574 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
move, but before I could shoot I heard Hoey’s 
rifle and the rhino dropped. We went up 
cautiously, but that one shot had done the busi¬ 
ness, dropping it in its tracks. Had we come 
up on it where we first found its sign, we would 
undoubtedly have had a very hard time. On 
examining it we found that it was blind of one 
eye. 
I have only seen four lions so far, none of 
which have I been able to get. I got a cheetah 
a few days ago, a 300-yard shot. It was sitting 
on an ant hill in the long grass In a swamp and 
both Hoey and I thought it a lioness. 
Blanco. 
Nebraska Shooting. 
Omaha, Neb., Oct. 1. — Editor Forest and 
Stream: It seems certain that the present 
chicken shooting season is to be as nearly a 
repetition of auld lang syne as a season can pos¬ 
sibly be, considering the conditions made by the 
settling up of the country. Almost everywhere 
over the State, where the cover and feed are 
what they should be, the birds are about as plen¬ 
tiful as they ever were, and the sportsmen surely 
have some great shooting before them. That is 
if the sooners have not killed them all off. To¬ 
day is the opening date. 
The restoration of the birds leads me to re¬ 
mark that the most highly prized game bird we 
have is the sharp-tailed fellow. He ranks even, 
although but in a meager measure, above his first 
cousin the pinnated grouse, or prairie chicken, 
but the fact is that the sharptail is as commonly 
called “chicken” and as properly so, too, as the 
pinnated. While the pintail is slightly the smaller 
bird, its flesh is of a more solid texture and con¬ 
sequently, gastronomically considered, superior 
to the chicken. The young of the pinnated, too, 
are much flabbier than those of their sharp-tailed 
relative, and the old birds, in succulency and ten¬ 
derness, always the best. It is hardier, bolder 
and quicker of wing, and therefore furnishes a 
better test with the gun than the pinnated does. 
The sharptail grouse used to glory in a most 
extended range, reaching from piney Michigan \ 
on the east, through the mountains of the Pacific 
in the west, and from the plains of the Yukon 
and the Great Slave Lake of the north, south to 
Colorado and Northern New Mexico. Being 
thus a bird of prodigious range, it is equally at 
home on the plains and in the valleys of the 
high mountains, and is often found quite up to 
the timber line. Although generally regarded as 
a bird of the prairies, its range is by no means 
confined to the open country, and it seems to be 
more adaptable than any of our grouse, being 
found not only on the high, dry sage brush 
plains in the same country with the sage hen, 
but also in timbered regions with the ruffed and 
dusky grouse, as well as on the prairie with our 
chicken. 
Some years ago there was a great deal written 
and said about the western extension of the 
range of the pinnated grouse, and statements 
were made that the species had followed the cul¬ 
tivated areas along the railway westward, and 
had beep shot in Utah, Nevada and clear to the 
Pacific coast. 
“There is no doubt,” says W. D. Townsend, 
one of our best authorities on game birds, “that 
all such extreme assertions are erroneous, and 
that the birds killed in these far Western dis¬ 
tricts were not pinnated grouse, but sharptails, 
the error arising from our common denomination 
for both of these birds, the observers not know¬ 
ing that there was more than one kind of prairie 
chicken. 
“And yet I am forced to 'say that there is at 
least a grain of truth in these statements, and 
it is certain' that the range of our real prairie 
chicken has spread westward with the culti¬ 
vated area, but so far as I know only to the 
western part of our own State and Western 
Minnesota and Dakota. With the advent of the 
pinnated grouse out here, there seemed to have 
been also a diminution of the sharptail, though 
there are many localities where both are yet 
abundant. In the southern part of this State, 
Texas and Indian Territory, where prairie 
chickens are still very plentiful, a form of the 
pinnated grouse is the prevailing—if not the only 
—species.” 
The open season on wildfowl, jacksnipe and 
waders of all kinds began on Sept. 15 and con¬ 
tinues till April 5. The bluewing teal shooting 
has been capital on all nearby waterways and 
fine bags were the rule. At Carter Lake the 
cannonading begins about four in the morning 
and lasts until the last bird has either been 
killed or scared out of the country. At Cut-off 
the shooters thus far outnumber the birds. There 
is the fine teal shooting at Stillwater and Horse¬ 
shoe and about all the small lakes and low 
places near Waterloo. The snipe, too, have be¬ 
gun to drop in and the prospects are fine for a 
big flight of these princely little game birds. 
Fine bluewing teal shooting is reported from 
the many ponds in Fillmore and Saline counties. 
Joe Baldridge and a Chicago friend came in one 
morning with the limit, and Conrad Young, Sam 
Caldwell and several other Omaha sportsmen en¬ 
joyed the sport next day. It is warm, however, 
for duck shooting and the utmost care must be 
taken with the birds killed. It requires but a 
few hours of this kind of weather to spoil a 
bluewing teal, the softest and most delicate of 
all the wildfowl family. Sandy Griswold. 
North Dakota Shooting. 
Galesburg, N. D., Sept. 29.— Editor Forest 
and Stream: The hunting season here has been 
a very successful one. Several parties going 
out from here have killed the limit (ten) on 
prairie chickens. The stubble is short this year 
and sometimes they do not lie well to the dog. 
Ducks also have been more plentiful than 
was expected and a few have been bagged. We 
had two heavy rains lately and the river and 
some sloughs have water in them. One party 
brought in half a bushel of mushrooms along 
with their game, and the ladies of the house 
got them up a spread fit for a king. 
The weather just now is very delightful. The 
invigorating air, the gay breeze, the mellow, 
ardent sun, the distant Indian summer haze, 
the smooth roads make the North Dakota man 
contented with his lot. J. P. Whittemore. 
John Henry Mattox, whose home is in 
Goosepond district, is possessor of a goose 32 
years old. The goose stands a good chance of 
living quite a while longer. And doubtless Mr. 
Mattox would not part with the fowl that has 
been a member of his barnyard family for so 
long for any consideration. 
[Oct. 8, 1910. 
Hunting with Uncle Hi. 
A series of letters written to relatives by a sportsman 
sojourning at a camp on the Grasse River in the North 
Woods. 
IV.—MAKING FISH HISTORY. 
This is the last day of the fishing season. In 
celebration thereof we took the canoe and pad- 
died down the stream in quest of trout. The 
alders along the upper reaches of the river are 
so dense that it is impossible to fish otherwise 
than from a boat. Even that is difficult at' times, 
for the branches completely span the river and 
must be pushed aside that the canoe may pass. 
But what a fine, shadowy hiding place for trout 
are the waters under these alders! And what 
a sorry toll of tackle do they extort from the 
fisherman. The use of flies is impossible and 
not more than ten feet of line may be paid out. 
Lhider this dense growth we resort only to the 
trout fin for bait. 
We caught many fine trout as we moved 
along, and finally emerged from the alders on 
to the open marsh. Then we tried our flies. 
After we had paddled and fished in the canoe 
for three miles, we made our way to an abrupt 
bend beyond which the water, hurled from the 
further bank, boiled and rushed, pulled the boat 
out, stretched ourselves and lit our pipes. 
Charlie put on three flies and elected to try 
the swift water beyond the bend. I rested a 
brief time, and then sought a likely place. 
Immediately across the river was a solitary 
alder bush, so low that the lower branches were 
submerged and offered obstruction to the leaves 
and twigs that came floating down the river. 
This debris had accumulated until it extended 
over a space of ten feet on the surface of the 
water and the shadow under it was black as 
night. It looked inviting. Stepping out on a 
mud flat the first cast fell short. Again I sent 
the lure hurtling through the air, and it was 
carried under the floating scum. With a fero¬ 
cious rush a trout took the lure and started for 
the bottom with it. I was startled, for I had 
not expected such quick and vigorous response 
to the mere dace-fin that formed the only entic¬ 
ing feature of my tackle. I straightened up 
suddenly and my hat fell off. I opened my 
mouth and my pipe fell into the river and 
floated away with a hiss. I did not care what 
happened to my wearing apparel. Clothes are 
plenty, but nerve-thrilling battles with gamy 
trout are not. I was in for the fight, let the 
clothes fall where they might. 
The struggle lasted twenty minutes, although 
it seemed longer. The trout made desperate 
efforts to foul the line in the alder bush, and 
I as desperately endeavored to prevent this. 
Then he made a rush for the swift water 
around the bend and I followed him with the 
line taut. The pull was too strong for him, and 
he quickly turned and made for the alder bush 
again, my automatic reel singing as he passed 
me. A half dozen times this was repeated, and 
then I discovered that the trout was growing 
weak. The perspiration was trickling down my 
face and neck and my heart was thumping 
against my ribs. Gently I pulled the fish to¬ 
ward the surface, and when I saw him my eyes 
nearly popped from my head. He was a whop¬ 
per, as brook trout go. I must have him—I 
must, but how was I to land him? I had no 
landing net and I was afraid to attempt to lift 
him with the slender line and little hook. My 
