250 
FOREST AND STREAM 
June, 1922 
WILD TURKEYS IN NEW ENGLAND 
INTERESTING SIDELIGHTS ON THE EXTINCTION OF THESE GREAT 
AMERICAN GAME BIRDS IN A COUNTRY WHERE THEY WERE ONCE ABUNDANT 
Bv H. L. ALLEN 
I N regard to turkey hunting in New 
England, I only know what has been 
told me by old men, especially my 
father, who was born in 1825 and lived 
to be 82 years old. My father was born at 
the extreme southern end of Northamp- 
ton, Mass., and could step from his line- 
fence over into West Springfield, now the 
city of Holyoke. This was also the south- 
ern end of the Mt. Tom range. When he 
was a young lad he used to hunt mostly 
on the southern end of the range, and 
with his old flintlock shot a few wild 
turkeys. He was then acquainted with 
the Waites, Tim and Justin, who were 
old turkey hunters and lived about three 
miles further up the Connecticut River, 
at a place called Smith’s Ferry, where I 
was born. 
Wdien my father was quite a young 
man he bought a farm at Smith's Ferry, 
and then turkeys were getting very 
scarce on the mountain, but he 
would often see Tim Waite 
come down the back lot from 
the mountain with a fine tur- 
key, but he said Timothy 
w o u 1 d never approach his 
house if he thought anyone 
saw' him, as he was a shy 
hunter and never asked ques- 
tions of anyone about what to 
do in the woods. The Waite 
farm and my father’s joined 
and ran back over what we 
called the little mountain to 
the top of Mt. Tom. Between 
the little mountain and Mt. 
Tom there were fine meadows 
and the best trout brook in 
the vicinity, and back of the 
meadows were side-hill pas- 
tures w'here Tim Waite used 
to get his turkeys. Tim 
thought pretty well of my 
rather, as they often met when 
out hunting, and my father 
would not ask him any ques- 
tions but go aw'ay from him 
and let the old man do his 
hunting alone. 
Tim w'as old when my father 
was young, and one day, when 
they met on the meadows, Tim 
said, “Come with me and T 
will show' y'ou where I shot the 
bear” ; so they w'ent up the 
side of the mountain, follow- 
ing Trapping Spring Brook (another 
fine but small trout stream), until they 
came to a fall of about ten feet, with a 
pool beneath. “There,” he said, “is 
where I got him. He was in that pool 
catching trout, and I guess that is the 
last bear that w'ill ever be got around 
here. He was only about half-grown, 
and when I go home I w'ill give you some 
of his claw'S. I have saved them for a 
good many years.” I have one of the 
claw'S now'; my father gave it to me 
years ago, but I never knew just when 
the bear was shot. It may have been be- 
fore my father w’as born, for all 1 know. 
When I was a boy many a fine trout 
have I taken out of the same hole ; it 
was as far up the side of the mountain 
as the fish could go. I alw'ays thought 
of the bear and did some looking around, 
as the falls made such a noise I thought 
a bear might come up on me unawares. 
One day Tim told my father how he 
got his turkeys. He said : “I am getting 
old and can't hunt much more, and if 
you do as I do you perhaps may get 
one, though they are mighty scarce and 
very shy.” Then he told him that late 
in the afternoon, when he had driven the 
cows home from the mountain pasture, 
he would go back with his pocket full 
of corn and scatter some along the edge 
of the clearing, always leaving enough 
corn to be put in the center and around 
a fresh cow dung. Then he would sit 
wdthin gunshot of the cow dung, con- 
cealed in the bushes all night. In the 
early morn the birds would come along, 
picking up a grain here and there ; but 
w'hen they reached the cow dung some- 
times three or four w'ould be crowding to 
get the corn, and their heads being close 
together, he would fire at the cow dung. 
He said sometimes he w'ould get two or 
three at a shot, but my father never 
tried it ; w'hen he was told the secret by 
the old man, turkeys w'ere too scarce to 
bunch up in that fashion. 
When Timothy Waite died I do not 
know. He was the hunter and Justin, 
his brother, ran the farm. I knew Justin, 
and used to run errands for him once in 
a while. He died in 1870 or ’71, well 
over 80 years old. 
On an old map I have of Northampton, 
dated 1794, the Waite farm is marked 
“r. '\Vaite.” Nearby is the farm marked 
“Smith’s.” This Smith built his house 
in 1783, just after he came out of the 
war. It stands to-day just as white and 
the blinds just as green and the old barn 
just as red as it was when I was a kid. 
This was my great-grandfather’s place. 
It was the Smiths who started the ferry 
across to South Hadley. 
Later on my father used to have a 
good many old sports come to our house 
and go out shooting, as my father was 
well acquainted with the wood 
roads and paths of Mt. Tom 
and Holyoke. Horsford, the 
naturalist, from Springfield (I 
think your former editor. Dr. 
Geo. Bird Grinnell, knew him), 
and John Deacon, from the 
same place, were often at our 
place and many others from 
surrounding tow'ns, but they all 
have joined the happy hunting- 
ground party. 
There was also a man by the 
name of Phelps, from North- 
ampton, whom my father hunt- 
ed with a great deal ; he was 
known as “Stiff” Phelps, and 
rightly so, as he appeared stiff. 
He made few movements, was 
a large, powerful man and an 
unerring shot. He sometimes 
W'ent by the name of “Judge,” 
which my father generally 
called him. It was about as 
much satisfaction for Judge 
Phelps to have a hound run- 
ning around with him when he 
was after woodcock as to have 
the best-trained pointer or set- 
ter, as he once said: “If the 
dog will put the birds out of 
the cover I’ll do the rest.” 
When I knew him, which was 
in the later }'ears of his hunt- 
ing life, he shot with a Man- 
ton gun, given to him by some 
of his admirers. It was no trouble for 
him to shoot with one hand, and when the 
old Manton went off there was always 
the reward. 
Now, Judge Phelps told my father 
where he shot the last wild turkey on 
Mt. Tom. It was on the “Old Barn 
Place.” This is a spot on top of the 
Mt. Tom range, a sort of tablelike place 
of a few acres. There used to be a 
family by the name of Parsons that lived 
{Continued on page 268) 
Elliot’s Wild Turkeys 
