Sept, 28, 1907.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
495 

—_— 
Trailing Schoharie ‘Coons. 
Tue crisp, frost-ladened October air forced 
the inhabitants of Richmondville, who since 
early spring had sought evening rest and recre- 
ation on broad piazzas and lawns and in door- 
ways or lounging about the village streets 
languidly discussing local events and crop con- 
ditions with friends and neighbors, to seek the 
‘cheery comfort of crackling wood fires with 
ithe setting of the sun. A belated farmer, snugly 
‘wrapped in blankets urged a plodding team 
/homeward. All the local stores were closed 
‘except Pete Hank Keyser’s, which contained 
‘a half-dozen men, seated on barrels and boxes 
encircling a big sheet-iron stove, discussing 
topics of passing interest. 
| Closing the Herald office for the night, I 
‘crossed the street to the Farmer’s Hotel, where 
1 found more congenial company gathered 
around the box stove listening to a discourse 
on the question of instinct of our feathered 
wild game, by the genial proprietor. Greeting 
‘me with a cheerful “How are ye,” he threw 
jseveral hemlock slabs into the stove. , 
| After listening long enough to catch the drift 
of his argument, I lighted my pipe, and, tilting 
imy chair against the wall, voiced several con- 
'tradictory opinions for the sole purpose of 
leading him still deeper in the subject, as I 
(knew him to be a candid student and close ob- 
iserver of nature, equipped by years of intelli- 
gent study to argue such questions from prac- 
stical knowledge, and I at least was taking keen 
delight in his logical theories, when the door 
lopened and Sheldon, the barber, entered. In- 
stantly “Fat Art’ dropped the conversation 
and anxiously inquired, ““Where’s Wheat?” 
| “Had him tied up since Monday,” drawled 
iSheldon. “Little Bill Jones was in my shop 
|just before dark and told me ’coons were raisin’ 
|cain in his corn shocks, so I thought I’d drop 
around and see if you fellows cared to go out 
| to-night.” 
Sheldon, Harroway, Ryan and _ myself 
|hastened home to prepare for the first ’coon 
|hunt of the season. I donned heavy clothing 
‘and wading boots, made sure my acetylene lamp 
land climbing irons were in working order, 
|seized my gun and a dozen shells of buckshot 
and hurried to Fat Art’s, where the others, sim- 
lilarly equipped, awaited my arrival. Adding 
janother pair of climbing irons and two axes to 
four equipment—for the days when ’coon 
|hunters can fearlessly fell trees that chance to 
| become the refuge of their quarry, without fear 
of consequences, have long since passed—we 
jumped in Fat Art’s platiorm wagon and drove 
to Little Bill Jones’. 
A loud hail brought Bill to the window, and 
jon being informed that we desired stable room 
| for our team while we hunted ’coon, he an- 
nounced “if we had no objections he would 
put on a few duds and take a whack at the 
dinged ’coons himself, and that we'd find some 
most mighty good cider in his wood shed.” 
|He soon appeared, lantern in hand and strug- 
gling into an extra coat, took a copious-draught 
of cider, picked up an axe and we were off. 
After noting the wind’s direction, we ap- 
proached a corn field east of South Mountain, 
made ourselves as comfortable as possible be- 
hind a stone wall and unleashed Wheat, who 
tscrambled over the fence and began snuffing 
among the shocks, 
| For some time we lounged in silence, every 
jfaculty alert to catch the whimper of Wheat’s 
warning bark. Then the pipes were lighted, 
jand we were soon hotly discussing different 
breeds of dogs for ’coon hunt:ng, ending, as 
usual, in a unanimous endorsement of the half- 
hound, half-shepherd, commonly found in all 
farmin” communities, as the ideal dog, for they 
tinvariably prove fast runners and fierce fighters, 
and properly trained, never pick up the cross 
trails of rabbits or skunks. 
Suddenly Wheat’s gruff bark sent us in a 
blind race across the corn field in the direction 
of a succession of short, sharp, choppy yelps 
that plainly indicated he was running hard. 
Wheezing like an over-loaded engine, Art 
brought up the rear guard, husbanding his 
strength for a final spurt that would enable him 



to be in at the finish. I could see Bill, well in 
the lead, drop flat and roll under a fence in 
the midst of a bunch of cattle. Wildly snort- 
ing, they ran in all directions, while he held 
steadily to his course. Together we crawled 
under the wires and followed. 
“’*Coon’s circling for the creek,” yelled Bill, 
suddenly. By a tremendous burst of speed 
Fat Art forged ahead, swinging his lantern 
backward and forward in his excited effort to 
overhaul the lanky Bill. We brought up be- 
side a clump of alders just as ’coon and dog 
plunged into a broad pool some distance below. 
Through the bushes we could see them as 
they twisted and turned, churning the water 
to a silvery sheen in a battle that could have 
but one end—the death of Wheat. Plunging in, 
Sheldon and I separated them, and dragged the 
dog ashore, while our companions despatched 
the ’coon. 
Wheat was given a rub down and a bite to 
eat, while we lounged about, smoking and talk- 
ing. Then, refreshed, we trudged up the creek 
toward South Mountain, where Wheat an- 
nounced the discovery of a fresh trail and we 
followed him over fields and into the woods. 
Through the dense undergrowth, stumbling 
over fallen logs, heedless of torn clothes and 
scratches, we fought our way up the mountain 
side, several times catching glimpses of fright- 
ened cottontails. Twice partridges went whir- 
ring out of clumps of scrub hemlocks. Nearer 
came the sounds of Wheat’s bark. Now walk- 
ing, now running, we pushed forward and 
found him with forefeet braced against the side 
of a huge hemlock, gazing into the foliage and 
challenging his arch-enemy to come down for 
battle. An examination of the bark plainly re- 
vealed evidence of the ’coon’s hasty ascent. 
On the lower side of the tree we built a fire 
and endeavored to locate him by means of the 
acetylene lamp, but the foliage was too dense, 
so Harroway and I, strapping on the climbing 
irons, ascended the tree. The ’coon spat and 
sputtered at our approach, resisting our com- 
bined efforts to dislodge him. But Harroway 
cut the limb. Before Wheat could reach. the 
spot where he fell, the "coon went up a scraggly 
spruce. With the bicycle lamp the boy lo- 
cated him, swaying backward and forward on 
the bending tip and Ryan brought him down 
with a charge of buckshot. 
Then we stamped out the fire and tramped 
wearily back to Bill’s, where we took a little 
more of his “most mighty good cider,” lighted 
our pipes, and just as the first gray streaks of 
dawn appeared in the eastern sky, arrived at 
Fat Art’s. 
It was a merry crowd of hunters, their wives 
and sweethearts, that gathered around Fat 
Art’s table the following Sunday, and it is 
needless to say all did ample justice to the menu 
of roast ’coon, green corn, sweet potatoes, 
johnny cakes, celery, apple butter, sweet cider 
and hickory nuts. 
Cart S. SHAFER. 
A “Sooner” Dog. 
Ermira, N. Y., Sept. 15.—Editor Forest and 
Stream: Yesterday, while walking on one of 
the business streets of Williamsport, Pa., a fine 
Gordon setter dog passed me with a grouse in 
his mouth. Head up, he was making for home. 
I called a gentleman’s attention to the fact that 
the dog had a grouse and tried to stop him, but 
he would have nothing to do with me, a stranger. 
As the season does not open in Pennsylvania 
until Oct. 1 the dog had evidently decided to 
open the season himself; and you should have 
seen the proud look in his eyes as much as to 
say, “See what I am bringing home.” 
Referring to the Old Guard I ought to be 
enrolled with them, I think, as I have Forest 
AND STREAM in my house bound from 1892 to 
1906 and was a regular subscriber years before 
that. E. H. KNISKERN. 
Tue Forest AND STREAM may be obtained from 
any newsdealer on order. Ask your dealer to 
supply you regularly. 
The Persistency of the Hunter. 
St. Louts, Mo., Sept. 21.—Editor Forest and 
Stream: What is the compelling desire that ex- 
cites ‘the courage, or as many who never have 
experienced the irresistible desire express it, the 
reckless, foolhardy indifference that leads the 
hunter to face dangers, jeopardizing and risk- 
ing life, health and limb for the sake of bring- 
ing down to his feet the bird of swift wing, the 
fleet-footed deer or the more ferocious animals 
—mountain lions, lynx or grizzly bear here in 
our North American fields of sport and in the 
jungles of India, Asia and Africa? Hunters will 
leave all the luxuries of earth and the presence 
of fair women, will go forth glad-hearted, en- 
during all manner of hardship to face the great 
ferocious human-devouring animals of those coun- 
tries with an eagerness equal to that with which 
the home loving husband or father will greet his 
loved ones. 
Many have asked, what is it that prompts the 
hunter to raise his gun and send death to a hawk 
that is soaring far up in the clear rarified air? 
He sends death to this bird through the blue 
serenely sacred peace of the still heavens while 
sailing gracefully, beautifully along, evidently 
happy in the might providence has provided him 
with above humanity. 
The crack of the hunter’s gun echoes back 
from cliff to cliff. ’Tis the death note of the 
bird which falls into an abyss out of reach, and 
if reached is of no value. He but amused him- 
self for the moment and tested his skill. Satis- 
faction mantles his brow. He but followed the 
unexplainable desire to deal out death to wild 
animal or bird life. 
It is not that the hunter is cruel at heart, 
though he will on the impulse of the moment 
commit such acts. 
As a general thing hunters are extremely ten- 
der-hearted. Their associations and communica- 
tions with nature create a sympathy in their 
bosoms for all helpless things, and if asked to 
explain why he shot the hawk he would find it 
a difficult task to do so. Had he come upon the 
hawk wounded the chances are he would have 
provided a meal for the wounded bird. 
The careless regard for life of bird and animal 
is not confined to the power he can exert over 
such. He is just as careless of his own life in 
following an instinct born in him. Hunters are 
not made; they are born such. Why will men 
stand for hours, nearly frozen, wet and hungry, 
to get a shot at a bear, deer, turkey or duck 
they cannot tell; or why they will go forth on 
the trail of game which they know will rend 
their bodies into fragments, or tempt other dan- 
gers for the sake of coming in contact with the 
former ? 
In 1866 I was living in the city of Chihuahua, 
Mexico. This was during the time Prince Max- 
imilian was invading Mexico, and Chihuahua 
was the most northern stronghold of his army. 
The country surrounding the city was overrun 
not only with Apache Indians, but also by rov- 
ing bands of Mexican bandits who claimed ad- 
herence to the Juarez or Mexican army and 
were little better than the Indians as far as the 
life of an American Gringo, as they termed us, 
went. We took care of our own lives and looked 
to no laws of that country at that time for pro- 
tection. The Sierra Madras almost circled the 
city. Running along the base of the eastern 
range is the El] Salto River. At all times of 
the year its waters were covered with all kinds 
of waterfowl and quail abounded in every direc- 
tion, besides deer, mountain lions and black 
bears. 
Twenty-six foreigners of all nations consti- 
tuted the foreign element. Among them were 
a few who loved to hunt, and the dreaded 
Apache and bandits were a secondary considera- 
tion when it came to getting out to enjoy 
our sport, which we often did in spite of the 
danger of being killed or made prisoners by the 
bandits or pierced with a poisoned arrow from 
an Apache’s bow. 
We always went ovt in parties of from three 
to six, well mounted on fleet-footed horses, a 
pair of heavy pistols, shotguns, and if there had 
been recent reports of depredations, our rifles 
were a part of the outfit. 

