a4 
FOHKST AND STREAM. 
The Senses of Deer and Antelope. 
Scotch Lake, Canada, July 21. — Editor Forest and 
Stream: In July 18 issue of Forest and Stream, J .P. B. 
has an article on the deer's scent, and mentions Mr. Car- 
•aey's experience with antelope. 
Now, I believe that although they seem to differ on 
certain animals' power of scent, that yet they are both 
right, and that the conditions make the difference. 
On open ground, such as antelope use, the air moves 
freely and without obstruction, and it would be useless to 
try to approach them down wind, as the wind would be 
. moving much faster than the hunter possibly could, and 
the scent would be carried far ahead and the game 
alarmed, while yet the hunter would be far away. 
These conditions apply to moose and deer when you 
hunt on lakes or open water of any kind; hut in the deep 
heavily timbered country where much of the moose and 
deer hunting is done, the conditions are entirely different. 
In hunting on such ground yon may travel with the wind 
on your back if you keep moving at a good sharp walk 
and don't stop any, you will be ahead of your scent, as 
the wind moves very slow in the w^oods. But when you 
think j'^ou are getting close to game, it is all important to 
keep moving ahead or the scent will pass you and reach 
the game before j'ou get a shot, in which case your 
chances are small indeed. 
Then agaiii. there are conditions when the scent will 
spread a considerable distance against the wind, as anj^one 
would see Avho has watched game feeding when the wind 
was light, and the air damp, so the scent would hang low. 
Under such conditions a moose will scent a man easily a 
hundred yards distant, and T have known them to get the 
scent at 250 yards, and a light air from the moose to the 
man, but it would take several minutes iot the scent to 
spread. 
Then again, game will act different in different places. 
Deer that live in the settlements don't care as much for 
the scent as deer that live in the woods away from any 
scent of men. Deer that live away back in the deep woods 
are much more afraid of the scent than deer that see and 
smell men nearly every day. 
The conditions in hunting amount to about this: If 
you are hunting on open ground where the wind has a 
clear sweep, by all means be careful to hunt up wind ; but 
if you are hunting in heavY timber it makes very little 
difference, if you keep moving at a good smart gait. I 
have learned this by my own practical experience, and 
have proved it many times. 
There is a great difference in the weather conditions 
about scent spreading, as any man with a keen nose can 
tell for himself. Some days a man can smell a camp-fire 
easily half a mile down wind and quite a distance up 
wind; while with different conditions he could not smell 
it more than a few yards; and just so with the game. 
Some days they will get your scent before you can get 
near them, other days they can't seem to smell you at all. 
Adam Moore. 
Where Wete the Watblefs* 
Theresa, N. Y., July 17, — Editor Forest and Stream: 
I was bird observing many times during the month of 
May, and was surprised at the scarcity of the usual migra- 
tion of the warblers. On the fourth and eleventh of the 
month I visited Delaware avenue park in Buffalo and saw 
only three species, the yellow, myrtle, and black-throated 
blue each day. The yellow warbler is a simimer resident 
and the other two species are usually early migrants, while 
the bulk of the other twenty to twenty-five species gener- 
ally pass through western New York between the loth 
and 20th of May. 
On the 15th I was out near Lockport (where in former 
years on the 17th and i8th I usually saw at least a dozen 
species), and did not see a warbler; it was an ideal after- 
noon for observing birds, and I was so surprised that I 
went again the next morning and with the same success. 
Up to the 25th of the month I visited the woods six times 
without seeing a warbler. 
In the meantime I spent a day in Buffalo, and was re- 
lating my experience to a young friend who is also a close 
observer of birds, and I was not much surprised to learn 
that his experience was the same as mine, as out of 32 
species that he had seen at Fort Erie in past years, he 
had seen only the two species myrtle and black-throated. 
Other parties in Buffalo reported the same to me. We 
had very cold dry weather all through May and into 
June, but I can hardly think that it could affect the 
migration of the warblers to such an extent. 
I would like to learn the experiences of observers in 
other sections. J. L. Davison. 
Swallows and Swift?. 
Pittsburg, Pa. — Editor Forest and Stream: On folio 
44 Forest and Stream of July 18, Bristol Hill, in his 
"Birds on the River," asks : "I begin to doubt whether I 
know the regular dwelling place of either kind [swifts 
and swallows]. Where do these species live now? It is 
years since I have seen their mud houses sticking like 
parasites to man's larger buildings, Why did they lose 
such a characteristic habit of life?" I have observed the 
same here around Pitt^urg and Allegheny. Some fifteen 
yars ago hundreds of them could be seen skimming the 
surface of the Allegheny, Monongahela and Ohio rivers 
in search of insects the livelong day; and many a delight- 
ful hour have I passed observing the beautiful gyrations 
high up in the sky of the swifts, especially before a storm. 
They are all gone now, and all lovers of bird life miss 
them. 
E. Hough in the same number, page 45, says of the 
common barn swallows: "One or two pairs put in their 
appearance each year and build a nest that is promptly 
taken by the sparrows." That may be, and I believe is, 
the explanation. One more sin to put before the door of 
the English sparrow; they have driven other native birds 
from our parks and woods, why not the swallows? 
Julian the Fox Hunter. 
idttje §Hg md 0m. 
Fropri^on of •hootinir r«iortB will find it profitable to advertiw 
them in FoaUT avb Stbsax. 
.flit 
All communications intended for Forest and Stream should 
always be addressed to the Forest and Stream Publishing Co., 
Jlew york, and not to any individual connected with the paper. 
Days with the Upland Plover. 
While lolling in one of the big rustic rockers out on 
my lawn last Sunday night, I caught for the first time 
this season, the first tinkling cry of the upland plover 
floating down from high in the midnight sky like a ripple 
of liquid music. 
Of all the notes of our many game birds,none affects me 
so joyously as that of this deliciously little sandpiper. 
Not ui the startled quack of the mallard, the autumn call 
of Bob White, the strident skeape of the jacksnipe, or 
even the resounding auh unk of the wild goose, is there 
such magic, such resistless power as in the tinkling trip- 
let of the upland plover. It is marvelous how a sound 
so light can be so far reaching or a tone so ineffably 
sweet traverse the air for such an incredible distance 
and at the same time lose none of its mystic charm. I 
honestly believe that the rippling alarum of this queer lit- 
tle habitue of our big hay fields, as he leaves the close- 
cropped verdure and bounds into space can be heard on 
a favorable day, for a stretch of a mile or more. All 
surroundings lose their entrancement for me when I 
first detect that tiny film of gray trailing over the mid- 
summer sky and catch those pearls of sound that only 
one little speckled throat can drop. 
But so it is with most sportsmen. Next to the quail 
and the little russet-colored jack, the upland plover 
comes first in their affections, and, in fact, during his 
open season, he ranks way above any feathered game. 
He comes here to our broad hay and newly plowed 
fields from his breeding grounds just a few miles — say 
a hundred or so — to the north at a time in the year when 
all his congeiiers, save the almost ever present turtle dove 
are reveling in the more salubrious climes of the farther 
north, and furnishes a sport that few lovers of the ham- 
merless care to deny themselves. And now that the 
alarum has been sounded in the nocturnal skies, the pic- 
turesque habiliments of the field will be hauled forth, and 
ardent forays made upon the big pasture, hay and plowed 
fields, which stretched away in oceanic indulations for 
countless miles in every direction west of this favored 
city. 
The arrival of this little mottled beauty is always the 
signal for a renewal of activity among the gunners. From 
the dawning of July they are on the lookout. They know 
his punctuality of character and that he will be here on 
time, and regularly in the evening the strained hearing is 
turned heavenward for that plaintive sound, that apprises 
them that the plover are moving and that it is time to go 
afield. And when the old sportsman does catch its first 
note what a thrill it sends through, for as I asserted be- 
fore, there is nothing so sweet to the hunter's ears as 
the whistle of the upland plover in the evenings of mid- 
July. 
The plover's call is a melting, trickling lilt of melody, a 
subtle music difficult to imitate but always of sufficient 
force to halt a sportsman when he hears it for the first 
time falling through the air. And then when he crawls 
through the barb wire fence and plants his hobnailed 
foot on the short grass of the wide pasture, he is the 
gladdest man on earth. 
"Tur-wheetle ! tur-wheetle! tur-wheetle !" Those are 
the dulcet notes, as nearly as I can reproduce them ortho- 
graphically, that vibrates the dancing air when the flight 
is on till the tinge of carmine in the western skies deep- 
ens into the thickening veil of midnight. 
The upland plover are strictly nocturnal in their migrat- 
ing habits, and do all their traveling and exercising after 
the riant but blistering Phoebus has immersed himself 
behind the western horizon, and but seldom sound their 
sweet carrillon save when upon the wing. They will, 
however, on the approach of danger, emit a single, sharp, 
warning cry and ply their light, slender, greenish legs 
with remarkable velocity as they run through the strag- 
gling rag weeds and seared sun-flowers and away. When 
wing broken and running from the ruthless gunner, they 
are apt to betray their whereabouts at every fresh start 
by whistling once or twice, and at such times there is a 
touching melancholy in the birds' notes. 
When I first came to Nebraska upland plover were so 
plentiful all over the big grazing lands of the State and 
so easily approached and shot down that there was but 
little incentive to hunt them. But there have been many 
sad changes in game life during the past decade, and 
while the uplands are never more encountered in such 
numbers as they were in the early days, they are by no 
means scarce. They are much wilder and more wary, 
however, and it requires the refinement on the part of 
the spoi-tsman, unless he hunts in a wagon or on horse- 
back, to get within only long range shot of them. This, 
however, but enhances the keen enjoyment of their pur- 
suit. In the days of their plentifulness they were but in- 
differently rated for their table qualifications, but now, 
like the terrapin of the East, when they are not to be had 
for the asking, they are much sought after by our epi- 
cures_ and high-livers. I remember in my reportorial 
days in Washington when a dollar greenback would buy a 
cartload of terrapin, but to-day in any of the gay capital's 
swell cafes a single plate would cost five or six times the 
sum. A dozen years ago upland plover would not bring 
50 cents a dozen in the Omaha market, but now, if they 
could be purchased at all, they would readily bring from 
$3 to $4. 
Many, rnany rare days have I enjoyed out here with 
this beautiful little courser of the skies, and Wednes- 
day last was not the least of them all, aye an oasis in 
the monotony of the waning days of a sportsman on the 
down grade. I heard the tinkling of passing birds the 
Sunday night previous, and on Monday and Tuesday 
evenings these plaintive messages from the realms above, 
dropped with the most thrilling frequency, and you can 
imagine what that meant. I had some trouble, strange 
as it may seem, rounding up a comrade for the case, but 
finally found the Barrister, an old and beloved com- 
panion of forest, field and stream, and an hour later, be- 
hind old "Molly," we were bowling along the quiet coun- 
try road through God's own country beyond Benson. The 
day was a lovely one despite the sun's fierce rays, for 
a refreshing breeze came singing up from the northwest, 
and great masses of billowy clouds kept the earth about 
half the time immersed in soothing shadow, and Bill and 
I would have had a glorious time had we not bagged a 
feather. 
As we rolled along I could not help living over the en- 
chantment of all the past years on that very same errand. 
Year after year, when the bluegloss had spread its deli- 
cate azure across the pastures and the pink of the wild 
rose blended with the yellow of the moccasin and the 
sunflower, and the fluffy topaz of the golden rod and 
sensitive plant, when the air was redolent with the multi- 
various odors of the summer time, the newly cut wheat 
and oats, the tasseling corn, the heavy fragrance of the 
sweet clover, the blossoming thistle and speckled disc of 
the wild poppy; when the mutterings of the thunder 
came _from the storm that had circled us on the north, 
and silvery-tipped clouds thrust their gilstening peaks, 
like fagged crags, above the horizon — when a softer quiet 
lingered over our great pasture lands, and a milder radi- 
ance played along the distant sandhills— those were the 
days that I put in with the uplands, year after year, un- 
til it would seem that I should have had a surfeit. 
Well, instead I lived them all over again on Wednes- 
day last, and while the Barrister and I did not compass 
such a plethoric bag as marked some of our past experi- 
ences, we did kill seventeen uplands and that was enough 
to make us both contented and happy. The aim of the 
sportsman to-day is not to outstrip the kills of ancient 
times. With the increasing scarcity of game he has 
grown to rest satisfied with the benefits of such an out- 
ing, to glory in the beauties of nature as they are re- 
vealed to him. He is ennobled and bettered hy the in- 
spiration he finds in the woods and fields and by the 
lakes and streams, and profits by the tidings brought to 
him by the winds through the cottonwoods, the songs 
sung by the gurgling Platte, the roaring Niobrara, in- 
toned by the mighty voice . of all outdoors. 
It was 10 o'clock when we reached the big rolling pas- 
ture field on Farmer Piatt's beautiful ranch. We had 
neither seen or heard the sign of a plover along the 
whole way out, but I knew if they were anywhere they 
would be here, for not once in the past ten or twelve 
years had I been disappointed on finding them there on 
my first visit. We had hardly hitched old Molly and 
passed through the big gate when we were startled by 
that thrilling tur-wheetle! tur-wheetle! and a single bird 
flushed from the dusty cattle path and sailed away against 
the background sky like a thread of cobweb. 
"Look out. Bill," I admonished, "there is apt to be an- 
other near here—they seldom remain long alone." 
We were both, of course, keenly alive to the situation. 
We knew the birds were there, and we were both am- 
bitious to make the first kill of the season. 
Carefully we strolled along where the folded white 
and purple globes of the wild morning glory twined over 
the deep gold of the cinquefoil, and where the iron weed's 
tall lavender stems, laden with dust, stood like slim sen- 
tinels in the quivering air. 
Suddenly, just as we were about giving up hope of 
flushing another bird, we were electrified by a very chorus 
of shrill tur-wheetles to our left, on Bill's side, from 
out the hot shade of a veritable copse of ragweeds. Sime- 
ral was the first to shoot; in fact, T had no opportunity, 
and I was a little bit nettled to see him neatly cut down 
the first bird. I hadn't long to nurse my envy, however, 
for a bird had circled in the air, and turning, was com- 
ing back quarteringly on my side. He was on the down 
wind and I shot behind him with my first barrel, but 
caught him hard enough with the second to push him up 
several yards higher in the air. He soon began to sag, 
and the next moment I was overjoyed to see him start 
slantingly for the dusty sward with greater momentum 
than ever, bobbing badly from side to side, until, sud- 
denly, with a _ faint thud his blood-stained and mottled 
body struck with a bound the short-browsed grass along 
the cattle path. It proved to be a fine young cock in a 
brilliant new coat, and I was extremely proud of my first 
kill. 
It Avas too hot for the birds to remain long in the air 
and by the time I had rejoined the Barrister, there 
wasn't a feather to be seen, or a sound, save the never 
ceasing drone of the cicadse to be heard. 
"What became of them?" I inquired. 
"They are way oft" there over that plowed fietd— I 
watched several of them and saw them go down there. 
Let us work down to the end of this and then so over 
there." 
This we did without jumping another bird, and then 
we went off and explored the upturned field over which 
Bill had last marked the disappearing bits of gray, but 
without success. We were now thirsty and panting with 
the heat like a couple of hard-pushed pointers, but our 
ardor had by no means cooled, and we slowly returned 
to the Piatt pasture. We had almost reached the big 
lower gate when that well-known triplet of liquid music, 
which must have fallen from incalculable heights, struck 
our hearing, and at the same instant we saw a wisp of 
gray and white flitting over some low sunflowers down 
the fence not an hundred yards away. This was not the 
bird whose cry we had heard, however, he M'as up in the 
zenith somewhere. 
In his impatience Sinieral up and blazed away, but, of 
course, produced no effect at such a distance, other than 
to frighten three other birds out of the ragweeds near by. 
With a chorus of frantic cries they took wing, and we 
both got down a bird, mine a hard, swift overhead shot, 
and Bill's a straightaway. The third bird went up into 
space at a rapid rate, crying out in fright as he climbed, 
but making no headway at leaving the vicinity. We 
watched him eagerly as he circled round and round above 
us, and was about to give him up and move on when sud- 
denly he gave a sidewise pitch in space and came tumbling 
toward the earth at a rapid rate, righting himself as he 
got nearer, and finally alighting dudishly not a hundred 
paces from where we stood. Billy got it between him and 
the scanty line of sunflowers, and made a sneak that 
would have done credit to an Apache Indian, killing the 
plover as he stood, high and alert on his gray-pillard feet, 
in the very tracks where he had alighted. 
We were still animadverting humorously on this bit of 
luck, when an old cock, silent as a thistle down, came 
