Srpt. 13, 1896.] 
FOREST AND STREAM, 
205 
sizzled and steamed with gladness. A log had been 
rolled near the fire, in front of which the feast was 
spread. Never did a cup of coffee taste so good. Each 
hot drop seemed to remove a distinct and separate chill. 
After lunch I was requested to tell a story. I related one 
from Dante's Inferno. I have since regretted I didn't go 
higher for my text and preach a sermon. My story 
started Lewis, and while the clouds of steam arose from 
my drying boots and corduroys we were eloquently enter- 
tained. 
What a change in a night. This, our last morning, 
proved the uncertainty of things; by noon the thermome- 
ter registered 75° and all creation seemed to be boiling 
and steaming; clouds of mist arose, to be absorbed by a 
summer sun, the dogs came in with drooping heads and 
tails and tongues exposed to the roots. We quit. All 
had done a big week's work and showed it, and in most 
cases felt it, but none so much as Hopkins, who had 
faithfully followed me six days afield. I didn't notice 
the change, as it had come gradual, but Lewis declared it 
would take him most of the winter to "pick up again." 
George looked tired, but the keenness of his eyes told of 
the great benefit he had received, and when he had slept 
by the yard at home he had measured it off by the mile 
the last few nights in North Carolina. A tired brain had 
been refreshed, and while he might say not, I believe a 
doctor's bill was saved. 
The journey home was soon over. Early next day 
found us among scenes ever dear. As I close I find Mont, 
Mecca and Jennette surrounding my chair, living wit- 
nesses of those days in November; as I look into their in- 
telligent eyes, I wonder what they are thinking. 
Thohas Elmee. 
Elizabeth. 
A DAY WITH COOT AT MANOMET. 
On a cool day in November Archie, Doc and I went for 
a day or two with the coot at Manomet. We met Arch 
at good old Plymouth and drove over Manomet Hills. Did 
you ever take that drive? Manomet is about eight miles 
south of Plymouth on the shore of Cape Cod Bay, and if 
you have never driven there you have missed a treat. 
On a clear day in the fall to ride over these hiUs and see 
the changing color of the foliage, the sumac beside the 
road with clusters of red berries, to get the perfume gf 
the wild grapes, and then to burst out in view of the bay 
with the Gurnet in the distance is a tonic for an invalid. 
As we come out of the woods the old church at Mano- 
met comes to view, and passing that we drive on the shore 
road to the cottage. Our house is situated on the bluff 
and overlooks the bay. To the north the Gurnet and 
Brant Rock are seen, and away to the south Sandwich, 
and in clear days Provincetown can be seen. We have 
for supper clam chowder and steak, after which Doc and 
I look over our case of shells and get out the guns. We 
find we have a good stock of No. 4 and No. 2, so every- 
thing is right in that line. Next we must look over our 
shooting clothes, for we start out at 4 in the morning, 
and it will be cold. Now for a call at the life-saving sta- 
tion to see the boys and get our boats. As we enter we 
are greeted by all. Uncle Sam employs some fine fellows 
in the life-saving stations, and there are none better than 
Capt. Sampson and his crew at Manomet. We have a 
little chat with Scrubby and George, and they promise to 
wake us in the morning when they go out on the south 
beat on patrol. Everything is fixed for the morning, and 
we pick our way back to find Arch more than busy with 
hooks, lines and leads. You would think by the layout 
that he intended to catch all the fish in the bay. He 
would rather fish than eat any time, and is getting into 
gear. Doc and I turn in. 
It seemed as if we had hardly closed our eyes when we 
hear a stone on the roof, and Scrubby is saying, "Wake 
up, sleepersl Get out and kill a coot." We tumble out of 
bed, call him in to warm up beside the fire and then 
hustle into our clothes. Cold? Well, I guess. We bun- 
dle on all the coats we can carry, and take our guns and 
case of shells; but where is Arch? In bed and sound 
asleep. This won't do. He must wake up to enjoy the 
fun. We put a few cold stones in the bed with him, and 
soon he shows signs of life. "Come, get up and hear the 
birds singl" "Oh, you go without me;- 1 will come out 
later and fish a little." We go to the landing, put our de- 
coys into the boats, pull them down to the water and 
then wait for daylight. 
As we sit and talk over old times we hear the "tramp 
of many feet," and look up to see the gunners coming in 
a body. They are saying which berth they will take, and 
have the whole thing arranged; but we push off, and tak- 
ing the oars run out to sea. We have an idea that we 
will make a slight change in their plans. But perhaps 
you do not know what i mean by berth. 
The boats form a line from shore out into the bay. The 
first one is about 60yds. from a large rock called the Gun- 
ning Rock. The first man out has his choice, and then the 
others line out by him. The first boat anchors about 60yds. 
from the rock and is said to have the first berth, the sec- 
ond boat the second berth, and so on. The first and sec- 
ond boats are called the best, and our gunner friends had 
the whole thing fixed. As we row out by the rock we are 
hailed by a man. He says, "I am first berth. You will 
get two and three." Good enough. Doc takes No. 2, and 
I go offshore far enough to make a place for Arch between 
when he comes out. The boats are about 60yds. apart 
and that is about right for old hands, but rather near for 
a novice. I carry two shot in my face as a reward for 
violating this rule. 
We get our anchors down and then curl up in the bow 
of our 15ft. dory and wait until we can see. The boats go 
past us and we have counted twenty or more. Soon one 
comes out and finds that he must go to the end of the line. 
He is not much of a sailor and it looks a good way from 
home out there. He thinks for a time, then runs up to 
Doc and resorts to strategy. He says; "You are too far 
apart, there is room for one between," Doc answers: 
"That is as near as I dare get to that fellow," Then he 
comes to me and asks: "Why can't you go out a little so 
we can go in there?" I say : "That fellow shot a man here 
last fall, so don't get any nearer, on your hfe," This set- 
tles it and he falls back and makes the first boat in the 
second line. By this time it is light. We place our 
decoys, load the guns and get ready for fun. We hear 
some one say "Nor' ward inshore" and we know some- 
thing is coming. What is that black string close to the 
water coming past the Gurnet? We get as low as possible 
and wait. Soon the string turns into a flock of coot flying 
evenly and oominiE straight for our boats. Now they lift, 
see the gap and head that way. Now they see the decoys. 
They are undecided; part come to me and the rest go to 
Doc. We wait till they get as we want them, then each 
sits up and shoots. We get one each. Do we hear you 
say, "Why not get more?" Did you ever try it? Remember, 
you are in a little boat a.nd the water is rough. You hold 
on a bird and pull. Your boat at the same time brings up 
on the anchor line and your gun goes off. You shoot into 
the air and perhaps land on your back in the boat, or if 
you are not careful you shoot a hole in the boat. Perhaps 
you kill the bird, but I find it as easy to miss as to kill. 
We throw over our buoy and pick up the birds; have 
hardly got back to our place when "Nor' ward outside" a 
flock of large white-wing coots are coming. They see the 
boats and go over. There is a puff of smoke, then another, 
and two are seen to fall. Then you hear the report of the 
guns. 
Now a large flock is seen coming for the boats and 
every heart in the line is pounding like a hammer. There 
are hundreds of them in this flock and every one is say- 
ing to himself, "If that raft of birds comes over me I will 
cover the water with game." But the birds see the boats, 
rise and then turn back and go out to sea so far that they 
can pass the boats in safety. "Skunk heads always do 
that," says our neighbor. But here comes another flock 
so high that they look like sparrows. There are lots of 
them. Some one shoots and makes a laugh. Soon an 
old loon comes down close inshore; he gets to the first 
boat and then thinks he will go outside, He turns and 
heads out to sea. He will not change his course, so every 
one in the line takes a pop at him. He is not quite near 
enough, but many of the shot hit him and sound like 
shooting at a board. As he goes past the outside boat he 
looks back and laughs, as much as to say, "What kind of 
a time was that anyway?" But what was that that went 
by me like a bullet from a gun. Doc is laughing and 
says, "Why didn't you kill those old equaws?" (or as we 
call them, quandies.) "If they are going to fly like that 
I don't want any," said I, and settled down for more 
birds. 
Now we see a bunch of sea ducks coming straight for 
my boat. Down I go as low as I can and wait. Soon I 
see their heads over the bow. I sit up and see three in 
line. I shoot, then hold on two more and pull again. 
One strikes so near that I reach out and pick him up. I 
throw over the buoy and row after the rest, I find that 
I have four out of seven. Not very bad, is it? 
A pair of coots come to Doc and set their wings to light 
with his decoys. One shot is a fair miss; another shot 
and they come to me. As they cross each other I hold 
about a foot ahead and pull. Much to my surprise they 
both go down. "I can do it every time, Doc." "Yes, in 
your nniad," says he. 
While we are talking some one says, "Howard, look 
out!" and there are about a dozen large white wings just 
about to light with Doc's decoys. He takes his gun and 
with a quick glance along the barrels pulls, then another, 
and there are five of them on their backs with feet fan- 
ning the air. Doc thinks he will take a little smoke, so 
fills his pipe, lights up and then looks for his birds; there 
are only three and one of them has his head up and is 
looking to see what hit him. Doc throws over the buoy 
and the coot goes under like a flash. Now the others are 
up and he gives them both a charge of shot. They dive 
at the flash of the gun and come up again a little further 
away. As soon as Doc sees a bill he shoots again and 
this one comes up dead. But the others are making time 
for the Gurnet and Doc is too old a hand at the sport to 
chase much. He gathers in the three dead ones and goes 
back to his place. 
Arch comes about this time with a boat full of cod 
lines and bait. Looks like an old salt right from the banks. 
Now, fishes, look out. He thinks the coots are not fly- 
ing thick enough for him, so taking his marks for the 
fishing grounds he goes to work— and fishing is work 
with him. Woe to any coot that comes within a mile of 
him. He shoots anyway; says if he don't hit them he 
will make them fly. He don't want the things anyway, ' 
It is cold, but he fishes hard to keep warm. We row over 
to him and find that he has an assortment of cod, hake, 
mackerel, skate and pollock. It makes no difference to him 
what it is as long as it is fish. But what a looking boat I 
Lines and fish, gun and everything, are in a snarl, and 
Arch is enjoying to the fullest his short vacation. Come 
large or come small, it makes no difference to him, and 
he is perfectly happy as long as the boat is above water. 
Talk about Izaak Walton, he could not compare with our 
fisherman. He invites us to move off as we frighten the 
fish; and as we go we see a coot coming between our boat 
and Arch's. He sees him and goes after his gun. I tell 
Doc to look out and then go down into my boat as flat as 
possible, and no sooner do I get down than I hear the shot 
whistle over and into the boat. Don't get up yet; he 
has another barrel. Bang! and I hear Doc say, "Good 
boy; you killed the coot, and every man in the line is out 
of sight yet. Come up, fellows. The bird is dead," Arch 
says he can kill them any time if they come like that; but 
he has a cod on the line in his hand, and that ends the 
talk at once. We go back to our moorings. 
The birds continue to fly until about 10 o'clock; after 
that time they come along one or two at a time, and do 
not make good shooting unless the weather is stormy, 
then they fly all day. The best time for this shooting is 
just before a storm. The coot seem to know there is a 
storm coming, and they are on the move. The water is 
also very rough at these times, and this makes it unpleas- 
ant; often it is so rough that the boats can't go out. Then 
the gunners sit on the bluff and swap yarns, and tell how 
many they could kill from each flock were they only out 
there. Once in a while there is a flock of brant which 
will come near enough to the bluff to make a fair shot. 
The guns go off like crackers and perhaps they get a bird, 
not often. I remember once being on this same bluff 
with the station boys. We saw a flock of coot coming, 
and they were going to cross back of us, I took my gun 
and ran to the place where I thought they would go over 
and got there just in time and fired, I killed two, but 
when they came down one went through the window of 
a fisherman's shanty and the other struck the roof so hard 
that I thought he would go through it. I can hear George 
and Scrubby laugh now. 
But I am getting away from my story. The day of 
which I am writing being cool and fair, we decide it is 
useless to stay out any longer; so getting our anchors and 
decoys we row ashore. We are nearly the last ashore, 
and find that we are high line. I count up and find that 
I have thirteen. Doc has sixteen. We wait for Arch, 
and soon see him coming along, He has fish enough for 
the crowd, and some nice cod and mackerel among them, 
but only two coot, "Why, Arch, where are the coots?" 
we ask. He says: "He could not get his lamps on them." 
Well, we have fish enough, and more than enough coot. 
So we go to the house and get breakfast, or dinner, and 
with keen appetites. Did you ever try a mackerel just 
caught broiled over a coal fire after you had been on the 
water for about five hom-s? or a broiled live lobster? We 
surmise that Arch will have to fish all the time to keep us 
going. We make it a rule to eat as much of our game as 
we can, and some of our game dinners are dandies. The 
coot are not so nice, but after you get the taste well 
trained you can stand even them. 
After dinner we go for quail or turn in, as we feel in- 
clined, and rest for the next day. 
About guns. Doc shoots a No. 12 English gun, while I 
use a No, 10 Parker. We can't see why the No, 12 is not 
just as good as the No. 10, but I do not care to change. 
We find that Saturday night comes all too soon, so with 
many regrets we pack up and go back to Plymouth. 
I can only say to my shooting friends, if you have never 
tried the coot, do so as soon as possible, and I shall hope to 
meet you some fall in Manomet, F. E, Woodward. 
A CARIBOU HUNT ON WOLF HILL. 
On a bright October morning — and bright mornings are 
few and far between in Newfoundland, that island of rain 
and snow — with two friends and our guide, I left our snug 
little camp on Big Marsh to look up a small herd of wood- 
land caribou which one of our men had seen the previous 
day. We followed a much-worn deer trail across the 
marsh until we reached French Woman's Creek, a deep 
and rapid trout stream, which we forded with much diffi- 
culty. While crossing a small marsh beyond the brook I 
was surprised to see a two-year-old caribou stag trotting 
toward us, I had a few moments before mistaken this 
same animal for a gray rock, a mistake very easily made 
even by experienced hunters. He trotted up to within 
50yds. of us in his effort to get our wind. Then he would 
rush off lOOyds, or more. What a chance for a camera! 
These antics he kept up until finally he became satisfied 
we were enemies, and left us for good, I could have shot 
him a dozen times, but had no earthly excuse for the 
slaughter. After an hour's hard tramp we reached the 
foot of Wolf Hill and commenced our stiff climb. When 
near the top my guide pointed out two or three cowlike 
animals and whispered, "Caribou I" We started after 
them at a sharp run to try and head them off, but they 
disappeared in the bushes before we could get near enough 
to them for a shot. We reached the crest of the hill 
without further incident, and threw ourselves down on 
the moss to get our wind and enjoy the glorious view 
spread out before us. While sweeping the country with 
my glass I suddenly made out some moving objects on a 
neighboring ridge among the stunted bushes. My guide 
saw them at the same moment. There were five or six of 
them, and one was a very good stag; so we determined to 
stalk them at once. Crouching low, we ran back out of 
sight and made for the bushes toward which they were 
swiftly feeding. When we arrived at the point where we 
expected to find them they were not there, but to our 
astonishment and chagrin they were feeding swiftly over 
the crest from which we had first seen them and which 
we had left a few moments before. This was from no 
fault of ours, but is a common mishap when stalking these 
erratic and restless creatures. 
We followed them, rather tired and discouraged, Sud- 
denly my guide crouched down behind a rock and beck- 
oned me to him, I ran up; about 200yd8. off in front of 
us were three caribou feeding in the bushes and coming 
our way. Two were females and one was apparently a 
young stag. They all earned antlers. When about 
lOOyds. off they turned at right angles, I selected the 
young stag and fired a quartering shot in his side. He 
dropped flat without the slightest struggle. The wind 
was blowing a gale, so the others did not notice the report 
or the smoke; they stood there smelling of the stag and 
acted in the most stupid manner. I could have shot them 
all. Finally I ran up to within 50yds, of them. Then 
they got my wind and rushed off like race horses, snort- 
ing and shaking their heads in terror. To my disgust my 
young stag turned out to be a female with a fine head, but 
she was in fine condition, and I knew would make fine 
venison for our larder. Before my guide finished skinning 
and cutting up this one, two other caribou fed up to within 
50yds. or less, offering me the most tempting shots, which 
I declined, but made a rough sketch of them in my sketch 
book instead. 
The view from the high hill was superb. To the south lay 
the purple hills at the head of Hall's Bay; toward the 
north the queer top sails stood up boldly among the famed 
"White Hills," Sheffield Pond lay at our feet surrotmded 
by the dark green forest, looking very much like one of 
our Adirondack gems at home. It was a grand day and 
a superb view. After my successful shot I felt pleased 
with myself and all the world and particularly with New- 
foundland, After a frugal lunch and a drink of cold tea 
we lit our pipes and returned to camp. On our way back 
we saw three more caribou, but did not attempt to stalk 
them, as we had all the venison we could possibly carry 
and a great plenty hanging up in camp. Altogether I 
had twelve good chances that day that I did not take ad- 
vantage of. On our return to camp I selected half a dozen 
nice fat chops, which I placed in our wire gridiron and 
stood it before the hot coals; then I made a big pot of 
strong coffee, while one of my companions mixed a dish of 
Indian meal bannocks, which he fried in hot pork fat. 
We made a royal supper after our day's hard tramp, and 
after a pleasant smoke before the big fire crept into our 
blankets for a sound sleep, well earned by eight hours of 
steady walking. Wakeman Holberton. 
Indian Territory Game. 
Loco, I. T., Sept. 1,— Birds have fared well this season 
but for scarcity of 8ee,ds and grain. Some quail have the 
third brood. Prairie fowl have the second brood, the first 
being fully grown. Highland plover are numerous. Saw 
bluewing teal on Aug. 23. Large game here is but a 
memory. There will be no end of netting and shooting 
for market here this fall and winter. Can nothing be 
done to put a stop to this practice? Could not the author- 
ities prevent shooters from shipping quail and chickens 
out of the Territory? L. D. W, 
