Nov. 29, 1888.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



367 



manner of our local paragraphers by inserting the ques- 

 tions, "What could it be? Was it some unknown mons- 

 ter — a panther? or perchance a grizzly?" but I will not. 

 The sportsman's interest was aroused. He believed it to 

 be something ehootable, and knew it must be tough in- 

 deed if it would not succumb to the 4drs. of powder and 

 ounce of B shot in his systematically loaded brass shells. 

 He could scarcely leave Paddy to watch the tree with any 

 certainty of seeing the game again, neither was it feasi- 

 ble to send him after the gun. So he shouted to the hired 

 man, ''Gillie, get the gun," and Gillie got the gun — not 

 the Doctor's favorite death dealer that, paradoxical as the 

 statement may seem, was broken down in the brea Icing 

 up apparatus, but a single Forehand and Wadsworth. A 

 moment or so was lost in determining the exact center of 

 the bunch of fur, and then the gun was carefully aimed 

 and fired. If the Doctor had any idea that he was gun- 

 ning after a rare and dangerous animal he must have 

 been very favorably impressed with the shooting powers 

 of the Forehand and Wadsworth when he saw the game 

 fall to the ground in three pieces, but when he went in to 

 examine his trisected ''monster" he found three plump 

 fat coons. 



This sounds colossal, but it is a fact. And if the Doctor 

 should chance to run across this, way down in the "city 

 of the angels," and think that I have been a shade too per- 

 sonal in some of my remarks (especially about Paddy), I 

 beg of him to remember my chronic inability to draw the 

 line beween too much of a thing and just enough, and to 

 accept my assurance that, if I have said anything for 

 which I am sorry, I am willing to be forgiven. 

 McDonald's Point, N. B. L. I. Flower. 



B 



L mi 



THE SLEEPING BUCK. 



Y way of preface let me explain why deer are killed 

 1 in this mountain region while "in the red." Killed, 

 mean, by hunters who are gentlemen (as the true hunter 

 assuredly is), and who would scorn to cause a little fawn 

 uo cry in vain for its dead mother; yet who are impelled 

 ay their necessities to kill an occasional buck. 



In this cool climate meat seems more necessary as an 

 article of food than in most of the States of our nation. 

 The settlements are very much scattered, being strung 

 along the narrow mountain valleys, while on either hand, 

 for leagues in extent, rise hills and mountains, rocky and 

 iforest-crowned, which are simply one vast game pre- 

 serve. How shall these settlers procure fresh meat for 

 their families ? In this sparsely -settled region it is not 

 possible to dispose of a beef animal in hot weather with- 

 out loss. True, we could go to the meat market occa- 

 sionally, yet as the nearest one to the spot where this is 

 being written is fifty-two miles distant, the going becomes 

 quite an undertaking. 



Any true hunter of experience enough to find a deer at 

 all, can tell at a glance a buck from a doe, at any time 

 after does drop their fawns. The upshot is that bucks 

 are killed in the summer by men who wish to be regarded 

 as law-abiding citizens, yet who feel that, owing to their 

 isolated position, holding as they do the fort between 

 civilization and barbarism, they are entitled to a liberal 

 interpretation of the game laws, and who do not wish to 

 sail under false colors or pose as game protectors in the 

 strict sense which they themselves would deem necessary 

 were they located on Long Island. So much of an hon- 

 est confession, said to be "good for the soul." To my 

 tale. There came a time when the cry rose up from the 

 kitchen "out of meat," and all eyes were instinctively 

 turned to paterfamilias, and then to the big Sharp's on 

 the wall. As the hay crop was not yet secm-ed a deaf 

 ear was turned to the pleadings of the little ones, and all 

 hands returned to the hayfield. Soon my bachelor neigh- 

 bor living near by was seen approaching. Although 

 unable to kill a deer himself, he was very fond of ven- 

 ison, and had often worked in my place while I hunted 

 and divided the game with him ; and as he made known 

 his errand, which was to handle the pitchfork in my place 

 and let me wander the hills with the rifle, and as my two 

 boys joined their entreaties to his, I relinquished to 

 hiin the pitchfork and the prospect of a hard day's toil 

 under the blazing sun, and with a reluctance (?) which 

 any old hunter fully understands, turned away to the 

 cool shadows of rock "and forest and to the music of rip- 

 pling brooks, near which the wary game lay hidden. 



Instead of the usual silence of summer days in these 

 mountains, a rising breeze from the southwest rocked 

 the trees, and the rustling of leaf and branch deadened 

 the sound of my footsteps. Still as everything was very 

 dry underfoot I had taken the usual precaution to dress 

 in "soft woolen garments and my moccasins were of soft- 

 est buckskin. 



By the time I had reached the hunting grounds the 

 sun was high in the heavens and the deer were safely 

 hidden away in the cool shadows of the overhanging 

 thickets. Fresh tracks were found in half a dozen places, 

 principally along the banks of a little brook which crept 

 down a deep gorge, but not a glimpse of a red coat 

 appeared in all the surrounding wilderness of green. For 

 nearly two miles I crept on, taking every precaution sug- 

 gested by experience, yet not a glimpse of the flitting 

 white, nor a glance of ruddy coat, nor even the thump of 

 fleeing hoofs rewarded my most careful search. Finally 

 I came to a swamp, half a mile across, hidden away 

 among the hills. It was dry at this season, grown up in 

 the middle with rushes and tall grass, while around the 

 edge ran a b,elt of grass, growing very thickly on the 

 ground and about 24ft. high. Observing a trail in this 

 grass that ran parallel with the shore of the swamp, I 

 proceeded to investigate, and found it full of fresh deer 

 tracks. Following slowly along the trail, deer beds 

 began to appear close to the dense wall of overhanging 

 bushes and trees in full leaf, where the first bound, of a 

 startled deer would place him safe from sight beyond the 

 leafy screen. 



The deer beds grew more plentiful and my hopes to 

 rise in proportion. Still, I doubted my ability to make a 

 snap shot quick enough and began to realize that it was 

 solely a question of silence and sharp eyes. It is very 

 probable that I shoidd have failed ignominiously save for 

 the helping wind which rustled the waving grass and 

 disguised my stealthy approach. Inch by inch among the 

 fresh sign which momentarily grew more plentiful, I 

 crept along, using all my eyes. 



Stop! What was that, which, as the wind for an 

 instant swayed the grass aside, appealed just beyond that 

 treetop fallen years ago and half buried among the tall 

 A dead limb? Not another step, for ears, the 



most sensitive, may be intently listening, and graceful 

 limbs strung with almost electric speed may dash to atoms 

 the most eager hope with a single bound. See, see, as 

 again the grass sways gently aside, the tips of velvet 

 antlers stand half revealed. No mistake is possible. How 

 far below should aim be taken? The mental estimate is 

 made, the point selected, and as the white front bead of 

 the Sharps swings across the fatal spot the delicate front 

 trigger is pressed, and ere the roar drowns for an instant 

 the rushing wind, and the belching smoke hides every- 

 thing from view, the terrible 270grs. express bullet has 

 sped, and the great buck has died so painlessly that the 

 dream of his restful sleep seems scarcely to have been 

 broken. 



The pleasant tramp through the v^oods, the successful 

 approach to the sleeping game, and the painless death of 

 the buck, united to make the hunt a most enjoyable one, 

 and when, a few days after, I addressed to my good 

 friend Dr. C. S. Penfield of Spokane Falls, an exulting 

 epistle containing the doggerel which follows: 



His coat was bright and red 



As ho fed; 

 But I shot him throuRh the head. 



Cold and dead 



In hie bed, 

 With a little piece of lead. 



How he bled ! 



Promptly the returning mail brought this reply: 

 "Your muse was quite productive. 

 And the rhythm was quite seductive; 

 Your subject being the deer, 

 Inspired within me feelings queer, 

 And I fain- would have been there, 

 To have received from fate my share. " 



Orin Belknap. 



DUCKING IN GREAT SOUTH BAY. 



RECEIVING word from Jack "ducks are flying," Sun- 

 day night saw Uncle Dan and Doc on the train 

 bound for Freeport. An hour's ride brings us to our 

 destination where Ell meets us with his team. Heaz-ty 

 greetings are in order. As it is raining hard we get into 

 our oil skins and dumping our duffle into the wagon, a 

 half-hour's ride brings us to the Lilly, a catboat twenty- 

 four feet long, with an unusually large cabin; she was 

 built expressly for such trips, and easily accommodated 

 five. Uncle Dan and Doc take a catnap, while Ell 

 drives three miles after Captain and the provisions, return- 

 in at 11 P.M. We busy ourselves in putting things in 

 ship shape order until 1:30 A.M., when it being high tide, 

 we make sail. 



Getting outside we find a strong southwest wind blow- 

 ing, which brings us by 3:30 o'clock to Unqua, a point off 

 Amityville. Here we expect to find birds plenty; so we 

 anchor, and after breakfast Uncle Dan and Doc row to 

 a point on Sloop Channel and put out stool. The flight 

 is fair, but the birds do not come to stool, and at 8 o'clock 

 we return to the Lilly. 



Ell and the Captain have better luck, however, killing 

 two sheldrakes and a pinhead. After dinner we make 

 our way to Babylon, where we find our friend Johnny 

 awaiting us. The wind has increased, until now it is 

 blowing a three-reefer. We start at once for Fire Island, 

 and at 7 P.M. are anchored off the west shore of Middle 

 Island. This is a noted ducking ground. 



After a supper of duck stew — and none ever tasted bet- 

 ter, for Uncle Dan is a royal cook — we light the pipes and 

 spin yarns of our hardships until after midnight. We 

 turn in, and are roused in what seemed to Doc a moment 

 by Captain calling: "Be lively, boys, if you want your 

 points; plenty of gunners round here." Birds come to 

 stool better to-day. Uncle Dan and Doc kill six shel- 

 drakes; Johnny, Ell and Captain come in with seven and 

 one broadbill. In the afternoon Captain and Ell go ashore 

 to look for bitterns and stumble on a fine bed of soft clams, 

 which gives us a clam stew for supper. In fact, we made 

 a hole in that bed before we left there. Wednesday we 

 get ten birds, Ell killing a black duck. We are too early 

 for brant. 



Thursday it blows and rains so hard that we do not go 

 to points. In the afternoon it moderates and we decide 

 to try Cedar Island, eight miles to westward. We put in 

 at Babylon on our way. Cedar Island is a great feeding- 

 ground for ducks, and we have fine hopes for the morrow. 

 Captain gets us up by 3 o'clock, to be sure of our points; 

 but even that was not early enough, for on reaching the 

 best point we know we find a gunner already there. 

 "Hello!" "Hello yourselves." "What time did you start 

 for this point?" "Eleven o'clock last night." "Well, you 

 deserve some birds." 



We saw more birds to-day than at any time during the 

 week. They came to stool well, too. On counting up 

 after flight we found we had twenty-one birds, including 

 two black ducks— a good day's sport and enough to satisfy 

 any one. but a pot-hunter. 



A battery shooter lay to windward of us, and he shot 

 from sunrise to sunset; his tender passing by us on our 

 way to the harbor. We inquired what luck, and found 

 he had killed ninety birds. 



In the afternoon we make our way to Hemlock 

 Thatch, two miles south. Friday morning we try this 

 place, but have little success, getting only three birds. 

 In the afternoon we make our way back to Ungua, where 

 we are to have our last shoot. Birds were plenty here 

 last season, but this fall they are somewhere else. How- 

 ever, we get five sheldrake. 



At 8 A. M. Ave up anchor and start for Freeport. On 

 the way Johnny kills a coot and Doc brings down a shel- 

 drake as he flies broadside to. At 11 we are at anchor 

 and the trip is over. In our opinion if duck shooting 

 continues as indiscriminate as it is now, in a few years 

 there will be no ducks in Great South Bay. 



Birds are killed after dark as complacently as though 

 there was no heavy fine for every duck so killed. 



Steam yachts get to windward and sail down on flocks 

 of ducks, firing shot after shot into them, never getting 

 any, but nothing will drive ducks out of the bay quicker 

 than such treatment. Perhaps by and by the gun clubs 

 will take a hand, and then we can hope for a stricter 

 enforcement of the law. 



After many handshakes and hearty good wishes we 

 separate, hopmg that we may all be well and able a year 

 I hence to meet and spend another week in the bay after 

 I ducks. B. L, L. 



THE SHOTS WE REMEMBER. 



1EONTON, O., Oct. 5.— It is not the whole aim of a 

 shooter to kill game if he wishes to get the most en- 

 joyment out of the sport. The pleasure is not all in kill- 

 ing game. I find a great deal of solid comfort in viewing 

 the beauties of nature. Yet in the experience of every 

 shooter there are shots that stand out as affording most 

 exquisite pleasure, as every one who has made them 

 knows by the indescribable thrill that followed them. I 

 never will forget the moment that the first wild turkey 

 fell to my gun. A fair wing shot, a friend, and myself, 

 had been looking in vain for three days in a country 

 where they were tolerably plenty. Suddenly we came 

 upon fresh signs. My companion was an old hunter and 

 knew how to hunt them, telling me to take a stand and 

 he would drive them to me in a few minutes. I heard 

 him shoot and, looking around, saw the turkeys flying in 

 every direction, and two coming my way. I went to the 

 left, and throwing the gun to my shoulder I pulled the 

 trigger. He came down, a fine young gobler. A hasty 

 snap-shot at the other was a failure, hut the one already 

 down made me hug myself with delight; and I stood un- 

 til my friend came up, admiring the beauty of his plum- 

 age. His first shot trilled one. A Avild duck, rising a 

 long way off and trying to fly around, was the occasion 

 of a quick shot that brought him to bag; it was 87 long 

 steps to where he lay, and this filled my young heart full 

 of joy and afforded me more real pleasure than did the 

 next shot that killed three in a small pond while they 

 were sitting. 



A wary old grouse had for three seasons used about 

 the same place. In vain did I stalk him. He always 

 saw me first and took leave of me, and I "strained my 

 gun" on him. At last one day I caught him at home, 

 came upon him unexpectedly, and was within 25yds. be- 

 fore he knew it. But the efforts he made to get out of 

 there were too funny. He doubled around a small oak 

 full of leaves, and must have been quite surprised when 

 a charge of shot took him right through the bush. I 

 picked him up, and for half an hour did I admire his form 

 and smooth out his feathers. 



Another time, while on my way to the pond, a single 

 duck came flying down wind. He must have been going 

 ninety miles an hour; I did not see him until he was 

 within 50yds. of me, but the time it took to cock my gun 

 and kill him was short. He was 100yds. away when I 

 picked him up. I think that was the quickest and best 

 shot of my life. I have sat in the blind and a dozen 

 ducks within 25yds. of me for a half horn- and watched 

 them feeding, and the time spent watching them afforded 

 me more pleasure than did the killing of them a few min- 

 utes later, although I could not forego the pleasure of 

 taking two of them on the wing with one on the water. 



I love my gun and dog, and enjoy my days out in the 

 field and woods, and I see many things to admire; and I 

 have no patience with the man who says a man is a fool 

 who uses the rod and gun, and who counts the time lost 

 that is spent in that way, for I am sure a man is made 

 better in every way by being in contact with nature as it 

 came from the hand of the Creator, and a man who can 

 see nothing in it ought to get his ideas expanded with 

 a boot stretcher. D. 



MICHIGAN'S NORTHERN PENINSULA. 



LAKE LINDEN, Mich., Nov. 20.— News comes to us 

 from Gogebic county of a fatal accident in the 

 woods. A lumberman named Morrison, in company 

 with another man, were out estimating timber, and 

 being overtaken by darkness, found it necessary to camp 

 out for the night. Without axes or blankets, they found 

 themselves in a very uncomfortable situation, but con- 

 trived to gather enough brush with which to construct a 

 rude shelter, and, setting fire to a large dry pine stump, 

 they retired. Shortly after midnight Mr. Morrison was 

 suddenly awakened by the cracking noise caused by the 

 breaking of the tree, and arousing his companion, they 

 ran for a place of safety, but Mr. Morrison, running in 

 the wrong direction, was caught and crushed to the 

 ground, fracturing his skull and killing him instantly. 

 His companion, upon finding him dead, started out for 

 camp to secure assistance, but being an inexperienced 

 woodsman, he lost his way and tramped about the woods 

 all night, finally reaching a logging camp some ten miles 

 distant. After relating his pitiable story and partaking 

 of needed nourishment, he was accompanied by a crew 

 from the camp, who, judging their course by the meagre 

 information given, came upon the smoking remains of 

 the fatal camp-fire and brought the unfortunate man's 

 body to Hemlock, from whence it was shipped to his 

 former home in Green Bay, Wis. The place of the acci- 

 dent was but a mile from Mr. Morrison's camp, and a 

 half hour's walk would have seen them home. 



The little station of Sand Switch, Michigan, contains a 

 Swede hunter who claims to have killed a moose last 

 summer. This is the first instance of a moose being 

 found in this section for many years. 



Near Chocolay recently, a hunter killed three deer with 

 one shot. His gun contained a charge of buckshot. 



Lante. 



THE WOODCOCK SUPPLY. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



I think I can throw some light on the woodcock ques- 

 tion that is troubling so many sportsmen in the East. 



The Ohio Legislature in its wisdom amended the game 

 laws last winter and among the many changes wrought 

 was one shortening the open season for woodcock to 

 Nov. 1, and those wary birds learning of the change 

 have all come to this part of Ohio, but they arrived too 

 late to give us much sport. 



Everything this fall was propitious for woodcock, a 

 remarkably wet and warm autumn , with excellent cover, 

 made this section a perfect paradise for them. Our 

 country is flat and what small patches of timber land 

 there are left are grown up with a dense undergrowth, 

 affording just the sort of cover sought by the woodcock, 

 and they have taken full advantage of their opportunity. 

 Snipe have been quite plentiful also. 



It is a very rare thing to have any fall snipe or wood- 

 cock shooting here, as oui' autumns are generally very 

 dry, and no birds stop here on their southern trip. It 

 was exasperating to have these game birds here in such 

 numbers and not be allowed to shoot them, especially 

 when we know there will not be another opportunity for 

 years. Whitt. 



Geokgetown, O., Nov. 30. 



