Aug. 28, 1890,] 



FOREST AND STREAM 



109 



§?tg and 



SHOOTING GEESE IN NORTH DAKOTA. 



1 N the fall of 1888, in response to an urgent invitation 

 JL from my old friend Major Singletree, I packed my 

 trunk, cleaned up my guns, and stepped aboard a western 

 bound train, settled 'myself for a long ride, with a small 

 town in North Dakota as my objective point. 



I had three reasons for taking this trip, any oue of which 

 was of sufficient importance to an idler like myself to 

 prove satisfactory. It had been years since I had seen my 

 old chum, the Major. I had never been to that part of the 

 Northwest, I wanted' to get a shot at those brant and gray 

 geese that the Major said were so numerous there every 

 fall. I had laughed softly to myself as I read that por- 

 tion of his letter where he said: '"Doc, youbavethe repu- 

 tation of being something of a sportsman, but the fact is, 

 you don't know what sport is until you come here when 

 the geese are flying in. You think it glorious* , down East, 

 if you get a crack or two at a paltry score or so of 

 straggling, bewildered geese. Come out here, and in one 

 day I will give you a hundred shots at more geese than 

 can crowd together in the public square of your city." 



Now the public square of our city comprised some ten 

 acves, and as many geese as could crowd in there, why — 

 I laughed at the usual exaggeration of these Western 

 people. 



Well. I found the Major hale and hearty, and but little 

 changed; a fact that he attributed to the "wonderful 

 ozone" of that country. We were soon seated behind a 

 fleet pair of bronchosand bowling along over the prairie. 

 It was getting toward evening of a clear October day, 

 such as you rarely see except on the great plains of the 

 Northwest. To the north of us stretched the level 

 prairies, with here and there a farmer's house, or so-called 

 "shack." South of us stretched the broad prairie, with 

 the sluggish river Cheyenne, winding its way like a huge 

 snake until lost from sight in the distance. A few 

 scraggly trees line its banks, and here and there, like 

 some huge monster from the bowels of the earth, rose in 

 strong contrast with its surroundings a frowning bluff or 

 butte. 



To the east, that same grand yet monotonous prairie, 

 with the little village lying in its bosom, resembling from 

 our distant point of view a covey of birds clustered there. 

 But the west! Ah, even as I write, that picturo comes 

 before my mind, full of the sublime grandeur of God's 

 own work. The sun was setting slowly, it seemed, and 

 the western horizon was a scene of golden glory. We 

 were nearing a little lake now, which was only one of 

 many tha dot the plains of North. Dakota. A beautiful 

 sheet of water it looks to be, though without a twig of 

 foliage on its shores. The Major pointed over toward it 

 with his whip and said: "There's where we'll come in 

 the morning, and I'll think I'll keep my word in showing 

 you some sport." 



"A pretty little lake," I answered. 



"Yes, but strongly alkali. There's my claim over yon- 

 der," he continued, pointing on beyond the lake, where a 

 little collection of nouses could be seen. "Does not look 

 far, does it? but it's a good half hour's drive. When I 

 came here that claim of mine was white with buffalo 

 bones, where the Indians had slaughtered the buffaloes 

 for their hides. I made a good thing in picking up those 

 bones, too," he chuckled. 



"We had turned off from the road now, and we headed 

 toward the late. It made no difference, so far as I 

 could see, whether we were on the road or not; there 

 were no fences, and the wheeling seemed as good one 

 place as another. 



The Major wanted to show me a few geese, he said, 

 and he did. The lake was full of brant and gray geese, 

 while the air seemed alive with them, and the discordant 

 honk, honlc and yip, yip, yip, from a thousand feathered 

 throats made me fairly gasp for breath. Instinctively I 

 began unbuckling my gun case. The Major laughed. 

 "Never mind, Doc, there will be just as many there to- 

 morrow." 



The Major's farm was not unlike many another large 

 claim; one large r.i.m bl ing wooden dwelling house, with 

 several smaller buildings, some for hired help, and a few 

 good sized bam- 1 . A dozen reapers and binders stood 

 about the barns, and the barnyard contained a good-sized 

 drove of horses and mules. Some well bred red Irish 

 setters lay about the veranda. These dogs seem to stand 

 the winters better than the other breeds. 



That evening we spent on the veranda, enjoying our 

 pipes and watching tne prairie fires at different points. 

 These fires, the Major informed me, he protected himself 

 from by plowing several furrows around his collection of 

 buildings. 



We talked of old times and new that evening, and the 

 Major was in his element with feet elevated and well- 

 filled pipe, he spun yarn after yarn. "When I first came 

 here," he said, "I had only one team and that was a yoke 

 of oxen. I could only make two trips a day to the ele- 

 vator with my wheat, and as you may imagine it was 

 slow work. To amuse myself I used to take my gun 

 along, and on the way home I would leave the oxen to 

 plod along alone, and I would take another route, now 

 and then bagging a few ducks by the sloughs, or perhaps 

 getting a crack at a sandhill crane or a covey of chickens. 

 I never came home empty handed, but would usually 

 gain a point ahead of the oxen, and there wait until they 

 came along, load in my game and ride home." 



We were to be up before daylight, so before I retired I 

 got out my hunting suit and bo its, put in about thirty 

 rounds of ammunition in my belt, and then turned in. 

 A loud knocking on the door aroused me early in the 

 morning. I sprang out of bed and admitted the Major. 

 "Time to be off, old fellow," was the salutation. He was 

 dressed in a light brown suit with top boots, looking fresh 

 and anxious to be off. "All right. What sort of a morn- 

 ing is it?" t asked as I threw on my clothes. "Can't see 

 very well yet," replied the Major, "but I think it's going 

 to be all right; looks cloudy, any way." 



"Good!" I exclaimed, as I buckled on my cartridge 

 belt. 



"Is that all the ammunition you are going to take 

 along?" he asked. 



"Why?" I answered in some surprise, "Is that not 

 enough? I have thirty rounds!" 



"Humph!" he chuckled, "you are not in the East now, 

 young man, Fill your belt, and your pockets, too." 



&a§tiiy swallowing a lunoh that had evidently been 



prepared the night before, we started for the lake. A 

 few geese were flying here and there, dimly visible in 

 the gray light, but the bulk of them, the "Major said, 

 were stul on the lake. We were passing through one of 

 his mammoth wheat fields, the grain had been cut, and 

 piles of straw at different places indicated where the 

 threshers had been at work. We were near the lake 

 now. Suddenly I grasped the Major's arm. Just beyond 

 us was a small bunch of straw, and just beyond that a 

 flock of geese were standing in the stubble. Hastily I 

 thrust a couple of cartridges in my gun, and crept for- 

 ward, keeping the little stack of straw between me and 

 the geese. It was too dark to determine whether it was 

 a large or small flock. "Don't shoot until they rise!" 

 said the Major, in what seemed to me an unnatural tone 

 of voice. Carefully I worked along. I had almost gained 

 the straw. Funny they don't see me, I thought. T was 

 now in excellent range, and I suddenly rose up. They 

 did not move. A low, mocking laugh came floating 

 softly up behind me. I had been fooled. "Confound 

 you and your decoys!"' I said, half laughing and half 

 vexed. 



"Nevermind, Doc," said the Major, half choked, "I 

 won't tell. Here's your stopping place," pointing to the 

 little bunch of straw, "and there's mine over yonder," 

 nodding toward a similar bunch some hundred yards 

 away. "Aud now let's get in, for it's growing light, and 

 the geese will be thicker than fleas here in five minutes, 

 and they won't be sheet iron ones either," he added with 

 a laugh as he started off. 



Advancing to the straw I saw what the Major meant 

 by "getting in." A little pit had been dug two or three 

 feet deep, and some straw heaped up about it. I lost no 

 time in getting in, and we were none too soon, for with 

 the advancing light the geese were stirring themselves. 



The limpid lake seemed literally coated over with 

 geese, the majority of them, however, being brant. 

 From different parts of the lake they were rising, and 

 gradually veering around, would start for the feeding 

 ground with such trumpeting that, to use an old expres- 

 sion, "a man couldn't hear himself think." An hundred 

 must have passed over my head before I could collect 

 myself for business. Then the fun commenced. I raised 

 my gun, and aiming at the leaders of a large flock not 

 50ft. above me, cut loose on them. A large gray goose 

 came tumbling down. Away w r ent the other barrel, and 

 down came a brant, while a crippled goose gradually 

 settled, steering as well as he could for the water. I 

 hastily reloaded. The noise of the firing had made a 

 commotion among the fowl on the water, and hundreds, 

 yes, thousands were flying in every direction. 



Bang! bang! went the Major's gun. Whang! whang! 



answered. How they did tumble. It was glorious 

 sport. The barrels of my gun had no time to cool. First 

 they flew toward me; then dismayed by the reception I 

 gave them they would turn toward the Major, only to be 

 more confused. At last they began crossing the lake, and 

 I thought our sport was ended; but a puff of smoke, fol- 

 lowed by a report, showed that some one was over there 

 aB well. 



How long we kept up our fusilade I cannot tell. . We 

 are not apt to notice the flight of time on such occasions. 

 My belt was empty, but a glance around on the prairie 

 showed that it had not been emptied in vain. The geese 

 had most all gone now and we were lying quiet. I began 

 to feel the effect of the cramped position of my legs, 

 when whir r-r went a flock over my head and were about 

 to settle among our decoys. Up came my gun, the 

 cramp was forgotten. Bang! bang! with the usual an- 

 swer from the Major, and three more were bagged. 



"Had enough, old bo.%?" he called, rising from his hid- 

 ing place and stretching himself. "Yes," I answered, 

 doing likewise, "I'm no pig." "Thirty-eight," said the 

 Major, musingly, after we had piled up our game. "How 



3 you like it, Doc?" "Glorious!" I exclaimed, 



G. G. H. 



over about a column's worth on it, as if the man who 

 wrote it all had never had a square meal in his life. 

 Part of this simple, elegant, newsworthy little repast con- 

 sisted of baked prairie chicken! Bear in mind, this was 

 in midsummer — I believe in June or July. Our season 

 doesn't open till Sept. 15. If Mr. Kinsley got his birds 

 out of a freezer he is no better off, and broke the law 

 plainly and unmistakably. Now, as the paper above men- 

 tioned is still accessible, as the names of the host and 

 guests are known or can be learned, as the menus were 

 distributed among the guests as souvenirs, and as Mr. 

 Kinsley got up and published the menus, I was just won- 

 dering if there wasn't enough to shake His Majesty Kins- 

 ley up on this a little. I should think about the best thing 

 he could do would be to call in those souvenirs, if he can. 

 After that, he might reflect that he has done an unlaw- 

 ful and disrespectable thing, and has violated not only 

 law but decency. Still further, he might ponder that he 

 is in danger of losing the trade of a class of sportsmen 

 who respect decency. Further yet, he may query of 

 himself whether he isn't in danger of serving illegal 

 prairie chicken to the wrong man some day. All of 

 which is submitted without a bit of respect for Mr. Kins- 

 ley, his methods or his dinners. E. Houoh. 



CHICAGO AND THE WEST, 



CHICAGO, 111., Aug. 18.— Mr. John Parker, deputy 

 game warden for Wayne county and Detroit, Mich., 

 writes me on the 16th as follows: "I arrested a Detroiter 

 named Chas. F. Burkhart for illegal shooting of wood- 

 cock last Sunday and Judge Kurfh fined him $50. How 

 is that for summary justice? I am going up the river to- 

 night to lay for unlawful duck shooters and expect to 

 nail a couple. Will write soon and tell you." Johnnie 

 is apt to get 'em if anybody can. He has had some ex- 

 citing personal encounters with the toughs and law- 

 breakers of his country, invariably landing his man, and 

 if the justices and juries would back him as he should be 

 he would make illegal shooting still more unpopular in 

 that region. As it is his name is a terror to the evil doers. 

 I hope he will get his duck shooters. 



Mr. W. C. Held and Mr, Louis Smith, both of Saginaw, 

 Mich., the latter secretary of the American Beagle Club, 

 have made a little visit in this city, stopping on their way 

 home after an extended trip through the West. They 

 were gone six weeks in all, and visited the National Park 

 and parts of Idaho and Colorado. They report an elegant 

 time, and both have Kodaks full of pictures. A bit of 

 strange information they give is that scouts are now kill- 

 ing bears in the Park, the latter having become so de- 

 structive that it became necessary to thin them out, for 

 which the scouts claim Government permission. All of, 

 which does not seem very clear. These gentlemen report 

 that the country about Livingston is an angler's paradise, 

 and they are indeed full of enthusiasm over the wonders 

 of the great West which they have seen. They say that 

 chickens are plentier in North Dakota than for years 

 back. They saw a fine bunch of antelope in the Bad 

 Lands of Dakota. Both gentlemen were looking brown 

 and hearty, and are to be envied for their good fortune 

 in making such a grand tour. 



To-day Mr. Fred Kimble, known all through this coun- 

 try, and president of the Peoria Target Co., was in town, 

 and it happened that we lunched together at Kinsley's. 

 Nothing very remarkable about that, but now I think of 

 it, I don't think we ought to have gone there. This gray- 

 headed old stomach-killer, Kinsley, is not nearly so much 

 a good restaurateur as he is a persistent violator of the 

 Illinois game laws. I call to mind a late article in a Chi- 

 cago daily (the Herald) in which a glowing account was 

 given of a little midsummer dinner given by an insur- 

 ance man to a few friends, at Kinsley's, this summer. 

 The host left the menu quite to Mr. Kinsley's judgment. 

 Oh, it was such a nice little dinner! The paper spilled 



WATER-KILLING DEER. 



WASHINGTON, D. C, Aug. 20.— Editor Forest and 

 Stream: When will men learn that brutality is 

 not sport? that cutting off all avenues of escape for an 

 animal and then deliberately destroying it is not in ac- 

 cordance with the ethics that govern or should govern 

 those who pursue game for pleasure? Some professional 

 hunters feel no doubt a certain degree of elation when 

 they make a successful shot at game taken at a disadvan- 

 tage, and the more shots they get of that kind the better 

 are they pleased. With these persons gain and game are 

 synonymous terms, and the manner of the taking off of 

 the latter, no matter how unfair, is considered all right, 

 so long as it is successful. 



If then such market-hunter's methods are worthy only 

 of condemnation, what must be thought of men of a dif- 

 ferent calling, who visit the Adirondacks for the purpose 

 of killing deer in the lakes of that region? 



What fun or excitement can there be in rowing up to 

 a deer swimming in the water and clubbing it to death? 

 No skill is required in order to compass its death under 

 such circumstances. Any one with bloodthirsty tenden- 

 cies can do the triok. 



A recent issue of your paper, i think it was Aug. 7, 

 contained quite a long narrative of the exploits of a party 

 of hunters in the Adirondacks. The writer of the article 

 was evidently a novice, and doubtless would have ob- 

 tained more meat had he employed a guide to row him 

 and thenused a club instead of a shotgun. As we some- 

 times say of executioners, he bungled his work fearfully. 

 His first lesson in the art of shooting deer in the water, 

 as given by his older and consequently more hardened 

 associates was as follows: "When the wind is blowing 

 hard don't shoot over the side of the boat, but over the 

 end; get the deer to windward, then push the boat in- 

 stead of pulling it, coming up close behind the deer and 

 shoot over the stern." 



Just why the deer should be to windward, when the 

 shooter gets ready to empty his gun into its head at close 

 quarters, is not explained and will always remain a 

 mystery. We may also be pardoned for failing to see the 

 necessity of using firearms when a stick would accomplish 

 the same results. That the deer of this country are grad- 

 ually disappearing must be apparent to all those who have 

 given the subject any thought. In a few years, if the 

 present methods for their destruction prevail, they will 

 be, like the buffalo, exterminated in their wild state and 

 only found in parks and menageries. 



The season for hounding deer in the Adirondacks is 

 rapidly approaching, and it is sad to think that men, 

 otherwise humane, should feel any degree of pleasure in 

 taking the life of an animal whose legs are practically 

 tied. Such men cannot be termed sportsmen, because 

 the members of that fraternity are governed by the un- 

 written law that all game shall have a chance for its life. 

 The true hunter loves the excitement as well as the diffi- 

 culties attending the pursuit of an animal, and if all un- 

 certainty in regard to its capture was eliminated, nothing 

 would be left to afford him enjoyment; to him also the 

 actual possession of the carcass is of little value outside 

 of the fact that it serves as a voucher for his skill. 



A. T. 



BIRDS CROSSING THE CITY. 



WHILE I was walking up Washington street, Brook- 

 lyn, last Tuesday morning about 3 o'clock, I heard 

 the clear note of a reed bird overhead . I stopped to 

 listen to the welcome and familiar music, and coming as 

 it did from the darkness of a great city in the quiet hours 

 of the morning, the little voice was all the sweeter. 

 Then as I listened T heard not only one but many calls as 

 the birds pursued their flight toward the south, and also, 

 from what appeared the outer edge of the flock, I heard 

 the calls of two long-billed and long-legged birds, known 

 in the days of my youth as shypokes. These two were 

 about 50yds. apart, and as the night was dark and some- 

 what foggy they were evidently calling each other that 

 they might not go astray. 



I often hear the whistle of plover crossing over the 

 city at night, and a few weeks ago as I stood watching 

 the moon from my window I saw a large bird outlined 

 for an instant against the bright disc, and so vivid was 

 the picture that the bird's wings seemed fairly to brush 

 the face of the moon. 



How such sights and sounds wake up old memories 

 and create an intense longing for the dog and gun. 

 Now, I had no desire to shoot the reed birds, but they 

 brought to mind the rice beds of Chipoax Creek, and the 

 fat woodducks that fed upon its marshes. As for the 

 shypokes, why they came into my life with the first gun 

 I ever shouldered. And though they are not choice of 

 flavor or plentiful of flesh, yet with what keen delight 

 did I creep upon them and pull the trigger of that old 

 single gun. How I rejoiced over the first one I killed 

 flying, and how very much powder I wasted before I 

 succeeded in making another wing shot. But stop — I 

 merely started in to tell you of the birds crossing the city, 

 but the voices that spoke to me from out the night 

 aroused a host of memories that could not be entirely 



Qw Max. 



