BOS 
FOREST AND ' STREAM. 
[Dec. IS, 1894. 
A PERFECT NIMROD. 
Theee is rare old sport to be had in a partridge hunt. I 
am a crank on the subject and you must excuse me for 
knowing. I love this life of the field and forest, and am 
as vain as any veteran of the scars I have won in many a 
toilsome chase. 
They tell me it is tame sport. I dare say it was in the 
days of our daddies when the birds were snared with a 
shoestring. But the partridge of to-day is a different sort 
of chicken. He is shy and speedy and full of guile. He 
is undergoing a process of evolution all the time. He 
knows more this year than he did last and will know 
more next year than he does now. Come hither my 
father in Israel, and lemme show you a few of the lineal 
descendants of the "patridge" of your early days. Behold 
now the roadsider, the hill-climber, the sprinter, the 
dodger, the swamper, the sky-3kipper, the bee-liner, the 
side-wheeler, the stern-wheeler. My venerable friend, I 
do cal'late you've no idea how things have changed since 
you useter bile the kittle in these woods. They will not 
nestle in your whiskers now as in the days of yore. They 
do not walk through the kitchen door and roost on the 
handle of the frying-pan with their quit- quit-quit! Hast 
thou, my ancient, marked the hole in the daylight which 
the bee-liner bores in his dizzy flight? Hast thou consid- 
ered the ways of the stem- wheeler, my relic? When the 
bird bolts out of the brooding air right in front of your 
sacred nose and goes roaring away like a rocket with his 
jib cut loose for Limerick, and his propeller ticking off 
2222 revolutions per minute — that is the stern-wheeler 
whereof I spake. He flies with his tail and not his wings, 
believe me. Shot will notjstop him, my sweetness, unless 
you cock your gun comparatively soon. A coniet, did 
you say, my sainted friend? Ah, no indeed, that is the 
skipper of the sky. He flies higher and faster and further 
than the stern-wheeler, and keeps no log, and has no reg- 
ular port of call. He is gravel-ballasted and clipper-built 
and carries a balloon jib and spinaker. Gadsme! he is 
heading for the moon. 
Much as I love to revel in the aromatic effluvium of the 
forest, with Victor Hugo Dusenbury I hanker not to in- 
vade the forest any more. Victor is a cousin of mine. 
It is with humility and yet with pride that I confess it. 
I am proud of the humility which enables me to speak of 
Victor after what has passed. I know 'tis idle to repine 
at Providence. I will just say this; that when cousins 
were being passed round I ought to have been notified to 
be present, in person or by proxy, to protect my rights. 
I should, I think, have taken precious good care that 
Victor was not knocked down to me. 
Yet, when Victor arrived from town and strode up the 
Rue de Cowpath with his tailless dog, and hammerless 
gun and lawless mien, I recall that I was truly glad to see 
him. I was bound that he should have some sport. I 
wanted to see him draw a bead upon the bee-liner and 
cause him to lay aside formality, fuss and feathers in the 
fulvous air. Victor laughed when he saw my mongrel 
cur and begged me to leave him home. But I would not 
part with those ten pounds of yaller dog-meat for all the 
blue blood setters, pointers and spaniels from here to 
Florida. We entered the woods with the weary air of 
men who were heavily loaded with a mental reservation. 
When the mongrel started bird number one I politely 
invited Victor to shoot. Victor could not see the bird. I 
pointed him out so Victor. It was painful to see the 
alacrity with which Victor failed to connect. I pointed 
out another bird asleep on a pine stub. Victor raced 
through the bushes and blazed away at a range of about 
six feet. To the best of my opinion it has been raining 
blood and feathers there ever since that time. His end 
was piece — so was the other end. I do not believe Victor 
got all of the bird after all, for we had forgotten to bring 
along a rake. There is one great advantage in Victor's 
style of shooting. He kills, plucks and carves the bird 
all in one operation. In fact I feel quite positive that any 
bird Victor shoots will not even need to be eaten. 
The next bird was a roadside yearling. When I pointed 
him out Victor developed a keen sense of locality and let 
drive at him under a m >ssy log. How could Victor be 
supposed to know that itxe bird was not there at all, but 
under some other log. I try to be impartial in these 
things, but I think the look that bird gave Victor as he 
went betokened more contempt than gratitude. Victor 
began to be bothered by a note he had to meet, and 
thrashed around among the bushes with both hammers 
at full cock. 
Bird No. 4 was nicely treed by the mongrel. Victor 
was naturally alarmed lest I should shoot before he did. 
He ran forward, I t fly in a hurry — and missed. Bird 
No. 5 took a scoot through the blow-downs and Victor 
tried to run him to earth. He crashed through the 
alders and over the deadfalls, scratching his face, bark- 
ing his shins, falling over himself till I could have sworn 
it was a bull moose. The bird, like the colored conven- 
tion, "rejourned sun down." His trunk was checked 
for the autumn twilight glow, with no Btops at suburban 
stations. 
I recommended Victor to accumulate his faculties. He 
said it was no use — the cares of commerce made him 
gruesome and distraught. The next bird was a rabbit, 
heading sou'-sou'west. Victor let go at him in elegant 
style. He agreed with me, however, that his chances 
would have been better had his gun been loaded. 
Somehow or other Victor made me nervous, too. When 
he was walking ahead of me he had both barrels at full 
cock ranging for my presence all the time. When he was 
behind they were threatening my dignity. If there is 
anything I specially desire in this life it is to preserve my 
dignity intact. Had Victor's gun gone off there would 
not have been at atom of it left. 
I began to mark the mongrel holding his head to one 
side and watching Victor pensively. When he looks that 
way the mongrel is doing the tallest kind of thinking that 
a dog can do. He let out about a yard of tongue, but even 
then the problem was too much for him. Bime-bye he 
sneaked away and ambled home in deep disgust. 
"Do you call this sport?" said Victor at last. 
"No," said I. 
So Victor and I went silently homeward, too, freighted 
with a mental reservation bigger than the hump on Bun- 
y an's pilgi i m. On the ensuing day Victor gathered up his 
toggery and left for town. And this is what I read in the 
paper that came the following morning: 
Our worthy townsman, Victor Hugo Dusenbury, Esq., is a perfect 
Nimrod. He has returned bronzed and hardy from a week's outing 
with his rural friends, during which be bagged over sixty grouse, 
twenty brace of woodcock, and snipe innumerable. He gave the 
natives of Wayback some pointers in the science of woodcraft that 
astonished them; in fact, they were fairly paralyzed with his per- 
formance. 
May heaven's richest blessing rest upon you, Victor, for 
you surely need it. But the mongrel knows and so do I. 
Prowler. 
Fbkdericton, N. B., Dec. 10. 
NOTES BY THE WAY. 
Boston, Dec. 1. — During the many moons since I have 
been able to send any notes to Forest and Stream, the 
dear old paper has come to me with contents of — if pos- 
sible — ever increasing interest. Never a number comes 
without suggestion of question and comment, and remin- 
iscences enough to fill a letter, far more, probably, than 
even its hospitable columns aud friendly readers would 
have welcomed. It has all had to go unrecorded, but 
some aspect of this year's campaign in Maine, spur me 
to say a word. But first let me give my testimony to the 
great work that has been done in the last few years by 
Forest and Stream in promoting a fraternal sentiment 
among sportsmen and naturalists from one end of the 
country to the other and in constantly improving and 
elevating the tone of all discussions pertaining to their 
interests. The work was begun long ago, and many who 
labored then for the suppression of greed and for the 
preservation of game and for a wise forethought in these 
matters, almost despaired of ever seeing any widespread 
interest or willingness to sacrifice present and personal 
interest for a future and general benefit. Good sentiment, 
powerful enough to influence action is all too tardy and 
slow of growth, and I have often been led to picture to 
myself our hunt-loving descendants excitedly discussing 
the best and most sportsmanlike methods of taking the 
English sparrow, the chipmonk and the minnow, and 
trying to imagine the days of their forefathers, who 
hunted larger game. But in spite of the senseless and 
almost universal destruction of so many of our noblest 
forms of animal life and the irreperable damage done — 
there are still some treasures left, and there are signs that 
at last there is something like a public sentiment to which 
we can appeal. 
The letters and statements of Forest and Stream and 
other journals, including of late not a few of our daily 
press, have begun to bear fruit. Hunters, guides and 
natives are affected by them. Into the remotest camps 
the Forest and Stream penetrates and bears its message 
to men who have a great deal of time to think. 
Now is the time of all times to redouble effort and to 
spread the gospel of common sense and enlightened self- 
interest. 
In my judgment no one thing ever did half so much to 
help the good cause as the Forest and Stream expedi- 
tion to the Yellowstone Park and its revelation through 
the letters and photographs of Messrs. Hough and Hofer — 
par nobile fratrum. Every one who has had the privi- 
lege of seeing that wonderland and also of reading Mr. 
Hough's letters must, I am sure, like myself, have fol- 
lowed every step of that plucky winter trip with the 
greatest interest and rejoiced in the thought of the good 
work the recital was sure to accomplish. 
As every one knows, the State of Maine is now far and 
away the greatest and most valuable game preserve east 
of the Mississippi River, if not on the continent. It boasts 
no grizzly bear nor elk nor antelope, though it is stoutly 
asserted that a single stray pair of elk were not long ago 
shot somewhere on the Allegash, and that the mounted 
specimens are now in evidence at Fredericton, N. B. 
This statement and the alleged recent occurrence of the 
wolverine in the same region are very interesting, and I 
hope will be thoroughly investigated and reported upon. 
But it is certain that Maine entered upon the year 1894 
with its vast extent of wilderness abundantly and mar- 
velously stocked with deer, and throughout a great por- 
tion of this region caribou and moose were to be found 
in fairly good numbers. The deer are prolific and hard 
to exterminate, and carihou are exceptionally well able 
to take care of themselves even in deep snows and times 
of crust; but moose, our largest and noblest game, need 
vigorous and stringent protection if their absolute exter- 
mination is to be prevented. Some measure of this pro- 
tection was finally given after the stock was almost ex- 
hausted and that which many of us hoped for, but did not 
dare expect, was brought about. This year the moose 
were actually here again, and as I have said, in fairly 
good abundance. And the fact was widely advertised. 
The result was such a rush of hunters for the woods as 
Maine never saw before. 
It is said that by sheer inadvertance the law against 
the killing of cow moose at any time, an absolutely ne- 
cessiry provision if the race is to be preserved, was 
allowed to lapse. The natural result has folio wed and 
the slaughter has been indiscriminate and terrible. 
On Oct. 7 I started for my nineteenth trip to the Maine 
woods. I need not to your readers describe what such a 
trip means. Long planned for and keenly anticipated it 
becomes with every year's experience of it a more and 
more glorious privilege and a greater and greater ne- 
cessity. Never did I long for it with greater ardor nor 
feel greater need of it than this year. 
Through the failure of a cabman to come for me at the 
proper time, I was belated, and in hurrying, heavily bur- 
dened with gripsacks and rifle case, across the floor of the 
railway station at Boston, I slipped and in the violent 
effort to prevent a fall — I, by sheer muscular wrench, tore 
off some of the fibers of the great ligament of the right 
knee. The train was on the point of starting. Not know- 
ing how badly I was injured I got on board, though with 
deep down fear that the trouble was serious, which fear 
was in a few moments quite confirmed. I pass briefly 
over what followed, viz,, a night of pain — a difficult 
removal from the train at Bangor to a hotel bed — the 
ministrations of the surgeon, vanishing visions of canoe 
and camp and one of the finest chances ever heard of to 
cultivate the virtues of patience and resignation! I 
thought upon Mark Tapley and tried to emulate his great 
example, but justice demands the confession that it was 
only after a time and in a modified degree that 1 
was able to exemplify his philosophy. Some days 
after my accident, with right leg in splint and with the 
aid of crutches and with the help of a friend whose kind- 
ness I shall always hold in great remembrance — I emerged 
from the hotel and took the train — not for Boston, but 
the little station of the Bangor & Aroostook Railway, 
which had been my proposed point of departure for camp, 
and where I had hoped to meet a man who was at the 
same time an old friend and most skillful and admirable 
guide. I could not bear to go back defeated and utterly 
defrauded. Better to be, I thought, where I could look 
out on Katahdin and see more fortunate hunters come 
and go, see the antlers brought in and hear some of the 
gossip of the woods, even though I were myself crippled, 
and so it proved. My knee improved steadily, and I have 
hope of complete recovery, but the picture of my Maine 
woods trip for 1894 will have to be permanently framed 
in much more than "half mourning." 
I did not see the meat market at Bangor, but by all 
accounts it presented an extraordinary appearance in 
those days, crowded as it was with deer, caribou, moose 
and bear carcasses. In one day two moose, two caribou, 
two bear and fifty-seven deer had been received. Of 
course this was the catch of a large extent of territory, 
but it was the record of only one day and that of every 
other day was very large. Nothing like it had ever been 
seen. I am familiar with the rush of sportsmen to the 
Maine woods at the opening of the game season, but this 
year has beaten all previous records out of sight. For 
days every train had carried to the north an antonishing 
number of men with rifles. There were twenty-five or 
thirty on my own train. There were camps on every 
lake and stream, and on many lakes and streams there 
were many camps. Everywhere there were Winchesters 
and Marlins. Every man you met carried one or the 
other. It was the generally expressed conviction that 
with so many guns and so many eager and inexperienced 
men in the woods there were sure to be serious accidents. 
As a matter of fact I remember to have heard of none up 
to date. Perhaps the general fear effected the needed 
caution. 
From Brownville the new railroad runs through coun- 
try very familiar to me but it was a most novel and to me 
an uncanny thing to see it from a car window. 
I am glad if the good people of Aroostook county are 
benefited by this new route to market, but I sorrow with 
the wood gods at this intrusion on their solitudes. I felt 
it an outrage to sweep along behind a shrieking locomo- 
tive past the head of Schoodic Lake where I had so often 
drawn up my canoe on the beach with the most com- 
fortable sense of solitude, and to go past the head of 
Seboois and meet the gaze of Big Jo Merry mountain 
while traveling in this luxurious and shameful fashion. 
Last year I felt the same sense of shame and pain in 
coming down from Greenville to Brownville over the 
Canadian Pacific line. I looked out on woods and waters 
which I had known in all their remoteness and wildness, 
which characteristics are now gone forever, The region 
from Moosehead Lake to Katahdin has been for twenty- 
five years my peculiar and favorite hunting ground. I 
am myself not a bad guide for most of it. Scarcely a 
peak or eminence in the whole extent on which I have 
not stood, and on many of them many times, or a lake on 
the shore of which my camp has not been made. Its 
people and its places are old friends to me. I can never 
know or love another hunting region so well. But no 
amount of this sentiment will stay the hand of the rail- 
way maker and I accept the inevitable and let the train 
bear me on. At every little station or siding was a little 
group of men, every one with a rifle, and generally there 
were several deer awaiting shipment. At one Btation a 
young cow moose, just killed and the noBtrils still twitch- 
ing and quivering, lay on a flat car. It was to me no 
pleasant sight but an ominous one. A little further on 
the train jumped two deer, and two young men from 
Connecticut who sat beside me and who were going into 
the woods for the first time, took heart of courage and 
began to think that they too might "actually kill a deer." 
I reached my destination and carried out my plan. I 
saw parties come and watched the eager consultations 
with guides, the assembling of supplies, the last adjust- 
ments, the pushing off and the dip of their paddles as 
their canoes bore them strong and hopeful up the lakes 
to camp and hunting ground. I saw parties come in 
with antlers and trophies and stories of the chase. Three 
sets of moose antlers — all of young moose — were brought 
in while I was there. Few attempts were made to bring 
out any of the meat. Many cow moose had been killed. 
Parties going into the woods were frankly told of four car- 
casses of moose hung in the trees at as many points up the 
West Branch, which could be had for the taking. 
Caribou signs had not been lacking, but they were not 
really abundant. One party, which made the ascent of 
Katahdin, leaving their rifles a half mile below the edge 
of the tableland, saw five caribou near the very summit. 
The animals were in sight a long time, finally moving 
leisurely off along the plateau to the north. 
According to all reports no better deer country could 
be found than that immediately surrounding the place 
where 1 was. Up and down the railroad deer tracks were 
everywhere to be seen. Those of a huge buck were re- 
newed every night within 200yds. of the house. Several 
deer were killed by those who simply watched along the 
burnt lands beside the track. A little earlier — before open 
time — a gentleman had amused himself by going up and 
down the line after dark on a "velocipede hand-car" and 
carrying a jack, and one night within a distance of four 
or five miles he saw twenty-two pairs of eyes. That is 
my recollection of his count, and I have not the slightest 
doubt of the truth of his statement. 
Early one morning, just before my arrival, a moose 
was started only a few rods up the track. It was just 
before daybreak and the hunter supposed, till it was too 
late for a shot, that the object he saw might be a man. 
His forbearance was, no matter at what possible loss of 
game, absolutely the only course to be thought of. How 
I longed for a well knee and my old familiar place in the 
bow of a canoe. One morning I did hobble down to the 
landing and, having been assisted with as much care as if 
1 had been a bag of diamonds instead of merely flesh and 
bones, I sat flat down in the waist of a canoe and a 
gentleman paddled me over to a birch point where some 
guides had a camp. There I found the w hite tent, the 
camp-fire in front, the tea pail hanging on the "spunhun- 
gan," and a quarter of venison hanging handy. The 
witching smell of the fresh fallen birch leaves caught me, 
and for one wild, self -forgetful moment I was again in 
