432 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Gray Vagabonds and Red 
No One Has a Better Idea of Putting Nature Into Poetry, or Getting Poetry Out of Nature Than has the Writer 
By Robert Page Lincoln. 
In the cycle of revolving seasons there is 
none quite so enhancing and fulfilling in its 
prospects as that centering in the autumnal 
months, gathered under the banner of Fall. The 
warm and rather uncomfortable summer days, 
having flown, suddenly will come a space of 
golden silence and ripeness, reverie and retro¬ 
spection, and is all that man, in his most humble 
state, could ask for. Autumn to the lover of 
Nature is the sum total of sublimity. The har¬ 
vests have been gathered in; the torn in the 
shocks is being husked out; the potatoes are dis¬ 
interred from the hills and conveyed to one 
great pile, there to be covered over with dirt 
and grass as a protection from the frosts. The 
pumpkins are yet lying on the fields in rotund 
glory, giving the lover of freedom and Nature 
a glimpse into the coming days of pie and con¬ 
tent ; there are also the knotted squashes, call¬ 
ing forth a prospect of baked wealth, gold to be 
set before the true king of men—the farmer. 
The grains have been garnered and the thresh¬ 
ing done; the last, fresh meadow grasses have 
been cut, and now recline en masse in pleasing 
array, in cocks here and there, dotting the bosom 
of the meadows. The leaves on the trees have 
undergone a distinct change; in the midst of 
the green has darted a livid streak of color; 
here the scarlet; here the brown; here the yel¬ 
low; here the russet; here the deeper vermilion, 
and here a clash of coloring no artist, however 
gifted, could display upon his dearest, most en¬ 
raptured canvas. Come now the days of deep 
contentment and hopefulness, as they never before 
are showered upon a responsive earth. There is 
a tang of coolness in the air; there is a melting 
and merging of all sounds, and the days are 
never too warm, never too cold; they are just 
right. One wanders out now at full pleasure, 
drinking in the abundance of things around him; 
philosophizing upon the beauty of Nature, and 
wondering if she will ever cease her lavish 
giving of her best. There is a continual glamor; 
a continual radiance; a continual breadth and 
view. The mists of autumn lower in thin veils 
over the landscape; the garniture on all sides 
emulates ripeness, and the meanest leaf sports its 
best. Such panoply and grandeur is October 
queen of; and her hand steadily keeps at its 
task of furnishing man a season of true con¬ 
tent. I't is the season of looking back; the sea¬ 
son of rest. It is the month of months; gone is 
all worry; gone is all despair; and one takes him 
out along the happy highway, never quite so 
young in spirit, and never so full of friendship. 
This is essentially the fowler’s moon; this is 
the season of gunning pleasures and game bags 
replete. The breeding days have passed safely 
by, and the young of the year’s crop are full 
feathered and strong on the wing. The quail are 
now rounding into full bevies, and the man who 
would go a-field in quest of them, hunting over 
his dogs, will be repaid, if not fully, then at least 
partially; but the true sportsman does not lend 
us a wan and disgruntled appearing face, if he 
does not realize the fullness of his hope. There 
is always awaiting the true sportsman, who is 
always a true and faithful lover of Nature, the 
beautiful spread of natural perfection about him. 
He will wander through the woods, over the 
ciose cropped pastures, through the golden 
siubble, and will always find something open to 
worship and adoration. This is the true sports¬ 
man : he who sees more than a game-bag over- 
fiowing; whose mind will also be overflowing 
with good thoughts and actions, well judged and 
calculated; those actions best tending to preserve 
a spirit of good-will and comradeship. The man 
who is swayed by the righteousness of preserva¬ 
tion, recognizing the. vital principles, first and 
last of all, and doing his best to uphold any 
good action toward that central force, tending to 
universal well-faring. These are the quail days, 
the ruffed grouse days, the snipe days, the rail 
days, the duck days and the geese days, and 
not the least of all—the squirrel days. This ar¬ 
ticle is not going to be made up of telling the 
glories of following the dogs on the upland 
covers, in the dreamy days of autumn; I shall 
leave that for later attention. This is to be 
made up of attention directed to another branch 
of sport, the average man’s tender delight and 
hope—squirrel hunting 1 
It is useless to mention this little adjunct and 
pastime without dwelling upon the delight of 
s'till-hunting armed with a light weapon, trust¬ 
ing to skill and ingenuity to bring down the 
game. Among all hunters, the still-hunter lays 
claim to a very responsible and cherished stand¬ 
ard ; the true still-hunter is a man imbued with 
the knowledge of woodsmanship; to whom the 
wood is like an open book; every object one of 
pleasing and valuable truth. Skill, keenness, 
good eyesight, steady nerve, these are requisites 
to the performance. To become a good marks¬ 
man, with a small-calibered gun, demands skill. 
I have hunted alongside of still-hunters, so pro¬ 
gressed in this gentle art that they could pick 
a squirrel from a tree on full tilt, fleeing for 
safety. Try picking a gray or red vagabond 
under such conditions, and you will know that 
there is a bit of difficulty in doing it. The still- 
hunter is always the man who will allow his 
game the best fighting chance of escape, but he 
never maims, nor does he let cripples get away 
Foi'est and Stream Sables. 
The Puppies Who Didn’t Know It Was Loaded. 
