536 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[April 6, 1907. 
Arkansas Birds. 
Hot Springs, Ark., March 12. —Editor Forest 
and Stream: This whole region, the southern 
slopes and foothills of the Ozarks, must have 
been, long ago, a veritable happy hunting ground. 
But as I like to' attend to details, to thoroughly 
explore a minute point, rather than hurriedly 
to sweep over a large expanse, I confine myself, 
in this article, to the limited area of four or five 
miles between the swift, reeky, crooked, bush- 
choked and tree-arched creeks called the Big 
and Little Mazarns, pouring front the west into 
the equally picturesque Ouachita. 
If the shades of the aborigines could appear 
once more, awakened from their thousand-year 
slumber, what entertaining and astonishing tales 
they could tell of the beasts and birds that 
swarmed over hill and hollow, and splashed and 
rippled in the brooks and pools ! d hat they had 
plenty to chase there can be no doubt, for the 
ground is still well covered with stone arrow 
and spear heads, and countless thousands more 
are beneath the surface almost everywhere., 
The present scarcity, and continued rapid de¬ 
crease, of wild things, however, is what I most 
desire to talk about; and I believe I can present 
the matter more impressively by beginning at the 
present and going backward, rather than by 
spinning my yarn in the usual way. 
Rabbits and hares are still comparatively 
numerous, but everything else of interest to the 
sportsman or naturalist is becoming rare. There 
is no mystery about it, for the whole country- is 
being literally ‘'hunted to death.” Shooting is 
incredibly continuous, day and night, and Sun¬ 
days. Too many hounds, too many cheap guns ; 
too many cheap men and boys, who must kill 
something, if only some tiny, harmless, sweet¬ 
voiced and altogether lovable bird. The wonder 
is that there is anything left. I sometimes think 
every man and boy who carries a gun of any 
sort ought to be compelled to carry a license also, 
and give a bond besides. This would not be a 
hardship for ‘‘the poor,” as some demagogue 
might claim, either. It would be a benefit to all. 
As it is,, the wantonness of the irresponsible and 
unscrupulous w T ould-be Nimrod results in a waste 
of time, with the added temptation to also worse 
than waste ammunition by using it for the. de¬ 
struction of tiny creatures which are neither 
worth while for food nor obnoxious enough to 
make their room more valuable than their com¬ 
pany—which, indeed, are none too plentiful and 
never can be. 
Quail are now scarce enough v t° be counted 
easily. A few years ago they were double the 
present number. Still further back, thev literally 
swarmed in my fields. They should remain 
plentiful, for every year I raise large quantities 
of peas mainly for their benefit, and have myself 
killed but two or three in twenty years ! I teach 
my dogs to leave them and their nests alone, 
fondling the young quail under their noses, say¬ 
ing, ‘‘See the pretty, good little quail ! Mustn’t 
hurt it!” showing them that I value it; that it 
is sacred, like their mistress’ young chickens. 
Sometimes, startled by a sudden break of very 
young birds, the dogs chase and capture one or 
two before realizing their mistake, but if I am 
near I have no difficulty in persuading them to 
release them and come away from the nests. As 
they seldom harm anything, no matter how 
tender it may be, at first contact—unless it is a 
thing I have always permitted them to kill with¬ 
out protest—they are much more careful than 
some human hunters, and when the innocents 
are released they show no sign of injury. 
Whether the dogs are as considerate when far 
from me, I cannot be sure, for, despite any 
amount of intelligence and goodness a dog may 
possess, it is a fact that he has a naturally more 
or less blood-thirsty intinct to overcome, and the 
wonder is, that his love for his master, and re¬ 
spect for his likes and dislikes (which, in the 
very nature of things, must often be the exact 
opposite of his own!, are ever strong enough to 
produce that beautiful and noble self-restraint 
for which the dog easily stands pre-eminent 
among the creatures lower than man.. It is this 
human-like quality which makes him trustworthy 
and valuable. 
As with the quail, so with squirrels; scarce 
now, formerly plentiful. A dozen hunters simul¬ 
taneously scouring the woods all day, and even, 
perhaps, several days in succession, return minus 
so much as the sight of a squirrel. And no 
wonder—the sound of shooting is so unremitting 
that a cunning animal like a squirrel is always in 
a state of alarm and on guard. Only a few years 
back I could find them almost in my back yard, 
and they took no great pains to conceal them¬ 
selves, unless I showed a gun. 
Turkeys, ditto. This is the saddest yet, for a 
big wild" turkey, especially an Arkansas turkey, 
is one of the finest, most thrilling sights a hunter 
ever was rewarded with! Once they mingled 
boldly with my poultry, and several have been 
shot in my barnyard. I even shot one out of 
my window very early one morning. His beard 
measured 9^2 inches. 
On two occasions, two or three years apart, a 
little flock of wild pigeons alighted in a red 
oak shade tree not twenty feet from the house. 
The last visit must have been fifteen years ago. 
I have not seen one, far or near, since. 
Deer were common in those years. I once saw 
five on the spot now occupied by my garden. 
Even beavers were not entirely exterminated 
within less than two miles of my house. 
Bears, wolves, wildcats, etc., were beginning 
to disappear before I came here, and I do not 
blame settlers for making war on such creatures 
—yet I would rather see even the predaceous 
animals occasionally than know a charming ex¬ 
panse of wilderness devoid of life. A silent 
forest may be interesting, for awhile; it may be 
mysterious, awe-inspiring. And, being voiceless 
except during a storm, may be provocative of 
grand and lofty thought in the human visitant. 
“The ghostly voices of the storm” in it may 
thrill and enchant; but it soon tires. It is too 
monotonous. Give me the woods that shelters 
living things, and resounds with happy bird- 
notes, and the chatterings of squirrels, and where, 
when all these are silent, one needs to keep a 
keen outlook for fiercer game! Again, a desert, 
dead and silent as the grave of a world, may 
possess a grandeur and fascination of its own; 
but it does not satisfy. 
Now, the condition I deplore is not a neces¬ 
sary condition—the land is not becoming so 
densely inhabited as to actually crowd out the 
wild things. There is still abundant room for 
them. . There is yet sufficient shelter and food 
for myriads. Why, then, have they gone? Guns 
and dogs ! Dogs and guns ! 
Why (this is no joke, either), eagles and 
hawks in whole flocks have migrated, doubtless 
in search of a happier hunting ground unknown 
to man. Three or four years ago Chester M. and 
I counted more than one hundred eagles (or 
w r ere they red-tailed hawks, the Buteo borealis? 
—they soared so high we could not make sure) 
gathering in flocks of five to- thirteen, overhead, 
coming from north, northwest and northeast, and 
sailing off slowly southward ! 
And once upon a time we had a mighty species 
of owl, different in appearance and voice from 
any I ever saw or heard of or read of elsewhere. 
I have seen three at one time. Perched in the 
tops of three white oaks, near together, with 
their feathers fluffed, they looked bigger than the 
biggest turkey gobbler, in the light of the full 
moon. Whether this sort of owl is really any 
larger than other large owls I cannot determine, 
as I have never knowingly met it with its skin 
and feathers' at rest; but it is certain that it looks 
much larger than the largest size acknowledged 
by naturalists. And its voice is simply the most 
powerful, the most frightful, the most unnerving 
of bird voices—or, indeed, the voices of beasts. 
Imagine the shrill screech of a steam siren suc¬ 
ceeded by the best scream of a panther and end¬ 
ing with the war-whoop of a wild Indian of 
giant size and more than giant lung power, and 
you still fail to realize its. full reality—as it has 
always affected me, at any rate. No one seems.to 
be able to tell me the name of this demoniac 
bird, nor to describe its haunts or habits, although 
several avow they have seen a few specimens. 
But it is gone now—not a sight nor a sound of it 
left. 
I am trying to preserve the tiny wild birds, at 
least. We no- longer keep a cat nor allow other 
people’s cats to prowl about. I am not an 
enemy of cats, but I cannot spare time, any more, 
to properly train a cat. It requires infinite 
patience, and care to teach a cat to let birds alone. 
Wild birds, of many sorts, frequent our yard, 
and fearlessly eat with the chickens, and serenely ; 
regard the dogs. I say the birds “eat” instead of 
“feed,” because I desire to make them seem. 
more like important members of a well-bred 
family than the mindless, emotionless automatons 
that some people regard them. Not all of our' 
chickens are as polite to them as I would like,] 
and sometimes strike at them, but the precious! 
little fellows are too quick for them, and easily 
elude them, although our big, clumsy-looking; 
hens can catch mice. 
Of all our feathered wards, the cute little wren 
is my favorite, and I often wonder how so many! 
writers can go into raptures over other birds and! 
scarcely make mention of the dear, faithful.) 
cheery-voiced, always neat-looking wren. Com¬ 
mon and ubiquitous as it is, I am convinced that 
few people are aware that, counting its whole 
family, it is one of the sweetest singers on earth, 
and produces a greater variety of tones than al¬ 
most any other. And it sings (at least here) at 
all seasons. How dreary my home would be 
without its clear, vibrant, ringing notes, many of 
which I have never heard described. Suddenly, 
almost at my elbow, he exclaims, “Cheery 1 
churry, churry, churry, churry! Cher -ree. cher- 
rec, cher -ree!” in a voice which, somehow, al¬ 
ways reminds me of happy, innocent children. 
Its manner, too, at such time, is infinitely brisk 
breezy, heartening Again, perhaps in the midst 
of a dark night, he seems to be scolding hie 
family, but even in this he is comical and en¬ 
tertaining. He seems to say, “Ingram, Charlie 
Mary, Johnny! All come here — Marie!” While 
he is still calling, maybe another “head of the) 
family” in some distant tree or bush begins the 
same sort of call, or admonition, and as the name; 
of his family are surprisingly similar, if no¬ 
identical, our first caller-out politely pauses tc 
hear. 
As soon as his neighbor has finished his list he 
begins again, usually at the beginning, thougl 
sometimes he becomes confused, and leaves ou 
the name of one or two of his children. How 
ever, he is very careful to correct the mistake a 
the very next call. I have known one in a tre- 
near my window, about halfway between mid 
night and daylight, to correct his call no les 
than three times consecutivelv, being interruptec 
that often by another bird in some tree a hun 
dred yards away. At times our merry littl 
friend, usually so frank and open, intimates tha 
he has a “Secret, secret! Secret, secret!” but i 
must be some innocent secret, for it never seem 
to dim his bright, searching eye, nor to saadei 
his tone—neither does it produce any appreciabl 
gravity of manner. Perhaps he uses the term.ii 
the same sense that I have. heard employed by in 
genuous children, signifying “a joyful surpris 
for one I love.” Seriously, I know.of no othe 
wild thing capable of exercising so pleasing an. 
wholesome an influence upon the tired heart, an. 
I confidently commend him especially to the inti 
mate association and observation of the ver 
young readers of our Forest and Stream famil 
—those dear, sunny, open-eyed children, whos 
hair may be white the second time, and some c 
whom are famous for their knowledge of nature 
at whose feet, indeed, I might sit and drink ye 
greater inspiration than I have known. 
L. R. Morphew. 
The Resources of Spitzbergen. 
Consul-General Henry Bordewich calls a- 
tention to the growing value of the unclaime 
Spitzbergen islands lying in the Arctic ocean be 
tween Franz Joseph Land and Greenland. M 
Bordewich writes from Christiania, Norway: 
When the islands of Spitzbergen were fin 
discovered by Dutch sailors in the year 15c 
they were found to be without inhabitants, hi 
abounding in game and fish. A station was bui 
at Smeerenberg on the southeasterly coast c 
what is now known as Dane Island. Dutc 
whalers visited the islands in great numbers fcj 
a long time; as time passed Russian. Norwegiai 
British, Swedish and Danish fishermen a ‘ 
