The Weasel a Clever Dodger

1895

One That Was Quicker Than the Shot of a Sportsman's Trusty Gun.

"Coming to our camp in the cool October evening after throwing our lines for bass at sunset in Little Bear pond," said the Gotham sportsman, "we found that a visitor had been there during our absence. We had taken up our quarters in a deserted shingle camp, a low log structure with a splint root. A 'deacon's seat' stood before the open fireplace of stone, and behind, laid thatchwise on the ground, were the pine boughs upon which we were to sleep. We had left our dunnage there earlier in the day and had hung up upon a peg in the wall two partridges that we had shot. After we had lighted up the place with a glowing fire we saw that the partridges were gone from the wooden peg on which they had hung and were nowhere to be seen. A long search about the camp revealed them at last on the opposite side, crowded half under the bottom log of the wall, as if an attempt had been made to get them out of the camp that way.

"We hung them up again upon the peg and in a few minutes discovered a weasel running about them trying to get them down again. He appeared to be regardless of our presence. He would run out to the end of the peg and work away awhile to try to push the string that held them over the end and then would dart to the ground below and sit upright, looking at them, his eyes all the while glowing like emeralds. At last I picked my gun up, loaded with heavy charges of birdshot.

"'It's no use trying to hit him,' said Farris, my companion, an old woodsman. 'He'll dodge the flash of your gun. The most you can do is to scare him away.'

"As the weasel sat upright and motionless on one of the bottom logs of the camp I took a careful sight and fired with my right barrel at him. The smoke cleared away, but no weasel was to be seen, although the place where he had sat was peppered with fine holes where the shot had all struck within a space as large as the palm of my hand. If the weasel had been hit, he would have been found, and he had evidently dodged at the flash of the explosion or perhaps the fall of the hammer. But the shot had the effect of frightening him away, for we had no more visit from him during our stay." — New York Sun.

Chock Full of Fun

1895

HOW MAX RANSOM LEARNED THIS TRAIT OF THE BLACK BEAR.

The Bear Stripped Him and Put on the Clothes — His Friends Seem to Doubt the Story, but as Evidence of Good Faith He Doesn't Shoot Black Bears Now.

"I don't care what anybody says or thinks," said Max Ransom of this city, an observant sportsman and one who thinks twice before he shoots, "but I am convinced that the predominating trait in the character of the great American bear is a longing for fun. I mean the black bear. The grizzly bear and all his near relatives, or, as some say, his descendants, such as the silver tip and the cinnamon bear, have no sense of humor in them.

"But the black bear, judging, as I do, from a personal experience, is simply looking for something to have fun with when he goes out. I had killed quite a number of bears before I had this little experience, hut I have never killed one since or attempted to kill one. I wouldn't have the blood of a bear on my hands for anything. Seems to me I'd feel as if I were a murderer. I mean a black bear, of course.

"The way I happened to change my mind about black bears and their disposition was this: Two or three of us were up in Pennsylvania one fall deer hunting. One day, after standing on a runway for two or three hours, and judging that the dogs had taken the deer in another direction, I put my gun down and walked away a short distance to a barberry bush to pick some of the tart berries. A frost had knocked the berries all off the bush, and they lay thick on the ground beneath it. I stooped down and was enjoying the refreshing mountain fruit when I felt something tap me on the shoulder. I looked up, and there, towering above me and with a grin on its face as near as a grin could possibly be on a face not human, stood a bear at least five foot tall, being on his hind feet, looking down at me, his fore paws hanging limp against his chest. It was the bear, of course, that had tapped me on the shoulder.

"Now, here was a situation. I couldn't get at my gun. I had a knife in my pocket, but with that universal belief I had always had that the bear is a fierce, ugly and pugnacious beast that wanders about with his eye constantly skinned for some one that he can pitch into and scatter about and chew up I didn't think it would be wise for me to rise from the base of that towering bear, right into his clutch, you might say, and defy him with a knife. The bear seemed to be waiting for me to do something. I was in squatting posture and really couldn't make up my mind what to do. So I remained just as I was, trying to think what ought to be done under the circumstances. I guess the bear must have got impatient, for he reached down and tapped me on the shoulder again. It was just a gentle tap, as if he were simply calling my attention to something or other. Then I made up my mind. I thought I might throw myself quickly forward, get to my feet, out and run and make a circuit among the trees, supposing all the time that the bear would be chasing me until I could got back to where my gun was. Once there, I would have no further apprehension as to the result.

"So I made a surge forward, but before my head had scarcely changed its position the bear's paw closed on my shoulder. In an instant he jerked me to my feet, turned me square around and there I stood, face to face with him, he with a paw on each of my shoulders. I thought my only chance now was to get my knife in action before the bear finished me, and I carefully slipped my hand in my pocket and got the knife. I was stealthily passing my other hand over to open the knife when the bear calmly reached down with one paw, snatched it out of my hand and threw it away. From the position the bear was in I might have given him a tremendous kick in the stomach and doubled him up so I could have got to my gun before he got over the effects of the kick, but I didn't think of it, and I'm glad now that I didn't. I wouldn't have known then what there really is in bears and would have gone on killing them in cold blood.

"After the bear threw my knife away he took off my hat, looked it over and then put it on his own head in a rakish way. He was more than grinning now — he was actually laughing, and his eyes twinkled mischievously. The next move he made was to unbutton my hunting coat and take it off of me as slick as could be. This he threw off to one side and then took off my vest. He laid the vest on the coat.

" 'Heavens!' I said to myself. 'This bear is going to strip me so he can chew me up better.'

"After taking off my vest the bear pushed me down on the two garments and deliberately and expertly drew off my boots! Then he sat down opposite me and drew the boots on his own foot. After he had done that he yanked me off the coat and vest and tried to put the vest on himself. It was too small, but he got the coat on all right, and then he was a sight that made me tumble right down there and howl. It was the funniest thing I ever saw. My mirth seemed to please the bear, and he danced around like a tipsy raftsman, cutting all sorts of fandangoes and pigeon wings. I guess this lasted ten minutes, and I was sore all through from laughing, when suddenly the bear stopped, cocked his head on one side and listened a moment. Then he stripped my coat off and tossed it to me, and sitting down pulled off the boots and gave them back. To take off the hat and hand it over was only the work of a second, and then the bear hurried away into the brush and disappeared. He had hardly got away before along came my companions with their guns. The bear had heard them, and he knew what would happen to him from men with guns, and so he got away as quickly as he could.

"Of course my friends were surprised to see me sitting there half stripped; and when I told them what had occurred they acted as if they didn't believe me, and they've acted that way ever since." — New York Sun.

Treed By Wolves

1895

THE STORY OF A HUNTER'S ADVENTURE IN NEWFOUNDLAND.

The Ferocious Beasts Wanted the Dressed Caribou, Were Willing to Compromise by Taking the Man, but They Got Neither, Though It Was a Close Call.

There's a master lot of game in Newfoundland, they told me, when you go back a bit from the shore. There was one old hunter named Bongthorn I fell in with at a little post on the west coast who used to bring down caribou meat to sell to the people of the settlements and to vessels that put in there. The caribou — reindeer, as some folks call 'em — run in great herds there, hundreds of 'em together. By all he said there must be great hunting there for a man who cared to risk his life in such a wilderness.

One story he told me about wolves that's enough to make one's hair stand. It was in the early spring, when the snow still lay deep on the ground, that he killed a caribou one day, and having dressed him hung him up to a tree limb, out of the way of the wolves, while he went on to look for more game. When he came back for his caribou, he saw so many wolves gathered about under the tree trying to get at the meat that, for the first time in his life, he was frightened at 'em. He'd about made up his mind that he'd go quietly away and come again for the caribou when wolves were scarcer, when they spied him and all came for him together. There was a large spruce tree near by that had been blown over and had lodged against other trees so that its trunk slanted up just about as steep as a man could easily climb. He ran to the foot of the tree, and not stopping to take off his snowshoes walked right up that leaning trunk to the forking of its lower limbs. How he ever got up there on snowshoes was a wonder to him afterward, but he found himself among the lower branches with something to hold on to, and then he turned around and set down a-straddle of the trunk. The wolves were all around underneath where he sat, and some had followed him part way up on the leaning tree, but they had to come along it one at a time, and the foremost one would jump off every time before he got half way up, so they didn't get very near him.

The first thing Bongthorn did was to take off his snowshoes and hang 'em up safe among the branches. While he was doing this he had the misfortune to drop his gun, that he had kept with him so far. The moment it struck the snow, bang it went, its charge of slugs taking one wolf's fore legs clean off. At the flash and noise of the report all the other wolves fell back a moment from where the wounded one was yelping in the snow. Then they flew at him, tore him to pieces in no time and ate him up in short order. After fighting over the bones awhile they turned again to Bongthorn, jumping up toward him from beneath where he sat and coming one by one part way up the leaning trunk toward him. All the time they kept up a snapping of teeth that told him what would happen if he fell among them.

This was in the month of March, when it's mighty cold in Newfoundland, and Bongthorn knew that the way things were going it was one of two things with him — to freeze in the tree or to be torn to pieces by the wolves below. There was his gun sticking in the snow. If he could only get that into his hands again, he might fight off the wolves. His hatchet was in his belt, and he climbed farther up the trunk and cut a long, slim branch. This he trimmed smooth, leaving a fork at the lower end, and, using it as a grappling hook, tried to pick up the gun. But 'twas no use. As soon as he pushed the stick down within their reach the wolves snapped for it and nearly tore it out of his hands. If he could get them away from the spot, or at least draw their attention to something else, he might stand a chance to get his gun. There was only one way he could think of to bring this about. It was a desperate risk to let the hatchet go, but he took as good aim as he could at a big wolf, let it drive, and as luck would have it it struck another one in the back. There it stuck fast, while the wolf ran off yelping and the others after him. They caught up with him after he had run a little way, and, while they were serving him as they had served the other, Bongthorn tried again to hook his gun up, but he couldn't make his grapple work, for the gun dropped back as often as be lifted it from the snow. Time was precious, for he knew that as soon as the wolves got their companion eaten up they would be back under the tree. For the moment they were all fighting in a heap around the wounded one, 50 steps away, tearing at it and each other and paying no attention to him.

'Twas now or never, and the boldest course was the best. Down he dropped from the tree into the snow, grabbed his gun; wallowed through the snow to the foot of the leaning tree trunk, and back up it he climbed as fast as his legs and arms would carry him.

It was a close shave for the hunter, for the wolves were at the foot of the tree before he got up to the forks, but a miss is as good as a mile in such a case. Then, when he got his gun to work among the wolves, his turn at the fun began. He shot seven of them before the others went away and left him. The wolves that were not left lying dead on the snow scattered all of a sudden, each making off in a different direction, and it wasn't two minutes before not one of them was to be seen or heard about the place.

Bongthorn came down from the tree and traveled all night for home. He didn't stop till he got to the settlement. Then he came back with some companions and brought in his caribou and wolfskins. He showed me the marks of wolves' teeth on the gunstock where the wolves had seized it as it fell from the tree. It was the only time in all his life that the wolves attacked him, but that once was enough for a lifetime. — New York Sun.

Wildcat Tale from Yaphank

New York, 1895

While hunting for opossum in a hollow near Yaphank Sherman Day and Stephen Davis claim to have had an exciting encounter with a wildcat. The men saw the beast on a tree and drew their guns to their shoulders to shoot it. The cat sprang from the tree to Davis's chest. The cat and the man rolled over on the ground.

The beast was getting the best of Davis when Day pulled a jack knife and stuck it into the animal. The cat then turned its attention to Day. It jumped at the latter, who, as the cat landed, plunged the knife deep into the beast's side. It fell to the ground apparently dead.

—The Long Island Farmer, Jamaica, NY, March 15, 1895, p. 1.

Employer and Companion

1895

One of the most important secrets of a hunting expedition is this: "Never allow yourselves any luxuries in a 'tight place' which your men have no share in." The English sportsman whose advice we have quoted tells how he was rewarded in the Caucasus for treating his men as comrades and sharing camp comforts with them. He says:

One chilly night among the mountains I awoke at 3 o'clock to find myself warm and snug under two extra native blankets. The owners of the blankets were squatting on their hams, almost in the fire, and talking to pass the long, cold hours until dawn.

Having rated them for their folly and made them take back their blankets and turn in, I rolled over and slept again. When I next woke, it was 7 o'clock, and the men were still crouching over the embers, helping to cook breakfast, their blankets having been replaced upon my shoulders.

I had paid those men off the day before this happened, and they left me the next morning with a hearty "God be with you," unconscious that they had done anything more than the proper thing toward their employer and companion. — Youth's Companion.

He Got Half the Fine

1895

A man who had been on a hunting trip in the forests of northern Maine vouches for the entire truth of the following story, as he had it direct from the sheriff:

A man who lives in the Mount Katahdin region went into the office of a justice of the peace and inquired about the penalty for hunting deer with dogs, and very particularly as to whether one-half the fine did not go to the informer.

The justice consulted the game laws and assured him that it did.

"Very well," said the man. "I want to complain of myself and settle."

The justice could not back out, and so gave the transgressor "a clean bill of health" upon payment of one-half of the penalty.

It seems that the man got wind of the fact that a game warden had got the "drop" on him on his deer poachings with his dogs and was only waiting an opportunity to arrest him; hence his shrewd bit of diplomacy. — Portland (Me.) Argus.

Daring Woman Hunts Jungle Beasts With Both Movie Camera and Rifle

(Click graphic for a much bigger view.)

1920

BY ELLEN MARIE BAYARD.

"I'll tell you a secret," said Lady MacKenzie to me in her charming, well modulated tones, with just the slightest trace of an English accent, as I was admitted to her superbly furnished apartments in a Broadway hotel at New York City, as the special representative of The Saturday Blade to interview her. "But you'll promise that you'll keep this a secret?"

I promised that I wouldn't tell a soul — excepting the readers of The Saturday Blade.

"It's this," Lady MacKenzie replied. "Just a few days ago I was visiting one of my friends in New York, telling her of a thrilling experience with a tiger in Africa. Just at the most dramatic point of the story, a mouse ran across the room in my direction, and — "

"And you, of course, ignored — " I hastened to interrupt, feeling certain that I was showing the keenness of my powers of anticipation.

Lady MacKenzie smiled at me, that charming, friendly smile of hers.

"Far from it! I picked up my skirts and mounted a chair, just as my hostess did, or any other woman would have done."

Is Wholly Feminine.

This incident, more than any other mentioned during the short interview, seemed to be most indicative of Lady MacKenzie's character. Here was a woman who could shoot a charging elephant in the fetid jungles of Africa without a tremor of an eyelash, but who mounted a chair to escape a mouse in a luxurious New York apartment. This Englishwoman had penetrated further into the dank wilds of Africa than any other living white woman, and as a nimrod had to her credit a long list of such harmless little pets as bull elephants, tigers, leopards and lions — to say nothing of snakes as large thru as the trunk of a tree. Yet she balked at a mouse!

The answer is easy. Lady MacKenzie is wholly feminine. Tho inured to the hardships of the jungles, she dresses in dainty laces while in civilization. In the undramatic environment of a New York hotel, it is hard to believe that this charming, attractive Englishwoman has earned the admiration of the world by her contempt for danger and hardship in tropical jungles.

But it is so. Lady MacKenzie has made two long trips into darkest Africa. She is off now on her third explorative tour and hopes this time to penetrate further and learn more than on either of her previous trips.

War Interrupted Last Tour.

Her exploration of the Tana River, one of the most treacherous streams in the world, winding thru 2,000 miles of dense thicket and papyrus swamp, was interrupted by the war. Her camp at the junction of the Tana and Theka Rivers was taken over by the British as a military base.

Lady MacKenzie's tours are not for purposes of sport. She photographs specimens of wild animals for the Smithsonian Institution and for the American Museum of Natural History.

And with all its hardship and danger, she finds big game hunting an attractive life. She loves adventure and "real life," the life in the open and the thrill of the hunt. And why not? Have men in these days a monopoly on those things? Not that Lady MacKenzie knows of! She likes the ponderous silence of the inky jungles, the sense of stealthy peril ever slinking near, the sharpened instinct of self-survival. She just wonders how people can settle down to a dull, quiet life while Africa is still on the map.

Lion Didn't Like Camera.

"Tell me how you photograph 'em," I pleaded.

"I took a second too long to take a lion's picture once, and he charged me," Lady MacKenzie answered.

Sounds easy, doesn't it? I know that it did to me, as I sat in a soft divan in the New York hotel. But how it really happened in Africa, as I found by questioning the modest English woman further, was this way:

Instead of setting her camera to take a picture by pulling a wire from a convenient retreat in the rear, Lady MacKenzie got right into the thick of things, with her moving picture camera out in front of her.

The lion, of course, didn't like it. Lions often don't.

"G-r-r-r-r! G-r-r!"

Lady MacKenzie kept on turning the crank of the machine as the lion stepped in front of the lens. The animal's tail began switching furiously. Lady MacKenzie coolly adjusted her camera to get a better view. Then the inevitable happened.

Barely Saves Own Life.

The lion leaped. His tawny body describing an angry arc in the air, he met the target directly. Lady MacKenzie's, leap for safety was too late, and the shaggy shoulder of the huge brute dashed her to the ground.

But that was his majesty's last second on earth — for Lady MacKenzie always had her rifle ready and knew how to use it. There was a muffled report and the king of beasts fell with a bullet thru his brain.

"That was a narrow escape," sighs Lady MacKenzie, in recollection of the moment, "but not nearly so exciting as to be caught in a stampede of wild beasts in the heart of the jungle."

It was this way, as I learned in the next few moments. The modern Diana came upon an immense herd of buffalo one day, and was intent upon obtaining an "action picture." To get the desired action she shot the leader of the herd with her rifle. The rest of the animals stampeded.

On they came, a mighty, bellowing avalanche of hoofs and horns. There were hundreds of them, bolting directly for Lady MacKenzie and her party.

Quick as a flash milady threw herself flat on the ground and waited. At any moment she expected to be trampled to death beneath the beating hoofs. With the thought came a fleeting picture of being buried by black savages in the wilds far from home and civilization.

Then the unexpected happened — an intervention of Providence, Lady MacKenzie calls it. For some unexplainable reason the herd parted just in front of where she lay and passed around her on the right and left, leaving her unharmed, but killing several of the native guides.

"But outside of the danger, is there much else of romance in the jungle life?" I asked.

"Too much — sometimes, I'm afraid," replied Lady MacKenzie, with a whimsical smile.

African Chieftain Proposes.

Then she told how an African chieftain became enamored of her when he saw her powder her face one morning. He was curious, and when Lady MacKenzie gave him some powder he applied it to his face, and then got her mirror to see if he had achieved the desired result.

By this time he had lost his heart to milady, and immediately proposed, tho he had several score of native wives. He offered to give members of the party ten sleek cows for the Englishwoman's hand in marriage. It required all kinds of tact and diplomacy to turn down the offer without incurring the anger of the chieftain and his powerful tribe of savages.

The Masals are the most interesting of African tribes, says the huntress, but are fast dying out. They are deliberately practicing race suicide to wipe out their own race rather than endure the encroachments of the hated white man. They are a race of polygamists and have no religion.

Africa Is Little Known.

"The world probably knows less about Africa than any other country in the world," says Lady MacKenzie. "And there is so much to know. I predict that Americans will before very long get into Africa in larger numbers. Then we may expect to find out all about it. For the American has a faculty for developing the commercial resources of a new country — of any country. And there are such wonderful resources in Africa — only the surface has been scratched."

But, altho Lady MacKenzie was too modest to say so, I might add that she had contributed a mighty share toward enlightening the world about Africa. She has brought home valuable records containing the native speech of unknown African tribes and thousands of feet of moving pictures on which are forever recorded the habits of the wild jungle animals and the life and customs of the jungle peoples. She has returned with tons of educational trophies. And she's not thru yet!

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Jan. 3, 1920, p. 14.

Comment: This article and Lady MacKenzie are offensive at several levels. To me, the worst has to be when she wanted an "action picture" of the buffalo, so she shot the leader of the herd and made the rest stampede. Then she was in great danger, but, thanks to Providence, she was left unharmed, but the incident killed several of the native guides! That's terrible all the way through. And check out the photo essay, as they hunted animals with "a camera."

Has Charmed Life

1919

Deer Holds Record of Many Close Escapes From Hunters.

LEWISTOWN, Pennsylvania. — In the Seven Mountain region near here there is a deer that seems to bear a charmed life. This deer, known as old "Barney," has been seen by hunters for many seasons, but they have failed to bag him. A few years ago a hunter managed to cripple him in one leg, but he got away. It left him with a stiff leg.

One day a hunter got close to Barney, but when he went to shoot his gun held fire and Barney got away.

At another time, three hunters were getting warm around a little bonfire when Barney, frightened, ran right into their midst. One of the hunters got a shot at him at close range, but missed.

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Jan. 3, 1920, p. 8.

Wild Ducks Freeze in Ice, and Fly Away with the Lake

1919

Hunter Catches One of Struggling Birds by "Hind" Leg and Pulls It Down — Then the Whole Flock Becomes Exhausted and Falls Into His Eager Hands.

NEW YORK, N. Y. — Here is a real duck story. It is from South River, N. J., and the correspondent swears to its truthfulness. He walked five miles to deliver it to a South River editor, but has since been missing. The story follows:

Mayor-elect George L. Burton is never happier than when aiming his shotgun at a flock of ducks. However, according to a friend, he has never been known to bag a single duck until the recent zero weather. Here's how it happened: He was snugly stowed away in his houseboat when a flock of ducks flying over the bay with loud squawking awakened him at 10 a. m.

He rushed on deck and discovered he was surrounded by a flock of ugly ducklings, who threatened to carry away his boat. The leader of the squawky tribe decided, however, to take a swim in the icy water.

No sooner had they alighted than they were frozen fast by the zero weather. George noticed that the ducks were struggling to get away, but could not force themselves from their icy mooring.

This is my chance to get one, murmured Burton. Seizing his trusty gun, he jumped on the meadows and set out to bag a few. His approach frightened them, and with one supreme effort they struggled into the air, carrying with them a heavy sheet of ice, which bound them together. They flew directly over his head and were so low that George caught one of them by the "hind" leg and pulled it loose.

The loss of this duck — a large one — made the ice too heavy for the rest of the flock, which began to settle slowly. As they were circling over the houseboat, the old drake became exhausted. He could not hold up his end and, with a resounding crash, the entire flock fell through the cabin door.

When George returned he found he had captured a whole flock of ducks without the use of his gun. He is now telling his friends that he shot them.

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Jan. 3, 1920, p. 8.

How to Carry a Gun

1901

There are only two directions in which the muzzle of a gun can safely be pointed; these are up or down. A shot fired in the air can scarcely injure anyone or anything and one discharged into the ground is equally harmless. Therefore, in all the different positions which the gun assumes, see that it is pointed either up or down.

Sometimes a man will be seen who carries his gun reversed, holding it by the muzzle while the fore end rests on the shoulder and the stock projects behind. Happily, this practice is not common, for it is extremely dangerous, and many men have been killed by carrying their guns in this way. If a man stumbles or steps in a hole or catches his foot on a root and falls, his gun will very likely be thrown forward with the muzzle directly toward his body and may easily enough be discharged.

Sometimes one may see a boy or even a man who will carry the gun across the back of the neck, with one arm over the stock and the other over the barrels, sometimes with the hand resting on the muzzle. This is certain to give a very uncomfortable feeling to anyone who happens to be walking by the side of the person carrying his gun in this fashion and opposite the muzzle end. While the danger of a discharge is perhaps not great, it is unpleasant to be walking along with a gun pointed at your neck or head. — Forest and Stream.

Cock Shooting In Tall Corn

1901

Cock shooting in tall corn is as easy to the expert as it is puzzling to the novice. You will, of course, work with the rows, not across them, and if you are wise you will shoot at every glimpse of a bird and very frequently after an instant's sight of him, when you can only guess where he is. Sharp work, say ye, my masters. Yes, in a measure, but not so wonderful after all. You certainly must be ever ready and swift and smooth in action, but actual sight of the bird at the instant of pulling trigger is not necessary.

Green corn won't stop even fine shot, and your charge will give a pattern as big as a bushel basket: hence the shaking of a leaf, the flick of a vanishing wing, are enough for the master of the art. In an instant his gun is on the spot where a species of lightning calculation tells him the bird should be, and the trigger is pressed without the slightest delay. The difficulty with the novice is to get him to shoot at once instead of waiting in vain for a clear view. Experts kill bird after bird in this way. The novice must dismiss all thoughts of empty shells. No good sportsman worries over misses, though he will learn from failures how to hold next time. There is no royal road to success in the field. Nothing but experience really counts. So let the novice crack away, although he may only get one bird in ten. We all know what he'll get if he doesn't shoot at all. — Outing.

Schoolma'am Gets $100 for Slaying Five Lions

1919

Pretty Girl Did Not Know How to Load Gun Three Years Ago.

REDDING, Cal. — Miss Hazel Hightower, teacher of the Lone Pine School, is adding to her fame as a modern Diana. Miss Hightower called on the county clerk when she visited town the other day and was paid another $100, the bounty on five mountain lions she killed near her school.

Miss Hightower is making a specialty, out of school hours, as a lion hunter — or huntress. During the three years she has taught the Lone Pine school she has killed over a dozen mountain lions. The State of California pays a bounty of $20 for each lion killed and Miss Hightower, who says she expects soon to return to Chicago and get her aged mother to come to live with her, is putting by quite a "nest egg."

The pretty little school teacher did not know how to load a gun, let alone shoot it, when she came to this county, three years ago. A cowboy, who could neither read nor write, decided to go to school. He learned to read and write and Miss Hightower learned from him how to shoot. She can handle a revolver as well as a rifle. With a shotgun she is said to be hard to beat.

Believe Squirrels Migrate

1919

Hunters Cannot Otherwise Explain Disappearance of Game.

SPRINGFIELD, 'Mo. — The disappearance of squirrels from many communities in the Ozark region of southern Missouri has caused many old hunters to marvel. Early in the fall the frisky little animals were in evidence in every patch of woods, not only making the hickory nuts disappear, but in many instances invading the cornfield.

Now they are reported scarce, and it is not due alone to the hunters. There has been a big migration, some hunters advance the theory. They think the squirrels migrated into Missouri from the Arkansas forests and returned when cold weather set in.

How to Cook a Coon

1910

In preparing to cook a coon see that the kernels have been thoroughly cut out of the arm pits, groins and from under the root of the tail after it has been skinned. Coons' kernels are similar to musk glands. The carcass should be hung up in the frost for two or three days to freeze by night and thaw by day until properly tendered and then parboiled and baked. Some use a dressing of bread, sage and onions; others use oysters and crackers; still others use sweet potatoes or persimmons. All use a basting rich in butter, red pepper and vinegar. A coon beyond all other flesh absorbs any other flavor put with him, so sweet herbs are occasionally used. Not too fat nor too lean, he makes a fine repast for a hunter's supper.

A Rattlesnake Story

1910

In "Life and Sport on the Pacific Coast" Horace A. Vachell relates one of his narrow escapes from a friend's bullet.

"My cousin and I had been camping and hunting for several days in a sort of paradise valley. One day during a long ride on horseback we had seen a great many rattlesnakes and killed a few, an exceptional experience. That night my cousin woke up and saw by the light of the moon a big rattler crawling across my chest. He lay for a moment fascinated, horror struck, watching the sinuous curves of the reptile. Then he quietly reached for his six shooter, but he could not see the reptile's head, and he moved nearer, noiselessly, yet quickly, dreading some movement on my part that should precipitate the very thing he dreaded, and then he saw that it was not a snake at all — only the black and yellow stripe of my blanket, which gently rose and fell as I breathed. Had he fired — well, it might have been bad for me, for he confessed that his hand shook."

Can Cope With Wolves

1902

A New Breed of Staghounds Combines Speed With Ferocity

William A. Richards, assistant land commissioner, is a hunter of no mean prowess, and in his home near the Big Horn mountains, Wyoming, has killed more than one grizzly and mountain lion. Several days ago Mr. Richards was talking over sporting matters with a Washington Post reporter, when the conversation turned upon dogs and the value of the several breeds for hunting purposes, when he said:

"In my section we have at last secured a breed of dogs that is highly satisfactory. As wolf dogs they cannot be excelled, and the only time that to my recollection I ever saw these dogs turn tail was on an occasion when they faced four grizzlies. Even then they showed fight, retreating only when it was absolutely necessary. Several years ago we began experimenting with a view to securing a breed of dogs sufficiently heavy and ferocious to attack and kill wolves and fleet enough to run them down. After many trials we found that a cross between the old Scotch staghound and the common greyhound proved far superior to any of the experiments we had previously tried.

"These dogs combine the fleetness of the greyhound with the strength and ferocity of the Scotch staghound and as a result are being extensively bred all through the west. A coyote stands no show whatever with these dogs, for as soon as the pack overtakes him he does not strike the ground until he is literally torn limb from limb. The gray wolf is a better and harder fighter, but even in a fair fight one of these crossbred wolf hounds is an even match for the gray wolf. In fact there are some of my dogs that are almost as wild and fierce as the wolves themselves.

"These animals do not hesitate to tackle the black bear and generally make life a burden for him, while in hunting the grizzly bear they are quite useful in holding the game at bay until the hunter arrives to give 'Wahb' his coup de grace."

Hunting Giraffes

1900

No Danger Attends This Sport Except From the Animal's Heels

A good giraffe skin is worth from $10 to $20 in South Africa and much more in Europe. On their hunting trips 10 or 15 years ago it was a common matter for one hunter to kill 40 or 50 of these graceful animals in one day. The reason for this is that the giraffe is the most innocent of animals and easily hunted. They are absolutely defenseless, and there is hardly a case on record where a wounded giraffe turned upon the hunter. It is true, they bare great powers of speed, and they can dodge rapidly from tree to tree in the woods, but they offer such a fair mark that these tactics hardly ever save them.

Not until it is unusually frightened does the giraffe make its best speed, and when it is often too late, for the hunter is upon it. There is really no element of danger connected with this sport, and that makes it less exciting and attractive to a true sportsman. Under certain circumstances it is possible to be injured with the powerful legs of the giraffe, which are capable of kicking a blow that would kill a lion. The latter beast, for this reason, takes good care to attack the giraffe at unexpected moments.

It takes a good horse to run down a giraffe, and if the least advantage is permitted the wild creature the race is lost. Its peculiar gait is very ungraceful and deceptive, but it covers the ground with remarkable facility. In the open veldt the hunters have always the best of the race, but the giraffe, when surprised, makes instantly for the forest, where tough vines and intermingling branches make travel difficult for the hunter. The bushes and thorns tear and lacerate the skin of the horses, but the tough skin of the giraffe is barely scratched. The creature will tear a path through the toughest and thickest jungle and never suffer in the least.

This skin, or hide, of the animal is its chief article of value. No wonder that the bullets often fail to penetrate this skin, for it is from three-quarters to an inch thick and as tough as it is thick. This skin when cured and tanned makes excellent leather for certain purposes. The Boers make riding whips and sandals out of the skins they do not send to Europe. The bones of the giraffe have also a commercial value. The leg bones are solid instead of hollow, and in Europe they are in great demand for manufacturing buttons and other bone articles. The tendons of the giraffe are so strong that they will sustain an enormous dead weight, which gives to them pecuniary value. — Scientific American.

Hunter Treed by Wolves

1905

Hungry Pack Turn Tables on Minnesota Sportsman

Henry Temfehr, a business man of Chisholm, Minn., came to the court house to-day to claim $20 as bounty for a wolf pelt in his possession. He had a harrowing experience getting his pelt, according to his story, which is vouched for by Judge Brady of Hibbing.

Mr. Temfehr was hunting north of Chisholm a few days ago, and while returning to town toward evening a pack of wolves assembled and threatened to attack him. He sought safety in a tree, and he thought it would be easy work to dispatch the pack, one at a time, from his safe perch in the tree, but after firing one shot, at which he came near falling to the ground, he changed his mind.

The wolves scattered about, realizing their danger, and watched from a respectful distance. All night the wolves kept their coveted prey in the tree, and Mr. Temfehr, although warmly clothed, came near freezing to death. During the first part of the night he fired a few shots at the beasts, and when, numb with the cold, he climbed down in the morning, he found one dead wolf.

It is supposed the other wolves hesitated to eat their dead companion for fear of meeting a like fate. — Duluth Correspondence St. Paul Pioneer Press.

Captured Baby Lynx

1905

W. W. Bridges of Athens, while hunting recently, came upon a peculiar track of some animal, which he followed. He captured the animal, which is pronounced by people who profess to know to be a baby lynx, a very fine specimen, weighing 22½ pounds and measuring four feet from tip to tip.


Boat Made From Paper

In Vienna a paper boat, sixteen feet long, has been built out of the back numbers of a leading daily paper of that city. Hull, spars and sails have all been made from the pulped brains of the literary staff. Four hundred thousand copies of this journal will make a yacht — sails and all.


Many Sheep From Colorado

One hundred thousand sheep will be prepared for the market this winter at the beet-sugar factories in the vicinity of Eaton, Greeley, Windsor, Longmount, Fort Collins and Loveland, Col. The beet pulp makes the best of feed for lambs.


Cost of Removing Snow

Removing snow in New York City is a large item in the city's annual expense bill. It costs about $35,000 for every inch of recorded snowfall. Last year it cost the city $755,000 to remove the snow from the streets. The average fall in New York is thirty inches, but though the snow season hardly has begun, twenty-three inches have fallen this winter, and the cost this season promises to reach considerably over $1,000,000.

Telephone in the Woods

1905

"I've been reading," remarked a citizen who spends five months of every year in the woods, "that the telephone is a great convenience in the wilderness. The Electrical Review says that throughout the forests, from St. John to Vancouver, the telephone brings the lumber camps into touch with one another, letters are read to lumbermen snowed in 50 or 300 miles from civilization and the human side of life is made warmer and more vivid by this means of communication.

"A telephone does heat up considerably anywhere, especially when it won't work; but I'm inclined to think a telephone in the wilderness is a great nuisance instead of a great convenience. What an angler, hunter or botanist wants of one of the things is more than I can understand. They've got the Adirondacks fixed so that there's a push button in every other tree, and if you stub your toe a waiter'll pop out of the bushes with a champagne cocktail or a telegram. That's all right, perhaps, but why not stay in the Waldorf?

"A telephone in the woods is a good thing for game, though. We had our cabin wired to a village down at the end of the railroad one summer. Never again for me. I'd be dangling for trout. 'John, John,' would come my wife's voice, resounding through the aisles of pine and hemlock. 'What?' I'd say, mad clean through. 'Your Boston brokers want to talk with you a minute.' Or I'd be almost within range of a deer and that same 'John' would come floating on the air from the shanty. 'What?' I'd have to call back, and the deer'd be in the next county. 'New York's waiting; long distance,' the servant would holler. "Line's held open for you.' The only trout I got that season was a tame one I bought of a man who fattens 'em for market, and the only thing I shot was the ace of spades. I tacked it up the last day and blazed at it for spite. And now," he concluded, "when I go into the woods the central office can't find me with a guide and a brass band." — Providence Journal.