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FOREST AND STREAM. 



[May 19, 1898. 



THE HUNTER'S HORN IN THE OZARKS. 



WHEN" I read some of the conflicting accounts of 

 Mr. W eaver's adventures in the Ozarks, his failure 

 to find game, and the fair sounding replies of the recal- 

 citrant guides; I determined to write a letter to the For- 

 est and Stream and tell its readers, once and for all, 

 where the game lies and where the guide errs; not only 

 in the Ozarks, but everywhere in this blessed country 

 where game is supposed to be at all. And I want to say 

 that the key to this valuable piece of information came 

 to me, after many years experience, only when I read 

 about brother Weaver's trials, and the no less mortifying 

 trials of the guide. Now I have never hunted except in 

 the way good Americans ought to hunt: once in a while 

 by way of a holiday and as a relaxation from other pur- 

 suits, so that I am not a past grand master of the plains 

 and mountains. I do not know all game localities but 

 only a few where I have hunted. I have hunted various 

 kinds of same in one or two Eastern States and in Illinois, 

 Iowa, Minnesota, Dakota, Colorado, California, New 

 Mexico, Missouri, Arkansas and Nebraska. So it will be 

 seen that I have had rather a diversified experience, 

 though, as I say, not an extended one, and many moons 

 ago I learned to seek no information from guides and 

 local hunters. I was forced to the belief that if they 

 knew a good place they would not tell a stranger where 

 it was and that, in the majority of cases, they did not 

 know what they presumed to know. And then, reading 

 the accounts above referred to, I began to get the hang 

 of the whole matter as I believe, and that is, that the 

 whereabouts of all game is as uncertain as the weather 

 and as variable as the lay of the land, and for the matter 

 of that, very largely dependent upon those two elements. 

 The thoughtful sportsman should be and I believe can be 

 a better judge of the whereabouts of game then the local 

 guide, or at least just as good a judge, and my own ex- 

 perience has taught me that he is far more reliable. Of 

 course there are many professional hunters who know all 

 that any man can know of the habits of game and thus 

 of its probable whereabouts, but they sometimes keep 

 those places for special occasions. 



I was once trying to shoot a few miserably suspicious 

 ducks in a slough in central Dakota , and when I had about 

 given up the whole territory as profitless a lank and lazy 

 individual drove by in a buckboard with the traditional 

 old muzzleloader and the conventional string: of mal- 

 lards. Of course, he told me that be got his ducks "back 

 yonder" on the prairie, although I did not ask him for 

 any such information nor for anything. He went on 

 his way, and I called to my companion and took the 

 back track of that buckboard for over three miles until 

 we came to a slough that from that day to this, any day 

 in September, is good for a plumb wagonload of mal- 

 lards in the middle and two dozen jacksnipe on the out- 

 side. I will be there in September. 



There are a couple of cattlemen at the mouth of a little 

 canon in southeastern Colorado who wont let tourists 

 ride up their way because they say they stampede the 

 cattle; and I know just as well as I know I am alive that 

 about two miles beyond their shanty are slathers of black- 

 tails; and the next time I am in that country there is 

 where I'll hunt. I knew it at the time because it was in 

 the track of a belt of country that was not touched by 

 miners, railways, stage lines nor TJte Indians. The deer 

 naturally run in there from twenty miles around. 



I wish I had time and the Forest and Stream had the 

 forbearance to admit of my telling even the little I have 

 found out about where game is to be found, It would 

 all be about where game ought to be. 



I have hunted ruffed grouse on the steep hillsides, 

 where the books tell us they are to be found, and again I 

 have gone down in the bottoms and jumped them out of 

 the alders along little streams. One day they will all be 

 in one place and another day they will be all in the other 

 —depending upon the weather. 



About the Ozarks. Last winter the Captain, the Sena- 

 tor and myself took our tents and things and went down 

 there, and" the hunters met us at the railway with the 

 dogs and teams and we went over on to the river. We 

 knew the stands and the country, and had plenty to fill 

 the one and hunt the other, because they are a right cor- 

 dial, friendly people, and as many as could came out and 

 stayed with us. They are such white, clean, square 

 people down there, that we all said it did us good to be 

 with them. But we never started a single deer. Ideal 

 country. A clear stream of water. Had not been 

 hunted any. Heralded as a hunter's paradise. Clearly a 

 case of guides again. Only these guides could only be 

 mistaken. That night we held a council of war, wisdom 

 and weeping. The Captain for war, the Senator for 

 wisdom and the writer for weeping. There was one lit- 

 tle thing wrong with this country— a strip of burnt 

 ground across the river. In five minutes we were pitch- 

 ing our tents, and by nightfall had moved half-way back 

 to the railroad. No water except a little puddle of a 

 trickling stream that you could dam anywhere with one 

 of the Captain's boots, and that began about a hundred 

 yards above the tent and disappeared as much further 

 below. But some of us had walked coming out from the 

 railway, and we had seen that here was a little valley, 

 with hogbacks and hollows alternately dipping into it 

 from all sides, with good timber and plenty of under- 

 growth. We knew that we had hunted in places like this 

 where the deer could not be driven out, and that they 

 ought to be here. 

 And they were. 



I had not got to my stand next morning when old Eph 

 Braz well's 11x44 shotgun woke the morning echoes, fol- 

 lowed by one fatal leg-breaking crack from the "Village 

 Blacksmith's rifle. And while their horns wound up and 

 down the valley the mellow and gladsome sound of suc- 

 cess, the dogs broke forth again in a perfect pandemonium, 

 and, as the glorious burst of sound swung around the 

 hills, I saw far below me, making for the tent, as big a 

 deer as grows in that country, and a doe at that. Her 

 track in the woods road was as broad as a column of this 

 paper. I kept still, hoping there might be a turn at the 

 tent and a break across to my side, or that there might be 

 another close behind that would come across my way. 

 There was another, too, but she followed her ma, and the 

 two of them went and looked over some bushes at the 

 Senator engaged in his legislative function of putting 

 things out of the fvying pan into the fire. 



A curious thing happened in that camp. We were 

 aroused one night at 3 o'clock by the sound of a hunting 

 horn. The Captain heard it first. We were all loath to 

 believe it was a horn, but it certainly was. In the cold, 

 dark, starless night, away off in the bleak hills, some 

 home-going mountaineer must have been cheering him- 

 self on his way. The genial and generous Captain stirred 

 up the fire and got some hot water with which to make 

 a steaming and comforting decoction, which he dealt 

 out to the recumbent forms by the light of the candle 

 and then we all dropped off to sleep again, wondering, as 

 we have ever since wondered, who blew that mellow 

 blast up and down the frozen hills so far from home, so 

 late at night. George Kennedy. 



ONE OCTOBER IN THE FIFTIES. 



MY baby girl, just in from school, sits at the piano, 

 and from her finger ends there drops some sweet 

 and simple music that she calls "Forest Scenes," and as 

 she plays the spirit moves me to write some lines about 

 my boyh'od days — to wit: 



Those days of old, how well do I remember 



The wood of gold, the sere and brown November. 



Hold up— that will not do. My story belongs earlier in 

 the season, and loyalty to nature forbids departure from 

 her truth even under the plea of "poetic license." As it 

 comes back to my mind that time bears a mantle of 

 brilliant crimson and flashing gold, with enough rich 

 shades of brown and russet to harmonize the vivid variety. 

 The morning sun is bright, the morning air is crisp and 

 full of motive power. The days which begin with vigor 

 and freshness, at noon ripen into a softened, quieting 

 temperature in which the sun seems to linger in the 

 midst of his fleecy attendants to enjoy gazing down upon 

 the fruition of the year. The distant hill, withits crest of 

 rock or forest, stands out clear cut against the deep blue 

 sky, while down the nearer valley float the misty veils 

 of the Indian summer fairy hosts. Never could pen de- 

 scribe to full perfection the pleasures that October brings 

 to boyhood, joys that after a half century of work and 

 worry still live in memory with a "bouquet" too delicate, 

 an effervescence too piquant, a coloring too vivid for 

 portrayal. We do not join with the love-sick opera singer, 



"O joy, O joy, too bright to last." 

 We celebrate the joys that linger, shining down the 

 years, earning compound interest, paying daily dividends 

 and accumulating surplus at the same time. 



The noonday breeze had carried from the church tower 

 down through the village the warning echoes of the 

 stroke of twelve, and the boys and girls from "the 

 academy" swarmed home to the old style 12 o'clock din- 

 ner. I well remember it was on Tuesday — ironing day, 

 and many a meal of corned beef and cabbage had doubt- 

 less been eaten during that noon hour. However sturdy 

 my health might have appeared, and how much addi- 

 tional proof might have seemed to be furnished by a good 

 appetite, there lurked in my system the seeds of a disease 

 that has, since early years, attacked me at periods regu- 

 lar and irregular; never curable but yielding in a meas- 

 ure to a sort of homeopathic treatment. The doctors give 

 it various names — spring fever, fall fever. Call it what 

 you please. Its attacks used to come as early as when 

 the ice had gone from the trout streams in the spring 

 time: it frequently broke out later on when the bobolink 

 with his tinkling babble and the meadow lark with his 

 pee-cu-liar note called aloud and joyfully to the field, or 

 the shimmer on the river or the silver-plated sound told 

 of cove breezes and dancing waves. In the fall, why of 

 course, it would surely break out in the fall with so many 

 causes in the heavens above, in the fields beneath and in 

 the waters along the shore. Whatever the cause, when- 

 ever the time, the only relief for the disease lay in a close 

 and more or less continuous exposure to the contagion. 

 Sim/ilia similibus. 



This was long "befo' the wah" and before the incoming 

 tide from the continental peoples had brought contami- 

 nation to the New England idea and morale. The most 

 violent Sabbath recreation then permissible to the boys 

 was to go after Jhe cows or to take a walk. Perhaps I 

 should say — except in cases of sickness — for I recall one 

 Sunday when word came that old Mrs. Picket was very 

 sick, and that as Uncle Charlie's horse was lame, and as 

 nobody else wanted to handle the Messenger mare, I was 

 drafted to take Aunt May over to Mrs. Picket's. I remem- 

 ber that I felt some and expressed much sympathy for 

 the poor old invalid, but didn't I enjoy that Sunday ride. 

 It was only a couple of miles, bad miles, over there, but 

 the road home over Candlewood hill and Quancatog was 

 so much better that I spared the mare and took the six- 

 mile route back— but I wander— I was always prone to 

 wander. 



On the Sunday previous, after church, I had taken a 

 ramble over old Pequot hill, the picket line in rear of the 

 old town, through "Paradise," down back of "Uncle 

 Sanford's" to "Great Brook," now a shrunken thread of 

 water or a chain of almost stagnant pools, and in my 

 cruising had walked up two fine coveys of quail, and so 

 had incurred a very violent attack of the fever. The 

 symptoms followed me all through Monday in spite of 

 Cicero and the subjunctive, and by that memorable Tues- 

 day noon the malady was in a fully developed stage. 



I believe it is now recognized as a fact that physical 

 health has a marked influence on the mind, and, as a 

 sequence, on the conscience; it may have been this which 

 quieted my scruples, but in those days it would not have 

 done for a boy to plead any such thing as an excuse for 

 playing hookey. Without going into any niceties of 

 theory I will simply say that my cousin and I had 

 planned to take our schooling in the woods and fields 

 that afternoon. He was to "borrow" Nate's dog, a well 

 trained old liver-colored pointer (good until you came to 

 a fence, when he wanted a helping hand), and to 

 meet me at the goose pond. I need not tell how, after 

 starting toward school and making a little detour, I 

 brought up at the house over the way, nor how my aunt, 

 dear soul, always in sympathy with a boy's whims, 

 loaned me my uncle's gun, a light double-barrel 16- 

 gauge, a perfect beauty for size, shape and finish. My 

 father used a 10, and monstrous heavy, but it was not 

 altogether the weight of his gun that prevented me from 

 asking the loan of it. 



At the goose pond I tired of waiting for my cousin and 

 started out on my afternoon's cruise without him. Do 

 you remember the pastures that used to stretch over the 

 ridges and hillsides along the coast, that furnished forth 



to scanty herds a bounteous growth of rocks, gray moss, 

 sorrel and daisies, witn a little grass here and there for 

 dessert? My course lay over such a field; the story of its 

 summer glories was told in dry daisy tops, feathery milk 

 weed and black spikes of mullein: its later beauties had 

 faded and fluffy tufts told how the golden rod had coined 

 its product and put it in circulation. The generally gray 

 tone of the sidenill was brightened by patches of crimson 

 sumach, while the woods made a background aB rich and 

 varied as Persian upholstery. 



Coming to a pair of bars (by the way, why in the world 

 did they used to call it a pair of bars when there were a 

 half dozen of them?), as I jumped to the ground on the 

 further side whir-r-r! up rose and thundered a partridge 

 with a sudden volume of sound that sent the blood ting- 

 ling to my finger tips and brought to my tongue that 

 peculiar taste— like what? a mild current of electricity ? 

 However, it was not an electric shock that sent my gun 

 off; as quick as a flash I blazed away, acting on a princi- 

 ple so well formulated by a friend of later days — "If you 

 don't shoot you're sure to miss;" but the bird moved 

 grandly and swiftly away with all the glory of his 

 feathers. 



The rise had raised my spirits, and I pushed faster and 

 further through the autumn glory, the "well pahster 

 being my objective point. Out of the woods, I crossed a 

 field of corn that had been topped, partly to save the 

 fodder in its sweetness, partly to let the sun in upon the 

 ripening ears. What would one of our farmer lords of 

 the "American bottom" think of going at such a task in 

 his hundred-acre corn jungle with a corn knife under the 

 August sun. The stumps of the corn stood nearly as 

 high as the shoulder, while the frayed blades and husks, 

 blowing in the wind, streamed from stalks and ears like 

 scalp-locks. A flock of quail flushed in the edge of the 

 field drew the ineffectual fire of both barrels, and though 

 I felt sure I had marked them down I tramped the stalks 

 and bitterweed fields faithfully without getting sight of 

 a feather. However, I didn't "bate one jot of heart or 

 hope," but still kept on; and while I was tramping along 

 a path through some saplings and barberry bushes, up 

 rose a woodcock and started off on his erratic flight. 

 Without taking special note whether he made that pecu- 

 liar whistling sound with bill or wing feathers, I took a 

 sudden automatic off-hand shot and — was not I surprised! 

 That bird dropped, and after a little search I found him 

 among the fresh fallen leaves. I don't think a better 

 shot was ever made, nor did any sportsman ever bag a 

 dozen of birds with a greater measure of joy than I felt 

 in the possession of that first wing-shot bird. I turned 

 it over, opened its bill, examined its tongue, stroked its 

 coat and smelled of it, then put it in my pocket. Glory 

 enough for one day, almost, yet with new hope and am- 

 bition I renewed my hunt. Down the wooded hill, up 

 along the banks of the singing brook, through the thin- 

 ning shade, and in the full afternoon sunshine I kept my 

 way with unsuccessful vigilance and patience until the 

 settling sun warned me to turn my face toward home. 



The pleasure of that autumn afternoon was without a 

 cloud until I neared the end of my journey, and began 

 to be troubled with the problem of how I could get the 

 full benefit of my success without raising uncomfortable 

 questions; home was reached before I reached the solu- 

 tion. There is diplomacy in delay, sometimes, as well as 

 delay in diplomacy, and after getting my uncle's gun 

 dippbsed of, I hung up my bird in the woodhouse. 



Supper time came on my father's arrival home. As I 

 went in I passed his open room where he was in the midst 

 of his ablutions. He called to me as I was passing: "Well, 

 Nut, what's the word ? How did you get on at school this 

 afternoon?" I had been brought up to give him answer 

 as straight as his question. "I didn't go, sir." "Not go 

 to school! Why not? Where did you go ?" He stopped 

 his rubbing, held the towel half raised to his face which 

 glowed with either friction or indignation, and looked as 

 if he would look me through. "Went shooting, sir." 

 "Did you get anything ?" How my sinking heart bounded 

 with relief. I made a clean breast of my dereliction, said 

 nothing in extenuation, simply gave a direct historical 

 narration of the experiences of the afternoon. To verify 

 the story of my success I bounded out to the woodhouse 

 after my bird. 



"How vain are all things here below !" 



I have my opinions on a vast variety of subjects to 

 which I cling firmly but in silence; I have taken no part 

 in the discussion of the question whether the woodcock 

 whistles with his teeth or tail feathers; I have never at- 

 tempted to adduce any proof that a setter dog can climb 

 a tree, but if ever the scientists introduce a discussion as 

 to whether or not a cat can climb a post in the wood- 

 house you may refer the case to me, and whether in va- 

 cation or term time I'll agree to stop the debate with a 

 judicial statement of fact and precedent. 



We'll draw a veil over the disappointment I felt at be- 

 ing able to rescue from the cat, after a vexatious chase, 

 only enough of the bird for identification. Satisfied with 

 the proof, my father limited his reprimand to a strict in- 

 junction to consult him whenever the symptoms of fall 

 fever were aggravated; and if he could get away from 

 his office work he would go with me to insure a proper 

 treatment of my complaint. Well did we both keep the 

 letter and spirit of the contract, and the many happy days 

 I spent in his delightful companionship come back to me 

 with a memory more and more precious as the years go 



by. 



After all, what is the moral? I don't encourage boys 

 to neglect their early duties and privileges for idle enjoy- 

 ment or even for the worthy sports of field and stream ; 

 but oh, ye fathers, recall the days of your early years, 

 and hand in hand with the boys share such pleasures as 

 will harden the muscle, clear the brain, give brightness 

 to the disposition and elasticity to the step; and with 

 healthy recreation in clean companionship fence them in 

 from vicious pleasures that ruin so many of the young 

 bodies and brains. Nutmeg. 



Indiana Quail Outlook. 



Independence, Ind., May 9.— The quail have wintered 

 well, are through with house cleaning, and are down to 

 business. It looks as if they were trying to raise two 

 families this season. I am confident some are sitting 

 now. I notice there are more hens than roosters this 

 year, consequently they will be more successful nesting. 

 The past two seasons there were two roosters to each he n ; 

 in several places three roosters to one hen. It is probable 

 that we will have more quail this season than usual.— 

 J. E. F, 



