FOREST AND STREAM 
Oct. 18, 1913. 
41)0 
which it was the extraordinary fortune of early 
ornithology to possess. The pages of Audubon 
and of Nuttajl are both good reading, the former 
picturesque, glowing with enthusiasm and happy 
enjoyment, the latter more sedate, broader in 
observation, and with a quaint interest in the 
interpretation of the songs of birds, which he 
tries to depict in queerly chattering syllables, 
but neither has the lasting charm of their pre¬ 
decessor. 
Wilson was a poet, and his writing, though 
never rhythmic or unduly fanciful, but on the 
contrary the simplest prose, is so tinged with 
poetic feeling and literary intelligence that even 
the most matter of fact paragraphs are delight¬ 
ful to the mind, whether or not one cares par¬ 
ticularly for the information they convey. Take, 
for example, this passage from the history of 
the catbird: 
“In passing through the woods in summer 
I have sometimes amused myself with imitating 
the violent chirping or squeaking of young birds, 
in order to observe what different species were 
around me; for such sounds at such a season 
in the woods are no less alarming to the feath¬ 
ered tenants of the bushes than the cry of fire 
or murder in the streets is to the inhabitants of 
a large and populous city. On such occasions 
of alarm and consternation the catbird is the 
first to make his appearance, not singly, but 
sometimes half a dozen at a time, flying from 
different quarters to the spot. At that time 
those who are disposed to play with his feel¬ 
ings may almost throw him into fits, his emotion 
and agitation are so great at the distressful cries 
of what he supposes to be suffering young. 
Other birds are variously affected, but none show 
symptoms of such extreme suffering. He hurries 
backward and forward, with hanging wings and 
open mouth, calling out louder and faster, scream¬ 
ing with distress until he appears hoarse with his 
exertions. He attempts no offensive means, but 
he bewails—he implores—in the most pathetic 
terms with which nature has supplied him, and 
with an agony of feeling which is truly affecting. 
Every feathered neighbor within hearing hastens 
to the place to learn the cause of the alarm, 
peeping about with looks of consternation and 
sympathy.” 
Every young essayist whose taste leads him 
to outdoor themes should read Wilson attentive¬ 
ly—verse as well as prose. One of the best 
known of our nature writers tells me that he 
owes his own pleasant facility of expression 
largely to this author, whose “ornithology” for¬ 
tunately fell into his hands when he was a 
boy. 
How attractive, too, are Richardson's books 
on the fauna of the fur countries, or Gosse’s, “The 
Canadian Naturalist” as compared with modern 
' Reports,” very scientific, but usually far from 
readable! An approach to the earlier work in 
that field is made by Turner and by Nelson in 
their accounts of animal life in Alaska, each of 
which is full of interesting observations, but 
lacks literary feeling. It is a pity that books 
so valuable should fall short of perfect’.on. 
A similar decline of excellence in pleasant¬ 
ness of style and in stimulus to thought and 
imagination marks most modern narratives of 
sportsmen both in England and America when 
contrasted with those of the earlier men. What 
has been printed within half a century to com¬ 
pare with St. John’s “Wild Sports of the High¬ 
lands,” or Scrope’s “Deer Stalking”? One does 
not need to have smelt the fragrance of the 
heather, or to have seen the strange beauty of 
the Scottish moorlands to enjoy them of a win¬ 
ter evening, and the same far-reaching and fade¬ 
less quality pertains to many a sportsman’s- book 
of that period, and to such more specific works 
as Yarrell’s "British Birds” or Thompson's 
"Natural History of Ireland,” yet is by no means 
present in the sprightly tales of adventure with 
rod and rifle that now come to our tables. Here 
and there we get a touch of it, as most recently 
in Sheldon's “Wilderness of the Upper Yukon,” 
Seton's “Arctic Prairies” and Cabot’s “In North¬ 
ern Labrador,” but the best of them seem de¬ 
ficient in the well chosen and graceful, gentle yet 
lively manner of speech which makes many of 
the older books so fascinating. 
One might go on lamenting the loss of a 
most desirable quality in the literature of natural 
history and field sports, but perhaps no more 
forcible illustration of the regretted change in 
method or in taste could be found than to call 
to mind the writings of Frank Forester. Surely 
these have not been forgotten, and they furnish 
a model worthy of close attention. This is not 
saying that we have no recent American books 
worth re-reading. The volumes of Roosevelt, 
Baillie-Grohman, Dr. Henry Van Dyke and of 
his cousin, J. C. Van Dyke, Caspar Whitney and 
others are not to be so lightly dismissed. None 
of them, nevertheless, resembles the delightful 
prose of Frank Forrester, and the distinction in 
his favor is that of a sympathetic appeal to the 
heart as well as to the intelligence, which impels, 
us to pick up the volume, and opening it any¬ 
where to loiter over it in pleasurable forgetful¬ 
ness of winter and work. It reproduces summer 
in our hearts and that is the highest excellence 
of an outdoor book. 
My brier wood is empty. I knock out the 
ashes, put up my books, and tell Bimber it is 
time he and I went to bed. 
A Christmas Hunt Down in Dixie 
T HIS is the faithful chronicle of the big hunt 
on Bull Island last December, and all that 
there befell, as told me by my husband 
and here set down by the humble hand of mere 
woman, who must needs take her hunting by 
proxy, and sets forth armed only with a pen. 
Bull Island, you must know, is a strip of 
land twenty-five miles southwest of Daytona, 
lying between the two great swamps of Crane 
and Spruce Creek, both several miles long by 
perhaps two miles wide, and almost impenetrable 
except to experienced hunters. 
It was a crisp, cool morning, one of Florida’s 
best, when our party of five men left Daytona 
with camping paraphernalia and supplies piled 
high in the wagon drawn by a stout mule. 
We had with us four fine hounds, two he¬ 
dging to Tom Melton, two to Mr. Pappy, both 
By BESSIE B. STONES 
members of our party, and my own prince of 
bird dog pointers, Jack. Since this is the tale 
of a deer hunt proper, it is sufficient to say that 
he worked only on the way to camp, but did his 
part nobly by supplying us with a fine lot of 
quail and snipe. 
The first part of our trip lay along beaten 
paths, for we took the beautiful automobile 
driveway that winds along the Halifax from 
Daytona to Port Orange, but soon after passing 
Port Orange we left the highway and drove 
through spicy pine woods and hammocks shin¬ 
ing with holly and Christmas berries, through 
grassy prairie stretches dotted here and there 
with brave dogtooth violets and into swampy 
reaches that could claim nothing to their credit 
save the fact that they really did come to an 
end. 
We reached our camping place on Bull 
Island at nightfall, and after setting up the tent 
and stowing away belongings, we gathered 
around the camp-fire where Mr. Pappy, the most 
illimitable of cooks, had prepared a feast—squir¬ 
rel fried to a delicious brown, quail roasted on 
palmetto spits under bacon drippings, coffee 
steaming hot and clear as amber, and to cap 
all, biscuits baked to perfection in the Dutch 
oven. Man, how we ate! and such yarns about 
big game we had and hadn't shot, and big fish 
we had landed and the bigger ones that got 
away, and when we had yarned until imagina¬ 
tion failed, we rolled into our blankets and slept 
dreamlessly, as only a hunting party can sleep, 
and the evening and the morning were the first 
day. 
At celestial dawn—odors from Araby the 
