FOREST AND STREAM. 



[April 13, 1898. 



"PODGERS'S" COMMENTARIES. 



A Personal Paragraph. 



San Francisco, March 31.— In glancing over the 

 Forest and Stream of March 23 last evening, I found a 

 communication from Judge Greene, wherein he explams 

 his position on the question of the protection of game, and 

 his recent efforts in the passage of a law to that end and 

 purpose, and thereby exonerates himself completely from 

 the implication in some of my recent scribbliuiis, tliat the 

 sportsmen of Oregon and Washington were derelict in 

 their duty, permittmg the wholesale destruction of plieas- 

 ants. 1 might perhaps give a Scotch judgment in the case, 

 "collectively, not guilty, but don't do it again." But in 

 the special unplication that J udge Greene has been derehct, 

 I shall have to apologize, as from his defense it is evident 

 that he has not been idle nor indifferent to the wanton de- 

 struction of the noble game in question. Thus do we do 

 good in our generation and don't always get credit for it; 

 we will, however, give the Judge due credit now and take 

 it all back. 



Pheasants and Quail. 



Speaking of pheasants, I would like to ask Judge Greene 

 if he has had any experience as to the assertion that 

 wherever quail abound, the pheasant is exterminated or 

 driven away. The question has come up here in the 

 proposition to stock Goat Island, an island in the very 

 center of our habor, with pheasants. " It is stated that the 

 pheasants have to quit wherever quail are, and prepara- 

 tions are being made to captm-e and remove from the 

 island all the quail before placing the pheasants on it. 



It seems to me a perfect absm-dity that a bird as large as 

 a pheasant could be "knocked out" by a little chap of a 

 quail, especiallv as we all know what a spunky a,nd 

 beUigerent bird' the pheasant is. It is the geuHrai belief 

 that the game cock was bred from the pheasant; at any 

 rate. I know from personal experience that the bird is a 

 fighter from way back. 1 had a pair in my stable yard, 

 and when I went out that way in the morning, and 

 through the yard, the cock would make for me, and op- 

 pose my progress, and fight like a little son of a gun, and 

 if a stray rooster Irom a neighboring yard came foraging 

 over the fence, he never got back again without help. So 

 it seems too ridiculous to talk about a quail standing any 

 chance with a pheasant, as spunky as little top-knot is. 

 No doubt he is a good one as fai' as he goes, but he don't 

 go quite far enough. 



Pheasants and Climate. 



It is a settled conviction in my mind from personal 

 efforts in the way of raising pleasants that climate has 

 very great influence in the question. My experience, I 

 would say, has been in the south at Jekyl Island, Georgia, 

 more particularly, where we gave the birds the greatest 

 care, even going to the expense of importing a man from 

 England, especially, to care for them. The first year was 

 a great success as far as hatching out went, the eggs being 

 placed under the common l>arn-yard hen; and we turned 

 loose nearly a thousand. But they have never seemed to 

 increase; in fact, 1 doubt if there are as many to-day as 

 we turned loose the first year. This I attribute to the 

 great heat of the summers there, and to the insects that 

 abound in the southern hammocks. The pheasant is evi- 

 dently a very hardy bird, and can stand almost anything 

 in the way of a hard climate, vide that of Oregon this last 

 winter. Not that I would for a moment insinuate that 

 the climate up that wa^' is not almost tropical, and that 

 oranges cannot be raised in mid-winter, and that flowers 

 do not bloom every day in the year; I don't think the 

 pheasant cares much whether they do or do not; but he 

 is evid<^ntly weU satisfied with his lot if he can be let 

 alone out of season, and as Judge Greene and his associates 

 have taken his part, we are content, and will say no more 

 about it. 



Raging Trout Streams. 

 I know it is very mean to rejoice over the misfortunes 

 of others, but I can't help chuckling at the utter knocking 

 out of the poachers and lawless small boy this year on the 

 trout question. The streams have all been raging torrents, 

 and fisuing has been impossible, and although to-morrow 

 will be the opening day, there won't be a trout caught. 

 So the pot-fisherman and the squab granger have not only 

 been perforce obliged to respect the law, but cannot even 

 yet find a stream in fishing order, whereat he must be 

 wretchedly unhappy, especially that he couldn't break the 

 law— the meanest part ot the business. He probably won't 

 care to fish at all now, no fun in it when he is not defying 

 the statutes. The floods have been so extensive that a 

 great area is still under water, and the fish have the 

 largest field for exploring, and have had a chance to in- 

 vade the farmer's dooryard with unfortunate results, it is 

 feared, as they are hable to be caught inland by the reced- 

 ing waters and destroyed, as has been the case on former 

 occasions, and made poor fishing the following year. 

 Index Expurgatorius, 

 On page 249 (March 23 number) you give a very pretty 

 photo of a trout stream and bordering forest, being, as 

 stated, the fourth prize in the amateur photo competition. 

 To my mind it should come much nearer number one, for 

 it is beautiful; but 1 enter my protest to the title, "After 

 the Speckled Beauties." Years ago 1 assisted at a meeting 

 of jolly good fellows, aU sportsmen, when we devoted one 

 entire very rainy day to the purification of the language 

 of sportsmen from stilted and hackneyed terms. We en- 

 tered into a solemn compact, each one and all, to devote 

 ourselves to the cause and to enforce the expunging of 

 certain time-worn and threadbare terms, even though it 

 involv^ed force of arms and possibly interviews with the 

 ^ police judge; and I distinctly remember that the term 

 " "speckled beauties" Wus at tlie top of the list. I, thei'e- 

 fore, in comphance with my oath, protest against the 

 use of this time-worn and venerable allusion to so re- 

 spectable a fish as a trout. There were other equally ob- 

 jectionable terms that we tabood, such as ' 'My hair stood 

 straigirt up," "1 felt my hair raise at the sight." "I drew 

 a bead on him," calling a gun "Old Betsy," tftc. I can- 

 not remember them all now, but I do take cognizance of 

 speckled beauties, and rise to a question of privilege to 

 Bay, drop it. It is of the past. It is worn to the bone. Let 

 it rest and give us a rest. 



The Decoy Doe. 

 I note the calamity that befel yoiu- correspondent 



"Mux" in making the bet he did on the fate of the decoy 

 doe, mentioned in my story of her usefulness to her owner 

 up at the Sacramento Eiver Soda Springs. The other 

 man had the dead thing on him, for he knew from expe- 

 rience no doubt that no man ever had a pet he particu- 

 larly prized, a fine dog, for instance, that some scalawag 

 to whom the dog was superior in mtelljgence, did not 

 shoot it, usually with the excuse that it was killtng sheep; 

 and a deer above all things was the most likely to be 

 killed almost in the dooryard. These cases are as liable 

 as a flock of tame ducks in the vicinity of a stream.where 

 they are often encouraged to get shot at a price consider- 

 ably above the market. It is also a lesson to "xMux" never 

 to bet: I have been told that it is a very demoralizing 

 practice. 



I was going to say something about the photo of the 

 gentleman sitting under tlie tree with rod and fish basket, 

 smokmg the long pipe, but I iiave already exceeded my 

 limit and must defer him, but I env^ his calm serenity 

 and perfect enjoyment of the shade .ind rest after evi- 

 •lently a good morning's sport. I will venture to say that 

 he has a well filled basket. No man can wear that ex- 

 pression of perfect content with no fish. It is not in the 

 nature of things. I don't suppose it really makes much 

 difference to some insects whether they get there or not, 

 but it does to a man, and it is dollars to cents that our 

 friend has arrived. The position, the pipe and the ex- 

 pression prove it. Podgers. 



A SPORTING SYMPOSIUM. 



BY A COUNTRY PARSON AND HIS DEACON. 



Prelude. 



It is agreed betwixt the Deacon and myself that we shall 

 each tell the best story we know about the other for the 

 benefit of the readers of the Forest and Stream, each to 

 select his own subject ami method of treatment, and neither 

 Lo take any offense at the recital of the other, as indeed how 

 could we, considering that we have been sportmg friends 

 over both gun and rod for the last thirty years, and in all 

 probabiUty shall be till boih hunting and fishing are no more 

 tor either the one or the otner. As the toss of the penny has 

 given me the privilege to tell my tale first I shall begin with- 

 out further ceremony. 



I. 



The Parson's Story About the Deacon. 



My friend the Deacon has a beard — mark that well, for 

 thereby hangs my tale. A good long chin whisker it is, 

 such as few men can raise; very distinguished looking, 

 well sprinkled with gray now, thougli it was black as the 

 raven's wing Avhen I first made the Deacon's acquaint- 

 ance. In those early days of our friendship, observing 

 what assiduous care my friend bestowed upon his hand- 

 some beard, I did much fear it might become a source of 

 worldly pride and vanity, but 1 never suspected how 

 much amusement it was one day to afford me, and how 

 mucli piscatorial perplexity it was to occasion my friend 

 the Deacon. 



Well, it was a pleasant September day, now^ some years 

 ago, and we were out on the river bass fishing. Ovlt luck, 

 as often happens the bass fisherman, ha.d been indifferent. 

 The fish "were there"— that we very well knew— and 

 "there" they were going to stay, too, for all our tempting 

 bait, for they were not in the humor, however much we 

 might be, and in fishing, if anywhere in the world, "it 

 takes two to make a bargain." 



So, the Deacon sat in liis boat anchored beside a rock, 

 and I sat in mine, liiiewise anchored beside a rock, about 

 fifty feet away. The day was drawing toward a close; the 

 long shadows were beginning to fall; everywhere around 

 us was the witchery of a calm autumn evening, I was 

 dozing over my rod when, all of a sudden, click-click- 

 click went my reel, and almost at the same moment click- 

 click-click went the Deacon's. After a hard and exciting 

 tussle we each brought his fish to boat, a fine gamy cap- 

 ture of some two or three pounds weight. 



Our luck now became good, and om- sport was fine. By 

 and by, while waiting for another strike, I heard the 

 Deacon's reel running, and looking in his direction I be- 

 held a most singular and laughable spectacle. The 

 Deacon's beard had come too close to his reel, and had 

 somehow got twisted up with his line, and a 31bs., nay, a 

 olbs. bass was pulfing away like mad. 



And there sat the poor Deacon, a picture of perplexity, 

 both hands desperately grasping his rod, with his head 

 bent down close to his reel, wincing and "ouching," 

 afraid to stop his reel for fear of losing his fish, and afraid 

 to let his reel run for fear of losing his beard. Was ever 

 fisherman in a more truly emban-assing and uncomforta- 

 ble position? 



Now, I know I ought to have pitied the Deacon, and I 

 did; but my sense of humor qiute overmastered my sym- 

 pathies. For the soul of me I couldn't help laughing, it 

 was so comical. I acknowledge with shame, however, 

 that under the stress of a peculiar temptation to merri- 

 ment. I added, I fear nnt a little, to my friend's discom- 

 fort hj my laughter, and still more by my words of counst 1 

 and advice, impossible under the circumstances to follow. 



"Give him a leetle more line. Deacon; just a leetlemore. 

 He's a big fellow, and he'll break away if you don't let 

 him ran." 



"Can't give him any more line," grumbled the Deacon, 

 "not an inch more. Can't you see what a fix I'm in?" 



"WeU, if you can't let him run, reel him in — but slowly, 

 slowly, Deacon." 



"Don't you see I can't reel him in !" 



"What was that last remark of yours. Deacon?/ For I 

 was more than half sure that my friend had made use of 

 some words of an apocryphal sound, but nothing more, I 

 was fully persuaded, than his emphatic "Scissors and but- 

 lons" — a peculiar expressions to which he always resorted 

 in extreme cases. "Go for him! Haul him in I Easy, my 

 boyl Don't get excited, Deacon!" 



The Deacon actually shook his fist at me— the first and 

 only time in thirty years! 



The fish now took to skulking at tlje bottom of the river, 

 and the Deacon sat there, beautiful as a picture, with the 

 evening shadows around him, meditating apparently on 

 the vanity of earthly tiling's in general and of a fisher- 

 man's luck in particular — when, with a suden rush, the 

 beastly bass made a leap into the air in a frenzied effort 

 to shake himself loose. But meanwhile the Deacon had 

 got out his knffe and had actually sawed off the half of 

 his glorious beard, and was now a free man again and 

 ready when the rush came. His blood was up. Fire was 

 in his eye — and tears, too; and the way he handled that 



fish seemed to me, the solitary spectator of the battle, a 

 furious testing of the Deacon's temper as weU as of hia 

 tackle. His rod bent and swayed; his reel clicked and 

 rang; his line sawed the water and whizzed through the 

 air. Inch by inch man and beast fought for the mastery, 

 and it was beautiful to behold how graduaUy the Deacon's 

 tackle and experienced skill, reinforced by his suppressed 

 irritation over the trick the beastly fish had played him, 

 were gaining the day. At last he towed the played- 

 out bass to the side of his boat, scooped him in with his 

 long-handled net, a powerful five-pounder — threw down 

 his rod into the bottom of the boat, and shouted to me: 

 "Let's go home!" 



"Better wait till it gets quite dark, Deacon. Do you 

 think your wife '11 know you?" 



We 'went home. When the Deacon took up the coUec- 

 tion the next Sunday in church, everybody wondered 

 what had possessed him to cut off his long beard, but 

 nobody knew except the Parson. 



The Deacon's Story About the Parson. 



That's a right good story the Parson 's writ about me, 

 and none the woi^e because it's true, every word of it, 

 and I guess some words that aren't there, too, which I 

 hope '11 not be counted against me. But what on earth 

 is a poor mortal to do when your beard gets a tangled up 

 that way with your reel and a blamed fish begins to yank 

 it out by the handful? I reckon Simon Peter himself 

 made use of rather strong language once in a while when 

 his nets go<. tangled, and it's no wonder a poor Deacon 

 like me should forget himseff a little when in such an 

 uncomfortable fix. "Human nature is human nature" 

 the world over — especially when you're fishing 



Or hunting. For my story isn't about fishing, but about 

 hunting, "coon huntiuK" 1 call it; and then the Parson 

 laughs, for he knows my story about him quite as well aa 

 I know his story about me, and maybe just a trifle better. 



The Parson 's fond o' cider. Put that down first of all, 

 because thereby hangs my tale. 



We were out quail shooting one faU day some years 

 back and at night we put up at a farm house, where the 

 Parson was well acquainted, having often stopped there 

 before. No matter about our luck with the birds; I'm 

 not talking about that just now, having much better sport 

 to relate. 



When night came we were put to lodge in separate 

 rooms, both on the ground floor, only the Parson was in 

 a room at one side the house and I in a room at the other 

 side. 



It was a grand moonlight night. Everything wag so 

 quiet and still, and the aii- was so cool and keen, a fellow 

 could sleep without rocking, and I got into bed as quick 

 as I could for a good night's rest. 



But the Parson couldn't sleep without cider. Mighty 

 fond o' cider the Parson was. 1 used to fear he might get 

 a bit too fond of it, at least when it was a leetle hard like. 

 And the Parson he'd noticed a barrel of cider laid up for 

 use on a pair of trestles by the side of the house, just out- 

 side the window where he was put to sleep. Now, if that 

 barrel had been on my side of the house instead of his, 

 what I am going to rtlate would never have happened; 

 but so it Avas that when the Parson was aU ready to jump 

 into bed, he went to the window and raised it to let in a 

 little fresh air during the night, and standing there in his 

 night clothes a few minutes looking out into the farm- 

 yard, aU bright as day, nearly in the clear moonUght, he 

 unfortunately spied that barrel of cider. 



"Ah!" said he, "I wish I had a glass of that cider— I 

 wonder if there isn't a tin cup or a tumbler near by that 

 barrel somewhere? Guess nobody'd see me if I'd just step 

 out this window and tap a leetle— just a leetle— before 

 going to bed?" 



No sooner said than done. Out the Parson stepped 

 from the window— the window sill was but a few feet 

 from the ground— and made softly and straight for the 

 cider. 



But the baiTel had been "laid up for use," as we say, 

 and was not "on tap." The bung was in tight. No tin 

 cup was anywhere around, and it was too far and too 

 bright moonlight to venture to the barn after a rye straw, 

 and even if he had a straw there was no hole in the barrel 

 into which to put it. 



'Any man in his senses — and in his night-gown besides — 

 would have let that barrel of cider alone. But the Parson 

 was thirsty and began to pull at the bung in the end of 

 the barrel, thinking just to loosen it a trifle and let just 

 a little run— wh-^n, whish! the bung flew out and the 

 Parson fell back sotised to the skin with the whizzing 

 cider! Fearing the whole barrel would run to waste, he 

 picked himself up, looked around in vain for the bung, 

 ducked his head and ran up stream, as it were, against the 

 current, and finaUy succeeded in getting his thumb in the 

 bung-hole. 



And now the real fun just began to begin. For his 

 thumb not being big enough to stop the bung-hole, the 

 cider squirted out this way and that — ^whish! fizz! zip! 

 now in his face, now down his neck and back , and again 

 full in front, until he was at last forced to call me with 

 that well-known whistle of his which I had heard for 

 thirty years past, but neva* under such peculiar circum- 

 stances as these. 



I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard it — and so 

 I reckon were the dogs too. Perhaps they hi.d been asleep 

 already, but the Parson's whistle woke them, and out they 

 came, five of them, pell meU, liokerty-scoot, bow-wow! 

 and spying the man in white they put up their hair and 

 forthwith gave tongue and chase. 



Abandoning the cider to its fate the Parson fled, 

 jumped into the open window, the dogs in full chorus 

 after him. Into the bed (a feather bed at that) he plumped 

 just in the nick of time to save his bacon, for the dogs 

 had followed him in at the window and were now leaping 

 upon the bed, and jumping off' and running under and 

 yeUing like mad, by the time 1 had got into some of my 

 clothes and come on the scene. 



"Scissors and buttons. Parson, what's the matter? Have 

 you flushed the whole covey with the fuU pack, run a 

 coon to cover under the bed, or what?" 



"No," said a voice from under the feather bed, "nnf a 

 coon under the bed, but a mighty w^et one in it. Call oflE 

 those confounded dogs and I'll teU you." 



I kicked the dogs out the window and shut it down, 

 and then the Parson came out from under cover like a 

 half-drowned rat and told me this story about himself, 

 right there in the pale moonlight, but made me almost 

 take an oath I'd never teU— and I never did tiU now. 



