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FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Oct. 31, 1889. 



GROUSE ON THE POCONO, 



"See ! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, 

 And mounts exulting on triutnphant.wings." 



THAT is pretty much as we found it in Monroe and 

 Pike counties, Pa. They may (the grouse) have 

 silently exulted, the triumphant wings were apparent 

 often enough. 



Oct. 17, 1 P.M. found Dr. P. W. Levering and your cor- 

 respondent on the D. L. & W. train at Hoboken en route 

 for Canadensis and the Pocono Mountains. 



We were much pleased to find that genial, old, reliable 

 Silas W. Harding conductor of the train. Sile is the 

 man who posted us years ago on "where the trout hide" 

 and the grouse drive in Monroe county; and it was a 

 glorious truth he told us too. Sile is an old and valued 

 officer on this well-conducted road. Has been conductor 

 long enough to know everybody, and everybody knows 

 Sile, his smile and hearty words and the replies thereto 

 as he passes along the aisle speak well for his deserved 

 popularity. He informed us that for years even during 

 his experience on the road (some sixteen years) never had 

 there been such a season for grouse. Over two thousand 

 he said he knew of having been shipped on that line since 

 Oct. 1, besides the many that the sportsmen had taken 

 that he had no cognizance of. The grouse this year have 

 certainly been very abundant, of large size and excellent 

 flavor. We thus rolled along to our destination with 

 high hopes for sport and a big bag, for we knew that he 

 was a gentleman, for he reads the Forest and Stream. 



We were met at the Cresco depot by Mr. D. M. Craue, 

 the proprietor of the Brookside Cottage, Canadensis, 

 where we intended stopping. A drive of three miles 

 through a rough and not rich country brought us to the 

 little village of Canadensis and to the cottage, a large 

 fourteen-room house, admirably situated on the main 

 road, with ample yard and surrounding of shade and 

 fruit trees. Just opposite is the stream celebrated for its 

 big trout, also the sawmill that used to be a tannery in 

 Jay Gould's boyhood days. His old home is but al'ew 

 steps above, though I understand he laid the foundation 

 for his early fortune in the tannery business at a small 

 village called Mountain Home, some two miles awav. 



We were welcomed by Mrs. Crane, a fine specimen of 

 the superior class of farmers' wives, a good house wife, 

 ample of form, with a clear honest eye and a nature 

 fairly bubbling over with hearty welcome. Mr. Crane is 

 a man of more than ordinary intelligence, and one of the 

 most prominent citizens of the place. His family con- 

 sists of bright-eyed Jennie, the oldest daughter; George, 

 the cowboy, just returned from a two-years' sojourn on 

 a Colorado ranch, a sturdy, open-hearted lad of some 

 twenty years, a good shot, better with the rifle, perhaps, 

 at big game in the West, but he will get his hand in with 

 the scatter gun at the grouse, and lastly, but by no man- 

 ner of means least, Miss Fannie, the Bella Yokes of the 

 family, the tease, the romp, the effervescent, and the 

 terror of her brother and sister, but a warm, honest heart 

 withal. 



We have sojourned and camped down in our thirty 

 years of a hunter's life from Shinnecock Bay to Pamlico 

 Sound, and as far west as the Mississippi, but never have 

 we found a place with which we so fell in love as with 

 Brookside Cottage and its big-hearted inhabitants. There 

 are large rooms, good beds and a table with its fresh, 

 rich cream, butter, eggs, etc., etc., all in great abund- 

 ance and placed before you with so little fuss or cere- 

 mony. You are made at home and feel so at once. 



It is a good place to be in when well; it is a rare one 

 when ill, as I found out when laid up for three days with 

 my old enemy, rheumatic gout. No mother could have 

 been kinder than Mrs. Crane and her two daughters, and 

 all was done so unostentatiously and as a mother of 

 course. The only fault we found in their way of run- 

 ning things was that they wanted us to eat all the time, 

 four or five times a day and pie between meals. How 

 they can afford to set such a table as they do at one dol- 

 lar a day is more than we can see. Others have tried to 

 prevail on Mrs. C. to combine and raise the price of sum- 

 mer boarders to $1.50 a day, telling her they can all get 

 it just as well as not out of these rich city folks; but she 

 says no, one dollar is enough; it pays her: and that ample 

 satisfaction is given is proved by the fact that some of 

 her boarders come in June and remain until October, and 

 only go because they have not their winter clothing with 

 them. They were full to overflowing all last season, 

 some thirty-four or th.rty-five sitting down regularly to 

 table; but they always find room for more, for there are 

 beds, and good ones, too, to be had at neighboring houses. 

 I have written thus fully because I think they richly de- 

 serve the success they are reaping, and long may it' last. 



But to our hunt. After an excellent breal'vfast, in 

 which cakes and light brown biscuit and the pure coffee 

 and cream that was cream were not an insignificant part 

 (and perhaps some may intimate that this was where the 

 gout came in), we started up the mountain just back of 

 the house, Doctor, George and your humble servant. No 

 dog; oh, if we only had a dog. 



The climb was tough, and the subscriber thought to 

 himself more than once,"Thereis no fool like an old fool; 

 and Jacob, your grouse shooting days were over long ago; 

 What in thunder did you undertake this job for?" But 

 it wouldnt do to give away before the Doctor and young 

 George. The summit or plateau was reached at last, and 

 we plodded along through the thinner bushes, when 

 whirr, whirr, and almost from under our very noses 

 started two grouse. Two shots were sent in vain. "What 

 did you shoot into that tree for, Doctor?" and "Jacob, 

 why didn't you kill that big fellow?" Whirr, whirr, 

 whirr, whirr, and four more were off in the same 

 direction up the further hillside. The first barrel made 

 a miss, but the next a good kill and a gather by Jacob- 

 staff. "You got yours down, Doctor,' but I rather sus- 

 pect only wing-tipped," and hunt as we may we could 

 not find him. Oh for Dickey Dine and his staunch Dash. 

 What a paradise for him. Would he have let five bio- 

 birds out of six get off that way? Perhaps so, and then 

 again perhaps not. 



"Well, we'll follow them up; they can't have gone far 

 up that mountain side." Not much for Jacobstaff. 

 "Goodness, boys, I wouldn't climb that rocky precipice 

 for all the grouse in Monroe county. You young legs, go 

 up there and root them out. I will go along this road 

 and take them as they fly back to the bottom."'" 



Very soon I heard the rattling of wings, and the Doc- 

 tor's gun boomed out, and I saw two brown streaks flash- 

 ing through the air toward me. Gerwhilleker! how they 



came, with heads stretched out and feathers lying as 

 close as if greased. A big cock with the speed of the 

 wind bore down a good quartering shot. The first barrel 

 scored a clean miss — too far behind, I mentally observed; 

 and throwing my gun full four feet ahead of the next 

 bird I had the exhilarating satisfaction of seeing him turn 

 in the air and come down with a crash but a short dis- 

 tance away, stone dead. Upon coming together we found 

 the Doctor had killed, making three nice birds out of the 

 six. "Not so bad, boys, without a dog; if we can keep 

 this up all day we'll do." But we didn't. 



We then started down the hill toward the swale, where 

 it looked grousy. Of course, when we least expected it, 

 whirr, whirr, up got a couple and were off "for pastures 

 new." The Doctor let drive, "Did I kill?" "Don't 

 know." But the beating of wings on the ground, the 

 thud, thud, so pleasant to sportsmen's ears, told the story, 

 and another was added to the bag. We reached the 

 swale or alder swamp, George had a single barrel, or 

 rather a single shot barrel (this gun was double, an old 

 muzzleloader, with the other barrel rifle, good for deer 

 but a poor thing for grouse on the wing). He proposed 

 that he go in, and that Doctor and Jacob skirt along the 

 edge and take what might come out. With finger on 

 trigger, and eye and ear" alert, we silently threaded our 

 way, Y/kirr; there's one. A big cock sprung out and 

 essayed to sail over the bushy tops. A quick snapshot 

 from Jacob and he was down. Much good it did us. 

 Though we saw just where he fell, when we got there he 

 was not there. "Mark cock!" from George, and two 

 more came sailing out; one to be missed by Jacob, for he 

 was mad at not gathering the other one, and one neatty 

 stopped by the Doctor. We found no more in that, and 

 George proposed that we start for Goose Pond run, a good 

 place 



" I say, Doctor, the next time you buy a hunting coat, 

 whether of Fred Quimby, Hodgkins or anybody else, 

 please buy a shooting coat, not a fishing jacket with no 

 game pockets in. This is too thin, or rather too thick; 

 these birds, from a couple of pounds or less, are getting 

 to weigh lOlbs. apiece." George only having his ranch 

 buckskin roundabout, had of course no receptacle for 

 game, and poor Jacobstaff was made the packhorse for 

 the expedition because, forsooth, he had pockets. Moral — 

 Don't have too many pockets when the others don't have 

 any. 



" Hold, Doctor; see that hen grouse strutting through 

 the bushes there? Shoot her head off." "No sir," re- 

 plied the good-natured Esculapius, " I am not that kind 

 of a sport, to huff a bird on the ground that way. Put 

 her up and see how neatly I'll cut her down." " I tell 

 you, Doctor, it is allowable to kill these wary birds any 

 way you can, on a tree or on the ground; that bird wiil 

 get away." And sure enough, it would not fly until it 

 reached a large tree, around which it flipped and was up 

 and off, and none of us got a shot. " What did I tell 

 you? They are smart, and don't you fail to note the 

 same." 



We journey on; and now through the most abominable 

 country the Lord ever allowed to live — rocks, burnt 

 stumps, catbriers, laurels, grapevines and tangle-roots. 

 Would we ever get through? Why is it that these de- 

 icious birds are always found in the most inaccessible 

 places? 



Well, here we are, out at last. Several birds we heard 

 get up and had a fleeting glimpse of one or two; but it 

 was too thick to even raise a gun. One had to watch out 

 for his eyes all the time. We had killed nothing for more 

 than an hour, when George said, "Now, down in the 

 edge of this swamp we ought to find at least a dozen and 

 we must kill at least six." We had hardly skirted the 

 edge a dozen yards when whirr, whirr; two guns to the 

 shoulder; two quick discharges; whirr, whirr; two 

 more ditto; four barrels; and for ought we know those 

 birds are going yet. Not a word was said. A few steps 

 further and whin - , whirr; two more barrels belched 

 forth and the birds had business elsewhere. Whin- 

 went the third bird from near the same spot; a splendid 

 shot across the opening; two barrels more, the Doctor and 

 Jacobstaff both taking deliberate aim, Jacobstaff confi- 

 dently meaning to wipe the Doctor's eye as the saying is. 

 Did the bird stop? "Not as we knew of." 



"I say, Doctor, what is the matter with you?" "Well, 

 Jacobstaff, I thought you could shoot; you are getting 

 old." "Six barrels and not a feather to show r . Let's go 

 home." Oh, for Dickey Dine or John Hen Outwater.* 



"I marked that last down, I think, just to the right of 

 that spruce over there, and we may get him up again. 

 These birds don't seem to be so very wild." 



We proceeded cautiously, finger on trigger. "There he 

 is, up and straight away. See how he towers over those 

 thorn bushes." The Doctor's gun cracks, and here comes 

 in the balance of that quotation at the commencement 

 of this sketch. Is it Pope or Thompson's "Seasons?" I 

 think the first — 



"Shoot is his joy, he feels the fiery wound, 

 Flutters in blood and panting beats the ground.*' 



But why continue the story? It is about the same. 

 George, with his single barrel, did his part and got an- 

 other, I rather guess out of a tree, perfectly justifiable, 

 We found the birds in plenty, made some fair shots and 

 (Jacobstaff at least) some atrocious misses. Had we had 

 a good grouse clog that would warn us where the birds 

 were in time, and could shoot even a little, I believe it 

 safe to say a bag of from twenty to thirty or more birds 

 could be made in a day. The birds seemed to be every- 

 where, in threes and twos or fours, the singles the ex- 

 ception, unless having been put up. Later on in the 

 season it may be different. 



Well, we got all I wanted to carry home that day any 

 way. The next I was laid up with my old complaint, 

 the gout; and the Doctor and George, with Grandon 

 Turner, deer and bear hunter of the settlement, started 

 out. Gran Turner is a character, full of quaint humor 

 and a language peculiarly his own. He will keep your 

 risibles up to the top notch all the day long. A good 

 shot, a tremendous walker, and with a knowledge of the 

 surrounding country possessed by few. He is a necessary 

 acquisition with his heavy rifle and stanch hound when 

 the deer season opens, and withal an honest, genial com- 

 panion to travel with. We hope for a day or two with 

 him and the deer on Pocono Mountains later on. 



Upon the whole we were fairly satisfied with our trip; 

 we saw the country, made some pleasant acquaintances, 



* Dine aud Out water are pro bably as good brush shots as New 

 Jersey produces. 



and got a fair share of birds. It was our own fault that 

 we didn't get more, and but for the confounded Gout 

 (spell it with a big G) would have had a splendid time. 



But it is as the home of the speckled trout that this 

 region is famous. There are some score of streams close 

 by, which in the spring are fairly alive with the fish, and 

 though large ones — two or three-pounders— are rare, yet 

 a creel filled to the brim with i-pound and §-pound fish is 

 not a rare thing to do in a day's walk on the Bushkill or 

 or Blight's Creek. Even some of the lady boarders at 

 Mrs. Crane's, the brooks being of easy access, have proved 

 themselves no novices in the Walton art, and have 

 brought in respectable creels; among them Emma Juch, 

 the prima donna. We calculate on a week up there in 

 May, when we may be able to give a big but veritable 

 (we did not say reliable) fish story. Jacobstaff. 



ON A WYOMING RANCH. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



I quote from a letter recently received from friends in 

 the Rocky Mountains. The letter is written from their 

 home, Sage Creek Ranch, Corbett, Wyoming Territory, 

 some fifty miles east of the National Park, and possibly 

 the best place known in the Far West for large game, as 

 the letter will testify. The ranch is something like 150 

 miles south of the Northern Pacific Railroad, and is 

 reached by stage or appointment by Mr. Frost. The let- 

 ter was w-ritten by Mrs. Frost, as the sturdy hunter was 

 too busy at the time with his ranch affairs; and I think 

 your readers will enjoy a part of it, as I did. 



"The weather is perfect, no climate is more health- 

 giving. If Eastern people who enjoy nothing but poor 

 health could see the people — few in number* it is true, 

 but the picture of health and strength— they would envy 

 our lot. We are cut off from the outside world and see 

 but little of it. The mail brings us tidings once a week. 

 But the truth is, we are so busy with our stock (for you 

 must remember we are starting a stock and hunters' 

 ranch) that we have little time to note the doings of the 

 world outside. We have seen it all in other days, and 

 are not sorry for the change. Yes, we have game here 

 and fish, all the trout fishing any sportsman could wish. 

 We have often seen bands of elk numbering from 10 to 

 100. Mahlon [Mi-. Frost] shot at one recently from our 

 door. My son Jesse and an Eastern gentleman went out 

 five miles and camped to fish and hunt. They remained 

 three days, and killed three elk, four deer, two antelope, 

 one bear and all the sage hens and other birds they 

 wanted. They did not hunt hard, and it was not the 

 time of year for game, as it had not come out of the high 

 ranges yet, this being in early October. 



"Last week a man walked to the mountain, saw three 

 mountain sheep, shot at a mountain lion, saw a number 

 of foxes, and got back the same evening. But Mahlon 

 went one better than all this near the house recently. 

 He went out to look after the stock, and as is his custom 

 took his gun. He had gone but a short distance when he 

 shot a wolf. He went round a hill and saw standing up 

 in front of him a large silver-tip bear, and shot it. Just 

 then three yearlings came in view, and he killed all three. 

 Then he came home. I went out and helped him dress 

 the four bears. I got eighteen gallons of fat, and it is 

 better by far than the lard we get here for cooking pur- 

 poses. 



"The next day we had a dance which lasted all night; 

 and as our neighbors live from ten to forty miles away, 

 and as we had forty for our guests, you may know they 

 appreciate fun to come so far." 



I have known Mr. Frost and his family for some years. 

 They are good people. He is a sportsman in reality and 

 not in talk alone. I met him in Bismarck, where he 

 killed many deer. W. H. W. 



CENTRAL ILLINOIS. 



JERSEYVILLE, 111., Oct. 21.— The Forest and Stream 

 has not generally been taken here from the simple 

 fact that it has always been regarded as an "Eastern 

 paper," and to the Suckers of little interest; but I find 

 that this, the only objection, is now removed, and to-day 

 it contains about as much matter of interest to the West- 

 ern as it does to the Eastern sportsman. Success to its 

 efforts to become so; may it continue, until it is classed 

 by the East and the West as our paper, 



I read with pleasure in the last number, the article on 

 duck shooting; it is instructive as well as interesting. I 

 do not agree with the writer in all things as to the habits 

 of the several species, yet perhaps they may act differ- 

 ently around the Chesapeake from what they do in the 

 waters of Illinois. Perhaps he has never shot ducks on 

 oiu- waters; and I know I never did around the Chesa- 

 peake. I would be pleased to read more of his letters on 

 the same subject, as duck shooting is about the only 

 kind of shooting I have really enjoyed for the last twenty- 

 five years of my life, which is not half of it, and to-day 

 I can enjoy some of the good days that I have had by 

 calling them to mind as clearly as though they were but 

 yesterday. Time, although it is beginning to have its 

 effects on me, does not mar the beauty of some of the 

 days that are past. 



Speaking of ducks reminds me of the fact that there 

 are none, or but few, in this part of the State. Our lakes 

 are all dry, or about dry; yet they are full of feed, wild 

 rice, etc. Unless we have plenty of rain, or a rise in the 

 river to fill our lakes in the low bottoms, we seldom have 

 fall duck shooting; neither in the spring, but give us 

 water in fall or spring and we will guarantee the ducks. 

 The same thing has occurred for years, and I have been 

 here since 1840. Quail are plenty everywhere, especially 

 in the bottoms along the Illinois River; a man can shoot 

 until he is tired. 



Nineteen years ago this fall Miles L. Johnson of New 

 Jersey, E. W. Tinker of Rhode Island, Mr. Fisher of 

 Philadelphia, and a Mr. Brown of Rhode Island, spent 

 several months here shooting quail; and when I say to 

 these gentlemen through the Forest and Stream that 

 quail are as plenty now as they were then, they will 

 know that there are a few. Many is the day we've 

 tramped together, and many the yarn we've told. Miles 

 and Ed I hear of occasionally through the papers, but the 

 others I have lost entirely; yet I hope they are alive and 

 able to pull a trigger and have their share of sport. If 

 we can't kill fresh game we can at least kill again, or 

 rather pick up some of that we killed years ago. 



I will try in the future to keep you posted on matters 

 pertaining to shooting, and if agreeable may write of my 

 camp life, or at least a portion of it. Kizzer, 



