166 
FOREST - AND STREAM. 
[Aug. 2?, 1898. 
above given, I have too hazy recollection of those trivial 
happenings to attempt giving a record of them. 
I well remember the day I ran a thorn under my knee- 
pan that laid me up for three weeks, but I do not mark 
the day by this event, not a bit of it. The white stone 
that marks this day still stands on guard at the head 
of the little run, and when the moss-covered rock comes 
back to me I am at no loss to interpret the quaint 
hieroglyphics upon its surface, for they plainly tell me 
that while sitting here, unable to walk a step, six grouse, 
driven from below by my companion, all coming straight 
toward me, were piled in a heap without a miss. These 
birds, coming up the little run straight toward me at 
their best speed, I can still plainly see, and did not my 
note book inexorably say six, I could almost persuade 
myself that there were scores of them. 
Our first day in the Andover covers was marked by 
no singular or striking incident, but the beautiful day, 
the pleasant surroundings, abundant sport, congenial 
companionship, and perhaps, best of all, light and happy 
hearts, caused it to be remembered as one of the most 
delightful of our many happy days together. We had 
devoted more time than we intended to the first cover, 
and to form an estimate of the value of our newly 
discovered territory we separated, and each took a turn 
through several different covers, finding birds and sign 
enough to satisfy us that our first impressions had not 
been far wrong, and we decided that in all our rambles, 
over a wide extent of country, we had found no sweeter 
spot than this. I shot over thess grounds with many 
friends for more than twenty years, and always found 
plenty of birds. 
Shadow. 
[to be continued.] 
The Last Beaver of Beaver Island* 
It was on a Friday evening before the Christmas holi- 
days. School had closed, and a two weeks' vacation had 
commenced. I was sitting in the library looking over 
my examination papers when the telephone commenced 
its b-r-r-r, b-r-r-r, b-r, Jb-r,. Before the receiver is at 
my ear I hear, as from afar, "Is Ak-sar there?" "Yes; 
this is he." Then there comes over the 'phone: "Let's 
go after cottontails to-morrow. We can skate up to the 
creek, cache our skates, go over the other side pontoon 
near that undergrowth, and get plenty. What say?" 
No more examination papers for me. Putting them 
away, I go up to my room and overhaul the little 12- 
gauge, fill my belt with shells, see that my hunting 
knife is sharp, and fill my tobacco pouch, which hangs 
Indian fashion from my belt. Hunting coat, buckskin 
breeches and leggings are laid out lor wear on the 
morrow, and after taking a look out into the night I 
turn in. 
Seven o'clock, and the mill whistles are blowing as I 
jump out of bed, and throwing up the curtain, gaze out 
on as perfect a winter morning as any hunter could 
wish for. The sun's rays are painting into gold the 
snow lying on the hills off to the west. A thin haze 
is discernable in the south, but overhead the sky is the 
deepest of blue. Breakfast and we are off. Taking the 
shortest cut for the river, we are soon at the boat house 
where our canoes are. in winter quarters. Putting on 
skates and slinging guns by their carrying straps, we 
speed away over the clear, glassy surface for up the river. 
The sun's rays are turning into thousands upon thou- 
sands of diamonds the frost crystals on the trees and 
bushes along our course. Oh, how the blood rushes 
through the veins and the air makes ears tingle as we 
glide swiftly on with not a sound to disturb the stillness 
but the clink of our skates. But we are not the only 
ones on the river's frozen breast this morning, for away 
up near the foot of "Beaver Island" we see a tall figure 
plodding along. As we get nearer we see that it is Old 
Bill Hogey, fisherman, trapper and general all-round 
good fellow; one who would stop his work to give us 
boys any information about traps, how to bait for this 
fish and that, how and where to set our lines, and in 
fact anything in his way we youngsters wanted to know. 
He is always cheerful, and always ready to go on a fish- 
ing or hunting trip. Such is the man we skate up to. 
In one hand he is carrying his old single-barrel muzzle- 
loading shotgun, that has seen service as a musket, and 
in the other a new double spring Newhouse trap. 
"Hello, Bill," we call out as we come up where he is 
waiting. "Hello, boys; going gunning this morning?" 
"Yes; after cottontails. Better come along, eh?" "Noap, 
see thet trap? Wall, thet's goin' ter catch ther last beaver 
up ter ther i'lan'. if ther trap I've got thar now ain't 
got 'im; got two this week so fur and thar's only one left 
's fur as I kin judge." 
Although aching to stay and see Bill examine his 
traps, we knew him too well to tarry; for there was one 
thing he always kept to himself, and that was where he 
set his traps. We knew a colony of beavers had settled 
at the island, and although their cuttings were in evi- 
dence, we had never been able to catch sight of them. 
True, we had seen Bill skinning one large fellow in the 
shed back of his little store. Oh, how we had admired 
the thick, shiny fur, and wondered at the broad, black 
tail, that Bill had told us was "good eatin'." How, as 
a boy, I used to delight in seeing these interesting- 
creatures captured. But now, how I should like to 
know that the beavers that old Bill used to catch in 
the lagoon were alive and still cutting timber on the 
banks of Beaver Island. 
Leaving Bill behind, we strike swiftly up river for the 
pontoon. Reaching it, we cache our skates under a 
bunch of tumble weed, and clambering through the 
barbed wire fence start on our day's sport. We have 
not left the fence 50yds. when there is a rustling of dry 
grass and a scattering of snow and away speeds the 
first cottontail of the day. He has not run 30yds. before 
our guns crack. Thus it goes on. We skated down the 
river at nightfall with ten cottontails, three jacks and 
eight quail in our pockets — not a bad day's sport. 
Nearing the bend where Bill has his little store, and 
seeing a dim light in the shed, we decide to investigate. 
As we near the door we hear Bill whistling softly — a 
habit of his when everything is running smoothly. We 
look at one another and both say as with one breath : 
"He's surely got him." Opening the door, for the latch 
string is always out to us, we behold a sight still fresh in 
memory. The room is dimly lighted by an old lamp 
suspended from a beam overhead. In the center of the 
room, lying on a board that lies across an old up- 
turned barrel, is a beaver. Old Bill, with his sleeves 
rolled up to his elbows, glances up from his work and 
with his comical grin and wink, which mean volumes, 
proceeds to divest the beaver of his thick, glossy hide. 
We watch the proceeding with interest, till, with a 
last slash of the skinning knife, the hide drops to the 
floor. Then we ply Old Bill with questions regarding 
his capture. "Wall, boys, arter yer left me this mornin' 
I went ter whar I hed set this yer trap an' I see thar was 
sumthin' cotched sure, for the trap hed slid down ther 
pole inter deep water an' hed drowned what was 
at ther other end. When I pulled 'er up that" was thet 
thar beaver, an' I guess he's ther last one, too, an' yer 
Uncle Bill won't cotch any more beaver on this ere 
stream." ' 
After watching the process of scraping and rubbing 
for a short time, we bid Bill good night and start for 
home. 
Poor old Bill, he had troubles of which none knew; 
for one morning in early spring he was found dead in 
his little shed, shot through the head by his old navy, 
which he still clutched in his death-stiffened hand. Thus 
ended the life of one of nature's noblemen. He was 
generous to a fault, with a kind word and a helping 
hand for all. And we boys sincerely mourned his loss. 
May his rest be peaceful is the wish of his boy friend 
Ak-sar-ben. 
CHICAGO AND THE WEST. 
Good Chicken Year. 
Chicago, 111., Aug. 20. — I have earlier referred to the 
curious fact that of late years it has become customary 
to announce each season that the chicken prospect is 
"better than it has been for years," This same report 
was out last year, and this year it comes again from 
different sections of the West. 1 am disposed to give 
it credence this time for at least a portion of the 
Western chicken country. In upper Minnesota and 
North Dakota, near the Manitoba line, the breeding con- 
ditions have been very much more favorable this year 
than they were last, and there are unquestionably more 
birds than there were last season. I presume that in 
South Dakota the birds have at least held their own. 
We do not often hear of Wisconsin as a prairie chicken 
State, but really this bird offers a great deal of sport 
in Wisconsin every year. In Illinois we stood to have a 
good chicken crop this year in spite of a bad spring, but 
the illegal shooting has pretty well cleaned up the 
reasonable prospect of success after Sept. 15 in many 
parts of the State. On the whole, it seems that the 
prairie chicken has done more than was asked or ex- 
pected of it during the past year. How the noble bird 
does hold on to the country which it loves! Give it 
half a show and it would always be with us, even under 
the changed conditions of to-day. Indeed, I believe that 
it is harder to kill a big bag of chickens nowadays than 
it was twenty years ago, supposing that the numbers 
of birds were the same. In the old days the birds used to 
go to the grass, and could be easily marked down. Now 
they fly perhaps a mile and light in the middle of a vast 
cornfield, where it is much harder to locate them or to 
shoot them. Chicken shooting in the open at any time 
before Sept. 1 is not very exciting, and does not com- 
pare with quail or snipe shooting as sport. The same 
birds shot when the blades of the corn stalks are edged 
with yellow is a mighty different sort of fowl.^ When he 
rocks and cackles and flies a mile, you can't kill him 
with a whip or with a squib of No. g's. 
Certain Sooners. 
The farming country near Janesville, Wis., has always 
been a good one for prairie chickens, and this year 
the crop was a fine one, but the sooners have been out 
for weeks, so that the decent sportsmen fear they will 
have little left by Sept. 1. 
The rich country lying back of the Fox River Val- 
ley of Illinois is another naturally fine chicken ground. 
Around Aurora this year there were birds enough to 
afford sport, but the supply is rapidly being slaughtered 
fully a month before the season by unscrupulous shoot- 
ers. Last year the Aurora Game Protective Associa- 
tion was formed, with a membership of over too, but 
this body seems not to have been able to stop the illegal 
shooting, and so far as I have heard has not secured 
any convictions. 
Of all the famous chickens regions, that lying in Lee 
county, 111., near the great Winnebago marsh, was 
perhaps the finest ever known in all the West. I have 
earlier called attention to the fact that the heaviest 
specimens of the pinnated grouse ever recorded were 
taken from this section in the earlier days. I have shot 
in that country within the last few years, and there were 
then still considerable numbers of chickens left. They 
have hung on and on, and this year they turned out in 
surprising numbers. At Dixon, III., in this great chicken 
region, there has been for years one of the worst sooner 
elements known in this State, where the great North 
American sooner may be seen at his highest stage of 
development. This year some of the leading sportsmen 
of Dixon tried to stop the depredations of these early 
thieves, and this week they sent a delegation to Chicago 
to ask Warden Loveday for help. A local paper has the 
following to say about the state of affairs in that section: 
"At the majority of markets in Dixon, Sterling, Am- 
~boy, Morrison and other places prairie chickens are sold 
in "open violation of the law. And what makes matters 
worse is that the farmers do not appear to care who 
shoots over their land. 
"It was only by the most strenuous efforts on the part 
of Illinois sportsmen that laws were passed protecting 
the game of the State. Killing out of season threatened 
to exterminate what little game there was left. After 
the laws were passed we had to fight for their enforce- 
ment. It is simply due to the efforts of the law-abiding 
hunters that there are any quail, partridge, chickens, or 
wildfowl left in Illinois. Just because the enforcement 
of the game laws in past years has resulted in what 
might be termed an abundance of game this year, is no 
reason why it should not be protected." 
Near Hanover and Leyden, Wis., a good many shoot- 
ers have been out openly violating the chicken law, and 
last week a couple of parties came in with the "bottoms 
of their buggies covered with prairie cliickens." No ar- 
rests are reported, although the shooters seem to care 
nothing for concealment. 
Other Sorts of Sooners. 
At Waukesha, Wis., on Aug. 17, George T. Ander- 
son and Frank Harland, who were arrested by Deputy 
Myers for shooting illegal woodcock, were discharged 
by Justice Tullar, evidence not sufficient for conviction. 
I must add to my galaxy of distinguished citizens who r 
break the game laws the name of E. S. Brown, a jus- 
tice of the peace at Star Lake, Wis. He was arrested; 
by Warden Bissinger for night hunting deer on Plum 
Lake, and was fined $25 and costs. He knows more 
law now. 
In Wisconsin there, is this year an unusually large 
crop of local ducks, the teal and wood duck having bred, 
exceptionally well. From different points come differ-! 
ent reports that sooners are already shooting these 
ducks. 
The Chandlerville, 111., Times gives a very good no- 
tion of the protection situation in small country towns,' 
It says: 
"Already the illegal slaughter of young ducks has< 
begun, and in the afternoons the booming of the guns 
of the duck hunters on the swamps is heard. There is 
no use talking, if the illegal shooting is not stopped, by 
the time the season opens there will not be a duck in the 
lakes and swamps. It has been suggested that we have 
a game warden appointed, but no steps have been taken 
to this end. The fact is a local game wardens finds it a 
difficult matter to prosecute those who reside neighbors 
to him, and consequently no one wants the job. What 
is our State game warden for?" 
Tliis is the same old cry, and it portrays the same old! 
state of affairs. In these small communities each man 
is afraid of offending his neighbor, and no good man 
can be found who wants the job of deputy, for the deputy 
is far from popular. The good folk of Chandlerville 
call for the State warden to come and help them. This 
is all very well, but the State warden has many places 
to look after besides Chandlerville, and he could not 
himself go there and stay very long at a time. The 
thing for the Chandlerville men to do is to get together 
and resolve to be decent. Then they can get a decent 
man who will not be afraid or ashamed to go after the' 
indecent shooters. The State game warden can no more! 
protect the game of Chandlerville personally than Presi- 
dent McKirley can run the post-office of Chicago. 
Providence helps those who help themselves. 
Young Offenders. 
George McPartland, Frank Applebee and Frank 
Leigh were among the boys who have been trapping and 
killing song birds in the vicinity of Chicago. They were 
arrested by Deputy Epsom and fined $5 and costs each 
this week. This is the way Epsom salts them. The 
boys and their mothers all shed tears, but it did no 
good. 
State Hatchery Moved. 
The Ohio State pheasantry will probably be moved! 
from Van Wert to a point near London, in Madison 
county, the farm to be stocked with about 3,000 Mon- 
golian pheasants. 
Personal. 
Mr. T. A. Divine, of Memphis, Tenn., was in Chicago! 
for a day this week, and we had the usual pleasant visit 
together'. Mr. Divine has been ill, and he tells me that 
Irby Bennett, his old-time side partner, is also ill. Capt. 
Bobo, the redoubtable bear hunter of whom we have 
heard so much in the Forest and Stream, was veryi 
sick last year, and had to temporarily leave his Delta 
plantation and buy him a hill place east of Memphis in 
Tennessee. Mr. Divine brings the melancholy news 
that a railroad has this season been built slap through 
the Bobo bear country, crossing the great Sunflower- 
canebrake country almost at the exact locality where; 
Noel Money and I killed our bears with the Bobo pack 
in our last hunt. Bobo is disconsolate, of course, ana 
indeed it is a sad thing, when we come to think of it, to 
see this fine game country ruined. I saw it when it was 
perhaps the wildest part of America, and the hardest 
to hunt in. and the best stocked, and one of the least 
settled areas of the entire country. Now, but a few! 
years later, its riches are known, its timber is going, its 
brakes are burning for farms, and the railroads are cut-, 
ting into its wildest corners. I asked Mr. Divine it 
there was left anywhere in the whole Delta of Mississippi 
any more of this old-time bear country, and said he 
no, it was all gone now. A few bears may be found 
once in a while in the Yazoo region, hut that is about 
gone, and the Bobo strip, which was the best and last of 
it all, is now on the way to swift extinction. I wish 
that some of the wealthy men of the great cities would 
step forward as Bobo asked and buy up some of this rich, 
land and make a preserve of it. Never was such a game 
country anywhere as this, and it was almost unknown for 
generations, from Boone and Crockett down, till the last 
few years. It was not altogether cheerful talking with 
Tom Divine over these rapid changes. 
Mr. Ernest Seton Thompson, the naturalist, writer and 
artist, stopped at the Forest and Stream office for a 
brief call to-day. Mr. Thompson is on his way wes| 
for a three months' trip. He goes into the Jackson's] 
Hole country, and will cross the Teton Pass, coming out 
down the Gray Bull, the land of the grizzly king, Col^ 
Pickett. We may naturally expect something interesting 
as the result of Mr. Thompson's observations among the 
animals of that region. He crosses into the Wind 
River country, one of the best big-game countries left in 
the Rockies. 
Mr. M. M. de Lano, now of Chicago, once of the 
East, made the office of Forest and Stream a littld 
call this week, and we went into somewhat of his bio-| 
graphy. Mr. de Lano has for some years been a resi-: 
dent of the West, living in Illinois and Wisconsin chiefly ' 
but earlier in life he was a merchant at Wellsboro, Pa.,' 
where that unique genius, Nessmuk, made his homeJ 
One d y Mr. de Lano was in his store when a little, dryn 
