68 
FOREST AND STREAM 


THE OLD CANOE. 
Pa es, 
7T HERE the rocks are gray and the shore is steep, 
And the rugged pine, in its lonely pride, 
Leans gloomily over the murky tide; 
Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, 
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank; 
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day throngh, 
There lies at its mooring the old ‘canoe. 
The useless paddles are idly dropped, 
Like a sea-bird’s wings that the storm has lopped, 
And crossed on the railing, one oer one, 
Like the folded hands when the work is done: 
« While busily back ana forth between 
The spider watches his silver screen, 
And the solemn owl, with his dull ** too-hoo,’ 
Settles down on the side of the old canoe. 
- 
The stern half sunk in the slimy wave, 
Rots slowly away in its living grave 
And the green mass creeps o’er its dull decay; 
Hiding its mouldering dust away, 
Like the hand that plants o’er the tome’a flower, 
Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower; 
While many a blossom of loyelest hue 
Springs up o’er the stern of the old canoe. 
The currentless waters are dead and stili— 
But the light winds play with the boat at will, 
And lazily in and out again 
It floats the length of the rusty chain, 
Like the weary march of the hands of time, 
That meet and part at the noontide chime, 
And the shore is kissed at each turning anew, 
By the dripping bow of the old canoe. 
Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, 
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, 
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick, 
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick, 
And laughed as I leaned o’er the rocking side, 
And looked below in the broken tide, 
To see that the faces and boats were two, 
That were mirrored back from the old canoe. 
But now, as I lean o’er the crumbling side, 
And look below in the sluggish tide, 
The face that I see there is graver grown, 
And the laugh that I hear has a sober tone, 
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings, 
Have grown familiar with sterner things, 
But I love to think of the hours that sped 
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed, 
Ere the blossom waved, or the green grass grew 
O’er the mouldering stern of the old canoe. 
—_____—+@— 
PLOVER SHOOTING [IN VIRGINIA. 
- a ae 
NorTHAMPTON, VA., September 5, 1873. 
Epiror Forest AND STREAM :— 
OTWITHSTANDING the numerous assurances I had 
received that it was useless forme to expect to get 
plover, I determined, before leaving for New York, to try 
amorning’s shooting in this locality, especially as I had 
an invitation from a Virginia friend, a thorough sports- 
man, who was well acquainted with all the localities most 
likely to be frequented by this rather shy bird. 
I found my friend ready to receive me, with horse and 
buggy. He assured me of the excellence of his horse, not 
as to speed, but as to his stalking powers, as he informed 
me that he had shot behind him for the last thirteen years. 
Plover can generally be readily approached by the sports- 
man, when he isin a buggy. We drove not more than 
three-quarters of a mile from the house, and it was about 
half-past five o’clock in the morning, when my friend in- 
formed me that we were in what was, in former years, the 
best place for plover in Virginia. The sea was about half 
a mile distant, and a long, watery bog stretched just here, 
parallel with the beach. The soil was covered with the 
tough, wiry, salt grass, though here and there stood isolated 
clumps of trees, and an occasional thicket. The plover 
roosts somewhat more inland, and betakes himself at dawn 
to feed on the grubs and small slugs he may find in the 
marshes. My friend was rather fearful that the sport 
would be poor, and he informed me that every year the 
birds were getting scarcer, Ten years ago, he told me, that 
just where we were then, he had often killed thirty plover 
between sunrise and nine o'clock. We were driving to- 
wards a neighboring clump of trees, through rather soggy 
ground, when he sighted five plover flying at a distance be- 
yond us, entirely out of gun shot. We remained quiet in 
the buggy, when my companion took a ‘‘call” from his pock- 
et, made from the leg-bone of a curlew, and piped-the shrill 
cry of the plover. As we were well covered by the trees, 
the birds answered the call instantly, and flew straight 
towards us, when, both of us firing at about twenty-five 
yards, we killed three fine birds. Old Bob—the horse— 
stood fire admirably, never budging. This early success 
somewhat inspirited my friend, and as the wind was blow- 
ing on shore, the best condition for plover shooting, we 
had hopes of making a good bag. We waited, however, 
at this same spot for fully two hours more, but could see 
no birds. Old Bob was urged on, and, as we went along, 
breakfast was in order, and I, for the first time, ate cold 
roasted coon, which is a morsel by no means to be despised, 
especially when a cool sea-breeze whets the appetite. Jog- 
ging leisurely along, we must have proceeded quite two 
miles, when before me, about 200 yards distance, I saw 
quite a flock of plover. They were scattered over an area 
of fully an acre, and, perhaps, numbered forty. We got 
out of the buggy—slipping out behind, and tlucking to 
Bob, we followed in the wake of the wagon. When within 
fifty yards of the birds, a word from us brought Bob to a 
full stop, and crouching down on our hands and knees, we 
slowly approached the plover, and when within thirty 
yards, we flushed them. They rose en masse, pretty close 
together, when my friend, with his Lancaster, and I with 
my Snyder-Allen, let them have the four barrels, and “nine 
birds fell. We could do nothing more with the flock, as 
they flew off three-quarters of a mile, to a point where we 
could not drive. After collecting the birds, we made for a 
good-sized clump of woods, some mile and a half disiant, 
when we came to a cross-road. Bob was tied up, and a 
feed left for him, while we walked through the woods, 
shooting an occasionalgrabbit. The sun being oppressively 
hot, we remained there through the heat of the day, 
looking up some fox traps, which the negroes had set. We 
found in the Newhouse-traps one very handsome dog fox 
and two cubs, which we despatched, setting the traps anew 
with some birds my friend had brought with him for that 
purpose. About five o’clock we retraced our steps, killing 
five more plover, all of them single birds. Total bag for 
the day, eighteen birds. Plover are by no means an easy 
bird to kill ; they are very swift flyers, when on the wind, 
though their flight is limited as to distance. I should 
recommend No. 7 shot in all cases. If plover are hard to 
find, this does not arise from over-shooting. I must attrib- 
ute their growing scarcity to the reasons stated by me in my 
last letter to you from Mockhorn ( providing Jake reached 
Cherrystone with my last letter to you). I attributed, there- 
in, the scarcity of plover to the constant destruction of 
their eggs in this part of Virginia. 

Sincerely yours, » ~C.B. 
; es AR eS 
ATTRACTIONS OF NATURAL SCIENCE. 
Sas 
Mitutown, Marne, August 30, 1873. 
Eprror Forrest AND STREAM :— 
Iam more than pleased with the first numbers of the 
Forest AnD Stream. Such a paper, I think, is very much 
needed to educate our people to out-door exercises and 
sports, and to the study of natural history in some of its 
branches. To the lovers of the beautiful—to one who de- 
lights in the gay, bright beings of nature, ornithology is one 
of the most attractive branches of natural science. How 
little most people know of the number and variety of birds 
that annually visit every part of our extended clime, or are 
even aware how many spend the summer in our immediate 
vicinity. We little think every time we walk in our grounds 
and gardens we are intruding upon rare and elegant visit- 
ants from Mexico, Central and South America, Florida, 
and islands of the sea; but such is the case, and one that 
passes through life without a knowledge of the feathered 
creatures constantly surrounding him in the fields and 
woods, rendered vocal with their songs, watching the pa- 
tience and care in providing for their young, loses one of 
the chief means by which his own existence might be made 
more cheerful, happy, and contented, and fails to under- 
stand one of the most pleasing and attractive of the crea- 
tions of Omnipotence. How important for the sportsman 
to know the history and habits of his feathered friends, so 
as not to be led to slaughter them out of season. And the 
agriculturist, after failing crops and barren fields, only 
learns the errors he has committed in the destruction of his 
little feathered helpmates by the life and vigor it has given 
the grubs and insects that now overrun his fields. And 
now, with the help of the Forrest anp STrEaM, that I hope 
may go into every family, we may try to surpass our Eng- 
lish friends in the study of natural science, and know the 
benefits of out-door recreation and physical culture. Yours 
very truly, 
JEORGE A. BOARDMAN, (Naturalist.) 
4 
[Correspondence of the N. Y. Sun.] 
HUNTING JACK RABBITS. 
Bist wes 
Camp Dovueuas, Uran, August 26th, 1873. 
FEW months ago Mr. J. E. Moen, a Wall street bro- 
ker, came out here to look at some mines in which 
he was interested. Moen was accompanied by the Hon. 
Amasa Mason, a London banker from ‘Rochester, New 
York. They found snug quarters in Camp Douglas, and 
recognized the faces of a few old acquaintances among the 
officers. One of these was the face of Major David 8. 
Gordon, Colonel Tompkins’ right bower in the celebrated 
cavalry charge at Fairfax Courthouse. Another was the 
refulgent countenance of Major Howell, a jovial son of 
Mars, who was planted in the Quartermaster’s Department 
some years ago by General Rufe,Ingalls, and who has taken 
deep root in the service of the republic. A third face was 
that of Captain Dinwiddie, a handsome Hoosier, who once 
spent forty-seven days in the gloomy depths of the Black 
Canon of the Colorado. Moen and Mason were heartily 
welcomed to the festive boards of these three epauletted 
worthies. At one of their liquid meals Moen said he had 
brought a five hundred dollar (in gold) gun with him out 
here in hopes of shooting something before he returned to 
New York. 
“Did you ever see a jack rabbit, Moen?” asked Gordon. 
“No,” Moen said, ‘‘but I’ve heard of them, and would 
give fifty dollars for a shot at one. Are there any of them 
about here?” . 
“Oh, lots of them,” exclaimed Rufe Ingalls’ military 
plant. You musn’t go back to New York without taking 
one of their hides along with you.” 
“TH tell you what we'll do,” said Gordon, ‘American 
Fork is full of jack rabbits. © To-morrow morning we'll 
hitch up an ambulance and ride over there. Moen is sure 
to get a shot at one. What do you say, gentlemen? Will 
you go?” 
‘““Go,” repeated Mason, ‘‘of course we'll go. What do 
you think we came out here for? Id like to see a jack rab- 
bit myself. How large are they?” 
“Well,” drawled Gordon, ‘‘they’re about the size of a 
young colt. When they start on a run they’ve got the 
queerest lope that you ever saw. They pop over the ground 
as though they had the spring halt in every leg.” 
The whiskey went round once more, and a little more 
intellectual conversation followed. The party then sepa- 
rated, but were brought together again by the power of at- 
traction, all declaring that a nightcap was necessary before 
going to bed. After the nightcaps had been secured each 
man crept beneath his blankets, and the cool air was quickly 
filled with music. They snored so loudly that the corporal 
of the guard turned out his men, under the impression that 
the horses in the camp stables were suffering from the dis- 
temper. 
Day dawned clear and beautiful. The five men were in 
an ambulance by sunrise. They were happy. Five morn- 
ing cocktails had warmed their souls. The scenery was 
magnificent. The great valley of the Salt Lake, checkered 
with squares of yellow grain and green grass, and hemmed 
in by turreted mountains, was spread out before them. 
The lake itself glistened at the base of the far-off moun- 
tains like an immense mirror. Entranced at the scene, the 
men halted, and gazed at it through the bottom of a black 
bottle. ‘“‘Glorious, grand affair!” rapturously exclaimed 
the Wall strcet operator, waving his hand over a sea of sage 
brush. Dinwiddie lashed the mules, and the ambulance 
ran down hill with the speed of a Texas steer. Moen’s gun 
attracted great attention. All handled it, and squinted 
along its barrels. The lock was clicked a hundred times. 
If the gun had been a second bottle of whiskey it could 
not have been handled more lovingly, or its good points 
more expatiated upon. Moen was delighted and Mason 
regarded the experienced army officers and their bottles 
with an affection bordering on veneration. 
It was well along in the afternoon when the ambulance 
began to roll up the American Fork canon. A bright 
watch was kept for jack rabbits. They were scarce. Hours 
passed, and none were seen. Moen became dispirited. At 
last, about five o'clock, Gordon saw two ears, sticking up 
above a clump of bushes on the side of a hill. 
“Hold on,” he shouted, ‘“‘there’s one now. He’s a big 
one, too. Get out, Moen, and give it tohim. Easy, now, 
“easy.” 
The Wall street gentleman shinned out of the wagon and 
shoved two patent cartridges into the barrels of his gun. 
“Now, then, let him have it. Give it to him,” repeated 
Gordon. 
The army officers began to laugh as Moen rested the 
fowling piece upon the wheel of the ambulance and squat- 
ted to take sight. They saw that the supposed jack rabbit 
was a jack without the rabbit. It was a burro, or Spanish 
donkey, about two-thirds grown. Moen had never seen 
one. The animal stood with its quaint face surrounded by 
green leaves, a perfect picture of contentment. The banker 
took ood aim and fired. The dwrro threw up its ears, but 
never budged an inch. 
“You shot too high,” said Howell. 
you'll fetch him. I never saw a bigger one. He’s the king 
of all jack rabbits. Now, then, give it to him, quick !” 
The banker squatted again, and sighted his game over 
the wheel. There was a puff of smoke and a report. The 
burro’s ears flew up a second time, but he didn’t stir.” 
“Too low, too low, old man,” cried Gordon. ‘Load up 
again and give him another shot.” : 
‘“‘Heavens !” exclaimed Moen, ain’t he a big tellow?” He 
nervously shoved the cartridge into his fowling piece. 
“Keep quiet, boys,” he whispered, ‘‘don’t scare him.” 
“Now, then, give it to him sure,” Gordon said in a low 
tone of -voice, as the broker squatted for a third shot. As 
his finger touched the trigger the burro threw one of his 
ears over his eyes and began to bray. ‘‘Y-a-a-w e-e-e-h ! 
y-a-a-w e-e-e-h shouted the jack. The officers burst into a 
roar of laughter. 
The Wall street man straightened up in an instant. 
“Great Caesar,” said he, ‘‘it’s a cursed jackass! I came 
near killing it.” 
He jumped into the ambulance and put up his gun. The 
best of the joke is, that. the jack belonged to an old Mor- 
mon, who collected $25 from Moen, alleging that he had 
shot the beast near the root of the tail, seriously damaging 
him. After the banker returned to New York Davis ac- 
knowledged that the animal was untouched. 
“The bullets didn’t go within a mile of the jack,” said he, 
“but what is a New Yorker good for in this country if it 
isn’t to pluck. I plucked him.” 
A DANGEROUS INDIAN Boy. 
es 
AJOR Benteen, in leading the attack of his squad- 
ron through the timber below the village, encount- 
ered an Indian boy, scarcely fifteen years of age; he was 
well mounted, and was endeavoring to make his way 
through the lines, This boy rode boldly towards the Ma- 
jor, seeming to invite a contest. His youthful ‘bearing, 
and not being looked upon as a combatant, induced Major 
Benteen to endeavor to save him by making “‘ peace signs” 
to him and obtaining his surrender, when he could be 
placed in a position of safety until the battle was terminated; 
but the young savage desired and would accept no such 
friendly concessions. He regarded himseslf as a warrior, 
and as such he purposed to do a warrior’s part. With re- 
volver in hand he dashed at the saa bee who still could not 
regard him as anything but a harmless lad. Levelling his 
weapon as he rode, he fired, but either from excitement 
or the changing positions of both parties, his aim was 
defective and the shot whistled harmlessly by Major 
Benteen’s head. Another followed in quic succession, 
but with no better effcct. All this time the dusky little 
chieftain boldly advanced, to lessen the distance between 
himself and his adversary. A third bullet was sped on its 
errand, and this time to some purpose, as it passed through 
the neck of the Major’s horse, close to the shoulder. Mak- 
ing a final but ineffectual appeal to him to surrender, and 
seeing him still preparing to fire again, the Major was 
forced in self-defence to level his revolver and despatch 
him, although as he did so it was with admiration for the 
plucky spirit exhibited by the lad, and regret often expressed 
that no other course under the circumstances was left to 
him. Attached tothe saddle bow of the young Indian 
hung a beautifully wrought pair of small moccasins, elabo- 
rately ornamented with beads. One of the Major’s troop- 
ers secured these and presented them to him. ‘These fur- 
nished the link of evidence by which we subsequently as- 
certained who the young chieftain was—a title which was 
justly his, both by blood and bearing.—General Custer’s 
Life on the Plains—G@alary. 
— 
—The preservation of game irrespective of size, seems 
to be now the rule. On the first of October in the Presi- 
dency of Madras, any one killing an elephant will be fined 
500 rupees. Elephant pot hunters being now fully for. 
warned, will have no excuse, 
“Shoot lower, and 
Ee er sern cs 
