87o 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Not. 4, 1905 . 
In the Fail of the Year, 
W’en de possum an’ ’taters am er sizzin’, 
An’ de ash cake am er bakin’ in de coals, 
W’en de squirrels am er barkin’ in de hickories, 
An’ he cottontails am snugglin’ der holes, 
W’en ole Bob White sets yer blood all in a tingle, 
As he loudly whistles fer his lady love, 
W’en de north wind starts to loosen up de shingles, 
An’ is sighin’ in de treetops up erbove, 
W’en de frost turns all de leaves ter red and yeller, 
An’ de ’simmons an’ de scab' barks am good, 
W’en de pumpkin on de vine am rich an’ meller. 
An’ de screech owls am er screechin’ in de wood- - 
Den it’s time ter start ter cleanin’ up Ole Bets}% 
An’ ter keep de dogs from gittin’ over fat; 
Kaze de raccoons am er gittin’ mighty “pesky,” 
An’ dey’s usin’ on de hills an’ in de fiat. 
Memphis, Tenn., Oct. lo. — Editor Forest and Stream: 
Inclosed pleased find a little poem. I have dedicated it 
to my very dear friend Frank Blomberg, who is a 
sportsman in the broadest sense of the word. He and 
John T. Hudson and myself a few nights ago went 
coon hunting. Our guide, Joe, was one of those old- 
time, before-the-war negroes that are too swiftly and 
very surely passing away. He is a dog-trainer, and has 
handled some very fine dogs in his days. He still trains 
a few setters and pointers, but is getting old, “an’ de 
rheumatiz” (as he puts it) has about gotten the best of 
him. Joe has never lost his love for coon hunting; he 
always keeps a small pack of good coon dogs, and every 
fall he is sure to come to see me and makes me prom- 
ise to go out some night next week and take a coon 
hunt, and I always promise and never disappoint him. 
Some of my happiest hours have been spent in the 
fields and forests with Joe and his dogs, and it is with 
sincere regret that I see him growing old. Joe is a 
.good shot and loves the sport, and is always thought- 
ful and considerate. When in the. field, the dogs point a 
covey or a single bird, he will never flush until “de 
white folks’’ come up; and when one shoots and fails to 
bag his bird, he is always ready with an excuse, such as 
“Yo’ feathered him,” or “Dat bird was shore a long 
ways off and fl3nng some.” y^s a rule, when Joe 
misses he says, “Dese ole eyes er mine is a-goin’ back 
on me.” or “De shells dey make, now’days ain’t what 
dey uster be.” I have never seen his equal at rabbit 
shooting, and he prides himself on never missing one, 
“ ’ceptin’ once in erwhile.” 
On the night of Oct. -6 my friends and I drove out to 
Joe’s farm. We reached there at 8 o’clock, and found 
everything in readiness. Joe had a mule for each of us 
to ride, and in less than twenty minutes we were on our 
way to the old river bottom, where possum and coons 
are very numerous. In due time we reached the bot- 
tom, and in less time than it takes to tell it, the dogs 
had “struck trail.” and pretty soon a coon was “up a 
tree,” and m less than a half hour was ours. There was 
a time when it would have taken much longer to catch 
and kill a coon. That was before headlights w'ere used 
to shine them. Then we would have had to cut down 
the tree, and that entailed a lot of labor and the useless 
destruction of many trees. Since timber has been so 
scarce and valuable, the farmers who own timberlands 
strenuously object to coon hunting— and I do not blame 
them. 
On this hunt we used headlights, and while some 
may say (and rightly, too) that it is unsportsmanlike, 
it most certainly affords one lots of fun and plenty of 
exercise. When the dogs trailed a coon and treed him, 
one of the party would take the gun and shoot it out. 
A coon is a tough customer, and will give the dogs a 
tussle if he is not too badly hurt. It was nearly i 
o’clock when we decided to start back home. We had 
killed four coons and had caught two possums — not 
so bad, considering the rough going on account of the 
dense undergrowth and the early season. The moon 
was high in the heavens when we got back to Joe’s 
shack. .Everybody was happy and tired, but we were 
soon revived, and sat down before a blazing log fire and. 
told tales and experiences of former coon hunts. Joe 
loves to talk about the good old times, when he used to 
pilot his “young massa” through the forests in pursuit 
of turkeys, squirrels and other game, and it was after 
listening to his reminiscences of the good old bygone days 
that I wrote the lines. R. C Strehi* 
Caffying: Game Thfowgh New Jersey. 
Long Branch, N. J., Oct. 24.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: Replying to your esteemed favor of _Oct. 4, I 
beg to say that the New Jersey Commission decided over 
a year ago that while it was a technical violation of the 
law to take any game out of the State in another one. 
the act was designed to protect New Jersey game only, 
and that the Commission would not enforce the law 
against any persons bringing game from without the con- 
fines of this State and transport it across the State into 
another. Our wardens have been instructed not to make 
arrest of parties bringing game lawfully killed in New 
York, Pennsylvania or any other State across the ferries 
from Jersey City to New York. It very frequently hap- 
pens that parties attempt to take advantage of our action 
in this matter, and claim they have been hunting in an- 
other State, and it frequently happens that parties who 
have lawfully killed game in another State, are held up 
until they can show where the game was killed. It would 
therefore be advisable for the parties desiring to take 
game out of New Jersey, that was killed in another State, 
to have some manner of nroving quickly and conclusively 
that the game was not killed in New Jersey, but lawfully 
in apother State. Benj. P. Morris, Pres. 
Shooting in the South. 
The Realms of Sport. 
Concluded from page S3?. 
When, the first flight of wildfowl appears along the 
Virginia and Carolina coasts it is hurrah for Currituck 
and the rough, strenuous life of the wildfowler. Many 
sportsmen are devoted to upland shooting and see little 
joy in lying out in batteries or huddled in a blind, ex- 
posed to cold and wet. Only the hardy few can enjoy 
the sport and brace up to the fierce biting gales that fre- 
quently degenerate into cold, driving rain that laughs to 
scorn one’s dogskin jacket and chills him to the very 
marrow. 
The coming of frigid mid- winter last season sent a 
host of humanity scurrying Floridawards, others to 
whom game was a predominant factor dropped off near 
good shooting grounds, regardless of the vagaries of the 
weather. Among that class was the writer of this article, 
who selected Georgetown, S. C., from among a bevy of 
attractions. The local pulled out of Charleston about 
sunset en route for Georgetown via Lanes. We pass 
Monks Corner, famous in Revolutionary annals, and pres- 
ently enter upon wild stretches of woodland interspersed 
with unkempt areas of cultivation. The maze of swamps 
that line the railway gradually merged their individuality 
in a haze of shrouded mystery; the early glow of twilight 
illuminated the woods and waters with a ghostly pallor, 
and the inanimate forms of nature assumed strange por- 
tentous shapes as night advanced, until the twinkling 
lights of Georgetown proclaimed the journey’s end. I 
was soon comfortably installed in the Tourist Hotel. Its 
name is somewhat misleading, as no tourist , element in- 
trudes to faze the sportsman ; the well-worn habili- 
ments of the hunting field pass muster in dining room or 
corridor. The town is somewhat antiquated and slow, 
but Georgetown presents a neat and attractive appearance. 
The lumber industry is drawing heavil>’ on the magnifi- 
cent forests of pine that shelter an innumerable host of 
animal and bird life. A couple of settlers, residing about 
seven miles out of Georgetown, are said to keep their 
larder well supplied with deer hams. That paragon of 
feathered game, the wild turkey, roams through a vast 
domain controlled by the Atlantic Coast Lumber Com- 
pany; flocks are occasionally seen skulking near lonely’ 
forest paths and clearings, often vanishing as mysteri- 
ously as they came. Baiting is often resorted to, but 
calling is not in vogue. They are generally chanced upon 
by hunters after deer or quail. The numerous swamps 
that infest the coast present an almost impenetrable 
barrier to the pursuit of this noble bird. Woodcock, quail, 
ducks, snipe and doves are found in fair numbers from 
eight to twelve miles from town. A team is easily pro- 
cured, but good guides and dogs are at a premium. I was 
fortunate in securing the services of a young, man who 
owned a valuable setter. Another canine that frequently 
accompanied us was unsteady and made false points. The 
mornings were frequently nippish, necessitating the use 
of a heavy sweater, while, ice crunched beneath the horses’ 
feet as we struck out for some happy hunting ground 
over a road that had a decided, leaning to ruts and quag- 
mires, but was redeemed by glorious vistas of towering 
pines and awesome swamps tinged by the early flush of 
dawn. Negroes of all shades are a feature of the land- 
scape that remains with us from start to finish. Wild 
looking clearings loom up ahead at irregular intervals, 
where the smoke ascends from frowsy cabins, whose own- 
ers from lack of ambition — laziness — have lost their grip 
and allowed weeds, creepers and thickets (the skirmish- 
ers thrown out by the stately forest that rims the back- 
ground) to encroach on the patch. 
We have drifted far beyond the ken of the town sport, 
when Belle and her dubious-ally are turned loose to scour 
the roadside coverts. Presently we pull up and watch 
them puzzling over a warm scent; but nothing rewards 
the setter’s eager quest; the birds have flown. Many a 
good bevy is passed by the heedless sportsman who saves 
his dogs for some grand coup farther on that often fails 
to materialize. The reader can draw his own conclu- 
sions from what follows. We arrived at the farm in high 
feather, our hopes soaring like a towering quail. This 
farm raises abundant crops of tobacco and quail ; it also 
furnishes good lodging and fare for a modest compensa- 
tion. Everything looked propitious as we started across 
the fields in the rear of the house to investigate one of 
the best quail grounds within striking distance of George- 
town, reserved exclusively for the guests of the Tourist 
Hotel. 
Dogs and sportsmen alike plunged gaily into the 
melange of tussocks, weeds and saplings that led up from 
swampy woods. Imagine our feelings at seeing the dogs 
draw blank in coverts that previously had resounded with 
the tumultuous roar of rising bevies. We rooted out a 
few stragglers but the main body had either retired into 
the swamp or were lying up, goodness knows where. The 
sport soon degenerated into unmitigated drudgery, so 
calling the disgruntled dogs to heel we departed in a most 
unamiable mood for Georgetown. Bravely our - forlorn 
hope charged through tangled thickets and careened 
among the pines bracing up tired muscles by an occa- 
sional dip in swamp water. Only one woodcock rewarded • 
our efforts. This lone bird was the first and -last of his 
species. We did not chance on another specimen in all 
our wandering. The guide’s idea was that they burrow 
in the swamps. 
These vast areas of submerged woodlands are a haven 
of refuge to the persecuted game. They are a ^ fierce 
proposition, presenting an array of forest impedimenta 
supplemented by slimy pools, the home of the deadly 
moccasin. All manner of wild life thrives within the 
sombre fastnesses, but the miasma that emanates from 
the watery receptacles is inimical to the life of man. Quail 
are often flushed close to the edge of a swamp. A hit 
by a choke under such conditions generally annihilates 
the feathered target. Right barrel open, left full choke, is 
the arm for brush shooting. If a .12, and not too light; 
it will give a good account of itself among turkeys and 
ducks. Deer are numerous in the wilder sections of the 
woods, a shotgun loaded with buckshot or ball is often 
resorted to. It may pass muster in thick cover, but the 
sportsman that wields it in the open advertises his lack 
of skill with that noblest of weapons, the rifle. ' 
Cold weather to the north sends down thousands of 
ducks, mostly mallards, to settle on the coast and inland- 
marshes. 1 he constant fusilade that greets them morning 
and evening from market gunners and local sportsmen 
puts them on their mettle, and frequently shuts the visitor 
out from scoring. Duck shooting is rough work and calls 
for a flawless ph}^sique. I'o remain crouched in the sedge 
for hours, the sport of the elements, varied by hazardous 
leaps across brimming ditches, heart-rending misses that 
leave him a prey to silent fury, constitute a few of the 
minor annoyances that are quickly forgotten when fortune 
smdes again. About ten miles out of Georgetown is an, 
ideal spot for ducks. What happy times I recall camp-i 
ing in the old boat house replete wdth comforts that only- 
sportsmen appreciate. It is true, that the roof leaked iri 
sundry places (the guide ought to know, as he was 
rooted out of his sleep one stormy night), while bitter 
cold oft romped in through the crevices of the old struc- 
ture and dominated the situation from midnight to dawn,| 
but failed to rouse the tired sleepers. The gray light of 
early morning faintly illumines the cabin as we emerge 
from our blankets, and quickly don our hunting toggery, 
tumble into the waiting boat, accompanied by the shiver- 
ing dog, v\ho is hustled aside when he collides with guns 
and trarnpling feet. We soon strike the opposite bank: 
of the river. Climbing up to higher. ground discloses a 
wide extent of marsh aglare with ice, mute evidence of 
the arctic winter that has clamped the North in its icy grip. 
- --’ ihe prospect is enough to quench the ardor of the most 
yj inveterate. Realizing the futility of our efforts, we never- 
■ 'Hheless skirmish about in the sedge silently anathematizing 
y|our congealed surroundings. I he emptiness of marsh.i 
J ’sky and ga/iie pockets reacting on empty stomachs soon 
punctures our bluff and sends us scudding back to our 
old quarters. Once within the charmed precincts of our 
jjamphibious residence we shed cold and disappointment 
■along with our rough habiliments and revel in the grate-i 
iful warmth none the worse for our experience. 
I What rejoicing there was when propitious gales fromi 
(off the coast sent hosts of mallards scurrying inland, toi 
I settle over the vast expanse of feeding grounds. Fortu- 
j nately, a good duck dog was part of the outfit; his ser-: 
) vices were invaluable in retrieving game that dropped ini 
places where man or boat dare not venture. Our larder: 
was kept well supplied with feathered game, venison, rab-: 
bits and squirrels constituting a missing link in our camp: 
menu. 1 heir absence scarce created a ripple, as ducks, 
snipe and doves were always with us. At one time we 
had more ducks than we could conveniently use, so a 
friendly rice planter got the benefit. Later on he ren- 
dered valuable assistance in bracing up our dwindling 
commissary. The joint efforts of the guide and J^m, a 
colored gemman of sporting proclivities, frequently cul- 
minated m gastronomic triumphs that were partaken of: 
with silent thanksgiving. The memory of these hunters’; 
fea.sts is wafted about like grateful incense, as I follow’ 
the devious trail of my wanderings. How often when 
coming off the marsh at eventide, chilled with cold, hun- 
gry, wet and’ mud bedaubed, we stumble through thei 
doorway of the cabin and collapse in the welcome embrace 
of the rockers, tired but happy. After being duly thawed 
out we discard our w’et gear, stowing them and our guns 
in a dry corner. An occasional yelp from some down-' 
trodden canine helps enliven things while the aromas of 
baked mallards and coffee proclaim the near advent of 
supper. Presently we fall to with appetites sharpened by 
fatigue and exposure ; game, hot biscuits, rice and a 
variety of comestibles brace up the inner man wonder- 
fully, while pleasant comradery puts the blues to rout. 
Our next move is to gather about the stove where we 
keep up a desultory fire of conversation punctuated as 
night wears on apace with yawns and sleepy nods that 
herald the coming of the drowsy god. Artist. 
Adirondack Deer. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Accounts differ as to whether deer are plentiful or not. 
Probably the deer are about as numerous as usual, taking 
the Adirondack region as a whole, but they are far more 
plentiful on the private preserves than on the grounds 
over which the public roams at will. Of course the effect 
of the private preserves has been to congest the public 
on the lands which are accessible, and the deer are learn- 
ing their parks of refuge. It is a pity that the State 
doesn’t own the private preserves, for then it could make 
preserves in which hunting could be entirely prohibited. 
As it is, the tame deer of the preserves are subject to 
slaughter like cattle, if the preservers care for that sort 
of thing. 
Deer in the region south of Jock’s North and South 
Lakes and south of Morehnuseville are only half, or less 
as plentiful as last year. More than 100 deer were killed 
in that’ territory last winter by crusters, some of whom 
supplied the town of Wilmurt. hotels and all, with veni- 
son un’il March, when the game warden, the now notor- 
ious Charles Klock. put: in his lappearance and arrested 
one man, Hve Wright, who went to Herkimer jail for 
100 days. The rest of the gang' escaped. 
In the territory, embracing too square miles, only one - 
deer is. known to have escaped the crusters. He was a 
buck which -was driven by dogs to the vicinity of Flans-,, 
burg settlement, where the residents watched him and 
