488 
FOREST AND STREAM 
November, 1921 
HUNTING PHEASANTS WITH A .22 
THROUGH DRIPPING WOODS AND SNOW-WET GLADES WITH 
THE LITTLE WEAPON THAT ADDS A ZEST TO THE WARY STALK 
I THREADED my way up through a 
sopping prune orchard in the gloam- 
ing. Night was coming on apace. 
The rich, black soil constantly balled 
up on my hunting-boots and was as con- 
stantly washed off by patches of wet 
unmelted snow. The prune trees stood 
bending under the burden of the white 
mantle that enveloped them, with bare 
wet branches shining in slick, black sil- 
houette against the snowy curves and 
arches. It was a wet snow, but a light 
one, the first of the year. Old prunes lay 
on the ground under the trees and were 
crushed under foot. I was headed up 
toward the big, black wood showing up 
dimly through the “Oregon mist” just 
beyond the fir-pole fence on the crest of 
the hill at the edge of the prune orchard. 
That was the roo'sting-wood of quite a 
number of China pheasants and particu- 
larly of a big China rooster that I had 
come to know real well. 
After the first few days of the season 
I had exchanged the shotgun for the 
little telescope-sighted rifle, a twenty- 
two special and had henceforth 
stalked the wary game with this “light 
tackle” equipment. This treasure — this 
little instrument of precision I now 
shielded as best I could under my mack- 
inaw from the wads of falling snow that 
doused me each time I passed under a 
prune tree. It gave the birds such a 
sporting advantage that not every man 
would dare to play the rifle game. But 
I loved it, and one pheasant shot with the 
little rifle, after a fair stalk, at from 80 
to 125 yards, aroused a more intense and 
lasting pleasure than a coatful bagged 
with a shotgun over dogs. 
Night was rapidly shutting down. 
There was to be a short hour, at most, 
of maneuvering in the wet woods and 
scanning the great moss-draped oaks 
with the glasses, all senses on tip-toe and 
ears straining for roosting calls — with, 
perhaps, a shot or two and, possibly, a 
single great rooster, decked out in all 
the gorgeous colors of an Indian mahara- 
jah. for a prize. 
I slipped between two close-growing 
prune trees that showered some fifty 
pounds or so of wet snow upon my back 
and down my collar for the — nth time 
and climbed the fir-pole fence that fol- 
lowed the crest of the hill. 
On top of the fence I sat and rested, 
for the work of coming up the steep hill 
through the mud of the prune orchard 
had been strenuous. I lifted the mack- 
inaw and carefully examined the little 
rifle ; magazine full of cartridges ; 
one in the chamber : the telescope set for 
sixty yards. Then I quickly buttoned the 
mackinaw about mv steaming body for 
there was a raw chill in the air. 
The fir-pole fence was a wet seat. 
From here the hill sloped steeply down- 
ward beneath a primeval Oregon oak 
By W. R. MAC ILRATH 
Walking quietly through the wet woods 
forest. The gnarly branches of the an- 
cient oaks crossed and criss-crossed in 
every direction among each other, and 
the grey Oregon moss that draped them 
hung down in beards hardly less preten- 
tious and suggestive of the ancient of 
days than the moss-draped live-oaks of 
old New Orleans. On the great trunk- 
branches were patches of wet and melt- 
ing snow piled up eighteen inches high 
with sections of clear black between 
them where the wind or the movement 
of the branches had sent the bulk tumb- 
ling to earth and the remainder had 
turned to water, wetting the trees as in 
the heaviest downpour of rain. Every- 
where in the woods was the drip ! drip ! 
drip ! of still melting snow as it pattered 
down on the leaves of the forest floor. 
That and the occasional plunge of great 
chunks of snow were the only sounds. 
Otherwise death-like stillness reigned 
over the evening woods. 
I listened for the roosting call of 
pheasants. I searched the nearest trees 
with the binoculars. Only the drip ! 
drip ! drip ! of the otherwise silent woods 
came back to my straining senses. It 
was as if there were no China pheasants 
closer than China. But my reason told 
me better. This was the roosting wood. 
T SLIPPED down off the fir-pole fence 
*■ into the shadows of the great trees. A 
fine mist filled the air. One breathed it in. 
It added to the total darkness. Shapes of 
great trees loomed up ahead like fade- 
in pictures in the movies and then faded 
out behind in the same way. I zig-zag- 
ged down the steep hill, and, at the bot- 
tom, circled around its base. In this 
way I got as many trees as possible be- 
tween me and the sky and searched 
them assiduously with the binoculars. I 
congratulated myself that I moved softly 
as a cat. 
Presently I was aware of a great 
shadow swiftly approaching over the top 
of the woods. He had pitched off from 
a tree somewhere up toward the top of 
. the hill and was now sloping downward 
toward the creek-bottom in one long, 
swift, silent nose-dive. Straight as an 
arrow he came — and directly over me. 
“Oh, for a shotgun !” I said to myself. 
What a chance for a snap-shot that one 
could tell about to the end of time. It 
was one that Chas. Askins would have 
loved. A downw? d pitching bird, 
straight overhead, ai.d only small inter- 
stices between the tre^-toos to fire 
through. On second thought I was sure 
that having a shotgun would only have 
resulted in my humiliation. The big 
rooster passed on, out of sight, into the 
creek-bottom while I stood, I fear, open- 
mouthed, and watched him. 
And I had congratulated myself that I 
had been walking softly as a cat ! I 
stood there, disgruntled, in the wet 
woods and listened to the drip ! drip ! on 
the leaves. 
I thought disconsolately of the bright 
fires burning back in the farmhouse be- 
yond the prune orchard, and of the red 
apples and pumpkin pies on the table that 
was even now being spread for supper. 
That big rooster getting away threw the 
chill of depression into me as such 
things always do. But thoughts of the 
tramp back through that muddy prune 
orchard turned my thoughts into other 
channels. Had I walked all the way up 
there just to stay five minutes and see 
one pheasant fly off through the woods? 
I had not ! And what was more I was 
going to stay until it was too dark to 
shoot before again walking back through 
that prune orchard. So I turned and 
followed the cock pheasant into the 
creek-bottom. 
He was a hard nut to crack, that old 
boy. For two seasons he had lived about 
the orchard and the side-hill roosting 
wood, and when pursued took to the 
creek-bottom as straight as he could fly 
in one long sustained flight. He knew 
where to go just as well as any white- 
tail deer. He never let dogs approach 
close enough to set him — or if he did he 
managed to escape through the barrage 
of flying shot. When I tried to stalk 
him with the little rifle in the daytime he 
always managed to get up before being 
seen, and generally at about 200 yards 
range. He sure was a wild rooster ! 
D ASSING from the hill into the creek- 
* bottom the ground became more 
slushy under foot. Tall water-grass be- 
gan to appear, holding up the banks of 
