t)Ko. im] FOREST AND STREAM. 48 5 
HOLLAND* 
CContinued from page UGS.') 
Along the old road until it turns sharp to the right a bird 
could occasionally be found, and from the turn in nearly 
a straight line to the old orchard, grown up to alders, 
there were nearly always several woodcock to be found. 
Beating out the alders, we generally found two or three 
grouse, and from there, turning short to the right along 
the fence, up to the corner, both grouse and woodcock 
made it their home. 
Crossing the fence at the upp^r corner, we are in a 
nearly square patch of good-looking cover, and rarely 
were we disappointed in it. Many years ago the lower 
corner at the far side was the favorite place of a noble 
grouse that invariably flushed and went up the mountain 
before we had reached the middle of the cover. 1 saw 
him the first time that I was here, and for eight years I 
do not remember to have visited the spot without obtain- 
ing a fleeting view of him, Of course we hunted the 
ground in the orthodox manner each time, and the bird 
knew just when to flit. One day, however, in company 
with my friend Willliams, a badly wounded woodcock 
flew along the upper edge of the cov^r nearly to the far 
side, and we followed it. Afier securing the bird we 
turned into the cover and worked back along the lower 
edge, thus reversing our usual course. Our old friend, 
the grouse, was on the alert, and we heard him rise some 
distance ahead of us, and caught a glimpse of him as 
he swung into the upper corner where we had wounded 
the woodcock. Going straight for him, we of course cut 
off his retreat to the mountain, and, as we expected, he 
laid close and both dogs obtained a point at close quar- 
ters; and it was only after persistent kicking among the 
grass and bushes that we forced him to rise; finally he 
rose just behind us and started for his favorite haven, but 
his seconds were numbered, and we grassed him not 
SOyds. from where he started. Oa examination he proved 
to be a royal bird, in splendid plumage and condition, 
and one of the largest specimens we had ever seen. 
Two years later the old settler told us the tale of Lou 
Jackson and the king partridge, and as the haunt of this 
bird was scarcely a stone's throw from the edge of the 
cpver in question, we came to the conclusion that if this 
was the bird the spirit of old Lou could now rest in quiet, 
and that future generations of grouse and woodcock could 
roam through the long-deserted spot so well loved by their 
ancestors unmolested by uneasy spirit or frightened half 
to death by warnings of a vindictive bird. 
Returning to the team through the lower edge of the 
birches, a bird or two \^ould generally be found among 
the scattered clumps of birches, and, as I have before 
mentioned, we were pretty sure to find one or two under 
this oak tree. One of us would then drive the team about 
a quarter of a mile to a small brook that crosses the road, 
while the other would beat out the triangular patch be- 
tween the road and the old road before mentioned, nearly 
always finding a bird or two. 
One day my dog pointed just at the lower corner, where 
you see that tall clump of alders, and I went round the 
end and was just going into the brush when a grouse 
rose about 30yd3. behind me and started for the woods, 
flying just this side of the house. I did not see the house 
until I heard the shot rattle against it as the bird dropped, 
and I at once started for the door to apologize, but was 
met halfway by a female, who began scolding before she 
left the house, and in spite of my humbly tendered apol- 
ogy, offered in my very best style, she never let up a par- 
ticle, but heaped anathema and red-hot expletives upon 
my devoted head until I could stand it no longer, and left 
her still scolding; and it was not until I had passed beyond 
the sound of her voice that I remembered that I had left 
my bird where it fell, and so badly was I broken up that 
I dared not go back after it. 
The cover each side of the little brook was a very likely 
looking place, and occasionally we would strike it very 
rich here, but often we would find it entirely bare, or 
perhaps a single bird would reward us, 
One day, with my friends Patton and Sabin, in work- 
ing up on the right hand side to the timber, we found 
fourteen woodcock and bagged every one, shooting in 
turn, without a miss. As we were crossing to work down 
the other side a bird flushed wild above and partly behind 
us and flew across into the timber. Although it was a 
very long shot I put well ahead and cut loose, but the 
bird kept on without making a sign. After Patton, in 
his inimitable manner, had soundly rated me for spoiling 
our record, we followed the bird about 2007d8., when we 
found him dead as a stone upon a large flat rock lying 
exactly in the center of a patch of dark green maze just 
the size and shape of a dinner platter. This of course set 
matters straight again and we worked out the remainder 
of the cover, securing four more birds. 
Again taking the team, we drive to the top of the hill, 
to where a long unused road turns to the left. Formerly 
we drove along this road, but it was discontinued and 
fenced up twenty years ago, and since then one takes the 
team around nearly a mile while the other walks down 
the old road to the little cover on the left known as the 
"chestnut tree," where we usually found two or three 
birds, and on the hillside beyond, and at times in the 
swamp below the road, grouse were frequently found in 
abundance. 
"When we arrive at the main road we find the team 
hitched to that scrubby apple tree and our companion 
ready to join us as we cross the road into the cover known 
as the "spoon woods." For a small cover this was one of 
the best for both grouse and woodcock, and I have fre- 
quently assisted in bagging from six to ten woodcock in 
this small patch of birches and alders in the lower corner, 
while the hillside to the right among the witch hazel was 
always a famous spot for them, 
^One day here, in company with my friend Fred Eaton, 
there was a wild grouse that led us a weary chase over 
the cover two or three times. Finally he flew to the 
upper cot ner to the right, and while Eaton went up the 
road I followed the bird with the dog and obtained a nice 
point about 50yds, from the corner. "When I signaled 
Eaton he mounted the wall, and as he straightened up I 
walked in and flushed the bird, which flew past him out 
into the open. In turning around Eaton tumbled down, 
the wall of course falling with it, but before he struck the 
ground I heard the crack of his gun and could hardly be- 
lieve my eyes as I saw the bird collapse and come down 
like a stone. This was one of the most remarkable shots 
that I ever saw. 
Taking the team, we drive eaat to the mmi road, wheir^ 
We take the right and continue on until we come to a 
road that turns squarely to the left and skirts a grove of 
good-sized trees. But twenty-five years ago this grove 
was nearly all saplings and a famous place for woodcock. 
A short distance further and we come to a barn, where 
we leave the team and walk down the lane, past the 
houses, crossing the track at the head of the sawmill 
pond, and here we are in the "sawmill cover" — the most 
extensive as well as the best grounds in this vicinity. 
When I first knew this spot that forest of alders and 
birches was scarcely as high as my head, while that 
grove of birches above to the right was a cornfield, and 
that group of stately pines still further to the right was 
part of a dense thicket where you would scarcely find a 
tree that was Gin. through. These scattered hickory trees, 
now almost smothered with tall birches, were then in 
open pasture, surrounded, as you can still see, with a 
fringe of alders and birches several rods in width, where 
you was sure to find birds if any were to be found in this 
vicinity. Many famous bags have been gathered in here, 
and it was not at all rare to find from twenty to forty 
woodcock in this one cover. 
One afternoon Sabin and I found forty-three birds here, 
and succeeded in persuading all but one of them to ac- 
company us home. Mr, Ashmun and Uncle Aaron Howe 
a few years previous made a bag of fifty-six in one day. 
Mr. B, F. Bowles and myself killed here one morning 
forty birds, and as he was very anxious to beat the record 
made with Sabin we worked out the ground thoroughly 
and beat up the thicket on the hill further than we were 
justified in doing, so far as woodcock were concerned, but 
not another long-bill did we find. "We bagged five grouse, 
however, and Mr. Bowles was in great glee, but when we 
joined Sabin and Mr, Ashmun, who had driven on to the 
"south ground," they counted out the grouse and decided 
that the score was a very good second. 
The "south ground" lies on top of quite a hill, some 
mile and a half south of the sawmill cover, and is 
reached from here by turning back past the grove and 
turning to the left and keeping the main road until nearly 
there, when we turn short to the right to the top of the 
hill, when the road bears to the left, and a few rods 
further we hitch our team at a large house on the right. 
"We then follow the road to the next turn, where we get 
over the fence and go straight ahead some twenty rods, 
and we are in a mixed cover of alders, birches, weeds 
and swamp that in the good old days afforded us lots of 
sport. Grouse were always plentiful here, and often we 
found woodcock in abundance. Working along on the 
right hand side, just at the brow of the hill, which slopes 
steeply down quite a distance to a dense swamp, we 
generally found grouss that nearly always flew to a line 
of swamp to the left, which extends through the whole 
length of the cover, thus giving us on our return a second, 
chance at those that escaped. When we arrive at a fence 
nearly at the lower end we turn squarely to the left and 
work toward that tall elm tree, some fifty rods away. 
Twenty feet from this tree, on the right hand as we ap- 
proach it, is a beautiful spring, where we often took 
lunch. 
One day Sabin, Mr. Bowles and I were here; Sabin 
seated with his back against the tree, Mr. Bowles to the left, 
while I sat on this stone near the spring. We had spread 
out our lunch and were enjoying ourselves when my eye 
caught a glimpse of a bunch of fur in the crotch of the 
tree about 50ft, from the ground, and I caught up my gun 
and quietly slipping in a charge of No. 4 let drive at the 
bunch and down came a coon, striking the ground close 
to Sabin, and in the death struggle floundering into his 
lap. Sabin, always cool and self-possessed, claimed that 
he was not disturbed in the least, and it was not until I 
saw him several times bring up his gun and let the bird 
go without a shot that I came to the conclusion that he 
was most decidedly rattled. 
I may as well finish the coon story right here. Well, 
through much tribulation, we alternately toted that 
coon the whole length of the cover, and with a sigh of 
relief deposited him in the wagon, but when we arrived 
at the hotel that coon had unaccountably disappeared. 
As we had stopped to hunt two or three times on our way 
Mr. Bowles and I concluded that some one in want of 
meat had, with malice aforethought, depriv^^ - q^j, 
hard-earned priza, but Sabin coolly asserted that we had 
not even-seen a coon. Upon my next visit to Holland I 
was told of a wonderful coon dog that had just been sold 
to a party from Worcester, who paid big money for him, 
as he could go out hunting alone and kill and bring home 
his coon. 
I have on two occasions visited all the grounds de- 
scribed in one day, but usually this was impossible, as 
when birds were plentiful the covers were more 
thoroughly worked out than when they were scarce. 
Often, too, we would vary our route and take in other 
covers, and it would be two and frequently three days be- 
fore we made the entire round. 
One favorite cover we often paid a visit to, afte^ finish- 
ing "the birches," lies on the road to Wales. Taking the 
first road to the right after leaving this cover, and driving 
nearly to the top of the hill, we hitch our team at this 
barway on the left under the wild cherry tree, and cross- 
ing the road we climb the fence just beyond the cross 
fence and find ourselves in what is known as the "walnut 
sprouts." This forest of hickory trees, when I first came 
here, was a sparse thicket of birches and alders, and these 
trees were saplings, or sprouts, as such growths were 
called, scarcely one of them 15ft. in height. 
This was one of Mr. Ashmun's favorite covers, and he 
used to tell of many glorious days here; but I never hap- 
pened to strike it very rich, although we generally found 
a fair amount of birds. One day I came here with Mr. 
Ashmun, and as we neared tbe top of the hill we heard 
two or three shots at the upper end and soon others fol- 
lowed, showing us that some one was ahead of us. Driv- 
ing on, we found the team of Mr. D. B. Wesson, who with 
Messrs. Bowles, Storrs and Sabin were in the cover. 
Judging by the shooting, they must have found hundreds 
of birds, for I never heard such a cannonading as they 
kept up all through the cover. The result, however, did 
not pan out so well as we anticipated, owing to the fact, 
as each one privately informed me when we met at the 
hotel in the evening, that the other three got rattled by 
the frequent rises, and, like the Irishman, they shot too 
promiscuously. They had a good showing of birds, how- 
ever; but all agreed that they had not bagged more than 
one-half that were in there. 
Across the road from this cover was a straggling growth 
of alders that ended just belQW the house by the spring, 
where the little brook begins, that frequently held two or 
three and often half a doEan birds. 
One day Mr. Ashmun and I, after finishing the sprouts, 
beat out this cover, and sat down by the spring for a short 
rest. After a few minutes we saw the lady that lived in 
the house coming down tbe path for a pail of water, and 
in response to a hint from Mr. Ashmun I asked her why 
the spring was called the bogy spring. 
With a merry laugh she bade us resume our seats, and 
turning the pail bottom up she sat down on it and told us 
a tale that without doubt would have taken high rank 
among the wild legends of the Ever-green Isle, had the 
principal actor been on his native heath. 
"When I was a little girl," she began, "father brought 
home from Stafford an Irishman to help on the farm. 
Part of his chores was to fetch a pail or two of water 
from this spring nigbt and morning, and I frequently 
accompanied him, as I was greatly amused with his queer 
brogue and curious ways. He had been here about two 
weeks when one night about sunset, as I was coming to 
the spring with him, we stopped by that rock a few rods 
above, while Mike sang to me a wild Irish song about a 
bogy that would walk, and a banshee that would screech 
and moan, causing a lady fair and her lover bold no end 
of trouble, ochonel I was sitting on the rock facing this 
way, and just as Mike was beginning the last line I saw 
Mr. Thompson, as he was coming from his wood lot, stop 
and kneel down at the spring to get a drink. Mike 
finished his song, and turned around j ist in time to see 
him rise out of the ground. 'The bogy! the bogyl' 
whispered Mike, with eyes starting from his head. 
"Mr. Thompson lives half a mile east of here, and he 
turned to go home, disappearing behind the clump of 
alders, and at the same time frightening from the bushes 
a mink that ran directly toward us. Ttiis put the finish- 
ing touch to Mike's terror, and pjiculating, 'Holy 
mother! he's turned to a cat!' with a wild howl he broke 
for the house at the top of his epeed, and taking the road 
back to Stafford, he was soon out of sight, and we never 
saw nor heard of him afterward, and ever since we have 
called it the bogy spring." 
The Mr. Thompson mentioned above lived on a cross- 
road that joined the main road where we hitched our 
team at "the birches." Sometimes we drove down this 
road, but generally we drove from the hotel on the Brim- 
field road to the first turn to the left, and after driving a 
short distance one of us would get out and work the cover 
to the right while the other would take the team on to the 
end of this cover, and after working this out, finding 
generally several birds, we would drive to the top of the 
hill, where we take the left hand, and are soon at Mr. 
Thompson's house, where we hitched our team under the 
shed, and going to the house would spend a few minutes 
with the worthy couple talking over the prospect for 
game and invariably joining our friend in a glass of 
cider. Crossing the road to the alder run that ends just 
opposite the house, we worked it out to the upper end, 
generally finding several woodcock and often a grouse or 
two. 
Late one afternoon Sabin and I drove here from "the 
birches" and entered the cover after sunset, bringing 
to bag seven birds, bringing down two of them 
after it was too dark to see unless the birds were well in 
the air. While returning to the team we heard the 
whistle of the wings of a bird coming into the cover, and 
stopping awhile we heard several others, one of which 
Sibin brought down, although I failed to get a glimpse 
of it. The next morning Sabin, although deaf as a post, 
claimed that the whistle of those wings had been in his 
ears all night, and as I had had considerable of the same 
experience we decided to drive straight to the place and 
put to the test the truth or falsity of the whisperings, of 
somnus. 
For once our dream came true, and I do not remember 
a more enjoyable hour among the woodcock than fell to 
our lot that beautiful October morning. In this small 
patch of alders we flushed nineteen birds, and every one 
was handsomely grassed at the first rise. Returning to 
the house, we laid our birds on the grass and Mrs. Thomp- 
son assisted us in smoothing out their plumage. After 
counting them she exclaimed, "A remarkable find and a 
wonderful score. Why! you have beaten Mr. Ashmun 
: TTncle Aaron Howe, who came here a few years ago 
and pi...;...u themselves no little upon killing eighteen, 
with only two mi53?3;" . , — — ShaDOW.- 
[to be concluded.] 
A RAMBLE IN THE BIG HORN 
MOUNTAINS. 
We had crossed the summit of the Big Horn Mountains 
and were fast leaving behind the luxuriant vegetation of 
the eastern slope for the pale green of the sagebrush 
desert. 
From a land of rich grasses and beautiful flowers and 
noble pine forests and numberless cold, fresh-water 
springs and streams we had passed, in the brief space of 
an hour, to a desolate waste of sagebrush and sand with- 
out water, except for a few widely separated and poison- 
ous springs of alkali water. 
On the eastern slope showers had been of almost daily 
occurrence; halfway down the western slope a cowboy 
told us it had not rained there in eight months. 
But in exchange for the beauty and freshness of the 
eastern slope we had the weird grandeur of the Big Horn 
Basin. Nothing that I had ever seen in the mechanism of 
nature bore very much resemblance to this great basin. 
Here, at the southern boundary of the basin, the waters 
of the Wind River, meeting the opposition of the Owl 
Creek Mountains, have chiseled their way through — not 
gone round, as is usually the case. Again the same waters 
transferred to the Big Horn rivers and recruited by the 
melting snows from all the mountains slanting inio the 
basin meet the opposition of the Big Horn Mountains 
and what do they dc? Go round? No! with the insist- 
ence which I have never before witnessed in anything 
except man, they have chiseled their way through, eating 
away the rock and soil to a depth of 5,000ft. 
In just such contrast to the usual rules laid down by 
the Great Master Mechanic are all the decorations of the 
basin constructed. The hills are odd, too odd to describe. 
They bear about the same resemblance to the ordinary 
hills and mountains as the debris of a house wrecked by a 
cyclone bears to the house before the storm struck. A 
strange land indeed is the Big Horn Basin when viewed 
from the western slope of the mountains through the haze 
of a smoky September morning. 
