February 7, 1914. 
selected a site near the Great Ouatichou River 
at the bottom of Seal Bay. This choice of a 
site was not the result of mere accident, for 
Theodule was a man of parts and chose the 
spot with his eyes open. His low log-house 
barely showed above the soil and, covered with 
moss like its surroundings, was almost invisible, 
while from it he could see everything that en¬ 
tered the bay. A foot-path led from his camp 
eastward to the Great Ouatichou Lake, and 
thence to the falls of the Little Ouatichou, 
whose waters flow into those of the larger river 
of the same name. This innocent-looking path 
communicates with the well-stocked salmon pools 
of these two rivers, and enabled so unscrupulous 
a fisherman as Theodule to take advantage of 
dark nights to vary his food, in spite of the 
keepers of these rivers. Another path led west¬ 
ward to the bottom of the bay whose shoals 
were covered with wild geese and ducks in the 
season, and thence into the woods in which 
many fur-bearing animals roamed. Right oppo¬ 
site, to the south, loomed up the Island of Anti¬ 
costi. 
I had just hauled up my boat on the shore one 
evening in one of the many coves which indent 
the coast, when a wild goose flew over my 
head. I fired, but although mortally wounded, 
it managed to fly far enough to fall among the 
bushes on the point where I could not find it 
before dark. 
The next morning at daybreak, I was awak¬ 
ened by a youth w'ho brought me my quarry and 
claimed a quarter for his services. It was Theo- 
dule’s nephew. The business-like manner in 
which he acted, which is rather unusual in this 
part of the world, gave me a very favorable idea 
of the uncle, and when the latter came down 
shortly after to pay me a visit, I received him 
quite heartily. When in answer to his questions 
I had told him who I was, he said: 
“Ah, I know you now, I have heard of you. 
You are the Frenchman who went from Quebec 
to Newfoundland in a small canoe some years 
ago. I saw vou pass Esquimaux Point. I am 
Theodule!” 
“And I have heard of you also,” I replied, 
smiling. 
We shook hands, and after I had given him a 
glass of spirits, he asked me to come and dine 
with him next day and see a silver and a black 
fox that he was rearing. As I could not un¬ 
derstand what he meant, he explained that he 
had caught two she foxes, with young, in the 
spring, and that they had litteied. Among 
the first litter were a cross cub and a silver 
one, the dam being a cross fox, while the other 
dam, a red one, brought forth a black cub with 
four red ones. The cross fox had been killed 
by a kick from his nephew whom he accused 
of stupidity for kicking at the animal when it 
bit at him, but he was taking good care of the 
others, expecting to get at least a hundred and 
fifty dollars from the Hudson Bay Company 
for them. 
When we quitted him, I questioned my man, 
Thomas, as to this method of getting valuable 
skins. He said that it was frequently followed 
as foxes were not protected by law, but that it 
was injurious to trade, because so many foxes 
had to be destroyed unnecessarily at a time when 
their fur was worthless, merely to get a she fox 
with young on the chance of her giving birth 
to a valuable fox when she littered. 
The next day we dined with Theodule, and af¬ 
ter dinner he took us to a kind of pen made 
of round logs resting on a foundation of flat 
stones carefully joined together. In this way 
I saw two young fox cubs lying in different 
corners with their heads resting on their paws 
and looking at us with fierce eyes. In spite of 
their summer coats it was easy to see how beau¬ 
FOREST AND STREAM 
tiful their fur would be in four months. The 
silver cub was a beauty, but the black one, which 
was of the shiny black variety, promised to be 
a splendid specimen, and there was no doubt that 
their skins would be very valuable in January. 
Theodule admitted that it was a ruinous way 
o'f getting furs for the reasons alleged by 
Thomas, but what I said had no effect on him. 
We sailed away the next day. 
The following year, as I was returning from 
Whale-Head in the month of October, I was 
driven by stress of weather to take refuge in 
the same bay and I seized the opportunity to 
pay a, visit to Theodule. He seemed much de¬ 
pressed and said that business had been very 
bad. When I asked him about his fox cubs he 
said, with many imprecations, that they had es¬ 
caped. I asked him how this had happened. 
“Well,” said he, “two of my old chums turned 
up here about the middle of October of last 
year on their way to their trapping grounds near 
Nabesippi. Unfortunately they had liquor with 
them. We drank like sponges, and when I was 
as tight as I could be, I got it into my head 
to show them my foxes, just the kind of an idea 
that gets into a man’s head when he is drunk. 
When I opened the door of the pen, I tripped 
over one of the animals and fell at full length 
on the floor. The two cursed brutes took ad¬ 
vantage of this, jumped over me and got out by 
the open door and made for the woods.” 
I had hard work to keep from laughing at 
him and recited to him Lafontaine’s fable of 
Perrette and her jug of milk, the moral of 
which corresponds to the English adage: “Don't 
count your chickens before they are hatched.” 
“Perrette,” exclaimed the old dandy, “I know 
her very well; she is a deuced pretty girl and 
comes from Trois Pistoles.” 
“No, my friend,” said I, “ it is not the same 
young lady. The one I mean lived in France, 
and probably reared foxes as you do. Good¬ 
bye.” 
I never saw Theodule again, but I heard that 
he had settled in one of the parishes of Lake 
St. John, where he still dyes his hair and beard 
and is as gallant to the creatures as ever. 
THE MIKADO PHEASANT. 
By C. William Beebe. 
Perhaps the rarest bird which has been 
acquired by the Zoological Society during 
the past year is the Mikado Pheasant, a cock 
and two hens being now in the pheasant 
aviary. The cock is blue-black, with a purple 
fringe to the feathers of the neck, mantle and 
breast, each enclosing a velvety black spot. The 
remainder of the upper plumage is edged with 
steel-blue. The secondaries and many of the 
wing-coverts are tipped with white, while the 
tail feathers have white cross-bars. The female 
is harmoniously clothed in quiet hues of olive- 
brown, rufous and buff. 
Seven years ago Mr. Goodfellow, while on a 
collecting trip in the highlands of Formosa ob¬ 
tained two long black and white tail-feathers of 
an unknown species of pheasant which were sub¬ 
sequently placed in the British Museum and re¬ 
ceived the name of Calophasis mikado. These 
were obtained from the head-dress of a native 
hunter. 
The following year the skin of an adult male 
was obtained, but nothing was learned of the 
living bird or its habits until 1912 when Mr. 
Goodfellow went to Mount Arizan in central 
Formosa and with much difficulty secured no 
fewer than eleven live Mikados, eight cocks and 
three hens. 
These birds are confined to the steep slopes 
of this one mountain, and as the birds will prob¬ 
ably soon be exterminated, every fact in regard 
to their life history is of interest. 
177 
These splendid pheasants do not occur below 
an elevation of a mile above the sea and keep 
to the sharp ridges which jut out from the moun¬ 
tain. In many places these slopes are covered 
with thick forest, in addition to an equally dense 
undergrowth of bamboo higher than a man. In 
such places, with the dominant trees cypress, 
junipers, oaks and pines, the hardy birds make 
their home. On some of the slopes, the steep¬ 
ness and rocky character permit only a growth 
of grass, and here it is impossible for a man 
to descend without the aid of a rope. In early 
morning and evening the birds come out of the 
dense forest, over the ridge to feed on the 
slopes, and it was only by setting hundreds of 
snares along the summit of this ridge that it 
was possible to capture the pheasants alive. 
They were scattered and not numerous and sel¬ 
dom were any observed. Besides the pheasants, 
tree partridges, pigeons, babbling thrushes, 
woodcocks and a monkey were captured in the 
snares. 
Once a cock and two hens were seen, the lat¬ 
ter flying down the cliffs at once, and the for¬ 
mer remaining behind clucking until a second 
Mikado cock was flushed. The birds could not 
be baited with grain, and indeed their diet 
seemed to consist chiefly of green food and vari¬ 
ous insects. When captured it was with diffi¬ 
culty that they were taught to eat rice. Mar¬ 
tens seem to be the worst enemy these pheas¬ 
ants have, and after the birds were in camp in 
cages, these blood-thirsty animals would come 
close to the tents requiring constant vigilance 
to keep them from injuring the birds. Both 
sexes of the Mikado pheasant make a cheeping 
noise like young turkeys, and when cornered and 
frightened, the cock hisses like a snake. In a 
wild state they nest about the end of April. 
The hardiness of these pheasants is evident 
from the fact that not a bird was lost in transit, 
and all reached England safely, where they were 
deposited in the aviaries of Mrs. Johnstone. 
Here tn the summer of 1912 I saw them and 
was thrilled at the thought of their rarity as 
only an enthusiastic ornithologist can be. The 
females laid in due season, and from ten eggs 
sent to the London zoo nine chicks were hatched. 
Of these the New York Zoological Society has 
been fortunate enough to secure a trio of birds 
in perfect health, from which it is hoped to 
maintain the species in this country. 
These pheasants in spite of the very different 
coloring of the cocks, are closely related to El¬ 
liot’s Pheasant. The period of incubation, how¬ 
ever, is twenty-eight instead of twenty-four days, 
and the eggs are larger and the chicks darker 
than their ally of the mainland of Asia. 
WHEN DID ELK DISAPPEAR EAST OF 
MISSISSIPPI? 
Editor Forest and Stream :—Your very inter¬ 
esting correspondent Dr. W. J. McKnight, writ¬ 
ing a week or two ago, made the statement that 
the last known Pennsylvania elk was killed in 
1864. It will be a surprise to many people to 
know that native elk continued to exist that long 
east of the Mississippi, but I doubt whether the 
Pennsylvania elk was the last of its specie then 
living east of the great river. An old correspond¬ 
ent of Forest and Stream, writing in 1876, made 
some mention of the fact that “only a few years 
previous” an elk had been killed in what was 
then known as Hoy’s Wilderness, the water shed 
of the Potomac and Ohio rivers in the Cheat 
River country, West Virginia. Now, “a few 
years previous” may mean anything, but is it not 
probable that we may set the date of the killing 
of this elk at about 1870? Who can give infor¬ 
mation that will clear up the controversy? 
AN OLD READER. 
