The Big Bronze of Three Ponds. 
The best woodsmen my trail ever crossed, in 
years of wandering, were the Grade boys, 
George and Walter, who lived in the Wabash 
River bottoms in that part of Southern Illi¬ 
nois called Egypt. Their father before them 
had been a celebrated hunter, and a man of 
great endurance as evidenced by the ponderous 
arm he always used, a big muzzle-loading rifle 
weighing between ten and twelve pounds, and 
chambering a man’s thumb to the second joint. 
The old man’s mantle had descended to his 
sons, but he loved to tell of the days when 
game had been plenty, and how the boys in 
camp always listened for the boom of his big 
gun and confidently prophesied meat in abun¬ 
dance when they heard it. 
Near the Grade home was a large tract of 
hardwood timber, known as the Tree Ponds, 
much of it swampy and impenetrable eight 
months of the year, but an ideal hunting 
■ ground when fairly dry or when the ground 
was frozen hard. Small game abounded, 
and in the depths of the great forest—seldom 
disturbed—was known to be at least two gangs 
of wild turkeys, one of which was lorded over 
by the largest gobbler ever seen in or out of 
captivity, according to local tradition. 
I heard much of this monster bird from the 
Grade boys and others—claiming to have seen 
it—but as all game sections have more or less 
of these legends appertaining to some mem¬ 
ber of the fur, fin or feather tribe, I did not 
attach special importance to this particular one. 
■ The boys arranged a hunt for me, to be 
taken after the first heavy snow. This fell 
early in December, and was very heavy for 
. that section, averaging about two feet. All 
day, and half the night, it snowed hard, and 
the next morning the boys roused me long be¬ 
fore daylight. “Hurry up,” shouted Walter, as 
I stumbled around trying to find my cold 
clothes, “three o’clock, clearing off, and a fine 
tracking snow.” 
I found on getting out that it was indeed a 
tracking snow—deep enough to track anything 
that could reach the ground through it. The 
boys had their big farm wagon, and had 
brought a friend along, so we were a party of 
four, and fairly comfortable on the drive to the 
hunting ground, half buried under the hay with 
which the wagon was filled. The eastern 
horizon showed a faint gray as we drove into 
the barn lot of a farmer friend living near the 
big timber, and by the time we had stabled the 
team, the stars were beginning to fade out. 
Arriving at the edge of the woods, George 
and Walter quickly arranged the details of the 
hunt and we plunged in. George and I were 
to hunt together in a wide arc to the left, 
\Valter and his friend to the right, and we were 
to meet at an agreed point about noon. The 
idea was that one or the other party would 
strike a trail, follow and fire on the turkeys, 
flushing and scattering them and giving all a 
chance for a shot. The armament of each party 
was practically the same, George and I be¬ 
ing armed respectively with rifle and shotgun, 
and Walter and his companion in like manner. 
We had been in the woods but a short time 
when day broke, and as the sun arose, the scene 
was beautiful beyond the power of words to 
describe. There had been no wind with the 
snowstorm, and snow lay heavy on the branch¬ 
ing limbs of the grand forest trees and covered 
the ground with a soft mantle of pure, un¬ 
broken white. I left my companion to look for 
game signs, and gave myself up to enjoyment 
of one of the most perfect winter scenes I 
had ever witnessed. 
We traveled in silence for more than an 
hour, seeing and hearing nothing, when sud¬ 
denly the silence was broken by the whip-like 
report of Walter’s rifle, away off to our right, 
followed immediately by the shotgun. 
“Down!” said my companion, “close! close!” 
suiting the action to the words and throwing 
himself full length in the snow. “They have 
found and flushed the turkeys, and they may 
come this way. Watch out and keep still.” 
Lying full length on my face, I scanned the 
woods in the direction of the shots, and pres¬ 
ently I caught a glimpse of a flying turkey 
passing through the trees, out of range. 
The next instant I heard a low “hiss!” from 
my companion, and following the direction of 
his eyes, saw, down through the trees, two 
turkeys—evidently just alighted—run across an 
opening. They were magnificent birds, and 
though far beyond range, I could plainly see 
the beautiful sheen on breast and back where 
the sun rays struck. A moment later they were 
followed by a third, fully twice as large as 
either of the others, and not running, but walk¬ 
ing with long, dignified steps. I had never— 
at that time—seen an ostrich, and aside from 
the ostrich, never before nor since have I seen 
so large a bird. It was not a case of ague. 
The distance was too great for any possibility 
of success with my shotgun, and I knew it. 
It was a monster bird, and I saw him plainly 
as he stopped an instant in an open space, turn¬ 
ing his head from side to side, looking and 
listening, while the bright sunlight turned his 
great bronze breast to gold. 
I have materialized, to my greater or lesser 
disappointment, many stories of game of vast 
and unusual proportions, but will always look 
back on the big bird of Three Ponds as one 
instance in which even those who intended to 
exaggerate failed. 
“I am going to try him,” whispered George, 
but though the movement of his arms, as he 
drew, was barely perceptible, the wary bird 
noted it, and was off at once. One farewell 
glimpse of his outstretched wings, fully in pro¬ 
portion, as he sped away, was the last I ever 
saw of the grand old fellow. For some time 
longer we lay still, but finally, no more turkeys 
showing up, we crawled out of our snow beds. 
Now what do you say about the big one?” 
said my companion. “Believe what we told 
you?” 
“Yes, all,” was the reply, “and more.” 
“Well, I’ve seen him before, but never quite 
so close. He is actually larger than ever I said 
he was. We don’t want him,” he said, looking 
sadly in the direction he had gone, “nothing in 
this country big enough to cook him in. Come 
on; we will go after the one that passed over 
first. It has a broken leg and has not flown 
far.” He evidently referred to the turkey I 
had seen just after hearing the shots. A few 
minutes’ walk brought us to a large fallen tree, 
evidently blown down in the fall or late summer, 
as it was full of dried leaves. 
Stooping low, in obedience to a sign from my 
companion, we crept up to within twenty feet 
of the trunk, when just as a short, sharp 
whistle warned me, the turkey rose from the 
mass of brush and limbs of the top. Heavily, 
and with the broken leg—that I now saw plainly 
—hanging down, it beat the air with its strong 
wings as it sought to rise above the trees. 
George tried a shot with his rifle, but missed. 
I had often heard of how hard it was to kill 
a wounded turkey, but had no fear for the re¬ 
sult of the two heavy charges of shot I poured 
in at close range. As the first struck it caused 
the turkey to pitch forward a little, and the 
second caused it to rock like a small boat in 
a choppy sea, but although badly cut up and 
hard hit, it recovered sufficiently to rise above 
the trees and go out of sight, flying strongly. 
“It will probably fly a mile and fall dead,” 
said George, “but we will get it yet! Come on. 
You can scarcely believe what you actually see 
in hunting turkeys,” he said as we walked. 
“The first turkey I ever killed was an instance. 
I had borrowed an old musket, and having no 
shot, had cut some lead into slugs of irregular 
shapes and sizes. Some hunter flushed a gang 
of turkeys and a big fellow came my way, 
lighting in an opening, which I faced, sitting 
against a tree watching for squirrels. I scarcely 
had to move, as my gun pointed to the opening, 
and barely had the turkey’s wings folded, when 
the old musket roared. The load was generous 
and seemed like I was kicked half way up the 
tree, against which I sat, and there was a 
terrible fog of smoke from the black powder, 
but through it all I thought I saw the turkey 
go down with a great threshing of wings, but 
before I could rush to it, it recovered and flew 
off strongly until out of sight. 
“Believing it to be wounded I loaded up, and 
taking its course, followed after. I had traveled 
about a mile without seeing any sign, and was 
circling around searching the ground, when off 
to my right I heard the sound of a heavy object 
falling through the branches of a tree and 
striking the ground. Running in the direction 
of the sound, I found my turkey, with out¬ 
stretched wings, lying dead at the foot of a 
great oak tree. You bet I was proud, and after 
showing it at home, insisted on dressing it my¬ 
self, as I wanted to see where it was shot. 
The feathers removed revealed but one wound, 
a small hole in the side. Drawing it, and care¬ 
fully examining the vital organs, I found the slug 
