Sept. 4, 1909.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
375 
James Ponce, Hunter. 
1 
The recent death of James Ponce, or Jim 
Ponce, as he was usually called, will bring to 
very many of the older readers of Forest and 
Stream memories of one of the most unique 
characters of St. Augustine. For many years 
he was known as one of the most successful 
aunters of deer and bear to be found in all the 
region of East Florida, serving every winter as 
guide to those who desired real sport, in the 
days now gone, when deer and bear were plenty. 
In those days deer were sometimes seen in 
'‘bunches” of ten or more. Twenty-five years 
ago he might be seen almost any morning dur¬ 
ing the season, riding his own trusty and sure¬ 
footed pony, with his double-barreled muzzle¬ 
loading shotgun lying across the saddle in front 
of him, and there it would stay without his 
touching it until a deer jumped, when his horse 
was reined in on the instant and the load of 
buckshot rarely failed to bring down the deer. 
I have seen horse and rider go down in a 
heap when the horse stumbled into one of the 
holes so common in the flat woods, and the 
horse hardly recovered himself before Ponce 
would again be in the saddle; indeed, he seemed 
sometimes to mount as the horse was getting 
to his feet, and the horse cantered, away none 
the worse for the tumble. 
One day three of us were picking our way 
through the thicket of Cowan Swamp with the 
water nearly up to the horses’ bellies, with 
Ponce in the lead, when a huge moccasin 
'struck at the hotse or Ponce, who backed out 
with one of his exclamations. Ponce had a 
istammer which must have been heard to be 
appreciated. It was one of the most peculiar 
stammers to which I have ever listened; and 
when Jim was in the mood for repeating some 
of his conversations with those with whom he 
had guided and hunted the story lost nothing 
by repetition. 
When Count • Andrasse was minister from 
Austria to the "United States, his son, with 
several other young noblemen and a German 
physician, came to Florida to hunt and fish, and 
his brother, William, went with them as guide 
ind hunter to the region of Mala Compra. 
All who have hunted in Florida are familiar 
with the thicket called scrub, where one’s 
passage is disputed by brambles and vines and 
a dwarf growth of oaks, so dense that none 
but the most venturesome and enthusiastic 
hunter will attempt a passage. A bear had 
taken refuge in one of these thickets, and 
Ponce’s dogs were on his trail, so Ponce and 
ane of the noblemen followed. It was as much 
as they could do, by crawling on hands and 
<nees, to make slow progress, while the bay- 
ng of the dogs showed the bear was not far 
away. Ponce was always very careful of his 
logs, for he knew their value and how hard it 
•vas to replace one lost or killed, so he did 
lot propose to lose one by the dog’s possible 
mcounter with the bear before he could come 
o his assistance. Ponce had a peculiar call, 
something between a whistle, a lisp and a 
stammer, which the dogs perfectly understood 
and obeyed, even when in hot pursuit. He kept 
ip the call, very much to the annoyance of his 
sompanion, who feared the bear might get away 
ir the dogs lose the trail, and he reproved the 
mnter for making so much noise, in language 
very much like he might use toward one of his 
game beaters at home. 
Ponce stood it good-naturedly for a while, 
but he kept on calling, until finally he said to 
the irate Austrian: “If y-y-y-y-you d-d-d-don’t 
1-1-1-like m-m-my w-w-w-way o-of h-h-h-hunt- 
ing, y-y-y-you c-an 1-1-1-leave the w-w-woods.” 
The party afterward came fully to value Ponce’s 
woodcraft, and gave very substantial evidence 
of their regard when saying good-bye to him. 
The tragedy in his career happened when he 
by accident shot and killed his father in a 
thicket, where his father was on a stand. The 
deer came, and Ponce, not seeing his father, 
fired with fatal effect, the same shot killing the 
deer as well. His stories of the number of 
deer and bear he had killed, like that of all 
hunters, must be taken at its actual value, but 
the number was very large. 
One winter there sat at my table at the 
hotel a man from Chicago who had for several 
days been deer hunting with Ponce, but al- 
LUNCHEON ALONGSHORE. 
though jumping a deer almost every day, he 
failed to bring any down. I said to him one 
day at breakfast, “Are you going out to-day to 
shoot at a deer?” with an emphasis on the 
“at” which did not please him, so I hastened 
to say that if the party wanted to bring home 
a deer, they had better let Ponce shoot it, for 
he would stand by any statement that might 
be made and would never give anybody away. 
There are many deer hunters who can testify to 
Ponce’s faithfulness in this respect. 
Ponce had a way of keeping his dogs close 
by his peculiar call, so that when the deer was 
jumped it was usually within easy shooting 
distance. The whole country for nearly a hun¬ 
dred miles was an open book to him. One day, 
not so long ago, we were talking of the escape 
of a man who had committed some offense, 
had “hid out” in the woods, and who had 
finally eluded the officers and escaped to parts 
unknown. Ponce said, “Doctor, I know every 
part of this country north and south, and if I 
had an hour’s start, the sheriff and his posse 
could never catch me, for I could camp on an 
island in some of the swamps and stay there as 
long as I liked; and then, you know, if I needed 
to, I could any time shoot a hog; and then, 
Doctor, if I was hiding out and should want 
anything and should send to you, you know 
you would send it out to me, wouldn’t you?” 
“Well, Jim,” I replied, “I expect I would,” and 
I have no doubt I should have done so. 
The last of the generation with the muzzle- 
loader and the powder horn is gone. And the 
game passes with the passing of the pine forests 
and the clearing of the swamps. No amount of 
game protection can restore the old life and its 
associations. “The old order changeth.” 
DeWitt Webb. 
Rail Migrations. 
Englewood, N. J., Aug. 28 .—Editor Forest and 
Stream: In your issue of Aug. 21 Geo. W. 
Comstock questions whether or not rail migrate 
at night. I think they undoubtedly do. Often 
when down on the meadows after ducks in the 
early morning I have heard the rail calling as 
they dropped in after the night’s flight. Just as 
the eastern sky began to grow light they would 
be heard uttering not the ordinary “squawk” of 
the bird in the rice, but a clear, rather high- 
pitched whee-e-e or whee-e-u. 
When I first heard this note I was somewhat 
in doubt as to its maker’s identity and deter¬ 
mined to investigate. No conclusive proof was 
obtained for a couple of years, though every in¬ 
dication was that the unknown bird was what I 
suspected him to be. Finally, one morning in 
early October, I was sitting in the blind, and 
hearing the familiar whistle away up in the still 
dark sky, listened intently. The birds—there 
must have been about twenty of them—descended 
slowly, scattering over the marsh as they did so. 
One of them, calling repeatedly, alighted on a 
little island of dead rice stems some ten yards 
from me. It was too dark to positively identify 
him at that distance, so I quietly slid the boat 
out and worked around till the island was be¬ 
tween me and the brightening east. Then I 
approached, flushed the bird and killed it, find¬ 
ing it to be an adult male sora. A careful search 
of the patch of dead and matted stems failed to 
disclose another bird of any sort, so there seems 
to be no reasonable doubt that the bird killed 
was the one I had seen alight. 
On another occasion a small and rather iso¬ 
lated slough was hunted one afternoon and only 
one bird found. Early the following morning 
I heard ten or a dozen birds, uttering the note 
I have described, drop in there, and when the 
tide rose in the afternoon I investigated, jump¬ 
ing nine soras. Not proof, of course, but a 
pretty strong indication. 
The above described note will also be heard 
on the meadows shortly after dusk, when the 
rail start their night’s journey, and at intervals 
all night, especially toward the end of Septem¬ 
ber when the birds are hastening south. 
Woodcock are more plentiful here now than 
for a number of years. This is probably due 
to the stopping of the July shooting. The birds 
appear to be large and in excellent condition. 
Robert S. Lemmon. 
Our cover picture will remind sportsmen of 
the rail shooting season, soon to open in States 
frequented by these birds. In New Jersey, New 
York and Connecticut the salt meadows where 
rail are found are peculiarly attractive in mid- 
September, affording, as they do, abundant op¬ 
portunities to observe the southern flight of our 
migrants, then in full swing. 
