142 



FOREST AND STREAM, 



[Sept. 13, 1888. 



WHAT SHALL BE THE OUTCOME? 



LONG ago — I forget how long — I said : ' 'The game roust 

 go." It was too true. The game has mostly gone. 

 " 'Tis true 'tis pity. Pity 'tis 'tis true." 



I rise to add that the woods must go. The primal forest 

 is disappearing as by magic. It has been slowly disap- 

 pearing and receding before the advance guard of civiliza- 

 tion for two centuries; but the clearing of the frontiers- 

 man was a necessity, and he only cleared what he needed 

 of the most fertile portions of the land, while the lum- 

 berman cleared the white pine from the high, sterile 

 mountain spurs, and the scattering pines were soon 

 replaced by a dense growth of ''small stuff," making bet- 

 ter game cover than before. 



The dark, dank hemlock ranges were left to nature; 

 and we— the mossbacks of to-day— gathered around our 

 camp-fires by the bright crystal springs in their gloomy 

 shadows, and hugged ourselves in the belief that, come 

 what might come, there was nothing in the sour, rocky 

 soil, or brash, slivery timber, to tempt the cupidity of 

 man; and the hemlock was safe for the next hundred 

 years. 



Why, it stood to reason! 



Hemiock lumber, even on the banks of a navigable 

 stream, did not pay for "getting out." Was it likely that 

 men were going to throw money away in working and 

 wiring their way into the forests, through stony ravines 

 and along the sides of rocky precipices, after something 

 on which they could only lose? Capitalists do not put up 

 on losing game— not if they know it. We knew that the 

 East was sadly in need of tan bark, and an "extract" mill 

 here and there might be expected; but these were rather 

 advantageous to the country than otherwise, and the raw 

 bark was too bulky for transportation. 



Thus we talked and so we thought, as we gathered 

 around our camp-fires in the days gone by. 



We knew that, though the mountain could not go to 

 Mahomet, Mahomet might go to the mountain. Some- 

 how, the analogy between Mahomet and a shipload of 

 dry hides seemed to escape us. 



It did not seem credible that a. cargo of hides could be 

 sent around Cape Horn to New York, run up into the 

 mountains of northern Pennsylvania by rail, tanned into 

 sole teather there and sent back to the Pacific coast at a 

 profit. It seems wonderful to me, even at this day. But 

 cold facts cannot be melted by theories. When it became 

 demonstrable that there was "money in hemlock," capi- 

 tal came to the front and the fate of the hemlock was 

 sealed. Even as I write the hoary centurions of the 

 forest are going down on every side before a hurricane of 

 axemen, and being scalped by a cyclone of "spudders." 

 The tannery village, that unique production of modern 

 days, springs up at a month's notice on every considerable 

 stream where bark is available, and the long, low tannery, 

 with its labyrinth of vats and villainous refuse, com- 

 mences its vocation of poisoning and depleting the purest 

 trout streams in the land. The horrible roar of the gong- 

 whistle is a constant quantity and a diabolical mystery 

 to the dazed and frightened deer, that they flee from as 

 if it were a pack of wolves, to bring up for safety — where? 

 They do not know; neither do I. But they vanish with a 

 rapidity that cannot be accounted for by illegitimate 

 hunting. And they do not come back. As for the trout, 

 the average tannery man considers it a duty he owes his 

 family to dynamite them on every favorable opportunity. 

 They are bound to go anyhow, and had better be stunned 

 and eaten by poor people who need them than be killed 

 by slow poison. As for the law — well, if you want law, 

 pitch into the bosses, who break the law every time they 

 turn their filthv chemicals and refuse into the stream. 



The argument is specious, and not easily answered. 

 We did pitch into the bosses, and there was no attempt 

 to deny the plain violation of law on their part, but sim- 

 ply arrogant defiance. They said they would wear us 

 out; beat us by appeals and delay; and they did. Half a 

 million can make a couple of hundred look sick. 



Less than a week ago a tannery boss said to me, "We 

 have come to stay. We are utilizing the timber that has 

 been qiietly rottiug down for a thousand years. A tree 

 doesn't last forever. It sprouts, culminates and decays, 

 doing no good to anybody. We are turning the hemlocks 

 into money; when, but for us, they would go to decay as 

 they have been doing ever since the flood. We have a 

 village of 3,000 inhabitants, well paid, and well fed, and 

 isn't this better than to let the timber rot on the ground?" 



"From a business point of view, yes." 



But the tanneries have not "come to stay." When the 

 bark is exhausted, they will be left to rot and decay, even 

 as the old cities are left to-day, where, a few years ago, 

 city lots sold at fancy prices. Once the bark is used up, 

 the tannery becomes a ruin. There is nothing to keep it 

 up. The shammy, rough houses will be deserted, the 

 long, low buildings of the "plant" will be relegated to 

 the elements of disintegration, and the populous village 

 becomes a thing of tradition. 



And what of the denuded forest? What of the dese- 

 crated and poisoned streams? Well, it may be better 

 than we think. 



First of all, fire will sweep through the dry hemlock 

 tops and debris of the "job." This will be succeeded by 

 a dense growth of briers, fire weeds, bird cherry and 

 poplars. ' These will gradually be supplanted by a more 

 substantial growth of maple, beech, pine or oak, accord- 

 ing to soil and location. Very much of the denuded 

 forest will grow up to dense cover, wherein small game 

 will find better food and cover than in the dark hemlock 

 forests of old. The land is not worth a cent an acre for 

 any purpose of cultivation, and must, as a matter of 

 course, be left to the operations of nature. As for the 

 streams, I flatter myself with the notion that, when the 

 skinned and denuded land has grown up again with a 

 dense, low, thick-leaved cover, the springs will gush as 

 in olden days, and the streams will flow with pristine 

 purity and fullness. Men will lune learned something 

 by that time, and the dynamiter and trout hog will be 

 rated and punished as the burglar or incendiary are 

 treated to-day. 



At this present writing the pure waters of the "Susque- 

 hanna's utmost springs" are a sight to behold. Let us 

 take, as a fair example, the stream (Pine Creek) from 

 Ansley's to Four Mile Pun. 



At Ansley's there is an immense tannery, and the banks 

 of the stream from there to Four Mile Run are piled and 



heaped with spent tan bark, while the water for fifteen 

 miles looks like a decoction of logwood. Once— and not 

 so many years ago either — "Old Moxie" and I stood at 

 Flat Rock, twelve miles below Ansley's, and lifted out 

 TOO trout between sunrise and sunset on a "June rise." 

 They were small, but ran very even in size, from Tin. to 

 9in. It was rather a greedy thing to do, but had we left 

 them free to run, would there be one more trout in Pine 

 Creek to-day? You may fish Flat Rook to-day from sun- 

 rise to sunset without getting a nibble, but I think the 

 next generation will see better sport. 



The oldtime backwoods poacher is dropping out. 

 Streams can be restocked at present with certainty and 

 moderate cost. 



The floods of a single season will sweep the streams 

 clear of spent tan bark and poisonous chemicals. The 

 denuded forests will be replaced with dense cover and 

 the dried up streams will be restocked, and a wiser gener- 

 ation wdl conserve the game and fish instead of destroy- 

 ing. It is beyond question that the hemlocks are fated 

 to fade and fail. But that is an inevitable conclusion. 

 Thank Heaven, the tanneries, too, must go. Nessmtjk. 



PHASES OF SPORT ABROAD.-II. 



ANACAPRI, Italia, Aug. l.-Editor Forest and Stream: 

 Months ago was published a letter of mine from 

 Corfu, Greece, under the heading of "Phases of Sport 

 Abroad," in which it was mentioned that the hunters 

 were on the qui vive for quail, which were expected daily. 

 Great was the disappointment, for those much-prized 

 birds took other fancies or freaks into their noddles, 

 thereby almost ignoring that Greek "isle of the sea;" 

 sending only here and there a bird, perhaps deputies of 

 different companies, or scouts for making notes and re- 

 marks for future wayfarers; and spoiling the writer's in- 

 tention of sending another missive to "the old folks at 

 home" by way of Forest and Stream. 



As the migratory birds are the sole source of hunting 

 in this part of the world, there has been no chance until 

 now, or that is, until last spring, of writing anything of 

 interest. 



The season of quail and wild pigeons was very good 

 this year, therefore I'll tell a little about the fun the 

 hunters had here. My compatriots have become such in- 

 veterate travelers that I presume it to be about useless 

 to explain that this island of Capri is situated in the 

 Mediterranean Sea, about seventeen miles from la bella 

 Napoli, and seven miles from Sorrento. "Its picturesque 

 outlines form one of the most charming points in the 

 view of the Bay of Naples." 



The first quail arrived on the 23d of April, but not in 

 great quantities; the pigeons straying along a few days 

 before. Le reti or nets were in readiness, but the birds 

 came very straggling. Every conceivable spot on the 

 edge of the island was occupied, giving it the appearance 

 of being fenced in. These nets are from nine to ten 

 meters high, the higher the better, with rings on their 

 sides, through which good-sized cords are run. These 

 are securely fastened on the tops of immense high poles, 

 and when the wind is not too strong are kept continually 

 spread, otherwise they are unfastened and run down like 

 a sail or a curtain. These nets are contrived in such a 

 manner as to form a kind of sack, by leaving it in folds, 

 or having a piece added to it. so at every interval of per- 

 haps a meter or meter and a half comes one of these 

 bags. The poor, unwary birds come flying, wearied and 

 fatigued from their trip over the sea, on in full force, 

 strike against this fence (no better name can I find for 

 these nets, encircling the island as they do), fall into the 

 bag, become entangled, and are immediately pounced 

 upon by the greedy islanders. Sometimes, not often, 

 alter a lucky struggle, a bird frees itsel f and clears the 

 net, but only to fall a victim to one of the numerous 

 hunters with guns standing on the other side, scattered 

 in all directions and distances from the shore. 



As this is the season for all migratory birds, one can 

 easily imagine that all kinds are liable to be, and are 

 caught in the nets. Some mornings one man will make 

 a catch of three hundred, that is, in spring, for then they 

 are never taken in such immense quantities as in autumn. 

 One hunter whom the writer well knows, shot one morn- 

 ing, from 4 until 7 o'clock, thirty-six quail, another 

 morning, in the same length of time, forty; he had with 

 him a small dog of a race peculiar to the island, about 3 

 years old and untrained. 



Ratner tedious is the shooting in spring, for at 3 o'clock 

 the hunter must be on the alert, capable of walking an 

 hour, and then tramping around over rough, stony ground 

 until he has satisfied his desire of bagging birds. In the 

 autumn one sits quietly on the terrazzo of his house and 

 brings his game down from there; or, at the most, walks 

 out a few steps from his alberga. The nets are then 

 placed on the mountainsides, no more down in limbo, 

 where the principal shooting place is, from here out. 

 From 50,000 to 60,000 quail are sent away from this island 

 alive every year; how many are shot is more than I know. 

 It seems that the renown of this island as a quail hunting- 

 place is very old, for I have read that somewhere about 

 the year 1786 the quail, doves and other migratory birds 

 were a source of increase to the revenue. The number 

 caught varied every year, the greatest catch in one day 

 was 12,000, and during the whole time of passage, which 

 does not last more than fifteen days, they never caught 

 more than 150,000 birds. Capri had a bishop who derived 

 the most of his income from the quail, etc., and from this 

 fact he was somewhat irreverently styled the Bishop of 

 Quail. 



In three or four weeks the sport will commence again, 

 and then I hope that nothing will prevent my sending 

 you prompt and full accounts of the result. There are 

 no large hotels here, but two or three little inns, such as 

 the Bella Vista, Massiminos and Paradiso. But if any 

 wish to make themselves really comfortable then at the 

 house where we are now stopping they can have two 

 large rooms, a kitchen and a broad terrazza with cook- 

 ing done for them, also all services, for from forty to 

 sixty francs a month; of course they must pay for their 

 provisions themselves; but for four - lires a day — less when 

 they shoot their own game — they can live like princes. 

 Then when tired and desire is strong to rest they can re- 

 cline at ease on then- vine-covered terrazza and feast 

 their eyes on the beauties of the Bay of Naples. The 

 address of this place is Maria Giovanni alia Catena, and 

 ' perhaps some day one of my country people may chance 

 I to spend a hunting season on this most charming island. 



]§irdarg, 



OF SERPENTS.- II, 



(Continued from Page 12S.) 



STRIPED SNAKES colonize in great numbers when 

 they go into winter quarters. I have on four different 

 occasions come upon a numerous group of them massed 

 together, sunning in early spring, when they have just 

 left their winter burrow, which is their season for mating. 

 In one instance, I think there must have been a hundred 

 near the roots of an upturned tree, I found myself in the 

 midst of them, when they scattered in every direction. 

 I passed on a short distance and halted to witness their 

 movements. They soon began to return and I could see 

 and hear them passing over the dry leaves to the same 

 spot. In a short time, after this period of copulation, 

 they separate, and wander singly around the fields until 

 the approach of winter, and then by a mysterious instinct 

 (if that Is the name for it), they come together to pass 

 another winter. They do not lay eggs, but as in the case 

 of the watersnake, red adder (or copperhead) and venom- 

 ous snakes generally, the young are matured in their 

 body and are born alive. Some years ago I cut the follow- 

 ing from a newspaper: 



Jacob Rexroth, of Canton, a few days ago killed a red adder 

 and on opening it, found twenty-six young adders. This story 

 is beaten by a Gollinsville gentleman, woo relates that some years 

 ago he saw a large striped snake 11 tried, and forty young snakes 

 taken out of its bowels, each 3in. long. 



A gentleman in Windham county told me within a 

 year that he saw a striped snake opened, and counted 

 sixty-three young ones which he saw taken out of her. 

 I have killed thern several times and found that their 

 bodies contained young ones but never counted them. It 

 is singular that their manner of breeding is not more gen- 

 erally known, but when they are heavy with young, like 

 the watersnake, they cannot move rapidly; they seek a 

 very retired place. The hut that I recollect of capturing 

 hi that condition I caught sight of as she was crawling 

 under an old stump, and I saw the j.:rass was matted 

 where she had been accustomed to lie in the sun. On 

 another occasion I came suddenly upon her and captured 

 her. My first observation of finding young in their 

 bodies was in the season of harvesting rye, which is in 

 the latter part of July, and I conclude that they give 

 birth to their young about the first of August. They sub- 

 sist on live prey: grasshoppers, crickets and bugs are 

 doubtless devoured by them, also young birds if they can 

 get them, and toads are especially their pi ey. Unlike the 

 blacksnake, they secure their prey by the chase. I have 

 seen them pursuing a toad, which would jump continu- 

 ously until it was perfectly exhausted, and in its fright 

 would actually shriek with fear; but the snake would 

 follow it as true as a hound does a hare, and when he has 

 caught it he manages to get both bindlegs into his mouth 

 at once, and then commences the swallowing process. I 

 was once riding in a buggy, and by the roadside were 

 trees with branches hanging low, and the road was bor- 

 dered with weeds. I heard an unusual sound coming 

 eitner from the trees or weeds, it was difficult to deter- 

 mine which. With a 10ft. pole which I had with me I 

 commenced poking the weeds and discovered a striped 

 snake with a large toad drawn into its mouth up to its 

 armpits, and in that condition the poor toad was screech- 

 ing so that it arrested my attention. After inspecting 

 the scene I tried to punch the snake with the pole when 

 it commenced a backward wriggling movement, and the 

 toad at the same time struggling forward, literally 

 escaped from the jaws of death and hopped away appar- 

 ently a very happy toad. I once captured one that had 

 swallowed a small green snake, and if they will prey 

 upon a green one, why not upon their own young? I 

 don't think them capable of drawing the color line. 



Dr. Holbrook in his Herpetology says "that a snake 

 will swallow its prey when it is three times as thick as its 

 own body." In that other authors concur. The joints of 

 their jaws are dilatable and elastic, and the point of the 

 under jaw draws back, so that when the jaws inclose the 

 body of the toad, the mouth represents a ring around its 

 body, except as the upper jaw retains its shape. 



THE common blacksnakes (Coluber constrictor). 



Of all the snakes which are common to New England, 

 the blacksnake p'-obably has more stories told about it, 

 whether true or false, than all the rest put together. I 

 think I may say that I have seen hundreds of them. In 

 one year I enumerated twenty that I came in contact 

 with. The longest one I ever measured was 6ft. and a 

 trifle more, not to exceed 6ft. tin. They, too, colonize in 

 winter, and are sometimes found in great numbers in the 

 same burrow. Mr. Willard Thrall of Windsor told me 

 that he once, in excavating earth, found sixty-one in one 

 pit. A paragraph in the Hartford Times of March 0, 1886, 

 says: "Nelson Verguson of Bean Hill (Norwich) in dig- 

 ging into a hill the other day opened a nest of sixty-three 

 blacksnakes in a, bunch. They were smart enough to 

 run away from Mr. Verguson, although the mercury was 

 but 10" above zero.' I cut the following from the Hart- 

 ford Globe of April 24, 1887: 



At Bakerville a few days ago George W. Jones, James E aright 

 and Seymour Reed dug out eighty blacksnakes. 'the longest 

 measured 6ft., three fourths of them measured over 5ft. in length. 

 After the snakes had been counted a rope was hound around 

 them and attached to a large pole and placed on two men's 

 shoulders, and in this manner taken to toe village, where they 

 were put on exhibition. This bundle of blacksnaRes will weigh 

 over 1251bs. 



I have several times heard people tell of seeing black- 

 snakes 12ft. long— one location was at Cedar Mountain, 

 another was Hatchet Hill, East G-ranby, and another in 

 Tolland county; but those snakes were never measured, 

 and I have no authentic account of any one that meas- 

 ures more that 6ft. lin. 



Blacksnakes lay eggs with a flexible, parehnient-like 

 covering, 1 think from twelve to twenty at a time; and in 

 stony sections they commonly lay them under flat stones, 

 and," when they can, they deposit them in the sand, and 

 that is the last they know of or care for them. The 

 American Cyclopaedia says of snakes: "When they have 

 left their winter burrows, after the instinctive act of 

 reproduction, they separate and become perfect strangers. 

 Most are oviparous, leaving their eggs to be hatched by 

 the heat of the sun, and the young when born are able tb 

 provide for themselves. No nest is made; there is no in- 

 i cubation of their bodies' heat: no food is stored up for the 

 j young, and no education nor parental care is necessary, 

 and the mother knows neither the joys nor sorrows of 



