Running Down Turkeys. 
South of Fort Meyers, Florida, below the pine 
plains and north of the Big Cypress, the tran¬ 
sitional territory is one of grassy plains in the 
dry winter season, with a very few pine islets, 
occasional reedy lagoons and hummocks (ham¬ 
mocks) of acorn-bearing oaks on which the tur¬ 
keys feed. Palmetto patches are everywhere on 
the higher ground and cabbage palms give a 
tropical touch to the crisp winter air. 
My guide, Dave Pool, and I started out on 
horseback from our wagon camp on a frosty 
morning with Cuff and Spot ranging ahead 
for game. The bare patches of ground showed 
deer tracks leading in every direction, with ’coon, 
’possum, wildcat, otter and turkey tracks in a 
bewildering maze. Dave would ride one side 
of a hummock and I on the other and the dogs 
would go through the middle. The hummocks 
were about fifty yards wide by 200 yards long 
and scattered from one-quarter to three-quarters 
of a mile apart over the grassy and palmetto- 
patched plains, and the trees not over high so 
the turkeys would not take refuge there from 
the dogs, but try flying to other hummocks. 
I had never seen a turkey wild and the sight 
of several fine dead gobblers that some home¬ 
going hunters had shown us made me very 
anxious indeed to try for one myself. 
The dogs came to a point at what fizzled out 
to be a skunk, which “varmint” was quickly dis¬ 
patched and the turkey hunt continued. Before 
long the dogs jumped a band of fifteen or twenty 
turkeys in an acorn hummock. Most of the 
flock made straight for the next hummock, the 
dumpy little hens running like California quail 
and the gobblers flying strong. I rode fast to 
the further end of the hummock and took a 
stand to await developments. Dave went slowly 
keeping abreast of the dogs. As the dogs ap¬ 
proached, a splendid gobbler ran out of the 
brush into the open not twenty yards from me. 
I spurred my horse toward him and he flew 
off at right angles to a very small hummock a 
half mile away. I was hot after him, tearing 
through palmettoes and splashing over boggy 
places and arrived a few seconds after the tur¬ 
key. I thought he would make for distant tim¬ 
ber, so started to circle the hummock, but he 
had adopted different tactics and had turned at 
right angles again and was running through the 
grass toward the oak timber. 
It was chance that I happened to go on that 
side of the hummock or that I saw him at all 
as he was running away. I started after him at 
full speed, yelling to Dave and the dogs to fol¬ 
low. The splendid old fellow was running hard, 
swinging from side to side with head low. Fie 
made a beautiful sight with the sun glinting off 
his broad bronzed back as he went unswerv¬ 
ing, straight for the oak hummocks. I was over¬ 
taking him fast, however, and as I came up 
with him he would swerve a little to avoid the 
horse, but kept doggedly on toward the oaks. 
He looked as if he would drop of apoplexy and 
finally as the dogs were coming up I jumped 
from my horse to save my first gobbler’s tail. 
I grabbed him by the neck after a little dodging 
and saved his plumage from the little pointer 
who came snapping up. 
I now saw why he had not tried his wings 
again. Fat layers of pure acorn fat lay all over 
the old fellow. I will not attempt to recall any 
dimensions or weights, but he seemed very heavy 
to me. The only thing I measured was his 
heard, which I now have, and this was thirteen 
inches long. 1 do not know whether this is 
common or not, but he was a big bird and in 
prime condition, and I was very proud of my 
first turkey. 
We now went back to the wagon and decided 
to try for deer in the afternoon. We had gone 
probably a mile when the dogs flushed a fine 
gobbler, and I missed him point blank at ten 
yards with both barrels of BB’s as he flew on 
my right and back, an awkward shot from the 
saddle. He must have been disconcerted, for he 
made a bee line for the open prairie, not rising 
more than ten feet from the ground, and flying 
hard for one-third of a mile with the pointer 
not far behind, and the rest of us doing the 
best we could to keep up. His strokes grew 
less strong and he started to sail, with an occas¬ 
ional flutter like a meadow lark and finally lit 
running and would have tried to hide in the 
palmettoes, but by the time we came up, the 
little pointer had him where his tail had been. 
He had been in the air probably a mile and had 
run three or four hundred yards. 
This was my second turkey and the last run¬ 
ning w r e did, as after that we kept to the wooded 
parts and shot turkeys only when the dogs hap¬ 
pened to flush them. We devoted ourselves to 
the other game of the country, and in the whole 
trip I never had a shot at or saw another dumpy 
little hen turkey—“cute round little brown things” 
Dave called them—and was not sorry that we 
got none. C. Grant. 
Washington Squirrels. 
According to special policemen assigned to 
duty in the various parks throughout the city 
the number of squirrels which cavort about the 
public reservations is rapidly decreasing. A 
number of the little animals are killed annually 
by dogs despite the vigilance of the park guards. 
Owing to the limited number of nut-bearing 
trees in this city, the policemen are required to 
give them nuts and other food supplies. 
Another reason advanced for the decrease of 
Washington’s squirrel population is their mi¬ 
gration to woods on the outskirts of the city. 
Some perish in the attempt, and those that 
reach the woods never return. 
Several years ago there was a small colony 
of the snow white squirrel in Seaton Park, but 
the tribe has entirely disappeared. The species 
seem to have been too delicate for this climate. 
The first male specimen was brought from the 
Mississippi Valley some five years ago and was 
turned loose in Seaton Park.—Washington Star. 
From the Tropics to 46" North, 
for Moose. 
A story in a January issue of Forest and 
Stream, entitled “Two Thousand Miles for 
Moose and Caribou,” prompts me to contribute 
an account of my own trip for moose last fall. 
Nathan Prescott and myself are in business 
in Porto Rico, and both being natives of New 
England, we have an annual longing for a few 
whiffs of the bracing fall atmosphere and for 
a tramp in the Northern woods. For several 
months we had been planning a moose hunt in 
New Brunswick, and after the usual amount of 
correspondence decided to put ourselves in the 
hands of Dr. Greene, of Centreville. 
We sailed from San Juan, the capital of the 
island, on Sept. 7, and arrived in New York four 
and a half days later, a trip of some 1,380 miles. 
After a whole year in the tropics, New York 
looked good to us, and as we were not due in 
Centreville until the 20th, we looked the town 
over until the 19th, when we took an early train 
for Boston. There we made a few purchases 
and took the evening train for Bridgewater, Me. 
Arrived there next morning, we found a double 
hitch waiting for us and departed for Centre¬ 
ville, New Brunswick, across the line and about 
eight miles from Bridgewater. It was a delight¬ 
ful drive that fine fall morning, not very cold, 
although the air seemed sharp to us, as we had 
lived in the tropics for the past seven years. We 
were in high spirits and anticipating the sport 
awaiting us in the green woods, which we could 
see stretching away for miles to the east of us. 
At Centreville we had a good lunch at the 
hotel, and then took buckboard again for a 
thirty-mile jaunt to the Forks, which is the 
junction of the north and south branches of the 
Little Southwest Miramichi. It was nearly mid¬ 
night when we reached there, went to bed, were 
up before daylight next morning and took canoes 
down the river about twelve miles where we 
established our home camp and were comfort¬ 
ably fixed by night. 
For guides we had Dr. Greene, of Centreville, 
and Charley McEwen, the latter a good guide 
and a fine fellow. Manzar Clarke did the cook¬ 
ing, did it often and well, and was always will¬ 
ing and ready to please. How many of us have 
a faculty of “keeping on the right side of the 
cook” ? Besides being a good cook he is a good 
companion, weighs 240 pounds and is a brave 
man. Left alone in camp many nights, he would 
turn in with a repeating rifle alongside of him 
and a big revolver within reach and sleep peace¬ 
fully with never a thought of the many danger¬ 
ous animals which prowl at night in that North¬ 
ern wilderness. 
We started at once to call for moose in the 
evening and early morning, but for five days 
did not receive a single answer. We were some¬ 
what puzzled and could not account for it, as 
in our rambles during the day moose signs were 
abundant, and we had seen a number of cows 
and calves but no bulls. On the evening of the 27th 
we were calling at a point about four miles be- 
