408 
POOREST AND STREAM. 
[May 21, 1898. 
even in Illinois. Yet, although it has been illegal for 
some thirty days to shoot in the spring, I suggest 
now that the ducks are sitting on their nests and are 
much attached to their duties and not so wary, it would 
be much easier to shoot them than it was a few weeks 
ago. And then, think of the eggs you can get with the 
nest, too. 
E. Hough. 
1206 BoYCE Building, Chicago. 
A Wary Old Grouse. 
Years ago, near my old home in Michigan, grouse 
were plentiful in thickets and wood patches, and as a 
boy I frequently took up arms against them, with vary- 
ing success. 
A favorite haunt for them was an alder thicket that 
lined the banks of Ashry Creek, a small stream that 
wound through pastures, fields and woods till lost in 
the more pretentious waters of Belle River. 
Although not a crack shot in those daj^s, I managed 
to collect toll from that alder thicket until, near the 
close of the season, but a single partridge out of an 
original dozen or so remained within its limits. 
This old fellow — say old because his wisdom indi- 
cated age— had managed to elude me time and again 
by lying close until I was nearly through the patch, 
and then bursting from cover away in the rear, he would 
wing himself to the safer seclusion of the thick woods 
that lined the lower reaches of the creek, his flight has- 
tened by a parting salute from the old muzzleloader, 
given to show, at least, a proper resentment to his suc- 
cess in outwitting me. 
Failure onlj'^ stimulated in me a stronger determina- 
tion to bag the old fellow. I was not then the possessor 
of a bird dog; but familiar with the haunts of the game, I 
worked the cover carefully with eyes and ears alert, 
trusting to my quickness in covering the birds, rise 
when they, might, within the range of my old gun. The 
experience of repeated failures had taught me that if 
I secured that bird he must be flushed in front of me, 
and not behind; so I decided to work the cover very 
carefully, quartering the ground with but little distance 
between the laps, thus being brought close to every spot 
that would afford the bird a possible hiding place. 
One bright day in late winter found me at the scene 
of former vanquishments and defeat, putting in opera- 
tion the strategic plan of attack that promised much of 
victory. 
Stooping down below the branches of the alders, so 
that only the trunks of them obscured my vision, I 
began a slow and careful hunt. Almost on my knees I 
crawled, peering here and there, my heart thumping 
with suppressed excitement, and all my senses keyed to 
highest pitch, expecting every instant to see rising be- 
fore me the form of that much coveted bird. Half the 
cover was worked,^ and still there was unbroken silence. 
Could some one have robbed me of my prize, or had 
he divined my purpose and sought some safer spot? 
I was drawing near the further edge of the patch, 
when with a roar of wings that sent the blood tingling 
and surging through my veins the bird broke cover to 
my right and started with lightning speed for the woods 
across the creek. A hurried swing, a glance along the 
barrels, both discharged in quick succession, a closely 
following thump upon the dry leaves beneath a beechen 
tree, and he was mine. 
Not the successes of later years, nor hammerless gxrns 
and bigger bags killed over well-trained dogs, ever gave 
a tithe of the pleasure that the lying low of that old 
grouse brought to my youthful heart. B. W. Sperry. 
North CAROi-iN-i^, ^ 
The Men of Yesterday* 
West Virginia.- — I was much impressed by the itcmi; 
"To-day and Yesterday" in a recent Forest andi 
Stream, by John C. Briggs, of Iowa. 
Fifteen years ago, when I was a boy, I had among 
my acquaintances several old men, famous hunters in 
their day, when deer, bears and wild turkeys were nu- 
merous where now the much talked of red squirrel holds 
full sway. Recently 1 visited my old home in Penn- 
sylvania, and not until it was suggested did it occur 
to me that but one of the old-time hunters that I knew 
is now living, and he is past fourscore years. I had 
the pleasure of hearing him recount some of his very 
interesting hunting experiences, as I have many times 
in the past, but this time I listened to him while sitting 
at his bedside, and very probably for the last time. 
I have always been an enthusiastic admirer of the 
old pioneers, who built their cabins in our country 
when it was a wilderness, and killed their meat with the 
old flintlock rifle, and whose pleasure it is in their de- 
clining years to relate incidents of "early days." Very 
soon we shall have these facts pertaining to the situa- 
tion of the country and abundance of game in the early 
only as second-hand stories. 
Do we appreciate these lingering pioneers, and their 
interesting but truthful stories of the old times, as we 
should? I would be glad indeed to have more effort 
made to record actual occurrences as related by them, 
during the very short time we have a few lingering with 
us. Emerson Carney. 
Each his Own Pew, 
Milton, Vt. — Editor Forest and Stream: In a recent 
issue a good deal was said regarding the extermination 
of our birds and animals, and of the investigations of 
Mr. Hornaday. Sportsmen have not awakened to the 
situation. They read in the papers of the decimation of 
the game, and then many start for a hunting trip on 
which moderation is not exercised; the desire to slay 
becomes the controlling passion, and the work of exter- 
mination moves one jot nearer to its closer drawing end. 
The remedy for this lies with the individual sportsman 
himself; and with each man working for the cause of 
moderation in the field, the tide, I am confident, will 
turn and the balance will not be so uneven. 
Some years ago it was my good fortune to know a 
Vermont preacher who was called to a charge in a coun- 
try town where the church had been for some time 
unused. The congregation were discussing plans for the 
cleaning of the edifice, which had become rather untidy 
during its disuse; little was done, however, and one day 
a committee called upon the dominie to consult him in 
regard to the_ matter. He promptly advised them to 
try the plan of each cleaning his own pew. The advice 
was good; we might profit hy it; and instead of howling 
for better legislation and more game protection, knuckle 
down to the work of cleaning up "each his own pew." 
Of course modei-ation in shooting is practiced by 
many, but with others the only ambition seems to be to 
kill. This is done thoughtlessly, peiiiaps, but it figures 
up tremendously in the end. Though I do not wish 
to pose as a saint, I may say that I have reconciled 
myself to thinking that one grouse in the pocket of 
my shooting coat does just as well as if I had a dozen. 
Market shooting and the sale of game are of course 
recognized as great evils, and should be stopped. But 
killing for numbers is the greater evil, and until each 
sportsman does his part all legislation and its enforce- 
ment will be in a great measure in vain. Now clean up 
your pew. Kenewah. 
Small Bores and Big: Game. 
Cincinnati, O., May 11. — Editor Forest and Stream: 
I inclose an extract from an exceedingly interesting vol- 
ume, "The Fall of the Congo Arabs," by Capt. S. L. 
Hinde, who saw nearly three years' steady fighting in 
the service of the Congo Free State. Hinde was an ar- 
dent sportsman as well as a soldier, and scattered all 
through the book are items of interest to lovers of rifle 
and gun. The Mannlicher rifle's bore is not given. As 
used by the European nations it varies from .256 to .315; 
the Belgian army Mauser is .301, the Lee-Metford .303. 
I presume the metal -jacketed hard bullet was used. I 
believe the soft-nosed bullet that "mushi-ooms" easily 
is not available for the big, thick-skinned animals of 
Africa. G. W. D. 
"It unwise to approach big game, especially in a 
circumscribed space, with a small-bore rifle such as the 
Mannlicher, since, however great its accuracy and pene- 
tration may be, its stopping power is practically nil. 
In this particular case my shoulder-shot at the first 
hippo passed through both shoulder blades and a rib, in 
each case leaving only a small hole, through which it 
would have been difficult to force an ordinary cedar 
pencil. My second bullet had entered just above the 
right eye and had penetrated the brain. It is fairly safe, 
as I afterward often found, to fire at the head of big 
game with the new small-bore rifles, for though it is 
improbable that the game will be bagged, except by 
accident, the animal is too stunned to know what he is 
doing, and his mad charges are without method. The 
use of a small-bore rifle for big game seems, however, 
hardly sportsmanlike, since the number of animals 
wounded in this way compared with those killed outright 
must always be enormous. Some two years after this I 
had nine close, careful shots with a Mauser rifle at a big 
bull elephant, the bullet used being within half a gram of 
the same weight as the Lee-Metford rifle; yet I did not 
succeed in bagging him, and eventually he made off at a 
pace which defied pursuit. The poor beast probably 
died in the depths of the jungle before many hours were 
over. 
The Salmon Fisher, 
1 
it 
I 
H 
A Song of Nova Scotia. 
You shall hear how Hiawatha 
Angled in the Tusket River, 
In the streams of Nova Scotia; 
Angled for the lordly salmon, 
Silver-sided, mighty swimmer, 
Salmo salar, leaping salmon. 
All his flies are in his fly-book, 
Silver-doctor, Durham-ranger, 
Jockie-Scot and Montreal; 
Flies for bright and sunny weather, 
FHes for dull and cloudy weather, 
Flies of any sorts and fashions. 
Many flies of many colors, 
To entice the wary salmon 
In the gleaming Tusket River, 
In the streams of Nova Scotia. 
Strong and supple is his fly-rod. 
Double-handed, mighty fly-rod, 
Strongly made, the best of Gotham; 
Proper rod for skillful angler. 
Angling in the Tusket River, 
In the streams of Nova Scotia, 
Angling for the lordly salmon, 
Salmo salar, leaping salmon. 
And his guide is Abraam Toney, 
Indian guide and crafty hunter. 
Hunter of the moose and wild deer. 
Trapper of the bear and wildcat. 
Catcher of the trout and salmon; 
Skilled in hunting, and in fishing. 
In the ways of stream and forest, 
Skilled in all the arts of woodcraft. 
He will guide him to the river, 
To the rushing, roaring river. 
To the flashing, foaming river, 
To the gleaming Tusket River, 
To the streams of Nova Scotia. 
He will choose the place for camping, 
Cut the poles and stretch the canvas. 
Lay the beds of fragrant hemlock. 
Build the fire and cook the supper^ 
Skin the trout and fry the bacon. 
Brew the tea and make the coffee, 
Boil the maize, the antimony;* 
While the silly gulls at nightfall, 
Flying homeward from the Ocean, 
Flying homeward o'er the marshes, 
In the silence of the forest, 
In the stillness of the evening, 
Laugh and scoff and jeer above them. 
In his tent lies Hiawatha, 
Wrapped in bison-robe and blanket. 
Rubber sheets are spread beneath him, 
Closed the tent-door, safely fastened. 
Shutting out the chilling north wind. 
Shutting out the fog and sea air, 
Lest a cold should fall upon him, 
Lest the rheumatiz should seize him, 
Seize him on the Tusket River, 
On the streams of Nova Scotia, 
Angling for the lordly salmon, 
Salmo salar, leaping salmon. 
Now he feels the air grow warmer. 
Feels the fire burn hot and hottei'; 
Like an oven seems the wigwam. 
Like the rocks and sand at noontide, 
When the midday sun is blazing 
In the sultry summer weather. 
Hotter grows my Hiawatha, 
Bison-robe he laj's from off him, 
Now one blanket, then another. 
One by one till all are off him, 
As you peel a fragrant onion, 
Till the tears come to your eyelids. 
Till your eyes are red with weeping. 
From his tent comes Hiawatha, 
Forth into the moonlight striding. 
All his clothes from off him throwing, 
Walking in the quiet moonlight, 
Heedless of the gulls, who mock Mhi, 
In the silence of the forest, 
In the stillness of the evening; 
Till the breeze has cooled his forehead, 
And to slumber he returneth. 
Early rose my Hiawatha 
From his bed of fragrant hemlock, 
From his bison-robe and blankets, 
While the dew was on the grasses. 
And. the early bird was seeking 
For the worm among the rushes, 
And the porcupine was sleeping 
In his den upon the hillside. 
Rose and wandered to the river, 
To the flashing, sparkling river. 
Dancing in the early sunlight; 
Plunged him in the shining water, 
Bathed him in the cooling river; 
Lost his sponge, a fresh and new one. 
Lost it in the foaming river. 
Lost it in the Tusket River, 
In the streams of Nova Scotia, 
Where the lordly salmon lieth, 
Salmo salar, leaping salmon. 
In the camp beneath the birch trees, 
In the camp beside the river, 
Toney cooks a fragrant breakfast, 
Fries the trout and fries the bacon. 
Makes a Johnnycake of cornmeal, 
Of the golden maize he makes it. 
Maize that conies from old Virginia, 
From the sunny land of flowers, 
From the Shenandoah Valley, 
From the fair and balmy southland. 
Then they step into the birch bark, 
Lightly step into the birch bark, 
Swiftly gliding down the river 
To the pool where lies the salmon. 
Lies the mighty silver salmon, 
Salmo salar, leaping salmon. 
Slowly rises Hiawatha, 
_ In his hand the rod he poises. 
Casts the fly upon the water. 
Gently casts it in the water, 
Deftly casts it on the water. 
Casts it on the foaming river, 
In the pool where lies the salmon. 
Sees the fly the lordly salmon. 
Gazing upward through the water. 
Sees it sparkling in the sunlight. 
Sees it swimming in the river; 
Rising upward, quickly takes it. 
Takes the fly of Hiawatha, x 
Strikes him now, my Hiawatha, 
Strikes him till the hook has pierced him. 
Strikes him till the fly has stung him. 
Then in anger rose the salmon. 
Shook his head in wrath and fury. 
Rushing through the water madly, 
' As the birch bark shoots the rapids, 
As the wild horse on the prairie, 
As the iron engine rixshes 
On the railway of the white man, 
In the country of the paleface. 
In the land of Massachusetts. 
Bendeth like a bow the fly-rod. 
Screams the reel as if in terror, 
And the stream is full of splashing. 
And the birch bark rocks and trembles, 
As the salmon strives for freedom. 
Strives to break the line or leader. 
Struggles from the hook to free him. 
And to loose the fly that stings him, 
Leaps from out the foaming water, 
Leaps into the sparkling sunshine. 
All his silver side revealing. 
All his shining length revealing. 
But my Hiawatha, standing 
Calmly in the rocking birch bark, 
Firmly holds the bending fly-rod, 
• So our guide called hominy, on a notable fishing trip in Nova 
Scotin, 
as 
