FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. SO, 1894 
GROUSE IN THE POCONO MOUNTAINS, 
The first week in October my friend Wm, H. and my- 
self left the little town of South Bethlehem, Pa., bound 
for MeMichaels in the Pocono Mountains. We had one 
English setter,- a little undersized, but a fairly good dog 
on ruffed grouse, and a pointer bitch — not the best dog in 
the world, by any means, but one that was an all-day 
worker, and the most staunch and surest bitch on grouse 
that it has ever been my good fortune to shoot over. It 
was a beautiful day, and we rode along at a rattling clip, 
enjoying the scenery and pure mountain air, and talking- 
about the gi-eat things we would do on the morrow. 
Wm, H. knew every foot of ground in the Pocono Moun- 
tains, and he was just as expert after the wily grouse as 
he is tracking criminals, for he is Chief of Police in our 
town. 
Early the next morning we started for McFall's Gap, 
about a mile from our hotel. It was a bright, crisp, frosty 
morning, and it made the blood tingle in our veins as we 
walked rapidly across the fields to the starting point. By 
the time we reached the Gap the sun began to peep 
above the hills, and our spirits rose accordingly. William 
took one side of a brook that flowed through the Gap and 
I the other, the dog working between us. In this way 
we proceeded about a quarter of a mile without the dog 
showing any signs of game. We began to think we had 
made a mistake in working this gap so early in the morn- 
ing, as the frost lay quite heavy on the leaves, and it 
would have been better later in the day. Suddenly the 
bitch began to show signs of game, and I told William to 
be on the lookout. She road ed along the bed of the creek 
for some seventy-five or eighty yards, when a large cock 
grouse burst cover, with a noise like a big bass drum, 
some fifty or sixty yards ahead of tho dog. "Mark," 
called I to Bill, and I am sure if any man can mark down 
accurately in a thicket he can, for I never saw his equal. 
He demonstrated his ability as a marker time and time 
again on this trip. We kept the dog working pretty close 
to the guns for another hundred yards, when suddenly 
she showed decided signs of the bird being near at hand. 
Stealthily she crept through the rank growth of bushes, 
her belly almost touching the ground, and in that position 
froze to a good solid point, eyes almost starting from 
sockets and saliva dropping from mouth. I knew the 
bird was close by. Whistling to locate my partner on the 
other side of the creek, I told him to get ready, for I was 
confident the bird would cross the stream. I urged her 
to flush, but she remained immovable. I hated to flush 
the bird myself, as my chances for a shot would be very 
slim; but there was no help for it, it " had to be done. I 
worked my way carefully through the thick brush, and 
had gone but a few steps ahead of the dog, when up got 
the grouse, and my yell "Mark!" was answered by the 
crack of William's 12-gauge, and one more grouse's career 
was ended then and there. 
After the bitch had retrieved the bird, and we had 
admired it to our hearts' content, we moved on slowly 
hunting all the likely places and sunny corners they like 
so well. We had gone but a short distance, when W. 
called "mark," having flushed a pair of birds on his side. 
Before the words were fairly out of his mouth, a large 
grouse swung into an opening, barely ten yards ahead of 
me, Throwing my gun hastily in position, I pressed the 
trigger, but the bird did not fall, and I actually thought I 
saw that bird wink at me, as he sped like an arrow up the 
stream. "Did you get him?" called W. from the other 
side. I was so crestfallen that my reply was scarcely 
audible, and I had to repeat it several times. 
We were now getting into such dense cover, and the 
ground was such that all our shooting had to be snap-shoot- 
ing and quick snap at that. We worked our way gradu- 
ally through this thicket, and as we were nearing the 
opposite bank, a pair of birds flushed not ten steps to my 
right. Quickly covering the first pair as best I could, I 
pulled, and at the same instant heard the report of W.'s 
gun. There was a tremendous fluttering and thrashing 
around where I supposed my bird had fallen, and an 
instant later the bitch brought in the bird. W.'s shot had 
not been so effective; in other words he had scored a 
goose egg. He declared that it was the same birds I had 
missed a short time before, but he had marked the bird, 
and we felt sure of getting another shot at him. Our 
expectations were soon realized. We had gone not over 
two hundred yards, when up got the bird, away off to 
the left. We sent out a couple of urgent invitations for 
him to stay a while, but he declined. I never had a more 
forcible illustration, which brought to my mind so clearly 
the little story, written, I think, by S. T. Hammond, of 
"The One-Eyed Grouse of Maple Run," in his book 
"Training vs. Breaking," for I candidly believe that this 
bird was a very near relative that famous one. I am sure 
we raised that bird six or seven times but could not get a 
shot at it. 
By this time we were nearing the head of the gap, and 
it was very hard traveling, and we had all we could do to 
leap from rock to rock, without paying much attention 
to the bitch or the birds. The mountain stream came 
tumbling and roaring over the rocks at our feet, and I 
felt sure it was an ideal trout stream. I afterward found 
that my surmises were correct; it fairly teems with trout. 
We finally reached the head of the falls, and came to a 
large, flat piece of territory, known as the barrens. It 
was grown up with scrub oak, and huckleberry bushes, 
about waist high, and there we saw the bitch do a very 
fine piece of roading. She began to trail, and show 
signs, as soon as we left the gap, and kept this up for at 
least a quarter of a mile. Finally she stood for an 
instant, then moved on, stood again, this time "for 
keepB." Bill was back of me, and a little to my right. I 
took but a few steps, when a bird flushed to my right, 
flew across, and gave me a left-quartering shot, about 
forty yards. I took plenty of time, followed him care- 
fully, pulled in about two feet ahead of him, and at the 
report of the ten-gauge down he went like a rag. I had 
broken my gun, and was just about feeling for another 
shell, when up got another, but flew to my right. Hast- 
ily snapping the gun I gave him the left barrel, but I did 
not know whether I had killed him or not, as I was 
shooting black powder and the smoke came back in my 
face, until I heard W. exclaim, "You knocked the stuff- 
ings out of him." We put up another bird on the barrens 
but could not get a shot as both failed to mark them. 
From here we went to Grass Lake, about two miles dis- 
tant, and in due time we reached the lake. After lunch 
there it was decided that W. was to take one side of the 
lake and I the other. The lake is about half a mile long 
and a quarter wide, and is" quite famous for deer. W. 
showed me one or two of their runways. I had gotten 
about half way around the lake, when I put up a very 
large cock bird in the thicket, or rather the dog did; and 
as he was climbing over the tops of the trees I gave him 
the right barrel. I rpalized my mistake instantly. I had 
shot under him. Hastily raising the gun so that the 
bird was lost to view, I gave him the left and was re- 
warded by hearing him drop with a thud full 50yds. 
away. I do not over-estimate the distance, for I know 
full well 50yds. in cover is a good long shot, and there 
are not many birds killed over that distance. 
Going on, I met W. at the other end, but he had poor 
success, not having put up a bird; and as it was getting, 
late and we had a good ten-mile tramp before us we de- 
cided to return. We were near home, when a bird 
flushed from the mountain road and flew directly be- 
tween two saplings. It was the work of an instant for 
W. to throw his gun from his shoulder and nail that bird 
right there. We arrived at the "house in good time for 
supper. Six great big grouse were what our bag con- 
tained, that night. I suppose that a great many of my, 
brother sportsmen will think this was not much of a bag, 
but any one who is used to hunting ruff ed grouse on a 
rough mountain side can appreciate that it takes good, 
strong, quick shooting and indefatigable efforts of both 
man and dOg. We were very well satisfied with the day's 
result, as neither of us laid any claims to being a Carver 
or a Bogardus. 
That night, while sitting aroundthe fire, we were much 
interested in the stories told by the natives concerning 
the early days of the Poconos, and how deer and bear had 
been shot within sight of the house. Their stories were 
corroborated by W., whose father had spent all his life in 
the mountains, and W, himself had driven deer time and 
time again out through some of their numerous runways, 
for some brother sportsman stationed there. 
The next morning I thought I had not a joint in my 
body; I was so lame and stiff I could hardly get down 
stairs. After a little exercise, however, I felt much bet- 
ter. After breakfast we started for a piece of cover half 
a mile distant, a splendid place for birds at that season of 
the year. On entering the cover the bitch showed signs 
of game, and working along carefully soon pinned him. 
■Getting in the best positions we could, I threw a stone 
about where I supposed the bird lay; I must almost have 
struck him for he rose from the very spot where the stone 
landed. He cracked his wings about twice when W. 
scored a nice clean kill, such as it does one good to see. 
After the bird had been retrieved we swung a little to the 
left, when W. flushed one, but too far off for a shot. He 
marked him down in a little neck of woods that extended 
down into a pasture. We started after him ; W. was to 
go down and try and get a shot as he broke cover, and I 
was to remain by an old rail fence, feeling confident that 
if W. missed the bird would fly across the corner of the 
field and give me a good open shot. In this, however, I 
was mistaken, as the sequel will show. W. worked care- 
fully down the edge of woods and had almost reached the 
extreme end when the bird burst out from under his feet, 
giving him a fine straightaway. W. promptly sent two 
loads after him, but the only harm done was to shoot two 
big holes in the air. Instead of the bird cutting across 
the corner where I was stationed he took it straight across 
the pasture, a good 75yds. away. I imagined that I saw 
a few feathers fly as I pulled on him and asked W. about 
it, as I was not positive. He told me that if any feathers 
flew they were fast to the bird. But what could you ex- 
pect of a man who had made so bad a miss as he had. We 
followed up the game, however, and after working around 
the bitch came to a stand near an old treetop in a heavy 
thicket and out came the bird — on the other side, of 
course. By a long shot I managed to scratch him down, 
and it was only a scratch, for by the time the bitch brought 
him to me he appeared to be as lively as ever, and I hated 
to kill him. I do not think a shooter should be satisfied 
with merely a scratch down, but should kill as cleanly as 
possible; it gives better satisfaction. I was shooting a 10- 
gauge, IHlbs., with 4-Jdrs. powder and liqz. No. 6 shot, 
and I did not find the load too large nor the gun too 
heavy. In my opinion an old grouse will stand more 
killing than any bird I know of. 
We hunted several good pieces of cover that afternoon, 
with fair success, and when we started for the house it 
was quite late. W. knew of a good ravine that we would 
pass on our way home. The wind had risen suddenly, 
and we were anxious to work through before it blew too 
hard. Arriving at the ravine, W. followed an old road, 
while I was to work along the left hand ridge. We had 
gone but a short distance when W. told me that he had 
raised a bird, and that I bad better come down to where 
he was. Keeping the dog to heel, we started to walk it 
up. We had gone a couple of hundred yards, when out 
from a tree got the grouse, good 40 or 45yds. away, and 
flew with the wind, which was blowing very hard by this 
time. When I threw up my gun I was in very serious 
doubts if a load of shot would ever overtake that bird, 
but it did, and I have thought of that shot many a time 
since. It seems to me that I pulled in full 10ft. ahead, yet 
my allowance was all right when the bitch brought in the 
bird. It proved to be a hen bird, and one of those small, 
sleek, gamy birds that we run across once in a while. She 
was a flyer, and no mistake. 
Wearrived at the house about dark, as tired and hungry 
as two 3nen could be and live. On emptying our coats, 
we found we had seven nice, big birds, an increase of one 
over the previous day. 
The following morning we were up bright and early, 
and when I let the bitch out of the barn, she was so stiff 
that I did not think we would be able to use her that day. 
After a short run she began to limber up and was in better 
shape than before, more steady and settled down to busi- 
ness. The setter had given out the day before, so we did 
not take her along. We harnessed the horse and drove to 
the top of the mountain, about five miles distant. When 
about half-way there we flushed a bird from the side of 
the road, and saw perfectly well where it went down. We 
were both "dead sure" we could walk to the exact spot. I 
wanted W. to go after him, as my gun was in the case 
under the seat, and he had his gun across his lap, but he 
said no, and insisted upon my going, and taking his gun, 
I finally did so, leaving the dog with him in the wagon. 
I walked, as I supposed, directly to the spot, but there 
was no bird. I kicked and stamped around on the brush 
within a radius of 50yds., but could not raise him. When 
I turned to my right and made a circle for the wagon, a 
good 100yds. from where we saw the bird go down, he 
arose, a good distance ahead of me. I covered the bird 
the best I knew how, but it was useless; he kept on. 
When I reached the wagon W. asked me how I could ever 
miss that bird. I told him that his gun was no good, and 
he very kindly informed me that it would have been just 
the same if I had started out with my own gun. I had 
nothing more to say, as I was of the same opinion. 
Arrived at the top of the mountain we worked through 
a likely piece of cover, and soon put up a bird which W. 
knocked down in great shape. After finishing that strip 
we turned to our right and entered a large swamp, but 
the cover was so thick, it was almost impossible to see a 
bird 10ft. ahead, although we heard them getting out 
quite frequently. Working our way through to the other 
side, we ran across a typical mountaineer, with a little 
cur dog to tree birds, and no mistake that man could give 
his city cousins pointers on hunting grouse. He had 
seven grouse, and it was not 9 o'clock, and had shot them 
all with an old single-barreled gun. Continuing on our 
way, it was not long before we put up another pair of 
birds, and we had the good fortune to bring them both to 
bag. From that time to late in the afternoon, we had 
indifferent success, only picking up a bird or two, and 
decided to start for the house. Passing through a stubble 
field, in which there was a large patch of thorn apple, 
W. remarked that he had never failed to put up a bird at 
that time of day — about the time they came out to feed. 
This day proved no exception to the rule. He stationed 
himself over in the woods near a fence; the direction, he 
said, which they were sure to take when flushed; I took 
the dog and started in working toward him. We had 
gone but a few steps, when the bitch stood, and out got a 
pair; one was on the opposite side, which I did not see at 
all, and the other started up over the top of the hill; I 
pulled on the one going over the hill, and at the report of 
the gun it dropped several feet. It could just drag itself 
along above the stubble; I did not fire the other barrel, as 
I thought it useless, expecting to see the bird drop every 
moment. What ever became of that bird is a mystery to 
me, for it seemed that we searched every inch of that 
ground for 500yds. around; our search was in vain. In 
the meantime, W. had accounted for the bird that flew 
in his direction, and so ended our last day's hunt in the 
Pocono. While our bag was not as heavy as it might 
have been, we both felt perfectly satisfied, as we worked 
hard, and our birds were killed in a good legitimate 
manner. Next day we started for home, both promising 
ourselves that we would repeat the trip in the near 
future. E. E. W. 
Bethlehem, Pa. 
A CARIBOU HUNT IN NEWFOUNDLAND. 
On Sept. 15 W. A. Whiting, Howard Fuguet and I 
started on a hunting trip in Newfoundland. Our starting 
place was the Bay of Islands, on the western coast. The 
steamer Harlaw makes fortnightly trips to the towns 
along this coast, the scenery of which is grand in the ex- 
treme. We arrived at the Bay of Islands on the evening 
of Sept. 14, and that night we procured our licenses, 
which cost $100 each, but I think it will soon be reduced. 
There is a small house here, kept by Mrs. Petrie. 
The next morning we started out in a river boat with 
our five men, bound for the Willow Steady Hills. Our 
route lay down the bay and up the Humber, and thence 
up the Willow Steady River to the foot of the great 
rapids. These rivers are quite large with many rapids, 
and their scenery is one grand panorama of beauty. 
Our guides were Henry McWhirter, John Nichols, Jack 
McCormick, Tim McLellan, cook, and John Gusher, boat- 
man and packer. 
The first night's camp was made on Deer Lake, which 
is a broadening of the Humber, nineteen miles long and 
several miles wide. Our next camp was made at the 
portage for the Willow Steady Hills, which we reached 
about 4 P. M., and made preparations for our twelve- 
mile tramp next day. This tramp we found a very hard 
one; half the time being up to our knees in mud and 
water. The caribou barrens are very hard walking, and 
the woods a terrible tangle of underbrush and fallen 
timber, but in places are covered with the heaviest carpet 
of moss I have ever seen, into which one often sinks 
knee deep. The effect to the eye is very beautiful, and 
the ground looks like a carpet in green hues. 
After lunch I struck out ahead on one of the barrens. I 
saw some distance away a caribou feeding. I got up 
within about 200yds. and shot it as it ran across the 
barren. It proved to be a barren doe, and was very fat, 
and some of its meat made a good supper for our tired 
party that night. The men had very heavy loads and all 
hands felt glad to reach the Willow Steady Hills. These 
hills are bare for the most part and swampy, with the 
gulches wooded, and back of them is a vast mountainous 
country heavily timbered, but interspersed with caribou 
barrens of all sizes. 
Our first day's hunt was quite successful and we got 
some fine stags, having seen at least fifty caribou and a 
good many ptarmigan. 
We stayed here a week, and every day we saw caribou, 
but they became lees plentiful every day, so we moved 
over to the marshes on Grand Lake which trip took us 
back over the portage by which we came in and thence 
up the Humber and over a seven mile portage to Grand 
Lake. This is a beautiful sheet of water, another 
broadening of the Humber, and fifty-two miles long. On 
the marshes here we got some sport and saw a great many 
caribou, During our stay in the Willow Steady Hills, a 
black bear was shot and onother wounded — over the car- 
cass of the caribou that was shot on our way in. 
We were in camp fifteen days and we were all satisfied 
with the sport we got. 
The scenery is grand and the climate bracing. The 
only drawback was the black flies, as we had come away 
without any tar oil. 
The country is hard to hunt in, but to those sportsmen 
who are willing to work hard and to rough it, Newfound- 
land presents a fine field for sport. The stalking is very 
exciting at this time of the year, one who kills his game 
earns it. Later on when the caribou are moving south, 
they can be killed almost anywhere on the Humber or 
Willow Steady rivers, or on any of the numerous run- 
ways, by simply waiting for them to come along, but 
such sport does not appeal to most sportsmen. 
There is a railroad being built from St. John's by way 
of Grand Lake to Bay of Islands, and next year the 
sportsman can go from St. John's and meet his guides 
not far from good hunting grounds. The men we had 
proved a fine lot of fellows in every way, I can honestly 
