464 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[June 2, 1894. 



MY FIRST TURKEY HUNT. 



I had come South for recreation; a little boating and a 

 little fishing and shooting would answer my requirements. 

 I chose Biloxi, Miss., as my headquarters, knowing it to 

 be an ideal place for sailing, and, as the back country is 

 thinly populated and intersected by numerous bayous, it 

 seemed reasonable to suppose that game and fish would 

 be found in sufficient quantity to satisfy the requirements 

 of a very reasonable sportsman. And right here let me 

 upon the heads of all falsifiers, prevaricators, loose talkers 

 and bearers of false witness, cry anathema maranatha, 

 the reason of which will appear later on. 



After bathing in the delicious sunshine of Biloxi for a 

 day or two and. incidentally getting my bearings, I over- 

 hauled my fishing tackle and prepared for sport. On in- 

 quiring as to the whereabouts of the best fishing spots my 

 head was soon filled with tales of the redfish, speckled 

 (salt water) trout, sheepshead, croakers, mullet, green 

 trout (black bass), not to mention enormous jewfish, gars, 

 bullfish and other marine monsters. I began to think fish 

 were too plentiful to afford much sport, but after trying 

 several places indicated without getting a bite, my mind 

 was speedily relieved on that score. I had begun to won- 

 der if all these fairy fish tales were not products of the 

 tropical Southern imagination , when, just about time, I 

 made the acquaintance of a fine, well-informed old gen- 

 tleman, with whom I had not five minutes' chat before I 

 felt he was the man I wanted to meet. 



He was a retired judge, genial, kindly and humorous, 

 and he had learned how to weigh evidence and separate 

 fact from fancy. Said he, "Fishing good? Yes, some- 

 times, but not now; it's out of season. You might catch 

 a few up Biloxi Kiver, but it's rather doubtful. "What 

 about these fish stories you hear on all sides? Well, most 

 of them are true, in a measure, but not in weight," he 

 added, with a smile. "You are acquainted, I suppose, 

 with the singular fact that some fish increase in weight 

 more rapidly after death than when living. Curious fact 

 in ichthyology, isn't it? Well, these fish stories are about 

 that sort of fish. These loose-talking fellows don't lie, as 

 a rule; they merely exaggerate. For instance, a jewfish 

 weighing 2501bs. was caught out there in our channel 

 about three years ago. The loose-talker says to the in- 

 quiring stranger, 'Yes, sir, there's prime fishing here; git 

 most any kind you want. Why, one day last fall, I think 

 it was, Hank Smith hauled up a big jewfish right out 

 there in the channel that weighed — lem me see— 3501bs. , 

 wasn't it Bill?' (to a bystander) and Bill thinks it was about 

 that weight — don't exactly recollect — It was 'thar or thar- 

 abouts. ' And so the stranger is stuffed; and if he is a loose 

 talker himself, he tells the next newcomer at the hotel 

 that 'there was a jewfish caught right out there last 

 month weighing 5001bs.,' and the next Mr. Loose Talker 

 passes it along as caught last week, 'weight 6001bs., sir.' 

 And so it goes until the por jewfish wouldn't know him- 

 self from a sperm whale. 



" Yes r it's curious how little trustworthy information you 

 can get out of the average man, even when he means to 

 be straightforward with you. In the first place, he has 

 not formed the habit of acquiring accurate information, 

 it's too much trouble; besides, it requires a certain amount 

 of mental training. Its easier to get it by hearsay and 

 still easier to color it in telling, for man delights in the 

 marvelous and loves to surprise his fellow's with an un- 

 usual tale even when he has no motive of self-interest for 

 exaggerating. And, I may add, next to telling a mar- 

 velous tale, man delights in listening to one. It is upon 

 this element of our human nature that the newspapers 

 fatten, and they encourage its growth by their garbled 

 and sensational reports, and thus educate and increase the 

 pernicious tribe of loose talkers." 



To all of which I say, Amen! 



When I came to inquire about the shooting it was just 

 the same, "Plenty of partridge (quail) just across Back 

 Bay." I went— walked ten miles — and dog (plug, bor- 

 rowed) got up one covey of six. This I reported to a 

 hunter I met. "Yes," he said, "partridge is purty sca'ce, 

 but if ye git back a few miles f urder ye'll find plenty of 

 doves and larks in the plowed fields, and mebbe some 

 early robins and cedar birdsl" I found later that these 

 are regarded as legitimate game throughout this section. 

 On inquiring about ducks I was told they were pretty 

 scarce, but 1 could get plenty of gulls and pelicans over 

 on Deer Island. Doves, larks, robins, gulls, pelicans! 

 Now, I am not one of those who go about, gun in hand, 

 seeking to kill or maim everything that flies. I do not 

 make war on song birds or sea gulls, or the great big 

 foolish-looking, harmless pelicans. Those who know me 

 know that I kill nothing but game birds, and mighty few 

 of those, might pertinently be added. 



The evening 1 returned from the "partridge hunt" I 

 met a neighbor who spends his winters here— a Northern 

 man who had told me he was fond of shooting. Learn- 

 ing of my ill success across the bay, he said: ' 'You didn't 

 go to the right place." (I might here remark that the 

 right place is always "a little further on.") "There's 

 plenty of game around here and I know it," he continued. 

 "Why, man, I saw a wild turkey over on Deer Island 

 yesterday afternoon. Saw his tracks, followed them up 

 and started up a big fellow, a gobbler. Lord! how he did 

 runl" Deer Island is a long, narrow, pine-timbered spit 

 parallel with the shore. It is seven miles long and its 

 western end, on which there are three or four shanties 

 lies opposite the town, three-quarters of a mile distant. I 



had hunted over several miles of it and found nothing 



but mosquitoes— therefore I facetiously suggested that he 

 had mistaken a pelican for a turkey. "Pelican be 

 hanged," said he contemptuously, "don't you suppose I 

 know a wild turkey when I see it? If I'd had a gun I 

 could have knocked him silly." 



A further attempt at humor on my part was not well 

 received. "Look here," said he, excitedly, "I know what 

 I saw, and it was a wild turkey. I don't say there's more 

 than one, though there may be, and this one may be a 

 stray, like the one shot here in town, near the drug store 

 about six weeks ago- I can show you exactly where I 

 saw him— about a quarter of a mile east of the last house 

 where the big dead pine stands out," he said, pointing 

 across the bay to the spot. 



I sniffed incredulously, and left him glaring at me re- 

 sentfully. "But," I mused, all the same, on my way 

 homeward, "the man says he's a shooter— he says he saw 



it. It's not impossible, and there was a stray killed on the 

 main street a few weeks ago. By Jove! perhaps there is 

 a turkey over there." That night I loaded some shells 

 with BB. 



The next morning, an hour before dayhght, a skiit 

 sneaked quietly out from the wharf in the darkness, leav- 

 ing in its wake a quivering, phosphorescent trail of silver. 

 All now was still save the sound of the oars and the rip- 

 pling of the water against the boat's prow. Here and 

 there gleamed the bright light of an oyster schooner, with 

 its long, trembling penciling of gold upon the dark face 

 of the throbbing tidewater. 



The island was soon reached, and I stole quietly through 

 the palmettoes to the center of the grove to wait for day- 

 light. The morning was coolish and the mosquitoes sim- 

 ply ravenous. I turned up my collar and tied a handker- 

 chief about my face, but it was of little avail, and my 

 execrations, if not loud, were deep, while I listened with 

 all my ears to catch the noise a turkey would make in 

 descending from his roost to stretch himself and take his 

 morning feed. 



The dawn came rosily, the breeze whispered softly to 

 the pines, the little birds twittered a good morning to the 

 new day, the mosquitoes ravened upon my devoted corpus, 

 but no gobbler made glad the sight. A full half -hour 1 

 watched, listened and fought the mosquitoes, when sud- 

 denly I heard a subdued kowk-kowk-kowk, and hastily 

 slipping behind a pine, my heart was in my throat as I 

 saw the black heads of turkeyB in the palmettoes about 

 150yds. distant. Luckily they bad not seen me and were 

 slowly feeding toward my hiding place. One, two, three, 

 four, five — I counted as they came slowly into view — a 

 magnificent gobbler and four hens. The palmettoes were 

 almost knee high and pretty thick, so it was not often I 

 caught sight of more than their heads, and now that my 

 heart had descended from its altitude to its normal 

 position, and reduced its stroke, so to speak, I laid my 

 plans cooly for at least the gobbler's demise and possibly 

 one of the hens. I felt pretty certain they would continue 

 feeding toward me, for less than an eighth of a mile back 

 of them was a house which they would be apt to give a 

 wide berth. If they veered, to pass to my right or left, 

 they would still be within easy range, as the woods from 

 shore to shore did not exceed 100yds. in width. I resolved 

 to be patient and motionless, biding my time until they 

 reached a space comparatively clear of palmettoes about 

 40yds. distant. 



I carefully got my gun in readiness in order that I need 

 hardly make a movement beyond taking sight when they 

 came into range. I resolved when that time should 

 arrive I would give a low whistle, just sufficient to startle 

 them and cause them to raise their heads, and I would 

 try to do this at a time when two or possibly three of 

 them were in line, but of one thing I felt tolerably cer- 

 tain, whether I got one of the hens or not, that gobbler 

 was my meat. The thought of leisurely rowing over to 

 town and landing at the oyster wharf, amid the throng 

 of boatmen and oyster openers, and then sauntering up 

 the main street on my way homeward, with the gobbler 

 trailing from my shoulders, filled me with most pleasing 

 anticipations. Henceforth I should be an authority on 

 turkey hunting. I had abundant time for reflection of 

 this sort, as a full half hour had elapsed since the game 

 was discovered, and they moved toward me very slowly. 

 I stood like a statue awaiting them and in the meantime 

 the Deer Island mosquitoes were having a banquet. 

 Jerusalem, how they did bite! I knew when I made my 

 plans what I should have to endure from them and had 

 set my teeth, compressed my lips, half closed my eyes 

 and let them eat. They hadn't often a chance at so pas- 

 sive a victim, and they were literally "out for blood." 

 "Let 'em feed," I muttered grimly, "old Mr. Gobbler out 

 there will pay their board." Occasionally I would press 

 the side of my face against the rough bark of the pine 

 and kill a few dozen, but I did it cautiously, I wasn't 

 taking any chances. What did it matter, a few bites, 

 more or less, as long as I bagged Mr. Gobbler." 



For nearly an hour I waited thus until the strain be- 

 came really distressing. I was dead tired of standing in 

 that one rigid attitude, to say nothing of my itchy, prick- 

 ling, smarting face and hands, but all this time the flock 

 was slowly but surely approaching. I was bound to get 

 my reward. 



At one time I had an awful scare when a measly, 

 spotted, razorback hog dashed, with many grunts, into 

 the open space destined for my private slaughter pen. In 

 addition to startling me greatly, I was palsied with fear 

 lest the flock take alarm. Weariness and mosquitoes 

 seemed to vanish for the moment, and it was with a great 

 gasp of relief that I Baw the gobbler, after ruffling up 

 with a start at first sight of the hog, calm himself and 

 give a few soft, reassuring gobbles to his female consorts 

 and then quietly resume feeding. The breath I drew at 

 this seemed to come up from my boots. Had they taken 

 the alarm I honestly believe I would, in my rage, have 

 put the two changes of BB straight into that hog's ugly 

 head. 



At length, after a seemingly interminable time, the 

 flock drew near the magic circle. My heart beat faster 

 and faster, and my stiffened limbs trembled when the 

 gobbler with a strut stepped out into the open space and 

 peered warily about. 1 recovered my nerve almost in- 

 stantly and muttered, "Great Scott! What a shot! He's 

 mine as sure as fate!" I drew a bead on the bronze 

 beauty, my finger was just about to press the trigger, 

 when the thought of my plans recurred to me, and I kept 

 him covered and waited for a hen or two to come into 

 range also, as there were two of them within a yard of 

 him, a little to one side. Fatigue, nervousness, mosquitoes 

 were now all forgotten, and I felt a wave of triumph 

 surge through me as I saw myself landing in town liter- 

 ally covered with pendant turkeys. With a chuckle I 

 said to myself: "This is my busy day — for turkeys," and 

 then as I gloatingly took a sight along the barrel: ' 'Great 

 Caesar! Couldn't 1 just paralyze him? He'd never know 

 what hit him. But, hold on; don't get brash! You 

 might just as well get one or two of those henB," and 

 then as the hens came closer I resolved when the three 

 got in range to give them both barrels and to slip in a 

 couple of fresh shells as I ran out to finish the cripples, 

 for I knew it would be foolish to expect to kill three 

 turkeys outright at the first discharge. After a minute 

 of breathless watching: "By Jove! there they are in a 

 lump— all three of them. Now for the whistle," and with 

 a thumping heart and nerves steady, but strained to the 

 bursting point, I puckered my parched hps, when— crack! 

 went a branch with a sharp snap right behind me. In 



my wrought-up state I could not have been more startled 

 had it been the discharge of a cannon. I cast a rapid 

 look behind, and there, not 10ft. away, leaning on a long 

 staff, stood a sallow, slab-sided, sun-bonneted native 

 female. I gazed at her in wild-eyed, helpless amazement. 

 "Mawn'n', suh," said she, "wotyeh aimin' at?" 



The Father of Lies helped me to swallow my heart and 

 lungs at a single gulp, and I answered thickly, "Rabbit; 

 behind that log yonder." 



"Huh," said she with a grin, "tho't yeh wus aimin' at 

 my tuhkeys." 



"Oh, no," I replied, with an engaging Ananias smile, 

 "I'm not wasting any powder on tame turkeys." 



"Wull," she said, "they duz look like they wuz wild 

 ones, to be sho," and then, with a look at my face, added: 

 "Skeeters pow'ful bad round yeah, suh. Mawn'n." 



I watched her wade through my flock of turkeys, lean- 

 ing on her long staff. I had no wish to detain her. I 

 wanted to be alone. * * * 



I need not mention the beatific state of mind in which 

 I hastily sought my boat. The shore breeze on the beach 

 relieved me of the swarm of mosquitoes, and while I 

 bathed my smarting face and hands in the brine I held a 

 somewhat sarcastic conversation with myself upon the 

 subject of turkey hunting. Mr. Loose-Talker, who was 

 the cause of my visit to Deer Island, also came in for a few 

 pithy remarks. 



It may be well to add that I did not land at the public 

 wharf, but rowed directly home, stopping only to moisten 

 my tingling face and hands. 



The thing that stared out at me from the mirror in my 

 room was not the complacent countenace of a successful 

 turkey hunter; it seemed rather to resemble a chunk of 

 rare beef with a central garniture of over-ripe tomato. 



The next two days were spent in the house applying 

 lotions to inflamed surfaces, and reading selections from 

 the books of Job and Jeremiah, with occasional intervals 

 of pious meditation. To have ventured upon the street 

 with that visage would have invited a quick trip to the 

 pest house at the Ship Island Quarantine and an immedi- 

 ate rise in the local market for vaccine points. 



As for Mr. Loose-Talker, the author of my misfortunes, 

 he will be o'ertaken by a deep, subtle, humiliating re- 

 venge. For him, "the pit is digged!" L. J. M. 



EXPEDITIONS TO THE ARCTIC. 



The interest in Arctic exploration is an intermittent 

 fever which returns in almost epidemic forms, after 

 periods of prolonged repose. The present century has 

 been marked by several epidemics of Arctic fever of this 

 character, and while there have been perhaps few deaths 

 within recent years, as a result of this polar enthusi- 

 asm, much — very much, has been added to our knowl- 

 edge of the unknown polar regions. The success of the 

 Peary North Greenland expedition of 1891 and '92 has 

 stimulated anew the interest in Arctic research. We 

 have now arrived at a period ripe for polar explorations. 

 The time is at hand when important things are to be dis- 

 covered regarding the top and the bottom of our globe. 

 Not less than a dozen expeditions from all parts of the 

 globe are at present fitting out to attack different parts of 

 the mysterious polar regions. To push back the realm of 

 darkness and ignorance and place upon our charts definite 

 outlines of the present unknown regions surrounding the 

 North and South Poles, three expeditions are in the field 

 pushing on and on, through ice and over snow, mastering 

 and overcoming what but a few years ago seemed insur- 

 mountable obstacles, aided by the fortunes and misfor- 

 tunes of early explorers, and assisted by all that modern 

 invention and improvement can suggest. There are but 

 two distinctively North Polar expeditions in the field. 

 The first is commanded by Dr. Nansen, sent out by the 

 Norwegian Government; the second may be termed an 

 American newspaper expedition; it is under the command 

 of Walter Wellman, Washington correspondent of the 

 Chicago Herald. A third polar expedition will be sent 

 out during the summer by the Royal Geographical Society 

 of England, under the command of Frederick Jackson. 

 The fourth and perhaps the most important expedition in 

 the field is that of Lieut. Peary, who is at present north 

 of Greenland. It is not the main object of Lieut. Peary 

 to reach the North Pole. It is Peary's object to complete 

 the survey of Greenland and to study the topography of 

 the land masses north of this frozen continental island. 

 This will, however, take him poleward, and Lieut. Peary 

 is certain to make a bold dash for that point which 

 involves so much glory — the North Pole. Peary will start 

 from the northern coast of Greenland, Nansen from the 

 New Siberian Islands; Wellman will make a bold dash 

 during the summer from Spitzbergen, and Jackson will 

 make a cautious but determined effort from Franz Josef 

 Land. 



While these desperate attempts are being made to reach 

 the Pole, several other expeditions are now organizing to 

 attack the little known Arctic lands, study the fauna and 

 flora to examine the geology, to survey in detail some of 

 the unknown coast. Most of these expeditions will com- 

 bine and go North with me on the steam whaler New- 

 foundland, leaving New York about June 30. Harvard 

 is organizing a party under the direction of Manyard Ladd ; 

 Yale is organizing a party of ten under the direction of 

 Prof. W. H. Brewer; the University of Pennsylvania will 

 send a party of ten to the wilds of Labrador; Prof. G. 

 Frederic Wright, the author of the "Ice Age of North 

 America," with a party of five, will go North to study the 

 glacial conditions; Prof. T. C. Chamberlin, of the Uni- 

 versity of Chicago, will go North with a party of five to 

 study the geology of a part of the Greenland coast. 

 Another and very important party is at present organizing, 

 one which I shall take charge of myself, to engage in 

 hunting and fishing along the Polar shores, shooting polar 

 bears, walrus, seal and narwhale, and other marine ani- 

 mals, as well as reindeer, foxes and Arctic birdB. This 

 party will remain with the vessel and go to the far North, 

 skirting the edge of the ice in Melville Bay, Smith Sound 

 and along the shores of Ellesmere Land. While in this 

 region we shall also engage in the search for the lost 

 Swedish explorers, Bjorling and Kallastenius and their 

 companions. Several expeditions with various objects, 

 who will band together and in some respects pool 

 their interests until we arrive on the scene of action. 

 While Peary, Nansen, Wellman and Jackson, are plodding 

 away in the far North, spending time, money and energy 

 in exploring inaccessible regions, we will devote our time 

 in exploring more accessible regions, and attempt to utilize 

 their resources. Most people think of the Arctic regions 



