l68 
Geofgfia Dove Shooting- 
At the height of the season, in midwinter ,a number of 
Jiunters agree on the time and locality for the shooting. 
The place selected is some open space near Tivoli, care- 
fully baited with grain. The doves are quick to scent, for 
at this time of year they find little to feed on in the bare 
fields, and flock from all sides to this plentiful supply of 
corn and oats. When they have covered the ground in 
large numbers the hunters, with a full equipment of shells, 
come on the scene at the appointed time and begin opera- 
tions. Stealthily approaching, they gradually surround 
the field in a large circle. When every man is stationed, 
some one shoots in the air, the birds fly up from the 
ground, and volley after volley is poured from the breech- 
loaders into the ranks of the bewildered doves, which in- 
stead of trying to escape, seem to be so dazed that they 
fly in mad circles directly overhead. 
A problem at these dove shoots is, what shall be done 
with so much game ? Such a large number of sportsmen, 
even if they are but fair shots and shoot at random, can 
count up many birds at a day's end. In most cases each 
man eats and gives to friends what he can, and the rest are 
often sent to some institution where the inmates are glad 
enough to taste such a delicacy. But such wholesale 
slaughter of birds that are becoming fewer and fewer 
every year is causing much anxiety among the true lovers 
of sport. To be sure, the State has its game laws which 
prohibit the destruction of game between March and 
September, but no provision is made against what might 
be called the dove syndicates, which do so much execu- 
tion in the regular season. While no act has been passed 
as yet to prohibit this practice, prominent sportsmen are 
unanimous in condemning it, and have formed associations 
to do all in their power to stop it. In time doves bid fair 
to share the fate of the wild turkey and wild pigeon, that 
used to be so plentiful in the South. Occasionally, even 
now, you may hear of a wild turkey hunt or of a flock 
of pigeons, but . in Georgia, af any rate, they are almost 
as scarce as the buffalo at Bronx Park. — New York Even- 
ing Post, 
Farmers and Sportsmen. 
Danbury, Conn., Feb. 23.- — Editor Forest and Stream: 
I must beg 3'our kind indulgence for a few more lines on a 
pretty well-thrashed-out subject. I seem to have stepped 
on somebody's toes pretty hard by bewailing the change 
(that is to come) between farmer and sportsmen. 
A Philadelphia gentleman gave me, and no doubt many 
others, a treat in propounding an able essay on farmers' 
property rights; but how in the world he connects the 
same with the lines written by my humble pen, is a riddle 
to me, as neither I nor anybody else ever questioned such 
rights, especially in your columns? I have not the least 
doubt that the Philadelphia gentleman's natural mental 
vision is very properly adjusted, etc., to meum et tuum, 
but many men I know of stayed poor because of it; for 
this adjustment works both ways. The wliole article 
written by him is true enough as a defense for farmers 
combining, rights, etc., but is entirely out of place as an 
answer to my few lines. Nevertheless it confirms my 
view of the situation, that within a very short space of 
time a man of moderate means will not be able to indulge 
in the sport of hunting and fishing. C. F. B. 
The Massach«setts Grottse. 
Boston, Feb. 17. — Isn't it good to learn that that part 
of the Forest and Stream Platform is being put through 
in our Legislature — "Prohibit the sale of ruffed grouse." 
It's a grand step — and eventually we hope to carry through 
the entire Platform. Keep banging away at it. 
. H. S. A. 
^,^if "That remlsds me." 
Those Old Stories* 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
In your editorial concerning the bear story of long 
ago, you mention the bears which "came down from the 
mountains and devoured the children who had mocked 
'Go up, thou bald head.' " Brush the dust from the office 
Bible and turn to Kings II., 2:24. 
I am not a scholar, Hebrew or English, yet if "t-a-r-e" 
spells, or means, "devour," I have learned something- 
new to me at least. As dear old Alva Dunning said to 
Fred Mather, "Don't you put a meanin' into my words 
that I didn't mean," so let me ask of you not to put a 
"sayin' " into the old Book that it doesn't say. How 
hard it appears for us to forget the legends which the old 
book never taught. Orin Belknap. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Blessings on the head of the member of Forest and 
Stream_ family who first began to agitate the question of 
old stories and books. 
Youth looks forward, age looks backward. Some of 
us are on the line, looking both ways. The bear story 
that your boys have, for the past few weeks, so persistently 
besought you to tell, was to some of us, who heard it 
for the first time, a real treat. 
While old memories are stirred, please let me suggest 
the very vague recollections I have of a book read in 
youth, the reading of which was both to my pleasure and 
profit, the name and author of which is entirely forgotten; 
that I hope some of the boys of the late sixties and early 
seventies can recall and identify for me. 
It is the story of a strong, manly boy. in a family in a 
comparatively new country, who has ambitions to acquire 
an education. His family is poor, but he wins his way 
into some institution of learning, and works in a most 
interesting manner with head and hands. The only 
distincuishinsT points remembered are these: Many in- 
teresting and instructive experiments in iron welding, and 
steel tempering. 
An escapade in which he paints a fellow student's body 
z deep blue-black with a compound, one part of which is 
FOREST AND SfrtjEAM, 
some silver coin, dissolved in an acid, the use of which 
he decides on only after a long struggle; in which the 
poverty of -his family on the one side, and his love of 
mischief and desire to humiliate an overbearing and pre- 
sumptious fellow, on the other, wage an interesting con- 
test. 
This is a very slight clue, and I fear will not be 
sufficient to call to mind the excellent story, unless some 
of the "boys" have chanced to read the book in these 
later days, and can identify it, It is more than a quarter 
of a century since the book was read, and now it is my 
sincere desire to renew acquaintance with the manly 
young fellow whose , career is narrated, provided any of 
the boys can take the slight clue offered and discover him 
for me. Lewis Hopkins. 
Around the Stove. 
"Can we bear this?"— Shakespeare. 
As a picture of comfort nothing could well exceed 
this little "Dutch" interior, with its shining, well-stocked 
bar, its old-fashioned settle-bed, with the bearskin thrown 
over it, its stout, roomy armchairs, its collection of 
curious little prints, its neat window hangings, and last, 
but by no means least, its great, round stove glowing with 
heat. 
Around the latter sat three persons. The first, Jacob 
Kiimmelwasser, the proprietor, a ponderous man of forty- 
five or fifty, with a jolly rubicund face. The second, Tim 
Mulcahy, a little lusty Irishman, with side whiskers and 
twinkling gray eyes, which bespoke his native humor. 
The third, Wirt Zaender, a native of those parts, of 
long and lanky build, and with an expression of mingled 
shrewdness and simplicity. 
The three men by an almost simultaneous movement 
drew closer to the stove, until they might almost have 
been said to embrace it. The cause of this movement 
would have been obvious to the reader had he been present 
and listened to the noises out of doors. 
It was indeed a wild night. From the northeast the 
gray squadrons of the blizzard had been let loose in all 
their untamed fierceness. Encountering the Kiimmel- 
wasser abode (which stood apart at the side of a little 
pine grove), they cavorted and snorted around it, swish- 
ing the gables with their tails, kicked at the doors and 
windows, then jumped on the roof and whinnied down 
the chimney. Passing on, they were succeeded by others 
and still others, whose wild antics ever seemed to in- 
crease. 
"It's a turrible night," said Tim Mulcahy, "and re- 
minds me of the night I got lost on the mountains." 
"How vas dot, Tim?" asked Mr. Kiimmelwasser. "I 
nefer heard nodtings about dot." 
"It's a subject I don't like to refer to oflfen, for why 
it gives me the could shivers. Ghee! There, ye see 
I've got them now. Say. Jake, is that a bottle av Jamaicy 
rhum I see beyand there?" 
"Ya — somet'ings fine." 
"Suppose ye mix a little av it hot. Eh, Wirt — fwat do 
ye say?" 
"VVirt smiled complacently in token of assent, and re- 
moved his beloved quid in anticipation of the still more 
beloved dram. 
The rum was mixed and passed around, and drunk by 
each after his own particular manner, but by all with 
every evidence of appreciation. 
"Ha !" exclaimed Tim, smacking his lips, "but that 
tasted good. Now I feel less like a man that was lost." 
"More as if you founded vas — ^hem?" queried Mr. 
Kiimmelwasser. 
" 'Found dead?' did ye say. 'Brought to life,' ye mane, 
man !" 
Mr. Kiimmelwasser accepted the correction good- 
humoredly. 
Wirt Zaender said nothing, but his expression spoke 
volumes, as he restored his quid to his mouth. 
For awhile perfect silence reigned around the stove, as 
if the convives were giving the rum an opportunity to 
work, or were devoting all their attention to a living 
analysis of its workings. 
At length Mr. Kiimmelwasser said: 
"How about dot story, Tim?" 
Tim thus appealed to, heaved 'a sigh, and began as 
follows : 
"It's a wondher t' me I'm a live man this day, so it is. 
Indade, I sometimes shtop as I'm walkin' along and ax 
meself: Ts this ye, Tim Mulcahy, or only yer ghost?' 
I've hurd tell av min bein' in tight places, but I niver yit 
hurd tell av a man — but I must'nt anticcypate, as they say 
in the story papers. 
"Well, to begin at the beginnin' : Ye see I was out 
gunnin' for bear and wandhered away up the mountains. 
I'd been tould there was a big black spalpeen lurkin' 
around near the two rocks, so there I wint. I was 
undher a disadvantage in bavin' no dog (Garryowen, the 
Jooh, was sick), but I thought I might get a chance shot, 
as they say. The day was fine, wid a nice bright sun, so 
I hung about — sittin' here^ — shtandin' there — ^but always 
on the alirt. Howsomedever, I got niver a sight av Bruin. 
The rogue's ashleep, I thought, though I'd been tould 
he'd been seen prowlin' in the day time. I was goin' to 
give it up for a bad job, when I hurd a suddin crashin' 
av bushes right ahead av me, so I got up in haste and 
made in that diriction. But afther pokin' about for near an 
hour, I had me labor for me pains; nary a ghmpse of fur 
could I get. 'To the divil wid him!' says I. Til go 
home.' Asier said than done. For, ye see, while I was 
bint on me hunt a fog had come up unbeknownst to me, as 
I may say, and I couldn't tell which way to take. Everj' 
minute it grew coulder and coulder. and by and by it be- 
gan to snow. 'I'm in for it 1' thinks I, but I didn't give up, 
but kept gropin' me way here and there, thryin' to find a 
familiar path. It was like thryin' to find a friend in 
adversity, only harder. To the right — to the lift — back- 
'ards — forr-ards — 'twas all wan— all sthrange. At lin'th, 
tired out, I sat down on the thrunk av a fallen three. 'Tim 
Mulcahy,' says I, 'ye're lost, ye poor babe in the woods !' 
B' this time it was dark and a rig'lar, tearin' blizzard had 
set in. Fwhat was to be done ? I sat pondherin' there for 
near an hour, till me bones began to get shtiflF wid the 
could. Thin I shook meself and got up. *I must keep 
movin',' says I^ But fwhat wid the dark and the snow 
and the fallen timber, this was no aisy matther j so, afther 
[March 3, rg^o. 
I'd come down a few times and barked me shins, I { 
decided I'd betther go into camp somewhere. Not far 
from where I stood was a pile av rocks, wid some firs 
growm' purty thick about thim. 'I'll pitch me tint 
there,' says I, 'wid God's blessin' 1' Well, I brack off 
some fir boughs and made me bed. thinkin' it might be 
me last, for ye see, I was very low in sperrit, from the 
could and hunger. Before turnin' in I thried to make a 
fire, but the shticks was damp and wouldn't lii?ht. How- 
somedever, I had a pull av the pipe, and this consholed me 
a bit. 'Now,' says I, 'to bed. Little use in sittin' up late 
here.' Well, I threw meself down and pulled the blanket 
over me— the fir boughs, I mane. Thin I said a prayer 
and thried to shleep. But the could froze the shleep in 
me eyes. O, boys! but it was mortial could! All me 
jints grew shtiff, I lost me sinse of feelin' (so that I 
couldn't tell whether I had lamb's wool or a dale boord 
over me), me mind was shwimmin' about as if in a 
throubled dhram. _ The last thing I remimber sayin' or 
thinkin' was: 'Tim, me poor man, ye're near ridy for 
the big box !' Afther that I must have fell into a 
thrance. How long this lasted I don't know, but I 
awoke from it feelin' betther, and. exthraord'nary to re- 
late, almost warrum. As it was shtill dark I took no 
pains to invistigate, but closin' me eyes ag'in, fell into a 
sound shleep, and shlept as if I was in a feather bed, till 
raornin'. But whin I opened me eyes the sicond time— 
hivins! fwhat do yez suppose I saw?" 
"Vat?" "W'at?" exclaiiTied Mr, Kiimmelwasser and 
Wirt in a breath, 
"A big, black bear lyin' right alongside av me! 'Twas 
the hate av him that kept the life in me. Well, me 
heart was in me mouth, to be .sttre, but I could have 
hugged that bear!" 
"You poot a knife in him insteat, I supposition?" said 
Mr. Kiimmehvasser, 
"Fwhat ! I'd as soOn have put a knife in rne own 
father. Jake Kiimmelwasser, you insult me. Do you 
think I have no feelin's av gratitude? Fwhat! Kill the 
friend that saved me from bein' turned into an iceberg! 
But ye said it widout thinkin', I suppose, so I'll forgive ye. 
Well, to go on: Although I was just full up to the 
throat of gratitude toward me shaggy friend, I'll confess 
I was wishin" meself a little further away from him. He 
was to all appearances shtill fast ashleep, .so I thought I'd 
vinture on a move. Gettin' up gintly, I crept away on all 
fours. Peepin' back I see his majesty lift his head and 
eye on me, but he never attimpted to folly, for, ye see, I 
wore me bearskin coat, and he thought I was wan av the 
family. Good luck and long life to him, anyway 1" 
"T supposition he seen the femly likenesses in your face 
too, Tim?" said Mr. Kiimmelwasser, with a merry twinkle 
in his eyes. 
"He'd have seen it in your's, Jake." retorted Tim. 
Wirt Zaender smiled and took another chew of tobacco. 
F. MOONAN. 
>ed mid §iiv0r ^ml(mg. 
The Taylor System of Fly-Fishing. 
Denver, Colo., Feb. 19. — Editor Forest and Stream: 
In his "In the Pound Net" columns, page 113 of Forest 
AND Stream for Feb. 10, Mr. Fred Mather uses the sub- 
head "Dry Fl3f-Fishing" over a paragraph in which he 
gives and verj^ justly criticizes the letter of one Nemo on 
Mr. Taylor's system of fishing wuh the tiy; and Mr. 
Hough, in treating of Mr. Taylor's method, has used, 
more than once, I think, the name "semi-dry fly." Now, 
I trust that Mr. Hough will not consider it unduly pre- 
sumptuous if I take exception to his use of the phrase 
■'dry fly" in connection with Mr. Taylor's ingenious, and 
remarkably successful system. 
"Dry fly-fishing" is a name coined in England at least 
fifteen years ago to particularize, and, in a measure, to 
describe, a mode of fly-fishing found best suited to the 
capture of the (relatively) large and abnormallj'- shy 
trout of the south-country streams — streams as clear as 
gin, even when in spate from recent rains, abounding in 
bottom and mid-water food, but especially remarkably 
for the almost daily hatches of ephemeridae, which, with 
a few flies like the alder {Sialis lutaria) and gramiom 
(Brachyccntrus subnubiles), in their seasons, and the 
various sedges {Trichoptera) , in the summer evenings, 
provide an amount of strictly surface food imequaled in 
quantity and continuous regularity of production any- 
where else in the world. On typical dry fly streams, like 
Test and Itchen, in Hampshire, one will hardly find any- 
where a riffle in the true sense, of the word. In most 
reaches the depth of the water and the comparative slow- 
ness of the current leave the surface of the stream as 
smooth as glass, except for the action of the wind, which, 
for the perfection of dry fly-fishing, should not be strong 
enough to raise more than a wimple. Such, brieflj^ are 
conditions to meet which dry fly-fishing was devised and 
perfected. The metropolis, possibly the birthplace, of the 
art, is Winchester, on the Itchen, and on the Old Barge 
waters, just below the city, a spot hallowed by the foot- 
steps of Francis and of Marryat, I received my initiation 
into its mysteries. For some time I rented and fished a 
stretch of water beginning at the foot of the Old Barge 
and extending down as far as Shawford, and during this 
Elysian period I did nothing but fish, superintend the 
care of my water and study the arcana of dry fly worship, 
especially in the classic books of Mr. Halford, the great 
authority, whose personal acquaintance I had the pleas- 
ure of making at the Fly-Fishers' Club in London. Wher- 
ever I have roamed flies suited for dry flj'^ work have al- 
ways been part of my fishing outfit since that first June 
evening on the Old Barge, and whenever local conditions 
made it at all possible I have fished dry fly in preference 
to everything else — not always, nor even often, because 
it killed more fish, but because I enjoyed it more. In 
New Zealand and in this country I have hunted out those 
streams, or parts of streams, where I could fish dry. even 
when elsewhere I knew I could kill more fish and larger 
with wet fly, worm or minnow. 
On such a hunt as this last spring, Mr. Hough, that 
guiding star of wandering sportsmen, turned me toward 
the Prairie River, in Wisconsin. "There is fishing on 
the Prairie," said he; "good fishing. Moreover, if yoM 
