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.
[Illustration: 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.