204 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[March 10, 1894. 



I was now so hungry all the time, in spite of Mr. Ir- 

 win's lavishness at the" Richelieu tables, that Mrs. Irwin 

 took my case in hand. Mrs. Irwin had a new chafing 

 dish, with which she amused herself cooking for her lady 

 friends in her own parlors, and by means of which she 

 had learned to do oyster stews, omelettes and Welsh rare- 

 bits beautifully. In solemn conclave we all concluded 

 that if I would eat three square meals a day and a Welsh 

 rarebit just before retiring, I ought to be able to get along. 

 Mrs. Irwin said she was willing to do the rarebit, the 

 more especially as she had found a new kind mentioned 

 in her cook book, which she hadn't tried yet. But just 

 what connection the Welsh rarebit had with our quail 

 hunt, I must tell another time. E. Hough. 



909 Security Building, Chicago. 



MIDWINTER DUCKING. 



It is not all of hunting to hunt. As we sportsmen grow 

 older we become less ambitious about bringing home big 

 .strings of game and heavy creels of fish, and find more 

 enjoyment in the simple pleasure of being out "where 

 nature's heart beats strong." Some even give themselves 

 up to gormandizing and then get "roasted" for it by 

 "O. O. S." 



You remember that feasting bass trip of his last sum- 

 mer? It's a bit remarkable how little has been written 

 about eating and drinking since that story was published. 

 It takes Smith to do such things to a turn. 



The sportsman's life is a medley. Every string is 

 toiiched and every chord struck sooner or later. If the 

 sportsman's life with all its hopes, joys, pleasures, pains, 

 distresses, reverses, ups and downs could be painted in 

 colors, what a kaleidoscopic exhibition we would have. 

 (Right here I want to warn "Podgers" not to hint at 

 "water" colors for Oregon sportsmen). Of course, it rains 

 in Oregon. Nobody ever said it didn't; but doubtless it 

 might rain more. Again I must warn "Podgers" not to 

 insinuate that it might if there were more months in the 

 year. 



But let it rain, for it seldom gets too wet for ducks and 

 duck hunters, although this winter has been and still is a 

 "terror." We have had heavy rains since early fall and 

 the lakes have been brim full; so that our winter sport 

 with the ducks has not been up to the average. As a 

 natural consequence, we have had more time for 

 pleasures of a social character by the bright fires in our 

 cabins, which doubtless are just as enjoyable. 



Portland is on the Willamette River, twelve miles 

 below; the Willamette empties into the great Columbia. 

 Six or seven miles further down, on the Washington side 

 is Knapp's Landing. A half mile across the meadow is 

 Lake River, a deep, dull stream 100yds. wide, the outlet 

 for Big Vancouver Lake. Another 100yds. from Lake 

 River is the Hotel Mead, a two-roomed structure hidden 

 among the elms on the bank of the f amous Green Lake, 

 where J. Roberts Mead and your humble servant cook, 

 eat, sleep, make night hideous, entertain other congenial 

 spirits and lay plans for the circumvention of wary water- 

 fowl. The said hotel or shanty, or whatever you may 

 choose to name it, is provided with all that goes to make a 

 hunter's life a happy one, indoors. Mr. Knapp, for his 

 own and his neighbor's convenience, operates an immense 

 old water-logged ferryboat across Lake River, by means 

 of a cable stretched from bank to bank in the good old- 

 fashioned way. This ferry will nicely accommodate four 

 yoke of cattle and a wagon at a trip, but is kept locked 

 most of the time. So Mead and I keep a boat hidden in 

 the buck brush to make sure that we will not have to 

 stand out in the rain all night on the reverse side of Lake 

 River, when we go down in the afternoon; for Knapp 

 owns all that country and lives a mile away from the 

 ferry on the top of a big hill, where the notes from 

 Gabriel's trumpet could hardly reach him, to say nothing 

 of the cracked dinner horn that hangs complacently on 

 the corner of the old hay barn by the ferry. 



Well, Mead had invited our old friend George Dehardy 

 to spend Sunday with us at the lake, and George couldn't 

 refuse, for he dearly loves to hunt canvasback. It was 

 arranged that I should go down Saturday afternoon on 

 the 3 o'clock boat, sweep out, wash up the dishes, fix up 

 the blinds and overhaul the decoys for the day's shoot; 

 while Mead and George were to come down on the mid- 

 night boat. It was understood that I should have the 

 ferryman leave one of our boats on the Columbia River 

 side for their accommodation, but I changed my mind 

 and concluded to sit up for the boys. Besides, by the 

 time I had supper over, the dishes washed and had over- 

 hauled about 150 decoys, I would have very little 

 margin for sleep. And then, too, a cunningly 'devised 

 plan to steal some hay out of the old hay barn on the 

 other side of Lake River, with which to repair blinds, 

 made it necessary that I should keep the boat on my side 

 of the river. So Mike and I pottered around with supper 

 and decoys, until quite late and quite dark, just such 

 a time as is generally selected for stealing chickens, hay, 

 etc. Then we crept to the river and into the boat, and 

 silently across. How lonely and spook-like the old barn 

 looked. I found my way in through a hole a couple of 

 feet square and called the dog in after me. Not that I 

 was afraid myself, but the dog might get lonesome out- 

 side, you know. If I was a spook I would make that old 

 barn my headquarters. Well, I was carefully gathering 

 up hay, silently moralizing on the elevating influences 

 that surround the sportsman (particularly the duck 

 hunter that needed hay), when a sound came through 

 that hole in the wall that froze the very marrow of my 

 bones. "What the d— are yon doing there?" If it had 

 been the roar of a lion, neither the dog nor myself would 

 have been more startled; but I collected my senses 

 enough to stammer that I was just securing a little hay, 

 while Mike tried to run his usual bluff. The fellow was 

 not to be bluffed by a yellow dog, and insisted upon an ex- 

 planation. By this time I had roped up enough hay and 

 crawled out. It was one of Knapp's men returning from 

 Vancouver, and things were soon satisfactorily squared. 

 Then I left my boat for the boys, and he took me across 

 on the old ferryboat and everybody was happy. While I 

 worked away on the decoys, I heard the midnight boat 

 whistle for Knapp's Landing over on the Columbia, and 

 after waiting a reasonable time I lit my pipe and saun- 

 tered down to Lake River, walked out on the ferry and 

 leaned against the cable stanchion. It was very dark and 

 still. I could hear Mead unlock the boat on the other side 

 and then came the muffled sound of oars. Then low 

 voices which I recognized. George is a German, and is so 

 honest tha,t he can neither give nor take a joke. What 



he sees he sees, and when he knows a thing he knows it 

 just as hard as anybody. "Oh he's asleeb by dis time and 

 maybe we can't get him ub;" I heard George say. 

 "Well," replied Mead, "I know how to get him out; up 

 the Molalla last summer, Billy and I discovered how to 

 start him out at any time, day or night, ha, ha, ha." 



As the boat passed about 20ft. above my position on the 

 ferry, George suddenly exclaimed: "Look! der's fire on 

 dot ferrybost." Mead stopped rowing and looked around 

 but could see nothing, simply because I had turned the 

 bowl of my pipe. "What's the matter with you, George?" 

 said Mead reproachfully, "have you got 'em? "Well," by 

 gracious," said George. "I vas sure dat I saw fire on dot 

 bost, but I guess dot I must be misdaken." Again the 

 boat pursued its silent way, and again George startled 

 the midnight air with: "By Jimminy, der is fire on dot 

 bost." Again Mead could see nothing, but by this time 

 he was getting suspicious and yelled out: "Oh J — ." No 

 response. "Say J — ," said Mead, if you don't answer I'll 

 cut loose at you." I answered, for I knew Mead pretty 

 well. He is generally a man of his word. 



A midnight lunch, off to bed, a good sleep, breakfast 

 before daylight, and we found ourselves out in our blinds 

 in good time for the ducks. We got but about three 

 dozen canvas, for there was a poor flight as usual. But 

 we had a jolly good time. Honestly, I believe that we 

 had about as good a time as if we had killed a hundred. 

 Mead got about twenty birds, and was apparently per- 

 fectly satisfied. I never heard him grumble at his luck in 

 all my life. George got but half a dozen, but he swamped 

 his boat, got a good ducking, and felt that he had had a 

 great time. I was the only kicker and now apologize, for 

 I have had my share of ducks in the past, and am getting 

 old enough now to take what comes. 



That fire on the post reminds me of the story that 

 Frank Lawler tells on Ed. Sullivan: Ed was pilot of the 

 old hunting boat Caliope. She would drop the hunters 

 off at their respective landings, and then, returning pick 

 them up after dark. No lights are allowed in a pilot 

 house. The night was dark and Ed. was smoking a cigar. 

 He thought he had picked up the last of the hunters, 

 when he dicovered a light on the shore in an unfre- 

 quented place and promptly blew his whistle, turning 

 bow on. 



Neither Ed nor Frank remembered putting anybody off 

 there and Ed was not in the best humor over the matter. 

 Ed looked again and the light was gone, but it soon shone 

 out again, and in to the shore he ran to discover that the 

 hunter's light was only the reflection of the fire end of his 

 cigar against the glass of the pilot house, with its back 

 ground of intense darkness. S. H. Greene. 



Portland, Oregon, Feb. 24. 



STOP THE SALE OF GAME. 



A Platform Plank.— Tlie sale of game should be forbidden at all 

 times.— Forest and Stream, Feb. 10. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



Game which is bought in the market is not badly needed, 

 and its absence will cause no one a pang of regret. Many 

 a pang of regret is caused the many sportsmen who find 

 that a few market-shooters have despoiled their pleasure 

 grounds. Game bought in the market gives little satis- 

 faction. Game given by friends to friends delights the 

 giver and the receiver. Robert T. Morris. 



New Yore. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



Your suggestion of "A plank in the platform prohibit- 

 ing the sale of game at all times," meets my most hearty 

 approval, and I think should be unanimously indorsed by 

 every honest sportsman throughout the country. 



I believe that the time is ripe, and that we should have 

 a rigid law prohibiting the wholesale slaughter of game 

 for market by market-hunters and trappers at all seasons 

 of the year. 



Our game birds and animals are already very scarce, 

 and the tide of destruction against them is slowly but 

 surely depleting our forests and fields; and the time has 

 come to throttle the market-hunter, the pot-hunter and 

 every other hunter whose sympathies are with selling 

 game. 



Agitate the good work. There are hundreds and 

 thousands of honest sportsmen to-day who voice the sen- 

 timent expressed, and. who are willing to uphold the 

 plank in a platform of that kind. D. P. Faust. 



Trkmont, Pa., Feb. 26. 



Philadelhhia, March 2.— Editor Forest and Stream: 

 The motto nailed to the mast by your paper, "Prohibit 

 the sale of game," is in harmony with the inclosed bill 

 which I prepared last year and submitted to the Legisla- 

 ture of this State, with some assurance of its passage, but 

 I regret to say it failed. The preservation from utter ex- 

 tinction of our native wild game and fish is almost impos- 

 sible unless such action as is contemplated by the inclosed 

 bill is taken very soon. Notwithstanding efforts every 

 year are made to restock our streams, illegal fishing and 

 pot-hunters soon exhaust the supply. I propose to try 

 again next year to have the bill passed, with better suc- 

 cess I hope. R. M. Hartley. 



[The bill forbids the taking of brook trout for sale; sell- 

 ing them; hiring people to catch them; transporting them 

 for sale. It is a good bill and should be law in every 

 troutonhabited State in the Union.] 



Attleboro, Mass., Feb. 26.— Editor Forest and Stream: 

 I have been a reader of the Forest and Stream for the 

 last fifteen years and in that time there has been more or 

 less said in regard to the game laws and game preserva- 

 tion, some good and some bad, but I think your idea is 

 just what is needed. Stop the sale of game at all seasons. 

 And I would suggest a small tax, say $2, on every gun 

 per year, the money so collected to be paid over to the 

 different State game associations to be applied to the pur- 

 chase of game for stocking purposes. C. T. H. 



Asbury Park, N. J., Feb. 24.— Editor Forest and 

 Stream: Your advocacy of non-marketing of game is a 

 long stride in advance of all contemporaries and should 

 be heralded with delight by all true lovers of the gun. 

 Viewed in any light such a law cannot work serious 

 injury to any and would be of inestimable value to scores 

 of thousands. The market-hunter and trapper of course 

 will raise a howl, but well-directed effort in any of the 

 honorable trades or employments will yield to that class a 

 better income than they derive from the sale of game, 



and will debar them from no privileges accorded to 

 others. This will mean a lease of life to game and infuee 

 new life into the waning interests of forest and field 

 pleasures. Keep it up, and be assured of the cordial sup- 

 port of the great army of American sportsmen. 



Leonard Httlit. 



I second the motion. Stop the traffic. Make the price 

 of game the skill and endurance to hunt and kill it. 



G. O. Shields. 



OLD SCENES REVISITED. 



Lindsay, Ontario. — A few weeks since a request ap- 

 peared in your always interesting journal for experiences 

 in the forests or on the streams of Canada, this land of 

 rook and river. 



The doings of a deer hunting party of six Ontarions, 

 who have just returned from the woods with ten fine deer, 

 if given in detail would doubtless prove amusing, if not 

 instructive, to the readers of Forest and Stream. 



As prearranged with our captain, who, by the way, is a 

 worthy representative of Ontario's wise management of 

 its streams and inland waters, we were to meet for our 

 holiday bunt at Big Hawke Lake, on the headwaters of 

 the Gull River, which takes the rainfall from the height 

 of land east of the south branch of the Muskoka and 

 from the west of the Madawaska, whose innumerable 

 lakes and streams interlock with those we were to hunt 

 upon, finding their way down to the sea by the noisy 

 Madawaska, the Ottawa and the noble St. Lawrence. The 

 triple chain of lakes feeding Gull River and draining the 

 northern townships of the important counties of Victoria 

 and Haliburton, unite their soft, dark waters in the basin 

 of Cameron's Lake. Thence hastening over the once 

 romantic Falls of Fenelon, they ripple softly by that mys- 

 terious, love-hallowed shore (made sacred to the memory 

 of Ogemah and Manita by Wm. McDonnell's exquisitely 

 poetical romance of the Indian legend of Sturgeon Point), 

 adding to their volume, after the passage of the Bobcay- 

 geon Rapids, another fifty miles of lovely lake scenery, 

 when they are hustled through the babbling Otanabee into 

 Rice Lake, and down the Trent Valley to that grand re- 

 ceiving basin after which our fair province was named — 

 Ontario, the Beautiful. 



Lindsay being the railroad and steamboat center of this 

 district, was of course our base of supplies and home of 

 the majority of the party. In years past it was, and now 

 % the starting point for many hunting and canoeing ex- 

 peditions to the "back lakes" of Ontario; some of them 

 going through by water to the far-famed Muskoka Lake 

 region, others to the broad bays of Nipissing or Opeongo, 

 while some of our venturesome boys have successfully pad- 

 dled their own canoes as far as the Mattawa and beyond 

 to Lake Yemiscaming. One of these early canoe trips 

 was recorded (May, '77) in Forest and Stream, under the 

 heading of "Roughing It in Canada." It mentioned this 

 town as the northern terminus of the Midland Railway 

 system, thus illustrating the progress now made by the 

 iron horse, whose snort and whistle are daily heard, 

 alarming the moose and other big game among the head- 

 waters of Big W T hite Trout Lake, in haste to make con- 

 nection with the energetic C. P. R. 



A canoe trip through this elevated lake region in the 

 month of September or glorious October is the ideal ex- 

 cursion, and far exceeds the luxurious travel afforded by 

 the Pullman car with its darky waiters thrown in, that 

 count for nothing compared with a well-fitted double 

 canoe, board or bark, with a fearless Canadian guide to 

 steer the way. The sweet independence of living for 

 weeks iu your own snug canvas home, bracing the nerves 

 with nature's own true tonic, lungs full of pure ozone, 

 supplying a healthy appetite with Al camp bread, fish or 

 game, with an occasional pot of "the finest potatoes on 

 earth" or of well-steamed porridge, or beaver-tail soup, 

 which for nutritive properties cannot be excelled by any 

 known productions of the most gorgeous city restaurant. 



The delay and annoyance of shipping canoes on the 

 G. T. R. is proverbial. Mr. White, the genial district 

 traffic superintendent, admitted the grievance a just one 

 in regard to the Haliburton branch of the G. T. R., hence 

 but few tourists or hunters care to repeat their canoe ex- 

 perience on this line. I have often admired the ingenuity 

 of a Pittsfield (Mass.) Mend, who years ago used to make 

 annual canoe trips to this part of Canada. After pur- 

 chasing a Canadian hunting canoe, he would have it cut 

 into three parts and fitted with clamps and nuts, pack it 

 carefully into his baggage trunk and thus avoid delay 

 and extortions. 



On Nov. 2 our party with two light butternut board 

 canoes, availed themselves of the hunter's tickets per G. 

 T. R., good for thirty days at one fare, 2001bs. of baggage, 

 dog and gun free, but not canoes, oh, no; not even at 

 owner's risk of handling off and on cars, except they were 

 billed as packages of l,0001bs. each! We could not in- 

 dorse such a "whopper," so sent them "express" in an 

 empty box car at a charge of three prices per pound. 

 After a tedious ride of three hours we arrived at Gelert, 

 some thirty -five miles on our way, meeting our reliable 

 friend Hartley with his first-class team and rig, having 

 the care of Her Majesty's mail for Minden. He at once 

 assisted his passengers to seats, stowed the baggage as 

 best he could, and called for the canoes. Again we had 

 to submit to red-tape management by the express com- 

 pany until our prepaid receipt was confirmed by a mes- 

 sage from Lindsay, horses, mail and men impatiently 

 waiting in the rain in the meantime. At last, having 

 securely roped our canoes over the wheels we drove off 

 at a rattling pace into the darkness, sheltered from the 

 rain by friendly umbrellas. The time passed pleasantly, 

 listening to the learned remarks of the doctor from 

 Markham, and to the still-hunting stories of our artist 

 friend from Orono. 



Good fare at the Minden Dominion Hotel, with a bright 

 sunny morning, put the whole party into pleasant humor 

 for continuing the stage journey of four miles to Moun- 

 tain Lake. 



On loading up our canoes they were found right and 

 tight and a credit to their maker, Pat Dorris of Lindsay. 

 Passing over Mountain and Twelve Mile lakes, and the 

 Lesser Bushkong, we found ourselves well prepared for 

 lunch at the Peterson Line. A steady paddle of three 

 miles under the lee shore of Big Bushkong brought us to 

 the up grade portage of a quarter of a mile to Hall's Lake. 

 Here we looked in vain for the wooded bay where, in the 

 fall of '65, Toasty cut out his first doe and stopped the 

 gallant race of his first buck. Settlers had evidently 

 taken possession of the surroundings. After a windy pas- 



