468 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Deo. 1, 1894. 
A JOLLY TIME IN NORTH CAROLINA. 
Stillwater, N. C. — The first day of November, the 
opening of the shooting season in North Carolina, was 
fair and bright, and brought joy to the heart of many a 
sportsman. Few could be happier than the four old 
veterans who by solemn compact had agreed to meet to- 
gether on the last day of October in Portsmouth, Va., at 
9:15 A. M. sharp on the pier of the Bay Line steamers, 
ready to catch the train of the Seaboard Air Line for a 
shooting trip anywhere that would seem best to us in 
North or South Carolina. We have often heard of Burn's 
familiar line "The' best laid plans o' mice and men aft 
gang aglee." And so with our own. For when the hour 
of departure arrived, there was no N. Y. P. & N. steamer 
in sight to bring my friends, A. H. Overman, Springfield, 
Mass., him of bicycle fame, and Wm. S, Gummere, the 
long-headed lawyer of the Pennsylvania R. R., Trenton, 
N. J. "Then and there was hurrying to and fro," and 
adjusting of glasses, straining to catch a glimpse of the 
steamer coming down Norfolk Harbor. , A 'phone mes- 
sage said she was sighted. Then I made a frantic appeal 
to Trainmaster Wrenn and Col. Anderson, general pass- 
senger agent S. A. L., to hold the train fifteen minutes. 
They yielded because I told Capt. Wrenn that he was 
good and Col. Anderson that he was handsome. Both of 
these statements severely wrenched my conscience. That 
was the shortest fifteen minutes I ever passed, and as it 
was just out another message announced that the Bteamer 
would make her first landing on the Norfolk side in 
twelve minutes. Another quarter of an hour was begged 
for and secured after the same methods as before, only it 
took larger doses and the fetching assertion that could 
not resist that a S. A. L. train would make up a lost half 
hour in a jiffy. And still no steamer came, and the train 
load of passengers showed their impatience of the delay. 
After hurried promises from Messrs. Wrenn and Ander- 
son that they would meet my friends and help them to 
overtake me by the Atlanta special, the word was given 
and the train glided off, my heart meantime being in my 
boots, for I felt like an "old har' had run 'cross my 
path." 
I had engaged to take up Polk Miller, with his dogs and 
banjo, in Weldon. When I invited him to shoot with our 
party I expressly stipulated that he must bring a banjo or 
be sent back afoot from the first station. He is not known 
in Virginia as Mr. Miller or Mr. Polk Miller, but just Polk 
Miller, prince of good fellows, president of the Virginia 
Game Protective Association, lecturer and delineator of 
the character of the "old-time plantation Virginia nig- 
ger." And what a great success he is in all these roles! 
Added to these, he can outwalk in the field and bag more 
birds than any man I have ever tackled. Briar patches, 
branches, mud and water are only playthings to him if 
they conceal a bird, and he can discount any kind of a 
dog in putting up a bird in a brier thicket. No matter 
how wet or hungry he may be (he never gets tired), as soon 
as our car is reached he grabs up the banjo and sings an 
old-time plantation darky song, one that will make you 
laugh your sides sore, or another that is so plaintive in its 
tender melody that it bedims the eyes with tears as it 
recounts the characteristics of that gentle race of long ago. 
He tells a good story on himself. Not long ago a negro 
walked into his drug store and thus accosted him, "Good 
mornin', Marse Polk Miller, dey tells me you'se de onliest 
man in Virginny dat can play de reg'lar 'foh de war nig- 
ger banjer." 
"Well, they do say so, Tom. Want to hear me play?" 
" 'Deed I does, sir, and wants you to learn me how." 
"All right, Tom; come up to my house any night and 
Til help you." 
"Thankee, sir; I'm comin' up dar right straight to- 
night." 
He went up, and they sat down in the dining room for 
the lesson. They played on for a few pieces, when sud- 
denly Polk Miller struck up, "Don't dem watermillions 
shine." Tom could stand it no longer, but threw down 
his banjo, threw up his hands, gave a loud yell, and then 
exclaimed, "Golly, Marse Polk Miller, how I does wish you 
wus a nigger!" 
And it was a consolation to me to gather up Polk Miller 
and his banjo at Weldon. We decided we would side- 
track at Aberdeen to await the coming of Messrs. Overman 
and Gummere the next morning. Meantime a message 
came from Mr. Gummere that he had an abscess on 
one hand and another on his lip, but would join us as 
soon as possible. (Can you imagine a lawyer in a more 
helpless state than with an abscess on his lip?) Mr. Over- 
man joined us by breakfast in the morning, and came in 
bright and cheerful in spite of his getting left. He is as 
"jolly" as Mark Tapley ever dared to be under the most 
adverse circumstances. In fact, we named him Mark 
Tapley, a soubriquet he bore with becoming humility. 
With Mr. Henry Powell, the Aberdeen hotel man, we 
set out with guns and dogs galore. Polk Miller set a pace 
that nobody could keep up with. The dogs could hardly 
keep ahead of him. Everybody was eager to draw the 
first blood. The chance was soon given, for on a beautiful 
hillside the dogs drew up on a covey, each man swearing 
that his dog had pointed first, while I knew all the while 
that Shot Picot had done the work, and I very frankly 
said as much to Shot. Eight barrels went off rapidly, and 
the truth must be told, although painful, not a feather hit 
the earth. Diligent search was made, because we were 
anxious to show the natives what cracks we were. 
Reproachful looks were cast around. 
We now paired off and walked over the road to the 
farm of Dr. McNeille, formerly of Bridgeport, Conn. 
Here we had some very good shooting, which, for a 
while, was interrupted in a very unexpected and sudden 
manner. An elegant carriage drove up, from the boot of 
which sprang down an agile Frenchman, who said he 
was instructed to bring us to the house. Here we were 
welcomed by Dr. McNeille to a most appetizing lunch, 
consisting of such delicious viands that we were soon 
rendered averse to further exertions afield. . So after 
lunch we drove in Dr. McNeille's carriages through the 
fields and allowed the dogs to hunt by the roadsides. 
This is a most luxurious way to hunt birds. The dogs 
may get tired, but we don't seem to care for expenses. 
Dr. McNeille assured us that the whole l,50u acre farm 
was ours, and we believed it. It is a wonder how in less 
than a year he has cleared up from the stump 250 acres 
of ground and set it all in fine varieties of grapevines, 
many of which bore luscious fruit the first year. He has 
a charming villa, and certainly knows how to dispense a 
most gracious hospitality. His home is a tangible evi- 
dence of what Northern money and brains can do in the 
woods of "Old Carliny." It is a lucky sportsman who 
can claim the friendship and attention of this big-hearted , 
broad-gauge man. Good luck to him, and may he long 
live to cheer the hearts of his many friends. He quite 
captured us, and with many regrets we left him home 
with its ' vineyards and fig trees. In a few years those 
soft, sunny hillsides must prove a wonder to the passerby. 
When we reached our car we were delighted to count 
out a great big pile of birds, Mr. Powell generously dump- 
ing his with the common lot. We had a good time at 
Aberdeen, and this was largely due to the efforts of mine 
host Powell, who, in addition to owning a good dog, 
knows where every covey of birds can be found, He 
takes good care of his friends and is "no slouch" with a 
gun. He can provide good shooting always in that sec- 
tion by making short excursions in the country or up and 
down the several lines of railway centering there. For 
the information of those interested it may be well to state 
that any sportsman in delicate health may find recreation 
and a climate suited to his physical condition in the sand 
hills and long-leaved pine region of southern Carolina. 
And at Southern Pines he can find all kinds of accommo- 
dation from the cheapest boarding houses to the fashion- 
able Piney Woods Inn. These places are about six hours 
from Norfolk, Va. , or Portsmouth, the termini of many 
lines of steamers. 
Our friend Gummere's lip having subsided, he reached 
us on Sunday. We celebrated his arrival by going to 
hear a colored brother preach — the Rev. Mose Pitchford. 
We owed this to "Bro. Mose," for he has been for many 
years our faithful cup bearer afield. "Bro. Mose" is well 
known to many New York, Philadelphia and New Jersey 
sportsmen, all of whom will be glad to know that he is as 
handy as of yore with his corkscrew. 
We had several days more of fine weather after Mr. G. 
came, and a batch of birds went off daily to our Northern 
friends. One day Overman and Gummere came in with 
each a brace of wild turkeys, and no one will ever know 
the real facts as to how they came by them. It is one of 
Gummere's solemn convictions that no good lawyer will 
ever lie except for pay. The days sped by so quickly that 
we hardly could realize tbat our week was out. We had 
to lose good old Polk Miller a few days before. His songs, 
stories and banjo still ring in our ears. This is not the last 
shoot of this gang. Nothing succeeds like success, and 
we are to have it all over again, for no four ever had more 
genuine fun. L. J. Picot, M.D. 
P. S. — In answer to many inquiries impossible almost to 
write singly, I will say that Maxton, on the Carolina 
Central R.R., and Gibson Station, on the Raleigh & 
Augusta R.R., are good points for shooting. 
IN NEW JERSEY COVERS. 
You ask for experiences with rod and gun during the 
present season. Mr. Hoops and Gus Weiss of Hoboken, 
ex-Commodore Ernest Fackert of Jersey City and myself, 
too the 9:23 A.M. P. R.R. train from Jersey City, en route 
to Spotswood, Middlesex county, N. J., for a day with the 
cottontails.' Hoops had with him his big white setter and 
Gus Weiss his two beagles, about as homely quadrupeds 
as ever mortal saw, with noses keen and a highly devel- 
oped capacity of sticktoativeness when on a track. 
We were met at the depot in Spotswood (or Snufftown) 
by Willy Quackenbush, the son of the farmer where we 
were invited to shoot Willy is a chip of the old block, as 
he proved in the field. Joe Quackenbush is not only a 
good farmer, but a good hunter and shot at small game. 
A ride through a sandy region among the pines and scrub 
oaks brought us to the farm, where we were warmly wel- 
comed by Mr. Jones and his daughter, Mrs. Joseph 
Quackenbush. Mrs. Q. is one of those old-fashioned 
farmer's wives one always likes to meet, rotund in form, 
showing generous living (she only weighs about 3001bs. 
avoirdupois). A hearty "Glad to see you," and a cordial 
shake of the hand, while sincerity glows in every smile of 
her jolly face, puts you at ease and at home at once. We 
found Joe was out in the swale with a party of friends, 
who soon appeared at the sound of the horn announcing 
that dinner was ready. The party consisted of Hon. Perry 
Fountain, Freeholder of the county, his brother George 
and Mr. Thos. O'Neil of Brunswick, our host, the veritable 
and only Joe Quackenbush, and John, a younger brother 
of Mrs. Q. , and a good John he proved to be. But then he 
has but just returned from the West, where he had been 
having ample practice among the jack rabbits and prairie 
chickens. They brought in four woodcock, four quail 
and several hares (rabbits), the result of the morning's 
work. 
After putting away where we thought would do the 
work good a true farmer's substantial dinner, we were off 
to try our luck. I need not tire you with particulars of 
the afternoon sport. We made some good shots and some 
abominable ones at what we went after molly cottontails. 
The Freeholder got the cream, for he is a young man not 
only of brain, but of energy, and knows the ground. 
Fackert's rotundity and poor Jacobataff's lumbago pre- 
vented their getting around with sufficient activity. The 
younger shooters bad the most shots, while we contented 
ourselves with stands outside the copses; but taking our 
chances as little Lepus dodged out and in, we got there 
sometimes. 
We tried again after an early breakfast. But one 
hour's tramp settled Jacobstaff, and his old lumbago, that 
had been troubling him for several days, and which he 
was in hopes he could walk off, came on in redoubled 
force, in fact verily doubling him up; and he had to leave 
the party for the house, where he spent the day very 
pleasantly listening to reminiscences of the old neighbor- 
hood—one of the oldest in the State, Mr. Jones, the 
owner of the two finest farms in that region (having on 
the one some 2,500 bearing peach trees), is the son of Col. 
W. A. Jones, who was the father of the Seventh Regi- 
ment of New York city and was Sheriff of New York 
county about 1844 to 1846 if I remember right. The 
house where we stopped is one of the oldest in the State. 
It has a massive construction and walls nearly 2ft. in 
thickness of hewn timber. It had been a block-house 
during the Revolutionary war, and as it is but a few miles 
from the battle field of Monmouth, of course it was one of 
' 'Washington's Headquarters. " We are going down there 
again some time and Mr. Jones has promised to drive us 
around and show us the many interesting points of revo- 
lutionary note. 
The boys came in about 3 P. M., as we were to take the 
6 o'clock train. They all seeded to have had a good time. 
as the string of cottontails and gray squirrels proved. 
But they put up only one woodcock and no quail or 
grouse. After another big dinner we were driven to the 
depot and were off for home, well satisfied with our day 
in Middlesex county and pleasant visit at Joe's. 
Dr. Perry W. Levering, of the Jersey City Gun Club, 
and party have just returned from a day's shoot at Pete 
Bird's, up Ogdensburg way. They brought back 23 
rabbits (hares), and the doctor killed a fine English cock 
pheasant, one of the stray ones probably from Tuxedo or 
Blooming Grove parks. It is a fine bird in full plumage. 
The doctor will have it mounted for his gun room. 
Since writing the above another of the J. C. H. G. C. 
boys has arrived. Dr. Cummins — he of the big partridge 
(owl) mentioned in a former issue of your paper — returned, 
bringing with him another magnificent specimen of the 
English pheasant. They put up several of these splendid 
birds, but were careful to shoot (at) only the cocks. The 
last bird is somewhat larger than Dr. Levering's, probably 
a year older, and is in very bright plumage. It will be 
mounted and placed with the owl, woodcock, grouse and 
wood duck that adorn the dentist's reception room in 
Jersey avenue. Jacobstaff. 
WHY HEAVY CHARGES? 
From time to time during the last fifteen or twenty 
years there have appeared in "our ; paper" dissertations 
on the subject of loads for shotguns, hardly any two cor- 
respondents agreeing as to the amount of powder and 
shot to be used, but nearly all advocating a larger load 
than I have shot, and although the subject is as old as 
guns, and I run the risk of being called down by the 
editor, I make so bold as to "chip in" a few of my ideas. 
I had occasion the past fafl to look into the matter of 
loaded shells for the first time, for my own use I mean, 
not being able to get the powder I wished to load shells 
with, and was surprised to find that ninety-nine one- 
hundredths of them were chai-ged with 8£ to 4drs. of 
powder for a 12-gauge gun. Of course I didn't buy any, 
but got some rifle powder, which is the only kind the 
average powder seller keeps, from blasting down to rifle 
use, and loaded what few shells I needed just then. I 
didn't like it, for it was too quick and the recoil unpleas- 
ant, but it was the best I could do. It is nearly twenty 
years since I began shooting a breechloader, a good old 
lifter action Parker, and in all that time I have shot 
powder the grain of which was the size of DuPont's Eagle 
Ducking No. 2, and for the past ten or twelve years that 
powder exclusively, and am still shooting it, for a more 
satisfactory, pleasant shooting powder I never used, and 
never expect to. I speak of black powders of course. 
What I may find out about the different brands of nitros 
remains to be seen, if I live long enough, but while this 
can of No. 2 "holds out to burn," I'll ne'er to nitro 
powders turn. 
There's no doubt but that I'm an "old fogy," for I still 
shoot a hammer gun; but I have been pretty fortunate in 
getting what game I went for, and — well, the longer I 
I live the more I respect the maxims "handsome is 
as handsome does," and "let well enough alone." But 
when that can peters out I may experiment some. I saw 
a man's arm nearly cut in two once by the explosion of a 
gun which had in it a patent powder, and it wasn't funny 
a bit. I did, come to think of it, fool with a wood powder 
a little once, but when I found out that sometimes I 
could kill a quail at 40yds., and then again couldn't kill a 
squirrel at 15yds., or at the muzzle of the gun, I got 
tired of that foolishness pretty quick. And I may be ec- 
centric, but I like to hear the gun go off, too. It reminds 
me of old times, and when the rime of years has pow- 
dered an old man's locks, reminiscence is pleasant if he 
has been good. And I'm growing deaf anyway, and if I 
were to go shooting patent powders and fail to hear the 
gun go off, and then look down the muzzle to see about 
it, I'd get into trouble, like as not. So as I said, as long 
as that can last I think I'll shoot the old reliable. 
But that wasn't what I started out to say. I have been 
and am still surprised to see how many sportsmen cling 
to the idea that it is necessary to put 3 i or 3£drs. of black 
powder into a load, and of nitro powders in the same pro- 
portion, probably. I speak only of a 12-gauge in this 
article; I never shot a 10 and never expect to as long as a 
12 gets the game. A 10-bore is a cannon. 
I suppose the reason why the public loaders of cart- 
ridges put such large loads on the market is because the 
shooters call for them, which isn't necessary at all. It is 
all a matter of habit, and a useless habit, too. 
For many years I have used for all small game one in- 
variable load, 3drs. powder and loz. shot, and whenever 
I shoot straight it gets game at any reasonable distance, 
and by pushing the gun a little it has killed at big dis- 
tances. I have killed quail 'way off yonder at 75 to 80 
paces, and squirrels pretty nearly out of sight, while 
ducks, snipe and hares turned up their toes when it 
seemed folly to shoot. Quite a good deal of experience 
has taught me conclusively that the above load is entirely 
sufficient in any fair shooting gun, and why shooters will 
load themselves down with useless weight, and get their 
shoulders jammed with useless kicking is what puzzles 
me, and has for many moons. The proof of the puddm' 
isn't in the weight or the cost. For deer shooting I used 
3^drs., with 12 buckshot, and with that load my old 
Parker, blessed old gun, would put 8 out of the 12 into a 
2ft. space at 50yds. with either barrel, and few deer ever 
got away under 60yds. while there was powder a-plenty 
to send the shot home. The first deer I shot with that 
gun was a doe, between 40 and 50yds. away, and the 8 
shot that went through her lungs or thereabout all went 
into a space that a letter sheet would cover. I haven't 
any idea that 4drs. of powder would have killed her any 
sooner. And during that same decade, I remember while 
out one night fire hunting, I shined a deer's eyes at a little 
over 100yds., for I paced it within ten minutes — couldn't 
have done it if I had not had one of Ferguson's lamps — 
and walking up about half the distance palled down on 
the orbs. There wasn't a sound or kick. I found the deer 
dead, and it had been standing behind a good-sized tree 
which protected its vitals. One shot entered just back of 
the eye, one in the neck, one just back of the vitals, and 
several struck the tree just where they ought. I mention 
this to show how the old gun would discriminate when 
obstacles were in the way, and you could not persuade me 
that a larger charge of powder would have shoved those 
three shot any better. 
For turkeys I always set the gauge at 3| scant with l£ 
scant of No. 1 shot. It is plenty and does the work, and 
the shooting is pleasant— if . you get the,turkey. 
