TRAPPING GAME BIRDS
In one of their cow-hunting expeditions, the Allen boys went some seven
or eight miles to the west, where they came to a deep but narrow little
river, running down through a broad marsh, or wet prairie, which was
more than a mile in width. The water in the little river was clear and
quite cool. Up and down the stream, as far as the eye could see, the
marsh was covered with luxuriant, nutritious “blue-joint” grass, in
many places growing to a height above the boys’ heads.
Of the purchase money received for the Wisconsin “swamp land,” a
certain portion was set aside for its reclamation, the direction of
which work was placed in the hands of the county authorities. Mr.
Allen was a natural, as well as practical civil engineer, and his
investigation of the land convinced him of the value of this great
tract, if it might be properly drained and dammed to take care of the
annual floods coming down from the melting snows of the north. He found
a place where, by cutting through one high sand knoll, a ditch might be
constructed all the way in the easily-worked peat, and the waters of
the little stream be thus turned into the Yellow river.
Some wealthy friends were found who were willing to back Mr. Allen’s
judgment, with the purchase money, and more than ten thousand acres of
this land were secured. Mr. Allen was able himself to obtain from the
county the contract for the drainage works.
It was late in August before arrangements could be completed for
beginning the big ditch, which was to turn the waters of one river into
another, and give such control over the irrigation of some thousands of
acres of level land, that it might be planted with cranberry vines, and
the water be held upon it during the summer months, or, drained dry, to
be converted into choice farm lands, as the future should determine.
A camp house was built upon the pine knoll where the deep cut would be
made, and a score of men secured who would labor as shovelers and dam
builders. First, the course of the little river was to be straightened,
by the meanderings being cut across, then a big dam thrown across
the wide expanse of marsh, back of which the waters could be held if
needful.
I suppose that never was there such another dam constructed, and yet
it served its purpose well, and endured for many years. The soil of
that great marsh was not what we are accustomed to call “soil”--sand
or clay mixed with humus--but was composed of peat. Ages of moss and
other vegetable growth had fallen and decayed into a brown mass, into
which grass roots had crept, weaving the whole into a tough, fibrous
blanket of from three to ten feet in thickness. The line of the ditch
was staked out across the marsh, and with knives whose blades were as
broad as one’s two hands, and three feet long, lateral lines were cut
deep into this tough peat. Then cross cuts were made the width of the
to-be ditch forming squares ten inches or a foot each way. Then, with
a many-pronged bent fork these squares were pulled up by the men, and
there were huge “bricks” of peat, three feet long, to be laid into the
wall of the dam on the downstream side.
Of course, as the water drained from the blocks of peat, the dam would
be a light affair, as to weight, but as the shovelers following raised
it to a height of five feet, and plastered all crevices and both sides
with the soft peat from the bottom of the ditch, it formed a very
compact whole.
Mr. Allen figured, and so it proved, that the grass roots would
continue to grow, and in the course of a season or two the entire dam
would be able to withstand with safety the pressure of a two or three
feet head of water.
Rob and Ed found the work upon the dam fascinating, notwithstanding
the necessity of wet feet, and back-wrenching lifting of the huge
peat “bricks,” but the work at the farm prevented them from taking
the permanent part they desired. Upon one of his visits home, it was
evident that Mr. Allen was undergoing some unusual distress or worry of
mind, and as it was the custom of the family to discuss together the
problems that would come up, Mr. Allen finally acknowledged that the
ditchers were at that time in an ugly mood.
“It seems to be a question of fresh meat,” said he. “We have one or two
constitutional growlers in camp, and while they are too valuable for me
to turn away, they have the men stirred up against the salt pork and
corned beef we have. I have made several trips to Necedah and Lisbon to
try and arrange for a supply of fresh beef, but the drouth and fire of
last year seem to have cut down the supply of beef cattle.”
“Father, I have an idea,” exclaimed Ed. “Do you suppose you could get
along if you furnished a big dinner of game three times a week?”
“To be sure we could, son,” replied Mr. Allen, “but who is the mighty
Nimrod who could shoot enough game to satisfy thirty men three times a
week? and who is the millionaire who would pay for the ammunition?”
“That’s all right, father,” said Rob, “if you will give Ed and Dauphin
and me the contract at the same price you would have to pay for fresh
beef, I see how we can do it.”
With all due seriousness and in due form Mr. Allen drew up the contract
whereby Robert Allen, Ed Allen, and Dauphin Thompson, parties of the
first part, were to deliver, three times per week, until freezing
weather, from twenty-five to fifty pounds, according to their pleasure,
of properly dressed wild meat at the ditching camp on the Little Yellow
River. In consideration of which delivery of meat, Mr. Allen, party of
the second part, agreed to pay to the aforesaid parties of the first
part the sum of ten cents per pound for all such meat so delivered.
“Hurray!” shouted the boys, when the document was signed. “Now you’ll
see who the millionaires are you are talking about.”
Mr. Allen laughed, but he returned to the ditching camp with a lighter
brow, for he knew that his boys were resourceful, and it might be that
they had hit upon some plan which would give good results.
Upon several acres of sod plowing, buckwheat had been sown, and had so
thriven that the early September frosts had found an abundant harvest
of the queer little three-cornered grains already matured. The boys
found it back-breaking work to cut this field with their old-fashioned
scythes, but at last it had been finished, and then raked up into piles
to be thoroughly cured before being stacked.
The buckwheat harvest seemed to be taken as an invitation to feast,
by the innumerable prairie chickens of the vicinity, with all their
kinfolk. And they came. The boys had no reason to object as long as the
birds confined themselves to gleaning the scattered grains from the
field, but when they proceeded to tear down the raked-up piles, and the
boys saw their hard work about to be brought to naught, their ire began
to arise against the marauders.
Be it said to their credit, that the thought of killing more of the
prairie chickens than could be used for food never occurred to them.
But when the opportunity presented itself of saving the ditching job
with fresh meat, the boys eagerly fell in with Ed’s plan of making the
birds pay for their feeding.
So the very next morning the boys crept along the stake-and-rider
fence, until they came close to where the birds were noisily helping
themselves to the buckwheat harvest. The birds were taken by surprise
and ten of them were left flopping on the ground as the flock arose at
the noise of the guns. The boys carefully cleaned and picked the birds,
stuffing the carcasses with fresh grass. Again, when the flock came
back to its evening meal, the maneuver of sneaking along the fence was
repeated, as the sun was sinking in the west. Eight birds this time
fell victims to the three guns, and were quickly prepared, for Dauphin
was to make a moonlight ride to the camp with the forty pounds of the
longed-for fresh meat.
If the children of Israel were greedy when the quails came as the
result of their murmurings, these ditchers were none the less so when
it became known what Dauphin had brought, and it required all the
diplomacy the cook possessed to put the men off until breakfast for
their prairie chicken stew.
Dauphin would be at the camp over night, so the following morning Rob
and Ed took their guns and began to slowly creep along the fence toward
the buckwheat field. But before they came into firing distance, they
heard a shrill “ka-r-rh!” from the top of a tall, dead poplar standing
near, and the whole flock took wing and sailed away to safety. The
birds had posted a sentinel upon that lookout, and it was clear that
some other plan must now be hit upon if the boys would be able to carry
out their contract.
“I tell you what we can do to fool those fellows,” said Rob, “We’ll
get out before daylight, and cover ourselves with the buckwheat straw,
and be all ready for the beggars when they come for their sunrise
breakfast.”
This they did, and chuckled as they saw the sentinel posted in the tree
top, peering this way and that with craning neck. All unsuspicious, the
big birds settled down over the field, and began noisily to tear at the
bundles of grain, when, “bang! bang! bang!” the three guns rang out at
an agreed signal, and, all together again, with the second barrels, as
the flock took wing.
That was a famous haul, for nineteen birds were secured. As there was
no way, in those days, or place of preserving fresh meats in cold
storage, the boys waited for their next ambuscade until the following
morning, when nearly as many chickens were secured. At the third
morning, however, the prairie chickens lit in trees and upon the rail
fence, at a safe distance from the guns; and while they protested their
hunger with many a “ka-r-rh,” they did not come down into the field,
much to the disgust of the boys.
When the same result obtained for the next day, the boys saw that some
new scheme must be hit upon to save their contract. Deadfalls, “figure
4’s,” and coop traps were suggested and discussed, but it was decided
that the big flock had grown so wise that these were not practicable.
At last Dauphin spoke up with a brightening face: “How many of those
little steel traps have you, boys?”
“About fifty, I guess,” Ed replied.
“Well, I’ve a notion. Let’s get out some of them and I’ll show you what
I mean,” continued Dauph.
The traps were brought out, and Dauph proceeded to demonstrate his
plan. The chain of the trap would be fastened to a block of wood,
then a little hole dug in the ground large enough to hold the trap,
leaving the “pan,” or flat trigger, nearly level with the surface.
About the trap was scattered the buckwheat straw, and on the “pan” of
the trap was heaped a little pile of grain, temptingly ready for a bird
breakfast.
“Now we are ready for them,” said Dauph. “They may set their old
sentinels, and we’ll let them see us--at a distance.”
The plan worked. There would be a momentary flutter as a bird would be
caught by the neck when the trap sprung at its pecking, or as a chicken
would vainly try to fly away with the block of wood when the steel jaws
closed upon a thickly feathered leg, but hearing no gun, and taking
note of the human foes still at a safe distance, the foolish actions
of their individual neighbors were considered to be of no concern to
the rest of the flock. And never did they come to the knowledge that
they were being trapped. The boys were able to harvest, each day from
the traps they set, from fifteen to twenty of the big birds from their
buckwheat field, and not only saved the day for the big ditching job,
but through their contract were able to lay up a nice sum toward their
future projects.
The drainage operations closed down in October, but not before a ditch
had been run for two miles from the Yellow river to the big sand knoll.
It was through this that the more serious part of the work would be
found, and here again, in the latter part of March, Mr. Allen brought a
crew.
“Father,” said Ed, one day, “what are you doing this spring for fresh
meat? Of course we can’t get you any prairie chickens, but we would
like to earn a little more money before planting time.”
Mr. Allen laughed. “Why, I haven’t heard any complaint from the men as
yet about their fare, but we might take a mess of fish once in a while.”
“Fish!” exclaimed Rob. “Why, you know, father, that we have never been
able to get the fish to bite to any extent since we have lived here.”
“Well, come over and look in the big ditch,” responded Mr. Allen with a
smile.
The boys took the hint, and when they came to the big ditch they
saw, crowding up stream along the sandy bottom of its clear waters,
multitudes of long, slender pickerel, one of the most prized game
fish of the Wisconsin waters. “I might have thought of that,” said
naturalist Dauphin. “These fish crowd into every little stream each
spring and swim up as far as they can, to deposit their eggs.”
With the three-tined spears that Uncle Sam Thompson made for them, the
boys enjoyed great sport in the shallow water of the big ditch, and
put away several more dollars as a result of the fish dinners served to
the ditchers.
Then came the days of the flight of the “passenger pigeons,” and a new
idea entered the heads of the boys.
To one who was not for himself privileged to see, the tales of the
great size of the flocks of these birds, of their nesting places, of
their daily flights for food, must appear gross exaggeration. Yet I am
but stating an historical fact when I say that at times the sky would
be darkened as by a heavy thunder cloud, and the rush of wings could be
likened only to the roar of a mighty waterfall, at the passage of the
innumerable multitudes of these birds.
In the section of the state concerning which I write, there was no
form of animal life in such apparent prodigal abundance. Much has been
written of the “passenger pigeon;” the beauty of its long, blue and
bluish-white body; its rapid flight; its habits of nesting at a remote
distance from its feeding ground--and then the mystery of the sudden
and complete extinction of this the most numerous of all birds. For it
was, that one day the woods were full of their nestlings, the skies
darkened by their flight--and then they were not, forever.
The mystery of the “passenger pigeon” is indeed like that of that
prehistoric race, the builders of the strange mounds of that
region--without doubt, a great and numerous people, spreading from the
Rockies to the Alleghanies--but who, in some long-past days were not,
leaving no answer to Why, and When, and How.
The clouds of these birds spread over the boys at their fishing.
“Dauph,” said Rob, “do you know where these birds will nest?”
“Yes,” replied Dauphin, “over in the dead pines in Adams county, some
fifteen miles from here. Uncle Sam says there were millions upon
millions of nests there last year.”
“Well, I’m for taking a trip over that way to see what we can do for
another fresh meat contract,” said Ed.
The boys carried out their plan, and when they came to the abandoned
fields of dead pines they found the crudely built nests of the past
year in inconceivable numbers. About three o’clock in the afternoon
the birds began to arrive from their feeding place over in Minnesota,
and the noise and apparent confusion were indescribable. As they came
crowding into their roosting place it was not guns that the boys needed
for their capture, but simply clubs to swing, and in almost no time
they had as many of these game birds as they could make use of at a
time.
“Boys, I’ve an idea. It’s clearly too far over here for us to come for
what the camp could use of the game for one day, or even two. But if
we could make a lot of coops and take back a load of live pigeons, we
could feed them and use them as they would be needed.”
“Yes, that’s all right,” replied Rob, “but catching ’em alive is
another thing.”
“Well, wait until I explain,” replied Ed. “Did you notice how the
birds came flying in so closely packed together that they had no
chance to get out of our way? Well, I’ve been thinking of the four
big, close-woven hammocks mother has at home. If we would fasten them
together and stretch them up among the trees, I believe the birds would
fly against them and get tangled up in the meshes, and we could take a
lot of them alive.”
“Good scheme! Good scheme!” shouted the other boys. “We’ll do that very
thing.”
It was ten days later, however, before the boys were able to secure the
team with which to make the trip, and then they found brooding mothers
already hovering over the stick nests, each of which contained two
white eggs.
The boys were disappointed, but that the birds might be disturbed while
rearing their young was not to be thought of. “Well,” said Rob, “it
means waiting until next spring.” But the next spring the pigeons did
not return, and to this day the scientists are discussing what became
of the “passenger pigeon.”