The Squirrel Hunters of Ohio; or, Glimpses of Pioneer Life

by N. E. Jones

BIRDS.

“For wheresoe’er your murmuring tremors thrill

The woody twilight, there man’s heart hath still

Conferred a spirit breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.”

The number of species of birds found at various times in Ohio amount to two hundred and ninety-two; while the number breeding in the state is placed at one hundred and twenty-nine; and if the probable summer residents are counted the number would be increased to one hundred and seventy-one. An eminent ornithologist says in a recent work: “To cast the horoscope of the bird-life of the future is uncertain work, and perhaps without profit; but the stars certainly predict utter extermination of the finest of all game birds—the wild turkey—and the diminution to the point of extermination of the ruffed grouse, the quail, the wood duck and wild pigeon.”[20]

Game birds as well as song birds would from natural causes alone diminish in number, as their selected homes or breeding places become destroyed by clearing up the country. But in addition to this, the unseasonable and inhuman destruction by means of firearms has become so alarmingly great as to foretell that at no distant day most of the desirable species of birds that are permanent residents will have been destroyed.

It is generally known by the older “Squirrel Hunters” that from their first knowledge of the North-west to beginning of the railroad era, 1855, Ohio was a paradise for the sportsman with dog and gun. The fields abounded with covies of quail; the forests with wild turkeys, grouse, pigeons and squirrels; and the streams with ducks and geese. Up to the period named the conditions of the country underwent but few changes detrimental to the propagation and preservation of game, and the abundant supplies afforded amusement and subsistence equaled at present nowhere within the limits of the United States.

The settlements as yet contained many reservations of continuous tracts of undisturbed forest, wild ranges, islands along the larger water-courses, overflowing lands, unmolested parts of large estates, military and school reservations, etc., often embracing sections of rich soil heavily timbered and densely covered with an undergrowth of bushes, and in topography well adapted for resorts and homes of game birds and beasts.

Few, if any, of those timbered reservations failed to be occupied by every species and variety of nature’s household. Some locations from time immemorial had been the favorite and undisputed habitation of that most wonderful American bird, the wild turkey. For he is not migratory, nor an aimless wanderer of the forest. His instincts and attachments to place, the home of his ancestors, are so great that generations after generations live and die in the same selected site of wild territory. No persecution can induce him to abandon his accustomed haunts. Nothing but death or the removal of his forest ends his family.

The area of his home requires several square miles, and includes a nursery, feeding grounds, ranches, roosts and places of refuge in times of danger. And if by pursuit he is obliged to flee beyond the limit of his range, he returns to his associates, to his familiar trees, rocks and mountain streams.

The turkey is indigenous to America, and not found wild in any other part of the world. He resides in unsettled sections of timbered countries, from Mexico to the forests of Canada, and is the wildest, most intelligent and untamable of all the birds. When taken directly from the shell, and reared either by hand or with domesticated turkeys, he will, when grown, separate from friends and accustomed comrades, and instinctively seek the more attractive life of the forest. No care and kindness can in one or two generations overcome the fear of man and love for the wilds, and it requires many generations of skilled schooling to extinguish the desire for roving and give to him that contented and confiding disposition which characterizes the domesticated bird. The writer does not believe it possible for a bird that has been reared in a state of nature, and felt the charms of the wilderness, to ever become reconciled to any other conditions of life. He once brought down a young full-grown female bird and captured her. When she found resistance useless, she cried most pitifully. She had suffered no injury excepting a broken tip of one wing, which was amputated and dressed. The bird was kept in a large cage in the back yard for two years, remaining concealed during the day and partaking of food and water late in the evening, and then in the absence of every object of fear. In due time she was removed to a garden overgrown with bushes of currants, gooseberries, raspberries, etc., interspersed with strawberry plants, and with her a pair of tame turkeys. Here she remained over two years without manifesting the least indication of making the acquaintance of her civilized relations. A misplaced board on the fence gave her the boon so much desired—freedom. It was the beginning of summer when she escaped and was searched for, but seen no more until the following spring, when she was noticed several times near the tame turkeys, and this always very early in the morning.

That she could get there at that hour, or get there at all from the timbered land near a mile distant, through farms and fences, seemed remarkable, as she could not fly. After harvest of that year she frequented the stubble fields near the timber, with four well-grown half-breeds, as wild as herself. The next spring she commenced visiting her old acquaintances again, but, unfortunately, fell in sight of a pot-hunter, and was brought in as a great prize. But those who had kindly cared for the misfortunes of the bird, and now looked upon her lifeless form, had feelings which the word indignation failed to express.

The turkey propagated in foreign countries soon becomes degenerated, and in every way much inferior to the American type, the high standard of which in this country is kept up by infusion of wild blood and liberal forest ranges adapted to the nature of the bird.

The wild turkey has many peculiarities not found in any other species. Other birds elect certain localities to spend their nights, while the wild turkey puts up wherever night overtakes him; for his range is his home, and he is at home any-where in his range. When roosting in considerable numbers, the flock is dispersed over an extensive area of forest. He seldom, if ever, roosts two consecutive nights in or near the same place. When the leaves are on the trees he goes to the topmost twigs of the highest trees, and lets his heavy body down upon the foliage and small branches, and fixes himself for the night so he can not be seen by enemies from above nor from below. When the forest is bare he is still more careful to withdraw from observation, and for this purpose selects large, rough and broken trees—trees with ugly, crooked limbs, with knots and deformities—and places himself near some bump, crook, or place where the addition of his body will be readily overlooked; for well does he understand that the ordinary pot-hunter expects to see him perched upon a small limb far out from the body of the tree, standing on his legs, with outstretched neck and elevated head. But, instead of making a show, he always does the best he can to conceal himself, and if nothing better appears at hand, he will take to a large horizontal limb, and near the trunk of the tree flatten his body down on the upper part and stretch out the neck and legs on line with the limb, so to resemble closely a slight enlargement on that part of the growth.

He knows so well how to conceal himself when roosting that he laughs at the possibility of being seen and captured by the marvelous hunters who have killed so many by moonlight! The arrival of man and gun in his forest is scented and signaled at once. The birds most exposed fly far in advance of the hunter, and those that feel safe keep still and are safe from observation.

The writer admits, after testing this mode of hunting after night, many times, many seasons, and with many persons, that he has never been able to find a turkey on a tree while roosting. He has seen, however, and measured the credibility of the individual who insists that he has captured a great many snipe in cold, dark winter nights, by holding a light at the open mouth of a bag while other persons drive them in, but has never been able to find the individual who shot a wild turkey while sitting on the roost.

A friend who had become infatuated with the idea of night-hunting, insisted that turkeys could be seen on bare trees when the moon was as light and bright as then; and the reason he had not been heretofore successful was owing entirely to the “if.” As soon as the moon was declared all right we were on the grounds; could hear birds flying off the trees in advance of us as soon as we entered the border. Every tree in our pathway was scanned, without seeing an object resembling a turkey. The writer soon tired of the amusement and retraced his steps some distance, and sat down upon an old log lying on the sand in the deep-cut bed of a creek.

After waiting a reasonable time and hearing nothing from the friend, the writer called—waited and called a number of times; but all remained silent. Thinking the hunter had become bewildered and wandered beyond the range of vocal sounds, fired one barrel of the gun off, pointing it in the direction of the moon, which was partially obscured by some of the small branches of a large sycamore tree, standing on the bank of the opposite side of the creek.

The gun made a loud report, and so did a large gobbler as he came flapping down through the branches into the creek, having received a mortal charge of shot. The signal gun soon brought in the absent member of the expedition, who, on feeling a twenty-pound bird and hearing the explanation, moved it be made unanimous, as the only successful way to shoot wild turkeys by moonlight.

Another peculiarity of this bird may be mentioned. In the spring of the year the female birds straggle long distances from the flock, and seek temporary separation in the more open but unfrequented parts of the forest, where the male birds seldom, if ever, resort. Here they nest and rear their young. When the offspring is well grown the mother birds, with young, return to the flock, after which old and young, male and female, remain together as one family during fall and winter.

In-door naturalists and authors have given to the world many singular and absurd statements respecting the habits, sagacity and instincts of the wild turkey, since the truthful descriptions penned by John James Audubon, F.R.S., S.L. and E. And it is singular that the eminent naturalist, Thomas Nuttall, A.M.T., L.S. and C., should say he is not gregarious.

Charles Hallock, the able editor of “Forest and Stream,” author of “Camp Life,” “Sportsman’s Gazetteer,” etc., states that in the spring wild turkeys “pair off” (like blue-birds), “and after the young are hatched both parents take great interest in the growth and progress of the young family;” that they are “easily tamed; are slaughtered by moonlight while roosting; that it is rarely a wing-shot can be procured; that they are killed by sportsmen in various ways,” most of which is not much less at variance with facts in nature than the statement of Mr. Burrell Symmes, who claimed that he had outwitted the sagacity of the bird, and killed at one shot, with a rifle, a large flock that infested a wheat-stack near their range. “The turkeys would gather around the stack, every few days, as close as they could crowd their bodies, pulling out wheat-heads to eat;” and, taking in the situation, says he bent the barrel of his gun to the segment of a circle corresponding to the diameter of the area of the base of the stack. And well loaded with powder and leaden ball, concealed the weapon at the proper adjustment, placing himself in view of the situation, with a cord attached to the trigger. The turkeys came, and unsuspectingly crowded around the stack, and began their accustomed repast. Now was the moment for action—“the cord was pulled, and the gun fired, which sent the ball round and round the stack, until it mowed down every last turkey in the flock.”

Respecting the habits and peculiarities of the wild turkey, the author turned up a slip from the lips of an old North Carolina negro, who gives the best pen-picture of the home-life of the bird that has fallen to the notice of ornithologists. The authography is somewhat objectionable, but the whole story is well told. Among other things he says the wild turkey is a “mighty peert fowl;” that he can sometimes teach a fox how to be smart, while at other times a sucking calf is not half so big a fool as he makes of himself; that he had known gobblers to outwit all the hunters in the country, and then walk into some ordinary colored man’s “pen” and stay there, “a cranin he neck, an’ tryen to get out at de top w’at been all roof over, wile de hole in de groun’ w’at he came in at stans wide open.”

The “pen” was a fatal device, capturing annually thousands of those birds during early settlements. Before the extensive forests disappeared turkeys lived well in the fall and winter and fattened on the mast. But owing to the love for Indian corn they were by a moderate display of this food easily enticed into traps, called “pens,” when placed in secluded sections of forest where the birds were known to seek subsistence.

Pens were usually constructed of windfalls—old limbs of various sizes—making an inclosure of ten or twelve feet square, four feet in height, and covered with similar limbs weighted down with other limbs placed across the covering. A trench, eighteen or twenty inches deep and about the same width, cut to enter the pen two feet, terminating abruptly slanting upward. Over the part of the trench next to the wall were secured a number of small poles forming a bridge a foot wide. Outside of the pen the trench extended, rising gradually, until it reached the level of the surrounding ground.

When finished, the trap would be well-baited with corn in the center and in the trench. Small quantities were scattered off in different directions from the pen, and a few grains here and there for a mile or more. After the birds would find a few grains, the entire flock would engage in search for more, and soon the trail of corn leading to the pen would be discovered, and rushing along in haste would enter the trench unawares, and forcing the front birds in the trench under the bridge and up into the pen before danger was suspected. As soon as those in the inclosure discovered the situation, they would try to force their way through the openings in the pen, passing and repassing around and over the bridge with heads erect, never observing the opening by which they entered—their comrades would soon disappear, leaving the unfortunate birds to be taken out by the trapper.

In a good location a single pen would furnish one hundred or more turkeys during a winter. One year, J. J. Audubon kept an account of the produce of a pen which he visited daily and found that seventy-six had been caught in it, in about two months. Seven was the highest number he had ever succeeded in taking from a pen at one time, but knew of as many as eighteen being captured by others. The average success of a pen, per capture, ranged from four to five. The writer has known fifteen to be the fruits of the first visit, and no more caught that season.

To make the pen a success, required great care and attention. The timber necessary for the construction was gathered from windfalls showing woodland decay; any marks of the axe, or civilization were considered objectionable. The earth taken out to make the trench, leading to and into the pen, was carefully removed to other parts; old leaves were thrown into the trench and about the pen, making every thing in the vicinity look ancient and accidental.

In many settlements the success of trapping pens was of short duration. As the country soon furnished easy access of the birds to large fields of their favorite food, they no longer could be induced to enter the baited pens. Notwithstanding the number captured by means of pens—“slaughtered by moonlight”—“by baiting”—“by treeing with dogs,” turkeys remained quite plentiful for more than sixty years after the settlement of Ohio. They were to be found in the woodlands all over the state, and for half a century remained the king-bird of the sportsman. When frightened, he seeks cover and lies well to a point. Early in the morning is the most propitious time to find him. When a flock is flushed and frightened by the rapid motions of a dog, some will fly and others run in the direction of security and cover; it may be a mile or more distant, and if so the sportsman will most surely pick up a straggler or two on his way, if he and his dog understand their business.

If any have taken to the trees, it will be lost time to look after them—they have made another fly in the direction taken by the leaders, who prefer the use of feet to wings. The dog must now keep close to his master, who moves so cautiously and quietly, that he talks to his companion by signs and motions altogether. The birds are so wonderfully fearful of a dog, and are now so frightened that some, while on the way to the place of refuge, will drop down in a secure looking spot to regain composure or to await till all is quiet. It is these the sportsman is after. Old logs, fallen tree-tops, piles of old brush, blackened limbs, tufts of weeds and spots of dead prairie grass grown in small openings among timber, afford attractive points for concealment, and are all remembered with reverence and respect as monuments of departed birds, at the death and obsequies of which the writer had been present.

The hunter must be prepared to find a bird anywhere on the line of march. The dog carries the scent and his every movement determines the distance the birds are off. Now he moves with cat-like stealth—he stops with tetanic muscular tension, quivering in every fiber, stands elongated—a fixed immovable figure—his marvelous nose has caught the image and measured the distance, which in silence says, stop!—move not, as eyes and nose direct to the place some twenty or thirty yards distant. The bird is there, and the canine head knows the result of another step in that direction—the hunter summoning all his skill and coolness, takes a step or two forward, and the bird is flushed, and starts off with the velocity of a grouse, testing sporting ability and rapidity of motion that rewards in hearing the monster fall; and a second later the quiet salute by the faithful and well-trained dog, showing he is elated equally with his master.

Quite often a turkey will carry a mortal charge a long distance and drop dead. Remains of dead birds are so frequently found during the hunting season, that there can be but little doubt many shot at and get away, die from their wounds. And the hunter should not despair of success if his shot on the wing does not come to the ground immediately. Instances in great numbers are before the writer, some of which are marked by more than ordinary singularity, where the recovery of the bird has taken place, quite unexpectedly, after a pronounced miss. One bitter cold afternoon, while out with a friend, who shot at a bird as it was flying through the timber; it continued on its course and was observed for a long distance to fly naturally but to go down too abruptly. The locality where observation ended was hunted closely and easily, as there was a crusted snow on the ground, but without finding as much as a feather. As we were returning, and within a few rods of the spot where the bird we had been searching for was shot at, another turkey came sailing over with tremendous velocity, going in the direction taken by the first one. It was given a barrel loaded with Ely’s Green Cartridge, No. 5 shot. The bird went on and down, but this time we marked the locality more accurately and were soon at the place and found two turkeys, dead and warm, within a few feet of each other. Some years before this, while standing in a little opening, early in the morning, listening for turkey sounds, the report of a gun was heard near half a mile distant, and in a moment a large gobbler fell dead at the writer’s feet.

While out with two young dogs, a bird was flushed on the bank of the Scioto river, and received a shot when near the opposite side, which so injured and confused him that he came back and fell upon the side of the stream from which he started. The heavy body came down with a thud, close to the shore, among some weeds and bushes near a large pile of drift-wood. The dogs were at the place in quick time, but could find no turkey. Thinking it had crawled into the drift, we tried to have the dogs hunt the drift. But they knew better and took no heart in spending time at that point, and required constant restraint to prevent them from taking the forest. After an ineffectual examination of the cover afforded by the drift, the superior judgment of the dogs was taken, and with management, their noses kept the course of this wounded bird and followed his meanderings one and a half miles in an air line from the drift to the point where they came to the bird on a stand. Walking up, expecting a flush, I was surprised to find a dead turkey, warm, muddy, and wet with the dew of the morning.

While it is quite common for a turkey, when mortally wounded, to continue his flight considerable distances before falling, and equally, if not more so, to fall dead at once from the shot, it is not often one will, while on the wing making his escape, change his course of conduct and come down and give himself up without being touched by shell or shot. Still, it is not impossible, for he has been known to do so, but not, perhaps, for the reason said to be entertained by Captain Scott’s coon.

One still, warm afternoon in December, 1860, with dog, the writer visited the “Fenced-in Wilderness.” On arrival in the woods a concealed position was selected and the dog sent out to look up the birds. Soon a large male bird came so near, on foot and unseen, that he scented the hunter, and rose within less than twenty yards of the writer, who fired after him one of Ely’s green wire cartridges, one and a half ounces No. 5 shot, driven by three drachms of Hazard’s electric powder. The bird was up in the air about thirty feet, going off directly in line with the shot. When the gun reported the turkey did not limber nor tumble like a bird shot, but came down precisely like a paper kite—full spread of wings and tail, with outstretched neck and legs. When the writer came up he was lying upon the ground, spread out like a bat, and the captor placed one foot and weight of the body on his neck, and commenced reloading the empty barrel. Before this was half accomplished it became necessary to suspend reloading and attend to the customer by changing his neck from the foot to the hand, in order to keep him long enough to cut his throat. During the time required to open the knife and perform this little surgical operation he used his legs and toenails most vigorously and effectively, and the operator came out of the fray bleeding and lacerated, with loss of the greater portion of coat, vest, shirt and pants. The wounds, however severe, were as nothing compared with the knowledge demonstration revealed—that this turkey was knocked down by the generation of some force, without making a scar, mark, or sign of traumatism, external or internal. A critical examination revealed no injury whatever, except the cut made by the knife. The explanation is for the scientist.

It requires a good gun, a good load and a good shot to bring down a full-grown, well-feathered turkey. Seldom they rise short of thirty yards distant; then, by the powerful motor assistance of the legs at the start, the next thirty yards are made with such velocity that by the time the gunner has “spoken his piece,” the bird is off so far that loose No. 5 shot and a fair charge of powder will not be effective unless by mere accident. This became manifest at the beginning of the Fifties. Having flushed a very large flock of turkeys near town by means of a little cocker, that made a terrible ado after them in the standing cornstalks, near the Scioto river—after hunting them unsuccessfully in the timber, a strip of prairie grass was entered, full of “nigger-heads,” extending parallel with the river for a full half-mile. The grass was tall, and the freezing weather had stiffened the ground and frozen over the pools, so it could be walked over with safety. As the grass was entered the little dog became invisible; but it was soon discovered where he was by the flight of a turkey out of range, and before the cocker could be brought under control he flushed several more. It was not long, however, before a good wing shot was obtained, and the writer started home with a load. This success and the close proximity to town induced a number of amateur gunners to try their luck, and they were directed to the locality; for it was certain, if the turkeys were concealed in the grass, they would remain there if undisturbed until their time for moving—the dusk of evening.

From what was subsequently known, it would appear that the whole flock, consisting of forty or fifty birds, still frightened, had found their way back to this place of security and concealment, and, without the aid of dogs, were walked up and shot at by the party, but without capturing a single bird.

The hunters returned with sorrow and disappointment. One of their number, a prominent lawyer and ex-member of Congress, came in with the loss of one eye and otherwise disfigured for life by the explosion of his gun.

At the close of the War of the Rebellion a large amount of uncultivated, wild land, owned by non-residents, was sold in small farms to settlers; and a general disposition prevailed, from high prices of produce, to improve much of the better class of timber lands every-where, underbrushing for pasture, or deadening the large timber for corn, and this had some influence in decimating game. Still the game resorts, uninhabitable in this way, amounted to little compared with influence and facilities increased railroads gave the pot-hunter to go on with his work of extermination in those mammoth parks of forests in the eastern and southern borders of the state, where the deer, turkey, grouse, and wild-pigeon should have found protection and a home to the end of time.

And with a diversified and wild section of country large enough to accommodate and furnish annually thousands of game, beasts, and birds, some are entirely extinct, and others scarcely known within the limits of the state. Such destruction is truly an injustice to a beneficent creator that fed the hungry, clothed the naked, made pioneer homes happy and a savage wilderness a desirable habitation for the pilgrims of a better civilization.

It is more to be regretted that in the general destruction the grandest bird in the world—indigenous alone to America—and whose love for “liberty” exceeds all other species, should be denied room enough among a liberty-loving people for a home. It seems a pity Benjamin Franklin had not been more than “half in earnest” when he suggested this bird as the emblem of our national independence. But as it is, in other ways he has advanced civilization and been a benefactor to the human race. His surpassing size, tender, juicy, and gamey-flavored flesh, places him far above all other gallinaceous birds; and his goodness and greatness are known over the world, and those who occupy his native country have secured for his name a place among the saints, to be chanted annually on a day set apart for thanksgiving and praise.

Railroad facilities enabled pot-hunters to flood the country, to shoot for eastern saloons and cold-storage houses, until the rapid decimation of valuable game gave reasons for serious apprehension that both birds and beasts will become exterminated or taken from the sources of food supply. An annual depletion of the quantity of game in a given locality is generally borne well, and is, to a limited extent, beneficial. They usually stand assessments of numbers much better than encroachments upon their borders. And it is sometimes singular where they all go to, when the woods in which they have always lived become cleared up, so they are obliged to transfer their possessions. An estate in the Military District, consisting of two thousand acres, remained wild until 1862. The agent at this date had the land cleared of the young growth of trees and bushes and put in grass.

Two years after, while riding along a road that led through this piece of timber, the writer saw a stately wild turkey, with head erect and measured steps, marching through the open timber, occasionally stopping, as though looking and listening for former companions. On the same road, after several hours, we again saw the disappointed bird on his way back to tell the sad story.

The wild turkey is now exterminated in Ohio, and the indications are he will soon be as little known as the Dodo. During his stay in the aid and interests of civilization, thousands of Squirrel Hunters were made happy, and for nearly three hundred years he has been placed at the head of the feast with all the compliments bestowed upon him in 1621 by Priscilla Holmes: “The foremost of all delicacies—roast turkey—dressed with beech-nuts.”

The quail, another valuable game bird, has, until within a few years, been an abundant, permanent resident of the state. It is scarcely necessary to say a word in his praise, for Bob White is a smart little fellow, an early riser, and worth millions to agricultural interests while living, and unequaled on toast when dead.

At the date of the first settlements in the territory the bird was undoubtedly very retired, as well as few in number. The extensive and dense forests, covering almost the entire country, made it ill adapted to his nature; and those which were enabled to perpetuate existence occupied some of the limited open tracts of land found here and there over the country. Bob White is really a bird of civilization. He flourishes most near the abodes of man. The cultivation of the soil and settlement of the country increases his numbers. In support of these conclusions we will here refer to the fact contained in a statement made by a gentleman who, with family, settled in Ohio in the spring of 1798, and located on the border of a small prairie—seemingly a favorable situation for the bird. He resided several years in that locality, raising wheat, corn, and other kinds of produce, without hearing the voice of the quail. He had about abandoned the anticipation of quail shooting, and questioned if it would ever be recognized as a sport in Ohio.

One day in early summer of 1802 he thought he heard the recognized though suppressed sound, “Bob White.” Somewhat doubting the sense of hearing, he immediately made observations and procured additional evidence—that of sight. Yes, he actually heard and saw the bird for the first time in Ohio. Elated with the good news, he proceeded to the cabin and told his discovery with so much excitement and enthusiasm that it created a laugh at his expense. He excused his manner, however, by saying, “It was sufficient to excite any one to know that a highly-esteemed and familiar friend had found the way through such an interminable wilderness, and announced his arrival in that modest and meaning way, ‘Bob White.’” Since then he has been known as a permanent resident.

The greater portion of the year the old birds, with the family increase, remain in coveys. In early spring this general attachment is broken up by pairing, each pair selecting a locality, where they remain during the breeding season. When mating and selection of locality has taken place, it is known by the demonstration of the male, who gives the whole neighborhood due notice of his domestic intentions by frequent repetitions of his cheerful and well-known notes, “Bob White! Bob White!”

When paired the two are constant companions, ever watchful and devoted to the welfare of each other, sharing equally the duties and responsibilities of wedded life; and from the appearance of the first offspring to their settlement in the world, as faithful father and mother, remain unceasing protectors and providers for the family. This extraordinary strength of attachment and exhibition of natural affection has attracted the attention of all their friends.

While living on a farm the writer discovered a nest, nicely concealed by tufts of grass after being constructed, under the projecting end of a fence rail. At the time there were in it five eggs. This number increased daily until twenty-three eggs filled the nest, and incubation began. All went on happily, until one morning there was evidently great distress in that little household. The male bird was sounding his anxious alarm—going hurriedly from one part of the farm to that of every other—sometimes flying, sometimes running; stopping a moment here, a moment there; calling at the top of his voice for his mate, in his peculiar tone of distress. His unanswered cry soon told the tale—some accident, some ruthless hawk, some sneaking cat, or some other enemy, had captured and destroyed his faithful companion.

He kept his calling for several hours, sometimes coming quite near, making a low chittering noise, as if suspicious something could be told—that the writer could tell him where his love had gone. Far from it, he too was in search of anything that could give a clue to the whereabouts of the unfeeling wretch that had done the bloody deed—he too was excited, and would have executed the severest penalty known on the guilty one, if found.

The nest was occasionally observed during the forenoon, with merely the thought she might be testing the affection of her lord, or playing him a practical joke; but no, the eggs were, at each visit uncovered. About noon-day, his lamentations ceased, and hoping his mate had returned, the nest was again visited, and was surprised to find Bob on the nest, keeping life in the prospective family.

For several days he left the nest frequently to make further search for his missing sweetheart. One morning, as usual, I called to see how the little widower was getting along, and found nothing but a bundle of shells—every egg had been hatched. Not far from the nest was heard a crickety sound—“chit, chit, chit”—and soon discovered Bob with his brood. He continued to care for the motherless young, as the writer can testify from frequent meetings, and reared a fine, large covey, which received protection and sympathy during the following fall and winter, of all the farm hands and sportsmen, who knew him and his well-behaving family.

Quail are not strictly granivorous. In autumn and winter they subsist chiefly on grain, berries and weed seeds. But in the spring and summer their food is almost exclusively composed of worms and insects. While Henry William Herbert extols the benefits the agriculturist derives from the consumption of weed seeds by these birds, he does not seem to have been aware the quail is the greatest worm and insect enemy of all the birds of North America, and are of more valuable service to crops and trees than all other birds combined. A few coveys carefully preserved would protect the farmer against the ravages of many destructive insects, which are more to be feared than the “rag-weed, the dock, or the brier.” The writer examined one accidentally killed, several years ago, in the month of June, and its crop contained seventy-five “potatoe-bugs,” besides numerous smaller insects. And, if for no other reason, the farmer should protect the bird as his best and most reliable exterminator of worms and insects, which, if undisturbed, accumulate to the great detriment of growing grain and grass, and to orchards and gardens. The quail regards man as his friend, though a stranger to his sympathy and protection. If not for ill-treatment and general manifestation to exterminate his species by those whose friendship he courts, he would soon become quite as domestic as the barnyard poultry. In fact, he frequently presses his claims perseveringly in this line by establishing partnership and social relations with domestic fowls. It is not uncommon to find a hen and quail occupying the same nest, until the complement of eggs are deposited by each, at the end of which time the quail usually submits the incubation to her partner.

Quail are pursued by man, beast, bird, and reptile; but with a fair opportunity and timely warning they manifest a wonderful faculty for evading their foes; and, excepting the “pot-hunter,” they are provided with ample means for self-preservation. He who steals upon a covey while enjoying the sunshine by some stump, log, or fence-corner, seated in a space less than the circumference of a half-bushel measure, and betrays a confidence by firing upon them in this unsuspecting attitude, filling his bag with the dead, and marching off with the brand of “sneak-thief” upon his brow, is a “pot-hunter.” He, too, who, with a show of indifference, rides about, pretending to be overseeing his own affairs, whistling around until the poor unsuspecting birds, in order to get out of his way, unconsciously walk into a net prepared for them, and as a reward for this confiding friendship triumphantly mashes their heads, is a pot-hunter. Against such the bird has no protection.

When coveys have warning of danger, and wish to evade detection, they will conceal themselves from their enemies, in a most magical manner, by a singular concerted action, seemingly, withholding their “scent,” so it is often impossible for the best dogs to detect them, even in the most favorable cover. It is quite amusing to witness the changes that come over the amateur sportsman when he fails to put up his birds. He knows where they are, at least he thinks he does, for he “marked them down” in the meadow of short grass within a few yards of a stump or tree. Then, it is such a commentary on his dogs, for he knows they are all right—never better, truer noses; still they go over and over, round and round, without winding a bird, or coming to a point. There! that dog has flushed a bird! Now he is assured the whole covey are within twenty feet of that spot; and he renews his search, and keeps his dogs going over and over the same locality, until both dogs and gunner, disgusted, quit the place.

How they got away, and where they all went to, and why that single bird remained where the covey went down, and why the dogs did not point that bird, all passed through the mind of the hunter, as he marched on in search of better luck.

The amateur perhaps meets his experienced friend, to whom he relates his disappointment, and who in reply proposes to return to the meadow of the “marked down” covey. After a time they do so, and every dog at once winds his bird; and each come to point—these are flushed and shot at. The dogs are made to move cautiously, and again the trio stand, each having a bird under point. This is repeated until every bird has gone the gauntlet.

Quail shooting has been, but is no longer, an interesting field sport in Ohio. Wing shooting, while diminishing the aggregate number, by subtracting from each covey, does not often destroy the entire family, and under proper legislation, has its benefits and advantages, and generally insures the preservation of an abundance to propagate another season. The sport, also, to some extent, draws from the destructive spoils of the pot-hunter and trapper, making the birds coy, suspicious and not easily seen. True, there is a possibility that the sportsman with dog and gun may destroy a whole family by shooting on the wing. A chapter of this kind occurred to the writer. While riding along the road in a buggy with a friend, our pointer companion came to a stand some distance in front, with nose and tail paralleled to the line of fence. The birds rose by concert in line along the fence, while the rear bird, or first to rise was covered and fired at. The atmosphere was so the smoke obscured results, excepting that of a wounded bird crossing the road for a sorghum field. An effort was made to intercept and capture it, but failed. The friend who sat in the buggy and had a good view of the situation, declared every bird fell. A walk over the ground proved it true, as from the first to the last in the distance of about twenty yards or more, eleven dead birds were picked up. The next day on passing the spot, the dog came to a point on a wounded bird, which was captured and killed as a kindness. Here the whole covey was exterminated; but as the perpetrator felt “sorry” for the act, and did not intend it, and would never do it again, it should not be considered unpardonable.

The quail is a bird favorable to the happiness of man and advancement of civilization, is of inestimable value as a permanent resident, for the reason he is independent of forests for the maintenance of existence and perpetuation. He is the bird of field and farm and the only one from which a single pair can produce and rear to maturity more than half a hundred young in one season, to present as choice morsels of food for the weary farmer and protector.

It is comforting to the sportsman to feel assured there is one resident game bird the iniquity of the pot-hunter can not exterminate. So long as forests and mountains last, the Ruffed Grouse will be able to maintain an abiding place. And many are the pleasant reminiscences of the hunter connected with the pursuit of this wary bird; it is a sport once enjoyed can never be lost from among the sunny associations of the past. Even the name brings to view the ragged mountains, rocky ravines, shady dells, babbling brooks and quiet streams in forests, ripe with every shade and tint of autumn colors, quiet secluded places where nature reveals her sweetest charms in inimitable splendor that mocks the artist’s pencil and poet’s pen—the home and haunts of this beautiful bird.

It does not seem reasonable that the indifference of the people should permit the depopulation of the earth of all its birds! It is sorrowful to contemplate a place where no bird exists excepting the “English sparrow.” Of the known species, amounting to over five thousand, that once glorified the life and beauty of the earth, more than one-half the number has already disappeared forever.

The Chicago Tribune, of August 11, 1895, on the “Destruction of Birds,” tells the truth, a horrible truth, when it says: “If masculine greed and cruelty, and feminine vanity and thoughtlessness, are not in some manner restrained or punished, it is only a question of time, and very short time at that, how soon the earth will lose its birds.” That the Seattle Argus called attention to the danger of the utter extermination of game birds by the destruction of their eggs on the Alaska breeding grounds—ducks, geese, swans, and other migratory birds, seek the low lands along the Yukon river for their nesting places. The egg-hunters gather their eggs by millions in these as well as other localities in South-western Alaska, where the birds resort, and sell them for the purpose of manufacturing egg albumen, a commercial article. The destruction of these millions of eggs every spring and summer is rapidly reducing the number of game birds, and the flocks every year grow smaller and smaller. Senator Mitchell, of Oregon, introduced a bill at the last session of Congress for the protection of these game birds, but of course it did not come to vote, and it probably never will. The game birds will share the fate of the four-footed game; grow fewer every year, and finally disappear altogether.

“When one remembers that thirty years ago the skies were almost darkened by flights of pigeons across Indiana and Illinois, and that branches of trees were broken by their weight and numbers, and that the other day a wild-pigeon shot in Southern Indiana was regarded as rare a curiosity as a white blackbird, it can be realized how rapidly game birds are disappearing. The game birds which are not migratory are also hunted down in spite of game laws, and every year grow scarcer and dearer in the markets. If nothing is done to protect (more effectually) there will soon be an end of game birds. The greed of gain will end their existence.”

Of all the birds in Ohio and the North-west, the wild pigeon was by far the most numerous. Those who have witnessed their flight, from early morn until approaching night, all going in one direction, without cessation for a number of consecutive days, were ready to believe pigeons were as the sands of the sea, innumerable, and could never be exhausted. But, alas! inventions came, the foes of bird-life: railroads and telegraphs. And for many years, winter and summer, the pigeon was traced, pursued, netted and trapped, at feeding places, by gangs of pot-hunters, keeping tons of dead birds all the time in transit to the large cities. Year after year, from coast to coast, this bird was followed, invading the breeding places and destroying the young and old, until the wild pigeon now exists in history, and may be seen mounted by the taxidermist.

The birds that are not game, the women in their vanity and thoughtlessness are rapidly destroying those having an attractive plumage, and millions of humming-birds, orioles, bluebirds, starlings, indigo-birds, redstarts, redbirds, and many others, are annually slaughtered to gratify an inhuman and uncivilized fashion. For more than ten years this destruction has been increasing, and birds are diminishing in this and other countries until extermination is near at hand. Jules Forest says of the bird of paradise: “They are so industriously hunted that the males are not permitted to reach full maturity, and the birds which now flood the market are for the most part young ones, still clothed in their first, plumage, which lacks the brilliancy displayed in the older bird, and are consequently of small commercial value.” As to the tuft of delicate plumes which are so much in demand by milliners, and sold by them as real, are often mixed with ospray tips, which, to the shame of womanhood, have so long been in fashion and are still used. I may state on trustworthy authority, that “during the last season one warehouse alone has disposed of no less than sixty thousand dozen of these mixed sprays.” And the question comes: Is there no way to stop it? Must bird-slaughter go on to gratify a weak and cruel vanity, that should be met not only with public scorn, but also by the strong arm of the law, to reach the possessor or the hat, as it does the fisherman and his net or the hunter and his gun.

As the country became partially settled and the larger game supply diminished by unseasonable killing, clubs of squirrel hunters organized and laws wore enacted protecting beasts and birds with a close season. The good, the social and intelligent, became members for what there was in it. These clubs entertained no secrets, and did not pattern after any of the ancient orders with which the United States appear overblessed, nor were they given to boasting of their pedigrees. No one ever claimed King Solomon was “the father and founder,” although he might have been; and members were satisfied and sanguine that Mr. Nimrod, the mighty hunter, for a saint, was in morals as good as any of them.

These clubs had also many improvements over ordinary societies. A candidate for membership was not obliged to ride a goat to get in, nor with bandaged eyes go down into a dangerous pit to search for the tables of stone that Moses brought home the ten commandments on. Neither had the clubs any use for a catechism of secret signs to let the brethren know when a member had been guilty of something unwelcome to society, and needed assistance. They were all Squirrel Hunters, and members recognized each other by the absence of society pins and want of superlative adjectives at the front end of their names. The only thing recorded in which these clubs resembled any other order or society was in having a great many glorious banquets. They cultivated the social and democratic principles, owing allegiance nowhere, to no one or any thing, but the government and country covered by the American flag.

The objects of these clubs were the study of natural history and to secure and enforce all laws for the preservation of game beasts and birds, as well as the summer songsters that give life and happiness to forest and field.

These clubs labored hard to enforce legislative enactments against pot-hunting and thoughtless destruction of birds, but found it more difficult to capture the violator and public opinion than to subdue British and Indians or frighten an army. People generally had embraced the idea that birds, beasts and trees could never become seriously decimated, and it was useless to offer them protection, which made it troublesome to obtain a verdict against offenders by either judge or jury. The motives of such prosecutions were generally misconstrued, or plaintiffs made subjects of sport or ridicule.

The following is taken from the records and proceedings of one of the earliest organized and most worthy game clubs in Ohio. It appears the offender was a lawyer, who enjoyed fine grounds and an elegant garden, and amused himself shooting little birds that came to share his bounty, or obtain a pittance by way of interest for the good they had by nature rendered. The club gave the lawyer notice and request to desist such cruelty, or it might become necessary to call the attention of the officers of the law to the matter.

To this the club received the following reply, worthy of preservation for its wit, humor, and literary ability:

“To N—— E——, Secretary of Branch No. 3, Ohio Game Club:

“My Dear Sir—Your esteemed favor of yesterday has been received, and at an early date I hasten to reply, not knowing just what punishment would await me should I fail to be prompt in my responses. As to the ‘birds of various kinds’ of which you speak, I move to amend in order to make more specific and certain, by stating what kind of birds, what number, when killed, and by what means. If required to plead to the general charge, I would enter a plea of ‘not guilty.’ Permit me to say that I only killed birds of prey, and I only pray that I may kill more of them. I always bury all I kill; I berry them before I kill them, and bury them afterwards.

“I am exceedingly sorry that my fancied misdeeds have rendered necessary a special meeting of the ‘club,’ or to have been the innocent occasion of the least trouble to either the officers or members of that useful and ornamental body. Be kind enough to say, with my compliments, to the association of which you have the honor to be secretary, that the doors of the Temple of Justice, like ‘the glorious gates of the gospel of grace,’ stand open night and day, and the ‘club’ will please consider itself invited to enter and become ‘involved in the intricate meshes of the law.’

“Allow me further to say that I expect tomorrow morning to be on my premises, near the city, engaged in my usual and ordinary amusement of destroying birds of prey; and as it is the ‘early bird that catches the worm.’ I would suggest to members of your valuable association, through their secretary, that they meet at an early hour, say half-past five in the morning, either at Dodson’s store or at the well-known grocery stand of John L. King, and proceed in a body, in full uniform, to the premises alluded to in your correspondence. It might be well to have music, and march to the tune of ‘Listen to the Mockingbird,’ or such other appropriate music as your orchestra may select.

“One other suggestion: I am constitutionally and proverbially careless in the handling of firearms, and it may be well to make that statement to the members of your organization, so that should a stray shot fall wide of the mark at which it was aimed, they may feel a sense of security behind such intrenchments as nature or art shall have provided. Ice-water and sponges will be furnished free to each and every member who attends, but no gin cocktails will be given.

“Very truly yours, H——.”

It seems an unanswered question, how the natives preserved the forests from fires, and maintained the numerical strength of the species of animals on which they subsisted. The countries in which Indians have been found subsisting by hunting, are known to have forests undisturbed by fires for thousands of years, and containing a full complement of all kinds of game indigenous to the locality. This country, at the time surrendered, was fully endowed with all the gifts of nature. Love had preserved the forests from fires, protected the game beasts and birds, and shown natural wisdom enough not to kill the goose to obtain the golden egg.

How these wise results were accomplished are unknown to civilization. But it can be stated as a fact, new countries have never suffered from forest fires or the destruction of their game at the hands of the Indian hunter. Even in limited and crowded reservations he manages to preserve the forests, and in some way to keep on hand a supply of animals to the full extent the conditions of nature will admit. The instinct to kill no more than enough for present use, though he may suffer from hunger the next day, probably has had a favorable influence on game and its preservation.

While practically a resident of an unsettled Indian country (the northern portion of Iowa Territory), in 1845, it was noticeable that there existed no lack of game, nor variety, although pretty densely populated with Winnebagoes, Sioux and Fox Indian, who derived their meat chiefly from the yearly increase of game furnished within a limited territory.

Soon after the close of the treaty with those tribes, made by General Dodge in the summer of 1845, at Fort Atkinson, the writer, with a friend, passed through the hunting grounds for more than one hundred miles, and saw a number of large flocks of wild turkey and larger game in abundance. We followed the deep-cut channel of the romantic Turkey river for sixty miles in the Indian country, and during this ride the young birds were seen flying from bluff to bluff, crossing the river on their daily round in search of food.

And we believe it is true: No game laws enacted by white man can prove as effective in the protection of game as those enforced by Indian hunters. The red man never scares game from the region in which he hunts. He steals upon the deer or wild turkeys with the soft tread of moccasined feet, and dressed in accord with the tints and tones of plain and forest, the animals are satisfied with trying to avoid his presence without quitting the region selected as their home.

Turkey River, Iowa, 1845.

An old-time hunter in the West makes the statement that ever since the general adoption by Indians of firearms for hunting, it has not been found that game has diminished in regions where the white man is an infrequent visitor. It is when white hunters invade their haunts, with the tread of booted feet, their clothes alien to surrounding nature and with dogs and bluster, that all kinds of game are bound to be killed or driven away. And as Sir Samuel Baker, the explorer, asserts of African game and predatory creatures: “Animals can endure traps, pitfalls, fire, and every savage method of hunting, but firearms may be used to clear them out from extensive districts.” Still, under prudent use known to Indians only, game of our forests and plains may be preserved indefinitely and in abundance of all kinds.