Sept. 13, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
335 
the lover of little rivers and all good things, 
Major Frederick Burnham, and others were the 
guests of Mr. O’Melveny, known to everyone in 
the canon and in Southern California. We rode 
up a mile, then turned in to the river, forded it, 
and discovered a hidden road up which the horses 
climbed on to a wide, undiscovered and beauti¬ 
ful mesa. The Castle O’Melveny stood directly 
on the bank, about fifty feet above the little 
California River that sang Van Dyke and me 
to sleep every night, as we were just above it. 
We fished the main river, the West Fork, the 
North Fork, and at night around the fine big 
fire, listened to Burnham’s tales of the Mata- 
bele country—the same modest Burnham whom 
the Queen decorated—and tales of the Lauren- 
tides and the Santa Margarita beyond Tadisac, 
where Van Dyke cast for salmon ar.d had the 
best of fisherman’s luck. 
The last I remember as we drove away was 
seeing two boys of the Clan O’Melveny riding 
off on spirited bronchos, w'ith rods on shoulders 
and creel in place, dou’ tless to try fishing on 
horseback in the San Gabriel. 
October Days 
D ID you ever sit in the back seat of an old 
country school house, an open window con¬ 
veniently near, through which you could 
gaze dreamily off over the green fields to where 
the cool silent woods lay in peaceful tranquillity ; 
and as you gazed, your nostrils dilated and your 
pulses quickened as you seemed to sense the 
sweet balsamic odors of the forest? In your 
mind’s eye you could see the little red squirrels 
scampering nimbly up the tall spruces, or along 
the stone wall, and you could picture the old 
muskrat swimming leisurely down the pond, the 
tips of his whiskers generating little V-shaped 
waves on the smooth surface. Perchance a bee 
would fly in at the open winlow, and you’d draw 
an imaginary aim on him as he hummed his 
noisy flight across the room and disappeared 
through the window. Then you groaned like a 
wind-broken horse, and thought of the old 
muzzleloader lying snugly concealed beneath the 
juniper down back of the school house. 
Particularly are these things brought more 
forcibly to your attention, when the last three 
Saturdays have been rainy, and you’ve moped 
around the house unable to eat, and with a look 
of intense agony upon your miserable features 
that have given your folks the impression that 
you are about to come down with some terrible 
malady, and already they are contemplating a 
course of root bitters, or sulphur and molasses. 
The morning of the fourth Saturday dawned 
bright and clear, and as we shouldered our guns, 
we felt that this was going to be a day of some 
consequence. It was one of those beautiful 
mornings in mid-autumn when the trees are gor¬ 
geous in their livery of gold and purple. A 
gentle breeze was stirring from the north, and 
as we neared the woods, hundreds of robins and 
yellowhammers flew up at our approach, filling 
the air with their sharp cries. 
Slipping shells into our single 12-bores (the 
best we could afford at that time was $6 guns), 
we entered the woods. How quiet everything 
was! It was like stepping into another world. 
Plunging knee deep into the coarse brown grass, 
we crossed a small opening. Halting on the other 
side, Frank suggested that we divide our forces 
and give the clump of spruces ahead a thorough 
going over. Nothing loath, I agreed, and in a 
moment we had entered the semi-gloom. I could 
hear Frank thrashing about at my left, and won¬ 
dered how in the world he could make so much 
By FRANK L. BAILEY 
noise. Suddenly, with a whistle, a little brown 
ball of feathers leaped into being from the foot 
of a birch, and as it flashed past a slanting ray 
of sunshine, I threw up my gun and fired. P’or 
a moment the smoke of the black powder hid 
everything, then as it cleared I saw a few downy 
brown feathers floating lazily in the air. What¬ 
ever it was I had "touched it up" considerably, 
and with heart thumping I proceeded to ascer¬ 
tain the result. A few nervous steps brought 
me to where a little brown body lay huddled on 
the spruce needles. I had never seen anything 
like it before. I had shot my first woodcock. 
Feeling quite elated, I bent and picked up the 
bird just as Frank burst through the bushes with 
words of query upon his lips. Pocketing the 
bird, we forged ahead, only to come out on the 
other side without starting anything more for¬ 
midable than a couple of chickadees. 
Crossing a pasture in which the boxberries 
lay ripe and red, we entered a patch of alders. 
Piere we decided to look for partridge, it being 
a pretty tair locality for that kind of game. 
With gun cocked 1 stood in the center of the 
clearing while Frank made a detour of the thick 
maze on either side in quest of birds. The 
musical tinkle of hidden streams, answered by 
the laughing gurgle of waters as they mingled 
with those of the brook that crossed the wood 
road, reached my ears. From somewhere over 
in the spruces a squirrel chattered, and a crow 
called hoarsely from the top of a tall tree. Then 
my dreamy reverie was rudely shattered by a 
whirring rush of wings, telling me that Frank 
had jumped a bird. I whirled, my gun leaping 
to position, but the move was useless, for 
Frank’s gun roared, and I could tell by his hasty 
footsteps that he hadn't fired in vain. I ran 
forward to assist him in locating the dead par¬ 
tridge, when with a whir another went crashing 
through the alders at my right. How often this 
thing happens! We were young at the game 
then and did not know what to expect. 
After a five-minute search we found the 
bird almost wholly concealed beneath an up¬ 
turned tree root, its colorings mingling beauti¬ 
fully with those of the leaves. Following the 
course pursued by the second partridge, we 
jumped him close to the edge of the alders, giv¬ 
ing us a snapshot, but without favorable results. 
Abandoning the alders we climbed the stone 
wall that borders either side of the road, and 
were soon approaching the little brook at the 
head of Stover's Cove. At high tide the salt 
water flows up into the brook, carrying with it 
an abundance of dead seaweed, this mixture of 
seaweed and mud affording an excellent feeding 
ground for snipe. Nearing the mouth of the 
brook, my eye caught the movement of a small 
gray object. On closer examination it proved 
to be a crippled sandpiper. We watched him 
for a moment as he limped about, when with a 
harsh cry a small brownish-gray body leaped 
forth and bored a corkscrew hole in the air 
in its mad flight for a bunch of alders a few 
rods distant. Taken wholly by surprise, we 
threw up our guns and fired, while the speed¬ 
ing brown ball kept on, and Frank reckoned that 
the shot couldn't have caught it anyway. This 
bird proved to be a Wilson snipe, but we did 
not know it at the time. Marking well the spot 
where the bird had disappeared, we advanced 
cautiously. We parted the alders gently with 
our hands, and for a long time studied the space 
within. Suddenly Frank grasped my arm. The 
strange bird was feeding near the edge of a 
slough. We could have killed it then, but some¬ 
how it seemed too much like murder. At any 
rate, our scruples did not bother us long, for 
with a repetition of that sharp cry the bird took 
wing, and as its swiftly moving form stood out 
against the clear blue skyline, two charges of 
No. 8 caught it fair, bringing it to earth. We 
dropped our last addition into the game bag, 
making a rather varied collection, but neverthe¬ 
less all good to eat. 
Highly elated and patting ourselves on the 
back, we entered a scanty collection of birch and 
alder. Hunting the place thoroughly, we were 
about to leave, when with a squeal like a stuck 
pig Frank leaped into the air and fired. I turned 
to learn the cause of so much, disturbance and 
was rewarded by seeing a rabbit disappear be¬ 
neath a juniper. Was he going? Well, some! 
The toenails of his hind feet were fairly tickling 
his ears. ‘‘Fine shot,” I remarked. Frank went 
off like an alarm clock. “How the devil do you 
s’pose I was going to hit anything like that? 
Didn't expect him to jump right out of my 
boots.” Frank certainly came near jumping out 
of his, all right. By this time our stomachs 
warned us that the noon hour was approaching, 
so with one last look at the trees and things we 
pursued our journey homeward. 
