It is a rainy day, and nothing has occurred of a local nature, that is,
nothing of a hair standing nature, so we will just spoil a few sheets of
paper relating, in a Sunday School book style, the circumstances of an
excursion after woodcock, the other day, indulged in by W.C. Root, the
Wisconsin amateur Bogardus, Jennings McDonald, Captain of a breech-loading
steamboat, and the subscriber. In the first place, it may be well to state
that the woodcock, or "Timber Doodle," as Prof. Agassiz calls it, is a
game bird. We know it is a game bird, because they charge a dollar apiece
for them in New York. The meat is about as sweet as deceased cow's liver,
but they are worth a dollar apiece. The "Timber Doodle" is a patriotic
bird, because he gets ripe on the 4th of July. He is about the size of a
doughnut, with a long bill, like a lawyer.
We took passage per skiff at twelve o'clock. If there was one drawback, it
was the fact that the oar-locks of the boat had been mislaid. After
consuming an hour in not finding them, Frank Hatch became discouraged at
seeing us lay around the levee, so he tied the oars on with tarred rope
and we got off, three of us besides the other dogs. The water was so high
that we crossed Barron's island, only having to get out and pull the boat
over two or three sand-bars and a raft or two. Every time we got out to
pull the boat, the dogs would get out to look for woodcock, around the
stumps, and when they got in the boat would be full of water and mud, and
of course we had our best clothes on. Did it ever occur to you how much
water a dog could carry in his hair? A dog is worse than a sponge. An
ordinary dog, with luck, can fill a skiff with water at two jumps. Not,
however, with us in the boat to bail out the water. The woodcock's tail
sticks up like a sore thumb. We are thus particular to describe
the woodcock, so if you ever see one you can go right away from him.
Woodcock and mosquitoes are in "cahoots." While the woodcock bores in the
ground for snakes and other feed that makes him fat and worth a dollar in
New York, the mosquito stands on the ramparts and talks to the boys.
Well, speaking about woodcock, after riding five miles, through bushes,
brambles and things, we got out of the boat and only had to walk a couple
of miles to get where the birds were. Right here we wish to state that we
shouldn't have gone after the woodcock at all, only everybody said it was
such fun. Root showed us a picture of a woodcock in a book, and if that
didn't convince us, the fact that a small boy came in town and sold three
dozen, did. Then we wanted to go. There never has been a year when
woodcock were so plenty at places we didn't visit. The most fun was at a
ditch which was about a foot wider than any of us could jump. Root gave
his gun to McDonald and plunged in. Then McDonald threw a gun to Root. It
hit him on the thumb-nail and dropped in the ditch out of sight. Mc.
thought it was Root's gun, and he apologized to Root for throwing it so
carelessly. Root supposed it was Mc.'s gun, and he apologized for not
catching it. We never saw men more polite in the world. Mc. started to
jump across, when a dog got between his legs, and both went in up to their
knees. You never can jump as well with a dog tangled up amongst your legs.
The dog looked at Jennings as though he wanted to swear. We waded through
the ditch and only got two feet wet. The rest of them had more than that
wet.
But about the woodcock. This is, kind reader, purely a woodcock story, and
more or less must be said about the dollar bird. But this is neither here
nor there. It was over in the Root river bottoms. Finally we got on the
woodcock ground and went to work. Talk about mosquitoes! There was no end
to them. We ought not to say that, either, because there are spots on our
person that just fit the end of a mosquito. There was an end to them. If
you never saw mosquitoes in convention, you want to go over there. And
right here we will give a recipe for keeping mosquitoes from biting. You
take some cedar oil and put on your coat collar, if you are a man, and if
you are a woman put it on that gingerbread work around your neck, and a
mosquito will come up and sing to you and get all ready to take toll, when
she will smell that oil. She is the sickest mosquito you ever saw. She
turns over on her back and sends her husband for the nearest doctor. We
had a bottle of cedar oil, and if Jennings hadn't left it hanging up in
Hogan's store in his coat, we should have made those mosquitoes sick. As
it was they did it to us. There isn't a spot on us as big as a billiard
table but what you can find artesian wells made by mosquitoes.
Woodcock sell higher in the market than any other bird. Lots of people
that never saw them eat snakes, eat them. When they get up to fly they
talk Bohemian, and get behind a bush. You shoot right into the bush, and
if you kill one you think you are a good shot. Talk about getting tired.
You walk around in the woods several miles, with mosquitoes getting
acquainted with you, and all the time your nerves strung up in
anticipation of seeing a dollar bill fly up, and if you don't sleep
without rocking, we are no prophet. The sport, however, is exhilerating,
and we are glad we went. We are glad because it learned us one thing, and
that is, if we ever want a woodcock real bad, it will be cheaper, easier,
and better to buy it. It will be inferred that we did not see a woodcock.
Such is the case.
But we made the blackbirds sick.