i44 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Sept. 28, 1901. 
Proprietors of shooting resorts -will find it profitable to advertise 
tkem in Forest A^fD Stream. 
The King^ of the Forest, 
Far in the North where the pine tree grows, 
And the tall spruce covers the land, 
Near where the turbulent river flows. 
Are moose tracks in the sand. 
The hunter comes a bit too late, 
And there he bends down low; 
He shakes his head, for he must wait 
For moose tracks in the snow. 
The moose has learned from the 5'ears that have passed 
That the summer and spring are his own; 
But the first fall of snow may be the last 
That will quicken him thro' to the bone. 
Over the mountain and far beyond 
He wanders aimless and free; 
He stands by the shore of the forest-bound pond, 
And is monarch of all he caft see; 
The winter comes with ice and snow. 
And he's filled with fear and pain; ^ 
He longs for the summer; for winter to go. 
Till he's tracked by the hunter and slain. 
Oh, evergreen forests and hills afar, 
Way up 'mid the pine and the spruce, 
Long in thy depths, V.'here fit beauties are, 
May wander the antlered moose! 
J. bEABXJRy. 
Squirrel Hunt ''Episodes/* 
Charlestown, N. H., Sept. ig.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: The shooting season for all iipland game opened 
in New Hampshire last Sunday, with a pouring rain, 
which undoubtedly kept all the gunners at home who did 
not stay there out of respect for the day, but Monday 
began with a heavy fog here in the Connecticut Valley, 
clearing at 9, bright, still and warm, which sent my 
memories back to my boyhood days and awakened a 
cloud of pleasant reminiscences, which haunt me yet, but 
are too far in the distance to describe in detail. Your 
correspondent, Mr. H. Avis, gave us a delightful account 
of a squirrel hunt, in your columns, a year or two since, 
which I enjoyed hugely, for it was true to life, to the 
letter, and I wish I could recall the incidents of some of 
mine as clearly, for it was my favorite sport, next to trout 
fishing, for many years, and many a happy day have I 
spent on the hills of New Hampshire and Vermont, in 
pursuit of the active, bushy-tailed nut-eaters, sometimes 
alone, sometimes with companions who have all gone to 
the happy hunting grounds, except my own sons, who are 
now engaged too deeply in the cares of business life to 
have time for shooting, and one old friend, over in Man- 
chester, who, like myself, has "hung up the fiddle and the 
bow" and placed the old double-barrel in the closet corner, 
where it will probably rest with the other old muzzle- 
loaders. 
My boyhood memories go back to the days when An- 
drew Jackson was still President of the United States, 
when "turkey shoots" such as Rowland Robinson has 
graphically pictured were the favorite autumn sport in 
New England, and when "the boys" looked with con- 
tempt on a "shotgun," and aspired to pick off their game 
with a single bullet of the size of a large pea, or weighing 
sixty or eighty to the pound. - So was my first gray squir- 
rel brought down, to say nothing of scores of red ones and 
chipmunks, on which I practiced before I attempted the 
larger game. After a few years at this I became the 
possessor of my first fowHng piece, an antiquated flint- 
lock, and from that rose to percussion caps, on an old 
family relic, which had been altered over, and became a 
pretty good shot on all stationary game, though my early 
rifle practice always hampered me more or less in wing 
shooting. But, as I said, Monday last brought back the 
old days, when dressing by candle light and making a 
hasty breakfast of bread and milk, with whatever else 
was handy, left on the kitchen table the night before, I 
started out in the heavy fog at early dawn, climbing the 
hills so as to be up among the oaks at sunrise when the 
squirrels were out for their breakfasts, and sometimes 
taking a lunch in my pocket and making a day of it, or 
dropping in at some friendly farmhouse for dinner. Of 
those early days I can recall no distinct memories as to 
their results, and it is not until 1851, when I returned 
from England the happy possessor of a 12-gauge double- 
barrel, that I begin to recall my tramps more clearly. At 
that time my younger brother, who now sleeps in a 
Western cemetery, the victim of disease contracted during 
the Civil War, had grown to man's estate, and was for 
two seasons my constant companion. 
Our favorite route led us from the village up at! OW, 
disused road to ?. long pasture at the base o£ the hills, at 
the entrance to which was a big farm gate, overshadowed 
by two or three luige oaks and butternuts, and here we 
always expected to get, and usually did get, our first squir- 
rel. Sloping down from this gate toward the river rOad 
was a grove of oak, chestnut and butternut, into which 
we went next, and sitting down on a rock or fallen tree 
watched for the dropping nuts and swaying branches, 
telling us of the presence of another of these agile 
marauders. Sometimes this cover "drew blank." and we 
then turned our footsteps in the opposite direction, right 
up the hill toward the sunrise by an old trail, along an old 
rail fence by the side of a deep ravine, filled with oaks 
and butternuts, where we were very apt to pick up one or 
two more, but aiming to reach the crest of the ridge and 
another old trail, which led down along the back side of 
it by another old rail fence about the time that the sun 
broke over another higher ridge further to the east. 
These ridges were covered with old oaks and chestnuts, 
and in the little valley in which we now were were a num- 
ber of beeches, and the old rail fence was a favorite run- 
way. Further down the valley had been cleared, and a 
long stretch of open pasture ran away to the south, dotted 
here and there with huge old chestnut trees, which had 
escaped the axe. It was an ideal squirrel ground, and 
well do 1 recall the picture as I have sat on the gnarled 
roots of some old oak and looked down the valley, shim__ 
mering in the haze of an Indian summer sun, while I 
listened for the sound of dropping nuts or watched the 
tree tops for the swaying branches which marked the 
spring of the desired game. 
Frank Forester scoffed at squirrel shootmg. Nothuig 
was game to him which did not wear feathers and re- 
require the help oi a dog to find it, but although many 
people employ a dog in squirrel shooting I was not 
brought up in that way, and preferred to trust to my own 
.skill in woodcraft, and stalk my own game. A favorite 
method in those young days was to hunt in couples, one 
armed with a small-bore rifle and one with a shotgun, and 
the squirrel could not evade us by dodging round a tree, 
while the rifle would bring him down if he got up so high 
as to be out of shot, or only showed his head among the 
branches. As I said before, these days are too far dis- 
tant to recall the details of any particular tramp, but many 
a pleasant day have I spent along the old trails, at inter- 
vals of many years, first wiih schoolmates, later with 
my brother, and twenty years later still with my sons. 
The old hollow chestnuts and oaks are all gone now. and 
save a small stretch of the ridge, there are very few large 
trees left, btit some half-dozen years ago I took my gun 
one afternoon and strolled down over the old route, more 
for the sake of the reminiscences than with any expecta- 
tions of finding game, and I was not disappointed, when 
I found the old rail fence all rotted away, the once well- 
worn footpath obliterated by a growth of young pines and 
hemlocks, or obstructed by the decaying limbs of some 
ancient chestnut, which wind or lightning had brotighl 
down across the path. I reached about the usual limit 
of our old, old morning tramps, and came to the place 
where formerly grew a giant oak, and where I once .shot 
the largest gray squirrel I ever saw, about as big as a 
cat, and sat down on a ntopy stone, half-hidden by a 
branching hazel. As I sat there watching the tree tops I 
heard a rustling in the leaves near mc. and looking down 
there was a squirrel hunting for nuts, not 20 feel from 
me. My tan-colored coat and drab felt hat were so near 
the color of the yellowing leaves that he did not notice 
me. and I sat some minutes watching his graceful move- 
ment as he foraged among the leaves. He was too near to 
shoot at. and I was so much interested in his operations 
that I lost all desire to kill him. At last I moved my hand 
to brush away a fly, and he di.scovered me and was oft" 
through the trees like a skyrocket. My thirst for game 
was over. I shouldered my gun and took the back track 
for home, emptied both barrels on my way at the knots in 
a board fence, and have not pulled trigger since, ex- 
cept to send a charge of bird shot this spring after some 
overneighborly hens, who were scratching up the newly 
planted seeds in my garden. The old gun rests in the 
corner of the attic, still in good condition after fifty years' 
service, but in these days of breechloaders and cartridges 
is hardly likely to be called into service again. 
These "squirrel hunts" were but "episodes," as King- 
fisher calls them, in the course of many busy years^ and at 
long distances apart, and it has so happened that my holi- 
days have occurred at periods when the rod was more 
available than the rifle or smooth-bore, and being "my 
first love" has been more frequently and more lovingly 
wielded, but, then, bright, autumn days bring back the 
old memories, and I hope that their recital may awaken 
similar ones in others. Von W. 
The Passing of the Ducks* 
We were off on the 8:30 evening train on the Great 
Northern, pulling out of St. Paul, bound for the Coast. 
There were others burdened with gun cases, shell boxes 
and traveling bags, who were by no means going through 
to the Pacific Ocean, but whose destination was any- 
where along the road approximating two htmdred miles 
or so from town. 
Some were after chickens and others were after ducks. 
Because of the notion of our game warden, Fullerton, of 
appropriating gun, dog and game of the sooner hunter 
very little previous shooting was done this season, and 
reports of chickens well grown and plentiful in un- 
broken coveys made the boys sanguine of great sport. 
Our station was Dalton, train due about 2:30 A. M.; so 
we turned into our berths, leaving orders with the porter 
not to overlook us; when time arrived, that we be called. 
This injunction to the porter was neither a formal nor a 
superfluous admonition. Porters ere this have dozed, 
and men have been carried by. 
I remember one case where a porter carried a peppery 
German going otit after "docks and shickens" bej'ond 
his station, awakening him about half an hour too late. 
The whole thing was a tableau. The German, the mo- 
ment he realized the situation, let loose on the porter 
with such idiomatic profanity that the negro turned 
an ashen paleness. The porter had nothing to say, noth- 
ing at all to say, because the passenger monopolized the 
situation. I do not think T ever heard German cussed 
in real elegant form until that particular morning. 
While I was intently, in my dreams, marking a bunch 
of teal coming low on the lake and up wind, wondering 
how many would fall to my lot, some one seemed to 
be tugging at my cOat tail, and sure enough our dusky 
attendant "was trying to impress upon me that "next 
stop is yours, boss; train's late; running like de debil; 
yer ain't got long to dress afore we're there!" — and we 
came to our senses and feet the same instant, and were 
soon ' on the platform with our _ dunnage. One of 
oiir partyi through masterly activity in failing to 
present his checks at the door of the baggage car — it 
was a flag station, and no one in charge at the depot to 
receive baggage — had to resign himself to the fact that 
his outfit, with the exception of his gun, had gone up 
the road. But with offers of an extra coat, extra rubber 
boots, freedom of our shells, etc., we calmed down our 
irate member, and clambering into the rig were speeded 
along the prairie road to Bushnell's camp, at Ten-Mile 
Pass. 
A change of apparel and a cup of coffee made us ready 
to take our stations upon the pass. 
With the first streak of dawn a flock of teal could be 
seen making their way toward the pass, coming up wind. 
They were high, entirely too much so, yet in their anxiety 
to warm up their gun barrels some of the boys tried the 
distance. No. 6 shot as a rule will not do much execu- 
tion upon ducks 80 or 90 yards up in the air, and the 
general rule held in this case. The birds scattered 
momentarily at this discharge, bunched again, and sped 
on higher than before. 
But teal, canvasback, redhead and now and then a 
mallard came our way. The birds were native birds, arid 
111. ding no fusilade awaiting them this spring rested in 
our near-by lakes, and made their nests and reared their 
young. 
Mark right! An old mallard. Watch him come, 
craning his neck and smelling out danger. His course 
has been near the water's surface, but as he nears the 
pass a glint from a gun barrel or a moving head has 
warned him, and up, up, he goes. But he has been too 
late to make his upward course carry him without gun- 
shot, and as he passes our cover the first shot kills him 
cleanly in midair, and he falls, a confused bundle of neck, 
wings, legs, body and head, not 20 feet behind us. 
A flock of eight blue-winged teal are coming low upon 
the water, and as they swerve slightly upwJfrd Dunn and 
Nolan each use both barrels in quick succession, and the 
eight teal fall to earth, some winged and others dead. 
Our friend from Rockford, to the left of Nolan, had 
counted on a pair from this flock, but when he got 
ready to pull his triggers, the birds had already begun 
their descent to earth, and there was nothing of the 
flock left to shoot at. Some of our birds fell itito the 
lake back of us — we were shooting on a ridge between 
two lakes, but the wind at times blew them on shore, 
making it unnecessary to pick them up from a boat. 
A number of times the flock would continue its flight 
b_v and beyond the pass, seemingly unharmed, when, 
without warning, one — sometimes two — of the birds 
would fold their wings and come tumbling to water a 
thousand feet out in the lake. 
The failure on the part of a gunner to judge of dis- 
tance means many a wasted shell, and often a crippled 
duck falling far out of sight and reach. 
One man will contend that in duck shooting care 
should be exercised to take only those shots where it 
nieans a clean, out-and-out kill, making it possible to re- 
trieve every bird stopped in midair. Another argues that 
if in duck shooting you take only the sure and safe shots 
there is absolutely no fun or sport, the fun and excite- 
ment concentrating upon the long, doubtful shots, which, 
when one makes successful, incline him to feel proud 
01 his gun. To watch a crowded and popular pass, easily 
accessible to all kinds and sorts of gunners, reminds one 
of the old pigeon-match days, when men and boys with 
all sorts of guns stood a dozen deep beyond the bounds to 
finish the missed or crippled pigeons. 
Tu see a solitary mallard approach the pass, uncon- 
scious of harm, until just about within gunshot, and then 
to see that bird climb for the moon, the shots following 
it as if it had a pack of giant crackers tied to its tailj 
is indeed a grand sight! 
Up, up, it goes, as if having a charmed life, still 
free and seemingly untouched, when, as a sort of finish- 
ing salute, after all the rest have fired both barrels and 
"pumped fire" after the soaring bird, you hear the boom 
of the big-gauged, heavy-shotted, black-powder gun, and 
our fleet-winged bird comes tumbling to earth out of the 
sky. But by this time the boys have put new shells in, 
and as that already dead bird falls toward earth he is 
greeted with, as it were, a volley over his grave, and he is 
finally picked up by the most agile sprinter, and claimed 
as his own. To find yourself on such a pass and in such 
a crowd permits of your at once doing but one thing- 
going somewhere else. Birds, especially teal, have a way 
of cutting right close to earth, overtopping the bushes 
and cover on the pass, and it is under such circum- 
stances that gunners get maimed. A crowded duck 
pass is interesting to watch from a distance, but a very 
unsafe spot to patronize. Then, too, the arguments 
over ownership of fallen birds are apt to be warm and 
somewhat dangerous when all concerned carry loaded 
guns in their hands. But we shot in peace at Bushnell's 
Pass, and when the morning flight was over, strolled up 
to the house and enjoyed our breakfast. 
The birds moved not until after five, when the sport 
continued until the evening flight was over. The birds 
showed more wariness, and long before they reached the 
pas.s, inclined their flight upward. The shots were long 
ones, and instead of No. 6 shot, No. 4 were substituted. 
To have reached some of the wary old greenhcads that 
passed overhead BB shot wotfld not have been heavy 
enough. 
The shooting was confined entirely to native ducks. 
When the ice begins to form up North, driving down tho 
big ducks and geese, on a blustery, sleety day, one can 
stand on this pass and shoot until his gun barrels get too 
warm for comfort, his birds being selected' shots- for 
there do the ducks fly low, much less alert to 
danger than when the air is still and- the sun shining 
brightly in the heavens. ■ ; 
Charles Cristauo^o. 
In New Jersey* 
MiLHURST, N. J,, Sept. 17. — Editor Forest and Stream: 
The prospect for gunning through this section was never 
better. Flocks of quail are much more numerous than in 
past years. From all places hereabouts I hear this same 
report, but many of the birds seem to be small yet. It is 
not m.uch of a pheasant section around here, but to the 
south of us I learn they are more numerous than the 
average. Squirrels are very plentiful, seemingly. Perhaps 
this being a hickory nut j^ear they show up on that ac- 
count more than last year. Like the quail, very many of 
them are yet small, no larger than chipmunks, this show- 
ing them to be of the second litter. During my thirty 
years' residence in this State I have never seen rabbits 
near so plentiful. One can scarcely take a walk in any 
direction without coming across from one to half a dozen, 
and I also hear the same report from all sections in 
this part of the State — the result, undoubtedly, of the law 
forbidding the tracking of them in the snow, and also of 
dogs running them out of season. 
So, taking it altogether, vrith ns it is to be an A No. i 
gunning season. A. L. L. 
All communications intended for Forest and Stream should 
always be addressed to the Forest and Stream Publishing Co., and 
not to any individual connected with the paper. 
