Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 18, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 877. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
THE "FLYING DUTCHMAN" UP TO DATE.
ONE OF THE OLD SAILOR'S YARNS.
BY W. J. HENDERSON.
It was the day before a great storm. Any one familiar with the face of
the sea could have told that. The sky was a dead, dull sheet of cold
leaden-gray cloud, and the color of it was reflected in a darker shade
in the vast expanse of heaving waters. From the southward and eastward
long, broad, oily swells were rolling in a formidable procession. As
each one swept into the shallow water close to the shore it reared
itself in a curving pinnacle of gray shot with green. Then it whitened
in a quivering, broken line along its crest, and rushing forward, hurled
itself upon the beach in a crashing swirl of snowy foam. Not a breath
of air was stirring. The atmosphere was damp and heavy, and it seemed to
clog the lungs. Sounds along the shore were preternaturally clear in the
intervals between the thunder-bursts of the surf, and the crowing of a
cock at a farm-house half a mile away could be distinctly heard. Not a
sail was to be seen except far away in the northeast, where the light
canvas of a schooner showed above the wavering line of the horizon.
Nearer at hand a south-bound steamer was ploughing her way seaward,
rolling so perilously that the yawning throat of her fuming black
smokestack lay wide open toward the land at every starboard lurch of
her. The Old Sailor was sitting in his accustomed place on the pier,
gazing around the horizon and shaking his head. There was no doubt that
the day or the ship in sight had aroused in his mind some reminiscent
train of thought. So Henry and George, who had caught sight of him,
determined to join him. They walked quickly out on the pier, but before
they reached their friend, he turned his head and called out,
"Wot d'ye think of 't?"
"Of what?" asked Henry, as they paused beside him.
"O' the weather."
"It looks as if we were going to have a severe storm," said Henry.
"Werry good; werry good indeed," declared the Old Sailor, gazing around
the horizon once more and indulging in one of his silent laughs. "An'
s'posin'," he continued, "I was to go fur to ax you wot quarter would
the wind come in, wot'd ye say?"
"Southeast," answered George, confidently.
"Not so werry good," commented the Old Sailor. "Ye can't allus say that
the wind are a-goin' fur to come from the same quarter as the swells is
a-comin' from. I reckon we'll git this fust o' the no'theast, an' then
east, an' then southeast, an' so on around to nor'west, w'ere it'll
clear off. It are a-goin' to be one o' them there cycloons wot ye read
about. An' w'en it comes, w'y, gimme plenty o' sea-room an' a good stout
main-torps'l; that's wot."
The Old Sailor relapsed into a deep silence, and the boys waited
patiently for several minutes, knowing that if there was any memory at
work within him it would surely work its way out. In about five minutes
the old man suddenly broke out thus:
"Ye may paral and sarve me with fish bones ef this ain't the werry
identical kind o' day wot it happened on, 'ceptin' as how it didn't
really happen till night, an' it are now not more'n five bells in the
arternoon watch. I were a-takin' the brig _Banana Peel_ out from St.
Paul de Loanda to Delagoa Bay with a cargo of frankfurter sausages,
condensed milk, leather shoelaces, an' beeswax. The Cap'n, Jerubabel
Moxon, were took sick o' coast-fever in St. Paul, an' had to be left
there. So bein' I were the fust mate an' it were my dooty fur to take
command an' perceed with the woyidge aroun' the Cape an' into Delagoa
Bay, I called at Cape Town fur some fresh purwisions an' water, and we
laid at anchor in Table Bay fur two days. W'en I were a-gittin' ready
fur to git under way a old boatman sez to me, sez he, 'Ef I was you, I'd
wait a day or two longer. It are a-goin' to blow putty fresh from the
east'rd, an' ye won't be able fur to double the Cape.' But seein' as how
there weren't no other signs o' weather 'ceptin' his talk, I reckoned
I'd go ahead, an' I did.
"Waal, boys, we hadn't no more'n got clean out to sea nor she come on in
stiff puffs onto the east'rd, an' in about three hours it were blowing
half a gale. I laid the brig close-hauled on the port tack, but she made
leeway by the rood, and I knowed I were a-headin' a good deal nigher fur
the antarctic continent than fur the Cape o' Good Hope. Fur three days
an' nights that easter blowed. It warn't never a whole gale, but it kep'
us under short canvas, an' riz enough sea fur to keep us way down to
leeward all the time, an' when it bruk we was two hundred miles sou'west
o' the Cape. Now we got a southerly wind, an' in twenty-four hours we
doubled the Cape o' Good Hope, and I laid the course to weather Cape
Agulhas. Blow me fur pickles, ef it didn't fall a flat calm w'en we was
off that cape, jess like this one to-day, with a mos' disorganizin'
swell a-runnin' in from the southeast. I seed that it were a-goin fur to
come on to blow, but wot could I do? We was about ten miles off the
land, an' them swells a-settin' us in toward it all the time at a mos'
amazin' pace. I wished as how I were back on the other side o' Good
Hope, w'ere them same swells would 'a' bin a-settin' us off shore.
Howsumever, it warn't no use wishin'; 'cos w'y, wishes ain't
steam-engines or perpellers, an' won't make ships go w'en there ain't no
wind.
"Waal, there we was, a-buggaluggin' aroun' in the mos' permiskous
fashion, like a fly in a plate o' butter. Night come on darker'n the
inside o' an empty mess-chest with the lid shut down. We was a-rollin'
an' a-rollin' so that I were more'n half afeard as how we'd roll the
masts out o' the bloomin' hooker, an' most o' the men was on deck
hangin' on fur dear life, an' waitin' to hear the wind begin fur to
howl. But I kinder b'lieved myself that we wouldn't get it afore
mornin'. Waal, all on a suddent down to the south'ard an' west'ard, on
our stabboard quarter, there comes one o' the mos' awful ear-splittin'
screeches I ever heerd in all my life. We all held our breath, an' I
reckon most on us turned white. 'Cos w'y, none on us ever heerd any sich
sound afore. In about three minutes we heerd it ag'in. Then the whole
sky down there lit up with a big green flash, as ef all the green
fireworks on 'arth'd gone off at oncet.
"'Wot in bloomin' Africa are it?' sez I to Hiram Sink, my mate, sez I.
"'Ghosts, sure,' sez he to me, sez he.
"I were jess a-goin' to tell him that ghosts didn't walk aroun' at sea
an' set off fireworks, w'en a shout from the hands forrad stopped me.
There, broad off our stabboard quarter, about a mile away, were a brig
lined out against the sky in a reg'lar skellington o' waverin' fire. It
were the palest greenest sort o' fire, an' she looked like the ghost o'
a brig.
"'The _Flyin' Dutchman_!' sez Hiram Sink, sez he.
"'By the great anchor flukes, them's it!' sez I.
"An' at that werry identical minute there were another one o' them awful
screeches, an', pst! that there brig jess went out, like as ef ye'd
turned off the gas.
"'We 'ain't got no show to git out o' this,' sez Hiram Sink, sez he.
"'Nary show. We got to go on them rocks sure,' sez I to he, sez I.
"A werry few minutes arter that a hand forrard yells, 'Steamer on the
stabboard bow!'
"An', sure 'nuff, we could see the lights in her cabin. Nex' thing I
knowed, there were a launch off our quarter, an' a voice hailed us,
"'Aboard the brig there!'
"'Hello!' sez I. 'Who on 'arth are you?'
"'I'm the owner o' that steam-yacht up there, an' I want to come aboard
you,' sez he.
"'Come on, then,' sez I.
"So the launch come alongside, an' the man comes aboard. He sartinly
were a pikooliar pusson. His face were so full o' wrinkles it looked
like it were made o' rope, an' he had a stiff mustache as white as
chalk. His eyes was little an' black an' piercin'. But he were dressed
in the swellest kind o' yachtin' toggery ye ever seed, an' spite o' his
lookin' a hundred years old, he skipped over the side like a midshipman.
He come up to me with a jolly laugh, slapped me on the back, an' sez he
to me, sez he,
"'How'd ye like the show?'
"'Wot show?' sez I to he, sez I.
"'W'y, my show down yonder--shrieks, lightnin', ghost ship, an' all
them--eh?'
"'W'y,' sez I to he, sez I, 'we thort it were the _Flyin' Dutchman_.'
"'So it were,' sez he to me, sez he, jess like that, me bein' Cap'n o'
the brig, an' him a grinnin' Methuselah in yachtin' togs.
"'Wot d'ye mean?' sez I.
"'I'm the Flyin' Dutchman, the only one in the business, Cap'n G. W.
Vanderdecken,' sez he.
"'But it ain't reg'lar at all,' sez I. 'Wot are you a-doin' of with a
steam-yacht an' them clothes?'
"'Wot did ye expect? W'y, I'm up to date, I am,' sez he, laffin' like
he'd bust hisself. 'I ain't no old moth-eaten barnacle-covered, worn-out
spook. I'm a real, live, wide-awake Flyin' Dutchman, right down here in
my own partikler latitoods, an' out an' 'tendin' to business w'en
there's thick weather a-brewin'. It'll blow a livin' gale by mornin'.'
"An' with that he went into sech a fit o' laffin' I thort he'd putty
well choke hisself to death, an' I 'mos' wished he would, him a-comin'
aroun' scarin' sailor-men, an' makin' fun o' 'em w'en they was in danger
o' shipwrack an' death.
"'Waal,' sez I to he, sez I, 'ef you be the Flyin' Dutchman, you'd
better go back to wherever you come from, an' let us get wracked in
peace. We ain't in no humor to be laffed at,' sez I to he, sez I, jess
like that.
"'W'y,' sez he, 'ye might jess as well laff as cry, 'cos w'y, arter
ye're all dead ye can't do nothin'.'
"'Waal,' sez I, gittin' putty mad, 'there's one thing I can do afore I
goes to Davy Jones's locker; I can throw you overboard.'
"I made a move toward him, an' he jumped back an' pulled a whistle out
o' his pocket an' blowed it. The nex' second the air jess shook with
them awful screams ag'in, an' the yacht blazed up in streaks o' fire. I
stopped like I were shot.
"'Good show, ain't it?' sez he. 'There ain't nothin' like it a-scourin'
the high seas.'
"With that he dances aroun' on one leg an' laffs ag'in like a crazy
hyena.
"'Look here,' sez I to he, sez I, 'I don't see wot business you got with
a steam-yacht, anyhow.'
"'W'y,' sez he to me, sez he, 'you made one kick about that already. Wot
d'ye s'pose? D'ye think I'm goin' to be behind the times? 'Ain't I got
as good a right to have all the modern improvements as any other man
afloat?'
"'But the last time I seed you,' sez I, 'were about ten year ago, an'
you had a old-fashioned sailin'-vessel then.'
"'An' wot good were she?' sez he, speakin' kind o' mad like. 'I couldn't
git to wind'ard in her in any sort o' weather at all.'
"'O' course not,' sez I to he, sez I. 'Ye ain't expected to git to
wind'ard. You're expected to be down here a-tryin' to double this 'ere
cape in a gale o' wind an' gittin' blowed back.'
"'Waal, my son,' sez he to me, sez he, 'we got all that old story
changed now. That's wot used to happen to me, but it don't happen no
more. I got a steamer now, an' I can git to wind'ard in putty poor
weather. An' as for doublin' this 'ere cape, I jess do that two or three
times a year fur my health, an' to keep up my repitation. It wouldn't do
fur me never to be seed down here at all; 'cos w'y, a lot o' you
ignerent sailor-men'd git so ye wouldn't b'lieve in me, an' then my
occupation'd be gone. I jess showed up fur you as a matter o' business,
an' I'm sure I give you a mighty good show, too. An' now here you are
a-grumblin' an' a-kickin' an' a-talkin' about throwin' me overboard. Not
as I'd mind bein' in the sea werry much, 'cos ye can't drown me, ye
know. But I got feelin's, I have, an' I don't like to be treated bad by
nobody at all, I don't.'
"An' blow me fur pickles ef the old willain didn't pull out his
hankercher an' wipe his eyes jess like he were a-cryin'.
"'Ef you don't want to hear hard words from sailor-men,' sez I to he,
sez I, 'don't go fur to come fur to appear to 'em off this 'ere cape an'
bring on foul weather an' shipwrack.'
"'Ah, say,' sez he, takin' the hankercher from his eyes and commencin'
fur to laff ag'in, 'd' you b'lieve that tommy-rot?'
"'Wot!' sez I, 'ain't you the cause o' this 'ere weather?'
"'Naw-w-w,' sez he, disgusted like.
"'Waal,' sez I, 'you're the sign o' 't.'
"'Not edzackly,' sez he. 'I allers turn on my show w'en there's bad
weather comin'. I got to. I got to keep up my repitation. W'y, wot'd
Herne the Hunter, the Erl-King, the Headless Horseman, an' old Mother
Erda think o' me ef I didn't attend to business? I'd git kicked out o'
respectable spook society, an' w'ere in goodness'd I go then?'
"There not seemin' to be no fittin' answer to that there inquiry, I
didn't make none. No more did Hiram Sink, him havin' lost his breath
w'en Vanderdecken first came aboard, an' not bein' able to speak.
"'But I want to tell you one thing,' sez the Flyin' Dutchman, sez he;
'ef it's the weather an' the lee shore you're a-worrin' about, I can
prove to ye that I 'ain't got no sort o' interest in it.'
"'How can ye do that?' sez I to he, sez I.
"'I'll tow ye round the cape,' sez he.
"Waal, my sons, ye could 'a' knocked me down with a compass-card. Who
ever heard o' the Flyin' Dutchman doin' sich a thing?
"'All right,' sez I to he, sez I. 'Will you give us a line?'
"'Sure,' sez he; 'look out there forrad.'
"He blowed that whistle o' his a couple o' times, an' the end o' a
heavin'-line lit onto my fo'k's'le deck. The hands was 'mos' afraid to
touch it, but bime-by Hiram Sink got the hawser aboard an' made fast.
The Flyin' Dutchman's launch were dropped astern, an' his bloomin'
steam-yacht went ahead, towin' us along at about seven knots an hour. As
fur him he walked up an' down the deck mumblin' to hisself like he were
puffickly disgusted with the entire perceedin's. Arter he'd towed us
putty well past the cape, an' I commenced fur to feel a leetle easier in
my mind, I walked up to him, an' sez I to he, sez I,
"'Look here, Mr. Flyin' Dutchman.'
"'Waal, Mr. Sailin' American, wot are it?'
"'I'd like fur to have the privilege o' axin' you a fair question.'
"'Heave ahead,' sez he, 'an' I'll answer 't ef I likes.'
"'What brought ye aboard o' my vessel, anyhow?'
"'Waal,' sez he, 'I'm out o' baccy, an' I thort as how ye might let me
have a little.'
"'Oho!' sez I to he, sez I, 'I s'pose ye can't lay in a cargo 'cos ye
kin only land once in seven years.'
"'Aw, gammon!' sez he, 'I can land w'enever I wants to.'
"'But how about keepin' up yer repitation?' sez I.
"'That's all right,' sez he. 'Who's goin' to know me in broad daylight
with a steam-yacht an' in these togs? W'y, I'm goin' up to Calcutta as
quick as I can get there.'
"I told him to wait a minute, an' I went an' got him a box o' smokin'
baccy, an' he were werry grateful fur 't, too.
"'Now,' sez I to he, sez I, 'I got to tell ye somethin' afore ye go.'
"'Waal,' sez he, 'wot are it?'
"'I can't jess edzackly b'lieve,' sez I, 'that you're ginuwine.'
"'Ginuwine wot?' sez he.
"'Genuwine Flyin' Dutchman.'
"'Wot!' sez he. 'Waal, jess you wait a few minutes an' I'll show ye.'
"With that he jumped over the rail. I thort he were in the sea, but I
seed him in his launch goin' out ahead o' us. At the same time the
tow-line gave a jerk an' parted right under our fore-stay. The nex'
minute them awful screams bruk out ag'in, an' then the Flyin' Dutchman's
yacht came down past us at a twenty-knot gait. She were red hot all
over, an' steam hissed from the sea as she passed. Her masts and spars
looked to be all afire, an' on the bridge in a cloud o' smoke stood the
Flyin' Dutchman hisself, smokin' a pipe o' the baccy I give him. An' he
looked like he were a sheet o' white fire.
"'Ha, ha, ha, ha!' he yelled. 'Ye don't believe I'm genuwine, eh? I'll
show ye!'
"An', pst! him an' the yacht an' the fire an' the steam was gone, jess
like that, leaving the sea blacker'n ink. An' the nex' minute whee-oop
come the gale, not out o' the southeast, but out o' the no'theast. An'
it blowed us back two hundred mile, dismasted us, an' generally used us
up. An' I don't want to be towed by the Flyin' Dutchman ag'in."
A DAY WITH SAND-PIPER SNIPE, ESQ.
BY DUDLEY D. F. PARKER
There is no pleasanter way of spending a day than snipe-shooting, and
there are many reasons why it is so popular. The birds are to be found
almost anywhere where water and sedge-grass abound, though the best
shooting-grounds are the salt-meadow-bordered bays on the coast. When a
bird is shot there is small danger of losing it as compared to that in
upland or thicket shooting, and a dog is not a necessity, as all
wing-shots are generally made over water or short grass, where the bird
can easily be recovered. Most boys are not so fortunate as to possess a
good dog, and as very fine snipe-shooting can be had without one, it is
especially fitted for them. The bird when "flushed" anywhere near the
water will fly out over it.
[Illustration: THE BEACH SNIPE.]
The bird that will be especially referred to in this paper will be the
ordinary little beach snipe that is so common everywhere, though what
remarks apply to him will, with very slight exceptions, apply to all of
the snipe family.
The sand-piper always flies on a dead level, about a foot above the
water, unless the flock is flying high to escape some obstruction. He
propels himself with a jerky motion of the wings, a stroke, and then an
instant's soaring, at a pretty fair rate of speed. The "yellow leg," a
larger variety, on the contrary, flies quite high, and sometimes in the
formations adopted by the wild-duck. They can always be recognized by
their peculiar whistling call. The predominating colors of the snipe
family are gray and white, though some few have a touch of brown on the
back plumage. There is also a slight variation in the length and shape
of the bill, though the character is about the same in all. The legs of
the snipe are long and a greenish-yellow in color; those of the "yellow
leg" being almost a bright yellow. The sand-piper is a very rapid
walker, or perhaps, more properly, runner, and this remarkable facility
should always be borne in mind when a bird is only "winged." When not
frightened they usually travel in a very irregular course along a beach,
but when frightened they will make as straight a line as the best
sprinter. These little birds are very good swimmers and divers,
remaining under water for a long time, propelling themselves with great
rapidity by the use of their wings.
Sand-piper Snipe is a very sociable little fellow, and travels with lots
of company, though the snipe are split up into small flocks during the
latter part of June, July, and the first part of August, when they are
breeding, usually beginning to flock again about the middle of August.
No true sportsman will shoot during this season. Aside from that, it is
against the game laws; the old birds are not fit to eat, and there are
in the latter part of the breeding season large numbers of small flocks
of young birds who are too small to be of any use, and are so tame that
it is possible to decimate a whole flock by a single barrel as they are
bunched on the beach. This is not the aim of the sportsman.
A word about the game laws. You should always respect them. They were
made for your and all sportsmen's benefit, and not as a means of
annoyance. If you kill the birds whilst breeding, or destroy the young,
there will soon be little left in the country to shoot.
There are three times to find the snipe at rest: in the early morning,
shortly after sunrise; at low tide, when the ground usually under water
is exposed, so they can pick up the sand insects and feed on the
sea-grasses that the high-water has brought up; and in the evening, when
the flocks are coming to rest for the night. The early morning and
low-water are the best times, as the birds will be found along the
water's edge feeding, whilst in the evening they usually retire some
distance inland on the meadows, and after they are settled in the grass
for the night it is pretty hard to get them up again. There is sometimes
a pretty fair show of finding the birds on the beach feeding just before
sundown. It must be remembered, however, that the strength and direction
of the wind have much to do with the number of snipe. The above is in
fair weather, and now for the ideal "snipe weather."
If you live on the Jersey coast, or any of the neighboring ones, and
wake up one September morning with a good southeaster, which has been
blowing since the previous evening, rattling around your windows,
accompanied by drizzle, get up and put on your shooting "togs," oil your
gun well, and prepare for a good day's sport. The birds do not like to
fly in a high wind, and will almost always come up into the coast bays
and rivers to feed on the overflowed meadows that such storms produce.
It is a rather difficult thing to determine on what kind of ground you
will find snipe; some days they will be found in great abundance in one
locality, and the day after hardly a bird will be seen. The weather has
something to do with this, and by a careful study of it some idea may be
gained as to where to find the birds, though this will not always prove
reliable.
When the wind in a storm is not too high, the birds usually remain on
the sea-beach, but when it is violent you will run a pretty fair chance
of finding them inland. During the southeaster mentioned, if the wind is
rather high and there is a heavy tide, Sand-piper likes nothing better
than to spend the day paddling around on the flooded salt-meadows,
picking up the little worms and bugs that have been soaked out of their
homes in the grass and soil. Here you will find him in large flocks,
travelling by short flights from one end of the meadow to the other,
showing very little disposition to move on. But above all his happiness
seems wholly complete if he can find a meadow on which the grass has
been cut and not collected in mows at the time of the overflow. The
floating grass affords a refuge for all the washed-out bug inhabitants
of the meadow, and the snipe make the most of the rare treat offered.
This kind of meadow-shooting is very pleasant, as the birds will not fly
far when "flushed," and it is possible to follow a flock all around the
meadow, securing several shots before it takes flight for good. The
sedge islands at the mouths of rivers and bays are great feeding-grounds
when the wind is not so high, and tide not sufficient to flood the
fields.
Sometimes on the day after a storm pretty good shooting can be had on
the meadows that have been overflowed. The soil is usually of a clayey
character, and the water does not drain off in the lower places very
rapidly, forming puddles and patches of slimy mud around which the birds
like to feed. They are usually found on the sea-beach just before or
after a storm.
The favorite haunts of snipe in fine weather, at low water, are the
little sand or mud beaches bordering the sedge islands and meadows, and
in the inlets along the water-front.
There are three methods of shooting snipe: tramping the beach, crawling
up on them by boat, and by using decoys.
[Illustration: TRAMPING FOR SNIPE.]
Tramping the beach or following up on land requires the smallest outfit
of any, all that is necessary being the gun and your equipments. It is
best to wear rubber boots, unless you intend to shoot along hard beaches
or dry meadows. This tramping of the meadows will afford rather good
sport when they are flooded, and although you may not get as many birds
as by decoying, the action it necessitates adds much to the pleasure.
However, if the birds are plentiful and inclined to move about, I should
advise the use of a blind and decoys.
Let us suppose we are going out at low water to look out for the birds
on the beaches. You have arrived at the scene of action and loaded your
gun. Put it in the hollow of either arm; if there are two shooting,
carry the guns in opposite arms. In walking along the water you should
not walk on the beach, if there is one, but about fifteen or twenty feet
back, going up to the beach at frequent intervals to study it for a
distance ahead. By this means the birds behind the sedge-grass will not
be able to see you until you are quite near. If when studying the beach
ahead you do not see any birds, you should make a careful note of the
likely places behind which snipe may be, and use corresponding care when
approaching them. The snipe do not take to wing until you get quite
near, and there is little danger of frightening your birds by these
short examinations. You have been walking along the shore in the
described manner for some time, and in one of the above examinations you
locate some birds, let us say two hundred feet off. Crouch down in the
grass and make a study of the lay of the beach where the snipe are,
noting with care the positions of any high tufts of grass, bushes, or
anything by which you can locate the place without seeing the beach, and
it is best to select two between which the game is. Now strike inland
some fifty feet, more if level meadow, and move up parallel to the beach
until opposite the marks noticed. When directly in back of where you
think the birds ought to be, work up to the beach, cocking your gun, and
holding it in a position for instant use. You will probably get within
twenty or thirty feet of the edge of the grass, when the shrill whistles
of the snipe will let you know the birds are off. It is then only a
question of your skill as to whether you bag some. In approaching this
way, the birds will usually fly directly off-shore and away from you for
a distance, thus affording the best kind of a shot. Taking the birds by
surprise, you can afford to let them get steadied in flight before
shooting. Do not shoot as the bird first starts off, as his twisting
will destroy the aim; but let him get settled, cover him with the muzzle
of your gun, following him with it for an instant until your hand is
steady, and then pull the trigger.
Perhaps it should be mentioned here that if the wind is at all heavy you
will never find the birds on a lee shore; always look for them on the
windward. If the snipe is "flushed" on the meadow, or any other place
where he has the choice of direction, he will always rise against the
wind; so if you approach up wind you will get mostly driving shots, but
if down wind good shots will be presented.
[Illustration: SHOOTING FROM A SNEAK-BOAT.]
Following the birds by boat is sometimes very effective. Perhaps before
coming to the shooting proper we should consider the boat. The best kind
of boat for this work, where there is a great deal of running up on
beaches, is a sneak-box (description of shooting-boat in HARPER'S ROUND
TABLE No. 818). The long bow overhang makes it easy to land without
running the boat hard aground. We will consider the sailing first. No
special equipment is required, but if you are going out alone a
yoke-line attachment will be necessary for steering (see sketch). By
this device you can steer the boat from any part of the cockpit by
simply catching hold of the line at the nearest place, and pulling
either way you wish.
If alone, it is best to sit pretty well aft, as you are less liable to
be bothered by the sail, but if there are two in the boat, one shooting
and the other sailing, the man with the gun should sit as far forward as
convenient, and on the side next to the shore. If the sail happens to be
on the shore side, if possible sit on the forward deck so as to be able
to shoot ahead of the mast; if not, you will have to shoot under the
sail or in whatever manner a shot offers.
[Illustration: ROWING AFTER SNIPE.]
The pleasure of the expedition may be greatly marred by mismanagement of
the boat. There are no particularly new problems in sailing presented,
but there are several points that must be borne in mind. Above all, the
boat must not race alongshore, but should only drift along about thirty
or forty feet off, because, when going at only a fair speed, objects on
shore pass so rapidly as to make all accurate shooting impossible; and,
also, a boat travelling even slowly in shallow water will kick up such
large waves, that these, breaking on the beach, will frighten all the
birds within hearing.
There is one peculiarity of snipe that perhaps ought to be mentioned.
When the flock is feeding on small beaches broken up by patches of grass
extending down to the waters edge, the birds, if approached on the water
in a direction parallel to the beach, will run along it until they are
all bunched at the grass before taking wing. This affords a good shot,
and you can usually bag several. If you prefer to row after the birds,
select a two-oared light flat-bottomed boat, and sit in the front row
seat, the person pulling occupying the rear. Sometimes the boat is
propelled with a pole used over the stern. There is one indispensable
article in shooting snipe from a boat--a crab-net. By this, the dead and
wounded birds can easily be picked up.
[Illustration: DECOYING SNIPE.]
Decoying, though requiring quite an extensive outfit, under proper
conditions, will yield fine results. The blind is of first
consideration, much depending on its location. Before building it you
should try to determine where the birds are flying the day in question,
though the following general locations may be of help in the selection:
a neck of land separating two streams or arms of a river; a sedge
island; or a flooded meadow. In choosing the site try to find a spot
where natural conditions give as much cover as possible, as behind weeds
or tall grass, and try not to alter the appearance in the construction.
If you intend to shoot on a meadow, place the blind at a convenient
distance from some spot where you notice the birds feed. If on a beach,
try and place it so as to get a raking shot. In the meadow-blind, if you
have been able to find a convenient clump of weeds, cut down the extra
ones so as you will have a thin circle around you, or as near so as
possible, and line the inside with hay or anything procurable, filling
up the thin places in the barrier of live weeds with those you cut down.
If no clump can be found, look over the meadow until you find some
stiff-stemmed weeds, and cut them quite near the roots. Carry these to
the selected spot, and construct the blind by sticking the ends in the
ground, and finish as before. The beach-blind may be constructed like
this, or a hiding-place can be made in the sedge-grass.
[Illustration: DIAGRAMS OF SHELLS, DECOYS, AND STEERING-GEAR.]
The decoys are an essential part of the outfit. They can be made at
home, and should be at least twice life size. Their construction may be
understood from the sketch. In painting them, try to lay the colors in
the same relations as in the live bird.
Suppose we have constructed our blind near a beach, and set our decoys,
some twelve or fifteen, fairly bunched. A flock is seen approaching.
They see our decoys, and head in, apparently just skimming the water.
Let them land, if they will; if not, fire as they wheel off. They will
most likely land, and if clear of the decoys use the right barrel,
reserving the left (usually choked) for when they fly off. You have most
likely bagged some birds, but do not attempt to recover them now, for a
flock will often return if any birds are lost. If there are any dead
birds on the water, you had better keep an eye on them, as the crabs are
fond of dead snipe.
A few words here about the gun. The dangers of mishandling have been
gone over so often that it is unnecessary to repeat them. A boy is
perfectly safe with a gun if he will bear in mind the old and perhaps
rather ambiguous saying, "A gun is always loaded." A gun should not be
allowed to stand for anytime with the remains of previous discharges in
the barrels, as the acid contained in the powder will pit them. It is
best to follow the rule of swabbing it clean after a day's sport; first,
perhaps, if very dirty, with the wire burr, and polishing with soft
rags. Sometimes the barrels become so much coated that they cannot be
cleansed by these means, and it will be necessary to wash them out with
water. If this is the case, be sure to remove every trace of moisture
afterwards. Always keep every part of the gun well coated with oil, and
never forget to oil the barrels after swabbing them clean, bearing in
mind also that the heat of the discharge will dry the oil off the
outside.
A great deal might be said about shells, but it is not essential here.
Machine-loaded shells with suitable charges for snipe can be bought for
about $1.40 a hundred, and will answer all purposes very well. There is
room for discussion as to the proper charge. I should say 2-3/4 or 3
drams of powder and 1 ounce of either No. 8 or No. 9 shot is a good load
for a 12-bore gun. The smaller shot is best for flock shooting. In the
sketch is represented a section of a shell showing the position and kind
of wads, and there is also shown a light home-loaded shell to kill
crippled birds. Many sportsmen load their own shells, but this takes
much time and trouble, and the saving is not as great as would be
supposed, unless expensive powders are used. The boy learning to shoot
should by all means buy his ammunition, at least for such a time, until
he will know exactly what he is doing when loading his own shells.
THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.
II.
The port of Prairie Flower was in the eastern part of the then Territory
of Dakota. It stood out on an open plain a half-dozen miles wide, which
seemed to be the prairie itself, though it was really the valley of the
Sioux River, that funny stream which could run either way, and usually
stood still in the night and rested. To the east and west the edges of
this valley were faintly marked by a range of very low bluffs, so low
that they were mere wrinkles in the surface of the earth, and made the
valley but very little lower than the great plain, which rolled away for
miles to the east and for leagues to the west.
It was a beautiful morning a little after the middle of September that
the Rattletrap got away and left Prairie Flower behind. The sun had been
up only half an hour or so, and the shadow of our craft stretched away
across the dry gray plain like a long black streak without end. The air
was fresh and dewy. The morning breeze was just beginning to stir, and
down by the river the acres of wild sunflowers were nodding the dew off
their heads, and beginning to roll in the first long waves which would
keep up all day like the rolling of the ocean. We shouted "Good-by" to
Grandpa Oldberry and Squire Poinsett, but they only shook their heads
very seriously. The cows and horses picketed on the prairie all about
the little clump of houses which made up the town looked at us with
their eyes open extremely wide, and no doubt said in their own
languages, like Grandpa Oldberry, that they had no recollection of
seeing any such capers as this for many years.
"See here," I said, suddenly, to Jack, "where's that dog you said was
going to follow us?"
"You just hold on," answered Jack.
"Oh, are we going to have a dog too?" asked Ollie.
"You wait a minute," insisted Jack.
[Illustration: SNOOZER.]
Just then we passed the railroad station. Jack craned his head out of
the front end of the wagon. Ollie and I did the same. Lying asleep on
the corner of the station platform we saw a dog. He was about the size
of a rather small collie, or, to put it another way, perhaps he was half
as big as the largest-size dog--if dogs were numbered like shoes, from
one to thirteen, this would have been about a No. 7 dog. He was yellow,
with short hair, except that his tail was very bushy. One ear stood up
straight, and the other lopped over, very much wilted. Jack whistled
sharply. The dog tossed up his head, straightened up his lopped ear, let
fall his other ear, and looked at us. Jack whistled again, and the dog
came. He ran around the wagon, barked once or twice, sniffed at the
pony's heels and got kicked at for his familiarity, yelped sharply, and
came and looked up at us, and wagged his bushy tail with a great
flourish.
"He wants to get in. Give him a boost, Ollie," said Jack.
Ollie clambered over the dash-board and jumped to the ground. He pushed
the dog forward, and he leaped up and scrambled into the wagon, jumped
over on the bed, where he folded his head and tail on his left side,
turned around rapidly three times, and lay down and went to sleep, one
ear up and one ear down.
"He's just the dog for the Rattletrap," said Jack. "We'll call him
Snoozer."
"That looks a good deal like stealing to me, Uncle Jack," said Ollie.
"Doesn't he belong to somebody?"
"No," said Jack, "he doesn't belong to anybody but us. He came here a
week ago with a tramp. The tramp deserted him, and rode away on the
trucks of a freight train, but Snoozer didn't like that way of
travelling, because there wasn't any place to sleep, so he staid behind.
Since then he has tried to follow every man in town, but none of them
would have him. He's a regular tramp dog, not good for anything, and
therefore just the dog for us."
Snoozer was the last thing we shipped, and after taking him aboard we
were soon out of the harbor of Prairie Flower, and bearing away across
the plain to the southwest. In twenty minutes we were among the
billowing sunflowers, standing five or six feet high on either side of
the road, which seemed like a narrow crack winding through them. Ollie
reached out and gathered a handful of the drooping yellow blossoms. The
pony was tied behind, carrying her big saddle, and tossing her head
about, and showing that she was very suspicious of the whole
proceedings, and especially of a small flag which Ollie had fastened to
the top of the wagon-cover, and which fluttered in the fresh morning
breeze. Snoozer slept on and never stirred. At last the road came to the
river, and then followed close along beside its bank, which was only a
foot or so high. Ollie was interested in watching the long grass which
grew in the bottom of the stream and was brushed all in one direction by
the sluggish current, like the silky fur of some animal. After a while
we came to a gravelly place which was a ford, and crossed the stream,
stopping to let the horses drink. The water was only a foot deep. As we
came upon the higher ground beyond the river we met the south wind
squarely, and it came in at the front of the cover with a rush. We heard
a sharp flutter behind, and then the wagon gave a shiver and a lurch,
and the horses stopped; then there was another shock and lurch, and it
rolled back a few inches.
"There," exclaimed Jack, "some of those wheels have begun to turn
backwards! I told you!"
I looked back. Our puckering-string had given way, and the rear of the
cover had blown out loosely. This had been more than the pony could
stand, and she had broken her rope and run back a dozen rods, and stood
snorting and looking at the wagon.
[Illustration: THE FIRST ACCIDENT.]
"First accident," I cried. "She'll run home, and we'll have to go back
after her."
"Perhaps we can get around her," said Jack. "We'll try."
We left Ollie to hold the horses, and I went out around among the
sunflowers, while Jack stood behind the wagon with his hat half full of
oats. I got beyond her at last, and drove her slowly toward the wagon.
She snorted and stamped the ground angrily with her forward feet; but at
last she ventured to taste of the oats, and finding more in the feed-box
on the rear of the wagon, she began eating them and forgot her fright.
"I guess we'd better not tie her, but let her follow," said Jack, "As
soon as we have gone a little ways she'll come to think the wagon is
home and stick to it."
"Yes," I said. "I think she is really as great a tramp as Snoozer, and
just the pony for us."
"Are we all tramps?" asked Ollie.
"Well," said Jack, "I'm afraid Grandpa Oldberry thinks we don't lack
much of it. He says varmints will catch us."
"Do you think they will?" went on Ollie, just a little bit anxiously.
"Oh, I guess not," said Jack. "You see, we've got four guns. Then
there's Snoozer."
"But will they try to catch us?"
"Well, I don't know. Grandpa Oldberry says the varmints are awfully
thick this fall."
"But what are varmints?"
"Oh, wolves, and b'ars, and painters, and--"
"What are painters?"
"Grandpa means panthers, I guess. Then there's Injuns, and boss-thieves,
and--"
"There's a prairie-chicken," I cried, as one rose up out of the long
grass.
"Perhaps we can get one for dinner," said Jack.
He took his gun and went slowly toward where the other had been. Another
whirred away like a shot. Jack fired, but missed it. We started on,
leaving the pony tossing her head and stamping her feet in a great
passion on account of the report of the gun; but when she saw that we
paid no attention to her and were rapidly going out of sight she turned,
after taking a long look back at distant Prairie Flower, and came
trotting along the road, with her stirrups dangling at her sides, and
soon was following close behind.
"We can depend on the life-boat," said Jack.
Before we realized it the chronometer showed that it was almost noon. By
this time we had left the sea of sunflowers and crept over the wrinkle
at the western edge of the valley, and were off across the rolling
prairie itself. Still Snoozer never stirred.
"I wonder when he'll wake up?" said Ollie.
"You'll see him awake enough at dinner-time," said Jack.
"Well, you'll see me awake enough then, too," answered Ollie. "I'm
hungry."
"We hardy pioneers plunging into the trackless waste of a new and
unexplored country never eat but one meal a day," said Jack. "And that's
always raw meat--b'ar-meat, generally."
"Well," said Ollie, "I don't see any b'ar-meat, or even
prairie-chicken-meat. Why didn't you hit the prairie-chicken, Uncle
Jack?"
"I'm not used to shooting at such small game," answered Jack, solemnly.
"My kind of game is b'ar--b'ar and other varmints."
Just then we passed a house, and down a little way from it, close to the
road, was a well.
"Here's a good place to have dinner," said Jack; so we drove out by the
side of the road and stopped.
"If I'm to be cook," said Jack to me, "then you've got to take care of
the horses and do all the outside work. I'll be cook; you'll be rancher.
That's what we'll call you--rancher. Rancher, feed the horses and look
out for hoss-thieves and sich like cut-throats."
I unhitched the horses, tied them behind the wagon, and gave them some
oats and corn in the feed-box. The pony I fed in the big tin pail near
by. The grass beside the road was so dry, and it was so windy, that we
decided that it was not safe to build a fire out-doors, so Jack cooked
pancakes over the oil-stove inside. These with some cold meat he handed
out to Ollie and me as we sat on the wagon-tongue, while he sat on the
dash-board. We were half-way through dinner when we heard a peculiar
whine, followed by a low bark, in the wagon, and then Snoozer leaped
out, stretched himself, and began to wag his tail so fast that it looked
exactly like a whirling feather duster. We fed him on pancakes, and he
ate so many that if Jack had not fried some more we'd have certainly
gone hungry.
"I told you he was a true tramp," said Jack. "Just see his appetite."
After we had finished, and the horses had grazed about on the dry grass
some time, we started on. We hoped to reach a little lake which we saw
marked on the map, called Lake Lookout, for the night camp; so we
hurried along, it being a good distance ahead. All the afternoon we were
passing between either great fields where the wheat had been cut,
leaving the stubble, or beside long stretches of prairie. There were a
few houses, many of them built of sod. Not much happened during the
afternoon. Ollie followed the example of Snoozer, and curled up on the
bed and had a long nap. We saw a few prairie-chickens, but did not try
to shoot any of them. The pony trotted contentedly behind. Just before
night I rode her ahead looking for the lake. I found it to be a small
one, perhaps a half-mile wide, scarcely below the level of the prairie,
and generally with marshy shores, though on one side the beach was sandy
and stony, with a few stunted cottonwood-trees, and here I decided we
would camp. I went back and guided the Rattletrap to the spot. Soon Jack
had a roaring fire going from the dry wood which Ollie had collected. I
fed the horses and turned them loose, and they began eagerly on the
green grass which grew on the damp soil near the lake. The pony I
picketed with a long rope and a strap around one of her forward ankles,
between her hoof and fetlock, as we scarcely felt like trusting her all
night. Snoozer got up for his supper, and after that stretched himself
by the fire and blinked at it sleepily. The rest of us did much the
same. After a while Ollie said:
"I think that bed in the wagon looks pretty narrow for two. How are
three going to sleep in it?"
"I don't think three are going to sleep in it," said Jack.
"Where are you going to sleep, then, Uncle Jack?"
Jack laughed. "I think," he said, "that the rancher and the cook will
sleep in the wagon and let you sleep under the wagon. Nothing makes a
boy grow like sleeping rolled up in a blanket under a wagon. You'll be
six inches taller if you do it every night till we get back."
"Well, I don't think so," said Ollie, just a little alarmed at the
prospect. "I'd prefer to sleep in the wagon. Maybe what Grandpa Oldberry
said about wild animals is so. You say you like to shoot 'em, so you
stay outside and do it--I don't."
At last it was arranged that Ollie and I should sleep inside and Jack
under the wagon. We were surprised to find how early we were ready for
bed. The long ride and the fresh air had given us an appetite for sleep.
So we soon turned in, the dog staying outside with Jack.
"Good-night, Uncle Jack," called Ollie, as we put out the lantern and
covered up in the narrow bed. "Look out for painters."
[Illustration: "WHAT'S THAT NOISE?"]
I was almost asleep when Ollie shook me, and whispered, "What's that
noise?"
I listened, and heard a regular, hollow, booming sound, something like
the very distant discharge of cannon.
"It's the horses walking on the ground--always sounds that way in the
night," I answered.
Again I was almost asleep when Ollie took hold of my arm, and said,
"What's that?"
I once more listened, and recognized a peculiar creaking noise as that
made by the horses cropping off the grass. I explained to Ollie, and
then dropped off sound asleep. I don't know how long it was, but after
some time I was again roused up by a nervous shake.
"Listen to _that_," whispered Ollie. "What can it be?"
I sat up cautiously and listened. It was a strange, rattling, unearthly
sound which I could not account for any better than Ollie.
"It's a bear," he whispered. "I heard them make that noise at the park
back home."
I was puzzled, and concluded that it must be some wild animal. I took
down one of the guns, crept softly to the front end of the wagon, raised
the flap, and looked out. The wind was still, and the night air met my
face with a cool, damp feeling. The moon had just risen and the lake was
like silver. I could see the horses lying asleep like dark mounds. But
the mysterious noise kept up, and even grew louder. I grasped the gun
firmly, and let myself cautiously out of the front end of the wagon.
Then I climbed back in less softly and hung up the gun.
"Wh-what is it?" asked Ollie, in a faint whisper.
"It's your eloquent uncle Jack snoring," I said. "He's one of Grandpa
Oldberry's sim'lar varmints."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER X.
It seemed to George that he had not been in bed an hour before he heard,
in the gray glimmer of dawn, Billy's voice crying:
"Chris'mus, Marse George, Chris'mus! an' jes listen to dem niggers
singin' under de winder!" Although a sound sleeper, George always waked
quickly, and in an instant he recognized the Christmas melody that
floated upward from the ground outside. A dozen or so of the field hands
were marching around the house just as the first faint grayness of the
Christmas day appeared, and singing, in their rich, sweet, untrained
voices, a song with the merry refrain,
"White folks, black folks, Chris'mus am heah,
An' Chris'mus comes but oncet a year,
An' dis is Chris'mus mawnin'!"