462 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Deo. 12, 1896. 
HOLLAND, 
Why Holland I do not know, and can only surmise 
that the parties who are respuDsible for the patronymic 
came from the land of marsh and dyke, and as they 
gazed upon the ragged rocks and rugged hills of the 
quaint old town they were strongly reminded of the 
Vaterland — because it was so different — ^and in the full- 
ness of their hearts they christened their new-found 
home with the name they loved so well. The name was 
a great favorite in the early days, for nearly one-half of 
the States have their Holland, and some of them have 
two or three. 
My pet Holland lies in a sly nook of the old Bay State, 
next the Connecticut line, near a portion of the head- 
waters of the Quinebaug River. The face of the country 
is exceedingly rough and broken, and as we ramble over 
the fields beautiful pictures of wooded hill, moss-grown 
rock and grassy slope are spread before us in rich pro- 
fusion, causing our feet to linger while we gaze in rap- 
ture upon the enchanting scenes. 
Nearly every autumn for many years, and often several 
times in the season, with renewed pleasure and ever in- 
creasing love for the dear old place, have I visited this 
once famous resort of the sly woodcock and chosen home 
of the swift-winged grouse. 
Well do I remember my first visit to Holland nearly 
thirty years ago — a red-letier day it was in truth. Start- 
ing from our home in Springfield upon a beautiful Octo- 
ber morning in company with Mr. George Ashmun, thati 
whom more genial companion or truer sportsman never 
went afield, we leisurely drove across the country, occa- 
sionally stopping to beat a good-looking cover, or halting 
at a farmhouse, where we were invariably invited to 
sample the worthy farmer's cider and entertained with 
the quaint remarks of the entire household, as they gave 
us their views on the burning question of the hour — the 
supply of woodcock. 
Mr. Ashmun was very popular among his farmer friends, 
who, one and all, ever kept an eye out for his favorite 
bird, the woodcock; and it was rare indeed that they 
could not give information as to the whereabouts of sev- 
eral that they had located while at work about the farm. 
Just before sunset we arrived at the Holland Hotel, a 
rambling, old-fashioned, homelike-looking house, situated 
upon a gentle slope, and commanding rather a pretty 
view of wild and broken country. Upon entering the 
house we were pleased to find that everything inside was 
old-fashioned too, even to the cordial greeting and hearty 
welcome of our host and hostess. To the many hundreds 
who have enjoyed the bounteous hospitality of this well- 
known resort no words of mine in praise of its excellence 
are necessary. The landlord, Mr. Kinney, was an old- 
fashioned, farmer-like looking man, with lots of soiftid 
common sense, a deep fund of dry humor, and a bluff, 
hearty way with him that won him hosts of friends. Mrs. 
Kinney, upon whom devolved most of the cares of the 
hotel, was the most admirable hostess in every respect 
that I have ever known; always cheerful and kindly, and 
solicitous that your every want was immediately attended 
to; her well-spread table, bounteously supplied with well- 
cooked, well-served dishes, made more appetizing by 
pressing invitations to partake of this or that dish, cou- 
pled with offer — aye, and performance too — to prepare 
some tidbit that you might relish, were aU most enjoy- 
able and homelike; and then the motherly solicitude with 
which she would care for you if you were a little off. 
Indeed it was almost a pleasure to be sick under her care 
for the sake of the nursing and coddling you would re- 
ceive. Many times each season for many years did I 
enjoy the hospitality of the dear old place, each visit add- 
ing to the love and respect which I shall ever feel for my 
two friends, who now, alas! are sleeping side by side in 
the little churchyard. 
My first trip, as I have before said, was most enjoyable. 
With Mr. Ashmun for a companion this could hardly be 
otherwise, but in addition to this the weather was delight- 
ful, the country beautiful in its rugged wildness, and 
woodcock were plenty. Instead of giving a description 
of our trip, if the reader will accompany me, we will ex- 
plore every cover of importance, and if we find no birds 
I shall at least have the satisfaction of showing you 
where once they were plentiful and living over again 
some of the glorious days of bygone years. 
We will take the regular route and hunt the grounds in 
the good old-fashioned way that has not, to my knowl- 
edge, been deviated from in a single instance during all 
the years that have passed since first on that bright Octo- 
ber morning with Mr. Ashmun I was initiated into the 
mysteries of the many coverts, and made acquainted 
with the secrets that ever surround the chosen nome of 
the shy woodcock. Turning our horse's head to the west, 
we climb the hill, and bearing to the south we come to a 
sawmill, where we hitch our team, and crossing the rude 
bridge of slabs, we walk a few rods to the top of a gentle 
rise, and here we are in the well-known "Butterworth" 
cover; but you say, "There is no cover here, nothing but 
a bare knoll with a few scattered bunches of huckleberry 
bushes, a few wild thorns and perhaps a dozen stunted 
apple trees— positively not a particle of woodcock cover." 
Never you mind appearances. This is a woodcock cover, 
and a famous one too, or at least it was in the good old 
days, and in those times the bushes, thorns and apple 
trees were scarcer even than now. Then this bare and 
rather bleak-looking spot, although containing scarcely a 
couple of acres, was every morning good for four or five 
birds, and occasionally a full dozen were found, 
Here just at our feet, where for many yards there is 
nothing but a straggling growth of wiry-looking grass, I 
have flushed first and last more than a score of birds, and 
just to the right, where that gray moss covers the ground, 
IS another good spot; but the cream of the cover is around 
that sprawling apple tree. Often have I seen a beautiful 
double here, and once when alone I actually missed all 
but half of one out of three as pretty double rises as ever 
were seen, and all in less than five minutes. 
Notice that stunted cedar near the edge of the bank by 
the pond, I shot off its top more than twenty years ago, 
and killed my bird too juet as it pitched over the bank 
some SOyds. beyond. 
Near the fence to the right is now quite a growth of 
buBhes, and water is found there, except when it is very- 
dry. Formerly the growth of bushes was sparse, but it 
was good cover nevertheless, and many birds have been 
brought to bag in this corner. 
Turning to the left along the fence, we come to ground 
that slopes to the east, with a few stunted sumac bushes 
scattered over its surface. 
It was on the opposite brink of that little hollow, half 
way down the slope, that my friend Sabin saw a wood- 
cock sitting on the ground just in front of old Trump, 
who was pointing it in his best style. As I came up in 
response to his signal, Sabin showed me the bird and pro- 
posed to capture it under his hat while I stood guard in 
case he failed to make connection. As he turned to lay 
down his gun the bird went unheard by him; of course I 
made no sign, and he very cautiously, on hands and 
knees, approached, and as he had carefully marked the 
very spot, he clapped down his hat, exclaiming, "I've got 
himl" If you don't think that this was funny, just ask 
Sabin to look and see if there is not a woodcock in his 
hat. 
Further down is a very inviting looking thicket, but 
no woodcock, so far as I know, was ever found there. 
Turning back along the north side of the slope, down 
among the scrubby apple trees, we often found a bird 
or two, and nearly always one near that big rock. It 
was on that rock that Sabin and I had another experi- 
ence that was rather remarkable. Old Trump was 
pointing on the up-hill side of the rock, nearly at the east 
end; Sabin went to the dog and I passed around and 
came up on the lower side, when a bird rose at my feet 
and flew squarely to the left, and I grassed it just at 
the foot of that thorn bush. A small fraction of a sec- 
ond before I fired I heard my companion's gun, and 
was wondering if it was possible for him to have seen 
the bird, when he assured me that it was dead before 
my gun went off. As I came around the rock, greatly 
to the astonishment of both of us, old Trump solved 
the mystery by bringing a bird that had flown to the 
right and been killed by Sabin, and then retrieving the 
one killed by me. 
This rock marks the end of the cover, and we will 
return to the team; but stop a moment, we must take 
the regular course in working these grounds, and to do 
that we must right here discuss the reasons that induce 
the woodcock to select this as one of their favorite 
spots to spend the day, and, as has been the invariable 
custom, we give it up and proceed on our way. 
Unhitching the horse, one of us takes the reins while 
the other walks a few rods to the bridge, and standing 
in the road sends the dog to work out a little birch- 
covered knoll on the bank of the brook, where occasion- 
ally a bird or two may.be found. 
The only time that I ever saw a woodcock tower was 
at this place. The dog pointed near those two angular 
rocks and I walked up the bird and cut loose at him as he 
topped the birches; he came down a short distance and 
then began to tower, going straight up for nearly 300ft,, 
then he took a course that but slightly slanted downward 
and disappeared over the brow of that hill to the south 
and we never saw him again, although we searched for 
him a pood half hour. 
No, that cover to the left is not a woodcock cover. We 
often beat it out years ago when the growth was young, 
and a more likely looking place than it then was for them 
it would be hard to find, but we never found one there. 
Occasionally we would find a grouse or two near the 
upper edge, but they were always wild and I do not re- 
member that we ever brought one to bag in there. Sabin 
often said that the comer was haunted, and after we had 
thoroughly worked it out several times without result we 
gave it up. 
One day, as we were passing by the cover, we met an 
old man hobbling down the road, and as we gave him 
"good day" he stopped, and waving his hand toward the 
place remarked: " 'Tain't no use to hunt in there, you 
won't find anything." Something in the manner of the 
old settler led me to believe that he might be able to ac- 
count for the phenomenon and mechanically I passed 
him my flask, remarking that I should very much like to 
know the reason why birds should not frequent so sweet 
a spot. Draining the flask to the last drop, the old man 
seated himself on the bank and thus held forth: "When 
I was a younker that side hill was full of game and would 
have been now if it wasn't for old Lou Jackson and his 
pesky snares. Old Lou has been dead a good many years, 
but his spirit haunts the place and no partridge or wood- 
cock will stay there more than a few minutes before they 
see or hear old Lou's ghost and they are off hot shot. 
Some say though that the old king partridge is still alive 
and hangs around here and drives off the birds, juet as he 
used to when he broke old Lou up; but pshaw 1 that was 
more than sixty years ago, and who ever heard of a par- 
tridge living half so long?" 
My companion had by this time become deeply inter- 
ested, and passing his flask to the old man expressed a 
wish to hear the story. With sparkling eyes our vener- 
able friend soon made the flask a fitting mate to mine, 
and settling himself well together gave us this: 
"When old Lou was a boy he used to set snares in 
there, as it was a great place for partridges, and he used 
to catch lots of them, and he kept it up after he was 
grown up, and every fall and winter he pretty much kept 
his family in meat out of that corner; but there came a 
time when he couldn't catch a bird, and what the matter 
was he didn't know, and he worried over it to beat all. 
"After thinking it over he concluded he would watch 
and see if he could find out what did it, so he gets up the 
next morning before day and goes up yonder almost to 
where that gum tree is, and sat down to watch. Accord- 
ing to his tale, he had been there about an hour when he 
saw a couple of partridges meandering toward his pet 
^nare where he used to catch most of his birds, but before 
they got there an old whopper of a partridge, as big as a 
rooster, came out of the brush and walking up to them 
made a sort of cackling noise as though he was talking to 
them, when they looked as though they were scared half 
to death, and turning tail they flew up the hill as far as 
he could see. This completely fased old Lou, and he 
made a break for home, where he told his story, all the 
time growing soareder and scareder until finally he took 
to his bed, and in a few days he was dead. The doctor 
said that it was brain trouble that carried him off, but his 
wife said that he was scared to death by the king par- 
tridge, as she heard him more than twenty times promis- 
ing the bird that if he would only leave him be he would 
never set another snare." 
Thia we agreed was a capital return for our outlay, and 
I never pass the spot without a deep feeling of regret that 
we did not have another drink for our Wandering Willie. 
Passing on up the hill, we came to a very tempting 
patch of alders on our left in an old orchard, and just be- 
yond is one of the sweetest bits of birch cover I ever saw. 
The spot is very properly called "the birches," and a 
surer place to find woodcock, in the good old days, was 
not to be found in this region. Driving to the end of the 
cover, we hitch our team just in the fork of the two roads 
to that large birch, now a good foot in diameter, that was 
not even started into growth when firtit I came here, but 
has grown as a sprout from the stump of one nearly as 
large that we formerly used. Crossing the road, we get 
over the fence at this particular spot and send on the 
dog. When that large oak tree a short distance to the 
left was scarcely 20ft. tall, it was very nearly a sure 
thing to find a bird or two within a few feet of it, and 
along this cross fence to the right was another likely 
spot. Here we are at the top of the rise in a small open 
place, and after I add another stone to the little mound in 
its center I will give you its history. 
It was there that Mr. Ashmun stood when he fired his 
last shot and killed his last bird; that was his last shoot- 
ing trip, and every time I come here I add a stone to the 
mound in memory of my friend and the many pleasant 
days afield we spent together. 
Just beyond the row of alders, in the hollow below us, 
is an old unused road that formerly was a very good 
road to travel, as we nearly always routed out from the 
alders several grouse that would fly toward the mountain 
with more or less success, according to the merit of the 
traveler. 
Here at the old cellar hole, now almost filled up and 
hidden by the dense grow^th, Sabin and I had a low-down 
trick played upon us two days in succession, and but for 
an accident we would have suffered the second time even 
more keenly than we did the first. We had beaten out 
this portion of the cover and were some little distance 
this side of the alders, in the old orchard, when a grouse 
flushed some 50yds. this side of us and flew straight for 
this place. We at once followed and beat out all the 
cover in this vicinity, but without finding him. The next 
day we again started the bird in nearly the same place, 
and as we were beginning to get somewhat interested, 
we laid ourselves out for a thorough search; but after 
more than an hour of beating back and forth all the 
cover, we sat down here by the cellar and ate our lunch. 
We had resumed our guns and were about to leave the 
spot, thoroughly disgusted, when old Trump somehow 
managed to fall into the cellar. No sooner had he struck 
on the bottom than with a thunderous roar our tricky 
friend came out of the hole like a rocket; but his race 
was run. Two shots that rang out almost as one, a sud- 
den collapse of the swiftly flying form, a fleecy cloud of 
feathers floating in the air, a heavy thud as the noble bird 
struck the earth, told well the tale that a scurvy trick like 
this had met its just reward. Shadow, 
[to be continued.] 
WHEN THE SUN SHONE BRIGHT. 
I AM alone in my office. It is 11:30 P, M., and the wir d 
whistles clear as it strikes this little to wn, coming from \ hi- 
far north over a barren, treeless prairie. It is a night f( r 
looking back and I have just lived over a happy day loug 
ago, and when I realized what I was thinking about I 
jumped up and opened my desk. And here is what 1 
saw looking backward. In 1873 I lived on the Trinchara 
Creek in Colorado, thirty miles east of Trinidad Thomas 
A. Perley, now of Salem, Mass., and I were in the cattle 
business and lived together on his ranch. We were noc 
partners; each owned a herd of cattle, but we lived to- 
gether for our mutual convenience. He went with cattle 
to Kansas City that spring, and I had got Alex. Elliott, 
who now lives near Las Animas, Colo., to stay with me 
for society. I had bought Alex's cattle and he was feel- 
ing quite cheerful, as he had a large balance in the bank, 
two race horses, good health and a good disposition. 
The Indians to the east of us had broken out, and every 
one but Alex and me had left the creek and gone to Trini- 
dad to be out of harm's way; but we stayed. We had an 
adobe house as strong as a fort; our stable was joined 
right on the house behind. We had only one horse apiece 
on the ranch. The rest were up in the mountains, miles 
away, where the plains Indians do not go. We had a well 
at the door and lots of grub, and it was just dangerous 
enough to be pleasant. 
One morning I proposed that we saddle up and go 
mavericking. Mavericking is going through the range 
and branding all the yearlings that one can find that have 
no marks and brands and have left their mothers. You 
can't tell whom their mothers belonged to, and the year- 
lings used to belong to the man that got his brand on 
them first. And let me tell you privately, they do yet, all 
laws to the contrary notwithstanding. 
I told Alex that we would take a ride, get what we 
could, and if we saw Indians either fight or run, which- 
ever was easiest. We saddled our fast fat horses and 
pulled the cinches so that the saddles sat as if they were 
part of them and away we went — well mounted, well 
armed and young, with all the world before u-j. Making 
the restless, chafing horses walk, to be fresh for a run or 
a fight, we worked as slowly as we could through the 
bunches of cattle toward the north; and soon I found a 
fine young bull; and after a short, sharp run had him 
under control and headed for the place where we intend- 
ed to corral and brand. We went along; I drove an(^ 
Alex hunted, and by about noon felt very well pleased. 
We had six, when suddenly Alex, who was on the side of 
an arroya (a broad valley that has a water course wiien it 
rains, but is generally dry), suddenly stopped and beck- 
oned me to come quick, pulling his rifle from its scabbard 
under his leg as he beckoned. I quit the yearlings, which 
were quiet, and loped to him. Just below him, about 
200yd8, away, stood a saddled horse — I can see her now 
as she looked up at us — and several things flashed 
through my mind. Where was the rider? Was he an 
Indian? Where were the rest of 'em? My mavericks, 
my mavericks; if there is a fight I'll lose 'em. The 
ground in the arroya was rough. Where was our Injun? 
Alex said: "You ride round the mare, Dick, and see if 
there is anyone around her." And around I went. I 
rode up as close as I could, without starting her off, and 
Alex closed up on the other side. Then Alex made a run 
at her and threw his lariat, made a poor throw and caught 
the horn of the saddle, and the wild brute twitched the 
rope out of hie hand and ran away, rope and all, Alex 
