FOREST AND STREAM 
[May 31, 1902. 
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May Memories of Other Months. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
To him who is an enthusiastic duck hunter, the eight 
months of the close season seems an age. Of course, 
other sports in their season serve as a balm to impa- 
tience, and, indeed, a day spent in whipping a good 
stream in some rugged canon, where the spirit of spring 
runs riot, and where one may forget for a time the 
pavements and brick walls of town, is not a bad sub- 
stitute for a day on the marshes. 
To make one's way down stream, clambering over 
huge lichen-grown boulders, brushing through great 
brakes of fern and beds of royal tiger lilies, stopping _ 
now and then to cast in some foam-flecked pool, so that * 
the flies drop just in the swirl at the head of it; and 
after a gallant fight, to slip a ten-inch trout into the 
creel; ah, there is keen sport in that, and health and 
enjoyment, and naught* of any evil. And when, further 
down stream, we come to a bit of water that flows in a 
long series of riffles between straight alder-lined banks, 
and the footing is good, and the sun filtering through 
the alder leaves makes a delicate gold tracery on the 
dancing water, what glorious fun it is to wade in the 
current, with the water rippling dangerously near our 
boot tops, and cast ahead! No danger, then, of landing 
our flies in the top of some tree, for the space is clear 
about us. 
And then later to feel the creel gradually growing 
heavier as it fills with rainbows, until we know that in 
all good conscience we have enough, with what blissful 
and perfect contentment do we throw ourselves down 
on the ferns, and light the old briar, the tried com- 
panion of many such days afield, the while our ears are 
filled with the melody of the tumbling stream, our eyes 
with the beauty of nature and our hearts with the love 
and reverence of nature's God. 
Trout fishing is indeed a glorious sport, and a gentle 
one, too, lacking the trace of cruelty that wildfowl shoot- 
ing possesses. For in the latter there are always the 
inevitable crippled birds, that, despite our humane 
efforts, reach the tule to die of their wounds. But 
nature has provided in a measure for that, for the rac- 
coons prowl round o' nights and their teeth are sharp. 
When the hot August days are here, we may once 
more take the twelve gauge from its case, and in the 
cool of the summer morning see if 'our eye has lost its 
cunning, and if that smooth and steady swing, so neces- 
sary for the fowler, is still our own. For then the doves 
are winging their way to water and a light breakfast, 
and to stop them cleanly in their swift course is not work 
for a novice. The best sport with the doves is had an 
hour or so before sunset, when they begin to fly for 
their evening nip, before going to roost. If one is wise, 
he will have marked for himself a flyway before the sea- 
son opens, and then about four in the afternoon he will 
take a camp stool, a well-filled shell-case and a light 
twelve gauge, and then seat himself in the shade of a 
convenient tree, and facing in the direction from which 
the flight is to come, await his opporunity. It will not 
be long in coming, if the place is well chosen. First, a * 
single pair are seen, far down the valley, for we are in 
the shade of some eucalypti near a "water hole" at the 
base of the mountains, and one can see the sunlight 
flash on the wings of a dove a great way off. We are 
ready for them, and— they have passed. It looked a bit 
easy, but in truth it was not. A dove at full tilt is 
everybit as hard to hit as a wind-driven teal, and I have, 
missed a thousand of both, and have stopped a few, too. 
The next pair that come in we greet as before, and this 
time we actually make a double. Faith, we are puffed 
up, but not for long. As the evening shadows lengthen 
the flight becomes more rapid, and we miss far oftener 
than we kill. Then, too, the bewildering flight of the 
birds rather upsets us, for this, remember, is the first 
work with the gun since the snipe left in April, and we 
are likely to be a bit rusty and run to "nerves." 
When the great red globe of the sun is resting on the 
verge of the western horizon, flaming into vivid crimson 
the blue haze of the San Fernando, the rush of wings 
becomes fiercer, the doves rocketing in from all direc- 
tions; the air seems to pulsate with the beat of their 
swift pinions, and the faint, peculiar whistle made by 
their wings is heard on all sides at once. This is the 
time the novice is likely to go off his head, and even the 
man who is master of the craft -finds it hard to credit- 
able work. Twilight deepens, and the flight, save for 
an occasional bird, has stopped. Just as we have gath- 
ered the last bird, we see coming in at a great height, 
but sharply outlined against the faint red flush of the 
western sky, a single rocketing dove, an old bachelor, 
perhaps, coming home late from the club. Lead him 
well — now! Man, what a shot! Yes, remarks the Other 
Fellow, probably an accident. Be that as it may, we 
stopped him, and it was a glorious shot. 
A few weeks after the duck season closed, I made a 
trip to the grounds over which I do most of my shoot- 
ing, just for the sake of watching the birds. It is won- 
derful what a change a few weeks' close season makes in 
the wariness of the fowl. The birds had been undis- 
turbed for four or five weeks, and they were quite gen- 
tle. On the shore of the lake not more than thirty 
yards from the cabin, a pair of mallard were preening 
themselves, and were but little disturbed .by our 
approach. They finally slid into the water, and swam 
slowly around a bend of the tules, the gaudy drake 
quacking softly to his mate an assurance that it was 
close season, and that there was no hurry. 
About a mile from the cabin there is a long slough, 
probably a hundred yards across and a mile or so in 
length. A friend from Minneapolis was with me, and 
as I had told him great tales of our- shooting, he was 
anxious to see some birds. We walked over to this 
slough, where I knew there were thousands of birds. A 
marsh spreads out parallel to and on either side of, the 
channel, and as we waded through this marsh, from 
many little ponds flock after flock of mallard rose. 
They allowed us to approach within twenty yards _ or so 
before rising, and then circled over our heads in the 
most tantalizing way, or else flew but a short distance 
to settle down in another pond. Horace was fascinated, 
but I had a surprise in store for him. The slough itself 
we could not see, for it is fringed with high tules, but I 
knew from past experience that its surface was crowded 
with fowl. We had our guns with us, for an occasional 
wisp of snipe might be flushed. When we had almost 
reached the slough I fired a shot, and instantly the air 
was darkened by a cloud of fowl and made vibraut by 
the beat of myriad wings. It was a sight to gladden the 
eyes of a duck hunter. There were thousands upon 
thousands of birds — I shouldn't like to say how many, 
but certainly many thousands. There were large num- 
bers of mallard, and thousands upon thousands of 
widgeon, teal, sprig and shovellers. The bright sun- 
light glinted on the beautiful blue and chestnut of the 
cinnamon teal drakes, and was reflected by the iri- 
descent green on. the heads of the mallard drakes and 
from the royal purple of their wing coverts. Once in 
the air, they exhibited little fear of the two canvas-clad 
figures who matched the color of the marsh so closely, 
and who stood so motionless. Immense bands circled 
about us, or rocketed by us up and down the course of 
the slough. At one end of the channel the water opens 
out into a broad, shallow pond, covering perhaps thirty 
acres or more, and here the birds settled so thickly that 
it seemed as though no more could find room on the 
water. 
Horace was awed into silence, but occasionally 
pinched himself to see if he really were awake. He 
would repeat, now and then, as if to himself, "and to 
think all this is within an hour of town." 
It was a golden opportunity to study the habits of the 
birds at close quarters, and untrammeled by a desire to 
slay. The teal and shovellers were the busiest of the 
lot, running along the margins of the little creeks in 
search of food, while the larger birds contented them- 
selves by floating idly about in great rafts that black- 
ened the surface of the water. _ And all the while the 
music of their calls filled the air. The widgeon whist- 
ling love songs to their mates, and the mallard and teal 
conversing in lower tones of the worries and pleasures 
of the little brood that was to be. I wished for the pen 
of Wilmot Townsend, that I might, reproduce a little 
bit here and there of this riot of bird life on the marsh. 
Robert Erskine Ross. 
Los Angei.es, Cal., May 19. 
A Sportsman's Vendue. 
He was certainly a mighty hunter, but in time he waxed 
old and died, and leaving no growing sons to follow in 
his footsteps, his rod, gun and rifle went to the auction 
room. 
For many years his hours of leisure had been spent 
upon the stream and abroad among the fields and forests 
in pursuit of fin, feather and fur. 
But in time the hunter became the hunted, and suc- 
cumbing to the arrow that strikes home to all men, re- 
lentless and death-dealing, he passed over the dark, still, 
unfathomable river to join those gone before to the happy 
hunting grounds teeming With game. 
Had he been an Indian his guns, rifle, rods and acces- 
sories would have been buried with him, but being other- 
wise, his effects went to the auction room to be sold and 
scattered. His favorite tools of the chase were to go into 
strange hands, and the rod and gun, too precious to 
loan, were to become the property of men who knew 
him not. And in due course a notice of the auction was 
sent to me. I asked myself what business had I there 
with a corner and shelf in my attic already burdened 
with guns and rods? 
Time was when I could not enter a gun and tackle 
store without buying something, not because I needed the 
things, but because they struck my fancy. I had not 
learned to resist. No apologies are necessary, there are 
many more like me, and still more to come after me. This 
accumulating of fresh sportsman's material just as regu- 
larly as the fishing and shooting seasons open, is a 
disease, and there is no cure for it save an empty pocket- 
book, and even then one can look into the windows of a 
tackle store and covet. 
I asked myself, why should I go to this auction when I 
was unable to use all that I had already paid for and 
acquired in the shape of rods and guns. 
The dog that runs as if his life depended upon his 
catching the speeding train of cars, after which he so 
furiously barks, would be at a loss what to do with the 
train were the brakes set and he was enabled to catch it. 
So, while I might coA'et the rods and guns offered, were I 
to purchase any I, like the dog, would not know what use 
to put them to after I bought them. 
There are collectors and collectors, the fever even ex- 
tending to lovers of the rod and gun, and it is at such a 
sale that one adds something to his collection. 
I decided to go, and, although it was like walking into 
the lion's den, I nevertheless made a strong resolution to 
buy nothing. 
Spread out upon the tables was a collection that had 
taken the deceased sportsman many years to secure. 
Guns, rifles, rods, hunting suits, decoys, fly-books, shell 
cases, landing nets, lines, reels, boots, waders, camping 
outfit complete, inflatable rubber bed and blankets. There 
were tackle boxes, stuffed with the best accessories pro- 
curable, muscallonge spoons and lures of all descriptions. 
Everything was of the best, and save that it had seen 
more or less service, was in first-class condition, and as 
it had been left after his last hunt and fish. 
His whisky flask— empty — his cigar jars, cribbage 
boards, books on fishing subjects, were piled up with the 
rest, 
I saw the display and watched the clawing-over process , 
by the crowd, and felt that almost a sacrilege was being • 
committed. To see a looker-on take up a reel and manipu- 
late it like a coffee grinder, another snapping the locks 
of the gun, and yet another making a bungling attempt to 
joint up a fly-rod, made my sympathies go out to the man 
who had gone, as I thought how dearly he loved these 
things, and how much his life was interwoven with them, 
And here they are being mauled and wantonly tumbled 
about by a crowd that was far from appreciative. I saw J 
one man tugging at the delicate tip of a superb fly-rod I 
in frantic endeavor to haul it from its recess in the case, J 
as if it were a mop stick. I interfered, extracted the tip ] 
carefully, only to find that my inquisitive friend was al- 
ready deeply interested in some hand lines a distance down 
the room. 
If people "turn in their coffins," surely the late deceased 
owner performed that sepulchral operation in his narrow 1 
quarters. He, if looking on, must have been spending a 
very bad quarter of an hour at witnessing the prelimi- 
naries of the sale, and surely must, have wept copious 
tears as the sale advanced. 
The hour of sacrifice had arrived, and the cry of the 
auctioneer went forth, "What am I offered? Who will 
slart it? Now, gentlemen, these things must be sold; ' 
make your bids." 
There is no use of going into details. I never before so 
wished that I was in the sportsman's goods line of trade. 
But I was not 'in the business, and I had ceased collecting I 
rods and guns, for were not my own possessions in this 
line suffering from infrequent use and continuous storing 
in the attic? 
There was his gun. It had been made on order, two 
sets of barrels, one light and another heavy pair, re- 
spectively for field and pass shooting. Everything com- 1 
plete, case and all. It was a splendid example of the 
gunmaker's art — and save slight evidences of wear, was in 
every respect as good as new. And it went for a fifth, 
yes, a tenth of its initial cost. Then came another gun, 1 
equal to the first one sold in every respect, but with but 
a single set of barrels. And it went for a price at which 
a farmer's boy could buy a Zulu at a country hardware 
store. Then followed expensive hunting toggery, shell 
. cases, decoys, etc. Oh ! My ! Oh ! My ! 
Then came the rods — fly, bass and tarpon. 
On my shelf at home rests a fly-rod by a well-known 
New York maker, a rod that when originally sold was 
represented as being the choicest and most expensive bit 
of bamboo, glue, silk and German silver in the shop. A 
price was paid for it that brought it on a par with the 
most expensive salmon rod. That rod came to me, but 
little used, from the original purchaser. I have treasured 
it for years as a miser would gold, until the day might 
come when I could spare the time to go to Lake Edward 
and there test its mettle upon some of the 5 and 10- pound 
trout I understand are lurking there. And yet the rod 
stays upon the shelf year after year, because it is too 
good to risk on stream fishing with brush and snags, and 
even yet too good to use on bass with other rods at hand. 
And when the rods were being sold, I examined one that 
looked familiar to me. From the care with which it was 
wrapped in its case, this rod undoubtedly was the favorite 
rod of the owner. It was by the same makers who made 
my rod, and while not so finished and perfect as mine, yet a 
superb specimen of a trout rod. Some one bid o-n-e d-o-1- 
1-a-r. This was too much for me. Guns and all the rest 
had gone for a song, and I sat by complacently and did 
nothing, but when this offer of one dollar was bid, I — • 
well — I got into the game. 
It was the only thing I bid upon during the sale, and 
the fact of my bidding for that particular rod at once put 
a hidden value upon it, and it began to climb, and I per- 
sonally kept it climbing to the limit, where it was actually 
a question with me as to whether it was really safe to bid 
more under all the circumstances — and at this juncture it 
was knocked down to me. 
And I at once realized that, like the dog I had imitated, 
now that I had it I did not know what to do with it — 
other than to make it a companion piece to the other one 
at home on the shelf. 
The young man who kept close to me in the bidding I 
hunted up, and found him of the right stuff, and, explain- 
ing to him the value of the rod, he was anxious and glad 
to take it off my hands at the price bid. 
If there are trout streams in the other world, I will in 
time no doubt meet the man who once owned that rod and 
I know he will shake me by the hand, offer me a drink 
from his flask and thank me for saving the honor of 
his rod. 
Lancewood and split bamboo, one after the other, were 
knocked down, and then the accessories in the way of 
reels, fly-books, etc., a magnificent tarpon reel going for 
$2. The sale finally ended up by the disposing of a heap 
of odds and ends in the way of spoons, lines, etc., at a 
nominal figure. And when the last lot had been closed 
out it seemed as if the next thing to do was to carry the 
owner out to the hearse, the funeral sermon preached over 
his bier having been truly a sad and heartrending one. 
Think of your favorite Scott or Greener, for which you 
have paid $750, and which now rests in its case nicely 
oiled, awaiting the opening of the quail and partridge 
season, some day being knocked down for a paltry $25 1 
Look at your gun in the aforesaid case and realizing that, 
queerer things are happening daily, and see if you do not 
feel a trifle squeamish over the idea. 
As the lights were put out and we each went our own 
way, I wondered what he, who had once owned all these 
goods, and out of which he had gotten so much pleasure, 
thought of it all anyway. Charles Cristadoro. 
The Oregon Salmon in History. 
Among the piscatorial romances which have been 
handed down like the fables of the ancients, is a nice little 
yarn about the extraordinary important part played by 
Columbia River salmon in bringing Oregon Territory 
under the American flag. "Once upon a time a party of 
American patriots prevailed upon France to cede this 
territory. France, with the characteristics which have 
never entirely deserted her, was not ceding anything that 
was worth holding, and in order to determine the specific 
gravity of this particular gold brick, before it was passed 
up, an ambassador was dispatched to the Columbia River 
to examine Oregon Territory. The ambassador was one 
of those rare old sports whose estimate of great men 
placed Izaak Walton at the head of the list, and the rest 
nowhere. He had often heard that salmon fishing was 
considered famous sport, and as soon as he landed, here 
he proceeded to make a few casts. He tried in vain for 
many days without securing a rise, and then sent the fol- 
lowing report : 'Cede the d country ; the salmon will 
not rise to a fly.' " — Morning Oregonian, 
