Nov. 21, 1890.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



373 



he had no doubt but I would succeed if I stuck to it, but 

 that he would rather fish. I did stick to it and got thin - 

 ner and thinner; my whole character seemed to undergo 

 a change. 1 saw one, but it came up from behind and 

 then disappeared like the proverbial boarding house straw- 

 berry. Hank asked me why I didn't shoot, but when I 

 explained why, he was satisfied and said there wasn't 

 much use hunting without snow. It's a wonder I speak 

 to him. 



But why go on. I didn't get one, although Job couldn't 

 hold a candle to my example of patience. I stuck to it 

 for a month, hunting and watching. I even took lessons 

 from an Indian in calling; his call was the identical snort 

 that had como so often to my dispairing ears. 1 asked 

 him for some fresh meat, but he said, "Me no hunt um 

 deer now, me eat fish and muskrat." Oh, wise Indian! 

 when will your sagacious intellect be appreciated? 



Otter. 



VIRGINIA INDIAN SUMMER DAYS. 



WHEN I was a youngster, and that was not so very 

 long ago, there was a season in our autumn called 

 Indian summer. We continue to have the same beauti- 

 ful weather, and some still faintly term it "Indian sum- 

 mer," but it is not the one of olden times; that was a dis- 

 tinctive season. That weird and semi- sombre period 

 came any time between the middle of October and mid- 

 dle of November, lasting about two weeks. 



Maybe it was prettier among the mountains and valleys 

 of southwest Virginia than anywhere else, or maybe it is 

 more now the summer in the sunshine of pleasant recol- 

 lections than it was hi the reality of boyish days, for 

 ''time but the impression stronger makes," as the picture 

 enlarged by mature imagination improves the hasty 

 sketch of youth. The frosts had always been here and 

 killed the foliage, but how beautiful some hand did paint 

 the leaves before they fell and gave back the mystic 

 touch to an unknown artist. 



The boys used to think that the elements of nature were 

 resting before the winter siege. It was a season awe- 

 inspiring in its absolute quiet. ]No roaring mountain and 

 swaying trees. The sky cleared. It grew warm and dry. 

 The smoke came and kept coming until it grew dark, and 

 until the sun would rise like a ball of molten gold and 

 calmly march on its way, when we could gaze straight at 

 it from morning until night. Did you ever see a forest, 

 with the silky yellow leaf of the beech, the burning red 

 of the black* gum foliage, entwined and softened by the 

 arborvitas and hemlock, all tempered and tinged by an 

 Indian sximmer sun? All this landscape as still as gloom 

 itself, when thump! thump! thump! thur! thur-ur-r! 

 the drum of the wizard grouse would break the stillness? 

 or the covey of partridges would burst from under your 

 footstep, and in a few whirrs of their wings look no larger 

 than a swarm of bees? The old folks would tell us that 

 this was the time the Indians traveled and hunted winter 

 quarters; that they were then hunting and camping in 

 the prairies far off west of us, and had fired them, and 

 that the smoke had drifted this way and settled among 

 the mountains: they were reminded "and related how the 

 "savages," just at this season, had committed their 

 depredations, right near where we then sat. Maybe all 

 these ideas about the smoke were correct,since this smoky, 

 weird season is as much of tbe past as the savage Indian, 

 the buffalo and the prairie grass. 



There has been here, in the mountains and valleys, this 

 autumn a beautiful modern Indian summer. In the 

 midst of its loveliest days I conspired with a merchant 

 friend that we would ride two horses, take behind us the 

 blackest little negro, and follow into the fields two of the 

 best dogs, in search of the Virginia partridge; which, here 

 in these highlands, is a large bird, a wily bird, that pos- 

 sesses the wings of the wind. But what sport it is to 

 hunt them! You have gathered from the laurel hedge 

 the lordly grouse, with a well-merited delight to him 

 who brings it down, but how much will it surpass its 

 cunning little cousin, with the lintwhite throat, the 

 bronze back and speckled breast? 



It is pretty well known that the man who possesses an 

 Irish setter, that is in his second year, and every inch 

 life, and a pointer in her prime, neither of which is 

 hunted more than two days out of a month, has to do 

 some professional breaking before they will go "up the 

 leeward side of the ravine with a slow and cautious trot," 

 as Van Dyke's Jack did on the birchy bluffs of the upper 

 Mississippi. Sanco of Campbell and Nellie of Loudoun 

 (some reader will remember their names) did reluctantly 

 submit and go to work; and when they agreed to do this 

 we took them to a plateau, containing a forty acre broad 

 field. Over yon side are corn shocks, the stacks out of 

 which they were made had struggled with the grass and 

 weeds, and left a typical feeding cover. Over this side 

 was the uncut corn patch of a tenant; between there 

 were sinks, with briers and elders; also ledges of lime- 

 stone rock, all covered with tall blue grass fallen and 

 matted; here and there patches of sedge grass, high and 

 rank, white and soft with its autumn down. Sanco 

 ranged with a high head and looked like a Hamble- 

 tonian; going swift the awkward fellow tripped on a corn 

 stalk and heels over head he went. He had seen little 

 Nellie making game — -so she was. Serpentine and silent 

 as a garter snake she threaded her way among the weeds, 

 lifting her cat feet over sticks and stubbles; lower she 

 bows and stops rigid. Back yonder is tall, awkward 

 Sane, like a horse jerked back on his haunches, admiring 

 his mate, that he thinks is always right and never false. 



About the time we got done shooting on the first flush 

 out came the overseer, Uncle Fayette. "Good mornin', 

 boss, I's pow'ful glad it's you, kase I's stopped this shoot- 

 in', 'cordin' to your posters, and told 'em you wanted 

 these birds." 



"All right, good old man; take these birds to Aunt 

 Susan and tell her to prepare us a good lunch, which we 

 will send for about two this evening." 



"Lor'! Look, look yonder at Sane! Jes' look!" said 

 our little darky. 



Nellie made her way around, and with a low bow 

 honored the dog she invariably has a row with for run- 

 ning over her in play. Sane evidently had a variety of 

 effect produced on his smelling faculties, for his nose 

 would turn a little, twitch a little — draw up some and 

 stretch out some. 



There sat a melancholy old hare, so sober do they look 

 in their nest when menaced, It was under a low scrub 

 thorn in a bunch of grass, and while contemplating him 

 from his side, next my companion burst out a white- 

 throated cock partridge, his wings rattling as if they 



were made of tin. My friend brought him down and 

 Sanco retrieved it and made for me, when he was accosted 

 by my companion with "Sane, poor fellow, give him 

 here, won't you?" He hugged Sane, but in vain, for he 

 brought the bird to his master and again interviewed the 

 hare, which put out, and from its bosom came another 

 whizzing partridge. Darky Bob yelled, "Shoot! Shoot 

 him, boss! Shoot him!" But my gun was on the bird, 

 which skimmed low to the ground, down the hill and 

 suddenly arose and started across the ravine high, at 

 which time my friend exclaimed, " Too far," but the trial 

 was ventured and one of those hits made that apparently 

 "flattens" the bird, and it fell circling. 



The sun came well up, though low in the south when 

 seen over the mountains. We sat down upon the soft 

 matted grass between the limestone ledges to rest a 

 moment, for it was warm. After some few minutes, in 

 our front in a small thicket of thorn bushes the strange 

 but sweet note of a bird was heard. How modest and 

 shy! bolder directly, but still that of a ventriloquist. 

 Where is it? It is a mocking bird, sure. Directly it 

 hopped from branch to branch until it reached the high- 

 est in the highest bush: still suppressed, but how sweet its 

 song. In our altitude this bird ,is very uncommon, and 

 for this so much more highly prized. It seemed glad that 

 the booming guns were silent, for it grew in confidence; 

 and in this day when all our sweet singers are hunting 

 the further south, how welcome this uncaged little bird! 

 Its song was the song of freedom and of a free bird. 

 Finally it concluded to act a little and flew to the ground, 

 and while there nipped a moth and imitated the cry of a 

 young chicken, fluttering and turning, very much the 

 same sound and action as of a bound chicken in a village 

 market. 



"Good bye, little bird, we must go to our dinner down 

 yonder by the spring;" and so we did, for Aunt Susan had 

 sent by our little "nigger" not only our partridges cooked, 

 but a young "smothered" chicken and more of other 

 things than we should have had. 



We hunted two days, sometimes following birds among 

 the corn and stubbles away up in the mountains. Birds 

 get educated, and many a shot we had to make around 

 the cliffs of the River Clinch. 



My comrade shot one which fell more than two hundred 

 yards below in the edge of the water, and Sane and the 

 little darky were sent to retrieve it, and Sanc's nose beat 

 the darkey's eyes. We saw the faithful little fellow hug 

 the good-natured dog; "Sanco, poor Sanco, give me the 

 bird, please. Sane, you hateful brute." Sane sat down 

 and held the bird, and finally escaped and wended his 

 way through the shelves and ledges of the long high bluff 

 to his master, and, with that good nature that should be- 

 long to men as well as dogs, handed the bird to his 

 trusted friend. S. C. Graham. 



Virginia. 



GROUSE IN PASSAIC COUNTY. 



^ fla( i J us * i returned from a trip to Canadensis and 



» » the Pocono Mountains, Pa., after this the smart- 

 est and gamiest fowl in the whole wide world, where we 

 had three days' experience with Sergeant Van Buren of 

 the First Pol ce Station, Dr. Levering, clerk of the First 

 District Court, and Richard Dyne, the latter probably 

 one of the best brush shots in the State of New Jersey. 

 And we came home disgusted, demoralized. There is no 

 fool like the old fool, said we, and every time we have 

 essayed a trip of late years after these wary birds, we 

 have said it was our last. We are too old, have had our 

 day, and must leave it to younger heads, at least younger 

 legs, to climb the mountains, crawl through the laurels 

 and thread the oozy swamps. But each season when the 

 time comes the old fever creeps on and we are as foolish 

 as ever, and think we are equal to the occasion. We 

 found the birds on the Pocono in fair numbers, but very 

 wild and not inclined to lie to a dog, We found we 

 could not throw up our 9lb. Scott with the quickness or 

 accuracy of a few years ago. We thought we had got 

 through and proposed to lie back for a few days with the 

 quail in Maryland, or a few hours behind a blind for the 

 webfeet. But a cordial invitation from Capt. Harry 

 Crawford, the efficient constable of the First District 

 Court, to visit his farm at Macopin, found all our reso- 

 lutions wafted to the winds, and the 4 o'clock P. M. train 

 saw us with clerk P. W. Levering and counsellor E. K. 

 Seguine in the Susquehanna & Western R. R. rolling out 

 of Jersey City. We were met at Charlottesville by Mr. 

 Siefert, who kindly drove over for us from Crawford's 

 farm. A drive a little over an hour through a varied 

 scenery brought us to "Harry's Farm," some forty-five 

 acres in the heart of* Passaic county, on top of the Maco- 

 pin mountains, three miles from Greenwood Lake. The 

 farm is in a high state of cultivation, lying well to the 

 east. It is a question as to which Harry thinks the most 

 of, his farm or his wife. Tbe former is certainly the 

 apple of his eye, and much of the hard earned results in 

 the multiplicity of the law's course in the city goes toward 

 the improvement and stocking of said farm until it is 

 now one of the finest in that section. 



We were met at the door upon dismounting by Mrs. C. , 

 a prime sample of the housewife of the successful 

 husbandman; nimble of carriage, showing a generous liv- 

 ing, a beaming eye and a voice of no uncertain sound in 

 its cordial welcome. 



In the morning, having engaged a native with his dog 

 (we unfortunately lost our own) to show us the way and 

 the birds, we were off; the dog, supposed to be a 

 thoroughly -broken "patridge" dog, taking the lead. We 

 first essayed to find a covey (flock they call them) of quail 

 that lived around a certain stubble field; but they failed 

 to materialize. We then struck off for the hill side and 

 swamp at the bottom thereof; and here the Counsellor got 

 in his first shot at a grouse, springing almost from under 

 his nose and darting down the mountain side. A quick 

 shot, but the bird kept on across the swale and over the 

 swamp to about the center thereof, where it seemed to 

 alight. We pointed out the spot near a balsam to our 

 native, and told him to go in with his "trained" dog and 

 rout it out, perhaps it would come our way and give one 

 of us a shot. He was a long time in the swamp thrashing 

 around, but no bird arose. Upon returning to us he said 

 he had started no bird, but that his dog had found one 

 lying on its breast by a stump. The bird was still warm, 

 and the Counsellor scored the first point. 



On the lower ground we came to a clump of hemlocks, 

 surrounded by hazel and oak brush. There is a place 

 for a cock grouse. Let us get around on the other side. 

 But before we could get our place this elegant "trained" 



dog had jumped in, and whirr! on the other side went 

 the game. 



The Counsellor grunted and went on ahead. Soon we 

 heard the whirr, whirr and a double shot. We hurried 

 up to find the Counsellor in a high state of excitement. 

 "I have made a double shot; got two with my first bar- 

 rel and dropped another out there on the marsh. Help 

 me find it." He showed us two quail; the other was soon 

 found. This was four birds at three shots. The Coun- 

 sellor was exuberant. We proceeded. We found the 

 birds lying along the foot of the mountain and on the 

 edge of the swales generally; but what a delight to travel 

 with a native with a dog so thoroughly broken that he 

 will range ahead just about two gun shots and won't 

 mind the whistle or call of his master under any circum- 

 stances whatever, and to hear the whirr, whirr of the 

 birds just beyond, and then upon following them up to 

 see them fluttering out of trees almost over your head. 

 We soon got tired of this sort of thing and concluded to 

 let our native and his high-toned, educated, trained 

 pointer take their part of the woods; and then we got 

 many more shots. 



Never in our past hunting of the grouse have we seen 

 so much treeing by this wary bird. Almost every bird, 

 or every other bird, after flying a short distance took to 

 a tree; and all old sportsmen know how difficult it is to 

 kill one as he leaves his perch. "There, Doctor, one has 

 dropped in the limb of that spruce. If he pitches off, get 

 his direction and then your gun four feet below, and take 

 your chances. You cannot follow him quick enough." 

 "I can't see him. Are you sure there is one in that tree?" 

 There he goes — a snap shot, with the muzzle of the gun 

 pointed half way down the mountain. "By George, you 

 got him. Dead as a mackerel. How did you do it, 

 Doc?" "Don't know. You told me to hold under him 

 four feet, and as he pitched down I saw he was going 

 fast, and I guess I fired my gun six or eight feet under." 

 Well, it was a shot that many an old grouse shooter might 

 be proud off. 



Hold on! That confounded dog is making game. There 

 have been birds here. Whirr! A clean miss by the 

 Counsellor. Whirr! Ditto by the undersigned. The 

 bird was knocked over by the Doctor at a long shot. 

 "Hold on, Counsellor, there is another one there! Good 

 for you — a good kill in that thicket." 



Now we try the island, a celebrated resort for grouse, 

 but, oh, what a place to shoot! What few birds lay along 

 the hazel brush and oak on the outside would pitch into 

 the interior, where the laurel and other brush was ten feet 

 in height or more, and a dog, to say nothing about a man, 

 could not penetrate. The birds could be plainly heard 

 treading and rustling the dry leaves. The Doctor, on his 

 hands and knees, tried to progress. Up jumped the 

 birds. The Doctor, on his belly, let drive at a chance 

 through the thick laurels in the supposed direction of the 

 birds. One barrel, two barrels. More birds springing 

 through the thick cover. Then new shells, a third barrel, 

 a rattling among the bushes, a thud; and the thumping 

 on the ground proclaimed one chance shot had won. If 

 you don't shoot, you surely won't kill. 



Jehoshaphat, see that rabbit (hare), most as big as the 

 native's pointer. Good shot, Counsellor. How they do 

 keel heels over head when hit. Why that fellow turned 

 a complete sommerset. What a bouncer he is, nearly 

 the size of our northern hare. The little gray fellows 

 that we all call rabbit, you know, is not a rabbit at all. 

 We have no rabbit proper. What we shoot is the Lepus 

 sylvaticus, or Mollie cottontail, a sweet morsel when 

 properly prepared in a pie; and were they more rare 

 would be considered a valuable addition to the sports- 

 man's table. It is thus we ignore or hold lightly the best 

 things on account of their commonness. 



A clean miss again, Doctor. How do you shoot? Do 

 you follow your birds with your gun? Do you shoot 

 directly at them or do you try to throw your gun just 

 ahead of the bird when flying crosswise? Now, Dick 

 Dyne, you know, throws his gun ahead of where he sup- 

 poses the bird will go— that is in the thick brush and 

 pulls as it crosses an opening. Don't you recall the shot 

 he made at Canadensis? The bird sprang from a thicket 

 and darted obliquely to the left of us, but so dense was 

 the brush that none of us could see it. Instinctively as 

 it were Dick got the direction of the bird and trained his 

 gun on an opening between two trees that stood about 

 3ft. only apart, and as the bird crossed the opening the 

 gun cracked and the grouse was killed stone dead. A 

 magnificent shot, but how few could do it. Again, that 

 shot of Dick's in the laurel, when he could not get his 

 right hand around to the barrels on account of the thicket 

 (he is a left-handed shooter), and the bird getting up he 

 shot him with only his one hand. Such shots are rare, 

 but are made by old shooters occasionally. 



There goes the Counsellor's gun. "What did you put 

 up? We heard no whirr. A despicable bluejay. What 

 under heaven did you waste a shot on him for?" "Why 

 a jay I will kill every opportunity I can on principle. 

 They are the meanest bird that flies. A thief always, 

 and ever a spy and tell-tale, and no good any way." 



And that is a fact. Many a time we recall, when a 

 boy, creeping up on a gray squirrel , have we had these 

 termagants give warning by their shrill voice and a whisk 

 of the tail, and our prey would be in a hole, while the 

 blue coat would sail away with his scream of exultation. 

 Many a deer has been lost to the still-hunter by these 

 pests, and they are hated accordingly. 



We pursued our way with varying results — some good 

 shots but many more outrageous shameful misses — until 

 afternoon, when, being only a mile and a half from the 

 house, we started for lunch. Upon reaching the house 

 we found Mr. J. Reisenaus, proprietor of the celebrated 

 road house at Greenville, whom we had met the evening 

 before. He had also returned with his boy of some 12 

 years or more. He brought in a couple of grouse, a pair 

 of hares and reported having put up a number of grouse, 

 but having no dog and the birds rising wild, he got but 

 few shots. We found Mr. R. a genial- hearted German 

 and a fair shot, and as he is a reader of the Forest and 

 Stream he must be a good sportsman. 



After lunch we started north. It was about a repe- 

 tition of the morning programme, only the undersigned 

 got discouraged after missing a couple of middling fair 

 shots: he concluded his feet hurt him; and he went to 

 the house to lie off. The rest came in in due time. Alter 

 a bounteous supper we were driven to the station and 

 took the 7:03 train for Jersey City with not a large but a 

 satisfactory bag, and highly pleased with our trip and 

 reception at Crawford's Farm, Jacobstapf, 



