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SPORTING SKETCHES 
 
'*&&& 
 
BRAVE BROWN BOB 
 
SPORTING SKETCHES 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWYN SANDYS 
 
 AUTHOR OF "UPLAND GAME BIRDS," "TRAPPER 
 'JIM,'" "SPORTSMAN 'JOE,'" ETC. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 LONDON : MACMILLAN tc CO., Ltd. 
 I905 
 
 All rights reserved 
 

 ONGRtESS 
 
 Gonypgni tHiry 
 &&P T,/90ST 
 QIASS tit A^ l«« 
 
 .copy- a» 
 
 **?» 
 
 ,i' 
 
 Copyright, 1905, 
 Bv THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1905. 
 
 Norbjoat! $res« 
 
 J. 8. Cashing & Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
 
 Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 I. The Witchery of Wa-Wa 
 
 II. With and against the Grains 
 
 III. The Wizard of the Wetlands 
 
 IV. Beach-combers .... 
 V. A Bit of River .... 
 
 VI. The Fishing of the Free Folk 
 
 VII. The Fishes of our Boyhood . 
 
 VIII. Some Truths about Trouting 
 
 IX. The Best of the Bass 
 
 X. A Matter of Mascalonge 
 
 XI. A Bit of Sea Fishing 
 
 XII. Rail and Reed Bird 
 
 XIII. A Day with the Woodcock . 
 
 XIV. Bluefish and Blue Waters . 
 XV. A Vancouver Salmon 
 
 XVI. Wood-duck and Wood-duck Shooting 
 
 XVII. A Red-letter Day .... 
 
 XVIII. Picked from the Prairie Province 
 
 XIX. The Conversion of Trapper Lewis 
 
 XX. Four of a Kind .... 
 
 XXI. The Ruffed Grouse and Grouse Shooting 
 
 XXII. Robert White, Jr 
 
 i 
 
 18 
 38 
 
 55 
 68 
 
 83 
 98 
 "5 
 126 
 142 
 155 
 163 
 173 
 187 
 197 
 205 
 221 
 
 233 
 260 
 274 
 284 
 
 300 
 
VI 
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXIII. A Skirmish with Squirrels 
 
 XXIV. Turkey — with Thanksgiving 
 
 XXV. A Cold Trail . 
 
 XXVI. The White Wolf of the North 
 
 XXVII. In the Haunts of the Hare 
 
 XXVIII. Fishing through the Ice 
 
 PAGE 
 317 
 
 331 
 
 341 
 
 354 
 364 
 379 
 
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. 
 
SPORTING SKETCHES 
 
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 fresh 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 Witchery 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 J 
 
The Witchery of Wa-Wa 9 
 
 — g*t — 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 
 
to 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 PVa-IVa n 
 
 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-Wa 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 
 1 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 : — 
 
 " A user — a goose — scarbellerificus — buckshoti- 
 cus — arcticus — etcetereticus — a goose of the Arctic, 
 remarkably hard to get. Humanum est err are" 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 
 
The 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." 
 
CMAFflra ML 
 
 WnnSL AMID ACSAIIWOT 
 TTHIIE (SKAnMSo 
 
 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 
 
 is 
 
With and <A gainst the 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, t.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 
 
With and *A gainst 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 the 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 jl gainst the 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 bafBe 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. 
 
 *fr Tv* *rr 3F r?r w 
 
 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 the 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 zA gainst the 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 
 
With and ^Against 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 fiddled 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 urn 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 
 
With and s/1 gainst 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 
 
With and .Against the 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 Ga.tling 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. 
 
cm^fe™ nnn. 
 
 TTffiE WnSAISIfi) ©IF 
 TTfiGE WETTIIAF3ID)©< 
 
 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, io| to n^ inches; wing, about 5 
 inches; tail, 2 J inches; bill, 2 \ 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 the 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," 1 580 ; 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 the 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 finger 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 
 
The Wizard of the Wetlands 5 1 
 
 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 the 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. 
 
CMAFTTEIg IIVo 
 
 ISEACIHl (C^FfflBEISSo 
 
 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, 
 
Beach 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 at 
 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 Ckaradridcz and Tringincz, 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, and 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 
 
Beach 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 
 
Beach 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." 
 
CBUAPTTEIfS Vo 
 
 A WTE ©IF 
 
 nsnwi&o 
 
 '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, w r hile 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 coast-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 
 
70 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 
 
 every 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 the wrathful 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, )^et 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 
 
yS 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 
 
 son 
 
 g- r 
 
 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 ley 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. 
 
CMAPTEM VHo 
 
 THAIS IFHSffifflM© ©IF 
 
 TTffilE IFI2EE FOILDSo 
 
 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 trie 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 the 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 '11 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 Fishing of the 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 fighting 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'posV 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 now 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. 
 
THUS IFHSEfllES ©IF 
 ©TO BB©YIHI(D©312), 
 
 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 
 
The Fishes of our Boyhood 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 
 
 Lore 
 
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-fleld. 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 
 
102 , 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 fish 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 Fishes 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' 
 
106 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 calvd), 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. 
 
108 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 Fishes 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. 
 
1 1 2 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 ? 
 
CMAJPTTEIK VE 
 s©kiie TnEnnnnrs 
 
 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 Adirondack^ 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 alf 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 
 
122 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. 
 
OTAPTTEIK nXo 
 
 TTME MEg>TT dDIP" 
 
 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 looked 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 canoer 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 r 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 
 
The 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 and 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 ! Do you understand ? 
 
CKIAIPTrElK Xo 
 
 jk HLATTTIEIg 
 ©IF HIA©(DAIL(0)Kr(3IEo 
 
 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 (Z. 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 Mascabnge 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 skiffs. 
 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. 0-3 
 Sproat, tied on gimp, will do the business. A 
 large minnow, or a frog, makes a deadly bait, but 
 
A Matter of Mascabnge 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 Mascalonge 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. 
 
CIHIAIPTEK XH 
 a mmr 
 
 @W SEA WBEMESt& 
 
 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," weakflsh, 
 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, through 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 good again later on. 
 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. 
 
CffllAPTJEIg XHE <> 
 
 KA.IIIL AM© 
 KEEP ©SEBo 
 
 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, Doll- 
 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. 
 
1 66 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 
 £ame, 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 
 
170 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 rail's 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- 
 
172 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. 
 
CMAIPTTEK X 
 
 A. HHAST W1ITD1I 
 TWEE W®©lM;(Q)€Ko 
 
 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 Ducket t, 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 
 
 J 73 
 
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 the 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 
 
1 76 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 with 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 urn." 
 
 " 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'ful smart — she jest liable 
 ter want ter kiss me good-nite if she spishuned me ! " 
 
178 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. 12" 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 the 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- 
 
180 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 g winter 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 the 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'? 'Pears 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 
 urn, 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 alius a-sneakin' on me. I tole yo' 
 dat he spishuned sumpfin." 
 
CDHAPTEtg XHVo 
 
 BLIUflEIFnSIHI AHID) 
 WLWS WATTEIK©? 
 
 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 — Le. 
 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 guiding terns. 
 
 "You sea-jackals — you fiends upon angel-wings" 
 
Bluefisb and Blue Waters 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 Beavers works, and 
 straightway craved to see the wheels go round. He 
 
2oo 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 Pender 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 of 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?" 
 
W(D©ID)=BI1JSK AMID 
 W®®II2)i©tLJeift ^©©TTIIKKSo 
 
 Of the great order Anseres the family Anatidcz 
 contains a couple of hundred species which have 
 been grouped in five sub-families, viz. : the swans 
 (CygnincB) ; the geese (Anserine?) ; the sea-ducks 
 (Fuligulince) ; the river-ducks (Anatincz) ; and the 
 fish-eating ducks (Merging). Among the river- 
 ducks are found valuable and beautiful species, 
 yet none more daintily arrayed than the wood or 
 summer duck (Aix sftonsa). 
 
 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 glossed 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!" 
 
 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 — z>. 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 which 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 
 
210 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 
 
212 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 discovered. 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 Shooting 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, z>. 
 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 Shooting 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, 
 " '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 ? " 
 
[APTEE2 XVHIL 
 
 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 
 
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 roading, 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. 
 
CLUAPTTEHS XVfflOL 
 
 IPnCGCEID FDSdDPH TTDfllE 
 IPffiAHIME IPEdBVEPKCIEg 
 
 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 bay, 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 
 
236 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 the 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 after 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," 
 1 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 urn, 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, there 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 the 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 ruffed 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, " Dook 
 — 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 the 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 
 
 — f el-low. H e — 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. 
 
tAiHPlEIB ILEWH© 
 
 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 
 
The 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 baffle many larger and 
 more powerful men. His favorite weapon was a 
 double, muzzle-loading rifle of the old-fashioned 
 
 II 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. I 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 arid 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?" 
 
The 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 was barely six feet 
 deep we soon located the weapon, then Lewis held 
 
The Conversion 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. 
 
IFdMUHS ©IF A 
 
 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 
 
 274 
 
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 sweet 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 my 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. 
 
CDHAPTEH XXHo 
 
 ■HUME IMJIFIFEffi) &n§®IUSE 9 
 
 akhd) (srsoiusiE g>mi®(0)TrnK(So 
 
 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 
 — ue. 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. JEons 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, muffled 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 is 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 muffled 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 Raffed 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 
 
The 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 
 longbill was found. 
 
 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 
 
The 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. 
 
CDHAIPTEIIS XXIIflo 
 
 K©DBIEIETr WTjUHTTIS JJEo 
 
 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 was as easy as an- 
 other, he attacked that section which lay directly 
 
 300 
 
Robert White, Jr. 3 QI 
 
 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 wild with fear, but he 
 never attempted to straighten a toe that was uncom- 
 
Robert White, 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-/W / " 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 White, 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 
 mothers 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 mto a town. Far away she saw a dark 
 
Robert White, Jr. 3 11 
 
 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 
 
312 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 White, 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 
 
3i4 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. 3^ 
 
 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 ? K&Aoi-kee ? Ka-/<9z-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. 
 
CWIAFTEM HI 
 a sionsHinsmi 
 
 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 
 cervidas. 
 
 The varieties of the squirrel family deemed 
 worthy of pursuit in this country number four, viz. 
 the gray squirrel, Sciurus carolinensis, the black 
 squirrel, S. niger, the fox squirrel, which I believe 
 scientists regard as a variety of the preceding, and 
 the red squirrel, ^. 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 
 
 317 
 
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-baff 
 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 seen upon the ground 
 and making good time for his favorite tree, then it 
 
A Skirmish with 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 with 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 Skirmish 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 — t.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. 
 
 
CMAIPTEK XXUVa 
 
 TTIKIAIKIIKSCSn^IIKOo 
 
 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 
 
332 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 filled 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 ! 
 
A CdDILffi) 
 
 TTTEAHILo 
 
 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 
 
342 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 American 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 
 weaned, 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 
 
CWAFTEH-XXVIU 
 
 TWtlE WDflHTnE WOEJF 
 ©IF TTDiIffi FJOISTTffilo 
 
 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 
 
The White Wolf of the 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 
 
356 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 try it." 
 
 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 White 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. 
 
The White Wolf of the North 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 the 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 White Wolf of the 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 ! 
 
OflAPTEIK XXVIM, 
 nm tike MAiuKFTrs 
 
 ©IF TIKE MAlKIEo 
 
 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 the 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 nourished 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 
 
In the Haunts of the Hare 367 
 
 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 which 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 the 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 the Haunts of the 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 defined, 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 the Haunts of the 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 speed. A long cir- 
 
In the Haunts of the Hare 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 ! " 
 
cmaftek xxvnnm 
 
 TTME .ECE.o 
 
 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, " 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 roofs 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 
 
Fishing 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. 
 
SPORTSMAN "JOE" 
 
 By EDWYN SANDYS 
 
 Author of " Upland Game Birds," " Trapper 'Jim,'" etc. 
 
 With Illustrations by J. M. Gleeson and C. W. Pancoast 
 
 Cloth 12mo $1.50 
 
 "We feel a sincere sympathy for the sportsman, young or old, who has not 
 known the pleasure of following Edwyn Sandys' 'Trapper Jim' and 'Sports- 
 man Joe,' each in their separate and varied careers, through some 350 pages 
 of about the most fascinating literature imaginable. Besides being human 
 interest stories, these two books are veritable storehouses of accurate sports- 
 man lore, so skilfully inserted as to impress this knowledge indelibly on the 
 retina of the mind without in even the smallest measure sacrificing the 
 interest." — N. Y. American. 
 
 TRAPPER "JIM" 
 
 By EDWYN SANDYS 
 
 Author of " Upland Game Birds," etc. 
 
 With illustrations from photographs, drawings, and diagrams 
 Cloth 12mo $1.50 
 
 "A book for every up-to-date boy, not only because he will thoroughly 
 enjoy it, and learn much from it, but also because it will make him more 
 manly." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 " Sufficient to gain for him the friendship of all live boys who read it ; ... 
 so interesting that the average boy will throw away a story of Indians or 
 detectives to read it."-r- The Reader. 
 
 " A kind of holiday in itself. It feeds the hungry imagination. . . . The 
 boy who cannot feast upon this provision, deliciously presented, ought to ask 
 the doctor to look at his tongue." — The Watchman. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 
UPLAND GAME BIRDS 
 
 By EDWYN SANDYS and T. S. VAN DYKE 
 
 With numerous illustrations by L. A. Fuertes, A. B. Frost, J. O. Nugent, 
 and C. L. BULL 
 
 Cloth Crown 8vo $2.00 net 
 
 "It is a creditable work, written with care and intelligence, and will be 
 found very entertaining by those who pursue feathered game. There is a 
 good deal of instruction to be found in the work, which is likely to add con- 
 siderably to the success of the sportsman when hunting the birds described." 
 
 — Shooting and Fishing. 
 
 THE STILL HUNTER 
 
 By THEODORE S. VAN DYKE 
 
 With numerous illustrations by Carl Rungius and the Author 
 
 Cloth Crown 8vo $1.75 net 
 
 " A vivid account of the most exciting sport in the world. It is the record 
 of years of experience under the old circumstances, of years of hunting when 
 the game was so shy that only craft almost or nearly equal to that of the 
 quarry itself was necessary for a successful shot. It is crammed full of valu- 
 able advice for the deer hunter, and it has the advantage of having been 
 written before hunting became more of a pastime than a serious business, 
 requiring untiring energy, great patience, cool nerves, and perfect sight." 
 
 — Chicago Tribune. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 
The American Sportsman's Library 
 
 Under the general editorship of Caspar Whitney, editor of Outing 
 Cloth Crown 8vo $2.00 net each 
 
 EACH VOLUME PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED 
 
 THE DEER FAMILY 
 
 By Theodore Roosevelt, T. S. Van Dyke, D.. G. Elliott, and 
 A. J. Stone 
 SALMON AND TROUT 
 
 By Dean Sage, W. C. Harris, H. M. Smith, and C. H. Townsend 
 UPLAND GAME BIRDS 
 
 By Edwyn Sandys and T. S. Van Dyke 
 THE WATER-FOWL FAMILY 
 
 By L. C. Sanford, L. B. Bishop, and T. S. Van Dyke 
 BASS, PIKE, PERCH, AND OTHERS 
 
 By J. A. Henshall 
 THE BIG GAME FISHES OF THE UNITED STATES 
 
 By Charles F. Holder 
 MUSK-OX, BISON, SHEEP, AND GOAT 
 
 By Caspar Whitney, George B. Grinnell, and Owen Wister 
 GUNS, AMMUNITION, AND TACKLE 
 
 By Capt. A. W. Money, Horace Kephart, W. E. Carlin, A. L. A. Him- 
 melwright, and J. Harrington Keene 
 THE SPORTING DOG 
 
 By Joseph A. Graham 
 AMERICAN YACHTING 
 
 By W. B. Stephens 
 LAWN TENNIS AND LACROSSE 
 
 By J. Parmly Paret and Dr. W. H. Maddren 
 THE TROTTING AND THE PACING HORSE 
 
 By Hamilton Busbey 
 THE AMERICAN THOROUGHBRED 
 
 By Charles E. Trevathan 
 RIDING AND DRIVING 
 
 By Edward L. Anderson and Price Collier 
 PHOTOGRAPHY FOR THE SPORTSMAN NATURALIST . 
 
 By L. W. Brownell 
 
 In Preparation for Early Issue: 
 
 THE BEAR FAMILY 
 
 COUGAR, WILD-CAT, WOLF, AND FOX 
 ROWING AND TRACK ATHLETICS 
 BASEBALL AND FOOTBALL 
 
 SKATING, HOCKEY, AND SKATE SAILING 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 
SEP 5 1 1905 
 
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