Dec. 14, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
749 
Woodcock in Waltham, Maine 
By “WOODCOCK 1 
his guess of 700 pounds was received with de¬ 
rision, and it was agreed that whosoever proved 
to be the farthest off his weight should, upon 
our return, purchase, at Glenwood, cigars. 
Having previously scented a Glenwood cigar 
from afar off, I secretly prayed that I might 
lose the bet, which, in fact, I did, for his weight, 
in chunks, carefully added up, proved to be 606 
pounds. The fat upon his haunches was nearly 
three inches thick. 
During the night I was awakened by the 
sound of caribou crossing the river just below 
camp, and as I lay listening I heard from time 
to time the splash of salmon which were work¬ 
ing their way up stream in the rising water. 
Next morning it was still raining, and the 
river coming right up the banks. That eve¬ 
ning it cleared away, and we made ready for 
an early start the next morning. At daylight 
we started up stream, the three boys loaded 
with grub, tents, cooking utensils, bedding, etc. 
Driven out of the river bed by the high water, 
we waded along through the grass on the slip¬ 
pery banks, or struggled through thickets which 
fringed the woods, and finally turned away from 
the river easterly, up across the high benches 
and out at noon into the big open country 
again. On the way up I shot a goose just in 
the edge of the water, but he was able to get 
into the water and was swept down in the swift 
current. 
The day was cold, the sky clear, and a stiff 
breeze was blowing across the bog as we finally 
emerged from the woods and threaded our way 
accross the moss, following caribou leads, until 
we finally struck a long tongue of spruce 
which lay between two bogs, and through which 
ran a tiny stream of clear water. Here we 
made “High Camp,” pitching a small tent and 
getting firewood. 
Lionel commented on the favorable oppor¬ 
tunity for tanning hides, a plentiful supply of 
clean water and bark. He soaks his caribou 
hides in running water for ten or fifteen days 
to soften the hair, and then removes it; then 
soaks them ten or fifteen days in brine strong 
enough to float a potato. After this all shreds 
of flesh and tendons are cleaned off and the 
hides immersed for from two and one-half to 
three months in a tanning liquid steeped from 
barks of the birch, spruce, tamarack and fir; a 
layer of hide, then a layer of bark, the hides 
not to touch. Examine in thirty days; he re¬ 
moves the hides when they are well reddened 
all over. 
This leather is very durable, soft after a 
good oiling, and absolutely waterproof. Cari¬ 
bou skins are non-porous, the hairs do not 
grow clear through the hide. The natives of 
Newfoundland make all their boots of caribou 
hide, but the Eskimos of Labrador use seal¬ 
skin. The seal hairs, however, go clear 
through the hide, so that if they are pulled out 
the hides will be porus. To avoid this calamity, 
the Eskimo shaves the hairs off instead of 
pulling them out, thus producing waterproof 
boots which remain soft if well chewed every 
night by the lady Eskimos; a practice which the 
missionaries have endeavored in vain to dis¬ 
courage. 
[to be continued.] 
Whist is the game for a yacht with a 
bridge deck. 
T HIS is not an epic of faultless shooting, nor 
of wondrous bags of game. It is a 
memory of one crisp, blue day in October 
when two gunners shot poorly indeed, and 
when the woodcock—plump, alert little fellows, 
keen as ginger, rose in front, behind and at 
each side of us and winged their way across 
the brown covers to further covers and safety— 
at least, many of them did so. Yet, though at 
evening we had but seven woodcock and one 
partridge to our credit, my mind goes back to 
that day in favor, disregarding days when my 
coat has hung much heavier from my shoulders 
at the fall of the sun. 
October in Maine! Never, in any State or 
in any clime can there be more to stir the 
blood of a sportsman than can be found in our 
June grass-covered uplands at this season of 
the year. The leaves are falling, the frost has 
crisped the “brakes” and under each pasture 
beech one is likely to find a solitary partridge 
hunting for beech nuts, and one walks softly 
as he approaches a sugar-pear bush by the 
stone wall of the pasture lest some stray bird 
rise with swiftly beating wings and find the 
gunner unprepared. He must be constantly pre¬ 
pared and eager. 
This day was an ideal woodcock day. An 
autumn haze was in the air and the long, level 
hump of Olamon Mountain showed blue and 
beautiful to the north. K. and I were at last 
ready and safely in the tonneau of the car hold¬ 
ing the dog, who would have jumped out and 
hunted a mowing-field, so wild was he. Broad 
tracks of motor cars showed us where other 
gunners had gone before and raised fears in 
our hearts that some of our favorite and 
jealously cherished covers would be shot out 
and spoiled before we could reach them. Fears 
of this sort were spoken of by one and dis¬ 
missed with a carefully-acted “Shucks!” by the 
other as we drew nearer the woodcock haunts. 
“Let's try the Reynolds cover first, if they 
haven’t got ahead of us,” remarked K., and 
we leaned from the car to watch where the 
marks of tires passed. And luck was with us. 
No marks of turning on the crossroad. 
Half a mile scant, and we reached a lone; 
tumbling farmhouse, long abandoned of its 
owners, where the car was stopped and we 
climbed out. Wag’s dress collar was removed 
and the bell-collar slipped over his head. Once 
free and he made a few joyous circles and 
headed toward the covef, being called back 
with difficulty, whimpering and pleading with 
us to be gone. 
Our coats changed, our gun barrels proven 
clean and unobstructed, and we were ready for 
Wag to go. And go he did. Over the narrow 
brook, accross the bit of open grass-land and 
into the low poplar and birch bushes on the 
further slope, he went as if certain of his goal. 
Once in the cover the bell changed its clamor 
for a hesitating tinkle—half stopping—tinkle- 
tink again—around and around in a devious 
path. 
“He’s making game!” croaked K., and 
broke into a run. 
Through the brook we floundered and up 
the ragged flank of the rise, where we paused 
for ten thrilling seconds while we peered 
through the hardbacks and sweet fern to dis¬ 
cern the liver and white of the dog. 
“He’s right in here somewhere,” mur¬ 
mured K., happily. “Oh! what a peach of a 
day!” 
Then, all at once, we both saw him and 
the marvel was that we had not seen him be¬ 
fore. Straight in front of us and not thirty 
yards away, Wag stood frozen on a bird. The 
bunch of cover may be thirty feet across—not 
more than that. I stepped to the right and K. 
