Sept. 7, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
297 
ner in the woods, and arriving at the hotel in 
time for supper. During our absence a party 
of Sable River anglers had driven over to Port 
L’Herbert, five miles to the eastward, and had 
brought back forty trout from Timber Island 
Brook. 
The next day we went by train to Liver¬ 
pool and drove three miles up the Mersey to 
Milton, a quiet, attractive village extending for 
a mile along either bank of the river. On every 
one of six earlier visits, the first in 1892, the 
river and its affluents supplied an abundance of 
trout, grilse and salmon, but this year not 
a fish even rose to our flies during the five days 
T HE evening before we had been sitting up 
sort of late by the fire discussing our plans 
for the coming day. It was October and 
the leaves were changing to gold and crimson 
upon the trees, beckoning to a change that would 
completely efface from the map of the earth this 
wondrous beauty, which truly seemed the su¬ 
preme effort of nature, her fondest thought found 
life, to glow in the very expression of her 
mood. The time had now arrived on the calen¬ 
dar of sport for an annual hunt for those illusive 
little creatures of the Solomon oaks, the red and 
the gray squirrel, twin brothers of the wild. The 
silent woods were beckoning us, and true to the 
call we were now considering with very serious 
mien the forthcoming day, and the wealth it 
would bring to our store of experience. The 
hunting coats were hanging on their respective 
hooks, and our guns were down and had been 
oiled. The cartridges were there in their un¬ 
opened boxes, ready for the moment when the 
cover of each would be slit open and the con¬ 
tents rustled out to do duty. What is a more 
we were there. Even if there had been no rain 
for several weeks and the temperature varied 
from 98 to ioip2 in the shade, and a steam 
dredge was at work in Liverpool Harbor, there 
ought to have been a few fish interested in the 
bright yellow fly which Forrest & Sons, of Kelso, 
tied last winter, copying our most successful fly 
in 1911. 
Out of our eleven days in Nova Scotia only 
one was a good day for fishing—cool, cloudy, 
with gentle west wind and occasional showers— 
and that was the last day of all, when we were 
on the train coming home. Truly, those were 
“off days,” which we hope will never be repeated. 
perfect manner of hunting for the squirrel than 
with the .22-caliber rifle? Truly, this is the gun 
for this especial pastime. One derives from its 
use in such a case vastly more of the true and 
genuine sportsmanship than with a gun of larger 
caliber, with the.shotgun relegated to the oblivion 
where it belongs as far as being fit for use in 
squirrel hunting. This phase of the national 
pastime calls for much caution and much stalk¬ 
ing, for a squirrel is a very wizard in hiding 
away among the leaves where, if one will re¬ 
main concealed for a space of time and will be 
on the alert to all that goes on around him, he 
is sure to eventually locate his game. 
Squirrel hunting is a sport that is annually 
resorted to by thousands of the sporting element 
who desire to use a little gun with a deadly 
effect, and who wish to sharpen up their shoot¬ 
ing capacity by being given a long distance shot 
at a very small mark, as is only too often pro¬ 
vided for in this branch of hunting. The satis¬ 
faction of scoring a kill nine out of ten shots 
under more or less unfavorable conditions is in¬ 
deed a height worthy of attainment to, and those 
who have hunted the red and the gray squirrel 
in season will only too gladly vouchsafe the fact 
that it is pre-eminently one of the leaders of 
fall sport. Afield in the stubble, you hunt over 
your setters. This calls for the keenness to score 
a double with the shotgun, but there is no need 
of such a fine degree of care as that demanded 
in the shooting of squirrels with a long distance 
between the trigger finger and the quarry. You 
have your duck shooting from the blinds, which 
does not necessarily call for keen shooting, the 
matter being the correctness of the blind you 
have made, and how well you have hidden your¬ 
self. Then it is to up and blaze away as the 
leaders of the morning flight cleave whistling 
through the gray of the fog banks. You have 
your snipe hunting, and though there are often 
enough times when you are kept on the alert 
from the beginning to the end, still the present 
writer deems that of squirrel hunting much su¬ 
perior, as far as keen shooting is concerned. 
And so we might go on through all the various 
manners of game and game shooting, but lastly 
you will rest your thoughts upon a hunt among 
the oak thickets and remain there. 
“When I want to go for squirrels, give me 
the .22.” This was what Fred told me as 
he caressed his gun with one hand and took 
his pipe from his teeth with the other. “The 
.22 has the balance, the lightness, the perfect 
feel, and when I just get it leveled upon the 
head of a squirrel a-squatting there upon a 
branch, I believe I feel just correct. This gun 
I have had for years, and it has never failed me 
and it has been in not too careful hands at that. 
But to-day it is as good, if not better, than the 
day I purchased it.” 
Everything was made ready for the coming 
morning. The coffee pot with the right measure 
of grounds in it was set on the kerosene stove 
and the food placed where we could reach it 
best without any inconvenience. Then the alarm 
clock was set to the required hour, which hap¬ 
pened to be four, and then we turned in to 
snatch a few hours in the arms of Morpheus'. 
It seemed that I had hardly turned over, and 
the quilts had settled over my form, when far 
off in the distance I heard a voice bidding me 
awake. Then the alarm clock unwound its un¬ 
musical strain, and I arose, rubbing my eyes and 
wondering what had happened. Thus in the 
gray of the dawn I crawled out of a comfortable 
bed and slid into my garments, after which I 
gingerly made my way downstairs, being cautious 
enough not to awake the folks. A five minute 
session with the wash bowl soon cleared the nets 
off sleep from my befuddled brain, and I was 
ready for the breakfast Fred had made during 
my process of sleep elimination. With the hot 
coffee and a liberal supply of sandwiches we 
made a hearty meal, and then putting up our 
lunch and putting into the pack our coffee can 
and pail, we were ready to start. 
The light of morning was just paling the 
east, and all was clear and gave promise of a 
beautiful day. The silence was intense, for the 
birds we had known in the summer had fled 
from the woods, save those few that stay till the 
very end of the season. Walking briskly down 
the road we drank deeply of the invigorating 
west wind, appreciating the glow of a new life 
springing through the body and feeling the sense 
of a great anticipation born in us. Soon we 
In the Haunt of the Solomon Oaks 
By ROBERT PAGE LINCOLN 
