AT HOME
Only a few men, comparatively speaking, lead their lives in the
wilderness; only a few others, again speaking comparatively, are able to
take their holidays in the shape of hunting trips in the wilderness. But
all who live in the country, or who even spend a month now and then in
the country, can enjoy outdoor life themselves, and can see that their
children enjoy it in the hardy fashion which will do them good. Camping
out, and therefore the cultivation of the capacity to live in the open,
and the education of the faculties which teach observation,
resourcefulness, self-reliance, are within the reach of all who really
care for the life of the woods, the fields, and the waters. Marksmanship
with the rifle can be cultivated with small cost or trouble; and if any
one passes much time in the country he can, if only he chooses, learn
much about horsemanship.
But aside from any such benefit, it is an incalculable added pleasure to
any one’s sum of happiness if he or she grows to know, even slightly and
imperfectly, how to read and enjoy the wonder-book of nature. All
hunters should be nature lovers. It is to be hoped that the days of mere
wasteful, boastful slaughter, are past, and that from now on the hunter
will stand foremost in working for the preservation and perpetuation of
the wild life, whether big or little.
[Illustration:
RENOWN
From a photograph by Arthur Hewitt
]
The Audubon Society and kindred organizations have done much for the
proper protection of birds and of wild creatures generally; they have
taken the lead in putting a stop to wanton or short-sighted destruction,
and in giving effective utterance to the desires of those who wish to
cultivate a spirit as far removed as possible from that which brings
about such destruction. Sometimes, however, in endeavoring to impress
upon a not easily aroused public the need for action, they in their zeal
overstate this need. This is a very venial error compared to the good
they have done; but in the interest of scientific accuracy it is to be
desired that their cause should not be buttressed in such manner. Many
of our birds have diminished lamentably in numbers, and there is every
reason for taking steps to preserve them. There are water birds, shore
birds, game birds, and an occasional conspicuous bird of some other
kind, which can only be preserved by such agitation. It is also most
desirable to prevent the slaughter of small birds in the neighborhood of
towns. But I question very much whether there has been any diminution of
small-bird life throughout the country at large. Certainly no such
diminution has taken place during the past thirty years in any region of
considerable size with which I am personally acquainted. Take Long
Island, for instance. During this period there has been a lamentable
decrease in the waders—the shore-birds—which used to flock along its
southern shore. But in northern Long Island, in the neighborhood of my
own home, birds, taken as a whole, are quite as plentiful as they were
when I was a boy. There are one or two species which have decreased in
numbers, notably the woodcock; while the passenger pigeon, which was
then a rarely seen straggler, does not now appear at all. Bobwhites are
less plentiful. On the other hand, some birds have certainly increased
in numbers. This is true, for instance, of the conspicuously beautiful
and showy scarlet tanager. I think meadow larks are rather more
plentiful than they were, and wrens less so. Bluebirds have never been
common with us, but are now rather more common than formerly. It seems
to me as if the chickadees were more numerous than formerly. Purple
grackles are more plentiful than when I was a boy, and the far more
attractive redwing blackbirds less so. But these may all be, and
doubtless some must be, purely local changes, which apply only to our
immediate neighborhood. As regards most of the birds, it would be hard
to say that there has been any change. Of course, obvious local causes
will now and then account for a partial change. Thus, while the little
green herons are quite as plentiful as formerly in our immediate
neighborhood, the white-crowned night herons are not as plentiful,
because they abandoned their big heronry on Lloyd’s Neck upon the
erection of a sand-mill close by. The only ducks which are now, or at
any time during the last thirty years have been, abundant in our
neighborhood are the surf-ducks or scoters, and the old-squaws,
sometimes known as long-tailed or sou’-sou’-southerly ducks. From late
fall until early spring the continuous musical clangor of the great
flocks of sou’-sou’-southerlies, sounding across the steel-gray, wintry
waves, is well known to all who sail the waters of the Sound.
Neither the birds nor the flowers are as numerous on Long Island, or at
any rate in my neighborhood, as they are, for instance, along the Hudson
and near Washington. It is hard to say exactly why flowers and birds are
at times so local in their distribution. For instance, the bobolinks
hardly ever come around us at Sagamore Hill. Within a radius of three or
four miles of the house I do not remember to have ever seen more than
two or three couples breeding. Sharp-tailed finches are common in the
marsh which lies back of our beach; but the closely allied seaside
finches and the interesting and attractive little marsh wrens, both of
which are common in various parts of Long Island, are not found near our
home. Similarly, I know of but one place near our house where the
bloodroot grows; the may-flowers are plentiful, but among hillsides to
all appearance equally favored, are found on some, and not on others.
For wealth of bloom, aside from the orchards, we must rely chiefly upon
the great masses of laurel and the many groves of locusts. The bloom of
the locust is as evanescent as it is fragrant. During the short time
that the trees are in flower the whole air is heavy with the sweet
scent. In the fall, in the days of the aster and the golden-rod, there
is no such brilliant coloring on Long Island as farther north, for we
miss from among the forest hues the flaming crimsons and scarlets of the
northern maples.
[Illustration:
HIS FIRST BUCK
]
Among Long Island singers the wood thrushes are the sweetest; they nest
right around our house, and also in the more open woods of oak, hickory,
and chestnut, where their serene, leisurely songs ring through the leafy
arches all day long, but especially at daybreak and in the afternoons.
Baltimore orioles, beautiful of voice and plumage, hang their nests in a
young elm near a corner of the porch; robins, catbirds, valiant
kingbirds, song-sparrows, chippies, bright colored thistle-finches, nest
within a stone’s throw of the house, in the shrubbery or among the
birches and maples; grasshopper sparrows, humble little creatures with
insect-like voices, nest almost as close, in the open field, just beyond
the line where the grass is kept cut; humming-birds visit the
honeysuckles and trumpet-flowers; chimney swallows build in the
chimneys; barn swallows nest in the stable and old barn, wrens in the
bushes near by. Downy woodpeckers and many other birds make their homes
in the old orchard; during the migrations it is alive with warblers.
Towhees, thrashers, and Maryland yellow-throats build and sing in the
hedges by the garden; bush sparrows and dainty little prairie warblers
in the cedar-grown field beyond. Red-wing blackbirds haunt the wet
places. Chickadees wander everywhere; the wood-pewees, red-eyed vireos,
and black-and-white creepers keep to the tall timber, where the wary,
thievish jays chatter, and the great-crested fly-catchers flit and
scream. In the early spring, when the woods are still bare, when the
hen-hawks cry as they soar high in the upper air, and the flickers call
and drum on the dead trees, the strong, plaintive note of the meadow
lark is one of the most noticeable and most attractive sounds. On the
other hand, the cooing of the mourning doves is most noticeable in the
still, hot summer days. In the thick tangles chats creep and flutter and
jerk, and chuckle and whoop as they sing; I have heard them sing by
night. The cedar birds offer the most absolute contrast to the chats, in
voice, manner, and habits. They never hide, they are never fussy or
noisy; they always behave as if they were so well-bred that it is
impossible to resent the inroads the soft, quiet, pretty creatures make
among the cherries. One flicker became possessed of a mania to dig its
hole in one corner of the house, just under the roof. It hammered
lustily at boards and shingles, and returned whenever driven away; until
at last we were reluctantly forced to decree its death. Oven-birds are
very plentiful, and it seems to me that their flight song is more
frequently given after dusk than in daylight. It is sometimes given when
the whippoorwills are calling. In late June evenings, especially by
moonlight, but occasionally even when the night is dark, we hear this
song from the foot of the hill where the woods begin. There seems to be
one particular corner where year after year one or more oven-birds dwell
which possess an especial fondness for this night-singing in the air. It
is a pity the little eared owl is called screech-owl. Its tremulous,
quavering cry is not a screech at all, and has an attraction of its own.
These little owls come up to the house after dark, and are fond of
sitting on the elk antlers over the gable. When the moon is up, by
choosing one’s position, the little owl appears in sharp outline against
the bright disk, seated on his many-tined perch.
[Illustration:
ALGONQUIN AND SKIP
]
The neighborhood of Washington abounds in birds no less than in flowers.
There have been one or two rather curious changes among its birds since
John Burroughs wrote of them forty years ago. He speaks of the
red-headed woodpecker as being then one of the most abundant of all
birds—even more so than the robin. It is not uncommon now, and a pair
have for three years nested in the White House grounds; but it is at
present by no means an abundant bird. On the other hand, John Burroughs
never saw any mocking-birds, whereas during the last few years these
have been increasing in numbers, and there are now several places within
easy walking or riding distance where we are almost sure to find them.
The mocking-bird is as conspicuous as it is attractive, and when at its
best it is the sweetest singer of all birds; though its talent for
mimicry, and a certain odd perversity in its nature, often combine to
mar its performances. The way it flutters and dances in the air when
settling in a tree-top, its alert intelligence, its good looks, and the
comparative ease with which it can be made friendly and familiar, all
add to its charm. I am sorry to say that it does not nest in the White
House grounds. Neither does the wood thrush, which is so abundant in
Rock Creek Park, within the city limits. Numbers of robins,
song-sparrows, sputtering, creaking purple grackles—crow blackbirds—and
catbirds nest in the grounds. So, I regret to say, do crows, the sworn
foes of all small birds, and as such entitled to no mercy. The hearty,
wholesome, vigorous songs of the robins, and the sweet, homelike strains
of the song-sparrows are the first to be regularly heard in the grounds,
and they lead the chorus. The catbirds chime in later; they are queer,
familiar, strongly individual birds, and are really good singers; but
they persist in interrupting their songs with catlike squalling. Two or
three pairs of flickers nest with us, as well as the red-headed
woodpeckers above mentioned; and a pair of furtive cuckoos. A pair of
orchard orioles nested with us one spring, but not again; the redstarts,
warbling vireos, and summer warblers have been more faithful. Baltimore
orioles frequently visit us, as do the scarlet tanagers and tufted
titmice, but for some reason they have not nested here. This spring a
cardinal bird took up his abode in the neighborhood of the White House,
and now and then waked us in the morning by his vigorous whistling in a
magnolia tree just outside our windows. A Carolina wren also spent the
winter with us, and sang freely. In both spring and fall the
white-throated sparrows sing while stopping over in the course of their
migrations. Their delicate, plaintive, musical notes are among the most
attractive of bird sounds. In the early spring we sometimes hear the
fox-sparrows and tree-sparrows, and of course the twittering snow-birds.
Later warblers of many kinds throng the trees around the house. Rabbits
breed in the grounds, and every now and then possums wander into them.
Gray squirrels are numerous, and some of them so tame that they will eat
out of our hands. In spring they cut the flowers from the stately tulip
trees. In the hot June days the indigo birds are especially in evidence
among the singers around Washington; they do not mind the heat at all,
but perch in the tops of little trees in the full glare of the sun, and
chant their not very musical, but to my ears rather pleasing, song
throughout the long afternoons. This June two new guests came to the
White House in the shape of two little saw-whet owls; little bits of
fellows, with round heads, and no head tufts, or “ears.” I think they
were the young of the year; they never uttered the saw-whet sound, but
made soft snoring noises. They always appeared after nightfall, when we
were sitting on the south porch, in the warm, starlit darkness. They
were fearless and unsuspicious. Sometimes they flew noiselessly to and
fro, and seemingly caught big insects on the wing. At other times they
would perch on the iron awning-bars, directly overhead. Once one of them
perched over one of the windows, and sat motionless, looking exactly
like an owl of Pallas Athene.
[Illustration:
PETER RABBIT
From a photograph, copyright, 1904, by E. S. Curtis
]
At Sagamore Hill we like to have the wood-folk and field-folk familiar;
but there are necessary bounds to such familiarity where chickens are
kept for use and where the dogs are valued family friends. The rabbits
and gray squirrels are as plenty as ever. The flying squirrels and
chipmunks still hold their own; so do the muskrats in the marshes. The
woodchucks, which we used to watch as we sat in rocking-chairs on the
broad veranda, have disappeared; but recently one has made himself a
home under the old barn, where we are doing our best to protect him. A
mink which lived by the edge of the bay under a great pile of lumber had
to be killed; its lair showed the remains not only of chickens and
ducks, but of two muskrats, and, what was rather curious, of two skates
or flatfish. A fox which lived in the big wood lot evidently disliked
our companionship and abandoned his home. Of recent years I have
actually seen but one fox near Sagamore Hill. This was early one
morning, when I had spent the night camping on the wooded shores near
the mouth of Huntington Harbor. The younger children were with me, this
being one of the camping-out trips, in rowboats, on the Sound, taken
especially for their benefit. We had camped the previous evening in a
glade by the edge of a low sea-bluff, far away from any house; and while
the children were intently watching me as I fried strips of beefsteak
and thin slices of potatoes in bacon fat, we heard a fox barking in the
woods. This gave them a delightfully wild feeling, and with refreshing
confidence they discussed the likelihood of seeing it next morning; and
to my astonishment see it we did, on the shore, soon after we started to
row home.
[Illustration:
THE GUINEA PIGS
]
One pleasant fall morning in 1892 I was writing in the gun-room, on the
top floor of the house, from the windows of which one can see far over
the Sound. Suddenly my small boy of five bustled up in great excitement
to tell me that the hired-man had come back from the wood-pile pond—a
muddy pool in a beech and hickory grove a few hundred yards from the
house—to say that he had seen a coon and that I should come down at once
with my rifle; for Davis, the colored gardener, had been complaining
much about the loss of his chickens and did not know whether the
malefactor was a coon or a mink. Accordingly, I picked up a rifle and
trotted down to the pond holding it in one hand, while the little boy
trotted after me, affectionately clasping the butt. Sure enough, in a
big blasted chestnut close to the pond was the coon, asleep in a shallow
hollow of the trunk, some forty feet from the ground. It was a very
exposed place for a coon to lie during the day-time, but this was a bold
fellow and seemed entirely undisturbed by our voices. He was altogether
too near the house, or rather the chicken-coops, to be permitted to stay
where he was—especially as but a short time before I had, with mistaken
soft-heartedness, spared a possum I found on the place—and accordingly I
raised my rifle; then I remembered for the first time that the rear
sight was off, as I had taken it out for some reason; and in consequence
I underwent the humiliation of firing two or three shots in vain before
I got the coon. As he fell out of the tree the little boy pounced
gleefully on him; fortunately he was dead, and we walked back to the
house in triumph, each holding a hind leg of the quarry.
The possum spoken of above was found in a dogwood tree not more than
eighty yards from the house, one afternoon when we were returning from a
walk in the woods. As something had been killing the hens, I felt that
it was at least under suspicion and that I ought to kill it, but a
possum is such an absurd creature that I could not resist playing with
it for some time; after that I felt that to kill it in cold-blood would
be too much like murder, and let it go. This tender-heartedness was
regarded as much misplaced both by farmer and gardener; hence the coon
suffered.
A couple of years later, on a clear, cold Thanksgiving Day, we had
walked off some five miles to chop out a bridle-path which had become
choked with down-timber; the two elder of our little boys were with us.
The sun had set long ere our return; we were walking home on a road
through our own woods and were near the house. We had with us a stanch
friend, a large yellow dog, which one of the children, with fine
disregard for considerations of sex, had named Susan. Suddenly Susan
gave tongue off in the woods to one side and we found he had treed a
possum. This time I was hardhearted and the possum fell a victim; the
five-year-old boy explaining to the seven-year-old that “it was the
first time he had ever seen a fellow killed.”
Susan was one of many dogs whose lives were a joy and whose deaths were
a real grief to the family; among them and their successors are or have
been Sailor Boy, the Chesapeake Bay dog, who not only loves guns, but
also fireworks and rockets, and who exercises a close and delighted
supervision over every detail of each Fourth of July celebration; Alan
and Jessie, the Scotch terriers; and Jack, the most loved of all, a
black smooth-haired Manchester terrier. Jack lived in the house; the
others outside, ever on the lookout to join the family in rambles
through the woods. Jack was human in his intelligence and affection; he
learned all kinds of tricks, was a high-bred gentleman, never brawled,
and was a dauntless fighter. Besides the family, his especial friend,
playfellow, and teacher was colored Charles, the footman at Washington.
Skip, the little black-and-tan terrier that I brought back from the
Colorado bear hunt, changed at once into a real little-boy’s dog. He
never lets his small master out of his sight, and rides on every horse
that will let him—by preference on Algonquin the sheltie, whose nerves
are of iron.
[Illustration:
FAMILY FRIENDS
]
The first night possum hunt in which I ever took part was at Quantico,
on the Virginia side of the Potomac, some twenty miles below Washington.
It was a number of years ago, and several of us were guests of a loved
friend, Hallett Phillips, since dead. Although no hunter, Phillips was
devoted to outdoor life. I think it was at this time that Rudyard
Kipling had sent him the manuscript of “The Feet of the Young Men,”
which he read aloud to us.
Quantico is an island, a quaint, delightful place, with a club-house. We
started immediately after dark, going across to the mainland,
accompanied by a dozen hounds, with three or four negroes to manage them
and serve as axemen. Each member of the party carried a torch, as
without one it was impossible to go at any speed through the woods. The
dogs, of course, have to be specially trained not to follow either fox
or rabbit. It was dawn before we got back, wet, muddy, and weary,
carrying eleven possums. All night long we rambled through the woods and
across the fields, the dogs working about us as we followed in single
file. After a while some dog would strike a trail. It might take some
time to puzzle it out; then the whole pack would be away, and all the
men ran helter-skelter after them, plunging over logs and through
swamps, and now and then taking headers in the darkness. We were never
fortunate enough to strike a coon, which would have given a good run and
a fight at the end of it. When the unfortunate possum was overtaken on
the ground he was killed before we got up. Otherwise he was popped alive
into one of the big bags carried by the axemen. Two or three times he
got into a hollow log or hole and we dug or chopped him out. Generally,
however, he went up a tree. It was a picturesque sight, in the
flickering glare of the torches, to see the dogs leaping up around the
trunk of a tree and finally to make out the possum clinging to the trunk
or perched on some slender branch, his eyes shining brightly through the
darkness; or to watch the muscular grace with which the darky axemen,
ragged and sinewy, chopped into any tree if it had too large and smooth
a trunk to climb. A possum is a queer, sluggish creature, whose brain
seems to work more like that of some reptile than like a mammal’s. When
one is found in a tree there is no difficulty whatever in picking it off
with the naked hand. Two or three times during the night I climbed the
tree myself, either going from branch to branch or swarming up some
tangle of grape-vines. The possum opened his mouth as I approached and
looked as menacing as he knew how; but if I pulled him by the tail he
forgot everything except trying to grab with all four feet, and then I
could take him by the back of the neck and lift him off—either carrying
him down, held gingerly at arm’s length, or dropping him into the open
mouth of a bag if I felt sufficiently sure of my aim.
In the spring of 1903, while in western Kansas, a little girl gave me a
baby badger, captured by her brother, and named after him, Josiah. I
took Josiah home to Sagamore Hill, where the children received him
literally with open arms, while even the dogs finally came to tolerate
him. He grew apace, and was a quaint and on the whole a friendly—though
occasionally short-tempered—pet. He played tag with us with
inexhaustible energy, looking much like a small mattress with a leg at
each corner; he dug holes with marvellous rapidity; and when he grew
snappish we lifted him up by the back of the neck, which rendered him
harmless. He ate bread and milk, dead mice and birds, and eggs; he would
take a hen’s egg in his mouth, break it, and avoid spilling any of the
contents. When angered, he hissed, and at other times he made low
guttural sounds. The nine-year-old boy became his especial friend. Now
and then he nipped the little boy’s legs, but this never seemed to
interrupt the amicable relations between the two; as the little boy
normally wore neither shoes nor stockings, and his blue overalls were
thin, Josiah probably found the temptation at times irresistible. If on
such occasions the boy was in Josiah’s wire-fenced enclosure, he sat on
a box with his legs tucked under him; if the play was taking place
outside, he usually climbed into the hammock, while Josiah pranced and
capered clumsily beneath, tail up and head thrown back. But Josiah never
bit when picked up; although he hissed like a teakettle as the little
boy carried him about, usually tightly clasped round where his waist
would have been if he had had one.
At different times I have been given a fairly appalling number of
animals, from known and unknown friends; in one year the list
included—besides a lion, a hyena, and a zebra from the Emperor of
Ethiopia—five bears, a wildcat, a coyote, two macaws, an eagle, a barn
owl, and several snakes and lizards. Most of these went to the Zoo, but
a few were kept by the children. Those thus kept numbered at one end of
the scale gentle, trustful, pretty things, like kangaroo rats and flying
squirrels; and at the other end a queer-tempered young black bear, which
the children named Jonathan Edwards, partly because of certain
well-marked Calvinistic tendencies in his disposition, partly out of
compliment to their mother, whose ancestors included that Puritan
divine. The kangaroo rats and flying squirrels slept in their pockets
and blouses, went to school with them, and sometimes unexpectedly
appeared at breakfast or dinner. The bear added zest to life in more
ways than one. When we took him to walk, it was always with a chain and
club; and when at last he went to the Zoo, the entire household breathed
a sigh of relief, although I think the dogs missed him, as he had
occasionally yielded them the pleasure of the chase in its strongest
form.
[Illustration:
JOSIAH
]
As a steady thing, the children found rabbits and guinea pigs the most
satisfactory pets. The guinea pigs usually rejoiced in the names of the
local or national celebrities of the moment; at one time there were
five, which were named after naval heroes and friendly ecclesiastical
dignitaries—an Episcopalian Bishop, a Catholic Priest, and my own Dutch
Reformed Pastor—Bishop Doane, Father O’Grady, Dr. Johnson, Fighting Bob
Evans, and Admiral Dewey. Father O’Grady, by the way, proved to be of
the softer sex; a fact definitely established when two of his joint
owners, rushing breathless into the room, announced to a mixed company,
“Oh, oh, Father O’Grady has had some children!”
Of course there are no pets like horses; and horsemanship is a test of
prowess. The best among vigorous out-of-door sports should be more than
pastimes. Play is good for play’s sake, within moderate limits,
especially if it is athletic play; and, again within moderate limits, it
is good because a healthy body helps toward healthiness of mind. But if
play serves only either of these ends, it does not deserve the serious
consideration which rightly attaches to play which in itself fits a man
to do things worth doing; and there exists no creature much more
contemptible than a man past his first youth who leads a life devoted to
mere sport, without thought of the serious work of life. In a free
Government the average citizen should be able to do his duty in war as
well as in peace; otherwise he falls short. Cavalrymen and infantrymen,
who do not need special technical knowledge, are easily developed out of
men who are already soldiers in the rough, that is, who, in addition to
the essential qualities of manliness and character, the qualities of
resolution, daring and intelligence, which go to make up the “fighting
edge,” also possess physical hardihood; who can live in the open, walk
long distances, ride, shoot, and endure fatigue, hardship, and exposure.
But if all these traits must be painfully acquired, then it takes a long
time indeed before the man can be turned into a good soldier. Now, there
is little tendency to develop these traits in our highly complex, rather
over-civilized, modern industrial life, and therefore the sports which
produce them serve a useful purpose. Hence, when able to afford a horse,
or to practise on a rifle range, one can feel that the enjoyment is
warranted by what may be called considerations of national ethics.
As with everything else, so with riding; some take to it naturally,
others never can become even fairly good horsemen. All the children
ride, with varying skill. While young, a Shetland pony serves; the
present pony, Algonquin, a calico or pinto, being as knowing and
friendly as possible. His first small owner simply adored him, treating
him as a twin brother, and having implicit faith in his mental powers.
On one occasion, when a naval officer of whom the children were fond
came to call, in full dress, Algonquin’s master, who was much impressed
by the sight, led up Algonquin to enjoy it too, and was shocked by the
entire indifference with which the greedy pony persisted in eating
grass. One favorite polo pony, old Diamond, long after he became a
pensioner served for whichever child had just graduated from the
sheltie. Next in order was a little mare named Yagenka, after the
heroine of one of Sienkewicz’s blood-curdling romances of mediæval
Poland. When every rideable animal is impressed, all the children
sometimes go out with their mother and me; looking much like the
Cumberbatch family in Caldecott’s pictures.
[Illustration:
BLEISTEIN JUMPING
From a photograph, copyright, 1902, by Clinedinst, Washington, D. C.
]
Of recent years I have not been able to ride to hounds; but when
opportunity has offered I have kept as saddle horses one or two hunters,
so that instead of riding the road I could strike off across country;
the hunter scrambling handily through rough places, and jumping an
occasional fence if necessary. While in Washington this is often, except
for an occasional long walk down Rock Creek or along the Virginia side
of the Potomac, the only exercise I can get. Among the various horses I
have owned in recent years Bleistein was the one I liked best, because
of his good nature and courage. He was a fair, although in no way a
remarkable, jumper. One day, May 3, 1902, I took him out to Chevy Chase
and had him photographed while jumping various fences and brush hurdles;
the accompanying picture is from one of these photos. Another hunter,
Renown, was a much higher, but an uncertain, jumper. He was a beautiful
horse, and very good-tempered, but excessively timid.
We have been able to fix a rifle range at Sagamore, though only up to
200 yards. Some of the children take to shooting naturally, others can
only with difficulty be made to learn the rudiments of what they regard
as a tiresome business. Many friends have shot on this range. We use
only sporting rifles; my own is one of the new model Government
Springfields, stocked and sighted to suit myself. For American game the
modern small calibre, high power, smokeless-powder rifle, of any one
among several makes, is superseding the others; although for some
purposes an old 45–70 or 45–90, even with black powder, is as good as
any modern weapon, and for very heavy game the calibre should be larger
than that of the typical modern arm, with a heavier ball and more
powder. But after all, any good modern rifle is good enough; when a
certain pitch of excellence in the weapon has been attained, then the
determining factor in achieving success is the quality of the man behind
the gun.
My eldest boy killed his first buck just before he was fourteen, and his
first moose—a big bull with horns which spread 56 inches—just before he
was seventeen. Both were killed in the wilderness, in the great north
woods, on trips sufficiently hard to afford some test of endurance and
skill. Such a hunting trip is even more than a delightful holiday,
provided the work is hard as well as enjoyable; and therefore it must be
taken in the wilderness. Big private preserves may serve a useful
purpose if managed with such judgment and kindliness that the good will
of the neighborhood is secured; but the sport in them somehow seems to
have lost its savor, even though they may be large enough to give the
chance of testing a man’s woodcraft no less than his marksmanship. I
have but once hunted in one of them. That was in the fall of 1902, when
Senator Proctor took me into the Corbin Park game preserve in New
Hampshire. The Senator is not merely a good shot; he is a good hunter,
with the eye, the knowledge of the game, and the ability to take
advantage of cover and walk silently, which are even more important than
straight powder. He took me out alone for the afternoon, and, besides
the tame buffalo, he showed me one elk and over twenty deer. We were
only after the wild boar, which have flourished wonderfully. Just at
dusk we saw a three-year-old boar making his way toward an old deserted
orchard; and creeping up, I shot him as he munched apples under one of
the trees.