He soon espied his mate at the butt of an enormous fig tree, and signalled his advent. The moment Joe perceived Sandy he stooped down and picked up a couple of large black-looking birds, and waved them excitedly.
"My word! ole Joe's run into a flock of turkeys. Hurrah! here's luck."
Yes, Joe had been fortunate enough to "rise" a fine lot of tallagalla, to call them by their native name, better known as scrub turkey.
Unlike the so-called turkey of the plains—which, indeed, is not a true turkey, but a bustard—the scrub turkey is true to its title, being seldom or never seen out of thickly wooded country. Its breeding home is a huge mound raised by scratching together the dry leaves and bits of rotten bark and wood. On the top of this elevation of débris the eggs are laid, some scores of them, and barely covered. As the birds use the same spot for many years, the nests become in time mounds of vast dimensions. Turkey nest, as it is called, becomes in time a rich compost of leaf-mould, and is eagerly sought for garden purposes.
The bird itself is stronger in the legs than in the wings. Unless startled and rushed, it will not rise, but scuttles through the undergrowth with inconceivable speed, and he is a fortunate man who is able to draw a bead as it darts through the thousand obstacles of the scrub. Hence the necessity of a good dog to rush the birds pell-mell and startle them into immediate flight, when they almost invariably seek refuge in the trees near by.
Joe, fortunately, heard the drumming and clucking of a turkey gobbler before he was seen of them. Moving with intense caution through the bush, which was very thick at this spot, he saw at last through the intervening leaves, on a patch of bare ground, scratching among the decayed vegetable matter for grubs, a flock of turkeys containing a score or more.
They were exceedingly active, running hither and thither; many of them, just at the pullet stage, indulging in mimic warfare. The elder ones were busily engaged grubbing. Joe could easily have shot two or three of them as he stood an unseen watcher. There was a better way than that, however. Once "tree" them, and one could leisurely pick his birds. How are they to be got into the trees? He'll be his own dog.
Bursting out from his cover with a hair-raising and blood-curdling yell, making at the same time a high jump and wildly waving his arms, the stalker rushed into the midst of the mob, catching, indeed, a young one by the leg, and generally making such a hullabaloo as to scare them into instant flight.
It is a peculiarity of this bird, like that of its American brother, when once "treed," to remain there. Wanton shooters, taking advantage of this trait, will often shoot a flock right out.
The birds put up by Joe, with one or two exceptions, flew into the trees surrounding them. The lad's first act was to slip a piece of string round the captured turkey's legs and swing it from a tree limb. This done, he took a couple of pot shots, bringing down a young gobbler each time. Having made sure of a brace, he signalled to his mate, as described.