Oct. 19, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
507 
PARKER GUNS 
Wear Well, Shoot Well and Handle Well 
Wear well because they are made of the best material by the most skillful craftsmen. 
Shoot well because they hold the charge compactly together at extreme ranges. 
Handle well because the greatest attention has always been paid to the distribution 
of wood and metal, to insure perfect balance and the most symmetrical outline. 
Twenty-bore Parkers have set the pace for small bores in America, and are growing 
in popularity every year with the most progressive sportsmen. 
For further information regarding guns in gauges ranging from 8 to 28 , address 
PARKER BROS. Meriden, Conn. 
New York Salesrooms, 32 Warren Street 
( Patented. Feb. 20. 1912.) 
C LEAR VISION means a sure shot. The bright rays of the sun, or the haze ofa 
dark day can’t affect your vision if you wear KING’S SHOOTING GLASSES. 
Made of Akopos Crystal, our exclusive product and infinitely superior to amber. 
Non-magnifying. Postpaid, $1.50 to $7.00. Prescriptions ground to order. 
The KING and the KING-BUSCH-STELLUX Binoculars have wmderful magnify¬ 
ing power, are handsomely finished, durable and scientifically correct. Endorsed by 
the leading sportsmen of America. You save $10 to $25 buying direct from us. 
Write to-day for Booklet and Prices 
THE F. W. KING OPTICAL CO. Cleveland. Ohio 
must be a stirring experience and one that 
would give a wonderful glimpse of wild life in 
the forest of the wilderness. It is, however, a 
field for the photographer, not the sportsman. 
A hunter of some experience could easily shoot 
several bears along the salmon creeks in Sep¬ 
tember. But their pelage is light—hardly satis¬ 
factory as a trophy. There is little sport in 
hunting them by stealth, trusting to snap-shots 
in the brush, or watching silently until they 
come into the water, only to indulge in marks¬ 
manship and get the shot without effort. My 
experience on Montague Island is a description 
of what can be enjoyed on Admiralty Island 
during the month of May; for the habits of the 
bears on both are strictly similar, and they must 
then be stalked high up on the slopes above 
timber, while the wonderful landscape is unfold¬ 
ed before the vision.” 
The last few pages of the book are devoted 
to three appendices, two of them descriptions 
of new species and one on the habits of the 
Montague bear. This volume contains prac¬ 
tically everything that is known about this 
great new Alaska bear, which is nearly related 
to the bear of the Kenai Peninsula. 
If the ‘’Wilderness of the North Pacific 
Coast Islands appeals most strongly to the big- 
game hunter and nature lover, it is yet written 
with so great a charm and so graphically de¬ 
scribes far distant regions that it should have 
a wide popularity among that great public that 
knows little of the joys of hunting or of natural 
history, observation, and seeks merely enter¬ 
tainment. 
A number of the illustrations in the book 
are from drawings by Mr. Rungius, but most 
of them are from photographs made by the 
author or his friends. 
MY THREE-POINTER. 
Continued from page 4SL 
over the hill, while I watched the Crossing from 
behind a screen of brush. Never a sound or 
sight of a deer was mine that morning, so I 
returned to camp simply famished and ready 
for another breakfast. 
About noon Dad came in with a sad tale. 
After several hours’ climb through the brush 
he sighted a fine buck quite near, standing on 
the brink of a ratine. Dad fired, and to all 
appearances broke Mr. Buck's neck, for he 
tumbled down the gully end over end. Dad had 
several good chances to fire again, but did not 
consider it necessary. He pursued his way 
leisurely down the gully and found—this is sad 
only a few blood stains. He had only creased 
the deer's neck, stunning it for a moment. It 
was hopeless to try and follow him, so Dad 
came back to camp. He finished his tale by 
giving me the following advice: “Little girl, 
if you shoot a deer and think he is dead, shoot 
him as long as he can wriggle.” We watched 
the Crossing again toward sunset, but had no 
luck. 
Next morning we started out again—this 
time Dad went to a lick about two miles away. 
He started away a little earlier than I did. I 
cooked my breakfast and dallied around the 
fire—was not very anxious to go to the lick. 
I had not found crouching behind some bushes, 
the ground soaked with dew, as wildly exciting 
as I had imagined. In fact, I retained a vivid 
remembrance of how my teeth chattered and 
how cold and achy I felt. 
Finally, I cheered myself with the thought. 
"Oh, well, I needn't stay long,” and started 
forth. Had to cross the creek, a slippery log 
serving as a bridge, and getting across was 
rather a hazardous undertaking for me. I made 
quite a bit of noise and wasn’t thinking of deer 
as I stepped down the trail. 
The Crossing is where the deer trail crosses 
Tom Neal Creek; there is a fine lick just at the 
edge of the water. The McCloud trail runs in 
the open for about fifty yards along by the 
lick. As I stepped from behind the last shelter¬ 
ing clump of brushes, I occasionally glanced 
across, then stood rooted to the spot, for there 
looking at me stood a fine buck, the first wild 
deer I had ever seen, on the opposite bank of 
the creek. We were about fifty yards apart. 
As I continued to stand motionless, he 
dropped his head and continued to work the 
lick. Very cautiously I raised my rifle to my 
shoulder, took aim, and then remembered, with 
a sickening sensation, that I had neglected to 
throw a load in the barrel before reaching the 
lick. Dad does not allow loaded guns in camp. 
I threw a load in suddenly, and the deer 
threw his head up, turned sideways and then 
paused, listening. As he paused I fired, aim¬ 
ing right back of the front shoulder-blade He 
sprang in the air, then was away and up the 
bank in a flash. I threw the shell out of the 
gun, ran down the bank and jumped clear 
across the creek, a feat I have never equaled 
since. 
The dogs were at camp with my sister, so 
I examined the blood stains. Dad had told me 
that if a deer was vitally wounded the blood 
would be almost black, and as this was very 
dark, I scrambled up the hill, through brush 
and over rocks, stopped a moment to listen, 
and glancing at my rifle was horrified to see 
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Manhattan, Martini and other 
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