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The Wizard of the Big Swamp. 
He was a big white rabbit. All the gunners 
knew him well 1 and some of them were afraid 
of him. They started him the first time some 
two years before I heard the story. I had lived 
in the old town by the sea all my life, but re¬ 
cently had spent a year with my son in Illinois, 
and reaching home- one November day, this 
story of the big rabbit was the first bit of news 
reaching my ears. “There’s a regular wizard 
of a rabbit in the swamp,” they said, “he has 
been there, now, going on two years, and ’most 
all of the gunners have had a bout with him, 
and the dogs have learned to know him, and 
both men and dogs are getting scared.- I really 
wish you would put old Vick on his track 
sometime, and see what sort of a thing it is.” 
It Was rather a strange story-of a rabbit. Had 
it been a red fox, I would not have wondered 
much, but to hear that a rabbit -was outwitting 
men and dogs in that way was unusual. T did 
- not believe what they told me, but decided that 
some morning I would try Vick 'on 'his trail 
and see for myself what truth there was in the 
story. 
They all told it in. the same way; that down 
in the great swamp.where rabbits abounded, a 
big white fellow had come into great promi¬ 
nence by leading the dogs a hundred rods or 
so, and then suddenly and mysteriously disap¬ 
pearing. Beyond a certain clump of laurels 
1 that stood on the edge of the brook, no trace 
of him could be found. The next day, however, 
they might start him again, always from a spot 
near the boiling spring, and again he would 
lead the dogs round a half-circle or so, and 
disappear, when the dogs would return, with 
bristling backs, apparently discouraged and 
cowed. 
' “It is a witch,” they said, “and no rabbit”; 
and the community was really getting excited 
over it. I am rather old for hunting, and Vick 
is not young, but this story interested me, and 
besides, I knew that Vick.wanted nothing better 
than a chance at this strange rabbit. Vick is a 
rare old dog, and in many hunting bouts has 
been only once outwitted—when we started a 
red fox that beat us both and taught me great 
respect for that race of animals. But we both 
refuse to grow old and still think that a hunt 
for a fox or a rabbit now and then helps to 
keep us young, and we eagerly seized this new 
opportunity. I think, too, that Vick wanted to 
show these town dogs that they did not know 
all there was to know, even about rabbits. The 
morning I took down my gun and started for 
the swamp, the old dog was beside herself with 
delight. We both remembered the days of yore, 
and as we neared the spot, our enthusiasm rose 
to a high point. Knowing every inch of the 
swamp, I went direct to the spring, where, it 
was said, they always found him. He was -there. 
Vick started him in less than two minutes after 
we had reached the spot, and away he went. 
I did not intend to shoot him that morning, 
but to study his tricks. He had 'no notion, 
however, of le’tting me do even that, for he 
started in a direction away from me, and took 
a turn round the edge of the swamp. Then he 
suddenly turned right about, came half way 
back to the spring, turned and ran at right 
angles to my vision, plunged into the laurels, 
entangling the dog in the brush and disap¬ 
peared. Vick suddenly fell silent, and I hurried 
to the spot. The dog was rushing around, 
strangely mystified, and, I thought, a trifle dis¬ 
concerted. We spent a couple of hours beating 
the bush there, hunting for hidden burrows, 
looking into old stumps and logs, but all to no 
purpose, the big white rabbit had escaped us, 
just as easily as it had the other gunners and 
less intelligent dogs. 
Tired out, we went home early, planning to 
return the next day. This time I took my 
stand on the side of the laurels farthest from 
the spring to see if he came through the hedge. 
Vick went down to the spring and started him, 
and again the race was on. He started in a 
different direction this morning, and for a 
while I thought' he might have another hiding 
place, but very soon he turned and came my 
way, and made direct for the laurels. Measur¬ 
ing Vick by the town dogs, he had not calcu¬ 
lated on her sagacity, and came very near his 
end. Vick had a trick of divining which way a 
rabbit would turn, and about how many turns 
he would make before he got down to business, 
and this morning, instead of following him 
round the border of the swamp, she made direct 
for the laurels, reaching them at nearly the 
same time as the rabbit, and he had to hustle 
terribly to get in ahead. He did it though, yet 
by about the length of his tail. He had ap¬ 
parently despised old Vick, but now he learned 
by an exceedingly narrow escape from death 
that she was up to some of the tricks of rabbits, 
and knew a thing or two herself. He escaped 
her, and I was glad he did, for I wanted to 
watch him, and then I wanted to see if he could 
learn a lesson quickly. 1 wanted to see, not 
only if he could take the measure of this dog 
as he now learned it, but also, if, having learned 
the lesson, he could break away even once 
from the old instincts and habits of running 
zigzag, round about, to throw the dogs and 
foxes off his track, and make straight for his 
hiding place. He got into the hedge safe, and 
in it naturally distanced the dog and escaped. 
He did not show himself on the other side, yet 
what was my consternation to have Vick, hot 
on the trail, come out on my side of the hedge, 
follow along the edge of a clump of maples 
not twenty feet distant, make a complete circle 
round me and dive into the hedge again some 
three rods beyond my station. That rabbit had 
come out of the laurels, not twenty feet away 
from where I was standing, and I had not seen 
or heard a sign of him. I began to be touched 
by the mystery of the thing. A search revealed 
no trace of him further than that turn round 
me, and the return to the laurels, three rods 
up stream. He was gone, and more mysteri¬ 
ously than the day before. We returned home 
not very good natured, either of us; but another 
day was coming. 
The next morning Vick and I were off again, 
this time with some new plans in our heads. 
I would work my way into the hedge where he 
last disappeared and hide while Vick would 
start him from the spring. Vick found him in 
the same old spot. The old wizard had evi¬ 
dently mastered his new lesson also, and had 
taken himself in hand, for he played no jokes 
on the dog that morning, but came straight for 
the hedge. I could not see, but Vick kept me 
informed as to his whereabouts, and I judged 
that he entered the hedge near the place chosen 
for it the day before. I heard Vick thrashing 
and dashing through'the laurels, and in follow¬ 
ing her, almost forgot that the rabbit would be 
c good way in advance, when, suddenly, like a 
streak of lightning, the rabbit dashed silently 
past me, took a turn round a huge boulder 
about ten feet away, then sprang to the top of 
it, thence,' without a .pause, into the boughs 
of a spruce tree that leaned over the hedge 
from the other-side oh the'brook, and cosily hid 
himself in a parasitic growth in its top. It 
was a perfect hiding place. So simple, yet so 
unusual for a rabbit, that he had easily thrown 
all pursuers off the track. 
There was no witchery in it, but it was 
the shrewdest thing I had ever known any ani¬ 
mal to do. I said: “Well done my fine fellow, 
thou, too, art among the immortals, and 
through me no one shall ever know of thy hid¬ 
ing place.” That happened two years ago. No 
one as yet has discovered the place. Gunners 
still start the wizard of the swamp and lose 
him in the laurels. Occasionally, just for old 
acquaintance’s sake, Vick and I have a bout 
with him. Joseph Woodbury Strout. 
Wild Duck Hunting in England. 
Annapolis Royal, N. S., Jan. 20 .—Editor 
Forest and Stream: I read with interest the 
tales of ducking in your pages. But, bless your 
soul, these Americans know nothing of duck 
shooting. Turn to the old country and learn. 
At Wadhurst Hall in Sussex last month 1,578 
head of wild ducks were shot in one day by 
nine guns. Of course they were mostly hand 
bred. Some of your readers may not know 
that this means that they were raised “by 
hand”; namely, hatched out by hens or arti¬ 
ficially and reared in the yard until practically 
mature, when they are turned out to be shot. 
It is strictly true that in some preserves the 
ducks have been regularly taught, before the 
season opened, to come to be fed at the sound 
of a gun, and often flock to the stands and 
actually settle down round the gunners. I he 
result, even with bad shots, is inevitable. And 
are these pot-hunters and low-brows who do 
this thing? By no means. They are “gentle¬ 
men,” and can be heard indignantly condemning 
the sportsmanship of those Yankee athletes. Do 
you think the above is exaggerated: Not in 
the slightest. Edward Breci-c. 
