a clear mountain stream flowing over 
mossy rocks, ledges with overhanging 
drapery of ferns jutting out here and 
there, and a huge flat stone making an 
ideal camping site at the very edge of 
the stream. We built our camp fire on 
the stone, and soon coffee was simmer- 
ing and fish frying in one skillet and 
corn flakes in another. It makes my 
mouth water to write of it. If you’ve 
never had such a camp meal, go have 
one and no longer will six-course din- 
ners appeal to you. The smell of wood 
smoke mingling with the delicious odors 
of coffee and cooking food out in the 
open on a perfect autumn day! It is 
a paradise fit for the gods. 
FRAID there’ll be no ducks this 
evening,” remarked Bob as we 
strolled back down the hollow to our 
boat. 
“We can afford to give up ducks to- 
day,” I replied, “we’ve had a good day 
without them.” 
Back to the old snag in the edge of 
the deep water we rowed, hoping to 
renew our luck of the morning. Our 
lines were baited with fresh “slickies” 
and dropped into the water. Suddenly 
I felt a tug, and began to reel. I never 
knew when I landed that bass, though I 
found him later splashing in the bottom 
of the boat. I had hardly begun to 
play him, when straight across the 
cove, winging almost directly toward 
us, came a flock of some twelve or more 
turkeys. 
Bob snatched his gun at the first 
sight of them, then suddenly lowered it. 
“Shoot, man, shoot!”’ I implored. 
“They’re tame. See that white one?” 
Sure enough there was a large white 
gobbler flying with the flock. 
“But they have blue heads,” I in- 
sisted. 
“By jove, they have.” 
He raised the gun, sighted, and fired. 
A big gobbler dropped straight into 
the water; the others swerved and 
landed on the hill some distance away 
before there was time for another shot. 
“Might as well have had two,” re- 
gretted Bob, as we rowed out for his 
turkey, “but that white gobbler fooled 
me. How on earth did he happen to 
be with them?” 
COULDN’T answer him that but I 
could vouch for the wildness of the 
turkey he shot without waiting for it 
to come to the table. A beautiful eight- 
een pound gobbler it was. 
We landed then, and followed the 
flock up the hillside, going softly, and 
listening as we went. Suddenly there 
was a whirr of wings and the white 
gobbler with two hens flew back to 
the other side of the cove. Doubtless 
we had got “too warm” and they had 
flushed like quail. We were but green- 
horn turkey hunters then and could not 

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