Game birds at home

Prete:

5 OF CONGRESS.

Oh. * eastnetstt Da
Shelf... 4 2.4

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

GAME -BIRDS
AT HOME,

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

“That prince of sportsmen, T. S. VAN DYKE.’’—Sacramento

(Cal.) Bee.
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA:

Its Valleys, Hills, and Streams; Its Animals, Birds, and
Fishes ; its Gardens, Farms, and Climate. 12mo, Ex.
Clo., beveled, $1.50.

“May be commended without any of the usual reservations.”
--San Francisco Chronicle.

LHE STILL-HONTER:

A Practical Treatise on Deer-Stalking. 12mo, Ex. Clo.,
beveled, $2.00.
“The best, the very best work on deer-hunting.”—Spirit of the
Times (N. Y.).

“Altogether the best and most complete American book we
pare yet seen on any branch of field sports.”—New York Evening
ost.

RIFLE, ROD, and GUN in CALIFORNIA :

A Sporting Romance. Ex. Clo., beveled, $1.50; paper,
50 cents.

“Crisp and readable throughout, and at the same time gives a
full and truthful technical account of our Southern California
game, afoot, afloat, or on the wing.”—San Francisco Alta Califor-
nia.

MILLIONAIRES OF A DAY:

An Inside History of the Great Southern California Boom.

Ex. Clo., beveled, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.

“Mr. Van Dyke has‘the literary art, which is the art of seein
things as they are. The present volume is very readable an
amusing, but it has other charms, both of style and interest....
It is a book of absolute honesty.”—CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER.

GAME BIRDS
AT HOME ¥

By THEODORE S> VAN DYKE
AUTHOR OF ‘‘ THE STILL HUNTER” }
‘* SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA’ 3 ETC.

Kear VR! GHr &S.

JUL 2414895
e >
a oF wasHinee-

Cw) 4
y & —

NEW-YORK: FORDS, HOWARD,
AND HULBERT % 1895

CopyrIGHT, IN 1895,
BY
THEODORE S, VAN Dyke.

PREFACE.

To the majority of sportsmen love of nature
is the principal element in the love of hunting.
The pleasure of exercising skill in the finding
and capture of game is really secondary to this,
and still more subordinate is the flavor or size of
the game. Thousands enjoy a stroll with the
dog, out of season, almost as well as the real
hunt.

To please such, a book should be made up of
selected charms of the field.

These are, first and foremost, the nature of
the game, its action and behavior. The mere
form or size is of no more consequence than
the flavor. Why the action of certain birds will
give man more delight than that of others is
one of nature’s secrets. We can only say it is
charming; and describe it as we know it:

5

6 PREFACE.

Besides its own fascination, this action must
be such as to require a high degree of skill in
man or dog, and generally in both, to effect
capture. Yet, though game must occasionally
drop to gratify man’s inborn love of exercising
skill, there must be xo murder.

Then, too, the stage of action must be the
home of the bird,—that natural scenery the
sportsman loves so well to roam without a gun.
And this must be depicted true in color to its
place and season.

Small room for mistake is left me on these
points, after forty years of play with the gun
and eighteen years of writing for the sportsmen
of America: Chiefly for them this (boomer
written, and that rather to touch certain tender
chords of memory than to convey information ;
although the lover of nature who is not yet an
expert huntsman may, I trust, find some hints
of experience not altogether without value to
him.

As to pictorial illustration, it is a sound rule
of art that a picture must explain itself: one
that requires exposition, or wandering of the
eye to connect leading features, is generally a

PREFACE. 7

bore. But when you apply this rule to a picture
of field-sports—especially with small game, limit
the action to a narrow background, and against
this group the actors so clearly that every one
must understand it at a glance, you have por-
trayed rank murder. Though easy killing occa-
sionally happens, it is a matter always of regret,
not of pride; a parade of it is simply digusting.
Fine drawing of shiny guns, fancy leggings,
and other fashionable ‘‘toggery’”’ on the killer
behind the gun, help this kind of ‘‘art”’ like a
red rosette on the tail of the prize ox falling
beneath the sledge at the shambles. Evena
butcher would be disgusted with a painting of a
lamb bleeding on the block; and the more per-
fect the dripping blood, the more damnable the
outrage upon art in the selection of such a
subject.

A picture that should even touch the field
that charms—with its wide range, its varied
features and colors, and its almost invisible game
—would be more of a map than a picture. The
rules of art cannot be safely violated. Neither
can the rules of the sportsman’s taste: and Posv-
tively no murder is the first of these. I have

8 PREFACE.

tried to reconcile these conflicting elements, but
have not yet succeeded to my own satisfaction.
As this is not the Blood-Snuffer’s Manual, I
illustrate with facts, in words. For most of my
readers this will be clear enough.

Los ANGELES, CAL., May, 1895.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

Pe OR: WHITE «6:2 ve servers Gidte oles sera aena ae Ssasiawes cere he

Biba sb tir WOODCOCK. icc sijese a sicies nieces shard tel'eluintel wie) oXastals 28
Bele er cee PB: Gr ROUSE, wees pale ocialereic\ele se sca were ails 44
Pee rie. PENNA TED? GROUSE. 15 alee vc eso cna ars (eine © 0 piers 61
bee) CHEY SHARE-TAILED GROUSE. wives. oucwcleneen ses 77
Wie DAvVS AMONG THE DUCKS). Sie). 05 5% Uietaobielcvaiens g2
Wit. --DAVS ON THE ILLINOTS. «60660 000 Sa ab clglale'sa sd) ROO
Vaio Pik WILD ‘GOOSE?.....c. 052% salnich she, tive etutwinte eaten WL
Pewee D iE ANTE RICAN: CRANES wc avic jas vc oe sleiss< om alnre 133
See AVS, AMONG THE /PROVER: 6s isisceis o's 001s bie c'sies os) £46
Balen. Hk, OUATTS CF “CALIVOR NIA. o:m\sic sie oe 6 'x/.0:0 0: 0X0 Pie at 9
Pele WILSON S\.SNIPE 9 i.60/s.0te ee etrereimeePoln, ae Arete oi wee seRe
Pel. Ss SAET-WATER, DIRDS wo oss. 0.500 ccc so 6. mlncine ceive s 192
XMIV:) THE WILD. TURKEY...’. «. ie vale tater Ea & viokolsiars Lcieieletccos

9

GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

BOB WHITE.

CRIMSON stars the gum-tree’s glossy green,
the speckled breast of the young robin is turn-
ing reddish brown, chips of nutshells begin to
carpet the ground beneath the lofty hickory, and
a vague yearning steals over the sportsman.
Strange yet tender feeling, unlike anything
else in the human breast,—and how early it
comes! The massive green of the timbered hill
is yet untinged with gold, and the blue gentian
has scarcely unfolded its fringed petals, while
down by the brook the chelone is just opening
its hood of pinkish white. From the slender

spikes of the linaria still hang racemes of softest
If

12 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

blue; amid the down of the thistle yet gleam
the yellow and black of the goldfinch, and the
hare still makes his form in the woods instead of
going to the open. Little sign of autumn; yet
that strange feeling deepens by the day.

Anon the bobolink in somber suit chirps sad
farewell above our heads, russet and gold steal
over the oaks, red lights the fading green of the
maple, and a change comes over the old dog.
No longer does he tap out a lazy welcome on the
floor with his tail at your approach, but springs
to his feet and with sparkling eye tries to fathom
your intentions.

A few more days, and from the edge of the
timber, where the sweet berries of the viburnum
are darkening among its reddening leaves, comes
a Clot-ee—ee, clot-ee—ee, cloi-ee—cee, clot-ee—ee
that sets your soul ablaze. How different from
the ‘‘ Bob White” that so lately rang across the
harvest-field, yet how gentle and penetrating
this autumn call of the quail! He who has never
felt its sweet power when the hills are arrayed in
crimson and gold and a mellower sunlight falls
from on high has missed the strangest emotion
of the human breast. And strong must be the

BOB WHITE. 13

chains of business to hold one when the pearly
scales of the everlasting rustle in the fall winds
and the persimmon is reddening among its half-
bare branches, when the jingling note of the jay
in the russet of the white oak is nearly all that
remains of the late music of the woods, and the
crimson of the cardinal grosbeak the last flash of
brilliant life.

What bright oases on the descrt of existence
were those mornings when the hoar-frost sparkled
on the buckwheat-stubble with the dogs in roll-
ing canter sniffing the bracing air! The squeal
of the highholder or mournful piping of the
robin, the flitting gray of some belated song-
sparrow, the tender twittering of waxwings flirt-
ing their golden edgings and long topknots in
the dark cedar, and the dull Chuck of some lone
blackbird hastening south above our heads, all
cast a saddening influence around the dying year.
Yet we never felt so full of gladsome life, hearts
never beat with higher expectations, and dogs
never showed more sparkling eyes. We knew
the shortest stubble could hold dozens of the
dear little quails within a few feet of us, and only
the keen nose of the dog could tell us of their

14 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

presence. The dogs, too, knew our inability and
felt proud of our reliance on them. And when
at last they settled to unwavering firmness and
from before them rose lines of brown mingled
with white and ashy blue and spots of black,
with a haze on either side made by whizzing
wings, all spinning at tremendous speed for the
timber, it mattered little whether we had a gun
or not. Manya mile, before the law permitted
shooting, have I roamed without a gun to see
that sight, and many a mile would I go to-day
to see it once more.

There was deep satisfaction, too, in being the
victim of that trick of Bob’s, withholding scent.
Whether he did it voluntarily or not was all
the same; and when we had tramped and re-
tramped the exact spot on which we saw a dozen
birds alight, and the noses lately so keen had
swept almost every inch of it without finding
more than a bird or two and perhaps none, our
disappointment was mingled with pleasure in
having a genius to cope with. And there was
no. half-hour more pleasant than that we spent
whistling an occasional imitation of his soft
autumn call and waiting for him to move.

BOB WHITE. 15

And what delightful anticipation when the ten-
der Clot-ee—ee, clot-ce—cee, cloi-ee—ee came in
plaintive tones from where the witch-hazel was
putting forth its long golden petals, and another
answered from where the red berries of the
wintergreen were still shining among its ever-
green leaves; and another chimed in where the
scarlet arils of the bittersweet were blazing in
the tangled brake, and from the bunch of briers
almost beside you and the clumps of whitening
grass in front came from another, another, and
another little throat the same sweet note!

How close they lay, and what short flights
they made, before persecution changed the habits
of these charming birds! Yet even then how
hard to get! Do you remember, when the dog
stood over a clump of dead grass with nose
almost perpendicular, how often you had to kick
in it before anything would move? And when
out it came, and the dog made a vain snap at its
tail, and it curled over your head and vanished
among the dense green of the cat-brier before
you could turn around, and curiosity and re-
proach were mingled in the deep dark eye the
dear old dog turned for a moment upon you,

16 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

you felt very small. Yet you felt consolation in
being victimized by such a smart bird, and went
on to look for another with more love than ever.
And when again you found the dog in icy rigid-
ity where the woolly tails of the clematis made a
haze in the thicket of wild plum by the brook-
side, and through the dense tangle of twigs and
still clinging leaves two brown streaks shot from
before him and you had to drop on one knee to
get a full sight of them and have your gun clear
of the brush,—who would suppose that anything
but disappointment could be your portion again?
Ah! when along the gun you caught a glimpse
of buzzing white where the mottled breast was
wheeling through an opening, and dimly saw a
puff of feathers mingle with the shower of dead
leaves and twigs, yet had no time to mark re-
sults, but turned the gun into the mass of cover
in which the other bird had already vanished,
and sent another charge of shot a foot or two
ahead of the last place where you saw it—what
sweet uncertainty was that! You fancied you
heard each time a faint thump on the ground,
but fancy had toyed too often with your hopes.
And when the dog drew and picked up some-

BOB WHITE. l7

thing from near where the first one should have
fallen, how your heart swelled with pride! But
when he vanished in the direction the other
bird had taken, and the pattering of his feet on
the dead leaves slowly ceased, and for a moment
all was still, and then in joyous gallop he re-
turned with a dead bird and laid it in your hand,
you felt you had not lived in vain. Foolish
feelings, perhaps; but the best of our race have
yielded to their soft sway, and dear little Bob
White has brought more rest to the business-
wearied soul, more new life to tired humanity,
than nearly all other American game combined.
In his sweet presence you feel a contempt for
‘‘trophies,” for game that some Indian has to
call up to you, or a guide row you upto. Mere
trash is all game too big to handle, beside this
little beauty that fills but a corner of your pocket.

On no other bird does the sportsman’s best
companion so delight his soul with noble work.
Years cannot blot the memory of the long trail
old Don made on that November morning when
the covey you had found on the stubble and driven
into the wood had become too widely scattered
for farther hunting. About the time you had

18 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

given up hope of finding any more birds, the dog
suddenly seemed weary. His legs dragged and
settled to a pace suitable for a snail’s funeral.
On he went, with young Frank waddling solemnly
along in the rear as if an old hand at the business.
Rod after rod Don crept, sneaking under fallen
logs, winding cautiously around tree-tops, crawl-
ing through cat-briers, sniffing the air gingerly
with twitching nostrils; Frank following with
funereal tread: but neither pointing. On they
go one hundred yards, then fifty more with pace
becoming slower; but still they do not stop.
Don’s pace settles to a crawl, with the wavy
motion of his tail almost ceasing, yet on he goes,
and Frank, so well born that he scarcely needs
breaking, creeps thievishly along, full thirty feet
in the rear.

From a bunch of briers a few feet from Don’s
nose a hare scatters the dry leaves with rapid
foot. Chasing a hare was the only weakness of
that good old dog, and no amount of thrashing
or failures to catch a hare ever taught him the
inexpediency of the pursuit. But now with con-
temptuous glance at the bit of flickering wool
he goes straight on. Down in the shade, along

BOB WHITE. 19

a little spring run, he winds more and more
slowly where the horsetails stand tall and gray
and the bracken-ferns are rusty and red. Sud-
denly he comes to a dead stop, settling low like
a crouching cat, with tail quivering at the tip and
nose pointed at a clump of ferns a few feet ahead.
From the ferns a brown haze of buff and rose-
wood colors tipped with a long bill whirls spiral-
ly upward through the tree-tops with whistling
wing, but not a feather accompanies the little
shower of twigs and dead leaves your shot brings
down.

A long trail, wasn’t it? But who ever knew a
woodcock run that far?

Old Don answers by going slowly on again,
young Frank prowling along with the gravity of
a sphinx. Down a long slope, over the bright
green leaves and shining red berries of the par-
tridge-berry, now with majestic march that
shows sublime confidence in the outcome, now
with the slow caution of a circus elephant walk-
ing over his keeper, now with a bit of wavering
that shows the game far ahead, but still with no
fen of faith,-old’ Don leads, with Frank still

creeping in the rear.
oO

20 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

And at last Don almost stops, and with nose
upraised and slowly oscillating tail sniffs tenderly
in the direction of a fallen tree-top a few yards
off, then, moving two or three half-steps with
extreme caution, settles into a statue, with eyes
intently fixed on the ground at the bottom of
the tree-top.

B—bbbb666bbbbb6bbb roars suddenly from the
tangle of briers around the tree-top, and a ruffed
grouse, scattering the dry leaves at the first burst
of obstreperous wing, roars like a rocket upward.
But, as his fanlike tail with its brown and gray
and bars of jet fades amid the crowding twigs
and leaves that still cling to the white-oak, Bang
goes the gun aimed quickly a yard or more
ahead of the last glimpse of brown, and down
through crashing leaves and crackling twigs
whirls something with a thump to earth.

Wonderfully well done, wasn’t it? But was
it not also a very long trail for a ruffed grouse?
Ah! Wait: Don’s actions tell the stom, jee
he resumes the grave tread of a moment ago,
and on he goes right past the fallen grouse,
noticing it only with a sniff, while Frank stops
a moment and, looking alternately from you to

BOB WHITE. 2I

Don, finally brings it to you and then resumes
his place in the procession.

Fifty yards more and Don stops, tosses up his
nose a few times with dainty sniffs of the breeze,
looks around at you with a tremendous mingling
of importance and satisfaction, and then waddles
slowly on again. A few yards more and he
stops as if carved of stone. Then his tail begins
to waver, he raises his nose again, then, creeping
a few feet, he stops at the crest of a little knoll,
and from the patches of briers on the other side
comes at last, on your approach, that burst of buz-
zing quail-wings that you have so longed to hear.

The habits of Bob White in the West differ a
little from those of his brethren on the Atlantic
shores, but he is still the same lovely bird. After
he recovers from his crazy spell in the first days
of Indian Summer, when he gathers in droves,
runs into town, and sometimes bumps his head
against some building in his swift flight, he
separates again into coveys; and though he rarely
lies so closely as in the East, he makes fine shoot-
ing. The hedges of Osage orange used to be
his favorite hiding-place on the prairie. With
the dog to the leeward, two persons could have

22 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

fine shooting, one on each side of the hedge.
Quick work was needed when out from the
thorny mass the bird came whizzing in full head-
way. Like a flash he was fading amid the tall
eray stalks of the corn still standing dense and
close to the hedge. Quick as thought had to
be your aim if you wanted to see him whirl down
amid the yellow pumpkins, for if he once van-
ished in that corn he was no more for you that
day.

Nor was it so easy when out on the open
prairie-side he came curling, with the sunlight
dancing on his mottled breast of black and
white, his little blue tail outspread, and the soft
rosewood hues of his back in plain sight, wheeled
around you perhaps and started down the hedge
again. On that gigantic background it was easy
to underestimate the speed and distance of the
fleeting beauty, and just behind him the tall
rosin-weed often bowed its still golden head and
sank to earth at the report of your first barrel,
while the second scattered some of the lingering
sunflowers and brought perhaps a feather from
the little blue tail, the loss of which only made
its owner seem to vanish more swiftly.

BOB WHITE. 23

Where the prairie merges into timber in a line
of rolling hills well covered with hazel this bird
is most at home when the frost has tattered the
proud banners of the hills. Down in the little
swale where the rich pink of the rose mallow but
lately glowed, and the faded petals still cling to
the gray stem, the bevy, shaded by the hazel
from the winds, lies basking in the sun. A gay
whirl and roar they make as they spin away
among the dead stalks from which the deep
purple of the petalostemon so lately beamed, or
vanish in the haze made by the numerous buds
of the hazel. Then in the long, dead grass that
twines about the hazel-roots they lie almost like
stones, taxing the dogs’ keenest nose to find
them. And though mostly open shooting over
the top of the brush, it is none too easy to clip
the buzzing wing that often twists and dodges
long enough to confuse you, or comes out of the
brush far enough away to make quick work
necessary and then, laughing at your slowness,
spins down the prairie gale at a pace that leaves
your shot behind again.

In Minnesota and Wisconsin, after his little
fit of wandering in large droves is over, Bob

24 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

White hangs about the outskirts of the grove of
scrub white-oak that holds its leaves all winter.
For this he will often make all speed, leaving
the hazel where he has been ‘sunning himself to
such birds as like it. ~Whether the bevy fies
over it, into it, or under it, you may find some
of the birds ensconced in the thick leaves. Per-
haps you know something of shooting, but you
are not fully educated until you have tried to
connect your line of sight over the gun with a
brown flash through almost exactly the same
color. Vastly is the difficulty increased by the
downward curve of the line when the bird is in
the top of a tree and darts through an opening
below. At other times it shoots straight up-
ward long enough to lead you to think you have
caught its direction, and then, having cleared the
top of the brush, it scuds away on a horizontal
line that is gone glimmering among the dream
of things that should be, before you can shift
your gun to it.

Little better may you fare when among the
dead leaves and grass along the ground the bird
lies hiding scarcely a yard from the nose of the
statue into which the dog has suddenly turned.

BOB WHITE. 25

Drop on one knee as quickly as you will, the
buzzing brown often fades into the russet canopy
before you can possibly turn the gun upon it.
Only the eye of faith can serve you now, and
there must be no dust in that. In such covera
double shot is generally impossible, and by the
time you have made a few single shots you will
say you have found about the hardest shooting
on earth.

In the West the sportsman becomes better
acquainted with Bob White out of shooting
season than in the East. Inthe East his sum-
mien call of. “bob White’ ringing over’ the
harvest fields and an occasional glimpse of his
plump little figure as he sits upon some distant
fence is about all you get of him, unless you do
as I have often done—hide well in the grass and
call him to you by the call of the hen, and see
him play around you in astonishment. But in
the prairie states he used to be a common sight
along the roads, and many a time the little
brood rose with a soft whiz from in front of the
horses as you drove along. Often when the
ferns and grass of the prairie were starred with
the soft gold of the lady-slipper, while the mild

26 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

purple of the sabbatia toned down the brilliant
yellow of the sunflowers, and you advanced to
the stiff-set dog expecting to see the pinnated
grouse burst from before him, the anxious
mother quail fluttered up with the tender notes
that told of little ones in the grass. And some-
times the white-throated father of the family
helped the mother play lame while the little
downy brood hid in the depths of the grass
where neither dog nor man could find one of
them.

Often, too, when the deep violet of the ver-
nonia was fading on its tall stalk and the last of
the morning-glories closing, and you were certain
that the dog had one of those wild grouse that
had flown so far and you had marked so closely,
a bevy of quail rose before you with a roar of
full-grown wings almost equal to that of the
grouse. And in the timbered hills where the
prairies of the upper Mississippi break into the
valley of the great river, Bob White would burst
from before the dog in the swales of fern or be-
neath the yellowing birches when you were most
certain that he had a ruffed grouse. Yet you
felt no disappointment, and plunged through the

BOB WHITE. 27

thickets of crab-apple after them, scratched your
way through the scrub-oak, tore through briers,
and toiled up the hillside as eagerly as you
would for the largest of game.

Alas, the days that are no more! Time plies
his whizzing wing, and already dear Bob is with
many older sportsmen but a memory of the past.
But what a tender memory it is! As many a
day we hunted him without a gun, and felt re-
warded for miles of travel with the sound of his
buzzing wing, so now we have to hunt in
memory’s field, and in the recollection of his
winsome ways find more pleasure than in the
actual pursuit of what the world deems nobler
eame. | Farewell, dear Bob ; for me, at least,
thou hast made life worth the living; and when
in the Happy Hunting-grounds my eyes open to
the morning light, of all the bright company I
paete shall hope to. sce,'to thee; dear Bob; the
first of all, they'll turn; yes, first of all to thee.

Bi
THE WOODCOCK.

THOUGH Bob White has been a more familiar
spirit because he spent the whole year with us
and had more sides to his lovely nature, there is
no bird I have walked so far to see as the wood-
cock in his own wild home. What gave such
charm to this frail being I never knew; but it was
not his. fine flavor, or even the satisfaction ar
shooting him, for I have hunted the woodcock
almost as much without a gun as with one. Be-
fore the pure white of the blood-root illumined
the sodden leaves, almost before the purling note
of the bluebird was heard in the open, or the
drum of the ruffed grouse sounded again in the
laurel brake, I used to roam with the dog only
the southern slopes along the spring runs and
the warm open bogs, to renew acquaintance with

this bird on his return from the South. Where
28

THE WOODCOCK. 29

the snowy racemes of the shad-bush lit up the
still leafless thickets, what a thrill those little
holes in the mud made by the woodcock’s bill
sent through my soul! How I hunted often in
vain by day to find the bird that made them, and
went there again in the evening to see him tower
twittering into the evening sky, and hear him
sing his only song, the song of springtime and
love!

And when the snowy involucre of the dogwood
lit up the darkening halls of the woods, and the
liquid tones of the wood-thrush made the falling
of night so sweet, long have I lingered around
the place where I knew there was a woodcock’s
nest. Many a time after I had found the sitting
bird have I crawled softly up on hands and knees
to see the beam of that dark liquid eye that has
no equal elsewhere on earth. How I watched
for the little ones to come, and reached the place
early in the morning to see the old mother rise
with feeble wing, flutter but a few feet, and then
limp along the grass! How I searched beneath
every leaf and bit of grass until I found one of
the little downy things, felt more happy than if
I had shot an elephant, and took more pleasure

30 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

in seeing it run away, while the dog eyed it with
quizzical look, than I would in shooting at it two
or three months later! And day after day I re-
turned to see them until the azalea began to un-
foid its pink upon the hills, and the fragrance of
the magnolia to flood the swamps where its pure
white shone, until the scarlet tanager flamed in
the green of the maple, and the rich hues of the
redstart illumined the shades of the hickory.
Soon now my little friends became as hard to
find as the yellow-breasted chat, whose rich voice
seemed never mute in the depths of the thicket.
In the damp ground along the brook, where the
little ‘‘teter’’ snipe glided so softly about, and
the perfume of the muskrat rose on the evening
air, I could find where their little bills had bored
for worms, and occasionally late in the evening
could start the mother along some boggy ground
by the water; but where were the young ones ?
And when the carol of the robin was dying
away in the orchard, the music of the thrush
waning upon the elm, and the song of the cat-
bird growing feebler in the hedge, how easy it
was to find my little friends again, and how swift
they were upon the wing, though not of full size!

THE WOODCOCK. 31

Then, when the air began to be fragrant with
dittany and balm, and the melancholy monotone
of the cuckoo and the plaintive squeak of the
peewee made most of the music of the woods,
what lovelier sight than that haze of rosewood
colors circling upward through the shade with
whistling wing, and winding out of an opening
so swiftly that eye and hand were rarely quick
enough to catch it? All that held this bird was
enchanted ground at this time of year. What
mattered musquitoes, or steaming heat, or cob-
webs across every opening in the woods, as long
as there was a bit of damp ground in the dry
spell of summer? And cheerfully we floundered
through sticky mud and calamus and cat-tails to
see that long bill clear their tops once more, and
wheel away for the bank of willows in whose
depths it would surely fade unless both hand and
eye were quick as well as true.

Later on the meadows were aflame with the
butterfly-weed, and the rose-mallow tinged the
marshes with soft pink; the towering bobolink
no longer poured a flood of song, but clamorous
blackbirds began to gather into flocks. Then
what a prize a single woodcock often seemed,

32 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

and how patiently we beat every foot of wet
sround in the marshes, and explored every
muddy place the dry weather had left in the
woods, or the damp spots of some low cornfield
where the green leaves hung yet uncurled by
drouth! How we wondered where the woodcock
had gone, and where lived the few that were left!
The mystery deepened love, and miles were
nothing for one glimpse of that whistling wing.
Yet very tame seemed all this beside the day
when, after weeks of absence, the woodcock re-
turned full-feathered from the molt. The song
of the oriole had ceased in the woods; little
creepers stole no more along the limbs, hunting
for slugs on the green leaves; hushed was the
sprightly twittering of the wren in the thicket;
and the mournful cooing of the dove was heard
no more in the oak. The crimson of sumac and
dogwood warmed the rich hues of the maples,
and beside the yellowing beech the fox-grapes
hung blue and fragrant among leaves of russet
and gold. The red sun struggled down through
smoky air, filling with dreamy softness the
spangled hillsides and sapling-groves where the
returning wanderer was to be welcomed from the

THE WOODCOCK. 35

North. Along the little stream where the water-
cress was still green and the jewel-weed strug-
gled yet for life, those fine holes bored in the
mud by the long bill sent again that peculiar
thrill through the soul. And when the pattering
of the dog’s feet ceased, and you found him
standing rigid where the sunlight filtered through
half-bare saplings, you felt repaid for your toil.
But before you could get half-way to the dog,
the brown would rise with sharper whistle of
swifter wings than those of summer, and, dis-
daining the fine course you had selected for its
flight, wheel suddenly behind the russet leaves
that still clung to a white-oak, through which
your first barrel spouted vain smoke, and then
as suddenly whirl around the golden crown of
a chestnut before you could kindle the fire in
your second barrel. And you felt glad though
mad, happy though disappointed.

In the West the woodcock is the same lovely
and mysterious bird he is in the East, though he
nowhere makes such autumn shooting as he once
made on the Atlantic coast. In some places he
vanishes for the season about the middle of
August; in others, as on the upper Mississippi,

34 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

he stays through the molting period and is
easily found, when so hard to find in the East.
In the bottoms of most of the western rivers,
especially the Illinois, woodcock were once very
abundant. When the scarlet of the cardinal-
flower began to blaze along the wet banks, and
the little grass of Parnassus to uplift its creamy
petals along the marshes, the whistling wing
could be heard almost anywhere in the bottoms.
Where the soft blue trumpets of the mimulus
were reflected in sluggish water he dodged away
in a twinkling into the grove of willow that lined
it; from the deep shades of the thickets me
flashed up into the canopy of green; from eae
serried spears of cat-tails and rushes he sprung at
midday as well as in the evening; and even from
the open edges of the ponds where the receding
waters had stranded the bright blue spikes of the
pickerel-weed he circled over the adjoining trees.

But the best shooting, combining ease of travel
with attractive surroundings and healthy air, was
on the bottoms of the upper Mississippi before
so much of the timber was cut away, and when
the sloughs were clear instead of muddy and full
of sawdust. When the canoe leit the tyvemwe

THE WOODCOCK. 35

entered a new world as the paddle sent it gliding
among fallen trees, around sharp elbows, and
through swirling eddies. Amid strange fragrance
from a million flowers, amid the hum of bees,
gay dragon-flies, and rattling locusts, we wound
along banks covered with long grass. Under
masses of green and white from climbing vines
we paddled, under the waving arms of giant elms
and the storm-scarred limbs of aged cottonwoods
still reaching skyward in defiance of time, by
little open bays where towered the arrowy shafts
of the wild rice, and blackbirds rose in roaring
flocks, and the wood-duck with dolorous Wee-wee-
qwee-wee sought safety in the air, while the little
yellow brood went flapping to the reeds for
Syeier) 2.1! seemed so full-of life: the broad
head of the maple brightly pictured in the still
water over which the canoe was gliding; the
gray squirrel, with bushy tail outspread, taking
his midday rest; the wild pigeon, like an arrow
feathered with white and gray, hissing with speed
through the openings; dark shining turtles slip-
ping with soft splash from the driftwood; little
nut-hatches stealing along the limbs above and

reaching down to pick off slugs; and the king-

36 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

fisher springing his noisy rattle on the dead limb
or darting into the water.

Woodcock were plenty here, for feeding-
grounds were everywhere, while on much of the
dry ridges was the best kind of cover. One
place was almost as good as another. Where the
deep blue of the lobelia was nodding over some
damp shore, a bird was as apt to spring at midday
as in the solemn shade of the swamp-maples and
oaks, where grass could hardly struggle through
the gloom. One might be in the long grass that
around some fallen tree-top on the higher ground
wound upward to the light through the garlands
of white and green the wild cucumber wove over
fhe dead limbs. And out from behind gipge
might skim low and wheel around the next tree
so quickly that all you would know of the bird’s
presence would be the whistle of its wings.

Often the rustling of the dog would cease
before we had moored the boat, and we would
find him but a few yards away, with nose pro-
jecting from the reeds along some muddy shore.
Where the red flowers of the knot-grass nodded
over the snowy petals of the water-lily left by
the receding water we might see, scarce a yard

THE WOODCOCK. 37

from the dog's nose, sitting on the mud, the bird
we had come to find. Perhaps fresh mud was
on his bill from the numerous small holes around
him where he had been breakfasting late. His
strangely-shaped head was drawn back until its
rich colors blended with the rosewood hues of
the back, and the deep, tender eye was quizzing
us with sublime indifference to the dog. And
when with spiral twist he whirled into the bank
of leaves over our heads before we could turn
around, and nothing but leaves and dead sticks
responded to the fierce volley we opened upon
him, we still felt glad we had not shot at him on
the ground.

Again, when we would miss the dog, we might
find him only by the quivering tip of his tail pro-
jecting from a thick mat of reeds beside some
heavy timber into which the brown wings would
fade in speed that left us no time to take aim.

‘ Yet we followed the line with memory’s eye, and
fancied there was a gentle fall of something soft
amid the leaves and twigs that followed the shot.
And sometimes we found our dog in a dense
clump of saplings, with one forefoot on a fallen
log he was about to cross when he caught the

38 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

scent, and standing as solid as the log itself.
Once with soft twitter a cock rose a few feet in
air as we came up, and made so sudden a turn
there was no time to fire. Not thirty feet from
where it rose it alighted on the ground, and with
drooping wings and tail erect strutted along for
several yards like a turkey-gobbler, with the dog
pacing solemnly behind it at a safe distance, sur-
prised at this peculiar action, which is so rare that
many sportsmen and many dogs have never seen
it.

Two or three hours on pleasant days would
generally give one all the shooting a reasonable
being should want. It grew better toward even-
ing, and the homeward trip was ever a pleasure.
The night-heron flapped his solemn way in the
air above, and the deep Zoo-hoo of the great
owl resounded through the darkening green that
lined the slough. The smooth surface of the
river glimmered long after sunset, with crimson
and gold reflected from the fleecy clouds above.
Far up and down the Minnesota side the bluffs
lay darkly blue, while on the Wisconsin side they
held a long, lingering trace of pink as if unwilling

to let go of day. Long pickerel shone as they

THE WOODCOCK. 39

threw themselves in air and sank with a splash
into the water; night-hawks by the score pitched
here and there over the water; bands of ducks
went hissing by; and from both shores rolled
across the waters the rich but mournful voice of
the whippoorwill.

Woodcotk-shooting on these bottom-lands at
high water is the very climax of shooting with
the shot-gun. In most sections heavy rains or
floods scatter woodcock and make them harder to
find. But on the upper Mississippi it is the
reverse, as the birds never go in numbers to any
timber but that in the bottoms. When there is
a heavy flood, about the time the birds are the
most plenty and about four fifths of the bottoms
are submerged, leaving the remainder a network
of islands and peninsulas, among which you may
paddle anywhere with a light boat, the birds are
concentrated on the dry spots. Half the time
the dog does not await the landing of the skiff,
but with head reaching over the bow, and tip of
tail quivering almost in your face, he stands rigid
as you could wish before the keel scrapes the
ground. Sometimes he springs but half-way out,
stopping with fore legs in the water and hind legs

40 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

in the boat; and sometimes he springs from it,
but stands anchored in his tracks where he
strikes the water. And birds are often springing
before he leaves the boat.

Before you have firm anchorage for your feet
three or four woodcock may spring from the grass
and driftwood on the shore, and start on varied
curves for as many points of the compass. When
you reach the land you can hardly make the dog
move ahead, and about the time you think him
too cautious he comes to a sudden stop. Two
brown twittering lines wheel right and left in
front of him; but when with extra quickness you
send one to earth and the other to the water, and
you think the dog ought to be proud of your
work, he merely turns his nose, first to the right,
then to the left, then to the right again. Before
you can take a step ahead, or even load your
gun, away whistles a cock on the right, another
on the left, and another from in front, with two
or three more curling out of some grass-covered
drift ahead; and, before you or the dog can reach
either of the two that fell, half a dozen more are
twisting in as many directions. Andso you may
eo on from island to island, with the dog not

THE WOODCOCK. 4I

even walking, but merely crawling about and
every few minutes stiffening into a point.

The birds, however, are now wilder than usual,
and seeing dozens by no means implies a shower
of woodcock. Many rise far ahead of the dog,
and before you can come within thirty yards of
him. Many lie in the edge of the timber, and
wheel away upward while vou are inside, or curl
around the outer edge. Some twist upward
through the tree-tops and then spin away ona
straight line; some whisk away so near the
ground, the brown line of their flight is hard to
distinguish amid the grass and flowers; others
bustle out of sight in a twinkling through some
dense thicket; while of others you see nothing
and only hear the mellow whistle of their wing-
feathers.

Who could help missing under such circum-
stances? Here goes a bird across an open space
only twenty-five yards away. Clearly you see
the rich brown robes, and the iron rib of the gun
seems pointing just the right distance ahead of
the long bill. How cool you feel, and what ex-
pectation is crowded into one short moment!
You pull the trigger, and the brown whistles on

42 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

without wavering or shedding a feather. What
wonder? What nerves would not flutter when a
fresh bird bustles out of the grass as you start to
pick up a fallen one and, killing the new one, see
the dog point still another before he or you can
reach either of the two that have fallen, and then
have a couple more spring right and left before
you can reach the dog? The finger will some-
times betray one and pull the trigger, when the
eye plainly sees the gun is not pointing right,
and sometimes it will tremble and balk upon the
trigger and disobey the will to pull at the right
time. Often, when a quick shot is necessary, the
cun fails to come to the right place when first
raised; there is no time to shift it, and it is too
late to recall the order from the brain to the
finger. And often when tossed up at a crossing
bird it comes directly on the mark instead of
ahead, and the temptation to pull the trigger
without shifting the gun ahead is irresistible.
And often the gun strikes an unseen branch, or,
when wheeling suddenly with loaded pockets, one
is thrown out of balance and cannot recover in
time. These and a dozen other causes, above
all that mysterious ‘‘bad spell’’ which often

THE WOODCOCK. 43

attacks the best shots, make it impossible for any
one to shoot without many a miss. Thanks to
human infirmity that it is so! Were shooting
as easy as often pictured, the pleasure of the gun
would be gone.

BE
THE RUFFED GROUSE.

WHO can forget the feelings with which he
first heard the mysterious drum of the ruffed
grouse throb through the bursting woods of
spring, or later from the dark mountain-side
where the soft pink and white of the rhododen-
dron light up the dark jungle of its leaves, or
where the leaves are falling through the haze of
Indian Summer, or, as sometimes heard even in
the noon of night, in the depths of the great
forest? And who ever failed to love him from
the moment he first caught a glimpse of his
fanlike tail as the graceful bird flashed amid a
maze of crimson and gold, or pierced like a shaft
of light the green tangle of the cat-brier swamp ?
And who does not feel that he has lived when,
after many vain shots, he sees the brown wings
come whirling out of the leaves through which

44

LHE KUOFFED GROUSE. 45

they were roaring at a speed that has no equal
among birds of the woods?

Every place this bird honors with its presence
i attractive. _ Where, in the little glen from
which the interlacing heads of the elm and the
mapte have cut off the sunlight, racemes of little
rosy flowers hang from the green leaves of the
enchanter’s nightshade, where the air is laden
with the fragrance of crab-apple and wild plum
mingled with soft sweetness from the berries of
the viburnum, beneath the dark hemlock where
the little red berries of the wintergreen shine in
the gloom, or where the scarlet torch of the
ginseng lights up the dim corridors of the forest,
the sportsman loves ever to linger.

Some unseen spirit captures the old dog, and
his canter settles to a slow trot when he enters
the ground where this grouse is likely to be.
How impressive the patter of his feet on the
dead leaves, and the occasional glimpse you catch
of him slowly moving through the twigs! And
what a moment is that when you hear a fainter
rustling and see him moving still more slowly,
with more slowly-waving tail! You know he
must stop on the outer edge of the circle of cer-

46 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

tainty and not try to catch the scent too warm,
or a roar of wings and distant flash of brown,
toc short to shoot at, will be all you see or hear.
But right well an old dog knows his business,
and you find him perhaps rigid beside a log or
little brook he dares not cross. And then, how
arc you to get a shot? The maple is flaming
beside the pale gold of the birch, and the bright
red of the dogwood vies with the russet of the
oak in barring the path of your vision. (“Bite
scarlet of the cockspur-thorn yet robes its matted
arms, and the yellow leaves of the aspen tremble
on its white trunk. How in such a maze of
color do you expect to catch that glimpse of
white and brown that for an instant only will
mark the path of a bird to which all thickets are
as smooth a path as the blue of space to fie
sunbeam ?

Before you come within twenty feet of your
dog there is a heavy £66666666666666 some ten
yards ahead of him, a whisk of brown, a scatter-
ing of dry leaves beneath it. Ina twinkling you
drop on one knee and toss the gun to your
shoulder.

And is that all?

LHE KULTED GROUSE. 47

Well, is not that worth coming to see? One
who does not feel that little toil repaid with even
a glimpse of this royal game would not appreciate
closer acquaintance.

You are in heavier cover than is necessary now.
When the autumn rains have tattered the drapery
of these thickets you may see something long
enough to shoot at it, but now you had better go
where it is more open. Let us leave this heavy
cover and cross this meadow where the bluejoint
waves yet green and above the falling clover the
tender purple of the calopogon nods. Where
under arcades of alder the swift brook gurgles
through grassy banks you shall find the groves
of plum and thorn more open.

Bub—bub—bub—bub—bubbubbubbubbbbbbbbbbb
sounds already from the distant thicket, for here
upon the upper Mississippi the ruffed grouse
drums often in the warm days of fall, and its
strange beat quickens your pace.

Scarcely does the dog reach the outer edge of
the thicket when he seems suddenly weary, his
legs drag, and his tail becomes straighter. He
pauses for a moment beneath the crimson of the
sumac, and then with delicate sniffs of upraised

48 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

nose moves a few feet and comes to a full stop.
There is a heavy £6666666666 in the thicket as
you approach the dog, and a broad white breast
with wide dashes of jet surrounded by a soft
haze of brown wings in rapid stroke mounts into
the sunlight above the thicket. Where a prettier
mark than the outspread tail it turns to you as it
wheels with its bands of brown and black and its
tender shades of gray, steering the majestic bird
on its swift-winding way ? And what a strange
mixture of exultation and pride with regret you
feel when out of a cloud of feathers it descends
at the report of your gun to the spangled covert
below!

But there is no time to indulge in feelings, for
at the report of your gun out comes another
roaring mark with little topknot erect on out-
stretched head, black ruffs laid back, and aimed
for the thicket you left but a moment ago. Plain
open sailing; and how confident you feel as you
raise the gun! Beware, beware! Do you not
see the white scales of the immortelles tremble,
and even the purple corolla of the iron-weed bow
in the breeze made by the resounding wings of
the swift rover as it skims their tops? Hold far

THE RUFFED GROUSE. 49

anead, for all too deceptive is that graceful
speed.

At the sound of your first barrel a tail-feather
comes whiffling down into the glowing top of a
goldenrod, but only the faster does the grouse
dash the sunshine from its obstreperous wing.
Bang goes the second barrel, aimed farther ahead,
but not a plume of the outspread fan is folded,
the graceful head seems only stretched out a
little farther, the black ruffs glisten but the more.
In a moment the whole is but a haze of brown
above which two curving wings are suddenly set,
while it plunges into the densest part of the
thicket as easily as a meteor into the night.

Few of those who love this bird have seen him
before he has left his mother’s side to roam alone
the mountain’s breast or the tangled glen. For
his cradle is deep in the heart of summer’s wealth,
and few are the eyes that can follow him into the
dark brake or the shaggy robe of the mountain
until frosts have rent the gay canopy and scat-
tered the fragments to the ground. But in the
bluffs of the upper Mississippi this grouse was
easily found in summer, especially after the
coveys were big enough to fly, and they used

50 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

often to make fine shooting before any hues of
death had touched the timber that studded the
hills. These bluffs were about four hundred feet
above the slope of the bottom-lands and benches
at their feet, and not too steep for hunting.
About half-way up their sides, and in the heads
of the gulches that cut them in all directions, was
the home of this grouse. Often he went to the
top where a stubble bordered the timber at the
head of a ravine; and many a time, in the cool
evening of August or September, when we thought
the dog was pointing the pinnated grouse for
which we were hunting, a full-grown covey of
the ruffed grouse has sprung on uproarious wing
and vanished in the shade of the oaks and birches.
On hot days it was not uncommon to find the
pinnated grouse half-way down the bluffs, seeking
the shade of their steep sides, and often the two
kinds of grouse were so mixed that either might
spring before the dog. “Once in a while Bob
White lent his charming company, and until the
bird rose you could not tell on what the dog
was pointing. In the oak openings on the bench-

lands of the Wisconsin rivers this same mixture

THE RUFFED GROUSE. SI

might often be seen in September and even later,
but nowhere else have I known it.

My first hunt on these bluffs was in August,
1867. From near the foot of the bluffs where
the maple and oak saplings began to encroach
upon the older timber of the hills to near the top
where from its white staff the birch was flying its
banner of brilliant green, two dogs were racing to
and fro. We soon came to a ravine where the
ferns and prairie-grass were ranker and the shade
deeper. Jack, the elder dog, at once started up
the leeward side of the ravine on a cautious trot.
This soon subsided to a walk as he caught the
breeze that played across the hollow. Quietly
he moved along, hidden in the ferns’ deep green
except his upraised nose and the line of his back
and tail. Through the golden wealth of the lady-
slipper he kept slowly on until his legs began to
stiffen and his tail to lose its oscillation. And as
he stopped there was a burst of brown from the
ferns some ten yards ahead of him.

Bang, whang, went my gun and my friend’s
sun almost together; a feather parted from the
outspread fan behind the boisterous wings, and
in a second more it had faded behind the trees.

52 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

Bbb6bb went another from almost the same
place before the first bird was out of sight—only
a trifle smaller, but quite as swift of wing. Sang
went the second barrel of both guns exactly to-
gether, and a cloud of feathers puffed from the
bird which came whirling downward, while with
huge hubbub seven or eight more birds rose
curling, darting, and whizzing from the ferns in
all directions.

But Jack seemed to have little anxiety about
the birds that had fallen, and after moving care-
fully a few feet stopped again, with the other
dog, named Frank, on the other side or aie
ravine watching him, with legs almost as firm, and
tail but slightly waving. Right well Jack seemed
to know that all the flock had not risen; for it
was a common trick in those days for part of the
flock to trust to hiding even after the old one
and most of the young ones had flown. Jack
swung off a few feet to get in the direct line of
the scent again, and then with nose high in air
and body sunk in the grass he came to a stand-
still. From the ferns some thirty feet altead
three grouse started in different directions. One
had scarcely aired his wings when he went whirl-

THE RUFFED GROUSE. 53

ing into the green below; another changed his
course at the report of another barrel and mounted
skyward through the tree-tops; the third seemed
to leave a hole in space with another barrel flam-
ing vainly into the empty hole; while the bird
that had mounted above the trees poised for a
second on high, then closed his wings and de-
scended with a heavy bump to earth.

The fallen birds retrieved, we went to find the
scattered members of the flock. Some three
hundred yards we wandered through checkered
shades when Frank began to dawdle in his pace.
He sniffed inquiringly at the breeze that played
along the hillside. To us it was laden only with
the fragrance of ferns and clover, wild buckwheat
and peas, with late wild-rose and mint, but the
dog smelt something more, for suddenly he
stopped, and at the same instant a bird broke the
green cover some fifteen yards ahead of him.
Two charges of shot shivered the tremulous green
of the birch behind which it disappeared, the air
throbbed no more beneath its wings, a nebula of
fine feathers drifted into sight.

Up and down the hill both dogs were again
soon beating the ground. In about five minutes

54 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

Jack, coming down the hill on a gentle canter,
dropped as suddenly as if shot and lay with only
the tip of his nose above the grass. As we came
up, a grouse started like a rocket from a yard
ahead of him and whizzed upward as if bound for
the stars. My friend’s first barrel abbreviated
the broad tail, and he caught the body with the
second as, high among the branches of an aged
oak, it was speeding its bobtailed career. As it
fell another bustled out of almost the very spot
from which the last one rose, and cleft the breeze
so fast that the shot from my gun was held back
by the air-waves from its rapid wings. (At least
that was my theory then, and if good enough for
me it is good enough for any reader. It doesn’t
do to be too particular about some things.)
Some ten minutes passed, and we found Frank
standing like a rock in the head of a ravine, with
Jack some thirty yards away, indorsing with his
most statuesque attitude Frank’s draft on our
confidence. The aspen was trembling above
him, the ferns gently swaying in the breeze around
his nose, the blackberries and raspberries were
still bright on the bushes in the deep shade, but

other sign of life was none. We threw in stones,

THE RUFFED GROUSE. 55

but nothing moved. We then tried to make one
of the dogs flush the game, but neither would
move an inch. At the risk of ‘losing a shot |
went in, for the ravine was steep-sided and deep.
A. few feet ahead of the dog I slipped and fell,
and in a twinkling the air above seemed alive with
spinning lines of white and whizzing belts of
black and brown mixed in a whirl that made the
air tremble even more than my companion’s gun
that was spouting fire over my head. I sprung
to my feet too late to catch the fire of his second
Patrel in my ear, but just in time to see two
grouse vanishing through two distant openings
in the heavy foliage. Both were almost out of
shot, and to catch either at the speed it was going
called for marvelous quickness. How I unloaded
a barrel of my gun at each before I had fairly
caught my feet is a question on which I have
ever remained in blissful ignorance. And you,
dear reader, must remain in blissful ignorance of
the resuits, for asa matter of pure business I can-
not afford to imperil my reputation for veracity
by telling you.

The grouse were soon so scattered that we
went in search of a new flock, which was then

56 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

cheaper than hunting birds too widely dispersed.
So we moved along several hundred yards and
came toa little valley. Near its head the oaks
stood larger and closer than before, the ferns
were longer, brighter, and greener, the birches
taller and thicker, and so were the maples and
aspens that were crowding them aside. A soft
flavor of wild honey and thyme with dittany and
mint breathed through the cool shades, and every-
thing seemed to hint strongly of ruffed grouse.
So strongly did the spirit of the place whisper
‘‘srouse’”’ that Jack was ona half-point from the
start, just as many a good old dog changes his
pace the instant he enters a damp dark swamp
where everything breathes the magic word
“‘woodcock.” And even Frank seemed (ten-
thralled by the deep shade and threaded the
bowers of birch and beds of fern with more than
usual care.

But vainly the dogs sneaked and sniffed here
and there. The birds seemed playing the trick
of all game in ignoring the fine places you select
for it, and preferring to make its own selection.
Lower down the little valley were thickets of
crab-apple and wild plum with hazel, viburnum,

THE RUFFED GROUSE. 57

and hawthorn; and knowing the grouse range
low as well as high along these hills, we went
there. In the dense green the dogs soon dis-
appeared; nothing but the light rustling of their
feet remained, and in a few minutes even that
ceased.

Leaving my friend on the outside where he
would be apt to get a shot I went inside the
thicket. There was one dog with tail and nose
nearly parallel, as he had thrown himself into the
shape of a bow with sudden whirl, and the other
stood a few yards behind with the solemnity
Bena tombstone on a winter night. Before I
could reach the foremost dog there was a be-
wildering racket of wings, and a dozen big birds
went darkling through the green or wheeling out
of the top. Quickly as I had killed the last two
birds—confound it! I didnt mean to let that
out—well, that quickly I dropped on one knee
and sent a charge of shot through the leaves
where a fanlike tail was vanishing on a sharp
curve. The mainspring must have been tired
with the last effort, for the hammer was slow in
falling and the shot rather slow about reaching
the game. But dimly through an opening I

58 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

could see my friend on the hillside with half a
dozen grouse driving swiftly toward him. One
shot past him like an arrow feathered with white
and brown, gone before he could raise his gun;
another at the report of his first barrel went spin-
ning by with unruffled feather, with the rest roar-
ing beside him and over him, while he stood
shifting his gun from one to the other, and finally
emptied it with great success into a patch of sun-
shine among the trees after it had closed over
the last wide-spread tail.

Probably the deepest love one acquires for this
bird is in threading the depths of the forest in
still-hunting. A more charming companion than
the grouse there makes it is hard to find. On
the warm still days of autumn, when you have to
move with great caution on account of the dry
leaves and twigs making so much noise to alarm
deer, this lovely bird is often around you from
morning till night. If careful you may often see
him, mounted on a log or low limb or even on
the ground, beat that mysterious drum that sends
so strange a thrill through the sportsman, and
makes so many wonder how it is done. And
when at dawn you thread the long colonnades of

THE RUFFED GROUSE. 59

eray trunks before even the squirrel comes out
to play, or the bluejay tunes his jingling pipe, or
the dark form of the raven wheels above the
trees, the grouse may spread his tail along your
path and scatter the dry leaves beneath his re-
verberating wings. Where the wild cherry and
choke-berry line the little boggy flat, where the
cubs have rolled down the ferns, and the old
mother bear has turned over the fallen log for
grubs, you may see your friend mount on defiant
wing and wind swiftly out of sight among the
dense wealth of basswoods and maples. Often
when you are sitting on the sunny side of some
fallen log where the spikenard spreads its broad
umbels of spicy black berries, or watching for
some imaginary buck beside some runway where
the trailing arbutus keeps the ground grcen with
its ever-bright leaves, the grouse may come walk-
ing beside you, in all the majesty of its pure
innocence, if you keep perfectly still.

Dull seem the woods without this happy soul.
When dank and sodden from the storm, and a
cheerless wind sighs through the boughs, the
scores of grouse that on the last warm day so
enlivened the forest are suddenly gone, and very

60 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

lonely are the woods. And when the witch-
hazel’s curious petals of gold have closed the
floral procession of the year, and the scarlet head
of the mountain ash is turning pale, when the
crimson and white of the woodpecker flash no
more in wavy flight, and the barking of the
squirrel is seldom heard, then this bird yet re-
mains the still-hunter’s companion. And after
the woods are robed in purest white, and the
bushy-footed hare has turned his coat to suit
the fashion, when trees snap with frost, and the
porcupine, rolled in a fuzzy ball, rides out the
storm in the top of some giant elm, the grouse
is still there, though you may see him only as he
bursts from the snow almost beneath your feet
and, dashing the glittering flakes from resounding
wing, mounts gayly into the sunshine on his way
to some distant tree-top.

TV
THE PINNATED GROUSE.

No bird ever lent greater charm to its surround-
ings than the pinnated grouse to the prairie. He
has been to it more than Bob White to the frosty
stubble, or the woodcock to the tangled brake.
Without him it is no more the prairie, but only
a dismal waste. No sound ever wakes more
tender feelings than the far-reaching ‘‘ Woo—woo
—wqwoo—woo—woo’’ swelling from the distant
knoll before the soft blue of the liverwort beams
beside the fading snow-bank in the timber, or
the clatonia lights the darkness of the burnt
prairie. No bird has so thrilled the novice as
the full-grown grouse roaring out of the grass
almost at his feet, or caused him such infinite
amazement when in sublime confidence he pulled
the trigger. And when the ducks have left the

frozen slough, the quail gone to the bottoms,
61

62 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

the sand-hill crane no longer dots the plain, and
the Honk of the goose has died away in the
south, then the grouse is about the only com-
panion left the dweller on the prairie. Whether
sweeping in large flocks across the plain, now
on sailing pinions, now with wavering stroke of
wing, or on frosty mornings sitting quietly upon
the fence, or in colder weather studding the bare
branches of the timber, this bird is ever the
brightest light of the great solitude. Our chil-
dren’s children may yet hear the mellow twitter
of the woodcock’s wing as he whirls upward
through the somber shade, over the harvest-field
may hear the flutelike call of Bob White, and in
the darksome brake yet see the ruffed grouse
spread his banded tail; but few shall see the
pinnated grouse, except as rare specimens. For
it is a bird that increases with the first stage of
civilization, pauses at the second, and fades for-
ever with the third.

Many have seen the pinnated grouse only
where immense cornfields or long slough-grass
make the hunting difficult, where the weather is
intensely hot with no shade heavier than that of a
rosin-weed. Many have hunted them only when

THE PINNATED GROUSE. 63

the young were too small. But in September,
when the young can hardly be told from the old
ones, a hunt on the breezy hills of the upper
Mississippi—once covered with parks of oak,
open enough for comfortable driving with a
wagon, yet dense enough for good shade—was
something vastly different.

‘Prince smells something already,” said the
Squire, as the dog rose in the wagon and, extend-
ing head and neck over the wheel, began to sniff
the breeze with upraised nose, while his tail
swayed with gentle motion.

We had come up one of the long ravines that
lead from the bottom-lands of the upper Missis-
sippi to the prairie nearly five hundred feet above,
and had reached what is really the level of Min-
nesota, instead of the top of a sharp ridge as the
edge of the prairie appears from the river. As
the wagon stopped, the dog sprung to the ground
without awaiting orders. For a moment he
paused, then on a slow walk went a hundred
yards or so along a gentle swell, then broke into
a trot and from that into a gallop, crossing at
right angles the line of his former course as if the
scent had become weakened and he was trying

64 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

to catch it again in full intensity. Suddenly he
wheeled half about and stopped a moment, with
a slight motion of his tail, then as suddenly
started off on a walk, but more cautiously than
before.

As we tied’ the horses.to a tree two ‘other
wagons belonging to the party drove up, contain-
ing some ladies and two tyros. Another dog
was let loose, and in a moment more he was pa-
cing solemnly along in the rear of Prince, and
looking about as wise.

Where deep-toned pink from. the belated
prairie-rose nodded over green beds of fern the
dogs slowly crawled, and soon came to a halt a
few feet from a fallen tree-top. From the trail-
ing clusters with which the wild pea had fes-
tooned the dead branches Bob White and his
wife with a dozen little ones rose in chirping and
twittering lines of gray and brown, curling away
in. all directions. Then over another swell the
dogs snaked their way through waving prairie-
grass dotted with golden moccasin-flowers. On
top of this swell Prince paused as if to survey
the landscape. ‘Toward the west rolled a mighty
undulation of velvet green cut with ravines

THE PINNATED GROUSE. 65

nearly five hundred feet deep, some darkly blue
with deep shade, others filled with luminous
haze. With an air of profound wisdom, as if he
had taken the gauge of the whole situation, Prince
- looked around at the party, then down the slope
into a swale where the white-fringed corolla of
the silene and the red lips of the snapdragon
kissed amid waving sunflowers, he went almost
out of sight, with the other dog following. Up
another slope he went with slower and slower
step among the tender blue of wild flax, and on
the top of the next ridge paused again to survey
the world. Along the hills the shining leaves of
the white birch were trembling on its white staff,
black oaks stood massed in ranks of green in the
heads of the gulches, on the points of the ridges
crags of sandstone like old-time castles hung over
the valleys, and miles away across the great bot-
tom of the Mississippi the Wisconsin bluffs lay
softly green in the clear air, with golden stubbles
creeping up their sides or gleaming amid the
timber that fringed their tops. But there was
no sign or sound of the game we had come for,
only the jingling notes of the jay as his blue
finery flashed among the deep green above us,

66 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

the sleepy bark of the gray squirrel stretched on
some big limb, the red and white of the wood-
pecker as he rose and dipped in wavy flight, or
lines of bluish gray where wild pigeons shot
through the openings. Prince seemed to think
there was something, though by the intent gaze
he kept upon the landscape at large he showed
himself uncertain of the exact location of it.
After inspecting the scene a few moments with
slowly-waving tail, he licked his chaps with an
air of great satisfaction and moved slowly on.
Then he swung off to the right a bit and then to
the left with nose high upraised, then came to a
sudden stop and set his tail and upraised foreleg
as if never to be moved again. Behind him a
few paces stood the other dog, equally motionless
and showing by his wild stare that he smelt the
game himself.

Game was so plenty in the early days of Min-
nesota that courtesy was cheap. It was also
more fun to see a tyro perform than to shoot a
bird yourself, especially when it was apt to be
the old bird which no one wanted. So the two
strangers, neither of whom had ever seen a
‘‘chicken”’ or seen a dog point, were told to go

THE PINNATED GROUSE. 67

ahead and take first shot and by all means to
keep cool. The last advice was given to upset
their nerves.

To the dog they went with trembling hands,
one alternately scratching his nose and adjusting
his hat, the other trying to walk and hold the
butt of the gun to his shoulder, to be ready. But
nothing rose, and ahead of the dog they went,
tyro number one raising his gun to his shoulder
wicoso as not to be left in the lurch by the
superior quickness of number two. Five paces
ahead of the dog they walked, but nothing moved
and the dogs remained like statues. Number
two had to take down his gun to scratch his eye
and adjust his collar, while the other had to but-
ton his coat so as to get the tails out of the way
of action, and try both hammers of his gun to be
sure they were cocked.

Bb66666666666666 sprung a whirl of brown and
eray from the tangle of fern and grass, almost
fivtne feet of one of the strangers,” It seemed
as easy to hit as an elephant tumbling up hill,
and with great apparent calmness he pointed
the gun full at the middle of the bird’s back.
The bird was almost suffocated in a vile eruption

68 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

of cheap powder, but out of the smoke it came
with unruffled feather. The amazement of the
shooter was equaled only by that of his comrade,
who attempted a second later to show him how
such things should be done. The purple head of
a petalostemon bowed beneath his fire, but the
bird mounted the air above it with throbbing
wing that seemed all the stronger. Aang went
the second barrel of number one, tunneling the
smoke as the second barrel of number two
poured destruction into the heart of a flourishing
caterpillar’s nest on a scrub-oak which the in-
tended victim had just passed.

All this-in about three seconds. Yet betore
this short time passed a Kuk-huk-kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk
sounded amid the tempest of flame as two more
birds, only a trifle smaller than the first, but with
beat of wing quite as heavy, broke cover almost
beneath the dogs’ noses, followed by two more
about the time they were fairly under way. As
two guns in the rear of the party rang out, the
first two birds that rose together went whirling
out of a cloud of feathers; and into the ferns
from which they rose the second two sank at the
report of two more barrels, while the first one

_-_—

THE PINNATED GROUSE. 69

that rose, the old mother of the covey, went
sailing away over a ravine, unshot at. As the
second pair of birds turned over in air, another
grouse rose from almost the same place as the
last one, followed by three more before it had
fairly cleared the grass. And two of these
wilted in mid-air as two more guns flamed in the
rear, while the other two birds with triumphant
beat of wing went away unscathed amid the up-
roar of two more barrels.

Motionless and serene Prince stood amid the
racket, for that mysterious power of a dog’s nose
that tells him whether all the birds have risen
told him that some yet remained hidden in the
spangled covert before him. And it was but a
moment more when Kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk went an-
other from a few feet before him, mounted the
sunlight in a curve of whizzing gray, sailed away
through the open timber, and settled on a ridge
some three hundred yards away.

Yet Prince and Doc, the dog behind him,
stood like statues, and away flew another grouse
unshot at; for every gun was now empty, with its
owner straining every nerve to get it loaded.
With the muzzle-loader has gone an interesting

7O GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

feature of the field; for he who has never stood
hastening to load one with a bird or two rising
at each stroke of the ramrod, and got the first
cap on just as the last bird was comfortably out
of reach, has missed a peculiar phase of existence.
By the time the first gun was ready seven more
birds had risen in front of the dogs and settled
in the grass two or three hundred yards away.
Then Prince relaxed his rigid limbs and, after
two or three sniffs at the place from which the
birds had risen, went to find the fallen ones.

Not more than once or twice had the dogs
quartered the ground where the birds alighted
that had escaped, when Doc wheeled suddenly
and crouched low. In the gold bloom of the
moneywort the tip of his tail trembled with
his efforts to hold it still, while his head and
nose were almost lost in a dense mat of fern and
grass. Prince, coming down the slope to investi-
gate—for he had no confidence in other dogs, and
never ‘‘backed”’ anything but his own nose—
stopped about half-way and dropped almost flat
upon the ground, with glistening eyes turned
toward a bunch of grass.

A greenhorn was now detailed to each dog,

LHE PINNATED GROUSE, 71

with instructions to keep very cool and be sure
not to fire before he was ready. One stepped
ahead of Prince; yet nothing moved but the dog,
and he moved only half a step and stared more
wildly than ever into the grass. The tenderfoot,
after scratching one ear, setting back his hat,
buttoning his coat, feeling of the gun-hammers,
clearing his right eye, and easing the tension of
his collar, took another step ahead of the dog.
Yet again nothing moved but the dog, and he
moved two steps ahead and stood over a clump of
bluejoint, looking down into it with quivering
tail. The tenderfoot pulled up one sleeve of his
coat and shook a reef out of the other so as to
have his arms free for action, and, giving another
rub to his nose and another wipe at his eye,
pushed the grass aside with his foot. Out
hustled a big grouse almost from between the
fore legs of the dog. Prince could not resist the
temptation to snap at it, with the usual result of
being just three and a half inches too far behind.
At the sound of its wings another bird rose a few
feet farther on, followed by the one that Doc
was pointing. In the immediate rear of the first
bird tenderfoot number one exploded a mine of

j2 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

country-store powder, but the game being ahead
of it escaped asphyxiation, while number two got
in his fire a little farther ahead of another bird,
which succumbed at once.

Again the dogs careered for a few minutes
among the lavender of the panicled aster that
was waving in the cool breeze, startling the prai-
rie song-sparrow that on the purple head of the
iron-weed was still singing his summer song, and
almost before we knew it each dog had stopped
firm as a rock by a bunch of ferns. Again the
ereenhorns were sent ahead to take first shot,
and the one who had made the last successful
shot stepped smiling up to Prince. Fron
maze of purple and gold, where the golden-rod
and cone-flower were springing to keep up the
procession of blossoms that illumine these prati-
ries so much of the year, burst a haze of gray
and brown so big it seemed impossible to miss.
At less than ten feet the first barrel of the tender-
foot roared into the very middle, as it seemed, of
the brown cloud. But the bird was headed for
the strong western breeze, which it was already
splitting so fast that the pot-metaled gun could
not reach it, and on it went with the second bar-

THE PINNATED GROUSE. 73

rel of number one and the first barrel of number
two bellowing in its rear, along with another gun
or two from behind: and down it came. Each
one of the tenderfeet swore he killed it, and as
no one but the other tenderfoot disputed it both
were happy.

A combined picnic and hunting-party is gen-
erally a heartless hoax. But years ago on these
serounds such things were a great success and
very common. Game enough for lunch and for
the whole party to divide in the evening, with a
goodly share to each, was an absolute certainty ;
and as a wagon could be driven anywhere over
the bluffs, the amount of work was trifling. As
we had birds enough for lunch, we stopped shoot-
ing for the middle of the day, as we could begin
again at four o'clock with a certainty of enough
birds to take home.

Under a large oak that overlooked the broad
valley of the Mississippi we sat down to rest.
On every side the deep ravines that furrowed
these bluffs when the great glacier of the North
relaxed its grip were still robed in the hues of
summer, the whole a couch of green velvet on
which peace lay sleeping. At the bottom of a

74 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

deep valley the waters of the Zumbro wound
their swift way to the Mississippi through hills
blue with soft intensity of shade, or golden with
the brightness of the sunlight that slept upon
them, while the rosy haze poured into the deeper
valley, cast a dreamy air over the green thickets
that bowed to their shadows in the clear river.
Here rolled the stream in shining curves through
groves of sycamore, maple, and willow, and there
it was joined by a silvery thread that shimmered
through meadows deeply green with blue-joint
and flag, spangled with the gold of the autumn
dandelion, and tempered with the tender purple
of the Arethusa. Still another brook glistened
through groves of wild plum, crab-apple, and
hawthorn, and thickets of bright hazel and dark
green viburnum, from which we could faintly
hear the drum of the ruffed grouse, and then
it was lost under arcades of alder, and willow
in whose shades fancy could almost see the flash
of the trout. Miles away in the south, shining
as a meteor’s trail, the Mississippi vanished in a
haze of green and gold where the timber and
stubbles on its bluffs blended in the dancing
heat on the horizon, There, too, peace giay

THE PINNATED GROUSE. 75

sleeping, and on the timbered islands that di-
vided its winding path, and on the broad belts
of timber beside its course, dotted with many a
glimmering lake. And even on the great gleam-
ing bars of sand peace gently brooded, and in
the curves of deep shade where the mighty
stream swept close to the gigantic cottonwoods
along the shore. Rafts of lumber covering acres
of space, and the steamer trailing her sooty ban-
ner against the sky, were about the only signs of
man that marred the fair scene.

Where the white gentian of the prairie was
smiling beside the soft purple of the sabbatia, and
the air was redolent of basil and thyme, amid the
hum of the wild bee and the whistle of the wings
of the dove as he shot through the air above us,
a cloth was spread, and on it a lunch fit for the
gods. Then after two hours of eating, smoking,
dozing, and swapping of hunter’s truths, we
started, in the cool of the afternoon, for birds to
take home.

Not many hundred yards had we gone when
Doc suddenly stopped and pointed long enough
to empty the wagon of every man that had a gun.
Then off he went on a half-trot which quickly

76 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

settled to a walk, the walk to a crawl, and the
crawl to a firm point. Ten, twenty, almost forty
yards we walked ahead of him without anything
moving, yet he refused to budge. Just as some
one intimated that he was fibbing, an old hen-
grouse burst from almost beneath the feet of one
of the novices. Two full-grown young ones
followed with a Kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk on the
right, two more on the left, then two or three
in front, and then two or three more on each side.

No such thing as first shot for any one, then!
Courtesy was whistled down the wind and guns
spouted fire overhead, across noses and alongside
of ears; for at this time of the day love of nature
is liable to be tempered with considerations of the
larder. In about seven seconds seven grouse lay
in a semicircle, while five or six more vanished
over a rise beyond, as Doc came trotting up with
wagging tail and looking the most satisfied of the
party.

As we went to find the birds that had escaped
this last cannonade we discovered Prince some
four hundred yards away, on the edge of the
prairie-grass and motionless as the Sphinx, gazing
vacantly out upon a stubble. As we came up

THE PINNATED GROUSE. 77

he moved slowly ahead, stopping every few feet
and sniffing delicately at the breeze now coming
cool and fresh and carrying scent a long way.
More than half across a forty-acre stubble he led
us, and then refused to go farther. Full forty
yards ahead of him we went, when a big grouse
bustled out of the stubble and skimmed away
unshot at.

‘‘An old cock,” said some one, as nothing
more rose. But Prince still kept his point, and
just as we began to doubt him two young grouse
rose from near the center of the party and in
front of one of the strangers, who was looking
down at the very spot from which they rose.
He singed the tail-feathers of one with his first,
and my ear still rings from the report of his
second > barrel. _ At the reports. more. birds
bounced out all around, some even behind us, on
which some of the party must almost have trod-
‘den, and for a few seconds confusion reigned

supreme.

We
THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE.

SwIFT little streams, pure as the drip from an
iceberg, sunk in banks of tangled grass, from the
depths of which the gleam of the darting trout
wakes precious memories, wind among alders
interlacing into arcades above them, and through
groves of plum, viburnum, and hazel from which
sounds the occasional drumming of the ruffed
grouse. On each side open prairie rolls in grass
and ferns, starred with the gold of the lady-
slipper, toned down with the soft pink of the
phlox and the blue of the lupin. Rising from
this are long swells dotted with oaks that stand
like trees in some ancient apple-orchard. Brightly
green the white birch nods up on the scene from
the surrounding ridges, and miles away the eye
can sweep to where the maple and aspen rise in

tier upon tier along the sides of the higher bluffs.
78

THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE. 79

Mile after mile of prairie stretches away upon
their backs, and around their feet lie pockets and
benches of smooth land on which oak openings
stretch their orchardlike expanse; the whole so
suggestive of grouse, quail, deer, squirrels, and
hares, with elk, antelope, buffalo, and bears, that
one can hardly wait for daylight. Where do
you find such a combination as this? Nowhere
now, I fear; but time was when the western part
of Wisconsin could in places show the prettiest
combination of prairie and meadow with upland,
bluff and brooks, timber, game and _ fish, the
Creator ever made.

The rose-blossom business has spoiled it, but
it is not many years since much of it lay in all
its native beauty; and though the elk and the
antelope had gone with the buffalo to where the
white man was scarcer, the other wild tenants of
the hills and dales were about as plenty as ever.

In the early days of Minnesota the sharp-tailed
grouse was the prevailing variety, giving place, as
the country was settled, to the pinnated grouse;
but in the eastern part of Buffalo County, Wis-
consin, the sharp-tail remained in abundance
long after settlement had reached the stage that

80 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

had driven it from Minnesota. It became much
wilder than the common grouse, however, and
when the coveys were packing into large flocks
there was a period of two or three weeks before
they became too wild to lie to a dog, when it
taxed all the skill of both dog and master to
secure a shot before the snowy tails were out
of reach. There were times when we sighed for
something more difficult than the pinnated
grouse-shooting of Minnesota, though that was
hard enough at times. When we sighed we
generally made a trip to this part of Wisconsin,
and our prayers for something wild and swift
were always fondly answered.

Gayly the dog raced over the prairie and, fresh
from a bath in the singing brook against the
breeze of acool September morning, dove through
grass and ferns and cantered over the swells.
He knew the game right well, and, at a pace that
would have astonished an eastern dog-trainer,
scattered the lavender rays of the aster and
bounded over the purpling boneset. MHalf a
mile ahead, and as far on each side of our course,
he galloped over the prairie, when, on a long
beat, he suddenly wheeled and dropped flat, as a

THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE SI

big bird rose from the grass thirty yards on one
side and vanished over the next swell. But no
dog moved, and we could see the top of his head
above the grass, and the outline of the nose
pointed toward the place from which the bird
had risen.

As we came beside him he looked at us with
wistful glance, then licked his chaps and stared
ahead, vacantly but earnestly. We moved a
little ahead of him, but he declined to rise, and
there was no change on his countenance except
an air of deeper certainty. With sudden roar a
huddle of light-brown backs and snowy under-
wear burst from the ferns thirty yards ahead,
aimed for Minnesota, and went upward and
onward at a rate of speed surpassed only by the
ruffed grouse, and not very much by him. There
was not a twinkling to be lost, and both guns
eraeked together. The bird in front of my
companion’s gun went down in a flutter of white.
As the reader has lived twenty-five years with-
out knowing what became of the one the writer
shot at, it is possible he may survive the rest of
his allotted time in the bliss of equal ignorance.

L66b66b66bbbbbb went a dozen more before the

82 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

fallen one had reached the ground. Again two
barrels barked almost together, and two big birds
went whirling over; for we shot very good guns
then, even if they were muzzle-loaders, and fed
them all they could stagger under, as no close or
easy shots could be expected with these birds so
late in the season. Before the two stricken ones
had fallen with heavy bump into the grass,
twenty or thirty more birds rose with a vast
flutter of white feathers and, massing up like a
charge of grape, shot away over the prairie on
the course taken by the other birds that had
risen.’ Three -hundred yards they .went;ser
their wings and rode swiftly down the breeze, as
if to alight; then suddenly with rapid stroke
they rose again, then skimmed low along the
horizon, then changed to quick beat of wing
that carried them up a little, then with whiffling
stroke of wing sped on again until nearly a mile
away they sailed with majestic sweep over a low
ridge.

A mile was nothing to walk for another shot
at such game, and we soon reached the crest of
the ridge over which the birds had disappeared.
Spreading away on the other side was a long

THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE. 83

slope of heavy prairie-grass mixed with ferns and
flowers, making the best of cover to induce the
Minas to lic.. Even as we looked upon it the
slow swing of the dog’s tail ceased and his eyes
began to look serious. He raised his head and
smelt the air with deep satisfaction. Then look-
ing around at us for an instant, he started on at
a slow pace. A hundred yards he went, with
tail becoming slower and slower in its oscillation
and legs more and more draggy. Another fifty
yards he went, then stood for a moment with
nose upraised to the cool western breeze. Ex-
pecting the birds to lie close after such a long
flight and in such long cover, we moved up to
the dog. But all was silent except great sheets
of wild pigeons, from the vast roost on the Chip-
pewa bottoms, that made the air hiss as they
darkened the sky above us. After standing a
moment the dog broke his point, went slowly
ahead for another hundred yards, and there he
cradually settled to a point more rigid than the
last, with certainty in every wrinkle of his nose.

We went to where we thought the birds were
hidden, but nothing moved. Had it been two

weeks earlier they might have been lying in the

84 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

erass at our feet, with feathers tightly pressed,
light brown heads drawn in, and beadlike eyes
fixed upon us, yet so closely hidden that no
mortal could see them though looking directly
down upon them. Now they might be fifty
yards away; but they were somewhere near, for
the firm mouth of the dog and his wildly-staring
eye showed he was not mistaken. So on we
moved, with guns ready for the quickest
work.

Twenty yards ahead of the dog we went when,
thirty yards beyond us and on no feebly-flutter-
ing wing, but more like the start of a rocket, a
big bird bounced out of the grass, and, as we
threw our guns to our shoulders, two more
grouse burst from near the same place. Flame
leaped at the path of the first bird, but onmhe
went at redoubled speed; flame followed flame,
and the whizzing line of white plunged wabbling
to the grass. The nether garments of another
bird sent out a puff of white at the report of
another barrel, but the owner sped on as if the
lighter for their loss. A third, mounting high
on exultant wing and well out of ordinary range,
turned over at the crack of another barrel and

THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE. 85

fell with a bump into the grass, while the first
one, gliding far across the prairie with wondrous
speed, suddenly rose in air and, setting both
wings, slid down the wind, stone-dead.

The dog moved not a muscle. Right well
we knew what that meant, and hastened to re-
load. But before the guns were half loaded
Lbbbbbbbb66bbbbb went three more grouse, like
snowballs from a cannon, out of sight over the
next swell; and, just as we got the caps half on,
more burst with obstreperous wing from about
the same spot and went like happiness away.
And still the dog, gently sniffing the cool,
strong breeze, stood like a rock.

Just as we concluded there must be more
lying near the same place, a dozen with tumult-
uous uproar broke from the cover, some curling
around on the side, some spinning straight away,
all rising and all going, O how swiftly! while
the guns belched lurid lightning amid the white
birches and aspens.

What? Did we get any? Send stamp for my
companion’s address. Perhaps he will tell you.

And still the dog did not move. He merely
turned his nose a little on one side while we

86 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

hammered the loads into the guns as fast as
gravity would allow us to raise the ramrods.

Bbbbbbb—bang went a bird and a gun almost
together, and 46006666 went half a dozen more
as the first one fell into the grass. Lang-k-bang
went three more shots, and two birds sank like
lead, while four with uproarious wing and invio-
late raiment rent the rising breeze, and before
our empty guns three more rose and hastened
on to keep them company.

And now the dog broke his point. That
mysterious power that tells a dog the difference
between the scent of a live bird and a dead one
is nothing to the delicacy that tells him at once
when all the hidden birds have risen, though
scent must certainly remain in the grass a minute
or two. But up he came at once, on a slow trot
that showed he knew what he was about, and
straight he went for the dead ones.

The fallen birds retrieved, the dog went can-
tering gayly toward the place where the scat-
tered birds had gone, for it paid to follow them
a long way, and on their track was as good a
place as any other to find a new flock. Here
he suddenly wheeled, marched a few paces up

THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE. 87

wind with high-raised nose and inquiring sniff
of the breeze, then, suddenly giving it up, gal
loped on again. He had gone scarcely three
hundred yards beyond the place where the last
bird rose, when he suddenly slackened speed and,
like a cat sneaking for the best position from
which to spring, he swung around to the full
play of the breeze, then, crouching low, crept a
few paces ahead and settled to a statuesque
position.

As we went to him there was a roar and a
flash of white some sixty yards ahead, but both
guns thundered and the white fell into the ferns
before it had fairly cleared the nodding gold of
the sunflowers. Before we could exchange con-
eratulations there was another burst of white
ten yards beyond the last, another simultaneous
roar of two barrels, another whirl of white and
brown into the ferns. I do not guarantee these
distances, because in these days, when so many
busybodies are measuring everything instead of
guessing in the good old way, it doesn’t take as
many yards to make a long shot as it used to.
Each one declaring that the other had killed
both birds (well knowing the compliment would

88 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

be returned and that his own private indorse-
ment of it was all that was needed to make it
certain), we loaded and moved on. _ It was plain
that some of the main flock had gone farther
than those we had scattered a few minutes before,
and there might be a dozen or more ahead of us.

So thought the dog; for, after careful investi-
gation of the breeze, he straightened out his tail,
and, as we stopped, two more grouse rose from
about the place where the last one fell. Bang,
whang, k-bang went all four barrels before the
game had fairly cleared the top of the ferns.
Each seemed trying to shoot quicker than the
other, so as to have no doubt about the results
this time. And there were no doubts.

In the shade of some alders along a sparkling
brook we spent the noon at lunch, finishing on
the luscious red and yellow wild plums of this
country, and lay there talking quite awhile after-
ward before noticing that the dog was missing.
The longest blasts of the whistle brought noth-
ing for some time, when the dog suddenly ap-
peared onthe crest of the next ridge.) | Pionea
moment he stood looking coolly at us with
slowly-waving tail, then deliberately turned and

THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE. 89

vanished over the ridge. We went to the top,
and some four hundred yards down a gentle
slope we saw the dog’s head and back above the
erass. He looked around to see if we were
coming, and then moved slowly on some thirty
yards. We walked a few yards ahead of him,
when forty yards farther on some thirty grouse—
two coveys evidently united—rose with riotous
hubbub. One bird went bouncing into the grass
at the sound of the guns, and another shook
some snowy down from its tail and went whiz-
zing away after its companions. The whole
flock flew over half a mile and settled in a patch
of long slough-grass. There was but little over
an acre in the piece, and the grass was about
waist-high. It was likely the birds would lie
very close in this, but they were so wild that no
chances could be taken; and as we had come
twenty-five miles for this shooting, we deter-
mined to make the best of it, especially as the
birds would in a few days be too wild to hunt
with a dog at all.

As we swung to the leeward two hundred
yards from the grass, the cool, strong breeze
blowing over it brought the dog to ahalt. Fifty

90 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

yards nearer we went, with the dog slowly fol-
lowing. Fifty more, and the dog followed more
slowly. Fifty more, and he hesitated long be-
fore moving up to us. Another twenty yards
brought him to a point which he refused to
break in spite of all urging. When we reached
the edge of the grass without anything rising, the
dog moved slowly up. We went some twenty
feet into it before a bird burst from the tangle
of grass, almost at the feet of my companion, and
went curling around over the dog, falling in a
fluttering racket of white and brown almost upon
him. But the dog paid no attention to it. For
the next half-hour the dog did little but crawl
and lie down. Though the birds went like bul-
lets when they rose, before that they lay like
stones in the long grass at this time of day, de-
pending on hiding more than on their wings.
Half the time, when the dog was told to go on
after we had finished loading, he did nothing but
turn his head to one side or the other, and
several times he did this without rising to his
feet from where he had lain down at the report
of the gun. Several birds had fallen before we
could pick up a dead one, and even then we

THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE. gi

could not make the dog go ahead to retrieve.
He would only back out and swing around to
leeward to pick up those that had fallen on the
sides. And then he would swing back before
entering the center again.

The twentieth century will sneer at the nine-
teenth as we do at the eighteenth. But I am
satisfied that my lot was cast in the nineteenth.
It is good enough for me.

VI.

DAYS AMONG THE DUCKS. THE EVENING
FLIGHT.

ALONG the bottom-lands of the Illinois River
the flag was fading and tints of gray were be-
ginning to creep over the stately head of the
cat-tail, the scarlet plume of the cardinal-flower
was drooping, while the arms of the cottonwood
above it were shedding yellowing leaves into the
smooth waters, when, toward the middle of an
afternoon in 1864, with a light boat and a com-
panion, I was winding up one of the sloughs that
lead from the river into the bottoms. Along the
muddy shores Wilson’s snipe was lounging with
easy grace, probing the soft mud, or squatting
in some little bunch of grass and waiting for the
boat to come within a few feet before springing
into his erratic flight. His long bill and peculiar
head, large lustrous eyes and gamy hues, made
never a more pretty picture than when mirrored

92

DAVS AMONG f7E DUCES. 93

in the still water as he rose in flight or trotted
along the water's edge as unconcerned as if he
knew we were after larger game. Dozens of
yellow-legged snipe marched along the shore, or
rose into dignified flight, when we came too near,
and flew a few yards up stream to alight and look
at us again. Golden plover in large flocks swept
along the bars, and small snipe of many kinds
whisked about in numbers now almost incredible.
It was plain that such game was not shot at; and
equally plain that the plumage-hunter for bon-
nets had not yet arrived, for snowy egrets flapped
lazily from the trees as we came too near, while
big herons, and bitterns in blue and brown, hardly
took the trouble to rise as we passed them within
easy pistol-range.

The frosts had been early in the great breed-
ing-grounds of the north, and in the upper sky
long lines of ducks were headed for the south.
Squealing and quacking at every turn in the
slough rose wood-ducks, mallards, teal, and other
ducks, often wheeling around or whizzing over us
ina most tempting manner. But my companion,
who was an old hand, told me to let them all go,
as better things were in store.

94 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

A mile or so from the river the slough ran into
an open marsh at the foot of Senachwine Lake,
and from the side sloughs and ponds rose huge
flocks of mallards so close that the burnished
green of their necks and heads, the glistening
bands of blue upon their wings, and the delicate
curls of shining green upon their rumps were as
clear as the white bands on their tails. But we
let them go, as it is not always wise to shoot at
ducks when you drive them out of a place, and
my friend said this was nothing to what I would
see before dark, and told me to save all my am-
munition for the evening flight. He then placed
me on a tongue of land running into a shallow
pond, and directed me to hide well in the reeds,
while he went to another point some two hun-
dred yards away.

As it was my first introduction to ducks I
meant to follow his advice, though there were
ducks enough in sight to satisfy any one. Along
the sky streamed lines of dark dots, while from
over the reeds and the timber in all directions
came small bunches, big flocks, and single ducks.
Scarcely was I well hidden in the reeds when a
wood-duck, resplendent in carmine and purple,

DAYS AMNONG THE DOCKS. 95

with beamy chestnut and velvety black, came
whizzing past from the right. My friend was
not yet a hundred yards away, and I thought ita
good opportunity to show him how I could shoot.
As I whirled the gun toward the game, a blue-
winged teal, bound to reach Louisiana before
dark, came hissing from the opposite direction,
and must have been ten feet past the wood-duck
by the time the first barrel went off. How I
jerked that gun back again toward the teal with-
out breaking the stock I don’t know to this day.
But it was one of those rare opportunities to try
the most difficult of all shots that are irresistibly
tempting. One is foolish to attempt such a shot
where any one can see him; for the second bird
is almost certain to be fifty yards or more beyond
the place where you fire at the first bird before
you can possibly reverse the motion of the gun
and throw it far enough to the other side. In
both cases the aim must be taken and the trigger
pulled with the quickness of thought, for the
slightest delay or failure to cover the second bird
with the center of the charge is almost certain to
be fatal to success.

In a few minutes a big mallard came along

96 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

with lazy stroke of wing, wagging his long green
neck and head up and down as if looking for a
comfortable place to alight and suspecting no
dan-—

‘*But hold on. How about those other two
ducks?”

Perdition seize your curiosity! What differ-
ence does it make now, after so many years?
But if you will insist, I suppose I must tell. I
had a little hatchet once, myself, and it worked
just as well on the corner of a new barn as on
cherry-trees. One day when an ancestor ap-
peared on the scene of my labors I thought I
would make a record that would dull the luster
of that of Washington. But when the said an-
cestor stooped to cut a hickory sprout, my thinker
slipped an eccentric and ditched the train of
thought in a misapprehension of fact. The
readjustment of my moral machinery that took
place in the next ninety-one seconds was so
complete that it has never since jumped a cog.
Therefore, impertinent reader, if you will insist,
you shall have the truth. I got them both.

Well, that mallard was so big, plump, and easy
in flight, along the gun I so plainly saw the light

DAYS AMONG THE: DOCKS. 97

dance on his burnished head that it seemed un-
Miecessary to’aim very far ahead of him. » Had
the sun dropped from heaven I could hardly have
been more surprised than I was to see that duck
bound skyward with thumping wings at the re-
port of the gun.

But there was little time to reflect on the cause
of the miss, for another wood-duck came glisten-
ing over the sunlit reeds. I aimed at what
seemed the right spot ahead of him and, with
more confidence than ever, pulled the trigger.
Yet at the sound of each barrel every shining
feather sailed along as smoothly as gossamer
thread on the evening breeze.

Scarcely had I loaded, when like a charge of
cavalry in bright uniform, with long green necks,
and heads gleaming like so many couched lances,
a flock of mallards streamed along the water in
front of me. Though I could see four or five
heads in line as I pulled the trigger, but one
duck fell; and as the rest, unharmed, climbed the
air with throbbing wings and I fired again at one
of the leaders, he parted from the flock with
wavering flight, hung high in air for a second,
then, folding his wings, descended with a splash

g8 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

into the reeds on the other side of the pond
where it would not pay to lose time in looking
for him.

It soon became painfully evident that the nice
little gun that had cost so many guineas in Lon-
don and had such genuine platinum ‘‘ vents” in
the breech—I had tested them with all the acids
then obtainable—was a failure for this kind of
game, although I had done fine work with it in
the heavy brush of the Atlantic coast. And my
feelings were not soothed by the dull wop that
followed almost every roar of my companion’s
gun, no larger than mine and a cheap botch of
American pig iron.

While I was gazing into the blank caused by
despondency, two blue-winged teal shot across
the void, one about four feet ahead of the other.
I tossed the gun ahead of the foremost bird at
about the same distance I had been used to
shooting ahead of quails and woodcock in brush,
and pulled the trigger. The rear duck skipped
with a splash over the water stone dead, while the
one at which I had aimed sped across the reeds
with unruffled feather. I had fallen into the
common error of the tyro in duck-shooting of

DAYS AMONG THER: DOCKS. 99

underestimating the speed of a duck, and conse-
quently the distance necessary to hold ahead of
it. Where I whirled the gun in from behind. as
on the first two ducks, I generally hit it, for the
motion of the line of sight is faster than that of
the birds. The line of fire is ahead of-where it
actually seems, on account of the time lost in
pulling the trigger and the escape of the shot,
during which the muzzle of the gun is moving
past the line of the game. But it took me long
to hold far enough ahead, as well as to learn that
I was using too much shot and too little powder
for birds as tough as ducks.

As Phcebus entered the home-stretch and his
glowing chariot neared the gate of gilded clouds,
the number of ducks increased by the minute.
Most of those hitherto flying were ducks spend-
ing the day in the adjacent sloughs and ponds.
But now the host that had been feeding in the
great cornfields of the prairie began to pour into
roost, while the vast army of wild fowl bound
farther south came marching down the sky.
Long lines came widening out and sliding down,
and out of the horizon rose dense bunches, hang-
ing for a moment in the rosy sky then bearing

100 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

down upon me. Over the bluffs on the west
where the land rolled into the vast expanse of
the prairie they came, no longer single spies but
in battalions, and swifter than the wind itself
thousands came riding the last beams of the sink-
ing sun. The sky above was dotted with con-
verging strings or wedge-shaped masses from
which fell the sonorous Honk of the Canada goose
or the clamorous cackle of brant. And in all di-
rections single ducks, ducks in pairs and in small
bunches, were darting and whizzing. Wilson’s
snipe was pitching about in tortuous flight, plover
drifted by with tender whistle, blue herons, bit-
terns, and snowy egrets with long necks doubled
up and legs outstretched, flapped solemnly across
the scene, while yellowlegs and sandpipers filled
in the openings.

A wild and wondrous scene this ‘‘ evening
flight,’’ and quite incredible to-day the numbers
in which the water-fowl once thronged at night-
fall the choice resorts of the West. Yet what I
had so far seen was but the advance-guard of an
army whose numbers were beyond concep-
tion.

When I shot the last of the two blue-winged

DAVS AMONG THE DUCKS. IOI

teal instead of the foremost at which I had aimed,
I thought I had discovered the secret of missing,
and that my skill as a quick shot in brush would
quickly tell again, as on the two ducks coming
from opposite directions. But the nerves that
felt only a slight tremor when the ruffed grouse
burst roaring from the shady thicket now quaked
beneath the storm that suddenly broke from
every point of the compass. I found myself the
converging point of innumerable dark lines,
bunches, and strings rushing toward me at dif-
ferent rates of speed, but even the slowest fear-
fully fast. There I stood bothering with a
muzzle-loader, my head aching from the recoil
of the heavy charges I was vainly pouring into it,
registering on high countless vows to hold a rod
or two ahead of the next duck, yet shooting but
a few inches ahead before I could think of what
I was about, only to see the game whiz away up-
_ward unharmed, and the sky again darken around
me with hissing wings before I could even pour
the powder into the gun.

Little knowing how he was harrowing my
feelings, my friend now called out:

‘Let everything go but mallards, and be sure

102 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

and land them close to your feet. They are just
beginning to come.”’

‘‘Just beginning! What will the end be?
Already they care nothing for the sight of man
or gun, and sheer but little from the spouting
flame,” I thought.

On the sky the light was shattered into a
thousand tints, with everything above the horizon
in clear outline, while over all below rested a
pallid glow that intensified brilliant colors, but
threw a weird gloom over somber shades. From
the departed sun rosy light radiated into the
zenith, while the upper sky on thc east was
changed by the contrast into pale gold tinged
with faded green. North and south the blue
shaded into delicate olive tints, shifting into
orange toward the center of the great dome.
On the east lay castles of rich umber fringed
with crimson fire: on the west rolled banks of
coppery gold and fleecy streams of lemon-colored
vapor. Over this stage now poured a troop of
actors that made the wonders of the last few
minutes seem a puppet-show.

Hitherto the ducks coming in to roost had
come from near the level of the horizon. But

DAV S *AMONG: THE DOCKS. 103

now with rushing, tearing sound, as if rending
with speed the canopy of heaven, down they came
out of the face of night. Dense masses of blue-
bills, with wings set in rigid curves, came winding
swiftly down, with long lines of mallards whose
stiffened wings made the air hiss beneath them.
On long inclines and sweeping curves sprigtails
and other large ducks rode down the darkening
air, while, swift and straight as flights of falling
arrows, blue-winged teal fell from the sky,—and
green-wings shot by in volleys or pounced upon
the scene with the rush of a hungry hawk. Geese
in untold numbers went trooping past, but most
of them kept high in the sky until over some of
the larger lakes, then lengthening their dark
lines, descended slowly in long spiral curves.
White-fronted geese, too, dotted the western and
northern skies, marched with faster wing and
more clamorous throats until over the edge of
the larger ponds, then, in solemn silence slowly
sailing for a few hundred feet, suddenly resumed
their cackle and, whirling, pitching, tumbling, and
gyrating, every bird with a different twist, down
they went to the water as fast as gravity could
take them.

104 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

Myriads of water-fowl traveling from the north
swept by without slackening a wing. Black in
the falling night the head and neck of the mal-
lard were outstretched for another hundred miles
before stopping. ‘‘ Darkly painted on the crim-
son sky,” the forked rudder of the sprigtail was
set for warmer regions. From where dark lines
of widgeon were streaming came down a plain-
tive whistle that plainly said Good-bye. Far
above all these and still bathed in rosy light were
floating southward as softly as flecks of down
long strings of sandhill cranes, sending down
through a mile or two of air their strangely pene-
trating notes. And even above these, with swifter
flight and more rapid stroke of wing than seemed
possible for birds so large, snowy swans rode the
sunlight of the upper air.

Yet of the game that descended there was
more than enough for me. With trembling hand
I poured my last charge of powder into the
heated gun and raised it at a flock of mallards
eliding swiftly toward me with every long neck
aimed at my devoted head. Wheeeceooooooo shot
a volley of green-wings between the mallards and
the gun. <ssssssssss came a mob of blue-wings

DAVS AMONG THE DUCKS. 105

by my head as I shifted the gun toward the
green wings. And B06bbb0660bb came a score
of mallards along the reeds behind me as, be-
fuddled with the whirl and uproar, I shifted the
gun to the blue-wings. When I wheeled toward
these last mallards, after making a half-shift of
the gun toward the blue-wings, they saw me and,
belaboring the air with heavy strokes, swung
upward; and as I turned the gun upon them, a
brigade of blue-bills with hissing wings rent the
air between us, while behind me I heard the air
throb again with the wings of a regiment of mal-
lards. The gun wabbled from the second mal-
lards to the blue-bills, and then around to the
last mallards, and finally illuminated the dark-
ness just over my head that the mallards had
filled when I raised it.

VII.
DAYS ON THE ILLINOIS.

LIKE the bottoms of other Western rivers
those of the Illinois were once a great place for
camping. However cold the night we needed
little tent, and that only to shed possible rain;
for driftwood was everywhere, and piled high in
front it filled the open tent with light and com-
fort, while the glare shot across the river until
the deaa cottonwoods on the other side looked
like imploring ghosts reaching their arms heaven-
ward. Often by its light we could see the white
collars on the geese drifting through the night
above, and plainly distinguish the glossy head of
the mallard as he swept the tree-tops. All
worldly cares went whirling skyward in the vor-
tex of flame and sparks, and on the dark rotunda
around it fancy hung many a bright picture of

the kind the sportsman alone can see.
106

DAYS ON THE ALELNOLS. 107

Lulled to sleep by the cackle of flying brant,
the quack of mallards in the pond near by, the
deep 7o-whoooo of the great owl in the tree be-
side us, the Scazpe of wandering snipe, the: far-
reaching Grrrrrrooooocce of sandhill cranes trav-
eling in the dome of night, and the shrill quaver-
ing cry of the raccoon in the timber behind us,
we rose at daybreak for the morning flight of
water-fowl. Though this generally lacked the
bewildering intensity of the evening flight, there
was yet enough rush and bustle to upset a highly
respectable equilibrium.

Perhaps a lone mallard opens the ball. Slowly
winging his way out of the circle of gray, he
crosses the sky in dim outline above you. It is
so dark there seems littie danger of his seeing
you; but his wings begin to thump the air with
extra force as he climbs rapidly out of danger.
He is not quite quick enough, though, and at
the report of your gun his neck doubles up and
down he comes. On the instant the air throbs
beneath ten thousand wings, and a wild medley
of energetic quacks, dolorous squeals, melodious
honks, and discordant cackles resounds from far
and near as the myriads of ducks, geese, and

108 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

brant that have been roosting in the ponds near
by rise into flight.

Into a hundred divisions breaks the vast horde
of water-fowl, each division circling skyward or
streaming over your head without seeming to
know or care whence came the shot that alarmed
them. As the flame again darts upward from
your gun and two or three dark bodies come
whirling downward, the circle of sky overhead is
for a moment cleared, while around its margins
thousands of wings belabor the air until you can
almost feel the earth tremble. But in a few
seconds more the space above you is again
thronged with rushing wings.

Beware how you waste your fire on this flock
of teal rising out of the morning’s gray, for just
behind them the strong wings of a heavy flock of
mallards are pounding the air. Beware, too, how
you waste your fire even on the mallards, for on
the right, and thrillingly near, the Canada goose
winds his mellow horn. But how can one reason
calmly when the hissing wings of a flock of sprig-
tails are heard before one’s premises are thought
of, and his conclusion is rudely interrupted by a

DAVS ON: LHE SLEINOTS. 109

dark line of blue-bills pouring out of what is left
of the night?

The flight generally increases with every new
beam of light that struggles through the misty
morning. No longer the wild-fowl pounce upon
you from the sky as in the evening flight, nor
do they come out of the north more than from
any other direction. From every point they
stream, with less uproar but more majestic march.
Over the cat-tails around you they pour in dark
masses, long wedge-shaped strings or crescent
lines at tremendous speed, while single ducks in
all directions hammer seventy miles an hour out
of the rising breeze.

When dawn has fairly set in, the ducks travel
higher and farther off, though the flight may
continue strong and steady for an hour or con-
siderably more. The gun must now be loaded
as heavily as your shoulder will permit, and held
farther ahead of crossing shots. As a flock of
mallards makes the air sing, so near that you can
plainly mark the shading of their gray bellies
and see the light of the coming sun shine on the
burnished green, it seems as if you had only to
aim at the tip of the bill. But to your surprise

IIo GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

the bird you thus fire at towers with thumping
wings, while his comrades climb the airy stairs be-
hind him without sending even a feather to com-
fort you. And beware how you let this flock of
blue-bills get too nearly over your head before
you fire. Like dark spirits from the under-
world they come up out of the circle of reeds
straight for your head—their wings hazy with
speed. You correct your last mistake by shift-
ing the gun ahead until the leader disappears
behind the barrels. All very well; but you have
lost a valuable second, and the birds are so nearly
over your head when you fire that, though the
leader whirls over dead, he falls on a long slant-
ing line into the reeds, so far behind that you will
lose several good shots in trying to find him.

Of course there are days on the best grounds
and in the best duck season when neither the
evening nor the morning flight is very good,
though water-fowl throng the lakes and sloughs.
At such times, when they move at all it is more
over the water than over the adjacent land, where
one can hide well enough for a good shot. It is
difficult to tell what is a good duck day. But on
a bad one, a big box or barrel sunk te the edge

DAYS ON TAE TLEINOS. III

of the water in some of the large shallow ponds of
the river-bottoms, and fringed around the edges
with reeds, often afforded rare sport. Often
flocks of mallards would skim the water until the
green necks shone within ten yards of the barrel,
and then as you rose to shoot there was a spark-
ling mixture of blue bars flashing on wings, glis-
tening breasts of chestnut, white-banded tails
with curls of burnished green, of red legs and
beaded eyes, whirling upward with wild quacking.
There, too, you could see the geese wind slowly
out of the blue until near the water, and then
with silent wing, and every musical throat sud-
denly hushed, drift softly along a few feet above
the surface until you could hear the soft hiss of
their sailing wings and see their black eyes
sparkle but a few yards from you. And as you
rose and looked along the gun, such pounding of
sheering wings, such confusion of white collars on
black necks, of gray wings and swarthy feet,
would crowd upon your eye as was worth waiting
long to see.

Though ducks in the West do not generally
come to decoys in autumn as well as in spring,
there were many days when they would come

112 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

fairly well, especially the teal, wood-ducks, and
blue-bills. Sometimes during the middle of the
day, when the birds were flying too high for
good pass shooting, we pulled the boat into a
blind of reeds or willows and set out some de-
coys. It was a nice way to wile away the mid-
dle of the day and eat a lunch in comfort, for
there was rarely danger of being too violently
interrupted, most of the ducks ignoring decoys
at this season. But often ‘a bite that) would
otherwise have reached the crust of a piece of
pie, so as to leave nothing more necessary for
the next bite than doubling the two remaining
triangles together, had its bud of promise rudely
nipped by the sudden hiss of descending wings,
when all the sky seemed clear around us. And
again a promising scratch of a match was blighted
and the pipe dropped in the bottom of the boat
because of a regiment of ducks swinging around
the bend on silent wing and almost touching the
water about the decoys before we saw them.
Sometimes when we were unusually busy with
the lunch, or dozing afterward, with sky serene
and nothing moving, a sudden splash among the
decoys would make us jump for our guns, which

IPAS OM. THE FELINOTS. 113

we would generally manage to raise about the
time the last duck was a little too far. Often
Wilson’s snipe came trotting along the boggy
strip of shore beyond the reeds, and if we kept
perfectly still we could see the little beauty
probe the mud, pull out worms and sling them
down his marvelous throat, that no bottomless
pit can rival in capacity. Then he would stand
a few moments with a look of sublime content in
his deep dark eye, and perhaps squat awhile in
some little tuft of grass, though he generally
wore a restless foot and seemed to like change
quite well.

Amusement on the bottoms of the Illinois,
Many years ago, was by no means limited to the
days when the winged myriads were pouring
from the North. Hot, malarious, and mosquito-
ridden though it was, summer left many a duck
behind to breed, instead of following the main
army to the North. When the tender blue of
the iris began to fade on the stalks of green that
fringed the ponds of the bottoms, the old duck
led out some little scraps of yellow down that
fioated on the water as softly as the shadows of
the summer clouds. While the old one sought

II4 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

safety on high when we came too near, the little
ones went under in a flash. Standing up in the
boat I could plainly see the golden line they
made in the water, and the stream of fine bub-
bles rising from their course. Often I was near
enough to see them kick lustily out behind with
their little feet, and marvelous time they would
make, rising for a moment to catch breath, and
then darting quickly under, until where the pur-
ple petals of the water-target were brightening
above its leaves they vanished in the darkening
water.

Huge pickerel furrowed the water ahead of
the boat as it rode the ponds and sloughs, and
threw themselves often out of water in a shining
curve in the rush for some minnow on the sur-
face. By standing up in the boat in some of
the deeper sloughs scores of bass could be seen
lying in the depths with little apparent concern,
though darting away like light at the first motion
that indicated danger. At night the jack-light
in the head of the boat revealed a strange popu-
lation of buffalo-fish, sheepshead, and other vari-
eties, with great pickerel and stupendous catfish

worth going far to see.

DAYS *ON- THE FLEINOES. 115

From the margins of the sloughs that every-
where threaded the dense groves of sycamore,
cottonwood, and willow, the woodcock sprung in
summer with that mellow whistle of the wing-
feathers that brings the gun whirling from the
shoulder. And from the islands where the yel-
low spike of the golden club and the bright red
of the polygonum illumined the shades of vines
that clambered over piles of drift, he came twist-
ing out in that spiral line of brown that so
quickly finds the dense foliage above.

Life was so abundant in these bottoms at this
time that one need not be lonely even when only
rowing about the sloughs from curiosity. The
wings of the dove whistled on every breeze, and
blackbirds in legions rose roaring from the green
ranks of the reeds. Hundreds were mirrored in
the water as they passed over it or sat in strings
upon the overhanging branches. Some in bur-
nished purple and bronze, some with red-barred
wings, and others with golden throats, they were
everywhere from morning until night, and as
tame as snowbirds on a winter morning. In the
depths of the timber, where the hunter or fisher-
man rarely penetrated, the heavy rattle of the

116 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

great pileated woodpecker could be heard, and
with care you might get a glimpse of his scarlet
head and big black body. For even this early,
and though never shot at, he was a wild and
wary bird, whose habits made him peculiarly at-
tractive, though you did not care to kill him.
The common red-headed woodpecker was on
almost every tree old enough to have dead limbs,
and his cheerful squeal echoed everywhere in
alternation with his rattling bill. Among the
tree-tops flashed his brilliant contrast of white,
black, and red, and here and there it was mingled
with the gold of the high-holder glimmering
amid the green. Little woodpeckers in gray
jackets with crests of carmine, fringes of red, and
bands of black and white, squeaked and flitted
here and there, hopped up and down the trunks
with equal ease, and hitched themselves about
with tail and claws as easily as the nut-hatches
and creepers. Everywhere above the water
could be heard the noisy kingfisher’s rattle, on
many a limb that overhung the water gleamed
his crested head, and along the still waters of the
sloughs you could see his blue coat disappear in
the water with a splash, and a fish shine in. his

DAYS ON LTHETILLIN OLS. £17

bil as he reappeared. - Silent, on one leg, the
heron stood on many a bar, and around the edge
of many a pond shone the snowy plumage of the
egret, whose callow brood was beginning to chat-
ter in the top of some lofty sycamore. Thrushes
were melodious in the shades, with kinglets and
song-sparrows twittering in the more open places.
Near the timbered bluffs that sometimes came
to the river, the bark of the gray squirrel was a
common sound, and the fluffy yellow of the fox-
squirrel outstretched on some big limb a common
sight.

And when along the moist banks the azure
bloom of the mimulus began to help out the
brilliant blue of the lobelia, and the wild cucum-
ber to festoon the piles of drift, then, at almost
every turn in the sloughs, young ducks, nearly
large enough to shoot, went flapping along the
water, scudding into the grass and reeds, or squeal-
ing into the air from almost every sand-bar.
Along the river they were strung like beads on
the stranded logs, and almost everywhere in the
long grass and reeds were so many hiding at
your approach, instead of taking wing, that any
kind of a dog that would retrieve would bring

118 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

joy to the heart of the meat-hunter without the
expense of burning powder. Soon along the
bars the plover began to whistle, and before the
rose-colored flowers of the water-plaintain began
to droop, the shrill call of the yellowleg mingled
with the plaintive notes of the kildeer. And
before the white petals of the arrrowhead had
ceased to nod along the pools, Wilson’s snipe was
again trotting on the shore, and soon it needed
but a few cold nights in the far North to bring
down the vanguard of the great quacking hordes
that would once more make your nerves tremble
at the sinking of the sun.

VIIL
THE WILD GOOSE.

MANY who have never made his acquaintance
think the goose is not a game bird. But one
need not know him very well to feel that he is
quite worthy of his fire. Few birds are better
judges of the range of a gun, few eyes much
quicker than his to detect any suspicious motion
and see through a flimsy blind. Nor are there
many sounds that awake more tender thoughts
than the deep-toned Honk, whether falling afar
from the sky as the goose floats away south in
disdain of all your quarter of the universe, or
sounding clear and penetrating above your tent
as he passes in the dead of night, or rolling
toward every corner of the sky as the flock
sheers, whirls, and rises when you move in the
pit or blind.

The wild goose has been widely distributed

IIg

120 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and has made
abundant sport in every State ofthe Uniom
But nowhere has he been so plenty, spent so long
a portion of the year, and made such varied
shooting as in California. Before the plains and
slopes of the southern part became so covered
with vineyards, orchards, and fine homes, it was
the favorite winter home of myriads of geese.
They dotted the spangled green of most of tne
larger plains, and in many places made the finest
and easiest shooting. Though fair shooting yet
remains in places, nothing can give any idea of ©
the hordes of geese that from the North once
poured down to winter in this sunny land. Snow-

”

geese, generally called ‘‘ white brant,” were al-
most always in sight. Like lines of cloud they
streamed along the breast of the distant moun-
tain, stood like sheets of snow upon the green
of the rolling plain, or upon the waters of the
lagoon floated as lightly as the reflection beside
them of the snowy peaks.

The clanging cackle of the white-fronted goose,
commonly called ‘‘gray brant’ or sometimes
‘‘black brant” to distinguish it from the ‘‘ white

brant,’’ was as common as the warbling of the

THE WILD GOOSE. 121

linnet. Above the larger lagoons, between ten
and twelve o'clock dozens of flocks could be seen
coming in from the distant plains, and descend-
ing to the water in their peculiar manner. Cir-
cling in air perhaps two or three times, then
massing silently in orderly array, they sail to a
point over the water, setting their wings and
poising for a second; then every throat, tuned to
concert pitch, opens at once. Then, sometimes
dozens at once, they dive, tumble, whirl, gyrate,
and turn somersault downwards, a thousand feet
perhaps, to the surface of the water. Then
catching themselves, and closing in long and
orderly line, with motionless wing and _ silent
throat they sail for many a rod just above the
surface, and finally settle into the water as softly
as so many flakes of snow.

Morning and evening, over almost every hori-
zon, lines of dark dots rose into the sky, and
from them floated far over the land, softened by
distance to wondrous sweetness, the Honzk of the
Canada goose. Where the deep pink of the
elatonia smiled over the dense green of the
springing clover stood long lines of gray bodies
with black heads and white-collared throats.

122 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

And on the knolls where the mild blue-bells
paled the orange fire of the poppies, bunch after
bunch of geese stood basking in the sun of mid-
day. But whether standing in silent dignity or
waddling about to feed on the fernlike teaves of
the alfileria, whose little pinkish stars lit up the
greensward, the goose was watching for danger
with that keen eye that makes him so respected
by those who know him.

All lovers of the field learn that plenty of game
does not imply plenty of shooting, any more than
plenty of shooting implies plethora of game-
pockets. And nowhere have I seen this truth
more apparent than when one could often see
from the window more game than can now be
seen in a day’s hunt. Although quite simple
compared with the devices now necessary to in-
sure a near acquaintance with the wary goose,
many tricks were needed even then. It required
no pits in the ground or decoys to lure the birds,
but it was still necessary to be well hidden when
lying in wait along their line of flight. Often
you could hide in the shade of the heteromeles
that rose ten or twelve feet in ever-living green,
starred with a thousand scarlet berries as bright

THE WILD GOOSE. 123

as those of the mountain ash. Where this failed,
the evergreen head of the common sumac was
good enough, and often a bunch of scrubby live-
oak or even ramiria or sage would do. Or there
would be a little cut or shallow gully in which
one could lie amid the pink-veined white of the
nodding cowslip and the fragrance of golden
violets.

Well concealed on a good line of flight at the
proper time of day, one had rarely long to await
the game. Heralded by a mellow Hons, an out-
stretched string of dark dots came swiftly toward
you, growing rapidly larger as the line widened
out; for the goose, though seeming a slow flier,
because so large, is really a bird of rapid flight.
On they came, with their Hoxk sounding clearer
and deeper, until you could hardly resist the
temptation to look around the side of the bush
or through its top to see if the game were near
enough. When the liquid notes sounded near,
it was so natural to grasp the gun a little tighter
and shift it just a little, to have it in the rignt
position for quick and certain work when the
supreme moment should arrive. But lack of
patience was often one’s undoing even when the

124 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

geese were very tame; for when you saw the
dark line, with heavy Wif, wif, wif, wiff,
wiff of wing and Honk-onk k-wonk onk konk
k-wonk of outstretched throat, swing off just
enough to carry the nearest bird safely beyond
all reach of the threatened danger, you realized
that there are some things in hunting that always
repay their cost, and the foremost thereof is
patience.

No time for vain regrets, for where the green
of the plain joins the blue of the sky another
line is rising into view, and the clarion-calls from
the center and either end converge as if the
whole line were aimed directly at you. And
now, whether sitting in a bush or lying on the
ground, keep perfectly still. To know when the
birds are near enough to shoot at, depend only
on the sound of wings above, or upon the metal-
lic ring the Honk will have when the game is so
nearly over you that it is impossible for it to
escape your fire. And beware how you decide
this latter point; for there is no bird of its size
that can turn with more provoking ease than the
Canada goose, even when very close and coming
swiftly toward you.

THE WILD GOOSE. 125

Along the sky the line comes widening out,
the mellow Honk deeper and clearer, and you
crouch behind the bush, not daring to show your
face or move, while fancy pictures the manner of
their coming, and sees the birds settle lower
toward the earth as they approach. And soon
you think you can hear them set their big wings
and slide down the air with their long dark necks
and white throats almost over you. But not yet,
not yet! Now is the critical time, the time
when more shots are thrown away than at any
other. For if you rise a moment too soon, you
shall see the line turned away and just comfort-
ably out of reach. Wait a moment more, and
you may hear the tips of broad wing-feathers
softly fanning the air above, and feel a stranger
depth in the trumpet-tone that stirs a tumult in
your blood. And seldom shall you have seen
such excitement condensed into so short a space
as when you rise to see the air filled with big
thumping wings sheering upward and outward
amid an uproarious /Ho-nk-onk-wonk-onk wonk ;
while at the report of your first barrel a whirl of
gray strikes the flowery green, and at the report

126 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

of your second another long neck droops, two
more big wings are folded.

Strange sights might formerly be seen upon
these plains, and once I saw a touching instance
of brotherly love. A goose fell behind a flock
into which my companion had fired, settling
lower with slower stroke of wing. Two other
geese fell back and, coming to the side of the
wounded one, seemed trying to cheer and sustain
him. Yet slower became his stroke of wing and
lower he settled, with his companions clinging to
the last hope of helping him. But from above
a broad dark line shot downward on a long in-
cline, aimed directly at the failing goose. With
melancholy Wonk his two friends steered away,
leaving him to the eagle against which it was
useless to try to protect him. Right above the
goose the broad line turned and shot away on
high; for the eagle had missed his stroke and,
with quick turn of wings, glanced far upward with
his momentum. Then catching himself in air he
turned again and, shooting swiftly down, reached
the victim as it was settling into the grass.

On these grounds fine sport could once be had
with a rifle. Care was needed to make the first

LHE WILD GOOSE. 127

shot tell, for even when quite tame the Canada
goose displays a shocking lack of patience when a
gentleman attempts to find his distance by trial.
He has also a very impolite way of carrying with
him, even in the most compact flock, a vast
amount of circumambient space that hungers for
lead in a manner quite amazing. 27/— zecooo000
goes the ball, glancing from the very center of
the flock, with the Wiff wiff wif wiff wiff of
heavy wings throbbing on your ear, and a medley
of white, black, and gray rising into the sky
without leaving a feather on the green. But if
you have gauged the distance rightly and held
the sights of the rifle closely on the center of a
single goose, you may hear perhaps a dull ¢hwf,
and, as the rest of the flock starts skyward on
reverberating wing, you may see a gray body
stretched on the sod as if smitten with a thunder-
bolt hissing hot from the hand of Jove.

Better than wandering over the plain in search
of shots is to sit behind a bush or tree that nods
on the bank of some pond where geese spend the
day. If convenient, have sticks in the water at
different points, and have the rifle-sights adjusted
to them by trial before the geese begin to come

128 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

in: Grass or seeds in the water will often ide:
and if the pond is not too large you may ap-
proximate the range by firing at the blank
water. The bright winter morning is scarcely
half gone when, above the hills that loom hazily
green in the warm sun, dark dotted lines begin to
rise and the silvery Hloxk rings along the blue
vault. Instead of pitching and tumbling like
the white-fronted goose, the Canada geese often
drift slowly down sometimes two thousand feet
or more on a slope two or three miles long,
almost without moving a wing. As they near
the surface of the water and spread their wings
on a plane parallel to its glassy face every throat
for a moment is hushed, and they sweep majesti-
cally but softly along as if air were buoyant as
water. Then with sudden stroke of wing they
turn themselves half erect until their underwear
is brightly pictured in the mirror beneath and
the white collars shine on their outstretched
necks, with heavy splash settle into the water,
and in a moment all is still.

Wop goes the ball against the water, and
whe-eeeoooo it sings on high after glancing from
its surface. Instantly follows the roar of heavy

LHE WILD GOOSE: 129

wings mingled with many a Honk—onk—honk—-
k-wonk, and upward swings the flock, leaving the
smooth water unmarred by even a floating
feather. Many such a miss will you score with
the rifle unless you have many guides to the
distance scattered over the pond; but there is
often more satisfaction in seeing the ball strike
the water an inch, perhaps, over the back of the
goose at which you aimed than in killing one
with the shot-gun.

For the most condensed excitement, driving
into a flock of geese with a fast team, a good
driver, and a light wagon always wore the laurel.
It could be done only in the days when the
game had not learned to fear a wagon much, and
even then only with a strong breeze and the
ground good. There were plenty of places
where the ground was smooth enough for the
most rapid pace, and plenty of mustangs that
could fly over badger and coyote holes as easily
and safely as the rising sun over the valleys.

Imagine nearly an acre of the plain half cov-
ered with geese whose black heads and white
throats rise in tier upon tier until they look like
asmall army. They have done feeding, and are

130 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

sunning themselves until ready to-start for the
pond on which they will spend the warm hours
of midday floating on the water. Geese rise
against the wind, and, although rapid flyers when
once under way, are slow in starting. If we dash
upon them from the windward side, every second
they lose in getting under way will carry the
wagon ten or fifteen yards nearer, and as they
will try to rise against the wind they will lose
several seconds in the breeze now blowing.

The mustangs are urged into a fair trot on a
line that will carry us a hundred yards or more
to the windward of the geese. Don’t look at
the birds, nor intimate that you know of their ex-
istence or would give a cent for the whole flock
if you did. But let every gun be where it can
be quickly handled, and let the driver have his
whip in the same condition. And let each man
keep his wits equally well in hand.

The wagon rolls along until nearly opposit«
the geese. Then it is suddenly wheeledviie
horses are lifted with a quick undercut of the
whip and in a second are in wild career directly
toward the geese. The soft pink of the painted-
cup and the creamy heads of the buttercups fly

LME WILD GOOSE, 131

beneath the bouncing wheels, the ground-squirrel,
in full run for his hole, skips over the burrowing-
owl's head, and the chaparral-cock, distrusting his
nimble legs in such emergency, breaks into re-
luctant flight, while the geese begin to waddle
and crane their necks to see what the racket is
about. They are used to horses and even
wagons, but not to such a runaway pace. By
the time the wagon is within seventy yards of
them they suspect something is the matter. By
the time it has bounced over the next twenty
they are sure of it. In another moment, with
many a //onk-onk-wonk, they are in the air.

But as they can rarely resist the habit of
rising toward the wind,—the side from which we
are descending upon them,—a moment is lost
during which the wagon covers another twenty
yards. There is nothing left the game but to
whirl over backward, out sideways and upwards.
But by the time they discover their mistake and
try to rectify it another moment is lost. Before
you know it you are perhaps under the very
middle of a wildly flapping and climbing medley
of dark gray wings and screaming throats out-
stretched towards all the points of the compass.

132 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

If not very careful you may be too late to
shoot. Vain is any thought of stopping the
wagon to allow you to take aim. The driver
could not stop it in time if he would: and@me
will have his hands full to stop it in time to save
your bones anyway, for the horses are in runaway
speed. You must hold yourself in place and
shoot as best you can before too near the center
of the flock. You must bea good shot froma
running horse or wagon, and quite able to keep
your balance, mental as well as physical. Amid
a general slam-bang-rattle-ty-bang you toss the
gun to your shoulder, catch a glimpse of the
end in line with something like revolving gray,
and pull the trigger.. For a second it seems as
if the universe were whirling around you as one
of the great birds falls with heavy thump on the
back of one of the horses, with another gyrating
almost into the wagon, while hundreds more are
climbing with clamorous throats toward the dome
of heaven as you rush on beneath at a pace that
is quite alarming.

iX.
THE AMERICAN CRANES.

By many the sand-hill crane and the whoop-
ing crane are confounded with herons and bit-
terns. But neither kind has anything in common
with them except some resemblance in shape.
Where they can get plenty of grain or grass the
cranes seem to touch nothing else. When fat-
tened on wheat, barley, corn, or cotton-seed, or
even on good grass, either can be sure of the
sincere regards of any epicure.

As game-birds they command the unbounded
respect of all who know them. In keenness of
‘sight no bird but the turkey and the whoop-
ing crane equals the common sand-hill; in knowl-
edge of the range of a gun or rifle he is equaled
only by the whooping-crane, and there is reason
to think he is gifted with ears almost as keen as
those of the deer. Like all other game these

133

134 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

birds may in some spots or at some times be found
tamer than usual. But such are the rare excep-
tion, and they will generally try the utmost
caution of the sportsman; while the whooping-
crane is perhaps the last of all the game of
America, feathered or furred, that one who
knows him would contract to furnish a specimen
of within a given time.

The mellow call of Bob White is heard no
more upon the prairie, and the silvery tones of
the upland plover die away in the far south be-
fore the sand-hill comes. He comes when the
burnished green of the mallard’s head shines in
the prairie-slough, when the deep-toned Honk of
the Canada goose is heard on high, and the
pinnated grouse in bands of hundreds sweep for
miles at a single flight over the rolling expanse.
The best shooting is from pits on stubbles, and
in the great fields of corn that follow the first
settlement of the prairie. It is generally too
difficult to approach the birds, for on open plain
it is useless to try to crawl within range, and
even when they alight along some slough it is
quite difficult to get within sure rifle-range, even
under cover of slough-grass. The crane is no

THE AMERICAN CRANES. 135

believer in the rose business, and as soon as the
desert begins to blossom he is done with it
forever.

On the Pacific coast the sand-hill crane was
once very abundant. Stupendous flocks dotted
the plains and slopes in winter. Far and wide
where the sunlight played upon a thousand
shades of green they stood upon the rising
knolls, now blue, now almost white, according
to the play of light, but always watching for
danger. By night their rolling notes fell from
the stars with unearthly vibration, and by day,
with broad wings and long necks outstretched,
they floated across the blue dome with such easy
grace and so high above all other birds that they
seemed to belong rather to heaven than earth.

Some of the finest shooting here used to be in
San José Del Valle, an old Mexican grant of
fifty thousand acres lying three thousand feet
above the sea and about sixty miles northeast of
San Diego.

It was about half open valley and half rolling
slope, partly covered with thin chemisal mixed
with juniper and bush live-oak, but on the more
Jevel portions was plenty of grass with large

136 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

lagoons, that made this rancho a favorite winter
home of water-fowl and cranes. On the south,
two thousand feet higher, towered Mount Volcan,
golden on the ridges with the wild oats and
grass of the last season, blue along the sides
with dense chaparral, and darkly green upon the
top with pine, live-oak, and silver fir. On the
northwest Mount Palomar rose still higher, in a
long ridge clad in cedar, pine, fir. and oak, above
heaving swells of blue and gold: on the west
Mesa Grande rose in a terrace of green on which
the live-oaks bowed like the trees in some old
apple-orchard; and on the east the tall Coyote
Mountains, robed in chaparral with occasional
parks of live-oaks in some little basin, or grove of
sycamore around a spring, looked down from six
thousand feet upon the scene.

Over such a horizon-line, heralded by their
penetrating tremolo, huge flocks of cranes set
their wings, and in long lines, bluish gray
against the somber background of cedar and fir
that filled the heads and sides of the great
eulches of the mountains, drifted slowly down
toward you. And when they had settled to
where the blue chaparral formed the background,

THE AMERICAN CRANES. 137

and those wild tones rang clearer and more
searching, you grasped the gun with tighter grip
though the game was still a mile or two away.
No other bird has so much pomp and circum-
stance about its movements; and when, instead
of coming directly down, the cranes swept around
the amphitheater in miles of spiral, while the
long Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrooooo, growing ever nearer
and more penetrating, was answered by more
cranes over the mountain-tops, you felt very
much as you felt when first you heard the hounds
open in full cry and the ringing racket came
ever louder toward the runway where you
were stationed.

Well hidden in the grass or reeds on the line
of flight, you had not long to wait, in the morn-
ing or evening, before some of the numerous
flocks were bearing down upon you. Then if
you could resist the temptation to twist your
head, or to shift the gun to get it into better
position, and could lie perfectly still until you
hear the broad wings winnow the air above, you
might with each barrel of your gun send one of
these huge birds whirling to earth in a huddle of
long legs, necks, and outstretched wings that

138 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

looked sometimes as if the whole sky were fall-
ing on you.

When the Grrrrrrrrrrrroooo came thick and
fast at night and you could see the tops of the
mountains shining in robes of snow over which
the pine, fir, and cedar in long lines stood guard,
the moon full-orbed looking down from a sky of
peerless purity, with cranes glimmering like
spirits among the twinkling stars, it were strange
if you did not go to where they were visible.
But even then great care had to be taken, for the
sand-hill crane can see any unusual thing at night
farther than almost any other bird, and takes no
chances when judging of the range of a gun.
Even at night the surest way, if you have no pit
or good cover in which to hide, is to lie upon the
eround, in some hollow if possible, face down-
ward and with the gun beneath you and so hidden
that no light can shine from it. Few moments
are more exciting than those spent in such a
position, with the wild chorus trilled by a score
of throats growing nearer and clearer by the
moment, while you dare not look even out of
the corner of your eye. With every resounding

note you tighten your grasp upon the gun and

THE AMERICAN CRANES. 139

listen more intently for the sound of wings from
which to determine the proper time to spring to
your feet. No easy thing to contain yourself
when those piercing tones reverberate within a
hundred yards! But when you hear the soft
fanning of the air above, and jump as you never
jumped before, the troupe of actors that throngs
the moonlit stage is worth coming far to see.
Scores of birds larger than geese, pouring a flood
of the most far-reaching sound that rolls from
living throat, are wheeling and sheering across
the starry night, with the moonlight glancing
from many a dagger-beak and many a waving
wing. And then if you have your nerve with
you, one comes whirling down almost upon your
head at the report of the first barrel, and as the
flame spouts upward from the second another
parts from the rest of the flock as they vanish
darkling into the night.

Nowhere have I seen the two cranes so abun-
dant and tame as on the great desert of northern
Mexico known as Bolson de Mapimi. In the
northeastern corner of the state of Durango are
thousands of acres of this, in corn and cotton, irri-
gated from the river Nases. North and east

140 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

vast plains stretch hundreds of miles, and on the
west high into the sky rise ragged mountains.
When I was first there the sound of a gun was
almost unheard on this wide area, and the sand-
hill crane, fat and lazy on cottonseed and corn,
swung here and there across the scene with an
easy grace that gave little indication of how sharp
he could be when ‘‘ wanted.”’ Along the horizon
his tribe streamed in thousands, now almost
white against the background of bare mountains,
now bluish where they sailed low along the top of
the corn or cotton so that the sun could play
upon their backs, now dark where the course
lay across the sky that here smiles the winter
through.

Here too, in greater numbers than I have ever
seen elsewhere, was the whooping-crane, beside
which the common sand-hill, with all his sharp-
ness, is but a gosling. Though sometimes found
in company with the sand-hill, the whooping-
crane is generally contented with himself and
keeps clear of all entangling alliances. He usu-
ally avoids the sand-hill, as if he did not think
him smart enough to associate with. Larger
than the other by some eight or ten inches in

THE AMERICAN CRANES. I4I

extent of wing and six or eight inches in length,
of snowy whiteness that rivals that of the swan
except where several inches of black tip the
broad wings, the whooping-crane when floating
in the bright sunlight of the winter here is the
most graceful of all large American game-birds.

Circling much of the time so far in the zenith
that he seems but abit of down, and sending
through miles of air a note both wild and strange,
but ringing as the blast of a silver horn, it
seems almost a hopeless task to get a shot at
one. I had shot them before with the rifle, but
to get within shot-gun range had always been
too great a problem for all the care I could
Ewen. | but they, too, have! the common “in-
firmity, and in the afternoon came winding down
out of the sky in leagues of spiral, and in the
evening and morning were drifting along the
corn and cotton and settling into the fields to
feed wherever it seemed safe.

One morning they were flying low over some
corn into which the water from the ditch had
been lately turned; the cranes and water-fowl
being crazy about the fields that are lately wet.
The stalks stood dense and tall, as they generally

142 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

are on irrigated land, and on a bit of the driest
sround I made a bed of corn-stalks. Upon this
I stretched face downward with the gun beneath
me, coat-collar turned up and cap drawn back so
as to conceal neck and hair, and had a peon
cover me with corn-stalks and leave me to my-
self and patience.

How easy it seems to talk of patience! Noth-
ing was harder to exercise. Hardly had the
sound of the peon’s feet ceased, than the wings
of big mallards were pounding the air so close
that the whistling of the tips of their wing-
feathers was plain. Scarcely were these past,
when the soft hiss of the sailing wings of canvas-
backs in easy flight took their place, as in un-
suspicious serenity of soul they came lazily in to
alight. Then sounded the wings of a huge
bunch of sprig-tails settling into a pool of water
in the corn close beside me, while the canvas-
backs alighted on some dry ground about equally
near and began hunting for corn that had been
shelled in husking. Hard, too, was the tempta-
tion when the stiff set wings of large bunches of
blue-bills rent the air with sharp hiss as they
descended. And almost equally hard to look

THE AMERICAN CRANES. 143

out in front and see Wilson’s snipe running
about a few feet from me, probing the soft mud
with his long bill, and in the water see the re-
flection of long strings of the glossy ibis as they
sailed along above. And how much harder to
lie there and hear the searching Grrrrrrrrrrroooo
come long drawn and rolling from every quarter,
increasing by the moment, and soon hear the
light stroke of fanlike wings while the long
raucous windpipes, but a few feet above, rolled
their wild notes like the rattle of the thunder-
bolt !

But I let them all go unshot at, for one shot
along the line of flight of the whooping-crane is
quite certain to settle the prospects for that
morning; and I lay there listening to the whiz of
teal and the cackle of brant until there came a
trumpet-note so wildly sweet that I almost held
my breath. It had been sounding all the time I
had been here, but with the illusive penetration
that distance gives and which I had long learned
to estimate. But now with ringing clearness it
came—a sound unlike any other on earth, and
one that few sportsmen or naturalists have ever
heard often enough even to describe.

144 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

Like hours seemed the few minutes I had to
await the coming of the makers of that strange
sound, and when at last my straining ear caught
the soft winnowing of the air in front and a
little on one side, slower too and softer than that
of the sand-hill’s wing, I could scarcely contain
myself for the instant necessary to let them come
so close that they could not sheer out of the,
way when I rose. I stood it for another second,
and then as the sound came clearer just over me
I sprung as never before.

Scarce thirty feet above, the air was filled with
white birds as large as swans, with necks as long,
and broader and whiter wings barred on the ends
with jet, climbing heavenward and sheering for
all points of the compass at the same time, while
the sun shone on soft carmine heads and dark
green bills like gleaming swords, from which
poured a volley of sound like the mingling of a
score of bugles. It seemed wicked to spoil any-
thing so rare and so beautiful as that sight; but
if I had had time to think, I could have consoled
myself with the reflection that it is scarcely once
in a lifetime that one gets a chance to make a
double shot on this wild thing, and rare enough

THE AMERICAN CRANES. 145

is it to get a single shot. At the report of the
first barrel one with folded wings and drooping
neck turned its course into a downward plunge,
and with the second another relaxed its hold on
the warm sunlight and, with legs outstretched
below, long neck, and bill pointing skyward, and
extended wings nearly joined at the tips above,
descended ina revolving whirl of white, black,
and carmine.

X.
DAYS AMONG THE PLOVER.

NEXT to Wilson’s snipe no small bird has such
attraction for the sportsman as the upland plover.
It seems but yesterday its strange call first fell
upon my childish ear, and made me stop and
scan the horizon long before discovering far on
high this little wisp of life speeding across the
dome of blue as if a messenger of Jove.

In the Western States the upland plover a few
years ago was so tame there was no pleasure in
hunting it. But on the Atlantic coast, as far
back as 1855, it was the wildest of all wild things.
Few birds were more sought, and for few were as
many miles so willingly traversed.

When the bugloss spread its blue across the
pastures, and the air was redolent of mint; when
the mutterings of thunder were over, and silvery
clouds hung low along the horizon; when a softer

146

DAYS AMONG THE PLOVER. 147

stillness lingered in the groves, and a milder
radiance played along the hills—do you not
remember those days? Can you forget how
something like the whisper of an angel in a silver
flute struck a strange chord within, and, while you
stood wondering whether it fell from the sky or
came from below the horizon’s verge, you saw a
little scrap of gray whisking from the grass, far out
of reach, and aimed for the stars? And then
louder, clearer, yet even softer than before, fell
again that strange ripple of sound that pute to
shame the wonders of acoustics, beside which
ventriloqguism is ridiculous and whispering-gal-
leries contemptible. So near it seemed in its
liquid purity that you expected to see another
bird rising from the grass within easy shot: and
as you saw nothing, there came, more tender yet,
even clearer and nearer than before, another
pearly triplet of tone, as if another bird had risen
at your feet. Can so much energy be lodged in
that bit of frail machinery, that under the edge
of yon distant cloud seems to need all its power
to maintain its velocity? How can sound so
light be so far-reaching, or tone so sweet traverse
space like the thunderbolt with so little loss of

148 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

power? So I used to wonder; yet it made me
love the little bird the more. I loved the young
robin whose spotted breast was turning red, the
bobolink whose bubbling joy was almost hushed
in the meadow, the doves that from the stubbles
rose with whistling wing, the highholders pitch-
ing from one wild cherry-tree to another, and
the young meadow-lark, whose breast of jet and
gold was now nearly as bright as that of his
father. All these for me in boyish days were
game, but I lost almost all interest in them when
I saw that little film of gray trailing over the late
summer sky, and caught those pearls of sound
that only one little throat can string.

When about sixteen I started from the house
for a short stroll before dinner, and took my gun
along with only the two loads that were in it,
expecting to see but a lark or highholder at best.
Nearly a mile from the house I left the road and
turned into an old pasture to look for black-
berries. I strolled along where the white and
blue of the morning-glory were twining over the
gold of the cinquefoil, when suddenly I heard a
triplet of melody so soft it seemed to fall through
a mile of air. As I looked toward the vault of

DAVS AMONG THE PLOVER. 149

heaven, expecting to see a little speck among the
clouds, a bit of gray flitting over some corn be-
yond a fence scarce twenty yards away caught
my eye. Quickly the gun was whirled from my
shoulder toward it, and when the smoke cleared
nothing was there but the corn waving darkly
ereen.

As if rebounding from heaven, that sweet call
echoed and re-echoed as I crossed the fence, and
half a dozen more scraps of gray started from the
corn. I landed from the fence in time to stop
the last one, and might have done so but for the
reflection that there was but one load in the gun
and no ammunition in my pocket. So anxious
was I that I fired a little too quickly, and above
the edge of the smoke the bird went sailing sky-
ward. But disappointment vanished as I saw
one of the first birds settle into the corn some
three hundred yards away, with two more wheel-
ing around to follow him. Three corn-fields
joined here, making one large piece a little over
waist-high. The birds were probably young
ones bred in the adjoining fields, and had gone
into the corn to escape thc heat, and there were
doubtless more there.

150 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

So I reasoned as I flew across the fields for
more ammunition. The scarlet of the catch-fly
and the opening bloom of the golden-rod seemed
a stream of fireworks from my speed, and it was
but a few minutes before I was returning out of
breath.

Only afew steps beyond where I had picked up
my first bird, a faint haze of gray mottled with
brown and black rose out of the corn with that
mysterious note that always raised havoc in my
young nerves. It brought my gun so quickly to
my shoulder that before I knew it off it went.
So did the gray, speeding away upward, and
joined farther on by two new lines of gray amid
a full chorus of strange melody. Where is an-
other such moment as when you glance along the
gun and see for a twinkling that you have raised
it.on the exact spot where it should bey amma
second more I saw the gray clear-cut against the
distant sky and in exact line with the gun. It
vanished for an instant in the smoke of my
second barrel, to appear below in a soft whirl of
gray, white, and brown gyrating to earth, while
its two companions sped away on high, their

DAYS AMONG THE PLOVER. I51

notes falling louder and sweeter as they fringed
the clouds.

As I reloaded all was silent except the song-
sparrow warbling in the fragrant sassafras, or the
wren twittering his late piece in the blackberry-
bushes: but before I had gone far there was an-
other wild yet tender triplet of sound somewhere
on land or sky, and I swung the gun half around
the horizon before I discovered two plover clear-
ing the top of the corn scarce twenty-five yards
away. A double shot at the upland plover wasa
thing we scarcely dared dream of. And a double
shot at anything was not easy for a boy of my
age in those days. We were not born of flame,
swaddled with powder-smoke, and tutored by
thunder as many ‘‘ professionals” are to-day.
We never shot at anything but game, for ammuni-
tion cost money, and the loading, and especially
the cleaning, of a muzzle-loader bore a painful
resemblance to work. Nor did we see the vast
importance of making machines of ourselves, cr
we should have been better shots. But here the
chance for a double shot on this wild bird stared
me in the face with dazzling certainty. Too
often has such delightful assurance upset the

152 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

repose of soul necessary to utilize the opportunity.
But not this time; for scarcely did the first bird
sink into the green at the report of the first barrel
than the gun was turned upon the second career-
ing upward, as if bound for some other sphere.
In line with the two barrels, the gray glimmered
for an instant, and then, as I pulled the trigger,
it folded its wings and fell.

Congratulating myself on that shot, and stoop-
ing low, I moved down the rows of corn again,
little thinking how soon I was to make another
‘*handsome double.” Before I had gone a hun-
dred yards another plover cleared the corn within
easy reach. It took me so by surprise that
the first barrel wrecked the hopes of a promising
pumpkin on the ground below it, and the second
ventilated the waving corn-leaves on one side of
it, while the bird climbed the summer breeze
with never a feather marred, and on the wings of
its silvery song bore away toward the zenith.

There was still plenty of corn left, and on I
went to répair my ‘shattered pride. > Tsmiad
scarcely gone fifty yards before two plover rose.
They were a little far, but I turned the first one
over and fringed the leaves of the corn around

DAVS AMONG THE PLOVER. 153

the second; and hardly had I gone a hundred
feet beyond where the first one fell, when, to my
astonishment, three more birds rose at about
twenty-five yards. In less than an hour from the
time I crossed the fence I had sixteen plover, all
well-grown birds and in fine condition.

As suddenly as it began, the shooting stopped.
It was too good to last. Here and there across
the sky and along the horizon’s farthest rim a
thread of gray was winding out of sight, while,
from no one could tell where, came that soft,
searching sound that seemed never so sweet as
when all hope of another shot was gone. But no
more gray rose above that corn, and vainly on
the next day did I tramp it until it needed re-
hoeing to insure half a crop. The birds were
once more themselves, and my luck was one of
those accidents of the field that seldom befall.

Golden plover made themselves attractive by
filling a serious gap in the shooting of the year.
They used to visit the plowed fields far back
from the Atlantic coast, and furnish fine sport
where now no wing is seen or whistle heard.
The mellow twitter of the woodcock had died
away in the swamp, while the sharper whistle of

154 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

his full-feathered wing was not yet heard in the
yellowing grove. Bob White was still too small,
as well as too hard to see, and the hare had not
yet left the thickets and made his form in the
toadflax or the reddening dewberry-bushes of the
open. Nor was the whizzing wing of the wild
duck yet seen along the shore, nor the scaipe
of the snipe yet heard in the meadow, nor the
ruffed grouse yet ready in the tangled brake.
This plover was known inland for only about
three or four weeks of the year.- The fringed
gentian had not yet closed its blue, sorrel con-
tinued to tinge the slopes, and the vervain was
fading but little, when he came to visit the
freshly-plowed fields of autumn. He seemed to
come from the coast, for it was only during heavy
easterly storms that he came in any numbers.
Up in the garret of the old farm-house, among
the spinning-wheels and the wasps, we used to
flatten our noses against the dusty window-panes
where the rain was driving hard, and watch the
coming of the birds.

High in air they came at first, sometimes in
crescent lines with the horns turned forward,
sometimes in crescents with the horns turned

DAYS AMONG THE PLOVER. 155

backward. Over the rim of the woods where
the chestnut and beech were yellowing, and the
gum-tree was firing the lingering green, the birds
rose and dipped, scattered and massed, and rode
down the storm to the plowed fields which were
their favorite feeding-ground at this time.

This plover came with soft trilling whistle rip-
pling from his throat, whether swinging high
over the hilltop where crimson tints were creep-
ing over the maple, or fanning the air with wings
tremulous with speed above the fragrant buck-
wheat fields, or skimming low along the corn
where the pumpkin was yellowing among the
rows.

We made our blinds in some dark cedar-bush,
or where the woolly tails of the clematis were
whitening over some reddening clump of briers,
or the crimson of the sumac was nodding over the
bright purple of the aster. Nothing very scien-
tific was needed, and a bunch of corn-stalks or
tumble-weeds often served us well. Good imita-
tions of the plover for decoys could then be
bought in New York, and we often helped out
the stock with dead birds propped with sticks.
Then came the whistle—a common one with a

156 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

dried pea rattling below the air-vent, but making
avery good imitation of the plover’s call.
Sometimes a flock three or four hundred yards
away would swerve and come for the decoys
almost at the first sound of the whistle, answering
it with their tender notes, often so many at once
they seemed the tremolo of some distant organ.
When the birds massed in air and set their wings
to slide down to the decoys, then was the critical
time with a young shot. Sometimes I could not
wait, but fired prematurely only to see the flock
sheer and rise. Sometimes in my excitemenn
I could not get what seemed good enough aim
until they were too far past. And sometimes
my finger would balk on the trigger and refuse to
pull when I had good aim. My nerves were not
helped by the fact that half a dozen farmer’s
brats were lying around the same field with as
many relics of the Revolution, and liable to spoil
a good shot for me at any moment by shooting
clear across the field. The village parson, too,
was out with his old musket that had not been
fired since he shot his annual rabbit in the rail-
heap back of the house the winter before, and,

as every gun was then supposed to ‘‘kill at a

DAYS AMONG THE PLOVER. 157

hundred yards,” he was liable to shoot at my
flock if I did not hurry.

How pretty this plover looks in its soft com-
binations of brown, black, gray, and white,
black feet and bill, and white stripe over the eye!
And pretty when it wheels and the light flashes
on its glossy back dotted with gold, and its
brownish tail barred with gray. What wonder
we sometimes hastened out before the storm had
cleared, and shivered in the wet grass to see this
little visitor spin around the fields! But when
the purple of the lingering meadow-beauty and
the soft blue of the lobelia brighten beneath sun-
light from a clear sky, you need no longer watch
for specks on the horizon or over the woods
where the butternut is turning a golden hue
beside the reddening persimmon. For low down
they now come over the hedgerows, as if they
would alight upon the crimson masses of the
woodbine that entwine the old cedar posts.
And over the fence on the other side of the field
comes another line of little dark bodies with hazy
wings quivering on each side. Now there is the
crack of a gun from among the red berries of a
clump of wild rose, three birds come whirling over

158 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

toearth, and the rest radiate for a moment like a
fan, then, grouping in a black mass, spin away
toward the next field. But not long need envy
enaw your soul over the success of that rustic
lout, for over the corn not far away another line
of dark dots is bearing down upon you with soft
trill answering your whistle. Well away from
the other guns it swings, and, stringing out in
crescent line with one end toward you, sails
swiftly down toward your decoys. A whirl, a
flutter, and a medley of white and black and
brown and golden dots follows the report of the
first barrel, and as the birds rise and sheer off
they close for an instant into a dense cloud, from
which, at the sound of the second barrel, it
almost rains plover.

AF
THE QUAILS OF CALIFORNIA.

QUITE as interesting as any of the peculiari-
ties of the valley quail of California is the way
he can bother not only the novice, but the ex-
perienced shot from the East who first attempts
to interview him.

In December, 1882, a gentleman named Jones
called on me; a strong man he was, and a good
shot. He wanted to know where all those quails
were that I had been writing about. I was
always ready for a hunt in those days, and soon
took him to where we saw dark blue dots scud-
ding about the green the recent rains had spread
over the bottom of a little valley, and darting
here and there among the bushes at the foot of
the slopes.

Mr. Jones, who had been loud in his praises
of what I had written, showed at once that he

159

160 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

had never read a line of it—a painful experience
that many an author has to go through. Instead
of advancing on the flock as fast as possible with
his dog at heel so as to keep him fresh, he began
to sneak slowly for a sure shot when the quail
rose; And he. sent. the dog-.ahead. when he
already knew where the game was, whereas, on
account of the scarcity of water and the hot, dry
air of early winter days in the south which soon
spoil the scent of the best ones, a dog should
never be used either to point or retrieve these
birds when you can as well do it yourself.

The dog drew to a pretty point on the birds
over a hundred yards away. But it was exactly
what you don’t want for these quails. A dog as
steady as one should be for all Eastern game
will be nowhere in a stern-chase after these little
chaps, and a stern-chase is the only kind you
get. Though the dog was pointing by scent,
most of the flock was in plain view. It was
composed of dozens of coveys, and scattered
along the base of the hill for seventy yards or
more. Between the low bushes dark lines of
five to ten birds, one behind the other, were
winding up the hill. Here and there the lines

THE QUAILS OF CALIFORNIA. 161

would stop, form little bunches for a few seconds,
and then move on again. Everywhere went
single birds, bobbing their heads, dodging and
zigzagging about, stopping occasionally to take a
look at us, then running on again. Here and
there one hopped upon a stone and sent forth a
ringing Whzt—whit—whit ; while others, gather-
ing in little squads, kept up a low, muffled Wook—
qwook—wook—wook—wook — ook-wookook —wook
—ook. Butall the time the general movement of
the flock up the hill was just a trifle faster than
that of Mr. Jones on the level ground. By the
time he had reached the foot of the hill where he
first saw them, the birds were about half-way up,
and the hill was some four hundred feet high.
There they were, scudding about or trailing in
lines, with the Whit—whit—whit—whit and
Wook—wook—wook—wook sounding plainly as
before.

Jones started up the hill, with his dog point-
ing all the way and moving up as his master
went ahead of him; but, as before, Jones seemed
to think he would get nearer by going slowly so
as not to frighten the game. MHe reached the
place where the birds had been, about the time

162 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

they reached the top of the hill, a safe distance
above him. Not at all discouraged, he went on
again, thinking if they passed over the top of
the ridge he would have a good chance to get
close without their seeing him. So with head
down and gun ready, he sneaked up to the crest
of the ridge and looked over. From nearly half-
way down the other slope came the Whizt—whit
whit and Wook—wook—wook again, appar-

ently about ten yards farther off than they had
yet been.

Jones suddenly saw several dark little bodies
huddled in an open space some forty yards or
more—it is generally more—down the hill. A
good shot, he had started out with the intention
of shooting only at birds on the wing. But the
most violent scruples against ‘‘a pot-shot”’ on
this bird are often removed by less than four
hundred feet of climbing and ninety degrees of
the thermometer. Therefore I was not sur-
prised to see Jones (who had been very free in
his denunciation of pot-shooters) fire into this
bunch of birds. The result was the roar of
hundreds of wings and hundreds of lines of whiz-
zing and buzzing blue above the brush on the

THE QUAILS OF CALIFORNIA. 163

hillside below. Into the thickest part of the
flock rang the second barrel of Jones’s gun, with
the general result of firing into a flock at large
instead of selecting a single bird. No bird can
so tempt one to break this good rule as this
quail can, and no other is so sure to leave one
without a feather for reward.

Jones looked for a moment at the space the
birds had occupied when he fired at them, then at
me, and then at the dog, maintaining the while
that discreet silence which often covers the deep-
est surprise; then with a smile born of confi-
dence he went down the hill to where the birds
were when he fired at them on the ground. The
dog cantered around, jumped over the bushes,
snuffed here and there in great style for a few
minutes, and then retired to ‘the shade of a
sumac.

Meanwhile the flock had sailed across a little
ravine and alighted about half-way up the side
of the hill on the other side. The quails scat-
tered over about an acre of ground, but in dark
lines and little squads they could be seen run-
ning together again with Wh7t—whit—whtt,
Wook—wook—wwook sounding from a hundred

164 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

throats and mingled with their assembling-call
like Ka—/oz—o, then like O70, then Aik
K—wotk—uh, kuh—woik—uh, and _ various
other combinations. But all this time they were
increasing the amount of up-hill between them
and Jones.

Jones reached the place where they had set-
tled on the ground. The dog was not half so
gay as at the last place where they had alighted ;
and although he drew in good style and came to
a half point, he had one eye on a green heterom-
eles. When. told to hie on, he hied “teyte
shade of that bush, from which, with tongue
hanging out, he surveyed his master with some-
thing akin to indifference. Just then from@a
bunch of chemisal to the left of Jones a whizzing
line of slate-blue, white, and cinnamon rose with
sharp Chirp—chirp—chirp—chirp that had a
metallic ring of defiance never heard from any
other bird. Jones whirled “his gun from his
shoulder and made an elegant shot at the space
the bird vacated as he pulled the trigger. Quick
as a flash he fired the other barrel at about the
right distance ahead of the bird which was by no
means out of reach. The bird went on without

THE QUAILS OF CALIFORNIA. 165

the parting of a feather. There was a heavy
roar of wings again up the hill, and three more
birds rose around Jones, at which he pointed the
empty gun with great coolness and remarked!

‘*Confound your impudence: I'll get on to
you next time.”

By the time Jones reached the top of the hill
the birds were sounding their alarm-call sixty or
eighty yards down the slope on the other side.
I now told him he was not going fast enough
instead of too fast, and that the birds would run
away from him all day at that pace. The dog
seemed to care little what was the matter, and
took more interest in the shade of a handsome
live-oak that was nodding over the ridge than
in the birds or the movements of his master.
Jones, too, looked as if he did not relish the idea
of going any faster, for he was loaded down with
all sorts of clumsy nonsense when one should
‘ wear the lightest dress for a race with these brill-
iant runners. Still he thought the advice good,
and started on a run down the hill. Before he
knew it the whole flock rose within twenty-five
yards ina big roaring sheet of dark blue. He

166 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

caught himself in time to send a bird whirling
downward with each barrel.

He then waited in good style for the dog to
come and find the fallen birds. But the dog
merely snuffed at a feather with a temporary fit
of energy, looked around a bit, and began to
think about shade again. He was worthless for
want of water and being allowed to run too much
in hot, dry air before he was actually needed.

The first bird Jones soon gave up, as in his
haste he had forgotten to mark it. The second
one he had marked; but when he went where he
was sure it fell, all bushes looked alike and there
was not a feather to reward his patience. By
the time he had concluded he could not find
them and had exhausted his vocabulary on the
dog, the rest of the flock was almost at the crest
of the next slope. Some birds are almost always
left hiding at every place where a flock has risen,
and two burst here from the cover near his feet
with a saucy Chirp—chirp—chirp. There was a
quick slam-bang of both barrels of his gun, and
both birds went whizzing unharmed across the
ravine that lay between Jones and the next
slope.

THE QUAILS OF CALIFORNIA. 167

Jones made some remarks about California and
its quails, and started over the ravine after the
main flock. Fifty yards up the hill a quail rose
from the spot where the flock had alighted the
last time, and, curling around Jones’s head, came
backward toward me. At the report of his gun
there was a puff of feathers from the bird and it
went whirling down. When Jones reached the
spot where it fell he found feathers, but neither
he nor the dog could find any bird. There was
a trail of feathers down a steep slope, and this
Jones and the dog followed, the eyes of the
master being about as good as the nose of the
dog. Some distance below Jones heard some-
thing flutter. He went hastily to the place, and
found some feathers. It was on the edge ofa
sharp gully, and he concluded the bird was at the
bottom. He sent the dog down, but no bird
returned with him. He then went down him-
self, and ina few minutes, by the aid of some
bushes, he came scrambling out of the gully, hot
and tired, and no bird returning with him.
Meanwhile he was at the foot of the hill again,
and the flock was probably over the top and
moving faster than ever.

168 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

‘You don’t understand them. You could
have got fifty single shots in going this far.
But I will show you something better,” I said.

Quarter of a mile away and some three hun-
dred feet below us lay a long, narrow little
valley, partly filled with clumps of prickly-pear
from five to fifteen feet across and from three to
eight feet high, lying between low hills quite
bare of cover for some distance. We could see
dark dots moving swiftly over the patches of
green grass in the openings, and the soft call
the quail gives when not alarmed came to us on
the breeze.

Jones was horrified at my suggesting a hunt in
that stuff, as most novices give up the quails at
once when they fly to such cover. But it is
often the best of ground, as the birds will not
leave it when surrounded by bare hills, but will
fly to and fro in it all day. That is, they once
did so. There was always plenty of bare ground
between the clumps of the cactus for good walk-
ing, and to land the birds on it doubled the skill
required to make a good bag.

Even before we had entered the ground we
heard the sharp Whit—whit—whit—whit of

THE QUAILS OF CALIFORNIA. 169

alarm, and down the winding openings saw a
dozen or more dark lines winding amid the
thorny green. I quickened the pace, and sud-
denly a quail rose with short and intermitting
stroke of wing,as if only climbing higher for
better inspection. Never a prettier shot; but
Jones, excited by running, fired as he stopped.
The bird went whizzing on, followed by a sheet
of roaring blue, into the thickest of which Jones
poured his second barrel. The air was filled
with feathers, and half a dozen quail were flutter-
ing about among the roots in the center of one
of the thickest clumps of cactus, where he would
never get one of them.

As fast as I could run I followed after the
flock, which had flown only about one hundred
yards. As they rose I fired into the air above
them, wanting only to scare them and not lose
time at this stage by picking up. At this the
flock broke some and scattered, but still I kept
after them, and as most of them rose again I
fired the other barrel in air. This scattered
them over a space some two hundred yards long
in the cactus, and all their noise ceased.

Jones came up looking intensely disgusted.

170 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

Of all the quail he had seen he had not yet one
in hand, and he thought the prospects slimmer
than ever. His dog seemed of the same opinion,
and looked at the fearful array of needles on the
prickly-pear with as much contempt for my
judgment in selecting hunting-ground as did his
master. But as we moved along the winding
avenues amid the grim shrubbery, birds by the
dozen came whizzing and chirping from out its
shaggy arms. Some scrambled up with wonder-
ful speed of foot along the thorny limbs before
taking wing, while others came darting out
under full headway. Some curled over our
heads, others shot out on the opposite side,
rising into sight for a twinkling in a dark blue
curve, while others on foot darted along the
ground to the next clump of cactus.

There was no waiting for a shot. At almost
every step there was a whiz on one side, a buzz
on the other, and a Chirp—chirp—chirp ahead
or behind, and the report of a gun was followed
by a dozen blue lines curving and twisting per-
haps out of the same cactus from which half a
dozen had risen but a moment before. Jones

did not know whether he was on foot or in a

THE QUAILS OF CALIFORNIA. 171

balloon. His gun rattled as fast as he could
load it, and occasionally a stricken bird went
whirling into the cactus, or, if it landed on the
open ground, it fell generally but half killed,
and ina twinkling was in the nearest bunch of
cactus, safe from dog or master.

In fifteen minutes the climax of this was
reached and the roar and confusion were sud-
denly gone. So were the birds, especially those
that Jones thought should have been in his
pocket. He had but three when he should have
bagged at least fifteen in single shots. But
the shooting was by no means over. It had
only settled down. For two hours or more we
traversed the open places of that strange covert,
and from the thickest and most threatening
parts came bird after bird as we passed and re-
passed them again, again and again. Never
does the valley quail show to better advantage
than when he bursts from the outer edge of this
stuff and goes around you to enter it again.
Through the bluish haze of his rapid wings you
see the mottled breast of white and dark with
cinnamon shadings, the little bluish neck and
black-and-white head outstretched full length,

172 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

and the long, dark plume bent backward by
speed.. He looks too ‘pretty’ te shoot as aie
cleaves the warm sunlight, or, setting his little
wings, glides into the thickest mass of the thorny
cactus.

In a few days Jones learned the dark and de-
vious ways of the valley quail and became quite
an expert on them, though he never found them
as easy shooting as if they would lie to a dog like
Bob White. After an absence of ten years he
returned again to California. After quite a hunt,
in which he missed the welcome call of the
quail he had before heard in almost every little
valley and on every hillside, he heard a muffled
roar of wings. After losing a minute in locating
the sound, he saw well up the hillside only some
thirty birds, spread out in line like a fan aimed
for nearly half the horizon and just clearing the
top of the ridge.’ Shooting to scatter them
would be ridiculous, for they were already as well
scattered as they could be. That flock was not
going to bother him by running together again
before he could reach it. So he scrambled
up hill with legs nimble with expectation and
over the ridge, expecting to find the birds hiding

LHE QCUOAILS OF CALIFORNIA. 173

in the brush just over its top. He went down
the other side and along it for some space, but
nothing rose, and there was nothing calling any-
where along that hillside or in the gulch at its
foot or on the other side. Before he reached
the bottom of the slope there was a buzzing
sound a hundred yards away on the other side,
and a dark blue line went around a little point
of brush. Jones scrambled across; and just as he
was nearing the edge of the gully between the
slopes he heard the buzz of more wings. An
extra jump landed him on the level ground, but
the three quails that had made the noise were
out of reach by the time he brought the gun to
his shoulder.

He pressed on faster, and after going about a
hundred yards a quail sprung at about thirty
yards. Had it risen from the point of a dog he
could have caught it with the first barrel, for his
gun was a good one and well loaded. But
taking him unawares, this bird was too swift,
and by the time the shot arrived it had scattered
enough to let the bird through with the loss of
only a tail-feather. Remembering the birds
had crossed the preceding ridge in a line well

174 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

strung out, Jones beat to the right of where the
last bird had risen. He found nothing, and had
just turned around to beat the other side, when
there was a buzz of wings behind him, and he
wheeled in time to see a blue curve cross the
ridge behind a bush. A snap-shot at the bush
as the bird disappeared behind it brought a
feather or two sailing back on the air, but the
most careful search, aided by the nose of a good
dog, failed to find any bird.

So far the dog had been unable to get close
enough to point a bird, and Jones now thought
that after so much shooting the quails would lie
more closely, as they did in days of yore. So he
went to where the right wing of the main flock
should have alighted after first rising. All this
side of the hill he beat quite thoroughly, without
the dog making any signs of smelling anything.
He was about to quit when he heard a distant
buzz, and up the hill, from a lot of rocks and
brush in the head of a steep gulch, saw three or
four quail wind over the top of the ridge. He
thought there must be more in that place, and
went hastily there. The dog snuffed around in
good style and drew finely, but that was all.

THE QUAILS OF CALIFORNIA. 175

Jones then concluded to go over the ridge,
thinking the last birds would not fly far. He
and the dog bushwacked the whole of the next
slope without hearing the buzz of a wing. He
then thought he would leave this flock and try
to find a larger one on better ground. Just as
he turned around to go there was a distant buzz,
and away to the right two or three birds were
sailing up a hill, Whereupon Jones concluded
that the business would have to be learned anew.
In which he was most eminently correct, for
the valley quail of California has kept better
pace with improvements in guns and learned
more from his persecutors than any other thing
that lives.

Jones decided to try the large two-plumed
quail of the mountains. But he soon found the
cheap breechloader and the game-butcher had
penetrated the deepest shades even there, and that
this quail had learned something. He heard no
more the tender Ch—ch—ch—ch—ch—chececah—
cheecah or the silvery Cloz—cloi—cloi that used
to ring along the morning hills. He found, as
with the valley quail, that a dog was more use-
ful than before to find the flock at first, but of

176 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

little use after the birds were scattered. When
his dog first came to a point in some dense
brush through which a whiz of blue went so
swiftly that he had no time to look along the
barrel: of his: gun, but, after a’ quick sshom
dimly saw the blue whirl over, he felt proud.
Yet he was sadly astray when he thought
he was to get many more shots, even as hard
as that. Vainly the dog drew among the
heavy manzanita on the hill or in the deep
masses of ferns and horse-tails in the gulch. The
more Jones expected a rise out of the next
bush the more he did not see it.. Far anead
he could occasionally see a dark speck scud
across some opening ahead of the slowly-crawl-
ing dog, but not a wing beat the air near enough
to shoot at.

Jones then quickened his pace, but found it
took much faster traveling than before to keep
up with the birds. By the time he had scram-
bled up hill among the brush fast enough to
force a quail into flight, he was so out of breath
and in such an awkward position that he could
not hit anything even if close enough for cer-
tainty. And when he did hit a quail, it was

LHEWOUAILS OF SCALIFORNTA. 177

generally at such a distance that it was not
killed instantly, and fluttered so far down the
steep hillside before stopping that, by the time
he and the dog had found it, it took as much
work to find the rest of the flock as at first.

XII.
WILSON’S SNIPE.

FEw birds kindle so quick a fire in the sports-
man’s bosom as this little rover, whether rising
from the meadow at the breaking of spring or
heard high in the evening sky when in autumn
he arrives from the North. Whether you call
him jack-snipe or English snipe or by his real
name, Wilson’s snipe, he has ever a strange
attraction. Much of this is in the defiant
manner and seeming consciousness of superiority,
qualities which lend so much charm to the valley
quail of California. This snipe is just keen
enough to require the constant polishing of one’s
wits and eyes, yet not so wild as to make his
capture too difficult. When woodcock, quail, or
grouse hide, it is with the hope that you will not
discover them: and without a good dog, well
trained, you rarely will. But this snipe deliber-

ately awaits your coming. When he squats, he
178

WILSON’S SNIPE. 179

seems to know you are coming close enough to
compel him to rise, and seems to take pleasure in
giving you an opportunity to shoot at him.
Then he lies just close enough to tempt you,
expecting to escape by superior quickness and
twisting flight.

As the first game of spring in many places, this
bird fills an aching void in many a breast. Do
you remember the day the frost first relaxed its
grip upon the meadow ? Loud howled the wind
of March, and scowled the leaden sky, yet you
plunged through mud and jumped the foaming
ditch as lightly as on a June morning. Not yet
had the frog broken the silence left in winter’s
wake; no liquid note around the old box in the
garden where the blue-bird makes his yearly
home; no sound from the purple grackles in the
bunch of pines upon the hill; no dots upon the
sky where the wild duck should be hastening
home: trom. the- South. . Yet here> you tramp
through a remnant of snow, and there you twist
your feet loose from devouring mud, looking
happy and expectant. And the dog dashes
through cold water and flounders through half-
frozen slush, while the chilly wind whistles over

180 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

his wet coat; yet he wags his tail, and looks as if
he would not go back to the fire even if you
should. Many the acres of dreary dead grass
and chilly, sour slop through which you tear and
splash your way, with never a sight or sound of
life but the dark line and dismal caw of the
winter’s crow across the sky. Yet on you go,
though your fingers are numb; and on goes the
dog, though never was a day more hard upon one.

Suddenly the dog goes more slowly ; you hasten
along toward him. Yes, he is actually drawing
to a point. And before you are very near him,
and before he settles to rigid certainty, a sharp
Scaipe breaks upon your anxious ear, and from
the dead grass some twenty yards ahead of the
dog there mounts a bit of gray, seeming almost
too small to shoot at. With a quick twist,
about the moment you pull the trigger, the gray
tacks away on a new line, leaving your shot
whizzing along on the old one; and as you whirl
the second barrel around and pull the trigger be-
fore he has time to twist again, he is just far
enough to ride untouched through one of the
openings between the shot that the best gun will
leave at this distance.

WILSON’S SNIPE. 181

The snipe seems to know just how to do it,
and actually tempts you to another trial. Is
anything more ravishing than the way he now
plays with you? Rejoicing in the breeze and
cleaving the swiftest gale faster than any other
thing that lives, the gay wanderer spins up wind
for a while, and then darts skyward as if on a
visit to the stars. Changing its mind as quickly
as the lightning, it darts now on one tack,
then on another, when, wheeling in long circling
sweep, back it comes like a boomerang. A few
more zigzag courses, as if to warn you against
being over-confident of its return, then up darts
the gray again, with sudden whirl falls into a
spiral line and, with sharp bill toward earth, down
it comes, pitches around backward, and alights
within two hundred yards, perhaps, of the place
Wwiere you last. shot at it.. °.Do. you: remember
how many times you chased that bird around
eighty acres of desolate bog before you finally
got within reach of him? And do you remember
how large you felt when his audacity finally
failed) and he gyrated into the mud? In: the
gun-store where you showed that night the first
snipe of the season you were the hero of the hour,

182 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

and felt more proud of that little bird than many
a man does over a moose. Why it is, no man
can tell. And how much would he gain if he
could?

There are those who say this snipe is compara-
tively easy to hit when once you have learned
the secret of its flight. But who learns it until
with the old dog he hunts only in dreams before
the fire? Although generally found “on open
ground, this bird does not confine himself to it,
and in any sort of cover he can make it highly
interesting for the quickest and surest shots.
Do you not remember how, amid the wild rice
left by the receding water, you heard the defiant
Scaipe so hard to locate in time, and caught
sight of the gray just as it vanished on a new
tack through the tall stalks? That was not so
easy to hit, was it? How about the time you
poured vain thunder through the cat-tails around
the muddy shore from which the snipe had just
sprung, and above the edge of the smoke saw the
intended victim careering aloft in a direction
entirely different from the one on which it started?
Did you ever, on the boggy meadow partly cov-
ered with brush higher than your head, see this

WILSON’S SNIPE. 183

bird spring from behind a bush just thin enough
to give a glimpse of gray, and then twist so
quickly that your finger could not resist in time
the impulse to pull off the gun on the old line?
And what did you think when the next one rose
on open ground and in a twinkling whipped be-
hind such a bush, with the flame streaming, as
you thought, across its path, yet over the top of
the bush it rose triumphant against the blue sky
at a rate of speed that left the shot from your
second barrel behind it?

The best shooting I have ever seen on this
bird was in 1864 on the shores of Senachwine
Lake in Illinois. The water was slowly receding
after an early autumn rise, leaving along the
water's edge a strip some twenty feet wide, in the
right stage of moisture to make plenty of worms
for this ravenous little feeder, while the grass that
followed the falling water made him the best of
cover. On the upper edge of this the ground
was dry enough for good walking. The numbers -
of snipe concentrated on that strip, which was
several miles long, seem now quite incredible.
But there was then only one person in Marshall
County who ever shot at them, and he but little.

184 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

All game was there valued by the thump it made
on striking ground. With no dog and no more
labor than in an after-dinner stroll, I have shot
snipe on that ground about as fast as I could
load the gun and pick up the birds. Waiting for
a shot was the last thing that troubled me, for
there seemed at times a bird to every square yard,
and there were few days for six weeks when a
bird would not spring within shot at almost every
step I took ahead. Most of them curled around
sideways over the water when I was walking
down wind, though the ground was so open on
the land side that there was little trouble in re-
trieving those that fell there. But there was no
need of walking down wind, for there were enough
straight-away shots within easy range. About
the only question involved was, like that of duck-
shooting, to land the birds where it would not
take too long to retrieve them, and let all shots
go that would not accomplish this.

Like the woodcock this snipe defies the pot-
shooter, while almost all other game-birds at
times present the fairest of chances for the rank-
est of murder. But on this ground occurred a
piece of pot-shooting on these snipe so remark-

WILSON’S SNIPE. 185

able that, incredible as it will seem, I must
tell-it.

One of my dearest hunting-companions there
had long looked with pitying eye on my de-
pravity in shooting so small a bird as Wilson’s
snipe. But once about mid-day, when ducks were
slow in coming and he was tired of smoking, he
left me for a while. I soon heard him shoot
about a quarter of a mile away, and within the
next thirty minutes he shot about a dozen times
at the same place. In considerably less than an
hour from the time he left he tossed me a bunch
of snipe, remarking, with all the coolness imagi-
nable, ‘‘ I thought I would have to show you how
to do it.”’ I was astounded to find twenty-seven
snipe in the bunch, and all still warm. There
was no one about from whom he could have got
them. There were indeed times when one could
average a shot a minute with a breech-loader for
several minutes. But my friend was using a
muzzle-loader. Allowing for instantaneous load-
ing and no missing, how did he pick them up in
that time? He sat and smoked long in silence,
eying me through the smoke and treating the
performance as a matter of course for him. I

186 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

dared not play the greenhorn by asking. Finally
he took pity on me and said:

‘¢ Hanged if I didn’t sit down behind a bush
and pot ’em all in one spot, sometimes three or
four at a shot.”

I went to see the place. There was an open-
ing four or five feet wide, formed by an old low-
water road and cattle-paths. This was bare of
grass or cover, and ran through the strip of grass
along the lake in which the birds were so plenty.
Across this opening snipe were trotting in twos,
threes, and even fours, as well as singly, and the
feathers on the ground told the story. I believe
one could have shot snipe there all that afternoon
at about the same rate.

Another most singular kind of shooting I once
had on this bird was in Mexico. Few parts of
the United States ever afford the right conditions
for it. Along a line of sloughs with very flat
margins the grass was nibbled very close by the
hungry cattle, it being winter, the dry time of
the year. Over it snipe wild as hawks were trot-
ting, but all out of range. At from sixty to a
hundred yards many of them would squat and
hide in what little cover the gray grass-stumps

WILSON'S SNIPE. 187

afforded; but when I got within twenty-five or
thirty yards they whirled away on high, and after
triangulating the skies for a while concluded that
the old place was safe enough, and came pitching
swiftly down to alight within a few rods, perhaps,
of the place where started. They made fine
shooting with the shot-gun, but I had with mea
rifle of small caliber, shooting a sharp-pointed ball
that tore birds no more than shot, and I soon
found there was even more fun in shooting them
with that than with shot.

One used only to the target might think it an
easy matter to hit a snipe at twenty-five or thirty
paces. But your target is always at the same
distance and in the same position of light. It is
also clear and well defined. These snipe made,
moreover, the very finest marks at which I ever
shot; and so extreme was the accuracy required,
I had to clean the rifle with water every few
shots. The head of a squirrel in the highest tree,
or that of a ruffed grouse motionless in the dark
shade of a pine, the faintest shade of gray or
brown that ever marked a deer in dense and dis-
tant covert, were no finer marks than these little
birds at twenty-five yards. Squatting close to the

188 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

ground, they showed but half an inch, at best,
of faint gray or brown above the neutral tints of
the faded grass-stumps. Why they were so wild
I could not divine; but it was only by moving
very slowly and using the keenest of eyesight,
trained from boyhood on game, that the little
brown or gray line could be distinguished from
the thousand bits of dead wood, scraps of dried
manure, dead leaves, and other things of the same
color and size. And when the game was located
to a certainty, and fancy could make out the long
bill lying ahead of the faint line of gray or brown,
to distinguish the color through the sights of the
rifle and hold them on the center with that exact-
ness that the rifle demands for success on such
fine marks called for the fineness of sight and
steadiness of nerve that can be kept in order only
by constant practice. Any attempt to get close
enough for certainty was quite sure to result ina
Scaipe, and a darting line of gray that no one
is fool enough to shoot at with a rifle if he knows
anything about it. Yet that very thing made
the shooting most delightful; and though I could
have got far more game with the shot-gun, I used
nothing but the little rifle after the first day.

WILSON’S SNIPE. 189

For abundance of birds with comparative ease
in hunting, the boggy meadows of California are
now hard to excel. The best shooting, too, is in
midwinter, when there is little to hunt in the
Eastern States. Much of the ground, especially
in the South, is hard enough to drive over with
a wagon and walk over with no difficulty, while
it is still wet enough to furnish abundant food
for this hungry little tramp. Sometimes on the
warm still days of midwinter it is one continual
Scaipe, scaipe, scaipe, on such ground, and a
dozen or more of the little gray cruisers are in
the air at once. Here one spins away on a line
so straight and long that he seems bound for
yonder mountain whose snowy top rises in hoary
majesty above long lines of fleecy cloud that
along its breast look dark by the contrast.
Another, after starting for several different quar-
ters of the universe in as many seconds, concludes
the climate right here is good enough, and whirls
around backward and pitches into the edge of
the tall marsh-grass beside the slope where the
bluebells are blowing. Another starts off as
though he would cross the sea that lies afar in
undimpled blue beneath the soft bright sky;

190 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

then away he wheels for the broad reach of plain
on whose carpet of green rolling in so many
shades the little plover is trotting and the wild
goose is bathing in the sun; then off he goes for
the hills, where the dark green of the manzanita
is brightening into new life and the tall shaft
of the yucca opening at the top into its great
panicle of greenish white. But no, this doesn’t
suit him, and he whirls away for the lagoon,
where the burnished green of the mallard’s head
is shining, where the white of the canvas-back
gleams on the open water, and the little cin-
namon teal is drifting along the edges. Here in
the dense ranks of the rushes that stand yet
green in winter's noon, where the voice of the
king-rail rings along the shore and the red wings
and yellow throats of hosts of blackbirds flash
amid the cat-tails, he will surely alight, for the
shores are muddy and there is both food and
safety. But no, he rejoices» in the stormieamed
fain would ride again the whirlwind of your fire,
and back he comes on a long tack, and with his
peculiar corkscrew spiral down he darts. out of
the blue and settles perhaps right in your course,
scarcely a hundred and fifty yards away. Per-

WILSON’S SNIPE. IOI

haps also he doesn’t, for he has of late learned
much about improvements in guns.

Here, too, he is often found on spots of wet
ground so small that in the East it would be
quite absurd to look for snipe of any kind.
Where in some little spring run the watercress
darkens the bubbling water with its rank green,
and the wild celery, sprawling over the edges,
makes the air fragrant with its rich odor, this
little roaming beauty may rise when you least
expect it. Where on the big plain the rising of
some subterranean water has made a little wet
spot of a few yards square, the only moisture
perhaps in miles, there, among the few tules that
rear their arrowy shafts of green, he may be often
found; and even thousands of feet above the sea
where a green meadow is sunk into the moun-
tain’s back, or a spring bog shines near its crest,
there, too, this little darling is often found at
home.

MATT.

SALT-WATER BIRDS.

To many the shooting along the shores of
inlets from the ocean is even more attractive
than that of the uplands, and I must confess
that the smell of salt water stirs in me some very
delightful recollections. Probably the largest
assortment and quantity of ‘‘shore birds,” or
‘bay birds” as they are commonly called, are
now on the Pacific coast, where they are not yet
appreciated as they will be later.

At the mouth of the Colorado River and the
adjacent shores of the Gulf of California the
waders are more abundant than I have ever seen
them elsewhere, and it is doubtful if any part of
the United States can now show the quantity
and variety there to be seen almost any day in
the winter. The shores are long and low, pro-

tected from heavy surf by miles of shallow water,
192

SALT-WATER BIRDS. 193

so that almost any flat-bottomed boat can with
safety coast miles of this open sea. Over the
water rings the clear call of the curlew, and in
its shallow edge you may see his buff coat as
he wades about and plies his sickle-shaped bill.
Beside him, with bill as long, but curved the
other way as if meant to feed on manna from
Heaven, the avocet in snowy coat and wings of
jet stands fat and happy. On almost every
square rod of the shore the mottled colors of
the willet blend into gray, and beside him plays
the same yellow-leg that on the bars of some of
the Atlantic streams has stirred such tumult in
so many boyish souls. In sober gray the san-
derling trots along the mud-flats, and flashes of
white and black come from where sandpipers
whisk and whirl about as if little time were
allowed them to get anywhere. Here a trim
bill and gamy tints make the phalarope seem
of finer blood than the rest, and there the dow-
itcher with longer bill, more slender head, and
richer colored breast airs himself as if the finest
gentleman in the crowd. Among them is an
occasional gleam from the bright black and
white of the oyster-catcher, whose shorter bill

194 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

and stouter body make him seem a bit out of
place among the trim figures of his companions.
Even the turn-stone seems a trifle lonely for the
same reason, though his pure jet and snowy
white with slight tinges of reddish brown show
the shore bird beyond mistake. Among these
the stilt’s lithe figure moves with dignity on its
long legs, and over them with tender whistle
plover whiz until in places every foot of the
shore seems alive at the ebbing of the tide.
The birds are harder then to reach than at flood-
tide, when out on the grassy flats and hugging
the dry shores; but to see life as now rarely
seen elsewhere, ebb-tide on these flats is the
time.

Of birds that love the sounding shore the
black brant of the Pacific coast is prince. This
is not the sea-brant of the Atlantic coast, but
bernicula nigricans, an entirely different bird,
and the finest and most gamy of American
water-fowl. It is found in great abundance on
the upper Pacific coast, breeding far in the
northern wilds. Those that come far south in
winter are very particular. Most all the bays
and inlets of the California coast they skip en-

SALT-WATER BIRDS. 195

tirely until they reach San Diego Bay. In that
and in False Bay three miles north of it they
once blackened hundreds of acres of water at a
time. Then everything is skipped again for
almost two hundred miles, when the Bay of San
Quentin is found full of them. This brant mi-
grates only at night and over the sea. It despises
the land, and will not even cross a small point
unless it is very far around. Occasionally at low
tide one may be waddling on the mud-flats, but
the vast majority never leave the salt water.

A few years ago these California coast bays
were alive with life that made the soft win-
ter days spent upon them with a boat a charm-
ing recreation. Singly and in flocks pelicans,
both white and gray, flapped heavily by, now
in a spiral line plunging into the water, then
sitting lazily on the surface a moment to
swallow the captured fish, then rising again in
air to repeat the performance. With lazy wing
large white gulls wheeled around your head;
with still slower wing large gray ones lounged in
the sunny air, small white ones bustled about,
and smaller gray ones displayed still more
energy. The merganser and the cormorant

196 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

drifted on the smooth water, while divers of all
sizes rose and sank or floated in it with only
neck or head above the surface. Many were so
tame that, standing up in the boat when the
water was still, you could see them dart around
below and snap little fish with forward or side-
wise stroke of the long neck and sharp bill with
a dexterity quite incredible in such a resisting
force as water. Here, swiftly descending from
on high, the snowy tern broke the water with
a splash; there fish-ducks and _ butter-balls
skimmed the surface with whistling wing, while
teal, mallards, and canvas-backs dotted it far and
near. But among them you would look in vain
for a black brant, for they are very aristocratic
and rarely associate with the common herd of
water-fowl. Far out from the shore, however,
you could see thousands of dark dots on the
bright sheen of the water, some looming above
it in a faint mirage, black above and white be-
neath, and from their direction you might hear
a babel that comes from no other living throats.
But little would you gain by rowing toward
them. Years ago they were far too wary to
approach. One had to wait until they began

SALT-WATER BIRDS. 197

to fly; and fly they would not until ebbing
ot the ‘tide.

The decoys well set, ensconced in a good
blind along some point, we have not long to
wait. At the turning of the tide ‘‘ bay birds”
begin to move. First come the curlew in large
flocks, with buff vests and brown coats shining
alternately in the sun as they pitch and twist in
their flight. With long curved bills they come
almost directly toward us, their penetrating call
ringing clear and full along the shore. No pret-
tier chance to gather ina few; and there is no
danger of disturbing any brant, for they have
not begun to fly. Here comes a mob of willet,
varying through all shades of gray as changing
light plays upon them. And here you may
have a cross-fire on a volley of plover from the
other direction. And with another barrel you
might send whirling into the water a stilt that
, comes along unsuspicious of danger.

But it is soon time to let all these go, for over
the low ridge of sand where the froth of the
breakers is tossed against the blue of the sky a
long dark line rises. Lengthening, sinking, and
shortening, then rising and lengthening again,

198 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

the line comes swiftly on, changing fast into a
string of black beads. Beside each bead a
flickering motion becomes plain, and this soon
changes into the rapid beat of dusky wings.

Swiftly the line advances, the scores of birds
that compose it growing larger and darker by
the instant, yet they ride the warm air as lightly
as a flight of arrows. Though a little larger
than mallard ducks, the flight of these brant
appears less labored by contrast, and their wings
seem to quiver with speed instead of beating the
air. Soon each bird is a revolving maze of
black and white, and then they set their wings
and glide smoothly downward, almost grazing
the water some twenty yards beyond our de-
coys, and showing a broad skirt of white below
the swarthy breast, and a snowy collar around a
long jet-black neck. With a hoarse Wa—ook,
wa—ook, wa—ook, wa—ook from a score of
throats, the flock sweeps past our decoys in even
line. Keep perfectly still, for they are teemian
to shoot and they may return. Onthey go some
fifty yards, when the line lengthens and rises in
a long string with black wings and backs glisten-
ing in the bright sun.

SALT-WATER BIRD'S. 199

Several hundred yards they go, when the line
swings with wondrous precision, and back it
comes, headed directly toward us. Make not a
motion, and keep as low as possible, for few
birds of their size can sheer off with the speed
of these at the slightest suspicion of danger.
The ends of the line fold back, and it bears off
a bit as it changes into a wedge-shaped mass.
For a moment each dark wing fans the air with
rapid stroke, then as quickly each is set in rigid
curve, the air begins to hiss beneath their de-
scending speed, and they turn themselves upward
and set their wings forward to alight. But sud-
denly a raucous Wa—ook bursts from a dozen
throats, and in a twinkling the orderly array of
descending black turns into a huddle of white
and jet as with rapid stroke of wing the whole
flock wheels skyward and outward.

Quick they are, but not quite quick enough
to escape a quick shot. For as the first barrel
of one gun spouts fire over the water, the last
bird folds its black wings, droops its dark neck,
and down through the soft sunlight it sinks with
a splash into the bay. Before the smooth sur-
face breaks beneath its weight a shining whirl of

200 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

white and black follows it at the report of a
second barrel. A third barrel rings over the
bay; another brant halts in its course and sinks
with heavily laboring wing nearly to the water,
twists sidewise with a jerk as a fourth barrel
bellows into the confusion, then seaward it
stretches its white-collared, neck and, skimming
the water, fades away in a rapid alternation of
black and white.

Before the last flock is out of sight another
dark line rises over the sand-spit where the surf is
crumbling. The brant we first saw in the bay
were but a small portion of all that frequent it.
Most of them are out at sea during the flow of
the tide, feeding in the beds of kelp, and at the
ebb they return. Now rising, now lowering,
but swift and straight in a long wedge-shaped
column, the black ranks come on. Down the
center of the bight where our blind is placed
they fly until within some four hundred yards,
when the head of the column turns a little, and
directly toward the decoys the whole mass bends
its way. The air sings beneath their stiffening
wings, then comes the sharp, rushing sound as
the birds set them to alight, then the splash of

SALT-WATER BIRDS. 201

water as the lower ones settle among the decoys.
As we rise in the blind the whole mass is turned
into a laboring turmoil of black and white, with
Wa—ook, wa—ook, wa—ook clanging from a hun-
dred white-collared throats. Four barrels flame
from the blind, and three brant sink with sullen
splash. Two more lag behind their fast-retreat-
ing comrades, one gradually rising and overtaking
them, the other settling lower and lower, until,
cleaving a long furrow in the smooth surface of
the bay, it floats dead nearly a half-mile away.

Beyond where the curlew are flitting along
the wet shore, and the gull is winding his airy
way; beyond where the snipe are whisking over
the blue waters, and the ever-hungry pelican
with heavy plunge is shivering the smooth
mirror beneath, our eyes are again fixed in deep
expectation. What countless hordes of the
nobility of water-fowl have streamed over that
sand-spit in the ages gone! And how long be-
fore the whole winter shall pass with never a
dark-dotted line rising into the blue sky beyond
it !

But a soft winnowing of the air behind dis-
turbs our reflections and reminds us it is not

202 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

from the sea alone that these birds come. Too
late the discovery, for quick as the shying of the
swiftest duck is the wheeling of this active little
goose. Wa—ook, wa—ook, wa—ook resounds
from amid the wzff, wzff, w7zff of sheering pinions,
and before the guns can be turned upon them
the brant are out-of reach. Vainly thejine
streams toward them; not a twitch in the black
ranks; not a dusky feather parts its hold.

And now the armies of brant are gathering in
earnest, for the tide is half out and the time for
the grand march come. Thus far we have seen
only the skirmish-line. But now they are com-
ing in battalions. Some are in long lines, point
foremost, some in wedge-shaped masses, others
in crescent lines, others in converging strings.
Vainly you seek the motive for this activity.
The brant are not feeding, nor on the way to
feed. This particular stage of the tide seems no
better adapted to wing exercise than any other
stage, and yet nearly every brant in the land is
in motion. Still, they relax no caution; and
unless all is quiet in the blind it is vain to expect
a close shot. And the majority of the flocks
aim for the decoys, and if not disturbed will

SALT-WATER BIRDS. 203

settle among them. Though all the brant now
want to fly and seem to have a strange aversion
to the water, no sooner do they see the decoys
than down they glide toward them—the best
illustration of the adage, ‘‘One fool makes
many.”

And so flock after flock sets its wings and
goes hissing down to the decoys in perfect array
and swiftly as a swooping hawk, until the first
broadside is poured into the swarthy line, and
the second into the throbbing whirl of white and
black into which the orderly ranks are instantly
changed.

None of the winged myriads from the North
defy the hunter’s fire like this dark wanderer
from home. Sometimes two or three birds go
splashing below as a broadside opens upon a
flock, but more often only one comes down,
while another perhaps careens a little and lags
behind a few moments, then rights himself and
overtakes his comrades or settles slowly into the
far-distant water. Here comes a flock so glossy,
as the sun shines from their beating wings and
white skirts, that they seem within easy reach;
yet at the roar of the guns the line merely

204. GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

lengthens, swerves and rises, and not even a
feather comes whiffling down. Here comes
another flock so close that we see the dark vests
and snowy underclothes pictured in the smooth
water between them and us. In abiding confi-
dence we open a full battery upon them, yet the
only result is a whirl of white and black, a

clamor of hoarse throats, and increased speed in
the departing line.

XIV.
THE WILD TURKEY.

To become expert in hunting the wild turkey
one must be almost raised upon its range. On
nearly all other game one can have some success
with limited experience if he be a natural hunter
and a good shot, and can keep cool. But these
qualities are not enough for success with the
turkey. One may indeed catch him napping at
long intervals. But this is too unreliable. One
may also get a shot by putting one’s self abso-
lutely under some backwoods guide who calls
the turkey to him. But this is like shooting a
moose that an Indian has called to you, ora deer
that some guide rows you to in the water. This
is doing the dirty work while some one else does
the noble part of the business. Something in
my nature always made me rebel against pulling

the trigger for any one else. It was probably
205

206 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

meanness, but if I could not find game myself I
did not want it.

Thus, not being ‘‘native, and to the manner
born,” I never became a genuine turkey-hunter;
and, hunting alone, never had the success I have
had with other game. But I have felt enough
bounding of the pulse in the deep woods to teach
me that the noblest of all American game is the
turkey.

When in the morning of early spring the roll
of the old gobbler breaks upon your ear from
the distant timber along the river-bottom or the
mountain-side, your sleep is done. The tender
Loo—woo—woo of the pinnated grouse, the mel-
low Lob white of the quail, or the sweet Az+—
wz2/—lil of the upland plover all send their peculiar
thrill through your breast, yet they lull you to
sleep again. But when the wild gobble of the old
bird rings upon your ear from afar, nothing can
hold you in bed. Nor need any one tell you
it is useless to try to sneak close enough for a
shot at him. You are as determined to try it
as to run after a deer that has been started.

With keen eye scanning every spot and motion
in the woods far ahead, you move with cautious

THE WILD TURKEY. 207

step, and hope mounting ever higher as the gob-
bler’s defiance sounds nearer. The squirrel, as
from tree to tree he flings his graceful form above
your path, seems contemptible now; and the
raccoon, stretched upon some big limb to catch
the first beams of the rising sun, you hardly
deem worthy of a glance. Little more does the
ruffed grouse attract your attention as he dashes
the morning dew from the whitening plum-tree,
or the woodcock whirling out from among the
strange leaves of the pitcher-plant.

Again he gobbles; yes, it is plainly closer,
but still far away: and ‘‘ far away”’ in the woods
is much longer than in the open. On you sneak
where the wild grape is opening its little clusters
of flowers; over the fallen log where the wood-
bine is twining its soft green you step with extra
care; and under the spreading dogwood whose
pure white involucres cover its leaves like snow,
you stop to listen. It suddenly occurs to you
that it is some time since the last gobble rang
over the tree-tops. All of a sudden the woods
seem very lonesome without that gobbling. <A
vast solitude is about you, which you just begin
to realize as the dreadful suspicion creeps to

208 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

your soul that the gobbler is himself going to
take a hand in the morning’s program. The
heavy reveille of the big pileated woodpecker on
the storm-scarred head of some patriarch of the
forest only intensifies this loneliness, and the far-
off tinkle of the bell on some settler’s cow—the
only sound of man that mars the silence of the
virgin forest—makes it still more lonely, as the
painful truth steals upon you that you are
mightily alone.

Late in summer, when the young are almost
full grown and you can hunt turkeys with a dog,
what a thrill fresh scratchings sent through you,
and how you studied the tracks the big birds had
left in the moist earth! Fragrance from clusters
of purpling fox-grapes made the woods more
suggestive of game than ever, and the jar of
leaves beneath the spring of the squirrel brought
the gun with convulsive jerk half off your
shoulder. Do you remember how, down in the
edge of the dark timber of the river-bottom
where ivy was reddening over the moss-covered
stump, and trumpet-vines yellowing over the
leaning basswood, everything whispered of —
turkey? And what a moment was that when

THE WILD TURKEY. 209

in the distance you heard a faint Putt—puttputt,
and the sound of heavy wings in flight, and ran
dashing through dense ranks of beggar-ticks and
dodging around cat-briers in vain hope of a shot!
If you had been still you might have had a shot
at one or more of them afterward, but your rush
and racket put that out of the question within
any reasonable time. Still, you enjoyed it all the
same and murmured something about its being
better to have loved and lost than never to have
loved at all. Which many a one has indorsed.
A great day was that when, after practicing
on different kinds of turkey-call, you went out
to try them. The wing-bone you found to need
too much practice and coolness. It was more
easy than the rest to make a false note on, and
as you were sure to be nervous at the first trial
it was not safe to rely on it. For the same
reasons you abandoned trying to call with your
throat; and the green leaf and piece of thin
rubber in the mouth were equally unsafe. The
bit of cow-horn with a wooden plug and a nail
in it to be scraped on a whetstone came nearer
the requirements of a tyro; but the little wooden
box with projecting edge to be scraped on the

210 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

stock or barrel of the gun seemed the most con-
venient, and after a few trials of it you could
almost see a whole flock of turkeys marching
upon your blind.

The great day came, and you scattered a flock.
Little trouble to do that, provided you could
find them and did not walk so slowly as to let
them run away from you. You made a blind
beside a fallen log under the shadow of big gray
toadstools, drew over it the yellowing garlands
of the bitter-sweet and the reddening branches
of the young maple, and sat down to try the
call. How nicely it worked, and how steady
your nerves! What mighty expectations fired
your burning heart! Few days in life like these ;
few minutes in the day!

It suddenly strikes you that nothing in the
turkey line is coming. A gray squirrel descends
a big tree but a few feet from you and, with head
downwards and tail flirting, speaks his little piece
with explosive emphasis, as if ordering you out
of his kingdom; but in vain you scan the dim
aisles of the forest for the bobbing head of a
turkey, and vainly you listen for the plaintive
yelp of the old hen. Surely you have not called

THE. WILD? TORKEY. 211

too often or too loud. You have been duly
warned about that, and you think you have the
lesson. Like many another lesson, it is easy until
you come to apply it. But you believe you are
right, and on you go. The chewink trots around
you with mincing tread, scratches up dead leaves,
and with sorrowful tone, as if conscious he soon
must go, replies with his little two-notes to the
piping of the robin, whose shrill treble has such
a different tone from the carol of spring. Sud-
denly there is a faint rustling of dead leaves on
the right, and a ruffed grouse comes walking
gracefully along, as if all the world were his for
the day. Another, and another, and nearly a
dozen more but a trifle smaller follow a few
yards in front of you. Here one scratches in
the leaves; there one mounts another fallen log;
here comes another toward you as if he would
enter your blind; one stops and preens his
feathers, and three or four more flutter into a
thorn-apple to see if the fruit is yet ripe. What
graceful birds, as they wheel and circle with
swelling breasts all mottled with snow and jet
alternating with the rich rosewood and mahogany
colors of their backs and wings! Two or three at

212 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

a shot you could kill if you wished. But you
let them all go, for you are after turkeys to-day.

A few more scrapes of the little box emit
plaintive yelps, soft and low yet penetrating.
They seem right to your ears, and—scarcely
dare you believe it, but—something very much
like them follows in the distance, too long after
for an echo, yet so soon after that it must be in
answer to the call. Careful now! The birds
are young and not over-sharp, but still you must
not grow too confident or you may make a fatal
slip. After a proper time you give two or three
more careful calls, and your hair almost lifts your
hat off as the reply sounds unmistakably nearer.
The critical time is at hand when the temptation
to call too quickly, too often, too loud, or to
make a false note through nervousness, will often
overcome one, and Putt—putt—putt in the dis-
tance is all you will again hear of your game.
And you may not have that little satisfaction,
but may sit and call to the woods and rills until
the inner man begins to rebel.

Soon the reply comes so alarmingly near that
it is time to get the gun ready, so that it will
not have to be moved after the game comes in

THE WILD TURKEY. 213

sight, for the slightest flash of light from it,
even with no sun shining on it, may make the
game vanish before the quickest shot could catch
it. And now the utmost caution with the call
is needed, for there is little distance to soften
your mistakes. Your fingers, too, are trembling:
but there is no disgrace about that; for the man
who cannot get nervous in the presence of noble
game is but a butcher and not a sportsman. Ten-
derly you scrape the raised edge of the little box
against the gun, and get ready to touch the
trigger. Soon there is an answer, and your heart
beats as never before, for you realize it is so
close that it will not be safe to answer it. The
dog knows it too, for now he lies still as death
beside you. He trembles, and the twitching at
his nose shows he would whine with anxiety if
he were not too well broken.

Suddenly your straining eyes detect something
moving in the edge of the underbrush beyond
the little open space in front of your blind, and
in a moment more out steps a dark bird that to
your startled fancy seems as large as an ostrich.
He is not fifty yards away; there is no time to
gauge his size, or speculate on his coming closer.

214 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

Bang goes the gun, and you almost tear your
eyes out breaking from the blind as you hear a
beat of heavy wings which is not that of flight.
In a moment man, dog, and turkey are tumbling
about in a heap, and you have the bird by the
neck. Only a young one, small and not over-
fat; but still a turkey, as really as if he weighed
a ton.

And don’t allow your triumph to be marred
by the reflection that you might not have called
him so easily if he had been a little larger.

The wildest of game is sometimes off guard,
and the rankest blockhead may have luck enough
to make him think himself a born hunter. It is
very seldom that the wild turkey is thus found
off watch, but I once caught a full drove of
them napping, in a way allowed few mortal men.

It was a little after dawn, in November 1864,
when, with several companions, I crossed the
Illinois River for a deer-drive in the timbered
bluffs on the east side. There were then many
miles of heavy timber with scarcely a settler, for
plenty of the best prairie lay yet untaken. The
first snow of the season had fallen during the
night, and lay some two inches deep on the

THE WILD TURKEY. 215

ground. Mallards and sprig-tails, widgeons, gad-
wells, and blue-bills, with teal by the thousand,
whizzed southward over our heads as we crossed
the rope ferry; and dark lines in the zenith
headed in the same direction, from which fell
the clarion tones of the goose and the reverberat-
ing tremolo of the sand-hill crane, told that they
too thought it time to be looking up winter
quarters. With our old-fashioned muzzle-loaders,
loaded with Ely’s wire buckshot cartridges,—
which could always be relied on to go like a
bullet when you wanted them to scatter, and to
break at the muzzle when you wanted them to
hold together, but which in the long-run were
better than loose buckshot,—we were soon
upon the bluffs. Nearly all the leaves had fallen
except the brown foliage of the white oaks; the
woods, though quite open, looked wild, but there
was no sign of life except big yellow fox-squir-
rels and gray squirrels scampering over the
ground, dodging around some trunk or hiding in
some crotch, while the melancholy jingle of the
jay was about the only sign of bird-life.

But before I with one-companion had gone a
mile, tracks of the wild turkey began to appear

210 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

in great numbers; and as they were then quite
plenty here, and as the walking was soft, we
stopped talking and slipped along quietly. We
had faint hope and no expectation; but as it was
on the way to our stands for the deer-drive, we
thought we might as well make the best of what
faint chance there was. The number of tracks
rapidly increased, and it became plain that not a
flock but a large drove was feeding ahead of us.
We sped along on half tiptoe, with guns ready,
and suddenly the silence of the woods was broken
as we came to the edge of a little ravine by such
a roar of wings as was rarely heard there even
in those days, and probably never now in that
State. From the bottom of the ravine, not over
twenty feet deep and not ten yards distant,
thirty or forty full-grown turkeys, each seeming
as big as an open umbrella, were in the air at
once exactly like a flock of quails, and mounting
with a velocity and ease quite incredible to those
who have seen only the domestic turkey fly up
to roost. Before such a dress parade all other
sights of the hills and woods seem ridiculous.
I would go farther without a gun to see it once
more than to see the biggest moose that ever

THE WILD -TORKE ¥. 217

Indian called and with the best rifle in hand that
ever white man made. The finest buck that
ever dashed the snow from the brush as: he
leaped the big hurdles of a windfall is a ‘‘ chump
show’ beside it, and the sheen of those brilliant
wings and backs, as seen in memory alone, is far
more pleasant after the lapse of thirty years-than
a wall full of the finest ‘‘trophies” that elk or
big-horn ever bore. The beamy chestnut and
glistening black and bronze, the red of dewlaps
and wattles with the dark fringes on the gob-
bler’s breasts, all shone before our rising guns like
the splendors of some warrior host in full charge
upon us.

My companion was an old hunter, and the
best shot in Marshall County. For twenty-two
I was as good a brush-shot as old New Jersey
generally graduates from her cat-brier swamps,
though not as cool and steady under all circum-
stances as my companion. But then it did not
need much skill to take in at least four. The
broad tails outspread like huge fans, and the great
flapping wings made such big marks it was im-
possible to miss them with even a pistol; while
the buckshot in the wire cages of the cartridges

218 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME.

were surely big enough to kill. Within brick-
bat-range three grand birds were scattering
leaves and snow in the wake of their mighty
wings, and so close together that only about an
inch of space appeared between them. Unable
to resist the temptation to play the pig, I whirled
the gun upon this central point and fired, and,
without waiting for the rising of the smoke to
show the result, turned the other barrel on a big
gobbler that was wheeling to my side with his
long beard flat against his breast with speed.
My companion picked out a single bird for each
barrel, and both the first and second barrels of
the two guns woke the echoes of the hills to-
gether, neither being wasted on the same bird.
Like rockets the rest of the flock towered over
the trees or wound among the tops, some spin-
ning away on straight lines, others rising more
as if they still wanted us to see them.) 9@me
great gobbler swayed the head of a trim _bass-
wood several feet out of perpendicular as he lit
in its top some three hundred yards away, and
another brightened with his presence the somber
top of a white oak a little farther on. But the
rest faded over the distant trees like a beautiful

THE WILD TURKEY: 219

dream, and the roar of their wings died away
like the last strain of some soul-touching song.
‘¢How many dropped?”
As Prometheus observed to Io,

4 fq A ~ n ~
TO un mavety Tor YNELaGov H pasvety trade.

He was too much of a gentleman to tell her it

was none of her business.

THE END.

ee ee a ee

oe 4
pigtice eee
Puce, aol is

i Ai