422 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Oct. 5. 1912 
into the water. Up go the heads of the two seals 
still in view. I lie like a log, with a sharp rocky 
lump sticking into my chest. Luckily my clothes 
are dark and so is the seaweed. 
All's well at length. The two inquisitive 
heads sink into apparently Lethean slumber, but 
still I know in reality all too watchful. Inch by 
inch I turn myself back and finally, after fully 
five minutes on the top of that sharp rock, I 
resume my former position without having made 
any progress or plan for the next move. True, 
I mentally invented several choice epithets which 
should have withered that rock. Obviously I 
could not go round the top of the inlet, crawl¬ 
ing fifty yards in the open, and so the only alter¬ 
native is to cross it, but where I am at present 
the bank goes down sheer for five feet or so to 
the water’s edge, and may go down for ten 
feet under for all I can tell. To my left the 
bank seems to be lower and the inlet broader, 
probably shallower also, as growing seaweed is 
floating on the surface in places. Cautiously I 
turn to my left, avoid the rock I had dislodged, 
and after a few yards’ crawling find myself out 
of sight of the seals for the present. I put up 
a cormorant and some gulls in this operation, 
but feel pretty sure the seals will not mind them. 
One hears a lot about “not caring how wet you 
are once you are wet,” but personally I think 
there are several clearly defined degrees of wet¬ 
ness, each one more uncomfortable than the last. 
On this occassion, as I gingerly enter the 
water, I am relieved to find that nowhere does 
it go much above my knees, so I get across with 
at least a dry body. On occasions I have found 
potholes in these inlets that take the water over 
one’s waist, and once I had to swim, almost ruin¬ 
ing my rifle, but that is anpther story. On reach¬ 
ing the far side of this water I was greeted by 
a new form of wetness—spray—which, however, 
in no way damped my ardor. Being now quite 
near the edge of the ocean, what before was but 
a more or less distant booming now became a 
roar of many waters that made themselves felt 
as above stated. I dared not keep any closer to 
the breakers, as I had wished, because it is fatal 
to play tricks with the wind in any form of 
shooting, so now I set about worming myself to 
that little black stone, beyond which I hoped to 
see tlie quarry within shot. Sure enough, when 
I had only twenty yards between me and my 
goal, coming to the edge of a miniature ridsre I 
saw the whole herd, about twenty, sporting them¬ 
selves in the calmness of a small natural harbor 
that appeared shallow but was in reality quite 
ten feet deep. On the rocks I could see but 
three seals, all within 100 yards of me. but the 
big fellow I was anxious to get had gone. 
It is an extremely interesting and pretty 
sight to watch these curious creatures How 
gracefully they swim, and how uneainly they 
wriggle on the rocks and lie like shininsr logs! 
Occasionally two will have a kind of a fisht, but 
as a rule they are the picture of restful content¬ 
ment, reminding one forcibly of the conclusion 
of a civic banquet. This wild day, however, I 
had come for a scalp, and not nature observa¬ 
tions, so selecting what appeared to be the best 
of the three on the rocks, I pushed back my 
safety catch, aimed steadily at the center of the 
hack of his head and fired. Almost before the 
rifle’s crack had rung out, there was nothing to 
he seen but the dead body of the seal I had shot 
and some swirls in the water. I walked trium¬ 
phant to the motionless body. He had not moved 
an inch or given a wriggle after being hit. His 
head had just fallen and his spirit flown to his 
happy hunting grounds. A fine seal he was, too, 
about five feet from whiskers to tail, with a 
splendid coat. My bullet had gone in just be¬ 
hind his ear, whence more elation on my part, 
for 1 consider there are few more satisfying 
things than a perfect shot—in the head, neck or 
1 ehind the shoulder—after an exciting stalk. The 
rapidity with which his erstwhile companions on 
the rocks had skedaddled into the sea was truly 
wonderful, and a right and left, even had I 
wished it, would have been quite out of the 
question. 
The whole herd swam out about 150 yards, 
then all together reared their inquisitive heads, 
seeking to understand this rude disturbance of 
their peace. I pointed my rifle at them. Down 
they all went, coming up again after thirty sec¬ 
onds. Finally, after much diving, splashing and 
grunting they decided their favorite haunt was 
untenable, and took their departure to the “gray 
unharvested ocean.” Meanwhile I had produced 
my knife, thrown off my coat, and was soon hard 
at work skinning the quarry. This is the opera¬ 
tion that is so unpleasant on a hot day, and after 
once trying it I swore thenceforth to shoot seal 
only on gray days, for on hot days a camera is 
the most pleasant weapon. T might of course 
have walked three miles to the nearest craft and 
hired the service of a brawny son of the soil, 
but their methods are apt to he rather rough on 
the skin in a too great keenness for blubber. 
Half an hour's hard work completes this opera- 
Welcome to our Farm. 
Here is a real friend to sportsmen. Elmer 
E. Shaner not only refuses to post his farm, but 
erects a notice of welcome so large as to be 
seen more than one hundred yards away. More 
than this—there are plenty of birds on the place, 
conserved and winter-fed by Mr. Shaner’s men. 
tion, and the satisfaction therefrom is enormous. 
Once indeed I found I had only a pen knife with 
me, but managed to just secure the pelt in the 
two hours before the tide came up. 
Few places are more grandly splendid than 
these rocks when the tide goes out, and working 
alone on the seal's skin you have ample time for 
contemplative admiration. The sea gulls have 
already begun to circle overhead anticipating a 
meal, a flock of eider duck have splashed down 
near at hand, a lanky heron wings its way slowly 
aloft, peewits whistle plaintively, and the oyster 
catcher’s sharp squeak mingles into the booming 
surf, the whistling wind and splashing rain. 
Finally I cover the carcass with seaweed to pro¬ 
tect it from the birds, light the pipe of content¬ 
ment, and start my trudge homeward to the farm 
where I have left the trap—no light task with a 
heavy wet seal skin, but a task is rendered pleas¬ 
ant by success and the anticipation of a hot bath. 
Arriving at the farm I inform the inhabitants 
of the blubber on the rocks that awaits them, and 
a long-legged 'Highlander is soon off to the scene 
of the kill. Seal flesh is considered edible by 
some, but personally I never have ventured. I 
put my hard won trophy in the trap and wrap¬ 
ped up in a warm rug, am soon pleasantly jolted 
over the six miles of so-called road to my host’s 
hospitable lodge. 
I recommend a small-bore rifle, .256 or there¬ 
abouts, a very watertight rifle case, and would 
advise any prospective seal stalker to have the 
knees of his knickerbockers doubled. T have 
never regretted a day spent after seal with rifle 
or kodak. 
Crestview is in Butler county, Pa., sixty-seven 
miles from Pittsburgh. Here, then, is practi¬ 
cally a good big whole-hearted bid to shoot on 
a private preserve. Wouldn’t sportsmen be in 
feathered clover if one of these signs took the 
place of each of the little cloth signs bearing in 
black type the word "Posted”? To Mr. Shaner, 
thanks. 
mm 
