take a tramp on Black Island, where it 

 was said some snipe had been seen. We made an early 

 start. The dogs were wild with delight at the prospect of 

 a hunt, and we bent our way to the ferry, crossed over 

 by the old rope boa.t, and Dan and I and the dogs started 

 for our day's hunt. Dash was a red setter, of Irish blood, 

 and a very superior dog in all respects, the best dog I ever 

 owned. He was a powerful dog and no brier patch was 

 too thick for him. He was a great ranger, had a fine 

 nose, and was as staunch as a rock. Juno was a pointer 

 bitch, probably as beautiful a creature as could be pro- 

 duced in dog flesh, white and liver color, and slightly 

 speckled. She was from the celebrated CadwalladeY 

 stock, and a present to me from Dan. She was a little 

 too delicate for rough hunting, but was a perfect picture 

 when on a stand or bac ! ing, her whole form trembling 

 and her long whip-like tail bending a little at the point, 

 her nostrils distended, and her eyes standing out like two 

 balls. Juno could scent a bird further than irost dogs, 

 and it made her a little too careful. She would always 

 approach a covey with a graceful, cat-like movement, 

 while Dash would march up with a confident air, seem- 

 ing to say, "There they are;" and he had a fashion of 

 quietly turning his head a little to see if you were coming, 

 and then would resume his statue-like position. Ah ! m y 

 good dogs; what sport I have had with you in "the good 

 old times." 



We were soon among the birds, and Dash had a covey 

 close to a dense thicket, from which Ihey had come to 

 take their morning sun-bath and meal; Juno was back- 

 ing him, as usual, trembling with excitement. We were 

 well aware that what was to be done with that covey 

 must be done quickly. We walked up each side of the 

 dogs; the birds sprang toward the thicket with a loud 

 whir; the quick reports of our guns followed; and the 

 smoke for a moment hid from our view the little bunches 

 of floating feathers that proved that we had "pointed 

 right." We had only fired two barrels, and two fine 

 cock birds lay struggling among the leaves of the thick 

 bushes. 



It was of no use to follow this covey, quail were very 

 plenty in these times, and our good dogs soon had another 

 covey, Juno this time having the honors and Dash on the 

 back seat. And so the day wore on, until we reached the 

 ferry again on our way home with fifty-two quail and 

 two woodcock, and a pair of tired dogs. • We found our 

 friends at McGraw's, and they, too, had a good account 

 to render, they having killed twenty odd snipe without a 

 dog, and several duck. So my reader can observe readily 

 that with a little hard work it was comparatively easy in 

 the olden time to have plenty of rational and. lawful 

 sport. But alas, the times have sadly, woefully changed. 

 You might ecour these fields and meadows now, and you 

 could not find three coveys of quail or a half dozen snipe. 

 What think you of a day's sport such as this, that a 

 friend of mine and this same Dan Wills had a few miles 

 from Philadelphia, starting in their wagon in the morn- 

 ing and returning for supper: 8 teal, 2 black ducks, 18 

 woodcock, 98 rail birds and 9 dozen reed birds? I saw 

 this bunch of game. Such were the chances for sport in 

 the old times, when breechloaders were unknown and 

 other modern contrivances were not thought of, at least 

 they were not used, and sport was carried on in a legiti- 

 mate style. 



And now, as we have talked over the old, let us have a 

 little chat over the new. My first experience in sinkbox 

 shooting was to me one of the most uncomfortable and 

 tiresome modes of getting ducks that I could conceive of. 

 I started, with one of the Bond boys, from the wharf 

 near the Hartford Hotel at Havre de Grace, about 2 

 o'clock on a chilly November morning, many years ago. 

 The little scow moved slowly from the wharf, the sail 

 filled with a light wind from the northwest; nearly the 

 entire deck and hold of the small craft were occupied 

 with the decoys and sinkbox, a clumsy affair in those 

 times. Our crew consisted of one colored man who was 

 to attend us, with the boat which was towing astern. 

 There were but few of these sinkboxes around Havre de 

 Grace at that time, and even at this early date they had 

 created a feeling of disgust among the "old sports" and 

 punt-shooters, as being inhuman contrivances of market- 

 shooters to murder the fowl on their feeding grounds. 

 But canvasbacks were worth a dollar a pair and the Bond 

 boys and Jake Poplar were wont to sh ; p barrels of them 

 to the game dealers and "Uncle John" Krider for sale, 

 consequently sinkbox shooting and punt-gun shooting 

 became the' chief vocation and business of the half of 

 the enterprising citizens of Havre de Grace. As our 

 scow approached the vicinity of the flats, great ricks of 

 ducks would get up with a noise of a passing railroad 

 train. Having arrived at the ground that Capt. Bond 

 had selected, we dropped anchor and unshipped the 

 sinkbox and put out the decoys. The scow was then 

 towed away some half a mile, and Bond was left in the 

 box to take" the early morning thooting, as I was a novice. 



With the first gray of the dawn I saw the quick flashes 

 and heard the booin of his gun. And the darky, who 

 was still on board, proceeded to unloose the boat and ven- 

 tured the remark, "that he had better be off , as Capt. 

 Bond was knocken ! em." My attention was soon drawn 

 to the flashes of the guns of other shooters far away, 

 and the deep boom or faint report would come over the 

 water. As it grew fighter I could take in the whole situa- 

 tion, and see the great flocks of wildfowl as they passed 

 from place to place, disturbed by the cannonading on their 

 feeding grounds. Bond gave signal to the man to bring 

 me to the sinkbox, and after some trepidation and a tick- 

 lish balance on the side, I was safely ensconced in the 

 "coffin," and awaiting my maiden effort. I will not go 

 through the story of the day. We got lots of ducks and I 

 considered it regular murder, and became heartily tired 

 of it. I shall ever remember my feelings the next morn- 

 ing. My neck felt nearly dislocated, my poor back ached, 

 my ankles were swelled "from the strain, and on the whole 

 I was pretty well used up. No more sinkbox shooting for 

 me. 



A short time ago a valued friend invited me to visit his 

 newly purchased place on Spesutia Island, I gladly ac- 

 cepted, as it would give me an oppoi-tunity of again see- 

 ing my old favorite haunt and revive the glad memories 

 of old times. On our arrival at Havre de Grace we were 

 met by the captain, the commander of the "scow." Now 

 in calling the present style of craft owned by wealthy 



