CIVILIZATION.
BEASTS.
In the absence of native beasts, birds, and trees, a country is
unfitted for the habitation of man. Nature had given to Ohio these
supports to life and aids to civilization in great abundance.
The Indian was not inclined to improve his “talents,” still he was
exceedingly kind, through instinct or wisdom, in preserving in nature’s
superlative beauty things necessary for the coming man.
Of the various wild animals in Ohio, no one species has ever shown
greater numerical strength than the gray squirrel. In the early
settlements, he often annoyed his new neighbors with his mischievous
habits and petty larcenies; nevertheless, the pioneer was generally
pleased to see him, as at all seasons he was good for a savory meal.
At times these little animals became so numerous and destructive to
crops they were more to be feared than is the rabbit in California or
grasshopper in Kansas. For many years, settlers were obliged to guard
their fields when planted with corn, or droves of foraging bands would
dig up the hills and eat the growing grains; when the crops matured,
they were still more destructive, and boys when quite young were
taught to handle the rifle, and when employed as guards became expert
marksmen. Most every one old enough to use a gun could put a ball
through the head of a squirrel three times in five or better on the
topmost boughs of the lofty hardwood timber which covered the face of
the country.
The amount of forest was so extensive and undisturbed that the squirrel
at times increased to a degree which made him disastrous to crops in
spite of guards, guns, traps, and “deadfalls,” and caused him to become
a subject for legislation, encouraging his destruction by obligations
and rewards. When becoming too numerous, and subsistence scarce, they
migrate to other parts, and often in numbers so great it would require
many days for the marching column of several miles in width to pass any
given point. The Ohio river was a favorable place to capture and kill
them, as they arrived on shore weak and wet. Many were drowned in the
attempt to swim. The inhabitants along the river at such times made it
a business to kill them by wagon loads to feed and fatten hogs.
The country through which an army of this kind marched left nothing
out doors in the way of subsistence. The first migration of this kind
causing serious alarm occurred in 1807 directly after corn-planting;
and in all the southern counties of the state, it became impossible
to guard the fields, and continued so long that the corn crop was a
failure over a large extent of country, and farmers were obliged to buy
grain for bread.
The legislature was appealed to, and a statute enacted the same year,
making it imperative for every person within the state, subject to
the payment of tax, to furnish a specified number of squirrel scalps,
to be determined by the trustees of the township, whose duty it was
to give the lister the number required from each individual. This was
intended as a tax in addition to other taxes, making the penalty for
refusal or neglect the same as that of a delinquent tax-payer. And
a non-tax-payer, and tax-payers furnishing scalps in excess of the
required number, were entitled to two cents per scalp, to be paid from
the funds of the county. But, with all the boys and guns and other
devices for destruction to keep the number down to a minimum, the
usual amount seemed but little changed, and squirrel raids continued,
occasionally, all the same.
A good story is told by an old lumberman, who, in the early days of
steamboating on the Ohio river, contracted to deliver on board of
steamboat one hundred thousand shingles at a “wood-landing” of one of
the river counties in Ohio. The shingles were stacked on the bank of
the river ready for shipment. A few days after, the lumberman heard
most of his “stuff” had been stolen, and that it was probable it had
gone to Pittsburg. On receiving this unwelcome news, he drove down to
the river to look after the condition of things. Before he reached the
place he found the woods alive with squirrels marching toward the river.
On his return the workmen asked what discoveries were made. The reply
was, “The shingles never went to Pittsburg;” “they all went down the
river, and it is useless to look in Pittsburg or any other place for
them.”... “I got to the river just in time to know all about it. You
see, the squirrels are marching and crossing the river at that point;
and the commanding general is not much on a swim, and he carried one of
my shingles down to the water and rode over on it, and every colonel,
captain, lieutenant and commissioned and non-commissioned officer did
what they saw their general do, and finally the rank and file made a
raid, and I got there just as an old squirrel came down to the water
dragging a shingle, which he shoved into the river, jumped upon it,
raised his brush for a sail and went over high and dry; and when near
enough the other shore leaped off and let his boat float down the
stream. As soon as these observations were taken in, I went up on the
high bank where the shingles had been stored, and found there was not a
shingle left--they are down the river, gentlemen--down the river, sure.”
This story receives a shadow of support from the learned and cautious
Buffon, who observes: “Although the navigations of the grey squirrels
seem almost incredible, they are attested by so many witnesses that
we can not deny the fact.” And in a note on the subject says: “The
grey squirrels frequently remove their place of residence, and it not
unoften happens that not one can be seen one winter where they were in
multitudes the year before; they go in large bodies, and when they want
to cross a lake or river they seize a _piece of the bark of a birch
or lime, and drawing it to the edge of the water, get upon it, and
trust themselves to the hazard of the wind and waves, erecting their
tails_ to serve the purpose of _sails_; they sometimes form a fleet of
three or four thousand, and if the wind proves too strong, a general
shipwreck ensues ... but if the winds are favorable they are certain to
make their desired port.”[18]
The squirrel is an industrious and sagacious animal. He lays up stores
of provisions for future use, and conceals them where others of his
kind are unable to find them. And his memory is so perfect, and
location of place so unerring, that in dead of winter, and short of
a meal, he will quit his warm nest in the hollow limb of some tree,
plunge into deep snow and go direct a long distance to the exact spot
where months before he had buried a walnut or an acorn, and dig down
and get the treasure and return with it to his home.
[Illustration: The Squirrel Hunter.]
It was once said, “To number the Bison would be like counting the
leaves of the forest”--so, too, the myriads of squirrels that inhabited
the unbroken forests of Ohio evidently approached in number the
incalculable hosts of buffalo that in the grandeur of their numerical
strength swept over the western plains.
The rabbit multiplies six times as fast as the squirrel, yet he has
never appeared in such multitudes as that of his bushy-tailed cousin.
Happen what may he is, however, always on hand. He loves civilization
and prefers the grassy fields, standing corn and sunny hillsides to
the wilds of the forests, and is always as ready to care for the waste
apples in the orchard as he is to bark around the young trees. He is
an annoying tenant--timid by nature and easily captured. Millions are
sold in the markets every year, but can not come up in numbers with the
squirrel in his palmy days. The “one day’s rabbit shooting” at Lamar,
Colo., by two hundred guns, December 31, 1894, resulted in the capture
of five thousand one hundred and forty-two (5,142); but compared with
a squirrel hunt in Franklin county, Ohio, August 20, 1822, it does not
appear so large; when a less number of guns killed nineteen thousand
six hundred and sixty; and evidently not a “very good day for squirrels
to be out either.”
No part of the North-west, in a state of nature, was so well adapted
to the propagation and preservation of game beasts and birds as that
within the geographical limits of Ohio. To show the immense amount of
large game which also existed long after settlements had been made, it
is but necessary to give the results of a single day’s hunt, confined
to one township of five miles square, in the county of Medina, December
24, 1818, and which is authentically described by Henry Howe in his
“Historical Collections of Ohio,” Vol. II, pages 463 to 467, inclusive:
“The accurate enumeration of the game killed at the center (of the
drive) resulted as follows: _Seventeen_ wolves, _twenty-one_ bears,
_three hundred_ deer, besides _turkeys_, _coons_ and _foxes_ not
counted.” The wolf-scalps were good for fifteen dollars each, making
a draw on the treasury for two hundred and fifty-five dollars. Many
counties in Ohio were not formed nor settled for nearly a quarter of
a century after becoming part of the state, and a few much later, the
last being that of Noble, in 1851, making in all eighty-eight counties.
Consequently, game of all kinds remained in abundance in Henry,
Hancock, Hardin, Lucas, Marion, Noble, Williams, and some others. As
late as 1845 two men in Williams county made an effort to see who could
kill the greater number of deer, each confining his operations to a
single township of his own election. One selected Superior and the
other Center township; the hunt to last sixty days.
At the expiration of the time, one had killed ninety-nine and the other
sixty-five. The success of neither caused remarks of admiration among
the “squirrel hunters,” a few of whom boastingly declared they could
show a much greater list in the given time if they were inclined to
hunt for quantity.
When the “Reports, Explorations and Surveys” were made to ascertain
the most practicable and economical route for a railroad from the
Mississippi river to the Pacific ocean, under the direction of the
Secretary of War, in 1853 to 1856, the vast public domain was shown to
be rich in herds of buffalo, elk, deer, and smaller game of both beasts
and birds. It was at this time the bison swarmed over all the Western
plains and hills, from the great rivers to the ocean and from Canada to
the Gulf in numbers beyond the power of computation.
[Illustration: A Herd of Bison.]
Of all the quadrupeds known to inhabit the earth, no one species ever
marshaled such innumerable armies as that of the American bison. As
late as 1871, it was estimated that south of the Union Pacific Railroad
line there were between three and four million head. As soon as the
road entered the territory the destruction began, and by the reports of
the Smithsonian Institution, the miserable “pot-hunters” in 1872 killed
over a million and a quarter; and during the first three years after
the road was completed this band of thieves and murderers slaughtered
over three millions of these valuable animals, taking the hides of some
and tongues of others, but leaving untouched where they fell more than
half of this immense number. As American game the bison exists no more.
The only few remaining out of captivity are at Yellowstone Park.
It is to be regretted that the policy of the government in regard to
the natural wealth of the “public domain” has ever shown such a lack of
wisdom, forethought, and power as to permit the immediate exhaustion
leaving nothing for the legitimate heirs. And it seems singular that
such a well known and immense storehouse of national wealth, as that of
the buffalo, the annuity of which supported more than thirty thousand
natives of the country, should have been left unprotected against those
who have destroyed the forests and killed the cattle on a thousand
hills.
Governor Isaac I. Stevens, in his report of estimates of the Pacific
Railroad in 1854 to Jefferson Davis, Secretary of War, says: “The
supplies of meat for all the laborers on this line east of the
mountains ... will be furnished from the plains. The _inexhaustible_
herds of buffalo will supply amply the whole force till the road is
completed.”
[Illustration: Camp Red River Hunters.]
There were at that time twenty-seven known tribes of Indians west of
the Missouri river, of which the greater part subsisted by hunting the
buffalo; and he says of the hunters from Mouse river valley to the Red
river of the North: “They make two hunts each year, leaving a portion
of their numbers at home to take care of their houses and farms:
One from the middle of June to the middle of August, when they make
‘pemican’ and dry meat, and prepare the skins of buffalo for lodges
and moccasins; and again from the middle of September to the middle of
November, when, besides the pemican and dried meat, the skin is dried
into robes.
“I estimate that four months each year two thousand hunters, three
thousand women and children, and eighteen hundred carts are on the
plains; and estimating the load of a cart at eight hundred pounds, and
allowing three hundred carts for luggage, that twelve hundred tons of
meat, skins, and furs is their product of the chase.[19]
“These people are simple-hearted, honest, and industrious, and would
make good citizens. Each year they carry off to the settlements at
Pembina at least two million five hundred thousand pounds of buffalo
meat, dried, or in the shape of pemican.” Large tribes, as the Gros
Ventres, Bloods, Piegans, and others, had hunted and feasted for ages
without diminishing the number or strength of “the _inexhaustible_
herds of buffalo,” described by Governor Stevens in 1854.
This source of subsistence to a numerous and poor people, and immense
wealth to the nation, was wantonly destroyed by the “_pot-hunter_,”
who is in no way related to the “squirrel hunter,” but stands in about
the same relation to the sportsman as does the “missing link” to the
species he disgraces. He is a destructive animal, and it is as useless
to hope any species of game, beast or bird, will ever exist in numbers
too great for this wily loafer to destroy, as it is to expect legal
enactments and penalties will ever prevent him doing evil.
The selfishness that exterminated the buffalo--“_might makes
right_”--runs through the veins of the white man. In the same report to
the Secretary of War in which Mr. Stevens calls attention of settlers
to “many pleasant valleys” that are occupied by “friendly Indians--in
some instances described with log houses, cultivated fields, barns,
flocks and herds, mills and churches, with good morals and observance
of the Sabbath day--that many tribes live in a rich and inviting
country, and are wealthy in horses, cattle, and hogs.” He closes by
saying: “Laws should be passed for the extinguishment of the Indian
title. Posts are recommended with half regiments of mounted men, with a
battery of horse artillery, and one of mountain howitzers; that all the
Indians west of the mountains ‘should be placed in reservation,’ and
the country opened to settlement.”
It is stated that with a small distribution of presents and “prudence,
judgment, and _display of a small military force_, no difficulty will
be experienced in accomplishing these arrangements so essential to the
construction of the road.” And it does not appear that the government
protected the rights of those in possession of the “fertile valleys”
any more than it did the game it knew gave support to the people
inhabiting the country. If the same careless indifference and love of
greed that wantonly destroyed the game beasts which existed upon the
vast unoccupied domain west of the Mississippi had in like manner
forestalled the settlement of the “North-west Territory” by killing all
the game, population and civilization would have been suspended if not
made improbable within the past century.
The area of Ohio was well supplied with a variety of the most
attractive game, fed and marked by Nature as her own, free for
all--which made the early settlements contented, independent, and
observing. No means of education gives the mind so much satisfaction
and confidence in truth and reality as the study of the object lessons
received while living in a garden of Nature, an invited guest.
“All self-educated persons,” says Doctor Newman, “are likely to
have more thought, more mind, more philosophy, than those who are
forced to load their minds with a score of subjects against an
examination--who have too much on their hands to indulge in thinking
or investigation.... Much better is it for the active and thoughtful
intellect ... to eschew the college and university altogether than to
submit to a drudgery so ignoble, a mockery so contumelious.
“How much more profitable for the independent mind after the rudiments
of education to pursue the train of thought which his mother-wit
suggests! How much healthier to wander in the fields, and there with
the exiled prince to find
‘Tongues in trees, books in running brooks.’
How much more genuine an education is that of the poor boy in the poem--
‘As the village school and books a few supplied,’
contrived from the beach, and the quay, and fisher’s boat, and the
inn’s fireside, and the tradesman’s shop, and shepherd’s walk, and
smuggler’s hut, and the mossy moor, and the screaming gulls, and
restless waves, to fashion for himself a philosophy and poetry of his
own.” Sir Walter Scott long ago declared: “The best part of every man’s
education is that which he gives himself.”
This was the nature of the school system in Ohio. The young population
grew up among the beasts and birds and trees; each of which in turn
served as teacher. Not only the burley bear and nimble deer, but even
the pestiferous vermin, were aiders and abettors in education and the
rise of the new civilization. The coons, the foxes, the beavers, the
otters, minks, muskrats, and skunk, carried _legal tenders_ with them
and furnished the chief circulating medium known to the country for
many years.
With the trained dog, the boys in the wilderness were enabled to secure
pelts to send to Boston for books, which erected the superstructure of
more great men than can be found as the production of any other state
or country in a single century. And to-day the intelligent squirrel
hunter makes a respectful bow to the little animals for the honorable
part they so successfully performed in creating the new species and
placing Ohio permanently in the lead of a nation of the best informed
people in the world.
BIRDS.
“For wheresoe’er your murmuring tremors thrill
The woody twilight, there man’s heart hath still
Conferred a spirit breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.”
The number of species of birds found at various times in Ohio amount
to two hundred and ninety-two; while the number breeding in the state
is placed at one hundred and twenty-nine; and if the probable summer
residents are counted the number would be increased to one hundred
and seventy-one. An eminent ornithologist says in a recent work: “To
cast the horoscope of the bird-life of the future is uncertain work,
and perhaps without profit; but the stars certainly predict utter
extermination of the finest of all game birds--the wild turkey--and
the diminution to the point of extermination of the ruffed grouse, the
quail, the wood duck and wild pigeon.”[20]
Game birds as well as song birds would from natural causes alone
diminish in number, as their selected homes or breeding places become
destroyed by clearing up the country. But in addition to this, the
unseasonable and inhuman destruction by means of firearms has become
so alarmingly great as to foretell that at no distant day most of the
desirable species of birds that are permanent residents will have been
destroyed.
It is generally known by the older “Squirrel Hunters” that from their
first knowledge of the North-west to beginning of the railroad era,
1855, Ohio was a paradise for the sportsman with dog and gun. The
fields abounded with covies of quail; the forests with wild turkeys,
grouse, pigeons and squirrels; and the streams with ducks and geese.
Up to the period named the conditions of the country underwent but few
changes detrimental to the propagation and preservation of game, and
the abundant supplies afforded amusement and subsistence equaled at
present nowhere within the limits of the United States.
The settlements as yet contained many reservations of continuous
tracts of undisturbed forest, wild ranges, islands along the larger
water-courses, overflowing lands, unmolested parts of large estates,
military and school reservations, etc., often embracing sections of
rich soil heavily timbered and densely covered with an undergrowth of
bushes, and in topography well adapted for resorts and homes of game
birds and beasts.
Few, if any, of those timbered reservations failed to be occupied by
every species and variety of nature’s household. Some locations from
time immemorial had been the favorite and undisputed habitation of
that most wonderful American bird, the wild turkey. For he is not
migratory, nor an aimless wanderer of the forest. His instincts and
attachments to place, the home of his ancestors, are so great that
generations after generations live and die in the same selected site of
wild territory. No persecution can induce him to abandon his accustomed
haunts. Nothing but death or the removal of his forest ends his family.
The area of his home requires several square miles, and includes a
nursery, feeding grounds, ranches, roosts and places of refuge in times
of danger. And if by pursuit he is obliged to flee beyond the limit of
his range, he returns to his associates, to his familiar trees, rocks
and mountain streams.
The turkey is indigenous to America, and not found wild in any other
part of the world. He resides in unsettled sections of timbered
countries, from Mexico to the forests of Canada, and is the wildest,
most intelligent and untamable of all the birds. When taken directly
from the shell, and reared either by hand or with domesticated turkeys,
he will, when grown, separate from friends and accustomed comrades,
and instinctively seek the more attractive life of the forest. No
care and kindness can in one or two generations overcome the fear
of man and love for the wilds, and it requires many generations of
skilled schooling to extinguish the desire for roving and give to him
that contented and confiding disposition which characterizes the
domesticated bird. The writer does not believe it possible for a bird
that has been reared in a state of nature, and felt the charms of
the wilderness, to ever become reconciled to any other conditions of
life. He once brought down a young full-grown female bird and captured
her. When she found resistance useless, she cried most pitifully. She
had suffered no injury excepting a broken tip of one wing, which was
amputated and dressed. The bird was kept in a large cage in the back
yard for two years, remaining concealed during the day and partaking of
food and water late in the evening, and then in the absence of every
object of fear. In due time she was removed to a garden overgrown with
bushes of currants, gooseberries, raspberries, etc., interspersed
with strawberry plants, and with her a pair of tame turkeys. Here she
remained over two years without manifesting the least indication of
making the acquaintance of her civilized relations. A misplaced board
on the fence gave her the boon so much desired--freedom. It was the
beginning of summer when she escaped and was searched for, but seen no
more until the following spring, when she was noticed several times
near the tame turkeys, and this always very early in the morning.
That she could get there at that hour, or get there at all from the
timbered land near a mile distant, through farms and fences, seemed
remarkable, as she could not fly. After harvest of that year she
frequented the stubble fields near the timber, with four well-grown
half-breeds, as wild as herself. The next spring she commenced visiting
her old acquaintances again, but, unfortunately, fell in sight of a
pot-hunter, and was brought in as a great prize. But those who had
kindly cared for the misfortunes of the bird, and now looked upon
her lifeless form, had feelings which the word indignation failed to
express.
The turkey propagated in foreign countries soon becomes degenerated,
and in every way much inferior to the American type, the high standard
of which in this country is kept up by infusion of wild blood and
liberal forest ranges adapted to the nature of the bird.
The wild turkey has many peculiarities not found in any other species.
Other birds elect certain localities to spend their nights, while the
wild turkey puts up wherever night overtakes him; for his range is
his home, and he is at home any-where in his range. When roosting in
considerable numbers, the flock is dispersed over an extensive area
of forest. He seldom, if ever, roosts two consecutive nights in or
near the same place. When the leaves are on the trees he goes to the
topmost twigs of the highest trees, and lets his heavy body down upon
the foliage and small branches, and fixes himself for the night so he
can not be seen by enemies from above nor from below. When the forest
is bare he is still more careful to withdraw from observation, and for
this purpose selects large, rough and broken trees--trees with ugly,
crooked limbs, with knots and deformities--and places himself near some
bump, crook, or place where the addition of his body will be readily
overlooked; for well does he understand that the ordinary pot-hunter
expects to see him perched upon a small limb far out from the body of
the tree, standing on his legs, with outstretched neck and elevated
head. But, instead of making a show, he always does the best he can to
conceal himself, and if nothing better appears at hand, he will take
to a large horizontal limb, and near the trunk of the tree flatten his
body down on the upper part and stretch out the neck and legs on line
with the limb, so to resemble closely a slight enlargement on that part
of the growth.
He knows so well how to conceal himself when roosting that he laughs at
the possibility of being seen and captured by the marvelous hunters who
have _killed so many by moonlight_! The arrival of man and gun in his
forest is scented and signaled at once. The birds most exposed fly far
in advance of the hunter, and those that feel safe keep still and are
safe from observation.
The writer admits, after testing this mode of hunting after night, many
times, many seasons, and with many persons, that he has never been
able to find a turkey on a tree while roosting. He has seen, however,
and measured the credibility of the individual who insists that he has
captured a great many snipe in cold, dark winter nights, by holding a
light at the open mouth of a bag while other persons drive them in, but
has never been able to find the individual who shot a wild turkey while
sitting on the roost.
A friend who had become infatuated with the idea of night-hunting,
insisted that turkeys could be seen on bare trees when the moon was as
light and bright as then; and the reason he had not been heretofore
successful was owing entirely to the “if.” As soon as the moon was
declared all right we were on the grounds; could hear birds flying off
the trees in advance of us as soon as we entered the border. Every
tree in our pathway was scanned, without seeing an object resembling a
turkey. The writer soon tired of the amusement and retraced his steps
some distance, and sat down upon an old log lying on the sand in the
deep-cut bed of a creek.
After waiting a reasonable time and hearing nothing from the friend,
the writer called--waited and called a number of times; but all
remained silent. Thinking the hunter had become bewildered and wandered
beyond the range of vocal sounds, fired one barrel of the gun off,
pointing it in the direction of the moon, which was partially obscured
by some of the small branches of a large sycamore tree, standing on
the bank of the opposite side of the creek.
The gun made a loud report, and so did a large gobbler as he came
flapping down through the branches into the creek, having received a
mortal charge of shot. The signal gun soon brought in the absent member
of the expedition, who, on feeling a twenty-pound bird and hearing the
explanation, moved it be made unanimous, as the only successful way to
shoot wild turkeys by moonlight.
Another peculiarity of this bird may be mentioned. In the spring of
the year the female birds straggle long distances from the flock, and
seek temporary separation in the more open but unfrequented parts of
the forest, where the male birds seldom, if ever, resort. Here they
nest and rear their young. When the offspring is well grown the mother
birds, with young, return to the flock, after which old and young, male
and female, remain together as one family during fall and winter.
In-door naturalists and authors have given to the world many singular
and absurd statements respecting the habits, sagacity and instincts
of the wild turkey, since the truthful descriptions penned by John
James Audubon, F.R.S., S.L. and E. And it is singular that the eminent
naturalist, Thomas Nuttall, A.M.T., L.S. and C., should say he is not
gregarious.
Charles Hallock, the able editor of “Forest and Stream,” author of
“Camp Life,” “Sportsman’s Gazetteer,” etc., states that in the spring
wild turkeys “pair off” (like blue-birds), “and after the young are
hatched both parents take great interest in the growth and progress
of the young family;” that they are “easily tamed; are slaughtered
by moonlight while roosting; that it is rarely a wing-shot can be
procured; that they are killed by sportsmen in various ways,” most
of which is not much less at variance with facts in nature than the
statement of Mr. Burrell Symmes, who claimed that he had outwitted
the sagacity of the bird, and killed at one shot, with a rifle, a
large flock that infested a wheat-stack near their range. “The turkeys
would gather around the stack, every few days, as close as they could
crowd their bodies, pulling out wheat-heads to eat;” and, taking in
the situation, says he bent the barrel of his gun to the segment of
a circle corresponding to the diameter of the area of the base of
the stack. And well loaded with powder and leaden ball, concealed
the weapon at the proper adjustment, placing himself in view of the
situation, with a cord attached to the trigger. The turkeys came, and
unsuspectingly crowded around the stack, and began their accustomed
repast. Now was the moment for action--“the cord was pulled, and the
gun fired, which sent the ball round and round the stack, until it
mowed down every last turkey in the flock.”
Respecting the habits and peculiarities of the wild turkey, the author
turned up a slip from the lips of an old North Carolina negro, who
gives the best pen-picture of the home-life of the bird that has
fallen to the notice of ornithologists. The authography is somewhat
objectionable, but the whole story is well told. Among other things he
says the wild turkey is a “mighty peert fowl;” that he can sometimes
teach a fox how to be smart, while at other times a sucking calf is not
half so big a fool as he makes of himself; that he had known gobblers
to outwit all the hunters in the country, and then walk into some
ordinary colored man’s “pen” and stay there, “a cranin he neck, an’
tryen to get out at de top w’at been all roof over, wile de hole in de
groun’ w’at he came in at stans wide open.”
The “pen” was a fatal device, capturing annually thousands of
those birds during early settlements. Before the extensive forests
disappeared turkeys lived well in the fall and winter and fattened on
the mast. But owing to the love for Indian corn they were by a moderate
display of this food easily enticed into traps, called “pens,” when
placed in secluded sections of forest where the birds were known to
seek subsistence.
Pens were usually constructed of windfalls--old limbs of various
sizes--making an inclosure of ten or twelve feet square, four feet in
height, and covered with similar limbs weighted down with other limbs
placed across the covering. A trench, eighteen or twenty inches deep
and about the same width, cut to enter the pen two feet, terminating
abruptly slanting upward. Over the part of the trench next to the wall
were secured a number of small poles forming a bridge a foot wide.
Outside of the pen the trench extended, rising gradually, until it
reached the level of the surrounding ground.
When finished, the trap would be well-baited with corn in the center
and in the trench. Small quantities were scattered off in different
directions from the pen, and a few grains here and there for a mile
or more. After the birds would find a few grains, the entire flock
would engage in search for more, and soon the trail of corn leading to
the pen would be discovered, and rushing along in haste would enter
the trench unawares, and forcing the front birds in the trench under
the bridge and up into the pen before danger was suspected. As soon
as those in the inclosure discovered the situation, they would try to
force their way through the openings in the pen, passing and repassing
around and over the bridge with heads erect, never observing the
opening by which they entered--their comrades would soon disappear,
leaving the unfortunate birds to be taken out by the trapper.
In a good location a single pen would furnish one hundred or more
turkeys during a winter. One year, J. J. Audubon kept an account of
the produce of a pen which he visited daily and found that seventy-six
had been caught in it, in about two months. Seven was the highest
number he had ever succeeded in taking from a pen at one time, but knew
of as many as eighteen being captured by others. The average success
of a pen, per capture, ranged from four to five. The writer has known
fifteen to be the fruits of the first visit, and no more caught that
season.
To make the pen a success, required great care and attention. The
timber necessary for the construction was gathered from windfalls
showing woodland decay; any marks of the axe, or civilization were
considered objectionable. The earth taken out to make the trench,
leading to and into the pen, was carefully removed to other parts; old
leaves were thrown into the trench and about the pen, making every
thing in the vicinity look ancient and accidental.
In many settlements the success of trapping pens was of short duration.
As the country soon furnished easy access of the birds to large fields
of their favorite food, they no longer could be induced to enter
the baited pens. Notwithstanding the number captured by means of
pens--“slaughtered by moonlight”--“by baiting”--“by treeing with dogs,”
turkeys remained quite plentiful for more than sixty years after the
settlement of Ohio. They were to be found in the woodlands all over the
state, and for half a century remained the king-bird of the sportsman.
When frightened, he seeks cover and lies well to a point. Early in
the morning is the most propitious time to find him. When a flock is
flushed and frightened by the rapid motions of a dog, some will fly
and others run in the direction of security and cover; it may be a
mile or more distant, and if so the sportsman will most surely pick
up a straggler or two on his way, if he and his dog understand their
business.
If any have taken to the trees, it will be lost time to look after
them--they have made another fly in the direction taken by the leaders,
who prefer the use of feet to wings. The dog must now keep close
to his master, who moves so cautiously and quietly, that he talks
to his companion by signs and motions altogether. The birds are so
wonderfully fearful of a dog, and are now so frightened that some,
while on the way to the place of refuge, will drop down in a secure
looking spot to regain composure or to await till all is quiet. It is
these the sportsman is after. Old logs, fallen tree-tops, piles of
old brush, blackened limbs, tufts of weeds and spots of dead prairie
grass grown in small openings among timber, afford attractive points
for concealment, and are all remembered with reverence and respect as
monuments of departed birds, at the death and obsequies of which the
writer had been present.
The hunter must be prepared to find a bird anywhere on the line of
march. The dog carries the scent and his every movement determines the
distance the birds are off. Now he moves with cat-like stealth--he
stops with tetanic muscular tension, quivering in every fiber, stands
elongated--a fixed immovable figure--his marvelous nose has caught the
image and measured the distance, which in silence says, stop!--move
not, as eyes and nose direct to the place some twenty or thirty yards
distant. The bird is there, and the canine head knows the result of
another step in that direction--the hunter summoning all his skill and
coolness, takes a step or two forward, and the bird is flushed, and
starts off with the velocity of a grouse, testing sporting ability
and rapidity of motion that rewards in hearing the monster fall; and
a second later the quiet salute by the faithful and well-trained dog,
showing he is elated equally with his master.
Quite often a turkey will carry a mortal charge a long distance and
drop dead. Remains of dead birds are so frequently found during the
hunting season, that there can be but little doubt many shot at and
get away, die from their wounds. And the hunter should not despair
of success if his shot on the wing does not come to the ground
immediately. Instances in great numbers are before the writer, some of
which are marked by more than ordinary singularity, where the recovery
of the bird has taken place, quite unexpectedly, after a pronounced
miss. One bitter cold afternoon, while out with a friend, who shot at
a bird as it was flying through the timber; it continued on its course
and was observed for a long distance to fly naturally but to go down
too abruptly. The locality where observation ended was hunted closely
and easily, as there was a crusted snow on the ground, but without
finding as much as a feather. As we were returning, and within a few
rods of the spot where the bird we had been searching for was shot at,
another turkey came sailing over with tremendous velocity, going in the
direction taken by the first one. It was given a barrel loaded with
Ely’s Green Cartridge, No. 5 shot. The bird went on and down, but this
time we marked the locality more accurately and were soon at the place
and found two turkeys, dead and warm, within a few feet of each other.
Some years before this, while standing in a little opening, early in
the morning, listening for turkey sounds, the report of a gun was heard
near half a mile distant, and in a moment a large gobbler fell dead at
the writer’s feet.
While out with two young dogs, a bird was flushed on the bank of the
Scioto river, and received a shot when near the opposite side, which so
injured and confused him that he came back and fell upon the side of
the stream from which he started. The heavy body came down with a thud,
close to the shore, among some weeds and bushes near a large pile of
drift-wood. The dogs were at the place in quick time, but could find
no turkey. Thinking it had crawled into the drift, we tried to have the
dogs hunt the drift. But they knew better and took no heart in spending
time at that point, and required constant restraint to prevent them
from taking the forest. After an ineffectual examination of the cover
afforded by the drift, the superior judgment of the dogs was taken, and
with management, their noses kept the course of this wounded bird and
followed his meanderings one and a half miles in an air line from the
drift to the point where they came to the bird on a stand. Walking up,
expecting a flush, I was surprised to find a dead turkey, warm, muddy,
and wet with the dew of the morning.
While it is quite common for a turkey, when mortally wounded, to
continue his flight considerable distances before falling, and equally,
if not more so, to fall dead at once from the shot, it is not often one
will, while on the wing making his escape, change his course of conduct
and come down and give himself up without being touched by shell or
shot. Still, it is not impossible, for he has been known to do so, but
not, perhaps, for the reason said to be entertained by Captain Scott’s
coon.
One still, warm afternoon in December, 1860, with dog, the writer
visited the “Fenced-in Wilderness.” On arrival in the woods a concealed
position was selected and the dog sent out to look up the birds. Soon
a large male bird came so near, on foot and unseen, that he scented the
hunter, and rose within less than twenty yards of the writer, who fired
after him one of Ely’s green wire cartridges, one and a half ounces No.
5 shot, driven by three drachms of Hazard’s electric powder. The bird
was up in the air about thirty feet, going off directly in line with
the shot. When the gun reported the turkey did not limber nor tumble
like a bird shot, but came down precisely like a paper kite--full
spread of wings and tail, with outstretched neck and legs. When the
writer came up he was lying upon the ground, spread out like a bat,
and the captor placed one foot and weight of the body on his neck, and
commenced reloading the empty barrel. Before this was half accomplished
it became necessary to suspend reloading and attend to the customer
by changing his neck from the foot to the hand, in order to keep him
long enough to cut his throat. During the time required to open the
knife and perform this little surgical operation he used his legs and
toenails most vigorously and effectively, and the operator came out
of the fray bleeding and lacerated, with loss of the greater portion
of coat, vest, shirt and pants. The wounds, however severe, were as
nothing compared with the knowledge demonstration revealed--that this
turkey was knocked down by the generation of some force, without making
a scar, mark, or sign of traumatism, external or internal. A critical
examination revealed no injury whatever, except the cut made by the
knife. The explanation is for the scientist.
It requires a good gun, a good load and a good shot to bring down a
full-grown, well-feathered turkey. Seldom they rise short of thirty
yards distant; then, by the powerful motor assistance of the legs at
the start, the next thirty yards are made with such velocity that by
the time the gunner has “spoken his piece,” the bird is off so far that
loose No. 5 shot and a fair charge of powder will not be effective
unless by mere accident. This became manifest at the beginning of
the Fifties. Having flushed a very large flock of turkeys near town
by means of a little cocker, that made a terrible ado after them in
the standing cornstalks, near the Scioto river--after hunting them
unsuccessfully in the timber, a strip of prairie grass was entered,
full of “nigger-heads,” extending parallel with the river for a full
half-mile. The grass was tall, and the freezing weather had stiffened
the ground and frozen over the pools, so it could be walked over with
safety. As the grass was entered the little dog became invisible; but
it was soon discovered where he was by the flight of a turkey out of
range, and before the cocker could be brought under control he flushed
several more. It was not long, however, before a good wing shot was
obtained, and the writer started home with a load. This success and
the close proximity to town induced a number of amateur gunners to try
their luck, and they were directed to the locality; for it was certain,
if the turkeys were concealed in the grass, they would remain there if
undisturbed until their time for moving--the dusk of evening.
From what was subsequently known, it would appear that the whole flock,
consisting of forty or fifty birds, still frightened, had found their
way back to this place of security and concealment, and, without the
aid of dogs, were walked up and shot at by the party, but without
capturing a single bird.
The hunters returned with sorrow and disappointment. One of their
number, a prominent lawyer and ex-member of Congress, came in with the
loss of one eye and otherwise disfigured for life by the explosion of
his gun.
At the close of the War of the Rebellion a large amount of
uncultivated, wild land, owned by non-residents, was sold in small
farms to settlers; and a general disposition prevailed, from high
prices of produce, to improve much of the better class of timber lands
every-where, underbrushing for pasture, or deadening the large timber
for corn, and this had some influence in decimating game. Still the
game resorts, uninhabitable in this way, amounted to little compared
with influence and facilities increased railroads gave the pot-hunter
to go on with his work of extermination in those mammoth parks of
forests in the eastern and southern borders of the state, where the
deer, turkey, grouse, and wild-pigeon should have found protection and
a home to the end of time.
And with a diversified and wild section of country large enough to
accommodate and furnish annually thousands of game, beasts, and birds,
some are entirely extinct, and others scarcely known within the limits
of the state. Such destruction is truly an injustice to a beneficent
creator that fed the hungry, clothed the naked, made pioneer homes
happy and a savage wilderness a desirable habitation for the pilgrims
of a better civilization.
It is more to be regretted that in the general destruction the grandest
bird in the world--indigenous alone to America--and whose love for
“liberty” exceeds all other species, should be denied room enough among
a liberty-loving people for a home. It seems a pity Benjamin Franklin
had not been more than “half in earnest” when he suggested this bird as
the emblem of our national independence. But as it is, in other ways he
has advanced civilization and been a benefactor to the human race. His
surpassing size, tender, juicy, and gamey-flavored flesh, places him
far above all other gallinaceous birds; and his goodness and greatness
are known over the world, and those who occupy his native country have
secured for his name a _place_ among the saints, to be chanted annually
on a day set apart for _thanksgiving and praise_.
Railroad facilities enabled pot-hunters to flood the country, to shoot
for eastern saloons and cold-storage houses, until the rapid decimation
of valuable game gave reasons for serious apprehension that both birds
and beasts will become exterminated or taken from the sources of food
supply. An annual depletion of the quantity of game in a given locality
is generally borne well, and is, to a limited extent, beneficial. They
usually stand assessments of numbers much better than encroachments
upon their borders. And it is sometimes singular where they all go
to, when the woods in which they have always lived become cleared up,
so they are obliged to transfer their possessions. An estate in the
Military District, consisting of two thousand acres, remained wild
until 1862. The agent at this date had the land cleared of the young
growth of trees and bushes and put in grass.
Two years after, while riding along a road that led through this piece
of timber, the writer saw a stately wild turkey, with head erect
and measured steps, marching through the open timber, occasionally
stopping, as though looking and listening for former companions. On the
same road, after several hours, we again saw the disappointed bird on
his way back to tell the sad story.
The wild turkey is now exterminated in Ohio, and the indications are
he will soon be as little known as the Dodo. During his stay in the
aid and interests of civilization, thousands of Squirrel Hunters were
made happy, and for nearly three hundred years he has been placed
at the head of the feast with all the compliments bestowed upon him
in 1621 by Priscilla Holmes: “The foremost of all delicacies--roast
turkey--dressed with beech-nuts.”
The quail, another valuable game bird, has, until within a few years,
been an abundant, permanent resident of the state. It is scarcely
necessary to say a word in his praise, for Bob White is a smart little
fellow, an early riser, and worth millions to agricultural interests
while living, and unequaled on toast when dead.
At the date of the first settlements in the territory the bird was
undoubtedly very retired, as well as few in number. The extensive and
dense forests, covering almost the entire country, made it ill adapted
to his nature; and those which were enabled to perpetuate existence
occupied some of the limited open tracts of land found here and there
over the country. Bob White is really a bird of civilization. He
flourishes most near the abodes of man. The cultivation of the soil and
settlement of the country increases his numbers. In support of these
conclusions we will here refer to the fact contained in a statement
made by a gentleman who, with family, settled in Ohio in the spring
of 1798, and located on the border of a small prairie--seemingly a
favorable situation for the bird. He resided several years in that
locality, raising wheat, corn, and other kinds of produce, without
hearing the voice of the quail. He had about abandoned the anticipation
of quail shooting, and questioned if it would ever be recognized as a
sport in Ohio.
One day in early summer of 1802 he thought he heard the recognized
though suppressed sound, “Bob White.” Somewhat doubting the sense of
hearing, he immediately made observations and procured additional
evidence--that of sight. Yes, he actually heard and saw the bird for
the first time in Ohio. Elated with the good news, he proceeded to the
cabin and told his discovery with so much excitement and enthusiasm
that it created a laugh at his expense. He excused his manner, however,
by saying, “It was sufficient to excite any one to know that a
highly-esteemed and familiar friend had found the way through such an
interminable wilderness, and announced his arrival in that modest and
meaning way, ‘Bob White.’” Since then he has been known as a permanent
resident.
The greater portion of the year the old birds, with the family
increase, remain in coveys. In early spring this general attachment is
broken up by pairing, each pair selecting a locality, where they remain
during the breeding season. When mating and selection of locality
has taken place, it is known by the demonstration of the male, who
gives the whole neighborhood due notice of his domestic intentions by
frequent repetitions of his cheerful and well-known notes, “Bob White!
Bob White!”
When paired the two are constant companions, ever watchful and
devoted to the welfare of each other, sharing equally the duties and
responsibilities of wedded life; and from the appearance of the first
offspring to their settlement in the world, as faithful father and
mother, remain unceasing protectors and providers for the family.
This extraordinary strength of attachment and exhibition of natural
affection has attracted the attention of all their friends.
While living on a farm the writer discovered a nest, nicely concealed
by tufts of grass after being constructed, under the projecting end
of a fence rail. At the time there were in it five eggs. This number
increased daily until twenty-three eggs filled the nest, and incubation
began. All went on happily, until one morning there was evidently
great distress in that little household. The male bird was sounding
his anxious alarm--going hurriedly from one part of the farm to that
of every other--sometimes flying, sometimes running; stopping a moment
here, a moment there; calling at the top of his voice for his mate,
in his peculiar tone of distress. His unanswered cry soon told the
tale--some accident, some ruthless hawk, some sneaking cat, or some
other enemy, had captured and destroyed his faithful companion.
He kept his calling for several hours, sometimes coming quite near,
making a low chittering noise, as if suspicious something could be
told--that the writer could tell him where his love had gone. Far from
it, he too was in search of anything that could give a clue to the
whereabouts of the unfeeling wretch that had done the bloody deed--he
too was excited, and would have executed the severest penalty known on
the guilty one, if found.
The nest was occasionally observed during the forenoon, with merely the
thought she might be testing the affection of her lord, or playing him
a practical joke; but no, the eggs were, at each visit uncovered. About
noon-day, his lamentations ceased, and hoping his mate had returned,
the nest was again visited, and was surprised to find Bob on the nest,
keeping life in the prospective family.
For several days he left the nest frequently to make further search
for his missing sweetheart. One morning, as usual, I called to see how
the little widower was getting along, and found nothing but a bundle
of shells--every egg had been hatched. Not far from the nest was heard
a crickety sound--“chit, chit, chit”--and soon discovered Bob with his
brood. He continued to care for the motherless young, as the writer
can testify from frequent meetings, and reared a fine, large covey,
which received protection and sympathy during the following fall and
winter, of all the farm hands and sportsmen, who knew him and his
well-behaving family.
Quail are not strictly granivorous. In autumn and winter they subsist
chiefly on grain, berries and weed seeds. But in the spring and summer
their food is almost exclusively composed of worms and insects. While
Henry William Herbert extols the benefits the agriculturist derives
from the consumption of weed seeds by these birds, he does not seem
to have been aware the quail is the greatest worm and insect enemy of
all the birds of North America, and are of more valuable service to
crops and trees than all other birds combined. A few coveys carefully
preserved would protect the farmer against the ravages of many
destructive insects, which are more to be feared than the “rag-weed,
the dock, or the brier.” The writer examined one accidentally killed,
several years ago, in the month of June, and its crop contained
seventy-five “_potatoe-bugs_,” besides numerous smaller insects.
And, if for no other reason, the farmer should protect the bird as
his best and most reliable exterminator of worms and insects, which,
if undisturbed, accumulate to the great detriment of growing grain
and grass, and to orchards and gardens. The quail regards man as his
friend, though a stranger to his sympathy and protection. If not for
ill-treatment and general manifestation to exterminate his species
by those whose friendship he courts, he would soon become quite as
domestic as the barnyard poultry. In fact, he frequently presses his
claims perseveringly in this line by establishing partnership and
social relations with domestic fowls. It is not uncommon to find a hen
and quail occupying the same nest, until the complement of eggs are
deposited by each, at the end of which time the quail usually submits
the incubation to her partner.
Quail are pursued by man, beast, bird, and reptile; but with a fair
opportunity and timely warning they manifest a wonderful faculty for
evading their foes; and, excepting the “pot-hunter,” they are provided
with ample means for self-preservation. He who steals upon a covey
while enjoying the sunshine by some stump, log, or fence-corner, seated
in a space less than the circumference of a half-bushel measure, and
betrays a confidence by firing upon them in this unsuspecting attitude,
filling his bag with the dead, and marching off with the brand of
“sneak-thief” upon his brow, is a “pot-hunter.” He, too, who, with a
show of indifference, rides about, pretending to be overseeing his own
affairs, whistling around until the poor unsuspecting birds, in order
to get out of his way, unconsciously walk into a net prepared for them,
and as a reward for this confiding friendship triumphantly mashes their
heads, is a pot-hunter. Against such the bird has no protection.
When coveys have warning of danger, and wish to evade detection, they
will conceal themselves from their enemies, in a most magical manner,
by a singular concerted action, seemingly, withholding their “scent,”
so it is often impossible for the best dogs to detect them, even in
the most favorable cover. It is quite amusing to witness the changes
that come over the amateur sportsman when he fails to put up his birds.
He knows where they are, at least he thinks he does, for he “marked
them down” in the meadow of short grass within a few yards of a stump
or tree. Then, it is such a commentary on his dogs, for he knows they
are all right--never better, truer noses; still they go over and over,
round and round, without winding a bird, or coming to a point. There!
that dog has flushed a bird! Now he is assured the whole covey are
within twenty feet of that spot; and he renews his search, and keeps
his dogs going over and over the same locality, until both dogs and
gunner, disgusted, quit the place.
How they got away, and where they all went to, and why that single bird
remained where the covey went down, and why the dogs did not point that
bird, all passed through the mind of the hunter, as he marched on in
search of better luck.
The amateur perhaps meets his experienced friend, to whom he relates
his disappointment, and who in reply proposes to return to the meadow
of the “marked down” covey. After a time they do so, and every dog at
once winds his bird; and each come to point--these are flushed and shot
at. The dogs are made to move cautiously, and again the trio stand,
each having a bird under point. This is repeated until every bird has
gone the gauntlet.
Quail shooting has been, but is no longer, an interesting field sport
in Ohio. Wing shooting, while diminishing the aggregate number, by
subtracting from each covey, does not often destroy the entire family,
and under proper legislation, has its benefits and advantages, and
generally insures the preservation of an abundance to propagate another
season. The sport, also, to some extent, draws from the destructive
spoils of the pot-hunter and trapper, making the birds coy, suspicious
and not easily seen. True, there is a possibility that the sportsman
with dog and gun may destroy a whole family by shooting on the wing.
A chapter of this kind occurred to the writer. While riding along the
road in a buggy with a friend, our pointer companion came to a stand
some distance in front, with nose and tail paralleled to the line of
fence. The birds rose by concert in line along the fence, while the
rear bird, or first to rise was covered and fired at. The atmosphere
was so the smoke obscured results, excepting that of a wounded bird
crossing the road for a sorghum field. An effort was made to intercept
and capture it, but failed. The friend who sat in the buggy and had a
good view of the situation, declared every bird fell. A walk over the
ground proved it true, as from the first to the last in the distance of
about twenty yards or more, eleven dead birds were picked up. The next
day on passing the spot, the dog came to a point on a wounded bird,
which was captured and killed as a kindness. Here the whole covey was
exterminated; but as the perpetrator felt “sorry” for the act, and did
not intend it, and would never do it again, it should not be considered
unpardonable.
The quail is a bird favorable to the happiness of man and advancement
of civilization, is of inestimable value as a permanent resident,
for the reason he is independent of forests for the maintenance of
existence and perpetuation. He is the bird of field and farm and the
only one from which a single pair can produce and rear to maturity more
than half a hundred young in one season, to present as choice morsels
of food for the weary farmer and protector.
It is comforting to the sportsman to feel assured there is one resident
game bird the iniquity of the pot-hunter can not exterminate. So long
as forests and mountains last, the Ruffed Grouse will be able to
maintain an abiding place. And many are the pleasant reminiscences of
the hunter connected with the pursuit of this wary bird; it is a sport
once enjoyed can never be lost from among the sunny associations of
the past. Even the name brings to view the ragged mountains, rocky
ravines, shady dells, babbling brooks and quiet streams in forests,
ripe with every shade and tint of autumn colors, quiet secluded places
where nature reveals her sweetest charms in inimitable splendor that
mocks the artist’s pencil and poet’s pen--the home and haunts of this
beautiful bird.
It does not seem reasonable that the indifference of the people should
permit the depopulation of the earth of all its birds! It is sorrowful
to contemplate a place where no bird exists excepting the “English
sparrow.” Of the known species, amounting to over five thousand, that
once glorified the life and beauty of the earth, more than one-half the
number has already disappeared forever.
The Chicago Tribune, of August 11, 1895, on the “Destruction of Birds,”
tells the truth, a horrible truth, when it says: “If masculine greed
and cruelty, and feminine vanity and thoughtlessness, are not in some
manner restrained or punished, it is only a question of time, and very
short time at that, how soon the earth will lose its birds.” That the
Seattle Argus called attention to the danger of the utter extermination
of game birds by the destruction of their eggs on the Alaska breeding
grounds--ducks, geese, swans, and other migratory birds, seek the low
lands along the Yukon river for their nesting places. The egg-hunters
gather their eggs by millions in these as well as other localities
in South-western Alaska, where the birds resort, and sell them for
the purpose of manufacturing egg albumen, a commercial article. The
destruction of these millions of eggs every spring and summer is
rapidly reducing the number of game birds, and the flocks every year
grow smaller and smaller. Senator Mitchell, of Oregon, introduced a
bill at the last session of Congress for the protection of these game
birds, but of course it did not come to vote, and it probably never
will. The game birds will share the fate of the four-footed game; grow
fewer every year, and finally disappear altogether.
“When one remembers that thirty years ago the skies were almost
darkened by flights of pigeons across Indiana and Illinois, and that
branches of trees were broken by their weight and numbers, and that
the other day a wild-pigeon shot in Southern Indiana was regarded as
rare a curiosity as a white blackbird, it can be realized how rapidly
game birds are disappearing. The game birds which are not migratory are
also hunted down in spite of game laws, and every year grow scarcer and
dearer in the markets. If nothing is done to protect (more effectually)
there will soon be an end of game birds. The greed of gain will end
their existence.”
Of all the birds in Ohio and the North-west, the wild pigeon was by
far the most numerous. Those who have witnessed their flight, from
early morn until approaching night, all going in one direction, without
cessation for a number of consecutive days, were ready to believe
pigeons were as the sands of the sea, innumerable, and could never be
exhausted. But, alas! inventions came, the foes of bird-life: railroads
and telegraphs. And for many years, winter and summer, the pigeon
was traced, pursued, netted and trapped, at feeding places, by gangs
of pot-hunters, keeping tons of dead birds all the time in transit
to the large cities. Year after year, from coast to coast, this bird
was followed, invading the breeding places and destroying the young
and old, until the wild pigeon now exists in history, and may be seen
mounted by the taxidermist.
The birds that are not game, the women in their vanity and
thoughtlessness are rapidly destroying those having an attractive
plumage, and millions of humming-birds, orioles, bluebirds, starlings,
indigo-birds, redstarts, redbirds, and many others, are annually
slaughtered to gratify an _inhuman_ and uncivilized fashion. For more
than ten years this destruction has been increasing, and birds are
diminishing in this and other countries until extermination is near
at hand. Jules Forest says of the bird of paradise: “They are so
industriously hunted that the males are not permitted to reach full
maturity, and the birds which now flood the market are for the most
part young ones, still clothed in their first, plumage, which lacks
the brilliancy displayed in the older bird, and are consequently of
small commercial value.” As to the tuft of delicate plumes which are so
much in demand by milliners, and sold by them as real, are often mixed
with ospray tips, which, to the shame of womanhood, have so long been
in fashion and are still used. I may state on trustworthy authority,
that “during the last season one warehouse alone has disposed of no
less than sixty thousand dozen of these mixed sprays.” And the question
comes: Is there no way to stop it? Must bird-slaughter go on to gratify
a weak and cruel vanity, that should be met not only with public scorn,
but also by the strong arm of the law, to reach the possessor or the
hat, as it does the fisherman and his net or the hunter and his gun.