Jan. 8, 1891.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



"except that I guess your dog is a goner." He and Harry 

 started to come around, when presently I was relieved by 

 seeing dark object No. 2 emerge from the water and pull 

 straight for shore. It was Pat, about the worst done-up 

 dog I ever had the pleasure of pulliug out on dry land. 

 His strong constitution is all that resurrected him. He 

 staggered and fell, and probably knew how it felt to 

 drown. But in five minutes he was as good as ever, and, 

 no doubt, had more respect for coons than he had before 

 the lightning struck him. 



The coon needed rest by this time too, and, as luck 

 would have it, he tried to make a landing within six feet 

 of where Pat and his master stood, and the old dog had 

 the satisfaction of seeing his coonship conquered at last. 

 He was a monster, an old settler, a regular old moss-back. 

 He had undoubtedly been sucking eggs, breaking up 

 birds' nests and devouring wounded wild fowl in that 

 neck of the woods ever since Mt. Hood was a hole in the 

 ground. He was a proficient and a thoroughly educated 

 coon in coon-lore. 



Whether the raccoon or Indian "arrathkune" derived 

 his European name from a curious habit he has of dipping 

 or washing his food in water before eating it, as is 

 claimed, J. do not know, but he certainly is almost as 

 much at home in water as on dry land, and is a most 

 formidable foe when pursued by a dog to deep water. I 

 know of an instance where a coon drowned two dogs that 

 followed him into the Columbia River, S. H. Greene. 

 Portland, Oregon. 



TREEING COONS BY SIGHT. 



I think beyond a doubt that the so-called "good coon 

 dog" does just as much looking overhead as he does smell- 

 ing under foot. At any rate, I own more than one dog 

 which carries with him this sterling quality as well as one 

 of the best of noses. 



It was a cold night in February, 1890, when I had an 

 undeniable demonstration of this fact. It was about 2 

 o'clock in the morning, and after a fairly successful hunt 

 we had started for home. The horn had been sounded 

 and the pack was at our heels. After tramping about two 

 miles in the direction of our headquaiters, one of the 

 hounds jumped a trail and started off at full cry. Of 

 course he was followed immediately by the rest of the 

 pack with the exception of one old black hound (old 

 Ben), who in the last coon fight had been severely bitten 

 through the foot. It had been my intention to keep him 

 back if the other dogs started a trail, but it was not neces- 

 sary, as he stayed quite willingly, no doubt on account of 

 the pain in his foot. 



The wind was blowing in fast gusts, and as we trudged 

 along with old Ben at our heels we could hear, now 

 loudly and now faintly, the baying of the distant pack 

 borne to us on the winds. Presently we came to a road 

 which was inclosed by fences on each side. Going down 

 this road for a short distance, we concluded to wait for 

 the pack. I had seated myself on the side of the road 

 when I noticed old Ben looking very intently up into the 

 treetops on the other side of the fence. He did not look 

 long, but with one bound cleared the fence and ran to 

 the foot of a thick low tree about ten yards distant from 

 the fence. Once at the foot of the tree he threw his head 

 high in the air and gave tongue to that deep, melodious 

 tone so familiar to all Southern coon hunters, which tells 

 them that the game is treed. I ran to the foot of the tree, 

 placed the lantern on my head, and as I walked back the 

 light of the bullseyerose higher and higher until it rested 

 on a dark form that could be taken for none other than 

 that of a coon. 



Just about this time the panting pack arrived at the 

 foot of the tree, after having followed the trail through 

 all the wanderings of the coon now overhead. The pack 

 no sooner arrived than they joined in the chorus with 

 old Ben. and one would think from the way they stood 

 on their hindlegs and chewed the bark and limbs of that 

 tree that they would need no one to cut it down for them, 

 but would pull it down themselves. It is needless to 

 mention that in less than an hour one more coon was 

 added to our already lengthy list. 



I give the above instance as but one out of at least half 

 a dozen that have come under my personal observation 

 during the past year. In the above case I watched the 

 dog closely and he did not once put his nose to the 

 ground, and I am sure he could have had no scent from 

 the coon, as the wind blew from the wrong direction. 



LOTOR. 



THE PENNSYLVANIA SEASON. 



AUBURN, Susquehanna Co., Pa., Dec. 31.— To-day 

 completes the open season for all game in this local- 

 ity. It was practically closed by a heavy fall of snow on 

 Dec. 17. 



The sport began with squirrels Sept. 1, and they were 

 numerous enough for good sport. A goodly number of 

 woodcock were about late in the summer and during the 

 early fall; buc owing to the water-soaked condition of all 

 the land, they were so scattered as to be hard to find. I 

 found them as often on dry upland as in then usual haunts. 



But I have never known so few grouse in the covers 

 since I carried a gun: caused, doubtless, by the excessive 

 rainfall during the breeding season of the past two years. 

 Extreme wet weather means death to a majority of the 

 young chicks. The decrease in numbers in the past two 

 years is shown by the fact that, shooting over the same 

 ground and about the same number of days each season, 

 during the fall of 1888 I bagged thirty-four, in 1889 four- 

 teen, while this season I secured but four. Nov. 23 I 

 crossed the Susquehanna into Windom township, Wyom- 

 ing county, a drive of seventeen miles, where I found 

 more game, but not so plenty as in the same locality last 

 season. And every one had the first law of nature down 

 fine and knew how to take care of themselves. Was out 

 two days and bagged six. 



As for rabbits, they have been an unlimited quantity all 

 through the season. They were apparently as plentiful 

 at the close as on the opening day. Besides the shooting, 

 almost every thicket and brier patch contained traps and 

 snares, i But to the last, any one with a good beagle and 

 in a legitimate way could bag as many as he could desire. 

 Their number must have been legion to stand such a 

 drain. One dealer told me he was shipping 500 a week, 

 and that last season he handled 2,500. With the right 

 kind of a dog they furnish a good deal of sport. But the 

 trouble comes in when getting home with from four to 

 ten in your pockets. Bon Ami. 



CHICAGO AND THE WEST. 



CHICAGO, III., Dec. 27.— Rabbit hunting has attained 

 more dignity and importance this winter than at 

 any time of late years, and it is astonishing what re- 

 sources this region can show in the way of cottontail 

 shooting. This is a sport which made the first breaking 

 in I ever had with the gun in the field, and I have never 

 yet gotten over the boyish enjoyment in it. Last week, 

 all things being favorable, it 'seemed eminently wise and 

 fitting that a little cottontail hunt should be arranged. 

 As I believe was mentioned earlier, Charlie Gammon was 

 to have been chief conspirator in this scheme, but at the 

 last minute it turned out he could not go, as such things 

 so often do turn out. It is bad luck to change one's 

 mind, especially about a hunting trip, so I went right on 

 down into Indiana alone, trusting to luck for a com- 

 panion. I got off at Shelby, abouLfifty miles down the 

 Monon road, and spent the night there. This is right 

 near Water Valley, on the Kankakee. Fuller Island, the 

 scene of the late ra bbit stories, is about six miles north of 

 there, and the rabbit shooting in the country about, in 

 almost any direction and beyond two or three miles from 

 the railway tracks, is fair to middling, or may be better 

 than that. 



The hotel at Shelby is probably the worst on earth. I 

 do not say it is absolutely the worst, because I did get a 

 good bed to sleep in, but including this fact I am ready 

 to say it is probably the worst hotel in the world, in 

 general bleakness, emptiness and cheerlessness, and in 

 the terror that walks by day over its table d'hote. A 

 small and excessively blonde" boy lighted me to bed at 

 about 1 1 o'clock, and at some time soon thereafter, it 

 seemed to me, knocked at the door and informed me that 

 breakfast was ready. A few moments later I was strug- 

 gling with the breakfast. I do not like salt pork when it 

 is slippery, or coffee when it is cold and pallid, or buck- 

 wheat cakes when they are clammy with the dew of ante- 

 dyspeptic melancholy , or potatoes which are proof against 

 the plain steel fork of commerce. I did not like that 

 breakfast, and I don't care who knows it. I wish the 

 cook knew it. He was a new cook, a man of a history of 

 grief apparently, and a visage to curdle the sorghum in 

 the jug, and a fine intelligence of how not to cook any- 

 thing on earth. Some cooks are built that way, and they 

 reach a perfection in that negative art which is often a 

 source of wonder. From cook and cookery I turned to 

 the buxom waiting girl. I couldn't bear to displease the 

 girl, and I ate many more of those cakes than discretion 

 would have suggested. 



"I ain't used to working in a hotel," said the hand- 

 maiden with an independent toss of the head: "I just 

 come over for a little while. I ain't been here but about 

 three days. The landlady she's sick. She's got twins, 

 she has, and the cook has to tend to everything 'xceptin' 

 what I do. Won't you have another cake?" 



I was cold, shivery, cross and half fed when the first 

 gray of morning appeared, and I stepped out into the 

 chill morning air to find Tim Curtin, the section boss on 

 the "Three I" road (I., I. & I. Ry.), which crosses the 

 Monon here. Charlie Gammon had told me that Tim 

 would probably gt t me at least part of the way over to 

 De Motte, the nexi sb 'lion east, which was to be" the base 

 of operations, I ourxl Tim just running his hand car out 

 of the car house. By *reat good fortune it happened that 

 he was going cleai past his own section, over to De Motte, 

 about eight miles i om Shelby. Tim sized me up a few 

 moments, and fina ly cold me I could go over with him 

 on the car. A bl. ff good-hearted Irishman as ever 

 walked, is Tim Cm tin, and ready to put himself out to 

 oblige even a strange r. We were soon friends, and in a 

 few moments were pumping away on the hand car, Tim, 

 myself and the solitary hand who constitutes Tim's 

 "gang" on that peaceful bit of railway track. 



All this being something new in the way of going 

 hunting was just as pleasant as going hunting itself, and 

 I wasn't in any hurry to get to DeMotte; not as big a 

 hurry as Tim was. A hand car is built this way: You 

 pump up and down, up and down; no pump no go; and 

 after you have once taken hold of the handles you can't 

 let go, because if you do you'll fall off. No matter how 

 tired you are you have to ueep on pumping up and down, 

 up and down, and no matter whether you push a pound 

 or not the muscles in your back have to work all the 

 time anyhow. I stood this all right for ten minutes, and 

 even enjoyed it five minutes after that, because I was 

 finding 'so many new muscles in myself that I never 

 heard of before, but after that I began to get alarmed, 

 and pretty soon I thought I was going to die. But the 

 two Irishmen were happy as larks and were singing as 

 they sped along the rails. This annoyed me excessively 

 and I resolved to pump till I fell off before I would say a 

 word about a stop for breath. We crossed the Kankakee 

 bridge, trundled across the wide marsh beyond, and 

 finally pulled up for a moment at the end of Tim's sec- 

 tion, about four miles out of Shelby. Here the pause 

 was only brief. Tim and his man tookoff their coats and 

 I took off mine. The pumping thereafter was harder 

 than ever, and it seemed hours before we got into De- 

 Motte, though the time was just one hour from Shelby. 

 Oh, that mine enemy had to pump a hand car. 



Charlie Spencer keeps the store and post-office at De 

 Motte, and he also keeps the beagle. De Motte isn't a 

 very big place, not more than a few dozen houses at 

 best, it not being very large for its age, which antedates 

 the railway considerably; but it has one feature of super- 

 iority over any city of any size. It has a beagle hound 

 which is the best beagle in Indiana, and the best beagle 

 in the United States, as any one will maintain who ever 

 saw and hunted with old Sport. This gray-muzzled, 

 sawed-off , preternaturally-wise looking old hunter was 

 among the first to welcome me to De Motte, where I had 

 never set foot before. Sport knew very well that a rab- 

 bit hunt was up, 



I had never met Mr. Spencer, the owner of Sport, but 

 it didn't take any great while to get introduced. Mr. 

 Spencer couldn't go hunting that day, but Sport could go, 

 and so could Hank Granger, who also was out with the 

 Gammon party when they were down. Hank Granger 

 is a Kankakee hunter of long-time experience. I don't 

 know whether Hank Granger is a better shot than 

 Charlie Spencer or whether Charlie Spencer is a 

 cleverer fellow than Hank Granger, and will give that 

 up, unsettled. But I do know that if they were not 

 genuine gentlemen they would not have treated any 

 stranger as well as they did me. Thanks to them, I had 

 a chance to see a little work with, the beagle and all in 

 all enjoyed one of the pleasantest little outings ever seen. 



Hank and I went out before dinner for a prelimmary 

 wlurl, Sport gravely leading the way down to the railway 

 track, and evidently considering himself a chief factor in 

 the expedition; which indeed he was. We went only 

 about half a mile from town, and turned into one of 

 the little oak openings or mottes of scrubby trunks which 

 cover the whole surface of the country thereabouts. We 

 had hardly crossed the fence when a flurry in the short 

 grass told of a hare making for the woods. He never got 

 there, however. A moment later, Sport was roaring along 

 another trail, which Jed out into the swamp. The hare 

 sprang from the grass a few feet ahead of him, and at 

 once rolled over at the crack of Hank's "puinp gun." 

 And then we had a nice long run after another one, in 

 cover so thick you could hardly see 3 r our hand before your 

 face, and finally another shot from the "pump" rewarded 

 the patient little hound, who was sticking to the winding 

 trail and was only about bOyds. behind the game when it 

 was stopped. Then we ran yet another, a very "long" 

 rabbit, and didn't get him, and started yet another, and 

 did get him, and had a shot at a ruffed grouse which 

 went right on, and another shot at a fox'stuiirrel, which 

 Sport treed in great style and which we butchered with 

 the shotgun, very abominably, but the best Ave could do 

 without a rifle. And then we went in to dinner in a 

 cheerful frame of mind, for now it was apparent that 

 cottontails were thick as flies in summer, and that Sport 

 understood cottontails from the ground up. 



I had now forgotten my breakfast at Shelby and the 

 long hour of agony on the handcar, and life seemed very 

 much worth the living on this clear December day in the 

 woods. Moreover, the boys sent me over to Mr. CroxeH's 

 for dinner, and there was an example of the kindliness 

 of fate. Mr. Croxell is a '49er, a justice of the peace, and 

 a comfortable philosopher withal. The Century Maga- 

 zine, in its early gold days articles, missed Mr. Croxell 

 and his nine companion 49ers who now make all of the 

 once large Indiana army who crossed the continent in the 

 gold seeking days. I had all the advantage in the world 

 over all the magazines, as I sat and listened to the won- 

 derful stories of a time the mere thought of which will 

 thrill any live man to-day. Furthermore, Mrs. Croxell is 

 one of those good souls to whom good cookery is as natu- 

 ral as easy breathing. What visions of baked chicken, 

 of aromatic coffee, of butter — actual, firm, golden butter, 

 of twelve kinds of country fruit preserves, genuine, de- 

 licious, unforgetable, of potatoes brown and crisp, of 

 buckwheat cakes mathematically round, scientifically 

 ecmal brown, poetically intact and self -respectful and 

 thrillingly gratefnl to a palate almost weary of this sinful 

 world— no one can know the import of all this who 

 has not lived in Chicago — and then in Shelby ! Let me 

 recommend De Motte, rather than Shelby, to northern 

 Indiana shooters who prefer comfort. But it should be 

 borne in mind that on this side of the river the vast ex- 

 panse of the De Golyer Club grounds run clear down to 

 the railroad and cover most of the best duck marsh. So 

 may be the duck shooters would best keep on Shelby side. 



But we were after rabbits, and after dinner we got 

 them. This time we went in the opposite direction, 

 toward the river, and at 2 o'clock debouched into the 

 short cover about a mile west of town, Sport again taking 

 the lead. 



Unless one has a trailing dog, he can never tell how 

 many rabbits are in a bit of woods, for the little fellows 

 slip off unobserved or lie too close for notice by the human 

 eye. It is all the worse when there is no snow, and when 

 the ground, as it was here, is bare and brown and leafy. 

 But with old Sport along the case was different. We 

 kicked a few rabbits out of the grass by chance, it is true, 

 but these represented only a small part of what the wise 

 old beagle found . There was hardly a moment when he 

 was not baying on a trail, and as soon as we killed the 

 rabbit he was running, he was off and loudly announcing 

 another. Sport never leaves the trail he is running for a, 

 fresher trail, and once started, there is no stopping him 

 till the rabbit is killed. He will then make a great pre- 

 tense of biting the dead game, in reality hardly disturb- 

 ing a hair upon it, and at once is off again at a business 

 he loves even more than the human hunters do. 



The philosophy of the chase au beagle lies in the fact 

 that a cottontail is a natural twister and doubler when 

 pursued. The hunter says "the beagle will bring the 

 rabbit right around where it was started," and so appa- 

 rently it will, unless a much-chased rabbit leacls straight 

 off for some distant hollow log or burrow, although the 

 real fact is, that the rabbit brings the beagle around 

 again to where it started. Again, Sister Mollie rarely 

 works very hard ahead of a slow dog, but runs, squats, 

 twists, doubles, hops, or sits contemplatively erect as her 

 taste or fancy may suggest, only caring to keep a little 

 ahead of that faithful and tireless "on, on, on-on!" which 

 follows her every move through the thickest cover. 

 Mounted on high stumps on the open hillside, we coulcl 

 see the whole panorama of this chase in miniature sweep 

 by us, time after time. The hare was rarely ever more 

 than than 50 or 60yds. ahead of the dog, and only put on 

 a spurt once in a while, after the first flurry of fright had 

 worn off. By getting the general direction through the 

 voice of the beagle, one could get in ahead, antl if he 

 reached the line ahead of the dog by 40 to 60yds., could 

 nearly always get a shot. Both Mr, Granger and Mr. 

 Spencer, from long acquaintance with Sport, have great 

 judgment in thus securing chances at the game, and they 

 rill rabbits in cover so dense and close that no one would 

 think of getting a shot there ordinarily. 



In a little while Hank and I had the tactics of the 

 local cottontails pretty well solved, and we stood around 

 on stumps and had more fun than a little rolling over 

 the white tails that came bobbing- past. There is more 

 fun and more excitement in hunting rabbits this way 

 than in any other, though one must have a well-broken 

 beagle. Sport is evidently well bred, and his natural 

 hunting sense and his long experience have added all he 

 needed. To-day I do not believe he can be beaten as a 

 rabbit dog by any other beagle or by any other dog in 

 the country. I presume that thousands of rabbits have 

 been shot ahead of him, for he is old. his reputation is 

 wide and his owner, Charles Spencer, is very accommo- 

 dating with him. Hank and I killed fifteen rabbits that 

 afternoon in cover where I doubt if a dogless hunter 

 could possibly have killed half a dozen. 



There are a good many quail scattered through that 

 country, and we found frequent sign, but only got up 

 one bevy, out of which we got four. This was' on Dec. 

 20, the last legal day in Indiana for quail, ruffed grouse 

 or squirrel. At night we found after backing in our 



