Feb! 22, 1902.J 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
149 
the hide, that means first a horny place and then a brittle 
place after tanning. For light hides like those of the 
fur-bearing animals, no salt is required, and it is enough 
to stretch them and dry them in the shade, but a party 
killing bear or elk, for instance, do not always have the 
time to thoroughly dry out their hides in the shade. The 
best way is to salt them thoroughly. The salt brings out 
the moisture, and after this is scraped off the hide, it can 
be rolled and shipped with the certainty that it will arrive 
in good condition at the taxidermist's." 
Northern Shooter tn the South. 
Mr. R. B. Organ, of Chicago, is not content unless he 
is having a little fun with somebody, and he says he 
had fun with his pusher in his late Southern trip, where, 
among other places, he shot at the Chef Menteur clubs of 
Louisiana. Roll drew a pusher who was some tired, and 
who did not want to get out into the marsh any further 
than he had to. The Northern shooter thereupon gave 
the young man a lesson in Maksawba duck shooting, in- 
cluding the art of marking down a duck. The result was 
a bag of thirty ducks, which proved to be the top bag of 
the day, since out of fifteen other guns on the marsh, the 
total result was only twenty-two birds. These old Kan- 
kakee clubs of ours used to turn out some pretty good 
duck shooters, one of whom was Roll Organ. 
Ia the South. 
It was like old times to get a letter this morning from 
O. C. Guessaz, of San Antonio. It is Lieut.-Col. Guessaz 
now, inspector of rifle practice, First Division Texas 
Volunteers, and the same says he is well and hearty, also 
adding the information that Dick Merrill, of Milwaukee, 
and W. W. Peabody, Jr., of New York, are at present 
sojourning in old San Antonio, to the mutual pleasure 
of everybody on both sides of the transaction. 
By the way, Mr. E. H. Brown, of this city, is among 
the Chicagoans who are headed southward. Mr. Brown 
goes next month to Aransas Pass for some tarpon fishing, 
and will probably put up at the Tarpon Club. In April 
he goes to Burdick, Ark., for a try at the alligator gars, 
with which he proposes to have some fun. In May he 
will go trout fishing on the Brule, of Wisconsin, and in 
June he will fish for muscallunge in the same State. 
Now, that is what I call a rational sort of business life. 
Ephraim and His Idols. 
Mr. Fred Irland. of Washington, D. C, is always in- 
teresting, and never more so than when he is writing on 
his favorite topic of the efficacy of the stove-pipe gun as 
compared to the small-bore. I fear that Ephraim is 
wedded to his idols, and that it would not be worth while 
to try to convert Mr. Irland away from his tomato-oan 
load. I don't doubt for a minute that the big gun will 
kill game, although I have heard of cases where a man 
wanted another shot awful bad. I am afraid that neither 
Mr. Irland nor myself will ever reconcile all the conflicting 
reports about this, that and the other gun and load. As 
to the size of gun. I imagine that the 8-bore would kill 
more quail, and perhaps deader quail, than the 12-gauge. 
I like to use the 12-gauge, none the less. Sometimes a 
crippled quail gets away from the 12-gauge, and I imagine 
it would occasionally from an 8-gauge. There is no gun 
which is going to kill game every time you loose it off. 
It takes something more than general concussion to bring 
meat into camp. If I were afraid of being charged by a 
desperate quail, I might want to get me an 8-gauge, but 
I have usually found the game charging in the other 
direction, and must confess a sort of leaning toward 
something which will hit 'em quick and often. I do not 
know much about moose, but would hate to have a collar- 
bone broken mighty bad. I noticed that every time Henry 
Braithwaite fired off his two-bushel gun. we had to hunt 
about half an hour before we could find Henry. The 
old machine would kick Kim clear over the hill. Avaunt, 
Mr. Irland ! Prithee, saty not so. 
The Belgrade Ball. 
Anybody who is anybody in Montana society has heard 
of the Belgrade bull, which is owned by an English out- 
fit near Belgrade, Mont., and which has more than a local 
reputation. The fame of this creature dates back some 
years, and rests for the most part upon the extreme loose- 
ness and flexibility of the aforesaid creature's hide. 
Whenever a new cowboy comes up into that part of the 
range, and gets full enough to ride anything with hair 
on it, the owner of the bull meekly suggests that he will 
bet $500 that he has something with hair on it that the 
said cow puncher can't sit for love nor money. This 
is commonly sufficient to close the preliminaries. The 
owner takes the cow puncher out into the corral and 
shows him a meek, mild-mannered, thoroughly gentle 
old Hereford ox. The old fellow does not in the least 
mind being saddled and cinched, and he allows any one 
to pull the cinch as tight as he can. The cow puncher 
mounts into the saddle, and then the owner of the animal 
takes a long pole with a brad on the end of it and pokes 
up the bull. About two movements after that usually 
settle it. The bull takes a shift in his hide over to the 
right, and tilts Mr. Cowpuncher at an angle of about 
60 degrees on that side. Then he pulls his hide over to 
the same point on the left side. The saddle slips around 
and the cow puncher falls off. That is all there is to it. 
Many a good, straight-up rider has come to grief in just 
this sort of fashion, among these Jerky Bill, a famous 
buster, and Spokane, another celebrated subduer of mean 
ones. Spokane was so ashamed when he found that he 
could not ride the Belgrade bull that he left for parts 
unknown, and was not seen for many a moon. 
Yet it seems that the glory of the aforesaid bovine 
hath somewhat paled. A rumor is out to the effect that 
he has been- "rid." It was done by a man who worked 
for the Story outfit, name otherwise unknown. Jack 
Monroe says that this man rode t«he bull, but did not do 
it fair — that is to say, he only succeeded after tying his 
stirrups underneath the belly of his mount, which is con- 
sidered to be not quite professional in busterdom. 
Kid Gabriel, when interviewed in regard to these' epi- 
sodes, said: "Down at the cow punchers' tournament in 
St. Louis, four years ago. there was a feller who come 
down there from the Northern range, and said deliberate 
that he had rid the Belgrade bull. He put on a lot of 
airs and allowed that he was about the best that ever 
pome, down the trail. We starts in to ride some mean 
ones in the tournament, and says he to me, kind of care- 
less, 'Shall I ride 'em fancy, Kid?' I says to him, 'You 
just ride 'em any way you can.' Well, you never 'saw a 
man pull out more leather than he did in alt your life. 
He was the punkiest kind. He couldn't ride straight up 
at all. We knowed he never had rid the Belgrade bull, 
and we told it to him. Afterward we found out that he 
had taken on the name of the feller that did ride him, and 
at that with tied stirrups." 
Mr. J. D. Hawks, president of the Detroit & Mackinac 
Railway, of Detroit, issues a bautiful pamphlet showing 
the resources of the country tributary to that line. This 
region is one of the greatest interest to all sportsmen, 
whether lovers of the rod or gun, and Mr. Hawks will 
be glad to send out copies of the publication to inquirers 
for sporting localities, more especially those who purpose 
forming sportsmen's clubs, whether for angling or shoot- 
ing purposes. E. Hough. 
Hartford Building, Chicago, 111. 
A Black Duck Pair. 
Revere, Feb. 5. — Editor Forest and Stream: The black 
duck has begun to come in on our marshes, but not in any 
large numbers. For the past few years they have been 
getting thinned out to an alarming extent. Spring shoot- 
ing is the main cause for the scarcity, I suppose. Up to 
five years ago we could pick up a few birds during an 
evening's shooting, but it is almost impossible now to 
get more than enough to make a dinner. 
While out gunning one day last March, we put up a 
pair out of a small stream. One of the party fired at 
them and dropped one. The duck floated down stream, 
and we were surprised to see it remain in the middle of 
the current. We did not have a dog with us, and we 
were in a quandary as to how we could secure the duck, 
which was in a small eddy and kept whirling about. 
While we were doing our utmost to secure it by throw- 
ing sods of turf and other stuff, we were greatly sur- 
prised to see a lone duck come swiftly up stream and 
poise directly over it. The stream was about twenty 
feet wide, and the gallant mate of that poor duck was 
satisfied to meet a possible death in that narrow stream, so 
(hat he could locate his late partner. He was not more 
than four feet from the surface of the water, and not 
over eight feet from us. ' 
We remained standing while the drake kept fluttering 
over the duck. We made no attempt to conceal our- 
selves, and we were filled with admiration and pity for 
such a courageous and noble fellow. Gladly would we 
have restored his partner to him, but it was beyond us. 
It was their season of love-making. Let us stop spring 
shooting. 
Various evenings while sitting at supper, I noted the 
call of a female duck. I thought nothing of it at first, 
but determined to find out what a foolish duck could be 
quacking about in such close proximity to a railroad 
track in the night time. A small pool of stagnatit water 
had formed just back of my neighbor's house. His ducks 
enjoyed its juicy contents during the day. I thought it 
probable that one of his ducks was out. I got a lantern 
and slid down the banking to the pool. I saw a black 
duck in the dirty puddle, and shoo'd at her to drive 
her into her box. She swam to the end of the puddle, 
which was not over ten feet long. I went to the end after 
her, when she startled me by jumping into the air like 
a skyrocket, leaving nothing behind but her quack, quack. 
Funny experience, wasn't it? She must have been visit- 
ing the tame drakes during early morning hours. 
Last summer I found the nest of a thrush, with the 
old bird at home. By using caution I approached close 
enough to put my hand on the back of the thrush and 
stroked her feathers a few times before she left the 
nest. Her young ones had just been hatched. She drove 
me away very quickly by her rapid dashes. The partridge 
displays more cunning, but none of the courage possessed 
by the smaller birds in defense of their young. Pick up a 
baby partridge in the woods, and its tiny squeak will 
cause the old lady to resort to tricks "to lead you away. 
But she will not dash at your head as the little birds do. 
Jay Pee. 
The Big-Game Rifle of the Future* 
While, for army purposes, the improvements along the 
line of small-caliber rifles may continue, yet do I firmly 
believe that common sense will sway the sportsman back 
again to the large-bored rifle, 
The man who has chased a .30-30-riddled moose over a 
blood-bespattered trail only to eventually lose him, will 
be inclined in future to change his rifle for one that will 
drop a moose in its tracks. 
I have read with much interest Mr. Ir land's remarks 
upon this subject, and if experience counts for anything 
in the woods, his statements and conclusions must carry 
weight. To be able to drop your moose "all of a heap," 
as against making a stern chase for your wounded quarry 
through several miles of windfall country, between the 
two there can be no question as to the better method. 
The bullet that will knock a moose off its feet as if hit 
between the eyes with a sledge would seem to be the 
bullet par excellence. 
To drive a really expanded, soft-nosed bullet directly 
through the heart of a moose is apt to stop him in his 
tracks, but, if the reports one reads are true, to hit a 
moose "any old place" with a .30-30 is not apt to do 
anything immediately further than to make him run. He 
may eventually bleed to death or die from inflammation 
because of the wound — but cui bono. 
And all this fortifies the many arguments against taking 
the .30-30 into the woods. The large-bore gun with black- 
powder-propelled bullet is not only a safer arm, for 
the rest of the fellows in the woods out of ordinary gun- 
shot, but is a surer arm with which to bring down your 
game. Of course, the result of planting a 480-grain bul- 
let in a man's back, because his corduroy coat "looked 
like a deer," would be, perhaps, more disastrous, but yet 
more merciful than were the act done with a .30-30. Even 
in the shooting of a human being, if the man must be 
shot by mistake for a deer by his fellow, man, the aim 
of the innocent murderer in such cases is so good in- 
variably that it really cuts no figure whether the caliber 
is one thing or the other. But as to killing some one in 
the next county, certainly the small-bore smokeless will 
always carry off the palm. 
Fads and fashions rule temporarily in all things. I 
think the small-bore rifle fad for big game that haunt the 
woods has had its run, especially so with the men who 
have tried it and know. 
I should like to know Mr. Weaver's opinion of the 
shocking powers of a .30-30. Just where he planted those 
thirteen bullets in that unfortunate moose. Mr. Irland's 
article does not state, but I'll venture to state that it 
would not have taken any such number of 4So-grain bul- 
lets to have done the business — and the antlers would to- 
day be gracing Mr. Weaver's dining hall. 
Years ago I remember reading an article in one of the 
standard magazines reciting the experience of one — I can 
not now recall the name, a noted pioneer Californian, and a 
great hunter. It particularly referred to his killing at 
close, quarters five grizzlies, using, of course, the small- 
bore, muzzleloading rifle of the pioneer days. Where he 
planted his bullets (he wasted no second shot on the same 
grizzly) and what the grizzlies were doing when he was 
busy with his powder horn, patches, bullets and ramrod 
have always been mysteries to me. If I remember right, 
the article was written in a veracious, commonplace strain, 
and lacked the enthusiasm that sometimes permeates such 
tales. The article was illustrated, and I can see the 
leather-robed hunter, with the orthodox coon cap of the 
day, in the act of loading his Kentucky rifle, one dead 
grizzly at his feet and four real live ones on their hind 
feet in charging attitude and within arm's length of the 
hunter. Writers of hunting stone? as well as engravers, 
like poets, are granted license with an open hand, and I 
have always thought that story-teller and engraver put 
their heads together and pooled their licenses. 
The above was vividly called to my mind when_ on a 
fishing trip in Maine years ago, I saw hanging up in the 
shanty of a guide a single-shot, breechloading Remington 
rifle of very heavy caliber. Whether this had been bored 
especially large to order I do not know. Alongside the 
rifle hung a leather pouch holding not more than three 
or four loaded shells. The bullet used was certainly as 
large as my thumb, and the fewness of them to the pound 
was a source of surprise to me. When I remarked on 
the size of the ammunition, the guide quietly replied that 
every bullet meant a moose or a deer. He never believed 
in spoiling meat by boring it full of holes. When he 
pulled the trigger he liked things to drop right there. 
After covering miles in finding his game, he liked to 
end the hunt right there and not have to follow his 
wounded game over into the next county. 
I think Mr. Irland and this guide might shake hands 
and compare notes. Charles Cristadoro. 
The Megantic Dinner, 
Boston, Feb. 16. — The members of the Megantic Fish 
and Gaime Corporation sat down to their fifteenth annual 
dinner at Hotel Brunswick Saturday evening. The at- 
tendance was the largest ever recorded — about 200. This 
is considered favorable, since it was for some time a mat- 
ter of doubt as to whether a dinner would be held this 
year. Only two or three guests were invited. Presi- 
dent Roosevelt was unable to be present by reason of 
the recent illness in his family. Chairman L. T. Carleton, 
of the Maine Fish and Game Commission, was present, 
and took occasion, as was expected he would, to get in his 
hunter's license work. After congratulating the club 
on the number of young men present and dwelling for a 
few moments on the delights of the woods and waters and 
general out-door life, he launched into his chief subject. 
As an introductory, he cited the destruction of the buffalo, 
and added that Maine does not propose to lose her moose, 
caribou and deer in such a manner. It is proposed to im- 
pose a license fee on non-resident hunters sufficient to 
furnish the money to protect the fish and game of the 
State. He did not take pains to say that this fee is sug- 
gested to be imposed on non-resident hunters only, while 
the people of his State will be permitted to hunt in- 
discriminately, without paying for it. He said, in sub- 
stance, that there were less than 2,000 persons registered 
from outside the State who went in search of big game 
last season, but that throughout the season the forests 
were fairly alive with camping and canoeing parties. 
Each one carried a rifle, regardless of its .being close 
season on all sorts of game. They carried these rifles for 
protection, though there was nothing in the Maine woods 
in summer time more dangerous than a red squirrel. The 
Commission feels that some means must be provided to 
prevent this summer destruction of game. They have 
come to the conclusion that it is best to impose a license 
fee on all non-residents who come into Maine to hunt, in 
order that sufficient funds may be provided to pay war- 
dens to see that the game laws are enforced. 
In reply, President Gleason said that he was sure that 
the members of his club would .gladly assist the Maine 
Commission in protecting big game. He suggested that 
the members would doubtless be willing to pay a $10 
license fee. But he added that he felt confident that the 
destruction of big game in Maine comes not so much from 
visitors outside of the State as from hunting for the 
market by Maine residents. He might also have added 
that sportsmen from all over the country have carried on 
for two seasons, particularly last season, a regular system 
of market-hunting. Mr. Carleton might have gone into 
Clinton Market one morning last fall and seen fourteen 
handsome deer, nearly all heavy bucks, strung up by the 
heels. A hunting party of seven got home the night 
before. These deer were their trophies. A gentleman, 
who spent his boyhood in the Adirondacks. a hunter then 
and a good shot, who knows every one of the returned 
hunting party well, remarked of them ; "They never shot 
one of those deer. Not one of the party could hit a deer 
if they saw it, let alone the finding of them and getting a 
chance to shoot." It is perfectly well understood that 
every one of those deer were shot by Mr. Carleton's 
registered guides. Neither were those deer the hun- 
dredth part of the game of that sort that came into Bos- 
ton markets last fall. Mr. Carleton's licensed guides are 
deer slayers by trade — the most of them — and the deer 
come directly to the Boston markets. 
Mr. Gleason also mistakes the sentiment of the Me- 
gantic Club, if he believes that a majority of its mem- 
bers are in favor of a hunter's license in Maine. At the 
meeting Saturday evening i% w#s suggested in one little 
