Nov. 7, 1889.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



305 



A TENDERFOOT DUCK HUNT. 



T DON'T know why they call a stranger out t his way a 

 JL '•tenderfoot," unless a stranger is supposed to have 

 more sensitive epidermis on his pedal extremities than 

 the average Western man, but that's what they call him. 

 But the term seems to refer not to his "foot" hut to his 

 brain, and not to the "tenderness" but to the thickness, 

 and hence toughness of that same. And again, I can't 

 get the Western idea of the connection of "foot" and 

 bx - ain, unless the Western man carries his brains in a dif- 

 ferent locality from most men. 



But my story. We were three of this class designated 

 "tenderfoot" who started early one morning in September 

 with thoughts intent on shooting ducks. If the further 

 east one hails from the more "tenderfooted" he may be 

 supposed to be, certain it is that, although in different 

 degrees, we represented an exceedingly high place in this 

 class. For one was a Yankee and hailed from Boston, 

 another came from the Empire State, and the third began 

 life near the beautiful "City of Brotherly Love." 



Wending our way to the boat ferry, we roused the 

 keeper and were soon afloat on the broad Mississippi. 

 After a row of two miles down stream, we turned into a 

 slough, shot through a break in a dam, pulled our boat 

 over a sand bank and were afloat on the muddy waters 

 of Target Lake, our destination and the place where we 

 were "going to shoot ducks." One breechloader and two 

 muzzleloaders composed our armament. "New York" 

 possessed the breechloader and had a limited number of 

 shells, with each of which he intended to kill I don't 

 know how many ducks. "Boston" boasted a gun of 

 ancient make, long, thin barrels, and that could scatter 

 shot over something less than an acre of ground at each 

 discharge; his endeavor was to get the muzzle of that 

 gun as near his companions' ears as possible when he fired 

 it; he generally succeeded, and was quite persevering at 

 it. "Philadelphia" had a gun to boast of. Although a 

 muzzleloader, it could beat any breechloader in exist- 

 ence — kicking. The more he rammed the shot the worse 

 it kicked. If he had not stopped ramming, no doubt he 

 would have been obliged to carry his shoulder home in 

 his hand. 



Slowly we pulled up along the shore, eyes and ears 

 both open and occasionally the mouth also, for it was 

 early. After going a little way we ran aground, and 

 then concluded to sit there for a little while and see what 

 transpired, A duck soon transpired and settled in the 

 water a little way off. Philadelphia raised his gun, fired 

 and then rubbed his shoulder. The shot struck the water 

 all around that duck, but it scarcely moved. We con- 

 cluded the most of the force of that charge went back- 

 ward. Then Boston tried it. Raising his gun to his eye 

 he fired, and then almost went over the other side of the 

 boat into the water. The duck moved on. How could 

 it help it ? The surface of the water for rods around was 

 torn up by the storm of shot. " My ! how that did kick," 

 said Boston ; and then, " Why, both barrels went off." 

 After that he cocked the barrels one at a time. Nothing 

 like experience, is there ? 



After a little while Philadelphia, having long gum 

 boots on, deserted the boat, and the others went down 

 the lake. Soon they found several flocks of ducks and 

 then began the bombardment. At the lower end of the 

 lake they got right into a whole mess of them, five or six 

 hundred, and began blazing away. They both fired to- 

 gether the first two shots, and then Boston had to reload. 

 But his hand shook like a leaf, and he could not get the 

 powder and shot into the barrel. The poor ducks lost 

 their heads and did not know which way to go, and New 

 York kept pumping his breechloader into them until his 

 shells were all exhausted and he had to stop. Boston got 

 in a few more, and then the ducks took to their wings and 

 got away. Then the shooters began to take account of 

 the slain, and in spite of having been only 25 or 30ft. 

 away from that thick mass of ducks, they found that all 

 they had killed were just 14 of them. Real good that for 

 a tenderfoot. 



Meanwhile Philadelphia had reached the shore and 

 was wading through the rushes along the edge of the 

 lake. But fortune never favored him, for excepting a 

 stray half dozen not one did he see to shoot at. After 

 walking about for some time and finding nothing, he 

 concluded to hide himself and wait developments. He 

 hid, and nothing disturbed him either. After a little 

 several flocks began to come up the lake and settle along 

 the banks on the other side, just out of reach. And more 

 came, and more, until there was a multitude of them. 

 They lined the side of the lake in a thick black mass, oc- 

 casionally moving out almost into gun shot and then 

 back again. Was ever anything so tantalizing. There 

 he had to sit in the mud among the reeds, afraid of mov- 

 ing for fear of scaring them; and yet never a one came 

 within gun shot. After an hour of patient waiting the 

 boa,t came back up the lake; he got in and there saw the 

 success of the others. To say he was pleased all around 

 were not altogether true. He felt that those ducks had 

 done him an injury in keeping away and he was for re- 

 venge. 



Again we gently approached them, and just as they 

 were about to rise Boston and Philadelphia let loose their 

 pieces. Out of that multitude two dropped over and two 

 swam off wounded. Better shooting still. We followed 

 the wounded ducks to try to get them, shot several times 

 at them but failed to strike them, and then found we had 

 come to our last charges. We gathered up what we had 

 shot, managed to get one or two more, and then as the 

 ducks were getting wild, our ammunition was almost 

 gone, and it was well on into the day, we started for 

 home. We were rather pleased, to say the least, at our 

 success, and spent the time counting up how far the 

 ducks would cover the expense of the trip. We all agreed 

 that we had come out ahead. 



Almost home we met a friend. He pulled his boat 

 alongside, looked at our ducks, smiled and went on down 

 the river. When we reached the clock we proudly got 

 out of the boat and proceeded to take out our ducks and 

 divide them. 



"Mud hens !" said the boat-keeper. 



"What?" said we. 



"Mud hens," said he. 



' 'Ar'n't they good ?" 



"7f you skin them." 



Our countenances fell. Doubt began to fill our hearts. 

 But we laughed it off and went on tying them up. Then 

 a friend of ours came along. 



"Mud hens!" said he. 



•'Ar'n't they good?" said we. 



"If you skin them," said he. 

 "Why! don't people shoot them?" 



"No ! You can go out any time and shoot a hundred 

 in no time." 



We felt as though our mothers wanted us. We had a 

 certain idea that a "man wanted to see us," and that we 

 must get away from thei-e. Boston looked blank but was 

 taking it all in. He evidently intended to know all about 

 "mud hens" in just about ten minutes. New York was 

 struggling to keep his face calm and placid. But through 

 it all the nightmare of those mud hens was revealed. 

 Philadelphia put on a smiling face. He joked with his 

 misery. But it was evident that he wished these ducks at 

 the bottom of the peacefully flowing river. But "now 

 came the question, whether to leave the ducks there or 

 take them home. New York already had his tied up and 

 in his hand. 



"What are you going to do?" said Philadelphia. "Take 

 them home, of course," replied New York. 



Then Boston loaded up too, but Philadelphia lingered. 

 In his heart he wished to leave them, but could not go 

 back on his friends. So the melancholy procession 

 started and left smiles of an audible nature behind 

 them. What were the thoughts that stirred their souls, 

 think you? Nothing more nor less than what was the 

 quickest and most secret way home. 



Soon Philadelphia made a discovery which he hailed 

 with a shout, "Look here, New York, that's no fair, put- 

 ting your overcoat over those mud hens." 



New York, caught in the act — for he had let his over- 

 coat slip down from his arm where he carried it, so that 

 it covered the hens — caught, I say, in the act, smiled a 

 most sickly smile, and calmly putting down his gun, 

 deliberately wrapped these mud hens up in his overcoat, 

 put them under his arm and proceeded. Philadelphia 

 immediately divested himself of his overcoat and fol- 

 lowed suit, and then Boston was "left," for he had no 

 overcoat. 



Soon we passed a crowd of men. A laugh greeted us. 

 "Look at the mud hens." "Been shooting mud hens." 

 And then, horrors of horrors, one called out, "Cover 

 your mud hens up." Philadelphia in his hurry had left 

 the leg of one of the abominable birds sticking out of his 

 overcoat, and then it was swinging backward and for- 

 ward by the side of his ear. The gauntlet was awful. 

 Men would stop, draw near, look and then laugh. Street 

 urchins would run alongside of us, and bombarded us 

 with questions to even a greater extent than we had the 

 "mud hens" with shot. Mr. Editor, if ever you are 

 tempted to shoot "mud hens" don't you doit; flee the, 

 temptation. 



We reached at last our offices to hide ourselves and 

 "hens" within then- grateful walls. Last night New York 

 committed a nicely wrapped up bundle to the current of 

 the Mississippi. To-night two more will go there. We 

 are tired of "mudhens," we've had a surfeit. Our lives 

 are not happy in the presence of that fowl. We can't 

 even eat chicken for dinner, it's too suggestive. Do you 

 remember your first long-tailed coat? That's we. We 

 have come to a "realizing sense" of "mud hens," and 

 we've one less "tender" spot in our "feet." LAX. 



ABOUT TAXING GUNS. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



This question has been a mooted one from time to time 

 for several years past, and just now seems to be coming 

 to the surface again. It is one of those questions which 

 have two sides, and that variety where the ultimate con- 

 spicuous side is not presented to view until something 

 decisive develops to call it out. But it is of such a 

 despotic, foreign nature, that there is little likelihood of 

 its ever coining to a critical test in this country, certainly 

 in liberty-loving New England. I am a native of New 

 England and a frequent visitor there; indeed, I have from 

 time to time traveled through all the northeast States, 

 and recently, too. And, withal, I have been something 

 of a gunner. 



And this reminds me of the special horror of a rifle dis- 

 played by "Cohannet" in your last issue. It is not im- 

 probable that I have hunted weeks there where "Cohan- 

 net" has days, and mostly with a rifle, too, with which I 

 have killed far more game than with a shotgun; indeed, 

 hunting in company with men using shotguns, I have 

 day after day with my rifle killed more game than they, 

 and they were first-class gunners too. There are scores 

 if not hundreds of riflemen in New England to-day who 

 can do the same thing, and their game shall include that 

 which is generally killed with shot by our modern gun- 

 ners. I nearly always still-hunted quail, ruffed grouse, 

 etc., with a rifle, cutting the head or neck and invariably 

 killing them outright, while the shotgun hunters wound 

 more than they kill, and it requires more skill to kill such 

 game with a 'rifle; a point generally made by shotgun 

 hunters in their practice. I believe that rifle shooting is 

 keeping full pace with shotgun shooting, even in New 

 England, It will be a cold day when any considerable 

 number of riflemen tamely consent to have a special tax 

 laid on their rifles, particularly as many of them practice 

 only at target shooting. 



It was an outrage that "Cohannet's" father did not let 

 him use a rifle, if he had a desire for it, and it would be a 

 continuance of the outrage for "Cohannet" to deprive his 

 own son of rifle practice because he was deprived, and pro- 

 bably knows nothing of this unequaled, highly reputable, 

 especially scientific, and in every way respectable 

 recreation. Give boys an opportunity for rifle practice, 

 and very few of them would care much for a shotgun. 

 They could get about as much enjoyment out of a small 

 shovel and a pile of peas. Nineteen out of every twenty 

 boys will find more fascination in rifle shooting than in 

 any other legitimate recreation. And in most instances 

 the practice will be of real service to them in after years, 

 and in too many ways for enumeration here. No intelli- 

 gent man will deny "this. If I had control of methods of 

 common school education, the curriculum would certainly 

 embrace rifle shooting, and, I believe the time will come 

 when this will become a feature in common schools, if 

 not in higher grades. 



Now, a little more about the boys. I have had consid- 

 erable acquaintance with boys during the past fifty years, 

 and with but very few who did net use a gun, mostly the 

 rifle. Among them all there occurred very few accidents 

 in handling guns, and all which I can recall were with 

 shotguns. The mass of accidents we read about are 

 with shotguns, with the exception of one particular line, 

 in which one particular make of rifle is always named. 



Shrewd advertisers understand this. I have taught quite 

 a number of boys the use of a rifle, and I don't believe 

 one of them ever injured any one with a rifle unin- 

 tentionally, or in any way except in the line of military 

 duty. A careless and generally heedless boy is liable to 

 cause injury to persons and property, whether he is allowed 

 a gun or not, and is especially liable to injure himself in 

 a multitude of ways, into which he is not likely to be 

 tempted if allowed a rifle, and particularly if instructed 

 in its proper use, whereby the practice becomes intensely 

 interesting to him, winning him from mischievous prac- 

 tices. He takes pride in his expertness, and quickly 

 learns to avoid all features of danger to others as well as 

 to himself. No, Mr. Editor, not for generations yet un- 

 born, will American boys be deprived of the use of the 

 rifle, either by taxation or any other device of selfish, 

 professional gunners, pot-hunters or dudes. 



The way this question is going to be settled has already 

 been started in many parts of the country, and is rapidly 

 spreading, I have access to a great many newspapers, 

 published from Massachusetts to California, both States 

 inclusive; and within two weeks past I notice the pro- 

 ceedings of organizations of farmers and other landhold- 

 ers (and numerous calls for such organizations) for the 

 arrest and punishment of every person found hunting or 

 fishing on said lauds. The ( class of gunners referred to 

 in the foregoing paragraph will be relegated to unsettled 

 regions. And, I repeat, there will be no special taxation 

 of guns in this country. Their use may be restricted and 

 doubtless will be, aud that would cause but little opposi- 

 tion. Tax the professional gunner ! Wacautah. 



HIS FIRST BUFFALO. 



MR. C. MILLS was a first-class mechanic when it came 

 to making pianos, and the year of 1869 found him 

 in London out of work temporarily, and he was therefore 

 a fit subject for the smooth-tongued agent of a Nebraska 

 railroad, who at that time was flooding England with 

 handbills setting forth the many blessings of a prairie 

 farm in the land of the free, and averrmgthat on his par- 

 ticular line of road you would be blessed the most. It 

 was a case of veni, vidi, v-ici, with the agent, on Mr. C. 

 M., who shortly afterward found himself in Lincoln, 

 Nebraska, with a box of tools and $2.80. Mr. Mills had 

 been born and brought up in London, and had never, to 

 his knowledge, seen wheat nor any other cereal growing 

 until he reached America; consequently, although the 

 blessings that were going to fall upon him were no doubt 

 there, he failed to see where they came in. 



Board was $1 per day strictly in advance, and as 

 Charley had a good appetite it behooved him to hustle, 

 which he did. Two days later he was in full command 

 of a pair of mules driving to Fairfield. He was engaged 

 in freighting salt. The weather was cold, it snowed for 

 two days, and things were generally disagreeable. Two 

 trips were enough; so one bright day he turned his back 

 on Fairfield and commenced to hunt among the dugouts 

 for pianos to mend. He soon discovered that the hardy 

 settler cared more for a dinner of cold pork than for all 

 the melodies composed by Chopin. After considerable 

 trouble he secured a job, for his board, helping a man to 

 get out logs from the Little Blue; and it is a fact that he 

 had to ask, "What is that thing for? ' when he saw a rifle 

 hanging from a deer's horns in the dugout. The proper- 

 ties of the weapon were explained to him by the owner, 

 who also said that one of these days they would go hunt- 

 ing. 



The winter wore away and at last the grass turned 

 green, and everything indicated an early spring. One 

 day at dinner Charley casually remarked" that there was 

 a funny "bullock" over in the timber, it had lots of hair 

 on its neck, was WUck, and when it saw him had run 

 away. The boss didn't wait to finish dinner, but grasped 

 his rifle, told Mills to get a pitchfork and come along, as 

 the day for hunting had arrived. Charley and his em- 

 ployer were soon on the buffalo's trail; and while follow- 

 ing it, the boss imparted to Mr. Mills the facts of what 

 he knew about buffaloes in general, and that a hump 

 nicely roasted was a dish fit for Charley's Queen. They 

 first saw the bison about two miles from where he stam- 

 peded, and after considerable work succeeded in getting 

 a bullet into him. Away the animal went at full speed 

 and the hunters after him, through brush and slough for 

 hours. Night found them twelve miies from home and 

 with no buffalo. They camped on the prairie by the side 

 of a "chip" fire, and at sunrise followed the trail, which 

 was plainly marked with blood. About 8 o'clock they 

 came to a bunch of brush, the boss slightly in the rear. 

 Charley had hardly got into it, w r hen the "bullock" 

 came at him with a roar. To say that he was frightened 

 hardly does justice to his feelings; but scared as he was, 

 he thought of his faithful pitchfork. He jumped to one 

 side and commenced to stab and yell. The buffalo had 

 fallen down, but was still viciously striking with his 

 hoofs. Every chance he got, Charley would "jab" and 

 yell, and with the noise he made, and that made by the 

 buffalo, it resembled a miniature cyclone. The boss was 

 up by this time, and encouraged Charley in his work, 

 directing him to "put it in behind the shoulder," which 

 Mr. M. did and soon put an end to the kicking and the 

 noise. 



They were seventeen miles from home, but after secur- 

 ing the robe and the choice portions of the carcass they 

 considered themselves fully repaid for their hunt. 



This was twenty years ago, and things have changed 

 since then, the spot where Mr. Mills killed the buffalo 

 with a pitchfork is now covered by the post-office of 

 Hastings, Neb. , and of the millions of buffalo that then 

 roamed the prairie, there is not one solitary animal out- 

 side of captivity. Tealy. 



Pennsylvania.— Smith's Mills, Oct. 29.— Pheasants and 

 rabbits are remarkably plentiful in this section of the 

 county (Gerrlich township) this season. Deer and bear 

 are reported to abound in the mountains in great num- 

 bers. Sportsmen are limbering up their guns in prepara- 

 tion for the first snow. Woodcock are, as usual, very 

 scarce. Squirrels are rather few in numbers and have 

 been all fall. Ducks are winging their way southward in 

 great numbers, and the autumn air booms with the re- 

 ports of light artillery down on the pond. May I some 

 time write you of some big bags made? — C. D. 



Forest and Stream Tests.— Fort Sherman, Idaho, 

 Oct. 19.— Your tests of shotguns are much appreciated 

 and enjoyed here, as they should be everywhere. — 

 Chelan. 



