394 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



Uune 6, 1889. 



JAMES RIVER TALES.— II. 



TURKEY SHOOTING IN SURRY COUNTY, VIRGINIA. 



"/""^OMK here-, Dan, you old fatty, while I introduce 

 \J you to the readers of Forest and Stream. You 

 were with me at the death of many a noble Virginia tur- 

 key, and I think you deserve some recognition in print. 

 If, as Mr. Weller says, 'Vidth and visdom alvays goes to- 

 gether, you should be a wine dog; but I fear if you keep 

 at it much longer, one or the. other will be the death of 

 you. I sometimes imagine when I see you asleep before 

 the fire, kicking out your legs and wagging your tail, that 

 you are dreaming of some turkey hunt in which you took 

 a prominent part. Am I not right, sir? I dream of such 

 scenes myself, and why should not you? You cannot 

 boast of the bluest of blue blood, even though your father 

 was a royal red Irishman, for these short ears' indicate a 

 plebian strain; but you possess what is of far more value — a 

 most excel lent disposition. And what a time I had to teach 

 you even the rudimentary principles of your profession, 

 yet did you repay manifold all my trouble and patience. 

 At first how you would draw most beautifully on every 

 cow and ruzorback hog that presented itself, laboring, 

 perhaps, under the laudable impression that I could not 

 hit anything smaller or wished to fill the game bag with- 

 out loss of time. Also that first duck. It was not quite 

 dead, you remember, and every time the. thing would 

 give a kick back to the shore you would come, just as if 

 the duck was going to bite off an ear. In time you out- 

 grow all these weaknesses and mastered the art of find- 

 ing game. You were tpiite as necessary as the gun when 

 I went for summer duck, for no dead bird fell but that 

 you retrieved it, and no cripple could long remain hid- 

 den from yoiu- good nose. On quail you were fairly good, 

 though not a flyer, and as for turkeys, I think you knew 

 almost as much as the birds themselves. Now, sir, take 

 a nap while I spin a few yarns about Surry county tur- 

 keys. 



The river front of Surry county for a mile or more back 

 is little less than a succession of ravines, some deep, some 

 shallow, some with a gentle slope, others with almost 

 perpendicular sides, and nearly all of them with a small 

 stream dancing down the center on its way to the James 

 River. Occasionally you might strike a cleared piece of 

 ground where some negro had built a hut of pine logs 

 plastered within and without with mud. and was en- 

 deavoring to raise a crop of peanuts and corn, or else an 

 old field that had been neglected for years; but for the 

 most part it was all woods on the high ground, oak, 

 hickory, beech and pine, the latter predominating to a 

 large extent, while the swamps were tilled with cypress. 



These ravines were excellent feeding grounds for turk- 

 eys, and aided materially in hunting them, as you could 

 approach from either side with little fear of alarming 

 them. The turkey makes a great noise in feeding, especi- 

 ally if the leaves are dry, and can be heard a long dis- 

 tance, provided there is no wind. But while he scratches 

 away at the leaves in search of juicy worms that dissolve 

 in his mouth and hard three-cornered beech nuts that 

 look as though they never would dissolve, he is constantly 

 raising his head to admire the scenery, so that if the 

 woods are open and level the odds are against you every 

 time. It is useless to follow a flock thus flushed, for the 

 chances are that every blessed turkey is watching for 

 you from the thick top of some fine tree. Now is the 

 time to put to practical use your knowledge of the hunt- 

 ing ground and the habits of the birds. Make a detour 

 foi a point in the direction you think thpy will take when 

 feeding is resumpd, and station yourself behind a tree, 

 bush or log. It is now a game of wait, and if you have 

 patience enough you are vpry apt to get a shot. 



I shall never forgot my first turkey. I had been up the 

 creek after ducks and was returning through an old 

 field, when my dog flushed a flock of some ten or fifteen 

 and off they went for the woods. Whew! how the 

 sight of those birds did electrify me. I was soon after 

 them on the jump, aud more by good luck than skill 

 started a turkey at the mouth of a small ravine. Great 

 smoke! what a flopping of wings before that bird could 

 clear the bushes, and when he did come out he seemed to 

 fill the ak and shut out the very sky from sight. I don't 

 know whether I fired from my hip or shoulder, but 

 down came the turkey and I had my hands on him 

 almost the second he touched the ground. What a 

 beauty, and how I admired him and executed a war dance 

 over his carcass while the dog capered around and barked 

 his delight. 



I was using a No. 12 Parker and No. 4 shot. I know it 

 is more artistic to shoot a turkey through the head with 

 a rifle bullet, and besides it reads so pretty in print, but 

 fresh meat was too scarce in that section for me to prac- 

 tice on turkeys with a rifle. I did invest in a Winches- 

 ter and tried it several times, but as it always happened 

 that I got nothing but wing or moving shots when I left 

 the Parker at home and the salt meat was growing Salter 

 every day, I soon dropped the rifle for the shotgun. 



Returning one morning from an unsuccessful still-hunt 

 after deer I entered the same old field mentioned above, 

 and w hile crossing it Dan began trailing and came to a 

 stand. Quail, says I, and having nothing smaller, my 

 beauties, 1 shall have to feed you a few No. 6's, and up I 

 walked. Instead of the expected quail a big gobbler 

 came out of the weeds from under Dan's very nose, and 

 dropped to the report of the gun. He was so close when 

 I pulled on him that I think he must ha ve stopped the 

 entire load. 



This was the first intimation I had that turkeys would 

 lie for dogs. One afternoon I started up the creek to get 

 a shot at some geese. I had rowed a short distance when 

 I saw a turkey attempt to fly the creek, but it was one 

 too many for him, and into the water he went within a 

 few yards of the shore. I returned in a hurry, scrambled 

 up the bank and sent Dan after that turkey, knowing he 

 would come my way when the dog struck his trail. In a 

 few minutes I heard a rustling in the bushes to my right, 

 and turning spied Mr. Turkey taking a birdseye view of 

 me through the leaves. Looking carefully for Dan, and 

 seeing no signs of him, 1 blazed away, Over went the 

 turkey, and likewise Dan, who had been standing a few 

 yards behind him. I thought the poor dog was done for 

 that trip, and with a heavy heart lugged him home. In- 

 side of a week that dog was as good as ever, and stood 

 another turkey not 500yds. from that very spot. 



Sometimes I found a turkey call very useful, a small 

 piece of reed about 6in. in length mating the very best 

 kind of a call, although on one occasion, having left my 

 call at home, I cleaned out my rifle and decoyed a hen 

 turkey to her death. But a hen turkey or a year-old 

 gobbler is a simpleton in comparison to the old gent of 

 (he fluck, who dangles a lOin. whisker frorn his glossy 

 front. No hollow reed or turkey bone, however artisti- 

 cally manufactured, will prevail with him. He will 

 cock his head to one side and thoughtfully listen and 

 then answer as polite as can be, with possibly a tinge of 

 sarcasm in his note, which I took to mean, "Come and 

 see me if you want me." He will answer just as often 

 as you call, but not a step will he move in your direction. 

 I wasted considerable time before I "tumbled to" this 

 trick, and after that I always started to hunt his royal 

 highness without indulging in any further duet business. 



Keouk! Keouh! Keouk! How the music of that call 

 electrifies the whole body. Carefully now, the turkey 

 calling is not more than 200yds. off and a false move 

 may alarm him. A few minutes and I hear his step 

 quite distinctly. So does Dan. We started that turkey 

 some distance back and struck for the ravine to head 

 him off. I am crouching behind a pine stump with Dan 

 at my side; the dog is all of a tremble with excitement. 

 Patter, patter, patter in the dry leaves, and out of the 

 bushes he comes down the side of the ravine. What a 

 noble specimen, and how magnificently his bronze coat 

 shines and glistens in the sunlight— 50yds., if it's a 

 foot, but he will never come nearer, and snap goes the 

 plunger into a faulty cap. Up he rises. The brown 

 barrels follow him for an instant, and then the other 

 shell speaks. He is limp and motionless when I pick 

 him up and heavy enough to show I81bs. on the scales. 



Once I had an opportunity of watching Dan after a 

 turkey on the marsh. To an uninterested party who did 

 not eat turkey doubtless the spectacle would have been 

 both instructive and amusing. To me it was galling, for 

 I was over a hundred yards off , and with no earthly show 

 of getting nearer. There he stalked through the grass, 

 not ten yards ahead of the dog, seemingly without fear 

 and as dignified and majestic as you please. Every few 

 steps he would halt. Dan would follow suit and turn his 

 head to look for me, as much as to say, "Come on with 

 that gun." Oh! the pain that procession gave me. It 

 was worse than watching the triumphant parade of your 

 opponent after the election returns were all in. Reach- 

 ing a stream the turkey flew off and Dan returned tome, 

 the most disgusted looking dog I ever saw. 



After consoling myself over a pipe we started in again. 

 In a short while Dan began trailing. Thinking he was 

 after quail, for we had hunted that piece of ground not 

 half an hour before, and seeing him come to a stand on 

 the side of a hill where the bushes grew scattering, I 

 yelled at him to go on. Much to my surprise, up rose a 

 flock of turkeys. One chap bore around in my direction 

 and I gave him both barrels, just to let off some of the 

 mad. He appeai-ed to shake as the shot struck him, but 

 kept straight on. I followed his line of flight and hunted 

 for him until it began to grow dark. At last, giving up 

 in despair, I whistled for Dan and turned my face home- 

 ward. Hearing a commotion behind me, I looked to 

 ascertain the cause, and, bless me! there was Dan with 

 the turkey in his mouth. 



Turkeys emit a strong scent, and a dog with a good 

 nose can wind them further than he can a flock of quail. 

 I was out with a party of three one day looking for tur- 

 keys that we had never succeeded in running across. 

 We were all together, the dog at my side. I saw Dan 

 elevate his nose several times and sniff the air. We 

 stopped and listened. Not a sound. Everything as quiet 

 as the grave. "Turkeys," said I, and was laughed at by 

 my companions. The woods was very open and afforded 

 a clear view, but not a sign of turkey. I was left to 

 follow the dog. He led me across a stretch of meadow 

 and up into the woods on the other side to the mouth of 

 a ravine, all the time in a slow walk. Then I heard the 

 birds feeding, and one of them went home with us. 

 After that Dan's nose was a good enough turkey indica- 

 tor for any of that crowd. Old Man. 



A BERKSHIRE BROOK. 



IT was a beautiful afternoon in July. A soft, mild 

 breeze crept up from the southwest." Ever and anon 

 a bank of fleecy clouds swept over the sun; in the dis- 

 tance they seemed resting on the mountain tops, and the 

 shadows swept slowly down their distant blue-green 

 flanks, There was a softness, a freshness, an effect of 

 far distance and clearness in the atmosphere. The ver- 

 dure and the foliage under the genial sunlight, washed 

 and refreshed by the rain of the previous day and night, 

 seemed soft and green as June. The voices of the hay- 

 makers and the lowing of distant cattle came faintly 

 from the fields, borne on the sweet, still country air. I 

 sat on the hotel piazza,, smoking a post-prandial cigar, in 

 that satisfied, at-peace-with-all feeling that comes after a 

 good dinner, eaten with a healthy appetite. The drowsy 

 peace of the country quiet swept over me and my un- 

 opened book dropped to the floor. I fell to watching the 

 cloud castles as they swept across the blue sky, column 

 after column, atately and sure. 



Suddenly, as a new thought struck me, I sat bolt up- 

 right. "Jove! what an afternoon to fish the Anthony 

 Brook; not a drop of rain before in three weeks; how the 

 old veterans of the stream will be dancing this after- 

 noon." A southeast wind it was and that decided it. I 

 looked at my watch; half past two, and I thought "If I 

 get ready now and start I will be on the stream at half 

 past three." I start at once, quite forgetting Rider Hag- 

 gard and Ins tale of "Three Lions," all resting on the floor. 

 In a few minutes I am in old clothes, a stout suit of a 

 red, gray, brown color, which had quite allured me at 

 the tailor's by its possibilities as a fishing suit when old. 

 Heavy wading shoes well laced; and now for the tackle. 

 Split-bamboo drawn carefully from its case, lovingly in- 

 spected and laid on the bed. Reel in one pocket, pipe 

 and tobacco bag in the other. Now for the fly-book, 

 open it and out with several leaders, which go into the 

 leader box, a dash of water from the pitcher on the felt 

 and the comforting thought of their softness when 

 needed. Before that wrinkle came I used to cram a 

 leader into my mouth at the beginning of the last half 

 mile before approaching the stream and talk in a dis- 

 jointed fashion with an occasional gag for the next 

 quarter of an hour. Better that though than a coiling ( 

 serpent of gut falling on the stream with a plash or a bit 1 



of India rubber that frays the gut and only half does the 

 business. (I never knew a man with sufficient strength 

 of mind to sit with his leader in the water, patiently - 

 waiting by the brookside until it became pliable. I tried' 

 it once, and the long suspense was maddening). Now " 

 for a few odds and ends, including the match box and 

 also — "where the dickens is my creel? Ah! I know, tj 

 left it in the kitchen last time when I came home, an« 

 according to custom, the cook has hung it to a nail out3 

 side the window to air." I poke my head out of the 

 window and look down. "Yes, there it is, sure enough, 

 and a precious good soaking it had last night, too, ' 

 Never mind, it will be clean and sweet." So up rod. and ■ 

 down and around the house for the creel. That on, and. 

 then a moment's pause while the mind takes a rapid in- 1 

 ventory of the duffle to see that nothing is forgotten, 

 (It's no joke to drive to a distant Jake and find you have 

 forgotten your rod, as I did once.) 



Everything is on hoard, and then I go down the pas- 

 ture, into the road and down the hill to the wood. How 

 sweet and fresh the air is! A woodchuck runs out int«jj 

 the road in front of me and then back again in a startled 

 way. A thrush glares at me as I pass from the bush bf\ 

 the rail fence with a half startled, half saucy twist of Mai 

 head. 



Now I pass the two spectral white birches that stand asJ 

 guardians of the wood, and am under its leafy canopy 

 through which the afternoon sun sends his lances of light, 

 making a quivering, dancing pattern of lacework on the 

 roadway. I hear the brook in the glen below, and I notm 

 with satisfaction its voice deeper, fuller than the last time! 

 I heard it. The brook, too, has gained by last night's 

 rain. 



Where a little spring trickles down the bankside andl 

 oozes into the brook below there is a spot of vivid green, 

 and standing by it, erect and tall, a clump of mint, whose 

 fragrance scents the a»-r. I sniff it, but hurry on, for II 

 am eager to reach the bridge where the brook crosses tha 

 road, for there, just above in the wood, a mass of spring)! 

 gush into the brook, sweetening its water and making ill 

 clear and cold as crystal; and at this point I always con*| 

 mence fishing. Soon I see its gray and lichen-coveredl 

 timbers in the green gold woodlight at the foot of the lit-| 

 tie knoll I am standing on. I breathe a sigh of satiefac-J 

 tion, and taking my rod from its bag I commence care-l 

 fully jointing it. Now, on with the reel, and laying it J 

 handle up carefully on a grassy spot where no gravel will 

 get into its gear, I commence reeving the line tbrougSI 

 the rings. What a satisfaction these enameled lines are!! 

 How beautifully they cast, and how smoothly they slip!! 

 I note that latter particularly, for in my hurry I let the! 

 end drop twice in reeving it, and it slips back each timej 

 through half a dozen rings. Ah! this impatience pisca* 

 torial, how it lurks in the blood! Nothing, not even 

 age, can subdue it. Now for a leader. Our fish, though 

 plenty, are shy and wary as hawks; and, according 

 to custom, I will choose one of drawn gut, a straffl 

 of gossamer web, fine as a lady's hair. I tied this myself 

 with one or two heavier strands at the top to make it cast 

 truer. Now for the flies. I glance at the pages of my 

 book, then at the water and then at the sky. My mind 38 

 made up and I select a governor, one I tied during the! 

 winter on a strand of drawn gut for just such an occasion.; 

 I tie them with a slimmer body and less hackle and wing 

 than the hackle makers, and I think them better so foil 

 thpse clear-water brooks where trout are shy, than thj 

 more bulky ones we get in the shops. Hook, a No. 13. 

 This fly is the same practically as Thad. Norris's brown 

 hen, except for its little tag of red, which I think inv 

 proves it. It is practically a winged brown-hackle, and 

 a pattern on which many good flies are made by varying' 

 the wing. On with it for a stretcher. And now for* my 

 dropper, that old reliable killer, a brown-hackle on a 

 No. 14 hook; and now, alter putting some of these ferns.; 

 . in my creel to keep the fish from the basket, we are ready, 

 I step down carefully beside the bridge and glance down 

 the little glen. Ah! what a sight. The brook is bank t'u' 

 and the water clear with a strong brown tint. It is run-, 

 ning down rapidly, clearing all the while, and by to-mor- 

 row will be too low. In the genial air I note a myriad oi 

 dancing insects on the surface of the water. The stream 

 swirls down amid the mossy rocks, with here a pool and 

 there a rapid, overarched by tall trees, through which tb« 

 afternoon sunlight vainly struggles to reach the water. 



1 creep down the bank and step into the stream. Tjgla' 

 how cold the water is where this spring comes in. Then< 

 with a glance over my shoulder to see that the back cast 

 is clear, the line straightens out and the flies light on the 

 dancing, rippling wafer where it pours into the first pooh 

 Ah, you little darling! A six- inch trout in his eagerness 

 had jumped clear out of water, and missing the flies it 

 his haste, goes down head first. I let out a little line and 

 cast still further down, where that patch of foam circles 

 round by the rock. Whew! a splash, a mad rush down, 

 stream, a heavy "thug" on the flies, and, alas! he is gone 

 and also six feet of my gossamer leader and both flies. 



If that is the way they are feeding no need for draWi 

 gut. Why, I didn't have time to strike before he hat 

 carried off the whole affair. He must have -weighed s 

 pound, at least. 



So, on with a heavier leader and try again. The saint 

 flies as before. Again they light on the pool and again ! 

 have a rise, and this time strike my fish and in a momeni 

 it is mine. Alas, though, it is not my friend of a momeni 

 before, but a comparatively insignificant 8-inch trout. 

 Never mind, he is the first, and is not the first better that 

 the last! He has taken the brown-hackle. Again I try 

 but in vain, and then I wade through the edge of th« 

 pool and cast into the one below. Another here and i* 

 the one below two more, and in the pool below that twe 

 more, and then in the rapids below still another, anc" 

 when I come to the edge of the little glen and look ou! 

 into the broad pasture beyond, through which the brooh 

 winds a devious way, I think with satisfaction that there, 

 are eight trout in my basket. 



Just where the brook pours out into the field from the 

 woods under the fence is a large pool. In it are gooe 

 fish, portly and aldermanic in proportion, but oh! how 

 shy. Well do I recall how some years since, while chas 

 ing a hopper through the grass in the field beyond, I wa:i 

 startled by a yell of triumph from the Professor, and 

 beheld him executing a war dance his students would 

 have traveled far to see, with rod in one hand and sv 

 13in. trout in the other. He had just convicted one 0) 

 the aldermen of taking a bribe. Let us see if there ar< 

 any susceptible ones now. Carefully I skirt the pool, anc 

 getting below it, I crawl under the big tree, standing al 



