886 



FOREST AND STREAM, 



(Dec. 6, 1888. 



vainly; nary 'lope did we see. Finally and sorrowfully 

 the feeling stole upon us that we should have to go back 

 to our familv without fresh red meat of the juicy ante- 

 lope. Well, "better luck next time, says Simple Bimon, 

 and so said we, as we turned our horses" heads homeward. 

 That night we camped near Grape Creek Three blue 

 quail and three canvasback ducks paid the penalty of 

 their rashness in getting within range of our twelve-bores. 

 The quail and slices of venison from our one deer served 

 us for supper, with Fred's inevitable biscuits and coffee. 

 I slept in the hack. Fred tried the ground, and woke at 

 midnight with the gentle, cooling and refreshing rain 

 pouring in his face, so he took to the hack, and again I 

 thought of the sardines wedged in a box. 



Tuesday, Nov. 13 — Cloudy. Eoads in a miserable, 

 muddy, sticky condition. All the horses could do was 

 to walk and pull. On the road we ran across a bevy of 

 blue quail, and got in two shots, but at long range, and 

 failed to score. We had intended to take our noonday 

 lunch at a certain waterhole whereon dwelt the festive 

 duck, but somehow the road got lost, and so we pegged 

 along through the sticky mud until late in the afternoon 

 the court house cupola at San Angelo hove in sight in 

 the dim distance. There in a pasture we found a flock 

 of sickle-bill curlew, wild as hawks, and of them we 

 potted four, in schoolboy fashion. Five o'clock saw us 

 at home again and very ready for something to eat. 

 Two hams of venison still untouched, three ducks, lour 

 curlews, a big appetite, sun-browned faces, about an 

 ounce of smoking tobacco, we brought back with us as a 

 reminisence of our hunt on Grape Greek. A trip through 

 a country with lots of game, big and small, but luck and 

 conditions dead against us from start to finish. 



My tale is ended; this is a true story of the big hunt I 

 have looked forward to for a year. Sorry I could not 

 record some wonderful shots made by my "beautiful pet 

 rifle, or tell of big scores on the quail by my brand new 

 L. C. Smith hammerless. Of my little Stevens I can tell 

 of disgraceful misses at prairie dogs at short range, of 

 five shots at a large hawk on a mosquite bush not fifty 

 yards off, till the hawk at last in sheer pity to me left the 

 field in disgust; and I threw the Stevens on the bottom 

 of the wagon, and almost stamped upon it. My reputa- 

 tion with" Fred all gone, and this after I had told Mm 

 long yarns of the seventy-five ruffed grouse we had killed 

 at our "Camp Point of Pines" in Maine last year, with 

 this same pocket rifle, all shot only through the head, and 

 of my home target practice, making 96 out of a possible 

 100 at 80yds., etc. — all true bills enough, but the proof of 

 the pudding is the eating thereof. 



PETER THE HERMIT. 



Sylvan shade and sunny slope, 



Leafy coverts grouse concealing; 

 Pointer, setter, steady lope, 



Trailing, stand, their place revealing; 

 Sportsman panting for the rise. 

 When and where in part surmise, 

 Wing of thunder, hail of lead. 

 Thud! the lordly grouse is dead. 



Tangled thicket, alder hrake. 



Princely woodcock now inviting 

 Here a tarrying to make 



Ere in southern lands delighting. 

 Hark! the merry spaniel's quest, 

 Breaking Philohela's l'est; 

 Choicest jewel of the glade, 

 Slain in sportsman's autumn raid. 



JACK and I were college chums; from the same bed we 

 snored a deep antiphonal, and the same board occa- 

 sionally found one minus his pie while the other reveled 

 in a double portion behind the door; together we crossed 

 the "fool's bridge" and wrestled with logarithms until, 

 with the blessing of Alma Mater and millions of assur- 

 ances, we started out to seek our fortunes. A strong im- 

 pulse Westward struck him one day, and only an occasional 

 letter told of his wanderings in Western wilds behind a 

 transit under the direction of Uncle Sam. These missives 

 were always redolent of game galore, which aroma I ever 

 breathed with a mental reservation that there was no 

 blood on the bag — "The pen is mighter than the sword." 



But this fall we found ourselves hobnobbing over a pro- 

 posed trip into Essex county, where years ago, ere we 

 were introduced to the family grindstone, we had harried 

 the ruffed grouse and followed the shy timber doodle 

 until his whistle grew faint, and, flapping wearily before 

 our guns, a stray pellet would make it possible for Jack's 

 old pointer to mouth him into a shapeless mass. 



The intervening years had dulled neither personal re- 

 gard nor ardor of the chase, and so the bright morning of 

 Oct. 15 found us at the railroad station in full fig for the 

 field, with corresponding patches on our pants; he with 

 an Irish setter of approved breeding, and I chained to a 

 pointer, whose appetite convinced me he was by Famine 

 out of Wasted Lunch, hi e came to me a puppy last spring, 

 through Jack's kindness, and as he had been in the hands 

 of a neighboring market shooter, who had put him 

 through his paces and the distemper, I felt ready and 

 willing to manufacture evidence that our game birds are 

 being exterminated. 



At the terminus of the Adirondack Railroad we 

 bundled into a buckboard, allowing the dogs to run along- 

 side, and, after a pleasant ride of a few miles over a fail- 

 road under a cloudless sky, we drew rein at the hospita- 

 ble home of Tom Powers, who took us in, and who. with 

 his worthy wife and daughter, made it so pleasant for us 

 that 1 would we were there yet. "May their shadows 

 never grow less." 



The next morning, provided with a guide said to have 

 a tag on every bird in the county, we called the dogs to 

 heel, and entered a piece of woodland not far from our 

 host's house; Jack with Meg on the edge, and I with 

 Pete well in the cover. 



And now began some, of the finest work on ruffed 

 grouse that I ever saw. The morning sun streamed 

 adown innumerable forest aisles, dissipating the hoar- 

 frost which mantled the lofty pines and lay like down 

 upon the carpet of lea ves. Pete seemed to know he had 

 a wary quarry to locate, for with a rapid but noiseless 

 trot, head up, he crossed and recrossed in front of me a 

 few times, then halted, raised his head a trifle, took 

 three cat-like steps and was rigid. Away went resolu- 

 tions to be cool, and away went the grouse 10yds. from 

 the clog's nose; but the e;un was thrown where a .thunder 

 of wings made the foliage tremble, the trigger yielded 



and as the smoke cleared away Pete was cast in the direc- 

 tion of the vanishing bird; but in a moment drew gin- 

 gerly along, stopped, drew on again and again for 20yds., 

 now one foot raised, now another, until thinking there 

 was a wounded bird running ahead, I stepped hastily for- 

 ward and nearly put my foot on a dead bird— the one 

 shot at— and certainly "put my foot in it," for at the same 

 instant two more nearly brushed my hat off as they 

 rushed from a thicket of spruce at my left. Bang! bang! 

 woke the echoes, but so rallied was I that a Hock of 

 barns would have escaped unscathed. Pocketing the 

 dead grouse, and waiting a moment to let my trigger 

 finger get through twitching, Pete swung out to the right, 

 going a little way up an incline toward some alders. 

 Suddenly he turned, and jumping on the end of a fallen 

 tree trotted along the trunk directly toward me. When 

 within loft, of the gnarled roots he stopped and was still, 

 a slight tremor at the end of the stern alone giving assur- 

 anee that he was not a plaster cast in lemon and white; 

 and there motionless between two roots sat the cock of 

 the woods. Ah, friend, an' had you been there with a 

 "Kodak" to grasp and retain that thrilling picture— "a 

 moment bright then gone forever!" 



Quickly raising the gun— What, knave! wouldst bleed 

 the bird upon a bough? Well, not this time, perhaps 

 some other time. Fleet as a shadow he is off for liberty 

 or death, but scarce ten yards along the alder lane ere 

 rings out for him the crack of doom. A limp and lifeless 

 grouse is he as Pete puts Iris nose under a wing and fairly 

 sneezes with the delicious perfume. Shaking and smooth- 

 ing the feathers into place, I discover what a magnificent 

 specimen he is, a creamy tinge instead of gray predomi- 

 nating, while the black, iridescent ruff streams out three 

 inches on either side. Thou art a lordly fellow. How 

 many springtimes have thy rounded pinions woke the 

 morning in this glade? How oft the vernal equinox 

 stilled those resonant throbbings — sweet music to thy 

 mates? Not once nor twice, I trow, but five. And now, 

 into the bag you go. Farewell, till I meet thee under 

 cover. 



Again and once again the unerring nose revealed the 

 hiding place of our quarry; again and once again 



The heated shot. 



Struck the spot 



Where it was not. 

 Then panting and perspiring with exertion and excite- 

 ment we went into the open and lay down in the warm 

 sunshine to compose our nerves, our lungs playing to 

 their fullest expansion as we drew in the exhilarating 

 mountain air and watched the fleecy clouds move lazily 

 over a distant mountain top. Occasionally Pete would put 

 in a. claim for recognition by laying his paw upon my 

 arm. Well done, old fellow. If my work were as sports- 

 manlike this bag would tell a weightier tale. 



Feeling a slight ehflliness we started to join Jack, who 

 was walking slowly along the edge of the woods, Meg 

 ranging just inside. Here was a clear, cold stream, on 

 its bank an ancient log inviting us to lunch, and seconded 

 by our internal economy the motion was carried unani- 

 mously. 



I sat down, while Jack, glancing around, said, "This 

 little corner looks to be a likely place for woodcock, and 

 calling Meg to the front, in a moment she was pointing 

 staunchly. As Jack walked up, that whistle, so thrilling 

 to a sportsman's ear, was heard an instant, then drowned 

 in the thunder of the gun. At the word Meg retrieved in 

 her happy way, and laid the cock unruffled in his hand, 



I believe he'would rather grass a woodcock than a wild 

 turkey, and as he held it up by the bill and enjoyed the 

 play of the light upon its velvet head and breast of fad- 

 ing pink, his eyes sparkled and cheeks flushed as a pre- 

 lude to panegyrics on the unapproachable gaminess of 

 the bird in cover or under cover, and the faultless be- 

 havior of his dog. A lbeit a side glance of triumph spoke 

 what his lips refused to frame— a good shot, eh? Ad- 

 mitted; but let not good shot, good dog, wait on good 

 appetite, and— where's the guide with the lunch ? Prob- 

 ably asleep or warming his pipe at a distant log. How- 

 ever, a prolonged shout finds him, and soon our mouths 

 are "too full for utterance." 



Among the pleasant experiences of an outing few are 

 more so than the noontide rest. With utter abandon 

 and freedom from care we regale the inner man, not for- 

 getting the dumb friends who have contributed so largely 

 and cheerfully to our pleasure, the feast sandwiched 

 here and there with plans for the waiting hours and 

 reminiscences of by-gone red-letter days afield. Reclin- 

 ing on the forest leaves the social pipe sends up rings of 

 good fellowship and we grow drowsy under the meridian 

 sun, until a faint throbbing in the air — the drumming of 

 a faraway grouse — arouses us to renew the exciting and 

 laborious sport. 



We wonder at the absence of woodcock. Where years 

 before we found them in numbers to afford rare sport, 

 now not a bird can be raised. They have not been shot 

 during the summer, and barring the March blizzard, the 

 season has been favorable. We found a few scattering 

 birds on high ground in the long, narrow alder patches 

 that one meets occasionally on a springy hillside or 

 higher up beside a trickling stream: and these seemed to 

 be summer residents, there having been no autumn flight 

 worthy of the name. It is sad to think that a bud so 

 gifted with every quality prized by the sportsman must 

 so soon join the dodo. The museum and the printed page 

 are his manifest destiny. 



dome, Jack, ere that evil day arrives let us cultivate a 

 more intimate acquaintance with the subject of our 

 lamentation. 



Before us rose a hill, whose height it made our legs 

 weary to contemplate, but knowing there was a secluded 

 patch of alders far up the side, we began the ascent. 

 Panting we reached the coveted elevation, and throwing 

 ourselves upon the rank ferns drink in the sun-laden 

 ozone and the varied landscape of hill and dale and 

 wooded slope, gorgeous in autumnal robes. Over yon- 

 der mountain is a "runway," where oft the hunted deer 

 shakes his antlers in defiance of the deep-mouthed 

 hounds; now over its crest bold and bare, on sleeping 

 wings, soars an immense hawk, each succeeding circle 

 bringing him nearer, until one wider than the rest affords 

 a tempting shot, which evidently reaches but does not 

 disable him. 



Facing the cover with the remark, "England expects 

 every man to do his duty," our guide walked up a wood- 

 cock and "shot him flying," a feat unusual with these 

 children of the forest. Then over a handsome point Jack 

 and I blazed away four or five times at a low-skimming 



bird, but finally brought him to bag when he topped the 

 alders in the usual and most approved style. It made no 

 difference to Meg who killed, the game* was always car- 

 ried to her master. After another had been grassed, we 

 rested by the little rill, frequently refreshed by a sip of its 

 cool waters, 



As we passed on to some trees of large growth Pete 

 "struck an attitude." Calling Jack up to enjoy the pic- 

 ture, I saw a grouse running ahead, and a trifle to the 

 right of the dog. Hastily throwing up the gun, just as I 

 pressed the trigger I saw his lemon ear along the barrel 

 (he must have drawn on after the bird), but too late. For 

 an instant I felt dizzy, as the report drowned a sup- 

 pressed whimper, and, as the smoke cleared away, there 

 beside an old stump was the dog; dead? Oh, no! The 

 bird was dead, and Pete was standing him just to your 

 fancy, sir. A shot or two had pierced his ear, from which 

 the blood was trickling, but, excepting Meg, he of all the 

 party was least affected by the narrow escape. In the 

 light of subsequent events, mentioned in this rambling 

 paper, may we. not say, "Coming events cast their 

 sh ad o w s bef ore?" 



Swinging along the hillside, densely covered with 

 maple saplings, Pete jumped over a brush fence, and 

 stirred not except to stretch out and up until he seemed 

 appreciably larger. For an instant 



"The heating of my own heart 

 Was all the sound i heard," 

 and then the rush of rapid, but unseen wings added an- 

 other to the long list of lost opportunities; but the report 

 of my companion's gun, followed by a fluttering on the 

 dead leaves, told a different tale. 



Slowly descending, we reached a meadow with here 

 and there clumps of low bushes, from one of which 

 jumped a woodcock and alighted in the open directly in 

 front of us. On the brown sward only a keen eye could 

 distinguish him, so motionless and so like the dead lea ves 

 scattered around. A moment's enjoyment of the novel 

 sight and Jack stepped jauntily forward, the cock flushed, 

 he raised the gun and missed in his inimitable style. As 

 a crumb of comfort (!) I sang him a measure of "Johnny 

 get the gun," but shortly afterward, when I distinguished 

 myself in a similar manner, his unseemly mh'th voiced 

 to the echo the same sweet song. This bird seemed to 

 bear a charmed life, for, although a day or two later we 

 flushed him again, he invariably escaped, we knew not 

 whither. With our keen-nosed friends we beat the 

 ground thoroughly, but failed to find where he was lying 

 perdu. 



The sinking sun warned us that day was declining, and 

 our stomachs corroborated Owen Meredith's "Civilized 

 man cannot live without dining," as we thought that even 

 now. perchance, Mrs. Powers was spreading her table for 

 our delectation. 



Turning homeward th rough a thicket Meg jumped upon 

 a little mound— perhaps the long-deserted tenement of a 

 muskrat— and had a fit, or I should say she fitted our ideal 

 of what a dog ought to do in the immediate vicinity of 

 game. There she stood as pretty as a picture until we 

 found places likely to afford a' shot, then the guide 

 walked in, and as the grouse flashed by, my gun, too 

 often speechless in such emergencies, spoke with persua- 

 sive eloquence and brought down the grouse. Then Meg 

 disputed for its possession until not a feather was left in 

 its rudder and the Pope's nose protruded bald and white 

 as the pontiff's cranium. At another time she located 

 and held a grouse while her master searched for a cock 

 he thought he had shot. After a little I suggested he 

 would better not impose on his dog's good manners, but 

 see what she had and then complete the search. Hang- 

 ing a handkerchief on a bush to mark the spot, he walked 

 into the thicket and away went the grouse followed by the 

 vindictive staccato of his Webley. No "Johnny get the 

 gun" burdened the breeze this time. A rare good shot 

 was that and worthy the noble bird now in the last throes 

 by yonder boulder. But Meg is on her mettle, emulous 

 of her companion's morning record, for as we sauntered 

 along the border of a broad stream she stands; and Pete, 

 motionless, honors the lady. Up goes a grouse and up 

 goes the gun. Just as she gains cover on the opposite side, 

 the hills re-echo the report and the bird falls riddled in 

 mid-air by the center of the charge. 



A dog of good breeding will decline no duty to a loved 

 master. The water was icy cold, but at the word "seek 

 dead, fetch," she hesitated a moment, then plunged in, 

 swam across and retrieved, as usual laying the bird in 

 her master's hand with an air which plainly showed it 

 was a pleasure. Such unselfish devotion were worthy of 

 a soul. Byron would not have braved the Hellespont at 

 such a temperature. 



All good days must have an end. 



A brisk walk in the gloaming brought us to genial 

 Tom's, where, after the dogs were well fed and well abed, 

 we sat down to a triumph of the art culinary da intily 

 served by his comely daughter. 



Stretched upon a lounge or reclining in an easy chair 

 before the blazing fagots, we whiled away the long, 

 pleasant evening listening to our host's recital of thrilling 

 experiences with the "Boys in Blue," where he captured 

 the enemy's colors and won his straps in a bloody charge 

 for the possession of a battery. As he rehearses the wild 

 pleasures of his mountain home, the foray after deer or 

 bear, our ears grow dull and duller until his voice sounds 

 like the murmur of far away waters, and his words die 

 away like the sighing of the wind through the pines. We 

 rouse for a prayer of thanksgiving, and then to the sweet, 

 soft beds, and the deep, dreamless sleep of physical ex- 

 haustion and mental vacuity. Ere the morning dawns, 

 while the body sleeps, the brain awakes and revels in 

 well-stocked coverts, affirming our coon hunters' decla- 

 ration, "There's a heap more fun nights than day times." 



After a few days we concluded to take a trip into the 

 Indian River country, and packing our grips bid farewell 

 to our cosy quarters and catch the heavily laden stage on 

 the mountain road, the dogs having to ride afoot, we are 

 so crowded. It is a crisp, pleasant morning, and all goes 

 merrily as we slowly climb or swiftly descend the hills. 

 Away to the right beyond the valley rises a lofty moun- 

 tain, whose crest is hidden in a cloud of peculiar hue.. We 

 remark it, and the driver says laconically: "Snowstorm 

 coming." Meg trots along between the hind wheels, 

 while Pete lopes beside the horses. The storm approaches; 

 shall we reach the "Creek" before it breaks upon us? 

 The driver cracks Ids whip and speeds down the foot of a 

 hill by a farmhouse. Just as Pete attempts to cross in 

 front of the horses a little cur runs out and arrests his 

 attention, he stops in midroad an instant, the next he is 



