8io 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[May 22, 1909. 
straight to the open door of what had been the 
crew’s camp. 
I was looking for deer, and old logging camps 
are favorite browsing places for such game, but 
I was not looking for deer in human habitations. 
But as I reached the door in utter stillness and 
looked into the deserted camp, what a picture 
appeared before me! A large room walled with 
logs, with log rafters still shingled with cedar 
splits; small windows feebly lighting the desola¬ 
tion of wrecked stove, old kitchen utensils and 
improvised shelving sadly out of repair; bunks 
for the men in two tiers, still littered with spruce 
boughs long sere and yellow; at the foot the 
inevitable deacon seat, as ready as ever to per¬ 
form its churchly office, but the central figure in 
this picture— 
The central figure was a startled deer. He 
was on his feet and stood for a few seconds 
looking at the intruder who blocked his exit. 
Then he darted nervously back and forth, look¬ 
ing for means of egress. The windows were 
much too small. The only other door was 
blocked by fallen timbers beyond. In the open 
door stood a hunter with arms akimbo, rifle in 
hand, barring the way. The guide’s grinning 
face peered in through the narrow space under 
one arm, and he said in a hoarse whisper, 
“Shoot! Why don’t you shoot?” 
If you have traveled many miles to Dresden 
to see the Sistine Madonna, you do not, after 
a brief glance, hurry away to take a look at 
the royal palace, or to get a glass of beer. You 
will be pretty sure to stay a while to admire, 
to study, to think. And so I stood and studied 
my novel picture. 
It was a buck of medium stature, pretty, as 
they all are, with a tidy pair of horns with four 
points on a side. He had an attack of nerves, 
but tried not to show it. Two or three times 
he paced quickly about perhaps in the hope that 
some new doorway would open for his special 
benefit. Then he would stop and look at me, 
seemingly more in anger than in fear, and stamp 
his foot, as much as to say, “I came here first. 
It isn’t your camp, anyway. Besides, you’ve no 
business to shoot me at all. I wouldn’t eat you, 
or any of your kind, if I had a chance. But 
if you’re going to shoot, be fair about it and 
give me fifty yards’ start.” 
Meanwhile the guide, in whom the combined 
blood of Penobscot and Micmac cried out for 
blood, urged me to fire. But, as in the case of 
Fabius of old, it was for me to say when the 
ball should open, though very likely the Roman 
historians would not have described the Fabian 
policy by exactly this phrase. 
It is a pity the fraternity of sportsmen has 
not some court of last resort to determine the 
many ethical questions which arise in field and 
forest. Nothing is gained by acrimonious dis¬ 
cussions in the daily papers between sportsmen 
in high places and men of the clerical profession 
who make books. And meanwhile there is no 
one to decide whether the moose “caller” or the 
still-hunter is the more sportsmanlike, and what 
constitutes killing game in fair chase is still a 
prolific subject for camp-fire disputations and 
for studied argument by the aid of the midnight 
oil after the hunting season is over. 
For lack of any other tribunal I assumed juris¬ 
diction, and it was the unanimous judgment of 
the court—how few courts can determine any¬ 
thing without a dissenting opinion—that, as the 
deer had entered in peace, he should be allowed 
to depart in peace. I have enjoyed the right of 
asylum many times in old logging camps when 
from stress of weather or other causes I wished 
for shelter, and I would not deny the right of 
asylum to anyone else who might, under the 
same circumstances, ask to share the camp with 
me. And why had not this deer an equal right? 
Perhaps he had gone in for a brief nap and had 
overslept. I, who have overslept so many duties, 
could not reproach him if this were the case. 
And so I stood aside, and after much hesita¬ 
tion the deer came out. He paused for a quick 
glance at the two strange animals who had dis¬ 
turbed him, and then bounded oflF like a flash. 
He was in the open for sixty or seventy yards, 
and then the woods received him and it was the 
end of the picture. I have wondered many 
times how he described the picture when re¬ 
counting the events of the day to mate and 
fawns. Alas, I can compliment the deer for his 
beauty and grace as he stood at bay in the camp, 
but it is expecting too much to imagine him de¬ 
scribing in equally complimentary terms the un¬ 
known creature which stood with arms akimbo 
in the doorway and denied him for a brief sea¬ 
son the freedom of the woods. 
“Many almanacs have been thrown into the 
fire since then,” as the French saying is, and 
the scion of Penobscot and Micmac is perhaps 
still pondering in his aboriginal mind over the 
question why a white man will go out to shoot 
deer, and then not shoot one when he has a 
chance. I do not hunt with the camera, as the 
saying is, though a camera, secondary to the 
rifle, is usually a part of my outfit. Hunting 
with the camera is all very well for vegetarians, 
or for those who are not handy with firearms, 
or for hunters with the rifle who have more 
leisure for woods trips than most of us, but 
here was a case where I would gladly have ex¬ 
changed my rifle for a camera for the instant 
when the deer stood in the door of the camp 
and turned his last scornful glance on the two 
intruders. 
[to be concluded.] 
Succoring the Birds. 
Hickory. Wis., May 5 .— Editor Forest and 
Stream: The recent severe snowstorm, followed 
as it was by several days of extremely cold 
weather, caused much suffering to the birds. 
The evening, when the storm was at its height, 
I saw a hermit thrush unable to breast the storm, 
and confused by the blinding snow, tumbled heels 
over head by the wind. Going out to the shed 
for an armful of wood, I discovered that a pair 
of hermit thrushes, as well as several j uncos and 
sparrows, had managed to effect an entrance 
into the building. That gave me an idea. I 
threw open both doors and the snow rushed in, 
burying the wood to a depth of several feet, but 
I did not care, for the harassed birds crowded 
in by scores. I slept a wee bit better that wild 
night because I knew that a few of our feath¬ 
ered friends were safely housed. 
The next morning (April 30) the snow was 
still blowing in blinding clouds and a great drift 
had farmed between the house and the barn. 
Hastily clothing myself I hurried out to the 
woodshed. A strange sight met my eyes. The 
building was literally full of birds. Hermit 
thrushes, j uncos, chewinks, robins, meadow larks 
and the following sparrows—fox, song, vesper, 
chipping and two whitethroats. They were a 
bedraggled and sorry looking crew, perishing 
from exposure and hunger. The church horse 
sheds, open to the south, sheltered scores of 
refugees, dazed and wobegone as were the 
human earthquake sufferers at Messina. Realiz¬ 
ing the need for prompt relief, I rifled the 
house’s bread can, sorry that I did not possess 
the power to multiply the loaves as did the car¬ 
penter of Galilee. Certain it was that after the 
feast not a fragment remained. My pocketbook 
is not a fat one, but “when needs must needs 
can” I purchased bird seed by the pound. 
Philanthropy? No, I was but paying in advance 
for some of the songs I shall hear when I fol¬ 
low Meadow Brook. 
Under the south window of the sitting room 
the wind had swept a few feet of ground clear 
of snow. There I scattered seed. Of course 
I also sowed it under the horse sheds, and there 
the birds gathered to feed. Strange how soon 
the news spread among the birds that food was 
to be found under the Parsonage window. For¬ 
saking the cheerless woods they gathered to the 
feast. White-crowned and white-throated spar¬ 
rows hobnobbed with chewinks, j uncos and less 
aristocratic sparrows. There were three fox 
sparrows for one of any other variety, and only 
a week previous we had counted the discovery 
of a fox sparrow an event, indeed. 
After their first hunger was appeased the birds 
began to disclose their true nature. The fox 
sparrows were like the English, arrogant and 
quarrelsome, bullying one another and the 
smaller birds, but they were the first birds to 
sing, and for that we forgave them much. The 
flickers also came to our banquet table, not be¬ 
cause they desired seeds, but that they might 
