938 
FOREST AND STREAM 
HUNTING FROM A FALLEN LOG 
AS HE GREW OLDER THE AUTHOR DISCOVERED THE DISTANCE HUNTED 
OVER WAS NOT IN DIRECT RATIO TO THE AMOUNT OF GAME SECURED 
F INDING from a log might be a more de¬ 
scriptive title, although hunting has come 
to mean the securing of game quite as 
much as the actual pursuit of it and so the title 
may be permitted to stand if not too closely crit¬ 
icised. 
I have been reading over some of my old 
notebooks and have been impressed with the 
numerous successes scored in the woods while 
sitting on a log—if not literally, at least waiting 
silently for game to show up. 
In my youngster days, and that is getting to be 
quite two score years ago, some of us small fry 
used to borrow a neighbor’s long-barreled smooth¬ 
bore rifle and tramp as far as we could on a 
Saturday afternoon, and later when three of us 
could together raise two single-barrel ramrod 
shotguns—worth perhaps $1.00 each—we tried to 
cover still more ground and were content if we 
brought in a lone rabbit or a single squirrel. 
Later, when I was old enough to go it alone, 
I soon discovered that distance was more nearly 
in an indirect ratio to game secured and that a 
closely hunted woods yielded more game than 
two or three wood lots traveled over in a hurry 
—and good reason there is for such results. 
“That he who runs may find” is no maxim for a 
hunter. The moral of Old /Esop’s tale of the 
Hare and Tortoise is more in the line of a good 
hunter’s practice. 
It is now early February and only a few days 
ago I had a half-day to spare from my work, 
and taking my 12 gauge went three-quarters of 
a mile by wagon road to our nearest well wooded 
“Branch.” This time I left “Fannie,” our under¬ 
sized pointer at home, feeling inclined for soli¬ 
tude perhaps, although at the time I did not 
analyze my feelings particularly. I had not been 
in the woods for two or three weeks and was 
surprised to see spring so far advanced, even 
for the Gulf coast of Florida. Swamp maples 
were in flower and many of them in fiery glow, 
with crowns of red and scarlet seeds; yellow 
jessamines were blooming in profusion, the air 
filled with the rich and delicious perfume and 
the ground almost carpeted in gold, dropped 
from the abundance of their wide spreading vines. 
Our little dwarf buckeye was already showing 
his red stems and leaves and in a few choice 
spots near running water the flowers were open¬ 
ing. Passing along quietly under tall pines and 
spreading live oaks I could see far in advance, 
the dense overhead shade, giving little chance 
for smaller undergrowth. Here and there a 
glistening mass of rich green indicated a mag¬ 
nolia grandiflora—“Bay” we call them—the most 
striking tree of our lowlands, be it in bloom or not. 
Crossing a small running stream I see a single 
footprint—three good long rough toes well 
spread out forward and the shorter one back— 
a big old gobbler for sure, and quite fresh. 
Well, not much cover and little chance to call 
By Osceola. 
him if I was an expert in that line, and he wont 
be likely to roost for some time yet. It is less 
than a half mile to the upper end of the “branch” 
with its heavy timber, which does not exceed a 
quarter-mile in width at any point and much 
narrower where I am standing. It is less than 
two hours until sunset and he will probably come 
back this way to find a night’s lodging. Yonder 
log will suit my case exactly, with some chance 
of success and none to suffer if the hunt yields 
no game. A hundred yards beyond the run is a 
fallen pine with a slight fringe of scrub palmetto 
and a trailing vine or two over some low grow- 
The Moral of the Fable of the Hare and the 
Tortoise Is in Line With the Good 
Hunter’s Practice. 
ing bushes; not a close blind but let it answer 
and give the old fellow one chance for his beard. 
This had been a great place for Meleagris. 
Only a little way below I shot a fine big hen last 
year and later saw two fly out early one morning 
and two or three have been shot close here re¬ 
cently. The dense fringe of vines and bushes 
on either side not over 100 yards distant from 
me indicate the extent of this heavy-timbered 
swamp and the open piney woods is beyond. 
Fine old pines are all about me, 50 and 60 feet to 
the limbs, pfiA and 4 feet across. What a pity 
they cannot always help to shelter the noblest 
of all our game birds! It will not be long until 
an evil eye will mark them for his own and axe 
and saw will complete the destruction. Here 
also are a few live oaks:—no cypress above the 
road a half mile lower down but scattering 
sweet gums and bays relieve any monotony of 
pines and throughout the air is wafted the deli¬ 
cate yet all pervading odor of jessamine and 
again I see the golden tubes scattered like great 
nuggets in lavish profusion. 
Birds seem scarce to-day. Perhaps the warm¬ 
ing sun has enticed them out for a basking. A 
single phoebe calls weakly from a nearby twig 
and flits off for a gnat and returns. The phoebes 
seem to lack animation down here—passive and 
without a determined goal or aim in life—anae¬ 
mic perhaps and needing a treatment of quinine 
like others of our northern visitors. A pair of 
Florida cardinals are off there in the brush chirp¬ 
ing and fussing as if something might happen 
to them if they were not watchful. A noble 
woodpecker, C. pileatus, logcock, and bird of 
numerous names is hammering over yonder on 
a dead pine and the chips fly as from a skilled 
workman. 
These birds are quite numerous along the 
heavily wooded river swamps and not unusual 
out in the nearby piney woods. Now I hear a 
crow calling well up the branch and another an¬ 
swers nearer to me. It may mean “turkey” and 
I had better give more attention to my hunt if 
I am to make it succeed. I notice that with a 
little contrivance I might have fixed up a good 
blind; a branch or two among the bushes and 
some long moss trailing would have shut me 
off right well but then I might not have been 
able to see out and if I can only keep absolutely 
still, if he comes this way, I will have the better 
chance to get him. Something is surely coming 
for the crows are nearer and keep up their lively 
conversation. If we could translate their talk 
to good English we might often turn a poor 
hunt into a successful one. These same sable 
woodsmen no doubt often warn the game that 
man is afield. 
Now they cannot be over a hundred yards up 
the “branch” ar.d whatever they have spotted 
will show up soon. I hear the piping of the 
little brown-headed nuthatch and a dainty pine 
warbler flits down the branches of a smaller pine 
but a few yards from me. Not a note from 
them yet by way of song but within a few days 
the woods will trill with their cheery voices. I 
am just a trifle uneasy about those crows. If 
they are following old Mr. Gobbler and should 
get in advance of him and spy me out they might 
very easily change their tune and give him fair 
warning that old Mr. Man was down there with 
a gun and wanted some meat for his dinner. 
That does sound like pot-hunting but as it was 
meant for crow talk, let it pass. 
Right up in that thicket there surely is an old 
turkey. I seem to feel turkey right through me 
and down my spine. I don’t have any ague but 
am a trifle anxious to see what is coming. It is 
nearing sunset and a wise old gobbler will soon 
take to a tree. Well, if he does and he is now 
