Nov. 28, 1889.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



£68 



she said, "Rube, it was real mean in you not to wait and 1 

 get religion to-morrow night, when I could be there to 

 see it with my own eyes!" But barring Br'er Johnson's 

 aggressive views on politics and religion he was as good 

 a hunter after squirrels as I ever went into the woods 

 with. Every time Shep (the dog) barked we knew he 

 had treed a squirrel. 



Br'er Johnson was anxious I should do great execution 

 among the gray and hickory-nut devouring rodents, and 

 he always gave me the first shot, and I wiped Col. Lan- 

 sing's eye several times by bringing down the game be- 

 fore, he reached the tree— I did what I never did before 

 in my life, killed six squirrels seriatim and never missed 

 a shot. The trees are not very tall, which gives the gun- 

 ner a good purchase on the squirrel, the dog frightens 

 the game, and the squirrel lies close to the limb till he 

 thinks the danger is over. I killed six gray squirrels and 

 two flying squirrels before I began to get warmed with 

 our tiamp through the swampy woods. By firing in the 

 nests we frequently killed two at a time, and the wounded 

 one rarely got out of his nest-hiding tree with a whole 

 skin. 



We paused under a huge oak to enjoy the chicken 

 sandwiches with trimmings, which had been prepared by 

 Col. Lansing's better half, and we drew inspiration in a 

 tin cup from a clear trickling stream which ran singing 

 softly through the woods. Four tired men never more 

 enjoyed, a perfectly-appointed lunch. 



The squirrels came out after that, drawn forth by the 

 balmy, spring-like air. Scarcely a nest that did not con- 

 tain a squirrel; but it always took an exploded cartridge 

 to fire the rodent out. Then the fun began. Rarely one 

 would escape us by slipping into a hollow tree, whence 

 the nimble Johnson would attempt to dislodge him. In 

 the woods we traversed we found eight different kinds of 

 timber. The changing foliage brought vividly to my 

 mind Uhland's picture in four lines: 

 "The dying leaves 



A crimson streak disclose, 

 As on consumption's waning cheek— 

 'Mid ruin blooms the rose." 

 Hand, the sheriff, frequently rested beneath a wide- 

 spreading oak, but generally got away with a squirrel be- 

 fore he left his perch. I ought to apologize for killing 

 two soft, silky little flying squirrels, one of which 

 "levanted" out of a maple tree, flying 60ft. to the foot of 

 the tree, and I bagged it as it ran nimbly up the second 

 tree. Lansing is a skillful taxidermist, and for his sake 

 I slew the flying squirrels. One of them I will reclaim 

 when mounted. 



We saw a good many fish hawks through the woods we 

 traversed, and examined with interest their nests of 

 broken sticks. Many of the farmers hereabouts regard 

 the fish hawk with superstitious awe, and money will not 

 tempt them to shoot a hawk. Near Cape May Court 

 House, within a stone's throw of the waters of the bay, 

 in a stunted pine treetop, is a fish hawk's nest built in 

 1862. Several times either the male or female bird has 

 been killed by some adventurous gunner, but the fittest 

 surviving bird soon got himself another "crest" and an- 

 other mate, and began punctually in the spring restoring 

 and rebuilding the old nest, multiplying promptly and 

 replenishing the brood of young hawks. 



At Fishing Creek one of these fish devourers built its 

 nest years ago in the chimney of a fisherman's two-story 

 cabin. The smoke did not annoy the birds, young or old. 

 But the hawks were a nuisance to the family of the jolly 

 fisherman. Every device save a loaded shotgun was used 

 to get rid of the nest and its owners. The fisherman was 

 too superstitious to kill the birds, and the unequal con- 

 test between the fisherman and the fish hawk ended by 

 the family deserting their cabin home, and the birds still 

 rear and feed their young in the old chimney top of the 

 deserted cabin year by year. 



We had good luck about 4 P. M. along the fences which 

 surround the sugar house, built by the late Tom Scott's 

 triple millionaire son James Scott, in an unsuccessful 

 endeavor to produce sugar from the Jersey sorghum or 

 sugar cane; $200,000 has been put into improved machin- 

 ery, but either there is not saccharine matter enough in 

 the cane grown in sandy soil, or from "some other con- 

 tingency," as General Pike says. Col. Scott has dis- 

 mantled his sugar factory and disseminated bis costly 

 machinery and closed up his sugar shop. I believe the 

 State of New Jersey is making another experiment in 

 sugar culture, and with a mild subsidy seeks to help the 

 new sorghum "plant." 



At last as the tired beagle hound lapped with his 

 heated tongue the cool swamp water, now and then wad- 

 ing up to his belly in the refreshing coolness of the 

 swamp stream; at 5 P. M. we anxiously looked around 

 for the gamy game hunter, Lansing. For half an hour 

 he had not been visible to the naked eye. We were all 

 alarmed, knowing that his deadly enemy, the gout, some- 

 times struck him between the joints of the harness and 

 came on him like a thief in the night. We all, with one 

 consent, struck through the thick woods for the open 

 road, hoping to find our genial companion. We found 

 the road but we didn't find Lansing. Then we hastened 

 on to the barn where the horses were safely housed. 

 There, on the sunny side of the barn, on a buffalo robe, 

 like a warrior taking his rest, lay the gallant Lansing. 

 He told us how the gout struck him in the woods, and 

 rather than break up the hunt he had in intense agony 

 walked over a mile to the wagons. We fully appreciated 

 his unselfish spirit, true test of every gentleman and 

 every sportsman ; and with a satisfactory game bag all 

 around, we hastily caused our colored Jehu to hitch 

 Mulliner's trotter to our little phaeton and whistled our 

 willing steed off toward Cape May and the Lansing cot- 

 tage. Col. Lansing bore the exquisite torture of the 

 rough roads with Christian and uncomplaining fortitude. 

 I gently insisted that as a gunner my heroic friend was a 

 case of innocuous desuetude, that he must surround him- 

 self with the halo of past conquests with fin, feather and 

 fur, and repose his angelic adiposity under the asphodels 

 of the future. "Old boy," said I, "there will be no more 

 music for you in the Cape May woods, and your rambles 

 by water in pursuit of the dusky duck have ended." 



When we reached the Lansing cottage Lansing hobbled 

 out of the wagon, and proudly laid out twenty-six gray 

 squirrels on the piazza. He said, "Well, old boy, it may 

 be as you say, and the pitcher may be broken at the foun- 

 tain ; but when the season comes in next July I will take 

 another whack at the sugar house squirrels, gout or no 

 gout." 



The jackets were soon off half a dozen of the youngest 



specimens from our game bag, and with broiled squirrel 

 and fried eels we soon forgot all our woes, and at 10 P. M. 

 four tired gunners were sound asleep. 



James M. Scovel. 



THE "SUMMER HUNT." 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



I want to express my pleasure in reading "Yo's" ac- 

 count of his "Summer Hunt with the Pawnees." It is to 

 be hoped that his forthcoming book will contain all that 

 he can recall from note book and memory of experiences 

 impossible ever to be repeated on earth, and as valuable 

 for science as they are interesting as literature. It has 

 been the strong wish of many a man to have such experi- 

 ence, but it has been given to few who have the right 

 quality of mind to appreciate it and the ability to record 

 it as " Yo" has done, in style so vivid that we almost seem 

 to have been participators in the events he describes. 



So swiftly has the tide of civilization flowed across the 

 plains, and up every cafion, and over every mountain 

 pass of the great West, that it has not only swept out of 

 existence the old order of things, but with the present 

 generation will die even the memory of it, and then will 

 be seen the value of such veracious records, which will 

 give material to the poet, novelist, historian and ethnolo- 

 gist of the day. Imagine some dweller in some city of 

 the future, built on the very ground over which swept 

 that wild herd of buffalo and their Pawnee pursuers, 

 reading the account and trying, in the midst of churches 

 and streets and business blocks, to realize what once had 

 been. Yet this will surely come to pass, nay, has already 

 in many an instance. Fortunately many of our Western 

 towns have not grown up haphazard, but have been de- 

 liberately founded, the plans of the founders being well 

 laid before the first sod was turned, and records and 

 photographs of every stage of its growth are preserved. 

 In many, in fact, one of the first officials appointed has 

 been the town historian. In places where such wisdom 

 prevails it will not be left to dim tradition and myth to 

 furnish to the future inhabitant a picture of the early 

 time. C. H. Ames. 



OUT-OF-DOOR PAPERS. 



V.— WINTER FISHING. 



ONCE upon a time a very learned professoress was 

 met in the way by an Audubon committee. With 

 dejected looks the committee declared themselves unable 

 by all their joint and several allurements to entrap any 

 learned ornithologist into addressing their next Audubon 

 meeting; ornithologists proved much too shy birds to be 

 caught by any of their chaff, and had constitutional dis- 

 inclinations to addressing Audubon societies. But, added 

 the depressed committee, a certain justly celebrated en- 

 tomologist who knew nothing at all about birds would 

 be pleased to aid them in their difficulty. "Ah!" said 

 the learned professoress, looking very owl-like, "what is 

 the connection between the two?" The committee always 

 gave up conundrums. "I see," said the professoress, 

 looking trebly wise, "birds eat insects. Let us invite the 

 entomologist." And he came. 



If any ill-naturedly ask the connection between birds 

 and winter fishing, be it known that birds eat fish as well 

 as insects. 



Even in this region, where the mercury curls itself up 

 in the bulb most of the winter, in order to keep itself 

 warm, and the wind often blows furiously from the top 

 of old Katahdin, while four months of unbroken sleigh- 

 ing is nothing unheard of, winter fishing ranks among 

 sports. Far be it from us to say anything against an oc- 

 cupation which demands so much endurance and stout- 

 heartedness. The man who has tried it will not speak 

 lightly of the wind-burn and sun-burn, the snow-blind 

 and the bitter cold of these great fallow lakes, miles in 

 extent, plowed by the north wind until they lie welted 

 with long, irregular ridges of snow and alternating fur- 

 rows of flinty ice. A road across them is marked only by 

 a line of bushes, set at intervals to guide the teamsters, 

 and except this line of low, green bushes, nothing breaks 

 the monotony of whiteness. The lake in winter is one 

 glittering level, whose length and breadth are indeter- 

 minable. It is whiteness unrelieved, without perspective, 

 absorbing everything into itself, giving only an impres- 

 sion of blankness. The uncertainty of the judgment is 

 increased rather than diminished by reference to the rim 

 of the shore. The first impression of whiteness, the 

 whiteness of molten metal if the sun is shining, is suc- 

 ceeded by one of loneliness. The open sea, tbe sandy 

 desert, the barren plain, the lone and skyey mountain 

 peak, do not give a greater idea of separateness from the 

 world tnan do these lone, wintry lakes. Then there is 

 the stillness— oppressive, horrible, obtruding itself into 

 notice. It is a stillness like a magic spell. No wonder 

 the owls living in such desolation go stark mad. 



But the winter fisherman does not court the solitude 

 of these great lakes. He bides under the shore — the lee 

 shore, if a good fishing ground happens to be on that 

 side — where he can hear sounds more companionable 

 than the hollow bellowing of the ice. There is always 

 an awfulness about these heavy groans and mugient 

 reverberations heard at a distance, and swelling in cre- 

 scendo as they pass under foot, to which one never can 

 become indifferent. These muffled noises speak to our 

 credulity of an unknown about us. It is the voice of the 

 blinded Polyphemus roaring in his rocky cavern that he is 

 the victim of Woman. Even the noise of trees cracked 

 by the frost or beaten by the wind is preferable to these 

 unearthly and unaccountable sounds. 



After the fisherman has cut his holes through the thick, 

 clear ice, and put in his "gang" of lines, fastening them 

 to limber "spring poles" or to ingenious "tip-ups," 

 which are intended to give notice when any fish bites the 

 hook, he is free to build him a fire under the shore, per- 

 haps against some granite boulder, shaggy with tough 

 black lichen, which, pursuant to the providence that 

 cares for the shorn lamb by giving him a new suit of 

 clothes, while it leaves the wind to the charge of the 

 Weather Bureau, covers these exposed rocks with a gar- 

 men t like leather , as if to atone for the inclemencies of then- 

 position. All along the shores of our lakes and on the 

 brows of our mountains, wherever the granite crops out, 

 it is sure to be ornamented with these rosettes, brown on 

 the outer surface and black beneath, and as dry as if 



grown expressly for a hortus siccus. A fire on ice is 

 certainly good for little unless for its company and the 

 work needed to take care of it. You cannot Avarm your- 

 self by it; you cannot dry your mittens by it, except with 

 great odds on the side of getting them burned; you can 

 have no comfort near it, for on whatever side of it you 

 place yourself it will puff smoke into your eyes; but the 

 red flames are a pleasant reminder of warmth, and the 

 smoke, rising and drifting away to leeward, often toles a 

 few small birds to the spot where they may find com- 

 pany, for the smaller kinds are creature-loving things. 



Most of the day is passed on the ice in tramping from 

 one fishhole to another, bailing out the slush and fast- 

 forming ice, rebaiting the hooks, and keeping sharp watch 

 on the spring poles. What little there is to see tends 

 rather to strain the eyes than to rest them. The slender 

 spring poles, some of them so far away as to look of 

 scarcely more than a hair's breadth — such wands as Robin 

 Hood never shot at — so slight that being gazed at in- 

 tently, they seem to bend when they do not bend; the 

 narrow track of a fox stretching away across the lake 

 until it is lost in the levei whiteness, yet continually 

 tempting the eyes to trace it a little further; a dark object 

 on the ice which may be large, may be small, far or near, 

 but which at all events must be visited before its size can 

 be known; the wide expanse of dazzling snow, itself as 

 undetermined as everything upon it; all these things 

 weary the brain far more than they do the eyes. Even 

 the sky affords little relief. It is as measureless as the 

 lake itself. Few of our city dwellers know the wonderful 

 clearness of our northern winter skies, which in purity 

 of color rival the summer skies, and in delicacy of tint 

 surpass them. In bright weather, for days at a time, 

 there will be scarcely a cloud across the blue, until the 

 sunset paints clouds where we had seen none. Before an 

 approaching storm they often assume royal hues— green, 

 blue and purple, colors whose depth and splendor are 

 neither seen nor appreciated by inhabitants of smoky 

 towns. 



In such a dearth of sights and sounds our eyes and 

 ears, both accustomed to being overcharged and capable 

 of disentangling hardly more than a centesimal of the 

 impressions which besiege them constantly, now suffer 

 as if in a vacuum. Instead of selecting merely they are 

 compelled to change their habit and actually to seek for 

 sensations. Every little suddenly acquires value. The 

 chirring of a squirrel, the rattle of a logcock* hammer- 

 ing a green hemlock, the sharp cry of a hairy wood- 

 pecker, the lisp of redpolls flying over, become suddenly 

 prominent. There is a most welcome break in this un- 

 natural stillness, which makes all sounds seem distant, 

 and the ears hyper-sensitive, when, after a time, the red- 

 bellied nuthatches and chickadees smelling the smoke, 

 follow it up and flit about confiding and curious, fre- 

 quently making work for themselves in order the better 

 to watch the fisherman's movements. Sometimes also 

 those gray-headed miscreants, the meatbirds,f come 

 whistling about, and succeed before the visit is over in 

 lugging off an assortment of things they do not want, 

 chuckling over their knavery. There is no hope for the 

 meatbird — none; he is incorrigible. 



The chickadees are the greatest favorites of all, however, 

 and the most social and trustful. I shall always remem- 

 ber some which visited my father and myself five years 

 ago. It was one of the worst days of the winter— clear 

 and bright, but bitterly cold, and with a keen north 

 wind which drove through our heavy robes as if they had 

 been burlaps. Eight miles from home prudence coun- 

 seled us to return; ten miles away and pride would have 

 yielded "if it hadn't come so far already." We got all 

 the lee there was and built a fire; but there was little 

 comfort in it. At noon our bait pail made ice, although 

 it stood full in the sun, and within three feet of a good 

 fire. At dinner time we partially thawed our frozen food, 

 and made some coffee to hasten the thawing process a 

 little. As we ate, some hungry little chickadees that had 

 been digging for wood worms came up to us, probably 

 attracted by the smell of food. They lighted on the robes, 

 looking up confidently with their big heads cocked on 

 one side, as if to say, "You don't care, now, do you?" and 

 helped themselves. What a dinner we had ! Two of us 

 entertaining four chickadees and proud of the honor. 

 They ate everything — meat, bread, mince pie, orange 

 even. We tried them to see if they would pick at the 

 orange peel, but although they were attracted by the 

 color they never mistook it for the pulp. Fortunately 

 these winter birds like salted food, so the chickadees 

 fared well. They grew more and more familial". They 

 brushed our faces with their wings as they flitted past. 

 One lighted in my greasy tin plate and slipped about in 

 it unable to get any footing, looking up meanwhile with 

 the drollest possible air, which said, "Quite a rink, quite 

 a rink, for a small chap like me." Another actually 

 alighted on my hand, and sitting on my forefinger ate 

 meat which I fed to him. Could any one ever forget the 

 thrill those tiny, clasping bird's claws gave ? We came 

 home happy. Fish ? Yes, one about the size of a clothes- 

 pin ; but we didn't go for fish that day. 



The only other authentic instance that I have of equal 

 tameness of any wild bird was reported last winter by a 

 woodchopper. He said that several chickadees stayed 

 about his chopping for a long time, ate his luncheon with 

 him, frequently lighted on his person, and one even 

 allowed him to stroke it with his finger as it sat on a bush. 



Ostensibly the winter fisherman goes for fish. In 

 reality who ever believed that a string of slimy, broad- 

 snouted pickerel paid him for his work and exposure and 

 suffering ? No matter if their mottled hides outshone 

 the jaguar's and their bellies were overlaid with silver, 

 they would not be worth the trouble. They serve only 

 as an excuse, and their attraction does not compare with 

 the strength of that savage desire to taste solitude, and 

 for the space of a day to feel the loneliness of barbarism. 



Fannie Pearson Hardy. 



*"Logcock" is the hunter's name for the pileated woodpecker 

 Ceophlceus "Meatus Cab. (Linn.). ' 



t "Meatbird" is the common Maine name for the "whisky 

 jack" or Canada jay, Perteoreus canadensis Bonap. (Linn.). 



Hawk, Crow and two Small Boys.— Rockland, Me., 

 Nov. 17. — Two boys while out hunting heard a disturb- 

 ance in the bushes, and found a crow and a hawk fight- 

 ing for dear life. After watching them a while they 

 walked up and secured both. While taking them home 

 the crow escaped, but was shot. The hawk was taken 

 home and remains a captive. The crow was the smalles 

 but held its own well. — J, W, 



