[CHAPTER XIV]
THE INDIFFERENT YOUNG GOBBLER
Of all stages, conditions, and peculiarities of these fowls, the young gobbler is the most difficult to understand. He is absolutely unique, hence you must employ entirely different tactics when you go in quest of him. He has little education, but he possesses a great native shrewdness, and I have sometimes thought him more difficult to get than either the old gobbler or hen; this may be a fool's luck, or it may be the result of stupidity or reticence, but I have killed ten old gobblers to one young one. As I have before stated, while the young males are with their mothers and sisters in the flock there is little difficulty in bringing them to the call after the flock is scattered. But after the separation of the sexes they are extremely hard to call, for the reason that they have abandoned the society of the females altogether, and do not pay any attention to their voices. Lack of information and a reckless carelessness have caused the loss of many young gobblers that otherwise might have been secured. After the young males have been separated some time from the females, and are banded together, they are hard to find and hard to bag when found. Instead of flushing at once into the tree at the approach of an enemy, they usually take to their legs and run some distance before stopping, making their pursuit difficult and unreliable. If once flushed and scattered, and the hunter understands how to call them, he can usually get one or two out of the flock if he is familiar with their peculiar ways. Thus after December we have three distinct classes of turkey society, the old gobblers, the young gobblers, and the hens; and no matter what the number of them is, they persistently maintain this separation the rest of the winter.
The soft, gentle quaver of the hen has no effect on the ear of the young gobbler at this season, and he will hearken to no other note or call than that of the young gobbler. Even were a flock of hens to pass beneath the tree on which he is perched, he would regard them with no more interest than he would a flock of crows; hence neither the hen nor her yelp would be a decoy to him, but the call of another young gobbler will enlist his attention. The call of the young gobbler, like that of the average boy as he is developing into manhood, is changeable and erratic; at times it is ridiculous from its awkwardness, and hard to imitate or even to identify. It consists of an irregular hoarse and discordant croak and a coarse muffled cluck that sounds like an acorn falling into a pool of water, or the gentle tap of a stick on a log. If this yelp or cluck is properly and timely made, it will bring the young gobbler to the hunter, but usually he is in no haste to come even then. They have ample time to spare for all their movements, and it requires the greatest patience and dogged determination of which a sportsman is capable to sit and wait their pleasure; but if the hunter has a band of young gobblers well scattered, if he has a good caller and is expert in its use, and will make up his mind to sit quiet and talk turkey, he will usually be rewarded. He should use only one or two low, coarse clucks, well measured and some time apart; then the low, muffled "Croc, croc." The young gobbler may be sitting on the limb of a tall cypress, hidden from view by a festoon of Spanish moss; or, if in a pine, hidden by the limbs, as still as a part of the tree. "Croc, croc," and one low, hoarse cluck, as if a nut had struck the bark of a dead log in falling, are the only sounds you dare to make. He is not so reckless in regard to the call or answers as the hens, and not so nervous. While he sits and contemplates, he measures notes; so that you have to be careful if you would fool him. Now call, "Croc, croc." His fears begin to dissipate, and running his beak through his feathers, he makes his toilet. This over, he slowly raises his long neck and head and replies, "Croc, croc." "Cong, cong, croc, croc, cluck." He turns his head with one side earthward, and gives himself a convulsive shake—"Croc, croc." He lifts up one foot and then slowly puts it down; lifts one wing, placing its tip on top of the other, then slips that one out and laps it on the first. "Croc, croc, kee, kee." He looks around again to be reassured. Now there is a rustle in the top of the tree, and you see the leaves move, for he has turned on the limb and you may see a portion of his body. You dare not shoot or risk a bullet through that brush. Wait. "Croc, croc"; he walks along the limb a few feet, but you still get only glimpses. "Croc, croc," and down he sails to the earth. A cloud of dry leaves arises around him and settles again as he closes his broad wings and straightens up. Now is your chance; bag him.
The soft, gentle quaver of the hen has no effect on the ear of the young gobbler
When the young gobbler once makes up his mind to go to your call, there is little or no stopping on his part. He walks boldly along, as if he had no fear of anything. But be careful; he will see you surely if you make an unnecessary motion, and there is no compromising a mistake with him. His adieu is final. He is a bird of the fewest words at any time, and stands upon the idea that absolute silence is safety. His habits are exclusive and retiring, seldom showing himself in openings, although at times he is fond of open pastures or prairies where he can see all around him.