306 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. 8, 1904. 
scarce. All are on the increase. Duck hunting may be good 
this fall. 
Shelby — Prairie chickens and quail are quite plentiful, but 
squirrels are getting scarce. 
Stark— Quail and squirrels are plentiful and increasing; chickens 
are getting scarce. 
St. Clair— Quail, squirrels and rabbits are plentiful, but 
chickens are scarce. A few turkeys. 
Stephenson— Quail, squirrels and rabbits are plentiful, but 
chickens are scarce. All but chickens increasing. 
Union— Quail and squirrels are fairly plentiful, and a few tur- 
keys. All on the increase. 
Warren— Quail and squirrel are plentiful; chickens fairly so. 
Conditions increasing. 
Washington— Quail and squirrels plentiful; chickens and tur- 
keys scarce; all on the increase. 
White— Squirrels and quail plentiful. 
Whiteside— Prairie chickens and quail are plentiful; ducks 
scarce; all on the increase. 
Wayne— Prairie chickens are getting plentiful, and quail and 
squirrels are quite plentiful. 
Williamson— Quail and squirrel are plentiful and on the in- 
crease. 
Winnebago— Snipe and squirrels are plentiful; chickens and quail 
fairly so; all on the increase. 
Woodford— Prospects for chickens and quail are good in this 
county. 
Guns and Gun Feats. 
Hot Springs, Ark.— I have been more interested in this 
controversy than any tha* has yet come to my notice. 
I am sorry to see good and clever men disagree. 
Not that there can be any objection to any man's having 
a polite opinion opposite that of another equally polite 
man; but for a man to say he is sure a thing can not 
be done, after some other has declared that he has seen 
it done, or has done it himself — well, now, that is a little 
unkind, is it not? I had intended to keep out of this dis- 
cussion, but Josep Kingsland, on page 223, has given me 
a hint that will, I believe, enable us to begin to untangle 
the whole array of seeming contradictions; at least re- 
garding the squirrel barking ; while as for the candle- 
snuffing, a feat I 'Had myself feared to be impossible, a 
man has just left. my. desk who declares that he has done 
it repeatedly, as did also his elder brother, and with an 
old-fashioned Colt's revolver, too ! It is a small caliber 
powder-and-ball weapon, still in his possession. I have 
seen it several times. 
This man is modest, honest and truthful, respected, 
and believed by everybody, and his age- is somewhere 
about 70. 
I have such confidence in him that I will give his name 
— Thos. Tyrrell — and add that his address is; as mine, 
Hot Springs, Ark. His brother's address is Nick Tyrrell, 
Pelican Rapids, Minn. 
They did their shooting in an old log house, in Iowa, 
twenty years ago; but I know Thomas to be a keen shot, 
and believe he could still snuff the candle without extin- 
guishing the light — occasionally, under favorable 
conditions. 
They shot at their candle at a very short distance, 'tis 
true — only about 18 feet, but the fact that it could be 
done at that distance with such a weapon ought to go a 
long way toward silencing too hasty condemnation of 
Audubon's account; for the long rifles in that case, well 
kept as the apple of the eye, treasures more valued than 
all else in their possession, and the men who shot them 
being as inseparable from them as the men's own shirts, 
ought to have given conditions for ideal performances. 
What if the sights were inferior to the best now in use? 
The- fact is that constant, earnest practice with no sights 
at all, might result in better shooting than busy, rushing 
modern men could hope to show with the best of sights. 
There are young men here who can throw rocks and 
strike small objects 100 feet distant that many a city 
visitor could not hit with the best rifle — and what 
"sights" are used, in throwing? 
Mr. Tyrrell admits that the light went out whenever 
they struck it too low, but firmly declares that when the 
charred point was struck, the wick was trimmed without 
injuring the flame. And I now believe the trick can be 
done again,_ although I have not yet tried it myself. But 
I don't claim to be a great shot, though I have (acci- 
dentally, of course), done some very respectable shooting. 
The greatest difficulty in the way of my belief in the 
candle-snuffing, was the supposition that the bullet would 
be followed by a whirlwind of air violent enough to put 
out any small flame; but it seems that the air disturbance 
goes past almost as quickly as the ball, merely causing 
the flame to divide an instant, then suddenly unite again 
in the dead calm that immediately succeeds. It's no use" 
to say it can't be done, for thousands of things even 
more improbable (theoretically) are done every day. In 
these times when scientific marvels are so common as to 
seem almost monotonous, I'd rather appear too credu- 
lous, even of long past exploits, than skeptical enough 
to try to hinder progress. 
Now about the squirrel barking. It seems that the 
unbelievers are inclined to treat the subject with levity — 
which is the same as to say they are not in the proper 
mood to receive evidence that might convert them. But 
they, too, have been mercilessly ridiculed. I need refer 
only to the treatment received by Allen Kelley on account 
of the difficulty he encountered in killing a certain squir- 
rel. Now, gentlemen, be funny, if you like, but. at the 
same time try to be fair. Every person of experience 
surely knows that a squirrel is sometimes amazingly hard 
to kill (I'm going to give justice to Captain Kelley if I 
am "agin him"), especially if only slightly injured at first 
shot. Why a wounded animal should average harder to 
kill than an un-wounded one, I know not. I only know 
that such is the case. Probably the first hurt arouses 
some latent force in the vital principle which, angered or 
alarmed, opposes at once vastly multiplied sustaining 
powers. I could name numerous instances of wounded 
hogs, cattle, etc., that seemed well-nigh impossible to 
kill. When I first began hunting squirrels I thought cats 
weren't "in it" at all in the matter of lives. Two separate 
red squirrels I shot eleven times each before bringing 
them down. I'm not ashamed to' tell it, because I had 
to do fairly respectable shooting to hit them at all, the 
timber along the Little Wabash being very tall, and the 
tough old veterans- knowing how to keep themselves con- 
cealed so well that I was compelled to shoot, if at all, at 
the mere tip of a tail, or a line of hair on the back, or 
take chances through a small limb, or fire into a bunch of 
leaves by guess. T never liked to let a wounded animal 
escape to die a lingering death, so I kept popping away 
at them after seeing blood. To describe the condition of 
one (after it came down) is to nearly describe both : one 
shoulder broken, one wrist ditto, one ham shattered, one 
hindleg smashed at the lower joint, a hole through one 
ear, or rather a semi-circular notch in the tip of it; one 
jaw smashed, a bruised, if not broken, backbone; one side 
pierced, the bowels torn out, and other lesser wounds. 
All this mischief was wrought by large buckshot from a 
long, heavy muzzleloader, octagon barrel, full stock, per- 
cussion cap, set trigger rifle. I had other harrowing ad- 
ventures with the little rodents almost as disgusting. 
But_ in spite of all this evidence of tenacity of life, I 
unhesitatingly agree with those who aver that squirrels 
can be barked. Perhaps not regularly, but occasionally. 
I know that I have shot under two, at least, and brought 
them down, and could find no wound upon them until I 
removed the skin. Even then one of them showed no 
bruise. The other had a very bloody spot, about 24-inch 
in diameter, on the belly, and on the inside of the hide 
that had covered that part, though on the outside not a 
hair appeared turned. 
Now to the idea I get from Mr. Kingsland : It seems 
that the bullet passing under the squirrel's body must 
either strike at such an angle that it will flatten and 
violently rebound against some vital portion of the body, 
or else tear off a .strip of bark or splinter of wood and 
force that with a slap against the body strongly enough 
to stun or kill ; and a large strip striking flatly against a 
certain spot on the belly, just back of the ribs, will cer- 
tainly produce sudden death, even if the blow is com- 
paratively weak. A slap of the open hand upon that spot 
on even so large an animal as a horse might prove fatal, 
and at the same time leave no outward mark. I admit 
that there is still considerable uncertainty whether any 
man could acquire sufficient skill and judgment to in- 
tentionally bark squirrels and win oftener than fail (I 
barked mine without ever having heard of such a feat), 
yet I believe that Boone did just as stated by Audubon, 
whether he was able to often repeat that performance or 
not; for he was so constantly with his weapon, and so 
constantly in the woods among the squirrels, that it 
would be rash to put a limit upon his "prowess short of 
known contradiction of natural laws. 
That it — squirrel barking — has been done, incidentally 
or unintentionally, by many individuals, has been so 
abundantly testified, that I will add but one more name to 
the list of squirrel barkers — Harvey Armond, a young 
neighbor, who says he has gotten several in that way. 
And since there has been so much insinuation against 
old-time guns, let me add this : I have, in an honored 
place over my front door, an old rifle like the one 
described, with which I am sometimes unable to hit an 
object the. size of a big squirrel only twenty feet distant; 
yet with that same "shootin' iron" I have brought down 
squirrels from a height of 100 feet or more, and so con- 
cealed that I was compelled to get an equal or greater 
distance from the tree to discover the faintest line of the 
squirrel's back, as he pressed close to- the limb. And I 
have not killed a "carload" nor even a small wagon- 
load of these little "varmints" in my whole career. So 
what might not have been done by one like Boone, who 
must have fired hundreds of shots to every one of mine, 
and who probably kept his rifle in the best possible condi- 
tion? . L. R. Morphew. 
Game in Sierra Nevada Mountains 
We will begin with the mountain quail. They are a 
little larger than the eastern Bob White, darker in color, 
and a little more upright in their carriage. Their call 
bears no resemblance to that of the eastern quail or Bob 
White, but is a single short, sharp cry repeated at fre- 
quent intervals, and resembles the last note of a cackling 
hen. :As the little fellows are very plentiful here, this 
call or cry is heard in every direction morning and even- 
ing. Next come the grouse, which are the same bird we 
know and love so well in the East. But the sage hen is 
something entirely new to an easterner. They are a mag- 
nificent gray bird, from five to six pounds weight, and 
bearing some resemblance to a wild turkey in their habits. 
They frequent the barren peaks above the timber line, 
their only cover being the low sage brush, upon which 
they feed, as their name implies. They are an easy bird 
to approach, and when flushed, make but a short flight, 
and as there is no timber where they are found, they are 
easily marked down and flushed again as. often as desired. 
They are very plentiful, and offer grand sport to the bold 
Nimrod who has the hardihood to mount the barren 
mountain tops they frequent. Ducks of every variety fre- 
quent all the streams and lakes or ponds of the valleys 
in fall and winter. They leave their breeding places in 
the mountains when cold weather sets in, and flock to the 
valleys, where they remain until spring. The beautiful 
mallard, the rare and valued canvasback and widgeon; in 
fact, all the most valued varieties, are found here in 
abundance unless we except the redhead. I have not seen 
any of those as yet. Geese also are plenty all winter, and 
feed on the grain stubble in the valleys in great flock's. 
There are also a few deer, but not so plenty as I have 
seen in the Adirondacks and other places. So, to sum it 
all up, an all-round sport and fisherman can find 
plenty to do to keep him interested all the year around in 
these grand old mountains and lovely valleys. 
But perhaps the greatest attraction which this section 
has for the weary man of business who finds, when too 
late, that in his race for riches he has drawn too heavily 
on nature's resources, is the wonderful health-giving 
properties of this dry, cool atmosphere and high altitude. 
Mark Twain quaintly says, in describing it, that the pure 
air of these mountains would restore to life an Egyptian 
mummy. There are many like the writer, who find their 
health failing, but hesitate to cut loose from all manner 
of business and lead a life of idleness. To such I will 
say that the mineral resources of these mountains offer 
greater opportunities than can be found in the crowded 
cities of the East. These hills are full of valuable mines 
of copper, lead, silver, and gold. There are perhaps a 
score of such, mines within a few miles of where I write. 
Some of them are now being successfully operated by 
eastern companies; others are owned by the original 
miners and prospectors who discovered them, and are as 
yet undeveloped, and can be bought very cheap. The 
Longfellow Company, of Cleveland, Ohio, are operating a 
gold mine within one-half mile of where I write, and a 
few days ago they struck a vein of ore in their main ledge 
which assayed the fabulous sum of $83,000 per ton. 
Samples of this ore were sent to the secretary of the 
company, Mr. Carman, of Cleveland, which he had 
assayed with above results. But I am informed that there 
is no stock for sale by this company. 
The above strike is what is known as a pocket or very 
rich spot in the ledge, and never extends far, but these 
finds help up the general average. But I -.started out to tell 
about our game, and have wandered away among mines. 
Well, I will let it stand as written; perhaps it may be of 
interest to somebody. S. H. Thomas. 
Gardnerville, Nevada. 
Days with the Wildfowl— I. 
"I would rather kill one of those birds," remarked 
Gerard, as he stepped over the gunwale and took his 
seat in' the bow of the boat, "than any bird that flies," 
and he glanced up where the long line of cranes were 
streaming across the blue vault, now almost white 
against the background of a floating cloud, now bluish- 
gray where they sailed along at the cone of the fleecy 
pile, now dark where their course lay under the riant 
skies. 
"Did you ever kill one, Pop?" 
"Yes, indeed, many and many a one, and long before 
I came to Nebraska, too. In the early 70's I did a 
good deal of shooting in the early spring and fall at 
Beaver Lake, in Indiana, some twenty miles north of 
Kentland. Dr. Boerstler and I used to run out there 
from Cincinnati, and in those days the flight of crane 
equalled that of the geese almost; and when I first came 
to Omaha, they were very abundant in this State." 
"Where did you have to go for them?" inquired the 
boy, as we sowly pushed our way through the .devious 
channel out toward the open water again. 
"Well, they were especially plentiful out north of 
Rogers, and in the late fall stupendous flocks dotted 
the plains and slopes along the Platte" 
"Listen!" and Gerard chopped my remarks right in 
two in the middle, as with with uplifted hand, and 
tilted head, he seemed to concentrate all of his facul- 
ties into that of hearing. 
Shoving the push-pole deep down in the mud I stood 
still as death myself and, notwithstanding our sandhills 
had dwindled into the veriest specks in the distance, 
that same weird, guttural "grrrrrrrroooooo!" came in 
quavering cadences through the sunlit air back to us 
and, as if charmed, we listened and listened until it 
sounded like a spirit vioce in the heavens. 
"It must have been a grand sight in early days to 
have seen those birds like you have seen them," finally 
resumed Babe, as he dipped his paddle and we started 
on again. 
"Yes, indeed, it was. The fall I was out north of 
Rogers with John Hardin, back in '88, no '87 — -yes, 
that was the fall of 1887, I saw the birds in greater 
abundance than ever before. Far and wide, when the 
sunlight in the early morning played upon a thousand 
shades of green and yellow, they stood upon the rising 
knolls, now blue, now almost white— according to the 
play of the light — but always vigilant, always alert, al- 
ways watching for clanger. At night, when we lay in 
our tent, their rolling notes fell from the starry heavens 
in unearthly vibration, and by day, with broad wings 
and long necks outstretched, they floated across, the 
blue dome with such easy grace and so high above the 
ducks and geese and all other birds that they seemed 
to belong to the celestial regions rather than to those 
of this terrestrial sphere." 
"When did you kill your last sandhill?" 
"Well, the last one I helped to kill, for Tom Foley 
and I both shot at a passing flock of three, and one 
fell, and of course we both claimed that we shot at the 
hapless bird, and we probably did. Anyway, I know 
I did, and as Foley is one of the most veracious sports- 
men I have ever shot with, I have no reason to doubt 
that he did, too. That was in the autumn of 1898, up 
on the Lake Creek marshes." 
"Where were you?" 
"We were in a blind 'way out in the middle of the 
marsh, and these three birds passed us, flying not 
fifteen yards above the tules. The bird we knocked 
down was not killed outright, however, and after he 
had been hit, he continued on with his mates for two 
or three yards, and, before it fell, it was a touching 
scene Tom and I were treated to." 
"How was that?" 
"Why, when our bird, which was the middle one of 
the three, began to fall behind his companions, settling 
lower and lower with slower stroke of wing, the other 
two came falling back and, going to the side of the 
stricken one, seemed trying to cheer and sustain him 
on his hopeless way. . Yet slower and more feeble be- 
came the great bird's stroke of wing, and more and 
more he dropped toward the top of the arrowy tules, 
with the other two clinging tenaciously to the last hope 
of saving him. But, suddenly, there was an alarming 
lurch, a spasmodic flap of one wing, the long neck 
folded, and the wounded bird let go all at once and 
fell dead into one of the shadowy crypts below. With 
a melancholy 'pur-r-r-rut' or two, his two friends shot 
up into the sky and left him io his fate. 
"When we saw him go down Tom and I were wildly 
enthusiastic, for every morning it had been the am- 
bition of every man in camp to kill a crane, and each 
had made scores of futile efforts, and now, when we 
realized that we had accomplished the coveted feat, our 
joy and triumph was boundless. We both tore out of 
our blinds and through the dense tules like a couple of 
wild men, each eager to outstrip the other, and first 
lay hands upon our prize. But that satisfaction was 
left for another. In our excitement in watching the 
uncertain flight of the wounded crane and his two 
companions, Tom and I had both failed to properly - 
mark the spot where he finally fell, feeling, perhaps, 
that there was no especial care necessary, as it certainly 
would be no very difficult task to locate such a hulking 
carcass as a big, fat crane, especially on that broad 
and unbroken expanse of brown vegetation. But we 
had reckoned without our host. Search as closely and 
diligently as we might and did, we did not find him. 
We did pick up a stray crimson-stained feather or two 
that had undoubtedly fallen from his fluffy and wounded 
