134 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Aug. 3, 1912 
in regard to natural wild growth and animal 
life, we may easily doubt if there is another 
region of similar extent and formation where 
such phenomenal conditions exist in our own 
broad land. 
It is probably almost the last refuge for the 
alligator, now so nearly exterminated in more 
settled regions. A species of this tribe, here 
and in the Big Mangrove Swamp (southeast of 
the Glades) is so fiercely carnivorous as to be 
locally called crocodiles, though there is no evi¬ 
dence to prove that they are closely akin to the 
terrible man-eaters of equatorial Africa or the 
far East. They are more allied to the huge, 
savage cayman of the Amazon and other tropical 
South American swamps. But they are isolated, 
few in number, and their habitat is limited 
through natural causes. Many years ago, when 
living in South Florida, I saw a Seminole lad 
near Fort Dallas, who was one-legged—the only 
one-legged redskin I ever met. I was told that 
when he was very small a crocodile attacked 
his father, who w T as toting him across a bayou 
or lagoon. Whether the parent got clear I know 
not, but the kid lost a leg. 
Penetrating these “drowned lands’’ that belt 
the Big Cypress is by no means easy or pleasant, 
except in very dry seasons, which here are ex¬ 
ceptionally infrequent owing to the Gulf stream 
and the humid west winds off the Gulf. The 
flat monotony is broken by clumps of stunted 
pine, and saw and cabbage palmetto. Nearing 
the Big Cypress these clumps increase in num¬ 
ber and size. Camping on the way is not com¬ 
fortable, for only in the highest spots, amid 
these clumps, is the earth dry. One learns to 
distinguish the dryer clumps by the kind of 
growth thereon. Pine, oak, hickory and other 
hardwoods seldom attain much vigor; where the 
water “sobs” the earth they grow in all the year 
round. On the lower swamp islands those ham¬ 
mocks, where cypress, gum, water oak, mangrove 
and certain kinds of bay and magnolia flourish, 
they indicate wet and miry soil. Some of these 
Big Cypress hammocks are so large as to seem 
interminable. The ferns are gigantic, while the 
melancholy Spanish moss festoons the branches 
above so as to exclude the very sun. 
The term “island” down there is merely 
relative, meaning not so much dry land sur¬ 
rounded by water as land that is a trifle higher 
than similar land immediately surrounding it. 
Everywhere the tall cabbage palm raises its clus¬ 
tered fronds, and everywhere the moss streams 
alike from all higher timber, its long, trailing 
gray masses dominating the whole in a way 
hardly possible to describe. It is in these vast, 
intricate “islands,” where the soil is always oozy 
and sunlight hardly ever penetrates, except in 
spots, that the deer, bear and turkey find refuge 
when their feeding grounds are disturbed by the- 
hunter. Snakes abound, many of them poison¬ 
ous, such as water moccasins, swamp adders, 
ground rattlers and the like. High boots, or 
leggings of thick leather, should be worn by the 
more ventursome. 
Bear are fairly numerous in the Big Cypress 
They are rather small, cowardly, and unless 
young and quite fat, not good eating. Their 
rusty, brownish black hides are less valuable in 
the fur market than hides procured further 
north. When wounded, cornered, or in defense 
of their young, they may put up a fight to the 
extent of whipping a dog or two. But it re¬ 
quires no great skill to murder one when cor¬ 
nered. The real test of sportsmanlike grit lies 
in getting there yourself with your weapon dry 
and serviceable. The recesses where these bear 
will penetrate before being treed or held up are 
such a mass of intermingling brush, vines, ferns, 
bottomed in depthless ooze, one wonders not so 
much how he got there, as to how he will get 
the bear out. Still it is often done, and bragged 
about on hotel porches thereafter where the sur¬ 
roundings are more congenial to yarn exaggera¬ 
tions than the actual occurrence—bad as it was— 
would altogether justify. 
Deer may be had almost anywhere in sea¬ 
son. They are more plentiful than in the open 
glades to the east. One may not see many 
when tramping, but they are in the thick places, 
lying perdu, fleeing from man before man often 
gets a sight. Only a glimpse, at that, of a flash 
of white over something dun underneath; then 
the saw palmetto hides all. I except the native 
Indian, who is among the best of “stalkers” 
seldom using dogs, and more lynx-eyed in his 
wilderness than a city sleuth at home. With 
good guides the sportsman will get his fill of 
deer shooting by being simply placed on good 
stands, and if guides are faithful they will drive 
the pretty dun whitetails within open gunshot, 
especially if their employer has been liberal with 
the “long green.” 
It is, however, the wild turkey that is com¬ 
pensation for undergoing such a toilsome trip. 
There br’er turkey still holds sway, much as he 
did before the white man came. The reasons 
for this are as follows: One is the difficulty 
and expense incurred by the average sportsman 
in getting himself and a suitable outfit there— 
on the ground. The other is one most creditable 
to those who are carrying it out. Namely, as I 
have said before, it is the institution of several 
private game preserves on the larger “islands” 
that have been taken for plantation usage. One 
of these includes several hundred acres of higher 
land destined for the culture of grape fruit. The 
owner has forbidden the killing of turkeys by 
anyone on his land, which in all embraces a thou¬ 
sand or more acres. The cleared land now util¬ 
ized is less than a fifth. Indians often visit him 
from the glades, but so well known is his ulti¬ 
matum they respect it perhaps because they re¬ 
spect the man himself. He has plenty of help, 
and if any white intruder disobeys, his sum¬ 
mary ejection follows. Even the irresponsible 
pot and plume hunter keeps clear of these pri¬ 
vate refuges. It is said that in the hunting sea¬ 
son the turkey learns to know these refuges, for 
they swarm about them. A friend who visited 
the Big Cypress recently told me that they were 
so tame, gobbling and strutting up and down 
about the hens, that to shoot them would be a 
shame. 
But the wild turkey is a wild turkey all the 
same. Catch these same turkeys a few days 
later, and they have become a different bird 
altogether. They are then as hard to approach 
as they were easy when safe in their island 
refuge. How did they acquire this knowledge? 
Probably by the same means that the most of 
us acquire certain usages in life—the force of 
habit. They felt that they were safe in those 
refuges. This instinct or sub-intelligence is most 
acute in the wild turkey. The Seminoles recog¬ 
nize it when they say, in hunting: “Deer look 
up, see injun. Say ‘Mebbe injun, mebbe stump.’ 
Turkey look up, see injun. Say ‘Mebbe injun,’ 
then he run away mighty quick.” 
Groups of strutting gobblers and hens with 
their broods would walk fearlessly among the 
workmen on these refuges. Yet they kept a 
suspicious eye on strangers who wielded neither 
axe, mattock nor hoe. Away in the swamp, or 
on the prairie, these birds were exceedingly wary. 
In the brief dry seasons the native hunter will 
often drag a lighted torch of dead palmetto 
leaves across the wind. This is to assist his 
progress from one island to another. Turkeys 
are unharmed, and the deer are drawn hither 
to lick the salty ashes. But the snakes perish 
by the thousand; the new grass makes good feed¬ 
ing ground for the game, later on. A born 
hunter, who walks without stepping on things 
that make a noise, or shadows the thick places 
without a rustle, may pick up a turkey in the 
Big Cypress most any time. But it takes the 
green hand so much longer that he is apt to quit, 
or fall back on the old pioneer dodge of seek¬ 
ing br’er turkey at night. When roosting high 
amid the big timber he is an easier and less 
sportsmanlike mark. 
One of the easiest ways to secure a wild 
turkey is to let the birds do the hunting. This 
sounds paradoxical, but note the method. The 
place to hide in must be chosen with judgment 
and with the wind, if any, blowing from the di¬ 
rection where the turkeys are feeding. A clump 
of palmetto in the edge of a burnt prairie 
where the young grass is up, is as good as any. 
Chance counts for a lot. When the turkeys 
drift back to their roosting place in the swamp, 
about sunset, makes a good combination. They 
are almost sure to spend the day among the 
young grass. If they do not approach near 
enough, a deft call or two on a yelper will often 
assist. The gobblers are apt to gobble and ad¬ 
vance closer, though with suspicion. 
Also a sizeable panther or wildcat may be 
stirred up when least expected. Then there is 
always fishing of the best, both of fresh and 
salt water. 
New Publications. 
The Yosemite, by John Muir. Century Co. 
Cloth, 284 pages, illustrated. 
So attractively has John Muir portrayed The 
Yosemite that the reading is almost as good 
as a trip through the National Park. He 
tells, as only Mr. Muir can, of the birds, 
flowers, trees and the park conditions in winter 
and summer. The work is illustrated with origi¬ 
nal photographs, with maps inserted showing 
the general features, and includes an outlined 
map for the traveler. It is dedicated to Robert 
Underwood Johnson, editor of the Century 
Magazine, and is finished and bound in the in¬ 
comparable style of James Abbott. 
The Flight of Birds, by F. W. Headley. With- 
erby & Co., London. 8vo., 260 pages, 5s. net. 
F. W. Headley, whose works, “The Structure 
and Life of Birds” and the “Life and Evolution 
of Birds,” have been instructive as well as in¬ 
teresting, has issued a new book, “The Flight 
of Birds,” with a continuation of his erudite 
style. The plates are made from clean photo¬ 
graphs well handled. There is much of interest 
contained in the book for the aeroplane driver, 
as it includes many comparative tables. 
