722 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Dec. 7, 1912 
never saw as many red birds as in the brush on 
this island. Jays were numerous. It was a veri¬ 
table feathered paradise. Food was everywhere. 
Shumac, acorns, weed seds, corn and other food 
in abundance held them temporary prisoners on 
the way south. Passing along another patch of 
corn we scared a covey of young quail into the 
air. They dodged into the brush, and we could 
hear their fat little bodies drop into the leaves 
as they plumped, plumped, first here and then 
yonder according to the distance they had sepa¬ 
rated by the time they alighted. 
A. swampy stretch of timber and bush we 
soon came to. I he lad said that we were get¬ 
ting into the mast grounds where the birds 
would be feeding more than likely. He moved 
more cautiously than before and unlimbered his 
gun. I dropped behind and to the right of him, 
thinking from the looks.of the tangles I would 
be safe in trying my hand alone. Then, too, I 
stood a chance of getting into the birds alone 
and making a record. (I have had this feeling 
a number of times when hunting with others, 
and some day when I have time I shall analyze 
it. I have heard that others experience the same 
thing.) Just as soon as I was out of sight, of 
Bill my stealth became incredible. I moved very 
slowly. A good half hour was spent casting 
about in this manner, nothing showing that the 
birds had even been in the section that morning. 
Shortly I heard a young cannon break the 
silence somewhere ahead of me and imagined a 
turkey came to death at each of the four shots. 
The gun must have been pointed toward me, for 
the reverberation was something startling, al¬ 
though it was a distance off. I dropped into a 
clump of brush and dead stuff and cleaned a 
place to the bare earth, so that my turning about 
in the shield would not break something under 
foot and warn the quarry should it approach. 
It was well I did this. 
From overhead I heard the flapping of enor¬ 
mous wings and looking up saw four young 
turkeys dropping into the brushy spot before me. 
They dropped so suddenly that I had no time to 
shoot. There was nothing to do but take a 
chance on them, approaching within range, for 
they would surely advance toward me instead of 
going back toward the spot where they had been 
shot at. I was quiet at least ten minutes. Look¬ 
ing back on the incident I see, if I had moved, 
the game would have deserted me with but slim 
chance for a fair shot. I have seen a startled 
deer stand in an open spot for a long time be¬ 
fore making off, seemingly trying to ascertain 
where his danger lay. And it must have been 
the same with the turkeys. Their patience saved 
them for some time. But mine outlasted theirs, 
for after a time one of them stuck its head 
out of the brush and came toward me. He was 
easily a hundred yards off. If the others fol¬ 
lowed him they would not be in range of the 
sixteen-gauge when their leader was, and my 
chances for more than one fair shot seemed poor. 
Two of the others came out of hiding cau¬ 
tiously as the first young Tom came toward me. 
I was inspecting them with my glasses and ad¬ 
miring the trio, when the fourth one came out 
to follow them. I laid aside the glasses and 
grasped the grip of the repeater. The Tom was 
getting within range of my sights. The closer 
he approached, the more cautious he became. 
But I tried to remain motionless and let him 
get into the muzzle of the gun so that I might 
have a shot for one of the others behind. They 
had been coming on, too. Suddenly he stopped. 
Down he squatted for a spring that would help 
him get under way by wing power. I already 
had the gun through the brush and touched the 
trigger. With a flop he turned over on the 
leaves and off went the young hens behind. I 
sent two charges of shot after the tardiest one 
of them, and she fell winged a long way from 
where she went into the air. Feeling sure I 
had the young Tom, I hastened past him and 
made for the crippled hen, as she was appar¬ 
ently badly hurt. But when I arrived at the spot 
I marked there was no sign of her and search 
was fruitless; I mean turkeyless. Going back 
to the spot where I had knocked down the young 
Tom, he too had disappeared. 
A step in the leaves behind caused me to 
AS THEY USED TO FLOCK. 
turn round. There was the boy with a fine pair 
of turkeys hanging over his shoulder. 
“What’s all the shootin’?” he asked. 
“Look at this spot,’’ I commanded, pointing 
to a few feathers where Tom had fallen. 
“Went off and left him, thinkin’ he was 
dead, huh?” He had the situation grasped in 
a twinkle. “Lots o’ folks do it, not knowin’ bet¬ 
ter. Sometimes they’s dead and sometimes not 
—mostly not.” 
That excused me. 
We cruised on next day. I thought it too 
much to try the game again and have to stand 
the looks of a community of select turkey hunt¬ 
ers. They would be sure to stare at the man 
who did not know enough to pick up a dead 
bird. 
To Little Sister: Big brother will be 
mightily pleased if you send him a subscription 
to Forest and Stream for Christmas. 
To Everybody: If you know a man whose 
blood corpuscles are red, you know a man who 
would appreciate Forest and Stream. If you 
intend making this man a Christmas present, 
send him Forest and Stream. Besides being 
interesting, it is the indisputable authority on 
subjects it covers. 
Hon. James Gordon. 
Former United States Senator James Gor¬ 
don, the grand old man of Mississippi, died at 
Okolona, Miss., Nov. 28, after a week’s illness, 
due largely to advanced age. He was known 
to all old-time readers of Forest and Stream 
as “Pious Jeems.” 
Senator Gordon was born in Monroe county, 
Mississippi, in 1833, and became a national 
figure when he made the famous “good will” 
speech in the Senate immediately upon his ap¬ 
pointment to fill the unexpired term of the late 
Senator Anselm J. McLaurin. He was appointed 
Dec. 27, 1909, and served until Feb. 22, 1910. In 
that short time he endeared himself to the 
nation by his quaint utterances and his un¬ 
bounded optimism. 
He was described as a “belated survivor 
on the American stage, of a civilization and 
mode of life which exists no more and never 
will exist again. He is as far removed from 
this world of chicanery and commerce as the 
knights of King Arthur’s Round Table. He is 
a chateau vintage product of ante-bellum days 
in the South. The conditions which produced 
the flavor and bouquet of his personality can 
never be reproduced. He is as distinctive a pro¬ 
duct of those other older, happier times as a 
piece of Georgia silver or mahogany. In mind, 
manners, mode of thought, and attitude toward 
life, he is no more like his modern fellows than 
the output of Grand Rapids is comparable with 
the finished craftsmanship which gave a name 
to Sheraton and Heppelwhite.” 
Colonel Gordon is known to all, save the 
youngest generation of readers, as a famous 
sportsman, planter, statesman and soldier. Few 
men were so familiar with life of the old South 
in the days before the war as Colonel Gordon. 
The owner of vast estates and many slaves, he 
also possessed the swiftest horses, the best dogs, 
the most modern arms and equipment. No eye 
quicker than his to stop the buzzing quail, no 
ears keener to listen to the cry of the hounds 
and tell which way the fleeing buck or bear 
would direct his course. When the war between 
the States came on, Colonel Gordon at his own 
expense raised and equipped a company of 
cavalry, was at once in the field, and fought 
through the long conflict to its bitter end. 
Some years after the war, Colonel Gordon 
lost all his property. He came to Okolona, his 
present residence, without means, and by his 
own unaided exertions re-established himself. 
He camped in the fields, cut hay and made it 
himself. With a few Jersey cows he established 
a dairy, drove his own milk wagon and worked 
in the field before the dew was off the grass. 
This he continued until he had entirely paid 
for his farm. 
For many years the signature of “Pious 
Jeems” has been familiar to sportsmen. In the 
old days he wrote for Porter’s Spirit of the 
Times, and for thirty-five years he was a fre¬ 
quent contributor to Forest and Stream. 
Roach with Two Mouths. 
W. Hatt, fishing at Walton, and piloted by 
Jack Hone, caught a roach about seven ounces 
with two distinct mouths, evidently both in use. 
—Angler’s News (London). 
Dripping water may wear away a stone, but 
a stream of water will do it sooner. 
