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FOREST AND STREAM. 



[April fr. 1892. 



SEEN FROM MY WINDOW, 



COMOX, Vancouvers Island, B. C, Jan. 27.— The 

 varied thrushes are piping up and beginning 

 to straighten themselves instead of sitting huddled up 

 like so many balls of frayed carpet. On my fowlyard 

 fence they still beep guard, from whence they can drop 

 down comfortably for the few scattered grains left by 

 chanticleer and his harem. Aye! they and plenty more 

 would drop into that yard for a peck and a scratch dur- 

 ing the deep snow. Song sparrows, little brown winter 

 wrens, an occasional robin, with a red-shafted dicker or 

 two, and sundry Steller's jays villains! I had well nigh 

 forgotten the Western chewink or "catbird," with his 

 scarlet eye, white waistcoat and black and chestnut top 

 coat, and the little juncos, looking, when flying, like 

 little blots of brown and white cotton, for their wings 

 are so small and so thin, and withal they move so rapidly 

 that in a bright sunlight the birds appear to have no 

 wings. Ah! well, they were all welcome to the chicken 

 food, but now, ingrates, they are leaving me when they 

 know there are a few patches of mother earth uncovered 

 where haply they may find a stray fat worm or luscious 

 slug. And then the weather is so much warmer now — 

 like April. I myself feel like the breaking up of a hard 

 winter; as I sit and write I sometimes glance feelingly at 

 the scars of a dozen coon hunts engraved with great, 

 bold, masterly strokes on the backs of my hands. Have 

 had the influenza, too; worse luck. 



Well, to go back to birds. The siskins have Btuck it 

 out well, but those hardy chaps, the chickadees and gold 

 crests, have been out of sight for a long time. Evening 

 grosbeaks were quite common a month ago. I've not seen 

 so many lately, out heard a chirp the other flay. This is 

 another bird which is quite a rarity with us as a general 

 rule. A few pine grosbeaks have been about too. 



Immer Dein. 



FISHING CROWS AND OYSTER BIRDS. 



"VTEWBERN, N. C, March 26.— Almost daily, in front 

 _LN of my residence on the Neuse River, 1 see the crows 

 hovering and circling over the surface of the water look- 

 ing for fish, very much after the manner of sea gulls. 

 They will swoop down and scoop their little prey deftly, 

 very often without breaking the surface. They do it 

 more neatly and dexterously than kingfishers. Crows 

 have to live by their wits until corn planting comes. 



Down on the beach there are oyster birds, so-called, 

 which subsist chiefly on mollusks. They are about lOin. 

 tall, having black body and wings, with sparse white 

 markings, long yellow legs, and straight bill 2in. long, 

 and when standing erect look like diminutive cranes. 

 They undoubtedly belong to the family of waders. Do 

 you know about them? They are not mentioned in Trum- 

 bull's "Names and Portraits of Birds." 



Charles Hallock:. 



[The birds mentioned are probably fish crows (Corvus 

 ossifragus) and oyster catchers (Hmmatopus palliatus), 

 bo tii birds of rather Southern distribution.] 



"That reminds me." 



THERE is a certain back room in our small town where 

 many lovers of rod and gun nightly assemble. Many 

 yarns are spun on both shooting and fishing. More trout 

 are caught there and larger ones than frequenters of the 

 Adirondacks often have luck to see. Shots are made that 

 would astonish a Brewer or Fulford. Every thing is 

 killed from elk to woodcock. Once in a while a horse 

 will trot faster than he ever could on any kite-shaped 

 track. But every story goes. It is an unwritten law that 

 no duubt he cast to cool the narrator's enthusiasm. Out- 

 side of the shooters and fishermen there are occasionally 

 a few who are not much given to sports afield. They 

 listen to the telling of tales, and though they may keep 

 up a terrible thinking, have little to say. One night, not 

 long since, one of the outsiders whom we will call "Uncle 

 John," stood it as long as he could and then proceeded to 

 surprise us with the following tale: "Do any of you re- 

 member that year when the pigeons were so thick? Why 

 sometimes you could not see the sun for half an hour at a 

 time. Everybody who could beg, borrow or steal a gun 

 was out that day! I did not want to be left, but still I 

 had no shooting iron. But I suddenly recalled the fact 

 that there was an old gun up in the garret. It had no 

 lock, but what of that? I'll make her go some way I 

 thought to myself. Down to the store I went and bought 

 a quarter of a pound of powder and a pound of shot. I 

 had some caps. That took all the money I had and it was 

 a big investment for me. Returning to the house I got 

 the gun, put in a handful of powder and a handful of 

 shot, ramming them down well. I put a cap on the nip- 

 ple, and I was ready for business. I did not have to go 

 far they were coming so thick, so I took my stand by a 

 fence and waited. When I saw they were flying low 

 enough to be sure of some, I rested the butt of the gun on 

 the fence, took a hammer from my pocket, hit the cap a 

 crack, and away she went. Why you ought to have seen 

 those birds fall. The air was full of dead pigeons." "How 

 many did you get?" some one here interposed. "Why I 

 picked up a pillow case full." H, N. C. 



WatebvilijE, N. Y. 



"Know how to cook ducks?" repeated the landlord's 

 wife in an insulted tone. "I puts 'em in a pot an' boils 

 'em, an' changes the water an' boils 'em, an' then roasts 

 'em, an' sure an' they tastes just like chickens." 



Mallard. 



One time last summer the fishermen here made quite a 

 good haul of mackerel, arid all hands were at once busily 

 employed in preparing them to salt. One man in par- 

 ticular by his quickness and dexterity showed himself to 

 be a star at the business. 



In the midst of this scene of activity, old John G., 

 who, from some remarkable experiences which he al- 

 leges to have befallen him, I have often thought might 

 be the original of "Peleg's Grandpop," strolled up to the 

 group, and the movements of the aforesaid star led him 

 to deliver himself as follows: 



" "Wa'al, yes, sir, that fellar does handle fchem pretty 

 slick, sartin, but you oughter seen old Cap'n Smith un- 

 harness 'em down on the banks. Thar was a tank of wa- 

 ter, sir, on his smack at the foot of the mainmast that 

 they used to wash 'em in, and he'd dress 'em and throw 



'em m the tank so quick that when they struck the water 

 they'd have life enough left to swim round and rinse 

 themselves." E. W. L. 



Pene Point, Me. 



The full texts of the game laws of all the States, Terri- 

 tories and British Provinces are given in the Booh of the 

 Game Laws. 



A FEW YEARS BACK. 



I SUPPOSE you always have a place in your columns 

 for a reminiscence when it relates to forest or stream, 

 marsh or prairie. I am not an old man whose flintlock 

 or ancient muzzleloader hangs on the wall covered with 

 the rust and dust of departed years, the sight of which 

 causes the blood to tingle afresh in the heart of the old 

 sportsman! but I am a young man just entering that stage 

 of life called middle age; and my guns, dogs and hunting 

 equipment are in first-class order and "up to date." Still 

 I look back fifteen years to my "teens" and wonder if the 

 same keen enjoyment over a bag of birds or string of fish 

 will ever come again. Born in Brooklyn, it was of ne- 

 cessity I learned "to shoot" with a sling-shot, putty gun, 

 or pea shooter, but in my twelfth year I removed with my 

 parents to a beautiful village in western New York, and 

 on the bank of as handsome a sheet of water as ever the 

 Lord put on the earth I had a chance to swing myself, 

 and the love of hunting and fishing, descending to me 

 through generations of sport-loving ancestors, developed 

 rapidly. When I was sixteen years old I was the happy 

 possessor of an English pin-fire breechloader that was my 

 greatest joy. My school teacher, at that time the prop- 

 rietor of a large and popular boarding school, made me a 

 present of about ten or a dozen old decoys, that had lain 

 away in his cellar for years. They were old and battered, 

 but no fljck has looked handsomer since. Many a day I 

 have sat behind that flock of decoys, and at night if a pair 

 of bluebills, redheads, butterballs or even a single whistler 

 was the score, I thought I had done well, 



Plenty of good shots went by me in those days, but for 

 the first year over those decoys I had no use for a flying 

 duck. He must lig bt or swim it, and then he was my meat. 

 How I have humped myself to keep out of sight of that 

 little bunch of birds whose curiosity prompted them to see 

 what was going on in that flock of wooden ducks near 

 shore. The remembrance of my first duck shot on the 

 wing is as vivid in my mind as if it were yesterday. One 

 of our favorite points for decoying was the stern of an old 

 canal boat that had gone to shore a wreck bows on. The 

 hull of the old boat had disappeared almost entirely, the 

 stern being about the only portion out of water, and with 

 passing years the birds became used to its appearance and 

 would feed within gunshot. One day with a young friend 

 I was watching the decoys, rolling idly in a light swell 

 and wishing for something to turn up, when "Mark" from 

 my friend drew my attention to a single bird coming 

 down the lake following the line of the shore and close 

 in. Ah! that is our bird, he must see the decoys. By 

 George, he don't turn out, he will fly inside of us. The 

 next minute I saw the bird was going directly over our 

 heads, a little high up and had no idea of stopping at all. 

 Well, it looked as if I could make that shot and it could 

 make no difference anyway: the bird was now almost 

 over me, and pulling a trifle ahead I let into him. "Great 

 Scott," I had killed the duck, and as he plumped down 

 striking the deck of the old boat in his fall, I was the 

 happiest boy in six counties. I have brought them out of 

 the clouds since then going a mile a minute gait, but no 

 shot has ever given me the pleasure since. 



I don't think we killed anything more that day and I 

 certainly did not care. I wanted to get home quick as 

 possible to tell my father about the shot. It was in those 

 days that my father used to go on the first of each Sep- 

 tember to the Montezuma Marshes, in years past one of 

 the greatest hunting grounds in America. Thousands of 

 ducks, geese and snipe have been killed there and some 

 of the old fellows have told me of an occasional swan they 

 had brought to bag. This vast tract of marsh, covering 

 ten thousand acres right in the center of this great Empire 

 State, was a paradise for sportsmen, The Seneca River 

 running through it, afforded the finest of fishing. I am 

 sure these remarks on this famous old ground will bring 

 to the mind of hundreds of the readers of this paper the 

 happiest of days with gun and rod. This is changed now, 

 a very large part of the marsh has been redeemed, and 

 where once was a favorite little lake for black duck or 

 widgeon is now a cornfield. 



The natural decrease in game or rather unnatural de- 

 crease is greatly noted , and now a good bag of ducks on 

 this old ground is only occasionally made. A goose is 

 killed now about as often as a swan was 25 years ago. 

 The fishing is still fair, and "Mr. Jack Snipe" stops over 

 for awhile in spring and fall, although a large part of 

 his feeding ground is gone. A trip to these marshes fif- 

 teen or sixteen years ago was to me of greater attraction 

 than a trip to Europe would be now. If I was offered a 

 trip to New York city or to Mud Lock, I never hesitated; 

 and the bullheads cooked by Rube Jones's wife, at that 

 little old hotel in the swamp, were as good as any brook 

 trout I have had since at Delnionico's or Holland House. 

 Lots of the readers of Forest and Stream know Del 

 Demont the lock tender, one of the best duck shots the 

 State ever knew. He was my father's guide and hunt- 

 ing companion then, and many a nice bag have I seen 

 them bring in. I was content to push around through the 

 marsh for water hen and rail with an occasional shot at 

 a "woody" or teal, as they sprang from the edge of the 

 flag. In those days in the early hours of morning or even- 

 ing, when the wind blew strong there was good flight 

 shooting from the structure known as the "Free Bridge," 

 and also from the bridge at Mud Lock. Del Demont told 

 me of a shot at a flock of butterballs flying up the river 

 in a gale of wind, and going so low they had to raise to 

 clear the bridge. He waited till they 'passed over and 

 then pulled into them as they flew straight from him, 

 picking up sixteen dead birds. 



Our room at "Rube's" was up next to the roof, and 

 many a night I have lain listening to the honk uf the wild 

 goose or the whistle and peep of the shore birds as they 

 passed over, and I know of no sweeter lullaby to the ears 

 of young Nimrod as he sinks to sleep and to dreams of 

 flying ducks and wonderfiil shots in the "Land of Nod." 

 Pochestek, n, Y, Blue Bill. 



AFTER MOLLY COTTONTAIL. 



' <r pHESE frosty nights, den ole Molly Cottontail done 



-L got fat as butter," the darky hunters tell you. At 

 once they begin to trap and snare them by dozens. If 

 they did not there would soon be a rabbit plague in the 

 south country, worse almost than that of Australia. For 

 a single pair unmolested will, under favorable condi- 

 tions, increase to several hundred within a twelvemonth. 

 There are six to eight young in a nest, which is usually 

 an fearthen burrow lined with fine downy fur from the 

 mother rabbit's breast. 



Atfirst the small creatures are no bigger than your fin- 

 ger, blind and helpless, with only a sort of wiggling mo- 

 tion. In a week they find their feet and their eyes, and 

 run hither and yon, small animate bits of fluff. At three 

 months they are full grown, ready to eat their weight 

 daily in tender buds, sweet bark, grass, clover or garden 

 stuff, or ear corn or fallen fruit. 



The snare itself is an ingenious contrivance of string, 

 trigger and a bent sapling that in due time jerks poor 

 cottontail high and dry. An industrious small black boy 

 will set a dozen each evening and rarely come home next 

 day without a bunch of fat rabbits. 



Many more are shot in wrath by bird hunters, whose 

 dogs they seduce into false points. To shoot rabbits per 

 se is regarded as rather a waste of ammunition. 



But when the first deep snow comes Mistress Cotton- 

 tail is in peril. Wherever it overtakes her— in wood, 

 field, sedgeland or briers — she crouches and makes her- 

 self as nearly as possible a furry hemisphere. As the 

 snow deepens she moves gently back and forth, still in 

 her crouching round. By and by she has a chamber 

 maybe twice as big as herself, whose only window is the 

 small round at top which her warm breath keeps open. 



When the clouds break and sunshine streams merrily 

 over a white world, you see here and there stealing up 

 through the keen air what looks like the plume of a fairy 

 steam engine. Signals of dire distress they prove to the 

 small, shy creatures whose refuge they mark. For there 

 snow is evanescent. The deepest fall rarely lies a week. 

 Before the last flakes scurry to earth, men, boys and dogs 

 are scouring the face of it "in search of game of all sorts. 

 They track coons— which do not hibernate there— mink, 

 foxes, wild turkeys, partridges. Above all, they hunt 

 rabbits. Up, down, around, across, about they go, seek- 

 ing and finding Molly Cottontail on her form. While the 

 snow is soft she has no chance for her life. The captor 

 either falls flat upon her form, seizing with a gurgle of 

 triumph his quaking, squeaking quarry, or else she is 

 routed out by a dog's keen, cold nose, and done to in&tant 

 death in the soft, white, treacherous stuff that she had 

 vainly imagined would shield her from harm. 



With a crust over the snow, sport begins in earnest. 

 Cottontail is given a fair start, then away go boys and 

 dogs in pell-mell scramble after her. The light-weights 

 of course have the best of it. The mongrel hound, or 

 one good for his weight in coon and possum hunting 

 every season, trips and flounders in the drift, or when as 

 the breaking crust cuts his feet, while fyce and terrier 

 skim light as thistledown over the treacherous surface, 

 and Boon lay eager paws on the flying, panting tiling 

 before them. 



Sometimes a quick shot ends the chase. Much of tener 

 the animal is given life in consideration of a good run for 

 it. In general, though, betwixt boy and dog, its doom 

 is sealed. And though the sport is cruel from a humani- 

 tarian standpoint, the greatest good of the greatest num- 

 ber is undoubtedly furthered by its vigorous prosecution. 



M. 



CHICKENS USING AMONG CATTLE. 



THE incidental remark in Mr. H. M. Harper's note, 

 published in Forest and Stream last week and 

 Mr. Hough's quasi-indorsement of the same, that "chick- 

 ens do not consort with elk and moose," calls up the 

 suggestion that possibly both gentlemen may be wide of 

 the true facts, for the reason that I have known prairie 

 chickens to consort with cattle habitually ; and when out 

 shooting at the Bronson ranch, in the Roseau country 

 Minnesota, within easy striking distance of the moose 

 and elk range, it has been my habit, when luck failed 

 me in the stubble, to hunt among the herds, and my 

 quest has always been successful. Of course a herd of a 

 hundred or more cattle would deploy over several acres 

 of territory. Sometimes two or three coveys would rise, 

 but the birds would usually run before they would flyi 

 They seemed almost as tame as cowbirds, and acted as 

 though they felt a sense of security in bovine company. 

 It may be that they had learned to forage among the 

 droppings, but this would be hardly probable, as the ani- 

 mals not being grain fed, the ordure would afford scanty 

 pickings. At all events, I could discover no evidence of 

 their doing so. My simple conclusion was that the birds 

 had discovered that gunners did not shoot among the 

 cattle, and that therefore they were safer within their 

 lines than outside. 



At all events, since moose and elk do a good deal of 

 grazing in that section on the edge of the prairie where 

 chickens are known to "use" habitually, analogy would 

 suggest that the birds and animals named do sometimes 

 consort together. Quod erctt demonstrandum, or words 

 to that effect. Charles Hallock. 



Mongolian Pheasants Nesting.— Owing to the un- 

 usually early season, the Mongolian pheasants have 

 already commenced nesting. A few days since a farmer 

 near Albany plowed up a nest containing several eggs. 

 The Salem Statesman, in noticing the fact, saye; "The 

 early spring will probably be the means of making these 

 splendid game birds plentiful, as each pair will raise 

 several broods." This is about the first instance on record 

 where any up-the-vrdley paper has said a good word for 

 these pheasants. Under the cloud of the general howl 

 raised by parties in some of the counties where the birds 

 were becoming plentiful, thousands of them have been 

 shot and shipped to the San Francisco market, in order 

 that the crops of the farmers in those counties might be 

 saved from utter ruin and destruction. It has been found 

 that the birds do not devastate the country, and next 

 fall, it is safe to predict, farmers on whose lands these 

 birds are plentiful will have trespass notices posted and 

 will not allow pi'omiscuous shooting of their game. A 

 man who has a farm well stocked with these pheasantH 

 will be able to sell his shooting privileges for as much as, 

 he will make off his potato crop,— Poi fiand Oregovicb^i s 



