I 
6 
number of black feathers. But I had 
not come too soon. I drove the young- 
mother and her brood toward the stable 
and got her safely in a bed of straw 
under a shed. Then I revisited the pine 
thicket with my gun, laid down a prelim- 
inary barrage, dispersed the enemy with 
a curtain of fire; and I can report that 
he retreated in great disorder and that 
his losses were heavy. 
'"PHAT reminds me that I have just rid 
^ the plantation of another dangerous 
pest. A few days since I espied that 
dog — the sheep-killer — and the Lord de- 
lived him into my hands. I put one of 
those ounce-balls (punkins) clear 
through him — longitudinally — and 
he “fell on sleep.” You know he 
belonged to that trifling negro boy, 
Johnny Wethers. . . . Anybody see 
Johnny dog?” “No.” “He musbe 
drownded in de ribber.” “Musbe.” 
“And such a smart dog, and he 
stay so fat all the time.” . . . Such 
were some of the colored com- 
ments on the vanished canine. But 
I will speak to Johnny privately 
about the matter, and I plan to 
give him a decent dog — one of the 
hound Lucy’s pups when they are 
old enough to leave her. 
Just at present the hawks are 
very bad on our chickens. At this 
time of the year we get more than 
our share of these harriers. We 
have our own, whose number is 
large ; and, in addition, many scores 
of migrants. That they take the 
same route of migration I think I 
can prove ; for this makes the third 
season I have seen that extraordi- 
nary bird — the pure albino Coo- 
per’s hawk. I have done all in my 
power to assassinate him so that 
you can have him mounted; but 
he is as shrewd as a city lawyer. 
The other day I was patching a 
piece of harness when there came a great 
outcry among the fowls. 
I have always been in the habit, dur- 
ing the hawk season, of leaning my gun 
just inside the back door, with a couple 
of shells on the shelf above. Grabbing 
the gun, I slipped out quietly, to see the 
chickens scattering in every direction. 
The- old leghorn cock was loudly voicing 
his indignation, but ■ when he saw me 
with the gun he appeared reassured. As 
f came up he stopped his noise, and — 
now I am giving you this thing exactly 
as it happened — he cocked his knowing 
eye up toward one of the big oaks. I 
glanced up quickly, and there sat Mr. 
Hawk. ]\Iy 4’s greeted him just as he 
crouched on the limb to launch himself 
into flight. Down he tumbled, and all 
to the credit of the old rooster. 
But yesterday I did something which 
reflects favorably on your old dad. I 
took my gun down toward the ricefield. 
A big covey of quail was flushed on the 
ditchbank by the old pine. I got two, 
right and left ; then three Wilson snipe 
on the boggy edge of the riceland. As 
all had been straight shots, I made a 
beeline back for the house, deciding to 
stop while my credit was good, and I 
had a clear chance to brag to you. I 
FOREST AND STREAM 
might have shot snipe all day. Rain- 
water was lying in the cotton and corn 
rows, and they were in there boring. 
Regarding your late question on the 
quail on Hampton, I would say that there 
are about a dozen “field” covies. This 
number would not include the wood- 
birds, which are plentiful. It has been 
my experience that the quail of the pine- 
lands proper are a little smaller and cer- 
tainly a good deal wilder than those of 
the fields. Last autumn, at Oakland, 
Joe Phillips told me he had twenty-nine 
covies, and that the birds cleaned out his 
cotton of the boll weevil. Since boy- 
hood I have tried reasonably to protect 
the bobwhite. This fine bird’s greatest 
enemy in the South is the negro ; for the 
plantation negro has not yet been born 
who can resist the temptation to rob a 
quail’s nest. The negro eats the eggs, 
even if they are in an advanced state of 
incubation. This habit may appear less 
blameworthy when we remember how 
hungry the average negro is here most 
of the time; and that, in addition to 
birds’ eggs, he will eat alligator steak, 
prickly-pear fruit and raw green corn 
and sweet potatoes. 
W HILE rounding up a small bunch 
of cows on Tuesday of this week, 
I had to ride over some of our best 
hunting grounds : through Turkey Roost, 
the Rattlesnake thicket and Deertown. I 
rode up seven deer, and of these six 
were within gunshot. But I don’t shoot 
them at this time of year. The does 
are with fawn ; and so many of the bucks 
have dropped their horns that in the ex- 
citement of hunting it is not easy to tell 
a buck from a doe. The deer that got 
up out of gunshot had been lying down 
in the broomsedge in the open pine- 
woods. He had one horn, and that a 
big. one. He was a very odd-looking 
sight jumping off among the pines with 
January, 1922 
this one great antler standing high up. 
On that long strip of wet sand near the 
head of Deertown I saw the fresh tracks , i 
of a good bunch of turkeys. They had ! 
not been gone long; but, of course, they 
saw me first. It is time now for the 
flocks to begin to break up. The old 
males will begin to gobble by March. 
They get full of fight then, and can be 
more readily approached than at any 
other time of the year. But now they 
are shy, silent and crafty as usual. Dur- 
ing a sleety day toward the close of last 
month a negro brought me word that he 
had seen a flock of thirty-seven turkeys 
in the Wambaw Corner. He was in a 
canoe in the river and counted 
them as they crossed an old ditch 
on the riverbank. I should say that 
in this country the wild turkey is 
on the increase. I hope I am right. 
Good-by for this time. When I 
write next the spring planting will 
be in full swing. All the negroes 
send their remembrances, especi- 
ally those who hunt with you, and 
old Codjo, Will and Martha, who 
continues to preside in the kitchen, 
as she has done since you were 
a little fellow. When I told her 
I was sending you a long letter 
she stopped her furious wiping of 
plates, put her big arms akimbo, 
and smiled broadly. 
“Him?” she said, “I has done 
loved him eber since hatchet was 
a hammer.” 
A S you know, a man who lives 
on a plantation such as we 
have here must sleep with one ear 
cocked and one eye open. It would 
be better if he could do without 
any sleep. All sorts of things prowl 
at night; and if he doesn’t hear 
and heed outcries during the dark 
hours he’ll wake to find something he 
values missing. It must have been past 
midnight last night when I was roused 
by a great noise down at the stable lot. 
The ewes were bleating in a pitiful way. 
I slipped on my clothes, caught up my 
gun as I ran out of the back door, called 
old Lucy out of her box, and she and I 
made the stable in a dead heat. I’m not 
bragging on the speed we made; for 
Lucy has lost most of her speed as well 
as her ambition, and the puppies have 
pulled her down, too. But by her pace 
she showed that she knew as well as I 
did that something was wrong. A man 
who owns a good dog surely has a heart 
to love and trust him, whether or not 
be deserves that love and trust. 
As soon as I got by the small magnolia 
tree I saw the old ram, all bristled up, 
evidently trying to stand off some crea- 
ture, though he didn’t seem to be very 
sure of his courage. The ewes and the 
lambs were huddled in the fence corner 
behind him. I saw nothing but the sheep 
until suddenly a great burly creature, 
tawny-hided in the moonlight, with a 
prodigious bound, sprang up to the top 
of a fencepost, gave me one snarling 
look of hate and jumped lithely down 
into the edge of the oats. I let drive 
That trifling negro boy, Johnny Wethers 
