526 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Dec. 31, 189S, 
m\\t flag mid %nn» 
Proprietors of fishing and hunting resorts will find it profitable 
to advertise them in Forest and Stream. 
A Day with the Grouse in Putnam 
County. 
The Actual Experience of a Novice in the Hunting Field. 
"Is there any grouse shooting near New York?" asked 
a man who was calling on a young hunter at his home 
uptown the other evening. "Is there? Well, I should 
say so," was th ehost's reply. "But you have to know 
the ropes so well and there are so many obstacles that I 
should think that it would hardly pay to try to get a 
day's sport within at least 100 miles of the city," s;>id the 
visitor. "That's partly true," rejoined the sportsman. 
"By the way," added he, "do you want to know about 
my first day's shooting with a dog? Well, I was sitting 
at my desk in the commissioner's office, Department of 
Public Works, one morning, when a jolly, stout man from 
Brewsters -called to see the Commissioner. As Mr. B. 
was over at the Mayor's office at the time, I tried to 
entertain the gentleman from the Croton watershed, and 
after a while led up to my favorite topic with this ques- 
tion: 'Are there any partridges up your way, Mr. A.?' 
'Lots of them,' said he. 'Now you come up Friday and 
I'll see that you have a good time.' 'But I have no gun,' 
I pleaded, 'and besides that, I am not a wing shot. I am 
pretty handy with a gun, but hardly up to your form.' 
Well, you just come up on the Harlem road. Take the 
5:45 a. m. train and you'll be just in time. I'll get you 
a shooting iron.' 
"The Commissioner now returns and is asked if his 
young man may, go shooting. He kindly gives consent 
and the matter is settled. I had a fever all day. To add 
to my excitement, I found a telegram in my room at the 
San R. Hotel when I got home from business. There it 
is now under those grouse tails on the wall. Let me read 
it: 'Saturda}' will be the best day, and you will be sure 
of a bag. E. W. A.' 
"It was frightfully cold weather at the time, and there 
was no snow. I worked for an hour before retiring, lay- 
ing out clothes, etc., for the next day. It was my first 
chance to hunt with a real wing shot, and I was deter- 
mined to be dressed just right. 
"In the midst of dreams about whirring grouse, shot- 
guns and 'tight shells,' I was aroused by the faint glim- 
mer of a dark lantern. A big, burly figure was cautiously 
tip-toeing through the apartment, and I was about to 
cry 'burglars!' when a kind hand was laid on my shoulder 
and the voice of the faithful night watchman whispered: 
'It's 4:30, sor; wake up now, plaze.' I choked out some 
thanks, and gave the honest fellow a whole handful of 
good cigars for his thought fulness." 
"But what was your costume?" asked the guest. 'T 
may want to copy it." "It was unique," replied the young 
sportsman. "I wore thick, gray trousers and woolen 
drawers, putting on a Balbriggan undershirt instead of 
a heavy one. Over this came an unstarched Madras shirt. 
I then donned my thick corduroy vest, and over all drew 
a rather light sweater, allowing all the garments to go 
inside my trousers, which were supported by heavy elas- 
tic suspenders. Protected in this way, I got into a 
double-breasted cheviot coat, put my canvas shooting 
jacket in a travelling bag and started. I felt so light and 
comfortable in the costume. 
"You have never taken an 'L' train at 5 o'clock? It- 
is an experience. Both the ticket seller and his assistant 
were nearly asleep, and my only companions in the cat- 
were two laborers going to their distant work. Their 
faces plainly showed what they thought about being 
forced from their beds at such an unseasonable hour. 
The miles I covered and the fatigue I underwent that day 
would have killed either of them, but I must not antici- 
pate. At Forty-second street I arrived and sought food. 
Fortunately the 'Owl' stood there, and I made haste to 
climb into that hospitable little hotel on wheels, where 
I had a bite, and was soon on the train. My costume at- 
tracted no attention until the heat compelled me to get 
out my cool canvas coat. The good world esteems a 
gentle sportsman, angler or lover, and so I got nothing 
worse than a few kindly smiles. 
"A little knot' of friends awaited me at the station, and 
I was taken into Judge T.'s office, where a good gunman 
L. C. Smith hammer, double-barrel, and a pair of hunting 
boots awaited me, his Honor having despatched a boy to 
bring in a piece of suet to fill up the seams in the foot- 
wear. Here I met an erect, soldierly-looking man, who 
looked Western. His name was Frank Townsend, and 
a better sportsman I shall probably never meet. With 
him were a Mr. Yale and a bright boy of 16, who is de- 
voted to Frank and spends as much time at his farm up 
there as he can spare from his school and his Filth ave- 
nue home. 'Here comes the team,' says some one, and a 
span of blacks attached to a three-seated wagon came 
sweeping up to the door. Into it climbed the youngster 
and Mi". Yale, while Frank and I got in Phil, the pointer, 
and coaxed his little black sweetheart, Phcebe, into the 
rear of the wagon between us. The guns and hampers 
of provisions are handed in and off we go, Phil beginning 
to sing and Phcebe ready to jump out of the wagon in 
her excitement. Passing along some clear streams that 
feed New York's water supply, we halt at a farmhouse 
about three miles from the village and put up the team. 
The party then divides, Frank taking me in charge. , We 
cross a bit of stubble and enter a piece of woodland. 
'They are pretty scarce around here,' says my guide, 'but 
we may get one.' Up and down the ridge among the 
chestnut trees, now denuded of their leaves, we stray. 
Phcebe ranges right and left, but there is no sound of 
wings. I use my knowledge as a still hunter, gained in 
the Champlain V alley, and suggest a course down by a 
small pond, saying, 'They'll be down in moist ground to 
day, where it is warm.' We get into an old road and 
start through a little pass between some rocky hills. 
There are witch-hazel bushes and a few blackberry thick- 
ets here. Phcebe is working ahead from side to side, but 
has found no trail yet. Frank is close up to her, and I 
am about 20yds. behind, when up goes a big brown bird 
from a clump of weeds at the right and flies straight away 
from us. I shout to Frank and forget to use my own 
gun at all, after the usual fashion of my kind. The grouse 
is within 30yds. of my companion. Bang, bang! goes his 
double barrel. The bird writhes after the second shot, 
but turns to the right and flies straight up to the ridge, 
and I follow his course for perhaps 50 rods way up 
among the treetops. What a long flight. He must 
have been hit,' I remark encouragingly. 'Yes,' says 
Frank, T covered him all right both times. It was a 
dead easy shot, not a bush in the way either, but, man 
alive, why didn't you shoot? He was your bird too.' I 
confessed that I wasn't ready, and didn't feel like inter- 
fering with his shooting, as I was sure that he would 
make a hit. 'Now, see here,' said my instructor, 'the 
next time a flyer gets up on your side, just hold right 
on him and blaze away. That's the only way to learn. 
You smashed those cans I threw up over there by the 
barn all -right So just keep your gun ready and let 'em 
have it. If you had fired, I'll bet we would have that 
big fellow now.' Well, I promised to do better, but had 
a desire to get just one glimpse of a black ruff sneaking 
among the bushes. I should have known what to do. 
"How we looked for that bird! We covered all the 
territory for rods around the place of his disappearance, 
expecting every minute to have Phcebe bring in the 
game. After half an hour wasted in a fruitless search 
Frank concluded that the grouse had flown straight over 
the fields and had dropped dead. So we started on an- 
other course. Phcebe occasionally brightened up a little, 
but failed to raise a single bird. Finally I said: 'Frank, 
let's try the warm hollows again. There's a likely place 
down by that little brook.' We cross the fence and stroll 
down the road for a few rods. Suddenly Phcebe takes 
some interest in things.. She comes to a point in some 
low bushes near the stream. Her master steals up care- 
fully, and I hear: 'Mark bird.' 'All right/ said I. Down 
the swale we go. This time I am ready to shoot, al- 
though very distrustful of my skill. Phcebe draws up, 
and with a rush a gray object goes straight down the 
little valley. I have only one glimpse of whirring wings, 
and have no chance to try my lvlck, but the quick pop 
of a smokeless cartridge is heard, the flight ceases, and I 
hear the cheering words 'dead bird.' In my excitement 
I run over the dog, so fearful am I that our first prize 
may escape. Phcebe gives me a look of evident disgust 
that plainly says 'Get your old game, if you want to.' 
Our bird is only winged, and I have a chase through the 
rushes, aided by the setter, now quite over her resent- 
ment. We now range about for a while without any 
result; and I am secretly hoping for a shot at a hare or 
even a. gray squirrel. The woods seem to be absolutely 
devoid of any living thing, so we return to the stable, 
where our companions, groaning over their bad luck, are 
taking luncheon, using the floor, covered with a sleigh 
robe, as a table. As I carry the game it is concluded 
that I am the lucky one. This delusion is promptly fos- 
tered by Frank. Taking the advice of the boy hunter, we 
drive to a piece of woods fully four miles distant, and tell 
the reinsman to meet us at 5 o'clock. We cross a brook 
containing some trout, and climb a wide slope thickly 
grown with chestnut and oak trees. There are lots of 
likely looking brush heaps, and at the top of the hill is 
a pasture separated from the copse by a mossy stone 
wall. On the left are empty meadows and a buckwheat 
stubble. At the end of the wood, which we search in 
vain, two slight slopes include a swamp of scrub oak and 
thorn apples. Here we may get up some woodcock. 
As we approach, a big grouse flushes wild 50yds. off, 
and goes up along the swamp fence, alighting on the dry 
ground above. We now hear our friends' guns from a 
distant quarter and walk cautiously forward, while 
Phoebe's inquisitive muzzle is poked into every thicket 
and tuft of swamp grass. There is nothing in the marsh, 
so we take to the dry slope, where the small oaks and 
bushes form a good cover. Suddenly Frank exclaims 
'Look there!' Sure enough, the little black 'un is point- 
ing. Her form is stretched out to its full length, and 
her lithe body is trembling with excitement. 'Now, 
Pete, watch right and I'll go left,' said my mentor. 'That 
bird will fly your way.' The dog is standing near a small 
pine. Thick brush are all about, but just ahead there is 
a little clear space. A sharp 'Look out!' comes from the 
left, and there is a whirr of rushing wings. I am strain- 
ing my eyes for a start, my gun at the shoulder covering 
the little blue ta'rget. Something crosses the line of 
sight. I press the trigger and the object wilts. Frank 
is afraid of my shooting and fires his right barrel an 
instant later. 'Your bird,' he says, kindly. I have my 
secret doubts, of course, but hope for the best. Where 
can our game be? It pitched off a cliff 30 or 40ft. high. 
I descend, but find nothing. See Phoebe. She stands on 
the edge, pointing straight down. I return to my search, 
and in the angle formed by two rocks there is Mr. 
Grouse, only slightly winged, I think, but my companion 
shows other wounds and adds: 'See, No. 6 shot. too. 
Mine are ISjo-. 8. That proves what I said. You have 
"wiped my eye" the first day. Pretty good tor a pot 
hunter. Now let's beat this place up. I think there are 
a lot of 'em here.' We turn down an old wood road, 
while Phoebe works along to the right. We are busy 
talking, when up go two birds in front of Frank. They 
are brought down beautifully. I step forward and get an 
easy shot at a young one following. Another grouse 
flies away ahead and alights on a tall dead tree, but puts 
off again* as we approach. Here my wish is nearly grati- 
fied. A big white hare, frightened by the dog, dashes 
across a little glade. One of my favorite marks, too. I 
score a clean miss, however. Not so Frank. He runs 
to the right, and as bunny makes his characteristic turn, 
he is dropped with the right barrel. 'Ah, now, Sonny,' 
says my tutor, 'we are now even. I gave, you a white 
handkerchief that time, sure.' Two shots in rapid suc- 
cession indicate the approach of our friends, and three 
birds driven up from the swamp settle down nearly 
within range. We creep up to the first one. Frank lets 
me shoot it, but it takes both barrels to do so. I am 
shoving in the last cartridge, when I hear his spiteful 
little 12 talk. Two birds are up, He drops one with his 
second charge, but the other, a wily fellow, has put a 
thicket between himself and Frank, who shouts 'Take 
him! Look out!' I get a baTe glimpse of something 
about the size of a robin flying just over the brush, fully 
40yds. off. I take the best aim I can under the circum- 
stances and stop the flyer with a 30:11, circle of No. 6 
chilled shot, . . , ^.j^a 
"Our numerous reports have attracted the attention of 
tke other party. It comes up-to gratify natural curiosity. 
Mr. Yale 'hefts' my pockets in a patronizing manner, and 
pulls out two or three nice birds from his own to show. 
'Pretty free with your powder, I hear,' said he. Well, 
that's the way to learn, isn't it?' 'Oh, I don't know 
about that. We have to pile ours up. Pockets won't 
do, you see,' replied I, pointing to a few brace of grouse 
and the big white hare that we had been to busy to care 
for properly. 'Had to throw them down there in the 
road. You gentlemen kept us pretty busy, and as beat- 
ers you are certainly hard to beat' 
"I shall never forget that scene. We stood at the forks 
of an old road in a little valley among the hills. Over- 
head hung the cloudless sky and hardly a breath of wind 
was stirring. All were making plans for the route home- 
ward, the two dogs being included in the confab, when 
an old cock grouse, which had been skulking behind a 
large oak, suddenly got up with a roar behind Frank 
and flew down the path. That worthy was ready and 
fired twice without apparent effect. We could see the 
bird come to a thickly wooded knoll, nearly one-quarter 
of a mile distant. He then abruptly arose to the top of 
the hill over the tall trees — an unusual course, we thought 
— and pitched over the elevation out of sight, while 
Frank rather fretfully remarked, as he resumed his task 
of stringing the game: T can never hit a pa'tridge that, 
gets up behind me- and flies over my head. Well, you 
fellows go up over the hill after that bird, and Pete and 
I will take your trail back through the swamp.' We ac- 
cordingly walked through the low ground and came to 
the place where we saw the first grouse. Thinking that 
he might have come back, we covered the woods well, 
keeping close to a mossy stone wall. We had nearly 
decided to go home, and were about to cross the fence.. 
Frank was 20yds. ahead with the dog, while I followed,_a 
little toward his left. Phcebe passed to the right of a big 
maple and was hastening on, when a handsome red 
grouse flushed between tree and wall, and started back 
to the swamp over the smooth sheep pasture. Frank 
heard the noise and made a beautiful turn shot, killing 
the bird with the nearest, neatest and prettiest shot of tire 
day. 
"We overtook our friends about ten minutes later, and 
they had a fresh bird, which we couldn't account for, as 
we had heard no shots fired. It came out later that this 
was the grouse that took the long flight over the hill. 
Phil had picked it up in the pasture, nearly a mile from 
the forks. I won't tire you, old man, with many more 
details. A nice supper was ready for us at the hotel, and 
we sat about the fireplace in the office until late, telling 
stories about the day's adventures. The two tired dogs 
were sound asleep on the floor, and from the mantle shelf 
hung a noble string containing fifteen nice fat birds. 
And I must take them all home for my friends' Thanks- 
giving dinners. Now and then some smart fellow came 
in and walked up to see if the game had been snared. 
He would feel of their necks knowingly, but finding his 
hands stained with blood, would retire rather sheepishly 
from his examination, and our reputation as sportsmen 
was safe. Well, to wind up, I got home all right, and 
my neighbors in New York said that even Putnam 
county grouse were not bad on Thanksgiving Day." 
Peter Flint. 
"Yellowstone Park Poachers/' 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
In the number of Forest and Stream of July 16 I 
saw an article with the above heading. I read it with 
much interest, more so from the fact that I was one 
of the party of innocents of whom the article .partly 
treats, and one who by chance was delegated to assume 
the active part of the play in connection with the game 
scouts, Scott and Malin. I am led to reply to this article 
from the fact that, while it has been evidently written 
by one who is no doubt familiar with the entire workings 
of the Park, and who in fact bears the "ear marks" of 
an army officer who has been located in the Park for 
some years (I understand he has been transferred), it 
contains so many misstatements, and is so manifestly 
unfair, that I feel compelled to take up the pen to cor- 
rect that portion of the article which I know to be other- 
wise than stated by its writer. 
Our party, consisting of five men, and having in view 
first a visit "to Yellowstone Park, and second an elk hunt 
in Montana, entered the Park Oct. 7. 1897, via Living- 
ston and Cinnabar. At Cinnabar our party was met by 
Col. Watters, who owns the steamboat on Yellowstone 
Lake, whose guests we were while in the Park, and who, 
with his private carriages, made the tour of the Park 
and entertained us at his private residence on the shore 
of the lake. 
On our way in we stopped a short time to conform 
to the rules of the Park, and to pay our respects to the 
Superintendent, then Col., now Gen. Young. The Gen- 
eral was found to be a most courteous gentleman, which, 
I am glad to say, most all of our army officers are. He 
said he had received a communication from Washington 
regarding our party, and would be pleased to furnish 
us anything the Park contained or aid us in any way 
to make our visit there enjoyable. We wanted nothing, 
however, but permission from the General to bring our 
game and trophies through the Park on our return. 
This he g-ranted, 
That part of the article in your July number saying 
we were allowed to take our guns through the Park 
to Patt's place was a mistake. We understood before 
we started from the East that guns could not be taken 
through the Park. We expressed them over the Union 
Pacific road and Oregon Short Line to Monida, Mont,, 
thence by stage to Lake Henry, Idaho, and by private 
conveyance to Patt's ranch in the Madison Basin. 
When through the Park, Patt met us at the Upper 
Basin, and took us through the Fire Hole River route 
to his place, about five miles outside the Park limits. 
There we outfitted for our hunt, and Patt. not having 
the necessary pack outfit, engaged Jim Courtney and 
Dick Murry to help him, they furnishing some of the 
horses and "other paraphernalia. 
Murry did not want to come, as he had just returned 
from a hunt, and his horses were worn out and not fit 
for service; in fact, one did give out when several days 
out. Patt finally induced him to come. Of these men 
we knew nothing — Patt included, as he had been en- 
