LIBRARY
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GAUFOftNIA
SAN DIEGO
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SPORTING SKETCHES
BRAVE BROWN BOB
.SPORTING SKETCHES
EDWYN SANDYS
AUTHOR OF "UPLAND GAME BIRDS," "TRAPPER
'JIM,'" "SPORTSMAN 'JOE,'" ETC.
Ntfo gorfe
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON : MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
All right i reserved
COFYMGHT, 1905,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1005.
Nortoooti $rrs
J. 8. Cubing fe Co. Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, MM., U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE WITCHERY OF WA-WA
II. WITH AND AGAINST THE GRAINS . . . . l8
III. THE WIZARD OF THE WETLANDS * . . -38
IV. BEACH-COMBERS ........ 55
V. A BIT OF RIVER ........ 68
VI. THE FISHING OF THE FREE FOLK .... 83
VII. THE FISHES OF OUR BOYHOOD ..... 98
VIII. SOME TRUTHS ABOUT TROUTING v . . . "5
IX. THE BEST OF THE BASS . . . . . .126
X. A MATTER OF MASCALONGE . "" . . . . 142
XL A BIT OF SEA FISHING . . V . . . .155
XII. RAIL AND REED BIRD . . / . . , .163
XIII. A DAY WITH THE WOODCOCK . ^ . . . .173
XIV. BLUEFISH AND BLUE WATERS . \s . . . .187
XV. A VANCOUVER SALMON . . *' . . . .197
XVI. WOOD-DUCK AND WOOD-DUCK SHOOTING . v . . 205
XVII. A RED-LETTER DAY . . . . f . . . 221
XVIII. PICKED FROM THE PRAIRIE PROVINCE { . . .233
XIX. THE CONVERSION OF TRAPPER LEWIS . . . 260
XX. FOUR OF A KIND . . . . v , . . 274
XXI. THE RUFFED GROUSE AND GROUSE SHOOTING . . 284
XXII. ROBERT WHITE, JR ....... . 300
vi Contents
CHAFTBR PACK
XXIII. A SKIRMISH WITH SQUIRRELS . . . . . 317
XXIV. TURKEY WITH THANKSGIVING ' . . . -331
XXV. A COLD TRAIL . . . .../. . . .341
XXVI. THE WHITE WOLF OF THE NORTH v . . . 354
XXVII. IN THE HAUNTS OF THE HARE . . . . 364
XXVIII. FISHING THROUGH THE ICE . . . . . 379
SPORTING SKETCHES
Many of these sporting sketches originally
appeared in Outing. For the privilege of present
use I am indebted to the courtesy of that best of
sporting magazines.
E. s.
IN the North the spring comes in a day. For
four long months the white paw of the Arctic bear
holds everything in icy clutch. The tread of it
flattens all minor growths, the iron claws of it hook
into vale and ravine, and at their touch the singing
waters cease their foamy play and chill and stiffen
in the coldness of a deathlike trance. On stream
and pond flashes the crystal breastplate of the Frost
King's service. To them comes the Captain Bear.
" Sleep " is the monarch's order, which the captain
must enforce ; so he travels far and wide, treading
with creaking weight on snowy feet. His "grand
rounds" mean rest, the ceasing of all strife, the
temporary triumph of the forces of the North upon
that bloodless field which must in turn be won and
2 Sporting Sketches
lost forever while the seasons roll. The ear may
trace his progress by the straggling salute of small-
arms from the sentinel trees, which fire and stiffen
to attention ; by the long, booming roll of big guns
from icy plains in obedience to the order, " Salute
and solidify." Upon the roof of a trout pool the
bear halts. His round ear has caught the whisper-
ing giggle of water playing under the shelter of
some kindly root. The keen white nose is lowered
to the cavity ; the " Woof ! " of the blasting breath
thrills the interior, and the player ceases.
Under the ice lie the trout, waiting, listening for
the tread of the bear which they know will surely
come. When the light above fails and the ice-
batteries boom, they feel his presence, and turning
noses to the failing stream, they bide the issue. To
them come mink and otter. Only these two can
outwit the bear. They know certain unfilled rivet-
holes in the icy armor and its occasional flaws.
Through these they slide to harry the helpless
quarry.
But the bear has orders to obey. His business
is to see that the Law of the North is heeded.
When the rallied forces of the South again rush
northward, he must slowly fall back, disputing every
league of field until the last furious charge drives
him to the berg-piled, impregnable stronghold of
his king.
Over the war-worn field stream the restored folk,
singing and making merry. But not far from its
southern rim they halt, half afraid, as the signs of
recent conflict are yet too fresli for timid hearts.
They halt and peer this way and that. " Is it a
The Witchery of Wa-Wa 3
trick? Has the White Bear really gone north?"
ask the little people.
" He has ! He has ! " shouts the prideful, loud-
voiced stream. " I have defeated him see me
hurl his broken bonds to crashing confusion ! "
" Cheer-up cheer-up he's-away-in-defeat-in-de-
feat ! " chortles a fat robin.
" Luck-y-thing luck-y-thing ! " adds a glistening
grackle, lightly clashing his cymbals. " He-e-e ?
Gone to sea ! " flutes a redwing. " May-bee may-
bee," mutters a flycatcher. " I-think-think-think-he-
has-gone-to-sea," trills a modest sparrow.
" Wrong ! all-wrong ! Cranks ! all-wrong ! "
suddenly shouts a mighty voice ; and behold ! the
great gray goose, captain of all Northern raids
the war-worn Wa-Wa. Wizard of wastes of sea and
land, pioneer of prospecting poleward ; better than
all he knows the shift of season and the northward
mystery. His scoutings have extended to the last
wan berg, and his trumpet has thrilled the remotest
corner of the White Bear's den. Like most great
captains, he is curt, while loud of speech.
" Tarry awhile," he says ; " if within two weeks I
come not back, then for-'ard all ! " Through his
brazen trumpet he blares a thrilling order, and
prompt and silent his gray-clad troop falls in. " En
avant ! " The clang of it stirs the blood of all, for
each has heard the tongue in old Quebec and in
the farther wastes, and the sound of it recalls the
joys of sweet new pasturage, of love-making, and
happy summer homes in Daylight Land.
" En avant ! " Like the head of a mighty arrow
shot poleward, the drilled battalion hisses through
4 Sporting Sketches
the cold, thin upper air. Wa-Wa himself is leading,
for none other so well understands how best to
wedge opposing airs, or when to rise above, or to
dip below quarrelling winds. He also best knows
the route, for he has been over it, to and fro, each
spring and fall, ever since that wonderful first
autumn when his parents shepherded him and his
brothers and sisters from Arctic meadows down to
the lazy, locked lagoons of the South.
" En avant ! " He loves to give that order. For
many years he has set the pace, yet each succeeding
season has found him keener for the northward
flight. He may dawdle when southward bound,
but going north is different. Then he always fol-
lows the old trail, stooping to this plain and that
lake, and tarrying only for food and rest, or while
temporarily storm-bound, until he reaches a certain
point. From this he bears west-by-north until the
forest dwindles and below him spread two big lakes
with a little lake between. Into this little lake runs
a big river and out of it runs another big river.
The little lake is ringed with marshes, beyond which,
upon one side, lie leagues of level fat-lands, squared
with withered corn and the green of winter wheat.
Here he always halts for rest and refreshments. He
may stay a week or a month. It matters not, for it
is the loveliest spot, save one, along the route. The
other spot is his birthplace, away up in a Manitoba
muskeg. Its real merit is its privacy, otherwise
it is a rotten bad place, but then everybody knows
what a goose a goose is apt to be over goose affairs !
Wa-Wa has another and a private reason for
halting by the little lake. Years ago, during his
The Witchery of Wa-Wa 5
third visit, he was leading his battalion in to feed at
gray dawn, when a long-legged, lathy-looking, brown-
faced boy suddenly rose from a pile of corn-fodder
and shot at him. Wa-Wa felt something hot slice
across his breast, and for a moment his strong flight
wavered. Then he recovered himself, and, shouting
defiance at his foe's single-barrel, he led his honking
troop five miles away to a safer ground. But before
departing he took a good look at his enemy, and
the mental picture never faded. The long, lean
figure, the smooth, swart face, the black hair, and
the great, staring eyes were unmistakable, and
Wa-Wa vowed to get even or, as he put it, " hunk ! "
For weeks the wound bothered him, but at last
it healed. Yet the mark of it remained. When-
ever Wa-Wa reared his long body upright and bent
his snaky black neck to arrange his lower plumage,
he saw a snow-white streak amid his dressy gray.
And every time he saw it his eyes would gleam and
he'd hiss savagely and snap at the grass.
" Why do you brood over it, dear ? That miser-
able boy is not worth remembering," his wife would
say. In her heart she was rather proud of Wa-Wa's
badge of having been in action, and she almost
wished that the shot could have raked both sides
alike, for a white line on both sides would have
been so dressy and so different from anything worn
by any of the other ganders. She used to declare
that she loved to stand upon Wa-Wa's left, for then
the white line exactly matched the crescent-shaped
white cravat which she always wore. She never
said so much to Wa-Wa but once. That time he
looked at her with a perfectly horrible stare then
6 Sporting Sketches
waddled off, hissing until he found a couple of the
toughest old ganders on the grounds.
When next he led his followers to the little lake,
he changed his tactics. All pitched in the open
lake, and after they had " washed-up " and become
eager for young wheat, Wa-Wa ordered them to
stop where they were, while he flew in to spy out
the land. They were somewhat astonished, but no
goose ever disobeys; so they waited, wondering
what new wrinkle was bothering their wise old
leader.
Wa-Wa flew slowly in, keeping one hundred
yards above the wet fields and carefully scanning
every yard of possible cover. The sun was just
rising, and the first ray to touch the ambush of the
last year waked a flare of red and a dazzling white
flash. Wa-Wa well knew that a human face in such
light shows very red, and that a gun-barrel flashes
white. A few seconds later he almost screamed
with rage, for there lay his foe eyes, hair, long
figure, and all. Slowly and steadily Wa-Wa drifted
in, till he saw his foe spring to his knees. Then
Wa-Wa climbed straight up, as he well knew how
to do. A double report sounded dully from below,
but nothing happened. " He can shoot twice now,"
thought Wa-Wa, as he swung wide. Then he
shouted as loudly as he could, "Hunk! get
hunk hunk / " and bore away to his friends, whom
he led to a point some three hundred yards from
the danger zone. Telling a trusty young gander to
keep a keen watch upon the skulker, Wa-Wa hastily
fed, then relieved his sentry. Slim-necked, erect,
and tall, he stood, his small, angry eyes never shift-
The Wticbery of Wa-Wa 7
ing from his foe. Finally, after all had fed, he
gave the order to rise as straight up as possible and
to follow him. In a grand, sweeping curve he led
them till they were directly over the foe. Two
puffs of smoke sprang upward and a spatter of
harmless stuff touched a few flight feathers.
" Mark him well never nearer! " ordered Wa-Wa,
and his merry troop chattered back a jesting assent.
Then Wa-Wa twisted his neck downward and roared,
" Hunk ! get hunk hunk ! "
Day after day Wa-Wa played his game of coming
in alone and spying till he had located the peril, then
leading his troop as closely as he dared, until the
smoke leaped up. The last morning of his stay was
so warm that the troop was lazy and wanted to fly low.
Wa-Wa, however, had a surprise for them as a result
of his scouting. His first glance over the wheat-
field where they fed had detected a disturbed spot.
Passing high over this, he saw the upturned brown
face and fierce eyes he knew so well. Without a
sign of recognition he went back to his troop, ex-
plained the novel trap, and then led the way directly
over it. Again the twin puffs of smoke sprang up,
and Wa-Wa, almost stopping, shouted directly into
the barrel, " Hunk ! get hunk hunk ! "
That night he led the way northward.
The next spring came, and with it Wa-Wa and
his new troop. Again he warily scouted, but for a
time, search as he might, he could not uncover the
ambush which he felt was somewhere below. The
spot where the barrel had been he distinctly re-
called the wheat was there as usual, but the
barrel was not. The only thing worthy of notice
8 Sporting Sketches
was a small, thin fringe of dried weeds, which
marked a spot where the wheat had failed. Twice
Wa-Wa looked at it, then suddenly he remembered
that snow always flattens such weeds indeed, all
other weeds lay flat. Then his marvellous eye made
out the dim outline of a prone figure, which so closely
matched the scant cover that no other gander would
ever have noticed it. For a moment Wa-Wa was
almost frightened. There was something so devil-
ishly crafty about the thing that the bare idea of it
made him shudder as he swung slowly around it at
a safe distance. Presently he detected the slightest
of movements and then a glint of red. Instantly his
wrath blazed hotly, for there were the well-remem-
bered hated eyes, fairly flaming with savage eager-
ness.
Back to the troop went Wa-Wa. Every member
had been told what to expect when they reached the
place indeed, the story of Wa-Wa's enemy had
been honked and hawked from mouth to mouth from
the Arctic to the South. After explaining the situ-
ation, Wa-Wa led the way directly over the weeds.
Once again the expected smoke arose, but this time
the shower of stuff pattered smartly so smartly
that one young girl of a goose yelled " Ker-ouch ! "
as loud as she could. Bidding the rest go on,
Wa-Wa circled and again passed over the weeds.
To his amazement, two more puffs of smoke belched
up and something whizzed mighty close to his head.
" He can shoot more times and farther now," thought
Wa-Wa, and with the thought came a decidedly
uncomfortable feeling. The next instant he was fu-
rious, and he fairly screamed his farewell, " Hunk !
Tbe Witchery of Wa-Wa 9
get hunk hunk!" Then he rejoined the
troop and led the way to a field fully a mile
distant.
" My dear," said his wife, that evening, as they
rocked side by side on the baby waves of the little
lake, " I don't wish to bother you, or to meddle in
any way, yet I would like to ask you a straight
question, What's wrong with you to-day ? "
By way of answer Wa-Wa hissed savagely and
drove his snaky head into a curling ripple. Then
he said, " There's nothing particular the matter
you wouldn't understand if I told you."
" But, my dear ! " she persisted, " there is some-
thing the matter. You can't fool me I know you
too well. You're crusty and worried and and
I believe-it's-all-about-that-man-in-the-field so
there ! "
Wa-Wa hissed again and his small eyes blazed
with fury, but beyond a low rattle in his throat he
made no immediate answer.
" Don't act so," she continued ; " it's unlike you.
Besides, I've really got to speak to you it's been
on my mind to do so for some time ; but you've led
us so long and so well, dear, that it almost breaks
my heart to say it, but I must ! Look out for that
man he'll do you an injury yet. Can't you see
that he comes nearer and nearer to doing it every
time ? Why ! that last time almost lamed Gozzie's
wing. It hurt the child and frightened her half to
death and you know, dear, such a thing never
happened before. I was thinking that p-e-r-h-a-p-s
we might go to some other place say the other
plains they're just as convenient, and it would
io Sporting Sketches
be a pleasant change the children have never
been there, you know, dear, and "
" For wheat's sake, shut up and don't meddle !
You can honk faster than any goose I ever saw ! "
roared Wa-Wa, and the wife drifted a yard away,
for this was the first time he had showed real temper
to her.
He was angry, too, for the old gander is lord of
the lot and never tolerates the slightest interference.
But back of it all lay an uneasy feeling an
indefinable dread, which, try as he would, he could
not entirely banish. By dawn, however, he was
himself again ; but this time he did lead to a spot
far to one side of the dangerous weeds, and where
there was no cover for hundreds of yards all about.
He had not troubled himself to see if the foe was in
the hide ; but as all hands swung lazily lakeward, he
looked back and distinctly saw the hated form erect
above the weeds. That very afternoon he gave the
order for the North.
******
The world was white white as the soul of a
child. Bells jingled unceasingly, rich robes swept
the snow, and big wood sleighs, laden with young
fir trees, went groaning along the streets. At the
window of a big house, almost buried among huge
snow-laden pines, stood a winsome wee lady, looking
down the straight path which led to a distant gate.
The glow from- a huge open fireplace played upon
crimson curtains and brought the dainty figure
into sharp relief. Almost childish in stature, it
required a second glance to "detect the tiny cap,
the silver strands in the wavy black hair, and certain
The Witchery of Wa-Wa 11
lines about the mouth which hint where Time
marks up his score. She evidently was expecting
somebody, and she didn't have long to wait.
As she watched, the space above the gate was
suddenly filled by a hurdling figure, which flew the
trifling barrier as though it were a mere print in
the snow, and sped with long leaps along the path.
In her excitement she rapped the big pane so hard
that it flew into clashing spears ; but that one pane
was the only thing of that name in any way con-
nected with that particular reunion.
" Time ! breakaway ! " he managed to gasp a
few moments later, and when he had got free he
added solemnly, " Mater, if you persist in hugging
and punching when clinched, I'll give you the heel."
He towered above her as a greyhound towers above
a rabbit, but the Rabbit didn't appear to mind. In
fact, it showed a decided tendency to force the fight-
ing, fouls and all, but he straightened up, which
most effectually prevented the Rabbit's getting its
favorite hold.
" Think of it whew ! " he presently said ; " this
Christmas actually ends the infernal grind, and I
can loaf for a year a whole year! if I want to."
She said never a word ; her face assumed a comical
attempt at sternness, and she held out a wee hand.
" Um-er-yes that's so ! " he stammered, as he
pretended to fumble in search of the proof that he
had been actually doing a trifle of work between
athletic events.
" There's the condemned thing, and I hope you'll
prize it, for the cost has been frightful ! " he con-
cluded, with a forced calmness; for he felt like
12 Sporting Sketches
yelling, or trying a hitch-kick at the ceiling, or any
old thing that would let off steam. After one swift
glance, the Rabbit betrayed a sudden fierce deter-
mination to mix matters in a final rough-and-tumble,
but he side-stepped and repeated his warning.
" A prize indeed ! " exclaimed the Rabbit, and,
with an arch look, she added: " A prize to the Lady,
and a Sir-prize to the Gentleman is but fair. Won't
your Majesty enter the Royal Chamber? "
" Same as ever, I s'pose ? " he queried, though well
he knew that nothing in that room ever was dis-
arranged, nor would it be so long as the Rabbit
bossed the burrow. " Come, let's go see ! " he
suddenly exclaimed, and as he spoke his long arms
shot out in a way that only boxing can teach. The
terrified Rabbit had been hoping for, yet dread-
ing, this very movement; for, womanlike, at that
instant, she was wondering if he had forgotten.
Not a bit of it ! Up in the air she rose until she
was seated on his shoulder ; then all she could do
was to bury her small fingers in his thick hair and
hang on, quivering a bit, yet glorying in his supple
strength. The stairs he found easy, as of yore, and
the room precisely as he had left it ; but on the army
cot lay a long, narrow, boxlike package.
The marks on the package told of a sea-trip, and
he promptly got rid of the wrappings. " English
oak brass-bound," he muttered. " Must have cost
Why! you little dev I mean darling
this thing c-c-cost a hundred pounds !"
" What of it ? " philosophically remarked the Rab-
bit. "This thing that I got cost years of hard
work!"
The Witchery of Wa-lVa 13
To put it together and swing it a bit occupied
only a few moments. Then he knew that some-
body had told her the weight, stock, and drop, for
these were exactly right. Who had done the telling
and ordering he at once guessed, for few men have
many such close friends. It was indeed a beauty,
and after he had settled for it in the only coin that
would pass, he suddenly exclaimed, " Mater mine,
won't I do things to old scar-bel I mean Wa-Wa
when he comes north ! "
" Who's Scarbel, or Wa-Wa ? I thought
'Wa-Wa' was Indian for wild goose Longfellow
says so," quoth the Rabbit.
For a moment he was too busy pointing the gun
the other way to answer, and the dainty weapon
shook in a manner which suggested a vast amount
of nerve-racking overstudy on his part. Then he
pulled himself together and answered with preter-
natural gravity :
" Anser a goose scarbellerificus buckshoti-
cus arcticus etcetereticus a goose of the Arctic,
remarkably hard to get. Humanum est errare" he
added reflectively. " Oh ! " said the Rabbit.
" Listen, Mater," he continued. " For years I've
laid for a certain wise old gander on the plains.
Every trick I know I have played on that old rascal.
Once I hit him, but he was a bit too high I was
a poor judge of distance then. Every chance I've
had since I've tried for him and failed. He knows
me and I know him, but now I'm wiser. I have
learned how to ' call ' from a New Brunswick chap,
and I can do it well. I'll make and paint a few
profiles (decoys, you know), and when Wa-Wa comes,
14 Sporting Sketches
with the help of your superb gift I'll get him !
Really, I must get him ! "
******
Two months later the decoys were made and
painted. He knew how to paint, and he knew the
birds better than most men know them. The pro-
files were life-size, of half-inch stuff, and dressed
down to a knifelike thinness along all upper edges.
Seen from directly above, they were mere sticks
upon the ground, but from a distance they were
geese, and when set up with one pointing to each
quarter, two always were visible.
When the birds came back, he was ready, and
one night he said, " By-by, little one, I'm off after
Wa-Wa." Fully equipped, with the profiles knap-
sack-fashion, he started on the long tramp. It was
the softest of spring nights. The air was shaken
with the peep of hylas and the brazen ripple of
frogs. The storm of it before him calmed at his
passing and burst anew in his rear. For mile after
mile he tramped, till the east flared redly and the
breath of the huge open came to him. A pair of
blue wings hissed past, and from the darkness came
the hoarse queries of black duck, the clearer tone
of mallard, and the querulous chatter of pintail.
Once, from far away, came a faint honking, and at
the sound of it he hastened.
To arrange the decoys was a simple task, but as
he thrust the last support into the soft wheat-land,
his ear caught a mournful " Hunk ! hunk hunk ! "
" I'll go a hundred yards below to make sure," he
muttered, as he turned to look at the really excellent
decoys. Where receding waters had left a stranded
Tbe Witchery of Wa-Wa 15
raft of dry weeds, he sat down and waited. The
good old pipe kept him content, and he listened to
the voices of feathered folk. Ducks of several sorts
kept streaming over, heading for distant corn-fields.
Then a rasping scaipe! scaipe ! caused him to nod
his head knowingly. At last a flash of yellow light
gleamed across the level, and black shadows trailed
westward from every slight projection. Presently
a distant honking, a clamor of many voices, be-
trayed the fact that geese had taken wing.
He twisted an old corn-tassel into the cross-strings
of his cap, tossed a few weeds over the gun-barrels,
then laid down and stayed down. He was dressed
right and he knew it, so with chin upon hand he
lay, his eyes, shadowed by the visor, fixed upon the
western sky. Soon a black thread drifted into view
and at the first glimpse of it his head sank lower,
but his heart beat higher. On and on came the
thread, changing to a cord, then to a cable, lastly to
a row of big black beads.
" Hunk get hunk hunk aw hunk! " he
sung out, then snickered to himself. The brazen
rasp of it was startlingly correct, and a confident
repetition of it caused the flock to head directly for
him. Not another sound did he utter, but he lay
face down like a dead man, although muscles
twitched and his heart thumped audibly. At last,
from almost overhead, sounded a suspicious croak and
the wiff-wiff of mighty pinions. In an instant he
was upon his knees, and the new gun fairly leaped
to his shoulder.
As he rose, a long line of geese wavered, parted,
and the two sections fell away to either side. In
1 6 Sporting Sketches
the space left, one remained alone a huge, thick-
necked old gander, with a conspicuous white welt
across his left breast. The other geese need not
have worried. The trim tubes sought the white
cravat not forty yards away and swung truly with
it. The gander lurched, half turned, and before he
could recover, the hail from the second barrel struck
him full broadside. He reached the mud with a
" whop ! " which might have been heard for half a
mile.
"Hunk got hunk hunk .'"chuckled the man,
as he laid down the gun and started for his prize.
Naught cared he for other geese he had got
hunk!
Three hours later, the little woman watching from
the doorway sees again the tall figure at the gate.
But such a change ! no flying leap and springy
stride this time, for in truth he scarce could have
hurdled a match. The drawn, sweat-lined face was
gray with weariness, yet the eyes still blazed with
the spark of a hard-won triumph.
" Well, your gun's a beaut here's old scar-bel
I mean Wa-Wa ! " he grunted, as he suffered the
great gray form to fall from his aching shoulder to
the piazza.
" Ugh ! " she gasped in sudden terror, for from
the dead throat slipped a hollow croak a wraith
of late clarion honking.
He well knew 'twas merely air driven by the fall
through the great windpipe, yet he glanced curiously
at the fowl, then started slightly. As the gander lay,
the body and neck were in shadow, the head in full
sunlight. In that light, the small, dead eye flamed
The Witchery of Wa-Wa 17
like a ruby, and seemed to stare with undying hate
and defiance.
" That's funny," he muttered. " Guess old scar-
bel Nothing! never mind," he hastily added in
reply to her questioning glance. Then he gripped
the long neck and strode away to illustrate that mis-
quotation, " The goose hangs high."
TIME
EVERY style of fishing has its earnest devotees
and its special claim to prominence in the minds of
certain men, who are ever ready to maintain the
superiority of the branch of the sport they follow.
The tarpon fisher considers himself as much
above the salmon fisher as the latter holds himself
above the man who bothers with sea-trout, or any-
thing less noble than salmo salar, and who finds his
wand of magic to be a single-handed rod. The
slayer of acrobatic ouananiche scorns speckled trout
as the true trout fisher pooh-poohs black bass;
while the admirers of the big-mouthed, dusky gladi-
ator stoutly maintain that he is boldest and best on
hook or on board. So it runs downward through
the list.
The fly-fisher scoffs at squidding, trolling, bait-
fishing, spearing, and at anything and everything,
save fly-fishing, and still old " Ike " ne'er preached
such a creed. There are plenty of enthusiasts who
declare that trolling for bluefish in a spanking
breeze, or hauling lusty sea-bass by main force from
foamy breakers which soak one from sole to crown,
are the only styles of fishing- worth following.
Others find their keenest excitement in winding a
18
With and ^Against tbe Grains 19
shark ashore with winch and chain tackle ; in loll-
ing upon a wharf and taking slimy catfish, or other
ignoble prey ; or even in the lawless method of ex-
ploding a dynamite cartridge under water and lazily
picking up a few of many fish destroyed.
I make no attempt to decide the merits of these
many opposing claims. Each supporter is partly
right and partly wrong. Fishing of any kind (bar-
ring the dynamite) is good enough for me, and in
my humble opinion, whatever kind fate allows one
to enjoy, is, or should be, the best of all while it
lasts.
One method of fishing, almost invariably sneered
at by anglers of high degree, is spring spearing ;
yet it frequently affords a deal of fun and requires
no small measure of skill on the part of its success-
ful votaries.
I have heard men who had no aversion to spear-
ing through the ice rail against spring spearing as
unworthy of any decent man's attention, yet they
never mentioned the one good argument, i.e. that
the sport encouraged the destruction of fish while
on their way to the spawning beds. Undoubtedly
spring spearing is not beneficial to the fish speared,
nor is the killing of a roe-laden fish on her way to
spawn calculated to increase the number of young
fry.
But the decriers of spearing overlooked this and
contented themselves with rash statements to the
effect that it required no science and was merely
" slopping about " anyway. The true causes of
their dislike were, that the successful spearer must
travel long distances over wearisome, muddy foot-
20 Sporting Sketches
ing ; must frequently wade in cold water and think
naught of a ducking, and must be able to handle
his grains, or spear, for thrust or throw, as skilfully
as a Zulu warrior handles his deadly assegai.
Stealing along a trout brook, or fishing from boat
or punt, doesn't develop these qualities, and as the
swell angler hasn't got them, perforce, in his opin-
ion, they are no good. Be that as it may, we of
the old restless, rough-and-tumble crowd learned to
handle grains before we could cast a fly, and many
a day's fun we enjoyed ; for spearing is preemi-
nently a sport for country boys and men.
When April's tears and smiles prevail against icy
fetters and let the prisoned waters run, comes the
brief spring season for the grains. On Northern
waters the ice is generally rushed away to the lakes
by heavy floods, which spread far over the lowlands
bordering the streams. For a brief period rivers
are many times their normal size; every tributary
creek and streamlet is a swollen, discolored contri-
bution to the volume of the larger streams, and
every ditch is bankful or overflowed. Once the ice
is carried off and the outlets are free, the great
waterways lower as rapidly as they rose, and all over-
flows, and back-waters sweep back to the main chan-
nels. Naturally, the waters of the creeks, brooks,
and ditches run clear in a short time ; and while a
river may be several feet above its average level and
as opaque as" pea soup, its tributaries may be pure
and transparent as springs.
Just after the ice goes and the floods begin to
subside, the " run " of fish for "the spawning beds
commences. Nets are put into active service in the
Witb and .Against the Grains 21
turbid rivers, for clear water is not required for
them ; and while the fishermen haul their catches
of mullet, pickerel, pike, suckers, etc., would-be
grainers keep close watch upon the creeks and
ditches. Soon comes the day when the bottoms of
creek and ditch may be seen through swift, spar-
kling currents, and the word is passed round that
" spearin's good."
Our favorite game was the pike the mottled,
shovel-nosed rascal, called " pickerel " in Jersey and
in many other places. I do not claim that our name
was correct, but it was used to distinguish the fish
from its more valuable relative, the pickerel (as we
called it), or dore. The latter fish, the wall-eyed
pike, " ran " in great numbers in the rivers and was
taken by netting. I never saw one in the smaller
streams.
Our "pike" were persistent explorers. They ran
up-river in schools, and whenever they discovered
the current of a creek or ditch pouring in, some of
them would leave the main stream and work their
way up the tributary as far as they could swim.
Hence it was not unusual to find one or more big
pike in a flooded furrow half a field away from a
main ditch. If the water suddenly lowered, count-
less numbers of the fish were sure to be prisoned
in ponds and water-holes, where, as all retreat was
cut off, they sooner or later perished. They were
given to pushing up the creeks to their sources in
wet woodlands, where they would wander through
shallow, amber-tinted pools for rods on either side of
the channels.
Here half-submerged logs and fallen stuff afforded
22 Sporting Sketches
many places of concealment, and sharp eyes were
necessary to discover lurking fish. If one stirred in
the shallows, it was easily followed by the ripple it
caused on the otherwise dead surface. The fish, as
a rule, moved about in pairs, or perhaps three to-
gether, after the spawning grounds were reached,
and we used to wade in search of them, examining
every possible shelter and keeping our eyes open for
any ripples.
Most of the town and country blacksmiths could
tinker a grains with three or more barbed tines, and
different styles more or less elaborate were sold by
hardware dealers. We favored the three-tined pat-
tern, as less liable to make two useless fragments
out of a good fish too roughly struck. Many of the
young fellows prided themselves upon their skill in
throwing the grains a la spear, and a few, myself
included, after breaking a tine, would file off the
stump and the opposing tine and spear away like
good 'uns with the centre double-barbed point.
The length of handle for the grains varied
greatly. Some were fourteen to eighteen feet long
and correspondingly heavy and clumsy. The " old
heads " favored these and did good work with them,
too, but we would have none of them. We didn't
care a button for the fish secured : we wanted sport
and to throw the grains at every opportunity, so we
secured handy sticks from eight to twelve feet long.
To such short staffs a cord was frequently fixed to
aid recovery when thrown into a broad, rapid
current ; but the simplest method was to throw the
spear anyway, and then to walk" right into the water
after it, in case it could not otherwise be recovered.
With and *A gainst tbe Grains 23
More than once I have seen a grains thrown
recklessly at a fish a dozen yards from the bank of
the swollen, ice-cold river, and as it floated with the
current its owner would have no choice but to
plunge in and secure it with as little tarrying and as
few strokes as the law allowed. Whether he lost
his grains by funking a frigid swim, or regained it
by a fearless dash, we guyed him just the same, and
his best policy was to grapple somebody whose rai-
ment was dry and strive to get warmed up in the
struggle the dry one was certain to make to get
away from the damp embrace.
Among the devotees of pike spearing two meth-
ods were popular : One was to lie in wait where the
clear current of an outflow joined the turbid main
stream, or upon a fallen tree or bridge, and spear
the fish with long-handled grains as they passed,
bound upstream. This method was popular with
the veterans. It was restful and not necessarily a
dirty or wet procedure, and the watcher had chances
at all fish that sought that stream while he was on
deck. It had disadvantages, inasmuch as the run of
fish was always uncertain, and a man might watch for
hours in vain. All fish already past that point were
lost as far as that grains was concerned ; and while
there was nothing doing at the outlet, there might
be rare fun farther above and at the headwaters.
At such ambushes the spearing could also be done
at night if a fire could be built so as to cast a
strong light on the water, or if the grainer had a
lantern equipped with a good reflector.
The second method offered the most variety, and
appealed to the restless ones. This was to follow
24 Sporting Sketches
the windings of the water for miles, taking mud and
slop as they came, to wade when needful, to get wet
and outrageously dirty as a matter of course, and to
finish off with wading through the headwaters and
tramping home as best one could. The shorter
grains, easy to throw, were most serviceable for this
work. By following the stream thoroughly, one
stood a chance to find all fish that had passed up,
and a miss with the grains might be rectified later
on, for a missed fish was certain to go upstream,
and might be overtaken and tried again if it kept
to the channel.
The best costume for this method was the oldest
and most useless clothes one possessed, for the man
who couldn't afford to get covered with mud was
safest at home. Many grainers wore long rubber
waders, but the value of these was doubtful. One
was almost certain to fall over or off of something
ere the trip was done, and waders wet inside are an
abomination. Besides, they are unpleasant things
to walk across country in during a return tramp. I
used to rig my feet with old stout boots, with enough
cracks in them to let water run in or out at will.
Any kind of ancient trousers was good enough,
and a pair of strong leggins amply protected the
shins. Thus equipped, I would walk into the first
water I reached, to get wet and be done with it.
After that it was easy to take what came, and if one
slipped and fell into the mud, a wade through deep
enough water fixed matters first rate.
For carrying the fish, we invariably used a long-
ish supple switch, with a short stub left near the
lower end to keep the first fish put on from slipping
With and <A gainst tbe Grains 25
off. The switch with its fish could instantly be
dropped from the left hand if occasion demanded,
and there was no danger of a newly taken captive
making off, for a fish removed from grains has not
much music left in it.
Successful use of the grains after a fish was dis-
covered was not so easy, despite statements from
the opposition that no skill was required. Of course,
almost any fool could strike a fish if it lay quiet in
very shallow water. Under these conditions a rap
from a club would be just as efficient as a spear-
thrust. But pike are not given to half stranding
themselves for the accommodation of their pursuers.
Fish seen lying motionless were generally at the
bottom of some deep pool, or beneath some log or
other shelter likely to interfere with the grains.
When a man could get directly over a fish, the
spearing was easy, provided the man worked cau-
tiously and correctly estimated the depth of water.
The surest way, in anything more than a foot and a
half of water, was to silently dip the spear till the
points were within about six inches of the quarry's
shoulders. A swift jab would then be almost cer-
tain.
But woe to the man who fiddled too long, or was
careless in his movements. A fish can get away
from a standing start with astounding speed, and
our pike is one of the sprinters of his kind. Lean,
long, and slimy, he is a javelin of fishdom, and his
lightning dart will baffle all but the best trained
eyes.
Throwing the grains so as to strike a moving fish
requires a ready arm and quick, accurate calcula-
26 Sporting Sketches
tion. Stationary or moving, a fish is apt to appear
from four inches to a foot nearer to the surface than
it actually is, the amount of refraction varying with
the depth of water. The grains must, therefore, be
aimed ahead of and seemingly below a moving fish
to strike true. When the game is stationary and
offers only a side shot, careful allowance must be
made, or the points will pass above their object. I
have seen a big pike run a gantlet of four spears,
guarding a stretch of water perhaps ten yards wide
and two feet deep. One weapon after another
struck, " chug chug chug chug," while a fly-
ing furrow on the surface told of a swift shape speed-
ing unharmed below it. In this case, though we
were all experienced, we miscalculated the depth of
water and overshot the best fish seen that day.
*#####
A friend, son of one of the " river farmers," as we
styled the owners of fat bottom-lands, had asked me
to join him for a day's slopping round. I was to
reach the farmhouse about evening, and we were to
turn out at sunrise next morning, and try a long
creek which drained an extensive tract of woodland.
The mouth of this creek was near my friend's home,
so I concluded to travel along the river bank till I
reached the smaller stream, and to have a look at
the water for myself. As the river was very high,
and the going muddy, I wore long rubber waders,
for I could not change clothes until I returned.
When I started on my four-mile tramp the after-
noon was warm and bright, and I poked along, not
caring to reach the house before supper-time. Wad-
ing through shallow overflows kept my rubbers cool
With and Against the Grains 27
and comfortable until I reached the mouth of the
creek. Here I found the outrunning water per-
fectly clear, the clean current extending for a couple
of yards into the roily river. It was a capital place
to watch for fish, and as I had time to spare I con-
cluded to bide a wee.
Out of spearing distance in the river, fish were
running famously. The quick strikes of the pike
rippled the gliding surface continuously, and now
and then the reddish fin or caudal of a mullet
showed where some big fellow was struggling
against the powerful, discolored current. In time
a red tail waggled for a second within reach, and I
drove the grains into the water a couple of feet
ahead of where the tail had disappeared. A grind-
ing jar told that the points had struck a fish well
forward, and as the shaft whirled round with the
flood, I pulled it back and landed a heavy mullet.
The writhing eddy just below the confluence of
the two currents seemed to entice many wearied
fish, and every few moments I'd catch a glimpse of
a fin or tail. But the stream was far too muddy
for sure work, and many a " water jab " resulted.
Once in about five thrusts the points would touch
a fish, and at longer intervals victims were secured.
It was quick and interesting work, and supper-time
rolled round before I had given a thought to the
venomous Old Party with the scythe. I had killed
four good fish and a couple of worthless suckers
when I realized that farmers' wives invariably make
fussy preparations for "town fellers," and that de-
cency demanded that I should make an effort to be
on time.
28 Sporting Sketches
So I cut a switch, strung my mullet, and picked
up the spear preparatory to starting. A glance into
the water of the creek caused me to drop the fish
and stare in astonishment. About a foot below the
surface, and not more than a dozen feet away, a
long, gleaming shape was plainly visible. Wicked-
looking yellow eyes glared from one end of it, and
a broad tail sculled softly at the other. At first I
thought it was surely a muskallonge, but the season
was too early. A second scrutiny proved it to be
a pike and such a pike! It had seen me before
I noticed it, and it was ready for one of its electric
rushes at an instant's warning. I cautiously edged
round into a good position, thinking meantime of
the lusty " jacks " of ancient moat and fen, for this
was the largest pike I had seen.
" Blame you, you most scared me ! You must
weigh over twenty pounds," was my thought as I
got the spear into position. Then I hesitated.
Should I essay a sneaking side thrust or stand
up like a man and hurl the grains ? The first was
tempting but 'twas a noble fish worthy of knightly
feat, and, besides, I was not at all sure that it would
tolerate a nearer approach. The doubt decided me,
and, little by little, I raised the spear and got into
position. Once I sighted, twice I sighted ; then
involuntarily exclaimed, " Now ! " and drove the
steel truly at a point below the glaring eyes. As
the shaft left my hand a laughing voice echoed,
" Now ! " then changed to a yell of astonishment,
which wound up with, " Great Caesar's ghost !
Wha-a-t a fish ! "
I knew the voice and guessed that Jack had am-
With and Against tbe Grains 29
bushed me, expecting to find me at the creek when
I failed to appear at supper-time. All that I saw
for the moment was a great, foamy swirl of water, a
struggling, burnished body, seemingly as large as
my leg, a glint of the grains near a broad, flapping
tail ; then the staff floated idly toward me.
" He's loose ! He's upstream ! Run him, man ! "
shouted Jack, as I grasped the grains and sped
away. A wake in the water now and then hinted
where the fish was, and I belted along as fast as the
waders and treacherous footing would allow. At
the end of a hundred-yard burst I had enough, and
at the same time saw that further chase was useless,
for the creek suddenly broadened into a deep pond.
As I pulled up I caught a glimpse of the fish near
the bank, and within reasonable throwing distance.
It was moving slowly, and a white scar near the tail
showed where a tine of the grains had failed to hold.
With a last desperate effort I hurled the shaft again.
It left my hand all right, but an unnoticed twig
caused it to swerve, and the steel struck the water a
yard from its mark. The startled fish disappeared
in the pond like an arrow of light, while I thought
hard things of luck in general and this kind of
luck in particular.
Naturally the adventure made us keen, and as
soon as I could escape from the overplus of pies,
etc., we went back to the creek. A big fire of drift-
wood was soon started, its red glare showing far
upon the river. With grains in hand, we watched
many a passing fish, and once in a while we struck
mullet and suckers. Time slipped away ; duck clove
the darkness overhead with hissing wings ; owls
30 Sporting Sketches
" How-do-ed ? " to one another across the river, and
finally a wailing "bla-a-a-at" from a big tin horn
warned us that Jack's father considered it time to
lock up his house for the night.
If there is one thing I dislike more than getting
into bed, it surely is getting out again, and Jack had
to haul me bodily to the floor in a queer half-light,
which he termed morning. He had chores to do
before we were free to go, so, after plunging my
head into cold water, I bore a hand and helped him
out. The rapidity of the feeding process must have
delighted and amazed the stock but we wanted to
go spearing ! Jack moused round and fixed up two
goodly bowls of bread and milk, and as the sun
climbed above the woods we were ready to depart.
At this juncture Jack thought of an evil thing, and
exclaimed: "Say, how'd some hard cider catch you
'fore startin' ? Ole man's got a barrel of it, and it's
bully ! "
I rather fancied the scheme, and we sneaked into
the cellar and put at least a quart apiece on top of
our bread and milk. It was mild, palatable stuff,
and it slid so meekly out of the old tin dipper that
I trusted it implicitly. Jack spied an empty quart
bottle, and, with many low chucklings, we cribbed
the full of it and made off. We went first to the
mouth of the creek, and found the water in prime
condition. Jack, however, was eager to get up-
stream, to look for our lost big fish, and he urged
me to lose no time, as other spearsmen might be up
from town and at the headwaters before us. When
we reached the place where the fish had disappeared
I halted, while Jack hurried ahead to where the
With and, ^Against tbe Grains 31
creek flowed in. Considering that the fish was
slightly wounded, it might still be in the pond, so
the best plan was for me to wade in, and try and
drive it upstream to the ambushed spear.
I beat the pond thoroughly, striking the water
with the spear-shaft as I went, but no big fish passed
Jack. Three small pike gave him a chance, which
yielded one victim; but when I reached him, he
agreed that the big one must have gone farther up
the creek.
Then followed a long, patient hunt. We moved
abreast, one on either side of the water, searching
every possible cover, and jabbing our grains into
every pool too deep and dark for eye to penetrate,
but for a long time found no trace of the big fish
with the white scar near his tail. Other fish of fair
size we occasionally routed out, and several were
secured and placed on our respective switches.
One capture will show what quick work may be
done with the grains. At a point where the creek
was less than four yards broad and perhaps two feet
deep, we noticed a decided wake on the surface.
Jack ran ahead and shouted : " Look out ! I've turned
three good ones." Then he made a few steps for-
ward and speared a fine fish. A mimic wave rushed
down on me, and I caught a glimpse of the two pike,
one a yard or more in the lead. This was the smaller
fish, but I had to strike it, or suffer it to reach a dif-
ficult piece of water. As it dashed abreast of me I
struck it near the head, and at once heaved on the
shaft a la pitchfork, following with a sharp, twisting,
backward jerk as the steel was above my head.
The fish tore free of the tines, and went sailing
32 Sporting Sketches
yards away into the field. The larger fish had paused
for a second or two as its leader was struck, and
gave me time to whirl the grains into position for a
throw. The fish had passed, but a swift shot after
it landed the tines in its back, and we got all three.
This was such a lucky performance that Jack
produced his bottle of hard cider, and we made
" two bites " of it, to save lugging the flask farther.
The sun had by this time gained full power, the
surface of the water seemed to be brighter and more
dazzling than usual, and some way or other we
seemed to laugh more over the capture of our three
prizes than was really necessary. I know, of course,
that I was laughing mainly at Jack, and my mirth
did not decrease when he began to talk about the
big fish and what he'd do if some son-of-a-gun from
town happened to get it before we could find it.
In time we reached a small log bridge spanning
the stream, and here we paused to bask in the pleas-
ant sunshine and to get pipes going once more.
Somehow I felt strangely lazy and drowsy, and Jack,
while he did an enormous amount of talking, failed
to interest me overmuch, or to mouth his words in
his usual crisp style. We sat till I caught myself
actually nodding; then we laughed some more and
got upon our feet. Before leaving the bridge I pro-
ceeded to examine the water below it, and made an
important discovery. Under a large log lay a long
greenish form with fins that wavered slowly, and a
tail that sculled with just sufficient power to keep
its owner in his hiding-place despite the current.
Near the big tail a white scar showed distinctly, and
I knew that at last we had found our lost friend of
Witb and Jl gainst the Grains 33
the evening before, though fully two miles from
where I had missed him. He must have picked up
a comrade while travelling, for on looking again I
plainly saw two huge pike and, mirabile dictu, each
had a scar near its tail ! I gravely asked Jack to
gaze upon this mystery of the waters. He took one
look, then exclaimed: " Sufferin' cats! Ram it
hie ! to the hull three of 'em ! "
I sighted carefully at the biggest, yet hoped to
spear both, and drove the grains with unnecessary
power. My arm felt an unexpected jar, but I
whooped out: "Hurra! I've got one anyhow!"
" Got nuthin' ! There they all go You speared
the log, you hie fool you yer full!" politely
commented Jack. After I had riddled for some
minutes trying to get the grains free of the log, and
had calmly stepped into water that came inches
above the tops of my rubbers, I realized that Jack
had evidently cultivated the power of observation.
Hard cider was peculiar stuff surely, so I wet my
head and splashed water into my face, then stumbled
ashore. The ducking improved matters a bit, but
I screamed with laughter when Jack blurted out:
" Well, hie you're nice feller to go
spearin' ! Let's take after'm they all run up-
stream."
" There was only one fish, Jack," I ventured.
" Oh, shut up ! " he said. " Bad enough to miss
the hull three without trying to lie out of it. I
hie hate a feller'll squeal when he makes a
fool of hisself!"
We soon found the fish again. It must have
been severely hurt, for by some half-submerged
34 Sporting Sketches
scrub I saw the familiar shape and the white scar.
This time thanks to the cold-water treatment
the fish was alone. I warned Jack, and then stole
upon the quarry. A few yards above where it lay
was a very shallow little rapid, the water sliding, six
inches deep, over a sort of slope of hard blue clay.
There Jack stationed himself in a rickety sort of
way to head off the fish in case I missed it. As
he left me he said, " Ef you mish um again an'
I bet you do you watch me nail um ef he tries to
monkey with me ! "
To be candid, I did miss him. How or why the
cider can explain. I had a fair, open chance ; the
fish never stirred till after the grains plunged into
the water at least six inches to one side, but it was
a palpable " lost bird." The big pike was slow in
its movements, and Jack had plenty of warning
before the shovel-nose showed in the rapid right at
his feet. He jabbed once, twice, thrice, with short,
swift movements, like a yellow hen pecking corn,
but he missed. I could have run to the scene in
time to have tried a shot myself, but the picture was
altogether too funny for me to tamper with. As he
missed the third try, he ran forward into the water,
stumbled, and landed on his feet and hands. He
got pretty wet, but was up in an instant and, as the
fish showed at the very head of the little rapid, he
swung his spear aloft, and brought it down with a
smashing two-handed blow, as an old dame handles
an axe. The shaft snapped, but the grains hap-
pened to land flat on the pike and left it dead. The
next swirl of water brought the -long, mottled body
to Jack's hand and he stumbled to terra firma with
Witb and Against the Grains 35
his prize. As we felt averse to exertion, we lay
down to smoke.
Trouble of an unexpected nature was brewing.
We had barely got our pipes going when we heard
voices and soon saw three hard-looking citizens
approaching. They had grains, but only one small
fish, and were using pretty rough language. They
knew me well enough, and one of them presently
hailed me and asked, " What luck ? " Jack grunted
out, " Don't bother with that truck they're no
good." It seemed that the men had raided his
father's orchard and melon patch so many times
that they had got themselves disliked. However,
I held up first, my lot, then Jack's, then the great
fish which had not been put on the switch. The
two strings caused some profane comment; but the
size of the big fish raised a whoop of surprise, and
through the creek they came for a closer inspection.
When they reached us, I saw they'd been drinking
more or less, so just to turn matters into a safe
channel, I gave the two fishless fellows a fair-sized
pike each. This was a veritable boomerang. In-
stantly two flasks were produced, and each man
swore that I was a good fellow and must drink.
Now, I had not yet entirely shaken off the hard
cider, and I knew better than to put straight rye
on top of it; but it was very difficult to beg off.
I jollied the trio as best I could, and might have
smoothed things famously if Jack had kept his
mouth shut. But suddenly, to my horror, he sprang
to his feet, shook his fist at one man and roared :
" You're a blank thief ! I know you. Now you
get right out of here ! "
36 Sporting Sketches
This meant " scrap " for sure, and I didn't like
the prospect a bit. Three to two, and every man
armed with grains, was nasty. The three could
certainly do us if they wanted to, as there was little
to choose between any two of the party, so far as I
knew. The man spoken to merely stepped off a
few paces to one side, drove his spear into the
ground, shed his coat, and came back saying, "Jest
as soon tackle you as eat." If it hadn't been for
Jack's hard cider, I would not have worried much
about him, for he was a powerful, though clumsy,
fellow, trained by plenty of hard work. The chance
of the others mixing in was promptly settled by one
of them saying to me, " You keep back on your side,
and we'll do the same." I presume that I should
have done my best to check hostilities, but, honestly,
I didn't feel called upon to start a Sunday-school
just then. So long as they scrapped fair and wanted
to, and I didn't have to get punched or speared, I
was quite willing to look on.
There was no pretence at science. They slugged
each other, bang-bang, half a dozen times, missed
with many wild swings, and then Jack went down
in a very wet spot. As he picked himself up I
advised him, " Best clinch him, Johnnie," and was
promptly told to " shut my trap " by the other
spectators. Jack heard, however, and soon they
were all snarled together, kicking up ground and
milling away at a great rate. In the roll around
they got mixed up with the fish and we shifted the
grains well out of reach, for both were now pretty
well scraped and punched and screaming mad.
It was an even thing until they broke apart on
IV lib and *A gainst tbe Grains 37
the ground. Just then Jack ran his nose against a
hot one aimed at random, and as he sat back his
hand chanced to light on the big pike's head. With
a yowl like a mad cat he leaped up and whirled the
long body of the fish hissing through the air. The
tail landed with a swat, like two boards struck to-
gether, fair on his foe's mouth, only to rise and
whistle again and reach the jaw with a fearful crack.
This blow broke the fish into fragments, and Jack,
with a quarter section of head and battered flesh
clutched tight in his right " maulie," piled into his
fallen enemy and belabored himself lustily. From
below the Catling of fishmeat presently came the
required squeal, and the fight was done.
Jack left fish and grains and marched straight
across country, madder than a wet hen. As the
defeated one washed at the creek the three sinful
spectators rolled on the ground and howled with
boundless joy, and I had finally to grab the fish and
grains and flee as best I could for laughter from
insistent proffers of flasks. When three fields from
the battleground I could hear the two yelling with
delight, and I'll lay that the fighter appreciated the
force of " save me from my friends " before they got
through with him.
TTISIE
TTIBJIS
WHY a wizard? Yankee-fashion I might retort
with, Why not ? When a bit of brown bird life
only about eleven inches long can cause a six-foot
man to do all sorts of crazy stunts, I should say the
wee fellow at least possessed peculiar powers. That
the snipe can make a lazy, heavy sleeper rise at
gray dawn and go toiling across weary leagues of
bog, morass, and muddy mess for perhaps eight or
ten hours at a stretch is a well-known fact. That
he can make a temperate man drink, a truthful man
lie, an accurate man miss, and a good man curse, he
has repeatedly proved, while at the same time with
a mere wave of a wing he can cause a sinking heart
to leap with joyous pride and a weary eye to flash
with sudden fire. These things, and a few others
which need not be dwelt upon, backed by a flight
of the now-you-see-it-now-you-don't the-quickness-
38
The Wizard of the Wetlands 39
of-the-wing-deceives-the-eye order, appear to warrant
the title herewith bestowed.
And with all his eccentricities he is a good little
wizard and one of the best loved of all our lesser
game. Once a snipe shooter always a snipe shooter
might be truly said, for it is questionable if even the
Bob White has more valiant champions than stand
ready to defend the honor of the long-billed, bent-
winged master of the mud.
The snipe, properly Wilson's snipe, Gallinago
delicata, but commonly known as English snipe
and wrongfully called half-a-dozen other names, is a
widely distributed species. It visits every state at
some season; its northward migration extends
within the Arctic Circle, while it is known to go
southward to northern South America and the
West Indies. Comparatively few of the birds which
move northward from February until May breed
south of the international line. It is quite true
there are breeding grounds at various points of the
Northern states, but the great breeding range
extends from latitude 42 north to some undeter-
mined point much nearer the Pole than most
sportsmen will venture.
Some time in September the first south-bound
birds pass below the Canadian grounds, and soon
most of the suitable marshy bits of East and West
have their share of long-billed prizes. Then begins
an astonishing attack, which extends from ocean to
ocean and gradually sweeps southward from Canada
to California. Probably tons of lead, half of which
is wasted, are fired at the artful dodger.
The sexes are alike, the description being as fol-
40 Sporting Sketches
lows : Top of head, black, with three buff stripes ;
neck, buff, lined and spotted with black ; back, black,
feathers barred and margined with rufous and buff,
the latter giving a striped effect ; rump and upper
tail coverts, rufous, barred with black ; wings, sooty
black, feathers barred with rufous and margined
with white ; primaries, blackish, web of first white
nearly its length, edged with white at tip; tail,
usually of sixteen feathers, the three outer whitish
with narrow black bars, the others black with rufous
bar and tipped with pale buff ; chin and upper part
of throat, pale buff, lower throat and breast, buff,
spotted with sooty brown ; flanks, white, barred with
black ; abdomen, white ; under tail coverts, buff,
barred with sooty black ; bill, legs, and feet, green-
ish. Length, loj to nj inches; wing, about 5
inches ; tail, 2 J- inches ; bill, 2 J to 3 inches.
Many sportsmen of the gray-headed brigade still
insist that, like the woodcock, the snipe lives by
what they term " suction." Better-informed people,
of course, know that both birds eat worms, and an
astonishing number of them, and that the worms
are secured mainly by probing (boring) for them
with the peculiarly sensitive bill, the upper mandible
having a very flexible tip by which the worm is felt,
seized, and drawn from the earth. By this, however,
is not meant that snipe and cock invariably bore for
their food. Both will take worms crawling upon
the surface, and both frequently feed in thickets and
on almost dry ground, where they secure the prey
by turning over fallen leaves.
When migrating the snipe travels by night, and
while some excellent authorities have claimed that
The Wizard of the Wetlands 41
a moonlit journey is necessary, or at least preferred,
my experience has taught otherwise. More times
than can now be recalled I have catnapped through
the black monotony of a steamy spring night so as
to be on precisely the proper spot when the first
flight of geese came in to feed at gray dawn. And
at intervals throughout such nights I have heard
the wings and voices of myriad snipe hissing and
rasping across the black mystery as the first comers
of the year sped to the fat muck of thousands of
acres of wetlands. Moreover, I have toiled till dusk
over fenceless fields of black tenacity and seen never
a bird, nor a boring, nor a chalking, nor anything
that is his ; have turned in dead beat at some farm-
house, been literally hauled out, against the grain
but in accordance with positive instructions, before
dawn, and have later found the birdless ground of
the previous evening to be swarming with silent,
skulking snipe, which if not weary from a long flight
certainly acted like resting new arrivals.
I have heard snipe moving by moonlight, and that
many times ; but the night of nights to bring the
northward-bound birds is dark and damp with a
puff of warm breeze from the south and a dash of
warm rain. Upon such a night I have known the
snipe pour in so that wings or voices were audible
nearly every moment. Pretty good snipe grounds ?
Indeed they were. When "Frank Forester" first
tramped them, he could, with a muzzleloader, bag
twenty, thirty, and forty brace in a day; and not many
seasons ago the keen men who worked those grounds
took each one hundred shells for one day's sport.
And this did not mean that each bird required a
42 Sporting Sketches
deal of shooting. On the contrary there were men
who might average fully three-fourths of all their
birds and who were able to grass snipe after snipe
without a mistake upon days when things worked
just right. I have seen a private match at twenty
birds per man result in a straight score for the win-
ner, while the loser missed but twice.
While the great flight of snipe extends well to the
northward of New England, occasional nests have
been found in Connecticut and Pennsylvania. A
slight hollow in the ground, or a tuft of rank grass,
holds the three or four eggs, which are olive-gray
washed with dull brown and spotted and scribbled
at the larger end with deep brown and black. The
courtship is peculiar, the male and female frequently
rising high in air and sweeping about in swift circles,
then diving earthward at full speed, at the same time
producing a queer rolling sound impossible to repre-
sent on paper. This " drumming," as it is termed
by sportsmen, is also frequently performed by single
birds and late in the season as well as during the
period of courtship. A drumming snipe not seldom
ascends until almost invisible, then seemingly flies
straight down at an amazing rate, whereupon is
heard a loud humming, presumably caused by the
rushing of the air through the primaries. An empty,
corkless ink-bottle swiftly thrown will produce a
similar sound, and the old schoolboy trick of making
a nail hum is no bad imitation.
The snipe occasionally takes to some large,
horizontal limb, more often alights upon the top rail
of a fence, a stump, or big log, and I once saw one
standing on the top of a stout post which supported
The Wizard, of tbe Wetlands 43
wire. Another bird was seen to pitch on a small
stack which was surrounded by water, and yet
another upon the roof of an old outhouse. There
was no mistake in either case, for I flushed and
killed the bird on the stack and had a close view of
the other before it left the roof.
The names by which the snipe is known in various
localities are rather numerous and some of them
quite curious. While the correct one is Wilson's
snipe, we find " American snipe," " common snipe,"
" snipe," " meadow snipe," " little wood-snipe,"
" English snipe," " bog snipe," " marsh snipe," " Jack
snipe," " alewife bird," " shad spirit," " shad-bird," and
" gutter snipe." It is " a snipe or snite, a bird lesse
than a woodcocke," in Baret's "Alveary," 1580; and in
Drayton's "Owl," 1604, occurs, "the witless woodcock
and his neighbor snite." Other sometime crumbled
old parties speak of " simpes " and " simps," and I
.sincerely trust their shooting was a lot above the
average of their spelling. The name "Jack snipe,"
so persistently used by some writers who ought to
know better, is misleading, as it rightly belongs to
a smaller bird which so far as may be learned from
authentic records has been taken only upon the
other side of the Herring Pond. One excellent
authority refers to it as " a twiddling jack " and
unworthy of the notice of sportsmen.
The flight of the snipe is swift, vigorous, and
usually for the first few yards erratic. The bird
gets under way smartly and as a usual thing goes
boring up-wind in a style rather suggestive of a
feathered corkscrew. A series of electrical zigzags
gets him to top speed, whereupon his progress stead-
44 Sporting Sketches
ies a bit and he darts away in something more like
a straight line. As a general rule, a flushed bird
springs a few feet into the air, hangs for the fraction
of a second, then begins to twist and dodge as
though the Old Boy was at his tail. It would be
very interesting could we discover the original cause
of the dodging. Possibly some ancient foe, now
long extinct, was best baffled by that mode of flight,
for there usually is some such explanation for
peculiar actions by wild things. Because the flight
happens to be puzzling to a gunner is no guarantee
that the bird dodges for that purpose such an
explanation would imply a deal more intelligence
than the entire tribe of snipe is possessed of. Snipe,
of course, dodged on the wing long prior to the
appearance of firearms, and it is extremely unlikely
that the erratic flight has anything in the nature of
protective tactics against the devices of human foes.
The fame of the bird as an object of the sports-
man's pursuit has been fairly earned. Swift, small,
erratic, he presents the most difficult mark of all our
game of shore and upland. In my opinion only teal
and canvasback are harder propositions, and with
them the real difficulty is apt to be more of weather
conditions and the methods usually employed rather
than the speed of the fowl, great though it be. The
shooting of the snipe is unlike that of any other
bird. Some men attain truly wonderful skill at it,
and as a rule such men are referred to as " crack
snipe shots," instead of the broader term "crack
shots."
To me there is a trifle too much of sameness
about it. I am no shirker in the field, yet there is
The Wizard of tbe Wetlands 45
a tinge of monotony about marsh lands and unend-
ing mud and water which cannot hold me as does
the infinite variety of conditions, the marvellous
beauty of turning foliage, and the clean, vigorous
action of sport on the uplands. In point of fact I
could enjoy six days per week of grouse, quail, and
cock ; but it is questionable if the charm of snipe
shooting would wear equally as well.
And now the actual shooting. The best gun is a
light, close, hard shooter, because the mark is swift
and small and half the chances at longish range, the
average rise being yards farther than is the rule in
Bob White shooting. I use number eight shot,
because to my notion the popular number ten is apt
to mean too many pellets in the meat and conse-
quently too much lead for busy teeth later on. The
quantity of smokeless powder will depend upon the
gun I believe in using plenty, all the gun can
burn properly, for the large percentage of long shots
demand all possible power. When birds are few, a
free-ranging pointer or setter is an invaluable helper ;
where birds are very plentiful, a reliable spaniel, that
will keep at heel until ordered out, is all the dog
required. I am not overfond of running a fine
pointer or setter all day on wet mud. It is hard
upon his feet and coat, and unless he be carefully
washed and thoroughly dried so soon as the shoot-
ing has ended, he is apt to have a miserable time of
it during the long ride home and be all stiffened up
in the morning. Very frequently, too, a fine dog,
unless broken on snipe, is apt to try to get too close
to his birds and so cause flushes. When snipe are
wild, as often happens, a dog must point at long
46 Sporting Sketches
range. Dogs broken on Bob Whites, and in every
way reliable on the uplands, could not be expected
to understand this, and some of them require days
to master the peculiarities of the long-bills.
A great many men employ Bob White tactics
when after snipe, especially in regard to beating up-
wind. This I do not advise, because it means a lot
of birds boring into the wind's eye and dodging like
mad while offering the smallest possible marks. A
cross section of a snipe going straight away is much
smaller than many people imagine. The vitals of
a bird so going might be covered by a silver dollar,
the head is apt to be covered by the body, while
only the edges of the wings are exposed, which
means an extremely narrow surface. Because the
bird loves to bore up-wind, I walk down-wind, thus
securing a quick chance as he curves into the wind
in front, or else a square crossing shot as he passes
up-wind at either side. In these positions the effect
of his dodging is minimized, while I still retain the
privilege of making a half turn and using the second
barrel at a straightaway or almost a straightaway bird
that has got through dodging and is trusting solely
to speed. In all these shots the gun has a better
chance, in a straightaway after the turn, while, of
course, the side shots mean all one side of the bird
and most of the long wings fully exposed. This
gives the gun a rather large target instead of a very
small one, and practically does away with the saving
erratic flight.
The reason why some men work up-wind is be-
cause they imagine the straightaway shot to be
easier. They fail at crossing shots, not because the
The Wizard of the Wetlands 47
shot is difficult, but because they have not learned
how to make it in other words they never have
mastered the highly important points, allowing a
fast bird plenty of lead and pulling trigger with-
out checking the steady swing of the gun. Unless
one is holding a tremendous distance ahead, to stop
the swing of the gun means to miss through shooting
behind. Quickly as shot travels there is a fractional
loss of time between the beginning of the movement
by the trigger ringer and the arrival of the pellets
at any point, for convenience say thirty or forty
yards from the muzzle. During that interval, brief
though it be, a snipe will travel a certain distance,
and that distance is precisely what the gun should
be ahead of him when the trigger finger starts to
pull.
Those who have not actually experimented with
the pattern of guns and the matter of leading fast
birds according to distance, might with advantage
make a few patterns at twenty, thirty, and forty
yards, using a thirty-inch circle upon large sheets
of paper. The results will show a spread of pattern
as the distance is increased, and let us hope an even
and fairly close distribution of the pellets, for that
means a useful field-gun. The twenty-yard pattern
will show the shot so closely bunched that no snipe
within its circle could escape instant death. At the
distance, then, the one necessary thing is to get any
part of that pattern on him ; but correct shooting
would demand his being exactly centred. To insure
this the gun would have to be held just ahead of
him and kept swinging at exactly his speed and not
stopped as the trigger was pulled. At thirty yards
48 Sporting Sketches
it is still more important that he be centred, because
the charge has loosened considerably, while the most
pellets, hence the smallest gaps in the pattern, are
in the centre. For the same reason that necessi-
tated holding just ahead at twenty yards, the lead
must now be increased one-half to insure the best
results at the ten yards of increased range. At
forty yards the pattern has opened sufficiently to
allow free passage to an object the size of a snipe
at several points toward the outer limit, yet there
remain enough closely placed pellets at the centre
to do the work. If a second smaller circle be now
described, which includes all of the paper which
shows no dangerous gap, the deadly portion of the
charge will be determined. To make sure of a
snipe, that portion must cover him at forty yards,
and to insure its reaching the proper spot at the
exact moment, the gun must be held ahead just
twice the distance which the twenty-yard range de-
manded. In other words, as the shot leaves the
muzzle, the latter should be some inches ahead of
the bird and swinging in true time with the mark.
At greater distances the lead must be increased in
proportion ; but other possibilities now creep in, be-
cause, as the charge spreads more and more, too large
gaps may appear almost anywhere, which means the
extreme reliable range of the gun has been passed.
A few, possibly successive, extremely long shots
prove nothing beyond the fact of the gun's being a
hard shooter, as at the same time the patterns might
be poor. I have killed snipe when they seemed be-
yond the range of the gun ; but^such kills are merely
accidental. No wise man would dare wager upon
The Wizard of the Wetlands 49
such shots because he knows the pellets might not
again find the mark once in ten attempts, although
given the proper allowance for the distance.
There are two deadly methods of shooting straight-
away snipe. One is lightning-fast, the next thing
to out-and-out snap shooting. The other is to wait
until the bird has completed his shifty first flight
and give it to him the moment he steadies. Both
are scientific. I prefer the former, because, being
naturally very quick with my hands, I can get on a
bird before he has time to begin dodging. Were
it not for this, I certainly should wait. A man to
shoot at all evenly must do one or other, for any
attempt at a compromise will leave him neither
quick nor slow and prone to fire at precisely the
wrong moment, when the wizard of the wet lands is
in the midst of his little trick wherein the quickness
of the wing deceives the eye.
And now a glimpse of snipe shooting in which
the characteristic sameness of leagues of wide wet
lands and successive springing, dodging, scaiping
sprites was a bit varied. Unto me spake long Tom,
and his words were crisp and as follows :
" Now will you be ready at 3 A.M. and game to
foot it out ? "
"I will! "said I.
I meant it, and I had need to, for when long Tom
got through with you, other things also seemed long,
notably that awful final homeward mile. Our cam-
paign necessitated a gray-dawn start, because it
began with a six-mile tramp in cold blood along a
railroad track. We might have driven to one cor-
ner of the ground, but to take a horse also meant
50 Sporting Sketches,
that which we both detested a fixed point to
which we would have to return at evening. And
when you take a horse snipe shooting the birds in-
variably are most abundant farthest from where you
tie the brute, and at nightfall you are apt to find
yourself only five miles from home, but eight miles
from the horse. Then, of course, you have to
but, reader, you understand !
We started at dawn, and so soon as we had reached
the railroad Tom tersely remarked :
" Come, shake those long legs. I've got you
where I want you now ! "
This was pregnant with fell intent, and I grinned
defiance, for we were about the same age and weight,
in fact, six-foot two-hundred-pounders, and about
even all around. As is usual when a couple of
behemoths get to playing, there was considerable
pounding of gravel.
Before us spread miles of ground, of all degrees
of consistency between semi-liquid and putty-like
stiffness. A strip of it, perhaps two miles long by
one-half broad, began near our feet and ended near
a dim blue mass which betokened higher ground
and forest, and near those trees was a broad creek.
" Come on ! I've got you now ! " chortled Tom,
and I thought of Kilkenny cats and sighed for the
things which I knew would happen and unwittingly
for one thing of which neither of us dreamed. For
half a mile the footing was fairly good, and, as we
both wore ordinary walking boots and leggins, we
escaped the harassing drag of the customary wad-
ers, which are good enough when one intends to
drive home, but worse than useless for a long tramp
Tbe Wizard of tbe Wetlands 51
on dry going. Presently we began to get a bit anx-
ious and to more than half wish for the canines left
securely kennelled at home. Upon such ground,
with birds plentiful, dogs are unnecessary, but
where, as sometimes happens, the snipe are broadly
scattered, the conditions are reversed.
We were some thirty yards apart, when suddenly
I heard the well-known whip-hip-hip of bent wings
and the " Scaip-sca-ip ! " as an artful dodger flushed
before Tom. Old " Take-your-Time " was a picture
as he flashed the beautiful arm into position, then
waited those straining seconds till the dodging
ceased. Then came the puny " squinge " of smoke-
less, and somebody's long bill was settled in full.
Breaking the gun as he went, and never taking his
eyes off that one spot of a thousand similar spots,
Tom moved forward thirty yards and retrieved. The
whole performance was a perfect illustration of the
deliberate method of which he undeniably was a
master.
" That long brute's dead-on to-day," was my in-
ward comment, as I moved ahead.
" Whip-hip ! Whip-hip Scaip-sca-ip ! "
A brace of unpatented corkscrews were ready to
bore holes in the whence, but the light gun just
cleared its throat a couple of times and both birds
hearkened to the warning, and that before the second
had time to make one decent twist.
" I'll mark the last one," said Tom, as I went to
the first bird. Right well he knew how I'd com-
pletely lose track of one the moment I left the firing
point, and he followed the best method, to stand in
his tracks and keep his eyes on the spot and direct
52 Sporting Sketches
the search for the second. When shooting alone,
or far from a comrade, and a double is made, I re-
load before stirring a foot. This leaves two empty
shells on the ground, to indicate my exact position,
and this, with the memory of the turn or partial
turn made for the second, gives a close line on its
whereabouts. Very frequently this saves a bird and
valuable time, for, at the worst, it will guide to within
a few yards of the game, and every yard saved in
beating foot by foot through grass is important.
Hat or handkerchief dropped at the firing point
also makes a useful mark when grass is tall. A
snipe breast upward is easily seen, but only about
half of them fall in that position. Back upward,
the striped effect blends curiously with grass and its
shadows, and a winged, or otherwise, wounded, bird
seems to know this, and to act accordingly. Men
trained on the wet lands acquire a marvellous knack
of marking down, and a mighty useful accomplish-
ment it is.
Moving on, Tom flushed a brace on bare ground
and scored, the last bird falling full fifty yards from
the gun. I marvelled, for it was a long, clean kill.
Before he reached these, two single chances were
offered and accepted, and a third bird went career-
ing away, rising higher and higher, like a wind-
driven leaf. As Tom's birds lay upon easy ground,
I kept my position, more from habit than with any
idea of being of service. A wave of his hand di-
rected my attention to the late towering bird, which,
as they frequently will, had decided to return. Like
a plummet it fell some thirty yards away, and, as an
experiment, I held about four feet under, and it hit
The Wizard, of tbe Wetlands 53
the mud with a resounding spat. It was a great
shot, and Tom's emphatic " Broke its own neck "
was merely his way of expressing keen appre-
ciation.
For an hour after this there was very pretty
shooting. The birds were nicely distributed, rising
singly and well within range, and only a trio prov-
ing the truth of the oft-repeated " Scaip scaip ! "
Finally a missed bird pitched in a broad patch of
short stuff, which showed a springlike greenness,
and Tom turned after it.
" Look out there ! Where the mischief ye goin' ? "
I yelled ; but it was too late. In an instant, it
seemed, he was down and floundering, and the
whoop he uttered might have been heard for
miles. If any of my readers have attempted to run
in snipe ground, they will understand my task.
Luckily it was short. To skin out of the coat, drop
gun and hat upon it, and start for him, was the work
of very few seconds. His face was ghastly white,
and the treacherous ooze was up to his belt, and he
was slowly sinking. After his first wild scramble,
he had wisely ceased all effort, but he was scared
clear through. So was I, for that matter, for it was
a nasty situation. He had his gun, but I dared not
venture near enough for that to be of use ; besides,
I questioned if either of our grips would stand the
pull upon such poor holding.
The belt and corduroys ! Glory be ! 'Twas a
noble inspiration Nay ! The very thing I was
panting for such things are made long for six-
footers. Those who have attempted to take off
trousers while standing on snipe ground will under-
54 Sporting Sketches
stand why I presently cursed and sat down upon
cool, moist mud ; but the legs were full measure and
the material stout. The seam never would stand
the strain; but the good old belt, made fast to the
upper part of one leg, carried across the seat and
again made fast, would take the direct pull. In a
few moments the tackle was ready, and I reached
for his gun. He hated to let go of it, and I didn't
blame him.
" Here's your life-line, remember they cost a ten-
spot," I ventured, as I tossed him one leg of the
trousers. The way his hand clutched the cloth was
a marvel to see, and I at once realized that he had
to be got out, or I'd have to paddle home without
any panties. " Steady now ; wiggle your legs a
bit," I grunted as I cautiously put on the strain.
There was one moment of agonizing doubt ; then
Thomas began to come, and finally, with a sort of
regretful sucking sigh, the awful trap let go and he
came slithering out of that.
Mud! I mined into a pocket till I found pay-
dirt otherwise his flask, cleaned it with grass and
we halved the contents. Then we looked at each
other and laughed in a semi-hysterical sort of way,
for each knew, and well, too, how serious a thing
had passed.
CDUAlPTEffi
EBEACffil
SOMEWHERE across the vast dome of blue which
arches in flawless beauty above the Great Lakes on
fair May days are unblazed, mystic, invisible trails.
Unseen by human eye, unknown to human brain,
understood only by a marvellous God-planted in-
stinct, these trails extend now, as they have extended
for uncounted ages. The microscopic eye of science
scans the distant blue in vain for trace of them, or
for the unknown signs by which these trails are
followed with unerring certainty by uncounted hosts
of airy voyageurs. The scientist knows of the exist-
ence of the trails and of their myriad travellers ; he
knows that somewhere in the glowing south and
somewhere in the lonely north the unblazed trails
begin and end, and that they are marked here and
there, at proper intervals, by resting-places, for the
trailers.
Some day, beyond the misty clouds of counted
years, ere brain's first feeble thought was rudely
scratched or chipped upon time-defying stone, the
God who made the birds held two of each race in
mighty hands and lovingly whispered to them the se-
crets of sky-paths and of their wondrous journeyings
to be. And with that knowledge, and with the power
to transmit it to their kinds, flew forth the earliest
pairs to test together the trails from south to north
55
56 Sporting Sketches
and from north to south, and in the first testing to
prove their teacher true and kind.
For ages the rivers of nervous life have flowed to
and fro atween shadowy banks with unfailing regu-
larity as the ordained seasons change. In the soft
spring nights the hurrying pilgrims pass unseen,
but earthward from the trails sink sounds of life at
speed. The hum and hiss and flick of busy wings,
the queries of many tongues questioning and an-
swering anent the way, fall in musical whispers upon
the trained ear of science hid in the blackness far
below, and tell who press the trails so fast, from
whence and whither bound.
There are other trails than those above the re-
gion of the Great Lakes. East and west, above
Atlantic and Pacific shores, above the great plains
and forests, are trails traversed by their own multi-
tudes convenient routes for feathered offspring
of certain sections of country. The peoples that
swarmed these many trails in the past and unfor-
tunately only traverse them in decreased numbers
now, represent mainly the two great orders of bird-
dom, the Grallatores and Natatores ; in plain
North American, the tribes of waders and of swim-
mers. Nearly all the species embraced within the
two orders are considered worthy victims for the
true nimrod's weapon, and it is to be regretted that
to the sport-affording and edible qualities of many
of them must be attributed their present scarcity in
districts where not many years ago they absolutely
swarmed during their periods^ of migration. The
order of Grallatores comprises" such families as the
herons, cranes, bitterns, snipes, plovers, phalaropes,
Beacb Combers 57
sandpipers, and rails, while among the Natatores
are the swans, geese, ducks, loons, cormorants, shel-
drakes, gulls, terns, gannets, guillemots, grebes, pet-
rels, auks, and puffins.
Greater or lesser numbers of nearly all of these
families annually flew (and many of them still fly)
the airy trails above the Great Lakes and halted ar
the several resting-places which the nature of the
country afforded. Prominent among these resting-
places for the ofttime weary and storm-driven
pilgrims were the sandy reaches now known as
Toronto Island, opposite the city of Toronto, situated
upon Toronto Bay, an indentation of the shore of
Lake Ontario. This formed a perfect paradise for
shore and aquatic birds, and to-day the bars, in spite
of being overlooked by a city of about two hundred
thousand population, are frequented by a variety of
the families of both the orders.
It seems that in the past the island, beaches, and
bars of this bay formed one of the most important
" road-houses " for feathered travellers along the
northward route, and many a rare and valuable
specimen unknown to the average sportsman has
been there secured. Birds rarely found in Canadian
collections, such as the ruff, red phalarope, avocet,
and stilt, now and then fell to the guns of men who
sought the island before break of day, and who lay
patiently in wait till evening shadows closed. A
few decades ago one gun might bag anywhere from
one hundred to upward of half a thousand plover of
various kinds in a single day's shooting, and even
now men who understand the annual flights of mi-
grants can bag respectable lots of " black-hearts "
58 Sporting Sketches
(red-backed sandpipers) and other waders in the
spring.
Among the rarer birds known to have been killed
on the island and adjacent marshes are the white
pelican, trumpeter swan, white-fronted goose, snow-
goose, king eider, that rara avis the harlequin duck,
canvasback, and sandhill crane.
Another famous resort of these migrants was the
marshy country about Lake St. Clair, the link be-
tween Lakes Huron and Erie, and on these grounds,
a few years ago, when I was completing one of the
finest collections of birds in Canada, I saw, handled,
mounted, or shot specimens of the white pelican,
white heron, sandhill crane, avocet, red and gray
phalarope, cormorant, brant, trumpeter swan, and
snow-goose, and other rara aves, among a miscella-
neous assortment of swimmers and waders.
Some of these birds have been questioned by
well-informed ornithologists, but the best possible
evidence of their occasional presence in the resorts
referred to can be shown in the mounted specimens
which exist to-day as perfect as when they left the
taxidermist's hands. No expert can mistake the
phalaropes if he is familiar with the foot of the bird,
or the avocet if he knows the bill, and in regard to
the white pelican and white heron, the specimens
are not only preserved in good condition, but were
kept for some time at my home alive, the birds in
question being secured wing-tipped by lucky shots.
Still another resting-place and those who shot
there a few years ago will not soon forget its swarm-
ing feathered guests is the "beautiful Rond Eau
harbor, on Lake Erie. Here a grand land-locked
Beach Combers 59
expanse of water, connected with Erie by the nar-
rowest of navigable channels, extends inland like a
great, almost circular pocket. Between it and the
lake are miles of narrow sand-bars, ideal coursing
grounds for Charadridce and Tringince, and ringing
the open water are belts of rice and rush, broad and
fretted with lily-laden channels and spangled with
shallow ponds, beloved of Anatince. Beyond the
marshy borders stands a semicircle of forest growth
of varying size, where, underneath great elms, cur-
rentless creeks choke in sheer laziness with lily-pads
and varied weeds and form delightful retreats for
wood-duck, teal, and rail. The soil of this forested
part finally becomes dry and elevated some distance
from the harbor, but in the main it is moist and
black and fat the kind best of all suited to King
Woodcock's taste.
A list of the waders and swimmers of interest
to sportsmen, which were regularly or occasionally
taken at Rond Eau, would give a good idea of what a
magnificent shooting-ground the place formerly was,
and it must be borne in mind that a number of
varieties haunted the place in clouds.
Sportsmen will readily understand what such a
varied game-list implied, and as it was as true of
Toronto Island and Lake St. Clair as of Rond Eau,
and possibly also true of Long Point on Lake Erie,
it maybe safely said that these four localities offered
in the past the finest mixed shooting in all Canada.
But, alas! the glory of nearly all has departed.
Long Point and the best grounds of Lake St. Clair
are strictly preserved, Toronto Island has met the
fate of all such grounds within sight of a city, and
60 Sporting Sketches
Rond Eau, though still affording a certain amount
of shooting, has been practically ruined.
For plover, curlew, and kindred varieties, the best
season for sport was toward the close of May.
" Black-hearts " and such feathered dainties usually
put in an appearance about the twenty-fourth of that
month, and a week of capital shooting was almost
certain to follow. A description of one of many
outings at the Eau will illustrate the fun we had.
Larry a comrade for the trip in question and
I were bank clerks then, and enjoyed few holidays.
On the twenty-third of May we held earnest confer-
ence. The twenty-fourth was the late Queen's birth-
day and a national holiday, when no good Canadian
would deign to toil at any price, or do aught save
what pleased him best.
We decided to drive twelve miles or more, to the
bar of Rond Eau harbor, and see and shoot what
was visible and shootable while going, while there,
and while returning. The road thither was in ex-
cellent condition ; so a trap was ordered for some
time before daylight, and other preparations were
speedily completed. We started at gray dawn. In
the trap were the twelve-gauges, securely cased in
oak and sole leather, respectively ; a bag of oats for
our steed ; a plentiful supply of grub and shells for
ourselves, and our waders and oilskins. Luckily we
were given a good nag that pulled us along at a
spanking clip.
What a drive that was ! Two weary drudges let
loose for one brief day to revel as they pleased ! It
was a perfect May morning, a*nd we bowled along
between farms apparently unending, where vaguely
Beach Combers 61
defined, mist-laden fields spread away to seeming
boundless space. The great slumbering world paid
no heed to us, for the signal-fires of coming dawn
yet flared redly in the east, and even farmers and
their dogs and fowl snatch sleep at times. It was
good to just sit in the trap and bowl along, sniffing
the wondrous spices of spring in the air, and watch-
ing the light gain power and the mist-curtains roll
away. Long ere we had traversed the great clear-
ing of farms, lances of yellow light flashed from the
east and clove their way through mists and shadows
and roused a myriad lives to hail the sun.
Birds appeared like magic, and rills of sweetest
song bubbled and jingled from every copse and cover,
telling the joy of the fresh-green, flower-spangled
world. Big grackles, with black wedge-tails twisted
awry, rasped and " Ska-arred " as they flew heavily
from fence-post to twig. Starlings, with ebony coats
and ruby shoulder-straps, queried " Cheer-cheer ? "
and voiced their musical " Konk-re-lay," a bird yodel
of strange sweetness. Meadow-larks buzzed to and
fro in brief, straight flights, and sent long-drawn
whistling questions to each other. Bobolinks, in
half mourning of creamy plush and velvet black,
hung overhead and drifted o'er the fields, gushing
forth golden cascades of song, as though the mar-
vellous artists had stolen and blended the ripple of
waters, piping, fluting, and the jingle of sleighbells
into one tangled braid, and were trying to say
" Whortle-berries " through it all as fast as possible.
Bluebirds, sparrows, swallows, all were there, sing-
ing as though their wee throats would burst with
gladness, or gliding through scented airs at will.
62 Sporting Sketches
Staid robins bounced along the grass in measured
hops, and now and then a liquid fluting and a flash
of orange and ebon betrayed the Baltimore.
In time we reached a portion of the road where
ancient woods opened but a narrow track for our
passage, and where great trees locked arms above
our heads. Banks of blossoms, like lingering drifts
of tinted snows, were piled in careless masses here
and there, and from the cool, moist shades came
breaths of incense shaken from tiny censers swing-
ing above cushions of moss and from drooping
boughs. Once a scarlet splash, against a wall of
green, rested a moment, like a cardinal flower, then
darted into friendly cover the first tanager.
In time the silver of Erie's restless breast flashed
in front, and we drove down to the wet line of rip-
ples upon the sand, and thence for miles along the
beach, to where the sand-spit narrowed to fifty yards,
and the Eau lay on our left and Erie on our right,
so near that one might cast a stone from one to the
other.
A rough little fishing-shanty furnished temporary
shelter for our weary horse, and he was soon made
comfortable. Then we lifted out gun-cases, shells,
and waders, and prepared for sport. While Larry
was changing his foot-gear I unlocked the oak gun-
case, and had barely got the " twelve " together
when a storm of " black-hearts " drove down on us,
flying but a few feet above the water. I had just
time to shove in one shell, and as they passed about
twenty-five yards distant, I stopped a few and pro-
ceeded to gather them up. When I returned, Larry
was hot all through. He had forgotten his keys
Beacb Combers 63
and could not open his fine sole-leather gun-case.
It seemed a shame to cut the case, and we debated
upon the possibility of both using my gun, turn
about.
A moment later the question was settled. Chanc-
ing to glance lakeward, I spied a wavering dark
cloud, not unlike the smoke from a steamer's stack.
" Larry, look ! Curlew, by all that's glorious ! "
Larry's knife was out, and he was down on his
knees carving the prized leather case in ten sec-
onds, and he couldn't cut the tough leather fast
enough. Finally he got out the gun, and we walked
along the sand-spit, one following the edge of the
Eau and the other that of Lake Erie. We did not
care for the " black-hearts " and little sandpipers, but
with the larger plover and curlew it was another
story.
Birds were astonishingly numerous, coursing over
the sand ahead and driving along its shore line in
scattering bunches ; but at last we had thoroughly
roused and driven most of them away to the bars
beyond the impassable channel which connects the
harbor and the lake. This fact worried us not a bit,
for sooner or later they were bound to come troop-
ing back, for we were on the best feeding-grounds.
Our clothes matched the sand beautifully, and we
lay down about fifty yards apart, where some short,
dead stuff furnished the little cover required.
We lay and smoked and talked across to each
other in lazy comfort, enjoying a sun-bath and
keeping an erratic lookout for any stray curlew.
A " robin-snipe " undertook to pass over me, and
I pulled him down, for his kind are rare in that
64 Sporting Sketches
locality. Then Larry got four or five chances at
passing pairs of black-bellied plover, and knocked
the big fellows over famously, much to his satisfac-
tion, for they are good birds.
At last a double gun sounded from the direction
of the bars whither we had driven the flocks, and
soon an irregular fire proclaimed that others were
busy, and that our fun would shortly begin. We
lay low and waited, and soon the advance guard ap-
peared. At first in scattering flocks, then in one
long procession came waders of many varieties, and
we took reasonable toll of the finer sorts.
All this time we had seen nothing of the wished-
for curlew, but at last Larry hailed me and pointed
lakeward. There, sure enough, was a distant cloud
of birds, and I moved over to the lake side of the
bar and lay down to watch. For how long we lay
there staring out over the shining expanse of lake I
do not know, but we had distant vision of a tremen-
dous flight of curlew, all apparently bound for resorts
on Lake Ontario. Dark cloud after dark cloud, like
puffs of smoke against the distant blue, showed,
passed, and vanished, as though following some
selected route, and it seemed as though the curlew
had utterly forgotten the existence of our tempting
bars. While we watched, uncounted plovers and
sandpipers flew over, or in front of, or pitched
behind us near the place I had forsaken, but we
had enough of them.
It has been truly said that naught can escape a
patient watch and vigil long, and our turn came at
last. Low down and far away -over the water we
saw a dark, writhing, changing line that veered and
Beach Combers 65
tacked from left to right, but grew plainer every
instant.
" Here they come right for us flatten out and
wait!"
Nearer and nearer they sped until we could
catch the faint music of five hundred whistling
throats. Louder and louder grew the clamor till
the air seemed to quiver with a storm of " Whew-
ew-whew-whew-ew." When the long, droning,
quavering, blended cries struck like a cascade of
noise as though the fowl were tonguing in our very
ears, we leaped up. Almost over us was a cloud of
screaming birds, brown of bodies and as large as
pigeons. We gathered in nine shapely prizes with
stilted legs and long-curved bills like sickles.
Straightway we hunted for slim, stiff weed-stalks
to hold the birds' necks in lifelike position, and soon
half-a-dozen decoys were in proper array. For two
hours longer we waited, and then a pair stooped to
the decoys and were promptly attended to. Half
an hour later another great flock clamored in, to
pay tribute to four barrels. Then again we lay and
watched till the sun told us it was late afternoon.
In the dim distance other flocks followed the hosts
that had passed, but no more came our way, and
Larry finally arose and in a loud voice informed all
fowl within earshot that he was hollow all the way
through, and would eat or know why.
We tramped the long way back to our trap and
got out the lunch and fed, feeling at peace with all
the world. Then we had a comfortable smoke, and
after that smoothed our birds, stowed guns in cases,
and placed all in the trap. Larry led the nag down
66 Sporting Sketches
to the water and a few minutes later he was hooked
up, and I sat in the trap holding the lines while
Larry loaded his pipe.
I have heard men groan under stress of mental
and bodily anguish or bitter disappointment when
they put their souls into their work, and there was
no fooling; but I do not think that I ever heard one
single sound in which sorrow, anger, disappoint-
ment, and general disgust were so powerfully blended
as in the voice of Larry as he exclaimed, " Oh,
murder, look at that now ! "
I turned on the seat and glanced hastily along
the sand-spit we had left. There, in great fluttering
clouds, in hundreds nay ! thousands were the
curlew we had seen a-wing during the day. Every
one, apparently, of the many distant flocks we had
longed to be within range of had changed its course
and headed for the Eau bar. On the very spot
where we had lain so long were curlew standing,
while above them hovered fluttering hordes; and
on-coming flocks were visible stringing far out over
the lake. In time they all pitched and formed a
grand army of curlew, such as we had never
dreamed of seeing. Could guns have been hidden
within range of them, and four barrels emptied in
the mass as the birds rose, a world's record for cur-
lew would surely have resulted. We could do
naught but look, and look hard, which we did while
thinking unutterable things.
" By all the confounded luck that ever two duffers
endured, why didrit we stop there an hour longer? "
asked Larry. " Why, great Caesar ! we'd have
downed a hundred at least, if " I interrupted him
Beacb Combers 67
by speaking very crisply to the horse, and we sped
away. The near wheel bumped savagely over some-
thing ere we had covered ten yards. What that
something was I did not care, nor did I look to see,
but I fancy it must have been Larry's terrible the
always terrible " If."
'Tis a far cry from end to end of our river. Start-
ing in a birch canoe from where the young stream
first gathers volume to float that dainty craft, one
may cruise for more than two hundred miles before
sighting the broad lake into which our river flows ;
and while yet a dozen leagues from the lake, one
will find the erstwhile puny stream to change into
a goodly waterway. Here it is a fair rifle-shot from
bank to bank, while beneath the canoe lie twenty
feet of cool, green glooms.
Perhaps few have gazed into the cradle of this
river. Far inland, where the rock crops out upon
the rounded hills, spreads a long side-slope close-
grazed by nibbling sheep. At the foot of this slope
rises an abrupt wall of clay, riprapped by nature
with round white boulders. Above the wall roll
long waves of ancient forest, their green surf swing-
ing to and fro along their airy caast-line. Near one
end of the wall and screened by spreading branches
is a shallow pool. A glance at it will detect traces
68
A Bit of River 69
of man's labor, for a damp spot has been shaped
into a reservoir for benefit of thirsty beasts.
All above this pool seems dusty dry, yet a keen
eye can detect a tiny white furrow extending from
the pool to a clump of willows at the end of the
wall. Does anything other than surface water ever
fill this furrow ? Ask those five points of flame
which mark the furrow's course ; the cardinal flower
knows the secret of the stream. Follow the furrow
to where it enters the willows, part their tangled
fronds and Flip-flap ! whew-ee-ee-ew !
A woodcock. Always one woodcock here
never more. Shoot him, and you may knock over
his double at every subsequent visit, though there
does not appear to be another suitable haunt within
two miles. Why he never has a wife to share his
retreat, or a friend to visit him, nobody knows.
Here, in the centre of the willows, lies a yard-
wide basin of moist black loam, which never is
drier than you see it. In the spring it broadens to
a pool, which at midsummer, may have shrunk to a
mere damp spot ; yet it never actually dries. August's
sun may curl the willow leaves and sear the hillside
grasses, but this spot under its leafy dome ever
maintains its cool moisture. White splashes all
over it and innumerable holes bored in its plastic
surface prove the woodcock's presence, for which
there is good reason. If you wanted bait when it
was scarce elsewhere, and turned up one spadeful
of that black stuff, I'd warrant you'd find worms
a-plenty. The big-eyed woodcock knows.
Nor does the friendly care of the willows above
keep the spot moist. Yonder a tuft of fern and a
yo Sporting Sketches
clump of dock leaves conceal a willow root. Put a
hand under that root startlingly cold in there, is it
not ? Under the root is a wee cavern no larger than
the crown of your hat, its bottom the whitest, finest
sand. If you wanted a drink and had the hollow
stem of a weed, you might suck up your fill of the
purest water ; nor would there be danger of exhaust-
ing the tap, for in that tiny cavern is born our big
river. Farther it does not extend ; all above is
bone-dry.
How may one know this trifling cavern to be the
source of a river ? Easily enough. Our baby stream
surely is born here, but he is somewhat of an im-
provement upon the ordinary run of babies, inas-
much as he is very silent and retiring. From this,
his parent pool, he slyly creeps through an under-
ground crevice to the riprap of the wall. Crawl
along the wall, put an ear to the boulders, and you
will hear him gurgling and whispering over his
hidden play. He seems to be having rare fun in
there, for the only sound he makes is like the ghost
of a laugh. By ear you may trace him to the end
of the wall.
Here in the sunlight smiles a larger pool, perhaps
two feet across, and a trout pool in miniature. The
rock ledges about it are some six inches high ; the
green growths stand a foot or more ; the rock boul-
ders are marble-like in size; the fall at the outlet
might measure one inch, yet you see everything
which lends the charm to the big trout pool one
hundred miles below. The tiny fall has its whis-
per of song, its trace of snowy- foam. If we could
magnify one hundred times and in true proportion
A Bit of River 71
ever}' feature of this absurdly small scene, we should
behold something very like the great forest-bordered,
rock-ribbed pool so many miles away. Then our
gallon or so of amber water would be a darkly deep
expanse, our insignificant green stuff stately trees,
our wee ledges and marble boulders picturesque
shelves and time-worn masses, our whimpering
over-trickle a roaring cascade, with tumults of shift-
ing spume and streamers of glittering bubbles. The
small pool and the great have been formed by the
same means and in the same way. Could we
so place ourselves so as to be able to scrutinize
the larger pool through a powerful glass, re-
versed, the picture so reduced would be this first
pool where the baby river steals forth to brave the
sun.
From this pool our river's erratic course is plainly
defined. First, a thin line of green amid sun-browned
slopes ; lower down, twin green lines, farther and
farther apart, till they reveal flashes of water be-
tween ; a bulrush here, a willow there, with docks
and lush growths thick below, till a foot-broad stream
curves into the kindly shadow of the woods. Hidden
springs have feebly aided our river across the sunny
open, and at the edge of the woods a sturdier ally
joins the onward march. From under the mossy
roots of a giant maple rises a purl of liquid melody,
and immediately below our river welcomes his first
important tributary. At their confluence is a quite
imposing pool, fully as broad as a foot-bath and at
least six inches deep.
The old water-spider finds her trip from shore to
shore to be something of a journey, and she narrowly
72 Sporting Sketches
escapes beingdrawn into thewrathful six-inch cascade
below. Let us turn over a pebble, half buried in the
damp mould, and see if there be not a red, hairlike
worm under. He is in the stuff sticking to the stone.
Now let us drop him into the pool it's a trifle
rough on the worm, but the true quest for knowl-
edge knoweth not conscience. Did you see it-
that small point of light which seemed to flash from
nowhere in particular and to lose itself and the
worm in some mysterious fashion ? Now is our
river indeed a living stream, for that tiny flashing
thing was a trout. An inch-long, fairy fry was he,
but a trout for all that, with his full share of the
headlong dash and courage of his noble race. Can
he be taken ? Nay ! we could not find him in a
day's careful search, and such elusive morsels are
not to be grasped by hand. Hook him we could
not, for while he might bunt at a bait, the hook
is not made for those microscopic jaws.
From here our river must journey on alone. We
have seen its birth and a something of earlier growth,
and we shall again see it one hundred miles to the
westward. It will traverse this winding corridor of
greenery where the tanager and the cardinal flower
glow like guiding lights ; where the water-thrush
rocks like a toy mandarin upon mossy boulders;
where the sly mink prowls from pool to pool ; where
the laugh of the crested flycatcher and the wail of
his lesser relative help to drown the hum of wild
bees and the summer drone of insects innumerable.
At the farther side of the wood sings another tribu-
tary stream, and our river glides on and on, gaining
volume from many sources as it goes, till at last it
A Bit of River 73
plunges, shouting in reckless power, into the great
trout pool.
Thus far it bears itself as the strong, riotous child
of rocks and hills, but not far below the great pool
its character changes. Left behind are the pomps
and vanities of rollicking falls, gemlike bubbles, and
foamy wreaths. Left behind, too, are the rocks and
sudden steeps which tempt a woodland stream to
daring plunges and merry racings. Henceforth its
course winds through fat lowlands, mighty forests,
and broad clearings ; thence through leagues of
fens and marshes, till at last our river, now slow,
deep, and wide, finds its long-sought lake.
When it left the rock lands the region of ever-
green-clad slopes and maple-filled intervales the
river bade farewell to its trout. No jewelled aristo-
crat could tolerate the long, lazy reaches of almost
currentless water, the weedy margins, the slopes of
clay, down which every summer shower sends yellow
cascades to stain the languid flood for hours after.
The trout reigns in the upper waters, where the cold
springs pump unceasingly, where the water knows
no rest, where new-born insects try their wings and
clumsy larvae slip and fall from lofty twigs. There,
like ancient robber of the Rhine, Sir Trout holds his
own by prowess and lives by the right of might.
In the lower river are many fishes so many that
the absence of the trout does not greatly matter.
The deep placid water suits numerous species which
never seek the upper stream except to spawn, and
even then never penetrate to the haunts of the trout.
Any angler of the lower river will tell you that it
is not all, or one-half, of fishing to take trout. He
74 Sporting Sketches
has muskallonge, wall-eyed pike, pickerel, several
species of bass, mullet, carp, perch, drum, dogfish,
catfish, garpike, and others for his special amuse-
ment. Of these he takes great strings and enjoys
greater fun, for he is the true angler. He may or
may not take bass with the fly. He can do it, if so
inclined, for he knows fishing from gill to caudal.
He is wise in the matter of baits, and has as many
as the trout fisher has flies. He knows where, when,
and how to take one and all of his prizes ; how to
keep in condition the fattest minnows ; how to coax
worms to the surface during hot, dry nights ; how
to secure the crayfish, the bee-larvae, the white grubs
from sod or rotting logs; how to best use the small
frog, young mouse, grasshopper, cricket in fine,
how to use everything capable of tempting a fish.
He also knows exactly what to do with tempted fish.
These bait fishers are apt to be the shrewdest
students of fish-lore, for to be successful one needs
must be well informed. While the trout fisher exer-
cises much skill both in casting his lures and play-
ing his fish, yet he has comparatively few details to
master. Once he has learned how to use his tackle
and to recognize good trout water, he is upon the
highway, or waterway, to success, for he is after but
one variety of quarry. The impetuous dash of the
trout also simplifies matters. With the bait fisher
conditions are very different. He may be intent
upon the capture of specimens of half-a-dozen
species which differ in habits, haunts, and food.
During one day he may be compelled to employ
several distinct methods and many varieties of bait,
and be it known that an intelligent use of bait
A Bit of River 75
demands as much skill and vastly greater all-round
knowledge than does fly-fishing. This, to some, may
appear rank heresy, yet it is true.
Of course, in this class of expert bait fishers are
not included those cheerful idiots who select a spot
because it is shady, or offers a comfortable seat,
then plop in the bait, set the pole in a crotched sup-
port, and perhaps read, while waiting for something
to happen. That, beyond question, is still-fishing,
also beautifully restful. A comical feature of it is
that every now and then it proves partially success-
ful, for even a duffer may blunder upon the proper
spot at the right time, while almost any one knows
enough to heave upon a fish-pole when the signs
say that something has managed to hook itself !
The real bait fisher, however, would scorn so
lubberly a method, and by bait fisher is meant the
man who fishes the river, instead of some six square
yards of it. He knows every bit of good water for
miles, where to expect each species of fish, what
baits to use and when, and what to change to should
a sort usually tempting happen to fail. His method
somewhat resembles the fly-fisher's, for he keeps
moving from one promising spot to another, and if
any one catches fish, he is apt to be the guilty party.
And this sort of fishing is the more interesting be-
cause it affords both variety and full scope for the
exercise of one's craft, for it calls for something of
the observation and resourceful skill of the still-
hunter, rather than the putty-like patience of the
ordinary still-fisher. Among the experts of our
river are past masters of this branch of the gentle art.
The great charm of our river, however, does not
76 Sporting Sketches
of necessity have scales on it. While fish certainly
have much to do with the pleasures of fishing, still
the surroundings are important factors in rounding
out the charm of a day's sport. A glance at a three-
mile stretch of the river should give an idea of the
typical surroundings.
At the starting-point the stream is eighty yards
wide and about twenty feet deep. Near either bank
extends a bronzy-green mat of trailing growths,
grasses, lily-pads, with here and there small belts
of rushes and reeds. Owing to the level country,
the river's course is very erratic, and if we follow
one bank, we find a shallow and a deep channel
alternating at every bend. One side filling up, the
opposite cutting away, is the rule, and the graybeards
know that at many points the river once ran one
hundred or more yards from its present bed. Many
a noble tree has been undermined and swept away
when the spring floods came down.
The banks vary at every bend. At one they are
almost sand-flats ; at another, easy, well-wooded
slopes; at yet another, soft curves of richest green,
swelling up to the farms above, and next to these
are miniature cliffs of yellow, sandy clay. Not
seldom two of these types are opposed, especially
the low flat and the cliff-like formations, which prove
how the river deposits and cuts away. The vegeta-
tion presents a rich variety. Here towers a mighty
sycamore, its grand trunk sheathed in silver mail,
its strong arms stretching far to slender twigs, from
which the oriole swings his hammock. In vain
does the bare-footed urchin longingly eye that
treasure pouch the glistening bark is treacherous,
A Bit of River 77
the river waits below. For how long has that grand
old tree remained on guard ? Older than the civ-
ilization it overlooks, the tooth of time has bitten
deeply into its upper trunk. The wolf has howled
at its foot when the sand bore fresh imprint of the
deer's dainty tread. The canoe of the savage has
drifted beneath those limbs and startled the wild
turkey from its lofty roost, yet the old tree stands
firm. Now the red-headed woodpecker bores
where the sap has ceased to flow, the purple martin
and white-bellied swallow wheel at will about the
round black holes, and flocking grackles rest awhile
before the last long flight to the distant marsh-
lands. Year after year one hundred fledglings have
loved this tree as home.
The sycamore has goodly company. Broad,
leafy basswoods, far-reaching Norway maples, pale-
tinted butternuts, rich-wooded walnuts, rough chest-
nuts, shivering willows, dark-looking mulberries and
elms, shapely maples and oaks, are ranged in stately
columns. Below them crowd alders and ferny
sumachs, among which blaze the golden stars, dear
to country maids. In places, too, the vines run
riot. The creeper trails its graceful length from
many a limb, the wild grape's tough rigging stays
a hundred living masts, and the clematis bursts its
smoky balls till they hide the bushes in hazy clouds.
Well do the birds and small beasts love such
sanctuary. The morning chorus swells with the
voices of many species. The kingfisher rouses his
rattle and drops like a plummet upon his prey.
The flicker enjoys his airy canter from trunk to
trunk and shouts his lusty challenge to following
78 Sporting Sketches
friends. The sandpiper curves outward from his
strip of beach while his trembling pinions seem to
shake from them his sadly sweet refrain of weet-weet-
weet-how-sweet. Big grackles, with tails awry, cluck
gruffly in homeward flight, or, perching, raise shoul-
ders and rasp out their metallic greetings. Where
the willow's rotting stub has shrunk turtle-like
within its outer shell, the dainty wood-duck hides
her ivory treasures till downy fluffs of wild life are
ready to be carried to the kindly stream. Sedate
old robins bounce across the green and shape their
cottage mud-walls so near the path that the prowling
urchin scorns to harry such easy treasure. At dusk
and dawn, from highest twigs, the thrasher fills the
air with difficult passages from bird classics, while
from the scrub below, his slaty cousin, the catbird,
flirts his nervous tail as he mocks the feathered star
above, or renders an original selection to prove that
he, too, is worthy the name of minstrel.
Above, where the hay-fields warm in yellow sun-
shine, the bobolink loiters on ebon wing, while his
tinkling cascade of liquid notes need but a slight
effort of fancy to be transposed into a silver tribu-
tary of the river. Under the denser growths, the
towhee scratches among the dying leaves, while
now and then a note, fuller, richer, than all, floats
up from nowhere as though the spirit-hand of
some great master had touched again his sweetest
chord. That rare brown poet, with spangled breast
and soft dark eye, speaks from velvet shade straight
to the heart. Only the wood-thrush has mastered
the witchery of musical brevity. "
There are many others. The caress-like pleading
A Bit of River 79
of the bluebird, the sharp, insistent exclamation of
the yellow warbler, the cheer-cheer, or cadenced
fluting of the redwing, the low contralto of the
cuckoo, the exquisite, though sorrowful plaint of the
dove, the well-beloved tinkle of the song-sparrow,
the better-rounded effort of his gifted cousin, the
white-throat, the hiss of the cowbird these do not
exhaust the list of performers, but are they not
enough to entitle our river to rank as a river of
song ?
The banks, as banks should, hold treasures.
Where the feet of cattle have printed the sand
flats, lie pear-shaped eggs, seemingly twice too large
for the sandpiper which guards them. When those
eggs shall have warmed to life, we may find stilt-
legged, downy youngsters, still guarded by the
trim, everlastingly nodding mother, who, with all
her melodious pleadings and silly curtseyings, knows
quite enough to simulate lameness to tempt an in-
vader. Helplessly as she may flutter, and aimless
as her crippled efforts may appear, they always lead
away from the sand-matching young. Pursue her,
and the sweet farce will end the instant she con-
siders the young safe.
About cliff-like banks hovers a cloud of martins,
forever entering and leaving their clustered tunnels.
Do they ever become confused and enter the wrong
openings ? It is unlikely. You, unless you were
club-confused, might be trusted to find your own
house in a row of similar houses. The martins are
even more clever, for they never hesitate, look for a
number or mark they simply fly straight home
and creep in at the one hole in the colander-like
80 Sporting Sketches
arrangement they care anything about. Thrust a
hand far into a burrow and you may feel the wee,
snowy eggs softly bedded in goose feathers looted
from far and near. If the bird be at home, you may
feel her tiny mandibles nibbling feeble protest at
your fingertips.
In a quiet nook of a higher bank, where over-
hanging sod and roots form a generous eave, is a
larger burrow, the home of the kingfisher. Never
mind about putting your hand in there. In all
probability the burrow is longer than your* arm;
and if not, A Icy on can bite, and she will not hesitate
over using her fishing-gear in an attempt to teach
you better manners.
At one mile-long reach, where the river, for once,
manages to keep straight, the scene rises above ordi-
nary beauty. It presents a superb corridor, domed
with richest blue, walled with living green, and
floored with flawless crystal. The trees rise straight
from the water's edge, and only at midday can the
sun strike fairly upon the waveless flood. During
early and later hours the shadow of one mass of
trees stretches almost, if not quite, to the foot of
the opposite wall. This is a paradise for vines.
Creepers, clematis, ivy, and innumerable grape-vines
so bind together trunks and branches that, in a
breeze, the whole sways like a single growth. The
squirrels revel in such a magnificently appointed
gymnasium. Long tight-ropes, great swings, handy
loops, and rings are there for every furry athlete, and
they seldom are idle. Such balancing, daring runs,
bold swinging, and reckless leaping as go on there
cannot be surpassed outside a tropical forest where
A Bit of River 81
the gargoyle of the human athlete, the monkey,
holds undisputed sway.
Nor does our river lose its charm upon the death
of the day. The most brilliant songsters may be-
come silent, but the night creatures are active and
interesting. If one drifts between the darkened
walls in a canoe as the harvest moon peers across
misty fields, he will hear much that is worth hear-
ing. The leaves hang motionless, wearied of all-
day dancing. The water spreads like oil into black,
uncertain shadows. The trees upon one bank stand
like silhouettes against the growing light, while the
opposite foliage brightens with countless silvery
flashes.
From bank to bank wages Cicada's endless dispute
over Katy's alleged indiscretion, interrupted every
now and then by a bellowing " B'ject ! " from some
lawyer frog who fancies the prosecution is trans-
gressing. A long, hissing fall, ending in an ex-
plosive " Boo-oom ! " tells where the night-hawk is
playing in the moonlight, while his cousin, whip-
poor-will, sobs for satisfaction from every dusky
point. High above, a singing of wings betrays the
course of a party of belated wood-ducks, and a pair
of great horned owls prolong gruff throaty argu-
ment over the affairs of the night. A startled kill-
deer makes musical protest against some unknown
intruder ; a sandpiper takes up the case as a family
matter, which rouses a sleepy sparrow, which, from
sheer force of habit, tinkles a thread of song ere
again dropping off.
A broad-fanned gray heron questions another
ghostly form regarding the fishing farther up, and
82 Sporting Sketches
a few sociable raccoons are holding a clam-bake at
the rear of a quiet cove. Muskrats are busy trad-
ing from port to port, while some, more adventu-
rous than their brethren, go gravely steaming in
the open and plough long, silvery furrows to dis-
tant shores. Fish are constantly leaping, and the
trained ear can detect the nervous upward shoot
and sounding fall of the flat-bodied bass, the lazy,
oily roll of the catfish, and the sharp strike of the
lance-like pickerel.
The canoe makes no sound to interfere with one's
observations; in fact, the rasp of the Cicada is an
uproar in comparison with the velvety slide of the
silent craft. From start to finish of the voyage
attentive ears may catch secrets from air, tree, and
water, for nature is forever tattling to those who
have learned how to listen. Through all the varied
night voices thrills one mysterious note. The water
seems to quiver with it it never varies, and it
apparently comes from directly under the canoe.
Miles make no difference to that low, unvarying
grunt the endless drone of the fresh-water drum.
TTIfflE IFHSIfflllKKS- (DIF
TIKE IFDSEE
IT may appear crude, this fishing of the Free, but
in reality 'tis as smooth as the favorite waters, and
not seldom a deal deeper than the casual observer
might suspect. Because it lacks the action and
tinsel of the so-called higher forms of the art, it
rarely receives attention from those wizards of pen
and pencil who have made the fame of the fly.
It is true that its bare-footed exponent might be
unable to deliver an address upon the why and
wherefore of the many curious things he does, but
he catches fish, which, after all, is about the limit of
the most scientific possibilities. The typical fisher-
laddie of fresh water is a peculiar small chop with a
wise little head crammed with all sorts of scrappy
information. He himself never could tell where he
obtained the half of it, yet he has it, and he knows
how to use it.
It may be he sees a grub fall into the water, and a
sudden swirl suggests that some unknown fish took
that grub. There may or may not have been time
to identify the grub ; but one thing is certain, the
grub could not fly, hence it must have tumbled
from the foliage above. Our laddie, being a bare-
footed, agile varlet, can climb, or go where he wills,
and presently he discovers a grub, the like of which
83
84 Sporting Sketches
he never had noticed. Upon his hook and into the
water where the other fell it goes, and because the
fish is lurking near by for just such another windfall,
there presently is something doing.
" Got a new bait for bass," or whatever it is, says
the boy to himself, and he searches for more grubs.
The fish of the free folk in question include the
large and the small mouthed black bass; the rock-
bass, or red-eye ; the crappie ; the calico-bass ; the
sunfish ; the white bass ; the yellow perch ; the
pickerel ; the wall-eyed pike ; the sauger ; the bull-
head; the catfish; the drum; the dogfish, or bow-
fin, and the garpike.
The tackle of the free folk must be either the long
handline, or the shorter and finer cord which is
attached to pole or rod. A thirty-yard handline
would be a very fair length, and it appears to lie
naturally on a reel carved from a portion of a shingle.
It is not wise to merely wind a long line upon a bit
of slim stick, for the inside of the ball thus formed
retains moisture which soon rots the line at the very
worst place, i.e. near the shore end. To the other
end is made fast the sinker, which must be just
heavy enough to nicely carry out the line and no
more. Too heavy a sinker is a clumsy drag when
one is pulling in, and it makes too noisy a splash
when sent out. The ker-chug of too much sinker
will cause one of the free folk fifty yards away to
turn his head and grin derisively, and, possibly, he
may sweetly inquire why one doesn't tie a brick-bat
to his string. He himself would cut a short length
of alder half an inch in diameter; punch out the pith
till the inside was clear, stick the little tube into some
The Fishing of the Free Folk 85
sand, melt shot or scrap lead in a big iron spoon,
and pour it into the mould. The hook is a most
important point. It must have a well-rounded curve,
and if the barb has a twist to one side, so much the
better. It must have an eye. To the free folk, the
eyeless hook is an invention of the Evil One, and no
free fisher is blind to the material advantages of an
eye. A hook having an eye can instantly be made
fast as desired and the entire shank be left free for
bait. Any one who knows anything understands
that a length of fat worm slid up the shank is a heap
better than string, knotted or wrapped, so there you
are. The sinker being at the end, the hook, or
hooks, must go on above it ; so they are attached
to foot-long lengths cut from the line and tied to it
where wanted. If the lower hook hang a foot above
the sinker, and the upper a couple of feet above the
first, they will be about right. Usually, the free
ends of the short lengths and the line proper are
together looped into a hard knot which cannot slip.
Sometimes, and it's no bad way, a hard knot is made
at the end of the hook tackle, which is then passed
through a single knot in the line. This, once drawn
tight, will hold like a vise, yet may be worked loose
when desired by a trifle of judicious picking.
The casting of this tackle is very simple. For
short distances the line is held just above the upper
hook and tossed where wanted. When it is desira-
ble to get out a lot of line, the same hold is taken
and the sinker whirled a few times before the cord
is released. Nothing but practice can teach just
how hard to whirl the lead, and when to let go, to
insure a long, smooth cast An experienced hand
86 Sporting Sketches
frequently sends the line out the first time to
straighten kinks and get it wet, then recovers it hand
over hand, letting it fall upon itself in easy coils, then
baits and sends it out for fish.
The rod or pole outfit is preferable for streams in
which the water is deep near the bank; indeed,
many boys esteem it above the handline for fishing.
Because the average boy cares little for, or cannot
afford, a fancy rod, that article need not be dwelt
upon. Cheap jointed rods are a nuisance, and
neither so good nor so satisfactory as a springy cane,
or a trim, wiry pole cut by the fisher's own hand.
The line should be about twice the length of the
pole. It is best made fast near the butt, then car-
ried with a few turns round the pole to the tip, and
then again made fast. Thus rigged, a broken pole
does not necessarily mean lost tackle, or even a lost
fish. Many boys scorn a float, yet it is a very useful
thing. An old cork split half through is away ahead
of a store float. It can be attached or detached in
a moment, and as easily shifted along the line ; it
costs nothing, and cannot be very well injured. The
sight of a cork tied fast crosswise of a line is a hint
of greenness which no free fisher will fail to observe.
The actual fishing of the free folk is a thing
so subtle, yet comprehensive, so broad, yet full of
detail, that it is not to be speared offhand by a
smooth-nibbed pen, nor marshalled into serried col-
umns of hard-featured type. It is, however, possible
to follow even an active boy's erratic trail for a few
miles, so let us attempt the task.
It is a flawless morning, and^the air is rich with
the magical sweetness of the spring. In garden,
The Fishing of the Free Folk 87
copse, and wood everything is thrilling with new life
and song.
It isn't altogether laziness which keeps me daw-
dling over breakfast till the clock marks half-past
eight. Too much hurry is a serious sin, especially
in connection with fishing. It is all very fine for
some folk to prate about " gray-dawn starts " and
unholy things of that kind ; but the fact is, one sel-
dom takes any fish worth taking very early in the
day. My experience goes to show that from about
ten till noon, and from about four till sunset, are the
best hours of the twenty-four for the sort of fishing
herein referred to. Later in the season it might
be worth while to get to work soon after sunrise ;
but that is another matter.
Because there has been a lot of recent digging
about the grounds, the big bait-keg contains hun-
dreds of fat worms well covered with moist earth, so
the filling of the bait-box is a simple matter. But,
all unsuspected, there is an ordeal to be passed.
Crouched at the gate, his quivering nostrils emitting
a thin, wiry whining, is Don. His lemon head and
snow-white body tell of the stout old pointer blood,
while his strategic position indicates a thorough
knowledge of what is in the wind. He has been
ready for hours, and he wants to go. Upon the
dining-room table stands a good-sized basket, and
beside it, as keen and watchful as Don, stands a
trim, girlish figure. Evidently she too wants to go,
and, according to her custom, she has got ready
before asking, and baited up the lunch-basket in a
deadly way.
It is contrary to law that both girl and dog go,
88 Sporting Sketches
and they know it. Because no living mortal pos-
sibly can fish and keep track of a well-trained dog
and a half-broke girl at the same time, he wisely
leaves one or the other at home. Neither means
to do anything wrong, but they invariably play the
mischief when they get out together. It is true
that the dog never would think of spitting on a
stick and throwing it for the girl to fetch, nor would
he say: "Come to me, you poor thing. I'll love
you when your nasty boss is cross with you. You
may run and splash as much as you have a mind
to." To be candid, I think the dog would be all
right, but then there's the lunch-basket. The up-
shot of the matter is that the dog receives a crisp
order which causes him to tuck his tail and slink to
the back premises, where he will sulk and hate the
girl for at least twenty minutes. He will make no
attempt at sneaking after. He knows better than
that. But he will sit outside the gate and gaze far
up the road from midafternoon until he sees two
distant figures emerge from the tangle of a hedge.
But to the fishing. Because the ancient order of
things was that all females should do all the uninter-
esting work, because the girl has filled the basket,
and because she's duffer enough to stand for it, I
just let her carry it. This glorious privilege is fairly
jumped at. She'd gladly carry the two rods as
well, but they are not like lunch. They are man's
tackle, and only the lordly masculine paw under-
stands just how they should be clutched. It is the
same with the bait-box. No self-respecting bait-
box ever would stay shut in any but a masculine
pocket. In a skirt-pocket, it just opens and lets
The Fishing of tbe Free Folk 89
loose the worms. Why, I don't know, but sooner
or later those worms will get loose, and you'll hear
about every single worm. So far as I know, only
women, mice, bumble-bees, and those small, jumpy
grass-frogs thoroughly understand the mysteries of
a girl's short skirts. It is sad, but so.
Where a couple of ancient bars mark the faintly
defined path, we leave the road and pass between
twin snarls of briers and saplings down to the river
bank. At the end of the path is a goodly cove,
deep and still dug by the chafing current, which, two
springs ago, undermined the stately basswood which
now lies, hugely heavy and dark, in its cool, green
tomb. A black, well-like hole shows between the
rotting roots and their old anchorage, and the unerr-
ing instinct of the free folk tells me 'tis a likely spot
for a swart rock-bass or an overgrown " sunny."
The girl meekly places the basket upon the
ground, and I make ready the rods. The lighter
and shorter one is rudely ornamented with long
spirals and stars cut in the smooth bark. Either I
was in an unusually kindly mood, or I had just com-
pleted a shrewd dicker for a new knife when I took
all that trouble. " Bait up ! " I order, with the curt
savageness of a chief of the free folk; but the sole
response is an appealing glance from the big fawn-
like eyes. " Dern a girl, anyhow," I mutter as I
rapidly loop on a couple of pretty fair worms, after
sagely picking over some much better ones which
surely will go on the other hook. The girl makes
no comment she couldn't, for her mouth is all
pursed up, and she is working her jaws like a rabbit
chewing a short straw.
90 Sporting Sketches
" Here's your old bait now spit on it for luck
spit straight, or you won't catch nothin' ! " I sternly
command, and she gives a little shudder and strives
to obey. None of them ever does it right. Perhaps
she's afraid to hold the writhing worms near enough
to her mouth, or it may be she fails to comprehend
the grave importance of accurate spitting. Anyway
she don't half spit, which, to a leader of the free
folk who, when he had lost a tooth, could nail a
bumble-bee at five yards' range, seems some-
thing like a crime. "I I tried my best, and I
did put a little on one end," she almost whimpers;
but a scornful " Umph ! " is all the satisfaction she
gets.
In a minute, more and better worms are adorning
my own hook and are artistically spat upon. Then
the split-cork float is shifted just so, and the bait is
noiselessly dropped near the upstream side of the
log. The cork has drifted barely a foot when it
halts in a suspicious manner, goes almost under, then
steadies. Brown paws clinch upon the rod ; brows
lower to a savage frown, and eyes glare at the cork
as though they would set it afire. It is an awful
moment.
" Where'll I fish ? please tell me," says a meek
voice.
" Shut your head you'll scare him ! Drop
your old hook-in-hole-right-front," I fairly hiss, for
the free folk don't like to be bothered when there's
something doing. A solemn plunk tells that her
bait has gone somewhere. But my cork is nodding
again. Tug-tug-plop ! under "it goes, and in a
moment the pole bends. There is a brief zig-zag
The Fishing of the Free Folk 91
resistance, then a shiny thing whizzes through the
sweet air and hits the bank with a sounding wallop.
I spring tiger-like upon the fish and jam a nervous
finger through its gills, for it is, indeed, a mighty
rock-bass, nearly a foot long, and as nearly a pound
in weight. You don't take more than one such
rock-bass in a week so, naturally, I am jubilant and
rather chesty as I string him and make him exceed-
ingly fast to a handy root.
" That's the way to snake a big fish ! " I proudly
exclaim as I proceed to bait-up. " Hank Jones
'lowed he'd landed the boss rocky last week, but
his'n wa'n't a minny 'longside mine. Why, a girl
could catch a bigger fish than Hank's. Why, you
might do it some day, after you've learned the ABC
of it. You just watch me and "
The sentence has never to my knowledge
been completed. All the girl said was, " Oh !
ah ! ah ! " in queer little jerky gasps ; but she clung
to her carved pole and heaved like a navvy at a
tremendous something which lashed the water into
suds. I distinctly remember seeing her put her
small shoe into six inches of water and not notice it ;
also, that she gave a final strong heave and sat
backward upon the bank, and that an immense
bronzy shape followed straight into her lap. It
seems to me that she spread her knees very wide
under her skirt, then slapped them together and
folded her arms across, and bent over as though she
had a pain or something. Because the free folk
don't wear skirts, they never try to catch things in
their laps nor spread their knees. If they had to
make a try at it, they'd first get their knees together,
92 Sporting Sketches
then grab with their hands. It's the difference of
apparel does it.
When I come out of my temporary trance I
notice three things. Two of them are stockings,
or, rather, liberal portions thereof, while the third
is a square fish-tail, a good deal broader than my
hand. It flaps a bit and curves in a straining sort
of way; but it might as well take things easy, for
its owner has about as much chance as a dead fish
of getting free from that sadly mussed frock. When
I finally get hold of the prize, I hardly know whether
to feel mad or glad. It proves to be a black-bass,
so large that I cut its spine near the head before
daring to trust it to the string. The flush of de-
light upon the girl's face helps to mollify my out-
raged feelings, but the Old Adam prompts me not
to tell it is useless to fish longer in that lucky hole.
I compromise with my sense of right by really putting
on a better bait, which is a bit too late to do any
good. She is perfectly satisfied, and as she watches
her idle float I try other spots about the tree. Two
more rock-bass are soon taken ; then comes a brief
idle period, and, true to the creed of the free folk,
I order a change of base.
Because a girl's only a girl, and somebody might
pass in a boat, I carry the big bass, while she fags
along behind with the two rods. She hasn't said
anything about her wet foot, but I can hear her
steps go pat-squiz-pat-squiz as she humbly follows.
Some two hundred yards above, a few snaky-look-
ing black roots mark another^ fallen tree. It is a
very bassy spot, and immediately above lies a sandy-
bottomed cove, where nobody who had any sense
The Fisbing of tbe Free Folk 93
ever would think of fishing except with a very long
handline. " Now, I'll freshen up your bait real nice,
and you'll trot to that clean sandy place, and mebbe
you'll catch another big bass. I'm sure there's one
right there," I calmly remark. Good as gold and
easy as a gudgeon away she goes, and I grin with
unholy glee as she drops in her line and stands, rod
in hand, like a pocket Patience.
My bait is barely well sunk before the cork goes
under, and in a moment a fair rock-bass is flip-
flapping on the bank. She smiles and nods her
little head, then fixes her trusting eyes upon her
float. In my heart I feel it's a shame to fool her so
yet her fish is very large and fine. A couple of
rock-bass, followed by a really large " sunny," are
added to my score ; then I try farther out, and
presently hook a big drum. For a moment he feels
like a bass, and I gloat, but the flash of a silvery
side tells the truth. Half angrily, I yank him out,
twist free the hook, and, according to the code,
mash his head and secure the two lucky stones.
By the unwritten law of the free folk, she is entitled
to one, so I take it to her, mainly because to neg-
lect this would entail bad luck. She is delighted,
and, with due humility, she brings in her hook
and asks me to please look at her bait, because
she knows how superior my knowledge is of such
matters. I loop a worm afresh and return to my
own water. Half-a-dozen tries only raise one small
"rocky," so finally the hook is brought to hand,
given a turn around the butt, and I am ready for
another shift.
While untying the tethered fish, I hear a sudden
94 Sporting Sketches
splash, and look up to see a wonderful picture.
The slim, girlish figure is stiffly braced, her hat is
hanging on her shoulders, her face is very red, and
she is lifting for dear life. I know the rod, and one
glance at its curve tells how big is the righting cap-
tive. I hardly can believe my eyes, for, as I look,
a great, green thing springs from the water and
falls back amid a shower of spray. There is barely
time to shout, " Stop ! you goose ! play him ! "
before she turns and runs up the bank, dragging
rod, line, and fish bodily after her.
" That's a dickens of a way to play a fish ! " I
growl half savagely as I unhook the biggest bass
of the year.
"I I don't care I I gottim any-
how ! " she gasps, and I have to laugh in spite of
myself.
But the blood of the free folk is mighty near the
boiling point, for nobody ever took a bass in such a
spot, and nobody but a chump of a girl would try to.
" It's the ' lucky ' you gave me," she says softly,
"and the lovely place you let me have. Next time
you must have the good place."
Something in her rosy color and shining eyes
checks a fierce impulse to chuck her bodily into the
river, and the angry pride of the free folk humbles
itself. At the next good spot she gets a fair chance,
and at this and others small fish are added to the
string. At last she seats herself upon a log and
remarks :
" It's too lovely for anything, but we'd best eat.
I've got sandwiches and pickles, and, oh ! let's cook
a fish do please," she says.
The Fishing of the Free Folk 95
" All right ! " I reply. " S'pos'n' I fix your big
bass and build a fire and cook him ? "
The big eyes are clouded, and she sighs softly.
But in a moment she is again all brightness. She
nods merrily and says, " All right ! cook him if you
wish."
Of course I didn't. Had I caught that fish and
some big duffer tried to cook it before I got it home
and displayed it, he'd have had to whip me first, and
the free folk will stand for their rights till their fish
poles are worn down too small for clubs. So, instead
of the prize fish, two small rockies are scaled, cleaned,
and stuck upon a couple of stiff switches.
" You cook mine. I don't know how to do it like
you," she says sweetly, as she busies herself with the
basket. Ah ! the craft of it.
Feed the brute ! A half-dozen prime sandwiches
backed by a fairly good rocky will bury jealousy so
deep you can't find it with a skewer. There is a
bottle of tea, too, sugared just right, and the last swig
of it floods the sandwiches, the rocky, and my soul
with human kindness. We idle over everything ;
the birds sing cheerily ; but at last a sharp splash
brings us to alert attention.
" See the ring he made. Go catch him I'm
tired," she says ; and I slip down the bank, for a
broadening ripple near a stump suggests that a black-
bass has chased a minnow. In such a case worms
may, and may not, score, and alas ! I have neither
minnow nor minnow-tackle.
As feared, the worms prove unattractive, but the
wisdom of the free folk suggests something else. It
is too early for grubs, but a crayfish might do ; so I
96 Sporting Sketches
cautiously turn over some sunken trash. A little
nipper darts backward for deep water, followed by
an angry growl. She comes down, too, and prowls
along the margin, her bright eyes scanning every
possible bit.
" Here, quick! under this see his horns! " she
excitedly whispers, and I steal a hand over a bit of
bark and press it down. Someway the crayfish
wiggles into my hand, and, not having a sure hold,
I hastily sweep him ashore. By unlucky chance he
lands upon his back only a few inches from the
water. Like a flash she grabs him and promptly
shrieks, " Oh ! he bites take him off ! "
A big blue claw is savagely nipping a finger, but
I soon make it let go. Then the finger goes into
her mouth, the hook goes into the crayfish, the
crayfish into the water; and, apparently, into the
midst of a bully bass. A great fight follows, but
when the fish is flung far up the bank, it proves a
pound lighter than her grand fellow. However, it
is a fine fish quite large enough to make one of
the free folk positively genial.
The short cut homeward is easy ; but wonderful
is thy tact, O woman ! Just as we reach the one
stage where people can see us, she suddenly grows
too tired to carry those fish one step farther.
Nay, reader, it is not false pride, nor anything
small ; it is bigger and broader than even the liberal
code of the free folk, this thing which suddenly
causes the sore finger to throb and the sturdy little
arm to lose power. It is the stuff which later makes
the self-sacrificing mother; it new prompts her to
surrender the prizes, to meekly fall to the rear with
The Fishing of the Free Folk 97
the rods, while a bull-necked chief of the free folk
haughtily leads past houses and staring eyes. Young
as she is, the she in her truly tells her how dearly
the he in him prizes that brief triumphal march past.
And if later the scales fall from her eyes, and, a past
mistress of other angling, she makes him follow, as
he should, and before a heap more folks, too, I'll not
blame her one bit.
" Don't you go and tell about my wet foot," she
hoarsely whispers at the door. " If you don't, I
won't get croupy." And lest any one should get
away with a wrong impression, it's only fair to say
that the bargain was strictly fulfilled on both sides.
THERE was not a trout in our country. The region
of rock, tumbling falls, and swift brooks ended miles
to the eastward. But we had waters a-plenty, deep,
calm, slow-moving rivers and creeks, which took their
own time about reaching the big lakes which half
surrounded our territory. With the exception of
the banks of waterways the country had few slopes.
For miles one would not find a stone. The great
levels of fat land bore alternate growths of ancient
forest and bountiful crops. It was not a trout
country.
Of the old crowd of boys, who knew the ways of
every beast, bird, and fish indigenous to their sport-
ing ground, possibly not one ever set eyes on a trout,
until he had travelled considerably beyond the con-
fines of his native district. What the eye does not
see the heart does not crave, so we troubled ourselves
not at all about the trout.
Our waters teemed with other fish. There was
fishing in plenty, and good fishing at that, so, per-
haps, after all we were better off "without the trout.
In a trout country, as a general rule, one fishes for
98
Tbe Fishes of our Bqybood 99
trout and for nothing else. Not seldom the trout
is the only available fish; hence the youth of that
region, while apt to learn a lot about trout, remain
in ignorance of a dozen other species of most inter-
esting fish.
In our country things were different. In order
to be a successful angler and so command the
respect of one's associates, one had to know more
or less about a dozen species of fish, as many sorts
of baits, and also the methods by which the fish
and the baits might best be brought into close con-
nections. The old boys knew about these things,
and many other things not to be found in books.
They could tell you when, where, and why to try at
a certain spot for some particular fish, and what
bait to use. Then if you did not take the fish,
they'd borrow your tackle and speedily prove the
correctness of their knowledge.
Those were glorious old days ! From sunrise to
sunset, care-free ; then nights of dreamless sleep.
We were forever busy, on, in, or about the water.
To rise, feed, and flee to the river ; back, feed, off to
the river, was the daily programme. We knew every
foot of bank and shallow, and, for that matter, most
of the depths. Where the turtles buried their eggs,
when the muskallonge might be expected, when the
pickerel followed the overflows in fact the waters
had no secrets. When a new boy came, as he
sometimes did, with tales of the trout fishing of
distant parts, we listened in mock humility. Then
some one of us licked him, and if he took that with
becoming knightly fortitude, we later took him fish-
ing and so to our gentle hearts. If he chanced to
ioo Sporting Sketches
lick one of us but come to think of it, there was
no provision in our by-laws for the impossible !
When we took him fishing, he presently was con-
vinced that what he knew about trout wasn't a cir-
cumstance to what we knew about fish.
And such fish as they were! Strings upon
strings of captives large and small, tied here, lugged
kicking there, by happy, sun-browned, bare-footed
boys, who found no weariness in miles of wading,
perching, prying along the banks stealing marches
on each other, using every resource of knowledge
and ready adaptability in order to finish " high hook "
at the close of the day. The boys were no minnow
fishers, and few indeed were the blank days. Fine
fish, up to five pounds in weight, rewarded the
youthful toilers ; indeed, not seldom a few plump
bass stopped awkward questions concerning truancy
and saved certain jackets from vigorous dustings.
As a course before the fish, two forms of life may
be discussed. Both were very interesting, the one
as bait, the other as an unfathomable mystery. The
bait was the crayfish, the miniature lobster of fresh
water. Abundant in shallow water near the banks,
in creeks, ditches, and certain bush-ponds, the cray-
fish, at times, is deadly bait for the basses and a
few other species. The boys preferred crayfish of
medium size, and instead of spitting them crosswise
upon the hook, as is commonly done, they forced
the hook in at the mouth and out through the tail.
So hooked, and allowed to sink quickly, the bait
gives an irresistible imitation of the live crayfish's
backward, wavering rush to shelter.-.
The best thing for securing such agile bait is a
The Fishes of our Boyhood 101
boy's deft, brown paw. The nip of the formidable-
looking claws really is a trifling matter. The cray-
fish are found under stones and sunken rubbish near
the margins of streams, and under sodden bark and
leaves of bush-ponds. Crayfish burrows, capped by
curious little mud-towers, are familiar objects to
those who go much a-field. When not easily ob-
tainable elsewhere, the crayfish may be taken from
its burrow by overturning the mud-tower, lowering
a bit of flesh tied to a string and jerking when
the sure-to-follow nibbling is felt. The boys also
"churned for 'em," by breaking a switch with a
ragged end, manipulating this in the burrow till
the outraged crayfish took hold, then jerking him
from his bomb-proof.
The creature referred to as a mystery is what is
termed the "horse-hair snake," in reality a hair-
worm. It is found in all of our waters, and it
greatly resembles a black hair from a horse's mane.
Most boys are willing to swear that this hairworm
really is a horsehair turned into a snake, and many
grown persons will back up the claim. People
have declared that they have placed a horsehair
in a bottle of water, corked the bottle, and kept it
so till the hair had turned into a snake and swam
about. Science, however, accepts no such testi-
mony. The truth is, the so-called " snake " is a gor-
dioid nematode worm, so named from its structure
and characteristic habit of snarling itself up. Its
first stage of life is as a parasite, the hair-like form
representing the adult It swims like a snake. It
may be found in shallow water, perhaps lying upon
the bottom like a snarl of black thread, or smoothly
io2 Sporting Sketches
coiled like the hair-spring of a watch, or twisted
around a stem of water-grass. Where horses are in
the habit of drinking, genuine hairs and the hair-
worms are sure to be found in close proximity, and
this no doubt satisfactorily accounts for the hair-
snake story.
Among the fish, the largest and most difficult to
capture was .the great king of the pike family, the
muskallonge. Just how large these noble fellows
ran was an open question. About forty-five pounds
might have been the limit for trolling with the
handline and spoon. Much heavier specimens occa-
sionally were speared or shot. Most of the larger
fish were secured by spearing through the ice. The
heaviest of these might weigh from sixty to seventy-
five pounds.
During late May and early June the muskallonge
made their way up the larger streams to spawn, two
fish, male and female, usually travelling together.
The old Leatherstockings and the boys knew all
about this ; and while ordinary tackle was not to be
depended upon, there were spears and firearms for
such work. From gray dawn till an hour or two
after sunrise was the best time, as then the fish
were apt to be swimming near shore, or playing
over the bars. Usually the first intimation of a
fish's approach was a strongly defined wake stretch-
ing far upon the placid surface as the huge fish
moved a few inches below. Then the important
thing was to get to a commanding point well ahead
of the apex of that spear-shaped wake. To accom-
plish this without scaring the fisli was none too
easy, as it frequently demanded some lively skirmish-
The Fishes of our Boyhood 103
ing through brush and up and down wooded banks.
Sometimes gunner or spearman would chase the
watery sign, losing and finding it again and again
for a couple of miles, and then fail to get a good
chance at the fish.
Not a few of the old hands at this work had
favorite points where they would perch themselves
like overgrown kingfishers and wait for fish to
pass. This method demanded much patience, and
it had a disadvantage in the fact that fish might be
playing beyond the bends above and below and the
watcher not know it. As a rule, the odds were in
favor of the man who cautiously stole along the
bank and kept a keen eye upon the water ahead.
During the best part of a morning, he could cover
several miles of stream and, perhaps, have as many
as three or four chances.
In practised hands the long-handled spear did
excellent service, but woe was the portion of the
duffer who attempted to use one. Badly scared
fish and a much-astonished mortal were the almost
certain results of clumsy work, and fish once scared
seldom gave another chance that day. Many of
the country lads used cheap rifles, which were all
right where the opposite banks were sufficiently high
to stop glancing balls, but still there remained the
chance of a ball speeding somewhere upon a danger-
ous errand. A rifleball glancing from water, or an
unnoticed trunk, or bough, is a peril to the end of
its flight, because it may strike creature or object at
an apparently impossible distance to one side of the
original line of fire. Knowing this, the fisherman,
as every man should be, was extremely careful.
104 Sporting Sketches
A reliable shot-gun is as deadly to the fish, not
nearly so dangerous in other directions, and much
handier for quick work.
The pickerel, little brother to the muskallonge,
was not held in great esteem. These fish ran from
a pound to about fifteen pounds in weight, were full
of bones, and the flesh was rather insipid. When
the streams overflowed their banks in the spring,
the pickerel sometimes invaded the lesser tributa-
ries and ditches in astonishing numbers. Then the
short spears and the guns were busy day and night,
and great was the fun. By the light of torches, lan-
terns, and bonfires many large pickerel met their
fate. Later in the season, pickerel were taken by
troll and handline, by whipping with rod and spoon,
or other artificial lure, and by live bait, such as the
" shiner " minnow, grass frogs, and others.
An excellent fish, termed by the boys " pickerel,"
in reality the wall-eyed pike, was greatly prized for
the table, but could not be depended upon for a
day's sport. There was a heavy run about spring
freshet time, when tons of them fell victims to the
seines. At that time, too, numbers were speared in
the discolored eddies ; but later, during the regular
season for the rods, only one or two would be found
among a day's catch of good fish. Specimens
weighing five or six pounds were not uncommon,
while the seines took much heavier ones.
Three peculiar fish were taken solely for the
pleasure of playing them, for none of the boys ever
would carry them home. Most abundant of these was
the " sheepshead," the fresh-water drum, a good-
looking, silvery fish, in appearance like the more
The Fisbes of our Boyhood 105
valuable lake shad. They ran large, ranging from
one to ten pounds, took various baits, especially
crayfish and worms, and fought fairly well upon
light tackle. All their upper parts were of a pretty,
silvery blue, which below shaded off to a dead
white, like white kid. In the head of this fish, also
in the head of at least one seafish, are two enamel-
like substances. These, in the drum, are roughly
circular, flattish, and in large fish about the size of
a nickel. These substances are by the boys termed
" lucky stones," and the boy's first business after
landing a " sheepshead " was to crush its skull with
his heel, or something as convenient, and extract
those two precious affairs. One or more of them
lurked in every boy's pocket, for were they not
equal to the famed rabbit's foot of the South ? No
boy cared to hook and lose a sheepshead, and none
would think of casting away the useless dead body
without first " gettin' his luckies." The " stones "
were marked upon one side with a design which sug-
gested a pollard willow with a badly bent trunk, the
rough resemblance of this bent trunk to a letter L,
presumably being the origin of the luck theory.
I have caught scores of these fish, yet never tasted
one, and I have yet to meet a white man who has
eaten sheepshead. It is believed that the fish is
astonishingly tough and flavorless, requiring a power
of chewing. This may or may not be true. It cer-
tainly is a fine-looking fish, and, quite possibly,
the boyish prejudice, like many another, really had
no sound foundation. Occasionally a negro would
take home a large specimen, but the majority of
the dusky Waltonians declared the fish "pizen fo'
io6 Sporting Sketches
shuah." At certain points we used to kill from
a half dozen to twenty sheepshead in a day, the fish
freely taking worms and crayfish, being so eager for
the latter that not seldom a bait intended for a
choice bass got into the wrong pew.
The second of our odd fish was the garpike, as
a rule very abundant. This also was declared
" pizen," and none would taste of it. To the boys,
the gars were "swordfish," and only good for battle.
A big gar, with his round, tapering body, stiletto-
like jaws, sharp teeth, and wicked-looking eyes, was
an unpromising customer, specially designed for
biting. During warm weather the gars floated at
the surface for hours, and their trim lines suggested
speed, power, and something of relationship to ma-
rine torpedoes. The bony structure of their long,
lean jaws usually baffled efforts at hooking them,
and, if hooked, their teeth were apt to cut anything
but gimp. I have, however, taken them with min-
nows ; but, contrary to appearances, they afford but
poor play. A specimen a yard long would be con-
sidered a large one in our water. While the adult
gar is decidedly ugly, the young are very beautiful.
The very small ones look like golden bodkins, while
one the size of a lead pencil, with his bronzy tint-
ing, snow-white belly, and gleaming gold eye, is
very attractive. These smaller fish may be found
floating among the bent water grasses, and so closely
do they match their surroundings, that only sharp
eyes can detect them before they dart for shelter.
One flick of the tail, always slightly curved for in-
stant action, causes the smooth* slim body to vanish.
We used to take these fellows by stealthy work
The Fishes of our Boyhood 107
with a small landing net made of mosquito bar, the
gars being interesting for aquariums.
The third of the freak fish was prized for his
decided method of taking bait and his stubborn
resistance when hooked. He never was eaten,
everybody agreeing that he surely was "pizen."
This fish, the bowfin (Amia calva\ was termed
" dogfish," and he was an ugly-looking fellow, with
a greenish yellow body, a big, toothy mouth, and
a most evil eye. He would bite a finger for nothing,
so nervous boys cut him loose and sacrificed a hook,
also their prestige. Other boys beat A. calva to
death with sizable clubs, regained the hook, and
added to their fame.
Early in the spring the short spears killed many
mullet. These red-finned, olive-backed, foolish-
looking fish were held in fair esteem for the table ;
that is, about three good ones might purchase ex-
emption from a whaling. When the water was at
the muddy stage, the red fins were about all one
could distinguish as the fish rolled in the eddies.
Then one had to be quick and accurate with the
spear, also able to tell by the fin exactly where to
strike. With the mullet came the pallid-looking
suckers bony, worthless affairs, deemed unfit to
carry home. Certain people, in whom much of the
Old Adam still lingered, placed these suckers at
the roots of cabbage plants, but the offer of one
to some typical lad, or an invitation to dine off it,
usually meant a tossing aside of hats and the
inevitable !
After clouded waters had run clear and regained
their normal level came the season of seasons.
io8 Sporting Sketches
Then the bass were on the feed, and the sport they
afforded unrivalled. There were plenty of bass
large and small mouth, black fighters, weighing
from one to six pounds; square-built rock-bass,
sometimes over a pound in weight; shapely white
bass, not much as fighters, even when a foot long,
yet dainty for the pan; and, lastly, the calico or
grass bass, a showy, small fellow, and a quick, jerky
fighter, and his distant relative, the small boy's
pride, the beautiful little sunfish, or " punkin-seed."
Upon many days a catch would include all of
these and other fish, such as catfish, bullheads, etc.,
which invade the chosen haunts of the bass. The
best places were about old piling, submerged trees,
where trees hung over deep water, and near lily-
pads and mats of grass. Among the baits were
crayfish, minnows, white grubs, frogs, grasshoppers,
larvae of bees and wasps, very young catfish, and
worms. They were esteemed about in the order
set down, and if any one of them did not promptly
tempt a fish, some other was substituted. The boys
knew where to obtain all in their season. The fish-
ing never was confined to one spot, nor did the
boys believe that silence was either golden or neces-
sary; in fact, they noisily chaffed each other and
chattered at will. Their rule was that one place
was good only so long as bites were not too far
apart, and when water within reach had been thor-
oughly tested, a move was in order.
A small-mouth black bass was the prize first tried
for, say about a submerged tree. For him, minnow,
crayfish, frog, or grub was deftly cast a few yards
from and all about the supposed stronghold. If two
The Fishes of our Boyhood 109
or more of the baits failed, the conclusion was that
the bass, if there, was not in a biting humor. Then
a rock-bass was voted good enough, and the bait
was sent down as close as possible to the submerged
trunk and into all likely-looking holes. The rock-
bass, all honor to him, seldom failed to be there and
ready for business. So one promising place after
another would be tried, the sport ending perhaps
miles from the starting-point.
The rock-bass, for his size, was a good fighter,
and better when properly cooked. He, also called
" red-eye " and " goggle-eye," frequently showed as
black as one's boot, always blacker than the true
black bass, which really is of an olive-green above
and lighter below. The boys called the rock-bass
the black bass, while large and small mouth black
bass were termed "green bass." Now and then
great catches of white bass were made. I once
took, where a creek discolored by rain joined the
river's clear flood, more than one hundred white
bass within one and one-quarter hours. I fished
standing in a shooting-skiff, dropping the fish be-
hind me as fast as they could be removed from the
artificial lure. The rod was short and stiff, and
there was little or no playing. Many more fish
might have been taken, but the skiff began to leak,
and I got ashore with wet feet. Presumably the
muddy water of the creek brought down so much
food that all the fish in the neighborhood were
attracted to the common spot. They took the bait
before it was two yards below the surface, and just
as it passed the line between muddy and clear water.
Another good fish for sport, while fair for the
no Sporting Sketches
pan, was the yellow perch. These handsome fel-
lows frequently travelled in large schools, which
meant lively work. They would range from half
a pound to three times that weight, and the best
bait was the worm, although other baits sometimes
proved useful. On a good day, and these were none
too frequent, the catch might range from twenty to
three times that number.
A very beautiful prize was the sunfish, for which
every boy has a warm corner in his heart. A large
one would weigh about three-quarters of a pound,
but specimens one-fourth that weight are much
more frequently taken. They are greedy biters and
game in their own way, but their mouths are too
small for ordinary bass hooks and baits. A very
small hook bearing a portion of worm will at once
be taken if the sunfish be there, and he is there in
almost every stretch of our old waters. He delights
in sunny shallows, in pools among the grasses, and
he also is addicted to lying beside roots and rubbish
near shore. It is a common sight to see these fish
poised with wavering fins above their spawn, where
the sand and gravel are only a foot or so below the
surface. When a boy marks sunfish so engaged,
these fish are as good as caught. They will not
forsake the spawn, and they will bite, in hunger or
anger, at anything dropped too near their precious
charge. This fish, with the shiner and young perch,
shares the doubtful honor of being first victim of
pin-hook wiles.
Among rarely taken species were the young
whitefish and the herring. These were delicate
mouthed but most palatable, yet they played minor
The Fisbes of our Boyhood 1 1 1
parts in our sport. When they did take the hook,
the bait was a worm.
Catfish and bullheads, however, always could be
depended upon thirty or more of them during an
evening. What the boys called " channel-cats " were
taken from midstream by long handlines which
had a sinker at the end and two hooks bent to
short lengths of line above the sinker. Worms were
deadly bait, and shortly after sunset was the best
time. The catfish were of all sizes, from finger-
lings with more horns than body, up to great be-
whiskered ruffians of twenty odd pounds. With the
exception of the head, repulsive with huge mouth,
small eyes, and long appendages, the smaller chan-
nel-cat is a handsome fish. The body is clean cut,
the fins well proportioned, while the silvery, scale-
less, slippery skin is not unattractive. Fish of about
one pound weight were excellent eating, although
many people would not touch them. A half dozen
of them, entombed in jelly, which also contained
vinegar, hard-boiled eggs, sprigs of parsley and ice-
cold, was but those days have passed away !
These fish had to be very carefully removed from
the hook. The long horns, or feelers, were harmless,
but in the fins near the gills were awful, serrated spikes
which could inflict most painful wounds. If allowed,
the slippery cat would swing his head vigorously,
whereupon the captor's hand or wrist was sure to
suffer. The small mud-cat, or " bullhead," also has
these weapons with a complete knowledge of their
use. Frequently wounds from them caused a severe
inflammation, which was apt to extend to both the
temper and talk of the victim.
ii2 Sporting Sketches
When fishing for cats after dark, the boys often
started a big bonfire. A lot of fun is mingled with
the ashes of those old fires. A row of handlines
stretched to the outer darkness, and the boys sat
more or less patiently, each holding his cord. A
whispered " Got a bite " would stop all conversa-
tion, and then would come the quick strike and the
unerring snatching as dirty hands flew through
their task of recovering the line. If the resistance
told of a heavy prize, muttered grunts and inarticu-
late exclamations added tenseness to the situation,
till the big fish thrashed the surface within the fire's
light. Then would go up such a yell of triumph
that our folks in near-by houses would not know
whether we merely had caught a good one, or had
all tumbled into the river. If we eventually turned
up, they were, or pretended to be, glad to see us.
Sometimes a boy did fall in and win as many yells
as a fish, though the yells lacked the ring of true
enthusiasm. We were such water-dogs that nobody
bothered much.
At intervals a boy got a bite which puzzled him,
though those hands could feel and recognize any
fish through forty yards of line. Upon these occa-
sions the excitement was keen. The last heave
surely would land either a mud-turtle or a mud-
puppy. Both of these were awkward customers.
The turtle can bite like fury, and fingers had no
business near those cutting jaws. The shortest way
was to cut free the hook and allow the turtle to
keep it as a souvenir.
The mud-puppy was different. No power on
earth could induce a boy to touch that slimy, writh-
The Fishes of our Boyhood 113
ing, slate-colored shape. The fate ever was the
same. The cord was cut, and into the fire went
the hapless puppy. This creature, by the way, is
a most repulsive-looking water-lizard. His four
stumpy legs, heavy body, apparent lack of eyes, and
bunches of external gills were neither understood
nor appreciated by his captors. He was " pizen,"
and no respect was due those who rightly claimed
he was harmless. He would bite, or at least try
to, for never, to my knowledge, was he allowed even
half a chance to illustrate his capacity in that direc-
tion. His appearance was quite sufficient. Peace
be to his ashes ! for he suffered much.
A lamprey, too, could cause quite a commotion.
This creature the boys never could understand, and
they were more or less afraid of it. At rare inter-
vals, one was seen attached by its sucker mouth to
a bass. The lamprey, or " lamper-eel," may once
have been considered a delicacy, but the boys would
have none of it. It might have killed an uncertain
king, but it would kill no positively certain boy if he
saw it first. This eel was from a foot to a foot and
a half long, and possessed a circular, sucking mouth,
with a palate well supplied with small, sharp teeth.
Behind the mouth, upon either side, were seven
small openings, which greatly puzzled the boys.
I have more than once seen bass thrashing about
with one of these suckers firmly attached, and the
fish's actions either indicated pain or a deadly fear
of its comrade. One bass which I shot, and from
which I detached the lamprey, showed an ugly-look-
ing raw spot where the sucker had been. I have
seen many bass bearing similar marks. Once, when
ii4 Sporting Sketches
some of the boys were wading in a pond left by high
water, a lamprey fastened upon a bare leg. That
boy did more stunts in one minute for no reward
than he would attempt now for five thousand dol-
lars! The thing finally let go, and only a slight
mark remained.
So much for the fishes of boyhood, and, inci-
dentally, for the boys themselves. Of that happy
party, some have since learned about the fishes of
the Shadow River. The others are scattered far
and wide, some glad with human hopes, some, alas !
gray with human griefs. Some have seen the great
salmon pools and trout waters of remotest wilds, and
have learned the science of modern tools and per-
fected methods. Perchance their barefoot training
has ofttimes stood them in good stead. It may
be that the survivors would gladly cast aside their
modern improvements for the privilege of once again
assembling by the old bonfire ; to see the lines lead-
ing into the darkness, the floating captives upon
their separate tethers, the mud-puppy roasting upon
his pyre, and some thoughtful spirit calmly carving
his initials upon a hapless, hissing " turkle." Quien
sabe ?
COME TTIW1TDII&
IT is wonderful how the first moistly warm breath
from the south affects an old trout fisher. Even in
that infernal city Canon a cobbled trail between
sheer cliffs of soulless brownstone, mortgaged and
otherwise, and inhabited by a brand of cliff-dwellers
whose favorite form of angling is the playing of
suckers the magic of the south wind can assert
itself.
Through my open window streams God's glorious
oxygen, and upon the floor is a huge square of gold,
painted by that mighty brush which traces the ebon
shadows of huge trunk and hair-like twig upon the
failing drifts and glassy surface pools of the North.
Perched upon the very sash is a cock-tailed, bull-
headed, thoroughly British sparrow, and he eyes me
with an impertinent intentness which might earn for
him a small, cold bottle that lately held ink, were it
not that I love all feathered things from ostriches to
oars. The rascal knows it, too, and besides he is
full of spring and absolutely irresponsible. I know
what his heart craves of me. There are some foolish
strips of paper bearing nothing more valuable than
a mere writer's silly notes, and, possibly, a few shreds
of yarn are dangling from the right cuff of the hard-
worked jacket. Such things make a noble mess,
"5
n6 Sporting Sketches
when conspicuouslypacked against some inaccessible
masonry, and the naturalized citizen wants them
with that keen craving for small things which seems
to possess the majority of imported citizens.
The song of the beggar is as exasperating as his
insolent small person. He seems to " Chir-uff-chirr-
chirr-chirr-up," but woven through it is an undertone
which distinctly says, " Ow ! come out o' that, you
bloomin' beggar; chuck away that bally pen ; stop
meddlin' with the blawsted stationery ; it's spring out
'ere."
Only the old-time teaching, that not a sparrow
shall fall, keeps me from flicking at him with the
trout-tackle. And, as if he were not sufficiently
exasperating, there is the everlasting New York boy,
proud of new rubber boots and a handy puddle. I'll
bet two dollars on that boy : one that he wishes he
was a centipede so he could demand a whole lot
more boots, and the other that he has attended one
of the sportsmen's shows. Do you see that motion
with the bit of lath? That is his idea of fly-cast-
ing. In his mind that lath is nine feet long, tapered,
pointed, reeled, and lovely like the things he
saw at the show. To his ghost-wand is attached
a silken dream-line, and that puddle is foam-flecked
and thrilling with stream music. That one out-of-
plumb cobble-stone is a big rock, and that bit of
banana peel is a trout a two-pounder, mind you !
and that silent, earnest, wading boy is going to
get him. When ? Never mind when. Sometime
perhaps in the Adirondacks, Maine, Wisconsin,
or Quebec the dream will come true. How do I
know all this ? Because that boy is allowed to come
Some Truths about Trouting 117
over and play with me two mornings each week,
and I never yet played with a boy without poisoning
his young mind to the limit. " Spare the rod and
spoil the child " may be true ; but there's an old rod
which can be spared for him, so soon as he can be
pried loose from his mother long enough for an easy
trek nor'rard.
And why not ? There is no whisper of any evil
in the song of the stream, nor one germ of harm
in its hurrying flood. The heavenly music of the
bobolink's golden bell shaken hither and yon above
perfumed meads is only rivalled by the mirthful
chuckle or rippling laugh of the trout stream play-
ing its ceaseless game from sun to shade of its
magic way.
Boys and tomboys should be given opportunity
and encouragement to fish, because scientific angling
is one of the cleanest, most instructive, and most
fascinating of all our out-door sports. It embodies
the true poetry and refinement of sport and this with-
out any approach to the over-delicate or unmanly.
Keen devotee of the gun as I am, yet I would hesitate
to rank shooting as a refined sport above angling.
It is possible, by the strictest observance of the true
sporting code, to so elevate shooting that it becomes
no unworthy rival of angling ; but, unfortunately, too
few men ever attempt to make work with the gun
the clean, wholesome, educational thing it ought to
be. As a rule, there is far too much killing and far
too little intelligent study.
But to the trouting. Your old hand knows that
the first few days after the snow-water has run out
are apt to be the best. He also knows that it is
n8 Sporting Sketches
possible to get a bit of sport on Long Island ; better
sport and more of it in the Adirondacks and some
parts of Pennsylvania and the best of all the North-
ern states in Maine. Beyond that are the many
Canadian waters of New Brunswick, Quebec, and
northern Ontario. These offer sport unsurpassed
amidst the wildest of romantically wild surroundings,
and there are leagues upon leagues of rare good
waters.
The north shore of the St. Lawrence alone offers
ample scope for a life-long study of the brook trout
and its ways, and few indeed are the men who have
thoroughly tested the cold, swift streams of even the
one stretch of the north shore between Montreal
and Quebec, to say nothing of that region extending
from north of Quebec to and about Lake St. John.
Then there is the north shore of Superior, with its
storied Nepigon and its dozens of minor lakes and
streams, the latter short and fairly tumbling down
rock-bound steps to the huge ice-cold basin, which
floats no dead to its sternly hewed strand.
Among the gleaming network of waters flung
over the country from Maine to Labrador, from
Atlantic tide-water to the snowy surf of the Great
Inland Sea, from the wonderful new country of the
upper Ottawa down to the longer-settled slopes of
the lower, one can find trout fishing unsurpassed in
the world and, perhaps, only rivalled by the cream
of the sport of the cloud-swept tarns and glacier-
born streams of the Rockies and neighboring
ranges. Thousands of miles of, trout waters in all,
and many of them practically unfished. Well might
the scientific angler devote his life to them.
Some Truths about Trouting 119
But, perhaps fortunately, we are not all scientific,
hence a few hints to the raw enthusiast may prove
useful. In the first place, let him dismiss the notion
that all, or for that matter one-eighth, of our trout
waters offer unlimited facilities for all sorts of long-
distance casting, for they do not. For artistic
fly-fishing one needs must have plenty of space
behind as well as in front, for the back-cast is the
real difficulty. Here and there, in forest lakes, are
reefs and shallows where one may wade and find
plenty of room, but as a rule some craft, or raft, is
necessary to enable one to get away from the shore.
On the stream one finds room for action by wading
up or down. This owing to the fact that compara-
tively few streams can be properly fished from the
banks. Hence, stream fishing means wading, which
demands a proper equipment, unless the fisher be one
of that foolish-fond brigade who believe that a reck-
less defiance of cold water denotes the proper spirit.
But the wise man knows that long-continued
wading and getting wet are bad for the human
machine that what may be laughed at to-day may
be heard from later on, when the rich sporting blood
has cooled a bit. It is all very fine to depend upon
that broken reed, the flask, or that much-abused and
seldom-understood thing, one's constitution. Both
fail at times. A distillery couldn't remedy some of
the possible damages due to foolish exposure, while
the Constitution of the United States would be no
guarantee against rheumatism or other evils. That
a few men have been wet time and again for hours
at a stretch is no proof that you can stand the
same ordeal, and the trouble is that you have to do
120 Sporting Sketches
the sum to prove it. If you moved into a house just
vacated by a doctor and found a small vial contain-
ing some unknown mixture, would you swallow that
mixture just to learn if it were deadly or harmless?
And in this connection, be not too readily guided
by the statements of that too-prevalent old reprobate
who is forever yarning of the old-time fishing and
the heroic manner in which he and his friend just
ploughed through everything and got wet every day
from heels to midriff. It's just possible that he may
be a fluent liar, because rumor saith that anglers
are not exempt.
Because wading is the best way to get trout, and
downstream the best way to wade, I do both, but
before starting I do several other things which are
rather important. The first of these is to don all-
wool underwear and thick woollen socks, because
they are the best-known safeguards against a chill
or taking cold. Over the woollen wear should go a
gray flannel shirt, or sweater, and any old pair of gray
trousers. If the weather demands it, an old gray
coat should be added, while for the head there is
nothing so good as an old, soft, gray felt hat an
old " Fedora," or a " wide-awake," is the very thing.
Either of these will properly shade the eyes a
needful thing on sunlit water and at the same
time furnish a convenient place for the supply of
hooks. For the feet, especially during the early
season, there is nothing better than the rubber
waders, which come well up to the fork and fit
snugly to the thigh. They may be turned down to
below the knee, which greatly aids one to cool off
upon a warm day.
Some Truths about Trouting 121
Here, then, is the fisher dressed in a workmanlike
and thoroughly comfortable suit, which, because the
tree-trunks beside the stream, and also the rocks,
present a general grayish tone, admirably blends
with the surroundings, and fairly melts into the
shadows early and late in the day. The next best
color is the " dead-grass " shade of the regulation
shooting-suit, but for the stream the gray is unrivalled.
And I firmly believe the matter of costume is of
more importance than some anglers are willing to
admit. Long ago I made a study of the subject of
shooting-gear, and from geese and other wary gentry
learned the true value of closely matching the
costume with the natural surroundings. Later, the
color scheme for trout was taken up, and certainly
results have proved that close attention to these
fine points is good medicine. It is quite true that
men garbed any old way can and do kill trout in
some waters; but that by no means applies to all
waters, especially those that are low and crystal
clear. There are fool trout and educated trout, and
the man who craves the valedictorian trout, or, for
that matter, the sweet-girl-graduate trout, will do
well to observe the common-sense rule, which reads,
Dress as inconspicuously as possible.
A man once asked me if I really believed in the
importance of correct dressing, which implied that
fish could, as he put it, "see out of the water,"
meaning that a fish in the water could see objects
upon the bank. I wondered, for that man had
killed perhaps hundreds of trout which had leaped
inches above the stream when taking his flies. I
have seen a small trout not only jump for, but hook
i22 Sporting Sketches
itself, in its effort to seize a fly carelessly left hang-
ing against the side of a mossy boulder and sev-
eral inches above the water. The eye is not always
reliable, but I gravely suspect mine has seen a big
trout gather in a white moth flitting a foot or more
above the stream. This would not only suggest an
ability to see out of the water, but to see most
amazingly well, for a moving mark the size of a
miller demands deadly accuracy. Furthermore, the
neatness and despatch displayed by a big trout in
getting into deeper water the instant a man appears
upon the bank, shadow or no shadow, is strongly
suggestive of an ability to see.
The advantage of fishing' downstream is twofold,
i.e. the fly or bait comes to the fish with the stream,
as the fish has learned to expect prey to come.
Hence, to meet pleasant possibilities, he is lying
with his nose to the current, which can be made to
assist in getting the lure where desired. Also, the
man on any ordinary stream should have the need-
ful space behind, while retaining the power to cover
every yard of water below. The sole disadvantage
of fishing with the stream is that accidental disturb-
ance of stones, etc., may be carried to fish directly
below, while sometimes one's extended shadow may
cause trouble. The wise man, of course, does not
make a habit of suffering his shadow to shift over
every pool, but the trouble with shadow of man and
rod may be overcome by shifting from side to side
of the water as occasion may demand.
In regard to lures, the truth is that only a small
proportion of early fish are taken with the fly. It
is true that a host of anglers glorify fly-fishing and
Some Truths about T routing 123
condemn bait ; but it is equally true that a number
of those very anglers use both bait and artificial
lures other than flies upon those numerous days
when trout are not keen for the fly. I have not the
slightest desire to belittle fly-fishing, nor have I any
hesitancy over saying that I have used most of the
obtainable baits. Unquestionably, when fly-fishing
is good, it is preferable, but unfortunately it is not
always good, or even fair ; nay, more often than not
it is utterly unreliable and not seldom impossible.
At such times, instead of fretting and stewing over
it, I go get bait, and, incidentally, trout.
It may be the proper caper to sneer at bait, but to
use it on fine tackle may demand the fly-fisher's skill
and something more. The expert bait-fisher must
know what the trout are taking and why, also where
that thing is to be obtained and how. He has
more to do than to reach for his hat or book, and
if he cannot procure the exact thing, he must know
of one, two, or half-a-dozen possible substitutes, and
just where and how they are to be obtained at short
notice, which is apt to mean he must get them for
himself. After the fish is once hooked, the same
skill is required to play and land it, no matter if it
rose to a hackle, a worm, a grub, a young mouse, a
natural insect, or even that oft-used old reliable
a small section of some soulful sow. Hence it is
not all of fishing to cast flies, nor is it all of sound
sense to go without fish when you want 'em, simply
because the poetic way to take trout happens to be
by means of a bunco bug, fashioned out of barbed
wire and millinery, and bearing only a questionable
resemblance to any honest insect.
1 24 Sporting Sketches
But when the water, surroundings, day, and fish
are as they should be, then indeed is fly-fishing the
artistic and fascinating thing of which enthusiasts
have raved ever since the introduction of fine tackle
and its necessary fine art. The trail of the trouter
must penetrate the picturesque nay ! it is one long
gallery hung with the scenic masterpieces of East
and West. Forever before one winds, or spreads,
the silver pathway of the brook the flashing shield
of the lonely lake. Forever in one's ears is liquid
melody of cold, sweet water, always singing to
woody aisles of shadow, or breaking in foamy music
about the feet of stony sentinels whose everlasting
duty is to guard the gem-like lakes of all the forested
North.
But trout fishing is not always the delicate play
of fairy tackle upon baby streams and bantam lakes.
Where the purple battlements of Superior's shore
repel the white-maned cavalry of the queen of fresh-
water seas, there is trout fishing unrivalled for scope
and grandeur of accessories. Where a big bay
curves in behind the outer cliffs and leaves the tu-
mult of surfy assault to leap, break, and retreat from
its hopeless task, I have stood of a summer evening
and wondered. A full half-mile of calm, crystal-
clear water, cold as the sweat of a dying glacier, was
ringed and dimpled everywhere by the play of rising
trout. The first big drops of a summer shower might
produce a similar effect. And, to avoid a possible
misunderstanding, let me say that brook trout are
meant, and not " lakers " or any other fish peculiar
to large waters. In the bays, coves, and at intervals
along the north shore, the brook trout finds con-
Some Truths about Trouting 125
genial haunts. The Height of Land is only a short
distance inland, hence all the good streams of that
side of Superior are short, as they mostly are outlets
of small near-by lakes. Even the famous Nepigon
River, which might be termed the continuation of
the St. Lawrence beyond the Great Lakes, is only
about thirty-one miles long from its hasty exit from
its parent, Lake Nepigon, at Flat Rock, to its final
plunge into Nepigon Bay, an indentation of the
north shore of Lake Superior. The chief merit
of these north-shore streams is that they practically
are natural fishways connecting many small forest
lakes with the fresh-water sea.
TTLIUE
I GOT home about midnight or somewhere in
that latitude. Grounds and house alike were one
black mystery ; but where the gate was supposed to
be, a dull white spot showed. I knew it would be
there. Others of the family might pass in and out,
they might leave early and return late, yet see noth-
ing ; but when I came home it was different. Just
as sure as I neared that gate, no matter how long
after midnight, just so sure was I to see that whitish-
looking spot. Cold and damp made no difference
it would be there.
" Your wretched, neglected wife ! " says my lady
reader.
No'm, not the same. My wife hasn't got ribs like
a spiral spring, nor four legs. I am referring to a
D-o-g! D'ye s'pose I'd want my wife out there
keepin'-tabs-and-gettin'-cold-feet and but I digress.
Not until I was within a step of him did the grand
fellow move ; then he slowly rose" -upon his hind feet
and placed two dappled paws upon my breast, while
126
The Best of the Bass 127
his shapely muzzle sought my lowered face. For a
moment my hand played with the silky softness of
his thin ear, then as he regretfully slid down I asked,
" Want to go, old fellow ; want to go ? "
Did he want to go ! Such caperings, fool pranks,
and fancy steps ! Did he actually understand ? Aye,
right well. In his strange dog wisdom he knew that
within four hours something would be doing, and
just so sure as I went up for that much sleep, just
so sure would he sleep on the door-mat instead of
in his kennel, and be lying there quivering and
shuddering, pointer-fashion, in an ecstasy of antici-
pation when I stole down 'twixt the dawn and the
day.
How could he know? Don't ask me. I cannot
explain, though I have my theories. Good dogs
know much more than most people imagine. Edu-
cated dogs, that are made close comrades, especially
those which have been owned, trained, and handled
from puppyhood to their prime by only one man,
get to know that man, his moods, and methods as
few people know each other. This dog could read
my face and interpret every shading of the voice.
I could make his ears drop with one glance of
mock severity, or set him bounding with a mirthful
chuckle.
As usual, I was sitting up and rubbing my eyes
before the clock gave its first warning skir-r ! It's
funny about that clock. If I didn't wind and set it,
I'd oversleep till any old time ; but after solemnly
fixing the infernal machine, the appointed hour will
find me staring at it, face to face, with exactly spare
seconds enough for me to grab the thing, stuff it
128 Sporting Sketches
under the bedclothes, and sit on it to smother its
tirade, lest others be needlessly disturbed.
It was a perfect morning. Through the wide-
open window crept the rare breath of summer,
a-tremble with bird music and rich with the sweet-
ness of garden, orchard, and pine below. One
glance at the flaming east told the story, then a
plunge into cold water, a scramble into flannel shirt
and knickers, a fumble with the other things, and I
stole downstairs. I say stole down advisedly. This
getting down was ticklish business. On my feet
were lacrosse shoes partly for comfort and silence,
but chiefly for the sake of the canoe they would
shortly be in. One door was hard to pass. One
hundred times had I essayed to do it, and exactly
one hundred times had I failed. But the rubber
soles would fool her I was almost past.
" That you, my son ? "
" Yep."
" Going to dig that bed for me ? so good of
you."
" Yep ; goin'-to-dig-out-right-now."
" Did you say dig out or out-to-dig ? "
Then I skipped.
Did I dig garden ? Sure ! I dug about four
yards square, where the worms were good and
plenty. Then I snatched a breakfast, gave the dog
a bite, packed a snack and fled from the wrath to
come ! Not until the good canoe had slid well
around the first bend did the wicked cease from
paddling. Then the pipe was set going, and Don
and I straightened up and Io6ked at each other.
He knew the villain ! But she couldn't get either
The Best of the Bass 129
one of us till night and she never could hold any-
thing against a fellow for more than three minutes
and a half.
For miles the land was level and the stream
lazy. In such a country there could be no swift
water, and this one dawdled along with almost no
perceptible current. Yet it was no mere trickle of
moisture, but a river full eighty yards broad and
twenty feet deep. A few miles lower down its banks
dwindled to nothingness, and the broadening waters
drowsed through marshy wastes suggestive of Lin-
colnshire fens in olden days. But above my start-
ing-point the land gradually rose higher and higher
till it formed cliffs of rich clay, twenty feet and more
high. The windings of the stream were so erratic
that in one stretch of sixty miles by an air line
the actual distance by water was one hundred and
twenty odd miles. Nearly every mile of water was
good fishing, but to a lazy cancer the upper reaches,
being more wooded, were more attractive. Every
one of the innumerable bends presented a picture
of a steep, tree-covered bank upon the one hand
and opposite a brushy flat of greater or less extent.
This was caused by ages of the cutting away of the
bank toward which the current happened to set, and
a corresponding deposit of silt and rubbish by the
slack water opposite. Such an apparent mystery
on a lazy stream was naturally explained by the
spring freshets. Then the water rose twelve, fifteen,
or twenty feet and went raging lakeward, jamming
miles of ice which uprooted hundreds of trees and
ploughed like a glacier into every opposing bank.
After the frost was out, the soft, undermined bank
130 Sporting Sketches
slipped here and there, and pitched grand trees,
top first, into the stream. And where they fell they
lay, perhaps for several seasons, until an unusually
heavy flood tore them from their anchorages and
flung them, battered and whitening, against some
projection lower down, there to await the fiercer
mood of an angrier torrent.
Such wrecks occurred at short intervals, and he
who knew the river knew what to do at such points.
With one tree already well-nigh submerged, and its
fellow bending far over it and only awaiting a wind
from the proper point to complete its fall, the bass
found ideal quarters. The submerged tree was a
fortress, from which dusky freebooters might raid
at will. The overhanging trees cast a shadow of
velvet darkness, fit screen for piratical deeds, and
well ! you know some grubs and larvae are ridicu-
lously fat and careless, and bound to slip from the
smooth twig now and then. And young birds, too !
It's simply awful the pace infants go these days. A
young, naked thing, with its eyes barely open, actu-
ally trying to fly ! and it comes down through the
leaves with a spat-spat, its silly, pink-meaty abortions
of wings spread and its wretched little bare legs
kicking, and it lands in the water ? Occasionally.
Sometimes it lands directly in a bass, and again the
bass has to make a rush of a yard or so, to save the
bird from drowning.
And then, again a few feet of the overhanging sod
break away. Those mice are so silly! They will
nest in the eave, as it were ; and then they must bore
up so as to let down the surface water when the rain
is busy. And then the whole affair tumbles in, and
The Best of the Bass 131
they wonder why. The sod makes a splash which
no fish could help but hear. Then the earth melts
away and leaves a big ball of dry grass, which floats
and floats and rocks about till some kind-hearted bass
takes a bunt at it, to find if it needs any assistance.
And it loosens up, and a half dozen or more little
pink things fall out, and go wavering, twisting, and
shuddering toward the bottom. And kind Mr. Bass
sees how it is, he has babies of his own, and
he gathers in the small castaways, where neither the
nasty wet river nor the horrid black mud will ever
touch them again.
And then there are the frogs, grasshoppers, and
crickets. Let a man, or even an old cow, but move
along the bank above, and all these three must
needs start a-jumping. Nobody's going to touch
them, but they will jump, and they never look where
they are going. Over the bank then, of course,
plop into ten feet or more of water. And the poor
bass, trying to enjoy a little peace and quiet under
his log, has to hustle out and save life. Things
even very foolish things cannot be suffered to
drown right at one's door. And the crayfish ! Per-
fectly safe under the sunken stuff if they only would
stop there. But no ! out they go, backward at that!
never looking where they are going flip flip
flip in a crazy rush ; actually jostling decent, well-
mannered bass; even striking them in the face, in
their vulgar impetuosity. What can a poor bass do
with folk like these? No rest for him ! His life is
one long struggle to teach his neighbors sense.
But through all his toil and patient, uncomplaining
effort, he at least has one satisfaction his mis,-
132 Sporting Sketches
sionary work is peculiarly effective. Never a one of
them all be it bird, beast, or bug ever requires
a second course of his potent pedagogy.
The man who knows his craft as he should thor-
oughly understands all these minor points. He
knows what the large and small mouth black bass
will take, and why, and when. He knows that the
fish seldom, if ever, feed freely before the sun has
got well above the trees, and that from about seven
o'clock till eleven is the best of the morning. Why
then the early start, do you say ? Oh ! well, it en-
ables one to dodge all work about the place, to enjoy
the best part of the day on the water, and to secure
certain requisite baits. Some half mile from the
starting-point the canoe halts, where a small stream
flows into the river. Here is a tiny bay, already
golden with sunlight, and a trifle up the stream is
much water-logged rubbish. A can and minnow-
tackle are produced, and, while the old dog goes
prowling after a possible woodcock, I take a dozen
plump shiners. The next move is for crayfish. These
are found under the sunken stuff, but the taking of
them is an art known only to the experienced. Frag-
ment after fragment of rotten wood is cautiously
raised and every now and then a " nipper " is exposed.
The hand steals toward a victim, which is deftly se-
cured. These lobsters of fresh water bite a bit, or nip,
or whatever their pinching process may be termed,
but they inflict no serious damage. Now and then
one takes hold along the soft side of a finger, but
rarely is the skin broken. A dozen are soon secured
and then the trip proper is resumed.
I now have these baits, worms, minnows, and
The Best of the Bass 133
crayfish, and all are good at their proper time. Bass
are very capricious feeders. Some days they will
greedily take what they may have refused the previ-
ous day. A knowledge of this, and of what baits may
prove tempting, is invaluable. One of the deadliest of
baits is a big white grub found in rotten logs and sod.
The larvae of the bumble-bee and wasp, very young
mice, grasshoppers, and small frogs are all tempt-
ing upon occasions. The fry of the catfish, too, is
in some waters a reliable bait. Upon the stream in
question I preferred crayfish, white grubs, minnows,
and worms, in order as mentioned, and I always
endeavored to have at least three of these. Now
and then the fly tackle was called into play, but it
was always unreliable.
The places where bass are sure to be include all
types of submerged trees and snags, well-shaded
spots under overhanging trees and banks, and mats
of water-grasses and lily-pads. In the stream in
question a fish is seldom taken from open water
above a clean bottom. In swift streams having
rocky bottoms the conditions would be entirely
different, but I am speaking of one stream, not of
bass fishing in general. The advantage of a thorough
knowledge of the water is of the greatest importance.
For instance, a mile upstream a big stump just
shows above the surface. The current sets in there,
and the spot is good for one fish, or two, if one
doesn't make too much row over the first. Two
bends above, on the opposite side, a big basswood
hangs over two or three fish there. A half mile
farther, right in midstream and apparently open
water, is a fine spot. Not a visible vestige of a
134 Sporting Sketches
snag or shelter of any sort, but twenty feet below
an old tree lies on the bottom. Above that again
is a small bed of weeds. At first glance it is no
good, but there used to be a brickyard above, and
the stumps of two piles broken off below water yet
remain. About these is a lot of broken brick, all
unseen, and it is a good place. And so it goes from
point to point for fully ten miles. Almost invari-
ably the fish lie on that side to which the current
sets. The veteran knows this and changes from
side to side of the stream as its course changes.
A novice probably would select a pleasantly shaded,
bay-like spot on the wrong side and fish there for
hours, taking drum, catfish, dogfish, mullet, or sun-
fish, but at the most only an occasional, wandering
bass. The black fellows lie in the current, with
noses upstream, because they are strong pirates and
they know the running water will bring prizes their
way. When a bass is taken at some unlikely-looking
spot, that spot should be kept in mind. There prob-
ably is some unsuspected shelter below which even the
tackle may not find. In any event, a good lair for one
bass is apt to prove equally good for another later on.
But to return to the canoe. A clay cliff throws a
shadow upon deep water which might repay a trial.
The cliff is bored with rows of black holes, and a
cloud of sand-martins wheels on tireless wings.
The soft muttering of dainty throats fills the air as
the gentle little communists weave to and fro. The
rod is shipped up and a plump shiner selected.
The point of the hook is passed in at the mouth,
out behind the gill-cover, and under a strap of skin
behind the back fin. I use the bait 'so, because I
Tbe Best of the Bass 135
have found it works well. Of course a bass swal-
lows a minnow head first, but I don't want him to
swallow it. That means a mangled bait and more
or less trouble to recover the hook. The number
of minnows is limited ; therefore I want, if possible,
to make one minnow kill two fish. When a bass
grabs my minnow, I strike smartly and take chances.
A fish so hooked forces the minnow up the gimp
and out of the way, and so may preserve it for another
turn. The third cast provokes a faint strike, not
at all like the aggressive dash of the bass. A turn
of the wrists makes a swift commotion of waters, fol-
lowed by a peculiar steady strain. At the first purr
of the reel the dog cocks his ears and eyes the wav-
ering silk with keen interest. The rod goes steadily
backward, and foot after foot of silk rises from the
water. Then the gimp, and then a long, olive-green
form, trim as a torpedo boat Two long, snipy jaws,
a lean bony head, a glowing eye, and flick ! The
mangled minnow follows the slack line into the sun-
light as the fish vanishes with a marvellous sweep.
A gar, and where two or three of this kind are gath-
ered together is no place for a decent fisherman with
only a dozen minnows. The gar is a curious but
utterly useless fellow, a loafer and a provoker of scaly
language withal. Seldom will a hook hold in his
bony jaw, and should it hold he affords but brief
play. When recovering your hook his mouth feels
like a barbed-wire fence, with a cat-brier hanging to
it ; so wise folk only shoot, spear, or heave rocks at
him. The dog is disgusted he knows all about
gars and the talk which they incite. He also has a
shrewd idea of what is coming.
136 Sporting Sketches
The paddle strokes are firmer and a purl of music
whispers from the bow. We are nearing, hey ! old
dog, and never have we rounded this bend without
a thrill of genuine pleasure. Look at it and say can
this be the North ? The liquid floor narrows away
like a mighty lance-head pointing to a glory of daz-
zling sunshine, and the soft-draped walls receding
in perspective true, lower and soften to a golden
haze of the distant open. Huge velvet shadows
hang like windless banners; each tree seems rooted
to a tree inverted, and over all is flung a living mesh
of vine and creeper, bloom and bud and burnished
leaf. It must be fairyland ! From tents of green
sound silver pipings and tinkles of tiny revels. A
pause, and the flutter of foliage surely is the clap-
ping of wee hands. It is fairyland ! Yon sun-dried
pebble by the water's rim takes flight and curves
away on trembling pinions which shake sweet music
from them as they go. A sandpiper ? Nonsense !
Hark ! Tick-turr ! tick-tick-turr ! A fairy clock
hid midst those leaves, its ruby pendulum swinging
in plain view ? Absurd ! The clock has stopped,
and yonder the pendulum, a dart of fire winged with
ebon smoke. 'Twas the tanager swinging on a liv-
ing cord. That rattle a snare drum ? See where
the quick ring broadens. 'Twas Alcyon striking
the silver galleons of the dreamy sea of this our land
of Spain. Can grief be here ? A sobbing sweet
and low, a hopeless misery floating from a tender
breast too rudely torn ; a mother peering through the
dingy pane, racked by raw memories and the joys
of others which she may not share. Oh ! actor dove,
we know thy sweet deceit. Thou sham of arms
The Best of the Bass 137
bereft ; thou widow of one dry eye, with t'other rov-
ing for a comforter; thou male with female voice
and gentle wile. Aye ! Pat thy fat side with crafty
wing and bow thy shapely head in mock humility
all's fair in love. But that same wing can whistle
in arrow-flight, and strike full lustily should swear-
ing trooper squirrel thrust his bold nose above the
twig-wove platform where two white eggs lie. A
rasping jar a cymbal lightly clashed; a form of
steel and bronze o'erlaid on jet, a heavy flight, a
gleam of an eye like a diamond flashing from its
kindred coal ; a tail awry which seems to drag like
an idle oar the grackle. From an unseen meadow
above floats a sound as though some sprite had stolen
a string of gold and silver bells and was madly rac-
ing hither and thither from keen pursuit. But let us
leave the bobolinks, and their neighbors the larks and
sparrows, the orioles, thrushes, catbirds, warblers,
finches, climbers, and what not. The air is vibrant
with their voices, but we are not a-birding to-day.
Here is the spot, it is the hour, and Don and I are
the people.
A log
Half sunk in the slimy wave,
Rots slowly away in its living grave,
And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay
Hiding the mouldering dust away
Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower
Or the ivy that mantles the fallen tower.
Don is all expectancy as the canoe is drawn up
and the tackle adjusted. Next to actual shooting
he loves fishing, and he sits with wrinkled forehead
in such patience as he can muster. I decide to try
138 Sporting Sketches
minnow first, and while I am arranging the bait
there comes a sudden splash as though from some-
where a brick had fallen. Out of the tail of one eye
I see a shiner skip over the surface from the imme-
diate vicinity of a heavy swirl. Good enough ! It's
minnow he's after, so the bait is right anyhow. In
a moment my minnow is out far beyond the ripple
and coming in with a wavering motion produced by
slightly shaking the rod. But the cast is a blank.
Another, too, fails, so I study for a moment. That
fish is under the log, is the decision ; so the minnow
is cast perilously near the shelter. Another failure.
At this moment I notice something. Looking from
the dense shadow toward the sunlit outer water, I
mark an unexpected snag some yards to one side.
Mebbe he's there, I think, as the minnow again goes
out. Still no result. Now comes the advantage of
a variety of baits. A crayfish is impaled, and at
once there's a sharp strike and the rod arches. A
moment's feel of things proves that whatever is on
the hook is no black bass. A brief struggle, and a
square-built rock bass comes to the surface. Don
is dancing with excitement, but a word sends him
down. His time is not yet. The big-eyed captive
is promptly killed, then the pipe is lit, the water
meanwhile getting a few moments' rest always a
wise plan. As I hook a crayfish by passing the
barb through the mouth and out through the tail
(which gives the natural curve and insures the bait
going downward tail first, as it should) the same
bait serves twice, it having slipped up the gimp out
of the way. But it fails. Another bait is wanted,
so I climb the bank and find a half-rotten log. To
The Best of the Bass 139
heave this over is the work of a moment, and as
the fragments fall apart three or four fat white grubs
are revealed. I impale one of these and cast it to
the edge of the shadowed water. Whether the bait
is actually pitched into a bass's mouth is problem-
atical. It certainly looks that way. A strike so
savage as to make me fairly jump, and the fight is
on. This is the best of the bass ! With a rush he
goes for his lair, and with a twitch I plant the steel
and feel it take hold. A second's breathless pause,
and then the royal fellow realizes what has happened.
Whiz ! and he is away like an arrow, while the silk
hums through the guides, and the reel voices a
startled shriek. Well I know there is no fray any-
where, so gradually the check is put on. Tense as
wire stands the silken tether, while the rod arches
till it seems as if something surely must give way.
Five anxious seconds then whish ! up he comes
fairly into the sunshine. A gleam of bronzy mail, a
bristle of angry fins, a patter of falling drops, and
plunk! he has gone. But not far. Wise man
never yanked at fish like this, so instinctively I have
eased him down and away upon his second run.
A fierce zigzagging, a worrying, backward pulling,
a vain effort to bore to the log below, another dash,
then up he comes again.
Have you seen him the length and the breadth
and the mad of him and is this business, or is
it not better than pawing coin or thumbing bills ?
The dog is a picture. He stands trembling with
excitement, his blazing eyes following every move-
ment. As the fish leaps he stiffens in every fibre ;
as it falls back his muscles slacken to the fear that
140 Sporting Sketches
the prize is lost. Heart and soul he is with his
master in a game he cannot fathom, and he can
barely contain himself. A leap and a grab might
help, but he has not been called upon, so he suffers
and whimpers and dances in an agony of uncertainty.
But the headlong scrimmage slackens to an obsti-
nate resistance. " You've asked for it, you beauty ;
now you'll get it," I mutter as I shake him up. One
minute of doubt, and slowly, proudly, like the king
he is, he yields, and a white ray flashes from his
snowy belly.
A low cluck electrifies the dog 'tis a well-under-
stood signal. With a visible effort he restrains his
impulse to rush, and steadily marches to the water
and in up to his shoulders. Cautiously the fish is
towed within his reach, and wise from a previous
experience with fins, he grips it by the belly and
carefully bears it ashore. Is he proud? Does he
understand ? Look at him ! He has waited long
for this, the crowning moment, and as the released
victim flip-flaps in the grass, he dances an accom-
paniment of quadrupedal joy unmeasured. Then
he shakes himself, takes a roll, and comes twisting
and mincing, with deep, gusty breaths which say
as plain as words, " We caught that bass ! "
There were other battles and other triumphs
five more in all but let the one suffice. Great
fish they were, too, as they tugged the cord which
bound them in a shadowed nook. But only a half
dozen ? Aye ! Why more ? Two for friends,
three for home, and room for one inside. A tiny
fire mid the green, a lounge arid a smoke on a
scented couch, a search of a thicket for information
The Best of the Bass 141
of interest to man and dog; then hey, for the chase
of the paling west into the evening land. Let the
fragrant shadows creep, who cares ? The bow is
singing a foamy lullaby, the craft is skimming o'er
liquid gold, the white puffs swiftly float astern ; 'tis
well, my lords.
But your feet are wet ! who cares ? Your
breeches are all green from grass and moss ! What
of it it's what they're for who cares? But you
haven't done a stroke of work to-day ! Who cares ?
But there's the garden patch not dug yet ! Who
cares ? That big fantailed bass weighs plump five
pounds goldfish wouldn't buy forgiveness like that
fellow 1 Do you understand ?
<0>IF
MUCH-NAMED, not infrequently much overrated,
and not seldom much-abused, this fish occupies a
rather ambiguous position among those species,
which by virtue of certain fighting qualities have
earned recognition as game-fish. Greatest of our
pike, and a veritable freebooter of fresh water, he
has his full share of that strength, speed, and vorac-
ity which have earned for his relatives the rather
doubtful notoriety they enjoy. The term "wolf of
fresh water " is not so far amiss as at first glance it
might appear. Scientific authorities have decided
that the mascalonge and its near relative, the great
northern pickerel, shall be respectively known as
Lucius masquinongy and Lucius lucius.
The 'lunge is found in the Great Lakes, their
tributaries, the waters of the St. Lawrence basin,
and the Wisconsin lakes. Wherever its habitat, it
is the same old lusty pike, the savage of unsalted
seas, and a holy terror to any other fish small
enough to fit inside of it. Just how large the
'lunge grows probably is an open question eighty
odd pounds would be about the limit. I have seen
one which scaled a trifle over fifty pounds.
The sportsmanlike methods of taking this fish
are trolling with the rod and the long handline, and
142
A Matter of Mascalonge 143
both frequently afford the liveliest of lively sport.
Occasionally a medium-sized specimen surprises
some angler who is using live minnow bait for
bass, but such an event would be somewhat in the
nature of an accident.
The variations of the name are rather curious,
but they may be at least partially explained by the
uncertainty whether the original name was Chip-
pewa, French, or a mongrel blend of the two
tongues. The Indians call it " maskinonje," the
French "masque allonge," and these throughout
the extensive range of the fish are varied into mas-
calonge, muscalonge, muskellunge, muskallonge,
maskinonge, and masquinongy. For convenience,
anglers use the abbreviation " 'lunge."
The fish is subject to much variation in color,
but this is a matter of locality and by no means to
be depended upon should one be asked to decide if
some big captive is a 'lunge or a specimen of the
closely allied great northern pickerel. The mem-
brane of the lower margin of the gill-cover is more
reliable. In the 'lunge, it is furnished on either
side with seventeen to nineteen bony rays to facili-
tate closing and opening the gills. These bony rays,
termed branchiostegals, spread and furl the mem-
branes at the fish's pleasure, somewhat as the ribs
of an umbrella or the sticks of a fan perform their
function. The great northern pickerel has from
fourteen to sixteen of them, while the eastern pick-
erel (L. reticulatus), and the western, or grass pick-
erel (L. vermiculatus], have twelve or thirteen.
An easier identification mark, however, is found
on the cheeks and gill-cover. In the mascalonge
144 Sporting Sketches
the upper half of cheek and gill-cover is scaled,
while the lower half of both is naked. The pike
has a gill-cover scaled like the 'lunge's, but the
entire cheek is scaled. The eastern and grass pick-
erel have cheek and gill-covers scaled all over.
Hence if only the upper half of the fish's cheek
is scaled, it is a 'lunge ; if the entire cheek and half
the gill-cover show scales, the specimen is a great
northern pike. Young mascalonge are distinctly
spotted with blackish on a greenish or grayish
ground. The mature fish shows less distinct
markings, although they usually are discernible in
the region of the tail. I have, however, seen big,
old fish upon which the eye could detect no spot,
the general color being grayish green with a few
dim reflections. Again, I have seen fine fish of a
nondescript tint, as like that of an old, dry rubber
boot as anything I can think of. The young and
old of the great northern pike have the sides marked
with oval whitish or yellowish spots, several shades
lighter than the ground color hence, a fish with
spots darker than the ground color is a 'lunge; with
lighter spots, a northern pike. I have dwelt upon
these distinctive marks in the hope that what has
been said may aid in clearing away a bit of the mis-
understanding concerning these two fine fish. If the
inexperienced angler will remember about the scales
of the cheeks and gill covers and the color of the
spots, he should make no error in his identification.
The 'lunge and his nearest kin are remorseless
destroyers of other fish. Like so many old-time
robbers of the Rhine, they have, their strongholds
from which to dash forth and raise havoc with the
A Matter of Mascalonge 145
unfortunate wayfarer that may chance within view.
The piscivorous habit is strongly suggested by a
startling array of teeth, long and sharp, of various
sizes, and so arranged that any fish fairly seized can
see his finish without half looking.
There is something tigerish about the method of
this grim destroyer. Is there a big nest of water
weeds, or a handy clump of rushes, such as might
readily conceal a few feet of huge rubber hose ?
Then swim wide of that spot, ye fat, lazy, fool fishes,
for this particular brand of rubber hose is open only
at one end, and that end carries a contrivance that
grippeth like a bear trap with freshly filled teeth, and
moreover, the trap seems to be always set.
The crafty 'lunge knows how well his long body
blends with all water growths ; that one sweep of his
always ready, mighty caudal will send him speeding
forth as though shot from a mortar, and that nothing
upon which his wide jaws can make good their
deadly grip is too big for him to tackle. Silent,
motionless as a set spring, he waits in his ambush
until a sizable victim drifts within range. The
cruel eyes glow like wee incandescent lamps, but the
careless prey sees them not, or if he does, mistakes
them for two sparks of sunlight filtering through the
tangled greenery. It is wondrous pleasant there in
the velvet shade cast by the whispering rushes for-
ever writing at the grand blue scroll above. From
this same well-found shade, too, he can peer far out
through the sunlit water and maybe make a small
raid on yonder fairy fleet, where the silver galleons
of the shiners drift on their lazy course. " I will
tarry awhile," thinks the visitor fish.
146 Sporting Sketches
Indeed he will ! Whish ! Zip ! The startled
rushes sway and twist as the big, bent tail sweeps
through its marvellous stroke ; a swift hollow forms
upon the oily surface, the sleepy, vertical shadows
suddenly wake and dance in frenzy ; there is a thrill
of action for yards about, above ; below, there is
bloody murder ! A tiny silvery bubble rises to the
surface, bursts, and leaves an iridescent patch. That
much slipped out between the gripping jaws. A few
feet under, a dim greenish form drifts back from outer
shades and lazily noses its way through the cover
until it is again headed toward the open. Then
silently, like the shadow marking the sun's decline,
it rises among the yielding stems till at a certain
point all motion ceases. The trap is reset !
Perhaps again and again will the drama be
repeated, for the 'lunge is a gluttonous feeder.
While it, of course, is impossible to figure out the
destruction with any like accuracy, it must be no
trifle. And the worst part of it is that the bulk of
the victims are good-sized fish, old enough to repro-
duce their kind, hence of infinitely greater value
than mere fry.
The unsportsmanlike methods of taking the 'lunge
are shooting and spearing. The shooting usually
is not so murderous as it might appear; in fact it
is none too easy when the work is done with a
rifle. A slowly moving or even a motionless fish
is a very deceptive mark owing to the fact that it
almost invariably appears to be about four inches
above its actual position. The refractive power of
water has caused many a good shot to miss what
should have been an easy mark, and of course, the
A Matter of Mascalonge 147
greater the distance and the sharper the angle, the
more difficulty about driving lead into the water.
In point of fact, a green hand will earn no glory
shooting 'lunge, for, unless he can get almost directly
above his fish, he will be very apt to blunder.
Nor will a keen and experienced man accomplish
any serious destruction, for a single good fish would
be a notable result of a day's skirmishing along the
stream. Big 'lunge are only occasionally seen, and a
glimpse of one is no guarantee of a sure chance to
follow. The man with a rifle wants only big fish, and
he may watch a stream all day and nearly every day
for a month and not get one fair chance. When
the 'lunge are running upstream the position of a
heavy fish usually is betrayed by a steadily advanc-
ing furrow on the surface. With his eye upon this
telltale, the man with the rifle skirmishes along the
bank, keeping well concealed and always endeavor-
ing to gain some commanding point from which he
may look, and should circumstances warrant, shoot
down.
Such points may be few and far apart, and the
'lunge may take a notion to swim deeper, or hug
the farther side of the stream while passing, which
demands that the man shall shift ground and en-
deavor to plan another ambush farther up. This
sort of thing may be continued during an entire
morning and no chance be offered; in fact, the
odds are always in favor of the fish. A missed fish
seldom gives a second chance. As it is quite pos-
sible to follow the wake of a fish for miles, to see
the intended victim in the wrong place perhaps a
dozen times, and eventually to lose him because
148 Sporting Sketches
you feared the risk of one or two doubtful chances,
the shooting of the 'lunge is a feat seldom per-
formed.
Spearing during the same season is well-nigh as
uncertain. Some old hands at the game take very
long-hafted spears and go sit at some handy spot
from about dawn till as long as they can stand it.
Others take chances with the short throwing spear,
and, needless to say, seldom take much more than
the chances.
The spearing through the ice inside a dark shanty
is another method of the market fisher. He sits
there smoking and playing the decoy and praying
for " Night or Blucher," and Blucher may be afar
off and hotly engaged in some unknown corner of
what is doomed to be a sure enough Waterloo.
Meantime the watcher peers steadily down into a
mystery of green vagueness, through which extend
ghostly growths like the wraiths of tropic forests.
Flashes of silver light wink like aquatic fireflies
and tell where burnished fry are playing, and pos-
sibly a yellow perch lances across the view and
instructs the young idea that rod, pole, and perch
are measures of deadly accuracy when used in
finny schools. And after the fisher has grown to
feel like the brown man of old, upon whose original
invention his method is a glaring infringement,
there comes a change.
The small fry disappear in some mysterious man-
ner best known to themselves. There is a sort of
glow in the water and from under the ice slowly
slides a peculiar something. If -the man with the
spear be wise and ironed instead of nerved, he will
A Matter of Mascalonge 149
play the decoy between his feet and coax the fish
six inches farther. Right where his neck, if he had
one, would be, is the spot, and one must not be
afraid of hitting him too hard. I've heard of
course it's mere hearsay and perhaps untrue there's
a way of putting a bit too much strength to it, miss-
ing the fish, and following head-first after the spear.
I cannot recommend this. There's a lack of venti-
lation and a prevalence of cold and damp down
under there which are undesirable, if not positively
dangerous. Getting wet up to his ankles may be a
trifling matter to a robust man, but I suspect a good
deal depends upon which end of him he measures
from. A man may wet two of his soles with im-
punity, but the third never requires water unless
but maybe that's getting too far ahead.
In trolling for 'lunge the old-fashioned handline
and spoon-hook may be depended upon, but the
method lacks the science which the use of a trolling
rod demands. I have done a lot of it, and I prefer
to go alone and do my own paddling, or rowing.
A turn of the line around the thigh enables you to
feel all attacks on the lure, while leaving both hands
free for the paddle, or oars ; and at the same time
the line is where you can find it without loss of
time. This is important, for the resistance of a
heavy fish, aided by the forward motion of the craft,
will tauten a line to the danger-point before you
have time for many motions of your hand. While
paddling, I make fast the paddle by a short cord, so
it can safely be dropped at any point of the stroke.
When once fast to a good fish I seldom bother
about the paddle for turning, as there is a way of
150 Sporting Sketches
swinging a light craft head on to a taut line which
is understood by all familiar with canoes and skirls.
An old pair of gloves is no bad protection, for a line
sometimes cuts bare hands.
It is impossible to give anything like detailed in-
structions regarding the playing of a fish on a hand-
line. A small fellow may be unceremoniously hauled
in hand over hand; a big one must be humored.
I believe in keeping at a fish all the time, taking no
too pronounced liberties and allowing him none.
So long as a firm, even hold be maintained on him,
he is doomed, if the hooks are planted where they
should be. Anything like jerking should not be
allowed at either end of the string, for one stiff jerk
may play havoc. Only over-excitement or rotten
tackle is responsible for the loss of a well-hooked
fish. On a handline a big fish might demand ten
or fifteen minutes of play I should say an allow-
ance of about one-half minute per pound would be
about his limit. I know many men tell of much
longer struggles, but I never have seen them. The
fact is a man fast to a big 'lunge is apt to be mighty
poor indeed as a judge of time. It's like the answer
of the benedict to the bachelor who asked if statistics
showed that married men lived longer than single
men " Mebbe it only seems longer."
A good rod for 'lunge is a high-grade split
bamboo, or an ash and lancewood, nine feet long
and weighing twelve ounces. This, with a multiply-
ing reel of good make and about seventy-five yards
of plaited " No. 3," or " E " silk line, and a No. 03
Sproat, tied on gimp, will do- the business. A
large minnow, or a frog, makes a deadly bait, but
A Matter of Mascalonge 151
many prefer a large trolling spoon having a single
hook. Triple hooks for 'lunge are a nuisance. All
baits for 'lunge should be moved slowly ; a common
fault of trollers with the handline is sending the
boat along too rapidly. An excellent rule is to
make as little noise and fuss as possible. From a
boat pulled silently about twenty-five yards outside
the weeds the bait can be cast to their very edge
and slowly drawn away ; I prefer, however, to troll
along the edge, and by this method cover the most
water with the least disturbance. Because a fish
does not strike is no guarantee that it is not there,
and for this reason I return to a good-looking place
after a reasonable interval.
As soon as possible after the 'lunge bites is the
time to strike, and the moment the fish is hooked
the rower should make for open water. If this be
delayed, there may be trouble, for the 'lunge is apt
to play the deuce if he can get to cover. A good
boatman will watch every move of the game and
take full advantage of every chance to assist the
angler. Too few men are reliable with the gaff.
It should be cautiously passed under the fish this
cannot be done too slowly and carefully and then
sent home into the throat, with a smoothly swift,
upward sweep. So soon as the fish has been boated
it should be rapped on the head and a knife blade
passed through the spine just back of the head.
This most effectually will prevent any unexpected
flopping about, for a fish so treated is dead not
merely stunned.
The best fish ever I killed was taken in Rondeau
Harbor, on the Canadian side of Lake Erie. While
152 Sporting Sketches
from appearances the Eau should be an ideal water,
comparatively few, but usually large fish are taken
from it. Upon the day in question I had trolled
with the handline around one end of the harbor, a
distance of several miles. There was a broad bor-
der of marsh, and plenty of weeds in the water, but
the great trouble was an overabundance of bass.
These were fine fish, but I felt like Hiawatha, and
craved the big fellow.
When I reached the entrance to the harbor, the
lighthouse keeper hailed me, and after refusing some
fish because he could catch more than he could use,
he asked :
" Why don't you try at the inner end of the piers
for a big fellow ? Anybody could kill them things! "
the things referred to being some very fair bass.
For a moment I fancied he was putting up a job,
for the spot indicated was unpromising for 'lunge,
but he was in earnest and I knew better than to
dispute his knowledge. If you are going to do a
thing at all, you may as well do it thoroughly so
I did. For an hour I paddled back and forth, tak-
ing a couple of good bass, but receiving no word
from the desired big fellow. At last, when I had
about decided to give it up, the keeper hailed me.
" You go too fast," he said. " Work clear down
past that big clump of rushes, turn it, and come
back here and see what you do. Go slow, now," he
concluded.
It seemed a foolish task, but I went as directed,
slipped round the rushes and headed back. Some-
body must have applied for a stay of proceedings,
for on a sudden everything was brought up standing.
A Matter of Mascaknge 153
" Strange there should be a snag out here," was the
first thought ; for the line had tautened like a harp-
string. But just then the snag got busy, and I
grabbed the string and hung on to everything but
a yell which broke away and ripped the sun-kissed
silence plumb to the distant woods. Had I not
known that horses didn't graze so deep, I might
have imagined that I had hooked up somebody's
three-minute stepper.
There was no mistaking the nature of the captive,
for the way he fought for the weeds betrayed him,
while nothing in that water save a sturgeon or a
'lunge could pull as he did. Headed off in his rush
for cover he presently steamed for open water, and
the way the canoe followed was a caution to behold.
For minute after minute he pulled and I hung on,
getting a foot or so of line now and then. Eventu-
ally he appeared to abandon all hope of getting to
the weeds, and made for the end of the piers. I
knew there were stones and snags in that vicinity,
and so handled him as roughly as I dared, but he
had almost entered the danger zone before he gave
any sign of weakening. Finally his efforts became
erratic, then feeble, and he drew, log-like, close along-
side, though still refusing to keel over and expose
that white badge of surrender which I was mighty
keen to spy.
" Gaff him, man ! Quick ! " shouted the keeper ;
but I had no gaff.
The 'lunge was so big he almost scared me. His
bristling teeth were too horrible to contemplate in
connection with fingers through his gills, and for a
moment I hesitated. Then, grasping the paddle, I
154 Sporting Sketches
lifted steadily with one hand, while the paddle went
slowly over my shoulder. It was risky, but it had
to be.
" Don't ! Don't ! You - condemned - fool - you'll -
lose ! " howled the keeper, but his protest was
unheeded.
In all probability the strain I was under somehow
got into my arm, for the only fish that possibly
could endure such a clip must surely be a fossil and
one of the toughest propositions in its line. As it
was, the thin-edged paddle bit clear through the
spine several inches back of the head instead of
where I aimed, but I cared little about that. It
wasn't my spine, but it was my paddle and my fish,
and when a man can't paddle his own fish the way
he has a mind to, things have got out of stroke.
The light keeper didn't like it. He said that
nobody but several sorts of blank fools ever landed
fish that way. When I assured him I'd have landed
harder if I could have got more of a swing, it didn't
improve matters.
" Why didn't you grab his gills ? Them there
teeth look sassy, but they can't actooally hurt
nothin' ! " he continued as he poked his fingers
into the big mouth which I was holding open for
a better view.
I always claimed the fish slipped in my hands,
but he swore quite a lot too that I clapped the
jaws shut.
(DDflAIPTEK
HILL planned the whole business. When he
does a thing it is well done. He is a liberal, round,
and merry soul, who revels in providing fun for
others and a small share for himself. Incidentally,
he is a very skilful angler, a man who has fished for
many years, and who knows the ways of salmon,
trout, 'lunge, and black-bass as well as he knows
how to circumvent big sea-bass, "blues," weakfish,
or anything else worth bothering about in the
waters contiguous to Gotham.
None of his guests was let into the secret till the
last moment, so I was rather astonished when he
began to warble over the 'phone. The burden of
his song was that a party should go down to the sea
in a ship of his providing in fact, be his guests
throughout the venture.
When he had explained that Harry and "Cap" were
to be of the party, I at once agreed to go, for right
well I knew the ways of those choice spirits and the
155
156 Sporting Sketches
possibilities of a jolly day on the heaving breast of
Old Atlantic. He further explained that he would
start early in the afternoon to make sure that every-
thing was all right, while we could take an evening
train at our leisure. He would meet us at Ham-
mil's Station, on the big trestle, and there was no
need to bother about tackle, as everything would be
ready.
It had been an extraordinary season, and the
second day of October appeared like an estray from
August. When we reached our destination, we
presently found a very fair hotel of its kind and an
excellent dinner of any kind. After that came a
chat over the cigars, which Harry endeavored to
cut short.
"Wasting valuable time be invaluable first
thing you know ! "
" Read him the riot act," chuckled Hill, and I did,
part of the argument being the magnificent night,
good cigars, and pleasant company. Moreover,
each man's money was still in his pocket, while
sleep was a grand thing for men who had to arise
before the sun.
" My money ain't still in my pocket," growled the
incorrigible, nor was it, for we could distinctly hear
the jingle as he turned it over. The sound sug-
gested quarters, dimes, and nickels galore the
rascal had prepared for any emergency!
Now, I'm no immortal George, so the reader may
grub up the root of the cherry tree, or not, as he
prefers. Within an hour each man was in his room.
Mine had two big windows, thrdligh which the lazy
breath of the ocean passed at will. As I lay enjoy-
A Bit of Sea Fishing 157
ing air which well might have come straight down
from the blue purity above, I could not help con-
trasting it with the smoke-laden stuff we might
have been inhaling had we played poker.
" Bad for health to play cards," I drowsily mut-
tered, for the air was doing its work. At that
moment a footfall sounded in the hall, and soon
a fist smote my door with no uncertain touch. I
knew it was Harry still trying to get up a game, so
I yelled at him " Get away out of that ye evil
' gam ' I won't play ! "
" Yez wun't what ? " asked a strange voice. " Git
yez up, sorr, un yez'll not fish nayther. The hull av
thim's up ! "
" Why ! What time is it ? " I asked in amazement.
" Faith, an' it's just wint foor ! Lord love yez, d'ye
tink I'm foolin' wid yez? Shure Mr. Hill towld me
to haul yez out uv dat ! "
I realized the situation and bestirred myself.
It truly was a marvellous morning. Not a breath
of air was stirring as we went down the long wharf
with its double row of club-houses. The whole
world of waters was sleeping like a healthy child,
and in the solemn dome of blue which roofed our
field of action was not one vestige of cloud. The
tide was busy, but even the great pulse of Atlantic
seemed to beat weakly. The whole scene was
drowsy.
It was beautiful, too. Across the channel spread
broad marshes, swart from sun-baking, wholesome
with salt. Above them hung a few bannerets of
pearly mist casting peculiar, sharply defined shadows.
Upon one side the barnacled, weed-tufted piles rose
158 Sporting Sketches
like long columns of jet studded with pearls and
precious things, while their broken reflections in the
creeping tide displayed a wealth of velvet shadow
and silver sheen which only the brush of a master
of black-and-white could portray. The wharf and
club-houses of many colors seemed like the narrow
street of some quaint old city, and when a pictu-
resque sailorman approached, I half expected to hear
him speak in some unknown language. But he did
not. Instead, he fluently cursed the prospect of no
sport and the weather which prevented the hiring
of his sailboat to some fishing party.
Hill cared not for the weather. His roomy craft
was quite a curio in her own way. Her owner, with
an eye to calm, or an unfavorable breeze, had
equipped her with a gas engine which, when white
wings had to be furled, could drive her at fair speed.
" Can't fool me," he remarked, as he pointed out
the engine, wheel, and tanks "I fish for fun, and
I want to be able to go and come when I please."
He certainly had solved the problem.
Soon lines were cast off, the engine chug-chugged
merrily, and the craft slid seaward in spite of the
tide. We lounged at ease in sweaters and knickers,
and prepared to enjoy our unusual experience. The
engine, unfortunately, could not drive so large a
hull fast enough for trolling for "blues," which
demands lively progress. But there were other
fish in the sea, and while a bout with the blues
would have been preferable, the lack of it was not
to mar our pleasure.
Once outside, the sea presented an extraordinary
appearance, the like of which I never had beheld.
A Bit of Sea Fishing 159
The water looked like oil. Far as eye could rove
there was not a semblance of a wave. Had it not
been for the long, slow swing like the wraith of
wave action common to that coast, we might as well
have been upon the oft-quoted mill-pond.
For some time we steadily forged ahead under
the pilotage of one hairy sea-dog who constituted
the crew. Our chosen spot was over an ancient
wreck, all that is left of an Italian brig which found
her grave one awful night when walls of crashing
white sent her straining hull to swift destruction.
The old salts tell of grewsome things of that night
of piercing calls in foreign tongue, of bubbling
prayers, and of battered forms wallowing in fierce
undertow and flung high upon heartless sands as
the breakers wearied of their sport. No doubt
those tales are true; certain it is that the wreck
now affords fine fishing.
Our craft anchored in proper position, and we
prepared for business. Hill shipped up a fine bam-
boo rod, while the rest of us were given handlines
which carried heavy sinkers, and two hooks each.
The bait consisted of clams.
Of course the capture of the first fish was an
interesting matter. I felt a gentle nibble, made a
snatch, and felt I had something. Presently to the
surface came a couple of dark, prettily mottled fish.
As I hauled them aboard, Peaceman also landed one
of the same sort, and so the honor of first catch was
shared.
Harry looked at my captives and remarked:
" And you wouldn't play draw ! You bet if I could
catch pairs like that I wouldn't miss a game."
160 Sporting Sketches
The fish were blackfish. They weighed about
half a pound each, and I subsequently found that
they were excellent for the table. They had small,
sheeplike mouths with prominent teeth, which they
presumably use for crushing small shellfish. An
abundance of such food no doubt attracted the black-
fish to the wreck. There must have been hundreds
of them below us, for we had lively sport for a couple
of hours.
An occasional tidy sea-bass afforded variety to the
proceedings, and other things, neither so tidy nor so
acceptable, took the hooks. Small crabs hung to
the baits until they reached the surface, then usually
let go their holds and sidled to the glooms. Now
and then a piece of sharp work secured one of
them.
The first big spider-crab, ahideous-looking varmint,
was captured by Harry. At first it looked like a
bundle of roots or a mess of the drowned Italians'
spaghetti. Harry landed it between his feet, took
one glance, then climbed the deck-house. When the
spider got upon its feet and began to move about,
Harry muttered, " Jerusalem ! what hands he could
hold and how he could manipulate pasteboards."
Harry, however, would fish no more, vowing " that
he didn't want to catch any more things like that in
his draw."
Skates, too, came up at intervals. The first one
captured was taken charge of by the crew, who
promptly demanded a pocket-flask. He freed the
skate from the hook, turned it upon its back, then
calmly poured a few drops of whiskey into the con-
vulsively working mouth. In a few moments he
A Bit of Sea Fishing 161
tossed the skate overboard, whereupon the gyrations
it described were simply amazing. " He's drunk as
a fool," laughed the sailor, as he watched his unfor-
tunate victim. The skate certainly acted as though
it had taken a nip or two too much, but if its actions
are what are referred to by the slang term " skate,"
as applied to the inebriated human, I desire no such
experience in mine. It was good whiskey, too !
As time slipped away the fish ceased biting, but
we were told the fun would be srood asrain later on.
o o
Our kind host had provided a lunch, which came in
most acceptably. After a long rest and a chat, " Cap "
decided that the day was just right for swimming.
He removed his sweater, and, clad only in his
knickers, went to the side, presumably to test the
water with his foot before plunging in. The crew
eyed him curiously, then asked :
"Are you thinking of flopping over? "
Cap replied, " Sure I am it looks fine."
" Maybe 'tain't quite so good as it looks," replied
the man. " No fish has bit for an hour, and there's
liable to be a shark 'bout as big as you are skirmish-
ing around under there."
The expression which flashed over Cap's face was
very, very funny, and the way he slid away was still
funnier. The man told me that he intended no joke,
and at the same time he jerked his thumb signifi-
cantly in the direction of a couple of lily-irons which
lay upon the deck-house. He further declared that
he fancied he had seen a large, vague form drifting
about below.
" Look there ! " he exclaimed.
It may have been fancy, but it did seem to me
1 62 Sporting Sketches
that a big, shadowy thing for an instant was visible.
At all events, the man meant what he said. It was
a quiet joke on me, too, for I had been feeling fit for
a swim, which, needless to say, I did not attempt.
All through the dreamy afternoon the heat held
its own, and no breath of wind came. We fished
until we wearied of apparently inexhaustible sport.
We got as tanned as redskins, and at last some one
looked westward and saw a tremendous crimson
sphere sinking toward the water-line.
Simple as this form of sport may appear to those
who know the best there is of river, lake, and brook
fishing, the day had supplied a most enjoyable
experience. The substitution of stiff rods might
introduce more pleasing features, yet a congenial
party, with a host like Hill, may find there is fun,
even in the use of handlines. Not one moment of
the time dragged, and, after all, it does men good
now and then to forget their cares and just be boys
together.
XHIU
EAIIIL AHB
HBEEIE) IBfflSPo
IN the sportsman's golden days, when every tide-
water, marsh, and wet-land of our Atlantic coast
attracted its host of the larger waterfowl, little if any
attention was paid to the birds now under discus-
sion. It is true that the rail was recognized as a
delicacy, but more valuable game was so easily
procured, and the sport it afforded was so much more
attractive, that comparatively few of the old school
of sportsmen were disposed to take the rail at all
seriously. But it is different to-day. Three-fourths
of the ducks and other highly prized species having
been either destroyed, or driven to more remote
resorts, the humbler quarry has its innings pos-
sibly to its sincere regret. While neither rail nor
reed bird can rival the waterfowl, grouse, cock,
bobwhite, or snipe as objects of the sportsman's
pursuit, yet they play no unimportant parts among
our latter-day recreations. Ears accustomed to the
clatter of the city's busiest quarter are open to the
word from the marshes which tells of the movements
of the small birds and of the tides which bring the
cream of the shooting.
The sport, humble though it be, has certain attri-
butes which entitle it to respect. It comes at a very
pleasant season, when the demands of business are
163
1 64 Sporting Sketches
least exacting and when overtaxed toilers of the
cities are best out of doors. There is no strenuous
labor attached to it, so that too well-fed mortals, who
have lost something of the energy and enthusiasm
of youth, may participate without fear of conse-
quences; and it is sufficiently reliable to insure its
followers at least a fair measure of success. These
are important features, which unfortunately cannot
always be depended upon when one seeks other
game.
The rail and the reed bird, though occupying the
same haunts during a portion of the year, cannot
claim even a remote kinship. The reed bird, Doli-
chonyx oryzivorus, is an icteroid singing bird, our
well-known bobolink, also known as rice bird, skunk
blackbird, and butter bird, in different parts of the
country. During the spring the male of this species
is a most conspicuous and charming figure in every
pastoral landscape. His body-color of velvet black,
boldly relieved by rich cream and white, would not
fail to attract attention, even if his marvellous throat
did not contain a witchery of song-producing power
equalled by few American birds and surpassed by
none. From the plumage is derived the name
"skunk blackbird," the general black-and-white
effect suggesting the coat of the handsome but
unreliable quadruped.
The rollicking song of the bobolink is the cheeri-
est of bird music. The ripple of a merry maiden's
laugh, the foamy mirth of a woodland cascade,
blended with the tinkle of wee golden bells, might
imitate it; the pen cannot. When~heard at its best,
the bird is drifting on lazy, ebon wings above soft
Rail and Reed Bird 165
waves of sunlit grasses. Then, while moving his
pinions only fast enough to keep him in air, he
gurgles out his liquid notes in an apparent ecstasy
of happiness which it does one good to observe.
When in the humor, the bobolink is a swift flier,
and this is best exemplified when two or more
amorous males dash away in pursuit of the modest-
looking, brownish yellow female. She may or may
not put forth her best speed, but certain it is that
she leads her gay-clad gallants through the maddest
of mazy frolics. A foot above the grass she darts
like a feathered bullet, now shooting upward for a
few yards, now stooping low till her soft breast
brushes the tender growth ; again, twisting and
dodging with amazing facility, to perhaps end a
two-hundred-yard chase by a crafty swerve into the
grass. Side by side, singing with all their might
till their blended voices ring like a peal of merriest
laughter, fly the pursuing males. Rising as she
rises, stooping when she stoops, following every
lightning twist and turn as though it had all been
carefully rehearsed, they chase her like a small
tornado of song till she gains her shelter. Then
they curve away on trembling wings, jingling de-
fiance at each other, a defiance which surely con-
tains more of mirth than anger, for its fiercest tone
is soft and soothing as the gurgle of long-stored
wine.
Few people would recognize this handsome min-
strel of the meadow in the brownish yellow reed bird
of midsummer and early autumn, whose sole note
is a dull, monotonous " Pink-pink ! " as the flocks
veer and tack from point to point of the rice marshes.
166 Sporting Sketches
The truth is the male bobolink, like the mallard
drake and several other species, doffs his gay lover's
garb soon after the completion of the courtship.
A respectable head of a family has no business to be
knocking about in swell attire, and serenading and
chasing females, no matter how modestly dressed
they may be. So the bobolink bottles up his song,
puts on his working clothes, and hustles in the com-
missariat department to satisfy the half-dozen gap-
ing mouths in the grass-screened nest. When the
young have grown strong upon the wing, the birds
of several meadows assemble in flocks and attack
the ripening oats. Thence they betake themselves
to the marshes, to pose as reed birds after they
have fattened upon the nutritious seeds of the wild
rice.
The sport of shooting reed birds, or " reedies," as
they frequently are termed, is too tame for the amuse-
ment of any one but a novice. As an adjunct to rail
shooting it may serve to fill up time, but as the
birds flock closely when moving and require no
particular craft on the part of the shooter, neither
skill nor excitement is ever prominent. Not sel-
dom the flocks, owing to the nature of the ground,
will follow one general line of flight ; then all the
shooter has to do is to place his boat, or take his
stand behind some convenient growth and blaze
away at the passing birds. A double shot may
score as many as twenty " reedies." When well
fattened upon rice the birds are delicious morsels,
but no better than sparrows and several other small
birds would be after a course of tHe same diet.
So far as this shooting is concerned, I do not for
Rail and Reed Bird 167
one moment believe that the amount of profit or
pleasure which a limited number of persons derives
from the annual slaughter of thousands of birds is
anything like a fair compensation for the resultant
loss of the bobolink's spring music. Furthermore,
the good accomplished by these birds in destroying
insects during the nesting period will more than bal-
ance the debit item of oats as charged in the agricultu-
rist's ledger. The inexorable demands of fashion have
already played havoc among our most beautiful and
useful song-birds, and we might well suffer the bobo-
link to safely pass through the reed-bird stage of his
existence. If this were done, our fields might again
ring with the melody of the olden days, and the
Eastern states be much more pleasant fields for
man's toil. So desirable a condition is not to be
expected so long as guns roar the doom of the
" reedies " nor while the riven lutes find ready sale.
The man who can listen to the bobolink and still
enjoy a course of " reedies," is about on a par with
the consumer of English skylarks. And as for the
pot-hunter who butchers the beauties for the pennies
their wretched little bodies bring! would he not
glory over a pot-shot at an angel, the sale of the
game, and the shrewd dicker with " Mine Uncle "
for the golden harp ?
The rail, or sora, Porzana Carolina, is an entirely
different type. It knows not music, its quaint,
metallic chatter somewhat resembling the low,
hurried cry of a startled guinea-fowl. It is a
wader, a frequenter of the wet marsh and meadow
and the border of the stream. Here it finds shelter,
food, and a nesting-place. The rail's northward and
1 68 Sporting Sketches
southward migrations depend somewhat upon the
weather, as it is rather delicate. It reaches our
marshes in May, and the first sharp frost starts it
southward. An intelligent examination of the rail
will detect one of Nature's beautiful adaptations to
certain conditions. The general yellowish brown,
striped color-effect curiously blends with the stems
of reeds, rice, and other water-loving growths. The
deep, narrow body appears to have been specially
designed to secure an easy passage through thick-
standing cover, while the strong legs and long, wide-
spreading toes combine swiftness with the ability to
lightly trip over floating foliage which would not
support a bird having feet of the average size. The
flight of the rail apparently is such a feeble, flutter-
ing, shortly sustained effort, that one is apt to puzzle
over the question of how the bird possibly can trav-
erse the great distances over which its migrations
extend. It may be that the toilsome journey is
judiciously divided into easy stages, but it is more
probable that the birds select favorable weather, rise
high, and are borne in their chosen direction by
moderate winds. Well-authenticated instances of
rails alighting upon ships far out at sea tend to
substantiate this theory.
The color, form, and foot render the rail an
extremely difficult bird to obtain a fair view of,
or to cause to take wing in many of its haunts.
Through thick growth it can glide like a field-mouse,
while over the surface of a pond it can rapidly trot,
though apparently treading upon nothing more
stable than the surface of the water. It can swim
and dive fairly well, and if driven to extremity, it
Rail and Reed Bird 169
may work its way under floating or stranded stuff
and lie hidden with only its slender bill above water.
The adult rail measures about eight and one-half
inches in length, and from tip to tip of extended
wings about fourteen inches. The upper parts are
golden brown, with blackish markings in the centres
of most of the feathers. A black stripe extends to
the back of the head, the same color also encircling
the base of the bill and broadening upon the throat.
The sides of the head and neck and the breast are a
pretty bluish slate, which pales to an almost pure
white upon the lower under parts. The bill is
greenish, shading into yellow on the lower maudible;
lower tail coverts brownish white; flanks and in-
side of wings barred with white and sepia ; legs yel-
lowish green. Young birds lack the conspicuous
black markings, their general coloration being
browner, with a lighter mark on the throat.
The rail is locally known by various names,
among which are sora, water-hen, chicken-bill, and
that Jersey product, " rail bird. " In addition to its
running powers and apparent aversion to taking
wing, it has one marked peculiarity which some of
our best naturalists have observed and commented
upon, yet have failed to satisfactorily explain. I re-
fer to a sort of fit into which a bird appears to fall
now and then. This fit, if it may be so termed, may
be a paroxysm of terror ; but be that as it may, it
certainly is peculiar. It does not appear to have any
connection with the report of the gun, but rather to
result from some situation in which an uninjured
rail imagines itself to be hopelessly cornered in the
grass, or other cover. A bird attacked by the fit
1 70 Sporting Sketches
stiffens, topples over, and apparently expires. It
may be taken up and examined for a considerable
time without its betraying any signs of life. Place
it among its dead fellows in the shooting-boat, and
after a longer or shorter interval it may astonish its
captor by either starting to run about, or by taking
wing and fluttering away in the characteristic flight.
Many sportsmen have noted this curious action and
have naturally supposed that the stricken bird had
been hit by a pellet of shot, and later had revived
enough to take care of itself. This, however, is
incorrect, as the bird really undergoes some peculiar
attack, from which it will entirely recover if granted
the opportunity. I have seen a rail crouched in
meadow grass suddenly stiffen, when the only
apparent cause was the sound of my boot rustling
the herbage. Others have spoken of having at-
tempted to pick up a skulking bird, which to their
astonishment stretched out and seemingly expired
as the hand was extended toward it.
I do not pretend to understand the matter, but
it possibly may be explained in this way. In many
of the rails haunts are snakes quite large enough to
swallow a full-grown bird. The rail's mouse-like
habit of running through the grass may subject it to
attack by these snakes. A rustling in the grass
may suggest the presence of a big snake, as anything
pointed at the rail may resemble, to timid eyes, the
reptile about to strike. Those who dispute the
snake's power to paralyze or " charm " its victim
may scoff at this theory, but then those who dis-
pute the snake's power are wrong in their own con-
tention. The snake has the power and has exercised
Rail and Reed Bird 171
it before many pairs of excellent eyes, my own
among them.
Owing to the rail's habit of skulking in dense
cover, it can be depended upon for sport only in
tide-waters. At high tide the marsh growths are
so much submerged that a suitable boat may
readily be pushed through their tops, while their
protection as cover is for the time lost to the birds.
At low tide a man might flounder about for hours
without getting a shot, although rails were all around
him. Because the birds are slow fliers, which usu-
ally rise at close range and cannot carry off shot,
the lightest of guns and charges are best. The
other requisites for the sport include the proper
boat, a man who knows the marsh to act as
" pusher," and a high tide. The pusher's busi-
ness is to push or pole the boat through the best
cover, to direct attention to rising birds, to mark
down and secure what may happen to fall, to flatter
and cajole a duffer, to gloat over a reliable per-
former, to swear audibly or under his breath as
circumstances may appear to warrant, to assist at
any spiritual seance at which spirits promise to
freely respond, to get more birds than any other
boat out for the tide, and to endeavor to get a line
on the plumpness of his patron's pocket-book and to
charge accordingly. A good man does all these
things, not seldom including the patron.
The amount of shooting to be obtained largely
depends upon the height of the tide and the skill of
the pusher. But whether the gun be kept busy, or
rests upon one's arm, the experience is bound to
be a pleasant one. Properly propelled, the light-
1 72 Sporting Sketches
draught boat steadily glides through or over the
yielding cover ; a rail flutters up within a few yards
and goes wobbling away, its feet hanging as though
reluctant to leave the saving growths. The flush is
indicated by the pusher's automatic cry of " Mark ! "
and the squib of the light charge punctuates a kill or
a miss, usually the former if the sportsman is pos-
sessed of an ordinary amount of skill. The shooting
may be continued till from twenty to one hundred
shells have been exploded and the outgoing waters
have uncovered so much lush growth that the rails
can no longer be induced to rise. It is an easy,
restful form of sport, with just enough of sunshine,
of the salt strength of the marshes, and of mild excite-
ment to do a business-worn man a deal of good.
W(0)(0)EQXC(Q>(IK
IN an extensive sporting experience one is certain
to run across many very queer mortals, and perhaps
eventually make friendships with one or more of
those human oddities who come under the head of
" characters." I have met many of them, and do
not regret it, for, while they were very peculiar men,
more than one proved well worth cultivating. The
love of sport may lurk beneath a most unpromising
garb, and we find some men, a la fabled toad, possess a
brilliant redeeming feature beneath a most discourag-
ing exterior, the true value of which must be learned
through intimacy.
I have shot in many places and in varied company,
and perhaps the strangest comrade I ever shared
luck with was a big, bandy-legged negro, who bore
the name of Duckett, or, as he was generally styled,
" Ole Paw Duckett." Beyond saying that he was
well versed in woodcraft, black as a barrel of tar,
and the soul of good nature, I need not describe
174 Sporting Sketches
him further, but will give a day's sport with the
cock in his company, and let the reader guess what
manner of man Duckett was.
One fine Saturday in August the sable lady who
presided over the culinary department of my house
informed me that a " genlum " wished to see me at
the door, and on going out I found my black friend
and another negro awaiting me.
" Mawnin', Marse Ned ; I 'lowed yo'd be hum dis
mawnin'; kin I see yo' er minnit privut ? "
We moved aside a few yards, and Duckett's errand
was soon explained.
" Say, Marse Ned, I done diskivered a lot ob
cocks in de creek, an' we'd best gather 'em in
a-Monday. Dat Jones yondah spishuns sumpfin,
but I'se done gwinter fool um. Kin yo' cum up in
de canoe Sunday night an' bring de ole dawg?
Der's a hull lot of 'em an' we best do de pawlizin' to
'em fust t'ing Monday mawnin'."
" But it's infernally hot."
" Nebber yo' mind 'bout dat. It's jest gwinter up
an' rain ter-morrow, an' it ull be cool nuff fo' a few
hours a-Monday and mebbe fo' all day. Yo' cum
'long anyhow or I nebber tell yo' 'bout no mo'. We
kin hab a nap on de hay in the barn same as we did
dat time las' year. Now, yo' am comin' shuah
nuff?"
" All right, you black seducer, I'll be there some
time Sunday night."
Right well did Duckett know that the promise
would be kept; and he departed with his friend
Jones, the old rascal stuffing the latter with craftily
worded explanations of his business with " Marse
A Day with tbe Woodcock 175
Ned," for Jones was a market hunter in a small way
and of course had to be treated cautiously.
Eight o'clock on Sunday night, after sundry
manoeuvres to escape scrutiny, saw man and pointer
settling themselves in a Peterboro canoe for their
five-mile paddle upon the currentless, waveless river.
The dog deposited himself in the bow, with his keen
nose resting on the 'wale and ever searching the
air for trace of game as they moved noiselessly
along. In the centre of the craft was a beautiful
hammerless, the shells and a canvas shooting coat,
while near the stern knelt the proprietor of the
outfit, slowly plying his paddle.
It was a close, sultry night, with as yet no sign of
rain, in spite of Duckett's prophecy of the previous
day. But it felt like a shower, and as the paddler
paused to relight his pipe, when half the journey
was done, he took a glance at his watch and thought,
" Nine o'clock I'll be an hour late ; but the old boy
was correct about the rain, for unless my judgment
is astray, it will arrive in the shape of a thunder
storm ere this jaunt is done."
But the storm was distant yet, and he was in no hurry
and moved but lazily until the moon climbed above
the dark phalanx of silent trees and flooded the
stream with silvery light. It was a familiar scene.
Right well did he know every foot of that motionless
water gleaming between vague, shadowy banks, and
where the velvety shadows ended and the dim,
uncertain shores began. Had it been darkest night
he could have sent the canoe speeding along and
never touched one of the many snags and sunken
trees that marked the way. Ere long many fish
176 Sporting Sketches
rose, and now and then a heavy one leaped clear of
the water and fell with a sounding splash.
From somewhere among the black walls of giant
sycamores and walnuts a big-horned owl hailed the
voyageurs in gruff, commanding tones the all-
night bass which more than owls acquire " Whoo,
who you two ? " with startling distinctness. The
dog uttered a low growl and Marse Ned chuckled
to himself, " You two " is good. Hailed by one
chicken thief, while trying to keep an engagement
with another. Then he sent back a masterly imita-
tion.
" Whoo, hoo-hoo-hoo, whoo ! " an imitation that
fooled the midnight despoiler of hen roosts so com-
pletely that he challenged again and again. For a
few moments the paddle poised in air while Marse
Ned hesitated whether or not to run ashore and
attempt to shoot the deep-voiced ruffian by moon-
light
" 'Twould be a right charitable job," he muttered,
" to fill you full of lead, you platter-faced scoundrel ! "
But he thought of the light charges in his shells and
swung the paddle again. Every farmer and farmer's
wife along the river were friends of his, and for a
certainty the owl would have never lifted another
fowl had there been any reasonable chance of bagging
him.
Rounding a bend farther up, the dog shifted
uneasily, and Marse Ned could feel the vibration
from his nervous twitching through the light frame
of the canoe.
"What is it, old fellow?" he- whispered. The
answer came like a flash. A sudden, tumultuous
A Day witb the Woodcock 177
splashing in the water, a rapid splattering of wings,
then a succession of low, sweet, whistling cries,
" O-eek-o-eek ! " explained the dog's excitement.
The canoe had glided across a small expanse of lily-
pads and had almost run down a flock of slumbering
wood-duck.
It grew lighter and lighter, until he could discern
small fry swimming close to the canoe. Presently
he detected a slow-moving ripple gradually nearing,
and exclaiming, " Lie down, Don ! " he raised the
paddle and struck a deadly blow at a dark, half-
defined shape passing. The victim proved to be
a ten-pound catfish that had tempted fate while
floundering along on business of its own. " That'll
suit the old man," he muttered as he cast it into the
canoe. Then the paddle was plied faster and the
craft darted along in and out of the shadows like a
winged thing. Soon the objective point was gained,
and a voice from shore asked :
" Dat yo', Marse Ned ? I know it is, fur I see de
dawg."
" All right, old partner, we're both here," and in a
moment the canoe was lifted out and overturned for
the night. " Whar de debbil yo get dat big cat ?
My, he's a fat un de old woman ull jist smile when
she sees um."
" Killed him with the paddle back a bit. Now
get your stuff ready and let them go to sleep inside.
Here, take a nip, and give the old lady the catfish."
" Don't know 'bout dat ; mebbe I best give her de
cat fust an' den take de drink. Dat ar ole cullud lady
cotch on to whiskey pow'f ul smart she jest liable
ter want ter kiss me good-nite if she spishuned me ! "
1 78 Sporting Sketches
And the old rascal bore away the fish, chuckling
immensely at the bare idea.
When he returned they sat and smoked beside
the river for an hour or more, while Duckett ex-
plained how he came to find the woodcock. Finally
they sought the little log barn, and dog and all ere
long were sleeping on the hay.
At daylight they bestirred themselves, and after
stowing away some excellent bread and unlimited
sweet milk were ready for the field. A walk of a
mile and a half brought them to the creek, and a
plan of action was speedily decided on. Where they
were the creek, or practically dry watercourse, was
perhaps thirty yards across, but farther up it broad-
ened in places to five or six times that width, the
enlargements being overgrown with tall willows,
while upon either bank was a dense strip of thicket.
In the spring this creek was a good-sized stream and
a favorite resort for wood-duck, but during the dry
season it dwindled to a succession of water-holes in
a winding stretch of rich, black mud in fact be-
coming what any sportsman would suspect to be
prime cock ground.
Old Duckett carried a cheap " No. 1 2 " breech-
loader, and as he shot in his shirt sleeves and wore
an enormously broad straw hat, his tout ensemble was
not calculated to encourage the idea that he was
much of a sportsman. His cartridges were stuffed
into his pockets and he carried no game bag, but the
old boy had a knack of putting a couple of woodcock
into the crown of his hat on a pinch, and could stow
away a few more inside his capacious shirt front if
needs be. After admiring the handsome little " six-
A Day with tbe Woodcock 179
teen " of his comrade, and making divers pointed
queries in regard to its shooting qualities, he an-
nounced that he was ready for business. Only one
side of the creek offered likely shelter for the birds,
and the keen old man at once volunteered to take it,
saying :
" Yo' g'lang in de open and work de dawg between
us far as dat ole tree [about three hundred yards],
and I'll beat de brush. Den yo' take de brush an'
me de open for de same distance, see ? " The other
saw, and also noticed that the arrangement would
certainly give the other the privilege of being in " de
open " at a very promising stretch, and he gravely
suspected that the dusky worthy made the proposi-
tion with malicious intent ; but he said nothing and
they then started.
The dog worked close in advance, worming his
way hither and thither through the rank grasses and
ferns of the creek's bed and in and out of the cover
upon the bank, until he suddenly halted where a few
spear-like leaves of rushes marked a damper spot.
He made a very pretty picture as he stood curved
almost to a semicircle, his white back and lemon
head sharply defined against the tangle of green, and
his eyes staring intently at a clump of ferns almost
touching him, while his jaws opened and closed with
slow convulsive gasps, as though he would measure
his panting breath lest it should disturb the hidden
game.
As his owner approached there rose a shrill,
quavering whistle thrice repeated, and three birds
fluttered away with an uncertain bat-like flight, the
trio springing close together, and, as frequently hap-
i8o Sporting Sketches
pens, some few yards from the spot indicated by the
dog. One vanished over the wall of saplings, but the
others sped away side by side up the creek. The little
" sixteen " spoke twice in rapid succession, one cock
coming down in the open and the other just as the
leaves were closing behind him in the brush. Any
one hearing the reports might have fancied that the
gun was not properly charged, for they sounded
strangely weak and there was but a suggestion of
smoke. Duckett evidently fancied that something
was wrong, for his voice sounded from the brush.
" What de debbil's wrong wid dat baby gun ? Am
it sufferin' from a cold, or did yo' load yo' own
shells?"
" Wood powder, you old duffer ! " and the owner
of the gun laughed aloud, for he guessed that the
mysterious but valuable explosive was an unknown
quantity to his sable friend.
" Did yo' kill um ? " was the next query, and after
being answered in the affirmative the darky could
be heard crashing his way through the thicket. His
over-keenness made him careless, and he flushed the
third bird and drove it out directly in front of the
weak-voiced gun, and it, too, was secured.
" Golly ! dat's the funniest-soundin' stuff I ebber
did hear. Whar yo' get dat, Marse Ned ? "
" Now, see here, mister, you get right back into
that brush ! A bargain's a bargain and you're not
near the tree yet."
"But I'se jest "
" Never mind now ! You just misfigured a trifle,
that's all, and I stay in the open till the tree is
reached."
A Day with the Woodcock 181
The old man's face was a study and there was a
deal of craftiness in it as he suggested "dat dere
didn't 'pear to be no sine in de brush, an' he 'lowed
de birds must all be in de creek ; " but the other was
inexorable, declaring that the original scheme must
be carried out to the letter.
" But de dawg's a-p'intin' agin."
" No, he's not ; he's got a dead bird there."
" But yo' done got two in yo' han' ! "
" Never you mind; I killed three."
" Yo' killed what ? Now luka hyar, Marse Ned,
I'se done comin' out ob de brush right now. Yo'
can't fool de ole man no moah, gettin' him to tell
yo' 'bout cocks an' den sendin' him to hunt whar
he can't find none ob dem. I'se comin' right down
dar, and de next one dat jumps I'se gwinter cut
loose. Yo' heah me ! " and down he came forth-
with.
Moving on again, the dog soon located another
and Duckett claimed the shot, and when the bird
flushed he covered it and doubled it up dead as a
stone just before it reached over. To say he was
triumphant but faintly expressed his feelings; he
rose to the sublime, and only returned to his normal
condition when his proposal that he " orter hab de
next two chances to even up " was firmly vetoed.
" What, you old reprobate ! Do you think you
can come that on me ? Perhaps we'd better hunt
every man for himself and the quickest get there ! "
But Duckett knew better than that ; he had tried
it once before and had a wholesome dread of the
snap shooting that would follow, for Marse Ned was
" pow'ful sudden " when he chose to hurry.
1 82 Sporting Sketches
" No, we'se jist gwine to shoot right along, an'
yo' ain't gwine to be hard on de ole man, seein' dat
he tole yo' de birds was hyar ? "
So they proceeded, and by the time they had
reached the first enlargement of the creek they had
seven between them, the darky bagging a couple
and missing as many more. Before beating what
looked a very likely bit, they turned aside to visit a
little log-cabin at the door of which sat an ancient
colored crone.
" Got any fresh water, Aunty ? "
" Howdy, sah ? Yas, I'll fotch sum. Good-day,
Paw Duckett; yo'se a-huntin' again, eh? 'Spec's
mebbe yo'se arter squrls ? "
" No'm, me an' Marse Ned is a-huntin' woodcocks ;
hab yo' seen any roun' dis mawnin' ? "
" Woodcocks ? Why, dey am num'rous ; dey am
a-rappin' on de tellygraff poles an' de fences all
day long ; didn't know dey was wuff a-huntin'," and
the old lady picked herself up and went for the de-
sired water, while Duckett surmised "dat de ole
gal was pow'ful iggerant an' didn't know woodcocks
from woodpeckers."
Returning again to the swale they found the
cover very dense in places and agreed to separate
in order to lessen the work for the dog, he being
tired with his exertions in the tangled grass.
" Now mind, Marse Ned, no climbin' up on
stumps an' overreachin' de ole man like I'se knowed
yo' to do. Just work right froo all as it comes an'
I'll do de same, an' we'll meet at de far end."
Birds were fairly numerous, and though quite a
number were missed or got away without giving
A Day with tbe Woodcock 183
a chance, still the " sixteen " was kept pretty busy,
and every now and then the louder report of Duck-
ett's piece told that he was getting sport. " Marse
Ned," however, noticed that several reports came
from about the same spot, and working over in that
direction he found, as he had suspected, that the
old rascal was in an opening and waiting for birds
to be driven to him.
" Ho, ho ! Duckett, no climbing up on stumps
and fooling the old man, eh? You sinner, why
don't you hunt through it ? "
" Gimme time, Marse Ned, gimme time ; yo'se bin
a-drivin' 'em over hyar so fast dat I done had no
chance to move 'long. De ole man ain't so spry as
yo' be, shuah nuff."
" Spry be hanged ! You're spry enough to know
how to play tricks. Get into that brush and to
work, or I'll fill you full of shot. Hustle now, or
look out for yourself if I beat you to the other end."
Duckett, sorely against his will, moved ahead
through the cover, and no sooner was he well
started than Marse Ned mounted a huge stump
and stood ready. Several birds flushed within easy
range and from his commanding elevation he had
no trouble in bowling them over, leaving the task
of securing them to the dog, who performed his
duties in a faultless manner. After a few shots an
anxious voice exclaimed : " Say, Marse Ned, am yo'
a-comin'? Tears to me like yo' am sorter hangin'
back dar."
Just then there was a musical twitter of wings,
and a big bird showed above the thicket and darted
for the woods, passing some forty yards from the
184 Sporting Sketches
stump. The first shot missed, but the second
doubled the woodcock up like a rag and sent it roll-
ing down amid a cloud of feathers. Some distance
off in a little gap in the foliage appeared a broad,
black, and very anxious face, and the owner of it at
once spotted the man on the stump.
" Hyar, Marse Ned ! Too bad ob yo' to be
playin' roots on me like dat. I knowed yo' was up to
some debiltry. Yo' cum down offen dar; I ain't
a-playin' dawg fo' yo'. But did yo' get um ? "
" All right, I got him," and he descended from
his perch and aided the dog to find the bird ; and
after it was secured the two worked on until the end
was reached, getting a couple of cock on the way.
At the extreme end of the swale was a small clump
of willows, and they decided to finish with it, as it
was now growing excessively warm and the pointer
was dead beat ; besides, Duckett's prophesied storm
was apparently not far distant. The dog drew cau-
tiously through the grass, but no sooner had he
neared the willows than a cock flushed, then an-
other, and another, evidently birds that had been
driven there within a short time. One made back
for the swale and Marse Ned stopped it, the others
flew out in the open and now was Duckett's chance.
Ere he could pull upon either Marse Ned's second
barrel was fired, but the cock flew bravely on for
a few yards, then came down in response to the
darky's shot.
" Good on your head ; you've wiped my eye ! "
But Duckett was squinting along the rib after cock
number three, now a good sixty yards off. " Shoot,
man, sh " The trigger was at last pulled, and to
A Day with the Woodcock 185
Marse Ned's intense amazement the cock came
down with a broken wing.
" Yah ! yah ! de ole man done got yo'. Fotch
um, good dawg ! How 'bout dat sneak powder an'
snap shootin' now ? He ! he ! doant yo' nebber talk
'bout shootin' no mo'. I'se done gwinter tell all ob
dem 'bout dese doin's, heah me ! Oh ! Lordy, Lordy,
it am better'n catchin' five coons to go an' do up
Marse Ned like dis yar. My ! I wouldn't hab miss'
dat cock fur a hull farm. Marse Ned, yo' am fluster-
cated, yo' ain't no good nohow. Yo' shute an' miss
an' I bring dem down. Yo'se in de hole pull de
hole in arter yo' an' die ! " and the delighted fellow
laughed till he could hardly stand, in which he was
heartily joined by his friend. Then they sat down
in the shade to examine the bag.
Seventeen cock were arranged side by side,
Duckett contributing seven birds, including a brace
from his hat and a trio from inside his shirt. Marse
Ned held a big hen in his hand, and pondered on
what a grand one it might have been two months
later. Right well he knew the difference between
murdering cock in the warm season and stopping
them when they are strong and swift and wild after
the first frosts. He had shot many of them early
and late, and experience had taught him that such
sport as they had enjoyed that day was not cock
shooting as it should be. There was a certain
amount of fun in it, 'tis true, but it called for only
moderate skill ; and besides, there was the stout-
hearted pointer utterly used up in a few hours' time,
and fit only to lie in the shade and gasp for air.
Later on that same dog would see the sun rise and
1 86 Sporting Sketches
set and still be working merrily, and the cock would
dart swift and free among the leafless maples, to be
stopped but by a master hand. He had enjoyed him-
self fairly well, but he had seen something that sad-
dened him. Through the very centre of the cover
was a row of stakes driven into the soil that had fed
cock for years.
" Is that the railway line, Duckett ? "
" Yaas, de surveyors were froo hyar 'bout free
mumfs back."
" Umph ! Old boy, we got 'em to-day ; but next
season fellows will be jumping off the trains and
hunting our grounds to death. There'll be a guide-
book saying quail, cock, and grouse are plentiful in
this vicinity, and twenty guns will be roaring in our
choicest covers. But let's dig out, for yonder comes
your storm."
A short distance away they met a negro with a
gun. Quoth Duckett:
" Dar you be, hey ? But yo' done cum too late.
Dat ar Jones is allus a-sneakin' on me. I tole yo'
dat he spishuned sumpfm."
IBOJIE.
There are those who take their pleasure climbing hills they
never scale,
Or in snubbing short some bucking, sweating colt ;
There are others who think Heaven's but a rope's length from
the tail
Of a long-horned brindled steer in mad revolt.
Others clinch with mountain lions as sure antidote for care,
While others trail the moose and caribou,
And now and then one tackles half a ton of grizzly bear
And enjoys the maddest dance he ever knew.
Let them have their little pleasures with such hairy, scary toys
For mine the whitecaps and the snorting breeze,
A heeling cat-boat handled by two husky sailor boys
And the troll-line straining through the choppy seas !
IN bluefishing, one of the hardest things to catch
is the boat that is, the proper boat. I have
caught most every sort of boat, or rather quite a lot
of them have caught me ; but we must live and
learn. The wrong boat is undesirable in many
ways, chiefly because it is apt to contain the wrong
skipper, and, if crew there be, the wrong crew. On
the principle, I suppose, that two or more wrongs
never made a right, the man who unfortunately
engages the wrong outfit is mighty apt to find his
pleasure seriously hampered by limits. It is there-
fore well to inspect the craft and size up her owner
in advance if possible, for of those who go down to
187
1 88 Sporting Sketches
the sea in ships, especially cheesy-planked, paint-
tinkered ships, quite a few are foggy in their con-
ceptions of what constitutes a square deal land
measure. For, be it known, there are a few, merci-
fully only a few, skippers of crafts for hire, who
appear to labor under the delusion that a man from
New York is a sort of little brother to a distillery
and naturally a man of proper spirit. While un-
doubtedly a good deal of the true spirit of sport has
been transferred to paper and canvas, it has never
been put up in glass, hence the wise man will keep
that section of the stores solely for emergency.
But there are A. B. skippers and stanch craft,
though but few of the rating of Captain H. and his
beloved Osprey. Long, lean, and weather-checked
as a stick from some old pirate, Cap might pose for
a study of the Ancient Mariner himself. The
Osprey, too, is an ancient. Only the boys of the
Old Brigade can recall when she was the crack of
her class in fact, a racing single-sticker of more
than ordinary merit. She has one modern improve-
ment which must almost break her heart, but which
is exceedingly useful during windless, midsummer
days. It is a gasoline engine which Cap introduced
for the purpose, as he invariably explains, of " kickin'
her along home so's the city fellers kin be sure of
ketchin' their train."
The Osprey has a crew, too, a taciturn, weather-
beaten, bow-legged crew, with a breast huge and
hairy as a cow's paunch and arms, ye gods !
such arms ! Silent, no-necked, barrel-like, when he
wanted to go anywhere he never" attempted to use
his amazingly short, parenthetical legs. Instead, he
Bluefisb and Blue Waters 189
merely reached with either hand, then the whole of
him followed the hand with an easy swing star-
tlingly suggestive of tropical tree-tops. Cap noticed
my close watch upon the movements of that crew,
and presently said : " He's a wonder. Never nothin'
to say jest slides round as easy as grease. But
he comes by it honest. His dad was skipper of a
merchantman in the African trade, an' his ma'am
was as good a sailor as the old man. I've heard her
tell of mighty queer places where she's been, full of
niggers an' gorrills an' the like o' that."
" A-a-ah ! " was my sole comment, for at the mo-
ment that crew was swinging for'ard, using his
arms as a cripple uses crutches.
At this season, the bluefish (Pomatomus saltatrix)
is given to prowling along the coast, probably as far
north as the Canadian boundary. The range of the
fish appears to mainly depend upon the temperature
of the water as well as upon the movements of the
great schools of lesser fish upon which the bluefish
preys. According to scientists, it is found in the
Mediterranean, near Australia, the Cape of Good
Hope, and other remote points. It is known by
several names, such as " horse-mackerel," " blue
snapper," and "skip-jack." In New York waters,
the young bluefish are commonly termed " snap-
pers"; and right well do they deserve the name.
From mere babyhood to a, perhaps, twenty-pound
" tide-runner," the bluefish is a remorseless destroyer
of the menhaden, mullet, squid, and presumably of
other fish of suitable size, which term, in bluefish
estimation, is apt to mean anything which can be
snapped in half, or bolted whole.
190 Sporting Sketches
Powerful, carnivorous, seemingly insatiable, a
school of mature bluefish is worse than a pack of
wolves so far as wanton destructiveness is con-
cerned. The wolf will slaughter, gorge, and sleep
till again hungry, but the fish seems to slay for the
mere lust of slaughter. Close observers have
claimed that a blue bravo will cram himself to the
jaws with food, then eject it all and resume the
slaughtering and stuffing and repeat again and
again. While not disputing it, there may be an
explanation of such outrageous voracity in the fact
that the fierce grip of blue jaws is apt to cut a soft
victim in two and the floating section to be mis-
taken for a part first swallowed, then ejected, by the
destroyer.
Murderous and senseless as such an attack seems
at first glance, it may be, most likely it is, one of
Nature's wise provisions for the welfare of her feebler
folk. The wasteful, snapping blues may leave their
long trail littered with unsavory mess, may drive
the terrified mossbunkers in crowds upon the deadly
sand, but who follow ? The keen-eyed gull and
wheeling tern can read " sign " from afar. They
know the veering ripple which marks the flight of
the jammed mossbunkers and why silvery forms
shoot above the surface, or strand upon the beach.
They know the blue terror merely as a lovable,
philanthropic gentleman, who, in the great goodness
of his heart, fares forth for sport where they may
see and kindly leaves them fair share of his quarry.
In such cases, a lot may depend upon the point of
view possibly even upon the point of view of the
miserable mossbunker. Yet who is a greasy moss-
Bluefisb and Blue Waters 191
bunker, anyhow, that he should dare to question the
right of my lords of the sea and the shore ? And
then there are the slow, stiff-jointed things forever
crawling the sea-bottom. A heap of mossbunker
must eventually fall their way, and it saddens the
heart to think how they might never even get a
smell of mossbunker and the smell of some stages
of mossbunker is something like a smell ! were it
not for the charitable bluefish and his somewhat
reckless method of distributing things.
The secret of Dame Nature's perfect success as
landlady of the Hotel Earth lies in the fact that she
never wastes anything. If there were the slightest
of wasteful methods, eventually there would be a
shortage, which there is not. There may be an
apparent shortage, an actual scarcity of one or many
forms of life, but that does not necessarily mean a
real decrease in the amount of life in the world. A
dead bluefish certainly means a gap in the ranks of
the blue host, but by no means a similar gap in the
marvellous plan of Nature. The bent-wing tern, the
crab sidling drunkenwise, or one or more of a host
of small creatures, may be that defunct bluefish done
up in another style of package. Our Puritan pro-
genitors were promiscuously planted upon certain
headlands of our older East. That those same head-
lands are none too fertile to-day is, perhaps, but natu-
ral, for the sainted forebears, according to reports,
were kind of lean and lacking in warmth and rich-
ness. Anyhow, be it meat, or meal, no truly scien-
tific mind ever would tolerate the idea that Standish
& Co. ever really ceased to do business at the old
stand. Unseen, unsuspected, they are to-day, as it
192 Sporting Sketches
were, in our midst, but well, at all events there is
no waste, which was the original contention.
The most common methods of taking the blue-
fish are trolling, or squidding, with long lines from
a sailboat, and, from the beach, with a stout hand-
line. Not a few keen anglers use a heavy rod with
fair success, but this is not the typical method. The
tackle needs must be strong, and, owing to the cut-
ting power of the blues' jaws, hooks are attached to
wire, or the stoutest of gimp. Even then it is not
uncommon for the tackle to be cut, either by a
hooked fish happening to get the cord between its
jaws, or by the bait being forced up the line and
inducing a second fish to snap at it. The usual
baits for trolling are an eelskin, or a bit of rag, but
a bluefish will strike almost anything of proper size
that keeps briskly moving. For work with the rod,
the most reliable baits are lobster-tail, shedder-crab,
chopped mossbunker, or other bait-fish.
The fishing from the beach is the genuine heave-
and-haul the old-fashioned handline of boyhood
days glorified. The heavy squid plays the part of
sinker, and the way it will carry out a, perhaps,
hundred-yard line from a skilled hand is a wonder
to behold. And by that same token, the gay and
reckless manner in which it can act up when manipu-
lated by a novice is still more wonderful. Three
important things govern the use of this tackle i.e.
the squid must go far enough to straighten, maybe,
one hundred yards of cord ; the line must run out
freely and smoothly, and the hand-over-hand recovery
must start so soon as the squid has touched the
water, and be maintained at an even, rapid rate
Bluefisb and Blue Waters 193
until there is a strike, or the squid has passed within
the limit of good water. The prowling blues feed
outside the surf, hence the squid should strike the
water well beyond that point.
The amateur squidder frequently makes fast the
home end of the line about his waist, or to some bit
of wreckage, or other convenient hold, and neatly
coils the line upon the ^sand. Experts term this
" lubberly," and hold the coils in one hand, a thing
which no novice should attempt. For the heave, a
right-handed expert holds the line in that hand at a
point his preferred distance above the squid, which
is started slowly swinging around his head. When
nicely going, the speed is increased till the whirling
tackle fairly whistles ; then, at precisely the right
instant, the final heave is given. The squid hums
seaward like an arrow, the line hisses after, and
when everything is as it should be, the squid
plunges into the water ahead of an almost straight
line. Expert heaving is a beautiful thing to watch,
but the ambitious novice will do well to practise a
bit before posing in front of a seashore crowd.
I once saw a blooming, blond Briton in a blatant
bathing-suit hook himself about the only place
where a big hook could enjoy a fair chance, where-
upon the plaudits of a mixed audience rendered a
swift retreat, a surgeon, a file, and a few other things
stern necessities.
A squidder should wear stout gloves, but many
enthusiasts gamely tackle the job bare-handed and
learn about the scarifying power of sharp sand and
a straining cord. To pull a fighting blue through
the surf is no easy task. Quite frequently the
194 Sporting Sketches
squidder, upon feeling a strike, swiftly turns about,
slips the line over a shoulder, and runs up the beach
till the fish is dragged ashore. For this vigorous
sport, the best costume is an old bathing-suit, and,
because my feet have suffered from bits of shell
and other odds and ends, I believe in old yachting,
tennis, or lacrosse shoes. This hint is given solely
for the benefit of those who may desire to don fash-
ionable foot-gear when the fishing is over.
And now the trolling, which is by far the most
popular form of bluefishing and which each sum-
mer gladdens or disappoints thousands who turn
for holiday pleasure to the Big Salt-Bath. Once
aboard your cat-boat and well off-shore, the all-im-
portant thing is to locate fish. Let it be under-
stood that the strong, moderately long trolling
tackle is supplied with the boat, and we will return
to the Osprey, which is lying in the channel await-
ing her patrons.
Over the heaving blue a cloud of snowy terns was
wheeling and dropping, and it was easy to guess
what massacre of innocents had baited the graceful
air-rovers.
" Look lively ! " roared Cap, pointing at the water
where flecks of white suspiciously like fragments of
fish were speeding past. My line seemed to be
quivering with anticipation, yet we slid on and on
with nothing more startling than the continuous
drag of the tackle.
"We've overrun 'em. Yonder they be an
'bout we go ! " warmed Cap, and the Osprey wheeled
and went driving toward the guidi-ng terns.
"You sea-jackals you fiends upon angel-wings"
195
I muttered at the fowl " would you betray "
but the thought snapped like an o'erstrained wire,
for lo ! what felt like the behemoth of old was jerk-
ing at my tackle. The Anthropoid fell forward upon
his hands, his shoulders level with his ears, his
eyebrows twitching up and down in joyous antici-
pation, while I snatched at the apparently hot cord
and kept a big blue coming so fast that he only
touched water at intervals. Over the side he came
bleeding like a pig, and in a moment the hook was
freed and overboard. The fish was not nearly so
large as his pulling power had suggested, but there
were more to follow. Leaving the captive to the
tender paws of the Anthropoid, I braced for the
second round, which was not long delayed. An-
other fish, and another and another, speedily followed.
So far as I could see they were exactly alike in size,
gameness, and strength. Within a couple of hours
we had killed about a dozen fish ; then the terns
disappeared, and for some time the troll dragged
vainly. Cap was idly humming to himself, when
the Anthropoid grunted and pointed shoreward.
I could see no terns nor anything except water, but
the Osprey came about and Cap explained "He
seen somethin' jump we'll jest try it."
How the Anthropoid had conveyed his knowledge
concerning whatever had jumped, was a mystery to
me. Certainly he had not spoken, but for all that it
was his privilege to convey facts according to his
lights. That he had seen something was presently
proved by a tremendous jerk at the tackle. In an
instant I had all I could attend to, for that fish
fought like a salmon. Watchful Cap threw the
196 Sporting Sketches
Osprey into the wind, otherwise the tackle might
have suffered. As it was, there followed quite a
fight, which ended with the coming aboard of a
grand blue, which felt like a ten-pounder and which,
upon unprejudiced scales, actually did weigh a
trifle over eight pounds. He gave me quite a start,
too, by viciously snapping at my fingers. There
was no mistake about it the beggar tried to bite
so I gave him a course in marline-spike seamanship
by swatting him over the head with that useful and
singularly effective implement.
Then the breeze failed, and while the little engine
was slowly " kickin' " the Osprey homeward, I fell
asleep forward and dreamed of brutal blues that bit
and of a crew that swung itself hither and yon with
surpassing ease. When finally that crew sat before
me, and after twitching its eyebrows up and
down, scratching with swift upward strokes at its
ribs, and showing some amazing teeth it calmly
produced a cocoanut from one armpit and a banana
from the other, I woke up. And there, right
beside me, was that crew, monkeying with the jib-
sheet, or some old thing, for the Osprey was very
near her nest.
FOR months we had slowly staged westward.
From the trout waters of Superior's grand north
shore, through the moose ranges of eastern Mani-
toba, across the vast expanses of game-haunted plains
to the Rockies, and thence westward ever through
Nature's picture-gallery, where peak, cliff, and canon
combine in so many hundred miles of magnificence.
And at last, at the turning-point, we two stood
beside the sheeny flood of Burrard Inlet, awaiting
the sun's appearance above distant sea-mists. Slowly,
like white-canvased ships, the snowy shapes of fog
slipped their intangible cables and drifted seaward,
until the last had vanished and we saw all the
dreamy beauty of the coast.
Behind us spread the sudden straggling growth of
lusty young Vancouver, yet showing traces of that
conflagration which virtually wiped out the original
town. Below our feet were the spidery webs of
timbers supporting long irregular piers, among
which flitted solemn crows, strangely tame to one
familiar with the wary eastern species, and ever
poking and prying among the ooze for what the
197
198 Sporting Sketches
tide had left. In front, a big, black coal hulk sul-
lenly tugged at her cables, and beyond spread a
noble expanse of shining water, a magnificent,
almost landlocked harbor.
Away across on the farther shore, a white mass
flashed the Indian Mission and rude cottages of
that strange, west-shore remnant of a people who
claim not kindred with the dethroned bronze rulers
of the great plains. Above the Mission, and as far
as eye could range, towered a stately cordon of
softly rounded, densely forested mountains, mighty
masses of softening greens, grays, browns, and mist-
ing purples, their crests supporting the flawless blue,
their velvet shadows stretching far down into the
flood. These steeps are the seaward battlements of
those Titanic rockworks piled in such magnificent
disorder within the confines of British Columbia.
To the south the panorama of peaks dwindled
and softened in grand distances to where that snow-
helmed giant, Baker, gleams above the good state
of Washington. To the north were " The Lions,"
couched in everlasting stone above forests of stately
conifers ; and beyond them purple peak after peak
stern interrogation-points, solemnly questioning
the sky. Below, and much nearer, lay the rippling
Narrows, the harbor entrance, above which towered
the grimly hewn face of precipitous Brockton Point.
This point is one of the features of one of the
loveliest reservations imaginable, Stanley Park,
Vancouver's special pride. Under a tangle of foliage
strangely suggestive of the tropics extend nine
miles of smooth shell road, the very thing for long
tramps. The enormous growth of the conifers,
A Vancouver Salmon 199
ferns, and mosses is proof abundant of a kindly
clime. Huge cedars suggest the famed big trees of
California ; gigantic firs, straight as lances, taper to
green points near one hundred yards overhead, while
everywhere in the deep shade rise fern fronds higher
than a tall man's head to meet the ever present pen-
dent beards of gray moss. Across the white roads
ruffed grouse mince out of the pedestrian's way,
clucking softly as they go with many halts and in-
nocent glances. Firearms are not allowed within
the park, and the birds know that safe cover is but
one short leap away. And such cover ! Crowding,
graceful ferns, so tall that a ruffed grouse flushing
near one's foot can buzz away unseen.
From the crest of the cliff of Brockton Point, the
rough-hewn descent is so nearly vertical as to pre-
sent an apparent overhang, and it measures more
feet than a man could fall and live, even though he
struck nothing firmer than deep salt water. Upon
the green, moist boulders at the base at that time
rested a most interesting wreck, the little Beaver.
To that humble craft belonged the honor of being
the first steam vessel to plough Pacific billows. She
sailed round the Horn in 1836, carrying her boiler
and engine as ballast, the intention being to fit her
up at Vancouver Island. Her commander was a
sturdy Scot, and for reasons best known to himself
he put in at the Sandwich Islands. The then pre-
vailing monarch was a gentleman endowed with an
unlimited cargo capacity, a late tropical evening
complexion, and a curiosity like a well-auger. He
heard of the peculiarities of the Beaver s works, and
straightway craved to see the wheels go round. He
200 Sporting Sketches
ordered the captain to make those wheels go, or
explain why. The hardy salt parleyed long enough
to rig up a brass bow-gun and fill it full of small
bolts and other odds and ends. Then he explained
that he would blow the ham out of the Sandwiches
if any trouble was desired.
So the Beaver safely swam away to her northern
lodge to toil for the Hudson Bay Company, and her
snorting and blowing struck terror to the soul of
many an Indian from Astoria to Chilkat. Lieuten-
ant Fender used her while making surveys and
soundings of coast and waters. In 1889 the little
craft was cast upon the rocks under Brockton Point,
and there the poor bones lay gathering mosses and
seaweeds for funeral shroud till 1892. It was queer
to watch great modern steam craft sweep past the
Pacific's first power boat. Since the day I swam
alongside in an attempt to get a peep at her interior,
I've always had a tender regard for the Beaver, and
it was something like a shock to read in '92 that
the drowned one was to be haled to that all-grasping
World's Columbian Exposition. But the Beaver
had not forgotten the craft of her furry folk, so, pre-
sumably after she had heard of the intended moving,
she waited for a great big roller and just dived !
Before we had completed our observations a small
boy ranged alongside, and remarked, " Note for you,
sir." A new-made friend had read me aright, for
the note ran : " Gla-hi-you-tillicum ! I've got a bran-
new canoe that's never been used. If you care to
christen her for me, she's at your service. Orders
at boat-house."
" A Peterboro away out here ! " was my first
A Vancouver Salmon 201
thought. I had not knelt in one for a long year.
I said to my comrade :
" W , old boy, we ought to have a paddle to-
gether; it'll be prime poking about under those
cliffs. What say you ? "
W , good, kind, big-hearted W , was game for
anything and at once agreed. As we were turning
toward the boat-house, a tan-colored Siwash sped
past in one of their queer canoes. W said the
man was going fishing.
" Going what ? "
" Going trolling ; they catch any quantity of
salmon in the Narrows when the tide is right."
" The mischief they do ! Why didn't you say so
before ? "
" Thought you were a fly-fisher and wouldn't be
interested. These salmon won't take a fly; they
catch 'em with big spoon-hooks."
" W , I'm going to catch a salmon. Why, I
haven't caught a fish for a whole week not
since the mountain trout at Harrison Springs."
He was willing, so we hurried to the hotel and
borrowed a heavy line, to which was bent a plain
spoon, like a table-spoon, with a big hook soldered
to it. Armed with this doubtful-looking outfit, we
launched the canoe. She was a beauty, the paddles
were just right, and it was a treat to kneel upon a
handsome cushion in a spotless, richly carpeted craft,
and send her flying over that sleepy water. As we
neared the Narrows, other Siwashes in other queer-
looking canoes began trolling, meanwhile grinning
like wolves at our craft and evidently seeing some-
thing very funny about us. Presently one of them
202 Sporting Sketches
unceremoniously hauled in a fine fish, and W
remarked :
" Best put out the troll ; I'll paddle, but we'll never
catch one. I never catch anything except colds and
things like that ; nobody ever catches things when
I'm around. I'm a regular Jonah."
" All right, old boy ; we'll presently catch a whale,"
and out went the troll.
Now W was an old hand at the paddle, and he
sent us along at just the proper speed. Within easy
distance were half-a-dozen Siwash craft, and still
their dusky owners grinned. Every now and then
one of them would lift a kicking salmon, while with
us it seemed as though my comrade's Jonah influence
was no myth.
After an hour of back-and-forth work and con-
tinuous grinning by our dusky associates, we almost
lost hope and edged over toward the Park. A point
of rocky beach offered a safe place for the canoe,
and I had begun to haul in line when there came an
unusual drag. It was not a strike, but just a slow
dragging weight as though the hook had fouled a
mass of weed. I had struck from force of habit, and
kept hauling in, little thinking of a possible fish. A
slow, heavy pull warned me that whatever was on the
hook possessed some life. Nearer and nearer it drew,
and we became interested, wondering what strange,
lazy victim was ours.
Next we saw a goodly fish of a bluish silver cast.
It looked like a five-pounder, and, seemingly, it
possessed the life and vigor of a five-pound can of
white lead. Docile as a dog, it suffered itself to be
drawn within a foot of the canoe', then poised a
A Vancouver Salmon 203
couple ofr inches below the surface to allow us to
examine it at our leisure. Its jaws were quite arched
and pointed, not unlike the beak of an eagle. Quoth
W , " That's a salmon and a good one ; pull him
in!"
I looked a moment longer and noticed that the
fish was hooked foul, for the barb had pierced the
side of its head, and it could not break away unless
spoon or cord gave out. It had come in so easily
and lay there so placidly that I despised it, and care-
lessly raised the head above water, and said :
" Well, if this is a sample of your salmon-trolling,
I don't wonder you hesitated to talk about it. Why,
that big duffer is the worst cur ever I saw ; he hasn't
got enough sand in him to make a splash, let
alone "
Something had happened! For an instant I
could not realize what it was. I knew I had raised
the fish's head above water, and that the jaws had
snapped once or twice. It must have understood
and taken affront at my remark about its inability
to splash. A quart of salt water struck me in the
face, and still the fish splashed, and splashed, and
splashed, sending showers all over us, flirting water
with sudden sweeps of its powerful tail, as a bathing
boy splashes with a hand.
W , daintily garbed W , got mad. He roared
and waxed abusive and tried to secure a paddle with
which to slay the thing. I offered it slack, but it
would have none, but merely wallowed about, splash-
ing unceasingly. I strove to twist it aboard, but got
deluged, and so did the cushions and the carpet,
also W 's natty suit. Then I got mad, hauled
204 Sporting Sketches
it close, got another pint of water, seized the head
and strove to hold it still. Never had I tackled so
strong a fish. It felt like a form of wet leather
crammed with powerful springs all working inde-
pendently, and I guessed how salmon are able to
leap high falls and stem raving currents. It seemed
the grip surely would squeeze the head from the
body, but still the tail threshed and the spray flew.
At last I raised the fish, whereupon it gave a
sudden unholdable wriggle, rapped my nose with
its tail, then fell upon our carpet and began throw-
ing handsprings in all directions. It flopped under
W and beat upon his lower attire, every blow
leaving a welt of reddish slime. Then it rapped
three hard knocks with the wonderful caudal, de-
livered all the blood it had left upon our carpet, and
died!
We stared in amazement for a moment, then W
opened and his speech was carelessly chosen.
" Steady, old boy, these canoes are cranky. Let's
get on good solid rock and then air our views."
Such a washing, and scraping, and fussing as
there was, before our late dainty craft and ourselves
again were presentable. Only the scenery and a
smoke smoothed our ruffled feelings. It was not
until we had shoved off for the pleasant homeward
way, and had cast burning glances at the dead thing,
that W ventured to ask :
" Well, how do you like our salmon ? "
" Canned ! And the next time a bombshell full
of beef blood fouls my troll, I'll cut the tackle !
See?"
(CMAPTEIR X
OF the great order Anseres the family Anatida
contains a couple of hundred species which have
been grouped in five sub-families, viz. : the swans
(Cygnince] ; the geese (Anserine) ; the sea-ducks
(Fuligulinez) ; the river-ducks (Anatina] ; and the
fish-eating ducks (MergimK\ Among the river-
ducks are found valuable and beautiful species,
yet none more daintily arrayed than the wood or
summer duck (Aix sponsa).
From Asiatic waters has come a small web-footed
fop whose garb suggests a blending of Chinese and
Japanese sartorial art. He is no mean rival of the
wood-duck, and the same might be said of the rare
and lovely Harlequin ; yet if perfect specimens of the
males of all three species lay side by side, in most
eyes the wood-duck surely would find the most
favor.
As is the case with so many other species, the
male wood-duck sports all the finery in his family.
By this is not meant that his trim small spouse is a
bit of a dowdy, for that would be far from the truth.
She is as dainty and tidy a wee madam as one could
desire to see, but she is wise withal, and the
Quakerish simplicity of her dress might well be
205
206 Sporting Sketches
imitated by some other ducks but um I
digress.
The notable peculiarities of the wood-duck in-
clude the rare beauty of the plumage of the male ;
the habit of alighting in trees ; the nesting in hollow
and not seldom lofty trunks, sometimes at a con-
siderable distance from water, and the not infrequent
carrying of the young from the nest to the nearest
water. The adult plumage is as follows :
Male. Top of head and sweeping crest, golden
green ; sides of head, rich with purple iridescence ;
bill, short, reddish ; irides, orange-red ; from bill to
end of crest extends a narrow, pure white line which
passes above the eye, and from behind the eye to
the end of the crest is a second white line, the two
in sharp contrast with the lustrous surroundings and
producing a striking effect ; cheeks and sides of the
upper neck, violet; chin, throat, and collar around
the neck, pure white, curving up in crescent form
nearly to the posterior part of the eye. The white
collar is bounded below with black; breast, dark
violet-brown, marked on the forepart with minute
triangles of white, the spots increasing in size until
they spread into the white of the belly ; each side of
the breast is bounded by a large crescent of white,
and that again by a broader one of rich black ; sides,
under the wings, thickly and beautifully marked
with fine, undulating parallel lines of black, on a
ground of yellowish drab; flanks, ornamented with
broad, alternate semicircular bands of black and
white ; sides of vent, rich light violet ; tail coverts,
long, hair-like at the sides, black gMssed with green ;
back, dusky bronze, reflecting green; scapulars,
Wood-Duck and Wood-Duck Shooting 207
black ; tail, dark glossy green above ; below, dusky ;
primaries, dusky, silvery without, tipped with violet
blue ; secondaries, greenish blue, tipped with white ;
wing coverts, violet-blue, tipped with black; legs
and feet, yellowish. Total length, 18-20 inches.
Female. Head, slightly crested ; crown, dark
purple ; behind eye, a bar of white ; chin and throat,
white; head and neck, dark drab; breast, dusky
brown, marked with large triangular spots of white ;
back, dark glossy bronze brown, with some gold and
greenish reflection ; speculum, greenish, like the
male ; the fine pencillings of the sides and the hair-
like tail coverts are wanting ; the tail also is shorter.
While it is extremely difficult to give anything
like an accurate pen picture of a fowl which glitters
with metallic lustre that changes from bronze to
purple and golden green with every play of light,
enough has been said to bear out the statement that
the wood-duck is exceedingly beautiful. As it may
easily be tamed, it is not at all unlikely that within a
few years it will be an attractive pet upon many
private waters, where certainly it is well worthy of a
place. It is a summer resident, its range being
North America, and it winters in the Southern
states. It usually comes North early in April and
at once seeks ponds, creeks, and small rivers bor-
dered with more or less standing timber which
offers in hollow trunks, or large limbs, the favorite
sites for the nests. The note of this duck is a softly
sweet, rather long-drawn " Peet peet? the alarm
note a musical " Oe-eek-oe-eek f "
When a pair of wood-ducks find water and a
hollow tree to suit, little time is lost in preparing the
208 Sporting Sketches
nest. This task and the covering of the eggs are
performed by the female, for to the best of my
knowledge the male does little more than sit around
on handy limbs and look pretty. During the period
of nest building, and while the duck is laying, he is
the beau ideal of a handsome and loving cavalier,
ever attentive and seemingly most anxious as to her
whereabouts should she happen to get out of his
sight. But with the waning of the honeymoon he
seems to feel rather bored with the whole business,
and gradually he gets clubby i.e. wanders from his
own fireside and hunts up another drake or two to
help him loaf away the summer. The busy little
duck keeps her own counsel and " sits tight'" on the
dozen or more highly polished ivory-like eggs
crowded together in a bed of soft decayed wood and
down from her breast.
Quite frequently the nest is at the bottom of a
hollow several feet deep, and no doubt the strong,
hooked claws of the wood-duck are a special provi-
sion for the oft repeated climbing out of the hollow.
The newly hatched young are extraordinarily active,
and so soon as they are dry and ready for their first
peep at the outside world, either the mother carries
them in her bill to the ground, or they scramble
to the front door and reach the earth as best they
may. I have kept close watch on a number of nests,
and by the aid of an excellent glass have observed
many details of the interesting ceremonies of Evac-
uation Day in Woodduckville. One nest in par-
ticular was in a huge hollow willow which had a
decided cant to nor'ard and whidh stood perhaps
twenty yards from the stream and leaned from, not
Wood- Duck and Wood- Duck Shooting 209
toward, the water, thus reversing the usual habit of
such trees. In this tree were hatched eleven young ;
and their first flitting was as follows, as notes then
taken show :
The drake was conspicuous by his absence, for he
was neither in the tree, in any near-by tree, nor on
the visible half-mile of stream. An observation late
the previous afternoon had proved the existence of
one newly hatched duckling, which lay with the
eggs about a foot below the entrance. Owing to
the peculiar cant of the tree, it was possible to see
the eggs and learn what was going on without any
feeling for information, which is a dangerous experi-
ment with the eggs of most birds.
Bright and early, therefore, the following morning
I took position against a stump on my side of the
stream. From this point the hole in the willow was
plainly exposed, and with the glass I could see even
the small scratches made by the duck's claws on the
barkless wood below the doorway of her home. It
was nearly ten o'clock before the sun shone fairly
into the hole, and a few minutes later the duck came
forth and stepped nimbly along the sloping trunk
for perhaps a couple of yards. She seemed anx-
iously alert, and for some time stood erect, twisting
her neck about as though examining every yard
of the surroundings. Presently she scratched her
head with an action so comically suggestive of a
certain class of human thinkers, that I was forced
to smile. Evidently, she was a bit worried, but
whatever may have been the troublesome problem,
she presently solved it to her satisfaction, for she
began to preen her feathers in a rapid and unusually
2io Sporting Sketches
energetic manner. Her toilet completed to her
liking, she gave her tail a couple of quick flirts from
side to side, then ran rapidly to the hole.
At the edge of it she paused as though staring
within. It is possible she uttered some low call to
her babies her appearance suggested it, but I was
too far away to hear. Finally, she thrust her head
and neck into the hole and bent farther in until only
her tail was visible. Clearly she was reaching down
as far as she could. A moment later she straightened
up and trotted down the trunk. Held by her bill
was a duckling, which she released when still a
couple of yards from the ground. It remained
clinging to the bark exactly where she placed it.
As she turned about, a second duckling, and then a
third came out of the hole and began the descent.
By a series of sliding scrambles they reached the
spot where she stood and for the time made no
effort to go farther. She remained motionless,
seemingly intently watching the hole. Three more
youngsters soon followed the leaders. Sliding,
creeping, clinging, they covered three-fourths of the
trip then one missed its hold and fell to the
ground perhaps ten feet.
In an instant she was after it, and for several
seconds she hovered pigeon-like above it. I feared
it had been injured, but presently it trotted after her
as she moved to the foot of the tree. Meanwhile
two more had left the hole, one reaching its mates
on the trunk, the other stopping halfway and ap-
parently hanging by a foot as though a claw had
got fouled in the bark. Presumably it made some
outcry which she could understand, for she ran up
Wood- Duck and Wood- Duck Shooting 211
the trunk, released it, and carried it to the foot of
the tree, fluttering directly down instead of walking
past the others. No sooner had she deposited it
than the lot on the trunk made a move to follow.
From their position lay the steepest part of the trip,
and it was made in one quick slide.
The mother now showed signs of extreme anxiety.
For some distance about the tree the sandy soil was
practically bare, and clearly she did not relish the idea
of having her youngsters too long in such a place ;
yet there were three in the nest. One of these settled
the question by coming out and making the descent
in one grand leap. It never hesitated, but simply
sprang into the air, and with rudimentary wings and
small paddles stiffly spread, it shot down to the sand
and immediately ran to the others. The mother
then leaped upon the trunk, ran up to the hole and
went in.
For perhaps five minutes she remained inside, and
when she reappeared she held a young one, seem-
ingly by the skin of its back. With this one she
fluttered straight down, and at once released it.
This left one in the nest.
Most interesting performances present something
strong as the closing act, and the last baby duck
surely was the star of the troupe. While his mother
was attending to his small relative, this chap (I'll
bet it was a drake ! ) came out of the hole. For
perhaps ten seconds he stood at the entrance as if
waiting for all hands to give their earnest attention ;
then he started ! No clawing at the bark, no fearsome
flinching, nor any trace of hesitancy he was not
that sort. Whether or no he lost his balance, I am
2i2 Sporting Sketches
not prepared to state anyway down the trunk he
came, running like a young grouse and gathering
speed every skip. The pace, however, was a bit too
good to last. Halfway down he tripped, or some-
thing, and in an instant he was spinning end over
end. Rumpity-bump-biff-bang ! Down he came,
his last parabolic flight landing him squarely on top
of the small group of brothers and sisters. He fell
more different ways at one trial than anything ever
I saw, yet the bouncing did not appear to hurt him
in the least. I suspect he was the one last hatched,
for he seemed much less strong and nimble than
the others.
Shortly after his spectacular arrival, the mother
led the brood straight across the exposed strip at a
smart pace. All were running their best before the
cover was reached, mother and young appearing to
have an equal dread of the bare sand. In a few
seconds they were in the cover next the water, and
shortly after in the water itself. I could not see
them enter, but in a short time the mother sculled
slyly along the edge of a mat of weeds. She swam
deeply, as though striving to make herself as incon-
spicuous as possible, and at her tail were the young
all crowded together like a small woollen mat and
occupying no more room than might have been
covered by an ordinary dinner plate. Under a tent-
like mass of wild grape-vines she halted and I went
down to my canoe, for I was anxious to see a bit
more of them.
Had I not marked their hiding-place, the duck-
lings never would have been disepvered. As it was,
there was need for the sharpest scrutiny to locate
Wood-Duck and Wood- Duck Shooting 213
them after the mother had flown. She did not go
more than forty yards before pitching to the water,
and she was in a perfect torment of anxiety. The
young were packed together under the vine roots,
but I managed to drive them all out. I was curious
to learn if they could dive, and so soon as they had
been forced clear of the cover, all but one answered
the question by promptly going under. The one
fellow for I knew he was the " fat boy " who had
flip-flapped down the tree, strove mightily to go
under, too, but he couldn't. He could put his head
under and up-end all right, but to save his life he
couldn't induce his fluffy posterior to follow the
head. The wee paddles worked, bravely kicking
drops of water at a great rate ; but either the coat
was too dry or the machinery too new, for the best
he could do was to circle about in an irresistibly
comical manner. Finally I laid hold of the fleecy
tuft that served for his tail and lifted him to my
knee. His beady eyes had a peculiarly wild gleam,
and his tiny paddles pressed with astonishing firm-
ness against my leg. Happening to touch his funny
little bill with the tip of a finger, his mouth at once
opened to its fullest extent. His expression then
was quite savage, and an instant later, to my amaze-
ment, he actually made an attempt to bite.
" You're a brave wee drakie, all right enough," I
said to him as I attempted to lift him preparatory
to turning him loose. The twin paddles, however,
had a curiously firm grip, and the sharp nails clung
to the cloth. Then I remembered he was a tree-
duck, and better understood how his elders could
perch, or run along a limb at will.
214 Sporting Sketches
" Guess I'll wet you, son, so's you can get under
next trial," I remarked as I shoved him under. At
once the small paddles were busy, and when a few
seconds later the hold was relaxed, he sped deeper
down. For fully a minute there was no sign of
him, and my heart sank, for there was a nasty pos-
sibility that his terror might have driven him too
deeply among the bottom growths. Then I remem-
bered something. A hasty stroke of the paddle
shot the canoe ahead, when a glance astern detected
the small rascal tossing in the swirl and kicking his
prettiest to submerge himself. He had first come
up under the canoe, and probably had remained
with only his head above water for some seconds.
He swam to the bank in short order, and unless he
happened to be among those that tried to fly
through some of my lead the next autumn, I never
saw him again.
A peculiar capture of a half-grown drake may be
worthy of reference. My comrade upon the day in
question was then a strapping young man peace
be to his ashes ! and we were fishing for black bass
on the Thames River, a stream beloved of wood-
duck. Where we were the water was perhaps
eighty yards broad and twenty feet deep. The time
was early August, and the day very sultry. We two
were, perhaps, the greatest water-dogs in the county.
" I can beat you across for a dollar ! " poor Kit
suddenly exclaimed. He knew he couldn't, and all
he really meant was to have a swim. In mighty
few seconds we were peeled to the buff (umber
would have been nearer the truth !) but before we
could plunge he yelled, " See the wood-ducks ! "
Wood-Duck and, Wood- Duck S booting 215
Thirty yards away half-a-dozen flappers were pat-
tering across the stream, and the way we hit the
water was a caution. We returned to the surface,
going at full speed and halfway across as it
proved just far enough to head off the last duck.
The others no sooner reached the bank than they
sprinted to cover like so many Bob Whites. Be-
cause wise men garbed only in freckles and sunburn
never chase through rough cover, those ducks were
safe ; but not so the lone one.
" Give it to him ! " I yelled, and we foamed in
pursuit.
The unfortunate duck didn't know enough to go
back to the bank it had left, or its sole desire was to
follow its kin, for it refused to turn. Kit dashed
straight for it, while I edged nearer the desired
bank. The duck scuttled ahead a few yards, then
dived. Instantly I went under a few feet, then
paused and stared toward the light. After half a
minute's wait, I rose hunting air, and within a yard
of the duck. A wild grab missed by a narrow mar-
gin, and again I went under and waited. The duck
as it vanished was headed from me, but I knew their
tricks. Within thirty seconds or so, as I stared
toward the light, a long black thing hove in sight,
headed so as to pass directly over my face. I could
distinctly see the head, neck, half-spread flapper
wings, and the kicking feet. It was not travelling
very fast, and this meant seriously, mind you !
I thrust up my hand and grabbed the neck. Before
I got to the surface I learned something about wood-
ducks' claws they can scratch like fury; but I
had the drake, for such it proved to be. Kit's first
216 Sporting Sketches
remark was, " Bet you got him ! " and when I held
up the duck, his whoop of delight might have been
heard a mile away. The bird wasn't injured a par-
ticle, but it was " scared stiff." I got it safely home
and kept it until the first of the winter. It soon
became as tame as a pet chicken. To my great
sorrow a mink killed it one night in its pen.
The shooting of the wood-duck is a sport I
greatly fancy. There are three methods, which
may be termed "jumping," "poling," and "flight."
About the time of the first light frosts, the ducks
are much in the vine-hung trees that overhang slow
streams and ponds. The small wild grape is then
the attraction. When not in the trees, the ducks
have a habit of skulking under the brush of the
banks and quiet coves. They also like to stand
upon almost submerged snags. When alarmed in
such places, they may at once spring, or go trotting
like grouse to the brush.
The man intent upon jumping wood-duck should
have a good canoe and a light, handy gun a good
quail gun is the very thing. I kneel and have the
gun resting in a crutch, so the heel-plate just comes
between my knees. So placed, one can get it with
the least waste of time, and it is wiser to waste no
time when a wood-duck springs. The paddle should
be made fast by a yard of stout cord ; it may then be
dropped and recovered at will. The quickest way
to get rid of it is to drop it clear. So equipped, one
may steal up mile after mile of stream, keeping a sharp
eye upon trees and low cover ahead, and hands ever
ready to drop the paddle and seize the gun whenever
the tremulous " Oe-eek-oe-eek ! " tells the glad tidings.
Wood- Duck and Wood- Duck Shooting 217
It is indeed pretty sport, and none too easy, for
only a smart and accurate shot can hope to excel
at it. The surroundings, too, almost invariably are
very pretty, for the winding water every few minutes
reveals a new vista of noble trees and drooping
vines. Occasionally, a small flock of ducks, hum-
ming downstream, dart around a bend without the
slightest warning. Then is the moment for the
swift man who can let go with one hand and take
hold with the other, and shoot without bothering
about getting the gun to his shoulder.
The first flight of wood-ducks from the streams
usually extends no farther than to the nearest rice
marshes. There they frequent the lily-choked
ponds, especially those which have a few old rat
houses. The wood-duck seems to love the top of
an old rat house, presumably because it is apt to be
the most convenient place for a sun bath. The
marsh ponds can best be reached by pushing, i.e.
propelling the canoe by means of a long punting
paddle which may be set against submerged roots
and other tolerably firm stuff.
Next to jumping, I prefer flight, as follows. So
soon as the young ducks are able to fly strongly,
they are apt to start about sunrise and go far up
the stream to some special feeding-ground, or it may
be their night resort in some small pond in field, or
wood, or some particular cove of a stream. To
these they return about sunset, straggling in singly,
by pairs, and now and then a whole brood together.
A man properly placed beside the night resort may
enjoy perhaps half an hour's shooting of the live-
liest description. Again there may be half-a-dozen
218 Sporting Sketches
ponds, etc., near together, while the stream extends
for miles above. Then it is no bad scheme to take
post on the bank of the stream and, say, a mile
above the night resorts. The ducks usually follow
the stream until they are close to their chosen spot ;
hence a man in the right place may have chances
at all the fowl of a group of night resorts. I well
remember one old " hide " of mine. It was on the
very crest of a cliff-like bank of a narrow river.
About a mile below were two big ponds in the
open fields and beyond them nearly one hundred
acres of wet woodland. These places were in
high favor, and toward sunset the ducks would
come streaming down from feeding-grounds higher
up.
Then the sport depended upon how the fowl
arrived. If, as sometimes happened, they came in
large groups, or too closely following smaller lots, the
shots at the first were apt to alarm others and so spoil
the fun. But frequently they came straggling along
in well-separated fives, sixes, and sevens, with an odd
one, or a pair, every now and then. Then was there
exceeding great joy in the hide, swift action, and the
keenest of watches upstream, for it might happen
that twenty or more shells would be used before the
light failed, and the fellow who uses that many shells
upon wood-ducks and doesn't have fun and inci-
dentally knock down a fair percentage of fowl,
should be deprived of his yellow jacket.
The last bird I killed will not soon be forgotten.
It was in October, yet the weather was like mid-
summer.
" Too late, man what ye thinkin' about ? " ex-
Wood-Duck and Wood- Duck S booting 219
claimed my host, when I had suggested a joint
expedition up river.
" I'll go anyway, this afternoon, just for a paddle,"
I replied, and I went.
The stream was deserted, yet the five-mile trip
was wondrous pleasant. At the turning-point I
lingered long, merely lounging in the canoe, for
farmers along the way had all told the same story
" Ducks had been fairly plentiful, but all had gone
to the marsh."
I suppose old memories had a deal to do with it,
for somehow I fairly longed to see even one of the
dainty beauties that formerly traded up and down
that water. It was a perfect Indian summer day,
the water like glass, the sky steel-blue, and over all
the magic haze which screens the death of the bleed-
ing leaf. Great walls of painted foliage were mir-
rored in the sleeping water, and as I looked up the
old stream from the old point of view, I thought,
u 'Tis indeed wondrous fair why couldn't just one
of the old wood-ducks have held over for my benefit
if but to complete the picture."
He must have known have purposely delayed
rather than have me disappointed. I saw him first,
and as there was no time for getting to cover, I
knelt in the canoe right in midstream. He saw me,
but all he did was rise a bit and " Oe-eek " for more
steam. When he was almost overhead, for an instant
I caught the gleam of his sunlit garb, then, allowing
at least ten feet, I pulled. He got it so fairly that
all he did was set his wings and hang for one instant
with the sun glorifying him, the misty blue above,
and the billows of glowing foliage upon either hand.
220 Sporting Sketches
For some minutes I almost wished I had missed.
Then I paddled after him, lifted him from the water
and laid him gently upon my coat. He was the
prettiest drake ever I killed in the fall, and all I
need do is to raise my eyes to his glass ones and
see them full of the same old question " How the
devil did you manage to fluke my undoing ? "
^
THE sun looms large above a sea of gauzy haze
which piles like airy surf against the forest's rim.
It is a windless, dreamy morning, rich with the
magic of the Indian summer, the glory of painted
leaves, the incense of ripe fruit. In the full fatness
^of autumn's latter days the world is songless, silent,
fat. Those things which sleep that drowse the
long, white silence soon to be are round well-nigh
to bursting. Those things that durst not face the
nip of steel-skied nights have fled to kindlier climes,
while those other things which neither sleep nor
flee are revelling in a rich abundance. They know
what must come when Kee-way-din whines about
their brushy eaves and the strange, cold white
feathers fall. They know that the brushy and still
leafy cover will be flattened and that the white wolf
of the North will plunge and ramp and howl across
far leagues of whiteness. They know the present
business of their kind is to eat eat till craws and
skins are tight as drumheads, to wax fat because fat
things do not freeze, while they can, if need be, doze
221
222 Sporting Sketches
for days when times are bad. All this eating and
fat content is lazy business and sleep lasts long.
Up in the pleasant room, too, Sleep herself sits
by a narrow cot upon which lies a silent figure. The
kindly goddess knows that under her spell men do
no wrong, and so, with light hand laid across his
eyes, she sits and watches. Through open windows
streams a scented air, fruity from near-by orchards
and spiced with the breath of drying foliage.
Thump ! A big apple parts its failing stem and
strikes a hollow roof. The figure stirs and Sleep
flies on soundless feet. Gradually the man gets
himself dressed, and then he looks the workman.
The loose cord breeches closely match the broad-
soled, flat-heeled knee-boots ; the sweater has the
shade of the dried grass, and the old canvas coat
admirably matches it. 'Tis a marvel, that coat a
thing of beauty and a joy forever to its owner
a horror unspeakable to his female kin. One had
described it as " A snarl of pockets held together
by some remnants of filthy canvas," and the owner
had merely smiled. To him every stain upon it was
a precious thing, a sign-board pointing to a dear-
prized memory, and he wouldn't trade it for the
mantle of Elijah. Once, a fair young thing, a fre-
quent guest, who was clever at giving the last touch
to ties and an invaluable adviser in regard to mani-
cure sets, had declared she'd "wash that horrid
jacket!" and thus a dimmering possibility of a
a oh! bother it didn't come off, anyhow!
But the little woman who met him this morning
was not of that sort. Once, long before, he had ex-
plained to her the difference between shooting for
A Red-letter Day 223
count and shooting as a sportsman should, and why
there was no advantage in getting upon Bob White
ground too early. She knew that fifteen birds was
his limit so far as that particular game was concerned,
and she also knew that the fifteen and perhaps some
other game would load that coat at night, if all went
well. So when he had nearly finished breakfast, she
slipped away, to presently return amid a tumult of
scratching claws and gusty breathing.
" Here he is and I gave him just
three bits ! " she panted, as the strong brute
strained at the chain in his eagerness.
" Down you ! " muttered the man, and as the
quivering form sank promptly, he continued
" Mater mine, thou fibbest he don't lick his chops
that way after straight bread."
" Merely an atom of gravy, dear just a drop was
kept, and the bread is so dry and he chews at it so."
" Grease faugh ! will you never learn ? " he
growls, but his eyes are twinkling and he has to
avert his face to keep from laughing outright, for
this question of dog-fare is a rock upon which they
regularly split. Right well he knows that Don
has had his bread, a trifle of meat, and perhaps
about a pint of soupy stuff to boot ; but he wisely
makes no further comment, for the mistake was
lovingly made.
And so they fare forth, a varmint-looking team,
both lean and hard, the long, easy stride of the man
hinting of many days afoot, the corky action of the
dog proving him sound and keen. 'Tis true his
ribs show as though his hide covered a spiral
spring, but his white coat has a satiny lustre, and he
224 Sporting Sketches
puts his feet down as though such things as thorns
and burrs had never been. Behind them stands the
little figure watching with moist eyes, for one is
hers and the other belongs to one of hers. Though
they went and returned one thousand times in
safety, still still it might be. Wonderful
are thy ways, O woman !
At the corner the tall figure halts and right-about-
faces with military precision, the gun is whipped
through the salute, and at the instant the white dog
rises erect upon his hind feet. Both man and dog
know that all these things must be done before
rounding the turn, else the day would not be all it
should. A kerchief flutters in the distance, then
they pass in a few strides from town to country.
Before them spreads a huge pasture, beyond that
a grove of mighty trees, and beyond that the shoot-
ing grounds farm after farm, with here a bit of
woods and there a thicket. For miles the country
is the same, and through it all, in a bee-line, extends
the double track of an important railway. Along
either side of this runs a broad ditch, now bone-dry
and bordered with low cat-briers. These and the
ripe weeds standing thickly in the angles of the rail-
fences form rare good cover for scattered birds.
" Well, Mister," says the man to the dog, " guess
you'd best have a pipe-opener right here." He
waves his hand and clucks softly, and the dog sails
away over the short fall grass. A judge of dogs
would watch this pointer with solid satisfaction.
So smooth is his action and so systematic is his
method of covering ground, that his tremendous
speed is not at first apparent. But for all that he is
A Red- Letter Day 225
a flier which few dogs can stay with, and best of all
he can keep going for a week if need be.
Of course, he naturally was a fine animal, blessed
with courage and brains a plenty, but his owner's
method " keep sending "em," as he termed it has
done much to develop the speed. Needless to say,
at the forward end of that dog is a nose for woe
unto the animal that would attempt such a clip
without the very finest thing in the way of a smeller.
Half an hour later the man halts on top of a fence
while the dog takes a roll. They are now on the
edge of the good ground, and both feel just right
after their preliminary canter. The man fills his
pipe, gets it nicely going, then looks at the gun
across his knees. It appears almost like a toy ; but
its small tubes are of the best and can throw lead
with amazing power. Almost plain, but perfect of
its pattern, that gun cost about three times what an
unsophisticated person might guess as its price, and,
as its owner declared, it was well worth the money.
" Now, Mister," says the man, after a bit, " there's
rag-weed, standing corn, and thicket which would
you advise ? " The dog sits up and stares with lov-
ing intentness, and the man continues " When
a lemon-headed fool-dog looks at me after that man-
ner he certainly means standing corn, so here goes."
At the words he lets himself down, while the dog
darts away. Soon he is into his regular stride and
beating the ground with beautiful precision. The
man watches and nods his head as he mutters,
" That rat-tailed rascal's going great guns to-day, he'll
have 'em befo " In the middle of a stride the dog
has halted as though smitten by lightning. Some
226 Sporting Sketches
message of the air has reached that marvellous nose,
and the grand brute stands as though carved in
marble. There was no reading, no feeling for it,
just an instantaneous propping and a breathless
halt. " That's funny," mutters the man ; " I'd have
sworn ha ! " There is an abrupt rising of a brown,
hasty-winged thing which goes darting for a dis-
tant cover. At the sight the lazy man suddenly
changes. The little gun leaps to the level, and
before the butt has fairly touched the shoulder, the
quick smokeless has hurled its leaden greeting.
The bird goes down, unmistakably clean killed,
while the dog slowly sinks to his haunches. As
the man reloads, his face fairly shines with joy.
" Fifty yards if an inch," he says to himself, " and
a bruising old hen at that. Who'd have expected
a woodcock this time of year and away out here ? "
Then he goes to the dog and clucks him on.
As the dog has seen the bird fall, he merely
makes a few bounds forward and again stiffens
within two yards of an unusually large female
woodcock one of those choice birds only occa-
sionally picked up at the tail-end of the season.
" Don't like that, eh ? " laughs the man as he
holds the bird near the dog's nose. The grand
eyes are bulging with controlled excitement, but
the shapely muzzle is wrinkled into an expression
highly suggestive of disgust. " Wish I understood
that. It's funny, but you don't like a dead cock
though you'll stop on 'em fast enough when alive
eh, old boy?" chuckles the man. "Here, take
it," he says, and the dog obeys. . " Give it to me,"
continues the man, and the dog promptly drops
A Red- Letter Day 227
the bird into the hand, then wrinkles his chops
as though an unpleasant flavor remained. It's a
grand bird, old and fat, and the druggist's scales
later prove it to weigh full eight ounces, an
extreme weight for even a female, which is larger
than the male.
When again started, the dog sweeps away to a
low-lying bit where the withered corn is taller and
thicker. Here he circles rapidly, stops for a
moment, then stands looking at his master. The
man moves over to him, and closely examining the
ground presently detects half-a-dozen small hollows
and a tiny brown feather. " Flushed, eh ? " he says
to the dog, and evidently the latter agrees. Now
the man's own tracks show plainly, there are no
other bootmarks, nor has he seen an empty shell
anywhere ; so he knows the flush has been owing
to natural cause. " Mebbe hawk," he says to
himself. " If so, where ? " His eyes rove over all
the surrounding cover and settle upon a clump of
thicket in a corner. It is about far enough and
certainly looks promising. Away goes the dog
as though he could read the other's thoughts. As
he nears the edge of the cover his style changes.
The smooth gallop slows to a steady trot which
presently alters to a majestic march. Higher and
higher rises the square muzzle and up and up
goes the tapering stern, while he steps ahead as
though treading on tacks. Two yards from the
cover he halts with lifted foot in the perfection of
the old-fashioned stylish point. " You beauty ! "
says the man, his eyes flashing with delight. Then
he goes to the wonderful white form which, hard
228 Sporting Sketches
from set muscles, yet quivers with the tenseness
of sudden excitement. The man, too, feels the
magic of the situation. His eyes gleam and his
teeth grip the pipe-stem as if they would shear it
off. His heart thrills with rapturous anticipation
and his strong hands grip the gun ready for instant
action. Right well he knows that the pointer never
draws like that or raises head and stern so high
except for serious business. A dead leaf falls
ticking through the tangling twigs, and at the
first move of it the dog gives a convulsive twitch,
while the gun flashes to the level and down again.
A smile flickers in the keen eyes as the man moves
a step nearer. No matter which way the game may
go, he is bound to have a fair chance and he knows
it. The cover is none too thick for even a straight-
away drive, while all other directions mean the broad
open. He clucks softly to the dog, but there is no
responsive move clearly this is a serious case.
Could it possibly be a ? Ah! the roar of him,
as he tore like a feathered shell through the dens-
est growth ! Oh ! the beauty of him, as he curved
into the mellow sunshine, his dainty crest and
plumes flattened with speed. And, ho ! the smash-
ing thump of him as he hit the ground some thirty
yards away. 'Twas a brave dash, Sir Ruffs, but
risky withal, to dare that sunny open in defiance
of trained eyes and nervously quick hands. Was
it yonder mat of new clover-tips, or the red fruit
of the brier-rose, which coaxed you here a fourth
of a mile from your woodland stronghold?
But the dog is eager to be off. .The languid air,
scarce drifting in its lazy mood, is tattling something.
A Red- Letter Day 229
There is some unfinished business, which the strong
scent of the expected grouse had interrupted. Now,
as the dog slants away, the square muzzle rises higher,
and the eager stern whips frantically. Shorter and
shorter grow the tacks, until the advance steadies
to a straight line. Soon the gallop slows to a
canter, a trot, a stately walk. With head and stern
held high, on he marches until fifty yards have been
covered. Then he suddenly stiffens, while the quiv-
ering nostrils search the air for positive proof. His
erstwhile gusty breathing is muffled now, his jaws
slowly open and close, while the marvellous nose
seems to be feeling feeling for a something rarely
pleasant. Then on again, slower and slower, till he
seems to fairly drift to his anchorage. Then his
hind-quarters sink till he is almost on his hams.
Has he got them ? Man, if you'd ever followed
that dog, you'd know he had 'em. When you see
that long draw and the squatting finish, bet your
gun, or your wife, or whatever you prize most, that
it's a bevy and a big one. Scattered birds he will
pin in all sorts of fancy attitudes as he happens
upon them, but when he gets right down to it, that
signifies a wholesale order. The man moves up
within a foot of the stiffened stern. For a moment
the tenseness is dramatic then whur-r-r ! Some-
thing like a mighty shell loaded with feathered base-
balls appears to explode in a patch of dried grasses,
and the air is filled with humming missiles. Even
in the roar and electric rush the trained eyes mark
slight differences in coloration, and the trim tubes
swing from one bird to a second with a smooth
rapidity which betokens years of practice. Two
230 Sporting Sketches
birds fall a few yards apart, and as they turn over
in the air, the man notes the flash of white and
knows his lightning choice has been correct. As
he moves toward them, there is a sudden hollow
roar, and a lone bird rises from his very foot and
goes whizzing toward cover. The gun leaps to
shoulder before he can check it, but it is promptly
lowered. " Go on, you old seed-hen and do your
best next year," he chuckles, as the brown matron
strives to set herself afire by atmospheric friction.
Her course is wide of that taken by the brood, but
he knows she'll call the stragglers to her ere the
shadows fall.
And they will be stragglers. Of the twenty
strong beauties that roared up ahead of that first
point, her sweet, insistent " Ca-loi-ee ! ca-loi-ee ! "
will muster but four when fence and thicket blur
together in the scented dusk. Instead of doing as
she had told them time and time again instead of
plunging headlong into the convenient woods, her
headstrong family has whirred across the open and
dropped here and there in the well-known resort,
the railroad ditch. Hither they have come day
after day until the awful, clattering trains have
lost all terrors. In the broad ditch are pleasant
runways and much useful gravel of assorted sizes,
also cosey, sunny spots, the perfection of dust baths.
Here, too, are many unaccountable stores of grain,
choicest of corn and wheat, which seem in some
miraculous manner to appear there all ready for
eating. What better place could there be?
The man looks at the dog and grins with unholy
joy. The dog looks at the man and seems to un-
A Red- Letter Day 231
derstand. Oh ! they are a precious pair of rascals,
are these two.
" You old Judas," says the man, " we'll do things
to 'em now. It looks like fifteen straight eh? "
And the dog cuts a couple of fool-capers, which
is his method of evincing a devilish approval. Then
the pair of 'em move on after the misguided birds.
Whur ! Bing ! Whur ! Bing ! It is almost too
easy. Shooting in that ditch where cover is barely
knee-high with a high embankment on one side and
a stiff fence on the other, is something like shooting
into an enormous funnel the shot has to go right.
The dog does little more than trot from point to
point. Bird after bird rises and is cut down with
painless exactitude. Presently two start together,
only to be dropped by a quick double-hail. Then
one curves over the fence, but a rising mist of
downy feathers tells that he got it just in time.
Then another pair, and as the second barrel sounds,
a third rises. The cases leap from the gun, a hand
flashes to and from a pocket Burr !
" Here's where we quit that makes fifteen," says
the man, as the last bird is gathered. He sits down
on a convenient knoll, pushes his hat back, and
grins at the dog. That worthy, after a hesitating
forward movement, which would indicate his belief
that " There's more," also sits down and stares ex-
pectantly at the grimy coat. " Yes, I'll give you
half. You've done mighty well, and for once it's
fifteen straight," chuckles the man as he produces
the sandwiches. The dog gets a bit more than half,
for this is a red-letter day. Then the pipe comes
out, and for half an hour the pair of 'em lounge in
232 Sporting Sketches
perfect peace. Little do they know or care about
trouble. Twin tramps are they, heedless of the bur-
dens of life, careless of its future. Sufficient for
them that the afternoon sun is warm, the grass
thick and dry. Naught care they for the five-mile
homeward trudge, for neither is more than comfort-
ably tired, and when they rise refreshed they will
stride away as though they had just begun.
And the little woman will have two glorious meals
all ready, for she knows what each can do in that
line when thoroughly in earnest. And she will be al-
most sinfully happy, for the first glance will tell that
things have gone well for at least one November
day.
To the hotel in Winnipeg came Thompson and
Monroe, and within half an hour they had me
stuffed so full of sporting possibilities that I scarce
could get on my sweater. To avoid useless details,
I'll merely say that within twelve hours we had
reached an insignificant station from which we were
to drive to the rough shooting-lodge which stands
alone beside the big bay which marks the southern
end of Lake Manitoba.
" Here we are ! Change cars for Clandeboy, Teal-
town, Bluehillburg, Redheadhurst, and all web-
footed points ! Passengers going east will walk, I
reckon ! " shouted Thompson. So far as I could
see, the alleged station consisted mainly of primeval
peace, poplar, and future possibilities ; but there were
small railway buildings, also a modest combination
of general store and hotel, which presently proved
no bad place.
" Looks a bit rough, but it's all right, eh ? "
chuckled Thompson. " Can't imagine what's gone
wrong with Batteese never knew him to be late.
I'll have to no, I won't either, for yonder he
comes ! " he concluded, and we saw far away a team
emerging from the brush. Then a second team
233
234 Sporting Sketches
appeared, and the two jogged forward at the tireless
all-day gait of the northern ponies.
" Now we'll get a square meal, give the nags a
rest and feed, then hit the trail. It's a longish drive,
but we have a glorious day, and there'll be a bit of
fun along the trail, and a chance to try out our
tenderfoot, or my name isn't Thompson. All hands
to the grub-trough ! " he ordered, as he led the way
to what proved a first-rate meal. After that we
smoked, and I took a look at the surroundings.
These presented a picture of wildness. In all direc-
tions spread the same patchwork of brown grass and
slim, close-crowded poplars, their dwarfed trunks
showing silver-white like the beautiful birches of
farther south. To the four points of the compass
ran trails as black as ink. They looked not unlike
cracks in a brown crust, and their well-worn condi-
tion hinted of the Breed villages, white settlements,
and large farms which lay in three directions behind
the shadowy walls of poplar. In the fourth, our route,
was big Lake Manitoba and its famous bay.
These form a paradise for the wild fowler. Amid
long leagues of silence, where the brown grass
spreads like fur over billowy undulations, sleeps the
great lake. Now and then a summer squall hisses
across the broad open, and sends the white suds
growling up easy slopes of sand, the chosen prome-
nade of countless shore-birds ; but, as a rule, the shin-
ing water sleeps as though awaiting the advent of
some magician who might command something like
sustained activity. Where the lake's southerly rim
is broken to loop the noble ba,y, all semblance of
sandy beach is lost. Instead, the characteristic
Picked from the Prairie Province 235
short, bronzy plains-grass creeps to the edge of
moist, boggy soil, and there the growth changes. A
few yards beyond the firm ground begins a region
of reeds which spreads for many miles. In most
places the line between grass and reeds is sharply
defined by a margin of the blackest of yielding ooze,
beloved of the Wilson snipe and his nearest kin.
The reeds are a marvel of rank luxuriance. A tall
man standing in a canoe occasionally can peer across
leagues of lonesomeness, the brown monotony only
broken by the winding streaks of channels and the
flash of half-revealed ponds. A tenderfoot probably
would exclaim, " Get me out of this grass cemetery,
for surely here nature has died."
During a ten minutes' scrutiny he might see no
sign of life, yet his idea of that damp desolation
would be farther from the truth than if he had
purposely striven to guess wrong, and not only
wrong, but as far wrong as his most strenuous
effort at imagination possibly could carry him.
Silent as is the scene, lifeless as leagues of it ap-
pear, the quivering reeds screen thousands upon
thousands of wild, free things, as yet almost igno-
rant of human methods and which spend lazy, dreamy
weeks in fat content. The only magicians who can
rouse these few folk are two : the one, a lath-lean,
umber-visaged, shock-haired Breed; the other, one
of those canvas-covered whites who seem to be ever-
lastingly driven into the drowsy corners of creation.
The " silent, smoky savage " of a Breed seldom
incites to riot. He hunts of necessity, and until
he has had much to do with the white brother,
seldom sees the sporting side. To him, cartridges
Sporting Sketches
are costly, and punting through reeds laborious ;
so when he does face the marsh, his chief idea is
to get all the fowl he needs with the fewest shots
and the least possible labor. Ignorant of town and
town ways, he has mastered every mystery of the
marsh for miles around ; so when he silently
launches his canoe and as silently steals along a
channel to the reeds walling some pond, it is safe
to wager that the pond is of easy access and more
or less covered with drowsy ducks. In the art of
the paddle, the Breed is only rivalled by those few
white men who have devoted years to the study of
the silent craft, while none has learned to excel him
in that hazardous enterprise the slow, soundless
forcing of a canoe through dense cover within a
few yards of the sensitive ears of a host of water-
fowl.
There is, perhaps, no more difficult task in all
gun-craft, yet the Breed can do it remarkably
well when punting a white man, perfectly when
alone in his canoe. He never is in a hurry, and he
drifts inch by inch like the shadow of a lazy cloud,
till through the thinning reeds his wild eyes can
distinguish the rafts of unconscious fowl. Those
wonderful aboriginal eyes are swift as a modern
camera. One flash of them takes in everything,
especially the closest packed mass of the biggest
and best ducks, for there frequently are several
species floating in close proximity. Noiselessly as
a lynx he discards the paddle and raises the cheap
breech-loader. The muzzle steadies upon a bristle
of unsuspecting heads, and the lead tears a long
furrow halfway through the raft, as the gun is
Picked from tbe Prairie Province 237
swiftly shifted for the second barrel. Then the
canoe suddenly springs forward, for there are
stunned and crippled ducks which may presently
revive, and a clout from a paddle is much cheaper
while quite as effective as another shot. If a goodly
bunch of fowl be secured, the Breed may or may not
repeat his deadly work a bit farther on after things
have quieted down. He may paddle lazily homeward,
but it is very pleasant in the canoe, and to hurry
is a sin. The sun will not sink to the sky-rim for
long hours yet, there is a rough lunch aboard, also
pipe and tobacco, and the man who goes home
too soon may find trouble in wading a trifle of
poplar chopping, which is not for one moment to
be compared with sun-basking in a grass-padded
canoe as comfortable as a hammock. Besides, the
swart-skinned wife really is putting on a shocking
amount of flesh of late, and there is nothing better
than some soulful swinging of an axe to reduce the
female form divine. If the breeze be right, he may
hear a whisper of remote chopping, and smile and
snuggle down ; for next to the roar of a gun and
the wail of a fiddle, he most loves to hear the sound
of sufficiently far-away honest labor. And this is the
daily story of the Indian summer while the hosts of
fowl, bred yet farther north, rest and fatten in the
bounteous bay, while awaiting nature's final order
for that marvellous flight to the lazy locked lagoons
of a clime that knows not frost.
But occasionally there is another story. Near the
rim of the bay stands the tiny log-shanty, its one wee
window peering across desolation. On its outer
wall are long rows of stout nails which no Breed
238 Sporting Sketches
would so sinfully waste, while within are upper and
lower berths for four, and a low cot excellent for a
man of all work. Heavy paper is tacked over the
inside walls, there are nails to support all sorts of
gear, and there are also a table, some benches, and
a fine cook-stove and outfit. All this clearly is
White Man's medicine, and burly indeed have been
the patients of that prairie pharmacy. Upon the
wall-paper are the pencilled scores of many a glori-
ous day, and the tenderfoot surely would be puzzled
by the names affixed thereto. The names, however,
are no jokes; for Royalty, Statecraft, Bar, Pulpit,
Art, and Science have all snored in those humble
bunks, and pricked pleased ears at the hiss of the
shaved bacon when the pink forefinger of Dawn
plucked at the mist-curtain eastward.
Three old campaigners made short work of stow-
ing the outfit in the wagons. Thompson, having
been purchasing agent, attended to the checking
off of various bags and boxes, leaving only hand-
bags, guns, and raincoats for our attention. The
Breed wagons were a three-seated spring rig and
one of the ordinary farm type, and into the first
went guns, shells, and a box of lunch. Then the
other was carefully loaded and Thompson sung
out : " All aboard, Batteese ! But first shake hands
with Mr. S . This is your punter, Ed, and a rare
good un he is. The other chap's only a driver."
Batteese solemnly shook my hand, but there was a
twinkle in the wild eye which hinted that the ob-
servant rascal already had seen enough to reconcile
him to the task of looking afteF.the green one. As
a rule, the punters are a bit jealous, each keen to
Picked from the Prairie Province 239
ally himself with the best shot in a party, but a pri-
vate hint from Thompson had not been lost upon the
wily Batteese, who was well aware that his brother
Alfred was Thompson's favorite, as an older man,
an uncle, was Monroe's.
It was a great drive. Once fairly upon the trail,
we rolled along almost as smoothly and silently
as a billiard-ball. The entire region was one vast,
level plain, seemingly an endless reach of alternate
wild meadow and scrub, the only proof of progress
being the approaching and passing of exactly alike
areas of poplar. Thompson and Monroe literally
burdened the seat behind the driver, while I had
the rear seat to myself. This arrangement was, as
Monroe claimed, " To let the wee chap have plenty
of room for getting down and up before and after
such chances as offered by the way." This also
was very sarcastic, because I, the lightest and short-
est of the trio, was sawed off at six feet one, and
weigh about two hundred and 'steen pounds. The
first ten miles were enlivened by an unbroken suc-
cession of yarns of the fur-trade, encounters with
various animals, and not seldom of lively experiences
along that very trail. But with all the nonsense and
yarns, all hands kept a sharp lookout either side
the way. Because Batteese knew his ponies as
they knew the trail, there was nothing of actual
driving, which left the swarthy one free to observe
things on his own account. The superiority of the
wild eye was demonstrated when brown hands sud-
denly hauled upon the reins and a voice like a low
growl said, " Chicken dur," the shock head at the
same time nodding toward a clump of low brush
240 Sporting Sketches
some fifty yards away. " By George ! he's right ;
out you go, little un. Walk straight for him and
be ready, for he'll flush before you're halfway
there," directed Monroe, and away I went. " Bet
you a dozen cigars he misses," muttered Thompson,
and " Done ! " said Monroe.
A slight movement in the brush had told me
exactly where to look, and I worried not at all.
Three pairs of eyes were watching every movement,
and above all I desired to favorably impress those
microscopic black ones. A big sharp-tail rose at
about twenty yards and went buzzing to the right,
and I cut the head off it. " Ah ! " said Monroe, as
he saw it, and a few moments later Thompson mut-
tered : " I think he meant it, but wait awhile. That's
my gun he's got and mebbe she don't just fit." An-
other " solitary " was presently spied, flushed, and
knocked down, but a something in its abrupt fall
hinted of a " butted " wing. As feared, only a few
mottled feathers marked the spot, but aid came
from an unexpected quarter. " Me gettum stan'
dur no move ! " rumbled a deep voice, and Batteese
slipped past and seemed fairly to glide over the grass
toward some larger growth fully sixty yards off. At
its edge he halted for many seconds, then suddenly
flung himself with arms outstretched upon a tangle
of dwarf stuff. When he got upon his feet a whirl
of brown and white told the story. " Good eye,
Batteese ! " grunted Thompson, and we moved on.
" If that had been a Bob White or a ruffed grouse,"
he continued," even Batteese's searchlights might not
have located it. He never saw -a Bob White, but "
(turning to the Breed) " s'posen' dat one birch par-
Picked from the Prairie Province 241
tridge, you find um, hey ? " " No him los'," re-
torted the dusky one. "Him run no find
'cept snow. Track den."
We had not travelled a mile before three pinnated
grouse, coming from a distance, glanced on set
wings across the trail, and pitched in some cover
not more than waist high. This meant a royal
chance, for in such shelter, especially just after a
longish flight, the " chicken " is apt to lie very close.
Unluckily they flushed together, so all I could do
was tumble a brace. The quick flash of Batteese's
snowy teeth told that the comparatively easy
double had won him, and this was no unimportant
matter, because it meant an enthusiastic instead of
an indifferent punter when once we had got among
the ducks. A brace of ruffed grouse, killed in the
snappy, heavy-cover style learned in the forested
East, completed the winning of Batteese ; then we
passed the last of the cover and rolled out upon the
open plain.
" Dook dur!" growled Batteese, after a while,
and he pulled up. " All hands out and prepare for
war," whispered Monroe ; " there's a little slough
beyond the rise just ahead. I'll go right, Thompson
left, and you slip along the trail." I watched the
big bent backs, and, when finally Monroe waved his
hand, moved warily ahead. As I topped the rising
ground, I saw some fifty yards below a small pond
ringed with lush growths, at the edge of which the
trail passed. Monroe and Thompson were skirmish-
ing toward the common centre, and at the moment
a big ripple showed on one side of the slough and a
dark mass went into the cover. Nearer and nearer
242 Sporting Sketches
we all stole, then Monroe called out : " Ready !
Don't drop any in the slough. Let 'em fly clear ! "
There was a breathless pause, then, with a bursting
roar of wings, fifty or more big gray ducks sprang
into the air and headed straight between my stand
and Thompson's. A whole bunch passed so near
that their every marking was visible and of these
I tumbled four, three to the first barrel. Two quick
reports, and it seemed to rain ducks over in Thomp-
son's territory; then that worthy's voice rang out:
" Quick ! Watch Monroe ! " A lone pair of fowl
had turned and was rushing high over the third
gun. Up straightened the tall figure, two barrels
sounded in swift succession, and duck after duck
folded up like a brown parcel and came hissing
down to strike the grass with an earnest whop !
whop ! such as only extremely dead fowl make.
And from Thompsonville-in-the-grass arose a sound-
ing a-ah ! of admiration, for 'twas a noble double and
the temporary mayor of Thompsonville, etc., was
above any petty jealousy. He had the most ducks,
but none knew better than he the difference between
flocking a near-by bunch and pulling down such a
brace of climbers.
" Thought you had me out in the cold, eh, you
rascals ? but I did get a crack, after all. Oh ! I'll
learn yet. My, they're a fine lot ! " The hearty
ring in Monroe's voice was good to hear, and I
expressed unqualified admiration of the prettiest
lot of gun-work seen in many a day. But the real
worshipper was standing like a bronze statue in the
wagon. Black eyes had noted every move of that
brief skirmish, and they flashed with joy as Monroe
Picked from the Prairie Province 243
sung out : " Batteese ! You see dem try rob me of
my chance ? Mean trick dat dey do, hey ? " But
all Batteese said was, "Good my brudder!"
That ended the sport for the time, and at last we
caught the flash of distant open water, near which
was what looked like a doll's house, or some crumb
of civilization dropped from a balloon. Breed bands
had cut the rough materials miles away, then put
them together under Thompson's directions, while
the door, window, and dressed boards for inside
work had been shipped from Winnipeg and hauled
the final stage. As I soon learned, it was a mighty
snug shack. The long rows of nails upon the north
wall suggested that somebody had prepared for
great numbers of duck, but the south side was more
interesting because it supported a rough lean-to
under which lay a big skiff and two fine cedar
canoes. Inside each craft were stowed two light
paddles, a long punting-paddle, and a dozen hollow
decoys. There is no danger in leaving things that
way. The natives never meddle. If one happened
along, he possibly might borrow a few decoys, a
paddle, or even a canoe, but everything used would
be carefully replaced, while word of such using
would be sent the owner at the first opportunity.
When the stuff had been unloaded and properly
stored, Batteese made a fire and prepared bacon,
eggs, bread, and tea for all hands. The ponies were
watered, hobbled, and allowed to graze, and the boats
were lifted from their shelter and carefully examined.
They proved to be in perfect condition. The
huge punt was a queer craft. " She's my trading-
schooner," said Thompson, laughingly. " When I
244 Sporting Sketches
shoot ducks, I like to feel both safe and comfortable
so there you are ! " Monroe winked, for, like my-
self, he is a stanch lover of the cedar canoe, of which
he is undeniably a master. The trading-schooner
was Thompson's (not the punter's, you understand !)
idea of what a ducking-craft should be. Not so very
long and low, but of tremendous beam, it floated with
a raft-like steadiness. About midships was a great
revolving chair, in which the mighty captain was
wont to sit in plethoric ease and administer to the
ills of such fowl as evinced any need of a tonic with
lead in it. Meanwhile, the unfortunate punter just
punted for all he was worth ; and when he got back
with a choice lot of ducks, as he invariably did, he
mostly slumbered till the next starting-time.
When the craft has been carried to the water and
equipped with grass and decoys, the punters de-
parted for their near-by but hidden village, with the
understanding they would return at gray dawn. As
the wagons started Thompson bawled after them:
" If you meet that frog-eating artist, tell him to
hustle out here ! We're not going to do our own
cooking ! " He explained that a young Frenchman,
an expert at camp cookery, would arrive sometime
before sundown, and that the probable reason for his
tardiness had been a dance somewhere the previous
night, an attraction which no Breed nor French
Canadian could resist. " He's a nice fellow, is Jean ;
I've had him with me many times and have yet to
see a better hand at a cook stove. Now, we'll get
plenty of ducks to-morrow in the marsh yonder;
suppose you and I do a trifle of skirmishing afoot.
There's a few miles of wet ground below there, and
Picked from the Prairie Province 245
we'll surely see plover and perhaps a few snipe.
Let's get on the waders and fill up time, anyway."
Monroe was hanging shooting togs upon the nails
which each was to consider as his own, but he had
changed from tweed to sweater, cords, and waders.
"You fellows go ahead, and I'll try later; the
ground's not broad enough for three abreast," he
said, and Thompson bowed in mock gravity and
replied, " Thanks, O most gracious monarch of the
marsh ; thy insignificant subjects be most truly grate-
ful." I felt there was something behind this peculiar
speech, and as we tramped toward the good ground,
I asked what was the joke. " Joke ! " exclaimed
Thompson ; " there's no joke about it ! But I for-
got you'd never seen that long-legged old pirate
talking to small game. Gad ! if he's a joke, I'd
hate to be a snipe when a fellow in dead earnest
happened along. He's as fast as a bullet when he
wants to be, and those big lamps of his can see be-
hind like a rabbit. You just wait awhile and you'll
see something worth watching." The veteran, in
spite of his firm belief in Monroe's superiority, was
himself a rare good shot, as I presently discovered
when we reached a few acres of the blackest of mud.
From a tussock of grass sprang a swift, brown thing,
its bent wings making a " Whip-ip-ip ! " of hollow
sound, its alarm cry, a rasping " Sca-ip ! scape ! " as
it darted off in the typical series of twists and short
zigzags. Instantly Thompson's gun cracked, and
the wavering flicker of brown changed to a point of
white as the bird turned over and struck the mud.
" Whip-ip ! Sca-ip ! " twice repeated, and I folded up
one and sent the other to the mud, to bounce again
246 Sporting Sketches
and again as the cut wing refused to perform. The
last bounce carried the snipe into a pool, across which
it swam smartly, then ran into the grass, where I
presently found it. Then we proceeded to enjoy
one of those bits of flawless snipe-shooting which
reward Northern Nimrods who chance upon good
ground at the proper times. Thompson kept cutting
down his birds in a fashion which suggested an entire
ignorance of the art of missing, while I hammered
away, the keener and quicker because I knew what
the end would be, but was bound to make an even
race of it as long as possible.
Not seldom three and four birds flushed in rapid
succession, those unshot at sweeping back to the
ground first covered, which guaranteed plenty of
sport for the return. At a point some half a mile
away from the start, Thompson halted and pushed
back his cord cap. " Guess we're far enough for the
first trial ; this mud's no joke to a heavyweight," he
panted. " How many have you ? I've got twenty-
four." In my coat lay nineteen, and I feel free to
say that the united straight string meant rare good
work by two men. Needless to say it was not to be
expected upon many days, for no man has a license
to average more than three-fourths of even his
favorite birds the season through. I always count
my shells, because I want to know exactly how I
am shooting, and it's simply wonderful the way a
fellow will forget a miss here and there unless he
has some sort of check on his work. Old sports-
men are too wise to worry over misses ; in fact they
don't care anything about them, but they do like to
know their true form each day. It's astonishing
Picked from the Prairie Province 247
how many careful men will get astray when describ-
ing their shooting, but they only deceive themselves
when they tell of too long strings without a reason-
able number of misses.
"Hullo!" said Thompson, "yonder comes old
snuff-'em-out over our ground. Now watch him and
you'll see what crack snipe form looks like." At
the home end of the ground a tall, erect figure was
steadily moving toward us. It suddenly halted, and
almost instantly we heard a quick crack-crack ! as
though both barrels had been fired at a single bird.
The distance was too great for details, but Thomp-
son said, " Watch him gather." The figure resumed
its march, only to halt, stoop, move on a few yards,
and again stoop. " Good ! " grunted Thompson.
Five times the advancing gun stopped single birds,
and presently its bearer was near enough for the
watchers to distinguish every movement. " Now,
look out. I think there's two birds right in front
of him, and if he happens to get between 'em, you'll
see why I just dote on his style. Ha! " The cause
of the sudden exclamation was the flushing of a
brace, one bird darting due east and the other
as truly west, and both going like all possessed.
Crack ! and the right-hand bird spun end over end.
Crack ! and the second spread its wings stiffly and
slanted down, a glint of white showing where it
turned over on the mud. " That's the way ! Good
old eye ! " roared the delighted Thompson ; then
quickly added, " Now, watch him retrieve." Mon-
roe, loading as he went, walked straight to the last
bird and picked it up. Then he back-tracked to
the firing-point, faced to the right, and walked as
248 Sporting Sketches
directly to the second snipe. " It's a good way, too,"
continued Thompson ; " he knew that last bird
might be lying back upward, and be hard to see, so
he never took his eyes off it. Had either seemed
to be not clean killed, he would have gathered that
one first, because a wounded bird is apt to run a
little and hide. So soon as he got back to his
empty shells, it was easy to stand a moment and get
a true line upon the whereabouts of the first bird."
"Well, you didn't kill 'em all, I found," chuckled
Monroe, as he joined us. As we neared the house,
a figure in shirt-sleeves showed, and the smoke
rising straight above the roof told that Jean had
arrived and got busy. Two hours later we pushed
back our chairs and I remarked : " This is great !
Jean's the greatest killer, unless we get muzzles."
" Now for a pipe, and then to bed," said Thomp-
son. " The boys will be here before daylight, and
we must be into that marsh early. You'll have
everything ready for us, Jean ? " The cook grinned
and nodded assent. He could cook a heap better
than he could talk, and he well knew what one of
Thompson's early starts meant. He would silently
prepare breakfast, put up three big parcels of lunch,
see his people started, set the house in order, then
put on somebody's boots, fill his pockets with shells,
take his old, cheap gun, and away to the wet ground.
Not for snipe " Heem too small, an' heem fly
too fass, dat small beccasine yes ! But zee
plovaire yes! Heem go slow beeg flock
brum-brum ! Oh ! yes."
As we pulled at the pipes, ther.e was a most inter-
esting chat about snipe. According to Monroe, the
Picked from the Prairie Province 249
dodging flight was merely a peculiarity, and not
what many writers have claimed, i.e. a crafty scheme
on the bird's part to baffle the gun. In the brave
days of old when such small birds were deemed not
worth pursuit by our meat-hunting ancestors, the
snipe dodged as he does to-day. Then such a
thing as a firearm had not been dreamed of, yet the
bent-winged dodger scaped and twisted, which
proves that whatever the cause of the peculiar
flight, it was not to baffle the aim of a gunner, or
even a man using any form of sporting appliance.
Before the invention of gunpowder, game was
trapped, and the larger kinds slain with the bow
and arrow, some form of crossbow, or by spear, or
other contrivance, held or hurled by the hand. A
wee fellow like the snipe had naught to fear, except,
possibly, some form of trap or net, so there was
nothing to foster the development of the dodging
flight. Nor does it seem reasonable to suppose
the quick spring and twisting movements were
intended to confuse some furred or feathered foe,
because several other birds, more or less closely
related to the snipe, haunted the same ground and
were exposed to the same perils, yet their descend-
ants of to-day show no trace of the alleged artifice.
We all are keen observers and ardent admirers of
our beautiful game creatures, but we place no faith
in those too common writings in which some dreamy
but only half-informed pen-jugglers cause the lower
creatures to reason and converse like human beings
and equal the brain-efforts of highly intelligent
men.
The snipe dodges because he is built that way,
250 Sporting Sketches
and cannot help it. Something, perhaps, in the
relative proportions of the very long bill, the wing,
and body, or in the shape of the wing, or, what is
more probable, in a peculiarity of the wing-stroke,
causes the light body to shift irregularly in the act
of attaining high speed. To credit the snipe with
an intelligence capable of wing-manceuvres intended
to puzzle a man is absurd. Probably one-half, or
more, of the snipe killed were crossing, or at such
an angle to the line of fire that the twisting helped
not at all. Birds that knew enough to play tricks
might reasonably be expected to also know enough
to play them in the only direction in which they
were worth playing. Many a snipe has dodged
out of the line and back just in time to catch the
full charge. The fact is, a snipe, upon a calm day,
is apt to fly in any direction, but in a breeze the
favorite route appears to be up-wind. A properly
educated snipe-shooter knows this, and unless he be
one of those who prefer the more or less straight-
away shot, he works down-wind, which means that
birds rising before him and trying to fly up-wind
must pass at either side, and offer a chance in
which the dodging ceases to be a factor. And there
is more than the outwitting of the dodging in the
down-wind work. The cross-section of a snipe
going straight-away is not bigger than a silver
dollar ; the rather long wings, too, are then edge-on
to the gun, while the vulnerable head and neck are
more or less protected by the body. These condi-
tions are apt to mean wounded instead of instantly
killed or winged birds. On the other hand, a cross-
ing snipe needs must expose one entire side and
Picked from tbe Prairie Province 251
something of the second wing, which would mean,
roughly speaking, a mark as large as one's hand
instead of the size of a dollar. It is less cruel, too,
for the simple reason that the easier the chances,
the greater the probability of exact shooting, which
means instantaneous and painless death.
The session was closed by a mighty snort and the
clatter of Thompson's pipe upon the floor. He had
dozed but ten seconds, but, as he said, he knew the
sign. " Last man dowses the glim," he yawned ;
" upper four for yours." And in very few minutes
a sound not unlike distant surf told that two big
fellows had got away to a remarkably even start. I
climbed up and stretched in luxurious ease in the
folds of a huge gray blanket which covered a sure-
enough hair mattress. Not in the least sleepy, I lay
with closed eyes studying mental pictures of broad
wetlands, above which springy, bent-winged sprites
wove mazy problems for up-wind shooters to unravel.
I had just about made up my mind to doze off when
something hauled at the blanket and a voice roared,
" Tumble down, you snoring lubber ! " Very much
astonished, but gloriously rested, I followed direc-
tions, which led out into a dim gray world and
finally to a tin washdish. Half an hour later we
moved to the waterside, where the punters were
waiting. " Off you go, and good luck to you. Be
careful ; there's no bottom anywhere in the marsh,"
said Thompson, and in a moment my canoe slid
into open water and headed north. As it rounded
the first bend of the channel-like open, the battleship
steamed straight into the reeds, while the second
canoe started south.
252 Sporting Sketches
" Load duck soon," rumbled Batteese, and I
glanced through the barrels, loaded, and knelt com-
fortably, awaiting developments. Soon a quick
double-shot sounded from one side, and a long
string of fowl came speeding across the course.
" Red-head shoot ! " muttered Batteese, and one
dropped at longish range and was boated. As we
rounded a bend some hundred yards farther on,
Batteese whispered, " Can-vas-back-dur," and I saw
about twenty big fellows floating near the wall of
reeds. No mistaking the peculiar wooden appear-
ance of the long heads and proportionally long
necks, the latter stiffly erect and the heads looking
as though they had been stuck on at right angles
to their supports. With a quick roar of wings the
fowl sprang straight up several feet above the water.
It was a fair chance, and a bird fell to each barrel ;
but alas ! the second duck at once went under, the
other shifting about in erratic circles. This one
Batteese at once secured, and forever ended its kick-
ing by nipping its neck between his teeth the
most persuasive argument to reduce a duck to in-
activity. No effort was made to find the other.
" Canvas back dive no good look," was
all the satisfaction I got. The Breed's shrewd eyes
had noted the tipped wing, and he well knew how
useless would have been a search in such a place for
the master-diver of all our choice duck.
" Teal dur," he presently warned, and I saw a
dainty wee green-wing standing close by on some
drifted reeds. That bantam surely had electric
flying-gear. It sprang like a cuffed grouse, and
through a double puff of haze " vainly the fowler's
Picked from the Prairie Province 253
eye " did mark a receding speck rather suggestive of
an extremely busy bee. I could not resist a peep
astern, and lo ! Batteese's noble grinders were dis-
played from end to end. "Teal fass look
bluebill quick!" And straight ahead streamed
a grand flock of fully one hundred of the square-
built, lively fowl which so greatly add to the sport
of the larger marshes. Three or four hit the open
water, others crashed into the reeds. "Quick!
shoot crippul " warned Batteese, and I knocked
over a duck which showed signs of a partial recov-
ery. To pick up the floaters was a simple matter,
then I got a touch of the Breed's real quality.
Straight at the wall-like mass of reeds went the
canoe, and when she had been forced by main
strength twenty feet into the cover, he said, " Dock
dur ! " and under my hand was the chunky, floating
form of a nice drake. Then out crawled the canoe,
only to butt into the growth again and again at
various points till five more fowl were boated. And
not once did I see a feather, until the laconic " Dook
dur ! " caused me to look straight down and see
the floater within easy reach. The last time he
worked far in, peering from side to side and parting
the reeds with his paddle. " Woun dud," he
grunted, but the next moment his paddle sung
through the air and almost decapitated the duck,
which was trying to slip abaft of the canoe and some
few inches below the surface. The craft was now
firmly wedged, but he had an easier method than
poling. Moving midships, he seized a handful of
reeds and pulled, and we slid several feet, after
which a few more pulls nearly cleared the cover ;
254 Sporting Sketches
then he went to his place and backed out with the
paddle.
" Put decoy dur," he remarked as we neared
a long point of reeds, and soon the dozen lures
were riding to their weighted cords. Then the
canoe was forced her length into the reeds, a
bunch of the tough stems was tightly twisted round
the middle thwart at either side, and the late sensi-
tive craft was as steady as a floor. " Bess stan
up no fall deep dur," he instructed ; then we
changed places, and I could stand at ease with eyes
just above the cover. The picture was most inter-
esting. Immediately in front was the open channel
with the decoys shifting and nodding to the breeze
in a most lifelike manner. Forty yards away,
another wall of reeds, and beyond that a brown,
quivering level of foliage which seemed to extend to
the horizon, and above the brown, in half-a-dozen
directions, streamed swift fowl in long flocks, small
groups, and pairs, while every few minutes sounded
a dull rump ! rump ! which told that Thompson
and Monroe were having a lively time somewhere
in the sunlit waste.
" Blue bill ! " grunted Batteese, and there was a
hollow humming, and a single duck "cut down " in
the beautiful method of a bluebill stooping from a
great height to decoys. It struck the water with a
spat and bounced with cork-like buoyancy. Batteese
gave it one glance and grunted, " Dead." In a
moment he added, " Crow dook," and I saw a line
of very large foul heading straight for the point.
Cormorants being fishier than a political deal, the
sable array was allowed to sweep "past upon their
fry-destroying mission.
Picked from tbe Prairie Province 255
Bluebills in flocks of all sizes, and, at irregular
intervals, redheads, came whizzing along to hover
above the decoys and receive a double salute, and
as I realized that there were unlimited numbers of
fowl, I began a selection process in which only rather
difficult shots counted. Even then, I had about all I
could attend to. " More shell," remarked Batteese,
as he passed a second box of twenty-five. " Plain-
tee more," he explained as he proceeded to tear
open a third box of the half-dozen beside him.
He knew that the main flight was yet to come,
and that three hundred shells were none too many
for a typical day. His wild blood craved slaughter,
and if ten thousand fowl could be killed, so much
the better. But I have notions of my own on that
question.
Certainly there was plenty of variety. Now it
was bluebill, then redhead, then, with a hollow roar,
a dozen swift canvasbacks ; then the measured win-
nowing of a pair of mallard, the steamy hiss of the
teal's bullet flight; the sounding hum of shovel-
lers; and through it all the silent black-and-white
flickering action of pretty little huffle-heads and
mergansers. And there was so much of it that
before noon I was both ready to eat and to stop
shooting for the day. So the gun was laid aside
and we dawdled over the food, heedless of the rush-
ing wings audible every few minutes.
" You go home ? " he blurted out, in his astonish-
ment for once speaking rapidly, and I nodded. He
said never a word, but his face appeared to take on a
darker shade. The canoe was freed from her reedy
tethers, the decoys were lifted, and he began his quest
256 Sporting Sketches
for the fallen. " How many you make it ? " I
ventured. " Fifty-fo'," he growled, and something in
the way he said it hinted that about five hundred
and four would have better suited his taste. Then
followed the finest exhibition of gathering that I
have seen. " Fifty-fo'," he had said, and "fifty-fo' " it
had to be, or there would be a raking of that marsh
by the fine-tooth-comb process. About half the
ducks had fallen into the reeds, and I had but a
vague idea of where any of them lay. Strung along
for one hundred yards of the open channel were
white and dark forms slowly drifting with the breeze,
but to these he paid no immediate attention. In-
stead, he paddled up-wind to a certain point, drove
the canoe into the cover, and said, " Bluebill dur,"
and touching the side was the duck. Out went
the canoe, then in again some dozen yards below,
straight to another fowl. Then I grasped the fact
that he had gone to the most distant victim, and
proposed to drift back and gather the others in turn.
It was a puzzle how he could remember the exact
location of each one, especially on the back trip,
which meant an entirely different point of view.
Yet not once was he astray, although one duck was
not secured. "Tink woun dud," he muttered
as he drove the canoe far in and parted the reeds
just ahead. " Gray dook los' dive dur,"
and he pointed at a slight movement in the water,
and then the canoe was hauled out. The boating
of the floaters was easy, and lo ! the last made the
count fifty-three.
" Batteese, you're a wonder ! \ I exclaimed ; " I
haven't the slightest idea how you do it, but I've
Picked from the Prairie Province 257
just seen it done, and that's enough for me." The
beady eyes twinkled, and the white teeth showed as
their owner slowly rumbled, " We go home
nudder way find dook in pond." Only
intense satisfaction could have released this torrent
of eloquence, which actually startled me. And
what followed seemed even more wonderful than all
previous performances, for he laid a straight course
for the invisible shanty, heedless of what lay in the
way. Compared with tracing even erratic channels,
it was something like riding across country instead
of following well-defined lanes, and more than once
I felt a trifle dubious concerning the issue. But
there was a method in his seeming madness. Right
well that wily rascal knew that between where we
were and the shanty lay several hidden ponds, his
own favorite potting places. Not for a lot would
he have revealed them to either Monroe or Thomp-
son, to whom he would have declared the route
impracticable on account of weight, which, while
false, would have sounded all right in the ears of ex-
perts who understood what extra weight means in a
marsh. The simple fact was Batteese wanted more
ducks, and while apparently humoring my desire to
avoid too much killing, he really was leading me
into temptation.
" Beeg dook dur keep still," he whis-
pered, and I thought I might as well be ready.
Straight into the breeze to which the reeds were
whispering crept the canoe, and a something in its
wary movements warned that it was no ordinary
quest, yet we stole on and on for full fifty yards.
Then on the breeze came a murmur of peculiar
258 Sporting Sketches
sound, a droning of many duck voices, blent with
the fluttering of many wings and the squattering of
feeding fowl. My heart thrilled, for I knew that a
mighty host of web-footed merry-makers was con-
cealed just ahead. A moment later the cover in
front suddenly thinned, and I came near yelling
with astonishment. About an acre of open space
seemed to be covered with a live and exceedingly
downy quilt of a most amazing pattern, and its
nearest edge was not ten yards away. Perhaps no-
where else in the world could such a picture of wild
life be seen, but the view was brief. " Me-ak ! "
shouted one horrified fowl, and erstwhile careless
heads bristled up in every direction like so much
stubble. Then with a roar worthy of a lightning
express, the feathered host sprang into the air in
such close order that the sharp biff-baff of clashing
wings was distinctly audible. For a moment it
looked as if the entire pond had gone up, but Bat-
teese's gasping " Shoot shoot ! " caused me to re-
member the excuse for the intrusion. " Shoot ! "
almost prayed Batteese, and as the feathered canopy
ripped apart and left one great drake exactly in the
centre of the tear, the first barrel did its work on
the single. And of all that storm of life the second
shot stopped but three, and one of those happened
to fly into it fifty yards away. And poor Batteese,
to say the least, " Heem ver sad," as the way
he drove that canoe through the reeds rather sug-
gested. No more clever work for him that day.
What he wanted was to get home and smoke and
ponder upon the bitterness of his lot which con-
demned him to daily association with a duffer who
Picked from the Prairie Province 259
didn't know enough to wreck a raft of ducks when
it floated within easy range.
At the shanty he sulked till evening brought
the others home. Then again his wonderful eyes
sparkled and his white teeth flashed, for, after all,
his foolish if not actually crazy white man was not
"low boat." And to brother Alfred did Batteese
confide: "Heem one funny man, dat beeg
fel-low. He shoot all right, but heem
too scare to kill dem much."
" They seem a great lot," said Thompson, as the
last pair was tied and added to the rows upon the
wall, "but you see it's this way. We have many
friends who seldom taste game unless we give it to
them, so when we come here, we shoot for the crowd
at home as well. If we killed a thousand fowl, not
one would be wasted. Now that we've made so good
a start, we'll hold our hands a bit." And this was
done, and day by day the bag decreased, until finally
only canvasbacks, redheads, and gray ducks were
shot. At last came a peculiar, gray morning, which
meant " Break Camp." All through the previous
afternoon long strings of fowl had risen high and
streamed away due south ; so word was sent in for
the wagons. The southbound ducks proved true
prophets; for as the last of the outfit was taken
aboard the train, a sudden squall and a horizontal
rush of blinding sleet told that the white wolf of the
north was afoot for a southerly raid and would be
howling at top speed ere the dawning.
HE was mighty hard to convert. As he put it
himself, he was " sorter sot in his ways," and above
all, he " didn't keer fur no durn boys to be foolin'
round him." I doubt if evangelist ever softened a
tougher subject.
I was then a big, raw-boned lad, a fairly good shot
for my years, and crazy to get hold of all possible
information about shooting and trapping. I had to
stay with an elder brother in the woods till his
lumbering operations could be concluded in the
following spring, which meant that I had at least
ten months during which I could fish, shoot, and
trap, according to season. It was a fine opportunity,
for there was plenty of game, large and small, within
rifle-shot of the wretched village which consisted of
a foot-path, with a saloon and a couple of dozen
other buildings strung along it. At least half of
the male residents hunted or trapped at odd times,
but they didn't amount to much. Several of them
used to find pleasure in stuffing me full of yarns of
260
Tbe Conversion of Trapper Lewis 261
their experiences, but they were merely picturesque
old liars. The real trapper and hunter, the man who
had trailed across the continent, and who knew the
secrets of woodcraft, was Lewis. He had mined,
prospected, trapped, and hunted in the far west and
north for at least forty years, and I pined to know
him and gain his confidence. Many attempts had
failed, many drinks had been uselessly paid for. I
had tackled him every way I could think of, yet all
I had received in return had been an occasional
" Hello, Canady," when he chanced to be feeling
particularly genial, and perhaps a few muttered re-
marks when he agreed to swallow drinks at my
expense.
Lewis was not much to look at. He was short,
thin, and did not weigh more than one hundred and
thirty pounds. His face was brown as a mink pelt,
much wrinkled, and marked with a ghastly white
scar obtained years before in a set-to with a wounded
grizzly. Hair, stubby beard, and eyebrows of yellow-
ish white contrasted curiously with his dark skin
and beady eyes. Taken all in all he reminded me
of an ancient monkey. Despite his habitual loung-
ing walk and battered exterior he was full of vigor,
and quick as a cat if occasion demanded. His gait
in the woods, or on a trail, was not so very fast, but
he could apparently stay forever, and, as I found out
later, he had a peculiar knack of wriggling through
rough places which would bafHe many larger and
more powerful men. His favorite weapon was a
double, muzzle-loading rifle of the old-fashioned
" over-and-under " pattern, and with this rifle, or with
any large revolver, he could do some cracking good
262 Sporting Sketches
shooting. With the shotgun he could do little
he wouldn't try it, for he hated that weapon with all
the unreasonable pertinacity of the old school of
still-hunters.
" Them durn noisy things won't kill nuthin' ! "
was his contemptuous remark the first time he saw
my expensive fourteen-gauge muzzle-loader.
This was the kind of man I had undertaken to
thaw out, and my scheming for two months had
affected his bearing about as much as a New York
bonfire would affect the Polar ice-cap. He once
had so far relented as to say to a friend of mine :
" Canady's a slick-spoken feller 'bout huntin', an' a
mannersome feller, too ; but I reckon it's all book
larnin' an' don't amount to much ennyhow. I'd like
to see Canady run foul of a bear his durn slick talk
wouldn't help him enny, an' I reckon his shootin' 'd
be about level with his talk."
Beyond this unsatisfactory state of mind he had
showed no symptoms of ever advancing, when the
first of three events, which marked three stages of
what finally became a warm friendship, occurred.
The lounging-place of the village was, of course,
the saloon. It had a long room with a bar across
one end, a pool table in the centre, and a dozen
rough chairs strung along the walls. The pool table
happened to be a new one, and at that time I was
supposed to be a good player.
One evening I strolled down to the saloon and
found Lewis and half-a-dozen of the regular hang-
ers-on sitting swapping yarns and possibly (?) wait-
ing for somebody to stand treat. -J filled the long-felt
want, then I picked up a cue, and began knocking
The Conversion of Trapper Lewis 263
the balls about. I had no intention of playing, so
paid no heed to where object or cue-ball rolled.
The crowd watched me lazily for perhaps ten min-
utes ; then, to my astonishment, Lewis remarked :
" Say, Canady, I reckon I know a feller can down
you at that game fur a dollar! "
A thought occurred to me that perhaps I could
get solid with Lewis at last, so I quietly weighed
the chances for a time and decided to take them.
" So you think your man can beat me, Mr.
Lewis ? "
" That's what I said, Canady."
" And you're sure he can do it ? "
" Shure ! I know he kin ! If he don't, he ain't
no son of mine."
" Oh, he's your son, eh ? "
" That's what I said."
" Well, when do you want to try ? "
" Will you go him, Canady ? By gosh ! we'll just
play you right now. I'll fetch him, he ain't far
off, you bet! But hold on thar, Canady! Just pile
up the dust 'fore I go after him. Don't want to
fetch no feller fur nothing, understand ! "
We put up our dollars for a match, best three in
five games, and the old chap started after his hope-
ful progeny. I don't think he had far to go, as I
suspect the son was just outside the door, and the
whole affair was a put-up job. Anyway, they soon
appeared, accompanied by all available citizens.
The old man evidently considered the contest an
international affair, the stakes immense, and the
coming triumph of his son too important to be
missed by any one.
264 Sporting Sketches
The crowd took up easy positions around the
table, and the game began. I presently wished
myself well out of it, for I soon discovered that my
opponent was a very ordinary player and was also
badly rattled. Luckily he had never seen me play,
and it would have been a simple matter to have let
him win. This I had figured out to be the shortest
cut to Lewis' friendship, and I intended trying it.
But an unexpected complication arose. One of the
few friends I had in the place sung out, " One dollar
that Canady wins the match ! " This was a muddle !
I could not fool my friend out of his money, yet if I
beat young Lewis, farewell to all hope of further
association with his redoubtable dad. Finally I
begged off on the score that the betting made me
nervous, while my friend took alarm from a timely
wink and agreed to shut up. After some inten-
tionally poor play, Lewis, Jr., won the first and
second games. As we began the third frame my
would-be backer edged near me and whispered
" What in thunder are you tryin' to do ? They
won't play no higher ! " I could have roared with
laughter at the idea of that game, for the entire
outfit couldn't have scared up ten dollars. Lewis,
Jr., won the decisive game, much to his delight.
But 'twas his dad who derived the real satisfaction
from the winning.
" Gimme them thar stakes ! Gimme Canady 's
dollar," he shouted, and in the fulness of his joy he
actually treated all hands. For once he became
talkative, and made divers sneering references to
Canada and all things Canadian.^
I felt a trifle savage, for I saw that I had made a
The Conversion of Trapper Lewis 265
mistake. Had I won the old man might have been
mad, but I should not have earned his contempt.
Therefore, I was not at all sorry when some sharp
talk arose between my friend and a man who had
wanted to back my opponent.
Old Lewis was keen for another match, but I
called him aside and asked him as a favor to sit
still and watch the game if we played another.
He at once became suspicious, but agreed to do
as I asked. Meanwhile, the disputants had ar-
ranged another match, for a dollar a side, young
Lewis to play and stand to win, or lose, nothing.
This arrangement gave him confidence, and he
rashly broke the balls. I found an easy set-up
and pocketed fifteen straight. After a moment's
silence the crowd voiced a hearty " Good boy,
Canady ! " and before the man who had lost the
dollar had time to get real mad, I had made the
bettors draw their money.
Things turned out better than I had expected.
The crowd agreed that " Canady was a square
feller," and old Lewis held out a paw and said :
" Put her thar, Canady ; yer a cuss to play pool ;
but what'n thunder did yer throw off in the first
game fur ? "
" Just for a bit of fun," I replied, for the last thing
I wanted him to know was the true reason. From
that day on Lewis and I became almost friendly,
but, while he would speak of his old-time experi-
ences in the West, I was unable to edge him in
the direction of his more recent doings. In fact,
I believe he thought I was a well-meaning young-
ster and a confounded nuisance to boot. Anyway,
266 Sporting Sketches
he showed no disposition to ask me to join him for
a hunt until the season was well advanced. I could
laugh now as I think of the times when I acciden-
tally met him on the road near the village ; how I'd
pretend not to see him, and would toss up a small
stone and rattle a load of shot against it before it
fell, and how at last I killed a flying pigeon at long
range longer range than Lewis had credited to
the despised shot-gun. That time he stopped and
said : " Canady, I reckon yer pretty handy with that
scatter-gun, if that pigeon wasn't killed by accident.
Wish I could run you up agin' a drove of pa'tridge
they'd fool you, fur yer can't hit them fellers when
they're goin' in arnist."
This was said in such a decided tone that I
almost laughed. I told him that " pa'tridges " were
easy enough sometimes, and to my delight he ex-
claimed : " Is that so ! Well, I'll show you they
ain't; I just passed a drove of 'em a piece back,
an' if yer game to go, I'll take you to 'em, and see
how you shoot."
Lewis's " pa'tridge " were ruffed grouse, and we
soon found the brood in some briers. When they
rose in the open, I managed to kill with each barrel.
The first bird was the old hen, and the fact of the
second being a slow young one made the right-and-
left easy. Lewis was thunderstruck, and his surprise
was heightened when he saw the old bird. But in
a moment his prejudice reasserted itself, and he
remarked :
"Slick work, Canady yer a hummer; but did
you hear how she roared through the timber?
That durn gun's too noisy she'd scare every-
The Conversion of Trapper Lewis 267
thing out of the woods ! An' she ain't no good
fur anything bigger'n pa'tridge."
However, old Lewis had been somewhat im-
pressed. He spoke of the grouse in the village,
and I heard that his comments upon the first
wing-shooting he had seen were quite favorable.
Still the longed-for comradeship did not arrive,
although the thin end of the needful wedge had
been inserted in the old fellow's cross-grained
notions. His final capitulation came about in this
wise :
One day I felt lonesome, and decided that a tramp
along the railroad would be good medicine. I did
not expect to do much shooting, but pipe and gun
are always good company, so I took both with me.
As I was in a wild country, a couple of balls to fit
the gun and a charge of buckshot were in the
pocket of the shooting-coat. I knew that the
railroad ran through a burnt district famous for
pigeons and berries, and decided to go that far
and bag a bird or two, if nothing more. Before
I reached the "burn," I saw old Lewis, with rifle
on shoulder, emerge from some cover and cross the
track ahead of me. He was evidently trailing some-
thing, and in a moment he saw me and beckoned.
When I reached him, he said "Look thar,
Canady ; what you think of that fur a track ? "
I saw an impression in the dust, and asked if it
was not bear sign.
"Just so, Canady; 'tain't nuthin' else look
a-yonder where he crossed the creek."
Sure enough, the moist sand bore unmistakable
imprints.
268 Sporting Sketches
" Now, Canady," the old man went on, " if yer good
fur a whirl with him, I don't care if you come along.
He's workin' to the berry patches." I at once drew
the charges of shot, and put an ounce ball in one
barrel and nine buckshot in the other. Lewis looked
on with interest, and upon my telling him that the
fourteen-gauge would shoot ball first-rate, he ex-
claimed " Well, I hope she do ; fur, by gum, she
may have to 'fore you get through."
We agreed to take opposite sides of the creek,
which was full of floating logs that had missed the
freshet, and were waiting higher water. Lewis's part-
ing advice was " Go slow ; yer not apt to see him
till you reach the berry patch. Don't try no fool
shootin', and don't let that fool-gun get you into
trouble."
I fancy that Lewis knew too much about black
bear to really anticipate any serious trouble, but I
also knew that his advice was good, and determined
to act upon it. We parted, Lewis following the
tracks across the creek, while I moved ahead, keep-
ing what I judged to be about abreast of my com-
rade. The cover was dense, and the course of the
creek very erratic, which fact made it as likely as
not that the bear would finally be found upon my
side of the water.
After a lot of slow, cautious work I drew near to
the berry patches. No sign of the game as yet, but
I presently discovered a footprint in a muddy spot.
It had been made by the bear, and so recently that
the muddy water was still slowly trickling into it.
So the brute had crossed to-, my side ! My first
thought as I viewed the sign was, Won't old Lewis
The Conversion of Trapper Lewis 269
be hot ! and for a moment a feeling of triumph
overcame every other sensation. He'll sneer at
Canady, will he? Guess I'll show him show him
what ?
The triumphant feeling fizzled out, and in its
stead arose a sensation of utter loneliness. A
second glance at the track detected a number of
little holes in the mud. Claws had left those traces,
and a series of sickly tremors crept up my spine as
I peered nervously into the surrounding cover. At
last I moved forward, but halted before I had
covered thirty yards. What was the outrageous
thumping in my chest, as though some imprisoned
thing were trying to beat its way out ? I knew
what it was, but I could not stop it. Did I really
want to kill the bear had it ever, by word or deed,
injured me? I felt that it had not. Why then was
I so keen to slay the poor creature why was I
there at all ?
I began to wish myself well out of it. Why
hadn't the fool bear stuck to the other side of the
creek ? Lewis was a bear hunter, and the proper
man for the animal to interview. Were there two
bears ? If there were, this one wasn't the bear I
was after. Old Lewis was after my bear. I had
nothing against this one; in fact, it wasn't the bear
at all ! Besides, mebbe the old man was right when
he said that a shot-gun was no good for bear. I
came precious near going over to see old Lewis
about it !
I figured out that mebbe if I broke a stick or two,
or made a little noise, this bear would sneak away
and I could go on and slay the right one. Finally,
270 Sporting Sketches
the uncertainty became unbearable, and I crept
doubtfully forward for half-a-dozen steps, then
shrivelled into as near nothingness behind a tree as
a man can, for straight ahead, about fifty yards
away, was the bear! It had not seen me, and,
luckily, it was moving from me, else I'm afraid I'd
have stampeded.
Its black body disappeared behind some cover,
and as it vanished my feeling underwent an ex-
traordinary change. A fever of excitement, a wild
impulse to follow, seized me, and I stole forward as
rapidly as possible. My loss of nervousness, and
the new, keen desire to kill, astonished me. The
sight of the game had braced me up. The previous
long, uncertain stalk had rattled me, but things
were now all right. " Shot-guns no good " be
hanged, and old Lewis, too ! The fourteen-gauge
should prove its merit right now.
Crack ! crack ! the double report of Lewis's rifle
ripped the silence of the woods. I leaped upon a
log and saw the old man skip behind a tree. I saw
his arm flourishing as he strove to reload ; then
something black rolled into view about halfway be-
tween us. The black thing finally got upon its feet
and came blundering directly toward me. I glared
at it for a few seconds, then tossed up the gun, and
fired both barrels when it was hardly twenty yards
away. It collapsed, for the ounce ball happened to
find the head.
Up came old Lewis on the jump. He took one
look at the bear's head, then excitedly exclaimed,
" Great gosh ! "
"What's wrong?"
Tbe Conversion of Trapper Lewis 271
" Why, Canady, I'll be eternally chawed up !
Why didn't you blow the hull head off the durned
fool, while you was at it ? By gosh, that scatter-gun
shoots some ! See whar the buckshot ketched 'im ;
the big ball knocked the brains clar out. But,
Canady, I drawed true on him ; I bust his shoulder,
t'other ball cut his leg. I knowed it would, fur it
grazed a sapling."
So I had managed to knock down a dying bear,
and to fill it so full of missiles that its hide might
have served as a title-deed to a lead mine. I didn't
care if I had we'd killed the bear!
The animal was not nearly so large as I had ex-
pected. I waived all share of the quarry and the
bounty, if there was one. Lewis got out his knife
and gave me an object-lesson in the matter of how
to flay and carve a dead bear. This part of the fun
was rather tedious and unpleasant. He hung up
the skin and hams, then we went down to the creek
and washed our hands.
The old man was jubilant. He thawed out
wonderfully, and I saw readily enough that I and
the shot-gun had climbed considerably in his esti-
mation. But I could not guess that within the
next ten minutes Lewis was to become my sworn
friend for life.
He wanted to hurry home to get his horse for the
purpose of packing-in the bear, and he told me that
one big pool formed by the creek was jammed so
full of logs that we could cross dry-footed and make
a bee-line for his house.
When we reached the jam, I didn't like its look,
but Lewis said, " It's easy ; I'll learn you how to
272 Sporting Sketches
skip 'em." He did, with variations not on his pro-
gramme.
The logs appeared to be firm enough until he was
halfway across. Then he stopped and laughingly
told me to follow. As he spoke, either his foot
slipped, or the log he was on turned anyway, he
disappeared. I had just begun to laugh, when I
saw the disturbed logs draw close together over the
one open space which Lewis had found in his de-
scent. Down went the gun, the coat fell on a log
three jumps from there, and the last bound of a mad
rush landed me on the log Lewis had just vacated.
The shock separated the log a few inches from its
neighbor, and with a foot upon each I strained to
broaden the gap. In an instant they were a couple
of feet apart, and I dropped between them into water
up to my armpits. With an arm over each log I
hung and worked my long legs scissors-fashion
through the water. Old Lewis was there all right,
tumbling about in the liveliest kind of way, and I
hadn't kicked three times before he seized me by
the thigh and climbed up my body like a cat scaling
a fence post. The first thing he did was to spout
about a pint of water into my face, then he yelled
like an Indian.
There wasn't anything much the matter with
him, but he was about as badly scared a man as I
have ever seen. He recovered in a moment, and we
both went ashore to strip for the work of securing
the rifle. This was accomplished by forcing the
logs well apart and prodding for the rifle with a
stout branch. As the water w.as barely six feet
deep we soon located the weapon, then Lewis held
The Can-version of Trapper Lewis 273
the branch firmly while I climbed down it and re-
turned. Then we went ashore and had the delayed
laugh out. Lewis told me how it felt to be under
water and vainly butting one's head against a roof
of logs. Later when we parted, he wrung my hand
and told me this : " Put her thar, Canady. I ain't
the feller to forget bein' snaked outen a scrape like
that. Ef it's a go, we'll hunt pardners this fall an'
trap her out till spring." And we did.
I HAD just left the horse show and was glad of it,
for it was much nicer to dawdle along the east side
of the Square. It was a glorious night, moony and
sweetly calm the finest imaginable correction for
the overdose inside the Garden. Suddenly, " Hello ! "
said somebody close by. I looked up I stood a
fraction over six feet high yet I looked up.
What I saw was worth several long looks. One
doesn't often see a middle-aged man who stands
six-feet-three, on legs as straight as ramrods ; above
them, a waist like a healthy girl's, chest and shoulders
worthy of old Hercules himself, and topped off with
a big handsome face. The carelessly swinging
covert-coat revealed an expanse of white which
looked like a tombstone erected to the memory of
clean, sagacious living.
" This is curious," he said in a hearty voice.
" Not half an hour ago we were speaking about you.
I was wondering if you were game for a day's Bob
White shooting on Long Island, Staten Island, or
anywhere else within easy reach. I've a friend from
England, a parson and a good sort, who is eager to
try what he calls ' quail,' as we did until last year."
" The whole thing's curious, Doctor," I replied,
" for it happens I've a pressing invitation, good for a
374
Four of a Kind 275
couple of friends, too, to try a bit of sport in Penn-
sylvania. I know the ground, and my friend has a
good dog."
In very few minutes all details were settled, and
we parted with the understanding that he and his
clerical friend were to meet me at the Jersey side in
time for a convenient train. When we met, I was
rather startled, for the friend stood fully six-feet-four,
and the pair of 'em, in tweed, suggested a couple of
stately brown-stone fronts. The new parson was
precisely the sort of friend the other might be
expected to have.
Now, until we had left the train at our destination,
I clean forgot what manner of man would meet us;
but presently, as a truly gigantic figure bore down
upon us, it came over me. It looked like a case of
six-feet-one, six-feet-three, six-feet-four, and one for
His Nobbs, for he stood six-feet-six. The fact that
our guide had taken his turn at the reading-desk, an
occasional whack at the pulpit, and actually was a
church warden at that blessed moment, didn't lessen
the fun any.
" What are you giggling at ? " curtly demanded
my parson, and the twinkle in his blue eye was
irresistible.
" I I hardly know," I stuttered. " What is this
outfit, anyhow, a high-church deputation, or just an
accident ? You know I'm the son of an arch-
deacon."
" True, I'd forgotten that," he retorted. " It does
look a bit shoppy, and as you're an unregenerate
ruffian, we'll have to call you the Lay Delegate."
The Pennsylvanian, at a reasonable hour in the
276 Sporting Sketches
morning, had a smart team hooked to a democrat
wagon, and the first ground was only about five
miles away. He had a businesslike-looking pointer,
and we were to pick up another dog. Even so late
in the season that portion of the state forms an
exceedingly attractive picture. It is true we had
missed the full glory of the turning leaf, but there
still lingered much warmth in the browning foliage,
while blue hills, dimly seen through silvery haze,
formed a superb background.
The ground looked almost too clean for quail, but
presently our guide pulled up his team and ex-
claimed " See 'em crossin' thar they be ! " As
we looked a cock quail sprinted across and was
closely followed by half-a-dozen birds, seemingly a
bit larger than the ordinary type.
" Out with you, Lay Delegate we'll hold the
dogs ! " commanded the parsons, and as they posi-
tively refused the chance, I speedily unlimbered.
" Birr !-birr-birr-birr ! " Not the expected half
dozen, but fully twenty birds sprang yards into the
air. Two cocks and a hen streamed fair across the
road, and the stopping of the white throats was a
crisply easy task. As I looked toward the wagon,
two stately figures rose and stood respectfully un-
covered. Mentally, I could see stained-glass windows
close behind 'em.
" Them's willow legs ! " declared the guide, posi-
tively, as I handed up the birds. Needless to say
the quail were the common type, although unusually
fine and large.
Very pretty but rather peculiar shooting followed.
The ground was so clean that birds flushed at from
Four of a Kind 277
ten to fifteen yards. The dogs, however, proved to
be of the useful, pottering sort, working with almost
exasperating carefulness and propping the instant
they made game.
But the parsons were the real joy of the day. I
had rashly concluded that the friend never could
equal the other's acknowledged skill, but I acquired
much wisdom within half an hour. After four
straight, clean kills, I put away the pipe and began
to get square-jawed. It was beautiful to watch their
clean, snappy action and the smoke-like puffs of
feathers which never come save from a bird fairly
centred. When my fifth was clean muffed, there
sounded a soft " Ah ! " which was immediately fol-
lowed by the spiteful squinge of smokeless, and
the bird went down like a rag.
From that on the Lay Delegate had a very hard
time trying to curb the impetuosity of the rectors.
I got one of 'em about the ninth bird, but the other
proved absolutely ungettable, for he hung to his
saving lead till the shadows lengthened and the blue
hills blurred. The other, the friend, struggled
nobly, but I managed to keep him one notch be-
hind. In justice to him, only his lack of practice at
the game saved me.
When we reached the wagon, I felt like a man
who had enjoyed an almost perfect day. They were
so enthusiastic so clever so crisply clean of
speech and thought that they added a peculiar
zest to the thing. For once there had been a three-
cornered shooting party without flask, shady yarn, or
any of those really not serious lapses, which yet occur
and jar the s\veet wholesomeness of a sport which
278 Sporting Sketches
should be as clean as the soul of a child. There
were, however, jokes and anecdotes a-plenty, prime
good fellowship and pipes in fine, all a decent
man could ask for. " And," thinks I to myself,
" these are the men I was a wee bit shy about
and was secretly dubious of in the matter of their
ability both as field-workers and good fellows.
Never again for me the hesitancy. Henceforth
parsons for mine ! They elevate every phase of the
fun."
As we were all pretty tired, it was voted to sleep
at the small hostelry, and roll comfortably home
next day. Our guide went to his house, and we
loafed all we could over an excellent supper, and at
last stepped upon the piazza for a few breaths of
sweet air before turning in. All three rooms com-
manded the street. As we stood upon the piazza
the air seemed filled with a peculiar, silvery mist, to
which the faint moonlight imparted an almost
uncanny effect. On the line of the fence opposite a
single, tall, white thing showed in an undecided sort
of way.
In a spirit of sheer idleness, and because we couldn't
make it out from where we were, we strolled toward
it. It proved to be a long, bottle-shaped board upon
which was an " ad " of somebody's whiskey !
" Strange, how deceiving this light is that
board looked to be fully sixty yards away, yet it's
but forty-five," remarked my parson, as we regained
the piazza.
" Not six inches over forty-two, I should say,"
said the friend, positively. " What do you think ? "
he added, speaking to me.
Four of a Kind 279
" About forty no more light's baffling," I re-
plied.
Like men who have nothing to worry about we
chaffed each other unmercifully concerning our
several abilities at judging distance. On a sudden
it flashed into my mind that both the others had
returned with most stately strides ! Stepping it off !
And in an instant I became worldly and and
wary.
" Tell you what we'll do," exclaimed my parson,
as we turned into the house "I say forty-five
yards you say forty-two, and the Lay Delegate
says forty. We'll measure it in the morning and
learn who has the truer eye and the poorest
guesser shall pay the bill for all. How's that ? "
We agreed, and the host grinned cheerfully. Pres-
ently he produced a huge tape-line and remarked
" There's the settler what's the matter with
a-measuring of her right now ? "
My parson took the tape, pulled out a few feet,
wound them back, seemed to study a moment, then
said : " No use bothering now, I'm for bed : we can
settle the thing in the morning," and upstairs he
marched, after placing the tape upon a small bracket
in the hall.
For some reason I was extremely wakeful. For
a long time I lay thinking of many things and inci-
dentally listening like a deer. At last there came a
sound the slow creaking of a bed, followed by an
uncertain rustling. Then a door creaked, stopped,
and again creaked, and presently came the muffled
pat-pat of cautious feet. My window was wide open,
so I noiselessly moved until I could command the
280 Sporting Sketches
street and the white sign in dispute. After what
felt like fifteen minutes, a board outside groaned,
and a moment later a very tall form moved dimly in
the street. There came a steady purring sound as
the figure advanced, and I chuckled, for only a tape-
line makes that sound. Presently the figure reached
the sign, there was a trifling crash. The white thing
moved a few feet in my direction, then lo ! it stood
stiffly in position, and I heard the winding-in of the
tape. It was now exactly forty-five yards away.
After a bit he stole back, and I waited. Shortly
there was again a form in the road, again the meas-
uring, shifting of the mark, and winding up.
" She's in the forty-two hole now, all right, but
she'll stand even forty when I get through with
her." I chuckled as I waited for the other fellow
to get asleep, or at least settle down. I can cat-foot
like the real thing, and the way I finally drifted
down to that tape and out to the post was a triumph.
The distance from the scraper to the sign was as
near forty-two yards as it could be made. In a mo-
ment the mark was shifted to the even forty. I
restored the tape to its place and regained my room
without creaking a board, and soon I was sound
asleep.
"How about that sign-board hadn't you best
take a look at it in daylight ? " queried the host, after
breakfast the next morning.
" I'm game to stick to my figure ; we'll measure
presently," I replied.
" The same here," and " Here," said the parsons,
gravely.
" Let me see," said the host to rrty parson " you
Four of a Kind 281
said forty-five yards, and you," turning to the other,
" said forty-two, and Dellygait here, he took even
forty for his'n. You men are mighty poor guessers.
Why, you ain't none of you within five yards of the
actool distance that is, not if I know anything."
Each of us told him he surely was wrong, to which
he retorted that he'd bet our total bills against
a " ten spot " that he was nearer right than we were.
The parsons being out of the question, I took him
up.
Before we could start for the measuring, we heard
a cheery voice and a heavy step, and into the room
strode our gigantic guide.
" Mornin'. Thought I'd just step in to see how
you'd rested up."
We assured him that we never felt better; then
laughingly explained about the wager and that we
were just going to measure the distance and learn
who was the victim. He gave a quick, peculiar
gasp, then his broad face set in an expression of
stolid indifference, but for some reason his eye
seemed to fairly blaze with delight.
" Lemme see," he said, " you say forty-five, and you
forty-two, you forty, and the Boss here bets none of
you is within five yards of the correct figure. Well,
one thing's certain the Boss ain't in it ! "
" That so ? Bet you five I win," chuckled the
Boss.
" I'll just have to go you ! " retorted our guide,
and they put up the money.
The Boss and the guide did the measuring while
the rest of us looked closely on. They had to do it
over three times before both had to own that the
282 Sporting Sketches
truthful tape made the distance exactly forty-six
yards four inches !
Never had I beheld three such faces of mystified
wonder, but the Boss was the worst. He finally
gasped out " Wuh wuh wull it's one
on me! But I'll be chucked if I see how it
came about ! "
Some time later he shook hands with us and said
he hoped we'd come again soon, but his eyes had a
far-away look and his voice lacked its customary
ring. The guide, however, kept grunting to himself,
and at the station he finally said :
" I don't just savvy that there betting proposition
yet. There's something awful funny about it. He
feels mighty sick back there 'bout something.
Mebbe he knowed that there board had been moved
and mebbe he didn't." We were guiltily looking
various ways. " You see them whiskey-signs is
also half-mile posts. They're placed by the firm
along the main roads, and the pesky boys here-
'bouts thinks its mighty smart to keep a-shiftin' of
'em. Dunno why, but they do it. Fact is I'm paid
a little by the agent to set up them signs and sorter
look after 'em and keep 'em somewhere near their
proper places. I've put yonder one back a dozen
times. I found she was away out this mornin' as I
came in, so I set her back."
For a long time we smoked and chatted in com-
fort, but at last my parson glanced quizzically from
one to the other, and said what I knew he would
say before we parted. He told of the little joke he
had planned, and how, of course, he had intended
to reimburse the loser after the joke had gone far
Four of a Kind 283
enough. This we knew was true. To his great
astonishment his friend presently told how he had
heard the other, had watched, twigged the joke,
and later had slipped out and shifted the board ;
also, of course, intending to tell later.
They had a lot of fun over it, and hearty were
their guffaws. Finally, after those grand fellows
had laughed and slapped each other's backs like big
care-free boys, I well, I told my story. It was a
pity our host was not there to join us. For such
high church folk we certainly played it low down.
IF the red grouse of Britain is, as I believe him to
be, the king of the entire grouse family, then, of a
surety, the next best one, our own ruffed bird, should
be president of feathered Americans and governor-
general of wilder Canada. Nor is the premier
position among the grouse of this continent a trifling
honor, for we have many species and good game-
birds withal. Largest of these is the big sage
grouse, which, unfortunately, owing to its diet, is
not a delicacy upon the board. Much better known,
and as much better in every other way, are the
pinnated grouse the prairie chicken and its
varieties, haunters of the great grassy seas of the
prairie states and northwestern Canada. One
variety, the heath hen, used to be common in the
Eastern States, but it is now confined to Martha's
Vineyard. That rare good bird, the sharp-tail
grouse of the prairies, is by many preferred to its
blunt-tailed cousin, the " chicken." The large dusky
grouse, second in size only to the sage grouse, or
cock of the plains, inhabits the 'forested ranges of
the West from New Mexico to Alaska, while, in
284
The Ruffed Grouse and Grouse Shooting 285
addition, we have the Canada grouse, or spruce
partridge, and the beautiful willow ptarmigan and
its near relatives. Of course the discriminating eye
of science divides and subdivides these groups into
yet more races and varieties, but these finer distinc-
tions need not be dwelt upon, as the present point
of view is from the sporting rather than the scientific
side.
That so many men prefer the " chicken " and
sharp-tail shooting of the prairies to any other form
of sport with the grouse does not of necessity prove
the superiority of the work in the open. I have no
fault to find with the prairie birds, too many
golden memories of flawless days in state and
province yet linger for that, but I prefer to shoot
ruffed grouse. The prairie shooting is, as a rule, a
bit too easy all round, and there is just a trifle too
much of sameness about it. You drive in solid com-
fort for miles after fast, wide-ranging dogs ; you get
down to shoot, climb up again to ride, and so it goes
for as long as you please. Of course, it is fun no
end, and certainly no other shooting affords better
opportunity for fine work by the dogs, and this, to
me, is its most attractive feature. Its real weak-
nesses are first, that it is too lazy work to long
satisfy an energetic, red-blooded man ; second, it
lacks the picturesque, for wild, breezy, and free as
the great plains are, there is a monotony in appar-
ently limitless leagues of grass, only broken by
scattered bluffs, in themselves only pleasing because
of the slight variety they impart to the scene.
Again, if I may put it so, you can see too much
i.e. you know too far in advance precisely what
286 Sporting Sketches
is going to happen. There are too few surprises and
hurry calls for the exercise of one's resourceful craft.
When birds are plentiful, it is just the thing for a
man who has travelled far for his sport, and who
wants all the actual shooting possible during a
limited holiday, but it never can present that charm
of charms the infinite variety of ruffed grouse
shooting.
Let not the reader for one moment imagine that
I do not love the plains and the sport they afford ;
but in a sportsman's heart, as in a mother's, there is
room for many loves, and I fear that if mine were
searched, there would be found, close-cuddled near
the centre and almost crowding small Boh from his
place, a bigger bird, wearing ruffs upon his neck,
and capable of spreading a most noble fan-tail.
Then again, the prairie shooting, as a test of skill,
which ever is a delight to keen men, lacks some
valuable accessories. The machine-like precision of
your crack performer of the grass lands is all very
well, and is interesting so far as it goes ; but it can-
not possibly rival the rapid work in heavy cover,
where conditions vary with every shot. I have
heard men boast of fine shooting at chickens in tall
corn. That is all right, and it may have been rather
difficult; but how would it have been with shot-
stopping trees instead of yielding corn or, in other
words, ruffed grouse shooting instead of chicken
shooting ?
To my mind one of those rarely enjoyed really
good days with ruffed grouse is the very finest test
of a man's skill and resourcefulness, for both surely
will be taxed to the uttermost. And each clean
The Ruffed Grouse and Grouse Shooting 287
kill will be long remembered. I suppose I have
killed as many grouse of all varieties as the average
man who shoots purely for pleasure, yet the inci-
dents of not a few days on the prairie are almost
forgotten, while those of ruffed grouse covers abso-
lutely refuse to down. The remains of shells of
mine might be found in the woods of Nova Scotia,
New Brunswick, Ontario, Quebec, Maine, Michigan,
Wisconsin, Manitoba, Assiniboia, Alberta, British
Columbia, Vancouver Island, Minnesota, the Da-
kotas, Pennsylvania, and, of course, New York, and
along the eastern coast. All these combined would
form a very tidy little shooting-ground, with ruffed
grouse in most of it. Yet I feel free to say that,
could the fired shells be placed in one pile, and the
skulls of the slain grouse in a second, the scenic
effect would be mighty apt to suggest a brass-
mounted mountain and a none too stately mole-hill.
Those who have had much to do with ruffed grouse
could tell which would be the mole-hill without
bothering about going to look.
The very difficulty of the shooting is one of its
greatest charms. Beautiful, strong, and swift, the
grouse also is no mean tactician. He not only
chooses the most difficult ground, but he is artful
to a degree in baffling the efforts of his pursuer.
When flushed, he rises with a sudden hollow boom
of whirring pinions and makes off with a headlong,
reckless dash suggestive of anything rather than
cool calculation. Yet those who have closely studied
his methods know that no other bird is so quick to
take advantage of every natural shelter which can
stop the flight of shot. A grouse compelled to rise
288 Sporting Sketches
in a comparatively open spot will dart like a feathered
cannon-ball for the nearest cover, or if near a big
tree, he will whisk behind the trunk, and, keeping
it between himself and the gun, buzz away to safety.
Flushed halfway up some hillside a favorite
haunt he will slant downward at an electric clip,
offering an exceedingly difficult mark. At certain
seasons he is found in outlying thickets, frequently
at a considerable distance from the woods proper.
Under such conditions he trusts to his speed as he
hums away to the saving trees, but at the same time
he seldom forgets to take every advantage of the lay
of the cover, scant though it may be. His golden
rule seems to be : " Start precisely when the man is
sure you won't, go as fast as you can without actually
setting yourself afire, and get everything that will
stop shot between yourself and the gun."
The one serious weakness in the grouse's system
of defensive tactics is his habit of treeing when
flushed by a dog. This is an interesting point, as
it strikingly illustrates the folly of sticking to old-
fashioned methods after improvements have been
introduced, and also that folly of all follies under-
estimating the ability of your opponent, ^ons on
aeons ago the grouse developed that trick of going
to a tree to avoid peril terrestrial, and no doubt it
considered itself a very smart bird. At that time,
strangely enough, its two winning cards in the game
of life and death were taking to a tree and leaving a
tree. Being a bud-eater, at certain seasons the
grouse naturally sought the trees for food. Among
the branches it was comparatively safe from quadru-
peds, although some of its foes were clever climbers.
The Ruffed Grouse and Grouse Shooting 289
But there were others the birds of prey and to
avoid these the grouse went back to earth. So it
played its game of going to the trees to avoid four-
footed foes, and dropping to the rocks and brush to
baffle winged ones, and this must have answered
very well for a long time, for the grouse flourished
and waxed fat. The one human foe was then an
Indian, clever with bow and arrow and snares ; but
still the treeing trick was useful, for good arrows
were easily lost if shot upward among trees, the
grouse was comparatively small game, while the Ind-
ian hated to make arrows as he hated work in
general. But the old-fashioned firearm eventually
became common, and at once the grouse's erstwhile
strong point became a weakness.
I have no doubt that birds once wounded in trees
may have learned to trust to their wings when next
man appeared, for to-day the grouse, except in remote
corners, seldom trees unless the man be accompanied
by a dog. To the birds the dog is merely the old,
four-footed peril a fox-like creature unable to
climb from which a tree is an absolutely safe sanc-
tuary. Hence, we see birds tree above the dog and
remain calmly looking down upon the intruder, and
even moving upon the limbs as though only slightly
interested in the whole business. But let the man
follow the dog, and a change takes place. One of
two things happens either the grouse leave the
tree, or they stretch to their full height and remain
motionless. When so posed, only an experienced
eye is apt to detect them, for they would easily pass
for so many decayed and broken stubs. Even the
skilled sportsman, who knows this habit of the
290 Sporting Sketches
grouse, and who is warned by the actions of the dog
that the game is somewhere in the tree immediately
above, frequently has difficulty in locating the quarry.
His safest plan is first to let his eye follow the trunk
to the top, as the probability is that the game will
be perched near the trunk. If this fails, the next
thing is to begin with the lowest limb and examine
it from the trunk to tip, and repeat the process limb
after limb. This, of course, must eventually locate
the game, but the sportsman will do well to keep his
gun ready for instant action. Strange as it may
appear, the bird seems to know the instant it is
observed; then it is apt to at once take wing.
Most people who have enjoyed the pleasures of
the woodland path have heard the peculiar ventrilo-
quial sound, known as the drumming of the ruffed
grouse. This drumming, while most frequently
heard during the breeding season, is continued at
intervals during the summer and autumn months.
It is a low, mufHed beating, yet it may be heard
at a considerable distance. It is caused by a pecul-
iar beating of the wings, beginning with measured
strokes which rapidly run into each other buff
buff buff buff bur-r-r. It is a popular belief
that the grouse always drums upon a fallen log and
produces the sound by beating the log with stiffened
wings. This is erroneous, for the bird will drum
upon a stone, a grassy or mossy mound, or upon
the ground, as suits its fancy. It may be a call
to the female, but it certainly is continued long
after the breeding season. I have a notion that
the motive for the drumming i the same which
prompts the barnyard cock to clap his wings and
The Ruffed Grouse and Grouse Shooting 291
crow whenever the humor strikes him. He just feels
that way. In any event the sound is a baffling one,
which may appear to come in turn from right, left,
front, and rear, although the bird has not changed
position. It is no easy task to stalk the concealed
drummer; yet any one who has the patience to ad-
vance only when the drum is sounding, and to
remain motionless but alert during the intervals, may
obtain a view of the queer performance. I have seen
grouse drum many times and at varying distances.
Most of these birds were upon logs, and between the
acts they moved to and fro with mincing steps, while
they appeared to glance sharply in every direction
as though on the lookout for an approaching female,
or a possible foe. When ready to drum, they stood
erect with head thrown back and the beautiful
tail raised high and full-spread like a fan. The
wings were spread to their full extent, and then
brought sharply against the sides in successive
strokes, which increased in rapidity till the separate
strokes were blurred together in a rolling sound
somewhat like low, distant thunder, or the rumble
of a carriage rapidly driven over a short wooden
bridge. A clever boxer with soft gloves might drum
an imitation of it upon a punching-bag. The sound
of a boot against a foot-ball is not unlike the peculiar
noise of the opening beat.
Now, this bears upon the oft-disputed question of
whether the bird's wings strike the log or the bird's
body. I say the body and the body only, although
of course they may now and then accidentally strike
whatever the bird may be standing upon. Years
ago we had a huge gobbler of half-wild blood, and
292 Sporting Sketches
this turkey, as is common to his kind, used to strut
and show off during the breeding season. I used to
stalk the old fool when he was in an ecstasy of
strutting, get astride him and hold him with my
arms about his broad breast. He seemed to be full
of air, like a huge bladder, and I'd slap him on crop
and sides as fast as I could till he'd let the air out of
his mouth with a rush. Then I'd get off him and
leg it for all I was worth to the nearest cover, for
he was a haughty old fowl and had impressive spurs.
The sound of my hands batting him was very like
the drumming of the grouse, and I suspect that the
grouse, a distant relative of the gobbler, fills certain
air-sacs with ozone, and beats himself with his wings
to produce his mufHed drumming. The well-known
clapping of the wings by domestic cocks and pigeons,
and the whirring of pheasants, merely are other forms
of the noisy wing-action. Those who have used
turkey-wing brushes about stove, or hearth, know
how soon the very strong feathers wear away, and
a grouse's much weaker wing never could stand the
harsher work of violent thumping against log, or
stone. Furthermore, a grouse can and does often
drum upon the ground, an ant-hill, and a mossy
knoll, not one of which would give forth sound in
response to a wing-stroke. The very flight of the
bird when alarmed proves what a row the wings
can produce working against air alone, and this noise
is under the bird's control, for both ruffed grouse and
Bob Whites have what may be termed the silent flush
and flight for ordinary occasions. Either can rise
when so inclined with no more noise than would be
made by any other round-winged bird of equal size.
The Ruffed Grouse and Grouse Shooting 293
The ruffed grouse builds a leaf-lined nest upon
the ground, usually at the base of some tree, or
beside a log. The eggs number from eight to
fourteen, and are buff-colored, which greatly aids
their concealment where old leaves are apt to be
lying about. The young are active and very clever
at hiding, which is aided by the general brownish
effect of the downy covering. The mother is a
devoted parent, never hesitating to throw herself
in the path of an intruder and, by simulating lame-
ness, endeavoring to draw the danger toward herself.
This pretty deceit is one of the most touching
sights which reward the observant bird-lover. The
young usually remain together until the late fall,
and, if undisturbed, perhaps throughout the winter.
The turning of the leaf brings the sportsman's
merry season. In the mellow beauty of brave
old autumn's ruddy prime comes the cream of the
grouse shooting, although the sport continues until
the white, sharp days of the sterner season. Let
one day serve as a picture of it at its best.
******
To Doc's great astonishment, I am at last half
ready when the trap pulls up at the gate. Old
Mark, the great roan king of the native setters,
rests his broad muzzle upon the dash-board and
with a thump of his tail bids me welcome. At
my heels is Don, cold-nosed, wire-thewed, keen as
a spring. In fact his plainly prominent ribs sug-
gest that a spiral spring might have constituted
his last meal, but his eyes are clear as morning
drops on grass, and his lemon head and snow-
white body shine like satin.
294 Sporting Sketches
" The ' bull ' looks fit this morning," placidly
remarks Doc, who hates a pointer worse than a
blank day.
" Yep, he's good to-day ; and the old Newfound-
land's able to ride a mile or so, apparently," I
sweetly retort, for we love each other, we two,
and each has a cracking good dog and knows it.
"Shall the bow-legged bull ride it's five miles,
you know ? " continues Doc, insinuatingly.
" There's no ambulance call in my kennel ! " I
snap back.
" Might be handy before night," sighs Doc, and
we both laugh as I climb up.
As we bowl along for mile after mile, Don's nose
is within an inch of the horse's heels. There is no
dust ; he loves to travel so, and seldom indeed has
he to break from his own peculiarly rapid trot.
Under the trap he is safe from attacks by farm
dogs, which, if they try to dash in from the side,
merely take a tour with a wheel or get run over.
Woe be unto the brute determined enough to
attempt a rear raid! Don, when put to it, would
sooner fight than eat, and he is always in fine con-
dition. Five miles from home we reach the first of
the chosen cover. Five minutes later the nag is
comfortable in an old log shed, and we are ready
for business.
It is a good ruffed grouse country. Leaving the
well-cultivated fields behind, we enter an irregular
belt of clearing where old brush piles and stumps
are overhung with a snarl of briers and slim second
growths. Back of this the unbroken forest spreads
for miles, while near its edge winds the broad bed
Tbe Ruffed Grouse and Grouse Shooting 295
of an almost dried-up creek. This is a confusion
of comparatively low cover. The larger trees are
not too close together, but quick, snappy work
must be the order in most of the brush. We
decide to work along the face of the woods until
the comparative open has been thoroughly beaten.
Any grouse found in outlying clumps will surely
dash for the woods, and our method means that
most chances will be side shots, when the trick
of dodging behind trees will avail but little. The
dogs are given the word and we move forward about
forty yards apart. Now comes a beautiful exhibi-
tion of dog work. The big setter, the best dog
on ruffed grouse in the county, knows exactly
what is required of him ; the pointer, the best
quail dog on a grouse day that ever I saw, knows
his mighty rival too well to attempt any liberties.
So instead of sailing away at top speed and split-
ting two-hundred-yard tacks, they merely canter,
and while scorning to follow each other, each keeps
close watch of the other's movements. Suddenly
the pointer stops in the middle of a stride, and like
his shadow, the great roan loses motion. My whistle,
held pipe-fashion, purrs a low warning (the voice
alarms grouse), and the dogs are as steady as trees.
In a moment a white and gray ball goes bouncing
toward a brush heap, and the pointer's tense mus-
cles slacken. It is too early in the day for fur, and
Don knows that a something which stingeth like
an adder lurks in my pocket. So he gives a yearn-
ing look at the vanishing cottontail, and the quest
continues.
A sudden bursting roar of wings, a clash of twigs,
296 Sporting Sketches
a swirl of painted leaves, and a brown shell is bor-
ing a hole through sunlit space. He is a beautiful
picture as he crosses with outstretched neck lead-
ing an electric fan of wings. Not caring to stand
idly while a grand grouse plucked itself, or cut
down a tree through having lost control of its
brake, I snapped the twelve into position and
whirled the tapered tubes until they swung two
feet ahead of the flattened ruffs. It was a glorious
picture, yet a kaleidoscopic effect, for as my finger
pressed the trigger, the feathered fan stopped buzz-
ing, the beautiful head went up, and I heard the
spiteful " squinge " of modern powder a second
before my shoulder felt the jar of my own weapon.
Both dogs went down, and through the brush came
Doc. His blue eye sparkled, and it asked a question
as plainly as words could have done. I felt like
lying, for it was a very close thing, but sportsman-
ship is mighty.
" Aprez vous /" I sadly muttered in about all the
language of the courts I am aware of, and then I
hustled in a second barrel of " You-red-headed-fool-
if-you-crossfire-me-again-ril-fill-you-full-of-shot ! "
" Gad ! he's a beaut ! " lisped Doc, as he smoothed
the lovely plumage. " And he's fat, too! " he con-
tinued, as he slid what had been within one inch of
being mine into his pocket. Then we looked at
each other and grinned, for each knew how slim had
been his chance.
The dogs soon got to work again, and a memo-
rable bit of sport followed. Dame Fortune was in
a generous mood. Within five -minutes the white
dog had evened matters by pinning a big cock
The Ruffed Grouse and Grouse Shooting 297
grouse in the centre of an almost open space. Doc
thought it was a rabbit, and sent me over. There
was a clump of dog-roses, and while I was hoping a
big grouse might chance to be there, the very bird
roared up and was clean killed. Some way, Doc's
mirth this time was not what might be termed
noisy.
The next notable event was the pitching of a
missed bird into an outlying thicket on my side of
the beat. I followed the bird and killed it. At
the report a second rose, which also was killed ;
then another and another whizzed away before I
could reload. As Doc rushed into the open, still
another bird roared up and collapsed. Then the
dogs drew cautiously on ; something went out one
side, while something else fluttered near me. We
fired almost together, and as I took a fat woodcock
from Mark, Doc shouted " I've got your rabbit
do you want him ? "
When he saw the cock, we ceased to be friends
and both tramped into the cover without a word.
Soon both barrels told that Doc was busy, and the
next moment a bullet-headed beauty came twitter-
ing past me, but concluded to bide a wee. For a
while, it looked like that rare, highly prized sport,
mixed cock and grouse shooting, but only one more
lons:bill was found.
O
The next move was to the bed of the creek, and
we advanced one on either side, the dogs working
between. Prettier ground could not have been
chosen. The course of the creek's bed was like a
winding corridor walled by sturdy trees, and no
matter which direction birds took, one gun was
298 Sporting Sketches
certain to have a clear chance. The dogs toiled
slowly through the tangled stuff, while we followed
abreast. Every now and then would come the im-
pressive pause of one or other dog, almost immedi-
ately followed by the hollow thunder of strong wings
and the rush of a swift brown body. Usually one
barrel, sometimes two, did the trick. Once a bird
boomed away with four charges of shot in vain pur-
suit. The incident caused a hearty laugh and a
lively exchange of that sort of talk which might be
dangerous among dry leaves. But little things of
that sort seldom are hotter than tabasco. In time
the end of the cover was reached and we pulled up
for a rest and a bite. Our four-footed friends, too,
are quite willing to roll and stretch on the soft fall
grass. The big roan showed no trace of the rather
heavy campaign, but the white fellow's rat-tail was
crimson for fully four inches and his flanks were
streaked with plenty of that same red badge of
courage.
To my mind, one of the happiest periods of a
good day's sport is when the pipes are drawing well
after the midday snack. The dogs have had their
crusts and stretch at ease in the cool grass. The
coats with bulging pockets hang near by. There is
more choice ground to be beaten and plenty of
daylight for the work, and even a blank afternoon
cannot spoil the day. And then the handling and
smoothing of the beautiful prizes so fairly earned by
skill and manly, sportsmanlike methods. Every bird
has had a fair chance and has been cut down as
mercifully as possible. To lie upon sweet grass at
the fringe of a noble wood with a sun-kissed sea of
Tbe Ruffed Grouse and Grouse Shooting 299
stubble spreading far before is no great hardship.
The view is ringed with fire where maples and nut
trees mass their glowing ; the fence lines, where the
creepers, briers, and sumachs are, show like rivulets
of flame flowing down easy slopes, and over all the
season's lovely haze, the smoke of the earth's burnt-
offering for a bounteous field.
Doc knocks the ashes from his pipe, and at the
sound the rested dogs spring up ready for more
work.
Quick echoes wake within the woods, the cut
leaves drift, the dogs toil on while shadows creep.
From huge halted billows of forest we wade through
the soundless surf of lesser growths and reach the
open. Far away the sun's failing red dims like a
coal amid misty ashes.
The horse is glad to see us. Food and water
a-plenty he has had, but his own stable is home, and
he wants to get there. This time both dogs ride.
Both have worked nobly and honors are easy. Few
words are spoken. The quick hoofs drum the white
road in regular cadence. Fence, field, and orchard
glide past in dimming procession, and twin puffs of
fragrant smoke drift rearward to mingle with the
mist, the fruity odors, and the sweetness of it all.
OUAIPTEIK
>JJIS
WHEN one of those ordinary little wretches, a
human baby, is born, it may be interesting to two,
four, six, or even a few more people ; but, fairly con-
sidered, it doesn't amount to very much. A choice
specimen might weigh eight or nine pounds, but the
material is rather mushy, and of questionable value.
It isn't quite so wrinkled as a decent puppy, nor so
pink as a new-born rabbit, nor so agile as a young
mud-turtle when turned upon its back. In fact,
only strongly prejudiced folk can see anything in it.
While the ordinary babe may ripen into a President,
or some old thing like that, it requires a heap of
time and teaching before it can learn its own name,
let alone its politics and their possibilities.
Young Robert White, however, was a marked ex-
ception. An American, the first act of his little life
was a blow for freedom, for when he came to him-
self, he was in prison. He never knew it, but he
had been shut up for nearly thirty days, and that for
no crime. For all we know to the contrary, he may
have chafed under the yolk, but in any event he
gradually overcame that difficulty, and decided to
break jail. As the cell in which he was confined
was so small as to effectually prevent free move-
ment, and one part of the wall jwas as easy as an-
other, he attacked that section which lay directly
300
Robert White, Jr. 301
before his nose. The said nose was equipped with
a hard little point, and he pushed it against the wall,
and presently first cracked and then shattered a tiny
section, through which at once poured his first
direct supply of air. It was gratefully warm and
wondrously invigorating.
A few moments after Robert had made his first
breach in his prison wall, his instinct prompted him
to twist a little to one side and repeat his bill-push-
ing. He did this again and again, sometimes
hurriedly, but with occasional long pauses, until a
regular line of small fractures extended almost
around the wall. Then he struggled desperately,
and lo ! the dome above his head quivered, yielded,
and fell away, and the first kicks of his untried little
legs caused him to tumble sprawling into warm
darkness. He was moist, almost naked, and trem-
blingly weak, but he was old Robert White's son
now, with no further use for a shell. That there
were other shells long and round and brass-ended,
he did not know, and not knowing, did not care.
It was pitch dark, yet amazingly comfortable,
where he lay thrilling with new life. Pressing upon
him was a something deliciously soft and soothing.
The touch of it seemed to lend strength as the
minutes passed ; so he gratefully rubbed his head
against it, and resolved to maintain his present posi-
tion at all hazards. He did not know why he
should do so, yet something told him to remain for
the time exactly where he was and to resist any-
thing which tried to move him. And he did resist,
and presently he had need to, for damp, warm things
began to press against him from all directions. He
302 Sporting Sketches
did not object to them in the least so long as they
did not force him to shift his position. When they
crowded too closely, he merely braced and pushed
with all his little might, yet ever good-naturedly,
for the whole thing was snugly warm and drowsily
pleasant.
He did not know it, but close around him lay no
less than eight small brothers and an even half-
dozen of equally small sisters, and all so exactly
alike that only their proudly happy mother could
tell one from the other. But she knew every one of
them, and in some mysterious way her wonderful
mother-love was divided into fifteen exactly even
shares. The other fourteen youngsters felt precisely
as did Robert, so when his damp coat presently dried
and fuzzed out all over him to form a beautiful fur-
like wrap of rich chestnut and cream, their small
covers had done the same.
This state of affairs continued for some hours, in
fact till the burning sun had thoroughly dried even
the tangled lower growths. Mother White's beady
eyes knew how to read the signs that told when the
last drop of dew had evaporated, and at the proper
moment the feathery tent was struck, and she daintily
stepped forward, leaving the silky mat of crowding
youngsters for the first time in their lives entirely
uncovered. It is quite safe to say that not one of
the lot was either astonished or dismayed by the
sudden exposure. It is all very fine for a few pecul-
iarly gifted, or otherwise, folk to minutely describe
the joys, sorrows, hopes, fears, and aspirations of
young wild things, but the important fact remains
that at least one-half of such statements is either
Robert White, Jr. 303
sheer tommy-rot or mere guesswork. While it is
quite true that much has been learned, as more re-
mains to be learned, from close observation, it also
is true that even the most generously endowed of
our writers have not yet quite mastered the art of
turning themselves into winged or four-footed crea-
tures at will. Until they have fully mastered that
art, which may mean some slight delay, the average,
not especially gifted reader may be wise in liberally
salting his brain-foods.
Our young Robert, possibly because he was an
exception to the general rule, did not at once enter
upon an arduous course of study like the brainy
birdlings that bloom in books. Instead, he just
toddled along with the crowd, dogging his mother's
steps until she paused and began to kick the dust
about with her feet. Naturally enough, there had
been no previous rehearsals of this interesting per-
formance, nor had it been at all discussed ; yet the
moment he saw her, as it were, " at the bat," he
elected himself " short stop," and prepared to play
an errorless game. When a few moments later a
spotless white object came trundling his way, he
gathered it in with a speed and accuracy worthy of
a pennant. It was an ant's egg. There were other
foods later on, and when he spied something new, he
didn't have to run to his mother and ask if the thing
was good to eat. His keen eyes merely flashed
upon it, decided its value, and he promptly pounced
upon or passed by as his curious instinct directed.
For days the youngsters all had a royal time, for
life was one grand, sweet feed, sleep, and sun bath.
Like the others, Robert grew rapidly, and fairy fans
304 Sporting Sketches
of wings replaced the hairy stumps he had first
worn. He could run with astonishing speed, and
did not hesitate to follow an insect skip skip
skip, though the chase led him yards from his
mother. As yet no startling adventure had befallen
him, for his brief experience had been one of peace
and plenty; but mischief was brewing. It came
without warning, and just how it happened he never
knew. He had spied an ant crossing a long, narrow
strip of dusty, worn ground, and he dashed with
electric speed after the prize. The ant trotted into
a wee hole, around which lay a ring of sand grains,
and Robert at once got busy. Three kicks of his
nimble feet scattered the sand in as many directions,
and instantly his stout little bill was pickaxing at
the hole. He knew that red ants and white eggs
lay just below, and so eager in his work was he that
he never looked up till he felt the earth tremble
under a mighty measured thud-thudding, the like of
which he never had heard.
Out of the corner of an eye he caught a glimpse
of an awful shape which towered high in air, and
instantly his bent legs straightened and he shot
head-first for the grass, which he failed to reach by
a few inches. He fell like a frog all stretched out on
the bare dust, but once there he remained as motion-
less as a dead leaf. As he lay, he heard his mother
utter what was to him a new cry and it said " hide,"
but he already had done his best in that direction, and
without her telling he knew the slightest motion
would be perilous. His little heart was beating
over-fast, and his eyes were wikl with fear, but he
never attempted to straighten a toe that was uncom-
Robert Wbite, Jr. 305
fortably bent. The monster thudded almost upon
him, then halted and emitted a thunderous rum-
bling, the sound of which almost scared Robert to
death.
To our ears that sound merely would have meant
"I seen ye skip, ye little cuss, and I see ye a-lyin'
there. I must be mighty keerful where I step, for
there's a sight o' ye round here an' I wouldn't hurt
one o' ye fur a price," for the towering monster, or
what to Robert appeared that way, was good Farmer
Brown, owner of two hundred acres thereabouts.
He passed along smiling at outstretched Robert,
who never even quivered as minute after minute
passed away. Robert was anything but comfort-
able, yet in spite of his accidentally awkward position
he never stirred till his mother's voice uttered a
peculiar low twitter. At the sound he sprang to
his feet and raced to her in time to see the others
trooping in from various directions. Not one was
missing as she promptly discovered, and after she
had led them a few yards from the path all resumed
their tireless quest for insect food. The dread of the
monster vanished with his disappearance, for young
wild things are blessed with exceedingly short mem-
ories and never bother about a peril that has passed.
Once assured, and the mother's voice is an assur-
ance beyond question, they are as unconcerned
as though the thing had never happened. Were it
not for this their little lives would be an agony of
terror, a thing unknown in Nature's beautiful plan.
Long, lazy days passed in pleasant succession, and
Robert grew fat and rather long-legged. His erst-
while pretty, downy coat was thin and pale and
306 Sporting Sketches
bristling with stubby feathers, and his wings had
become goodly mottled fans ample for the covering
of his almost bare sides. He could run with aston-
ishing speed, but beyond an occasional fluttering to
ease his descent from some log or rail upon which
he had climbed, he had not yet used his wings.
But there had to be a first time, and when it came,
it was a genuine surprise. In a fence corner of the
favorite field grew a lot of briers, and close beside
them, yet fully exposed to the sun, was a small patch
of bare, sandy soil. Mother White knew all about
this spot, and when one day she felt the need of a
regular dusting, she led the way to it. Squat-
ting on the sand, she raised her plumage almost
on end, pecked a few times, scratched a little with
her feet, then performed a peculiar scraping with her
wings, which presently raised a small cloud of dust
and sent grains of sand showering through her
loosened plumage.
Robert and the rest scarcely looked at her, but
each squatted in a handy place and set to work
precisely as she had done. Soon a small cloud of
dust almost obscured them. Their dust bath was
as cleansing and enjoyable as a plunge into a swim-
min'-hole, and for an hour they lazied, dust to the
eyes. So dreamily content were they that none
noticed an approaching thud-thud, the very same
that had previously scared them. Suddenly there
was a tremendous crash and a horrible swaying of
briers. Without stopping to think Robert sprang
into the air and made his wings fairly hum, at the
same time and for the first time uttering a shrill
" chick-er-ick-tick " of terror. He had no time to
Robert White, jr. 307
think of direction, but buzzed away for twenty yards
as he happened to be pointed, then sank panting
into some green stuff, where he at once crouched.
For the first time in his life he was entirely alone.
The novel exertion and the scare combined made
his heart thump, and in dread of he knew not what
he pressed his scanty plumage close and waited as
motionless as a clod. Where his mother had gone
he could not even guess. He had heard the roar of
her wings, and dimly seen the others leap like big
grasshoppers all about him, and that ended his
knowledge of the disaster. He knew he had made
his first flight, and he wished he hadn't, for he was
lost and scared ; yet something told him to sit tight
and wait. Meanwhile among the briers arose Farmer
Brown, and he said : " Durn that rotten rail anyhow !
Here I've gone an' skinned my arm fur six inches
an' fell atop of my little quails an' most skeered 'em
to death, I reckon ! The young cusses were takin' a
dustin', fur here's their little wallows an' shed feath-
ers, which proves they're gettin' quite sizable."
To Robert that wait seemed dreadfully long ; in
reality it did not exceed fifteen minutes ; but at last
came his release. A plaintive whistle, vibrant with
tender anxiety, sounded from a near-by thicket. " Ka-
loi-hee ! Ka-loi-hee ! Ka-loi-te / " it said, and as
it ended Robert rose to his feet and shook himself.
Because he never had been " scattered " before, he
never had heard a similar sound ; yet he knew his
mother's voice and that it meant he should join her.
He wasn't quite sure of the direction, so for a mo-
ment he waited irresolutely. Again rose the rally-
ing call, louder and clearer, and his keen ears told
308 Sporting Sketches
him the exact line to follow. Instantly he straight-
ened up, and for the first time attempted the answer-
ing cry. It wasn't much of a cry rather feeble
and a bit broken-reedy, and suggestive of a whining
" Thankee-than-kee ! " but it was the best he was
capable of. Then he ran like a mouse going through
grass.
Every now and then he stopped to call and re-
ceive instructions, and from various places he could
hear the others like himself steering by signal.
When finally " Ka-loi-hee ! " again sounded, Robert
squeaked hasty acknowledgments and sped straight
as a bullet to where his mother stood. Half-a-dozen
of the others were with her, and presently the rest
came sprinting from various directions. In her own
way she counted them, and the moment the tally
was complete all trace of anxiety left her, and she
cautiously led the way to some secluded foraging-
ground.
Weeks passed and the young Whites, with one
exception, throve amazingly. Robert himself was
nearly as large as his mother. His washy-looking,
mottled suit had fallen from him scrap by scrap
among briers, grass, and at the dusting-place ; the
leaden gray of his throat had changed to almost pure
white ; in fact, in his mother's eyes, he was painfully
like his father that mysterious father whom he
never had seen, that is, so far as he knew.
In time the conditions changed. A great storm
arose ; there was a tremendous clatter in the air and
Farmer Brown and other monsters raged and shouted
in the fields from morn till dusk. Then the awful
disturbance passed, but it had wrought ruin far as
Robert Wbite, Jr. 309
eye could see, except in two directions. The bit of
woodland, to which the terrified Whites had fled for
shelter, yet remained, but the big field lay bare and
bristly with the short, broken stems over which the
storm had raged. Of all the glorious cover there
was not a vestige with the exception of some thin
strips along the fences. Mother White gazed across
the waste in amazement. Verily the late Happy
Hunting Grounds had been transformed into the
other place, and she scarce knew what to do. For
that day the lot cowered in the fence corner, picking
a few seeds in a half-hearted sort of way, but not
daring to leave the shelter, although plenty of
scattered grain was plainly visible. As often hap-
pens in other families, the one weakling was the
hungriest and most reckless. He finally ventured
into the stubble and snatched grain after grain, the
quest leading him farther and farther from the fence.
The others watched enviously, yet heedful of their
mother's continued warnings. At last the forager
straightened up to force down one more grain into
his jammed gullet. His crop stood out hard and
round ; he was wheat to his mandibles, and the sight
of him made the others prepare for a united raid.
Then an awful thing happened. Some yards from
his position, the top of a big gray clod showed just
above the stubble. Such clods are common in grain
fields the plough turns up a moist chunk which
sometimes hardens like a brick and so remains
till the grain is cut. But there are few clods exactly
like the one in question. Before the eyes of the
amazed Whites it presently rolled forward a little
just a little, but it really rolled. Mother White
310 Sporting Sketches
saw it, but before she could shrill her warning call,
the clod flashed through the air, for an instant seem-
ing like a brindled rabbit, then landed squarely on
top of the forager. The horrified watchers stole in
haste toward the wood. At its edge Mother White
hopped upon a log and gazed back at the stubble.
A gray thing with a dead shape hanging from its
mouth was trotting far away. Mother White stood
on her tip-toes to watch that dreaded thing, and as
she gazed she noticed something else. In the dis-
tance beyond the stubble rose a wall of green which
she knew to be excellent cover. It was corn, acres
upon acres of cool, tangled foliage, beneath which
the family could run and dust in safety, and from
which they could forage outward for seeds and
other foods. The sole difficulty lay in the crossing
of the stubble. That was dangerous, she knew ; but
something had to be done, so she resolved to attempt
the trip.
With the lot close at her heels she started along
the fence till she marked a long, narrow depression
which seemed to cross the stubble. Into this she
turned, at first stealthily creeping, then running at
half speed. It was a long route, and when she finally
halted and stood erect to see if they were not almost
there, she was startled to discover that one-third of
the distance had yet to be traversed. Her eyes had
misjudged the task, for the dwellers in the cover are
not accustomed to taking very long looks and seldom
bother about anything more than fifty yards away,
which accounts for the egregious blunders they fre-
quently make when they happen to get lost and
straggle into a town. Far away she saw a dark
Robert IVMe, jr. 311
thing drifting in the air, and realizing that there
was no secure cover nearer than the corn, she fairly
sprinted for that shelter. As she sped her terror in-
creased till she could wait no longer, and with a
warning cry she took wing. The others at once
sprang into the air and darted after her. Their
rising was almost noiseless in marked contrast with
the sounding whir of a flush before a man or dog.
But this time they had a running start and were not
suddenly bounced from a crouching attitude.
Straight before them lay the corn, and they whizzed
toward it in straggling order. Fast as she was going,
Mother White saw the wheeling thing she had pre-
viously marked suddenly flash forward at marvellous
speed. Sorely frightened though she was, her
mother-love prompted a sharp cry of warning. Those
nearest heard and understood, and instead of sailing
for the last few yards, they buzzed madly until they
struck the dense growth and plunged through it like
so many hurled stones. All but one. A drift of
floating feathers, a broad-winged, gray form that
flapped away in burdened flight, proved that Accipi-
ter velox was well named, and had taken the toll
which folk of the cover must pay when they cross
their Bridge of Sighs the broad open.
Because there is none of that which we call lasting
grief among the Whites, they speedily forgot their
troubles. In the corn they were safe, and for weeks
things were delightfully pleasant. Robert and his
brothers waxed stout and strong, as did their sisters.
The distinguishing marks, the white throats of the
one and the soft buff of the other, were alike perfect,
and the lot thought nothing of long tramps through
Sporting Sketches
the now weedy stubble, or whizzing flights back to
cover. The corn had lost much of its green, the
trees were turning to gold and crimson, but food
was almost too easy to find. The night air had
grown a trifle chilly, but the Whites were stronger
and wiser now ; so at dusk they sought the same old
sleeping-spot a little patch of snug grass and cat-
briers the plough had avoided because of some big
roots which lingered there. Robert and all now
slept in a little round bunch, from which heads
projected like the spokes of a wheel ; for in case of a
night alarm, when so placed, every one could take
wing without interference. Nothing could be finer
than the life they led, yet again trouble was brewing.
One fateful day there came another storm. As
had happened before, the sky was clear, there was no
warning. Even Mother White's weather-wisdom,
which could tell well in advance when rain or snow
was coming, was at fault. Yet the storm came, and
it was something frightful, yet peculiar. All day
long it raged, the stout corn swaying and crashing
down, till of all that noble growth but a beggarly
third at one end of the field remained standing.
When the terrified Whites reached the edge of the
standing stuff, they scarce could believe their eyes.
The ground was almost bare, yet marked with ap-
parently endless rows of stubs, from which the storm
had torn the mighty stalks, and these, strange to say,
had been whirled together into even, conical piles
which dotted the entire space. The blow was one
of those cutting things which White brains cannot
understand ; yet some shelter remained, and into it
they timidly crept.
Robert Wbite, Jr. 313
They had sufficiently recovered to think about
breakfast, and Robert himself was leading toward
the best spot in the stubble, when there sounded a
strange whistle. Never had he heard the like, so
he paused to hear more. None of his family ever
attempted anything of the kind, for this sound was
shrill, trembly, and long-sustained. He was full of
curiosity to learn the cause of it, but before he could
decide what to do a quick rustling ahead warned
him, and he crouched ready to spring. The rus-
tling slowly approached, then abruptly ceased. Un-
certain as to its cause, Robert raised a trifle and
peered nervously ahead. What he saw almost caused
his heart to stand still. Some new kind of monster,
black and white, and rather small for a monster, was
standing perfectly still a few yards away. He knew
the thing was alive, for he could see two staring
eyes, which, however, were not looking at him.
For many seconds the strange thing remained mo-
tionless and he was sorely puzzled. That the thing
meant mischief he felt, but he could not understand
its method, for what sort of way was it for any dan-
gerous thing to stand still in plain view? His be-
wilderment was abruptly ended.
The other monster surely was coming! He could
hear the thud-thudding, and presently the dreaded
noise, something like what he had heard before.
To our ears this noise would have meant " Steady,
you beauty ! Take the birds to the right, Jim. It's
a bevy, sure ! "
From just behind Robert heard Mother White's
low purring twitter of warning, which he knew meant
back to the corn at full speed. For an instant he
314 Sporting Sketches
hesitated; then as a tall monster appeared right
before him, he sprang as he never had done and
whirred his wings like mad. He was at top speed
and pointed straight for the corn, when a new noise
broke out, and, to his horror, the tip of his right
wing refused to work, and despite his desperate
efforts he slanted down to the ground. Luckily he
did not strike very hard, yet he was jarred and con-
fused and greatly frightened. In an instant he re-
covered sufficiently to remember what was necessary,
and with a quick run he again sprang into the air
and desperately beat his wings, only to whirl through
a swift semicircle and crash down upon his back.
For a few seconds he was too stunned to act, then
he recovered and sprang to his feet. If the wing
refused to serve, there was an unrivalled pair of
legs, and away he raced straight for the old roosting-
place, where the roots were in the ground. One of
these was hollow, and into the dark hole he dived
and crept along a couple of feet till he could go no
farther.
For hours he lay there, frightened, very hungry,
but determined to stick until he heard his mother's
call. It was a terrible day. Strange noises sounded
on every side, and twice the black-and-white monster
came and snuffed fiercely into the root. The last
time it scraped madly with great claws, but suddenly
it uttered an awful yell and went away. (Robert
didn't know it, but the dog-whip had touched that
monster, because the bigger and wiser monster had,
as occasionally happens, mistaken a bit of brilliant
trailing for chipmunk hunting.) %
All disturbance had long ceased when Robert
Robert White, Jr. 315
decided to venture forth. His wing did not greatly
pain him, but he was ravenously hungry, which, to
the Whites, is much worse than any except serious
injuries. He had rammed himself so far into the
root that it was difficult to back out against the lay
of his feathers, but at last he managed it and emerged
much ruffled. A vigorous shake smoothed him and
at the same time reminded him of the tipped wing.
His instinct told him not to attempt to use it until
it felt different, but the thing of pressing importance
was food. In less than half an hour he had swallowed
all he could hold, and then came anxiety about the
others. From our point of view, it would have
been much prettier in him to have forgotten food
and gone trotting and piping in quest of his beloved
kin, especially the small brown mother; but wild
things, if hungry, will not pass food for all the senti-
ment ever miswritten. Hence he fed first, and when
full, stood and listened.
There was not a sound. The air was still, and
the low sun looked like a crystal globe full of red
wine foundering in a sea of silver mist. For once
in his life Robert had fed alone and was to sleep
alone, and he did not understand why. Mother and
the rest were near by and he would call them.
" Ka-loi-hee ? Ka-loi-to / Ka-/0z-hee ? " he piped as
loudly as he could, then listened expectantly. But
there was no response. Again and again and again
the sweet question rang louder and louder till
whispered echoes drifted from the darkening wood,
but the old answers came not in fact, they were
lying snug in a new cover what men term " brown
duck."
316 Sporting Sketches
Two figures, plodding along the dusking road,
heard Robert's last call and halted.
" By Jove ! " exclaimed one, " I believe there was
a bird in that old root after all, and I licked Don
for digging for a chipmunk ! If I was sure, I'd get
down on my knees and apologize to that dog right
here."
And Robert ? He slept alone for several nights,
but never again did he attempt to call his lost ones.
His wing quickly healed, and soon after that he fell in
with fair cousins who also had known bereavement.
He remained with them, sharing their joys and
sorrows, delights and dangers of winter time, till
April came. There was- one cousin, a bright-eyed,
brown-cheeked, plump-breasted Miss, who, when the
flowers bloomed again, got Robert into serious
trouble but of that romance, more anon.
OF all our four-footed game, great and small, the
squirrel probably has furnished the most fun. He is
the boy's first important quarry, as he is the last re-
source of those still fond of their bit of sport, but too
old or too enfeebled for the rougher work of big game
hunting. And there are many, too, in the prime of
life, who do not hesitate to say that they prefer a
lively day's squirrel shooting to the trailing of any
member of the deer tribe. Certain it is that more
men hunt squirrels than ever seek the ranges of the
cervidae.
The varieties of the squirrel family deemed
worthy of pursuit in this country number four, viz.
the gray squirrel, Sciurus carolinensis, the black
squirrel, .5". niger, the fox squirrel, which I believe
scientists regard as a variety of the preceding, and
the red squirrel, 6 1 . hudsonicus. The last-named is a
nuisance, and, in order to abate a nuisance, he shall
be first considered. He is a very common and
remarkably officious little beast, a dangerous gossip,
and an intolerable scold. Still-hunters hate him as
3'7
318 Sporting Sketches
they do the jay, for both quite frequently balk the
hunter's effort by kicking up a row at a critical
moment and thus warning every creature within
earshot that man, the dreaded, is about.
The red squirrel is apt to be troublesome in other
ways. He is here, there, and everywhere, about the
barns and cribs, stealing grain to hide in various
places, storing nuts in the attic, where he persists in
running races and clattering about when you most
desire to sleep, and he it is who litters your velvet
lawn with countless fragments of pine and fir cones,
until what was a sward of beauty looks like a swirl
of scraps. All of these might be forgiven, as in
doing them the creature merely follows its instincts ;
but there are graver charges against him.
Quick, alert, beautiful, and interesting he may be,
yet he has a more than sufficiently strong dash of
evil in his nature. To see him cosily hunched upon
a limb, his red banderole of a tail draped over his
back while he enjoys a siesta ; or when sitting upon
his haunches, while his nimble fore paws handle
cone, nut, or other food with astonishing dexterity,
one never would suspect him of being guilty of any
graver crime than petty larceny. Again, as he
bounds over the lawn, or rushes along the, to all but
him, precarious footing of a narrow and perhaps
crooked fence top, or darts up one tree and flings
himself to the next in reckless abandon, he appears
the personification of the wild, the free, and the
innocent. And, lastly, when he hangs head down-
ward on a tree-bole, and coughs, scolds, and swears
at you in sputtering wrath, as though the torrent of
his rage ran freer in the inverted position, it is hard
A Skirmish with Squirrels 319
to recognize in him anything worse than a funny
and quite desirable small chap.
But let us step into the orchard. The air is
vibrant with the woe of robins, the wailing of cat-
birds, and the sympathetic outcry of a host of
feathered neighbors. Some great sorrow has fallen
somewhere amid the blooms and perfumes of that
lovely scene. Yonder sits the sorrow yonder
upon a stub, the red rascal, turning a something in
his clever paws, a something which he calmly
devours, to the accompaniment of screams and
futile protestations from the frantic birds. A frag-
ment falls, and the squirrel moves away. The frag-
ment surely is part of a blood-stained egg-shell, and
its condition tells that within a few days a young
bird might have been born. Above the lawn towers
a sturdy pine, the top of which has been cut off to
make the tree thicken. For years the flat top of
that trunk has been the chosen resting-place of a
pair of beautiful mourning doves. Standing near
the tree, we can hear a low coughing and sputtering,
not so unlike muttered profanity. Mingled with it
we hear the rasp of gnashing teeth and a soft pat-
bat-bat ! after which the profanity increases. Peer-
ing upward we see, amid the dense green, one of
Nature's small tragedies being played in deadly
earnest.
The male dove is firmly braced above the two
snowy eggs, from which the young will shortly appear
if all goes well. The dove has one wing raised as a
fencer holds his free hand, while the other wing is
softly patting the bird's side. Sticking to the trunk
a few inches below the nest is a squirrel intent upon
320 Sporting Sketches
a raid. He has long watched those eggs, and now
his instinct tells they are as he would prefer them.
He makes a sudden bounce to intimidate the dove,
but the bird is brave. Quick as a flash the ready
wing meets the robber's nose and with a biff-barf
which suggests no trifling force. The blows almost
knock the squirrel from the trunk, and he is compelled
to temporarily retreat. But although his attacks
have been repulsed half-a-dozen times, he is by no
means done. He sidles around the trunk and
attempts to carry the fortress from another point, but
the wary dove has turned and is ready for him, and
again the wing beats him off. " This will never
do," say we, so while one runs for the gun the other
keeps watch upon the robber's movements. Fi-
nally, after being driven to a proper distance from the
tree, the squirrel's evil-doing is forever ended by a
storm of small shot, and the valiant doves may rest
in peace.
Beyond all question the red squirrel destroys a
great number of the eggs of small birds, always pre-
ferring those about ready for the hatching. He also
devours young birds if he can find them within a
day or two after their leaving the shell. I have not
known him to attack young birds after they had be-
gun to sprout feathers, but have seen quite enough
of his work during the earlier stages to warrant his
destruction. I never shoot him for any other rea-
son, as he is altogether too easy quarry to afford any
sport, while his wretched little body is not worth
bothering about for the table. But in the case of
the gray, black, and fox squirrels things are dif-
ferent. A fat young one of any of these varieties is
A Skirmish with Squirrels 321
indeed dainty fare so good that it must be tasted
to be properly appreciated. Nor are the old ones,
when in prime condition, to be despised, as they
only suffer when compared with the young, there
naturally being a slight lack of tenderness and juici-
ness. Properly shot, dressed, and cooked, a fat
squirrel is about as appetizing a thing as a man
could desire.
The gray squirrel is of plump form and compara-
tively short bodied ; he carries a fine tail which
looks not unlike a beautiful gray plume. He is
not so active as the red one, but he is perfectly at
home in the trees, where as a leaper and climber he
worthily represents his agile family. But, to my
mind, the longer and more slender black fellow is
the handsomest of all. His coat shines like satin,
and his long, glossy tail adds to his apparent slender-
ness and truly is an adornment gracefully worn.
The black squirrel is a fearless climber and a dar-
ing leaper. Strange to say, in spite of his color, an
intense black all over, he is not so easily seen after
he has reached the upper branches of an ordinary-
sized tree. He and his gray cousins are very clever
at hiding. They will stick so close to a trunk, or
lie so flat along a limb, that frequently they escape
observation, or are only located by the tip of a tail
waving in the breeze, or by the erect ears showing
above their hiding-place.
The chief food of these species consists of nuts,
mast, and other vegetable growths, and they are
very fond of corn, especially when the grain is just
passing beyond the milky stage. At this time,
when at all numerous, they work no slight damage
322 Sporting Sketches
among the corn. I have seen half-a-dozen blacks
following each other at speed along a snake fence,
every squirrel carrying an ear of corn in his mouth.
The plunder was borne to the shelter of near-by
woods and there devoured at leisure. The squirrels
would make many trips during the day, and a stroll
through the corn-field would reveal ample evidence
of their destructiveness. More than once I have
heard farmers declare that the black raiders had
destroyed fully three-fourths of what had promised
to be a fair crop. This, of course, where the field
lay close to a large wood.
I have used both gun and rifle in the pursuit of
this game, and have enjoyed fine sport with both.
But the shot-gun never should be aimed at a
crouching squirrel. Sportsmanship demands that
the game should be in motion when the trigger is
pulled. The squirrel may be dashing over the
ground, speeding along a fence top, a limb, or
ascending a tree-bole, it is all right so long as he
is moving. The greatest feat of all is to stop him
in the middle of a leap from one tree to another.
This requires quick, accurate work, and the best of
shots often fail to score a clean kill. A miss in the
air and a kill with the second barrel as the squirrel
races along a limb is no uncommon occurrence.
Your true squirrel hunter is full of guile. We of
the old brigade played many a trick upon an unso-
phisticated comrade. If a squirrel was lost to sight
in a thick-foliaged tree, then the wisest course was
to get the other fellow to pound the trunk with a
club. When a squirrel was see-n upon the ground
and making good time for his favorite tree, then it
A Skirmish witb Squirrels 323
was good form to pursue, yelling to excite your
friend, and, as the tree was neared, to slow up that
he might out-foot you a trifle. Of course the squir-
rel went up the far side of the tree, and your com-
rade, proud of having outrun you, promptly chased
around the tree to get a shot, whereupon the
squirrel, being unable to count, at once shifted
around to your side and offered an easy enough
mark. When certain that a squirrel was hidden in
the upper foliage, or upon some limb, and all pound-
ing and shouting had failed to move him, the last
resort was to fire one barrel into the densest part of
the tree, and then stop the frightened game with the
second. Unless the squirrel had holed, this seldom
failed to start him.
For some unknown reason the supply of black
squirrels varied curiously. One season they would
be found in great numbers I once drove seven up
an isolated tree in a corn-field and a year later
none could be found in a day's search. The coun-
try folk had a saying that squirrels were plentiful
every seven years. I will not vouch for the correct-
ness of this, but I know that after the army of squir-
rels had disappeared, they were not again numerous
until some years had elapsed. It was not a case of
thinning out and breeding up, but a more or less
regular movement across the country. I never
rightly understood their migrations, but I have
seen large numbers of them moving through the
woods as though bound upon some well-under-
stood mission. I have killed plenty in one bit
of woods and a few days later found not one upon
that ground, while the next bit of woods in the
324 Sporting Sketches
direction of the general movement furnished the
best of sport.
The successful squirrel hunter was the envy of
his youthful associates. I ranked high, probably
because I had a much better gun than any of my
comrades. I used to sally forth with a narrow
strap buckled about my waist. When a squirrel
was killed, the hind leg was slit under the tendon,
the strap passed through and rebuckled. Twenty
squirrels thus hung, with long tails fluttering free,
made a noble fur-kilt, quite worthy of a Zulu chief-
tain, or Robinson Crusoe himself. When the bag
was large, needless to say the proper route home
was through the busiest streets. Per contra, when
the bag was otherwise just naturally too light a
bag waited for darkness.
In our country were many negroes who loved
"squrl" and were always hunting when that game
was to be had. I once so far fell from grace as
to sell seven squirrels to a negro for a nickel apiece.
In town, they were worth a dime each, but one should
not expect top prices in the outposts. So I sold
them, and he paid me a bad quarter dollar and
promised the balance later. He has never yet
made good. Because of that transaction war was
declared, and assuredly the brunettes had a merry
time. A large percentage of them were good
hunters who understood the habits of their quarry,
but they were poor shots and inclined to laziness.
They carried, as a rule, long-barrelled, single guns,
of about fourteen or sixteen gauge, while the
ammunition was in the old-fashioned horn and
pouch, or, more frequently, in bottles of suitable
A Skirmish witb Squirrels 325
size. Every one of the quaint old guns was surely
the best ever made, and their owners had all sorts
of names for them, such as " Wild Frank," " Long
Maria," " Sweet Honey," " Reachin' Sue," and so
on. A few of them, when properly loaded, would
shoot fairly well, but most of them were regular
old gas-pipes which flung the big shot far and
wide. The negroes never attempted a running
shot, but followed a squirrel until it had halted
in an easy position, and then, like as not, the old
gun was fired from a rest. The fact that every
squirrel shot meant a dime in the hunter's pocket
will explain the extreme caution exercised.
The negroes, dyed-in-the-wool pot-hunters as they
were, never would give a squirrel a fair chance, and
they absolutely would not hustle, so we did things
to them cheerfully and without price. To roll a
wad of leaves and tie it firmly with a bit of twine
is a very simple matter; to cut the tail from a dead
squirrel and affix it to the roll is not too laborious,
considering the joys it may bring. To climb an easy
tree and lash the dummy in a lofty fork possibly is
hardish work, but then, where the tail swings free,
the thing does look so like a squirrel. Thus we
made and set the coon-trap. And if the coon did
not find it, we attended to everything with a guile-
less simplicity which was extremely beautiful. We
would meet our victim and make fair speech unto
him, show him our squirrels, and gradually drift
him into the danger zone. Ten to one he'd be
the first to see the squirrel ! And then, was it not
rare sweet joy to notice how he would manoeuvre us
away from the prize, till in spite of our exasperating
326 Sporting Sketches
dawdling, we were far enough ! Then it surely
would be " Wa'al, good mawnin', gemmen
reckon I'se dun gwine dishyer ways fur a peece
you'se 'tirely too spry fur de ole man dis mawnin'."
And then how we'd leg it till we could melt in
behind handy trees from which to watch the old
rascal hustling back for that " squrl " ! He'd find it,
too, all right, and before long the roar of the old
gas-pipe would come to our straining ears. Sweet
was that sound sweet as the purl of running
water in the desert, or a drift of music from the
nearest there may be to an earthly Eden. Only the
truly good can understand ! And the victim would
load and fire again and again while we kept careful
tabs. We could picture him fumbling and sweating
while trying to keep his pop eyes on the wary quarry.
At every fresh roar there would be gasping snorts of
bliss, while we lay on the ground and clung to roots
and things, lest we be bodily transported to where
such pleasure knoweth no end. And when at last
the final silence fell when we knew that shot, or
powder, or caps, had run out, wow ! how good it
was! how fair the earth! how sweet just to
lie there and picture the outraged one storming
away home and maybe half knocking the head off
the first pickaninny that dared to ask "Did yo'
git menny squrl ? "
But the cream of the squirrel shooting is enjoyed
by the man who uses a light rifle of small caliber
and medium power. Good shots always aimed for
the head, both to add to the difficulty of the sport and
to avoid spoiling meat. And be it known that a
squirrel's head at forty or fifty yards is no easy
A Skirmisb with Squirrels 327
mark. Quite frequently an animal would be dis-
covered lying flat upon a large limb, or sticking
close to a tree-bole. In such cases it was a favorite
trick to try the " barking " shot i.e. to cause the
ball to strike immediately under the squirrel. If the
ball be large and correctly placed, the shock will
bounce the game from its hold and send it down as
dead as though the lead had pierced it. This feat
of " barking " squirrels has been questioned by many
doubters, but I have both seen it done and per-
formed it so many times that I wonder that every
squirrel hunter does not know all about it. I never
attempted it with an arm of extremely small caliber.
Vastly more difficult feats are performed daily in
shooting galleries.
The best time for the rifle is during those brave
brown days when nuts are ripe, and the most profit-
able hours are immediately after sunrise and toward
sunset. Then the squirrels are busy feeding, and
the true still-hunter will find much to interest him,
even should he fail to bag one head of game. That
all things come to him who waits is peculiarly
applicable to this form of sport. There is no use in
tramping noisily about. Sharp eyes and ears see
and hear you long before you can locate their
owners the one reliable way is to keep still and
listen.
Let us go into this wood where broad-leaved
hickories, sturdy oaks, scattering chestnuts, tower-
ing elms, and fine beeches, and maples are min-
gled in fair proportion. Tread lightly here, 'tis
squirrel-haunted ground, and yonder is an ex-
cellent seat, a mossy log well within the shadow
328 Sporting Sketches
of the trees. The one large pool, all that is left of
the creek, gleams in the light which tells that a fine
day for sport has just begun. The woods are
strangely quiet. A mysterious hush prevails over
all things, and silent-footed shadows creep from tree
to tree. Now and then a whisper of bird-voices
tinkles far away, only to quickly die and render the
solemn stillness the more impressive. We wait-
and wait. Shafts of golden light flash through loop-
holes in the dome of foliage and kindle mimic fires
amid the fallen leaves. We breathe the sweet
woody airs, and feel within us something of the
holy calm which seems to have brought the entire
scene under its soothing spell.
Spat! We involuntarily start, for the sound
seems to rip the stillness like a pistol-shot. Was it
a large drop of water falling upon a broad leaf, or
was it ?
Spat spat ! This time followed by a soft
rustling of leaves in that hickory fifty feet away.
The spell is broken; the witchery of woodlands
loses its subtle charm, for the small sounds tell that
the game is afoot. A distant barking elicits a
louder, nearer reply, and soon sounds of busy life
are heard from every side. A fragment of nutshell
falls pattering through the leaves and strikes the
ground in plain view, and small branches almost
overhead rustle and sway. Presently the little rifle
is pointed upward, then a sharp report, a momentary
agitation among the branches, a succession of crashes,
a heavy thump upon the ground and there he
lies. He is a fat fellow, but a, red streak in his
glossy fur shows where the ball passed through his
A Skirmish with Squirrels 329
neck, an inch from the spot aimed at. But the view
was none too clear and no meat is spoiled. Rus-
tling of leaves and branches are heard in several
directions, for the rifle, though small, has a spiteful
tongue, and the game has moved a bit. In the
distance a swift shape is traversing a fallen tree,
but we had better remain quietly where we are, as
another squirrel may be hiding above. Moments
pass and at last a leaf rustles. There ! See upon
that long limb stretching toward the maples. With
high-arched back and head in bold relief, he pauses
to measure the leap. The other rifle comes into
position, dwells a moment, then again the fatal
crack. The squirrel makes a convulsive spring in
the direction it had intended taking, but it appears
to halt in mid air ; then it comes whizzing down,
turning over and over as it falls. The shock was
instant death.
And so it goes on through three pleasant hours.
We change position now and then, but at last the
word has been passed around to all the furry people,
and chances become few and far between. Our last
squirrel is espied running along the border-fence, and
we watch him closely. He halts, hesitates, then drops
upon the ground, where for a time he sits erect to
take observations. Satisfied that the coast is clear,
he moves toward the pool in a series of hesitating
leaps, interrupted by many cautious pauses for
examination of the surroundings. He at last leaps
to a small snag projecting a few inches above the
water. He forms a pretty picture as he sits with
ebon plume curving above his back, and his in-
verted image as sharply defined below.
330 Sporting Sketches
It is indeed a fair chance at forty yards ; yet at the
sound of the rifle a cascade of white water leaps into
the air, and the thoroughly frightened squirrel darts
to the nearest tree. In his haste he has chosen an
isolated shelter, far beyond leaping distance from
its nearest neighbor. And now for the wind-up.
The tree is healthy, tall, free from holes, and the
game's sole chance is to climb to the loftiest twig
that will bear his weight. There he is, at the very
top, swaying to and fro upon a slender switch. His
fluttering tail adds to the difficulty of the mark.
Five times the small rifles hail him, the buzzing
lead almost ruffling his fur. Yet he gives no sign.
He has done his best in such a tree; this his
instinct tells him, and all he can do is hang on
and wait. It is not for long. The sixth shot is
better timed. A small black ball starts earthward,
gaining velocity and bulk as it comes, and strikes
the ground with a sounding thump, then rebounds
a yard into the air. Now let us be off for break-
fast, for the cup of coffee at starting has long since
lost its influence. We may try again toward even-
ing, for there are plenty of squirrels left
CMAIPTEIK
THE turkey is wondrous toothsome, whether it be
a choice bird from the fattening pen or one of those
kings of the feathered race, a grand wild fellow, slain
perhaps after a deal of toil and trouble in his native
haunt some Southern river bottom, Western scrub,
or lonely Canadian forest. The price paid by the
epicure for his wild bird would doubtless purchase
provisions enough to feast a family of the bread-
winning class on excellent fare for an entire week,
so the toilers must needs be content with a less
aristocratic fowl than Meleagris gallopavo.
Year by year the wild birds are decreasing in
number, and the day is not far distant when the
turkey will no longer exist in the wild state save
in a few favored portions of the South and South-
west. Easily trapped and always valuable, either
for the market or for home consumption, it is
hardly surprising that the birds have been eagerly
sought and remorselessly slain wherever found, and
were it not for their keen sight and swift and endur-
ing running powers they would long ago have been
exterminated in certain accessible forests where a
few yet find a home.
But while the turkey is one of the easiest birds
to trap, he is no fool to follow with rifle or gun
331
33 2 Sporting Sketches
in his forest ranges. Wild and shy to a de-
gree, keen sighted, quick eared, swift of foot, and
strong of wing when needs be, he is also sharply
suspicious of a man on foot, and quite as difficult to
"still-hunt" as a deer. Generally ranging in heavy
forest, and within easy reach of tangled scrub or
other baffling cover, no sooner does he suspect
danger than his long legs bear him swiftly to the
densest growth he can find, through which a man
may track him for hours without either obtaining a
shot or forcing him to take wing, and frequently the
bird will not even be seen.
The principles of good sportsmanship admit of
the wild turkey being taken by several methods.
One of these is shooting the birds when roosting
in tall timber at night. All that is necessary is
first to locate the "roost," then to steal upon the
unsuspecting game and shoot as many as possible
before the turkeys realize what is going on and
leave the unhealthy neighborhood. A second
method is "calling," or "yelping." The sports-
man uses a bone from a turkey's wing as a " caller,"
and by sucking air through this bone in the proper
fashion an exact imitation of the " yelp " of the bird
is produced. An ordinary clay pipe also makes an
excellent caller. This method may be followed with
deadly effect either after a flock has been scattered
or, as is done in the South, while the gobblers are
"strutting," in which case a good imitation of the
cry of a lovelorn hen will lure the male to his
destruction.
Still another method, the most- dashing and excit-
ing sport of all, is coursing the birds with greyhounds.
Turkey with Thanksgiving 333
This demands an open country, and is, I believe, only
attempted on the plains of the far South and South-
west. For this sport a man must be a good horse-
man and be well mounted, as the going is fast and
free and the ground covered frequently dangerous.
The turkeys are found feeding in the open ; the dogs
are slipped, and when the birds take wing, horse and
hounds follow the selected victim as fast as they can
lay foot to the ground. The turkey flies straight,
and though its first flight may be half a mile or
more, it has not time to recover from the unusual
exertion ere the fleet dogs again compel it to take
wing. It may rise two or three times, but its
strength is soon spent, and unless it can reach
heavy cover the dogs pull it down, the horseman
meanwhile following the chase in the best way that
he can.
Yet another method, and a thoroughly sportsman-
like one, is tracking or "still-hunting." The best
time for this is immediately after a light fall of snow,
when all sign is fresh, and the contest becomes a
fair test of hunter's craft against cunning and endur-
ance. The still-hunter will earn his bird, no matter
whether he carry a rifle and kill his game at long
range, or a shot-gun and kill it flying, after he has
fairly tramped it to a standstill, forced it from sheer
weariness to squat and hide, and then flushed it from
cover by his close approach. Tracking turkeys in
the kind of ground they usually favor is emphati-
cally hard work, and the tracker will be led, perhaps,
for mile after mile through just the sort of cover
that tempts one to halt and "talk the bark off a
tree " now and then. I have many times followed
334 Sporting Sketches
turkeys sometimes on the tracks, sometimes by
guesswork for an entire day and never had a
chance at a bird.
One fall, that now has many leaves upon its grave,
I decided to take a run into Essex Woods and try for
a good gobbler, though a plump hen would not have
been beneath attention. It had rained hard for
several days, then the cold came, and with it a slight
fall of snow, though hardly sufficient for good track-
ing. It was an extremely sharp, clear morning when
I left a comfortable farm-house some miles west of
Essex Centre, and with Winchester on shoulder
started for the great silent stretch of woods which
extended for miles in every direction. I knew that
the fowl were in those woods, and was fully resolved
to have one before night, but soon learned that it
wasn't a good day for turkey.
Every hollow between the thick-standing oaks,
maples, and elms had been rilled to o'erflowing by the
rains, and now every pool was covered with an inch-
thick coat of ice just thick enough not to bear one
hundred and eighty pounds. Every twig and frozen
leaf under foot crushed like glass, and under such
conditions I was about as likely to get within shot
of a turkey as I was to tree a Bengal tiger up one
of the big elms. There was nothing for it but to
acknowledge a balk, and I retreated to the railroad,
the track being about the only place where dry walk-
ing was possible. After infinite difficulty, aided by
a couple of rails from the snake-fence, I managed to
safely cross the deep ditch between the woods and
the track, and so reached safe footing.
It was an exasperating situation. Straight as a
Turkey with Thanksgiving 335
rule, east and west, stretched the narrow road-bed,
with its two shining rails ; on either side were broad
ditches containing water perhaps five feet deep,
coated with treacherous ice, and I thus had a
promenade over one hundred miles long, but only
about fifteen feet wide. A tempting shooting
ground, truly ! A fellow might get rail-birds on it
or shoot off a few ties to fill in time, but it was not
very exhilarating. There was nothing to do until
the evening train came along to take me home
again. Nothing but a heavy frost, followed by
snow, would make still-hunting possible, and there
were no indications of snow.
For want of something better to do I strolled a
couple of miles along the track, and by so doing
made a discovery which changed the aspect of
affairs. A car laden with shelled corn must have
passed some days before and had a hole in it, for a
streak of yellow grain extended for some three
hundred yards beside the rails. Near my end of the
corn was a culvert through which, under ordinary
conditions, cattle could pass. But it was now filled
to within a couple of feet of the top with water, like
the ditches coated with ice.
Everywhere within a short distance of this culvert
were traces of wild turkeys, and it was an easy task
to read the possibilities. The birds had discovered
the trail of grain and had been feeding on it for two
or three days. The rains had drowned out their
feeding grounds in the woods, and they would be
sure to return to the corn day after day until the
last grain was eaten. It was simply a question of
close hiding, more or less of the long agony of hope
336 Sporting Sketches
deferred, and then and then a turkey would be
mine ! I fairly grinned over that layout.
But where to hide? Not an available point
offered ; the track was as bare as the rifle barrel,
and the road-bed was elevated so much above the
level of the woods that it could not be properly com-
manded, except I climbed a tree, which would be
altogether unsuitable.
The culvert !
Yes, the culvert ; but the ice would barely hold,
thought I. However, a look at it would do no
harm. I carefully tested it, and found that owing
to its narrowness and the grip the timber walls
afforded the ice it would just bear me. Happy
thought ; a board off yon gate broken in two and
cushioned with a layer of dry grass and stuff would
make a comfortable resting-place, and spread its
pressure on the ice sufficiently to make all safe.
The board was soon secured, placed in two halves
on the ice, and padded with handfuls of withered
herbage, and I was all ready for business. Sitting
upon my boards, I could just comfortably raise my
eyes above the track, and if I got upon my knees,
the edge of the culvert afforded a dead rest for my
elbow, and I felt I couldn't miss a turkey at one
hundred yards if I tried. It was superb, and I
grinned some more. This was just the luckiest,
laziest turkey-shoot on record.
For some time I sat there, closely watching the
track and the woods upon either side. It was tedious,
cold work enough, and in due time I grew weary
and cramped from the confined position and varied
things by creeping out of my shelter and having a
Turkey with Thanksgiving 337
bit of a dance to stir sluggish blood. Just as I
thought of again going to cover, a black object
moved in the woods, perhaps two hundred yards
away. No need for a second glance ; it could only
be a turkey ; and as speedily as possible I crawled
back into the culvert, and with my head close to the
rail waited further developments. Moments dragged
past, and at last one bird appeared on the track,
a good three hundred yards off, and was presently
followed by another, and another, and yet others,
until nine stately fowl were in plain view. They
soon turned in my direction, and moved forward.
It was now a " regular cinch," and I hugged my
head closer to the rail and glared down the track at
those turkeys with a burning intentness that melted
what little snow there was near my face. They
were coming they were bound to feed right up to
my stand if I chose to let 'em. I would kill the big
gobbler, and then take chances for another, run or
fly. No, I wouldn't either. I would be silent and
wary as a lynx and let them feed good and close,
and wait for the big fellow and another to get in
line and straighten out a brace of them at the one
shot.
They came steadily on. They were now only
about two hundred yards away, and advancing in
Indian file. Nearer and nearer they came, and I
changed my purpose. Two in line were not enough
for such an opportunity. I would draw a dead bead
on the big fellow and hold on him till three were in
range. Yes, that would be better. Still they ad-
vanced, and only one hundred and fifty yards
separated them from their doom. Now they quick-
338 Sporting Sketches
ened their movements and advanced rapidly for
some distance. They had reached the trail of corn,
and they crowded close bunched over the first scat-
tered grains. Once again my resolution wavered.
Hang it all ! it was just as easy to get four in line
a ball at short range would stiffen four of them easy
enough. I must have four.
Step by step, yard by yard, they came on, ever
drawing nearer and nearer to the certain death that
waited to claim its four. Every once in a while
they would all bunch together, and as they did this
at a range of about one hundred yards my modesty
wavered again.
Could it be possible to drive a ball through five
of them in line ? Such a record such a shot to
describe to the boys ! Five grand wild turkeys at
one lick! I was just fairly entertaining the five
notion, when an ominous click sounded along the
rails that mysterious click which announces the
coming of a train.
" Click tuck click ! " There was no mistake.
It must be a freight, for no express was due at that
hour.
" Click tuck-lick click ! " The mysterious
message had reached the turkeys' ears, too, and
they lifted their heads on high and stood motion-
less. I breathed hard at the change of luck, and
considered what I should do. My mind was almost
made up to shoot at once, for the rails were now
clicking merrily, when, like a saving clause, the
thought occurred to me that they heard trains pass-
ing many times every day, and probably would
merely retreat into the woods for a short distance
Turkey with Thanksgiving 339
and return when all became still. They had cer-
tainly been disturbed in this fashion more than once
before.
These reflections were rather comforting, and I
resolved to just lie low where I was and let the
train thunder above my head. I was perfectly safe
and could get my five birds just as well as not when
they came back. I took a peep eastward, and there,
sure enough, was my train coming along at a great
rate. Looking again in the direction of the turkeys,
I saw the last two or three trot into cover. They
undoubtedly were not seriously alarmed and would
resume feeding in half an hour.
There I lay, close as possible, and in a moment
the train thundered overhead. Though I knew I
was perfectly secure, I fairly shuddered as the first
couple of pairs of wheels passed so close to my head.
Heavens ! what a jar and row it made ! Would it
never draw its frightful length across that culvert ?
At last, when I was almost deafened, a blessed pause
in the uproar brought relief. A hollow " plunk-
plunk" of the last pair of wheels announced the
complete passage of the conductor's red van, and I
made a move to rise.
There was a faint, squeaking, grinding noise, a
squirt of ice-cold water, then a frightful crash and
splash, and I gave an involuntary imitation of a
young man falling through a glass skylight and
fetching up in a well. The vibration of the train
had loosened the ice from the walls of the culvert,
and the whole business broke into fragments, and I
was in it !
I didn't wait to touch bottom, but pawed and
340 Sporting Sketches
sputtered and floundered round with the bits of
boards and the roots and the grass and the ice, and
clambered out just as quick as the Lord would
allow. Then I swore at the train and the turkeys
and the culvert and the ice and the water and the
smart Aleck who planned the ambushment, and the
rifle for being in that zeroed fool-trap yet ; then, in
spite of chattering teeth and trembling limbs, I
laughed I had to laugh.
But the worst of it was that I had to go in again,
and also go clean under water for a horrible quarter
minute to recover the rifle, after I had located it
with my foot ; for no consideration would have in-
duced me to leave it there. Then I clambered out
once more, and groaning and shivering and shed-
ding water every jump, ran and walked and stag-
gered the best way I could to the farm-house, where
I had a hot drink and a sleep in thick blankets
while my clothes were thoroughly dried. That was
finally accomplished late in the afternoon, but
whether or no it is possible to drive a ball through
five turkeys in line I just dinna ken!
CdDILED
TTIffiAIIILo
ALTHOUGH the "king of American game" un-
questionably is that grim ruffian, the grizzly bear
(Ursus horribilis), yet he is by no means the most
desirable of our big game as an object of pursuit.
To the average sportsman the chase of the grizzly
would be about as enjoyable a proceeding as a severe
day's toil at hod-carrying followed by a frightful
nightmare. Ursus horribilis is bad medicine if
tackled in his mountain domain, and only the keenest
of Nimrods ever penetrate to the lonely wilds over
which he rules supreme. True, quite a number of
sportsmen are possessed of grizzly skins and proudly
display them as trophies of their prowess afield ; but,
if the whole truth were known, in many cases we
would find that some Western bravo, or professional
or Indian hunter, actually slew the bears from whence
the trophies came. United States currency bags
more bearskins in Western wilds than do all the
gentlemen sportsmen's rifles put together.
The same might truthfully be said concerning the
obtaining of many heads of elk, moose, caribou,
341
34 2 Sporting Sketches
mountain sheep and goat; for many more men
show one or other of these as trophy of their own
winning than ever bore rifle through the lonely
ranges of moose and caribou, or climbed to the elk's
strongholds or the cloud-swept pasturage of sheep
and goat.
That there is, however, a stanch fraternity of good
men and true iron-nerved, hardy fellows who
find the purest enjoyment of their lives in the pur-
suit of big game, goes without saying. Such men
love the rifle and the difficulties and dangers ever
attendant upon its use on legitimate game. They
penetrate to the uttermost parts of the earth to gratify
their thirst for adventure ; they toil like galley-slaves,
endure pain, pestilence, and famine, battle and pos-
sibly sudden death in fine, willingly brave all those
evils which stay-at-homes pray to be delivered from.
This love of adventure and dangerous sport is beyond
doubt a valuable trait in our national character.
It encourages self-reliance, courage, judgment, and
rugged health, helps to build up a race of manly
men, and very frequently contributes invaluable in-
formation concerning the resources, etc., of little-
known regions; for the successful hunter of big
game must be a close observer, and as often as not
he is a man of influence when at home, whose state-
ments are respected whenever he describes whither
his quest of adventure led him and what he saw by
the way. Something of the spirit of the Viking, of
Columbus, Cartier, Standish, of the many iron men
of sea and land whose names glitter like stars through
the sombre clouds of early Amerjcan history, lingers
with us yet, and certainly will not die before the final
A Cold Trail 343
disappearance of our big game. Yet, despite the
fierce excitement and triumph of facing and slay-
ing dangerous cat or plantigrade, it is questionable
if there is not more genuine sport to be found in the
chase of such animals as the greater cervidce, which
seldom inflict any serious injury upon their pursuer.
Possessing the strength of two horses and the
malevolence of two devils, grizzly old Ephraim is
a dangerous antagonist, ready to maul all intruders
at the shortest notice; but his pursuit seldom or
never calls forth the exercise of the finer principles
of huntercraft. While an encounter with him may
thoroughly test human courage and nerve, he does
not fear man sufficiently to demand either practised
trailing or perfected woodcraft in the man who desires
a close view of his rusty hide. Though he generally
avoids the encounter, and not infrequently actually
flees from it, he does not possess that instinctive
dread of man which characterizes the whole deer
tribe ; nor does he, as the latter do, use any art to
conceal his trail or himself. Should he run, 'twill
not be far; rather will he go shambling off to his
stronghold in a defiant sort of style, as though his
discretion and his valor were engaged in a doubtful
struggle for supremacy.
A rash move on the part of his enemy, one touch
of lead, or the ping of a harmless ball past him, may
rouse the lightly shackled devil in him and then
for war !
But when a moose, elk, caribou, or even deer or
turkey is the object of the sportsman's quest, how
different are the conditions and how much more
vague the possibilities ! Keen eyes, and keener
344 Sporting Sketches
nostrils and ears, ever watch the backward trail, or
sift the telltale air for the faintest evidence of
danger; cunning brains, quickened by an irresistible
dread of man, evolve schemes of doubling and dodg-
ing and crafty concealment ; and strong, fleet limbs,
that can laugh at miles of heavy going, are ever
ready to bear their owner far from the dreaded
pursuer creeping through the cover.
More often than not, the sportsman's toil is all in
vain. After exercising the perfection of his craft and
calling forth all his reserves of skill gained in years of
experience, after enduring for hours the long agony
of hope deferred, at last, when the hard-earned op-
portunity is almost grasped, some totally unexpected
combination of " hard luck " a stumble, a misstep, a
sudden shifting of the breeze, the deflection of a
bullet by an unseen twig, or one or other of the
many things which can mar a still-hunter's success
intervenes, and naught perhaps remains but a toil-
some tramp of miles before camp is reached.
Nor is the chase of such quarry altogether devoid of
personal danger. The cervidce may be timid animals
enough as a general rule, but they can fight like
demons under certain conditions, and when fairly at
bay, their strength and agility make them exceed-
ingly dangerous. Even a male Virginia deer, if
wounded and thoroughly angered, is no mean
antagonist for a strong man to face. His sharp
fore feet cut like daggers, and one of his lightning-
like blows, fairly planted, would probably maim or
mark a man for life. A bull moose or caribou, if
wounded or too hard pressed , in deep snow, will
fight in short order, and woe betide the man who
A Cold Trail 345
fails to promptly reach a friendly tree if he does not
drop the charging bull in his tracks !
Grizzly Ephraim himself might not maul a man
worse than would either bull moose or caribou, if
the enraged beast ever got at close quarters with his
foe. The first to take effect of the shower of whiz-
zing blows sure to be delivered by the fore limbs
would knock the sporting instinct so far out of a man
that he wouldn't recognize it, should it ever happen
to find its way back. And a bull elk but any one
who has followed an elk knows its strength and
quickness, and one glance at the tremendous forest
of dagger-pointed tines upon Milord's shapely
head will suggest its possibilities.
Aside from the somewhat remote chance of being
attacked by one of these animals, the still-hunter,
being alone, is continually exposed to dangers of
falls among rough rocks, broken limbs, sprained
ankles, and also of getting thoroughly well lost in a
wilderness, where he might not meet a man in six
months. In fact, still-hunting moose, elk, or caribou
is emphatically hard work. Its great charm lies in
the fact that it is a fair test of accomplished wood-
craft and human endurance versus animal powers of
a very high order, aided by almost tireless strength
and speed.
The caribou is a keen-nosed, shy, fast-trotting,
sturdy fellow, and right worthy game for any man's
rifle. Two varieties of this species the woodland
and the barren-ground caribou are best known to
sportsmen. The woodland variety is found in Maine
and certain extreme northern portions of the United
States, notably about the head waters of the Missis-
346 Sporting Sketches
sippi River and in the extreme north of Idaho. The
barren-ground caribou does not generally range so
far south as the international boundary. In Canada
caribou are much more distributed. They are very
plentiful in Newfoundland, scarce in Nova Scotia,
more numerous in New Brunswick, abundant in Que-
bec and Labrador, and fair numbers of them haunt
the wilds of northern Ontario (especially the north
shore of Lake Superior) and portions of Manitoba.
In British Columbia they abound among the moun-
tains, and not infrequently great herds are seen
defiling from some canon or moving down some
mountain side in Indian file, and looking at a dis-
tance like a pack-train.
The best caribou shooting may be had in New-
foundland and British Columbia, but Quebec and
north Ontario yet offer good sport to those who
like roughing it.
During one winter I was temporarily located at a
point on the magnificent north shore of Lake Supe-
rior, my companion being a half-breed hunter who
bore a resonant Indian title too long for insertion in
these pages. When he wanted to travel light, he
bore the name of "Jo," which will answer for the
present. It was cold up there in the icy breath of
the Great Inland Sea, but we were snug enough in
an old railway construction log camp, and had fairly
good sport with grouse, filling up time attending
to Jo's lines of traps. Between Superior and the
" height of land " is a perfect network of lakes and
streams, large and small ; the country is very rough
and rocky, varied with great barrens, muskegs, and
beaver-meadows. Vast portions are densely forested,
A Cold Trail 347
and others carry only ghostly, scattered " rampikes,"
showing where fires have swept. Our headquarters
was the log camp referred to, but we had a tem-
porary camp at the end of a line of traps some ten
miles inland, near the head of a chain of small lakes,
famous in the annals of the fur trade. From it,
westward, extended an immense barren for mile after
mile, bounded by a gray-blue wall of forest.
One night, while we were at the little camp, a
heavy fall of snow re-dressed the hard-featured land-
scape, and Jo and I fell to discussing the chance
for caribou. About daylight we turned out, and Jo
stood for a few moments reading the sky and sweep-
ing the barren with those marvellous aboriginal eyes
of his, which could count a band of animals farther
than I could see them. Presently he grunted softly
and exclaimed :
" Dar um car'boo ! " and pointed westward.
I looked long and earnestly, and at last made out
a distant object moving slowly over the snowy
barren. Getting the glass, I focussed on it and dis-
covered that it was indeed a caribou a lone bull
evidently, as no more could be found.
After hurriedly feeding, we stuffed our pockets
with bread and meat, felt that matches, pipes, and
" baccy " were in their places, donned our snow-
shoes, and started in the direction of our vanished
game.
" Car'boo all right ; feed day on moss. Bymeby
find um more car'boo," said Jo, and I guessed that
he liked the prospect.
It was a cold, gray day; a sharp breeze blew
directly across the barren, and now and then a few
348 Sporting Sketches
snowflakes sifted down, hinting of another down-
fall, though there was already more snow than we
wanted. But there was little danger of anything
serious, and we didn't trouble about the weather.
After tramping for about three miles Jo discovered
the tracks of the caribou, but the beast itself was
not in sight.
Jo decided that he would work across the barren
in case the game had doubled on its course, and
leave me to follow the track. " Me go 'cross, look
'long um tree. You run track, bymeby mebbe you
find um car'boo," and he waved his hand, indicating
that he would cross and then scout along the woods
on the farther side.
I moved rapidly, while Jo was in the open, being
anxious to get far enough in advance of him to fore-
stall all possibility of his wind reaching the game
before I got within range. I had followed the track
until it was nearly noon, keeping a sharp lookout
ahead, before I caught a glimpse of the bull brows-
ing near the edge of the woods. A long look
through the glass told me that he was a magnificent
specimen, bearing a particularly fine set of antlers,
and that he was feeding near cover which promised
a comparatively easy approach to within certain
range.
To obtain this splendid trophy was my firm re-
solve, if patient, skilful " creeping " counted for
anything. Working carefully well to leeward, the
shelter of the dense timber was at last safely gained
at a point some half mile from the game. I had
already put in a lot of hard work, and was half
wearied, but the golden prospect sustained me.
A Cold Trail 349
Once safe in cover, the shoes were removed, and,
gliding, stealing, flitting shadow-like from tree to
tree, now crouching in the line of a boulder, now
crawling and wriggling painfully over a snowy open
patch of moss, I at last gained the edge of the tim-
ber within a hundred and seventy-five yards of my
meat.
He was standing with his rump to me, and his
nose occasionally sought the moss, only to be raised
in a moment and thrust into the wind while the
gentleman chewed a mouthful. About halfway
between us was a goodly clump of brush, overgrow-
ing some scattered boulders, while the space between
my shelter and the brush was filled with little hum-
mocks and hollows, showing where the low growth,
moss, etc., upheld the snow. If I once gained the
brush, and nerves kept steady, he should drop in his
tracks.
I hesitated for a moment between waiting for a
broadside shot from where I was, or attempting to
crawl to the brush, then got down on hands and
knees and began the difficult journey. The hum-
mocks were smaller and hollows shallower when
reached than they had seemed, and when halfway
across the dangerous space it became a question of
wriggling along a-la-serpent. In this position the
caribou was invisible, but I had faith in the wind,
and was wriggling doggedly forward, when from a
clump of moss not twenty feet from my nose a grouse
walked forth, clucking softly to itself in regard to my
probable business.
Here was a pretty position. Of course I didn't
dare flush the grouse, for fear of alarming the caribou,
350 Sporting Sketches
and for long, agonizing moments I lay there in
the snow staring at that infernal bird, while it eyed
me dreamily, and chuckled in an exasperatingly com-
miserating fashion, until the cramp-knot in my leg
grew hard as a base-ball, and I fumed and raged and
groaned inwardly. At last the fool-bird satisfied its
curiosity and trotted demurely away, and, when it
had got to a safe distance, I straightened my cramp
and wriggled on to the tuft whence the grouse had
come.
Inch by inch I raised my head, until a clear view
was possible of the bull's feeding ground he had
vanished as though the earth had swallowed him!
Hastily glancing up the barren, I caught sight of
him walking smartly along, a good four hundred
yards away. He was not alarmed ; he had neither
heard, seen, nor winded me. He had merely decided
to move along. It was one of those maddening
brute whims that checkmate the still-hunter. I ex-
amined the rifle cover to make sure that all was
right. Then, after a good stretch to ease my cramped
muscles, I watched the bull and nursed my hard
luck.
But chance favored me in the next move. The
caribou, after going about half a mile, turned across
the barren and headed for the timber on the farther
side, at the same time edging slightly in my direc-
tion. This course kept him well to windward, and
when he finally approached the distant cover, I again
started for him.
It was a long, hard task to cross the barren in a
crouching position, but finally, I managed to get
behind him safely and followed the track. I was
A Cold Trail 351
now very tired, for the shoeing was heavy, but the
chase was leading homeward. I was mad all through
and game to fight it out on that line till darkness
came. Presently it began to snow, and in half an
hour the air was thick with soft-falling flakes. This
was in my favor, save that I sometimes lost sight of
the bull, only to rediscover him walking steadily
along, headed direct for camp. My only hope
was that he might halt to feed. He was going
about as fast as I could, and so for two good hours
we reeled off the miles at an exercising gait.
At last the snow almost ceased, but the air was
darkening fast, and I guessed we must be within
short distance of camp. While I was endeavoring
to figure out my exact whereabouts, the bull halted
in an open space, bordered on my side by clumps of
good cover, and began to feed. My weariness was
forgotten in a moment; luck had turned my way
at last, for he was in perhaps the best position
for me that he could have chosen on the whole
barren.
Sneaking rapidly on as far as was safe, I once
again doffed shoes and got down on hands and knees
and crawled, and crawled, and crawled, until the
cover was gained, and my victim stood broadside on,
not eighty yards away. He was feeding, and had no
more idea that I was near than I had of shouting.
Carefully I rose to my knees and waited one mo-
ment to pull myself together for the shot that must
needs decide the matter. A last glance at the dis-
tance, and at the sight to make certain that it was at
the lowest notch, and I thought to myself :
" Now, my son, I'll just settle for all this tramp.
352 Sporting Sketches
If I don't drop you " " Whang ! " The roar of a
rifle sounded from a clump to my left, a stream of
fiery smoke shot from the brush, the bull gave a
tremendous lunge forward and went down in a
heap.
For some seconds I was petrified with amaze-
ment; then leaped to my feet, prepared to do I
hardly knew what. From the brush near by rose
a lank figure, a coppery face peered forth, and an
unmistakable voice muttered, " Gess I down um
car'boo ! "
" Jo ! You smoke-tanned idiot, I've a good notion
to put a ball through you ! "
Jo started with as much surprise as his kind ever
show; then his broad mouth spread in a diabolical
grin, for he guessed every incident of the story.
" Me no see you. See um car'boo cum long.
Me hide, tink mebbe kill um car'boo. You lynx,
you creep-creep me no tink you chase um car'-
boo." And that was all the comfort I got, outside
of the head and feet, which were all I wanted of the
bull.
Later in the evening, when I told Jo of the all-
day chase and where I had been, he grunted and
said : " Chase um car'boo berry long time twen-
too mile dat way an back."
"Yes, and I crawled quarter of it, confound
you ! "
" Um, dat so ? Me go two, three, four mile, look
at trap, den run back to mend shoe. Me stop by
fire, bymeby get um car'boo."
" Yes, after I chase him twenty : two miles for you,
you old squaw ! "
A Cold Trail 353
A chuckling grunt proved that Jo realized the
humor of the thing in full, and the way his eyes
twinkled and the wrinkles curved round his silent
mouth almost threw me into fits, for there was no
use in kicking against fate.
2A
TTIKIIE
(D)IF TTUfflE
WE were in the caribou country. Far north,
wrapped in his white shroud, lay Mistassini sleeping
through the long white silence until Wa-Wa called
him. Nearer, to the left, lay the Big Flat Water drows-
ing under a pallid coverlid a fathom thick. Over all
sprang an arch of mysterious gray, that seemed to
draw in and narrow slowly, silently, steadily, while
we looked. Far as we could see, stretching in one
soundless cordon until they dwindled to mere
mounds in the distance, stood what had been
sturdy conifers. Now they were tents drear
domes of death they seemed, pitched there by the
army of the Arctic for a bitter bivouac. We stood
before the small cabin and looked eastward. No
sign of the sun, although he had been up an hour.
Somewhere behind the sad gray veil he was shin-
ing with the wonderful brilliancy of the North, but
that day he would cast no velvet shadows for us.
" Well, wot ye tink ? " inquired Jo.
I hardly knew what to say. Something in the
feel of the air, in the pervading grayness, coun-
selled caution, yet here was the last day of my
leave, and as yet the twelve-gauge had not spoken
to the game I particularly wanted, the ptarmigan
in its full winter plumage.
354
Tbe WWe Wolf of tbe North 355
Jo waited with all the patience of the Indian
cross which browned his skin and blackened his
long, straight hair. What he thought of the pros-
pect did not matter, nor would he tell his kind
never do until after it is all over. All he wanted
out of me was a decision one way or the other. If
I said " Go," he would lead away north without a
word of comment ; if I said " No," he would merely
go into the cabin and lie and smoke. Perhaps
toward night he might say, " We'd best gone." He
was a picturesque-looking tramp in the gay garb
of the lumberman. How much he had on under-
neath I could only guess, but it was quite enough
to spoil the outline of what was naturally a beautiful,
lean, strong figure. On his head, six feet from his
heels, was a shocking bad hat, a black felt he had
picked up somewhere. Bad as it was, it stuck on
and shaded his eyes. His long hair protected his
ears and that was sufficient. Only his small, narrow
feet were Indian. They were hidden in as pretty a
pair of moccasins as I had seen. But a glance at
his face told the story. Somewhere not far back
in Jo's pedigree lay the cross, and in this case the
blending of the blood of the indomitable voyageur
with that of the redskin had produced a grand man,
game, untiring, wizard of woodland, a child till
the hot blood was roused ; an Indian when the devil
was unchained.
For a few moments I hesitated. If I could only
translate the flash of the wonderful aboriginal eyes
or guess what lay behind the mystical bronze mask,
but that was impossible. Once more my eyes
turned northward. The grayness seemed a trifle
35 6 Sporting Sketches
paler, and a puff of air, keen as if from the very
Pole, met me. "Looks like snow too cold to
snow," I muttered; then added louder:
" We'll tryit."
The black eyes twinkled an instant with an in-
describable flash, then he turned into the cabin. As
I followed I heard him give utterance to a peculiar
low grunt, which might have meant anything or
nothing. I would have given something to have
been able to translate it, for beyond question my
decision had raised or lowered his estimation of
my woodcraft and general qualifications. I ac-
quired wisdom later.
Within five minutes we were ready. Jo had
carefully watched the flask, sandwich, shells, and
tobacco go into my pockets, and again had grunted
softly when I examined my matchbox. Then, with-
out a word, he led the way on the creaking, netted
shoes which alone rendered walking a possibility.
He was a mighty pace-maker. Snow-shoeing is the
hardest of hard work, and Jo certainly showed me
all there was in it. Before half a mile had been
covered he had me fumbling with mittenless hand
at the unruly button at my throat, and by the time
a mile lay behind my forehead was damp in spite of
an air that nipped like a mink-trap. At length we
reached the edge of a tongue of fir- woods, where Jo
paused. Before spread a mile-broad open, where
some old fire had bitten to the bone. In summer
this was an artistic expanse of lichened rocks, with
low, lean scrub between ; now it spread like a frozen
sea, with stiffened billows half buried in purest snow.
For minutes he stood, while his eyes scanned every
The Wbite Wolf of the North 357
yard of white from his feet to the irregular sky-
line.
" Mebbe car'boo," he muttered, as he rolled his
eyes toward a slight depression which I should have
passed by. Then he stooped and thrust his hand
into the snow.
"Big bull old," was all the comment he made
as he straightened and again led the way.
Evidently the open had no attraction for him, for
he swung off to the right, keeping along the edge of
the cover. Here what breeze there was had full
sweep, and it nipped keenly at the nose, cheeks,
and chin. Already my heavy mustache was burdened
with ice, and a certain caution about breathing had
developed. But Jo did not appear to bother about
trifles like that, although his bronzed face did show
a warmer color. His steady, remorseless gait never
changed, and the rear view of him suggested that he
was apt to go on till spring. Nor was the shoeing
easy. The old snow-shoer will understand what the
conditions meant, and while I was in very fair form
and no mean performer across country, I thoroughly
realized that there was an iron man ahead. This,
too, while merely following a pace-maker a very
different matter from leading.
It was perhaps an hour later when he halted and
blew a great cloud of steam from his lips. I under-
stood, and at once produced the flask and poured
him a fair measure into the metal cup. The good
stuff fairly fell into him but an Indian's an Indian.
" You no take ? " he queried, while a surprised
expression flitted across the chasm which had en-
tombed his share.
358 Sporting Sketches
" Bad for eyes snow bad enough now," I re-
torted, as I put away the flask, for Jo's eyes seemed
to say that if I didn't intend to take any, he might
as well have my share. But that was not in order.
Instead of moving forward, he smiled and pointed
at the snow. " Thur," was all he said.
I looked and saw one, two, three a dozen tiny
trails, as though elfin snow-shoers had passed that
way. They were queer little tracks, roundish, in-
distinct, running in single lines, the rear rim of one
almost overlapping the fore rim of another. Never
had I beheld the like. By the size of them their
makers should have been of considerable weight,
yet they barely dented the snow. Their arrange-
ment was grouse-like, and in a moment I had it.
Nothing but the wonderful show-shoe foot of the
ptarmigan could leave a trail like that.
" Snow-grouse white eh ? " I asked.
He nodded.
" Fresh where'bouts ? " I continued.
" Look look lot," he replied.
A twinkle in his eye warned me that I had better
be mighty careful, and I felt certain he had already
seen the birds. But where? Standing perfectly
still, I first scanned the snowy trees. Nothing there.
Then, remembering the ways of the quail and the
many times I had detected birds upon the ground
ahead of the dogs, I began a close scrutiny of the
snow a few yards ahead. Presently a shiny ebon
point caught my eye, then a dull point equally
black then, as if my eyes had suddenly become
properly focussed, I made out the.soft, white, pigeon-
like form of a ptarmigan crouched upon the snow.
Tbe White Wolf of the Nortb 359
Then another and another showed, until I could
plainly see seven birds in all. They were from about
eight to ten yards distant, and as motionless as so
many snowballs, which they greatly resembled.
My right hand rose slowly to my frosted chops,
teeth seized the point of the heavy mitten, and the
bare hand slipped forth and closed upon the grip.
In five seconds the steaming hand felt the nip of
the air and the apparently red-hot touch of metal.
Then I let the mitten fall from my mouth.
Purr-r-whir-r-bur-r ! The white forms rose some-
thing like quail, but lacking the hollow thunder and
impetuous dash of the brave brown bird. Even as
the gun leaped to shoulder I realized that the white
ghosts were not going so fast, but true to old quail
training, the trigger finger worked as though dense
cover was only two yards instead of a mile away.
The first bird stopped shattered within twenty-
five yards, and the second not more than five yards
beyond its mate, Jo grunted like a bull moose,
then dashed ahead, and I chuckled as I remembered
that this was the first time he had seen a " squaw-
gun " in action. But, instead of going direct to the
birds, he chased on with long strides to a point
sixty odd yards beyond, and stooping, picked up a
third ptarmigan which had managed to get into line
with the second. This he triumphantly retrieved.
Beautiful, snowy things they were, with the cold,
white sparks powdering their spotless covering and
sticking to the hair-like texture of the poor little
snow-shoes. Two were perfect for mounting, and
even the shattered one might, with extra care, be
saved. So far, so good. I had killed my own
360 Sporting Sketches
specimens and added a new bird to the score of the
veteran twelve-gauge.
I pocketed the birds, broke the gun, put in fresh
shells, and, on the strength of an easy but clean kill,
produced the flask. As Jo took his dose, I noticed
his face. Instead of the customary grin, it showed
grave and solemn as an owl's. The sparkle of the
eye, too, was missing, and when the sight of a drink
didn't make Jo's optics gleam, something surely was
amiss.
" You foller dem ? " he tersely queried, as I made
a significant motion. I was somewhat astonished.
" Bad luck kill dem look dur ! "
Something in his voice startled me, and my eyes
flashed northward, whither his long arm pointed.
Under great stress a man sometimes thinks of
whimsical things. What I thought was " I've
killed three pups of the North Pole, and here's the
whole frapped Arctic Circle coming south to see
about it ! "
Rolling steadily down, like snowy surf, mountains
high, came a squall the like of which I had never
seen. One glance was sufficient. The white mass
seemed dense enough for good shoeing, and the way
in which its deadly advance blotted out the land-
scape was absolutely terrifying. Under such a
downfall a trail would not show for a minute.
"Come quick! "said Jo, as he turned, and the
gleam in his wild eyes was a solemn warning.
I have run in a snow-shoe steeplechase over rough
country, have staggered home, beaten and cooked to
a turn, after one of those desperate efforts which fool-
men will make for a pewter mug, a cheer, and some
The White Wolf of tbe North 361
woman's smile. I have been "butchered to make
a Roman holiday " on sliding seat, steel blades,
spiked shoon, and other modern refinements, while
shrill voices rang and dainty thumbs turned down
(they all despise a loser!); I have been guilty of
that crime of errors, getting into the " gym " arena
with the wrong man, but of all the bucketings ever
I got, Jo gave me the worst ! Peace to his ashes
he was a scared Indian and he had no better
sense!
Only those who have chased a smoke-tanned fire-
water worshipper on snow-shoes, and about two
jumps ahead of a blizzard, can understand. I knew
that he knew the trail, and I vowed that if he lost
me, it was my fault. All I could see was his dim
back rising and falling in mighty effort then we
ran for it in dead earnest. No picking the way
no anything but chase chase chase. He never
hesitated nor slackened, and all the while the snow
thickened and the wind shouted louder and louder
at the death song. At last, with a roar and a wild
horizontal rush of snow, the full strength of the
storm struck us. Then we heard the true howl of
the White Wolf of the North, as the men in igloos
hear it when the sea solidifies. Mercifully it was at
our backs, any other point would have meant
but there's cold comfort in that! I knew that if
Jo once got out of sight, I might not be found till
spring; and winters are long on the North Shore-
Besides, I had things to attend to later, my people
to see, and my ptarmigan to mount, so I chased
on. And ever before me was the snowy back, ever in
my ears the White Wolf's howl, and in my breast
362 Sporting Sketches
the tortured engine pumping to bursting strain. I
cursed the hampering clothes and the buttons that
seemed ever drawing tighter, the thongs that cut
deep now, and the nets that had to be swung true
while they felt like lead to the feet.
At last came the blessed " second wind," and none
too soon, for it found me rocking. The snow-padded
back was ten yards ahead now, rising and falling
with the same old motion. Ever and anon a savage
swirl would hide it in a blur of white, but I was
going easier and felt I could close the gap at will.
Presently it vanished, and on the instant of its dis-
appearance I realized my danger and spurted vigor-
ously. Before I had time to think, Jo was again in
view, and I mentally vowed that not for my life
would I let him out of my sight. Indian-like, he had
no idea of halting or looking round to see how I
fared. I was to follow if I failed to do so, that
was my affair. When an Indian gets scared, he's
the worst scared thing imaginable; and Jo was going
to the cabin by the shortest route. If I failed to make
it, he'd hunt for me after the weather cleared.
Through the roar and the whine and the icy fog of
it all we pounded ahead. First, an uneasy dread took
hold of me. Did Jo know whither he was drift-
ing? Had his instinct for the once failed? We
seemed to have covered an awfully long route.
Then another and worse fear came, I was getting
tired. No mistake about that. No one knew
better than their owner why leg muscles were com-
plaining so. One quarter of a mile farther, if we
had to do so much, and I'd be done so brown that a
bake-oven couldn't tan me more."
The Wbite Wolf of tbe North 363
What then ? I'd follow the trail as far as I could,
then curl up. I had the flask and the infernal
ptarmigan, and I'd live on them for two days any-
way. But the cold oh! yes, the cold well, it
would freeze me stiffer than the North Pole in
twenty minutes and then ? The Gray Wolf
would come and nuzzle for ears and nose and
fingers and they'd snap like icicles and he'd thaw
them in his steamy old paunch along with the con-
founded ptarmigan ; but his teeth would click and
slip on the flint-hard larger parts and I'd at least
have the satisfaction of compelling him to wait for a
thaw! The rasp of a twig across my cold nose
startled and hurt me so that I roused from the first
stage of the deadly, cold-begotten drowsiness, and
dimly realized that I was running into cover. The
edge of the wood ! Yes, and there was Jo's track
and Jo himself just ahead.
In ten minutes we were in the cabin. Fifteen
minutes later we had got rid of snowy outer garb
and had looked upon something hot and oh ! so
welcome. Presently Jo raised his drawn face from
his hands and said:
" Bad to kill dem white snowbird. But you good
run like bull moose else los' ! "
I muttered something I hate to try remember
what, for my eyes were closing in utter weariness.
And even now, when the blizzard ramps among
the crowded structures of the great city, the mad
white wrath of it reaches a sleeper's ear and well,
the poor little wifey gets up and makes herself some
sort of shake-down on the lounge !
<Q>F TTDHIE
UNDER the general head of " hare hunting " may be
grouped several forms of a sport very popular in
widely separated parts of the world. To the Briton,
the mere mention of a hare calls up memories of cours-
ing and that blue ribbon of the sporting canine world,
the Waterloo Cup, which along with other important
fixtures has for so long aroused the enthusiasm of
our brethren oversea. Several European nations,
too, have their own favorite methods of circum-
venting poor puss, but they need not be dwelt
upon.
Until a comparatively recent date, we had nothing
to compare with the British sport, but the natural
advantages of vast tracts of our Middle West and
Far West country were too apparent to be long over-
looked after the tide of permanent settlement had
once fairly set westward. Among the most useful
classes of settlers were sturdy men, and not a few
moneyed men, from the sporting counties of Great
Britain. These men had the characteristic nomadic
and sporting instincts strongly developed in fact
364
In tbe Haunts of the Hare 365
the promise of a wholesome freedom and unlimited
sport was the magnet which drew many of them to
our West and once there, it is not astonishing
that they promptly took advantage of their un-
equalled opportunity.
The instinct to tackle things which can fight, to
pursue things that can run or fly, is absorbed by the
Briton with his mother's milk, and one of his dearly
loved pastimes is coursing. Hence, he speedily
noted the possibilities, so soon as he became
acquainted with that weird brute Lepus callotis,
commonly termed the " jack-rabbit." This creature
can run like the wind ; it inhabits the great plains,
which afford a clear view and fine footing for horse
and hound, so it was only natural that coursing under
special rules to suit the new field should follow.
How wonderfully this sport has flourished may be
learned from a glance over the reports of the many
important fixtures annually decided. In its own
smaller way, coursing now receives the same close
attention as racing. Representatives of the best
greyhound blood of Britain are to be found at the
head of many kennels, while the breeding, handling,
and running of the dogs are in the hands of men as
keen and clever as any that ever sent out a winner
of the storied blue ribbon. That the sport will con-
tinue to flourish goes without saying the nature
of the Western country and the temperament of its
people guarantee that. Hawking the "jack-rabbit,"
too, may yet become one of our most attractive
pastimes. I have repeatedly seen both falcons and
harriers chase the jacks, and every time the sight
called up visions of trained hawks with all the at-
366 Sporting Sketches
tendant picturesque and pleasant possibilities. To-
day, the outdoor woman is queen, and of a surety
hawking would give Diana a grand opportunity to
spread her conquests further.
The best of our hares is the well-known fellow of
the East and North, the northern hare (L. ameri-
canus), the so-called " white rabbit." He is good
game in his proper season, and he possesses the
great advantage over the " jack " (possibly not from
his point of view !) of being also good eating. Child
of the snow that he is, he makes his home in the
wilds, fearing neither piling drift nor biting blast.
He loves the unbroken forest, the snarls of tangled
thicket, the twisted wreckage of the tornado's path,
the dusk swamps, soundless beneath lonely hills.
This hare, like the beautiful ptarmigan, furnishes an
interesting example of Nature's loving provision for
the welfare and safety of her feebler children of the
North. In summer the ptarmigan wears a mottled
coat which admirably blends with the prevailing
tints of the lichened rocks of its home. Upon the
approach of winter the bird's plumage gradually
turns white, while a growth of hair-like feathers upon
the legs and feet thickens until it forms the snow-
shoe foot the best possible thing to support the
bird upon snow and to protect the feet from frost.
The hare, lacking wings, requires better protection,
and Nature attends to it. During summer, the pre-
vailing color of the coat is a grayish brown, the
most inconspicuous of tints among roots, rocks,
shrubs, and the various surroundings of the breeding
season. The hare's special gifts, without which he
would speedily succumb to various foes, including
36;
climate, are those four valuable F's foot, form,
fleetness, and fur.
Each and all of these are unquestionably most
useful at times, but when snow lies deep and loose,
the winning trump is the peculiar foot. In winter
this becomes a veritable snow-shoe, a truly marvellous
contrivance which enables the comparatively light
animal to patter at will over drift and level which
would otherwise hold him fast, a helpless prey to
rapacious beast or bird that chose to attack. Nothing
better for their purpose than his furry pads can be
found among Nature's many marvels. His coat, too,
plays an important part. Thin and cool during the
heated term, as the cold weather approaches it
thickens apace until it forms one of the lightest
and warmest of coverings. The wild men of the
North were quick to appreciate its valuable features,
and wove strips of it into the cosiest of wraps. But
the warmth and lightness of the coat are not all of
its peculiarities. Grayish brown upon snow would
be entirely too conspicuous, so Nature meets the
difficulty with another beautiful provision. As the
coat thickens as a guard against cold, it gradually
turns white to match the increasing snow. The
brown pales to a cream, and the cream whitens till
only a darkish stripe down the springy back, and
patches about the big eyes, remain to tell of the
summer garb. Soon these too fade, until the hare
is pure white, or so nearly so that he can squat amid
the snow and so closely match his surroundings as to
escape even practised eyes. If by chance discovered,
he can speed away upon his snow-shoes and in a few
bounds vanish in the snowy woods, where every log
368 Sporting Sketches
and stump is a perfect cover. This is well, for in
addition to man he has natural foes which know not
mercy. Chief among these are the lynx, fox, wolf,
fisher, marten, the great horned and the snowy owls,
and other rapacious birds. Other creatures, too,
prey upon him more or less at their murderous
wills, for if once cornered, he offers no defence
whatever.
Most of the hares which not seldom glut our
winter markets are victims of the snare. A few
are trapped in other ways, while others are shot, but
their numbers are insignificant in comparison to
those which die by the craftily placed wire. To
snare a hare is, of course, an unpardonable thing
from a sportsman's point of view. The habits of the
animal render it such an easy victim that only a
thoughtless boy, or an out-and-out poacher, would
bother himself over its capture. Like the Virginia
deer, the hare has regular runways along which it
travels through its favorite swamp or other cover.
All the poacher has to do is to locate these runways
by the tracks, set a few snares, and wait for the un-
fortunate hares to do the rest. The snares are
fastened to " twitch-ups " springy poles, sufficiently
long and strong to lift a hare a few feet off the
ground. The wretched victim sooner or later comes
hopping along the runway, his head enters the noose,
and in an instant he is jerked off his feet, then
hanged by the neck until he is dead. The object
of the spring-pole is twofold first, to strangle the
victim, and second, to lift the body beyond the reach
of any prowling creature whida might fancy cold
hare. The whole business requires about as much
In the Haunts of the Hare 369
skill and is about as keenly exciting as the purchase
of a frozen hare from a city dealer.
The sport of sports with the hare is to shoot him
ahead of smart hounds, but there is another way, and
I have followed it of a winter's day with considerable
pleasure. It is still-hunting, in other words tracking
the hare to his " form " and shooting him as he bolts.
The man who craves rapid action in his sport may
smile at this, yet I have found fun, much opportunity
for interesting observation, and a lot of healthful
exercise in it. A still, bright day after a snowfall
is the best. Then all tracks are fresh and all wood-
life, housed during the storm, is active. To the
experienced sportsman the work is comparatively
easy, for the trained eye sees the country as one great
white page with a series of short stories some
pathetic, many tragic, but all interesting.
A leisurely start is as good as any, for wild life
sleeps late these white mornings. So somewhere
about nine o'clock I strike across the broad level of
a farm toward the gray ring of woodland. There is
walking to be done, and the costume is well chosen.
First, medium-weight, all-wool underwear and warm,
home-knit socks. Over this a suit of gray corduroy,
the trousers being roomy to the knee, thence fitting
like drawers to the ankle, where they are tied with
soft tape. Three smoked-pearl buttons at the knee
give the appearance of knee-breeches. The gray
sweater and coat give necessary warmth and pocket-
room. The hat is corduroy. The boots are water-
proof tan, lacing to the knee. This costume is neat,
workmanlike, and very comfortable. It would look
businesslike on top of a good horse, and it is first-
2B
370 Sporting Sketches
rate for tramping in snow. The gun is a hard-shoot-
ing, featherweight, modern arm a killer such as
our fathers never dreamed of. The dozen or so
little shells go into one pocket, sandwiches into a
second, pipe and " baccy " into a third, while the
smallest of flasks of ginger wine fits over the hip,
the outfit being admirably adapted to what may
later prove a long and cold tramp.
The man who still-hunts a hare must be a good
walker and one of those favored few who do not
measure their pleasure by the amount of game
bagged. The time for the sport is after the regular
shooting season, and while it has joys all its own, it
does not appeal to men who want to be forever pull-
ing trigger. From three to a half-dozen hares would
mean a good day with a most liberal allowance of
honest tramping.
A mile across country settles breakfast famously,
and as I reach the edge of a low-lying patch of maple
thicket, I feel in fine fettle. There are perhaps one
hundred acres of good ground where hares are known
to be, so I tramp along reading the snow-page's
morning news as I go. There are many local
paragraphs, all of more or less interest. " Mr. and
Mrs. Fox Sparrow and family have taken that snug
cottage, ' The Briers,' for the winter." " The Messrs.
Chickadee, Woodpecker, and Nuthatch are in our
midst. They are expert prospectors and confi-
dently expect some rich finds. They are at pres-
ent exploring the big swale." " There was an un-
seemly row at a dance last night, which might have
ended seriously if our esteemed night-watchman,
Mr. G. H. Owl, had not arrived in the nick of time.
In the Haunts of tbe Hare 371
Mr. Owl, always prompt and efficient, at once arrested
the notorious Molly Cottontail and haled her before
the Beak. She was promptly put away." " House-
holders are warned that the well-known criminal,
Brown Mink, is hanging about the neighborhood.
Our readers will do well to closely examine all fast-
enings before retiring." And so they ran on in the
usual backwoods style.
To take it seriously, though, this reading of the
snow is a wonderfully interesting thing. Here the
delicate tracery of tiny feet tells where the seed-
laden ragweed bent low. Yonder a regular stitch-
ing and a tiny furrow betray the feet and dragging
tail of a wood-mouse ; again, a series of small prints
marks the course of a red squirrel to and from his
hidden granary. Trim, close-crowded marks tell
where a bevy of Bob Whites followed the zigzag
shelter of a rail fence. At the edge of the swale,
a single row of round, evenly spaced prints marks
the route of a fox, and farther on the sign tells that
he tried for a grouse and missed. All the doings of
day and night are truly recorded, and he who loves
the wild things and their affairs may be pardoned
for lingering over this, his morning paper.
At last I find something which directly concerns
present business. It is a rough triangle the apex
two small prints, the sides two long ones. It is the
track of a hare, and the distance between the prints
proves he was going at speed. A green hand almost
certainly would follow the back track. When a suc-
cession of big V's indicate a route, the eye naturally
follows the way the points direct. In this case, that
would be an error. I have a vivid recollection of the
372 Sporting Sketches
first time I followed a hare's track. It led across an
open to a big brush-pile, under which it ended. All
about was virgin snow. That the hare was as good
as mine I never doubted, so I kicked the pile. Noth-
ing showing, I mounted the pile and jumped on it
till it rocked to its base. Still nothing appeared.
Somewhat mystified, I began to remove the brush,
a branch at a time. This, with the gun in one hand,
was slow work, and every time a lump of snow would
shift I'd spring back and bring the gun to shoulder,
for I knew that hare would go like all outdoors when
it did go. When I got down to the bottom of that
brush-pile, and found only the spot where a hare had
lain up, I was mad and wise all through.
But to return to the trail. The track told its
story. The maker of it had been going fast, but
as there was no following track, the hare, presum-
ably, had been bent upon urgent private affairs, and
might or might not be anywhere within a circle of
one hundred yards' diameter. The thing to do was
to follow the trail and find out. Now, following
the trail of a hare through heavy cover is no joke.
He may have visited every outpost of the swamp
during the previous night, and again he may not
have travelled a quarter of a mile all told. In either
event, one moves as though still-hunting deer, ever
sticking to the track and keeping a sharp lookout
in front. When the hare moves, it will be with an
easy leap from some shelter, followed by a rush
through the cover which carries the quarry from
sight with an astounding celerity. So the gun must
be ready for rapid action. As a, rule the hare will
be squatting under a brush-pile, log, or fallen top,
In tbe Haunts of tbe Hare 373
but quite frequently a cleft between roots, or the
interior of a hollow stump, forms the hiding-place.
It is odds on that the hare sees its pursuer before
being discovered, hence it is as apt to start from
almost under one's foot, or behind one's heels, as any-
where else. All wild creatures, when hiding, appear
to know the instant they are detected, whereupon
they immediately make off. I have more than once
walked almost over a crouching hare, only to start it
when I turned to look for the lost track. Needless
to say, it is very seldom the white fur is seen amid
the snow before the creature moves. When it
finally does start, one may be astride of a big log,
or snarled up in some brush, or in any one of a
dozen possible difficulties which may interfere with
the necessary quick, sure shot. As a rule, however,
one sees a hazily denned, speeding shape, and either
bowls puss over there and then, or realizes the force
of that ancient warning " First catch your hare."
This sort of still-hunting may lead into all imagi-
nable forms of bad going through brush, where dis-
lodged snow is forever falling ; through thorny stuff
which never seems to weary of raking one's face and
hands ; and, worst of all, across ponds of unknown
depth, the icy covering of which may or may not
bear a man's weight. It is, therefore, well to be a
bit shy of nice, open levels, which offer the easiest
of walking. They are very apt to mean ice and
more or less water. To a lone trailer a ducking
in the woods is no joke, and it may prove quite a
serious matter; for, as a general thing, getting in
is a heap easier than getting out.
So much for the still-hunting. It may be that
374 Sporting Sketches
the track must be followed through half a hundred
twists and doublings, which in all demand more than
a mile of trailing. It may be that the hare, missed
at the first chance, must be again trailed to wherever
it chooses to stop. If so, there is a fresh track and
a hare at the lost end of it ; and patience will bag
that hare. I am free to confess that I like the silent
prowling, the keen watching, the side glimpses of
other small life, and that smack of the long agony
of hope deferred, which are sure to be the portion of
the still-hunter.
Hounding hare is quite another matter. It has
its share of action, its sweet bells jangled out of tune,
of dog-voices, its tense situations, and, upon good
days, its sufficiency of quick, accurate shooting. It
has another advantage, too ; our modern Diana may
share it, an she be so graciously disposed. For
instance :
" Ed, you've just got to take me ! I'm smothered
I want to get outdoors I'm ready I'll drive
I'll do anything! and" here the voice buzzed
like a yellow-jacket "if you don't take me, you
shan't have my dog so there ! "
" All right, my gentle guinea-hen. That tongue
of yours would be a grand thing on a cold trail
it's a cursed shame you didn't get four legs when
they were passed round I'd take you sure, then,"
I retorted.
"You're just the dearest old thing in all the "
she began, but I cut it short with
" That'll do now ! get your hooks out of my
gray hairs and let me be. I've got my opinion of
young women who get dressed all ready before they
In tbe Haunts of tbe Hare 375
ask if they're wanted. I don't want thee, sweet
cousin, but I do need thy dog ! "
Reader, especially female reader, don't raise your
eyebrows and sniff. The young woman is a spoiled
pet, that's all. Anyway, I'm old enough to be her
father, and I taught her to shoot. During some
paretic interval I gave her my one rabbit-dog, an
overgrown beagle, by name " Boz," and a rare good
one. Later I tried to beg him back and was sent
to Coventry for a period of one week. So there
you are.
Within half an hour nag and sleigh were ready,
and away we went. There was just enough snow for
good slipping, and cousin's small hands kept the
nag at his best pace until she pulled him up at a
farm-house some five miles from the starting-point.
As we tramped toward the chosen ground, a big,
almost impenetrable swamp surrounded by woods,
she led the way. I looked her over and she was
good to see. The gray " Fedora," with its grouse's
plume, closely matched the sweater, easy-fitting
cord coat, and short skirt. She was a symphony in
gray, with which the stout, oil-tanned boots and
scrap of dull crimson ribbon had no quarrel. Very
feminine, also foxy, was that wholly unnecessary
scrap of ribbon. Two autumns before we had
chanced upon a beauteous thing a great frond of
crimson sumach draping a mole-gray, mossy rail.
That combination I had worshipped there and
then, and well, she being a woman, etc. Easy in
every movement, she swung along with a business-
like stride which would tire many a man, and as I
watched I thought with pleasure of the thousands
376 Sporting Sketches
of other girls of the rational school the mothers
yet to be of a sturdy race, which, so long as it sticks
to the grand outdoors, will never lose its Anglo-
Saxon might. The gun upon her shoulder was as a
featherweight to that lithe, graceful figure, a toy to
the strong, small hands and firmly muscled arms.
Where an old road traversed the swamp were our
vantage-points, and we took stands some fifty yards
apart. Boz had needed no instructions he was
already somewhere in the cover searching for a
fresh track. Lil brushed the snow from a log, rested
her gun against a sapling, and sat down ; I filled my
pipe and stood peering into the heavy brush. For
perhaps twenty minutes we waited, then a single
sharp bark came to us. Lil's clear soprano an-
swered with a cheery, far-reaching cry, then the dog
barked again. This was his signal that he had
located some trail worth following. Presently there
rose a sudden storm of music a confusion of dog-
language, as though a dozen canine tongues had
been loosed together ; then abrupt silence.
" Look out he's started ! " I called, and the gray
figure straightened up, gun in hand. For a few
seconds we listened in vain, then came the welcome
message. Like the Switzer's call it clove the
snowy aisles of silence until the forest rang with
sweetest melody. Louder and clearer it swelled, till
one might well marvel that one small dog's throat
could cause it all. Then it muffled as he swept
through some hollow, only to rise and ring like a
bell that flings good news to a waiting host. It
was evident that Boz had got well away with his
game and was driving at top s'peed. A long cir-
377
cling, a period of doubt, and then a rapid, insistent
tonguing, steadily increasing in power, told that
the quarry had decided to cross the road.
And now the thrilling moment of hare shooting.
The animal might take the road for a distance, but
in all probability it would burst, like a puff of wind-
driven snow, from the cover, take two long leaps in
the open, then dive into the opposite cover with
all the headlong abandon of a big frog going to
water. Sharp work this, for there's no telling how
close behind the dog may be.
We were both at the ready as need demanded.
A roar from the dog told that for an instant he had
sighted, then a long, white shape curved from the
brush to the road and rose again with rubbery ease.
Smooth, silent, swift as it was, the girl's trained
muscles beat it. I whirled about and humped my
back, for small shot stingeth like an adder, and even
a glancing pellet is bad for one's eye. As I
dodged, my ear caught the quick, vicious squinge-
squinge of the lightly charged shells, followed by a
ringing note. No mistaking the triumph vibrant
through that call the small hands, the keen young
eyes, had done the trick, and the old fool-teacher felt
prouder than if he had done it.
Mutely eager, the dog flung himself across the
trail to make sure, then his sickle tail waved slowly
and proudly as he paused and snorted gruffly over
something in the snow.
" Did I miss him ? " shrilled an anxious voice.
Up went the dog's nose, and he jangled out his
version of " We killed the hare ! "
" All right," I said as I picked up the fat fellow
378 Sporting Sketches
and drew the long body through my gripping left
hand a stripping process that is good for dead
hares. His ears looked like the top of a pepper-
caster, and I gloried in the swift, clean work. Then
I carried the prize to the radiant owner.
Rail against it if you must, O prudes, but I be-
lieve in any rational sport which can kindle the
spark of triumph in a woman's eye and send the
rich red of pure delight to her cheek. As I looked
at her and heard her ecstatic " My, he's a fine fat
fellow ! " it did seem that any decent buck rabbit
ought to welcome annihilation from such a source.
Being a man, and just naturally more or less of a
brute, all I said was
" Awfully sorry, coz, but I couldn't help shooting
ahead of you weren't you a trifle slow ? "
She looked me squarely in the eye for what felt
like an hour, then the words came like the final ham-
mer-raps on a rivet
" Y-o-u b-r-u-t-e ! And you standing there with
your back humped and everything pulled in like an
old mud-turtle, when I wasn't holding within ten
yards of you ! "
xxvnn
TTWIE
A SHINING February morning and a great white,
shining world white as the soul of a child ! Over
it all an infinity of flawless blue, with never a token
to prove that from it fell, but a few hours before, the
world's fair garb of snow. Eastward blazed that
gold-faced god who makes a typical winter day the
wondrous, indescribable thing it is.
It was cold outside, and I knew it. My argument
with a devilled kidney had been interrupted more
than once by sharp reports like pistol-shots, which
told that the frost had touched a tree, or started a
nail in the clapboards. When the kidney had ac-
knowledged getting the worst of it, moccasins, heavy
pea-jacket, fur cap, warm gloves, were donned, and
forth I fared to find what such a peerless day had in
store. The air was keen as Eastern lance and glit-
tered with myriad diamond lights ; it was as exhila-
rating as iced wine, and three chestfuls of it started
me running down the snowy road in sheer exuber-
ance of animal spirits. Presently a merry jingle of
bells sounded and a merrier voice exclaimed, u Look
out ! or I'll run you down."
No need to look round, for I knew the voice ; so
I merely answered, " You couldn't run a lame dog
down with that old skate ! " Then I ran as if the
379
380 Sporting Sketches
fiend was on my track, for a four-minute bay road-
ster and a dainty Portland were behind, and Jim
would as soon do what he said as not.
For a hundred yards we had it hot as we could
lay foot to snow; then I heard the dull blows of fly-
ing feet and a sharp " Hi ! " and dodged aside just
in time to clear the rush of one of the tidiest gentle-
man's roadsters in the country.
Jim could hardly pull up inside of fifty yards, for
the good bay's blood was hot ; but finally the horse
steadied, and Jim sung out: "Come, pile in here!
I want to use you."
"What for?"
" I'm off for the bay. Spearing's prime, and we'll
have a try at it. Everything's ready down there
spears and all in the shanty so in you get."
No better fun was wanted, and away we jingled
through the town and thence westward over an
excellent country road toward Mitchell's Bay, on
Lake St. Clair, famous for black bass, 'lunge, and
waterfowl since the days of " Frank Forester."
Mile after mile our game horse flung behind, now
passing fat farms great levels of white now
waking the echoes of dense, shadowy woods with
the crisp jingle of the bells, until at last we reached
the frozen marsh and the small hotel beside the bay.
Very brief time sufficed for final arrangements, and
we were soon in our shanty, one of several similar
in construction that were scattered over the ice.
These shanties are built of rough boards and are
large enough to accommodate two men and leave
room for a small stove. The repfs are high enough
to allow the use of a short-handled spear, and fre-
Fishing through the Ice 381
quently the shanties are mounted upon runners of
plank to facilitate moving from point to point. It is
comfortable and dark inside a shanty when once the
door is shut, for there is no window, the object being
to exclude all light save what strays upward through
the clear ice-floor.
When a shanty is ready for business, it is stationed
on the ice above some known shoal or channel
favored of fish; a little snow is banked up around
the house and an opening of convenient size cut
through the ice inside. This hole is carefully cleared
of all fragments of ice, and when the shanty door is
closed, one can peer down into the haunts of fish.
The grandest prize to fall to the spearman's skill
is, of course, a " 'lunge," as the mascalonge is
termed, and to attract his lordship within striking
distance, an artificial minnow is attached to a string
and caused to play about a short distance below the
surface of the exposed water. When a fish of goodly
size shows within safe reach, a swift thrust with the
three, four, or sometimes five tined spear secures or
misses the game, as the case may be.
Jim and I sat side by side, gazing downward.
I manipulated the minnow, while he held the spear
ready for instant action. Below were soft, shadowy,
green depths, half-illumined by a weird, ghostly light
which seemed to come from nowhere and to reveal
nothing. But soon our eyes seemed to focus
properly, as it were, and the view broadened. We
could distinguish faint forms of water-weeds, and
once or twice a gilded perch sailed solemnly across
the silence below, like a seared leaf wind driven.
It was very pretty and fascinating, and I swam
382 Sporting Sketches
the lure minnow in most artistic style for a consider-
able time. Then something came ! It came, it
saw, it vanished, leaving a phosphorescent gleam in
the water to mark its lightning flight. I had barely
time to note that it was a sturdy old bass, and Jim's
hand hardly closed on the spear ere it had gained
the dim whence. It evidently wanted naught of
the minnow or spear.
More time passed, and then came a pickerel.
Slow and shining, he floated upward, his wall-eyes
glowing on the fancied prey, and Jim poked fun
into him vigorously ; and the pointed joke was too
much for pickerel self-control, and he let his life slip
away in his excitement. Three or four more were
taken in the same fashion within the hour, and they
were all fine fish of their kind. Then Jim insisted
that I should take the spear and let him play the
lure.
For half an hour I sat and stared at the water.
Then I yawned and filled my pipe anew, and then it
may be that I fretted at the hard luck on general
principles. Be that as it may, I presently spied
something which roused all the fierce impulse of
sport in me. Jim saw it, too, and he played his
minnow a trifle farther away.
From under the lower edge of the ice crept
something that looked for all the world like the toe
of an old rubber boot, surrounded by a luminous halo.
Farther and farther it crept, so slowly that it seemed
scarce to move, until it showed a greener cast and
bony ridges. Then the gleam in the water increased,
and we saw two terrible eyes that glowed like wee
incandescent lamps. Then Jim suddenly lowered
Fisbing through the Ice 383
his minnow a few inches, the apparition glided for-
ward, and I drove the spear downward with all the
force and speed my arm could impart. Through
the wooden handle I felt the crush and grind of
steel through bones, and knew 'twas well. The
shaft swept round in response to a failing, swirling
rush, and we promptly lifted from the hole a dead
fish, for the spear had cut the spine just at the
junction with the head. The fish was by no means
as heavy as many I have seen, but it was large
enough for our ambition, and, best of all, we had it
safe.
That was spearing as it is apt to average upon
those lucky days when everything works just right,
but not seldom there are trifling mishaps and once
in a long while a truly perilous experience.
One sunny morning two of us snapped skates to
boots and started for the bay, where fifty or more
Frenchmen made a business of winter spearing.
We anticipated great results. But we had a long
distance to skate, and did not reach our shanty
before noon.
The big frog-eater in charge greeted us warmly
and said: " Oui, dis grate day; but you should bin
here before. Mebbe vataire milky 'fore long."
We didn't care a continental whether the water
might get " milky," and in brief time the Frenchman
left us alone. When we first shut ourselves in our
little cabin, everything appeared black as tar, but
gradually our eyes grew accustomed to the strange
half-light from ice and water. My comrade first took
the spear, while I worked the decoy-minnow. A
board formed a seat, and we sat side by side, he
384 Sporting Sketches
with the spear ready and I holding the decoy string,
which I manipulated in such a way as to cause the
"minnow" to waver about, so that fish far below
could see the lure. We could see far down into
what was apparently bottomless green space. A sub-
marine jungle of streaming, brownish weeds spread
afar in every direction ; dim, shadowy caverns and
corridors showed faintly, and now and then a glint
of silvery light or a ghostly shadow seemed to drift
through them. I worked the minnow zealously for
nearly an hour, and at last something came rising
solemnly toward us. Just as I made out a pair of
glowing eyes, the spear shot viciously downward and
we had what proved to be a pickerel. It was a good-
sized fish and we felt encouraged. The next wait
was very brief. A big form flashed into view, hesi-
tated an instant, then vanished like lightning. The
spear made an impotent thrust, seconds too late,
and the spearman's voice exclaimed : " Gee ! what
was it ? " " It was a big bass, you chump, and you
let it get away ! " was my polite reply. Presently
another fine pickerel rose and was secured, and it
was followed by two others. Still I waggled the
decoy and the spearman remarked, " This is great ! "
Then he changed his position so that one of his boots
projected half its length over the hole. Neither of
us noticed it at the time, for we were intently watch-
ing something more interesting. Down below was
a half-defined shape a 'lunge, and a whacker in
comparison to the victims we had speared. For
seconds it rose so slowly that we could hardly see it
move; then it gave an unexpected dart and came
right into the hole. The suddenness of its rush
Fishing through the Ice 385
rattled the spearman and he made a fierce random
jab. A yell, a splash, some sultry talk, and he pulled
his soaked leg out of the hole and limped grunt-
ing about on the ice, while I secured the spear and
remarked, " Well, you are a clever duck ! "
" I druv the blank thing into me foot," he howled ;
and, sure enough, he had punched a hole through
boot and skin. When I got the spear and tried to
see below, I found matters had changed. The erst-
while transparent water seemed whitish, and soon I
could see naught but the soapy-looking surface.
A thump at the door and a voice outside saying,
" Vataire got milky ; dere no more feesh to-day ! "
warned us that the fun was over. As we snapped
on our skates, the unlucky one whispered : " You
tell about my foot an' I'll make it hot for you ! "
This is the first I've said about it.
The fishing with hook and line is sportsmanlike
enough to qualify as a legitimate amusement, and is
by far the most popular with the good souls and
true who love an outing for its own sake, and would
take fish, or take cold, with pleasure, providing a
certain amount of fun was attached to the business.
In this method of winter fishing, baited hooks,
attached to lines of suitable length, are passed
through small holes cut in the ice, the upper ends
of the lines being either held in the hands of the
fisherman, or affixed to what are termed " tip-ups."
When these tip-ups are used, they allow one man to
attend to as many lines as he pleases, and to skate
or slide about, or watch the indicators from beside a
bonfire or from a warm shanty, as may be preferred.
There are various styles of tip-ups. Some are so
2C
386 Sporting Sketches
constructed as to actually tip over when a fish bites,
hence the name ; while others are simply uprights of
lath or light stuff a couple of feet long, to the upper
ends of which are attached arms of wood which
pivot easily upon a nail or screw. The preparations
for the fishing are few and readily completed. With
tip-ups properly constructed, the fisherman seeks
frozen lake or stream, and with small axe or chisel
cuts the requisite number of holes through the ice and
carefully removes all floating fragments to prevent
the orifices coating over rapidly in a biting atmos-
phere. Close to each of these holes a deep niche
is cut in the ice, and in this the armless end of
a tip-up is set and firmly tamped with chopped
ice or snow. A small quantity of water is then
splashed or poured upon the tamping, which
speedily solidifies and holds the tip-up firmly.
When all the tip-ups are in position, the tackle is
put in place.
A hook is baited, generally with a bit of pork fat
or bacon rind, and dropped through one of the holes ;
a turn of the line is taken around the free end of
the movable arm, and the end of the line brought
down the upright and tied fast close to the ice.
This reduces the leverage when a fish pulls, and
prevents the tip-up from being dragged from its
moorings. When the lines are set, the last opera-
tion is to see that all the movable arms are vertical
and in true line with the uprights. When a fish
pulls at the bait below, the arm of the tip-up yields, its
free end pointing toward the hole in the ice and
signalling that a quarry of some'kind has tampered
with the bait. Then the fisherman makes all speed
Fishing through the Ice 387
to the spot and hauls up the struggling captive.
Frequently, when a number of lines are set and the
fish are biting freely, two or more tip-ups will signal
at the same time. Then the fisherman rushes from
one to another in mad haste and there is fun galore,
especially if the ice happens to be smooth and the
owner of the tip-ups does not have skates.
I have seen a long row of these lines set on a
lake and a party of half-a-dozen dignified business
men watching them from the shelter of a fish shanty.
One or more wooden arms would dip, and lo ! an
avalanche of excited mortals would burst through
the doorway like a parcel of boys from school, and
speed across the treacherous surface running, slip-
ping, sliding, falling, and whooping and yelling in
wild delight, till the tip-ups were reached and the
prizes secured. Those stately old kings of com-
merce were more or less gray-headed, and maybe
a bit austere when at home, but they were just frosty-
whiskered boys when the tip-ups signalled. Next
day they were doubtless stiff as to muscles, and
black and blue in spots where the ice hit them ; but
they had enjoyed uproarious, healthful fun, freed
their minds for the time of all worry, filled their
lungs with air that made them new men, and, best
of all, they had laughed the laugh that does men
good the laugh of pure, clean mirth.
Exciting and hilarious as this sport generally is,
it sometimes ends in trouble, or at least a thorough
scare for its laughing votaries. The element of
danger enters into it under certain conditions, and
it is not alone the possibility of an unexpected duck-
ing when some careless person finds an unsuspected
388 Sporting Sketches
weak spot in the ice. One such experience will illus-
trate the possibilities. Half a dozen of us formed a
fishing party and skated down the Thames River to
Lake St. Clair, intent upon trying the tip-ups.
It was a long skate, but a stiff breeze was at our
backs and we spun along famously. In due time we
reached the lake and found that a floe of shore-ice
extended outward for perhaps something over a mile.
Beyond its further limit gleamed an expanse of
heaving, ice-cold billows. In brief time we had
knocked the snow off a goodly supply of driftwood
and built a roaring bonfire. Then we skated some
distance out upon the ice over a well-known shallow
and rigged the tip-ups. Fish were not in good biting
humor, and victims were caught but slowly. After
an hour or so of rather tame sport we got careless
and skated hither and thither, frequently visiting the
fire and occasionally dashing for the tip-ups at rac-
ing speed when a strike was indicated. It was fun
of its kind, and we fooled away time, hoping the
wind, which was against our homeward trip, would
either moderate or change. At last, for some un-
known reason, one of the crowd skated far out
toward open water, and after yelling in vain for him
to return, we all straggled along after him, letting
the wind blow us as it pleased.
We had got within about fifty yards of him, when
he suddenly swerved in his course and faced about,
made a few hasty strokes, and halted. We guessed
that he had reached dangerous ice ; so we scattered
to spread our weight over a broader surface and
leisurely slowed up.
Suddenly he pointed for the shore, and with a
Fishing through the Ice
389
yell darted ahead at his topmost speed. Every man
guessed what he meant, and, like so many horses at
score, we wheeled and broke away with him as he
flashed past. It was well that we did. All eyes
turned toward our fire, and we knew that our work
was cut out for us. Halfway between our position
and the shore a long line of white spray was splash-
ing above the ice, and we knew that the floe had
parted and was drifting.
It was a hard drive against the wind, and for half
a minute or more the steel blades rang in furious
cadence. The head man marked the narrowest
place in the broadening fissure, and shouting,
"Jump! Swim! Get there!" swerved a trifle and
shot at it. He rose like a steeplechaser, cleared a
seven-foot crack, and landed fair and true. Rip-zip
rip-zip ! an instant's scared glance at the increas-
ing space, and one after another we set our teeth
and raced down to the take-off and leaped as we had
never leaped before. Two fell on landing, but all
got over dry and safe, though with quivering mus-
cles and thumping hearts. It was an extremely close
thing, and next morning that parted floe was piled
in small fragments by a furious gale somewhere
about the mouth of the grand Detroit River, miles
to the westward.
By EDWYN SANDYS
Author of " Upland Game Birds," " Trapper ' Jim,' " etc.
With Illustrations by J. M. GLEESON and C. W. PANCOAST
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