New England Deer. 
he Last Shot on the Old Grounds. 
September with all its glories awakens many 
memory of years past. September in my boy- 
)od always meant English (Wilson) snipe. 
The law was off on the first, and we were 
enerally off on the first, too. The old Glass- 
Duse grounds were the site of many a difficult 
lot. A small brook ran through this swale 
id all along its margin was fine feeding ground, 
lay a trifle lower than the surrounding coun- 
y and one had to descend behind bushes in 
'der to keep off the skyline. It might blow a 
trricane outside, but down in the swale noth- 
g but balmy sunlight and plenty of good food 
A feeling of sadness and longing 
That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow, only 
As the mist resembles rain.” 
I drew away from the old place with a sad 
heart—my own had not received me—and turned 
away toward the outskirts, hoping to find some 
trace of the old-time grandeur of the place. 
Away off to one side of a vacant lot I thought 
I detected a patch of bulrush. Making my way 
there I discovered the last remnant of the old 
swale, a clump of rushes. Going closer for a 
handshake with it I was greeted with a “scaipe”; 
a puff of smoke and he was mine, the last shot 
on the old grounds. The gun flew into place 
almost unconsciously, the aim and the shot were 
Pasadena, Cal., Sept. 18. —Editor Forest and 
Stream: Where I mentioned in my former 
letter “all the money spent for fish and game 
protection,” I did not have in mind the State 
appropriation, but meant the money and time 
spent by men who have unselfishly given both 
to protect and propagate fish and game in 
Vermont. 
Regarding the number of deer in Franklin 
county, of that State, I personally know of 
nineteen being seen in one drove, and very 
often from six to a dozen are seen at one time, 
and often does with fawns are seen in the open 
OTHER VIEWS ON THE COOK PLACE. 
Four of the brant on the margin of the main pond. 
The pond in the woods is well shaded, and the best nesting places are within 
a tew yards of the water. 
listed for snipe, and there they congregated, 
here, too, we congregated; indeed, it was the 
■st and the last place visited by us when out 
tooting. 
Rows of houses now mark the old place, the 
k’ale is filled in and the brook is only a 
emory. I had been in the city for a score of 
■ars and one October day, when the birds were 
igrating, the migratory instinct prompted me 
■ seek the scenes of my early life. Accord- 
gly I boarded the train, and when I reached 
y native town, was told that there were no 
ore feeding grounds left. 
My heart was sad and heavy, but I decided 
run on down and look the old country over 
st “for auld lang syne.” I carried a sixteen- 
iuge gun along with the fond delusion of pos¬ 
hly getting a shot. 
Gone, all gone; houses and fences and heaps 
waste, tin cans and bed springs, all over 
at one-time fine portion of God’s country. My 
•art sank; I was a stranger in a strange land. 
ew faces, new scenes, nothing that I knew or 
at knew me. Unconsciously I said: 
“I see the lights of the village 
Gleam through the rain and mist. 
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me 
That my soul cannot resist. 
quicker than thought, and as I viewed the beau¬ 
tiful bird before me I felt sorry my hand had 
been so quick; perhaps he had come to the old 
grounds for a look over, as I had done, moved 
by much the same instinct. Had my arm given 
me time to reflect I would have spared him. I 
could have done without him and he would 
have added only one more to the many that in 
years past had gotten away. 
I retracted my steps with a saddened heart 
and a thoughtful demeanor as the pictures of 
never-to-be-forgotten-days on these old grounds 
flew by, and I thought how the pernicious habit 
of spring shooting that was indulged in in those 
days depleted the old grounds. 
I never shot English snipe during the spring 
migration, and I got many a laugh for my pains, 
and the old remark, “If you don’t someone else 
will,” was poor reasoning, but almost universal 
at that time. I could not see the sense of kill¬ 
ing them at the beginning of the breeding sea¬ 
son. I used to be laughed at, as I said before, 
but it is a satisfaction now to know I was right. 
“To see the right, and do it—there’s the rub 
That gives the lasting polish to the man. 
Making him take his pleasure with the drub— 
Philosophizing meanwhile, if he can.” 
Hackamore. 
fields. The reason that so few deer are killed 
in that county is that there are very few deer 
slaughterers in that county compared with other 
sections of the State. I have a recent letter 
from one of the most enthusiastic sportsmen 
there who says, “I am so disgusted with the 
present law, that I shall not take my gun out 
during the open deer season,” etc. 
Deer will not come into an orchard or garden 
near the farmhouses if there is a dog kept 
there. Any good farm dog may be taught to 
be the guardian over the cultivated fields and 
will run out a deer as they will domestic cattle 
if they break into the orchards or meadows. 
One of the prettiest sights I have seen for a 
long time was a collie dog running seven deer 
from a meadow. The deer took the wire fence 
side by side, regular hurdle style, with their 
white flags in the air. As soon as they had 
jumped the fence into the pasture the dog 
returned to the house. The deer ran a couple 
of hundred yards up on the hillside among 
some young cattle, then stopped and watched 
the dog for a few moments, then moved off 
slowly to the woods. 
A friend near by our farm has a young or¬ 
chard of 3,000 choice fruit trees. This orchard 
is situated back among the hills and is much 
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