60 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Jan. 25, 190a. 
terestingly concerning his experiences. He brought away 
with him twenty-two specimens. 
A resolution was introduced at the meeting proposing 
the establishment in southern Alaska of a national game 
preserve, which should include the Alaskan peninsula, 
the Kenai Peninsula and the mainland around Mt. St. 
Elias and the head of Yakutat Bay, as well as Kadiak 
Island. 
Managers of the Society to serve until 1005 were 
elected as follows: Henry F. Osborn, Henry W. Poor, 
Charles T. Barney, James J. Hill, William C. Church, 
Frank M. Chapman, Lispenard Stewart, Joseph Stickney, 
H. Casimir De Rham, George Crocker, Hugh D. Auchin- 
closs and Charles F. Dietrich. 
Proprietors of shooting resorts will find it profitable to advertise 
them in Forest aho Sim.au, 
Ways of the GadwalL 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
In the chapter on the gadwall (Anas strepera) in ^my 
recently published book, "'American Duck Shooting," I 
spoke of the rarity of this species in Eastern waters, 
where, according to my experience and that of most East- 
ern gunners of my acquaintance, it is very unusual. 
This year's shooting, however, seems to contradict this 
statement, for so far as I can learn the gadwalls have 
been unusually abundant. I have known, for example, 
of the killing of fifteen of these birds in one day by a 
single gun. of seven on another day, five on another. I 
myself have seen two or three flocks of fifteen or twenty 
birds, and have killed two or three of the species. 
I desire through your columns to ask duck shooters gen- 
erally whether they have noticed that the shooting season 
of 1901-1902 furnished more gadwall ducks than usual. 
Of course a general impression is desired from each gun- 
ner, but any definite facts as to numbers, such as would 
be furnished by club score books or by the records of 
men who keep daily memoranda of their bags, would be 
much better. This information is asked for not so much 
for my own benefit as for that of the duck shooters at 
large. 
On page 106 of the volume referred to, I said of the 
gadwall: "It pays little attention to decoys, and in my 
experience rarely comes to them." This is my experience, 
but the experience of one man with regard to the gad- 
wall is not likely to be very valuable, because he has prob- 
ably seen so few of them. What has been the experience 
of other gunners on the points mentioned ? A friend who 
has done a lot of gunning on the Atlantic coast and in 
the Middle West, questions the statement I have made, 
and I am glad to give his experience. He says: "So few 
gadwalls are shot and they are so rare that it is dangerous 
to argue from one or two experiences, but I should say 
that it decoys fairly well, certainly as well as the widgeon. 
I had two days this fall when they decoyed as well as 
could be wished. First at Monroe in November, when 
I killed seven in one dav, and again at Narrows Island, 
when I killed fifteen in one day. On the other hand, I 
have never seen many fly by without decoying." 
Now this year I had two flocks of fifteen or twenty 
birds each fly very near my decoys without paying the 
slightest attention to them. I had a single bird come to 
the decoys very nicely. 
This is an interesting topic and of a practical nature, 
and I feel quite sure that all gunners would be glad to 
have more light shed upon it. If such of your readers as 
are gunners will send to you or to me their experience as 
to the gadwall duck on these points, a very interesting 
chapter may be added to our knowledge of the natural 
history of this species. Geo: Bird Grinnell. 
New York. 
A New Jersey Solitary Beaver. 
High Bridge, N. J., Jan, 17, — Editor Forest and Stream: 
I inclose a clipping from this week's Washington, N. J., 
Warren Tidings, which is interesting enough to publish 
in Forest and Stream. Percival Chrystie. 
On a lonely spot along the Musconetcong Creek, only 
four miles from where it empties into the Delaware 
River, lives a lonely beaver — the only one living in this 
part of the State, and certainly the only one living any- 
where along this creek, which runs through one of the 
best agricultural portions of this State. 
How this beaver came to locate where he is, or whence 
he came and when, is considerable of a mystery to all 
who know the whereabouts of this unusual and perhaps 
only animal of its kind for many miles. 
It is almost as strange that, though several persons 
have known for a year or more of this animal's location, 
he has escaped every attempt made to capture him. Those 
who have seen the animal at different times, but never 
when they were armed, say that he is about three feet 
long and very shy, never being far from his house, which 
he has selected in a grotto close to the edge of the water 
and among massive rocks, which line the shores of the 
creek in this special locality. The entrance to this grotto 
is beneath the surface of the water, and at such an angle 
as to make it difficult to effectively trap him. 
This beaver seems to have renounced most of the habits 
peculiar to the nature of beavers, in that he makes no 
attempt to construct dams or build houses, though he has 
at different times gnawed down trees three inches in 
diameter. 
European Widgeon in North Carolina* 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
On page 76 of the January Auk, Mr. Reginald Heber 
Howe, Jr., notes the occurrence of a male European 
widgeon (Anas penelope) on Currituck Sound in North 
Carolina on Nov. 23. 1900, and intimates that this is the 
first record for the bird from that State. 
My impression on reading Mr. Howe's note was that 
there are earlier records, since the bird is occasionally 
taken in our State. During the shooting season of 1900- 
[901, Messrs. Purdy and Greer killed a pair, male and 
female, and in Forest and Stream-, Vol. XLVIII., page 
165, Feb. 27, 1897. Mr. Grinne.ll has noted the taking of a 
male bird. All these came, from Currituck Sound. 
The bird is a well-known straggler in Currituck Sound, 
and Elliot ("Wild Fowl of North America," p. 116) says 
that he has seen "examples procured on the North 
Carolina coast," and (p. 117) gives the range in part as 
"coasts of North Carolina on the Atlantic Ocean." 
Cu»RtTUCK Coumty, N. C, WlLDFOWLER. 
The Albino Sprig, 
If it were not for the white feather pinned on my desk 
as f write this, I would think the incident a creation of a 
too keen imagination, but here the feather lies, and it is 
proof positive that the albino sprig has a flesh and blood 
existence, and is more than likely at this moment dis- 
porting itself on the surface of sedge-bound Cerritos 
Lake, for the bird assuredly bears a charmed life, and is 
not destined to die at the crack of a ten or twelve, nor 
otherwise than of sheer old age. 
In the early part of October a very good fellow and 
chum of mine telephoned to me late one afternoon. I 
was at the time pouring over a dusty tome of the law, 
trying with but poor success to follow the ins and outs 
of "Blank on Evidence," for it was a gusty day outside, 
and my thoughts would escape from the law office to con- 
jure up visions of a blind somewhere in the whispering 
tules, with a flock of decoys bobbing about on a bit of 
open lake, where a free wind made little whitecaps dance, 
and the teal were scurrying — . But to that telephone. 
Burton was at the other end of the wire — Burton the 
tempter, for he was saying, "Hello, Bob! Don't you 
want to take the 5 :20 train for the duck grounds?" 
I looked out of the window and saw a long ribbon of 
black smoke from the chimney of a building opposite 
trailing away in the teeth of the strong southwest wind 
and again the tempter chuckled, "Sure to have a good 
shoot in the morning with this wind blowing." That 
settled it; of course I wanted to go; would go with 
pleasure, and "Blank on Evidence" could be dropped for 
the present. 
It was a matter of but a few moments to gather my 
gun and a valise filled with shells of my own loading into 
a cab, jump in myself and go bumping over the cobbles 
to the depot, where Burton met me, smiling at my weak- 
ness in thus stealing a mid-week shoot from my law 
studies. 
"I thought you'd come; the breeze was too much for 
you, eh?" were his words of greeting. "Oh! I was not 
very busy, and I had a bit of a headache, and thought a 
day with the birds would be good for me," I replied, de- 
termined to brazen it out. 
"But, Burton, did you not tell me at luncheon that you 
would be very busy this afternoon ? I thought that there 
was to be a directors' meeting?" 
"Well — er — that is, I managed to arrange it all ; I gave 
Porter my proxy for the directors' meeting, and it will 
be all right. I'm here, anyway, so let's cry quits." 
The train speedily whirled us coastward, and soon the 
brakeman opened the door and shouted "B-i-x-b-y !" 
This was our station, and we disembarked, to find the 
keeper waiting for us with the team. On the way to 
the club house we plied him with queries, and learned 
to our delight that the birds were in in large numbers, and 
that the prospects for a good shoot were excellent. 
That evening after dinner as we sat enjoying the 
fragrance of two huge perfectos- — of Burton's own private 
stock, for he prides himself on his cigars, and justly so — 
it was suggested that we put out the decoys before turn- 
ing it, so that all would be ready for the morning. This 
we did, and rowing leisurely up to the head of the lake, 
we chose two blinds within hailing distance of each other. 
When the decoys had been set and we had started for 
the cabin, guided by the lights shining from its windows 
far across the lake, a flock of ducks, flushed in the dark- 
ness by the noise of the oars, hurtled over our heads with 
frightened and protesting squawks. It was so dark that 
we caught only a glimpse of their rocketing forms as 
they passed over us, but one among them seemed to 
shine like a meteor among his dusky companions. 
"Burton," said I, "that was a white duck ; an albino, I 
am willing to bet." 
"It may be," he replied. "I once saw a spoonbill that 
was almost perfectly white. We may have a shot at that 
white fellow in the morning." 
We got out to the blinds next morning before dawn. 
I filled my pipe and sat puffing great clouds of smoke in 
the vain hope of driving away the mosquitoes, which 
were holding high carnival on my face and hands. Birds 
were dropping in from all quarters, some of them settling 
among the decoys, while others circled about quacking 
and squealing volubly to themselves. It was still too 
dark to shoot, for by a rule of the club no gun may be 
fired until the stars are out of the sky. It was interesting 
to watch the birds, though, and the sight of so many 
fowl wheeling by within a few yards of the blind served 
to keep me at a tension of anticipation, and made my 
trigger finger tingle with eagerness to begin. 
A flock of widgeon, looming up large in the uncertain 
light, were circling over the decoys, their wings set, their 
feet pushed out before them to meet the water. What a 
shot ! 
While 1 sat there gloating over the certainty of a good 
shot, there was a swish through the air, made by a duck- 
descending rapidly from a height, and with a gentle 
splash, a bird dropped into the water within the stool of 
decoys, and not more than twenty yards from me. It 
was a sprig, and in the misty twilight of early morning it 
gleamed whiter than a cumulous cloud in the blue of a 
summer sky. It was doubtless the bird that we had seen 
the night before. 
Sitting high ort the water, its long neck stretched up. 
its folded wings pressing tightly against its sides, it 
presented a picture of alert watchfulness. I hardly dared 
to breathe, for my heart was set on bagging that bird. 
As the moments passed and nothing occurred to arouse 
its suspicions, it began to preen itself in a dignified man- 
ner, and to swim slowly about with the grace of a swan. 
It had been agreed that Burton was to fire the first 
gun, but I knew that he would not shoot for several 
minutes yet, and so I kept close watch upon the ghostly 
visitor, determined to bag him as soon as he flushed from 
the water, which he would doubtless do at the sound of 
Burton's gun. 
I was becoming impatient, and glanced over in the 
direction of Burton's blind, and as I did so his first shot 
rang out. Quick as a flash I rose to my feet, brought 
my gun to my shoulder, and gave a hurried glance in 
front of me, where I had last seen the sprig. Fowl were 
filling the air in front of my blind in startled confusion, 
offering many easy shots, but I would take none of them. 
The sprig was gone. 
Disappointed, 1 turned my attention to the other birds, 
and had soon forgotten the episode of the sprig in the 
exciting pleasures of knocking down teal and other birds 
as they wheeled over the decoys. The sport was mag- 
nificent, I was shooting well, and was perfectly happy. 
Gradually the flight ceased. The birds had scattered, 
some of them speecfing off to other parts of the grounds, 
and many flocks keeping on their course to the ocean a 
few miles away. 
There is always a lull between the first fast and furious 
flight of early morning and the later flight of birds re- 
turning in small bunches and pairs and singles. 
During this lull I again lit my brier and took pleased 
note of the goodly number of dead birds which a light 
early morning breeze was slowly drifting in to the shore. 
From time to time birds dropped in, singly and in 
pairs, sometimes coming from great heights, swooping 
down with startling velocity, their stiffened wings part- 
ing the air with a sharp, tearing noise, that gave warn- 
ing of their coming several seconds before the bird was in 
sight. 
Presently I heard one of these rocketing birds, and 
with a sharp hiss a shining white shape swung over the 
decoys, giving me a beautiful opportunity. One barrel 
followed the other in quick succession and each time I was 
apparently holding dead on, but not even a feather 
dropped, and the white sprig, with an upward sweep, 
shot up the lake. I was exasperated, and missed the next 
four birds that decoyed. 
An hour or more passed, and I was almost dozing in 
the blind, when, without warning. I heard the slight 
splash that a duck makes when alighting, and looked up 
to see the white sprig calmly swimming among the de- 
coys. My first, impulse was to give the bird a chance, and 
I started to flush it ; then I remembered the awful miss, 
and 1 decided for this once to defy the ethics of sports- 
manship and pot the bird, for I very much wanted it. 
It was as white as snow from the base of its bill to 
the tip of its tail. "This is murder, nothing else," thought 
I as I slowly brought the gun up and caught the bird 
over the barrels. The shot rained around and about it, for 
it was not more than thirty yards from me, and the 
second barrel as he rose sent another ounce and an 
eighth of chilled sixes after it, but in vain. I felt like 
saying something, but I was too much chagrined for 
words. 
Slowly and wonderingly I gathered up the birds that I 
had killed during the morning, slung them on my strap 
and rowed over to Burton's blind. He was ready to go 
in, and we rowed slowly back to the cabin, discussing 
the sport of the morning. I said nothing of the white 
sprig, however. 
We lounged about the cabin, playing cards, smoking and 
reading until luncheon time. Later a nap, and about half- 
past three we started for the blinds again. The shooting 
in the afternoon was not as fast as it had been in the 
morning, but we passed an hour or two very pleasantly, 
and again started for the cabin. 
As we rowed along leisurely in the gathering gloom, the 
whistle of wings caused me to turn. There, whizzing up 
the lake went the phantom sprig. I watcbed him until 
he turned and again came toward us. I held my gun 
in a vise-like grip, born of grim determination to bag 
the bird this time. On he came, till about thirty yards 
from me, when he swerved to the left, at the same 
time rising, thus giving me a beautiful incoming quarter- 
ing shot. Deliberately, carefully, I covered and then 
swung ahead of him. First one and then the other barrel, 
but the sprig flew on. Then slowly downward, circling 
and whirling, there floated a single gleaming white wing 
feather until it rested on the water. I rowed over and 
picked it up, and carefully put it in my pocket, 
"Why, Bob," said Burton, "that was the white duck; 
and what a miss !" he added. 
"Yes," I answered, ambiguously, "it was." 
Robert Erskine Ross. 
Florida Deer Stalking. 
It is the South once more — the far South, with its 
balsam pine breezes and its rose dreams. 
The moon flooded the desolate little station with trans- 
forming luminousness as I swung off the train, the night 
of my arrival, and landed in the sandy street. 
The English agent was strictly truthful when he replied 
to my question: "I don't know about the hotel being 
very nice, but it's all there is." So I went to Mr. Fitz- 
patnek's to put up. He came out, yawned, walked about 
the yard a while in his night dress, and then showed mc 
up stairs. By way of affiliating Morpheus with the 
Florida breezes, two panes had been knocked out of one 
window of my room, and a wooden shutter flapped 
monotonously over the other. Other than this, a nice 
barn ventilator of comfortable proportions adorned the 
front gable, and the wind whisteld pleasantly through 
this as it reached me over the rafters. I slept the sleep 
pf the tired, the worn out. 
The next day was full of breeze and balm and sandy 
brightness — the ideal of Florida midwinter weather. By 
the afternoon our wagons were packed with all camp 
necessities, and a cuisine luxury or so as well. Two 
little mules— Jerry's rabbits they were called — hauled the 
freight; we others, booted and spurred, bravely bestrode 
hunting horses and turned gayly into the prairie. 
These plains, ranging some fifty miles from Arcadia 
to the Caloosahatchie River, make one of the unique fea- 
tures of Southern Florida. Entirely level, and broken 
only by occasional pine "islands" and dark hummocks, 
they stretch out like the sea to vast, mysterious horizons, 
and. like, the sea. too, they hush conversation, and send 
out the eye in aimless wandering altogether delightful. 
Night fell with the charm it always has in desolate places, 
and friendly stars came out before we reached Tippen's 
Bay, where we proposed to camp. It is a pretty and 
useful custom to call the narrow pine growths islands 
and the hummocks bays. They are also named specific- 
ally, for they are the only signboards here. Around 
Tippen's Bay grows a circle of symmetrical cabbage pal- 
mettoes, rising almost to the dignity of royal palms. In 
the center, where the tent W\s pitched, they clustered in 
