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FOREST AND STREAM. 

A ’Possum Hunt. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
The air’ was crisp with the first tang of 
autumnal frost that had touched the foliage of 
oak and gum with tints of gold and scarlet, and 
redolent with the spicy odors of pitch pine 
knots, that flamed and sputtered in the big fire- 
place, sending curls of black smoke swirling up 
the clay chimney to hover a moment above the 
ridge pole, and then sink _ gracefully down 
through the yellow foliage of china and pecan 
trees that hedged the log cabin around. Just 
climbing the eastern sky the full moon flooded 
the landscape with silver light. 
“Too-too-too-oot,” sharply rang the notes of 
a horn as a tall shambling boy was silhouetted 
against the firelight through the cabin door. 
“To0-too-to-00-oot!”” again. “Ah-ooh, ah-ooh, 
ah-oo-ooh!”’ came the answering bay of hounds 
as two or three burst from the doorway and 
frisked about; “Ah-ooh, ah-ooh, ah-oo-ooh!” 
another blast of the horn, and it and the canine 
chorus was answered from distant points. And 
in an incredibly short space of time scurrying 
figures and frisking shadows could be seen, 
dashing down the road, and hastening across 
the fields, answering hunt call with hunt call. 
“Thar’s Bill Simmon’s horn, and thet’s Ole 
Blue, as suah as shootin’,” cries a voice. 
“That’s Wooten’s hounds, jes’ heah *em er 
coming, yah! yah!” says another. 
“An’ theah’s Valcour’s horn, too; guess theah 
about all comin’. This heah fros’ done sweeten 
theh ’simmons teh theh queen tas’-—reckon we 
all’s gwin fin’ plenty ‘possums en ’coons teh 
. 2 ~ 2 ; ” 
night, Come along, boys, les’ move.” And 
the crowd—some ten or a dozen strong (white 
boys and black)—that had gathered at the edge 
of the clearing started for the woods, dogs 
yelping, boys shouting and ever and anon 
sounding the hunting call (their instrument, a 
steer’s horn, bored from the tip and scraped 
very thin). 
As the shadows of the woodland swallowed up 
the group, a marked diminution in the noise 
made by the boys was clearly noticeable; but 
“the hounds and the fices,’ if anything, in- 
creased their uproar. Now some young pup 
scented the passing of some wandering cotton- 
tail, and burst forth in the chase cry of his breed, 
answered, for the moment, by the inquiring note 
of some older dog, wiser in the lore of the 
chase, and some ‘half-dozen of the mongrels 
would break away through the underbrush in 
excited rush, only to be harshly admonished by 
the excited hunters, “Yeh com’ heah, hab some 
sense; don’t yeh see Ole Blue en Belle they 
ain’t er snuffin’ no rabbit tracks. Jes wait tell 
we alls git down back theh cornfiel’s, erlon’ 
theh branch.” “Too-too, to-oo-ooh!” “Ah- 
ooh, ah-ooh, ah-oo-ooh!” answer the dogs. 
Crash and tear, hustle and dodge through 
yeapon and haw thickets, holly and pine and 
blackberry briers, boys and dogs scramble, until 
Ole Blue suddenly changes his long musical 
note of inquiry to the short exciting cry of cer- 
tainty, as the scent lies heavy and fetid. ‘“Yip- 
yip-ah-ooh-yip-yip!”’ taken up in a moment by 
the whole pack dashing away in full cry. After 
them tear the boys dodging beneath branches 
and loops of the rattan vine, tripping over 
logs and stumps, falling down “coulées” or 
splashing through shallow branches and hidden 
ponds. Now the dogs are almost out of hear- 
ing; now they have turned and are coming 
back, and then seemingly have stopped, the 
hounds only baying in response to the calls of 
the horns as the straggling hunters seek to lo- 
cate them. 
“Treed him, suah—hurry fellahs,” the hunts- 
men cry, and breaking through the bushes, join 
the pack. The older hounds are lying down 
about the tree, regaining their wind, while the 
fices and younger dogs are gazing excitedly into 
the branches or striving wildly to scale the 
trunk by longer leaps. “Lite ’ood knots’ are 
quickly kindled, and their lurid blazes “flash 
out” sections of the tree trunks and branches, 
with the excited faces of the hunters, gleaming 
eyes and flashing teeth, among the darkies, be- 
ing specially marked. 
“Thar he is. I see him up yonder in theh 
forks. Watch him now. Thar look out. You, 
Jim, clim’ up and shake him down.” 
“Ner I don’t; didn’t I try teh do hit las’ time 
en that ole ’coon mighty nigh scratched all 
theh skin offen my face. Try hit yerself, Val- 
cour.” 
“Uh! yeah niggahs done scared. Gimme er 
leg up; thet’s hit, er nuther boost. Now watch 
out en don’t let him git er way; yah, heah he is.” 
Down he comes. A mass of frantic boys and 
scrambling dogs receive a small, compact, fall- 
ing body from among the branches. A few mad 
seconds of tumult, and one boy emerges from 
the melee, holding aloft “a big, fat ’*possum.” 
A few moments spent gloating over the prize 
and comparing scratches, and the hunt is on 
again, across clearing and flat, down to the 
river and up on the ridges. The best trails 
are found in the river bottom, near the per- 
simmon thickets. Over near the cornfield they 
strike the trail of a big ’coon that leads them 
a merry chase and gives the dogs a most excit- 
ing and stubborn fight before he is brought to 
bay. 
As the moon begins to slip down the western 
zenith, a tired string of hunters and dogs wend 
their way homeward, discussing the various 
events of the night, or of other chases, or listen- 
ing breathlessly to John Wallen’s account of 
“the night he treed the wildcat,’ and “of theh 
ha’nt thet run theh hounds from down by theh 
big burnt cypress in theh bottom en bruk up 
theh hunt,” and other epics, to the shivery ter- 
rors of which the distant screech of the owls or 
the squawk of a bittern (disturbed by the marsh) 
added double zest. 
Even the familiar cabin and the old rail fence 
wore strange and ghostly shapes in the 
lengthened shadows of the frosty air as the 
tired boys dragged themselves within its portals 
and sought their beds, too weary to even dream 
of the evening’s pleasures. PG. buckmr: 
Long Island Shooting Notes. 
Bayport, L. I., Nov. 12,—Editor Forest and 
Stream: The shooting seas8n on Long Island, 
so far, I think, has been fully up to the aver- 
age, the only falling off in the game line being 
noticed in the scarcity of partridge. Last year 
this game bird was quite plentiful around here, 
but this year I have seen very few, and from 
what I have heard, other parts of the State re- 
port the same thing. There are more ducks in 
the bay than the oldest gunner has ever seen, 
enormous flocks half a mile long being a com- 
mon sight, but the weather so far has not been 
at all favorable, the wind blows so hard. There 
have only been a few days when it was possible 
to put a battery out. Mr. J. R. Such, S. Amboy, 
N. J., got the largest bag from here so far, he 
having killed forty-one ducks in one day. He 
would have had several more, but before the 
sloop could get back to him he ran out of 
ammunition. The ducks seemed to know it, for 
flock after flock kept coming to the stools. 
Quail and rabbit hunters have had good sport. 
The quail are large and fly very strong, making 
them difficult to hit. The coveys are larger than 
common. I put up three coveys one afternoon 
last week, and there were from 16 to 25 birds 
in each covey; we got nine birds and five rabbits. 
The same afternoon we put up two woodcock, 
a bird which does not frequent these parts very 
otten. 
Other hunting this year has been fairly good, 
the various clubs in the neighborhood having 
killed more than last year. Gunners registered 
at the Bayport Hotel who had good sport are: 
©. G, Painter, J. Quigley, J. Hafner.) J.) M. 
Delmour, Perry Champion, Gus Wertz, C. H. 
Philips, Jr., J. M. McCracken and E. Pipe, of 
New York; W. J. Baldwin, W. J. Baldwin, Jr., 
G. M. Goost and A. Williams, of Brooklyn; H. 
C. Sparks, London, England; J. R. Such, South 
Amboy, N. J.; A. R. Osborne, East Orange, 
N. J.; A. Post, Elizabeth, N. J.; R. W. Howell, 
J. E. Smith, Bayonne, N. J.; J. Mason, Litch- 
field, Conn.; E. R. Wilbur, Preston, Conn.. 
There are quite a number of redhead in the 
bay, and one canvasback was killed here last 
week, a duck that does not frequent this bay- 
very often. Henry SToKets. 




[Nov. 23, 1907. | 

A Minnesota Wolf Hunt. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
} 
| 
j 
; 
; 
A few years ago in the northern part o} 
Minnesota wolves often became an intolerable 
nuisance during the winter, and reports o 
numbers having been seen led five of us tc 
conclude that we needed a little rest and recrea. 
tion, and that a wolf hunt would fill the long: 
felt want. The scene of action was on the 
Mississippi River within fifty miles of St 
Anthony Falls, at a place where a low bottom 
covered with trees and thick underbrush, reachec 
back from the river half a mile to the cliff 
From the rocky face of the cliff, almost per- 
pendicular in places, sprung trees and bushes 
finding root in the many cracks and crevices. 
For miles back from the top of the cliff lay a 
rolling, heavily timbered country; the whole 
forming a most beautiful retreat for wolves. 
| 
| 
Not one of the party owned a dog that} 
would have been of the slightest use, and even 
if we had possessed one, not one had the least}, 
idea of how to hunt wolves with or without 
dogs. 
have made a good collection for some gun 
store window. 
The various arms of the crowd would} 
It was a few days after New Years, the}, 
thermometer registering 8° below in the sun| 
when we reached the edge of the timber: Joe,} 
who wore a pair of Indian snowshoes, and ia 
who had a pair of Norwegian skis, got along}, 
very well, but Harry, who weighed over two 
hundred, broke through the crust at every step.| 
After holding a pow-wow, we decided to work} 
down the bottom till dinner time, then back| 
up through the timber above. Giving my skis 
to Harry, he and George followed the river 
bank, Billy took the center, while Joe and I 
kept in close to the cliff. 
For perhaps an hour we silently worked our 
way, when a shot from Billy’s express put us 
all on the qui vive. Hearing no whistle—the 
signal agreed upon in case one of us saw 
wolves—and being only too glad of something 
to relieve the monotony, we all hurried over 
to Billy and found him fastening a fine speci- 
men of the horned owl to the back of his belt. 
After a few words, we were about to return to 
our places, when Billy, with a wild yell, began 
a war dance; his hands behind him in a vain at- 
tempt to get rid of his game. Billy’s owl was 
far from dead, having been only stunned, and 
on coming to, had sunk his claws deep into the 
nearest flesh. Every time the bird 

swung | 
against Billy’s legs he would peck at his calves, | 
Billy letting out a wilder howl at each nip. As 
well as we could for laughing we released him 
from his game. 
It was past one o’clock when we sat down | 
to lunch at the spring where we had arranged 
to meet—that is, we all sat down except Billy, 
who preferred standing, for reasons best known 
to himself. -Afterward we climbed the bluff. 
Harry was sent to the far side of the timber— 
it being deemed advisable to have him at as 
great a range as possible, for general safety— 
next to him came George, then Billy, Joe and 
I keeping near to the edge of the cliff, so as 
to be able to keep an eye on the bottoms below. 
We had covered perhaps two miles, when Joe 
held up_his hand and crept cautiously to the 
edge. The next moment there was a crunch, 
and over he went with a whoop. Running for- 
ward, I was just in time to see a dark body, that 
seemed to be mostly arms and legs, revolving 
in a cloud of snow, plunge out of sight in a drift 
at the foot of a steep slide of seventy-five or a 
hundred feet, where the snow, blowing over the 
top of the bluff, had filled in level. A heavy 
crust forming, it made a smooth chute, with- 
outa break from top to bottom. Had it killed 
him, I believe I must have laughed; but the 
next instant the laugh was the other way, for 
my feet slipped and away I went, shooting along 
in Joe’s track. It was a swift rush, the snow 
flying into my face and down my neck, as I 
covered more ground in a given time than I 
ever did before or ever want to again. Then 
came a leap into the air—I felt as though I 
fell miles—and spread eagle-fashion, I dove 
ker-chug into what seemed fathoms of snow, 
but proved to be only about one. Almost 


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