292 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Oct. 6, 1892. 



DAYS WITH THE UPLAND PLOVER. 



There are birds that have a peculiar attraction for the 

 lOTer of the field, though he can hardly tell why. Small 

 as is Wilson's snipe there are few who count a day with 

 gun as one of the milestones on life's journey who would 

 willingly dispense with this charming bit of animation. 

 Yet who can teil why he feels a strange thrill as he nears 

 the meadow from which he expects this little bird to 

 spring? 



Next to Wilson's snipe no small bird ever had tor me 

 such an attraction as the upland plover. It seems but 

 yesterday when its strange, penetrating note first fell 

 from the summer sky upon my childish ear. So tender, 

 yet so searching was it, so dilTerent from all the ordinary 

 sounds of earth, what wonder ttiat I stopped and scanned 

 the horizon long in vain before discovering far away on 

 high this happy soul speeding across the dome of blue 

 more like a messenger^of Jove than a creature of earth? 



Never can I forget those days when first old enough to 

 be trusted with a gun, when the bugloss spread its blue 

 across the rolling pastures and the air was redolent of 

 mint, when the leaves of the dewberry were tiirning 

 from red to brown, and the blue of the vervain was fad- 

 ing, when the mutterings of thunder were almost over 

 and silvery clouds hung low along the horizon, when a 

 softer stillness lingered in the groves and a milder radi- 

 ance played along the hills. The spots on the breast of 

 the young robin were beginning to fade into red, hushed 

 was the bobolink's bubbling joy, and the mellow call 

 of Bob White came more seldom across the meadow. 

 From the stubbles the doves were rising with whistling 

 wing, the highholder was pitching from one wild cherry 

 tree to another in search of the few cherries that still 

 were left, and the young meadow lark that sat on the 

 fence where the white sepals of the clematis were shining 

 along its climbing stem could no longer be distinguished 

 from its mother. All these for me in early days were 

 great game. But I lost almost all interest in them from 

 the time the soft notes of the upland plover first found 

 their way to my soul. 



In the Western States this bird was a few years ago 

 very tame. I have driven by it in a wagon while it sat 

 quite unconcerned upon the fence beside me. So simple 

 were they in many parts not over twenty years ago that 

 there was no satisfaction in hunting them. 



But in New Jersey as far back as forty years ago it 

 was a vastly different bird. Almost any one familiar 

 with the uplands of the greater part of the State would 

 at that time have taken the contract to get forty quail, 

 twenty woodcock or a dozen ruffed grouse in a day 

 rather than a dozen upland plover. Not only were the 

 birds distributed over an area that made miich tramping 

 the price of a few good shots, but they seemed to have 

 an innate knowledge of the range of a' gun almost equal 

 to that of the sandhill crane of to-day. At long intervals 

 a sound like that of an angel breathing into a silver flute 

 struck a strange chord within you, and while you stood 

 wondering whether it dropped from the sky or came up 

 from below the horizon's verge, you saw, perhaj)s, a fine 

 wisp of gray mounting from the grass far out of shot 

 and aimed away upward, as if bound for the stars. And 

 just as you thought its prospects good for reaching its 

 destination there broke upon your ear, louder, clearer, 

 yet softer than before, that strange ripple of sound that 

 rivals all the marvels of acoustics, beside which ven- 

 triloquism is ridiculous and the wonders of whispering 

 galleries contemptible. So near ,it seemed in its liquid 

 purity that you clutched the gun' with confident hope, 

 expecting to see another plover within easy shot, and 

 just as you concluded that you saw nothing, there came, 

 more tender yet, even clearer and nearer than before, 

 another pearly triplet of tone, as if another bu-d had 

 risen near your feet. 



Can it be that so much energy is lodged in that little 

 plover winding away on high? How can sound so light 

 be so far reaching, or sound so sweet traverse space 

 almost like the thunderbolt, with so little loss of power? 



So you used to think while again perhaps the sweet- 

 ness fell more penetrating than before. Yet you might 

 scan earth and sky without finding other source than the 

 bit of frail machinery that under the edge of some distant 

 cloud seemed to need all its energy to maintain its veloc- 

 ity. Sadly you trudge along to the next field, yet was 

 there not a feeling that you had been partly repaid for 

 your trip? I would walk a long way to-day just to see 

 once more that little film of gray skim the distant sky 

 and catch again those pearls of sound that only that little 

 throat can string. 



The best shooting I ever had with the upland plover 

 in the Atlantic States was quite by accident. It was in 

 the summer school vacation that I'started from the house 

 one day for a short stroll before dinner. I took my gun 

 along with only the two loads that were in it, expecting 

 only to see a lark or a highholder at best. Nearly a mile 

 from the house I left the road and turned into an old pas- 

 ture to look for blackberries. I strolled along where the 

 white and tender blue of the morning glory were twining 

 above the little clusters of purple flowers of the spirtea, 

 where the little scarlet petals of the pimpernel were blow- 

 ing among the gold of the toad-flax and the snowy 

 involucre of the spurge was lighting up the ground where 

 the soft blue of the bluets was fading, when suddenly, on 

 nearing the further side of the field. I heard a triplet of 

 melodious notes so soft that they seemed to fall through 

 a mile or more of air. 



Though I had not up to that time been able to locate 

 this bird within a mile or two by its note, I could see 

 more out of one corner of my eye than now, and a line 

 of gray flitting just above the top of the corn across the 

 fence and scarcely thii'ty yards away captured my atten- 

 tion at once. Quickly I turned the gim upon it, and when 

 the smoke cleared away there was nothing there but the 

 corn leaves waving darkly green. 



Imagine my surprise on crossing the fence to hear that 

 sweet call echoed and reechoed as if rebounding from the 

 dome of heaven and see half a dozen more lines of gray 

 start from the corn for as many different points of the 

 compass. 



I got off the fence in time to stop the last bird that rose 

 and would perhaps have done so but for the reflection 

 that it was my last load and I had no more ammunition 

 with me. That idea made me doubly anxious to make 

 the shot tell, and the consequence was that I soon saw 

 the bird rising above the edge of the emoke and sailing 

 away skyward. But sorrow was quickly swamped in 

 glad surprise as I saw one of the first birds that rose set 



tling down into the corn some 300yds. away, with two 

 more wheeling around to follow him. I gauged the sit- 

 uation at once. Three cornfields joined at this point, 

 making some sixty or more acres. The birds were prob- 

 ably bred in the adjoining fields, and though old enough 

 to be wary and strong of wing had probably never been 

 disturbed and bad not yet left their native heath. They 

 had probably gone into the corn to escape the heat, and 

 as it was about waist high, by stooping low and walking 

 rapidly down the rows one could get within easy shot of 

 most of them. 



Great was the speed I made across the fields and down 

 the road to the house for more ammunition. The robin 

 in the wild cherry tree had no time to get alarmed until 

 I was past, and where the bloom of golden rod was just 

 beginning to tinge the white sheets of the wild carrot I 

 almost ran over the meadow lark before he suspected 

 there was danger. The scarlet of the catch-fly and the 

 golden corolla of the potentilla seemed a stream of fire- 

 works as I passed them yet close behind, overhead and 

 far in front seemed the mellow notes of the plover that 

 were hovering over the corn I had left far behmd, and on 

 I dashed through mullein and milkweed, scattering pur- 

 ple pokeberries right and left and skipping gaily over 

 pennyroyal, the lingering|buttercup and the reviving dan- 

 delions that were yellowing along the ground. 



Eeturning with ammunition and out of breath, I went 

 but a few steps in the corn beyond the place where I had 

 picked up the bird I had shot, when suddenly a bit of 

 filmy gray mottled on the top with brown and black ap- 

 peared among the dark green of the waving corn, accom- 

 panied by that mysterious call that always raised such 

 havoc in my young nerves. It brought my gun to my 

 shoulder so hastily that before I knew what I was about 

 it went off. Accompanied by two new lines of gray that 

 rose from the corn a short distance beyond it, the first 

 gray sped away upward amid a full chorus of strange 

 melody, while a healthy cornstalk a few hills ahead of 

 me sank to earth never again to rise. 



But I was quick with the gun in those days, often too 

 quick, but not this time. Though I lost an instant with 

 mingled surprise and disgust at the result of the last shot 

 I raised the gun quickly on one of the last birds that 

 rose. Where is there such another moment as when you 

 glance along the iron rib of the gun and find you have 

 raised it at once to the exact spot and do not have to shift 

 it? As I looked along that gun with hasty glance I saw 

 the gray clear cut against the distant sky and in exact 

 line with the rib of the gun and going almost straight 

 away. In a moment more it vanished in a cloud of 

 smoke to appear again below it, gyrating to earth in a 

 soft whirl of white, gray and brown, while its comrades 

 sped away on high, their notes falling louder and sweeter 

 as they seemed to fringe the clouds. 



As with haste I reloaded that old muzzleloader all was 

 silent in the corn except the song sparrow trilling his 

 joyous notes from the fragrant sassafras in the corner of 

 the fence as if conscious that he were already singing 

 beyond his time and must hurry to get in a full season's 

 work, or the goldfinch's tremulous pipe as from patch to 

 patch of downy thistle he sped in a wavy line of gold and 

 black. But the gun was quickly loaded, for with every- 

 thing convenient the muzzleloader was not as slow a tool 

 as those who never used it are apt to think, and stooping 

 low and going on a half run down the rows of corn I 

 started on. 



Before I had gone far enough to get out of breath or 

 excited there was a wild yet. tender ril-liJ-ivil some- 

 where on land or sea or sky, and I swung the gun half 

 around the horizon before I discovered two bits of gray 

 just topping the corn not 25yds. away. What? A double 

 shot on the upland plover? Such fortune I had not before 

 dared to dream of and yet here it stared me in the face 

 with all its paralyzing reality. A double shot on any- 

 thing was no easy thing for a boy of my age at that time. 

 We were not then born of flame, nurtured with powder 

 smoke and tutored by thunder as many are to-day. Am- 

 munition cost money in those days, and the loading and 

 especially the cleaning of a gun bore a striking resem- 

 blance to work. Moreover, we did not see the sublime 

 importance of making mere machines of ourselves or we 

 might have been better shots. Yet there the chance for 

 a double shot stared me in the face with dazzling cer- 

 tainty. Too often such delightful assurance has tipaet 

 the repose of soul necessary to utilize such opportunities. 

 But not this time; for scarcely did the first bird turn up 

 his white underwear and sink amid the green at the re- 

 port of the first barrel than, by some mysterious move- 

 ment so quick that I was unconscious of it, the gun was 

 turned upon the second careering upward as if bound 

 for some other sphere and intending to reach it before 

 dark. Right in line with the two barrels the gray glim- 

 mered for a second against the distant sky, and as I 

 pulled the trigger it folded its wings and whirled down- 

 ward into the coi-n. 



He who has never chuckled over euch a shot when a 

 boy or over more difficult ones in later years has missed 

 something in this world. And he who has not been so 

 demoralized by a little too much self -congratulation that 

 he missed the next easy shot that happened to come too 

 close upon the heels of the former success, has also 

 missed something worth living for. I stood there fum- 

 bling with trembling hands after caps that would keep 

 in the sub-cellar of my pocket, and that would drop on 

 the ground after I succeeded in unearthing them, until 

 beads of perspiration began to run into my eyes. Then 

 1 Avas foolish enough to go ahead without waiting to 

 compose my nerves, for a boy always thinks game must 

 be picked up at once. 



Retrieving the fallen birds, I started on again, stooping 

 low and moving as swiftly down the rows of corn as 

 possible, and had gone scarcely 100ft. beyond where 

 the last bird lay when another plover cleared the 

 corn ahead of me within easy reach. The first barrel 

 wrecked the hopes of aq aspiring pumpkin on the ground 

 below it, and where the shot from the second went I 

 never knew. But the bird climbed the summer breeze 

 with never a feather marred, and on the wings of his own 

 bright song was borne well into the zenith by the time I 

 had reloaded. 



There was still plenty of corn field left, and at the rate 

 the birds had so far been rising there was probably op- 

 portunity enough to repair my shattered pride, and on I 

 went. To my surprise, I did not have to go 50yds. down 

 the row i was in before two more plover rose. They were 

 a trifle far, but I turned the first one over and ventilated 

 the corn leaves all around the second one before I knew 



anything about the distance, the knowledge of which 

 came to hand just in time to console me for the miss. 

 From that time on I did fair shooting, the rest of the hunt 

 being only a continuation of the first part. I tramped 

 that corn from end to end and got many a shot within 

 25yd8. In less than an hour from the time I crossed the 

 fence I had seventeen plover, all well-grown birds and in 

 fine condition. 



As suddenly as it had begun the shooting stopped. 

 Here and there across the topmost dome of blue and along 

 the horizon's furthest rim a dim line of gray was winding 

 out of sight, while, from no one could tell where, came 

 that soft searching sound that seemed never so sweet as 

 when all hope of another shot seemed gone. But not 

 another bit of gray rose above the corn, and vainly on the 

 following day did I tramp that corn until it needed re- 

 hoeing to insure half a crop. The birds had learned the 

 game and were once again their own wild and wary 

 selves. T. S. Van Dykk. 



San Diego, Cal^ 



A FLYING TRIP SOUTH FOR A DEER. 



I LEFT Neveport Sunday night, Aug. 21, spent the next 

 day in New York, and leaving Jersey City at 8 P. M. via 

 Cape Charles route arrived at Avoca, N. C, at 3 P. M. 

 Tuesday. Found everything in good condition for the 

 next morning's sport. Tom Webb (the veteran), with his 

 never-failing old deerhound Buck; S N. Everett, propri- 

 etor of the Dukinfield House: Tom White and Jas. Todd 

 (the dead shot of the neighborhood) reported ready for 

 the early morning start. We crossed Salmona Creek 

 just above the Avooa homestead, and each sportsman 

 selected a stand. Sending old Buck a;Ccompanied by two 

 other deerhounds in, we had waited but a short time 

 before we heard the familiar note and knew that a trail, 

 evidently warm, had been struck, warning us that we 

 might see game at any moment. In less than a half hour 

 there came bounding through the underbrush a hand- 

 some young buck, dashing past Tom White. His gun 

 was heard by all in the hunt, but no blast of horn told 

 that success had followed; and soon the hounds were 

 heard to pass his stand. On they came toward Todd's 

 stand at the edge of the creek. In this immediate local- 

 ity deer had, pressed by the hounds, ran to Albemarle 

 Sound, Chowan River or Salmona Creek, according to 

 the direction of the wind. The buck came dashing 

 into the water as though untouched, and swam with 

 apparent ease too far for Todd's No. 1(5 gun. He sprang 

 into a canoe and pushed to get withingunshot. Sticceed- 

 ing, he fired. The buck struggled and kept afloat long 

 enough for Todd to reach him; when the deer was pulled 

 into the canoe and brought ashore — a handsome young 

 buck. Upon examination we found that while Todd's 

 load had entered back of his head, while he was swim- 

 ming, two of his feet and ankles, front and back on same 

 side, had been broken by Mr. White, Ic reminded us of 

 the old story, fifty years old: '-Massashot and the ball 

 had broke a hindfoot and passed through the ear — same 

 ball." See how game this little buck ran, wounded as he 

 was. It reminds one of the great racehorse McWhirter. 



Todd sounded his horn and soon the clan gathered, 

 Webb came, exhibiting his usual nervousness. Notwith- 

 standing he has been in a hundred hunts he can have a 

 buck ague every time. One old hunter laughingly said: 

 "Webb, you can't stick your knife in him, now he is 

 hung up." 



The hunt for the day was over, but arrangements were 

 made for another hunt next morning over the same 

 grounds, and after an early breakfast all reported except 

 Todd and Everett, and by lots we chose stands, Webb go- 

 ing in the drive with his old pet hound Buck. Webb 

 started a large doe, after a short hunt, and feeling her 

 ability to outrun any dog, she played along in front of 

 the dogs; choosing a run upon which there happened not 

 to be a sportsman, and instinctively feeling safe with no 

 one in the drive except Webb. She finally^ ran to water, 

 entered the creek some distance below any of us, and 

 attempted an old trick they frequently practice, that of 

 entering the water, and instead of going across the 

 stream , swimming directly up the current several hun- 

 dred yards, and then coming out on the same side frona 

 which they had entered. 



Old Buck is also up to said tricks. He swam up stream 

 while the young dog followed along the bank. After 

 some time the young dog gave note, and soon they are off 

 again in hot chase. After a short run she started again 

 for water, and again Tom White was located on the 

 lucky stand. He heard them comiag, and sqiiatting 

 down saw the white flag flying through the tall bushes. 

 Knowing she would cross an open space, he prepared for 

 the supreme moment, and in an instant crack! went his 

 gun. The magnificent doe, large and fat, lay before liim. 

 As usual, he who goes furthest and is most anxious has 

 l^oorest success. But we most always feel there is a 

 better day coming. 



I enjoyed delicious venison steak for three days, and 

 left for Newport on Monday last, 



I saw several setters and pointers left last spring with 

 Mr. Everett by Northern gentlemen to be handled until 

 the coming season. Old Buck and Roanoke are looking 

 very well. The early birds having a fine crop of partridge 

 jieas, buckwheat and oats, paired off finely, and are very 

 Jarge and strong for the season. I heard of some nice 

 flocks of turkeys, I hope for better individual success in 

 my next effort. 



(Sepf, 29. — I arrived at Avoca Saturday. Natives are 

 hunting squirrels with great luck, Butterton killed a 

 buck that dressed 156lbs,, Friday, and my twelve-year- 

 old son is oft' this morning with dog and gun , and I hope: 

 may meet with success. Albemarle, 



Beer in Rhode Island. 



Westerly, R. I., Sept, 26.— A doe weighing 1751b8,. 

 was killed at Clark's Palls, a village about eight mileS 

 north of here, Saturday last. Fred Rowse, a lad of seven- 

 teen, was out hunting coons when the deer juntped out of 

 the brush some 15yds. from him. He dropped her in her 

 tracks with a charge of T shot. There is a good deal of 

 conjecture as to where she came from. As there is a 

 small band in Massachusetts it is possible she may have 

 strayed from that section. M. D.. 



[Several deer were reported In Connecticut last year 

 and the surmise was that they had escaped from a deer 

 park. The Massachusetts deer are in Plymouth and 

 Barnstable counties, a long way from where this one was 

 killed]. 



