June 9, 1894.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



489 



" That reminds me." 



A Hustle for a Trout. 



We were "ehubbing." Had willows for rods and fresh 

 meat for lures. But though we cast in many pools our 

 baskets were empty. The noon was mild but two hours 

 later the air was zeroic. Boreas's needles, keen and 

 searching, were setting our teeth to chattering, and we 

 had all had about enough of it "We were all, as a last 

 attempt, casting in the deep pool below the dam. I had 

 just clambered over the log-chute and cast my lure near 

 where Nephew was fishing when off went my lure, 

 down bent my pole to the very surface of the stream and 

 I gave a lurch to throw the voracious chubby over my 

 head. My frail willow pole bent under the weight and as 

 it came to the surface it seemed like an eel, so lengthy 

 wag it. The fish was lifted in air but its weight broke the 

 hook's fastening and I saw it was one of the first trout I 

 had ever caught from a brook. It fell just at the waters 

 edge and I, frantic at the thought of its loss, sat down on 

 it, or made the attempt. Such a scramble as I had with 

 that slippery, wiry, elastic, floundering trout. My legs, 

 coat-tails, hands, knees, were all brought into commotion, 

 so Nephew and Niece aver. I was too busy to take any 

 note of attitudes. But I actually so confused and embar- 

 rassed that fish with my affectionate attentions that it 

 kindly jumped out on dry land. And those young people 

 stood there roaring with laughter. Said it was better 

 than a circus. Said the fish could easily have escaped but 

 it wanted to force me to an involuntary bath in that 

 iciest of waters for yanking off its jaw in trying to throw 

 it over my head. That evening's walk to camp of a mile 

 and a half, my lower anatomy incased in ice, with the 

 wind howling and whistling about in a derisive way, 

 wasn't as balmy as I could wish, but we had a trout that 

 made a fair supper for three. Cakey. 



A Dicker with P. Z. 



It happened twenty-five years ago and yet the affair is 

 as indelibly stamped on my mind as if it only happened 

 yesterday, and here is the story as I told it at our camp- 

 fire last fall: The tall dark pines were overhead, the 

 white tents beside the river glittered in the firelight, 

 while high over all floated the silvery moon round and 

 full, reminding one of Bret Harte's lines: 



"Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 



The river sang below, 

 The tall Sierras far beyond uplifting 

 Their minarets of snow." 



I give real names and places because some most 

 interested in the story joined the silent majority long 

 ago, while others are old men to-day. We were boys 

 together in those days, for Bill Weeks and I attended 

 school together when compelled to and hunted the same 

 woods and fished the same streams whenever opportunity 

 offered. 



Among the villagers was a man named P. Z Roinain, 

 who kept a store to keep him out of mischief, he said, be- 

 cause he could well afford to live on what he had previ- 

 ously accumulated. "P. Z.," as every one called him, 

 nicknamed Bill and me "the Siamese twins," because we 

 were always together, and that name still sticks to us 

 among the old school chums of a quarter of a century 

 ago. One of P. Z.'s delights was to stand at his front gate 

 of a summer's evening, smoking a long church-warden. 

 A fulL florid face closely shaven and a goodly-sized corpo- 

 ration marked him as a man who lived well. 



Highholders were plentiful down in the fields close to 

 Cooke's bush, and so the Siamese twins started out to 

 shoot them, for they made excellent pies, and if we plucked 

 and cleaned our game our parents with great consideration 

 always cooked and helped us eat them. We had poor 

 luck that afternoon, for we only shot four— two apiece. 



As the shadows lengthened in the hazy summer even- 

 ing Bill and I separated, each taking our quota of the 

 day's game. Mine I tied together witn a featuer through 

 the bills (the lower mandible) and hung them on the ram- 

 rod of my old single-barreled shotgun. Then I proudly 

 marched down the principal street of the village. As I 

 passed P. Z.'s he was standing at the gate smoking as 

 usual. P. Z. never took much notice of me but on this 

 occasion he was all smiles. "Hello, Willie," said he, 

 "where did you get the woodcock?" 



Now be it understood that I did not say they were wood- 

 cock in as many words, but when he called themsuch I did 

 not undeceive him, and as the lawyers would say to-day I 

 was acting a lie if not telling one. "Down by Cook's 

 bush," I replied, and kept on walking. 



"Hold on, Willie," said P. Z., and Willie "held on." 

 "I'll give you a quarter for them," said P. Z. 



It was all Willie could do to keep from laughing, and 

 yet he managed to control himself as he replied: "No 

 thanks, we'll eat 'em," and Willie made as if to go on. 



"Hold on, Will." 



"No thanks, Mr. Romain, if they are worth that to you 

 they are to our folks." 



"Willie, I'll give you half a dollar." 



Here was a great temptation. Thirteen cents was a 

 fortune for either Bill or me in those days. We expended 

 it about like this: Five cents bought 2oz. of powder. 

 Another five transferred ilb. of shot from old Mr. Parker's 

 tin shop to our pouches, while the remaining three cents 

 bought gun caps. But here was four times that amount 

 and the temptation was great, in fact the twenty-five 

 cents would have been accepted, in default of anything 

 better. "All right, Mr. Romain," I replied, "take them;" 

 and P. Z. transferred a bright half dollar to one of the 

 Siamese twins. 



Later on Lige Weller, the village blacksmith, and the 

 best coon hunter in the county, was passing when another 

 dialogue occurred. 



"Good evening, Lige." 



"Good evening, P. Z," 



"I've got a couple of beautiful woodcock, Lige." 



"Didn't think there were any yet." 



"Oh, yes, I'll let them hang for a day or two; keep 'em 

 till Sunday and have 'em for dinner. I'll show them to 

 you." Then P. Z. went to the house and came back with 

 the two birds. 



"Shoot 'em yourself?" queried the blacksmith, with a 

 twinkle in his eye. 

 "No, bought 'em." 

 "Who from?" 



"Willie Fox." 



And then Lige went into a fit of laughter that made 

 him almost as red in the face as P. Z. was. At last Lige 

 found bis speech. "Bought 'em from Willie, did you, one 

 of the Siamese twins?" 



Yes." 



"How much?" 

 "Half a dollar." 



And then there was another roar from Lige and P. Z., 

 who by this began to think something was wrong, got 

 even redder in the face than usual, if such were possible. 



"They're not woodcock," said Lige. "Why, you old 

 fool, they're highholders and the fields are full of 'em. 

 Did Wiliie tell you they were woodcock?" 



"Don't know as he did," was the reply, "but I called 

 'em woodcock and he didn't say they weren't and I gave 

 him half a dollar that was half a dollar." 



"Well, you're sold," said Lige, and at once Lige pro- 

 ceeded to tell his cronies of the joke Billy Fox played on 

 P. Z. Of course Billy kept out of the way of P. Z. for a 

 few days, but from fear that legal proceedings might be in- 

 stituted to secure the return of the fifty cents he spent it 

 without delay with old Mr. Parker. A few days later P. 

 Z. and Willie met, when P. Z. said: "Here, Willie, is ten 

 cents for you, and wlpn you shoot woodcock that Lige 

 Weller says are so, I'll pay you well for them." 



In a Salmon Berry Swamp. 



While I was on a camping trip on the Lewis River in 

 this State, a young man knocked at my cabin door and 

 wanted a night's lodging as the weather was very bad 

 without. Of coui'se I took him in and gave him a hot 

 supper, after which he commenced yarn telling. One of 

 his collection of fish stories I considered Al, coming as it 

 did from an ignorant country lad. He told me that he 

 had been on the Waahougal River with an old logger, 

 who had a salmon berry swamp on his place, which ex- 

 tended along the river and at that season was full of 

 berries. For some reason it was necessary for him to 

 cross the patch one evening, and said he: "All on a sud- 

 dent I hearn the greatest racket in the bushes so I took a 

 few steps side'ards, and so help me over the fence, if thar 

 wasn't a thousand er mebbe more, salmon, what bed been 

 out a-pickin' berries, jpst a skpdaddlin' fur the water." 



Tom Peppers. 



Vancouver Barracks, Wash. 



j§ag mtA %nt[ t 



SHARPTAILS ON THE BIG HORN RIVER. 



One day a friend of mine and myself, started up the 

 Big Horn River (Montana), hunting sharptail grouse. As 

 it had rained heavily the night before, we thought our 

 chances good for a big bag, because on a wet morning the 

 scent clings to the grass and greatly helps your dog to 

 find the birds. 



Having crossed the pontoon, we were riding along a 

 dry slough when ivhir, tvhir, whir, the grouse were get- 

 ting up on all sides. I had not been watching the dog, 

 and when I looked around to see what he had been 

 doing, I found that' he was on a dead point, so we dis- 

 mounted, and I motioned the dog to flush the remaining 

 birds. Two got up singly and I knocked them both down 

 with a right and left double. My companion was kept 

 from shooting by having a shell stick in his gun. We 

 then followed up the covey and found them in a sage- 

 brush flat. I dismounted, flushed the birds and gave 

 them both barrels, but scored a clean miss. We got no 

 more of that covey. 



A half a mile up the river we came to a dry slough 

 with here and there a water hole. Around one of these 

 holes we found a large covey of grouse, that had come 

 down from the brush to drink. As they did not see us, 

 we went back to a tree and tied our horses, so as to be 

 free in action. The dog was sent ahead, and he at once 

 pointed to a piece of brush and at that moment a grouse 

 rose from it, but I stopped him in his flight. The big 

 covey rose all at once, Mr. L. got one, but my remaining 

 cartridge missed fire. 



Being near the river we went over to it. Just as we 

 came in sight of the opposite bank, I saw a large bunch 

 of teal ducks swimming and playing off a point that pro- 

 jected into the river. Motioning my companion to go 

 back, we tied up our horses and proceeded to sneak up on 

 the ducks on foot or rather on our stomachs. When wo 

 reached a bullberry bush which grew on the bank, we 

 both fired, Mr. L. fired one and I fired two. By the time 

 the smoke cleared away we saw that seven ducks had 

 stayed with us, but we were only able to get five, because 

 the swift current swept the other two down into deep 

 water. 



We were beginning to get worked up to the proper 

 pitch by this time, and worked with a will. About a 

 mile further on the dog flushed a covey of grouse out of 

 which I got one. _ 



The next birds that I killed were two sage hens. The 

 first one got up on my left and I killed it. The second 

 rose on my right and a load of chilled No. 6's brought it 

 down. In the mean time Mr. L. was looking after a 

 third bird, which he killed at 95yds. (paced off). The 

 birds were becoming very plenty. While I was lc oking 

 in another direction, I was startled by hearing Mr. L's 

 gun go off beside me, and looking around saw a fine 

 grouse lying dead on the ground. The bird had been 

 watching us as we rode under the tree upon which it was 

 perched, but did not seem to realize its danger until it 

 was too late. 



We were commencing to get hungry after our hard 

 work, and agreed to go down to the river to eat lunch. 

 We had not gone 300yds. when the largest covey that I 

 ever saw rose. I shot two on the wing from my horse, 

 and .dismounting shot one more. That fell in the brush 

 and neither the dog nor myself could find it. When the 

 birds rose I kept my eye on a couple and marked them 

 down, at once went over to where they pitched and killed 

 both. There I saw something moving along in a de- 

 pression in the ground. It proved to be a grouse, but 

 when it rose I missed it with both barrels. Seeing that it 

 was useless to proceed further on foot, I joined Mr. L. 

 and we rode to the river. Our lunch tasted very good 

 after such hard work, I can assure you. 



Then we started up the river. Under a large cotton- 

 wood we spied a sagecock, which Mr. L. dispatched with- 

 1 out further ceremony. I think that it was the father of 



all sage hens, for it was the largest that I ever saw, being 

 as large as a hen turkey. 



We kept on up the river until we came to a dense 

 growth of willows, and just on the opposite bank we saw 

 a large flock of shoveler ducks. After tying our horses * 

 we crawled up to a place agreed upon, and let the ducks 

 have three loads of No. 6. The result was that we had 

 three ducks. 



It being 4 P. M. we turned homeward. On our way 

 Mr. L. killed and my gun brought two more birds to the 

 bag. Our grand total of game was 27 birds and 3 catfish. 



Thus ended my last hunt on the Big Horn. H. M. B. 



ON IOWA MARSHES. 



In the early part of November, 1893, as is my usual 

 custom, I set out for the Northern marshes in quest of 

 ducks. She lis were loaded, hip boots, guns, coats, dogs, 

 and all the necessary articles were gathered together, and 

 with two companions I took the train for Jolley, in the 

 southern part of Pocahontas county, la. We found a 

 small hotel, poorly kept, but roughing it always seemed 

 to me to be just what we wanted on a trip like this. We 

 had no difficulty in finding some one who was willing to 

 get up at 4 o'clock the next morning and take us out to 

 the marshes, some two miles distant. 



I was always the first- one to wake in the morning, and 

 as usual I was awake long before there was any sign of 

 day. 



Breakfast over, our wagon was waiting at the door. 

 After driving a few miles in the frosty air, we drew up to 

 a small barn and put up our team, and then proceeded to 

 the long grass and high weeds. Day was breaking and 

 there were signs of ducks, we were getting cold, and 

 there was a stack of hay there and we built a fire out of 

 the slough grass that was placed upon the hay for a cover. 

 Off to the northwest, we could see a good many ducks 

 lighting without very much ceremony, and we concluded 

 to change our location and go over there. We found a 

 very large marsh or what had been a lake in times gone 

 by. The marsh covered thousands of acres, and in the 

 center was a large grove of trees called Pond Grove. We 

 secured boats and tried to get out in the reeds and rushes, 

 but on account of the scarcity of water had a very hard 

 time of it. There was six to eight inches of water on top 

 of a very thin substance of rotted rushes, and other de- 

 composed matter, which had fallen there from year to 

 year and filled up until it was several feet deep, and a 

 most treacherous foundation, should one from any cause 

 upset his boat, or in any other way get into it. 



After paddling for some time I got a location, and 

 covered my boat and awaited developments. Soon after 

 I had become still I heard the report of the guns of my 

 companions, and I knew full well what it meant. After 

 waiting some time, along came four mallards, and the 

 result was that two of them were gathered up and laid 

 tenderly in the boat. I again covered myself with dead 

 grass and was quiet. It seemed that the other boys had 

 the best location, judging from the number of times they 

 were shooting. Every now and then I could hear the 

 boom of their guns, and a duck would double up all in a 

 heap and go down under the skillful markmanship of my 

 companions. To me there was only one prettier sight, 

 and that was when I did the same thing. Here come 

 three mallards. Lie low. They are going to drop in 

 close. I wait in breathless silence. On they come, their 

 wings begin to curve and they are close enough to shoot; 

 but I know they are going to drop in, and why not let 

 them do so, and perhaps I can get all three of them? 

 They strike the water with that ever pleasant splash, but 

 separate, and one is within twenty feet of me, another 

 fifty or sixty yards, and the other one is too far to try to 

 get. I shoot at the one farthest away, as it sits on the 

 water, but it is too far to stop it, or I could not hit it. The 

 other rises as the report of the gun sounds, only to fall a 

 very dead duck. 



All quiet again except the continuous report of my com- 

 panions' guns, and soon along comes a flock of small 

 ducks, at quite a distance. I shoot, and only one falls. I 

 wait, and wait, and after a long time a flock of about 20 

 or more comes along low down, and I wait again. Their 

 wings are dipped, and down they go within 30yds. of me. 

 Now is the time for me to make my bag, as it is getting 

 dusk, and I am behind the other boys in numbers, 1 know; 

 so I just rake them with my No. 5 shot as they sit, and 

 then again as they rise; reload and finish t wo with broken 

 wings, and then prepare to pick up my result. Five is all 

 I got. This makes me eight mallards and one small duck. 

 Bringing my ducks to the wagon, I look for my compan- 

 ions, and they are still down by the shore of the marsh, 

 trying to get a few shots at the stragglers that are flying 

 after night. I go down there. "How many ducks?" 

 "There they are in a pile by the boat." I go and count 

 them; and the two have 21 mallards. I have 8. Twenty- 

 nine mallards and one small one are all the ducks we 

 want. We are satisfied. An after-night ride, and we are 

 again at the hotel, tired and very hungry. In the morn- 

 ing we took the train for home, and felt that we had had 

 a very good day's shoot. I hope that I will be pardoned 

 by the boys for shooting into the flock sitting on the 

 water. W. S. Day. 



Iowa, 1894. 



The "Dagoes" in Louisiana. 



Burnside, La., May 29.— Editor Forest and Stream: 

 You have got the right id^a about stopping the sale of 

 game. It is the only thing that will save our game. But 

 we would never get any game laws enforced in this sec- 

 tion of tho country. You could never get evidence 

 enough to convict a man. So our present laws do not 

 amount to a row of pins. The "Dagoes" kill a lot of quail 

 at this season of the year. All of the "Dagoes" have 

 guos; there is no law to prohibit them from carrying 

 their guns about with them, and many a poor quail is 

 murdered while dusting in the sandy roads, by these 

 miserable "Dagoes." The quail are quite tame, you 

 know, at this season of the year. As I write these lines I 

 hear a quail whistling; I have heard him for about two 

 weeks now, but I fear some pot-hunting "Dago" will kill 

 him, before the summer has passed. 



It is the same way with deer. They are killed out of 

 season. I heard of two men killing twenty squirrels the 

 other day. Think of killing any sort of animal at this 

 season, when all have young ones. I try to beep my men 

 from hunting even wild cats at this season, and they are 

 considered more or less of a pest, for they kill geese and 

 poultry. ' W. P. M., Je, 



