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

by N. E. Jones

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.