February 7, 1914. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
169 
Shooting Wild Turkey in Mississippi 
A Down to the Ground Turkey Story by Prominent Physician in Quest of Health 
F ROM my very earliest memory of hunting 
I grew up with the idea that wild turkey 
hunting required the greatest skill on the 
part of the man with the gun, and it was not 
until the narrated trip that I was initiated into 
the sport. Tis true, I had—as a boy—gone on 
frequent trips with a successful turkey hunter- 
only to sit and hold the horses until I wished 
that there were no turkeys in America, but the 
gobblers tasted good, and of course I wanted to 
go again. 
While spending the winter—on sick leave— 
with a relative in Southwestern Mississippi, we 
varied quail hunting, on several occasions, by 
going to the Homochitto Swamp, a small tributary 
to the Mississippi, which winds its way along the 
border of an immense Cypress swamp, near the 
line dividing Adams and Wilkinson counties; and 
on a hill overlooking the little river and Great 
Swamp, a hospitable hunting club had its lodge, 
and while enjoying the privileges of that club, 
I found it very interesting and awe-inspiring to 
walk out to the edge of the bluff—just as the 
sun was setting, and look over the almost level 
tops of cypress trees,toward the beautiful sun¬ 
set. 
While standing there listening to silence— 
while the twilight shadows began to fall from 
the wings of night, as dame Nature drew her cur¬ 
tain for another slumber period—maybe a hoot 
owl would make the echoes ring through the 
Great Swamp to notify the other denizens of the 
wood that he was just awakening from an all¬ 
day snooze, in the hollow of some dead tree, to 
begin peering around for his supper of mice and 
things. The next thing we heard of bird song 
was just at dawn, and it came from the pretty 
cardinal down among the swamp underbrush, for 
we must needs be near the roosting place of the 
gobblers before day dawned. 
Iver Jansen, a noted turkey hunter of the 
Homochitto Swamp, was with us as guide and he 
pointed to where he had killed a 22-pound gob¬ 
bler a few days before. By the time we had got 
posted, the cardinal started his morning carol and 
our guide tuned up his turkey caller. After yelp¬ 
ing a few times, a bass-voiced old gobbler began 
to answer. The yelping and gobbling was con¬ 
tinued for ten minutes or more, and ’twas ap¬ 
parent from the sound that the turkey was still 
on the roosting perch. Finally we heard him fly 
down and he kept up the gobbling, as though he 
enjoyed it—but the guide remarked that he was 
coming very slowly—then another gobbler tuned 
up, off to our left, and flew down, and the first 
one went straight toward him. When they met 
there seemed to be a fight brewing, but they came 
to an amicable settlement, and stopped gobbling, 
then our guide said that there were hens in the 
party, and it would be of little use to continue 
the calling, so we decided to try a different 
method of hunting, which appealed to me far 
more strongly than sitting on a wet log, trying 
to coax a cranky old gobbler to come up and get 
his wattles filled with shot. We separated and 
I walked leisurely through the swamp in an 
easterly direction, keeping near the edge of the 
back water from the over-flowed Mississippi 
river. Before I had walked a quarter of a mile 
By Dr. P. H. McNair. 
from the Homochitto, my attention was attracted 
to a pile of vines and bush, where I thought I 
saw something move. I continued slowly toward 
the pile, with my Parker ready; suddenly a flap¬ 
had to cross, ’though I had neither foot log nor 
boat, but found a very knotted elm tree which 
had fallen across the stream; ’twas large enough 
to cross on, but owing to its crooked shape, it 
“A Large Gobbler Stood on a Log.” 
ping and crashing began in the brush heap, and 
up flew a good sized turkey, and gave me the 
first chance of my hunting experience to shoot 
a wild turkey. It seemed really very tame to send 
in a charge of No. 6 shot, which connected before 
the turkey got ten feet from the ground, and 
brought him down like a bag of meal. Of course 
I felt proud of my first shot, as any tyro would. 
I carried him out to the river and hung him up, 
a safe distance from the ground, on a swinging 
limb, and retraced my steps, stopping many times 
to listen, but nothing broke the stillness, save the 
tattoo of a woodpecker, hammering on an old 
dry tree. I came to a deep bayou, heading from 
the Homochitto river to the back-water. This I 
offered rather a knotty problem to get over; how¬ 
ever, as it was that or nothing, unless I wanted 
to go back, I stuck my light gun through the belt 
and straddled the log and went over. I had gone 
only a few rods when I saw a bronze streak 
(which looked almost like a phantom) duck its 
head and run like a greyhound. ’Twas a very 
large turkey, and just as he got on the wing, I 
fired a charge of BB’s which made his right leg 
hang limp, but he kept beating the air with his 
great wings, trying to get up to the tree tops. I 
then fired the second barrel, a charge of 7% shot, 
from which several of the gobbler’s feathers 
floated away from the struggling flier, and I 
kicked myself for not having put in two BB car- 
