In September, 1922, the writer fol- 
lowed the coast from Norfolk, Va., to 
the far north, and found the conditions 
the same everywhere. While entering 
Boston Harbor, every rock and island 
was simply covered with gulls, and the 
air was filled with them. I interviewed 
many old.fishermen along the coast and 
everyone of them told me that gulls 
were chiefly responsible for the scarcity 
of our fish. I found the same condi- 
tions on the Cape and in the north. But 
what impressed me especially was, 
thirty-two years ago I was invited to a 
smelt dinner at Marblehead, Mass. Last 
September, I took a motor from the 
Parker House in Boston and drove to 
Marblehead through the country via 
“The House of Seven Gables” and other 
places of historic interest. Standing 
on a rock just across from the yacht 
club where I had enjoyed the smelt din- 
ner 32 years before, I found an old 
mackerel fisherman who said he was 73 
years old. Being a fisherman as well 
as a hunter myself, I asked him if the 
smelts were still abundant as formerly. 
He shook his head sadly and said that 
fish of all kinds are very searce around 
here. I naturally asked him why. His 
answer was, “Look at those gulls. They 
not only destroy all young fish but even 
the full-grown smelts.” While stand- 
ing on the wharf at Plymouth, Mass., I 
had a chat with two old mackerel fisher- 
men. They both told me the same 
story. 
The writer knows there are many 
other things to be done to protect our 
food fish; viz., the small mesh used by 
our net fishermen which destroy thou- 
sands of tons daily of our fishes. 
JASPER B. WHITE. 
A WOODLAND TRAGEDY 
DEAR FOREST AND STREAM: 
INGE having heard of an incident 
of this kind, am wondering if any 
other reader of FOREST AND STREAM 
has. I am detailing this as witnessed 
by me one afternoon early in October 
of this year at my lodge located seven- 
teen miles east of Shreveport, Louis- 
iana, on Bodcaw Lake. 
About four o’clock in the afternoon, 
as I was walking a trail through the 
woods leading to my fish pond, directly 
overhead I heard the squeal of a squir- 
rel, and on looking up I saw out on a 
limb of a large oak some fifty or sixty 
feet overhead a squirming mass which 
almost immediately dropped from the 
limb and fell to the ground still strug- 
gling, and within a few feet of where 
I stood. I soon discovered that this 
struggling mass was a large black 
snake tightly coiled about the body of a 
full-grown gray squirrel, Just as 
quickly as possible I got a strong stick 
and began pounding the snake and try- 
ing to release the still struggling squir- 
rel. In a very short time I killed the 
snake, but not in time to save the life 
of the poor squirrel which breathed 
only a few times after I had finally 
gotten the vicious coils from around its 
body. The squirrel’s body showed no 
sign of having been bitten by the snake 
and I cannot conceive of how the snake 
could fasten its coil about such an ac- 
tive creature as a squirrel. The snake 
was five feet and eight inches long and 
about one inch in diameter. There was 
no hollow in this tree in which this 
snake may have captured the squirrel, — 
and I should like to hear from a reader 
just how the capture came about. 
F. R. HopcEs, 
Shreveport, La. 
CATCHING DEER 
Big bee call 
DEAR FOREST AND STREAM: 
[2 was a stormy afternoon in the 
quiet village on the Hopbottom 
Creek. On this little stream with the 
quaint name, meandering in a deep but 
cultivated valley in the hills of Susque- 
hanna County, Pennsylvania, is the 
village of Brooklyn, about half-way 
between Binghamton and Scranton. A 
group of farmers and idlers were lin- 
gering in Harry Craver’s store, hesi- 
tating to face the storm and cold. The 
casual conversation had drifted along 
from remarks about their health, the 
weather and the price of butter, to the 
latest runaway accident, for the inci- 
dents here recorded occurred quite 
many years ago, before the days of 
automobiles and before the improved 
“State Road” put the sleepy old village 
in the automobile Blue Book. Presently 
the men, sitting on barrels and boxes 
or leaning against the counters, were 
swapping stories, and soon a contest 
was on to tell the most improbable or 
impossible tale, claimed as truth, or at 
least not a conscious lie. The repeti- 
tion of these tales would be imitation 
of Gulliver. 
After the cracker-barrel narratives 
had circled the group, a man standing 
somewhat apart and a stranger to all 
except the merchant, said that he could 
tell a better one and a true one. This 
apparent reflection by the visitor on 
the verity of the many-times-told tales 
gained for him a critical audience. In 
substance his yarn was this: That 60 
or 70 years before, when the country 
was new, two boys down in Rush Town- 
ship were out hunting and cornered a 
deer, and one of the boys caught it by 
the tail and held it until the other boy 
cut its throat. Of course, the incredu- 

lous yarnsters gave the visitor the 
grand guffaw. 
“Now hold!” said the stranger. “The 
story is true. And perhaps someone 
here has known or heard of the boy, 
for his family moved into this part of 
the county, and I recall his name— 
Fairchild, Can Fairchild.” A sudden 
silence fell on the group. They all 
turned toward an old man, with gray 
hair and beard, who had been sitting 
by the stove without taking any part 
in the proceedings. Under the embar- 
rassing but silent attention the old man 
blushed and smiled quizzically. The 
silence was broken by Mr. Craver, who 
turned to the stranger: “Mr. Blank, let 
me introduce you to Mr. Canfield Fair- 
child.” 
When quiet was restored the stranger 
asked Fairchild if the story was not 
true. He replied that it was true, but 
the details should be told. He then 
narrated the incident as follows: That 
one winter, when he was in his teens, 
there came a deep snow, which on a 
Sunday morning was covered with an 
icy crust. He and a neighbor’s boy 
proposed a deer hunt. But as it was 
Sunday, and since they would not be 
permitted to go out with guns, they 
stole away without firearms. They 
found the tracks of a deer and fawn 
which were floundering in the deep, 
encrusted snow. While the crust would 
support the boys it was pierced by the 
sharp hoofs of the deer. The deer 
were soon overtaken, and retreated 
into a narrow cove with steep walls. 
While his companion caught and killed 
the fawn he tried to head off the buck 
from climbing the steep slope. As the 
tired deer pushed by him he managed 
to grasp its tail, and as he was dragged 
along he made a half-turn about a lit- 
tle sapling, and so was able to hold 
the exhausted creature until the other 
boy came with the knife. 
So the farmers’ “Ha! 
changed to “Well, I swan!” 
CONSTANT READER. 
(Continued on page 81) 
Ha!” was 
The Public Shooting 
Grounds— Game 
Refuge Bill 
vitally concerns every sports- 
man in America. We must 
have more game in order that 
lovers of the outdoors of this 
and the coming generation may 
engage in healthful recreation. 
Write to your Congressmen. 
