610 
FOREST AND STREAM 
4 • 
SHOOT DALY 
OR 
SAUER GUNS 
Use Shells Loaded with 
WALSRODE POWDER 
Schoverling, Daly & Gales 
302-304 Broadway, NEW YORK 
A Mighty Good Sport 
A Rhapsody on Coon Dogs and Coon Hunting 
By Carl Schurz Shafer. 
September, October, November, the days of 
the marvelous woods with their riots of colors 
have again cast their spell. With the first turn¬ 
ing of the leaves the man who has ever made 
acquaintance with the woods bethinks himself 
longingly of the trails through the forests. Far 
away from noise, forgetful of flying dust, the 
glare of lights, the clang of street cars and the 
clatter of traffic, he has followed paths through 
God’s wonderland—the forests—his gun poised 
expectantly, his dog ranging the coverts amid 
verdent green confirs and giants and saplings 
bedecked in fall finery, content with himself, at 
peace with the world. 
There comes a vision of glittering water along 
a wooded shore to set his pulse leaping, and he 
has but to close his eyes to see a picture of a 
glowing camp-fire in a mountain fastness, sur¬ 
rounded by wild beauty, and to smell the frag¬ 
rance of the woods and feel the deep call of the 
great unmarred out doors. 
Again the vision may be a long stretch of 
sandy, wave-swept beach, broken by innumer¬ 
able inlets and marsh meadows, bringing to mind 
fleeting glimpses of flying ducks and the deeper 
and more satisfying recollection of days—hal¬ 
cyon days—spent on favorite shooting grounds. 
With the dream picture comes a thrilling, irri- 
sistible desire to once more sniff salt water amid 
the decoys. 
Quite pastoral scenes dotted with innumerable 
shocks of corn and buckwheat and toiling har¬ 
vesters hurrying to and fro are sure to quicken 
the heart beats of those few voteries of the chase 
who love to follow the leaping dogs through the 
stillness of the night in pursuit of that little ring¬ 
tailed relative of the bear, commonly called the 
coon, so seldom found far from the parental 
roof tree after daylight. 
Though his habits are nocturnal and we see 
but little of him, a coon , is a coon, whether he 
ranges within a few minutes’ ride of little old 
Broadway or on the side of Mount Marcey, 
and coon hunting is a mighty good sport which 
strange to say has comparatively few devotees. 
Perhaps it is because there are relatively few 
good coon dogs, and a well trained dog is all 
important. As old Jim Ball used to say: “A 
good coon dog is more born an’ -bred.” 
Back in our town, in the northern foot hills 
of the Catskills, Old Jim Ball was looked upon 
as an oracle in all things pertaining to forest and 
stream. Born with a true sportsman’s love for 
the wilderness, coon hunting was but one of his 
many pastimes. His forty years’ of hunting ex¬ 
perience had given him a keen insight into their 
cunning ways and developed a decided opinion 
as to what constituted a dog worth the while of 
keeping him. Judging from his emphatic and 
often expressed opinion, pure blood counted for 
little in so far as it concerned coon dogs. He 
was a firm believer in dogs of shepherd and 
hound blood, bred on a farm which had blos¬ 
somed into exceptional coon hunters more 
through natural inclination than training, as the 
most desirable for practical use, and no amount 
of argument could convince him otherwise. Cer¬ 
tain it was, he had owned several of this type, 
which the most exacting critic could scarcely 
have found fault with, so, in so far as he was 
concerned, his prejudice was justified. After 
all if a dog is a good fighter, has a keen nose 
and can be relied upon not to follow rabbit tracks 
and shake the perfume out of every skunk that 
crosses his path, he has the four essential quali¬ 
ties necessary to successful coon hunting, and his 
lineage and pedigree matter little. 
John Stanton’s old Ring was such a dog. As 
good, if not better than any dog Jim Ball ever 
owned, and he too was a mongrel. A combina¬ 
tion of shepherd and hound, with a spotted coach 
dog as a remote ancestor. The two men were 
boom companions. Their dogs worked well to¬ 
gether, and many’s the thrilling experience that 
will be recalled by former associates who have 
drifted away, when the nights are beginning to 
grow chill and there is a touch of frost in the 
air at times. 
Let there come a night in late September and 
October with an overcast sky and a threat of 
rain and old Ring knew just as well as his 
master that it was the kind to bring Mr. Coon 
out of the deep woods to prowl along the brooks 
and range the corn and buckwheat stubbles- No 
amount of churning could dim his ardor for the 
chase. Indeed if the morning looked propitious 
for such a night and John Stanton thought that 
he might feel the least inclination to sally forth 
after the coming of sunset, there was a blooded 
Merino ram out back of his -barn that was sure 
to be called upon for service on the power tread. 
Two long and one short blast on a -conch 
shell apprised Jim Ball of his intention to go 
coon hunting. Two short toots in answer sig¬ 
nified Jim Ball’s readiness to accompany him. 
Of course they could have gone alone, but, a 
party adds zest to a coon hunt, and, as John 
Stanton and Old Jim Ball were not the kind of 
men to begrudge any one a share in such pleas¬ 
ures they usually managed to drop into the 
Farmer House early in the evening to invite the 
boys. But there are Jim and John and their dogs 
coming into Fat Art’s hostelry now. Let’s go 
with them. What of it if we are a little sleepy 
to-morrow. 
Fat Art throws a -chunk of knotty maple wood 
in the big box stove and the boys go scurrying 
home for their heavy hunting togs. A half 
hour’s wait and the last straggler comes hurry¬ 
ing in. Lanterns and pipes are lighted and the 
party goes tramping down the street, dogs and 
men aquiver with excitement, buoyant with ex¬ 
pectations that will perhaps never be realized, 
but who cares. 
Turning in at a frame gate they cross fields 
with elastic step, the dogs trotting obediently 
at heel, headed toward a place where Old Jim 
Ball has recently seen the little hand-like pad 
marks “o’ a whoppin’ big coon” on the edge of 
a spring. That particular coon may be over on 
the other side of the mountain to-night, how¬ 
ever, the place is a likely one with a tempting 
patch of corn shocks in close proximity, and 
coons have a well known fondness for succulent 
roasting ears. Certainly coons have been feed¬ 
ing there off and on all the fall, for Old Jim 
Ball says so and he had ought to know, as he 
roams the hills continually. 
Behind the village lights are twinkling. Ahead 
looms a great black forest wall that seems to 
make the night incredibly dark- You don’t see 
it. You simply know it is there and it -is the 
home of coons. The soft odor of ripe corn 
comes to you on the damp breeze. The stub¬ 
ble is close at hand. Now both dogs are off 
ranging the darkness and the party huddles 
around the low turned lanterns, listening to the 
faint, mysterious rustlings that tell of a small 
busy world all about as they wait for the first 
note of warning. Off in the distance there is a 
rattle of stones as one of the dogs scrambles 
over a wall. The noise is quickly followed by 
the clear bell-like notes of the dog. He has 
picked up a fresh track and is swiftly following 
it. There is a deeper note as the other dog 
joins him. Instantly the hunters are leaping in 
pursuit. Over the wall they tumble and race 
eagerly up the side of the mountain like charg- 
