In V tl, 19M.T 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
67 
and pick up my hat," which lay at the buffalo's feet. 
This they declined; I vented my spleen and angef m 
volleys of abuse at their cowardly conduct throughout, 
and said: "If you will not do it, I will do it myself.' 
In vaiti they endieavored to restrain me by riding be- 
tween me and the buffalo. 1 Wa§ determined to accom- 
plish it, after daring them to do it, if it cost me my hie. 
I went and picked up my hat, my old acquaintance never 
offering to take the slightest notice of me. We retired 
to a village about 300 yards distance, to where my horse 
had retreated, and several hundred people were collected. 
The buffalo ttiissitlg his own and new companions, 
shortly after got Up Upon his legs, appeared to be quite 
revived, and for some time amused hifflself, to the great 
entertainment of the spectators, with galloping after sev- 
eral pariah dogs that were traversing the plain. At 
length he walked into and immersed himself, all but his 
head, in a large tank. The other sportsmen had rode up 
to the tank and were quietly sitting on their horses 
upon the banks, the buffalo not taking the least notice 
of them. Seeing the tranquil state of the animal, I 
mounted my horse, which was verj'- lame from the effects 
of the violent blow he had received, and rode up to the 
tank. Before I had time to pull up my reins the buffalo 
immediately selected my horse out and furiously rushed 
out of the water after him. I had but time to get to the 
fight about and into a smart gallop, retreating, when I 
found my old companion following close to my heels. 
He continued the pursuit for 150 yards and gave it up. 
After looking about him for a few minutes he started 
'of? across tiie plain at a furious rate. He had pro- 
ceeded about half a mile when we observed an object, 
at some distance ahead of him, crossing the plain; 
he directed his course toward it, speedily came in con- 
tact, knocked it over and proceeded on. _ The other 
sportsmen and a number of the villagers imrnediately 
went to give assistance, but it was of no avail. The 
unhappy creature proved to be a middle-aged woman. 
She was killed and dreadfully- mutilated; her arms were 
broken in several places, her ribs driven in and her head 
smashed. She was on her return home from a neigh- 
boring village. This awful spectacle strongly impressed 
'us all, but none more particularly than myself, with a 
most powerful feeling of wonder and gratitude to Provi- 
dence at the miraculous escape I had a few minutes be- 
fore experienced b}- Divine interposition, for it ap- 
peared a perfect miracle how I could have escaped. We 
now went our way home. On our arrival we found the 
little Captain snugly at home, three sheets in the wind, 
or half seas over, with a large party assembled most 
anxious to hear the fate of myself and the issue of the 
day's sport. On the following day some peasants came 
into the cantonments to inform us that the buffalo had 
traveled about two miles from the spot, had taken refuge 
in a large lake, and was found dead in the morning. 
The ''Massacre'' at the Alders. 
It was a hot, sultry afternoon, succeeding a terra of 
intense heat of long duration. The mountain streams were 
either ver,v low or entirely dry, the remaining pools looked 
green and uninviting. The long curled corn was loosen- 
ing its sun-baked coils in anticipation of an approaching 
storm. The potato vines were sun-dried and brown be- 
fore maturity ; and Lewis' '"spuds" were all new potatoes 
in their miniature development. The fields looked dust 
colored and yellow through lack of nourishment. The 
cows could only find pasture in the neighboring meadow, 
and this was equally true of the woodcock. They had 
left their accustomed haunts and followed the cows. 
In those cowpaths between the tussocks, where the ''co- 
boss" wended her way, clipping the rank growth as she 
•went, the woodcock would follow, boring for the coveted 
worm. During the hot hours of the day cow and wood- 
cock alike would seek the short growth of alders, seeming- 
ly strangely planted in an oblong path entirely alone in that 
long, narrow tussock-ridden lowland, too low to drain, too 
uneven to mow. It was only good for what it was now 
being used for, sort of auxiliary refuge for the surviving 
descendants of the ark, planned so very many years ago by 
a far-seeing, all-knowing wise Providence for just such 
emergencies. Such places are the storage reservoirs, the 
unleaking basins of time, the safeguard in the time of 
drought of thousands of well-regulated farms; they are 
the haunt of the artist, the inspiration of song. We can 
all recall the chorus at night; the early heralding of spring 
emanates thence; we have been lulled to sleep by its awk- 
ward-gaited inhabitants, and have longed to hear its croak- 
ings and chattering again. We have been "in swimming" 
in the "Old Run." and killed the water snake on the drift- 
wood. That tender age has, however, multiplied itself by 
two, three, and yes, four for some, imtil now, only in 
fancy can we dream those innocent dreams. 
Again, in the full maturity of age, and as graduates in 
the knowledge of local woodcraft, we entered once more, 
the old meadow, followed by Jennie, her tongue hanging' 
low and dry from the side of her mouth. The heat w^as 
oppressive, but in the distance could be heard the roll of 
thunder proclaiming relief to all. We struggled and 
stumbled from tussock to tussock, and were drenched in 
perspiration until the "greenhead" flies slipped. We came 
to the alders; there I took up my position in imitation of 
"the Colossus of Rhodes" overlooking and covering (with 
my gun range) that little lonesome swarnp, while John 
N. mounted in excellent imitation to the left of opposite 
me. I pointed to the brush and commanded Jennie to 
enter, which she did with glad alacrity, and disappeared 
entirely. All that could be heard was the patter of her 
feet in that oozy bottom, and the noise of the coming 
storm. All that could be seen was the moving alder tops 
as she forced her way beneath them. The pattering 
ceases; the Wshes are motionless— a point, unseen, but 
still very still, a point. I call, "Go on, Jenn, go on." She 
moves, the branches part to fluttering wings, and reveal a 
woo<lcock at twenty-yard rise. A kill. I call, "Fetch, 
Jenn: dead bird." and soon the bushes at my feet are 
parted and my little mottled beauty appears, black with 
mud, but w^ith tlie coveted prize. She returns to the cover. 
Again the pattering feet stop, and although she is hidden 
from view, I know she is on three feet, her lip drawn in 
and held by her teeth lest its escape be heard, and her 
brave heart's action suppressed nearly to bursting. Again 
she is urged on by a kindly word, which thos? ears know 
so well ; and another woodcock comes into view, is killed 
and retrieved. The first act is repeated, the second re- 
hearsed, and repeated again, and the third opened to the 
tune of the first with the characters of the second. Busi- 
ness is good, and we go on playing at the old stand. But 
darkness comes on, flashes of lightning gild the alder 
leaves with gold, the territory has been covered, crossed 
and covered again, and not a living woodcock remains. 
The "massacre at the alders" is complete; and the crash- 
ing thunder renders a weird applause. As w-e enter the 
farmyard gate the storm bursts in all of its pent-up fury 
and the drought is broken. Thomas Elmek. 
California Duck Notes. 
Los Angeles, Ca\.— Editor Foi'est and Stream: 
It is with a feeling of satisfaction that one lays down 
Grinnell's "American Duck Shooting," after reading its 
interesting and instructive pages. The volume is well got- 
ten up, and its completeness makes it a most desirable book 
for the sportsman's library. The reproductions of Audu- 
bon's plates of the canvasback, redhead, black duck and 
shoveller add materially to the work. 
In the article on the shoveller (called on this coast 
the spoonbill) it is said that "the note of the shoveller is 
a weak quack, somewhat like that of the greenwing teal." 
This has not been my experience. Often I have seen a 
single spoonbill swing over the decoys and drop into the 
water a hundred yards or so horn the stool, and then 
while swimming slowly about call at frequent intervals— a 
loud, harsh qua-a-ak, fully as loud as that of the mallard, 
and more discordant. When come upon suddenly and 
flushed, the ' spoonbill quacks loudly and vociferously, 
much as the mallard does. 
In the chapter on the widgeon, there is a quotation from 
Elliot's "Wild Fowl of North America," where one reads: 
"The widgeon is one of the wariest of our ducks, sus- 
picious of everything, and not only is unwilling to ap- 
proach any spot or object of which it is afraid, but by 
keeping up a constant whistling alarms all the other ducks 
in the vicinitv and consequently renders itself very dis- 
agreeable, and at times a considerable nuisance to sports- 
men." On the Pacific coast, and particularly along the 
coast of Southern California, the widgeon are very plenti- 
ful during the winter months, and, with the greenwing 
teal, fortn the mainstay of the shooting. With us the 
above description does not fit the widgeon at all, for here 
it is one of the least suspicious of ducks, coming readily 
either to decoys or whistle, and frequently by its boldness 
leading in other ducks that wotild not otherwise come in. 
The widgeon is one of the easiest ducks to kill, owing to 
the fact that thev do come in so well to decoys. 
The wariest birds we have are the mallard and pintail 
(called here the sprig), except during the early fall, when 
shooting is had on young pintail and mallard, which then 
decoy readily. Later in the season, however, it is only 
after repeated circling that sprigs will drop to decoys, and 
then only if the flock be small, for large bands are very 
suspicious and wary, and will rarely come to decoys. 
A method of calling canvasback within range that is 
emploved bv some of the market-hunters in California is 
by thumping with one's boot heel on the bottom of a 
wooden skiff or platform, which -will give forth a dull, 
hollow sound. This was told to me by an old market- 
hunter, a man who has bagged thousands of canvasbacks, 
and I afterward tried it with success. This method rare- 
ly fails to call in a single bird or small band, and once last 
season I called in a "flock of fifty or more birds, which 
otherwise would not have come in at all, by thumping on 
the platform on which I was standing. 
At the commencement of last season, in October, the 
fulvous-bellied tree ducks were seen in large numbers, and 
many Avere killed on some of the grounds. The birds are 
slow, labored fliers, when compared to other ducks, and 
are lacking in watchfulness, and their flesh is exceedingly 
nnor ROBERT ErSKINE RoSS. 
Memories of Northeastern Wisconsin 
If you will leave the railroad where the large jagged 
rocks line the road bed, climb the cut bank on the west 
and follow your compass westward about two miles, you 
will come to two small lakes, which in their relation 
to each other, resemble a pair of nose glasses. You will 
not only come to the lakes, but you will stand on the 
nose of the giant that wears the glasses. To your right 
and left glitters the glassy surface of the lakes, bordered 
with native forest. The ridge on which you stand, taper- 
ing for all the world like a gigantic nose, leaves the 
timber line near the middle, ending in shrubbery and 
finally a sand bar that connects with the shore Hne on 
tlie west. 
I stood on this nose of an imaginary old man of the 
forest. The sand bar was cut up with deer tracks, while 
the stillness of death was relieved by the soughing of 
the topmost branches of the pines, and the more cheer- 
ful sounds from chattering pine squirrels and occasional 
drumming of the great northern woodpecker. There is 
beauty in nature no artist nor poet can paint. The 
sportsman, who in the depths of the forest is alone but 
not lonely: who feels that he is just where he would wish 
to be, with no occasion to hurry nor worry; can enjoy 
the fullness of nature's blessings. Thus, I reasoned; 
then picking my way eastward, I stopped near a hem- 
lock whose youthful companions were sheltering its de- 
caj'ing roots, and speculated on its probable age. I had 
not speculated long, however, before I lost all interest 
in the dead tree, except as a means of concealment, for 
down through a hollow came a buck, his nose sniffing 
the breeze, and then again pointing to earth in order to 
catch up the scent of the doe he was trailing. 
He stopped to hsten and look. An enemy might be 
lurking near. Possibly he scented danger. His instinct 
taught him to be ever watchful and apprehensive, but his 
amorous nature mastered his caution and spurred him 
on. Unfortunate love affair! 
There was Ithunder and lightning on the hilltop and 
a sting in his shoulder. He lost his interest in the 
trail as suddenly as I had lost interest in the dead tree, 
and, turning to the right, bounded off through the dense 
forest. We had. each in turn, done foolishly. He in 
nmning into danger and I in reckless shooting. He 
wag hard hit, as th? bl<?9d t^-ail evidenced^ but rpanaged 
to keep going for a mile and a half before lying down. 
I trailed carefully and slowly, and when he jumped took 
a snap shot and then followed the fresh trail to within 
an eighth of a mile of the railroad, where I lost it in 
the fast disappearing snow and innumerable tracks, blood 
having ceased to flow soon after the shot. Since the 
trail had led me near the railroad and_ directly toward 
a deer crossing. I went straight out to it and was much 
surprised to see our neighboring camp of hunters from 
IMilwaukee loading a deer on a hand-car preparatory to 
going to camp. They invited me to ride, and while 
standing over the deer. I had time and opportunity to 
notice the similarity between the deer shot by Mr. 
Brown and the one I had shot at, and not only the 
similarity of the two bucks in size, color, antlers and 
other characteristics, but I noticed also that the bullet 
wound was in the left shoulder, and, to be frank, had 
these men told me that he was my buck, tEat he had 
run to the railroad and dropped dead, I would not have 
disputed the statement. 
But it was a day of sport, and as I look back at this 
picture of the old man of the forest with his nose glasses 
and watery eyes, I wish I was there to count the deer 
tracks on his pointy, sandy old nose. 
G. W. Cunningham. 
CHICAGO AND THE WEST. 
The Minnesota National Park. 
Chic.'^go, 111., July 13.— So we are, after all, to have 
a national park in the Middle West. The patient efforts 
of the unselfish advocates of this enterprise are to, re- 
ceive at least some reward, and we are to have left to 
us, at least, a part of that beautiful pine forest which was 
once the glory of the upper West, but which, of late, 
has come to be a glory paling and diminishing. 
We are all glad we are to have a park in Minnesota. 
It will be useful to all of us, a delight to those who will 
follow us. We do not realize how big a thing has been 
done here. Even the men most interested do not know. 
No one has ever been able to dream big enough for 
America. No crazy real estate dreamer has ever dreamed 
half big enough as to the swift march of American civi- 
lization, the swift passing away of American wild life, 
wild things, wild country. It is a tremendously sig- 
nificant thing that Congress has passed an irrigation 
act, whose purpose is to reclaim for the clamoring set- 
tler, at great expense, lands which ten years ago were 
scoffed at. The country is overrun. There is no West. 
Then it is a tremendous thing that Congress has at 
the same time given us a little oasis to keep forever; that 
Congress has said. Here, in the midst of change, is a 
part of the West which should not be changed, which 
remains forever as a sign of the West that was. 
It must be a proud day for Col. John S. Cooper, of Chi- 
cago. This park ought to have been called the Cooper For- 
est Park. The name Minnesota does not belong on it, for 
the whole State of Minnesota is part recreant, in part 
traitor, in part inefficient, in part lukewarm, and 
only in part loval and earnest, allowed itself to be over- 
shadowed in ail essential and desirable qualities by the 
energv and staving qualities of one man. There were 
cheap' hangers-on in this work, a lot of men who were 
out for what notoriety they could get, but they did 
nothing in the way of actual aid. The pluck and the 
brains and the needed funds came from one man, he did 
Httle asking of an.vone else. If he had wanted anything — 
and it is impossible to make the hangers-on believe that 
he did not want anythmg— if he had sought for any 
political capital, as plenty of the hangers-on did, then 
I would be the last man to add a word of praise, for 
practical politics is something I detest. It would not 
do for me personally to add any word of praise at all 
were it not fit that the public should know the facts 
from one who has exceptional opportunities for know- 
ing Col. Cooper's real attitude throughout the long fight. 
It wasn't a land deal — there was no steal and no graft 
to it. It wasn't done because Col. Cooper wants to go 
Congress. He doesn't have to go to Congress to make 
a living. He didn't want anything. He was unselfish. 
He wanted this park and nothing else. He wanted it 
primarily because he had a sportsman's soul and_ sports- 
man's imagination. It is hard to believe this, isn't it? 
But it is true. 
The Closing Scenes of the Fight. 
It was a fight to get this park— a fight, not all of whose 
details in print would redound to the credit of certain 
of our public men. Of the latter, a few big men, such 
as Theodore Roosevelt, stood to their guns on principle, 
knowing what was right. For the others, the politicians, 
the lumbermen who produce funds for the politicians, 
the hangers-on who cut up the game and serve as 
stool pigeons for lumbermen and politicians, it makes 
little difference, anyhow. The first stages of the fight 
have been faithfully reported in these columns. The last 
scenes ran somewhat as follows: 
After the failure of the friends of the Minnesota Park 
in getting any recognition from the Speaker of the 
House of Representatives at Washington, so that the 
matter of the Joint Commission might be brought on 
for decision, and after Governor Roosevelt, of New 
York, had gone to Washington to see the speaker, and 
then had written him, all to no purpose, and the friends 
of the park movement had rather become discouraged 
and lost heart and hope. Congressman Tawney and Col. 
Cooper began to work on the lines of getting such of 
their adversaries as were fair men, especially those at 
Cass Lake and Duluth, to make some kind of a compro- 
mise by which they might introduce in the treatment of 
the forests in the four Indian Reservations around the 
headwaters of the Mississippi, in Northern Minnesota, 
the elements of forestry, as applied for generations in 
Europe, and in this country to some extent, through 
the influence and services of the Hon. Gifford Pinchot, 
Forester of the Department of Agriculture, Dr. Schenck 
and other foresters. 
Last fall Col. Cooper went with some friends to Casa 
Lake and met the most effective opponents of the park 
there, viz.. the Hartley brothers and Mr. Bernard. Mr. 
Tawney. Mr, Pinchot and Col. Cooper kept in co«imuni- 
cation 00 that line, and finally in January the latter 
