1020 
•FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Dec. 29, 1906. 
A BUGEYE. 
closer inspection showed to be part buffalo and 
part polled angus. They were hornless and very 
large and possessed marked humps. 
Following tracks in the snow we found, a little 
further on, half a dozen buffalo grazing among 
some quaking aspen sprouts, but the main group 
could not be seen. We drove near to those we 
had found. They were feeding in businesslike 
fashion in three or four inches of snow, never 
lifting their heads from the ground, but tearing 
off the grass and pushing their heads forward, 
moving the snow before them. 
After a little further search, the main group 
was found near the shed and here were seen the 
twelve calves of the year. Among the herd were 
several cows that were curiously pale in color on 
the hips, almost a golden, which was hardly 
darker than the long hair on the hump. The 
horns of the older calves had started. 
Driving through the park we saw two or three 
wild coyotes and four ravens. These last seemed 
to devote themselves to an inspection of the 
ground from which the buffalo had pushed away 
the snow, or they sat on the fence posts and made 
curious gurgling and croaking sounds, remind¬ 
ing one in attitude and the look of their heads 
and thrdats of a brown thrasher or a catbird, as 
one. sees them singing in spring. 
The caged animals were all in fine condition, 
but the bears were not seen, for they had retired 
for their winter's sleep. 
As we were driving out of the park, I saw in 
the brush, ahead and to the right, two or three 
elk—a splendid bull with a great Head—a three 
year old, an old cow and a yearling. They were 
very gentle and paid no attention to us, but fed 
busily on the grass. In this same enclosure with 
the elk are the twelve moose, all the deer and a 
single prong-horned antelope. Goats have been 
brought here, but have not lived. The moose are 
the progeny ,of three calves captured some years 
ago, and reared on the bottle. 
There is here the beginnings of a magnificent 
zoological park, which we do not doubt will be 
greatly developed in time. The park is in charge 
of Mr. Howard • Douglass, who is greatly in¬ 
terested in its success. It is one of the loveliest 
spots in America. Yo. 
[to be concluded.] 
Recent Deaths. 
Tames Riley, who died at his home at Say- 
vine, Long Island, last week, was until recently 
the fish culturist of the South Side Sportsman’s 
Club at Oakdale. This position he held for nearly 
thirty years, the club granting him a pension at 
the time of hiS retirement, two years ago. 
The daily press recounts the death of Amory 
R. Starr at Marshall, Tex., on Dec. 15, at the 
age of 75 years. About twenty years ago, he 
achieved much fame as a writer on kennel sub¬ 
jects, chiefly as a keen satirist. The freaks and 
foibles of the kennel world in the early ’80s 
afforded a broad field for bis talented pen. He 
was identified with field trials of the Southwest 
in a modest way, and was an active field and 
duck.shooter for sport’s sake only. 
A Cruise in a Converted Canoe.—III. 
Night on a salt creek in the middle of a wide, 
dark marsh across which a stranger could not 
venture without imminent danger of sinking into 
bottomless mud. is in itself a sensation. If one 
is on a stranded hulk in the midst of the black, 
swirling water the sensation is much more in¬ 
teresting. I suppose that the longings which 
lead men away from home and comfort into 
tramps of hardships are. in the last analysis, but 
the desire for the weird, quavering, awesome 
loneliness which one finds in the wide, the silent 
or the wild places. At least, it seems to be so 
with me. I would go far and endure much to 
experience the indescribable pleasures usually 
discovered only in the strange and out-of-the- 
way places. , 
I know that Rusk had some such feeling of 
joy as we faced the problem set for our solu¬ 
tion by a tipping, grounded launch on a chilly 
night far from other shelter. 
“There’s one thing we haven’t tried,” Rusk 
said, “we can get overboard and try to sho^e 
tbe boat off the bar.” 
We shivered—it was almost frosty cold, and 
the wind was penetrating. A little thought on 
the subject decided us, and we at last stepped 
overboard, into water that felt much warmer 
than the air. We heaved together, and in a 
minute something started. The boat began to 
slide along the sand, and almost before we knew 
it, was afloat. We came very near being in a 
worse predicament than before, for the boat 
floated out over the deep water almost out of 
reach, leaving us stranded on the reef. But 
somehow we kept hold and got aboard. I made 
the bow line fast to a muskrat trap stake on 
the bank and we sought the cabin in a most 
cheerful frame of mind. There are men who 
cannot appreciate what they call the "discom¬ 
forts” of a roughing-it trip. They will do well 
to confine themselves to picnic excursions on 
towed barges, for cruising in a small launch will 
bring out their worst characteristics. Especially 
should they refrain from- venturing into the salt 
creeks of the Chesapeake marshes. 
It was bright moonlight, and the wind still 
swept over the grass in a gale, burring and 
lisping. The pine woods along the edge of the 
marsh roared. In whatever direction we looked, 
it was gloomy and beautiful. It was a truly 
wild and romantic place, though we were only 
an hour or two from the bridge, and doubtless 
back at the edge of the woods were shacks on 
stilts where lived the trappers whose snares we 
saw on all sides. 
When morning came, the scene was but little 
different from that of the moonlight. We could 
see a little plainer, but that was all. Slaughter 
creek seemed more uncanny than before. It 
maintained a width of two or three rods, with 
occasional bays. The tide was very low at 
7 A. M., exposing mud and sand bars in mid 
stream, while hundreds of'muskrat holes showed 
dark under the overhanging lumps of grass. 
Down from the bank were countless slides, or 
muskrat runways. In pools back from the 
creek were the domes of rat houses. As far as 
we could see, there was a forest of share and 
trap spring-poles. The wires were taken from 
the trigger, but the little stick swaying in the 
wind on the end of a bit of twine indicated the 
fate of countless little rodents. The things 
were heinous in their suggestiveness. A thou¬ 
sand gibbets, even for muskrats, do not add to 
the beauty of any scene. 
The marshes of the Chesapeake Bay are 
famous trapping grounds. Dozens of the larg¬ 
est ones are cut up into muskrat farms, on 
which the owners do not sow, but reap annually 
a harvest of fur. A little marsh of three or 
four acres will yield scores of rats, and a farmer 
who has one of these marshes on his place not 
infrequently rents it to a trapper for a price that 
makes the land as valuable as any that he has, 
acre for acre. One muskrat marsh near Cam¬ 
bridge sold for $900 last spring, and certain 
islands and flats rent for from $50 to $100 or 
more for the trapping rights. Many a trapper 
catches $500 to $1,000 worth of fur on his own, 
or other men’s land. Some of these trappers 
AN OYSTER T0NGER. 
hire men to work for them, tending traps and 
the furs! An evil feature of the whole business 
is' the fact that these trappers also shoot for 
market, killing more ducks by hundreds than 
sportsmen in the same neighborhood. They sell 
the ducks to Baltimore commission merchants, 
who reship most of them to New York. Even 
the carcasses of muskrats are shipped and sold 
by the barrelful to New York, where they are 
served up as nobody knows just what kind of 
game. The muskrat meat is very dark, but has 
a fair flavor if one parboils and seasons it right. 
All the meat markets on the east shore carry 
them in stock in season, and sell them four or 
five for a quarter. During the day we came to 
signs on the banks of the creek which read: 
“No Ratting Here!” 
The public marshes, of which there are a few, 
have been literally trapped to death. Prolific 
as the muskrat is, one-half mile section on 
Slaughter Creek yielded but half a hundred rats 
last winter. It should have given trappers 
thousands of rats. 
We moved slowly up the creek with the flood 
tide. We had no fear of grounding, for if we 
did ground the tide would soon lift us clear. 
Here and there were woodlots in the pineries, 
with cordwood piled up waiting for transporta¬ 
tion over the roads which came even to those 
wet places. Now and then we had to stop to 
consider which branch to take, and once we 
ran into a blind slough, soon bringing up 
against a mud reef that was impassable, high or 
low. Finally we came to “The Broadwater.” 
It looked deep, but the moment we left the nar¬ 
rows, the boat began to punch into the mud. 
A dozen times we went aground, and once had 
to wait half an hour to get clear. Finally we 
backed out, and returned to another branch and 
started up a very narrow course. Far ahead of 
11s was a bridge, and it seemed as though it 
must be the right way, but when we came to 
it, we found that it would be impossible to get 
the boat under the beams. 
Apparently we would have to turn about and 
take the outside route to Hooper’s Island, and 
other places along Honga River, but while we 
debated, a lank youth came shuffling along the 
raised dirt road. He was a frightfully unhealthy 
specimen of humanity, and his yellow blotched 
face spoke volumes about the summer con¬ 
ditions in those back marshes. Malaria, poor 
food and impure blood had reduced his voice to 
a squeak and his movements to those of a worm. 
He had forgotten how to get through the creek, 
but he knew that we couldn’t go anywhere be¬ 
yond a clump of brush which we could see. The 
driver on. an ox-team wagon which came along 
said the way was through the Broadwater, and 
that boats did go through sometimes, but 
he did not know the way. 
We tried again in the Broadwater. Five times 
we ran aground, but at last, driving through an 
open among some fish pond stakes, we struck 
the channel and. followed it to the far end of the 
still water, where once more two ways opened 
before us. A fisherman’s house appeared back 
among some trees, and Rusk went to ask the' 
way. 
While he was gone, I visited a “hill” which 
