Nov. 29, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
685 
Some Souvenirs In My Collection 
By SANDY GRISWOLD 
T HE sight of a pigeon hawk mounted on an 
oak branch, and perched in a corner of 
my living room, recalled to my mind last 
night a pleasant little hunting incident I enjoyed 
with the late George Scribner up on Lake Creek, 
on the Pine Ridge Agency in South Dakota, in 
October, 1891, and now as it will never be law¬ 
ful to shoot sandhill cranes in Nebraska, this 
little tale I hope will be found interesting. In 
coming into camp one evening from round the 
north end of the lake above Renshaw’s, Scrib 
and I saw some 200 or 300 yards off, through 
a driving mist, an assemblage of moving ob¬ 
jects, which we at first took for a bunch of 
antelope. A careful inspection soon resolved 
them into birds, and Scrib cried out: “Sandhill 
cranes! We ought to get a shot at them, Sandy.” 
He proposed that we separate and stalk 
them from opposite directions, the idea being 
that if one of us could get a shot at them sitting, 
they might give the other a chance by flying 
over his head. We withdrew the duck charges 
from our guns and slipped in some No. 3’s, and 
George struck off obliquely to the northwest, 
while I went to the southwest. After getting 
directly opposite the great birds, we both began 
to move in a crouching position directly upon 
them, but of course, slowly and cautiously. They 
had not yet discovered us, and appeared not to 
do so, even after we had gained positions not 
more than one hundred yards from them. They 
were feeding leisurely in my direction, but tend¬ 
ing off to the southeast. At last they halted and 
instead of looking my way they caught sight of 
Scrib, stood still, intently peering in his direction 
a moment, then came on, moving slowly my way 
again. 1 knew by edging a bit to the east they 
must, if they continued on their present course, 
pass within fifty yards of me. So I hurriedly 
moved to the right some twenty-five steps or 
more and lay down behind a bunch of tuft grass. 
I got my gun ready and eagerly awaited their 
coming. As they drew nearer and nearer I felt 
certain of my prey. Finally they reached a little 
rise about forty-five yards from the spot where 
I was lying, and taking careful aim at the biggest 
bird in the flock, I let him have it, and then 
emptied the other barrel into them as they rose. 
I had the pleasure of seeing one let go and 
tumble to the ground. Instead of going toward 
Scrib, the flock flew to the north, doubtless seek¬ 
ing the advantage of the wind to get out of the 
neighborhood as quickly as possible, and he was 
a little chagrined at not getting a crack at 
them at all. My success, however, was solace 
enough, for at my first shot I had killed a hand¬ 
some cock bird, and we considered the two vic¬ 
tims reward enough. 
These were the first sandhills we had se¬ 
cured, and we were much elated over our suc¬ 
cess. The flock, as we saw those that misty 
October evening, were majestic looking creatures 
indeed. As we saw them they looked about 
three feet tall, and as they moved about, intent 
on their feeding, it was with stately grace, and 
at first greatly resembled a herd of deer. The 
weight of a sandhill crane never comes up to 
expectations. They are mainly feathers, legs, 
neck and tail. Eight to ten pounds is about the 
best of their weight. They are excellent for 
the table when well served, but if the cook does 
not understand his business, they are apt to be 
too dry. They used to be extremely numerous 
up on the Lake Creek flats in the fall, but are 
not at all addicted to the water, so far as I have 
been able to observe, although in a country fre¬ 
quented by hunters they will roost in the middle 
of a lake or marsh. With the first keen frosts 
they move on to the south. 
Of course our- birds were too big to stuff 
into our canvas coats even, and the best we 
could do was to sling them around our necks 
with a string tied to each of their feet and let 
them dangle over our shoulders. We had just 
gotten ready to start, when a small bird swept 
into view out of a scud of the midst, and Scrib, 
hampered as he was with his crane, pulled up 
and brought it down. It is the pigeon hawk that 
from its oaken perch in the corner of my room 
looks down on me every time I enter the house, 
and never fails to bring back that memorable 
and misty October evening of long ago with a 
beloved and lamented comrade upon the Lake 
Creek marshes. 
There are several other souvenirs in my col¬ 
lection which never fail to bring back some 
pleasant incident of the past, and one of these 
is a handsome mink skin, which in the shape of 
a mat adorns the center table. It was killed by 
Sam Richmond early one morning ten years ago 
last March while he, together with Dick Cosner, 
of Clarks; Ray Welch, of this city, and my¬ 
self were enjoying our vernal wildfowl shoot at 
Camp Hyperboreas out on the sprawling old 
Platte. It was a boisterous spring morning, with 
scowling skies and cold winds, but we were up 
by candle light and off for the river, for Sam 
predicted a good flight. 
It was a long, laborious tramp, probably a 
mile and a quarter over the low valley through 
the box alder thickets, and across the many icy 
channels that cut their tortuous way among the 
two heads between camp and the bar on which 
our hide was located. In our shoulder waders, 
thick sweaters and shooting wammuses, and ham¬ 
pered with gun and shells, this tramp was indeed 
a hard one. This morning, however, we did not 
mind it so much, as we were buoyed up by the 
prospects of a good flight of mallards, and we 
got over the ground with unusual celerity. We 
had just traversed the old deer glade, crossed 
the powerful channel separating the pampas- 
covered shores of this glen from Mink Point, 
when Sam suddenly brought us to a halt, and 
pointing ahead, exclaimed: “See that thing 
swimming down the sluiceway there? That’s not 
a muskrat. I saw it jump into the water. Wait, 
it is going to land on the sands there,” and the 
next second Sam’s gun was to his shoulder, and 
before any of the rest of us had time to make 
anything out in the dim light, he fired. He then 
peered ahead again and said: “Well, I got him, 
whatever he is.” Together we hurried along the 
gravelly bar, crossed the narrow channel and 
out on to the sands of a low towhead beyond 
where Sam stopped, and by the tail picked up 
the carcass of a still kickink mink. It was a 
fine specimen, an old male, with a snow-white 
splotch under his chin, and a small one on each 
creek, and with its savage little teeth so worn 
by constant killing, I suppose, that those back 
of the incisors were but mere stumps. “He was 
the daddy of them all,” said Sam, “and if he has 
cut the throat of one cottontail in his time, I’ll 
bet he has a thousand.” 
Sam gave me the carcass and I brought it 
home with me and had Lawrence Scow, the taxi¬ 
dermist, make a mat of it for me, and he did 
one of the most perfect jobs I have ever had 
done. It is before me now, with its cruel jaws 
distended and the sharp teeth gleaming white, 
while the vicious little eyes like ebony beads 
seem to glare the same defiance he would have 
shown if brought to bay in the woods. 
Great Beasts of Prey In Austria 
By PROF. JOSEPH OFFERMANN 
N the Alps of Styria, near Graz, several 
beasts of prey trouble the mountaineers 
since spring. Until now the blood-thirsty 
monsters attacked already 100 cattle and 400 
sheep. The damages of the poor farmers amount 
to about 16,000 shillings. At the beginning some 
people thought the detailed accounts of the ex¬ 
cited cowboys to be fictitious; but by degrees the 
number of victims grew so much that nobody 
could doubt the existence of these mysterious 
brutes. Since then about 30 persons, huntsmen, 
cowboys and workmen, have seen these beasts, 
the irritation of the mountaineers is extending 
from day to day; and the “Banernskreck” (terror 
of farmers) is the object of the general conver¬ 
sation in Austria. 
The whole district, where these beasts ravage, 
is called “Stubalpe,” near Graz, and has a length 
of 45 miles and a breadth of 12 miles; it is then 
a large tract of 1,000 gkm. It is, moreover, very 
mountainous and full of dense forests. 
What kind of brutes agitate this whole coun¬ 
try? At first some surmised that it was a pack 
of wolves or hyenas, then a lynx, a puma (cata¬ 
mount, couguar), or very great hounds grown 
wild; several peasants again asserted positively 
that this crew of. robbers are gipsies; and, fi¬ 
nally, it is now, the common belief that it is a 
lion. The most reliable notion, accepted by very 
expert hunters now, is that some great beasts 
of prey have escaped from a traveling menagery. 
They speak of some wolves, hyenas, and of a 
lioness, which this spring were exhibited by a 
little menagery in Styria. It is rumored that the 
cages were old and decaying so much that a bear 
that felt lonely one night shivered his little house 
and caused great damages of victuals. As the 
proprietor would not pay the costs, the bear was 
sold by auction; a shrewd innkeeper purchased 
the brute and arranged a solemn bear dinner. 
The menagery came soon to nothing; but nobody 
heard anything about a sale of the other beasts. 
It seems as though these brutes are they which 
now perform in the Alps so bloody a tragedy. 
The wolves assail particularly the sheep, of 
which they bite through the throat! But many 
victims, especially the great cows, show in their 
wounds the characteristic signs of attacks of a 
great cat. This brute jumps upon the back of 
the oxen, breaks the vertebra by one stroke of 
its paw, and eats the neck of robust bulls. That 
is the typical lion’s hunt (poem of Freiligrath). 
It was stated that this monster had devoured 
