812 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Oct. 13, 1899. 



it became evident to our friend that he did not 

 know which way he was headed. The weather was 

 dark and cloudy and he had never been in the section 

 before. He wandered on and on, hoping to find some 

 landmark; road or dwelling house. He calulates that he 

 must have traveled at least half a dozen miles without 

 finding a sign of civilzation, when at last he came to a 

 road. Here was a road, but which way would take him 

 toward the railroad station or the way tie wished to go? 

 He concluded to try one direction and stick to it. Soon 

 he met a couple of gunners, Boston gentlemen, though 

 he did not know them personally, they too were lost in 

 the woods, or did not know which way in the road would 

 bring them out at the railway station. They concluded 

 to follow on with our friend, however, and as good for- 

 tune would have it, they soon came out to a farm house 

 and learned that they were on the right direction. The 

 two met by our friend belonged to a party of eight. On 

 the train home they compared notes. Eight Boston gun- 

 ners, with our friend made nine. Four dogs, and not a 

 single partridge. Such is sport in the woods of Plymouth 

 county on a foggy and rainy day in October. Special. 



MAINE GROUSE AND WOODCOCK. 



New York, Oct. 3. — Having just returned from 

 Augusta, Me,, where I have been since June 1, enjoying 

 the trout fishing and partridge and woodcock shooting 

 of that section, I have to say the birds in that section 

 have been more abundant than I have known them for 

 years. I commenced meandering the fields and woods 

 about Aug. 1 to see what the prospects were, and suc- 

 ceeded in locating eight broods of partridge and four of 

 woodcock, all hatched within a radius of two miles from 

 my home, which is one mile east of the city. Of course, 

 I did no shooting at that time, but I had another pleasure. 

 My dog, Queen Monarch, I found pointing on three occa-, 

 sions and on investigating more closely would find a 

 young partridge concealed under a root or rock. This 

 gave me quite a good opportunity to handle the young 

 birds, much to the distress of the mother bird, who tried 

 by all means to lead us away, exposing herself to full 

 view but a few yards distant. A man who would wil- 

 fully destroy a young bird under such circumstances de- 

 serves to be blown off the face of the earth. I allowed 

 the little fellows to go after a few moments, much to 

 the diegust of my dog and the pleasure of the mother 

 bird. And on Sept. 1 1 took down my Parker hammer- 

 less at 4 A. M. and secured in all 32 birds. 



My trout fishing consisted of three days sport 15 miles 

 east of my home. In that time I secured 33 beauties, 4 

 of which weighed l^lbs. each. I also found woodcock 

 plentiful in a spot five miles east of my home, but on 

 account of high alders and thick foliage (sportsman's 

 excuse) I made but a small bag. I consider birds plenti- 

 ful in my section and am more than satisfied with my 

 score, as my last days of shooting was hard work, in- 

 stead of sport and I now have settled down to business 

 until I can tap the snipe on Tuckaho Meadows, in New 

 Jersey, next spring. M. L. C. 



GAME IN MOOSE RIVER BASIN. 



Leaving the Canadian Pacific Railway at Biscotasing 

 on July 34 on canoe trip to Hudson's Bay, we crossed the 

 height of land on the second day and reached the sources 

 of the Mattagami or south branch of the great Moose 

 River, which was followed to our destination. There are 

 moose, caribou and common deer all along the ridge or 

 backbone of the continent, but as one goes clear of the 

 wooded country between latitude 48 and 49 north, the 

 moose and common deer disappear. We saw our first 

 caribou on the headwaters of the Spanish River, one 

 day's travel from Biscotasing. They are numerous 

 within easy distance of the railway and continue all the 

 way to Hudson's Bay. In the winter they frequent the 

 wooded country, biit in March, when the first crust 

 forms on the snow, the main herds pass northward and 

 spend the summer on the great plains in the vicinity of 

 James Bay. Nortli of latitude 49 there is little or no 

 timber, except along the banks of the river the sphagnum 

 moss holds sway, and the country is level, treeless and 

 swampy. 



Bears are numerous along the shores of the Moose, par- 

 ticularly the lower part, near the salt water. The ordin- 

 ary ruffed grouse and spruce partridge are plentiful and 

 so exceedingly tame that they rarely fly, and then only 

 when suddenly surprised. Near James Bay ptarmigan 

 abound. In the spring and fall countless thousands of 

 geese, ducks, plover, snipe, etc, are found in and around 

 the bay. 



On the Kenogamissee Lake, about latitude 48 north, we 

 saw a single wild pigeon, but it would seem there are no 

 large flocks anywhere in the country. I heard it stated 

 that the sharp-tailed grouse is found in part of the 

 region traversed, but none were seen, though some of the 

 territory appears to be suitable for them. 



There are large numbers of whitefish in the Kenogam- 

 issee Lake, also in Lake Matawagminngue, both expan- 

 sions of the Moose River. At Waraton, on the Moose, 

 there are also speckled trout. We secured one over 4lbs. 

 in weight. A 3 pounder chased by a jackfish had taken 

 refuge in the shallow water at the outlet of a spring 

 creek. We shot it with a .33cal. rifle. Several springs 

 feed the river at this point, which seems to account for 

 the presence of the trout. They are of large size, run- 

 ning from 4 to 51bs, It is probable that further north in 

 the interior there are lakes and streams where the tooth- 

 some brook trout may be taken. The country resembles 

 Newfoundland where the trout abound. There is no fish 

 but sturgeon in the northern or lower part of the Moose. 



We returned by way of the Montreal River, which is 

 really the connecting link of an extensive chain of lakes. 

 It is a grand country for the sportsman and, except for 

 wild geese, it is preferable to the territory further from 

 the railway. There is fish and game of all kinds. Very 

 little is country marred by fire: the work of the axe is 

 nowhere visible. An unrivaled canoe trip would be start- 

 ing up the Spanish River, or the Missisauge, on the north 

 shore of Lake Huron, follow either to its source, thence 

 to the headwaters of the Montreal, follow the latter to 

 Matawabika, thence down through Lake Tamagama- 

 mingue and the Sturgeon River, theace across Lake 

 Nipissing and down the French River. The trip is quite 

 feasible and could be completed in six weeks, and the 

 fish and game obtainable, as well as the grand scenery, 

 would be a revelation to any one who had never gone 



over the route. It would shorten the trip to take the 

 railway to Biscotasing or to abandon the canoe at Stur- 

 geon Falls, The best time of the year for sport would 

 be from the middle of September to Nov. 1. 

 Toronto, Sept._9; S. R, Olahke. 



A HUNTER'S MOON. 



IFrora Martha McCalloch Williams's "Field-Farings," Harper 

 Bros., 1893 ] 



Truly there is magic in it. So high, so white it hangs, 

 the flooding silver of it washing out to dun pallor all the 

 lingering scarlet and yellow, and purple and flame of this 

 late autumn world. The charmed wind lies in leash. 

 Nor breath, nor ripple, stirs in the low leaf or the high. 

 From the runnels mists creep slow and slower, to lie in 

 long, straight wefta above the chilling earth. Now turf 

 and weeds are damp, gfistening with fine beads that in 

 sunrise shall show as frost. Through the hush a lone, 

 late cricket chirps, desolately faint. Far and faint from 

 the wood's deep heart the owls send out their shouting 

 whoo-tohoowhooivhoo-Jioooo! 



For all that, 'tis no moon for sighing— this jocund orb, 

 swimming up the east. It showed crescent, ran to quarter 

 in the nights of gay October. Now, at full, it lights the 

 sere fields, the thinning woods — a true hunter's moon, by 

 help of whose shining you shall take and spoil the wild 

 creatures that walk abroad by night. 



Sport of the rarest, and you have true hunting blood. 

 Without it the night shall not, for you, be filled with 

 music; indeed, you are like to get nothing but weariness 

 of body, vexation of spirit. Given so much of primal 

 savagery life holds few pleasures to match the glimpses 

 of such a moon. 



See! Black Daddy is waiting in the cabin door, his 

 burly bigness sharply silhouetted by the red fije-shin 

 inside. He leans heavily on an axe, fresh from the grind- 

 stone, holds a half-dozen unlit splint torches lightly under 

 one arm. A brindled dog, with ridiculous short tail, 

 crouches at his feet, seemingly supine, yet with every 

 sense alert. Outside the clear moon-rays show a smaller 

 black fellow — so dark, his eyes shine fiery-green from 

 under his long lashes. He sits very upright, his bow-legs 

 making queer, bulging shadows on the turf: head aside, 

 ears sharply cocked, tail faintly aquiver. Each fiber of 

 him stands at attention. Axe, torches, are to him language 

 visible — he has no mind to be left out of the sport they 

 foreshow. 



Black Daddy loves his dogs better, almost, than him- 

 self. By the hour he will tell you tales of tkem — Music 

 and Damsel, Days through, they run at his heels; nights 

 through, they watch outside his door. Priceless both, 

 though the one is but a lurching mongrel, the other a 

 cross-breed hound. Dogs of renown both, spite such blots 

 of the scutcheon. Music is the better coon dog. Damsel 

 has no equal for trailing a possum. Both have the finest 

 keen noses, able to pick up the faintest scent, and trail the 

 quarry hot-foot to his lair. 



Very often one is taken, the other left at guard. Natur- 

 ally they hate each the other -with deadly dog-fury. 

 Music has laid his two paws over his master's feet, put 

 his head between them, is quivering through and through, 

 giving out the while little low, piteous whimpers, his 

 plea not to be left behind. At sound of it Damsel, whose 

 name belies his sex, growls slightly, beats the earth more 

 vigorously with his tail, then rises, trots a little way down 

 the path, looking back over his shoulder to see if he is 

 followed. Now he stops short, slinks backward half a 

 rod. The cabin door shuts to with a great bang; Daddy 

 stands fair in the light, with Music still glued to his heels 

 but uttering quick, joyful yelps, A breath's space Dam- 

 sel listens, then is off, with arrowy rush, down the path 

 to the woods. 



Daddy raises a mellow shout, the signal of assembly to 

 his stout young followers, who tumble out, leaping, sing- 

 ing, "patting Juba," as though they had not been gather- 

 ing corn all day. When he offers them each a torch they 

 set up a great crying out, and toss them instantly in a 

 handy fence corner. "We not er guine huntin' ghos'es, 

 an' de's 'nough moonshine fer coon er jiossum," says the 

 boldest malcontent, running away after the dogs. 



Now the rest step sturdily out. Daddy, leading, looks 

 up at the pale stars. There he reads the hours. It is nine 

 o' the clock, so dewy-damp the scent must lie and hold, 

 even in sedge and weeds. The open is bright as the 

 morning. It will be two hours, though, ere the moon 

 stands straight enough to light the wooded hillsides lead- 

 ing up from the creek. A rooling who- whoop comes over 

 his lips. You hear a youngster say, "Dat's it, Daddy; 

 holler possum." The next minute all have fetched a com- 

 pass, head straight for the old field. 



Grapes abound there, persimmons hang sweet and 

 plenty. Master Graycoat must like his feast in it, with all 

 his sisters, cousins, aunts. Mark Damsel's mad delight. 

 See him leap and circle — a black ghost, light and swift, 

 wider, ever wider, in his round. Often sedge quite hides 

 him, briers swallow him up, but nothing daunts or hin- 

 ders. Ah, he has found; hear the low, yelping cry that 

 Music so enviously seconds. The tones are wondrous in- 

 dividual. Music's note might be all-compact of echoes 

 from his ancestral strains. Blood tells, especially hounds' 

 blood. Damsel's clear belling sets all the field aring. 



Hither and yon he dashes, nose to earth, tail high and 

 waving. Truly, Master Possum came in by crooked ways. 

 The trailing dogs give tongue but sparely, so swift, so 

 winding do they run along his track. Around, across it 

 goes, now along the cresting upland, now deep in the 

 thick swales. Now comes chorus of deep baying. Damsel 

 has treed — there to the right, in that single tall persim- 

 mon tree. And look! This clear moon shows two of the 

 gray gluttons crouching close in its slender upper boughs. 

 No use to try and shake them out; the slight limbs would 

 bear scarce a heavier weight than theirs. It is a case for 

 the axe — ah! how swift they fly. Almost before the bay- 

 ing dogs catch breath the slim tree crashes to earth, with 

 two seeming dead creatures still fast in its top. See the 

 long, bare tails, each coiled snug about a limb. Not a 

 quiver, not the turning of hair, though Damsel darts at 

 one to give it an angry shake. Daddy rescues it, bis fel- 

 lows the while making the night world ring with shout- 

 ing, A far hill catches the sound, flings it back a mock- 

 ing echo. 



Somebody begins to chant : 



"OhI Mister Possxim. ye think ye's mighty soon. 

 But ye sho' ter git cotched by the light er de moon," 

 Daddy sniffs at the singer, "Better be savin' dat breff 

 ter hole 'im. Take dis yere stickful, boy, an' go gilpin' 

 'long home." At the word you see that he spUt a stout 



stick, six feet long, a little way at either end, put the tail 

 of a possum in each cleft, and is balancing it across the 

 chanter's shoulder, little as that person likes it. He opens 

 a remonstrant mouth, but is waved away. Daddy is 

 autocrat— disobedience means no more hunting with 

 Music and Damsel. Hark! They have found again — 

 Music this time in the lead. But how queerly they run — 

 giving tongue faint and uncertainly — a perplexed note, 

 as though saying, "We fear to follow our noses." 



The scent runs straight — with now and again a gap — 

 as though broken by a leap. Now the dogs head for the 

 sink-hole, running fast — almost as hard as they can lay 

 legs to earth. They bark furiously — a guttural, angry 

 note, different far to the baying of Master Possum. Ah!, 

 they have stopped short — there, beside that thick, thorny 

 clump overhanging the earthy cavern! See them leap- 

 ing, howling, with bristles upright, with gnashing fangs. 

 Hist! Hear the spitting growls from the thicket. They 

 must come from beast of prey, not beast of game. 

 Daddy listens, his head to one side, mutters "Varmint!" 

 then steps back to plan the attack, A minute later he 

 has lighted his torch, and with two men at his back, 

 armed each with a stout pole, comes up to the angry 

 dogs. He tosses the blazing brand far into the thicket, 

 springs aside barely in time to escape something — fiery- 

 eyed, furious, strong of claw— that leaped hissing, yowl 

 ing at his throat — lies, savagely defiant, spite the blows 

 rained over it, the dogs' angry rushes. 



Daddy speaks to them in sorrow, in anger. "Git 

 erway, you fool dawgs! Whut done come ober you, 

 chasin' dat cat erway? Right smart ole wild-cat he is — 

 but shucks! I don' lek ter be so fooled." Music slinks oft", 

 his tail betwixt his legs. Damsel looks about critically, 

 as though to say: "I knew all the time it was not quite 

 the thing. Depend on it, alone I should not have made 

 the mistake." The poor cat is tossed into the sink-hole's 

 dark depth. Daddy picks up his torch, carefully puts 

 out each spark it has left in the tangle, and goes away to 

 the woodland, faint, smoky pennon trailing out behind. 



He strikes straight for the river channel. Just here a 

 creek makes into it— the tall timber aboimds in hollow 

 trees! wherein Master Coon makes his abode. A rare 

 night rover he— lying sluggish all the day, nor rousing 

 him till darkness has covered the face of the earth. Now 

 the cocks crow midnight; straight moonbeams pour 

 white through the flecked boughs above, and turn all to 

 silvern ghosts the woods' dim colonnades. Doubtless he 

 is well abroad — ^hark! Music has found— is running as 

 for life. "Who-oop! hi-yi-yi-ha! hunt him up, ole dog! 

 hunt him up!" Daddy yells at the note — and is chorussed 

 by the rest. The sound fills all the river- valley, lying so 

 still, lapped in this slumberous calm. Far down it, on 

 the other side, an answering shout breaks out. Other 

 hunters, no doubt— all good men and true; but never, 

 envy them— they may have dogs, get game galore, buti 

 they have not Music and Damsel, whom to follow is a 

 liberal education in a coon dog's points. 



The cry, the yelling, is their very breath of life. HoWi 

 wide Music runs; how high he leaps, sniffing with lifted 

 nose, now this tree, now that. Ah ha. Master Ooon has i 

 been found away from home, cut off from it, indeed, andi 

 is making for it through the tree tops. Over there he 

 left the earth, ran from bough to bough, from tree to 

 tree, till he thought the trail safely broken. Music knew: 

 the trick well, caught the scent hot in the air, has picked i 

 up the trail where Master Ringtail came down, is after, 

 him hot-foot, 



A breathless scamper, truly. Away, away, through 

 thicket, through clear forest, running, stumbling, falling] 

 over rocks or timber, now resting for a minute, now hast-i 

 ing as though life lay in speed. Ever in front to guides 

 you, the short, shrill yelping cutting sharp through the , 

 night, the wild yelhng, the deep halloo, sent back, forth, 

 from bank to bank. Now the sound of axes, a dull crash, 

 comes from the hither side, upborne with a shout of 

 triumph. "Dey's cotcht fus' but Hay we gits de bigges' 

 coon," Daddy says disdainfully, inflating his lungs for a., 

 return halloo. Before it is half out of his throat a wild, 

 full barking fills the air. Music has treed. Damsel comea: 

 tumbling over, together they leap and plunge, noses in 

 air, flinging their full cry up to branches above, where 

 lies Master Coon, now plainly visible, his green eyes 

 shining hate of all below. 



This refuge should secure him. The tree is two feet 

 through, thirty feet to the first limb. Climbing is out of 

 the question. Whether the coon is worth cutting down 

 depends on the strength of your muscles. It is but play 

 for these "good men." By the time you are well breathed 



Suick strokes have sent the tree to the earth. As it falls 

 >addy gathers his beloved dogs to him, a hand on either 

 collar, "Tend ter yo' coon yo'se'fs; I want my dogs 

 'notber night," he calls, holding hard the straining crea- 

 tures, so madly eager to attack their fallen foe. The 

 good men rush at it with clubs and axes; it darts, creeps, 

 leaps through the brush, eludes their striving, and dashes 

 safe into the woods. 



Followed, it is not overtaken. Music runs off on a 

 fresh scent, trees in a hollow, and sees the frightened 

 captive chopped out of it. The moon drops westerly- 

 oars sound on the river. Here are hunters from the other 

 bank come to gossip, join forces and finish up the night. 

 Now, indeed, the chase shall stir your blood. They have 

 brought six good dogs. All in cry, the heavens shall 

 overflow. It is find, follow, kill— the first cock-crow 

 sounds. The night has grown chill, though the huntsmen 

 do not feel it. Suddenly some one shivers, with a hint 

 of chattering teeth. Make a log fire on the instant. The 

 axemen are hewing hard at a big tree that looks to have 

 a handsome coon colony. Before it falls you may warm 

 you through and through. 



And afterward. While the fire was abuilding, some- 

 body stole away, rifled a potato patch, and has filled the 

 fire with sweet, yellow yams. The sight of them brings 

 hunger indeed. Until they are roasted eaten piping hot, 

 no foot will stir. Not even Music's or Damsel's, See 

 how quiet they lie by the fire, nose in paws, with shut 

 eyes, dreaming, no doubt, of the night's victorious runs. 

 Beyond, the river ripples, the moon drops lower and 

 lower, frost skims the leaves till they rustle underfoot. 

 You tread them as air. The soul of the night, of the 

 chase, has gone into your blood — you are drunken as 

 with new wine. Sleep comes to you tardily, but of a 

 sweetness before undreamed— such sleep as truly 



"Knits up the revelled sleave of care." 

 If you wake late, what matter? Daylight is garish, 

 commonplace— cheaply exchanged in any measure for 

 such glamor of sound and sight as last night knew. 



