226 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
The red squirrel has been very numerous in the State 
this winter. Hardly a pleasant day goes by all winter 
long but one or more may be seen beside the roads, espe- 
cially in the small cypress groves, eating the buds or pick- 
ing the cones in pieces, letting them fall on the sno^v 
below. J. Merton Swain. 
Augusts, Me , Maicli 10. 
[Red squirrels are known to tap sugar maples for sap 
as stated.] 
A Snow White Partfidgfe. 
"Down in Virginia, near Brandy Station, the scene of 
many big battles during the Civil War and the home of 
Representative Rixey, the other day Mr. G. C. Wood, a 
farmer, killed the only white partridge ever known in that 
section of the country," said J. K. Jackson, of Culpeper, 
Va., to a Star man at the Metropolitan this morning. "It 
was pure white from tip to tail. The bird was sent to a 
taxidermist here in Washington to be mounted, and it will 
probably be sent to the National Museum. The plumage 
of the bird is soft and silken, but in form and other points 
it is identically like the other partridges killed in the 
neighborhood." — Washington Star. 
Wildfowl and Lighthouses. 
Washington, D. C. — Editor Forest and Stream: I 
note the report of the ducks supposed to have been killed 
by the recent storm in Currituck Sound. A number of 
years ago I had the pleasure of visiting the Boston light- 
house, and the subject of ducks having been brought up. 
the keeper told me that in very stormy_ weather in the 
mornings they had often picked up quantities of ducks of 
every description which had become bewildered and had 
flown into the light. M. 
0mtie §Hg mid 0m 
— « — 
Proprietors of shooting resorts will find it profitable to advertise 
them in Forest and Stream. 
A Moose Hunt in Maine^ 
For the past two years I had been trying to find time to 
go on a moose hunt in Maine, but owing to my college 
work I was unable to leave. This fall, however, I found 
myself sufficiently "up" in my studies to take a short 
vacation. 
Leaving Boston at 7 140 P. M. October 16, I arrived at 
Greenville on the following day at eleven o'clock, and 
found my guide, Joe Morsec, waiting for me at the sta- 
tion. After dinner Joe and I sallied out to buy "grub." 
During the evening Joe packed our stuff, and early the 
next morning we^'left Greenville for Northeast Carry, 
at the head of Moosehead Lake. We arrived there just in 
time for dinner. By the middle of the afternoon Joe had 
our canoe packed and ready for the twenty mile trip down 
the West Branch. 
We had paddled nearly a mile down the river when we 
jumped a doe deer on the left hand bank. This was not 
the only proof we had that the country was teeming with 
game. That evening Joe showed me that he could do 
one thing at any rate which would tend to make our trip 
a happy one: he could cook corn cakes and flapjacks to 
perfection. 
The happiest time of the whole day, I think, is in the 
evening around the camp-fire, when the pipes are lighted 
and the laugh and story go the rounds. The "rounds" 
in this case, however, included only Joe and me, but 
nevertheless we were happy. 
We were up bright and early the next morning, and 
by sunrise Joe had our breakfast cooked. It didn't take 
us long to eat it and pack up for the start. This day will 
remain long in my memory, as it was on that forenoon 
I saw a moose for the first time. We had been paddling 
slowly and silently down stream for an hour or more, 
when Joe called my attention to a moose feeding on the 
opposite bank, near the mouth of Moosehorn stream. 
Carefully we drew nearer. I had my rifle all ready to 
shoot, when I saw, to my disappointment, that although 
the moose was a liig bull, he carried only spike horns. 
Replacing my rifle in the bow of the canoe, I took the 
paddle and we got within three feet of him before he 
started. 
By noon we had passed the Half Way House kept by 
Joe Smith, and entered into that long succession of rapids 
and falls which extended nearly to Chesuncook Lake. In 
the afternoon we crossed Suncook and had dragged the 
canoe a mile up the Cuxabexis stream. 
It was at Chesuncook that I first obtained a view of 
Mount Katahdin, rising like a giant out of a compara- 
tively flat, swampy country. In fact, nearly all of the 
land lying on the eastern side of Chesuncook Lake is 
swampy and level. This view of Katahdin was the only 
one that I got, as from that time on the mountain was 
shrouded in mist. It is worth noting that at about sun- 
set of this day we had a severe thunder storm, followed 
by cold, damp weather. 
While Joe was busy cooking our breakfast the follow- 
ing morning, I took my rifle and walked cautiously down 
stream. I had barely gotten out of sight of our tent when 
"crash" off to my left a deer started. All I saw of him 
was his flag vanishing through a thick fir clump. 
By the middle of the afternoon we reached Cuxabexis 
Lake. Crossing this beautiful sheet of water, we con- 
tinued up the dead water of the Cuxabexis, and located 
a place for our permanent camp. During the night we 
had slight flurries of snow intermingled with rain, so in- 
stead of hunting in the morning, Joe and I cut wood, 
got the tent fly up and fixed things generally. Early in 
the afternoon we started out to see the country, and if 
possible to shoot a deer for food. Referring to my diary, 
I find that we jumped six deer on this day, but owing to 
the scrubby fir growth, I did not get a shot. We found 
moose signs in plenty, but for the most part they were 
old. 
The next two days we hunted for moose untiringly, but 
without success. At the end of this time Joe proposed 
we take a five days' trip to the second dead water, which 
lay about two miles above the lumbermen's old dam, and 
possibly six miles from us. The next day was spent in 
cooking, but early the following morning we started. 
We traveled mostly by old lumber roads, which, thanks 
to the late heavy rains, were ankle deep with water and 
nuid. That night we put up at a tumbled down long 
deserted lumber camp. The greater part of the roof had 
fallen in, but up in one corner enough remained to afford 
us a partial shelter from the weather. That evening I 
found an old moose horn, and although it had been partly 
eaten by mice and squirrels, the blade measured sixteen 
inches across. 
Next morning I was fortunate enough to get a shot at 
a doe. She ran about ten yards and dropped. When we 
got to her she was dead. 
That evening two deer were around our camp. Once 
during the night I -lighted a match to look at my watch. 
At the unexpected glare both deer jumped and blew, but 
even this did not scare them for long. 
Moose signs were fresher and more plentiful up there 
at the headwaters of the Cuxabexis than at the home 
camp, but when the moose made these tracks is more than 
I know. We would come to bog holes in which the mud, 
disturbed by a passing moose, had not yet settled, but to 
see the moose we could not. 
The next night Joe decided to try calling. At three 
o'clock he awoke me and together we walked to an open 
bog two miles from the camp. The moon, which was 
on the wane, was nearly setting when we arrived at the 
bog. Selecting a good position, Joe called. I will not 
attempt to describe a moose call. To me it seemed one 
of the very wildest, loneliest, most plaintive sounds that 
I had ever heard. We called three times that morning, 
but got no response. 
During the next two days we had rainy, cold weather. 
We hunted, nevertheless, but with the same ill luck at- 
tending us. 
On the last day of our stay at the old camp, luck 
swerved a little in our favor. We had been walking care- 
fully along the middle branch of the brook when suddenly 
a deer snorted. By climbing on to a fallen tree I could 
see his body and shoulder, but not his head. Taking as 
careful aim as I could, I pulled the trigger. The deer 
started and ran. Cautiously we worked ourselves for- 
ward to where the deer had been standing, and there, a 
short distance oft' at the foot of a pine stub, he lay. He 
had a magnificent head — eight points and very regular. 
Shortly after shooting the deer we came upon beaver 
signs. Alders and small birch had been cut clean off 
at about five inches from the ground. Following down 
the brook, we at last came to the dam. This dam was 
possibly forty feet long and eighteen inches high. It was 
composed of alders placed with their branches pointing 
up stream. Smaller branches, sticks and grass had been 
floated down and lodging against the bed formed a nearly 
water-tight dam. Mud and debris had been placed on the 
stems of the alders, thus holding them down. The water 
had been raised a foot and backed up for two hundred 
yards. 
On the following day the weather became very cold. I 
decided that we had better get back as soon as possible 
to the home camp. There we found everything in good 
condition, except that the moose birds had eaten some of 
our provisions. 
The next day, having packed everything, we embarked 
once more in our canoe and started on our way back to 
Greenville. Nothing of any importance happened until 
we reached Chesuncook Lake. The wind had been 
steadily rising all day, and by the time we reached the 
lake a big sea was running. I myself wished to camp on 
the shore until the sea had somewhat subsided, but Joe 
persuaded me that we could get across in safety. I never 
want to have an experience like that again. In the mid- 
dle of the lake, where the waves were strongest, the sea 
fairly dashed over us, and if it had not been for the rub- 
ber blanket over the "camp truck" in the center of the 
canoe we should have been swamped. I bailed incessantly 
while Joe guided and paddled the canoe. We arrived 
safely, however, at the other shore, and that night we 
stopped at the Chesuncook House. 
Two days later I found myself at Northeast Carry, my 
moose hunt over. 
Looking back over my trip, although I did not get a 
moose, I do not regret having taken it. 
I came back much better in health and spirits, and I 
advise every man, whether in good health or bad, to take 
a canoe trip in Maine. Walter T. Hoover. 
Days with Quail in Southern Indiana 
Jeffersonville, Ind. — The quail season of 1902 
opened very unsatisfactorily, the weather, until the 
middle of December, being very warm and dry, to the 
great discomfort of both man and dog. The extremely 
cold, sleety January of the previous winter had worked 
havoc among the old birds and the rainy spring had 
drowned many of the young ones, so that in this section 
of the country quail were very scarce. 
I had, nevertheless, spent all my spare time during 
the summer cleaning and re-oiling my gun (a 6 potind 
28-inch No. 12) and yard breaking my two pointer 
puppies — Duke of Belmont and Jingorette — sired by 
that superb young pointer Gorham's Jing, and both 
very promising young dogs 12 months old, at the open- 
ing of the season. 
My friend Cook and myself spent the first week of 
the season at a point 35 miles up the Ohio River from 
the famous Falls, where Gen. George Rodgers Clark, 
Daniel Boone and John Floyd spent the most event- 
ful years of their lives. This first hunt was a splendid 
outing, the weather being warm and dry, the valley 
along the north bank of the Ohio being a most beau- 
tiful spot, interspersed with the long white trunks of 
the sycamore along the river bank, while back a little 
way from the river were thickets of sweet gum, su- 
mach and water maple, showing a most ingenious color 
scheme, ranging from the deep purple of the sweet 
gum to the bright crimson of the sumach, the water 
maple furnishing all the intermediate shades. But the 
birds were very scarce, the first day we were not able 
to put up a single covey, and to add to our discomfort 
my dog Jingorette developed a sure enough case of 
gun shyness at the first shot, leaving the field without 
permission and going to stay. Duke, however, took 
to both birds and gun like a "duck to water," from 
the first covey being staunch, backing and retriev- 
ing like a veteran. Coupling Jing to Duke the next 
day did no good, as she would leave the field the 
moment she was uncoupled; so she was allowed to go. 
We returned home at the end of the week with one 
dozen birds each (which I think should be the limit for 
any sportsman to kill on any one hunt, or, at least, to 
bring in with him), with a determination to remain in 
until next season, as birds were too scarce to make 
hunting interesting. 
I waited two whole weeks for Cook to propose an- 
other trip, but he failed to propose, when I began to 
"feel of him" and found he was only waiting for a show. 
It was arranged that we spend the ]a.st day of the 
season of 1902 — December 31 — along the foot of the 
Knobs, eighteen miles northwest from home. As I had 
but one available dog, Duke, and Cook none, it was 
decided to invite our friend Gilbert to make one of the 
party, as he is one of the fraternity and has a good 
dog. Of course Gilbert accepted with thanks, remark- 
ing he had promised his wife he would not go quail 
hunting this season again, but would beg off this one 
time. All arrangements were made accordingly, a trap 
ordered for five o'clock A. M., the morning of Dec. 
31 — the last day of the season of 1902. 
On Dec. 29 snow fell about 4 inches deep, and the 
thermometer went to zero, but we had agreed to go, 
and it was the last day of the season. 
Five o'clock on the appointed day found us in the 
trap, ready to start on that 18-mile drive, the ther- 
mometer 8 degrees above. Cook on the rear seat with 
the two dogs, Gilbert in front, astride a carriage heater, 
myself beside him driving. It was a fine winter morn- 
ing, the roads were well packed and were hard and 
smooth, the air crisp, the rising sun on the snow- 
drifts showing a rare assortment of sparklers. The 
route lay through one of the most picturesquely beau- 
tiful parts of southern Indiana, the long high peaks 
of the Knobs lying to our left, so that the sun shone 
on the snowcapped peaks, making a picture to delight 
the eye. 
We reached our destination at eight o'clock, had the 
team groomed and stabled for the day, and set out 
without delay, to locate our first covey. The cover 
was superb, and was familiar to each of us, the dogs 
were in prime condition and working as if they enjoyed 
it; but after a hunt until nearly noon, in the open 
fields, not raising a single bird, we ate lunch from our 
pockets, which contained nothing with a feather on it, 
after which we decided to "take to the woods." 
As soon as we had finished lunch we started across 
a small stubble into a large beech woods, noting plenty 
of beech mast, and had gone but a short distance when 
I was delighted to discover tracks, where the brown 
beauties had been feeding the evening before. Duke 
came up and crossed the trail* but did not take the scent, 
forged ahead about 100 yards and pointed in a large 
pile of brush. Cook and Gilbert were not in sight and 
did not answer my whistle, so I decided to flush the 
birds and mark them down well and find my friends 
and have some shooting. To my great disappointment 
not a bird would flush, although I beat every bush 
over well. Then going about two yards in front of 
Duke, I discovered where the covey had passed the 
night under the side of a log and had run out in the 
woods to feed in the morning, instead of rising to 
wing, as is their custom (if a quail ever has a custom). 
So I knew how it was with Duke. He had scented 
where they had roosted, the tracks up to that point 
not being live, and refused to go ahead until I con- 
vinced him his point was false. The birds were run- 
ning in the direction we were going, so I decided to 
w'ork them down with Duke, and in the meantime try 
to locate Cook and Gilbert. I had gone but a few 
paces when I heard that peculiar and pleasing "whirr" 
so well-known to the follower of the gamest of all 
birds — Bob White — and was just in time to see a beau- 
tiful covey of about twenty-five birds go sailing down 
over the hill further into the woods, and began to 
wonder who could have flushed them, when a long- 
eared, lank 'coon hound came into sight, and a moment 
later a boy of about 16, with a long single barrel 
muzzleloader. 
If you have ever followed the dog after quail you 
know how I felt at that time, if you have not, it would 
be useless for me to try to explain. 
I followed in the direction the birds had flown, com- 
ing on Cook and Gilbert a short distance to my left, 
only to find the birds had gone into a large thicket so 
tangled and overgrown with greenbrier and tangled 
shrubbery that it was impossible to get through it, and 
in passing around the thicket some five or six scattered 
birds were flushed. Cook getting two, Gilbert and I 
one each. After circling the thicket we gave up in 
disgust, returning to where we had stabled the team, 
with a firm resolve to pack up and return home, hun- 
gry, tired, out of humor with ourselves and all man- 
kind in general, and long-eared, lean 'coon hounds in 
particular. 
While we were packing up around the sheet iron drum 
stove our host remarked that he had been over to visit 
a neighbor about a mile south (we had been north) 
that day and had "skeered up" a bunch of birds along 
the creek bank about half a mile from the house, near 
a sorghum patch. It was then 2 o'clock and we had 
four birds in the bag. Cook and I both at once got 
our guns back and strapped leggings on again, ready 
to locate that covey. Gilbert (who, by the way, is 60 
years old) remarked that all the birds in Clark County 
could not tempt him to leave that sheet iron drum, 
but kindly gave his consent for us to go and allowed 
us to take his dog. We soon reached the sorghum and 
the bend in the creek and spent nearly half an hour go- 
ing carefully over every inch of the ground, but failed 
to locate a single bird, and were just about deciding to 
return to the house and pack up for good when, on 
coming around a clump of small trees of about four 
acres, we found Duke down, and as I came up behind 
him to flush I heard a shout, "Don't shoot! _ That is 
a winged bird of mine,' and Gilbert hove in sight, try- 
' ing in one breath to explain, that after we left he lost 
his nerve and followed, that he took a short cut to 
where we were, to catch us, that he ran into the covey 
