338 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



f April 28, 1894. 



IN DIXIE LAND.-VII1. 



[From a Staff Correspondent.] 

 Do Bob Whites Pack? 



If one should ask 100 experienced sportsmen the ques- 

 tion, Do Bob White quail ever band up in numbers larger 

 than bevy numbers, i. e. , do several families ever unite 

 and take wing together, after the fashion of the mountain 

 quail or the blue quail, or as the pinnated grouse do in 

 autumn? it is very likely that 99 out of the 100 would say 

 No. Among those who would say "Yes," would be Mr. 

 A. 0. Paris, of San Antonio, Mr. R. Merrill of Milwaukee 

 and myself. Mr. O. C. Guessaz of San Antonio, who saw 

 the same instance perhaps less perfectly than we did, 

 would say "No," and would ridicule the idei that it could 

 be possible. Yet Mr. Paris, Mr. Merrill an 1 myself fully 

 believe that we saw one flock, bunch, or aggregation of 

 Bob White quail which numbered between 75 and 100, 

 which all took wing together in one body, and which lit 

 as one body, no more scattered than such a number natu- 

 rally would be. Mr. Guessaz was a little further back and 

 did not see the birds at the instant they rose to the dogs. 

 He saw them on the wing and thought they were meadow- 

 larks, though he does not claim that he saw the white tail 

 of the larks, and I think only offers the lark theory as the 

 best explanation of the phenomenon. Mr. Paris, Mr. 

 Merrill and myself thought the manner of flight was that 

 of the Bob White. We marked the birds down upon the 

 top of a cottonfield knoll. Some of them, nearly one-third, 

 I saw go into the thicket, which larks would not do and 

 which quail would. Moreover, where we marked the 

 birds down on the cotton, we began to put up quail, and 

 found them scattered and running all over that field all 

 the rest of the evening. Yet we did not put up any larks 

 there. Mr. Guessaz thought the birds were larks, and 

 that they ran off, and that the birds we found were a 

 bevy which had not been started, but which we found 

 right where we marked down the mysterious birds. And 

 there the question rests. I have not yet met a sportsman 

 who would admit that our birds were quail. Yet I am 

 myself altogether satisfied that they were. The impossi- 

 ble thing often happens. 



It may seem still stranger to readers how there could 

 be any question about this, since it was simply a matter 

 of eyesight in which all should have agreed, if all were 

 hunters enough to know quail at all when seen. Yet how 

 this could very easily happen will be understood at once 

 by any one who has shot over Texas cotton field country 

 on a very cloudy and rainy day. We were having just 

 such a day, and we found it very hard to distinguish the 

 birds against the reddish brown and gray of the cover 

 over which they flew, and it was hard to mark them 

 down well at any great distance. Often we pulled down 

 on larks that sprang near us, thinking they were quail. 

 The country was full of larks, which were often in great 

 flocks. At 200yds. it would have been hard to distinguish 

 a lark from a quail at first sight. We were 60 or 75yds. 

 behind this big flock of birds when the dogs put them up, 

 and we saw them the whole of their flight, I think they 

 were quail. It is possible that several bevies may have 

 been feeding near together, and have gone up together 

 for the once. We saw no more such large bodies of quail, 

 though of distinct bevies we found a remarkable abund- 

 ance, and they were all very large bevies, some with 25 

 or 30 birds apparently. 



We found that the Texas Bob Whites run a great deal 

 more after they alight than the Northern birds do. Very 

 often the dogs would road hundreds of yards from where 

 the birds were marked before they would get them 

 fairly stopped and pointed, and often it seemed that the 

 birds would rather run than fly. Evil associations cor- 

 rupt good manners, and I suppose this trait is caught 

 from a too close juxtaposition to the racehorse blue quail 

 of the Southwest. 



The Texas Bob White seemed to me smaller than the 

 Northern birds, of an ashier cast of plumage, and of a 

 flight hardly so strong or long. The apparent swiftness 

 of a bird is much diminished when you have it out in the 

 open, and most of our shooting was done in the open 

 fields. 



Details. 



But I suppose a great many people will be most anxious 

 to learn how many birds we saw, where they were and 

 how many we killed. To these let me patiently reply that 

 I don't know how many we killed. The rain stopped our 

 shooting, and we were able to keep afield for only a few 

 hours; but I think we had about sixty birds to the four 

 guns. We could have killed a great many more if we 

 had had any pressing necessity to do so. As it was, we 

 found it much drier over at the Mexican house where our 

 team was put up, and much cleaner in the Mexican's door- 

 yard than it was in the cotton fields during the rain. 

 No matter how tumble-down a Mexican's house is, or how 

 poor the owner, you will always find the dooryard swept 

 scrupulously clean for some * distance about the house. 

 This is a sort of insect-like habit the Mexican women 

 have. 



How many birds we saw in all I could not say, but 

 probably as many as 400, nearly all on a place not much 

 over three-quaxters of a mile square. The locality was 

 about twenty miles out from San Antonio. Our friends 

 apologized for not showing us any more birds. No shooter 

 in the North has any idea of the numbers of birds even 

 now in these Southern States. It seemed to me that Dick 

 Merrill and I were singularly fortunate in always landing 

 right where the birds were the thickest. Certainly no 

 one could ask a country any fuller of game than that on 

 which we shot that day in January. The face of the 

 field was continually animated. Doves, larks and quail 

 were flying, one or 1 the other, and the cottontail rabbits 

 were unflagging in their efforts to get shot — in which 

 many of them were successful. Our Texas friends shoot 

 quail so much that this was an old story to them, and they 

 gracefully left most of the shooting to Dick and myself. 

 This deficit of valuable guns was valuable to the quail, 

 but not to the rabbits, for both Mr. Guessaz and Mr. Paris 

 were seeking for cottontails with an unappeasable eager- 

 ness. They said they knew a great way of making 

 Hasetvpfeffer out of these cottontails, the which was a 

 dish a great deal better than broiled quail, baked quail, or 

 any other kind of quail. The cactus thickets and chapar- 

 ral were full of the cottontails, and every once in a while 

 the crack of a gun would be followed by a wild yell of 

 ' 'Hasenpfeffer!" 



The Last Shoot in Texas. 

 This was our last shoot in Texas, and it was very clever 

 of our friendB to give us the benefit of it, when the cir- 



cumstances are considered. Both of them had been late 

 with us the evening previous, talking as shooters will over 

 all the themes of interest, and. had then found business to 

 keep them up still later. Mr. Guessaz came to our hotel, 

 so that we could all get an early start together, as we had 

 to drive about 20 miles out in the country. Our scheme 

 of all occupying one room, so as to wake up together, 

 resulted in a talking bee, prolonged till past midnight, so 

 that I can vouch for it none of us had slept over an hour 

 when the porter rapped on the door and assured us on his 

 personal honor that it was after 3 o'clock. Then we 

 hustled out, got our team and looked up Mr, Paris, who 

 looked as though he had never been asleep at all, but 

 wanted to be. A late and early cafe gave us our break- 

 fast, and we were miles on our way before the day broke. 

 Then followed rain squalls all day long, so that at the 

 middle of the afternoon we ptarted back to escape 

 another which was heralded — and escape it we just barely 

 did, for things were freezing when we got to town, and 

 that night the hardest storm of the winter set in, the 

 thermometer going down to 18° above zero. The quality 

 of a norther is such that a man will nearly freeze to death 

 in one when the thermometer registers only 32° above 

 zero. 



We were a sleepy but still a merry party that rainy day 

 in Texas, and as I have shown, we had good sport and a 

 pleasant time in spite of the weather. Poor Guessaz 

 went to sleep once while he was driving the team. Once 

 we left Mr. Paris with the team while the rest of us beat 

 out a field by the roadside, and when we came back we 

 found him stretched out on the seat, fast asleep, with one 

 long leg stuck through the front wheel. The team, un- 

 hitched, was standing patiently in the middle of the road. 



"I don't see what you fellows are laughing at," said 

 Mr. Paris; "I put that leg through the wheel on purpose. 

 If the horses had started up, I reckon I'd have known it, 

 wouldn't I?" 



Mr. Paris, at present a well-to-do photographer, and a 

 good one, too, was at one stage of his still young life a 

 member of the Texas Rangers, and there acquired a very 

 low opinion of horses in general, hitched or unhitched, 

 "bronco" or not. He came near having a circus with one 

 that same day, however. As we approached our Mexi- 

 can's house, driving across the fields, we came up to a 

 team of Texas horses which the Mexican, in greaser 

 fashion, had left standing fastened to the plow, out in the 

 middle of the field. As we came up the horses took fright, 

 and one of .them, a wild, unbroken thing, started to 

 plunge and run. We looked to see both the creatures cut 

 to pieces by the plowshare, but Paris got to the handles 

 and the lines, and by dint of good horsemanship kept 

 their heels away from the share. Plunging and pitching, 

 both horses started off at a great gait. Paris sunk the 

 share deep into the loose soil, and away they went full 

 tear for the house, with Paris holding on bravely, though 

 hustled hard to keep his furrow straight. After him came 

 the greaser, calmly smoking a cigarette, and seemingly 

 unconscious of the fact that he had nearly lost his team, 

 as he would have done but for the slim ranger, for had 

 the horses ever started running with the plow out of the 

 ground they would have kicked and cut themselves to 

 pieces. 



Paris was lightly dressed, and the ground was wet as it 

 could well be, but whenever we stopped for rest he would 

 lie down full length and take his rest that way — enough 

 to horrify a physician and terrify a tenderfoot. 



Both our friends were prime field shots, as indeed nearly 

 all the San Antonio shooters are. In so good a game 

 country they have much practice, of course, and that is 

 something. I noticed one little device that Mr. Paris had 

 which I never saw before — a small, pointed ivory sight 

 let into the rib of his shotgun about three-fourths of the 

 way back from the muzzle. He thought this helped him 

 to line up more accurately, and perhaps the eye would 

 learn to catch it swiftly, if one were deliberate, though I 

 am afraid I could never see it or the front sight in quail 

 shooting. 



Plenty of Deer. 



The place where we shot quail that day is near the edge 

 of a great wilderness, mostly covered with mesquite and 

 other wood, which stretches away for some thirty miles 

 or more. There are no roads and no houses in these, and 

 one could easily get lost in that monotonous, rolling, closely 

 covered country. In this timber there are many deer and 

 turkey, with wild cats and some javelinas (peccaries). We 

 longed to explore this region a little, but had not time. 



Of deer there surely must be a great abundance even 

 along the edge of this timber belt, for I am confident I 

 saw the fresh sign of 30 or 40 different deer that day. 

 Most of this was in the fields where they crossed at night. 

 We did not hunt in the thickets. 



"I would rather hunt quail than deer," said Mr. Guessaz, 

 who has had a wide experience with all the game of the 

 State. "You see a deer standing off a way in the woods, 

 and you plank him, and there you are. You go hang him 

 up and get all bloody up to your elbows, and have to carry 

 your deer may be a mile, and then your fun is done. One 

 shot ends it. In quail shooting you can walk along and 

 enjoy yourself, be a good deal cleaner and less tired, and 

 don't need feel that you've killed a great big animal you 

 don't want anyhow." 



A Little One For a Cent. 



Mr. Paris had along his young setter, a lashing, wide- 

 ranging fellow, and Mr. Guessaz had his famous heavy- 

 weight pointer. This dog weighs, I should think, about 

 2501bs., or maybe 3501bs.; anyhow, he's bigger than a 

 man. He's a good dog, a thoughtful dog at times, but 

 when he goes over a cotton field he leaves dents in it like 

 prehistoric rhinoceros tracks. I wouldn't have that dog 

 step on me again for a thousand dollars. One time we 

 noticed the old fellow stopping and sort of pausing and 

 thinking, and we thought maybe he was going to point a 

 bevy. He wouldn't come away, and at length we went 

 up to him. He was snuffling and digging at a little hole 

 in the ground, and we saw that he was haling from their 

 fur-lined nest a whole hatching of tiny little cottontail 

 rabbits, which he was eating, and apparently enjoying, 

 much as one does Blue Points on the deep shell. He had 

 all the little fellows eaten but one, a blind and fuzzy being 

 about as large as a mouse. This one our slim ranger man 

 rescued and held tenderly in his hands. Finally, not dar- 

 ing to leave it in the nest, he carefully put it in his pocket 

 till we got to the buggy, when he put it in among the 

 dead quail under the buggy seat. The long ride to town 

 was cold for the little fellow, and when Mr. Paris took 

 him out at the hotel he fell over in his hand, apparently 

 at the verge of death. A little warnith revived him, 



however, and the next day Mr. Paris was carrying him j 

 around town in his coat pocket, and said he had taught 

 the infant to eat milk famously. 



Cactus and the Greasers. 



In all this part of Texas there is more or less cactus, 

 and the Northern dog or the Northern shooter is quite apt 

 to grow more or less informally but satisfactorily 

 acquainted with it about a hundred times a day. The 

 cactus is a thriving plant, but I don't like it as well as a ; 

 watermelon vine. The residents of the country, horses, 

 dogs and all, have a better understanding with the cactus, 

 and never get stuck with it. There is no getting rid of it, 'j 

 so the population is resigned. 



The odd ways the greasers have of doing things makes 

 one think they must have a streak of Chinese in them. 

 At El Paso there is a church, where the good fathers 

 once upon a time wanted to put a bell up in the belfry. 

 (They had carried the bell, which weighs a ton or so, 

 from the sea coast on the shoulders of the Christianized In- 

 dians.) They didn't have any block and tackle, but they 

 had plenty of time; so they built a sloping mound of dirt , 

 as high as the belfry and about a quarter of a mile long, 

 and found no difficulty at all in carrying the bell up along 

 the incline. 



Speaking of cactus, you know, if you burn the thorns 

 off the leaves, the cattle will eat the leaves. In fact, a 

 great many cattle had nothing better part of the time this 

 winter, and the thorns wern't all burnt off, either. Well, 

 not long ago the devout greasers of a certain little Mexi- 

 can town were annoyed, so the story goes, by a lot of 

 cactus, which persisted in growing on top of their church. 

 They thought over it, and even prayed the patron saint 

 to remove it, but it wasn't removed, and they concluded 

 to take desperate measures. They knew that cows would 

 eat singed cactus, so they sent a man up who spent a 

 week and got about all the thorns burnt off. Then they 

 roped a cow and hoisted her up on top the flat earthen 

 church roof. In about a week the cow had eaten all the 

 cactus. Then they let her down, and gave thanks that 

 they had got rid of the cactus on the church. If a Mexi- 

 can thinks anything is wrong about his church he gets 

 uneasy and is driven to mental activity. 



The Old Missions. 



He who thinks America has no ruins has not studied 

 America, and he who thinks all the Spanish missions and 

 all the mission climate are located in southern California 

 is again evident in his ignorance. No more interesting 

 ruins exist on the earth than those of the old San Antonio 

 missions, and no chain of missions possesses more interest 

 than these, provided one qualifies both the above state- 

 ments with a reference to the conditions under which the 

 buildings were erected. They were great church builders, 

 those early Spanish fathers." Why did they overrun al 

 the desert country of the dry southwest, spreading all 

 over New Mexico. Arizona, California, even all over the 

 State of Texas? What drove them on, and what magic 

 had they in their tongues, or their arms, to compel the 

 savage natives to do those incredible feats of labor? One 

 must remember that this was a wilderness and that build-i 

 ing of any sort must have been accomplished only under 

 difficulties . which we can only imagine. Yet the old 

 fathers, hundreds of years ago ventured out into the 

 wilderness, spied out the little streams of water, compelled 

 their savage subjeets to labor as slaves in the unusual 

 task, built great irrigating ditches which compel admira- 

 tion even to to-day with the astonishment they create, 

 and made the land bloom and bear perennially. Noi 

 only this, but they, who must have been a mere handful; 

 with the rude assistance of these wild savages — hereaboute 

 some of the most warlike and savage of all the American 

 tribes — builded churches, so long ago that their stone 

 walls are crumbling, but so well that even to-day then 

 ornamentation imperishably defies our best skill of to-day, 

 You will travel long before you see cold stone fretted intc 

 more lovely detail than you will find in the carvings oi 

 one of Huica's windows in the ruined "Second Mission.', 

 You stand and look at it, and wonder and dream and sigt 

 over it all — the nobleness of the artistic thought, the 

 energy of the purpose, the carefulness of the executive 

 mind which here wrought so well the work which is a1 

 last fading away and gradually being reclaimed by nature, 

 Always man is piercing the ears of nature, to put ir. 

 jewels. And every century nature looks to it that the 

 conventional wounds shall need reboring. 



On our way in from our quail hunt our friends drove us 

 around by two of the old missions. One of these, th<. 

 Mission of Nuestra Sefiora de la Concepcion la Purissims 

 de Acuna, usually known as the "Second Mission," if 

 about three or four miles from town. This was once ttu 

 most beautiful of all the missions, and it is now the mos' 

 in ruins. It was here we saw the carvings of Huica, th<! 

 Spanish artist and sculptor, whom the early father) 

 brought hither from old Spain for the purpose of making 

 beautiful their temple in the wilderness. This missioii 

 was a fortress as well as a church, and was well built fo: 

 the warfare of those days. Half its walls are down, thi 

 vaults and subterranean passages lie bare, and in a smokV 

 remnaut of the larger wing live in ^squalor a greaser fam 

 ily who are supposed to be caretakers for the spot. Thej 

 pray and dream, and though they do not understand th< 

 ruins about them, no doubt cross themselves to the sam< 

 saints worshipped by the men who laid their broad foun 

 dations, who had built the great acequias which even ye - 

 scar deep the earth, and who laid out fields and gardeni> 

 which can still be faintly traced. So let the roses take thi 

 ruins and kiss them finally to sleep, and well rest tht 

 fathers and the artist Huica who wrote so well in stone, 



Sadie, the Chile Queen. 



But we are forgetting something which should not be 

 forgotten, an attraction of San Antonio which to sonu 

 minds would no doubt rival the old missions in interest- 

 Sadie, the present reigning chile queen, under whose reginu, 

 Dick ate his first and his last chile suppers in San Antonio, 

 as well as a great many between. 



There are few who know what a chile queen is. As e 

 type she is the one new thing under the sun. No novelis) 

 has discovered her (though some day I am going to ge* 

 Sadie to tell me her story, which will be pretty near 

 novel) and no newspaper writer has exploited her so fal 

 as I know. She remains a type. 



The chile queen is a result of evolution. Originally all 

 chile girls were born free and equal, and engaged in tht 

 sale of tortillas and the pursuit of happiness all abou 

 alike. They sold their peppery wares at night out oi 

 doors because they lived in a summer country and be 



