Feb. 11, 1892.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



128 



the other hand, walk 15 to 20 miles, and you would proba- 

 bly see one running at a distance. Our guide adopted the 

 latter method, his efforts being apparently to show us 

 game, not to get us a hilling shot. Our guide informed us 

 that a careful, persistent young fellow hunted those 

 woods twenty days one year, getting one deer; another 

 year he hunted twenty-three days, getting nothing. I 

 think that to be about the average of what a good "man 

 could do down there. Really, do you consider the 

 prospects encouraging for three novices? I am willing to 

 hunt two days for one shot, but not twenty for a single 

 deer and then not get it. 



Having proven the scarcity of game in our present 

 locality, Weaver and I desired to change our base to the 

 interior of the White River swamp, where game cannot 

 be hounded and is little disturbed by hunters. This 

 swamp is the home of the black bear, wolf, deer and 

 turkeys, in fact, every kind of game to be found in 

 Arkansas. Esslinger objected to the change, telling us 

 that while perfectly dry now, "high water" might come 

 and catch us in there. 



We afterward learned that the water usually came up 

 in February. Your correspondent Mr. Childress, who tells 

 of killing 14 bears in this swamp, shows what we missed 

 through our guide's ignorance. 



On the last day of our prospecting we met an old hunter 

 who told us of a locality, twelve miles from our camp, 



that hear rappings under the table, but a superior person 

 who could actually see spirits. They were uot the spirits 

 of departed forefathers, however, but of deer killed 

 perhaps in ante-bellum days. To him, poor fellow, they 

 were not spirits, but creatures of real horns, and hair, 

 and flesh and blood. As a basis for his suspicions our 

 friend describes the guide's action as follows: 



"Going through the woods the guide's eyes would sud- 

 denly shine, and a fierce whipper would come, 'See that 

 deer?' The ready Winchester would come up bang! 

 bang! then the guide would say, 'Big fellow — five spikes 

 — must have hit him, though he was pretty far off.'" 

 Our friend had seen nothing, but ascribed that to his 

 bad eyes. Going to where the deer had been, lo! a won- 

 derful thing had happened. The deer had disappeared 

 forever, leaving in earth, air, mud or water not a trace 

 behind. This happened so often that our friend's sus- 

 picions became moral certainties. 



Imagine our guide riding through the wood at "break- 

 neck sp^ed," before him fly four spirit deer going the 

 wrong direction: frantically he rides and turns them 

 through the stands. The hounds erstwhile so noisy now 

 follow silent at heel; even nose so subtle as theirs can- 

 not detect the presence of spirit deer. On they come 

 through the stands, not a man there. Full of silent 

 wrath and mute despair the guide rides into camp. 



A word more about what Mr. Weaver expects of 



missed with the second barrel. We have marked the 

 birds down and move on to the thicket to pick up the 

 singles. 



But the hounds are coming nearer. Now w-e can easily 

 distinguish the eager voice of each dog, and the excited 

 tonguing shows that the track is hot and the scenting 

 perfect. I stand listening. "Come on, come on Brad, 

 my dog has got a point" cries George. I go on. The birds 

 flush on my side, and I fire and make a disgraceful miss. 

 The boys laugh, but I bear their ridicule well, knowing 

 that I shall not have to wait long to see them do equally 

 poor shooting. But the black and tans are now within a 

 mile. I can stand it no longer. "Boys, I'm going for 

 that fox." "Well go on, we'll see to-night who's had the 

 most fun." I call Boz to heel and start off on the run. 

 As I go by the house I chain up my setter, and then rush 

 for the little mill where the fox is sure to cross the plash 

 brook. ( But I am too late; as I come within sight of the 

 stone bridge, the fox flashes across and waves his brush 

 at me in derision. 



Panting, I sit on a fallen tree and wait for the hounds. 

 They are about ten minutes behind the fox, and what a 

 picture they make as they come down the old wood road. 

 All four perfectly matched, well packed and running at 

 a terrific pace, carrying the scent breast high, while their 

 deep tuneful voices echo under the over-arching trees. 

 Who would not forfeit a week's quail shooting to look on 



AMONG THE WILDFOWL. — XVII. 



The Alert Sprigtail.— " What do you see, Sister Anne?" 



where deer were fairly plenty and turkeys by the hundred, 

 Some of us wished to go there, and the guide was willing: 

 but Heithaus, utterly sick of the hunt, had determined to 

 go home. From our point of view it looked as though, 

 through the ignorance of our guide, we had been kept 

 hunting for a few "buckshot-scarred veteran?," while 

 game was plenty in a few hours' journey from camp. In 

 justice to our guide, it must be stated that he is not a 

 native of that country and only reached Bald Knob from 

 Missouri a few days before we did. He therefore knew 

 little of the range of game except what he had learned 

 in other years. This, however, does not relieve him from 

 the charge of incompetence in so far as we were con- 

 cerned. Understand, I have not the least ill-feeling 

 toward Esslinger; on the other hand, I believe he will 

 become a good guide if he remains in the country long 

 enough to get acquainted with it. 



As there is an apparent discrepancy between the state- 

 ments of Mr. Esslinger and myself I must notice his com- 

 munication somewhat in detail. Let me acknowledge to 

 begin with that we did the unsportsmanlike thing of 

 target shooting in camp, and that I was chief offender 

 myself. I do not believe, however, that it had any effect 

 on the game, since the ducks were being bombarded 

 nearly every day on the creek an3 7 how. Shooting squir- 

 rels was a necessity if we got any fresh meat at all, and 

 was done after the morning hunt. 



Surely Mr. Weaver is entitled to "some ideas of his 

 own" on deer hunting, to which our guide seems to ob- 

 ject. "Hunting in the grass expecting to jump them 

 like rabbits''really means that Mr. Weaver was examining 

 the cornfields of the large plantation mentioned looking 

 for tracks of deer or turkey. The fact that not a sign of 

 game was to be found there did much to discourage us 

 with the neighborhood. 



No doubt twenty shots were tired, as the guide says, 

 four of them by Weaver, and as stated before, with 

 hardly a possibility of touching anything. Of the re- 

 maining sixteen shots seven or eight were fired by Heit- 

 haus in an attempt to kill two running deer, the balance 

 by Esslinger in a desperate attempt to show us that deer 

 could be killed in that country. But Mr. E3slinger is 

 mistaken; deer were not sighted by the party, but by the 

 guide. One of the party persisted in the belief that our 

 guide was a spiritualist. Not one of the ordinary kind 



guides. He expects the guide to locate the game before 

 his party gets there. Then the guide shall prove to them 

 that the game is there, after which he will receive his 

 pay in full with a jug thrown in and be free to return 

 to the village store and congenial companions. Mr.W. 

 will take care of the game or be satisfied to leave it in 

 the woods. Chas. Askins. 



Marion, Illinois. 



THE EVENT OF THE SEASON, 



r pHE December morning dawned clear and cool. 

 JL Every twig and spear of grass was covered with 

 heavy white frost and sparkled in the sunlight as if in- 

 crusted with jewels. The air was perfectly still, and in 

 that peculiar condition when distant sounds come to one 

 so distinctly that they seem, close at hand. I could hear 

 the shouts of the sailors and the creaking of the blocks 

 as a distant schooner slowly hoisted her mainsail, and 

 the honking of a flock of geese sitting in safety on a 

 sandbar a half mile from shore was so distinct that I 

 grasped my gun and looked overhead for a shot. It was 

 a perfect hunting morning. With my Irish setter Boz at 

 heel I left home soon after sunrise, and a short brisk walk 

 brought me to the appointed rendezvous, where I met a 

 couple of friends, one with a large, heavily-built Gordon 

 setter, the other with a small, stylish pointer, which 

 showed his fine breeding in every motion. It took but a 

 moment to plan our campaign against the quail, and 

 dividing the large stubble field between us we were soon 

 at work. The dogs were eager for the hunt and quar- 

 tered the ground at great speed and in beautiful style. 



As we follow slowly on, George cries "Hark!" We 

 listen, and far in the distance, so far that it seems miles 

 away, we hear the music of the hounds. Like a faint 

 echo it comes to us, and though the dogs are so distant I 

 know at once that they are the Yarmouth black and 

 tans — four strong, well built, native hounds, unequalled 

 on the Cape for endurance and speed. 



While we listen the setters are at work and Boz makes 

 game; a pretty cast or two and he nails his birds; the 

 Gordon and the pointer back him finely and the picture 

 is complete. Walking quietly and quickly up we flush 

 the quail and do some very poor shooting, and simul- 

 taneously we give three excellent excuses for having 



one such scene? On they go across the open fields and 

 into the pines. I know that the fox will soon turn and 

 probably cross above me, Once more I am on the run, 

 and this time I reach my intended hiding place before 

 the fox breaks cover. With every nerve tingling I await 

 him. But he crosses the road above me, well out of gun 

 shot, and leads off to the west toward Hyannis. The 

 hounds are nearer to him than they were, and. their voices 

 sound fiercer as they dash on. 



Straight away goe3 the quarry, fainter and fainter 

 sound the voices of the hounds till they die away in the 

 distance. But I am unwilling to give it up. I must see 

 those dogs again, and so for an hour or more I follow in 

 the direction taken by the chase, stopping every few 

 moments to listen. As I come to the great cedar swamp 

 I think I hear them, and sit down to wait. Can it be 

 imagination? No, they are certainly coming. There is no 

 mistaking those voices, but the chorus is not so strong as 

 it was. The hounds come nearer rapidly, and now the 

 fox is in the cedars trying to throw off " the dogs. Ho 

 dodges, doubles and turns, now coming near me, then 

 going to the further side of the swamp a half-mile away. 



But those eager dogs are not easily checked and atjast 

 the fox breaks cover about a hundred yards away and 

 crosses an open field. Can that be the" gay red of the 

 early morning, running now with brush lowered and 

 tongue out? The hounds are not more than four minutes 

 behind, but there are only two on his track now. The 

 terrible pace has been too fast for the young dogs and 

 they are out of the race. The fox is running for his life 

 and the short, fierce cries of the black and tans are close 

 upon him. He is thinking only of a refuge and seems to 

 have lost his cunning. Up the main street of the little 

 village he runs, turns from it sharply and enters the 

 school yard, crawls under the fence at the rear and makes 

 for the cherry swamp. He doubles there, but it is all in 

 vain. His last refuge has failed him, there is no escape, 

 his heart is broken. Once more he sullenly takes to the 

 open fields, runs to the beach and follows "the shore on 

 the sand for a half mile, then turns to the upland and 

 heads again for the cedar swamp. 



But the hounds are constantly gaining. As he crosses 

 a knoll they catch sight of him, and with greater speed 

 jump forward. Now they are running to kill and run- 

 ning mute. Straining every muscle they draw nearer 



