490 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Dec. 8, 1894. 
SHOOTING TALK. 
The editor's call for a statement of the positions assumed 
in rifle shooting by hunters is, in the very nature of things, 
such an appeal to the garrulity of every old rifle crank, 
that he need not be surprised if it buries the editorial 
chair under an avalanche of manuscript. For my own 
part, I have tried almost every possible position, settling 
down finally to straight off-hand shooting as giving the 
very best results. 
My first deer was killed in Potawatamie county, Iowa, 
in 1854, on my fifteenth birthday (Christmas Day). From 
the time when that never-to-be-forgotten five-point white- 
tail buck fell in front of my little muzzleloading rifle, deer 
hunting became almost an infatuation. 
I remember occasions when what proved to be a track- 
ing snow beginning to fall in the evening, and having 
obtained my father's promise of a holiday on the morrow, 
that appetite went from me instantly — not a mouthful of 
supper could be eaten — and having cast fifty bullets in the 
little old-fashioned round bullet moulds (always fifty bul- 
lets, though I never fired half a dozen shots any day), and 
having provided powder, caps and linen patches well 
greased, found myself so devoured with excitement and 
impatience that sleep was well nigh impossible; and when 
morning dawned notbing but the stern mandate of my 
father forced me to pay the slightest attention to the 
breakfast table before setting out for an all-day's tramp in 
search of the elusive creatures whose white banners so 
often waved a farewell, the agony of which was never 
fathomed on earth save by the leg- weary boy, alone upon 
the wide prairie, far, far behind. 
And buck ague! I have wondered if any one else ever 
did, or could, suffer therewith as I used to in the days of 
my boyhood. Being naturally very nervous, I never 
could sboot a rifle with a single trigger with any degree 
of accuracy, but was obliged to use double triggers, set to 
go at a touch. Even then so poor a marksman was I, tbat 
I was obliged to take a rest of some kind at every shot at 
deer, for the sight of the beautiful creature in front of 
rny rifle would set my heart to pumping like a hydraulic 
ram. I remember well the time when, having already 
killed two deer, and beginning to fancy myself a great 
hunter, and having practiced rifle shooting until I was 
reasonably sure of hitting a prairie chicken off-hand at 
50yds. , and the first tracking snow of the season having 
come, I took the trail of a doe and two fawns on the west 
bank of the Nishnabotna River, just above Big Grove, and 
making a successful crawl upon the watchful creatures 
until I was within 75yds. of the unsuspecting doe grazing 
peacefully broadside to, I took a knee rest (that is, with 
one knee on the ground), and missed the big target com- 
pletely. 
Away went two of the group, flying over the smooth 
bottom land with the speed of racers, but fortunately my 
luck held, for the buck fawn, the fool of the family, not 
having seen me, and after a long stare, during which I 
hugged the earth and peeped through the grass at him, 
concluding that it wasn't going to be much of a shower, 
after all, peacefully resumed his grazing. 
Creeping back behind a little hillock I reloaded, and 
having crawled up within 75yds. of the silly creature, and 
watching until his head was down in the grass I rose on 
one knee and vainly tried to steady the wobbling rifle on 
his body long enough for me to touch the trigger. In 
vain! His head was rising again and I dropped into the 
grass to await another opportunity. How many times 
this was repeated I do not remember, several at any rate. 
"While crouched in the grass my heart pulsated only at 
the normal rate, but up on my knee I must not rise with- 
out another tumult. It was one of the queerest situations 
I was ever in. Positively, it seemed almost as though my 
heart was another fellow with whom I was trying to 
make terms. I would lie and reason the matter out, ex- 
postulating and explaining, and trying to get the consent 
of my heart to remain quiet for only a short time — say a 
minute or so. 
Apparently I could arrange for anything or everything 
— except! I mustn't try to rise to my knee. And finally, 
after probably half a dozen vain attempts, the queer fancy 
seemed to possess me of stealing a march upon the other 
fellow while he wasn't looking. And the oddity of the 
whole affair was I almost made it. For rising quickly I 
steadied the rifle as much as possible for a shot at his 
heart, I touched the trigger just as the dreaded upheaval 
began, and broke the little fellow's neck. For once in my 
life "bull-headed luck" was as good as science. 
I don't know how buck ague affects others, but it was 
the foe of my boyish enjoyment, and for many years so 
hindered my marksmanship that it obliged me to make 
up for lack of skill in this direction by the most consum- 
mate care and skill in approaching game, and finally 
more than repaid all it cost, when, after the buck ague 
disappeared, and I had attained to something of pro- 
ficiency with the rifle, I was enabled to get game where 
better riflemen, who were not so good hunters, were 
utterly at fault. 
Still I have always found that the double-triggered rifle 
was a necessity to riflemen of nervous temperament, 
though the logic of events finally convinced me that the 
very best mode — for me at least— was off-hand shooting, 
straight. 
Take aim with the hah* triggered rifle the best you can, 
wait patiently until the front bead swings across the 
center — it will come some time — touch 1 and the thing is 
done. 
And yet, does the scientific rifleman with nerves of 
steel get a thousandth part of the enjoyment following a 
successful shot that was realized by the half-crazy boy 
dancing and shivering his very teeth loose around the 
first antlered trophy of his little skill? I trow not, by a 
long chalk. 
And now how one thing suggests another. I think of 
the many interesting sketches and reminiscences con- 
tributed by my brothers of the great family of .American 
sportsmen for my gratification through the columns of 
our dear old paper during the past year, and the question 
arises, what shall I do for them in return? Or how fail 
to note the many pleasing things which the paper has 
contained for the instruction and entertainment of its 
mighty host of readers? 
Shall I tell of the unsuccessful hunt I took in the moun- 
tains, when having taken the wrong trail and night over- 
taking me in a lonely spot where grass for the pony and 
water for us both was finally obtained, I lay down in 
front of the roaring camp-fire, and with nose buried in 
the pages of Forest akd Stream forgot my troubles 
while camping on the shore of the beautiful lake with 
Br'er Hough on the occasion of Forest and Stream's 
Fourth Annual? 
I might if I were not in such haste to commend Br'er 
O. O. S. for his courage in confessing that he has actually 
eaten pawpaws! 
Bear in mind that I never harbored a suspicion regard- 
ing the cougar which swam against the handspike, but I 
do like to have things fully explained. 
It is all straight now. Of course it is understood that a 
man who dares eat a pawpaw is a match for a cougar any 
day in the week, but why didn't the valorous hunter tell 
us the whole story? 
"Why didn't he tell us that when the infuriated brute 
swam up to the edge of the driftwood, "breathing out 
threatenings and slaughter," that he slyly drew from his 
pocket a half-eaten pawpaw and shoved it under the poor 
brute's nose, forcing her to smell it until, deadly sick of 
life and all its promised joys, she turned away to drown 
herself in sheer self-defense, when our friend O. O. S. 
proceeded to "take the disadvantage" of her with a club? 
And isn't it gratifying to note that the researches of 
modern colored science have thrown so much light upon 
the queer actions of the bluejay? 
It was always evident that the little rascal was up 
to some mischief or "devilment," but when hurrying 
to escape his furious scolding I was never painstaking 
enough to first examine his teeth. 
Let the grain of sand be really shown in evidence, and 
I'm ready to declare war upon him, pretty as he is. 
Observe, too, the effect of the educational influence of 
the sportsman's paper. I venture to say that until Forest 
and Stream began its uplifting and instructive teachings 
in Dixie that never a single black bear in all Florida had 
learned to dive to the bottom of a lagoon and bring up an 
alligator in his arms. Great is the power of the press! 
And now, while I am exceedingly grateful that I am 
far enough off in the jungle to discourage all possible 
attempts of our accomplished and racy friend, O. O. S., 
to shy a pawpaw at me with any hope of success, I'll rest 
my cramped wrist by bidding our whole family (of course 
including dear old "Shoshone"), a kind good night. 
Orin Belknap. 
TEXAS AND THE SOUTHWEST. 
Ducks by the Million. 
From all along the coast of Corpus Christi Bay comes 
word to the effect that the flight of bluebills is greater 
this year than ever before. On the Oso (a large shallow 
body of brackish water), seven miles from Corpus, the 
flight of ducks is beginning, while thousands upon thous- 
ands of bluebills, redheads and canvasbacks, are twice a 
day clearing the air on their way up and down the 
Nueces Bay. They fly in the morning in search of fresh 
water and food, which abounds at the mouth of the 
Nueces Eiver, and return in the evening to roost in the 
bay and the neighboring lagoons. 
The bluebill duck is not generally prized as an article 
of food in the northern waters, but along our Texas coast 
nearly every one prefers it to any other duck. The 
reason for this is that they feed almost exclusively upon 
small oysters and eat no fish whatever. The flesh of the 
bluebill that feed on fresh water marshes is rather fishy 
because they sometimes catch a luckless minnow in their 
long dives and consequently taste 'fishy, but the Texas 
bird is too high-toned; he despises the plebian fish diet 
and eats only the best that the oyster banks afford — hence 
the fine flavor. 
Shame! Shame! 
A publication issued from Dallas supposedly in the 
interest of sportsmen has startled the Southwest in gen- 
eral and the small-bore shooters of San Antonio in par- 
ticular by proposing a grand field contest. The proprietors 
of the publication aforesaid have announced what they 
term a grand field tournament to take place during the 
holidays all over the State. Here is the advertisement as 
sent to a San Antonio gun house: 
Prize Shoot.— $50 silver cup presented by Cyclist and Sportsman, 
Dallas, Tex , to be contested for during the Christmas holidays, at 
San Antonio, Tex. Eight hours' shoot over setter or pointer with 
12-gauge (or under) shotgun, charge not to exceed 134oz. shot and 
4drs. powder. Game to consist of quail, prairie chicken, duck, tea), 
snipe, plover, squirrel and rabbit. (Count by points, to be arranged 
by a committee.)' The best bag, or highest score, wins the prize. 
Contest to take place within a radius of twelve miles of San Antonio. 
Note.— This contest is open to all paid-up yearly subscribers to 
Cyclist and Sportsman. All desiring to compete who are not sub- 
scribers can subscribe through this store. 
The reader will notice that the best bag is to win the 
prize emblematic of being the greatest game killer in the 
State. While the progenitors of the scheme undoubtedly 
will champion the cause of game protection, while they 
will turn all kinds of literary handsprings condemnatory 
of the conduct of pot and market-hunters, it seems to me 
a little out of place for them to offer a premium on the 
indiscriminate slaughter of game. One of the conditions 
of the proposed slaughter for the silver cup, is that the 
shoot must take place "over a setter or pointer." Of 
course, all sportsmen well know that duck, snipe, plover, 
squirrel and rabbit are nicely hunted by either dog. I 
think my friend Hough's column in Forest and Stream 
would be printed in red should he witness the harrowing 
spectacle of my elephant-pointer climbing a live oak after 
a festive rodent of the woods. But may be the contest 
may not take place after all. There might be a cyclone 
of indignation on the date of the proposed shoot. I hope 
there will. 
At Mud Flats. 
A gay party of officers from Fort Sam Houston are 
enjoying [the hospitality of Geo. Fulton, the "Prince of 
the Southwest," at his ranch, 150 miles from San Antonio, 
on the Aransas Pass railway. Their first day's hunt 
netted a lot of great big honker geese and a fine string of 
juicy mallards and teal. 
Plenty of Tarpon. 
The Greek sailors at Corpus Christi say that the tarpon 
are so numerous off Flower Bluff (about ten miles south 
of the town) that they frequently jump clean over their 
boats and actually churn the water into a foam. On sev- 
eral occasions small tarpon have been caught in hundreds 
in their nets. 
Swans In Plenty. 
A rover of the Texas coast, who is thoroughly reliable, 
told me last week that an ordinary shot could load a 
wagon (presumably a small one) with white swan any 
evening on Hines Bay. He also stated jthat Mons. Scolo- 
pax had Jjaken possession of all the lagoons and marshes. 
There wasn't a word said about killing them with sticks, 
but he stated that he fired twenty shots at them and 
finally left in disgust, rightfully concluding that he 
wasn't much af a jacksnipe hunter, nohow. 
Visitors. 
Two brothers, Messrs. Schmidt, of Milwaukee, are vis- 
iting San Antonio. They brought a letter of introduc- 
tion from Dick Merrill, of the same place, but now in the 
Deltas of the Mississippi. This office was also pleasantly 
visited by Mr. "Winton, a popular sportsman of San Luis 
Potosi, Mexico. Texas Field. 
THE FLIGHT OF THE BRANT. 
At the Roanoke Association's Hunting Grounds. 
The little white dingey pulled from the dock at the 
old city named after good Queen Bess to the white-winged 
yacht Brant that lay straining at her anchor under the 
strong flow of the ebb tide. Laden with guns, impedi- 
menta and eager-hearted sportsmen, with the soft, meek- 
eyed setters crouching low. the little skiff reached the 
Brant and everything was tumbled aboard. Sharp and 
quick the orders from Capt. Hayman to the crew, and 
with all canvas spread the yacht drifted down the waters 
of old Pasquotank, only the topsails set on the lofty, slen- 
der spars catching faintest impetus from the straying 
zephyrs. 
After supper, stretched on deck with Prima Donna, of 
royal English setter blood, poking a cold nose into my 
face for recognition, I watched the stars of the Southern 
skies as we drifted down toward the sound. From the 
dark heights the honk, honk made the setter lift up her 
head and scent the breeze with short, eager sniffs as if 
to say, "Ah, just wait until to-morrow." 
Oh, Queen Bess, the little country village named after 
you has not enjoyed much benefit from the distinction 
THE BRANT. 
and hardly borne the weight of a sovereign name. Yet 
through its portals passes many an one who drinks no 
stinted bumper to the royal sport that lies the other side, 
and remembers Elizabeth City with that indescribable 
feeling and surge of blood that recalls the shot that tops 
the record. 
Balmy the night and soft the rocking of the yacht as 
we slept through the hours speeding the Brant on her 
voyage to Roanoke Island. One knows not when the 
yacht comes to anchorage off the club house of the 
Roanoke Cruising Association, and the hoarse booming 
of the breakers on the Diamonds and the sandy ridges 
shutting the turbulence of the ocean from the placidness 
of the sound, only lull the sleeper to sweeter dreams and 
restful slumbers. 
Early in the morning I rose and went on deck to take 
a plunge in the sound, whose soft tepid touch made me 
doubt whether it was but a night since I had left the bleak, 
dreary wintriness of January days in New York. It 
gives one a feeling of contempt for the comfortable bath- 
room on the yacht. 
Sunday we went to service at Manteo, an old village on 
the island named after an old Indian chief, and for din- 
ner at ' 'Uncle Bill Basnight's" ate yams and drank scup- 
pernong wine that tasted at first like Lafaurie avec 
marrons at "Dels." 
"We decided to live on the yacht (a veritable palace) 
instead of at the club house, to the great disappointment of 
Spence Daniels and chef Mose — the greatest dusky 
"Lothario" and "Deacon of the Church" (sic) the African 
world has ever been blessed with: "Er mos' powerful 
exhorter, sah, and a leader to der mo'ners' bench, sah." 
'0/' |f 
CROATAN LIGHT. 
