270 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Aug. 30, 1913. 
The Phantom Rabbit of Buck’s Alders 
A Boyhood Recollection 
By FRANK L. BAILEY 
B UCK’S ALDERS lie in the very heart of 
Buck’s Woods, just back of where the old 
“Fort Sumpter” school house once stood, 
down in Harpswell, Maine. A tangled mass of 
alders, the poorest place in the world to shoot 
with any degree of certainty, and the best place 
in the world to get one’s feet wet with the high¬ 
est degree of certainty. 
There were various and sundry reasons why 
the long-eared quadruped was dubbed the Phan¬ 
tom Rabbit. One was because he developed his 
white winter coat long before the other rabbits 
had “turned,” and the other, and most striking 
reason, I will proceed to explain. 
Frank and I, at the age of fourteen and six¬ 
teen, respectively, came into possession of one 
of those heavy, long blue-barreled ' horse” pis¬ 
tols, such as are sometimes advertised by the big 
department stores where it is claimed that they 
are bought direct from the U. S. Government. 
You’ve seen the kind, cap nipples inserted in the 
cylinder, take-down ramrod beneath the barrel. 
One beautiful Indian summer afternoon in 
November we took the pistol up in Buck’s 
Woods for a tryout. We were a little wary as 
to the range of the old weapon, for we had dis¬ 
covered that it would carry a mile or two when 
heavily loaded, and we weren’t anxious about 
shooting anybody over in Freeport. Still, with 
a deal of circumspection it would be fairly safe 
to use it. 
Loading it with a goodly quantity of ‘‘sea 
shooting” black powder, we peered down into 
the barrel to see if everything looked all right, 
then plunged into the alders. Imagine our sur¬ 
prise upon entering a small clearing to behold 
a big white rabbit sitting quietly in the sun, not 
more than fifteen yards away. Holding the 
ancient weapon with both hands, I brought it 
lo a level with the rabbit’s white breast and 
fired. The old arm roared like a cannon, and 
when the smoke had cleared away, Mr. Rabbit 
sat there perfectly still in his tracks, never bat¬ 
ting an eyelash. To say that I was surprised 
would be putting it mildly. I was dumbfounded, 
paralyzed. Drawing tiie hammer back and aim¬ 
ing lower I pulled again. Same result, nothing 
doing; he sat in the original position. Then I 
silently passed the pistol over to Frank and won¬ 
dered what was holding the rabbit up on the 
other side. 
Frank was pretty nervous by this time, but 
managed to calm down sufficiently to put up a 
fairly respectable aim and he fired. If you’ll be¬ 
lieve me that animal sat in the same place; he 
hadn’t moved the fraction of an inch so car as 
we could see. That was too much for me, and 
I fell over on the ground, twisting and squirm¬ 
ing in a paroxysm of mirth. There was one shot 
left, and Frank took a step forward. I believe 
he had partially resolved to try the toe of his 
boot, then the old pistol belched forth, smoke 
and flame, and the rabbit leaping into the air 
turned a complete back somersault and disap¬ 
peared over the top of the alders. Frank and I 
gazed at each other in awed silence. “Darn!” 
gasped Frank; “what was it?” I wasn’t quite 
sure myself, so I couldn't say. 
We examined the spot that the rabbit had 
vacated in such a spectacular manner, then we 
hunted the place where he must have landed; 
not a sight, sound or hair; everything was 
serene. We berated ourselves roundly for not 
bringing a gun, and quietly slunk away, feeling 
rather peeved and not a little cross. 
The next Saturday afternoon we hunted the 
alders thoroughly, and were about to give it up, 
when Frank suggested that we separate, being 
careful to whistle frequently in order to inform 
each other of our whereabouts. I agreed, and 
taking positions about thirty yards apart, set our 
course in the general direction of ’Bijah’s Hill. 
We had covered but a short distance when Frank 
fired. “Look out for her!” he called. I needed 
no warning. The oncoming rush of wings was 
sufficient, and throwing up my gun, caught the 
partridge just as she scaled through the small 
opening ahead. Down she came, one wing dang¬ 
ling helplessly, while she scudded off under the 
alders. Slipping a shell into my single 12-bore, 
I started in pursuit, not a moment too soon, for 
she was covering the ground at a lively rate. 
Catching sight of her as she dove into a clump 
of dead brake, I fired, and she beat a death tat¬ 
too on the dry leaves. Not stopping to load, I 
walked forward to secure the dead bird, when 
a white streak shot out from under my very feet. 
It was the Phantom Rabbit, and there I stood 
open-mouthed, with an empty gun in my hand. 
A flash, and he was gone. Then I heard Frank 
fire, followed by the crash of a falling body. 
Shaking all over, I ran in the direction of the 
commotion, expecting to find him killed or mor¬ 
tally wounded. “What is it?” I cried as he 
picked himself up, looking sheepishly into my 
white face. “Why,” he blurted excitedly, “that 
darned cuss run right between my legs.” 
“Thunder!” I exclaimed increduously, “you’re 
joking!” Joking nothing,” he maintained stout¬ 
ly. “When I heard you shoot I got ready for 
something, and the first thing I knew there was 
a white streak coming at me. I didn’t have time 
to get my gun up. I just pulled, and he went 
right plumb through me.” “What were you 
doing down on the ground?” I asked. “Caught 
my toe and fell down,” he explained, studying 
a dent in his gun stock. I doubted the veracity 
of this statement exceedingly, but it was his 
privilege to lie out of it if he chose, so appar¬ 
ently I accepted. Frank had jumped two par¬ 
tridges, securing one of them, and I the other, 
so we might have been worse off after all. We 
saw nothing more of the Phantom that day, and 
returned home with our game. 
A month passed before we hunted the alders 
again, and when we did the woods were full of 
snow. Everywhere stretched the soft white 
blanket. It covered the old familiar paths. It 
made the stumps appear like white-garbed giants, 
and it clung to the spruce limbs, ready at the 
least provocation to release its hold and slide 
silently down between one’s neck and coat collar. 
The little streams were silent, and the old brook 
that crossed the wood road lay buried beneath 
the feathery white mantle. Save for the voice 
of a chickadee here and there as he warmed 
himself in the winter sun, everything appeared 
to be held tightly in the grip of the Forest King. 
Plunging knee deep in the white mass, we 
entered the alders and came across a rabbit’s 
track. .1 measured the distance from one hind 
foot print to the other. They were about a gun 
length apart, and looked comparatively fresh. 
“It’s him all right,” avowed Frank. “Nothing 
else could ever travel with that stride.” We fol¬ 
lowed the track for a while until it carried us 
out of the alders to a stone wall near “Fort 
Sumpter” school house. There we gave it up 
and returned to the starting point. As we passed 
beneath a low spruce there was a rush of wings, 
and a partridge disappeared in a cloud of snow, 
filling our faces with a generous quantity of 
the powdery crystals and robbing us of a shot. 
In the midst of a clearing we brushed the 
snow from a fallen tree and sat down, glad 
enough of the opportunity after our weary 
tramp. We had been sitting perhaps fifteen 
minutes, when Frank started up suddenly, listen¬ 
ing. “What is it?” I asked. “Sounds like the 
bay of a hound,” he answered. “You don’t 
s’pose one of those stray dogs of Will Merri- 
man’s has picked up a rabbit track, do you?” 
“Possibly,” I replied, ardently hoping that such 
might be the case. “I’ll bet a nickel he’s jumped 
the old Phantom,” ventured Frank. “Glory be. 
if he has.” 
The hound’s voice sounded again, this time 
in a long quivering wail. “He’s coming,” Frank 
exclaimed, all of a tremble. “Let’s get under 
cover.” We crouched behind the tree with guns 
cocked and waited, our ears open to the slightest 
sound. The hound was giving tongue freely 
now, and his approaching cry called several times 
in succession, telling us that the scent was grow¬ 
ing warmer. The Phantom was making for the 
alders, his old familiar stamping ground. When 
the call came again it seemed further away, and 
after a few anxious moments, Frank said: “You 
don’t s’pose he’s running him in a circle, do 
you?” I thought it might be just possible, it 
