saw a great many more turkeys than 
usual, and about dusk they commenced 
to fly up in the trees until almost every 
tree for miles had more or less turkeys 
in it. Early in the evening it was clear 
moonlight, but near bedtime it got 
hazy. We started to go to bed, when 
Ben said to me: “This is a good night 
for turkey hunting. They can’t see you 
so well as if it was clear and we can 
see them better. On a clear night their 
plummage glitters and a turkey looks 
very small, but a night like this you 
can see its full size. Let us go turkey 
hunting.” 
I was quite willing. Most of us car¬ 
ried Winchester .44 rim-fire carbines 
in those days for protection from Co- 
manches, etc. They were poor hunting 
guns in the daytime and much worse 
at night. Of course, we could not see 
the sights, and I was told to hold very 
low, as we were sure to overshoot if we 
did not. We soon separated and I fifed 
at a good many without hitting any. 
Every time a gun fired there was a roar 
caused by hundreds of turkeys flying, 
and still there were lots of them all 
along the river. I came to a big cotton¬ 
wood that had more than usual on it. 
I fired; several flew. I kept firing, and 
they kept flying until only two were 
left. Then, although I had been hold¬ 
ing low, I held still lower and down 
came my turkey. I fired at the remain¬ 
ing one and down he came. Then I 
heard a laugh close by and Ben was 
laughing at me for doing so much shoot¬ 
ing, but he only had two turkeys. 
We started for camp together and 
fired turn about. Ben killed three more, 
but one of his fell in the river. I killed 
three more, and an eagle that I did not 
get, as it flew across the river before it 
fell, but we both heard it strike the 
ground. I don’t think we were away 
from camp two hours and we got back 
with nine turkeys. 
JAMES S. PAT ON 
WOODCHUCK AND 
CHIPMUNK 
Dear Forest and Stream: 
HAT watchful sentinels these 
little soldiers are on duty as 
outposts of the wilderness in 
the heart of civilization! Not an ene¬ 
my can appear without warning being 
given, for at the very moment of trying 
to save his own life, each sentry sends 
the alarm broadcast, to be taken up by 
every other in turn at the onset of dan¬ 
ger. Neither chipmunk nor woodchuck 
is common in the deep woods; both are 
more often found in the settled parts 
of the country — by roadsides, under 
fences, out in the open — seldom far 
from the presence of man and his 
works. 
Against the larger of the two the- 
farmer wages incessant warfare, but 
the intruder stays in the fields, builds 
still higher entrenchments, and makes 
his dugouts inaccessible, as if to mock 
all attempts to exterminate him. 
As for the chipmunk, he has the vices 
of the red and gray squirrels, though 
in lesser degree, while he honestly tries 
to make amends for his grain stealing 
by the persistence with which he de¬ 
stroys noxious insects. Popular senti¬ 
ment is usually with the little striped 
chap, too, so he lives and thrives by the 
open trail. 
We may not care especially for the 
woodchuck; in fact, there are times 
when we heap maledictions on him and 
all his works, if some favorite horse 
wrenches a tendon by breaking into one 
of his burrows. But for all that we 
watch eagerly for the first woodchuck 
of spring, knowing that he will not 
emerge from his hibernation until 
the season’s summons is unmistakable. 
Then on sunny afternoons you may 
hear his shrill, rapid staccato whistle 
echoing from every open hillside. As 
for the laughable superstition in regard 
to his appearance on Candlemas Day 
(Ground-hog Day), can you imagine a 
woodchuck—sun-lover that he is—fac¬ 
ing the cold blasts of a New England 
winter long before the frost is out of 
the ground?* 
It is an odd thing, this winter sleep 
of some animals, more nearly approach¬ 
ing a state of coma than true sleep. 
The pulse and respiration are almost 
imperceptible; there is no motion; for 
the time being the* sleeper is as truly 
“dead to the world” as though life were 
actually extinct. 
We have no means of knowing how 
many helpless marmots become victims 
of skunk, mink or weasel in winter. 
Certainly scent alone is not of much 
help in locating the hibernating animal, 
for at this time the scent is “cold.” If 
chance leads them to make the discov¬ 
ery they will accept the find gladly— 
perhaps even exulting in the thought 
that the chuck’s chisel teeth are power¬ 
less. In summer the tables might be 
turned, for a woodchuck at bay has all 
the tenacious courage of a bulldog with 
which to back up those very effective 
weapons. Maybe your dog has learned 
that fact at the expense of a very sore 
nose. Quite possibly the foxes had like 
experiences before they got the idea of 
using team work so as to take advan¬ 
tage of the chuck’s curiosity. Possibly 
“curiosity killed a cat”; certainly it has 
* As a matter of fact, an occasional wood¬ 
chuck does wake early from winter sleep and 
venture abroad to leave footmarks in the Feb¬ 
ruary snow. Possibly at times an individual 
that lives in the edge of the woods has not 
accumulated sufficient fat the preceding year 
to last till spring. Such a one must have a 
hard time of it trying to find something to 
eat in the wintry landscape.— Editors. 
been the death of more than one wood¬ 
chuck. He is seated at the door of his 
burrow in a “monarch of all I survey” 
attitude when he sees a fox coming 
toward him. “No time to look,” he 
thinks, and vanishes in a flurry of dust. 
The fox comes up, passes on. Chucky, 
who has been listening intently, scram¬ 
bles out to see what his enemy is doing. 
He forgets to look anywhere else, when 
he has a sudden vision of legs, fur and 
teeth almost upon him. With a startled 
whistle of alarm he turns to dive for 
safety, but even as he turns the open 
jaws close on his neck; one shake and 
all is over. Back comes the first fox 
and the pair go off together to celebrate 
another victory of mind over matter. 
This is the game they usually play on 
those wild fellows who love the woods, 
preferring the seclusion of some sunny 
glade to the rich abundance of clover 
fields. 
These hermits are usually trimmer 
than the field chucks, seldom attaining 
the latter’s fleshy proportions. I have 
often thought that the constant scram¬ 
bling over brush, stones and logs may 
have had something to do with this dif¬ 
ference in development. If the clover- 
fed rodent had to work harder for a 
living very likely he would not so 
closely resemble a bag of jelly when 
his short legs carry him to safety. 
After a woodchuck has escaped his 
foes for two years, he stands a good 
chance of defying the hunters for sev¬ 
eral seasons more and thereby attaining 
both size and fame. The biggest wood¬ 
chuck I ever shot was one which had 
won a local reputation by his skill in 
estimating the ranges of small-caliber 
rifles. He was killed in September and 
weighed eleven and one-quarter pounds. 
As for the chipmunk, or “chippy,” as 
he is often known to the country boys, 
he is also a harbinger of the seasons. 
Although he hibernates, it is not with 
the deep, unbroken slumber which char¬ 
acterizes the woodchuck’s surrender to 
Jack Frost. In southern Vermont I 
have seen them gathering stores in De¬ 
cember, and I remember watching a 
pair at play once Washington’s birth¬ 
day. There had been a thaw and their 
spirits mounted with the mercury. If 
they were mistaken as to the time of 
year they had small cause for worry; 
the underground home was well equip¬ 
ped to stand a siege. By the time the 
stored provisions were gone it would 
be an easy matter to obtain other food. 
In proportion to his size, the chip¬ 
munk has cheek pouches of greater 
carrying capacity than those of any 
other of our squirrels. He may often 
be seen in the fall traveling from oak 
tree to stone wall, a big acorn in each 
cheek-pouch and another in his teeth, 
looking as if he had returned from an 
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