WALTER MELVIN ROSENE 
GO 
For three days the hunt continued. There seemed to be no end of 
chickens. Gene Soule had a “brown hunting dog” that was a good one, 
and Gene, being a good shot, got plenty of birds. 
Late in the afternoon of the third day the parties began to return 
to the old Occidental Hotel in Boonesboro where the banquet was to 
be held. One by one the wagons tilled with men and dogs and chickens 
arrived. The chickens were counted and a careful record was kept of 
them all. The last load to arrive was the one containing Gene Soule 
and his “brown hunting dog.” The awaiting crowd was tense with 
excitement for the kill of Gene Soule and his party decided the winners. 
With loaded gun in hand, he sprang from the light wagon, and placing 
his firearm against the wheel, he called to the nearest group asking how 
many chickens they had shot. After hearing their reply he loudly 
shouted, “That’s nothing, I shot 55 myself.” 
As he did so, he slapped his hand on his thigh with a resounding 
smack. His dog, still in the wagon, thinking that he was being called, 
leaped toward his master and landed on the loaded gun against the 
side of the wheel. The gun was discharged into the side of Gene's 
ace and he fell, a victim of the two things that he loved the best— 
his own gun and his “brown hunting dog.” He was carried to the 
Occidental Hotel where he died. Suffice it to say there was no ban- 
quet there that night. 
My father, standing across the street in the doorway of the harness 
shop, -was a witness of the scene, as was also Willie Crooks. A total 
of about 1,500 chickens were shot by both parties in this three-day 
hunt, and these were now given away to the citizens of Boonesboro. 
The men dispersed and there never was another organized chicken hunt 
in Boone County. In fact, even single individual hunters were scarce 
for some time after this tragic hunt. 
During the 65 years that have passed since that day, great changes 
have taken place in central Iowa. The prairies of waving tall grass 
have been broken and now one sees little but endless miles of waving 
cornfields. With the passing of the prairie grass we have also witnessed 
the passing of the Prairie Chicken. No more do we hear the booming 
in the springtime or the whirr of wings in the autumn. The passing 
of this great upland bird from Iowa has been a tragedy. Where once 
1.500 could be killed in a single hunt, now not a single nesting pair 
can be found, 
As I knelt in the deep snow of the cemetery, trying to read the in- 
scription on the gravestone of Gene Soule, I wondered whether some 
day there might not be others kneeling before a monument somewhere, 
reading the date of the death of the last Prairie Chicken. I am afraid 
that that date is not far off. 
CARL FRITZ HEXNIXG PASSES 
In the death of Carl Fritz Henning, which occurred at Boone, Iowa, 
September 15, 1941. there was severed a definite link between the 
old school of ornithology and the new, Mr. Henning belonged to that 
group of old-time students who were actively pursuing their hobby of 
bird watching and egg collecting in Iowa a half century ago. The first 
bird society in this state, the Iowa Ornithological Association, was born 
in 1894 and flourished for four years. Mr. Henning and his colleagues 
of those days received their incentive and enjoyed many pleasurable 
days through the contacts that grew out of their pioneer organization. 
Carl Fritz Henning's interest in birds and nature was deep-rooted and 
lasted through life. 
In June of 1922 Walter Rosene and Chas. J, Spiker camped for four 
days with Mr. Henning in the Ledges State Park. On that trip history 
was made, for Mr. Henning told them about the early Iowa bird so- 
